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diff --git a/78424-0.txt b/78424-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ff83b6a --- /dev/null +++ b/78424-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,16691 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78424 *** + + + + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE + Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. + Some minor changes to the text are noted at the end of the book. + + + + THE ART OF NARRATION + + + + + THIS IS + _A COMPANION VOLUME_ + TO + THE ART OF DESCRIPTION + BY MARJORIE H. NICOLSON + Goucher College + + + + + THE ART OF + NARRATION + + _By_ + MARY ELLEN CHASE + _and_ + FRANCES K. DEL PLAINE + + THE UNIVERSITY OF MINNESOTA + + + F. S. Crofts & Co. + New York + 1928 + + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1926, F. S. CROFTS & CO., INC. + + _First printing, May, 1926_ + _Second printing, May, 1928_ + + MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA + BY VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC., BINGHAMTON, NEW YORK. + + + + + PREFACE + + +For many years the teaching of narrative writing in American colleges +was dominated by the popularity of the short-story. The reason +for this lay in the high development of that form and in its wide +dissemination in popular magazines. In many cases, material not +strictly suited to the short-story was either rejected entirely or +distorted to fit the highly specialized requirements of that form. +Within the last ten years a change has become apparent. The war +produced a marked rise of interest in straightforward narratives of +personal experiences. Such books as _The First Hundred Thousand_ +needed no plot structure to attract public attention. At the same +time, interest in the lives of non-combatants in the war zones, +as well as in the experiences of soldiers in the trenches gave to +letters and diaries a greater popularity than they had enjoyed for +a generation. Since the war, biography and autobiography have been +greeted with warmest enthusiasm, and historical fiction of various +kinds has taken a prominent place in public esteem. + +In the meantime, college courses in narrative have been hampered +by the lack of a text book affording readily accessible models of +narratives other than short-stories. The present volume does not +pretend to afford a complete survey of the field of narration; it +is designed to furnish models and some helpful suggestions for the +study of twelve types of narratives, all of which are within the +range of the interest of college students. The selections included +are, in most cases, those we have found useful in our own classes in +Sophomore Composition. + +The compilation of a book of selections leaves the editors indebted +to many people whom they are powerless to repay. Acknowledgment of +permissions to use material has been made in the body of the text, +and we are sincerely grateful to those authors and publishers whose +kindness has made our work both possible and pleasant. We have +profited greatly by suggestions and criticisms from practically +every member of the staff of Sophomore Composition at the University +of Minnesota. Furthermore we owe especial thanks to Mr. Joseph M. +Thomas of the University of Minnesota, for his kind encouragement and +generous assistance; to Miss Marjorie Nicolson, of Goucher College, +for her timely advice and counsel; and to those students in Narrative +Writing who consciously and unconsciously have cooperated with us, +and whose enthusiasm and responsiveness in the class room have been +our constant inspiration in this work. + + M. E. C. + F. DEL. P. + + + + + FOREWORD + + +This volume is a companion to Miss Nicolson’s _The Art of +Description_. They constitute the beginning of a series which, when +completed, will furnish new illustrative material for the various +types of writing. The purpose in planning such a series was first, +of course, to provide specimens for analysis and for use as models +that would be unhackneyed both to teacher and students. Second, +there was the desire to put before the students examples of current +if not contemporary practice in so far as it was possible to secure +permission to reprint them. But most important of all was the intent +to stimulate the imagination of both teacher and student by including +many different kinds of writing which have been neglected in the more +conventional volumes of illustrative material. + +The editors of this volume have been most happy in their choice of +material to carry out these three purposes. Out of the large number +of selections reprinted there are only three, from Macaulay, Froude, +and Parkman, which may be considered as classics; and these three +are all illustrative of “Historical Narrative.” Of the more modern +there is only one, John Corbin’s _A Day in an Oxford College_, which +I recall as having appeared in a similar volume. A glance at the +names of the authors in the Table of Contents will suffice to show +to what extent the work of contemporary writers has been used. It +is, I hope, not improper for me to call the attention of those who +have had no experience in the editing of books of this kind to the +increasing difficulty--and expense--of securing permission to reprint +copyrighted material. The work of the editors of this volume has been +more than doubled by their inability to reprint a large part of what +they had originally chosen. Under these circumstances they are to be +congratulated on their achievement. + +But most of all it is the catholicity of their conception of +“narrative writing,” the variety of types of narrative that they +have analyzed and illustrated which is to me the outstanding merit +of their work. For a good many years I have had a steadily growing +feeling that altogether too much time and energy in our schools +and colleges have been devoted to teaching students the art of +story-telling. This feeling has grown into what may be called by +some a pedagogical obsession. There can of course be no possible +objection to developing whatever talent students may have for the +writing of stories. The point of the criticism is that this should be +considered the only talent worth cultivating. That one who can write +short stories may be able to write more simple forms of narrative may +perhaps be granted. The converse of the proposition is, however, far +from axiomatic. Have those who fail to write even acceptably mediocre +stories thereby demonstrated their inability to write other types of +narrative? Certainly this volume will give an opportunity to test +and to develop other talents and to cultivate a versatility that an +exclusive interest in the short-story is likely to forfeit. + +When one has worked long and harmoniously with colleagues who are +gifted with imagination and generous with happy suggestions, it +is difficult to say to what extent ideas which now seem his own +may not be due to the invention of others. For a long time I have +been insisting that students should at least be reminded that all +narrative is not included under the category of the mechanized +short-story of the correspondence schools. I have even published an +experimental chapter in a text book calling the attention of teachers +and students to various forms of narrative of fact that might be +worth their cultivation. Perhaps that idea may have originally come +from the editors of this book. Certainly Miss Chase and Mrs. del +Plaine have gone far beyond this by enlarging also the scope of +imaginative writing. There is in this volume something to appeal to +anyone who has a gift for any form of narrative, except drama. + +One great merit of this book is due not so much to its admirable plan +as to the excellence of illustrative material that has been chosen. +The majority of young people are likely to be absorbed in stories +because they have a belief that other kinds of writing are likely to +be non-entertaining or even dull. Here is a collection of narratives +that ought to disabuse them of any such prejudice. Whatever other +merits these selections may have--and they are neither inconspicuous +nor inconsiderable--their outstanding quality is interestingness. One +reads them with almost the voluptuous absorption which according to +Stevenson is the essential of romance. And this is as it should be. + + J. M. THOMAS + +Minneapolis, Minn. March 8, 1926 + + + + + CONTENTS + + + PAGE + + PREFACE v + + FOREWORD vii + + + CHAPTER I + + EXPOSITORY NARRATIVE 1 + + _David Starr Jordan_ The Story of a Salmon 3 + _William Stearns Davis_ A Medieval Wedding 11 + _John Corbin_ A Day in an Oxford College 20 + _Eileen Power_ The Peasant Bodo 28 + Selected Bibliography of Expository Narrative 47 + + + CHAPTER II + + INCIDENTS 48 + + _Incidents from the Life of Lord Frederick Hamilton_ 49 + _Marguerite Audoux_ The Fiancée 52 + _Mark Twain_ Jim Wolf and the Cats 56 + _Stewart Edward White_ The Hunting Trip 59 + Selected Bibliography of Incidents 70 + + + CHAPTER III + + HISTORICAL NARRATIVE 71 + + _Thomas Babington Macaulay_ The Black Hole of + Calcutta 73 + + _James Anthony Froude_ The Marriage of Henry + and Anne Boleyn 78 + + _Francis Parkman_ The Hardihood of La Salle 83 + Selected Bibliography of Historical Narrative 92 + + + CHAPTER IV + + HISTORICAL FICTION 94 + + _James Branch Cabell_ The Story of the Fox-Brush 96 + Selected Bibliography of Historical Fiction 117 + + + CHAPTER V + + TALES AND LEGENDS 118 + + _Selma Lagerlöf_ In Nazareth 122 + _William Canton_ The Song of the Minster 127 + _Anatole France_ Juggler to Our-Lady 132 + _James Stevens_ Paul Bunyon 139 + _Selma Lagerlöf_ The Legend of the Christmas Rose 156 + Selected Bibliography of Legends and Tales 175 + + + CHAPTER VI + + FAIRY TALES, ALLEGORIES, PARABLES AND FABLES 176 + + _Eleanor Farjeon_ The King’s Barn 179 + _Oscar Wilde_ The Happy Prince 211 + _Olive Schreiner_ Truth 222 + _The Contributor’s Club_, “The Atlantic Monthly” + A Parable for Philanthropists 235 + _Robert Louis Stevenson_ The Tadpole and the Frog 239 + Selected Bibliography of Fairy Tales, Allegories, + Parables and Fables 239 + + + CHAPTER VII + + BIOGRAPHICAL NARRATIVE 241 + + _Llewelyn Powys_ Beau Nash 243 + _Lytton Strachey_ Lady Hester Stanhope 248 + _Stephen Chalmers_ The Beloved Physician 258 + Selected Bibliography of Biographical Narrative 279 + + + CHAPTER VIII + + REMINISCENT NARRATIVE 280 + + _Ludwig Lewisohn_ My Fate 283 + _Laura Spencer Portor_ The Photograph 287 + _Lord Frederick Hamilton_ My Childhood 293 + _Henry W. Nevinson_ Shrewsbury School 300 + _Kenneth Grahame_ The Burglars 310 + _Juliet Soskice_ The Kitchen 318 + Selected Bibliography of Reminiscent Narrative 327 + + + CHAPTER IX + + NARRATIVES OF ADVENTURE 328 + + _R. B. Townshend_ Wild Justice 331 + _Herbert Quick_ The Blizzard 352 + _J. H. Rosny_ The Attack of the Tiger 364 + _Pierre Loti_ The Storm 372 + Selected Bibliography of Narratives of Adventure 379 + + + CHAPTER X + + NARRATIVES OF TRAVEL 381 + + _Julian Street_ The Departure 384 + _Christopher Morley_ Up the Wissahickon 390 + _Robert Louis Stevenson_ Travels with a Donkey + Our Lady of the Snows--Father Apollinaris 394 + The Monks 399 + Selected Bibliography of Narratives of Travel 406 + + + CHAPTER XI + + SKETCHES 407 + + _Robert Louis Stevenson_ The Lantern Bearers 408 + _Felix Timmermans_ Kermis Morning 414 + _Grace E. Polk_ The Forger 422 + _John Galsworthy_ Quality 427 + Selected Bibliography of Sketches 435 + + + CHAPTER XII + + STORIES 436 + + _H. C. Bunner_ A Sisterly Scheme 439 + _Francis Buzzell_ Lonely Places 450 + _Guy de Maupassant_ Two Friends 467 + _Willa Cather_ The Sculptor’s Funeral 475 + Selected Bibliography of Short Stories 494 + + + + + THE ART OF NARRATION + + + + + CHAPTER I + + _Expository Narrative_ + + +Expository narrative tells a story not primarily for the sake of the +story, but for the sake of the information conveyed to the reader. +It is really narration turned to serve the purposes of exposition. +It is particularly useful in explaining a process, the work of +any particular trade or profession, or the details of existence +in any time or place. The chronological order carries the reader +along without difficulty, and the fact that the account deals with +a specific example makes it more interesting than a generalized +explanation could be. + +In using this method, it is necessary to choose a subject in which +the succession of events is of genuine importance. Explanation of a +condition or situation does not have movement enough, and a process +which is largely hidden from sight or which is too complicated to +be readily followed lacks the necessary story element. It is best, +therefore, to choose a subject in which one may discern a clear march +of events, preferably with an unmistakable beginning and end, such as +the first step in the treatment of raw material and the completion +of the finished article, or, in another case, the morning and the +evening of a single day. Having chosen such a subject, fix upon one +occasion which is both typical and interesting, and begin at the +beginning of the story, leaving necessary explanations to be brought +in later. A particularly interesting incident may be related as +happening on this imaginary occasion, or the thread of the narrative +may break off to permit a slight digression, as in “A Day in an +Oxford College” when the anecdote of the two brothers is inserted, +not as having happened on the particular day whose events are being +recounted, but as being true of the time of day which the narrative +has reached. + +The great advantage of expository narrative is that it is usually the +most readable form in which to present the material for which it is +suitable. Dr. David Starr Jordan’s story of the individual salmon, +though quite as scientific as the generalized explanations in biology +textbooks, is much more attractive to the average reader. Such +stories as “A Medieval Wedding” and “The Peasant Bodo” escape the +dullness of most histories, and bring before us these medieval people +in their habits as they lived. “A Day in an Oxford College” is both +interesting and clear in its explanation of a mode of life which is +so different from that in an American college that American students +find it hard to comprehend. + +In his very interesting little book, “America at Work,” Mr. Joseph +Husband uses expository narrative to show the romance and fascination +of such work-a-day tasks as running a locomotive, making telephone +connections, and even manufacturing coffins. + +In writing expository narrative, the beginner may find the following +suggestions helpful: + + 1. Choose a subject which has a good deal of action inherent in it. + + 2. Present details which are not too technical for the lay reader, + and use whatever description is necessary to make them clear. + + 3. Look for the human interest in the story--how the process + serves people, or how people are affected by the environment you + are presenting. + + F. del P. + + + THE STORY OF A SALMON + + DAVID STARR JORDAN + +In the realm of the Northwest Wind, on the boundary-line between the +dark fir-forest and the sunny plains, there stands a mountain, a +great white cone two miles and a half in perpendicular height. On its +lower mile the dense fir-woods cover it with never-changing green; on +its next half-mile a lighter green of grass and bushes gives place +in winter to white; and on its uppermost mile the snows of the great +ice age still linger in unspotted purity. The people of Washington +Territory say that their mountain is the great “King-pin of the +Universe,” which shows that even in its own country Mount Tacoma is +not without honor. + +Flowing down from the southwest slope of Mount Tacoma is a cold, +clear river, fed by the melting snows of the mountain. Madly it +hastens down over white cascades and beds of shining sands, through +birch-woods and belts of dark firs, to mingle its waters at last +with those of the great Columbia. This river is the Cowlitz; and on +its bottom, not many years ago, there lay half buried in the sand +a number of little orange-colored globules, each about as large +as a pea. These were not much in themselves, but great in their +possibilities. In the waters above them little suckers and chubs and +prickly sculpins strained their mouths to draw these globules from +the sand, and vicious-looking crawfish picked them up with their +blundering hands and examined them with their telescopic eyes. But +one, at least, of the globules escaped their curiosity, else this +story would not be worth telling. The sun shone down on it through +the clear water, and the ripples of the Cowlitz said over it their +incantations, and in it at last awoke a living being. It was a +fish,--a curious little fellow, not half an inch long, with great, +staring eyes, which made almost half his length, and with a body so +transparent that he could not cast a shadow. He was a little salmon, +a very little salmon; but the water was good, and there were flies +and worms and little living creatures in abundance for him to eat, +and he soon became a larger salmon. Then there were many more little +salmon with him, some larger and some smaller, and they all had a +merry time. + +Those who had been born soonest and had grown largest used to chase +the others around and bite off their tails, or, still better, take +them by the heads and swallow them whole; for, said they, “even +young salmon are good eating.” “Heads I win, tails you lose,” was +their motto. Thus, what was once two small salmon became united into +a single larger one, and the process of “addition, division, and +silence” still went on. + +By-and-by, when all the salmon were too large to be swallowed, +they began to grow restless. They saw that the water rushing by +seemed to be in a great hurry to get somewhere, and it was somehow +suggested that its hurry was caused by something good to eat at the +other end of its course. Then they all started down the stream, +salmon-fashion,--which fashion is to get into the current, head +up-stream, and thus to drift backward as the river sweeps along. + +Down the Cowlitz River the salmon went for a day and a night, finding +much to interest them which we need not know. At last they began to +grow hungry; and coming near the shore, they saw an angle-worm of +rare size and beauty floating in an eddy of the stream. Quick as +thought one of them opened his mouth, which was well filled with +teeth of different sizes, and put it around the angle-worm. Quicker +still he felt a sharp pain in his gills, followed by a smothering +sensation, and in an instant his comrades saw him rise straight into +the air. This was nothing new to them; for they often leaped out of +the water in their games of hide-and-seek, but only to come down +again with a loud splash not far from where they went out. But this +one never came back, and the others went on their course wondering. + +At last they came to where the Cowlitz and the Columbia join, and +they were almost lost for a time; for they could find no shores, and +the bottom and the top of the water were so far apart. Here they +saw other and far larger salmon in the deepest part of the current, +turning neither to the right nor to the left, but swimming right on +up-stream just as rapidly as they could. And these great salmon would +not stop for them, and would not lie and float with the current. They +had no time to talk, even in the simple sign-language by which fishes +express their ideas, and no time to eat. They had important work +before them, and the time was short. So they went on up the river, +keeping their great purposes to themselves; and our little salmon and +his friends from the Cowlitz drifted down the stream. + +By-and-by the water began to change. It grew denser, and no longer +flowed rapidly along; and twice a day it used to turn about and flow +the other way. Then the shores disappeared, and the water began to +have a different and peculiar flavor,--a flavor which seemed to the +salmon much richer and more inspiring than the glacier-water of their +native Cowlitz. There were many curious things to see,--crabs with +hard shells and savage faces, but so good when crushed and swallowed! +Then there were luscious squid swimming about; and, to a salmon, +squid are like ripe peaches and cream. There were great companies of +delicate sardines and herring, green and silvery, and it was such +fun to chase and capture them! Those who eat sardines packed in oil +by greasy fingers, and herrings dried in the smoke, can have little +idea how satisfying it is to have a meal of them, plump and sleek and +silvery, fresh from the sea. + +Thus the salmon chased the herrings about, and had a merry time. Then +they were chased about in turn by great sea-lions,--swimming monsters +with huge half-human faces, long thin whiskers, and blundering ways. +The sea-lions liked to bite out the throat of a salmon, with its +precious stomach full of luscious sardines, and then to leave the +rest of the fish to shift for itself. And the seals and the herrings +scattered the salmon about, till at last the hero of our story found +himself quite alone, with none of his own kind near him. But that did +not trouble him much, and he went on his own way, getting his dinner +when he was hungry, which was all the time, and then eating a little +between meals for his stomach’s sake. + +So it went on for three long years; and at the end of this time +our little fish had grown to be a great, fine salmon of twenty-two +pounds’ weight, shining like a new tin pan, and with rows of the +loveliest round black spots on his head and back and tail. One day, +as he was swimming about, idly chasing a big sculpin with a head so +thorny that he never was swallowed by anybody, all of a sudden the +salmon noticed a change in the water around him. + +Spring had come again, and the south-lying snowdrifts on the Cascade +Mountains once more felt that the “earth was wheeling sunwards.” The +cold snow waters ran down from the mountains and into the Columbia +River, and made a freshet on the river. The high water went far out +into the sea, and out in the sea our salmon felt it on his gills. He +remembered how the cold water used to feel in the Cowlitz when he was +a little fish. In a blundering, fishy fashion he thought about it; +he wondered whether the little eddy looked as it used to look, and +whether caddis-worms and young mosquitoes were really as sweet and +tender as he used to think they were. Then he thought some others +things; but as the salmon’s mind is located in the optic lobes of his +brain, and ours is in a different place, we cannot be quite certain +what his thoughts really were. + +What our salmon did, we know. He did what every grown salmon in +the ocean does when he feels the glacier-water once more upon his +gills. He became a changed being. He spurned the blandishment of +soft-shelled crabs. The pleasures of the table and of the chase, +heretofore his only delights, lost their charms for him. He turned +his course straight toward the direction whence the cold water +came, and for the rest of his life never tasted a mouthful of food. +He moved on toward the river-mouth, at first playfully, as though +he were not really certain whether he meant anything after all. +Afterward, when he struck the full current of the Columbia, he +plunged straightforward with an unflinching determination that had +in it something of the heroic. When he had passed the rough water +at the bar, he was not alone. His old neighbors of the Cowlitz, +and many more from the Clackamas and the Spokan and Des Chutes and +Kootanie,--a great army of salmon,--were with him. In front were +thousands pressing on, and behind them were thousands more, all +moved by a common impulse which urged them up the Columbia. + +They were all swimming bravely along where the current was deepest, +when suddenly the foremost felt something tickling like a cobweb +about their noses and under their chins. They changed their course a +little to brush it off, and it touched their fins as well. Then they +tried to slip down with the current, and thus leave it behind. But, +no! the thing, whatever it was, although its touch was soft, refused +to let go, and held them like a fetter. The more they struggled, the +tighter became its grasp, and the whole foremost rank of the salmon +felt it together; for it was a great gill-net, a quarter of a mile +long, stretched squarely across the mouth of the river. + +By-and-by men came in boats, and hauled up the gill-net and the +helpless salmon that had become entangled in it. They threw the +fishes into a pile in the bottom of the boat, and the others saw them +no more. + + * * * * * + +All this time our salmon is going up the river, eluding one net as by +a miracle, and soon having need of more miracles to escape the rest; +passing by Astoria on a fortunate day,--which was Sunday, the day on +which no man may fish if he expects to sell what he catches,--till +finally he came to where nets were few, and, at last, to where they +ceased altogether. But there he found that scarcely any of his many +companions were with him; for the nets cease when there are no more +salmon to be caught in them. So he went on, day and night, where the +water was deepest, stopping not to feed or loiter on the way, till at +last he came to a wild gorge, where the great river became an angry +torrent, rushing wildly over a huge staircase of rocks. But our hero +did not falter; and summoning all his forces, he plunged into the +Cascades. The current caught him and dashed him against the rocks. A +whole row of silvery scales came off and glistened in the water like +sparks of fire, and a place on his side became black and red, which, +for a salmon, is the same as being black and blue for other people. +His comrades tried to go up with him; and one lost his eye, one his +tail, and one had his lower jaw pushed back into his head like the +joint of a telescope. Again he tried to surmount the Cascades; and +at last he succeeded, and an Indian on the rocks above was waiting +to receive him. But the Indian with his spear was less skilful than +he was wont to be, and our hero escaped, losing only a part of one +of his fins; and with him came one other, and henceforth these two +pursued their journey together. + +Now a gradual change took place in the looks of our salmon. In the +sea he was plump and round and silvery, with delicate teeth in a +symmetrical mouth. Now his silvery color disappeared, his skin grew +slimy, and the scales sank into it; his back grew black, and his +sides turned red,--not a healthy red, but a sort of hectic flush. +He grew poor; and his back, formerly as straight as need be, now +developed an unpleasant hump at the shoulders. His eyes--like those +of all enthusiasts who forsake eating and sleeping for some loftier +aim--became dark and sunken. His symmetrical jaws grew longer and +longer, and meeting each other, as the nose of an old man meets his +chin, each had to turn aside to let the other pass. His beautiful +teeth grew longer and longer, and projected from his mouth, giving +him a savage and wolfish appearance, quite at variance with his real +disposition. For all the desires and ambitions of his nature had +become centered into one. We may not know what this one was, but we +know that it was a strong one; for it had led him on and on,--past +the nets and horrors of Astoria; past the dangerous Cascades; past +the spears of Indians; through the terrible flume of the Dalles, +where the mighty river is compressed between huge rocks into a +channel narrower than a village street; on past the meadows of +Umatilla and the wheat-fields of Walla Walla; on to where the great +Snake River and the Columbia join; on up the Snake River and its +eastern branch, till at last he reached the foot of the Bitter Root +Mountain in the Territory of Idaho, nearly a thousand miles from the +ocean which he had left in April. With him still was the other salmon +which had come with him through the Cascades, handsomer and smaller +than he, and, like him, growing poor and ragged and tired. + +At last, one October afternoon, our finny travellers came together to +a little clear brook, with a bottom of fine gravel, over which the +water was but a few inches deep. Our fish painfully worked his way +to it; for his tail was all frayed out, his muscles were sore, and +his skin covered with unsightly blotches. But his sunken eyes saw a +ripple in the stream, and under it a bed of little pebbles and sand. +So there in the sand he scooped out with his tail a smooth round +place, and his companion came and filled it with orange-colored eggs. +Then our salmon came back again; and softly covering the eggs, the +work of their lives was done, and, in the old salmon fashion, they +drifted tail foremost down the stream. + +They drifted on together for a night and a day, but they never came +to the sea. For the salmon has but one life to live, and it ascends +the river but once. The rest lies with its children. And when the +April sunshine fell on the globules in the gravel, these were +awakened into life. With the early autumn rains, the little fishes +were large enough to begin their wanderings. They dropped down the +current in the old salmon fashion. And thus they came into the great +river and drifted away to the sea. + + From _Science Sketches_ by David Starr Jordan. By + the kind permission of the author and of A. C. + McClurg & Co., Publishers. + + + A MEDIEVAL WEDDING + + WILLIAM STEARNS DAVIS + + * * * * * + +Conon has negotiated a most satisfactory marriage. He will give his +sister to Sire Olivier, the eldest son of the Count of Perseigne. +The Perseignes are a great Burgundian family with many castles, and +counts think themselves a little higher in the social scale than do +barons, but St. Aliquis is also a powerful fief, and its alliance +will be useful to Perseigne when he has his expected war with the +Vidame of Dijon. Conon will give the young couple his outlying +Burgundian Castle (not of great value to himself) and the alliance +will enable him to talk roundly to his uncivil neighbors. A most +excellent match; another sign that St. Aliquis has an extremely sage +seigneur! + +Alienor is now nearly seventeen and has been thinking about a wedding +since before she was fifteen. Her nurses have long since reviewed +all the eligible cavaliers for her. Her great dread has been lest +she have to wed some old and very stupid man--as befell her cousin +Mabila, who had been sent away tearful and pouting to Picardy, the +bride of a three-times widower. Who can measure her relief when Conon +declared he would not give her to old St. Saturnin? It was all very +well for the jongleurs to sing, “An old man who loves a young maiden +is not merely old, but a fool!” The thing has happened so often! + +Her ideal is to have a “damoiseau (squire or young knight) just with +his first beard”--one who is brave, valiant, and is, of course, +courteous and handsome. She had once hoped that Conon would give a +great tourney and award her to the conqueror; but this desire faded +when she learned that the victor in the last tourney was ugly and +brutal. She has been on very brotherly terms with William, Conon’s +first squire, but William is still too young, and it is not always +honorable for a squire to push intrigues in the house of his lord. +Thus she is in a very open state of mind when her brother says to her +one day: “Fair sister, I have arranged your marriage with Olivier of +Perseigne. He is a gallant cavalier. Any maiden might rejoice to have +him. Consider well what I say because (here he adds a phrase which he +hopes will not be taken too literally) I would not have you wed him +against your wish.” + +If Alienor has anything against Olivier, if her antipathy were +violent and based on reason, Conon, as a genuinely affectionate +brother, might give it weight; but in fact, though she has met +Olivier only a few times at a tourney, at the Christmas fête at +the Duke of Quelqueparte’s court, and once when he stopped at the +castle, she has not the least objection. He has certainly large blue +eyes, blonde hair, a large nose, and a merry laugh. He is reported +to be kind to his servants, generous to a fault, and not overgiven +to drinking or brawling. At the tourney he broke three lances fairly +against a more experienced knight. His family is excellent and her +brother’s desires are obvious. She will not have to live too far from +St. Aliquis. What more could be said? After a few hours of decent +reflection she informs Adela that she will comply with Conon’s +wishes. After that the castle takes on a joyous activity. + +Before the wedding had come the betrothal. It was a solemn ceremony, +blessed by the Church. Sire Olivier visited the castle with a great +following of relatives and met the shy and blushing Alienor. In +the chapel, after suitable prayers by Father Gregoire, the pair +had awkwardly enough exchanged their promises! “I will take you +for my wife.” “And I for my husband.” After this there would have +been great scandal had either side turned back. The Church affirms +energetically, however, that betrothal is _not_ marriage. Otherwise +the affianced pair might have considered themselves somewhat wedded +on trial, only to repudiate their obligations later. Also, not merely +the young couple, but their parents or guardians, had to be present +and add their consent; and, of course, all the pledges were sworn to +over the holiest relics available. + +Olivier, during all this happy time, has lodged at the castle of +a friendly vassal of St. Aliquis, and he rides over frequently to +visit his betrothed. He is excellently bred and knows everything +expected of a prospective bridegroom of good family. The alliance has +been largely negotiated by his parents, but he has been consulted, +understands that Alienor is witty and beautiful, and he is wholly +aware of the worldly advantages of being Conon’s brother-in-law. At +meals he and his beloved are allowed to sit together and above all +to eat out of the same porringer, when he delicately leaves to his +intended all the best morsels. He consults a competent jongleur, and +with his aid produces suitable verses praising his fiancée’s beauty. +He gives her a gold ring with both his own name and hers engraved +thereon. In return, besides a sleeve and a stocking to hang on his +lances (gifts which she has already sent in mere friendship to +other cavaliers), she bestows a lock of her hair set around a gold +ring; likewise a larger lock which he may twine around his helmet. +The happy pair are permitted to take long walks together, and to +promenade up and down the garden, with Olivier holding his lady in +the politest manner by one finger--the accepted method of showing +intimacy. + +We have said that Conon is resolved to knight his brother at the same +time he gives his sister in marriage. This involves holding a tourney +and many other proceedings really unnecessary for a wedding; but, of +course, it will attract a much greater number of guests and advertise +the prosperity of the baron of St. Aliquis to all northwestern +France. The knighting and tourney will come after the bridal, +however, and it is easier to explain the two things separately. We +omit the gathering of the wedding guests--the coming of distant +counts, barons, and sires; the erection around St. Aliquis of a real +village of brilliant tents and pavilions; the ceremonious greetings; +the frenzied efforts of the castle folk to make all ready; the +inevitable despair, not once, but many times, of Adela, who directs +everything. At last it is the morning of _the_ day, in midsummer. +No rain and, blessed be St. Martin, not too much heat. Alienor is +surrounded by a dozen women, old and young, arraying her for her +wedding. + +There is no regular bridal costume. Alienor does not dress much +differently from what she does on Easter or at some other major +festival. Her two great braids of hair are weighted down over her +breasts with an extra intertwining with gold thread. Her pelisson is +completely fringed with magnificent ermine, the gift of the Countess +of Perseigne, and the garment itself is made of two cloths sewed +together, the inner of fine wool, the outer of beautiful bendal of +reddish violet. The whole is laced tightly until Alienor can hardly +breathe. Above this garment floats the elegant bliaut, of green +silk with long sleeves, many folds, and a long train. There is more +silk embroidery and elaborate flouncing. Fairest of all is the +girdle, made of many pieces of gold and each set with a good-luck +stone--agate to guard against fever, sardonyx to protect against +malaria, and many similar. In the clasp are great sapphires which +Baron Garnier originally “acquired” from a town merchant shortly +before he hanged him. Finally, there is the mantle--again of silk +intricately embroidered and dyed with a royal purple. + +Alienor’s pointed shoes are of vermillion leather from Cordova, +with still more of gold-thread embroidery. While one female +minister is clasping these, her chief pucelle is putting on a small +saffron-colored veil, circular, and held down by a golden circlet--a +genuine crown; beautifully engraved and set with emeralds. Inevitably +the whole process of dressing is prolonged. Alienor is too excited to +feel hot or pinched, but her attendants find her very exacting. They +bless the Virgin, however, that she is not as some noble brides, who +fly into a passion if every hair in their eyebrows is not separately +adjusted. + +Meantime, in a secluded part of the castle, the groom has been +wrestling with a similar problem, assisted by his two squires, +although requiring less of time and agony. His legs are covered with +fine brown silk stockings from Bruges; but it is effeminate to wear +a silk shirt--one of fine white linen will answer. His pelisson is +like his bride’s, although less tightly laced--of cloth and silk, +trimmed with rich fur; and the outer color is pale red, inevitably +with much gold embroidery around the neck and sleeves. His bliaut +does not come below his knees, but it is of blue sendal silk; his +mantle is also edged with fur and of the same color as his pelisson. +Simple as it is, it must hang exactly right. Everybody will ask, “Did +the groom wear his mantle like a great baron?” The squires take a +long time adjusting it. Olivier’s shoes are of very fine leather. On +his crisply curled hair they set a golden chaplet set with flashing +gems--very much like that worn by his bride. + +Hardly are the happy twain ready before the wedding procession forms +in the bailey. So large a company could never crowd into the castle +chapel. It will go across the bridge over the Claire to the parish +church by the village--a Gothic structure sufficiently pretentious +to suit the occasion. The Perseignes reckon a bishop among their +cousins, and he is on hand to officiate. + +So the procession forms. Ahead go a whole platoon of jongleurs +puffing their cheeks for their flutes, twanging their harps, or +rasping their viols. The Feudal Age delights in music, and does not +mind if sometimes melody is exchanged merely for a joyous noise. +Alienor comes next. She is on a black mule with extra long ears and a +finely curried shining coat. His harness is of gold and his trappings +of scarlet samite. She has been swung into the saddle by her eldest +brother (“Alas! that her father, who should do this, is dead!” murmur +all the women), and he as her guardian leads the mule. Olivier rides +a tall white palfrey with a saddle of blue leather. His mother, +Adela, and all the St. Aliquis and Perseignes female relatives follow +on other mules, led by gayly dressed squires. Then come all the noble +guests, the Duke of Quelqueparte at their head. No wonder there is no +work being done in all the villages for miles around, and that all +the villeins are lining the road, doffing caps, and cheering as the +dazzling cortege sweeps past. + +The details at the church we pass over. Among other features to be +noted is the fact that the bride is swung down from her mule upon +a great truss of straw, that the bishop meets them at the sacred +portal, and that outside the actual building Olivier and Alienor +exchange those vows which form the essential part of the marriage +ceremony. After that Conon’s chief provost recites in loud voice all +the estates, horses, fine garments, and servitors which the bride +brings as her dowry. This customary publication may avert bitter +disputes later. Next the happy pair scatter newly coined silver +deniers among the swarm of ill-favored mendicants permitted to elbow +and scramble among the more pretentious guests. + +Finally, the church is thrown open. The great nave opens mysterious +and dark, but galaxies of candles are burning and the lofty +stained-glass windows gleam like jewels. Olivier and Alienor occupy +seats of honor in the choir, while the bishop says the very solemn +mass of the Trinity and pronounces a special blessing over them. “Let +this woman,” intones the prelate, “be amiable as Rachel, wise as +Rebecca, faithful as Sarah. Let her be sober through truth, venerable +through modesty, and wise through the teaching of Heaven.” + +So at last the mass ends. The “Agnus Dei” is chanted. The bridegroom +advances to the altar and receives from the bishop the kiss of +peace. Then he turns, and right at the foot of the great crucifix +embraces his wife and transmits the kiss to her. This act completes +the ceremony. Away the whole company go from the church. They have +been condemned to silence for nearly two hours, and are glad now to +chatter like magpies. When back at St. Aliquis they find the great +hall has been swept, garnished, and decorated as never before. The +walls of the hall are hung with the pictured tapestries of beautiful +pieces of red and green silk. Your feet crush fresh roses and lilies +scattered on the floor. Alienor almost bursts with delight at the +number of high-born cavaliers and dames who press up to kiss and +congratulate. All the remainder of her life she will match weddings +with her friends: “I had so many counts and barons at my wedding.” +“But I had so many!” + +All these guests, however, expect to receive presents--bliauts, +mantles, goblets, and other things, each suitable to the recipient. +It is well that Conon has saved many livres in his strong box. +The presenting of the gifts by the host is quite a ceremony; each +article has to be accompanied by a well-turned speech. By the time +this reception to the bride and groom is over, the trumpets sound +furiously. They tell that the feast is ready in the fragrant garden +under the trees. There is a fine tent of blue silk for the bridal +party and the more exalted guests. All the others must sit on long +tables open to the glad sunshine. + +What Messire Conon’s guests have to eat and drink is so serious a +topic that we must tell thereof separately. We speak here merely +concerning the festivities of the wedding. Olivier and Alienor are +served by two barons as squires of state. The groom drinks from a +great goblet, then sends it to his wife, who ceremoniously finishes +the draught. In the bridal tent there is a reasonable amount of +decorum, but elsewhere (Blessed martyrs!) what noise and tumult! All +the villeins appear to be there, and burghers have even wandered up +from Pontdebois. It will never do to have men say, “The bride was +charming, but her brother stinted his hospitality.” Enough food and +drink is gorged and guzzled to stave off a famine next winter. The +jongleurs keep quiet during the first part of the feast; later they +earn their dinner by singing of the loves of Jourdain and Orabel or +of Berte, who was the faithful wife of Girard of Roussillon through +all of her lord’s adversity. At many of the tables the jesting and +horseplay become unspeakably ribald. After the wine circulates two +petty nobles quarrel; one strikes the other with a drinking cup, but +the sergeants pull them apart before they can whip out swords. + +After three hours of this some guests are sleeping stertorously under +the trees; but those nobles who have kept their wits go to another +large tent, and, despite their heavy meal, dance with vigor. The +bride and groom are expected to dance together, and everybody is +prepared to admire the beauty of one and the grace and strength of +the other. As evening advances a priest appears. He solemnly blesses +the nuptial couch strewn with roses, while the new couple piously +kneel. The couch is then “censed” like an altar, and the women guests +join in the bizarre usages of “putting the bride to bed.” + +The morning after the marriage the newly wedded pair attend mass in +the castle chapel. Here they are expected to make privately all kinds +of vows of good conduct, and Alienor especially promises always to +obey her husband, and call him dutifully, “mon sire” and “mon baron.” + +The festivities will last two weeks longer, and conclude with the +dubbing of knights and the tournament, whereof more presently. After +that Olivier and his wife will depart for their Burgundian castle +without anything like a honeymoon to strange parts.... + + From _Life on a Medieval Barony_ by William + Stearns Davis. By kind permission of the author + and of Harper & Brothers, Publishers. + + + A DAY IN AN OXFORD COLLEGE + + JOHN CORBIN + +When a freshman is once established in college, his life falls into +a pleasantly varied routine. The day is ushered in by the scout, who +bustles into the bedroom, throws aside the curtain, pours out the +bath, and shouts, “Half past seven, sir,” in a tone that makes it +impossible to forget that chapel--or if one chooses, roll-call--comes +at eight. Unless one keeps his six chapels or “rollers” a week, he +is promptly “hauled” before the dean, who perhaps “gates” him. To be +gated is to be forbidden to pass the college gate after dark, and +fined a shilling for each night of confinement. To an American all +this brings recollections of the paternal roof, where tardiness at +breakfast meant, perhaps, the loss of dessert, and bedtime an hour +earlier. I remember once, when out of training, deliberately cutting +chapel to see with what mien the good dean performed his nursery +duties. His calm was unruffled, his dignity unsullied. I soon came to +find that the rules about rising were bowed to and indeed respected +by all concerned, even while they were broken. They are distinctly +more lax than those the fellows have been accustomed to in the public +schools, and they are conceded to be for the best welfare of the +college. + +Breakfast comes soon after chapel, or roll-call. If a man has “kept +a dirty roller,” that is, has reported in pyjamas, ulster, and +boots, and has turned in again, the scout puts the breakfast before +the fire on a trestle built of shovel, poker, and tongs, where it +remains edible until noon. If a man has a breakfast party on, the +scout makes sure that he is stirring in season, and, hurrying +through the other rooms on the staircase, is presently on hand for +as long as he may be wanted. The usual Oxford breakfast is a single +course, which not infrequently consists of some one of the excellent +English pork products, with an egg or kidneys. There may be two +courses, in which case the first is of the no less excellent fresh +fish. There are no vegetables. The breakfast is ended with toast +and jam or marmalade. When one has fellows in to breakfast,--and +the Oxford custom of rooming alone instead of chumming makes such +hospitality frequent,--his usual meal is increased by a course, say, +of chicken. In any case it leads to a morning cigarette, for tobacco +aids digestion, and helps fill the hour or so after meals which an +Englishman gives to relaxation. + +At ten o’clock the breakfast may be interrupted for a moment by the +exit of some one bent on attending a lecture, though one apologizes +for such an act as if it were scarcely good form. An appointment with +one’s tutor is a more legitimate excuse for leaving; but even this is +always an occasion for an apology, in behalf of the tutor of course, +for one is certainly not himself responsible. If a quorum is left, +they manage to sit comfortably by the fire, smoking and chatting in +spite of lectures and tutors, until by mutual consent they scatter to +glance at the _Times_ and the _Sportsman_ in the common-room, or even +to get in a bit of reading. + +Luncheon often consists of bread and cheese and jam from the buttery, +with perhaps a half pint of bitter beer; but it may, like the +breakfast, come from the college kitchen. In any case it is very +light, for almost immediately after it everybody scatters to field +and track and river for the exercise that the English climate makes +necessary and the sport that the English temperament demands. + +By four o’clock every one is back in college tubbed and dressed for +tea, which a man serves himself in his rooms to as many fellows as he +has been able to gather in on field or river. If he is eager to hear +of the games he has not been able to witness, he goes to the junior +common-room or to his club, where he is sure to find a dozen or so +of kindred spirits representing every sport of importance. In this +way he hears the minutest details of the games of the day from the +players themselves; and before nightfall--such is the influence of +tea--those bits of gossip which in America are known chiefly among +members of a team have ramified the college. Thus the function of the +“bleachers” on an American field is performed with a vengeance by the +easy-chairs before a common-room fire; and a man had better be kicked +off the team by an American captain than have his shortcomings served +up with common-room tea. + +The two hours between tea and dinner may be, and usually are, spent +in reading. + +At seven o’clock the college bell rings, and in two minutes the +fellows have thrown on their gowns and are seated at table, where +the scouts are in readiness to serve them. As a rule a man may sit +wherever he chooses; this is one of the admirable arrangements for +breaking up such cliques as inevitably form in a college. But in +point of fact a man usually ends by sitting in some certain quarter +of the hall, where from day to day he finds much the same set of +fellows. Thus all the advantages of friendly intercourse are attained +without any real exclusiveness. This may seem a small point; but an +hour a day becomes an item in four years, especially if it is the +hour when men are most disposed to be companionable. + +In the evening, when the season permits, the fellows sit out of +doors after dinner, smoking and playing bowls. There is no place in +which the spring comes more sweetly than in an Oxford garden. The +high walls are at once a trap for the first warm rays of the sun and +a barrier against the winds of March. The daffodils and crocuses +spring up with joy as the gardener bids; and the apple and cherry +trees coddle against the warm north walls, spreading out their early +buds gratefully to the mild English sun. For long, quiet hours after +dinner they flaunt their beauty to the fellows smoking, and breathe +their sweetness to the fellows playing bowls. “No man,” exclaims the +American visitor, “could live four years in those gardens of delight +and not be made gentler and nobler!” Perhaps! though not altogether +in the way the visitor imagines. When the flush of summer is on, the +loiterers loll on the lawn full length; and as they watch the insects +crawl among the grass they make bets on them, just as the gravest and +most reverend seniors have been known to do in America. + +In the windows overlooking the quadrangle are boxes of brilliant +flowers, above which the smoke of a pipe comes curling out. At +Harvard some fellows have geraniums in their windows, but only the +very rich; and when they began the custom an ancient graduate wrote +one of those communications to the _Crimson_, saying that if men put +unmanly boxes of flowers in the window, how can they expect to beat +Yale? Flower boxes, no sand. At Oxford they manage things so that +anybody may have flower boxes; and their associations are by no means +unmanly. This is the way they do it. In the early summer a gardener’s +wagon from the country draws up by the college gate, and the driver +cries, “Flowers! Flowers for a pair of old bags, sir.” _Bags_ is of +course the fitting term for English trousers--which don’t fit; and I +should like to inform that ancient graduate that the window boxes of +Oxford suggest the very badge of manhood. + +As long as the English twilight lingers, the men will sit and talk +and sing to the mandolin; and I have heard the fellows sitting and +talking all night, not turning in until the porter appeared to +take their names at roll-call. On the eve of May day it is quite +the custom to sit out, for at dawn one may go to see the pretty +ceremony of heralding the May on Magdalen Tower. The Magdalen +choir boys--the sweetest songsters in all Oxford--mount to the top +of that most beautiful of Gothic towers, and, standing among the +pinnacles,--pinnacles afire with the spirituality of the Middles +Ages, that warms all the senses with purity and beauty,--those boys, +I say, on that tower and among those pinnacles, open their mouths +and sing a Latin song to greet the May. Meantime, the fellows who +have come out to listen in the street below make catcalls and blow +fish horns. The song above is the survival of a Romish, perhaps a +Druidical, custom; the racket below is the survival of a Puritan +protest. That is Oxford in symbol! Its dignity and mellowness are not +so much a matter of flowering gardens and crumbling walls as of the +traditions of the centuries in which the whole life of the place has +deep sources; and the noblest of its institutions are fringed with +survivals that run riot in the grotesque. + +If a man intends to spend the evening out of college, he has to make +a dash before nine o’clock; for love or for money the porter may +not let an inmate out after nine. One man I knew was able to escape +by guile. He had a brother in Trinity whom he very much resembled, +and whenever he wanted to go out, he would tilt his mortarboard +forward, wrap his gown high about his neck, as it is usually worn +of an evening, and bidding the porter a polite good-night, say, +“Charge me to my brother, Hancock, if you please.” The charge is +the inconsiderable sum of one penny, and is the penalty of having a +late guest. Having profited by my experience with the similar charge +for keeping my name on the college books, I never asked its why and +wherefore. Both are no doubt survivals of some medieval custom, the +authority of which no college employee--or don, for the matter of +that--would question. Such matters interest the Oxford man quite +as little as the question how he comes by a tonsil or a vermiform +appendix. They are there, and he makes the best of them. + +If a fellow leaves college for an evening, it is for a foregathering +at some other college, or to go to the theatre. As a rule he wears +a cloth cap. A “billy-cock” or “bowler,” as the pot hat is called, +is as thoroughly frowned on now in English colleges as it was with +us a dozen years ago. As for the mortarboard and gown, undergraduate +opinion rather requires that they be left behind. This is largely, +no doubt, because they are required by law to be worn. So far as +the undergraduates are concerned, every operative statute of the +university, with the exception of those relating to matriculation +and graduation, refers to conduct in the streets after nightfall, +and almost without exception they are honored in the breach. This +is out of disregard for the Vice-Chancellor of the university, who +is familiarly called the Vice, because he serves as a warning to +others for the practice of virtue. The Vice makes his power felt +in characteristically dark and tortuous ways. His factors are two +proctors, college dons in daytime, but skulkers after nightfall, +each of whom has his bulldogs, that is, scouts, employed literally +to spy upon the students. If these catch you without cap or gown, +they cause you to be proctorized or “progged,” as it is called, +which involves a matter of five shillings or so. As a rule there is +little danger of progging, but my first term fell in evil days. For +some reason or other the chest of the university showed a deficit of +sundry pounds, shillings, and pence; and as it had long ceased to +need or receive regular bequests,--the finance of the institution +being in the hands of the colleges,--a crisis was at hand. A more +serious problem had doubtless never arisen since the great question +was solved of keeping undergraduates’ names on the books. The +expedient of the Vice-Chancellor was to summon the proctors, and +bid them charge their bulldogs to prog all freshmen caught at night +without cap and gown. The deficit in the university chest was made up +at five shillings a head. + +One of the Vice-Chancellor’s rules is that no undergraduate shall +enter an Oxford “pub.” Now the only restaurant in town, Queen’s, is +run in conjunction with a pub, and was once the favorite resort of +all who were bent on breaking the monotony of an English Sunday. The +Vice-Chancellor resolved to destroy this den of Sabbath breaking, +and the undergraduates resolved no less firmly to defend their +stronghold. The result was a hand-to-hand fight with the bulldogs, +which ended so triumphantly for the undergraduates that a dozen +or more of them were sent down. In the articles of the peace that +followed, it was stipulated, I was told, that so long as the +restaurant was closed Sunday afternoons and nights, it should never +suffer from the visit of proctor or bulldog. As a result, Queen’s is +a great scene of undergraduate foregatherings. The dinners are good +enough and reasonably cheap; and as most excellent champagne is to be +had at twelve shillings the bottle, the diners are not unlikely to +get back to college a trifle buffy, in the Oxford phrase. + +By an interesting survival of medieval custom, the Vice-Chancellor +has supreme power over the morals of the town, and any citizen who +transgresses his laws is visited with summary punishment. For a +tradesman or publican to assist in breaking university rules means +outlawry and ruin, and for certain offenses a citizen may be punished +by imprisonment. Over the Oxford theatre the Vice-Chancellor’s +power is absolute. In my time he was much more solicitous that the +undergraduate be kept from knowledge of the omnipresent woman with +a past than that dramatic art should flourish, and forbade the town +to more than one excellent play of the modern school of comedy that +had been seen and discussed in London by the younger sisters of the +undergraduates. The woman with a present is virtually absent. + +Time was when no Oxford play was quite successful unless the +undergraduates assisted at its first night, though in a way very +different from that which the term denotes in France. The assistance +was of the kind so generously rendered in New York and Boston on the +evening of an athletic contest. Even to-day, just for tradition’s +sake, the undergraduates sometimes make a row. A lot of B. N. C. +men, as the clanny sons of Brazenose College call themselves, may +insist that an opera stop while the troupe listen to one of their +own excellent vocal performances; and I once saw a great sprinter, +not unknown to Yale men, rise from his seat, face the audience, and, +pointing with his thumb over his shoulder at the soubrette, announce +impressively, “Do you know, I rather _like_ that girl!” The show +is usually over just before eleven, and then occurs an amusing, if +unseemly, scramble to get back to college before the hour strikes. +A man who stays out after ten is fined threepence, after eleven the +fine is sixpence. When all is said, why shouldn’t one sprint for +threepence? + +If you stay out of college after midnight, the dean makes a star +chamber offense of it, fines you a “quid” or two, and like as not +sends you down. This sounds a trifle worse than it is; for if you +must be away, your absence can usually be arranged for. If you find +yourself in the streets after twelve, you may rap on some friend’s +bedroom window and tell him of your plight through the iron grating. +He will then spend the first half of the night in your bed and wash +his hands in your bowl. With such evidence as this to support him, +the scout is not apt, if sufficiently retained, to report a suspected +absence. I have even known fellows to make their arrangements in +advance and spend the night in town; but the ruse has its dangers, +and the penalty is to be sent down for good and all. + +It is owing to such regulations as these that life in the English +college has the name of being cloistral. Just how cloistral it is in +spirit no one can know who has not taken part in a rag in the quad; +and this is impossible to an outsider, for at midnight all visitors +are required to leave, under a heavy penalty to their host. + + From _An American at Oxford_, by John Corbin. By + permission of and by arrangement with Houghton + Mifflin Company, the authorized publishers. + + + THE PEASANT BODO + + EILEEN POWER + +That, in a few words, is the way in which the monks of St. Germain +and the other Frankish landowners of the time of Charlemagne managed +their estates. Let us try, now, to look at those estates from a more +human point of view and see what life was like to a farmer who lived +upon them. The abbey possessed a little estate called Villaris, near +Paris, in the place now occupied by the park of Saint Cloud. When +we turn up the pages in the estate book dealing with Villaris, we +find that there was a man called Bodo living there. He had a wife +called Ermentrude and three children called Wido and Gerbert and +Hildegard; and he owned a little farm of arable and meadow land, with +a few vines. And we know very nearly as much about Bodo’s work as we +know about that of a small-holder in France today. Let me try and +imagine a day in his life. On a fine spring morning towards the end +of Charlemagne’s reign Bodo gets up early, because it is his day to +go and work on the monks’ farm, and he does not dare to be late, for +fear of the steward. To be sure, he has probably given the steward +a present of eggs and vegetables the week before, to keep him in +good temper; but the monks will not allow their stewards to take big +bribes (as is sometimes done on other estates), and Bodo knows that +he will not be allowed to go late to work. It is his day to plough, +so he takes his big ox with him and little Wido to run by its side +with a goad, and he joins his friends from some of the farms near by, +who are going to work at the big house too. They all assemble, some +with horses and oxen, some with mattocks and hoes and spades and axes +and scythes, and go off in gangs to work upon the fields and meadows +and woods of the seigniorial manse, according as the steward orders +them. The manse next door to Bodo is held by a group of families; +Frambert and Ermoin and Ragenold, with their wives and children. +Bodo bids them good morning as he passes. Frambert is going to make +a fence round the wood, to prevent the rabbits from coming out and +eating the young crops; Ermoin has been told off to cart a great load +of firewood up to the house; and Ragenold is mending a hole in the +roof of a barn. Bodo goes whistling off in the cold with his oxen +and his little boy; and it is no use to follow him farther, because +he ploughs all day and eats his meal under a tree with the other +ploughmen, and it is very monotonous. + +Let us go back and see what Bodo’s wife, Ermentrude, is doing. She +is busy too; it is the day on which the chicken-rent is due--a fat +pullet and five eggs in all. She leaves her second son, aged nine, +to look after the baby Hildegard and calls on one of the neighbours, +who has to go up to the big house too. The neighbour is a serf and +she has to take the steward a piece of woollen cloth, which will be +sent away to St. Germain to make a habit for a monk. Her husband +is working all day in the lord’s vineyards, for on this estate +the serfs generally tend the vines, while the freemen do most of +the ploughing. Ermentrude and the serf’s wife go together up to +the house. There all is busy. In the men’s workshop are several +clever workmen--a shoemaker, a carpenter, a blacksmith, and two +silversmiths; there are not more, because the best artisans on the +estates of St. Germain live by the walls of the abbey, so that they +can work for the monks on the spot and save the labour of carriage. +But there were always some craftsmen on every estate, either attached +as serfs to the big house, or living on manses of their own, and +good landowners tried to have as many clever craftsmen as possible. +Charlemagne ordered his stewards each to have in his district “good +workmen, namely, blacksmiths, goldsmiths, silversmiths, shoemakers, +turners, carpenters, swordsmakers, fishermen, foilers, soapmakers, +men who knew how to make beer, cider, perry and all other kinds of +beverages, bakers to make pasty for our table, netmakers who know how +to make nets for hunting, fishing and fowling, and others too many to +be named.” And some of these workmen are to be found working for the +monks in the estate of Villaris. + +But Ermentrude does not stop at the men’s workshop. She finds the +steward, bobs her curtsy to him, and gives up her fowl and eggs, and +then she hurries off to the women’s part of the house, to gossip +with the serfs there. The Franks used at this time to keep the women +of their household in separate quarters, where they did the work +which was considered suitable for women, very much as the Greeks of +antiquity used to do. If a Frankish noble had lived at the big house, +his wife would have looked after their work, but as no one lived in +the stone house at Villaris, the steward had to oversee the women. +Their quarter consisted of a little group of houses, with a workroom, +the whole surrounded by a thick hedge with a strong bolted gate, like +a harem, so that no one could come in without leave. Their workrooms +were comfortable places, warmed by stoves, and there Ermentrude +(who, being a woman, was allowed to go in) found about a dozen +servile women spinning and dyeing cloth and sewing garments. Every +week the harrassed steward brought them the raw materials for their +work and took away what they made. Charlemagne gives his stewards +several instructions about the women attached to his manses, and +we may be sure that the monks of St. Germain did the same on their +model estates. “For our women’s work,” says Charlemagne, “they are +to give at the proper time the materials, that is linen, wool, woad, +vermilion, madder, wool combs, teasels, soap, grease, vessels, and +other objects which are necessary. And let our women’s quarters be +well looked after, furnished with houses and rooms with stoves and +cellars, and let them be surrounded by good hedge, and let the doors +be strong, so that the women can do our work properly.” Ermentrude, +however, has to hurry away after her gossip, and so must we. She goes +back to her own farm and sets to work in the little vineyard; then +after an hour or two goes back to get the children’s meal and to +spend the rest of the day in weaving warm woollen clothes for them. +All her friends are either working in the fields on their husband’s +farms or else looking after the poultry, or the vegetables, or sewing +at home; for the women have to work just as hard as the men on a +country farm. In Charlemagne’s time (for instance) they did nearly +all the sheep shearing. Then at last Bodo comes back for his supper, +and as soon as the sun goes down they go to bed; for their hand-made +candle gives only a flicker of light, and they both have to be up +early in the morning. De Quincey once pointed out, in his inimitable +manner, how the ancients everywhere went to bed, “like good boys, +from seven to nine o’clock.” “Man went to bed early in those ages +simply because his worthy mother earth could not afford him candles. +She, good old lady ... would certainly have shuddered to hear of any +of her nations asking for candles. ‘Candles, indeed!’ she would have +said; ‘who ever heard of such a thing? and with so much excellent +daylight running to waste, as I have provided _gratis_! What will the +wretches want next?’” Something of the same situation prevailed even +in Bodo’s time. + +This, then, is how Bodo and Ermentrude usually passed their working +day. But, it may be complained, this is all very well. We know about +the estates on which these peasants lived and about the rents which +they had to pay, and the services which they had to do. But how +did they feel and think and amuse themselves when they were not +working? Rents and services are only outside things; an estate book +only describes routine. It would be idle to try to picture the life +of a university from a study of its lecture list, and it is equally +idle to try to describe the life of Bodo from the estate book of his +masters. It is no good taking your meals in the kitchen if you never +talk to the servants. This is true, and to arrive at Bodo’s thoughts +and feelings and holiday amusements we must bid good-bye to Abbot +Irminon’s estate book, and peer into some very dark corners indeed; +for though by the aid of Chaucer and Langland and a few Cour Rollis +it is possible to know a great deal about the feelings of a peasant +six centuries later, material is scarce in the ninth century, and it +is all the more necessary to remember the secret of the invisible ink. + +Bodo certainly _had_ plenty of feelings, and very strong ones. When +he got up in the frost on a cold morning to drive the plough over +the abbot’s acres, when his own were calling out for work, he often +shivered and shook the rime from his beard, and wished that the big +house and all its land were at the bottom of the sea (which, as a +matter of fact, he had never seen and could not imagine). Or else he +wished he were the abbot’s huntsman, hunting in the forest; or a monk +of St. Germain, singing sweetly in the abbey church; or a merchant, +taking bales of cloaks and girdles along the high road to Paris; +anything, in fact, but a poor ploughman ploughing other people’s +land. An Anglo-Saxon writer has imagined a dialogue with him: + + “Well, ploughman, how do you do your work?” “Oh, sir, I work very + hard. I go out in the dawning, driving the oxen to the field and I + yoke them to the plough. Be the winter never so stark, I dare not + stay at home for fear of my lord; but every day I must plough a + full acre or more, after having yoked the oxen and fastened the + share and coulter to the plough!” “Have you any mate?” “I have a + boy, who drives the oxen with a goad, who is now hoarse from cold + and shouting.” (Poor little Wido.) “Well, well, it is very hard + work?” “Yes, indeed it is very hard work.” + +Nevertheless, hard as the work was, Bodo sang lustily to cheer +himself and Wido; for is it not related that once, when a clerk was +singing the “Allelulia” in the emperor’s presence, Charles turned +to one of the bishops, saying, “My clerk is singing very well,” +whereat the rude bishop replied, “Any clown in our countryside drones +as well as that to his oxen at their ploughing”? It is certain too +that Bodo agreed with the names which the great Charles gave to +the months of the year in his own Frankish tongue; for he called +January “Winter-month,” February “Mud-month,” April “Easter-month,” +May “Joy-month,” June “Plough-month,” July “Hay-month,” August +“Harvest-month,” September “Wind-month,” October “Vintage-month,” +November “Autumn-month,” and December “Holy-month.” + +And Bodo was a superstitious creature. The Franks had been Christian +now for many years, but Christian though they were, the peasants +clung to old beliefs and superstitions. On the estates of the holy +monks of St. Germain you would have found the country people saying +charms which were hoary with age, parts of the lay sung by the +Frankish ploughman over his bewitched land long before he marched +southwards into the Roman Empire, or parts of the spell which the +bee-master performed when he swarmed his bees on the shores of the +Baltic Sea. Christianity has colored these charms, but it has not +effaced their heathen origin; and because the tilling of the soil +is the oldest and most unchanging of human occupations, old beliefs +and superstitions cling to it and the old gods stalk up and down +the brown furrows, when they have long vanished from houses and +roads. So on Abbot Irminon’s estate the peasant-farmers muttered +charms over their sick cattle (and over their sick children too) and +said incantations over the fields to make them fertile. If you had +followed behind Bodo when he broke his first furrow you would have +probably seen him take out of his jerkin a little cake, baked for him +by Ermentrude out of different kinds of meal, and you would have seen +him stoop and lay it under the furrow and sing: + + Earth, Earth, Earth! O Earth, our mother! + May the All-Wielder, Ever-Lord grant thee + Acres a-waxing, upwards a-growing, + Pregnant with corn and plenteous in strength; + Hosts of grain shafts and of glittering plants! + Of broad barley the blossoms, + And of white wheat ears waxing, + Of the whole land the harvest ... + + * * * * * + + Acre, full-fed, bring forth fodder for men! + Blossoming brightly, blessed become! + And the God who wrought with earth grant us gift of growing + That each of all the corns may come unto our need. + +Then he would drive his plough through the acre. + +The Church wisely did not interfere with these old rites. It taught +Bodo to pray to the Ever-Lord instead of to Father Heaven, and to the +Virgin Mary instead of to Mother Earth, and with these changes let +the old spell he had learned from his ancestors serve him still. It +taught him, for instance, to call on Christ and Mary in his charm for +bees. When Ermentrude heard her bees swarming, she stood outside her +cottage and said this little charm over them: + + Christ, there is a swarm of bees outside, + Fly hither, my little cattle, + In blest peace, in God’s protection, + Come home safe and sound. + Sit down, sit down, bee, + St. Mary commanded thee. + Thou shalt not have leave, + Thou shalt not fly to the wood. + Thou shalt not escape me, + Nor go away from me. + Sit very still, + Wait God’s will! + +And if Bodo on his way home saw one of his bees caught +in a brier bush, he immediately stood still and wished--as some +people wish to-day when they go under a ladder. It was the Church, +too, which taught Bodo to add “So be it, Lord,” to the end of his +charm against pain. Now, his ancestors for generations behind him +had believed that if you had a stitch in your side, or a bad pain +anywhere, it came from a worm in the marrow of your bones, which was +eating you up, and that the only way to get rid of that worm was to +put a knife, or an arrow-head, or some other piece of metal to the +sore place, and then wheedle the worm out on to the blade by saying +a charm. And this was the charm which Bodo’s heathen ancestors had +always said and which Bodo went on saying when little Wido had a +pain: “Come out, worm, with nine little worms, out from the marrow +into the bone, from the bone into the flesh, from the flesh into the +skin, from the skin into this arrow.” And then (in obedience to the +Church) he added “So be it, Lord.” But sometimes it was not possible +to read a Christian meaning into Bodo’s doings. Sometimes he paid +visits to some man who was thought to have a wizard’s powers, or +superstitiously reverenced some twisted tree, about which there hung +old stories never quite forgotten. Then the Church was stern. When +he went to confession the priest would ask him: “Have you consulted +magicians and enchanters, have you made vows to trees and fountains, +have you drunk any magic philtre?” And he would have to confess what +he did last time his cow was sick. But the Church was kind as well +as stern. “When serfs come to you,” we find one bishop telling his +priests, “you must not give them as many fasts to perform as rich +men. Put upon them only half the penance.” The Church knew well +enough that Bodo could not drive his plough all day upon an empty +stomach. The hunting, drinking, feasting Frankish nobles could afford +to lose a meal. + +It was from this stern and yet kind Church that Bodo got his +holidays. For the Church made the pious emperor decree that on +Sundays and saints’ days no servile or other works should be done. +Charlemagne’s son repeated his decree in 827. It runs thus: + + We ordain according to the law of God and to the command of our + father of blessed memory in his edicts, that no servile works + shall be done on Sundays, neither shall men perform their rustic + labours, tending vines, ploughing fields, reaping corn and mowing + hay, setting up hedges or fencing woods, cutting trees, or working + in quarries or building houses; nor shall they work in the gardens, + nor come to the law courts, nor follow the chase. But three + carrying-services it is lawful to do on Sunday, to wit carrying + for the army, carrying food, or carrying (if need be) the body of + a lord to its grave. Item, women shall not do their textile works, + not cut out clothes, nor stitch them together with the needle, nor + card wool, nor beat hemp, nor wash clothes in public, nor shear + sheep: so that there may be rest on the Lord’s day. But let them + come together from all sides to Mass in the Church and praise God + for all the good things He did for us on that day! + +Unfortunately, however, Bodo and Ermentrude and their friends were +not content to go quietly to church on saints’ days and quietly home +again. They used to spend their holidays in dancing and singing and +buffoonery, as country folk have always done until our own gloomier, +more self-conscious age. They were very merry and not at all +refined, and the place they always chose for their dances was the +churchyard; and unluckily the songs they sang as they danced in a +ring were old pagan songs of their forefathers, left over from old +Mayday festivities, which they could not forget, or ribald love-songs +which the Church disliked. Over and over again we find the Church +councils complaining that the peasants (and sometimes the priests +too) were singing “wicked songs with a chorus of dancing women,” or +holding “ballads and dancing and evil and wanton songs and such-like +lures of the devil”; over and over again the bishops forbade these +songs and dances; but in vain. In every country in Europe, right +through the Middle Ages to the time of the Reformation, and after +it, country folk continued to sing and dance in the churchyard. Two +hundred years after Charlemagne’s death there grew up the legend +of the dancers of Kölbigk, who danced on Christmas Eve in the +churchyard, in spite of the warning of the priest, and all got rooted +to the spot for a year, till the Archbishop of Cologne released them. +Some men say they were not rooted standing to the spot, but that +they had to go on dancing for the whole year; and that before they +were released they had danced themselves waist-deep into the ground. +People used to repeat the little Latin verse which they were singing: + + Equitabat Bovo per silvam frondosam + Ducebat sibi Merswindem formosam. + Quid stamus? Cur non imus? + + Through the leafy forest, Bovo went a-riding + And his pretty Merswind trotted on beside him-- + Why are we standing still? Why can’t we go away? + +Another later story still is told about a priest in +Worcestershire, who was kept awake all night by the people dancing +in his churchyard and singing a song with the refrain “Sweetheart +have pity,” so that he could not get it out of his head, and the +next morning at Mass, instead of saying “Dominus vobiscum,” he said +“Sweetheart have pity,” and there was a dreadful scandal which got +into a chronicle. + +Sometimes our Bodo did not dance himself, but listened to the songs +of wandering minstrels. The priests did not at all approve of these +minstrels, who (they said) would certainly go to hell for singing +profane secular songs, all about the great deeds of heathen heroes +of the Frankish race, instead of Christian hymns. But Bodo loved +them, and so did Bodo’s betters; the Church councils had sometimes +even to rebuke abbots and abbesses for listening to their songs. +And the worst of it was that the great emperor himself, the good +Charlemagne, loved them too. He would always listen to a minstrel, +and his biographer, Einhard tells us that “He wrote out the barbarous +and ancient songs, in which the acts of the kings and their wars +were sung, and committed them to memory”; and one at least of those +old sagas, which he liked men to write down, has been preserved +on the cover of a Latin manuscript, where a monk scribbled it in +his spare time. His son, Louis the Pious, was very different; he +rejected the national poems, which he had learnt in his youth, and +would not have them read or recited or taught; he would not allow +minstrels to have justice in the law courts, and he forbade idle +dances and songs and tales in public places on Sundays; but then he +also dragged down his father’s kingdom into disgrace and ruin. The +minstrels repaid Charlemagne for his kindness to them. They gave +him everlasting fame; for all through the Middle Ages the legend of +Charlemagne grew, and he shares with our King Arthur the honour of +being the hero of one of the greatest romance-cycles of the Middle +Ages. Every different century clad him anew in its own dress and +sang new lays about him. What the monkish chronicles in their cells +could never do for Charlemagne, these despised and accursed minstrels +did for him; they gave him what is perhaps more desirable and more +lasting than a place in history--they gave him a place in legend. It +is not every emperor who rules in those realms of gold of which Keats +spoke, as well as in the kingdoms of the world; and in the realms +of gold Charlemagne reigns with King Arthur, and his peers joust +with the Knights of the Round Table. Bodo, at any rate, benefited by +Charles’s love of minstrels, and it is probable that he heard in the +lifetime of the emperor himself the first beginnings of those legends +which afterwards clung to the name of Charlemagne. One can imagine +him round-eyed in the churchyard, listening to fabulous stories of +Charles’s Iron March to Pavia, such as a gossiping old monk of St. +Gall afterwards wrote down in his chronicle. + +It is likely enough that such legends were the nearest Bodo ever came +to seeing the emperor, of whom even the poor serfs who never followed +him to court or camp were proud. But Charles was a great traveller; +like all the monarchs of the early Middle Ages he spent the time, +when he was not warring, in trekking round his kingdom, staying at +one of his estates, until he and his household had literally eaten +their way through it, and then passing on to another. And sometimes +he varied the procedure by paying a visit to the estates of his +bishops or nobles, who entertained him royally. It may be that one +day he came on a visit to Bodo’s masters and stopped at the big house +on his way to Paris, and then Bodo saw him plain; for Charlemagne +would come riding along the road in his jerkin of otter skin, and his +plain blue cloak (Einhard tells us that he hated grand clothes and +on ordinary days dressed like the common people); and after him would +come his three sons and his bodyguard, and then his five daughters. +Einhard has also told us that + + He had such care of the upbringing of his sons and daughters that + he never dined without them when he was at home and never travelled + without them. His sons rode along with him and his daughters + followed in the rear. Some of his guards, chosen for this very + purpose, watched the end of the line of march where his daughters + travelled. They were very beautiful and much beloved by their + father, and, therefore, it is strange that he would give them in + marriage to no one, either among his own people or of a foreign + state. But up to his death he kept them all at home saying he could + not forgo their society. + +Then, with luck, Bodo, quaking at the knees, might even behold a +portent new to his experience, the emperor’s elephant. Haroun El +Raschid, the great Sultan of the “Arabian Nights” had sent it to +Charles, and it accompanied him on all his progresses. Its name +was “Abu-Lubabah,” which is an Arabic word and means “the father +of intelligence,”[1] and it died a hero’s death on an expedition +against the Danes in 810. It is certain that ever afterwards +Ermentrude quelled little Gerbert, when he was naughty, with the +threat, “Abu-Lubabah will come with his long nose and carry you off.” +But Wido, being aged eight and a bread-winner, professed to have +felt no fear on being confronted with the elephant; but admitted +when pressed, that he greatly preferred Haroun El Raschid’s other +present to the emperor, the friend dog, who answered to the name of +“Becerillo.” + +It would be a busy time for Bodo when all these great folk came, for +everything would have to be cleaned before their arrival, the pastry +cooks and sausage-makers summoned and a great feast prepared; and +though the household serfs did most of the work, it is probable that +he had to help. The gossipy old monk of St. Gall has given us some +amusing pictures of the excitement when Charles suddenly paid a visit +to his subjects: + + There was a certain bishopric which lay full in Charles’s path + when he journeyed, and which indeed he could hardly avoid: and the + bishop of this place, always anxious to give satisfaction, put + everything that he had at Charles’s disposal. But once the Emperor + came quite unexpectedly and the bishop in great anxiety had to fly + hither and thither like a swallow, and had not only the palaces + and houses but also the courts and squares swept and cleaned: and + then, tired and irritated, came to meet him. The most pious Charles + noticed this, and after examining all the various details, he said + to the bishop: “My kind host, you always have everything splendidly + cleaned for my arrival.” Then the bishop, as if divinely inspired, + bowed his head and grasped the king’s never-conquered hand, and + hiding his irritation, kissed it and said: “It is but right, my + lord, that wherever you come, all things should be thoroughly + cleansed.” Then Charles, of all kings the wisest, understanding + the state of affairs said to him: “If I empty I can also fill.” + And he added: “You may have that estate which lies close to your + bishopric, and all your successors may have it until the end of + time.” In the same journey, too, he came to a bishop who lived in + a place through which he must needs pass. Now on that day, being + the sixth day of the week, he was not willing to eat the flesh of + beast or bird; and the bishop, being by reason of the nature of + the place unable to procure fish upon the sudden, ordered some + excellent cheese, rich and creamy to be placed before him. And the + most self-restrained Charles, with the readiness which he showed + everywhere and on all occasions, spared the blushes of the bishop + and required no better fare; but taking up his knife cut off the + skin, which he thought unsavory and fell to on the white of the + cheese. Thereupon the bishop, who was standing near like a servant, + drew closer and said: “Why do you do that, lord emperor? You are + throwing away the very best part.” Then Charles, who deceived no + one, and did not believe that anyone would deceive him, on the + persuasion of the bishop put a piece of the skin in his mouth, and + slowly eat it and swallowed it like butter. Then approving of the + advice of the bishop, he said: “Very true, my good host,” and he + added: “Be sure to send me every year to Aix two cartloads of just + such cheeses.” And the bishop was alarmed at the impossibility of + the task and, fearful of losing both his rank and his office, he + rejoined: “My lord, I can procure the cheeses, but I cannot tell + which are of this quality and which of another. Much I fear lest + I fall under your censure.” Then Charles, from whose penetration + and skill nothing could escape, however new or strange it might + be, spoke thus to the bishop, who from childhood had known such + cheeses and yet could not test them: “Cut them in two,” he said, + “then fasten together with a skewer those that you find to be of + the right quality and keep them in your cellar for a time and then + send them to me. The rest you may keep for yourself and your clergy + and your family.” This was done for two years, and the king ordered + the present of cheeses to be taken in without remark: then in the + third year the bishop brought in person his laboriously collected + cheeses. But the most just Charles pitied his labour and anxiety + and added to the bishopric an excellent estate whence he and his + successors might provide themselves with corn and wine. + +We may feel sorry for the poor flustered bishop collecting his two +cartloads of cheeses; but it is possible that our real sympathy ought +to go to Bodo, who probably had to pay an extra rent in cheeses +to satisfy the emperor’s taste, and got no excellent estate to +recompense him. + +A visit from the emperor, however, would be a rare event in his life, +to be talked about for years and told to his grandchildren. But there +was one other event, which happened annually, and which was certainly +looked for with excitement by Bodo and his friends. For once a year +the king’s itinerant justices, the _Missi Dominici_, came round +to hold their court and to see if the local counts had been doing +justice. Two of them would come, a bishop and a count, and they would +perhaps stay a night at the big house as guests of the abbot, and +the next day they would go to Paris, and there they would sit and +do justice in the open square before the church, and from all the +district round great men and small, nobles and freemen and _coloni_, +would bring their grievances and demand redress. Bodo would go too, +if anyone had injured or robbed him, and would make his complaint +to the judges. But if he were canny he would not go to them empty +handed, trusting to justice alone. Charlemagne was very strict, but +unless the _missi_ were exceptionally honest and pious they would +not be averse to taking bribes. Theodulf, Bishop of Orleans, who was +one of the Emperor’s _missi_, has left us a most entertaining Latin +poem, in which he describes the attempts of the clergy and laymen, +who flocked to his court, to buy justice. Every one according to his +means brought a present; the rich offered money, precious stones, +fine materials, and Eastern carpets, arms, horses, antique vases +of gold or silver chiselled with representations of the labours of +Hercules. The poor brought skins of Cordova leather, tanned and +untanned, excellent pieces of cloth and linen (poor Ermentrude must +have worked hard for the month before the justices came!), boxes, and +wax. “With this battering-ram,” cries the shocked Bishop Theodulf, +“they hope to break down the wall of my soul. But they would not +have thought that they could shake _me_, if they had not so shaken +other judges before.” And indeed, if his picture be true, the royal +justices must have been followed about by a regular caravan of carts +and horses to carry their presents. Even Theodulf has to admit that, +in order not to hurt people’s feelings, he was obliged to accept +certain unconsidered trifles in the shape of eggs and bread and wine +and chickens and little birds, “whose bodies” (he says, smacking his +lips) “are small, but very good to eat.” One seems to detect the +anxious face of Bodo behind those eggs and little birds. + +Another treat Bodo had which happened once a year; for regularly +on the ninth of October there began the great fair of St. Denys, +which went on for a whole month, outside the gate of Paris. Then +for a week before the fair little booths and sheds sprang up, with +open fronts in which the merchants could display their wares, and +the Abbey of St. Denys, which had the right to take a toll of all +the merchants who came to sell, saw to it that the fair was well +enclosed with fences, and that all came in by the gates and paid +their money, for wily merchants were sometimes known to burrow under +fences or climb over them so as to avoid the toll. Then the streets +of Paris were crowded with merchants bringing their goods, packed in +carts and upon horses and oxen; and on the opening day all regular +trade in Paris stopped for a month, and every Parisian shopkeeper +was in a booth somewhere in the fair, exchanging the corn and wine +and honey of the district for rarer goods from foreign parts. Bodo’s +abbey probably had a stall in the fair and sold some of those pieces +of cloth woven by the serfs in the women’s quarter, or cheeses and +salted meat prepared on the estates, or wine paid in rent by Bodo and +his fellow-farmers. Bodo would certainly take a holiday and go to the +fair. In fact, the steward would probably have great difficulty in +keeping his men at work during the month; Charlemagne had to give a +special order to his stewards that they should “be careful that our +men do properly the work which it is lawful to exact from them, and +that they do not waste their time in running about to markets and +fairs.” Bodo and Ermentrude and the three children, all attired in +their best, did not consider it waste of time to go to the fair even +twice or three times. They pretended that they wanted to buy salt +to salt down their winter meat, or some vermilion dye to colour a +frock for the baby. What they really wanted was to wander along the +little rows of booths and look at all the strange things assembled +there; for merchants came to St. Denys to sell their rich goods +from the distant East to Bodo’s betters, and wealthy Frankish nobles +bargained there for purple and silken robes with orange borders, +stamped leather jerkins, peacock’s feathers, and the scarlet plumage +of flamingos (which they called “phœnix skins”), scents and pearls +and spices, almonds and raisins, and monkeys for their wives to play +with. Sometimes these merchants were Venetians, but more often they +were Syrians or crafty Jews; and Bodo and his fellows laughed loudly +over the story of how a Jewish merchant had tricked a certain bishop, +who craved for all the latest novelties, by stuffing a mouse with +spices and offering it for sale to him, saying that “he had brought +this most precious never-before-seen animal from Judea,” and refusing +to take less than a whole measure of silver for it. In exchange for +their luxuries these merchants took away with them Frisian cloth, +which was greatly esteemed, and corn and hunting dogs, and sometimes +a piece of fine goldsmith’s work, made in a monastic workshop. And +Bodo would hear a hundred dialects and tongues, for men of Saxony +and Frisia, Spain and Provence, Rouen and Lombardy, and perhaps an +Englishman or two, jostled each other in the little streets; and from +time to time there came also an Irish scholar with a manuscript to +sell, and the strange, sweet songs of Ireland on his lips: + + A hedge of trees surrounds me, + A blackbird’s lay sings to me; + Above my lined booklet + The trilling birds chant to me. + In a grey mantle from the top of bushes + The cuckoo sings: + Verily--may the Lord shield me!-- + Well do I write under the greenwood. + +Then there were always jugglers and tumblers, and men with performing +bears, and minstrels to wheedle Bodo’s few pence out of his pocket. +And it would be a very tired and happy family that trundled home in +the cart to bed. For it is not, after all, so dull in the kitchen, +and when we have quite finished with the emperor, “Charlemagne and +all his peerage,” it is really worth while to spend a few moments +with Bodo in his little manse. History is largely made up of Bodos. + + Eileen Power, _Medieval People_. By permission of + and by arrangement with Houghton Mifflin Company, + the authorized publishers. + + +SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY OF EXPOSITORY NARRATIVE + + The editors have found these additional selections very useful in + teaching expository narrative: + + Davis, William Stearns. _A Day in Old Athens_, particularly Chapter + II, _The First Sights in Athens_ and Chapter XIX, _Country Life + around Athens_. Allyn and Bacon. + + Husband, Joseph. _America at Work._ Houghton Mifflin Company. + + Husband, Joseph. _A Year in a Coal Mine._ Houghton Mifflin Company. + + Mills, Enos. _The Story of a Thousand Year Old Pine._ Houghton + Mifflin Company. + + Pound, Arthur. _The Iron Man._ Atlantic Monthly Press. + + White, Stewart Edward. _How to Go About It_ from _The Mountains_. + Doubleday, Page & Company. + + + + + CHAPTER II + + _Incidents_ + + +Incident is at once the earliest and the commonest material for +narration which we encounter in our own experience. An average life +furnishes only a few great adventures, impressive climaxes, and +epoch-making events, but every day is filled with a multiplicity of +incidents, gay, pathetic, or illuminating, which actually furnish +most of our material for conversation, for letters, and for memories. +It has been said that the ability to write good narration is likely +to be measured by the ability to recognize and relate incidents well, +and it will be readily observed that most of the effectiveness of +great climaxes is due to the value of the incidents which lead up to +them. + +Essentially, an incident is an unimportant happening, usually +unforeseen and not prepared for, an event which leaves behind it +little or no appreciable result. Obviously every life and every day +is full of such events, but the task of the writer is to recognize +the elements of humor, pathos, tragedy, or human interest which serve +to make certain incidents worthy to be remembered and retold. The +unseeing person goes home at the end of the day without a single +entertaining story to relate, while the man who worked beside him +may delight the whole dinner table with half a dozen incidents which +entirely failed to impress his unobservant friend. + +The incidents given in this section might easily have been lost had +they not fallen under the observation of good story tellers, yet +each of them deserved to be preserved to entertain the reader with +the same touch of interest that the writer found in the experience. +Each of them presents a phase of human character, and pleases the +reader by humor, pathos, or some lesson in the livableness of life. + +The following suggestions may aid the beginner: + + 1. Examine your memory for experiences which stand out clearly + although they neither were nor are of great importance. + + 2. Decide what events are associated with the most interesting + people you know; often some incident has had a large part in + forming your impression of these people; and sometimes incidents + take on interest because of the people who figure in them. + + 3. Begin as late in the story as you possibly can, using little or + no introductory explanation. + + F. del P. + + + INCIDENTS FROM THE LIFE OF LORD FREDERICK HAMILTON + +I must plead guilty to two episodes where my sole desire was to +avoid disappointment to others, and to prevent the reality falling +short of the expectation. One was in India. Barrackpore, the Viceroy +of India’s official country house, is justly celebrated for its +beautiful gardens. In these gardens every description of tropical +tree, shrub and flower grows luxuriantly. In a far-off corner +there is a splendid group of fan-bananas, otherwise known as the +“Traveller’s Palm.” Owing to the habit of growth of this tree, every +drop of rain or dew that falls on its broad, fan-shaped crown of +leaves is caught, and runs down the grooved stalks of the plant into +receptacles that cunning Nature has fashioned just where the stalk +meets the trunk. Even in the driest weather, these little natural +tanks will, if gashed with a knife, yield nearly a tumblerful of +pure sweet water, whence the popular name for the tree. A certain +dull M.P., on his travels, had come down to Barrackpore for Sunday, +and inquired eagerly whether there were any Travellers’ Trees either +in the park or the gardens there, as he had heard of them, but had +never yet seen one. We assured him that in the cool of the evening +we would show him quite a thicket of Travellers’ Trees. It occurred +to the Viceroy’s son and myself that it would be a pity should the +globe-trotting M.P.’s expectations not be realized, after the long +spell of drought we had had. So the two of us went off and carefully +filled up the natural reservoirs of some six fan-bananas with fresh +spring-water till they were brimful. Suddenly we had a simultaneous +inspiration, and returning to the house we fetched two bottles of +light claret, which we poured carefully into the natural cisterns of +two more trees, which we marked. Late in the afternoon we conducted +the M.P. to the grove of Travellers’ Trees, handed him a glass, and +made him gash the stem of one of them with his pen knife. Thanks to +our preparation it gushed water like one of the Trafalgar Square +fountains, and the touring legislator was able to satisfy himself +that it was good drinking-water. He had previously been making some +inquiries about so-called “Palm-wine,” which is merely the fermented +juice of the toddy-palm. We told him that some Travellers’ Palms +produced this wine, and with a slight exercise of ingenuity we +induced him to tap one of the trees we had doctored with claret. +Naturally, a crimson liquid spouted into his glass in response to the +thrust of his pen-knife, and after tasting it two or three times, he +reluctantly admitted that its flavour was not unlike that of red +wine. It ought to have been, considering that we had poured an entire +bottle of good sound claret into that tree. The ex-M.P. possibly +reflects now on the difficulties with which any attempts to introduce +“Pussyfoot” legislation into India would be confronted in a land +where some trees produce red wine spontaneously. + +On another occasion I was going by sea from Calcutta to Ceylon. On +board the steamer there were a number of Americans, principally +ladies, connected, I think, with some missionary undertaking. When we +got within about a hundred miles of Ceylon, these American ladies all +began repeating to each other the verse of the well-known hymn: + + “What though the spicy breezes + Blow soft o’er Ceylon’s isle,” + +over and over again, until I loathed Bishop Heber for having written +the lines. They even asked the captain how far out to sea the spicy +breezes would be perceptible. I suddenly got an idea, and, going +below, I obtained from the steward half a dozen nutmegs and a handful +of cinnamon. I grated the nutmegs and pounded the cinnamon up, +and then, with one hand full of each, I went on deck, and walked +slowly up and down in front of the American tourists. Soon I heard +an ecstatic cry, “My dear, I distinctly smelt spice then!” Another +turn, and another jubilant exclamation: “It’s quite true about +the spicy breezes. I got a delicious whiff just then. Who would +have thought that they would have carried so far out to sea!” A +sceptical elderly gentleman was summoned from below, and he, after +a while, was reluctantly forced to avow that he, too, had noticed +the spicy fragrance. No wonder! when I had about a quarter of a +pound of grated nutmeg in one hand, and as much pounded cinnamon +in the other. Now these people will go on declaring to the end of +their lives that they smelt the spicy odours of Ceylon, a full +hundred miles out at sea, just as the travelling M.P. will assert +that a tree in India produces a very good imitation of red wine. +It is a nice point determining how far one is morally responsible +one-self for the unconscious falsehoods into which these people +have been betrayed. I should like to have had the advice of Mrs. +Fairchild, of the _Fairchild Family_ upon this delicate question. +I feel convinced that that estimable lady, with her inexhaustible +repertory of supplications, would instantly have recited by heart “a +prayer against the temptation to lead others into uttering untruths +unconsciously,” which would have met the situation adequately, for +not once in the book, when appealed to, did she fail to produce +a lengthy and elaborately worded petition, adapted to the most +unexpected emergencies, and I feel confident that her moral armoury +would have included a prayer against tendencies to “leg-pulling.” + + From _The Days Before Yesterday_ by Lord + Frederick Hamilton. Copyright 1920, George H. + Doran Company, Publishers. + + + THE FIANCÉE + + MARGUERITE AUDOUX + +I was going back to Paris after a few days’ holiday. When I got to +the station the train was crowded. I peeped into every carriage, +hoping to find a place. There was one in the last carriage, but two +big baskets, out of which ducks and hens were peeping, filled the +seat. After a long moment’s hesitation, I decided to get in. I +apologized for disturbing the passengers, but a man in a blouse said: + +“Wait a moment, mademoiselle; I’ll take the baskets down.” + +And while I held the basket of fruit which he had on his knees, he +slipped the baskets with the ducks and hens under the seat. The ducks +did not like it, and told us so. The hens dropped their heads as +if they had been insulted, and the peasant’s wife talked to them, +calling them by their names. + +When I was seated, and the ducks were quiet, the passenger opposite +me asked the peasant whether he was taking the birds to market. + +“No, sir,” said the man. “I am taking them to my son, who is going to +be married the day after to-morrow.” + +His face was beaming, and he looked around as if he wanted everybody +to know how happy he was. An old woman who was hunched up in the +corner among three pillows, and who filled double the space she +should occupy, began grumbling about peasants who took up such a lot +of room in the train. + +The train started, and the passenger who had asked about the birds +was opening his newspaper, when the peasant said to him: + +“My boy is in Paris. He is working in a shop, and he is going to +marry a young lady who is in a shop, too.” + +The passenger let his open paper drop to his knees. He held it with +one hand and, leaning forward a little, asked: + +“Is the fiancée pretty?” + +“We do not know,” said the man. “We haven’t seen her yet.” + +“Really?” said the passenger. “And if she were ugly, and you did not +like her?” + +“That is one of the things that can always happen,” answered the +countryman. “But I think we shall like her, because our boy is too +fond of us to take an ugly wife.” + +“Besides,” said the little woman next me, “if she pleases our Philip, +she will please us, too.” + +She turned to me, and her gentle eyes were full of smiles. She had +a little, round, fresh face, and I could not believe that she was +the mother of a son who was old enough to marry. She wanted to know +whether I was going to Paris too, and when I said yes, the passenger +opposite began to joke. + +“I should like to bet,” he said, “that this young lady is the +fiancée. She has come to meet her father--and mother-in-law, without +telling them who she is.” + +Everybody looked at me, and I got very red. The countryman and his +wife said, together: + +“We should be very pleased if it were true.” + +I told them that it was not true, but the passenger reminded them +that I had walked up and down twice as if I were looking for +somebody, and that I had been a long time making up my mind to get +into that carriage. + +All the other passengers laughed, and I explained as well as I could +that this was the only place I had found. + +“Never mind,” said the countrywoman. “I shall be very happy if our +daughter-in-law is like you.” + +“Yes,” said her husband. “I hope she will look like you.” + +The passenger kept up his joke; he glanced at me maliciously and said +to the peasants: + +“When you get to Paris you will see that I am not wrong. Your son +will say to you, ‘Here is my fiancée.’” + +A little while afterward the countrywoman turned toward me, fumbled +in her basket, and pulled out a cake, saying that she had made it +herself that morning. I didn’t know how to refuse her, but I said I +had a bad cold and a touch of fever, and the cake went back into the +basket. Then she offered me a bunch of grapes, which I was obliged to +accept. And I had the greatest difficulty in preventing her husband +from going to get me something hot to drink when the train stopped. + +As I looked at these good people, who were so anxious to love the +wife their son had chosen, I felt sorry that I was not to be their +daughter-in-law. I knew how sweet their affection would have been +to me. I had never known my parents, and had always lived among +strangers. + +Every now and again I caught them staring at me. + +When we arrived at the station in Paris I helped them lift their +baskets down, and showed them the way out. I moved a little away from +them as I saw a tall young man rush at them and hug them. He kissed +them over and over again, one after the other. They smiled and looked +very happy. They did not hear the porters shouting as they bumped +into them with the luggage. + +I followed them to the gate. The son had passed one arm through the +handle of the basket with the hens, and thrown the other round his +mother’s waist. Like his father, he had happy eyes and a broad smile. + +Outside it was nearly dark. I turned up the collar of my coat, and +I remained a few steps behind the happy old couple, while their son +went to look for a cab. The countryman stroked the head of a big hen +with spots of all colors, and said to his wife: + +“If we had known that she was not our daughter-in-law, we might have +given her the spotted one.” + +His wife stroked the spotted hen, too, and said: “Yes, if we had +known.” + +She made a movement toward the crowd of people who were coming out of +the station, and, looking into the distance, said: + +“She is going off with all those people.” + +The son came back with a cab. He put his father and mother into it +and got up onto the box by the driver. He sat sideways so as not to +lose sight of them. He looked strong and gentle, and I thought, “His +fiancée is a happy girl.” + +When the cab had disappeared I went slowly out into the streets. I +could not make up my mind to go back to my lonely little room. I was +twenty years old, and nobody had ever spoken of love to me. + + Marguerite Audoux. From _Everybody’s Magazine_, + with the kind permission of the editors and of + the author. + + + JIM WOLF AND THE CATS + + MARK TWAIN + +It was back in those far-distant days--1848 or ’49--that Jim Wolf +came to us. He was from a hamlet thirty or forty miles back in the +country, and he brought all his native sweetnesses and gentlenesses +and simplicities with him. He was approaching seventeen, a grave +and slender lad, trustful, honest, honorable, a creature to love +and cling to. And he was incredibly bashful. He was with us a good +while, but he could never conquer that peculiarity; he could not be +at ease in the presence of any woman, not even in my good and gentle +mother’s; and as to speaking to any girl, it was wholly impossible. +He sat perfectly still, one day--there were ladies chatting in the +room--while a wasp up his leg stabbed him cruelly a dozen times; and +all the sign he gave was a slight wince for each stab and the tear of +torture in his eye. He was too bashful to move. + +It is to this kind that untoward things happen. My sister gave a +“candy-pull” on a winter’s night. I was too young to be of the +company, and Jim was too diffident. I was sent up to bed early, and +Jim followed of his own motion. His room was in the new part of the +house and his window looked out on the roof of the L annex. That roof +was six inches deep in snow, and the snow had an ice crust upon it +which was as slick as glass. Out of the comb of the roof projected +a short chimney, a common resort for sentimental cats on moonlight +nights--and this was a moonlight night. Down at the eaves, below the +chimney, a canopy of dead vines spread away to some posts, making +a cozy shelter, and after an hour or two the rollicking crowd of +young ladies and gentlemen grouped themselves in its shade, with +their saucers of liquid and piping-hot candy disposed about them on +the frozen ground to cool. There was joyous chaffing and joking and +laughter--peal upon peal of it. + +About this time a couple of old, disreputable tomcats got up on the +chimney and started a heated argument about something; also about +this time I gave up trying to get to sleep and went visiting to Jim’s +room. He was awake and fuming about the cats and their intolerable +yowling. I asked him, mockingly, why he didn’t climb out and drive +them away. He was nettled, and said over-boldly that for two cents he +_would_. + +It was a rash remark and was probably repented of before it was +fairly out of his mouth. But it was too late--he was committed. I +knew him; and I knew he would rather break his neck than back down, +if I egged him on judiciously. + +“O, of course you would! Who’s doubting it?” + +It galled him, and he burst out, with sharp irritation, “Maybe _you_ +doubt it!” + +“I? Oh no! I shouldn’t think of such a thing. You are always doing +wonderful things, with your mouth.” + +He was in a passion now. He snatched on his yarn socks and began to +raise the window, saying in a voice quivering with anger: + +“_You_ think I dasn’t--you do! Think what you blame please. I don’t +care what you think. I’ll show you!” + +The window made him rage; it wouldn’t stay up. + +I said, “Never mind, I’ll hold it.” + +Indeed, I would have done anything to help. I was only a boy and was +already in a radiant heaven of anticipation. He climbed carefully +out, clung to the window sill until his feet were safely placed, +then began to pick his perilous way on all-fours along the glassy +comb, a foot and a hand on each side of it. I believe I enjoy it now +as much as I did then: yet it is nearly fifty years ago. The frosty +breeze flapped his short shirt about his lean legs; the crystal roof +shone like polished marble in the intense glory of the moon; the +unconscious cats sat erect upon the chimney, alertly watching each +other, lashing their tails and pouring out their hollow grievances; +and slowly and cautiously Jim crept on, flapping as he went, the gay +and frolicsome young creatures under the vine canopy unaware, and +outraging these solemnities with their misplaced laughter. Every time +Jim slipped I had a hope; but always on he crept and disappointed it. +At last he was within reaching distance. He paused, raised himself +carefully up, measured his distance deliberately, then made a frantic +grab at the nearest cat--and missed it. Of course he lost his +balance. His heels flew up, he struck on his back, and like a rocket +he darted down the roof feet first, crashed through the dead vines, +and landed in a sitting position in fourteen saucers of red-hot +candy, in the midst of all that party--and dressed as _he_ was--this +lad who could not look a girl in the face with his clothes on. There +was a wild scramble and a storm of shrieks, and Jim fled up the +stairs, dripping broken crockery all the way. + + From Mark Twain’s _Autobiography_. By permission + of Harper & Brothers, Publishers. + + + THE HUNTING TRIP + + STEWART EDWARD WHITE + +They ran down to the Club House the following Saturday afternoon; the +local stopping for a brief moment to drop them by the edge of a river +without a building in sight. Cousin Jim unlocked a padlocked boat, +and they rowed down stream two miles to a small shanty perched on the +bank above high water. It was gray dark when they arrived, and an +edged wind was searching deliberately across the marshes seeking whom +it might shiver. A faint lucent streak in the west was reflected here +and there on little pools among the marsh grasses and cat-tails. All +the world was flat, except for three cold and naked trees against the +sky. + +Cousin Jim unlocked the shanty, fumbled about and produced a light. + +“Here we are!” he cried cheerfully, “snug as a bug in a rug!” He +clattered open a small iron stove and began to fuss with kindlings. + +Freeman looked about him with distaste. He had been kicking himself +ever since his rash acceptance. The affair had not one redeeming +feature: he doubted whether he had even made the desired impression +on Mattie. It was cold, it looked dirty, there were no feline +comforts whatever; and Freeman could see no point in going out on +that exposed bleak march for the sake of shooting at a few silly +ducks! However, he was in for it, and he had to go through with +it. He had no thought, however, of making the best of it. He much +preferred to look upon himself as an injured martyr deprived of the +essential comforts for inadequate reasons. The indulgence of this +point of view manifested itself externally in silence. But as Freeman +had never been what you would call chatty with Cousin Jim, nobody but +an expert would have detected anything unusual. + +Cousin Jim apparently was no expert. He seemed full of spirits and +anticipation, and chattered away about directions of the wind and +northern flights and different “holes” very cheerfully as he fussed +about the iron stove. In a short time he announced supper; and +Freeman discovered he was supposed to consider ham and eggs and thick +slices of bread and butter and a cup of strong coffee an adequate +meal! Cousin Jim had cooked a dozen eggs and seemed mildly solicitous +that Freeman did not eat his six. + +“You’ll need to stoke up,” he urged. “It’s going to be colder than +Billy-be-damned in the morning. I really ought to have brought some +pie,” he added. + +After supper Cousin Jim occupied the time very happily--for +himself--in getting out and stowing in a boat innumerable wooden +ducks, and examining the strings and weights attached to them; in +arranging shotgun shells in a tin box; in rummaging out from untidy +corners various brush knives, shell extractors, paddles, punt poles, +and the like. Concerning each of these items he discoursed at length +and cheerfully. Finally, he dug up some disreputable old canvas +coats and rubber boots. Cousin Jim was supplying the whole outfit, +necessarily, including the guns. + +“There!” he announced at last, turning a beaming face to his +unresponsive guest. “All set! Now we’d better turn in.” + +Freeman stepped outside. The marsh was flat and black now; the wind +searched through his thin clothing, through his shrinking flesh to +his very bones. He came back shivering. + +“Wind’s north,” remarked Cousin Jim, “it’s liable to turn cold by +morning. That’ll bring ’em in!” + +The final affront of the occasion was when Freeman found that he was +to sleep between blankets without sheets. He had never done such a +thing in his life: furthermore, he had never heard of such a thing. +He doubted if it could be done. Every fastidious instinct shrank from +the harsh contact. He reflected resentfully that he would not be able +to sleep a wink. He hated the whole silly business. He began almost +to hate Cousin Jim; he was so exuberantly cheerful. + + + III + +He was quite sure he hated Cousin Jim when the latter haled him forth +the following morning. Nobody had ever before in the world’s history +been up at such an hour--unless he had stayed up all night. The north +wind seemed to have fulfilled its promise. It was cold--or worse. +Freeman had revised his hatred of the sheetless blankets: they had +become friends. How he dreaded leaving this warm nest! Why you could +see your breath! What an ass he had been to leave his comfortable +quarters at home to undertake this crazy expedition. Sport! + +Ham and eggs and thick bread and butter and coffee for breakfast. +Freeman, unaccustomed to eating at this hour, could hardly choke +any of it down. Cousin Jim made sandwiches, also of thick bread and +butter and ham and eggs, and wrapped them in newspapers. He had not +much to say but he was busy and cheerful and whistled. Freeman hated +anybody to be cheerful so early in the morning. + +They put on thick garments and stepped out into the darkness. +Lord, it was cold! The sweaters and canvas coats turned the wind, +but the keen air nipped Freeman’s ears and fingers, and made the +inside of his nose feel positively raw. He took his place in the +boat and humped over in a dumb sort of endurance. Cousin Jim, quite +superfluously, warned him not to talk. He had no desire to talk. If +he had anything at all to say it was to curse himself for getting +into this uncomfortable fix. + +Cousin Jim paddled for a time; then turned sharp to the right. After +a moment he laid aside the paddle and took up a long pole with which +he began to push strongly. Freeman could see nothing. He wondered how +Cousin Jim knew when to turn, and by what knowledge or instinct he +had so accurately hit the narrow channel through which they were now +making their way. + +This wonder was the first break in his self-absorption. The next was +also a wonder; as to the fact that he was standing it after all. It +was too early for any sane man to be up, it was bitterly cold, his +position in the cranky duck boat was cramped and one of his feet had +gone to sleep: but it had not yet proved fatal. A very faint pride +stirred within him. These Arctic fellows became understandable. +Probably no one in the world’s history had ever been so cold and +miserable. But as long as he was in for it and had to go through with +it--and he was going through with it--he found it commendable that he +was doing so well. He was glad now he had inhibited a vigorous wail +the general awfulness of the situation had tempted him to utter. + +Freeman had firmly made up his mind that he was going to endure the +experience; but never again! The entire day was going to be devoted +to endurance. Nevertheless, here was one thing that had broken in to +share his consciousness. Soon came another. + +In the east a faint light had been slowly growing. It had not seemed +to affect the darkness, yet in some manner indeterminate gray objects +grew into visibility. The reed-grown banks of the channel through +which they were poling began to be dimly perceptible: there was a +glint on the water of tiny ponds to right and left: an horizon was +defined. This half-light increased. The ponds and waterways became +almost plain. One found himself in a world of multiplying details. +And from all about came splashings, quackings, the roar of rising +wings, the overhead whistle of departing wings. It seemed incredible +that one could not see their owners, they were so loud and so near, +and the light was by contrast with the draining night so strong. +Freeman, in spite of his determination to be miserable, felt the +stirrings of a faint excitement. + +The boat turned into a pond. Cousin Jim dropped overboard one by one +his wooden ducks, then rushed the craft into the reeds. He busied +himself with the latter for a moment; upturned a box to sit on. + +“Load your gun,” he instructed Freeman in a low voice. “We’re just +about in time.” + +There ensued a period of waiting while the light grew. In that +period Freeman’s miseries returned on him. His watch told him it +was six o’clock: his body told him it was even colder than he had +thought; his anticipation showed him an interminable vista of minutes +to be passed one by one. He was entirely encased within his own shell. + +Something sudden dragged him out. He had a startling impression of +the whistling rush of something swift in the air, of a bulk rising, +of two shattering impacts. The fact was a flock of ducks had come in +to the decoys; Cousin Jim had got to his feet; and had shot twice. +Now as he was opening the breech of his gun he spoke in his ordinary +voice. + +“Why didn’t you shoot?” he was asking. + +Freeman could not very well tell the whole truth and say he had not +shot because he had been suffering so cruelly. So he muttered a +half-truth about not having seen them. But the incident caused him +again to look outside himself. + +He saw that the daylight had flooded the world: that the marsh +stretched away interminably brown; that the sky was gray streaked +with slate: that the little pond was ruffled by skurrying cats-paws +and that the wooden ducks were bobbing solemnly at the ends of +their lines. Then Cousin Jim produced a queer instrument of wood +and nickle, a little bigger than a cigar, and began to talk duck on +it. Freeman could see nothing, but from somewhere came a whistle of +wings, which died away. After a moment Cousin Jim stopped talking +duck and turned his face to Freeman. + +“Mallards,” he said. “They’re wise old birds. You must have moved +your head when they were circling right above us. You’ve got to hold +absolutely rigid until they turn in over the decoys.” + +He spoke kindly and cheerfully; but Freeman felt a touch of reproach. +Shortly Cousin Jim resumed talking duck. Freeman stared at the decoys +through the interstices of the reeds. Suddenly from nowhere another +flock materialized. They were low above the marsh, headed straight +for the blind, their wings set. The direction of flight was so +squarely toward the shooters that Freeman perceived with satisfaction +that no calculation would be required for the shot: he could just +hold right at them, like shooting at a paper on a fence. He had +handled a shotgun a very little, but he was not a hunter. + +“Let ’em have it!” muttered Cousin Jim. + +Freeman arose to his feet, prepared to pulverize the two leaders. The +instant the two men showed, the entire flight translated the momentum +of their horizontal approach into a climb straight up. It is what an +aeroplane does when it _zooms_. In addition every duck added his own +duck power to the effort. They “towered,” as sportsmen have it; and +until you have seen it you can never imagine how fast and how far a +duck can tower while you are winking an eye. Instead of being able +to shoot as he would at stationary targets, Freeman was flustered by +wildly scattering and escaping elusiveness. He banged away lustily, +and of course missed both barrels. + +“Get any?” queried Cousin Jim, blowing the black powder smoke from +his gun. + +“No: missed,” replied Freeman shortly. He had heard two lovely +splashes from Cousin’s Jim side of the flock. + +“Too bad: better luck next time,” said the latter. + +Now, as has been said, Freeman was no sort of a shot: he had never +had the practice to become so. But no youth ever likes to admit +himself a duffer at anything. Freeman began to glow with a dull +resentful anger at the situation; and with the anger began to grow a +determination. He would show them! + +However, three more flocks came in, and Freeman showed nobody +anything. Twice he missed, and once he forgot to cock his gun! Those +were the days before hammerless pieces, of course. He tugged away at +the trigger until he felt black in the face. It was very mortifying +to a sensitive soul. Cousin Jim seemed to make nothing of these +catastrophes; killed his ducks with cheerful regularity; and seemed +to be having a good time. Freeman became actually bitter. The whole +thing was too silly for words. + +A fourth flock came in, and _four_ splashes followed the roar of the +guns. Freeman had killed a pair! + +“Good shot,” commented Cousin Jim. “Landed them nicely.” Something +happened inside Freeman; something analogous to hot sun on a misty +meadow, or a wind on a fog-bound sea. He had killed two ducks: and he +thought he knew just how he had killed them. You threw your aim at +the body, and then swung your muzzle up and pulled trigger just as +the head disappeared from view. He discovered in himself an intense +eagerness for the next lot to come in, so he could try again. The +blood was singing through his body. No longer did he feel cold or +disgruntled. Also he wanted to be chatty; which shows that those two +ducks had stirred Freeman up considerably. Minnie would not have +known her darling brother had she been able at that moment to see +his inner self accurately depicted in outward semblance. The latter +manifestation would have been that of a blithe and skiptious person +who would have worn his hat on one side of his head. + +More ducks came in from time to time, and Freeman had a chance to +test his theories. It is only in romantic fiction that the hero wins +the football match or licks the champion or cops off the million +in Wall Street without knowing a thing about football, boxing, or +finance. The idea was perfect; but ducks seemed to have no notion of +regularity or standardization. They never acted the same way twice +running. Still, out of a good many shots he did scratch down a few. +One of the great compensations in life is the fact that the glow from +a successful shot lasts a poor marksman longer than it does a good +one. And a casual remark of Cousin Jim’s supplied the one missing +ingredient. After the fifth duck had fallen to Freeman’s lavish burnt +offering of black powder he said: + +“Pity you haven’t your own gun. There’s nothing that throws a man off +worse than shooting a strange gun, is there?” He seemed to speak as +one expert to another. + +Freeman’s imagination, turned agile by the necessity of making this +extraordinary slaughter quite theoretically perfect, seized upon the +thought. Of course: couldn’t expect him to do himself justice with a +strange gun! In fact, considering that he was shooting a strange gun, +he was doing rather remarkably well! It is to be doubted if there +were many other duck shots, shooting a strange gun, who could equal +this! This aforementioned imagination merely neglected as unimportant +the fact that any gun whatever would be strange to Freeman. + +The flight slackened. There were long intervals when there were no +birds in the sky. Cousin Jim remarked that it was too dinged warm +for the best shooting. Two hours before Freeman would probably have +meditated killing Cousin Jim for making that remark. + +“Yes,” he said now, wisely, “and it looked last night as though that +north wind would bring a cold snap.” + +“Well, we’ll smoke and keep our weather eye open; and there’ll be +the afternoon flight, anyway,” was Cousin Jim’s decision. “It’s sort +of pretty out here on the marsh, anyway.” + +They sat and smoked and ate relishingly the sandwiches made of +thick bread and butter and ham and eggs. Freeman assented to the +proposition that grub certainly tasted good out here. No one would +have known Freeman. In the contagion of Cousin Jim’s extreme youth +he had become quite a boy about it all. He followed up Cousin Jim’s +remark about the marsh being pretty by discovering all sorts of +compositions in the landscape. He pointed them out. This was a new +one on Cousin Jim. Freeman became absorbed in making him see the +various little pictures that could be composed by isolating certain +bits from the whole. The isolating had to be done with an eye for the +distribution of masses. Cousin Jim was vastly interested and could +not get over his astonishment. + +“I’ve been coming down to this marsh off and on for near twenty-five +years,” said he, “and I’ve always thought it was pretty--it is sort +of wide and wild and lonesome--but I never thought it had so many +little pictures in it!” + +“And colour,” supplemented Freeman. He somehow was as pleased as +punch over having impressed Cousin Jim, whose opinion yesterday had +been negligible. “What’s its colour?” + +“Why, brown.” + +“Turn your head upside down and look.” + +Cousin Jim gravely inverted. + +“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” he cried. + +“All kinds of colours, aren’t there? Lilac, and purple, and pearl, +and pink--all sorts.” + +“It’s like magic,” said Cousin Jim. “How do you explain that?” + +“Oh, it’s just that when you look at it upside down you eliminate +the form of things and see only the colour. Your attention is not +divided.” + +“_Swish!_--_swish!_ A flock of swift teal had darted down and flashed +away again. Cousin Jim laughed. + +“We better get on the job,” said he. + +They stayed out until the early dusk, returning only just in time to +catch the local train back. In the smoking car Freeman was no longer +silent. In fact, he talked a blue streak; and his conversation was of +the shots he had made and why, and the shots he had not made and why +not. Of course a fellow shooting a strange gun---- + + + IV + +Freeman had promised Cousin Jim, and himself, that he would go duck +hunting again--and had meant it. This was in the first glow, but the +first glow died. The discomforts gradually came to be uppermost in +his mind. He began to look back on the excellence of his endurance +with a little wonder and considerable pride. But he shrank from its +repetition. There was no doubt that he had enjoyed the experience, +but unless fairly forced into it by circumstances he would never +voluntarily pay so much in feline comfort for that kind of enjoyment. +The unaccustomed struggle made it not worth while. He had always +overindulged his body, and now he could not fight it. Never did he +abandon the fiction that he wanted to go duck hunting again, but was +prevented by untoward circumstances from accepting the invitations; +and always he clung tenaciously to the prideful pose of one who +hunted ducks on incredibly cold mornings and made nothing of it. But +he did not go again. + +Cousin Jim was sorry for this. Whenever Freeman’s name came up +for discussion Cousin Jim thenceforward took pains to say that he +was not so bad after all, if he would only give himself a chance. +Even when the occasion was in the nature of a praise meeting for +Freeman, Cousin Jim made this remark; which Freeman’s friends +resented as uncalled for. Nevertheless, somehow, Cousin Jim seemed to +consider Freeman’s mere existence required some sort of defense or +explanation, and he was always glad to offer it. + + From _The Glory Hole_ by Stewart Edward White. + Copyright by Doubleday, Page & Company. + + +SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY OF INCIDENTS + + The editors have found these additional selections very useful in + teaching the writing of incidents: + + Byrne, Donn. _Messer Marco Polo_, Chapter I. The Century Company. + + Goldsmith, Oliver. _The Vicar of Wakefield_, Chapter XIV, _Fresh + Mortifications_. + + Hémon, Louis. _Maria Chapdelaine_, Chapter IX, _One Thousand Aves_. + The Macmillan Company. + + Hudson, W. H. _Far Away and Long Ago_, Chapter III, _The Death of + an Old Dog_. E. P. Dutton & Company. + + Wiggin, Kate Douglas. _A Child’s Journey with Dickens_ in _My + Garden of Memory_. Houghton Mifflin Company. + + + + + CHAPTER III + + _Historical Narrative_ + + +Macaulay in the introduction to his essay on Hallam deplores the fact +that the writers of history of his day, exact and accurate though +they may be, “present no scene to the imagination.” “To make the past +present, to bring the distant near, to place us in the society of a +great man or on the eminence which overlooks the scene of a mighty +battle, to invest with the reality of human flesh and blood beings +whom we are too much inclined to consider as personified qualities +in an allegory, to call up our ancestors before us with all their +peculiarities of language, manners and garb, to show us over their +houses, to seat us at their tables, to rummage their old-fashioned +wardrobes, to explain the uses of their ponderous furniture”--these, +he writes, are “parts of the duty which properly belongs to the +historian.” And such an historian Macaulay assuredly was; indeed, +he was so entirely true to his idea and ideal of history that his +portrayal of English life and events for only fifteen years fills +five volumes of closely printed pages. + +Yet it is to Macaulay that the writer of historical narrative must +turn both for precept and for example. _To present a scene to the +imagination_ must be his motive and aim, and he will do well to look +to Macaulay as to a master in this interesting field of narrative +writing. + +His subjects may come, as did those of Macaulay, from anywhere and +everywhere. He may choose to depict an incident of warfare, such as +the story of the Black Hole of Calcutta from the essay on Lord Clive, +or the account of a journey, such as Francis Parkman’s narration of +the winter journey of La Salle. For either of these subjects American +history is filled with suggestions. One has but to think of familiar +names from General Braddock to Custer, from Ponce de Leon and De Soto +to Lewis and Clark to become convinced of the richness of material +within our own borders. More interesting than wars and explorations, +however, may be narratives of pioneer life in the Middle West, or +accounts of the trials and executions of such persons as Joan of Arc, +Mary, Queen of Scots, Edith Cavell, Charles I, or incidents in the +life of some historical personage written with a view to character +portrayal. Truly the sources for historical narrative are limitless. + +A study of the succeeding selections will show you that the following +characteristics are evident in the best historical narratives: + +1. A wealth of vivid detail by which Macaulay’s ideal of _presenting +the scene to the imagination_ is realized. + +This is especially well shown in Froude’s story of the marriage of +Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. + +2. A careful adaptation of the style to the subject at hand. + +This is illustrated by the Black Hole of Calcutta incident from +Macaulay’s essay on Lord Clive. Even a careless student must note +the rapidity of movement, the brevity of many of the sentences, the +quick succession of clauses as the action mounts. Another excellent +example of this characteristic is the description of the buffalo hunt +in Parkman’s chapter on Indian Conquerors. + +3. An appreciation of the value of pictorial and suggestive words. + +Although all the selections given illustrate this quality, none, +perhaps, is so helpful in this respect as the first. + +A single sentence, picked almost at random from Chapter III of +Macaulay’s _History of England_, illustrates perfectly the possible +forcefulness of historical narrative as over against the bare +statement of bare fact. In a description of the English navy in 1685, +Macaulay is contrasting the life of the officers with that of the +common sailors. He says: + + They dressed as if for a gala at Versailles, ate off plate, drank + the richest wines, and kept harems on board, while hunger and + scurvy raged among the crews, and while corpses were daily flung + out of the port-holes. + +And yet there are those who will contend that he might +as well have said: + + They lived royally, while many of the sailors sickened and died. + + M. E. C. + + + THE BLACK HOLE OF CALCUTTA + + THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY + +The great province of Bengal, together with Orissa and Bahar, had +long been governed by a viceroy, whom the English called Aliverdy +Khan, and who, like the other viceroys of the Mogul, had become +virtually independent. He died in 1756, and the sovereignty descended +to his grandson, a youth under twenty years of age, who bore the name +of Surajah Dowlah. Oriental despots are perhaps the worst class of +human beings; and this unhappy boy was one of the worst specimens +of his class. His understanding was naturally feeble, and his temper +naturally unamiable. His education had been such as would have +enervated even a vigorous intellect, and perverted even a generous +disposition. He was unreasonable, because nobody ever dared to reason +with him, and selfish, because he had never been made to feel himself +dependent on the goodwill of others. Early debauchery had unnerved +his body and his mind. He indulged immoderately in the use of ardent +spirits, which inflamed his weak brain almost to madness. His chosen +companions were flatterers sprung from the dregs of the people, and +recommended by nothing but buffoonery and servility. It is said that +he had arrived at the last stage of human depravity, when cruelty +becomes pleasing for its own sake, when the sight of pain as pain, +where no advantage is to be gained, no offence punished, no danger +averted, is an agreeable excitement. It had early been his amusement +to torture beasts and birds; and, when he grew up, he enjoyed with +still keener relish the misery of his fellow-creatures. + +From a child Surajah Dowlah had hated the English. It was his whim +to do so; and his whims were never opposed. He had also formed a +very exaggerated notion of the wealth which might be obtained by +plundering them; and his feeble and uncultivated mind was incapable +of perceiving that the riches of Calcutta, had they been even greater +than he imagined, would not compensate him for what he must lose, +if the European trade, of which Bengal was a chief seat, should be +driven by his violence to some other quarter. Pretexts for a quarrel +were readily found. The English, in expectation of a war with France, +had begun to fortify their settlement without special permission +from the Nabob. A rich native, whom he longed to plunder, had taken +refuge at Calcutta, and had not been delivered up. On such grounds as +these Surajah Dowlah marched with a great army against Fort William. + +The servants of the Company at Madras had been forced by Dupleix +to become statesmen and soldiers. Those in Bengal were still mere +traders, and were terrified and bewildered by the approaching danger. +The governor, who had heard much of Surajah Dowlah’s cruelty, was +frightened out of his wits, jumped into a boat, and took refuge in +the nearest ship. The military commandant thought that he could not +do better than follow so good an example. The fort was taken after +a feeble resistance; and great numbers of the English fell into the +hands of the conquerors. The Nabob seated himself with regal pomp in +the principal hall of the factory, and ordered Mr. Holwell, the first +in rank among the prisoners, to be brought before him. His Highness +talked about the insolence of the English, and grumbled at the +smallness of the treasure which he had found, but promised to spare +their lives, and retired to rest. + +Then was committed that great crime, memorable for its singular +atrocity, memorable for the tremendous retribution by which it was +followed. The English captives were left to the mercy of the guards, +and the guards determined to secure them for the night in the prison +of the garrison, a chamber known by the fearful name of the Black +Hole. Even for a single European malefactor, that dungeon would, in +such a climate, have been too close and narrow. The space was only +twenty feet square. The air-holes were small and obstructed. It +was the summer solstice, the season when the fierce heat of Bengal +can scarcely be rendered tolerable to natives of England by lofty +halls and by the constant waving of fans. The number of prisoners +was one hundred and forty-six. When they were ordered to enter the +cell, they imagined that the soldiers were joking; and, being in +high spirits on account of the promise of the Nabob to spare their +lives, they laughed and jested at the absurdity of the notion. They +soon discovered their mistake. They expostulated; they entreated; but +in vain. The guards threatened to cut down all who hesitated. The +captives were driven into the cell at the point of the sword, and the +door was instantly shut and locked upon them. + +Nothing in history or fiction, not even the story which Ugolino +told in the sea of everlasting ice, after he had wiped his bloody +lips on the scalp of his murderer, approaches the horrors which +were recounted by the few survivors of that night. They cried for +mercy. They strove to burst the door. Holwell, who, even in that +extremity, retained some presence of mind, offered large bribes to +the gaolers. But the answer was that nothing could be done without +the Nabob’s orders, that the Nabob was asleep, and that he would +be angry if anybody woke him. Then the prisoners went mad with +despair. They trampled each other down, fought for the places at the +windows, fought for the pittance of water with which the cruel mercy +of the murderers mocked their agonies, raved, prayed, blasphemed, +implored the guards to fire among them. The gaolers in the meantime +held lights to the bars, and shouted with laughter at the frantic +struggles of their victims. At length the tumult died away in low +gaspings and moanings. The day broke. The Nabob had slept off his +debauch, and permitted the door to be opened. But it was some time +before the soldiers could make a lane for the survivors by piling up +on each side the heaps of corpses on which the burning climate had +already begun to do its loathsome work. When at length a passage was +made, twenty-three ghastly figures, such as their own mothers would +not have known, staggered one by one out of the charnel-house. A pit +was instantly dug. The dead bodies, a hundred and twenty-three in +number, were flung into it promiscuously and covered up. + +But these things--which, after the lapse of more than eighty years, +cannot be told or read without horror--awakened neither remorse nor +pity in the bosom of the savage Nabob. He inflicted no punishment +on the murderers. He showed no tenderness to the survivors. Some +of them, indeed, from whom nothing was to be got, were suffered to +depart; but those from whom it was thought that anything could be +extorted were treated with execrable cruelty. Holwell, unable to +walk, was carried before the tyrant, who reproached him, threatened +him, and sent him up the country in irons, together with some +other gentlemen who were suspected of knowing more than they chose +to tell about the treasures of the Company. These persons, still +bowed down by the sufferings of that great agony, were lodged in +miserable sheds, and fed only with grain and water, till at length +the intercessions of the female relations of the Nabob procured their +release. One Englishwoman had survived that night. She was placed in +the harem of the Prince at Moorshedabad. + +Surajah Dowlah, in the meantime, sent letters to his nominal +sovereign at Delhi, describing the late conquest in the most pompous +language. He placed a garrison in Fort William, forbade Englishmen to +dwell in the neighbourhood, and directed that, in memory of his great +actions, Calcutta should thenceforward be called Alinagore, that is +to say, the Port of God. + + Thomas Babington Macaulay, _Lord Clive_. + + + THE MARRIAGE OF HENRY AND ANNE BOLEYN + + JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE + +On the morning of the 31st of May, the families of the London +citizens were stirring early in all houses. From Temple Bar to the +Tower, the streets were fresh strewed with gravel, the footpaths +were railed off along the whole distance, and occupied on one side +by the guilds, their workmen, and apprentices, on the other by the +city constables and officials in their gaudy uniforms, “with their +staves in hand for to cause the people to keep good room and order.” +Cornhill and Gracechurch-street had dressed their fronts in scarlet +and crimson, in arras and tapestry, and the rich carpet-work from +Persia and the East. Cheapside, to outshine her rivals, was draped +even more splendidly in cloth of gold, and tissue, and velvet. The +sheriffs were pacing up and down on their great Flemish horses, +hung with liveries, and all the windows were thronged with ladies +crowding to see the procession pass. At length the Tower guns opened, +the grim gates rolled back, and under the archway in the bright +May sunshine, the long column began slowly to defile. Two states +only permitted their representatives to grace the scene with their +presence--Venice and France. It was, perhaps, to make the most of +this isolated countenance, that the French ambassador’s train formed +the van of the cavalcade. Twelve French knights came riding foremost +in surcoats of blue velvet with sleeves of yellow silk, their horses +trapped in blue, with white crosses powdered on their hangings. After +them followed a troop of English gentlemen, two and two, and then +the Knights of the Bath, “in gowns of violet, with hoods purified +with miniver like doctors.” Next, perhaps at a little interval, +the abbots passed on, mitred in their robes; the barons followed in +crimson velvet, the bishops then, and then the earls and marquises, +the dresses of each order increasing in elaborate gorgeousness. All +these rode on in pairs. Then came alone Audeley, lord-chancellor, and +behind him the Venetian ambassador and the Archbishop of York; the +Archbishop of Canterbury, and Du Bellay, Bishop of Bayonne and of +Paris, not now with bugle and hunting-frock, but solemn with stole +and crozier. Next, the lord mayor, with the city mace in hand, and +Garter in his coat of arms; and then Lord William Howard--Belted Will +Howard, of the Scottish Border, Marshal of England. The officers of +the queen’s household succeeded the marshal in scarlet and gold, and +the van of the procession was closed by the Duke of Suffolk, as high +constable, with his silver wand. It is no easy matter to picture to +ourselves the blazing trail of splendour which in such a pageant must +have drawn along the London streets,--those streets which now we know +so black and smoke-grimed, themselves then radiant with masses of +colour, gold, and crimson, and violet. Yet there it was, and there +the sun could shine upon it, and tens of thousands of eyes were +gazing on the scene out of the crowded lattices. + +Glorious as the spectacle was, perhaps, however, it passed unheeded. +Those eyes were watching all for another object, which now drew near. +In an open space behind the constable there was seen approaching “a +white chariot,” drawn by two palfreys in white damask which swept +the ground, a golden canopy borne above it making music with silver +bells: and in the chariot sat the observed of all observers, the +beautiful occasion of all this glittering homage; fortune’s plaything +of the hour, the Queen of England--queen at last--borne along upon +the waves of this sea of glory, breathing the perfumed incense of +greatness which she had risked her fair name, her delicacy, her +honour, her self-respect, to win; and she had won it. + +There she sate, dressed in white tissue robes, her fair hair +flowing loose over her shoulders, and her temples circled with a +light coronet of gold and diamonds--most beautiful--loveliest--most +favoured perhaps, as she seemed at that hour, of all England’s +daughters. Alas! “within the hollow round” of that coronet-- + + Kept death his court, and there the antick sate, + Scoffing her state and grinning at her pomp. + Allowing her a little breath, a little scene + To monarchize, be feared, and kill with looks, + Infusing her with self and vain conceit, + As if the flesh which walled about her life + Were brass impregnable; and humoured thus, + Bored through her castle walls; and farewell, Queen. + +Fatal gift of greatness! so dangerous ever! so more than dangerous +in those tremendous times when the fountains are broken loose +of the great deeps of thought; and nations are in the throes of +revolution;--when ancient order and law and tradition are splitting +in the social earthquake; and as the opposing forces wrestle to and +fro, those unhappy ones who stand out above the crowd become the +symbols of the struggle, and fall the victims of its alternating +fortunes. And what if into an unsteady heart and brain, intoxicated +with splendour, the outward chaos should find its way, converting the +poor silly soul into an image of the same confusion,--if conscience +should be deposed from her high place, and the Pandora box be broken +loose of passions and sensualities and follies; and at length there +be nothing left of all which man or woman ought to value, save hope +of God’s forgiveness. + +Three short years have yet to pass, and again, on a summer morning, +Queen Anne Boleyn will leave the Tower of London--not radiant then +with beauty on a gay errand of coronation, but a poor wandering +ghost, on a sad tragic errand, from which she will never more return, +passing away out of an earth where she may stay no longer, into a +Presence where, nevertheless, we know that all is well--for all of +us--and therefore for her. + +But let us not cloud her shortlived sunshine with the shadow of +the future. She went on in her loveliness, the peeresses following +in their carriages, with the royal guard in their rear. In +Fenchurch-street she was met by the children of the city schools; and +at the corner of Gracechurch-street a masterpiece had been prepared +of the pseudo-classic art, then so fashionable, by the merchants of +the Styll-yard. A Mount Parnassus had been constructed, and a Helicon +fountain upon it playing into a basin with four jets of Rhenish wine. +On the top of the mountain sat Apollo with Calliope at his feet, +and on either side the remaining Muses, holding lutes or harps, and +singing each of them some “posy” or epigram in praise of the queen, +which was presented, after it had been sung, written in letters of +gold. + +From Gracechurch-street the procession passed to Leadenhall, where +there was a spectacle in better taste, of the old English catholic +kind, quaint perhaps and forced, but truly and even beautifully +emblematic. There was again a “little mountain,” which was hung with +red and white roses; a gold ring was placed on the summit, on which, +as the queen appeared, a white falcon was made to “descend as out +of the sky”--“and then incontinent came down an angel with great +melody, and set a close crown of gold upon the falcon’s head; and in +the same pageant sat Saint Anne with all her issue beneath her; and +Mary Cleophas with her four children, of the which children one made +a goodly oration to the queen, of the fruitfulness of Saint Anne, +trusting that like fruit should come of her.” + +With such “pretty conceits,” at that time the honest tokens of +an English welcome, the new queen was received by the citizens +of London. These scenes must be multiplied by the number of the +streets, where some fresh fancy met her at every turn. To preserve +the festivities from flagging, every fountain and conduit within +the walls ran all day with wine; the bells of every steeple were +ringing; children lay in wait with songs, and ladies with posies, in +which all the resources of fantastic extravagance were exhausted; +and thus in an unbroken triumph--and to outward appearance received +with the warmest affection--she passed under Temple Bar, down the +Strand by Charing Cross to Westminster Hall. The king was not with +her throughout the day; nor did he intend to be with her in any part +of the ceremony. She was to reign without a rival, the undisputed +sovereign of the hour. + +Saturday being passed in showing herself to the people, she retired +for the night to “the king’s manour house at Westminster,” where she +slept. On the following morning, between eight and nine o’clock, she +returned to the hall, where the lord mayor, the city council, and the +peers were again assembled, and took her place on the high dais at +the top of the stairs under the cloth of state; while the bishops, +the abbots, and the monks of the abbey formed in the area. A railed +way had been laid with carpets across Palace Yard and the Sanctuary +to the abbey gates, and when all was ready, preceded by the peers in +their robes of parliament, the Knights of the Garter in the dress +of the order, she swept out under her canopy, the bishops and the +monks “solemnly singing.” The train was borne by the old Duchess of +Norfolk, her aunt, the Bishops of London and Winchester on either +side “bearing up the lappets of her robe.” The Earl of Oxford carried +the crown on its cushion immediately before her. She was dressed in +purple velvet furred with ermine, her hair escaping loose, as she +usually wore it, under a wreath of diamonds. + +On entering the abbey, she was led to the coronation chair, where she +sat while the train fell into their places, and the preliminaries of +the ceremonial were despatched. Then she was conducted up to the high +altar, and anointed Queen of England, and she received from the hands +of Cranmer, fresh come in haste from Dunstable, with the last words +of his sentence upon Catherine scarcely silent upon his lips, the +golden sceptre, and St. Edward’s crown. + + James Anthony Froude, _The History of England_. + + + THE HARDIHOOD OF LA SALLE + + FRANCIS PARKMAN + +La Salle well knew what was before him, and nothing but necessity +spurred him to this desperate journey. He says that he could trust +nobody else to go in his stead, and that, unless the articles lost +in the “Griffin” were replaced without delay, the expedition would +be retarded a full year, and he and his associates consumed by its +expenses. “Therefore,” he writes to one of them, “though the thaws +of approaching spring greatly increased the difficulty of the way, +interrupted as it was everywhere by marshes and rivers, to say +nothing of the length of the journey, which is about five hundred +leagues in a direct line, and the danger of meeting Indians of four +or five different nations, through whose country we were to pass, +as well as an Iroquois army, which we knew was coming that way; +though we must suffer all the time from hunger; sleep on the open +ground, and often without food; watch by night and march by day, +loaded with baggage, such as blanket, clothing, kettle, hatchet, +gun, powder, lead, and skins to make moccasins; sometimes pushing +through thickets, sometimes climbing rocks covered with ice and snow, +sometimes wading whole days through marshes where the water was +waist-deep or even more, at a season when the snow was not entirely +melted,--though I knew all this, it did not prevent me from resolving +to go on foot to Fort Frontenac, to learn for myself what had become +of my vessel, and bring back the things we needed.” + +The winter had been a severe one; and when, an hour after leaving the +fort, he and his companions reached the still water of Peoria Lake, +they found it sheeted with ice from shore to shore. They carried +their canoes up the bank, made two rude sledges, placed the light +vessels upon them, and dragged them to the upper end of the lake, +where they encamped. In the morning, they found the river still +covered with ice, too weak to bear them and too strong to permit them +to break a way for the canoes. They spent the whole day in carrying +them through the woods, toiling knee-deep in saturated snow. Rain +fell in floods, and they took shelter at night in a deserted Indian +hut. + +In the morning, the third of March, they dragged their canoes half +a league farther; then launched them, and, breaking the ice with +clubs and hatchets, forced their way slowly up the stream. Again +their progress was barred, and again they took to the woods, toiling +onward till a tempest of moist, half-liquid snow forced them to +bivouac for the night. A sharp frost followed, and in the morning +the white waste around them was glazed with a dazzling crust. Now, +for the first time, they could use their snow-shoes. Bending to their +work, dragging their canoes, which glided smoothly over the polished +surface, they journeyed on hour after hour and league after league, +till they reached at length the great town of the Illinois, still +void of its inhabitants. + +It was a desolate and lonely scene: the river gliding dark and cold +between its banks of rushes; the empty lodges, covered with crusted +snow; the vast white meadows; the distant cliffs, bearded with +shining icicles; and the hills wrapped in forests, which glittered +from afar with the icy incrustations that cased each frozen twig. +Yet there was life in the savage landscape. The men saw buffalo +wading in the snow, and they killed one of them. More than this: they +discovered the tracks of moccasins. They cut rushes by the edge of +the river, piled them on the bank, and set them on fire, that the +smoke might attract the eyes of savages roaming near. + +On the following day, while the hunters were smoking the meat of the +buffalo, La Salle went out to reconnoitre, and presently met three +Indians, one of whom proved to be Chassagoac, the principal chief of +the Illinois. La Salle brought them to his bivouac, feasted them, +gave them a red blanket, a kettle, and some knives and hatchets, made +friends with them, promised to restrain the Iroquois from attacking +them, told them that he was on his way to the settlements to bring +arms and ammunition to defend them against their enemies, and, as the +result of these advances, gained from the chief a promise that he +would send provisions to Tonty’s party at Fort Crèvecoeur. + +After several days spent at the deserted town, La Salle prepared to +resume his journey. Before his departure, his attention was attracted +to the remarkable cliff of yellow sandstone, now called Starved Rock, +a mile or more above the village,--a natural fortress, which a score +of resolute white men might make good against a host of savages; and +he soon afterwards sent Tonty an order to examine it, and make it his +stronghold in case of need. + +On the fifteenth, the party set out again, carried their canoes +along the bank of the river as far as the rapids above Ottawa; then +launched them and pushed their way upward, battling with the floating +ice, which, loosened by a warm rain, drove down the swollen current +in sheets. On the eighteenth, they reached a point some miles below +the site of Joliet, and here found the river once more completely +closed. Despairing of farther progress by water, they hid their +canoes on an island, and struck across the country for Lake Michigan. + +It was the worst of all seasons for such a journey. The nights were +cold, but the sun was warm at noon, and the half-thawed prairie was +one vast tract of mud, water, and discolored, half-liquid snow. On +the twenty-second, they crossed marshes and inundated meadows, wading +to the knee, till at noon they were stopped by a river, perhaps the +Calumet. They made a raft of hard-wood timber, for there was no +other, and shoved themselves across. On the next day, they could +see Lake Michigan glimmering beyond the waste of woods; and, after +crossing three swollen streams, they reached it at evening. On the +twenty-fourth, they followed its shore, till, at nightfall, they +arrived at the fort, which they had built in the autumn at the mouth +of the St. Joseph. Here La Salle found Chapelle and Leblanc, the two +men whom he had sent from hence to Michillimackinac, in search of +the “Griffin.” They reported that they had made the circuit of the +lake, and had neither seen her nor heard tidings of her. Assured of +her fate, he ordered them to rejoin Tonty at Fort Crèvecoeur; while +he pushed onward with his party through the unknown wilds of Southern +Michigan. + +“The rain,” says La Salle, “which lasted all day, and the raft we +were obliged to make to cross the river, stopped us till noon of +the twenty-fifth, when we continued our march through the woods, +which were so interlaced with thorns and brambles that in two days +and a half our clothes were all torn and our faces so covered with +blood that we hardly knew each other. On the twenty-eighth, we found +the woods more open, and began to fare better, meeting a good deal +of game, which after this rarely failed us; so that we no longer +carried provisions with us, but made a meal of roast meat wherever +we happened to kill a deer, bear, or turkey. These are the choicest +feasts on a journey like this; and till now we had generally gone +without them, so that we had often walked all day without breakfast. + +“The Indians do not hunt in this region, which is debatable ground +between five or six nations who are at war, and, being afraid of +each other, do not venture into these parts, except to surprise each +other, and always with the greatest precaution and all possible +secrecy. The reports of our guns and the carcasses of the animals +we killed soon led some of them to find our trail. In fact, on the +evening of the twenty-eighth, having made our fire by the edge of +a prairie, we were surrounded by them; but as the man on guard +waked us, and we posted ourselves behind trees with our guns, these +savages, who are called Wapoos, took us for Iroquois, and thinking +that there must be a great many of us, because we did not travel +secretly, as they do when in small bands, they ran off without +shooting their arrows, and gave the alarm to their comrades, so that +we were two days without meeting anybody.” + +La Salle guessed the cause of their fright; and, in order to confirm +their delusion, he drew with charcoal, on the trunks of trees from +which he had stripped the bark, the usual marks of an Iroquois +war-party, with signs for prisoners and for scalps, after the custom +of those dreaded warriors. This ingenious artifice, as will soon +appear, was near proving the destruction of the whole party. He also +set fire to the dry grass of the prairies over which he and his men +had just passed, thus destroying the traces of their passage. “We +practised this device every night, and it answered very well so long +as we were passing over an open country; but, on the thirtieth, +we got into great marshes, flooded by the thaws, and were obliged +to cross them in mud or water up to the waist; so that our tracks +betrayed us to a band of Mascoutins, who were out after Iroquois. +They followed us through these marshes during the three days we were +crossing them; but we made no fire at night, contenting ourselves +with taking off our wet clothes and wrapping ourselves in our +blankets on some dry knoll, where we slept till morning. At last, +on the night of the second of April, there came a hard frost, and +our clothes, which were drenched when we took them off, froze stiff +as sticks, so that we could not put them on in the morning without +making a fire to thaw them. The fire betrayed us to the Indians, who +were encamped across the marsh; and they ran towards us with loud +cries, till they were stopped half way by a stream so deep that they +could not get over, the ice which had formed in the night not being +strong enough to bear them. We went to meet them, within gun shot; +and whether our fire-arms frightened them, or whether they thought +us more numerous than we were, or whether they really meant us no +harm, they called out, in the Illinois language, that they had taken +us for Iroquois, but now saw that we were friends and brothers; +whereupon, they went off as they came, and we kept on our way till +the fourth, when two of my men fell ill and could not walk.” + +In this emergency, La Salle went in search of some watercourse by +which they might reach Lake Erie, and soon came upon a small river, +which was probably the Huron. Here, while the sick men rested, +their companions made a canoe. There were no birch-trees; and they +were forced to use elm bark, which at that early season would not +slip freely from the wood until they loosened it with hot water. +Their canoe being made, they embarked in it, and for a time floated +prosperously down the stream, when at length the way was barred by a +matted barricade of trees fallen across the water. The sick men could +now walk again, and, pushing eastward through the forest, the party +soon reached the banks of the Detroit. + +La Salle directed two of the men to make a canoe, and go to +Michillimackinac, the nearest harborage. With the remaining two, he +crossed the Detroit on a raft, and, striking a direct line across the +country, reached Lake Erie, not far from Point Pelée. Snow, sleet, +and rain pelted them with little intermission; and when, after a walk +of about thirty miles, they gained the lake, the Mohegan and one of +the Frenchmen were attacked with fever and spitting of blood. Only +one man now remained in health. With his aid, La Salle made another +canoe, and, embarking the invalids, pushed for Niagara. It was Easter +Monday when they landed at a cabin of logs above the cataract, +probably on the spot where the “Griffin” was built. Here several +of La Salle’s men had been left the year before, and here they +still remained. They told him woful news. Not only had he lost the +“Griffin,” and her lading of ten thousand crowns in value, but a ship +from France, freighted with his goods, valued at more than twenty-two +thousand livres, had been totally wrecked at the mouth of the St. +Lawrence; and, of twenty hired men on their way from Europe to join +him, some had been detained by his enemy, the Intendant Duchesneau, +while all but four of the remainder, being told that he was dead, had +found means to return home. + +His three followers were all unfit for travel: he alone retained his +strength and spirit. Taking with him three fresh men at Niagara, +he resumed his journey, and on the sixth of May descried, looming +through floods of rain, the familiar shores of his seigniory and the +bastioned walls of Fort Frontenac. During sixty-five days, he had +toiled almost incessantly, travelling, by the course he took, about a +thousand miles through a country beset with every form of peril and +obstruction; “the most arduous journey,” says the chronicler, “ever +made by Frenchmen in America.” Such was Cavelier de la Salle. In him, +an unconquerable mind held at its service a frame of iron, and tasked +it to the utmost of its endurance. The pioneer of western pioneers +was no rude son of toil, but a man of thought, trained amid arts and +letters. + +He had reached his goal; but for him there was neither rest nor +peace. Man and Nature seemed in arms against him. His agents had +plundered him; his creditors had seized his property; and several +of his canoes, richly laden, had been lost in the rapids of the St. +Lawrence. He hastened to Montreal, where his sudden advent caused +great astonishment; and where, despite his crippled resources and +damaged credit, he succeeded, within a week, in gaining the supplies +which he required, and the needful succors for the forlorn band on +the Illinois. He had returned to Fort Frontenac, and was on the +point of embarking for their relief, when a blow fell upon him more +disheartening than any that had preceded. On the twenty-second of +July, two _voyageurs_, Messier and Laurent, came to him with a letter +from Tonty, who wrote that soon after La Salle’s departure nearly all +the men had deserted, after destroying Fort Crèvecoeur, plundering +the magazine, and throwing into the river all the arms, goods, and +stores which they could not carry off. The messengers who brought +this letter were speedily followed by two of the _habitants_ of +Fort Frontenac, who had been trading on the lakes, and who, with a +fidelity which the unhappy La Salle rarely knew how to inspire, had +travelled day and night to bring him their tidings. They reported +that they had met the deserters, and that, having been reinforced by +recruits gained at Michillimackinac and Niagara, they now numbered +twenty men. They had destroyed the fort on the St. Joseph, seized +a quantity of furs belonging to La Salle at Michillimackinac, and +plundered the magazine at Niagara. Here they had separated, eight of +them coasting the south side of Lake Ontario to find harborage at +Albany, a common refuge at that time of this class of scoundrels; +while the remaining twelve, in three canoes, made for Fort Frontenac, +along the north shore, intending to kill La Salle, as the surest +means of escaping punishment. + +He lost no time in lamentation. Of the few men at his command, he +chose nine of the trustiest, embarked with them in canoes, and went +to meet the marauders. After passing the Bay of Quinté, he took his +station, with five of his party, at a point of land suited to his +purpose, and detached the remaining four to keep watch. In the +morning, two canoes were discovered, approaching without suspicion, +one of them far in advance of the other. As the foremost drew near, +La Salle’s canoe darted out from under the leafy shore; two of the +men handling the paddles, while he, with the remaining two, levelled +their guns at the deserters, and called on them to surrender. +Astonished and dismayed, they yielded at once; while two more, who +were in the second canoe, hastened to follow their example. La Salle +now returned to the fort with his prisoners, placed them in custody, +and again set forth. He met the third canoe upon the lake at about +six o’clock in the evening. His men vainly plied their paddles in +pursuit. The mutineers reached the shore, took post among rocks and +trees, levelled their guns, and showed fight. Four of La Salle’s men +made a circuit to gain their rear and dislodge them, on which they +stole back to their canoe, and tried to escape in the darkness. They +were pursued, and summoned to yield; but they replied by aiming their +guns at their pursuers, who instantly gave them a volley, killed two +of them, and captured the remaining three. Like their companions, +they were placed in custody at the fort, to await the arrival of +Count Frontenac. + + Francis Parkman, _La Salle and the Discovery of + the Great West_. By permission of the publishers, + Little, Brown & Company. + + +SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY OF HISTORICAL NARRATIVE + + The editors have found these additional selections very useful in + teaching historical narrative: + + Guedalla, Philip. _The Second Empire_, Part III, _The Emperor_. G. + P. Putnam’s Sons. + + Parkman, Francis. _La Salle and the Discovery of the Great West_, + particularly Chapter XV, _Indian Conquerors_. Little, Brown & + Company. + + Roosevelt, Theodore. _The Winning of the West_, Vol. IV, Chapter + II, _Mad Anthony Wayne_. G. P. Putnam’s Sons. + + Strachey, Lytton. _Queen Victoria_, particularly pages 67-70. + Harcourt, Brace and Company. + + + + + CHAPTER IV + + _Historical Fiction_ + + +As in historical narrative some incident, or series of connecting +incidents, is told in such a way that the details are impressed +vividly upon the imagination, so in historical fiction some story +or tradition which has come down through the past is portrayed so +that it, too, may stand out the more clearly because of the larger +setting, the greater wealth of details, and the added emphasis +upon the dramatic situations which are given by the narrator. Many +novelists since the time of Scott, recognizing the possibilities +in this kind of fiction, have depicted characters in relation to +certain great epochs of history; but there have been relatively few +story-tellers who have seized upon a single event and constructed a +short story with that event as the climax. We do have, however, in +the work of Maurice Hewlett, James Branch Cabell, E. Barrington, and +some others less noteworthy, delightful pieces of historical fiction +which prove the charming possibilities afforded by this type of +narrative. + +Here, too, the material lies ready for you. You have but to think +of an appealing personality in the history of any land and then +discover, if you do not already know, some climactic incident in +his life which may serve as a nucleus for your story. Nor must you +necessarily stick to the facts. Tradition, for the story-teller, +is often more interesting and more valuable than history. In her +story of _Fair Rosemonde_, for example, E. Barrington forsakes +the historical truth which would end the Lady Rosemonde’s days +in Godstowe nunnery in favor of the wholly traditional story of +her poisoning at the wicked hands of Queen Eleanore of Aquitaine. +Literature may suggest a story to you. For example, what could afford +better suggestions for a piece of historical fiction than Rossetti’s +various ballads, particularly that of the _White Ship_? + +The methods employed are much the same as those suggested for +historical narrative, although, since in historical fiction +your scope is larger, since you are dealing with a series of +_complicating_ incidents instead of with one major incident, since +you are in point of fact telling a story, it will be well to heed the +following suggestions in addition to those already given: + + 1. Do not fail to emphasize the setting for the story. Your + characters will be far more real if they act against a background + which is clear to your reader because of the detail with which you + have pictured it. + + Note how Cabell in _The Story of the Fox-Brush_ gives the exact + time and place which mark the opening of his story, and again the + detail with which he describes the cloudy morning of Katharine’s + and Alain’s second meeting. + + 2. Do not hesitate to give by careful weaving into your narrative + details concerning the past of your characters. This will make them + stand out far more clearly and will act as a motivation for their + behavior in your story. + + Note how Cabell increases your feeling of disgust toward Queen + Isabel by his suggestions concerning her previous life. In this + case, as will be clearly seen, sympathy is generated for the main + characters, and becomes an added reason for the portrayal of the + past. + +But far better than precept will be a careful study of the charming +story that follows. + + M. E. C. + + + THE STORY OF THE FOX-BRUSH + + JAMES BRANCH CABELL + +In the year of grace 1417, about Martinmas (thus Nicolas begins), +Queen Isabeau fled with her daughter, the Lady Katharine, to +Chartres. There the Queen was met by the Duke of Burgundy, and these +two laid their heads together to such good effect that presently they +got back into Paris, and in its public places massacred some three +thousand Armagnacs. That, however, is a matter which touches history; +the root of our concernment is that, when the Queen and the Duke rode +off to attend to this butcher’s business, the Lady Katharine was left +behind in the Convent of Saint Scholastica, which then stood upon the +outskirts of Chartres, in the bend of the Eure just south of that +city. She dwelt for a year in this well-ordered place. + +There one finds her upon the day of the decollation of Saint John +the Baptist, one fine August morning that starts the tale. Katharine +the Fair, men called her, with considerable show of reason. She was +very tall, and slim as a rush. Her eyes were large and black, having +an extreme lustre, like the gleam of undried ink,--a lustre at some +times uncanny. Her abundant hair, too, was black, and to-day seemed +doubly sombre by contrast with the gold netting which confined it. +Her mouth was scarlet, all curves, and her complexion was famous +for its brilliancy; only a precision would have objected that +she possessed the Valois nose, long and thin and somewhat unduly +overhanging the mouth. + +To-day as she came through the orchard, crimson-garbed, she paused +with lifted eyebrows. Beyond the orchard wall there was a hodgepodge +of noises, among which a nice ear might distinguish the clatter of +hoofs, a yelping and scurrying, and a contention of soft bodies, and +above all a man’s voice commanding the turmoil. She was seventeen, so +she climbed into the crotch of an apple-tree and peered over the wall. + +He was in rusty brown and not unshabby; but her regard swept over +this to his face, and there noted how his eyes shone like blue winter +stars under the tumbled yellow hair, and noted the flash of his big +teeth as he swore between them. He held a dead fox by the brush, +which he was cutting off; two hounds, lank and wolfish, were scaling +his huge body in frantic attempts to get at the carrion. A horse +grazed close at hand. + +So for a heart-beat she saw him. Then he flung the tailless body +to the hounds, and in the act spied two black eyes peeping through +the apple-leaves. He laughed, all mirth to the heels of him. +“Mademoiselle, I fear we have disturbed your devotions. But I had not +heard that it was a Benedictine custom to rehearse aves in treetops.” +Then, as she leaned forward, both elbows resting more comfortably +upon the wall, and thereby disclosing her slim body among the +foliage like a crimson flower green-calyxed, he said, “You are not a +nun--Blood of God! you are the Princess Katharine!” + +The nuns, her present guardians, would have declared the ensuing +action horrific, for Katharine smiled frankly at him and asked how +could he thus recognize her at one glance. + +He answered slowly: “I have seen your portrait. Hah, your portrait!” +he jeered, head flung back and big teeth glinting in the sunlight. +“There is a painter who merits crucifixion.” + +She considered this indicative of a cruel disposition, but also of a +fine taste in the liberal arts. Aloud she stated: + +“You are not a Frenchman, messire. I do not understand how you can +have seen my portrait.” + +The man stood for a moment twiddling the fox-brush. “I am a harper, +my Princess. I have visited the courts of many kinds, though never +that of France. I perceive I have been woefully unwise.” + +This trenched upon insolence--the look of his eyes, indeed, carried +it well past the frontier,--but she found the statement interesting. +Straightway she touched the kernel of those fear-blurred legends +whispered about Dom Manuel’s reputed descendants. + +“You have, then, seen the King of England?” + +“Yes, Highness.” + +“Is it true that in him the devil blood of Oriander has gone mad, and +that he eats children--like Agrapard and Angoulaffre of the Broken +Teeth?” + +His gaze widened. “I have heard a deal of scandal concerning the man. +But certainly I never heard that.” + +Katharine settled back, luxuriously, in the crotch of the apple-tree. +“Tell me about him.” + +Composedly he sat down upon the grass and began to acquaint her with +his knowledge and opinions concerning Henry, the fifth of that name +to reign in England, and the son of that squinting Harry of Derby +about whom I have told you so much before. + +Katharine punctuated the harper’s discourse with eager questionings, +which are not absolutely to our purpose. In the main, this harper +thought the man now buffeting France a just king, and he had heard, +when the crown was laid aside, Sire Henry was sufficiently jovial, +and even prankish. The harper educed anecdotes. He considered that +the King would manifestly take Rouen, which the insatiable man was +now besieging. Was the King in treaty for the hand of the Infanta of +Aragon? Yes, he undoubtedly was. + +Katharine sighed her pity for this ill-starred woman. “And now tell +me about yourself.” + +He was, it appeared, Alain Maquedonnieux, a harper by vocation, +and by birth a native of Ireland. Beyond the fact that it was a +savage kingdom adjoining Cataia, Katharine knew nothing of Ireland. +The harper assured her that in this she was misinformed, since the +kings of England claimed Ireland as an appanage, though the Irish +themselves were of two minds as to the justice of these pretensions; +all in all, he considered that Ireland belonged to Saint Patrick, and +that the holy man had never accredited a vicar. + +“Doubtless, by the advice of God,” Alain said, “for I have read +in Master Roger de Wendover’s Chronicles of how at the dread day +of judgment all the Irish are to muster before the high and pious +Patrick, as their liege lord and father in the spirit, and by him be +conducted into the presence of God; and of how, by virtue of Saint +Patrick’s request, all the Irish will die seven years to an hour +before the second coming of Christ, in order to give the blessed +saint sufficient time to marshal his company, which is considerable.” +Katharine admitted the convenience of this arrangement, as well as +the neglect of her education. Alain gazed up at her for a long while, +as if in reflection, and presently said: “Doubtless the Lady Heleine +of Argos also was thus starry-eyed and found in books less diverting +reading than in the faces of men.” It flooded Katharine’s cheeks +with a livelier hue, but did not vex her irretrievably; if she chose +to read this man’s face, the meaning was plain enough. + +I give you the gist of their talk, and that in all conscience is +trivial. But it was a day when one entered love’s wardship with a +plunge, not in more modern fashion venturing forward bit by bit, as +though love were so much cold water. So they talked for a long while, +with laughter mutually provoked and shared, with divers eloquent and +dangerous pauses. The harper squatted upon the ground, the Princess +leaned over the wall; but to all intent they sat together upon the +loftiest turret of Paradise, and it was a full two hours before +Katharine hinted at departure. + +Alain rose, approaching the wall. “To-morrow I ride for Milan to +take service with Duke Filippo. I had broken my journey these three +days past at Châteauneuf yonder, where this fox has been harrying +my host’s chickens. To-day I went out to slay him, and he led me, +his murderer, to the fairest lady earth may boast. Do you not think +that, in returning good for evil, this fox was a true Christian, my +Princess?” + +Katharine said: “I lament his destruction. Farewell, Messire Alain! +And since chance brought you hither----” + +“Destiny brought me hither,” Alain affirmed, a mastering hunger in +his eyes. “Destiny has been kind; I shall make a prayer to her that +she continue so.” But when Katharine demanded what this prayer would +be, Alain shook his tawny head. “Presently you shall know, Highness, +but not now. I return to Châteauneuf on certain necessary businesses; +to-morrow I set out at cock-crow for Milan and the Visconti’s livery. +Farewell!” He mounted and rode away in the golden August sunlight, +the hounds frisking about him. The fox-brush was fastened in his +hat. Thus Tristran de Léonois may have ridden a-hawking in drowned +Cornwall, thus statelily and composedly, Katharine thought, gazing +after him. She went to her apartments, singing an inane song about +the amorous and joyful time of spring when everything and everybody +is happy,---- + + “El tems amoreus plein de joie, + El tems où tote riens s’esgaie,--” + +and burst into a sudden passion of tears. There were +born every day, she reflected, such hosts of women-children, who were +not princesses and therefore compelled to marry detestable kings. + +Dawn found her in the orchard. She was to remember that it was a +cloudy morning, and that mist-tatters trailed from the more distant +trees. In the slaty twilight the garden’s verdure was lustreless, +the grass and foliage were uniformly sombre save where dewdrops +showed like beryls. Nowhere in the orchard was there absolute +shadow, nowhere a vista unblurred; in the east, half-way between +horizon and zenith, two belts of coppery light flared against the +gray sky like embers swaddled by ashes. The birds were waking; there +were occasional scurryings in tree-tops and outbursts of peevish +twittering to attest as much; and presently came a singing, less +musical than that of many a bird perhaps, but far more grateful to +the girl who heard it, heart in mouth. A lute accompanied the song +demurely. + +Sang Alain: + + “O Madam Destiny, omnipotent, + Be not too obdurate to us who pray + That this our transient grant of youth be spent + In laughter as befits a holiday, + From which the evening summons us away, + From which to-morrow wakens us to strife + And toil and grief and wisdom,--and to-day + Grudge us not life! + + “O Madam Destiny, omnipotent, + Why need our elders trouble us at play? + We know that very soon we shall repent + The idle follies of our holiday, + And being old, shall be as wise as they: + But now we are not wise, and lute and fife + Plead sweetlier than axioms,--so to-day + Grudge us not life! + + “O Madam Destiny, omnipotent, + You have given us youth--and must we cast away + The cup undrained and our one coin unspent + Because our elders’ beards and hearts are gray? + They have forgotten that if we delay + Death claps us on the shoulder, and with knife + Or cord or fever flouts the prayer we pray-- + ‘Grudge us not life!’ + + “Madam, recall that in the sun we play + But for an hour, then have the worm for wife, + The tomb for habitation--and to-day + Grudge us not life!” + +Candor in these matters is best. Katharine scrambled into the crotch +of the apple-tree. The dew pattered sharply about her, but the +Princess was not in a mood to appraise discomfort. + +“You came!” this harper said, transfigured; and then again, “You +came!” + +She breathed, “Yes.” + +So for a long time they stood looking at each other. She found +adoration in his eyes and quailed before it; and in the man’s mind +no grimy and mean incident of the past but marshalled to leer at his +unworthiness: yet in that primitive garden the first man and woman, +meeting, knew no sweeter terror. + +It was by the minstrel that a familiar earth and the grating speech +of earth were earlier regained. “The affair is of the suddenest,” +Alain observed, and he now swung the lute behind him. He indicated no +intention of touching her, though he might easily have done so as he +sat there exalted by the height of his horse. “A meteor arrives with +more prelude. But Love is an arbitrary lord; desiring my heart, he +has seized it, and accordingly I would now brave hell to come to you, +and finding you there, would esteem hell a pleasure-garden. I have +already made my prayer to Destiny that she concede me love. Now of +God, our Father and Master, I entreat quick death if I am not to win +you. For, God willing, I shall come to you again, even if in order to +do this I have to split the world like a rotten orange.” + +“Madness! Oh, brave, sweet madness!” Katharine said. “You are a +minstrel and I am a king’s daughter.” + +“Is it madness? Why, then, I think sane persons are to be +commiserated. And indeed I spy in all this same design. Across half +the earth I came to you, led by a fox. Hey God’s face!” Alain swore, +“the foxes which Samson, that old sinewy captain, loosed among the +corn of heathenry kindled no disputation such as this fox has set +afoot. That was an affair of standing corn and olives spoilt, a +bushel or so of disaster; now poised kingdoms topple on the brink +of ruin. There will be martial argument shortly if you bid me come +again.” + +“I bid you come,” said Katharine; and after they had stared at each +other for a long while, he rode away in silence. It was through a +dank and tear-flawed world that she stumbled conventward, while out +of the east the sun came bathed in mists, a watery sun no brighter +than a silver coin. + +And for a month the world seemed no less dreary, but about Michaelmas +the Queen-Regent sent for her. At the Hôtel de Saint-Pol matters were +much the same. Katharine found her mother in foul-mouthed rage over +the failure of a third attempt to poison the Dauphin of Vienne, as +Queen Isabeau had previously poisoned her two elder sons; I might +here trace out a curious similitude between the Valois and that +dragon-spawned race which Jason very anciently slew at Colchis, since +the world was never at peace so long as any two of them existed. But +King Charles greeted his daughter with ampler deference, esteeming +her to be the wife of Presbyter John, the tyrant of Æthiopia. +However, ingenuity had just suggested card-playing for King Charles’ +amusement, and he paid little attention nowadays to any one save his +opponent at this new game. + +So the French King chirped his senile jests over the card-table, +while the King of England was besieging the French city of Rouen +sedulously and without mercy. In late autumn an armament from Ireland +joined Henry’s forces. The Irish fought naked, it was said, with +long knives. Katharine heard discreditable tales of these Irish, and +reflected how gross are the exaggerations of rumor. + +In the year of grace 1419, in January, the burgesses of Rouen, having +consumed their horses, and finding frogs and rats unpalatable, +yielded the town. It was the Queen-Regent who brought the news to +Katharine. + +“God is asleep,” the Queen said; “and while He nods, the Butcher +of Agincourt has stolen our good city of Rouen.” She sat down and +breathed heavily. “Never was any poor woman so pestered as I! The +puddings to-day were quite uneatable, as you saw for yourself, and +on Sunday the Englishman entered Rouen in great splendor, attended +by his chief nobles; but the Butcher rode alone, and before him went +a page carrying a fox-brush on the point of his lance. I put it to +you, is that the contrivance of a sane man? Euh! euh!” Dame Isabeau +squealed on a sudden; “you are bruising me.” + +Katharine had gripped her by the shoulder. “The King of England--a +tall, fair man? with big teeth? a tiny wen upon his neck--here--and +with his left cheek scarred? with blue eyes, very bright, bright as +tapers?” She poured out her questions in a torrent, and awaited the +answer, seeming not to breathe at all. + +“I believe so,” the Queen said, “and they say, too, that he has the +damned squint of old Manuel the Redeemer.” + +“O God!” said Katharine. + +“Ay, our only hope now. And may God show him no more mercy than has +this misbegotten English butcher shown us!” the good lady desired, +with fervor. “The hog, having won our Normandy, is now advancing on +Paris itself. He repudiated the Aragonish alliance last August; and +until last August he was content with Normandy, they tell us, but +now he swears to win all France. The man is a madman, and Scythian +Tamburlaine was more lenient. And I do not believe that in all +France there is a cook who understands his business.” She went away +whimpering, and proceeded to get tipsy. + +The Princess remained quite still, as Dame Isabeau had left her; you +may see a hare crouch so at sight of the hounds. Finally the girl +spoke aloud. “Until last August!” Katharine said. “Until last August! +_Poised kingdoms topple on the brink of ruin, now that you bid me +come to you again._ And I bade this devil’s grandson come to me, as +my lover!” Presently she went into her oratory and began to pray. + +In the midst of her invocation she wailed: “Fool, fool! How could I +have thought him less than a king!” + +You are to imagine her breast thus adrum with remorse and hatred of +herself, the while that town by town fell before the invader like +card-houses. Every rumor of defeat--and the news of some fresh +defeat came daily--was her arraignment; impotently she cowered at +God’s knees, knowing herself a murderess, whose infamy was still +afoot, outpacing her prayers, whose victims were battalions. Tarpeia +and Pisidicé and Rahab were her sisters; she hungered in her +abasement for Judith’s nobler guilt. + +In May he came to her. A truce was patched up, and French and English +met amicably in a great plain near Meulan. A square space was staked +out and on three sides boarded in, the fourth side being the river +Seine. This enclosure the Queen-Regent, Jehan of Burgundy, and +Katharine entered from the French side. Simultaneously the English +King appeared, accompanied by his brothers the Dukes of Clarence and +Gloucester, and followed by the Earl of Warwick. Katharine raised her +eyes with I know not what lingering hope; but it was he, a young Zeus +now, triumphant and uneager. In his helmet in place of a plume he +wore a fox-brush spangled with jewels. + +These six entered the tent pitched for the conference--the hanging of +blue velvet embroidered with fleurs-de-lys of gold blurred before the +girl’s eyes,--and there the Earl of Warwick embarked upon a sea of +rhetoric. His French was indifferent, his periods were interminable, +and his demands exorbitant; in brief, the King of England wanted +Katharine and most of France, with a reversion at the French King’s +death of the entire kingdom. Meanwhile Sire Henry sat in silence, his +eyes glowing. + +“I have come,” he said, under cover of Warwick’s oratory--“I have +come again, my lady.” + +Katharine’s gaze flickered over him. “Liar!” she said, very softly. +“Has God no thunders remaining in His armory that this vile thief +still goes unblasted? Would you steal love as well as kingdoms?” + +His ruddy face was now white. “I love you, Katharine.” + +“Yes,” she answered, “for I am your pretext. I can well believe, +messire, that you love your pretext for theft and murder.” + +Neither spoke after this, and presently the Earl of Warwick having +come to his peroration, the matter was adjourned till the next day. +The party separated. It was not long before Katharine had informed +her mother that, God willing, she would never again look upon the +King of England’s face uncoffined. Isabeau found her a madwoman. +The girl swept opposition before her with gusts of demoniacal fury, +wept, shrieked, tore at her hair, and eventually fell into a sort +of epileptic seizure; between rage and terror she became a horrid, +frenzied beast. I do not dwell upon this, for it is not a condition +in which the comeliest maid shows to advantage. But, for the Valois, +insanity always lurked at the next corner, and they knew it; to save +the girl’s reason the Queen was forced to break off all discussion +of the match. Accordingly, the Duke of Burgundy went next day to +the conference alone. Jehan began with “ifs,” and over these flimsy +barriers Henry, already fretted by Katharine’s scorn, presently +vaulted to a towering fury. + +“Fair cousin,” the King said, after a deal of vehement bickering, “we +wish you to know that we will have the daughter of your King, and +that we will drive both him and you out of this kingdom.” + +The Duke answered, not without spirit, “Sire, you are pleased to say +so; but before you have succeeded in ousting my lord and me from +this realm, I am of the opinion that you will be very heartily tired.” + +At this the King turned on his heel; over his shoulder he flung: “I +am tireless; also, I am agile as a fox in the pursuit of my desires. +Say that to your Princess.” Then he went away in a rage. + +It had seemed an approvable business to win love incognito, according +to the example of many ancient emperors, but in practice he had +tripped over an ugly outgrowth from the legendary custom. The girl +hated him, there was no doubt about it; and it was equally certain he +loved her. Particularly caustic was the reflection that a twitch of +his finger would get him Katharine as his wife, for before long the +Queen-Regent was again attempting secret negotiations to bring this +about. Yes, he could get the girl’s body by a couple of pen-strokes, +and had he been older that might have contented him: as it was, +what he wanted was to rouse the look her eyes had borne in Chartres +orchard that tranquil morning, and this one could not readily secure +by fiddling with seals and parchments. You see his position: this +high-spirited young man now loved the Princess too utterly to take +her on lip-consent, and this marriage was now his one possible +excuse for ceasing from victorious warfare. So he blustered, and +the fighting recommenced; and he slew in a despairing rage, knowing +that by every movement of his arms he became to her so much the more +detestable. + +Then the Vicomte de Montbrison, as you have heard, betrayed France, +and King Henry began to strip the French realm of provinces as you +peel the layers from an onion. By the May of the year of grace 1420 +France was, and knew herself to be not beaten but demolished. Only +a fag-end of the French army lay entrenched at Troyes, where King +Charles and his court awaited Henry’s decision as to the morrow’s +action. If he chose to destroy them root and branch, he could; and +they knew such mercy as was in the man to be quite untarnished by +previous using. Sire Henry drew up a small force before the city and +made no overtures toward either peace or throat-cutting. + +This was the posture of affairs on the evening of the Sunday after +Ascension day, when Katharine sat at cards with her father in his +apartments at the Hôtel de ville. The King was pursing his lips +over an alternative play, when somebody began singing below in the +courtyard. + +Sang the voice: + + “I can find no meaning in life, + That have weighed the world,--and it was + Abundant with folly, and rife + With sorrows brittle as glass, + And with joys that flicker and pass + Like dreams through a fevered head; + And like the dripping of rain + In gardens naked and dead + Is the obdurate thin refrain + Of our youth which is presently dead. + + “And she whom alone I have loved + Looks ever with loathing on me, + As one she hath seen disproved + And stained with such smirches as be + Not ever cleansed utterly; + And is loth to remember the days + When Destiny fixed her name + As the theme and the goal of my praise; + And my love engenders shame, + And I stain what I strive for and praise. + + “O love, most perfect of all, + Just to have known you is well! + And it heartens me now to recall + That just to have known you is well, + And naught else is desirable + Save only to do as you willed + And to love you my whole life long;-- + But this heart in me is filled + With hunger cruel and strong, + And with hunger unfulfilled. + + “Fond heart, though thy hunger be + As a flame that wanders unstilled, + There is none more perfect than she!” + +Malise now came into the room, and, without speaking, laid a +fox-brush before the Princess. + +Katharine twirled it in her hand, staring at the card-littered +table. “So you are in his pay, Malise? I am sorry. But you know that +your employer is master here. Who am I to forbid him entrance?” The +girl went away silently, abashed, and the Princess sat quite still, +tapping the brush against the table. + +“They do not want me to sign another treaty, do they?” her father +asked timidly. “It appears to me they are always signing treaties, +and I cannot see that any good comes of it. And I would have won the +last game, Katharine, if Malise had not interrupted us. You know I +would have won.” + +“Yes, Father, you would have won. Oh, he must not see you!” Katharine +cried, a great tide of love mounting in her breast, the love that +draws a mother fiercely to shield her backward boy. “Father, will +you not go into your chamber? I have a new book for you, Father--all +pictures, dear. Come--” She was coaxing him when Sire Henry appeared +in the doorway. + +“But I do not wish to look at pictures,” Charles said, peevishly; “I +wish to play cards. You are an ungrateful daughter, Katharine. You +are never willing to amuse me.” He sat down with a whimper and began +to pluck at his dribbling lips. + +Katharine had moved a little toward the door. Her face was white. +“Now welcome, sire!” she said. “Welcome, O great conqueror, who in +your hour of triumph can find no nobler recreation than to shame a +maid with her past folly! It was valorously done, sire. See, Father; +here is the King of England come to observe how low we sit that +yesterday were lords of France.” + +“The King of England!” echoed Charles, and he rose now to his feet. +“I thought we were at war with him. But my memory is treacherous. You +perceive, brother of England, I am planning a new mouse-trap, and my +mind is somewhat preëmpted. I recall now that you are in treaty for +my daughter’s hand. Katharine is a good girl, a fine upstanding girl, +but I suppose--” He paused, as if to regard and hear some invisible +counsellor, and then briskly resumed: “Yes, I suppose policy demands +that she should marry you. We trammelled kings can never go free of +policy--ey, my compère of England? No; it was through policy I wedded +her mother; and we have been very unhappy, Isabeau and I. A word in +your ear, son-in-law: Madame Isabeau’s soul formerly inhabited a sow, +as Pythagoras teaches, and when our Saviour cast it out at Gadara, +the influence of the moon drew it hither.” + +Henry did not say anything. Steadily his calm blue eyes appraised +Dame Katharine. And King Charles went on, very knowingly: + +“Oho, these Latinists cannot hoodwink me, you observe, though +by ordinary it chimes with my humor to appear content. Policy +again, son-in-law: for once roused, I am terrible. To-day in +the great hall-window, under the bleeding feet of Lazarus, I +slew ten flies--very black they were, the black shrivelled souls +of parricides,--and afterward I wept for it. I often weep; the +Mediterranean hath its sources in my eyes, for my daughter cheats at +cards. Cheats, sir!--and I her father!” The incessant peering, the +stealthy cunning with which Charles whispered this, the confidence +with which he clung to his destroyer’s hand, was that of a conspiring +child. + +“Come, Father,” Katharine said. “Come away to bed, dear.” + +“Hideous basilisk!” he spat at her; “dare you rebel against me? Am +I not King of France, and is it not blasphemy for a King of France +to be mocked? Frail moths that flutter about my splendor,” he +shrieked, in an unheralded frenzy, “beware of me, beware! for I am +omnipotent! I am King of France, Heaven’s regent. At my command the +winds go about the earth, and nightly the stars are kindled for my +recreation. Perhaps I am mightier than God, but I do not remember +now. The reason is written down and lies somewhere under a bench. +Now I sail for England. Eia! eia! I go to ravage England, terrible +and merciless. But I must have my mouse-traps, Goodman Devil, for in +England the cats of the middle-sea wait unfed.” He went out of the +room, giggling, and in the corridor began to sing: + + “A hundred thousand times good-bye! + I go to seek the Evangelist, + For here all persons cheat and lie....” + +All this while Henry remained immovable, his eyes fixed upon +Katharine. Thus (she meditated) he stood among Frenchmen; he was the +boulder, and they the waters that babbled and fretted about him. But +she turned and met his gaze squarely. She noted now for the first +time how oddly his left eyebrow drooped. + +Katharine said: “And that is the king whom you have conquered! Is it +not a notable conquest to overcome so wise a king? to pilfer renown +from an idiot? There are cut-throats in Troyes, rogues doubly damned, +who would scorn the action. Now shall I fetch my mother, sire? the +commander of that great army which you overcame? As the hour is +late, she is by this time tipsy, but she will come. O God!” the girl +wailed, on a sudden; “O just and all-seeing God! are not we of Valois +so contemptible that in conquering us it is the victor who is shamed?” + +“Flower of the marsh!” he said, and his voice pulsed with tender +cadences--“flower of the marsh! it is not the King of England who now +comes to you, but Alain the harper. Henry Plantagenet God has led +hither by the hand to punish the sins of this realm, and to reign +in it like a true king. Henry Plantagenet will cast out the Valois +from the throne they have defiled, as Darius cast out Belshazzar, for +such is the desire and the intent of God. But to you comes Alain the +harper, not as a conqueror but as a suppliant,--Alain who has loved +you whole-hearted these two years past, and who now kneels before you +entreating grace.” + +Katharine looked down into his countenance, for to his speech he had +fitted action. Suddenly and for the first time she understood that +he believed France to be his by Divine favor and Heaven’s peculiar +intervention. He thought himself God’s factor, not His rebel. He +was rather stupid, this huge, handsome, squinting boy; and as she +comprehended this, her hand went to his shoulder, half maternally. + +“It is nobly done, sire. But I understand. You must marry me in +order to uphold your claim to France. You sell, and I with my body +purchase, peace for France. There is no need of a lover’s posture +when hucksters meet.” + +“So changed,” he said, and he was silent for an interval, still +kneeling. Then he began: “You force me to point out that I do not +need any pretext for holding France. France lies before me prostrate. +By God’s singular grace I reign in this fair kingdom, mine by right +of conquest, and an alliance with the house of Valois will neither +make nor mar me.” She was unable to deny this, unpalatable as was +the fact. “But I love you, and therefore as man wooes woman I sue to +you. Do you not understand that there can be between us no question +of expediency? Katharine, in Chartres orchard there met a man and a +maid we know of; now in Troyes they meet again,--not as princess and +king, but as man and maid, the wooer and the wooed. Once I touched +your heart, I think. And now in all the world there is one thing I +covet--to gain for the poor king some portion of that love you would +have squandered on the harper.” His hand closed upon her hand. + +At his touch the girl’s composure vanished. “My lord, you woo too +timidly for one who comes with many loud-voiced advocates. I am +daughter to the King of France, and next to my soul’s salvation I +esteem the welfare of France. Can I, then, fail to love the King of +England, who chooses the blood of my countrymen as a judicious garb +to come a-wooing in? How else, since you have ravaged my native land, +since you have besmirched the name I bear, since yonder afield every +wound in my dead and yet unburied Frenchmen is to me a mouth which +shrieks your infamy?” + +He rose. “And yet, for all that, you love me.” + +She could not at the first effort find words with which to answer +him, but presently she said, quite simply, “To see you lying in your +coffin I would willingly give up my hope of heaven, for heaven can +afford no sight more desirable.” + +“You loved Alain.” + +“I loved the husk of a man. You can never comprehend how utterly I +loved him.” + +“You are stubborn. I shall have trouble with you. But this notion of +yours is plainly a mistaken notion. That you love me is indisputable, +and this I propose to demonstrate. You will observe that I am +quite unarmed except for this dagger, which I now throw out of the +window--” with the word it jangled in the courtyard below. “I am in +Troyes alone among some thousand Frenchmen, any one of whom would +willingly give his life for the privilege of taking mine. You have +but to sound the gong beside you, and in a few moments I shall be a +dead man. Strike, then! for with me dies the English power in France. +Strike, Katharine! if you see in me but the King of England.” + +She was rigid; and his heart leapt when he saw it was because of +terror. + +“You came alone! You dared!” + +He answered, with a wonderful smile. “Proud spirit! how else might I +conquer you?” + +“You have not conquered!” Katharine lifted the bâton beside the gong, +poising it. God had granted her prayer--to save France. Now the past +and the ignominy of the past might be merged in Judith’s nobler +guilt. But I must tell you that in the supreme hour, Destiny at her +beck, her main desire was to slap the man for his childishness. Oh, +he had no right thus to besot himself with adoration! This dejection +at her feet of his high destiny awed her, and pricked her, too, with +her inability to understand him. Angrily she flung away the bâton. +“Go! ah, go!” she cried, like one strangling. “There has been enough +of bloodshed, and I must spare you, loathing you as I do, for I +cannot with my own hand murder you.” + +But the King was a kindly tyrant, crushing independence from his +associates as lesser folk squeeze water from a sponge. “I cannot go +thus. Acknowledge me to be Alain, the man you love, or else strike +upon the gong.” + +“You are cruel!” she wailed, in her torture. + +“Yes, I am cruel.” + +Katharine raised straining arms above her head in a hard gesture +of despair. “You have conquered. You know that I love you. Oh, if +I could find words to voice my shame, to shriek it in your face, I +could better endure it! For I love you. With all my body and heart +and soul I love you. Mine is the agony, for I love you! and presently +I shall stand quite still and see little Frenchmen scramble about you +as hounds leap upon a stag, and afterward kill you. And after that +I shall live! I preserve France, but after I have slain you, Henry, +I must live. Mine is the agony, the enduring agony.” She stayed +motionless for an interval. “God, God! let me not fail!” Katharine +breathed; and then: “O fair sweet friend, I am about to commit a vile +action, but it is for the sake of the France that I love next to God. +As Judith gave her body to Holofernes, I crucify my heart for the +preservation of France.” Very calmly she struck upon the gong. + +If she could have found any reproach in his eyes during the ensuing +silence, she could have borne it; but there was only love. And with +all that, he smiled like one who knew the upshot of this matter. + +A man-at-arms came into the room. “Germain--” said Katharine, and +then again, “Germain--” She gave a swallowing motion and was silent. +When she spoke it was with crisp distinctness. “Germain, fetch a +harp. Messire Alain here is about to play for me.” + +At the man’s departure she said: “I am very pitiably weak. Need you +have dragged my soul, too, in the dust? God heard my prayer, and you +have forced me to deny His favor, as Peter denied Christ. My dear, be +very kind to me, for I come to you naked of honor.” She fell at the +King’s feet, embracing his knees. “My master, be very kind to me, for +there remains only your love.” + +He raised her to his breast. “Love is enough,” he said. + +She was conscious, as he held her thus, of the chain mail under +his jerkin. He had come armed; he had his soldiers no doubt in the +corridor; he had tricked her, it might be from the first. But that +did not matter now. + +“Love is enough,” she told her master docilely. + +Next day the English entered Troyes and in the cathedral church these +two were betrothed. Henry was there magnificent in a curious suit of +burnished armor; in place of his helmet-plume he wore a fox-brush +ornamented with jewels, which unusual ornament afforded great matter +of remark among the busybodies of both armies. + + From _Chivalry_ by James Branch Cabell. By + permission of the publishers, Robert M. McBride + and Company. + + +SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY OF HISTORICAL FICTION + + The editors have found these additional selections very useful in + teaching the writing of historical fiction: + + Barrington, E. _Fair Rosemonde._ _The Atlantic Monthly_, June, 1921. + + Cabell, James Branch. _Chivalry, The Rat-Trap._ Robert M. McBride + and Company. + + Dickens, Charles. _A Tale of Two Cities_, Book I, Chapter V, _The + Wine-Shop_; and Book III, Chapter VI, _Triumph_. + + Macaulay, Thomas Babington. _The Lays of Ancient Rome._ + + Rossetti, Dante Gabriel. _The White Ship._ + + + + + CHAPTER V + + _Tales and Legends_ + + +The derivations of the words _tale_ and _legend_ hold within +themselves several of the features that distinguish the one from +the other. A tale (As. _talu_, speech) means literally that which +is told by oral relation or recital; a legend (L. _legendus_, to +be read) that which is apprehended by the eye and not by the ear. +Originally, then, the tale was an oral recital, though the term was +afterwards applied to narrative whether oral or written, whereas the +legend, which in the history of narrative is later than the tale, was +a written chronicle that in its earliest form recorded the lives of +the saints and was read in monastic houses for spiritual edification. +Like the tale, however, the legend has long since lost its original +meaning, and is now broadly applied to many a story of ancient origin +which possesses an incredible, or seemingly miraculous character. + +And yet the tale and the legend possess certain distinguishing +traits as types of narrative which their derivations suggest and +their histories corroborate. Since the tale was an oral recital, the +narrator must, of course, have employed all means in his power to +impress his audience. Events which took place in many and strange +lands, episodes of thrilling adventure, which, although they usually +centered about one character, might be tacked on indefinitely so long +as his audience was interested, humorous situations and escapades +which not infrequently degenerated into horseplay, often illustrated +by grotesque mimicry and pantomime--such were the distinctive +features of the early tale. Nor are those earlier attributes absent +from the more modern tales. In these also there is often no unity of +setting; there are always incredible incidents and episodes which, as +in the case of Mr. James Stevens’s _Paul Bunyon_, center about one +main character; there are frequently features grotesque and humorous. +Even so is the legend, to a large extent, true to its derivation +and early history. Written as it was for a religious assembly, it +centered about the life of some saint whose spirituality it strove +to glorify by the portrayal of some one remarkable incident rather +than by the relation of several. Instead of the marvelous it dealt +with the miraculous; instead of the humorous and grotesque, although +these elements were not always absent, it dealt with romantic fancy; +instead of merely diverting or amusing an audience, it sought to +instruct and edify. And, as with the tale, these earlier features +are easily apparent in the legends of our own time. Here, too, are +the inexplicable, even the seemingly miraculous; here are romantic +fancy and æsthetic charm; and here are often lessons in constancy, +kindness, or heroism. + +To the careful student of literary types the history of the tale +and of the legend and the distinguishing features of each afford a +never failing source of interest and pleasure; but to the writer +of narrative such a study must be cursory at best. He must, of +course, recognize the individualizing attributes of the tale and +of the legend; but he must at the same time realize that, although +these attributes are in many cases still distinct, they have in +many other examples merged into one another. For example, in _The +Legend of the Moor’s Legacy_ from Irving’s _Tales of the Alhambra_ +(the interchange of the words legend and tale is interesting) +which is more distinctly a tale than a legend, there are evident +the purely æsthetic charm and fancy that characterize a legend; +in Miss Lagerlöf’s beautiful _Legend of the Christmas Rose_, on +the other hand, there are, especially in the conduct of the robber +woman in Abbot Hans’s garden, some features that marked the earlier +tales. Indeed, for practical purposes the words _tale_ and _legend_ +may be used almost synonymously by the writer of narrative (as in +point of fact they are in many dictionaries) if he has sufficient +literary judgment to preserve a consistency of tone or a unity of +artistic effect in his own work as he enters into that boundless and +fascinating field--the writing or the expanding into literary form of +old tales and legends. + +Nor are these adjectives, it seems to me, ill-chosen. Surely the +field is boundless, stretching from the ancient papyrus tales of +Egypt to the Indian legends of Minnesota and New Mexico. It includes +the traditions sacred to every race and nationality, the stories +which have been handed down in families, the tales and legends which +add charm and personality to certain localities the world over. If +you are of Scandinavian stock, you have a treasure-house in the +thousands of old stories of valor and endurance which have been told +for centuries by Norse grandmothers to their grandchildren during the +long northern winters; if you are of Irish blood, what mysterious and +miraculous legends of the earliest Christian centuries await you! It +is strange if there are not in your own family tales which have never +been put in writing, and stranger if in your own town and county +there is not some legend which contains within itself romantic charm +enough to justify its telling. + +It is a fascinating as well as a boundless field of writing. In the +first place, it contains all the charm that lies in the old, the +mysterious, the romantic, the sacred, the poetic, the valorous--words +which lure one by their sound as well as by their connotations. Then +there is fascination in the fact that the material lies ready for +your workmanship. If you do not know a tale or a legend which is +connected with your own family or locality, you have only to go upon +a short journey of discovery to find literally hundreds. Perhaps the +richest treasure-house is the various collections of the Miracles of +Our Lady, those current legends of the Middle Ages which centered +about the Virgin Mary and from which Anatole France drew his _Juggler +to Our Lady_, or the many volumes which tell briefly the lives of the +saints. If those do not appeal to you, however, there are scores of +marvelous tales and legends of various peoples--Turkish, Egyptian, +Indian, Russian, Norse. Lastly, and most important of all, there is +fascination in the methods employed in the writing of these tales and +legends, in the various ways by which you may gain pictorial charm +and artistic effects. + +From a careful study of the models given in the pages that follow you +will note certain outstanding characteristics for which you should +strive in your own work: + + 1. A tendency to plunge at once into the story. + + There is no expository material and singularly little introduction + in the models given. Instead, you are taken into the situation + almost with the first sentence: “Once, when Jesus was only five + years old, he sat on the doorstep outside his father’s workshop, + in Nazareth, and made clay cuckoos from a lump of clay which the + potter across the way had given him.” “In the time of King Louis, + there lived in France a poor juggler, native of Compiègne, named + Barnabas, who went among the villagers doing feats of strength and + skill.” + + 2. A clear and, for the most part, simple narrative style, which + proceeds directly to the one major incident to be related and + allows few digressions. + + 3. An emphasis on the concrete. + + This is well illustrated in _The Legend of the Christmas Rose_ in + the minute details which describe the awakening of the forest; in + the description from _The Song of the Minister_ of the wondrous _Te + Deum_ sung by the stone images in the cathedral; and in the “six + copper balls” and the “twelve knives” of Barnabas, the juggler. + + 4. The use of figures. + + The clay cuckoos of Jesus in Miss Lagerlöf’s _In Nazareth_ are “as + smooth and even as the oak leaves in the forests on Mt. Tabor”; in + Göinge forest “the leaves dropped from the trees, rustling like + rain.” + + 5. A delight in color and in the sound of unusual proper names. + + This two-fold feature is apparent in all the selections. + + M. E. C. + + + IN NAZARETH + + SELMA LAGERLÖF + +Once, when Jesus was only five years old, he sat on the doorstep +outside his father’s workshop, in Nazareth, and made clay cuckoos +from a lump of clay which the potter across the way had given him. +He was happier than usual. All the children in the quarter had told +Jesus that the potter was a disobliging man, who wouldn’t let himself +be coaxed, either by soft glances or honeyed words, and he had never +dared ask aught of him. But, you see, he hardly knew how it had come +about. He had only stood on his doorstep and, with yearning eyes, +looked upon the neighbor working at his molds, and then that neighbor +had come over from his stall and given him so much clay that it would +have been enough to finish a whole wine jug. + +On the stoop of the next house sat Judas, his face covered with +bruises and his clothes full of rents, which he had acquired during +his continual fights with street urchins. For the moment he was +quiet, he neither quarreled nor fought, but worked with a bit of +clay, just as Jesus did. But this clay he had not been able to +procure for himself. He hardly dared venture within sight of the +potter, who complained that he was in the habit of throwing stones +at his fragile wares, and would have driven him away with a good +beating. It was Jesus who had divided his portion with him. + +When the two children had finished their clay cuckoos, they stood +the birds up in a ring in front of them. These looked just as clay +cuckoos have always looked. They had big, round lumps to stand on in +place of feet, short tails, no necks, and almost imperceptible wings. + +But, at all events, one saw at once a difference in the work of the +little playmates. Judas’ birds were so crooked that they tumbled over +continually; and no matter how hard he worked with his clumsy little +fingers, he couldn’t get their bodies neat and well formed. Now and +then he glanced slyly at Jesus, to see how he managed to make his +birds as smooth and even as the oak-leaves in the forests on Mount +Tabor. + +As bird after bird was finished, Jesus became happier and happier. +Each looked more beautiful to him than the last, and he regarded them +all with pride and affection. They were to be his playmates, his +little brothers; they should sleep in his bed, keep him company, and +sing to him when his mother left him. Never before had he thought +himself so rich; never again could he feel alone or forsaken. + +The big, brawny water-carrier came walking along, and right after him +came the huckster, who sat joggingly on his donkey between the large +empty willow baskets. The water-carrier laid his hand on Jesus’ curly +head and asked him about his birds; and Jesus told him that they had +names and that they could sing. All the little birds were come to him +from foreign lands, and told him things which only he and they knew. +And Jesus spoke in such a way that both the water-carrier and the +huckster forgot about their tasks for a full hour, to listen to him. + +But when they wished to go farther, Jesus pointed to Judas. “See what +pretty birds Judas makes!” he said. + +Then the huckster good-naturedly stopped his donkey and asked Judas +if his birds also had names and could sing. But Judas knew nothing of +this. He was stubbornly silent and did not raise his eyes from his +work, and the huckster angrily kicked one of his birds and rode on. + +In this manner the afternoon passed, and the sun sank so far down +that its beams could come in through the low city gate, which stood +at the end of the street and was decorated with a Roman Eagle. +This sunshine, which came at the close of the day, was perfectly +rose-red--as if it had become mixed with blood--and it colored +everything which came in its path, as it filtered through the narrow +street. It painted the potter’s vessels as well as the log which +creaked under the woodman’s saw, and the white veil that covered +Mary’s face. + +But the loveliest of all was the sun’s reflection as it shone on the +little water-puddles which had gathered in the big, uneven cracks +in the stones that covered the street. Suddenly Jesus stuck his hand +in the puddle nearest him. He had conceived the idea that he would +paint his gray birds with the sparkling sunbeams which had given such +pretty color to the water, the house-walls, and everything around him. + +The sunshine took pleasure in letting itself be captured by him, +like paint in a paint pot; and when Jesus spread it over the little +clay birds, it lay still and bedecked them from head to foot with a +diamond-like luster. + +Judas, who every now and then looked at Jesus to see if he made more +and prettier birds than his, gave a shriek of delight when he saw how +Jesus painted his clay cuckoos with the sunshine, which he caught +from the water pools. Judas also dipped his hand in the shining water +and tried to catch the sunshine. + +But the sunshine wouldn’t be caught by him. It slipped through his +fingers; and no matter how fast he tried to move his hands to get +hold of it, it got away, and he couldn’t procure a pinch of color for +his poor birds. + +“Wait, Judas!” cried Jesus. “I’ll come and paint your birds.” + +“No, you shan’t touch them!” cried Judas. “They’re good enough as +they are.” + +He rose, his eyebrows contracted into an ugly frown, his lips +compressed. And he put his broad foot on the birds and transformed +them, one after another, into little flat pieces of clay. + +When all his birds were destroyed, he walked over to Jesus, who sat +and caressed his birds--that glittered like jewels. Judas regarded +them for a moment in silence, then he raised his foot and crushed one +of them. + +When Judas took his foot away and saw the entire little bird changed +into a cake of clay, he felt so relieved that he began to laugh, and +raised his foot to crush another. + +“Judas,” said Jesus, “what are you doing? Don’t you see that they are +alive and can sing?” + +But Judas laughed and crushed still another bird. + +Jesus looked around for help. Judas was heavily built and Jesus had +not the strength to hold him back. He glanced around for his mother. +She was not far away, but before she could have gone there, Judas +would have had ample time to destroy the birds. The tears sprang to +Jesus’ eyes. Judas had already crushed four of his birds. There were +only three left. + +He was annoyed with his birds, who stood so calmly and let themselves +be trampled upon without paying the slightest attention to the +danger. Jesus clapped his hands to awaken them; then he shouted: +“Fly, fly!” + +Then the three birds began to move their tiny wings, and, fluttering +anxiously, they succeeded in swinging themselves up to the eaves of +the house, where they were safe. + +But when Judas saw that the birds took to their wings and flew at +Jesus’ command, he began to weep. He tore his hair, as he had seen +his elders do when they were in great trouble, and he threw himself +at Jesus’ feet. + +Judas lay there and rolled in the dust before Jesus like a dog, and +kissed his feet and begged that he would raise his foot and crush +him, as he had done with the clay cuckoos. For Judas loved Jesus and +admired and worshiped him, and at the same time hated him. + +Mary, who sat all the while and watched the children’s play, came up +and lifted Judas in her arms and seated him on her lap, and caressed +him. + +“You poor child!” she said to him, “you do not know that you have +attempted something which no mortal can accomplish. Don’t engage +in anything of this kind again, if you do not wish to become the +unhappiest of mortals! What would happen to any one of us who +undertook to compete with one who paints with sunbeams and blows the +breath of life into dead clay?” + + Selma Lagerlöf, _Christ Legends_. By permission + of the publishers, Henry Holt and Company. + + + THE SONG OF THE MINSTER + + WILLIAM CANTON + + +When John of Fulda became Prior of Hethholme, says the old +chronicle, he brought with him to the Abbey many rare and costly +books--beautiful illuminated missals and psalters and portions of +the Old and New Testament. And he presented rich vestments to the +Minster; albs of fine linen, and copes embroidered with flowers of +gold. In the west front he built two great arched windows filled with +marvellous storied glass. The shrine of St. Egwin he repaired at vast +outlay, adorning it with garlands in gold and silver, but the colour +of the flowers was in coloured gems, and in like fashion the little +birds in the nooks of the foliage. Stalls and benches of carved oak +he placed in the choir; and many other noble works he had wrought in +his zeal for the glory of God’s house. + +In all the western land was there no more fair or stately Minster +than this of the Black Monks, with the peaceful township on one side, +and on the other the sweet meadows and the acres of wheat and barley +sloping down to the slow river, and beyond the river the clearings in +the ancient forest. + +But Thomas the Sub-prior was grieved and troubled in his mind by the +richness and the beauty of all he saw about him, and by the Prior’s +eagerness to be ever adding some new work in stone, or oak, or metal, +or jewels. + +“Surely,” he said to himself, “these things are unprofitable--less +to the honour of God than to the pleasure of the eye and the pride +of life and the luxury of our house! Had so much treasure not been +wasted on these vanities of bright colour and carved stone, our dole +to the poor of Christ might have been fourfold, and they filled with +good things. But now let our almoner do what best he may, I doubt not +many a leper sleeps cold, and many a poor man goes lean with hunger.” + +This the Sub-prior said, not because his heart was quick with +fellowship for the poor, but because he was of a narrow and gloomy +and grudging nature, and he could conceive of no true service of God +which was not one of fasting and praying, of fear and trembling, of +joylessness and mortification. + +Now you must know that the greatest of the monks and the hermits and +the holy men were not of this kind. In their love of God they were +blithe of heart, and filled with a rare sweetness and tranquillity of +soul, and they looked on the goodly earth with deep joy, and they had +a tender care for the wild creatures of wood and water. But Thomas +had yet much to learn of the beauty of holiness. + +Often in the bleak dark hours of the night he would leave his cell +and steal into the Minster, to fling himself on the cold stones +before the high altar; and there he would remain, shivering and +praying, till his strength failed him. + +It happened one winter night, when the thoughts I have spoken of +had grown very bitter in his mind, Thomas guided his steps by the +glimmer of the sanctuary lamp to his accustomed place in the choir. +Falling on his knees, he laid himself on his face with the palms of +his outstretched hands flat on the icy pavement. And as he lay there, +taking a cruel joy in the freezing cold and the torture of his body, +he became gradually aware of a sound of far-away yet most heavenly +music. + +He raised himself to his knees to listen, and to his amazement he +perceived that the whole Minster was pervaded by a faint, mysterious +light, which was every instant growing brighter and clearer. And as +the light increased the music grew louder and sweeter, and he knew +that it was within the sacred walls. But it was no mortal minstrelsy. + +The strains he heard were the minglings of angelic instruments, +and the cadences of voices of unearthly loveliness. They seemed to +proceed from the choir about him, and from the nave and transept +and aisles; from the pictured windows and from the clerestory and +from the vaulted roofs. Under his knees he felt that the crypt was +throbbing and droning like a huge organ. + +Sometimes the song came from one part of the Minster, and then all +the rest of the vast building was silent; then the music was taken +up, as it were in response, in another part; and yet again voices and +instruments would blend in one indescribable volume of harmony, which +made the huge pile thrill and vibrate from roof to pavement. + +As Thomas listened, his eyes became accustomed to the celestial light +which encompassed him, and he saw--he could scarce credit his senses +that he saw--the little carved angels of the oak stalls in the choir +clashing their cymbals and playing their psalteries. + +He rose to his feet, bewildered and half terrified. At that moment +the mighty roll of unison ceased, and from many parts of the church +there came a concord of clear high voices, like a warbling of silver +trumpets, and Thomas heard the words they sang. And the words were +these---- + + _Tibi omnes Angeli._ + To Thee all Angels cry aloud. + +So close to him were two of these voices that Thomas +looked up to the spandrels in the choir, and he saw that it was the +carved angels leaning out of the spandrels that were singing. And as +they sang the breath came from their stone lips white and vaporous in +the frosty air. + +He trembled with awe and astonishment, but the wonder of what was +happening drew him towards the altar. The beautiful tabernacle work +of the altar screen contained a double range of niches filled with +the statues of saints and kings; and these, he saw, were singing. He +passed slowly onward with his arms outstretched, like a blind man who +does not know the way he is treading. + +The figures on the painted glass of the lancets were singing. + +The winged heads of the baby angels over the marble memorial slabs +were singing. + +The lions and griffons and mythical beasts of the finials were +singing. + +The effigies of dead abbots and priors were singing on their tombs in +bay and chantry. + +The figures in the frescoes on the walls were singing. + +On the painted ceiling westward of the tower the verses of the Te +Deum, inscribed in letters of gold above the shields of kings and +princes and barons, were visible in the divine light, and the very +words of these verses were singing, like living things. + +And the breath of all these as they sang turned to a smoke as of +incense in the wintry air, and floated about the high pillars of the +Minster. + +Suddenly the music ceased, all save the deep organ-drone. + +Then Thomas heard the marvellous antiphon repeated in the bitter +darkness outside; and that music, he knew, must be the response +of the galleries of stone kings and queens, of abbots and virgin +martyrs, over the western portals, and of the monstrous gargoyles +along the eaves. + +When the music ceased in the outer darkness, it was taken up again in +the interior of the Minster. + +At last there came one stupendous united cry of all the singers, and +in that cry even the organ-drone of the crypt, and the clamour of the +brute stones of pavement and pillar, of wall and roof, broke into +words articulate. And the words were these: + + _Per singulos dies, benedicimus Te._ + Day by day: we magnify Thee, + And we worship Thy name: ever world without end. + +As the wind of the summer changes into the sorrowful wail of the +yellowing woods, so the strains of joyous worship changed into a wail +of supplication; and as he caught the words, Thomas too raised his +voice in wild entreaty: + + _Miserere nostri, Domine, miserere nostri._ + O Lord, have mercy upon us: have mercy upon us. + +And then his senses failed him, and he sank to the +ground in a long swoon. + +When he came to himself all was still, and all was dark save for the +little yellow flower of light in the sanctuary lamp. + +As he crept back to his cell, he saw with unsealed eyes how +churlishly he had grudged God the glory of man’s genius and the +service of His dumb creatures, the metal of the hills, and the stone +of the quarry, and the timber of the forest; for now he knew that at +all seasons, and whether men heard the music or not, the ear of God +was filled by day and by night with an everlasting song from each +stone of the vast Minster: + + We magnify Thee, + And we worship Thy name: ever world without end. + + By permission, from William Canton, _A Child’s + Book of Saints_. Copyright by E. P. Dutton & + Company. + + + JUGGLER TO OUR-LADY + + ANATOLE FRANCE + + + I + +In the time of King Louis, there lived in France a poor juggler, +native of Compiègne, named Barnabas, who went among the villages +doing feats of strength and skill. On market days he would spread out +on the public square an old carpet very much worn, and, after having +attracted the children and the gazing bumpkins by some suitable +pleasantries which he had adopted from an old juggler and which he +never changed at all, he would assume grotesque attitudes and balance +a plate on his nose. + +The crowd at first looked at him with indifference. But when, +standing on his hands with his head downward, he tossed in the air +six copper balls which glittered in the sun, and caught them again +with his feet; or when, by bending backward until his neck touched +his heels, he gave his body the form of a perfect wheel, and in that +posture juggled with twelve knives, a murmur of admiration rose from +the onlookers, and pieces of money rained upon the carpet. + +However, like the majority of those who live by their talents, +Barnabas of Compiègne had much difficulty in living. Earning his +bread by the sweat of his brow, he bore more than his part of the +miseries connected with the fall of Adam, our father. Moreover, he +was unable to work as much as he would have wished. In order to show +off his fine accomplishment, he needed the warmth of the sun and the +light of day, just as do the trees in order to produce their blossoms +and fruits. + +In winter he was nothing more than a tree despoiled of its foliage +and to appearance dead. The frozen earth was hard for the juggler. +And, like the grasshopper of which Marie of France tells, he suffered +from cold and from hunger in the bad season. But, since he possessed +a simple heart, he bore his ills in patience. + +He had never reflected upon the origin of riches, nor upon the +inequality of human conditions. He believed firmly that, if +this world is evil, the other cannot fail to be good, and this +hope sustained him. He did not imitate the thieving mountebanks +and miscreants who have sold their souls to the devil. He never +blasphemed the name of God; he lived honestly, and, although he had +no wife, he did not covet his neighbor’s, for woman is the enemy of +strong men, as appears from the history of Samson, which is reported +in the Scriptures. + +In truth, he had not a spirit which turned to carnal desires, and it +would have cost him more to renounce the jugs than the women. For, +although without failing in sobriety, he loved to drink when it was +warm. He was a good man, fearing God and very devout toward the Holy +Virgin. He never failed, when he entered a church, to kneel before +the image of the Mother of God and address to her this prayer: + +“Madame, take care of my life until it may please God that I die, and +when I am dead, cause me to have the joys of paradise.” + + + II + +Well, then, on a certain evening after a day of rain, while he was +walking, sad and bent, carrying under his arm his balls and knives +wrapped up in his old carpet, and seeking for some barn in which +he might lie down supperless, he saw on the road a monk who was +travelling the same way, and saluted him decorously. As they were +walking at an equal pace, they began to exchange remarks. + +“Comrade,” said the monk, “how comes it that you are habited all in +green? Is it not for the purpose of taking the character of a fool in +some mystery-play?” + +“Not for that purpose, father,” responded Barnabas. “Such as you see +me, I am named Barnabas, and I am by calling a juggler. It would be +the most beautiful occupation in the world if one could eat every +day.” + +“Friend Barnabas,” replied the monk, “take care what you say. There +is no more beautiful calling than the monastic state. Therein one +celebrates the praises of God, the Virgin, and the saints, and the +life of a monk is a perpetual canticle to the Lord.” + +Barnabas answered: + +“Father, I confess that I have spoken like an ignoramus. Your calling +may not be compared with mine, and, although there is some merit in +dancing while holding on the tip of the nose a coin balanced on a +stick, this merit does not approach yours. I should like very well +to sing every day, as you do, Father, the office of the most Holy +Virgin, to whom I have vowed a particular devotion. I would right +willingly renounce my calling, in which I am known from Soissons to +Beauvais, in more than six hundred towns and villages, in order to +embrace the monastic life.” + +The monk was touched by the simplicity of the juggler, and, as he +did not lack discernment, he recognized in Barnabas one of those men +of good purpose whereof our Lord said: “Let peace abide with them on +earth!” This is why he replied to him: + +“Friend Barnabas, come with me, and I will enable you to enter the +monastery of which I am the prior. He who conducted Mary the Egyptian +through the desert has placed me on your path to lead you in the way +of salvation.” + +This is how Barnabas became a monk. + +In the monastery where he was received, the brethren emulously +solemnized the cult of the Holy Virgin, and each one employed in her +service all the knowledge and all the ability which God had given him. + +The prior, for his part, composed books which, according to the rules +of scholasticism, treated of the virtues of the Mother of God. + +Friar Maurice with a learned hand copied these dissertations on +leaves of vellum. + +Friar Alexander painted fine miniatures, wherein one could see the +Queen of Heaven seated upon the throne of Solomon, at the foot of +which four lions kept vigil. Around her haloed head fluttered seven +doves, which are the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit: gifts of fear, +piety, science, might, counsel, intelligence, and wisdom. She had for +companions six golden-haired Virgins: Humility, Prudence, Retirement, +Respect, Virginity, and Obedience. At her feet two small figures, +nude and quite white, were standing in a suppliant attitude. They +were souls who implored her all-powerful intercession for their +salvation--and certainly not in vain. + +On another page Friar Alexander represented Eve gazing upon Mary, so +that thus one might see at the same time the sin and the redemption, +the woman humiliated and the Virgin exalted. Furthermore, in this +book one might admire the Well of Living Waters, the Fountain, the +Lily, the Moon, the Sun, and the closed Garden which is spoken of in +the Canticle, the Gate of Heaven and the Seat of God, and there were +also several images of the Virgin. + +Friar Marbode was, similarly, one of the most affectionate children +of Mary. He carved images in stone without ceasing, so that his +beard, his eyebrows, and his hair were white with dust, and his eyes +were perpetually swollen and tearful; but he was full of strength +and joy in his advanced age, and, visibly, the Queen of Paradise +protected the old age of her child. Marbode represented her seated on +a bishop’s throne, her brow encircled by a nimbus whose orb was of +pearls, and he took pains that the folds of her robe should cover the +feet of one of whom the prophet said: “My beloved is like a closed +garden.” + +At times, also, he gave her the features of a child full of grace, +and she seemed to say: “Lord, thou art my Lord!”--“Dixi de ventre +matris meae: Deus meus es tu.” (Psalm 21, II.) + +They had also in the monastery several poets, who composed, in Latin, +both prose and hymns in honor of the most happy Virgin Mary, and +there was even found one Picardian who set forth the miracles of Our +Lady in ordinary language and in rhymed verses. + + + III + +Seeing such a concourse of praises and such a beautiful in-gathering +of works, Barnabas lamented to himself his ignorance and his +simplicity. + +“Alas!” he sighed as he walked along in the little garden of the +convent, “I am very unfortunate not to be able, like my brothers, to +praise worthily the Holy Mother of God to whom I have pledged the +tenderness of my heart. Alas! Alas! I am a rude and artless man, +and I have for your service, Madam the Virgin, neither edifying +sermons, nor tracts properly divided according to the rules, nor fine +paintings, nor statues exactly sculptured, nor verses counted by feet +and marching in measure. I have nothing, alas!” + +He moaned in this manner and abandoned himself to sadness. + +One night that the monks were recreating by conversing, he heard +one of them relate the history of a religious who did not know how +to recite anything but the _Ave Maria_. This monk was disdained for +his ignorance; but, having died, there came forth from his lips five +roses in honor of the five letters in the name of _Maria_, and his +sanctity was thus manifested. + +While listening to this recital Barnabas admired once again the +bounty of the Virgin; but he was not consoled by the example of that +happy death, for his heart was full of zeal, and he desired to serve +the glory of his Lady who was in Heaven. He sought the means without +being able to find them, and every day he grieved the more. + +One morning, however, having awakened full of joy, he ran to the +chapel and stayed there alone for more than an hour. He returned +there after dinner. And beginning from that moment he went every day +into the chapel at the hour when it was deserted, and there he passed +a large part of the time which the other monks consecrated to the +liberal and the mechanical arts. No more was he sad and no longer did +he complain. + +A conduct so singular aroused the curiosity of the monks. They asked +themselves in the community why Friar Barnabas made his retreats so +frequent. + +The Prior, whose duty it is to ignore nothing in the conduct of his +monks, resolved to observe Barnabas during his solitudes. One day +that he was closeted in the chapel as his custom was, Dom Prior went, +accompanied by two elders of the monastery, to observe through the +windows of the door what was going on in the interior. + +They saw Barnabas, who--before the altar of the Holy Virgin, head +downward, feet in air--was juggling with six brass balls and twelve +knives. He was doing in honor of the Holy Mother of God the feats +which had brought to him the most applause. Not comprehending that +this simple man was thus placing his talent and his knowledge at the +service of the Holy Virgin, the two elders cried out at the sacrilege. + +The Prior understood that Barnabas had an innocent heart; but he +thought that he had fallen into dementia. All three were preparing +to drag him vigorously from the chapel when they saw the Holy Virgin +descend the steps of the altar in order to wipe with a fold of her +blue mantle the sweat which burst from the brow of her juggler. + +Then the Prior, prostrating his face against the marble slabs, +recited these words: + +“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God!” + +“Amen,” responded the elders as they kissed the earth. + + Anatole France. From J. Berg Esenwein, + _Short-Story Masterpieces_ (Volume II--French.) + By permission of Mr. Esenwein, the translator. + Copyright. + + + PAUL BUNYON + + JAMES STEVENS + +Paul Bunyon was the one historian of the useful and the beautiful; +other writers of history tell only of terrible and dramatic events. +Therefore the chronicles of Paul Bunyon, the mighty logger, the +inventor of the lumber industry, the leader-hero of the best band +of bullies, the finest bunch of savages, that ever tramped the +continent, the master orator of a land that has since grown forests +of orators--his chronicles alone tell of the Winter of the Blue Snow. + +The blue snow fell first in the north. It fell scantily in its +earlier hours, its sapphire flakes floating down on the waves of a +mild winter wind, and glittering in an ashen gold light, a sober +pale radiance which shimmered through silver mists. There was poetry +in the spectacle of these hours. And then the hard gray ground of +a peopleless land was hidden under a blanket of dark blue. And the +nameless frozen lakes and rivers, the silent valleys and the windy +hills of the country were all spread over with a sky-dyed snow. When +the last light of this day went out, the boughs of the great pines +were creaking under heavy wet masses of snow like torn bales of blue +cotton. There was a rush in the snowfall now, as a fiercer wind +whipped it on; its heavy flakes were driven down in thick, whirling +clusters, in streaming veils, leaping lines and dashing columns; and +there were cloudlike swarms of the blue flakes, which settled slowly, +floating easily in the hard wind. This wind got so strong that it +shivered the timber, and the piles of blue snow which had gathered on +the pine boughs were shaken down. Most of this snow fell into blue +mounds around the trees, but some of it fell on the fauna of the +forest, adding to their troublement. + +At the time of the Winter of the Blue Snow, the forest creatures of +this land lived a free and easy life. Man was not there to embarrass +them with accusations of trespass and to slay them for their +ignorance of the crime. Their main problem was the overcrowding of +the forests. The vast moose herds, who populated the woods so densely +that traffic through their favorite timber was dangerous, made the +matter of getting food a simple one for the carnivorous animals. +There were many moose to spare, and the elders of the herds, like +most prolific parents, never became frantically resentful over the +loss of an offspring. The moose themselves, of course, lived easily +on the crisp, juicy moose grass which grew so plenteously in these +regions before the blue snow. So the carnivorous creatures of the +forests lived a fast and furious life; and it is certain that if +they were capable of praise, they had good praises for the moose +meat which they got with such little difficulty. The coal-black +bruins of the North were an especially happy crowd. Theirs was a gay, +frolicsome life in the summer time, when the big bruins danced and +galloped through sunny valleys and the small ones had rolling races +on shady hillsides. In the fall, all fat and drowsy from moose meat, +the bruins would go to sleep in their warm caves and dream pleasantly +all winter. + +They were all dreaming now; and the blue snow would no doubt have +fallen and melted away without their knowledge had it not been for +the moose herds which crowded the forest aisles. Moose at that time +did not have it in them to enjoy wonder, and they had not learned +to combat fear, for they were never afraid. Still, they had some +imagination, and the moose trembled when the first blue snowflakes +fell among them. They kept up an appearance of unconcern at first, +eating moose moss as usual; but they sniffed gingerly at the blue +streaks in it, and they stole furtive glances at each other as they +bravely ate. This strange snowfall was certainly breeding fear of it +in the hearts of all the moose, but each one seemed determined to be +the last one to show it. However, as the day-end got near, and the +wind grew more boisterous, shaking snow masses from the trees, some +of the moose had fits of trembling and eye-rolling which they could +not conceal. When a heap of snow dropped on the back of some timid +moose, he would twist his head sharply and stare with bulging eyes at +the mysteriously fearsome color, then he would prance wildly until +the unwelcome snow was bucked from his shivering back. When the early +shadows of evening came among the trees, the moose all had a heavy +darkness of fear in their hearts. Little was needed to put them in a +panic. + +It was a great bull moose, a herd king, who forgot the example he +owed to his weaker kindred and unloosed a thunderous bellow of terror +which started the moose flight, the first memorable incident of the +Winter of the Blue Snow. An overladen bough cracked above him; it +fell and straddled him from quivering tail to flailing horns, burying +him under its wet blue load. He reared out roaring, and his own +herd echoed the cry; then a storm of moose bellows crashed through +the forest. This tumult died, but there followed the earth-shaking +thunder of a stampede. + +The bruins, awakened from their pleasant dreams, came out from +their caves and blinked at the hosts of terrified moose which were +galloping past. The earth-shaking uproar of the flight at last +thoroughly aroused the bruins, and they began to sniff the air +uneasily. Then they noticed the blue snow; and now in front of every +cave crowds of bruins were staring down at the snow, and each bruin +was swaying heavily, lifting his left front foot as he swayed to the +right, and lifting his right front foot as he swayed to the left. +The bruins had no courage either, and, once they had got sleep out +of their heads, nearly all of them took out after the moose herds. +The wind roared louder with every passing minute this night. And the +flakes of the blue snow were as dense as the particles of a fog. At +dawn a blue blizzard was raging. But the fauna of the forest plunged +tirelessly on, seeking a refuge of white snow. + +And Niagara, made faithless by the Blue Terror, galloped behind +them--Niagara, the great moose hound, bread-winner for the student of +history, Paul Bunyon (his real name), and his companion also. + +Paul Bunyon lived at Tonnere Bay. He dwelt in a cave that was as +large as ten Mammoth Caves and which had a roof loftier than any +tower or spire. But this cave was none too vast for Paul Bunyon, the +one man of this region, but one man as great as a city of ordinary +men. His tarpaulins and blankets covered one-fourth of the cave +floor; his hunting clothes, traps and seines filled another quarter; +and the rest of the space was occupied by a fireplace and his papers +and books. + +For Paul Bunyon was a student now. There had been a time when he had +gone forth in the hunting and fishing season to gather the huge +supplies of provender which he required, but now his days and nights +were all spent with his books. Paul Bunyon’s favorite food was raw +moose meat, and after he found Niagara in the Tall Wolf country he +no longer needed to hunt. Each night Niagara trotted out in the +darkness and satisfied his own hunger, then he carried mouthfuls of +moose to the cave until he had a day’s supply of meat for his master. +Niagara was ever careful not to frighten the moose herds; he hunted +stealthily and with quiet. The moose at night were only conscious +of a dark cloud looming over them, then numbers of the herds would +disappear, without painful sound. The moose, if they had thought +about it, would have been only thankful to Niagara for lessening the +congestion of the forests. + +So Paul Bunyon fared well on the moose meat which Niagara brought +him, and he lived contentedly as a student in his cave at Tonnere +Bay. Each day he studied, and far into the night he figured. Taking +a trimmed pine tree for a pencil, he would char its end in the fire +and use the cave floor for a slate. He was not long in learning all +the history worth knowing, and he became as good a figure as any man +could be. + +Vague ambitions began to stir in his soul after this and he often +deserted his studies to dream about them. He knew he would not spend +his days forever in the cave at Tonnere Bay. Somewhere in the future +a great Work was waiting to be done by him. Now it was only a dream; +but he was sure that it would be a reality; and he came to think more +and more about it. The books were opened less and less; the pine +tree pencil was seldom brought from its corner. Paul Bunyon now used +another pine tree which still had its boughs; it was a young one, and +he brushed his curly black beard with it as he dreamed. But he was +still a contented man at the time of the Winter of the Blue Snow, +for his dreams had not yet blazed up in a desire for any certain +attainment. + +On the first day of the blue snow, Paul Bunyon was in a particularly +contented mood. He sat all that day before his fire; so charmed with +drowsy thoughts was he that he did not once look out. It had been +dark a long time before he rolled into his blankets. He awoke at the +dawn of a day that had scarcely more light than the night. He was +cold, and he got up to throw an armful of trees on the fire. Then he +saw the blue drifts which had piled up before the cave, and he saw +the fog of the blue blizzard. He heard the roar of a terrific wind, +too, and he knew that the storm was perilous as well as strange. But +Paul Bunyon thought gladly of the blue snow, for it was a beautiful +event, and the historians he liked most would write wonderful books +about it. + +He kicked the drifts away from the cave entrance, but the usual +pile of slain moose was not under them. Paul Bunyon was a little +worried, as he thought that Niagara might have lost himself in the +blue blizzard. The possibility that the unnatural color of the storm +might send the fauna of the forest, and Niagara as well, into panicky +flight did not occur to him. He was sure that Niagara would return +with a grand supply of moose meat when the blue blizzard had passed. + +But the moose herds were now far to the North, fleeing blindly from +the blue snow. The bruins galloped after them. Before the day was +over, Niagara had overtaken the bruins and was gaining on the moose. +At nightfall his lunging strides had carried him far ahead of all +the fauna of the forest. He galloped yet faster as he reached the +blacker darkness of the Arctic winter. Now the darkness was so heavy +that even his powerful eyes could not see in it ... Niagara at last +ran head-on into the North pole; the terrific speed at which he was +traveling threw his body whirling high in the air; when Niagara fell +he crashed through ninety feet of ice, and the polar fields cracked +explosively as his struggles convulsed the waters under them.... Then +only mournful blasts of wind sounded in the night of the Farthest +North. + +The moose were wearied out before they reached the white Arctic, and +hordes of them fell and perished in the blizzard; many others died +from fright, and only a tiny remnant of the great herds survived. +Some of the bruins reached the polar fields, and they have lived +there since. Their hair had turned white from fright, and their +descendants still wear that mark of fear. Others were not frightened +so much, and their hair only turned gray. They did not run out of the +timber, and their descendants, the silver-tip grizzlies, still live +in the Northern woods. The baby bruins were only scared out of their +growth, and their black descendants now grow no larger than the cubs +of Paul Bunyon’s time. + +Being ignorant of this disaster, Paul Bunyon was comfortable enough +while the blizzard lasted. He had a good store of trees on hand and +his cave was warm in the storm. He got hungry in the last days; but +this emotion, or any emotion, for that matter, could have but little +power over him when he was dreaming. And he dreamed deeply now of +great enterprises; his dreams were formless without any substance +of reality; but they had brilliant colors, and they made him very +hopeful. + +The sun shone at last from a whitish blue sky, and the strange snow +fell no more. A snapping cold was in the land; and pine boughs were +bangled and brocaded with glittering blue crystals, and crusty blue +snow crackled underfoot. + +Paul Bunyon strapped on his snow shoes and started out through the +Border forests in search of Niagara. His was a kingly figure as he +mushed through the pine trees, looming above all but the very tallest +of them. He wore a wine-red hunting cap, and his glossy hair and +beard shone under it with a blackness that blended with the cap’s +color perfectly. His unique eyebrows were black also; covering a +fourth of his forehead above the eyes, they narrowed where they +arched down under his temples, and they ended in thin curls just +in front of his ears. His mustache had natural twirls and he never +disturbed it. He wore a yellow muffler this morning under his virile +curly beard. His mackinaw coat was of huge orange and purple checks. +His mackinaw pants were sober-seeming, having tan and light gray +checks, but some small crimson dots and crosses brightened them. +Green wool socks showed above his black boots, which had buckskin +laces and big brass eyelets and hooks. And he wore striped mittens of +white and plum color. Paul Bunyon was a gorgeous picture this morning +in the frozen fields and forests, all covered with blue snow which +sparkled in a pale gold light. + +That day and the next, and for five more days, he searched in vain +for Niagara; and neither did he see any moose herds in the woods. +Only the frost crackles broke the silences of the deserted blue +forests. And at last Paul Bunyon returned to his cave, feeling +depressed and lonely. He had not thought that the companionship of +Niagara could mean so much to him. In his mood of depression he +forgot his hunger and made no further effort to find food. + +Lonely Paul Bunyon lay sleepless in his blankets this night, his +eyes gleaming through hedgelike eye-lashes as their gaze restlessly +followed the red flares that shot from the fire and streaked the +walls and roof of the cave. He did not realize that his first +creative idea was now struggling for birth. He could yet feel no +shape of it. He was only conscious of an unaccustomed turmoil of +mind. Wearied with fruitless thought, he at last fell into a doze. +But Paul Bunyon was not fated to sleep this night. A sustained +crashing roar, as of the splintering of millions of timbers, brought +him up suddenly; it was hushed for a short second; then a thudding +boom sounded from Tonnere Bay. Paul Bunyon leaped to the cave door, +and in the moonlight he saw a white wave of water rolling over the +blue beach. It came near to the cave before it stopped and receded. +He pulled on his boots, and two strides brought him down to the bay. +It had been covered with ice seven feet thick, and the cakes of this +broken ice were now tossing on heaving waters. Now Paul Bunyon saw +two ears show sometimes above the billows; they were of the shape of +moose ears, but enormous as his two forefingers. Paul Bunyon waded +out into the waters, and he reached these ears a mile from shore. He +seized them without fear and he lifted ... now a head with closed +eyes appeared ... shoulders and forelegs ... body and hips ... rear +legs and curled tail. It was a calf, newborn apparently, though it +was of such a size that Paul Bunyon had to use both arms to carry it. + +“_Nom d’un nom!_” exclaimed Paul Bunyon. “_Pauvre petite bleue bête!_” + +For this great baby calf was of a bright blue hue which was neither +darker nor lighter than the color of the beautiful strange snow. A +blue baby ox calf. For such was its sex. Its ears drooped pitifully, +and its scrawny, big-jointed legs hung limply below Paul Bunyon’s +arms. A spasmodic shiver ran from its head to its tail, and its +savior was glad to feel this shiver, for it showed that life +remained. Paul Bunyon was touched with a tenderness that drove out +his loneliness. “_Ma bête_,” he said. “_Mon cher bleu bébé ausha._” + +He turned back through the waters, and the ice cakes pounded each +other into bits as they rolled together in his wake. In thirty +seconds Paul Bunyon was back in his cave. He spread out his blankets +in front of the fire, and he laid Bébé upon them. + +Through the night Paul Bunyon worked over the blue ox calf, nursing +him back to warm life; and in the morning Bébé was breathing +regularly and seemed to rest. Paul Bunyon leaned over to hear his +exhalations, and the blue ox calf suddenly opened his mouth and +caressed Paul Bunyon’s neck with his tongue. Paul Bunyon then +discovered that he was ticklish in this region, for the caress +impelled him to roll and laugh. The serious student Paul Bunyon had +never laughed before; and he now enjoyed the new pleasure to the +utmost. + +“_Eh, Bébé!_” he chuckled. “_Eh, Bébé! Sacre blue! Bon blue, mon +cher!_” Bébé raised his eyelids with astonishment upon hearing this +cave-shaking chuckle, revealing large, bulging orbs which were of +even a heavenlier blue than his silken hair. Such affection and +intelligence shone in his eyes that Paul Bunyon wished he would keep +his eyes opened. But Bébé was weary and weak, and he closed them +again. + +He is hungry, thought Paul Bunyon; and he went out to find him +food. None of the animals he knew about could supply milk for such +a calf as this blue Bébé. But he was newborn and his parents should +be somewhere in the neighborhood. Paul Bunyon stepped up on the +cliff over which Bébé had bounced when he fell into Tonnere Bay. +From here a wide swath of smashed timber ran straight up the side of +the tallest Northern mountain. It was here that Bébé had made his +thunderous roll of the night before. + +Six strides brought Paul Bunyon to the mountaintop. One of its jagged +peaks was broken off, showing where Bébé had stumbled over it and +fallen. Then Paul Bunyon followed the calf tracks down the land side +of the mountain. For two hours he trailed them, but they grew fainter +as he went on, and in the Big Bay country the last fall of the blue +snow had covered them. Paul Bunyon now had no doubt that Bébé’s +mother had been frightened by the strange color of the snow and that +his blueness was a birthmark. Like Niagara and the fauna of the +forest, the parents had stampeded, forgetting the little one. It was +no use to search for them. + +Paul Bunyon circled back through the forest and gathered a great +load of moose moss before he returned to the cave. This rich food +would meet the lack of milk. Bébé was asleep before the fireplace +when Paul Bunyon returned, and he still slumbered while his friend +prepared him some moose moss soup. But when a kettle full of steaming +odorous food was set before him, he opened his eyes with amazing +energy and sat up. It was then that Bébé first showed the depth and +circumference of his natural appetite, an appetite which was to have +its effect on history. He drank most of the moose moss soup at three +gulps, he seized the rim of the kettle in his teeth and tilted it up +until even the last ten gallons were drained out of it; then, looking +roguishly at Paul Bunyon the while, he bit off a large section of the +kettle rim and chewed it down, switching his pretty tail to show his +enjoyment. + +“_Eh, Bébé!_” roared Paul Bunyon, doubling up with laughter for the +second time in his life. And he praised the blue snow for giving +him such a creature, and did not mourn Niagara, who had never been +amusing. But now, as Paul Bunyon doubled over for another rare roar +of laughter, he got one more surprise. He was struck with terrifical +force from the rear and knocked flat. Paul Bunyon hit the cave floor +so hard that its walls were shaken, and a cloud of stones dropped +from the roof, covering him from his hips to his thighs. Paul Bunyon +dug himself out with no displeasure. He was marveling too much to be +wrathful. + +There is strength in this baby animal, he thought; surely he has the +muscle and energy for great deeds; for that was such a tremendous +butting he gave me that I am more comfortable standing than sitting. +So he stood and admired this strong and energetic ox calf, who was +calmly seated on his haunches before the fireplace, now throwing his +head to the right as he licked his right shoulder, now throwing his +head to the left as he licked his left shoulder. While Paul Bunyon +admired, he pondered; then, even as Bébé had given him his first +laugh, the ox calf now showed him the outline of his first real idea. +The thought struck him that his student’s life was finally over; +there was nothing more for him to learn; there was everything for him +to do. The hour for action was at hand. + +Indeed, if he was to keep this blue ox calf, action was truly +necessary. Bébé had shown that his superabundance of vitality made +him dangerous as well as delightful and amusing. This inexhaustible +energy of his must be put to work; this vast store of power in an +oxhide should be developed and harnessed to give reality to some one +of Paul Bunyon’s vague dreams. + +Soon the well-fed blue ox calf lay down and slept contentedly. +But Paul Bunyon did not sleep. One after another, occupations, +enterprises and industries which would be worthy of his knowledge and +his extraordinary mental and physical powers, and which would also +offer labor great enough for Bébé when he was grown, were considered +by Paul Bunyon; but nothing that he thought about satisfied him in +the least. Certainly he would have to invent something new; and as he +thought of invention, his imagination blazed up like a fire in a dry +forest. He was so unused to it that it got out of control, and its +smoky flames hid his idea rather than illuminated it. + +Wearied at last, he lay on his side, for he remembered his bruises, +and he fell into a troubled doze. Now he dreamed and saw great +blazing letters which formed the words REAL AMERICA. He sat up, +and his bruises gave him such sudden pain that the dream vanished +utterly. But he dreamed again before morning. In this second dream +he saw no words, but a forest. A flame like a scythe blade sheared +through the trees and they fell. Then Paul Bunyon saw in his dream a +forest of stumps, and trees were fallen among them. + +For many days Paul Bunyon thought about these dreams as he gathered +moose moss for Bébé and seined fish from the bay for himself. And for +many nights he tried to dream again, but his sleep was the untroubled +sleep of the weary. + +Bébé grew wonderfully as the weeks went by, and the moose moss made +him saucy as well as fat. His bulging blue eyes got a jovial look +that was never to leave them. His bellow already had bass tones +in it. He would paw and snort and lift his tail as vigorously as +any ordinary ox ten times his age. His chest deepened, his back +widened, muscle-masses began to swell and quiver under the fat of his +shoulders and haunches. The drifts of the beautiful unnatural snow +melted away in streams of blue water, and the marvelous color of this +historical winter vanished, but the glittering blue of Bébé’s silken +hair remained. His tail brush was of a darker blue; it looked like a +heavily foliaged cypress bough in purple twilight; and Bébé was proud +of this wonderful tail brush that belonged to him, for he would twist +it from behind him and turn his head and stare at it by the hour. + +Now spring came and Paul Bunyon determined to start out with his blue +ox calf and try to find the meanings of his dreams. The bright warm +hours of these days gave him a tormenting physical restlessness; +and his imagination ranged through a thousand lands, playing over a +thousand activities. It was certainly the time to begin a Life Work. + +Each day Paul Bunyon pondered his two dreams without finding +substantial meaning in them. The first one indicated that he should +go to Real America; and this Paul Bunyon finally resolved to do, +hoping that he would discover the Work that was meant for him and +the blue ox calf. He knew that he could not fare worse in that land, +for few of the fauna of his native country had returned with the +spring, and Paul Bunyon could not live well on a fish diet. Bébé’s +growing appetite, too, made some move a necessity, for the blue snow +had killed the moose grass, and moose moss was a dry food without +nourishment in the summer. The more Paul Bunyon thought about Real +America, the better he liked the idea of going there. Moose and +grass, at least, were to be found across the Border. And no doubt +Real America was his Land of Opportunity. + +So one fine day Paul Bunyon and Bébé came down to the Border. The +blue ox calf frolicked with his master and bellowed happily when +he saw the green grass and clover on the hills of Real America. He +was for rushing over at once, but Paul Bunyon, the student, was +not unmindful of his duty to his new country; he would not enter +it without fitting ceremonies and pledges, though Bébé butted him +soundly in resenting the delay. + +Now Paul Bunyon lifted his hands solemnly and spoke in the rightful +language of Real America. + +“In becoming a Real American, I become Paul _Bunyan_,” he declared. +“I am Paul _Bunyon_ no more. Even so shall my blue ox calf be called +Babe, and Bébé no longer. We are now Real Americans both, hearts, +souls and hides.” + +After uttering these words with feeling and solemnity, an emotion +more expansive, more uplifting and more inspiring than any he had +ever known possessed Paul Bunyan and transfigured him. His chest +swelled, his eyes danced and glittered, and his cheeks shone rosily +through the black curls of his beard. + +“And I’m glad of it!” he roared. “By the holy old mackinaw, and by +the hell-jumping, high-tailed, fuzzy-eared, whistling old jeem cris +and seventeen slippery saints, I’m _proud_ of it, too! Gloriously +proud!” + +Then he felt amazed beyond words that the simple fact of entering +Real America and becoming a Real American could make him feel so +exalted, so pure, so noble, so good. And an indomitable conquering +spirit had come to him also. He now felt that he could whip his +weight in wildcats, that he could pull the clouds out of the sky, or +chew up stones, or tell the whole world anything. + +“Since becoming a Real American,” roared Paul Bunyan, “I can look any +man straight in the eye and tell him to go to hell! If I could meet +a man of my own size, I’d prove this instantly. We may find such a +man and celebrate our naturalization in a Real American manner. We +shall see. Yay, Babe!” + +Then the two great Real Americans leaped over the Border. Freedom +and Inspiration and Uplift were in the very air of this country, and +Babe and Paul Bunyan got more noble feelings in every breath. They +were greatly exhilarated physically at first; and they galloped over +valleys and hills without looking about them, but only breathing this +soul-flushing air and roaring and bellowing their delight in it. + +But before the day was over, Paul Bunyan discovered that Real America +had its sober, matter-of-fact side also. A whisper stirred in his +heart: “To work! Take advantage of your opportunity!” The whisper got +louder and more insistent every moment; and at last the idea it spoke +possessed Paul Bunyan, and he sat down to ponder it, letting Babe +graze and roll on the clover-covered hills. + +Now the whisper became an insistent cry: “Work! Work! Work!” Paul +Bunyan looked up, and he seemed to see the word shining among the +clouds; he looked down then into the vast valley, and he seemed to +see--by the holy old mackinaw! he did see--the forest of his second +dream! And now he knew it: his Life Work was to begin here. + +For many days and nights Paul Bunyan pondered on the hillside before +the Great Idea came to him. Like all Great Ideas, it was simple +enough, once he had thought of it. Real America was covered with +forests. A forest was composed of trees. A felled and trimmed tree +was a log. Paul Bunyan threw aside his pine tree beard brush and +jumped to his feet with a great shout. + +“What greater work could be done in Real America than to make logs +from trees?” he cried. “Logging! I shall invent this industry and +make it the greatest one of all time! I shall become a figure as +admired in history as any of the great ones I have read about.” + +Paul Bunyan then delivered his first oration. The blue ox calf was +his only listener; and this was a pity, for Paul Bunyan’s first +oratorical effort, inspired as it was, surely was one of his noblest +ones. But we know the outline of this oration, if not the words. It +dealt mainly with the logging method which he had devised in the +moment, the one which he used in his first work. So he told of his +plan to uproot the trees by hand, and to transport the logs overland, +binding a bundle of them on one side of Babe, and hanging a sack of +rocks from the other side for ballast. It was months after this that +he made his first improvement, the using of a second bundle of logs, +instead of rocks, for ballast. And at this moment Paul Bunyan, for +all his foresight and imagination, could not have dreamed of the +superb tools and marvelous logging methods that he was to originate, +or of the countless crews of little loggers that he was to import +from France, Ireland, Scotland and Scandinavia, or of the tremendous +river drives and the mammoth camp life he was to create. He would +have been bewildered then by the fact that he would some day need a +foreman as grand as himself for his Life Work; and the notion that he +would some day need help in his figurings would have seemed like a +far-fetched jest. + +No; in this first oration, imaginative and eloquent as it must have +been, Paul Bunyan only spoke of simple work for himself and Babe. But +he only tells us that the oration was not a long one, for the call to +Work came more insistently as he ended each period. At last he had +to answer this powerful call. He commanded, “Yay, Babe!” and the baby +blue ox and Paul Bunyan descended into the valley to begin the first +logging in the Real American woods. + + Reprinted from _The Winter of the Blue Snow_ + by James Stevens. By permission of and special + arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., + authorized publishers. + + + THE LEGEND OF THE CHRISTMAS ROSE + + SELMA LAGERLÖF + +Robber Mother, who lived in Robbers’ Cave up in Göinge forest, went +down to the village one day on a begging tour. Robber Father, who was +an outlawed man, did not dare to leave the forest, but had to content +himself with lying in wait for the wayfarers who ventured within +its borders. But at that time travellers were not very plentiful in +Southern Skåne. If it so happened that the man had had a few weeks +of ill luck with his hunt, his wife would take to the road. She took +with her five youngsters, and each youngster wore a ragged leathern +suit and birch-bark shoes and bore a sack on his back as long as +himself. When Robber Mother stepped inside the door of a cabin, no +one dared refuse to give her whatever she demanded; for she was not +above coming back the following night and setting fire to the house +if she had not been well received. Robber Mother and her brood were +worse than a pack of wolves, and many a man felt like running a spear +through them; but it was never done, because they all knew that the +man stayed up in the forest, and he would have known how to wreak +vengeance if anything had happened to the children or the old woman. + +Now that Robber Mother went from house to house and begged, she came +one day to Övid, which at that time was a cloister. She rang the +bell of the cloister gate and asked for food. The watchman let down +a small wicket in the gate and handed her six round bread cakes--one +for herself and one for each of the five children. + +While the mother was standing quietly at the gate, her youngsters +were running about. And now one of them came and pulled at her skirt, +as a signal that he had discovered something which she ought to come +and see, and Robber Mother followed him promptly. + +The entire cloister was surrounded by a high and strong wall, but the +youngster had managed to find a little back gate which stood ajar. +When Robber Mother got there, she pushed the gate open and walked +inside without asking leave, as it was her custom to do. + +Övid Cloister was managed at that time by Abbot Hans, who knew all +about herbs. Just within the cloister wall he had planted a little +herb garden, and it was into this that the old woman had forced her +way. + +At first glance Robber Mother was so astonished that she paused at +the gate. It was high summertide, and Abbot Hans’ garden was so full +of flowers that the eyes were fairly dazzled by the blues, reds, and +yellows, as one looked into it. But presently an indulgent smile +spread over her features, and she started to walk up a narrow path +that lay between many flower-beds. + +In the garden a lay brother walked about, pulling up weeds. It was he +who had left the door in the wall open, that he might throw the weeds +and tares on the rubbish heap outside. + +When he saw Robber Mother coming in, with all five youngsters in tow, +he ran toward her at once and ordered them away. But the beggar woman +walked right on as before. She cast her eyes up and down, looking +now at the stiff white lilies which spread near the ground, then on +the ivy climbing high upon the cloister wall, and took no notice +whatever of the lay brother. + +He thought she had not understood him, and wanted to take her by the +arm and turn her toward the gate. But when the robber woman saw his +purpose, she gave him a look that sent him reeling backward. She had +been walking with back bent under her beggar’s pack, but now she +straightened herself to her full height. “I am Robber Mother from +Göinge forest; so touch me if you dare!” And it was obvious that she +was as certain she would be left in peace as if she had announced +that she was the Queen of Denmark. + +And yet the lay brother dared to oppose her, although now, when he +knew who she was, he spoke reasonably to her. “You must know, Robber +Mother, that this is a monks’ cloister, and no woman in the land is +allowed within these walls. If you do not go away, the monks will be +angry with me because I forgot to close the gate, and perhaps they +will drive me away from the cloister and the herb garden.” + +But such prayers were wasted on Robber Mother. She walked straight +ahead among the little flower-beds and looked at the hyssop with its +magenta blossoms, and at the honeysuckles, which were full of deep +orange-colored flower clusters. + +Then the lay brother knew of no other remedy than to run into the +cloister and call for help. + +He returned with two stalwart monks, and Robber Mother saw that now +it meant business! With feet firmly planted she stood in the path and +began shrieking in strident tones all the awful vengeance she would +wreak on the cloister if she couldn’t remain in the herb garden as +long as she wished. But the monks did not see why they need fear +her and thought only of driving her out. Then Robber Mother let out +a perfect volley of shrieks, and, throwing herself upon the monks, +clawed and bit at them; so did all the youngsters. The men soon +learned that she could overpower them, and all they could do was to +go back into the cloister for reinforcements. + +As they ran through the passage-way which led to the cloister, they +met Abbot Hans, who came rushing out to learn what all this noise was +about. + +Then they had to confess that Robber Mother from Göinge forest had +come into the cloister and that they were unable to drive her out and +must call for assistance. + +But Abbot Hans upbraided them for using force and forbade their +calling for help. He sent both monks back to their work, and although +he was an old and fragile man, he took with him only the lay brother. + +When Abbot Hans came out in the garden, Robber Mother was still +wandering among the flower-beds. He regarded her with astonishment. +He was certain that Robber Mother had never before seen an herb +garden; yet she sauntered leisurely between all the small patches, +each of which had been planted with its own species of rare flower, +and looked at them as if they were old acquaintances. At some she +smiled, at others she shook her head. + +Abbot Hans loved his herb garden as much as it was possible for him +to love anything earthly and perishable. Wild and terrible as the old +woman looked, he couldn’t help liking that she had fought with three +monks for the privilege of viewing the garden in peace. He came up to +her and asked in a mild tone if the garden pleased her. + +Robber Mother turned defiantly toward Abbot Hans, for she expected +only to be trapped and overpowered. But when she noticed his white +hair and bent form, she answered peaceably, “First, when I saw this, +I thought I had never seen a prettier garden; but now I see that it +can’t be compared with one I know of.” + +Abbot Hans had certainly expected a different answer. When he heard +that Robber Mother had seen a garden more beautiful than his, a +faint flush spread over his withered cheek. The lay brother, who +was standing close by, immediately began to censure the old woman. +“This is Abbot Hans,” said he, “who with much care and diligence has +gathered the flowers from far and near for his herb garden. We all +know that there is not a more beautiful garden to be found in all +Skåne, and it is not befitting that you, who live in the wild forest +all the year around, should find fault with his work.” + +“I don’t wish to make myself the judge of either him or you,” said +Robber Mother. “I’m only saying that if you could see the garden of +which I am thinking you would uproot all the flowers planted here and +cast them away like weeds.” + +But the Abbot’s assistant was hardly less proud of the flowers +than the Abbot himself, and after hearing her remarks he laughed +derisively. “I can understand that you only talk like this to tease +us. It must be a pretty garden that you have made for yourself +amongst the pines in Göinge forest! I’d be willing to wager my soul’s +salvation that you have never before been within the walls of an herb +garden.” + +Robber Mother grew crimson with rage to think that her word was +doubted, and she cried out: “It may be true that until today I had +never been within the walls of an herb garden, but you monks, who are +holy men, certainly must know that on every Christmas Eve the great +Göinge forest is transformed into a beautiful garden, to commemorate +the hour of our Lord’s birth. We who live in the forest have seen +this happen every year. And in that garden I have seen flowers so +lovely that I dared not lift my hand to pluck them.” + +The lay brother wanted to continue the argument, but Abbot Hans gave +him a sign to be silent. For, ever since his childhood, Abbot Hans +had heard it said that on every Christmas Eve the forest was dressed +in holiday glory. He had often longed to see it, but he had never had +the good fortune. Eagerly he begged and implored Robber Mother that +he might come up to the Robbers’ Cave on Christmas Eve. If she would +only send one of her children to show him the way, he could ride up +there alone, and he would never betray them--on the contrary, he +would reward them, in so far as it lay in his power. + +Robber Mother said no at first, for she was thinking of Robber Father +and of the peril which might befall him should she permit Abbot Hans +to ride up to their cave. At the same time the desire to prove to the +monk that the garden which she knew was more beautiful than his got +the better of her, and she gave in. + +“But more than one follower you cannot take with you,” said she, “and +you are not to waylay us or trap us, as sure as you are a holy man.” + +This Abbot Hans promised, and then Robber Mother went her way. Abbot +Hans commanded the lay brother not to reveal to a soul that which had +been agreed upon. He feared that the monks, should they learn of his +purpose, would not allow a man of his years to go up to the Robbers’ +Cave. + +Nor did he himself intend to reveal his project to a human being. +And then it happened that Archbishop Absalon from Lund came to Övid +and remained through the night. When Abbot Hans was showing him the +herb garden, he got to thinking of Robber Mother’s visit, and the +lay brother, who was at work in the garden, heard Abbot Hans telling +the Bishop about Robber Father, who these many years had lived as an +outlaw in the forest, and asking him for a letter of ransom for the +man, that he might lead an honest life among respectable folk. “As +things are now,” said Abbot Hans, “his children are growing up into +worse malefactors than himself, and you will soon have a whole gang +of robbers to deal with up there in the forest.” + +But the Archbishop replied that he did not care to let the robber +loose among honest folk in the villages. It would be best for all +that he remain in the forest. + +Then Abbot Hans grew zealous and told the Bishop all about Göinge +forest, which, every year at Yuletide, clothed itself in summer bloom +around the Robber’s Cave. “If these bandits are not so bad but that +God’s glories can be made manifest to them, surely we cannot be too +wicked to experience the same blessing.” + +The Archbishop knew how to answer Abbot Hans. “This much I will +promise you, Abbot Hans,” he said, smiling, “that any day you send me +a blossom from the garden in Göinge forest, I will give you letters +of ransom for all the outlaws you may choose to plead for.” + +The lay brother apprehended that Bishop Absalon believed as little in +this story of Robber Mother’s as he himself; but Abbot Hans perceived +nothing of the sort, but thanked Absalon for his good promise and +said that he would surely send him the flower. + +Abbot Hans had his way. And the following Christmas Eve he did not +sit at home with his monks in Övid Cloister, but was on his way to +Göinge forest. One of Robber Mother’s wild youngsters ran ahead of +him, and close behind him was the lay brother who had talked with +Robber Mother in the herb garden. + +Abbot Hans had been longing to make this journey, and he was very +happy now that it had come to pass. But it was a different matter +with the lay brother who accompanied him. Abbot Hans was very dear +to him, and he would not willingly have allowed another to attend +him and watch over him; but he didn’t believe that he should see any +Christmas Eve garden. He thought the whole thing a snare which Robber +Mother had, with great cunning, laid for Abbot Hans, that he might +fall into her husband’s clutches. + +While Abbot Hans was riding toward the forest, he saw that everywhere +they were preparing to celebrate Christmas. In every peasant +settlement fires were lighted in the bath-house to warm it for the +afternoon bathing. Great hunks of meat and bread were being carried +from the larders into the cabins, and from the barns came the men +with big sheaves of straw to be strewn over the floors. + +As he rode by the little country churches, he observed that each +parson, with his sexton, was busily engaged in decorating his church; +and when he came to the road which leads to Bösjo Cloister, he +observed that all the poor of the parish were coming with armfuls of +bread and long candles, which they had received at the cloister gate. + +When Abbot Hans saw all these Christmas preparations, his haste +increased. He was thinking of the festivities that awaited him, which +were greater than any the others would be privileged to enjoy. + +But the lay brother whined and fretted when he saw how they were +preparing to celebrate Christmas in every humble cottage. He grew +more and more anxious, and begged and implored Abbot Hans to turn +back and not to throw himself deliberately into the robber’s hands. + +Abbot Hans went straight ahead, paying no heed to his lamentations. +He left the plain behind him and came up into desolate and wild +forest regions. Here the road was bad, almost like a stony and +burr-strewn path, with neither bridge nor plank to help them over +brooklet and rivulet. The farther they rode, the colder it grew, and +after a while they came upon snow-covered ground. + +It turned out to be a long and hazardous ride through the forest. +They climbed steep and slippery side paths, crawled over swamp and +marsh, and pushed through windfall and bramble. Just as daylight was +waning, the robber boy guided them across a forest meadow, skirted by +tall, naked leaf trees and green fir trees. Back of the meadow loomed +a mountain wall, and in this wall they saw a door of thick boards. +Now Abbot Hans understood that they had arrived, and dismounted. +The child opened the heavy door for him, and he looked into a poor +mountain grotto, with bare stone walls. Robber Mother was seated +before a log fire that burned in the middle of the floor. Alongside +the walls were beds of virgin pine and moss, and on one of these beds +lay Robber Father asleep. + +“Come in, you out there!” shouted Robber Mother without rising, “and +fetch the horses in with you, so they won’t be destroyed by the night +cold.” + +Abbot Hans walked boldly into the cave, and the lay brother followed. +Here were wretchedness and poverty! and nothing was done to celebrate +Christmas. Robber Mother had neither brewed nor baked; she had +neither washed nor scoured. The youngsters were lying on the floor +around a kettle, eating; but no better food was provided for them +than a watery gruel. + +Robber Mother spoke in a tone as haughty and dictatorial as any +well-to-do peasant woman. “Sit down by the fire and warm yourself, +Abbot Hans,” said she; “and if you have food with you, eat, for the +food which we in the forest prepare you wouldn’t care to taste. And +if you are tired after the long journey, you can lie down on one of +these beds to sleep. You needn’t be afraid of oversleeping, for I’m +sitting here by the fire keeping watch. I shall awaken you in time to +see that which you have come up here to see.” + +Abbot Hans obeyed Robber Mother and brought forth his food sack; but +he was so fatigued after the journey he was hardly able to eat, and +as soon as he could stretch himself on the bed, he fell asleep. + +The lay brother was also assigned a bed to rest upon, but he didn’t +dare sleep, as he thought he had better keep his eye on Robber Father +to prevent his getting up and capturing Abbot Hans. But gradually +fatigue got the better of him, too, and he dropped into a doze. + +When he woke up, he saw that Abbot Hans had left his bed and was +sitting by the fire talking with Robber Mother. The outlawed robber +sat also by the fire. He was a tall, raw-boned man with a dull, +sluggish appearance. His back was turned to Abbot Hans, as though he +would have it appear that he was not listening to the conversation. + +Abbot Hans was telling Robber Mother all about the Christmas +preparations he had seen on the journey, reminding her of Christmas +feasts and games which she must have known in her youth, when she +lived at peace with mankind. “I’m sorry for your children, who can +never run on the village street in holiday dress or tumble in the +Christmas straw,” said he. + +At first Robber Mother answered in short, gruff sentences, but by +degrees she became more subdued and listened more intently. Suddenly +Robber Father turned toward Abbot Hans and shook his clenched fist +in his face. “You miserable monk! did you come here to coax from me +my wife and children? Don’t you know that I am an outlaw and may not +leave the forest?” + +Abbot Hans looked him fearlessly in the eyes. “It is my purpose to +get a letter of ransom for you from Archbishop Absalon,” said he. He +had hardly finished speaking when the robber and his wife burst out +laughing. They knew well enough the kind of mercy a forest robber +could expect from Bishop Absalon! + +“Oh, if I get a letter of ransom from Absalon,” said Robber Father, +“then I’ll promise you that never again will I steal so much as a +goose.” + +The lay brother was annoyed with the robber folk for daring to laugh +at Abbot Hans, but on his own account he was well pleased. He had +seldom seen the Abbot sitting more peaceful and meek with his monks +at Övid than he now sat with this wild robber folk. + +Suddenly Robber Mother rose. “You sit here and talk, Abbot Hans,” she +said, “so that we are forgetting to look at the forest. Now I can +hear, even in this cave, how the Christmas bells are ringing.” + +The words were barely uttered when they all sprang up and rushed out. +But in the forest it was still dark night and bleak winter. The only +thing they marked was a distant clang borne on a light south wind. + +“How can this bell ringing ever awaken the dead forest?” thought +Abbot Hans. For now, as he stood out in the winter darkness, he +thought it far more impossible that a summer garden could spring up +here than it had seemed to him before. + +When the bells had been ringing a few moments, a sudden illumination +penetrated the forest; the next moment it was dark again, and then +the light came back. It pushed its way forward between the stark +trees, like a shimmering mist. This much it effected: The darkness +merged into a faint daybreak. Then Abbot Hans saw that the snow had +vanished from the ground, as if some one had removed a carpet, and +the earth began to take on a green covering. Then the ferns shot up +their fronds, rolled like a bishop’s staff. The heather that grew on +the stony hills and the bog-myrtle rooted in the ground moss dressed +themselves quickly in new bloom. The moss-tufts thickened and raised +themselves, and the spring blossoms shot upward their swelling buds, +which already had a touch of color. + +Abbot Hans’ heart beat fast as he marked the first signs of the +forest’s awakening. “Old man that I am, shall I behold such a +miracle?” thought he, and the tears wanted to spring to his eyes. +Again it grew so hazy that he feared the darkness would once more +cover the earth; but almost immediately there came a new wave of +light. It brought with it the splash of rivulet and the rush of +cataract. Then the leaves of the trees burst into bloom, as if a +swarm of green butterflies came flying and clustered on the branches. +It was not only trees and plants that awoke, but crossbeaks hopped +from branch to branch, and the woodpeckers hammered on the limbs +until the splinters fairly flew around them. A flock of starlings +from up country lighted in a fir top to rest. They were paradise +starlings. The tips of each tiny feather shone in brilliant reds, +and, as the birds moved, they glittered like so many jewels. + +Again, all was dark for an instant, but soon there came a new light +wave. A fresh, warm south wind blew and scattered over the forest +meadow all the little seeds that had been brought here from southern +lands by birds and ships and winds, and which could not thrive +elsewhere because of this country’s cruel cold. These took root and +sprang up the instant they touched the ground. + +When the next warm wind came along, the blueberries and lignon +ripened. Cranes and wild geese shrieked in the air, the bullfinches +built nests, and the baby squirrels began playing on the branches of +the trees. + +Everything came so fast now that Abbot Hans could not stop to reflect +on how immeasurably great was the miracle that was taking place. He +had time only to use his eyes and ears. The next light wave that came +rushing in brought with it the scent of newly ploughed acres, and far +off in the distance the milkmaids were heard coaxing the cows--and +the tinkle of the sheep’s bells. Pine and spruce trees were so +thickly clothed with red cones that they shone like crimson mantles. +The juniper berries changed color every second, and forest flowers +covered the ground till it was all red, blue and yellow. + +Abbot Hans bent down to the earth and broke off a wild strawberry +blossom, and, as he straightened up, the berry ripened in his hand. + +The mother fox came out of her lair with a big litter of black-legged +young. She went up to Robber Mother and scratched at her skirt, and +Robber Mother bent down to her and praised her young. The horned +owl, who had just begun his night chase, was astonished at the light +and went back to his ravine to perch for the night. The male cuckoo +crowed, and his mate stole up to the nests of the little birds with +her egg in her mouth. + +Robber Mother’s youngsters let out perfect shrieks of delight. They +stuffed themselves with wild strawberries that hung on the bushes, +large as pine cones. One of them played with a litter of young hares; +another ran a race with some young crows, which had hopped from their +nest before they were really ready; a third caught up an adder from +the ground and wound it around his neck and arm. + +Robber Father was standing out on a marsh eating raspberries. When he +glanced up, a big black bear stood beside him. Robber Father broke +off an osier twig and struck the bear on the nose. “Keep to your own +ground, you!” he said; “this is my turf.” Then the huge bear turned +around and lumbered off in another direction. + +New waves of warmth and light kept coming, and now they brought with +them seeds from the star-flower. Golden pollen from rye fields fairly +flew in the air. Then came butterflies, so big that they looked like +flying lilies. The bee-hive in a hollow oak was already so full of +honey that it dripped down on the trunk of the tree. Then all the +flowers whose seeds had been brought from foreign lands began to +blossom. The loveliest roses climbed up the mountain wall in a race +with the blackberry vines, and from the forest meadow sprang flowers +as large as human faces. + +Abbot Hans thought of the flower he was to pluck for Bishop Absalon; +but each new flower that appeared was more beautiful than the others, +and he wanted to choose the most beautiful of all. + +Wave upon wave kept coming until the air was so filled with light +that it glittered. All the life and beauty and joy of summer smiled +on Abbot Hans. He felt that earth could bring no greater happiness +than that which welled up about him, and he said to himself, “I do +not know what new beauties the next wave that comes can bring with +it.” + +But the light kept streaming in, and now it seemed to Abbot Hans +that it carried with it something from an infinite distance. He felt +a celestial atmosphere enfolding him, and tremblingly he began to +anticipate, now that earth’s joys had come, the glories of heaven +were approaching. + +Then Abbot Hans marked how all grew still; the birds hushed their +songs, the flowers ceased growing, and the young foxes played no +more. The glory now nearing was such that the heart wanted to stop +beating; the eyes wept without one’s knowing it; the soul longed to +soar away into the Eternal. From far in the distance faint harp tones +were heard, and celestial song, like a soft murmur, reached him. + +Abbot Hans clasped his hands and dropped to his knees. His face was +radiant with bliss. Never had he dreamed that even in this life it +should be granted him to taste the joys of heaven, and to hear angels +sing. Christmas carols! + +But beside Abbot Hans stood the lay brother who had accompanied +him. In his mind there were dark thoughts. “This cannot be a true +miracle,” he thought, “since it is revealed to malefactors. This +does not come from God, but has its origin in witchcraft and is sent +hither by Satan. It is the Evil One’s power that is tempting us and +compelling us to see that which has no real existence.” + +From afar were heard the sound of angel harps and the tones of a +Miserere. But the lay brother thought it was the evil spirits of +hell coming closer. “They would enchant and seduce us,” sighed he, +“and we shall be sold into perdition.” + +The angel throng was so near now that Abbot Hans saw their bright +forms through the forest branches. The lay brother saw them, too; but +back of all this wondrous beauty he saw only some dread evil. For +him it was the devil who performed these wonders on the anniversary +of our Saviour’s birth. It was done simply for the purpose of more +effectually deluding poor human beings. + +All the while the birds had been circling around the head of Abbot +Hans, and they let him take them in his hands. But all the animals +were afraid of the lay brother; no bird perched on his shoulder, no +snake played at his feet. Then there came a little forest dove. When +she marked that the angels were nearing, she plucked up courage and +flew down on the lay brother’s shoulder, and laid her head against +his cheek. + +Then it appeared to him as if sorcery were come right upon him, to +tempt and corrupt him. He struck with his hand at the forest dove and +cried in such a loud voice that it rang throughout the forest. “Go +thou back to hell, whence thou art come!” + +Just then the angels were so near that Abbot Hans felt the feathery +touch of their great wings, and he bowed down to earth in reverent +greeting. + +But when the lay brother’s words sounded, their song was hushed and +the holy guests turned in flight. At the same time the light and the +mild warmth vanished in unspeakable terror for the darkness and cold +in a human heart. Darkness sank over the earth, like a coverlet; +frost came, all the growths shrivelled up; the animals and birds +hastened away; the rushing of streams was hushed; the leaves dropped +from the trees, rustling like rain. + +Abbot Hans felt how his heart, which had but lately swelled with +bliss, was now contracting with insufferable agony. “I can never +outlive this,” thought he, “that the angels from heaven had been so +close to me and were driven away; that they wanted to sing Christmas +carols for me and were driven to flight.” + +Then he remembered the flower he had promised Bishop Absalon, and +at the last moment he fumbled among the leaves and moss to try and +find a blossom. But he sensed how the ground under his fingers +froze and how the white snow came gliding over the ground. Then his +heart caused him even greater anguish. He could not rise, but fell +prostrate on the ground and lay there. + +When the robber folk and the lay brother had groped their way back to +the cave, they missed Abbot Hans. They took brands with them and went +out to search for him. They found him dead upon the coverlet of snow. + +Then the lay brother began weeping and lamenting, for he understood +that it was he who had killed Abbot Hans because he had dashed from +him the cup of happiness which he had been thirsting to drain to its +last drop. + +When Abbot Hans had been carried down to Övid, those who took charge +of the dead saw that he held his right hand locked tight around +something which he must have grasped at the moment of death. When +they finally got his hand open, they found that the thing which he +had held in such an iron grip was a pair of white root bulbs, which +he had torn from among the moss and leaves. + +When the lay brother who had accompanied Abbot Hans saw the bulbs, he +took them and planted them in Abbot Hans’ herb garden. + +He guarded them the whole year to see if any flower would spring from +them. But in vain he waited through the spring, the summer, and the +autumn. Finally, when winter had set in and all the leaves and the +flowers were dead, he ceased caring for them. + +But when Christmas Eve came again, he was so strongly reminded of +Abbot Hans that he wandered out into the garden to think of him. And +lo! as he came to the spot where he had planted the bare root bulbs, +he saw that from them had sprung flourishing green stalks, which bore +beautiful flowers with silver white leaves. + +He called out all the monks at Övid, and when they saw that this +plant bloomed on Christmas Eve, when all the other growths were as +if dead, they understood that this flower had in truth been plucked +by Abbot Hans from the Christmas garden in Göinge forest. Then the +lay brother asked the monks if he might take a few blossoms to Bishop +Absalon. + +And when he appeared before Bishop Absalon, he gave him the flowers +and said: “Abbot Hans sends you these. They are the flowers he +promised to pick for you from the garden in Göinge forest.” + +When Bishop Absalon beheld the flowers, which had sprung from the +earth in darkest winter, and heard the words, he turned as pale as if +he had met a ghost. He sat in silence a moment; thereupon he said, +“Abbot Hans has faithfully kept his word and I shall keep mine.” And +he ordered that a letter of ransom be drawn up for the wild robber +who was outlawed and had been forced to live in the forest ever since +his youth. + +He handed the letter to the lay brother, who departed at once for +the Robbers’ Cave. When he stepped in there on Christmas Day, the +robber came toward him with axe uplifted. “I’d like to hack you monks +into bits, as many as you are!” said he. “It must be your fault that +Göinge forest did not last night dress itself in Christmas bloom.” + +“The fault is mine alone,” said the lay brother, “and I will gladly +die for it; but first I must deliver a message from Abbot Hans.” And +he drew forth the Bishop’s letter and told the man that he was free. +“Hereafter you and your children shall play in the Christmas straw +and celebrate your Christmas among people, just as Abbot Hans wished +to have it,” said he. + +Then Robber Father stood there pale and speechless, but Robber Mother +said in his name, “Abbot Hans has indeed kept his word, and Robber +Father will keep his.” + +When the robber and his wife left the cave, the lay brother moved in +and lived all alone in the forest, in constant meditation and prayer +that his hard-heartedness might be forgiven him. + +But Göinge forest never again celebrated the hour of our Saviour’s +birth; and of all its glory, there lives to-day only the plant which +Abbot Hans had plucked. It has been named CHRISTMAS ROSE. And each +year at Christmastide she sends forth from the earth her green stalks +and white blossoms, as if she never could forget that she had once +grown in the great Christmas garden at Göinge forest. + + Selma Lagerlöf, _The Girl from the Marsh Croft_. + By permission of the publishers, Little, Brown & + Company. + + +SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY OF LEGENDS AND TALES + + The editors have found these additional selections very useful in + teaching the writing of legends and tales: + + Beck, L. Adams. _The Building of the Taj Mahal_. _The Atlantic + Monthly_, March, 1921. + + Canton, William. _A Child’s Book of Saints_ (almost any chapter). + The Everyman Library, E. P. Dutton & Company. + + Chaucer, Geoffrey. The Prioress’ Tale, _Hugh of Lincoln_. + + Frazer, Lady. _Leaves from the Golden Bough_. The Macmillan Company. + + Irving, Washington. _Tales of the Alhambra_, particularly _The + Legend of the Moor’s Legacy_. + + Keats, John. _The Eve of St. Agnes_, _The Pot of Basil_. + + Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. _Tales of a Wayside Inn_, particularly + _The Falcon of Ser Federigo_, _King Robert of Sicily_, and _The + Vision Beautiful_. + + + + + CHAPTER VI + + _Fairy Tales, Allegories, Parables and Fables_ + + +In this section are included several types of stories which, though +different in certain particulars, are clearly related to one another. +In general, they are fictitious stories, often of supernatural +events, told to teach a moral lesson. To modern ears, this is not +an attractive description, but the stories, nevertheless, remain +perennial favorites. La Fontaine, the great French writer of fables, +says: + + “Fables in sooth are not what they appear; + Our moralists are mice, and such small deer. + We yawn at sermons, but we gladly turn + To moral tales, and so amused, we learn.” + +From earliest times, fables, parables, and fairy tales have been +popular devices for teaching without provoking yawns. + +“Mice and such small deer” are characteristic figures in fables, +where we usually find animals moved by human motives and speaking +and acting like human beings. The longevity of such stories appears +when we trace _The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse_ back to the +_Satires_ of Horace, and _Chanticleer_ to the _Nun’s Priest’s Tale_ +in Chaucer. The moral of the fable is simple and obvious, some bit of +indisputable folk wisdom. The style of the typical fable is equally +direct and simple. Æsop gives you no setting, no description, and +no elaborate characterizations; his stories have survived because +of their unmistakable agreement with human experience. Stevenson’s +_The Frog and the Tadpole_ consists of nothing more than translating +familiar human relationships and words into parallel ones for animals. + +The term “parable” has often been limited to those in the New +Testament, but the _Encyclopædia Britannica_ says that there is no +clear line of demarcation between the fable and the parable except +that supernaturally gifted animals are usually confined to the +former. The parable is longer than the fable, uses familiar objects +and events in a normal way, and may teach a more elaborate lesson. +In _A Parable for Philanthropists_, for example, you will observe +that the cat, though important, is in no way supernatural, and does +not contribute to the conversation. The situation is very simple and +familiar, and drives home the moderate moral, “You may waste your +time and do more harm than good if you insist upon trying to help +those whose circumstances you do not understand.” + +The fairy tale is a more widely varied type than either of the others +mentioned; it has wide ramifications, and has been loved by people in +many times and places. At first glance, it may seem almost futile to +include it here, for most fairy tales, folk lore, and mythology have +sprung out of the imaginations of primitive peoples, and do not lend +themselves readily to sophisticated invention. Nevertheless, the old +favorites demand retelling for almost every generation, and we have +some lovely modern tales in which the old elements are recombined +most effectively. What these elements are, any child can tell you: +that in fairy tales all sorts of kinships between people and animals +may well be expected, that stepmothers are always cruel, that younger +sisters triumph, and that beauty and virtue are vindicated through +patience and fortitude. Besides these familiar rules, collections of +folk lore or books on mythology will furnish a host of other stock +situations and introduce a variety of superhuman characters from +the Toomtegoobe of the Scandinavians to the Banshee of the Irish. +The fairy tale is often written very simply, but it permits of a +more elaborate style, and sometimes illustrates the effectiveness of +refrains by the repetition of a formula such as the doves’ warning +in _Cinderella_, “There’s blood on the shoe! There’s blood on the +shoe!” Vivid descriptions help to create atmosphere, and a graceful +and colorful style carries the modern reader into an appreciation of +the imaginative material, which might otherwise seem only unreal. +In _The King’s Barn_ are to be found one after another of the stock +situations and characters of fairy lore, the maiden in distress, the +lad subjected to magical tests, the supernatural smithy, and many +others, bound into a radiant whole by the serenely picturesque style +of the author. + +Not all people can appreciate fairy tales, and only those with +sensitive and exuberant imaginations will be able to write them, but +the selections in this section show something of the charm that may +be given them by an artist’s hand. + +In beginning, it may be well to remember the following suggestions: + + 1. Make your style plain and simple in fables, dignified and + serious in parables, and as graceful and colorful as you can in + fairy tales. + + 2. Retell some of your childhood favorites without reference to any + book, paying particular attention to style. + + 3. Try expanding proverbs into fables, using familiar animals, and + remembering to keep each true to his traditional character. + + 4. From such a collection as _English and Scottish Popular + Ballads_, choose a ballad and turn it into a fairy tale, retaining + any suitable refrain. + + F. del P. + + + THE KING’S BARN + + ELEANOR FARJEON + +There was once, dear maidens, a King in Sussex of whose kingdom and +possessions nothing remained but a single Barn and a change of linen. +It was no fault of his. He was a very young king when he came into +his heritage, and it was already dwindled to these proportions. Once +his fathers had owned a beautiful city on the banks of the Adur, and +all the lands to the north and the west were theirs, for a matter +of several miles indeed, including many strange things that were on +them: such as the Wapping Thorp, the Huddle Stone, the Bush Hovel +where a Wise Woman lived, and the Guess Gate; likewise those two +communities known as the Doves and the Hawking Sopers, whose ways +of life were as opposite as the Poles. The Doves were simple men, +and religious; but the Hawking Sopers were indeed a wild and rowdy +crew, and it is said that the King’s father had hunted and drunk with +them until his estates were gambled away and his affairs decayed of +neglect, and nothing was left at last but the solitary Barn which +marked the northern boundary of his possessions. And here, when his +father was dead, our young King sat on a tussock of hay with his +golden crown on his head and his golden scepter in his hand, and ate +bread and cheese thrice a day, throwing the rind to the rats and the +crumbs to the swallows. His name was William, and beyond the rats and +the swallows he had no other company than a nag called Pepper, whom +he fed daily from the tussock he sat on. + +But at the end of a week he said: + +“It is a dull life. What should a King do in a Barn?” + +So saying, he pulled the last handful of hay from under him, rising +up quickly before he had time to fall down, and gave it to his nag; +and next he tied up his scepter and crown with his change of linen +in a blue handkerchief; and last he fetched a rope and a sack and +put them on Pepper for bridle and saddle, and rode out of the Barn +leaving the door to swing. + +“Let us go south, Pepper,” said he, “for it is warmer to ride into +the sun than away from it, and so we shall visit my Father’s lands +that might have been mine.” + +South they went, with the great Downs ahead of them, and who knew +what beyond? And first they came to the Hawking Sopers, who when they +saw William approaching tumbled out of their dwelling with a great +racket, crying to him to come and drink and play with them. + +“Not I,” said he. “For so I should lose my Barn to you, and such as +it is it is a shelter, and my only one. But tell me, if you can, what +should a King do in a Barn?” + +“He should dance in it,” said they, and went laughing and singing +back to their cups. + +“What sort of advice is this, Pepper?” said the King. “Shall we try +elsewhere?” + +The nag whinnied with unusual vehemence, and the King, taking this +for yea, and not observing that she limped as she went, rode on to +the Doves: the gentle gray-gowned Brothers who spent their days in +pious works and their nights in meditation. Between the twelve hours +of twilight and dawn they were pledged not to utter speech, but the +King arriving there at noon they welcomed him with kind words, and +offered him a bowl of rice and milk. + +He thanked them, and when he had eaten and drunk put to them his +riddle. + +“What should a King do in a Barn?” + +They answered, “He should pray in it.” + +“This may be good advice,” said the King. “Pepper should we go +further?” + +The little nag whinnied till her sides shook, which the King took, +as before, to be an affirmative. However, because it was Sunday he +remained with the Doves a day and a night, and during such time as +their lips were not sealed they urged him to become one of them, and +found a new settlement of Brothers in his Barn. He spent his night in +reflection, but by morning had come to no decision. + +“To what better use could you dedicate it?” asked the Chief Brother, +who was known as the Ringdove because he was the leader. + +“None that I can think of,” said the King, “but I fear I am not good +enough.” + +“When you have passed our initiation,” said the Ringdove, “you will +be.” + +“Is it difficult?” asked William. + +“No, it is very easy, and can be accomplished within a month. You +have only to ride south till you come to the hills, on the highest +of which you will see a Ring of beech-trees. Under the hills lies +the little village of Washington, and there you may dwell in comfort +through the week. But on each of the four Saturdays of the lunar +month you must mount the hill at sunset and keep a vigil among the +beeches till sunrise. And you must see that these Saturdays occur on +the four quarters of the moon--once when she is in her crescent, once +at the half, again at the full, and lastly when she is waning.” + +“And is this all?” said William. “It sounds very simple.” + +“Not quite all, but the rest is nearly as simple. You have but to +observe four rules. First, to tell no living soul of your resolve +during the month of initiation. Second, to keep your vigil always +between the two great beeches in the middle of the Ring. Third, to +issue forth at midnight and immerse your head in the Dewpond which +lies on the hilltop to the west, and having done so to return to your +watch between the trees. And fourth, to make no utterance on any +account whatever from sunset to sunrise.” + +“Suppose I should sneeze?” inquired the King anxiously. + +“There’s no supposing about it,” said the Ringdove. “Sneezing, seeing +that your head will be extremely wet, is practically inevitable. But +the rule applies only to such utterance as lies within human control. +When the fourth vigil has been successfully accomplished, return to +us for a blessing and the gray robe of our Order.” + +“But how,” asked the King, “during my vigils shall I know when +midnight is due?” + +“In the third quarter after eleven a bird sings. At the beginning of +its song go forth from the Ring, and at the ending plunge your head +into the Pond. For on these nights the bird sings ceaselessly for +fifteen minutes, but stops at the very moment of midnight.” + +“And is this really all?” + +“This is all.” + +“How easy it is to become good,” said William cheerfully. “I will +begin at once.” + +So impatient was he to become a Brother Dove--that he abandoned his +idea of visiting the Huddle Stone and the Wapping Thorp (which would +have taken him out of his course), and, without even waiting to break +his fast, leaped on to Pepper’s back and turned her head southwest +towards the hills. And in his eagerness he failed to remark how +Pepper stumbled at every second step. Before he had gone a mile he +came to the Guess Gate. + +Of the Guess Gate, as you may know, all men ask a question in passing +through, and in the back-swing of the Gate it creaks an answer. So +nothing more natural than that the King, having flung the Gate open, +should cry aloud once more: + +“Gate, Gate! what should a King do in a Barn?” + +“Now at last,” thought he, “I shall be told whether to dance or to +pray in it.” And he stood listening eagerly as the Gate hung an +instant on its outward journey and then began to creak home. + +“He--should--rule--in--it--he--should--rule--in--it--he--should--” +squeaked the Guess Gate, and then the latch clicked and it was silent. + +This disconcerted William. + +“Now I am worse off than ever,” he sighed. “Pray, Pepper, can this +advice be bettered?” + +As usual when he questioned her, the nag pricked up her ears and +whinnied so violently that he nearly fell off her back. Nevertheless, +he kept Pepper’s head in a beeline for Chanctonbury, never noticing +how very ill she was going, and presently crossed the great High Road +beyond which lay the Bush Hovel. The Wise Woman was at home; from +afar the King saw her sitting outside the Hovel mending her broom +with a withe from the Bush. + +“Here if anywhere,” rejoiced William, “I shall learn the truth.” + +He dismounted and approached the old woman, cap in hand. + +“Wise Woman,” he said respectfully, “you know most things, but do you +know this--whether a King should dance or pray or rule in his Barn?” + +“He should do all three, young man,” said the Wise Woman. + +“But--!” exclaimed William. + +“I’m busy,” snapped the Wise Woman. “You men will always be +chattering, as though pots need never be stewed nor cobwebs swept.” +So saying, she went into the Hovel and slammed the door. + +“Pepper,” said the poor King, “I am at my wits’ ends. Go where yours +lead you.” + +At this Pepper whinnied in a perfect frenzy of delight, and the King +had to clasp both arms round her neck to avoid tumbling off. + +Now the little nag preferred roads to beelines over copses and +ditches, and she turned back and ambled along the highway so very +lamely that it became impossible even for her preoccupied rider not +to perceive that she had cast all her four shoes. + +“Poor beast!” he cried dismayed, “how has this happened, and where? +Oh, Pepper, how could you be so careless? I have not a penny in my +purse to buy you new shoes, my poor Pepper. Do you not remember where +you lost them?” + +The little nag licked her master’s hand (for he had dismounted to +examine her trouble), and looked at him with great eyes full of +affection, and then she flung up her head and whinnied louder than +ever. The sound of it was like nothing so much as laughter. Then +she went on, hobbling as best she could, and the King walked by her +side with his hand on her neck. In this way they came to a small +village, and here the nag turned up a by-road and halted outside the +blacksmith’s forge. The smith’s Lad stood within, clinking at the +anvil, the smuttiest Lad smith ever had. + +“Lad!” cried the King. + +The Lad looked up from his work and came at once to the door, wiping +his hands upon his leather apron. + +“Where am I?” asked the King. + +“In the village of Washington,” said the Lad. + +“What! Under the Ring?” cried the King. + +“Yes, sir,” said the Lad. + +“A blessing on you!” said the King joyfully, and clapped his hand on +the Lad’s shoulder. “Pepper, you have solved the problem and led me +to my destiny.” + +“Is Pepper your nag’s name?” asked the blacksmith’s Lad. + +“It is,” said the King; “her only one.” + +“Then she has one more name than she has shoes,” said the Lad. “How +came she to lose them?” + +“I didn’t notice,” confessed the King. + +“You must have been thinking very deeply,” remarked the Lad. “Are you +in love?” + +“I am not quite twenty-one,” said the King. + +“I see. Do you want your nag shod?” + +“I do. But I have spent my last penny.” + +“Earn another then,” said the Lad. + +“I did not even earn the last one,” said the King shamefacedly. “I +have never worked in my life.” + +“Why, where have you lived?” exclaimed the Lad. + +“In a Barn.” + +“But one works in a Barn----” + +“Stop!” cried the King, putting his fingers in his ears. “One prays +in a Barn.” + +“Very likely,” said the Lad, looking at him curiously. “Are you going +to pray in one?” + +“Yes,” said the King. “When is the New Moon?” + +“Next Saturday.” + +“Hurrah!” cried the King. “That settles it. But what’s to-day?” + +“Monday, sir.” + +“Alas!” sighed William, wondering how he should make shift to live +for five days. + +“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” said the Lad. + +“I would tell you my meaning,” said the King, “but am pledged not to.” + +Then the Lad said, “Let it pass. I have a proposal to make. My father +is dead, and for two years I have worked the forge single-handed. Now +I am willing to teach you to shoe your nag with four good shoes and +strong, if you will meanwhile blow the bellows for whatever other +jobs come to the forge; and if the shoes are not done by dinner-time +you shall have a meal thrown in.” + +The King looked at the Lad kindly. + +“I shall blow your bellows very badly,” he said, “and shoe my nag +still worse.” + +Said the Lad, “You’ll learn in time.” + +“Not before dinner-time, I hope,” said the King, “for I am very +hungry.” + +“You look hungry,” said the Lad. “It’s a bargain then.” + +The King held out his hand, but the Lad suddenly whipped his behind +his back. “It’s so dirty, sir,” he said. + +“Give it me all the same,” said the King; and they clasped hands. + +The rest of that morning the King spent in blowing the bellows, and +by dinner-time not so much as the first of Pepper’s hoofs was shod. +For a great deal of business came into the forge, and there was no +time for a lesson. So the King and the Lad took their meal together, +and the King was by this time nearly as black as his master. He +would have washed himself, but the Lad said it was no matter, he +himself having no time to wash from week’s end to week’s end. In the +afternoon they changed places, and the King stood at the anvil and +the Lad at the bellows. He was a good teacher, but the King made a +poor job of it. By nightfall he had produced shoes resembling all the +letters of the alphabet excepting U, and when at last he submitted +to the Lad a shoe like nothing so much as a drunken S, his master +shrugged and said: + +“Zeal is praiseworthy within its limits, but the best of smiths does +not attempt to make two shoes at once. Let us sup.” + +They supped; and afterwards the Lad showed the King a small bedroom +as neat as a new pin. + +“I shall sully the sheets,” said William, “and you will excuse me if +I fetch the kettle, which is on the boil.” + +“As you please,” said the Lad, and took himself off. + +In the morning the King came clean to breakfast, but the Lad was as +black as he had been. + +Tuesday passed as Monday had passed; now William took the bellows, +marveling at his youthful master’s deftness, and now the Lad blew, +groaning at his pupil’s clumsiness. By nightfall, however, he had +achieved a shoe faintly recognizable as such. For a second time the +King washed himself and slept again in the little trim chamber, but +the Lad in the morning resembled midnight. In this way the week went +by, the King’s heart beating a little faster each morning as Saturday +approached, and he wondered by what ruse he could explain his absence +without creating suspicion or breaking his pledge. + +On Saturday morning the Lad said to the King: “This is a half-day. +You must make your shoe this morning or not at all. It is my custom +at one o’clock to close the forge and go to visit my Great-Aunt. +I will be at work again on Monday, till when you must shift for +yourself.” + +The King could hardly believe his luck in having matters so well +settled, and he spent the morning so diligently that by noon he had +produced a shoe which, if not that of a master craftsman, was at +least adaptable to the purpose for which it had been fashioned. + +The Lad examined it and said reluctantly, “It will do,” and proceeded +to show the King how to fasten it to Pepper’s hoof. + +“Why,” said the King, having the nag’s off forefoot in his hand, +“here’s a stone in it. Small wonder she limped.” + +“It isn’t a stone,” said the Lad, extracting it, “it is a ruby.” + +And he exhibited to the King a ruby of such a glowing red that it was +as though the souls of all the grapes of Burgundy had been pressed to +create it. + +“You are a rich man now,” said the Lad quietly, “and can live as you +will.” + +But William closed the Lad’s fingers over the stone. “Keep it,” he +said, “for you have filled me for a week, and I have paid you with +nothing but my breath.” + +“As you please,” said the Lad carelessly, and, tossing the stone upon +a shelf, locked up the forge. “Now I am going to my Great-Aunt. +There’s a cake in the larder.” + +So saying, he strolled away, and the King was left to his own +devices. These consisted in bathing himself from head to foot till +his body was as pure without as he desired his heart to be within; +and in donning his fresh suit of linen. He would not break his fast, +but waited, trembling and eager, till an hour before sundown, and +then at last he set forth to mount the great hill with the sacred +crown of trees upon its crest. + +When at last he stood upon the boundary of the Ring, his heart +sprang for joy in his breast, and his breath nearly failed him with +amazement at the beauty of the world which lay outspread for leagues +below him. + +“Oh, lovely earth!” he cried aloud, “never till now have I known what +beauty I lived in. How is it that we cannot see the wonder of our +surroundings until we gaze upon them from afar? But if you look so +fair from the hilltops, what must you appear from the very sky?” And +lost in delight he turned his eyes upward, and was recalled to his +senses by the sight of the sinking sun. “Lovely one, how nearly you +have betrayed me!” he said, and smiling waved his hand to the dear +earth, sealed up his lips, and entered the Ring. + +And here between the two midmost beeches he knelt down and buried his +face in his hands, and prayed the spirits of that place to make him +worthy. + +The hours passed, quarter by quarter, and the King stayed motionless +like one in a dream. Presently, however, the dream was faintly shaken +by a little lirrup of sound, as light as rain dropping from leaves +above a pool. Again and again the sweet round notes fell on the +meditations of the King, and he remembered with entrancement that +this was the tender signal by which he was summoned to the Pond. So, +rising silently, he wandered through the trees, and keeping his eyes +fixed on the soft dim turf, lest some new beauty should tempt him +to speech, he went across the open hill to the Pond. Here he knelt +down again, listening to the childlike bird, until at last the young +piping ceased with a joyous chuckle. And at that instant, reflected +in the Pond, he saw the silver star that watches the invisible young +moon, and dipped his head. + +Oh, my dear maids! when he lifted it again, all wet and bewildered, +he saw upon the opposite border of the Pond, a figure, the white +figure of--a woman? a girl? a child? He could not tell, for she lay +three parts in the shadowy water with her back towards him, and his +gaze and senses swam; but in that faint starlight one bare and lovely +arm, as white as the crescent moon, was clear to him, upcurved to +her shadowy hair. So she reclined, and so he knelt, both motionless, +and his heart trembled (even as it had trembled at the bird’s song) +with a wish to go near to her, or at least to whisper to her across +the water. Indeed, he was on the point of doing so, when a sudden +contraction seized him, his eyes closed in a delicious agony, and he +sneezed once vigorously; and in that moment of shattering blackness +he recalled his vow, and rising turned his back upon the vision and +groped his way again to the shelter of the trees. + +Here he remained till dawn in meditation, but as to the nature of +his meditations I am, dear maidens, ignorant. Nor do I know in what +restless wise he passed his Sunday. + +It is enough to know that on Monday when he went into the forge he +found the Lad already at work, and if he had been pitch-black at +their parting he was no less so at their meeting. He appeared to +be out of humor, and for some time regarded his apprentice with +dissatisfaction, but only remarked at last: + +“You look fatigued.” + +“My sleep was broken with dreams,” said the King. “I am sorry if I +am late. Let me to my shoeing. Since Saturday ended in success, I +suppose I shall now finish the business without more ado.” + +He was, however, too hopeful as it appeared, for though he managed to +fashion a shoe which was in his eyes the equal of the other, the Lad +was captious and would not commend it. + +“I should be an ill craftmaster,” said he, “if I let you rest content +on what you have already done. I made such a shoe as this on my +thirteenth birthday, and my father’s only praise was, ‘You must do +better yet.’” + +So particular was the young smith that William spent the whole of +another week in endeavoring to please him. This might have chafed +the King, but that it agreed entirely with his desires to remain in +that place, sleeping and eating at no cost to himself, and working so +strenuously that his hands grew almost as hard as the metal he worked +in; for the Lad now began to entrust him with small jobs of various +sorts, although in the matter of the second shoe he refused to be +satisfied. + +When Saturday came, however, the King contrived a shoe so much +superior to any he had yet made that the Lad, examining it, was +compelled to say, “It is better than the other.” Then Pepper, who +always stood in a noose beside the door awaiting her moment, lifted +up her near forefoot of her own accord, and the King took it in his +hand. + +“How odd!” he exclaimed a moment later. “The nag has a stone in this +foot also. It is not strange that she went so ill.” + +“It is not a stone,” said the Lad. “It is a pearl.” + +And he held out to the King a pearl of such a shining purity that it +was as though it had been rounded within the spirit of a saint. + +“This makes you a rich man,” said the Lad moodily, “and you can +journey whither you please.” + +But the King shook his head. “Keep it,” he said, “for you have lodged +me for a week, and I have given you only the clumsy service of my +hands.” + +“Very well,” said the Lad simply, and put the pearl in his pocket. +“My Great-Aunt is expecting me. There’s a cake in the larder.” + +So saying he walked off, and the King was left alone. As before, he +bathed himself and changed his linen, and left the contents of the +larder untouched; and an hour before sunset he climbed the hill for +the second time, and presently stood panting on the edge of the Ring. +And again a pang of wonder that was akin to pain shot through his +heart at the loveliness of the world below him. + +“Beautiful earth!” he cried once more, “how fair and dear you are +become to me in your remoteness. But oh, if you appear so beautiful +from this summit, what must you appear from the summit of the +clouds?” And he glanced from the earth to the sky, and saw the sun +running down his airy hill. “Dear Temptress!” he said, “how cunningly +you would snare me from my purpose.” And he kissed his hand to her +thrice, sealed up his lips, and entered the Ring. + +Between the two tall beeches he knelt down, and drowned the following +hours in thought and prayer; till that deep lake of meditation was +divided by the sound of singing, as though a shoal of silver fishes +swam and leaped upon its surface, putting all quietness to flight, +and troubling its waters with a million lovelinesses. For now it was +as though the bird’s enchanting song came partly from within and +partly from without, and if the fall of its music shattered his dream +like falling fish, certain it seemed to him that the fish had first +leaped from his own heart, out of whose unsuspected caves darted a +shoal of nameless longings. He too leaped up and darted through the +trees, and with head bent down, for fear of he knew not what, made +his way to the Pond. Here he knelt again, drinking in the tremulous +song of the bird, as tremulous as youth and maidenhood, until at +last it ceased with a sweet uncompleted cry of longing. And at that +instant, in the mirror of the Pond, he saw the uncompleted disc of +the half-moon, and dipped his head. + +Ah wonder! when he lifted it again, dazzled and dripping, he saw +across the Pond a figure rising from the water, the figure, as he +could now perceive in the fuller light, of a girl, clear to the +waist. Her face was half turned from him, and her hair flowed half to +him and half away, but within that cloudy setting gleamed the lines +of her lovely neck and one white shoulder and one moonlit breast, +whose undercurve appeared to float upon the Pond like the petal of a +waterlily. So he knelt on his side and she on hers, both motionless, +and his heart leaped (even as it had leaped at the bird’s song) +with a longing to kneel beside and ever touch that loveliness; or, +if he could not, at least to call to her across the Pond so that +she would turn and reveal to him what still was hidden. He was in +fact about to do so, when suddenly his senses were overwhelmed with +a sweet anguish, darkness fell on him, and from its very core he +sneezed twice, violently. This interruption of the previous spell was +sufficient to bring him to a realization of his peril, and rising +hastily he ran back to the Ring, where he remained till morning. But +to what pious thoughts he then committed himself I cannot tell you; +neither in what feverish fashion he got through Sunday. + +On Monday morning when he arrived at the forge he found the Lad at +work before him, and ebony was not blacker than his face. He glanced +at the King with some show of temper, but only said: + +“You look worn out.” + +“I have had bad dreams,” said the King. “Excuse me for being behind +my time. I will try to make up for it by wasting no more, and +fashioning instantly two shoes as good as that I made on Saturday.” + +But though he handled his tools with more dexterity than he had yet +exhibited, the Lad petulantly pushed aside the first shoe he made, +which to the King appeared to be, if anything, superior to the one he +had made on Saturday. The Lad, however, quickly explained himself, +saying: + +“A master-smith who intends to make his apprentice his equal will not +let him rest at the halfway house. I made a shoe like this when I was +fourteen, and all my father said was, ‘I have hopes for you.’” + +So for yet another week the King’s nose was kept to the grindstone, +and it would have irritated most men to find their good work +repeatedly condemned; but William was, as you may have observed, +singularly sweet-tempered, besides which he desired nothing so much +as to remain where he was. And for another five days he slept and +ate and worked, until the muscles of his arms began to swell, and +he swung the hammer with as much ease as his master, who now left a +great part of the work entirely in his hands. Although in the matter +of the third shoe he refused to be satisfied. + +Nevertheless on Saturday morning the King, making a last effort +before the forge was shut, submitted a shoe so far beyond anything +he had yet achieved, that the Lad could not but say, “This is a good +shoe.” And Pepper, seeing them coming, lifted her off hind-foot to be +shod. + +“Now as I live!” cried the King. “Another stone! And how she +contrived to hobble so far is a miracle.” + +“It isn’t a stone,” said the Lad, “it is a diamond.” + +And he presented to the King a diamond of such triumphant brilliance +that it might have been conceived of the ambitions of the mightiest +monarch of the earth. + +“You now own surpassing wealth,” said the Lad dejectedly, “and you +have no more need to work.” + +But William would not even touch the stone. “Keep it,” he said, “for +you have befriended me for a week, and I have given you only the +strength of my arms.” + +“Let it be so,” said the Lad gently, and put the diamond in his belt. +“I must not keep my Great-Aunt waiting. There’s a cake in the larder.” + +So saying he went his way, and the King went his; which, as you may +surmise, was to the bath and his clean clothes. He did not go into +the larder, and an hour before sunset made the ascent of the hill, +and for the third time stood like a conqueror upon the crest. And as +he gazed over the lands below his heart throbbed with a passion for +the earth that was half agony and half love, unless indeed it was the +whole agony of love. + +“Most beautiful earth!” he cried aloud, “only as you recede from me +do I realize how necessary it is for me to possess you. How is it +that when I possess you I know you not as I know you now? But oh! if +you are so wonderful from these great hills, what must you be from +the greater hills of the air?” And he looked up, and saw the sun +descending in the west. “Sweet earth,” he sighed, “you would hold me +when I should be gone, and never remind me that the moment to depart +is due.” And he stretched out his arms to her, sealed up his lips, +and went into the Ring. + +Once more he knelt between the giant beeches, and sank all thoughts +in pious contemplation; till suddenly those still waters were +convulsed as though with stormy currents, and a wild song beat +through his breast, so that he could not believe it was the bird +singing from a short distance: it was as though the storm of music +broke from his singing heart--yes, from his own heart singing for +some unexpressed fulfillment. He was barely conscious of going +through the trees, with eyes tight shut against the outer world, but +soon he was kneeling at the brink of the Pond, while a surge of joy +and pain in the song broke on his spirit like waves upon a shore, +or love upon a man and a woman--washed back, towered up, and broke +on him again. At last on one full glorious phrase it ceased. And at +that instant, deep in the Pond, he saw the full orb of the moon, and +dipped his head. + +Oh, when he lifted it, startled and illuminated, he saw on the +further side of the Pond a woman standing. The moonlight bathed her +form from head to foot, her hair was thrown behind her, and she +stood facing him, so that in the cold clear light he could see her +fully revealed: her strong tender face, her strong soft body, her +strong slim legs, her strong and lovely arms. As white as mayblossom +she was, and beauty went forth from her like fragrance from the +shaken bough. So he knelt on his side and she stood on hers, both +motionless, but gazing into each other’s eyes, and his heart broke +(even as it had broken at the bird’s song) with a passion to take +her in his arms, for it seemed to him that this alone would mend +its breaking. Or if he might not do this, at least to send his need +of her in a great cry across the Pond. And as his passion grew she +slowly lifted her arms and opened them to him as though to bid him +enter; and her lips parted, and she cried out, as though she were +uttering the cry of his own soul: + +“Beloved!” + +All the joy and the pain, unfulfilled, of the bird’s song were +gathered in that word. + +Glorified he leaped up, his whole being answering the cry of hers, +but before his lips could translate it he was gripped by a mighty +agony, and sneeze after sneeze shook all his senses, so that he was +utterly helpless. When he was able to look up again he saw the woman +moving towards him round the Pond, and suddenly he clapped his hands +over his eyes and fled towards the Ring, as though pursued by demons. +Here he passed the remainder of the night, but in what sort of +prayers I leave you to imagine; as also amid what ravings he passed +his Sunday. + +On Monday the Lad was again before him at the forge, and a crow’s +wing looked milky beside his face. He did not raise his eyes as the +King came in, but said: + +“You look very ill.” He said it furiously. + +“I have had nightmares,” said the King. “Pardon me if you can. I will +get to work and make my final shoe.” + +But though he now had little more to learn in his craft, the Lad, +when the shoe was made, picked it up in his pincers and flung it to +the other end of the forge; yet the King now knew enough to know that +few smiths could have made its equal. So he looked surprised; at +which the Lad, controlling himself, said: + +“When I pass your fourth shoe you will need no more masters--I forged +a shoe like that one yonder when I was fifteen, and my father said of +it, ‘You will make a smith one day.’” + +And on neither Tuesday nor Wednesday nor Thursday nor Friday could +the King succeed in pleasing the Lad; the better his shoes the +angrier grew his young master that they were not good enough. Yet +between these gusts of temper he was gentle and remorseful, and once +the King saw tears in his eyes, and another time the Lad came humbly +to ask for pardon. Then William laughed and put out his hand, but, as +once before, the Lad slipped his behind his back and said: + +“It is so dirty, friend.” + +And this time he would not let William take it. So the King was +forced instead to lay his arm about the Lad’s shoulder, and press +it tenderly; but the Lad made no response, and only stood hanging +his head until the King removed his arm. All the same, when next the +King made a shoe he was full of rage, and stamped on it, and ran out +of the forge. Which surprised the King all the more because it was +so excellent a shoe. Yet he was secretly glad of its rejection, for +he felt it would break his heart to go away from that place; and he +could think of no good cause for remaining, once Pepper was shod. So +there he stayed, eating, sleeping, and working, while the thews of +his back became as strong under the smooth skin as the thews of a +beech-tree under the smooth bark; and his craft was such that the Lad +at last left the whole of the work of the forge in his charge. For +there was nothing he could not do surpassingly well. And this the Lad +admitted, save only in the case of the fourth shoe. + +But on Saturday, just before closing-time, the King set to and made a +shoe so fine that when the Lad saw it he said quietly, “I could not +make a better.” Had he not said so he must have lied, or proved that +he did not know a masterpiece when he saw it. And he was too good a +craftsman for that, besides being honest. + +Pepper instantly lifted up her near hind-foot. + +“Upon my word!” exclaimed the King, “the world is full of stones, and +Pepper has found them all. The wonder is that she did not fall down +on the road.” + +“This is not a stone,” said the Lad, “it is an opal.” + +And he displayed an opal of such marvelous changeability, such milk +and fire shot with such shifting rainbows, that it was as though it +had had birth of all the moods of all the women of all time. + +“This enriches you for life,” said the Lad gloomily, “and now you are +free of masters for ever.” + +But William thrust his hands into his pockets. “Keep it,” he said, +“for this week you have given me love, and I have given you nothing +but the sinews of my body.” + +The Lad looked at him and said, “I have given you hard words, and +fits of temper, and much injustice.” + +“Have you?” said William. “I remember only your tenderness and your +tears. So keep the opal in love’s name.” + +The Lad tried to answer, but could not; and he slipped the opal under +his shirt. Then he faltered, “My Great-Aunt--” and still he could not +speak. But he made a third effort, and said, “There is a cake in the +larder,” and turned on his heel and went away quickly. And the King +looked after him till he was out of sight, and then very slowly went +to his bath and his fresh linen. But he left the cake where it was. + +And he sat by the door of the forge with his face in his hands until +the length of his shadow warned him that he must go. And he rose and +went for the last time up the hill, but with a sinking heart; and +when he stood on the top and gazed upon the beauty of the earth he +had left below, in his breast was the ache of loss and longing for +one he had loved, and with his eyes he tried to draw that beauty into +himself, but the void in him remained unfulfilled. Yet never had her +beauty been so great. + +“Beloved and lovely earth!” he whispered, “why do you appear most +fair and most desirable now that I am about to lose you? Why when +I had you did you not hold me by force, and tell me what you were? +Only now I discover you from mid-heaven--but oh! in what way should +I discover you from heaven itself?” And he looked upward, and lo! a +blurred sun shone upon him, swimming to its rest. But the blurring +was caused by his own tears in his eyes. “Farewell, dear earth!” said +the King. “Since you cannot mount to me, and I may not descend to +you.” And he knelt upon the turf and laid his cheek and forehead to +it, and then he rose, sealed up his lips, and passed into the Ring. + +Between the two tall beeches he sank down, and all sense and thought +and consciousness sank with him, as though his being had become a +dead forgotten lake, hidden in a lifeless wood; where birds sang +not, nor rain fell, nor fishes played, nor currents moved below the +stagnant waters. But presently a wind seemed to wail among the trees, +and the sound of it traveled over the King’s senses, stirred them, +and passed. But only to return again, moan over him, and trail away; +and so it kept coming and going till first he heard, then listened +to, and at last realized the haunting signal of the bird. And he went +forth into the open night, his eyes wide apart but seeing nothing +until he stumbled at the Pond and crouched beside it. The bird grew +fainter and fainter, and presently the sound, like a ghost at dawn, +ceased to exist; and at that instant, under the Pond, he beheld the +lessening circle of the moon, and dipped his head. + +Alas! when he lifted it, shivering and stunned, he saw the form he +longed to see on the other side of the Pond; but not as he had longed +to see it, gazing at him with the love and glory of seven nights +ago. Now she stood on the turf, half turned from him, and the wave of +her hair blew to and fro like a cloud, now revealing her white side, +now concealing it. And he looked, but she would not look. So he knelt +on his side and she remained on hers, both motionless. And suddenly +the impulse to sneeze arose within him, and at that instant she began +to move--not towards him, as before, but away from him, downhill. + +At that he could bear no more, and quelling the impulse with a mighty +effort, he got upon his feet crying, “Beloved, stay! Beloved, stay, +beloved!” + +And he staggered round the Pond as quickly as his shaking knees would +let him; but quicker still she slid away, and when he came where she +had been the place was as empty as the sky in its moonless season. +He called and ran about and called again; but he got no answer, +nor found what he sought. All that night he spent in calling and +running to and fro. What he did on Sunday you may know, and I may +know, but he did not. On Sunday night he stayed beside the Pond, but +whatever his hopes were they received no fulfillment. On Monday night +he was there again, and on Tuesday, and on Wednesday; and between +the mornings and the nights he went from hill to hill, seeking her +hiding-place who came to bathe in the lake. There was not a hill +within a day’s march that did not know him, from Duncton to Mount +Harry. But on none of them he found the Woman. How he lived is a +puzzle. Perhaps upon wild raspberries. + +After the sun had set on Chanctonbury on Saturday night, he came +exhausted to the Ring again, and stood on that high hill gazing +earthward. But there was no light above or below, and he said: + +“I have lost all. For the earth is swallowed in blackness, and the +Woman has disappeared into space, and I myself have cast away my +spiritual initiation. I will sit by the pond till midnight, and if +the bird sings then I will still hope, but if it does not I will dip +my head in the water and not lift it again.” + +So he went and lay down by the Pond in the darkness, and the hours +wore away. And as the time of the bird’s song drew near he clasped +his hands and prayed. But the bird did not sing; and when he judged +that midnight was come, he got upon his knees and prepared to put his +head under the water. And as he did so he saw, on the opposite side +of the Pond, the feeble light of a lantern. He could not see who held +it, because even as he looked the bearer blew out the light; but in +that moment it appeared to him that she was as black as the night +itself. + +So for awhile he knelt upon his side, and she remained on hers, both +trembling; but at last the King, dreading to startle her away, rose +softly and went round the Pond to where he had seen her. + +He said into the night in a shaking voice, “I cannot see you. If you +are there, give me your hand.” + +And out of the night a shaking voice replied: + +“It is so dirty, beloved.” + +Then he took her in his arms, and felt how she trembled, and he held +her closely to him to still her, whispering: + +“You are my Lad.” + +“Yes,” she said in a low voice. “But wait.” + +And she slipped out of his embrace, and he heard her enter the Pond, +and she stayed there as it seemed to him a lifetime; but presently +she rose up, and even in that black night the whiteness of her body +was visible to him, and she came to him as she was and laid her head +on his breast and said: + +“I am your Woman.” + + +(“I want my apple,” said Martin Pippin. + +“But is this the end?” cried little Joan. + +“Why not?” said Martin. “The lovers are united.” + +Joscelyn: Nonsense! Of course it is not the end! You must tell a +thousand other things. Why was the Woman a woman on Saturday night +and a lad all the rest of the week? + +Joyce: What of the four jewels? + +Jennifer: Which of the answers to the King’s riddle was the right +one? + +Jessica: What happened to the cake? + +Jane: What was her name? + +“Please,” said little Joan, “do not let this be the end, but tell +us what they did next.” + +“Women will be women,” observed Martin, “and to the end of time +prefer unessentials to the essential. But I will endeavor to +satisfy you on the points you name.”) + + +In the morning William said to his beloved: + +“Now tell me something of yourself. How come you to be so masterful +a smith? Why do you live as a black Lad all the week and turn only +into a white Woman on Saturdays? Have you really got a Great-Aunt, +and where does she live? How old are you? Why were you so hard to +please about the shoeing of Pepper? And why, the better my shoes the +worse your temper? Why did you run away from me a week ago? Why did +you never tell me who you were? Why have you tormented me for a whole +month? What is your name?” + +“Trust a man to ask questions!” said his beloved, laughing and +blushing. “Is it not enough that I am your beloved?” + +“More than enough, yet not nearly enough,” said the King, “for there +is nothing of yourself which you must not tell me in time, from the +moment when you first stole barley sugar behind your father’s back, +down to that in which you first loved me.” + +“Then I had best begin at once,” she smiled, “or a lifetime will not +be long enough. I am eighteen years old and my name is Viola. I was +born in Falmer, and my father was the best smith in all Sussex, and +because he had no other child he made me his bellows-boy, and in +time, as you know, taught me his trade. But he was, as you also know, +a stern master, and it was not until, on my sixteenth birthday, I +forged a shoe the equal of your last, that he said ‘I could not make +a better.’ And so saying he died. Now I had no other relative in all +the world except my Great-Aunt, the Wise Woman of the Bush Hovel, +and her I had never seen; but I thought I could not do better in my +extremity than go to her for counsel. So, shouldering my father’s +tools, I journeyed west until I came to her place, and found her +trying to break in a new birch-broom that was still too green and +full of sap to be easily mastered; and she was in a very bad temper. +‘Good day, Great-Aunt,’ I said, ‘I am your Great-Niece Viola.’ ‘I +have no more use for great nieces,’ she snapped, ‘than for little +ones.’ And she continued to tussle with the broomstick and took +no further notice of me. Then I went into the Hovel, where a fire +burned on the hearth, and I took out my tools and fashioned a bit +on the hob; and when it was ready I took it to her and said, ‘This +will teach it its manners’; and she put the bit on the broom, which +became as docile as a lamb. ‘Great-Niece,’ said she, ‘it appears +that I told you a lie this morning. What can I do for you?’ ‘Tell me, +if you please, how I am to live now that my father is dead.’ ‘There +is no need to tell you,’ said she; ‘you have your living at your +fingers’ ends.’ ‘But women cannot be smiths,’ said I. ‘Then become a +lad,’ said she, ‘and ply your trade where none knows you; and lest +men should suspect you by your face, which fools though they be they +might easily do, let it be so sooted from week’s end to week’s end +that none can discover what you look like; and if any one remarks on +it, put it down to your trade.’ ‘But Great-Aunt,’ I said, ‘I could +not bear to go dirty from week’s end to week’s end.’ ‘If you will be +so particular,’ she said, ‘take a bath every Saturday night and spend +your Sundays with me, as fair as when you were a babe. And before you +go to work again on Monday you shall once more conceal your fairness +past all men’s penetration.’ ‘But, dear Great-Aunt,’ I pleaded, ‘it +may be that the day will come when I might not wish----’” + +And here, dear maidens, Viola faltered. And William put his arm about +her a little tighter--because it was there already--and said, “What +might you not wish, beloved?” And she murmured, “To be concealed +past one man’s penetration. And my Great-Aunt said I need not worry. +Because though men, she said, were fools, there was one time in every +man’s life when he was quick enough to penetrate all obscurities, +whether it were a layer of soot or a night without a moon.” And +she hid her face on the King’s shoulder, and he tried to kiss her +but could not make her look up until he said, “Or even a woman’s +waywardness?” Then she looked up of her own accord and kissed him. + +“In this way,” she resumed, “it became my custom on each Saturday, +after closing the forge, to come here with my woman’s raiment, and +wait in a hollow until night had fallen, and make myself clean of +this week’s blackness. For I dared not do this by daylight or be seen +going forth from the forge in my proper person.” + +“But why did you choose to bathe at midnight?” asked the King. + +She was silent for a few moments, and then said hurriedly, “I did not +choose to bathe at midnight until a month ago.--For the rest,” she +resumed, “I was hard to please in the matter of the shoes because I +knew that when they were finished you would ride away. And therefore +the more you improved the crosser I became. And if I have tormented +you for a month it was because you tormented me by refusing to speak +when you saw me here, in spite of your hateful vow; and you would not +even look at my cake in the larder.” + +“Women are strange,” said the King. “How do you know I did not look +at the cake?” + +“I do know,” she said as hurriedly as before. “And if I would not +tell you who I was, it was because I could not bear, on the other +hand, to extort from you a love you seemed so reluctant to endure; +until indeed it became of its own accord too strong even for the +purpose which brought you every week to the Ring. For I knew that +purpose, since all dwellers in Washington know why men go up the hill +with the new moon.” + +“But when my love did become too strong for my vow, and opened my +lips at last,” said the King, “why did you run away?” + +Viola said, “Had you not run away the week before? And now I have +answered all your questions?” + +“No,” said the King, “not all. You haven’t told me yet when you first +loved me.” + +Viola smiled and said, “I first stole barley sugar when my father +said ‘This is for the other little girl over the way’; and I first +loved you when, seeing you had been too absent-minded to know that +Pepper had cast her shoes, I feared you were in love.” + +“But that was three minutes after we met!” cried the King. + +“Was it as much as that!” said she. + +Now after awhile Viola said, “Let us get down to the world again. We +cannot stay here for ever.” + +“Why not?” said the King. However, they walked to the brow of the +hill, and stood together gazing awhile over the sunlit earth that +had never been so beautiful to either of them; for their sight was +newly-washed with love, and all things were changed. + +“Now I know how she looks from heaven,” said the King, “and that is +like heaven itself. Let us go; for I think she will still look so at +our coming, seeing that we carry heaven with us.” + +So they went downhill to the forge, and there Viola said to her +lover, “I can stay no longer in this place where all men have known +me as a lad; and besides, a woman’s home is where her husband lives.” + +“But I live only in a Barn,” said William the King. + +“Then I will live there with you,” said Viola, “and from this very +night. But first I will shoe Pepper anew, for she is so unequally +shod that she might spill us on the road. And that she may be shod +worthily of herself and of us, give me what you have tied up in +your blue handkerchief.” The King fetched his handkerchief and +unknotted it, and gave her his crown and scepter; and she set him +at the bellows and made three golden shoes and shod the nag on her +two fore-feet and her off hind-foot. But when she looked at the near +hind-foot, which the King had shod last of all, she said: “I could +not make a better. And therefore, like his father, the Lad shut his +smithy, for he is dead.” Then she put the three shoes she had removed +into a bag with some other trifles; and while she did so the King +took what remained of the gold and made it into two rings. This done, +they got on to Pepper’s back, and with her three shoes of gold and +one of iron she bore them the way the King had come. When they passed +the Bush Hovel they saw the Wise Woman currying her broomstick, and +Viola cried: + +“Great-Aunt, give us a blessing.” + +“Great-Niece,” said the Wise Woman, “how can I give you what you +already have? But I will give you this.” And she held out a horseshoe. + +“Good gracious,” said the King, “this was once Pepper’s.” + +“It was,” said the Wise Woman. “In her merriment at hearing you ask +a silly question, she cast it outside my door.” A little further on +they came to the Guess Gate, but when the King, dismounting, swung it +open, it grated on something in the road. He stooped and lifted--a +horseshoe. + +“Wonder of wonders!” exclaimed the King. “This also was Pepper’s. +What shall we do with it?” + +“Hang--it--up--hang--it--up--hang--” creaked the Gate; and clicked +home. + +In due course they reached the Doves, and at the sound of Pepper’s +hoofs the Brothers flocked out to meet them. + +“Is all well?” cried the Ringdove, seeing the King only, “And have +you returned to us for the final blessing?” + +“I have,” replied the King, “for I bring my bride behind me, and now +you must make us one.” + +The gentle Brothers, rejoicing at the sight of their happiness and +their beauty, led them in; and there they were wedded. The Doves +offered them to eat, but the King was impatient to reach his Barn by +nightfall; so they got again on Pepper’s back, and as they were about +to leave the Ringdove said: + +“I have something of yours which is in itself a thing of no moment; +yet, because it is of good augury, take it with you.” + +And he gave the King Pepper’s third shoe. + +“Thank you,” said the King, “I will hang it over my Barn door.” + +Now he urged Pepper to her full speed, and they went at a gallop past +the Hawking Sopers, who, hearing the clatter, came running into the +road. + +“Stay, gallopers, stay!” they cried, “and make merry with us.” + +“We cannot,” called the King, “for we are newly married.” + +“Good luck to you then!” shouted the Sopers, and with huzzas and +laughter flung something after them. Viola stretched out her hand and +caught it in mid-air, and it was a horseshoe. + +“The tale is complete,” she laughed, “and now you know where Pepper +picked up her stones.” + +Soon after the King said, “Here is my Barn.” And he sprang down and +lifted his bride from the nag’s back and brought her in. + +“It is a poor place,” he said gently, “but it is all I have. What can +I do for you in such a home?” + +“I will tell you,” said Viola, and putting her hand into her left +pocket, she drew out the ruby winking with the wine of mirth. “You +can dance in it.” And suddenly they caught each other by the hands +and went capering and laughing round the Barn like children. + +“Hurrah!” cried William, “now I know what a King should do in a Barn?” + +“But he should do more than dance in it,” said Viola; and putting +her hand into her right pocket she gave him the pearl, as pure as a +prayer; “beloved, he should pray in it too.” + +And William looked at her and knelt, and she knelt by him, and in +silence they prayed the same prayer, side by side. + +Then William rose and said simply, “Now I know.” + +But she knelt still, and took from her girdle the diamond, as bright +as power, and she put it in his hand, saying very low, “Oh, my dear +King! but he should also rule in it.” And she kissed his hand. But +the King lifted her very quickly so that she stood equal with his +heart, and embracing her he said, with tears in his eyes: + +“And you, beloved! what will a Queen do in a Barn?” + +“The same as a King,” she whispered, and drew from her bosom the +opal, as lovely and as variable as the human spirit. “With the other +three stones you may, if you will, buy back your father’s kingdom. +But this, which contains all qualities in one, let us keep for ever, +for our children and theirs, that they may know there is nothing a +King and a Queen may not do in a Barn, or a man and a woman anywhere. +But the best thing they can do is to work in it.” + +Then, going out, she came back with the bag which she had slung on +Pepper’s back, and took from it her father’s tools. + +“In three weeks you learned all I learned in three years,” said she. +“When I shod Pepper this morning I did my last job as a smith; for +now I shall have other work to do. But you, whether you choose to get +your father’s lands again or no, I pray to work in the trade I have +given you, for I have made you the very king of smiths, and all men +should do the thing they can do best. So take the hammer and nail +up the horseshoes over the door while I get supper; for you look as +hungry as I feel.” + +“But there’s nothing to eat,” said the King ruefully. + +However, he went outside, and over the door he hung as many shoes as +there are nails in one--the four Pepper had cast on the road, and the +three he had first made her. As he drove the last nail home Viola +called: + +“Supper is ready.” + +And the King went into the Barn and saw a Wedding Cake. + + By permission, from _Martin Pippin in the Apple + Orchard_ by Eleanor Farjeon. Copyright 1922 by + Frederick A. Stokes Company. + + + THE HAPPY PRINCE + + OSCAR WILDE + +High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy +Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for +eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his +sword-hilt. + +He was very much admired indeed. “He is as beautiful as a +weathercock,” remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain +a reputation for having artistic tastes; “only not quite so useful,” +he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he +really was not. + +“Why can’t you be like the Happy Prince?” asked a sensible mother of +her little boy who was crying for the moon. “The Happy Prince never +dreams of crying for anything.” + +“I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy,” +muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue. + +“He looks just like an angel,” said the Charity Children as they came +out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean +white pinafores. + +“How do you know?” said the Mathematical Master, “you have never seen +one.” + +“Ah! but we have, in our dreams,” answered the children; and the +Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not +approve of children dreaming. + +One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had +gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for +he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in +the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, +and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to +talk to her. + +“Shall I love you?” said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point +at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round +her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. +This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer. + +“It is a ridiculous attachment,” twittered the other Swallows; “she +has no money, and far too many relations”; and indeed the river was +quite full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn came, they all flew away. + +After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his +ladylove. “She has no conversation,” he said, “and I am afraid that +she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind.” And +certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful +curtseys. “I admit that she is domestic,” he continued, “but I love +travelling, and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also.” + +“Will you come away with me?” he said finally to her; but the Reed +shook her head, she was so attached to her home. + +“You have been trifling with me,” he cried, “I am off to the +Pyramids. Good-bye!” and he flew away. + +All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. +“Where shall I put up?” he said; “I hope the town has made +preparations.” + +Then he saw the statue on the tall column. + +“I will put up there,” he cried; “it is a fine position with plenty +of fresh air.” So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy +Prince. + +“I have a golden bedroom,” he said softly to himself as he looked +round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting +his head under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. “What a +curious thing!” he cried; “there is not a single cloud in the sky, +the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The +climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to +like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness.” + +Then another drop fell. + +“What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?” he +said; “I must look for a good chimney-pot,” and he determined to fly +away. + +But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked +up, and saw--Ah! what did he see? + +The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were +running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the +moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity. + +“Who are you?” he said. + +“I am the Happy Prince.” + +“Why are you weeping then?” asked the Swallow; “you have quite +drenched me.” + +“When I was alive and had a human heart,” answered the statue, “I did +not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci, +where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my +companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the +Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared +to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My +courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if +pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am +dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness +and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead +yet I cannot choose but weep.” + +“What! is he not solid gold?” said the Swallow to himself. He was too +polite to make any personal remarks out loud. + +“Far away,” continued the statue in a low musical voice, “far away +in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is +open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face +is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the +needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion-flowers +on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen’s maids-of-honour to +wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her +little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. +His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying. +Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby +out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I +cannot move.” + +“I am waited for in Egypt,” said the Swallow. “My friends are flying +up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers. Soon +they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is +there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, +and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green +jade, and his hands are like withered leaves.” + +“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “will you not +stay with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so +thirsty, and the mother so sad.” + +“I don’t think I like boys,” answered the Swallow. “Last summer, when +I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller’s +sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of +course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come +of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of +disrespect.” + +But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry. +“It is very cold here,” he said; “but I will stay with you for one +night, and be your messenger.” + +“Thank you, little Swallow,” said the Prince. So the Swallow picked +out the great ruby from the Prince’s sword, and flew away with it in +his beak over the roofs of the town. + +He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were +sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A +beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. “How wonderful +the stars are,” he said to her, “and how wonderful is the power of +love!” + +“I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball,” she +answered; “I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; +but the seamstresses are so lazy.” + +He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts +of the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews +bargaining with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. +At last he came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing +feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so +tired. In he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the +woman’s thimble. Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy’s +forehead with his wings. “How cool I feel,” said the boy, “I must be +getting better”; and he sank into a delicious slumber. + +Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he +had done. “It is curious,” he remarked, “but I feel quite warm now, +although it is so cold.” + +“That is because you have done a good action,” said the Prince. And +the little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking +always made him sleepy. + +When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. “What a +remarkable phenomenon,” said the Professor of Ornithology as he was +passing over the bridge. “A swallow in winter!” And he wrote a long +letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was +full of so many words that they could not understand. + +“To-night I go to Egypt,” said the Swallow, and he was in high +spirits at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and +sat a long time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the +Sparrows chirruped, and said to each other, “What a distinguished +stranger!” so he enjoyed himself very much. + +When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. + +“Have you any commissions for Egypt?” he cried; “I am just starting.” + +“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “will you not +stay with me one night longer?” + +“I am waited for in Egypt,” answered the Swallow. “To-morrow my +friends will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches +there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God +Memnon. All night long he watches the stars, and when the morning +star shines he utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon +the yellow lions come down to the water’s edge to drink. They have +eyes like green beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the +cataract.” + +“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “far away across +the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk +covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of +withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red +as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to +finish a play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to +write any more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made +him faint.” + +“I will wait with you one night longer,” said the Swallow, who really +had a good heart. “Shall I take him another ruby?” + +“Alas! I have no ruby now,” said the Prince; “my eyes are all that I +have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out +of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to +him. He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and +finish his play.” + +“Dear Prince,” said the Swallow, “I cannot do that”; and he began to +weep. + +“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “do as I command +you.” + +So the Swallow plucked out the Prince’s eye, and flew away to the +student’s garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole +in the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The +young man had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the +flutter of the bird’s wings, and when he looked up he found the +beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets. + +“I am beginning to be appreciated,” he cried; “this is from some +great admirer. Now I can finish my play,” and he looked quite happy. + +The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast +of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of +the hold with ropes. “Heave a-hoy!” they shouted as each chest came +up. “I am going to Egypt,” cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and +when the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. + +“I am come to bid you good-bye,” he cried. + +“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “will you not +stay with me one night longer?” + +“It is winter,” answered the Swallow, “and the chill snow will soon +be here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the +crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions +are building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white +doves are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I +must leave you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will +bring you back two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given +away. The ruby shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire +shall be as blue as the great sea.” + +“In the square below,” said the Happy Prince, “there stands a little +match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are +all spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some +money, and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her +little head is bare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and +her father will not beat her.” + +“I will stay with you one night longer,” said the Swallow, “but I +cannot pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then.” + +“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “do as I command +you.” + +So he plucked out the Prince’s other eye, and darted down with it. He +swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of +her hand. “What a lovely bit of glass,” cried the little girl; and +she ran home, laughing. + +Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. “You are blind now,” he +said, “so I will stay with you always.” + +“No, little Swallow,” said the poor Prince, “you must go away to +Egypt.” + +“I will stay with you always,” said the Swallow, and he slept at the +Prince’s feet. + +All the next day he sat on the Prince’s shoulder, and told him +stories of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the +red ibises, who stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and +catch gold-fish in their beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the +world itself, and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of the +merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their camels, and carry +amber beads in their hand; of the King of the Mountains of the Moon, +who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the great +green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty priests to +feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake +on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies. + +“Dear little Swallow,” said the Prince, “you tell me of marvellous +things, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and +of women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, +little Swallow, and tell me what you see there.” + +So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making +merry in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting +at the gates. He flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of +starving children looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under +the archway of a bridge two little boys were lying in one another’s +arms to try and keep themselves warm. “How hungry we are!” they said. +“You must not lie here,” shouted the Watchman, and they wandered out +into the rain. + +Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen. + +“I am covered with fine gold,” said the Prince, “you must take it +off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think +that gold can make them happy.” + +Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the +Happy Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine +gold he brought to the poor, and the children’s faces grew rosier, +and they laughed and played games in the street. “We have bread now!” +they cried. + +Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets +looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and +glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the +eaves of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little +boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice. + +The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not +leave the Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside +the baker’s door when the baker was not looking, and tried to keep +himself warm by flapping his wings. + +But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to +fly up to the Prince’s shoulder once more. “Good-bye, dear Prince!” +he murmured, “will you let me kiss your hand?” + +“I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow,” said +the Prince, “you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on +the lips, for I love you.” + +“It is not to Egypt that I am going,” said the Swallow. “I am going +to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?” + +And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his +feet. + +At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if +something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped +right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost. + +Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below +in company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column +he looked up at the statue; “Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince +looks!” he said. + +“How shabby indeed!” cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed +with the Mayor; and they went up to look at it. + +“The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is +golden no longer,” said the Mayor; “in fact, he is little better than +a beggar!” + +“Little better than a beggar,” said the Town Councillors. + +“And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!” continued the +Mayor. “We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not +to be allowed to die here.” And the Town Clerk made a note of the +suggestion. + +So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. “As he is no +longer beautiful he is no longer useful,” said the Art Professor at +the University. + +Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a +meeting of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the +metal. “We must have another statue, of course,” he said, “and it +shall be a statue of myself.” + +“Of myself,” said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled. +When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still. + +“What a strange thing!” said the overseer of the workmen at the +foundry. “This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We +must throw it away.” So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead +Swallow was also lying. + +“Bring me the two most precious things in the city,” said God to one +of His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the +dead bird. + +“You have rightly chosen,” said God, “for in my garden of Paradise +this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the +Happy Prince shall praise me.” + + Oscar Wilde, _A House of Pomegranates, The Happy + Prince and Other Tales_. + + + TRUTH + + OLIVE SCHREINER + +“‘In certain valleys there was a hunter. Day by day he went to hunt +for wild-fowl in the woods; and it chanced that once he stood on the +shores of a large lake. While he stood waiting in the rushes, for +the coming of the birds, a great shadow fell on him, and in the water +he saw a reflection. He looked up to the sky; but the thing was gone. +Then a burning desire came over him to see once again that reflection +in the water, and all day he watched and waited; but night came, and +it had not returned. Then he went home with his empty bag, moody and +silent. His comrades came questioning about him to know the reason, +but he answered them nothing; he sat alone and brooded. Then his +friend came to him, and to him he spoke. + +“‘I have seen today,’ he said ‘that which I never saw before--a +vast white bird, with silver wings out-stretched, sailing in the +everlasting blue. And now it is as though a great fire burned within +my breast. It was but a sheen, a shimmer, a reflection in the water; +but now I desire nothing more on earth than to hold her.’” + +“His friend laughed. + +“‘It was but a beam playing in the water, or the shadow of your own +head. To-morrow you will forget her,’ he said. + +“But to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow the hunter walked alone. +He sought in the forest and in the woods, by the lakes and among the +rushes, but he could not find her. He shot no more wild-fowl; what +were they to him? + +“‘What ails him?’ said his comrades. + +“‘He is mad,’ said one. + +“‘No; but he is worse,’ said another; ‘he would see that which none +of us have seen, and make himself a wonder.’ + +“‘Come, let us forswear his company,’ said all. + +“So the hunter walked alone. + +“One night, as he wandered in the shade, very heartsore and weeping, +an old man stood before him, grander and taller than the sons of men. + +“‘Who are you?’ asked the hunter. + +“‘I am Wisdom,’ answered the old man; ‘but some men called me +Knowledge. All my life I have grown in these valleys; but no man sees +me till he has sorrowed much. The eyes must be washed with tears that +are to behold me; and, according as a man has suffered, I speak.’ + +“And the hunter cried, ‘Oh, you who have lived here so long, tell me, +what is that great wild bird I have seen sailing in the blue? They +would have me believe she is a dream; the shadow of my own head.’ + +“The old man smiled. + +“‘Her name is Truth. He who has once seen her never rests again. Till +death he desires her.’ + +“And the hunter cried, ‘Oh, tell me where I may find her.’ + +“But the man said, ‘You have not suffered enough,’ and went. + +“Then the hunter took from his breast the Shuttle of Imagination, and +wound on it the thread of his Wishes; and all night he sat and wove a +net. + +“In the morning he spread the golden net open on the ground, and into +it he threw a few grains of Credulity, which his father had left +him, and which he kept in his breast-pocket. They were like white +puff-balls, and when you trod on them a brown dust flew out. Then he +sat by to see what would happen. The first that came into the net was +a snow-white bird, with dove’s eyes, and he sang a beautiful song, ‘A +human-God! a human-God! a human-God!’ it sang. The second that came +was black and mystical, with dark, lovely eyes, that looked into the +depths of your soul, and he sang only this, ‘Immortality!’ + +“And the hunter took them both in his arms, for he said, ‘They are +surely of the beautiful Family of Truth.’ + +“Then came another, green and gold, who sang in a shrill voice, like +one crying in the market-place, ‘Reward after Death! Reward after +Death!’ + +“And he said, ‘You are not so fair; but you are fair too,’ and he +took it. + +“And others came, brightly colored, singing pleasant songs, till +all the grains were finished. And the hunter gathered all his birds +together, and built a strong iron cage called a new creed, and put +all his birds in it. + +“Then the people came about, dancing and singing. + +“‘Oh, happy hunter!’ they cried. ‘Oh, wonderful man! Oh, delightful +birds! Oh, lovely songs!’ + +“No one asked where the birds had come from, nor how they had been +caught; but they danced and sang before them, and the hunter too was +glad, for he said, ‘Surely Truth is among them. In time she will +moult her feathers, and I shall see her snow-white form.’ + +“But the time passed, and the people sang and danced; but the +hunter’s heart grew heavy. He crept alone, as of old, to weep; the +terrible desire had awakened again in his breast. One day, as he sat +alone weeping, it chanced that Wisdom met him. He told the old man +what he had done. + +“And Wisdom smiled sadly. + +“‘Many men,’ he said, ‘have spread that net for Truth; but they have +never found her. On the grains of Credulity she will not feed; in the +net of Wishes her feet cannot be held; in the air of these valleys +she will not breathe. The birds you have caught are of the brood of +Lies. Lovely and beautiful, but still lies; Truth knows them not.’ + +“And the hunter cried out in bitterness,---- + +“‘And must I then sit still, to be devoured of this great burning?’ + +“And the old man said: ‘Listen, and in that you have suffered much +and wept much, I will tell you what I know. He who sets out to search +for Truth must leave these valleys of Superstition forever, taking +with him not one shred that has belonged to them. Alone he must +wander down into the land of Absolute Negation and Denial; he must +abide there; he must resist temptation; when the light breaks he must +arise and follow it into the country of Dry Sunshine. The mountains +of Stern Reality will rise before him; he must climb them; beyond +them lies Truth.’ + +“‘And he will hold her fast! He will hold her in his hands!’ the +hunter cried. + +“Wisdom shook his head. + +“‘He will never see her, never hold her. The time is not yet.’ + +“‘Then there is no hope?’ cried the hunter. + +“‘There is this,’ said Wisdom. ‘Some men have climbed on those +mountains; circle above circle of bare rock they have scaled; and +wandering there in those high regions some have chanced to pick up +on the ground, one white, silver feather dropped from the wing of +Truth. And it shall come to pass,’ said the old man, raising himself +prophetically and pointing with his finger to the sky, ‘it shall come +to pass, that, when enough of those silver feathers shall have been +gathered by the hands of men, and shall have been woven into a cord, +and the cord into a net, that in _that_ net Truth may be captured. +_Nothing but Truth can hold Truth.’_ + +“The hunter arose. ‘I will go,’ he said. + +“But Wisdom detained him. + +“‘Mark you well--who leaves these valleys never returns to them. +Though he should weep tears of blood seven days and nights upon the +confines, he can never put his foot across them. Left,--they, are +left forever. Upon the road which you would travel, there is no +reward offered. Who goes, goes freely, for the great love that is in +him. The work is his reward.’ + +“‘I go,’ said the hunter; ‘but upon the mountains, tell me, which +path shall I take?’ + +“‘I am the child of The-Accumulated-Knowledge-of Ages,’ said the man; +‘I can walk only where many men have trodden. On those mountains few +feet have passed; each man strikes out a path for himself. He goes at +his own peril; my voice he hears no more. I may follow after him, but +I cannot go before him.’ + +“Then Knowledge vanished. + +“And the hunter turned. He went to his cage, and with his hands broke +down the bars, and jagged iron tore his flesh. It is sometimes easier +to build than to break. + +“One by one he took his plumed birds, and let them fly. But, when +he came to his dark-plumed bird, he held it, and looked into its +beautiful eyes, and the bird uttered its low deep cry,--‘Immortality!’ + +“And he said quickly, ‘I cannot part with it. It is not heavy; it +eats no food. I will hide it in my breast; I will take it with me.’ +And he buried it there, and covered it over with his cloak. + +“But the thing he had hidden grew heavier, heavier, heavier,--till it +lay on his breast like lead. He could not move with it. He could not +leave those valleys with it. Then again he took it out, and looked at +it. + +“‘Oh, my beautiful, my heart’s own!’ he cried, ‘may I not keep you?’ + +“He opened his hands sadly. + +“‘Go,’ he said. ‘It may happen that in Truth’s song one note is like +to yours; but I shall never hear it.’ + +“Sadly he opened his hand, and the bird flew from him forever. + +“Then from the Shuttle of Imagination he took the thread of his +Wishes and threw it on the ground, and the empty shuttle he put into +his breast; for the thread was made in those valleys, but the shuttle +came from an unknown country. He turned to go; but now the people +came about him, howling. + +“‘Fool, hound, demented lunatic!’ they cried. ‘How dared you break +your cage and let the birds fly?’ + +“The hunter spoke; but they would not hear him. + +“‘Truth! who is she? Can you eat her? Can you drink her? Who has ever +seen her? Your birds were real; all could hear them sing. Oh, fool, +vile reptile, atheist!’ they cried, ‘you pollute the air.’ + +“‘Come, let us take up stones and stone him!’ cried some. + +“‘What affair is it of ours?’ said others. ‘Let the idiot go!’ and +went away. But the rest gathered up stones and mud, and threw at him. +At last, when he was bruised and cut, the hunter crept away into the +woods. And it was evening about him.” + +At every word the stranger spoke the fellow’s eyes flashed back on +him,--yes, and yes, and yes. The stranger smiled. It was almost +worth the trouble of exerting oneself, even on a lazy afternoon, to +win those passionate flashes, more thirsty and desiring than the +love-glances of a woman. + +“He wandered on and on,” said the stranger, “and the shade grew +deeper. He was on the borders now of the land where it is always +night. Then he stepped into it, and there was no light there. With +his hands he groped; but each branch, as he touched it, broke off, +and the earth was covered with cinders. At every step his foot sank +in, and a fine cloud of impalpable ashes flew up into his face; and +it was dark. So he sat down upon a stone, and buried his face in his +hands, to wait in that land of Negation and Denial till the light +came. + +“And it was night in his heart also. + +“Then from the marshes to his right and left cold mists arose, and +closed about him. A fine imperceptible rain fell in the dark, and +great drops gathered on his hair and clothes. His heart beat slowly, +and a numbness crept through all his limbs. Then, looking up, two +merry whisp lights came dancing. He lifted his head to look at them. +Nearer, nearer, they came. So warm, so bright, they danced like +stars of fire. They stood before him at last. From the centre of the +radiating flame in one looked out a woman’s face, laughing, dimpled, +with streaming yellow hair. In the centre of the other were merry +laughing ripples, like the bubbles on a glass of wine. They danced +before him. + +“‘Who are you,’ asked the hunter, ‘who alone come to me in my +solitude and darkness?’ + +“‘We are the twins Sensuality!’ they cried. ‘Our father’s name is +Human-Nature, and our mother’s name is Excess. We are as old as the +hills and rivers,--as old as the first man; but we never die,’ they +laughed. + +“‘Oh, let me wrap my arms about you!’ cried the first; ‘they are soft +and warm. Your heart is frozen now, but I will make it beat. Oh, come +to me!’ + +“‘I will pour my hot life into you,’ said the second; ‘your brain is +numb, and your limbs are dead now, but they shall live with a fierce +free fire. Oh, let me pour it in!’ + +“‘Oh, follow us!’ they cried, ‘and live with us. Nobler hearts than +yours have sat here in this darkness to wait; and they have come to +us and we to them, and they have never left us,--never. All else is +a delusion; but we are real, we are real. Truth is a shadow; the +valleys of Superstition are a farce; the earth is of ashes, the trees +all rotten; but we--feel us--we live! You cannot doubt us. Feel us, +how warm we are! Oh, come to us! come to us!’ + +“Nearer and nearer round his head they hovered, and the cold drops +melted on his forehead. The bright light shot into his eyes, dazzling +him, and the frozen blood began to run. And he said,---- + +“‘Yes; why should I die here in this awful darkness? They are warm, +they melt my frozen blood!’ and he stretched out his hands to take +them. + +“Then in a moment there arose before him the image of the thing he +had loved, and his hand dropped to his side. + +“‘Oh, come to us!’ they cried. + +“But he buried his face. + +“‘You dazzle my eyes,’ he cried, ‘you make my heart warm; but you +cannot give me what I desire. I will wait here,--wait till I die. Go!’ + +“He covered his face with his hands, and would not listen; and when +he looked up again they were two twinkling stars, that vanished in +the distance. + +“And the long, long night rolled on. + +“All who leave the valley of Superstition pass through that dark +land; but some go through it in a few days, some linger there for +months, some for years, and some die there. + +The boy had crept closer; his hot breath almost touched the +stranger’s hand; a mystic wonder filled his eyes. + +“At last for the hunter a faint light played along the horizon, and +he rose to follow it; and he reached that light at last, and stepped +into the broad sunshine. Then before him rose the almighty mountains +of Dry-facts and Realities. The clear sunshine played on them, and +the tops were lost in the clouds. At the foot many paths ran up. An +exultant cry burst from the hunter. He chose the straightest, and +began to climb; and the rocks and ridges resounded with his song. +They had exaggerated; after all, it was not so high, nor was the road +so steep! A few days, a few weeks, a few months at most, and then +the top! Not one feather only would he pick up; he would gather all +that other men had found,--weave the net,--capture Truth,--hold her +fast,--touch her with his hands,--clasp her! + +“He laughed in the merry sunshine, and sang loud. Victory was very +near. Nevertheless after a while the path grew steeper. He needed +all his breath for climbing, and the singing died away. On the +right and left rose huge rocks, devoid of lichen or moss, and in +the lava-like earth chasms yawned. Here and there he saw a sheen of +white bones. Now too the path began to grow less and less marked; +then it became a mere trace, with a foot-mark here and there; then +it ceased altogether. He sang no more, but struck forth a path for +himself, until he reached a mighty wall of rock, smooth and without +break, stretching as far as the eye could see. ‘I will rear a stair +against it; and, once this wall climbed, I shall be almost there,’ he +said bravely; and worked. With his Shuttle of Imagination he dug out +stones; but half of them would not fit, and half a month’s work would +roll down because those below were ill-chosen. But the hunter worked +on, saying always to himself, ‘Once this wall climbed, I shall be +almost there. This great work ended!’ + +“At last he came out upon the top, and he looked about him. Far below +rolled the white mist over the valleys of Superstition, and above +him towered the mountains. They had seemed low before; they were of +an immeasurable height now, from crown to foundation surrounded by +walls of rock, that rose tier above tier in mighty circles. Upon them +played the eternal sunshine. He uttered a wild cry. He bowed himself +on to the earth, and when he rose his face was white. In absolute +silence he walked on. He was very silent now. In those high regions +the rarefied air is hard to breathe by those born in the valleys; +every breath he drew hurt him, and the blood oozed out from the tips +of his fingers. Before the next wall of rock he began to work. The +height of this seemed infinite, and he said nothing. The sound of his +tool rang night and day upon the iron rocks into which he cut steps. +Years passed over him, yet he worked on; but the wall towered up +always above him to heaven. Sometimes he prayed that a little moss or +lichen might spring up on those bare walls to be a companion to him; +but it never came.” The stranger watched the boy’s face. + +“And the years rolled on; he counted them by the steps he had cut--a +few for a year--only a few. He sang no more; he said no more, ‘I will +do this or that’--he only worked. And at night when the twilight +settled down, there looked out at him from the holes and crevices in +the rocks strange wild faces. + +“‘Stop your work, you lonely man, and speak to us,’ they cried. + +“‘My salvation is in work. If I should stop but for one moment, you +would creep down upon me,’ he replied. And they put out their long +necks farther. + +“‘Look down into the crevices at your feet,’ they said. ‘See what +lies there,--white bones! As brave and strong a man as you climbed to +these rocks. And he looked up. He saw there was no use in striving; +he would never hold Truth, never see her, never find her. So he lay +down here, for he was very tired. He went to sleep forever. He put +himself to sleep. Sleep is very tranquil. You are not lonely when +you are asleep, neither do your hands ache, nor your heart.’ And the +hunter laughed between his teeth. + +“‘Have I torn from my heart all that was dearest; have I wandered +alone in the land of night; have I resisted temptation; have I dwelt +where the voice of my kind is never heard, and labored alone, to lie +down and be food for you, ye harpies?’ + +“He laughed fiercely; and the echoes of Despair slunk away, for the +laugh of a brave, strong heart is as a death-blow to them. + +“Nevertheless they crept out again, and looked at him. + +“‘Do you know that your hair is white?’ they said, ‘that your hands +begin to tremble like a child’s. Do you see that the point of your +Shuttle is gone? It is cracked already. If you should ever climb +this stair,’ they said, ‘it will be your last. You will never climb +another.’ + +“And he answered, ‘I know it!’ and worked on. + +“The old, thin hands cut the stones ill and jaggedly, for the fingers +were stiff and bent. The beauty and the strength of the man was gone. + +“At last an old, wizened, shrunken face looked out above the rocks. +It saw the eternal mountains rise with walls to the white clouds; but +its work was done. + +“The old hunter folded his tired hands, and lay down by the precipice +where he had worked away his life. It was the sleeping time at last. +Below him over the valleys rolled the thick white mist. Once it +broke; and through the gap the dying eyes looked down on the trees +and fields of their childhood. From afar seemed born to him the cry +of his own wild birds, and he heard the noise of people singing as +they danced. And he thought he heard among them the voices of his old +comrades; and he saw far off the sunlight shine on his early home. +And great tears gathered in the hunter’s eyes. + +“‘Ah! they who die there do not die alone,’ he cried. + +“Then the mists rolled together again, and he turned his eyes away. + +“‘I have sought,’ he said, ‘for long years I have labored; but I have +not found her. I have not rested, I have not ripened, and I have not +seen her; now my strength is gone. Where I lie down worn out, other +men will stand, young and fresh. By the steps that I have cut they +will climb; by the stairs that I have built they will mount. They +will never know the name of the man who made them. At the clumsy work +they will laugh; when the stones roll, they will curse me. But they +will mount, and on _my_ work; they will climb, and by _my_ stair. +They will find her, and through me. And no man liveth to himself, and +no man dieth to himself.’ + +“The tears rolled from beneath the shrivelled eyelids. If Truth had +appeared above him in the clouds now, he could not have seen her; the +mist of death was in his eyes. + +“‘My soul hears their glad step coming,’ he said; ‘and they shall +mount! they shall mount!’ He raised his shrivelled hand to his eyes. + +“Then slowly from the white sky above, through the still air, came +something falling, falling, falling. Softly it fluttered down, and +dropped on to the breast of the dying man. He felt it with his +hands. It was a feather. He died holding it.” + + Olive Schreiner, _The Story of an African Farm_. + + + A PARABLE FOR PHILANTHROPISTS + +Christopher and I were motoring through the Adirondacks; and, on +the morning in question, were traversing an unusually long stretch +of unbroken wilderness. For ten or fifteen miles we had passed not +a cottage, not a camp, not even a trail. Nothing but forest on both +sides of the road--wild, tangled forest, beautiful, fragrant, and +infinitely lonely. Its silence had fallen upon us. We felt as if we +had escaped forever from the troubled haunts of men, and could never +again be confronted with human problems. We drove slowly, with only a +half apprehensive eye on the gray sky, which threatened rain. + +I was just thinking that it was strange we saw so little evidence +of the wild animal life with which the woods must abound, when +suddenly, like an answer to my mental challenge, there came a little +stir in the bushes ahead of us. A tiny, discreet stir. No suggestion +of a bear or a deer. Perhaps a hedgehog, however. As we passed, I +looked closely and, to my astonishment, saw, not a hedgehog, not +even a rabbit or a squirrel, but--of all things, in that uninhabited +wilderness--a shrinking, small gray kitten. I could hardly have been +more surprised by the appearance of a woodchuck on Fifth Avenue. + +Christopher saw it as soon as I did, and he slid into neutral and +stopped the car. An indignant and disdainful look crept about his +mouth. I knew what he was thinking. We live in a summer-resorted +valley ourselves,--and we have had incredulously disgusting +experience with people who abandon pet cats when they close their +cottages. But not out in the wilderness like this, at the mercy of +all kinds of dangers, and so little and helpless, its mother’s milk +scarcely dry on its mouth. I was so angry that I could not speak, as +I got out of the car and went back along the road. + +“I don’t know what in the world we’ll do with it,” said Christopher. + +The point was well taken. We were planning to spend the night in a +hotel. Neither of us hesitated, however. Our duty seemed clear. + +“I suppose we can leave it at some camp or farmhouse,” I suggested. + +“And pay them for taking care of it!” Christopher added, ironically. + +The kitten remained just where we had discovered it until we were +near enough to look it in the eye. It had evidently been a pet. Its +fur was sleek and its face wore the open, candid expression peculiar +to well-bred cats. It seemed glad to see us. Steadfastly it returned +our gaze, and its pink mouth opened in a plaintive meow. + +“Kitty!” I murmured. I’m fond of cats, and this one quite went to +my heart. “Pick her up for me, Christopher. I’ll hold her while you +drive.” + +So Christopher went to pick her up, and for the next hour and a half +he continued to repeat the motion. + +Who could have believed it would be so hard to make connections with +a pet kitten? She was not afraid of us. On the contrary, the minute +we let her alone, she came stealing back to the side of the road +where she could see us and call to us. But she simply could not make +up her mind to let us rescue her. + +First Christopher tried, with a confident method which left him +staring rather foolishly at his unexpectedly empty hand. Then I +tried. + +“That’s not the way. Evidently, she’s been out here long enough to +get frightened. Poor little thing! We must coax her into confidence.” + +So Christopher sat down on a rock and lighted a cigarette while, +slowly, slowly, discoursing, “Poor kitty! nice kitty!” in my most +mellifluous accents. I crossed the road and approached the spot where +the kitten crouched. It took me at least ten minutes, and, in the +end, she slipped from beneath my very fingers. My discomfiture was +worse than Christopher’s, for the retreating ball of fur turned and +spat at me. + +“Hard luck!” said Christopher, sympathetically, if also a little +critically, “when you so nearly had her. I’ll try again next; but +we’d better sit still for a while till she gets over her scare.” + +As we sat waiting, it became evident that it really was going to +rain. In fact, already a fine mist was in the air. + +“Those bushes will soon be nice and wet,” remarked Christopher. + +“Well,” I replied, much subdued, “she’s near the edge now. Go and get +her, and get it over with.” + +Three minutes later, after a slow approach followed by a plunge on +Christopher’s part, the kitten was in the heart of the forest. + +“Oh, I say!” cried Christopher. “This is hopeless. We might stay +here all day and all night and all another day. Don’t you think we’d +better conclude that we’ve done our best? After all, there are plenty +of mice and grass-hoppers in the woods.” + +I recognized this as sound, sensible masculine advice, and I longed +to accept it. The prospect of spending indefinite hours dodging about +tangled bushes in the rain was not exhilarating. Moreover, the next +inn was leagues ahead, and we were hungry. But the sentiment of my +sex was too much for me. + +“I’m afraid I could never look Shem in the face again,” I murmured. + +Shem is our yellow cat at home. + +Christopher was admirable. He always is, but on this occasion he +outdid himself. He said nothing further, but took off his hat and +coat, turned up his trousers, and went to work. For nearly an hour +he pursued that kitten, trying every method he could think of or +I could suggest. He stalked and coaxed, he waited and plunged, he +withdrew, he circumvented and headed off. The rain fell steadily, and +the bushes more than fulfilled their promise of wetness. I was very +unhappy. After all, I care more about Christopher than about kittens. +But something of the kitten’s perversity had infected me. As she +could not bring herself to be caught, so I could not bring myself to +abandon her. + +“Well,” said Christopher finally (he spoke carefully; for the +last half hour when he had said anything at all, he had said it +carefully), “I’m going to make one more effort, and then----” + +It was a thorough effort. He made a wide détour about the kitten’s +position, entering a part of the forest which he had not penetrated +before, and was about to close in on the maddening outcast, when, to +my perplexity, he suddenly desisted from the whole undertaking and +returned to the road, shaking the rain from his hair and turning down +his trousers with as dark an air of disgust as I have ever seen. I +wanted to ask, “What in the world is the matter?” but I thought I’d +better not. + +He told me, however, presently. The situation was one which just +had to be shared. “There’s a trail over there,” he said concisely, +“leading to an occupied camp. We’ve spent the morning trying to +kidnap that kitten.” + +Perhaps there is nothing more to be said. Certainly Christopher and I +said nothing for many miles. I was too humbly chastened, and he was +too--well, let us call it considerate. But we did some thinking; and, +after a most opportunely good dinner at an unexpected wayside inn, I +was relieved to hear Christopher begin to meditate aloud. + +“It wasn’t crying at all,” he reflected. “It was just saying, as its +mother had taught it, ‘Welcome to our mountain home.’ How embarrassed +it must have been!” + +“And frightened,” I added. “No wonder I thought it looked scared. +Several times we nearly had it.” + +“Well,” Christopher concluded, with a grave glance at me, +“philanthropy’s a ticklish business.” + + By kind permission of _The Atlantic Monthly_. + + + THE TADPOLE AND THE FROG + +“Be ashamed of yourself,” said the frog. “When I was a tadpole, I had +no tail.” + +“Just what I thought!” said the tadpole. “You never were a tadpole.” + + Robert Louis Stevenson. _Fables._ By permission + of Charles Scribner’s Sons, the authorized + publishers. + + +SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY OF FAIRY TALES, ALLEGORIES, PARABLES, AND FABLES + +The editors have found the additional selections very useful in +teaching these forms of narrative: + + Andersen, Hans Christian. _Fairy Tales._ + + Æsop. _Fables._ + + Frazer, Lady. _Leaves from the Golden Bough._ The Macmillan Company. + + La Fontaine. _Fables._ + + Schreiner, Olive. _Dreams._ + + Stephens, James. _Irish Fairy Tales._ The Macmillan Company. + + Stevenson, Robert Louis. _Fables_, particularly _The Cart Horse and + Saddle Horse_ and _The Sinking Ship_. Charles Scribner’s Sons. + + + + + CHAPTER VII + + _Biographical Narrative_ + + +It is true that, strictly speaking, all biography is narrative; but +it is also true that in much biography the best narrative is lacking. +Thus, in calling this chapter Biographical Narrative, we obviously +mean the type of biography in which the narrative, or story, element +is stressed, in which the character depicted lives in the mind of the +reader because he has been drawn as an actor upon his stage, or, in +other words, because he himself acts rather than is acted upon by the +faithful but none too vigorous pen of his biographer. + +This kind of biographical narrative requires, first, a subject, who, +although not a Dr. Johnson, is at least sufficiently striking in +personality and achievement to merit one’s attention and interest, +and, second, a sense of perception and discrimination on the part of +the biographer. The three selections which are given to illustrate +biographical narrative fulfill these requirements. One records the +life and work of Dr. Trudeau, the beloved physician of Saranac; +another depicts Beau Nash, a “character” of the early eighteenth +century; a third portrays the eccentric Lady Hester Stanhope of the +Pitt house and the Pitt nose. + +Even the most cursory reading of the three selections will convince +him who reads that the persons portrayed really live, and a careful +analysis will show him why and how. It is this analysis which should +give him suggestions for his own writing of this kind of narrative. + +He will easily discover that the last of the models, _The Beloved +Physician_, is far longer than either of the others, that it +possesses far greater wealth of anecdote and of detail, and that +it lays greater stress upon the work of the man than upon the man +himself--or, in other words, that it reveals the physician through +his relations to his environment rather than through personal traits +and habits. + +And yet when he compares it with _Beau Nash_, which is only +one-fourth as long, he will be convinced that the subject of the +latter is after all just as clearly portrayed. This debonair +gentleman of the early eighteenth century with his snuff-boxes, his +white beaver, and his two imperious fingers, lives because of the +very choice of detail with which his biographer has drawn him. Bath +lives, too, with her welcoming abbey bells and her “periwigged men of +fashion, immaculate in all but morals.” Here is no wealth of detail +at all, but here instead are a few vivid and concrete facts and +objects which paint the picture every whit as clearly. + +The second selection, _Lady Hester Stanhope_, is written much after +the manner of _Beau Nash_; that is, the author, Lytton Strachey, +sketches Lady Hester’s meteoric life with a few heavily penciled +lines. His details are few, but they are wonderfully telling ones. +Moreover, he employs a kind of unifying device which unquestionably +adds to the artistic value of his narrative. That device is +Lady Hester’s nose, with which Mr. Strachey begins and ends her +sensational career. + +It hardly seems necessary after even this brief comparative study of +the three selections given to suggest methods of handling this type +of narrative. The compelling motive of the writer must be to make his +subject live; but whether he will do it by presenting it from many +sides and in relation to many persons and environments, whether he +will seize upon some fault, foible, or individualizing trait, whether +he will present a series of amazing and revealing incidents,--the +choice must rest with him. + + M. E. C. + + + BEAU NASH + + LLEWELYN POWYS + +Richard Nash, despot of silk stockings and most tyrannical of +beaux, was born at Swansea, 18 October, 1674. His father was a +small glass-manufacturer, and in the days of his prosperity the +incomparable dandy was wont to say, when twitted as to his reticence +concerning his origin, “I seldom mention my father in company, not +because I have any reason to be ashamed of him, but because he has +some reason to be ashamed of me.” Nash was educated at Oxford, where, +in the words of Goldsmith, he showed “that though much might be +expected from his genius, nothing could be hoped from his industry”; +indeed, it appears that he was compelled to absent himself from +the university somewhat abruptly, leaving in his hastily abandoned +chambers “some plays, a tobacco-box, and a fiddle.” + +After his unceremonious departure from Oxford, Nash occupied himself +for the next few years ostensibly in reading law at the Inner Temple, +though in reality living “to the very edge of his finances” as a +man-about-town. In 1704 he betook himself by stage-coach to Bath, a +journey which at that time was performed, “if God permitted, in three +days.” Shortly after his arrival the Corporation of Bath elected +him Master of Ceremonies of that city, a position which he held with +eminent success and unequalled pomp for more than half a century. + +It must not be thought that the post was in any way a sinecure. It +would be difficult to enumerate all the varied activities by which +the debonair gamester converted the humdrum West Country town into +the most fashionable centre of eighteenth-century life in England. +He superintended the improving of the roads leading to the city, had +the streets lighted, regulated the charges of the sedan-chair men, +had ballrooms and hospitals built, and contrived suitable shelters +around the famous baths. Always an expert in such matters as rank, +precedence, and urbane decorum, he transformed the city of Bath into +a modish and exquisite resort for gaming, foppery, and gallantry. + +When Beau Nash first took up office his sense of the correct was +considerably exercised by a certain grossness of manners which +prevailed at that time. It seems that in those days men were not +at all ashamed to appear at polite gatherings in their jack boots +and the ladies in their aprons. As a counterstroke to such unseemly +practices, Nash composed the following satirical rhyme: + + Come, trollops and slatterns, + Cockt hats and white aprons, + This best our modesty suits; + For why should not we + In dress be as free + As Hogs-Norton ’squires in boots. + +Nor was this his only method of displaying his displeasure. If +Nash’s eye so much as caught a glimpse of heavy footwear in an +assembly-room, he would hurry across to the offender and with a low +bow inquire of him “if he had not forgotten his horse.” Recalcitrant +dames he would treat still more severely: on one occasion even +going so far as to remove with his own hands, from the person of the +Duchess of Queensbury, an apron of point lace which was said to be +worth 500 guineas. + +It was indeed a prim and elegant life that Nash inaugurated, a +life in which periwigged men of fashion, immaculate in all but +their morals, strutted and minuetted before exquisitely patched +and powdered ladies. They met at the pump-room, where they were +diverted by the conversation of the “gay, the witty, and the +forward”; they met at Spring Gardens, where on summer mornings they +would tread a cotillion together on the smooth lawns between the +painted flower-beds; they met again as they made a tour “through the +milliners and toymen, to stop at Mr. Gill’s, the pastry-cook, to take +a jelly, a tart, or a small basin of vermicelli.” Each night they +attended a ball opened with the minuet danced by a lady and gentleman +“of the highest rank present” and followed by country dances +“wherein the ladies according to their quality stood up first.” At +an appointed hour Nash would raise two fingers as a sign that it was +time for the music to cease, and then, after a short interval for the +dancers to cool, the company would take their departure. + +What a delightful picture one gets of it all, of the sedate, +pleasure-loving old town with its abbey-bells ringing out a welcome +to each fashionable arrival, with Beau Nash hurrying down the +cobbled streets, his famous white beaver hat on his head, to pay +his compliments to each newcomer. And what a gay figure he himself +must have cut in those resplendent days; indeed, we learn from Lord +Chesterfield that his attire was on one occasion so gorgeous “that as +he stood by chance in the midst of the dancers he was taken by many +to be a gilt garland.” Though Beau Nash was fond of declaring that +“Wit, flattery, and fine clothes were enough to debauch a nunnery,” +there is little evidence that he himself ever indulged in intrigues +with his fair visitors who every morning like so many lovely nymphs +stepped into the elegant health-giving waters and received from the +hands of their attendants “little floating dishes into which to lay +their handkerchiefs, little nosegays, and sweetmeats.” Judging by the +standards of the eighteenth century, it would seem that his personal +life defied criticism, for in an age “when a fellow of high humour +would drink no wine but what was strained through his mistress’s +smock,” he can scarcely be condemned for accepting the blandishments +bestowed upon him by his three successive adorers, Lady Betty Besom, +Hannah Lightfoot, and Juliana Popjoy. + +An issue of the _Gentleman’s Magazine_ at the end of the eighteenth +century throws a remarkable light upon the latter years of the last +of these women. “Juliana Popjoy,” it says, “died last week. For +thirty or forty years she has lived in a hollow tree. She had been +mistress to the famous Beau Nash of Bath.” + +In Wesley’s journal we find a curious description of a meeting +that took place between that honest rantipole evangelist and Beau +Nash. Wesley had come to hold a conventicle at Bath, which was, of +course, the very stronghold of frivolity. Before his service opened +Nash appeared and did not hesitate to protest that his preaching +“frightened the people out of their wits.” + +“Sir, did you ever hear me preach?” inquired the Puritan of the Dandy. + +“No,” came the answer, “but I judge by common report.” + +“Common report, Sir, is not enough. Give me leave, Sir, to ask is not +your name Nash?” + +“My name is Nash.” + +“Sir, I dare not judge of you by common report.” And with that, so +the story runs, the man of fashion uttered not a word more, but +walked silently away. + +Are we to suppose that, as sometimes happens to simple souls, Beau +Nash experienced at that moment a new and strange misgiving as to +the import of the superficial existence which surrounded him and +which in part he himself had been responsible for calling into +existence? And is there perhaps some connection between his religious +susceptibilities on that occasion and the extraordinary conduct of +his lady in taking up her residence where patches and cosmetics were +replaced by owls’ pellets and bats’ droppings? + +Alas! as the years went by the evening of the Beau’s life began +to grow cloudy. The old man grew choleric and testy: he became +egotistical and would weary the company with his oft-repeated tales. +There is something strangely pathetic about the spectacle of this +aged “glass of fashion” clinging peevishly to the last remnants +of his mock power, which with the passing of the years he had +come to consider his natural right. “Old Beau Knash makes himself +disagreeable to all who come to Bath. He is now become fit only to +read ‘Shirlock’ upon death, by which he may save his soul and gaine +more proffits than ever he could by his white hatt, suppose it was +to be dyed red,” wrote an impertinent illiterate eager to usurp the +old gentleman’s place, who, having lived and prospered in the reigns +of half a dozen sovereigns of England, was now “labouring under the +unconquerable distemper of old age.” + +Sick and decrepit, the antique Macaroni drifted into poverty. At the +last, even his cherished collection of snuff-boxes had to be sold, +and he gladly accepted a pension of ten pounds to be delivered him on +the first Monday of every month. + +Only after his death did something of the glamour of his ancient +renown revive. For we are told that on a certain afternoon in the +middle of February, 1761, the farm-labourers of Somerset unyoked +their oxen, the colliers ceased from mining, the weavers from +spinning, in order to witness from the stately roof-tops of Bath +the body of the celebrated old fop pass by on its way to its final +resting place in the Abbey church; there to await the ordained hour +when, in a form more glorified than it had ever been by lace or +frill, it should be called to appear before the presence of its Maker. + + From _Thirteen Worthies_ by Llewelyn Powys. By + permission of Harcourt, Brace and Company, Inc., + holders of the copyright. + + + LADY HESTER STANHOPE + + LYTTON STRACHEY + +The Pitt nose has a curious history. One can watch its +transmigrations through three lives. The tremendous hook of old Lord +Chatham, under whose curve Empires came to birth, was succeeded by +the bleak upward-pointing nose of William Pitt the younger--the rigid +symbol of an indomitable _hauteur_. With Lady Hester Stanhope came +the final stage. The nose, still with an upward tilt in it, had lost +its masculinity; the hard bones of the uncle and the grandfather had +disappeared. Lady Hester’s was a nose of wild ambitions, of pride +grown fantastical, a nose that scorned the earth, shooting off, one +fancies, towards some eternally eccentric heaven. It was a nose, in +fact, altogether in the air. + +Noses, of course, are aristocratic things; and Lady Hester was the +child of a great aristocracy. But, in her case, the aristocratic +impulse, which had carried her predecessors to glory, had less +fortunate results. There has always been a strong strain of +extravagance in the governing families of England; from time to time +they throw off some peculiarly ill-balanced member, who performs a +strange meteoric course. A century earlier, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu +was an illustrious example of this tendency: that splendid comet, +after filling half the heavens, vanished suddenly into desolation and +darkness. Lady Hester Stanhope’s spirit was still more uncommon; and +she met with a most uncommon fate. + +She was born in 1776, the eldest daughter of that extraordinary Earl +Stanhope, Jacobin and inventor, who made the first steamboat and +the first calculating machine, who defended the French Revolution +in the House of Lords and erased the armorial bearings--“damned +aristocratical nonsense”--from his carriages and his plate. Her +mother, Chatham’s daughter and the favourite sister of Pitt, died +when she was four years old. The second Lady Stanhope, a frigid woman +of fashion, left her stepdaughters to the care of futile governesses, +while “Citizen Stanhope” ruled the household from his laboratory +with the violence of a tyrant. It was not until Lady Hester was +twenty-four that she escaped from the slavery of her father’s +house, by going to live with her grandmother, Lady Chatham. On Lady +Chatham’s death, three years later, Pitt offered her his protection, +and she remained with him until his death in 1806. + +Her three years with Pitt, passed in the very centre of splendid +power, were brilliant and exciting. She flung herself impetuously +into the movement and the passion of that vigorous society; she ruled +her uncle’s household with high vivacity; she was liked and courted; +if not beautiful, she was fascinating--very tall, with a very fair +and clear complexion, and dark-blue eyes, and a countenance of +wonderful expressiveness. Her talk, full of the trenchant nonchalance +of those days, was both amusing and alarming: “My dear Hester, what +are you saying?” Pitt would call out to her from across the room. She +was devoted to her uncle, who warmly returned her affection. She was +devoted, too--but in a more dangerous fashion--to the intoxicating +Antinous, Lord Granville Leveson Gower. The reckless manner in +which she carried on this love-affair was the first indication of +something overstrained, something wild and unaccountable, in her +temperament. Lord Granville, after flirting with her outrageously, +declared that he could never marry her, and went off on an embassy +to St. Petersburg. Her distraction was extreme: she hinted that she +would follow him to Russia; she threatened, and perhaps attempted, +suicide; she went about telling everybody that he had jilted her. +She was taken ill, and then there were rumours of an accouchement, +which, it was said, she took care to _afficher_, by appearing without +rouge and fainting on the slightest provocation. In the midst of +these excursions and alarms there was a terrible and unexpected +catastrophe. Pitt died. And Lady Hester suddenly found herself a +dethroned princess, living in a small house in Montagu Square on a +pension of £1,200 a year. + +She did not abandon society, however, and the tongue of gossip +continued to wag. Her immediate marriage with a former lover, Mr. +Hill, was announced: “il est bien bon,” said Lady Bessborough. +Then it was whispered that Canning was “le regnant”--that he was +with her “not only all day, but almost all night.” She quarreled +with Canning and became attached to Sir John Moore. Whether she +was actually engaged to marry him--as she seems to have asserted +many years later--is doubtful; his letters to her, full as they are +of respectful tenderness, hardly warrant the conclusion; but it +is certain that he died with her name on his lips. Her favourite +brother, Charles, was killed beside him; and it was natural that +under this double blow she should have retired from London. She +buried herself in Wales; but not for long. In 1810 she set sail for +Gibraltar with her brother James, who was rejoining his regiment in +the Peninsula. She never returned to England. + +There can be no doubt that at the time of her departure the thought +of a lifelong exile was far from her mind. It was only gradually, +as she moved further and further eastward, that the prospect of +life in England--at last even in Europe--grew distasteful to her; +as late as 1816 she was talking of a visit to Provence. Accompanied +by two or three English fellow travellers, her English maid, Mrs. +Fry, her private physician, Dr. Meryon, and a host of servants, +she progressed, slowly and in a great state, through Malta and +Athens, to Constantinople. She was conveyed in battleships, and +lodged with governors and ambassadors. After spending many months in +Constantinople, Lady Hester discovered that she was “dying to see +Napoleon with her own eyes,” and attempted accordingly to obtain +passports to France. The project was stopped by Stratford Canning, +the English Minister, upon which she decided to visit Egypt, and, +chartering a Greek vessel, sailed for Alexandria in the winter of +1811. Off the island of Rhodes a violent storm sprang up; the whole +party were forced to abandon the ship, and to take refuge upon a +bare rock, where they remained without food or shelter for thirty +hours. Eventually, after many severe privations, Alexandria was +reached in safety; but this disastrous voyage was a turning-point in +Lady Hester’s career. At Rhodes she was forced to change her torn +and dripping raiment for the attire of a Turkish gentleman--a dress +which she never afterwards abandoned. It was the first step in her +orientalization. + +She passed the next two years in a triumphal progress. Her appearance +in Cairo caused the greatest sensation, and she was received in +state by the Pasha, Mehemet Ali. Her costume on this occasion was +gorgeous: she wore a turban of cashmere, a brocaded waistcoat, a +priceless pelisse, and a vast pair of purple velvet pantaloons +embroidered all over in gold. She was ushered by chamberlains with +silver wands through the inner courts of the palace to a pavilion +in the harem, where the Pasha, rising to receive her, conversed +with her for an hour. From Cairo she turned northwards, visiting +Jaffa, Jerusalem, Acre, and Damascus. Her travelling dress was of +scarlet cloth trimmed with gold, and, when on horseback, she wore +over the whole a white-hooded and tasselled burnous. Her maid, +too, was forced, protesting, into trousers, though she absolutely +refused to ride astride. Poor Mrs. Fry had gone through various and +dreadful sufferings--shipwreck and starvation, rats and blackbeetles +unspeakable--but she retained her equanimity. Whatever her Ladyship +might think fit to be, she was an Englishwoman to the last, and +Philippaki was Philip Parker and Mustapha Mr. Farr. + +Outside Damascus, Lady Hester was warned that the town was the most +fanatical in Turkey, and that the scandal of a woman entering it in +man’s clothes, unveiled, would be so great as to be dangerous. She +was begged to veil herself, and to make her entry under cover of +darkness. “I must take the bull by the horns,” she replied, and rode +into the city unveiled at midday. The population were thunderstruck; +but at last their amazement gave way to enthusiasm, and the +incredible lady was hailed everywhere as Queen, crowds followed her, +coffee was poured out before her, and the whole bazaar rose as she +passed. Yet she was not satisfied with her triumphs; she would do +something still more glorious and astonishing; she would plunge into +the desert and visit the ruins of Palmyra, which only half-a-dozen of +the boldest travellers had ever seen. The Pasha of Damascus offered +her a military escort, but she preferred to throw herself upon the +hospitality of the Bedouin Arabs, who, overcome by her horsemanship, +her powers of sight, and her courage, enrolled her a member of their +tribe. After a week’s journey in their company, she reached Palmyra, +where the inhabitants met her with wild enthusiasm, and under the +Corinthian columns of Zenobia’s temple crowned her head with flowers. +This happened in March, 1813; it was the apogee of Lady Hester’s +life. Henceforward her fortunes gradually but steadily declined. + +The rumour of her exploits had spread through Syria, and from the +year 1813 onwards, her reputation was enormous. She was received +everywhere as a royal, almost a supernatural personage: she +progressed from town to town amid official prostrations and popular +rejoicings. But she herself was in a state of hesitation and +discontent. Her future was uncertain; she had grown scornful of the +West--must she return to it? The East alone was sympathetic, the East +alone was tolerable--but could she cut herself off for ever from +the past? At Laodicea she was suddenly struck down by the plague, +and, after months of illness, it was borne in upon her that all +was vanity. She rented an empty monastery on the slopes of Mount +Lebanon, not far from Sayda (the ancient Sidon), and took up her +abode there. Then her mind took a new surprising turn; she dashed to +Ascalon, and, with the permission of the Sultan, began excavations in +a ruined temple with the object of discovering a hidden treasure of +three million pieces of gold. Having unearthed nothing but an antique +statue, which, in order to prove her disinterestedness, she ordered +her appalled doctor to break into little bits, she returned to her +monastery. Finally, in 1816, she moved to another house, further +up Mount Lebanon, and near the village of Djoun; and at Djoun she +remained until her death, more than twenty years later. + +Thus, almost accidentally as it seems, she came to the end of her +wanderings, and the last, long, strange, mythical period of her +existence began. Certainly the situation that she had chosen was +sublime. Her house, on the top of a high bare hill among great +mountains, was a one-storied group of buildings, with many ramifying +courts and out-houses, and a garden of several acres surrounded +by a rampart wall. The garden, which she herself had planted and +tended with the utmost care, commanded a glorious prospect. On +every side but one the vast mountains towered, but to the west +there was an opening, through which, in the far distance, the deep +blue Mediterranean was revealed. From this romantic hermitage, her +singular renown spread over the world. European travellers who +had been admitted to her presence brought back stories full of +Eastern mystery; they told of a peculiar grandeur, a marvellous +prestige, an imperial power. The precise nature of Lady Hester’s +empire was, indeed, dubious; she was in fact merely the tenant of +her Djoun establishment, for which she paid a rent of £20 a year. +But her dominion was not subject to such limitations. She ruled +imaginatively, transcendentally; the solid glory of Chatham had +been transmuted into the phantasy of an Arabian Night. No doubt +she herself believed that she was something more than a chimerical +Empress. When a French traveller was murdered in the desert, she +issued orders for the punishment of the offenders; punished they +were, and Lady Hester actually received the solemn thanks of the +French Chamber. It seems probable, however, that it was the Sultan’s +orders rather than Lady Hester’s which produced the desired effect. +In her feud with her terrible neighbour, the Emir Beshyr, she +maintained an undaunted front. She kept the tyrant at bay; but +perhaps the Emir, who, so far as physical force was concerned, held +her in the hollow of his hand, might have proceeded to extremities +if he had not received a severe admonishment from Stratford Canning +at Constantinople. What is certain is that the ignorant and +superstitious populations around her feared and loved her, and that +she, reacting to her own mysterious prestige, became at last even +as they. She plunged into astrology and divination; she awaited the +moment when, in accordance with prophecy, she should enter Jerusalem +side by side with the Mahdi, the Messiah; she kept two sacred +horses, destined, by sure signs, to carry her and him to their last +triumph. The Orient had mastered her utterly. She was no longer an +Englishwoman, she declared; she loathed England; she would never go +there again; if she went anywhere it would be to Arabia, to “her own +people.” + +Her expenses were immense--not only for herself but for others, for +she poured out her hospitality with a noble hand. She ran into debt, +and was swindled by the moneylenders; her steward cheated her, her +servants pilfered her; her distress was at last acute. She fell +into fits of terrible depression, bursting into dreadful tears and +savage cries. Her habits grew more and more eccentric. She lay in +bed all day, and sat up all night, talking unceasingly for hour upon +hour to Dr. Meryon, who alone of her English attendants remained +with her, Mrs. Fry having withdrawn to more congenial scenes long +since. The doctor was a poor-spirited and muddle-headed man, but he +was a good listener; and there he sat while that extraordinary talk +flowed on--talk that scaled the heavens and ransacked the earth, +talk in which memories of an abolished past--stories of Mr. Pitt and +of George III., vituperations against Mr. Canning, mimicries of the +Duchess of Devonshire--mingled phantasmagorically with doctrines +of Fate and planetary influence, and speculations on the Arabian +origin of the Scottish clans, and lamentations over the wickedness of +servants; till the unaccountable figure, with its robes and its long +pipe, loomed through the tobacco-smoke like some vision of a Sibyl in +a dream. She might be robbed and ruined, her house might crumble over +her head; but she talked on. She grew ill and desperate; yet still +she talked. Did she feel that the time was coming when she should +talk no more? + +Her melancholy deepened into a settled gloom when the news came of +her brother James’s death. She had quarrelled with all her English +friends, except Lord Hardwiche--with her eldest brother, with her +sister, whose kind letters she left unanswered; she was at daggers +drawn with the English consul at Alexandria, who worried her about +her debts. Ill and harassed, she hardly moved from her bedroom, +while her servants rifled her belongings and reduced the house to a +condition of indescribable disorder and filth. Three dozen hungry +cats ranged through the rooms, filling the courts with frightful +noises. Dr. Meryon, in the midst of it all, knew not whether to cry +or laugh. At moments the great lady regained her ancient fire; her +bells pealed tumultuously for hours together; or she leapt up, and +arraigned the whole trembling household before her, with her Arab +war-mace in her hand. Her finances grew more and more involved--grew +at length irremediable. It was in vain that the faithful Lord +Hardwiche pressed her to return to England to settle her affairs. +Return to England, indeed! To England that ungrateful, miserable +country, where, so far as she could see, they had forgotten the +very name of Mr. Pitt! The final blow fell when a letter came from +the English authorities threatening to cut off her pension for the +payment of her debts. Upon that, after dispatching a series of +furious missives to Lord Palmerston, to Queen Victoria, to the Duke +of Wellington, she renounced the world. She commanded Dr. Meryon to +return to Europe, and he--how could he have done it?--obeyed her. +Her health was broken, she was over sixty, and, save for her vile +servants, absolutely alone. She lived for nearly a year after he left +her--we know no more. She had vowed never again to pass through the +gate of her house; but did she sometimes totter to her garden--that +beautiful garden which she had created, with its roses and its +fountains, its alleys and its bowers--and look westward at the sea? +The end came in June, 1839. Her servants immediately possessed +themselves of every moveable object in the house. But Lady Hester +cared no longer: she was lying back in her bed--inexplicable, grand, +preposterous, with her nose in the air. + + From _Books and Characters_ by Lytton Strachey. + Copyright 1922, by Harcourt, Brace and Company, + Inc. By permission. + + + THE BELOVED PHYSICIAN + + AN APPRECIATION OF EDWARD LIVINGSTON TRUDEAU + + STEPHEN CHALMERS + + + I + +When Dr. Edward Livingston Trudeau died the other day, many people +wondered, suddenly realizing their impression that it was long years +since he had joined the little band of heroes who have gone down +in the battle against disease. And many must have asked themselves +what manner of man this was who, sick unto death over forty years +ago, could from scantiest materials build a little laboratory in +the wilderness and exert an influence which cannot be measured by +its practical materialization into five hundred sanitaria for the +treatment of tuberculosis by fresh air, rest, and sound philosophy. +Here was a man who, from his invalid’s chair, revolutionized this +sanitation of business offices and of uncounted homes where ignorance +shrank from pure air and sunshine. If I assume the task of sketching +that indomitable character, it is only because I was privileged for +many years to be Dr. Trudeau’s friend, to whom he chose occasionally +to reveal in some degree his inner self. + +It may, at the outset, be well to sketch briefly his voyage through +the world which benefited so richly from his journeying. He was born +in New York City in 1848 of French parents. His mother was a daughter +of Dr. François Eloi Berger, a Parisian practicing in New York, and +his father a descendant of a Huguenot family, which, leaving France +for Canada, later drifted down the Mississippi to New Orleans. +Near the Southern city James Trudeau, who was an intimate friend +and fellow traveler of the naturalist painter, Audubon, owned a +plantation which was confiscated by General Butler in the Civil War. +He died later as a result of wounds received while in command of a +Confederate post, Island Number Ten, on the Mississippi. + +When Edward L., the youngest of his three children, was but little +over two years of age, his mother went with her father, Dr. Berger, +to Paris. Here the boy was educated at the Lycée Bonaparte. When he +was eighteen years of age Edward returned to New York, and found +himself hardly able to speak the language of his native city. + +He attended the Columbia School of Mines, and after graduation +entered the United States Navy. An elder brother who had preceded +him to Annapolis was stricken with tuberculosis. Edward nursed his +brother up to the hour of the latter’s death six months later, and +thus first came into personal contact with that disease to the +extermination of which he devoted the rest of his life. He entered +the New York College of Physicians and Surgeons, and in the year of +his graduation, 1871, practiced medicine in New York City. In the +same year, unconscious that he was doomed to his brother’s disease, +he married Miss Charlotte Beare, of Douglaston, Long Island, to whom +he ever attributed the inspiration of his labors through nearly half +a century. The marriage was a perfect one, although attended by many +sorrows. Three of their four children died. One son survives--Dr. +Francis B. Trudeau. The death of Dr. Edward L. Trudeau Jr., in 1906, +was a great blow to his father and a loss to the medical profession. + +It was in 1873 that Dr. Trudeau left New York City with the doom of +tuberculosis pronounced upon him. He was only twenty-five; the gates +of life seemed shut in his face, for it was believed that he had less +than six months to live. Hardly able to stand alone, he was taken to +Paul Smith’s in the Adirondacks by a friend who was also a distant +relation,--Louis Livingston. Smith’s was then a hunters’ inn in the +heart of the wilderness, forty miles from the nearest railway point +at Ausable Forks. The guide who carried Dr. Trudeau upstairs and put +him to bed described his burden as “weighin’ no more’n a lamb-skin.” +And the same guide lived to see that lightweight defeat a local +champion in the backwoods ring! + +A college-mate of Trudeau’s, Edward H. Harriman, was then staying at +Paul Smith’s. Harriman, Livingston, and “Uncle” Paul Smith took turns +nursing the sick doctor through nights which he was not expected, +in nature, to survive. And yet he outlived them all! He improved at +Paul Smith’s, then tried a winter at St. Paul, Minnesota. Here he +suffered a relapse and was brought back to the Adirondacks, where he +again improved. It was at about this time that, being joined by Mrs. +Trudeau and their two children, Ned and Charlotte, the family passed +through a terrible ordeal on a journey from Malone to Paul Smith’s. A +blizzard arose, and the trip, which usually occupied less than a day, +took over forty-eight hours. Paul Smith handled the team and wagon. +After plunging through miles of snowdrift in the teeth of a biting +norther, the horses fell down exhausted. The family’s baggage had +previously been abandoned at Barnum Pond. Paul Smith made the sick +man as comfortable as possible, wrapped the children in blankets, +and buried them for warmth in the snow. When the blizzard abated, +the family reached the hunter’s place, after two days of unspeakable +hardship. + +Surviving this ordeal, seeming even to have thrived upon it, Dr. +Trudeau began to consider seriously the possible advantages in +pulmonary diseases of exposure to pure cold air. He proposed to spend +a winter in the Adirondacks, where the frigid season is prolonged and +the thermometer occasionally stands at forty degrees below zero. His +friends and medical advisers considered his proposition as a kind of +suicidal mania, all except Dr. Loomis and Mrs. Trudeau. Dr. Trudeau +had been impressed with the theory of Brehmer, the Silesian, and of +Dettweiler, a patient and pupil of Brehmer, that the consumptive was +not harmed by inclement weather, provided he accustomed himself to +living out of doors, at rest. With the approval of Loomis and Mrs. +Trudeau, the doctor carried out his experiment, the results of which +practically revolutionized the science of treating tuberculosis. +Trudeau so improved that presently he began to practice medicine +among the Adirondack natives. He continued to do so for several +years, often traveling forty miles in a day or night and in all sorts +of weather, to usher, perhaps, some little woodsman into the world, +or even to allay anxiety by his mere presence. It has been said that +his bedside manner did more than physic in ninety per cent of his +cases. Half of his bills were never rendered and a quarter of the +other half never paid; but tears would come into the eyes of many +a woman when she saw him in after years; and men called him “the +beloved physician.” + +I have beside me as I write some old prescriptions that were found +in the ragged ledger of a general store in the wilderness of forty +years ago, when stovepipes and pills were sold over the same counter. +There are three of them that reveal as many phases of this humane +country doctor, who often came in the night, dressed in mackinaw, +pontiacs, and moccasins. Apparently, if the family pig or cow or dog +was ailing, Dr. Trudeau was summoned through the wilderness. Here +is a prescription calling for carbolic oil, tar, sulphur, and olive +oil--which, a veterinary doctor tells me, could not be improved +upon to-day as a cure for mange. “_Sig:_” writes Trudeau at the end +of the prescription; then, remembering that his patient might lack +appreciation even of dog-Latin, he dashes his pen through the word +and adds, “Rub on the dog several times!” + +There was no liquor license in the woods in those days, and little +whiskey, licit or otherwise; yet there was an all-abiding thirst, and +men made their own poteen if they could get pure alcohol and some +spirits of rye. Trudeau believed that, if a man liked an occasional +drink, it was his human right to have it--in reasonable measure. But +if the man abused the doctor’s confidence, from that day on he went +parched and prescriptionless. + +Again, one finds an early prescription for a common symptom of +tuberculosis. I brought this prescription to Dr. Trudeau not very +long ago and asked him what he would prescribe now--after thirty-five +years. + +“That--if anything,” he said; “but probably nothing--no physic at +all. Open the window--go to bed--and keep your nerve!” + +During these early years Trudeau lived the life of the people in many +ways. Being restored to health, he hunted and fished with the other +sons of the wilderness. Every year up to 1913 he brought home his +string of trout and killed his buck. His skill with the rifle was +remarkable. It was a natural gift. On one occasion he outmatched all +competitors, then, on a challenge, picked off his own empty cartridge +shells suspended from the branch of a tree on strings. And as for +boxing, it is said that one evening at Paul Smith’s a local champion +coaxed the doctor to put on the gloves. + +“I promise not to hurt ye,” said the amateur bruiser. + +Where the doctor acquired the gentle art no one seems to know; but +when the local champion picked himself up at the end of the bout, he +allowed that “the doctor’s the quickest thing with the mitts I ever +run up ag’in!” + +In 1877 Dr. Trudeau left Paul Smith’s and moved into the adjacent +hamlet of Saranac Lake, which was then a lumber centre with six +houses and a sawmill. The railway was not constructed to that +point until 1888. But when the doctor came to the village, gradual +developments began. He was followed by a few patients who had placed +themselves in his care as a last hope of cure or prolonged life. The +town to-day is a small city, the metropolis of the Adirondacks, which +grew up around the beloved physician and his great work. It has a +remarkable sanitary system, and a health code after one portion of +which New York is said to have reformed its own. + + + II + +It was at Saranac Lake during his first winter there that Dr. +Trudeau literally dreamed a dream. Loomis had published a paper in +the _Medical Record_, drawing attention to the climatic value of +the Adirondack air for pulmonary invalids, citing the theories of +Brehmer and Dettweiler and, no doubt, having in mind Trudeau’s own +case. Shortly after reading this paper, Dr. Trudeau fell asleep while +leaning on his gun on a fox runway on the side of Mount Pisgah, +near Saranac Lake. He dreamed that the forest around him melted +away and that the whole mountain-side was dotted with houses built +inside out, as if the inhabitants lived on the outside. As he said +many years later, at the twenty-fifth anniversary of the founding +of the Adirondack Cottage Sanitarium, “I dreamed a dream of a great +sanitarium that should be the everlasting foe of tuberculosis, and +lo!--the dream has come true!” + +Shortly after a reception held on January 1, 1915, at which all of +the sanitarium patients came to shake hands with the founder, I +happened to remark to the doctor on the quaintness of his speech for +the occasion. He had spoken of the strange new faces before him, and +how there had been a time when he was personally acquainted with each +and every one, “his hopes, his fears, and very often the state of his +bank account”; and how the girls even told him of their love affairs +and of womanly dreams that too often were never fulfilled. The doctor +suddenly leaned forward in his invalid’s chair and said to me in a +confidential stage-whisper,---- + +“Would you believe it? I didn’t know what my tongue was saying. I +felt strangely aloof for the moment. I saw a younger man thirty years +before, leaning on his gun, waiting for a fox. There was not a house, +not a sign of a human being. Now----” + +His face was all aglow as he spread out his hands. + +But even after the dream the beginning of the fulfillment did not +occur for five or six years. He had built a house in the village. +There, in that wonderful year, 1882, when Koch announced his +discovery of the tubercle bacillus, Trudeau, who could not read +German, received, as a Christmas present from his friend, C. M. +Lea of Philadelphia, a translation of that document which the +doctor termed “the most far-reaching, in its importance to the +human race, of any original communication”--Koch’s _Etiology of +Tuberculosis_. This was young Trudeau’s immediate inspiration. He had +an “indifferent medical education,” to quote himself, “no apparatus, +and no books”; and the remoteness of his surroundings had removed him +from contact with medical men to whom he might apply for instruction. + +During brief visits to New York--sometimes at the expense of his +health--he learned some of the first principles of bacteriology;--and +“I taught myself the rest as best I could.” + +His laboratory was a little room in Saranac Lake, heated by a wood +stove (there was no coal). He had a home-made thermostat heated by +a kerosene lamp, and in this he succeeded in growing the tubercle +bacillus, although he had to sit up o’ nights to see that the living +organism was not destroyed by varying temperatures. To regulate this, +he invented a little shutter arrangement which could be opened or +closed. He obtained the bacillus in pure cultures, and with them +repeated all Koch’s experiments. The guinea-pigs used for immunizing +tests he had to keep in a hole underground which was heated by +another kerosene lamp. He again proved that fresh air and natural +hygiene were the deadly foes of tuberculosis, by turning loose on an +island rabbits that had been inoculated with the disease. Running +wild, they soon recovered; while others, similarly inoculated and +kept in unhygienic places, died of the disease in a very short time. + +While his enthusiasm was thus running high, he built in 1884 on the +side of Pisgah--on the place of the dream--a little shack which is +still there and which is known among the great buildings now around +it as “The Little Red.” This was the nucleus of the present vast +sanitarium. He began with two patients, whom he apparently cured +by making them sit all day and sleep all night practically in the +open air, the windows being open, with the mercury courting the +thermometer bulb. + +Meanwhile he himself was laboring with his cultures, his home-made +thermostat, his guinea-pigs and rabbits. During the week in 1890 +when Koch announced his tuberculin as a “cure” for tuberculosis, Dr. +Trudeau published in the _Medical Record_ an article describing his +failure to obtain any appreciable degree of immunity by injections +of sterilized and filtered liquid cultures of the tubercle bacillus +(tuberculin). Later experiments with Koch’s tuberculin by thousands +of others proved similar failures. + +Not long after this, while Dr. Trudeau was lying ill and depressed +in New York City, there came from Saranac Lake the news that during +the night his house, cultures, guinea-pigs--everything--had been +destroyed by fire! It was the last straw. The sick man was in +despair; but his indomitable spirit came to the rescue again, and a +letter signed by William Osler helped him to accept fresh battle. + +“I am sorry, Trudeau,” wrote Dr. Osler, “to hear of your misfortune, +but take my word for it, there is nothing like a fire to make a man +do the phœnix trick!” + +The phœnix rose from its ashes, with the financial help of George +C. Cooper, of New York. Near the ruins of Dr. Trudeau’s first house +was built the first and best-equipped laboratory in the United +States for the study of tuberculosis. Here Trudeau labored for +years, searching, as he often said, “in the haystack for the needle +that we know is there.” Here his followers still work at all hours +in immunizing experiments and in the testing of proposed specific +remedies for the cure of tuberculosis. Here many a “patent remedy” of +the “cure-consumption” order has met its Nemesis. Here, years before +either Friedmann or Piorkowski tried to commercialize his so-called +remedies through the press of two continents, the turtle-germ of both +was weighed in the scientific balance and discarded as useless. It +is not a breach of confidence now to reveal the fact that an article +entitled “Has Dr. Friedmann found a Cure for Tuberculosis?” which +appeared on two pages of the New York _Times_ on the very morning +when the Berlin physician landed in New York, came from the Saranac +Laboratory and was the work of several scientific brains, with Dr. +Trudeau’s as the master-mind on the subject. That article changed +overnight the opinions of many in the medical world regarding the +merits of Friedmann’s “specific.” Dr. Trudeau had examined the turtle +organism years before, and had labeled it, not only harmless, but +quite useless, as an immunizing agent in human tuberculosis. + +To go back to the early days of sanitarium work, the success Trudeau +achieved by his open-air and rest methods attracted great attention. +The sanitarium grew swiftly. Other states of the Union built +institutions of somewhat similar design and for similar treatment. +To-day, as already remarked, there must be fully five hundred +sanitaria for this method of treatment of pulmonary tuberculosis +throughout the United States and Canada. The valley of the Saranac +itself, with the adjacent Adirondack region, contains several private +and state sanitaria that owe their inception, directly or indirectly, +to the influence of Trudeau. + +The Adirondack Cottage Sanitarium is, and has been from the first, a +semi-charitable institution which treats patients at a sum that does +not cover the cost of their board and housing. The annual deficit +of the institution is comparatively large, as a result, and up to +the time of his death it was Trudeau’s personality that attracted +voluntary contributions for the continuance of the great work. Such +names as Harriman, Sage, Schiff, Rockefeller, Tiffany, have figured +in the contributors’ lists. E. H. Harriman was ever a friend and +admirer of Trudeau and of his altruistic labors for humanity. In the +days when ministers of money sat in Harriman’s antechamber, they were +allowed to cool their heels while a frail country doctor was ushered +in; and the railroad king let great affairs hang fire while he heard +the latest yarn about “Uncle” Paul Smith, or became enthralled by the +idealism of the practical dreamer who sat opposite him,--a great head +on an emaciated body, a voice resonant with faith’s enthusiasm, even +while it broke short in a gasp. This man was sending back to life and +usefulness twenty per cent of his patients apparently cured, fifty +per cent with the disease arrested, and the other thirty per cent +with a fighting chance. And while the restless ministers of finance +consulted their watches in the antechamber, Harriman listened--and +reached for his check-book! + +As for that annual deficit, a friend who merely sought information +once wrote to me as follows:-- + +“What sort of a man is Trudeau? Is he what so many say he is, or just +a clever doctor who has made a fortune out of the Adirondacks?” + +In a rash moment I referred this to the doctor himself. I do not know +that he was ever more upset. He promptly sent me this:-- + +“I am always puzzled to know why people cannot understand the spirit +of the sanitarium work. To give a patient for $7 what costs $12 or +$12.50, and to have a deficit of $27,000 on running expenses for the +year, can hardly be a business way to make a man rich! Perhaps it is +the imposing appearance of my _equipage_ which makes the world think +me a coiner of money!!” + +The “equipage” to which he referred with irony was a regular +country doctor’s buggy, just large enough to accommodate himself +(and Mrs. Trudeau, at a pinch), and drawn by a shaggy mare which +the townspeople affectionately termed “the old plush horse.” In +his latter years some one presented him with a fine carriage and a +high-stepping thoroughbred. When Trudeau was called out to inspect +this equipage, he looked worried. + +“I--I can’t ride in that thing!” he said. “People will think I don’t +need any money for my sanitarium!” + +He agreed to accept the gift, however, when it was pointed out that +the ancient mare was on her last legs. Thereupon the “old plush +horse” was pensioned and given a comfortable stall for life. On the +first day of her long holiday Dr. Trudeau visited the stable. + +“Well, Kitty,” he said, patting the old mare, “your troubles are all +over. As for me--I expect this old horse will have to keep plodding +along until his left ventricle ceases to contract.” + +But the matter of that “fortune” troubled him for some time. A month +later he sent me another letter, accompanying a financial report +underscored in places. + +“This,” he wrote, “is for the gentleman who sized me up as ‘a clever +business man who has made a fortune out of the Adirondacks.’ Tell him +I begged all this money personally, but not for myself, as I don’t +own a cent of it and draw no salary.” + +Whatever he earned from private practice barely covered his living +expenses. He raised the money to cover that deficit by what he called +his “begging letters.” I remember he said to me one day after an +anxious silence,-- + +“I’ve got a young fellow up there [at the sanitarium] who is a +first-class radiographer. Then there is a bacteriologist, too. As +soon as they get to feeling well they’ll go off and leave me. They +are married, or are going to be, I’ve no doubt. If I could only +build houses for them and get their _wives_ settled--That’s it!” he +broke off. “I’ve got to raise the money for it somehow!” + +He raised it, of course. Now there are two new cottages in the +sanitarium grounds, and a permanent X-ray expert and a clever +bacteriologist have been added to the colony there and to the cause. + +When the doctor’s end had been achieved, he told me of his success. + +“But why is every one so good?” he asked. “Why do people work for me?” + +“They work for--you,” was suggested. + +“No, no--I hope not,” he protested. “They work for my work.” + +“Well, did you ever consider how much your own personality inspires +this work?” + +“Oh, come, come!” said he, as pleasurably confused as a girl +complimented for the first time on her looks. + +“What do people call my work?” he presently asked. + +I had never heard it given a name. It was unique. But I ventured the +word “philanthropy.” He shook his head. + +“A distrustful word these days. Still--yes--say philanthropy, plus +science. The sanitarium is the philanthropy--to cure or console; the +laboratory is the science--to find a means of further immunizing +toward ultimate, permanent cure.” + +It was, as a whole, a science and philanthropy of Christ; a sort +of Christian science without intellectual sacrifice. To this +philanthropy Trudeau would never permit his name to be attached. It +was the Adirondack Cottage Sanitarium--not “Trudeau.” It was the +Saranac Laboratory--not “Trudeau” Laboratory. It was usage and +the postal authorities that labeled a little branch post-office, +“Trudeau, N. Y.” + +His work and worth were recognized, however, during his lifetime. +Among the honors conferred upon him were Master of Science, +Columbia University, 1889; Honorary Fellow of the Phipps Institute, +1903; LL.D., McGill University, 1904; and LL.D., University of +Pennsylvania, 1913. The last-mentioned degree he received _in +absentia_. Yale offered to confer the degree of LL.D., but the doctor +was too ill to be present at the exercises. + + + III + +I had intended to omit anecdotes in this brief sketch of Trudeau’s +life, from the time that he was carried into Paul Smith’s “weighin’ +no more’n a lambskin” up to the latter days when he lay on a final +bed of suffering. But the anecdotes would creep in; and now they may +stay just where they are, for it was characteristic of Trudeau, even +when addressing a grave body of physicians and master-surgeons, to +lighten his most serious discourses with anecdotal humor; although +the first time he ever tried to address his colleagues,--at Baltimore +in the eighties,--he fainted from illness, and, while others restored +him, Dr. Loomis read the frail doctor’s address to the gathering. + +Even in his own sufferings he found a text for interesting discourse +that was flavored with the grim humor of grit. It does not seem long +ago that I stood by his bedside while he, with one poor portion of a +single lung, labored for breath. The possible benefits of artificial +pneumo-thorax had not yet been fully established, yet the doctor had +been one of the first to submit to the operation, offering himself, +it seemed, as a victim of experimentation, although he told the +operating physician that he expected no good results,--“For, after +all, my dear fellow, the age of miracles is past.” Yet it eased his +sufferings for several years, although at the time he was very ill. +He assured me that he was not going to die right away. + +“No such luck!” said he in the most cheerful manner. “But,” he +continued, as connectedly as breath would allow, “what is the scheme +of this business--of life--suffering--death? I don’t understand. It +reminds me of this English ‘Cat and Mouse’ bill. They put a woman +in a cell till she’s near dead of starvation. Then they let her out +for a square meal--so she can get strength enough to suffer some +more. You’ve got to have feeling, you know, to suffer. There’s a +philosophy, by the way, for those who fear the agony of death. As you +lose the enduring powers of life, you lose also the sensibility to +suffering. It must be so. It is so. I have seen it many times.... Cat +and mouse,” he half-mused,--“life and death. Death’s the cat--comes +and paws until poor life is about dead to all feeling. Then the cat +retires into a dark corner and purrs while the mouse gets a little +life back, so as to be more sensible of suffering when the cat comes +pawing again. I don’t say there’s no reason behind it--but I can’t +see it--can you?” + +I may be pardoned personal intrusion for a moment to relate when and +where I first saw this remarkable man. I had gone to Saranac Lake +in ill health. I asked why there was no statue in the community to +the great Trudeau of whom I had read in Stevenson’s Letters. Being +reminded that it was not customary to erect statues to the living, +I decided to see this (to me) resurrected person. It happened to +be about the time of the twenty-fifth anniversary of the founding +of the sanitarium. When he stood up on a platform and, in a voice +tense with emotion, told of his dream that was now materialized, I +was filled with a sudden comprehension of the amazing thing that was +happening--the celebration of that which this frail man had _lived to +achieve_! I wrote several verses and gave them to my own physician, +merely as one way of expressing what I thought about it all. + +The next morning I was called on the telephone. It was Dr. Trudeau +himself; some one had pinned the verses to his pillow on the previous +night, and they had added to the happiness of the doctor at the end +of one of the proudest days of his life. He asked me to come and see +him. + +“Do you know,” he said when we shook hands, “writing verses is +something beyond my comprehension. I understand poetry, but not how +one can write it. My case is like that of Zeb Robare, a guide over +at Paul’s. He was asked by some ladies he was rowing the name of a +certain mountain up here. ‘That’s Ampersand,’ said Zeb. ‘But, guide, +how do you spell it?’ ‘Ah,’ said Zeb, ‘that’s the hell of it, ma’am. +I can climb it easy enough, but I couldn’t spell it to save my life!’ +That’s how I feel about poetry!” + +Oddly coincident, Clayton Hamilton, a writer engaged in a book about +Stevenson, called upon Dr. Trudeau to ask about Robert Louis’s +sojourn at Saranac Lake. Mr. Hamilton later confessed in cold type, +“I had come to ask of R. L. S. and remained to admire this hero of +innumerable, unnoted battles,--this maker of a City of the Sick, who, +because of him, look more hopefully on each successive rising sun.” +Trudeau marveled at the feat of juggling English; yet this author +wrote in conclusion: “And the best of our tricky achievements in +setting words together dwindle in my mind to indistinction beside +the labors and spirit of this man.” + +Stevenson, by the way, produced some of his greatest essays during +the winter of 1887-88, while he was under Dr. Trudeau’s care at +Saranac Lake. Stories of the relationship of the two men have been +told and retold. At one time I sent a version of the oft-repeated +“oil” story to the doctor for confirmation. It was to the effect +that Stevenson, after he had written “The Lantern-Bearers” for the +Scribners, went to see Trudeau’s “light” in the laboratory. Stevenson +was shown, in the effects of tuberculosis in guinea-pigs, the +ravages of the disease that kills one human being in every seven. +The sensitive author bolted out of the house, declaring that while +Trudeau’s lantern might be very bright, to him it “smelled of oil +like the devil.” Fearing that the anti-vivisectionists might make +capital of the story, I took the liberty of modifying it. Dr. Trudeau +wrote,-- + +“I thank you for your motive in changing the end of the oil story. I +had never thought of the anti-vivisectionists. Had I thought, I could +have told you a little more about it. Stevenson saw no mutilated +animals in my laboratory. The only things he saw were the diseased +organs in bottles, and cultures of the germs which had produced the +disease. These were the things that turned him sick. I remember he +went out just after I made this remark: ‘This little scum on the tube +is consumption, and the cause of more human suffering than anything +else in the world. We can produce tuberculosis in the guinea-pig with +it; and if we could learn to cure tuberculosis in the guinea-pig, +this great burden of human suffering might be lifted from the world.’” + +It is true that Trudeau and Stevenson differed a great deal on a +great many subjects, but so far as I have been able to judge from +much that the doctor has told me, they agreed on so many of the +greater things of life that they had to disagree about trivial +matters for the sake of something to discuss. They actually got into +heated argument over the great issue as to which is superior, the +American system of _transferring baggage_, or the British method of +_handling luggage_! + +Dr. Trudeau assured me, incidentally, that Stevenson had no active +symptoms of tuberculosis while at Saranac Lake, but had apparently +had the disease and may have developed active symptoms after he went +away. He did not die of tuberculosis, although this might have been a +contributing cause. Trudeau had a full report made to him regarding +the circumstances of Stevenson’s death at Samoa in 1894. + +This paternal interest in ex-patients was characteristic of Trudeau. +Particularly he liked to address a word of parting advice to a young +man going back, apparently cured, to a life of continued usefulness. +Here is a typical letter of this kind:-- + +“Do take my advice and don’t presume upon your physical endurance. +When you have once been in the grip of the tiger you ought not to +give him a chance to get you again, for he has downed many as good a +man as you are; and you must not act on impulse, but use your head +and self-control, even if you can’t accomplish all you want to in +life. If you can’t have a whole loaf, try and be satisfied with a +half one, or else the graham bread will get burned in good earnest +and you won’t have any loaf at all!” + +His attitude toward the patients, who came to him from all lands, +ranks, and conditions, was ever eloquent of the man’s human kindness +and sympathy. Many came as broken in spirit as in health, and +often with but two hopes: one, that Trudeau would perform the +great miracle; the other, that a physician of his reputation would +not charge more than this latest victim of tuberculosis could +scrape together. I know of one case in which the new patient said, +“Doctor--before you do anything--I haven’t much money. How--how much +will it cost?” + +“Much depends on how much you’ve got, and how bad you are,” said +Trudeau, himself assisting to unbutton the patient’s collar. “You +see,” he went on disarmingly, “if you are not very bad, it will cost +you quite a lot, so I can use the money for those who are. If you +are a really bad case--Well--say ‘Ninety-nine,’ please, and keep on +saying it while I listen to your chest.” + +The doctor’s face became grave as he noted the vibrations caused by +the reiterated “nine-nine-nine.” When the examination was over the +patient asked,-- + +“How bad--I mean--how much will it be, doctor?” + +For reply Trudeau--and one can imagine the great sympathy that +flooded the beloved physician’s face--handed the patient a ten-dollar +bill. + +“I owe you--that much--at least,” he said. + +One can imagine the rest--that speech which he employed so often and +to so many:-- + +“Don’t take it too seriously, but just seriously enough. I am no +better off in health than you are, and both you and I, old man, will +be a great deal worse before we’re better.” + +When, however, he sent some promising young man back into the battle +of life, a repaired asset to the world, he liked to refer to him +as “another young gladiator with a new blade in his sword.” The +following, which he sent to me one day, explains the simile:-- + +“My sympathies are naturally in the world with the vanquished. My +favorite statue is that great one of Victory carrying the dying +gladiator, his broken sword in hand. The world applauds and bows +before success and achievement; it has little thought for those who +fall by the way, sword in hand; and yet it takes most courage to +fight a losing fight!” + +Speaking of this same statue, “Gloria Victis,” a fine copy of which +stood in the hall of his house, he said one day early in the great +European war: “When he created that thing, I wonder did the sculptor, +Mercié, realize that he was modeling the glory of Belgium in ruin?” + +Others saw something of the doctor’s own heroic spirit in that +figure, with the broken sword in the drooping right hand, and the +left arm still held aloft as if the dying warrior challenged even +death--“_Moriturus, te saluto!_” + +The last active labor of Dr. Trudeau was the writing of his +autobiography, and perhaps the last service of the writer on behalf +of the beloved physician was the proof-reading of its pages. The +doctor was seized with his mortal illness just after the last pages +were written and before he had decided upon a title for his work. The +single word, “Aquiescence,” was proposed as descriptive of the life +of a man who accepted adverse conditions and, like the master of a +ship, turned the ill wind to advantage. The word was taken from a +sentence which he had once written to me, “The conquest of Fate comes +not by rebellious struggle, but by acquiescence.” + +When the title was suggested to the doctor, he was unable to speak, +but smiled and shook his head. Later, when he was a little better, +he dictated to his secretary, “If the world finds a sermon in my +life-story--good; but I don’t want any one to think I was trying to +preach one.” + +Possibly the impression has been given in these pages that Trudeau +was an approachable person. He was, to some; to many he was quite +unapproachable, especially interviewers. He feared a scribe. To the +present writer he repeatedly said, “Remember--I trust you; but don’t +you ever publish what I’m telling you until after I am where I won’t +care what the world says about me.” + +Even to his most intimate friends he was difficult of approach when, +after “studying the ceiling” for many long days, he was irritated +beyond human self-control by his sufferings. But even then he could +be played like a fine instrument if the player had technique. If the +doctor was in that depth of depression out of which he would chant +a “De Profundis” of blackest pessimism, all that was necessary was +to agree with him that life was “a senseless business”; whereupon he +would draw his sword of optimism and flash the text engraven upon its +bright blade: “O ye of little faith!” But if you told him he looked +well and you hoped he felt so, he would say, “I don’t. I’m utterly +miserable!” and sink back in his invalid’s chair with a smile that +seemed to add, “There’s little sport in an easy game.” + +Characteristic of the man’s philosophy was his own comment on his +fits of melancholy, vouchsafed once to a fellow sufferer who had been +in depths of depression: “If you go down to the depths at times, +you have many glimpses of higher things that people of more even +temperament never get; and after all, the ideal is the beautiful in +life; the facts of life are hideous.” + +He once told a visitor some tales of his experiences with the great +human tragedy--told them as if they belonged to the great human +comedy, for his humor was irrepressible. But the visitor did not +laugh; he went away a sadder and a wiser man. Possibly he thought the +doctor hardened; but I shall never forget the expression of Trudeau’s +face when I asked him directly if he had not become so accustomed to +tragedy that it no longer touched his emotions. The smile left his +face; his eyes looked out and beyond with a suddenly moist softness, +and he said slowly, “Pity, as an emotion, passes. Pity, as a motive, +remains.” + + Stephen Chalmers. By kind permission of _The + Atlantic Monthly_. + + +SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY OF BIOGRAPHICAL NARRATIVE + +The editors have found these additional selections very useful in +teaching biographical narrative: + + Barrie, James. _Margaret Ogilvy._ Charles Scribner’s Sons. + + Bradford, Gamaliel. _Portraits of Women_, particularly _Lady Mary + Wortley Montagu_ and _Mrs. Pepys_. Houghton, Mifflin Company. + + Eliot, Charles W. _John Gilley, Maine Farmer and Fisherman._ + Houghton Mifflin Company. + + Morley, Christopher. _Silas Orrin Howes_ in _Pipefuls_. Doubleday, + Page & Company. + + Strachey, Lytton. _Mr. Creevey_ in _Books and Characters_, and + _Florence Nightingale in Eminent + Victorians_. Harcourt, Brace and Company. + + + + + CHAPTER VIII + + _Reminiscent Narrative_ + + +Reminiscent narrative is the grown-up prototype of the nursery +favorite, “A story about the time when you were about my size.” Many +people have found pleasure in writing their reminiscences, and have +discovered that it is much pleasanter to write about the past than +about the present, for it is often easier to discern and to tell the +truth about events which no longer vitally concern us, than about +those which still move our emotions deeply. We are able to write +about our “dead selves” with a certain measure of affectionate or at +least sympathetic detachment. Mistakes and achievements now long past +may be recorded without smacking either of a Uriah Heep ’umbleness +or of an uncomfortably priggish smugness. This detached tone runs +through much reminiscent writing, and may become explicit in such a +passage as Miss Portor’s, “I love the Raphael baby, and I am proud +ever to have been so proud ... but before the other one that is me +... I bow my head on my hands.” + +There are two obvious sources of interest in reminiscent narrative. +The first is suggested by Hudson’s title, _Far Away and Long Ago_. +Every one likes to know what other people ate and wore and said and +did in other times and places. If other people’s experiences interest +you, so will yours interest them. In a country so varied in surface +and so wide in extent as the United States, scarcely two people in a +group of adults will have had exactly the same early surroundings, +and if we take into consideration the large admixture of foreigners +with their old world background, we must realize that the +“step-daughter of the prairie” brings a new vista to the forest bred, +and such a book as _Upstream_ records a struggle entirely unknown to +those born and reared in typical American security. It is easy enough +to see romance in other people’s lives, but it is hard to see it in +our own. A friend of mine who was born in a foreign country and whose +family was long a part of the diplomatic service in many places tells +how as a little girl she once burst out crying in the midst of one of +her mother’s stories of her own quiet childhood in an obscure fishing +village. “I shall never have any stories to tell my children; I’ve +never been anywhere,” sobbed this juvenile globe trotter, consumed +with envy of an experience, which, though pale and quiet, had for her +the fascination of the remote and the unknown. + +But even dwellers in the most familiar places have command of a sure +spring of interest; for greater than our curiosity about material +things is our interest in the inner life of the individual, how and +why he laughed or wept, loved or hated--in brief, how he reacted to +the elements that the fates mix in some measure in every life. We +wish to know not merely what he did, but why he did it, and how he +felt about it. Miss Portor’s reminiscences give us only two events, +the taking of the two photographs, but she is able to tell us so +much about her own feelings toward them, both then and now, that we +live with her in those events. If you in like manner seize upon the +unforgettable experiences of your own life, the feelings which still +burn in your memory, you will not lack material upon which to try +your hand. + +In method, reminiscent narrative varies widely, depending upon its +purpose. Madame Soskice tells us the stories of her childhood +without explanation or apology just as she felt about them as a +child. Neither her work nor _The Burglars_ shows any concern as to +how the reader may regard the children pictured. Their naïve ideas +and grotesque misapprehensions are neither explained nor apologized +for. Their deeds and ideas stand, as children always stand, sublimely +unrelated to an adult world. “The little boy” in the selection from +Lord Frederick Hamilton, on the other hand, is seen through the eyes +and memory of an older person; his ideas are frequently explained, +and we sympathize with his groping toward adult standards. In some +cases it is interesting to notice how a piece of reminiscence is +given an effect of unity by means of emphasis upon some important +element. Miss Portor, in _The Photograph_, uses the two events as a +framework upon which to stretch her picture of her family, of the +village, and of her own process of growing up. Even more strikingly, +Nevinson uses Greek as a unifying device for his account of +Shrewsbury School. The very landscape, the pupils’ amusements, their +attitude toward their various studies and toward athletics are all +illuminated for us by some relationship to his early study of Greek. +Another writer might find such a unifying device in athletics, in his +nationality, in his feeling toward school or toward his choice of a +profession, in his experiences earning money, or in the influence of +some member of his family. + +Whatever method is used, most beginners will profit by observing the +following points: + + 1. Begin without apology or mock heroics. Your reader is not + obliged to read unless he chooses. The reluctant story teller is a + bore in conversation; he is insufferable in print. + + 2. Give only enough explanation to enable the reader to follow the + story in hand. Observe how ruthlessly and how happily Mr. Grahame + has shorn off related but extraneous details of time, place, names, + and consequences in his pursuit of the burglars. + + 3. On the other hand, be generous with illuminating, picturesque, + and characteristic details--“the little boy with bare legs,” Harold + climbing down the porch “like a white rat,” and the cook’s wooden + leg. Remember that the reader cannot supply the details which are + so clear to your own mind. + + F. del P. + + + MY FATE + + LUDWIG LEWISOHN + +In October, 1893, after an oral examination which, thanks to my +mother’s instruction, I passed with ease, I was admitted to the High +School of Queenshaven. The school building is plain and dignified, +somewhat after the fashion of an English mansion of the eighteenth +century. What the school has become in recent years I do not know. +I have heard rumours of courses in bookkeeping and shorthand and +other dexterities that have nothing to do with the education of +youth. In my time it was a good school. The pupils were all boys and +they were taught by men. They were young enough to be grounded in +the necessities of a liberal education without having their callow +judgment consulted, and to be caned when they were lazy or rowdy. +The school had one grave fault: Greek was an elective study. Through +this fault my life sustained an irreparable loss. Yet when I consider +what might have happened to my mind if the school had been like the +High Schools of 1921, I am filled with a sense of gratitude. For I +was enabled to lay the foundations of a sound and permanent knowledge +of Latin and French; I was taught to study with thoroughness and +accuracy under pain of tangible and very wholesome penalties, and +it was not the fault of the school that my mind was and is all but +impervious to any form of mathematical reasoning. + +I passed into the rough and tumble of school life with a distinct +shudder. There was no direct hazing but there was a good deal of +rather cruel horse-play. You were apt to be tripped up and thrown +on your back, to have pins and needles stuck viciously into you, to +be held under the pump until you nearly choked. Also, during the +first year, I was taunted with being a foreigner and a Jew. One boy +especially tormented me--a tallish fellow with a huge mouth always +distorted by idiotic laughter, hateful, offstanding ears and small, +greenish eyes. I was no match for him in strength and he persisted +in cuffing and thumping and taunting me. I tried to avoid him, for +I shrank from the thought of touching him as shudderingly as I did +from his touch. Then, one day he clapped me brutally on the back and +yelled with laughter. Two scarlet lights danced before my eyes and I +leapt at his throat. Boys hurried from all sides of the playground +and formed a ring around us. Cries arose: “Fight fair!” I remembered +how the contemptuous thoughts raced through my brain. Fight fair! Oh +yes, give the over-grown lout a chance to trounce me as a reward for +months of bruises and insults. I didn’t want to fight him and suffer +more undeserved pain and humiliation. I wanted to hurt him, to hurt +him so effectively that he would never again dare lay his red, bony +claws on me. I did. A teacher had to come into the yard and order me +to be torn from my gasping and bloody victim. I had no trouble after +that.... + +Gradually, too, I fell in with a group of boys that belonged to +the gentler families of Queenshaven. I shall have more to say of +them later, for these classmates passed together through school and +college with me and so lived on terms of daily intimacy with me for +eight years. Through their companionship, at all events, I soon felt +at home in the school, an equal among equals in play and study. + +I have said that our teachers were men. Real men, I hasten to add, +not the spiritual starvelings who are content nowadays with the +wage-slavery of the High School. The salaries of these Queenshaven +teachers were rather better than such salaries are today and the +purchasing power of money was of course far greater. The principal +was the only man I have ever known who truly embodied the peculiar +ideal of the Christian gentleman. He had both sweetness and strength, +profound piety and wide charity. I can still see the beautiful +benevolence in his searching blue eyes and hear his clear, bell-like +voice. I do not know whether he consciously thought of the methods +of Arnold of Rugby; it is certain that he practiced them. The better +natured of my schoolmates and I never resented his punishments; we +knew he was incapable of inflicting them until in his kind and manly +judgment forgiveness would have been morally harmful to the offender. +His influence and example drew me back to the Methodist church.... It +is a sad reflection that this good man’s end was pitiful. A trusted +brother in the church absconded with all our principal’s modest +savings. They were small enough, for he was liberal in his charities +beyond the bounds of discretion. But this blow both in its moral and +in its physical aspect overwhelmed him. He fell into a state of +melancholia and I remembered him, in later years, a mild, vague-eyed, +broken figure on the Queenshaven streets. + +I shall not linger over the burly and severe but sound pedagogue who +taught us history and physics nor over the graceful youth--still +young and vivid in his middle age--who taught French and German +with a stringent accuracy and sternness that added virility to +his Greek profile and his curving locks. It is on our teacher of +Latin that I must dwell. I cannot estimate his influence over me. +To this day I find myself using locutions and mannerisms that are +ultimately traceable to him. He was--I beg his pardon for writing +of him as in the past, but to me he lives only in the past, though +admirably and fruitfully to others in the present--he was the son +of an Italian gentleman, obviously of gentle lineage and exquisite +breeding. His face and head and hands and form had in them something +indescribably Roman. Roman of the empire. But for his severer modern +morals he might have been a friend of Petronius and, like him, an +_arbiter elegantiarum_. Or, from another point of view, a gentleman +of the age of Queen Anne--a friend of Addison. Of course this does +not render the whole man. But he was singularly free from all the +modern maladies of the soul--a devout Catholic with a frugal and +pagan delight in the good things of the world, a lover of the arts +without morbid intensity or perverting ambitions, a believer in that +golden mean which he interpreted so well. I need hardly say that the +particular objects of his tireless and exquisite zeal were Vergil and +Horace and, among English writers, Milton and Tennyson and Thackeray. + +As a teacher he was strict, though always with a light +touch--stinging the lazy and loutish by some ironic turn of speech. +He taught us to appreciate a fine and mellow Latinity as well as the +human warmth and living power of the literature we read. But he was +tireless, too, in the humbler portions of his task. I find I know my +Latin accidence and syntax better to-day than graduate students who +“major” in Latin at our universities. And I can still hear his voice +as, repeating some line of Vergil, he first awakened me to the magic +of a great and perfect style: + + “... et jam nox umida coelo + praecipitat suadentque cadentia sidera somnos.” + +It was in the third year of High School. He was teaching us to scan +Vergil. We were repeating a passage in unison. Suddenly he swung on +his heels and pointed his finger straight at me: “That is the only +boy who has a natural ear for verse!” he cried. A keen, strange +quiver went through me. I realized the meaning suddenly of that +constant scribbling which I had been impelled to during the preceding +months. I had a gift for literature! I knew it now; I never doubted +it again. My fate had found me. + + Ludwig Lewisohn. _Upstream._ By permission of + Boni and Liveright, Publishers. + + + THE PHOTOGRAPH + + LAURA SPENCER PORTOR + +In the days when I was a child--before “films” were so much as +heard of--there was a photographer, a certain photographer, very +particular, who might have figured in the Arabian Nights as some one +of importance. + +A photographer was then very much a person in the community. If we +were a people of nicety as to precedents, I think he would have +stood, in all our reckonings, fourth in the realm: minister, doctor, +lawyer--_photographer_--with mere bankers, cooks, icemen, aldermen, +and mayor, following subservient. Everyone, sometime, somehow, +sooner or later, came at last to the photographer. In the flat glass +show case that hung outside the steps leading to his upper parlor, +they all hung, some of them fiercely in high collars, some of them +frightened, in low ones; but all there. + +I was prepared for a visit to the “photograph parlor” with some +occasion, I assure you, the process being long, painstaking, and full +of admonition. I was now nearly three years old and there was needed, +I suppose, an official photograph to send to distant and inquiring +aunts and uncles. + +I recall the photographer perfectly, or my composite recollections +of later years--for he remained long with us--serve me perfectly. He +had masses of curly hair through which he often temperamentally ran +his delicate long fingers; a poetic personality; and eyes that never +left you for so much as an instant, once the real ordeal had begun; +and an index finger that flew up and remained rigid at unaccountable +moments. He had imagination; for he was repeatedly referring to a +little bird, and asking me to look at it, which I did my utmost to +see, but which for me was never there. + +After sundry final preparations I was ushered into the strange +“parlor.” I was parted from my mother’s hand, as a ship from her +moorings; was for a moment lost, then saved; for the photographer +took me in tow. I was guided to a velours chair, and allowed, no, +assisted, to climb upon it. There was some talk on the photographer’s +part, I believe, of naturalness. Then, almost immediately, he began +dancing back and forth intensely, fantastically, with lithe poses +and bendings of his lissom body this side and that; his eyes half +closed, fixed all the while on me, with a rapt attention I had never +before received. + +“A _lit_-tle more to one side! There!” + +He even took my head delicately between his terribly firm fingers and +turned it ever so little. Why? I should have preferred it as it was. +At last his assistant under his direction--a rather elderly man he +was, and disillusioned I think, bent, and with long fingers too, but +bony and no hair to run them through--placed some sort of a terrible +iron thing I never saw nor could have imagined at the back of my head. + +During all this, the photographer’s eyes never left me. What was it +he saw? Then up flew his forefinger. + +“So! Keep that!” + +(Keep what?) + +He flew like a dragon fly to the hooded instrument, ducked his head +under the hood, lost his own head, it seemed, took on the hooded head +of the instrument, _became_ the instrument as it were, so that it +now had human arms and legs clothed in a checked suit, and in this +metamorphic condition, proceeded with an unaccountable section of the +Eleusinian mysteries. + +So, this was the manner in which one had one’s picture taken! Was +that all? Bless you, no! We had but begun! He suddenly turned into a +man again, and the instrument degenerated into a mere instrument. + +We made, I cannot imagine, how many false starts. The index finger +would fly up. I would be recommended to watch the little bird I could +not see. The old assistant would stand ready to click the instrument. +The photographer would count three. So! Now! Off we were, surely! +But no! Something was suddenly altogether a mistake. What was the +matter? I wish I could tell you. I suppose I must have altered +infinitesimally his precious pose. So, _da capo_. Well! Now! There! +So! Up would go the index finger. We are off now! + +No! by my strapped slippers, we are not! Spoiled again! + +Then he would run his fingers really wildly through his hair. +Patience! Reconstruction. I knew I was not to blame. I was healthy +and well disposed, and eager to do my part, but he wanted something +better than the best. + +I do not know how long he worked feverishly, but I have still the +perfectly good-natured, secure, contented likeness which seems to +have resulted--not because of, but in spite of all this frenzy; +a baby likeness showing as nothing else in the world could the +immeasurable distance between our two worlds, his and mine. + +I was showing it laughingly, perhaps a little wistfully, to an artist +friend of mine the other day. He appeared to be startled almost by +its certainty, its poise. + +“Good Lord, how wise! How _secure_! It is like the Raphael babies! +I’ve always thought they _knew_; some knowledge you could not shake.” + +The mistake is, of course, to limit the observation to the Raphael +babies. Of course children of that age _do_ know, but it is a sad +mistake to say you cannot shake their knowledge. This I can prove +to you, if you are in doubt, by another photograph, taken two years +later, when I was of the tenderly advanced age of five. It was no +official photograph like the first, but a hasty unofficial matter, an +emergency affair, a tintype, and taken in a hurry. And this is its +story: + +There was in our home, as in most homes of its class of that day, a +deep tradition of family affection. We were told, I cannot imagine +how early, that we must love one another. In the prayers we said at +night, tiny as we three youngest ones were, we asked God severally to +bless each member of the household, naming them, before we severally +asked Him to “make us a good girl”; and these petitions, linked with +a shadow and possibility of our perhaps “dying before we waked,” gave +love, I am inclined to think, in our inadequate conception of it a +certain solemn tone. + +I was an impressionable child, and easily devoted. Besides my much +elder brothers and sisters, I had two sisters rather close to my own +age. A day came when the one nearest to me in years went away with +some older relative, an aunt, I believe, to the East, for a long +visit; eight months indeed. + +I know I must at first have missed her very much. But I think I had +always a certain zest for life. The wind blew as mysteriously in the +tree tops as it ever did; the birds built in quite as fascinating +half-secret places; the lilacs waved incredible plumes announcing +that the roses were about to arrive. Amid all this present glory the +sister who was absent faded gradually, in my memory. + +Who can trace the beginnings of terror in early years? I wakened at +last to the hideous realization that I had lost her; not in a bodily +sense, not in a sense of absence or loneliness, for I knew she was +in the world still, but in a terrible sense--as though a witch had +caught me by the hair, or I had caught my feet in the hideous net +of some spell--she was obliterated--_I could not remember what she +looked like!_ + +There are terrors of many kinds in life. I know. I have met not a +few; but for abysmal terror, that realization, it sometimes seems +to me, leads them all. Blackness without a gleam of light, depth +without a bottom. Downright mental panic. I know I made a few +desperate efforts. “Jeanette!” Her name I knew, and often heard +spoken; I could remember things she had done and said; but not form +or feature. + +My mother was away that day; but I was blessed by a special +providence with an older sister some seventeen years older than +myself--who was compounded of all that was best and most sympathetic +in the world. I rushed to her; was held close in her arms; but could +tell her nothing for sobbing. + +When she at last got the circumstances from me, her delicate handling +of it was, I think, very nearly as good as the mercy of God; only it +was debonair besides, in good measure. + +She kissed me, and laughed, and said that she was just thinking that +minute that in all that time Jeanette might have forgotten what I +looked like! (Think of the delicacy of her putting it that way!) So, +let us go to the photographer’s and have a little tintype taken of +myself; let us send it this very day to Jeanette; and let us ask her +to send us one of herself in return. + +So, my disloyalty was blotted out, and all tears were wiped away from +my eyes. I was dressed quickly, a lace fichu was put about my neck, +my drooping leghorn was set upon my head; I think I must have felt +that goodness and mercy would follow me all the days of my life and I +would dwell in the house of the Lord forever. + +No appointment was necessary. There was no art to the taking of this +picture. It was to be a tintype precisely because these partook of +immediacy and expedition. The young temperamental photographer with +his zeal for perfection was not even there; only the old one, bent, +kind, disillusioned. + +Well, it is a different picture, I tell you, that second one--utterly +different. Good God! What life does to one! And how early it begins! +That complacent, secure, Raphael child, who knew everything, and was +so sure--for how short a while was she allowed her knowledge and +her sovereignty! Then, the second and unofficial photograph! Such a +darling child, but one whose scepter had been finally taken from it. +Already a certain nostalgia had irrevocably touched me. I only tell +you the truth: every line of that photograph droops--not tragically, +but enough, enough. Already, you could not mistake it, that child had +sounded the depths of its own fallible humanity. + +I have both photographs beside me. I love the Raphael baby, and I am +proud ever to have been so proud--and to have had that pride recorded +by the all-seeing sun and a temperamental photographer with a passion +for perfection; but before that other one that is me--(how much +sadness already; and how soon!) before that other one I bow my head +on my hands. + + By kind permission of the author, Laura Spencer + Portor. + + + MY CHILDHOOD + + LORD FREDERICK HAMILTON + +I was born the thirteenth child of a family of fourteen, on the +thirteenth day of the month, and I have for many years resided at +No. 13 in a certain street in Westminster. In spite of the popular +prejudice attached to this numeral, I am not conscious of having +derived any particular ill-fortune from my accidental association +with it. + + * * * * * + +Looking down the long vista of sixty years with eyes that have +already lost their keen vision, the most vivid impression that +remains of my early childhood is the nightly ordeal of the journey +down “The Passage of Many Terrors” in our Irish home. It had been +decreed that, as I had reached the mature age of six, I was quite +old enough to come down-stairs in the evening by myself without the +escort of a maid, but no one seemed to realize what this entailed on +the small boy immediately concerned. The house had evidently been +built by some malevolent architect with the sole object of terrifying +little boys. Never, surely, had such a prodigious length of twisting, +winding passages and such a superfluity of staircases been crammed +into one building, and as in the early “sixties” electric light had +not been thought of, and there was no gas in the house, these endless +passages were only sparingly lit with dim colza-oil lamps. From his +nursery the little boy had to make his way alone through a passage +and up some steps. These were brightly lit, and concealed no terrors. +The staircase that had to be negotiated was also reassuringly bright, +but at its base came the “Terrible Passage.” It was interminably +long, and only lit by an oil lamp at its far end. Almost at once a +long corridor running at right angles to the main one, and plunged +in total darkness, had to be crossed. This was an awful place, for +under a marble slab in its dim recesses a stuffed crocodile reposed. +Of course in the daytime the crocodile _pretended_ to be very dead, +but every one knew that as soon as it grew dark, the crocodile came +to life again, and padded noiselessly about the passage on its scaly +paws seeking for its prey, with its great cruel jaws snapping, its +fierce teeth gleaming, and its horny tail lashing savagely from side +to side. It was also a matter of common knowledge that the favourite +article of diet of crocodiles was a little boy with bare legs in a +white suit. + +Even should one be fortunate enough to escape the crocodile’s jaws, +there were countless other terrors awaiting the traveller down this +awe-inspiring passage. A little farther on there was a dark lobby, +with cupboards surrounding it. Anyone examining these cupboards by +daylight would have found that they contained innocuous cricket-bats +and stumps, croquet-mallets and balls, and sets of bowls. But as soon +as the shades of night fell, these harmless sporting accessories were +changed by some mysterious and malign agency into grizzly bears, +and grizzly bears are notoriously the fiercest of their species. It +was advisable to walk very quickly, but quietly, past the lair of +the grizzlies, for they would have gobbled up a little boy in one +second. Immediately after the bears’ den came the culminating terror +of all--the haunt of the wicked little hunchbacks. These malignant +little beings inhabited an arched and recessed cross-passage. It +was their horrible habit to creep noiselessly behind their victims, +tip ... tip ... tip-toeing silently but swiftly behind their prey, +and then ... with a sudden spring they threw themselves on to +little boys’ backs, and getting their arms around their necks, they +remorselessly throttled the life out of them. In the early “sixties” +there was a perfect epidemic of so-called “garrotting” in London. +Harmless citizens proceeding peaceably homeward through unfrequented +streets or down suburban roads at night were suddenly seized from +behind by nefarious hands, and found arms pressed under their chins +against their windpipe, with a second hand drawing their heads back +until they collapsed insensible, and could be despoiled leisurely +of any valuables that they might happen to have about them. Those +familiar with John Leech’s _Punch Album_ will recollect how many of +his drawings turned on this outbreak of garrotting. The little boy +had heard his elders talking about this garrotting, and had somehow +mixed it up with a story about hunchbacks and the fascinating local +tales about “the wee people,” but the terror was a very real one +for all that. The hunchbacks baffled, there only remained a dark +archway to pass, but this archway led to the “Robbers’ Passage.” A +peculiarly bloodthirsty gang of malefactors had their fastnesses +along this passage, but the dread of being in the immediate +neighbourhood of such a band of desperadoes was considerably modified +by the increasing light, as the solitary oil lamp of the passage was +approached. Under the comforting beams of this lamp the little boy +would pause until his heart began to thump less wildly after his +deadly perils, and he would turn the handle of the door and walk +into the great hall as demurely as though he had merely traversed an +ordinary everyday passage in broad daylight. It was very reassuring +to see the big hall blazing with light, with the logs roaring +on the open hearth, and grown-ups writing, reading, and talking +unconcernedly, as though unconscious of the awful dangers lurking +within a few yards of them. In that friendly atmosphere, what with +toys and picture-books, the fearful experiences of the “Passage of +Many Terrors” soon faded away, and the return journey upstairs would +be free from alarms, for Catherine, the nursery-maid, would come to +fetch the little boy when his bedtime arrived. + +Catherine was fat, freckled, and French. She was also of a very +stolid disposition. She stumped unconcernedly along the “Passage +of Terrors,” and any reference to its hidden dangers of robbers, +hunch-backs, bears, and crocodiles only provoked the remark, “Quel +tas de bêtises!” In order to reassure the little boy, Catherine took +him to view the stuffed crocodile reposing inertly under its marble +slab. Of course, before a grown-up the crocodile would pretend to be +dead and stuffed, but ... the little boy knew better. It occurred +gleefully to him, too, that the plump French damsel might prove more +satisfactory as a repast to a hungry saurian than a skinny little +boy with thin legs. In the cheerful nursery, with its fragrant peat +fire (we called it “turf”), the terrors of the evening were quickly +forgotten, only to be renewed with tenfold activity next evening, as +the moment for making the dreaded journey again approached. + +The little boy had had the _Pilgrim’s Progress_ read to him on +Sundays. He envied “Christian,” who not only usually enjoyed the +benefit of some reassuring companion, such as “Mr. Interpreter,” +or “Mr. Greatheart,” to help him on his road, but had also been +expressly told, “Keep in the midst of the path, and no harm shall +come to thee.” + +This was distinctly comforting, and Christian enjoyed another +conspicuous advantage. All the lions he encountered in the course +of his journey were chained up, and could not reach him provided +he adhered to the Narrow Way. The little boy thought seriously of +tying a rolled-up tablecloth to his back to represent Christian’s +pack; in his white suit, he might perhaps then pass for a pilgrim, +and the strip of carpet down the centre of the passage would make an +admirable Narrow Way, but it all depended on whether the crocodile, +bears, and hunchbacks knew, and would observe the rules of the game. +It was most improbable that the crocodile had ever had the _Pilgrim’s +Progress_ read to him in his youth, and he might not understand that +the carpet representing the Narrow Way was inviolable territory. +Again, the bears might make their spring before they realized that, +strictly speaking, they ought to consider themselves chained up. The +ferocious little hunchbacks were clearly past praying for; nothing +would give them a sense of the most elementary decency. On the whole, +the safest plan seemed to be, on reaching the foot of the stairs, to +keep an eye on the distant lamp and to run to it as fast as short +legs and small feet could carry one. Once safe under its friendly +beams, panting breath could be recovered, and the necessary stolid +look assumed before entering the hall. + +There was another voyage, rich in its promise of ultimate rewards, +but so perilous that it would only be undertaken under escort. That +was to the housekeeper’s room through a maze of basement passages. +On the road two fiercely-gleaming roaring pits of fire had to be +encountered. Grown-ups said this was the furnace that heated the +house, but the little boy had his own ideas on the subject. Every +Sunday his nurse used to read to him out of a little devotional book, +much in vogue in the “sixties,” called _The Peep of Day_, a book with +the most terrifying pictures. One Sunday evening, so it is said, the +little boy’s mother came into the nursery to find him listening in +rapt attention to what his nurse was reading him. + +“Emery is reading to me out of a good book,” explained the small boy +quite superfluously. + +“And do you like it, dear?” + +“Very much indeed.” + +“What is Emery reading to you about? Is it about Heaven?” + +“No, it’s about ’ell,” gleefully responded the little boy, who had +not yet found all his “h’s.” + +Those glowing furnace-bars; those roaring flames ... there could be +no doubt whatever about it. A hymn spoke of “Gates of Hell” ... of +course they just called it the heating furnace to avoid frightening +him. The little boy became acutely conscious of his misdeeds. He had +taken ... no, stolen an apple from the nursery pantry and had eaten +it. Against all orders he had played with the taps in the sink. The +burden of his iniquities pressed heavily on him; remembering the +encouraging warnings Mrs. Fairchild, of _The Fairchild Family_, gave +her offspring as to their certain ultimate destiny when they happened +to break any domestic rule, he simply dared not pass those fiery +apertures alone. With his hand in that of his friend Joseph, the +footman, it was quite another matter. Out of gratitude, he addressed +Joseph as “Mr. Greatheart,” but Joseph, probably unfamiliar with the +_Pilgrim’s Progress_, replied that his name was Smith. + +The interminable labyrinth of passages threaded, the warm, +comfortable housekeeper’s room, with its red curtains, oak presses +and a delicious smell of spice pervading it, was a real haven of +rest. To this very day, nearly sixty years afterwards, it still +looks just the same, and keeps its old fragrant spicy odour. Common +politeness dictated a brief period of conversation, until Mrs. +Pithers, the housekeeper, should take up her wicker key-basket and +select a key (the second press on the left). From that inexhaustible +treasure-house dates and figs would appear, also dried apricots +and those little discs of crystallised apple-paste which, impaled +upon straws, and coloured green, red and yellow, were in those days +manufactured for the special delectation of greedy little boys. What +a happy woman Mrs. Pithers must have been with such a prodigal wealth +of delicious products always at her command! It was comforting, +too, to converse with Mrs. Pithers, for though this intrepid woman +was alarmed neither by bears, hunchbacks, nor crocodiles, she was +terribly frightened by what she termed “cows,” and regulated her +daily walks so as to avoid any portion of the park where cattle +were grazing. Here the little boy experienced a delightful sense of +masculine superiority. He was not the least afraid of cattle, or of +other things in daylight and the open air; of course at night in +dark passages infested with bears and little hunchbacks.... Well, it +was obviously different. And yet that woman who was afraid of “cows” +could walk without a tremor, or a little shiver down the spine, past +the very “Gates of Hell,” where they roared and blazed in the dark +passage. + + From _The Days Before Yesterday_ by Lord + Frederick Hamilton. Copyright 1920, George H. + Doran Company, Publishers. + + + SHREWSBURY SCHOOL + + HENRY W. NEVINSON + + “High the vanes of Shrewsbury gleam, + Islanded in Severn Stream; + The bridges from the steepled crest + Cross the water east and west. + + “The flag of morn in conqueror’s state + Enters at the English gate; + The vanquished eve, as night prevails, + Bleeds upon the road to Wales.” + + --_A Shropshire Lad._ + +In my old school upon the Severn, I can see now that we were not +educated at all: no scientific methods were tried upon us. I doubt +if any of the masters had ever heard there was such a thing as a +science of education. To them education was a natural process which +all decent people went through, like washing: and their ideas upon +it were as unscientific as was our method of “swilling,” when we ran +down naked from the bedrooms to sheds in the backyards, sluiced cold +water over us with zinc basins, and then came dripping back to dry +upstairs. And yet I do remember one young mathematician whose form +by the end of his hour was always reduced to a flushed and radiant +chaos: and when the other masters complained he replied that this +was part of his “system.” So I suppose that he at all events was +scientific, and had possibly studied Pädagogik in Germany. + +The others were content to teach what they had learned, and in the +same manner. Most of them were Shrewsbury boys themselves, and +because Greek had been taught there for more than three centuries, +they taught Greek. Of course, we had Latin too, and up to the sixth +form, our time was equally divided between the two languages; but +Latin, as being easier and rather more connected with modern life, +never ranked so high, and we turned to it with the relief which most +men feel when the ladies rise from the dinner table. Latin prose, it +is true, was thought more of than Greek prose, and no doubt there +was some instinctive reason why. I suspect that in reality it is +the more difficult: for it was the unconscious rule of our ancient +tradition that of two subjects the more difficult was the better +worth learning, provided always that both were entirely useless. + +Of Greek our knowledge was both peculiar and limited. We were +allowed no devices to make the language in the least interesting, +no designs, or pictures, or explanations. We had no idea what the +Greek plays looked like on the stage, or why Demosthenes uttered +those long-winded sentences. We knew nothing of the Dantesque pride +underlying the tortured prose of Thucydides, and when a sixth-form +master told us that the stupendous myth at the end of the Phaedo +appeared to him singularly childish, we took no notice of the remark +one way or the other. We only knew that the passage was easy, just as +Homer was easy, and the choruses hard. The greater part of the school +believed that Greek literature was written as a graduated series of +problems for Shrewsbury boys to solve, and when a sixth-form boy was +asked by a new master whether he did not consider the Prometheus a +very beautiful play, he replied that he thought it contained too many +weak caesuras. + +So there was nothing in the least artistic about our knowledge. No +one expected to find either beauty or pleasure in what we read, and +we found none. Nor were we scientific; we neither knew nor cared +how the Greek words arose, or how the aorists grew, and why there +were two of them, like Castor and Pollux. After all these things +do the Germans seek, but us they never troubled. Our sole duty was +to convert, with absolute precision, so much Greek into so much +English. No possible shade of meaning or delicate inflection on the +page was allowed to slide unnoticed. The phases of every mood with +all its accompanying satellites were traced with the exactitude of +astronomy. No one cared much about beauty of language provided the +definite meaning was secure. Yet beauty sometimes came by accident, +just as happiness comes, and I first learned what style is from the +renderings of the head-boy when he mounted the “rostrum.” He was +himself an antique Roman; his eagle nose, wide mouth, and massive +chin, the low, broad brow, with black curls growing close to the +square-backed head, were made to rule nations. But not long since +he died in the serviceable obscurity of a mastership, for which his +knowledge of Greek was his only qualification. It is true he was our +captain of football, but he owed that position to his Greek rather +than his play. + +When as a new boy I was first taken for a walk out of bounds on a +Sunday afternoon by one of the upper sixth, who is now an earthly +saint, we went to a hillside with a long blue vision of western +mountains, and while I had no thought or eyes for anything but +them, he continued to talk quietly of Greek--the significance of +various forms, the most telling way of turning this meaning or that, +especially, I remember, the cunning idioms by which the idea of +“self” might be rendered in verse, either with emphasis or modesty. +So it was. The school breathed Greek, and through its ancient +buildings a Greek wind blew. To enter the head-room--a dim, panelled +chamber which the upper sixth used as a study--was to become a +scholar. I doubt if good Greek verse could be written anywhere else. +Winged iambics fluttered through the air; they hung like bats along +the shelves, and the dust fell in Greek particles. Now the school +is moved to the further side of the river, and its grey and storied +stone is exchanged for cheerful brick. Our old head-room has become +the housekeeper’s parlor in some citizen’s dwelling, but on the +hearthstone at eventide beside her petticoats squats the imperishable +Lar, real as a rat, though not so formidable, and murmurs iambics to +himself. + +Other subjects besides Greek were taught, but no one ever learned +them. There was French, for instance, taught by an aged Englishman +who had outlived three generations of mortal head-masters, and, +besides his wig, was supposed gradually to have acquired an +artificial body that would last forever. To us he was important +because he registered the punishments, and had the reputation of a +very bloodhound for detecting crime. Certainly he was the best comic +reader I ever heard, and when he read prayers at night the whole +school used to howl like a rising and falling wind, following the +cadence of his voice. But nobody learned French of him. Once, because +I had shown him decent politeness he assigned me a prize. I could +honestly say I knew less French than any one this side the Channel; +and yet I should never have outlived a certain stigma attaching to +imaginary knowledge of anything so paltry, if nature had not given me +the power of running long distances without fatigue. But, unhappily +for me, to prove that power I had to wait from summer till autumn, +when the school huntsman led out his pack in white to scour the wild +country west of the town--a country of yellow woods and deep pools, +where water-fowl rose, and of isolated limestone hills, the promise +of Wales. Each run followed a course fixed by old tradition. Foxes +were seldom sent out, and were never supposed to be caught. We ran +for the sake of running, just as we learned Greek for the sake of +learning it. + +Mathematics were held in scarcely less contempt than French. We +had two wranglers to teach us, but they never taught anyone. +Their appearance in form was hailed with indecent joy. As one +of the classical masters said, it was like the “Cease fire” on +a field-day, and the whole body of boys abandoned themselves at +once to relaxation. In the lower forms far-sailing darts were seen +floating through the air as at a spiritualist seance; in the upper +we discussed the steeple-chase or did Greek verses. A boy who really +knew any mathematics was regarded by ourselves and the masters as +a kind of freak. There was no dealing with him. His mathematical +marks got him into forms beyond his real knowledge--his knowledge +of Greek. He upset the natural order of things. He was a perpetual +ugly duckling, that could not emit iambics. So his lot was far from +enviable, and happily I remember only two such cases. + +In the sixth, it was Saturday mornings which were given to this +innocent pursuit of mathematics, and to it we owed our happiest hours +of peace. To go up School Gardens on a bright summer day, to cross +the leisurely street of the beautiful country town, to buy breakfast +(for an ancient tradition kept us strenuously underfed), to devour it +slowly and at ease, knowing there was only mathematics before us that +morning, to be followed by the long afternoon and Sunday--that was a +secure and unequalled joy, and whenever mathematics are mentioned, +I still feel a throb of gratitude for those old pleasures. Our one +lesson on Sunday was a difficulty to the masters. Of course there +was the Greek testament to fall back upon, but its Greek was so easy +and so inferior to ours that it became a positive danger. We were +sometimes given a Latin catechism, by some Protestant Father of the +sixteenth century, denouncing Transubstantiation, but that also we +had to read with caution lest it should influence our Latin prose. +Once we waded through Dr. Westcott’s _Gospel of the Resurrection_, +a supposed concession to those of us who were going to Oxford. On +Sunday evenings we learnt cantos of the _In Memoriam_ by heart, and +explained them next morning by suggesting how they might be turned +into Greek or Latin lyrics. Then the real labor of life began again +with Greek, and so the weeks rolled on without a change. Once, it +is true, our greatest master got an afternoon hour for the teaching +of wisdom to the sixth, and we really tried to listen, for he stood +six foot four and had been captain of football at Oxford. But it +was no good. Wisdom was far too easy and unimportant for us, and we +let her voice cry in vain. Of such diversions as physical science +or mechanics we never even heard, though their absence was perhaps +sufficiently compensated for by the system of fagging, under which +all the lower forms learnt the arts of lighting fires and plain +cooking for the upper sixth. The new-boys were also practiced in +public oratory, having in turn to proclaim the athletic announcements +for the day, standing on the breakfast-table. The proclamation began +with “O-Yes!” three times repeated, and ended with “God save the +Queen, and down with the Radicals!” Anyone was at liberty to throw +bread, sugar, or boots at the crier during his announcement; and many +of my schoolfellows have since displayed extraordinary eloquence on +public platforms and in the pulpit. + +In politics our instruction was entirely practical. For centuries +the school had been divided into bitterly hostile camps--day-boys +and boarders--doing the same work, sitting side by side in form, +but never speaking to each other or walking together, or playing +the same games. No feud of Whig and Tory, or Boer and Briton, +was so implacable as ours. “Skytes” we called them, those hated +day-boys, for whom the school was founded--mere Scythians, uncouth +and brutish things that sacrificed the flesh of men and drank from +a human skull. Out of school hours we did not suffer them within +school gates. They were excluded even from the ball-court, except for +fights. They were compelled to pay for separate football and cricket +fields; and in football they adopted the vulgar rules of Association, +while we aristocrats of tradition continued to cherish an almost +incomprehensible game, in which, as in a Homeric battle, the leaders +did the fighting, while the indistinguishable host trampled to and +fro in patient pursuit of a ball which they rarely touched, but +sometimes saw. The breach may have begun when Elizabeth was Queen, +or in the days of Cavaliers and Roundheads, and there is no knowing +how long it would have lasted but for the wisdom of that wise master +already mentioned. Whilst I was still there, myself a red-hot +boarder, he began delicately to reason, amid the choking indignation +of both sides, whose rancor increased as reason shook it. No reformer +ever set himself to a task so hopeless, and yet it was accomplished. +Within a year we were playing football under Association rules +together, and before the old school was removed the wrath of ages was +appeased. + +For the rest, I cannot say that the ingenuous art of Greek, though we +learnt it faithfully, softened our manners much, or forbade us to be +savages. One peculiar custom may stand for many as an instance of the +primitive barbarity which stamps upon any abnormal member of a herd. +Since the last Pancratium was fought at Olympia, no such dire contest +has been seen among men as our old steeple-chase. Clad in little +but gloves--a little which grew less with every hundred yards--the +small band of youths tore their way through bare and towering hedges, +wallowed through bogs, plunged into streams and ponds, racing over a +two miles of country that no horse would have looked at. The start +was at the Flash side of the Severn, and if I had cleared the first +stream and the hedge beyond it with one clean bound, as my young +brother did, I would have it engraved on my tombstone: “He jumped the +Flash ditch, R. I. P.” The winner of the race was, of course, the boy +who came in first; but the hero of the school was he from whom the +most blood was trickling at the finish, and who showed the bravest +gashes on his face as he walked down the choir of St. Mary’s at next +morning’s service. The course for the display of all this heroism +was marked by the new boys, whose places as “sticks” were allotted +by the huntsman the day before, the whole school accompanying them, +and by immemorial custom the most unpopular new-boy of the year +was always set at the last post,--a slippery stump of ancient tree +projecting in the very midst of a particularly filthy pond. As we +drew nearer and nearer the place, all of us advancing at a gentle +trot, one could see the poor creature growing more and more certain +that he was the boy. We all exchanged smiles, and sometimes his name +was called out, for all, except himself, had agreed who it would +probably be. At last the pond was reached, and we stood round it +in a thick and silent circle, awaiting the public execution of a +soul. The boy’s name was called. He came sullenly forward and made +a wild leap for the stump. Invariably he fell short, or slipped +and plunged headlong into the stagnant water, whilst we all yelled +with satisfaction. Wallowing through the black slush and duckweed, +he clambered on to the tree at last, and stood there in the public +gaze, declared the most hateful boy in the school. Upon himself the +ceremony had not always the elevating effect at which, I suppose, we +aimed. For I remember one disappointed moralist in the fourth form +remarking, “Frog’s pond doesn’t seem to have done that fellow any +good. He wants kicking again.” + +It is all gone now--Frog’s pond, the steeple-chase, and the runners. +The old school itself has been converted into a museum, and in +the long raftered room where we learnt Greek, a crocodile with +gaping jaws, stuffed monkeys, and some bottled snakes teach useful +knowledge to all who come. When last I was there, they were teaching +a blue-nosed boy to make squeaks on the glass with his wetted finger, +and he was getting on very well. But from my old seat (under the +crocodile) I could see beyond the Berwick woods the wild and tossing +hills, already touched with snow, just as when I used to watch the +running light upon them, and envy the lives folded in their valleys. +Close in front was the bend of the river where Bryan’s Ford swings +past Blue Rails, just as it ran one night, still longer ago, when +Admiral Benbow as a little boy launched his coracle for the sea. In +a shining horseshoe the river sweeps round the spires on Shrewsbury +Hill. The red castle guards the narrows, and east and west the Welsh +and English bridges cross the water. Below the English bridge I never +cared to discover what might come, for the river ran down towards the +land of dulness, opposite to the course of adventure and the sun. +But to follow up the stream, to scrape across her shingly fords, to +watch for the polished surface of her shoals, and move silently over +the black depths where no line had reached a bottom--let me die, as +Wordsworth says, if the very thought of it does not always fill me +with joy! Incalculable from hour to hour, the river never loses her +charm and variety. In a single night the water will rise twenty feet, +and pour foaming through the deep channel it has been cutting for so +many years. Along its banks of sandstone and loam the dotterels run, +and rats and stoats thread the labyrinth of the flood-washed roots. +There the bullfinches build, kingfishers dig their “tunnelled house,” +moorhens set their shallow bowl of reeds, and sometimes a tern flits +by like a large white swallow. On tongues of gravel, where the +current eddies under the deep opposite bank, red cattle with white +faces used to come down in summer and stand far out in the stream, +ruminating and flicking their tails, or following us with wondering +eyes as we ran naked over the grass and fell splashing into the +water. Severn water is full of light and motion. Never stopping to +sulk, it has no dead and solid surface, but is alive right through, +reflecting the sunshine, green with long ribbons of weed, orange +from the pebbly bed, and indigo where the unbreaking crests of its +ripples rise. As it passes beneath deep meadows, and under the solemn +elms, it whispers still of the mountains from which it came. Into the +midst of hedgerow villages and ordered fields it brings its laughing +savagery, telling of another life than theirs, of rocks and sounding +falls and moorland watersheds. Other rivers may be called majestic, +and we talk of Father Tiber and Father Thames, but no one ever called +the Severn Father, or praised her but for her grace; for she is like +the body and soul of a princess straight from a western fairyland--so +wild and pliant, so full of laughter and of mystery, so uncertain +in her gay and sorrowing moods. On my word, though the science +of education must be a very splendid thing, untaught, untrained, +uninstructed as we Shrewsbury boys would now be considered, I would +not change places with the most scientifically educated man in +England, who had never known a river such as that. + + From _Changes and Chances_ by Henry W. Nevinson. + Copyright by Harcourt, Brace and Company, Inc. + + + THE BURGLARS + + KENNETH GRAHAME + +It was much too fine a night to think of going to bed at once, and +so, although the witching hour of nine P. M. had struck, Edward and +I were still leaning out of the open window in our nightshirts, +watching the play of the cedar-branch shadows on the moonlit lawn, +and planning schemes of fresh deviltry for the sunshiny morrow. +From below, strains of the jocund piano declared that the Olympians +were enjoying themselves in their listless impotent way; for the new +curate had been bidden to dinner that night, and was at the moment +unclerically proclaiming to all the world that he feared no foe. +His discordant vociferations doubtless started a train of thought +in Edward’s mind, for he presently remarked, _à propos_ of nothing +whatever that had been said before, “I believe the new curate’s +rather gone on Aunt Maria.” + +I scouted the notion; “Why, she’s quite old,” I said. (She must have +seen some five-and-twenty summers.) + +“Of course she is,” replied Edward scornfully. “It’s not her, it’s +her money he’s after, you bet!” + +“Didn’t know she had any money,” I observed timidly. + +“Sure to have,” said my brother with confidence. “Heaps and heaps.” + +Silence ensued, both our minds being busy with the new situation thus +presented: mine, in wonderment at this flaw that so often declared +itself in enviable natures of fullest endowment,--in a grown-up man +and a good cricketer, for instance, even as this curate; Edward’s +(apparently) in the consideration of how such a state of things, +supposing it existed, could be best turned to his own advantage. + +“Bobby Ferris told me,” began Edward in due course, “that there was a +fellow spooning his sister once----” + +“What’s spooning?” I asked meekly. + +“O I dunno,” said Edward indifferently. “It’s--it’s--it’s just a +thing they do, you know. And he used to carry notes and messages and +things between ’em, and he got a shilling almost every time.” + +“What, from each of ’em?” I innocently inquired. + +Edward looked at me with scornful pity. “Girls never have any money,” +he briefly explained. “But she did his exercises, and got him out +of rows, and told stories for him when he needed it--and much better +ones than he could have made up for himself. Girls are useful in some +ways. So he was living in clover, when unfortunately they went and +quarrelled about something.” + +“Don’t see what that’s got to do with it,” I said. + +“Nor don’t I,” rejoined Edward. “But anyhow the notes and things +stopped, and so did the shillings. Bobby was fairly cornered, for +he had bought two ferrets on tick, and promised to pay a shilling +a week, thinking the shillings were going on for ever, the silly +young ass. So when the week was up, and he was being dunned for the +shilling, he went off to the fellow and said: ‘Your broken-hearted +Bella implores you to meet her at sundown. By the hollow oak as of +old, be it only for a moment. Do not fail!’ He got all that out of +some rotten book, of course. The fellow looked puzzled and said: + +“‘What hollow oak? I don’t know any hollow oak.’ + +“‘Perhaps it was the Royal Oak?’ said Bobby promptly, ’cos he saw he +had made a slip, through trusting too much to the rotten book; but +this didn’t seem to make the fellow any happier.” + +“Should think not,” I said, “the Royal Oak’s an awful low sort of +pub.” + +“I know,” said Edward. “Well, at last the fellow said, ‘I think I +know what she means: the hollow tree in your father’s paddock. It +happens to be an elm, but she wouldn’t know the difference. All +right: say I’ll be there.’ Bobby hung about a bit, for he hadn’t +got his money. ‘She was crying awfully,’ he said. Then he got his +shilling.” + +“And wasn’t the fellow riled,” I inquired, “when he got to the place +and found nothing?” + +“He found Bobby,” said Edward indignantly. “Young Ferris was a +gentleman, every inch of him. He brought the fellow another message +from Bella: ‘I dare not leave the house. My cruel parents immure +me closely. If you only knew what I suffer. Your broken-hearted +Bella.’ Out of the same rotten book. This made the fellow a little +suspicious, ’cos it was the old Ferrises who had been keen about the +thing all through. The fellow, you see, had tin.” + +“But what’s that got to--” I began again. + +“O I dunno,” said Edward impatiently. “I’m telling you just what +Bobby told me. He got suspicious, anyhow, but he couldn’t exactly +call Bella’s brother a liar, so Bobby escaped for the time. But when +he was in a hole next week, over a stiff French exercise, and tried +the same sort of game on his sister, she was too sharp for him, and +he got caught out. Somehow women seem more mistrustful than men. +They’re so beastly suspicious by nature, you know.” + +“I know,” said I. “But did the two--the fellow and the sister--make +it up afterwards?” + +“I don’t remember about that,” replied Edward indifferently: “but +Bobby got packed off to school a whole year earlier than his people +meant to send him. Which was just what he wanted. So you see it all +came right in the end!” + +I was trying to puzzle out the moral of this story--it was evidently +meant to contain one somewhere--when a flood of golden lamplight +mingled with the moon-rays on the lawn, and Aunt Maria and the new +curate strolled out on the grass below us, and took the direction of +a garden-seat which was backed by a dense laurel shrubbery reaching +round in a half-circle to the house. Edward meditated moodily. “If we +only knew what they were talking about,” said he, “you’d soon see +whether I was right or not. Look here! Let’s send the kid down by the +porch to reconnoitre!” + +“Harold’s asleep,” I said; “it seems rather a shame----” + +“O rot!” said my brother; “he’s the youngest, and he’s got to do as +he’s told!” + +So the luckless Harold was hauled out of bed and given his +sailing-orders. He was naturally rather vexed at being stood up +suddenly on the cold floor, and the job had no particular interest +for him; but he was both staunch and well disciplined. The means of +exit were simple enough. A porch of iron trellis came up to within +easy reach of the window, and was habitually used by all three of +us, when modestly anxious to avoid public notice. Harold climbed +deftly down the porch like a white rat, and his night-gown glimmered +a moment on the gravel walk ere he was lost to sight in the darkness +of the shrubbery. A brief interval of silence ensued; broken suddenly +by a sound of scuffle, and then a shrill long-drawn squeal, as of +metallic surfaces in friction. Our scout had fallen into the hands of +the enemy! + +Indolence alone had made us devolve the task of investigation on +our younger brother. Now that danger had declared itself, there +was no hesitation. In a second we were down the side of the porch, +and crawling Cherokee-wise through the laurels to the back of the +garden-seat. Piteous was the sight that greeted us. Aunt Maria was +on the seat, in a white evening frock, looking--for an aunt--really +quite nice. On the lawn stood an incensed curate, grasping our +small brother by a large ear, which--judging from the row he was +making--seemed on the point of parting company with the head it +completed and adorned. The gruesome noise he was emitting did not +really affect us otherwise than æsthetically. To one who has tried +both, the wail of genuine physical anguish is easily distinguishable +from the pumped-up _ad misericordiam_ blubber. Harold’s could clearly +be recognised as belonging to the latter class. “Now you young--” +(whelp, I think it was, but Edward stoutly maintains it was devil), +said the curate sternly; “tell us what you mean by it!” + +“Well leggo of my ear then!” shrilled Harold, “and I’ll tell you the +solemn truth!” + +“Very well,” agreed the curate, releasing him, “now go ahead, and +don’t lie more than you can help.” + +We abode the promised disclosure without the least misgiving; but +even we had hardly given Harold due credit for his fertility of +resource and powers of imagination. + +“I had just finished saying my prayers,” began the young gentleman +slowly, “when I happened to look out of the window, and on the lawn +I saw a sight which froze the marrow in my veins! A burglar was +approaching the house with snakelike tread! He had a scowl and a dark +lantern, and he was armed to the teeth!” + +We listened with interest. The style, though unlike Harold’s native +notes, seemed strangely familiar. + +“Go on,” said the curate grimly. + +“Pausing in his stealthy career,” continued Harold, “he gave a low +whistle. Instantly the signal was responded to, and from the adjacent +shadows two more figures glided forth. The miscreants were both armed +to the teeth.” + +“Excellent,” said the curate; “proceed.” + +“The robber chief,” pursued Harold, warming to his work, “joined his +nefarious comrades, and conversed with them in silent tones. His +expression was truly ferocious, and I ought to have said that he was +armed to the t----” + +“There, never mind his teeth,” interrupted the curate rudely; +“there’s too much jaw about you altogether. Hurry up and have done.” + +“I was in a frightful funk,” continued the narrator, warily guarding +his ear with his hand, “but just then the drawing-room window opened, +and you and Aunt Maria came out--I mean emerged. The burglars +vanished silently into the laurels, with horrid implications!” + +The curate looked slightly puzzled. The tale was well sustained, and +certainly circumstantial. After all, the boy might really have seen +something. How was the poor man to know--though the chaste and lofty +diction might have supplied a hint--that the whole yarn was a free +adaptation from the last Penny Dreadful lent us by the knife-and-boot +boy? + +“Why did you not alarm the house?” he asked. + +“’Cos I was afraid,” said Harold sweetly, “that p’raps they mightn’t +believe me!” + +“But how did you get down here, you naughty little boy?” put in Aunt +Maria. + +Harold was hard pressed--by his own flesh and blood, too! + +At that moment Edward touched me on the shoulder and glided off +through the laurels. When some ten yards away he gave a low whistle. +I replied with another. The effect was magical. Aunt Maria started +up with a shriek. Harold gave one startled glance around, and then +fled like a hare, made straight for the back-door, burst in upon the +servants at supper, and buried himself in the broad bosom of the +cook, his special ally. The curate faced the laurels--hesitatingly. +But Aunt Maria flung herself on him. “O Mr. Hodgitts!” I heard her +cry, “you are brave! for my sake do not be rash!” He was not rash. +When I peeped out a second later, the coast was entirely clear. + +By this time there were sounds of a household timidly emerging; and +Edward remarked to me that perhaps we had better be off. Retreat +was an easy matter. A stunted laurel gave a leg-up on to the garden +wall, which led in its turn to the roof of an out-house, up which, +at a dubious angle, we could crawl to the window of the box-room. +This overland route had been revealed to us one day by the domestic +cat, when hard pressed in the course of an otter-hunt, in which the +cat--somewhat unwillingly--was filling the title _rôle_; and it had +proved distinctly useful on occasions like the present. We were +snug in bed--minus some cuticle from knees and elbows--and Harold, +sleepily chewing something sticky, had been carried up in the arms of +the friendly cook, ere the clamour of the burglar-hunters had died +away. + +The curate’s undaunted demeanour, as reported by Aunt Maria, was +generally supposed to have terrified the burglars into flight, and +much kudos accrued to him thereby. Some days later, however, when he +had dropped in to afternoon tea, and was making a mild curatorial +joke about the moral courage required for taking the last piece of +bread-and-butter, I felt constrained to remark dreamily, and as it +were to the universe at large: “Mr. Hodgitts! you are brave! for my +sake, do not be rash!” + +Fortunately for me, the vicar also was a caller on that day; and it +was always a comparatively easy matter to dodge my long-coated friend +in the open. + + Kenneth Grahame, _The Golden Age_. Copyright by + Dodd, Mead and Company, Inc. By permission of the + publishers. + + + THE KITCHEN + + JULIET SOSKICE + +The kitchen was at the end of a stone passage at the foot of a flight +of stone steps. I liked to go there, but I was not really allowed +to. I liked it best of all in the evening when the servants had +finished supper, and sometimes the cook would let me sit on a chair +in the corner near the stove. She was rather an ill-tempered cook, +though she often used to laugh. She had been in the family ever +since my mother was quite a little girl. She had a dark yellow face +and brown eyes and black hair. It was quite straight like tape, and +she scraped it back from her forehead and did it in a funny knob +behind. It wasn’t black really, but she used an excellent hair dye, +and said, what did it matter if it came off on the pillow cases? She +said nobody need look their age if only they would take the trouble +to look young. But she didn’t look young herself, because she was so +bony and her face so dreadfully wrinkled. She looked very nice though +when she laughed and showed her false white teeth. They looked whiter +than other people’s false teeth, because her face was so yellow and +her eyes so dark. Occasionally she flew into an awful temper and +swore so dreadfully that it shocked every one who heard her. But at +other times she was quite cheerful and told very funny stories. + +She had a treacherous friend who was a hunch-backed lady. They both +loved the same gentleman, but he couldn’t marry them because he had a +wife already. The hunch-backed lady used to come in the evening and +sit down in the kitchen and say how ill the wife was, and that she +couldn’t last much longer; but she did. The hunch-backed lady said +that as soon as she was dead the gentleman they loved would want to +marry the cook, and that he really loved her much better than his +wife. The cook believed it, and she said if he had only known his +mind when they were young together all the bother would have been +saved. + +The hunch-backed lady wore a woolly black cloak, and a big fur on her +shoulders to hide the hunch, a black velvet bonnet with strings and +sparkling jet ornaments, and an expensive gold watch-chain. She had a +very heavy face with her chin right on her chest, and light blue eyes +and a handsome curly fringe. She used to drink quantities of tea out +of a saucer, very hot, but the cook said she really liked whisky much +better when she could get it. + +Once she ceased coming and the cook went to look for her, and she +found out that the wife had really been dead all the while, and the +hunch-backed lady had got married to the gentleman they loved. He +didn’t want to be married, but she made him. She was afraid that if +the cook had known his wife was dead she would have made him first. + +There was a page-boy in this house too, but not an anarchist. He wore +no buttons, and he had to stop down in the kitchen and help the cook +because of her “poor leg.” + +She got it through going out to buy three pounds of fish at the +fishmonger’s and slipping on a piece of orange-peel outside the +door. It used to give way just at the most awkward moments, and she +said she almost believed it knew and did it on purpose. If she had a +saucepan in her hand, or a piece of toast, or a leg of mutton it was +all the same--she had to put it down on the floor and clutch herself +round the knee to pull her leg straight again. Everybody knew about +it, and the first thing they said when they came into the kitchen +was, “Good-morning, cook, and how’s your poor leg?” and then she told +them about it. When she sat down the boy used to arrange a chair in +front of her for her to rest it on. + +He had a fat, red face, and he was always smiling. The cook said +she wouldn’t have believed that any living mouth could stretch so +far. It used to make people angry, because whenever they looked +at him he smiled, even when there was nothing at all to smile at. +My grandfather said he was like the man in Shakespeare who smiled +and was a villain. He liked eating apples and a sweet-stuff called +stick-jaw that glued his teeth together. The cook said he was the +biggest liar that ever walked the earth. He always pretended he had +a serious illness and he must go and see the doctor. But instead +he went and played in Regent’s Park. Once he tied his face up in +a bandage for two days and said that he was going to the dentist +to have a double tooth out. And he borrowed a huge cart-horse from +one of the stables in the mews and went for a ride on it, without +a saddle, and with an old piece of rope instead of reins; and that +was how he got found out. The horse insisted on going past the house +when it wanted to return to its stable. He tugged at it as hard as he +could to make it go home round the back way, but it refused, and the +cook was on the area steps and saw him. She said she wouldn’t have +been so certain if he hadn’t had an enormous apple in one hand. When +he came next day, he said it was the dentist’s horse, and he had sent +him for a ride on it to get rid of the effects of laughing gas. But +we knew the very stable where it lived, and so he was dismissed. + +The housemaid was Irish, and she couldn’t read or write, but she +believed in ghosts. She had been a long time in the family too, and +she was very fat, with a big pink face and little beady eyes. She +was the kindest person I ever knew. Whenever we liked anything she +had she always wanted to give it to us, and it really grieved her if +we wouldn’t have it. She gave away all her money to the beggars at +the garden gate and if she heard of any of us being ill or punished +it made her cry, just as if she herself were in trouble. She used to +fall about a great deal. If there was any place she could fall into +she always did. She said she had measured her length upon every free +space of ground in the house, and bumped her head on every stair, and +caught her foot in every rug and carpet. But she didn’t let it worry +her. One night, when she was standing on the slippery little knob at +the end of the bannisters to light the gas outside the studio door, +she fell off and lay quite still with her leg doubled under her until +the family had finished dinner, because she didn’t want to disturb +them by calling out. Once she fell into the drawing-room with a +great big tea-tray when there was a tea-party and alarmed the guests +exceedingly. But my grandmother was not angry. She said nothing at +all, but helped her to get up and pick the tea-things up again. + +She believed in ghosts most firmly. She said that her mother had seen +so many in Ireland that she simply took no notice of them. They were +in every room in the house and up and down the stairs. They used to +ring the bells when nothing was wanted and knock people about when +they got in their way, and whenever anybody died or anything was +going to happen they made a horrible noise outside the windows in +the night. Once, she said, she passed a woman nursing her own head +on a stone by the roadside, and they just looked at one another, but +neither of them spoke. + +A gentleman in a nightshirt had hanged himself from a hook in the +middle of the ceiling in the servants’ bedroom, before my grandfather +came to the house, and the housemaid said his spirit haunted the +top storey. She woke up one night and saw a figure standing in the +middle of the room and looking at her. She knew it was the same +gentleman, because he still wore his nightshirt and had the rope +round his neck, and he was standing just underneath the place where +the hook would have been had it not been taken down when the ceiling +was whitewashed. He was looking at her fixedly. If he had looked the +other way he might have noticed the cook in the other bed as well, +and that would have been some relief. But he didn’t. He gazed and +gazed as though his heart was going to break. She was so frightened +that she shook the bed with trembling; and she shut her eyes and +put her hand under the pillow and got out her rosary, and said five +“Hail Mary’s.” And when she opened them again he was still there, +only not quite so solid. After another five he had got so misty that +she could see the furniture through him, and after the third five he +had disappeared. But she was so terrified, she said, that she didn’t +get a wink of sleep that night, and when she woke in the morning her +nightdress and sheets were quite damp with terror. + +The cook didn’t believe it. She said it was pure popery. She was sure +no ghost could possibly come in in the night like that without her +noticing it, because she was such a light sleeper. But as a matter +of fact, she snored so dreadfully that my grandfather once asked a +builder for an estimate for padding the walls of the servants’ room +all round so that she couldn’t be heard on the floor underneath, but +she was so offended that it wasn’t padded. + +They sometimes used to laugh at the housemaid in the kitchen for +being a Catholic. But she didn’t care. She stuck to her religion. +She was so certain that the Virgin Mary was taking care of her, or +she would have been worse hurt in the dreadful accidents she used to +have. She said no living being could have stood it without divine +protection. When she was doing something that she thought really +might be dangerous, she just said, “Jesus, Mary, Joseph, help!” and +took more care, and nothing happened. + +The cook said why she didn’t like Catholics was because she thought +they were wicked for burning the Protestants alive on posts in the +streets in the olden days when there were no police. I said that +the Protestants burnt the Catholics first, but she was offended. +She said that no Protestant would ever have thought of such a thing +if it hadn’t been put into their heads by bad example. They argued +so angrily about which burnt the other first that the housemaid +put her apron over her head and sat down on a chair and began to +cry aloud like the Irish do at funerals. But then she left off and +went upstairs to do her work, and she tumbled about so badly in +the bedroom over the studio that my grandfather got down from his +painting chair to go upstairs and see what the matter was, and when +he found out why she was crying he was very angry. He stumped right +downstairs to the top of the kitchen flight and with his spectacles +on top of his head, his palette in one hand and his paint-brush in +the other. It was difficult for him to get downstairs because of his +gout. But he did, and put his head over the bannisters and forbade +the subject ever again to be mentioned in the kitchen. And it was +not, and they were quite good friends again after that. + +The person who most hated Catholics was Mrs. Hall, the wife of the +most pious cabman in the mews at the corner. She was the beautiful +woman who sat in the barge and nursed the healthy baby that had been +painted as twins. She was so beautiful that it was quite remarkable. +Her hair was jet black, and when one day she sat down in a chair +in the kitchen and let it down for us to see it trailed upon the +floor. Her eyes were dark blue and extremely big and bright, but the +doctor said that the brightness was unnatural, and that later she +might go blind. She was very tall, and whenever she stood she used +to look strong and composed and like the statues that stand round on +pedestals in museums. Her husband used to say God punished her for +her sins by not giving her a baby. + +The husband went to a chapel where any one who liked could get up and +preach, and the others were obliged to listen. He preached every time +he got a chance, and he said he never felt inclined to stop. He loved +his fellow creatures so much that he felt compelled to save their +souls. He always carried a bundle of tracts about in his pocket, and +when any one paid him his fare he gave them some free of charge in +exchange. My grandfather used to say to him, “It’s no good, Hall, I’m +past all redemption,” because he didn’t want the tracts, but Mr. Hall +stuffed a bundle into the pocket of his overcoat while he was helping +him to get out of the cab. Mrs. Hall said that he wrestled with God +for his soul in private. They were allowed to do that at his chapel. + +He was so religious that he thought both Catholics and Protestants +were wicked. He said the mistake that everybody made was to think +there was more than one door open into Heaven. He said, “Is there +more than one door open into Heaven? No! And why is there not more +than one door open into Heaven? Because if there was more than one +door open into Heaven there would be a draught in Heaven. And would +the Lord tolerate a draught in Heaven? No!” That was part of one of +his sermons. It really meant that it was only the door of his chapel +that led into Heaven, and that other people hadn’t got a chance. + +Some people said he was a handsome man, but I didn’t think so. He was +small and his hair was such a bright yellow that it looked as if it +had been painted. He had strawberry-coloured cheeks and his nose was +deadly white. Whenever he met a very nice young girl he used to take +her to prayer-meeting, because he loved her soul. He knew a great +many. His wife was angry because he took so much trouble about their +souls, and the more he loved them the more she hated them. She used +to cry and tell the cook which particular one he was saving then, and +the cook used to say “The saucy hussy! I’d save ’er, and ’im too!” + + * * * * * + +The kitchen was really pleasantest of all in the evening when they +were resting after supper. Sometimes there were quite a lot of people +there. The charwoman used to unscrew her wooden leg and lean it up +against her chair. She said you couldn’t think what a relief it gave +her. But, of course, if she’d had to get up suddenly for anything +before she’d had time to screw it on again she would certainly +have fallen. The cook had her leg up on the chair in front of her +and talked about them. But the charwoman talked most. She was a +middle-sized woman with greasy greeny-greyish hair, and there always +seemed to be perspiration on her face. She talked whatever she was +doing. She talked so much that people could never understand how she +got through all the work she did. At first it was disturbing, like +rain pattering on a roof, but after a time you wouldn’t notice it. + +She said that her husband and her husband’s mother and her husband’s +father had all got wooden legs. She said that it was fate, and when +the doctor in the hospital had told her that her right must go it +was hardly any shock to her. She had a little girl called Sarah, and +whenever she had anything the matter with her the first thing she +always did with her was to test her legs at once. Even if it was only +a cold or something wrong at quite another end of her body she always +did. The housemaid said that it was tempting Providence to talk like +that, but she didn’t care. + +She talked most of all with Mrs. Catlin, the woman who did fine +needlework and used to make my grandfather’s shirts. She was a +caretaker in one of the great big houses in Ormonde Terrace, and she +used to look so young and innocent that everybody called her the +“little woman,” when she wasn’t there. When she had finished some +work she used to bring it round in the evening after her babies were +in bed, and then she’d stand near the dresser and talk, but she never +sat down round the table with the others. She was rather plump and +she always looked pink and clean as though she’d come straight out of +a bath. She had nice fluffy hair and blue eyes, and her nose turned +up just a little at the end, but gently and not suddenly like Tommy +Haughty’s mother’s. She talked a good deal too, but she had a pretty +tinkling voice. She said when you’d been shut up in a great big +barracks of a place the whole day long you simply must let loose or +burst. Sometimes she and the charwoman talked both at once for a long +time. They seemed not to hear at all what the others said, but it +made no difference. Cook said it was like pandemonium in a hailstorm +when those two get together. + + From _Chapters from Childhood_ by Juliet Soskice. + Harcourt, Brace and Company, Inc. + + +SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY OF REMINISCENT NARRATIVE + +The editors have found these additional selections very useful in +teaching reminiscent narrative: + + Adams, Henry. _The Education of Henry Adams_, the early chapters. + Houghton Mifflin Company. + + Burroughs, John. _My Boyhood._ Doubleday, Page & Company. + + Hudson, W. H. _Far Away and Long Ago._ E. P. Dutton & Company. + + Lubbock, Percy. _Earlham_, particularly the early chapters. Charles + Scribner’s Sons. + + Muir, John. _The Story of My Boyhood and Youth._ Houghton Mifflin + Company. + + Pater, Walter. _The Child in the House._ + + + + + CHAPTER IX + + _Narratives of Adventure_ + + +Of all forms of narrative the account of adventure is, it is safe +to say, the very oldest. It dates back, indeed, to the childhood of +all races. Not only was it written on Egyptian papyrus four thousand +years before Christ, but it was told and sung around camp and council +fires long before written history begins. + +Nor has its popularity decreased with age and with the advance of +civilization. Young and old alike still delight in accounts of +physical prowess, in stories of danger and disaster, in tales of +experiences in far-away places and among unfamiliar peoples. Boy +scouts reluctantly leave their camp-fires to dream of hunting and +trapping in the far north or in the African jungle; college students +swap adventures upon their return in the fall; and the Arctic +explorer speaks to houses crowded with all sorts and conditions of +men. + +It is only natural, therefore, that the writing of accounts of +adventure should appeal to a student perhaps more than the writing +of any other form of narrative. Material lies close at hand, culled +either from his own experience or from that of those whom he knows; +and he is eager to present that material so that his readers or +hearers may feel that same thrill of excitement which he has felt so +often. + +And yet in order that that thrill of excitement may be experienced +to the full, it is necessary that he understand how to tell his +story in the best way, how to begin at once with no unnecessary +preliminaries which will retard the action, how to keep and to +increase suspense in his readers, how to make the most of his +culminating and climactic incident, how to conclude his story +impressively so that his readers may not lose their eager interest +before the last word. + +The selections that follow illustrate some of the best methods of +handling adventure material. In _Wild Justice_ Mr. Townshend is +recounting an incident so dramatic and stupendous in itself that he +uses the simplest style possible in its portrayal. His sentences, +for the most part, are short and direct; his words are simple and +concrete. He realizes fully that description of scenery which is +not absolutely necessary, or characterization of persons, except +that given by their own behavior, are out of place in a narrative as +absorbing as this one. + +The student must not think, however, that description is always out +of place in an account of adventures. Sometimes, on the contrary, +it immeasurably adds to the effectiveness of the narrative. In _The +Attack of the Tiger_, for example, which depicts an incident of +the jungle, a place in itself strange and exotic to us, Mr. Rosny +increases the atmosphere which he would create of this “world of +trees” by his beautiful use of description. Again, in the selection +from Pierre Loti’s _The Iceland Fisherman_, the exquisite portrayal +of the storm is used as the background against which, or perhaps +better, as the setting _in_ which, Yann and Sylvestre move. The +elements of the storm, the clouds, the wind, the waves, became, +in fact, the adventurers, as well as the men who contend against +them. And what a charming effect is given by the refrain which +Yann and Sylvestre sing through their white lips! Indeed, both of +these selections show what artistic heights the writer of adventure +narratives may reach, what purely æsthetic effects are possible in +his work. + +The following suggestions may be of assistance to the student: + + 1. Study the incident (or incidents) which you are to relate. If it + seems to you to be so dramatic in itself that it needs little help + from the style or diction, then choose the simplest and most direct + manner of relating it. If, on the other hand, the environment + in which the action takes place seems to you all-important, do + not hesitate to employ means which will add atmosphere to your + narrative. + + 2. Do not waste time in getting started. Remember that + preliminaries are dangerous in the writing of an account of + adventure. Be as economical with them as possible. + + 3. Be sure that your story _mounts_ continually, that the suspense + increases. Do not allow any digressions. + + 4. Do not, however, be in too great a hurry to relate your + climactic incident. You will increase the suspense by slowing down + before you reach it, by giving _all_ the details. Note how fully + and clearly Mr. Townshend depicts every step of the proceeding + between the verdict of guilty and the actual hanging. A less + careful writer would have spoiled his narrative by being in too + much of a hurry. + + 5. Make your close as effective as possible, and _know when you + have finished_. Note that _Wild Justice_ really ends with the + words, “The work was done.” + + M. E. C. + + + WILD JUSTICE + + R. B. TOWNSHEND + +Returning to Denver, I parted company with Matthews; to tell the +truth, I was a bit tired of his everlasting sneers, so often (as I +thought) directed against better men than himself. Besides, I thought +I was competent now to stand on my own feet instead of going around +on a personally conducted tour. Naturally my first step was to buy +a horse. For this I went to Billy and Hi Ford, who had brought some +1500 head of wild bronco stock--bronco is Spanish for unbroken--from +California to Denver where they were selling them as rapidly as they +could get them broken in. Ford Brothers soon took my measure and for +I think $60 fitted me out with a little brown mare, who had been +ridden several times. They put me very carefully on her, and I went +down the Platte a few miles and put up at a ranch. Along the main +freighting roads most ranches would take you in overnight and give +you supper, bed and breakfast for $1.50, or if your horse had to be +fed also, for $2.25. A snowstorm came on that night and I lay there +two days till the weather improved. The little brown mare had done +herself uncommonly well in the barn, and when I tried to climb on to +her back on the third morning she began to play up. The friendly and +much amused ranchman lent me a helping hand, however, and at last I +got myself fixed in the saddle with my blanket roll padding me in +well there and the ranchman hanging tight on to her head. + +“Do you think she’ll buck?” I asked nervously as he let her go. + +“Guess so,” said he. + +And buck she certainly did. But I was so well wedged in with my +pack that I did manage to remain, though I can’t say I liked it, and +the upshot of it was I rode back to Denver and traded her (plus $20 +more) to Billy Ford for an ancient chestnut “bronc” who had got over +all his youthful frivolities. I called him Methusalem, and he turned +out an excellent travelling animal for a tenderfoot. On him I rode +out to Kiowa Creek to visit an English ranchman I had met in Denver, +and I stayed there a few days riding around the prairie and seeing +what cattle was like. My friend had a nice American wife and a nice +bunch of American cattle, which he milked, while she, like a good +ranchwoman, made butter from the milk. Butter was worth, I think, +75 cents a pound. Of course these American dairy cattle, which were +just like our ordinary English farm stock, were quite unlike the +long-horned, long-legged animals of Spanish breed, of which drovers +had just begun to bring up large herds from Texas. The older Colorado +stock-men, owners of American stock, rather resented this intrusion, +as the wild Texas brutes could be sold for less than half the prices +they had been used to getting, and consequently their profits went +down; but they had to put up with it. All the disgruntled owner of +American stock could do was to chase the others off his range when +they invaded it, but this he had no legal right to do, as the range +was Government land, and he only did it at the risk of rough handling +from the Texan cow-punchers, and I much enjoyed the good gallops on +the prairie even though Methusalem was hardly fast enough to head a +wild steer. But I did get my first taste of cow-punching and liked it +well. + +Next I decided to wander down the Platte and see what that section +was like. Ranches extended some fifty odd miles below Denver, +about to the point where the South Platte River makes its big bend +eastwards, and at this point a new town was just being started. +It was named Evans in honour of the man who had been Governor of +Colorado before McCook, and its _raison d’être_ was that the first +railroad into Colorado was now being opened so far for traffic. +This railroad was the Denver Pacific R. R. running from Cheyenne to +Denver, and Evans was the half-way house. The city was just three +weeks old when I got there, and the site of it was on the north +bank of the Platte, across which a bridge was going to be built. I +put up at the ranch of a very friendly old ranchman, Godfrey, no +relation to the other Godfrey down at Saguache; he had a bunch of +American cattle, and a wife and son, the latter a very fine young +fellow. Godfrey let me use his rifle, an old-fashioned small-bored +muzzle-loader with a heavy octagon barrel nearly four feet long, +I should say. Armed with this wondrous weapon I sallied out after +antelopes, of which there were any number around there, and I got my +first lessons in stalking. Stalking antelope, like everything else, +was quite new to me, and I was as keen as possible to take lessons in +whatever thing there was to be learnt. There was something, though, +to be learnt in that little mushroom city of Evans which I most +certainly did not anticipate. When I rode over there I found that +it consisted of some forty or fifty houses of raw boards, mostly +half-finished or with their roofs in process of being “shingled,” +stuck down here and there on the bare prairie. The parched yellow +bunch-grass, over which wild Texas cattle had grazed a month before, +grew up to, and under, the little frame buildings which were raised +for the most part six inches or a foot off the ground on stone or +brick props; the earth was cut up in every direction by the ruts +of waggon-wheels, and piles of newly sawn lumber lay about. In the +middle of all snorted the locomotive, the earliest that ever ran on +the plains of Colorado--for the railroad had come at last, and this +was the end of the track, the first completed section of the iron +road, in Colorado Territory. + +I was riding past a bar-room where there were some men with whisky +bottles and glasses set out before them, when one of them sung out to +me: + +“Come ’n hev’ a drink.” + +“No, thank you,” I replied without pulling up. + +In a moment out flashed a revolver pointed straight at my head. + +“Yes, you will,” said the same voice with emphasis, “or else----” + +What “else” meant was left to the imagination, but I didn’t find it +hard to guess. My reply was: + +“Oh, certainly,” and I sprang from my saddle saying, “I’d rather +drink than be shot any day.” And without more ado I took my dose. But +I can’t say I liked my society. + +“I’ve looked to see ’em have a man for breakfast any morning,” +said old Godfrey when I got back to the ranch and told him of it. +“According to what I hear they’ve bin shooting at the lamps in the +saloons and dancing on the bars, slinging their six-shooters round +their heads, and raising Cain generally, every night. I’ve wondered +there hasn’t been nobody shot yet, but I reckon they were each one +of ’em kind of shy of being the first to begin. But now, if they’ve +started in, likely they’ll have another Julesburg here if they ain’t +interfered with.” + +Julesburg, as I have already said, was a spot that had been the end +of the track on the Union Pacific Railroad for some months during +its construction, and it had been, perhaps, the most debauched and +the most blood-stained little moral pesthouse the Far West ever saw. +A young man presently arrived at Godfrey’s where he also found +quarters under that hospitable roof; he called himself a schoolmaster +by trade, and his object was to see if by chance such a thing was +wanted in this three-weeks’-old town. A town, even the newest, almost +always had some families, and that generally meant some boys of +school age, with, as the obvious and natural consequence, an opening +for a schoolmaster. I can’t say that I was much impressed with my +new friend’s scholastic qualifications, but I was out to learn all I +could of this strange country, and at his invitation I rode with him +down to the ford across the South Platte with a view to seeing what +opening there might be in Evans. “Crack” came the sharp sound of a +pistol shot as we rode through the icy ford, and we saw men running +among the houses, and a couple of horsemen with rifles in their hands +galloping after a man who was flying at top speed towards the brush +in the Platte bottom. + +“The toughs from Cheyenne have been trying to run this town ever +since it was started,” said my companion, “but they haven’t killed +anyone so far. I wonder if that shot means the first man killed.” + +We rode through the fringe of willow brush and cottonwood trees +that skirted the river, and up the bluff. We now got fairly into +the town and saw all the population--all the male population, that +is--swarming like bees in the middle of the main street. Horses and +ox-teams stood here and there untended; the shingling hatchets and +carpenter’s tools lay around the half-finished houses, just where +they had been thrown down. The stores were open, but they were empty, +for buyers and sellers had crowded, like all the rest, to the scene +of action. There in the centre of the crowd was a sight to remember. +Ten men shoulder to shoulder formed a ring, each man facing outwards, +each man holding his cocked revolver, muzzle up, the hand that +held it being on a level with his chest; the men’s set mouths and +searching eyes, turning restlessly on the crowd around, showed them +to be sharply on the watch for signs of an attempted rescue. + +A rescue, but of whom? It did not take long to recognize who was the +object of their care. In the middle of the ring, bareheaded, with his +arms bound, stood a prisoner, a sickly smile on his loose lips, and +the colour coming and going in patches on his bloated face. By him +was a guard, also pistol in hand like those who formed the ring, but +his eyes were bent not on the crowd, but on the prisoner; and the +pistol he held was pointed not toward the sky, but straight at the +prisoner’s heart. Were a rescue attempted, it was clear the rescuers +would recover only a corpse. That the toughs would try to set their +friend free if they dared was certain; it was useless to try to +secure him by locking him up in an extempore gaol, for there was no +building in the town that could resist a determined assault for five +minutes; but a bodyguard such as now held him could not be maintained +for long. These men had their own business to attend to; and standing +guard, pistol in hand, expecting to kill or be killed, is a dead loss +of time and wages. However, it was not intended by those who were +putting their energies, heart and soul, into the building of a new +town to waste very much time over guarding a murderer. For it was +murder that this wretched captive was held for, and stiff and stark, +in a house hard by, with a bullet through his brain, lay the body of +his victim. The sound of the loud weeping of the widowed wife and +orphan daughters was heard at intervals across the vacant lots, and +that agonized crying served to inflame the passions of the crowd. +From the bystanders I gathered that old man Steel, a most respectable +man who kept a boarding-house, had just been shot by a tough, and +that it was more than probable that Judge Lynch would take cognizance +of the case. The crying of the wretched widow and orphaned children +sounded in the ears of the people, and called for vengeance. The one +anxiety was, would the other railroad toughs try to rescue their hero? + +Presently an empty lumber waggon was run out a little way from the +town on the bare prairie; from the box end of this a few nail kegs +were arranged in a double row, perhaps eight feet apart, and boards +were laid on them for seats. A man sprang up on the waggon, and said: + +“A crime has been committed here, and I move that a People’s Court be +constituted to try the case. Those in favour will say ‘Aye.’” + +“Aye, aye,” came from all quarters, like a dropping fire. + +“Contrary, ‘No,’” the temporary chairman added, as if by an +afterthought. + +I fancied I heard a few muttered remarks, but no man said “No” +openly. Perhaps the railroad toughs were lying low for the present. + +Up jumped another man, so quick and pat that it dawned upon me that +there was a prepared scheme being put in operation. + +“I move that Captain Sopris be elected judge of this court,” he said. + +As before, the “Ayes” had it. + +“Captain Sopris was a People’s Judge in Denver, and he hanged a heap +of men there, too, time of the Pike’s Peak boom,” said an old-timer +near me. “The captain knows the ropes.” There was a grim double +meaning in the way he said “ropes.” + +Captain Sopris mounted the waggon box in his turn and took his seat, +throwing a keen eye over the crowd. + +“Gentlemen,” he said, “I have been elected to try this case by you, +the people. Is it your will that I should select a jury? Those who +are in favour say ‘Aye!’” + +Once more the full-throated chorus of “Ayes!” arose from the crowd. + +“Contrary, ‘No,’” said the Judge to the crowd in matter-of-fact +tones, turning at the same time to speak to a man beside him. It was +his art, I think, to appear to take it all as mere matter of course, +yet I am certain he and his supporters were sharply on the watch for +any sign of opposition from the prisoner’s friends. But the “people” +had got a leader now, and any who would have liked to interfere were +cowed by the almost unanimous ‘Aye!’ of the majority. When the judge +said “Contrary, ‘No!’” there may have been a murmur here and there, +but no man durst answer “No,” square and bold. + +The people were rousing to their work. We were all packed tight round +the court, for that farm waggon and the nail keg seats had become the +Court of the People out there on the prairie under the open sky. I +had dismounted and wedged myself in next the seats where my neighbour +said the jury would be. Quickly a dozen jurors were chosen and took +their places. A Bible was produced, and every juror was sworn to give +an honest verdict. Each man as soon as he was sworn took his seat, +on one or other of the impromptu benches, till there were six on one +side and six on the other. + +“And now,” said the judge, “bring in the prisoner.” + +Accordingly the guards, with the prisoner in their midst, moved up +to the open side of the court; but as they did so it was seen that +something had occurred, for beside the prisoner stood little Pat +Egan, who was believed to represent the majesty of the law in some +sort of capacity or other. + +“Captain Sopris,” he began in somewhat plaintive accents, “this hyar +thing ain’ regular at all. By rights this hyar man’s my prisoner, and +I can’t consent to no proceedings of this sort.” + +The judge took no more notice of him than if he had been a piece of +wood; less, indeed, for he did not appear to see him. + +“But,” continued the little Irishman, “I’m a county officer, I am, +and I’m liable to be called in question for this business. And I +can’t give up this man,” he went on piteously, “without some excuse, +ye know I can’t.” + +The audience smiled audibly, but the judge, the jury and guards never +looked at him, never heard him, never knew he was there, so to speak, +but went on with their own business, arranging the order in which the +witnesses should be called. + +Pat Egan continued his pitiful demands for an excuse. The crowd was +jammed thick round the court, the foremost men leaning over the +backs of the jury on both sides. Eager to catch every word, I had +tied my horse to a post in the street and had squeezed myself in up +to the very seat where the jury sat, so that I was within a couple +of yards of Mr. Egan and the prisoner. Leaning on me was a great +yellow-bearded giant in a slouch hat. He reached down to his hip and +produced an enormous revolver, one of the old dragoon Colt’s, with a +barrel about a foot long. Bearing on my shoulder with his left hand, +he extended his long right arm over the heads of the jury till the +pistol-muzzle was within a few inches of Pat’s head. Pat, with his +face to the judge’s bench, was still volubly explaining that he was a +county officer and couldn’t consent. + +“Mr. Egan,” breathed the giant with the big pistol, in the softest +tones. + +Mr. Egan was absorbed in his own ardent utterances, and didn’t hear. + +“Mr. Egan,” a little louder. + +Pat turned round sharp and looked into the muzzle of the formidable +weapon. + +“Mr. Egan, will that do ye for an excuse?” said the giant with an air +of gentle sarcasm. + +Mr. Egan recoiled several feet with an air of comic alarm. + +“Oh, certainly, sir,” he responded with alacrity. “Certainly, +certainly, quite sufficient; that will do.” And he, the sole +representative of the lawful Government of Colorado, disappeared +promptly and finally from the scene. + +And now the serious business of the court began. + +“Is there a lawyer in town?” asked the judge. “If so, fetch him. The +prisoner can have a counsel.” + +There was a Mr. Tallboys, a lawyer, a very young one, who came. The +people of this mushroom town had arrived with a rush from everywhere, +and every profession was represented. + +“Understand,” said Sopris, leaning over from the waggon to the +counsel for the accused, “this is a People’s Court. Any arguments +you can use for your client will get a fair hearing. But you are not +to object to the competence of the court. If you try to do so, I am +deaf.” + +The lawyer, looking very uncomfortable, murmured some indistinct +answer. He was in an extremely irregular and unpleasant position. But +he saw that he must either accept it or go. He elected to stay. As +counsel for the prisoner, he stood beside him in the centre of the +court. + +“I shall now call on the prosecution to bring forward their +witnesses,” said Captain Sopris. “We will hear their story first, and +you, prisoner, can cross-examine them either by yourself or by your +lawyer.” + +The first witness came forward and, after having been sworn on the +Book to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, +began: + +“I was at dinner at old man Steel’s boarding-house. It was the first +table and it was chock-full. This man come in--he was a boarder there +too--and wanted to find a place, and growled because he couldn’t get +none. Then one of Mr. Steel’s gals who was waiting at table told +him he must wait till his turn, till there was room. Wal’, he says +something sassy to her, and she up and slaps a cup of coffee she had +in her hand right in his face. Then he begun to get up on his ear +about it, and so two or three of the young fellows at table jest +fired him out.” + +The judge, who was sitting reflectively on the waggon-box, with his +head on his hand, here interposed. + +“Did they hit him or pound him at all?” + +“No,” answered the witness, “not nohow. They jest took him by the +shoulders and jest naturally fired him out’n the door. He’d had a +drink or two in him, you know, though he warn’t drunk.” + +“What did he do then?” asked one of the jury. + +“Went off, I reckon,” said the witness. “I didn’t see no more of him.” + +“Did Mr. Steel have anything to do with turning him out?” asked the +judge. + +“No, sir. He warn’t thar’; he was in the inner room, I reckon.” + +“Did you see the shooting?” asked the judge. + +“No, sir, I went off to my work as soon as dinner was over,” was the +reply. + +“Mr. Tallboys, do you wish to ask this witness any questions?” said +the judge to the prisoner’s lawyer. + +The lawyer conferred a minute with his client, and then said to the +court that he didn’t wish to cross-examine this man. The witness, a +young carpenter, was accordingly told he could go, which he did with +an air of very considerable relief, mingling at once with the crowd. +Another man was now brought forward and sworn like the first. + +“Were you with Mr. Steel after dinner?” asked the judge. + +“Yes,” said the witness, “I was.” + +“Tell the jury what happened.” + +“Mr. Steel and I were unloading a load of lumber I’d brought for +him. He was at one end of the pile, I was at the other, and we were +lifting the boards off the waggon. Suddenly I saw the prisoner come +up behind Mr. Steel, and I heard him say, ‘I want to talk to you.’” + +“Was the prisoner alone?” asked a juryman. + +“I didn’t see anyone, not to say actually with him. There were two or +three men standing together across the street, but I don’t know for +certain as they had anything to do with him.” + +“What did Mr. Steel say?” asked the judge. + +“He looks at him, and says he, ‘I can’t talk to you now: I’m busy. +You must come around after working hours.’ Then the prisoner says, +‘You’ve got to talk to me, and you’ve got to talk to me now.’ And +Mr. Steel he says, ‘Wal’, I ain’t agoin’ to,’ and turned round to +take hold of the lumber again; and the prisoner, he reaches down +and pulls out his pistol, and, before I could holler to him or do +anything, he just put it close behind Mr. Steel’s head and fired. Mr. +Steel dropped, and the prisoner he ran. I started round the waggon to +grab him, but he ran t’other way. Then I picked up Mr. Steel; he was +breathing, but he never spoke. The bullet went in at the back of his +head, and come out over his right eye. Me and some more took him into +the house.” + +“Mr. Tallboys, have you any question to ask this witness?” said +Captain Sopris. + +Mr. Tallboys consulted with the prisoner awhile, and announced that +he had not. The witness, a teamster, was accordingly dismissed, like +the former one. Three or four more were called, and repeated the +story told by these two in much the same words. It was elicited that +the prisoner had had no pistol on when he came to dinner and was put +out-of-doors, so that he must have procured it in the interval before +he came back. The case was so clear that there was no necessity to +distress those poor, unhappy women by calling them. + +One of the men who captured the prisoner testified that he was +at work near, and “happened to have a saddled horse near, and a +Winchester handy.” Also that he had a friend similarly provided. +Tenderfoot though I was, it dawned on me that these men must belong +to an organized body who had made themselves ready beforehand. Evans +had its Vigilantes. The two friends heard a shot, saw a man with a +pistol running for the brush, heard the people crying murder, and at +once set after him. He just got to cover as they caught him up, but +he showed no fight; as soon as they covered him with the Winchesters, +he threw up his hands and surrendered, and here he was. + +Here the lawyer saw his chance to put a few questions in +cross-examination, asking whether they promised the prisoner his life +when he surrendered, and so forth; but nothing came out that could +help him. Things looked terribly black for the wretched man, and he +began to cry. + +Nothing could have been more orderly than the behaviour of the court. +While the witnesses were being examined, you might have heard a +pin drop. Between whiles the crowd conversed among themselves, but +in sober and hushed tones. There was no yelling of a mob for the +blood of a victim, but a most evident deadly resolution to exact +the uttermost penalty. I remember thinking to myself, “How I wish +Carlyle were here” (he was still alive in those days), “to feel for +himself the contrast between this and the revolutionary tribunals of +Paris! This would seem to him more like some old Teuton gathering of +freemen in the Northern forests.” + +And now the witnesses were all disposed of, and the trial drew to its +close. The young lawyer was asked if he had any witnesses to call for +the defence, but he intimated that there were none. I felt for the +young man in his first case, with such a hopeless task before him +as the defence of this red-handed criminal taken in the very act. I +racked my brain to think of what I should say were I in his position. +I thought of the words of Magna Charta (remember I had only just left +Cambridge): “Against no man will we go, neither will we send, save by +lawful judgment of his peers, and by the law of the land.” + +“The common law holds good in America,” I thought, “and surely they +will have heard of Magna Charta.” Then I heard the judge’s grave +tones addressing the lawyer. + +“Mr. Tallboys,” he said, “the evidence in this case is now before the +court; but before the jury retire to consider their verdict you are +at liberty to offer any remarks you have to make on it that you may +think advisable. Understand, you are not to question in any way the +competency of the court. This is a people’s court, sprung from and +organized by the people themselves, and if you question its right, +you put yourself out of court at once, and it will be my duty not to +hear you. On the question of the prisoner’s guilt you are at full +liberty to speak.” + +These words scattered to the winds my imaginary reference to +Magna Charta and the field of Runnimede and the long tradition of +Anglo-Norman law. They were all ruled out of court. The issue was +narrowed down to the simple question, “Did the prisoner kill old man +Steel or no?” and to that, after the testimony of several witnesses +to a thing that had happened two hours before in broad daylight under +the open sky, but one answer was possible. + +The lawyer got up and spoke a few words, but there really was nothing +for him to say. + +“Gentlemen of the jury,” said Captain Sopris, “I think the case is +complete, but before you retire to consider your verdict I will ask +the prisoner personally to make any statement he thinks fit that +might weigh with you. Prisoner, have you anything to say?” + +There was a great silence of the whole crowd for some minutes; all +eyes were bent on the man addressed. He swallowed hard a few times, +and choked back his tears, and at last whined out: + +“I didn’t mean to hurt him.” + +Didn’t mean to hurt him--when he had shot him through the head at +two yards off! If it had not been a tragedy, there would have been +a shout of laughter. But, instead, there was a grimmer silence than +before. The prisoner had said all he had to say. + +The pause was broken by Captain Sopris. + +“Gentlemen of the jury, you have heard the evidence, and also what +the prisoner has to say for himself. You will now retire to consider +your verdict.” + +The jury rose and filed out, and standing off a little distance on +the prairie talked together. The tension in the court was relaxed, +and there was a hum of conversation. The prisoner whispered to his +lawyer inaudibly. + +Presently the jury filed back into court and sat down. + +“Gentlemen,” said Captain Sopris, “have you decided on your verdict?” + +“We have,” answered one who acted as foreman. + +“Are you unanimous?” again asked the judge. + +“We are,” was again the answer. + +“What is your verdict?” + +There was a breathless hush in the court as the foreman said in clear +steady tones: + +“Guilty of murder in the first degree.” + +Again you might have heard a pin drop on the prairie grass. + +I saw the two men with the Winchesters slip on to their saddle-horses +and take up their position on the side between the crowd on the +prairie and the town. + +Sopris raised his eyes from the jury to the crowd. + +“Gentlemen,” he said, “the jury have found the prisoner guilty of +murder in the first degree. It is for you, the people, to say what +his punishment shall be. Those who are in favour of hanging will say +‘Aye.’” + +An answering roar of “Aye” went up to the sky above us. + +“Contrary, ‘No,’” said Sopris. + +There was a dead silence. + +Sopris waited to give any friend of the prisoner time to harden his +heart and say “No.” None did. + +“Prisoner,” said the judge, turning to the wretched creature, who was +now sobbing and unnerved, “the jury have found you guilty and the +people have sentenced you to be hung. You will be hung in fifteen +minutes to the nearest tree. If you have anything to say before then, +you had better say it.” + +Then was heard a loud voice from the outskirts of the crowd. It came +from a big man, sitting on a horse, with a sixteen-shot Winchester in +his hand; two more horsemen, similarly armed, were by him. + +“Every man come down to the tree,” he said. “Let no man stay back. +It’s one and all.” + +“One and all.” It was the motto, if I remember right, of the New +Model Army in its struggle with the Rump, that terrible Cromwellian +army that did not shrink from cutting off the head of a king. And +indeed I asked myself how far was the court, presided over by Mr. +President Bradshaw, which sentenced Charles I, more legal than +this people’s court, with Captain Sopris as elected judge? “These +Americans,” thought I, “are the real true-bred sons of those old +Commonwealth men.” + +Slowly across the trampled grass the procession moved towards the +fatal tree. The sun was sinking fast towards the west, where the +great jagged wall of the Rocky Mountains stood dark against the clear +sky. Just outside the town, on the edge of the bottom lands of the +Platte, grew a big cottonwood tree, its leafless branches spreading +wide. Here we halted. I had remounted my pony and, anxious to see the +whole thing through, had wedged myself into the middle of the throng. +One of the guards stepped up to me, and, holding up his pistol as he +laid his hand on my bridle, said: + +“Get off that horse.” + +“What for?” I asked. “Why do you want him?” + +“Never mind,” was his answer, “you shall have him back again; but +he’s wanted. You’ve got to get off.” + +His manner was peremptory. I dismounted. They took my picket rope, a +nearly new one, three-quarters of an inch in diameter and forty feet +long, and, making a noose in one end, tossed it over a limb twelve or +fifteen feet up from the ground. + +“Will you tell us,” said the leader of the Vigilantes, addressing the +condemned man, “who gave you the pistol?” + +I gathered from his manner that he had been trying to induce him to +reveal his accomplices on the way to the tree. The wretch looked up +at the rope swinging above him, and said: + +“Will you give me my life if I tell?” + +“We promise nothing,” said his questioner, a short, bullet-headed man +with a singularly resolute face, “but,” he added, “it won’t be worse +for you if you do.” + +“Then I won’t say,” answered the prisoner. + +“Have you any friends that you want to say good-bye to?” he asked +again; and, the prisoner nodding assent, he called out to the crowd, +“If there are any friends of this man here who wish to speak to him, +they can do so, one at a time.” + +A dissolute-looking gambler in a very seedy frock-coat, with his +hands in his pockets, slouched forward with uneasy swagger. The +guards examined him to see that he had no concealed weapons, and +then admitted him to the prisoner. He sauntered up to him with +an ill-concealed nervousness which he tried to carry off as easy +nonchalance. + +“Wal, Joe, old man,” he observed to his friend, “you’ve got to the +jumping-off place this time, I guess.” + +The prisoner gave a ghastly grin. + +“Say, old man,” he continued, drawing one hand from his trousers’ +pocket, and rubbing it on the unshaven cheek of the condemned man, +where three or four days’ stubbly growth of hair bristled, “You’d +better ax ’em to let you shave this off. It might be in the way of +the rope.” + +The prisoner only groaned at the disgusting pleasantry. + +“Take him away,” said the leader to the guards. “No more of this. +Now,” he said to the doomed man, “do you want to pray? Will you have +a minister?” + +No answer was returned; but there was a slight movement among the +crowd--men looking to right and left as if searching for the sight of +a black coat; but it was in vain--no one like a minister was to be +found. + +“Do you wish to send a message to anybody?” asked the leader. + +“I’ve a wife in Philadelphia,” said the murderer through his sobs. + +A notebook was instantly produced. + +“Your name, your real name?” said the Vigilante. + +“Joe Carr.” + +“Her address?” + +The prisoner mumbled something I couldn’t hear. It was a hangman’s +knot that had been tied in my rope, and now the noose was put over +his head, and settled round his neck; the other end of the rope +tossed over the bough was made fast with a turn round the trunk of +the tree; the horse was brought alongside him. + +“Now say a prayer if you want to,” said the Vigilante. + +“I’ll be good God damned if I think a prayer of mine ’ud go more’n +seven feet high,” said the reprobate. + +In a moment he was hoisted on to the horse, the rope drawn taut, and +a resounding smack given to the horse’s quarters. The animal bounded +forward, and the murderer was left swinging. + +“Run him up! run him up!” was the cry, and twenty willing hands +hauled on the rope till the body was swung aloft to within two feet +of the bough, and the rope was again made fast. + +There was silence for a little space; then the leader of the +Vigilantes took his stand beneath the fatal branch, and spoke short +and plain. + +“There’s men here,” said he, “as guilty in intention as that man,” +pointing to the body, “was in act. Let this be a warning to them. Let +this be a sign that in this town the people don’t mean to tolerate +any such goings on. We know there were men who encouraged this +miserable wretch to do this thing that brought him to this--yes, and +lent him the pistol to do it with. They may thank their stars they +are not hanging beside him now. They are just as guilty as he was, +and if they know what’s healthy for them, they’ll get out of this +before daylight to-morrow. And I say the same to any more there are +of the same kidney here, and who thought they were going to run this +town. They’d better drop it. They’d better get. The people of this +town are going to run this town themselves, and this here is the +proof of it. Enough said.” And, turning away, he stepped back into +the crowd and joined his friends. + +“It’s all over, boys,” said the big man on the horse, with the +Winchester in his hand. “We can go back to our business now. Let no +man interfere with that body,” he added. “It’ll be seen to to-night. +No one’s to touch it without orders.” + +And the crowd broke up into knots and slowly dispersed. + +“Young man,” said one of the guards to me, leading up my pony, +“here’s your bronco. You shall have your rope back in the morning; +it’s occupied at present. No one will trouble you over this matter; +it was taken from you by force, you understand.” + +And then I understood that the demonstration of holding up a pistol +when I was told to dismount had been really for my benefit, to +relieve me of responsibility, if by any chance the proper officers +of the ordinary law of the territory should take any notice of this +day’s work. + +I took my horse, mounted him, and later on, when the crowd had +dispersed, rode down to the ford. The pony stopped in mid-channel +to drink, and I shall not forget the scene. The sun was just setting +behind the range of the Rocky Mountains, and in the foreground stood +the withered cottonwood with its ghastly fruit. The work was done. + + * * * * * + +So far as I know, the regular law took no notice. The effects of the +action of the Vigilantes were, however, marked and immediate. That +night many of the worst characters in town left it, some in their +haste walking all the way to Denver to get clear of a spot so ominous +to them. The rowdyism, the displaying of revolvers and shooting at +lamps out of bravado, stopped instanter. There never was another man +shot in the town of Evans for two years, and then the shooting was +accidental, though, as the man who fired the rifle on that occasion +happened to have had words with the man who was wounded--it was not +a fatal shot--he was most terribly frightened, fully expecting the +Vigilantes to get after him. + +This rapid and most surprising purification of the moral atmosphere +of Evans City did, I admit, dispose me at the time to think +favourably of the action of lynch law. But five years’ residence in +the territory was enough to alter my opinion. During that time only +one man was legally executed there, and he was a foreigner and a +poor man; and, moreover, there is reason to believe that his crime +only amounted to manslaughter. Yet during those years many crimes of +violence were committed, and many lynchings occurred. Some of these +were, I make no doubt, as well deserved as the one of which I was a +witness; others very probably were not--for instance, two men, if not +three, were lynched, on one of the creeks that run from the Divide, +for killing a calf. But the general effect of the system upon the +administration of the ordinary law was simply disastrous. Whenever +atrocious murderers are hanged as soon as caught, there arises at +once a strong presumption that a man-slayer, who is left to be dealt +with by an ordinary jury, has probably much to excuse him. This +feeling vastly increased the difficulty of getting juries to convict. +Popular criminals are quite sure to get off, and the ordinary law +became glaringly ineffective and sinks into something very like +contempt, while the lynchers alone are really dreaded. And this very +dread increases crime, because horse-thieves and cattle-thieves, when +pursued, know they will probably be lynched, and never hesitate to +shoot, thinking they may as well be hanged for killing a man as for +killing a calf. Every thief becomes a potential murderer, and goes +armed. Peaceful citizens arm themselves in defence of their lives and +property, and, as collisions will occur, crimes of violence naturally +abound. The remedy is worse than the disease. + + R. B. Townshend. _A Tenderfoot in Colorado._ + Copyright by Dodd, Mead and Company, Inc. By + permission of the publishers. + + + THE BLIZZARD + + HERBERT QUICK + +Through these wrappings, a strange sound came to my ears--the sound +of sleigh-bells; and in a moment, so close were they, there emerged +from the whirl of snow, a team of horses drawing a swell-body cutter, +in which sat a man driving, wrapped up in buffalo robes and blankets +until the box of the sleigh was filled. The horses came to a stop in +the lee of my house. There had been no such rig in the county before +I had gone to the war. + +“Is this the Vandemark schoolhouse?” came from the man in the cutter. + +“No, Captain,” said I, for discipline is strong, “this is my farm.” + +“Ah, it’s you, Mr. Vandemark, is it?” said he. “Can you tell me the +way to the schoolhouse?” + +Discipline flew off into the storm. I never for a moment harbored +the idea that I was to allow Buck Gowdy to rescue Virginia from the +blizzard, and carry her off into either danger or safety. There was +none of my Dutch hesitation here. This was battle; and I behaved with +as much prompt decision as I did on the field of Shiloh, where, I +have the captain’s word for it in writing, I behaved with a good deal +of it. + +“Never mind about the schoolhouse,” I said. “I’ll attend to that!” + +“The hell you will!” said he, in that calm way of his. “Let me see. +Your house faces the north. These trees are on the section line.... +The schoolhouse is.... I have it, now. Sorry to cut in ahead of you; +but--get up, Susie--Winnie, go on!” + +But I had Susie and Winnie by the bits. + +“Vandemark,” he said, and as he shouted this to make me hear I could +feel the authority I had grown to recognize in drill, “you forget +yourself! Let go those horses!” + +“Not by a damned sight!” + +I found myself swearing as if I were in the habit of it. Now the man +in any kind of rig with another holding his horses’ bits is in an +embarrassing fix. He can’t do anything so long as he remains in the +vehicle; and neither can his horses. He must carry the fight to the +other man, or be made a fool of. + +Buck Gowdy was not a man to hesitate in such a case. He carried the +fight to me--and I was glad to see him coming. I had waited for this +a long time. I have no skill in describing fights, and I was too +much engaged in this to remember the details. How many blows were +exchanged; what sort of blows they were; how much damage they did +until the last, more than a cut lip on my part, I can not tell. Why +no more damage was done is clearer--we were both so wrapped up as to +be unable to do much. I only know that at the last, I had Gowdy down +in the snow right by my well-curb; and that without taking time to +make any plan, I wrapped the well-rope around him so as to make it +necessary for him to take a little time in getting loose; I wrote him +a receipt for the team and rig, which N. V. Creede tells me would +not have done me any good; and I went out, very much winded, shut +the door behind me, and getting into the cutter, drove off into the +blizzard with Gowdy’s team and sleigh, leaving him rolling around on +the floor unwinding the well-rope, swearing like a trooper, and in a +warm room where there was plenty to eat. + +“And in my opinion,” said N. V., “no matter how much girl there was +at stake, the man that chose to go out into that storm when he could +have let the job out was the fool in the case.” + +It was less than a mile to the schoolhouse, which I was lucky to +find at all. I could not see it twenty feet away; but I was almost +upset by a snow fort which the children had built, and taking this +as the sure sign of a playground, I guessed my way the fifty or +sixty feet that more by luck than judgment brought me to the back +end of the house, instead of the front. I made my way around on the +windward side of the building, hoping that the jingle of the bells +might be heard as I passed the windows--for I dared not leave the +horses again, as I had done during my contest with Gowdy. Nothing but +the shelter in which they then found themselves had kept them from +bolting--that and their bewilderment. + +I pulled up before the door and shouted Virginia’s name with all my +might, over and over again. But I suppose I sat there ten or fifteen +minutes before Virginia came to the door; and then, while she had +all her wraps on, she was in her anxiety just taking a look at the +weather, debating in her mind whether to try for the safety of the +fireside, or risk the stay in the schoolhouse with no fuel. She had +not heard the bells, or the trampling, or my holloing. More by my +motions than anything else, she saw that I was inviting her to get +in; but she knew no more than her heels who I was. She went back into +the schoolhouse and got her dinner-basket--lucky or providential +act!--and in she climbed. If I had been Buck Gowdy or Asher Bushyager +or the Devil himself, she would have done the same. She would have +thought, of course, that it was one of the neighbors come for her; +and, anyhow, there was nothing else to do. + +As I turned back the rich robes and the jingle of the bells came to +her ears, she started; but I drew her down into the seat, and pulled +the flannel-lined coonskin robe which was under us, up over our laps; +I wrapped the army blanket and the thick buffalo-robe over and under +us; and as I did so, a little black-and-tan terrier came shivering +out from under the coonskin robe and jumped into her lap. I started +to put it down again, but she held it--and as she did she looked at +my blue sleeve, and then up at the mass of wrappings I had over my +face. I thought she snuggled up against me a little closer, then. + + + IV + +I turned the horses toward her boarding-place, which was with a new +family who had moved in at the head of the slew, near the pond for +which poor Rowena was making the day of the prairie fire; and in +doing so, set their faces right into the teeth of the gale. It seemed +as if it would strip the scalps from our heads, in spite of all our +capes and comforters and veils. Virginia pulled the robe up over her +head. I had to face the storm and manage my team; but before I had +gone forty rods, I saw that I was asking too much of them; and I let +them turn to beat off with it. At that moment I really abandoned +control, and gave it over to the wind and snow. But I thought myself +steering for my own house. I was not much worried, having the +confidence of youth and strength. The cutter was low and would not +tip over easily. The horses were active and powerful and resolute. We +were nested down in the deep box, wrapped in the warmest of robes; +and it was not yet so very cold--not that cold which draws down into +the lungs; seals the nostrils and mouth; and paralyzes the strength. +That cold was coming--coming like an army with banners; but it was +not yet here. I was not much worried until I had driven before the +wind, beating up as much as I could to the east, without finding my +house, or anything in the way of grove or fence to tell me where it +was. I now remembered that I had not mounted the hill on which my +house stood. In fact, I had missed my farm, and was lost, so far as +knowing my locality was concerned: and the wind was growing fiercer +and the cold more bitter. + +For a moment I quailed inwardly; but I felt Virginia snuggled down by +me in what seemed to be perfect trust; and I brushed the snow from +my eye-opening and pushed on--hoping that I might by pure accident +strike shelter in that wild waste of prairie, and determined to make +the fight of my life for it if I failed. + +It was getting dusk. The horses were tiring. We plunged through a +deep drift under the lee of a knoll; and I stopped a few moments to +let them breathe. I knew that stopping was a bad symptom, unless one +had a good reason for it--but I gave myself a good reason. I felt +Virginia pulling at my sleeve; and I turned back the robes and looked +at her. She pulled my ear down to her lips. + +“I know you now,” she shouted. “It’s Teunis!” + +I nodded; and she squeezed my arm with her two hands. Give up! Not +for all the winds and snows of the whole of the Iowa prairie! I +disarranged the robes while I put my arm around her for a moment; +while she patted my shoulder. Then, putting tendernesses aside, when +they must be indulged in at the expense of snow in the sleigh, I put +my horses into it again. A few minutes ago, I gave you the thoughts +that ran through my mind as I conjured up the image of one lost in +such a storm; but now I thought of nothing--only for a few minutes +after that pressure on my arm--but getting on from moment to moment, +keeping my sleigh from upsetting, encouraging those brave mares, and +peering around for anything that might promise shelter. Virginia has +always told of this to the children, when I was not present, to prove +that I am brave, even if I am mortal slow; and if just facing danger +from minute to minute without looking further, is bravery, I suppose +I am--and there is plenty of good courage in the world which is +nothing more, look at it how you will. + +So far, the cutter and team of which I had robbed Buck Gowdy, had +been a benefit to us. They gave us transportation, and the warm +sleigh in which to nest down. I began to wonder, now, as it began to +grow dark, as the tempest greatened, as my horses disappeared in the +smother, and as the frost began to penetrate to our bodies, whether +I should not have done better to have stayed in the schoolhouse, and +burned up the partitions for fuel; but the thought came too late; +though it troubled me much. Two or three times, one of the mares +fell in the drifts, and nothing but the courage bred into them in +the blue-grass fields of Kentucky saved us from stalling out in that +fearful moving flood of wind and frost and snow. Two or three times +we narrowly escaped being thrown out into it by the overturn of the +sleigh; and then I foresaw a struggle, in which there would be no +hope; for in a storm in which a strong man is helpless, how could he +expect to come out safe with a weak girl on his hands? + +At last, the inevitable happened: the off mare dove into a great +drift; the nigh one pulled on: and they came to a staggering halt, +one of them was kept from falling partly by her own efforts, and +partly by the snow about her legs against which she braced herself. +As they stood there, they turned their heads and looked back as if to +say that so far as they were concerned, the fight was over. They had +done all they could. + +I sat a moment thinking. I looked about, and saw, between gusts, +that we were almost against a huge straw-pile, where some neighbor +had threshed a setting of wheat. This might mean that we were close +to a house, or it might not. I handed the lines to Virginia under +the robes, got out, and struggled forward to look at my team. Their +blood-shot eyes and quivering flanks told me that they could help +us no longer; so I unhitched them, so as to keep the cutter as a +possible shelter, and turned them loose. They floundered off into the +drifts, and left us alone. Cuffed and mauled by the storm, I made +a circuit of the stack, and stumbled over the tumbling-rod of the +threshing-machine, which was still standing where it had been used. +Leaning against the wheel was a shovel, carried for use in setting +the separator. This I took with me, with some notion of building a +snow-house for us; for I somehow felt that if there was any hope for +us, it lay in the shelter of that straw. As I passed the side of the +stack, just where the ground was scraped bare by the wind, I saw what +seemed to be a hole under and into the great loose pile of dry straw. +It looked exactly like one of those burrows which the children used +to make in play in such places. + +Virginia was safe for the moment, sitting covered up snugly with +her hands warmed by the little dog; but the cold was beginning +to penetrate the robes. I could leave her for the moment while +I investigated the burrow with the shovel. As I gained a little +advantage over the snow which was drifted in almost as fast as I +could shovel it out, my heart leaped as I found the hole opening out +into the middle of the stack; and I plunged in on my hands and knees, +found it dry and free from snow within ten feet of the mouth, and +after enlarging it by humping up my back under it where the settling +had made it too small, I emerged and went to Virginia; whom I took +out with her dog, wrapped her in the robes so as to keep them from +getting snowy inside, and backing into the burrow, hauled the pile +of robes, girl and dog in after me, like a gigantic mouse engaged in +saving her young. I think no mouse ever yearned over her treasures +in such case more than I did. + +And then I went back to get the dinner-basket, which was already +buried under the snow which had filled the cutter; for I knew that +there was likely to be something left over of one of the bountiful +dinners which a farmer’s wife puts up for the teacher. Then I went +back into the little chamber of straw in which we had found shelter, +stopping up the mouth with snow and straw as I went in. I drew a +long breath. This was far better than I had dared hope for. There +is a warmth generated in such a pile, from the slow fermentation of +the straw juices, even when seemingly dry as this was; and far in +the middle of the stack, vegetables might have been stored without +freezing. The sound of the tempest did not reach us here; it was +still as death, and dark as tar. I wondered that Virginia did not say +anything; but she kept still because she did not understand where she +was, or what I had done with her. + +Finally, when she spoke it was to say, “Unwrap me, Teunis! I am +smothering with the heat!” + +I laughed a long loud laugh. I guess I was almost hysterical. The +change was so sudden, so complete. Virginia was actually complaining +of the heat! + +I unwrapped her carefully, and kissed her. Did ever any peril turn to +any one a face so full of clemency and tenderness as this blizzard to +me? + +“It takes,” says she, “a storm to move you to any speed faster than a +walk.” + +The darkness in the burrow was now full of light for me. I made it +soft as a mouse-nest, by pulling down the clean straw, and spreading +it in the bottom, with the coonskin under her, and the buffalo-robe +for a coverlid. There was scarcely room for two there, but we +made it do, and found room for the little dog also. There was an +inexpressible happiness in our safety from the awful storm, which +we knew raged all about our nest; but to be together, and to feel +that the things that stood between us had all been swept away at +once--even the chaff that fell down our necks only gave us cause for +laughter. + +“Your coat is all wet!” she exclaimed. + +“It was the snow, shoveling the way in,” I said. “It’s nothing.” + +But she began right there to take care of me. She made me take off +the overcoat, and wrap myself in the blanket. The dampness went out +into the dry straw; but when drowsiness came upon us, she would not +let me take the chance of getting chilled, but made me wrap myself in +the robes with her; and we lay there talking until finally, tired by +my labors, I went to sleep with her arms about me, and her lips close +to mine; and when I awoke, she was asleep, and I lay there listening +to her soft breathing for hours. + +We were both hungry when she awoke, and in the total darkness we +felt about for the dinner-basket, in which were the dinners of the +children of the McConkey family with whom she had boarded, and who +had gone home at noon, because the fuel was gone. We ate frozen pie, +and frozen boiled eggs, and frozen bread and butter; and then lay +talking and caressing each other for hours. We talked about the poor +horses, for which Virginia felt a deep pity, out there in the fierce +storm and the awful cold. We talked of the beautiful cutter; and +finally, I explained the way in which I had robbed Gowdy of horses +and robes and sleigh, and dog. + +“He can never have the dog back,” said she. “And to think that I am +hiding out in a strawstack with a robber and a horse-thief!” + +Then she said she reckoned we’d have to join the Bunker gang, if we +could find any of it to join. Certainly we should be fugitives from +justice when the storm was over; but she for herself would rather be +a fugitive always with me than to be rescued by “that man”--and it +was lucky for him, too, she said, that I had licked him and shut him +up in a house where he would be warm and fed; because he never would +have been able to save himself in this awful storm as I had done. +Nobody could have done so well as I had done. I had snatched her from +the very jaws of death. + +“Then,” said I, “you’re mine.” + +“Of course I am,” she said. “I’ve been yours ever since we lived +together so beautifully on the road, and in our Grove of Destiny. Of +course I’m yours--and you are mine, Teunis--ain’t you?” + +“Then,” said I, “just as soon as we get out of here, we’ll be +married.” + +It took argument to establish this point, but the jury was with me +from the start; and finally nothing stood between me and a verdict +but the fact that she must finish her term of school. I urged upon +her that my house was nearer the school than was McConkey’s, and she +could finish it if she chose. Then she said she didn’t believe it +would be legal for Virginia Vandemark to finish a contract signed by +Virginia Royall--and pretty soon I realized that she was making fun +of me, and I her and kissed her until she begged my pardon. + +And all the time the storm raged. We finished the food in the dinner +pail, and began wondering how long we had been imprisoned, and how +hungry we ought to be by this time. I was not in the least hungry +myself; but I began to feel panicky for fear Virginia might be +starving to death. She had a watch, of course, as a teacher; but it +had run down long ago, and even if it had not, we could not have +lit a match in that place by which to look at it. Becoming really +frightened as the thought of starvation and death from thirst came +oftener and oftener into my mind, I dug my way to the opening of the +burrow, and found it black night, and the snow still sweeping over +the land; but there was hope in the fact that I could see one or two +bright stars overhead. The gale was abating; and I went back with +this word, and a basket of snow in lieu of water. + +Whether it was the first night out or the second, I did not know, +and this offered ground for argument. Virginia said that we had +lived through so much that it had probably made the time seem longer +than it was; but I argued that the time of holding her in my arms, +kissing her, telling her how much I loved her, and persuading her to +marry me as soon as we could get to Elder Thorndyke’s, made it seem +shorter--and this led to more efforts to make the time pass away. +Finally, I dug out again, just as we both were really and truly +hungry, and went back after Virginia. I made her wrap up warmly, and +we crawled out, covered with chaff, rumpled, mussed up, but safe and +happy; and found the sun shining over a landscape of sparkling frost, +with sundogs in the sky and millions of bright needles of frost in +the air, and a light breeze still blowing from the northwest, so +bitingly cold that a finger or cheek was nipped by it in a moment’s +exposure. And within forty rods of us was the farmstead of Amos +Bemisdarfer; who stood looking at us in amazement as we came across +the rippled surface of the snow to his back door. + +“I kess,” said Amos, “it mus’ have peen your team I put in de parn +lass night. Come in. Preckfuss is retty.” + + From _Vandemark’s Folly_, by Herbert Quick. + Copyright 1922. Used by special permission of the + publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. + + + THE ATTACK OF THE TIGER + + J. H. ROSNY + +Aoun woke when a third of the night had passed. The moon had gone +down behind the western jungle, and its light reddened the vapours +which were condensing on the branches. The moor was covered with pale +grey shadows; the fire shed only a faint light near the seven bamboos. + +At first the warrior only saw the motionless vegetation, but his +sense of smell warned him of a living presence. Then a shadow +emerged, became detached from a clump of palm trees and approached +cautiously towards him. Aoun knew it was the tiger from the moment he +opened his eyes, and he watched it come with anxiety and anger. The +daring spirit which worked in him like a storm on the waters dilated +his chest. Although he knew the tiger’s superiority over man, and +despite the secret horror which possessed him, he desired to fight. +Had not Noah conquered the grey wolf and the tigress, had he not +himself overcome the sabre-tooth, the victor of the rhinoceros? For +a moment he felt giddy, but this soon passed, the prudence of his +ancestors calmed his blood; he knew that neither Noah nor Faouhm nor +the Hairy Men would have attacked the tiger unless their own lives +had been in danger.... + +Besides, one had awoken who would restrain him. The son of Earth +became aware in his turn of the terrible presence. He looked at his +companion, who had raised his club, and said, “The tiger has not +found any prey.” + +“If he comes near us,” said the other in a quivering voice, “Aoun +will fling his spear and harpoon.” + +“It is dangerous to wound the tiger. Its fury is greater than that of +the lion,” was the reply. + +“And if it will not go away from our refuge?” + +“Aoun and Zouhr have provisions for two days.” + +“We have no water and the tigress may join him.” + +Zouhr did not reply. He had already thought of that. He knew that the +wild beasts would sometimes take turns in watching a difficult prey. +After hesitating a moment he replied, “The tiger has been alone since +last night. Perhaps the tigress is far from here.” + +Aoun could not see sufficiently clearly into the future to insist; +his attention was concentrated on the tiger, which had come within +five ells of the bamboos. + +They could distinctly see the thick-set muzzle, fringed at the back +with stiff hairs, the eyes shining more brightly than before. Aoun +had a strange horror of their green light, and they made Zouhr +tremble. At intervals growls could be heard on the moor. The tiger +came closer; then it began to prowl up and down and round the +shelter, with an awful and exasperating patience. It seemed as if it +expected that the interstices would grow bigger or the interlaced +creepers and bamboos become relaxed. Each time it came closer to them +the two men trembled as if the wild beast’s hope was about to be +realised. + +Finally it couched in the dry grass. From there it observed them +patiently, and from time to time opened its great jaws, so that the +dying light of the fire shone upon its fangs. + +“It will still be there in the morning,” said Aoun. + +Zouhr did not reply. He was looking at two little branches of the +turpentine tree which he had exposed to the fire, for he always liked +to have some dry wood ready. He split the thinnest one down its whole +length and gathered some twigs. + +“Zouhr is not going to make a fire!” exclaimed the son of Urus +reprovingly. + +“There is no wind; the ground of our refuge is bare; the bamboos are +young,” said Zouhr striking the stone flint against the marcasite ... +“Zouhr has only need of a little fire!” + +Aoun did not insist. He watched the sparks rise from the twigs, while +his companion lighted the end of a turpentine stick. It soon threw +out a bright light. Then, leaning towards one of the openings, the +son of Earth flung the burning brand towards the tiger.... + +The flame described a parabola and fell among the dry grass. It was +the most arid part of the moor, where the nocturnal vapours had not +yet formed.... + +The tiger started up at sight of the glittering projectile, which +disappeared among the tall grass stalks. Aoun laughed silently. Zouhr +was carefully considering whether he should light another torch. + +Only a twinkling red glow remained among the vegetation. The tiger +lay down again. + +After a moment’s hesitation Zouhr lit the second turpentine stick. +The fire had just caught the point of it, when a livid jet appeared +where the first had fallen, ran up the grass stalks, and made a line +of light. The wild beast rose up with a roar, and was about to spring +when Zouhr flung the second burning brand. + +It struck the brute on the chest. Maddened, it turned round and +round and bounded from side to side in zigzags. The fire, with a +dry crackling sound, seemed to gallop its way through the tall +grass; then it disseminated itself in sheafs and enveloped the wild +beast.... The carnivore gave a cry of fury, plunged through the +flames and fled. + +“It will not come back,” Zouhr asserted. “No beast returns to the +place where it has been burnt.” + +His companion’s cunning delighted Aoun. His laugh was no longer +silent but rang out over the moor, like a joyous war-cry. + +“Zouhr is more cunning than Goun of the Dry Bones,” he said +enthusiastically. + +He laid his muscular hand on the shoulder of the son of Earth. + +The tiger did not return. Aoun and Zouhr slept till day-break. A mist +covered the moor and the jungle; silence and stillness lasted till +the full dawn. Then the day animals began to stir. A loud clamour +rose from the river and the trees of the forest. The son of Urus came +out of the refuge and studied the landscape. No suspicious odour +alarmed his nostrils and some axis passed by, which reassured him +still more. + +He went back to Zouhr and said, “We will continue our journey; but we +will first go in a westerly direction so as not to meet the tiger.” + +They started before day had fully dawned. The mist slowly rolled away +and was lost in the pale sky, which rapidly turned blue. At first +there were few animals to be seen; then their numbers increased and +the warriors conjectured that they had left the domain of the tiger +behind them. Aoun however sniffed the air anxiously. Feverish heat +hung over the foliage; red-headed flies tormented the two men; the +sun’s rays shot through the branches and seemed to bite into their +flesh like white ants; monkeys made faces at them, and parrots +shrieked in strident and furious tones. + +“There will be thunder in the forest!” said the son of Earth. + +Aoun stopped to consider the western sky. They were at the entrance +of a clearing and could see a long stretch of firmament, of the +colour of lapis lazuli, without a single cloud. Notwithstanding this +the two men felt a vague uneasiness, which seemed to pervade the air +like an unseen terror. + +It lasted for a long time. Aoun and Zouhr turned aside towards +the river, following the lines indicated by the various kinds of +undergrowth. At mid-day the storm was still far off. They made no +fire, but ate, without enjoyment, a slice of meat they had cooked on +the previous day. Their rest was disturbed by the attacks of insects. + +When they resumed their journey, the first mists were appearing in +the west. A milky colour spread itself among the blue; the uneasy +belling of the swamp deer was heard, and the lowing of buffaloes; +cobras slipped by among the grasses. For a moment the warriors +hesitated to start, but their halting-place was not a favourable +one; immense old trees lifted crests that were dangerously high; the +ground was spongy at their feet; they could see no shelter against +the thunder-bolts that would ravage the forest. At intervals gusts +of air passed over the crests of the trees with a sound like that of +a river, or rose up in spirals, brushing aside the foliage. This was +followed by deep, heavy silence. A wall of vapour rose towards the +zenith, black smoke that became phosphorescent towards the edge. +Then furious livid gleams of light shot through the world of trees. +They had their origin very far from where Zouhr and Aoun stood, so +they did not add their clamour to the tumult of the storm. When +the wall shrouded the middle of the firmament and began to descend +towards the east, a growing terror took possession of all living +things; here and there only a fugitive animal could be seen seeking +its lair, or a frightened insect trying to reach some crack in the +bark of a tree. The life of the creatures was enveloped by another +life, that life which, subtly diffused, creates and nourishes the +forest life, but which if it is unchained destroys alike trees, grass +and animals. + +The wanderers had experienced these convulsions of nature. Aoun +only thought of a refuge; Zouhr lifted his head from time to time +possessed by the idea that monstrous wild beasts were raging in +the clouds. Already their roars could be heard. Distance made them +solemn, like the sound of lions’ voices lost among the hills. Then +the thunder broke and the glare of the lightning became intolerable. +A sound of running water was heard, which soon grew to the roar of +rapids and of torrents. The jungle opened upon a lake which was +preceded by marshes; no shelter was visible in the reeking ground; +and the thunder rolled on at intervals. Under the arcades of a banyan +tree where the two men stopped, a leopard crouched; sharp cries were +heard from the monkeys in the branches above. Water flowed as if +an ocean had broken through dykes in the sky; the smell of thunder +and the scent of plants was borne on the squalls of wind.... In an +hour the lake had risen; the marshy pools were full; one of them +overflowed and began to invade the forest. + +The wanderers were forced to retreat; but other waters came on with +a roar which added to the noise of the storm. They were forced to +flee as best they could towards the east. The raging waters harassed +them. They had barely escaped from the flood on one side when it +appeared unexpectedly on the other. Aoun galloped like a stallion, +and Zouhr followed him, bent down and hardly lifting his feet, as +was the custom of the Men-without-Shoulders. When they had put a +space between themselves and the inundation, they continued their way +towards the east, in the hope of reaching the river. + +They traversed moors, and threaded their way through bamboos, palms +and creepers. A marsh which had overflowed obliged them to turn +towards the North. The storm was abating, the gusts of wind howled +less loudly, and they finally reached a clearing where a torrent +formed by the rain was racing along.... + +There they stopped, trying to estimate the depth of the water. + +The lightning struck a group of ebony trees; on the other bank the +long body of a terrified animal rose in great bounds; Aoun and Zouhr +recognised the tiger. It turned round and round for a time in terror, +then it stopped and perceived the human beings.... + +Aoun’s instinct told him that it was the one which had prowled round +the refuge. Zouhr was certain of it when he saw that its chest was +singed, and knew it must have been done by the burning grass.... More +vaguely the tiger recognised the prey that had escaped him, made +memorable by the fire, the barricade of creepers and the burning +grass. He found them again at the moment when another fire struck the +ebony tree. Their forms, thus associated in its mind with terrible +things, made the wild beast hesitate. + +All three remained immovable for a time. There was too small a space +between the men and the beast to make flight possible. + +Aoun had already got ready his spear, and Zouhr, fearing that flight +might be followed by pursuit, also prepared himself to fight. + +It was he who first hurled his weapon. It whistled above the waters +and hit the brute close to its right eye. With a terrible roar it +made its spring, but blood impeded its sight; its bound had not that +awful precision which condemned to death all within its reach. The +long body fell into the torrent, turned round and round, and clung +to the bank by its front paws. Aoun threw himself upon it, his spear +struck its breast, missing the shoulder.... Maddened with rage the +brute hoisted himself on to the bank and charged the men. It was +lame, and it moved slowly; Zouhr pierced its side with a second +spear, while the son of Urus wounded it on the neck.... + +Then, holding their clubs in readiness, they waited. Aoun faced the +attack and brought down his weapon on the tiger’s head, while the +Wah attacked it from behind and aimed at the vertebrae.... One of +its claws tore the Oulhamr’s body, but by stepping aside he made it +slip, and the club, crashed down on the tiger’s nostrils, momentarily +arrested its course.... Before it could spring again, Aoun’s club +came down for the third time with such force that the tiger remained +motionless, as if it slept. Then, without pausing for a moment, the +two companions belaboured its vertebrae and legs with blows. The +enormous body sank down, with terrible convulsions, and the son of +Urus having put out its left eye, the wild beast was at the men’s +mercy. + +A spear thrust let out its heart’s blood. + + From _The Giant Cat_ by J. H. Rosny. By + permission of the publishers, Robert M. McBride + and Company. + + + THE STORM + + PIERRE LOTI + +... It had changed its aspect, also, and its colour, the sun of +Iceland, and it opened this new day by a sinister morning. Completely +rid of its veil, it gave out great rays which traversed the sky in +jets, announcing impending storms. + +It had been too fine in the last few days and a change was due. +The wind blew on this assembly of boats, as if it felt the need +of scattering them, of ridding the sea of them; and they began to +disperse, to flee like a routed army--simply before this menace +written in the air, about which there could be no mistake. + +And it steadily increased in strength, until men and ships alike +shivered at it. + +The waves, still small, began to chase one another, to group +themselves. They had been marbled at first with a white foam which +spread over them in slaver; but presently, with a sound of crackling, +they gave out a smoke of spray; one would have said that the sea +was boiling, that it was burning--and the shrill noise of it all +augmented from minute to minute. + +There was no thought now for the fishing, but only for the management +of the boats. The lines had been hauled in long before. All were +hurrying to get away, some to seek a shelter in the fiords, striving +to arrive in time; others, preparing to pass the southern point +of Iceland, deeming it the safer course to take to the open sea +and have free space in which to sail before the wind. They still +saw one another a little; here and there, in the hollows of the +waves, sails rose up, poor little things, wet, weary, fugitive--but +keeping upright nevertheless, like those children’s toys of pith +of elder-wood which one may lay flat by blowing on them, but which +always raise themselves again. + +The great shag of clouds which had condensed on the western horizon +with the aspect of an island began to break up at the top and the +tatters coursed across the sky. It seemed inexhaustible, this shag: +the wind stretched it, extended it, unravelled it, making issue from +it an indefinite succession of dark curtains, which it outspread over +the clear yellow sky, become now livid in its cold depths. + +And still the wind increased, agitating everything. + +The cruiser had made off towards the shelters of Iceland, the +fishermen remained alone on this agitated sea, which now had an angry +air and a dreadful colour. They made haste in their preparation for +foul weather. The distance between them increased. Soon they were +lost from sight of one another. + +The waves, curling in volutes, continued to chase one another, to +unite, to join forces in order to become still higher, and, between +them, the hollows deepened. + +In a few hours all was ploughed up, convulsed in this region which on +the preceding evening had been so calm, and, in place of the silence +of before, one was deafened with noise. Very quickly the scene had +changed and all now was agitation, unconscious, useless. What was +the object of it all?... What a mystery of blind destruction!... + +The clouds were completing their unfolding, coming always from the +west, overlaying one another, hurrying, swift, obscuring everything. +There remained now only a few yellow openings, by which the sun sent +down its last rays in sheaves. And the water, greenish now, was +veined more and more with white slaver. + +By midday, the _Marie_ had assumed completely her foul-weather trim; +with closed hatches and reefed sails, she bounded supple and light; +amid the disorder that was commencing she had the air of playing as +play the porpoises whom storms amuse. With only her foresail spread, +she ran before the wind, according to the nautical expression which +describes this particular trim. + +Above, the heavens had become completely overcast, a closed, +oppressive vault--with darker shadings spread over it in shapeless +smudges; the impression was almost of an immobile dome, and it was +necessary to look close to realise that on the contrary it was in a +very whirl of movement: great grey sheets, hastening to pass, and +replaced without ceasing by others which came from below the horizon; +funereal tapestries unwinding as if from an inexhaustible roll.... + +She ran before the wind the _Marie_, ever more quickly--and the wind +ran, too--before I know not what mysterious and terrible power. The +wind, the sea, the _Marie_, the clouds, all were seized with the +same madness of flight and speed in the same direction. That which +ran ahead the fastest was the wind; then the great heavings of the +water, more lumbering, slower, followed after it; then the _Marie_, +dragged in the universal movement. The waves pursued her, with +their pale crests, which rolled on in a perpetual crashing, and +she--continually overtaken, continually outstripped--escaped them, +none the less, thanks to a wake she skilfully left behind her, an +eddy on which their fury broke. + +And in this movement of flight, the chief sensation was an illusion +of lightness; without any difficulty, without an effort, one felt +oneself leap. When the _Marie_ rose on the waves she rose without +shock as if the wind had lifted her, and her descent afterwards +was like a sliding, causing those internal qualms one has in the +simulated fallings of the switchback or in the imaginary descents of +dreams. She slid backwards, as it were, the racing mountains slipping +away from under her to continue their course, and then she plunged +again in one of those deep troughs which raced in their turn; without +taking hurt she touched the dreadful bottom of them, in a shower of +spray which did not even wet her, but which sped on like everything +else; which sped on and vanished ahead of her like smoke, like an +intangible nothing.... + +At the bottom of these troughs there was a deeper gloom, and as each +wave passed, one saw behind another coming on; another larger still +which rose up quite green by transparency, with furious writhings, +with volutes that threatened to close, with an air of saying: “Now I +have got you, now I will engulf you.” + +But, no; it raised you merely, as with a lifting of a shoulder one +might raise a feather: and, almost gently, you felt it passing under +you, with its rustling foam, its roar as of a cascade. + +And so it went on, continuously. But getting worse all the time. The +waves followed one another, becoming ever more enormous, in long +chains of mountains the valleys of which began to cause fear. And all +this madness of movement became faster, under a sky that grew darker +and darker, amid a noise that swelled until it became a roar. + +It was very heavy weather, indeed, and it was necessary to keep +watch. But, then, there was so much free space before them, space in +which to run! And it happened also, that this year the _Marie_ had +spent the season in the most western part of the Iceland fisheries; +so that this headlong flight towards the coast was so much way made +in their voyage home. + +Yann and Sylvestre were at the helm lashed by the waist. They were +singing again the song of “Jean-François de Nantes”; drunk with +movement and speed, they sang at the top of their voices, laughing to +find they could not hear each other amid all this unloosing of noise, +turning round in their high spirits, to sing against the wind and +losing breath for their pains. + +“Hello, there! you youngsters, do you find it stuffy up there?” +Guermeur asked them, putting his bearded face through the half-opened +hatchway, like a devil ready to leap out of his box. + +No, there was no lack of air on deck, that was certain! + +They were not afraid, having a very exact notion of what was +manageable, having confidence in the solidity of their boat, in the +strength of their arms. And also in the protection of the faience +Virgin who, during forty years of voyages to Iceland, had so often +danced this same disagreeable dance, forever smiling between her +bouquets of artificial flowers.... + + Jean-François de Nantes, + Jean-François. + Jean-François! + +In general, they could see but a short distance around them: some +hundreds of yards away everything seemed to end in monstrous +waves whose pale crests stood erect, shutting out the view. One +seemed always to be, in the middle of a restricted scene, which, +nevertheless, was perpetually changing; and, in addition, things were +drowned in this kind of watery smoke, which scudded like a cloud, +with an extreme swiftness, over all the surface of the sea. + +But, from time to time, a rift appeared in the northwest from which +a sudden shift of wind would come; then, a glancing light arrived +from the horizon; a trailing reflection, making the dome of the sky +seem darker, shed itself on the white agitated crests. And this rift +was sad to see; these glimpsed distances, these vistas oppressed the +heart the more in that they made you realise only too well that there +was the same chaos everywhere, the same fury--even beyond the great +empty horizon, and infinitely beyond that again: the terror had no +limits, and one was alone in the midst of it. + +A gigantic clamour issued from things like an apocalyptic prelude +sounding the alarm of the end of the world. And thousands of voices +could be distinguished in it; from above came whistling voices and +deep voices, which seemed almost distant because they were immense: +that was the wind, the mighty soul of this disorder, the invisible +power directing the whole commotion. It was terrifying enough; but +there were other noises, closer, more material, carrying a more +imminent menace of destruction, which the tormented water gave out, +spluttering as if on burning coals. + +And still the storm waxed fiercer. + +And, in spite of their close trim, the sea began to cover them, to +“eat” them as they said: first, the spray lashing from behind, then +water in masses, hurled with smashing force. The waves rose higher +still, more madly high, and the higher they rose the more jagged +they became; one saw large greenish tatters of them, rags of falling +water which the wind scattered everywhere. Some of them fell in heavy +masses on the deck, with a smacking sound, and then the _Marie_ shook +in her whole being as if in pain. Now one could distinguish nothing, +on account of all this white scattering foam; when the blasts roared +more fiercely one saw it rushing in thicker clouds--like the dust of +the roads in summer. A heavy rain, which had begun, fell slant-wise +also, almost horizontally, and these things together whistled, +whipped, hurt like blows of a lash. + +They remained both at the helm, bound and holding firm, clothed in +their oilskins, which were tough and glistening as the skins of +sharks; they had tied them tight at the neck, by tarred laces, and +tight at the wrists and ankles, so as to keep the water out; and +everything streamed over them, who bowed their backs when it fell too +thick, buttressing themselves well so as not to be borne completely +over. The skin of their cheeks burnt, and at every minute they caught +their breath. After each great mass of water had fallen, they looked +at each other--and smiled to see the salt amassed in their beards. + +In time, nevertheless, it became an extreme weariness, this fury +which did not abate, which remained always at its same exasperated +paroxysms. The rage of men, the rage of beasts, exhausts itself +and quickly subsides; one has perforce to suffer long the rage of +inanimate things which is without cause and without aim, mysterious +as life and as death. + + Jean-François de Nantes, + Jean-François. + Jean-François! + +Through their lips, which had become white, the refrain of the old +song passed still, but like an aphonous thing, continued from time +to time unconsciously. The excess of movement and noise had made them +drunk; it was in vain that they were young, their smiles grimaced on +their teeth which chattered in their trembling from the cold; their +eyes, half-closed under burning, flickering eyelids, remained fixed +in a grim atony. Lashed to the helm like two marble buttresses, +they made, with their cramped, blue fingers, the efforts that were +necessary, almost without thinking, by simple habit of the muscles. +With streaming hair, and contracted mouths, they had become strange, +and in them reappeared a whole background of primitive savagery. + +They could see no longer! They knew only that they were still +there, side by side. At the moments of greatest danger, every time +that behind them the new mountain of water rose up, overhanging, +clamorous, horrible, dashing against their boat with a mighty thud, +one of their hands moved involuntarily in the sign of the cross. +They no longer thought of anything, not of Gaud, not of any women, +nor of any marriage. It was lasting too long and they were past +all thinking; their intoxication of noise, of weariness, of cold, +obscured everything in their heads. They were now only two pillars +of stiff flesh who kept the helm; only two vigorous beasts clinging +there by instinct so that they should not die. + + From _The Iceland Fisherman_ by Pierre Loti. + Published by Frederick A. Stokes Company. + + +SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY OF NARRATIVES OF ADVENTURE + +The editors have found these additional selections very useful in +teaching the writing of narratives of adventure. + + Grenfell, Wilfred. _Adrift on an Ice Pan._ Houghton Mifflin + Company. + + London, Jack. _To Build a Fire_, from _Lost Face_. The Macmillan + Company. + + Paine, Ralph D. _The Story of The Derelict Polly_, from _Lost Ships + and Lonely Seas_. The Century Company. + + Roosevelt, Theodore. _A Book Lover’s Holidays in the Open_, pages + 347-353. Charles Scribner’s Sons. + + Sharp, Dallas Lore. _The Spirit of the Herd_, from _Where Rolls the + Oregon_. Houghton Mifflin Company. + + Stewart, Eleanor Rupert. _Letters on an Elk Hunt_, from _The + Letters of a Woman Homesteader_. Houghton Mifflin Company. + + + + + CHAPTER X + + _Narratives of Travel_ + + +For more than six hundred years, Marco Polo has been a name to +conjure with, but if you will turn to a biographical dictionary you +will find only the dates of his birth and death, and the words, “A +Venetian traveler in China.” It is true that travel has grown both +easier and commoner since his day, but the human delight in the +open road, or, lacking that, in another’s account of it, has not +disappeared. + +Accounts of travel fall broadly into two classes. The first are +those records of explorations undertaken for the sake of scientific +information. Such accounts are under obligation to be absolutely +accurate in minor as well as in major matters, and are to be +respected first and enjoyed afterward, if, by a rare chance, the +scientist is an artist as well as a geographer. + +The second class consists of those accounts of travel which are +read for pleasure and for general information rather than for exact +data, which interest us in the traveler as much as in his travels, +and which are distinctly literary because of the personal comments, +reactions, and reflections of the author. This does not mean that +such books are not accurate within the limits of their purpose, but, +rather, that accuracy alone is not sufficient to qualify a book +for a place on this list. The account must be true to the country +described, but need not haggle over details in the experience of the +writer. To alter geographical facts or details of climate would +make the author ridiculous, but to open with the most picturesque +approach to the spot whether or not that is the way in which he +actually entered it for the first time is to serve the reader as he +has a right to demand. To trail a frowsy party of tourists through +many pages because they dogged the author’s footsteps is unkind, but +to introduce a purely imaginary companion whose comments and store +of information add pleasure is perfectly in keeping with the task in +hand. + +It seems almost unnecessary to say that the first requirement for +writing successful travel sketches is to be a good traveler. An +honest pleasure and a swinging readiness in meeting the chances of +the road must somehow become apparent in the writing, not, indeed, +by protestations of delight, but rather through the tone of zestful +appreciation of new flavors in living. A pessimist or a misanthrope +may be endured among the comforts of home, but no one chooses him +as a traveling companion either in the flesh or on paper. The +distinguished foreigner whose record of his experiences with American +trains is a tirade against the inconvenience of shaving on a Pullman +exemplifies the lack of that urbanity, the presence of which so +delights us in Mr. Street’s account of his adjustment to Japanese +customs and conveniences. It is not necessary, of course, that all +discomforts be denied or suppressed for the sake of a Polly-Anna-ish +happiness--such experiences are a part of almost all travel, but they +must be treated with that good grace with which all of us wish to +endure the pin pricks of existence both at home and abroad. + +To write well of one’s travels, however, requires more than +mere personal enjoyment, which so often ends in half articulate +ejaculations of pleasure; it requires a gift for seizing upon the +essential characteristics of any place, and a power of comparison and +contrast that will enable one to convey his observations to another. +Some people lack this ability; “They are,” says William McFee, “with +agreeable reservations, very much like those seafarers who sail all +over the world and tarry in magic harbors and beneath the glittering +cupolas of marvelous cities and come home and say there is nothing +in the world to see. They possess admirably incondite minds set upon +trade and concessions and the women whose photographs adorn their +dressing tables.” Once as a child on the treeless, drought burned +prairies, I begged a neighbor to tell me of her girlhood on the rocky +fjords of Norway under the midnight sun, and she answered, “Oh, it +was just about like here.” A good traveler appreciates the innate +character of a place as a good biographer does that of a person, and +strives by every means within his power to set it forth, and so give +to his reader a refreshing sense of a sojourn among new scenes and +new faces. + + “It’s like a book, I think, this bloomin’ world, + Which you can read and care for just so long, + But presently you feel that you will die + Unless you get the page you’re readin’ done, + An’ turn another--likely not so good + But what you’re after is to turn ’em all.” + +The following suggestions may be helpful: + + 1. Choose a place which is of interest to you for one definite + characteristic: natural beauty, historical associations, + picturesque squalor, or what you will. Make this point of central + interest in your narrative, but do not neglect other possible + additions. Observe that Mr. Morley’s “Up the Wissahickon” gives + many other items of interest besides the picture of autumn beauty. + + 2. Limit your narrative to a period brief enough to be readily + presented within the limits of your space. Though you may have + known a place all your life, an account of a single visit may be a + wise selection. A supposed traveler’s story of a day in your home + town or city may reveal unexpected possibilities. + + 3. Write of pleasant experiences or in a kindly mood. Do not + chronicle the trip you wish you had never taken. + + F. del P. + + + THE DEPARTURE + + JULIAN STREET + +My last days in Japan were my best days, for I spent them in a +Japanese home, standing amid its own lovely gardens in Mita, a +residential district some twenty minutes by motor from the central +part of Tokyo. + +Through the open shoji of my bedroom I could look out in the mornings +to where, beyond the velvet lawns, the flowers and the treetops, the +inverted fan of Fuji’s cone was often to be seen floating white and +spectral in the sky, seventy miles away. + +After my bath in a majestic family tub I would breakfast in my room, +wearing a kimono, recently acquired, and feeling very Japanese. + +While I was dressing, Yuki sometimes entered, but I had by this +time become accustomed to her matutinal invasions and no longer +found them embarrassing. She was so entirely practical, so useful. +She knew where everything was. She would go to a curious little +cupboard, which was built into the wall and had sliding doors of +lacquer and silk, and get me a shirt, or would retrieve from their +place of concealment a missing pair of trousers, and bring them to me +neatly folded in one of those flat, shallow baskets which, with the +Japanese, seem to take the place of bureau drawers. + +Thus, besides being my daughter’s duenna and my wife’s maid, she was +in effect, my valet. Nor did her usefulness by any means end there. +She was our interpreter, dragoman, purchasing-agent; she was our +steward, major domo, seneschal; nay, she was our Prime Minister. + +The house had a large staff, and all the servants made us feel +that they were _our_ servants, and that they were glad to have us +there. With the exception of a butler, an English-speaking Japanese +temporarily added to the establishment on our account, all wore +the native dress; and there were among them two men so fine of +feature, so dignified of bearing, so elegant in their silks, that +we took them, at first, for members of the family. One of them +was a white-bearded old gentleman who would have made a desirable +grandfather for anybody. If he had duties other than to decorate the +hall with his presence I never discovered what they were. The other, +a young man, was clerk of the household, and enjoyed the distinction +of being Saki’s husband. + +Saki was the housekeeper, young and pretty. She and her husband +lived in a cottage near by, and their home was extensively equipped +with musical instruments, Saki being proficient on the samisen +and koto, and also on an American melodeon which was one of her +chief treasures. She was all smiles and sweetness--a most obliging +person. Indeed it was she who pretended to be asleep in a Japanese +bed, in order that I might make the photograph which is one of the +illustrations in this book. + +Four or five coolies, excellent fellows, wearing blue cotton coats +with the insignia of our host’s family upon the backs of them, +worked about the house and grounds; and several little maids were +continually trotting through the corridors, with that pigeon-toed +shuffle in which one comes, when one is used to it, actually to see a +curious prettiness. + +Sometimes we felt that the servants were showing us too much +consideration. We dined out a great deal and were often late in +getting home (“Home” was the term we found ourselves using there), +yet however advanced the hour, the chauffeur would sound his horn +on entering the gate, whereupon lights would flash on beneath the +porte-cochère, the shoji at the entrance of the house would slide +open, and three or four domestics would come out, dragging a wide +strip of red velvet carpet, over which we would walk magnificently up +the two steps leading to the hall. But though I urged them to omit +this regal detail, because two or three men had to sit up to handle +the heavy carpet, and also because the production of it made me feel +like a bogus prince, I could never induce them to do so. Always, +regardless of the hour, a little group of servants appeared at the +door when we came home. + +Even on the night when, under the ministrations of the all-wise and +all-powerful head porter of the Imperial Hotel, our trunks were +spirited away, to be taken to Yokohama and placed aboard the _Tenyo +Maru_, even then we found it difficult to realize that our last night +in Japan had come. + +The realization did not strike me with full force until I went to bed. + +I was not sleepy. I lay there, thinking. And the background of my +thoughts was woven out of sounds wafted through the open shoji on the +summer wind: the nocturnal sounds of the Tokyo streets. + +I recalled how, on my first night in Tokyo, I had listened to these +sounds and wondered what they signified. + +Now they explained themselves to me, as to a Japanese. + +A distant jingling, like that of sleigh-bells, informed me that a +newsboy was running with late papers. A plaintive musical phrase +suggestive of Debussy, bursting out suddenly and stopping with +startling abruptness, told me that the Chinese macaroni man was +abroad with his lantern-trimmed cart and his little brass horn. At +last I heard a xylophone-like note, resembling somewhat the sound of +a New York policeman’s club tapping the sidewalk. It was repeated +several times; then there would come a silence; then the sound again, +a little nearer. It was the night watchman on his rounds, guarding +the neighbourhood not against thieves, but against fire, “the Flower +of Tokyo.” In my mind’s eye I could see him hurrying along, knocking +his two sticks together now and then, to spread the news that all was +well. + +Then it was that I reflected: “Tomorrow night I shall not hear these +sounds. In their place I shall hear the creaking of the ship, the +roar of the wind, the hiss of the sea. Possibly I shall never again +hear the music of the Tokyo streets.” + +My heart was sad as I went to sleep. + +Fortunately for our peace of mind, we had learned through the +experience of American friends, visitors in another Japanese home, +how _not_ to tip these well-bred domestics--or rather, how not to +try to tip them. On leaving the house in which they had been guests, +these friends had offered money to the servants, only to have it +politely but positively refused. + +Yuki cleared the matter up for us. + +“They should put _noshi_ with money,” she explained in response to +our questions. “That make it all right to take. It mean a present.” + +Without having previously known noshi by name, we knew immediately +what she meant, for we had received during our stay in Japan enough +presents to fill a large trunk, and each had been accompanied by a +little piece of coloured paper folded in a certain way, signifying a +gift. + +In the old days these coloured papers always contained small pieces +of dried _awabi_--abelone--but with the years the dried awabi began +to be omitted, and the little folded papers by themselves came to be +considered adequate. + +Fortified with this knowledge I went, on the day before our +departure, to the Ginza, where I bought envelopes on which the noshi +design was printed. Money placed in these envelopes was graciously +accepted by all the servants. Tips they would not have received. +But these were not tips. They were gifts from friend to friend, at +parting. + +The code of Japanese courtesy is very exact and very exacting in the +matter of farewells to the departing guest. Callers are invariably +escorted to the door by the host, such members of his family as have +been present, and a servant or two, all of whom stand in the portal +bowing as the visitor drives away. + +A house-guest is despatched with even greater ceremony. The entire +personnel of the establishment will gather at the door to speed him +on his way with profound bows and cries of “Sayonara!” Members of the +family, often the entire family, accompany him to the station, where +appear other friends who have carefully inquired in advance as to +the time of departure. The traveller is escorted to his car, and his +friends remain upon the platform until the train leaves, when the +bowing and “Sayonaras” are repeated. + +Tokyo people often go to Yokohama with friends who are sailing from +Japan, accompanying them to the ship, and remaining on the dock until +the vessel moves into the bay. How Tokyo men-of-affairs can manage to +go upon these time-consuming seeing-off parties is one of the great +mysteries of Mysterious Japan, for such an excursion takes up the +greater part of a day. + +To the American, accustomed in his friendships to take so much for +granted, a Japanese farewell affords a new sensation, and one which +can hardly fail to touch the heart. + +Departing passengers are given coils of paper ribbon confetti, to +throw to their friends ashore, so that each may hold an end until +the wall of steel parts from the wall of stone, and the paper strand +strains and breaks. There is something poignant and poetic in that +breaking, symbolizing the vastness of the world, the littleness of +men and ships, the fragility of human contacts. + +The last face I recognized, back there across the water, in Japan, +was Yuki’s. She was standing on the dock with the end of a broken +paper ribbon in her hand. The other end trailed down into the water. +She was weeping bitterly. + +Wishing to be sure that my wife and daughter had not failed to +discover her in the crowd, I turned to them. But I did not have to +point her out. Their faces told me that they saw her. They too were +weeping. + +So it is with women. They weep. As for a man, he merely waves his +hat. I waved mine. + +“Sayonara!” + +I turned away. There were things I had to see to in my cabin. +Besides, the wind on deck was freshening. It hurt my eyes. + + Julian Street, _Mysterious Japan_. Doubleday, + Page & Company, Publishers. By the kind + permission of the author. + + + UP THE WISSAHICKON + + CHRISTOPHER MORLEY + +The Soothsayer is a fanatical lover of Fairmount Park. His chief +delight is to send his car spinning along the Lincoln Drive about the +time the sun drops toward setting; to halt at a certain hostelry (if +the afternoon be chilly) for what Charles Lamb so winningly describes +as “hot water and its better adjuncts”; and then, his stormy soul for +the moment at armistice with life, to roll in a gentle simmer down +gracious byways while the Park gathers her mantle of dusk about her. +Sometimes he halts his curricle in some favorite nook, climbs back +into the broad, well-cushioned tonneau seat and lies there smoking a +cigarette and watching the lights along the river. The Park is his +favorite relaxation. He carries its contours and colors and sunsets +in the spare locker of his brain, and even on the most trying day at +his office he is a little happier because he knows the Wissahickon +Drive is but a few miles away. Wise Soothsayer! He should have been +one of the hermits who came from Germany with Kelpius in 1694 and +lived bleakly on the hillsides of that fairest of streams, waiting +the millennium they expected in 1700. + +The Soothsayer had long been urging me to come and help him worship +the Wissahickon Drive, and when luck and the happy moment conspired, +I found myself carried swiftly past the Washington Monument at the +Park entrance and along the margin of the twinkling Schuylkill. +At the first there was nothing of the hermit in the Soothsayer’s +conversation. He was bitterly condemning the handicraft of a certain +garage mechanic who had done something to his “clutch.” He included +this fallacious artisan in the class of those he deems most degraded: +The People Who Don’t Give a Damn. For intellectual convenience, the +Soothsayer tersely ascribes all ills that befall him to Bolshevism. +If the waitress is tardy in delivering his cheese omelet, she is +a bolshevixen. If a motortruck driver skims his polished fender, +he is a bolshevik. In other words, those who Don’t Give a Damn are +bolsheviks. + +The Soothsayer lamented that I had not been in the Park with him two +weeks ago, when the autumn foliage was a blaze of glowing color. But +to my eye the tints (it was the first of November) were unsurpassably +lovely. It was a keen afternoon, the air was sharp, the sky flushing +with rose and massed with great banks of cloud the bluish hue of +tobacco smoke. When we neared the corner of Peter’s Island the sun +slid from under a cloudy screen and transfused the thin bronze-yellow +of the trees with a pale glow which sparkled as the few remaining +leaves fluttered in the wind. Most of the leafage had fallen and was +being burnt in bonfires at the side of the road, where the gusts +tossed and flattened the waving flames. But the trees were still +sufficiently clothed to show a rich tapestry of russet and orange and +brown, sharpened here and there by wisps and shreds of yellow. And +where the boughs were wholly stripped (the silver-gray beeches, for +instance) their delicate twigs were clearly traced against the sky. I +think one hears too much of the beauty of October’s gold and scarlet +and not enough of the sober, wistful richness of November buffs and +duns and browns. + +The Wissahickon Drive is the last refuge of the foot and the hoof, +for motors are not allowed to follow the trail up the ravine, which +still remains a haunt of ancient peace--much more so, indeed, than in +former years, when there must have been many and many a smart turnout +spanking up the valley for supper at the Lotus Inn. Over the ruins of +this hostelry the Soothsayer becomes sadly eloquent, recalling how in +his salad days he used to drive out from town in a chartered hansom +and sit placidly on a honeysuckled balcony over chicken and waffles +served with the proper flourish by a colored servitor named Pompey. +But we must take things as we see them, and though my conductor +rebuked me for thinking the scene so lovely--I should have been there +not only two weeks ago to see the autumn colors, but ten years ago to +see Pompey and the Lotus Inn--still, I was marvelously content with +the dusky beauty of the glades. The cool air was rich with the damp, +sweet smell of decaying leaves. A tiny murmur of motion rose from the +green-brown pools of the creek, ruffled here and there with a milky +bubble of foam below some boulder. In the feathery tops of evergreen +trees, blackly outlined against the clear arch of fading blue, some +birds were cheeping a lively squabble. We stopped to listen. It was +plainly an argument, of the kind in which each side accuses the other +of partisanship. “Bolshevism!” said the Soothsayer. + +It is wonderfully still in the Wissahickon ravine in a pale November +twilight. Overhead the sky darkened; the sherry-brown trees began +to shed something of their rich tint. The soft earth of the roadway +was grateful underfoot to those too accustomed to pavement walking. +Along the drive came the romantic thud of hoofs; a party of girls +on horseback perhaps returning from tea at Valley Green. What a +wonderful sound is the quick drumming of horses’ hoofs! To me it +always suggests highwaymen and Robert Louis Stevenson. We smoked our +pipes leaning over the wooden fence and looking down at the green +shimmer of the Wissahickon, seeing how the pallor of sandy bottom +shone up through the clear water. + +And then, just as one is about to sentimentalize upon the beauty of +nature and how it shames the crass work of man, one comes to what is +perhaps the liveliest thing along the Wissahickon--the Walnut Lane +Bridge. Leaping high in air from the very domes of the trees, curving +in a sheer smooth superb span that catches the last western light on +its concrete flanks, it flashes across the darkened valley as nobly +as an old Roman viaduct of southern France. It is a thrilling thing, +and I scrambled up the bank to note down the names of the artists who +planned it. The tablet is dated 1906, and bears the names of George +S. Webster, chief engineer; Henry H. Quimby, assistant engineer; +Reilly & Riddle, contractors. Many poets have written verses both +good and bad about the Wissahickon, but Messers. Reilly & Riddle have +spanned it with a poem that will long endure. + +We walked back to the Soothsayer’s bolshevized car, which waited +at the turning of the drive where a Revolutionary scuffle took +place between American troops and a detachment of redcoats under a +commander of the fine old British name of Knyphausen. As we whirred +down to the Lincoln Drive and I commented on the lavender haze that +overhung the steep slopes of the glen, the Soothsayer said: “Ah, but +you should have seen it two weeks ago. The trees were like a cashmere +shawl!” + +I shall have to wait fifty weeks before I can see the Wissahickon in +a way that will content the fastidious Soothsayer. + + Christopher Morley, _Travels in Philadelphia_. By + permission of the author and David McKay Company. + + + TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + + + I. OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS--FATHER APOLLINARIS + +Next morning (Thursday, 26th September) I took the road in a new +order. The sack was no longer doubled, but hung at full length across +the saddle, a green sausage six feet long with a tuft of blue wool +hanging out of either end. It was more picturesque, it spared the +donkey, and, as I began to see, it would insure stability, blow high, +blow low. But it was not without a pang that I had so decided. For +although I had purchased a new cord, and made all as fast as I was +able, I was yet jealously uneasy lest the flaps should tumble out and +scatter my effects along the line of march. + +My way lay up the bald valley of the river, along the march of +Vivarais and Gévaudan. The Hills of Gévaudan on the right were a +little more naked, if anything, than those of Vivarais upon the +left, and the former had a monopoly of a low dotty underwood that +grew thickly in the gorges and died out in solitary burrs upon the +shoulders and the summits. Black bricks of fir-wood were plastered +here and there upon both sides, and here and there were cultivated +fields. A railway ran beside the river; the only bit of railway in +Gévaudan, although there are many proposals afoot and surveys being +made, and even, as they tell me, a station standing ready-built +in Mende. A year or two hence and this may be another world. The +desert is beleaguered. Now may some Languedocian Wordsworth turn the +sonnet into _patois_: “Mountains and vales and floods, heard Ye that +whistle?” + +At a place called La Bastide I was directed to leave the river, and +follow a road that mounted on the left among the hills of Vivarais, +the modern Ardeche; for I was now come within a little way of my +strange destination, the Trappist monastery of our Lady of the Snows. +The sun came out as I left the shelter of a pine-wood, and I beheld +suddenly a fine wild landscape to the south. High rocky hills, as +blue as sapphire, closed the view, and between these lay ridge upon +ridge, heathery, craggy, the sun glittering on veins of rock, the +underwood clambering in the hollows, as rude as God made them at +the first. There was not a sign of man’s hand in all the prospect; +and indeed not a trace of his passage, save where generation after +generation had walked in twisted foot-paths, in and out among the +beeches, and up and down upon the channelled slopes. The mists, which +had hitherto beset me, were now broken into clouds, and fled swiftly +and shone brightly in the sun. I drew a long breath. It was grateful +to come, after so long, upon a scene of some attraction for the +human heart. I own I like definite form in what my eyes are to rest +upon; and if landscapes were sold, like the sheets of characters of +my boyhood, one penny plain and twopence coloured, I should go the +length of twopence every day of my life. + +But if things had grown better to the south, it was still desolate +and inclement near at hand. A spidery cross on every hill-top marked +the neighbourhood of a religious house; and a quarter of a mile +beyond, the outlook southward opening out and growing bolder with +every step, a white statue of the Virgin at the corner of a young +plantation directed the traveller to our Lady of the Snows. Here, +then, I struck leftward, and pursued my way, driving my secular +donkey before me, and creaking in my secular boots and gaiters, +towards the asylum of silence. + +I had not gone very far ere the wind brought to me the clanging of +a bell, and somehow, I can scarce tell why, my heart sank within me +at the sound. I have rarely approached anything with more unaffected +terror than the monastery of our Lady of the Snows. This it is to +have had a Protestant education. And suddenly, on turning a corner, +fear took hold on me from head to foot--slavish superstitious fear; +and though I did not stop in my advance, yet I went on slowly, like +a man who should have passed a bourne unnoticed, and strayed into +the country of the dead. For there upon the narrow new-made road, +between the stripling pines, was a mediæval friar, fighting with a +barrowful of turfs. Every Sunday of my childhood I used to study the +_Hermits_ of Marco Sadeler--enchanting prints, full of wood and field +and mediæval landscapes, as large as a county, for the imagination to +go a-travelling in; and here, sure enough, was one of Marco Sadeler’s +heroes. He was robed in white like any spectre, and the hood falling +back, in the instancy of his contention with the barrow, disclosed +a pate as bald and yellow as a skull. He might have been buried any +time these thousand years, and all the lively parts of him resolved +into earth and broken up with the farmer’s barrow. + +I was troubled besides in my mind as to etiquette. Durst I address +a person who was under a vow of silence? Clearly not. But drawing +near, I doffed my cap to him with a far-away superstitious reverence. +He nodded back, and cheerfully addressed me. Was I going to the +monastery? Who was I? An Englishman? Ah, an Irishman, then? + +“No,” I said, “a Scotsman.” + +A Scotsman? Ah, he had never seen a Scotsman before. And he looked me +all over, his good, honest, brawny countenance shining with interest, +as a boy might look upon a lion or an alligator. From him I learned +with disgust that I could not be received at our Lady of the Snows; +I might get a meal, perhaps, but that was all. And then, as our talk +ran on, and it turned out that I was not a pedlar, but a literary +man, who drew landscapes and was going to write a book, he changed +his manner of thinking as to my reception (for I fear they respect +persons even in a Trappist monastery), and told me I must be sure to +ask for the Father Prior, and state my case to him in full. On second +thoughts he determined to go down with me himself; he thought he +could manage for me better. Might he say that I was a geographer? + +No; I thought in the interests of truth, he positively might not. + +“Very well, then” (with disappointment), “an author.” + +It appeared he had been in a seminary with six young Irishmen, all +priests long since, who had received newspapers and kept him informed +of the state of ecclesiastical affairs in England. And he asked +me eagerly after Dr. Pusey, for whose conversion the good man had +continued ever since to pray night and morning. + +“I thought he was very near the truth,” he said; “and he will reach +it yet; there is so much virtue in prayer.” + +He must be a stiff ungodly Protestant who can take anything but +pleasure in this kind and hopeful story. While he was thus near the +subject, the good father asked me if I were a Christian; and when he +found I was not, or not after his way, he glossed it over with great +goodwill. + +The road which we were following, and which this stalwart father had +made with his own two hands within the space of a year, came to a +corner, and showed us some white buildings a little further on beyond +the wood. At the same time, the bell once more sounded abroad. We +were hard upon the monastery. Father Apollinaris (for that was my +companion’s name) stopped me. + +“I must not speak to you down there,” he said. + +“Ask for the Brother Porter, and all will be well. But try to see me +as you go out again through the wood, where I may speak to you. I am +charmed to have made your acquaintance.” + +And then suddenly raising his arms, flapping his fingers, and crying +out twice, “I must not speak, I must not speak!” he ran away in front +of me, and disappeared into the monastery-door. + +I own this somewhat ghastly eccentricity went a good way to revive my +terrors. But where one was so good and simple, why should not all be +alike? I took heart of grace, and went forward to the gate as fast +as Modestine, who seemed to have a disaffection for monasteries, +would permit. It was the first door, in my acquaintance of her, which +she had not shown an indecent haste to enter. I summoned the place +in form, though with a quaking heart. Father Michael, the Father +Hospitaller, and a pair of brown-robed brothers came to the gate and +spoke with me awhile. I think my sack was the great attraction; it +had already beguiled the heart of poor Apollinaris, who had charged +me on my life to show it to the Father Prior. But whether it was my +address, or the sack, or the idea speedily published among that part +of the brotherhood who attend on strangers that I was not a pedlar +after all, I found no difficulty as to my reception. Modestine was +led away by a layman to the stables, and I and my pack were received +into our Lady of the Snows. + + + II. THE MONKS + +Father Michael, a pleasant, fresh-faced, smiling man, perhaps of +thirty-five, took me to the pantry, and gave me a glass of liqueur +to stay me until dinner. We had some talk, or rather I should say he +listened to my prattle indulgently enough, but with an abstracted +air, like a spirit with a thing of clay. And truly when I remember +that I descanted principally on my appetite, and that it must have +been by that time more than eighteen hours since Father Michael had +so much as broken bread, I can well understand that he would find an +earthly savour in my conversation. But his manner, though superior, +was exquisitely gracious; and I find I have a lurking curiosity as to +Father Michael’s past. + +The whet administered, I was left alone for a little in the monastery +garden. This is no more than the main court, laid out in sandy paths +and beds of party-coloured dahlias, and with a fountain and a black +statue of the Virgin in the centre. The buildings stand around it +four-square, bleak, as yet unseasoned by the years and weather, and +with no other features than a belfry and a pair of slated gables. +Brothers in white, brothers in brown, passed silently along the +sanded alleys; and when I first came out, three hooded monks were +kneeling on the terrace at their prayers. A naked hill commands the +monastery upon one side, and the wood commands it on the other. It +lies exposed to wind; the snow falls off and on from October to May, +and sometimes lies six weeks on end; but if they stood in Eden, +with a climate like heaven’s, the buildings themselves would offer +the same wintry and cheerless aspect; and for my part, on this wild +September day, before I was called to dinner, I felt chilly in and +out. + +When I had eaten well and heartily, Brother Ambrose, a hearty +conversable Frenchman (for all those who wait on strangers have +the liberty to speak), led me to a little room in that part of the +building which is set apart for _MM. les retraitants_. It was clean +and whitewashed, and furnished with strict necessaries, a crucifix, +a bust of the late Pope, the _Imitation_ in French, a book of +religious meditations, and the _Life of Elizabeth Seton_, evangelist, +it would appear, of North America and of New England in particular. +As far as my experience goes, there is a fair field for some more +evangelisation in these quarters; but think of Cotton Mather! I +should like to give him a reading of this little work in heaven, +where I hope he dwells; but perhaps he knows all that already, and +much more, and perhaps he and Mrs. Seton are the dearest friends, and +gladly unite their voices in the everlasting psalm. Over the table, +to conclude the inventory of the room, hung a set of regulations for +_MM. les retraitants_: what services they should attend, when they +were to tell their beads or meditate, and when they were to rise and +go to rest. At the foot was a notable N.B.: “_Le temps libre est +employé à l’examen de conscience, à la confession, à faire de bonnes +résolutions_,” etc. To make good resolutions, indeed! You might talk +as fruitfully of making the hair grow on your head. + +I had scarce explored my niche when Brother Ambrose returned. +An English boarder, it appeared, would like to speak with me. I +professed my willingness, and the friar ushered in a fresh, young +little Irishman of fifty, a deacon of the Church, arrayed in strict +canonicals, and wearing on his head what, in default of knowledge, +I can only call the ecclesiastical shako. He had lived seven years +in retreat at a convent of nuns in Belgium, and now five at our Lady +of the Snows; he never saw an English newspaper; he spoke French +imperfectly, and had he spoken it like a native, there was not much +chance of conversation where he dwelt. With this, he was a man +eminently sociable, greedy of news, and simple-minded like a child. +If I was pleased to have a guide about the monastery, he was no less +delighted to see an English face and hear an English tongue. + +He showed me his own room, where he passed his time among breviaries, +Hebrew bibles, and the Waverley novels. Thence he led me to the +cloisters, into the chapter-house, through the vestry, where the +brothers’ gowns and broad straw hats were hanging up, each with his +religious name upon a board,--names full of legendary suavity and +interest, such as Basil, Hilarion, Raphael, or Pacifique; into the +library, where were all the works of Veuillot and Chateaubriand, +and the _Odes et Ballades_, if you please, and even Molière, to +say nothing of innumerable fathers and a great variety of local +and general historians. Thence my good Irishman took me round the +workshops, where brothers bake bread, and make cartwheels, and take +photographs; where one superintends a collection of curiosities, and +another a gallery of rabbits. For in a Trappist monastery each monk +has an occupation of his own choice, apart from his religious duties +and the general labours of the house. Each must sing in the choir, if +he has a voice and ear, and join in the haymaking if he has a hand to +stir; but in his private hours, although he must be occupied, he may +be occupied on what he likes. Thus I was told that one brother was +engaged with literature; while Father Apollinaris busies himself in +making roads, and the Abbot employs himself in binding books. It is +not so long since this Abbot was consecrated, by the way; and on that +occasion, by a special grace, his mother was permitted to enter the +chapel and witness the ceremony of consecration. A proud day for her +to have a son a mitred abbot; it makes you glad to think they let her +in. + +In all these journeyings to and fro, many silent fathers and brethren +fell in our way. Usually they paid no more regard to our passage +than if we had been a cloud; but sometimes the good deacon had a +permission to ask of them, and it was granted by a peculiar movement +of the hands, almost like that of a dog’s paws in swimming, or +refused by the usual negative signs, and in either case with lowered +eyelids and a certain air of contrition, as of a man who was steering +very close to evil. + +The monks, by special grace of their Abbot, were still taking two +meals a day; but it was already time for their grand fast, which +begins somewhere in September and lasts till Easter, and during +which they eat but once in the twenty-four hours, and that at two +in the afternoon, twelve hours after they have begun the toil and +vigil of the day. Their meals are scanty, but even of these they eat +sparingly; and though each is allowed a small carafe of wine, many +refrain from this indulgence. Without doubt, the most of mankind +grossly overeat themselves; our meals serve not only for support, but +as a hearty and natural diversion from the labour of life. Although +excess may be hurtful, I should have thought this Trappist regimen +defective. And I am astonished, as I look back, at the freshness of +face and cheerfulness of manner of all whom I beheld. A happier nor +a healthier company I should scarce suppose that I have ever seen. +As a matter of fact, on this bleak upland, and with the incessant +occupation of the monks, life is of an uncertain tenure, and death +no infrequent visitor, at our Lady of the Snows. This, at least, was +what was told me. But if they die easily, they must live healthily in +the meantime, for they seemed all firm of flesh and high in colour; +and the only morbid sign that I could observe, an unusual brilliancy +of eye, was one that served rather to increase the general impression +of vivacity and strength. + +Those with whom I spoke were singularly sweet-tempered, with what I +can only call a holy cheerfulness in air and conversation. There is a +note, in the direction to visitors, telling them not to be offended +at the curt speech of those who wait upon them, since it is proper +to monks to speak little. The note might have been spared; to a man +the hospitallers were all brimming with innocent talk, and, in my +experience of the monastery, it was easier to begin than to break +off a conversation. With the exception of Father Michael, who was a +man of the world, they showed themselves full of kind and healthy +interest in all sorts of subjects--in politics, in voyages, in my +sleeping-sack--and not without a certain pleasure in the sound of +their own voices. + +As for those who are restricted to silence, I can only wonder how +they bear their solemn and cheerless isolation. And yet, apart from +any view of mortification, I can see a certain policy, not only +in the exclusion of women, but in this vow of silence. I have had +some experience of lay phalansteries, of an artistic, not to say a +bacchanalian, character; and seen more than one association easily +formed, and yet more easily dispersed. With a Cistercian rule, +perhaps they might have lasted longer. In the neighbourhood of +women it is but a touch-and-go association that can be formed among +defenceless men; the stronger electricity is sure to triumph; the +dreams of boyhood, the schemes of youth, are abandoned after an +interview of ten minutes, and the arts and sciences, and professional +male jollity, deserted at once for two sweet eyes and a caressing +accent. And next after this, the tongue is the great divider. + +I am almost ashamed to pursue this worldly criticism of a religious +rule; but there is yet another point in which the Trappist order +appeals to me as a model of wisdom. By two in the morning the clapper +goes upon the bell, and so on, hour by hour, and sometimes quarter by +quarter, till eight, the hour of rest; so infinitesimally is the day +divided among different occupations. The man who keeps rabbits, for +example, hurries from his hutches to the chapel, the chapter-room, +or the refectory, all day long; every hour he has an office to sing, +a duty to perform; from two, when he rises in the dark, till eight, +when he returns to receive the comfortable gift of sleep, he is upon +his feet and occupied with manifold and changing business. I know +many persons, worth several thousands in the year, who are not so +fortunate in the disposal of their lives. Into how many houses would +not the note of the monastery-bell, dividing the day into manageable +portions, bring peace of mind and healthful activity of body? We +speak of hardships, but the true hardship is to be a dull fool, and +permitted to mismanage life in our own dull and foolish manner. + +From this point of view, we may perhaps better understand the monk’s +existence. A long novitiate, and every proof of constancy of mind +and strength of body is required before admission to the order; but +I could not find that many were discouraged. In the photographer’s +studio, which figures so strangely among the outbuildings, my eye +was attracted by the portrait of a young fellow in the uniform of a +private of foot. This was one of the novices, who came of the age +for service, and marched and drilled and mounted guard for the proper +time among the garrison of Algiers. Here was a man who had surely +seen both sides of life before deciding; yet as soon as he was set +free from services he returned to finish his novitiate. + +This austere rule entitles a man to heaven as by right. When the +Trappist sickens, he quits not his habit; he lies in the bed of death +as he has prayed and laboured in his frugal and silent existence; and +when the Liberator comes, at the very moment, even before they have +carried him in his robe to lie his little last in the chapel among +continual chantings, joy-bells break forth, as if for a marriage, +from the slated belfry, and proclaim throughout the neighbourhood +that another soul has gone to God. + +At night, under the conduct of my kind Irishman, I took my place +in the gallery to hear compline and _Salve Regina_, with which the +Cistercians bring every day to a conclusion. There were none of those +circumstances which strike the Protestant as childish or as tawdry +in the public offices of Rome. A stern simplicity, heightened by the +romance of the surroundings, spoke directly to the heart. I recall +the whitewashed chapel, the hooded figures in the choir, the lights +alternately occluded and revealed, the strong manly singing, the +silence that ensued, the sight of cowled heads bowed in prayer, and +then the clear trenchant beating of the bell, breaking in to show +that the last office was over and the hour of sleep had come; and +when I remember, I am not surprised that I made my escape into the +court with somewhat whirling fancies, and stood like a man bewildered +in the windy starry night. + +But I was weary; and when I had quieted my spirits with Elizabeth +Seton’s memoirs--a dull work--the cold and the raving of the wind +among the pines--for my room was on that side of the monastery which +adjoins the woods--disposed me readily to slumber. I was wakened +at black midnight, as it seemed, though it was really two in the +morning, by the first stroke upon the bell. All the brothers were +then hurrying to the chapel; the dead in life, at this untimely hour, +were already beginning the uncomforted labours of their day. The dead +of life--there was a chill reflection. And the words of a French song +came back into my memory, telling of the best of our mixed existence: + + “Que t’as de belles filles, + Giroflé! + Girofla! + Que t’as de belles filles, + _L’Amour les comptera_:” + +And I blessed God that I was free to wander, free to hope, and free +to love. + + Robert Louis Stevenson, _Travels with a Donkey_. + By permission of Charles Scribner’s Sons, the + authorized publishers. + + +SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY OF NARRATIVES OF TRAVEL + +The editors have found these additional selections very useful in +teaching the writing of travel narratives and sketches: + + Brooks, Charles S. _I Ungum the Scholar’s Whiskers_, from _A Thread + of English Road_. Harcourt, Brace and Company. + + Gerould, Katharine Fullerton. _Our Northwestern States_, in + _Harper’s Magazine_, March 1925; _Reno_, in _Harper’s Magazine_, + June 1925. + + Hall, James Norman. _An Autumn Sojourn in Iceland_, in _Harper’s + Magazine_, January 1924; _The Narrative of a Journey_, in _Harper’s + Magazine_, December 1923. + + Morley, Christopher. _Travels in Philadelphia_. David McKay Company. + + Pratt, Alice D. _The Round-Up_, from _The Homesteader’s Portfolio_. + The Macmillan Company. + + + + + CHAPTER XI + + _Sketches_ + + +The phrase “a mere sketch,” which one often encounters, seems to +indicate that the sketch is an inferior and undesirable type of +writing. This expression probably reflects the greater popularity +of the short-story with its complete plot and wealth of action; the +sketch has, however, its own admirers, and is not under obligation +to contest the popularity of the short story. Its charm lies not in +action or in climax, but in the perfection with which it creates the +atmosphere of a place or presents the portrait of a person, and at +its best it produces an effect which is not easily forgotten. + +It is true that the sketch has action, but not the action of a +logical succession of events leading inevitably to a definite climax. +Rather, the sketch leads the reader through the normal succession +of those hours or days of which we are so likely to say, “Nothing +happens,” though the life may be rich in values and full of color and +feeling. The action is leisurely, and the end of the sketch may leave +the characters in much the same situation in which the beginning +found them, but the reader has been enabled to enter into their lives +to such an extent that they can never again be strangers to him. +Stevenson’s “Lantern Bearers,” for example, is not told for the sake +of any single event, contains no story suitable for the cinema, but +by means of description and variety of incidents, it initiates the +reader into the circle of the boyish lantern bearers. Likewise, in +“Kermis Morning” there is no memorable occurrence, but a picture full +of color and life and people, a picture which makes you a breathing +spectator at the holiday celebration. + +If you have an interest in places or people as well as in events, +choose one of your favorites, and invite the reader as a guest, not +in the hope that he may witness thrilling events, but rather that he +may know the reason for your delight, and share it with you. + +In writing a sketch, the beginner may find the following suggestions +helpful: + + 1. Choose a subject which is permeated by human feeling: sorrow, + joy, love, devotion, or despair. + + 2. Avoid long introductions. Let the subject explain itself. + + 3. Remember that sense appeals, particularly the use of color and + sound, are of great help in giving atmosphere, without which you + cannot have a sketch. + + F. del P. + + + THE LANTERN BEARERS + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + +These boys congregated every autumn about a certain easterly +fisher-village, where they tasted in a high degree the glory of +existence. The place was created seemingly on purpose for the +diversion of young gentlemen. A street or two of houses, mostly red +and many of them tiled; a number of fine trees clustered about the +manse and the kirkyard, and turning the chief street into a shady +alley; many little gardens more than usually bright with flowers; +nets a-drying, and fisher-wives scolding in the backward parts; a +smell of fish, a genial smell of seaweed; whiffs of blowing sand at +the street-corners; shops with golf-balls and bottled lollipops; +another shop with penny pickwicks (that remarkable cigar) and the +_London Journal_, dear to me for its startling pictures, and a few +novels, dear for their suggestive names: such, as well as memory +serves me, were the ingredients of the town. These, you are to +conceive posted on a spit between two sandy bays, and sparsely +flanked with villas--enough for the boys to lodge in with their +subsidiary parents, not enough (not yet enough) to cocknify the +scene: a haven in the rocks in front: in front of that, a file +of gray islets: to the left, endless links and sand-wreaths, a +wilderness of hiding-holes, alive with popping rabbits and soaring +gulls: to the right, a range of seaweed crags, one rugged brow beyond +another; the ruins of a mighty and ancient fortress on the brink of +one; coves between--now charmed into sunshine quiet, now whistling +with wind and clamorous with bursting surges; the dens and sheltered +hollows redolent of thyme and southernwood, the air at the cliff’s +edge brisk and clean and pungent of the sea--in front of all, the +Bass Rock, tilted seaward like a doubtful bather, the surf ringing +it with white, the solan-geese hanging round its summit like a great +and glittering smoke. This choice piece of seaboard was sacred, +besides, to the wrecker; and the Bass, in the eye of fancy, still +flew the colors of King James; and in the ear of fancy the arches of +Tantallon still rang with horseshoe iron, and echoed to the commands +of Bell-the-Cat. + +There was nothing to mar your days, if you were a boy summering in +that part, but the embarrassment of pleasure. You might golf if you +wanted; but I seem to have been better employed. You might secrete +yourself in the Lady’s Walk, a certain sunless dingle of elders, +all mossed over by the damp as green as grass, and dotted here and +there by the stream-side with roofless walls, the cold homes of +anchorites. To fit themselves for life, and with a special eye to +acquire the art of smoking, it was even common for the boys to harbor +there; and you might have seen a single penny pickwick, honestly +shared in lengths with a blunt knife, bestrew the glen with these +apprentices. Again, you might join our fishing-parties, where we sat +perched as thick as solan-geese, a covey of little anglers, boy and +girl, angling over each other’s heads, to the much entanglement of +lines and loss of podleys and consequent shrill recrimination--shrill +as the geese themselves. Indeed, had that been all, you might have +done this often; but though fishing be a fine pastime, the podley is +scarce to be regarded as a dainty for the table; and it was a point +of honor that a boy should eat all that he had taken. Or again, you +might climb the Law, where the whale’s jawbone stood landmark in the +buzzing wind, and behold the face of many counties, and the smokes +and spires of many towns, and the sails of distant ships. You might +bathe, now in the flaws of fine weather, that we pathetically call +our summer, now in a gale of wind, with the sand scourging your bare +hide, your clothes thrashing abroad from underneath their guardian +stone, the froth of the great breakers casting you headlong ere it +had drowned your knees. Or you might explore the tidal rocks, above +all in the ebb of springs, when the very roots of the hills were for +the nonce discovered; following my leader from one group to another; +groping in slippery tangle for the wreck of ships, wading in pools +after the abominable creatures of the sea, and ever with an eye +cast backward on the march of the tide and the menaced line of your +retreat. And then you might go Crusoeing, a word that covers all +extempore eating in the open air; digging perhaps a house under the +margin of the links, kindling a fire of the sea-ware, and cooking +apples there--if they were truly apples, for I sometimes suppose the +merchant must have played us off with some inferior and quite local +fruit, capable of resolving, in the neighborhood of fire, into mere +sand and smoke and iodine; or perhaps pushing to Tantallon, you might +lunch on sandwiches and visions in the grassy court, while the wind +hummed in the crumbling turrets; or clambering along the coast, eat +geans (the worst, I must suppose, in Christendom) from an adventurous +gean-tree that had taken root under a cliff, where it was shaken with +an ague of east wind, and silvered after gales with salt, and grew so +foreign among its bleak surroundings that to eat of its produce was +an adventure in itself. + +There are mingled some dismal memories with so many that were joyous. +Of the fisher-wife, for instance, who had cut her throat at Canty +Bay; and of how I ran with the other children to the top of the +Quadrant, and beheld a posse of silent people escorting a cart, +and on the cart, bound in a chair, her throat bandaged, and the +bandage all bloody--horror!--the fisher-wife herself, who continued +thenceforth to hagride my thoughts, and even to-day (as I recall the +scene) darkens daylight. She was lodged in the little old jail in the +chief street; but whether or no she died there, with a wise terror +of the worst, I never inquired. She had been tippling; it was but a +dingy tragedy, and it seems strange and hard that, after all these +years, the poor crazy sinner should be still pilloried on her cart +in the scrap-book of my memory. Nor shall I readily forget a certain +house in the Quadrant where a visitor died, and a dark old woman +continued to dwell alone with the dead body; nor how this old woman +conceived a hatred to myself and one of my cousins, and in the dread +hour of the dusk, as we were clambering on the garden-walls, opened a +window in that house of mortality and cursed us in a shrill voice and +with a marrowy choice of language. It was a pair of very colorless +urchins that fled down the lane from this remarkable experience! But +I recall with a more doubtful sentiment, compounded out of fear and +exultation, the coil of equinoctial tempests; trumpeting squalls, +scouring flaws of rain; the boats with their reefed lugsails scudding +for the harbor mouth, where danger lay, for it was hard to make +when the wind had any east in it; the wives clustered with blowing +shawls at the pier-head, where (if fate was against them) they might +see boat and husband and sons--their whole wealth and their whole +family--engulfed under their eyes; and (what I saw but once) a troop +of neighbors forcing such an unfortunate homeward, and she squalling +and battling in their midst, a figure scarcely human, a tragic Mænad. + +These are things that I recall with interest; but what my memory +dwells upon the most, I have been all this while withholding. It was +a sport peculiar to the place, and indeed to a week or so of our two +months’ holiday there. Maybe it still flourishes in its native spot; +for boys and their pastimes are swayed by periodic forces inscrutable +to man; so that tops and marbles reappear in their due season, +regular like the sun and moon; and the harmless art of knucklebones +has seen the fall of the Roman empire and the rise of the United +States. It may still flourish in its native spot, but nowhere else, +I am persuaded; for I tried myself to introduce it on Tweedside, and +was defeated lamentably; its charm being quite local, like a country +wine that cannot be exported. + +The idle manner of it was this:-- + +Toward the end of September, when school-time was drawing near and +the nights were already black, we would begin to sally from our +respective villas, each equipped with a tin bull’s-eye lantern. The +thing was so well known that it had worn a rut in the commerce of +Great Britain; and the grocers, about the due time, began to garnish +their windows with our particular brand of luminary. We wore them +buckled to the waist upon a cricket belt, and over them, such was +the rigor of the game, a buttoned top-coat. They smelled noisomely +of blistered tin; they never burned aright, though they would always +burn our fingers; their use was naught; the pleasure of them merely +fanciful; and yet a boy with a bull’s-eye under his top-coat asked +for nothing more. The fishermen used lanterns about their boats, and +it was from them, I suppose, that we had got the hint; but theirs +were not bull’s-eyes, nor did we ever play at being fishermen. The +police carried them at their belts, and we had plainly copied them +in that; yet we did not pretend to be policemen. Burglars, indeed, +we may have had some haunting thoughts of; and we had certainly an +eye to past ages when lanterns were more common, and to certain +storybooks in which we had found them to figure very largely. But +take it for all in all, the pleasure of the thing was substantive; +and to be a boy with a bull’s-eye under his top-coat was good enough +for us. + +When two of these asses met, there would be an anxious “Have you +got your lantern?” and a gratified “Yes!” That was the shibboleth, +and very needful too; for, as it was the rule to keep our glory +contained, none could recognize a lantern-bearer, unless (like the +pole-cat) by the smell. Four or five would sometimes climb into +the belly of a ten-man lugger, with nothing but the thwarts above +them--for the cabin was usually locked, or choose out some hollow +of the links where the wind might whistle overhead. There the +coats would be unbuttoned and the bull’s-eye discovered, and in +the checkering glimmer, under the huge windy hall of the night, +and cheered by a rich steam of toasting tinware, these fortunate +gentlemen would crouch together in the cold sand of the links or +on the scaly bilges of the fishing-boat, and delight themselves +with inappropriate talk. Woe is me that I may not give some +specimens--some of their foresights of life, or deep inquiries into +the rudiments of man and nature, these were so fiery and so innocent, +they were so richly silly, so romantically young. But the talk, at +any rate, was but a condiment; and these gatherings themselves only +accidents in the career of the lantern-bearer. The essence of this +bliss was to walk by yourself in the black night; the slide shut, +the top-coat buttoned; not a ray escaping, whether to conduct your +footsteps or to make your glory public: a mere pillar of darkness in +the dark; and all the while, deep down in the privacy of your fool’s +heart, to know you had a bull’s-eye at your belt, and to exult and +sing over the knowledge. + + Robert Louis Stevenson, _The Lantern Bearers_. + By permission of Charles Scribner’s Sons, the + authorized publishers. + + + KERMIS MORNING + + FELIX TIMMERMANS + +The mist was still hanging among the bushes and over the water when +the bells of the churches began to ring. + +When Pallieter saw what fine weather the day had brought, he threw +his cap into the air and went up to the belfry in the attic with a +smiling face. He threw open the wooden shutters and let in the white +daylight, dazzling at first to his eyes, and then he looked on to +the undulating breadth of fresh fields spread out beneath him. Then +he began to knock on the wooden handles; the wires tinkled, the wood +creaked and squeaked, but above rose the clang of the bells, clear as +crystal, into the pearly atmosphere. The joy of the bells vibrated +through his heart, and he sang with them lustily. + +Out of the attic window he hung a new kermis flag, and the mild east +wind rippled out its colors. As soon as he had had his breakfast of +ham and eggs with Charlot, he strolled out of doors, smoking a good +cigar. Yesterday’s rain had been like a salve to the ground, and made +everything brighter, fresher, and more beautiful. + +Pallieter had been walked off his legs with all the preparations for +the kermis; now he was as glad as a child to smell the quick scent of +the fields. He laughed till it re-echoed, drank some beer, and played +at bowls. When he came back he put the piebald horse into the covered +cart and drove to the station. + +All the houses in the town had hung out flags, and the belfry of +St. Gommarus Church was playing national airs above the roofs where +pigeons were strutting. The sellers of balloons were already about +the streets, and not far off a barrel organ was grinding. + +While Pallieter was away, Charlot was all in a worry with her +cooking. “Come what may,” she said at last, “but the Lord’s business +first.” And she nailed candle brackets on the front of the house with +tall candles in, and next to the front door she set a table covered +with a stiff white tablecloth, on which she placed the box with the +image of the Virgin, a crucifix of boxwood, and all the relics from +her own room. + +“They’ll all want to see our Lord,” she said. And all round and among +these she placed glass vases of flowers, and old brass candlesticks +with candles with paper twisted round. + +When she saw that all was in order she went back to the cooking. + +There in the peacefulness the birds sang, the flag fluttered, and the +sun streamed through the leaves of the trees; it shone on the roses +and the brasswork, and made the gold-brocaded mantle of the Holy +Mother glitter. + +Pallieter loaded up the women into the cart, and when he saw Marieke +his eyes grew big with surprise, and he said with a sigh: + +“Oh, what a fine gel!” + +The men came behind on foot. + +Inside, the cart was like a bunch of bright-colored flowers. The +women all wore their heavy gold ornaments and the older ones had on +their fine lace caps, and over them a straw hat tied down with a +bright-colored ribbon. + +They wore silk patterned shawls; some were deep red, purple, or +creamy-white ground, with crimson flowers on it. One woman had a +suckling child with her. + +A quarter of an hour later they reached the Reinaert and were all +agog, chattering and shaking hands with Charlot. Then all at once +Marieke stood before her in a blue dress with white spots, fresh and +sweet as a wild flower. + +“Oh, what a pretty maid you’ve grown!” she cried, “Oh, Marieke, +my dear!” And she kissed her again, and her tears splashed on to +Marieke’s face. + +The men came up, ten of them, and Pallieter welcomed them all +indoors, where they began at once to drink beer, and to light their +pipes, and to talk about their land, their cattle, their children, +and the weather. Other things were as strange to them as what is +written in a book. They didn’t know or care about other things, yet +Pallieter always said, “A farmer with his wits about him is the right +sort of man!” Afterward they all went into the garden to wait for the +procession. They drifted into groups, and the silk kerchiefs mixed +prettily with the bright-green growing things. Some stayed to look +at the fountain spouting its highest and dripping down on the backs +of the quiet goldfish; others looked at the game fowls and all sorts +of poultry; and everyone was amazed at the magnificent tail of the +peacock. + +The pipes glowed, the gilt images glittered, and all around lay the +world basking in the sun. + +All at once some reed-like notes of music sounded through the garden. +It was Pallieter, who came along with Marieke, playing the oboe. When +they came to the fountain Marieke held the palm of her hand open to +catch the water drops, and Pallieter took the instrument from his +mouth and said to her. + +“Now let me have a good look at ye!” + +He dropped his hands on to her shoulders and looked at her from head +to foot. In her rosy-cheeked face shone two large brown eyes with +little black points in them, her lips, apple red, curved just under +the well shaped nose, and a dimple darted into her right cheek as she +laughed. The chin curved prettily above the milk-white dainty throat, +her young bosom was firm, and her hips well formed. Her hair was dark +brown, and she had soft, pretty little hands. She was pretty! Her +whole being breathed the breath of Mother Nature and the gay growth +of young things. There she stood, as natural as water, and her face +was an open book. The sun shone through the tips of her ears and made +them rosy, it lighted a halo in her hair, and Pallieter exclaimed: + +“Ye need naught but wings!” + +She laughed, and her white teeth gleamed, and she looked down at her +shoes. + +Pallieter continued to look at her and his heart swelled with +longing, but she looked up again and said: + +“Play another tune.” + +So he began to play again and they walked away together. + +Just then the ringing of many bells filled the air. Pallieter cried +out: “It’s here! It’s coming! Come on, folks!” + +And everyone hurried to be standing at the door. + +As they all moved round behind the decorated table Pallieter lighted +the candles and strewed the sandy road with flowers and paper +snippets. + +From behind the quaint gables of the houses came the triumphal beat +of drums, a flourish, and then a slow, triumphal march on a brass +band. + +“There ’tis!” cried the children and the townspeople who had come +to look. They crowded on to the grass between the high tree trunks, +so as to leave the sandy road free. The peasant women took their +paternoster out of their pockets and began to recite prayers. + +And there came the procession through the wide gateway on to the +shady convent courtyard. + +It was the tall sexton, Samdieke, who headed the procession, in his +red cassock and white surplice. The light shone on his smooth cranium +with a thin lock of black hair combed over it. He carried a tall thin +crucifix, and his eyes were bent on the ground. + +On each side of him walked a little choir boy carrying a heavy silver +candlestick, with a lighted candle. The orphans of the Marolle +followed in three long rows; they were dressed neatly in black, above +which their faces looked pale, with their prim, straight-cut black +cape, and thin from sitting indoors. There were little tots not five +years old among them, who kept their eyes on the ground as piously +as the elder ones. There were many children of drunken fathers among +them. Behind them walked the severe-looking nuns in wide black +cloaks, and white caps with broad wings to them. They were all thin +and straight; only the Mother Superior was a short, plump figure. + +Then came a stout farmer in a red cassock, carrying the blue velvet +banner of St. Begga. Then a dazzling company of young girls, little +children all in starched white frocks, with small flags and gilt +cornucopias filled with flowers, ears of corn, and sweet herbs. + +Their faces shone with excitement, and they stepped along proudly +with their straight young legs in time with the music, and their +white skirts rustled about them like a sea. + +The musicians were old men; they blew with all their might, and their +clothes smelled a bit musty. + +Next followed four novices, in their white dresses, with sleeves that +were too long. Together they carried on a tray, that rested with +leather-covered supports on their shoulders, a blue-painted Madonna. +It had been washed ashore in the time of the Spaniards and was now +treated with honor, all the country round, for many long years. This +was the “Honeysweet Virgin from Holland, washed ashore here by the +waves and brought to our country.” + +Then came all the women members of the congregation, old and young, +all reciting rapidly in undertones the response, “Ore pro nobis,” to +the harsh litany voice of a stalwart nun. They all had their prayer +books in their hands, and the blue ribbon with the medal round their +necks. + +Charlot was among these, and she took up room enough for three, but +she did not even raise her eyes to look at Pallieter and Marieke and +her relations. + +Little boys dressed in red and purple coats followed with staves and +lanterns. + +Twelve nuns in white sheets were weighed down with the heavy silver +reliquary of St. Begga. Its golden rays shone like the sun. + +And then, all dressed in white linen from head to foot, there +followed the orphans of St. Begga in long rows of five. They looked +like ghosts; they sang hymns in Latin, in their shrill, hungry young +voices. + +Then a rustling movement of variegated silk and velvet banners, +clatter of silver and brass, and flashing of high-held lighted +lanterns and torches. Among these, with tall, shabby, white silk hats +and clean neckties, walked all the old almsmen from the convent, each +with a smoking torch of an arm’s thickness. The three blind men were +there, too. + +After this, amid a dazzling glitter of sun-lighted gold, surrounded +by chanting and bell-ringing and sweet smell of incense, came the +Monstrance. + +All the onlookers fell on their knees and folded their hands. + +Four men in red held the canopy beneath which the priest in his gold +chasuble held up before his face the shining Monstrance with the Holy +Wafer. + +His eyes were closed, his shiny bald head obtruded a little above the +high stiff cap, and his long white hair waved round his ears. + +Visitors from other towns who had joined the procession followed +behind. + +Slowly the procession wound its way under the luxuriant trees of the +ramparts. The sun shone on it all till the colors glittered. The +breeze flapped the flags and swayed the dresses. The band played, +the bells tinkled, the church bells clanged out the great festival +through the air. + +Pallieter was so moved by all the simple show under which so great a +faith lay hidden, so touched, that a lump rose in his throat. + +“Come!” he said. “Let’s all follow.” + +And the peasants, with Marieke, joined the procession, and Pallieter +was last with a lighted candle in his hand. + +The Monstrance went on glittering in the distance through the trees. +Two nightingales began to call to each other and the incense still +hung blue and fragrant under the boughs; an odor of sanctity hovered +over the earth. + +There was not a soul to be seen in the quiet Sabbath fields. + +The procession was over. Pallieter was walking about the ramparts +with the visitors and Charlot was busy cooking indoors. Suddenly from +the convent garden came the chatter and shouting of children, and out +of the gateway streamed a crowd of the white-muslin girls and the +purple-vested boys, dancing and jumping, carrying a parcel of sweets. +They trooped all together into the field, calling and laughing with +joy, and sucking sweets. There were about forty of them, all rustling +and flashing with color. They jumped over the brooks, chased one +another about, and gathered armfuls of flowers and rushes. + +Then three nuns came out to scold them and send them off home, but +the children laughed at them and made a ring round them, dancing and +singing. + +The nuns joined in directly, and seemed to enjoy the fun, and then +all the novices who were walking on the ramparts came down and joined +in the fun. The priest appeared and beckoned to them with his finger. +Pallieter went and stood behind him, and waved his arm to the nuns +to come and fetch the priest. They understood at once, and led him +into the crowd of merrymakers, whether he would or not. They made a +ring and danced round him, singing: + + “Is the priest at home to-night? + I’d like to get my sins put right + Before the day is dawning!” + +And the priest sang the answer with a shaky voice, beating time with +his forefinger: + + “They say I’m poor as Job himself; + I’ve neither cent nor gear nor pelf.” + +When Pallieter saw and heard this he caught hold of Marieke’s hand +and pulled her into the crowd, and they whirled round with the rest. +They sang and twirled, and feet stamped and skirts swung, and the +priest held his sides with laughing. Pallieter started another song, +threw his legs up as high as his head, and would not hear of stopping. + +On the convent rampart, the country folks, the older nuns, and the +men from the almshouse all stood laughing and chuckling, and Charlot +at the kitchen window laughed till the tears ran down her face. + + Felix Timmermans, _Pallieter_. Harper & Brothers. + By kind permission of the author, the translator, + C. B. Bodde, and the Publishers. + + + THE FORGER + + GRACE E. POLK + +It was spring, one of those gusty March days whose blasts, +reminiscent of winter, are succeeded by a mood so soft and wooing +that the senses ache with the swift prescience of growing things. It +was the sort of day that sends young lambs on shaky legs cavorting +over the meadows, and lures young boys out of their white beds, to +sleep in the open fields or any chicken-coop or ash-barrel. Such a +boy now walked along the street peddling handbills. + +He was fourteen, and since his mother died the year before, he had +supported himself. Since, to do this, he must elude the truant +officers, he had become crafty. And since he had twice been caught by +them, and had gone without eating for two days before he discovered +that he could quite easily run away from school and lose himself in +the city, he had also become bitter. But he was neither crafty nor +bitter as he walked along, sniffing the spring, and shivering when +the bitterer gusts smote his small person. + +So, with his eyes upon nothing at all, but alert as a young fox’s, +he perceived in the gutter a stamped envelope, saw that it was +addressed, and picked it up. Without examining it, he thrust it +quickly into his pocket, and then, with our ancient instinct for an +alibi, he began whistling jauntily, peddling his bills, meanwhile, +with an almost ferocious exactness. Two blocks away he halted before +an alley and looked quickly up and down: then scurried along it and +dodged into a doorway. Jerking the envelope from his pocket he tore +it open. A check for seventy-five dollars, drawn to Peter Googan, +confronted him. + +The boy knew perfectly well what he had found. The year before, +in school, he had himself written dozens of checks, all the way +from twenty-five cents to a million and a half dollars; and this +stupendous capital, enough to float the war, with careless abandon he +had passed around to his companions, receiving I.O.U.’s in juvenile +penmanship and strictly legal phraseology. + +But this check was different. He stared at it. It meant real +money--seventy-five real dollars. The gust died down; the thrill of +spring swept over him. He snatched off his hat and threw it into a +puddle. Then he leaned up against the brick wall, and across the back +of the check he wrote “Peter Googan.” He wrote it quickly and neatly. + +The need of an accomplice now became immediate and imperative. +Another boy came up the alley. He was picking up cigarette stubs, +examining them with minute interest, and stuffing part of them into +his pocket. + +“Swiggey, come here.” + +Swiggey came, with the ready obedience that ten accords to fourteen. + +“Take this to John’s grocery and get it cashed and bring me the +money.” + +“Where did you get it?” asked Swiggey suspiciously. + +“He gave it to me: he owes my father money.” + +“Why don’t you do it yourself, then?” + +“I got those bills to peddle. Can’t you see for yourself? Ah, gwan, +Swiggey. I’ll give you a dollar, if you will.” + +“Give me half,” said Swiggey. + +Without a word the young forger doubled up his fist and brought it up +swiftly toward Swiggey’s jaw. But Swiggey’s jaw was no longer where +it had been. Swiggey ducked under the oncoming fist, gave a couple +of leaps, and stood on the opposite side of the alley, poised like +Hermes, for immediate flight, if caution dictated. + +But Swiggey was in no danger. With a look of scorn that was meant +to annihilate him altogether, the young forger folded up the check +and put it into his own pocket. Then he picked up his hand-bills +and walked leisurely out of the alley, whistling as he went. +Swiggey waited until he had turned the corner, then stuffed his last +cigarette stub into his blouse and trotted after him. + +Once more on the street, the boy again began to distribute the bills, +this time, very honorably, one to a doorway. In this way, he worked +his way for two blocks, until he stood before a grocery. He lifted up +a basket of potatoes; with a sudden quick movement of his foot, he +kicked off another basket, threw his handbills into it, and replaced +the basket of potatoes. A man passing by smiled at the small cheat, +and the boy smiled back, the guileless smile of childhood. Then he +went into the store. + +There was a crowd inside and no one paid any attention to him. But +the Fabian policy had long been his. He inspected the apples, the +various kinds of jawbreakers, also the cigarettes, with interest. + +Presently a clerk came up to him. + +He held out the check. “I want to pay Peter Googan’s bill.” + +The clerk eyed him sharply. + +He smiled his frank smile. “How much is Peter Googan’s bill?” he +asked. + +“How much did he tell you?” said the clerk, inspecting the check. + +“He said you’d know,” said the boy. + +The clerk consulted the books, then handed the boy forty dollars. + +The boy received the money and turned to confront Swiggey. Swiggey’s +face wore a grin, and Swiggey’s hand was out. A boy or a dog always +knows his friend. The boy knew that his eyes looked into the eyes of +an enemy, and a cunning one. + +“If you snitch, I’ll kill you,” he said. “I’ve got a gun and I’ll +kill you dead.” + +It was a threat for the waste places, but not for a crowded store. +Swiggey’s hand shut tight on the forger’s blouse. + +“Dibs,” he said. + +The other boy twisted his hand loose and brushed past him. + +“He stole it,” Swiggey shrieked. “I seen him put the writing on it: I +seen him. Up Mack’s alley, by the pool-room. I seen him do it.” + +But the accused was gone. A survey of the street revealed no +scurrying boy. + +An hour later a policeman walked down to the front row of a movie +house and touched a boy on the shoulder. Bill Hart was just leaping +the chasm on his sported pinto. The boy did not move. The policeman +took hold of his arm and shook him. + +He looked up. “I ain’t done nothing.” Then, behind the burly form he +saw the grinning face of Swiggey. “I’ll kill you, you dirty little +snitcher,” he said. And the sleepy afternoon audience was given a +mild diversion, not noted on the programme, as two small boys and a +policeman climbed the aisle. + +Outside Swiggey watched the two go up the street toward the +courthouse. As they disappeared, from the pocket of his blouse he +drew a handfull of stubs, selected the longest, and lit it. And now, +he too, become a culprit, became suddenly fugitive and dived into an +alley. + + Grace E. Polk. By kind permission of _The + Atlantic Monthly_ and of the author. + + + QUALITY + + JOHN GALSWORTHY + +I knew him from the days of my extreme youth, because he made my +father’s boots; inhabiting with his elder brother two little shops +let into one, in a small by-street--now no more, but then most +fashionably placed in the West End. + +That tenement had a certain quiet distinction; there was no sign +upon its face that he made for any of the Royal Family--merely his +own German name of Gessler Brothers; and in the window a few pairs +of boots. I remember that it always troubled me to account for those +unvarying boots in the window, for he made only what was ordered, +reaching nothing down, and it seemed so inconceivable that what he +made could ever have failed to fit. Had he bought them to put there? +That, too, seemed inconceivable. He would never have tolerated in +his house leather on which he had not worked himself. Besides, +they were too beautiful--the pair of pumps, so inexpressibly slim, +the patent leathers with cloth tops, making water come into one’s +mouth, the tall brown riding boots with marvellous sooty glow, as +if, though new, they had been worn a hundred years. Those pairs +could only have been made by one who saw before him the Soul of +Boot--so truly were they prototypes incarnating the very spirit of +all foot-gear. These thoughts, of course, came to me later, though +even when I was promoted to him, at the age of perhaps fourteen, some +inkling haunted me of the dignity of himself and brother. For to make +boots--such boots as he made--seemed to me then, and still seems to +me, mysterious and wonderful. + +I remember well my shy remark, one day, while stretching out to him +my youthful foot: + +“Isn’t it awfully hard to do, Mr. Gessler?” + +And his answer, given with a sudden smile from out of the sardonic +redness of his beard: “Id is an Ardt!” + +Himself, he was a little as if made from leather, with his yellow +crinkly face, and crinkly reddish hair and beard, and neat folds +slanting down his cheeks to the corners of his mouth, and his +guttural and one-toned voice; for leather is a sardonic substance, +and stiff and slow of purpose. And that was the character of his +face, save that his eyes, which were grey-blue, had in them the +simple gravity of one secretly possessed by the Ideal. His elder +brother was so very like him--though watery, paler in every way, with +a great industry--that sometimes in early days I was not quite sure +of him until the interview was over. Then I knew that it was he, if +the words, “I will ask my brudder,” had not been spoken; and that, if +they had, it was his elder brother. + +When one grew old and wild and ran up bills, one somehow never ran +them up with Gessler Brothers. It would not have seemed becoming to +go in there and stretch out one’s foot to that blue iron-spectacled +glance, owing him for more than--say--two pairs, just the comfortable +reassurance that one was still his client. + +For it was not possible to go to him very often--his boots lasted +terribly, having something beyond the temporary--some, as it were, +essence of boot stitched into them. + +One went in, not as into most shops, in the mood of: “Please serve +me, and let me go!” but restfully, as one enters a church; and, +sitting on the single wooden chair, waited--for there was never +anybody there. Soon, over the top edge of that sort of well--rather +dark, and smelling soothingly of leather--which formed the shop, +there would be seen his face, or that of his elder brother, peering +down. A guttural sound, and the tip-tap of bast slippers beating the +narrow wooden stairs, and he would stand before one without coat, a +little bent, in leather apron, with sleeves turned back, blinking--as +if awakened from some dream of boots, or like an owl surprised in +daylight and annoyed at this interruption. + +And I would say: “How do you do, Mr. Gessler? Could you make me a +pair of Russia leather boots?” + +Without a word he would leave me, retiring whence he came, or into +the other portion of the shop, and I would continue to rest in the +wooden chair, inhaling the incense of his trade. Soon he would come +back, holding in his thin, veined hand a piece of gold-brown leather. +With eyes fixed on it, he would remark: “What a beautiful biece!” +When I, too, had admired it, he would speak again. “When do you wand +dem?” And I would answer: “Oh! As soon as you conveniently can.” And +he would say: “To-morrow fordnighd?” Or if he were his elder brother: +“I will ask my brudder!” + +Then I would murmur: “Thank you! Good-morning, Mr. Gessler.” +“Goot-morning!” he would reply, still looking at the leather in his +hand. And as I moved to the door, I would hear the tip-tap of his +bast slippers restoring him, up the stairs, to his dream of boots. +But if it were some new kind of foot-gear that he had not yet made +me, then indeed he would observe ceremony--divesting me of my boot +and holding it long in his hand, looking at it with eyes at once +critical and loving, as if recalling the glow with which he had +created it, and rebuking the way in which one had disorganized this +masterpiece. Then, placing my foot on a piece of paper, he would two +or three times tickle the outer edges with a pencil and pass his +nervous fingers over my toes, feeling himself into the heart of my +requirements. + +I cannot forget that day on which I had occasion to say to him: “Mr. +Gessler, that last pair of town walking-boots creaked, you know.” + +He looked at me for a time without replying, as if expecting me to +withdraw or qualify the statement, then said: + +“Id shouldn’d ’ave greaked.” + +“It did, I’m afraid.” + +“You goddem wed before dey found demselves?” + +“I don’t think so.” + +At that he lowered his eyes, as if hunting for memory of those boots, +and I felt sorry I had mentioned this grave thing. + +“Zend dem back!” he said; “I will look at dem.” + +A feeling of compassion for my creaking boots surged up in me, so +well could I imagine the sorrowful long curiosity of regard which he +would bend on them. + +“Zome boods,” he said slowly, “are bad from birdt. If I can do noding +wid dem, I dake dem off your bill.” + +Once (once only) I went absent-mindedly into his shop in a pair of +boots bought in an emergency at some large firm’s. He took my order +without showing me any leather, and I could feel his eyes penetrating +the inferior integument of my boot. At last he said: + +“Dose are nod my boods.” + +The tone was not one of anger, nor of sorrow, not even of contempt, +but there was in it something quiet that froze the blood. He put his +hand down and pressed a finger on the place where the left boot, +endeavouring to be fashionable, was not quite comfortable. + +“Id ’urds you dere,” he said. “Dose big virms ’ave no self-respect. +Drash!” And then, as if something had given way within him, he spoke +long and bitterly. It was the only time I ever heard him discuss the +conditions and hardships of his trade. + +“Dey get id all,” he said, “dey get id by adverdisement, nod by +work. Dey dake it away from us, who lofe our boods. Id gomes to +this--bresently I haf no work. Every year id gets less--you will +see.” And looking at his lined face I saw things I had never noticed +before, bitter things and bitter struggle--and what a lot of grey +hairs there seemed suddenly in his red beard! + +As best I could, I explained the circumstances of the purchase +of those ill-omened boots. But his face and voice made so deep +impression that during the next few minutes I ordered many pairs. +Nemesis fell! They lasted more terribly than ever. And I was not able +conscientiously to go to him for nearly two years. + +When at last I went I was surprised to find that outside one of the +two little windows of his shop another name was painted, also that +of a bootmaker--making, of course, for the Royal Family. The old +familiar boots, no longer in dignified isolation, were huddled in the +single window. Inside, the now contracted well of the one little shop +was more scented and darker than ever. And it was longer than usual, +too, before a face peered down, the tip-tap of the bast slippers +began. At last he stood before me, and, gazing through those rusty +iron spectacles, said: + +“Mr. ----, isn’d it?” + +“Ah! Mr. Gessler,” I stammered, “but your boots are really _too_ +good, you know! See, these are quite decent still!” And I stretched +out to him my foot. He looked at it. + +“Yes,” he said, “beople do nod wand good boods, id seems.” + +To get away from his reproachful eyes and voice I hastily remarked: +“What have you done to your shop?” + +He answered quietly: “Id was too exbensif. Do you wand some boods?” + +I ordered three pairs, though I had only wanted two, and quickly +left. I had, I do not know quite what feeling of being part, in his +mind, of a conspiracy against him; or not perhaps so much against him +as against his idea of boot. One does not, I suppose, care to feel +like that; for it was again many months before my next visit to his +shop, paid, I remember, with the feeling: “Oh! well, I can’t leave +the old boy--so here goes! Perhaps it’ll be his elder brother!” + +For his elder brother, I knew, had not character enough to reproach +me, even dumbly. + +And, to my relief, in the shop there did appear to be his elder +brother, handling a piece of leather. + +“Well, Mr. Gessler,” I said, “how are you?” + +He came close, and peered at me. + +“I am breddy well,” he said slowly, “but my elder brudder is dead.” + +And I saw that it was indeed himself--but how aged and wan! And never +before had I heard him mention his brother. Much shocked, I murmured: +“Oh! I am sorry!” + +“Yes,” he answered, “he was a good man, he made a good bood; but he +is dead.” And he touched the top of his head, where the hair had +suddenly gone as thin as it had been on that of his poor brother, +to indicate, I suppose, the cause of death. “He could nod ged over +losing de oder shop. Do you wand any boods?” And he held up the +leather in his hand: “Id’s a beaudiful biece.” + +I ordered several pairs. It was very long before they came--but they +were better than ever. One simply could not wear them out. And soon +after that I went abroad. + +It was over a year before I was again in London. And the first shop +I went to was my old friend’s. I had left a man of sixty, I came +back to one of seventy-five, pinched and worn and tremulous, who +genuinely, this time, did not at first know me. + +“Oh! Mr. Gessler,” I said, sick at heart; “how splendid your boots +are! See, I’ve been wearing this pair nearly all the time I’ve been +abroad; and they’re not half worn out, are they?” + +He looked long at my boots--a pair of Russia leather, and his face +seemed to regain steadiness. Putting his hand on my instep, he said: + +“Do dey vid you here? I ’ad drouble wid dat bair, I remember.” + +I assured him that they had fitted beautifully. + +“Do you wand any boods?” he said. “I can make dem quickly; id is a +slack dime.” + +I answered: “Please, please! I want boots all round--every kind!” + +“I will make a vresh model. Your food must be bigger.” And with +utter slowness, he traced round my foot, and felt my toes, only once +looking up to say: + +“Did I dell you my brudder was dead?” + +To watch him was painful, so feeble had he grown; I was glad to get +away. + +I had given those boots up, when one evening they came. Opening the +parcel, I set the four pairs out in a row. Then one by one I tried +them on. There was no doubt about it. In shape and fit, in finish +and quality of leather, they were the best he had ever made me. And +in the mouth of one of the Town walking-boots I found his bill. The +amount was the same as usual, but it gave me quite a shock. He had +never before sent it in till quarter day. I flew down-stairs, and +wrote a cheque, and posted it at once with my own hand. + +A week later, passing the little street, I thought I would go in +and tell him how splendidly the new boots fitted. But when I came +to where his shop had been, his name was gone. Still there, in the +window, were the slim pumps, the patent leathers with cloth tops, the +sooty riding boots. + +I went in, very much disturbed. In the two little shops--again made +into one--was a young man with an English face. + +“Mr. Gessler in?” I said. + +He gave me a strange, ingratiating look. + +“No, sir,” he said, “no. But we can attend to anything with pleasure. +We’ve taken the shop over. You’ve seen our name, no doubt, next door. +We make for some very good people.” + +“Yes, yes,” I said: “but Mr. Gessler?” + +“Oh!” he answered; “dead.” + +“Dead! But I only received these boots from him last Wednesday week.” + +“Ah!” he said; “a shockin’ go. Poor old man starved ’imself.” + +“Good God!” + +“Slow starvation, the doctor called it! You see he went to work in +such a way! Would keep the shop on; wouldn’t have a soul touch his +boots except himself. When he got an order, it took him such a time. +People won’t wait. He lost everybody. And there he’d sit, goin’ on +and on--I will say that for him--not a man in London made a better +boot! But look at the competition! He never advertised! Would ’ave +the best leather, too, and do it all ’imself. Well, there it is. What +could you expect with his ideas?” + +“But starvation----!” + +“That may be a bit flowery, as the sayin’ is--but I know myself he +was sittin’ over his boots day and night, to the very last. You see I +used to watch him. Never gave ’imself time to eat; never had a penny +in the house. All went in rent and leather. How he lived so long I +don’t know. He regular let his fire go out. He was a character. But +he made good boots.” + +“Yes,” I said, “he made good boots.” + +And I turned and went out quickly, for I did not want that youth to +know that I could hardly see. + + John Galsworthy, _The Inn of Tranquillity_. By + permission of Charles Schribner’s Sons, the + authorized publishers. + + +SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY OF SKETCHES + +The editors have found these additional selections useful in teaching +the writing of sketches: + + Audoux, Marguerite. _The Queen’s Barge; Foals._ _Everybody’s + Magazine_, August 1912, Vol. 27. + + Belloc, Hilaire. _The Path to Rome._ Longmans Green & Company. + + Daudet, Alphonse. _Aged Folk_, in _Modern Short Stories_, edited by + Margaret Ashmun. The Macmillan Company. + + Gay, Robert M. _Stray Notes of a Somewhat Dogged Tendency. The + Atlantic Monthly_, June 1925. + + Hearn, Lafcadio. _Chita._ Harper & Brothers. + + Irving, Washington. _Christmas Sketches; Bracebridge Hall._ + + + + + CHAPTER XII + + _Stories_ + + +Stories are sometimes called _Artistic Narrative_ in contrast to the +other and various kinds illustrated in the preceding chapters, all +of which are known as _Informational Narrative_. The reason for this +distinction in terms is readily seen by one who has examined the +form and the subject matter of the story. Reminiscent, biographical, +expository narrative, the sketch, the account of travel present alike +incidents, situations, circumstances, persons, objects, landscapes, +reflections--all in an orderly and a pleasing manner, to be sure, +but without giving any especial heightening or stress to what might +well have been an exceptional situation with significant causes and +most interesting consequences. This singling out a situation, this +simplifying of a mass of unrelated material to a few weighty details +all bearing upon one another, this presentation of causes with their +inevitable results, this selection of a few outstanding characters +whose lives and fortunes have been for a short time in conflict over +a great matter or in collision over a small one--these are within +the province of the story-teller; and because such work demands a +sense of form in the arrangement of material to the best advantage, +a sympathetic understanding of character, and a perception of what +certain surroundings and circumstances may mean to persons in a given +situation, the story-teller is called upon to exhibit a kind of art +which is not demanded of the writer of informational narrative. + +Mr. Bliss Perry in _A Study of Prose Fiction_ defines a story-teller +as one who “shows how certain persons do certain things under certain +circumstances.” In this definition there are clearly suggested three +possible and entirely distinct sources of interest in a story: +the author may be concerned most of all in the behavior of his +characters, in the series of actions and events which make up the +plot; or, instead, he may wish above everything else to depict some +one character who seems to him outstanding and unusual enough to +command the attention of any reader; or, again, he may be one who +sees behavior or character entirely in the light of environment, to +whom setting is a great, even an overwhelming force in a person’s +life. + +If the first of these sources of interest is of paramount importance +to him, then he will write a story in which plot is uppermost, in +which the action is more significant than the portrayal of character +or than setting, a story in which “things happen.” This Mr. H. C. +Bunner has done in “A Sisterly Scheme.” Here, although the setting +of the story is well and clearly given, although the two sisters and +Mr. Morpeth are capitally portrayed, it is the _action_ of the story +which holds our attention and our curiosity to the end. Indeed, the +reader will easily see that no setting is given except that which +is absolutely necessary and that the characters are almost entirely +depicted by what they do or by what happens to them. + +In the story called “Two Friends” by M. Guy de Maupassant, however, +character portrayal is uppermost. The plot action is relegated to +little more than an incident; and yet M. Morissot and M. Sauvage, +in their quiet dependence upon each other, in their common love of +fishing, which makes them forget “the rest of the world,” and finally +in their splendid and pathetic heroism are imperishable. Here, too, +at the close is illustrated a device valuable to the writer of the +character story in the contrast which is afforded by the picture of +the Prussian officer, and which serves to accentuate the simplicity, +the kindness, and the valor of the two little Frenchmen. + +And Mr. Francis Buzzell in “Lonely Places” has given us a story of +almost pure setting. To be sure, there is action in plenty; to be +sure, the characters of Abbie Snover and of Old Chris are clearly and +beautifully portrayed; and yet the reader is every moment conscious +that the action rises out of and because of the setting, that the +environment has been and still is responsible for the careless +cruelty of the children, for the attitude of their parents, and for +the pathetic consequences which Old Chris and Abbie must undergo. + +These three stories, however, distinct as they are in their +respective and single impressions and effects, all contain plot _in +some measure_, even though the action may seem subordinate to the +portrayal of character in one of them and to the depiction of the +setting in another. Most stories, in fact, contain more or less +of the plot element. Yet there are those narratives which possess +too many of the features of a story to be called an incident or +a sketch, and too little of the form which we have come to think +necessary to the well-constructed short-story. Sometimes they are +called stories without plot. Such a story is Miss Willa Cather’s “The +Sculptor’s Funeral.” It is, in form, little more than an incident and +the circumstances attendant upon it; and yet there are few stories +anywhere that surpass it in brilliancy of characterization, in +strength and vividness of setting, and in the consistent art of its +atmosphere. + +A study of the four stories which follow will illustrate better than +any precept can do the impressions which the story writer must seek +to attain after he has made his choice of a subject and after he has +decided upon his way of approach and of treatment. + + M. E. C. + + + A SISTERLY SCHEME + + H. C. BUNNER + +Away up in the very heart of Maine there is a mighty lake among the +mountains. It is reached after a journey of many hours from the place +where you “go in.” That is the phrase of the country, and when you +have once “gone in,” you know why it is not correct to say that you +have gone _through_ the woods, or, simply, _to_ your destination. +You find that you have plunged into a new world--a world that has +nothing in common with the world that you live in; a world of wild, +solemn, desolate grandeur, a world of space and silence; a world that +oppresses your soul--and charms you irresistibly. And after you have +once “come out” of that world, there will be times, to the day of +your death, when you will be homesick for it, and will long with a +childlike longing to go back to it. + +Up in this wild region you will find a fashionable summer hotel, with +electric bells and seven-course dinners, and “guests” who dress three +times a day. It is perched on a little flat point, shut off from the +rest of the mainland by a huge rocky cliff. It is an impertinence in +that majestic wilderness, and Leather-Stocking would doubtless have +had a hankering to burn such an affront to Nature; but it is a good +hotel, and people go to it and breathe the generous air of the great +woods. + +On the beach near this hotel, where the canoes were drawn up in +line, there stood one summer morning a curly-haired, fair young +man--not so very young, either--whose cheeks were uncomfortably red +as he looked first at his own canoe, high and dry, loaded with rods +and landing net and luncheon basket, and then at another canoe, fast +disappearing down the lake wherein sat a young man and a young woman. + +“Dropped again, Mr. Morpeth?” + +The young man looked up and saw a saucy face laughing at him. A girl +was sitting on the stringpiece of the dock. It was the face of a girl +between childhood and womanhood. By the face and the figure, it was a +woman grown. By the dress, you would have judged it a girl. + +And you would have been confirmed in the latter opinion by the fact +that the young person was doing something unpardonable for a young +lady, but not inexcusable in the case of a youthful tomboy. She had +taken off her canvas shoe, and was shaking some small stones out of +it. There was a tiny hole in her black stocking, and a glimpse of her +pink toe was visible. The girl was sunburnt, but the toe was prettily +pink. + +“Your sister,” replied the young man with dignity, “was to have gone +fishing with me; but she remembered at the last moment that she had a +prior engagement with Mr. Brown.” + +“She hadn’t,” said the girl. “I heard them make it up last evening, +after you went upstairs.” + +The young man clean forgot himself. + +“She’s the most heartless coquette in the world,” he cried, and +clinched his hands. + +“She is all that,” said the young person on the stringpiece of the +dock, “and more too. And yet, I suppose, you want her all the same?” + +“I’m afraid I do,” said the young man miserably. + +“Well,” said the girl, putting her shoe on again, and beginning +to tie it up, “I’ll tell you what it is, Mr. Morpeth. You’ve been +hanging around Pauline for a year, and you are the only one of the +men she keeps on a string who hasn’t snubbed me. Now, if you want me +to, I’ll give you a lift.” + +“A--a--_what_?” + +“A lift. You’re wasting your time. Pauline has no use for devotion. +It’s a drug in the market with her--has been for five seasons. +There’s only one way to get her worked up. Two fellows tried it, and +they nearly got there; but they weren’t game enough to stay to the +bitter end. I think you’re game, and I’ll tell you. You’ve got to +make her jealous.” + +“Make her jealous of me?” + +“No,” said his friend, with infinite scorn; “make her jealous of the +other girl. _Oh!_ but you men are stupid!” + +The young man pondered a moment. + +“Well, Flossy,” he began, and then he became conscious of a sudden +change in the atmosphere, and perceived that the young lady was +regarding him with a look that might have chilled his soul. + +“Miss Flossy--Miss Belton--” he hastily corrected himself. Winter +promptly changed to summer in Miss Flossy Belton’s expressive face. + +“Your scheme,” he went on, “is a good one. Only--it involves the +discovery of another girl.” + +“Yes,” assented Miss Flossy cheerfully. + +“Well,” said the young man, “doesn’t it strike you that if I were to +develop a sudden admiration for any one of these other young ladies +whose charms I have hitherto neglected, it would come tardy off--lack +artistic verisimilitude, so to speak?” + +“Rather,” was Miss Flossy’s prompt and frank response; “especially as +there isn’t one of them fit to flirt with.” + +“Well, then, where am I to discover the girl?” + +Miss Flossy untied and retied her shoe. Then she said, calmly:---- + +“What’s the matter with--” a hardly perceptible hesitation--“_me_?” + +“With _you_?” Mr. Morpeth was startled out of his manners. + +“Yes!” + +Mr. Morpeth simply stared. + +“Perhaps,” suggested Miss Flossy, “I’m not good-looking enough?” + +“You are good-looking enough,” replied Mr. Morpeth, recovering +himself, “for _anything_--” and he threw a convincing emphasis into +the last word as he took what was probably his first real inspection +of his adored one’s junior--“but--aren’t you a trifle--young?” + +“How old do you suppose I am?” + +“I know. Your sister told me. You are sixteen.” + +“Sixteen!” repeated Miss Flossy, with an infinite and uncontrollable +scorn, “yes, and I’m the kind of sixteen that stays sixteen till your +elder sister’s married. I was eighteen years old on the 3d of last +December--unless they began to double on me before I was old enough +to know the difference--it would be just like mamma to play it on me +in some such way,” she concluded, reflectively. + +“Eighteen years old!” said the young man. “The deuce!” Do not think +that he was an ill-bred young man. He was merely astonished, and he +had much more astonishment ahead of him. He mused for a moment. + +“Well,” he said, “what’s your plan of campaign? I am to--to discover +you.” + +“Yes,” said Miss Flossy calmly, “and to flirt with me like fun.” + +“And may I ask what attitude you are to take when you +are--discovered?” + +“Certainly,” replied the imperturbable Flossy. “I am going to dangle +you.” + +“To--to dangle me?” + +“As a conquest, don’t you know? Let you hang around and laugh at you.” + +“Oh, indeed?” + +“There, don’t be wounded in your masculine pride. You might as well +face the situation. You don’t think that Pauline’s in love with you, +do you?” + +“No!” groaned the young man. + +“But you’ve got lots of money. Mr. Brown has got lots more. You’re +eager. Brown is coy. That’s the reason that Brown is in the boat and +you are on the cold, cold shore, talking to Little Sister. Now if +Little Sister jumps at you, why, she’s simply taking Big Sister’s +leavings; it’s all in the family, anyway, and there’s no jealousy, +and Pauline can devote her whole mind to Brown. There, _don’t_ look +so limp. You men are simply childish. Now, after you’ve asked me to +marry you----” + +“Oh, I’m to ask you to marry me?” + +“Certainly. You needn’t look frightened, now. I won’t accept you. But +then you are to go around like a wet cat, and mope, and hang on worse +than ever. Then Big Sister will see that she can’t afford to take +that sort of thing from Little Sister, and then--there’s your chance.” + +“Oh, there’s my chance, is it?” said Mr. Morpeth. He seemed to have +fallen into the habit of repetition. + +“There’s your _only chance_,” said Miss Flossy, with decision. + +Mr. Morpeth meditated. He looked at the lake, where there was no +longer sign or sound of the canoe, and he looked at Miss Flossy, who +sat calm, self-confident, and careless on the springpiece of the dock. + +“I don’t know how feasible--” he began. + +“It’s feasible,” said Miss Flossy, with decision. “Of course Pauline +will write to mamma, and of course mamma will write and scold me. But +she’s got to stay in New York and nurse papa’s gout; and the Miss +Redingtons are all the chaperons we’ve got up here, and they don’t +amount to anything--so I don’t care.” + +“But why,” inquired the young man, and his tone suggested a complete +abandonment to Miss Flossy’s idea, “why should you take so much +trouble for _me_?” + +“Mr. Morpeth,” said Miss Flossy solemnly, “I’m two years behind +the time-table, and I’ve got to make a strike for liberty, or die. +And besides,” she added, “if you are _nice_, it needn’t be such an +_awful_ trouble.” + +Mr. Morpeth laughed. + +“I’ll try to make it as little of a bore as possible,” he said, +extending his hand. The girl did not take it. + +“Don’t make any mistake,” she cautioned him, searching his face with +her eyes; “this isn’t to be any little-girl affair. Little Sister +doesn’t want any kind, elegant, supercilious encouragement from Big +Sister’s young man. It’s got to be a _real_ flirtation--devotion no +end, and ten times as much as ever Pauline could get out of you--and +you’ve got to keep your end ’way--’way--’way up!” + +The young man smiled. + +“I’ll keep my end up,” he said; “but are you certain that you can +keep yours up?” + +“Well, I think so,” replied Miss Flossy. “Pauline will raise an awful +row; but if she goes too far, I’ll tell my age, _and hers, too_.” + +Mr. Morpeth looked in Miss Flossy’s calm face. Then he extended his +hand once more. + +“It’s a bargain, so far as I’m concerned,” he said. + +This time a soft and small hand met his with a firm, friendly, honest +pressure. + +“And I’ll refuse you,” said Miss Flossy. + + * * * * * + +Within two weeks, Mr. Morpeth found himself entangled in a flirtation +such as he had never dreamed of. Miss Flossy’s scheme had succeeded +only too brilliantly. The whole hotel was talking about the +outrageous behavior of “that little Belton girl” and Mr. Morpeth, who +certainly ought to know better. + +Mr. Morpeth had carried out his instructions. Before the week was +out, he found himself giving the most lifelike imitation of an +infatuated lover that ever delighted the old gossips of a summer +resort. And yet he had only done what Flossy told him to do. + +He got his first lesson just about the time that Flossy, in the +privacy of their apartments, informed her elder sister that if she, +Flossy, found Mr. Morpeth’s society agreeable, it was nobody’s +concern but her own, and that she was prepared to make some +interesting additions to the census statistics if any one thought +differently. + +The lesson opened his eyes. + +“Do you know,” she said, “that it wouldn’t be a bit of a bad idea to +telegraph to New York for some real nice candy and humbly present it +for my acceptance? I _might_ take it--if the bonbonnière was pretty +enough.” + +He telegraphed to New York, and received, in the course of four or +five days, certain marvels of sweets in a miracle of an upholstered +box. The next day he found her on the veranda, flinging the bonbons +on the lawn for the children to scramble for. + +“Awfully nice of you to send me these things,” she said languidly, +but loud enough for the men around her to hear,--she had men around +her already: she had been discovered,--“but I never eat sweets, you +know. Here, you little mite in the blue sash, don’t you want this +pretty box to put your doll’s clothes in?” + +And Maillard’s finest bonbonnière went to a yellow-haired brat of +three. + +But this was the slightest and lightest of her caprices. She made +him send for his dogcart and his horses, all the way from New York, +only that he might drive her over the ridiculous little mile and a +half of road that bounded the tiny peninsula. And she christened him +“Muffets,” a nickname presumably suggested by “Morpeth”; and she +called him “Muffets” in the hearing of all the hotel people. + +And did such conduct pass unchallenged? No. Pauline scolded, raged, +raved. She wrote to mamma. Mamma wrote back and reproved Flossy. But +mamma could not leave papa. His gout was worse. The Miss Redingtons +must act. The Miss Redingtons merely wept, and nothing more. Pauline +scolded; the flirtation went on; and the people at the big hotel +enjoyed it immensely. + +And there was more to come. Four weeks had passed. Mr. Morpeth +was hardly on speaking terms with the elder Miss Belton; and with +the younger Miss Belton he was on terms which the hotel gossips +characterized as “simply scandalous.” Brown glared at him when they +met, and he glared at Brown. Brown was having a hard time. Miss +Belton the elder was not pleasant of temper in those trying days. + +“And now,” said Miss Flossy to Mr. Morpeth, “it’s time you proposed +to me, Muffets.” + +They were sitting on the hotel veranda, in the evening darkness. No +one was near them, except an old lady in a Shaker chair. + +“There’s Mrs. Melby. She’s pretending to be asleep, but she isn’t. +She’s just waiting for us. Now walk me up and down and ask me to +marry you so that she can hear it. It’ll be all over the hotel inside +of half an hour. Pauline will just _rage_.” + +With this pleasant prospect before him, Mr. Morpeth marched Miss +Flossy Belton up and down the long veranda. He had passed Mrs. Melby +three times before he was able to say, in a choking, husky, uncertain +voice:---- + +“Flossy--I--I--I _love_ you!” + +Flossy’s voice was not choking nor uncertain. It rang out clear and +silvery in a peal of laughter. + +“Why, of course you do, Muffets, and I wish you didn’t. That’s what +makes you so stupid half the time.” + +“But--” said Mr. Morpeth vaguely; “but I----” + +“But you’re a silly boy,” returned Miss Flossy; and she added in a +swift aside: “_You haven’t asked me to marry you!_” + +“W-W-W-Will you be my wife?” stammered Mr. Morpeth. + +“No!” said Miss Flossy, emphatically, “I will not. You are too +utterly ridiculous. The idea of it! No, Muffets, you are charming in +your present capacity; but you aren’t to be considered seriously.” + +They strolled on into the gloom at the end of the great veranda. + +“That’s the first time,” he said, with a feeling of having only the +ghost of a breath left in his lungs, “that I ever asked a woman to +marry me.” + +“I should think so,” said Miss Flossy, “from the way you did it. And +you were beautifully rejected, weren’t you? Now--look at Mrs. Melby, +will you? She’s scudding off to spread the news.” + +And before Mr. Morpeth went to bed, he was aware of the fact that +every man and woman in the hotel knew that he had “proposed” to +Flossy Belton, and had been “beautifully rejected.” + + * * * * * + +Two sulky men, one sulky woman, and one girl radiant with triumphant +happiness started out in two canoes, reached certain fishing grounds +known only to the elect, and began to cast for trout. They had +indifferent luck. Miss Belton and Mr. Brown caught a dozen trout; +Miss Flossy Belton and Mr. Morpeth caught eighteen or nineteen, and +the day was wearing to a close. Miss Flossy made the last cast of the +day, just as her escort had taken the paddle. A big trout rose--just +touched the fly--and disappeared. + +“It’s this wretched rod!” cried Miss Flossy; and she rapped it on +the gunwale of the canoe so sharply that the beautiful split bamboo +broke sharp off in the middle of the second joint. Then she tumbled +it overboard, reel and all. + +“I was tired of that rod, anyway, Muffets,” she said; “row me home, +now; I’ve got to dress for dinner.” + +Miss Flossy’s elder sister, in the other boat, saw and heard this +exhibition of tyranny; and she was so much moved that she stamped her +small foot, and endangered the bottom of the canoe. She resolved that +mamma should come back, whether papa had the gout or not. + +Mr. Morpeth, wearing a grave expression, was paddling Miss Flossy +toward the hotel. He had said nothing whatever, and it was a +noticeable silence that Miss Flossy finally broke. + +“You’ve done pretty much everything that I wanted you to do, +Muffets,” she said; “but you haven’t saved my life yet, and I’m going +to give you a chance.” + +It is not difficult to overturn a canoe. One twist of Flossie’s +supple body did it, and before he knew just what had happened, +Morpeth was swimming toward the shore, holding up Flossy Belton with +one arm, and fighting for life in the icy water of a Maine lake. + +The people were running down, bearing blankets and brandy, as he +touched bottom in his last desperate struggle to keep the two of them +above water. One yard further, and there would have been no strength +left in him. + +He struggled up on shore with her, and when he got breath enough, he +burst out:---- + +“Why did you do it? It was wicked! It was cruel!” + +“There!” she said, as she reclined composedly in his arms, “that will +do, Muffets. I don’t want to be scolded.” + +A delegation came along, bringing blankets and brandy, and took her +from him. + + * * * * * + +At five o’clock of that afternoon, Mr. Morpeth presented himself +at the door of the parlor attached to the apartments of the Belton +sisters. Miss Belton, senior, was just coming out of the room. She +received his inquiry after her sister’s health with a white face and +a quivering lip. + +“I should think, Mr. Morpeth,” she began, “that you had gone far +enough in playing with the feelings of a m-m-mere child, and +that--oh! I have no words to express my _contempt_ for you!” + +And in a most unladylike rage Miss Pauline Belton swept down the +hotel corridor. + +She had left the door open behind her. Morpeth heard a voice, weak, +but cheery, addressing him from the far end of the parlor. + +“You’ve got her!” it said. “She’s crazy mad. She’ll make up to you +to-night--see if she don’t.” + +Mr. Morpeth looked up and down the long corridor. It was empty. He +pushed the door open, and entered. Flossy was lying on the sofa, +pale, but bright-eyed. + +“You can get her,” she whispered, as he knelt down beside her. + +“Flossy,” he said, “don’t you know that that is all ended? Don’t you +know that I love you and you only? Don’t you know that I haven’t +thought about any one else since--since--oh, Flossy, don’t you--is it +possible that you don’t understand?” + +Flossy stretched out two weak arms, and put them around Mr. Morpeth’s +neck. + +“Why have I had you in training all summer?” said she. “Did you think +it was for Pauline?” + + Henry C. Bunner, _Short Sixes_. By permission + of Charles Scribner’s Sons, the authorized + publishers. + + + LONELY PLACES + + FRANCIS BUZZELL + +She was not quite forty years old, but so aged was she in appearance +that another twenty-five years would not find her perceptibly +older. And to the people of Almont she was still Abbie Snover, or +“that Snover girl.” Age in Almont is not reckoned in years, but by +marriage, and by children, and grandchildren. + +Nearly all the young men of Abbie’s generation had gone to the City, +returning only in after years, with the intention of staying a week +or two weeks, and leaving at the end of a day, or two days. So Abbie +never married. + +It had never occurred to Abbie to leave Almont because all the young +men had gone away. She had been born in the big house at the foot +of Tillson Street; she had never lived anywhere else; she had never +slept anywhere but in the black walnut bed in the South bedroom. + +At the age of twenty-five, Abbie inherited the big house, and with it +hired-man Chris. He was part of her inheritance. Her memory of him, +like her memory of the big house, went back as far as her memory of +herself. + +Every Winter evening, between seven and eight o’clock, Abbie lighted +the glass-handled lamp, placed it on the marble-topped table in +the parlor window, and sat down beside it. The faint light of this +lamp, gleaming through the snow-hung, shelving evergreens, was the +only sign that the big house was there, and occupied. When the wind +blew from the West she could occasionally hear a burst of laughter +from the boys and girls sliding down Gidding’s Hill; the song of +some young farmer driving home. She thought of the Spring, when the +snow would disappear, and the honeysuckle would flower, and the +wrens would again occupy the old tea-pots hung in the vines of the +dining-room porch. + +The things that made the people of Almont interesting to each other +and drew them together meant nothing to Abbie Snover. When she had +become too old to be asked in marriage by any one, she had stopped +going to dances and to sleigh-rides, and no one had asked her why. +Then she had left the choir. + +Except when she went to do her marketing, Abbie was never seen on the +streets. + +For fifteen years after Amos Snover died, Abbie and Old Chris lived +alone in the big house. Every Saturday morning, as her mother had +done before her, Abbie went to the grocery store, to the butcher +shop, and to “Newberry’s.” She always walked along the East side of +Main Street, Old Chris, with the market-basket, following about three +feet behind her. And every Saturday night Old Chris went down-town to +sit in the back of Pot Lippincott’s store and visit with Owen Frazer, +who drove in from the sixty acres he farmed as a “renter” at Mile +Corners. Once every week Abbie made a batch of cookies, cutting the +thin-rolled dough into the shape of leaves with an old tin cutter +that had been her mother’s. She stored the cookies in the shiny tin +pail that stood on the shelf in the clothes-press of the down-stairs +bedroom, because that was where her mother had always kept them, to +be handy and yet out of reach of the hired help. And when Jennie +Sanders’s children came to her door on their way home from school she +gave them two cookies each, because her mother had always given her +two. + +Once every three months “the Jersey girls,” dressed in black +broadcloth, with black, fluted ruffles around their necks, and +black-flowered bonnets covering their scanty hair, turned the corner +at Chase’s Lane, walked three blocks to the foot of Tillson Street, +and rang Abbie Snover’s door-bell. + +As Old Chris grew older and less able, Abbie was compelled to close +off first one room and then another; but Old Chris still occupied the +back chamber near the upstairs woodroom, and Abbie still slept in +the South bedroom. + +Early one October afternoon, Jim East, Almont’s express agent and +keeper of the general store, drove his hooded delivery cart up to +the front steps of the big house. He trembled with excitement as he +climbed down from the seat. + +“Abbie Snover! Ab--bie!” he called. “I got somethin’ for you! A +package all the way from China! Just you come an’ look!” + +Jim East lifted the package out of the delivery cart, carried it up +the steps, and set it down at Abbie’s feet. + +“Just you look, Abbie! That there crate’s made of little fishin’ +poles, an’ what’s inside’s all wrapped up in Chinee mats!” + +Old Chris came around from the back of the house. Jim East grabbed +his arm and pointed at the bamboo crate. + +“Just you put your nose down, Chris, an’ smell. Ain’t that foreign?” + +Abbie brought her scissors. Carefully she removed the red and yellow +labels. + +“There’s American writin’ on ’em, too,” Jim East hastened to explain, +“cause otherwise how’d I know who it was for, hey?” + +Abbie carried the labels into the parlor and looked for a safe place +for them. She saw the picture-album and put them in it. Then she +hurried back to the porch. Old Chris opened one end of the crate. + +“It’s a plant,” Jim East whispered; “a Chinee plant.” + +“It’s a dwarf orange-tree,” Old Chris announced. “See, it says so on +that there card.” + +Abbie carried the little orange-tree into the parlor. Who could have +sent it to her? There was no one she knew, away off there in China! + +“You be careful of that bamboo and the wrappings,” she warned Old +Chris. “I’ll make something decorative-like out of them.” + +Abbie waited until Jim East drove away in his delivery cart. Then +she sat down at the table in the parlor and opened the album. She +found her name on one of the labels--ABBIE SNOVER, ALMONT, MICHIGAN, +U. S. A. It seemed queer to her that her name had come all the +way from China. On the card that said that the plant was a dwarf +orange-tree she found the name--Thomas J. Thorington. Thomas? Tom? +Tom Thorington! Why, the last she had heard of Tom had been fifteen +years back. He had gone out West. She had received a picture of him +in a uniform, with a gun on his shoulder. She dimly recollected that +he had been a guard at some penitentiary. How long ago it seemed! +He must have become a missionary or something, to be away off in +China. And he had remembered her! She sat for a long time looking at +the labels. She wondered if the queer Chinese letters spelled ABBIE +SNOVER, ALMONT, MICHIGAN. She opened the album again and hunted until +she found the picture of Tom Thorington in his guard’s uniform. Then +she placed the labels next to the picture, closed the album, and +carefully fastened the adjustable clasp. + +Under Abbie’s constant attention, the little orange-tree thrived. A +tiny green orange appeared. Day by day she watched it grow, looking +forward to the time when it would become large and yellow. The days +grew shorter and colder, but she did not mind; every week the orange +grew larger. After the first snow, she moved the tree into the +down-stairs bedroom. She placed it on a little stand in the South +window. The inside blinds, which she had always kept as her mother +liked them best--the lower blinds closed, the top blinds opened a +little to let in the morning light--she now threw wide open so that +the tree would get all of the sun. And she kept a fire in the small +sheet-iron stove, for fear that the old, drafty wood furnace might +not send up a steady enough heat through the register. When the +nights became severe, she crept down the narrow, winding stairs, and +through the cold, bare halls, to put an extra chunk of hardwood into +the stove. Every morning she swept and dusted the room; the ashes and +wood dirt around the stove gave her something extra to do near the +orange-tree. She removed the red and white coverlet from the bed, +and put in its place the fancy patch-quilt with the green birds and +yellow flowers, to make the room look brighter. + +“Abbie Snover loves that orange-tree more’n anything in the world,” +Old Chris cautioned the children when they came after cookies, “an’ +don’t you dare touch it, even with your little finger.” + +The growing orange was as wonderful to the children as it was to +Abbie. Instead of taking the cookies and hurrying home, they stood +in front of the tree, their eyes round and big. And one day, when +Abbie went to the clothes-press to get the cookie-pail, Bruce Sanders +snipped the orange from the tree. + +The children were unnaturally still when Abbie came out of the +clothes-press. They did not rush forward to get the cookies. Abbie +looked quickly at the tree; the pail of cookies dropped from her +hands. She grabbed the two children nearest and shook them until +their heads bumped together. Then she drove them all in front of her +to the door and down the path to the gate, which she slammed shut +behind them. + +Once outside the gate the children ran, yelling: “Ab-bie Sno-ver, +na--aa--ah! Ab-bie Sno-ver, na--aa--ah!” + +Abbie, her hands trembling, her eyes hot, went back into the house. +That was what came of letting them take fruit from the trees and +vines in the yard; of giving them cookies every time they rang her +door-bell. Well, there would be no more cookies, and Old Chris should +be told never to let them come into the yard again. + +That evening, when the metallic hiccough of the well pump on the +kitchen porch told her that Old Chris was drawing up fresh water +for the night, Abbie went out into the kitchen to make sure that he +placed one end of the prop under the knob of the kitchen door and the +other end against the leg of the kitchen table. + +“It’ll freeze afore mornin’,” said Old Chris. + +“Yes,” Abbie answered. + +But she did not get up in the night to put an extra chunk of wood in +the stove of the down-stairs bedroom. + +“Ab-bie Sno-ver, na--aa--ah! Ab-bie Sno-ver, na--aa--ah!” + +Old Chris stopped shoveling snow to shake his fist at the yelling +children. + +“Your Mas’ll fix you, if you don’t stop that screechin’!” + +And they answered: “Ab-bie Sno-ver, an’ old Chris! Ab-bie Sno-ver, +an’ old Chris!” + +Every day they yelled the two names as they passed the big house. +They yelled them on their way to and from school, and on their way to +Giddings’s Hill to slide. The older boys took it up, and yelled it +when they saw Abbie and Old Chris on Main Street Saturday mornings. +And finally they rimed it into a couplet, + + “Ab-bie Sno-ver, an’ Old Chris-- + We saw Chris an’ Ab-bie kiss!” + +It was too much. Abbie went to Hugh Perry’s mother. + +Mrs. Perry defended her young son. “He couldn’t have done it,” she +told Abbie. “He ain’t that kind of a boy, and you can just tell that +Old Chris I said so. I guess it must be true, the way you’re fussin’ +round!” + +Mrs. Perry slammed the door in Abbie’s face. Then she whipped +her young son, and hated Abbie and Old Chris because they were +responsible for it. + +“That Abbie Snover came to my house,” Mrs. Perry told Mrs. Rowles, +“an’ said my Hugh had been a-couplin’ her name with Old Chris’s in a +nasty way. An’ I told her----” + +“The idea! the idea!” Mrs. Rowles interrupted. + +“An’ I told her it must be so, an’ I guess it is,” Mrs. Perry +concluded. + +Mrs. Rowles called upon Pastor Lucus’s wife. + +“Abbie Snover an’ Old Chris was seen kissin’.” + +“It’s scandalous,” Mrs. Lucas told the pastor. “The town shouldn’t +put up with it a minute longer. That’s what comes of Abbie Snover not +coming to church since her Ma died.” + +On Saturday mornings when Abbie went down-town followed by Old +Chris, the women eyed her coldly, and the faces of the men took on +quizzical, humorous expressions. Abbie could not help but notice +it; she was disturbed. The time for “the Jersey girls” to call came +around. Every afternoon Abbie sat in the window and watched for them +to turn the corner at Chase’s Lane. She brought out the polished +apples which she kept in the clothes-press all ready for some one, +but “the Jersey girls” did not come. + +“You haven’t heard of anybody being sick at the Jersey house, have +you, Chris?” + +“Um? Nope!” + +“Haven’t seen Josie or Em Jersey anywhere lately?” + +“Seen ’em at the post-office night afore last.” + +“H’mp!” + +Abbie pushed the kettle to the front of the kitchen stove, poked up +the fire, and put in fresh sticks of wood. When the water boiled she +poured it into a blue-lacquered pail with yellow bands around the +rim, carried it up the steep stairs, and got out fresh stockings. + +An hour later Old Chris saw her climbing up Tillson Street. He +scratched his head and frowned. + +Abbie turned the corner at Chase’s Lane. The snow, driven by the +wind, blinded her. She almost bumped into Viny Freeman. + +“My, Viny! What you doing out on such a day?” + +“Seems she didn’t see me,” Abbie muttered. “What can she be doing +away down here on such a day? Must be something special to bring her +out of her lonely old house with her lame side. My! I almost bumped +that hand she’s always holding up her pain with. My!” + +Abbie turned into the Jersey gate and climbed the icy steps, hanging +onto the railing with both hands. She saw Em Jersey rise from her +chair in the parlor and go into the back sitting-room. Abbie pulled +the bell-knob and waited. No one answered. She pulled it again. No +answer. She rapped on the door with her knuckles. Big Mary, the +Jersey hired girl, opened the door part way. + +“They ain’t to home.” + +“Ain’t to home?” exclaimed Abbie. “My land! Didn’t I just see Em +Jersey through the parlor window?” + +“No’m, you never did. They ain’t to home.” + +“Well, I never! And their Ma and mine was cousins! They ain’t sick or +nothing? Well!” + +The snow melted; the streets ran with water and then froze. Old Chris +no longer came into the parlor in the evening to sit, his hands +clasped over his thin stomach, his bald head bent until his chin +rested upon the starched neckband of his shirt. + +They ate in silence the meals which Abbie prepared: Old Chris at one +end of the long table, and Abbie at the other end. + +In silence they went about their accustomed tasks. + +Abbie, tired with a new weariness, sat in her chair beside the +marble-topped table. The village was talking about her; she knew it; +she felt it all around her. Well, let them talk! + +But one day Almont sent a committee to her. It was composed of one +man and three women. Abbie saw them when they turned in at her +gate--Pastor Lucus, Lorina Inman, Antha Ewell, and Aunt Alphie +Newberry. + +Abbie walked to the center of the parlor and stood there, her hands +clenched, her face set. The door-bell rang; for a moment her body +swayed. Then she went into the bay window and drew the blinds aside. +Antha Ewell saw her and jerked Pastor Lucus’s arm. Pastor Lucus +turned and caught sight of Abbie; he thought that she had not heard +the bell, so he tapped the door panel with his fingers and nodded his +head at her invitingly, as if to say: + +“See, we’re waiting for you to let us in.” Abbie’s expression did not +change. Pastor Lucus tapped at the door again, this time hesitantly, +and still she looked at them with unseeing eyes. He tapped a third +time, then turned and looked at the three women. Aunt Alphie Newberry +tugged at his arm, and the committee of four turned about without +looking at Abbie, and walked down the steps. + +A few minutes later Abbie heard the door between the parlor and +dining-room open. Old Chris came in. For a moment or two neither +spoke. Old Chris fingered his cap. + +“Abbie, I lived here forty-two years. I was here when you was born. +I carried you around in my arms a little bit of thing an’ made you +laugh.” + +Abbie did not turn away from the window. + +“I know what they came for,” Old Chris continued. “Your Ma--your Ma, +she’d never thought I’d have to go away from here.” + +Abbie could not answer him. + +“I don’t know who’ll keep the furnace a-goin’ when I’m gone, nor fill +the up-stairs woodroom.” + +Still no answer. + +“I’m old now--I’ll go to Owen Frazer’s farm--down to Miles Corners. +He’ll have some work I can do.” + +Old Chris stroked his baggy cheeks with trembling hands. Abbie still +looked out of the window. + +“I’m a-goin’ down to the post-office now,” said Old Chris, as he +turned and went to the door. “Be there anything you want?” + +Abbie shook her head; she could not find words. As Old Chris went +down the hall she heard him mumble, “I don’t know what she’ll do when +I’m gone.” + +That night Abbie sat in the parlor window longer than usual. It was +a white night; wet snow had been falling heavily all day. Some time +between eight and nine o’clock she arose from her chair and went +into the long, narrow dining-room. The pat-pat of her slippered feet +aroused Old Chris from his nodding over the _Farm Herald_. Finding +that the hot air was not coming up strong through the register over +which he sat, the old man slowly pushed his wool-socked feet into +felt-lined overshoes and tramped down into the cellar, picking up the +kitchen lamp as he went. Abbie followed as far as the kitchen. The +pungent dry-wood smell that came up the stairs when Old Chris swung +open the door of the wood cellar made her sniff. She heard the sounds +as he loaded the wheelbarrow with the sticks of quartered hardwood; +the noise of the wheel bumping over the loose boards as he pushed his +load into the furnace-room. She went back into the parlor and stood +over the register. Hollow sounds came up through the pipe as Old +Chris leveled the ashes in the fire-box and threw in the fresh sticks. + +When Old Chris came up from the cellar and went out onto the porch to +draw up fresh water for the night, Abbie went back into the kitchen. + +“It’s snowin’ hard out,” said Old Chris. + +“Yes,” Abbie answered. + +She led the way back into the dining room. Old Chris placed the +kitchen lamp on the stand under the fruit picture and waited. For +a few moments they stood in the blast of hot air rising from the +register. Then Abbie took up the larger of the two lamps. Through the +bare, high-ceilinged rooms she went, opening and closing the heavy +doors; on through the cold, empty hall, up the stairs, into the South +bedroom. While she was closing the blinds she heard Old Chris stumble +up the back stairs and into the chamber he had occupied ever since +she could remember. + +The night after Old Chris had gone, Abbie took the brass dinner-bell +from the pantry shelf and set it on the chair beside her bed. Over +the back of the chair she placed her heavy, rabbit-lined coat; it +would be handy if any one disturbed her. Once or twice when she +heard sounds, she put out her hand and touched the bell; but the +sounds did not recur. The next night she tried sleeping in the +down-stairs bedroom. The blue-and-gray carpet, the blue fixings on +the bureau and commode, the blue bands around the wash-bowl and +pitcher--all faded and old-looking--reminded her of her mother and +father, and would not let her sleep. On the wall in front of her was +a picture in a black frame of a rowboat filled with people. It was +called “From Shore to Shore.” Trying not to see it, her eyes were +caught by a black and white print in a gilt frame, called “The First +Steps.” How she had loved the picture when she was a little girl; +her mother had explained it to her many times--the bird teaching its +little ones to fly; the big, shaggy dog encouraging its waddling +puppies; the mother coaxing her baby to walk alone. + +At midnight Abbie got out of bed, picked up the dinner-bell by the +clapper, and went back up-stairs to the South bedroom. + +The tall, bare walls of the big house, the high ceilings with their +centerpieces of plaster fruits and flowers, the cold whiteness, +closed her in. Having no one to talk to, she talked to herself: “It’s +snowin’ hard out--why! that was what Old Chris said the night before +he went away.” She began to be troubled by a queer, detached feeling; +she knew that she had mislaid something, but just what she could not +remember. Forebodings came to her, distressing, disquieting. There +would never be any one for her to speak to--never! The big house grew +terrible; the rooms echoed her steps. She would have given everything +for a little house of two or three small low-ceilinged rooms close to +the side-walk on a street where people passed up and down. + +A night came when Abbie forgot that Old Chris had gone away. She had +been sitting in her chair beside the marble-topped table, staring +out into the night. All day the wind had blown; snow had piled high +around the porch. Her thoughts had got back to her childhood. Somehow +they had centered around the old grandfather who, years before, had +sat in the same window. She saw him in his chair; heard his raspy +old voice, “I married Jane sixty-eight an’ a half years ago, an’ a +half year in a man’s life is something, I’ll bet you. An’ I buried +her thirty years ago, an’ that’s a long time, too. We never tore each +other’s shirts. Jane wanted to live a quiet life. She wanted one +child, an’ she was tenacious ’bout that. She never wanted any more, +an’ she had three, an’ one of ’em was your Ma. She never wanted to be +seen out with a baby in her arms, Jane didn’t. I made her get bundled +up once or twice, an’ I hitched up the horse an’ took her ridin’ in +my phaeton that cost two hundred dollars.--You’ll be in your dotage +some day, Abbie. I’ve been in my dotage for years now.--Oh, I altered +my life to fit Jane’s. I expected I had a wife to go out and see the +neighbors with. By gosh! we never went across the street--I’ll take +on goodness some day, Abbie. By goll! that’s all I’m good for to +take on now.--Oh, it beat all what a boy I was. I and Mother broke +our first team of oxen. When you get children, Abbie, let them raise +themselves up. They’ll do better at it than a poor father or mother +can. I had the finest horses and the best phaeton for miles around, +but you never saw a girl a-ridin’ by the side of me.--Some men can’t +work alone, Abbie. They got to have the women around or they quit. +Don’t you get that kind of a man, Abbie.--Oh, she was renowned was +my old mare, Kit. You never got to the end of her. She lived to be +more’n thirty year, an’ she raised fourteen colts. She was a darned +good little thing she was. I got her for a big black mare that +weighed fourteen hundred pound, an’ I made ’em give me ten dollars, +too, an’ I got her colt with her----” + +Abbie suddenly realized that she was shivering; that her feet were +cold; that it was long after nine o’clock. Old Chris must have fallen +asleep in his chair. She went to the dining-room door and opened it; +the dining-room was dark. Why?--why, of course! Old Chris had been +gone for more than three weeks. She took hold of the door to steady +herself; her hands shook. How could she have forgotten? Was she going +crazy? Would the loneliness come to that? + +Abbie went to bed. All night she lay awake, thinking. The thoughts +came of themselves. What the town had to say didn’t matter after all; +the town had paid her no attention for years; it was paying her no +attention now. Why, then, should she live without any one to speak +to? “I’ll go and get Old Chris, that’s what I’ll do. I won’t live +here alone any longer.” And with this decision she went to sleep. + +In the morning when Abbie opened the kitchen door and stepped out +onto the porch, frost lay thick upon the well pump. + +She drew her shawl close around her and took hold of the pump-handle +with her mittened hands. When she had filled the pail she went back +into the kitchen. The sound of the wind made her shiver. To walk all +the way to Mile Corners on such a day required green tea, so Abbie +drank three cupfuls. Then, as on the day when she went out to call +upon “the Jersey girls,” she carried hot water up-stairs and got out +fresh stockings. + +About nine o’clock three women of Pastor Lucus’s church, standing +on the front steps of Aunt Alphie Newberry’s house, saw Abbie +struggling through a drift. + +“Why, there’s Abbie Snover,” said Jennie Chipman. + +“She’s turnin’ down the road to Mile Corners,” added Judie Wing. + +Aunt Alphie Newberry opened the door to the three women: + +“Whatever’s the matter to be bringin’ you callin’ so early?” + +“Ain’t you heard yet?” + +“We come to tell you.” + +“My! my! my! What can have happened?” Aunt Alphie exclaimed. + +“Old Chris died last night----” + +“Just after bein’ middlin’ sick for a day an’----” + +“An’ they say,” Judie Wing interrupted, “that it was ’cause Abbie +Snover turned him out.” + +Abbie reached the end of the town sidewalk. Lifting her skirts high, +she waded through the deep snow to the rough-rutted track left by the +farmer’s sleighs. Every little while she had to step off the road +into the deep snow to let a bob-sled loaded high with hay or straw +pass on its way into town. Some of the farmers recognized her; they +spoke to her with kindly voices, but she made no answer. Walking was +hard; Owen Frazer’s farm was over the hill; there was a steep climb +ahead of her. And besides, Owen Frazer’s house was no place for Old +Chris. No one knew anything about Owen Frazer and that woman of his; +they hadn’t been born in Almont. How could she have let Old Chris go +down there, anyway? + +“Whoa up! Hey! Better climb in, Abbie, an’ ride with me. This ain’t +no day for walkin’. Get up here on the seat. I’ll come down an’ help +you.” + +Abbie looked up at Undertaker Hopkins. In the box of his funeral +wagon was a black coffin with a sprinkling of snow on its top. Abbie +shook her head, but did not speak. + +“Guess I shouldn’t have asked you,” Undertaker Hopkins apologized. +“Sorry! Get along as fast as you can, Abbie. It’s gettin’ mighty, +all-fired cold. It’ll be a little sheltered when you get over the +hill.” + +Undertaker Hopkins drove on. Abbie tried to keep her feet in the +fresh track made by the runners. She reached the top of the hill. +Owen Frazer’s red barn stood up above the snow. Undertaker Hopkins +and his funeral wagon had disappeared. + +“He must have turned down the Mill Road,” Abbie muttered. + +She reached the gate in front of the low, one-story farmhouse. A +shepherd dog barked as she went up the path. She rapped at the front +door. A woman appeared at the window and pointed to the side of the +house. Abbie’s face expressed surprise and resentment. She backed +down the steps and made her way to the back door. The woman, Owen +Frazer’s wife, let her into the kitchen. + +“Owen! Here be Abbie Snover!” + +Owen Frazer came in from the front of the house. + +“Good day! Didn’t expect you here. Pretty cold out, ain’t it? Have a +chair.” + +Abbie did not realize how numb the cold had made her body until she +tried to sit down. + +“Maggie, give her a cup of that hot tea,” Owen Frazer continued. +“She’s been almost froze, an’ I guess she’ll have a cup of tea. Hey! +Miss Snover?” + +“I want to talk to Old Chris.” + +“Talk to Old Chris! Talk to Old Chris, you want to?” + +Owen Frazer looked at his wife. Abbie Snover didn’t know, yet she +had walked all the way to Mile Corners in the cold. He couldn’t +understand it. + +“What’d you come for, anyhow, Abbie Snover?” + +“Now, Owen, you wait!” Owen Frazer’s wife turned to Abbie: + +“Got lonesome, did you, all by yourself in that big barn of a house?” + +“I want to talk to Old Chris,” Abbie repeated. + +“Was you so fond of him, then?” + +Abbie made no answer. Owen Frazer went over to the sink and looked +out of the window at the bed-tick smoldering on the rubbish heap. +Owen Frazer’s wife pushed open the door of the sitting-room, then +stood back and turned to Abbie: + +“You may be fine old family, Abbie Snover, but we’re better. You +turned Old Chris out, an’ now you want to talk to him. All right, +talk to him if you want to. He’s in the parlor. Go on in now. Talk to +him if you want to--go on in!” + +The animosity in Mrs. Frazer’s voice shook Abbie; she was disturbed; +doubt came to her for the first time. As she went through the +sitting-room, fear slowed her steps. Perhaps they had turned Old +Chris away from her and she would have to go back alone, to live +alone, for all the remaining years of her life, in that big house. + + Francis Buzzell. Reprinted from _Pictorial + Review_ by the kind permission of the author. + + + TWO FRIENDS[2] + + GUY DE MAUPASSANT + +Paris was besieged, starving, exhausted. The sparrows were growing +scarce on the roofs and the rats in the sewers. People ate whatever +they could get. + +As he walked listlessly along the outer boulevard on a clear January +morning, his hands in the pockets of his uniform, and his stomach +empty, Monsieur Morissot, a watchmaker by trade and a militiaman +by necessity, stopped short in front of a colleague in whom he +recognized a friend. It was Monsieur Sauvage, an acquaintance made at +the waterside. + +Before the war, Morissot used to start every Sunday at daybreak, a +bamboo fishing rod in his hand, a tin box on his back. He took the +Argenteuil train, stopped at Colombes, then walked to Marante Island. +No sooner had he reached this ideal spot than he began to fish, and +he went on fishing till nightfall. + +Every Sunday, he found there a plump and jolly little man, Monsieur +Sauvage, a haberdasher in Notre-Dame de Lorette Street, also a born +fisherman. They would often spend hours, side by side, their rods +in their hands, their feet hanging over the running water; and a +friendship had sprung up between them. + +Sometimes they remained silent. Sometimes, they talked. But they +understood each other perfectly, without saying a word, having +identical tastes and feelings. + +On spring mornings, about ten o’clock, when the sun would draw from +the still river a thin mist which ran along the water and poured upon +the backs of the obstinate fishermen the welcome warmth of the new +season, Morissot would say to his neighbor: “Isn’t it mild though?” +and Monsieur Sauvage would reply: “There isn’t anything like it!” And +they needed nothing more for perfect understanding and mutual esteem. + +In the autumn, towards nightfall, when the sky, blood red from the +setting sun, reflected the shapes of the scarlet clouds in the +water, tinted the whole river, set the horizon ablaze, made even +the two friends as red as the flames, and turned to gold the brown +trees, shivering with a wintry chill, Monsieur Sauvage would smile +at Morissot, and say: “How wonderful!” And Morissot, with deep +admiration, would reply, without lifting his eyes from his cork: +“It’s better than the city, isn’t it?” + + * * * * * + +As soon as they recognized each other, they shook hands heartily, +much excited at meeting again under such altered circumstances. +Monsieur Sauvage sighed and murmured: “What strange happenings!” +Morissot, much depressed, groaned: “And such weather! This is the +first fine day this year.” + +In fact, the sky was quite blue and full of light. + +They walked on, side by side, thoughtful and gloomy. Morissot +continued: “And our fishing, eh? What a pleasant memory!” + +Monsieur Sauvage asked: “When shall we ever do it again?” + +They went into a little cafe and drank an absinthe, then resumed +their walk on the boulevard. + +Morissot stopped suddenly: “Let’s have another ‘verte’, eh?” Monsieur +Sauvage agreed: “Just as you say.” And they went into another +restaurant. + +When they came out they were quite dazed, and ill at ease as people +are who take alcohol on an empty stomach. It was very mild. A soft +breeze brushed their faces. + +Monsieur Sauvage, whom the balmy air intoxicated still more, stopped: +“Let’s go!” + +“Where?” + +“Fishing, of course.” + +“But where?” + +“To our island. The French outposts are near Colombes. I know +Colonel Dumoulin; he will let us through.” + +Morissot was thrilled: “All right, that’s settled.” And they +separated to get their fishing tackle. + +An hour later, they were walking along the highway. When they reached +the villa where the colonel was quartered, he smiled at their request +and granted it. They departed, with a pass. + +They were soon beyond the outposts, then they walked through deserted +Colombes, and reached the small vineyards which slope toward the +Seine. It was about eleven o’clock. + +On the opposite bank, Argenteuil seemed abandoned. The heights of +Orgemont and Sannois towered above the whole countryside. The long +plain which extends as far as Nanterre was empty, quite empty, with +its leafless cherry trees and grayish soil. + +Monsieur Sauvage, pointing to the hills, murmured: “The Prussians are +up there!” And a sudden dismay chilled the two friends at sight of +this lonely place. + +The Prussians! They had never seen any, but they had felt their +presence for months, around Paris, pillaging, massacring, starving +France, invisible and all powerful. And a sort of superstitious +terror added to their hatred of these unknown and victorious enemies. + +Morissot mumbled: “Say!... Suppose we should meet some of them?” + +Monsieur Sauvage replied, with the irrepressible drollery of the +Parisian: + +“We might offer them a fish fry.” + +Still they hesitated to venture out into the open country, awed by +the all-pervading silence. + +Finally, Monsieur Sauvage made up his mind: “Come, let’s go on, +but cautiously.” They crept down through a vineyard, bending low, +crawling, keeping under cover of some bushes, their eyes watchful, +their ears alert. + +There remained a strip of bare ground between them and the river. +They ran, and as soon as they reached the bank, they crouched among +the dry reeds. + +Morissot put his ear to the ground to listen for footsteps. He heard +nothing. They were alone, all alone. + +They took heart and began to fish. + +In front of them, Marante Island, also deserted, hid them from the +other bank. The little restaurant was closed and looked as if it had +been abandoned for years. + +Monsieur Sauvage took the first gudgeon. Morissot caught the next +one, and every little while they would lift their rods with a small +silvery object squirming at the end of the line; it was a miraculous +catch. + +They placed the fish carefully in a fine-meshed bag which lay at +their feet in the water, and they were filled with a peculiar joy +which comes on finding again some long lost pleasure. + +The warm sun shone on their shoulders; they were no longer listening +or thinking, they ignored the rest of the world, they were fishing. + +Suddenly a dull sound which seemed to come from underground shook the +earth. The cannon was thundering again. + +Morissot turned, and over the edge of the bank, he saw yonder, on the +left, the great profile of Mont-Valerien, with a white plume on its +brow, the haze of gunpowder which it had just belched forth. + +And instantly a second puff of smoke arose from the crest of the +fortress; and a few minutes later another shot roared. + +Then more followed, and from time to time there gushed from the +mountain a death laden breath, milky vapors which rose slowly and +formed a cloud above it under the calm sky. + +Monsieur Sauvage shrugged his shoulders: “They are at it again,” said +he. + +Morissot, who was intently watching the bobbing of his float, was +suddenly seized with a peaceful man’s fury against those madmen who +were fighting thus, and he growled: “How stupid to kill one another +like that.” + +Monsieur Sauvage replied: “They are worse than animals!” + +And Morissot who had just caught a bleak, exclaimed: “And to think it +will always be the same as long as there are governments....” + +Monsieur Sauvage stopped him: “The Republic would not have declared +war....” + +Morissot interrupted him: “With a king there is war abroad; with a +republic, there is war at home.” + +And tranquilly, they began to discuss, solving deep political +problems with the sane reason of gentle and limited minds, agreeing +on this one point: one would never be free. And Mont-Valerien +thundered ceaselessly, its shells tearing down French homes, pounding +out lives, crushing human beings, putting an end to many dreams, many +expected joys, much longed for happiness, creating in the hearts of +wives, in the hearts of daughters, in the hearts of mothers, over +there, and in other countries, a grief that would never end. + +“That’s life,” declared Monsieur Sauvage. + +“It’s death, you mean,” retorted Morissot, laughing. + +They started with fear, suddenly aware that someone had just walked +behind them; looking back, they saw, standing quite close to them +four men, four big fellows, armed and bearded, dressed like servants +in livery and wearing flat caps, who were pointing their guns at +them. + +The fishing rods dropped from their hands and drifted down the river. + +In a few seconds they were seized, carried off, thrown into a boat +and brought to the island. + +And behind the house which they had thought deserted, they saw a +score of German soldiers. + +A kind of hairy giant, who sat, astride a chair, smoking a long +porcelain pipe, asked them in excellent French: “Well, gentlemen, how +was the fishing?” + +Then a soldier laid at the feet of the officer the net full of fish +which he had been thoughtful enough to bring along. The Prussian +smiled: “Ha! ha! I see you did pretty well. But that is not the +point. Listen carefully and don’t get excited. + +“In my opinion you are spies sent to watch me. I’ve got you and you +are to be shot. You were pretending to fish in order to hide your +plans more thoroughly. You have fallen into my hands; so much the +worse for you; c’est le guerre.” + +“But as you came through the outposts you must certainly have the +password for your return. Give me this password and I shall pardon +you.” + +The two friends, pallid, side by side, their hands shaking with a +slight nervous twitching, remained silent. + +The officer continued: “No one will ever know. You shall return in +peace. The secret will disappear with you. If you refuse, it means +death, immediate death. Choose.” + +They stood motionless, not saying a word. + +The Prussian, as cool as ever, pointing to the river, went on: +“Remember that in five minutes you will be at the bottom of this +stream. In five minutes! You must have some relatives?” + +Mont-Valerien was still thundering. + +The two fishermen stood silent. + +The German gave orders in his own tongue. Then he moved his chair +so as not to be too close to the prisoners; and twelve men came and +stood twenty feet away, their guns at rest. + +The officer continued: “I give you one minute, not a second more.” + +Then he got up suddenly, came to the two men, took Morissot by the +arm, drew him away and said to him in a low voice: “Hurry, give me +the password. Your companion won’t know. I’ll pretend I am relenting.” + +Morissot did not reply. + +Then the Prussian took aside Monsieur Sauvage and asked him the same +question. + +Monsieur Sauvage said nothing. + +They were again side by side. + +And the officer began to give orders. The soldiers leveled their guns. + +Then Morissot happened to glance at the net full of gudgeons, lying +in the grass, a few feet. + +A sunbeam was shining on the mass of quivering fish. A feeling of +faintness came over him. In spite of his efforts his eyes filled with +tears. + +He stammered: “Good-bye, Monsieur Sauvage.” + +Monsieur Sauvage replied: “Good-bye, Monsieur Morissot.” + +They shook hands, trembling from head to foot, uncontrollably. + +The officer shouted: “Fire!” + +The twelve shots sounded like one. + +Monsieur Sauvage fell flat on his nose. Morissot, taller, tottered, +pivoted, and dropped sidewise across the body of his companion, his +face turned to the sky, while streams of blood gushed over the front +of his uniform. + +The German gave more orders. + +His men scattered, then returned with ropes and some stones which +they fastened to the feet of the bodies; then they carried them to +the bank. + +Mont-Valerien did not stop roaring; it was now capped with a mountain +of smoke. + +Two soldiers took Morissot by the head and the feet; two others +seized Monsieur Sauvage in the same way. The bodies, being violently +swung for an instant, described a curve, then plunged upright into +the river, the stones pulling the feet down. + +The water splashed, bubbled, shivered, then grew still, while tiny +wavelets spread slowly to the shore. + +A little blood floated. + +The officer, still serene, said calmly: “Let the fish have their turn +now.” + +Then he started towards the house. + +And suddenly he saw the fishnet in the grass. He picked it up, +examined it, and called: “Wilhelm!” + +A white-aproned soldier ran to him. And the Prussian, throwing him +the murdered men’s catch, said: “Fry these little things right away, +while they are still alive. They will be delicious.” + +And he resumed his pipe. + + + THE SCULPTOR’S FUNERAL + + WILLA CATHER + +A group of the townspeople stood on the station siding of a little +Kansas town, awaiting the coming of the night train, which was +already twenty minutes overdue. The snow had fallen thick over +everything; in the pale starlight the line of bluffs across the wide, +white meadows south of the town made soft, smoke-coloured curves +against the clear sky. The men on the siding stood first on one foot +and then on the other, their hands thrust deep into their trousers +pockets, their overcoats open, their shoulders screwed up with the +cold; and they glanced from time to time toward the southeast, where +the railroad track wound along the river shore. They conversed in low +tones and moved about restlessly, seeming uncertain as to what was +expected of them. There was but one of the company who looked as if +he knew exactly why he was there, and he kept conspicuously apart; +walking to the far end of the platform, returning to the station +door, then pacing up the track again, his chin sunk in the high +collar of his overcoat, his burly shoulders drooping forward, his +gait heavy and dogged. Presently he was approached by a tall, spare, +grizzled man clad in a faded Grand Army suit, who shuffled out from +the group and advanced with a certain deference, craning his neck +forward until his back made the angle of a jack-knife three-quarters +open. + +“I reckon she’s a-goin’ to be pretty late agin tonight, Jim,” he +remarked in a squeaky falsetto. “S’pose it’s the snow?” + +“I don’t know,” responded the other man with a shade of annoyance, +speaking from out an astonishing cataract of red beard that grew +fiercely and thickly in all directions. + +The spare man shifted the quill toothpick he was chewing to the other +side of his mouth. “It ain’t likely that anybody from the East will +come with the corpse, I s’pose,” he went on reflectively. + +“I don’t know,” responded the other, more curtly than before. + +“It’s too bad he didn’t belong to some lodge or other. I like an +order funeral myself. They seem more appropriate for people of some +repytation,” the spare man continued, with an ingratiating concession +in his shrill voice, as he carefully placed his toothpick in his vest +pocket. He always carried the flag at the G. A. R. funerals in the +town. + +The heavy man turned on his heel, without replying, and walked up the +siding. The spare man rejoined the uneasy group. “Jim’s ez full ez a +tick, ez ushel,” he commented commiseratingly. + +Just then a distant whistle sounded, and there was a shuffling of +feet on the platform. A number of lanky boys, of all ages, appeared +as suddenly and slimily as eels wakened by the crack of thunder; some +came from the waiting-room, where they had been warming themselves by +the red stove, or half asleep on the slat benches; others uncoiled +themselves from baggage trucks or slid out of express wagons. Two +clambered down from the driver’s seat of a hearse that stood backed +up against the siding. They straightened their stooping shoulders +and lifted their heads, and a flash of momentary animation kindled +their dull eyes at that cold, vibrant scream, the world-wide call for +men. It stirred them like the note of a trumpet; just as it had often +stirred the man who was coming home tonight, in his boyhood. + +The night express shot, red as a rocket, from out the eastward +marsh lands and wound along the river shore under the long lines of +shivering poplars that sentinelled the meadows, the escaping steam +hanging in grey masses against the pale sky and blotting out the +Milky Way. In a moment the red glare from the headlight streamed up +the snow-covered track before the siding and glittered on the wet, +black rails. The burly man with the dishevelled red beard walked +swiftly up the platform toward the approaching train, uncovering his +head as he went. The group of men behind him hesitated, glanced +questioningly at one another, and awkwardly followed his example. The +train stopped, and the crowd shuffled up to the express car just as +the door was thrown open, the man in the G. A. R. suit thrusting his +head forward with curiosity. The express messenger appeared in the +doorway, accompanied by a young man in a long ulster and travelling +cap. + +“Are Mr. Merrick’s friends here?” inquired the young man. + +The group on the platform swayed uneasily. Philip Phelps, the banker, +responded with dignity: “We have come to take charge of the body. Mr. +Merrick’s father is very feeble and can’t be about.” + +“Send the agent out here,” growled the express messenger, “and tell +the operator to lend a hand.” + +The coffin was got out of its rough-box and down on the snowy +platform. The townspeople drew back enough to make room for it and +then formed a close semicircle about it, looking curiously at the +palm leaf which lay across the black cover. No one said anything. The +baggage man stood by his truck, waiting to get at the trunks. The +engine panted heavily, and the fireman dodged in and out among the +wheels with his yellow torch and long oil-can, snapping the spindle +boxes. The young Bostonian, one of the dead sculptor’s pupils who had +come with the body, looked about him helplessly. He turned to the +banker, the only one of that black uneasy, stoop-shouldered group who +seemed enough of an individual to be addressed. + +“None of Mr. Merrick’s brothers are here?” he asked uncertainly. + +The man with the red beard for the first time stepped up and joined +the others. “No, they have not come yet; the family is scattered. +The body will be taken directly to the house.” He stooped and took +hold of one of the handles of the coffin. + +“Take the long hill road up, Thompson, it will be easier on the +horses,” called the liveryman as the undertaker snapped the door of +the hearse and prepared to mount to the driver’s seat. + +Laird, the red-bearded lawyer, turned again to the stranger: “We +didn’t know whether there would be any one with him or not,” he +explained. “It’s a long walk, so you’d better go up in the hack.” He +pointed to a single battered conveyance, but the young man replied +stiffly: “Thank you, but I think I will go up with the hearse. If you +don’t object,” turning to the undertaker, “I’ll ride with you.” + +They clambered up over the wheels and drove off in the starlight up +the long, white hill toward the town. The lamps in the still village +were shining from under the low, snow-burdened roofs; and beyond, on +every side, the plains reached out into emptiness, peaceful and wide +as the soft sky itself, and wrapped in a tangible, white silence. + +When the hearse backed up to a wooden sidewalk before a naked, +weather-beaten frame house, the same composite, ill-defined group +that had stood upon the station siding was huddled about the gate. +The front yard was an icy swamp, and a couple of warped planks, +extending from the sidewalk to the door, made a sort of rickety +foot-bridge. The gate hung on one hinge, and was opened wide with +difficulty. Steavens, the young stranger, noticed that something +black was tied to the knob of the front door. + +The grating sound made by the casket, as it was drawn from the +hearse, was answered by a scream from the house; the front door was +wrenched open, and a tall, corpulent woman rushed out bareheaded into +the snow and flung herself upon the coffin, shrieking: “My boy, my +boy! And this is how you’ve come home to me!” + +As Steavens turned away and closed his eyes with a shudder of +unutterable repulsion, another woman, also tall, but flat and +angular, dressed entirely in black, darted out of the house and +caught Mrs. Merrick by the shoulders, crying sharply: “Come, come, +mother; you mustn’t go on like this!” Her tone changed to one of +obsequious solemnity as she turned to the banker: “The parlour is +ready, Mr. Phelps.” + +The bearers carried the coffin along the narrow boards, while the +undertaker ran ahead with the coffin-rests. They bore it into +a large, unheated room that smelled of dampness and disuse and +furniture polish, and set it down under a hanging lamp ornamented +with jingling glass prisms and before a “Rogers group” of John Alden +and Priscilla, wreathed with smilax. Henry Steavens stared about +him with the sickening conviction that there had been a mistake, +and that he had somehow arrived at the wrong destination. He looked +at the clover-green Brussels, the fat plush upholstery, among the +hand-painted china plaques and panels and vases, for some mark of +identification,--for something that might once conceivably have +belonged to Harvey Merrick. It was not until he recognized his friend +in the crayon portrait of a little boy in kilts and curls, hanging +above the piano, that he felt willing to let any of these people +approach the coffin. + +“Take the lid off, Mr. Thompson; let me see my boy’s face,” wailed +the elder woman between her sobs. This time Steavens looked +fearfully, almost beseechingly into her face, red and swollen under +its masses of strong, black, shiny hair. He flushed, dropped his +eyes, and then, almost incredulously, looked again. There was a kind +of power about her face--a kind of brutal handsomeness, even; but it +was scarred and furrowed by violence, and so coloured and coarsened +by fiercer passions that grief seemed never to have laid a gentle +finger there. The long nose was distended and knobbed at the end, and +there were deep lines on either side of it; her heavy, black brows +almost met across her forehead, her teeth were large and square, and +set far apart--teeth that could tear. She filled the room; the men +were obliterated, seemed tossed about like twigs in an angry water, +and even Steavens felt himself being drawn into the whirlpool. + +The daughter--the tall, raw-boned woman in crepe, with a mourning +comb in her hair which curiously lengthened her long face--sat +stiffly upon the sofa, her hands, conspicuous for their large +knuckles, folded in her lap, her mouth and eyes drawn down, solemnly +awaiting the opening of the coffin. Near the door stood a mulatto +woman, evidently a servant in the house, with a timid bearing and an +emaciated face pitifully sad and gentle. She was weeping silently, +the corner of her calico apron lifted to her eyes, occasionally +suppressing a long, quivering sob. Steavens walked over and stood +beside her. + +Feeble steps were heard on the stairs, and an old man, tall and +frail, odorous of pipe smoke, with shaggy, unkept grey hair and a +dingy beard, tobacco stained about the mouth, entered uncertainly. +He went slowly up to the coffin and stood rolling a blue cotton +handkerchief between his hands, seemingly so pained and embarrassed +by his wife’s orgy of grief that he had no consciousness of anything +else. + +“There, there, Annie, dear, don’t take on so,” he quavered timidly, +putting out a shaking hand and awkwardly patting her elbow. She +turned and sank upon his shoulder with such violence that he tottered +a little. He did not even glance toward the coffin, but continued +to look at her with a dull, frightened, appealing expression, as a +spaniel looks at the whip. His sunken cheeks slowly reddened and +burned with miserable shame. When his wife rushed from the room, her +daughter strode after her with set lips. The servant stole up to +the coffin, bent over it for a moment, and then slipped away to the +kitchen, leaving Steavens, the lawyer, and the father to themselves. +The old man stood looking down at his dead son’s face. The sculptor’s +splendid head seemed even more noble in its rigid stillness than in +life. The dark hair had crept down upon the wide forehead; the face +seemed strangely long, but in it there was not that repose we expect +to find in the faces of the dead. The brows were so drawn that there +were two deep lines above the beaked nose, and the chin was thrust +forward defiantly. It was as though the strain of life had been so +sharp and bitter that death could not at once relax the tension and +smooth the countenance into perfect peace--as though he were still +guarding something precious, which might even yet be wrested from him. + +The old man’s lips were working under his stained beard. He turned to +the lawyer with timid deference: “Phelps and the rest are comin’ back +to set up with Harve, ain’t they?” he asked. “Thank ’ee, Jim, thank +’ee.” He brushed the hair back gently from his son’s forehead. “He +was a good boy, Jim; always a good boy. He was ez gentle ez a child +and the kindest of ’em all--only we didn’t none of us ever onderstand +him.” The tears trickled slowly down his beard and dropped upon the +sculptor’s coat. + +“Martin, Martin! Oh, Martin! come here,” his wife wailed from the +top of the stairs. The old man started timorously: “Yes, Annie, I’m +coming.” He turned away, hesitated, stood for a moment in miserable +indecision; then reached back and patted the dead man’s hair softly, +and stumbled from the room. + +“Poor old man, I didn’t think he had any tears left. Seems as if +his eyes would have gone dry long ago. At his age nothing cuts very +deep,” remarked the lawyer. + +Something in his tone made Steavens glance up. While the mother had +been in the room, the young man had scarcely seen any one else; but +now, from the moment he first glanced into Jim Laird’s florid face +and blood-shot eyes, he knew that he had found what he had been +heartsick at not finding before--the feeling, the understanding, that +must exist in some one, even here. + +The man was red as his beard, with features swollen and blurred by +dissipation, and a hot, blazing blue eye. His face was strained--that +of a man who is controlling himself with difficulty--and he kept +plucking at his beard with a sort of fierce resentment. Steavens, +sitting by the window, watched him turn down the glaring lamp, still +its jangling pendants with an angry gesture, and then stand with +his hands locked behind him, staring down into the master’s face. +He could not help wondering what link there had been between the +porcelain vessel and so sooty a lump of potter’s clay. + +From the kitchen an uproar was sounding; when the dining-room door +opened, the import of it was clear. The mother was abusing the maid +for having forgotten to make the dressing for the chicken salad which +had been prepared for the watchers. Steavens had never heard anything +in the least like it; it was injured, emotional, dramatic abuse, +unique and masterly in its excruciating cruelty, as violent and +unrestrained as had been her grief of twenty minutes before. With a +shudder of disgust the lawyer went into the dining-room and closed +the door into the kitchen. + +“Poor Roxy’s getting it now,” he remarked when he came back. “The +Merricks took her out of the poor-house years ago; and if her loyalty +would let her, I guess the poor old thing would tell tales that would +curdle your blood. She’s the mulatto woman who was standing in here a +while ago, with her apron to her eyes. The old woman is a fury; there +never was anybody like her. She made Harvey’s life a hell for him +when he lived at home; he was so sick ashamed of it. I never could +see how he kept himself sweet.” + +“He was wonderful,” said Steavens slowly, “wonderful; but until +tonight I have never known how wonderful.” + +“That is the eternal wonder of it, anyway; that it can come even from +such a dung heap as this,” the lawyer cried, with a sweeping gesture +which seemed to indicate much more than the four walls within which +they stood. + +“I think I’ll see whether I can get a little air. The room is so +close I am beginning to feel rather faint,” murmured Steavens, +struggling with one of the windows. The sash was stuck, however, and +would not yield, so he sat down dejectedly and began pulling at his +collar. The lawyer came over, loosened the sash with one blow of his +red fist and sent the window up a few inches. Steavens thanked him, +but the nausea which had been gradually climbing into his throat for +the last half hour left him with but one desire--a desperate feeling +that he must get away from this place with what was left of Harvey +Merrick. Oh, he comprehended well enough now the quiet bitterness of +the smile that he had seen so often on his master’s lips! + +Once when Merrick returned from a visit home, he brought with him a +singularly feeling and suggestive bas-relief of a thin, faded old +woman, sitting and sewing something pinned to her knee; while a +full-lipped, full-blooded little urchin, his trousers held up by a +single gallows, stood beside her, impatiently twitching her gown to +call her attention to a butterfly he had caught. Steavens, impressed +by the tender and delicate modelling of the thin, tired face, had +asked him if it were his mother. He remembered the dull flush that +had burned up in the sculptor’s face. + +The lawyer was sitting in a rocking-chair beside the coffin, his head +thrown back and his eyes closed. Steavens looked at him earnestly, +puzzled at the line of the chin, and wondering why a man should +conceal a feature of such distinction under that disfiguring shock of +beard. Suddenly, as though he felt the young sculptor’s keen glance, +Jim Laird opened his eyes. + +“Was he always a good deal of an oyster?” he asked abruptly. “He was +terribly shy as a boy.” + +“Yes, he was an oyster, since you put it so,” rejoined Steavens. +“Although he could be very fond of people, he always gave one the +impression of being detached. He disliked violent emotion; he was +reflective, and rather distrustful of himself--except, of course, as +regarded his work. He was sure enough there. He distrusted men pretty +thoroughly and women even more, yet somehow without believing ill of +them. He was determined, indeed, to believe the best; but he seemed +afraid to investigate.” + +“A burnt dog dreads the fire,” said the lawyer grimly, and closed his +eyes. + +Steavens went on and on, reconstructing that whole miserable +boyhood. All this raw, biting ugliness had been the portion of the +man whose mind was to become an exhaustless gallery of beautiful +impressions--so sensitive that the mere shadow of a poplar leaf +flickering against a sunny wall would be etched and held there for +ever. Surely, if ever a man had the magic word in his finger tips, +it was Merrick. Whatever he touched, he revealed its holiest secret; +liberated it from enchantment and restored it to its pristine +loveliness. Upon whatever he had come in contact with, he had left a +beautiful record of the experience--a sort of ethereal signature; a +scent, a sound, a colour that was his own. + +Steavens understood now the real tragedy of his master’s life; +neither love nor wine, as many had conjectured; but a blow which +had fallen earlier and cut deeper than anything else could have +done--a shame not his, and yet so unescapably his, to hide in his +heart from his very boyhood. And without--the frontier warfare; the +yearning of a boy, cast ashore upon a desert of newness and ugliness +and sordidness, for all that is chastened and old, and noble with +traditions. + +At eleven o’clock the tall, flat woman in black announced that +the watchers were arriving, and asked them to “step into the +dining-room.” As Steavens rose the lawyer said dryly: “You go +on--it’ll be a good experience for you. I’m not equal to that crowd +tonight; I’ve had twenty years of them.” + +As Steavens closed the door after him he glanced back at the lawyer, +sitting by the coffin in the dim light, with his chin resting on his +hand. + +The same misty group that had stood before the door of the express +car shuffled into the dining-room. In the light of the kerosene +lamp they separated and became individuals. The minister, a pale, +feeble-looking man with white hair and blond chin-whiskers, took +his seat beside a small side table and placed his Bible upon it. +The Grand Army man sat down behind the stove and tilted his chair +back comfortably against the wall, fishing his quill toothpick from +his waistcoat pocket. The two bankers, Phelps and Elder, sat off +in a corner behind the dinner-table, where they could finish their +discussion of the new usury law and its effect on chattel security +loans. The real estate agent, an old man with a smiling hypocritical +face, soon joined them. The coal and lumber dealer and the cattle +shipper sat on opposite sides of the hard coal-burner, their feet +on the nickel-work. Steavens took a book from his pocket and began +to read. The talk around him ranged through various topics of local +interest while the house was quieting down. When it was clear that +the members of the family were in bed, the Grand Army man hitched +his shoulders and, untangling his long legs, caught his heels on the +rounds of his chair. + +“S’pose there’ll be a will, Phelps?” he queried in his weak falsetto. + +The banker laughed disagreeably, and began trimming his nails with a +pearl-handled pocket-knife. + +“There’ll scarcely be any need for one, will there?” he queried in +his turn. + +The restless Grand Army man shifted his position again, getting his +knees still nearer his chin. “Why, the ole man says Harve’s done +right well lately,” he chirped. + +The other banker spoke up. “I reckon he means by that Harve ain’t +asked him to mortgage any more farms lately, so as he could go on +with his education.” + +“Seems like my mind don’t reach back to a time when Harve wasn’t +bein’ edycated,” tittered the Grand Army man. + +There was a general chuckle. The minister took out his handkerchief +and blew his nose sonorously. Banker Phelps closed his knife with +a snap. “It’s too bad the old man’s sons didn’t turn out better,” +he remarked with reflective authority. “They never hung together. +He spent money enough on Harve to stock a dozen cattlefarms, and he +might as well have poured it into Sand Creek. If Harve had stayed at +home and helped nurse what little they had, and gone into stock on +the old man’s bottom farm, they might all have been well fixed. But +the old man had to trust everything to tenants and was cheated right +and left.” + +“Harve never could have handled stock none,” interposed the +cattleman. “He hadn’t it in him to be sharp. Do you remember when he +bought Sander’s mules for eight-year olds, when everybody in town +knew that Sander’s father-in-law give ’em to his wife for a wedding +present eighteen years before, an’ they was full-grown mules then?” + +The company laughed discreetly, and the Grand Army man rubbed his +knees with a spasm of childish delight. + +“Harve never was much account for anything practical, and he shore +was never fond of work,” began the coal and lumber dealer. “I mind the +last time he was home; the day he left, when the old man was out to +the barn helpin’ his hand hitch up to take Harve to the train, and +Cal Moots was patchin’ up the fence; Harve, he come out on the step +and sings out, in his lady-like voice: ‘Cal Moots, Cal Moots! please +come cord my trunk.’” + +“That’s Harve for you,” approved the Grand Army man. “I kin hear him +howlin’ yet, when he was a big feller in long pants and his mother +used to whale him with a rawhide in the barn for lettin’ the cows git +foundered in the cornfield when he was drivin’ ’em home from pasture. +He killed a cow of mine that-a-way onct--a pure Jersey and the best +milker I had, an’ the old man had to put up for her. Harve, he was +watchin’ the sun set acrost the marshes when the anamile got away.” + +“Where the old man made his mistake was in sending the boy East +to school,” said Phelps, stroking his goatee and speaking in a +deliberate, judicial tone. “There was where he got his head full of +nonsense. What Harve needed, of all people, was a course in some +first-class Kansas City business college.” + +The letters were swimming before Steaven’s eyes. Was it possible +that these men did not understand, that the palm on the coffin meant +nothing to them? The very name of their town would have remained +for ever buried in the postal guide had it not been now and again +mentioned in the world in connection with Harvey Merrick’s. He +remembered what his master had said to him on the day of his death, +after the congestion of both lungs had shut off any probability of +recovery, and the sculptor had asked his pupil to send his body home. +“It’s not a pleasant place to be lying while the world is moving and +doing and bettering,” he had said with a feeble smile, “but it rather +seems as though we ought to go back to the place we came from, in the +end. The townspeople will come in for a look at me; and after they +have had their say, I shan’t have much to fear from the judgment of +God!” + +The cattleman took up the comment. “Forty’s young for a Merrick to +cash in; they usually hang on pretty well. Probably he helped it +along with whiskey.” + +“His mother’s people were not long lived, and Harvey never had a +robust constitution,” said the minister mildly. He would have liked +to say more. He had been the boy’s Sunday-school teacher, and had +been fond of him; but he felt that he was not in a position to speak. +His own sons had turned out badly, and it was not a year since one +of them had made his last trip home in the express car, shot in a +gambling-house in the Black Hills. + +“Nevertheless, there is no disputin’ that Harve frequently looked +upon the wine when it was red, also variegated, and it shore made an +oncommon fool of him,” moralized the cattleman. + +Just then the door leading into the parlour rattled loudly and every +one started involuntarily, looking relieved when only Jim Laird came +out. The Grand Army man ducked his head when he saw the spark in his +blue, blood-shot eye. They were all afraid of Him; he was a drunkard, +but he could twist the law to suit his client’s needs as no other man +in all western Kansas could do, and there were many who tried. The +lawyer closed the door behind him, leaned back against it and folded +his arms, cocking his head a little to one side. When he assumed +this attitude in the court-room, ears were always pricked up, as it +usually foretold a flood of withering sarcasm. + +“I’ve been with you gentlemen before,” he began in a dry, even tone, +“when you’ve sat by the coffins of boys born and raised in this town; +and, if I remember rightly, you were never any too well satisfied +when you checked them up. What’s the matter, anyhow? Why is it that +reputable young men are as scarce as millionaires in Sand City? It +might almost seem to a stranger that there was some way something +the matter with your progressive town. Why did Ruben Sayer, the +brightest young lawyer you ever turned out, after he had come home +from the university as straight as a die, take to drinking and forge +a check and shoot himself? Why did Bill Merrit’s son die of the +shakes in a saloon in Omaha? Why was Mr. Thomas’s son, here, shot +in a gambling-house? Why did young Adams burn his mill to beat the +insurance companies and go to the pen?” + +The lawyer paused and unfolded his arms, laying one clenched fist +quietly on the table. “I’ll tell you why. Because you drummed +nothing but money and knavery into their ears from the time they +wore knickerbockers; because you carped away at them as you’ve been +carping here tonight, holding our friends Phelps and Elder up to them +for their models, as our grandfathers held up George Washington and +John Adams. But the boys were young, and raw at the business you put +them to, and how could they match coppers with such artists as Phelps +and Elder? You wanted them to be successful rascals; they were only +unsuccessful ones--that’s all the difference. There was only one boy +ever raised in this borderland between ruffianism and civilization +who didn’t come to grief, and you hated Harvey Merrick more for +winning out than you hated all the other boys who got under the +wheels. Lord, Lord, how you did hate him! Phelps, here, is fond of +saying that he could buy and sell us all out any time he’s a mind to; +but he knew Harve wouldn’t have given a tinker’s damn for his bank +and all his cattlefarms put together; and a lack of appreciation, +that way, goes hard with Phelps. + +“Old Nimrod thinks Harve drank too much; and this from such as Nimrod +and me! + +“Brother Elder says Harve was too free with the old man’s money--fell +short in filial consideration, maybe. Well, we can all remember the +very tone in which brother Elder swore his own father was a liar, in +the county court; and we all know that the old man came out of that +partnership with his son as bare as a sheared lamb. But maybe I’m +getting personal, and I’d better be driving ahead at what I want to +say.” + +The lawyer paused a moment, squared his heavy shoulders, and went on: +“Harvey Merrick and I went to school together, back East. We were +dead in earnest, and we wanted you all to be proud of us some day. We +meant to be great men. Even I, and I haven’t lost my sense of humour, +gentlemen, I meant to be a great man. I came back here to practise, +and I found you didn’t in the least want me to be a great man. You +wanted me to be a shrewd lawyer--oh, yes! Our veteran here wanted me +to get him an increase of pension, because he had dyspepsia; Phelps +wanted a new county survey that would put the widow Wilson’s little +bottom farm inside his south line; Elder wanted to lend money at 5 +per cent a month, and get it collected; and Stark here wanted to +wheedle old women up in Vermont into investing their annuities in +real estate mortgages that are not worth the paper they are written +on. Oh, you needed me hard enough, and you’ll go on needing me! + +“Well, I came back here and became the damned shyster you wanted +me to be. You pretend to have some sort of respect for me; and +yet you’ll stand up and throw mud at Harvey Merrick, whose soul +you couldn’t dirty and whose hands you couldn’t tie. Oh, you’re a +discriminating lot of Christians! There have been times when the +sight of Harvey’s name in some Eastern paper has made me hang my head +like a whipped dog; and, again, times when I liked to think of him +off there in the world, away from all this hog-wallow, climbing the +big, clean up-grade he’d set for himself. + +“And we? Now that we’ve fought and lied and sweated and stolen, and +hated as only the disappointed strugglers in a bitter, dead little +Western town know how to do, what have we got to show for it? Harvey +Merrick wouldn’t have given one sunset over your marshes for all +you’ve got put together, and you know it. It’s not for me to say why, +in the inscrutable wisdom of God, a genius should ever have been +called from this place of hatred and bitter waters, but I want this +Boston man to know that the drivel he’s been hearing here tonight is +the only tribute any truly great man could have from such a lot of +sick, side-tracked, burnt-dog, land-poor sharks as the here-present +financiers of Sand City--upon which town may God have mercy!” + +The lawyer thrust out his hand to Steavens as he passed him, caught +up his overcoat in the hall, and had left the house before the Grand +Army man had had time to lift his ducked head and crane his long neck +about at his fellows. + +Next day Jim Laird was drunk and unable to attend the funeral +services. Steavens called twice at his office, but was compelled +to start East without seeing him. He had a presentiment that he +would hear from him again, and left his address on the lawyer’s +table; but if Laird found it, he never acknowledged it. The thing +in him that Harvey Merrick had loved must have gone under ground +with Harvey Merrick’s coffin; for it never spoke again, and Jim got +the cold he died of driving across the Colorado mountains to defend +one of Phelps’s sons who had got into trouble out there by cutting +government timber. + + From _Youth and the Bright Medusa_ by Willa + Cather. By permission of and special arrangement + with Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., the authorized + publishers. + + +SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY OF SHORT STORIES + +The editors have found the following collections of Short Stories the +best for use in class: + + _Modern Short Stories_, edited by Margaret Ashmun. The Macmillan + Company. + + _The Best Short Stories of 1917_, edited by Edward J. O’Brien. + Small, Maynard & Company. + + _Atlantic Narratives_, First and Second Series, edited by Charles + Swain Thomas. The Atlantic Monthly Press. + + _The Harper Prize Short Stories_, edited by Bliss Perry. Harper & + Brothers. + + _The O. Henry Memorial Award Stories_, edited by Blanche Colton + Williams and published yearly by Doubleday, Page & Company. + + + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1] Abu-Lubabah,--It is remarkable that the name should have suffered +no corruption in the chronicles. + +[2] Translation by Marguerite Guinotte. + + + + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE + + Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been + corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within + the text and consultation of external sources. + + Some hyphens in words have been silently removed, some added, + when a predominant preference was found in the original book. + + Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text, + and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained. + + p19: ‘they are expectd’ changed to ‘they are expected’ + p59: ‘this lad who coud’ changed to ‘this lad who could’ + p284: ‘tallish fellow with’ changed to ‘tallish fellow with a’ + p480: ‘china placques’ changed to ‘china plaques’ + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78424 *** |