TheProjectGutenbergEBookofACollectionofStories,ReviewsandEssays,by

WillaCather

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Title:ACollectionofStories,ReviewsandEssays

Author:WillaCather

ReleaseDate:May24,2008[EBook#25586]

Language:English

***STARTOFTHISPROJECTGUTENBERGEBOOKACOLLECTIONOFSTORIES***

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A

Collectionof

Stories,ReviewsandEssays

by

WillaCather

CONTENTS

PartI:StoriesPeterOntheDivideEricHermannson’sSoulTheSentimentalityofWilliamTavenerTheNamesakeTheEnchantedBluffTheJoyofNellyDeaneTheBohemianGirlConsequencesTheBookkeeper’sWifeArdessaHerBoss

PartII:ReviewsandEssaysMarkTwainWilliamDeanHowellsEdgarAllanPoeWaltWhitmanHenryJamesHaroldFredericKateChopinStephenCraneFrankNorrisWhenIKnewStephenCraneOntheArtofFiction

PartIStories

Peter

“N O,ANTONE,IHAVETOLDTHEEMANYTIMES,NO,THOUSHALTNOTSELLITUNTIL

Iamgone.”“But I needmoney;what good is that old fiddle to thee? The very crows

laugh at thee when thou art trying to play. Thy hand trembles so thou canstscarceholdthebow.ThoushaltgowithmetotheBluetocutwoodto-morrow.Seetoitthouartupearly.”

“What,on theSabbath,Antone,when it is socold? Iget soverycold,myson,letusnotgoto-morrow.”

“Yes, to-morrow, thoulazyoldman.DonotIcutwoodupontheSabbath?CareIhowcolditis?Woodthoushaltcut,andhaulittoo,andasforthefiddle,ItelltheeIwillsellityet.”Antonepulledhisraggedcapdownoverhislowheavybrow, and went out. The old man drew his stool up nearer the fire, and satstrokinghisviolinwith tremblingfingersandmuttering,“NotwhileI live,notwhileIlive.”

Fiveyearsagotheyhadcomehere,PeterSadelack,andhiswife,andoldestsonAntone,andcountlesssmallerSadelacks,heretothedreariestpartofsouth-westernNebraska,andhadtakenupahomestead.Antonewastheacknowledged

master of the premises, and people said hewas a likely youth, andwould dowell.Thathewasmeananduntrustworthyeveryoneknew,butthatmadelittledifference. His corn was better tended than any in the county, and his wheatalwaysyieldedmorethanothermen’s.

OfPeternooneknewmuch,norhadanyoneagoodwordtosayforhim.HedrankwheneverhecouldgetoutofAntone’ssightlongenoughtopawnhishator coat forwhiskey. Indeed therewerebut two thingshewouldnotpawn,hispipeandhisviolin.Hewasalazy,absentmindedoldfellow,wholikedtofiddlebetterthantoplow,thoughAntonesurelygotworkenoughoutofthemall,forthatmatter.InthehouseofwhichAntonewasmastertherewasnoone,fromthelittleboythreeyearsold,totheoldmanofsixty,whodidnotearnhisbread.Stillpeoplesaid thatPeterwasworthless,andwasagreatdragonAntone,hisson,whoneverdrank,andwasamuchbettermanthanhisfatherhadeverbeen.Peterdidnotcarewhatpeoplesaid.Hedidnotlikethecountry,northepeople,leastofall he liked theplowing.Hewasveryhomesick forBohemia.Long ago, onlyeight years agoby the calendar, but it seemed eight centuries toPeter, hehadbeen a second violinist in the great theatre at Prague. He had gone into thetheatre very young, and had been there all his life, until he had a stroke ofparalysis,whichmadehisarmsoweakthathisbowingwasuncertain.Thentheytold him he could go. Thosewere great days at the theatre.He had plenty todrinkthen,andworeadresscoateveryevening,andtherewerealwayspartiesaftertheplay.Hecouldplayinthosedays,ay,thathecould!Hecouldneverreadthenoteswell,sohedidnotplayfirst;buthistouch,hehadatouchindeed,soHerrMikilsdoff,wholedtheorchestra,hadsaid.SometimesnowPeterthoughthe could plowbetter if he could only bow as he used to.He had seen all thelovelywomenintheworldthere,allthegreatsingersandthegreatplayers.Hewas in the orchestra when Rachel played, and he heard Liszt play when theCountessd’Agoultsatinthestageboxandthrewthemasterwhitelilies.Once,aFrenchwomancameandplayedforweeks,hedidnotrememberhernamenow.Hedidnot rememberher faceverywelleither, for itchangedso, itwasnevertwicethesame.Butthebeautyofit,andthegreathungermenfeltatthesightofit,thatheremembered.Mostofallherememberedhervoice.Hedidnotknow

French,andcouldnotunderstandawordshesaid,butitseemedtohimthatshemustbetalkingthemusicofChopin.Andhervoice,hethoughtheshouldknowthatintheotherworld.Thelastnightsheplayedaplayinwhichamantouchedher arm, and she stabbedhim.AsPeter sat among the smokinggas jetsdownbelowthefootlightswithhisfiddleonhisknee,andlookedupather,hethoughthewouldliketodietoo,ifhecouldtouchherarmonce,andhaveherstabhimso.Peterwenthometohiswifeverydrunkthatnight.Eveninthosedayshewasafoolishfellow,whocaredfornothingbutmusicandprettyfaces.

Itwasalldifferentnow.Hehadnothingtodrinkandlittletoeat,andhere,there was nothing but sun, and grass, and sky. He had forgotten almosteverything, but some things he rememberedwell enough.He loved his violinand the holy Mary, and above all else he feared the Evil One, and his sonAntone.

Thefirewaslow,anditgrewcold.StillPetersatbythefireremembering.Hedarednot throwmorecobsonthefire;Antonewouldbeangry.Hedidnotwanttocutwoodtomorrow,itwouldbeSunday,andhewantedtogotomass.Antonemight let himdo that.He held his violin under hiswrinkled chin, hiswhitehairfelloverit,andhebegantoplay“AveMaria.”Hishandshookmorethaneverbefore,andatlastrefusedtoworkthebowatall.Hesatstupefiedforawhile, then arose, and taking his violin with him, stole out into the old sodstable. He took Antone’s shot-gun down from its peg, and loaded it by themoonlightwhichstreamedinthroughthedoor.Hesatdownonthedirtfloor,andleanedbackagainstthedirtwall.Heheardthewolveshowlinginthedistance,andthenightwindscreamingasitsweptoverthesnow.Nearhimheheardtheregularbreathingofthehorsesinthedark.Heputhiscrucifixabovehisheart,and folding his hands said brokenly all the Latin he had ever known, “Paternoster,quiincælumest.”Thenheraisedhisheadandsighed,“NotonekreutzerwillAntonepaythemtoprayformysoul,notonekreutzer,heissocarefulofhismoney,isAntone,hedoesnotwasteitindrink,heisabettermanthanI,buthardsometimes.Heworksthegirlstoohard,womenwerenotmadetoworkso.Butheshallnotsellthee,myfiddle,Icanplaytheenomore,buttheyshallnotpartus.Wehaveseen itall together,andwewill forget it together, theFrench

womanandall.”Heheldhisfiddleunderhischinamoment,whereithadlainsooften,thenputitacrosshiskneeandbrokeitthroughthemiddle.Hepulledoffhis old boot, held the gun between his knees with the muzzle against hisforehead,andpressedthetriggerwithhistoe.

InthemorningAntonefoundhimstiff,frozenfastinapoolofblood.Theycouldnotstraightenhimoutenoughtofitacoffin,sotheyburiedhiminapinebox.BeforethefuneralAntonecarriedtotownthefiddle-bowwhichPeterhadforgottentobreak.Antonewasverythrifty,andabettermanthanhisfatherhadbeen.

TheMahoganyTree,May21,1892

OntheDivide

N EAR RATTLESNAKE CREEK, ON THE SIDE OF A LITTLE DRAW STOOD CANUTE’S

shanty. North, east, south, stretched the level Nebraska plain of long rust-redgrassthatundulatedconstantlyinthewind.Tothewestthegroundwasbrokenand rough, and a narrow strip of timberwound along the turbid,muddy littlestream that had scarcely ambition enough to crawl over its blackbottom. If ithad not been for the few stunted cottonwoods and elms that grew along itsbanks,Canutewouldhaveshothimselfyearsago.TheNorwegiansareatimber-lovingpeople,andifthereisevenaturtlepondwithafewplumbushesaroundittheyseemirresistiblydrawntowardit.

Astotheshantyitself,Canutehadbuiltitwithoutaidofanykind,forwhenhe first squatted along the banks ofRattlesnakeCreek therewas not a humanbeingwithintwentymiles.Itwasbuiltoflogssplitinhalves,thechinksstoppedwithmudandplaster.Theroofwascoveredwithearthandwassupportedbyonegiganticbeamcurvedintheshapeofaroundarch.Itwasalmostimpossiblethatanytreehadevergrowninthatshape.TheNorwegiansusedtosaythatCanutehad taken the log across his knee and bent it into the shape hewished.Therewere two rooms, or rather there was one room with a partition made of ash

saplings interwoven and bound together like big straw basket work. In onecorner therewas a cook stove, rusted and broken. In the other a bedmade ofunplanedplanksandpoles.Itwasfullyeightfeetlong,anduponitwasaheapofdarkbedclothing.Therewasachairandabenchofcolossalproportions.Therewas an ordinary kitchen cupboard with a few cracked dirty dishes in it, andbesideitonatallboxatinwash-basin.Underthebedwasapileofpintflasks,somebroken, somewhole, all empty.On thewoodbox lay a pair of shoesofalmost incredible dimensions. On the wall hung a saddle, a gun, and someraggedclothing,conspicuousamongwhichwasasuitofdarkcloth,apparentlynew,withapapercollarcarefullywrappedinaredsilkhandkerchiefandpinnedtothesleeve.Overthedoorhungawolfandabadgerskin,andonthedooritselfabraceofthirtyorfortysnakeskinswhosenoisytailsrattledominouslyeverytimeitopened.Thestrangestthingsintheshantywerethewidewindow-sills.Atfirstglancetheylookedasthoughtheyhadbeenruthlesslyhackedandmutilatedwith a hatchet, but on closer inspection all the notches andholes in thewoodtookformandshape.Thereseemed tobeaseriesofpictures.Theywere, inaroughway,artistic,butthefigureswereheavyandlabored,asthoughtheyhadbeen cut very slowly and with very awkward instruments. There were menplowingwith little horned imps sitting on their shoulders andon their horses’heads.Thereweremenprayingwithaskullhangingovertheirheadsandlittledemonsbehindthemmockingtheirattitudes.Thereweremenfightingwithbigserpents,andskeletonsdancingtogether.Allaboutthesepictureswerebloomingvines and foliage such as never grew in this world, and coiled among thebranchesofthevinestherewasalwaysthescalybodyofaserpent,andbehindevery flower therewasa serpent’shead. ItwasaveritableDanceofDeathbyonewhohadfeltitssting.Inthewoodboxlaysomeboards,andeveryinchofthemwas cut up in the samemanner.Sometimes theworkwasvery rude andcareless,andlookedasthoughthehandoftheworkmanhadtrembled.Itwouldsometimeshavebeenhardtodistinguishthemenfromtheirevilgeniusesbutforonefact,themenwerealwaysgraveandwereeithertoilingorpraying,whilethedevilswerealwayssmilinganddancing.Severaloftheseboardshadbeensplitforkindlinganditwasevidentthattheartistdidnotvaluehisworkhighly.

ItwasthefirstdayofwinterontheDivide.Canutestumbledintohisshantycarrying a basket of cobs, and after filling the stove, sat downon a stool andcrouchedhissevenfootframeoverthefire,staringdrearilyoutofthewindowatthewidegraysky.Heknewbyhearteveryindividualclumpofbunchgrassinthemilesofredshaggyprairiethatstretchedbeforehiscabin.Heknewitinallthe deceitful loveliness of its early summer, in all the bitter barrenness of itsautumn. He had seen it smitten by all the plagues of Egypt. He had seen itparchedbydrought,andsoggedbyrain,beatenbyhail,andsweptbyfire,andinthegrasshopperyearshehadseen it eaten asbare andclean asbones that thevultureshaveleft.Afterthegreatfireshehadseenitstretchformilesandmiles,blackandsmokingasthefloorofhell.

Heroseslowlyandcrossedtheroom,dragginghisbigfeetheavilyasthoughtheywereburdenstohim.Helookedoutofthewindowintothehogcorralandsawthepigsburying themselves in thestrawbefore theshed.The leadengrayclouds were beginning to spill themselves, and the snowflakes were settlingdownoverthewhiteleprouspatchesoffrozenearthwherethehogshadgnawedeventhesodaway.Heshudderedandbegantowalk,trampingheavilywithhisungainlyfeet.HewasthewreckoftenwintersontheDivideandheknewwhattheymeant.MenfearthewintersoftheDivideasachildfearsnightorasmenintheNorthSeasfearthestilldarkcoldofthepolartwilight.

Hiseyesfelluponhisgun,andhetookitdownfromthewallandlookeditover.Hesatdownontheedgeofhisbedandheld thebarrel towardshisface,letting his forehead rest upon it, and laid his finger on the trigger. He wasperfectly calm, there was neither passion nor despair in his face, but thethoughtful lookof amanwho is considering.Presently he laid down the gun,and reaching into the cupboard, drew out a pint bottle of raw white alcohol.Liftingittohislips,hedrankgreedily.Hewashedhisfaceinthetinbasinandcombed his rough hair and shaggy blond beard. Then he stood in uncertaintybeforethesuitofdarkclothesthathungonthewall.Forthefiftiethtimehetookthem in his hands and tried to summon courage to put them on.He took thepapercollar thatwaspinned to thesleeveof thecoatandcautiouslyslipped itunderhisroughbeard,lookingwithtimidexpectancyintothecracked,splashed

glassthathungoverthebench.Withashortlaughhethrewitdownonthebed,andpullingonhisoldblackhat,hewentout,strikingoffacrossthelevel.

It was a physical necessity for him to get away from his cabin once in awhile.He had been there for ten years, digging and plowing and sowing, andreapingwhat little the hail and the hot winds and the frosts left him to reap.InsanityandsuicideareverycommonthingsontheDivide.Theycomeonlikeanepidemicinthehotwindseason.ThosescorchingdustywindsthatblowupoverthebluffsfromKansasseemtodryupthebloodinmen’sveinsastheydothe sap in the corn leaves.Whenever the yellow scorch creeps downover thetenderinsideleavesabouttheear,thenthecoronersprepareforactiveduty;fortheoilofthecountryisburnedoutanditdoesnottakelongfortheflametoeatupthewick.ItcausesnogreatsensationtherewhenaDaneisfoundswingingtohis own windmill tower, and most of the Poles after they have become toocareless and discouraged to shave themselves keep their razors to cut theirthroatswith.

ItmaybethatthenextgenerationontheDividewillbeveryhappy,butthepresentonecame too late in life. It isuseless formen thathavecuthemlocksamongthemountainsofSwedenforfortyyearstotrytobehappyinacountryasflatandgrayandasnakedasthesea.ItisnoteasyformenthathavespenttheiryouthsfishingintheNorthernseastobecontentwithfollowingaplow,andmenthathaveservedintheAustrianarmyhatehardworkandcoarseclothingandtheloneliness of the plains, and long for marches and excitement and taverncompanyandprettybarmaids.Afteramanhaspassedhisfortiethbirthdayitisnoteasyforhimtochangethehabitsandconditionsofhislife.MostmenbringwiththemtotheDivideonlythedregsofthelivesthattheyhavesquanderedinotherlandsandamongotherpeoples.

CanuteCanutesonwasasmadasanyofthem,buthismadnessdidnottaketheformofsuicideorreligionbutofalcohol.Hehadalwaystakenliquorwhenhe wanted it, as all Norwegians do, but after his first year of solitary life hesettled down to it steadily. He exhausted whisky after a while, and went toalcohol, because its effectswere speedier and surer.Hewas a bigmanwith aterrible amount of resistant force, and it took a great deal of alcohol even to

movehim.Afternineyearsofdrinking,thequantitieshecouldtakewouldseemfabuloustoanordinarydrinkingman.Heneverletitinterferewithhiswork,hegenerallydrankatnightandonSundays.Everynight,assoonashischoresweredone,hebegantodrink.Whilehewasabletosituphewouldplayonhismouthharporhackawayathiswindowsillswithhisjackknife.Whentheliquorwenttohisheadhewouldliedownonhisbedandstareoutofthewindowuntilhewenttosleep.Hedrankaloneandinsolitudenotforpleasureorgoodcheer,buttoforgettheawfullonelinessandleveloftheDivide.Miltonmadeasadblunderwhen he put mountains in hell. Mountains postulate faith and aspiration. Allmountain peoples are religious. Itwas the cities of the plains that, because oftheirutter lackofspiritualityandthemadcapriceof theirvice,werecursedofGod.

Alcohol is perfectly consistent in its effects upon man. Drunkenness ismerelyanexaggeration.Afoolishmandrunkbecomesmaudlin;abloodyman,vicious;acoarseman,vulgar.Canutewasnoneofthese,buthewasmoroseandgloomy, and liquor took him through all the hells ofDante.As he lay on hisgiant’s bed all the horrors of thisworld and every otherwere laid bare to hischilledsenses.Hewasamanwhoknewnojoy,amanwhotoiledinsilenceandbitterness. The skull and the serpent were always before him, the symbols ofeternalfutilenessandofeternalhate.

WhenthefirstNorwegiansnearenoughtobecalledneighborscame,Canuterejoiced, andplanned to escape fromhis bosomvice.But hewasnot a socialman by nature and had not the power of drawing out the social side of otherpeople.Hisnewneighbors rather fearedhimbecauseofhisgreat strengthandsize, his silence and his lowering brows. Perhaps, too, they knew that hewasmad,mad from the eternal treachery of the plains,which every spring stretchgreenandrustlewiththepromisesofEden,showinglonggrassylagoonsfullofclearwaterandcattlewhosehoofsare stainedwithwild roses.Beforeautumnthelagoonsaredriedup,andthegroundisburntdryandharduntilitblistersandcracksopen.

Soinsteadofbecomingafriendandneighbor to thementhatsettledabouthim,Canutebecameamysteryandaterror.Theytoldawfulstoriesofhissize

andstrengthandofthealcoholhedrank.Theysaidthatonenight,whenhewentouttoseetohishorsesjustbeforehewenttobed,hisstepswereunsteadyandtherottenplanksofthefloorgavewayandthrewhimbehindthefeetofafieryyoungstallion.Hisfootwascaughtfastinthefloor,andthenervoushorsebegankickingfrantically.WhenCanutefeltthebloodtricklingdowninhiseyesfromascalpwound in his head, he roused himself from his kingly indifference, andwiththequietstoicalcourageofadrunkenmanleanedforwardandwoundhisarmsaboutthehorse’shindlegsandheldthemagainsthisbreastwithcrushingembrace.Allthroughthedarknessandcoldofthenighthelaythere,matchingstrengthagainststrength.WhenlittleJimPetersonwentoverthenextmorningatfouro’clocktogowithhimtotheBluetocutwood,hefoundhimso,andthehorsewasonitsforeknees,tremblingandwhinnyingwithfear.ThisisthestorytheNorwegianstellofhim,andifitistrueitisnowonderthattheyfearedandhatedthisHolderoftheHeelsofHorses.

One spring there moved to the next “eighty” a family that made a greatchangeinCanute’slife.OleYensenwastoodrunkmostofthetimetobeafraidof anyone, andhiswifeMarywas toogarrulous tobeafraidof anyonewholistened toher talk,andLena, theirprettydaughter,wasnotafraidofmannordevil. So it came about that Canute went over to take his alcohol with Oleoftenerthanhetookitalone.AfterawhilethereportspreadthathewasgoingtomarryYensen’sdaughter,andtheNorwegiangirlsbegantoteaseLenaaboutthegreatbearshewasgoingtokeephousefor.Noonecouldquiteseehowtheaffairhadcomeabout, forCanute’s tacticsof courtshipwere somewhatpeculiar.Heapparentlyneverspoketoheratall:hewouldsitforhourswithMarychatteringononesideofhimandOledrinkingontheotherandwatchLenaatherwork.Sheteasedhim,andthrewflourinhisfaceandputvinegarinhiscoffee,buthetook her rough jokes with silent wonder, never even smiling. He took her tochurch occasionally, but themostwatchful and curious people never saw himspeaktoher.Hewouldsitstaringatherwhileshegiggledandflirtedwith theothermen.

NextspringMaryLeewent to towntowork inasteamlaundry.Shecamehome every Sunday, and always ran across to Yensens to startle Lena with

storiesoftencenttheaters,firemen’sdances,andalltheotherestheticdelightsofmetropolitan life. In a fewweeksLena’sheadwascompletely turned, and shegave her father no rest until he let her go to town to seek her fortune at theironingboard.FromthetimeshecamehomeonherfirstvisitshebegantotreatCanutewith contempt. She had bought a plush cloak and kid gloves, had herclothesmade by the dress-maker, and assumed airs and graces that made theother women of the neighborhood cordially detest her. She generally broughtwith her a young man from town who waxed his mustache and wore a rednecktie,andshedidnotevenintroducehimtoCanute.

The neighbors teased Canute a good deal until he knocked one of themdown.HegavenosignofsufferingfromherneglectexceptthathedrankmoreandavoidedtheotherNorwegiansmorecarefullythanever.Helayaroundinhisdenandnooneknewwhathefeltor thought,but littleJimPeterson,whohadseenhimgloweringatLenainchurchoneSundaywhenshewastherewiththetownman,saidthathewouldnotgiveanacreofhiswheatforLena’slifeorthetown chap’s either; and Jim’s wheat was so wondrously worthless that thestatementwasanexceedinglystrongone.

Canutehadboughtanewsuitofclothesthatlookedasnearlylikethetownman’s as possible. They had cost him half a millet crop; for tailors are notaccustomedtofittinggiantsandtheychargeforit.Hehadhungthoseclothesinhis shanty two months ago and had never put them on, partly from fear ofridicule,partlyfromdiscouragement,andpartlybecausetherewassomethinginhisownsoulthatrevoltedatthelittlenessofthedevice.

Lenawasathomejustatthistime.WorkwasslackinthelaundryandMaryhadnotbeenwell,soLenastayedathome,gladenoughtogetanopportunitytotormentCanuteoncemore.

Shewaswashing in the side kitchen, singing loudly as sheworked.Marywasonherknees,blackingthestoveandscoldingviolentlyabouttheyoungmanwhowascomingoutfromtownthatnight.TheyoungmanhadcommittedthefatalerroroflaughingatMary’sceaselessbabbleandhadneverbeenforgiven.

“Heisnogood,andyouwillcometoabadendbyrunningwithhim!Idonotseewhyadaughterofmineshouldactso.IdonotseewhytheLordshould

visitsuchapunishmentuponmeastogivemesuchadaughter.Thereareplentyofgoodmenyoucanmarry.”

Lenatossedherheadandansweredcurtly,“Idon’thappentowanttomarryanymanrightaway,andsolongasDickdressesniceandhasplentyofmoneytospend,thereisnoharminmygoingwithhim.”

“Moneytospend?Yes,andthatisallhedoeswithitI’llbebound.Youthinkitveryfinenow,butyouwillchangeyourtunewhenyouhavebeenmarriedfiveyearsandseeyourchildrenrunningnakedandyourcupboardempty.DidAnneHermansoncometoanygoodendbymarryingatownman?”

“I don’t know anything about Anne Hermanson, but I know any of thelaundrygirlswouldhaveDickquickenoughiftheycouldgethim.”

“Yes, and a nice lot of store clothes huzzies you are too. Now there isCanutesonwhohasan‘eighty’provedupandfiftyheadofcattleand——”

“Andhairthatain’tbeencutsincehewasababy,andabigdirtybeard,andhewearsoverallsonSundays,anddrinkslikeapig.Besideshewillkeep.IcanhaveallthefunIwant,andwhenIamoldanduglylikeyouhecanhavemeandtakecareofme.TheLordknowsthereain’tnobodyelsegoingtomarryhim.”

Canutedrewhishandbackfromthelatchasthoughitwereredhot.Hewasnot the kind of a man to make a good eavesdropper, and he wished he hadknockedsooner.Hepulledhimselftogetherandstruckthedoorlikeabatteringram.Maryjumpedandopeneditwithascreech.

“God!Canute,howyouscaredus!IthoughtitwascrazyLou,—hehasbeentearingaroundtheneighborhoodtryingtoconvertfolks.Iamafraidasdeathofhim.Heoughttobesentoff,Ithink.Heisjustasliableasnottokillusall,orburnthebarn,orpoisonthedogs.Hehasbeenworryingeventhepoorministertodeath,andhelaidupwiththerheumatism,too!DidyounoticethathewastoosicktopreachlastSunday?Butdon’tstandthereinthecold,—comein.Yensenisn’t here, but he justwent over toSorenson’s for themail; hewon’t begonelong.Walkrightintheotherroomandsitdown.”

Canutefollowedher,lookingsteadilyinfrontofhimandnotnoticingLenaashepassedher.ButLena’svanitywouldnotallowhimtopassunmolested.Shetookthewetsheetshewaswringingoutandcrackedhimacrossthefacewithit,

andrangigglingtotheothersideoftheroom.Theblowstunghischeeksandthesoapywaterflewinhiseyes,andheinvoluntarilybeganrubbingthemwithhishands.Lenagiggledwithdelightathisdiscomfiture,andthewrathinCanute’sface grewblacker than ever.A bigman humiliated is vastlymore undignifiedthanalittleone.Heforgotthestingofhisfaceinthebitterconsciousnessthathehadmadeafoolofhimself.Hestumbledblindlyintothelivingroom,knockinghis head against the door jambbecause he forgot to stoop.He dropped into achair behind the stove, thrusting his big feet back helplessly on either side ofhim.

Olewasalongtimeincoming,andCanutesatthere,stillandsilent,withhishandsclenchedonhisknees,andtheskinofhisfaceseemedtohaveshriveledup into littlewrinkles that trembledwhen he lowered his brows.His life hadbeenonelonglethargyofsolitudeandalcohol,butnowhewasawakening,anditwasaswhenthedumbstagnantheatofsummerbreaksoutintothunder.

WhenOlecamestaggeringin,heavywithliquor,Canuteroseatonce.“Yensen,”hesaidquietly,“Ihavecometoseeifyouwillletmemarryyour

daughtertoday.”“Today!”gaspedOle.“Yes,Iwillnotwaituntiltomorrow.Iamtiredoflivingalone.”Ole braced his staggering knees against the bedstead, and stammered

eloquently:“DoyouthinkIwillmarrymydaughtertoadrunkard?amanwhodrinksrawalcohol?amanwhosleepswithrattlesnakes?GetoutofmyhouseorIwillkickyououtforyourimpudence.”AndOlebeganlookinganxiouslyforhisfeet.

Canute answered not aword, but he put on his hat andwent out into thekitchen.HewentuptoLenaandsaidwithoutlookingather,“Getyourthingsonandcomewithme!”

Thetonesofhisvoicestartledher,andshesaidangrily,droppingthesoap,“Areyoudrunk?”

“Ifyoudonotcomewithme,Iwill takeyou,—youhadbettercome,”saidCanutequietly.

Sheliftedasheettostrikehim,buthecaughtherarmroughlyandwrenched

thesheetfromher.Heturnedtothewallandtookdownahoodandshawlthathung there,andbeganwrappingherup.Lenascratchedandfought likeawildthing.Olestoodinthedoor,cursing,andMaryhowledandscreechedatthetopofher voice.As forCanute, he lifted thegirl in his arms andwent out of thehouse.Shekickedandstruggled,butthehelplesswailingofMaryandOlesoondied away in the distance, and her face was held down tightly on Canute’sshouldersothatshecouldnotseewhitherhewastakingher.Shewasconsciousonlyofthenorthwindwhistlinginherears,andofrapidsteadymotionandofagreatbreast thatheavedbeneathher inquick, irregularbreaths.Thehardershestruggled the tighter those iron arms that hadheld theheels of horses crushedabouther,untilshefeltasiftheywouldcrushthebreathfromher,andlaystillwith fear. Canute was striding across the level fields at a pace at whichmanneverwentbefore,drawingthestingingnorthwindintohislungsingreatgulps.Hewalkedwithhiseyeshalfclosedand lookingstraight in frontofhim,onlyloweringthemwhenhebenthisheadtoblowawaythesnowflakesthatsettledon her hair. So it was that Canute took her to his home, even as his beardedbarbarian ancestors took the fair frivolous women of the South in their hairyarmsandborethemdowntotheirwarships.Foreverandanonthesoulbecomeswearyoftheconventionsthatarenotofit,andwithasinglestrokeshattersthecivilizedlieswithwhichitisunabletocope,andthestrongarmreachesoutandtakesbyforcewhatitcannotwinbycunning.

WhenCanutereachedhisshantyheplacedthegirluponachair,whereshesatsobbing.Hestayedonlyafewminutes.Hefilledthestovewithwoodandlitthelamp,drankahugeswallowofalcoholandputthebottleinhispocket.Hepaused a moment, staring heavily at the weeping girl, then he went off andlockedthedooranddisappearedinthegatheringgloomofthenight.

Wrapped in flannels and soaked with turpentine, the little Norwegianpreacher sat readinghisBible,whenheheard a thunderingknock at his door,andCanuteentered,coveredwithsnowandwithhisbeardfrozenfasttohiscoat.

“Comein,Canute,youmustbefrozen,”saidthelittleman,shovingachairtowardshisvisitor.

Canute remained standingwithhis hat on and saidquietly, “Iwant you to

comeovertomyhousetonighttomarrymetoLenaYensen.”“Haveyougotalicense,Canute?”“No,Idon’twantalicense.Iwanttobemarried.”“ButIcan’tmarryyouwithoutalicense,man.Itwouldnotbelegal.”A dangerous light came in the bigNorwegian’s eye. “Iwant you to come

overtomyhousetomarrymetoLenaYensen.”“No, I can’t, it would kill an ox to go out in a storm like this, and my

rheumatismisbadtonight.”“ThenifyouwillnotgoImusttakeyou,”saidCanutewithasigh.Hetookdownthepreacher’sbearskincoatandbadehimputitonwhilehe

hitcheduphisbuggy.Hewentoutandclosedthedoorsoftlyafterhim.Presentlyhereturnedandfoundthefrightenedministercrouchingbeforethefirewithhiscoatlyingbesidehim.Canutehelpedhimputitonandgentlywrappedhisheadinhisbigmuffler.Thenhepickedhimupandcarriedhimoutandplacedhiminhisbuggy.Ashetuckedthebuffalorobesaroundhimhesaid:“Yourhorseisold,hemightflounderorlosehiswayinthisstorm.Iwillleadhim.”

Theminister took the reins feebly in his hands and sat shiveringwith thecold. Sometimes when there was a lull in the wind, he could see the horsestruggling throughthesnowwith themanploddingsteadilybesidehim.Againtheblowingsnowwouldhidethemfromhimaltogether.Hehadnoideawheretheywereorwhatdirection theyweregoing.He felt as thoughhewerebeingwhirledawayintheheartofthestorm,andhesaidalltheprayersheknew.Butatlastthelongfourmileswereover,andCanutesethimdowninthesnowwhileheunlockedthedoor.Hesawthebridesittingbythefirewithhereyesredandswollenas thoughshehadbeenweeping.Canuteplacedahugechair forhim,andsaidroughly,—

“Warmyourself.”Lenabegantocryandmoanafresh,beggingtheministertotakeherhome.

HelookedhelplesslyatCanute.Canutesaidsimply,—“Ifyouarewarmnow,youcanmarryus.”“My daughter, do you take this step of your own free will?” asked the

ministerinatremblingvoice.

“No sir, I don’t, and it is disgraceful he should force me into it! I won’tmarryhim.”

“Then,Canute,Icannotmarryyou,”saidtheminister,standingasstraightashisrheumaticlimbswouldlethim.

“Areyoureadytomarryusnow,sir?”saidCanute,layingoneironhandonhisstoopedshoulder.Thelittlepreacherwasagoodman,butlikemostmenofweakbodyhewasacowardandhadahorrorofphysicalsuffering,althoughhehadknownsomuchofit.Sowithmanyqualmsofconsciencehebegantorepeatthemarriage service.Lena sat sullenly in her chair, staring at the fire.Canutestoodbesideher,listeningwithhisheadbentreverentlyandhishandsfoldedonhis breast. When the little man had prayed and said amen, Canute beganbundlinghimupagain.

“Iwilltakeyouhome,now,”hesaidashecarriedhimoutandplacedhiminhisbuggy, and startedoffwithhim through the furyof the storm, flounderingamongthesnowdriftsthatbroughteventhegianthimselftohisknees.

After she was left alone, Lena soon ceased weeping. She was not of aparticularly sensitive temperament, and had little pride beyond that of vanity.After thefirstbitterangerwore itselfout,shefeltnothingmorethanahealthysenseofhumiliationanddefeat.Shehadnoinclinationtorunaway,forshewasmarriednow, and inher eyes thatwas final andall rebellionwasuseless.Sheknewnothingabouta license,butsheknewthatapreachermarriedfolks.SheconsoledherselfbythinkingthatshehadalwaysintendedtomarryCanutesomeday,anyway.

Shegrewtiredofcryingandlookingintothefire,soshegotupandbegantolookabouther.Shehadheardqueer tales about the insideofCanute’s shanty,and her curiosity soon got the better of her rage. One of the first things shenoticedwasthenewblacksuitofclotheshangingonthewall.Shewasdull,butitdidnot takeavainwomanlongto interpretanythingsodecidedlyflattering,andshewaspleasedinspiteofherself.Asshelookedthroughthecupboard,thegeneralairofneglectanddiscomfortmadeherpitythemanwholivedthere.

“Poorfellow,nowonderhewantstogetmarriedtogetsomebodytowashuphisdishes.Batchin’sprettyhardonaman.”

Itiseasytopitywhenonceone’svanityhasbeentickled.Shelookedatthewindowsillandgavealittleshudderandwonderedifthemanwerecrazy.ThenshesatdownagainandsatalongtimewonderingwhatherDickandOlewoulddo.

“It is queerDick didn’t come right over afterme.He surely came, for hewould have left town before the storm began and hemight just aswell comeright on as go back. If he’d hurried he would have gotten here before thepreachercame.Isupposehewasafraidtocome,forheknewCanutesoncouldpoundhimtojelly,thecoward!”Hereyesflashedangrily.

ThewearyhoursworeonandLenabegantogrowhorriblylonesome.Itwasan uncanny night and thiswas an uncanny place to be in. She could hear thecoyoteshowlinghungrilyalittlewayfromthecabin,andmoreterriblestillwerealltheunknownnoisesofthestorm.Sherememberedthetalestheytoldofthebiglogoverheadandshewasafraidofthosesnakythingsonthewindowsills.She remembered themanwhohadbeenkilled in thedraw, and shewonderedwhatshewoulddo ifshesawcrazyLou’swhitefaceglaring into thewindow.Therattlingofthedoorbecameunbearable,shethoughtthelatchmustbelooseandtookthelamptolookatit.Thenforthefirst timeshesawtheuglybrownsnakeskinswhosedeathrattlesoundedeverytimethewindjarredthedoor.

“Canute,Canute!”shescreamedinterror.Outside the door she heard a heavy sound as of a big dog getting up and

shakinghimself.ThedooropenedandCanutestoodbeforeher,whiteasasnowdrift.

“Whatisit?”heaskedkindly.“Iamcold,”shefaltered.Hewentoutandgotanarmfulofwoodandabasketofcobsandfilledthe

stove.Thenhewentoutandlayinthesnowbeforethedoor.Presentlyheheardhercallingagain.

“Whatisit?”hesaid,sittingup.“I’msolonesome,I’mafraidtostayinhereallalone.”“Iwillgooverandgetyourmother.”Andhegotup.“Shewon’tcome.”

“I’llbringher,”saidCanutegrimly.“No,no.Idon’twanther,shewillscoldallthetime.”“Well,Iwillbringyourfather.”Shespokeagainanditseemedasthoughhermouthwascloseuptothekey-

hole.Shespokelower thanhehadeverheardherspeakbefore,so lowthathehadtoputhisearuptothelocktohearher.

“Idon’twanthimeither,Canute,—I’dratherhaveyou.”Foramomentsheheardnonoiseatall,thensomethinglikeagroan.Witha

cryoffearsheopenedthedoor,andsawCanutestretchedinthesnowatherfeet,hisfaceinhishands,sobbingonthedoorstep.

OverlandMonthly,January1896

EricHermannson’sSoul

I.

I TWASAGREATNIGHTATTHELONESTARSCHOOLHOUSE—ANIGHTWHENTHESPIRIT

waspresentwithpowerandwhenGodwasverynear toman.So it seemed toAsaSkinner,servantofGodandFreeGospeller.Theschoolhousewascrowdedwith the saved and sanctified, robustmen andwomen, trembling andquailingbeforethepowerofsomemysteriouspsychicforce.Hereandthereamongthiscowering,sweatingmultitudecrouchedsomepoorwretchwhohadfeltthepangsof an awakened conscience, but had not yet experienced that completedivestmentofreason,thatfrenzybornofaconvulsionofthemind,which,intheparlanceoftheFreeGospellers, is termed“theLight.”Onthefloor,beforethemourners’bench,laytheunconsciousfigureofamaninwhomoutragednaturehad sought her last resort.This “trance” state is the highest evidenceof graceamongtheFreeGospellers,andindicatesaclosewalkingwithGod.

BeforethedeskstoodAsaSkinner,shoutingofthemercyandvengeanceofGod,andinhiseyesshoneaterribleearnestness,analmostpropheticflame.AsawasaconvertedtraingamblerwhousedtorunbetweenOmahaandDenver.He

wasamanmadefor theextremesof life; fromthemostdebauchedofmenhehadbecomethemostascetic.Hiswasabestialface,afacethatborethestampofNature’seternal injustice.The foreheadwas low,projectingover theeyes,andthe sandyhairwasplastereddownover it and thenbrushedback at an abruptrightangle.Thechinwasheavy,thenostrilswerelowandwide,andthelowerliphunglooselyexceptinhismomentsofspasmodicearnestness,whenitshutlikeasteeltrap.Yetaboutthosecoarsefeaturesthereweredeep,ruggedfurrows,the scarsofmanyahand-to-handstrugglewith theweaknessof the flesh, andabout that drooping lip were sharp, strenuous lines that had conquered it andtaughtittopray.Overthoseseamedcheekstherewasacertainpallor,agraynesscaughtfrommanyavigil.Itwasasthough,afterNaturehaddoneherworstwiththatface,somefinechiselhadgoneoverit,chasteningandalmosttransfiguringit.To-night,ashismusclestwitchedwithemotion,andtheperspirationdroppedfromhishairandchin,therewasacertainconvincingpowerintheman.ForAsaSkinnerwasamanpossessedofabelief,ofthatsentimentofthesublimebeforewhich all inequalities are leveled, that transport of conviction which seemssuperiortoalllawsofcondition,underwhichdebaucheeshavebecomemartyrs;whichmadeatinkeranartistandacamel-driverthefounderofanempire.ThiswaswithAsaSkinnerto-night,ashestoodproclaimingthevengeanceofGod.

ItmighthaveoccurredtoanimpartialobserverthatAsaSkinner’sGodwasindeedavengefulGodifhecouldreservevengeanceforthoseofhiscreatureswhowerepacked into theLoneStar schoolhouse thatnight.Poorexilesof allnations;menfromthesouthandthenorth,peasantsfromalmosteverycountryofEurope,mostof themfrom themountainous,night-boundcoastofNorway.Honestmenfor themostpart,butmenwithwhomtheworldhaddealthardly;thefailuresofallcountries,mensoberedbytoilandsaddenedbyexile,whohadbeendriventofightforthedominionofanuntowardsoil, tosowwhereothersshouldgather,theadvance-guardofamightycivilizationtobe.

Never had Asa Skinner spoken more earnestly than now. He felt that theLordhadthisnightaspecialworkforhimtodo.To-nightEricHermannson,thewildestladonalltheDivide,satinhisaudiencewithafiddleonhisknee,justashehaddroppedinonhiswaytoplayforsomedance.Theviolinisanobjectof

particular abhorrence to the Free Gospellers. Their antagonism to the churchorgan is bitter enough, but the fiddle they regard as a very incarnationof evildesires,singingforeverofworldlypleasuresandinseparablyassociatedwithallforbiddenthings.

EricHermannsonhadlongbeentheobjectoftheprayersoftherevivalists.His mother had felt the power of the Spirit weeks ago, and special prayer-meetings had been held at her house for her son. But Eric had only gone hiswayslaughing,thewaysofyouth,whichareshortenoughatbest,andnonetoofloweryon theDivide.He slipped away from theprayer-meetings tomeet theCampbell boys in Genereau’s saloon, or hug the plump little French girls atChevalier’sdances,andsometimes,ofasummernight,heevenwentacrossthedewycornfields and through thewild-plum thicket toplay the fiddle forLenaHanson,whosenamewasareproachthroughalltheDividecountry,wherethewomenareusuallytooplainandtoobusyandtootiredtodepartfromthewaysofvirtue.OnsuchoccasionsLena,attiredinapinkwrapperandsilkstockingsand tinypink slippers,would sing tohim, accompanyingherselfonabatteredguitar. It gave him a delicious sense of freedom and experience to be with awomanwho,nomatterhow,hadlivedinbigcitiesandknewthewaysoftown-folk,whohadneverworkedinthefieldsandhadkeptherhandswhiteandsoft,herthroatfairandtender,whohadheardgreatsingersinDenverandSaltLake,andwhoknewthestrangelanguageofflatteryandidlenessandmirth.

Yet, careless as he seemed, the frantic prayers of his mother were notaltogetherwithout their effect uponEric. For days he had been fleeing beforethem as a criminal from his pursuers, and over his pleasures had fallen theshadow of something dark and terrible that dogged his steps. The harder hedanced, the louder he sang, themorewashe conscious that this phantomwasgaininguponhim,thatintimeitwouldtrackhimdown.OneSundayafternoon,lateinthefall,whenhehadbeendrinkingbeerwithLenaHansonandlisteningtoasongwhichmadehischeeksburn,arattlesnakehadcrawledoutofthesideof thesodhouseandthrust itsuglyheadinunder thescreendoor.Hewasnotafraidofsnakes,butheknewenoughofGospellismtofeel thesignificanceofthe reptile lying coiled there upon her doorstep. His lips were cold when he

kissedLenagood-by,andhewenttherenomore.ThefinalbarrierbetweenEricandhismother’sfaithwashisviolin,andto

thatheclungasamansometimeswillclingtohisdearestsin,totheweaknessmoreprecious tohim thanallhisstrength. In thegreatworldbeautycomes tomeninmanyguises,andartinahundredforms,butforErictherewasonlyhisviolin. It stood, tohim, forall themanifestationsofart; itwashisonlybridgeintothekingdomofthesoul.

It was to Eric Hermannson that the evangelist directed his impassionedpleadingthatnight.

“Saul,Saul,whypersecutestthoume?IsthereaSaulhereto-nightwhohasstoppedhisearstothatgentlepleading,whohasthrustaspearintothatbleedingside?Thinkofit,mybrother;youareofferedthiswonderfulloveandyoupreferthewormthatdiethnotandthefirewhichwillnotbequenched.WhatrighthaveyoutoloseoneofGod’sprecioussouls?Saul,Saul,whypersecutestthoume?”

A great joy dawned in Asa Skinner’s pale face, for he saw that EricHermannsonwasswayingtoandfroinhisseat.Theministerfelluponhiskneesandthrewhislongarmsupoverhishead.

“Omybrothers!Ifeelitcoming,theblessingwehaveprayedfor.ItellyoutheSpiritiscoming!Justalittlemoreprayer,brothers,alittlemorezeal,andhewillbehere.Icanfeelhiscoolingwinguponmybrow.GlorybetoGodforeverandever,amen!”

Thewhole congregationgroanedunder thepressureof this spiritual panic.Shoutsandhallelujahswentupfromeverylip.Anotherfigurefellprostrateuponthefloor.Fromthemourners’benchroseachantofterrorandrapture:

“Eatinghoneyanddrinkingwine,GlorytothebleedingLamb!

IammyLord’sandheismine,GlorytothebleedingLamb!”

Thehymnwassunginadozendialectsandvoicedallthevagueyearningofthesehungrylives,ofthesepeoplewhohadstarvedallthepassionssolong,onlytofallvictimstothebasestofthemall,fear.

AgroanofultimateanguishrosefromEricHermannson’sbowedhead,andthesoundwaslikethegroanofagreattreewhenitfallsintheforest.

Theministerrosesuddenlytohisfeetandthrewbackhishead,cryinginaloudvoice:

“Lazarus,comeforth!EricHermannson,youarelost,goingdownatsea.InthenameofGod,andJesusChristhisSon,Ithrowyouthelife-line.Takehold!AlmightyGod,mysoulforhis!”Theministerthrewhisarmsoutandliftedhisquiveringface.

EricHermannsonrosetohisfeet;hislipsweresetandthelightningwasinhis eyes.He took his violin by the neck and crushed it to splinters across hisknee,andtoAsaSkinnerthesoundwasliketheshacklesofsinbrokenaudiblyasunder.

II.

FormorethantwoyearsEricHermannsonkepttheausterefaithtowhichhehadswornhimself,keptituntilagirlfromtheEastcametospendaweekontheNebraskaDivide.Shewasagirlofothermannersandconditions,andthereweregreaterdistancesbetweenherlifeandEric’sthanallthemileswhichseparatedRattlesnakeCreekfromNewYorkcity.Indeed,shehadnobusinesstobeintheWest at all; but ah! acrosswhat leagues of land and sea, bywhat improbablechances,dotheunrelentinggodsbringtousourfate!

ItwasinayearoffinancialdepressionthatWyllisElliotcametoNebraskatobuycheaplandandrevisit thecountrywherehehadspentayearofhisyouth.When he had graduated from Harvard it was still customary for moneyedgentlemen tosend their scapegracesons to rough iton ranches in thewildsofNebraskaorDakota,ortoconsignthemtoalivingdeathinthesage-brushoftheBlackHills.Theseyoungmendidnotalwaysreturntothewaysofcivilizedlife.ButWyllisElliothadnotmarriedahalf-breed,norbeenshotinacow-punchers’brawl,norwreckedbybadwhisky,norappropriatedbyasmirchedadventuress.Hehadbeensavedfromthesethingsbyagirl,hissister,whohadbeenveryneartohis lifeeversince thedayswhen theyreadfairy tales togetheranddreamed

thedreamsthatnevercometrue.Onthis,hisfirstvisittohisfather’sranchsinceheleftitsixyearsbefore,hebroughtherwithhim.Shehadbeenlaiduphalfthewinter from a sprain received while skating, and had had too much time forreflectionduring thosemonths.Shewasrestlessandfilledwithadesire toseesomethingof thewildcountryofwhichherbrotherhad toldhersomuch.Shewastobemarriedthenextwinter,andWyllisunderstoodherwhenshebeggedhimtotakeherwithhimonthislong,aimlessjauntacrossthecontinent,totastethelastoftheirfreedomtogether.Itcomestoallwomenofhertype—thatdesiretotastetheunknownwhichalluresandterrifies,torunone’swholesoul’slengthouttothewind—justonce.

It hadbeen an eventful journey.Wyllis somehowunderstood that strain ofgypsybloodinhissister,andheknewwheretotakeher.TheyhadsleptinsodhousesonthePlatteRiver,madetheacquaintanceofthepersonnelofathird-rateopera company on the train to Deadwood, dined in a camp of railroadconstructorsattheworld’sendbeyondNewCastle,gonethroughtheBlackHillsonhorseback,fishedfortroutinDomeLake,watchedadanceatCrippleCreek,wherethelostsoulswhohideinthehillsgatheredfortheirbesottedrevelry.Andnow, last of all, before the return to thraldom, there was this little shack,anchoredonthewindycrestoftheDivide,alittleblackdotagainsttheflamingsunsets,ascentedseaofcornlandbathedinopalescentairandblindingsunlight.

MargaretElliotwasoneofthosewomenofwhomtherearesomanyinthisday,when old order, passing, giveth place to new; beautiful, talented, critical,unsatisfied,tiredoftheworldattwenty-four.ForthemomentthelifeandpeopleoftheDivideinterestedher.Shewastherebutaweek;perhapshadshestayedlonger,thatinexorableennuiwhichtravelsfastereventhantheVestibuleLimitedwould have overtaken her. Theweek she tarried therewas theweek that EricHermannsonwashelpingJerryLockhartthresh;aweekearlieroraweeklater,andtherewouldhavebeennostorytowrite.

ItwasonThursdayandtheyweretoleaveonSaturday.Wyllisandhissisterweresittingonthewidepiazzaoftheranchhouse,staringoutintotheafternoonsunlightandprotestingagainstthegustsofhotwindthatblewupfromthesandyriver-bottomtwentymilestothesouthward.

Theyoungmanpulledhiscaploweroverhiseyesandremarked:“Thiswindistherealthing;youdon’tstrikeitanywhereelse.Youremember

wehadatouchofitinAlgiersandItoldyouitcamefromKansas.It’sthekey-noteofthiscountry.”

Wyllistouchedherhandthatlayonthehammockandcontinuedgently:“Ihopeit’spaidyou,Sis.Roughingit’sdangerousbusiness;ittakesthetaste

outofthings.”Sheshutherfingersfirmlyoverthebrownhandthatwassolikeherown.“Paid?Why,Wyllis, I haven’t been so happy sincewewere children and

were going to discover the ruins of Troy together some day.Do you know, IbelieveIcouldjuststayonhereforeverandlettheworldgoonitsowngait.Itseemsasthoughthetensionandstrainweusedtotalkoflastwinterweregoneforgood,asthoughonecouldnevergiveone’sstrengthouttosuchpettythingsanymore.”

Wyllis brushed the ashes of his pipe away from the silk handkerchief thatwasknottedabouthisneckandstaredmoodilyoffatthesky-line.

“No,you’remistaken.Thiswouldboreyouafter awhile.Youcan’t shakethefeveroftheotherlife.I’vetriedit.TherewasatimewhenthegayfellowsofRomecouldtrotdownintotheThebaidandburrowintothesandhillsandgetridof it. But it’s all too complex now. You see we’ve made our dissipations sodaintyandrespectablethatthey’vegonefurtherinthantheflesh,andtakenholdoftheegoproper.Youcouldn’trest,evenhere.Thewar-crywouldfollowyou.”

“Youdon’twastewords,Wyllis, but younevermiss fire. I talkmore thanyoudo,withoutsayinghalfsomuch.Youmusthave learned theartofsilencefromthesetaciturnNorwegians.IthinkIlikesilentmen.”

“Naturally,”saidWyllis,“sinceyouhavedecidedtomarrythemostbrillianttalkeryouknow.”

Bothweresilentforatime,listeningtothesighingofthehotwindthroughtheparchedmorning-gloryvines.Margaretspokefirst.

“Tell me, Wyllis, were many of the Norwegians you used to know asinterestingasEricHermannson?”

“Who,Siegfried?Well,no.HeusedtobethefloweroftheNorwegianyouth

inmyday,andhe’sratheranexception,evennow.Hehasretrograded,though.Thebondsofthesoilhavetightenedonhim,Ifancy.”

“Siegfried?Come,that’srathergood,Wyllis.Helookslikeadragon-slayer.What is it thatmakes him so different from the others? I can talk to him; heseemsquitelikeahumanbeing.”

“Well,” said Wyllis, meditatively, “I don’t read Bourget as much as myculturedsister,andI’mnotsowellup inanalysis,but I fancy it’sbecauseonekeepscherishingaperfectlyunwarrantedsuspicionthatunderthatbig,hulkinganatomyofhis,hemayconcealasoulsomewhere.Nichtwahr?”

“Something like that,” said Margaret, thoughtfully, “except that it’s morethan a suspicion, and it isn’t groundless.Hehas one, and hemakes it known,somehow,withoutspeaking.”

“I always havemy doubts about loquacious souls,”Wyllis remarked,withtheunbelievingsmilethathadgrownhabitualwithhim.

Margaret went on, not heeding the interruption. “I knew it from the first,whenhetoldmeaboutthesuicideofhiscousin,theBernsteinboy.Thatkindofbluntpathoscan’tbesummonedatwillinanybody.Theearliernovelistsrosetoit, sometimes,unconsciously.But lastnightwhen I sang forhimIwasdoublysure.Oh,Ihaven’ttoldyouaboutthatyet!Betterlightyourpipeagain.Yousee,hestumbledinonmein thedarkwhenIwaspumpingawayat thatoldparlororgantopleaseMrs.Lockhart.It’sherhouseholdfetishandI’veforgottenhowmanypoundsofbuttershemadeandsoldtobuyit.Well,Ericstumbledin,andinsomeinarticulatemannermademeunderstandthathewantedmetosingforhim.Isangjusttheoldthings,ofcourse.It’squeertosingfamiliarthingshereattheworld’s end. Itmakes one think how the hearts ofmen have carried themaround theworld, into thewastesof Icelandand the junglesofAfricaand theislands of the Pacific. I think if one lived here long enough one would quiteforgethowtobetrivial,andwouldreadonlythegreatbooksthatwenevergettime to read in theworld, andwould remember only the greatmusic, and thethings that are reallyworthwhilewould standout clearly against that horizonover there.Andofcourse Iplayed the intermezzo from‘CavalleriaRusticana’forhim; itgoes ratherbetteronanorgan thanmost thingsdo.Heshuffledhis

feetandtwistedhisbighandsupintoknotsandblurtedoutthathedidn’tknowtherewasanymusic like that in theworld.Why, therewere tears inhisvoice,Wyllis!Yes,likeRossetti,Iheardhistears.Thenitdawneduponmethatitwasprobablythefirstgoodmusichehadeverheardinallhislife.Thinkofit,tocareformusicashedoesandnevertohearit,nevertoknowthatitexistsonearth!Tolongforitaswelongforotherperfectexperiencesthatnevercome.Ican’ttellyouwhatmusicmeanstothatman.Ineversawanyonesosusceptibletoit.It gave him speech, he became alive.When I had finished the intermezzo, hebegantellingmeaboutalittlecrippledbrotherwhodiedandwhomhelovedandused to carry everywhere in his arms.Hedid notwait for encouragement.Hetookupthestoryandtolditslowly,asiftohimself,justsortofroseupandtoldhisownwoetoanswerMascagni’s.Itovercameme.”

“Poor devil,” said Wyllis, looking at her with mysterious eyes, “and soyou’vegivenhimanewwoe.Nowhe’llgoonwantingGriegandSchuberttherestofhisdaysandnevergettingthem.That’sagirl’sphilanthropyforyou!”

Jerry Lockhart came out of the house screwing his chin over the unusualluxuryofastiffwhitecollar,whichhiswifeinsisteduponasanecessaryarticleof toilet while Miss Elliot was at the house. Jerry sat down on the step andsmiledhisbroad,redsmileatMargaret.

“Well,I’vegotthemusicforyourdance,MissElliot.OlafOlesonwillbringhis accordion andMolliewill play the organ,when she isn’t lookin’ after thegrub,andalittlechapfromFrenchtownwillbringhisfiddle—thoughtheFrenchdon’tmixwiththeNorwegiansmuch.”

“Delightful!Mr.Lockhart,thatdancewillbethefeatureofourtrip,andit’ssoniceofyoutogetitupforus.We’llseetheNorwegiansincharacteratlast,”criedMargaret,cordially.

“Seehere,Lockhart,I’llsettlewithyouforbackingherinthisscheme,”saidWyllis, sitting up and knocking the ashes out of his pipe. “She’s done crazythingsenoughonthis trip,but to talkofdancingallnightwithagangofhalf-madNorwegiansandtakingthecarriageatfourtocatchthesixo’clocktrainoutofRiverton—well,it’stommy-rot,that’swhatitis!”

“Wyllis, I leave it to your sovereign power of reason to decidewhether it

isn’teasiertostayupallnightthantogetupatthreeinthemorning.Togetupatthree,thinkwhatthatmeans!No,sir,Iprefertokeepmyvigilandthengetintoasleeper.”

“Butwhat do youwantwith theNorwegians? I thought youwere tired ofdancing.”

“So I am,with some people.But Iwant to see aNorwegian dance, and Iintendto.Come,Wyllis,youknowhowseldomitisthatonereallywantstodoanythingnowadays.IwonderwhenIhavereallywantedtogotoapartybefore.ItwillbesomethingtoremembernextmonthatNewport,whenwehavetoanddon’twantto.Rememberyourowntheorythatcontrastisabouttheonlythingthatmakeslifeendurable.ThisismypartyandMr.Lockhart’s;yourwholedutyto-morrownightwill consist inbeingnice to theNorwegiangirls. I’llwarrantyouwereadeptenoughat itonce.Andyou’dbetterbeveryniceindeed,for ifthere are many such young valkyrs as Eric’s sister among them, they wouldsimplytieyouupinaknotiftheysuspectedyouwereguyingthem.”

Wyllisgroanedandsankbackintothehammocktoconsiderhisfate,whilehissisterwenton.

“Andtheguests,Mr.Lockhart,didtheyaccept?”Lockhart took out his knife and began sharpening it on the sole of his

plowshoe.“Well, Iguesswe’llhavea coupledozen.You see it’sprettyhard toget a

crowd together here any more. Most of ’em have gone over to the FreeGospellers,andthey’dratherputtheirfeetinthefirethanshake’emtoafiddle.”

Margaretmadeagestureofimpatience.“ThoseFreeGospellershavejustcastanevilspelloverthiscountry,haven’t

they?”“Well,”saidLockhart,cautiously,“Idon’tjustliketopassjudgmentonany

Christiansect,but ifyou’re toknowthechosenby theirworks, theGospellerscan’tmakeaveryproudshowin’,an’that’safact.They’reresponsibleforafewsuicides,andthey’vesentagood-sizeddelegationtothestateinsaneasylum,an’Idon’tseeasthey’vemadetherestofusmuchbetterthanwewerebefore.Ihadalittleherdboylastspring,assquarealittleDaneasIwanttoworkforme,but

aftertheGospellersgotholdofhimandsanctifiedhim,thelittlebeggarusedtogetdownonhiskneesoutontheprairieandpraybythehourandletthecattlegetintothecorn,an’Ihadtofirehim.That’saboutthewayitgoes.Nowthere’sEric; thatchapused tobeahustlerand thespryestdancer inall thissection—calledall thedances.Nowhe’sgotnoambitionandhe’sglumasapreacher. Idon’tsupposewecanevengethimtocomeinto-morrownight.”

“Eric?Why, hemust dance,we can’t let himoff,” saidMargaret, quickly.“Why,Iintendtodancewithhimmyself!”

“I’mafraidhewon’tdance.Iaskedhimthismorningifhe’dhelpusoutandhe said, ‘I don’t dance now, anymore,’” said Lockhart, imitating the laboredEnglishoftheNorwegian.

“‘TheMiller ofHoffbau, theMiller ofHoffbau,OmyPrincess!’” chirpedWyllis,cheerfully,fromhishammock.

The red on his sister’s cheek deepened a little, and she laughedmischievously.“We’llseeabout that,sir. I’llnotadmit that Iambeatenuntil Ihaveaskedhimmyself.”

Every night Eric rode over to St. Anne, a little village in the heart of theFrenchsettlement,forthemail.AstheroadlaythroughthemostattractivepartoftheDividecountry,onseveraloccasionsMargaretElliotandherbrotherhadaccompanied him. To-nightWyllis had business with Lockhart, andMargaretrodewithEric,mountedonafriskylittlemustangthatMrs.Lockharthadbrokentotheside-saddle.Margaretregardedherescortverymuchasshedidtheservantwhoalwaysaccompaniedheronlongridesathome,andtheridetothevillagewasasilentone.Shewasoccupiedwiththoughtsofanotherworld,andEricwaswrestlingwithmorethoughtsthanhadeverbeencrowdedintohisheadbefore.He rode with his eyes riveted on that slight figure before him, as though hewishedtoabsorbitthroughtheopticnervesandholditinhisbrainforever.Heunderstood the situationperfectly.Hisbrainworkedslowly,buthehadakeensense of the values of things.This girl represented an entirely new species ofhumanitytohim,butheknewwheretoplaceher.Theprophetsofold,whenanangelfirstappeareduntothem,neverdoubteditshighorigin.

Eric was patient under the adverse conditions of his life, but he was not

servile.TheNorsebloodinhimhadnotentirelylostitsself-reliance.Hecameofa proud fisher line,menwhowere not afraid of anything but the ice and thedevil,andhehadprospectsbeforehimwhenhisfatherwentdownofftheNorthCape in the long Arctic night, and his mother, seized by a violent horror ofseafaring life, had followed her brother to America. Eric was eighteen then,handsomeasyoungSiegfried,agiantinstature,withaskinsingularlypureanddelicate, like a Swede’s; hair as yellow as the locks of Tennyson’s amorousPrince,andeyesofa fierce,burningblue,whose flashwasmostdangerous towomen.Hehadinthosedaysacertainprideofbearing,acertainconfidenceofapproach,thatusuallyaccompaniesphysicalperfection.Itwasevensaidofhimthenthathewasinlovewithlife,andinclinedtolevity,avicemostunusualontheDivide.ButthesadhistoryofthoseNorwegianexiles,transplantedinanaridsoilandunderascorchingsun,hadrepeateditselfinhiscase.Toilandisolationhad soberedhim, andhegrewmore andmore like the clods amongwhichhelabored. Itwas as though some red-hot instrument had touched for amomentthose delicate fibers of the brain which respond to acute pain or pleasure, inwhichliesthepowerofexquisitesensation,andhadsearedthemquiteaway.ItisapainfulthingtowatchthelightdieoutoftheeyesofthoseNorsemen,leavinganexpressionof impenetrablesadness,quitepassive,quitehopeless,ashadowthat is never lifted.With some this change comes almost at once, in the firstbitternessofhomesickness,withothers itcomesmoreslowly,according to thetimeittakeseachman’shearttodie.

Oh,thosepoorNorthmenoftheDivide!Theyaredeadmanyayearbeforetheyareput torest in the littlegraveyardon thewindyhillwhereexilesofallnationsgrowakin.

The peculiar species of hypochondria to which the exiles of his peoplesooneror later succumbhadnotdeveloped inEricuntil thatnightat theLoneStarschoolhouse,whenhehadbrokenhisviolinacrosshisknee.Afterthat,thegloomofhispeoplesettleddownuponhim,andthegospelofmacerationbeganitswork.“Ifthineeyeoffendthee,pluckitout,”etcetera.Thepagansmilethatonce hovered about his lipswas gone, and hewas onewith sorrow. Religionhealsahundredheartsforonethatitembitters,butwhenitdestroys,itsworkis

quickanddeadly,andwheretheagonyofthecrosshasbeen,joywillnotcomeagain.Thismanunderstoodthingsliterally:onemustlivewithoutpleasuretodiewithoutfear;tosavethesoulitwasnecessarytostarvethesoul.

ThesunhunglowabovethecornfieldswhenMargaretandhercavalierleftSt.Anne.Southof the town there isa stretchof road that runs for some threemilesthroughtheFrenchsettlement,wheretheprairieisaslevelasthesurfaceofalake.Therethefieldsofflaxandwheatandryeareborderedbypreciserowsofslender,taperingLombardpoplars.ItwasayellowworldthatMargaretElliotsawunderthewidelightofthesettingsun.

ThegirlgatheredupherreinsandcalledbacktoEric,“Itwillbesafetorunthehorseshere,won’tit?”

“Yes, I think so,now,”heanswered, touchinghis spur tohispony’s flank.Theywere off like thewind. It is an old saying in theWest that new-comersalways ride a horse or two to death before they get broken in to the country.Theyaretemptedbythegreatopenspacesandtrytooutridethehorizon,togetto theendofsomething.Margaretgallopedover the levelroad,andEric,frombehind, sawher long veil fluttering in thewind. It had fluttered just so in hisdreamslastnightandthenightbefore.Withasuddeninspirationofcourageheovertook her and rode beside her, looking intently at her half-averted face.Before,hehadonly stolenoccasionalglancesat it, seen it inblinding flashes,alwayswithmoreorlessembarrassment,butnowhedeterminedtoleteverylineof it sink into hismemory.Men of theworldwould have said that it was anunusual face, nervous, finely cut, with clear, elegant lines that betokenedancestry.Men of letters would have called it a historic face, andwould haveconjecturedatwhatoldpassions, longasleep,whatoldsorrowsforgotten timeout of mind, doing battle together in ages gone, had curved those delicatenostrils,lefttheirunconsciousmemoryinthoseeyes.ButEricreadnomeaninginthesedetails.Tohimthisbeautywassomethingmorethancolorandline; itwasasaflashofwhitelight,inwhichonecannotdistinguishcolorbecauseallcolorsare there.Tohim itwasacomplete revelation,anembodimentof thosedreams of impossible loveliness that linger by a young man’s pillow onmidsummer nights; yet, because it held somethingmore than the attraction of

healthandyouthandshapeliness,ittroubledhim,andinitspresencehefeltastheGothsbeforethewhitemarblesintheRomanCapitol,notknowingwhethertheyweremenorgods.Attimeshefeltlikeuncoveringhisheadbeforeit,againthefuryseizedhimtobreakanddespoil,tofindtheclayinthisspirit-thingandstampupon it.Awayfromher,he longed tostrikeoutwithhisarms,and takeandhold;itmaddenedhimthatthiswomanwhomhecouldbreakinhishandsshould be so much stronger than he. But near her, he never questioned thisstrength;headmitteditspotentialityasheadmittedthemiraclesoftheBible;itenervated and conquered him. To-night,when he rode so close to her that hecouldhavetouchedher,heknewthathemightaswellreachouthishandtotakeastar.

Margaret stirred uneasily under his gaze and turned questioningly in hersaddle.

“Thiswindputsmealittleoutofbreathwhenweridefast,”shesaid.Ericturnedhiseyesaway.“IwanttoaskyouifIgotoNewYorktowork,ifImaybehearmusiclike

yousanglastnight?Ibeenapurtygoodhandtowork,”heasked,timidly.Margaretlookedathimwithsurprise,andthen,asshestudiedtheoutlineof

hisface,pityingly.“Well,youmight—butyou’dloseagooddealelse.Ishouldn’tlikeyoutogo

toNewYork—andbepoor,you’dbeoutofatmosphere, someway,”shesaid,slowly. Inwardly she was thinking: “There he would be altogether sordid,impossible—amachinewhowouldcarryone’strunksupstairs,perhaps.Hereheis every inchaman, ratherpicturesque;why is it?”“No,” sheaddedaloud, “Ishouldn’tlikethat.”

“ThenInotgo,”saidEric,decidedly.Margaretturnedherfacetohideasmile.Shewasatrifleamusedandatrifle

annoyed.Suddenlyshespokeagain.“ButI’lltellyouwhatIdowantyoutodo,Eric.Iwantyoutodancewithus

to-morrow night and teach me some of the Norwegian dances; they say youknowthemall.Won’tyou?”

Ericstraightenedhimselfinhissaddleandhiseyesflashedastheyhaddone

intheLoneStarschoolhousewhenhebrokehisviolinacrosshisknee.“Yes, Iwill,”hesaid,quietly,andhebelieved thathedeliveredhissoul to

hellashesaidit.Theyhadreachedtheroughercountrynow,wheretheroadwoundthrougha

narrowcutinoneofthebluffsalongthecreek,whenabeatofhoofsaheadandthesharpneighingofhorsesmadetheponiesstartandEricroseinhisstirrups.Thendownthegulchinfrontofthemandoverthesteepclaybanksthunderedaherd of wild ponies, nimble as monkeys and wild as rabbits, such as horse-traders drive east from the plains of Montana to sell in the farming country.Margaret’s pony made a shrill sound, a neigh that was almost a scream, andstarteduptheclaybanktomeetthem,allthewildbloodoftherangebreakingout in an instant.Margaret called to Eric just as he threw himself out of thesaddleandcaughtherpony’sbit.But thewiry littleanimalhadgonemadandwaskickingandbitinglikeadevil.Herwildbrothersoftherangewereallabouther, neighing, and pawing the earth, and striking her with their fore feet andsnapping at her flanks. It was the old liberty of the range that the little beastfoughtfor.

“Drop the reins and hold tight, tight!”Eric called, throwing all hisweightuponthebit,strugglingunderthosefranticforefeetthatnowbeatathisbreast,and now kicked at the wild mustangs that surged and tossed about him. Hesucceeded inwrenching thepony’shead towardhimandcrowdingherwithersagainsttheclaybank,sothatshecouldnotroll.

“Holdtight, tight!”heshoutedagain, launchingakickatasnortinganimalthat rearedback againstMargaret’s saddle. If she should loseher courage andfallnow,underthosehoofs——Hestruckoutagainandagain,kickingrightandleftwithallhismight.Already thenegligentdrivershadgalloped into thecut,andtheirlongquirtswerewhistlingovertheheadsoftheherd.Assuddenlyasithadcome,thestruggling,franticwaveofwildlifesweptupoutofthegulchandon across the open prairie, andwith a long despairingwhinny of farewell theponydroppedherheadandstoodtremblinginhersweat,shakingthefoamandbloodfromherbit.

EricsteppedclosetoMargaret’ssideandlaidhishandonhersaddle.“You

arenothurt?”heasked,hoarsely.Asheraisedhisfaceinthesoftstarlightshesawthatitwaswhiteanddrawnandthathislipswereworkingnervously.

“No,no,notatall.Butyou,youaresuffering;theystruckyou!”shecriedinsharpalarm.

Hesteppedbackanddrewhishandacrosshisbrow.“No,itisnotthat,”hespokerapidlynow,withhishandsclenchedathisside.

“Butiftheyhadhurtyou,Iwouldbeattheirbrainsoutwithmyhands,Iwouldkillthemall.Iwasneverafraidbefore.Youaretheonlybeautifulthingthathasevercomeclosetome.Youcamelikeanangeloutofthesky.Youarelikethemusicyou sing,youare like the starsand the snowon themountainswhere IplayedwhenIwasalittleboy.YouarelikeallthatIwantedonceandneverhad,youareallthattheyhavekilledinme.Idieforyouto-night,to-morrow,foralleternity. I amnot a coward; Iwas afraidbecause I loveyoumore thanChristwhodiedforme,morethanIamafraidofhell,orhopeforheaven.Iwasneverafraidbefore.Ifyouhadfallen—oh,myGod!”hethrewhisarmsoutblindlyanddroppedhisheaduponthepony’smane,leaninglimplyagainsttheanimallikeaman struckby some sickness.His shoulders rose and fell perceptiblywithhislabored breathing. The horse stood cowedwith exhaustion and fear. PresentlyMargaretlaidherhandonEric’sheadandsaidgently:

“Youarebetternow,shallwegoon?Canyougetyourhorse?”“No,hehasgonewiththeherd.Iwillleadyours,sheisnotsafe.Iwillnot

frightenyouagain.”Hisvoicewasstillhusky,but itwassteadynow.He tookholdofthebitandtrampedhomeinsilence.

When they reached thehouse,Eric stood stolidlyby thepony’s headuntilWylliscametolifthissisterfromthesaddle.

“Thehorseswerebadly frightened,Wyllis. I think Iwaspretty thoroughlyscaredmyself,”shesaidasshe tookherbrother’sarmandwentslowlyup thehilltowardthehouse.“No,I’mnothurt,thankstoEric.Youmustthankhimfortakingsuchgoodcareofme.He’samightyfinefellow.I’lltellyouallaboutitinthemorning,dear.IwasprettywellshakenupandI’mgoingrighttobednow.Good-night.”

Whenshereachedthelowroominwhichsheslept,shesankuponthebedin

herriding-dressfacedownward.“Oh,Ipityhim!Ipityhim!”shemurmured,withalongsighofexhaustion.

Shemusthavesleptalittle.Whensheroseagain,shetookfromherdressaletterthathadbeenwaitingforheratthevillagepost-office.Itwascloselywritteninalong,angularhand,coveringadozenpagesofforeignnote-paper,andbegan:—

“MyDearestMargaret: If I should attempt to say how like a winter haththineabsencebeen,Ishouldincurtheriskofbeingtedious.Really,ittakesthesparkle out of everything. Having nothing better to do, and not caring to goanywhereinparticularwithoutyou,IremainedinthecityuntilJackCourtwellnotedmygeneraldespondencyandbroughtmedownhere tohisplaceon thesoundtomanagesomeopen-airtheatricalsheisgettingup.‘AsYouLikeIt’isofcourse the piece selected.MissHarrison playsRosalind. Iwish you had beenhere to take the part. Miss Harrison reads her lines well, but she is either amaiden-all-forlornoratomboy;insistsonreadingintothepartallsortsofdeepermeanings and highly colored suggestions wholly out of harmony with thepastoral setting.Likemost of theprofessionals, she exaggerates the emotionalelementandquitefails todojusticetoRosalind’sfacilewitandreallybrilliantmental qualities. Gerard will do Orlando, but rumor says he is épris of yoursometimefriend,MissMeredith,andhismemoryistreacherousandhisinterestfitful.

“My new pictures arrived last week on the ‘Gascogne.’ The Puvis deChavannes is even more beautiful than I thought it in Paris. A pale dream-maidensitsbyapaledream-cow,andastreamofanemicwaterflowsatherfeet.TheConstant,youwillremember,Igotbecauseyouadmiredit.Itishereinallitsfloridsplendor,thewholedominatedbyaglowingsensuosity.Thedraperyofthe female figure isaswonderfulasyousaid; the fabricallbarbaricpearl andgold,paintedwithaneasy,effortlessvoluptuousness, and thatwhite,gleaminglineofAfricancoastinthebackgroundrecallsmemoriesofyouveryprecioustome.But it isuseless todeny thatConstant irritatesme.ThoughIcannotprovethe charge against him, his brilliancy always makes me suspect him ofcheapness.”

HereMargaret stopped and glanced at the remaining pages of this strange

love-letter. They seemed to be filled chiefly with discussions of pictures andbooks,andwithaslowsmileshelaidthemby.

She roseandbeganundressing.Before she laydownshewent toopen thewindow.With her hand on the sill, she hesitated, feeling suddenly as thoughsomedangerwerelurkingoutside,someinordinatedesirewaitingtospringuponherinthedarkness.Shestoodthereforalongtime,gazingattheinfinitesweepofthesky.

“Oh,itisallsolittle,solittlethere,”shemurmured.“Wheneverythingelseissodwarfed,whyshouldoneexpect lovetobegreat?Whyshouldonetry toread highly colored suggestions into a life like that? If only I could find onething in it all thatmatteredgreatly,one thing thatwouldwarmmewhen Iamalone!Willlifenevergivemethatonegreatmoment?”

Assheraisedthewindow,sheheardasoundintheplum-bushesoutside.Itwasonlythehouse-dogrousedfromhissleep,butMargaretstartedviolentlyandtrembledsothatshecaughtthefootofthebedforsupport.Againshefeltherselfpursued by some overwhelming longing, somedesperate necessity for herself,like the outstretching of helpless, unseen arms in the darkness, and the airseemedheavywithsighsofyearning.Shefledtoherbedwiththewords,“IloveyoumorethanChrist,whodiedforme!”ringinginherears.

III.

AboutmidnightthedanceatLockhart’swasatitsheight.Eventheoldmenwhohadcome to “lookon”caught the spirit of revelry and stamped the floorwith the vigor of old Silenus. Eric took the violin from the Frenchman, andMinnaOlesonsatattheorgan,andthemusicgrewmoreandmorecharacteristic—rude,half-mournfulmusic,madeupof the folk-songsof theNorth, that thevillagers sing through the long night in hamlets by the sea, when they arethinkingofthesun,andthespring,andthefishermensolongaway.ToMargaretsome of it sounded like Grieg’s Peer Gynt music. She found somethingirresistibly infectious in themirth of these peoplewhowere so seldommerry,and she felt almost oneof them.Something seemed struggling for freedom in

themto-night,somethingofthejoyouschildhoodofthenationswhichexilehadnotkilled.Thegirlswereallboisterouswithdelight.Pleasurecametothembutrarely,andwhenitcame,theycaughtatitwildlyandcrusheditsflutteringwingsintheirstrongbrownfingers.Theyhadahardlifeenough,mostofthem.Torridsummers and freezing winters, labor and drudgery and ignorance, were theportionof theirgirlhood;a shortwooing, ahasty, lovelessmarriage,unlimitedmaternity, thankless sons,prematureageandugliness,were thedowerof theirwomanhood.Butwhatmatter?To-nighttherewashotliquorintheglassandhotbloodintheheart;to-nighttheydanced.

To-nightEricHermannsonhadrenewedhisyouth.Hewasnolongerthebig,silentNorwegianwhohadsatatMargaret’sfeetandlookedhopelesslyintohereyes.To-nighthewasaman,withaman’srightsandaman’spower.To-nighthewas Siegfried indeed. His hair was yellow as the heavy wheat in the ripe ofsummer, andhis eyes flashed like thebluewaterbetween the ice-packs in theNorthSeas.HewasnotafraidofMargaret to-night, andwhenhedancedwithher he held her firmly. Shewas tired and dragged on his arm a little, but thestrengthof themanwas likeanall-pervadingfluid,stealing throughherveins,awakening under her heart some nameless, unsuspected existence that hadslumbered there all these years and that went out through her throbbingfingertips to his that answered.Shewondered if the hoydenish bloodof somelawless ancestor, long asleep,were callingout inher to-night, somedropof ahotter fluid that thecenturieshadfailed tocool,andwhy, if thiscursewere inher, it had not spoken before. Butwas it a curse, this awakening, thiswealthbeforeundiscovered, thismusicsetfree?Forthefirst timeinherlifeherheartheldsomethingstrongerthanherself,wasnotthisworthwhile?Thensheceasedtowonder.Shelostsightofthelightsandthefaces,andthemusicwasdrownedbythebeatingofherownarteries.Shesawonlytheblueeyesthatflashedaboveher,feltonlythewarmthofthatthrobbinghandwhichheldhersandwhichtheblood of his heart fed.Dimly, as in a dream, she saw the drooping shoulders,highwhite forehead and tight, cynicalmouth of theman shewas tomarry inDecember. For an hour she had been crowding back thememory of that facewithallherstrength.

“Letusstop,thisisenough,”shewhispered.Hisonlyanswerwastotightenthearmbehindher.Shesighedandletthatmasterfulstrengthbearherwhereitwould.Sheforgot that thismanwas littlemore thanasavage, that theywouldpartatdawn.Thebloodhasnomemories,noreflections,noregretsforthepast,noconsiderationofthefuture.

“Letusgooutwhereitiscooler,”shesaidwhenthemusicstopped;thinking,“Iamgrowingfainthere,Ishallbeallrightintheopenair.”Theysteppedoutintothecool,blueairofthenight.

Since the older folk had begun dancing, the young Norwegians had beenslippingoutincouplestoclimbthewindmilltowerintothecooleratmosphere,asistheircustom.

“Youliketogoup?”askedEric,closetoherear.Sheturnedandlookedathimwithsuppressedamusement.“Howhighisit?”“Forty feet, about. I not let you fall.” There was a note of irresistible

pleadinginhisvoice,andshefeltthathetremendouslywishedhertogo.Well,whynot?Thiswasanightof theunusual,whenshewasnotherselfatall,butwas living an unreality. To-morrow, yes, in a few hours, there would be theVestibuleLimitedandtheworld.

“Well,ifyou’lltakegoodcareofme.Iusedtobeabletoclimb,whenIwasalittlegirl.”

Once at the top and seated on the platform, they were silent. Margaretwondered if she would not hunger for that scene all her life, through all theroutine of the days to come. Above them stretched the great Western sky,serenelyblue, even in thenight,with its big, burning stars, never so cold anddead and far away as in denser atmospheres. Themoonwould not be up fortwentyminutesyet,andallaboutthehorizon,thatwidehorizon,whichseemedtoreacharoundtheworld, lingeredapale,white light,asofauniversaldawn.Thewearywindbroughtuptothemtheheavyodorsofthecornfields.Themusicofthedancesoundedfaintlyfrombelow.Ericleanedonhiselbowbesideher,hislegs swinging down on the ladder.His great shoulders lookedmore than everlikethoseofthestoneDoryphorus,whostandsinhisperfect,reposefulstrengthintheLouvre,andhadoftenmadeherwonderifsuchmendiedforeverwiththe

youthofGreece.“Howsweetthecornsmellsatnight,”saidMargaretnervously.“Yes,liketheflowersthatgrowinparadise,Ithink.”Shewassomewhatstartledbythisreply,andmorestartledwhenthistaciturn

manspokeagain.“Yougoawayto-morrow?”“Yes,wehavestayedlongerthanwethoughttonow.”“Younotcomebackanymore?”“No,Iexpectnot.Yousee,itisalongtrip;half-wayacrossthecontinent.”“Yousoonforgetaboutthiscountry,Iguess.”Itseemedtohimnowalittle

thingtolosehissoulforthiswoman,butthatsheshouldutterlyforgetthisnightintowhichhethrewallhislifeandallhiseternity,thatwasabitterthought.

“No,Eric,Iwillnotforget.Youhaveallbeentookindtomeforthat.Andyouwon’tbesorryyoudancedthisonenight,willyou?”

“Ineverbesorry.Ihavenotbeensohappybefore.Inotbesohappyagain,ever. You will be happy many nights yet, I only this one. I will dreamsometimes,maybe.”

Themightyresignationofhistonealarmedandtouchedher.Itwasaswhensomegreatanimalcomposesitselffordeath,aswhenagreatshipgoesdownatsea.

Shesighed,butdidnotanswerhim.Hedrewalittlecloserandlookedintohereyes.

“Youarenotalwayshappy,too?”heasked.“No,notalways,Eric;notveryoften,Ithink.”“Youhaveatrouble?”“Yes,butIcannotputitintowords.PerhapsifIcoulddothat,Icouldcure

it.”Heclaspedhishandstogetheroverhisheart,aschildrendowhentheypray,

andsaidfalteringly,“IfIownalltheworld,Igivehimyou.”Margaretfeltasuddenmoistureinhereyes,andlaidherhandonhis.“Thankyou,Eric;Ibelieveyouwould.ButperhapseventhenIshouldnot

behappy.PerhapsIhavetoomuchofitalready.”

Shedidnottakeherhandawayfromhim;shedidnotdare.Shesatstillandwaitedforthetraditionsinwhichshehadalwaysbelievedtospeakandsaveher.Buttheyweredumb.Shebelongedtoanultra-refinedcivilizationwhichtriestocheatnaturewithelegantsophistries.Cheatnature?Bah!Onegenerationmaydoit,perhapstwo,butthethird——Canweeverriseabovenatureorsinkbelowher?Did she not turn on Jerusalem as upon Sodom, upon St.Anthony in hisdesertasuponNeroinhisseraglio?Doesshenotalwayscryinbrutaltriumph:“Iamherestill, at thebottomof things,warming the rootsof life;youcannotstarvemenortamemenorthwartme;Imadetheworld,Iruleit,andIamitsdestiny.”

Thiswoman,onawindmilltowerattheworld’sendwithagiantbarbarian,heardthatcryto-night,andshewasafraid!Ah!theterrorandthedelightofthatmomentwhenfirstwefearourselves!Untilthenwehavenotlived.

“Come,Eric,letusgodown;themoonisupandthemusichasbegunagain,”shesaid.

Herosesilentlyandsteppeddownupontheladder,puttinghisarmaboutherto help her. That arm could have thrownThor’s hammer out in the cornfieldsyonder,yetitscarcelytouchedher,andhishandtrembledasithaddoneinthedance.Hisfacewaslevelwithhersnowandthemoonlightfellsharplyuponit.Allherlifeshehadsearchedthefacesofmenforthelookthatlayinhiseyes.Sheknewthat that lookhadnevershoneforherbefore,wouldnevershineforheronearthagain,thatsuchlovecomestooneonlyindreamsorinimpossibleplaceslikethis,unattainablealways.ThiswasLove’sself,inamomentitwoulddie.Stungby the agonized appeal that emanated from theman’swholebeing,sheleanedforwardandlaidherlipsonhis.Once,twiceandagainsheheardthedeep respirations rattle inhis throatwhile sheheld them there,and the riotousforce under her heart became an engulfingweakness.He drew her up to himuntilhefeltalltheresistancegooutofherbody,untileverynerverelaxedandyielded.Whenshedrewherfacebackfromhis,itwaswhitewithfear.

“Let us go down, oh, my God! let us go down!” she muttered. And thedrunkenstarsupyonderseemedreelingtosomeappointeddoomassheclungtotheroundsoftheladder.Allthatshewastoknowofloveshehadleftuponhis

lips.“Thedevilislooseagain,”whisperedOlafOleson,ashesawEricdancinga

momentlater,hiseyesblazing.ButEricwasthinkingwithanalmostsavageexultationofthetimewhenhe

should pay for this.Ah, therewould be no quailing then! If ever a soulwentfearlessly,proudlydown to thegates infernal,hisshouldgo.Foramomenthefanciedhewas therealready, treadingdown the tempestof flame,hugging thefiery hurricane to his breast. He wondered whether in ages gone, all thecountlessyearsofsinninginwhichmenhadsoldandlostandflungtheirsoulsaway,anymanhadeversocheatedSatan,hadeverbarteredhissoulforsogreataprice.

Itseemedbutalittlewhiletilldawn.The carriagewas brought to the door andWyllis Elliot and his sister said

good-by. She could notmeetEric’s eyes as she gave him her hand, but as hestoodbythehorse’shead,justasthecarriagemovedoff,shegavehimoneswiftglancethatsaid,“Iwillnotforget.”Inamomentthecarriagewasgone.

Ericchangedhiscoatandplungedhishead into thewatertankandwent tothe barn to hookup his team.As he led his horses to the door, a shadow fellacrosshispath,andhesawSkinner rising inhisstirrups.His ruggedfacewaspaleandwornwithlookingafterhiswaywardflock,withdraggingmenintothewayofsalvation.

“Good-morning,Eric.Therewasadanceherelastnight?”heasked,sternly.“Adance?Oh,yes,adance,”repliedEric,cheerfully.“Certainlyyoudidnotdance,Eric?”“Yes,Idanced.Idancedallthetime.”The minister’s shoulders drooped, and an expression of profound

discouragementsettledoverhishaggardface.Therewasalmostanguish in theyearninghefeltforthissoul.

“Eric,Ididn’tlookforthisfromyou.IthoughtGodhadsethismarkonyouifheeverhadonanyman.Andit is for things like this thatyousetyoursoulbackathousandyearsfromGod.Ofoolishandperversegeneration!”

Ericdrewhimselfuptohisfullheightandlookedofftowherethenewday

wasgildingthecorn-tasselsandfloodingtheuplandswithlight.Ashisnostrilsdrewinthebreathofthedewandthemorning,somethingfromtheonlypoetryhehadeverreadflashedacrosshismind,andhemurmured,halftohimself,withdreamyexultation:

“‘Andadayshallbeasathousandyears,andathousandyearsasaday.’”

Cosmopolitan,April1900

TheSentimentalityofWilliamTavener

I TTAKESASTRONGWOMANTOMAKEANYSORTOFSUCCESSOFLIVINGINTHEWEST,

andHesterundoubtedlywasthat.WhenpeoplespokeofWilliamTavenerasthemostprosperousfarmerinMcPhersonCounty,theyusuallyaddedthathiswifewas a “good manager.” She was an executive woman, quick of tongue andsomething of an imperatrix. The only reason her husband did not consult herabouthisbusinesswasthatshedidnotwaittobeconsulted.

Itwouldhavebeenquiteimpossibleforoneman,withinthelimitedsphereofhumanaction, to followallHester’s advice, but in the endWilliamusuallyacted upon some of her suggestions. When she incessantly denounced the“shiftlessness”oflettinganewthreshingmachinestandunprotectedintheopen,heeventuallybuiltashedforit.Whenshesniffedcontemptuouslyathisnotionof fencing a hog corralwith sodwalls, hemade a spiritless beginning on thestructure—merelyto“showhistemper,”assheputit—butintheendhewentoffquietlytotownandboughtenoughbarbedwiretocompletethefence.Whenthefirstheavyrainscameon,andthepigsrooteddownthesodwallandmadelittlepathsalloverittofacilitatetheirascent,heheardhiswiferelatewithrelishthestoryofthelittlepigthatbuiltamudhouse,totheministeratthedinnertable,

and William’s gravity never relaxed for an instant. Silence, indeed, wasWilliam’srefugeandhisstrength.

Williamsethisboysawholesomeexample to respect theirmother.Peoplewhoknewhimverywellsuspectedthatheevenadmiredher.Hewasahardmantowards his neighbors, and even towards his sons; grasping, determined andambitious.

TherewasanoccasionalbluedayaboutthehousewhenWilliamwentoverthe store bills, but he never objected to items relating to his wife’s gowns orbonnets.Soitcameaboutthatmanyofthefoolish,unnecessarylittlethingsthatHesterboughtforboys,shehadchargedtoherpersonalaccount.

OnespringnightHestersat ina rockingchairby thesittingroomwindow,darning socks. She rocked violently and sent her long needle vigorously backand forthoverhergourd,and it tookonlyaverycasualglance tosee that shewas wrought up over something. William sat on the other side of the tablereadinghis farmpaper. If hehadnoticedhiswife’s agitation, his calm, clean-shavenfacebetrayednosignofconcern.Hemusthavenoticedthesarcasticturnofherremarksatthesuppertable,andhemusthavenoticedthemoodysilenceof the older boys as they ate.When supperwas but half over little Billy, theyoungest,hadsuddenlypushedbackhisplateandslippedawayfromthetable,manfully trying toswallowasob.ButWilliamTavenerneverheededominousforecastsinthedomestichorizon,andheneverlookedforastormuntilitbroke.

After supper the boys had gone to the pond under the willows in the bigcattlecorral, toget ridof thedustofplowing.Hestercouldhearanoccasionalsplashandalaughringingclearthroughthestillnessofthenight,asshesatbytheopenwindow.Shesatsilentforalmostanhourreviewinginhermindmanyplansofattack.But shewas toovigorousawoman tobemuchofa strategist,andsheusuallycametoherpointwithdirectness.Atlastshecutherthreadandsuddenlyputherdarningdown,sayingemphatically:

“William,Idon’tthinkitwouldhurtyoutolettheboysgotothatcircusintownto-morrow.”

Williamcontinuedtoreadhisfarmpaper,butitwasnotHester’scustomtowaitforananswer.Sheusuallydivinedhisargumentsandassailedthemoneby

onebeforeheutteredthem.“You’vebeenshortofhandsallsummer,andyou’veworkedtheboyshard,

andamanoughtusehisownfleshandbloodaswellashedoeshishiredhands.We’replentyabletoaffordit,andit’slittleenoughourboyseverspend.Idon’tsee how you can expect ’em to be steady and hard workin’, unless youencourage ’ema little. Inevercould seemuchharm incircuses, andourboyshaveneverbeentoone.Oh,IknowJimHowley’sboysgetdrunkan’carryonwhentheygo,butourboysain’tthatsort,an’youknowit,William.Theanimalsarerealinstructive,an’ourboysdon’tgettoseemuchouthereontheprairie.Itwasdifferentwherewewereraised,buttheboyshavegotnoadvantageshere,an’ifyoudon’ttakecare,they’llgrowuptobegreenhorns.”

Hesterpausedamoment,andWilliamfoldeduphispaper,butvouchsafedno remark. His sisters in Virginia had often said that only a quiet man likeWilliamcouldeverhavelivedwithHesterPerkins.Secretly,Williamwasratherproudofhiswife’s“giftofspeech,”andofthefactthatshecouldtalkinprayermeetingasfluentlyasaman.HeconfinedhisowneffortsinthatlinetoabriefprayeratCovenantmeetings.

Hestershookoutanothersockandwenton.“Nobodywaseverhurtbygoin’toacircus.Why,lawme!IrememberIwent

toonemyselfonce,whenIwaslittle.Ihadmostforgotaboutit.ItwasoveratPewtown,an’IrememberhowIhadsetmyheartongoing.Idon’tthinkI’deverforgivenmy father if he hadn’t takenme, though that red clay roadwas in afrightfulwayaftertherain.Imindtheyhadanelephantandsixpollparrots,an’aRockyMountain lion, an’a cageofmonkeys, an’ twocamels.My!but theywereasighttomethen!”

Hester dropped the black sock and shook her head and smiled at therecollection. She was not expecting anything fromWilliam yet, and she wasfairly startled when he said gravely, in much the same tone in which heannouncedthehymnsinprayermeeting:

“No,therewasonlyonecamel.Theotherwasadromedary.”Shepeeredaroundthelampandlookedathimkeenly.“Why,William,howcomeyoutoknow?”

William foldedhispaperandansweredwith somehesitation, “Iwas there,too.”

Hester’s interest flashed up.—“Well, I never, William! To think of myfindingitoutafteralltheseyears!Why,youcouldn’thavebeenmuchbigger’nourBillythen.ItseemsqueerIneversawyouwhenyouwaslittle,torememberabout you.But then youBackCreek folks never have anything to dowith usGappeople.Buthowcomeyoutogo?Yourfatherwasstricterwithyouthanyouarewithyourboys.”

“I reckon I shouldn’t ’a gone,” he said slowly, “but boys will do foolishthings.Ihaddoneagooddealoffoxhuntingthewinterbefore,andfatherletmekeepthebountymoney.IhiredTomSmith’sTaptoweedthecornforme,an’Islippedoffunbeknownsttofatheran’wenttotheshow.”

Hester spokeupwarmly: “Nonsense,William! It didn’t doyounoharm, Iguess.Youwasalwaysworkedhardenough.Itmusthavebeenabigsightforalittlefellow.Thatclownmusthavejusttickledyoutodeath.”

Williamcrossedhiskneesandleanedbackinhischair.“I reckon I could tell all that fool’s jokes now. Sometimes I can’t help

thinkin’about’eminmeetin’whenthesermon’slong.ImindIhadonapairofnewboots thathurtme like themischief,but I forgotall about ’emwhen thatfellowrodethedonkey.IrecallIhadtotakethembootsoffassoonasIgotoutofsighto’town,andwalkedhomeinthemudbarefoot.”

“O poor little fellow!” Hester ejaculated, drawing her chair nearer andleaning her elbows on the table. “What cruel shoes they did use tomake forchildren.I rememberIwentuptoBackCreektosee thecircuswagonsgoby.TheycamedownfromRomney,youknow.Thecircusmenstoppedatthecreektowatertheanimals,an’theelephantgotstubbornan’brokeabiglimbofftheyellowwillow tree that grew there by the toll house porch, an’ the Scribnerswere’fraidasdeathhe’dpullthehousedown.ButthismuchIsawhimdo;hewaded in the creek an’ filled his trunk with water, and squirted it in at thewindow and nearly ruined Ellen Scribner’s pink lawn dress that she had justironedan’laidoutonthebedreadytoweartothecircus.”

“I reckon thatmusthavebeena trial toEllen,”chuckledWilliam,“forshe

wasmightypriminthemdays.”Hester drew her chair still nearerWilliam’s. Since the children had begun

growingup,herconversationwithherhusbandhadbeenalmostwhollyconfinedtoquestionsof economyand expense.Their relationshiphadbecomepurely abusinessone,likethatbetweenlandlordandtenant.Inherdesiretoindulgeherboys she had unconsciously assumed a defensive and almost hostile attitudetowards her husband. No debtor ever haggled with his usurermore doggedlythandidHesterwithherhusbandinbehalfofhersons.Thestrategiccontesthadgone on so long that it had almost crowded out the memory of a closerrelationship.Thisexchangeofconfidencesto-night,whencommonrecollectionstook them unawares and opened their hearts, had all themiracle of romance.Theytalkedonandon;ofoldneighbors,ofoldfamiliarfacesinthevalleywherethey had grown up, of long forgotten incidents of their youth—weddings,picnics, sleighing parties and baptizings. For years they had talked of nothingelsebutbutterandeggsandthepricesofthings,andnowtheyhadasmuchtosaytoeachotheraspeoplewhomeetafteralongseparation.

When the clock struck ten, William rose and went over to his walnutsecretaryandunlockedit.FromhisredleatherwallethetookoutatendollarbillandlaiditonthetablebesideHester.

“Tell the boys not to stay late, an’ not to drive the horses hard,” he saidquietly,andwentofftobed.

Hesterblewoutthelampandsatstillinthedarkalongtime.SheleftthebilllyingonthetablewhereWilliamhadplacedit.Shehadapainfulsenseofhavingmissed something, or lost something; she felt that somehow the years hadcheatedher.

Thelittlelocusttreesthatgrewbythefencewerewhitewithblossoms.Theirheavy odor floated in to her on the nightwind and recalled a night long ago,when the firstwhip-poor-Will of theSpringwasheard, and the rough, buxomgirls of Hawkins Gap had held her laughing and struggling under the locusttrees, and searched in her bosom for a lock of her sweetheart’s hair,which issupposedtobeoneverygirl’sbreastwhenthefirstwhip-poor-Willsings.Twoofthosesamegirlshadbeenherbridesmaids.Hesterhadbeenaveryhappybride.

She rose and went softly into the room whereWilliam lay. He was sleepingheavily,butoccasionallymovedhishandbeforehis face towardoff the flies.Hesterwentintotheparlorandtookthepieceofmosquitonetfromthebasketofwaxapplesandpearsthathersisterhadmadebeforeshedied.OneoftheboyshadbroughtitallthewayfromVirginia,packedinatinpail,sinceHesterwouldnotriskshippingsopreciousanornamentbyfreight.ShewentbacktothebedroomandspreadthenetoverWilliam’shead.

Thenshesatdownbythebedandlistenedtohisdeep,regularbreathinguntilsheheardtheboysreturning.Shewentouttomeetthemandwarnthemnottowakentheirfather.

“I’llbeupearlytogetyourbreakfast,boys.Yourfathersaysyoucangotothe show.”As she handed themoney to the eldest, she felt a sudden throb ofallegiancetoherhusbandandsaidsharply,“Andyoubecarefulofthat,an’don’twasteit.Yourfatherworkshardforhismoney.”

Theboys lookedateachother inastonishmentandfelt that theyhad lostapowerfulally.

Library,May12,1900

TheNamesake

S EVEN OF US, STUDENTS, SAT ONE EVENING IN HARTWELL’S STUDIO ON THE

Boulevard St. Michel. We were all fellow-countrymen; one from NewHampshire, one from Colorado, another from Nevada, several from the farmlandsoftheMiddleWest,andImyselffromCalifornia.LyonHartwell,thoughborn abroad, was simply, as every one knew, “from America.” He seemed,almostmore than any other one livingman, tomean all of it—fromocean toocean.WhenhewasinParis,hisstudiowasalwaysopentothesevenofuswhoweretherethatevening,andweintrudeduponhisleisureasoftenaswethoughtpermissible.

Although we were within the terms of the easiest of all intimacies, andalthoughthegreatsculptor,evenwhenhewasmorethanusuallysilent,wasatall times the most gravely cordial of hosts, yet, on that long rememberedevening, as the sunlight died on the burnished brown of the horse-chestnutsbelowthewindows,aperceptibledullnessyawnedthroughourconversation.

Wewere, indeed, somewhat low in spirit, for one of our number,CharleyBentley,wasleavingusindefinitely,inresponsetoanimperativesummonsfromhome.To-morrowhis studio, just across the hall fromHartwell’s,was to pass

into other hands, and Bentley’s luggage was even now piled in discouragedresignation before his door. The various bales and boxes seemed literally toweighuponusaswesatinhisneighbor’shospitablerooms,drearilyputtinginthetimeuntilheshouldleaveustocatchtheteno’clockexpressforDieppe.

The day we had got through very comfortably, for Bentley made it theoccasion of a somewhat pretentious luncheon at Maxim’s. There had beentwelve of us at table, and the two young Poles were thirsty, the Gascon sofabulously entertaining, that itwasnear upon fiveo’clockwhenweput downour liqueur glasses for the last time, and the red, perspiring waiter, havingpocketedtherewardofhisarduousandprotractedservices,bowedusaffablytothedoor,flourishinghisnapkinandbrushingbackthestreaksofwet,blackhairfromhis rosy forehead.Ourguests havingbetaken themselvesbelated to theirrespective engagements, the rest of us returned with Bentley—only to beconfrontedbythedepressingarraybeforehisdoor.Aglanceabouthisdenudedroomshadsufficedtochilltheglowoftheafternoon,andwefledacrossthehallinabodyandbeggedLyonHartwelltotakeusin.

Bentleyhadsaidverylittleaboutit,butweallknewwhatitmeanttohimtobecalledhome.Eachofusknewwhatitwouldmeantohimself,andeachhadfelt something of that quickened sense of opportunity which comes at seeinganothermaninanywaycountedoutoftherace.Neverhadthegameseemedsoenchanting, thechance toplay itsuchapieceofunmerited,unbelievablegoodfortune.

Itmusthavebeen,Ithink,aboutthemiddleofOctober,forIrememberthatthesycamoreswerealmostbareintheLuxembourgGardensthatmorning,andtheterraceaboutthequeensofFrancewerestrewnwithcracklingbrownleaves.Thefatredroses,outthesummerlongonthestandoftheoldflowerwomanatthecorner,hadgivenplacetodahliasandpurpleasters.Firstglimpsesofautumntoilettesflashedfromthecarriages;wonderfullittlebonnetsnoddedatonealongtheChamps-Elysées;andintheQuarteranoccasionalfeatherboa,redorblackorwhite,brushedone’scoatsleeveinthegaytwilightoftheearlyevening.Thecrisp,sunnyautumnairwasalldayfullofthestirofpeopleandcarriagesandofthecheerof salutations;greetingsof the students, returnedbrownandbearded

fromtheirholiday,gossipofpeoplecomebackfromTrouville,fromSt.Valery,fromDieppe,fromalloverBrittanyandtheNormancoast.Everywherewasthejoyousnessofreturn,thetakingupagainoflifeandworkandplay.

Ihad felteversinceearlymorning that thiswas thesaddestofallpossibleseasonsforsayinggood-bytothatold,oldcityofyouth,andtothatlittlecornerofitonthesouthshorewhichsincetheDarkAgesthemselves—yes,andbefore—hasbeensopeculiarlythelandoftheyoung.

I can recall our very postures as we lounged about Hartwell’s rooms thatevening, with Bentley making occasional hurried trips to his desolatedworkrooms across the hall—as if haunted by a feeling of having forgottensomething—or stopping to poke nervously at his perroquets, which he hadbequeathedtoHartwell,giltcageandall.Ourhosthimselfsatonthecouch,hisbig, bronze-like shoulders backed up against the window, his shaggy head,beakednose,andlongchincutcleanagainstthegraylight.

Ourdrowsinginterest,insofarasitcouldbesaidtobefixeduponanything,wascentereduponHartwell’snewfigure,whichstoodontheblockreadytobecastinbronze,intendedasamonumentforsomeAmericanbattlefield.Hecalledit“TheColorSergeant.”Itwasthefigureofayoungsoldierrunning,clutchingthefoldsofaflag,thestaffofwhichhadbeenshotaway.Wehadknownitinallthe stages of its growth, and the splendid action and feeling of the thing hadcometohaveakindofspecialsignificancefor thehalfdozenofuswhooftengatheredatHartwell’srooms—though,intruth,therewasasmuchtodisheartenone as to inflame, in the case of amanwho had done somuch in a field soamazinglydifficult;whohadthrownupinbronzealltherestless,teemingforceof that adventurous wave still climbing westward in our own land across thewaters.We recalled his “Scout,” his “Pioneer,” his “Gold Seekers,” and thosemonumentsinwhichhehadinvestedoneandanotheroftheheroesoftheCivilWarwithsuchconvincingdignityandpower.

“Wherein theworlddoesheget theheat tomakeanidea like thatcarry?”Bentleyremarkedmorosely,scowlingattheclayfigure.“Hangme,Hartwell,ifIdon’t think it’s justbecauseyou’renot reallyanAmericanat all, thatyoucanlookatitlikethat.”

Thebigmanshifteduneasilyagainstthewindow.“Yes,”herepliedsmiling,“perhaps there is something in that.Mycitizenshipwassomewhatbelatedandemotionalinitsflowering.I’vehalfamindtotellyouaboutit,Bentley.”Heroseuncertainly,and,afterhesitatingamoment,wentbackintohisworkroom,wherehebeganfumblingamongthelitterinthecorners.

AttheprospectofanysortofpersonalexpressionfromHartwell,weglancedquestioninglyatoneanother;foralthoughhemadeusfeelthathelikedtohaveusabout,wewerealwaysheldatadistancebyacertaindiffidenceofhis.Therewere rare occasions—when hewas in the heat ofwork or of ideas—when heforgot to be shy, but they were so exceptional that no flattery was quite soseductiveasbeing takenforamoment intoHartwell’sconfidence.Even in thematterofopinions—thecommonestofcurrencyinourcircle—hewasniggardlyandpronetoqualify.Nomaneverguardedhismysterymoreeffectually.Therewasa singular, intensespell, therefore,about those feweveningswhenhehadbrokenthroughthisexcessivemodesty,orshyness,ormelancholy,andhad,asitwere,committedhimself.

When Hartwell returned from the back room, he brought with him anunframedcanvaswhichheputonaneaselnearhisclayfigure.Wedrewcloseabout it, for the darkness was rapidly coming on. Despite the dullness of thelight,weinstantlyrecognizedtheboyofHartwell’s“ColorSergeant.”Itwastheportraitofaveryhandsomeladinuniform,standingbesideachargerimpossiblyrearing.Notonlyinhisradiantcountenanceandflashingeyes,butineverylineofhisyoungbodytherewasanenergy,agallantry,ajoyoflife,thatarrestedandchallengedone.

“Yes, that’swhereIgot thenotion,”Hartwellremarked,wanderingbacktohisseatinthewindow.“I’vewantedtodoitforyears,butI’veneverfeltquitesureofmyself.Iwasafraidofmissingit.Hewasanuncleofmine,myfather’shalf-brother,andIwasnamedforhim.HewaskilledinoneofthebigbattlesofSixty-four,whenIwasachild.Ineversawhim—neverknewhimuntilhehadbeen dead for twenty years.And then, one night, I came to know him aswesometimesdolivingpersons—intimately,inasinglemoment.”

Hepausedtoknocktheashesoutofhisshortpipe,refilledit,andpuffedatit

thoughtfullyforafewmomentswithhishandsonhisknees.Then,settlingbackheavilyamong thecushionsand lookingabsentlyoutof thewindow,hebeganhisstory.Asheproceededfurtherandfurtherintotheexperiencewhichhewastryingtoconveytous,hisvoicesanksolowandwassometimessochargedwithfeeling, that I almost thought he had forgotten our presence and wasremembering aloud. EvenBentley forgot his nervousness in astonishment andsatbreathlessunderthespelloftheman’sthusbreathinghismemoriesoutintothedusk.

“It was just fifteen years ago this last spring that I first went home, andBentley’shavingtocutawaylikethisbringsitallbacktome.

“Iwasborn,youknow,inItaly.Myfatherwasasculptor,thoughIdaresayyou’venotheardofhim.HewasoneofthosefirstfellowswhowentoverafterStoryandPowers,—went toItalyfor‘Art,’quitesimply; to lift fromitsnativebough thewilling, iridescent bird. Their story is told, informingly enough, bysomeofthoseingenuousmarblethingsattheMetropolitan.MyfathercameoversometimebeforetheoutbreakoftheCivilWar,andwasregardedasarenegadebyhisfamilybecausehedidnotgohometoenterthearmy.Hishalf-brother,theonlychildofmygrandfather’ssecondmarriage,enlistedatfifteenandwaskilledthenextyear. Iwas tenyearsoldwhen thenewsofhisdeath reachedus.Mymotherdiedthefollowingwinter,andIwassentawaytoaJesuitschool,whilemyfather,already illhimself, stayedonatRome,chippingawayathis Indianmaidensandmarblegoddesses,stillgloomilyseekingthethingforwhichhehadmadehimselfthemostunhappyofexiles.

“HediedwhenIwasfourteen,butevenbeforethatIhadbeenputtoworkunderanItaliansculptor.HehadanalmostmorbiddesirethatIshouldcarryonhis work, under, as he often pointed out to me, conditions so much moreauspicious. He left me in the charge of his one intimate friend, an Americangentlemanin theconsulateatRome,andhis instructionswere that Iwas tobeeducated there and to live there until Iwas twenty-one.After Iwas of age, IcametoParisandstudiedunderonemasterafteranotheruntilIwasnearlythirty.Then, almost for the first time, Iwasconfrontedbyadutywhichwasnotmypleasure.

“Mygrandfather’sdeath,atanadvancedage,leftaninvalidmaidensisterofmyfather’squitealoneintheworld.Shehadsufferedforyearsfromacerebraldisease, a slow decay of the faculties which rendered her almost helpless. Idecided to go to America and, if possible, bring her back to Paris, where Iseemedonmywaytowardwhatmypoorfatherhadwishedforme.

“Onmyarrivalatmyfather’sbirthplace,however,Ifoundthatthiswasnottobe thoughtof.To tear this timid, feeble, shrinkingcreature,doublyagedbyyearsandillness,fromthespotwhereshehadbeenrootedforalifetime,wouldhavebeen littleshortofbrutality.To leaveher to thecareofstrangersseemedequallyheartless.Therewasclearlynothingformetodobuttoremainandwaitforthatslowandpainlessmaladytorunitscourse.Iwastheresomethingovertwoyears.

“Mygrandfather’shome,hisfather’shomesteadbeforehim,layonthehighbanksofariverinWesternPennsylvania.Thelittletowntwelvemilesdownthestream, whither my great-grandfather used to drive his ox-wagon on marketdays,hadbecome,intwogenerations,oneofthelargestmanufacturingcitiesinthe world. For hundreds of miles about us the gentle hill slopes werehoneycombedwithgaswellsandcoalshafts;oilderrickscreakedineveryvalleyandmeadow;thebrooksweresluggishanddiscoloredwithcrudepetroleum,andthe air was impregnated by its searching odor. The great glass and ironmanufactorieshadcomeupanduptheriveralmosttoourverydoor;theirsmokyexhalations broodedover us, and their crashingwas always in our ears. Iwasplunged into the very incandescenceof human energy.But, thoughmynervestingled with the feverish, passionate endeavor which snapped in the very airaboutme,noneof thesegreat arteries seemed to feedme; this tumultuous lifedid not warm me. On every side were the great muddy rivers, the raggedmountainsfromwhichthetimberwasbeingruthlesslytornaway,thevasttractsofwildcountry,andthegulchesthatwerelikewoundsintheearth;everywherethe glare of that relentless energy which followed me like a searchlight andseemed to scorch and consume me. I could only hide myself in the tangledgarden, where the dropping of a leaf or the whistle of a bird was the onlyincident.

“TheHartwell homestead had been sold away little by little, until all thatremained of it was garden and orchard. The house, a square brick structure,stoodinthemidstofagreatgardenwhichslopedtowardtheriver,endinginagrassybankwhichfellsomefortyfeettothewater’sedge.Thegardenwasnowlittlemorethanatangleofneglectedshrubbery;damp,rank,andofthatintenseblue-green peculiar to vegetation in smoky places where the sun shines butrarely,andthemistsformearlyintheeveningandhanglateinthemorning.

“IshallneverforgetitasIsawitfirst,whenIarrivedthereinthechillofabackwardJune.Thelong,rankgrass,thickandsoftandfallinginbillows,wasalways wet until midday. The gravel walks were bordered with great lilac-bushes,mock-orange,andbridal-wreath.Backofthehousewasaneglectedrosegarden,surroundedbyalowstonewalloverwhichthelongsuckerstrailedandmatted.Theyhadwoundtheirpink,thornytentacles,layeruponlayer,aboutthelockandthehingesoftherustyirongate.Eventheporchesofthehouse,andthevery windows, were damp and heavy with growth: wistaria, clematis,honeysuckle,andtrumpetvine.Thegardenwasgrownupwithtrees,especiallythat part of it which lay above the river. The bark of the old locusts wasblackenedby thesmoke thatcreptcontinuallyup thevalley,and their featheryfoliage,somerryinitsmovementandsoyellowandjoyousinitscolor,seemedpeculiarly precious under that somber sky. There were sycamores and copperbeeches; gnarled apple-trees, too old to bear; and fall pear-trees, hungwith asharp,hardfruitinOctober;allwithaleafagesingularlyrichandluxuriant,andpeculiarlyvividincolor.Theoaksaboutthehousehadbeenoldtreeswhenmygreat-grandfather built his cabin there, more than a century before, and thisgarden was almost the only spot for miles along the river where any of theoriginalforestgrowthstillsurvived.Thesmokefromthemillswasfataltotreesof the larger sort, andeven thesehad the lookofdoomed things—benta littletowardthetownandseemedtowaitwithheadinclinedbeforethaton-coming,shriekingforce.

“Abouttheriver,too,therewasastrangehush,atragicsubmission—itwasso leadenandsullen in itscolor,and it flowedsosoundlessly foreverpastourdoor.

“Isatthereeveryevening,onthehighverandaoverlookingit,watchingthedimoutlinesofthesteephillsontheothershore,theflickerofthelightsontheisland,where therewas a boat-house, and listening to the call of the boatmenthroughthemist.Themistcameascertainlyasnight,whitenedbymoonshineorstarshine.The tinwater-pipeswent splash, splash,with it all evening, and thewind,whenitroseatall,waslittlemorethanasighingoftheoldboughsandatroubledbreathintheheavygrasses.

“AtfirstitwastothinkofmydistantfriendsandmyoldlifethatIusedtositthere;butafterawhileitwassimplytowatchthedaysandweeksgoby,liketheriverwhichseemedtocarrythemaway.

“Within the house Iwas never at home.Month followedmonth, andyet Icould feel no sense of kinshipwith anything there.Under the roofwheremyfather and grandfather were born, I remained utterly detached. The somberrooms never spoke tome, the old furniture never seemed tincturedwith race.ThisportraitofmyboyunclewastheonlythingtowhichIcoulddrawnear,theonlylinkwithanythingIhadeverknownbefore.

“Thereisagooddealofmyfatherintheface,butitismyfathertransformedandglorified;hishesitatingdiscontentdrownedinakindoftriumph.Frommyfirstdayin thathouse,Icontinually turnedto thishandsomekinsmanofmine,wonderinginwhattermshehadlivedandhadhishope;whathehadfoundthereto look like that, to bound at one, after all thoseyears, so joyouslyout of thecanvas.

“Fromthetimid,cloudedoldwomanoverwhoselifeIhadcometowatch,Ilearned that in the backyard, near the old rose garden, therewas a locust-treewhichmyunclehadplanted.Afterhisdeath,whileitwasstillaslendersapling,his mother had a seat built round it, and she used to sit there on summerevenings.Hisgravewasundertheapple-treesintheoldorchard.

“My aunt could tell me little more than this. There were days when sheseemednottorememberhimatall.

“ItwasfromanoldsoldierinthevillagethatIlearnedtheboy’sstory.Lyonwas, theoldman toldme,but fourteenwhen the firstenlistmentoccurred,butwaseven theneager togo.Hewas in thecourt-housesquareeveryevening to

watchtherecruitsattheirdrill,andwhenthehomecompanywasorderedoffherodeintothecityonhisponytoseethemenboardthetrainandtowavethemgood-by.Thenextyearhespentathomewithatutor,butwhenhewasfifteenheheldhisparentstotheirpromiseandwentintothearmy.Hewascolorsergeantofhisregimentandfellinachargeuponthebreastworksofafortaboutayearafterhisenlistment.

“Theveteranshowedmeanaccountof thischargewhichhadbeenwrittenforthevillagepaperbyoneofmyuncle’scomradeswhohadseenhispartintheengagement.Itseemsthatashiscompanywererunningatfullspeedacrossthebottom lands toward the fortified hill, a shell burst over them. This comrade,runningbesidemyuncle,sawthecolorswaverandsinkasiffalling,andlookedto see that the boy’s hand and forearm had been torn away by the explodingshrapnel. The boy, he thought, did not realize the extent of his injury, for helaughed,shoutedsomethingwhichhiscomradedidnotcatch,caughttheflaginhis left hand, and ran on up the hill. They went splendidly up over thebreastworks, but just as my uncle, his colors flying, reached the top of theembankment,asecondshellcarriedawayhisleftarmatthearm-pit,andhefelloverthewallwiththeflagsettlingabouthim.

“Itwasbecausethisstorywaseverpresentwithme,becauseIwasunabletoshake it off, that I began to read such books asmy grandfather had collectedupontheCivilWar.Ifoundthatthiswarwasfoughtlargelybyboys,thatmoremen enlisted at eighteen than at any other age. When I thought of thosebattlefields—andIthoughtofthemmuchinthosedays—therewasalwaysthatglory of youth above them, that impetuous, generous passion stirring the longlinesonthemarch,thebluebattalionsintheplain.Thebugle,wheneverIhavehearditsince,hasalwaysseemedtometheverygoldenthroatofthatboyhoodwhichspentitselfsogaily,soincredibly.

“Iusedoftentowonderhowitwasthatthisuncleofmine,whoseemedtohave possessed all the charm and brilliancy allotted to his family and to havelived up its vitality in one splendid hour, had left so little trace in the housewhere hewas born andwhere he had awaited his destiny.Look as Iwould, Icouldfindnolettersfromhim,noclothingorbooksthatmighthavebeenhis.He

hadbeendeadbuttwentyyears,andyetnothingseemedtohavesurvivedexceptthetreehehadplanted.Itseemedincredibleandcruelthatnophysicalmemoryofhimshould linger tobecherishedamonghiskindred,—nothingbut thedullimage in the brain of that aged sister. I used to pace the gardenwalks in theevening,wonderingthatnobreathofhis,noechoofhislaugh,ofhiscalltohisponyorhiswhistletohisdogs,shouldlingeraboutthoseshadedpathswherethepalerosesexhaledtheirdewy,countrysmell.Sometimes,inthedimstarlight,Ihave thought that Iheardon thegrassesbesideme thestirofa footfall lighterthanmyown,andundertheblackarchofthelilacsIhavefanciedthatheboremecompany.

“Therewas,Ifound,onedayintheyearforwhichmyoldauntwaited,andwhich stood out from the months that were all of a sameness to her. On thethirtiethofMaysheinsistedthatIshouldbringdownthebigflagfromtheatticandrunitupuponthetallflagstaffbesideLyon’streeinthegarden.Laterinthemorningshewentwithmetocarrysomeof thegardenflowerstothegraveintheorchard,—agravescarcelylargerthanachild’s.

“Ihadnoticed,whenIwashuntingfor theflag in theattic,a leather trunkwithmyownnamestampeduponit,butwasunabletofindthekey.Myauntwasalldaylessapatheticthanusual;sheseemedtorealizemoreclearlywhoIwas,andtowishmetobewithher.Ididnothaveanopportunitytoreturntotheatticuntilafterdinnerthatevening,whenIcarriedalampup-stairsandeasilyforcedthe lock of the trunk. I found all the things that I had looked for; put away,doubtless,byhismother,andstillsmellingfaintlyof lavenderandroseleaves;his clothes, his exercise books, his letters from the army, his first boots, hisriding-whip,someofhis toys,even.I tookthemoutandreplacedthemgently.AsIwasabouttoshutthelid,IpickedupacopyoftheÆneid,onthefly-leafofwhichwaswritteninaslanting,boyishhand,

LyonHartwell,January,1862.

HehadgonetothewarsinSixty-three,Iremembered.“Myuncle,Igathered,wasnonetooaptathisLatin,forthepagesweredog-

eared and rubbed and interlined, the margins mottled with pencil sketches—bugles, stackedbayonets,andartillerycarriages. In theactofputting thebookdown,Ihappenedtorunoverthepagestotheend,andonthefly-leafatthebackI saw his name again, and a drawing—with his initials and a date—of theFederalflag;aboveit,writteninakindofarchandinthesameunformedhand:

‘Oh,say,canyouseebythedawn’searlylightWhatsoproudlywehailedatthetwilight’slastgleaming?’

It was a stiff, wooden sketch, not unlike a detail from some Egyptianinscription,but,themomentIsawit,windandcolorseemedtotouchit.Icaughtupthebook,blewoutthelamp,andrusheddownintothegarden.

“Iseemed,somehow,at last tohaveknownhim; tohavebeenwithhim inthatcareless,unconsciousmomentandtohaveknownhimashewasthen.

“AsIsatthereintherushofthisrealization,thewindbegantorise,stirringthelightfoliageofthelocustovermyheadandbringing,fresherthanbefore,thewoodyodorofthepalerosesthatoverranthelittleneglectedgarden.Then,asitgrewstronger, it brought the soundof something sighingand stirringovermyheadintheperfumeddarkness.

“I thought of that sad one of the Destinies who, as the Greeks believed,watched from birth over those marked for a violent or untimely death. Oh, Icouldseehim,thereintheshineofthemorning,hisbookidlyonhisknee,hisflashing eyes looking straight before him, and at his side that grave figure,hidden in her draperies, her eyes following his, but seeing somuch farther—seeingwhatheneversaw,thatgreatmomentattheend,whenheswayedabovehiscomradesontheearthenwall.

“Allthewhile,thebuntingIhadrunupinthemorningflappedfoldagainstfold, heaving and tossing softly in the dark—against a sky so blackwith rainclouds that I could see aboveme only the blur of something in soft, troubledmotion.

“Theexperienceofthatnight,comingsooverwhelminglytoamansodead,almost rentme in pieces. It was the same feeling that artists knowwhenwe,rarely,achievetruthinourwork;thefeelingofunionwithsomegreatforce,of

purposeandsecurity,ofbeinggladthatwehavelived.ForthefirsttimeIfeltthepullofraceandbloodandkindred,andfeltbeatingwithinmethingsthathadnotbegunwithme.Itwasasiftheearthundermyfeethadgraspedandrootedme,andwerepouringitsessenceintome.Isatthereuntilthedawnofmorning,andall night long my life seemed to be pouring out of me and running into theground.”

Hartwelldrewalongbreaththatliftedhisheavyshoulders,andthenletthemfall again. He shifted a little and faced more squarely the scattered, silentcompanybeforehim.Thedarknesshadmadeusalmostinvisibletoeachother,and, except for the occasional red circuit of a cigarette end traveling upwardfromthearmofachair,hemighthavesupposedusallasleep.

“Andso,”Hartwelladdedthoughtfully,“Inaturallyfeelaninterestinfellowswhoaregoinghome.It’salwaysanexperience.”

Noonesaidanything,andinamomenttherewasaloudrapatthedoor,—theconcierge, come to takedownBentley’s luggage and to announce that the cabwasbelow.Bentleygothishatandcoat,enjoinedHartwelltotakegoodcareofhisperroquets,gaveeachofusagripof thehand,andwentbrisklydown thelongflightsofstairs.Wefollowedhimintothestreet,callingourgoodwishes,andsawhimstartonhisdriveacrossthelightedcitytotheGareSt.Lazare.

McClure’s,March1907

TheEnchantedBluff

Harper’s,April1909

W EHADOURSWIMBEFORESUNDOWN,ANDWHILEWEWERECOOKINGOURSUPPER

theobliqueraysoflightmadeadazzlingglareonthewhitesandaboutus.Thetranslucentredballitselfsankbehindthebrownstretchesofcornfieldaswesatdown to eat, and thewarm layerof air thathad restedover thewater andourclean sand-bar grew fresher and smelled of the rank ironweed and sunflowersgrowingontheflattershore.Theriverwasbrownandsluggish,likeanyotherofthehalf-dozenstreamsthatwatertheNebraskacornlands.Ononeshorewasanirregular lineofbaldclaybluffswherea fewscrub-oakswith thick trunksandflat,twistedtopsthrewlightshadowsonthelonggrass.Thewesternshorewaslowand level,withcorn fields that stretched to the sky-line, andall along thewater’sedgewere little sandycovesandbeacheswhereslimcottonwoodsandwillowsaplingsflickered.

Theturbulenceoftheriverinspring-timediscouragedmilling,and,beyondkeepingtheoldredbridgeinrepair,thebusyfarmersdidnotconcernthemselveswiththestream;sotheSandtownboyswereleftinundisputedpossession.Inthe

autumnwehuntedquailthroughthemilesofstubbleandfodderlandalongtheflatshore,and,afterthewinterskatingseasonwasoverandtheicehadgoneout,thespringfreshetsandfloodedbottomsgaveusourgreatexcitementoftheyear.The channelwasnever the same for two successive seasons.Every spring theswollenstreamunderminedablufftotheeast,orbitoutafewacresofcornfieldto the west and whirled the soil away to deposit it in spumy mud bankssomewhere else.When thewater fell low inmidsummer, new sand-barswerethusexposedtodryandwhitenintheAugustsun.Sometimesthesewerebankedsofirmlythatthefuryofthenextfreshetfailedtounseatthem;thelittlewillowseedlings emerged triumphantly from the yellow froth, broke into spring leaf,shot up into summer growth, andwith theirmesh of roots bound together themoistsandbeneaththemagainstthebatteringsofanotherApril.Hereandthereacottonwoodsoonglitteredamongthem,quiveringinthelowcurrentofairthat,evenonbreathlessdayswhenthedusthunglikesmokeabovethewagonroad,trembledalongthefaceofthewater.

Itwas on such an island, in the third summerof its yellowgreen, thatwebuiltourwatch-fire;notinthethicketofdancingwillowwands,butonthelevelterraceoffinesandwhichhadbeenaddedthatspring;alittlenewbitofworld,beautifullyridgedwithripplemarks,andstrewnwiththetinyskeletonsofturtlesandfish,allaswhiteanddryas if theyhadbeenexpertlycured.Wehadbeencarefulnottomarthefreshnessoftheplace,althoughweoftenswamouttoitonsummereveningsandlayonthesandtorest.

Thiswasourlastwatch-fireoftheyear,andtherewerereasonswhyIshouldrememberitbetterthananyoftheothers.NextweektheotherboysweretofilebacktotheiroldplacesintheSandtownHighSchool,butIwastogouptotheDividetoteachmyfirstcountryschoolintheNorwegiandistrict.IwasalreadyhomesickatthethoughtofquittingtheboyswithwhomIhadalwaysplayed;ofleavingtheriver,andgoingupintoawindyplainthatwasallwindmillsandcornfieldsandbigpastures;wheretherewasnothingwilfulorunmanageableinthelandscape, no new islands, and no chance of unfamiliar birds—such as oftenfollowedthewatercourses.

Otherboyscameandwentandusedtheriverforfishingorskating,butwe

sixweresworntothespiritofthestream,andwewerefriendsmainlybecauseofthe river. There were the two Hassler boys, Fritz and Otto, sons of the littleGerman tailor. Theywere the youngest of us; ragged boys of ten and twelve,withsunburnedhair,weather-stainedfaces,andpaleblueeyes.Otto, theelder,was the bestmathematician in school, and clever at his books, but he alwaysdroppedoutinthespringtermasiftherivercouldnotgetonwithouthim.HeandFritzcaughtthefat,hornedcatfishandsoldthemaboutthetown,andtheylivedsomuchinthewaterthattheywereasbrownandsandyastheriveritself.

TherewasPercyPound,a fat, freckledboywithchubbycheeks,who tookhalf a dozen boys’ story-papers and was always being kept in for readingdetectivestoriesbehindhisdesk.TherewasTipSmith,destinedbyhisfrecklesandredhair tobe thebuffoon inallourgames, thoughhewalked likea timidlittleoldmanandhada funny, cracked laugh.Tipworkedhard inhis father’sgrocery store every afternoon, and swept it out before school in themorning.Even his recreations were laborious. He collected cigarette cards and tintobacco-tags indefatigably, andwould sit forhourshumpedupover a snarlinglittle scroll-sawwhich he kept in his attic.His dearest possessionswere somelittlepill-bottles thatpurportedtocontaingrainsofwheatfromtheHolyLand,water from theJordanand theDeadSea,andearth from theMountofOlives.HisfatherhadboughtthesedullthingsfromaBaptistmissionarywhopeddledthem,andTipseemedtoderivegreatsatisfactionfromtheirremoteorigin.

ThetallboywasArthurAdams.Hehadfinehazeleyesthatwerealmosttooreflectiveandsympatheticforaboy,andsuchapleasantvoicethatwealllovedtohearhimreadaloud.Evenwhenhehadtoreadpoetryaloudatschool,nooneeverthoughtoflaughing.Tobesure,hewasnotatschoolverymuchofthetime.HewasseventeenandshouldhavefinishedtheHighSchooltheyearbefore,buthewasalwaysoffsomewherewithhisgun.Arthur’smotherwasdead,andhisfather,whowasfeverishlyabsorbedinpromotingschemes,wantedtosendtheboyawaytoschoolandgethimoffhishands;butArthuralwaysbeggedoffforanotheryearandpromisedtostudy.Irememberhimasatall,brownboywithanintelligentface,alwaysloungingamongalotofuslittlefellows,laughingatusoftenerthanwithus,butsuchasoft,satisfiedlaughthatwefeltratherflattered

whenweprovoked it. Inafter-yearspeople said thatArthurhadbeengiven toevilwaysevenasalad,anditistruethatweoftensawhimwiththegambler’ssonsandwitholdSpanishFanny’sboy,butifhelearnedanythinguglyintheircompanyheneverbetrayedittous.WewouldhavefollowedArthuranywhere,and I am bound to say that he led us into no worse places than the cattailmarshesandthestubblefields.These,then,weretheboyswhocampedwithmethatsummernightuponthesand-bar.

Afterwe finishedour supperwebeat thewillow thicket fordriftwood.Bythe time we had collected enough, night had fallen, and the pungent, weedysmell from the shore increased with the coolness. We threw ourselves downabout the fire and made another futile effort to show Percy Pound the LittleDipper.Wehadtrieditoftenbefore,buthecouldneverbegotpastthebigone.

“Yousee those threebigstars justbelowthehandle,with thebrightoneinthemiddle?” saidOttoHassler; “that’sOrion’s belt, and the bright one is theclasp.”IcrawledbehindOtto’sshoulderandsighteduphisarmtothestarthatseemed perched upon the tip of his steady forefinger. The Hassler boys didseine-fishingatnight,andtheyknewagoodmanystars.

PercygaveuptheLittleDipperandlaybackonthesand,hishandsclaspedunderhishead.“IcanseetheNorthStar,”heannounced,contentedly,pointingtowarditwithhisbigtoe.“Anyonemightgetlostandneedtoknowthat.”

Wealllookedupatit.“Howdoyou supposeColumbus feltwhenhis compassdidn’t point north

anymore?”Tipasked.Ottoshookhishead.“MyfathersaysthattherewasanotherNorthStaronce,

and thatmaybe thisonewon’t lastalways. Iwonderwhatwouldhappen tousdownhereifanythingwentwrongwithit?”

Arthur chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry, Ott. Nothing’s apt to happen to it inyourtime.LookattheMilkyWay!TheremustbelotsofgooddeadIndians.”

We lay back and looked, meditating, at the dark cover of the world. Thegurgle of the water had become heavier. We had often noticed a mutinous,complainingnoteinitatnight,quitedifferentfromitscheerfuldaytimechuckle,and seeming like the voice of amuch deeper andmore powerful stream.Our

waterhadalwaysthesetwomoods:theoneofsunnycomplaisance,theotherofinconsolable,passionateregret.

“Queerhowthestarsareallinsortofdiagrams,”remarkedOtto.“Youcoulddo most any proposition in geometry with ’em. They always look as if theymeant something.Some folks say everybody’s fortune is allwrittenout in thestars,don’tthey?”

“Theybelievesointheoldcountry,”Fritzaffirmed.ButArthuronlylaughedathim.“You’rethinkingofNapoleon,Fritzey.He

had a star thatwent outwhenhebegan to losebattles. I guess the stars don’tkeepanyclosetallyonSandtownfolks.”

Wewerespeculatingonhowmany timeswecouldcountahundredbeforetheeveningstarwentdownbehindthecornfields,whensomeonecried,“Therecomesthemoon,andit’sasbigasacartwheel!”

Wealljumpeduptogreetitasitswamoverthebluffsbehindus.Itcameuplikeagalleoninfullsail;anenormous,barbaricthing,redasanangryheathengod.

“When themoon came up red like that, theAztecs used to sacrifice theirprisonersonthetempletop,”Percyannounced.

“Go on, Perce. You got that out of Golden Days. Do you believe that,Arthur?”Iappealed.

Arthuranswered,quiteseriously:“Likeasnot.Themoonwasoneof theirgods.WhenmyfatherwasinMexicoCityhesawthestonewheretheyusedtosacrificetheirprisoners.”

AswedroppeddownbythefireagainsomeoneaskedwhethertheMound-Builders were older than the Aztecs. When we once got upon the Mound-Buildersweneverwillinglygotawayfromthem,andwewerestillconjecturingwhenweheardaloudsplashinthewater.

“Musthavebeenabigcatjumping,”saidFritz.“Theydosometimes.Theymustseebugsinthedark.Lookwhatatrackthemoonmakes!”

Therewasalong,silverystreakonthewater,andwherethecurrentfrettedoverabiglogitboileduplikegoldpieces.

“Suppose thereeverwas anygoldhidaway in thisold river?”Fritzasked.

HelaylikealittlebrownIndian,closetothefire,hischinonhishandandhisbare feet in theair.Hisbrother laughedathim,butArthur tookhissuggestionseriously.

“Someof theSpaniards thought therewasgoldupheresomewhere.Sevencitieschuckfullofgold,theyhadit,andCoronadoandhismencameuptohuntit.TheSpaniardswerealloverthiscountryonce.”

Percylookedinterested.“WasthatbeforetheMormonswentthrough?”Wealllaughedatthis.“Longenoughbefore.Before thePilgrimFathers,Perce.Maybe theycame

alongthisveryriver.Theyalwaysfollowedthewatercourses.”“Iwonderwherethisriverreallydoesbegin?”Tipmused.Thatwasanold

anda favoritemysterywhich themapdidnotclearlyexplain.On themap thelittleblacklinestoppedsomewhereinwesternKansas;butsinceriversgenerallyrose inmountains, itwas only reasonable to suppose that ours came from theRockies. Its destination, we knew, was the Missouri, and the Hassler boysalwaysmaintainedthatwecouldembarkatSandtowninflood-time,followournoses, and eventually arrive at New Orleans. Now they took up their oldargument.“Ifusboyshadgritenoughtotryit,itwouldn’ttakenotimetogettoKansasCityandSt.Joe.”

We began to talk about the places wewanted to go to. TheHassler boyswantedtoseethestock-yardsinKansasCity,andPercywantedtoseeabigstoreinChicago.Arthurwasinterlocutoranddidnotbetrayhimself.

“Nowit’syourturn,Tip.”Tiprolledoveronhiselbowandpoked thefire,andhiseyes lookedshyly

outofhisqueer,tightlittleface.“Myplaceisawfulfaraway.MyuncleBilltoldmeaboutit.”

Tip’sUncleBillwasawanderer,bittenwithminingfever,whohaddriftedintoSandtownwithabrokenarm,andwhenitwaswellhaddriftedoutagain.

“Whereisit?”“Aw, it’s down in NewMexico somewheres. There aren’t no railroads or

anything.You have to go onmules, and you run out ofwater before you getthereandhavetodrinkcannedtomatoes.”

“Well,goon,kid.What’sitlikewhenyoudogetthere?”Tipsatupandexcitedlybeganhisstory.“There’sabigredrocktherethatgoesrightupoutofthesandforaboutnine

hundredfeet.Thecountry’sflatallaroundit,andthishererockgoesupallbyitself,likeamonument.TheycallittheEnchantedBluffdownthere,becausenowhitemanhaseverbeenontopofit.Thesidesaresmoothrock,andstraightup,like awall. The Indians say that hundreds of years ago, before the Spaniardscame,therewasavillageawayupthereintheair.Thetribethatlivedtherehadsomesortofsteps,madeoutofwoodandbark,hungdownoverthefaceofthebluff,andthebraveswentdowntohuntandcarriedwaterupinbigjarsswungon their backs.They kept a big supply ofwater and driedmeat up there, andneverwentdownexcepttohunt.Theywereapeacefultribethatmadeclothandpottery,andtheywentuptheretogetoutofthewars.Yousee,theycouldpickoffanywarpartythattriedtogetuptheirlittlesteps.TheIndianssaytheywereahandsomepeople,andtheyhadsomesortofaqueerreligion.UncleBillthinkstheywereCliff-Dwellerswhohadgotintotroubleandlefthome.Theyweren’tfighters,anyhow.

“One time the braveswere downhunting and an awful storm cameup—akindofwaterspout—andwhentheygotbacktotheirrocktheyfoundtheirlittlestaircasehadbeenallbrokentopieces,andonlyafewstepswerelefthangingawayupintheair.Whiletheywerecampedatthefootoftherock,wonderingwhattodo,awarpartyfromthenorthcamealongandmassacred’emtoaman,withalltheoldfolksandwomenlookingonfromtherock.Thenthewarpartywentonsouthandleftthevillagetogetdownthebestwaytheycould.Ofcoursetheynever got down.They starved to deathup there, andwhen thewar partycamebackontheirwaynorth,theycouldhearthechildrencryingfromtheedgeof thebluffwhere theyhadcrawledout,but theydidn’tseeasignofagrownIndian,andnobodyhaseverbeenuptheresince.”

Weexclaimedatthisdolorouslegendandsatup.“There couldn’t have beenmanypeople up there,”Percy demurred. “How

bigisthetop,Tip?”“Oh,prettybig.Bigenoughsothattherockdoesn’tlooknearlyastallasit

is. The top’s bigger than the base. The bluff is sort ofworn away for severalhundredfeetup.That’sonereasonit’ssohardtoclimb.”

IaskedhowtheIndiansgotup,inthefirstplace.“Nobodyknowshowtheygotuporwhen.Ahuntingpartycamealongonce

andsawthattherewasatownupthere,andthatwasall.”Ottorubbedhischinandlookedthoughtful.“Ofcoursetheremustbesome

waytogetupthere.Couldn’tpeoplegetaropeoversomewayandpullaladderup?”

Tip’slittleeyeswereshiningwithexcitement.“Iknowaway.MeandUncleBilltalkeditallover.There’sakindofrocketthatwouldtakearopeover—life-saversuse’em—andthenyoucouldhoistarope-ladderandpegitdownatthebottomandmake it tightwithguy-ropeson theotherside. I’mgoing toclimbthattherebluff,andI’vegotitallplannedout.”

Fritzaskedwhatheexpectedtofindwhenhegotupthere.“Bones,maybe,ortheruinsoftheirtown,orpottery,orsomeoftheiridols.

Theremightbe’mostanythingupthere.Anyhow,Iwanttosee.”“Surenobodyelsehasbeenupthere,Tip?”Arthurasked.“Deadsure.Hardlyanybodyevergoesdownthere.Somehunterstriedtocut

steps in the rock once, but they didn’t get higher than aman can reach. TheBluff’sallredgranite,andUncleBillthinksit’sabouldertheglaciersleft.It’saqueerplace,anyhow.Nothingbutcactusanddesert forhundredsofmiles,andyetrightunderthebluffthere’sgoodwaterandplentyofgrass.That’swhythebisonusedtogodownthere.”

Suddenlyweheard a screamaboveour fire, and jumpedup to see adark,slimbirdfloatingsouthwardfaraboveus—awhooping-crane,weknewbyhercryandherlongneck.Werantotheedgeoftheisland,hopingwemightseeheralight,but shewavered southwardalong the rivercourseuntilwe losther.TheHasslerboysdeclaredthatbythelookoftheheavensitmustbeaftermidnight,sowethrewmorewoodonourfire,putonourjackets,andcurleddowninthewarmsand.Severalofuspretendedtodoze,butIfancywewerereallythinkingaboutTip’sBluffandtheextinctpeople.Overinthewoodthering-doveswerecalling mournfully to one another, and once we heard a dog bark, far away.

“Somebody getting into oldTommy’smelon patch,” Fritzmurmured, sleepily,butnobodyansweredhim.ByandbyPercyspokeoutoftheshadow.

“Say,Tip,whenyougodowntherewillyoutakemewithyou?”“Maybe.”“Supposeoneofusbeatsyoudownthere,Tip?”“Whoever gets to the Bluff first has got to promise to tell the rest of us

exactly what he finds,” remarked one of the Hassler boys, and to this we allreadilyassented.

Somewhat reassured, I dropped off to sleep. Imust have dreamed about arace for theBluff, for Iawoke inakindof fear thatotherpeopleweregettingaheadofmeandthatIwaslosingmychance.Isatupinmydampclothesandlookedattheotherboys,wholaytumbledinuneasyattitudesaboutthedeadfire.Itwasstilldark,buttheskywasbluewiththelastwonderfulazureofnight.Thestarsglistenedlikecrystalglobes,andtrembledasiftheyshonethroughadepthof clearwater.Even as Iwatched, they began to pale and the sky brightened.Daycamesuddenly,almostinstantaneously.Iturnedforanotherlookatthebluenight, and itwasgone.Everywhere thebirds began to call, and allmanner oflittle insectsbegan to chirp andhop about in thewillows.Abreeze sprangupfromthewestandbroughttheheavysmellofripenedcorn.Theboysrolledoverand shook themselves.We stripped and plunged into the river just as the suncameupoverthewindybluffs.

When I came home to Sandtown at Christmas time,we skated out to ourislandand talkedover thewholeprojectof theEnchantedBluff, renewingourresolutiontofindit.

Although that was twenty years ago, none of us have ever climbed theEnchanted Bluff. Percy Pound is a stockbroker in Kansas City and will gonowhere that his red touring-car cannot carry him. Otto Hassler went on therailroadandlosthisfootbraking;afterwhichheandFritzsucceededtheirfatherasthetowntailors.

Arthur sat about the sleepy little town all his life—he died before hewas

twenty-five.The last time I sawhim,when Iwashomeononeofmycollegevacations,hewassittinginasteamer-chairunderacottonwoodtreeinthelittleyardbehindoneofthetwoSandtownsaloons.Hewasveryuntidyandhishandwasnotsteady,butwhenherose,unabashed,togreetme,hiseyeswereasclearandwarmasever.WhenIhadtalkedwithhimforanhourandheardhimlaughagain,IwonderedhowitwasthatwhenNaturehadtakensuchpainswithaman,fromhishandstothearchofhislongfoot,shehadeverlosthiminSandtown.HejokedaboutTipSmith’sBluff,anddeclaredhewasgoingdowntherejustassoon as the weather got cooler; he thought the Grand Cañonmight be worthwhile,too.

IwasperfectlysurewhenIlefthimthathewouldnevergetbeyondthehighplank fenceand thecomfortable shadeof thecottonwood.And, indeed, itwasunderthatverytreethathediedonesummermorning.

Tip Smith still talks about going toNewMexico.Hemarried a slatternly,unthrifty country girl, has been much tied to a perambulator, and has grownstooped and gray from irregularmeals and broken sleep.But theworst of hisdifficultiesarenowover,andhehas,ashesays,comeintoeasywater.WhenIwaslastinSandtownIwalkedhomewithhimlateonemoonlightnight,afterhehadbalancedhiscashandshutuphisstore.Wetookthelongwayaroundandsatdownontheschoolhousesteps,andbetweenuswequiterevivedtheromanceofthe lone red rock and the extinct people. Tip insists that he stillmeans to godownthere,buthethinksnowhewillwaituntilhisboy,Bert,isoldenoughtogo with him. Bert has been let into the story, and thinks of nothing but theEnchantedBluff.

TheJoyofNellyDeane

N ELLANDIWEREALMOSTREADYTOGOONFORTHELASTACTOF“QUEENESTHER,”

andwehadforthemomentgotridofourthreepatientdressers,Mrs.Dow,Mrs.Freeze, and Mrs. Spinny. Nell was peering over my shoulder into the littlecrackedlooking-glassthatMrs.Dowhadtakenfromitsnailonherkitchenwalland brought down to the church under her shawl that morning. When sherealizedthatwewerealone,Nellwhisperedtomeinthequick,fiercewayshehad:

“Say, Peggy, won’t you go up and stay with me to-night? Scott Spinny’saskedtotakemehome,andIdon’twanttowalkupwithhimalone.”

“Iguessso,ifyou’llaskmymother.”“Oh,I’llfixher!”Nelllaughed,withatossofherheadwhichmeantthatshe

usually got what she wanted, even from people much less tractable than mymother.

In amoment our tiring-womenwere back again. The three old ladies—atleast they seemed old to us—fluttered about us, more agitated than we wereourselves. It seemed as though they would never leave off patting Nell andtouchingherup.Theykepttryingthingsthiswayandthat,neverableintheend

todecidewhichwaywasbest.Theywouldn’t hear toherusing rouge, and asthey powdered her neck and arms,Mrs. Freezemurmured that she hopedwewouldn’tget into thehabitofusingsuch things.Mrs.Spinnydividedher timebetweenpullingupandtuckingdownthe“illusion”thatfilledinthesquareneckofNelly’s dress. She didn’t like thingsmuch low, she said; but after she hadpulleditup,shestoodbackandlookedatNellthoughtfullythroughherglasses.Whiletheexcitedgirlwasreachingforthisandthat,buttoningaslipper,pinningdown a curl, Mrs. Spinny’s smile softened more and more until, just beforeEsthermadeher entrance, theold lady tiptoedup toher and softly tucked theillusiondownasfarasitwouldgo.

“She’s so pink; it seems a pity not,” shewhispered apologetically toMrs.Dow.

Every one admitted thatNellywas the prettiest girl inRiverbend, and thegayest—oh,thegayest!Whenshewasnotsinging,shewaslaughing.Whenshewasnotlaidupwithabrokenarm,theoutcomeofafoolhardycoastingfeat,orsuspendedfromschoolbecausesheranawayatrecesstogobuggy-ridingwithGuyFranklin,shewassuretobeuptomischiefofsomesort.Twiceshebrokethroughtheiceandgotsousedintheriverbecausesheneverlookedwheresheskatedorcaredwhathappenedsolongasshewentfastenough.AfterthesecondoftheseduckingsourthreedressersdeclaredthatshewastryingtobeaBaptistdespiteherself.

Mrs. Spinny and Mrs. Freeze and Mrs. Dow, who were always hoveringaboutNelly,oftenwhispered tome theirhope that shewouldeventuallycomeintoourchurchandnot“gowith theMethodists”;her familywereWesleyans.But to me these artless plans of theirs never wholly explained their watchfulaffection.Theyhadgooddaughtersthemselves,—exceptMrs.Spinny,whohadonly the sullen Scott,—and they loved their plain girls and thanked God forthem.ButtheylovedNellydifferently.Theywereproudofherprettyfigureandyellow-browneyes,whichdilatedsoeasilyandsparkledwithakindofgoldeneffervescence.Theywerealwaysmakingpretty things forher, alwayscoaxingher tocome to the sewing-circle,where sheknottedher thread, andput in thewrongsleeve,andlaughedandchatteredandsaidagreatmanythingsthatshe

should not have said, and somehow always warmed their hearts. I think theylovedherforherunquenchablejoy.

AlltheBaptistladieslikedNell,eventhosewhocriticizedhermostseverely,butthethreewhowerefirstinfightingthebattlesofourlittlechurch,whoheldittogetherbytheirprayersandthelaboroftheirhands,watchedoverherastheydidoverMrs.Dow’scentury-plantbeforeitblossomed.TheylookedforheronSundaymorningandsmiledatherasshehurried,alwaysalittlelate,uptothechoir.When she rose and stood behind the organ and sang “There Is aGreenHill,”onecouldseeMrs.DowandMrs.Freezesettlebackintheiraccustomedseatsandlookupatherasifshehadjustcomefromthathillandhadbroughtthemgladtidings.

ItwasbecauseIsangcontralto,or,aswesaid,alto,intheBaptistchoirthatNellandIbecamefriends.Shewassogayandgrownup,sobusywithpartiesanddancesandpicnics,thatIwouldscarcelyhaveseenmuchofherhadwenotsungtogether.Shelikedmebetterthanshedidanyoftheoldergirls,whotriedclumsilytobelikeher,andIfeltalmostassolicitousandadmiringasdidMrs.DowandMrs.Spinny.IthinkeventhenImusthavelovedtoseeherbloomandglow,andIlovedtohearhersing,in“TheNinetyandNine,”

Butonewasoutonthehillsaway

inhersweet,strongvoice.Nellhadneverhadasinginglesson,butshehadsungfrom the time she could talk, and Mrs. Dow used fondly to say that it wassingingsomuchthatmadeherfiguresopretty.

After Iwent into the choir itwas found to be easier to getNelly to choirpractice.IfIstoppedoutsidehergateonmywaytochurchandcoaxedher,sheusuallylaughed,raninforherhatandjacket,andwentalongwithme.Thethreeoldladiesfosteredourfriendship,andbecauseIwas“quiet,”theyesteemedmeagood influence for Nelly. This view was propounded in a sewing-circlediscussion and, leaking down to us through our mothers, greatly amused us.Dearoldladies!ItwassomanifestlyforwhatNellwasthattheylovedher,andyettheywerealwayslookingfor“influences”tochangeher.

The“QueenEsther”performancehadcostusthreemonthsofhardpractice,anditwasnoteasytokeepNelluptoattendingthetediousrehearsals.SomeoftheboysweknewwereinthechorusofAssyrianyouths,butthesolocastwasmadeupofolderpeople,andNellfoundthemverypoky.WegavethecantataintheBaptist church onChristmas eve, “to a crowded house,” as theRiverbend“Messenger” truly chronicled. The country folk for miles about had come inthrough a deep snow, and their teams andwagons stood in a long row at thehitch-bars on each side of the church door. It was certainlyNelly’s night, forhowevermuchthetenor—hewasherschoolmaster,andnaturallythoughtpoorlyof her—might try to eclipse her in his dolorous solos about the rivers ofBabylon,therecouldbenodoubtastowhomthepeoplehadcometohear—andtosee.

After theperformancewasover,our fathersandmotherscameback to thedressing-rooms—the little roomsbehind thebaptistrywhere thecandidates forbaptismwere robed—to congratulate us, andNell persuadedmymother to letmegohomewithher.ThisarrangementmaynothavebeenwhollyagreeabletoScottSpinny,whostoodglumlywaitingat thebaptistrydoor; thoughIusedtothink he doggedNell’s steps not somuch for any pleasure he got from beingwith her as for the pleasure of keeping other people away. Dear little Mrs.Spinnywasperpetuallyinastateofhumiliationonaccountofhisbadmanners,andshetriedbyaveryspecialtendernesstomakeuptoNellyfortheremissnessofherungraciousson.

Scottwasaspare,muscularfellow,good-looking,butwithafacesosetanddark that Iused to think itvery like thecastingshe sold.Hewas taciturnanddomineering,andNellratherlikedtoprovokehim.Herfatherwassoeasywithher that she seemed to enjoy being ordered about now and then. That night,when every onewas praising her and telling her howwell she sang and howprettyshelooked,Scottonlysaid,aswecameoutofthedressing-room:

“Haveyougotyourhighshoeson?”“No;butI’vegotrubbersonovermylowones.Motherdoesn’tcare.”“Well,youjustgobackandput’emonasfastasyoucan.”Nellmadeafaceathimandranback,laughing.Hermother,fat,comfortable

Mrs.Deane,wasimmenselyamusedatthis.“That’sright,Scott,”shechuckled.“YoucandoenoughmorewithherthanI

can.Shewalksrightovermean’Jud.”Scottgrinned.IfhewasproudofNelly,thelastthinghewishedtodowasto

showit.Whenshecamebackhebegantonagagain.“Whatareyougoingtodowithallthoseflowers?They’llfreezestiffaspokers.”

“Well,therewon’tnoneofyourflowersfreeze,ScottSpinny,sothere!”Nellsnapped.Shehad the best of him that time, and theAssyrianyouths rejoiced.Theyweremostofthemhigh-schoolboys,andthepoorestofthemhad“chippedin” and sent all the way to Denver for Queen Esther’s flowers. There werebouquetsfromhalfadozentownspeople,too,butnonefromScott.Scottwasaprosperoushardwaremerchant andnotoriouslypenurious, thoughhe savedhisface,astheboyssaid,bygivingliberallytothechurch.

“There’s no use freezing the fool things, anyhow. You get me somenewspapers,andI’llwrap’emup.”Scotttookfromhispocketafoldedcopyofthe Riverbend “Messenger” and began laboriously to wrap up one of thebouquets.Whenweleftthechurchdoorheborethreelargenewspaperbundles,carryingthemascarefullyasiftheyhadbeensomanynewlyfrostedwedding-cakes, and leftNell andme to shift for ourselves aswe floundered along thesnow-burdenedsidewalk.

Although itwasaftermidnight, lightswereshining frommanyof the littlewooden houses, and the roofs and shrubbery were so deep in snow thatRiverbendlookedasifithadbeentuckeddownintoawarmbed.Thecompaniesof people, all coming from church, tramping this way and that toward theirhomesandcalling“Goodnight”and“MerryChristmas”astheypartedcompany,allseemedtousveryunusualandexciting.

Whenwegothome,Mrs.Deanehadacoldsupperready,andJudDeanehadalreadytakenoffhisshoesandfallentoonhisfriedchickenandpie.Hewassoproudofhisprettydaughter thathemustgiveherherChristmaspresents thenand there, and hewent into the sleeping-chamber behind the dining-room andfrom the depths of hiswife’s closet brought out a short sealskin jacket and aroundcapandmadeNellyputthemon.

Mrs.Deane,whosatbusybetweenaplateofspicecakeandatraypiledwithherfamouswhipped-creamtarts,laughedinordinatelyathisbehavior.

“Ain’theworsethananykidyoueversee?He’sbeenrunningtothatclosetlikeacatshutawayfromherkittens.IwonderNellain’tcaughtonbeforethis.Ididthinkhe’dmakeoutnowtokeep’emtillChristmasmorning;buthe’snevermadeouttokeepanythingyet.”

That was true enough, and fortunately Jud’s inability to keep anythingseemedalwaystopresentahighlyhumorousaspecttohiswife.Mrs.Deaneputherheartintohercooking,andsaidthatsolongasamanwasagoodprovidershehadnocausetocomplain.OtherpeoplewerenotsocharitabletowardJud’sfailing.Irememberhowmanystrictureswerepasseduponthatlittlesealskinandhowhewascensuredforhisextravagance.Butwhatapublic-spiritedthing,afterall, itwas forhim todo!How, thewinter through,weall enjoyedseeingNellskatingontheriverorrunningaboutthetownwiththebrowncollarturnedupaboutherbrightcheeksandherhairblowingoutfromundertheroundcap!“Noseal,”Mrs.Dowsaid,“wouldhavebegrudgedittoher.Whyshouldwe?”Thiswasatthesewing-circle,whenthenewcoatwasundergravediscussion.

AtlastNellyandIgotup-stairsandundressed,andthepadofJud’sslipperedfeet about the kitchen premises—where he was carrying up from the cellarthings thatmight freeze—ceased.He called “Good night, daughter,” from thefootofthestairs,andthehousegrewquiet.Butoneisnotaprimadonnathefirsttimefornothing,anditseemedasifwecouldnotgotobed.Ourlightmusthaveburned long after every other in Riverbend was out. The muslin curtains ofNell’sbedweredrawnback;Mrs.Deanehadturneddownthewhitecounterpaneand taken off the shams and smoothed the pillows for us. But their fairplumpnessofferednotemptationtotwosuchhotyoungheads.Wecouldnotletgooflifeevenforalittlewhile.WesatandtalkedinNell’scozyroom,wheretherewasatiny,whitefurrug—theonlyoneinRiverbend—beforethebed;andtherewerewhitesashcurtains,and theprettiest littledeskanddressing-table Ihadeverseen.Itwasawarm,gaylittleroom,floodedalldaylongwithsunlightfromeastandsouthwindowsthathadclimbing-rosesallabouttheminsummer.About the dresser were photographs of adoring high-school boys; and one of

GuyFranklin,muchgroomedandbarbered,inadress-coatandaboutonnière.Ineverlikedtoseethatphotographthere.Thehomeboyslookedproperlymodestandbashfulonthedresser,butheseemedtobestaringimpudentlyallthetime.

I knew nothing definite againstGuy, but inRiverbend all “traveling-men”wereconsideredworldlyandwicked.HetraveledforaChicagodry-goodsfirm,and our fathers didn’t like him because he put extravagant ideas into ourmothers’heads.Hehadverysmoothandnatteringways,andheintroducedintoour simple community a great variety of perfumes and scented soaps, and healwaysremindedmeof themerchants inCæsar,whobrought intoGaul“thosethings which effeminate the mind,” as we translated that delightfully easypassage.

Nellwassiltingbeforethedressing-tableinhernightgown,holdingthenewfurcoatandrubbinghercheekagainstit,whenIsawasuddengleamoftearsinhereyes.“Youknow,Peggy,”shesaidinherquick,impetuousway,“thismakesmefeelbad.I’vegotasecretfrommydaddy.”

Icanseehernow,sopinkandeager,herbrownhair in twospringybraidsdownherback,andhereyesshiningwithtearsandwithsomethingevensofterandmoretremulous.

“I’mengaged,Peggy,”shewhispered,“reallyandtruly.”She leaned forward, unbuttoning her nightgown, and there on her breast,

hungbyalittlegoldchainaboutherneck,wasadiamondring—GuyFranklin’ssolitaire;everyoneinRiverbendknewitwell.

“I’mgoing to live inChicago, and take singing lessons, andgo to operas,anddoallthosenicethings—oh,everything!Iknowyoudon’tlikehim,Peggy,butyouknowyouare akid.You’ll seehow it isyourselfwhenyougrowup.He’ssodifferentfromourboys,andhe’sjustterriblyinlovewithme.Andthen,Peggy,”—flushingalldownoverhersoftshoulders,—“I’mawfullyfondofhim,too.Awfully.”

“Areyou,Nell, truly?” Iwhispered.She seemed so changed tomeby thewarmlightinhereyesandthatdelicatesuffusionofcolor.IfeltasIdidwhenIgotupearlyonpicnicmornings insummer,andsawthedawncomeup in thebreathlessskyabovetherivermeadowsandmakeallthecornfieldsgolden.

“SureIdo,Peggy;don’tlooksosolemn.It’snothingtolookthatwayabout,kid.It’snice.”Shethrewherarmsaboutmesuddenlyandhuggedme.

“Ihatetothinkaboutyourgoingsofarawayfromusall,Nell.”“Oh,you’lllovetocomeandvisitme.Justyouwait.”She began breathlessly to go over thingsGuy Franklin had told her about

Chicago, until I seemed to see it all loomingup out there under the stars thatkeptwatchoverourlittlesleepingtown.Wehadneitherofuseverbeentoacity,butweknewwhatitwouldbelike.Wehearditthrobbinglikegreatengines,andcalling tous, that far-awayworld.Evenafterwehadopened thewindowsandscurriedintobed,weseemedtofeelapulsationacrossallthemilesofsnow.Thewinter silence trembled with it, and the air was full of something new thatseemedtobreakoverusinsoftwaves.Inthatsnug,warmlittlebedIhadasenseof imminentchangeanddanger.IwassomehowafraidforNellywhenIheardherbreathingsoquicklybesideme,andIputmyarmaboutherprotectinglyaswedriftedtowardsleep.

In the following spring we were both graduated from the Riverbend highschool,andIwentawaytocollege.MyfamilymovedtoDenver,andduringthenextfouryearsIheardverylittleofNellyDeane.Mylifewascrowdedwithnewpeople andnewexperiences, and I amafraid I heldher little inmind. I heardindirectly that JudDeane had lostwhat little property he owned in a lucklessventure in Cripple Creek, and that he had been able to keep his house inRiverbend only through the clemency of his creditors. Guy Franklin had hisroutechangedanddidnotgotoRiverbendanymore.Hemarriedthedaughterofarichcattle-manoutnearLongPine,andranadry-goodsstoreofhisown.Mrs.Dowwrotemealongletteraboutonceayear,andinoneoftheseshetoldmethatNellywasteachinginthesixthgradeintheRiverbendschool.

“DearNellydoesnotliketeachingverywell.Thechildrentryher,andsheisso pretty it seems a pity for her to be tied down to uncongenial employment.Scott is still very attentive, and I have noticed him look up at thewindow ofNelly’s room in a very determined way as he goes home to dinner. Scott

continues prosperous; he has made money during these hard times and nowownsbothourhardwarestores.Heisclose,butaveryhonorablefellow.Nellyseemstoholdoff,butIthinkMrs.Spinnyhashopes.Nothingwouldpleasehermore. If Scott were more careful about his appearance, it would help. He ofcoursegetsblackabouthisbusiness,andNelly,youknow,isverydainty.Peopledosayhismotherdoeshiscourtingforhim,sheissoeager.IfonlyScottdoesnotturnouthardandpenuriouslikehisfather!Wemustallhaveourschoolinginthislife,butIdon’twantNelly’stobetoosevere.Sheisadeargirl,andkeepshercolor.”

Mrs.Dow’sownschoolinghadbeennone tooeasy.Herhusbandhad longbeencrippledwith rheumatism,andwasbitter and faultfinding.Herdaughtershadmarriedpoorly,andoneofhersonshadfallenintoevilways.Butherletterswere always cheerful, and in one of them she gently remonstrated with mebecauseI“seemedinclinedtotakeasadviewoflife.”

InthewintervacationofmysenioryearIstoppedonmywayhometovisitMrs.Dow.ThefirstthingshetoldmewhenIgotintoheroldbuckboardatthestationwasthat“Scotthadatlastprevailed,”andthatNellywastomarryhiminthe spring.As a preliminary step,Nellywas about to join theBaptist church.“Justthink,youwillbehereforherbaptizing!HowthatwillpleaseNelly!Sheistobeimmersedto-morrownight.”

ImetScottSpinny in thepost-office thatmorning, andhegavemeahardgripwith one black hand. Therewas something grim and saturnine about hispowerful body and bearded face and his strong, cold hands. Iwonderedwhatperversefatehaddrivenhimforeightyearstodogthefootstepsofagirlwhosecharmwasduetoqualitiesnaturallydistastefultohim.Itstillseemsstrangetome that in easy-goingRiverbend,where therewere somany boyswho couldhavelivedcontentedlyenoughwithmylittlegrasshopper,itwasthepushingantwhomusthaveherandallhercarelessways.

By a kind of unformulated etiquette one did not call upon candidates forbaptism on the day of the ceremony, so I hadmy first glimpse of Nelly thatevening.Thebaptistrywasacementedpitdirectlyunderthepulpitrostrum,overwhichwehadourstagewhenwesang“QueenEsther.”Isatthroughthesermon

somewhatnervously.Aftertheminister,inhislong,blackgown,hadgonedowninto thewater and the choir had finished singing, the door from the dressing-roomopened,and,ledbyoneofthedeacons,Nellycamedownthestepsintothepool.Oh,shelookedsolittleandmeekandchastened!Herwhitecashmererobeclungabouther,andherbrownhairwasbrushedstraightbackandhungintwosoftbraidsfromalittleheadbenthumbly.AsshesteppeddownintothewaterIshiveredwith thecoldof it, and I remembered sharplyhowmuch Ihad lovedher.Shewentdownuntil thewaterwaswellaboveherwaist,andstoodwhiteand small, with her hands crossed on her breast, while the minister said thewords about being buriedwithChrist in baptism. Then, lying in his arm, shedisappearedunderthedarkwater.“Itwillbelikethatwhenshedies,”Ithought,andaquickpaincaughtmyheart.Thechoirbegantosing“WashedintheBloodoftheLamb”assheroseagain,thedoorbehindthebaptistryopened,revealingthose three dear guardians,Mrs.Dow,Mrs. Freeze, andMrs. Spinny, and shewentupintotheirarms.

IwenttoseeNellnextday,upinthelittleroomofmanymemories.Suchasad,sadvisit!Sheseemedchanged—alittleembarrassedandquietlydespairing.WetalkedofmanyoftheoldRiverbendgirlsandboys,butshedidnotmentionGuy Franklin or Scott Spinny, except to say that her father had got work inScott’shardwarestore.Shebeggedme,puttingherhandsonmyshoulderswithsomethingofheroldimpulsiveness,tocomeandstayafewdayswithher.ButIwasafraid—afraidofwhatshemighttellmeandofwhatImightsay.WhenIsatinthatroomwithallhertrinkets,thefoolishharvestofhergirlhood,lyingabout,and thewhite curtains and the littlewhite rug, I thought ofScottSpinnywithpositive terrorandcould feelhishardgriponmyhandagain. Imade thebestexcuseIcouldabouthavingtohurryontoDenver;butshegavemeonequicklook,andhereyesceasedtoplead.Isawthatsheunderstoodmeperfectly.Wehadknowneachothersowell. Justonce,whenIgotup togoandhad troublewithmy veil, she laughed her oldmerry laugh and toldme there were somethingsIwouldneverlearn,forallmyschooling.

The next day,whenMrs.Dow droveme down to the station to catch themorning train for Denver, I sawNelly hurrying to school with several books

underherarm.Shehadbeenworkingupherlessonsathome,Ithought.Shewasneverquickatherbooks,dearNell.

ItwastenyearsbeforeIagainvisitedRiverbend.IhadbeeninRomeforalongtime,andhadfallenintobitterhomesickness.Onemorning,sittingamongthedahliasandastersthatbloomsobravelyuponthosegiganticheapsofearth-red ruins thatwereonce thepalaces of theCæsars, I broke the seal of oneofMrs.Dow’slongyearlyletters.ItbroughtsomuchsadnewsthatIresolvedthenand there to go home to Riverbend, the only place that had ever really beenhome tome.Mrs.Dowwroteme that her husband, after years of illness, haddied in the cold spell lastMarch. “So good and patient toward the last,” shewrote,“andsoafraidofgivingextratrouble.”Therewasanotherthingshesaveduntil the last.Shewroteonandon,dearwoman,aboutnewbabiesandvillageimprovements,asifshecouldnotbeartotellme;andthenitcame:

“YouwillbesadtohearthattwomonthsagoourdearNellyleftus.Itwasaterribleblowtousall.Icannotwriteaboutityet,Ifear.Iwakeupeverymorningfeeling that I ought to go to her. Shewent three days after her little boywasborn.Thebaby isa finechildandwill live, I think, inspiteofeverything.Heandher little girl, now eight years old,whom she namedMargaret, after you,havegonetoMrs.Spinny’s.Shelovesthemmorethaniftheywereherown.Itseemsasifalreadytheyhadmadeherquiteyoungagain.IwishyoucouldseeNelly’schildren.”

Ah,thatwaswhatIwanted,toseeNelly’schildren!Thewishcameachingfrommyheartalongwiththebitterhomesicktears;alongwithaquick,torturingrecollectionthatflasheduponme,asIlookedaboutandtriedtocollectmyself,ofhowwe twohadsat inour sunnyseat in thecornerof theoldbare school-roomoneSeptemberafternoonandlearnedthenamesofthesevenhillstogether.Inthatplace,atthatmoment,aftersomanyyears,howitallcamebacktome—the warm sun on my back, the chattering girl beside me, the curly hair, thelaughingyelloweyes,thestubbylittlefingeronthepage!Ifeltasifeventhen,whenwesatinthesunwithourheadstogether,itwasallarranged,writtenout

likeastory,thatatthismomentIshouldbesittingamongthecrumblingbricksanddryinggrass,andsheshouldbe lying in theplace Iknewsowell,on thatgreenhillfaraway.

Mrs.DowsatwithherChristmassewinginthefamiliarsitting-room,wherethe carpet and thewall-paper and the table-cover had all faded into soft, dullcolors,andeventhechromoofHagarandIshmaelhadbeentonedtothesobrietyofage.Inthebay-windowthetallwireflower-standstillboreitslittleterracesofpotted plants, and the big fuchsia and the Martha Washington geranium hadblossomedforChristmas-tide.Mrs.Dowherselfdidnotlookgreatlychangedtome.Herhair,thineversinceIcouldrememberit,wasnowquitewhite,butherspare,wirylittlepersonhadallitsoldactivity,andhereyesgleamedwiththeoldfriendlinessbehindhersilver-bowedglasses.Hergrayhouse-dressseemedjustlikethosesheusedtowearwhenIraninafterschooltotakeherangel-foodcakedowntothechurchsupper.

Thehouse sat on a hill, and frombehind the geraniums I could see prettymuchallofRiverbend,tuckeddowninthesoftsnow,andtheairabovewasfullof big, loose flakes, falling from a gray skywhich betokened settledweather.Indoors thehard-coalburnermadea tropical temperature, andglowedawarmorange from its isinglass sides.We sat andvisited, the twoofus,withagreatsenseofcomfortandcompleteness.IhadreachedRiverbendonlythatmorning,andMrs.Dow,whohadbeenhauntedby thoughtsof shipwreckand sufferingupon wintry seas, kept urging me to draw nearer to the fire and suggestingincidental refreshment. We had chattered all through the winter morning andmost of the afternoon, taking up one after another of theRiverbend girls andboys, andagreeing thatwehad reason tobewell satisfiedwithmostof them.Finally,afteralongpauseinwhichIhadlistenedtothecontentedtickingoftheclockandthecrackleofthecoal,IputthequestionIhaduntilthenheldback:

“Andnow,Mrs.Dow,tellmeabouttheonewelovedbestofall.SinceIgotyourletterI’vethoughtofhereveryday.TellmeallaboutScottandNelly.”

Thetearsflashedbehindherglasses,andshesmoothedthelittlepinkbagon

herknee.“Well,dear,I’mafraidScottprovedtobeahardman,likehisfather.Butwe

mustrememberthatNellyalwayshadMrs.Spinny.Ineversawanythinglikethelovetherewasbetweenthosetwo.AfterNelly lostherownfatherandmother,shelookedtoMrs.Spinnyforeverything.WhenScottwastoounreasonable,hismothercould’mostalwaysprevailuponhim.SheneverliftedahandtofightherownbattleswithScott’sfather,butshewasneverafraidtospeakupforNelly.AndthenNellytookgreatcomfortofherlittlegirl.Suchalovelychild!”

“Hadshebeenveryillbeforethelittlebabycame?”“No,Margaret;I’mafraid’twasallbecausetheyhadthewrongdoctor.Ifeel

confident that either Doctor Tom or Doctor Jones could have brought herthrough.But,yousee,Scotthadoffendedthemboth,andthey’dstoppedtradingathisstore,sohewouldhaveyoungDoctorFox,aboyjustoutofcollegeandastranger.Hegotscaredanddidn’tknowwhattodo.Mrs.Spinnyfelthewasn’tdoing right, so she sent forMrs.Freeze andme. It seemed likeNellyhadgotdiscouraged. Scottwouldmove into their big newhouse before the plasteringwasdry,andthough’twassummer,shehadtakenaterriblecoldthatseemedtohavedrainedher,andshetooknointerestinfixingtheplaceup.Mrs.Spinnyhadbeen downwith her back again and wasn’t able to help, and things was justanyway.Wewon’ttalkaboutthat,Margaret;Ithink’twouldhurtMrs.Spinnytohave you know. She nearly died of mortification when she sent for us, andblamed her poor back. We did get Nelly fixed up nicely before she died. IprevaileduponDoctorTomtocomeinatthelast,andit’mostbrokehisheart.‘Why,Mis’Dow,’hesaid,‘ifyou’donlyhavecomeandtoldmehow’twas,I’dhavecomeandcarriedherrightoffinmyarms.’”

“Oh,Mrs.Dow,”Icried,“thenitneedn’thavebeen?”Mrs.Dowdroppedherneedleandclaspedherhandsquickly. “Wemustn’t

lookatitthatway,dear,”shesaidtremulouslyandalittlesternly;“wemustn’tletourselves.Wemustjustfeel thatourLordwantedher then,andtookhertoHimself.Whenitwasallover,shedid lookso likeachildofGod,youngandtrusting,likeshedidonherbaptizingnight,youremember?”

I felt thatMrs.Dowdid notwant to talk anymore aboutNelly then, and,

indeed, I had little heart to listen; so I told her I would go for a walk, andsuggestedthatImightstopatMrs.Spinny’stoseethechildren.

Mrs.Dow lookedup thoughtfullyat theclock.“Idoubt ifyou’ll find littleMargaret there now. It’s half-past four, and she’ll have been out of school anhour and more. She’ll be most likely coasting on Lupton’s Hill. She usuallymakes for itwithhersled theminuteshe isoutof theschool-housedoor.Youknow, it’s theoldhillwhereyouallused toslide. Ifyoustop inat thechurchaboutsixo’clock,you’lllikelyfindMrs.Spinnytherewiththebaby.IpromisedtogodownandhelpMrs.Freezefinishupthetree,andMrs.Spinnysaidshe’druninwiththebaby,if’twasn’ttoobitter.Shewon’tleavehimalonewiththeSwedegirl.She’slikeayoungwomanwithherfirst.”

Lupton’sHillwasat theotherendof town,andwhen Igot there theduskwas thickening, drawing blue shadows over the snowy fields. There wereperhapstwentychildrencreepingupthehillorwhizzingdownthepackedsled-track.WhenIhadbeenwatchingthemforsomeminutes,Iheardalustyshout,andalittleredsledshotpastmeintothedeepsnow-driftbeyond.Thechildwasquiteburied for amoment, then she struggledout and stooddusting the snowfromhershortcoatandredwoolencomforter.Sheworeabrownfurcap,whichwastoobigforherandofanold-fashionedshape,suchasgirlsworelongago,but I would have known her without the cap.Mrs. Dow had said a beautifulchild,and therewouldnotbe two like this inRiverbend.Shewasoffbefore Ihadtimetospeaktoher,goingupthehillatatrot,hersturdylittlelegsplowingthroughthetrampledsnow.Whenshereachedthetopsheneverpausedtotakebreath,but threwherselfuponhersledandcamedownwithawhoopthatwasquenchedonlybythedeepdriftattheend.

“AreyouMargaretSpinny?”Iaskedasshestruggledoutinacloudofsnow.“Yes, ’m.” She approachedme with frank curiosity, pulling her little sled

behindher.“AreyouthestrangeladystayingatMrs.Dow’s?”Inodded,andshebegantolookmyclothesoverwithrespectfulinterest.

“Yourgrandmotheristobeatthechurchatsixo’clock,isn’tshe?”“Yes,’m.”“Well, suppose we walk up there now. It’s nearly six, and all the other

childrenaregoinghome.”Shehesitated,andlookedupat thefaintlygleamingtrackonthehill-slope.“Doyouwantanotherslide?Isthatit?”Iasked.

“Doyoumind?”sheaskedshyly.“No.I’llwaitforyou.Takeyourtime;don’trun.”Twolittleboyswerestillhangingabouttheslide,andtheycheeredherasshe

camedown,hercomforterstreaminginthewind.“Now,”sheannounced,gettingupoutofthedrift,“I’llshowyouwherethe

churchis.”“ShallItieyourcomforteragain?”“No,’m,thanks.I’mplentywarm.”Sheputhermittenedhandconfidinglyin

mineandtrudgedalongbesideme.Mrs.Dowmusthaveheardustrampingupthesnowystepsofthechurch,for

shemet us at the door.Everyonehadgone except the old ladies.AkerosenelampflickeredovertheSunday-schoolchart,withthelesson-pictureoftheWiseMen,andthelittlebarrel-stovethrewoutadeepglowoverthethreewhiteheadsthatbentabovethebaby.Therethethreefriendssat,pattinghim,andsmoothinghisdress,andplayingwithhishands,whichmadetheirslooksobrown.

“Youain’tseennothingfinerinallyourtravels,”saidMrs.Spinny,andtheyalllaughed.

Theyshowedmehisfullchestandhowstronghisbackwas;hadmefeelthegoldenfuzzonhishead,andmadehimlookatmewithhisround,brighteyes.HelaughedandrearedhimselfinmyarmsasItookhimupandheldhimcloseto me. He was so warm and tingling with life, and he had the flush of newbeginnings,ofthenewmorningandthenewrose.Heseemedtohavecomesolatelyfromhismother’sheart!ItwasasifIheldheryouthandallheryoungjoy.As I put my cheek down against his, he spied a pink flower in my hat, andmakingagleefulsound,helungedatitwithbothfists.

“Don’t let him spoil it,”murmuredMrs. Spinny. “He loves color so—likeNelly.”

Century,October1911

TheBohemianGirl

I

T HE TRANS-CONTINENTAL EXPRESS SWUNG ALONG THE WINDINGS OF THE SAND

RiverValley,andintherearseatoftheobservationcarayoungmansatgreatlyathisease,notintheleastdiscomfitedbythefiercesunlightwhichbeatinuponhisbrownfaceandneckandstrongback.Therewasalookofrelaxationandofgreatpassivityabouthisbroadshoulders,whichseemedalmosttooheavyuntilhe stood up and squared them. He wore a pale flannel shirt and a blue silknecktiewithlooseends.Histrouserswerewideandbeltedatthewaist,andhisshortsack-coathungopen.Hisheavyshoeshadseengoodservice.Hisreddish-brownhair, likehisclothes,hadaforeigncut.Hehaddeep-set,darkblueeyesunderheavyreddisheyebrows.Hisfacewaskeptcleanonlybycloseshaving,andeventhesharpestrazorleftaglintofyellowinthesmoothbrownofhisskin.His teethand thepalmsofhishandswereverywhite.Hishead,which lookedhardandstubborn,layindolentlyinthegreencushionofthewickerchair,andashe lookedoutat the ripesummercountrya teasing,notunkindlysmileplayedoverhis lips.Once,ashebasked thuscomfortably,aquick light flashed inhis

eyes, curiouslydilating thepupils, andhismouthbecameahard, straight line,gradually relaxing into its former smile of rather kindly mockery. He toldhimself,apparently,thattherewasnopointingettingexcited;andheseemedamasterhandat takinghiseasewhenhecould.Neither thesharpwhistleof thelocomotivenorthebrakeman’scalldisturbedhim.Itwasnotuntilafterthetrainhadstoppedthatherose,putonaPanamahat,tookfromtherackasmallvaliseanda flute-case, and steppeddeliberately to the stationplatform.Thebaggagewas already unloaded, and the stranger presented a check for a battered sole-leathersteamer-trunk.

“Canyoukeepithereforadayortwo?”heaskedtheagent.“Imaysendforit,andImaynot.”

“Dependsonwhetheryoulikethecountry,Isuppose?”demandedtheagentinachallengingtone.

“Justso.”The agent shrugged his shoulders, looked scornfully at the small trunk,

which was marked “N.E.,” and handed out a claim check without furthercomment. The stranger watched him as he caught one end of the trunk anddraggeditintotheexpressroom.Theagent’smannerseemedtoremindhimofsomethingamusing.“Doesn’tseemtobeaverybigplace,”heremarked,lookingabout.

“It’s big enough for us,” snapped the agent, as he banged the trunk into acorner.

That remark, apparently, was what Nils Ericson hadwanted. He chuckledquietlyashetookaleatherstrapfromhispocketandswunghisvalisearoundhisshoulder. Then he settled his Panama securely on his head, turned up histrousers,tuckedtheflute-caseunderhisarm,andstartedoffacrossthefields.Hegave the town, as he would have said, a wide berth, and cut through a greatfenced pasture, emerging,when he rolled under the barbedwire at the farthercorner,uponawhitedustyroadwhichranstraightupfromtherivervalleytothehighprairies,wheretheripewheatstoodyellowandthetinroofsandweather-cocks were twinkling in the fierce sunlight. By the time Nils had done threemiles,thesunwassinkingandthefarm-wagonsontheirwayhomefromtown

camerattlingby,coveringhimwithdustandmakinghimsneeze.Whenoneofthefarmerspulledupandofferedtogivehima lift,heclamberedinwillingly.Thedriverwasathin,grizzledoldmanwithalongleanneckandafoolishsortofbeard,likeagoat’s.“Howfuryegoin’?”heasked,ashecluckedtohishorsesandstartedoff.

“DoyougobytheEricsonplace?”“WhichEricson?”Theoldmandrew inhis reinsas ifheexpected to stop

again.“PreacherEricson’s.”“Oh, theOld Lady Ericson’s!” He turned and looked at Nils. “La,me! If

you’regoin’outthereyoumight’a’ridoutintheautomobile.That’sapity,now.TheOldLadyEricsonwasintownwithherauto.Youmight’a’hearditsnortin’anywhereaboutthepost-officeerthebutcher-shop.”

“Hassheamotor?”askedthestrangerabsently.“‘Deedan’shehas!She runs into towneverynightabout this timeforher

mailandmeatforsupper.Somefolkssayshe’safraidherautowon’tgetexerciseenough,butIsaythat’sjealousy.”

“Aren’tthereanyothermotorsabouthere?”“Oh,yes!wehavefourteeninall.ButnobodyelsegetsaroundliketheOld

LadyEricson.She’sout,rainershine,overthewholecounty,chargin’intotownandoutamongstherfarms,an’uptohersons’places.Sureyouain’tgoin’tothewrong place?” He craned his neck and looked at Nils’ flute-case with eagercuriosity.“Theoldwomanain’tgotanypiany that Iknowson.Olaf,hehasagrand.Hiswife’smusical;tooklessonsinChicago.”

“I’m going up there to-morrow,” saidNils imperturbably.He saw that thedrivertookhimforapiano-tuner.

“Oh,Isee!”Theoldmanscreweduphiseyesmysteriously.Hewasalittledashedbythestranger’snon-communicativeness,buthesoonbrokeoutagain.

“I’moneo’Mis’Ericson’stenants.Lookafteroneofherplaces.Ididowntheplacemyselfoncet,butIlostitawhileback,inthebadyearsjustaftertheWorld’sFair.Justaswell,too,Isay.Letsyououto’payin’taxes.TheEricsonsdoownmostofthecountynow.Iremembertheoldpreacher’sfav’ritetextused

tobe,‘Tothemthathathshallbegiven.’They’vespreadsomethingwonderful—run over this here country like bindweed.But I ain’t one that begretches it to’em.Folksisentitledtowhattheykingit;andthey’rehustlers.Olaf,he’sintheLegislature now, and a likely man fur Congress. Listen, if that ain’t the oldwomancomin’now.WantIshouldstopher?”

Nils shook his head. He heard the deep chug-chug of a motor vibratingsteadilyinthecleartwilightbehindthem.Thepalelightsofthecarswamoverthe hill, and the old man slapped his reins and turned clear out of the road,duckinghisheadat thefirstof threeangrysnortsfrombehind.Themotorwasrunningatahot,evenspeed,andpassedwithoutturninganinchfromitscourse.Thedriverwasastalwartwomanwhosatateaseinthefrontseatanddrovehercarbareheaded.Sheleftacloudofdustandatrailofgasolinebehindher.Hertenantthrewbackhisheadandsneezed.

“Whew! I sometimes say I’d as lief bebeforeMrs.Ericson as behind her.Shedoesbeatall!Nearlyseventy,andneverletsanothersoultouchthatcar.Putsitintocommissionherselfeverymorning,andkeepsittunedupbythehitch-barallday.Ineverstopworkforadrinko’waterthatIdon’thearhera-churnin’upthe road. I reckon her darter-in-laws never sets down easy nowadays. Neverknowwhenshe’llpopin.Mis’Otto,shesaystome:‘We’resoafraidthatthing’llblowupanddoMasome injuryyet, she’s so turribleventuresome.’Says I: ‘Iwouldn’t stew,Mis’Otto; theold lady’ll drive that car to the funeral of everydarter-in-lawshe’sgot.’Thatwasaftertheoldwomanhadjumpedaturriblebadculvert.”

Thestrangerheardvaguelywhat theoldmanwassaying.Justnowhewasexperiencing something verymuch like homesickness, and hewaswonderingwhathadbroughtitabout.Thementionofanameortwo,perhaps;therattleofawagonalongadustyroad;therank,resinoussmellofsunflowersandironweed,whichthenightdampbroughtupfromthedrawsandlowplaces;perhaps,morethan all, the dancing lights of themotor that had plunged by.He squared hisshoulderswithacomfortablesenseofstrength.

The wagon, as it jolted westward, climbed a pretty steady upgrade. Thecountry,recedingfromtheroughrivervalley,swelledmoreandmoregently,as

ifithadbeensmoothedoutbythewind.Ononeofthelastoftheruggedridges,attheendofabranchroad,stoodagrimsquarehousewithatinroofanddoubleporches.Behindthehousestretchedarowofbroken,wind-rackedpoplars,anddown the hill-slope to the left straggled the sheds and stables. The old manstoppedhis horseswhere theEricsons’ road branched across a dry sand creekthatwoundaboutthefootofthehill.

“That’stheoldlady’splace.WantIshoulddrivein?”“No,thankyou.I’llrollouthere.Muchobligedtoyou.Goodnight.”Hispassengersteppeddownoverthefrontwheel,andtheoldmandroveon

reluctantly, lookingbackas ifhewould like to seehow the strangerwouldbereceived.

AsNils was crossing the dry creek he heard the restive tramp of a horsecomingtowardhimdownthehill.Instantlyheflashedoutoftheroadandstoodbehindathicketofwildplumbushesthatgrewinthesandybed.Peeringthroughthedusk, he sawa light horse, under tight rein, descending thehill at a sharpwalk.Theriderwasaslenderwoman—barelyvisibleagainstthedarkhillside—wearinganold-fashionedderbyhatandalongriding-skirt.Shesatlightlyinthesaddle,withherchinhigh,andseemed tobe looking into thedistance.Asshepassed the plum thicket her horse snuffed the air and shied. She struck him,pullinghiminsharply,withanangryexclamation,“Blázne!”inBohemian.Oncein themainroad,she lethimout intoa lope,and theysoonemergedupon thecrestofhighland,wheretheymovedalongtheskyline,silhouettedagainst thebandoffaintcolorthatlingeredinthewest.Thishorseandrider,withtheirfree,rhythmicalgallop,weretheonlymovingthingstobeseenonthefaceoftheflatcountry. They seemed, in the last sad light of evening, not to be thereaccidentally,butasaninevitabledetailofthelandscape.

Nilswatchedthemuntiltheyhadshrunktoameremovingspeckagainstthesky, thenhecrossed thesandcreekandclimbed thehill.Whenhereached thegate the front of the house was dark, but a light was shining from the sidewindows.Thepigswere squealing in thehog corral, andNils could see a tallboy,whocarriedtwobigwoodenbuckets,movingaboutamongthem.Halfwaybetweenthebarnandthehouse,thewindmillwheezedlazily.Followingthepath

thatranaroundtothebackporch,Nilsstoppedtolookthroughthescreendoorinto the lamp-lit kitchen. The kitchenwas the largest room in the house;Nilsrememberedthathisolderbrothersusedtogivedancestherewhenhewasaboy.Beside the stove stood a little girl with two light yellow braids and a broad,flushedface,peeringanxiouslyintoafrying-pan.Inthedining-roombeyond,alarge,broad-shoulderedwomanwasmovingaboutthetable.Shewalkedwithanactive,springystep.Herfacewasheavyandflorid,almostwithoutwrinkles,andherhairwasblackatseventy.Nilsfeltproudofherashewatchedherdeliberateactivity; never a momentary hesitation, or a movement that did not tell. Hewaiteduntilshecameoutintothekitchenand,brushingthechildaside,tookherplaceatthestove.Thenhetappedonthescreendoorandentered.

“It’snobodybutNils,Mother.Iexpectyouweren’tlookingforme.”Mrs.Ericsonturnedawayfromthestoveandstoodstaringathim.“Bringthe

lamp,Hilda,andletmelook.”Nilslaughedandunslunghisvalise.“What’sthematter,Mother?Don’tyou

knowme?”Mrs.Ericson put down the lamp. “Youmust beNils.Youdon’t look very

different,anyway.”“Noryou,Mother.Youholdyourown.Don’tyouwearglassesyet?”“Onlytoreadby.Where’syourtrunk,Nils?”“Oh,Ileftthatintown.Ithoughtitmightnotbeconvenientforyoutohave

companysonearthreshing-time.”“Don’t be foolish, Nils.” Mrs. Ericson turned back to the stove. “I don’t

threshnow.Ihitchedthewheatlandontothenextfarmandhaveatenant.Hilda,takesomehotwateruptothecompanyroom,andgocalllittleEric.”

The tow-hairedchild,whohadbeen standing inmute amazement, tookupthetea-kettleandwithdrew,givingNilsalong,admiringlookfromthedoorofthekitchenstairs.

“Who’stheyoungster?”Nilsasked,droppingdownonthebenchbehindthekitchenstove.

“OneofyourCousinHenrik’s.”“HowlonghasCousinHenrikbeendead?”

“Sixyears.Therearetwoboys.OnestayswithPeterandonewithAnders.Olafistheirguardeen.”

There was a clatter of pails on the porch, and a tall, lanky boy peeredwonderinglyinthroughthescreendoor.Hehadafair,gentlefaceandbiggrayeyes,andwispsofsoftyellowhairhungdownunderhiscap.Nilssprangupandpulled him into the kitchen, hugging him and slapping him on the shoulders.“Well,ifitisn’tmykid!Lookatthesizeofhim!Don’tyouknowme,Eric?”

The boy reddened under his sunburn and freckles, and hung his head. “Iguessit’sNils,”hesaidshyly.

“You’re a good guesser,” laughedNils, giving the lad’s hand a swing. Tohimself he was thinking: “That’s why the little girl looked so friendly. He’staughthertolikeme.HewasonlysixwhenIwentaway,andhe’srememberedfortwelveyears.”

Ericstoodfumblingwithhiscapandsmiling.“YoulookjustlikeIthoughtyouwould,”heventured.

“Go wash your hands, Eric,” calledMrs. Ericson. “I’ve got cob corn forsupper,Nils.Youused to like it. Iguessyoudon’tgetmuchof that in theoldcountry.Here’sHilda; she’ll takeyouup toyour room.You’llwant toget thedustoffyoubeforeyoueat.”

Mrs.Ericsonwentintothedining-roomtolayanotherplate,andthelittlegirlcameupandnoddedtoNilsasiftolethimknowthathisroomwasready.Heputouthishandandshetookit,withastartledglanceupathisface.LittleEricdroppedhis towel, threwanarmaboutNilsandoneaboutHilda,gave themaclumsysqueeze,andthenstumbledouttotheporch.

During supperNils heard exactly howmuch land each of his eight grownbrothersfarmed,howtheircropswerecomingon,andhowmuchlivestocktheywere feeding. His mother watched him narrowly as she talked. “You’ve gotbetter looking, Nils,” she remarked abruptly, whereupon he grinned and thechildrengiggled.Eric,althoughhewaseighteenandastallasNils,wasalwaysaccountedachild,beingthelastofsomanysons.Hisfaceseemedchildlike,too,Nilsthought,andhehadtheopen,wanderingeyesofalittleboy.Alltheothershadbeenmenathisage.

After supperNilswent out to the front porch and sat downon the step tosmokeapipe.Mrs.Ericsondrewarocking-chairupnearhimandbegantoknitbusily.Itwasoneofthefewold-worldcustomsshehadkeptup,forshecouldnotbeartositwithidlehands.

“Where’slittleEric,Mother?”“He’shelpingHildawiththedishes.Hedoesitofhisownwill;Idon’tlikea

boytobetoohandyaboutthehouse.”“Heseemslikeanicekid.”“He’sveryobedient.”Nils smiled a little in the dark. It was just as well to shift the line of

conversation.“Whatareyouknittingthere,Mother?”“Baby stockings. The boys keep me busy.” Mrs. Ericson chuckled and

clickedherneedles.“Howmanygrandchildrenhaveyou?”“Only thirty-one now. Olaf lost his three. They were sickly, like their

mother.”“Isupposedhehadasecondcropbythistime!”“His second wife has no children. She’s too proud. She tears about on

horsebackallthetime.Butshe’llgetcaughtupwith,yet.Shesetsherselfveryhigh, though nobody knowswhat for. Theywere low enough Bohemians shecameof.IneverthoughtmuchofBohemians;alwaysdrinking.”

Nilspuffedawayathispipeinsilence,andMrs.Ericsonknittedon.Inafewmomentssheaddedgrimly:“Shewasdownhereto-night,justbeforeyoucame.She’dliketoquarrelwithmeandcomebetweenmeandOlaf,butIdon’tgiveherthechance.Isupposeyou’llbebringingawifehomesomeday.”

“Idon’tknow.I’veneverthoughtmuchaboutit.”“Well,perhaps it’sbestas it is,” suggestedMrs.Ericsonhopefully.“You’d

never be contented tied down to the land. There was roving blood in yourfather’sfamily,andit’scomeoutinyou.Iexpectyourownwayoflifesuitsyoubest.”Mrs.Ericsonhaddroppedintoablandlyagreeable tonewhichNilswellremembered. It seemed to amuse him a good deal and hiswhite teeth flashedbehindhispipe.Hismother’sstrategieshadalwaysdivertedhim,evenwhenhe

wasaboy—theyweresoflimsyandpatent,soillyproportionedtohervigorandforce.“They’vebeenwaitingtoseewhichwayI’djump,”hereflected.HefeltthatMrs.Ericsonwasponderinghiscasedeeplyasshesatclickingherneedles.

“I don’t suppose you’ve ever got used to steady work,” she went onpresently.“Menain’tapttoiftheyroamaroundtoolong.It’sapityyoudidn’tcomeback theyearafter theWorld’sFair.Yourfatherpickedupagoodbitofland cheap then, in the hard times, and I expectmaybe he’d have give you afarm.It’stoobadyouputoffcomin’backsolong,forIalwaysthoughthemeanttodosomethingbyyou.”

Nilslaughedandshooktheashesoutofhispipe.“I’dhavemissedalotifIhadcomebackthen.ButI’msorryIdidn’tgetbacktoseefather.”

“Well,Isupposewehavetomissthingsatoneendortheother.Perhapsyouare as well satisfied with your own doings, now, as you’d have been with afarm,”saidMrs.Ericsonreassuringly.

“Land’sagoodthingtohave,”Nilscommented,ashelitanothermatchandsheltereditwithhishand.

His mother looked sharply at his face until the match burned out. “Onlywhenyoustayonit!”shehastenedtosay.

Ericcameroundthehousebythepathjustthen,andNilsrose,withayawn.“Mother,ifyoudon’tmind,EricandIwilltakealittletrampbeforebed-time.Itwillmakemesleep.”

“Verywell;onlydon’tstaylong.I’llsitupandwaitforyou.Iliketolockupmyself.”

NilsputhishandonEric’sshoulder,andthetwotrampeddownthehillandacross the sand creek into the dusty highroad beyond. Neither spoke. Theyswungalongatanevengait,Nilspuffingathispipe.Therewasnomoon,andthewhiteroadandthewidefieldslayfaintinthestarlight.Overeverythingwasdarknessand thicksilence,and thesmellofdustandsunflowers.Thebrothersfollowedtheroadforamileormorewithoutfindingaplacetositdown.FinallyNilsperchedonastileoverthewirefence,andEricsatonthelowerstep.

“Ibegantothinkyouneverwouldcomeback,Nils,”saidtheboysoftly.“Didn’tIpromiseyouIwould?”

“Yes;butpeopledon’tbotheraboutpromisestheymaketobabies.DidyoureallyknowyouweregoingawayforgoodwhenyouwenttoChicagowiththecattlethattime?”

“Ithoughtitverylikely,ifIcouldmakemyway.”“Idon’tseehowyoudidit,Nils.Notmanyfellowscould.”Ericrubbedhis

shoulderagainsthisbrother’sknee.“The hard thing was leaving home—you and father. It was easy enough,

onceIgotbeyondChicago.OfcourseIgotawfulhomesick;usedtocrymyselftosleep.ButI’dburnedmybridges.”

“Youhadalwayswantedtogo,hadn’tyou?”“Always.Doyoustillsleepinourlittleroom?Isthatcottonwoodstillbythe

window?”Ericnoddedeagerlyandsmiledupathisbrotherinthegraydarkness.“Yourememberhowwealwayssaidtheleaveswerewhisperingwhenthey

rustledatnight?Well, theyalwayswhispered tomeabout the sea.Sometimestheysaidnamesoutofthegeographybooks.Inahighwindtheyhadadesperatesound,likesomethingtryingtotearloose.”

“How funny,Nils,” saidEricdreamily, restinghis chinonhishand. “Thattreestilltalkslikethat,and’mostalwaysittalkstomeaboutyou.”

Theysatawhilelonger,watchingthestars.AtlastEricwhisperedanxiously:“Hadn’twebettergobacknow?Motherwillgettiredwaitingforus.”Theyroseandtookashortcuthome,throughthepasture.

II

The next morning Nils woke with the first flood of light that came withdawn. The white-plastered walls of his room reflected the glare that shonethroughthethinwindow-shades,andhefounditimpossibletosleep.Hedressedhurriedlyandslippeddownthehallandupthebackstairstothehalf-storyroomwhichheusedtosharewithhislittlebrother.Eric,inaskimpynight-shirt,wassittingontheedgeofthebed,rubbinghiseyes,hispaleyellowhairstandingupintuftsalloverhishead.WhenhesawNils,hemurmuredsomethingconfusedly

andhustledhislonglegsintohistrousers.“Ididn’texpectyou’dbeupsoearly,Nils,”hesaid,ashisheademergedfromhisblueshirt.

“Oh,youthoughtIwasadude,didyou?”Nilsgavehimaplayfultapwhichbentthetallboyuplikeaclasp-knife.“Seehere;Imustteachyoutobox.”Nilsthrusthishandsintohispocketsandwalkedabout.“Youhaven’tchangedthingsmuchuphere.Gotmostofmyoldtraps,haven’tyou?”

He tookdownabent,witheredpieceofsapling thathungover thedresser.“Ifthisisn’tthestickLouSandbergkilledhimselfwith!”

Theboylookedupfromhisshoe-lacing.“Yes;youneverused to letmeplaywith that. Justhowdidhedo it,Nils?

YouwerewithfatherwhenhefoundLou,weren’tyou?”“Yes. Fatherwas going off to preach somewhere, and, aswe drove along,

Lou’splacelookedsortofforlorn,andwethoughtwe’dstopandcheerhimup.Whenwefoundhimfathersaidhe’dbeendeadacoupledays.He’dtiedapieceofbinding twine round his neck,made a noose in each end, fixed the noosesovertheendsofabentstick,andletthestickspringstraight;strangledhimself.”

“Whatmadehimkillhimselfsuchasillyway?”Thesimplicityoftheboy’squestionsetNilslaughing.HeclappedlittleEric

ontheshoulder.“Whatmadehimsuchasillyastokillhimselfatall,Ishouldsay!”

“Oh,well!Buthishogshadthecholera,andallupanddiedonhim,didn’tthey?”

“Suretheydid;buthedidn’thavecholera;andtherewereplentyofhogsleftintheworld,weren’tthere?”

“Well, but, if they weren’t his, how could they do him any good?” Ericasked,inastonishment.

“Oh,scat!Hecouldhavehadlotsoffunwithotherpeople’shogs.Hewasachump, Lou Sandberg. To kill yourself for a pig—think of that, now!” Nilslaughed all theway downstairs, and quite embarrassed little Eric, who fell toscrubbinghisfaceandhandsatthetinbasin.Whilehewaspattinghiswethairat the kitchen looking-glass, a heavy tread sounded on the stairs. The boydroppedhis comb. “Gracious, there’sMother.Wemust have talked too long.”

He hurried out to the shed, slipped on his overalls, and disappeared with themilking-pails.

Mrs.Ericson came in,wearing a cleanwhite apron,herblackhair shiningfromtheapplicationofawetbrush.

“Goodmorning,Mother.Can’tImakethefireforyou?”“No,thankyou,Nils.It’snotroubletomakeacobfire,andIliketomanage

thekitchenstovemyself.”Mrs.Ericsonpausedwithashovelfullofashesinherhand.“Iexpectyouwillbewantingtoseeyourbrothersassoonaspossible.I’lltakeyouuptoAnders’placethismorning.He’sthreshing,andmostofourboysareoverthere.”

“WillOlafbethere?”Mrs.Ericsonwentontakingouttheashes,andspokebetweenshovels.“No;

Olaf’swheatisallin,putawayinhisnewbarn.Hegotsixthousandbushelthisyear.He’sgoingtotownto-daytogetmentofinishroofinghisbarn.”

“SoOlafisbuildinganewbarn?”Nilsaskedabsently.“Biggest one in the county, and almost done.You’ll likely be here for the

barn-raising.He’s going to have a supper and adance as soonas everybody’sdone threshing. Says it keeps the voters in a good humor. I tell him that’s allnonsense;butOlafhasalongheadforpolitics.”

“DoesOlaffarmallCousinHenrik’sland?”Mrs.Ericsonfrownedassheblewintothefaintsmokecurlingupaboutthe

cobs.“Yes;heholdsitintrustforthechildren,Hildaandherbrothers.Hekeepsstrict account of everything he raises on it, and puts the proceeds out atcompoundinterestforthem.”

Nils smiledashewatched the little flames shootup.Thedoorof thebackstairs opened, andHilda emerged, her arms behind her, buttoning up her longginghamapronasshecame.Henoddedtohergaily,andshetwinkledathimoutofherlittleblueeyes,setfarapartoverherwidecheek-bones.

“There, Hilda, you grind the coffee—and just put in an extra handful; IexpectyourCousinNilslikeshisstrong,”saidMrs.Ericson,asshewentouttotheshed.

Nilsturnedtolookatthelittlegirl,whogrippedthecoffee-grinderbetween

herkneesandgroundsohard thather twobraidsbobbedandher face flushedunderitsbroadspatteringoffreckles.Henoticedonhermiddlefingersomethingthat had not been there last night, and that had evidently been put on forcompany: a tinygold ringwith a clumsily set garnet stone.Asher handwentroundandroundhetouchedtheringwiththetipofhisfinger,smiling.

Hilda glanced toward the shed door through which Mrs. Ericson haddisappeared.“MyCousinClaragavemethat,”shewhisperedbashfully.“She’sCousinOlaf’swife.”

III

Mrs. Olaf Ericson—Clara Vavrika, as many people still called her—wasmovingrestlesslyaboutherbigbarehouse thatmorning.Herhusbandhad leftforthecountytownbeforehiswifewasoutofbed—herlatenessinrisingwasoneof themanythings theEricsonfamilyhadagainsther.Claraseldomcamedownstairsbeforeeighto’clock,andthismorningshewasevenlater,forshehaddressedwithunusualcare.Sheputon,however,onlyatight-fittingblackdress,which people thereabouts thought very plain. She was a tall, dark woman ofthirty,with a rather sallow complexion and a touch of dull salmon red in hercheeks,wherethebloodseemedtoburnunderherbrownskin.Herhair,partedevenly above her low forehead, was so black that there were distinctly bluelights in it.Herblack eyebrowsweredelicatehalf-moons andher lasheswerelongandheavy.Hereyesslantedalittle,asifshehadastrainofTartarorgypsyblood,andweresometimes fullof fierydeterminationandsometimesdullandopaque. Her expression was never altogether amiable; was often, indeed,distinctlysullen,or,whenshewasanimated,sarcastic.Shewasmostattractivein profile, for then one saw to advantage her small, well-shaped head anddelicateears,andfeltatoncethatherewasaverypositive,ifnotanaltogetherpleasing,personality.

The entiremanagement ofMrs.Olaf’s household devolved upon her aunt,JohannaVavrika,asuperstitious,dotingwomanoffifty.WhenClarawasalittlegirlhermotherdied,andJohanna’slifehadbeenspentinungrudgingserviceto

herniece.Clara,likemanyself-willedanddiscontentedpersons,wasreallyveryapt,withoutknowingit,todoasotherpeopletoldher,andtoletherdestinybedecidedforherbyintelligencesmuchbelowherown.ItwasherAuntJohannawho had humored and spoiled her in her girlhood, who had got her off toChicago to study piano, and who had finally persuaded her to marry OlafEricsonasthebestmatchshewouldbelikelytomakeinthatpartofthecountry.JohannaVavrika had beendeeply scarred by smallpox in the old country. Shewasshortandfat,homelyandjollyandsentimental.Shewassobroad,andtooksuchshort stepswhenshewalked, thatherbrother, JoeVavrika,alwayscalledherhisduck.She adoredherniecebecauseofher talent, becauseofhergoodlooksandmasterfulways,butmostofallbecauseofherselfishness.

Clara’s marriage with Olaf Ericson was Johanna’s particular triumph. ShewasinordinatelyproudofOlaf’sposition,andshefoundasufficientlyexcitingcareer in managing Clara’s house, in keeping it above the criticism of theEricsons,inpamperingOlaftokeephimfromfindingfaultwithhiswife,andinconcealingfromeveryoneClara’sdomestic infelicities.WhileClarasleptofamorning,JohannaVavrikawasbustlingabout,seeingthatOlafandthemenhadtheirbreakfast, and that the cleaning or the butter-making or thewashingwasproperlybegunbythetwogirlsinthekitchen.Then,atabouteighto’clock,shewouldtakeClara’scoffeeuptoher,andchatwithherwhileshedrankit,tellingherwhatwasgoingon in thehouse.OldMrs.Ericsonfrequentlysaid thatherdaughter-in-lawwouldnotknowwhatdayoftheweekitwasifJohannadidnottell her everymorning.Mrs. Ericson despised and pitied Johanna, but did notwholly dislike her. The one thing she hated in her daughter-in-law aboveeverything else was the way in which Clara could come it over people. Itenragedher that theaffairsofherson’sbig,barnlikehousewentonaswellastheydid,andsheusedtofeelthatinthisworldwehavetowaitover-longtoseetheguiltypunished.“SupposeJohannaVavrikadiedorgot sick?” theold ladyusedtosaytoOlaf.“Yourwifewouldn’tknowwheretolookforherowndish-cloth.”Olafonlyshruggedhisshoulders.ThefactremainedthatJohannadidnotdie,and,althoughMrs.Ericsonoftentoldhershewaslookingpoorly,shewasneverill.Sheseldomleftthehouse,andshesleptinalittleroomoffthekitchen.

NoEricson,bynightorday,couldcomepryingabouttheretofindfaultwithoutherknowingit.Heroneweaknesswasthatshewasanincurabletalker,andshesometimesmadetroublewithoutmeaningto.

ThismorningClarawastyingawine-coloredribbonaboutherthroatwhenJohannaappearedwithhercoffee.Afterputtingthetrayonasewing-table,shebegantomakeClara’sbed,chatteringthewhileinBohemian.

“Well,Olafgotoffearly,andthegirlsarebaking.I’mgoingdownpresentlyto make some poppy-seed bread for Olaf. He asked for prune preserves atbreakfast,andItoldhimIwasoutofthem,andtobringsomeprunesandhoneyandclovesfromtown.”

Clarapouredhercoffee.“Ugh!Idon’tseehowmencaneatsomuchsweetstuff.Inthemorning,too!”

Herauntchuckledknowingly.“Baitabearwithhoney,aswesayintheoldcountry.”

“Washecross?”hernieceaskedindifferently.“Olaf?Oh,no!Hewasinfinespirits.He’snevercrossifyouknowhowto

takehim.Ineverknewamantomakesolittlefussaboutbills.Igavehimalistofthingstogetayardlong,andhedidn’tsayaword;justfoldeditupandputitinhispocket.”

“I can well believe he didn’t say a word,” Clara remarked with a shrug.“Somedayhe’llforgethowtotalk.”

“Oh,buttheysayhe’sagrandspeakerintheLegislature.Heknowswhentokeep quiet. That’s why he’s got such influence in politics. The people haveconfidenceinhim.”Johannabeatupapillowandhelditunderherfatchinwhilesheslippedonthecase.Herniecelaughed.

“Maybewecouldmakepeoplebelievewewerewise,Aunty,ifweheldourtongues. Why did you tell Mrs. Ericson that Norman threw me again lastSaturdayandturnedmyfoot?She’sbeentalkingtoOlaf.”

Johannafellintogreatconfusion.“Oh,but,myprecious,theoldladyaskedfor you, and she’s always so angry if I can’t give an excuse. Anyhow, sheneedn’ttalk;she’salwaystearingupsomethingwiththatmotorofhers.”

Whenherauntclattereddowntothekitchen,Clarawenttodust theparlor.

Sincetherewasnotmuchtheretodust,thisdidnottakeverylong.Olafhadbuiltthehousenewforherbeforetheirmarriage,butherinterestinfurnishingithadbeen short-lived. Itwent, indeed, little beyond a bath-tub andher piano.Theyhaddisagreedaboutalmosteveryotherarticleof furniture,andClarahadsaidshewouldratherhaveherhouseemptythanfullofthingsshedidn’twant.Thehousewassetinahillside,andthewestwindowsoftheparlorlookedoutabovethe kitchen yard thirty feet below. The eastwindows opened directly into thefrontyard.Atoneofthelatter,Clara,whileshewasdusting,heardalowwhistle.Shedidnotturnatonce,butlistenedintentlyasshedrewherclothslowlyalongtheroundofachair.Yes,thereitwas:

“IdreamtthatIdweltinma-a-arblehalls,”

SheturnedandsawNilsEricsonlaughinginthesunlight,hishatinhishand,just outside the window. As she crossed the room he leaned against the wirescreen.“Aren’tyouatallsurprisedtoseeme,ClaraVavrika?”

“No;Iwasexpectingtoseeyou.MotherEricsontelephonedOlaflastnightthatyouwerehere.”

Nils squinted andgave a longwhistle. “Telephoned?Thatmust havebeenwhileEricandIwereoutwalking.Isn’tsheenterprising?Liftthisscreen,won’tyou?”

Claraliftedthescreen,andNilsswunghislegacrossthewindow-sill.Ashesteppedintotheroomshesaid:“Youdidn’tthinkyouweregoingtogetaheadofyourmother,didyou?”

Hethrewhishatonthepiano.“Oh,Idosometimes.Yousee,I’maheadofhernow. I’m supposed tobe inAnders’wheat-field.But, aswewere leaving,Mother ran her car into a soft place beside the road and sank up to the hubs.While theyweregoingforhorses topullherout, Icutawaybehind thestacksand escaped.” Nils chuckled. Clara’s dull eyes lit up as she looked at himadmiringly.

“You’vegot themguessingalready.Idon’tknowwhatyourmothersaid toOlafoverthetelephone,buthecamebacklookingasifhe’dseenaghost,andhe

didn’tgotobeduntiladreadfulhour—teno’clock,Ishouldthink.Hesatoutontheporchinthedarklikeagravenimage.Ithadbeenoneofhistalkativedays,too.”Theybothlaughed,easilyandlightly,likepeoplewhohavelaughedagreatdealtogether;buttheyremainedstanding.

“AndersandOttoandPeter lookedas if theyhadseenghosts, too,over inthethreshing-field.What’sthematterwiththemall?”

Claragavehimaquick,searchinglook.“Well,foronething,they’vealwaysbeenafraidyouhavetheotherwill.”

Nilslookedinterested.“Theotherwill?”“Yes.Alaterone.Theyknewyourfathermadeanother,buttheyneverknew

whathedidwithit.Theyalmosttoretheoldhousetopieceslookingforit.Theyalwayssuspectedthathecarriedonaclandestinecorrespondencewithyou,fortheonethinghewoulddowastogethisownmailhimself.Sotheythoughthemight have sent the new will to you for safekeeping. The old one, leavingeverything to your mother, was made long before you went away, and it’sunderstoodamongthemthatitcutsyouout—thatshewillleaveallthepropertytotheothers.Yourfathermadethesecondwilltopreventthat.I’vebeenhopingyouhadit.Itwouldbesuchfuntospringitonthem.”Claralaughedmirthfully,athingshedidnotoftendonow.

Nilsshookhisheadreprovingly.“Come,now,you’remalicious.”“No, I’mnot.But I’d likesomething tohappen tostir themallup, just for

once.Thereneverwassuchafamilyforhavingnothingeverhappentothembutdinner and threshing. I’d almost bewilling to die, just to have a funeral.Youwouldn’tstanditforthreeweeks.”

Nilsbentoverthepianoandbeganpeckingatthekeyswiththefingerofonehand.“Iwouldn’t?Mydearyounglady,howdoyouknowwhatIcanstand?Youwouldn’twaittofindout.”

Clara flushed darkly and frowned. “I didn’t believe youwould ever comeback—”shesaiddefiantly.

“EricbelievedIwould,andhewasonlyababywhenIwentaway.However,all’swell thatendswell,andIhaven’tcomebacktobeaskeletonat thefeast.Wemustn’tquarrel.Motherwillbeherewithasearch-warrantprettysoon.”He

swung round and faced her, thrusting his hands into his coat pockets. “Come,yououghttobegladtoseeme,ifyouwantsomethingtohappen.I’msomething,evenwithoutawill.Wecanhavealittlefun,can’twe?Ithinkwecan!”

She echoed him, “I think we can!” They both laughed and their eyessparkled. Clara Vavrika looked ten years younger than when she had put thevelvetribbonaboutherthroatthatmorning.

“Youknow,I’msotickledtoseemother,”Nilswenton.“Ididn’tknowIwasso proud of her. A regular pile-driver. How about little pigtails, down at thehouse?IsOlafdoingthesquarethingbythosechildren?”

Clarafrownedpensively.“Olafhastodosomethingthatlookslikethesquarething,nowthathe’sapublicman!”SheglanceddrollyatNils.“Buthemakesagoodcommissionoutofit.OnSundaystheyallgettogetherhereandfigure.HeletsPeterandAndersputinbigbillsforthekeepofthetwoboys,andhepaysthemoutoftheestate.Theyarealwayshavingwhattheycallaccountings.Olafgetssomethingoutofit,too.Idon’tknowjusthowtheydoit,butit’sentirelyafamilymatter,as theysay.Andwhen theEricsonssay that—”Clara liftedhereyebrows.

Justthentheangryhonk-honkofanapproachingmotorsoundedfromdowntheroad.Theireyesmetandtheybegantolaugh.Theylaughedaschildrendowhen they can not contain themselves, and can not explain the cause of theirmirth togrownpeople,but share itperfectly together.WhenClaraVavrika satdownatthepianoafterhewasgone,shefeltthatshehadlaughedawayadozenyears.Shepractisedasifthehousewereburningoverherhead.

WhenNilsgreetedhismotherandclimbed into the frontseatof themotorbeside her, Mrs. Ericson looked grim, but she made no comment upon histruancyuntilshehadturnedhercarandwasretracingherrevolutionsalongtheroadthatranbyOlaf’sbigpasture.Thensheremarkeddryly:

“If Iwereyou Iwouldn’t see toomuchofOlaf’swifewhileyouarehere.She’s the kind ofwomanwho can’t seemuch ofmenwithout getting herselftalkedabout.Shewasagooddealtalkedaboutbeforehemarriedher.”

“Hasn’tOlaftamedher?”Nilsaskedindifferently.Mrs. Ericson shrugged her massive shoulders. “Olaf don’t seem to have

muchluck,whenitcomestowives.Thefirstonewasmeekenough,butshewasalwaysailing.Andthisonehasherownway.Hesaysifhequarreledwithhershe’dgobacktoherfather,andthenhe’dlosetheBohemianvote.ThereareagreatmanyBohunksinthisdistrict.Butwhenyoufindamanunderhiswife’sthumbyoucanalwaysbesurethere’sasoftspotinhimsomewhere.”

Nilsthoughtofhisownfather,andsmiled.“Shebroughthimagooddealofmoney,didn’tshe,besidestheBohemianvote?”

Mrs.Ericsonsniffed.“Well,shehasafairhalfsectioninherownname,butIcan’t see as that doesOlafmuchgood.Shewill have agooddealofpropertysome day, if old Vavrika don’t marry again. But I don’t consider asaloonkeeper’smoneyasgoodasotherpeople’smoney.”

Nils laughed outright. “Come,Mother, don’t let your prejudices carry youthat far.Money’smoney.OldVavrika’s amighty decent sort of saloonkeeper.Nothingrowdyabouthim.”

Mrs.Ericsonspokeupangrily:“Oh,Iknowyoualwaysstoodupforthem!Buthangingaround therewhenyouwereaboyneverdidyouanygood,Nils,noranyoftheotherboyswhowentthere.Thereweren’tsomanyafterherwhenshemarriedOlaf,letmetellyou.Sheknewenoughtograbherchance.”

Nilssettledbackinhisseat.“OfcourseIlikedtogothere,Mother,andyouwerealwayscrossaboutit.Younevertookthetroubletofindoutthatitwastheone jolly house in this country for a boy to go to. All the rest of you wereworkingyourselvestodeath,andthehousesweremostlyamess,fullofbabiesandwashingandflies.Oh,itwasallright—Iunderstandthat;butyouareyoungonlyonce,andIhappenedtobeyoungthen.Now,Vavrika’swasalways jolly.Heplayedtheviolin,andIusedtotakemyflute,andClaraplayedthepiano,andJohanna used to singBohemian songs. She always had a big supper for us—herringsandpicklesandpoppyseedbread,and lotsofcakeandpreserves.OldJoe had been in the army in the old country, and he could tell lots of goodstories.Icanseehimcuttingbread,attheheadofthetable,now.Idon’tknowwhatI’dhavedonewhenIwasakidifithadn’tbeenfortheVavrikas,really.”

“Andallthetimehewastakingmoneythatotherpeoplehadworkedhardinthefieldsfor,”Mrs.Ericsonobserved.

“Sodo thecircuses,Mother,and they’reagood thing.Peopleought togetfunforsomeoftheirmoney.EvenfatherlikedoldJoe.”

“Yourfather,”Mrs.Ericsonsaidgrimly,“likedeverybody.”Astheycrossedthesandcreekandturnedintoherownplace,Mrs.Ericson

observed, “There’s Olaf’s buggy. He’s stopped on his way from town.” Nilsshookhimselfandpreparedtogreethisbrother,whowaswaitingontheporch.

Olafwasabig,heavyNorwegian,slowofspeechandmovement.Hisheadwas large and square, like ablockofwood.WhenNils, at adistance, tried torememberwhathisbrotherlookedlike,hecouldrecallonlyhisheavyhead,highforehead, large nostrils, and pale-blue eyes, set far apart.Olaf’s featureswererudimentary: the thingonenoticedwas the face itself,wide and flat andpale,devoid of any expression, betraying his fifty years as little as it betrayedanythingelse,andpowerfulbyreasonof itsverystolidness.WhenOlafshookhandswithNils he looked at him fromunderhis light eyebrows, butNils feltthatnoonecouldeversaywhatthatpalelookmightmean.Theonethinghehadalways felt inOlafwasaheavystubbornness, like theunyieldingstickinessofwet loamagainst theplow.Hehadalways foundOlaf themostdifficultofhisbrothers.

“Howdoyoudo,Nils?Expecttostaywithuslong?”“Oh,Imaystayforever,”Nilsansweredgaily.“Ilikethiscountrybetterthan

Iusedto.”“There’sbeensomeworkputintoitsinceyouleft,”Olafremarked.“Exactly. I think it’s about ready to live in now—and I’m about ready to

settledown.”Nilssawhisbrotherlowerhisbighead.(“Exactlylikeabull,”hethought.) “Mother’s been persuading me to slow down now, and go in forfarming,”hewentonlightly.

Olafmadeadeepsound inhis throat.“Farmingain’t learned inaday,”hebroughtout,stilllookingattheground.

“Oh,Iknow!ButIpickthingsupquickly.”Nilshadnotmeanttoantagonizehisbrother,andhedidnotknownowwhyhewasdoingit.“Ofcourse,”hewenton, “I shouldn’t expect tomake a big success, as you fellows have done.Butthen, I’m not ambitious. I won’t want much. A little land, and some cattle,

maybe.”Olafstillstaredattheground,hisheaddown.HewantedtoaskNilswhathe

had been doing all these years, that he didn’t have a business somewhere hecouldn’taffordtoleave;whyhehadn’tmorepridethantocomebackwithonlyalittlesole-leathertrunktoshowforhimself,andtopresenthimselfastheonlyfailureinthefamily.Hedidnotaskoneofthesequestions,buthemadethemallfeltdistinctly.

“Humph!”Nilsthought.“Nowonderthemannevertalks,whenhecanbutthis ideas intoyou like thatwithoutever sayingaword. I supposeheuses thatkind of smokeless powder on his wife all the time. But I guess she has herinnings.” He chuckled, and Olaf looked up. “Never mind me, Olaf. I laughwithoutknowingwhy,likelittleEric.He’sanothercheerfuldog.”

“Eric,”saidOlafslowly,“isaspoiledkid.He’sjustlethismother’sbestcowgo dry because he don’t milk her right. I was hoping you’d take him awaysomewhereandputhimintobusiness.Ifhedon’tdoanygoodamongstrangers,heneverwill.”ThiswasalongspeechforOlaf,andashefinisheditheclimbedintohisbuggy.

Nils shrugged his shoulders. “Same old tricks,” he thought. “Hits frombehindyoueverytime.Whatawhaleofaman!”Heturnedandwentroundtothekitchen,wherehismotherwasscoldinglittleEricforlettingthegasolinegetlow.

IV

JoeVavrika’ssaloonwasnotinthecounty-seat,whereOlafandMrs.Ericsondid their trading,but inacheerfullerplace,a littleBohemiansettlementwhichlayattheotherendofthecounty,tenlevelmilesnorthofOlaf’sfarm.Clararodeuptoseeherfatheralmosteveryday.Vavrika’shousewas,so tospeak, in thebackyardofhissaloon.Thegardenbetweenthetwobuildingswasinclosedbyahighboardfenceastightasapartition,andinsummerJoekeptbeer-tablesandwooden benches among the gooseberry bushes under his little cherry tree.AtoneofthesetablesNilsEricsonwasseatedinthelateafternoon,threedaysafter

hisreturnhome.Joehadgoneintoserveacustomer,andNilswasloungingonhis elbows, looking rather mournfully into his half-emptied pitcher, when heheardalaughacrossthelittlegarden.Clara,inherriding-habit,wasstandingatthebackdoorof thehouse,under thegrapevine trellis thatold Joehadgrowntherelongago.Nilsrose.

“Comeoutandkeepyourfatherandmecompany.We’vebeengossipingallafternoon.Nobodytobotherusbuttheflies.”

Sheshookherhead.“No,Inevercomeouthereanymore.Olafdoesn’tlikeit.Imustliveuptomyposition,youknow.”

“Youmean to tellme you never come out and chatwith the boys, as youusedto?Hehastamedyou!Whokeepsuptheseflower-beds?”

“IcomeoutonSundays,whenfatherisalone,andreadtheBohemianpapersto him. But I am never herewhen the bar is open.What have you two beendoing?”

“Talking,asItoldyou.I’vebeentellinghimaboutmytravels.IfindIcan’ttalkmuchathome,noteventoEric.”

Clara reachedupandpokedwithher riding-whipatawhitemoth thatwasfluttering in thesunlightamong thevine leaves.“I supposeyouwillnever tellmeaboutallthosethings.”

“Where can I tell them?Not inOlaf’s house, certainly.What’s thematterwithour talkinghere?”Hepointedpersuasivelywithhishat to thebushesandthegreentable,wherethefliesweresinginglazilyabovetheemptybeer-glasses.

Clarashookherheadweakly.“No,itwouldn’tdo.Besides,Iamgoingnow.”“I’monEric’smare.WouldyoubeangryifIovertookyou?”Claralookedbackandlaughed.“Youmighttryandsee.IcanleaveyouifI

don’twantyou.Eric’smarecan’tkeepupwithNorman.”Nilswentintothebarandattemptedtopayhisscore.BigJoe,sixfeetfour,

withcurlyyellowhairandmustache,clappedhimontheshoulder.“NotaGod-damnayourmoneygoinmydrawer,youhear?Onlynexttimeyoubringyourflute, te-te-te-te-te-ty.”Joewaggedhis fingers in imitationof the flute-player’sposition.“MyClara,shecomeall-a-timeSundaysan’playforme.ShenotliketoplayatEricson’splace.”Heshookhisyellowcurlsandlaughed.“NotaGod-

damnafunatEricson’s.YoucomeaSunday.Youlike-afun.Noforgetdeflute.”JoetalkedveryrapidlyandalwaystumbledoverhisEnglish.Heseldomspokeittohiscustomers,andhadneverlearnedmuch.

Nilsswunghimselfintothesaddleandtrottedtothewestendofthevillage,where the houses and gardens scattered into prairie-land and the road turnedsouth.Faraheadofhim, in thedeclining light,hesawClaraVavrika’s slenderfigure, loitering on horseback. He touched his mare with the whip, and shotalongthewhite, levelroad,under thereddeningsky.WhenheovertookOlaf’swifehe saw that shehadbeen crying. “What’s thematter,ClaraVavrika?”heaskedkindly.

“Oh, I get blue sometimes. It was awfully jolly living therewith father. IwonderwhyIeverwentaway.”

Nilsspokeinalow,kindtonethathesometimesusedwithwomen:“That’swhatI’vebeenwonderingthesemanyyears.YouwerethelastgirlinthecountryI’dhavepickedforawifeforOlaf.Whatmadeyoudoit,Clara?”

“I suppose I really did it to oblige the neighbors”—Clara tossed her head.“Peoplewerebeginningtowonder.”

“Towonder?”“Yes—why I didn’t get married. I suppose I didn’t like to keep them in

suspense. I’ve discovered that most girls marry out of consideration for theneighborhood.”

Nilsbenthisheadtowardherandhiswhiteteethflashed.“I’dhavegambledthatonegirlIknewwouldsay,‘Lettheneighborhoodbedamned.’”

Clarashookherheadmournfully.“Yousee,theyhaveitonyou,Nils;thatis,ifyou’reawoman.Theysayyou’rebeginningtogooff.That’swhatmakesusgetmarried:wecan’tstandthelaugh.”

Nils looked sidewise at her. He had never seen her head droop before.Resignationwas the last thing hewould have expected of her. “In your case,therewasn’tsomethingelse?”

“Somethingelse?”“Imean, you didn’t do it to spite somebody?Somebodywho didn’t come

back?”

Clara drewherself up. “Oh, I never thought you’d come back.Not after Istoppedwritingtoyou,atleast.Thatwasallover,longbeforeImarriedOlaf.”

“Itneveroccurred toyou, then, that themeanest thingyoucoulddo tomewastomarryOlaf?”

Claralaughed.“No;Ididn’tknowyouweresofondofOlaf.”Nilssmoothedhishorse’smanewithhisglove.“Youknow,ClaraVavrika,

you are never going to stick it out. You’ll cut away some day, and I’ve beenthinkingyoumightaswellcutawaywithme.”

Clara threw up her chin. “Oh, you don’t knowme aswell as you think. Iwon’tcutaway.Sometimes,whenI’mwithfather,Ifeellikeit.ButIcanholdoutaslongastheEricsonscan.They’venevergotthebestofmeyet,andonecanlive,solongasoneisn’tbeaten.IfIgobacktofather,it’sallupwithOlafinpolitics.Heknowsthat,andhenevergoesmuchbeyondsulking.I’veasmuchwitastheEricsons.I’llneverleavethemunlessIcanshowthemathingortwo.”

“Youmeanunlessyoucancomeitoverthem?”“Yes—unlessIgoawaywithamanwhoisclevererthantheyare,andwho

hasmoremoney.”Nilswhistled.“Dearme,youaredemandingagooddeal.TheEricsons,take

the lot of them, are a bunch to beat. But I should think the excitement oftormentingthemwouldhavewornoffbythistime.”

“Ithas,I’mafraid,”Claraadmittedmournfully.“Thenwhydon’tyoucutaway?Therearemoreamusinggamesthanthisin

the world. When I came home I thought it might amuse me to bully a fewquartersectionsoutoftheEricsons;butI’vealmostdecidedIcangetmorefunformymoneysomewhereelse.”

Claratookinherbreathsharply.“Ah,youhavegottheotherwill!Thatwaswhyyoucamehome!”

“No,itwasn’t.IcamehometoseehowyouweregettingonwithOlaf.”Clarastruckherhorsewith thewhip,and inaboundshewas faraheadof

him.Nils dropped oneword, “Damn!” andwhipped after her; but she leanedforwardinhersaddleandfairlycutthewind.Herlongriding-skirtrippledinthestillairbehindher.Thesunwasjustsinkingbehindthestubbleinavast,clear

sky,andtheshadowsdrewacross thefieldssorapidlythatNilscouldscarcelykeep insight thedarkfigureon theroad.Whenheovertookherhecaughtherhorseby thebridle.Normanreared,andNilswasfrightenedforher;butClarakeptherseat.

“Letmego,NilsEricson!”shecried.“Ihateyoumorethananyofthem.Youwerecreatedtotortureme,thewholetribeofyou—tomakemesufferineverypossibleway.”

She struckherhorse again andgallopedaway fromhim.Nils set his teethandlookedthoughtful.Herodeslowlyhomealongthedesertedroad,watchingthe stars come out in the clear violet sky. They flashed softly into the limpidheavens,likejewelsletfallintoclearwater.Theywereareproach,hefelt,toasordidworld.Asheturnedacrossthesandcreek,helookedupattheNorthStarandsmiled,asiftherewereanunderstandingbetweenthem.Hismotherscoldedhimforbeinglateforsupper.

V

On Sunday afternoon Joe Vavrika, in his shirt-sleeves and carpet-slippers,wassittinginhisgarden,smokingalong-tasseledporcelainpipewithahuntingscenepaintedonthebowl.Clarasatunderthecherrytree,readingaloudtohimfromtheweeklyBohemianpapers.Shehadwornawhitemuslindressunderherriding-habit,andtheleavesofthecherrytreethrewapatternofsharpshadowsover her skirt. The black catwas dozing in the sunlight at her feet, and Joe’sdachshundwas scratchingaholeunder the scarlet geraniumsanddreamingofbadgers.Joewasfillinghispipeforthethirdtimesincedinner,whenheheardaknockingonthefence.Hebrokeintoaloudguffawandunlatchedthelittledoorthatledintothestreet.HedidnotcallNilsbyname,butcaughthimbythehandanddraggedhimin.Clarastiffenedandthecolordeepenedunderherdarkskin.Nils, too, felt a little awkward.He had not seen her since the nightwhen sherodeawayfromhimandlefthimaloneonthelevelroadbetweenthefields.Joedraggedhimtothewoodenbenchbesidethegreentable.

“Youbringdeflute,”hecried,tappingtheleathercaseunderNils’arm.“Ah,

das-agood!Nowwehavesomeliddlefunlikeoldtimes.Igotsomet’inggoodforyou.” Joe shookhis fingeratNilsandwinkedhisblueeyes,abrightcleareye, full of fire, though the tinyblood-vessels on theballwere always a littledistended. “I got somet’ing for you from”—he paused and waved his hand—“Hongarie. You know Hongarie? You wait!” He pushed Nils down on thebench,andwentthroughthebackdoorofhissaloon.

NilslookedatClara,whosatfrigidlywithherwhiteskirtsdrawntightabouther.“Hedidn’ttellyouhehadaskedmetocome,didhe?Hewantedapartyandproceededtoarrangeit.Isn’thefun?Don’tbecross;let’sgivehimagoodtime.”

Clarasmiledandshookoutherskirt.“Isn’tthatlikefather?Andhehassatheresomeeklyallday.Well,Iwon’tpout.I’mgladyoucame.Hedoesn’thaveverymany good times now anymore. There are so few of his kind left. Thesecondgenerationareatamelot.”

Joecamebackwithaflaskinonehandandthreewine-glassescaughtbythestemsbetweenthefingersoftheother.Theseheplacedonthetablewithanairof ceremony, and, goingbehindNils, held the flaskbetweenhimand the sun,squinting into itadmiringly.“Youknowdis,Tokai?Agreat friendofmine,hebring dis tome, a present out of Hongarie. You know howmuch it cost, diswine?Chustsomuchwhatitweighingold.NobodybutdenoblesdrinkhiminBohemie.Many, many years I save him up, dis Tokai.” Joe whipped out hisofficialcork-screwanddelicatelyremovedthecork.“Deoldmandiewhatbringhim tome, an’ diswinehe layonhis belly inmy cellar an’ sleep.An’ now,”carefullypouringouttheheavyyellowwine,“an’nowhewakeup;andmaybehewakeusup,too!”Hecarriedoneoftheglassestohisdaughterandpresenteditwithgreatgallantry.

Clarashookherhead,but,seeingherfather’sdisappointment,relented.“Youtasteitfirst.Idon’twantsomuch.”

Joesampleditwithabeatificexpression,andturnedtoNils.“Youdrinkhimslow,diswine.Heverysoft,buthegodownhot.Yousee!”

After a second glassNils declared that he couldn’t take anymorewithoutgettingsleepy.“Nowgetyour fiddle,Vavrika,”hesaidasheopenedhis flute-case.

ButJoesettledbackinhiswoodenrockerandwaggedhisbigcarpet-slipper.“No-no-no-no-no-no-no! No play fiddle now any more: too much ache in definger,”wavingthem,“all-a-timerheumatiz.Youplaydeflute,te-tety-te-tety-te.Bohemiesongs.”

“I’veforgottenalltheBohemiansongsIusedtoplaywithyouandJohanna.Buthere’sonethatwillmakeClarapout.Yourememberhowhereyesusedtosnapwhenwe called her theBohemianGirl?”Nils lifted his flute and began“When Other Lips and Other Hearts,” and Joe hummed the air in a huskybaritone, waving his carpet-slipper. “Oh-h-h, das-a fine music,” he cried,clappinghishandsasNilsfinished.“Now‘MarbleHalls,MarbleHalls’!Clara,yousinghim.”

Clarasmiledandleanedbackinherchair,beginningsoftly:

“IdreamtthatIdweltinma-a-arblehalls,Withvassalsandserfsatmyknee,”

andJoehummedlikeabigbumble-bee.“There’sonemoreyoualwaysplayed,”Clarasaidquietly;“Irememberthat

best.”Shelockedherhandsoverherkneeandbegan“TheHeartBowedDown,”andsangitthroughwithoutgropingforthewords.Shewassingingwithagooddealofwarmthwhenshecametotheendoftheoldsong:

“FormemoryistheonlyfriendThatgriefcancallitsown.”

Joeflashedouthisredsilkhandkerchiefandblewhisnose,shakinghishead.“No-no-no-no-no-no-no!Toosad,toosad!Inotlike-adat.Playquicksomet’inggaynow.”

Nilsputhislipstotheinstrument,andJoelaybackinhischair,laughingandsinging,“Oh,Evelina,SweetEvelina!”Claralaughed,too.Longago,whensheandNilswenttohighschool,themodelstudentoftheirclasswasaveryhomelygirlinthickspectacles.HernamewasEvelinaOleson;shehadalong,swingingwalk which somehow suggested the measure of that song, and they usedmercilesslytosingitather.

“DatuglyOlesongirl,sheteachindeschool,”Joegasped,“an’shestillwalkchust like dat, yup-a, yup-a, yup-a, chust like a camel she go!Now,Nils,wehavesomemoreli’ldrink.Oh,yes-yes-yes-yes-yes-yes-yes!Distimeyouhaftodrink,andClarashehafto,sosheshowshenotjealous.So,wealldrinktoyourgirl.Younottellhername,eh?No-no-no,Inomakeyoutell.Shepretty,eh?Shemakegoodsweetheart?Ibet!”Joewinkedandliftedhisglass.“Howsoonyougetmarried?”

Nilsscreweduphiseyes.“ThatIdon’tknow.Whenshesays.”Joethrewouthischest.“Das-awayboystalks.Nowayformans.Manssay,

‘Youcometodechurch,an’getahurryonyou.’Das-awaymanstalks.”“MaybeNilshasn’tgotenoughtokeepawife,”putinClaraironically.“How

aboutthat,Nils?”sheaskedhimfrankly,asifshewantedtoknow.Nilslookedathercoolly,raisingoneeyebrow.“Oh,Icankeepher,allright.”“Thewayshewantstobekept?”“Withmywife, I’ll decide that,” repliedNils calmly. “I’ll give herwhat’s

goodforher.”Claramade awry face. “You’ll give her the strap, I expect, like oldPeter

Olesongavehiswife.”“Whensheneedsit,”saidNilslazily,lockinghishandsbehindhisheadand

squintingupthroughtheleavesofthecherrytree.“DoyourememberthetimeIsqueezedthecherriesalloveryourcleandress,andAuntJohannaboxedmyearsforme?Mygracious,weren’tyoumad!Youhadbothhandsfullofcherries,andIsqueezed’emandmadethejuiceflyalloveryou.Ilikedtohavefunwithyou;you’dgetsomad.”

“Wedidhavefun,didn’twe?Noneoftheotherkidseverhadsomuchfun.Weknewhowtoplay.”

Nilsdroppedhiselbowsonthetableandlookedsteadilyacrossather.“I’veplayedwithlotsofgirlssince,butIhaven’tfoundonewhowassuchgoodfun.”

Claralaughed.Thelateafternoonsunwasshiningfullinherface,anddeepin the back of her eyes there shone something fiery, like the yellow drops ofTokaiinthebrownglassbottle.“Canyoustillplay,orareyouonlypretending?”

“IcanplaybetterthanIusedto,andharder.”

“Don’tyoueverwork, then?”Shehadnot intendedtosayit.Itslippedoutbecauseshewasconfusedenoughtosayjustthewrongthing.

“Iwork between times.”Nils’ steady gaze still beat upon her. “Don’t youworryaboutmyworking,Mrs.Ericson.You’regettinglikealltherestofthem.”He reached his brown,warmhand across the table and dropped it onClara’s,whichwascoldasanicicle.“Lastcallforplay,Mrs.Ericson!”Clarashivered,and suddenly her hands and cheeks grewwarm.Her fingers lingered in his amoment,andtheylookedateachotherearnestly.JoeVavrikahadputthemouthofthebottletohislipsandwasswallowingthelastdropsoftheTokai,standing.Thesun,justabouttosinkbehindhisshop,glistenedonthebrightglass,onhisflushed faceandcurlyyellowhair. “Look,”Clarawhispered;“that’s theway Iwanttogrowold.”

VI

OnthedayofOlafEricson’sbarn-raising,hiswife,foronceinaway,roseearly.JohannaVavrikahadbeenbakingcakesandfryingandboilingandspicingmeatsforaweekbeforehand,butitwasnotuntilthedaybeforethepartywastotakeplacethatClarashowedanyinterestinit.Thenshewasseizedwithoneofherfitfulspasmsofenergy,andtookthewagonandlittleEricandspentthedayonPlumCreek,gatheringvinesandswampgoldenrodtodecoratethebarn.

Byfouro’clockintheafternoonbuggiesandwagonsbegantoarriveatthebigunpaintedbuildinginfrontofOlaf’shouse.WhenNilsandhismothercameat five, there were more than fifty people in the barn, and a great drove ofchildren. On the ground floor stood six long tables, set with the crockery ofsevenflourishingEricsonfamilies, lent for theoccasion. In themiddleofeachtablewasabigyellowpumpkin,hollowedoutandfilledwithwoodbine.Inonecornerofthebarn,behindapileofgreen-and-white-stripedwatermelons,wasacircleofchairsfortheoldpeople;theyoungerguestssatonbushelmeasuresorbarbed-wire spools, and the children tumbled about in the haymow. The box-stallsClarahadconvertedintobooths.Theframeworkwashiddenbygoldenrodandsheavesofwheat,andthepartitionswerecoveredwithwildgrapevinesfull

of fruit. At one of these Johanna Vavrika watched over her cooked meats,enough toprovision an army; and at thenextherkitchengirls had ranged theice-creamfreezers,andClarawasalreadycuttingpiesandcakesagainstthehourofserving.Atthethirdstall,littleHilda,inabrightpinklawndress,dispensedlemonade throughout the afternoon. Olaf, as a public man, had thought itinadvisable toservebeer inhisbarn;butJoeVavrikahadcomeoverwith twodemijohns concealed in his buggy, and after his arrival the wagon-shed wasmuchfrequentedbythemen.

“Hasn’tCousinClarafixedthingslovely?”littleHildawhispered,whenNilswentuptoherstallandaskedforlemonade.

Nils leanedagainst thebooth, talking to theexcited littlegirlandwatchingthepeople.Thebarn faced thewest, and the sun, pouring in at the big doors,filledthewholeinteriorwithagoldenlight,throughwhichfilteredfineparticlesofdustfromthehaymow,wherethechildrenwereromping.Therewasagreatchattering from the stall where Johanna Vavrika exhibited to the admiringwomenherplattersheapedwithfriedchicken,herroastsofbeef,boiledtongues,and baked hams with cloves stuck in the crisp brown fat and garnished withtansyandparsley.Theolderwomen,havingassuredthemselvesthatthereweretwentykindsofcake,notcountingcookies,andthreedozenfatpies,repairedtothecornerbehindthepileofwatermelons,putontheirwhiteaprons,andfelltotheirknittingandfancy-work.Theywereafinecompanyofoldwomen,andaDutchpainterwouldhavelovedtofindthemtheretogether,wherethesunmadebrightpatcheson the floor and sent long,quivering shaftsofgold through theduskyshadeupamongtherafters.Therewerefat,rosyoldwomenwholookedhotintheirbestblackdresses;spare,alertoldwomenwithbrown,dark-veinedhands; and several of almost heroic frame, not less massive than old Mrs.Ericson herself. Few of themwore glasses, and oldMrs. Svendsen, a Danishwoman,whowasquitebald,woretheonlycapamongthem.Mrs.Oleson,whohadtwelvebiggrandchildren,couldstillshowtwobraidsofyellowhairasthickasherownwrists.Amongallthesegrandmothersthereweremorebrownheadsthanwhite. They all had a pleased, prosperous air, as if theyweremore thansatisfiedwiththemselvesandwithlife.Nils, leaningagainstHilda’slemonade-

stand,watchedthemastheysatchatteringinfourlanguages,theirfingersneverlaggingbehindtheirtongues.

“Lookatthemoverthere,”hewhispered,detainingClaraasshepassedhim.“Aren’t they the Old Guard? I’ve just counted thirty hands. I guess they’vewrungmanyachicken’sneckandwarmedmanyaboy’sjacketforhimintheirtime.”

In realityhe fell into amazementwhenhe thoughtof theHerculean laborsthose fifteen pairs of hands had performed: of the cows they hadmilked, thebutter they had made, the gardens they had planted, the children andgrandchildrentheyhadtended,thebroomstheyhadwornout,themountainsoffood they had cooked. It made him dizzy. Clara Vavrika smiled a hard,enigmaticalsmileathimandwalkedrapidlyaway.Nils’eyesfollowedherwhitefigure as she went toward the house. He watched her walking alone in thesunlight,lookedatherslender,defiantshouldersandherlittlehard-setheadwithitscoilsofblue-blackhair.“No,”hereflected;“she’dneverbelikethem,notifshe livedhereahundredyears.She’donlygrowmorebitter.Youcan’t tameawild thing; you can only chain it. People aren’t all alike. I mustn’t lose mynerve.”HegaveHilda’spigtailapartingtweakandsetoutafterClara.“Whereto?”heasked,ashecameuponherinthekitchen.

“I’mgoingtothecellarforpreserves.”“Letme gowith you. I never get amoment alonewith you.Why do you

keepoutofmyway?”Claralaughed.“Idon’tusuallygetinanybody’sway.”

Nilsfollowedherdownthestairsandtothefarcornerofthecellar,whereabasementwindowletinastreamoflight.FromaswingingshelfClaraselectedseveralglassjars,eachlabeledinJohanna’scarefulhand.Nilstookupabrownflask.“What’sthis?Itlooksgood.”

“It is. It’ssomeFrenchbrandyfathergavemewhenIwasmarried.Wouldyoulikesome?Haveyouacorkscrew?I’llgetglasses.”

Whenshebroughtthem,Nilstookthemfromherandputthemdownonthewindow-sill. “Clara Vavrika, do you remember how crazy I used to be aboutyou?”

Clara shrugged her shoulders. “Boys are always crazy about somebody orother.IdaresaysomesillyhasbeencrazyaboutEvelinaOleson.Yougotoveritinahurry.”

“BecauseIdidn’tcomeback,youmean?Ihadtogeton,youknow,anditwashardsleddingatfirst.ThenIheardyou’dmarriedOlaf.”

“Andthenyoustayedawayfromabrokenheart,”Claralaughed.“AndthenIbegantothinkaboutyoumorethanIhadsinceIfirstwentaway.

IbegantowonderifyouwerereallyasyouhadseemedtomewhenIwasaboy.I thought I’d like to see. I’ve had lots of girls, but noone ever pulledme thesameway.ThemoreIthoughtaboutyou,themoreIrememberedhowitusedtobe—likehearingawildtuneyoucan’tresist,callingyououtatnight.Ithadbeena long while since anything had pulledme out of my boots, and I wonderedwhetheranythingevercouldagain.”Nils thrusthishandsintohiscoatpocketsandsquaredhisshoulders,ashismothersometimessquaredhers,asOlaf, inaclumsiermanner,squaredhis.“SoI thought I’dcomebackandsee.Ofcoursethe familyhave tried todome,and I rather thought I’dbringout father’swillandmakeafuss.Buttheycanhavetheiroldland;they’veputenoughsweatintoit.”Hetooktheflaskandfilledthetwoglassescarefullytothebrim.“I’vefoundoutwhatIwantfromtheEricsons.Drinkskoal,Clara.”Heliftedhisglass,andClaratookherswithdowncasteyes.“Lookatme,ClaraVavrika.Skoal!”

Sheraisedherburningeyesandansweredfiercely:“Skoal!”

The barn supper began at six o’clock and lasted for two hilarious hours.YenseNelsonhadmadeawagerthathecouldeattwowholefriedchickens,andhedid.EliSwansonstowedawaytwowholecustardpies,andNickHermansonate a chocolate layer cake to the last crumb. Therewas even a cooky contestamongthechildren,andonethin,slablikeBohemianboyconsumedsixteenandwontheprize,aginger-breadpigwhichJohannaVavrikahadcarefullydecoratedwithredcandiesandburntsugar.FritzSweiheart,theGermancarpenter,woninthepicklecontest,buthedisappearedsoonaftersupperandwasnotseenfortherestoftheevening.JoeVavrikasaidthatFritzcouldhavemanagedthepicklesallright,buthehadsampledthedemijohninhisbuggytoooftenbeforesittingdowntothetable.

Whilethesupperwasbeingclearedawaythetwofiddlersbegantotuneupforthedance.Clarawastoaccompanythemonherolduprightpiano,whichhadbeen brought down from her father’s. By this time Nils had renewed oldacquaintances. Since his interviewwith Clara in the cellar, he had been busytellingall theoldwomenhowyoungthey looked,andall theyoungoneshowprettytheywere,andassuringthementhattheyhadherethebestfarm-landinthe world. He hadmade himself so agreeable that oldMrs. Ericson’s friendsbegantocomeuptoherandtellhowluckyshewastogethersmartsonbackagain,andpleasetogethimtoplayhisflute.JoeVavrika,whocouldstillplayvery well when he forgot that he had rheumatism, caught up a fiddle fromJohnny Oleson and played a crazy Bohemian dance tune that set the wheelsgoing.Whenhedroppedtheboweveryonewasreadytodance.

Olaf, in a frock-coat and a solemnmade-up necktie, led the grandmarchwith hismother.Clara hadkeptwell out of that by sticking to thepiano.Sheplayedthemarchwithapompoussolemnitywhichgreatlyamusedtheprodigalson,whowentoverandstoodbehindher.

“Oh,aren’tyourubbingitintothem,ClaraVavrika?Andaren’tyouluckytohavemehere,orallyourwitwouldbethrownaway.”

“I’musedtobeingwittyformyself.Itsavesmylife.”

Thefiddlesstruckupapolka,andNilsconvulsedJoeVavrikabyleadingoutEvelina Oleson, the homely school-teacher. His next partner was a very fatSwedishgirl,who,althoughshewasanheiress,hadnotbeenaskedforthefirstdance,buthadstoodagainstthewallinhertight,high-heeledshoes,nervouslyfingering a lace handkerchief. She was soon out of breath, so Nils led her,pleasedandpanting, toherseat,andwentovertothepiano,fromwhichClarahad been watching his gallantry. “Ask Olena Yenson,” she whispered. “Shewaltzesbeautifully.”

Olena,too,wasratherinconvenientlyplump,handsomeinasmooth,heavyway,withafinecolorandgood-natured,sleepyeyes.Shewasredolentofvioletsachet powder, and had warm, soft, white hands, but she danced divinely,movingassmoothlyas thetidecomingin.“There, that’ssomethinglike,”Nilssaidashereleasedher.“You’llgivemethenextwaltz,won’tyou?NowImustgoanddancewithmylittlecousin.”

Hildawas greatly excitedwhenNilswent up to her stall and held out hisarm. Her little eyes sparkled, but she declared that she could not leave herlemonade. Old Mrs. Ericson, who happened along at this moment, said shewouldattendtothat,andHildacameout,aspinkasherpinkdress.Thedancewas a schottische, and in amoment her yellowbraidswere fairly standingonend. “Bravo!” Nils cried encouragingly. “Where did you learn to dance sonicely?”

“MyCousinClarataughtme,”thelittlegirlpanted.NilsfoundEricsittingwithagroupofboyswhowere tooawkwardor too

shytodance,andtoldhimthathemustdancethenextwaltzwithHilda.Theboyscreweduphisshoulders.“Aw,Nils,Ican’tdance.Myfeetaretoo

big;Ilooksilly.”“Don’tbethinkingaboutyourself.Itdoesn’tmatterhowboyslook.”Nils had never spoken to him so sharply before, and Eric made haste to

scrambleoutofhiscornerandbrushthestrawfromhiscoat.Claranoddedapprovingly.“Goodforyou,Nils.I’vebeentryingtogethold

ofhim.Theydanceverynicelytogether;Isometimesplayforthem.”“I’mobligedtoyouforteachinghim.There’snoreasonwhyheshouldgrow

uptobealout.”“He’llneverbe that.He’smore likeyou thananyof them.Onlyhehasn’t

your courage.” From her slanting eyes Clara shot forth one of those keenglances,admiringandatthesametimechallenging,whichsheseldombestowedonanyone,andwhichseemedtosay,“Yes,Iadmireyou,butIamyourequal.”

Clarawasprovingamuchbetterhost thanOlaf,who,once thesupperwasover,seemed to feelno interest inanythingbut the lanterns.Hehadbroughtalocomotiveheadlightfromtowntolighttherevels,andhekeptskulkingaboutitasifhefearedthemerelightfromitmightsethisnewbarnonfire.Hiswife,onthe contrary,was cordial to every one,was animated and even gay. The deepsalmon color in her cheeksburnedvividly, andher eyeswere full of life.ShegavethepianoovertothefatSwedishheiress,pulledherfatherawayfromthecornerwherehesatgossipingwithhiscronies,andmadehimdanceaBohemiandancewithher.InhisyouthJoehadbeenafamousdancer,andhisdaughtergothimsolimberedupthateveryonesatroundandapplaudedthem.Theoldladieswereparticularlydelighted, andmade themgo through thedance again.Fromtheircornerwheretheywatchedandcommented,theoldwomenkepttimewiththeir feet and hands, and whenever the fiddles struck up a new air old Mrs.Svendsen’swhitecapwouldbegintobob.

ClarawaswaltzingwithlittleEricwhenNilscameuptothem,brushedhisbrotheraside,andswungheroutamongthedancers.“Rememberhowweusedtowaltzonrollersattheoldskating-rinkintown?Isupposepeopledon’tdothatanymore.Weusedtokeepitupforhours.Youknow,weneverdidmoonaroundas other boys and girls did. It was dead serious with us from the beginning.Whenweweremostinlovewitheachother,weusedtofight.Youwerealwayspinchingpeople;yourfingerswerelikelittlenippers.Aregularsnapping-turtle,youwere.Lord,howyou’dlikeStockholm!Sitoutinthestreetsinfrontofcafésandtalkallnightinsummer.Justlikeareception—officersandladiesandfunnyEnglish people. Jolliest people in the world, the Swedes, once you get themgoing. Always drinking things—champagne and stout mixed, half-and-half;serve it out of bigpitchers, and serveplenty.Slowpulse, youknow; they canstandalot.Oncetheylightup,they’reglow-worms,Icantellyou.”

“Allthesame,youdon’treallylikegaypeople.”“Idon’t?”“No; I could see thatwhen youwere looking at the oldwomen there this

afternoon.They’rethekindyoureallyadmire,afterall;womenlikeyourmother.Andthat’sthekindyou’llmarry.”

“Is it, Miss Wisdom? You’ll see who I’ll marry, and she won’t have adomesticvirtuetoblessherselfwith.She’llbeasnapping-turtle,andshe’llbeamatchforme.Allthesame,they’reafinebunchofolddamesoverthere.Youadmirethemyourself.”

“No,Idon’t;Idetestthem.”“You won’t, when you look back on them from Stockholm or Budapest.

Freedomsettlesallthat.Oh,butyou’retherealBohemianGirl,ClaraVavrika!”Nilslaugheddownathersullenfrownandbeganmockinglytosing:

“Oh,howcouldapoorgypsymaidenlikemeExpecttheproudbrideofabarontobe?”

Claraclutchedhisshoulder.“Hush,Nils;everyoneislookingatyou.”“I don’t care. They can’t gossip. It’s all in the family, as theEricsons say

whentheydivideuplittleHilda’spatrimonyamongstthem.Besides,we’llgivethemsomethingtotalkaboutwhenwehitthetrail.Lord,itwillbeagodsendtothem! They haven’t had anything so interesting to chatter about since thegrasshopper year. It’ll give them a new lease of life.AndOlafwon’t lose theBohemianvote, either.They’ll have the laughonhim so that they’ll vote twoapiece.They’llsendhimtoCongress.They’llneverforgethisbarnparty,orus.They’ll always remember us as we’re dancing together now.We’remaking alegend.Where’smywaltz,boys?”hecalledastheywhirledpastthefiddlers.

Themusiciansgrinned,lookedateachother,hesitated,andbegananewair;andNilssangwiththem,asthecouplesfellfromaquickwaltztoalong,slowglide:

“WhenotherlipsandotherheartsTheirtaleofloveshalltell,

InlanguagewhoseexcessimpartsThepowertheyfeelsowell,”

The oldwomen applauded vigorously. “What a gay one he is, that Nils!”AndoldMrs.Svendsen’scaplurcheddreamilyfromsidetosidetotheflowingmeasureofthedance.

“Ofdaysthathaveasha-a-p-pybeen,Andyou’llrememberme.”

VII

Themoonlightfloodedthatgreat,silentland.Thereapedfieldslayyellowinit. The straw stacks and poplar windbreaks threw sharp black shadows. Theroadswerewhite rivers of dust.The skywas a deep, crystallineblue, and thestarswerefewandfaint.Everythingseemedtohavesuccumbed,tohavesunktosleep, under the great, golden, tender, midsummer moon. The splendor of itseemedtotranscendhumanlifeandhumanfate.Thesensesweretoofeebletotakeitin,andeverytimeonelookedupattheskyonefeltunequaltoit,asifoneweresittingdeafunderthewavesofagreatriverofmelody.Neartheroad,NilsEricson was lying against a straw stack in Olaf’s wheat-field. His own lifeseemedstrangeandunfamiliartohim,asifitweresomethinghehadreadabout,ordreamed,andforgotten.Helayverystill,watchingthewhiteroadthatraninfrontofhim,lostitselfamongthefields,andthen,atadistance,reappearedovera littlehill.At last, against thiswhitebandhe sawsomethingmoving rapidly,andhegotupandwalked to the edgeof the field. “She ispassing the rowofpoplars now,” he thought.He heard the padded beat of hoofs along the dustyroad,andasshecameintosighthesteppedoutandwavedhisarms.Then,forfearoffrighteningthehorse,hedrewbackandwaited.Clarahadseenhim,andshecameupatawalk.Nilstookthehorsebythebitandstrokedhisneck.

“What are you doing out so late, ClaraVavrika? I went to the house, butJohannatoldmeyouhadgonetoyourfather’s.”

“Whocanstayinthehouseonanightlikethis?Aren’tyououtyourself?”

“Ah,butthat’sanothermatter.”Nilsturnedthehorseintothefield.“Whatareyoudoing?WhereareyoutakingNorman?”“Notfar,butIwanttotalktoyouto-night;Ihavesomethingtosaytoyou.I

can’t talk toyouat thehouse,withOlafsitting thereon theporch,weighingathousandtons.”

Claralaughed.“Hewon’tbesittingtherenow.He’sinbedbythistime,andasleep—weighingathousandtons.”

Nilsploddedonacrossthestubble.“Areyoureallygoingtospendtherestofyourlifelikethis,nightafternight,summeraftersummer?Haven’tyouanythingbetter todoonanight like this than towearyourself andNormanout tearingacross the country to your father’s and back? Besides, your father won’t liveforever,youknow.Hislittleplacewillbeshutuporsold,andthenyou’llhavenobodybuttheEricsons.You’llhavetofastendownthehatchesforthewinterthen.”

Claramovedherheadrestlessly.“Don’ttalkaboutthat.Itrynevertothinkofit.IfIlostfatherI’dloseeverything,evenmyholdovertheEricsons.”

“Bah! You’d lose a good deal more than that. You’d lose your race,everythingthatmakesyouyourself.You’velostagooddealofitnow.”

“Ofwhat?”“Ofyourloveoflife,yourcapacityfordelight.”Claraputherhandsup toherface.“Ihaven’t,NilsEricson, Ihaven’t!Say

anythingtomebutthat.Iwon’thaveit!”shedeclaredvehemently.Nils led the horse up to a straw stack, and turned toClara, looking at her

intently,ashehadlookedatherthatSundayafternoonatVavrika’s.“Butwhydoyoufightforthatso?Whatgoodisthepowertoenjoy,ifyouneverenjoy?Yourhandsarecoldagain;whatareyouafraidofall the time?Ah,you’reafraidoflosing it; that’swhat’s thematterwith you!And youwill,ClaraVavrika, youwill!WhenIusedtoknowyou—listen;you’vecaughtawildbirdinyourhand,haven’tyou,andfeltitsheartbeatsohardthatyouwereafraiditwouldshatteritslittlebodytopieces?Well,youusedtobejustlikethat,aslender,eagerthingwithawilddelightinsideyou.ThatishowIrememberedyou.AndIcomeback

and find you—a bitterwoman.This is a perfect ferret fight here; you live bybiting and being bitten. Can’t you rememberwhat life used to be?Can’t yourememberthatolddelight?I’veneverforgottenit,orknownitslike,onlandorsea.”

Hedrewthehorseundertheshadowofthestrawstack.Clarafelthimtakeherfootoutofthestirrup,andsheslidsoftlydownintohisarms.Hekissedherslowly. He was a deliberate man, but his nerves were steel when he wantedanything.Somethingflashedoutfromhimlikeaknifeoutofasheath.Clarafelteverything slipping away fromher; shewas floodedby the summernight.Hethrusthishandintohispocket,andthenhelditoutatarm’slength.“Look,”hesaid.Theshadowofthestrawstackfellsharpacrosshiswrist,andinthepalmofhishandshesawasilverdollarshining.“That’smypile,”hemuttered;“willyougowithme?”

Claranodded,anddroppedherforeheadonhisshoulder.Nilstookadeepbreath.“Willyougowithmeto-night?”“Where?”shewhisperedsoftly.“Totown,tocatchthemidnightflyer.”Clara liftedherheadandpulledherself together.“Areyoucrazy,Nils?We

couldn’tgoawaylikethat.”“That’s theonlywayweeverwillgo.Youcan’t siton thebankand think

aboutit.Youhavetoplunge.That’sthewayI’vealwaysdone,andit’stherightway for people like you andme.There’s nothing so dangerous as sitting still.You’veonlygotonelife,oneyouth,andyoucanletitslipthroughyourfingersifyouwantto;nothingeasier.Mostpeopledothat.You’dbebetterofftrampingtheroadswithmethanyouarehere.”Nilsheldbackherheadandlookedintoher eyes. “But I’mnot that kindof a tramp,Clara.Youwon’t have to take insewing. I’mwith aNorwegian shipping line; came over on businesswith theNewYorkoffices,butnowI’mgoingstraightbacktoBergen.IexpectI’vegotasmuchmoneyastheEricsons.Fathersentmealittletogetstarted.Theyneverknewaboutthat.There,Ihadn’tmeanttotellyou;Iwantedyoutocomeonyourownnerve.”

Claralookedoffacrossthefields.“Itisn’tthat,Nils,butsomethingseemsto

holdme.I’mafraidtopullagainstit.Itcomesoutoftheground,Ithink.”“Iknowallaboutthat.Onehastotearloose.You’renotneededhere.Your

fatherwillunderstand;he’smadelikeus.AsforOlaf,Johannawill takebettercareofhimthaneveryoucould.It’snowornever,ClaraVavrika.Mybag’satthestation;Ismuggleditthereyesterday.”

Claraclungtohimandhidherfaceagainsthisshoulder.“Notto-night,”shewhispered. “Sit here and talk tome to-night. I don’twant to go anywhere to-night.Imayneverloveyoulikethisagain.”

Nils laughedthroughhis teeth.“Youcan’tcomethatonme.That’snotmyway,ClaraVavrika.Eric’smareisovertherebehindthestacks,andI’moffonthemidnight.It’sgood-by,oroffacrosstheworldwithme.Mycarriagewon’twait.I’vewrittenalettertoOlaf;I’llmailitintown.Whenhereadsithewon’tbother us—not if I know him. He’d rather have the land. Besides, I coulddemandaninvestigationofhisadministrationofCousinHenrik’sestate,andthatwouldbebadforapublicman.You’venoclothes,Iknow;butyoucansitupto-night, and we can get everything on the way. Where’s your old dash, ClaraVavrika? What’s become of your Bohemian blood? I used to think you hadcourageenoughforanything.Where’syournerve—whatareyouwaitingfor?”

Claradrewbackherhead,andhesawtheslumberousfireinhereyes.“Foryoutosayonething,NilsEricson.”

“Ineversaythatthingtoanywoman,ClaraVavrika.”Heleanedback,liftedher gently from the ground, andwhispered through his teeth: “But I’ll never,neverletyougo,nottoanymanonearthbutme!Doyouunderstandme?Now,waithere.”

Clarasankdownonasheafofwheatandcoveredherfacewithherhands.Shedidnotknowwhatshewasgoingtodo—whethershewouldgoorstay.Thegreat,silentcountryseemedtolayaspelluponher.Thegroundseemedtoholdherasifbyroots.Herkneesweresoftunderher.Shefeltasifshecouldnotbearseparationfromheroldsorrows,fromherolddiscontent.Theyweredeartoher,theyhadkeptheralive,theywereapartofher.Therewouldbenothingleftofher if shewerewrenched away from them.Never could she pass beyond thatsky-lineagainstwhichherrestlessnesshadbeatsomanytimes.Shefeltasifher

soul had built itself a nest there on that horizon at which she looked everymorning and every evening, and it was dear to her, inexpressibly dear. Shepressedherfingersagainsthereyeballs toshut itout.Besidehersheheardthetrampingofhorses in thesoftearth.Nilssaidnothing toher.Heputhishandsunderherarmsandliftedherlightlytohersaddle.Thenheswunghimselfintohisown.

“Weshallhave to ridefast tocatch themidnight train.A lastgallop,ClaraVavrika.Forward!”

Therewasastart,athudofhoofsalongthemoonlitroad,twodarkshadowsgoingoverthehill;andthenthegreat,stilllandstretcheduntroubledundertheazurenight.Twoshadowshadpassed.

VIII

Ayear after the flightofOlafEricson’swife, thenight trainwas steamingacrosstheplainsofIowa.Theconductorwashurryingthroughoneoftheday-coaches,hislanternonhisarm,whenalank,fair-hairedboysatupinoneoftheplushseatsandtweakedhimbythecoat.

“Whatisthenextstop,please,sir?”“Red Oak, Iowa. But you go through to Chicago, don’t you?” He looked

down,andnoticedthattheboy’seyeswereredandhisfacewasdrawn,asifhewereintrouble.

“Yes.ButIwaswonderingwhetherIcouldgetoffatthenextplaceandgetatrainbacktoOmaha.”

“Well,Isupposeyoucould.LiveinOmaha?”“No.InthewesternpartoftheState.HowsoondowegettoRedOak?”“Forty minutes. You’d better make up your mind, so I can tell the

baggagemantoputyourtrunkoff.”“Oh, never mind about that! I mean, I haven’t got any,” the boy added,

blushing.“Runaway,” the conductor thought, as he slammed the coachdoorbehind

him.

Eric Ericson crumpled down in his seat and put his brown hand to hisforehead. He had been crying, and he had had no supper, and his head wasachingviolently.“Oh,whatshallIdo?”hethought,ashelookeddullydownathisbigshoes.“Nilswillbeashamedofme;Ihaven’tgotanyspunk.”

EversinceNilshadrunawaywithhisbrother’swife,lifeathomehadbeenhardforlittleEric.HismotherandOlafbothsuspectedhimofcomplicity.Mrs.Ericsonwasharsh and fault-finding, constantlywounding theboy’spride; andOlafwasalwaysgettingheragainsthim.

JoeVavrikaheardoftenfromhisdaughter.Clarahadalwaysbeenfondofherfather, and happiness made her kinder. She wrote him long accounts of thevoyagetoBergen,andofthetripsheandNilstookthroughBohemiatothelittletownwhereherfatherhadgrownupandwheresheherselfwasborn.Shevisitedallherkinsmenthere,andsentherfathernewsofhisbrother,whowasapriest;ofhissister,whohadmarriedahorse-breeder—oftheirbigfarmandtheirmanychildren.TheselettersJoealwaysmanagedtoreadtolittleEric.TheycontainedmessagesforEricandHilda.Clarasentpresents,too,whichEricneverdaredtotakehomeandwhichpoorlittleHildaneverevensaw,thoughshelovedtohearErictellaboutthemwhentheywereoutgettingtheeggstogether.ButOlafoncesawEriccomingoutofVavrika’shouse,—theoldmanhadneveraskedtheboytocomeintohissaloon,—andOlafwentstraighttohismotherandtoldher.ThatnightMrs.EricsoncametoEric’sroomafterhewasinbedandmadeaterriblescene.Shecouldbeveryterrifyingwhenshewasreallyangry.SheforbadehimevertospeaktoVavrikaagain,andafterthatnightshewouldnotallowhimtogototownalone.SoitwasalongwhilebeforeEricgotanymorenewsofhisbrother.ButoldJoesuspectedwhatwasgoingon,andhecarriedClara’slettersaboutinhispocket.OneSundayhedroveouttoseeaGermanfriendofhis,andchancedtocatchsightofEric,sittingbythecattle-pondinthebigpasture.Theywent together into Fritz Oberlies’ barn, and read the letters and talked thingsover. Eric admitted that things were getting hard for him at home. That verynight old Joe sat down and laboriously penned a statement of the case to hisdaughter.

ThingsgotnobetterforEric.HismotherandOlaffeltthat,howeverclosely

hewaswatched, he still, as they said, “heard.”Mrs. Ericson could not admitneutrality.ShehadsentJohannaVavrikapackingbacktoherbrother’s, thoughOlafwouldmuchratherhavekeptherthanAnders’eldestdaughter,whomMrs.Ericsoninstalledinherplace.Hewasnotsohigh-handedashismother,andheoncesulkilytoldherthatshemightbetterhavetaughthergranddaughtertocookbeforeshesentJohannaaway.Olafcouldhaveborneagooddealforthesakeofprunesspicedinhoney,thesecretofwhichJohannahadtakenawaywithher.

At last two letters came to JoeVavrika: one fromNils, inclosing a postalorderformoneytopayEric’spassagetoBergen,andonefromClara,sayingthatNilshadaplaceforEricintheofficesofhiscompany,thathewastolivewiththem,and that theywereonlywaiting forhim tocome.Hewas to leaveNewYorkononeoftheboatsofNils’ownline;thecaptainwasoneoftheirfriends,andEricwastomakehimselfknownatonce.

Nils’directionsweresoexplicitthatababycouldhavefollowedthem,Ericfelt. And here he was, nearing Red Oak, Iowa, and rocking backward andforwardindespair.Neverhadhelovedhisbrothersomuch,andneverhadthebigworldcalledtohimsohard.Buttherewasalumpinhisthroatwhichwouldnotgodown.Eversincenightfallhehadbeentormentedbythe thoughtofhismother,aloneinthatbighousethathadsentforthsomanymen.Herunkindnessnowseemedsolittle,andherlonelinesssogreat.Herememberedeverythingshehadeverdoneforhim:howfrightenedshehadbeenwhenhetorehishandinthecorn-sheller,andhowshewouldn’tletOlafscoldhim.WhenNilswentawayhedidn’tleavehismotherallalone,orhewouldneverhavegone.Ericfeltsureofthat.

The train whistled. The conductor came in, smiling not unkindly. “Well,youngman,whatareyougoingtodo?WestopatRedOakinthreeminutes.”

“Yes, thank you. I’ll let you know.”The conductorwent out, and the boydoubledupwithmisery.Hecouldn’tlethisonechancegolikethis.HefeltforhisbreastpocketandcrackledNils’kind letter togivehimcourage.Hedidn’twantNilstobeashamedofhim.Thetrainstopped.Suddenlyherememberedhisbrother’s kind, twinkling eyes, that always looked at you as if from far away.The lump in his throat softened. “Ah, but Nils, Nils would understand!” he

thought.“That’sjustitaboutNils;healwaysunderstands.”A lank,paleboywithacanvas telescopestumbledoff the train to theRed

Oaksiding,justastheconductorcalled,“Allaboard!”

ThenextnightMrs.Ericsonwassittingalone inherwoodenrocking-chairon the front porch. LittleHilda had been sent to bed and had cried herself tosleep.Theoldwoman’sknittingwasinherlap,butherhandslaymotionlessontopofit.Formorethananhourshehadnotmovedamuscle.Shesimplysat,asonlytheEricsonsandthemountainscansit.Thehousewasdark,andtherewasnosoundbutthecroakingofthefrogsdowninthepondofthelittlepasture.

Eric did not come home by the road, but across the fields, where no onecouldseehim.Hesethistelescopedownsoftlyinthekitchenshed,andslippednoiselesslyalong thepath to the frontporch.Hesatdownon the stepwithoutsayinganything.Mrs.Ericsonmadenosign,and the frogscroakedon.At lasttheboyspoketimidly.

“I’vecomeback,Mother.”“Verywell,”saidMrs.Ericson.Ericleanedoverandpickedupalittlestickoutofthegrass.“Howaboutthemilking?”hefaltered.“That’sbeendone,hoursago.”“Whodidyouget?”“Get?Ididitmyself.Icanmilkasgoodasanyofyou.”Ericslidalongthestepnearertoher.“Oh,Mother,whydidyou?”heasked

sorrowfully.“Whydidn’tyougetoneofOtto’sboys?”“Ididn’twantanybodytoknowIwasinneedofaboy,”saidMrs.Ericson

bitterly.She lookedstraight in frontofherandhermouth tightened.“Ialwaysmeanttogiveyouthehomefarm,”sheadded.

Theboystartedandslidcloser.“Oh,Mother,”hefaltered,“Idon’tcareaboutthefarm.IcamebackbecauseIthoughtyoumightbeneedingme,maybe.”Hehunghisheadandgotnofurther.

“Verywell,” saidMrs.Ericson.Her handwent out fromher suddenly and

restedonhishead.Herfingerstwinedthemselvesinhissoft,palehair.Histearssplasheddownontheboards;happinessfilledhisheart.

McClure’s,August1912

Consequences

H ENRY EASTMAN, A LAWYER, AGED FORTY,WAS STANDING BESIDE THE FLATIRON

buildinginadrivingNovemberrainstorm,signalingfranticallyforataxi.Itwassix-thirty,andeverythingonwheelswasengaged.Thestreetswereinconfusionabouthim, theskywas in turmoilabovehim,and theFlatironbuilding,whichseemedabouttoblowdown,threwwaterlikeamill-shoot.Suddenly,outofthebrutal struggle ofmen and cars andmachines and people tilting at each otherwithumbrellas,aquiet,well-manneredlimousinepausedbeforehim,atthecurb,andanagreeable,ruddycountenanceconfrontedhimthroughtheopenwindowofthecar.

“Don’t you want me to pick you up, Mr. Eastman? I’m running directlyhomenow.”

EastmanrecognizedKierCavenaugh,ayoungmanofpleasure,wholivedinthehouseonCentralParkSouth,wherehehimselfhadanapartment.

“Don’tI?”heexclaimed,boltingintothecar.“I’llriskgettingyourcushionswetwithoutcompunction.Icameupinataxi,butIdidn’tholdit.Badeconomy.IthoughtIsawyourcardownonFourteenthStreetabouthalfanhourago.”

Theownerofthecarsmiled.Hehadapleasant,roundfaceandroundeyes,

and a fringeof smooth, yellowhair showedunder the rimof his soft felt hat.“Witha lotof littlebroilers fluttering into it?Youdid. Iknowsomegirlswhoworkinthecheapshopsdownthere.Ihappenedtobedown-townandIstoppedand tooka loadof themhome. Idosometimes.Saves theirpoor littleclothes,youknow.Theirshoesareneveranygood.”

Eastman looked at his rescuer. “Aren’t they notoriously afraid of cars andsmoothyoungmen?”heinquired.

Cavenaughshookhishead.“Theyknowwhichcarsaresafeandwhicharechancy.Theyputeachotherwise.Youhavetotakeabunchatatime,ofcourse.TheItaliangirlscannevercomealong;theirmenshoot.Thegirlsunderstand,allright; but their fathers don’t. One gets to see queer places, sometimes, takingthemhome.”

Eastmanlaugheddrily.“EverytimeItouchthecircleofyouracquaintance,Cavenaugh, it’s a little wider. You must know New York pretty well by thistime.”

“Yes,but I’monmygoodbehaviorbelowTwenty-thirdStreet,” theyoungmanrepliedwithsimplicity.“Mylittlefriendsdowntherewouldgivemeagoodcharacter. They’re wise little girls. They have grand ways with each other, aromanticcodeof loyalty.Youcan findagoodmanyof the lostvirtuesamongthem.”

The car was standing still in a traffic block at Fortieth Street, whenCavenaugh suddenly drew his face away from the window and touchedEastman’sarm.“Look,please.Youseethathansomwiththebonygrayhorse—driverhas abrokenhat and red flannel aroundhis throat.Canyou seewho isinside?”

Eastman peered out. The hansomwas just cutting across the line, and thedriverwasmakingagreatfussaboutit,bobbinghisheadandwavinghiswhip.He jerkedhis drippingold horse intoFortiethStreet and clatteredoff past thePublicLibrarygroundstowardSixthAvenue.“No,Icouldn’tseethepassenger.Someoneyouknow?”

“Couldyouseewhethertherewasapassenger?”Cavenaughasked.“Why, yes.Aman, I think. I saw his elbow on the apron.No driver ever

behaveslikethatunlesshehasapassenger.”“Yes, Imay have beenmistaken,” Cavenaughmurmured absent-mindedly.

Tenminutesorsolater,afterCavenaugh’scarhadturnedoffFifthAvenueintoFifty-eighthStreet,Eastmanexclaimed,“There’syoursamecabby,andhiscart’sempty.He’sheadedforadrinknow,Isuppose.”Thedriverinthebrokenhatandthe red flannelneckclothwasstillbrandishing thewhipoverhisoldgray.Hewas coming from the west now, and turned down Sixth Avenue, under theelevated.

Cavenaugh’scarstoppedatthebachelorapartmenthousebetweenSixthandSeventhAvenueswhereheandEastmanlived,andtheywentupintheelevatortogether.TheywerestilltalkingwhentheliftstoppedatCavenaugh’sfloor,andEastmansteppedoutwithhimandwalkeddownthehall,finishinghissentencewhileCavenaughfoundhislatch-key.Whenheopenedthedoor,awaveoffreshcigarette smoke greeted them. Cavenaugh stopped short and stared into hishallway.“Nowhowinthedevil—!”heexclaimedangrily.

“Someonewaiting for you?Oh, no, thanks. Iwasn’t coming in. I have toworkto-night.Thankyou,butIcouldn’t.”Eastmannoddedandwentupthetwoflightstohisownrooms.

ThoughEastmandidnotcustomarilykeepaservanthehadthiswinteramanwhohadbeen lent tohimbya friendwhowasabroad.Rollinsmethimat thedoorandtookhiscoatandhat.

“Put out my dinner clothes, Rollins, and then get out of here until teno’clock.I’vepromisedtogotoasupperto-night.Ishan’tbedining.I’vehadalate tea and I’m going to work until ten. Youmay put out some kumiss andbiscuitforme.”

Rollins took himself off, andEastman settled down at the big table in hissitting-room.Hehadtoreadalotofletterssubmittedasevidenceinabreachofcontractcase,andbeforehegotveryfarhefoundthatlongparagraphsinsomeoftheletterswerewritteninGerman.HehadaGermandictionaryathisoffice,butnonehere.Rollinshadgone,andanyhow, thebookstoreswouldbeclosed.HerememberedhavingseenarowofdictionariesonthelowershelfofoneofCavenaugh’s bookcases. Cavenaugh had a lot of books, though he never read

anythingbutnewstuff.Eastmanprudentlyturneddownhisstudent’slampverylow—the thing had an evil habit of smoking—and went down two flights toCavenaugh’sdoor.

TheyoungmanhimselfansweredEastman’sring.Hewasfreshlydressedfortheevening, except for abrownsmoking jacket, andhisyellowhairhadbeenbrusheduntilitshone.Hehesitatedasheconfrontedhiscaller,stillholdingthedoorknob,andhisroundeyesandsmoothforeheadmadetheirbestimitationofa frown. When Eastman began to apologize, Cavenaugh’s manner suddenlychanged. He caught his arm and jerked him into the narrow hall. “Come in,come in. Right along!” he said excitedly. “Right along,” he repeated as hepushedEastmanbeforehimintohissitting-room.“WellI’ll—”hestoppedshortatthedoorandlookedabouthisownroomwithanairofcompletemystification.Thebackwindowwaswideopenandastrongwindwasblowingin.Cavenaughwalkedovertothewindowandstuckouthishead,lookingupanddownthefireescape.Whenhepulledhisheadin,hedrewdownthesash.

“IhadavisitorIwantedyoutosee,”heexplainedwithanervoussmile.“Atleast I thought I had. He must have gone out that way,” nodding toward thewindow.

“Callhimback.IonlycametoborrowaGermandictionary,ifyouhaveone.Can’tstay.Callhimback.”

Cavenaughshookhisheaddespondently.“Nouse.He’sbeatit.Nowhereinsight.”

“Hemustbeactive.Hasheleftsomething?”Eastmanpointedtoaverydirtywhiteglovethatlayonthefloorunderthewindow.

“Yes,that’shis.”Cavenaughreachedforhistongs,pickeduptheglove,andtosseditintothegrate,whereitquicklyshriveledonthecoals.Eastmanfeltthathehadhappenedinuponsomethingdisagreeable,possiblysomethingshady,andhewantedtogetawayatonce.Cavenaughstoodstaringatthefireandseemedstupidanddazed;soherepeatedhisrequestrathersternly,“I thinkI’veseenaGermandictionarydownthereamongyourbooks.MayIhaveit?”

Cavenaughblinkedathim.“AGermandictionary?Oh,possibly!Thoseweremyfather’s.Iscarcelyknowwhatthereis.”Heputdownthetongsandbeganto

wipehishandsnervouslywithhishandkerchief.EastmanwentovertothebookcasebehindtheChesterfield,openedthedoor,

swoopeduponthebookhewantedandstuckitunderhisarm.HefeltperfectlycertainnowthatsomethingshadyhadbeengoingoninCavenaugh’srooms,andhesawnoreasonwhyheshouldcomeinforanyhang-over.“Thanks.I’llsenditbackto-morrow,”hesaidcurtlyashemadeforthedoor.

Cavenaughfollowedhim.“Waitamoment.Iwantedyoutoseehim.Youdidseehisglove,”glancingatthegrate.

Eastmanlaugheddisagreeably.“Isawaglove.That’snotevidence.Doyourfriendsoftenusethatmeansofexit?Somewhatinconvenient.”

Cavenaughgavehimastartledglance.“Wouldn’tyouthinkso?Foranoldman,averyricketyoldparty?Theladdersaresteep,youknow,andrusty.”Heapproachedthewindowagainandputitupsoftly.Inamomenthedrewhisheadbackwithajerk.HecaughtEastman’sarmandshovedhimtowardthewindow.“Hurry,please.Look!Downthere.”Hepointedtothelittlepatchofpavedcourtfourflightsdown.

The squareofpavementwas so small and thewalls about itwere sohigh,thatitwasagooddeallikelookingdownawell.Fourtallbuildingsbackeduponthesamecourtandmadeakindofshaft,withflagstonesatthebottom,andatthetop a square of dark blue with some stars in it. At the bottom of the shaftEastman saw a black figure, a man in a caped coat and a tall hat stealingcautiouslyaround,notacrossthesquareofpavement,keepingclosetothedarkwallandavoidingthestreakoflightthatfellontheflagstonesfromawindowintheoppositehouse.Seenfromthatheighthewasofcoursefore-shortenedandprobably lookedmoreshamblinganddecrepit thanhewas.Hepickedhiswayalongwithexaggeratedcareandlookedlikeasillyoldcatcrossingawetstreet.Whenhereachedthegatethatledintoanalleywaybetweentwobuildings,hefeltaboutfor the latch,openedthedooramerecrack,andthenshotoutunderthefeeblelampthatburnedinthebrickarchoverthegateway.Thedoorclosedafterhim.

“He’llgetrunin,”Eastmanremarkedcurtly,turningawayfromthewindow.“Thatdoorshouldn’tbeleftunlocked.Anycrookcouldcomein.I’llspeaktothe

janitoraboutit,ifyoudon’tmind,”headdedsarcastically.“Wishyouwould.”Cavenaughstoodbrushingdownthefrontofhisjacket,

firstwithhisrighthandandthenwithhisleft.“Yousawhim,didn’tyou?”“Enoughofhim.Seemseccentric.Ihavetoseealotofbuggypeople.They

don’t takeme in anymore. But I’m keeping you and I’m in a hurrymyself.Goodnight.”

Cavenaugh put out his hand detainingly and started to say something; butEastmanrudelyturnedhisbackandwentdownthehallandoutofthedoor.HehadneverfeltanythingshadyaboutCavenaughbefore,andhewassorryhehadgonedownforthedictionary.Infiveminuteshewasdeepinhispapers;butinthehalfhourwhenhewasloafingbeforehedressedtogoout,theyoungman’scuriousbehaviorcameintohismindagain.

Eastman had merely a neighborly acquaintance with Cavenaugh. He hadbeentoasupperattheyoungman’sroomsonce,buthedidn’tparticularlylikeCavenaugh’sfriends;sothenexttimehewasasked,hehadanotherengagement.HelikedCavenaughhimself,iffornothingelsethanbecausehewassocheerfuland trimandruddy.Agoodcomplexion isalwaysatapremiuminNewYork,especially when it shines reassuringly on a man who does everything in theworld to lose it. It encourages fellow mortals as to the inherent vigor of thehumanorganismand theamountofbad treatment itwill standfor.“Footprintsthatperhapsanother,”etc.

Cavenaugh,heknew,hadplentyofmoney.HewasthesonofaPennsylvaniapreacher,whodiedsoonafterhediscoveredthathisancestralacreswerefullofpetroleum, andKier had come toNewYork to burn some of the oil.Hewasthirty-two andwas still at it; spent his life, literally, among the breakers. HismotorhittheParkeverymorningasifitwerethefirsttimeever.Hetookpeopleout tosuppereverynight.Hewent fromrestaurant to restaurant,sometimes tohalf-a-dozeninanevening.Theheadwaiterswerehishostsandtheircordialitymadehimhappy.Theymade a life-line for himupBroadwayanddownFifthAvenue.Cavenaughwasstillfreshandsmooth,roundandplump,withalustreto his hair and white teeth and a clear look in his round eyes. He seemedabsolutelyunweariedandunimpaired;neverboredandnevercarriedaway.

Eastman always smiled when he met Cavenaugh in the entrance hall,serenelygoingforthtoorreturningfromgladiatorialcombatswithjoy,orwhenhe saw him rolling smoothly up to the door in his car in themorning after arestful night in oneof the remarkable new roadhouses hewas always finding.EastmanhadseenagoodmanyyoungmendisappearonCavenaugh’sroute,andheadmiredthisyoungman’sendurance.

To-night, for the first time,hehadgot awhiff of somethingunwholesomeabout the fellow—bad nerves, bad company, something on hand that he wasashamedof,avisitoroldandvicious,whomusthavehadakeytoCavenaugh’sapartment, for he was evidently there when Cavenaugh returned at seveno’clock.ProbablyitwasthesamemanCavenaughhadseeninthehansom.Hemust have been able to let himself in, for Cavenaugh kept no man but hischauffeur;orperhapsthejanitorhadbeeninstructedtolethimin.Ineithercase,andwhoeverhewas, itwasclearenoughthatCavenaughwasashamedofhimandwasmixingupinquestionablebusinessofsomekind.

EastmansentCavenaugh’sbookbackbyRollins,andforthenextfewweekshehadnowordwithhimbeyondacasualgreetingwhentheyhappenedtomeetinthehallortheelevator.OneSundaymorningCavenaughtelephoneduptohimto ask if he couldmotorout to a roadhouse inConnecticut that afternoonandhavesupper;butwhenEastmanfoundthereweretobeotherguestshedeclined.

OnNewYear’seveEastmandinedattheUniversityClubatsixo’clockandhurried home before the usual manifestations of insanity had begun in thestreets. When Rollins brought his smoking coat, he asked him whether hewouldn’tliketogetoffearly.

“Yes,sir.Butwon’tyoubedressing,Mr.Eastman?”heinquired.“Not to-night.” Eastman handed him a bill. “Bring some change in the

morning.There’llbefees.”Rollinslostnotimeinputtingeverythingtorightsforthenight,andEastman

couldn’thelpwishingthathewereinsuchahurrytobeoffsomewherehimself.Whenheheardthehalldoorclosesoftly,hewonderediftherewereanyplace,

afterall,thathewantedtogo.FromhiswindowhelookeddownatthelonglinesofmotorsandtaxiswaitingforasignaltocrossBroadway.Hethoughtofsomeoftheirprobabledestinationsanddecidedthatnoneofthoseplacespulledhimvery hard. The night was warm and wet, the air was drizzly. Vapor hung incloudsabouttheTimesBuilding,halfhidthetopofit,andmadealuminoushazealongBroadway.Whilehewaslookingdownatthearmyofwet,blackcarriage-tops and their reflected headlights and tail-lights, Eastman heard a ring at hisdoor.Hedeliberated. If itwereacaller, thehallporterwouldhave telephonedup. Itmustbe the janitor.Whenheopened thedoor, there stooda rosyyoungmaninatuxedo,withoutacoatorhat.

“Pardon.ShouldIhavetelephoned?Ihalfthoughtyouwouldn’tbein.”Eastman laughed. “Come in, Cavenaugh. You weren’t sure whether you

wantedcompanyornot, eh, andyouwere trying to let chancedecide it?Thatwas exactly my state of mind. Let’s accept the verdict.”When they emergedfromthenarrowhallintohissitting-room,hepointedoutaseatbythefiretohisguest. He brought a tray of decanters and soda bottles and placed it on hiswritingtable.

Cavenaugh hesitated, standing by the fire. “Sure you weren’t starting forsomewhere?”

“DoIlookit?No,Iwasjustmakingupmymindtostickitoutalonewhenyourang.Haveone?”hepickedupatalltumbler.

“Yes,thankyou.Ialwaysdo.”Eastman chuckled. “Lucky boy! Sowill I. I had a very early dinner.New

Yorkisthemostaridplaceonholidays,”hecontinuedasherattledtheiceintheglasses. “When one gets too old to hit the rapids down there, and tired ofgobblingfoodtoheathenishdancemusic,thereisabsolutelynoplacewhereyoucangetachopandsomemilktoastinpeace,unlessyouhavestrongtiesofbloodbrotherhood on upper Fifth Avenue. But you, why aren’t you starting forsomewhere?”

Theyoungmansippedhissodaandshookhisheadashereplied:“Oh,Icouldn’tgetachop,either.Iknowonlyflashypeople,ofcourse.”He

looked up at his host with such a grave and candid expression that Eastman

decided there couldn’t be anythingvery crooked about the fellow.His smoothcheekswerepositivelycherubic.

“Well,what’sthematterwiththem?Aren’ttheyflashingto-night?”“OnlytheverynewonesseemtoflashonNewYear’seve.Theolderones

fadeaway.Maybetheyarehuntingachop,too.”“Well”—Eastman sat down—“holidays do dash one. I was just about to

write a letter to a pair of maiden aunts in my old home town, up-state; oldcoasting hill, snow-covered pines, lights in the church windows. That’s whatyou’vesavedmefrom.”

Cavenaughshookhimself.“Oh,I’msure thatwouldn’thavebeengoodforyou.Pardonme,”heroseandtookaphotographfromthebookcase,ahandsomemaninshootingclothes.“Dudley,isn’tit?Didyouknowhimwell?”

“Yes.Anoldfriend.Terriblething,wasn’tit?Ihaven’tgotoverthejoltyet.”“Hissuicide?Yes,terrible!Didyouknowhiswife?”“Slightly.Wellenoughtoadmireherverymuch.Shemustbeterriblybroken

up.IwonderDudleydidn’tthinkofthat.”Cavenaugh replaced the photograph carefully, lit a cigarette, and standing

beforethefirebegantosmoke.“Wouldyoumindtellingmeabouthim?Inevermet him, but of course I’d read a lot about him, and I can’t help feelinginterested.Itwasaqueerthing.”

Eastman tookouthis cigar case and leanedback inhisdeepchair. “In thedays when I knew him best he hadn’t any story, like the happy nations.Everythingwasproperlyarrangedforhimbeforehewasborn.Hecameintotheworldhappy,healthy,clever,straight,withtherightsortofconnectionsandtheright kind of fortune, neither too large nor too small. He helped tomake theworldanagreeableplacetoliveinuntilhewastwenty-six.Thenhemarriedasheshouldhavemarried.HiswifewasaCalifornian,educatedabroad.Beautiful.Youhaveseenherpicture?”

Cavenaughnodded.“Oh,manyofthem.”“Shewasinteresting,too.Thoughshewasdistinctlyapersonoftheworld,

shehad retainedsomething, justenoughof the largeWesternmanner.Shehadthehabitofauthority,ofcallingoutaspecialtrainifsheneededit,ofusingall

our ingenious mechanical contrivances lightly and easily, without over-ratingthem.She andDudleyknewhow to livebetter thanmost people.Their housewasthemostcharmingoneIhaveeverknowninNewYork.Youfeltfreedomthere,andazestoflife,andsafety—absolutesanctuary—fromeverythingsordidorpetty.Awholesocietylikethatwouldjustifythecreationofmanandwouldmakeour planet shinewith a soft, peculiar radiance among the constellations.YouthinkI’mputtingitonthick?”

Theyoungmansighedgently.“Oh,no!Onehasalways felt theremustbepeoplelikethat.I’veneverknownany.”

“They had two children, beautiful ones. After they had been married foreight years, Rosinamet this Spaniard. Hemust have amounted to something.She wasn’t a flighty woman. She came home and told Dudley how mattersstood.Hepersuadedhertostayathomeforsixmonthsandtrytopullup.Theywerebothfair-mindedpeople,andI’massureasifIweretheAlmighty,thatshedidtry.Butattheendofthetime,RosinawentquietlyofftoSpain,andDudleywenttohuntintheCanadianRockies.Imethispartyoutthere.Ididn’tknowhiswifehadlefthimandtalkedaboutheragooddeal.Inoticedthatheneverdrankanything,andhislightusedtoshinethroughthelogchinksofhisroomuntilallhours, evenafterahardday’shunting.When Igotback toNewYork, rumorswerecreepingabout.Dudleydidnotcomeback.HeboughtaranchinWyoming,builtabigloghouseandkeptsplendiddogsandhorses.Oneofhissisterswentout tokeephouse forhim,and thechildrenwere therewhen theywerenot inschool.Hehadagreatmanyvisitors,andeveryonewhocamebacktalkedabouthowwellDudleykeptthingsgoing.

“Heput in twoyearsout there.Then, lastmonth,hehad tocomebackonbusiness.Atrustfundhadtobesettledup,andhewasadministrator.Isawhimat the club; same light, quick step, same gracious handshake. Hewas gettinggray,andtherewassomethingsofterinhismanner;buthehadafineredtanonhisfaceandsaidhefounditdelightfultobehereintheseasonwheneverythingisgoinghard.TheMadisonAvenuehousehadbeenclosedsinceRosinaleftit.He went there to get some things his sister wanted. That, of course, was themistake.Hewentalone, in theafternoon,anddidn’tgoout fordinner—found

somesherryandtinsofbiscuitinthesideboard.Heshothimselfsometimethatnight. Therewere pistols in his smoking-room. They found burnt out candlesbesidehiminthemorning.Thegasandelectricitywereshutoff.Isupposethere,inhisownhouse, amonghisown things, itwas toomuch forhim.He leftnoletters.”

Cavenaughblinked and brushed the lapel of his coat. “I suppose,” he saidslowly,“thateverysuicideislogicalandreasonable,ifoneknewallthefacts.”

Eastmanrousedhimself.“No,Idon’tthinkso.I’veknowntoomanyfellowswhowentoff like that—more thanIdeserve, I think—andsomeof themwereabsolutely inexplicable. I can understandDudley; but I can’t seewhy healthybachelors,withmoneyenough,likeourselves,needsuchadevice.Itremindsmeof what Dr. Johnson said, that the most discouraging thing about life is thenumberoffadsandhobbiesandfakereligions it takes toputpeople throughafewyearsofit.”

“Dr. Johnson? The specialist? Oh, the old fellow!” said Cavenaughimperturbably.“Yes,that’sinteresting.Still,Ifancyifoneknewthefacts—DidyouknowaboutWyatt?”

“Idon’tthinkso.”“Youwouldn’t,probably.Hewasjustafellowabouttownwhospentmoney.

Hewasn’toneoftheforestieri,though.HadconnectionshereandownedafineoldplaceoveronStaten Island.Hewent in forbotany,andhadbeenallover,hunting things; rusts, I believe.He had a yacht and used to take a gay crowddownabouttheSouthSeas,botanizing.Hereallydidbotanize,Ibelieve.Ineverknewsuch a spender—onlynot flashy.Hehelped a lot of fellows andhewasawfullygoodtogirls,thekindwhocomedownheretogetalittlefun,whodon’tliketoworkandstillaren’treallytough,thekindyouseetalkinghardfortheirdinner.Nobodyknowswhat becomesof them, orwhat theyget out of it, andtherearehundredsofnewoneseveryyear.Hehelpeddozensof’em;itwashewhogotmecuriousaboutthelittleshopgirls.Well,oneafternoonwhenhisteawas brought, he took prussic acid instead. He didn’t leave any letters, either;people of any taste don’t. Theywouldn’t leave anymaterial reminder if theycouldhelpit.Hislawyersfoundthathehadjust$314.72abovehisdebtswhen

hedied.Hehadplanned to spendallhismoney,and then takehis tea;hehadworkeditoutcarefully.”

Eastmanreachedforhispipeandpushedhischairawayfromthefire.“Thatlookslikeaconsideredcase,butIdon’tthinkphilosophicalsuicideslikethatarecommon.Ithinktheyusuallycomefromstressoffeelingandarereally,asthenewspapers call them, desperate acts; done without a motive. You rememberwhenAnnaKareninawasunderthewheels,shekeptsaying,‘WhyamIhere?’”

Cavenaughrubbedhisupper lipwithhispinkfingerandmadeaneffort towrinklehisbrows.“MayI,please?”reachingforthewhiskey.“Buthaveyou,”he asked, blinking as the soda flew at him, “have you ever known, yourself,casesthatwerereallyinexplicable?”

“Afewtoomany.IwasinWashingtonjustbeforeCaptainJackPurdenwasmarried and I saw a good deal of him. Popular armyman, fine record in thePhilippines,marriedacharminggirlwithlotsofmoney;mutualdevotion.Itwasthegayestweddingofthewinter,andtheystartedforJapan.TheystoppedinSanFranciscoforaweekandmissedtheirboatbecause,asthebridewrotebacktoWashington, theyweretoohappytomove.Theytookthenextboat,werebothgoodsailors,hadexceptionalweather.After theyhadbeenout for twoweeks,Jackgotupfromhisdeckchaironeafternoon,yawned,putdownhisbook,andstoodbeforehiswife.‘Stopreadingforamomentandlookatme.’Shelaughedandaskedhimwhy.‘Becauseyouhappentobegoodtolookat.’Henoddedtoher,wentbacktothesternandwasneverseenagain.Musthavegonedowntothelowerdeckandslippedoverboard,behindthemachinery.Itwastheluncheonhour, notmany people about; steamer cutting through a soft green sea.That’soneofthemostbafflingcasesIknow.Hisfriendsrakeduphispast,anditwasastrimasacottagegarden.Ifhe’dsomuchasdroppedaninkspotonhisfatigueuniform, they’dhave found it.Hewasn’temotionalormoody;wasn’t, indeed,veryinteresting;simplyagoodsoldier,fondofallthepompouslittleformalitiesthatmakeupamilitaryman’slife.Whatdoyoumakeofthat,myboy?”

Cavenaughstrokedhischin.“It’sverypuzzling, Iadmit.Still, ifonekneweverything——”

“Butwedoknoweverything.Hisfriendswantedtofindsomethingtohelp

themout,tohelpthegirlout,tohelpthecaseofthehumancreature.”“Oh, I don’t mean things that people could unearth,” said Cavenaugh

uneasily.“Butpossiblytherewerethingsthatcouldn’tbefoundout.”Eastman shrugged his shoulders. “It’s my experience that when there are

‘things’asyoucallthem,they’reveryapttobefound.Thereisnosuchthingasasecret.Tomakeanymoveatallonehastoemployhumanagencies,employatleastonehumanagent.Evenwhen thepirateskilled themenwhoburied theirgoldforthem,thebonestoldthestory.”

Cavenaughrubbedhishandstogetherandsmiledhissunnysmile.“Ilikethatidea.It’sreassuring.Ifwecanhavenosecrets,itmeansthatwe

can’t,afterall,gosofarafieldaswemight,”hehesitated,“yes,aswemight.”Eastman looked at him sourly. “Cavenaugh,when you’ve practised law in

NewYork for twelveyears,you find thatpeoplecan’tgo far inanydirection,except—”He thrusthis forefingersharplyat thefloor.“Even in thatdirection,fewpeoplecandoanythingoutoftheordinary.Ourrangeislimited.Skipafewbaths, andwe becomepersonally objectionable.The slightest carelessness canrot a man’s integrity or give him ptomaine poisoning. We keep up only byincessantcleansingoperations,ofmindandbody.Whatwecallcharacter,isheldtogetherbyallsortsoftacksandstringsandglue.”

Cavenaugh looked startled. “Come now, it’s not so bad as that, is it? I’vealways thought that a seriousman, like you,must know a lot of Launcelots.”WhenEastmanonlylaughed,theyoungermansquirmedaboutinhischair.Hespokeagainhastily,asifhewereembarrassed.“Yourmilitaryfriendmayhavehadpersonalexperiences,however, thathisfriendscouldn’tpossiblygeta lineon. He may accidentally have come to a place where he saw himself in toounpleasant a light. I believe people can be chilled by a draft from outside,somewhere.”

“Outside?” Eastman echoed. “Ah, you mean the far outside! Ghosts,delusions,eh?”

Cavenaugh winced. “That’s putting it strong. Why not say tips from theoutside?Delusionsbelongtoadiseasedmind,don’tthey?Therearesomeofuswhohavenomindstospeakof,whoyethavehadexperiences.I’vehadalittle

somethinginthatlinemyselfandIdon’tlookit,doI?”Eastman lookedat theblandcountenance turned towardhim.“Notexactly.

What’syourdelusion?”“It’snotadelusion.It’sahaunt.”Thelawyerchuckled.“SoulofalostCasinogirl?”“No;anoldgentleman.Amostunattractiveoldgentleman,whofollowsme

about.”“Doeshewantmoney?”Cavenaughsatupstraight.“No.IwishtoGodhewantedanything—butthe

pleasureofmy society! I’d let himcleanmeout tobe ridofhim.He’s a realarticle.Yousawhimyourselfthatnightwhenyoucametomyroomstoborrowadictionary,andhewentdownthefire-escape.Yousawhimdowninthecourt.”

“Well,Isawsomebodydowninthecourt,butI’mtoocautioustotakeitforgranted that I sawwhatyou saw.Why,anyhow, should I seeyourhaunt? If itwas your friend I saw, he impressedme disagreeably.How did you pick himup?”

Cavenaugh lookedgloomy.“Thatwasqueer, too.CharleyBurkeand IhadmotoredouttoLongBeach,aboutayearago,sometimeinOctober,Ithink.Wehad supper and stayed until late.Whenwewere coming home,my car brokedown.Wehada lotofgirlsalongwhohad togetbackformorning rehearsalsand things;soIsent themall into towninCharley’scar,andhewas tosendamanback to towmehome. Iwasdrivingmyself,anddidn’twant to leavemymachine.We had not taken a direct road back; so Iwas stuck in a lonesome,woodyplace,nohousesabout.Igotchillyandmadeafire,andwasputtinginthe time comfortably enough,when this old party steps up.Hewas in shabbyeveningclothesanda tophat, andhadonhisusualwhitegloves.Howhegotthere,atthreeo’clockinthemorning,milesfromanytownorrailway,I’llleaveittoyoutofigureout.Hesurelyhadnocar.WhenIsawhimcominguptothefire, Idislikedhim.Hehada silly, apologeticwalk.His teethwerechattering,and I asked him to sit down. He got down like a clothes-horse folding up. Iofferedhimacigarette,andwhenhetookoffhisglovesIcouldn’thelpnoticinghowknottedandspottyhishandswere.Hewasasthmatic,and tookhisbreath

with a wheeze. ‘Haven’t you got anything—refreshing in there?’ he asked,noddingatthecar.WhenItoldhimIhadn’t,hesighed.‘Ah,youyoungfellowsaregreedy.Youdrinkitallup.Youdrinkitallup,allup—up!’hekeptchewingitover.”

Cavenaughpausedandlookedembarrassedagain.“Thethingthatwasmostunpleasantisdifficulttoexplain.Theoldmansattherebythefireandleeredatmewithasillysortofadmirationthatwas—well,morethanhumiliating.‘Gayboy,gaydog!’hewouldmutter,andwhenhegrinnedheshowedhisteeth,wornand yellow—shells. I remembered that itwas better to talk casually to insanepeople;soIremarkedcarelesslythatIhadbeenoutwithapartyandgotstuck.

“‘Oh yes, I remember,’ he said, ‘Flora and Lottie and Maybelle andMarcelline,andpoorKate.’

“He had named them correctly; so I began to think I had been hitting thebrightwaterstoohard.

“ThingsIdrankneverhadseemedtomakemewoody;butyoucannevertellwhen trouble is going to hit you. I pulled my hat down and tried to look asuncommunicative aspossible; buthekept croakingon from time to time, likethis: ‘Poor Kate! Splendid arms, but dope got her. She took up with Easternreligions after she had her hair dyed. Got to going to a Swami’s joint, andsmokingopium.TempleoftheLotus,itwascalled,andthepoliceraidedit.’

“This was nonsense, of course; the young woman was in the pink ofcondition.Ilethimrave,butIdecidedthatifsomethingdidn’tcomeoutformepretty soon, I’d foot it acrossLong Island.Therewasn’t roomenough for thetwoofus.Igotupandtookanothertryatmycar.Hehoppedrightafterme.

“‘Goodcar,’hewheezed,‘betterthanthelittleFord.’“I’dhadaFordbefore,butsohaseverybody;thatwasasafeguess.“‘Still,’hewenton,‘thatruninfromHuntingtonBayintherainwasn’tbad.

Arrestedforspeeding,he-he.’“ItwastrueIhadmadesucharun,underratherunusualcircumstances,and

hadbeen arrested.Whenat last I heardmy life-boat snortingup the road,myvisitor got up, sighed, and stepped back into the shadow of the trees. I didn’twait toseewhatbecameofhim,youmaybelieve.Thatwasvisitationnumber

one.Whatdoyouthinkofit?”Cavenaughlookedathishostdefiantly.Eastmansmiled.“I think you’d better change your mode of life, Cavenaugh. Had many

returns?”heinquired.“Toomany,by far.”Theyoungman tooka turn about the roomandcame

backtothefire.Standingbythemantelhelitanothercigarettebeforegoingonwithhisstory:

“The second visitation happened in the street, early in the evening, abouteighto’clock.IwasheldupinatrafficblockbeforethePlaza.Mychauffeurwasdriving.OldNibbsstepsupoutofthecrowd,opensthedoorofmycar,getsinandsitsdownbesideme.Hehadonwiltedeveningclothes,sameasbefore,andtherewassomesortofheavyscentabouthim.Suchanunpleasantoldparty!Athorough-goingrotter;youknewitatonce.Thistimehewasn’ttalkative,ashehad beenwhen I first saw him. He leaned back in the car as if he owned it,crossedhishandsonhisstickandlookedoutatthecrowd—sortofhungrily.

“IownIreallyfeltaloathingcompassionforhim.Wegotdowntheavenueslowly.Ikeptlookingoutatthemountedpolice.ButwhatcouldIdo?Havehimpulled?Iwasafraidto.Iwasawfullyafraidofgettinghimintothepapers.

“‘I’mgoingtotheNewAstor,’Isaidatlast.‘CanItakeyouanywhere?’“‘No,thankyou,’sayshe.‘Igetoutwhenyoudo.I’mdueonWest44th.I’m

diningto-nightwithMarcelline—allthatisleftofher!’“Heputhishandtohishatbrimwithagrewsomesalute.Suchascandalous,

foolisholdfaceashehad!WhenwepulledupattheAstor,Istuckmyhandinmypocketandaskedhimifhe’dlikealittleloan.

“‘No, thank you, but’—he leaned over and whispered, ugh!—‘but save alittle, save a little. Forty years from now—a little—comes in handy. Save alittle.’

“His eyes fairly glittered as he made his remark. I jumped out. I’d havejumpedintotheNorthRiver.Whenhetrippedoff,Iaskedmychauffeurifhe’dnoticed themanwhogot into thecarwithme.Hesaidheknewsomeonewaswithme,buthehadn’tnoticedjustwhenhegotin.Wanttohearanymore?”

Cavenaughdroppedintohischairagain.Hisplumpcheekswereatriflemore

flushedthanusual,buthewasperfectlycalm.Eastmanfeltthattheyoungmanbelievedwhathewastellinghim.

“OfcourseIdo.It’sveryinteresting.Idon’tseequitewhereyouarecomingoutthough.”

Cavenaugh sniffed. “Nomoredo I. I really feel that I’vebeenputupon. Ihaven’t deserved it any more than any other fellow of my kind. Doesn’t itimpressyoudisagreeably?”

“Well,ratherso.Hasanyoneelseseenyourfriend?”“Yousawhim.”“Wewon’tcountthat.AsIsaid,there’snocertaintythatyouandIsawthe

samepersoninthecourtthatnight.Hasanyoneelsehadalookin?”“Peoplesensehimratherthanseehim.HeusuallycropsupwhenI’malone

or in a crowd on the street.He never approachesmewhen I’mwith people Iknow,thoughI’veseenhimhangingaboutthedoorsoftheatreswhenIcomeoutwithaparty;loafingaroundthestageexit,underawall;oracrossthestreet,inadoorway.Tobefrank,I’mnotanxioustointroducehim.Thethirdtime,itwasIwho came upon him. In November my driver, Harry, had a sudden attack ofappendicitis. I took him to the Presbyterian Hospital in the car, early in theevening.WhenIcamehome,Ifoundtheoldvillaininmyrooms.Iofferedhimadrink,andhesatdown.ItwasthefirsttimeIhadseenhiminasteadylight,withhishatoff.

“His face is lined likea railwaymap,andas tocolor—Lord,whata liver!Hisscalpgrowstight tohisskull,andhishair isdyeduntil it’sperfectlydead,likeapieceofblackcloth.”

Cavenaugh ran his fingers through his own neatly trimmed thatch, andseemedtoforgetwherehewasforamoment.

“I had a twin brother, Brian, who died when we were sixteen. I have aphotographof himonmywall, an enlargement fromakodakof him, doing ahigh jump, rather good thing, full of action. It seemed to annoy the oldgentleman.Hekeptlookingatitandliftinghiseyebrows,andfinallyhegotup,tip-toedacrosstheroom,andturnedthepicturetothewall.

“‘PoorBrian!Finefellow,butdiedyoung,’sayshe.

“Nextmorning,therewasthepicture,stillreversed.”“Didhestaylong?”Eastmanaskedinterestedly.“Halfanhour,bytheclock.”“Didhetalk?”“Well,herambled.”“Whatabout?”Cavenaughrubbedhispaleeyebrowsbeforeanswering.“About things thatanoldmanought towant to forget.Hisconversation is

highlyobjectionable.Ofcourseheknowsmelikeabook;everythingI’veeverdone or thought. But when he recalls them, he throws a bad light on them,somehow.Thingsthatweren’tmuchoffcolor,lookrotten.Hedoesn’tleaveonea shred of self-respect, he really doesn’t.That’s the amount of it.”The youngmanwhippedouthishandkerchiefandwipedhisface.

“Youmeanhereallytalksaboutthingsthatnoneofyourfriendsknow?”“Oh, dear, yes! Recalls things that happened in school. Anything

disagreeable.Funnything,healwaysturnsBrian’spicturetothewall.”“Doeshecomeoften?”“Yes,oftener,now.OfcourseIdon’tknowhowhegetsindown-stairs.The

hallboysneverseehim.Buthehasakeytomydoor.Idon’tknowhowhegotit,butIcanhearhimturnitinthelock.”

“Why don’t you keep your driver with you, or telephone forme to comedown?”

“He’d only grin and go down the fire escape as he did before.He’s oftendoneitwhenHarry’scomeinsuddenly.Everybodyhastobealonesometimes,youknow.Besides,Idon’twantanybodytoseehim.Hehasmethere.”

“Butwhynot?Whydoyoufeelresponsibleforhim?”Cavenaughsmiledwearily.“That’sratherthepoint,isn’tit?WhydoI?ButI

absolutelydo.Thatidentifieshim,morethanhisknowingallaboutmylifeandmyaffairs.”

EastmanlookedatCavenaughthoughtfully.“Well,Ishouldadviseyoutogoin for something altogether different and new, and go in for it hard; business,engineering,metallurgy,somethingthisoldfellowwouldn’tbeinterestedin.See

ifyoucanmakehimrememberlogarithms.”Cavenaugh sighed. “No,hehasme there, too.Peoplenever really change;

theygoonbeingthemselves.ButIwouldnevermakemuchtrouble.Whycan’ttheyletmealone,damnit!I’dneverhurtanybody,except,perhaps——”

“Exceptyouroldgentleman,eh?”Eastmanlaughed.“Seriously,Cavenaugh,ifyouwanttoshakehim,Ithinkayearonaranchwoulddoit.Hewouldneverbecoaxedfarfromhisfavoritehaunts.HewoulddreadMontana.”

Cavenaughpurseduphislips.“SodoI!”“Oh,youthinkyoudo.Tryit,andyou’llfindout.Agunandahorsebeatsall

this sortof thing.Besides losingyourhaunt,you’dbeputting tenyears in thebankforyourself.Iknowagoodranchwheretheytakepeople, ifyouwanttotryit.”

“Thankyou.I’llconsider.DoyouthinkI’mbatty?”“No,butIthinkyou’vebeendoingonesortofthingtoolong.Youneedbig

horizons.Getoutofthis.”Cavenaughsmiledmeekly.Heroselazilyandyawnedbehindhishand.“It’s

late, and I’ve takenyourwhole evening.”He strolledover to thewindowandlookedout.“Queerplace,NewYork;roughonthelittlefellows.Don’tyoufeelsorryforthem,thegirlsespecially?Ido.Whatafighttheyputupforalittlefun!Why,eventhatoldgoatissorryforthem,theonlydecentthinghekept.”

Eastman followedhim to thedoor and stood in thehall,whileCavenaughwaited for the elevator.When the car came upCavenaugh extended his pink,warmhand.“Goodnight.”

Thecagesankandhis rosycountenancedisappeared,his round-eyedsmilebeingthelastthingtogo.

WeekspassedbeforeEastman sawCavenaughagain.Onemorning, just ashe was starting for Washington to argue a case before the Supreme Court,CavenaughtelephonedhimathisofficetoaskhimabouttheMontanaranchhehad recommended; said hemeant to take his advice and go out there for thespringandsummer.

WhenEastmangotbackfromWashington,hesawdustytrunks,justupfromthetrunkroom,beforeCavenaugh’sdoor.Nextmorning,whenhestoppedtoseewhat the young man was about, he found Cavenaugh in his shirt sleeves,packing.

“I’mreallygoing;offto-morrownight.Youdidn’tthinkitofme,didyou?”heaskedgaily.

“Oh, I’ve always hadhopes of you!”Eastmandeclared. “But you are in ahurry,itseemstome.”

“Yes, I am in a hurry.”Cavenaugh shot a pair of leggings into one of theopentrunks.“Itelegraphedyourranchpeople,usedyourname,andtheysaiditwouldbeallright.Bytheway,someofmycrowdaregivingalittledinnerformeatRector’sto-night.Couldn’tyoubepersuaded,asit’safarewelloccasion?”Cavenaughlookedathimhopefully.

Eastmanlaughedandshookhishead.“Sorry,Cavenaugh,butthat’stoogayaworldforme.I’vegottoomuchworklinedupbeforeme.IwishIhadtimetostopand lookatyourguns, though.Youseem toknowsomethingaboutguns.You’vemore thanyou’llneed,butnobodycanhave toomanygoodones.”Heputdownoneoftherevolversregretfully.“I’lldropintoseeyouinthemorning,ifyou’reup.”

“I shall be up, all right. I’ve warned my crowd that I’ll cut away beforemidnight.”

“Youwon’t, though,”Eastmancalledbackoverhis shoulder as hehurrieddown-stairs.

The next morning, while Eastman was dressing, Rollins came in greatlyexcited.

“I’ma little late, sir. Iwas stoppedbyHarry,Mr.Cavenaugh’sdriver.Mr.Cavenaughshothimselflastnight,sir.”

Eastman dropped his vest and sat down on his shoe-box. “You’re drunk,Rollins,”heshouted.“He’sgoingawayto-day!”

“Yes, sir. Harry found him thismorning. Ah, he’s quite dead, sir. Harry’stelephonedforthecoroner.Harrydon’tknowwhattodowiththeticket.”

Eastmanpulledonhiscoatandrandownthestairway.Cavenaugh’s trunks

were strapped andpiledbefore the door.Harrywaswalkingup anddown thehallwithalonggreenrailroadticketinhishandandalookofcompletestupidityonhisface.

“WhatshallIdoaboutthisticket,Mr.Eastman?”hewhispered.“Andwhatabouthistrunks?Hehadmetellthetransferpeopletocomeearly.Theymaybehereanyminute.Yes,sir.Ibroughthimhomeinthecarlastnight,beforetwelve,ascheerfulascouldbe.”

“Bequiet,Harry.Whereishe?”“Inhisbed,sir.”Eastmanwent intoCavenaugh’ssleeping-room.Whenhecameback to the

sitting-room, he looked over the writing table; railway folders, time-tables,receiptedbills, nothing else.He lookedup for the photographofCavenaugh’stwinbrother.Thereitwas,turnedtothewall.Eastmantookitdownandlookedatit;aboyintrackclothes,halflyingintheair,goingoverthestringshouldersfirst, above theheadsofacrowdof ladswhowere runningandcheering.Thefacewassomewhatblurredbythemotionandthebrightsunlight.Eastmanputthepictureback,ashefoundit.HadCavenaughentertainedhisvisitorlastnight,andhadtheoldmanbeenmoreconvincingthanusual?“Well,atanyrate,he’sseen to it that the old man can’t establish identity. What a soft lot they are,fellows like poor Cavenaugh!” Eastman thought of his office as a delightfulplace.

McClure’s,November1915

TheBookkeeper’sWife

N OBODYBUTTHEJANITORWASSTIRRINGABOUTTHEOFFICESOFTHEREMSENPAPER

Company,andstillPercyBixbysatathisdesk,crouchedonhishighstoolandstaringoutatthetopsofthetallbuildingsflushedwiththewintersunset,atthehundredsofwindows,somanyrectanglesofwhiteelectriclight,flashingagainstthebroadwavesofvioletthatebbedacrossthesky.Hisledgerswereallintheirplaces,hisdeskwasinorder,hisofficecoatonitspeg,andyetPercy’ssmooth,thin facewore the lookofanxietyandstrainwhichusuallymeant thathewasbehindinhiswork.Hewastryingtopersuadehimselftoacceptaloanfromthecompanywithoutthecompany’sknowledge.Asamatteroffact,hehadalreadyacceptedit.Hisbookswerefixed, themoney, inablack-leatherbill-book,wasalreadyinsidehiswaistcoatpocket.

Hehadstilltimetochangehismind,torectifythefalsefiguresinhisledger,and to tell Stella Brown that they couldn’t possibly get married next month.Therehealwayshaltedinhisreasoning,andwentbacktothebeginning.

TheRemsen PaperCompanywas a verywealthy concern,with easy, old-fashioned working methods. They did a longtime credit business with safecustomers, who never thought of paying up very close on their large

indebtedness. From the payments on these large accounts Percy had taken ahundreddollarshereandtwohundredthereuntilhehadmadeupthethousandheneeded.Solongashestayedbythebookshimselfandattendedtothemail-ordershecouldn’tpossiblybe foundout.Hecouldmove these little shortagesaboutfromaccounttoaccountindefinitely.Hecouldhaveallthetimeheneededtopaybackthedeficit,andmoretimethanheneeded.

Althoughhewas so far along inone courseof action, hismind still clungresolutelytotheother.Hedidnotbelievehewasgoingtodoit.Hewastheleastof a sharper in theworld.Being scrupulously honest even in themost triflingmatterswasapleasuretohim.HewasthesortofyoungmanthatSocialistshatemorethantheyhatecapitalists.Helovedhisdesk,helovedhisbooks,whichhadnohandwritinginthembuthisown.Heneverthoughtofresentingthefactthathehadwrittenawayinthosebooksthegoodredyearsbetweentwenty-oneandtwenty-seven.Hewouldhavehated to let anyoneelseput somuchas apen-scratchinthem.Helikedalltheboysabouttheoffice;hisdesk,wornsmoothbythesleevesofhisalpacacoat;hisrulersandinksandpensandcalendars.Hehada great pride in working economics, and he always got so far ahead whensuppliesweredistributedthathehaddrawersfullofpencilsandpensandrubberbandsagainstarainyday.

Percylikedregularity:togethisworkdoneontime,tohavehishalf-dayoffeverySaturday,togotothetheaterSaturdaynight,tobuyanewnecktietwiceamonth,toappearinanewstrawhatontherightdayinMay,andtoknowwhatwasgoingoninNewYork.Hereadthemorningandeveningpaperscomingandgoingontheelevated,andpreferredjournalsofapproximatereliability.Hegotexcited about ballgames and elections andbusiness failures,wasnot above aninterestinmurdersanddivorcescandals,andhecheckedthenewsoffasneatlyashecheckedhismail-orders. In short,PercyBixbywas like themodelpupilwho is satisfied with his lessons and his teachers and his holidays, and whowouldgladlygotoschoolallhislife.Hehadneverwantedanythingoutsidehisroutine until he wanted Stella Brown to marry him, and that had upseteverything.

Itwasn’t,he toldhimself for thehundredth time, thatshewasextravagant.

Notabitofit.Shewaslikeallgirls.Moreover,shemadegoodmoney,andwhyshould shemarryunless shecouldbetterherself?The troublewas thathehadlied toher abouthis salary.Therewerea lotof fellows rushingMrs.Brown’sfivedaughters, and theyall seemed tohave fixedonStella as first choiceandthisorthatoneofthesistersassecond.Mrs.Brownthoughtitpropertodropanoccasional hint in the presence of these young men to the effect that sheexpectedStella to “dowell.” Itwentwithout saying that hair and complexionlikeStella’scouldscarcelybeexpectedtodopoorly.Mostoftheboyswhowenttothehouseandtookthegirlsoutinabunchtodancesandmoviesseemedtorealizethis.TheymerelywantedawhirlwithStellabeforetheysettleddowntoone of her sisters. It was tacitly understood that she came too high for them.Percyhadsensedallthisthroughthoseslumberinginstinctswhichawakeinusalltobefriendusinloveorindanger.

But therewas one of his rivals, he knew,whowas aman to be reckonedwith. CharleyGreengaywas a young salesmanwhowore tailor-made clothesandspottedwaistcoats,andhadanecktieforeverydayinthemonth.Hisairwasthatofayoungmanwhoisoutforthingsthatcomehighandwhoisgoingtogetthem.Mrs.BrownwaseverandagaindroppingawordbeforePercyabouthowthe girl that took Charley would have her flat furnished by the best furniturepeople,andherchina-closetstockedwiththebestware,andwouldhavenothingto worry about but nicks and scratches. It was because he felt himself pittedagainst this pulling power ofGreengay’s that Percy had brazenly lied toMrs.Brown,andtoldherthathissalaryhadbeenraisedtofiftyaweek,andthatnowhewantedtogetmarried.

WhenhethrewoutthischallengetoMotherBrown,Percywasgettingthirty-fivedollarsaweek,andheknewwellenough that therewereseveralhundredthousandyoungmeninNewYorkwhowoulddohisworkaswellashedidforthirty.

ThesewerethefactorsinPercy’spresentsituation.Hewentoverthemagainand again as he sat stooping on his tall stool.He had quite lost track of timewhen he heard the janitor call good night to thewatchman.Without thinkingwhathewasdoing,heslidintohisovercoat,caughthishat,andrushedouttothe

elevator, which was waiting for the janitor. The moment the car dropped, itoccurredtohimthatthethingwasdecidedwithouthishavingmadeuphismindat all. The familiar floors passed him, ten, nine, eight, seven. By the time hereachedthefifth, therewasnopossibilityofgoingback; theclickof thedrop-leverseemedtosettlethat.Themoneywasinhispocket.Now,hetoldhimselfashehurriedoutintotheexcitingclamorofthestreet,hewasnotgoingtoworryaboutitanymore.

WhenPercyreachedtheBrowns’flaton123dStreetthateveninghefeltjustthe slightest chill in Stella’s greeting. He could make that all right, he toldhimself,ashekissedherlightlyinthedarkthree-by-fourentrance-hall.Percy’scourting had been prosecuted mainly in the Bronx or in winged pursuit of aBroadway car. When he entered the crowded sitting-room he greeted Mrs.Brown respectfully and the four girls playfully. They were all piled on onecouch,readingthecontinuedstoryintheeveningpaper,andtheydidn’tthinkitnecessary toassumemore formalattitudes forPercy.They lookedupover thesmearypinksheetsofpaper,andhandedhim,asPercysaid,thesameoldjolly:

“Hullo,Perc’!Cometoseeme,ain’tyou?Soflattered!”“Anysweetgoodsonyou,Perc’?Anythingdoinginthebong-bonglineto-

night?”“Look at his new neckwear! Say, Perc’, rememberme. That tiewould go

lovelywithmynewtailoredwaist.”“Quityourkiddin’,girls!”calledMrs.Brown,whowasdryingshirt-waists

on thedining-room radiator. “And,Percy,mind the rugswhenyou’re steppin’roundamongthemgum-drops.”

Percyfiredhislastshotattherecumbentfigures,andfollowedStellaintothedining-room,wherethetableandtwolargeeasy-chairsformed,inMrs.Brown’sestimation,aproperbackgroundforaserioussuitor.

“Isay,Stell’,”hebeganashewalkedabout the tablewithhishands inhispockets, “seems to me we ought to begin buying our stuff.” She brightenedperceptibly. “Ah,” Percy thought, “so that was the trouble!” “To-morrow’s

Saturday;whycan’twemakeanafternoonofit?”hewentoncheerfully.“Shoptillwe’retired,thengotoHoutin’sfordinner,andendupatthetheater.”

Astheybentoverthelistsshehadmadeofthingsneeded,Percyglancedatherface.Shewasverymuchoutofhersisters’classandoutofhis,andhekeptcongratulatinghimself onhisnerve.Hewasgoing in for somethingmuch toohandsomeandexpensiveanddistinguishedforhim,hefelt,andittookcouragetobe a plunger.Tobeginwith,Stellawas the sort of girlwhohad to bewelldressed.Shehadpaleprimrosehair,withbluishtonesinit,verysoftandfine,sothat it lay smooth however she dressed it, and pale-blue eyes, with blondeyebrows and long, dark lashes. Shewould have been a little too remote andlanguid even for the fastidious Percy had it not been for her hard, practicalmouth,withlipsthatalwayskepttheirpinkevenwhentherestofherfacewaspale.Heremployers,whoatfirstmightbestruckbyherindifference,understoodthatanybodywiththatsortofmouthwouldgetthroughthework.

After theshopping-listshadbeengoneover,Percy tookup thequestionofthehoneymoon.StellasaidshehadbeenthinkingofAtlanticCity.Percymetherwithfirmness.Whateverhappened,hecouldn’tleavehisbooksnow.

“Iwant todomy traveling right hereonForty-secondStreet,with a high-priceshoweverynight,”hedeclared.Hemadeoutan itinerary,punctuatedbytheaters and restaurants, which Stella consented to accept as a substitute forAtlanticCity.

“Theygiveyourfellowsaweekoffwhenthey’remarried,don’tthey?”sheasked.

“Yes, but I’llwant to drop into the office everymorning to look aftermymail.That’sonlybusinesslike.”

“I’dliketohaveyoutreatedaswellastheothers,though.”Stellaturnedtheringsaboutonherpalehandandlookedatherpolishedfinger-tips.

“I’lllookoutforthat.Whatdoyousaytoalittlewalk,Stell’?”Percyputthequestion coaxingly.WhenStellawas pleasedwith him shewent towalkwithhim,sincethatwastheonlywayinwhichPercycouldeverseeheralone.Whenshewasdispleased,shesaidshewastootiredtogoout.To-nightshesmiledathimincredulously,andwenttoputonherhatandgrayfurpiece.

Once theywere outside, Percy turned into a shadowy side street that wasonly partly built up, a dreary waste of derricks and foundation holes, butcomparativelysolitary.StellalikedPercy’ssteady,sympatheticsilences;shewasnotachatterboxherself.SheoftenwonderedwhyshewasgoingtomarryBixbyinstead of Charley Greengay. She knew that Charley would go further in theworld.Indeed,shehadoftencoollytoldherselfthatPercywouldnevergoveryfar.But,assheadmittedwithashrug,shewas“weaktoPercy.”InthecapableNewYork stenographer,whoestimatedvalues coldlyandgot themost for theleastoutlay,therewassomethingleftthatbelongedtoanotherkindofwoman—somethingthatlikedtheverythingsinPercythatwerenotgoodbusinessassets.Howevermuchshedweltupon theeffectivenessofGreengay’sdashandcolorandassurance,hermindalwayscamebacktoPercy’sneatlittlehead,hisclean-cut face, andwarm, clear, grayeyes, and she liked thembetter thanCharley’sfullness and blurred floridness. Having reckoned up their respective chanceswithnodoubtfulresult,sheopposedamildobstinacytoherowngoodsense.“Iguess I’ll takePercy,anyway,” she said simply, and thatwas all the good hercleverbusinessbraindidher.

Percy spent a night of torment, lying tense on his bed in the dark, andfiguring out how long it would take him to pay back the money he wasadvancingtohimself.Anyfoolcoulddoitinfiveyears,hereasoned,buthewasgoing todo it in three.The troublewas thathisexpensivecourtshiphad takeneverypennyofhissalary.Withcompetitors likeCharleyGreengay,youhadtospendmoneyordropout.Certainbirds,hereflectedruefully,aresuppliedwithmore attractive plumage when they are courting, but nature hadn’t been sothoughtfulformen.WhenPercyreachedtheofficeinthemorningheclimbedonhis tallstooland leanedhisarmsonhis ledger.Hewassoglad tofeel it therethathewasfaintandweak-kneed.

Oliver Remsen, Junior, had brought new blood into the Remsen PaperCompany.HemarriedshortlyafterPercyBixbydid,andinthefivesucceeding

yearshehadconsiderablyenlargedthecompany’sbusinessandprofits.Hehadbeen particularly successful in encouraging efficiency and loyalty in theemployees.Fromthetimehecameintotheofficehehadstoodforshorterhours,longerholidays,andagenerousconsiderationofmen’snecessities.Hecameoutofcollegeonthewaveofeconomicreform,andhecontinuedtoreadandthinkagooddealabouthowthemachineryof labor isoperated.Heknewmoreaboutthemenwhoworkedforhimthantheirmereofficerecords.

YoungRemsenwastroubledaboutPercyBixbybecausehetooknosummervacations—alwaysaskedforthetwoweeks’extrapayinstead.Othermenintheofficehadskippedavacationnowandthen,butPercyhadstucktohisdeskforfiveyears,had tottered tohisstool throughattacksofgrippeand tonsilitis.Heseemedtohavegrownfasttohisledger,anditwastothisthatOliverobjected.He liked his men to stay men, to look like men and live like men. Heremembered how alert and wide-awake Bixby had seemed to him when hehimself first came into the office. He had picked Bixby out as the mostintelligent and interested of his father’s employees, and since then had oftenwonderedwhyhenever seemed to seechances to forgeahead.Promotions,ofcourse,wenttothemenwhowentafterthem.WhenPercy’sbabydied,hewenttothefuneral,andaskedPercytocallonhimifheneededmoney.Oncewhenhechanced to sit downbyBixbyon the elevated and foundhim readingBryce’s“AmericanCommonwealth,”heaskedhimtomakeuseofhisownlargeofficelibrary.Percythankedhim,buthenevercameforanybooks.Oliverwonderedwhetherhisbookkeeperreallytriedtoavoidhim.

OneeveningOlivermettheBixbysinthelobbyofatheater.HeintroducedMrs.Remsentothem,andheldthemforsomemomentsinconversation.Whentheygotintotheirmotor,Mrs.Remsensaid:

“Isthatlittlemanafraidofyou,Oliver?Helookedlikeascaredrabbit.”Oliversnappedthedoor,andsaidwithashadeofirritation:“I don’t know what’s the matter with him. He’s the fellow I’ve told you

aboutwhonevertakesavacation.Ihalfbelieveit’shiswife.Shelookspitilessenoughforanything.”

“She’s very pretty of her kind,”musedMrs. Remsen, “but rather chilling.

Onecanseethatshehasideasaboutelegance.”“Ratherunfortunateones forabookkeeper’swife. I surmise thatPercy felt

she was overdressed, and that made him awkward with me. I’ve alwayssuspectedthatfellowofgoodtaste.”

Afterthat,whenRemsenpassedthecounting-roomandsawPercyscrewedupover his ledger, he often rememberedMrs.Bixby,with her cold, pale eyesandlonglashes,andherexpressionthatwassomethingbetweenindifferenceanddiscontent.SherosebehindPercy’sbentshoulderslikeanapparition.

One spring afternoon Remsen was closeted in his private office with hislawyeruntilalatehour.Ashecamedownthelonghallintheduskheglancedthroughtheglasspartitionintothecounting-room,andsawPercyBixbyhuddleduponhistallstool,thoughitwastoodarktowork.Indeed,Bixby’sledgerwasclosed, and he sat with his two arms resting on the brown cover. He did notmoveamusclewhenyoungRemsenentered.

“Youarelate,Bixby,andsoamI,”Oliverbegangeniallyashecrossedtothefrontoftheroomandlookedoutatthelightedwindowsofothertallbuildings.“Thefactis,I’vebeendoingsomethingthatmenhaveafoolishwayofputtingoff.I’vebeenmakingmywill.”

“Yes,sir.”Percybroughtitoutwithadeepbreath.“Glad to be throughwith it,” Oliver went on. “Mr.Melton will bring the

paperbackto-morrow,andI’dliketoaskyoutobeoneofthewitnesses.”“I’dbeveryproud,Mr.Remsen.”“Thankyou,Bixby.Goodnight.”RemsentookuphishatjustasPercyslid

downfromhisstool.“Mr.Remsen,I’mtoldyou’regoingtohavethebooksgoneover.”“Why, yes,Bixby.Don’t let that trouble you. I’m taking in a newpartner,

youknow,anoldcollegefriend.Justbecauseheisafriend,Iinsistuponalltheusualformalities.Butitisaformality,andI’llguaranteetheexpertwon’tmakeascratchonyourbooks.Goodnight.You’dbetterbecoming, too.”Remsenhadreachedthedoorwhenheheard“Mr.Remsen!”inadesperatevoicebehindhim.Heturned,andsawBixbystandinguncertainlyatoneendofthedesk,hishandstillonhisledger,hisunevenshouldersdroopingforwardandhisheadhanging

asifhewereseasick.Remsencamebackandstoodattheotherendofthelongdesk.ItwastoodarktoseeBixby’sfaceclearly.

“Whatisit,Bixby?”“Mr.Remsen,fiveyearsago,justbeforeIwasmarried,Ifalsifiedthebooks

a thousand dollars, and I used the money.” Percy leaned forward against hisdesk,whichtookhimjustacrossthechest.

“What’sthat,Bixby?”YoungRemsenspokeinatoneofpolitesurprise.Hefeltpainfullyembarrassed.

“Yes, sir. I thought I’d get it all paid back before this. I’ve put back threehundred, but the books are still seven hundred out of true. I’ve played theshortagesabout fromaccount toaccount these fiveyears,butanexpertwouldfind’emintwenty-fourhours.”

“Idon’tjustunderstandhow—”Oliverstoppedandshookhishead.“IhelditoutoftheWesternremittances,Mr.Remsen.Theywerecomingin

heavyjustthen.Iwasupagainstit.Ihadn’tsavedanythingtomarryon,andmywife thoughtIwasgettingmoremoneythanIwas.Sincewe’vebeenmarried,I’veneverhadthenervetotellher.Icouldhavepaiditallbackifithadn’tbeenfortheunforeseenexpenses.”

Remsensighed.“Beingmarriedislargelyunforeseenexpenses,Percy.There’sonlyoneway

tofixthisup:I’llgiveyousevenhundreddollarsincashto-morrow,andyoucangivemeyourpersonalnote,withtheunderstandingthatIholdtendollarsaweekoutofyourpay-checkuntilitispaid.Ithinkyououghttotellyourwifeexactlyhow you are fixed, though.You can’t expect her to help youmuchwhen shedoesn’tknow.”

ThatnightMrs.Bixbywassittingintheirflat,waitingforherhusband.Shewasdressedforabridgeparty,andoftenlookedwithimpatiencefromherpaperto the Mission clock, as big as a coffin and with nothing but two weightsdanglinginitshollowframework.Percyhadbeenloathtobuytheclockwhentheygottheirfurniture,andhehadhatediteversince.Stellahadchangedvery

littlesinceshecameintotheflatabride.ThensheworeherhairinaFloradorapompadour;nowsheworeithoodedcloseaboutherheadlikeascarf,inarathersmearymanner,likeanImpressionist’sbrush-work.Sheheardherhusbandcomeinandclosethedoorsoftly.Whilehewastakingoffhishatinthenarrowtunnelofahall,shecalledtohim:

“Ihopeyou’vehadsomethingtoeatdown-town.You’llhavetodressrightaway.”Percycameinandsatdown.Shelookedupfromtheeveningpapershewasreading.“You’venotimetositdown.Wemuststartinfifteenminutes.”

Heshadedhiseyesfromtheglaringoverheadlight.“I’mafraidIcan’tgoanywhereto-night.I’mallin.”Mrs. Bixby rattled her paper, and turned from the theatrical page to the

fashions.“You’llfeelbetterafteryoudress.Wewon’tstaylate.”Her even persistence usually conquered her husband. She never forgot

anythingshehadoncedecidedtodo.Hermanneroffollowingitupgrewmorechilly, but neverweaker.To-night therewasno spring inPercy.He closedhiseyesandrepliedwithoutmoving:

“Ican’tgo.YouhadbettertelephonetheBurkswearen’tcoming.Ihavetotellyousomethingdisagreeable.”

Stellarose.“I certainlyamnotgoing todisappoint theBurksand stayathome to talk

aboutanythingdisagreeable.”“You’renotverysympathetic,Stella.”Sheturnedaway.“IfIwere,you’dsoonsettledownintoaprettydullproposition.We’dhave

nosociallifenowifIdidn’tkeepatyou.”Percyrousedhimselfalittle.“Sociallife?Well,we’llhavetotrimthatprettycloseforawhile.I’mindebt

to the company. We’ve been living beyond our means ever since we weremarried.”

“Wecan’tliveonlessthanwedo,”Stellasaidquietly.“Nouseintakingthatupagain.”

Percysatup,clutchingthearmsofhischair.“We’llhavetotakeitup.I’msevenhundreddollarsshort,andthebooksare

tobeaudited to-morrow. I toldyoungRemsenandhe’sgoing to takemynoteandholdthemoneyoutofmypay-checks.Hecouldsendmetojail,ofcourse.”

Stellaturnedandlookeddownathimwithagleamofinterest.“Oh,you’vebeenplayingsolitairewiththebooks,haveyou?Andhe’sfound

youout! I hope I’ll never see thatman again.Sugar face!”She said thiswithintenseacrimony.Herforeheadflusheddelicately,andhereyeswerefullofhate.YoungRemsenwasnotherideaofa“businessman.”

Stellawentintotheotherroom.Whenshecamebacksheworehereveningcoatandcarried longglovesandablackscarf.Thisshebegan toarrangeoverherhairbeforethemirrorabovethefalsefireplace.PercylayinertintheMorrischair andwatched her.Yes, he understood; it was very difficult for awomanwith hair like that to be shabby and to gowithout things. Her hairmade herconspicuous,andithadtobelivedupto.Ithadbeenthedecidingfactorinhisfate.

Stella caught the laceoveroneearwith a largegoldhairpin.She repeatedthisuntilshegotagoodeffect.ThenturningtoPercy,shebegantodrawonhergloves.

“I’m not worrying any, because I’m going back into business,” she saidfirmly.“Imeantto,anyway,ifyoudidn’tgetaraisethefirstoftheyear.Ihavetheofferofagoodposition,andwecanliveinanapartmenthotel.”

Percywasonhisfeetinaninstant.“Iwon’thaveyougrindinginanyoffice.That’sflat.”Stella’s lower lipquivered inacommiseratingsmile.“Oh, Iwon’t losemy

health.CharleyGreengay’sapartnerinhisconcernnow,andhewantsaprivatesecretary.”

Percydrewback.“Youcan’tworkforGreengay.He’sgot toobadareputation.You’vemore

pridethanthat,Stella.”ThethinsweepofcolorheknewsowellwentoverStella’sface.“Hisbusinessreputationseemstobeallright,”shecommented,workingthe

kidonwithherlefthand.“Whatifitis?”Percybrokeout.“He’sthecheapestkindofaskate.Hegets

into scrapes with the girls in his own office. The last one got into thenewspapers,andhehadtopaythegirlawad.”

“Hedon’tgetintoscrapeswithhisbooks,anyway,andheseemstobeabletostandgettingintothepapers.IexcuseCharley.Hiswife’sapill.”

“I suppose you think he’d have been all right if he’d married you,” saidPercy,bitterly.

“Yes,Ido.”Stellabuttonedherglovewithanairoffinishingsomething,andthenlookedatPercywithoutanimosity.“CharleyandIbothhavesportytastes,andwelikeexcitement.YoumightaswellliveinNewarkifyou’regoingtositat home in the evening.Yououghtn’t tohavemarried abusinesswoman;youneedsomebodydomestic.There’snothinginthissortoflifeforeitherofus.”

“That means, I suppose, that you’re going around with Greengay and hiscrowd?”

“Yes, that’s my sort of crowd, and you never did fit into it. You’re toointellectual. I’ve always been proud of you, Percy. You’re better style thanCharley,butthatgetstiresome.YouwillneverburnmuchredfireinNewYork,now,willyou?”

Percy did not reply. He sat looking at the minute-hand of the evisceratedMissionclock.Hiswifealmostnevertookthetroubletoarguewithhim.

“You’re old style, Percy,” shewent on. “Of course everybodymarries andwishestheyhadn’t,butnowadayspeoplegetoverit.Somewomengoaheadonthequiet,butI’mgivingittoyoustraight.I’mgoingtoworkforGreengay.Ilikehislineofbusiness,andImeetpeoplewell.NowI’mgoingtotheBurks’.”

Percydroppedhishandslimplybetweenhisknees.“I suppose,” he brought out, “the real trouble is that you’ve decided my

earningpowerisnotverygreat.”“That’spartofit,andpartofitisyou’reold-fashioned.”Stellapausedatthe

door and looked back. “Whatmade you rushme, anyway, Percy?” she askedindulgently.“Whatdidyougoandpretendtobeaspenderandgettiedupwithmefor?”

“Iguesseverybodywantstobeaspenderwhenhe’sinlove,”Percyreplied.Stellashookherheadmournfully.“No,you’reaspenderoryou’renot.Greengayhasbeenbroke three times,

fired, down and out, black-listed. But he’s always come back, and he alwayswill.Youwillneverbefired,butyou’llalwaysbepoor.”Sheturnedandlookedbackagainbeforeshewentout.

SixmonthslaterBixbycametoyoungOliverRemsenoneafternoonandsaidhewould like tohave twentydollarsaweekheldoutofhispayuntilhisdebtwasclearedoff.

Oliverlookedupathissallowemployeeandaskedhimhowhecouldspareasmuchasthat.

“Myexpensesare lighter,”Bixbyreplied.“Mywifehasgoneintobusinesswithaready-to-wearfirm.Sheisnotlivingwithmeanymore.”

Oliverlookedannoyed,andaskedhimifnothingcouldbedonetoreadjusthisdomesticaffairs.Bixbysaidno;theywouldprobablyremainastheywere.

“But where are you living, Bixby? How have you arranged things?” theyoungmanaskedimpatiently.

“I’m very comfortable. I live in a boarding-house and have my ownfurniture. There are several fellows there who are fixed the same way. Theirwiveswentbackintobusiness,andtheydriftedapart.”

WithabaffledexpressionRemsenstaredat theunevenshouldersundertheskin-fitting alpaca desk coat as his bookkeeperwent out.He hadmeant to dosomethingforPercy,butsomehow,hereflected,oneneverdiddoanythingforafellowwhohadbeenstungashardasthat.

Century,May1916

Ardessa

T HEGRAND-MANNEREDOLDMANWHO SATATADESK IN THERECEPTION-ROOMOF

“TheOutcry”offices toreceivevisitorsandincidentally tokeepthe time-bookoftheemployees,lookedupasMissDevineenteredattenminutespasttenandcondescendingly wished him good morning. He bowed profoundly as sheminced past his desk, and with an indifferent air took her course down thecorridorthatledtotheeditorialoffices.Mechanicallyheopenedtheflat,blackbookathiselbowandplacedhisfingeronD,runninghiseyealongthelineoffigures after the name Devine. “It’s banker’s hours she keeps, indeed,” hemuttered.Whatwas the use of entering so capricious a record?Nevertheless,withhisusualpreliminaryflourishhewrote10:10underthis,thefourthdayofMay.

Theemployeewhokeptbanker’shoursrustledondownthecorridortoherprivateroom,hungupherlavenderjacketandhertrimspringhat,andreadjustedher sidecombsby themirror insideher closetdoor.Glancingatherdesk, sherang for an office boy, and reproved him because he had not dusted morecarefullyandbecausetherewerelumpsinherpaste.Whenhedisappearedwiththepaste-jar,shesatdowntodecidewhichofheremployer’s lettersheshould

seeandwhichheshouldnot.Ardessawasnotyoungandshewascertainlynothandsome.Thecoquettish

angle at which she carried her head was a mannerism surviving from a timewhen it was more becoming. She shuddered at the cold candor of the newbusinesswoman,andwasinsinuatinglyfeminine.

Ardessa’semployer,likeyoungLochinvar,hadcomeoutoftheWest,andhehad done a great many contradictory things before he became proprietor andeditorof“TheOutcry.”BeforehedecidedtogotoNewYorkandmaketheEasttake notice of him, O’Mally had acquired a punctual, reliable silver-mine inSouthDakota.Thissilentfriendinthebackgroundmadehisjournalisticsuccesscomparativelyeasy.Hehadfiguredout,whenhewasarichnobodyinNevada,thatthequickestwaytocutintotheknownworldwasthroughtheprinting-press.HearrivedinNewYork,boughtahighlyrespectablepublication,andturneditintoared-hotmagazineofprotest,whichhecalled“TheOutcry.”HeknewwhattheWestwanted, and it proved to bewhat everybody secretlywanted. In sixyears he had done the thing that had hitherto seemed impossible: built up anational weekly, out on the news-stands the same day in New York and SanFrancisco;amagazinethepeoplehowledfor,amoving-picturefilmoftheirrealtastesandinterests.

O’Mallybought “TheOutcry” tomakea stir, not tomakea career, buthehadgotbuiltintothethingmorethanheeverintended.Ithadmadehimapublicmanandputhimintopolitics.Hefoundthepublicitygamediverting,anditheldhim longer thananyothergamehadeverdone.Hehadbuiltupabouthimanorganization ofwhich hewas somewhat afraid andwithwhich hewas vastlybored.Onhisstafftherewerefivefamousmen,andhehadmadeeveryoneofthem.Atfirstitamusedhimtomanufacturecelebrities.Hefoundhecouldtakeanaveragereporterfromthedailypress,givehima“line”tofollow,a trust tofight,avicetoexpose,—thiswasallinthatgoodtimewhenpeoplewereeagerto read about their ownwickedness,—and in two years the reporterwould berecognizedasanauthority.Otherpeople—Napoleon,Disraeli,SarahBernhardt—had discovered that advertisingwould go a longway; butMarcusO’MallydiscoveredthatinAmericaitwouldgoalltheway—asfarasyouwishedtopay

itspassage.Anyhumancountenance,plasteredinthree-sheetpostersfromseatosea,wouldbereveredbytheAmericanpeople.Thestrangestthingwasthattheowners of these grave countenances, staring at their own faces on newsstandsandbillboards,felltoveneratingthemselves;andevenhe,O’Mally,wasmoreorlessconstrainedbythesereputationsthathehadcreatedoutofcheappaperandcheapink.

ConstraintwasthelastthingO’Mallyliked.Themostengagingandunusualthingabout themanwas thathecouldn’tbe fooledby the successofhisownmethods,andnoamountof“recognition”couldmakeastuffedshirtofhim.Nomatterhowmuchhewasadvertisedasagreatmedicine-maninthecouncilsofthenation,heknewthathewasaborngamblerandasoldieroffortune.Helefthis dignified office to take care of itself for a goodmanymonths of the yearwhileheplayedaboutontheoutskirtsofsocialorder.Helikedbeingagreatmanfrom the East in rough-and-tumble Western cities where he had once beenmerelyanunconsideredspender.

O’Mally’s long absences constituted one of the supreme advantages ofArdessaDevine’sposition.Whenhewasathispostherdutieswerenotheavy,butwhenhewasgivingballsinGoldfield,Nevada,shelivedanideallife.Shecametotheofficeeveryday,indeed,toforwardsuchofO’Mally’slettersasshethoughtbest,toattendtohisclubnoticesandtradesmen’sbills,andtotastethesenseofherhighconnections.Thegreatmenofthestaffwereallabouther,ascontemplative as Buddhas in their private offices, each meditating upon theparticular trustor formofviceconfided tohiscare.Thussurrounded,Ardessahadapleasantsenseofbeingattheheartofthings.Itwaslikeamentalmassage,exercise without exertion. She read and she embroidered. Her room waspleasant,andshelikedtobeseenatladyliketasksandtofeelherselfagracefulcontrast to thecrudegirls in theadvertisingandcirculationdepartmentsacrossthehall.Theyoungerstenographers,whohadtogetthroughwiththeenormousoffice correspondence, andwho rushed about from one editor to anotherwithwirebaskets fullof letters,made facesas theypassedArdessa’sdoorandsawhercoolandcloistered,daintilyplyingherneedle.Butnomatterhowhardtheotherstenographersweredriven,noone,notevenoneofthefiveoraclesofthe

staff,dareddictatesomuchasalettertoArdessa.Likeasultan’sbride,shewasinviolateinherlord’sabsence;shehadtobekeptforhim.

Naturallytheotheryoungwomenemployedin“TheOutcry”officesdislikedMissDevine.Theywereallcompetentgirls,trainedintheexactingmethodsofmodernbusiness,andtheyhadtomakegoodeverydayintheweek,hadtogetthrough with a great deal of work or lose their position. O’Mally’s privatesecretarywasamysterytothem.Herexemptionsandprivileges,herpatronizingremarks, formed an exhaustless subject of conversation at the lunch-hour.Ardessahad, indeed,as theyknewshemusthave,akindof“purchase”onheremployer.

WhenO’Mally firstcame toNewYork tobreak intopublicity,heengagedMissDevineupontherecommendationoftheeditorwhoseailingpublicationheboughtandrechristened.Thateditorwasaconservative,scholarlygentlemanofthe old school, whowas retiring because he felt out of place in theworld ofbrighter,breeziermagazinesthathadbeenfloweringsincethenewcenturycamein.HebelievedthatinthisvehementworldyoungO’Mallywouldmakehimselfheardand thatMissDevine’s training inaneditorialofficewouldbeofuse tohim.

WhenO’Mallyfirstsatdownatadesktobeaneditor,allthecardsthatwerebroughtinlookedprettymuchaliketohim.Ardessawasathiselbow.Shehadlong been steeped in literary distinctions and in the social distinctions whichusedtocountformuchmorethantheydonow.Sheknewallthegreatmen,allthenephewsandclientsofgreatmen.Sheknewwhichmustbeseen,whichmustbemadewelcome,andwhichcouldsafelybesentaway.ShecouldgiveO’Mallyon the instant the former rating inmagazineofficesofnearly everyname thatwasbroughtintohim.Shecouldgivehimanideaoftheman’sconnections,ofthepricehisworkcommanded,andinsinuatewhetherheoughttobemetwiththeoldpunctiliousnessorwiththenewjoviality.Shewasusefulinexplainingtoher employer the significance of various invitations, and the standingof clubsandassociations.Atfirstshewasvirtuallythesocialmentorofthebullet-headedyoungWesternerwhowantedtobreakintoeverything,thesolitarypersonabouttheofficeofthehummingnewmagazinewhoknewanythingabouttheeditorial

traditionsoftheeightiesandninetieswhich,antiquatedastheynowwere,gaveaneditor,asO’Mallysaid,abackground.

Despiteherindolence,ArdessawasusefultoO’Mallyasasocialreminder.She was the card catalogue of his ever-changing personal relations. O’Mallywentinforeverythingandgottiredofeverything;thatwaswhyhemadeagoodeditor.Afterhewas throughwithpeople,Ardessawasveryskilful incoveringhisretreat.Shereadandansweredthelettersofadmirerswhohadbeguntoborehim.Whengreatauthors,whohadbeendinedandfêtedthemonthbefore,weresuddenly left to cool theirheels in the reception-room, thrownupon the suavehospitalityof thegrandoldmanat thedesk, itwasArdessawhowentoutandmade soothing and plausible explanations as to why the editor could not seethem.Shewasthebrakethatcheckedthetoo-eagerneophyte,theemollientthateased the severing of relationships, the gentle extinguisher of the lights thatfailed.When there were no longermessages of hope and cheer to be sent toardentyoungwriters and reformers,Ardessadelivered, as sweetly aspossible,whatevermessageswereleft.

In handling these peoplewithwhomO’Mallywas quite through, Ardessahadgraduallydevelopedanindustrywhichwasimmenselygratifyingtoherownvanity. Not only did she not crush them; she even fostered them a little. Shecontinuedtoadvisetheminthereception-roomand“personally”receivedtheirmanuscripts longafterO’Mallyhaddeclared thathewouldnever readanotherline theywrote.She let themoutline theirplans for stories andarticles toher,promisingtobringthesesuggestionstotheeditor’sattention.Shedeniedherselftonobody,wasgraciouseventotheShakspere-Baconman,theperpetual-motionman,thetravel-articleman,theghostswhichhaunteverymagazineoffice.Thewriters who had had their happy hour of O’Mally’s favor kept feeling thatArdessamightreinstatethem.Sheansweredtheirlettersofinquiryinhermostpolishedandelegantstyle,andevengavethemhintsastothesubjectsinwhichtherestlesseditorwasorwasnotinterestedatthemoment:shefeareditwouldbeuseless tosendhimanarticleon“HowtoTrapLions,”becausehehadjustboughtanarticleon“Elephant-ShootinginMajubaLand,”etc.

SowhenO’Mallyplungedintohisofficeat11:30onthis,thefourthdayof

May, having just got back from three-days’ fishing, he found Ardessa in thereception-room,surroundedbyalittlecourtofdiscards.Thiswasannoying,forhealwayswantedhisstenographeratonce.Tellingtheofficeboytogiveherahint that shewas needed, he threw off his hat and topcoat and began to racethroughthepileoflettersArdessahadputonhisdesk.Whensheentered,hedidnotwaitforherpoliteinquiriesabouthistrip,butbrokeinatonce.

“What is that fellowwhowritesaboutphossy jawstillhangingroundherefor?Idon’twantanyarticlesonphossyjaw,andifIdid,Iwouldn’twanthis.”

“He has just sold an article on thematch industry to ‘TheNewAge,’Mr.O’Mally,”Ardessarepliedasshetookherseatattheeditor’sright.

“Whydoeshehavetocomeandtellusaboutit?We’venothingtodowith‘TheNewAge.’Andthatprison-reformguy,what’sheloafingaboutfor?”

Ardessabridled.“You remember, Mr. O’Mally, he brought letters of introduction from

GovernorHarper,thereformGovernorofMississippi.”O’Mallyjumpedup,kickingoverhiswaste-basketinhisimpatience.“Thatwasmonthsago.Iwentthroughhislettersandwentthroughhim,too.

Hehasn’tgotanythingwewant.I’vebeenthroughwithGovernorHarperalongwhile.We’reasleepattheswitchinhere.Andletmetellyou,ifIcatchsightofthatcauses-of-blindness-in-babieswomanaroundhereagain, I’lldosomethingviolent. Clear them out, Miss Devine! Clear them out! We need a trafficpoliceman in this office. Have you got that article on ‘Stealing Our NationalWaterPower’readyforme?”

“Mr.Gerrardtookitbacktomakemodifications.HegaveittomeatnoononSaturday, just before the office closed. Iwill have it ready for you to-morrowmorning,Mr.O’Mally,ifyouhavenottoomanylettersformethisafternoon,”Ardessarepliedpointedly.

“HolyMike!”mutteredO’Mally,“weneedatrafficpolicemanforthestaff,too.Gerrard’smodifiedthatthinghalfadozentimesalready.Whydon’ttheygetaccurateinformationinthefirstplace?”

Hebegantodictatehismorningmail,walkingbrisklyupanddownthefloorbywayofgivinghisstenographeranenergeticexample.Herindolenceandher

ladylikedeportmentweighedonhim.Hewantedtotakeherbytheelbowsandrunheraroundtheblock.Hedidn’tmindthatsheloafedwhenhewasaway,butitwasbecomingharderandhardertospeedherupwhenhewasonthespot.Heknewhiscorrespondencewasnotenoughtokeepherbusy,sowhenhewasintown he made her type his own breezy editorials and various articles bymembersofhisstaff.

Transcribingeditorialcopyisalwayslaborious,andtheonlywaytomakeiteasyistofarmitout.ThisArdessawasusuallycleverenoughtodo.WhenshereturnedtoherownroomafterO’Mallyhadgoneouttolunch,Ardessarangforanofficeboyandsaidlanguidly,“James,callBecky,please.”

In amoment a thin, tense-facedHebrewgirl of eighteen or nineteen camerushingin,carryingawirebasketfulloftypewrittensheets.Shewasasgauntasapluckedspringchicken,andhercheap,gaudyclothesmighthavebeenthrownonher.Shelookedasifshewererunningtocatchatrainandinmortaldreadofmissing it.WhileMissDevineexamined thepages in thebasket,Becky stoodwithhershouldersdrawnupandherelbowsdrawnin,apparentlytryingtohideherselfinherinsufficientopen-workwaist.Herwild,blackeyesfollowedMissDevine’shandsdesperately.Ardessasighed.

“Thisseemstobeverysmearycopyagain,Becky.Youdon’tkeepyourmindonyourwork,andsoyouhavetoerasecontinually.”

Beckyspokeupinwailingself-vindication.“Itain’tthat,MissDevine.It’ssomanyhardwordsheusesthatIhavetobe

atthedictionaryallthetime.Look!Look!”Sheproducedabunchofmanuscriptfaintlyscrawledinpencil,andthrustitunderArdessa’seyes.“Hedon’twriteoutthewordsatall.Hejustbeginsaword,andthenmakeswavesforyoutoguess.”

“I see you haven’t always guessed correctly,Becky,” saidArdessa,with aweary smile. “There are a great many words here that would surprise Mr.Gerrard,Iamafraid.”

“Andtheinserts,”Beckypersisted.“Howisanybodytotellwheretheygo,MissDevine?It’smostlyinserts;see,alloverthetopandsidesandback.”

Ardessaturnedherheadaway.“Don’tclawthepageslikethat,Becky.Youmakemenervous.Mr.Gerrard

hasnottimetodothisi’sandcrosshist’s.Thatiswhatwekeepcopyistsfor.Iwillcorrectthesesheetsforyou,—itwouldbeterribleifMr.O’Mallysawthem,—and then you can copy them over again. It must be done by to-morrowmorning,soyoumayhavetoworklate.Seethatyourhandsarecleananddry,andthenyouwillnotsmearit.”

“Yes,ma’am.Thankyou,MissDevine.Willyoutellthejanitor,please,it’sallrightifIhavetostay?HewascrossbecauseIwashereSaturdayafternoondoingthis.Hesaiditwasaholiday,andwheneverybodyelsewasgoneIoughtto—”

“Thatwilldo,Becky.Yes,Iwillspeaktothejanitorforyou.Youmaygotolunchnow.”

Beckyturnedononeheelandthenswungback.“MissDevine,”shesaidanxiously,“willitbeallrightifIgetwhiteshoesfor

now?”Ardessagaveherkindconsideration.“Forofficewear,youmean?No,Becky.Withonlyonepair,youcouldnot

keep themproperly clean; andblack shoes aremuch less conspicuous.Tan, ifyouprefer.”

Becky looked down at her feet.Theywere too large, and her skirtwas asmuchtooshortasherlegsweretoolong.

“NearlyallthegirlsIknowwearwhiteshoestobusiness,”shepleaded.“They are probably little girlswhowork in factories or department stores,

andthatisquiteanothermatter.Sinceyouraisethequestion,Becky,Ioughttospeak to you about your newwaist.Don’twear it to the office again, please.Thosecheapopen-workwaistsarenotappropriateinanofficelikethis.Theyareallverywellforlittlechorusgirls.”

“ButMissKalskiwears expensivewaists to businessmore open than this,andjewelry—”

Ardessainterrupted.Herfacegrewhard.“MissKalski,”shesaidcoldly,“worksforthebusinessdepartment.Youare

employedintheeditorialoffices.Thereisagreatdifference.Yousee,Becky,Imighthavetocallyouinhereatanytimewhenascientistoragreatwriterorthe

presidentofauniversityisheretalkingovereditorialmatters,andsuchclothesasyouhaveonto-daywouldmakeabadimpression.Nearlyallourconnectionsare with important people of that kind, andwe ought to be well, but quietly,dressed.”

“Yes, Miss Devine. Thank you,” Becky gasped and disappeared. Heavenknew she had no need to be further impressed with the greatness of “TheOutcry” office. During the year and a half she had been there she had neverceasedtotremble.SheknewthepricesalltheauthorsgotaswellasMissDevinedid,andeverythingseemedtohertobedoneonamagnificentscale.Shehadn’tagoodmemoryforlongtechnicalwords,butsheneverforgotdatesorpricesorinitialsortelephonenumbers.

Becky felt that her job depended onMissDevine, and shewas so glad tohaveitthatshescarcelyrealizedshewasbeingbullied.Besides,shewasgratefulforallthatshehadlearnedfromArdessa;Ardessahadtaughthertodomostofthethingsthatshewassupposedtodoherself.Beckywantedtolearn,shehadtolearn; that was the train she was always running for. Her father, IsaacTietelbaum, the tailor,whopressedMissDevine’s skirts andkept her ladylikesuitsinorder,hadcometohisclienttwoyearsagoandtoldherhehadabrightgirl just out of a commercial high school. He imploredArdessa to find someofficepositionforhisdaughter.ArdessatoldanappealingstorytoO’Mally,andbroughtBeckyintotheoffice,atasalaryofsixdollarsaweek,tohelpwiththecopying and to learn business routine. When Becky first came she was asignorant as a young savage. Shewas rapid at her shorthand and typing, but aKafirgirlwouldhaveknownasmuchabouttheEnglishlanguage.NobodyeverwantedtolearnmorethanBecky.Shefairlyworethedictionaryout.Shedugupher old school grammar and worked over it at night. She faithfully masteredMissDevine’sfussysystemofpunctuation.

Therewereeight childrenathome,younger thanBecky, and theywerealleager to learn. They wanted to get their mother out of the three dark roomsbehind the tailor shop and tomove into a flat up-stairs, where they could, asBeckysaid,“liveprivate.”TheyoungTietelbaumsdoubtedtheirfather’sabilitytobringthischangeabout,forthemorethingshedeclaredhimselfreadytodoin

his window placards, the fewer were brought to him to be done. “Dyeing,Cleaning,Ladies’FursRemodeled”—itdidnogood.

Rebeccawasout to“improveherself,”asher fatherhad toldhershemust.Ardessahadeasywaywithher.Itwasoneofthoserarerelationshipsfromwhichbothpersonsprofit.ThemoreBeckycouldlearnfromArdessa,thehappiershewas; and the more Ardessa could unload on Becky, the greater was hercontentment. She easily brokeBecky of the gum-chewing habit, taught her towalk quietly, to efface herself at the propermoment, and to hold her tongue.Beckyhadbeenraisedtoeightdollarsaweek;butshedidn’tcarehalfsomuchaboutthatasshedidaboutherownincreasingefficiency.ThemoreworkMissDevinehandedovertoherthehappiershewas,andthefastershewasabletoeatit up. She tested and tried herself in every possible way. She now had fullconfidencethatshewouldsurelyonedaybeahigh-pricedstenographer,areal“businesswoman.”

Becky would have corrupted a really industrious person, but a bilioustemperament like Ardessa’s couldn’t make even a feeble stand against suchwillingness.Ardessahadgrownsoftandhadlosttheknackofturningoutwork.Sometimes, in her importance and serenity, she shivered. What if O’Mallyshoulddie,andshewere thrustout into theworld toworkincompetitionwiththe brazen, competent young women she saw about her everywhere? Shebelievedherself indispensable,butsheknewthatinsuchamischancefulworldas this the very powers of darknessmight rise to separate her from this pearlamongjobs.

WhenBeckycameinfromlunchshewentdownthelonghalltothewash-room, where all the little girls whoworked in the advertising and circulationdepartmentskepttheirhatsandjackets.Therewereshelvesandshelvesofbrightspringhats, piledon topof one another, all as stiff as sheet-iron and trimmedwithgayflowers.Atthemarblewash-standstoodRenaKalski,therightbowerofthebusinessmanager,polishingherdiamondringswithanail-brush.

“Hullo,kid,”shecalledoverhershouldertoBecky.“I’vegotaticketforyouforThursdayafternoon.”

Becky’s black eyes glowed, but the strained look on her face drew tighter

thanever.“I’ll never askher,MissKalski,” she said rapidly. “I don’t dare. I have to

staylateto-nightagain;andIknowshe’dbehardtopleaseafter,ifIwastotrytogetoffonaweek-day.Ithankyou,MissKalski,butI’dbetternot.”

Miss Kalski laughed. She was a slender young Hebrew, handsome in animpudent, Tenderloin sort of way, with a small head, reddish-brown almondeyes,atrifletilted,arapaciousmouth,andabeautifulchin.

“Ain’tyouunderthatwoman’sthumb,though!Callherbluff.Sheisn’thalftheprimadonnashethinkssheis.Onmysideofthehallweknowwho’swhoaboutthisplace.”

Thebusinessandeditorialdepartmentsof“TheOutcry”wereseparatedbyalongcorridorandagreatcontempt.MissKalskidriedherringswithtissue-paperandstudiedthemwithanappraisingeye.

“Well, since you’re such a ’fraidy-calf,’” shewent on, “maybe I canget ariseoutofhermyself.NowI’vegotyoua ticketoutof thatshirt-front, Iwantyoutogo.I’lldropinonDevinethisafternoon.”

WhenMissKalskiwentbacktoherdeskinthebusinessmanager’sprivateoffice,sheturnedtohimfamiliarly,butnotimpertinently.

“Mr.Henderson,Iwanttosendakidoverintheeditorialstenographers’tothePalaceThursdayafternoon.She’sanicekid,onlyshe’sscaredoutofherskinallthetime.MissDevine’sherboss,andshe’llbejustmeanenoughnottolettheyoungoneoff.Wouldyousayawordtoher?”

Thebusinessmanagerlitacigar.“I’mnotsayingwords toanyof thehigh-browsover there.Try itoutwith

Devineyourself.You’renotbashful.”MissKalskishruggedhershouldersandsmiled.“Oh,verywell.”Sheserpentinedoutof the roomandcrossed theRubicon

into the editorial offices. She found Ardessa typing O’Mally’s letters andwearingapainedexpression.

“Goodafternoon,MissDevine,”shesaidcarelessly.“CanweborrowBeckyoverthereforThursdayafternoon?We’reshort.”

MissDevinelookedpiquedandtiltedherhead.

“Idon’tthinkit’scustomary,MissKalski,forthebusinessdepartmenttouseourpeople.Weneverhavegirlsenoughhere todo thework.Ofcourse ifMr.Hendersonfeelsjustified—”

“Thanks awfully, Miss Devine,”—Miss Kalski interrupted her with theperfectly smooth, good-natured tonewhich never betrayed a hint of the scorneverylineofhersinuousfigureexpressed,—“IwilltellMr.Henderson.Perhapswecandosomethingforyousomeday.”Whetherthiswasathreat,akindwish,or an insinuation, no mortal could have told. Miss Kalski’s face was alwayssuggesting insolencewithoutbeing quite insolent.As she returned to her owndomain shemet the cashier’s head clerk in the hall. “ThatDevinewoman’s acrime,”shemurmured.Theheadclerklaughedtolerantly.

That afternoon asMissKalskiwas leaving the office at 5:15, on herwaydown the corridor she heard a typewriter clicking away in the empty, echoingeditorial offices. She looked in, and found Becky bending forward over themachineasifshewereabouttoswallowit.

“Hello, kid.Doyou sleepwith that?” she called.Shewalkedup toBeckyandglancedathercopy.“Whatdoyoulet’emkeepyouupnightsoverthatstufffor?”sheaskedcontemptuously.“Theworldwouldn’tsuffer if thatstuffnevergotprinted.”

Rebeccalookedupwildly.NotevenMissKalski’sFrenchpansyhatorherear-rings and landscape veil could loosen Becky’s tenacious mind from Mr.Gerrard’sarticleonwaterpower.ShescarcelyknewwhatMissKalskihadsaidtoher,certainlynotwhatshemeant.

“ButImustmakeprogressalready,MissKalski,”shepanted.MissKalskigaveherlow,sirenlaugh.“Ishouldsayyoumust!”sheejaculated.

Ardessa decided to take her vacation in June, and she arranged thatMissMilligan should do O’Mally’s work while she was away. Miss Milligan wasblunt and noisy, rapid and inaccurate. Itwould be just aswell forO’Mally towork with a coarse instrument for a time; he would be more appreciative,

perhaps,ofcertainqualitiestowhichhehadseemedinsensibleoflate.Ardessawas to leave for East Hampton on Sunday, and she spent Saturday morninginstructinghersubstituteastothestateofthecorrespondence.AtnoonO’Mallyburstintoherroom.Allthemorninghehadbeenclosetedwithanewwriterofmystery-storiesjustoverfromEngland.

“Canyoustayand takemyletters thisafternoon,MissDevine?You’renotleavinguntilto-morrow.”

Ardessapouted,andtiltedherheadattheanglehewastiredof.“I’msorry,Mr.O’Mally,but I’ve leftallmyshoppingfor thisafternoon. I

thinkBeckyTietelbaumcoulddothemforyou.Iwilltellhertobecareful.”“Oh, all right.” O’Mally bounced out with a reflection of Ardessa’s

disdainfulexpressiononhisface.Saturdayafternoonwasalwaysahalf-holiday,tobesure,butsinceshehadweeksoffreedomwhenhewasaway—However—

At two o’clock Becky Tietelbaum appeared at his door, clad in the soberoffice suit whichMissDevine insisted she shouldwear, her note-book in herhand, and so frightened thather fingerswerecoldandher lipswerepale.Shehad never taken dictation from the editor before. Itwas a great and terrifyingoccasion.

“Sitdown,”hesaidencouragingly.HebegandictatingwhileheshookfromhisbagthemanuscriptshehadsnatchedawayfromtheamazedEnglishauthorthatmorning.Presentlyhelookedup.

“DoIgotoofast?”“No,sir,”Beckyfoundstrengthtosay.Attheendofanhourhetoldhertogoandtypeasmanyofthelettersasshe

couldwhilehewentover thebunchofstuffhehad tornfromtheEnglishman.He was with the Hindu detective in an opium den in Shanghai when Beckyreturnedandplacedapileofpapersonhisdesk.

“Howmany?”heasked,withoutlookingup.“Allyougaveme,sir.”“All,sosoon?Waitaminuteandletmeseehowmanymistakes.”Hewent

over the letters rapidly, signing themashe read. “They seem tobe all right. Ithoughtyouwerethegirlthatmadesomanymistakes.”

Rebeccawasnevertoofrightenedtovindicateherself.“Mr.O’Mally, sir, Idon’tmakemistakeswith letters. It’sonlycopying the

articlesthathavesomanylongwords,andwhenthewritingisn’tplain,likeMr.Gerrard’s. I never make many mistakes with Mr. Johnson’s articles, or withyoursIdon’t.”

O’Mallywheeledroundinhischair,lookedwithcuriosityatherlong,tenseface,herblackeyes,andstraightbrows.

“Oh,soyousometimescopyarticles,doyou?Howdoesthathappen?”“Yes,sir.AlwaysMissDevinegivesmethearticlestodo.It’sgoodpractice

forme.”“Isee.”O’Mallyshruggedhisshoulders.Hewasthinkingthathecouldgeta

riseoutofthewholeAmericanpublicanydayeasierthanhecouldgetariseoutofArdessa.“Whateditorialsofminehaveyoucopiedlately,forinstance?”

Rebeccablazedoutathim,recitingrapidly:“Oh, ‘AWord about theRosenbaums,’ ‘UselessNavy-Yards,’ ‘WhoKilled

CockRobin’—”“Wait aminute.”O’Mally checked her flow. “Whatwas that one about—

CockRobin?”“Itwasallaboutwhythesecretaryoftheinteriordismissed—”“Allright,allright.Copythoseletters,andputthemdownthechuteasyou

goout.ComeinhereforaminuteonMondaymorning.”Beckyhurriedhometo tellherfather thatshehad taken theeditor’s letters

andhadmadenomistakes.OnMondayshelearnedthatshewastodoO’Mally’swork for a few days. He disliked Miss Milligan, and he was annoyed withArdessafortryingtoputheroveronhimwhentherewasbettermaterialathand.WithRebeccahegotonverywell;shewasimpersonal,unreproachful,andshefairlypantedforwork.Everythingwasdonealmostbeforehetoldherwhathewanted.Sheracedaheadwithhim;itwaslikeridingagoodmodernbicycleafterpumpingalongonanoldhardtire.

OnthedaybeforeMissDevine’sreturnO’Mallystrolledoverforachatwiththebusinessoffice.

“Henderson,yourpeoplearetakingvacationsnow,Isuppose?Couldyouuse

anextragirl?”“Ifit’sthatthinblackone,Ican.”O’Mallygavehimawisesmile.“Itisn’t.Tobehonest,Iwanttoputoneoveronyou.IwantyoutotakeMiss

Devineoverhereforawhileandspeedherup.Ican’tdoanything.She’sgottheupperhandofme.Idon’twanttofireher,youunderstand,butshemakesmylifetoodifficult.It’smyfault,ofcourse.I’vepamperedher.Giveherachanceoverhere;maybeshe’llcomeback.Youcanbefirmwith’em,can’tyou?”

Hendersonglanced toward thedeskwhereMissKalski’s lightningeyewasskimmingovertheprinting-housebillsthathewassupposedtoverifyhimself.

“Well,ifIcan’t,Iknowwhocan,”hereplied,withachuckle.“Exactly,” O’Mally agreed. “I’m counting on the force of Miss Kalski’s

example.MissDevine’s all right,MissKalski, but she needs regular exercise.Sheowesittohercomplexion.Ican’tdisciplinepeople.”

MissKalski’sonlyreplywasalow,indulgentlaugh.O’Mally braced himself on the morning of Ardessa’s return. He told the

waiterathisclubtobringhimasecondpotofcoffeeandtobringithot.Hewasreally afraid of her. When she presented herself at his office at 10:30 hecomplimentedheruponhertanandaskedabouthervacation.Thenhebrokethenewstoher.

“Wewanttomakeafewtemporarychangesabouthere,MissDevine,forthesummermonths.Thebusinessdepartmentisshortofhelp.HendersonisgoingtoputMissKalskionthebooksforawhiletofigureoutsomeeconomiesforhim,andheisgoingtotakeyouover.MeantimeI’llgetBeckybrokeninsothatshecouldtakeyourworkifyouweresickoranything.”

Ardessadrewherselfup.“I’ve not been accustomed to commercial work, Mr. O’Mally. I’ve no

interestinit,andIdon’tcaretobrushupinit.”“Brushingupisjustwhatweneed,MissDevine.”O’Mallybegantramping

about his room expansively. “I’m going to brush everybody up. I’m going tobrusha fewpeopleout;but Iwantyou tostaywithus,ofcourse.Youbelonghere.Don’tbehastynow.Gotoyourroomandthinkitover.”

Ardessa was beginning to cry, and O’Mally was afraid he would lose hisnerve. He looked out of the window at a new sky-scraper that was building,whilesheretiredwithoutaword.

AtherowndeskArdessasatdownbreathlessandtrembling.Theonethingshehadneverdoubtedwasheruniquevalue toO’Mally.Shehad, as she toldherself,taughthimeverything.ShewouldsayafewthingstoBeckyTietelbaum,and to that pigeon-breasted tailor, her father, too! The worst of it was thatArdessahadherselfbroughtitallabout;shecouldseethatclearlynow.Shehadcarefullytrainedandqualifiedhersuccessor.WhyhadsheevercivilizedBecky?Why had she taught her manners and deportment, broken her of the gum-chewinghabit, andmadeherpresentable? Inheroriginal stateO’Mallywouldneverhaveputupwithher,nomatterwhatherability.

Ardessa told herself that O’Mally was notoriously fickle; Becky amusedhim,buthewouldsoonfindoutherlimitations.Thewisething,sheknew,wastohumorhim;butitseemedtoherthatshecouldnotswallowherpride.Ardessagrewyellowerwithinthehour.OverandoverinhermindshebadeO’Mallyacoldadieuandmincedoutpastthegrandoldmanatthedeskforthelasttime.Buteachexitsherehearsedmadeherfeelsorrierforherself.Shethoughtoveralltheofficessheknew,butsherealizedthatshecouldnevermeettheirinexorablestandardsofefficiency.

While shewas bitterly deliberating,O’Mally himselfwandered in, rattlinghiskeysnervouslyinhispocket.Heshutthedoorbehindhim.

“Now, you’re going to come through with this all right, aren’t you,MissDevine?IwantHenderson togetover thenotion thatmypeopleoverherearestuckupandthinkthebusinessdepartmentareoldshoes.That’swherewegetourmoneyfrom,asheoftenremindsme.You’llbethebest-paidgirloverthere;noreduction,ofcourse.Youdon’twanttogowanderingofftosomenewofficewherepersonalitydoesn’tcountforanything.”Hesatdownconfidentiallyontheedgeofherdesk.“Doyou,now,MissDevine?”

Ardessasimperedtearfullyasshereplied.“Mr.O’Mally,”shebroughtout,“you’llsoonfindthatBeckyisnotthesort

ofgirltomeetpeopleforyouwhenyouareaway.Idon’tseehowyoucanthink

oflettingher.”“That’s one thing I want to change,Miss Devine. You’re too soft-handed

with the has-beens and the never-was-ers.You’re toomuch of a lady for thisroughgame.Nearlyeverybodywhocomesinherewantstosellusagold-brick,and you treat them as if theywere bringing inwedding presents.Becky is asroughassandpaper,andshe’llclearoutalotofdeadwood.”O’Mallyrose,andtappedArdessa’s shrinking shoulder. “Now,bea sport andgo throughwith it,MissDevine. I’ll see thatyoudon’t lose.Henderson thinksyou’ll refuse todohiswork,soIwantyoutogetmovedintherebeforehecomesbackfromlunch.I’vehadadeskputinhisofficeforyou.MissKalskiisinthebookkeeper’sroomhalfthetimenow.”

RenaKalskiwasamazedthatafternoonwhenalineofofficeboysentered,carryingMissDevine’seffects,andwhenArdessaherselfcoldlyfollowedthem.AfterArdessahadarrangedherdesk,MissKalskiwentovertoherandtoldheraboutsomemattersofroutineverygood-naturedly.Ardessalookedprettybadlyshakenup,andRenaborenogrudges.

“Whenyouwantthedopeonthecorrespondencewiththepapermen,don’tbothertolookitup.I’vegotitallinmyhead,andIcansavetimeforyou.Ifhewantsyoutogoovertheprintingbillseveryweek,you’dbetterletmehelpyouwiththatforawhile.Icanstayalmostanyafternoon.It’squiteatricktofigureout the plates and over-time charges till you get used to it. I’veworked out aquickmethodthatsavestrouble.”

When Henderson came in at three he found Ardessa, chilly, but civil,awaiting his instructions. He knew she disapproved of his tastes and hismanners, but he didn’tmind.What interested and amused himwas that RenaKalski, whom he had always thought as cold-blooded as an adding-machine,seemedtobemakingahair-mattressofherselftobreakArdessa’sfall.

At five o’clock, when Ardessa rose to go, the business manager saidbreezily:

“Seeyouatnineinthemorning,MissDevine.Webeginonthestroke.”Ardessafadedoutofthedoor,andMissKalski’sslenderbacksquirmedwith

amusement.

“I never thought to hear such words spoken,” she admitted; “but I guessshe’lllimberupallright.Theatmosphereisbadoverthere.Theygetmoldy.”

Afterthenextmonthlyluncheonoftheheadsofdepartments,O’MallysaidtoHenderson,ashefeedthecoat-boy:

“Bytheway,howareyoumakingitwiththebarteredbride?”HendersonsmashedonhisPanamaashesaid:“Anytimeyouwantherback,don’tbedelicate.”ButO’Mallyshookhisredheadandlaughed.“Oh,I’mnoIndiangiver!”

Century,May1918

HerBoss

I

P AUL WANNING OPENED THE FRONT DOOR OF HIS HOUSE IN ORANGE, CLOSED IT

softlybehindhim,andstoodlookingaboutthehallashedrewoffhisgloves.Nothingwaschanged there since lastnight, andyethe stoodgazingabout

himwithan interestwhicha long-marriedmandoesnotoften feel inhisownreceptionhall.Therugs,thetwopillars,theSpanishtapestrychairs,wereallthesame.TheVenusdiMedicistoodonhercolumnasusualandthere,attheendofthehall(oppositethefrontdoor),wasthefull-lengthportraitofMrs.Wanning,maturelybloomingforthinaneveninggown,signedwiththenameofaFrenchpainterwhoseemedpurposelytohavemadehissignatureindistinct.Thoughthesignaturewaslargelywhatonepaidfor,onecouldn’taskhimtodoitover.

In the dining room the colored man was moving about the table set fordinner,undertheelectriccluster.Thecandleshadnotyetbeenlighted.Wanningwatched himwith a homesick feeling in his heart. They had had Sam a longwhile, twelveyears,now.Hiswarmhall, the lighteddining-room, thedrawingroomwhereonlytheflickerofthewoodfireplayedupontheshiningsurfacesof

many objects—they seemed toWanning like a haven of refuge. It had neveroccurred to him that his house was too full of things. He often said, and hebelieved, that thewomenofhishouseholdhad“perfect taste.”Hehadpaidforthese objects, sometimes with difficulty, but always with pride. He carried aheavylife-insuranceandpermittedhimselftospendmostoftheincomefromagood lawpractise.Hewished,duringhis life-time, toenjoy thebenefitsofhiswife’sdiscriminatingextravagance.

YesterdayWanning’sdoctorhadsenthimtoaspecialist.Todaythespecialist,aftervarious laboratory tests,had toldhimmostdisconcerting thingsabout thestateofverynecessary,buthithertowhollyuninteresting,organsofhisbody.

The information pointed to something incredible; insinuated that hisresidence in this housewas only temporary; that he, whose time was so full,mighthavetoleavenotonlyhishouseandhisofficeandhisclub,butaworldwithwhichhewasextremelywellsatisfied—theonlyworldheknewanythingabout.

Wanningunbuttonedhisovercoat,butdidnot take itoff.He stood foldinghismufflerslowlyandcarefully.Whathedidnotunderstandwas,howhecouldgowhile other people stayed.Samwouldbemoving about the table like this,Mrs.Wanningandherdaughterswouldbedressingupstairs,whenhewouldnotbe coming home to dinner any more; when he would not, indeed, be dininganywhere.

Sam,comingto turnon theparlor lights,sawWanningandsteppedbehindhimtotakehiscoat.

“Goodevening,Mr.Wanning,sah,excuseme.Youentahedsoquietly,sah,Ididn’theahyou.”

Themasterofthehouseslippedoutofhiscoatandwentlanguidlyupstairs.Hetappedatthedoorofhiswife’sroom,whichstoodajar.“Comein,Paul,”shecalledfromherdressingtable.She was seated, in a violet dressing gown, giving the last touches to her

coiffure, both arms lifted. They were firm and white, like her neck andshoulders.Shewasahandsomewomanoffifty-five,—stillawoman,notanoldperson,Wanningtoldhimself,ashekissedhercheek.Shewasheavyinfigure,

tobesure,butshehadkept,onthewhole,presentableoutlines.Hercomplexionwasgood,andsheworelessfalsehairthaneitherofherdaughters.

Wanninghimselfwas fiveyearsolder,buthis sandyhairdidnot show thegrayinit,andsincehismustachehadbeguntogrowwhitehekeptitclippedsoshortthatitwasunobtrusive.Hisfreshskinmadehimlookyoungerthanhewas.Notlongagohehadoverheardthestenographersinhislawofficediscussingtheagesof theiremployers.Theyhadputhimdownat fifty,agreeing thathis twopartnersmustbeconsiderablyolderthanhe—whichwasnotthecase.Wanninghad an especially kindly feeling for the little new girl, a copyist, who hadexclaimedthat“Mr.Wanningcouldn’tbefifty;heseemedsoboyish!”

Wanninglingeredbehindhiswife,lookingatherinthemirror.“Well,didyoutellthegirls,Julia?”heasked,tryingtospeakcasually.Mrs.Wanninglookedupandmethiseyesintheglass.“Thegirls?”Shenoticedastrangeexpressioncomeoverhisface.“Aboutyourhealth,youmean?Yes,dear,butItriednottoalarmthem.They

feeldreadfully.I’mgoingtohaveatalkwithDr.Searesmyself.Thesespecialistsareallalarmists,andI’veoftenheardofhisfrighteningpeople.”

Sheroseandtookherhusband’sarm,drawinghimtowardthefireplace.“Youarenotgoingtoletthisupsetyou,Paul?Ifyoutakecareofyourself,

everythingwillcomeoutallright.Youhavealwaysbeensostrong.Onehasonlytolookatyou.”

“Didyou,”Wanningasked,“sayanythingtoHarold?”“Yes,ofcourse.Isawhimintowntoday,andheagreeswithmethatSeares

draws theworstconclusionspossible.Hesayseven theyoungmenarealwaysbeingtoldthemostterrifyingthings.Usuallytheylaughatthedoctorsanddoastheyplease.Youcertainlydon’tlooklikeasickman,andyoudon’tfeellikeone,doyou?”

Shepattedhisshoulder,smiledathimencouragingly,andrangforthemaidtocomeandhookherdress.

When the maid appeared at the door, Wanning went out through thebathroomtohisownsleepingchamber.Hewastoomuchdispiritedtoputonadinner coat, though such remissness was always noticed. He sat down and

waited for the sound of the gong, leaving his door open, on the chance thatperhapsoneofhisdaughterswouldcomein.

WhenWanningwentdowntodinnerhefoundhiswifealreadyatherchair,andthetablelaidforfour.

“Harold,”sheexplained,“isnotcominghome.Hehastoattendafirstnightintown.”

Amomentlatertheirtwodaughtersentered,obviously“dressed.”Theybothwore earrings and masses of hair. The daughters’ names were Roma andFlorence,—Roma,Firenze,oneoftheyoungmenwhocametothehouseoften,butnotoftenenough,hadcalledthem.Tonighttheyweregoingtoarehearsalof“TheDancesoftheNations,”—abenefitperformanceinwhichMissRomawastoleadtheSpanishdances,hersistertheGrecian.

Theelderdaughterhadoftenbeen told thathernamesuitedheradmirably.She looked, indeed, as we are apt to think the unrestrained beauties of laterRomemusthave looked,—butas theirportraitbustsemphaticallydeclare theydid not. Her headwasmassive, her lips full and crimson, her eyes large andheavy-lidded,herforeheadlow.Atcostumeballsandinlivingpicturesshewasalways Semiramis, or Poppea, or Theodora. Barbaric accessories brought outsomethingcruelandevenratherbrutalinherhandsomeface.Themenwhowereattractedtoherweresomehowafraidofher.

Florence was slender, with a long, graceful neck, a restless head, and aflexiblemouth—discontent lurked about the corners of it.Her shoulderswerepretty,butherneckandarmsweretoothin.Romawasalwaysstrugglingtokeepwithinacertainweight—herchinandupperarmsgrewpersistentlymoresolid—and Florence was always striving to attain a certain weight. Wanning usedsometimestowonderwhythesedisconcertingfluctuationscouldnotgotheotherway;whyRomacouldnotmeltawayaseasilyasdidhersister,whohadtobesenttoPalmBeachtosavethepreciouspounds.

“Idon’tseewhyyoueverputRickieAlleninchargeoftheEnglishcountrydances,”Florencesaidtohersister,astheysatdown.“Heknowsthefigures,ofcourse,buthehasnorealstyle.”

Roma lookedannoyed.RickieAllenwasoneof themenwhocame to the

housealmostoftenenough.“Heisabsolutelytobedependedupon,that’swhy,”shesaidfirmly.“I think he is just right for it, Florence,” put in Mrs. Wanning. “It’s

remarkable he should feel that he can give up the time; such a busyman.Hemustbeverymuchinterestedinthemovement.”

Florence’slipcurleddrollyunderhersoupspoon.Sheshotanamusedglanceathermother’sdignity.

“Nothingdoing,”herkeeneyesseemedtosay.ThoughFlorencewasnearlythirtyandhersisteralittlebeyond,therewas,

seriously,nothingdoing.With somanycharmsand somuchpreparation, theynever,asFlorencevulgarlysaid,quitepulleditoff.Theyhadbeenrushed,timeandagain,andMrs.Wanninghadrepeatedlysteeledherselftobeartheblow.ButtheyoungmenwenttofollowacareerinMexicoorthePhilippines,ormovedtoYonkers,andescapedwithoutamortalwound.

Romaturnedgraciouslytoherfather.“ImetMr.LaneattheHollandHousetoday,whereIwaslunchingwiththe

Burtons,father.Heaskedaboutyou,andwhenItoldhimyouwerenotsowellasusual,hesaidhewouldcallyouup.Hewantstotellyouaboutsomedoctorhe discovered in Iowa, who cures everything with massage and hot water. Itsoundsfreakish,butMr.Laneisaverycleverman,isn’the?”

“Very,”assentedWanning.“Ishouldthinkhemustbe!”sighedMrs.Wanning.“Howintheworlddidhe

makeallthatmoney,Paul?Hedidn’tseemespeciallypromisingyearsago,whenweusedtoseesomuchofthem.”

“Corporation business. He’s attorney for the P. L. andG.,”murmured herhusband.

“What a pile he must have!” Florence watched the old negro’s slowmovementswithrestlesseyes.“HereisJenny,aContessa,withagloriouspalaceinGenoathatherfathermusthaveboughther.SurelyAldrinihadnothing.Haveyouseenthebabycount’spictures,Roma?They’reverycunning.Ishouldthinkyou’dgotoGenoaandvisitJenny.”

“We must arrange that, Roma. It’s such an opportunity.” Though Mrs.

Wanningaddressedherdaughter,shelookedatherhusband.“Youwouldgetonsowell among their friends.When Count Aldrini was here you spoke Italianmuch better than poor Jenny. I rememberwhenwe entertained him, he couldscarcelysayanythingtoheratall.”

Florencetriedtocallupanansweringflickerofamusementuponhersister’scalm, well-bred face. She thought her mother was rather outdoing herselftonight,—sinceAldrinihadat leastmanaged to say theone important thing toJenny, somehow, somewhere. Jenny Lane had been Roma’s friend andschoolmate,andtheCountwasanephemeralhopeinOrange.Mrs.Wanningwasoneofthefirstmatronstodeclarethatshehadnoprejudicesagainstforeigners,andatthedinnersthatweregivenfortheCount,Romawasalwaysputnexthimtoactasinterpreter.

Romaagainturnedtoherfather.“If I were you, dear, I would letMr. Lane tell me about his doctor. New

discoveriesareoftenmadebyqueerpeople.”Roma’svoicewaslowandsympathetic;sheneverlostherdignity.Florenceasked ifshemighthavehercoffee inher room,whileshedashed

off a note, and she ranupstairs humming “BrightLights” andwonderinghowshewasgoingtostandherfamilyuntilthesummerscattering.WhycouldRomanever throw off her elegant reserve and call things by their names? Shesometimesthoughtshemight likehersister, ifshewouldonlycomeout intheopenandhowlaboutherdisappointments.

Roma,drinkinghercoffeedeliberately,askedher father if theymighthavethecarearly,astheywantedtopickupMr.AllenandMr.Rydbergontheirwaytorehearsal.

Wanningsaidcertainly.Heavenknewhewasnotstingyabouthiscar,thoughhecouldneverquiteforgetthatinhisdayitwastheyoungmenwhousedtocallforthegirlswhentheywenttorehearsals.

“Youaregoingwithus,Mother?”Romaaskedastheyrose.“I thinksodear.Your fatherwillwant togo tobedearly,andI shall sleep

betterifIgoout.IamgoingtotowntomorrowtopourteaforHarold.Wemustgethimsomenewsilver,Paul.Iamquiteashamedofhisspoons.”

Harold,theonlyson,wasaplaywright—asyet“unproduced”—andhehadastudioinWashingtonSquare.

A half-hour later,Wanningwas alone in his library. Hewould not permithimselftofeelaggrieved.Whatwasmorecommendablethanamother’sinterestinherchildren’spleasures?Moreover,itwashiswife’swayoffollowingthingsup,ofnever lettingdiegrassgrowunderherfeet, thathadhelpedtopushhimalong in theworld.Shewasmoreambitious thanhe,—thathadbeengood forhim.Hewasnaturally indolent, andJulia’schildlikedesire topossessmaterialobjects,tobuywhatotherpeoplewerebuying,hadbeenthespurthatmadehimgo after business. It had, moreover, made his house the attractive place hebelievedittobe.

“Suppose,” his wife sometimes said to him when the bills came in fromCélesteorMme.Blanche,“supposeyouhadhomelydaughters;howwouldyoulikethat?”

Hewouldn’t have liked it.When hewent anywherewith his three ladies,Wanning always felt very well done by. He had no complaint to make aboutthem, or about anything. That was why it seemed so unreasonable—He feltalonghisback incredulouslywithhishand.Harold,of course,wasa trial;butamongallhisbusinessfriends,heknewscarcelyonewhohadapromisingboy.

ThehousewassostillthatWanningcouldhearafaint,metallictinklefromthe butler’s pantry. Old Sam was washing up the silver, which he put awayhimselfeverynight.

Wanning rose and walked aimlessly down the hall and out through thedining-room.

“AnyApollinarisonice,Sam?I’mnotfeelingverywelltonight.”Theoldcoloredmandriedhishands.“Yessah,MistahWanning.Havealittleryewithit,sah?”“No,thankyou,Sam.That’soneofthethingsIcan’tdoanymore.I’vebeen

toseeabigdoctorinthecity,andhetellsmethere’ssomethingseriouslywrongwithme.Mykidneyshavesortofgonebackonme.”

Itwas a satisfaction toWanning toname theorgan that hadbetrayedhim,whilealltherestofhimwassosound.

Samwasimmediatelyinterested.Heshookhisgrizzledheadandlookedfullofwisdom.

“Don’t seem like a gen’leman of such a temperate life ought to haveanythingwrongthar,sah.”

“No,itdoesn’t,doesit?”WanningleanedagainstthechinaclosetandtalkedtoSamfornearlyhalfan

hour.Thespecialistwhocondemnedhimhadn’tseemedhalfsomuchinterested.Therewasnotadetailabout theexaminationand the laboratory tests inwhichSam did not show the deepest concern. He kept askingWanning if he couldremember“straininghimself”whenhewasayoungman.

“I’veknoweda strain like that to sleep inaman foryeahsandyeahs, andthen come back on him, ’deed I have,” he said, mysteriously. “An’ again, itmight be you got a floatin’ kidney, sah. Aftah dey once teah loose, deysometimesdon’tmakenotroubleforquiteawhile.”

WhenWanningwent to his roomhedidnot go to bed.He sat upuntil heheard the voices of his wife and daughters in the hall below. His own bedsomehowfrightenedhim.Inalltheyearshehadlivedinthishousehehadneverbeforelookedabouthisroom,atthatbed,withthethoughtthathemightonedaybetrappedthere,andmightnotgetoutagain.Hehadbeenill,ofcourse,buthisroomhadseemedaparticularlypleasantplaceforasickman;sunlight,flowers,—agreeable,well-dressedwomencominginandout.

Nowtherewassomethingsinisteraboutthebeditself,aboutitsposition,anditsrelationtotherestofthefurniture.

II

Thenextmorning,onhiswaydowntown,WanninggotoffthesubwaytrainatAstorPlaceandwalkedovertoWashingtonSquare.Heclimbedthreeflightsof stairs and knocked at his son’s studio. Harold, dressed, with his stick andglovesinhishand,openedthedoor.HewasjustgoingovertotheBrevoortforbreakfast.Hegreetedhisfatherwith thecordial familiaritypractisedbyall the“boys” of his set, clapped him on the shoulder and said in his light, tonsilitis

voice:“Comein,Governor,howdelightful!Ihaven’thadacallfromyouinalong

time.”He threw his hat and gloves on the writing table. He was a perfect

gentleman,evenwithhisfather.Florence said thematterwithHaroldwas that he had heard people say he

lookedlikeByron,andstoodforit.WhatHaroldwouldstandforinsuchmatterswas,indeed,thebestdefinition

ofhim.Whenhereadhisplay“TheStreetWalker” indrawingroomsandoneladytoldhimithadthepoeticsymbolismofTchekhov,andanothersaidthatitsuggested the biting realism of Brieux, he never, in his most secret thoughts,questionedtheacumenofeitherlady.Harold’sspeech,evenifyouhearditinthenextroomandcouldnotseehim,toldyouthathehadnosenseoftheabsurd,—athroatystaccato,withneveradownwardinflection,trustfullystrivingtoplease.

“Justgoingout?”hisfatherasked.“Iwon’tkeepyou.YourmothertoldyouIhadadiscouragingsessionwithSeares?”

“Soawfullysorryyou’vehadthisbother,Governor;justassorryasIcanbe.Noquestionaboutit’scomingoutallright,but it’sadownrightnuisance,yourhaving to diet and that sort of thing. And I suppose you ought to followdirections, just tomake us all feel comfortable, oughtn’t you?” Harold spokewithfluentsympathy.

Wanningsatdownonthearmofachairandshookhishead.“Yes,theydorecommendadiet,buttheydon’tpromisemuchfromit.”

Harold laughed precipitately. “Delicious! All doctors are, aren’t they? Soprofound and oracular! The medicine-man; it’s quite the same idea, you see;withtom-toms.”

Wanning knew thatHaroldmeant something subtle,—one of the subtletieswhichhesaidwereonlyspoiledbybeingexplained—sohecamebluntlytooneoftheissueshehadinmind.

“IwouldliketoseeyousettledbeforeIquittheharness,Harold.”Haroldwasabsolutelytolerant.Hetookouthiscigarettecaseandburnisheditwithhishandkerchief.

“Iperfectlyunderstandyourpointofview,dearGovernor,butperhapsyoudon’t altogether getmine. Isn’t it so? I am settled.What youmean by beingsettled,wouldunsettleme,completely.I’mcutoutforjustsuchanexistenceasthis; to live four floors up in an attic, get my own breakfast, and have acharwomantodoforme.Ishouldbeawfullyboredwithanestablishment.I’mquitecontentwithalittlediggingslikethis.”

Wanning’s eyes fell. Somebody had to pay the rent of even such modestquartersascontentedHarold,but tosaysowouldberude,andHaroldhimselfwasneverrude.Wanningdidnot,thismorning,feelequaltohearingastatementofhisson’suncommercialideals.

“Iknow,”hesaidhastily.“Butnowwe’reupagainsthardfacts,myboy.Ididnotwanttoalarmyourmother,butI’vehadatimelimitputonme,andit’snotaverylongone.”

Haroldthrewawaythecigarettehehadjustlightedinaburstofindignation.“That’s the sort of thing I consider criminal, Father, absolutely criminal!

Whatdoctorhasarighttosuggestsuchathing?Seareshimselfmaybeknockedout tomorrow.Whathave laboratory tests got todowith aman’swill to live?Theforceofthatdependsuponhisentirepersonality,notonanyorganorpairoforgans.”

Haroldthrusthishandsinhispocketsandwalkedupanddown,verymuchstirred.“Really,Ihaveaverypooropinionofscientists.Theyoughttobemadeserve an apprenticeship in art, to get some conceptionof the power of humanmotives.Suchbrutality!”

Harold’splaysdealtwiththegrimmestandmostdepressingmatters,buthehimself was always agreeable, and he insisted upon high cheerfulness as thecorrecttoneofhumanintercourse.

Wanningroseand turned togo.Therewas, inHarold,simplynoreality, towhichonecouldbreakthrough.Theyoungmantookuphishatandgloves.

“Mustyougo?Letmestepalongwithyoutothesub.Thewalkwilldomegood.”

HaroldtalkedagreeablyallthewaytoAstorPlace.Hisfatherheardlittleofwhathesaid,butheratherlikedhiscompanyandhiswishtobepleasant.

Wanningwenttohisclubforluncheon,meaningtospendtheafternoonwithsomeofhisfriendswhohadretiredfrombusinessandwhoreadthepaperstherein the empty hours between two and seven. He got no satisfaction, however.When he tried to tell these men of his present predicament, they began todescribeillsoftheirowninwhichhecouldnotfeelinterested.Eachoneofthemhadatreacherousorganofwhichhespokewithanimation,almostwithpride,asifitwereacraftybusinesscompetitorwhomhewasconstantlyoutwitting.Eachhad a doctor, too, forwhomhewas ardently soliciting business.TheywantedeithertotelephonetheirdoctorandmakeanappointmentforWanning,ortotakehim then and there to the consulting room. When he did not accept theseinvitations,theylostinterestinhimandrememberedengagements.HecalledataxiandreturnedtotheofficesofMcQuiston,Wade,andWanning.

Settledathisdesk,Wanningdecided thathewouldnotgohometodinner,butwouldstayattheofficeanddictatealonglettertoanoldcollegefriendwholived in Wyoming. He could tell Douglas Brown things that he had notsucceededingettingtoanyoneelse.Brown,outintheWindRivermountains,couldn’t defend himself, couldn’t slap Wanning on the back and tell him togatherupthesunbeams.

HecalleduphishouseinOrangetosaythathewouldnotbehomeuntillate.Romaansweredthetelephone.Hespokemournfully,butshewasnotdisturbedbyit.

“Verywell,Father.Don’tgettootired,”shesaidinherwellmodulatedvoice.WhenWanningwasreadytodictatehisletter,helookedoutfromhisprivate

office into the reception room and saw that his stenographer in her hat andgloves,andfursofthenewestcut,wasjustleaving.

“Goodnight,Mr.Wanning,”shesaid,drawingdownherdottedveil.Hadtherebeenimportantbusinessletterstobegotoffonthenightmail,he

would have felt that he could detain her, but not for anything personal.MissDoanewasanexpert legalstenographer,andsheknewhervalue.Theslightestdelay in dispatching office business annoyed her. Letters thatwere not signeduntil the next morning awoke her deepest contempt. She was scrupulous inprofessional etiquette, and Wanning felt that their relations, though pleasant,

werescarcelycordial.AsMissDoane’strimfiguredisappearedthroughtheouterdoor,littleAnnie

Wooley,thecopyist,cameinfromthestenographers’room.Herhatwaspinnedover one ear, and shewas scrambling into her coat as she came, holding herglovesinherteethandherbatteredhandbaginthefistthatwasalreadythroughasleeve.

“Annie,Iwantedtodictatealetter.Youwerejustleaving,weren’tyou?”“Oh, I don’tmind!” she answered cheerfully, and pulling off her old coat,

threwitonachair.“I’llgetmybook.”Shefollowedhimintohisroomandsatdownbyatable,—thoughshewrote

withherbookonherknee.Wanning had several times kept her after office hours to take his private

letters for him, and she had always been good-natured about it. On eachoccasion,whenhegaveheradollar togetherdinner, sheprotested, laughing,andsayingthatshecouldnevereatsomuchasthat.

Sheseemedahappysortoflittlecreature,didn’tpoutwhenshewasscolded,andgiggledaboutherownmistakesinspelling.Shewasplumpandundersized,alwaysdodgingunder theelbowsof tallerpeopleandclatteringaboutonhighheels,muchrunover.Shehadbrightblackeyesandfuzzyblackhairinwhich,despiteMissDoane’s reprimands, she often stuck her pencil. Shewas the girlwhocouldn’tbelievethatWanningwasfifty,andhehadlikedhereversinceheoverheardthatconversation.

Tiltingbackhischair—heneverassumed thispositionwhenhedictated toMissDoane—Wanningbegan:“ToMr.D.E.Brown,SouthForks,Wyoming.”

Heshadedhiseyeswithhishandandtalkedoffalonglettertothismanwhowouldbesorrythathismortalframewasbreakingup.Herecalledtohimcertainfinemonths theyhadspent togetheron theWindRiverwhentheywereyoungmen,andsaidhesometimeswished that likeD.E.Brown,hehadclaimedhisfreedominabigcountrywherethewheelsdidnotgrindamanashardastheydidinNewYork.Hehadspentalltheseyearshustlingaboutandgettingreadytolivethewayhewantedtolive,andnowhehadapuncturethedoctorscouldn’tmend.Whatwastheuseofit?

Wanning’sthoughtswerefixedonthetroutstreamsandthegreatsilver-firsinthecanyonsoftheWindRiverMountains,whenhewasdisturbedbyasoft,repeatedsniffling.Helookedoutbetweenhisfingers.LittleAnnie,carriedawaybyhiseloquence,wasfairlypanting tomakedotsanddashesfastenough,andshewassoppinghereyeswithanunpresentable,end-of-the-dayhandkerchief.

Wanning rambled on in his dictation. Why was she crying? What did itmatter to her?Hewas amanwho said good-morning to her, who sometimestook an hour of the precious few she had left at the end of the day and thencomplainedaboutherbadspelling.Whentheletterwasfinished,hehandedheranewtwodollarbill.

“Ihaven’tgotanychangetonight;andanyhow,I’dlikeyoutoeatawholelot.I’monadiet,andIwanttoseeeverybodyelseeat.”

Annietuckedhernotebookunderherarmandstoodlookingatthebillwhichshehadnottakenupfromthetable.

“Idon’tliketobepaidfortakingletterstoyourfriends,Mr.Wanning,”shesaid impulsively. “I can run personal letters off between times. It ain’t as if Ineededthemoney,”sheaddedcarelessly.

“Get alongwith you!Anybodywho is eighteenyears old andhas a sweettoothneedsmoney,alltheycanget.”

Anniegiggledanddartedoutwiththebillinherhand.Wanningstrolledaimlesslyafterherintothereceptionroom.“Let me have that letter before lunch tomorrow, please, and be sure that

nobodyseesit.”Hestoppedandfrowned.“Idon’tlookverysick,doI?”“Ishouldsayyoudon’t!”Anniegothercoatonafterconsiderabletugging.

“Whydon’tyoucallinaspecialist?Mymothercalledaspecialistformyfatherbeforehedied.”

“Oh,isyourfatherdead?”“Ishouldsayheis!Hewasapainterbytrade,andhefelloffaseventy-foot

stack into the East River. Mother couldn’t get anything out of the company,because hewasn’t buckled.He lingered for fourmonths, so I know all abouttakingcareofsickpeople.Iwasattendingbusinesscollegethen,andsickashewas, he used to give me dictation for practise. He made us all go into

professions;thegirls,too.Hedidn’tlikeustojustrun.”Wanningwouldhave liked tokeepAnnieandhearmoreabouther family,

butitwasnearlyseveno’clock,andheknewheought,inmercy,tolethergo.Shewastheonlypersontowhomhehadtalkedabouthisillnesswhohadbeenfrank and honest with him, who had looked at him with eyes that concealednothing.Whenhebrokethenewsofhisconditiontohispartnersthatmorning,theyshuthimoffasifhewereutteringindecentravings.Alldaytheyhadmethimwithahurried,abstractedmanner.McQuistonandWadewentouttolunchtogether,andheknewwhattheywerethinking,perhapstalking,about.Wanninghad brought into the firm valuable business, but hewas less enterprising thaneitherofhispartners.

III

IntheearlysummerWanning’sfamilyscattered.RomaswallowedherprideandsailedforGenoatovisittheContessaJenny.HaroldwenttoCornishtobeinan artistic atmosphere. Mrs. Wanning and Florence took a cottage at YorkHarborwhereWanningwassupposedtojointhemwheneverhecouldgetawayfrom town. He did not often get away. He felt most at ease among hisaccustomed surroundings.Hekept his car in the city andwentback and forthfromhis office to the clubwhere hewas living.OldSam, his butler, came infromOrangeeverynighttoputhisclothesinorderandmakehimcomfortable.

Wanningbegantofeelthathewouldnottireofhisofficeinahundredyears.Althoughhedidverylittlework,itwaspleasanttogodowntowneverymorningwhenthestreetswerecrowded,theskyclear,andthesunshinebright.FromthewindowsofhisprivateofficehecouldseetheharborandwatchtheoceanlinerscomedowntheNorthRiverandgoouttosea.

Whilehereadhismail,heoftenlookedoutandwonderedwhyhehadbeenso long indifferent to that extraordinary scene of human activity andhopefulness. How had a short-lived race of beings the energy and couragevaliantly tobeginenterpriseswhich theycould followforonlya fewyears; tothrowup towers andbuild sea-monsters and foundgreat businesses,when the

frailest of the materials with which they worked, the paper upon which theywrote,theinkupontheirpens,hadmorepermanenceinthisworldthanthey?Allthismaterial rubbish lasted.The linenclothingandcosmeticsof theEgyptianshadlasted.Itwasonlythehumanflamethatcertainly,certainlywentout.Otherthings had a fighting chance; theymightmeetwithmishap and be destroyed,theymightnot.But thehumancreaturewhogatheredandshapedandhoardedandfoolishlylovedthesethings,hehadnochance—absolutelynone.Wanning’scane,hishat,his topcoat,mightgo frombeggar tobeggarandknockabout inthisworldforanotherfiftyyearsorso;butnothe.

In the late afternoon he never hurried to leave his office now.Wonderfulsunsets burned over the North River, wonderful stars trembled up among thetowers; more wonderful than anything he could hurry away to. One of hiswindows looked directly down upon the spire of Old Trinity, with the greenchurchyardand thepale sycamores farbelow.Wanningoftendropped into thechurchwhenhewasgoingouttolunch;notbecausehewastryingtomakehispeace with Heaven, but because the church was old and restful and familiar,because it and its gravestones had sat in the same place for a longwhile.Hebought flowers from the street boys and kept them on his desk, which hispartnersthoughtstrangebehavior,andwhichMissDoaneconsideredasignthathewasfailing.

But thereweregraver things thanbouquets forMissDoane and the seniorpartnertoponderover.

Theseniorpartner,McQuiston,inspiteofhissilveryhairandmustacheandhisimportantchurchconnections,hadrichnaturaltasteforscandal.—AfterMr.Wadewentawayforhisvacation, inMay,WanningtookAnnieWooleyoutofthecopyingroom,putheratadeskinhisprivateoffice,andraisedherpaytoeighteendollarsaweek,explainingtoMcQuistonthatforthesummermonthshewouldneedasecretary.ThisexplanationsatisfiedneitherMcQuistonnorMissDoane.

Anniewas also paid for overtime, and althoughWanning attended to verylittleoftheofficebusinessnow,therewasagreatdealofovertime.MissDoanewas, of course, ‘above’ questioning a chit likeAnnie; butwhatwas he doing

withhistimeandhisnewsecretary,shewantedtoknow?IfanyonehadtoldherthatWanningwaswritingabook,shewouldhavesaid

bitterlythatitwasjustlikehim.InhisyouthWanninghadhankeredforthepen.When he studied law, he had intended to combine that profession with sometemptingformofauthorship.Hadheremainedabachelor,hewouldhavebeenan unenterprising literary lawyer to the end of his days. It was his wife’srestlessness andher practical turnofmind that hadmadehimamoney-getter.Hisillnessseemedtobringbacktohimtheillusionswithwhichheleftcollege.

AssoonashisfamilywereoutofthewayandheshutuptheOrangehouse,hebegantodictatehisautobiographytoAnnieWooley.Itwasnotonlythestoryofhislife,butanexpressionofallhistheoriesandopinions,andacommentaryonthefiftyyearsofeventswhichhecouldremember.

Fortunately,hewasabletotakegreatinterestinthisundertaking.Hehadthehappiest convictions about the clear-cut style he was developing and hisincreasingfelicityinphrasing.Hemeanttopublishtheworkhandsomely,athisown expense and under his own name.He rather enjoyed the thought of howgreatlydisturbedHaroldwouldbe.HeandHarolddifferedintheirestimatesofbooks.AllthesolidworkswhichmadeupWanning’slibrary,Haroldconsideredbeneathcontempt.Anybody,hesaid,coulddothatsortofthing.

WhenWanningcouldnotsleepatnight,heturnedonthelightbesidehisbedandmadenotesonthechapterhemeanttodictatethenextday.

Whenhereturnedtotheofficeafterlunch,hegaveinstructionsthathewasnottobeinterruptedbytelephonecalls,andshuthimselfupwithhissecretary.

After he had opened all the windows and taken off his coat, he fell todictating.Hefounditadelightfuloccupation, thesolaceofeachday.Oftenhehadsuddenfitsoftiredness;thenhewouldliedownontheleathersofaanddropasleep,whileAnnieread“TheLeopard’sSpots”untilheawoke.

Like many another business man Wanning had relied so long onstenographersthattheoperationofwritingwithapenhadbecomelaborioustohim.Whenheundertookit,hewantedtocuteverythingshort.Butwalkingupand down his private office, with the strong afternoon sun pouring in at hiswindows, a fresh air stirring, all the people and boatsmoving restlessly down

there,hecouldsaythingshewantedtosay.Itwaslikelivinghislifeoveragain.Hedidnotmisshiswifeorhisdaughters.Hehadbecomeagain themild,

contemplativeyouthhewasincollege,beforehehadaprofessionandafamilyto grind for, before the two needs which shape our destiny hadmade of himprettymuchwhattheymakeofeveryman.

Atfiveo’clockWanningsometimeswentoutforacupofteaandtookAnniealong.Hefeltdullanddiscouragedassoonashewasalone.SolongasAnniewaswithhim,hecouldkeepagriponhisownthoughts.Theytalkedaboutwhathehadjustbeendictatingtoher.Shefoundthathelikedtobequestioned,andshetriedtobegreatlyinterestedinitall.

After tea, theywentback to theoffice.OccasionallyWanning lost trackoftime and kept Annie until it grew dark. He knew he had old McQuistonguessing, but he didn’t care. One day the senior partner came to him with areprovingair.

“I amafraidMissDoane is leavingus,Paul.She feels thatMissWooley’spromotionisirregular.”

“How is that any business of hers, I’d like to know?She has allmy legalwork.Sheisalwaysdisagreeableenoughaboutdoinganythingelse.”

McQuiston’spuffyredfacewentashadedarker.“Miss Doane has a certain professional pride; a strong feeling for office

organization.Shedoesn’tcare tofillanequivocalposition.Idon’tknowthatIblame her. She feels that there is something not quite regular about theconfidenceyouseemtoplaceinthisinexperiencedyoungwoman.”

Wanningpushedbackhischair.“I don’t care a hang about Miss Doane’s sense of propriety. I need a

stenographerwhowillcarryoutmyinstructions.I’vecarriedoutMissDoane’slongenough. I’ve let that schoolma’amhectorme foryears.Shecangowhenshepleases.”

ThatnightMcQuistonwrotetohispartnerthatthingswereinabadway,andtheywouldhave tokeep an eyeonWanning.Hehadbeen seen at the theatrewithhisnewstenographer.

That was true. Wanning had several times taken Annie to the Palace on

Saturday afternoon.When all his acquaintances were offmotoring or playinggolf,whenthedown-townofficesandeventhestreetsweredeserted,itamusedhimtowatchafoolishshowwithadelighted,cheerfullittlepersonbesidehim.

Beyondhergenerosity,Anniehadnoshiningmeritsofcharacter,butshehadthegiftof thinkingwellof everything, andwishingwell.When shewas thereWanningfeltasifthereweresomeonewhocaredwhetherthiswasagoodorabaddaywithhim.OldSam,too,waslikethat.Whiletheoldblackmanputhimto bed andmade him comfortable,Wanning could talk to him as he talked tolittleAnnie.Evenifhedweltuponhisillness,inplainterms,indetail,hedidnotfeelasifhewereimposingonthem.

People like Sam and Annie admitted misfortune,—admitted it almostcheerfully.Annieandherfamilydidnotconsiderillnessoranyofitshardfactsvulgarorindecent.Ithaditsplaceintheirschemeoflife,asithadnotinthatofWanning’sfriends.

Annie came out of a typical poor family ofNewYork.Of eight children,onlyfourlivedtogrowup.Insuchfamiliesthestreamoflifeisbroadenough,butrunsshallow.Inthechildren,vitalityisexhaustedearly.Therootsdonotgodown into anything very strong. Illness and deaths and funerals, in her ownfamilyandinthoseofherfriends,hadcomeatfrequentintervalsinAnnie’slife.Since they had to be, she and her sisters made the best of them. There wassomethingtobegotoutoffunerals,even,iftheyweremanagedright.Theykeptpeople in touchwith old friendswho hadmoved uptown, and revived kindlyfeelings.

Anniehadoftengivenup things shewantedbecause therewas sickness athome, and now shewas patientwith her boss.What he paid her for overtimeworkbynomeansmadeuptoherwhatshelost.

Anniewas not in the least thrifty, norwere any of her sisters. She had tomakealiving,butshewasnotinterestedingettingallshecouldforhertime,orin laying up for the future. Girls like Annie know that the future is a veryuncertainthing,andtheyfeelnoresponsibilityaboutit.Thepresentiswhattheyhave—and it is all theyhave. IfAnniemissedachance togo sailingwith theplumber’ssononSaturdayafternoon,why,shemissedit.Asforthetwodollars

her boss gave her, she handed them over to hermother.Now thatAnniewasgettingmoremoney,oneofhersistersquitajobshedidn’tlikeandwasstayingathomeforarest.ThatwasallpromotionmeanttoAnnie.

The first timeAnnie’s boss asked her towork on Saturday afternoon, shecouldnothideherdisappointment.Hesuggestedthattheymightknockoffearlyandgotoashow,ortakearuninhiscar,butshegrewtearfulandsaiditwouldbe hard to make her family understand. Wanning thought perhaps he couldexplaintohermother.HecalledhismotorandtookAnniehome.

When his car stopped in front of the tenement house on Eighth Avenue,headscamepoppingoutofthewindowsforsixstorysup,andall theneighborwomen,indressingsacksandwrappers,gazeddownat themachineandat thecouplealightingfromit.Amotormeantaweddingorthehospital.

The plumber’s son,Willy Steen, came over from the corner saloon to seewhatwasgoingon,andAnnieintroducedhimatthedoorstep.

Mrs.WooleyaskedWanningtocomeintotheparlorandinvitedhimtohaveachairofceremonybetweenthefoldingbedandthepiano.

Annie, nervous and tearful, escaped to the dining-room—the cheerful spotwhere the daughters visitedwith each other andwith their friends.The parlorwasamaskedsleepingchamberandstoreroom.

Theplumber’ssonsatdownonthesofabesideMrs.Wooley,asifhewereaccustomedtoshare in thefamilycouncils.Mrs.Wooleywaitedexpectantandkindly. She looked the sensible, hard-working woman that she was, and onecouldseeshehadn’tlivedallherlifeonEighthAvenuewithoutlearningagreatdeal.

Wanning explained to her that hewaswriting a bookwhich hewanted tofinishduring the summermonthswhenbusinesswasnot soheavy.Hewas illand could not work regularly. His secretary would have to take his dictationwhenhefeltable togive it;must, inshort,beasortofcompanion tohim.Hewouldliketofeelthatshecouldgooutinhiscarwithhim,oreventothetheater,whenhefeltlikeit.Itmighthavebeenbetterifhehadengagedayoungmanforthiswork,butsincehehadbegunitwithAnnie,hewouldliketokeepherifhermotherwaswilling.

Mrs. Wooley watched him with friendly, searching eyes. She glanced atWillySteen,who,wiseinsuchdistinctions,haddecidedthattherewasnothingshadyaboutAnnie’sboss.Henoddedhissanction.

“Idon’twantmygirl toconductherself inanysuchwayaswillprejudiceher,Mr.Wanning,” she said thoughtfully. “If you’ve got daughters, you knowhowthatis.You’vebeenliberalwithAnnie,andit’sagoodpositionforher.It’srightsheshouldgotobusinesseveryday,andIwanthertodoherworkright,but I like tohaveherhomeafterworkinghours. I always thinkayounggirl’stime is her own after business hours, and I try not to burden themwhen theycomehome.I’mwillingsheshoulddoyourworkassuitsyou,ifit’sherwish;butIdon’tliketopressher.Thegoodtimesshemissesnow,it’snotyounorme,sir,thatcanmakethemuptoher.Theseyoungthingshastheirfeelings.”

“Oh,Idon’twanttopressher,either,”Wanningsaidhastily.“Isimplywanttoknowthatyouunderstand thesituation. I’vemadehera littlepresent inmywillasarecognitionthatsheisdoingmoreformethansheispaidfor.”

“That’ssomethingaboveme,sir.We’llhope therewon’tbenoquestionofwillsformanyyearsyet,”Mrs.Wooleyspokeheartily.“I’mgladifmygirlcanbeofanyusetoyou,justsoshedon’tprejudiceherself.”

Theplumber’ssonroseasiftheinterviewwereover.“It’sallright,MamaWooley,don’tyouworry,”hesaid.HepickeduphiscanvascapandturnedtoWanning.“Yousee,Annieain’t

thesortofgirl thatwouldwanttobespottedcirculatingaroundwithamoniedpartyherfolksdidn’tknowallabout.She’dlosefriendsbyit.”

AfterthisconversationAnniefeltagreatdealhappier.ShewasstillshyandatrifleawkwardwithpoorWanningwhentheywereoutsidetheofficebuilding,andshemissedtheoldfreedomofherSaturdayafternoons.Butshedidthebestshecould,andWillySteentriedtomakeituptoher.

InAnnie’sabsenceheoftencameinofanafternoontohaveacupofteaandasugar-bunwithMrs.Wooleyandthedaughterwhowas“resting.”Astheysatatthedining-roomtable,theydiscussedAnnie’semployer,hispeculiarities,hishealth,andwhathehadtoldMrs.Wooleyabouthiswill.

Mrs.Wooleysaidshesometimesfeltafraidhemightdisinherithischildren,

as richpeople oftendid, andmake talk; but shehoped for thebest.WhatevercametoAnnie,sheprayeditmightnotbeintheformoftaxableproperty.

IV

LateinSeptemberWanninggrewsuddenlyworse.Hisfamilyhurriedhome,andhewasputtobedinhishouseinOrange.Hekeptaskingthedoctorswhenhecouldgetbacktotheoffice,buthelivedonlyeightdays.

Themorningafterhis father’s funeral,Haroldwent to theoffice toconsultWanning’spartnersandtoreadthewill.Everythinginthewillwasasitshouldbe. There were no surprises except a codicil in the form of a letter to Mrs.Wanning,datedJuly8th,requestingthatoutoftheestatesheshouldpaythesumof one thousand dollars to his stenographer,AnnieWooley, “in recognition ofherfaithfulservices.”

“IthoughtMissDoanewasmyfather’sstenographer,”Haroldexclaimed.AlecMcQuistonlookedembarrassedandspokeinalow,guardedtone.“Shewas,foryears.Butthisspring,—”hehesitated.McQuistonlovedascandal.HeleanedacrosshisdesktowardHarold.“This springyour father put this little girl,MissWooley, a copyist, utterly

inexperienced, inMissDoane’s place.MissDoanewas indignant and left us.The changemade comment here in the office. It was slightly—No, I will befrankwithyou,Harold,itwasveryirregular.”

Harold also looked grave. “What could my father have meant by such arequestasthistomymother?”

The silver haired senior partner flushed and spoke as if hewere trying tobreaksomethinggently.

“Idon’tunderstandit,myboy.ButIthink,indeedIprefertothink,thatyourfatherwasnotquitehimselfallthissummer.Amanlikeyourfatherdoesnot,inhisrightsenses, findpleasure in thesocietyofan ignorant,commonlittlegirl.Hedoesnotmakeapractiseofkeepingherattheofficeafterhours,oftenuntileighto’clock,ortakehertorestaurantsandtothetheaterwithhim;not,atleast,inaslanderouscitylikeNewYork.”

Harold flinched before McQuiston’s meaning gaze and turned aside inpainedsilence.Heknew,asadramatist,thattherearedarkchaptersinallmen’slives, and this but too clearly explainedwhyhis father had stayed in town allsummerinsteadofjoininghisfamily.

McQuistonaskedifheshouldringforAnnieWooley.Harolddrewhimselfup.“No.WhyshouldIseeher?Iprefernotto.Butwith

yourpermission,Mr.McQuiston,Iwilltakechargeofthisrequesttomymother.Itcouldonlygiveherpain,andmightawakendoubtsinhermind.”

“We hardly know,” murmured the senior partner, “where an investigationwouldleadus.Technically,ofcourse,Icannotagreewithyou.Butif,asoneofthe executors of the will, you wish to assume personal responsibility for thisbequest,underthecircumstances—irregularitiesbegetirregularities.”

“Myfirstdutytomyfather,”saidHarold,“istoprotectmymother.”That afternoonMcQuistoncalledAnnieWooley intohisprivateofficeand

told her that her serviceswould not be needed any longer, and that in lieu ofnoticetheclerkwouldgivehertwoweeks’salary.

“CanIcalluphereforreferences?”Annieasked.“Certainly.Butyouhadbetteraskforme,personally.Youmustknowthere

hasbeensomecriticismofyouhereintheoffice,MissWooley.”“Whatabout?”Annieaskedboldly.“Well,ayounggirl likeyoucannotrendersomuchpersonalservice toher

employerasyoudidtoMr.Wanningwithoutcausingunfavorablecomment.Tobebluntwithyou,foryourowngood,mydearyounglady,yourservicestoyouremployer should terminate in the office, and at the close of office hours.Mr.Wanningwas a very sickman and his judgmentwas at fault, but you shouldhaveknownwhatagirlinyourstationcandoandwhatshecannotdo.”

ThevaguediscomfortofmonthsflashedupinlittleAnnie.Shehadnomindtostandbyandbelecturedwithouthavingawordtosayforherself.

“Ofcoursehewassick,poorman!”sheburstout.“Notasanybodyseemedmuchupsetaboutit.Iwouldn’thavegivenupmyhalf-holidaysforanybodyiftheyhadn’tbeensick,nomatterwhattheypaidme.Therewasn’tanythinginitforme.”

McQuistonraisedhishandwarningly.“Thatwilldo,younglady.Butwhenyougetanotherplace,rememberthis:it

isneveryourdutytoentertainortoprovideamusementforyouremployer.”He gaveAnnie a lookwhich she did not clearly understand, although she

pronouncedhimanastyoldmanasshehustledonherhatandjacket.WhenAnnie reached home she foundWilly Steen sittingwith hermother

andsisteratthedining-roomtable.ThiswasthefirstdaythatAnniehadgonetothe office since Wanning’s death, and her family awaited her return withsuspense.

“Helloyourself,”Anniecalledasshecameinandthrewherhandbagintoanemptyarmchair.

“You’reoffearly,Annie,”saidhermothergravely.“Hasthewillbeenread?”“Iguessso.Yes,Iknowithas.MissWilsongotitoutofthesafeforthem.

Thesoncamein.He’sapill.”“Wasnothingsaidtoyou,daughter?”“Yes,a lot.Pleasegivemesome tea,mother.”Annie felt thather swagger

wasfailing.“Don’ttantalizeus,Ann,”hersisterbrokein.“Didn’tyougetanything?”“Igotthemit,allright.AndsomebacktalkfromtheoldmanthatI’mawful

soreabout.”Anniedashedawaythetearsandgulpedhertea.Gradually hermother andWilly drew the story from her.Willy offered at

once togo to theofficebuildingand takehisstandoutside thedoorandneverleaveituntilhehadpunchedoldMr.McQuiston’sface.Heroseasiftoattendtoitatonce,butMrs.Wooleydrewhimtohischairagainandpattedhisarm.

“Itwouldonlystarttalkandgetthegirlintrouble,Willy.Whenit’slawyers,folks inourstation ishelpless. Icertainlybelieved thatmanwhenhesathere;youheardhimyourself.Suchagentlemanashelooked.”

Willythumpedhisgreatfist,stillinpunchingposition,downonhisknee.“Neveryoubefooledagain,MamaWooley.You’llnevergetanythingoutof

a rich guy that he ain’t signed up in the courts for. Rich is tight. There’s noexceptions.”

Annieshookherhead.“Ididn’twantanythingoutofhim.Hewasanice,kindman,andhehadhis

troubles,Iguess.Hewasn’ttight.”“Still,” said Mrs. Wooley sadly, “Mr. Wanning had no call to hold out

promises.Ihatetobedisappointedinagentleman.You’vehadconfiningworkforsometime,daughter;arestwilldoyougood.”

SmartSet,October1919

PartIIReviewsandEssays

MarkTwain

I FTHERE ISANYTHINGWHICH SHOULDMAKEANAMERICAN SICKANDDISGUSTEDAT

theliterarytasteofhiscountry,andalmostswervehisallegiancetohisflagitisthatcontroversybetweenMarkTwainandMaxO’Rell,inwhichtheFrenchmanproves himself a wit and a gentleman and the American shows himself littleshortofaclownandanall around tough.ThesquabblearoseaproposofPaulBourget’snewbookonAmerica,“OutreMer,”abookwhichdealsmorefairlyandgenerouslywiththiscountrythananybookyetwritteninaforeigntongue.Mr.Clemens did not like the book, and like allmen of his class, and limitedmentality, he cannot criticise without becoming personal and insulting. Hecannotbe scathingwithoutbeingablackguard.He tried todemolisha seriousandwellconsideredworkbypublishingascurrilous,slangyandlooselywrittenarticleaboutit.InthisarticleMr.ClemensprovesverylittleagainstMr.Bourgetandaverygreatdealagainsthimself.Hedemonstratesclearlythatheisneitherascholar,areaderoramanoflettersandverylittleofagentleman.HisignoranceofFrenchliteratureissomethingappalling.Why,inthesedaysitisasnecessary

foraliterarymantohaveawideknowledgeoftheFrenchmasterpiecesasitisforhimtohavereadShakespeareortheBible.Whatmanwhopretendstobeanauthor can afford to neglect those models of style and composition. GeorgeMeredith,ThomasHardyandHenryJamesexcepted, thegreat livingnovelistsareFrenchmen.

Mr.Clemens askswhat theFrench sensualists canpossibly teach thegreatAmericanpeopleaboutnovelwritingormorality?Well, itwouldnotseriouslyhurttheartoftheclassicauthorof“Puddin’HeadWilson”tostudyDaudet,DeMaupassant,HugoandGeorgeSand,whateveritmightdotohismorals.MarkTwainisahumoristofakind.Hishumorisalwaysratherbroad,sobroadthatthepoliteworldcanjustlycall itcoarse.Heisnotareadernora thinkernoramanwho lovesartofanykind.He is acleverYankeewhohasmadea“goodthing”outofwriting.HehasbeenpublishedintheNorthAmericanReviewandintheCentury,butheisnotandneverwillbeapartofliterature.TheassociationandcompanionshipofculturedmenhasgivenMarkTwainasortofprofessionalveneer,butitcouldnotgivehimfineinstinctsornicediscriminationsorelevatedtastes.Hisworks are pure and suitable for children, just as thework ofmostshallowandmediocrefellows.Housedogsanddonkeysmakethemostharmlessandchastecompanionsforyounginnocenceintheworld.MarkTwain’shumorisofthekindthatteamstersuseinbanteringwitheachother,andhislaughisthegruff “haw-haw”of thebackwoodsman.He is still the rough, awkward,good-natured boy who swore at the deck hands on the river steamer and cheweduncured tobaccowhen hewas three years old. Thoroughly likeable as a goodfellow, but impossible as a man of letters. It is an unfortunate feature ofAmericanliteraturethatahostlerwithsomenaturalclevernessandagreatdealofassertionreceivesthesamerecognitionasastandardAmericanauthorthatamanlikeLowelldoes.TheFrenchacademyisagoodthingafterall.Itat leastdividesthesheepfromthegoatsandgivesasheeptheconsolationofknowingthatheisasheep.

It is rather a pity that Paul Bourget should have written “Outre Mer,”thoroughlycreditablebookthoughitis.Mr.Bourgetisanovelist,andheshouldnotcontenthimselfwithbeinganessayist,therearefartoomanyoftheminthe

worldalready.Hecandevelopstrongcharacters,inventstrongsituations,hecanwrite the truth and he should not drift into penning opinions and platitudes.WhenGodhasmadeamanacreator,itisagreatmistakeforhimtoturncritic.ItisratheraninsulttoGodandcertainlyaverygreatwrongtoman.

NebraskaStateJournal,May5,1895

Igotaletterlastweekfromalittleboyjusthalf-pastsevenwhohadjustread“HuckleberryFinn”and“TomSawyer.”Hesaid:“If thereareanymorebookslikethemintheworld,sendthemtomequick.”IhadtohumblyconfesstohimthatiftherewereanyothersIhadnotthegoodfortunetoknowofthem.Whatared-letter-dayitistoaboy,thedayhefirstopens“TomSawyer.”IwouldrathersailontheraftdowntheMissouriagainwith“Huck”FinnandJimthangodownthe Nile in December or see Venice from a gondola inMay. CertainlyMarkTwainismuchbetterwhenhewritesofhisMissouriboysthanwhenhemakessickleyromancesaboutJoanofArc.Andcertainlyheneverdidabetterpieceofwork than “Prince and Pauper.” One seems to get at the very heart of oldEnglandinthatdearestofchildren’sbooks,andinitspagesthefrailboyking,andhisgloomysisterMarywhoinherdaywroughtsomuchwoeforunhappyEngland,andthedashingPrincessElizabethwholivedtorulesowell,seemtoliveagain.AfriendofMr.Clemens’oncetoldmethathesaidhewrotethatbookso thatwhen his little daughters grewup theymight know that their tired oldjesterofafathercouldbeseriousandgentlesometimes.

TheHomeMonthly,May1897

WilliamDeanHowells

C ERTAINLYNOWINHISOLDAGEMR.HOWELLSISSELECTINGQUEERTITLESFORHIS

books.Awhileagowehadthatfeebletale,“TheCoastofBohemia,”andnowwehave“MyLiteraryPassions.” “Passions,” literaryorotherwise,wereneverMr.Howells’ forte and surelynomancouldbe further fromeven the coastofBohemia.

Apropos of “My Literary Passions” which has so long strung out in theLadies’HomeJournalalongwiththosethrillingarticlesabouthowHenryWardBeechertiedhisnecktieandwhatkindofcoffeeMrs.HallCainlikes,whydidMr. Howells write it? Doesn’tMr. Howells know that at one time or anotherevery one raves overDonQuixote, imitatesHeine,worships Tourgueneff andcalls Tolstoi a prophet? DoesMr. Howells think that no one but he ever hadyouthandenthusiasmandaspirations?Doesn’theknowthattheonlythingthatmakestheworldworthlivinginatall is thatonce,whenweareyoung,weallhavethatgreatloveforbooksandimpersonalthings,allreverenceanddream?We have all known the timewhen Porthos, Athos and d’Artaganwere vastlymore realand important tous than the folkswho livednextdoor.WehavealldweltinthatcountrywhereAnnaKareninaandtheLevinsweretheonlypeople

who mattered much. We have all known that intoxicating period when wethoughtwe “understood life,” becausewe had readDaudet, Zola andGuy deMaupassant, and likeMr.Howellswe all looked back rather fondly upon thetimewhenwebelievedthatbookswerethetruthandartwasall.Afterawhilebooksgrowmatteroffactlikeeverythingelseandwealwaysthinkenviouslyofthe days when they were new and wonderful and strange. That’s a part ofexistence.We loseour firstkeen relish for literature just aswe lose it for ice-cream and confectionery.The taste grows older,wiser andmore subdued.Wewouldallwearoutofveryenthusiasmifitdidnot.ButwhyshouldMr.Howellstell theworld this common experience in detail as though itwere his and hisalone.Hemightaswellwriteadetailedaccountofhowhehadthemeaslesandthewhoopingcough. Itwasall rightandproper forMr.Howells to likeHeineandHugo,but,inthewordsofthecircusclown,“We’veallbeenthere.”

NebraskaStateJournal,July14,1895

EdgarAllanPoe

MytantalizedspiritHereblandlyreposes,

Forgetting,orneverRegrettingitsroses,

ItsoldagitationsOfmyrtlesandroses.

Fornow,whilesoquietlyLying,itfancies

AholierodorAboutit,ofpansies—

ArosemaryodorCommingledwithpansies.

WithrueandthebeautifulPuritanpansies.

—EdgarAllanPoe.

T HE SHAKESPEARE SOCIETY OF NEW YORK, WHICH IS REALLY ABOUT THE ONLY

usefulliteraryorganizationinthiscountry,ismakingvigorouseffortstoredressanoldwrongandatoneforalongneglect.Sunday,Sept.22,itheldameetingatthePoecottageonKingsbridgeroadnearFordham,forthepurposeofstartinganorganizedmovementtobuybackthecottage,restoreittoitsoriginalconditionandpreserveitasamemorialofPoe.Soithascomeatlast.AfterhelpingbuildmonumentstoShelley,KeatsandCarlylewehaveatlastrememberedthisman,thegreatestofourpoetsandthemostunhappy.IamgladthatthismovementisinthehandsofAmericanactors,foritwasamongthemthatPoefoundhisbestfriends andwarmest admirers. Someway he always seemed to belong to thestrollingThespianswhowerehismother’speople.

Amongallthethousandsoflife’slittleironiesthatmakehistorysodiverting,there is none more paradoxical than that Edgar Poe should have been anAmerican.Lookathisface.Hadweeveranotherlikeit?Hemusthavebeenastrange figure in his youth, among those genial, courtly Virginians, thishandsome, pale fellow, violent in his enthusiasm, ardent in his worship, butspirituallycoldinhisaffections.Nowplayingheavilyforthemereexcitementofplay,nowworshippingat the shrineof awomanoldenough tobehismother,merelybecausehervoicewasbeautiful;nowswimmingsixmilesuptheJamesriveragainstaheavycurrentintheglaringsunofaJunemidday.Hemusthaveseemedtothemanunrealfigure,asortofstagemanwhowaswanderingaboutthestreetswithhismaskandbuskinson,atheatricalfigurewhohadescapedbysomestrangemischanceintotheprosaicdaylight.Hisspeechandactionswereunconsciouslyandsincerelydramatic,alwaysasthoughdoneforeffect.Hehadthatnervous,egotistic,self-centerednaturecommontostagechildrenwhoseemtohavebeendazzledbythefootlightsandmaddenedbytheapplausebeforetheyareborn.Itwasinhisblood.Withtheexceptionoftwowomenwholovedhim,livedforhim,diedforhim,hewentthroughlifefriendless,misunderstood,withthat dense, complete, hopeless misunderstanding which, as Amiel said, is thesecretofthatsadsmileuponthelipsofthegreat.Mentriedtobefriendhim,but

in someway or other he hurt and disappointed them.He tried tomingle andsharewithothermen,buthewasalwaysshutfromthembythatshadow,lightasgossamerbutunyieldingasadamant,bywhich,fromthebeginningoftheworld,arthasshieldedandguardedandprotectedherown,thatGod-concealingmistinwhich the heroes of old were hidden, immersed in that gloom and solitudewhich,ifwecouldbutknowithere,isbuttheshadowofGod’shandasitfallsuponhiselect.

Welamentourdearthofgreatprose.WiththeexceptionofHenryJamesandHawthorne,Poeisouronlymasterofpureprose.Welamentourdearthofpoets.WiththeexceptionofLowell,Poeisouronlygreatpoet.Poefoundshortstorywritingabunglingmakeshift.Heleft itaperfectart.Hewrote thefirstperfectshort stories in the English language. He first gave the short story purpose,method,andartisticform.Inacarelessreadingonecannotrealizethewonderfulliteraryart, thecunningdevices,themasterlyeffectsthatthoseentrancingtalesconceal.Theyaresimpleanddirectenoughtodelightuswhenwearechildren,subtleandartisticenoughtobeourmarvelwhenweareold.TothisdaytheyarethewonderandadmirationoftheFrench,whoaretheacknowledgedmastersofcraftandform.Howinhiswandering,laboriouslife,boundtothehackworkofthepressandcrushedbyanever-growingburdenofwantanddebt,didheevercomeuponall thisdeepandmystical lore, thisknowledgeofallhistory,ofalllanguages, of all art, this penetration into the hidden things of the East? AsSteadman says, “The self training of genius is always amarvel.” The past isspread before us all and most of us spend our lives in learning those thingswhichwedonot need to know, but genius reaches out instinctively and takesonly the vital detail, by some sort of spiritual gravitation goes directly to therightthing.

PoebelongedtothemodernFrenchschoolofdecorativeanddiscriminatingprose before it ever existed in France. He rivalled Gautier, Flaubert and deMaupassantbefore theywereborn.Heclothedhis tales inabarbaric splendorandpersuasiveunrealityneverbeforeheardofinEnglish.Nosuchprofusionofcolor, oriental splendor of detail, grotesque combinations andmystical effectshad ever before been wrought into language. There are tales as grotesque, as

monstrous,unearthlyasthestonegriffensandgargoylesthatarecutupamongtheunvisitednichesandtowersofNotreDame,storiesaspoeticanddelicatelybeautiful as the golden lacework chased upon anEtruscan ring.He fitted hiswords together as theByzantine jewelers fitted priceless stones.He found theinnerharmonyandkinshipofwords.Wherelivedanothermanwhocouldblendthebeautifuland thehorrible, thegorgeousand thegrotesque in such intricateandinexplicablefashion?Whocoulddelightyouwithhisnounanddisgustyouwithhisverb,thrillyouwithhisadjectiveandchillyouwithhisadverb,makeyourunthewholegamutofhumanemotionsinasinglesentence?SittinginthatmiserablecottageatFordhamhewroteofthesplendorofdreampalacesbeyondthedreamsofart.Hehungthosegrimywallswithdreamtapestries,pavedthosenarrow hallswith blackmarble and polished onyx, and into those low-roofedchambershebroughtallthetreasuredimageryoffancy,fromthe“hugecarvingsof untutored Egypt” to “mingled and conflicting perfumes, reeking up fromstrange convolute censers, together with multitudinous, flaring and flickeringtongues of purple and violet fire.”Hungry and ragged hewrote of Epicureanfeasts and luxury thatwouldhavebeggared thepurpledpompofpaganRomeandputNeroandhisGoldenHousetoshame.

And thismightymasterof theorganof language,whoknewitseverystopandpipe,whocouldawakenatwillthethinsilvertonesofitsslenderestreedsorthesolemncadenceofitsdeepestthunder,whocouldmakeitsinglikeafluteorroar likeacataract,hewasborn intoacountrywithouta literature.Hewasofthatornateschoolwhichusuallycomeslastinanationalliterature,andhecamefirst.American taste had been vitiated bymen likeGriswold andN. P.Willisuntilitwasatthelowestpossibleebb.Williswasconsideredagenius,thatistheworstthatcouldpossiblybesaid.IntheNorthanewraceofgreatphilosopherswas growing up, but Poe had neither their friendship nor encouragement. Hewent indeed, sometimes, to the chilly salon of Margaret Fuller, but he wasalways a discord there. He was a mere artist and he had no business withphilosophy,hehadnotheoriesastothe“higherlife”andthe“truehappiness.”He had only his unshapen dreams that battled with him in dark places, theunbornthatstruggledinhisbrainforbirth.Whattimehasanartisttolearnthe

multiplication table or to talk philosophy? He was not afraid of them. HelaughedatWillis,andflungLongfellow’slieinhisteeth,thelietherestoftheworld was twenty years in finding. He scorned the obtrusive learning of thetranscendentalistsandhedislikedtheirhardtalkativewomen.Heleftthemandwent back to his dream women, his Berenice, his Ligeia, his MarchesaAphrodite,paleandcoldasthemistmaidensoftheNorth,sadastheNornswhoweepforhumanwoe.

ThetragedyofPoe’slifewasnotalcohol,buthunger.Hediedwhenhewasforty,whenhisworkwas just beginning.Thackerayhadnot touchedhisgreatnovels at forty,George Eliotwas almost unknown at that age.Hugo,Goethe,Hawthorne, Lowell and Dumas all did their great work after they were fortyyearsold.Poeneverdidhisgreatwork.Hecouldnotendure thehunger.ThisyeartheDrexelInstitutehasputoversixtythousanddollarsintoaneweditionofPoe’spoemsandstories.Hehimselfnevergotsixthousandforthemaltogether.Ifoneofthegreatandlearnedinstitutionsofthelandhadinvestedonetenthofthatamount in the livingauthor fortyyearsagoweshouldhavehad fromhimsuchworksaswouldhavemadethenameofthisnationgreat.Buthesold“TheMasqueoftheRedDeath”forafewdollars,andnowtheDrexelInstitutepaysapublisher thousands topublish itbeautifully. It is enough tomakeSatan laughuntilhisribsache,andallthelittledevilslaughandheaponfreshcoals.Idon’twondertheyhatehumanity.It’ssodense,sohopelesslystupid.

Only a few weeks before Poe’s death he said he had never had time oropportunity to make a serious effort. All his tales were merely experiments,thrownoffwhenhisday’sworkasajournalistwasover,whenheshouldhavebeen asleep.All those voyages into themystical unknown, into the gleaming,impalpablekingdomofpureromancefromwhichhebroughtbacksuchsplendidtrophies,werebutexperiments.Hewasonlygettinghistoolsintoshapegettingreadyforhisgreateffort,theeffortthatnevercame.

Bread seems a little thing to stand in the way of genius, but it can. Thesimplesordidfactswerethese,thatinthebittereststormsofwinterPoeseldomwrotebya fire, that afterhewas twenty-fiveyearsoldheneverknewwhat itwastohaveenoughtoeatwithoutdreadingtomorrow’shunger.Chattertonhad

onlyhimselftosacrifice,butPoesawthewomanheloveddieofwantbeforehisveryeyes,diesmilingandbegginghimnot togiveuphiswork.Theysawthedepths together in those long winter nights when she lay in that cold room,wrappedinPoe’sonlycoat,he,withonehandholdinghers,andwiththeotherdashingoffsomeofthemostperfectmasterpiecesofEnglishprose.Andwhenhe would wince and turn white at her coughing, she would always whisper:“Workon,mypoet,andwhenyouhavefinishedreadittome.IamhappywhenI listen.”O, thedevotionofwomenand themadnessof art!Theyare the twomostawesomethingsonearth,andsurelythismanknewbothtothefull.

I havewondered so often howhe did it.Howhe kept his purpose alwayscleanandhistastealwaysperfect.Howitwasthathardlaborneverweariednorjadedhim,neverlimitedhisimagination,thatthejarringclamorabouthimneverdrowned the fine harmonies of his fancy.His discrimination remained alwaysdelicate, and from the constant strain of toil his fancy always rose strong andunfettered.Withoutencouragementorappreciationofanysort,withoutmodelsor precedents he built up that pure style of his that is without peer in thelanguage, thatstyleofwhicheverysentenceisadrawingbyVedder.ElizabethBarrett and a few great artists over in France knewwhat he was doing, theyknewthat in literaturehewasmakingpossibleanewheavenandanewearth.Butheneverknewthattheyknewit.Hediedwithouttheassurancethathewasoreverwouldbeunderstood.Andyetthroughallthis,withthewholeworldofartandlettersagainsthim,betrayedbyhisownpeople,hemanagedtokeepthatloftyidealofperfectwork.Whathesufferednevertouchedormarredhiswork,butitwreckedhischaracter.Poe’scharacterwasmadebyhisnecessity.Hewasaliarandanegotist;amanwhohadtobegforbreadatthehandsofhispublishersandcriticscouldbenothingbutaliar,andhadhenothadtheinsaneegotismandconviction of genius, he would have broken down and written the drivellingtrashthathiscountrymendelightedtoread.Poeliedtohispublisherssometimes,there is nodoubtof that, but therewere two towhomhewasnever false, hiswifeandhismuse.Hedranksometimestoo,whenforveryuglyandrelentlessreasonshecouldnoteat.Andthenheforgotwhathesuffered.ForBacchusisthekindest of the gods after all. When Aphrodite has fooled us and left us and

Athenehasbetrayedusinbattle,thenpoortipsyBacchus,whocovershisheadwith vine leaveswhere the curls are getting thin, holds out his cup to us andsays,“forget.”It’spoorconsolation,buthemeansitwell.

TheTranscendentalistswere good conversationalists, that in factwas theirprincipalaccomplishment.Theyusedtotalkagreatdealofgenius,thatrareandcapriciousspiritthatvisitsearthsoseldom,thatiswooedbysomany,andwonbysofew.Theyhadgrandtheoriesthatallmenshouldbepoets,thatthevisitsofthat rarespirit shouldbemadeas frequentanduniversalasafternooncalls.O,they had plans to make a whole generation of little geniuses. But she onlylaughed her scornful laughter, that deathless lady of the immortals, up in herechoingchambersthatareflooredwithdawnandroofedwiththespangledstars.Andshesnatchedfromthemtheonlymanoftheirnationshehadeverdeignedtolove,whoselipsshehadtouchedwithmusicandwhosesoulwithsong.Inhisyouthshehadshownhimthesecretsofherbeautyandhismanhoodhadbeenonepursuitofher,blindtoallelse,likeAnchises,whoonthenightthatheknewtheloveofVenus,wasstrucksightless,thathemightneverbeholdthefaceofamortalwoman.ForOurLadyofGeniushasnocarefortheprayersandgroansofmortals, nor for their hecatombs sweet of savor.Many a time of old she hasfoiled the plans of seers and none may entreat her or take her by force. Shefavorsnoonenationor clime.She takesone from themillions, andwhen shegivesherselfuntoamanitiswithouthiswillorthatofhisfellows,andhepaysforit,dearheaven,hepays!

“Thesuncomesforthandmanyreptilesspawn,HesetsandeachephemeralinsectthenIsgathereduntodeathwithoutadawn,Andtheimmortalstarsawakeagain.”

Yes, “and the immortal stars awake again.”Nonemay thwart the unerringjusticeofthegods,noteventheTranscendentalists.Whatmatterthatoneman’slifewasmiserable,thatonemanwasbrokenonthewheel?Hisworklivesandhiscrowniseternal.Thattheworkofhisagewasundone,thatisthepity,thattheworkofhisyouthwasdone,thatistheglory.Themanisnothing.Thereare

millionsofmen.Theworkiseverything.Thereissolittleperfection.WelamentourdearthofpoetswhenweletPoestarve.WeareliketheHebrewswhostonedtheirprophetsandthenmarvelledthatthevoiceofGodwassilent.Wewillwaitalongtimeforanother.ThereareGriswoldandN.P.Willis,ourchosenones,letusturntothem.Theirnamesareforgotten.Godisjust.Theyare,

“Gathereduntodeathwithoutadawn.Andtheimmortalstarsawakeagain.”

TheCourier,October12,1895

Youcanaffordtogivealittlemorecareandattentiontothisimaginativeboyofyours than to anyofyourother children.Hisnerves aremore finely strungandallhislifehewillneedyourlovemorethantheothers.Becarefultogethimthebookshelikesandseethattheyaregoodones.GethimavolumeofPoe’sshort stories. I know many people are prejudiced against Poe because of thestorythathedrankhimselftodeath.Butthatmythhasbeenexplodedlongago.Poedranklessthaneventheaveragemanofhistime.No,themostartisticofallAmericanstorytellersdidnotdiebecausehedranktoomuch,butbecauseheatetoolittle.Andyetwe,hisowncountrymenwhoshouldbesoproudofhim,arenotcontentwithhavingstarvedhimandwrongedhimwhilehelived,wemustevengoonslanderinghimafterhehasbeendeadalmostfiftyyears.Butgethisworksforthisimaginativeboyofyoursandhewilltellyouhowgreatamantheauthorof“TheGoldBug”and“TheMasqueof theRedDeath”was.Childrenareimpartialcriticsandsometimesverygoodones.Theydonotreasonaboutabook,theyjustlikeitordislikeitintensely,andafterallthatistheconclusionofthewholematter.Iamverysurethat“TheFalloftheHouseofUsher,”“ThePitand the Pendulum” and “The Black Cat” will give this woolgathering lad ofyoursmorepleasurethananewbicyclecould.

TheHomeMonthly,May1897

WaltWhitman

S PEAKING OF MONUMENTS REMINDS ONE THAT THERE IS MORE TALK ABOUT A

monumenttoWaltWhitman,“thegood,graypoet.”JustwhytheadjectivegoodisalwaysappliedtoWhitmanitisdifficulttodiscover,probablybecausepeoplewhocouldnot understandhimat all took it for granted that hemeantwell. Ifevertherewasapoetwhohadnoliteraryethicsatallbeyondthoseofnature,itwas he. He was neither good nor bad, any more than are the animals hecontinuallyadmiredandenvied.Hewasapoetwithoutanexclusivesenseofthepoetic, a man without the finer discriminations, enjoying everything with theunreasoningenthusiasmofaboy.Hewasthepoetofthedunghillaswellasofthemountains, which is admirable in theory but excruciating in verse. In thesameparagraphheinformsyouthat,“Thepurecontraltosingsintheorganloft,”and that “The malformed limbs are tied to the table, what is removed drophorriblyintoapail.”Nobranchofsurgeryispoetic,andthathopelesslyprosaicword “pail” would kill a whole volume of sonnets. Whitman’s poems arereckless rhapsodies over creation in general, some times sublime, some timesridiculous.Hedeclaresthattheoceanwithits“imperiouswaves,commanding”isbeautiful,andthatthefly-specksonthewallsarealsobeautiful.Suchcatholic

tastemay go in science, but in poetry their results are sad. The poet’s task isusually to select the poetic. Whitman never bothers to do that, he takeseverything in the universe from fly-specks to the fixed stars. His “Leaves ofGrass” isasortofdictionaryof theEnglish language,and in it is thenameofeverythingincreationsetdownwithgreatreverencebutwithoutanyparticularconnection.

ButhoweverridiculousWhitmanmaybethereisaprimitiveelementalforceabouthim.Heissofullofhardinessandofthejoyoflife.Helooksatallnatureinthedelighted,admiringwayinwhichtheoldGreeksandtheprimitivepoetsdid.Heexultssointheredbloodinhisbodyandthestrengthinhisarms.Hehassuchapassionforthewarmthanddignityofallthatisnatural.Hehasnocodebut tobenatural, a code that this complexworldhas so longoutgrown.He issensual, not after the manner of Swinbourne and Gautier, who are alwaysseekingforpervertedandbizarreeffectsonthesenses,butinthefrankfashionoftheoldbarbarianswhoateandsleptandmarriedandsmackedtheirlipsoverthe mead horn. He is rigidly limited to the physical, things that quicken hispulses,pleasehiseyesordelighthisnostrils.Thereisanelementofpoetryinallthis,but it isbynomeans thehighest. If a joyouselephant shouldbreak forthintosong,hislaywouldprobablybeverymuchlikeWhitman’sfamous“songofmyself.” It would have just about as much delicacy and deftness anddiscriminations.Hesays:

“IthinkIcouldturnandlivewiththeanimals.Theyaresoplacidandself-contained,Istandandlookatthemlongandlong.Theydonotsweatandwhineabouttheircondition.Theydonotlieawakeinthedarkandweepfortheirsins.TheydonotmakemesickdiscussingtheirdutytoGod.Notoneisdissatisfiednor not one is demented with the mania of many things. Not one kneels toanothernortohiskindthatlivedthousandsofyearsago.Notoneisrespectableorunhappy,overthewholeearth.”Andthatisnotironyonnature,hemeansjustthat,lifemeantnomoretohim.Heacceptedtheworldjustasitisandglorifiedit, theseemlyandunseemly, thegoodand thebad.Hehadnoconceptionofadifferenceinpeopleorinthings.Allmenhadbodiesandwerealiketohim,oneaboutasgoodasanother.Tolivewastofulfilallnaturallawsandimpulses.To

be comfortablewas to be happy. To be happywas the ultimatum.He did notrealizetheexistenceofaconscienceoraresponsibility.HehadnomorethoughtofgoodorevilthanthefolksinKipling’sJunglebook.

Andyetthereisanundeniablecharmaboutthisoptimisticvagabondwhoismadesohappyby thewarmsunshineand thesmellof spring fields.Asortofgood fellowship andwhole-heartedness in every line hewrote.His venerationforthingsphysicalandmaterial,forallthatisinwaterorairorland,issorealthatasyoureadhimyouthinkforthemomentthatyouwouldratherliketolivesoifyoucould.Forthetimeyouhalfbelievethatasoundbodyandastrongarmarethegreatestthingsintheworld.Perhapsnobookshowssomuchas“LeavesofGrass”thatkeensensesdonotmakeapoet.Whenyoureadityourealizehowspiritedathingpoetryreallyisandhowgreatapartspiritualperceptionsplayinapparentlysensuousverse,ifonlytoselectthebeautifulfromthegross.

NebraskaStateJournal,January19,1896

HenryJames

T HEIRMANIAFORCARELESSANDHASTYWORKISNOTCONFINEDTOTHELESSERMEN.

HowellsandHardyhavegonewiththecrowd.NowthatStevensonisdeadIcanthinkofbutoneEnglishspeakingauthorwhoisreallykeepinghisself-respectandstickingforperfection.OfcourseIrefertothatmightymasteroflanguageandkeenstudentofhumanactionsandmotives,HenryJames. In the last fouryearshehaspublished, I believe, just two small volumes, “TheLessonof theMaster”and“Terminations,”andinthosetwolittlevolumesofshortstorieshewhowillmay find out something ofwhat itmeans to be really an artist. Theframework is perfect and the polish is absolutely without flaw. They aresometimes a little hard, always calculating and dispassionate, but they areperfect.IwishJameswouldwriteaboutmodernsociety,about“degeneracy”andthenewwomanandalltherestofit.Notthathewouldthrowanylightonit.Heseldomdoes;buthewouldsaysuchawfullycleverthingsaboutit,andturnonso many side-lights. And then his sentences! If his character novels were allwrongonecouldreadhimforeverforthemerebeautyofhissentences.Henever

letshisphrasesrunawaywithhim.Theyareneverdullandnevertoobrilliant.Hesubjectsthemtothegeneraltoneofhissentenceandhashiswholeparagraphpartakeofthesamepredominatingcolor.Youareneverstartled,neversurprised,neverthrilledorneverenraptured;alwaysdelightedbythatmasterlyprosethatisascorrect,asclassical,ascalmandassubtleasthemusicofMozart.

TheCourier,November16,1895

It is strange that from “Felicia” down, the stage novel has never been asuccess. Henry James’ “Tragic Muse” is the only theatrical novel that has aparticle of the real spirit of the stage in it, a glimpse of the enthusiasm, thedevotion,theexaltationandthesordid,thefrivolousandthevulgarwhicharesostrangelyand inextricablyblended in that lifeof thegreen room.ForalthoughHenry James cannotwrite plays he canwrite passingwell of the peoplewhoenact them. He has put into one book all those inevitable attendants of thedrama,thepatronizingtheatregoerwholovesitaboveallthingsandyetfeelssofar superior to it personally; the old tragedienne, the queen of a dying schoolwhosewordislawandwhosejudgmentsaretoayoungactorasthejudgmentsofGod;andofcourse there is thegirl, theaspirant, the tragicmusewhobeatsandbeatsuponthosebrazendoorsthatguardtheunapproachableuntilonefinemorning she beats them down and comes into her kingdom, the kingdom ofunborn beauty that is to live through her. It is a great novel, that book of themaster’s,soperfectasanovelthatonedoesnotrealizewhatamasterlystudyitisofthelifeandendsandaimsofthepeoplewhomakeplayslive.

NebraskaStateJournal,March29,1896

HaroldFrederic

“THE MARKET-PLACE.” Harold Frederic. $1.50. New York: F. A.Stokes&Co.Pittsburg:J.R.Weldin&Co.

U NUSUAL INTEREST ISATTACHED TO THE POSTHUMOUSWORKOF THATGREATMAN

whosecareerendedsoprematurelyandsotragically.Thestoryisastudyintheethics and purposes of money-getting, in the romantic element in modernbusiness. In it finance is presented not as being merely the province ofshrewdness,orgreediness,orpettypersonalgratification,butofgreatprojects,of great brain-battles, a field for the exercising of talent, daring, imagination,appealingtothestrengthofastrongman,fillingthesameplaceinmen’slivesthatwasoncefilledbytheincentivesofwar,kindlinginmanthedesirefortheleadership ofmen.The hero of the story, “JoelThorpe,” is one of thosemen,hugeofbody,keenofbrain,withcastironnerves,assoundaheartasmostmen,andamagnificentcapacityforbluff.Hehaslivedandriskedandlostinadozencountries,beenalmostwithinreachoffortuneadozentimes,andalwaysmissedheruntil,finally,inLondon,bypromotingagreatrubbersyndicatehebecomesa

multi-millionaire. He marries the most beautiful and one of the mostimpecuniouspeeresses inEnglandandretires tohiscountryestate.There,asagentleman of leisure, he loses his motive in life, loses power for lack ofopportunity, and grows less commanding even in the eyes of his wife, whomissestheuncompromising,barbaricstrengthwhichtookherbystormandwonher.Finallyheevolvesagiganticphilanthropicschemeofspendinghismoneyaslaboriouslyashemadeit.

Mr.Fredericsays:

“Napoleonwasthegreatestmanofhisage—oneofthegreatestmenofallages—notonlyinwarbutinahundredotherways.HespentthelastsixyearsofhislifeatSt.Helenainexcellenthealth,withcompanionsthathetalked freely to, and in all the extraordinarily copious reports of hisconversations there, we don’t get a single sentenceworth repeating. Thegreatnesshadentirelyevaporatedfromhimthemomenthewasputonanislandwherehehadnothingtodo.”

It isveryfitting thatMr.Frederic’s lastbookshouldbe inpraiseofaction,the thing thatmakes theworldgoround;offorce,howevermisspent,which isthesumoflifeasdistinguishedfromtheinertiaofdeath.Intheforty-oddyearsofhislifehewrotealmostasmanypagesasBalzac,mostofitmerenewspapercopy,itistrue,readandforgotten,butallofitvigorousandwiththestampofastrongmanuponit.Andheplayedjustashardasheworked—alas, itwas theplay that killed him! The young artist who illustrated the story gave to thepicturesof “JoelThorpe”verymuch the lookofHaroldFrederichimself, andtheymightalmoststandforhisportraits.Ifancytheyoungmandidnotselecthismodelcarelessly.Inthisbig,burlyadventurerwhotookfortuneandwomenbystorm,whobluffedtheworldbyhisprowessandfoughthiswaytothefrontwithbattle-axblows, there isagreatdealofHaroldFrederic, thesoldieroffortune,theUticamilkboywho foughthisway from thepetty slaveryof aprovincialnewspaper to the foremost ranks of the journalists of the world and on intoliterature, into literatureworth thewriting.Themanwonhisplace inEngland

muchashis herowonhis, bydefiance, by strong shoulderblows, byhis self-sufficiencyandinexhaustiblestrength,andwhenhefinishedhisbookhedidnotknowthathisendwouldbesomuchlessgloriousthanhishero’s,thatitwouldbehis portionnot to fallmanfully in the thickof the combat and thepressofbattle, but to die poisoned in the tent of Chryseis. For who could foresee atragedysoneedless,soblind,sobrutalinitslackofdignity,orknowthatsuchstrengthcouldperishthroughsuchinsidiousweakness,thatsogreatamancouldbestungtodeathbyamaniaborninlittleminds?

Inpointofexecutionand literaryexcellence,both“TheMarketPlace”and“GloriaMundi”arevastlyinferiorto“TheDamnationofTheronWare,”orthatexquisiteLondonidyl,“MarchHares.”Thefirst200pagesof“TheronWare”areasgoodasanythinginAmericanfiction,muchbetterthanmostofit.Theyarenotsomuchtheworkofaliteraryartistasofavigorousthinker,amanofstrongopinions and an intimate and comprehensive knowledge of men. The wholework,despiteitsirregularitiesandindifferencetoform,isfullofbrainstuff,thekind of active, healthful, masterful intellect that some men put into politics,someintoscienceandafew,averyfew,intoliterature.Both“GloriaMundi”and“TheMarketPlace”bearunmistakableevidencesoftheslackreinandthehastyhand.Bothofthemcontainconsiderablepadding,thestampofthespacewriter.Theyare imperfectlydeveloped, andarenotpackedwith ideas likehis earliernovels.Theirexcellenceisinflashes;it isnotthesearching,evenlydistributedlightwhichpermeateshismorecarefulwork.Therewere,asweknowtoowell,goodreasonswhyMr.Fredericshouldworkhastily.Heneededa largeincomeandheworkedheroically,writingmany thousandsofwordsaday toobtain it.Fromtheexperienceoftheageswehavelearnedtoexpecttofind,coupledwithgreatstrength,aproportionateweakness,andusuallyitdevoursthegreaterpart,asthesevenleankinedevouredthesevenfatinPharaoh’svision.Achilleswasagod inallhisnoblerparts,buthis feetwereof theearthand to theearth theyheldhimdown,andhediedstungbyanarrowintheheel.

PittsburgLeader,June10,1899

KateChopin

“THEAWAKENING.”KateChopin.$1.25.Chicago:H.S.Stone&Co.Pittsburg:J.R.Weldin&Co.

A CREOLE “BOVARY” IS THIS LITTLE NOVEL OF MISS CHOPIN’S. NOT THAT THE

heroineisacreoleexactly,orthatMissChopinisaFlaubert—savethemark!—butthethemeissimilartothatwhichoccupiedFlaubert.Therewas,indeed,noneedthatasecond“MadameBovary”shouldbewritten,butanauthor’schoiceofthemesisfrequentlyasinexplicableashischoiceofawife.Itisgovernedbysomeinnatetemperamentalbiasthatcannotbediagrammed.Thisisparticularlyso inwomenwhowrite, and I shall not attempt to saywhyMissChopin hasdevotedsoexquisiteandsensitive,well-governedastyletosotriteandsordidatheme.Shewritesmuchbetterthanitisevergiventomostpeopletowrite,andhers is a genuinely literary style; of no great elegance or solidity; but light,flexible,subtleandcapableofproducingtellingeffectsdirectlyandsimply.Thestoryshehastotellinthepresentinstanceisnewneitherinmatternortreatment.“EdnaPontellier,”aKentuckygirl,who,like“EmmaBovary,”hadbeeninlove

with innumerable dream heroes before she was out of short skirts, married“LeoncePontellier”asasortofreactionfromavagueandvisionarypassionforatragedianwhoseunresponsivepicturesheusedtokiss.Sheacquiredthehabitoflikingherhusbandintime,andevenoflikingherchildren.Thoughwearenotjustified in presuming that she ever threw articles from her dressing table atthem,asthecharming“Emma”hadawinsomehabitofdoing,wearetoldthat“she would sometimes gather them passionately to her heart, she wouldsometimes forget them.” At a creole watering place, which is admirably anddeftly sketched by Miss Chopin, “Edna” met “Robert Lebrun,” son of thelandlady,whodreamedofafortuneawaitinghiminMexicowhileheoccupiedapetty clerical position in New Orleans. “Robert” made it his business to beagreeabletohismother’sboarders,and“Edna,”notbeingacreole,muchagainsthiswishandwill, tookhimseriously.“Robert”went toMexicobut found thatfortuneswerenoeasiertomaketherethaninNewOrleans.Hereturnsanddoesnot even call to pay his respects to her. She encounters him at the home of afriendandtakeshimhomewithher.Shewheedleshimintostayingfordinner,andweare toldshesent themaidoff“insearchof somedelicacyshehadnotthought of for herself, and she recommendedgreat care in the drippingof thecoffeeandhavingtheomeletdonetoaturn.”

Onlyafewpagesbackwewereinformedthatthehusband,“M.Pontellier,”had cold soup and burnt fish for his dinner. Such is life. The lover of coursedisappointed her,was a coward and ran away from his responsibilities beforethey began. He was afraid to begin a chapter with so serious and limited awoman.Sherememberedtheseawhereshehadfirstmet“Robert.”Perhapsfromthesamemotivewhich threw“AnnaKeraninna”under theenginewheels, shethrewherselfintothesea,swamuntilshewastiredandthenletgo.

“She looked into thedistance,andforamoment theold terror flamedup,thensankagain.Sheheardherfather’svoice,andhersisterMargaret’s.Sheheardthebarkingofanolddogthatwaschainedtothesycamoretree.The spurs of the cavalry officer clanged as he walked across the porch.Therewasahumofbees,andthemuskyodorofpinksfilledtheair.”

“Edna Pontellier” and “Emma Bovary” are studies in the same femininetype; one a finished and complete portrayal, the other a hasty sketch, but thetheme is essentially the same. Both women belong to a class, not large, butforeverclamoringinourears,thatdemandsmoreromanceoutoflifethanGodputintoit.Mr.G.BarnardShawwouldsaythattheyarethevictimsoftheover-idealizationoflove.Theyarethespoilofthepoets,theIphigeniasofsentiment.Theunfortunatefeatureoftheirdiseaseisthatitattacksonlywomenofbrains,atleast of rudimentary brains, but whose development is one-sided; women ofstrong and fine intuitions, butwithout the faculty of observation, comparison,reasoning about things. Probably, for emotional people, the most convenientthing about being able to think is that it occasionally gives them a rest fromfeeling.Nowwithwomenofthe“Bovary”type,thisrelaxationandrecreationisimpossible.Theyarenotcriticsoflife,but,inthemostpersonalsense,partakersoflife.Theyreceiveimpressionsthroughthefancy.Withthemeverythingbeginswith fancy, and passions rise in the brain rather than in the blood, the poor,neglected, limited one-sided brain that might do so much better things thanbadgeringitselfintofranticendeavorstolove.Forthesearethepeoplewhopaywith their blood for the fine ideals of the poets, asMarie Delclasse paid forDumas’ great creation, “Marguerite Gauthier.” These people really expect thepassion of love to fill and gratify every need of life, whereas nature onlyintendedthatitshouldmeetoneofmanydemands.Theyinsistuponmakingitstandforalltheemotionalpleasuresoflifeandart,expectinganindividualandself-limited passion to yield infinite variety, pleasure and distraction, tocontributetotheirliveswhattheartsandthepleasurableexerciseoftheintellectgives to less limited and less intense idealists. So this passion, when set upagainst Shakespeare, Balzac, Wagner, Raphael, fails them. They have stakedeverythingononehand,andtheylose.Theyhavedriventheblooduntilitwilldrive no further, they have played their nerves up to the point where anyrelaxationshortofabsoluteannihilationisimpossible.Everyidealistabuseshisnerves,andeverysentimentalistbrutallyabusesthem.Andintheend,thenervesget even. Nobody ever cheats them, really. Then “the awakening” comes.Sometimes it comes in the form of arsenic, as it came to “Emma Bovary,”

sometimesitiscarbolicacidtakencovertlyinthepolicestation,agoaltowhichunbalanced idealism not infrequently leads. “Edna Pontellier,” fanciful andromantic to the last,chose theseaonasummernightandwentdownwith thesoundofherfirstlover’sspursinherears,andthescentofpinksabouther.Andnext time Ihope thatMissChopinwilldevote that flexible, iridescent styleofherstoabettercause.

PittsburgLeader,July8,1899

StephenCrane

“WARISKIND.”StephenCrane.$2.50.NewYork:F.A.Stokes&Co.Pittsburg:J.R.Weldin&Co.

T HISTRULYREMARKABLEBOOKISPRINTEDONDIRTYGRAYBLOTTINGPAPER,ONEACH

pageofwhichisameredotofprintoveralargeIofvacancy.Thereareseldommorethantenlinesonapage,anditwouldbebetterifmostofthoselineswerenotthereatall.EitherMr.Craneisinsultingthepublicorinsultinghimself,orhehasdevelopedacaseofatavismandischatteringtheprimevalnonsenseoftheapes. His “Black Riders,” uneven as it was, was a casket of polishedmasterpieceswhencomparedwith“WarIsKind.”Anditisnotkindatall,Mr.Crane;whenitprovokessuchversesasthese,itisallthatShermansaiditwas.

The only production in the volume that is at all coherent is the following,fromwhichthebookgetsitstitle:

Donotweep,maiden,forwariskind,

Becauseyourloverthrewwildhandstowardthesky,Andtheaffrightedsteedranonalone.

Donotweep,Wariskind.

Hoarseboomingdrumsoftheregiment,Littlesoulswhothirstforfight,

Thesemenwereborntodrillanddie.Theunexplainedgloryfliesabovethem.Greatisthebattle-god,great,andhiskingdom—

Afieldwhereathousandcorpseslie.

Donotweep,babe,forwariskind,Becauseyourfathertumbledintheyellowtrenches,Ragedatthebreast,gulpedanddied.

Donotweep,Wariskind.

Swift-blazingflagoftheregiment,Eaglewithcrestofredandgold,

Thesemenwereborntodrillanddie.Pointforthemthevirtueofslaughter,Makeplaintothemtheexcellenceofkilling,

Andafieldwhereathousandcorpseslie.

MotherwhosehearthunghumbleasabuttonOnthebright,splendidshroudofyourson,

Donotweep,Wariskind.

Ofcourse,onemayhaveobjectionstoheartshanginglikehumblebuttons,orto buttons being humble at all, but one should not stop to quarrel about suchtrifleswithapoetwhocanperpetratethefollowing:

Thouartmylove,AndthouartthebeardOnanotherman’sface—Woeisme.

Thouartmylove,Andthouartatemple,Andinthistempleisanaltar,Andonthistempleismyheart—Woeisme.

Thouartmylove,Andthouartawretch.Letthesesacredlove-lieschokethee.ForIamcometowhereIknowyourliesastruthAndyourtruthaslies—Woeisme.

Now, if you please, is the object of these verses animal, mineral orvegetable? Is the expression, “Thou art the beard on another man’s face,”intendedasafigure,orwasitwrittenbyabarber?Certainly,afterreadingthis,“Simple Simon” is a ballade of perfect form, and “Jack and Jill” or “Hickity,Pickity,MyBlackHen,”areexquisitelyrics.Butofthefollowingwhatshallbesaid:

NowletmecrunchyouWithfullweightofaffrightedlove.Idoubtedyou—Idoubtedyou—AndinthisshortdoubtingMylovegrewlikeagenieFormyfurtherundoing.

Bewareofmyfriends,Benotinspeechtoocivil,ForinallcourtesyMyweakheartseesspecters,MistsofdesireArisingfromthelipsofmychosen;Benotcivil.

Thisissomewhatmorelucidasevincingthebard’sexquisitesensitiveness:

Ah,God,thewayyourlittlefingermovedAsyouthrustabarearmbackward.AndmadeplaywithyourhairAndacomb,asillygiltcomb—Ah,God,thatIshouldsufferBecauseofthewayalittlefingermoved.

Mr. Crane’s verselets are illustrated by some Bradley pictures, which arebadly drawn, in bad taste, and comewith bad grace.On page 33 of the booktherearejusttwolineswhichseemtocompletelysumuptheeffortsofbothpoetandartist:

“Mygoodfriend,”saidalearnedbystander,“Youroperationsaremad.”

Yet this fellow Crane has written short stories equal to some ofMaupassant’s.

PittsburgLeader,June3,1899

AfterreadingsuchadelightfulnewspaperstoryasMr.FrankNorris’“Blix,”itiswithassortedsensationsofpainanddiscomfortthatoneclosesthecoversof

anothernewspapernovel,“ActiveService,”byStephenCrane.Ifonehappenstohave some trifling regard for pure English, he does not come forth from thereadingofthisnovelunscathed.Theheroofthisluridtaleisanewspaperman,and he edits the Sunday edition of the New York “Eclipse,” and delights inpublishing “stories” about deformed and sightless infants. “The office of the‘Eclipse’was at the top of an immense building onBroadway. Itwas a sheermountain to the heights of which the interminable thunder of the streets rosefaintly.TheHudsonwasabroadpathofsilverinthedistance.”Thisleaveslittledoubt as to the fortunate journal which had secured Rufus Coleman as itsSunday editor.Mr.Coleman’s dayswere spent in collecting yellow sensationsfor his paper, and we are told that he “planned for each edition as for acampaign.”ThefollowingelevatingpassageisoneoftherealisticparagraphsbywhichMr.CranemakestheroutineofColeman’slifeknowntous:

Suddenlytherewasaflashoflightandacageofbronze,giltandsteeldroppedmagicallyfromabove.Colemanyelled“Down!”***Adoorflewopen. Coleman stepped upon the elevator. “Well, Johnnie,” he saidcheerfullytotheladwhooperatedthemachine,“isbusinessgood?”“Yes,sir,prettygood,”answered theboy,grinning.The littlecagesankswiftly.Floor after floor seemed to be rising with marvelous speed; the wholebuildingwaswingingstraightintothesky.Therewassoaringlights,figuresand the opalescent glow of ground glass doors marked with blackinscriptions.Otherlightswerespringingheavenward.Alltheloftycorridorsrangwithcries.“Up!”“Down!”“Down!”“Up!!”Theboy’shandgraspedalever and his machine obeyed his lightest movement with sometimes anunbalancingswiftness.

Later,whenColemanreachedthestreet,Mr.Cranedescribesthecablecarsasmarching likepanopliedelephants,which is rather far, to say the least.Thegentleman’snightswerespentsomethingasfollows:

“Intherestauranthefirstorderedalargebottleofchampagne.Thelastofthewinehefinishedinsombermoodlikeanunbrokenanddefiantman

whochewsthestrawthatlittershisprisonhouse.Duringhisdinnerhewascontinually sendingoutmessengerboys.Hewas arrangingapokerparty.Through a window he watched the beautiful moving life of upperBroadwayatnight,withitscrowdsandclangingcablecarsanditselectricsigns,mammothandglitteringlikethejewelsofagiantess.

“Wordwasbrought tohim thatpokerplayerswere arriving.Hearosejoyfully, leaving his cheese. In the broad hall, occupied mainly bymiscellaneouspeopleandactors,alldeepinleatherchairs,hefoundsomeofhisfriendswaiting.TheytroopedupstairstoColeman’srooms,where,asapreliminary,Colemanbegantohurlbooksandpapersfromthetabletothefloor.Aboycamewithdrinks.Mostofthemen,inordertoprepareforthegame,removedtheircoatsandcuffsanddrewupthesleevesoftheirshirts.The electric globes shed a blinding light upon the table. The sound ofclinking chips arose; the elected banker spun the cards, careless anddextrous.”

Theatmosphereof theentirenovel is just thatcloseandenervating.Everypageislikethenextmorningtasteofachampagnesupper,andisheavywiththesmellofstalecigarettes.Thereisnofreshairinthebookandnosunlight,onlythe “blinding light shed by the electric globes.” If the life of New Yorknewspaper men is as unwholesome and sordid as this, Mr. Crane, who hasexperiencedit,oughttobesadlyashamedtotellit.NextmorningwhenColemanwentforbreakfastinthegrillroomofhishotelheorderedeggsontoastandapintofchampagneforbreakfastanddiscoursedaffablytothewaiter.

“Maybeyouhadaprettylivelytimelastnight,Mr.Coleman?”“Yes, Pat,” answered Coleman. “I did. It was all because of an

unrequittedaffection,Patrick.”Themanstoodnear,anapkinoverhisarm.Colemanwentonimpressively.“Thewaysofthemodernloverarestrange.Now, I, Patrick, am a modern lover, and when, yesterday, the dagger ofdisappointmentwasdrivendeepintomyheart,IimmediatelyplayedpokerashardasIcould,andincidentallygotloaded.Thisisthemodernpointof

view. I understand on good authority that in old times lovers used tolanguish.That isprobablya lie,butatanyratewedonot, in these times,languishtoanygreatextent.Wegetdrunk.DoyouunderstandPatrick?”

The waiter was used to a harangue at Coleman’s breakfast time. Heplacedhishandoverhismouthandgiggled.“Yessir.”

“Ofcourse,”continuedColeman,thoughtfully.“Itmightbepointedoutby uneducated persons that it is difficult to maintain a high standard ofdrunkenness for the adequate length of time, but in the series ofexperimentswhichIamabouttomake,IamsureIcaneasilyprovethemtobeinthewrong.”

“Iamsure,sir,”saidthewaiter,“theyoungladieswouldnotliketobehearingyoutalkthisway.”

“Yes; no doubt, no doubt. The young ladies have still quitemedievalideas.Theydon’tunderstand.Theystillpreferloverstolanguish.”

“Atanyrate,sir,Idon’tseethatyourheartissureenoughbroken.Youseemtotakeitveryeasy.”

“Broken!”criedColeman.“Easy?Man,myheartisinfragments.Bringmeanothersmallbottle.”

AfterthisColemanwenttoGreecetowriteupthewarforthe“Eclipse,”andincidentally to rescue his sweetheart from the hands of the Turks and make“copy”ofit.VeryvalidargumentsmightbeadvancedthattheladywouldhavefaredbetterwiththeTurks.OnthevoyageColemanspentallhisdaysandnightsinthecardroomandavoidedthedeck,sincefreshairwasnaturallydisagreeabletohim.ForallthathesawofGreeceorthatMr.Crane’sreadersseeofGreeceColemanmight aswellhave stayed in thecard roomof the steamer,or in thecardroomofhisNewYorkhotelforthatmatter.Whereverhegoeshecarriestheatmosphereofthecardroomwithhimandthe“blindingglareoftheelectrics.”InGreecehemakeslovewhenhehasleisure,buthemakes“copy”muchmoreardently,andon thewhole isquiteas luridandsordidandshowyashisworstSunday editions. Some good bits of battle descriptions there are, of the “RedBadgeofCourage”order,butonecannotmakeanovelofcleverdescriptionsof

earthworksandpokergames.Thebookconcernsitselfnotwithlarge,universalinterestsorprinciples,butwithayellowjournalistgrindingoutyellowcopyinsuch awooden fashion that theSunday “Eclipse”must have been evenworsethanmost.InspiteofthefactthatMr.CranehaswrittensomeofthemostartisticshortstoriesintheEnglishlanguage,Ibegintowonderwhether,blindedbyhisyouthandaudacity,twoqualitieswhichtheAmericanpeoplelove,wehavenottakenhimtooseriously.Itisagravematterforamaningoodhealthandwithabankaccounttohavewrittenabooksocoarseanddullandcharmlessas“ActiveService.”Comparedwiththis“Warwaskind,”indeed.

PittsburgLeader,November11,1899

FrankNorris

A NEWANDAGREATBOOKHASBEENWRITTEN.THENAMEOFITIS“MCTEAGUE,A

Story of San Francisco,” and themanwhowrote it isMr. FrankNorris. Thegreat presses of the country go on year after year grinding out commonplacebooks, just as each generation goes on busily reproducing its ownmediocrity.Wheninthisenormousoutputofinkandpaper,thesethousandsofvolumesthatare yearly rushed upon the shelves of the book stores, one appears whichcontainsbothpowerandpromise,thereadermaybepardonedsomeenthusiasm.Excellence always surprises:weareneverquiteprepared for it. In the caseof“McTeague,aStoryofSanFrancisco,”itisevenmoresurprisingthanusual.Inthefirstplacethetitleisnotalluring,andnotuntilyouhavereadthebook,canyou know that there is an admirable consistency in the stiff, uncompromisingcommonplacenessofthattitle.Inthesecondplacethenameoftheauthorisasyetcomparativelyunfamiliar,andfinallythebookisdedicatedtoamemberoftheHarvard faculty, suggesting thatwhether it be a story of San Francisco orDawson City, it must necessarily be vaporous, introspective and chiefly

concernedwith“literary”impressions.Mr.Norris is, indeed,a“Harvardman,”butthatheisagoodmanyotherkindsofamanisself-evident.Hisbookis,inthelanguageofMr.NormanHapgood,theworkof“alargehumanbeing,withafirmstomach,whoknowsandlovesthepeople.”

Inanovelofsuchhighmeritasthis,thesubjectmatteristheleastimportantconsideration. Every newspaper contains the essential material for another“ComedieHumaine.”Inthiscase“McTeague,”thecentralfigure,happenstobeadentistpracticinginalittlesidestreetofSanFrancisco.Thenovelopenswiththisdescriptionofhim:

“Itwas Sunday, and, according to his custom on that day,McTeaguetookhisdinnerattwointheafternoonatthecarconductor’scoffeejointonPolkstreet.Hehadathick,graysoup,heavy,underdonemeat,veryhot,ona cold plate; two kinds of vegetables; and a sort of suet pudding, full ofstrongbutterandsugar.Once inhisoffice,or,ashecalled itonhissign-board,‘DentalParlors,’hetookoffhiscoatandshoes,unbuttonedhisvest,and,havingcrammedhislittlestovewithcoke,helaybackinhisoperatingchair at the bay window, reading the paper, drinking steam beer, andsmokinghishugeporcelainpipewhilehisfooddigested;crop-full,stupidandwarm.”

McTeaguehadgrownupinaminingcampinthemountains.Herememberedtheyearshehadspenttheretrundlingheavycarsoforeinandoutofthetunnelunderthedirectionofhisfather.Forthirteendaysoutofeachfortnighthisfatherwas a steady, hard-working shift-boss of the mine. Every other Sunday hebecameanirresponsibleanimal,abeast,abrute,crazedwithalcohol.Hismothercooked for the miners. Her one ambition was that her son should enter aprofession.Hewasapprenticedtoatravelingquackdentistandafterafashion,learnedthebusiness.

“Then one day at San Francisco had come the news of his mother’sdeath;shehadlefthimsomemoney—notmuch,butenoughtosethimupin business; so he had cut loose from the charlatan and had opened his

‘DentalParlors’onPolkstreet,an‘accommodationstreet’ofsmallshopsintheresidencequarterofthetown.Herehehadslowlycollectedaclienteleofbutcherboys, shopgirls, drug clerks and car conductors.Hemadebutfew acquaintances. Polk street called him the ‘doctor’ and spoke of hisenormous strength. ForMcTeague was a young giant, carrying his hugeshock of blonde hair six feet three inches from the ground; moving hisimmense limbs, heavy with ropes of muscle, slowly, ponderously. Hishandswereenormous,red,andcoveredwithafellofstiffyellowhair;theywereashardaswoodenmallets,strongasvices,thehandsoftheold-timecar boy.Oftenhe dispensedwith forceps and extracted a refractory toothwith his thumb and finger. His head was square-cut, angular; the jawsalient:likethatofthecarnivora.

“ButforonethingMcTeaguewouldhavebeenperfectlycontented.Justoutsidehiswindowwashissignboard—amodestaffair—thatread:‘DoctorMcTeague.DentalParlors.GasGiven;’butthatwasall.Itwashisambition,hisdream,tohaveprojectingfromthatcornerwindowahugegildedtooth,a molar with enormous prongs, something gorgeous and attractive. Hewouldhaveitsomeday,butasyetitwasfarbeyondhismeans.”

Then Mr. Norris launches into a description of the street in which“McTeague”lives.HepresentsthatstreetasitisonSunday,asitisonworkingdays;asitisintheearlydawnwhentheworkmenaregoingoutwithpickaxeson their shoulders, as it is at ten o’clockwhen thewomen are out purchasingfromthesmallshopkeepers,asitisatnightwhentheshopgirlsareoutwiththesoda-fountain tendersand themotorcarsdashby fullof theatre-goers,and theSalvationistssingbefore thesaloonon thecorner. In fourpageshe reproducesthe life inaby-streetofagreatcity, the little tragedyof thesmallshopkeeper.There are many ways of handling environment—most of them bad. When ayoung author has very little to say and no story worth telling, he resorts toenvironment.Itisfrequentlyusedtodisguiseaweaknessofstructure,asladieswhopaintlandscapesputtheircowsknee-deepinwatertoconcealthedefectivedrawingof the legs.Butsuchdescriptionasonemeets throughoutMr.Norris’

bookisinitselfconvincingproofofpower,imaginationandliteraryskill.Itisapositive and active force, stimulating the reader’s imagination, giving him anactual command, a realizing sense of this world into which he is suddenlytransplanted. It gives to the book perspective, atmosphere, effects of time anddistance, creates the illusion of life. This power of mature, and accurate andcomprehensivedescriptionisveryunusualamongtheyoungerAmericanwriters.Mostofthemobservetheworldthroughatemperament,andaremoreoccupiedwiththeirmediumthantheobjectstheysee.Andtemperamentisaglasswhichdistorts most astonishingly. But this young man sees with a clear eye, andreproduceswithatouchfirmanddecisive,strongalmosttobrutalness.Yet thishand that can depict so powerfully the brute strength and brute passions of a“McTeague,”candealveryfinelyandadroitlywiththefeminineelementofhisstory. This is his portrait of the little Swiss girl, “Trina,” whom the dentistmarries:

“Trinawasverysmallandprettilymade.Herfacewasroundandratherpale; her eyes long and narrow and blue, like the half-opened eyes of ababy;herlipsandthelobesofhertinyearswerepale,alittlesuggestiveofanaemia. But it was to her hair that one’s attention was most attracted.Heapsandheapsofblue-blackcoilsandbraids,a royalcrownofswarthybands,averitablesabletiara,heavy,abundantandodorous.Allthevitalitythatshouldhavegivencolortoherfaceseemedtohavebeenabsorbedbythat marvelous hair: It was the coiffure of a queen that shadowed thetemplesofthislittlebourgeoise.”

The tragedy of the story dates from a chance, a seeming stroke of goodfortune,oneofthoseterriblegiftsoftheDanai.Afewweeksbeforehermarriage“Trina” drew $5 000 from a lottery ticket. From thatmoment her passion forhoardingmoneybecomesthedominantthemeofthestory,takescommandofthebook and its characters. After their marriage the dentist is disbarred frompractice.Theymoveintoagarretwhereshestarvesherhusbandandherselftosave thatprecioushoard.Shesellsevenhisoffice furniture,everythingbuthis

concertina and his canary bird, with which he stubbornly refuses to part andwhicharedestinedtobecomeveryimportantaccessoriesinthepropertyroomofthetheatrewherethisdramaisplayed.Thisremovalfromtheirfirsthomeistothis storywhatGervaise’s removal fromher shop is toL’Assommoir; it is thefatal episodeof the thirdact, the sacrificeof self-respect, thebeginningof theend. From that time the money stands between “Trina” and her husband.Outraged and humiliated, hating her for her meanness, demoralized by hisidleness anddespair, he begins to abuse her.The story becomes a careful andpainful study of the disintegration of this union, a penetrating and searchinganalysisofthedegenerationofthesetwosouls,thewoman’scorrodedbygreed,theman’spoisonedbydisappointmentandhate.

Andallthewhilethissamepainfulthemeisplacedinalowerkey.Maria,thehousemaidwhotookcareof“McTeague’s”dentalparlorsinhisbetterdays,wasa half-crazy girl from somewhere in Central America, she herself did notrememberjustwhere.Butshehadawonderfulstoryaboutherpeopleowningadinner service of pure goldwith a punch bowl you could scarcely lift, whichrang like a church bell when you struck it. On the strength of this story“Zercow,” theJew junkman,marriesher,andbelieving that sheknowswherethistreasureishidden,bulliesandtortureshertoforcehertodisclosehersecret.Atlast“Maria”isfoundwithherthroatcut,and“Zercow”ispickedupbythewharfwith a sack full of rusty tin cans,which in his dementia hemust havethoughtthefableddinnerserviceofgold.

Fromthis it isashortstep to“McTeague’s”crime.Hekillshiswife togetpossessionofhermoney,andescapestothemountains.Whileheisonhiswaysouth, pushing towardMexico, he is overtaken by hismurderedwife’s cousinand former suitor. Bothmen are halfmadwith thirst, and there in the desertwastesofDeath’sValley,theyspringtotheirlastconflict.Thecousinfalls,butbefore he dies he slips a handcuff over “McTeague’s” arm, and so the authorleaveshisherointhewastesofDeath’sValley,ahundredmilesfromwater,withadeadmanchainedtohisarm.Ashestandstherethecanarybird,thesurvivorof his happier days, to which he had clung with stubborn affection, begins“chitteringfeeblyin its littlegiltprison.”It remindsonea littleofStevenson’s

useofpoor“Goddedaal’s”canary in“TheWrecker.”It is justsuchsharp,surestrokesthatbringoutthehighlightsinastoryandseparateexcellencefromthecommonplace.Theyareatoncedramaticandrevelatory.Lackingthem,anovelwhichmayotherwisebeagoodone,lacksitschiefreasonforbeing.Thefaultwithmanyworthyattemptsatfictionliesnotinwhattheyare,butinwhattheyarenot.

Mr.Norris’model, if hewill admit that hehas followedone, is clearlynolessapersonthanM.Zolahimself.Yetthereisnodiscoverabletraceofimitationin his book.Hehas simply taken amethodwhich has beenmost successfullyapplied in thestudyofFrench lifeandapplied it instudyingAmerican life,asoneusescertainalgebraicformulae tosolvecertainproblems.It isperhaps theonly truthful literary method of dealing with that part of society whichenvironmentandheredityhedgeabout like thewallsofaprison. It is true thatMr.Norrisnowandthenallowshis“method”tobecometooprominent,thathisrestraint savors of constraint, yet he has written a true story of the people,courageous, dramatic, full of matter and warm with life. He has addressedhimself seriously to art, and he seems to have no ambition to be clever. Hishorizoniswide,hisinventionvigorousandbold,histouchheavyandwarmandhuman.Thismanisnotlimitedbyliteraryprejudices:heseesthepeopleastheyare, he is close to themandnot afraid of their unloveliness.Hehas looked attruthinthedepths,amongmenbegrimedbytoilandbesottedbyignorance,andstillfoundherfair.“McTeague”isanachievementforayoungman.Itmaynotwinatoncethesuccesswhichitdeserves,butMr.Norrisisoneofthosewhocanaffordtowait.

TheCourier,April8,1899

Ifyouwanttoreadastorythatisallwheatandnochaff,read“Blix.”Lastwinter thatbrilliantyoungCalifornian,Mr.Norris,publishedaremarkableandgloomynovel,“McTeague,”abookdeepininsight,richinpromiseandsplendid

inexecution,butentirelywithoutcharmandasdisagreeableasonlyagreatpieceofworkcanbe.Andnowthisgentleman,whoisnotyetthirty,turnsaroundandgivesusanidyll thatsingsthroughone’sbrainlikeasummerwindandmakesonefeelyoungenoughtocommitallmannerofindiscretions.ItmaybethatMr.Norrisisdesirousofshowingushisversatilityandthathecanfollowanysuit,orit may have been a process of reaction. I believe it was after M. Zola hadcompleted one of his greatest and darkest novels of Parisian life that hewentdown to the seaside andwrote “LaReve,” a book that every girl should readwhenshe iseighteen,and thenagainwhenshe iseighty.Powerfulandsolidlybuilt as “McTeague” is, one felt that theremethodwas carried almost too far,that Mr. Norris was too consciously influenced by his French masters. But“Blix”belongstonoschoolwhatever,andthereisnotashadowofpedantryorprideofcraftinitfromcovertocover.“Blix”herselfisthemethod,themotivesandtheaimofthebook.Thestoryisanexhalationofyouthandspring;itistheworkof amanwhobreaks loose and forgets himself.Mr.Norriswasmarriedonly last summer, and themarch from “Lohengrin” is simply sticking out allover “Blix.” It is the storyof aSanFrancisconewspaperman and agirl.Thenewspaperman“cameout”infiction,sotospeak, inthedrawingroomofMr.RichardHardingDavis,andhaslanguishedunderthatgentleman’schaperonageuntilhehascometoberegardedasafellowcarefulofnothingbuthistoiletandhisdinner.Mr.Davis’ reportersallbathedregularlyandallatenice things,butbeyondthattheirtasteswererathercolorless.Iamgladtoseeonered-bloodednewspaperman, in thepersonof“LandyRivers,”ofSanFrancisco,break intofiction; a real live reporterwithno sentimental loyalty forhis “paper,” andnoByronicposesabouthisvices,andnoastonishingtasteabouthisclothes,andnomoney whatever, which is the natural and normal condition of all reporters.“Blix” herself was just a society girl, and “Landy” took her to theatres andpartiesandtriedtomakehimselfbelievehewasinlovewithher.Butitwouldn’twork,for“Landy”couldn’tloveasocietygirl,notthoughshewereasbeautifulasthemorningandterribleasanarmywithbanners,andhad“roundfullarms,”and “the skin of her facewaswhite and clean, exceptwhere it flushed into amostcharmingpinkuponhersmooth,coolcheeks.”Forwhile“LandyRivers”

wasatcollegehehadbeenseizedwiththepenchantforwritingshortstories,andhadworshiped at the shrines ofMaupassant andKipling, andwhen aman iscraftmadenoughtoworshipMaupassanttrulyandknowhimwell,whenhehasthattinglingfortechniqueinhisfingers,notAphroditeherself,newrisenfromthewaves,couldtempthimintoanyworldwherecraftwasnotlordandking.Soit happened that their real love affair never began until one morning when“Landy”hadtogodowntothewharftowriteupawhaleback,and“Blix”wentalong, and an old sailor told them a story and “Blix” recognized the literarypossibilities of it, and they had lunch in a Chinese restaurant, and “Landy”becausehewasanewspapermananditwastheendoftheweek,didn’thaveanychangeabouthisclothes,and“Blix”hadtopaythebill.Anditwasinthatgreenoldteahousethat“Landy”read“Blix”oneofhisfavoriteyarnsbyKipling,andsheinacalm,off-handedway,recognizedoneofthefine,technicalpointsinit,and “Landy” almostwent to pieces for joy of her doing it. That scene in theChineserestaurantisoneoftheprettiestbitsofcoloryou’llfindtorestyoureyesupon, and mighty good writing it is. I wonder, though if when Mr. Norrisadroitly mentioned the “clack and snarl” of the banjo “Landy” played, herememberedthe“silversnarlingtrumpets”ofKeats?Afterthat,thingswentonassuchthingswill,and“Blix”quitthesocietyracketandwenttoqueerplaceswith“Landy,”andgotinterestedinhiswork,andshebrokehimofwearingredneckties and playing poker, and shemade himwork, she did, for she grew torealize howmuch that meant to him, and she jacked him up when he didn’twork,andshesuggestedanendingforoneofhisstoriesthatwasbetterthanhisown;justthisbig,splendidgirl,whohadnevergonetocollegetolearnhowtowritenovels.Andsohow,inthenameofgoodness,couldhehelplovingher?SoonemorningdownbythePacific,with“Blix”and“TheSevenSeas,”itallcameover “Landy,” that “living was better than reading and life was better thanliterature.”Andsoitis;once,andonlyonce,foreachofus;andthatisthetunethatsingsandsingsthroughone’sheadwhenoneputsthebookaway.

TheCourier,January13,1900

ANHEIRAPPARENT.

Lastwinter a youngCalifornian,Mr.FrankNorris, published anovelwiththeunpretentioustitle,“McTeague:aStoryofSanFrancisco.”Itwasabookthatcould not be ignored nor dismissed with a word. There was something veryunusualabout it,about itssolidityandmass, the thoroughnessandfirmnessoftexture,anditcamedownlikeablowfromasledgehammeramongtheslighterandmoresprightlyperformancesofthehour.

Themostremarkablethingaboutthebookwasitsmaturityandcompactness.Ithasnoneoftheear-marksofthoseentertaining“youngwriters”whomeveryseasonproducesasinevitablyasitsdebutantes,youngmenwhosurpriseforanhour and then settle down to producing industriously for the classwithwhichtheir peculiar trick of phrase has found favor. It was a book addressed to theAmericanpeopleandtothecriticsoftheworld,theworkofayoungmanwhohadsethimself to theartofauthorshipwithanalmightyseriousness,andwhohadnoambitiontobeclever.“McTeague”wasnotanexperimentinstylenoraprettypieceofromanticfolly,itwasatruestoryofthepeople—havingaboutit,asM.Zolawouldsay,“thesmellofthepeople”—courageous,dramatic,fullofmatterandwarmwithlife.Itwasrealismofthemostuncompromisingkind.Thethemewas such that theauthorcouldnothaveexpected suddenpopularity forhis book, such as sometimes overtakes monstrosities of style in thesediscouragingdayswhenKnighthoodisinFlowertotheextentofaquarterofamillioncopies,norcouldhehavehopedforpressingcommissionsfromthefire-side periodicals. The life story of a quack dentist who sometimes extractedmolarswithhisfingers,whomistreatedandfinallymurderedhiswife,isnot,initself,attractive.But,afterall,thethemecountsforverylittle.Everynewspapercontains the essential subject matter for another Comedie Humaine. Theimportantpointisthatamanconsiderablyunderthirtycouldtakeupasubjectsogrimandunattractive,and that, for themere loveofdoing thingswell,hewasable toholdhimselfdown to the taskofdeveloping itcompletely, thathewasable to justify this quack’s existence in literature, to thrust this hairy, blondedentistwiththe“salientjawofthecarnivora,”inamongsttheimmortals.

ItwasafterM.ZolahadcompletedoneofthegreatestandgloomiestofhisnovelsofParisianlife,thathewentdownbytheseaandwrote“LaReve,”thattender,adolescentstoryofloveandpurityandyouth.So,almostsimultaneouslywith“McTeague,”Mr.Norrispublished“Blix,”anotherSanFranciscostory,asshortas“McTeague”waslengthy,aslightas“McTeague”washeavy,aspoeticandgraceful as “McTeague”was somber and charmless.Here is amanworthwaitingon;amanwhoisbothrealistandpoet,amanwhocanteach

“Notonlybyacomet’srush,Butbyarose’sbirth.”

Yetunlikeas theyare, inbothbooksthesourceofpoweris thesame,and,forthatmatter,itwaseventhesameinhisfirstbook,“MoranoftheLadyLetty.”Mr.Norrishasdispensedwiththeconventionalsymbolsthathavecreptintoart,withthetrite,half-truthsandcircumlocutions,andgotbacktothephysicalbasisofthings.Hehasabjuredtea-tablepsychology,andtheanalysisoffiguresinthecarpetandsubtiledissectionsofintellectualimpotencies,andthedivertinggameof words and the whole literature of the nerves. He is big and warm andsometimesbrutal,and thestrengthof thesoilcomesup tohimwithvery littlelossinthetransmission.HisartstrikesdeepdownintotherootsoflifeandthefoundationofThingsasTheyAre—notaswetelleachothertheyareatthetea-table. But he is realistic art, not artistic realism. He is courageous, but he iswithoutbravado.

He sees things freshly, as though they had not been seen before, anddescribes them with singular directness and vividness, not with morbidacuteness, with a large, wholesome joy of life. Nowhere is thismore evidentthan in his insistent use of environment. I recall the passage in which hedescribesthestreetinwhichMcTeaguelives.HerepresentsthatstreetasitisonSunday,as it isonworkingdays,as it is in theearlydawnwhentheworkmenaregoingoutwithpickaxesontheirshoulders,as it isat teno’clockwhenthewomenareoutmarketingamong the small shopkeepers, as it is atnightwhentheshopgirlsareoutwiththesodafountaintendersandthemotorcarsdashbyfulloftheater-goers,andtheSalvationistssingbeforethesaloononthecorner.

In fourpageshe reproduces indetail the life in aby-streetof agreat city, thelittle tragedy of the small shopkeeper. There are many ways of handlingenvironment—mostofthembad.Whenayoungauthorhasverylittletosayandnostoryworthtelling,heresortstoenvironment.Itisfrequentlyusedtodisguiseaweaknessofstructure,asladieswhopaintlandscapesputtheircowsknee-deepinwatertoconcealthedefectivedrawingofthelegs.Butsuchdescriptionasonemeets throughout Mr. Norris’ book is in itself convincing proof of power,imagination and literary skill. It is a positive and active force, stimulating thereader’s imagination, giving him an actual command, a realizing sense of thisworld intowhich he is suddenly transported. It gives to the book perspective,atmosphere,effectsoftimeanddistance,createstheillusionoflife.Thispowerofmature and comprehensive description is very unusual among the youngerAmericanwriters.Mostofthemobservetheworldthroughatemperament,andare more occupied with their medium than the objects they watch. Andtemperament is a glasswhich distortsmost astonishingly.But this youngmanseeswith a clear eye, and reproduceswith a touch, firm and decisive, strongalmosttobrutalness.

Mr. Norris approaches things on their physical side; his characters arepersonalities of flesh before they are anything else, types before they areindividuals.Especially is this trueofhiswomen.HisTrina is “very small andprettilymade.Herfacewasroundandratherpale;hereyeslongandnarrowandblue,likethehalf-openedeyesofababy;herlipsandthelobesofhertinyearswere pale, a little suggestive of anaemia. But it was to her hair that one’sattentionwasmostattracted.Heapsandheapsofblue-blackcoilsandbraids,aroyal crown of swarthy bands, a veritable sable tiara, heavy, abundant andodorous.Allthevitalitythatshouldhavegivencolortoherfaceseemstohavebeen absorbed by that marvelous hair. It was the coiffure of a queen thatshadowedthetemplesofthislittlebourgeoise.”Blixhad“round,fullarms,”and“theskinofher facewaswhiteandclean,exceptwhere it flushed intoamostcharmingpinkuponher smooth, cool cheeks.” In this graspof the element ofthings,thiskeen,clean,frankpleasureatcolorandodorandwarmth,thiscandidadmissionof thenegativeofbeauty,which is co-existentwith and inseparable

from it, liemuchofhispowerandpromise.Here is amancatholicenough toinclude the extremes of physical and moral life, strong enough to handle thecrudestcolorsanddarkestshadows.Here isamanwhohasanappetitefor thephysicaluniverse,wholovestheranksmellsofcrowdedalley-ways,ortheodorsofboudoirs,or thedelicateperfumeexhaled fromawoman’s skin;who isnotafraidofPan,beheeversoshaggy,andredolentoftheherd.

Structurally,wheremostyoungnovelistsareweak,Mr.Norrisisverystrong.HehasstudiedthebestFrenchmasters,andhehasadoptedtheirmethodsquitesimply,asoneselectsanalgebraicformulatosolvehisparticularproblem.Astohisstyle,thatis,asexpressionalwaysis,justasvigorousashisthoughtcompelsit tobe, justasvividashisconceptionwarrants. IfGodAlmightyhasgivenaman ideas,hewill gethimself a style fromone sourceor another.Mr.Norris,fortunately,isnotaconsciousstylist.Hehastoomuchtosaytobeexquisitelyvain about his medium. He has the kind of brain stuff that would vanquishdifficultiesinanyprofession,thatmightbeputtobuildingbattleships,orsolvingproblemsoffinance,ortodevisingcolonialpolicies.Letusbethankfulthathehasputittoliterature.Letusbethankful,moreover,thatheisnotintrospectiveandthathisintellectdoesnotdevouritself,butfeedsuponthegreatraceofman,and, above all, let us rejoice that he is not a “temperamental” artist, butsomething larger, foragreatbrainandanassertive temperamentseldomdwelltogether.

ThereareclevermenenoughinthefieldofAmericanletters,andthefaultofmostofthemismerelyoneofmagnitude;theyarenotlargeenough;theytravelinsmallorbits,theyplayonmutedstrings.TheysingneitherofthecombatsofAtriedesnor the laborsofCadmus,butof the tea-tableandtheOdysseyof theRialto.Flaubertsaid thatadropofwatercontainedall theelementsof thesea,saveone—immensity.Mr.Norris isconcernedonlywithseriousthings,hehasonlylargeambitions.Hisbrushisbold,hiscoloristakenfreshfromthekindlyearth, his canvas is large enough to hold American life, the real life of thepeople.HehascomeintothecourtofthetroubadourssingingthesongofElys,thesongofwarm,fullnature.Hehasstruckthetruenoteofthecommonlife.HeiswhatMr.NormanHapgood said the greatAmerican dramatistmust be: “A

largehumanbeing,withafirmstomach,whoknowsandlovesthepeople.”

TheCourier,April7,1900

WhenIKnewStephenCrane

I TWAS,ITHINK,INTHESPRINGOF’94THATASLENDER,NARROW-CHESTEDFELLOWIN

ashabbygreysuit,withasoftfelthatpulledlowoverhiseyes,saunteredintotheofficeof themanagingeditorof theNebraskaStateJournaland introducedhimself asStephenCrane.He stated that hewas going toMexico to do someworkfortheBachellerSyndicateandgetridofhiscough,andthathewouldbestoppinginLincolnforafewdays.Laterheexplainedthathewasoutofmoneyandwould be compelled towait until he got a check from theEast before hewentfurther.IwasaJuniorattheNebraskaStateUniversityatthetime,andwasdoingsomeworkfortheStateJournalinmyleisuretime,andIhappenedtobeinthemanagingeditor’sroomwhenMr.Craneintroducedhimself.Iwasjustoffthe range; I knew a littleGreek and something about cattle and a good horsewhen I saw one, and beyond horses and cattle I considered nothing of vitalimportance except good stories and the peoplewhowrote them.Thiswas thefirst man of letters I had ever met in the flesh, and when the young manannouncedwhohewas,Idroppedintoachairbehindtheeditor’sdeskwhereIcouldstareathimwithoutbeingtoomuchinevidence.

Only a very youthful enthusiasm and a large propensity for hero worship

couldhave foundanything impressive in theyoungmanwhostoodbefore themanaging editor’s desk. He was thin to emaciation, his face was gaunt andunshaven,athindarkmoustachestraggledonhisupperlip,hisblackhairgrewlowonhisforeheadandwasshaggyandunkempt.Hisgreyclothesweremuchtheworseforwearandfittedhimsobadlyitseemedunlikelyhehadeverbeenmeasuredforthem.Heworeaflannelshirtandaslovenlyapologyforanecktie,andhisshoesweredustyandworngrayaboutthetoesandwerebadlyrunoverattheheel.IhadseenmanyatrampprintercomeuptheJournalstairstohuntajob,butneveronewhopresentedsuchadisreputableappearanceas thisstory-makerman.Heworegloves,whichseemedratheracontradictiontothegeneralslovenlinessofhisattire,butwhenhetookthemofftosearchhispocketsforhiscredentials, I noticed that his hands were singularly fine; long, white, anddelicately shaped, with thin, nervous fingers. I have seen pictures of AubreyBeardsley’shandsthatrecalledCrane’sveryvividly.

At that time Crane was but twenty-four, and almost an unknown man.Hamlin Garland had seen some of his work and believed in him, and hadintroduced him to Mr. Howells, who recommended him to the BachellerSyndicate.“TheRedBadgeofCourage”hadbeenpublishedintheStateJournalthat winter along with a lot of other syndicate matter, and the grammaticalconstructionofthestorywassofaultythatthemanagingeditorhadseveraltimescalled on me to edit the copy. In this way I had read it very carefully, andthrough the careless sentence-structure I saw the wonder of that remarkableperformance. But the grammar certainly was bad. I remember one of thereporterswho had corrected the phrase “it don’t” for the tenth time remarkedsavagely,“IfIcouldn’twritebetterEnglishthanthis,I’dquit.”

Cranespentseveraldaysinthetown,livingfromhandtomouthandwaitingforhismoney.Ithinkheborrowedasmallamountfromthemanagingeditor.Helounged about the office most of the time, and I frequently encountered himgoing inandoutof thecheaprestaurantsonTenthStreet.Whenhewasat theoffice he talked a good deal in a wandering, absent-minded fashion, and hisconversationwasuniformlyfrivolous. Ifhecouldnotevadeaseriousquestionby a joke, he bolted. I cutmy classes to lie inwait for him, confident that in

some unwary moment I could trap him into serious conversation, that if oneburnedincenselongenoughandardentlyenough,theoraclewouldnotbedumb.IwasMaupassantmadatthetime,amaladyparticularlyunattractiveinaJunior,and I made a frantic effort to get an expression of opinion from him on “LeBonheur.”“Oh,you’reMoping,areyou?”heremarkedwithasarcasticgrin,andwentonreadingalittlevolumeofPoethathecarriedinhispocket.AtanothertimeIcorneredhimintheFunnyMan’sroomandsucceededingettingalittleoutofhim.WeweretaughtliteraturebyanexceedinglyanalyticalmethodattheUniversity,andweprobablydistortedthemethod,andIwasbusytryingtofindthe least common multiple of Hamlet and the greatest common divisor ofMacbeth,andIbeganaskinghimwhetherstorieswereconstructedbycabalisticformulae. At length he sighed wearily and shook his drooping shoulders,remarking:

“Wheredidyougetallthatrot?Yarnsaren’tdonebymathematics.Youcan’tdoitbyruleanymorethanyoucandancebyrule.Youhavetohavetheitchofthe thing inyour fingers,and ifyouhaven’t,—well,you’redamned lucky,andyou’ll live long and prosper, that’s all.”—Andwith that he yawned andwentdownthehall.

Crane was moody most of the time, his health was bad and he seemedprofoundlydiscouraged.Evenhisjokeswereexceedinglydrastic.Hewentaboutwith the tense, preoccupied, self-centered air of a man who is brooding oversome impending disaster, and I conjectured vainly as to what it might be.Though he was seemingly entirely idle during the few days I knew him, hismanner indicated that he was in the throes of work that told terribly on hisnerves.HiseyesI rememberas thefinest Ihaveeverseen, largeanddarkandfull of lustre and changing lights, but with a profound melancholy alwayslurkingdeepinthem.Theywereeyesthatseemedtobeburningthemselvesout.

Ashesatatthedeskwithhisshouldersdroopingforward,hisheadlow,andhislong,whitefingersdrummingonthesheetsofcopypaper,hewasasnervousasaracehorsefrettingtobeonthetrack.Always,ashecameandwentaboutthehalls,heseemedlikeamanpreparingforasuddendeparture.Nowthatheisdead it occurs tome that all his lifewas apreparation for suddendeparture. I

rememberoncewhenhewaswritingaletterhestoppedandaskedmeaboutthespellingofaword,sayingcarelessly,“Ihaven’ttimetolearntospell.”

Then,glancingdownathisattire,headdedwithanabsent-mindedsmile,“Ihaven’ttimetodresseither;ittakesanawfulsliceoutofafellow’slife.”

Hesaidhewaspoor,andhecertainlylookedit,butfouryearslaterwhenhewasinCuba,drawingthelargestsalaryeverpaidanewspapercorrespondent,heclungtothissameuntidymannerofdress,andhisraggedoverallsandbuttonlessshirtwereeyesores to the immaculateMr.Davis, inhisspotless linenandneatkhakiuniform,withhisGibsonchinalwaysfreshlyshaven.WhenIfirstheardofhis serious illness, his old throat trouble aggravated into consumption by hisrecklessexposureinCuba,IrecalledapassagefromMaeterlinck’sessay,“ThePre-Destined,”onthosedoomedtoearlydeath:“Aschildren,lifeseemsnearertothemthantootherchildren.Theyappeartoknownothing,andyetthereisintheireyessoprofoundacertaintythatwefeeltheymustknowall.—Inallhaste,butwiselyandwithminutecaredotheypreparethemselvestolive,andthisveryhaste is a sign upon which mothers can scarce bring themselves to look.” Iremembered, too, the youngman’smelancholy and his tenseness, his burningeyes,andhiswayofslurringoverthelessimportantthings,asonewhosetimeisshort.

I have heard other people say howdifficult itwas to induceCrane to talkseriously about his work, and I suspect that he was particularly averse todiscussions with literary men of wider education and better equipment thanhimself,yetheseemed to feel that this fullerculturewasnot forhim.Perhapsthe unreasoning instinct which lies deep in the roots of our lives, and whichguidesusall,toldhimthathehadnottimeenoughtoacquireit.

Menwillsometimesrevealthemselvestochildren,ortopeoplewhomtheythinknever toseeagain,morecompletely than theyeverdo to theirconfreres.From the wise we hold back alike our folly and our wisdom, and for therecipientsofourdeeperconfidencesweseldomselectourequals.Thesoulhasnomessage for the friendswithwhomwe dine everyweek. It is silenced bycustomandconvention,andweplayonlyintheshallows.Itselectsitslistenerswillfully,andseeminglydelightstowasteitsbestuponthechancewayfarerwho

meetsusinthehighwayatafatedhour.Therearemomentstoo,whenthetidesrunhighorverylow,whenself-revelationisnecessarytoeveryman,ifitbeonlytohisvaletorhisgardener.Atsuchamoment,IwaswithMr.Crane.

Thehopedforrevelationcameunexpectedlyenough.Itwasonthelastnighthe spent inLincoln. I had comeback from the theatre andwas in the Journalofficewritinganoticeoftheplay.Itwaseleveno’clockwhenCranecamein.Hehadexpectedhismoneytoarriveonthenightmailandithadnotdoneso,andhewasoutofsortsanddeeplydespondent.Hesatdownon the ledgeof theopenwindowthatfacedonthestreet,andwhenIhadfinishedmynoticeIwentoverandtookachairbesidehim.Quitewithoutinvitationonmypart,Cranebegantotalk,begantocursehistradefromthefirstthrobofcreativedesireinaboytothefinishedworkofthemaster.Thenightwasoppressivelywarm;oneofthosedrywindsthatarethecurseofthatcountrywasblowingupfromKansas.Thewhite,westernmoonlightthrewsharp,blueshadowsbelowus.Thestreetsweresilentat that hour, and we could hear the gurgle of the fountain in the Post Officesquareacrossthestreet,andthetwangofbanjosfromthelowerverandahoftheHotelLincoln,wherethecoloredwaiterswereserenadingtheguests.Thedroplightsintheofficeweredullundertheirgreenshades,andthetelegraphsounderclicked faintly in the next room. In all his long tirade,Crane never raised hisvoice; he spoke slowly andmonotonously and even calmly, but I have neverknown sobitter aheart in anymanashe revealed tome that night. Itwas anarraignmentofthewagesoflife,aninvocationtotheministersofhate.

Incidentally he told me the sum he had received for “The Red Badge ofCourage,”whichIthinkwassomethinglikeninetydollars,andherepeatedsomelines from“TheBlackRiders,”whichwas then inpreparation.Hegaveme tounderstandthatheledadoubleliterarylife;writinginthefirstplacethematterthatpleasedhimself,anddoing itveryslowly; in thesecondplace,anysortofstuffthatwouldsell.Andheremarkedthathispoorwasjustasbadasitcouldpossiblybe.Herealized,hesaid,thathislimitationswereabsolutelyimpassable.“WhatIcan’tdo,Ican’tdoatall,andIcan’tacquireit.Ionlyholdonetrump.”

Hehadnosettledplansatall.HewasgoingtoMexicowhollyuncertainofbeingabletodoanysuccessfulworkthere,andheseemedtofeelveryinsecure

about the financial end of his venture. The thing thatmost interestedmewaswhathesaidabouthisslowmethodofcomposition.Hedeclaredthattherewaslittlemoneyinstory-writingatbest,andpracticallynoneinitforhim,becauseofthetimeittookhimtoworkuphisdetail.Othermen,hesaid,couldsitdownandwriteupanexperiencewhilethephysicaleffectofit,sotospeak,wasstillupon them, and yesterday’s impressions made to-day’s “copy.” But when hecameinfromthestreets towriteupwhathehadseen there,his facultieswerebenumbed,andhesattwirlinghispencilandhuntingforwordslikeaschoolboy.

Imentioned“TheRedBadgeofCourage,”whichwaswritteninninedays,and he replied that, though the writing took very little time, he had beenunconsciouslyworkingthedetailofthestoryoutthroughmostofhisboyhood.His ancestors had been soldiers, and he had been imagining war stories eversince hewas out of knickerbockers, and in writing his first war story he hadsimplygoneoverhis imaginarycampaignsandselectedhis favorite imaginaryexperiences.Hedeclaredthathisimaginationwashidebound;itwasthere,butitpulledhard.Afterhegotanotionforastory,monthspassedbeforehecouldgetanysortofpersonalcontractwithit,orfeelanypotencytohandleit.“Thedetailof a thing has to filter throughmy blood, and then it comes out like a nativeproduct,butittakesforever,”heremarked.Idistinctlyremembertheillustration,foritrathertookholdofme.

IhaveoftenbeenastonishedsincetohearCranespokenofas“thereporterinfiction,”forthereportorialfacultyofsuperficialreceptionandquicktransferencewaswhatheconspicuouslylacked.Hisfirstnewspaperaccountofhisshipwreckonthefilibuster“Commodore”offtheFloridacoastwasaslifelessasthe“copy”of a police court reporter. It was many months afterwards that the literaryproduct of his terrible experience appeared in that marvellous sea story “TheOpenBoat,”unsurpassedinitsvividnessandconstructiveperfection.

Atthecloseofourlongconversationthatnight,whenthecopyboycameintotakemehome,IsuggestedtoCranethatintenyearshewouldprobablylaughatallhis temporarydiscomfort.Againhisbody tookon that strenuous tensionandheclenchedhishands,saying,“Ican’twaittenyears,Ihaven’ttime.”

The ten years are not up yet, and he has done his work and gathered his

rewardandgone.Waseversomuchexperienceandachievementcrowdedintoso short a space of time?A greatman dead at twenty-nine! Thatwould havepuzzled the ancients. Edward Garnett wrote of him in The Academy ofDecember 17, 1899: “I cannot remember a parallel in the literary history offiction.Maupassant,Meredith,HenryJames,Mr.HowellsandTolstoy,werealllearningtheirexpressionatanagewhereCranehadachievedhisandachievedittriumphantly.” He had the precocity of those doomed to die in youth. I amconvincedthatwhenImethimhehadavaguepremonitionoftheshortnessofhisworkingday, and in theheartof theman therewas thatwhich said, “Thatthoudoest,doquickly.”

At twenty-one this son of an obscureNew Jersey rector, with but a scantreading knowledge of French and no training, had rivaled in technique theforemost craftsmen of the Latin races. In the six years since I met him, astrandedreporter,hestoodinthefiringlineduringtwowars,knewhairbreadth’scapesonlandandsea,andestablishedhimselfasthefirstwriterofhistimeinthe picturing of episodic, fragmentary life.His friends have charged himwithfickleness,buthewasamanwhowas in thepreoccupationofhaste.Hewentfromcountry tocountry, fromman toman, absorbingall thatwas in them forhim.Hehadnotimetolookbackward.Hehadnoleisureforcamaraderie.Hedranklife to the lees,butat thebanquet tablewhereothermentook theireaseand jested over their wine, he stood a dark and silent figure, sombre as Poehimself,notwishingtobeunderstood;andhetookhisportioninhaste,withhisloinsgirded, andhis shoesonhis feet, andhis staff inhishand, likeonewhomustdepartquickly.

TheLibrary,June23,1900

OntheArtofFiction

O NEISSOMETIMESASKEDABOUTTHE“OBSTACLES”THATCONFRONTYOUNGWRITERS

whoaretryingtodogoodwork.Ishouldsaythegreatestobstaclesthatwriterstodayhave to get over, are the dazzling journalistic successes of twenty yearsago,stories that surprisedanddelightedby their sharpphotographicdetailandthatwerereallynothingmorethanlivelypiecesofreporting.Thewholeaimofthat school ofwritingwas novelty—never a very important thing in art. Theygaveus,altogether,poorstandards—taughtustomultiplyourideasinsteadoftocondensethem.Theytriedtomakeastoryoutofeverythemethatoccurredtothemandtogetreturnsoneverysituationthatsuggesteditself.Theygotreturns,ofakind.Buttheirwork,whenonelooksbackonit,nowthatthenoveltyuponwhichtheycountedsomuchisgone,isjournalisticandthin.Theespecialmeritofagoodreportorial story is that it shallbe intensely interestingandpertinenttodayandshallhavelostitspointbytomorrow.

Art,itseemstome,shouldsimplify.That,indeed,isverynearlythewholeofthehigherartisticprocess;findingwhatconventionsofformandwhatdetailonecandowithoutandyetpreservethespiritofthewhole—sothatallthatonehassuppressedandcutawayis theretothereader’sconsciousnessasmuchasif it

were in type on the page. Millet had done hundreds of sketches of peasantssowinggrain,someofthemverycomplicatedandinteresting,butwhenhecametopaintthespiritofthemallintoonepicture,“TheSower,”thecompositionisso simple that it seems inevitable.All the discarded sketches thatwent beforemadethepicturewhatitfinallybecame,andtheprocesswasallthetimeoneofsimplifying, of sacrificing many conceptions good in themselves for one thatwasbetterandmoreuniversal.

Any first rate novel or storymust have in it the strength of a dozen fairlygoodstories thathavebeensacrificed to it.Agoodworkmancan’tbeacheapworkman;hecan’tbestingyaboutwastingmaterial,andhecannotcompromise.Writingoughteithertobethemanufactureofstoriesforwhichthereisamarketdemand—a business as safe and commendable as making soap or breakfastfoods—oritshouldbeanart,whichisalwaysasearchforsomethingforwhichthere is nomarket demand, something new and untried, where the values areintrinsicandhavenothingtodowithstandardizedvalues.Thecouragetogoonwithoutcompromisedoesnotcometoawriterallatonce—nor,forthatmatter,does the ability.Both are phases of natural development. In the beginning theartist,likehispublic,isweddedtooldforms,oldideals,andhisvisionisblurredbythememoryofolddelightshewouldliketorecapture.

TheBorzoi,1920

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