0047
0047f
The Complete Works of Edith Wharton - Part 4
IN MOROCCO
BY
EDITH WHARTON
ILLUSTRATED
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1920
COPYRIGHT, 1919, 1920, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
Published October, 1920
THE SCRIBNER PRESS
TO
GENERAL LYAUTEY
RESIDENT GENERAL OF FRANCE IN MOROCCO AND TO
MADAME LYAUTEY,
THANKS TO WHOSE KINDNESS THE JOURNEY
I HAD SO LONG DREAMED OF
SURPASSED WHAT I HAD DREAMED
PREFACE
I
Having begun my book with the statement that Morocco still lacks a
guide-book, I should have wished to take a first step toward remedying
that deficiency.
But the conditions in which I travelled, though full of unexpected and
picturesque opportunities, were not suited to leisurely study of the
places visited. The time was limited by the approach of the rainy
season, which puts an end to motoring over the treacherous trails of the
Spanish zone. In 1918, owing to the watchfulness of German submarines in
the Straits and along the northwest coast of Africa, the trip by sea
from Marseilles to Casablanca, ordinarily so easy, was not to be made
without much discomfort and loss of time. Once on board the steamer,
passengers were often kept in port (without leave to land) for six or
eight days; therefore for any one bound by a time-limit, as most
war-workers were, it was necessary to travel across country, and to be
back at Tangier before the November rains.
This left me only one month in which to visit Morocco from the
Mediterranean to the High Atlas, and from the Atlantic to Fez, and even
had there been a Djinn's carpet to carry me, the multiplicity of
impressions received would have made precise observation difficult.
The next best thing to a Djinn's carpet, a military motor, was at my
disposal every morning; but war conditions imposed restrictions, and the
wish to use the minimum of petrol often stood in the way of the second
visit which alone makes it possible to carry away a definite and
detailed impression.
These drawbacks were more than offset by the advantage of making my
quick trip at a moment unique in the history of the country; the brief
moment of transition between its virtually complete subjection to
European authority, and the fast approaching hour when it is thrown open
to all the banalities and promiscuities of modern travel.
Morocco is too curious, too beautiful, too rich in landscape and
architecture, and above all too much of a novelty, not to attract one of
the main streams of spring travel as soon as Mediterranean passenger
traffic is resumed. Now that the war is over, only a few months' work on
roads and railways divide it from the great torrent of "tourism"; and
once that deluge is let loose, no eye will ever again see Moulay Idriss
and Fez and Marrakech as I saw them.
In spite of the incessant efforts of the present French administration
to preserve the old monuments of Morocco from injury, and her native
arts and industries from the corruption of European bad taste, the
impression of mystery and remoteness which the country now produces must
inevitably vanish with the approach of the "Circular Ticket." Within a
few years far more will be known of the past of Morocco, but that past
will be far less visible to the traveller than it is to-day. Excavations
will reveal fresh traces of Roman and Phenician occupation; the remote
affinities between Copts and Berbers, between Bagdad and Fez, between
Byzantine art and the architecture of the Souss, will be explored and
elucidated; but, while these successive discoveries are being made, the
strange survival of mediæval life, of a life contemporary with the
crusaders, with Saladin, even with the great days of the Caliphate of
Bagdad, which now greets the astonished traveller, will gradually
disappear, till at last even the mysterious autocthones of the Atlas
will have folded their tents and silently stolen away.
II
Authoritative utterances on Morocco are not wanting for those who can
read them in French; but they are to be found mainly in large and often
inaccessible books, like M. Doutté's "En Tribu," the Marquis de
Segonzac's remarkable explorations in the Atlas, or Foucauld's classic
(but unobtainable) "Reconnaissance au Maroc"; and few, if any, have been
translated into English.
M. Louis Châtelain has dealt with the Roman ruins of Volubilis and M.
Tranchant de Lunel, M. Raymond Koechlin, M. Gaillard, M. Ricard, and
many other French scholars, have written of Moslem architecture and art
in articles published either in "France-Maroc," as introductions to
catalogues of exhibitions, or in the reviews and daily papers. Pierre
Loti and M. André Chevrillon have reflected, with the intensest visual
sensibility, the romantic and ruinous Morocco of yesterday; and in the
volumes of the "Conférences Marocaines," published by the French
government, the experts gathered about the Resident-General have
examined the industrial and agricultural Morocco of to-morrow. Lastly,
one striking book sums up, with the clearness and consecutiveness of
which French scholarship alone possesses the art, the chief things to be
said on all these subjects, save that of art and archæology. This is M.
Augustin Bernard's volume, "Le Maroc," the one portable and compact yet
full and informing book since Leo Africanus described the bazaars of
Fez. But M. Augustin Bernard deals only with the ethnology, the social,
religious and political history, and the physical properties, of the
country; and this, though "a large order," leaves out the visual and
picturesque side, except in so far as the book touches on the always
picturesque life of the people.
For the use, therefore, of the happy wanderers who may be planning a
Moroccan journey, I have added to the record of my personal impressions
a slight sketch of the history and art of the country. In extenuation of
the attempt I must add that the chief merit of this sketch will be its
absence of originality. Its facts will be chiefly drawn from the pages
of M. Augustin Bernard, M. H. Saladin, and M. Gaston Migeon, and the
rich sources of the "Conférences Marocaines" and the articles of
"France-Maroc." It will also be deeply indebted to information given on
the spot by the brilliant specialists of the French administration, to
the Marquis de Segonzac, with whom I had the good luck to travel from
Rabat to Marrakech and back; to M. Alfred de Tarde, editor of
"France-Maroc"; to M. Tranchant de Lunel, director of the French School
of Fine Arts in Morocco; to M. Goulven, the historian of Portuguese
Mazagan; to M. Louis Châtelain, and to the many other cultivated and
cordial French officials, military and civilian, who, at each stage of
my journey, did their amiable best to answer my questions and open my
eyes.
NOTE
In the writing of proper names and of other Arab words the French
spelling has been followed.
In the case of proper names, and names of cities and districts, this
seems justified by the fact that they occur in a French colony, where
French usage naturally prevails; and to spell _Oudjda_ in the French
way, and _koubba_, for instance, in the English form of _kubba_, would
cause needless confusion as to their respective pronunciation. It seems
therefore simpler, in a book written for the ordinary traveller, to
conform altogether to French usage.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE vii
I. RABAT AND SALÉ 1
II. VOLUBILIS, MOULAY IDRISS AND MEKNEZ 35
III. FEZ 75
IV. MARRAKECH 121
V. HAREMS AND CEREMONIES 159
VI. GENERAL LYAUTEY'S WORK IN MOROCCO 207
VII. A SKETCH OF MOROCCAN HISTORY 229
VIII. NOTE ON MOROCCAN ARCHITECTURE 259
IX. BOOKS CONSULTED 279
INDEX 283
ILLUSTRATIONS
FEZ ELBALI FROM THE RAMPARTS _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
GENERAL VIEW FROM THE KASBAH OF THE OUDAYAS--RABAT 16
INTERIOR COURT OF THE MEDERSA OF THE OUDAYAS--RABAT 20
ENTRANCE OF THE MEDERSA--SALÉ 24
MARKET-PLACE OUTSIDE THE TOWN--SALÉ 26
CHELLA-RUINS OF MOSQUE--SALÉ 30
THE WESTERN PORTICO OF THE BASILICA OF ANTONIUS
PIUS--VOLUBILIS 46
MOULAY IDRISS 48
THE MARKET-PLACE--MOULAY IDRISS 50
MARKET-PLACE ON THE DAY OF THE RITUAL DANCE OF
THE HAMADCHAS--MOULAY IDRISS 52
THE MARKET-PLACE. PROCESSION OF THE CONFRATERNITY
OF THE HAMADCHAS--MOULAY IDRISS 56
GATE: "BAB-MANSOUR"--MEKNEZ 58
THE RUINS OF THE PALACE OF MOULAY-ISMAËL--MEKNEZ 66
FEZ ELDJID 84
A REED-ROOFED STREET--FEZ 88
THE NEDJARINE FOUNTAIN--FEZ 94
THE BAZAARS. A VIEW OF THE SOUK EL ATTARINE AND
THE QUAISARYA--FEZ 108
THE "LITTLE GARDEN" IN BACKGROUND, PALACE OF
THE BAHIA--MARRAKECH 128
THE GREAT COURT, PALACE OF THE BAHIA--MARRAKECH 130
APARTMENT OF THE GRAND VIZIER'S FAVORITE, PALACE
OF THE BAHIA--MARRAKECH 132
A FONDAK--MARRAKECH 144
MAUSOLEUM OF THE SAADIAN SULTANS SHOWING THE
TOMBS--MARRAKECH 156
THE SULTAN OF MOROCCO UNDER THE GREEN UMBRELLA 168
A CLAN OF MOUNTAINEERS AND THEIR CAÏD 170
THE SULTAN ENTERING MARRAKECH IN STATE 176
WOMEN WATCHING A PROCESSION FROM A ROOF 194
A STREET FOUNTAIN--MARRAKECH 262
GATE OF THE KASBAH OF THE OUDAYAS--RABAT 266
MEDERSA BOUANYANA--FEZ 268
THE PRAYING-CHAPEL IN THE MEDERSA EL ATTARINE--FEZ 270
INTERIOR COURT OF THE MEDERSA--SALÉ 274
THE GATE OF THE PORTUGUESE--MARRAKECH 276
MAP
THE PART OF MOROCCO VISITED BY MRS. WHARTON 8
I
RABAT AND SALÉ
I
LEAVING TANGIER
To step on board a steamer in a Spanish port, and three hours later to
land in _a country without a guide-book_, is a sensation to rouse the
hunger of the repletest sight-seer.
The sensation is attainable by any one who will take the trouble to row
out into the harbour of Algeciras and scramble onto a little black boat
headed across the straits. Hardly has the rock of Gibraltar turned to
cloud when one's foot is on the soil of an almost unknown Africa.
Tangier, indeed, is in the guide-books; but, cuckoo-like, it has had to
lays its egg in strange nests, and the traveller who wants to find out
about it must acquire a work dealing with some other country--Spain or
Portugal or Algeria. There is no guide-book to Morocco, and no way of
knowing, once one has left Tangier behind, where the long trail over the
Rif is going to land one, in the sense understood by any one accustomed
to European certainties. The air of the unforeseen blows on one from the
roadless passes of the Atlas.
This feeling of adventure is heightened by the contrast between
Tangier--cosmopolitan, frowsy, familiar Tangier, that every tourist has
visited for the last forty years--and the vast unknown just beyond. One
has met, of course, travellers who have been to Fez; but they have gone
there on special missions, under escort, mysteriously, perhaps
perilously; the expedition has seemed, till lately, a considerable
affair. And when one opens the records of Moroccan travellers written
within the last twenty years, how many, even of the most adventurous,
are found to have gone beyond Fez? And what, to this day, do the names
of Meknez and Marrakech, of Mogador, Saffi or Rabat, signify to any but
a few students of political history, a few explorers and naturalists?
Not till within the last year has Morocco been open to travel from
Tangier to the Great Atlas, and from Moulay Idriss to the Atlantic.
Three years ago Christians were being massacred in the streets of Salé,
the pirate town across the river from Rabat, and two years ago no
European had been allowed to enter the Sacred City of Moulay Idriss, the
burial-place of the lawful descendant of Ali, founder of the Idrissite
dynasty. Now, thanks to the energy and the imagination of one of the
greatest of colonial administrators, the country, at least in the French
zone, is as safe and open as the opposite shore of Spain. All that
remains is to tell the traveller how to find his way about it.
Ten years ago there was not a wheeled vehicle in Morocco; now its
thousands of miles of trail, and its hundreds of miles of firm French
roads, are travelled by countless carts, omnibuses and motor-vehicles.
There are light railways from Rabat to Fez in the west, and to a point
about eighty-five kilometres from Marrakech in the south; and it is
possible to say that within a year a regular railway system will connect
eastern Morocco with western Algeria, and the ports of Tangier and
Casablanca with the principal points of the interior.
What, then, prevents the tourist from instantly taking ship at Bordeaux
or Algeciras and letting loose his motor on this new world? Only the
temporary obstacles which the war has everywhere put in the way of
travel. Till these are lifted it will hardly be possible to travel in
Morocco except by favour of the Resident-General; but, normal conditions
once restored, the country will be as accessible, from the straits of
Gibraltar to the Great Atlas, as Algeria or Tunisia.
To see Morocco during the war was therefore to see it in the last phase
of its curiously abrupt transition from remoteness and danger to
security and accessibility; at a moment when its aspect and its customs
were still almost unaffected by European influences, and when the
"Christian" might taste the transient joy of wandering unmolested in
cities of ancient mystery and hostility, whose inhabitants seemed hardly
aware of his intrusion.
II
THE TRAIL TO EL-KSAR
With such opportunities ahead it was impossible, that brilliant morning
of September, 1917, not to be off quickly from Tangier, impossible to do
justice to the pale-blue town piled up within brown walls against the
thickly-foliaged gardens of "the Mountain," to the animation of its
market-place and the secret beauties of its steep Arab streets. For
Tangier swarms with people in European clothes, there are English,
French and Spanish signs above its shops, and cab-stands in its squares;
it belongs, as much as Algiers, to the familiar dog-eared world of
travel--and there, beyond the last dip of "the Mountain," lies the world
of mystery, with the rosy dawn just breaking over it. The motor is at
the door and we are off.
The so-called Spanish zone, which encloses internationalized Tangier in
a wide circuit of territory, extends southward for a distance of about a
hundred and fifteen kilometres. Consequently, when good roads traverse
it, French Morocco will be reached in less than two hours by
motor-travellers bound for the south. But for the present Spanish
enterprise dies out after a few miles of macadam (as it does even
between Madrid and Toledo), and the tourist is committed to the _piste_.
These _pistes_--the old caravan-trails from the south--are more
available to motors in Morocco than in southern Algeria and Tunisia,
since they run mostly over soil which, though sandy in part, is bound
together by a tough dwarf vegetation, and not over pure desert sand.
This, however, is the utmost that can be said of the Spanish _pistes_.
In the French protectorate constant efforts are made to keep the trails
fit for wheeled traffic, but Spain shows no sense of a corresponding
obligation.
After leaving the macadamized road which runs south from Tangier one
seems to have embarked on a petrified ocean in a boat hardly equal to
the adventure. Then, as one leaps and plunges over humps and ruts, down
sheer banks into rivers, and up precipices into sand-pits, one gradually
gains faith in one's conveyance and in one's spinal column; but both
must be sound in every joint to resist the strain of the long miles to
Arbaoua, the frontier post of the French protectorate.
[Illustration: The part of Morocco visited by Mrs. Wharton]
Luckily there are other things to think about. At the first turn out of
Tangier, Europe and the European disappear, and as soon as the motor
begins to dip and rise over the arid little hills beyond to the last
gardens one is sure that every figure on the road will be picturesque
instead of prosaic, every garment graceful instead of grotesque. One
knows, too, that there will be no more omnibuses or trams or
motorcyclists, but only long lines of camels rising up in brown friezes
against the sky, little black donkeys trotting across the scrub under
bulging pack-saddles, and noble draped figures walking beside them or
majestically perching on their rumps. And for miles and miles there will
be no more towns--only, at intervals on the naked slopes, circles of
rush-roofed huts in a blue stockade of cactus, or a hundred or two nomad
tents of black camel's hair resting on walls of wattled thorn and
grouped about a terebinth-tree and a well.
Between these nomad colonies lies the _bled_, the immense waste of
fallow land and palmetto desert: an earth as void of life as the sky
above it of clouds. The scenery is always the same; but if one has the
love of great emptinesses, and of the play of light on long stretches of
parched earth and rock, the sameness is part of the enchantment. In such
a scene every landmark takes on an extreme value. For miles one watches
the little white dome of a saint's grave rising and disappearing with
the undulations of the trail; at last one is abreast of it, and the
solitary tomb, alone with its fig-tree and its broken well-curb, puts a
meaning into the waste. The same importance, but intensified, marks the
appearance of every human figure. The two white-draped riders passing
single file up the red slope to that ring of tents on the ridge have a
mysterious and inexplicable importance: one follows their progress with
eyes that ache with conjecture. More exciting still is the encounter of
the first veiled woman heading a little cavalcade from the south. All
the mystery that awaits us looks out through the eye-slits in the
grave-clothes muffling her. Where have they come from, where are they
going, all these slow wayfarers out of the unknown? Probably only from
one thatched _douar_[1] to another; but interminable distances unroll
behind them, they breathe of Timbuctoo and the farthest desert. Just
such figures must swarm in the Saharan cities, in the Soudan and
Senegal. There is no break in the links: these wanderers have looked on
at the building of cities that were dust when the Romans pushed their
outposts across the Atlas.
III
EL-KSAR TO RABAT
A town at last--its nearness announced by the multiplied ruts of the
trail, the cactus hedges, the fig-trees weighed down by dust leaning
over ruinous earthern walls. And here are the first houses of the
European El-Ksar--neat white Spanish houses on the slope outside the old
Arab settlement. Of the Arab town itself, above reed stockades and brown
walls, only a minaret and a few flat roofs are visible. Under the walls
drowse the usual gregarious Lazaruses; others, temporarily resuscitated,
trail their grave-clothes after a line of camels and donkeys toward the
olive-gardens outside the town.
The way to Rabat is long and difficult, and there is no time to visit
El-Ksar, though its minaret beckons so alluringly above the
fruit-orchards; so we stop for luncheon outside the walls, at a canteen
with a corrugated iron roof where skinny Spaniards are serving thick
purple wine and eggs fried in oil to a party of French soldiers. The
heat has suddenly become intolerable, and a flaming wind straight from
the south brings in at the door, with a cloud of blue flies, the smell
of camels and trampled herbs and the strong spices of the bazaars.
Luncheon over, we hurry on between the cactus hedges, and then plunge
back into the waste. Beyond El-Ksar the last hills of the Rif die away,
and there is a stretch of wilderness without an outline till the Lesser
Atlas begins to rise in the east. Once in the French protectorate the
trail improves, but there are still difficult bits; and finally, on a
high plateau, the chauffeur stops in a web of crisscross trails, throws
up his hands, and confesses that he has lost his way. The heat is mortal
at the moment. For the last hour the red breath of the sirocco has
risen from every hollow into which we dipped; now it hangs about us in
the open, as if we had caught it in our wheels and it had to pause above
us when we paused.
All around is the featureless wild land, palmetto scrub stretching away
into eternity. A few yards off rises the inevitable ruined _koubba_[2]
with its fig-tree: in the shade under its crumbling wall the buzz of the
flies is like the sound of frying. Farther off, we discern a cluster of
huts, and presently some Arab boys and a tall pensive shepherd come
hurrying across the scrub. They are full of good-will, and no doubt of
information; but our chauffeur speaks no Arabic and the talk dies down
into shrugs and head-shakings. The Arabs retire to the shade of the
wall, and we decide to start--for anywhere....
The chauffeur turns the crank, but there is no responding quiver.
Something has gone wrong; we can't move, and it is not much comfort to
remember that, if we could, we should not know where to go. At least we
should be cooler in motion than sitting still under the blinding sky.
Such an adventure initiates one at the outset into the stern facts of
desert motoring. Every detail of our trip from Tangier to Rabat had been
carefully planned to keep us in unbroken contact with civilization. We
were to "tub" in one European hotel, and to dine in another, with just
enough picnicking between to give a touch of local colour. But let one
little cog slip and the whole plan falls to bits, and we are alone in
the old untamed Moghreb, as remote from Europe as any mediæval
adventurer. If one lose one's way in Morocco, civilization vanishes as
though it were a magic carpet rolled up by a Djinn.
It is a good thing to begin with such a mishap, not only because it
develops the fatalism necessary to the enjoyment of Africa, but because
it lets one at once into the mysterious heart of the country: a country
so deeply conditioned by its miles and miles of uncitied wilderness that
until one has known the wilderness one cannot begin to understand the
cities.
We came to one at length, after sunset on that first endless day. The
motor, cleverly patched up, had found its way to a real road, and
speeding along between the stunted cork-trees of the forest of Mamora
brought us to a last rise from which we beheld in the dusk a line of
yellow walls backed by the misty blue of the Atlantic. Salé, the fierce
old pirate town, where Robinson Crusoe was so long a slave, lay before
us, snow-white in its cheese-coloured ramparts skirted by fig and olive
gardens. Below its gates a stretch of waste land, endlessly trailed over
by mules and camels, sloped down to the mouth of the Bou-Regreg, the
blue-brown river dividing it from Rabat. The motor stopped at the
landing-stage of the steam-ferry; crowding about it were droves of
donkeys, knots of camels, plump-faced merchants on crimson-saddled
mules, with negro servants at their bridles, bare-legged water-carriers
with hairy goat-skins slung over their shoulders, and Arab women in a
heap of veils, cloaks, mufflings, all of the same ashy white, the
caftans of clutched children peeping through in patches of old rose and
lilac and pale green.
Across the river the native town of Rabat lay piled up on an orange-red
cliff beaten by the Atlantic. Its walls, red too, plunged into the
darkening breakers at the mouth of the river; and behind it, stretching
up to the mighty tower of Hassan, and the ruins of the Great Mosque, the
scattered houses of the European city showed their many lights across
the plain.
IV
THE KASBAH OF THE OUDAYAS
Salé the white and Rabat the red frown at each other over the foaming
bar of the Bou-Regreg, each walled, terraced, minareted, and presenting
a singularly complete picture of the two types of Moroccan town, the
snowy and the tawny. To the gates of both the Atlantic breakers roll in
with the boom of northern seas, and under a misty northern sky. It is
one of the surprises of Morocco to find the familiar African pictures
bathed in this unfamiliar haze. Even the fierce midday sun does not
wholly dispel it: the air remains thick, opalescent, like water slightly
clouded by milk. One is tempted to say that Morocco is Tunisia seen by
moonlight.
The European town of Rabat, a rapidly developing community, lies almost
wholly outside the walls of the old Arab city. The latter, founded in
the twelfth century by the great Almohad conqueror of Spain,
Yacoub-el-Mansour, stretches its mighty walls to the river's mouth.
Thence they climb the cliff to enclose the Kasbah[3] of the Oudayas, a
troublesome tribe whom one of the Almohad Sultans, mistrusting their
good faith, packed up one day, flocks, tents and camels, and carried
across the _bled_ to stow them into these stout walls under his
imperial eye. Great crenellated ramparts, cyclopean, superb, follow the
curve of the cliff. On the landward side they are interrupted by a
gate-tower resting on one of the most nobly decorated of the horseshoe
arches that break the mighty walls of Moroccan cities. Underneath the
tower the vaulted entrance turns, Arab fashion, at right angles,
profiling its red arch against darkness and mystery. This bending of
passages, so characteristic a device of the Moroccan builder, is like an
architectural expression of the tortuous secret soul of the land.
[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_
Rabat--general view from the Kasbah of the Oudayas]
Outside the Kasbah a narrow foot-path is squeezed between the walls and
the edge of the cliff. Toward sunset it looks down on a strange scene.
To the south of the citadel the cliff descends to a long dune sloping to
a sand-beach; and dune and beach are covered with the slanting
headstones of the immense Arab cemetery of El Alou. Acres and acres of
graves fall away from the red ramparts to the grey sea; and breakers
rolling straight from America send their spray across the lowest stones.
There are always things going on toward evening in an Arab cemetery. In
this one, travellers from the _bled_ are camping in one corner, donkeys
grazing (on heaven knows what), a camel dozing under its pack; in
another, about a new-made grave, there are ritual movements of muffled
figures and wailings of a funeral hymn half drowned by the waves. Near
us, on a fallen headstone, a man with a thoughtful face sits chatting
with two friends and hugging to his breast a tiny boy who looks like a
grasshopper in his green caftan; a little way off, a solitary
philosopher, his eye fixed on the sunset, lies on another grave, smoking
his long pipe of kif.
There is infinite sadness in this scene under the fading sky, beside the
cold welter of the Atlantic. One seems to be not in Africa itself, but
in the Africa that northern crusaders may have dreamed of in snow-bound
castles by colder shores of the same ocean. This is what Moghreb must
have looked like to the confused imagination of the Middle Ages, to
Norman knights burning to ransom the Holy Places, or Hansa merchants
devising, in steep-roofed towns, of Barbary and the long caravans
bringing apes and gold-powder from the south.
* * * * *
Inside the gate of the Kasbah one comes on more waste land and on other
walls--for all Moroccan towns are enclosed in circuit within circuit of
battlemented masonry. Then, unexpectedly, a gate in one of the inner
walls lets one into a tiled court enclosed in a traceried cloister and
overlooking an orange-grove that rises out of a carpet of roses. This
peaceful and well-ordered place is the interior of the Medersa (the
college) of the Oudayas. Morocco is full of these colleges, or rather
lodging-houses of the students frequenting the mosques; for all
Mahometan education is given in the mosque itself, only the preparatory
work being done in the colleges. The most beautiful of the Medersas date
from the earlier years of the long Merinid dynasty (1248-1548), the
period at which Moroccan art, freed from too distinctively Spanish and
Arab influences, began to develop a delicate grace of its own as far
removed from the extravagance of Spanish ornament as from the
inheritance of Roman-Byzantine motives that the first Moslem invasion
had brought with it from Syria and Mesopotamia.
These exquisite collegiate buildings, though still in use whenever they
are near a well-known mosque, have all fallen into a state of sordid
disrepair. The Moroccan Arab, though he continues to build--and
fortunately to build in the old tradition, which has never been
lost--has, like all Orientals, an invincible repugnance to repairing and
restoring, and one after another the frail exposed Arab structures, with
their open courts and badly constructed terrace-roofs, are crumbling
into ruin. Happily the French Government has at last been asked to
intervene, and all over Morocco the Medersas are being repaired with
skill and discretion. That of the Oudayas is already completely
restored, and as it had long fallen into disuse it has been transformed
by the Ministry of Fine Arts into a museum of Moroccan art.
The plan of the Medersas is always much the same: the eternal plan of
the Arab house, built about one or more arcaded courts, with long narrow
rooms enclosing them on the ground floor, and several stories above,
reached by narrow stairs, and often opening on finely carved cedar
galleries. The chief difference between the Medersa and the private
house, or even the _fondak_,[4] lies in the use to which the rooms are
put. In the Medersas, one of the ground-floor apartments is always
fitted up as a chapel, and shut off from the court by carved cedar doors
still often touched with old gilding and vermilion. There are always a
few students praying in the chapel, while others sit in the doors of the
upper rooms, their books on their knees, or lean over the carved
galleries chatting with their companions who are washing their feet at
the marble fountain in the court, preparatory to entering the chapel.
[Illustration: _From a photograph by Schmitt, Rabat_
Rabat--interior court of the Medersa of the Oudayas]
In the Medersa of the Oudayas, these native activities have been
replaced by the lifeless hush of a museum. The rooms are furnished with
old rugs, pottery, brasses, the curious embroidered hangings which line
the tents of the chiefs, and other specimens of Arab art. One room
reproduces a barber's shop in the bazaar, its benches covered with fine
matting, the hanging mirror inlaid with mother-of-pearl, the
razor-handles of silver _niello_. The horseshoe arches of the outer
gallery look out on orange-blossoms, roses and the sea. It is all
beautiful, calm and harmonious; and if one is tempted to mourn the
absence of life and local colour, one has only to visit an abandoned
Medersa to see that, but for French intervention, the charming
colonnades and cedar chambers of the college of the Oudayas would by
this time be a heap of undistinguished rubbish--for plaster and rubble
do not "die in beauty" like the firm stones of Rome.
V
ROBINSON CRUSOE'S "SALLEE"
Before Morocco passed under the rule of the great governor who now
administers it, the European colonists made short work of the beauty and
privacy of the old Arab towns in which they established themselves.
On the west coast, especially, where the Mediterranean peoples, from the
Phenicians to the Portuguese, have had trading-posts for over two
thousand years, the harm done to such seaboard towns as Tangier, Rabat
and Casablanca is hard to estimate. The modern European colonist
apparently imagined that to plant his warehouses, _cafés_ and
cinema-palaces within the walls which for so long had fiercely excluded
him was the most impressive way of proclaiming his domination.
Under General Lyautey such views are no longer tolerated. Respect for
native habits, native beliefs and native architecture is the first
principle inculcated in the civil servants attached to his
administration. Not only does he require that the native towns shall be
kept intact, and no European building erected within them; a sense of
beauty not often vouchsafed to Colonial governors causes him to place
the administration buildings so far beyond the walls that the modern
colony grouped around them remains entirely distinct from the old town,
instead of growing out of it like an ugly excrescence.
The Arab quarter of Rabat was already irreparably disfigured when
General Lyautey came to Morocco; but ferocious old Salé, Phenician
counting-house and breeder of Barbary pirates, had been saved from
profanation by its Moslem fanaticism. Few Christian feet had entered its
walls except those of the prisoners who, like Robinson Crusoe, slaved
for the wealthy merchants in its mysterious terraced houses. Not till
two or three years ago was it completely pacified; and when it opened
its gates to the infidel it was still, as it is to-day, the type of the
untouched Moroccan city--so untouched that, with the sunlight
irradiating its cream-coloured walls and the blue-white domes above
them, it rests on its carpet of rich fruit-gardens like some rare
specimen of Arab art on a strip of old Oriental velvet.
Within the walls, the magic persists: which does not always happen when
one penetrates into the mirage-like cities of Arabian Africa. Salé has
the charm of extreme compactness. Crowded between the river-mouth and
the sea, its white and pale-blue houses almost touch across the narrow
streets, and the reed-thatched bazaars seem like miniature reductions of
the great trading labyrinths of Tunis or Fez.
Everything that the reader of the Arabian Nights expects to find is
here: the whitewashed niches wherein pale youths sit weaving the fine
mattings for which the town is still famous; the tunnelled passages
where indolent merchants with bare feet crouch in their little kennels
hung with richly ornamented saddlery and arms, or with slippers of pale
citron leather and bright embroidered _babouches_; the stalls with
fruit, olives, tunny-fish, vague syrupy sweets, candles for saints'
tombs, Mantegnesque garlands of red and green peppers, griddle-cakes
sizzling on red-hot pans, and all the varied wares and cakes and
condiments that the lady in the tale of the Three Calanders went out to
buy, that memorable morning in the market of Bagdad.
[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_
Salé--entrance of the Medersa]
Only at Salé all is on a small scale: there is not much of any one
thing, except of the exquisite matting. The tide of commerce has ebbed
from the intractable old city, and one feels, as one watches the
listless purchasers in her little languishing bazaars, that her long
animosity against the intruder has ended by destroying her own life.
The feeling increases when one leaves the bazaar for the streets
adjoining it. An even deeper hush than that which hangs over the
well-to-do quarters of all Arab towns broods over these silent
thorough-fares, with heavy-nailed doors barring half-ruined houses. In a
steep deserted square one of these doors opens its panels of
weather-silvered cedar on the court of the frailest, ghostliest of
Medersas--mere carved and painted shell of a dead house of learning.
Mystic interweavings of endless lines, patient patterns interminably
repeated in wood and stone and clay, all are here, from the tessellated
paving of the court to the honeycombing of the cedar roof through which
a patch of sky shows here and there like an inset of turquoise tiling.
This lovely ruin is in the safe hands of the French Fine Arts
administration, and soon the wood-carvers and stucco-workers of Fez will
have revived its old perfection; but it will never again be more than a
show-Medersa, standing empty and unused beside the mosque behind whose
guarded doors and high walls one guesses that the old religious
fanaticism of Salé is dying also, as her learning and her commerce have
died.
[Illustration: _From a photograph by Schmitt, Rabat_
Salé--market-place outside the town]
In truth the only life in her is centred in the market-place outside the
walls, where big expanding Rabat goes on certain days to provision
herself. The market of Salé, though typical of all Moroccan markets, has
an animation and picturesqueness of its own. Its rows of white tents
pitched on a dusty square between the outer walls and the fruit-gardens
make it look as though a hostile tribe had sat down to lay siege to the
town; but the army is an army of hucksters, of farmers from the rich
black lands along the river, of swarthy nomads and leather-gaitered
peasant women from the hills, of slaves and servants and tradesmen from
Rabat and Salé; a draped, veiled, turbaned mob shrieking, bargaining,
fist-shaking, call on Allah to witness the monstrous villanies of the
misbegotten miscreants they are trading with, and then, struck with the
mysterious Eastern apathy, sinking down in languid heaps of muslin among
the black figs, purple onions and rosy melons, the fluttering hens, the
tethered goats, the whinnying foals, that are all enclosed in an outer
circle of folded-up camels and of mules dozing under faded crimson
saddles.
VI
CHELLA AND THE GREAT MOSQUE
The Merinid Sultans of Rabat had a terribly troublesome neighbour across
the Bou-Regreg, and they built Chella to keep an eye on the pirates of
Salé. But Chella has fallen like a Babylonian city triumphed over by the
prophets; while Salé, sly, fierce and irrepressible, continued till well
on in the nineteenth century to breed pirates and fanatics.
The ruins of Chella lie on the farther side of the plateau above the
native town of Rabat. The mighty wall enclosing them faces the city wall
of Rabat, looking at it across one of those great red powdery wastes
which seem, in this strange land, like death and the desert forever
creeping up to overwhelm the puny works of man.
The red waste is scored by countless trains of donkeys carrying water
from the springs of Chella, by long caravans of mules and camels, and
by the busy motors of the French administration; yet there emanates from
it an impression of solitude and decay which even the prosaic tinkle of
the trams jogging out from the European town to the Exhibition grounds
above the sea cannot long dispel.
Perpetually, even in the new thriving French Morocco, the outline of a
ruin or the look in a pair of eyes shifts the scene, rends the thin veil
of the European Illusion, and confronts one with the old grey Moslem
reality. Passing under the gate of Chella, with its richly carved
corbels and lofty crenellated towers, one feels one's self thus
completely reabsorbed into the past.
Below the gate the ground slopes away, bare and blazing, to a hollow
where a little blue-green minaret gleams through fig-trees, and
fragments of arch and vaulting reveal the outline of a ruined mosque.
Was ever shade so blue-black and delicious as that of the cork-tree near
the spring where the donkey's water-cans are being filled? Under its
branches a black man in a blue shirt lies immovably sleeping in the
dust. Close by women and children splash and chatter about the spring,
and the dome of a saint's tomb shines through lustreless leaves. The
black man, the donkeys, the women and children, the saint's dome, are
all part of the inimitable Eastern scene in which inertia and agitation
are so curiously combined, and a surface of shrill noise flickers over
depths of such unfathomable silence.
The ruins of Chella belong to the purest period of Moroccan art. The
tracery of the broken arches is all carved in stone or in glazed
turquoise tiling, and the fragments of wall and vaulting have the firm
elegance of a classic ruin. But what would even their beauty be without
the leafy setting of the place? The "unimaginable touch of Time" gives
Chella its peculiar charm: the aged fig-tree clamped in uptorn tiles and
thrusting gouty arms between the arches; the garlanding of vines flung
from column to column; the secret pool to which childless women are
brought to bathe, and where the tree springing from a cleft of the steps
is always hung with the bright bits of stuff which are the votive
offerings of Africa.
The shade, the sound of springs, the terraced orange-garden with irises
blooming along channels of running water, all this greenery and coolness
in the hollow of a fierce red hill make Chella seem, to the traveller
new to Africa, the very type and embodiment of its old contrasts of heat
and freshness, of fire and languor. It is like a desert traveller's
dream in his last fever.
Yacoub-el-Mansour was the fourth of the great Almohad Sultans who, in
the twelfth century, drove out the effete Almoravids, and swept their
victorious armies from Marrakech to Tunis and from Tangier to Madrid.
His grandfather, Abd-el-Moumen, had been occupied with conquest and
civic administration. It was said of his rule that "he seized northern
Africa to make order prevail there"; and in fact, out of a welter of
wild tribes confusedly fighting and robbing he drew an empire firmly
seated and securely governed, wherein caravans travelled from the Atlas
to the Straits without fear of attack, and "a soldier wandering through
the fields would not have dared to pluck an ear of wheat."
[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_
Chella--ruins of mosque]
His grandson, the great El-Mansour, was a conqueror too; but where he
conquered he planted the undying seed of beauty. The victor of Alarcos,
the soldier who subdued the north of Spain, dreamed a great dream of
art. His ambition was to bestow on his three capitals, Seville, Rabat
and Marrakech, the three most beautiful towers the world had ever seen;
and if the tower of Rabat had been completed, and that of Seville had
not been injured by Spanish embellishments, his dream would have been
realized.
The "Tower of Hassan," as the Sultan's tower is called, rises from the
plateau above old Rabat, overlooking the steep cliff that drops down to
the last winding of the Bou-Regreg. Truncated at half its height, it
stands on the edge of the cliff, a far-off beacon to travellers by land
and sea. It is one of the world's great monuments, so sufficient in
strength and majesty that until one has seen its fellow, the Koutoubya
of Marrakech, one wonders if the genius of the builder could have
carried such perfect balance of massive wall-spaces and traceried
openings to a triumphant completion.
Near the tower, the red-brown walls and huge piers of the mosque built
at the same time stretch their roofless alignment beneath the sky. This
mosque, before it was destroyed, must have been one of the finest
monuments of Almohad architecture in Morocco: now, with its tumbled red
masses of masonry and vast cisterns overhung by clumps of blue aloes, it
still forms a ruin of Roman grandeur.
The Mosque, the Tower, the citadel of the Oudayas, and the mighty walls
and towers of Chella, compose an architectural group as noble and
complete as that of some mediæval Tuscan city. All they need to make the
comparison exact is that they should have been compactly massed on a
steep hill, instead of lying scattered over the wide spaces between the
promontory of the Oudayas and the hillside of Chella.
The founder of Rabat, the great Yacoub-el-Mansour, called it, in memory
of the battle of Alarcos, "The Camp of Victory" (_Ribat-el-Path_), and
the monuments he bestowed on it justified the name in another sense, by
giving it the beauty that lives when battles are forgotten.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Village of tents. The village of mud-huts is called a _nourwal_.
[2] Saint's tomb. The saint himself is called a _marabout_.
[3] Citadel.
[4] The Moroccan inn or caravanserai.
II
VOLUBILIS, MOULAY IDRISS AND MEKNEZ
I
VOLUBILIS
One day before sunrise we set out from Rabat for the ruins of Roman
Volubilis.
From the ferry of the Bou-Regreg we looked backward on a last vision of
orange ramparts under a night-blue sky sprinkled with stars; ahead, over
gardens still deep in shadow, the walls of Salé were passing from drab
to peach-colour in the eastern glow. Dawn is the romantic hour in
Africa. Dirt and dilapidation disappear under a pearly haze, and a
breeze from the sea blows away the memory of fetid markets and sordid
heaps of humanity. At that hour the old Moroccan cities look like the
ivory citadels in a Persian miniature, and the fat shopkeepers riding
out to their vegetable-gardens like Princes sallying forth to rescue
captive maidens.
Our way led along the highroad from Rabat to the modern port of Kenitra,
near the ruins of the Phenician colony of Mehedyia. Just north of
Kenitra we struck the trail, branching off eastward to a European
village on the light railway between Rabat and Fez, and beyond the
railway-sheds and flat-roofed stores the wilderness began, stretching
away into clear distances bounded by the hills of the Rarb,[5] above
which the sun was rising.
Range after range these translucent hills rose before us; all around the
solitude was complete. Village life, and even tent life, naturally
gathers about a river-bank or a spring; and the waste we were crossing
was of waterless sand bound together by a loose desert growth. Only an
abandoned well-curb here and there cast its blue shadow on the yellow
_bled_, or a saint's tomb hung like a bubble between sky and sand. The
light had the preternatural purity which gives a foretaste of mirage: it
was the light in which magic becomes real, and which helps to understand
how, to people living in such an atmosphere, the boundary between fact
and dream perpetually fluctuates.
The sand was scored with tracks and ruts innumerable, for the road
between Rabat and Fez is travelled not only by French government motors
but by native caravans and trains of pilgrims to and from the sacred
city of Moulay Idriss, the founder of the Idrissite dynasty, whose tomb
is in the Zerhoun, the mountain ridge above Volubilis. To untrained eyes
it was impossible to guess which of the trails one ought to follow; and
without much surprise we suddenly found the motor stopping, while its
wheels spun round vainly in the loose sand.
The military chauffeur was not surprised either; nor was Captain de M.,
the French staff-officer who accompanied us.
"It often happens just here," they admitted philosophically. "When the
General goes to Meknez he is always followed by a number of motors, so
that if his own is stuck he may go on in another."
This was interesting to know, but not particularly helpful, as the
General and his motors were not travelling our way that morning. Nor was
any one else, apparently. It is curious how quickly the _bled_ empties
itself to the horizon if one happens to have an accident in it! But we
had learned our lesson between Tangier and Rabat, and were able to
produce a fair imitation of the fatalistic smile of the country.
The officer remarked cheerfully that somebody might turn up, and we all
sat down in the _bled_.
A Berber woman, cropping up from nowhere, came and sat beside us. She
had the thin sun-tanned face of her kind, brilliant eyes touched with
_khol_, high cheek-bones, and the exceedingly short upper lip which
gives such charm to the smile of the young nomad women. Her dress was
the usual faded cotton shift, hooked on the shoulders with brass or
silver clasps (still the antique _fibulæ_), and wound about with a vague
drapery in whose folds a brown baby wriggled.
The coolness of dawn had vanished and the sun beat down from a fierce
sky. The village on the railway was too far off to be reached on foot,
and there were probably no mules there to spare. Nearer at hand there
was no sign of help: not a fortified farm, or even a circle of nomad
tents. It was the unadulterated desert--and we waited.
Not in vain; for after an hour or two, from far off in the direction of
the hills, there appeared an army with banners. We stared at it
unbelievingly. The _mirage_, of course! We were too sophisticated to
doubt it, and tales of sun-dazed travellers mocked by such visions rose
in our well-stocked memories.
The chauffeur thought otherwise. "Good! That's a pilgrimage from the
mountains. They're going to Salé to pray at the tomb of the _marabout_;
to-day is his feast-day."
And so they were! And as we hung on their approach, and speculated as to
the chances of their stopping to help, I had time to note the beauty of
this long train winding toward us under parti-colored banners. There was
something celestial, almost diaphanous, in the hundreds of figures
turbaned and draped in white, marching slowly through the hot colorless
radiance over the hot colorless sand.
The most part were on foot, or bestriding tiny donkeys, but a stately
Caïd rode alone at the end of the line on a horse saddled with crimson
velvet; and to him our officer appealed.
The Caïd courteously responded, and twenty or thirty pilgrims were
ordered to harness themselves to the motor and haul it back to the
trail, while the rest of the procession moved hieratically onward.
I felt scruples at turning from their path even a fraction of this pious
company; but they fell to with a saintly readiness, and before long the
motor was on the trail. Then rewards were dispensed; and instantly those
holy men became a prey to the darkest passions. Even in this land of
contrasts the transition from pious serenity to rapacious rage can
seldom have been more rapid. The devotees of the _marabout_ fought,
screamed, tore their garments and rolled over each other with sanguinary
gestures in the struggle for our pesetas; then, perceiving our
indifference, they suddenly remembered their religious duties, scrambled
to their feet, tucked up their flying draperies, and raced after the
tail-end of the procession.
Through a golden heat-haze we struggled on to the hills. The country was
fallow, and in great part too sandy for agriculture; but here and there
we came on one of the deep-set Moroccan rivers, with a reddish-yellow
course channelled between perpendicular banks of red earth, and marked
by a thin line of verdure that widened to fruit-gardens wherever a
village had sprung up. We traversed several of these "sedentary"[6]
villages, _nourwals_ of clay houses with thatched conical roofs, in
gardens of fig, apricot and pomegranate that must be so many pink and
white paradises after the winter rains.
One of these villages seemed to be inhabited entirely by blacks, big
friendly creatures who came out to tell us by which trail to reach the
bridge over the yellow _oued_. In the _oued_ their womenkind were
washing the variegated family rags. They were handsome blue-bronze
creatures, bare to the waist, with tight black astrakhan curls and
firmly sculptured legs and ankles; and all around them, like a swarm of
gnats, danced countless jolly pickaninnies, naked as lizards, with the
spindle legs and globular stomachs of children fed only on cereals.
Half terrified but wholly interested, these infants buzzed about the
motor while we stopped to photograph them; and as we watched their
antics we wondered whether they were the descendants of the little
Soudanese boys whom the founder of Meknez, the terrible Sultan
Moulay-Ismaël, used to carry off from beyond the Atlas and bring up in
his military camps to form the nucleus of the Black Guard which defended
his frontiers. We were on the line of travel between Meknez and the sea,
and it seemed not unlikely that these _nourwals_ were all that remained
of scattered outposts of Moulay-Ismaël's legionaries.
After a time we left _oueds_ and villages behind us and were in the
mountains of the Rarb, toiling across a high sandy plateau. Far off a
fringe of vegetation showed promise of shade and water, and at last,
against a pale mass of olive-trees, we saw the sight which, at whatever
end of the world one comes upon it, wakes the same sense of awe: the
ruin of a Roman city.
Volubilis (called by the Arabs the Castle of the Pharaohs) is the only
considerable Roman colony so far discovered in Morocco. It stands on the
extreme ledge of a high plateau backed by the mountains of the Zerhoun.
Below the plateau, the land drops down precipitately to a narrow
river-valley green with orchards and gardens, and in the neck of the
valley, where the hills meet again, the conical white town of Moulay
Idriss, the Sacred City of Morocco, rises sharply against a wooded
background.
So the two dominations look at each other across the valley: one, the
lifeless Roman ruin, representing a system, an order, a social
conception that still run through all our modern ways; the other, the
untouched Moslem city, more dead and sucked back into an unintelligible
past than any broken architrave of Greece or Rome.
Volubilis seems to have had the extent and wealth of a great military
outpost, such as Timgad in Algeria; but in the seventeenth century it
was very nearly destroyed by Moulay-Ismaël, the Sultan of the Black
Guard, who carried off its monuments piece-meal to build his new capital
of Meknez, that Mequinez of contemporary travellers which was held to be
one of the wonders of the age.
Little remains to Volubilis in the way of important monuments: only the
fragments of a basilica, part of an arch of triumph erected in honour of
Caracalla, and the fallen columns and architraves which strew the path
of Rome across the world. But its site is magnificent; and as the
excavation of the ruins was interrupted by the war it is possible that
subsequent search may bring forth other treasures comparable to the
beautiful bronze _sloughi_ (the African hound) which is now its
principal possession.
It was delicious, after seven hours of travel under the African sun, to
sit on the shady terrace where the Curator of Volubilis, M. Louis
Châtelain, welcomes his visitors. The French Fine Arts have built a
charming house with gardens and pergolas for the custodian of the ruins,
and have found in M. Châtelain an archæologist so absorbed in his task
that, as soon as conditions permit, every inch of soil in the
circumference of the city will be made to yield up whatever secrets it
hides.
II
MOULAY IDRISS
We lingered under the pergolas of Volubilis till the heat grew less
intolerable, and then our companions suggested a visit to Moulay Idriss.
[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_
Volubilis--the western portico of the basilica of Antonius Pius]
Such a possibility had not occurred to us, and even Captain de M. seemed
to doubt whether the expedition were advisable. Moulay Idriss was still
said to be resentful of Christian intrusion: it was only a year before
that the first French officers had entered it.
But M. Châtelain was confident that there would be no opposition to our
visit, and with the piled-up terraces and towers of the Sacred City
growing golden in the afternoon light across the valley it was
impossible to hesitate.
We drove down through an olive-wood as ancient as those of Mitylene and
Corfu, and then along the narrowing valley, between gardens luxuriant
even in the parched Moroccan autumn. Presently the motor began to climb
the steep road to the town, and at a gateway we got out and were met by
the native chief of police. Instantly at the high windows of mysterious
houses veiled heads appeared and sidelong eyes cautiously inspected us.
But the quarter was deserted, and we walked on without meeting any one
to the Street of the Weavers, a silent narrow way between low
whitewashed niches like the cubicles in a convent. In each niche sat a
grave white-robed youth, forming a great amphora-shaped grain-basket out
of closely plaited straw. Vine-leaves and tendrils hung through the reed
roofing overhead, and grape-clusters cast their classic shadow at our
feet. It was like walking on the unrolled frieze of a white Etruscan
vase patterned with black vine garlands.
The silence and emptiness of the place began to strike us: there was no
sign of the Oriental crowd that usually springs out of the dust at the
approach of strangers. But suddenly we heard close by the lament of the
_rekka_ (a kind of long fife), accompanied by a wild thrum-thrum of
earthenware drums and a curious excited chanting of men's voices. I had
heard such a chant before, at the other end of North Africa, in
Kairouan, one of the other great Sanctuaries of Islam, where the sect of
the Aïssaouas celebrate their sanguinary rites in the _Zaouïa_[7] of
their confraternity. Yet it seemed incredible that if the Aïssaouas of
Moulay Idriss were performing their ceremonies that day the chief of
police should be placidly leading us through the streets in the very
direction from which the chant was coming. The Moroccan, though he has
no desire to get into trouble with the Christian, prefers to be left
alone on feast-days, especially in such a stronghold of the faith as
Moulay Idriss.
[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_
Moulay-Idriss (9,000 inhabitants)]
But "Geschehen ist geschehen" is the sum of Oriental philosophy. For
centuries Moulay Idriss had held out fanatically on its holy steep;
then, suddenly, in 1916, its chiefs saw that the game was up, and
surrendered without a pretense of resistance. Now the whole thing was
over, the new conditions were accepted, and the chief of police assured
us that with the French uniform at our side we should be safe anywhere.
"The Aïssaouas?" he explained. "No, this is another sect, the Hamadchas,
who are performing their ritual dance on the feast-day of their patron,
the _marabout_ Hamadch, whose tomb is in the Zerhoun. The feast is
celebrated publicly in the market-place of Moulay Idriss."
As he spoke we came out into the market-place, and understood why there
had been no crowd at the gate. All the population was in the square and
on the roofs that mount above it, tier by tier, against the wooded
hillside: Moulay Idriss had better to do that day than to gape at a few
tourists in dust-coats.
Short of Sfax, and the other coast cities of eastern Tunisia, there is
surely not another town in North Africa as white as Moulay Idriss. Some
are pale blue and pinky yellow, like the Kasbah of Tangier, or cream and
blue like Salé; but Tangier and Salé, for centuries continuously
subject to European influences, have probably borrowed their colors from
Genoa and the Italian Riviera. In the interior of the country, and
especially in Morocco, where the whole color-scheme is much soberer than
in Algeria and Tunisia, the color of the native houses is always a
penitential shade of mud and ashes.
But Moulay Idriss, that afternoon, was as white as if its arcaded square
had been scooped out of a big cream cheese. The late sunlight lay like
gold-leaf on one side of the square, the other was in pure blue shade;
and above it, the crowded roofs, terraces and balconies packed with
women in bright dresses looked like a flower-field on the edge of a
marble quarry.
[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_
Moulay-Idriss--the market-place]
The bright dresses were as unusual a sight as the white walls, for the
average Moroccan crowd is the color of its houses. But the occasion was
a special one, for these feasts of the Hamadchas occur only twice a
year, in spring and autumn, and as the ritual dances take place out of
doors, instead of being performed inside the building of the
confraternity, the feminine population seizes the opportunity to burst
into flower on the house-tops.
It is rare, in Morocco, to see in the streets or the bazaars any women
except of the humblest classes, household slaves, servants, peasants
from the country or small tradesmen's wives; and even they (with the
exception of the unveiled Berber women) are wrapped in the prevailing
grave-clothes. The _filles de joie_ and dancing-girls whose brilliant
dresses enliven certain streets of the Algerian and Tunisian towns are
invisible, or at least unnoticeable, in Morocco, where life, on the
whole, seems so much less gay and brightly-tinted; and the women of the
richer classes, mercantile or aristocratic, never leave their harems
except to be married or buried. A throng of women dressed in light
colors is therefore to be seen in public only when some street festival
draws them to the roofs. Even then it is probable that the throng is
mostly composed of slaves, household servants, and women of the lower
_bourgeoisie_; but as they are all dressed in mauve and rose and pale
green, with long earrings and jewelled head-bands flashing through their
parted veils, the illusion, from a little distance, is as complete as
though they were the ladies in waiting of the Queen of Sheba; and that
radiant afternoon at Moulay Idriss, above the vine-garlanded square, and
against the background of piled-up terraces, their vivid groups were in
such contrast to the usual gray assemblages of the East that the scene
seemed like a setting for some extravagantly staged ballet.
For the same reason the spectacle unrolling itself below us took on a
blessed air of unreality. Any normal person who has seen a dance of the
Aïssaouas and watched them swallow thorns and hot coals, slash
themselves with knives, and roll on the floor in epilepsy must have
privately longed, after the first excitement was over, to fly from the
repulsive scene. The Hamadchas are much more savage than Aïssaouas, and
carry much farther their display of cataleptic anæsthesia; and, knowing
this, I had wondered how long I should be able to stand the sight of
what was going on below our terrace. But the beauty of the setting
redeemed the bestial horror. In that unreal golden light the scene
became merely symbolical: it was like one of those strange animal masks
which the Middle Ages brought down from antiquity by way of the
satyr-plays of Greece, and of which the half-human protagonists still
grin and contort themselves among the Christian symbols of Gothic
cathedrals.
[Illustration: _From a photograph taken by Captain Henissart of the
French Army_
Moulay-Idriss--market-place on the day of the ritual dance of the
Hamadchas]
At one end of the square the musicians stood on a stone platform above
the dancers. Like the musicians in a bas-relief they were flattened
side by side against a wall, the fife-players with lifted arms and
inflated cheeks, the drummers pounding frantically on long earthenware
drums shaped like enormous hour-glasses and painted in barbaric
patterns; and below, down the length of the market-place, the dance
unrolled itself in a frenzied order that would have filled with envy a
Paris or London impresario.
In its centre an inspired-looking creature whirled about on his axis,
the black ringlets standing out in snaky spirals from his haggard head,
his cheek-muscles convulsively twitching. Around him, but a long way
off, the dancers rocked and circled with long raucous cries dominated by
the sobbing booming music; and in the sunlit space between dancers and
holy man, two or three impish children bobbed about with fixed eyes and
a grimace of comic frenzy, solemnly parodying his contortions.
Meanwhile a tall grave personage in a doge-like cap, the only calm
figure in the tumult, moved gravely here and there, regulating the
dance, stimulating the frenzy, or calming some devotee who had broken
the ranks and lay tossing and foaming on the stones. There was
something far more sinister in this passionless figure, holding his hand
on the key that let loose such crazy forces, than in the poor central
whirligig who merely set the rhythm of the convulsions.
The dancers were all dressed in white caftans or in the blue shirts of
the lowest classes. In the sunlight something that looked like fresh red
paint glistened on their shaved black or yellow skulls and made dark
blotches on their garments. At first these stripes and stains suggested
only a gaudy ritual ornament like the pattern on the drums; then one saw
that the paint, or whatever it was, kept dripping down from the whirling
caftans and forming fresh pools among the stones; that as one of the
pools dried up another formed, redder and more glistening, and that
these pools were fed from great gashes which the dancers hacked in their
own skulls and breasts with hatchets and sharpened stones. The dance was
a blood-rite, a great sacrificial symbol, in which blood flowed so
freely that all the rocking feet were splashed with it.
Gradually, however, it became evident that many of the dancers simply
rocked and howled, without hacking themselves, and that most of the
bleeding skulls and breasts belonged to negroes. Every now and then the
circle widened to let in another figure, black or dark yellow, the
figure of some humble blue-shirted spectator suddenly "getting religion"
and rushing forward to snatch a weapon and baptize himself with his own
blood; and as each new recruit joined the dancers the music shrieked
louder and the devotees howled more wolfishly. And still, in the centre,
the mad _marabout_ spun, and the children bobbed and mimicked him and
rolled their diamond eyes.
Such is the dance of the Hamadchas, of the confraternity of the
_marabout_ Hamadch, a powerful saint of the seventeenth century, whose
tomb is in the Zerhoun above Moulay Idriss. Hamadch, it appears, had a
faithful slave, who, when his master died, killed himself in despair,
and the self-inflicted wounds of the brotherhood are supposed to
symbolize the slave's suicide; though no doubt the origin of the
ceremony might be traced back to the depths of that ensanguined grove
where Mr. Fraser plucked the Golden Bough.
The more naïve interpretation, however, has its advantages, since it
enables the devotees to divide their ritual duties into two classes, the
devotions of the free men being addressed to the saint who died in his
bed, while the slaves belong to the slave, and must therefore simulate
his horrid end. And this is the reason why most of the white caftans
simply rock and writhe, while the humble blue shirts drip with blood.
[Illustration: _From a photograph taken by Captain Henissart of the
French Army_
Moulay-Idriss--the market-place. Procession of the confraternity of the
Hamadchas]
The sun was setting when we came down from our terrace above the
market-place. To find a lodging for the night we had to press on to
Meknez, where we were awaited at the French military post; therefore we
were reluctantly obliged to refuse an invitation to take tea with the
Caïd, whose high-perched house commands the whole white amphitheatre of
the town. It was disappointing to leave Moulay Idriss with the Hamadchas
howling their maddest, and so much besides to see; but as we drove away
under the long shadows of the olives we counted ourselves lucky to have
entered the sacred town, and luckier still to have been there on the day
of the dance which, till a year ago, no foreigner had been allowed to
see.
A fine French road runs from Moulay Idriss to Meknez, and we flew on
through the dusk between wooded hills and open stretches on which the
fires of nomad camps put orange splashes in the darkness. Then the moon
rose, and by its light we saw a widening valley, and gardens and
orchards that stretched up to a great walled city outlined against the
stars.
III
MEKNEZ
All that evening, from the garden of the Military Subdivision on the
opposite height, we sat and looked across at the dark tree-clumps and
moon-lit walls of Meknez, and listened to its fantastic history.
Meknez was built by the Sultan Moulay-Ismaël, around the nucleus of a
small town of which the site happened to please him, at the very moment
when Louis XIV was creating Versailles. The coincidence of two
contemporary autocrats calling cities out of the wilderness has caused
persons with a taste for analogy to describe Meknez as the Versailles of
Morocco: an epithet which is about as instructive as it would be to call
Phidias the Benvenuto Cellini of Greece.
There is, however, a pretext for the comparison in the fact that the two
sovereigns took a lively interest in each other's affairs. Moulay-Ismaël
sent several embassies to treat with Louis XIV on the eternal question
of piracy and the ransom of Christian captives, and the two rulers were
continually exchanging gifts and compliments.
The governor of Tetouan, who was sent to Paris in 1680, having brought
as presents to the French King a lion, a lioness, a tigress, and four
ostriches, Louis XIV shortly afterward despatched M. de Saint-Amand to
Morocco with two dozen watches, twelve pieces of gold brocade, a cannon
six feet long and other firearms. After this the relations between the
two courts remained friendly till 1693, at which time they were strained
by the refusal of France to return the Moorish captives who were
employed on the king's galleys, and who were probably as much needed
there as the Sultan's Christian slaves for the building of Moorish
palaces.
[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_
Meknez--gate: "Bab-Mansour"]
Six years later the Sultan despatched Abdallah-ben-Aïssa to France to
reopen negotiations. The ambassador was as brilliantly received and as
eagerly run after as a modern statesman on an official mission, and his
candidly expressed admiration for the personal charms of the Princesse
de Conti, one of the French monarch's legitimatized children, is
supposed to have been mistaken by the court for an offer of marriage
from the Emperor of Barbary. But he came back without a treaty.
Moulay-Ismaël, whose long reign (1673 to 1727) and extraordinary
exploits make him already a legendary figure, conceived, early in his
career, a passion for Meknez; and through all his troubled rule, with
its alternations of barbaric warfare and far-reaching negotiations,
palace intrigue, crazy bloodshed and great administrative reforms, his
heart perpetually reverted to the wooded slopes on which he dreamed of
building a city more splendid than Fez or Marrakech.
"The Sultan" (writes his chronicler Aboul Kasim-ibn-Ahmad, called
"Ezziani") "loved Meknez, the climate of which had enchanted him, and he
would have liked never to leave it." He left it, indeed, often, left it
perpetually, to fight with revolted tribes in the Atlas, to defeat one
Berber army after another, to carry his arms across the High Atlas into
the Souss, to adorn Fez with the heads of seven hundred vanquished
chiefs, to put down his three rebellious brothers, to strip all the
cities of his empire of their negroes and transport them to Meknez ("so
that not a negro, man, woman or child, slave or free, was left in any
part of the country"); to fight and defeat the Christians (1683); to
take Tangier, to conduct a campaign on the Moulouya, to lead the holy
war against the Spanish (1689), to take Larache, the Spanish commercial
post on the west coast (which furnished eighteen hundred captives for
Meknez); to lay siege to Ceuta, conduct a campaign against the Turks of
Algiers, repress the pillage in his army, subdue more tribes, and build
forts for his Black Legionaries from Oudjda to the Oued Noun. But almost
each year's bloody record ends with the placid phrase: "Then the Sultan
returned to Meknez."
In the year 1701, Ezziani writes, the indomitable old man "deprived his
rebellious sons of their principalities; after which date he consecrated
himself exclusively to the building of his palaces and the planting of
his gardens. And in 1720 (nineteen years later in this long reign!) he
ordered the destruction of the mausoleum of Moulay Idriss for the
purpose of enlarging it. And to gain the necessary space he bought all
the adjacent land, and the workmen did not leave these new labors till
they were entirely completed."
In this same year there was levied on Fez a new tax which was so heavy
that the inhabitants were obliged to abandon the city.
Yet it is written of this terrible old monarch, who devastated whole
districts, and sacrificed uncounted thousands of lives for his ruthless
pleasure, that under his administration of his chaotic and turbulent
empire "the country rejoiced in the most complete security. A Jew or a
woman might travel alone from Oudjda to the Oued Noun without any one's
asking their business. Abundance reigned throughout the land: grain,
food, cattle were to be bought for the lowest prices. Nowhere in the
whole of Morocco was a highwayman or a robber to be found."
And probably both sides of the picture are true.
* * * * *
What, then, was the marvel across the valley, what were the "lordly
pleasure-houses" to whose creation and enlargement Moulay-Ismaël
returned again and again amid the throes and violences of a nearly
centenarian life?
The chronicler continues: "The Sultan caused all the houses near the
Kasbah[8] to be demolished, _and compelled the inhabitants to carry away
the ruins of their dwellings_. All the eastern end of the town was also
torn down, and the ramparts were rebuilt. He also built the Great Mosque
next to the palace of Nasr.... He occupied himself personally with the
construction of his palaces, and before one was finished he caused
another to be begun. He built the mosque of Elakhdar; the walls of the
new town were pierced with twenty fortified gates and surmounted with
platforms for cannon. Within the walls he made a great artificial lake
where one might row in boats. There was also a granary with immense
subterranean reservoirs of water, and a stable _three miles long_ for
the Sultan's horses and mules; twelve thousand horses could be stabled
in it. The flooring rested on vaults in which the grain for the horses
was stored.... He also built the palace of Elmansour, which had twenty
cupolas; from the top of each cupola one could look forth on the plain
and the mountains around Meknez. All about the stables the rarest trees
were planted. Within the walls were fifty palaces, each with its own
mosque and its baths. Never was such a thing known in any country, Arab
or foreign, pagan or Moslem. The guarding of the doors of these palaces
was intrusted to twelve hundred black eunuchs."
Such were the wonders that seventeenth century travellers toiled across
the desert to see, and from which they came back dazzled and almost
incredulous, as if half-suspecting that some djinn had deluded them with
the vision of a phantom city. But for the soberer European records, and
the evidence of the ruins themselves (for the whole of the new Meknez is
a ruin), one might indeed be inclined to regard Ezziani's statements as
an Oriental fable; but the briefest glimpse of Moulay-Ismaël's Meknez
makes it easy to believe all his chronicler tells of it, even to the
three miles of stables.
Next morning we drove across the valley and, skirting the old town on
the hill, entered, by one of the twenty gates of Moulay-Ismaël, a long
empty street lined with half-ruined arcades. Beyond was another street
of beaten red earth bordered by high red walls blotched with gray and
mauve. Ahead of us this road stretched out interminably (Meknez, before
Washington, was the "city of magnificent distances"), and down its empty
length only one or two draped figures passed, like shadows on the way to
Shadowland. It was clear that the living held no further traffic with
the Meknez of Moulay-Ismaël.
Here it was at last. Another great gateway let us, under a resplendently
bejewelled arch of turquoise-blue and green, into another walled
emptiness of red clay; a third gate opened into still vaster vacancies,
and at their farther end rose a colossal red ruin, something like the
lower stories of a Roman amphitheatre that should stretch out
indefinitely instead of forming a circle, or like a series of Roman
aqueducts built side by side and joined into one structure. Below this
indescribable ruin the arid ground sloped down to an artificial water
which was surely the lake that the Sultan had made for his
boating-parties; and beyond it more red earth stretched away to more
walls and gates, with glimpses of abandoned palaces and huge crumbling
angle-towers.
The vastness, the silence, the catastrophic desolation of the place,
were all the more impressive because of the relatively recent date of
the buildings. As Moulay-Ismaël had dealt with Volubilis, so time had
dealt with his own Meknez; and the destruction which it had taken
thousands of lash-driven slaves to inflict on the stout walls of the
Roman city, neglect and abandonment had here rapidly accomplished. But
though the sun-baked clay of which the impatient Sultan built his
pleasure-houses will not suffer comparison with the firm stones of Rome,
"the high Roman fashion" is visible in the shape and outline of these
ruins. What they are no one knows. In spite of Ezziani's text (written
when the place was already partly destroyed) archæologists disagree as
to the uses of the crypt of rose-flushed clay whose twenty rows of
gigantic arches are so like an alignment of Roman aqueducts. Were these
the vaulted granaries, or the subterranean reservoirs under the three
miles of stabling which housed the twelve thousand horses? The stables,
at any rate, were certainly near this spot, for the lake adjoins the
ruins as in the chronicler's description; and between it and old
Meknez, behind walls within walls, lie all that remains of the fifty
palaces with their cupolas, gardens, mosques and baths.
This inner region is less ruined than the mysterious vaulted structure,
and one of the palaces, being still reserved for the present Sultan's
use, cannot be visited; but we wandered unchallenged through desert
courts, gardens of cypress and olive where dried fountains and painted
summer-houses are falling into dust, and barren spaces enclosed in long
empty façades. It was all the work of an eager and imperious old man,
who, to realize his dream quickly, built in perishable materials; but
the design, the dimensions, the whole conception, show that he had not
only heard of Versailles but had looked with his own eyes on Volubilis.
[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_
Meknez--the ruins of the palace of Moulay-Ismaël]
To build on such a scale, and finish the work in a single lifetime, even
if the materials be malleable and the life a long one, implies a command
of human labor that the other Sultan at Versailles must have envied.
The imposition of the _corvée_ was of course even simpler in Morocco
than in France, since the material to draw on was unlimited, provided
one could assert one's power over it; and for that purpose Ismaël had
his Black Army, the hundred and fifty thousand disciplined legionaries
who enabled him to enforce his rule over all the wild country from
Algiers to Agadir.
The methods by which this army were raised and increased are worth
recounting in Ezziani's words:
"A _taleb_[9] of Marrakech having shown the Sultan a register containing
the names of the negroes who had formed part of the army of El-Mansour,
Moulay-Ismaël ordered his agents to collect all that remained of these
negroes and their children.... He also sent to the tribes of the
Beni-Hasen, and into the mountains, to purchase all the negroes to be
found there. Thus all that were in the whole of Moghreb were assembled,
from the cities and the countryside, till not one was left, slave or
free.
"These negroes were armed and clothed, and sent to Mechra Erremel (north
of Meknez) where they were ordered to build themselves houses, plant
gardens and remain till their children were ten years old. Then the
Sultan caused all the children to be brought to him, both boys and
girls. The boys were apprenticed to masons, carpenters, and other
tradesmen; others were employed to make mortar. The next year they were
taught to drive the mules, the third to make _adobe_ for building; the
fourth year they learned to ride horses bareback, the fifth they were
taught to ride in the saddle while using firearms. At the age of sixteen
these boys became soldiers. They were then married to the young
negresses who had meanwhile been taught cooking and washing in the
Sultan's palaces--except those who were pretty, and these were given a
musical education, after which each one received a wedding-dress and a
marriage settlement, and was handed over to her husband.
"All the children of these couples were in due time destined for the
Black Army, or for domestic service in the palaces. Every year the
Sultan went to the camp at Mechra Erremel and brought back the
children. The Black Army numbered one hundred and fifty thousand men, of
whom part were at Erremel, part at Meknez, and the rest in the
seventy-six forts which the Sultan built for them throughout his domain.
May the Lord be merciful to his memory!"
Such was the army by means of which Ismaël enforced the _corvée_ on his
undisciplined tribes. Many thousands of lives went to the building of
imperial Meknez; but his subjects would scarcely have sufficed if he had
not been able to add to them twenty-five thousand Christian captives.
M. Augustin Bernard, in his admirable book on Morocco, says that the
seventeenth century was "the golden age of piracy" in Morocco; and the
great Ismaël was no doubt one of its chief promoters. One understands
his unwillingness to come to an agreement with his great friend and
competitor, Louis XIV, on the difficult subject of the ransom of
Christian captives when one reads in the admiring Ezziani that it took
fifty-five thousand prisoners and captives to execute his architectural
conceptions.
"These prisoners, by day, were occupied on various tasks; at night they
were locked into subterranean dungeons. Any prisoner who died at his
task was _built into the wall he was building_." (This statement is
confirmed by John Windus, the English traveller who visited the court of
Moulay-Ismaël in the Sultan's old age.) Many Europeans must have
succumbed quickly to the heat and the lash, for the wall-builders were
obliged to make each stroke in time with their neighbors, and were
bastinadoed mercilessly if they broke the rhythm; and there is little
doubt that the expert artisans of France, Italy and Spain were even
dearer to the old architectural madman than the friendship of the
palace-building despot across the sea.
Ezziani's chronicle dates from the first part of the nineteenth century,
and is an Arab's colorless panegyric of a great Arab ruler; but John
Windus, the Englishman who accompanied Commodore Stewart's embassy to
Meknez in 1721, saw the imperial palaces and their builder with his own
eyes, and described them with the vivacity of a foreigner struck by
every contrast.
Moulay-Ismaël was then about eighty-seven years old, "a middle-sized
man, who has the remains of a good face, with nothing of a negro's
features, though his mother was a black. He has a high nose, which is
pretty long from the eye-brows downward, and thin. He has lost all his
teeth, and breathes short, as if his lungs were bad, coughs and spits
pretty often, which never falls to the ground, men being always ready
with handkerchiefs to receive it. His beard is thin and very white, his
eyes seem to have been sparkling, but their vigor decayed through age,
and his cheeks very much sunk in."
Such was the appearance of this extraordinary man, who deceived,
tortured, betrayed, assassinated, terrorized and mocked his slaves, his
subjects, his women and children and his ministers like any other
half-savage Arab despot, but who yet managed through his long reign to
maintain a barbarous empire, to police the wilderness, and give at least
an appearance of prosperity and security where all had before been
chaos.
The English emissaries appear to have been much struck by the
magnificence of his palaces, then in all the splendor of novelty, and
gleaming with marbles brought from Volubilis and Salé. Windus extols in
particular the sunken gardens of cypress, pomegranate and orange trees,
some of them laid out seventy feet below the level of the palace-courts;
the exquisite plaster fretwork; the miles of tessellated walls and
pavement made in the finely patterned mosaic work of Fez; and the long
terrace walk trellised with "vines and other greens" leading from the
palace to the famous stables, and over which it was the Sultan's custom
to drive in a chariot drawn by women and eunuchs.
Moulay-Ismaël received the English ambassador with every show of pomp
and friendship, and immediately "made him a present" of a handful of
young English captives; but just as the negotiations were about to be
concluded Commodore Stewart was privately advised that the Sultan had no
intention of allowing the rest of the English to be ransomed. Luckily a
diplomatically composed letter, addressed by the English envoy to one of
the favorite wives, resulted in Ismaël's changing his mind, and the
captives were finally given up, and departed with their rescuers. As one
stands in the fiery sun, among the monstrous ruins of those tragic
walls, one pictures the other Christian captives pausing for a second,
at the risk of death, in the rhythmic beat of their labor, to watch the
little train of their companions winding away across the desert to
freedom.
On the way back through the long streets that lead to the ruins we
noticed, lying by the roadside, the shafts of fluted columns, blocks of
marble, Roman capitals: fragments of the long loot of Salé and
Volubilis. We asked how they came there, and were told that, according
to a tradition still believed in the country, when the prisoners and
captives who were dragging the building materials toward the palace
under the blistering sun heard of the old Sultan's death, they dropped
their loads with one accord and fled. At the same moment every worker on
the walls flung down his trowel or hod, every slave of the palaces
stopped grinding or scouring or drawing water or carrying faggots or
polishing the miles of tessellated floors; so that, when the tyrant's
heart stopped beating, at that very instant life ceased to circulate in
the huge house he had built, and in all its members it became a carcass
for his carcass.
FOOTNOTES:
[5] The high plateau-and-hill formation between Tangier and Fez.
[6] So called to distinguish them from the tent villages of the less
settled groups.
[7] Sacred college.
[8] The citadal of old Meknez.
[9] Learned man.
III
FEZ
I
THE FIRST VISION
Many-walled Fez rose up before us out of the plain toward the end of the
day.
The walls and towers we saw were those of the upper town, Fez Eldjid
(the New), which lies on the edge of the plateau and hides from view Old
Fez tumbling down below it into the ravine of the Oued Fez. Thus
approached, the city presents to view only a long line of ramparts and
fortresses, merging into the wide, tawny plain and framed in barren
mountains. Not a house is visible outside the walls, except, at a
respectful distance, the few unobtrusive buildings of the European
colony; and not a village breaks the desolation of the landscape.
As we drew nearer, the walls towered close over us, and skirting them we
came to a bare space outside a great horseshoe gate, and found ourselves
suddenly in the foreground of a picture by Carpaccio or Bellini. Where
else had one seen just those rows of white-turbaned majestic figures,
squatting in the dust under lofty walls, all the pale faces ringed in
curling beards turned to the story-teller in the centre of the group?
Transform the story-teller into a rapt young Venetian, and you have the
audience and the foreground of Carpaccio's "Preaching of St. Stephen,"
even to the camels craning inquisitive necks above the turbans. Every
step of the way in North Africa corroborates the close observation of
the early travellers, whether painters or narrators, and shows the
unchanged character of the Oriental life that the Venetians pictured,
and Leo Africanus and Windus and Charles Cochelet described.
There was time, before sunset, to go up to the hill, from which the
ruined tombs of the Merinid Sultans look down over the city they made
glorious. After the savage massacre of foreign residents in 1912 the
French encircled the heights commanding Fez with one of their admirably
engineered military roads, and in a few minutes our motor had climbed to
the point from which the great dynasty of artist-Sultans dreamed of
looking down forever on their capital.
Nothing endures in Islam, except what human inertia has left standing
and its own solidity has preserved from the elements. Or rather, nothing
remains intact, and nothing wholly perishes, but the architecture, like
all else, lingers on half-ruined and half-unchanged. The Merinid tombs,
however, are only hollow shells and broken walls, grown part of the
brown cliff they cling to. No one thinks of them save as an added touch
of picturesqueness where all is picturesque: they survive as the best
point from which to look down at Fez.
There it lies, outspread in golden light, roofs, terraces, and towers
sliding over the plain's edge in a rush dammed here and there by
barriers of cypress and ilex, but growing more precipitous as the
ravine of the Fez narrows downward with the fall of the river. It is as
though some powerful enchanter, after decreeing that the city should be
hurled into the depths, had been moved by its beauty, and with a wave of
his wand held it suspended above destruction.
At first the eye takes in only this impression of a great city over a
green abyss; then the complex scene begins to define itself. All around
are the outer lines of ramparts, walls beyond walls, their crenellations
climbing the heights, their angle fortresses dominating the precipices.
Almost on a level with us lies the upper city, the aristocratic Fez
Eldjid of painted palaces and gardens; then, as the houses close in and
descend more abruptly, terraces, minarets, domes, and long reed-thatched
roofs of the bazaars, all gather around the green-tiled tomb of Moulay
Idriss, and the tower of the Almohad mosque of El Kairouiyin, which
adjoin each other in the depths of Fez, and form its central sanctuary.
* * * * *
From the Merinid hill we had noticed a long façade among the cypresses
and fruit-trees of Eldjid. This was Bou-Jeloud, the old summer-palace
of the Sultan's harem, now the house of the Resident-General, where
lodgings had been prepared for us.
The road descended again, crossing the Oued Fez by one of the fine old
single-arch bridges that mark the architectural link between Morocco and
Spain. We skirted high walls, wayside pools, and dripping mill-wheels;
then one of the city gates engulfed us, and we were in the waste spaces
of intramural Fez, formerly the lines of defense of a rich and
perpetually menaced city, now chiefly used for refuse-heaps, open-air
fondaks, and dreaming-places for rows of Lazaruses rolled in their
cerements in the dust.
Through another gate and more walls we came to an arch in the inner line
of defense. Beyond that, the motor paused before a green door, where a
Cadi in a silken caftan received us. Across squares of orange-trees
divided by running water we were led to an arcaded apartment hung with
Moroccan embroideries and lined with wide divans; the hall of reception
of the Resident-General. Through its arches were other tiled distances,
fountains, arcades; beyond, in greener depths, the bright blossoms of a
flower-garden. Such was our first sight of Bou-Jeloud, once the
summer-palace of the wives of Moulay Hafid.
Upstairs, from a room walled and ceiled with cedar, and decorated with
the bold rose-pink embroideries of Salé and the intricate old needlework
of Fez, I looked out over the upper city toward the mauve and tawny
mountains.
Just below the window the flat roofs of a group of little houses
descended like the steps of an irregular staircase. Between them rose a
few cypresses and a green minaret; out of the court of one house an
ancient fig-tree thrust its twisted arms. The sun had set, and one after
another bright figures appeared on the roofs. The children came first,
hung with silver amulets and amber beads, and pursued by negresses in
striped turbans, who bustled up with rugs and matting; then the mothers
followed more indolently, released from their ashy mufflings and
showing, under their light veils, long earrings from the _Mellah_[10]
and caftans of pale green or peach color.
The houses were humble ones, such as grow up in the cracks of a wealthy
quarter, and their inhabitants doubtless small folk; but in the
enchanted African twilight the terraces blossomed like gardens, and when
the moon rose and the muezzin called from the minaret, the domestic
squabbles and the shrill cries from roof to roof became part of a story
in Bagdad, overheard a thousand years ago by that arch-detective
Haroun-al-Raschid.
II
FEZ ELDJID
It is usual to speak of Fez as very old, and the term seems justified
when one remembers that the palace of Bou-Jeloud stands on the site of
an Almoravid Kasbah of the eleventh century, that when that Kasbah was
erected Fez Elbali had already existed for three hundred years, that El
Kairouiyin is the contemporary of Sant' Ambrogio of Milan, and that the
original mosque of Moulay Idriss II was built over his grave in the
eighth century.
Fez is, in fact, the oldest city in Morocco without a Phenician or a
Roman past, and has preserved more traces than any other of its
architectural flowering-time; yet it would be truer to say of it, as of
all Moroccan cities, that it has no age, since its seemingly immutable
shape is forever crumbling and being renewed on the old lines.
When we rode forth the next day to visit some of the palaces of Eldjid
our pink-saddled mules carried us at once out of the bounds of time. How
associate anything so precise and Occidental as years or centuries with
these visions of frail splendor seen through cypresses and roses? The
Cadis in their multiple muslins, who received us in secret doorways and
led us by many passages into the sudden wonder of gardens and fountains;
the bright-earringed negresses peering down from painted balconies; the
pilgrims and clients dozing in the sun against hot walls; the deserted
halls with plaster lace-work and gold pendentives in tiled niches; the
Venetian chandeliers and tawdry rococo beds; the terraces from which
pigeons whirled up in a white cloud while we walked on a carpet of their
feathers--were all these the ghosts of vanished state, or the actual
setting of the life of some rich merchant with "business connections"
in Liverpool and Lyons, or some government official at that very moment
speeding to Meknez or Casablanca in his sixty h. p. motor?
[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_
Fez Eldjid (the upper city)]
We visited old palaces and new, inhabited and abandoned, and over all
lay the same fine dust of oblivion, like the silvery mould on an
overripe fruit. Overripeness is indeed the characteristic of this rich
and stagnant civilization. Buildings, people, customs, seem all about to
crumble and fall of their own weight: the present is a perpetually
prolonged past. To touch the past with one's hands is realized only in
dreams; and in Morocco the dream-feeling envelopes one at every step.
One trembles continually lest the "Person from Porlock" should step in.
He is undoubtedly on the way; but Fez had not heard of him when we rode
out that morning. Fez Eldjid, the "New Fez" of palaces and government
buildings, was founded in the fourteenth century by the Merinid princes,
and probably looks much as it did then. The palaces in their overgrown
gardens, with pale-green trellises dividing the rose-beds from the
blue-and-white tiled paths, and fountains in fluted basins of Italian
marble, all had the same drowsy charm; yet the oldest were built not
more than a century or two ago, others within the last fifty years; and
at Marrakech, later in our journey, we were to visit a sumptuous
dwelling where plaster-cutters and ceramists from Fez were actually
repeating with wonderful skill and spontaneity, the old ornamentation of
which the threads run back to Rome and Damascus.
Of really old private dwellings, palaces or rich men's houses, there are
surprisingly few in Morocco. It is hard to guess the age of some of the
featureless houses propping each other's flanks in old Fez or old Salé;
but people rich enough to rebuild have always done so, and the passion
for building seems allied, in this country of inconsequences, to the
supine indifference that lets existing constructions crumble back to
clay. "Dust to dust" should have been the motto of the Moroccan
palace-builders.
Fez possesses one old secular building, a fine fondak of the fifteenth
century; but in Morocco, as a rule, only mosques and the tombs of saints
are preserved--none too carefully--and even the strong stone buildings
of the Almohads have been allowed to fall to ruin, as at Chella and
Rabat. This indifference to the completed object--which is like a kind
of collective exaggeration of the artist's indifference to his completed
work--has resulted in the total disappearance of the furniture and works
of art which must have filled the beautiful buildings of the Merinid
period. Neither pottery nor brass-work nor enamels nor fine hangings
survive; there is no parallel in Morocco to the textiles of Syria, the
potteries of Persia, the Byzantine ivories or enamels. It has been said
that the Moroccan is always a nomad, who lives in his house as if it
were a tent; but this is not a conclusive answer to any one who knows
the passion of the modern Moroccan for European furniture. When one
reads the list of the treasures contained in the palaces of the mediæval
Sultans of Egypt one feels sure that, if artists were lacking in
Morocco, the princes and merchants who brought skilled craftsmen across
the desert to build their cities must also have imported treasures to
adorn them. Yet, as far as is known, the famous fourteenth-century
bronze chandelier of Tetuan, and the fine old ritual furniture reported
to be contained in certain mosques, are the only important works of art
in Morocco later in date than the Roman _sloughi_ of Volubilis.
III
FEZ ELBALI
The distances in Fez are so great and the streets so narrow, and in some
quarters so crowded, that all but saints or humble folk go about on
mule-back.
In the afternoon, accordingly, the pink mules came again, and we set out
for the long tunnel-like street that leads down the hill to the Fez
Elbali.
"Look out--'ware heads!" our leader would call back at every turn, as
our way shrank to a black passage under a house bestriding the street,
or a caravan of donkeys laden with obstructive reeds or branches of
dates made the passers-by flatten themselves against the walls.
On each side of the street the houses hung over us like fortresses,
leaning across the narrow strip of blue and throwing out great beams and
buttresses to prop each other's bulging sides. Windows there were none
on the lower floors; only here and there an iron-barred slit stuffed
with rags and immemorial filth, from which a lean cat would suddenly
spring out, and scuttle off under an archway like a witch's familiar.
[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_
Fez--a reed-roofed street]
Some of these descending lanes were packed with people, others as
deserted as a cemetery; and it was strange to pass from the thronged
streets leading to the bazaars to the profound and secretive silence of
a quarter of well-to-do dwelling-houses, where only a few veiled women
attended by negro slaves moved noiselessly over the clean cobblestones,
and the sound of fountains and runnels came from hidden courtyards and
over garden-walls.
This noise of water is as characteristic of Fez as of Damascus. The Oued
Fez rushes through the heart of the town, bridged, canalized, built
over, and ever and again bursting out into tumultuous falls and pools
shadowed with foliage. The central artery of the city is not a street
but a waterfall; and tales are told of the dark uses to which, even
now, the underground currents are put by some of the dwellers behind the
blank walls and scented gardens of those highly respectable streets.
The crowd in Oriental cities is made up of many elements, and in Morocco
Turks, Jews and infidels, Berbers of the mountains, fanatics of the
confraternities, Soudanese blacks and haggard Blue Men of the Souss,
jostle the merchants and government officials with that democratic
familiarity which goes side by side with abject servility in this land
of perpetual contradictions. But Fez is above all the city of wealth and
learning, of universities and counting-houses, and the merchant and the
_oulama_[11]--the sedentary and luxurious types--prevail.
The slippered Fazi merchant, wrapped in white muslins and securely
mounted on a broad velvet saddle-cloth anchored to the back of a broad
mule, is as unlike the Arab horseman of the desert as Mr. Tracy Tupman
was unlike the Musketeers of Dumas. Ease, music, money-making, the
affairs of his harem and the bringing-up of his children, are his chief
interests, and his plump pale face with long-lashed hazel eyes, his
curling beard and fat womanish hands, recall the portly potentates of
Hindu miniatures, dreaming among houris beside lotus-tanks.
These personages, when they ride abroad, are preceded by a swarthy
footman, who keeps his hand on the embroidered bridle; and the
government officers and dignitaries of the _Makhzen_[12] are usually
escorted by several mounted officers of their household, with a servant
to each mule. The cry of the runners scatters the crowd, and even the
panniered donkeys and perpetually astonished camels somehow contrive to
become two-dimensional while the white procession goes by.
Then the populace closes in again, so quickly and densely that it seems
impossible it could ever have been parted, and negro water-carriers,
muffled women, beggars streaming with sores, sinewy and greasy "saints,"
Soudanese sorcerers hung with amulets made of sardine-boxes and
hares'-feet, long-lashed boys of the Chleuh in clean embroidered
caftans, Jews in black robes and skull-caps, university students
carrying their prayer-carpets, bangled and spangled black women,
scrofulous children with gazelle eyes and mangy skulls, and blind men
tapping along with linked arms and howling out verses of the Koran,
surge together in a mass drawn by irresistible suction to the point
where the bazaars converge about the mosques of Moulay Idriss and El
Kairouiyin.
Seen from a terrace of the upper town, the long thatched roofing of El
Attarine, the central bazaar of Fez, promises fantastic revelations of
native life; but the dun-colored crowds moving through its checkered
twilight, the lack of carved shop-fronts and gaily adorned
coffee-houses, and the absence of the painted coffers and vivid
embroideries of Tunis, remind one that Morocco is a melancholy country,
and Fez a profoundly melancholy city.
_Dust and ashes, dust and ashes_, echoes from the gray walls, the
mouldering thatch of the _souks_, the long lamentable song of the blind
beggars sitting in rows under the feet of the camels and asses. No young
men stroll through the bazaar in bright caftans, with roses and jasmine
behind their ears, no pedlars offer lemonade and sweetmeats and golden
fritters, no flower-sellers pursue one with tight bunches of
orange-blossom and little pink roses. The well-to-do ride by in white,
and the rest of the population goes mournfully in earth-color.
But gradually one falls under the spell of another influence--the
influence of the Atlas and the desert. Unknown Africa seems much nearer
to Morocco than to the white towns of Tunis and the smiling oases of
South Algeria. One feels the nearness of Marrakech at Fez, and at
Marrakech that of Timbuctoo.
Fez is sombre, and the bazaars clustered about its holiest sanctuaries
form its most sombre quarter. Dusk falls there early, and oil-lanterns
twinkle in the merchants' niches while the clear African daylight still
lies on the gardens of upper Fez. This twilight adds to the mystery of
the _souks_, making them, in spite of profane noise and crowding and
filth, an impressive approach to the sacred places.
Until a year or two ago, the precincts around Moulay Idriss and El
Kairouiyin were _horm_, that is, cut off from the unbeliever. Heavy
beams of wood barred the end of each _souk_, shutting off the
sanctuaries, and the Christian could only conjecture what lay beyond.
Now he knows in part; for, though the beams have not been lowered, all
comers may pass under them to the lanes about the mosques, and even
pause a moment in their open doorways. Farther one may not go, for the
shrines of Morocco are still closed to unbelievers; but whoever knows
Cordova, or has stood under the arches of the Great Mosque of Kairouan,
can reconstruct something of the hidden beauties of its namesake, the
"Mosque Kairouan" of western Africa.
Once under the bars, the richness of the old Moorish Fez presses upon
one with unexpected beauty. Here is the graceful tiled fountain of
Nedjarine, glittering with the unapproachable blues and greens of
ceramic mosaics; near it, the courtyard of the Fondak Nedjarine, oldest
and stateliest of Moroccan inns, with triple galleries of sculptured
cedar rising above arcades of stone. A little farther on lights and
incense draw one to a threshold where it is well not to linger unduly.
Under a deep archway, between booths where gay votive candles are sold,
the glimmer of hanging lamps falls on patches of gilding and mosaic, and
on veiled women prostrating themselves before an invisible shrine--for
this is the vestibule of the mosque of Moulay Idriss, where, on certain
days of the week, women are admitted to pray.
Moulay Idriss was not built over the grave of the Fatimite prophet,
first of the name, whose bones lie in the Zerhoun above his sacred town.
The mosque of Fez grew up around the tomb of his posthumous son, Moulay
Idriss II, who, descending from the hills, fell upon a camp of Berbers
on an affluent of the Sebou, and there laid the foundations of Fez, and
of the Moroccan Empire.
[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_
Fez--the Nedjarine fountain]
Of the original monument it is said that little remains. The
_zaouïa_[13] which encloses it dates from the reign of Moulay-Ismaël,
the seventeenth-century Sultan of Meknez, and the mosque itself, and the
green minaret shooting up from the very centre of old Fez, were not
built until 1820. But a rich surface of age has already formed on all
these disparate buildings, and the over-gorgeous details of the shrines
and fountains set in their outer walls are blended into harmony by a
film of incense-smoke, and the grease of countless venerating lips and
hands.
Featureless walls of mean houses close in again at the next turn; but a
few steps farther another archway reveals another secret scene. This
time it is a corner of the jealously guarded court of ablutions in the
great mosque El Kairouiyin, with the twin green-roofed pavilions that
are so like those of the Alhambra.
Those who have walked around the outer walls of the mosque of the other
Kairouan, and recall the successive doors opening into the forecourt and
into the mosque itself, will be able to guess at the plan of the church
of Fez. The great Almohad sanctuary of Tunisia is singularly free from
parasitic buildings, and may be approached as easily as that of Cordova;
but the approaches of El Kairouiyin are so built up that one never knows
at which turn of the labyrinth one may catch sight of its court of
fountains, or peep down the endless colonnades of which the Arabs say:
"The man who should try to count the columns of Kairouiyin would go
mad."
Marble floors, heavy whitewashed piers, prostrate figures in the
penumbra, rows of yellow slippers outside in the sunlight--out of such
glimpses one must reconstruct a vision of the long vistas of arches, the
blues and golds of the _mirhab_,[14] the lustre of bronze chandeliers,
and the ivory inlaying of the twelfth-century _minbar_[15] of ebony and
sandalwood.
No Christian footstep has yet profaned Kairouiyin, but fairly definite
information as to its plan has been gleaned by students of Moroccan art.
The number of its "countless" columns has been counted, and it is known
that, to the right of the _mirhab_, carved cedar doors open into a
mortuary chapel called "the mosque of the dead"--and also that in this
chapel, on Fridays, old books and precious manuscripts are sold by
auction.
This odd association of uses recalls the fact that Kairouiyin is not
only a church but a library, the University of Fez as well as its
cathedral. The beautiful Medersas with which the Merinids adorned the
city are simply the lodging-houses of the students; the classes are all
held in the courts and galleries adjoining the mosque.
El Kairouiyin was originally an oratory built in the ninth century by
Fatmah, whose father had migrated from Kairouan to Fez. Later it was
enlarged, and its cupola was surmounted by the talismans which protect
sacred edifices against rats, scorpions and serpents; but in spite of
these precautions all animal life was not successfully exorcised from
it. In the twelfth century, when the great gate Ech Chemmâïn was
building, a well was discovered under its foundations. The mouth of the
well was obstructed by an immense tortoise; but when the workmen
attempted to take the tortoise out she said: "Burn me rather than take
me away from here." They respected her wishes and built her into the
foundations; and since then women who suffer from the back-ache have
only to come and sit on the bench above the well to be cured.
The actual mosque, or "praying-hall," is said to be formed of a
rectangle or double cube of 90 metres by 45, and this vast space is
equally divided by rows of horseshoe arches resting on whitewashed piers
on which the lower part is swathed in finely patterned matting from
Salé. Fifteen monumental doorways lead into the mosque. Their doors are
of cedar, heavily barred and ornamented with wrought iron, and one of
them bears the name of the artisan, and the date 531 of the Hegira (the
first half of the twelfth century). The mosque also contains the two
halls of audience of the Cadi, of which one has a graceful exterior
façade with coupled lights under horseshoe arches; the library, whose
20,000 volumes are reported to have dwindled to about a thousand; the
chapel where the Masters of the Koran recite the sacred text in
fulfilment of pious bequests; the "museum" in the upper part of the
minaret, wherein a remarkable collection of ancient astronomical
instruments is said to be preserved; and the _mestonda_, or raised hall
above the court, where women come to pray.
But the crown of El Kairouiyin is the Merinid court of ablutions. This
inaccessible wonder lies close under the Medersa Attarine, one of the
oldest and most beautiful collegiate buildings of Fez; and through the
kindness of the Director of Fine Arts, who was with us, we were taken
up to the roof of the Medersa and allowed to look down into the
enclosure.
It is so closely guarded from below that from our secret of vantage we
seemed to be looking down into the heart of forbidden things. Spacious
and serene the great tiled cloister lay beneath us, water spilling over
from a central basin of marble with a cool sound to which lesser
fountains made answer from under the pyramidal green roofs of the twin
pavilions. It was near the prayer-hour, and worshippers were flocking
in, laying off their shoes and burnouses, washing their faces at the
fountains and their feet in the central tank, or stretching themselves
out in the shadow of the enclosing arcade.
This, then, was the famous court "so cool in the great heats that seated
by thy beautiful jet of water I feel the perfection of bliss"--as the
learned doctor Abou Abd Allah el Maghili sang of it; the court in which
the students gather from the adjoining halls after having committed to
memory the principals of grammar in prose and verse, the "science of
the reading of the Koran," the invention, exposition and ornaments of
style, law, medicine, theology, metaphysics and astronomy, as well as
the talismanic numbers, and the art of ascertaining by calculation the
influences of the angels, the spirits and the heavenly bodies, "the
names of the victor and the vanquished, and of the desired object and
the person who desires it."
Such is the twentieth-century curriculum of the University of Fez.
Repetition is the rule of Arab education as it is of Arab ornament. The
teaching of the University is based entirely on the mediæval principle
of mnemonics; and as there are no examinations, no degrees, no limits to
the duration of any given course, nor is any disgrace attached to
slowness in learning, it is not surprising that many students, coming as
youths, linger by the fountain of Kairouiyin till their hair is gray.
One well-known _oulama_ has lately finished his studies after
twenty-seven years at the University, and is justly proud of the length
of his stay. The life of the scholar is easy, the way of knowledge is
long, the contrast exquisite between the foul lanes and noisy bazaars
outside and this cool heaven of learning. No wonder the students of
Kairouiyin say with the tortoise: "Burn me rather than take me away."
IV
EL ANDALOUS AND THE POTTERS' FIELD
Outside the sacred precincts of Moulay Idriss and Kairouiyin, on the
other side of the Oued Fez, lies El Andalous, the mosque which the
Andalusian Moors built when they settled in Fez in the ninth century.
It stands apart from the bazaars, on higher ground, and though it is not
_horm_ we found it less easy to see than the more famous mosques, since
the Christian loiterer in its doorways is more quickly noticed. The Fazi
are not yet used to seeing unbelievers near their sacred places. It is
only in the tumult and confusion of the _souks_ that one can linger on
the edge of the inner mysteries without becoming aware of attracting
sullen looks; and my only impression of El Andalous is of a magnificent
Almohad door and the rich blur of an interior in which there was no time
to single out the details.
Turning from its forbidden and forbidding threshold we rode on through
a poor quarter which leads to the great gate of Bab F'touh. Beyond the
gate rises a dusty rocky slope extending to the outer walls--one of
those grim intramural deserts that girdle Fez with desolation. This one
is strewn with gravestones, not enclosed, but, as in most Moroccan
cemeteries, simply cropping up like nettles between the rocks and out of
the flaming dust. Here and there among the slabs rises a well-curb or a
crumbling _koubba_. A solitary palm shoots up beside one of the shrines.
And between the crowded graves the caravan trail crosses from the outer
to the inner gate, and perpetual lines of camels and donkeys trample the
dead a little deeper into the dusty earth.
This Bab F'touh cemetery is also a kind of fondak. Poor caravans camp
there under the walls in a mire of offal and chicken-feathers and
stripped date-branches prowled through by wolfish dogs and buzzed over
by fat blue flies. Camel-drivers squat beside iron kettles over heaps of
embers, sorcerers from the Sahara offer their amulets to negro women,
peddlers with portable wooden booths sell greasy cakes that look as if
they had been made out of the garbage of the caravans, and in and out
among the unknown dead and sleeping saints circulates the squalid
indifferent life of the living poor.
A walled lane leads down from Bab F'touh to a lower slope, where the
Fazi potters have their baking-kilns. Under a series of grassy terraces
overgrown with olives we saw the archaic ovens and dripping wheels which
produce the earthenware sold in the _souks_. It is a primitive and
homely ware, still fine in shape, though dull in color and monotonous in
pattern; and stacked on the red earth under the olives, the rows of jars
and cups, in their unglazed and unpainted state, showed their classical
descent more plainly than after they have been decorated.
This green quiet hollow, where turbaned figures were moving attentively
among the primitive ovens, so near to the region of flies and offal we
had just left, woke an old phrase in our memories, and as our mules
stumbled back over the graves of Bab F'touh we understood the grim
meaning of the words: "They carried him out and buried him in the
Potters' Field."
V
MEDERSAS, BAZAARS AND AN OASIS
Fez, for two centuries and more, was in a double sense the capital of
Morocco: the centre of its trade as well as of its culture.
Culture, in fact, came to northwest Africa chiefly through the Merinid
princes. The Almohads had erected great monuments from Rabat to
Marrakech, and had fortified Fez; but their "mighty wasteful empire"
fell apart like those that had preceded it. Stability had to come from
the west; it was not till the Arabs had learned it through the Moors
that Morocco produced a dynasty strong and enlightened enough to carry
out the dream of its founders.
Whichever way the discussion sways as to the priority of eastern or
western influences on Moroccan art--whether it came to her from Syria,
and was thence passed on to Spain, or was first formed in Spain, and
afterward modified by the Moroccan imagination--there can at least be no
doubt that Fazi art and culture, in their prime, are partly the
reflection of European civilization.
Fugitives from Spain came to the new city when Moulay Idriss founded
it. One part of the town was given to them, and the river divided the
Elbali of the Almohads into the two quarters of Kairouiyin and Andalous,
which still retain their old names. But the full intellectual and
artistic flowering of Fez was delayed till the thirteenth and fourteenth
centuries. It seems as though the seeds of the new springtime of art,
blown across the sea from reawakening Europe, had at last given the
weltering tribes of the desert the force to create their own type of
beauty.
Nine Medersas sprang up in Fez, six of them built by the princes who
were also creating the exquisite collegiate buildings of Salé, Rabat and
old Meknez, and the enchanting mosque and minaret of Chella. The power
of these rulers also was in perpetual flux; they were always at war with
the Sultans of Tlemeen, the Christians of Spain, the princes of northern
Algeria and Tunis. But during the fourteenth century they established a
rule wide and firm enough to permit of the great outburst of art and
learning which produced the Medersas of Fez.
Until a year or two ago these collegiate buildings were as inaccessible
as the mosques; but now that the French government has undertaken their
restoration strangers may visit them under the guidance of the Fine Arts
Department.
All are built on the same plan, the plan of Salé and Rabat, which (as M.
Tranchant de Lunel[16] has pointed out) became, with slight
modifications, that of the rich private houses of Morocco. But
interesting as they are in plan and the application of ornament, their
main beauty lies in their details: in the union of chiselled plaster
with the delicate mosaic work of niches and revêtements; the web-like
arabesques of the upper walls and the bold, almost Gothic sculpture of
the cedar architraves and corbels supporting them. And when all these
details are enumerated, and also the fretted panels of cedar, the bronze
doors with their great shield-like bosses, and the honeycombings and
rufflings of the gilded ceilings, there still remains the general tinge
of dry disintegration, as though all were perishing of a desert
fever--that, and the final wonder of seeing before one, in such a
setting, the continuance of the very life that went on there when the
tiles were set and the gold was new on the ceilings.
For these tottering Medersas, already in the hands of the restorers, are
still inhabited. As long as the stairway holds and the balcony has not
rotted from its corbels, the students of the University see no reason
for abandoning their lodgings above the cool fountain and the house of
prayer. The strange men giving incomprehensible orders for unnecessary
repairs need not disturb their meditations; and when the hammering grows
too loud the _oulamas_ have only to pass through the silk market or the
_souk_ of the embroiderers to the mosque of Kairouiyin, and go on
weaving the pattern of their dreams by the fountain of perfect bliss.
* * * * *
One reads of the bazaars of Fez that they have been for centuries the
central market of the country. Here are to be found not only the silks
and pottery, the Jewish goldsmiths' work, the arms and embroidered
saddlery which the city itself produces, but "morocco" from Marrakech,
rugs, tent-hangings and matting from Rabat and Salé, grain baskets from
Moulay Idriss, daggers from the Souss, and whatever European wares the
native markets consume. One looks, on the plan of Fez, at the space
covered by the bazaars; one breasts the swarms that pour through them
from dawn to dusk--and one remains perplexed, disappointed. They are
less "Oriental" than one had expected, if "Oriental" means color and
gaiety.
Sometimes, on occasion, it does mean that: as, for instance, when a
procession passes bearing the gifts for a Jewish wedding. The gray crowd
makes way for a group of musicians in brilliant caftans, and following
them comes a long file of women with uncovered faces and bejewelled
necks, balancing on their heads the dishes the guests have sent to the
feast--_kouskous_, sweet creams and syrups, "gazelles' horns" of sugar
and almonds--in delicately woven baskets, each covered with several
squares of bright gauze edged with gold. Then one remembers the
marketing of the Lady of "The Three Calendars," and Fez again becomes
the Bagdad of Al Raschid.
[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_
Fez--the bazaars. A view of the Souk el Attarine and the Quaisarya (silk
market)]
But when no exceptional events, processions, ceremonies and the like
brighten the underworld of the _souks_, their look is uniformly
melancholy. The gay bazaars, the gaily-painted houses, the flowers and
flute-playing of North Africa, are found in her Mediterranean ports, in
contact with European influences. The farther west she extends, the more
she becomes self-contained, sombre, uninfluenced, a gloomy fanatic with
her back to the walls of the Atlantic and the Atlas. Color and laughter
lie mostly along the trade-routes, where the peoples of the world come
and go in curiosity and rivalry. This ashen crowd swarming gloomily
through the dark tunnels represents the real Moghreb that is close to
the wild tribes of the "hinterland" and the grim feudal fortresses of
the Atlas. How close, one has only to go out to Sefrou on a market-day
to see.
Sefrou is a military outpost in an oasis under the Atlas, about forty
miles south of Fez. To most people the word "oasis" evokes palms and
sand; but though Morocco possesses many oases it has no pure sand and
few palms. I remember it as a considerable event when I discovered one
from my lofty window at Bou-Jeloud.
The _bled_ is made of very different stuff from the sand-ocean of the
Sahara. The light plays few tricks with it. Its monotony is wearisome
rather than impressive, and the fact that it is seldom without some form
of dwarfish vegetation makes the transition less startling when the
alluvial green is finally reached. One had always half expected it, and
it does not spring at a djinn's wave out of sterile gold.
But the fact brings its own compensations. Moroccan oases differ one
from another far more than those of South Algeria and Tunisia. Some have
no palms, others but a few, others are real palm-oases, though even in
the south (at least on the hither side of the great Atlas) none spreads
out a dense uniform roofing of metal-blue fronds like the date-oases of
Biskra or Tozeur. As for Sefrou, which Foucauld called the most
beautiful oasis of Morocco, it is simply an extremely fertile valley
with vineyards and orchards stretching up to a fine background of
mountains. But the fact that it lies just below the Atlas makes it an
important market-place and centre of caravans.
Though so near Fez it is still almost on the disputed border between the
loyal and the "unsubmissive" tribes, those that are _Blad-Makhzen_ (of
the Sultan's government) and those that are against it. Until recently,
therefore, it has been inaccessible to visitors, and even now a strongly
fortified French post dominates the height above the town. Looking down
from the fort, one distinguishes, through masses of many-tinted green, a
suburb of Arab houses in gardens, and below, on the river, Sefrou
itself, a stout little walled town with angle-towers defiantly thrust
forth toward the Atlas. It is just outside these walls that the market
is held.
It was swarming with hill-people the day we were there, and strange was
the contrast between the crowd inside the circle of picketed horses and
the white-robed cockneys from Rabat who fill the market-place of Salé.
Here at last we were in touch with un-Arab Morocco, with Berbers of the
_bled_ and the hills, whose women know no veils and no seclusion, and
who, under a thin surface of Mahometanism, preserve their old stone and
animal worship, and all the gross fetichistic beliefs from which Mahomet
dreamed of freeing Africa.
The men were lean and weather-bitten, some with negroid lips, others
with beaked noses and gaunt cheek-bones, all muscular and
fierce-looking. Some were wrapped in the black cloaks worn by the Blue
Men of the Sahara,[17] with a great orange sun embroidered on the back;
some tunicked like the Egyptian fellah, under a rough striped outer
garment trimmed with bright tufts and tassels of wool. The men of the
Rif had a braided lock on the shoulder, those of the Atlas a ringlet
over each ear, and brown woollen scarfs wound round their temples,
leaving the shaven crown bare.
The women, squatting among their kids and poultry and cheeses, glanced
at us with brilliant hennaed eyes and smiles that lifted their short
upper lips maliciously. Their thin faces were painted in stripes and
patterns of indigo. Silver necklets covered their throats, long earrings
dangled under the wool-embroidered kerchiefs bound about their temples
with a twist of camel's hair, and below the cotton shifts fastened on
their shoulders with silver clasps their legs were bare to the knee, or
covered with leather leggings to protect them from the thorny _bled_.
They seemed abler bargainers than the men, and the play of expression on
their dramatic and intensely feminine faces as they wheedled the price
of a calf out of a fierce hillsman, or haggled over a heap of dates that
a Jew with greasy ringlets was trying to secure for his secret
distillery, showed that they knew their superiority and enjoyed it.
Jews abounded in the market-place and also in the town. Sefrou contains
a large Israelite colony, and after we had wandered through the steep
streets, over gushing waterfalls spanned by "ass-backed" Spanish
bridges, and through a thatched _souk_ smelling strong of camels and the
desert, the French commissioner (the only European in Sefrou) suggested
that it might interest us to visit the _Mellah_.
It was our first sight of a typical Jewish quarter in Africa. The
_Mellah_ of Fez was almost entirely destroyed during the massacres of
1912 (which incidentally included a _pogrom_), and its distinctive
character, happily for the inhabitants, has disappeared in the
rebuilding. North African Jews are still compelled to live in ghettos,
into which they are locked at night, as in France and Germany in the
Middle Ages; and until lately the men have been compelled to go unarmed,
to wear black gabardines and black slippers, to take off their shoes
when they passed near a mosque or a saint's tomb, and in various other
ways to manifest their subjection to the ruling race. Nowhere else do
they live in conditions of such demoralizing promiscuity as in some of
the cities of Morocco. They have so long been subject to unrestricted
extortion on the part of the Moslems that even the wealthy Jews (who are
numerous) have sunk to the habits and appearance of the poorest; and
Sefrou, which has come so recently under French control, offers a good
specimen of a _Mellah_ before foreign sanitation has lighted up its dark
places.
Dark indeed they were. After wandering through narrow and malodorous
lanes, and slipping about in the offal of the _souks_, we were suddenly
led under an arch over which should have been written "All light
abandon--" and which made all we had seen before seem clean and bright
and airy.
The beneficent African sun dries up and purifies the immemorial filth
of Africa; where that sun enters there is none of the foulness of damp.
But into the _Mellah_ of Sefrou it never comes, for the streets form a
sort of subterranean rabbit-warren under the upper stories of a solid
agglomeration of tall houses--a buried city lit even at midday by
oil-lamps hanging in the goldsmiths' shops and under the archways of the
black and reeking staircases.
It was a Jewish feast-day. The Hebrew stalls in the _souks_ were closed,
and the whole population of the _Mellah_ thronged its tunnels in holiday
dress. Hurrying past us were young women with plump white faces and
lovely eyes, turbaned in brilliant gauzes, with draperies of dirty
curtain muslin over tawdry brocaded caftans. Their paler children
swarmed about them, little long-earringed girls like wax dolls dressed
in scraps of old finery, little boys in tattered caftans with
long-lashed eyes and wily smiles; and, waddling in the rear, their
unwieldy grandmothers, huge lumps of tallowy flesh who were probably
still in the thirties.
With them were the men of the family, in black gabardines and
skull-caps: sallow striplings, incalculably aged ancestors,
round-bellied husbands and fathers bumping along like black balloons;
all hastening to the low doorways dressed with lamps and paper garlands
behind which the feast was spread.
One is told that in cities like Fez and Marrakech the Hebrew quarter
conceals flowery patios and gilded rooms with the heavy European
furniture that rich Jews delight in. Perhaps even in the _Mellah_ of
Sefrou, among the ragged figures shuffling past us, there were some few
with bags of gold in their walls and rich stuffs hid away in painted
coffers; but for patios and flowers and daylight there seemed no room in
the dark _bolgia_ they inhabit. No wonder the babies of the Moroccan
ghettos are nursed on date-brandy, and their elders doze away to death
under its consoling spell.
VI
THE LAST GLIMPSE
It is well to bid good-by to Fez at night--a moonlight night for choice.
Then, after dining at the Arab inn of Fez Eldjid--where it might be
inconvenient to lodge, but where it is extremely pleasant to eat
_kouskous_ under a grape-trellis in a tiled and fountained patio--this
pleasure over, one may set out on foot and stray down the lanes toward
Fez Elbali.
Not long ago the gates between the different quarters of the city used
to be locked every night at nine o'clock, and the merchant who went out
to dine in another part of the town had to lodge with his host. Now this
custom has been given up, and one may roam about untroubled through the
old quarters, grown as silent as the grave after the intense life of the
bazaars has ceased at nightfall.
Nobody is in the streets: wandering from ghostly passage to passage, one
hears no step but that of the watchman with staff and lantern. Presently
there appears, far off, a light like a low-flying firefly; as it comes
nearer, it is seen to proceed from the _Mellah_ lamp of open-work brass
that a servant carries ahead of two merchants on their way home from
Elbali. The merchants are grave men: they move softly and slowly on
their fat slippered feet, pausing from time to time in confidential
talk. At last they stop before a house wall with a low blue door barred
by heavy hasps of iron. The servant lifts the lamp and knocks. There is
a long delay; then, with infinite caution, the door is opened a few
inches, and another lifted light shines faintly on lustrous tiled walls,
and on the face of a woman slave who quickly veils herself. Evidently
the master is a man of standing, and the house well guarded. The two
merchants touch each other on the right shoulder, one of them passes in,
and his friend goes on through the moonlight, his servant's lantern
dancing ahead.
But here we are in an open space looking down one of the descents to El
Attarine. A misty radiance washes the tall houses, the garden-walls, the
archways; even the moonlight does not whiten Fez, but only turns its
gray to tarnished silver. Overhead in a tower window a single light
twinkles: women's voices rise and fall on the roofs. In a rich man's
doorway slaves are sleeping, huddled on the tiles. A cock crows from
somebody's dunghill; a skeleton dog prowls by for garbage.
Everywhere is the loud rush or the low crooning of water, and over every
wall comes the scent of jasmine and rose. Far off, from the red
purgatory between the walls, sounds the savage thrum-thrum of a negro
orgy; here all is peace and perfume. A minaret springs up between the
roof like a palm, and from its balcony the little white figure bends
over and drops a blessing on all the loveliness and all the squalor.
FOOTNOTES:
[10] The Ghetto in African towns. All the jewellers in Morocco are Jews.
[11] Learned man, doctor of the university.
[12] The Sultan's government.
[13] Moslem monastery.
[14] Niche in the sanctuary of mosques.
[15] Movable pulpit.
[16] In _France-Maroc_, _No._ 1.
[17] So called because of the indigo dye of their tunics, which leaves a
permanent stain on their bodies.
IV
MARRAKECH
I
THE WAY THERE
There are countless Arab tales of evil Djinns who take the form of
sandstorms and hot winds to overwhelm exhausted travellers.
In spite of the new French road between Rabat and Marrakech the memory
of such tales rises up insistently from every mile of the level red
earth and the desolate stony stretches of the _bled_. As long as the
road runs in sight of the Atlantic breakers they give the scene
freshness and life; but when it bends inland and stretches away across
the wilderness the sense of the immensity and immobility of Africa
descends on one with an intolerable oppression.
The road traverses no villages, and not even a ring of nomad tents is
visible in the distance on the wide stretches of arable land. At
infrequent intervals our motor passed a train of laden mules, or a group
of peasants about a well, and sometimes, far off, a fortified farm
profiled its thick-set angle-towers against the sky, or a white _koubba_
floated like a mirage above the brush; but these rare signs of life
intensified the solitude of the long miles between.
At midday we were refreshed by the sight of the little oasis around the
military-post of Settat. We lunched there with the commanding officer,
in a cool Arab house about a flowery patio; but that brief interval
over, the fiery plain began again. After Settat the road runs on for
miles across the waste to the gorge of the Oued Ouem; and beyond the
river it climbs to another plain so desperate in its calcined aridity
that the prickly scrub of the wilderness we had left seemed like the
vegetation of an oasis. For fifty kilometres the earth under our wheels
was made up of a kind of glistening red slag covered with pebbles and
stones. Not the scantest and toughest of rock-growths thrust a leaf
through its brassy surface; not a well-head or a darker depression of
the rock gave sign of a trickle of water. Everything around us glittered
with the same unmerciful dryness.
A long way ahead loomed the line of the Djebilets, the Djinn-haunted
mountains guarding Marrakech on the north. When at last we reached them
the wicked glister of their purple flanks seemed like a volcanic
upheaval of the plain. For some time we had watched the clouds gathering
over them, and as we got to the top of the defile rain was falling from
a fringe of thunder to the south. Then the vapours lifted, and we saw
below us another red plain with an island of palms in its centre.
Mysteriously, from the heart of the palms, a tower shot up, as if alone
in the wilderness; behind it stood the sun-streaked cliffs of the Atlas,
with snow summits appearing and vanishing through the storm.
As we drove downward the rock gradually began to turn to red earth
fissured by yellow streams, and stray knots of palms sprang up, lean and
dishevelled, about well-heads where people were watering camels and
donkeys. To the east, dominating the oasis, the twin peaked hills of the
Ghilis, fortified to the crest, mounted guard over invisible Marrakech;
but still, above the palms, we saw only that lonely and triumphant
tower.
Presently we crossed the Oued Tensif on an old bridge built by Moroccan
engineers. Beyond the river were more palms, then olive-orchards, then
the vague sketch of the new European settlement, with a few shops and
cafés on avenues ending suddenly in clay pits, and at last Marrakech
itself appeared to us, in the form of a red wall across a red
wilderness.
We passed through a gate and were confronted by other ramparts. Then we
entered an outskirt of dusty red lanes bordered by clay hovels with
draped figures slinking by like ghosts. After that more walls, more
gates, more endlessly winding lanes, more gates again, more turns, a
dusty open space with donkeys and camels and negroes; a final wall with
a great door under a lofty arch--and suddenly we were in the palace of
the Bahia, among flowers and shadows and falling water.
II
THE BAHIA
Whoever would understand Marrakech must begin by mounting at sunset to
the roof of the Bahia.
Outspread below lies the oasis-city of the south, flat and vast as the
great nomad camp it really is, its low roofs extending on all sides to a
belt of blue palms ringed with desert. Only two or three minarets and a
few noblemen's houses among gardens break the general flatness; but they
are hardly noticeable, so irresistibly is the eye drawn toward two
dominant objects--the white wall of the Atlas and the red tower of the
Koutoubya.
Foursquare, untapering, the great tower lifts its flanks of ruddy stone.
Its large spaces of unornamented wall, its triple tier of clustered
openings, lightening as they rise from the severe rectangular lights of
the first stage to the graceful arcade below the parapet, have the
stern harmony of the noblest architecture. The Koutoubya would be
magnificent anywhere; in this flat desert it is grand enough to face the
Atlas.
The Almohad conquerors who built the Koutoubya and embellished Marrakech
dreamed a dream of beauty that extended from the Guadalquivir to the
Sahara; and at its two extremes they placed their watch-towers. The
Giralda watched over civilized enemies in a land of ancient Roman
culture; the Koutoubya stood at the edge of the world, facing the hordes
of the desert.
The Almoravid princes who founded Marrakech came from the black desert
of Senegal; themselves were leaders of wild hordes. In the history of
North Africa the same cycle has perpetually repeated itself. Generation
after generation of chiefs have flowed in from the desert or the
mountains, overthrown their predecessors, massacred, plundered, grown
rich, built sudden palaces, encouraged their great servants to do the
same; then fallen on them, and taken their wealth and their palaces.
Usually some religious fury, some ascetic wrath against the
self-indulgence of the cities, has been the motive of these attacks; but
invariably the same results followed, as they followed when the Germanic
barbarians descended on Italy. The conquerors, infected with luxury and
mad with power, built vaster palaces, planned grander cities; but
Sultans and Viziers camped in their golden houses as if on the march,
and the mud huts of the tribesmen within their walls were but one degree
removed from the mud-walled tents of the _bled_.
[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_
Marrakech--The "Little Garden" (with painted doors) in background,
Palace of the Bahia]
This was more especially the case with Marrakech, a city of Berbers and
blacks, and the last outpost against the fierce black world beyond the
Atlas from which its founders came. When one looks at its site, and
considers its history, one can only marvel at the height of civilization
it attained.
The Bahia itself, now the palace of the Resident General, though built
less than a hundred years ago, is typical of the architectural
megalomania of the great southern chiefs. It was built by Ba-Ahmed, the
all-powerful black Vizier of the Sultan Moulay-el-Hassan.[18] Ba-Ahmed
was evidently an artist and an archæologist. His ambition was to
re-create a Palace of Beauty such as the Moors had built in the prime of
Arab art, and he brought to Marrakech skilled artificers of Fez, the
last surviving masters of the mystery of chiselled plaster and ceramic
mosaics and honeycombing of gilded cedar. They came, they built the
Bahia, and it remains the loveliest and most fantastic of Moroccan
palaces.
Court within court, garden beyond garden, reception halls, private
apartments, slaves' quarters, sunny prophets' chambers on the roofs and
baths in vaulted crypts, the labyrinth of passages and rooms stretches
away over several acres of ground. A long court enclosed in pale-green
trellis-work, where pigeons plume themselves about a great tank and the
dripping tiles glitter with refracted sunlight, leads to the fresh gloom
of a cypress garden, or under jasmine tunnels bordered with running
water; and these again open on arcaded apartments faced with tiles and
stucco-work, where, in a languid twilight, the hours drift by to the
ceaseless music of the fountains.
The beauty of Moroccan palaces is made up of details of ornament and
refinements of sensuous delight too numerous to record; but to get an
idea of their general character it is worth while to cross the Court of
Cypresses at the Bahia and follow a series of low-studded passages that
turn on themselves till they reach the centre of the labyrinth. Here,
passing by a low padlocked door leading to a crypt, and known as the
"Door of the Vizier's Treasure-House," one comes on a painted portal
that opens into a still more secret sanctuary: The apartment of the
Grand Vizier's Favourite.
[Illustration: _From a photograph by Felix, Marrakech_
Marrakech--the great court, Palace of the Bahia]
This lovely prison, from which all sight and sound of the outer world
are excluded, is built about an atrium paved with disks of turquoise and
black and white. Water trickles from a central _vasca_ of alabaster into
a hexagonal mosaic channel in the pavement. The walls, which are at
least twenty-five feet high, are roofed with painted beams resting on
panels of traceried stucco in which is set a clerestory of jewelled
glass. On each side of the atrium are long recessed rooms closed by
vermilion doors painted with gold arabesques and vases of spring
flowers; and into these shadowy inner rooms, spread with rugs and divans
and soft pillows, no light comes except when their doors are opened
into the atrium. In this fabulous place it was my good luck to be lodged
while I was at Marrakech.
In a climate where, after the winter snow has melted from the Atlas,
every breath of air for long months is a flame of fire, these enclosed
rooms in the middle of the palaces are the only places of refuge from
the heat. Even in October the temperature of the favourite's apartment
was deliciously reviving after a morning in the bazaars or the dusty
streets, and I never came back to its wet tiles and perpetual twilight
without the sense of plunging into a deep sea-pool.
From far off, through circuitous corridors, came the scent of
citron-blossom and jasmine, with sometimes a bird's song before dawn,
sometimes a flute's wail at sunset, and always the call of the muezzin
in the night; but no sunlight reached the apartment except in remote
rays through the clerestory, and no air except through one or two broken
panes.
Sometimes, lying on my divan, and looking out through the vermilion
doors, I used to surprise a pair of swallows dropping down from their
nest in the cedar-beams to preen themselves on the fountain's edge or in
the channels of the pavement; for the roof was full of birds who came
and went through the broken panes of the clerestory. Usually they were
my only visitors; but one morning just at daylight I was waked by a soft
tramp of bare feet, and saw, silhouetted against the cream-coloured
walls, a procession of eight tall negroes in linen tunics, who filed
noiselessly across the atrium like a moving frieze of bronze. In that
fantastic setting, and the hush of that twilight hour, the vision was so
like the picture of a "Seraglio Tragedy," some fragment of a Delacroix
or Decamps floating up into the drowsy brain, that I almost fancied I
had seen the ghosts of Ba-Ahmed's executioners revisiting with dagger
and bowstring the scene of an unavenged crime.
[Illustration: _From a photograph taken by Mme. la Marquis de Segonzac_
Marrakech--apartment of the grand vizier's favorite, Palace of the
Bahia]
A cock crew, and they vanished ... and when I made the mistake of
asking what they had been doing in my room at that hour I was told (as
though it were the most natural thing in the world) that they were the
municipal lamp-lighters of Marrakech, whose duty it is to refill every
morning the two hundred acetylene lamps lighting the palace of the
Resident General. Such unforeseen aspects, in this mysterious city, do
the most ordinary domestic functions wear.
III
THE BAZAARS
Passing out of the enchanted circle of the Bahia it is startling to
plunge into the native life about its gates.
Marrakech is the great market of the south; and the south means not only
the Atlas with its feudal chiefs and their wild clansmen, but all that
lies beyond of heat and savagery: the Sahara of the veiled Touaregs,
Dakka, Timbuctoo, Senegal and the Soudan. Here come the camel caravans
from Demnat and Tameslout, from the Moulouya and the Souss, and those
from the Atlantic ports and the confines of Algeria. The population of
this old city of the southern march has always been even more mixed
than that of the northerly Moroccan towns. It is made up of the
descendants of all the peoples conquered by a long line of Sultans who
brought their trains of captives across the sea from Moorish Spain and
across the Sahara from Timbuctoo. Even in the highly cultivated region
on the lower slopes of the Atlas there are groups of varied ethnic
origin, the descendants of tribes transplanted by long-gone rulers and
still preserving many of their original characteristics.
In the bazaars all these peoples meet and mingle: cattle-dealers,
olive-growers, peasants from the Atlas, the Souss and the Draa, Blue Men
of the Sahara, blacks from Senegal and the Soudan, coming in to trade
with the wool-merchants, tanners, leather-merchants, silk-weavers,
armourers, and makers of agricultural implements.
Dark, fierce and fanatical are these narrow _souks_ of Marrakech. They
are mere mud lanes roofed with rushes, as in South Tunisia and
Timbuctoo, and the crowds swarming in them are so dense that it is
hardly possible, at certain hours, to approach the tiny raised kennels
where the merchants sit like idols among their wares. One feels at once
that something more than the thought of bargaining--dear as this is to
the African heart--animates these incessantly moving throngs. The Souks
of Marrakech seem, more than any others, the central organ of a native
life that extends far beyond the city walls into secret clefts of the
mountains and far-off oases where plots are hatched and holy wars
fomented--farther still, to yellow deserts whence negroes are secretly
brought across the Atlas to that inmost recess of the bazaar where the
ancient traffic in flesh and blood still surreptitiously goes on.
All these many threads of the native life, woven of greed and lust, of
fetichism and fear and blind hate of the stranger, form, in the _souks_,
a thick network in which at times one's feet seem literally to stumble.
Fanatics in sheepskins glowering from the guarded thresholds of the
mosques, fierce tribesmen with inlaid arms in their belts and the
fighters' tufts of wiry hair escaping from camel's-hair turbans, mad
negroes standing stark naked in niches of the walls and pouring down
Soudanese incantations upon the fascinated crowd, consumptive Jews with
pathos and cunning in their large eyes and smiling lips, lusty
slave-girls with earthen oil-jars resting against swaying hips,
almond-eyed boys leading fat merchants by the hand, and bare-legged
Berber women, tattooed and insolently gay, trading their striped
blankets, or bags of dried roses and irises, for sugar, tea or
Manchester cottons--from all these hundreds of unknown and unknowable
people, bound together by secret affinities, or intriguing against each
other with secret hate, there emanates an atmosphere of mystery and
menace more stifling than the smell of camels and spices and black
bodies and smoking fry which hangs like a fog under the close roofing of
the _souks_.
And suddenly one leaves the crowd and the turbid air for one of those
quiet corners that are like the back-waters of the bazaars: a small
square where a vine stretches across a shop-front and hangs ripe
clusters of grapes through the reeds. In the patterning of grape-shadows
a very old donkey, tethered to a stone-post, dozes under a pack-saddle
that is never taken off; and near by, in a matted niche, sits a very old
man in white. This is the chief of the Guild of "morocco" workers of
Marrakech, the most accomplished craftsman in Morocco in the preparing
and using of the skins to which the city gives its name. Of these sleek
moroccos, cream-white or dyed with cochineal or pomegranate skins, are
made the rich bags of the Chleuh dancing-boys, the embroidered slippers
for the harem, the belts and harnesses that figure so largely in
Moroccan trade--and of the finest, in old days, were made the
pomegranate-red morocco bindings of European bibliophiles.
From this peaceful corner one passes into the barbaric splendor of a
_souk_ hung with innumerable plumy bunches of floss silk--skeins of
citron yellow, crimson, grasshopper green and pure purple. This is the
silk-spinners' quarter, and next to it comes that of the dyers, with
great seething vats into which the raw silk is plunged, and ropes
overhead where the rainbow masses are hung out to dry.
Another turn leads into the street of the metalworkers and armourers,
where the sunlight through the thatch flames on round flanks of beaten
copper or picks out the silver bosses of ornate powder-flasks and
pistols; and near by is the _souk_ of the plough-shares, crowded with
peasants in rough Chleuh cloaks who are waiting to have their archaic
ploughs repaired, and that of the smiths, in an outer lane of mud huts
where negroes squat in the dust and sinewy naked figures in tattered
loincloths bend over blazing coals. And here ends the maze of the
bazaars.
IV
THE AGDAL
One of the Almohad Sultans who, during their hundred years of empire,
scattered such great monuments from Seville to the Atlas, felt the need
of coolness about his southern capital, and laid out the olive-yards of
the Agdal.
To the south of Marrakech the Agdal extends for many acres between the
outer walls of the city and the edge of the palm-oasis--a continuous
belt of silver foliage traversed by deep red lanes, and enclosing a
wide-spreading summer palace and two immense reservoirs walled with
masonry; and the vision of these serene sheets of water, in which the
olives and palms are motionlessly reflected, is one of the most poetic
impressions in that city of inveterate poetry.
On the edge of one of the reservoirs a sentimental Sultan built in the
last century a little pleasure-house called the Menara. It is composed
of a few rooms with a two-storied loggia looking across the water to the
palm-groves, and surrounded by a garden of cypresses and orange-trees.
The Menara, long since abandoned, is usually uninhabited; but on the day
when we drove through the Agdal we noticed, at the gate, a group of
well-dressed servants holding mules with embroidered saddle-clothes.
The French officer who was with us asked the porter what was going on,
and he replied that the Chief of the Guild of Wool-Merchants had hired
the pavilion for a week and invited a few friends to visit him. They
were now, the porter added, taking tea in the loggia above the lake; and
the host, being informed of our presence, begged that we should do him
and his friends the honour of visiting the pavilion.
In reply to this amiable invitation we crossed an empty saloon
surrounded with divans and passed out onto the loggia where the
wool-merchant and his guests were seated. They were evidently persons of
consequence: large bulky men wrapped in fresh muslins and reclining side
by side on muslin-covered divans and cushions. Black slaves had placed
before them brass trays with pots of mint-tea, glasses in filigree
stands, and dishes of gazelles' horns and sugar-plums; and they sat
serenely absorbing these refreshments and gazing with large calm eyes
upon the motionless water and the reflected trees.
So, we were told, they would probably spend the greater part of their
holiday. The merchant's cooks had taken possession of the kitchens, and
toward sunset a sumptuous repast of many courses would be carried into
the saloon on covered trays, and the guests would squat about it on rugs
of Rabat, tearing with their fingers the tender chicken wings and small
artichokes cooked in oil, plunging their fat white hands to the wrist
into huge mounds of saffron and rice, and washing off the traces of each
course in the brass basin of perfumed water carried about by a young
black slave-girl with hoop-earrings and a green-and-gold scarf about her
hips.
Then the singing-girls would come out from Marrakech, squat round-faced
young women heavily hennaed and bejewelled, accompanied by gaunt
musicians in bright caftans; and for hours they would sing sentimental
or obscene ballads to the persistent maddening twang of violin and flute
and drum. Meanwhile fiery brandy or sweet champagne would probably be
passed around between the steaming glasses of mint-tea which the slaves
perpetually refilled; or perhaps the sultry air, the heavy meal, the
scent of the garden and the vertiginous repetition of the music would
suffice to plunge these sedentary worthies into the delicious coma in
which every festive evening in Morocco ends.
The next day would be spent in the same manner, except that probably the
Chleuh boys with sidelong eyes and clean caftans would come instead of
the singing-girls, and weave the arabesque of their dance in place of
the runic pattern of the singing. But the result would always be the
same: a prolonged state of obese ecstasy culminating in the collapse of
huge heaps of snoring muslin on the divans against the wall. Finally at
the week's end the wool-merchant and his friends would all ride back
with dignity to the bazaar.
V
ON THE ROOFS
"Should you like to see the Chleuh boys dance?" some one asked.
"There they are," another of our companions added, pointing to a dense
ring of spectators on one side of the immense dusty square at the
entrance of the _souks_--the "Square of the Dead" as it is called, in
memory of the executions that used to take place under one of its grim
red gates.
It is the square of the living now, the centre of all the life,
amusement and gossip of Marrakech, and the spectators are so thickly
packed about the story-tellers, snake-charmers and dancers who frequent
it that one can guess what is going on within each circle only by the
wailing monologue or the persistent drum-beat that proceeds from it.
Ah, yes--we should indeed like to see the Chleuh boys dance; we who,
since we had been in Morocco, had seen no dancing, heard no singing,
caught no single glimpse of merry-making! But how were we to get within
sight of them?
On one side of the "Square of the Dead" stands a large house, of
European build, but modelled on Oriental lines: the office of the French
municipal administration. The French Government no longer allows its
offices to be built within the walls of Moroccan towns, and this house
goes back to the epic days of the Caïd Sir Harry Maclean, to whom it was
presented by the fantastic Abd-el-Aziz when the Caïd was his favourite
companion as well as his military adviser.
At the suggestion of the municipal officials we mounted the stairs and
looked down on the packed square. There can be no more Oriental sight
this side of the Atlas and the Sahara. The square is surrounded by low
mud-houses, fondaks, cafés, and the like. In one corner, near the
archway leading into the _souks_, is the fruit-market, where the
red-gold branches of unripe dates[19] for animal fodder are piled up in
great stacks, and dozens of donkeys are coming and going, their
panniers laden with fruits and vegetables which are being heaped on the
ground in gorgeous pyramids: purple egg-plants, melons, cucumbers,
bright orange pumpkins, mauve and pink and violet onions, rusty crimson
pomegranates and the gold grapes of Sefrou and Salé, all mingled with
fresh green sheaves of mint and wormwood.
[Illustration: _From a photograph from "France-Maroc"_
Marrakech--a fondak]
In the middle of the square sit the story-tellers' turbaned audiences.
Beyond these are the humbler crowds about the wild-ringleted
snake-charmers with their epileptic gestures and hissing incantations,
and farther off, in the densest circle of all, we could just discern the
shaved heads and waving surpliced arms of the dancing-boys. Under an
archway near by an important personage in white muslin, mounted on a
handsome mule and surrounded by his attendants, sat with motionless face
and narrowed eyes gravely following the movements of the dancers.
Suddenly, as we stood watching the extraordinary animation of the scene,
a reddish light overspread it, and one of our companions exclaimed:
"Ah--a dust-storm!"
In that very moment it was upon us: a red cloud rushing across the
square out of nowhere, whirling the date-branches over the heads of the
squatting throngs, tumbling down the stacks of fruits and vegetables,
rooting up the canvas awnings over the lemonade-sellers' stalls and
before the café doors, huddling the blinded donkeys under the walls of
the fondak, and stripping to the hips the black slave-girls scudding
home from the _souks_.
Such a blast would instantly have scattered any western crowd, but "the
patient East" remained undisturbed, rounding its shoulders before the
storm and continuing to follow attentively the motions of the dancers
and the turns of the story-tellers. By and bye, however, the gale grew
too furious, and the spectators were so involved in collapsing tents,
eddying date-branches and stampeding mules that the square began to
clear, save for the listeners about the most popular story-teller, who
continued to sit on unmoved. And then, at the height of the storm, they
too were abruptly scattered by the rush of a cavalcade across the
square. First came a handsomely dressed man, carrying before him on his
peaked saddle a tiny boy in a gold-embroidered orange caftan, in front
of whom he held an open book; and behind them a train of white-draped
men on showily harnessed mules, followed by musicians in bright dresses.
It was only a Circumcision procession on its way to the mosque; but the
dust-enveloped rider in his rich dress, clutching the bewildered child
to his breast, looked like some Oriental prince trying to escape with
his son from the fiery embraces of desert Erl-maidens.
As swiftly as it rose the storm subsided, leaving the fruit-market in
ruins under a sky as clear and innocent as an infant's eye. The Chleuh
boys had vanished with the rest, like marionettes swept into a drawer by
an impatient child; but presently, toward sunset, we were told that we
were to see them after all, and our hosts led us up to the roof of the
Caïd's house.
The city lay stretched before us like one immense terrace circumscribed
by palms. The sky was pure blue, verging to turquoise green where the
Atlas floated above mist; and facing the celestial snows stood the
Koutoubya, red in the sunset.
People were beginning to come out on the roofs: it was the hour of
peace, of ablutions, of family life on the house-tops. Groups of women
in pale tints and floating veils spoke to each other from terrace to
terrace, through the chatter of children and the guttural calls of
bedizened negresses. And presently, on the roof adjoining ours, appeared
the slim dancing-boys with white caftans and hennaed feet.
The three swarthy musicians who accompanied them crossed their lean legs
on the tiles and set up their throb-throb and thrum-thrum, and on a
narrow strip of terrace the youths began their measured steps.
It was a grave static dance, such as David may have performed before the
Ark; untouched by mirth or folly, as beseemed a dance in that sombre
land, and borrowing its magic from its gravity. Even when the pace
quickened with the stress of the music the gestures still continued to
be restrained and hieratic; only when, one by one, the performers
detached themselves from the round and knelt before us for the _peseta_
it is customary to press on their foreheads, did one see, by the
moisture which made the coin adhere, how quick and violent their
movements had been.
The performance, like all things Oriental, like the life, the patterns,
the stories, seemed to have no beginning and no end: it just went
monotonously and indefatigably on till fate snipped its thread by
calling us away to dinner. And so at last we went down into the dust of
the streets refreshed by that vision of white youths dancing on the
house-tops against the gold of a sunset that made them look--in spite of
ankle-bracelets and painted eyes--almost as guileless and happy as the
round of angels on the roof of Fra Angelico's Nativity.
VI
THE SAADIAN TOMBS
On one of the last days of our stay in Marrakech we were told, almost
mysteriously, that permission was to be given us to visit the tombs of
the Saadian Sultans.
Though Marrakech has been in the hands of the French since 1912, the
very existence of these tombs was unknown to the authorities till 1917.
Then the Sultan's government privately informed the Resident General
that an unsuspected treasure of Moroccan art was falling into ruin, and
after some hesitation it was agreed that General Lyautey and the
Director of Fine Arts should be admitted to the mosque containing the
tombs, on the express condition that the French Government undertook to
repair them. While we were at Rabat General Lyautey had described his
visit to us, and it was at his request that the Sultan authorized us to
see the mosque, to which no travellers had as yet been admitted.
With a good deal of ceremony, and after the customary _pourparlers_ with
the great Pasha who controls native affairs at Marrakech, an hour was
fixed for our visit, and we drove through long lanes of mud-huts to a
lost quarter near the walls. At last we came to a deserted square on one
side of which stands the long low mosque of Mansourah with a
turquoise-green minaret embroidered with traceries of sculptured terra
cotta. Opposite the mosque is a gate in a crumbling wall; and at this
gate the Pasha's Cadi was to meet us with the keys of the mausoleum. But
we waited in vain. Oriental dilatoriness, or a last secret reluctance to
admit unbelievers to a holy place, had caused the Cadi to forget his
appointment; and we drove away disappointed.
The delay drove us to wondering about these mysterious Saadian Sultans,
who, though coming so late in the annals of Morocco, had left at least
one monument said to be worthy of the Merinid tradition. And the tale of
the Saadians is worth telling.
They came from Arabia to the Draa (the fruitful country south of the
Great Atlas) early in the fifteenth century, when the Merinid empire was
already near disintegration. Like all previous invaders they preached
the doctrine of a pure Islamism to the polytheistic and indifferent
Berbers, and found a ready hearing because they denounced the evils of a
divided empire, and also because the whole of Morocco was in revolt
against the Christian colonies of Spain and Portugal, which had
encircled the coast from Ceuta to Agadir with a chain of fortified
counting-houses. To _bouter dehors_ the money-making unbeliever was an
object that found adherents from the Rif to the Sahara, and the Saadian
cherifs soon rallied a mighty following to their standard. Islam, though
it never really gave a creed to the Berbers, supplied them with a
war-cry as potent to-day as when it first rang across Barbary.
The history of the Saadians is a foreshortened record of that of all
their predecessors. They overthrew the artistic and luxurious Merinids,
and in their turn became artistic and luxurious. Their greatest Sultan,
Abou-el-Abbas, surnamed "The Golden," after defeating the Merinids and
putting an end to Christian rule in Morocco by the crushing victory of
El-Ksar (1578), bethought him in his turn of enriching himself and
beautifying his capital, and with this object in view turned his
attention to the black kingdoms of the south.
Senegal and the Soudan, which had been Mohammedan since the eleventh
century, had attained in the sixteenth century a high degree of
commercial wealth and artistic civilization. The Sultanate of Timbuctoo
seems in reality to have been a thriving empire, and if Timbuctoo was
not the Claude-like vision of Carthaginian palaces which it became in
the tales of imaginative travellers, it apparently had something of the
magnificence of Fez and Marrakech.
The Saadian army, after a march of four and a half months across the
Sahara, conquered the whole black south. Senegal, the Soudan and Bornou
submitted to Abou-el-Abbas, the Sultan of Timbuctoo was dethroned, and
the celebrated negro jurist Ahmed-Baba was brought a prisoner to
Marrakech, where his chief sorrow appears to have been for the loss of
his library of 1,600 volumes--though he declared that, of all the
numerous members of his family, it was he who possessed the smallest
number of books.
Besides this learned bibliophile, the Sultan Abou-el-Abbas brought back
with him an immense booty, principally of ingots of gold, from which he
took his surname of "The Golden"; and as the result of the expedition
Marrakech was embellished with mosques and palaces for which the Sultan
brought marble from Carrara, paying for it with loaves of sugar from the
sugar-cane that the Saadians grew in the Souss.
In spite of these brilliant beginnings the rule of the dynasty was short
and without subsequent interest. Based on a fanatical antagonism
against the foreigner, and fed by the ever-wakeful hatred of the Moors
for their Spanish conquerors, it raised ever higher the Chinese walls of
exclusiveness which the more enlightened Almohads and Merinids had
sought to overthrow. Henceforward less and less daylight and fresh air
were to penetrate into the _souks_ of Morocco.
The day after our unsuccessful attempt to see the tombs of these
ephemeral rulers we received another message, naming an hour for our
visit; and this time the Pasha's representative was waiting in the
archway. We followed his lead, under the openly mistrustful glances of
the Arabs who hung about the square, and after picking our way through a
twisting land between walls we came out into a filthy nettle-grown space
against the ramparts. At intervals of about thirty feet splendid square
towers rose from the walls, and facing one of them lay a group of
crumbling buildings masked behind other ruins.
We were led first into a narrow mosque or praying-chapel, like those of
the Medersas, with a coffered cedar ceiling resting on four marble
columns, and traceried walls of unusually beautiful design. From this
chapel we passed into the hall of the tombs, a cube about forty feet
square. Fourteen columns of colored marble sustain a domed ceiling of
gilded cedar, with an exterior deambulatory under a tunnel-vaulting also
roofed with cedar. The walls are, as usual, of chiselled stucco, above
revêtements of ceramic mosaic, and between the columns lie the white
marble cenotaphs of the Saadian Sultans, covered with Arabic
inscriptions in the most delicate low-relief. Beyond this central
mausoleum, and balancing the praying-chapel, lies another long narrow
chamber, gold-ceilinged also, and containing a few tombs.
It is difficult, in describing the architecture of Morocco, to avoid
producing an impression of monotony. The ground-plan of mosques and
Medersas is always practically the same; and the same elements, few in
number and endlessly repeated, make up the materials and the form of the
ornament. The effect upon the eye is not monotonous, for a patient art
has infinitely varied the combinations of pattern and the juxtapositions
of color; while the depth of undercutting of the stucco, and the
treatment of the bronze doors and of the carved cedar corbels,
necessarily varies with the periods which produced them.
But in the Saadian mausoleum a new element has been introduced which
makes this little monument a thing apart. The marble columns supporting
the roof appear to be unique in Moroccan architecture, and they lend
themselves to a new roof-plan which relates the building rather to the
tradition of Venice or Byzantine by way of Kairouan and Cordova.
The late date of the monument precludes any idea of a direct artistic
tradition. The most probable explanation seems to be that the architect
of the mausoleum was familiar with European Renaissance architecture,
and saw the beauty to be derived from using precious marbles not merely
as ornament, but in the Roman and Italian way, as a structural element.
Panels and fountain-basins are ornament, and ornament changes nothing
essential in architecture; but when, for instance, heavy square piers
are replaced by detached columns, a new style results.
It is not only the novelty of its plan that makes the Saadian mausoleum
singular among Moroccan monuments. The details of its ornament are of
the most intricate refinement: it seems as though the last graces of the
expiring Merinid art had been gathered up into this rare blossom. And
the slant of sunlight on lustrous columns, the depths of fretted gold,
the dusky ivory of the walls and the pure white of the cenotaphs, so
classic in spareness of ornament and simplicity of design--this subtle
harmony of form and color gives to the dim rich chapel an air of
dream-like unreality.
[Illustration: _From a photograph by M. André Chevrillon_
Marrakech--Mausoleum of the Saadian Sultans (sixteenth century) showing
the tombs]
And how can it seem other than a dream? Who can have conceived, in the
heart of a savage Saharan camp, the serenity and balance of this hidden
place? And how came such fragile loveliness to survive, preserving,
behind a screen of tumbling walls, of nettles and offal and dead beasts,
every curve of its traceries and every cell of its honeycombing?
Such questions inevitably bring one back to the central riddle of the
mysterious North African civilization: the perpetual flux and the
immovable stability, the barbarous customs and sensuous refinements, the
absence of artistic originality and the gift for regrouping borrowed
motives, the patient and exquisite workmanship and the immediate neglect
and degradation of the thing once made.
Revering the dead and camping on their graves, elaborating exquisite
monuments only to abandon and defile them, venerating scholarship and
wisdom and living in ignorance and grossness, these gifted races,
perpetually struggling to reach some higher level of culture from which
they have always been swept down by a fresh wave of barbarism, are still
only a people in the making.
It may be that the political stability which France is helping them to
acquire will at last give their higher qualities time for fruition; and
when one looks at the mausoleum of Marrakech and the Medersas of Fez one
feels that, were the experiment made on artistic grounds alone, it would
yet be well worth making.
FOOTNOTES:
[18] Moulay-el-Hassan reigned from 1873 to 1894.
[19] Dates do not ripen in Morocco.
V
HAREMS AND CEREMONIES
I
THE CROWD IN THE STREET
To occidental travellers the most vivid impression produced by a first
contact with the Near East is the surprise of being in a country where
the human element increases instead of diminishing the delight of the
eye.
After all, then, the intimate harmony between nature and architecture
and the human body that is revealed in Greek art was not an artist's
counsel of perfection but an honest rendering of reality: there were,
there still are, privileged scenes where the fall of a green-grocer's
draperies or a milkman's cloak or a beggar's rags are part of the
composition, distinctly related to it in line and colour, and where the
natural unstudied attitudes of the human body are correspondingly
harmonious, however hum-drum the acts it is engaged in. The discovery,
to the traveller returning from the East, robs the most romantic scenes
of western Europe of half their charm: in the Piazza of San Marco, in
the market-place of Siena, where at least the robes of the Procurators
or the gay tights of Pinturicchio's striplings once justified man's
presence among his works, one can see, at first, only the outrage
inflicted on beauty by the "plentiful strutting manikins" of the modern
world.
Moroccan crowds are always a feast to the eye. The instinct of skilful
drapery, the sense of colour (subdued by custom, but breaking out in
subtle glimpses under the universal ashy tints) make the humblest
assemblage of donkey-men and water-carriers an ever-renewed delight. But
it is only on rare occasions, and in the court ceremonies to which so
few foreigners have had access, that the hidden sumptuousness of the
native life is revealed. Even then, the term sumptuousness may seem
ill-chosen, since the nomadic nature of African life persists in spite
of palaces and chamberlains and all the elaborate ritual of the Makhzen,
and the most pompous rites are likely to end in a dusty gallop of wild
tribesmen, and the most princely processions to tail off in a string of
half-naked urchins riding bareback on donkeys.
As in all Oriental countries, the contact between prince and beggar,
vizier and serf is disconcertingly free and familiar, and one must see
the highest court officials kissing the hem of the Sultan's robe, and
hear authentic tales of slaves given by one merchant to another at the
end of a convivial evening, to be reminded that nothing is as democratic
in appearance as a society of which the whole structure hangs on the
whim of one man.
II
AÏD-EL-KEBIR
In the verandah of the Residence of Rabat I stood looking out between
posts festooned with gentian-blue ipomeas at the first shimmer of light
on black cypresses and white tobacco-flowers, on the scattered roofs of
the new town, and the plain stretching away to the Sultan's palace
above the sea.
We had been told, late the night before, that the Sultan would allow
Madame Lyautey, with the three ladies of her party, to be present at the
great religious rite of the Aïd-el-Kebir (the Sacrifice of the Sheep).
The honour was an unprecedented one, a favour probably conceded only at
the last moment: for as a rule no women are admitted to these
ceremonies. It was an opportunity not to be missed; and all through the
short stifling night I had lain awake wondering if I should be ready
early enough. Presently the motors assembled, and we set out with the
French officers in attendance on the Governor's wife.
The Sultan's palace, a large modern building on the familiar Arab lines,
lies in a treeless and gardenless waste enclosed by high walls and close
above the blue Atlantic. We motored past the gates, where the Sultan's
Black Guard was drawn up, and out to the _msalla_,[20] a sort of common
adjacent to all the Sultan's residences where public ceremonies are
usually performed. The sun was already beating down on the great plain
thronged with horsemen and with the native population of Rabat on
mule-back and foot. Within an open space in the centre of the crowd a
canvas palissade dyed with a bold black pattern surrounded the Sultan's
tents. The Black Guard, in scarlet tunics and white and green turbans,
were drawn up on the edge of the open space, keeping the spectators at a
distance; but under the guidance of our companions we penetrated to the
edge of the crowd.
The palissade was open on one side, and within it we could see moving
about among the snowy-robed officials a group of men in straight narrow
gowns of almond-green, peach-blossom, lilac and pink; they were the
Sultan's musicians, whose coloured dresses always flower out
conspicuously among the white draperies of all the other court
attendants.
In the tent nearest the opening, against a background of embroidered
hangings, a circle of majestic turbaned old men squatted placidly on
Rabat rugs. Presently the circle broke up, there was an agitated coming
and going, and some one said: "The Sultan has gone to the tent at the
back of the enclosure to kill the sheep."
A sense of the impending solemnity ran through the crowd. The mysterious
rumour which is the Voice of the Bazaar rose about us like the wind in a
palm-oasis; the Black Guard fired a salute from an adjoining hillock;
the clouds of red dust flung up by wheeling horsemen thickened and then
parted, and a white-robed rider sprang out from the tent of the
Sacrifice with something red and dripping across his saddle-bow, and
galloped away toward Rabat through the shouting. A little shiver ran
over the group of occidental spectators, who knew that the dripping red
thing was a sheep with its throat so skilfully slit that, if the omen
were favourable, it would live on through the long race to Rabat and
gasp out its agonized life on the tiles of the Mosque.
The Sacrifice of the Sheep, one of the four great Moslem rites, is
simply the annual propitiatory offering made by every Mahometan head of
a family, and by the Sultan as such. It is based not on a Koranic
injunction, but on the "Souna" or record of the Prophet's "custom" or
usages, which forms an authoritative precedent in Moslem ritual. So far
goes the Moslem exegesis. In reality, of course, the Moslem
blood-sacrifice comes, by way of the Semitic ritual, from far beyond and
behind it; and the belief that the Sultan's prosperity for the coming
year depends on the animal's protracted agony seems to relate the
ceremony to the dark magic so deeply rooted in the mysterious tribes
peopling North Africa long ages before the first Phoenician prows had
rounded its coast.
Between the Black Guard and the tents, five or six horses were being led
up and down by muscular grooms in snowy tunics. They were handsome
animals, as Moroccan horses go, and each of a different colour; and on
the bay horse was a red saddle embroidered in gold, on the piebald a
saddle of peach-colour and silver, on the chestnut, grass-green
encrusted with seed-pearls, on the white mare purple housings, and
orange velvet on the grey. The Sultan's band had struck up a shrill
hammering and twanging, the salute of the Black Guard continued at
intervals, and the caparisoned steeds began to rear and snort and drag
back from the cruel Arab bits with their exquisite _niello_
incrustations. Some one whispered that these were His Majesty's
horses--and that it was never known till he appeared which one he would
mount.
Presently the crowd about the tents thickened, and when it divided again
there emerged from it a grey horse bearing a motionless figure swathed
in blinding white. Marching at the horse's bridle, lean brown grooms in
white tunics rhythmically waved long strips of white linen to keep off
the flies from the Imperial Presence; and beside the motionless rider,
in a line with his horse's flank, rode the Imperial Parasol-bearer, who
held above the sovereign's head a great sunshade of bright green velvet.
Slowly the grey horse advanced a few yards before the tent; behind rode
the court dignitaries, followed by the musicians, who looked, in their
bright scant caftans, like the slender music-making angels of a
Florentine fresco.
The Sultan, pausing beneath his velvet dome, waited to receive the
homage of the assembled tribes. An official, riding forward, drew bridle
and called out a name. Instantly there came storming across the plain a
wild cavalcade of tribesmen, with rifles slung across their shoulders,
pistols and cutlasses in their belts, and twists of camel's-hair bound
about their turbans. Within a few feet of the Sultan they drew in, their
leader uttered a cry and sprang forward, bending to the saddle-bow, and
with a great shout the tribe galloped by, each man bowed over his
horse's neck as he flew past the hieratic figure on the grey horse.
[Illustration: _From a photograph from "France-Maroc"_
The Sultan of Morocco under the green umbrella (at Meknez, 1916)]
Again and again this ceremony was repeated, the Sultan advancing a few
feet as each new group thundered toward him. There were more than ten
thousand horsemen and chieftains from the Atlas and the wilderness, and
as the ceremony continued the dust-clouds grew denser and more
fiery-golden, till at last the forward-surging lines showed through them
like blurred images in a tarnished mirror.
As the Sultan advanced we followed, abreast of him and facing the
oncoming squadrons. The contrast between his motionless figure and the
wild waves of cavalry beating against it typified the strange soul of
Islam, with its impetuosity forever culminating in impassiveness. The
sun hung high, a brazen ball in a white sky, darting down metallic
shafts on the dust-enveloped plain and the serene white figure under its
umbrella. The fat man with a soft round beard-fringed face, wrapped in
spirals of pure white, one plump hand on his embroidered bridle, his
yellow-slippered feet thrust heel-down in big velvet-lined stirrups,
became, through sheer immobility, a symbol, a mystery, a God. The human
flux beat against him, dissolved, ebbed away, another spear-crested wave
swept up behind it and dissolved in turn; and he sat on, hour after
hour, under the white-hot sky, unconscious of the heat, the dust, the
tumult, embodying to the wild factious precipitate hordes a long
tradition of serene aloofness.
III
THE IMPERIAL MIRADOR
As the last riders galloped up to do homage we were summoned to our
motors and driven rapidly to the palace. The Sultan had sent word to
Mme. Lyautey that the ladies of the Imperial harem would entertain her
and her guests while his Majesty received the Resident General, and we
had to hasten back in order not to miss the next act of the spectacle.
[Illustration: _From a photograph from "France-Maroc"_
A clan of mountaineers and their caïd.]
We walked across a long court lined with the Black Guard, passed under a
gateway, and were met by a shabbily dressed negress. Traversing a hot
dazzle of polychrome tiles we reached another archway guarded by the
chief eunuch, a towering black with the enamelled eyes of a basalt bust.
The eunuch delivered us to other negresses, and we entered a labyrinth
of inner passages and patios, all murmuring and dripping with water.
Passing down long corridors where slaves in dim greyish garments
flattened themselves against the walls, we caught glimpses of great dark
rooms, laundries, pantries, bakeries, kitchens, where savoury things
were brewing and stewing, and where more negresses, abandoning their
pots and pans, came to peep at us from the threshold. In one corner, on
a bench against a wall hung with matting, grey parrots in tall cages
were being fed by a slave.
A narrow staircase mounted to a landing where a princess out of an Arab
fairy-tale awaited us. Stepping softly on her embroidered slippers she
led us to the next landing, where another golden-slippered being smiled
out on us, a little girl this one, blushing and dimpling under a
jewelled diadem and pearl-woven braids. On a third landing a third
damsel appeared, and encircled by the three graces we mounted to the
tall _mirador_ in the central tower from which we were to look down at
the coming ceremony. One by one, our little guides, kicking off their
golden shoes, which a slave laid neatly outside the door, led us on soft
bare feet into the upper chamber of the harem.
It was a large room, enclosed on all sides by a balcony glazed with
panes of brightly-coloured glass. On a gaudy modern Rabat carpet stood
gilt armchairs of florid design and a table bearing a commercial bronze
of the "art goods" variety. Divans with muslin-covered cushions were
ranged against the walls and down an adjoining gallery-like apartment
which was otherwise furnished only with clocks. The passion for clocks
and other mechanical contrivances is common to all unmechanical races,
and every chief's palace in North Africa contains a collection of
time-pieces which might be called striking if so many had not ceased to
go. But those in the Sultan's harem of Rabat are remarkable for the fact
that, while designed on current European models, they are proportioned
in size to the Imperial dignity, so that a Dutch "grandfather" becomes a
wardrobe, and the box-clock of the European mantelpiece a cupboard that
has to be set on the floor. At the end of this avenue of time-pieces a
European double-bed with a bright silk quilt covered with Nottingham
lace stood majestically on a carpeted platform.
But for the enchanting glimpses of sea and plain through the lattices of
the gallery, the apartment of the Sultan's ladies falls far short of
occidental ideas of elegance. But there was hardly time to think of
this, for the door of the _mirador_ was always opening to let in another
fairy-tale figure, till at last we were surrounded by a dozen houris,
laughing, babbling, taking us by the hand, and putting shy questions
while they looked at us with caressing eyes. They were all (our
interpretess whispered) the Sultan's "favourites," round-faced
apricot-tinted girls in their teens, with high cheek-bones, full red
lips, surprised brown eyes between curved-up Asiatic lids, and little
brown hands fluttering out like birds from their brocaded sleeves.
In honour of the ceremony, and of Mme. Lyautey's visit, they had put on
their finest clothes, and their freedom of movement was somewhat
hampered by their narrow sumptuous gowns, with over-draperies of gold
and silver brocade and pale rosy gauze held in by corset-like sashes of
gold tissue of Fez, and the heavy silken cords that looped their
voluminous sleeves. Above their foreheads the hair was shaven like that
of an Italian fourteenth-century beauty, and only a black line as narrow
as a pencilled eyebrow showed through the twist of gauze fastened by a
jewelled clasp above the real eye-brows. Over the forehead-jewel rose
the complicated structure of the head-dress. Ropes of black wool were
plaited through the hair, forming, at the back, a double loop that stood
out above the nape like the twin handles of a vase, the upper veiled in
airy shot gauzes and fastened with jewelled bands and ornaments. On each
side of the red cheeks other braids were looped over the ears hung with
broad earrings of filigree set with rough pearls and emeralds, or gold
hoops and pendants of coral; and an unexpected tulle ruff, like that of
a Watteau shepherdess, framed the round chin above a torrent of
necklaces, necklaces of amber, coral, baroque pearls, hung with
mysterious barbaric amulets and fetiches. As the young things moved
about us on soft hennaed feet the light played on shifting gleams of
gold and silver, blue and violet and apple-green, all harmonized and
bemisted by clouds of pink and sky-blue; and through the changing group
capered a little black picaninny in a caftan of silver-shot purple with
a sash of raspberry red.
But presently there was a flutter in the aviary. A fresh pair of
_babouches_ clicked on the landing, and a young girl, less brilliantly
dressed and less brilliant of face than the others, came in on bare
painted feet. Her movements were shy and hesitating, her large lips
pale, her eye-brows less vividly dark, her head less jewelled. But all
the little humming-birds gathered about her with respectful rustlings as
she advanced toward us leaning on one of the young girls, and holding
out her ringed hand to Mme. Lyautey's curtsey. It was the young
Princess, the Sultan's legitimate daughter. She examined us with sad
eyes, spoke a few compliments through the interpretess, and seated
herself in silence, letting the others sparkle and chatter.
Conversation with the shy Princess was flagging when one of the
favourites beckoned us to the balcony. We were told we might push open
the painted panes a few inches, but as we did so the butterfly group
drew back lest they should be seen looking out on the forbidden world.
Salutes were crashing out again from the direction of the _msalla_:
puffs of smoke floated over the slopes like thistle-down. Farther off, a
pall of red vapour veiled the gallop of the last horsemen wheeling away
toward Rabat. The vapour subsided, and moving out of it we discerned a
slow procession. First rode a detachment of the Black Guard, mounted on
black horses, and, comically fierce in their British scarlet and Meccan
green, a uniform invented at the beginning of the nineteenth century by
a retired English army officer. After the Guard came the
standard-bearers and the great dignitaries, then the Sultan, still
aloof, immovable, as if rapt in the contemplation of his mystic office.
More court officials followed, then the bright-gowned musicians on
foot, then a confused irrepressible crowd of pilgrims, beggars, saints,
mountebanks, and the other small folk of the Bazaar, ending in a line of
boys jamming their naked heels into the ribs of world-weary donkeys.
[Illustration: _From a photograph from "France-Maroc"_
The Sultan entering Marrakech in state]
The Sultan rode into the court below us, and Vizier and chamberlains,
snowy-white against the scarlet line of the Guards, hurried forward to
kiss his draperies, his shoes, his stirrup. Descending from his velvet
saddle, still entranced, he paced across the tiles between a double line
of white servitors bowing to the ground. White pigeons circled over him
like petals loosed from a great orchard, and he disappeared with his
retinue under the shadowy arcade of the audience chamber at the back of
the court.
At this point one of the favourites called us in from the _mirador_. The
door had just opened to admit an elderly woman preceded by a respectful
group of girls. From the newcomer's round ruddy face, her short round
body, the round hands emerging from her round wrists, an inexplicable
majesty emanated; and though she too was less richly arrayed than the
favourites she carried her head-dress of striped gauze like a crown.
This impressive old lady was the Sultan's mother. As she held out her
plump wrinkled hand to Mme. Lyautey and spoke a few words through the
interpretess one felt that at last a painted window of the _mirador_ had
been broken, and a thought let into the vacuum of the harem. What
thought, it would have taken deep insight into the processes of the Arab
mind to discover; but its honesty was manifest in the old Empress's
voice and smile. Here at last was a woman beyond the trivial
dissimulations, the childish cunning, the idle cruelties of the harem.
It was not a surprise to be told that she was her son's most trusted
adviser, and the chief authority in the palace. If such a woman deceived
and intrigued it would be for great purposes and for ends she believed
in: the depth of her soul had air and daylight in it, and she would
never willingly shut them out.
The Empress Mother chatted for a while with Mme. Lyautey, asking about
the Resident General's health, enquiring for news of the war, and
saying, with an emotion perceptible even through the unintelligible
words: "All is well with Morocco as long as all is well with France."
Then she withdrew, and we were summoned again to the _mirador_.
This time it was to see a company of officers in brilliant uniforms
advancing at a trot across the plain from Rabat. At sight of the figure
that headed them, so slim, erect and young on his splendid chestnut,
with a pale blue tunic barred by the wide orange ribbon of the Cherifian
Order, salutes pealed forth again from the slope above the palace and
the Black Guard presented arms. A moment later General Lyautey and his
staff were riding in at the gates below us. On the threshold of the
inner court they dismounted, and moving to the other side of our balcony
we followed the next stage of the ceremony. The Sultan was still seated
in the audience chamber. The court officials still stood drawn up in a
snow-white line against the snow-white walls. The great dignitaries
advanced across the tiles to greet the General; then they fell aside,
and he went forward alone, followed at a little distance by his staff. A
third of the way across the court he paused, in accordance with the
Moroccan court ceremonial, and bowed in the direction of the arcaded
room; a few steps farther he bowed again, and a third time on the
threshold of the room. Then French uniforms and Moroccan draperies
closed in about him, and all vanished into the shadows of the audience
hall.
Our audience too seemed to be over. We had exhausted the limited small
talk of the harem, had learned from the young beauties that, though they
were forbidden to look on at the ceremony, the dancers and singers would
come to entertain them presently, and had begun to take leave when a
negress hurried in to say that his Majesty begged Mme. Lyautey and her
friends to await his arrival. This was the crowning incident of our
visit, and I wondered with what Byzantine ritual the Anointed One fresh
from the exercise of his priestly functions would be received among his
women.
The door opened, and without any announcement or other preliminary
flourish a fat man with a pleasant face, his djellabah stretched over a
portly front, walked in holding a little boy by the hand. Such was his
Majesty the Sultan Moulay Youssef, despoiled of sacramental burnouses
and turban, and shuffling along on bare yellow-slippered feet with the
gait of a stout elderly gentleman who has taken off his boots in the
passage preparatory to a domestic evening.
The little Prince, one of his two legitimate sons, was dressed with
equal simplicity, for silken garments are worn in Morocco only by
musicians, boy-dancers and other hermaphrodite fry. With his ceremonial
raiment the Sultan had put off his air of superhuman majesty, and the
expression of his round pale face corresponded with the plainness of his
dress. The favourites fluttered about him, respectful but by no means
awestruck, and the youngest began to play with the little Prince. We
could well believe the report that his was the happiest harem in
Morocco, as well as the only one into which a breath of the outer world
ever came.
Moulay Youssef greeted Mme. Lyautey with friendly simplicity, made the
proper speeches to her companions, and then, with the air of the
business-man who has forgotten to give an order before leaving his
office, he walked up to a corner of the room, and while the
flower-maidens ruffled about him, and through the windows we saw the
last participants in the mystic rites galloping away toward the
crenellated walls of Rabat, his Majesty the Priest and Emperor of the
Faithful unhooked a small instrument from the wall and applied his
sacred lips to the telephone.
IV
IN OLD RABAT
Before General Lyautey came to Morocco Rabat had been subjected to the
indignity of European "improvements," and one must traverse boulevards
scored with tram-lines, and pass between hotel-terraces and cafés and
cinema-palaces, to reach the surviving nucleus of the once beautiful
native town. Then, at the turn of a commonplace street, one comes upon
it suddenly. The shops and cafés cease, the jingle of trams and the
trumpeting of motor-horns die out, and here, all at once, are silence
and solitude, and the dignified reticence of the windowless Arab
house-fronts.
We were bound for the house of a high government official, a Moroccan
dignitary of the old school, who had invited us to tea, and added a
message to the effect that the ladies of his household would be happy to
receive me.
The house we sought was some distance down the quietest of white-walled
streets. Our companion knocked at a low green door, and we were admitted
to a passage into which a wooden stairway descended. A brother-in-law of
our host was waiting for us: in his wake we mounted the ladder-like
stairs and entered a long room with a florid French carpet and a set of
gilt furniture to match. There were no fretted walls, no painted cedar
doors, no fountains rustling in unseen courts: the house was squeezed in
between others, and such traces of old ornament as it may have possessed
had vanished.
But presently we saw why its inhabitants were indifferent to such
details. Our host, a handsome white-bearded old man, welcomed us in the
doorway; then he led us to a raised oriel window at one end of the room,
and seated us in the gilt armchairs face to face with one of the most
beautiful views in Morocco.
Below us lay the white and blue terrace-roofs of the native town, with
palms and minarets shooting up between them, or the shadows of a
vine-trellis patterning a quiet lane. Beyond, the Atlantic sparkled,
breaking into foam at the mouth of the Bou-Regreg and under the towering
ramparts of the Kasbah of the Oudayas. To the right, the ruins of the
great Mosque rose from their plateau over the river; and, on the farther
side of the troubled flood, old Salé, white and wicked, lay like a jewel
in its gardens. With such a scene beneath their eyes, the inhabitants of
the house could hardly feel its lack of architectural interest.
After exchanging the usual compliments, and giving us time to enjoy the
view, our host withdrew, taking with him the men of our party. A moment
later he reappeared with a rosy fair-haired girl, dressed in Arab
costume, but evidently of European birth. The brother-in-law explained
that this young woman, who had "studied in Algeria," and whose mother
was French, was the intimate friend of the ladies of the household, and
would act as interpreter. Our host then again left us, joining the men
visitors in another room, and the door opened to admit his wife and
daughters-in-law.
The mistress of the house was a handsome Algerian with sad expressive
eyes: the younger women were pale, fat and amiable. They all wore sober
dresses, in keeping with the simplicity of the house, and but for the
vacuity of their faces the group might have been that of a Professor's
family in an English or American University town, decently costumed for
an Arabian Nights' pageant in the college grounds. I was never more
vividly reminded of the fact that human nature, from one pole to the
other, falls naturally into certain categories, and that Respectability
wears the same face in an Oriental harem as in England or America.
My hostesses received me with the utmost amiability, we seated ourselves
in the oriel facing the view, and the interchange of questions and
compliments began.
Had I any children? (They asked it all at once.)
Alas, no.
"In Islam" (one of the ladies ventured) "a woman without children is
considered the most unhappy being in the world."
I replied that in the western world also childless women were pitied.
(The brother-in-law smiled incredulously.)
Knowing that European fashions are of absorbing interest to the harem I
next enquired: "What do these ladies think of our stiff tailor-dresses?
Don't they find them excessively ugly?"
"Yes, they do;" (it was again the brother-in-law who replied.) "But they
suppose that in your own homes you dress less badly."
"And have they never any desire to travel, or to visit the Bazaars, as
the Turkish ladies do?"
"No, indeed. They are too busy to give such matters a thought. In _our
country_ women of the highest class occupy themselves with their
household and their children, and the rest of their time is devoted to
needlework." (At this statement I gave the brother-in-law a smile as
incredulous as his own.)
All this time the fair-haired interpretess had not been allowed by the
vigilant guardian of the harem to utter a word.
I turned to her with a question.
"So your mother is French, _Mademoiselle_?"
"_Oui, Madame._"
"From what part of France did she come?"
A bewildered pause. Finally: "I don't know ... from Switzerland, I
think," brought out this shining example of the Higher Education. In
spite of Algerian "advantages" the poor girl could speak only a few
words of her mother's tongue. She had kept the European features and
complexion, but her soul was the soul of Islam. The harem had placed its
powerful imprint upon her, and she looked at me with the same remote and
passive eyes as the daughters of the house.
After struggling for a while longer with a conversation which the
watchful brother-in-law continued to direct as he pleased. I felt my own
lips stiffening into the resigned smile of the harem, and it was a
relief when at last their guardian drove the pale flock away, and the
handsome old gentleman who owned them reappeared on the scene, bringing
back my friends, and followed by slaves and tea.
V
IN FEZ
What thoughts, what speculations, one wonders, go on under the narrow
veiled brows of the little creatures destined to the high honour of
marriage or concubinage in Moroccan palaces?
Some are brought down from mountains and cedar forests, from the free
life of the tents where the nomad women go unveiled. Others come from
harems in the turreted cities beyond the Atlas, where blue palm-groves
beat all night against the stars and date-caravans journey across the
desert from Timbuctoo. Some, born and bred in an airy palace among
pomegranate gardens and white terraces, pass thence to one of the feudal
fortresses near the snows, where for half the year the great chiefs of
the south live in their clan, among fighting men and falconers and packs
of _sloughis_. And still others grow up in a stifling Mellah, trip
unveiled on its blue terraces overlooking the gardens of the great, and,
seen one day at sunset by a fat vizier or his pale young master, are
acquired for a handsome sum and transferred to the painted sepulchre of
the harem.
Worst of all must be the fate of those who go from tents and cedar
forests, or from some sea-blown garden above Rabat, into one of the
houses of Old Fez. They are well-nigh impenetrable, these palaces of
Elbali: the Fazi dignitaries do not welcome the visits of strange women.
On the rare occasions when they are received, a member of the family
(one of the sons, or a brother-in-law who has "studied in Algeria")
usually acts as interpreter; and perhaps it is as well that no one from
the outer world should come to remind these listless creatures that
somewhere the gulls dance on the Atlantic and the wind murmurs through
olive-yards and clatters the metallic fronds of palm-groves.
We had been invited, one day, to visit the harem of one of the chief
dignitaries of the Makhzen at Fez, and these thoughts came to me as I
sat among the pale women in their mouldering prison. The descent through
the steep tunnelled streets gave one the sense of being lowered into the
shaft of a mine. At each step the strip of sky grew narrower, and was
more often obscured by the low vaulted passages into which we plunged.
The noises of the Bazaar had died out, and only the sound of fountains
behind garden walls and the clatter of our mules' hoofs on the stones
went with us. Then fountains and gardens ceased also, the towering
masonry closed in, and we entered an almost subterranean labyrinth which
sun and air never reach. At length our mules turned into a _cul-de-sac_
blocked by a high building. On the right was another building, one of
those blind mysterious house-fronts of Fez that seem like a fragment of
its ancient fortifications. Clients and servants lounged on the stone
benches built into the wall; it was evidently the house of an important
person. A charming youth with intelligent eyes waited on the threshold
to receive us: he was one of the sons of the house, the one who had
"studied in Algeria" and knew how to talk to visitors. We followed him
into a small arcaded _patio_ hemmed in by the high walls of the house.
On the right was the usual long room with archways giving on the court.
Our host, a patriarchal personage, draped in fat as in a toga, came
toward us, a mountain of majestic muslins, his eyes sparkling in a
swarthy silver-bearded face. He seated us on divans and lowered his
voluminous person to a heap of cushions on the step leading into the
court; and the son who had studied in Algeria instructed a negress to
prepare the tea.
Across the _patio_ was another arcade closely hung with unbleached
cotton. From behind it came the sound of chatter, and now and then a
bare brown child in a scant shirt would escape, and be hurriedly pulled
back with soft explosions of laughter, while a black woman came out to
readjust the curtains.
There were three of these negresses, splendid bronze creatures, wearing
white djellabahs over bright-coloured caftans, striped scarves knotted
about their large hips, and gauze turbans on their crinkled hair. Their
wrists clinked with heavy silver bracelets, and big circular earrings
danced in their purple ear-lobes. A languor lay on all the other inmates
of the household, on the servants and hangers-on squatting in the shade
under the arcade, on our monumental host and his smiling son; but the
three negresses, vibrating with activity, rushed continually from the
curtained chamber to the kitchen, and from the kitchen to the master's
reception-room, bearing on their pinky-blue palms trays of Britannia
metal with tall glasses and fresh bunches of mint, shouting orders to
dozing menials, and calling to each other from opposite ends of the
court; and finally the stoutest of the three, disappearing from view,
reappeared suddenly on a pale green balcony overhead, where, profiled
against a square of blue sky, she leaned over in a Veronese attitude and
screamed down to the others like an excited parrot.
In spite of their febrile activity and tropical bird-shrieks, we waited
in vain for tea; and after a while our host suggested to his son that I
might like to visit the ladies of the household. As I had expected, the
young man led me across the _patio_, lifted the cotton hanging and
introduced me into an apartment exactly like the one we had just left.
Divans covered with striped mattress-ticking stood against the white
walls, and on them sat seven or eight passive-looking women over whom a
number of pale children scrambled.
The eldest of the group, and evidently the mistress of the house,
was an Algerian lady, probably of about fifty, with a sad and
delicately-modelled face; the others were daughters, daughters-in-law
and concubines. The latter word evokes to occidental ears images of
sensual seduction which the Moroccan harem seldom realizes. All the
ladies of this dignified official household wore the same look of
somewhat melancholy respectability. In their stuffy curtained apartment
they were like cellar-grown flowers, pale, heavy, fuller but frailer
than the garden sort. Their dresses, rich but sober, the veils and
diadems put on in honour of my visit, had a dignified dowdiness in odd
contrast to the frivolity of the Imperial harem. But what chiefly struck
me was the apathy of the younger women. I asked them if they had a
garden, and they shook their heads wistfully, saying that there were no
gardens in Old Fez. The roof was therefore their only escape: a roof
overlooking acres and acres of other roofs, and closed in by the naked
fortified mountains which stand about Fez like prison-walls.
After a brief exchange of compliments silence fell. Conversing through
interpreters is a benumbing process, and there are few points of contact
between the open-air occidental mind and beings imprisoned in a
conception of sexual and domestic life based on slave-service and
incessant espionage. These languid women on their muslin cushions toil
not, neither do they spin. The Moroccan lady knows little of cooking,
needlework or any household arts. When her child is ill she can only
hang it with amulets and wail over it; the great lady of the Fazi palace
is as ignorant of hygiene as the peasant-woman of the _bled_. And all
these colourless eventless lives depend on the favour of one fat
tyrannical man, bloated with good living and authority, himself almost
as inert and sedentary as his women, and accustomed to impose his whims
on them ever since he ran about the same _patio_ as a little
short-smocked boy.
The redeeming point in this stagnant domesticity is the tenderness of
the parents for their children, and western writers have laid so much
stress on this that one would suppose children could be loved only by
inert and ignorant parents. It is in fact charming to see the heavy eyes
of the Moroccan father light up when a brown grasshopper baby jumps on
his knee, and the unfeigned tenderness with which the childless women of
the harem caress the babies of their happier rivals. But the
sentimentalist moved by this display of family feeling would do well to
consider the lives of these much-petted children. Ignorance,
unhealthiness and a precocious sexual initiation prevail in all classes.
Education consists in learning by heart endless passages of the Koran,
and amusement in assisting at spectacles that would be unintelligible
to western children, but that the pleasantries of the harem make
perfectly comprehensible to Moroccan infancy. At eight or nine the
little girls are married, at twelve the son of the house is "given his
first negress"; and thereafter, in the rich and leisured class, both
sexes live till old age in an atmosphere of sensuality without
seduction.
[Illustration: _From a photograph from "France-Maroc"_
Women watching a procession from a roof]
The young son of the house led me back across the court, where the
negresses were still shrieking and scurrying, and passing to and fro
like a stage-procession with the vain paraphernalia of a tea that never
came. Our host still smiled from his cushions, resigned to Oriental
delays. To distract the impatient westerners, a servant unhooked from
the wall the cage of a gently-cooing dove. It was brought to us, still
cooing, and looked at me with the same resigned and vacant eyes as the
ladies I had just left. As it was being restored to its hook the slaves
lolling about the entrance scattered respectfully at the approach of a
handsome man of about thirty, with delicate features and a black beard.
Crossing the court, he stooped to kiss the shoulder of our host, who
introduced him as his eldest son, the husband of one or two of the
little pale wives with whom I had been exchanging platitudes.
From the increasing agitation of the negresses it became evident that
the ceremony of tea-making had been postponed till his arrival. A metal
tray bearing a Britannia samovar and tea-pot was placed on the tiles of
the court, and squatting beside it the newcomer gravely proceeded to
infuse the mint. Suddenly the cotton hangings fluttered again, and a
tiny child in the scantest of smocks rushed out and scampered across the
court. Our venerable host, stretching out rapturous arms, caught the
fugitive to his bosom, where the little boy lay like a squirrel,
watching us with great sidelong eyes. He was the last-born of the
patriarch, and the youngest brother of the majestic bearded gentleman
engaged in tea-making. While he was still in his father's arms two more
sons appeared: charming almond-eyed schoolboys returning from their
Koran-class, escorted by their slaves. All the sons greeted each other
affectionately, and caressed with almost feminine tenderness the dancing
baby so lately added to their ranks; and finally, to crown this scene of
domestic intimacy, the three negresses, their gigantic effort at last
accomplished, passed about glasses of steaming mint and trays of
gazelles' horns and white sugar-cakes.
VI
IN MARRAKECH
The farther one travels from the Mediterranean and Europe the closer the
curtains of the women's quarters are drawn. The only harem in which we
were allowed an interpreter was that of the Sultan himself; in the
private harems of Fez and Rabat a French-speaking relative transmitted
(or professed to transmit) our remarks; in Marrakech, the great nobleman
and dignitary who kindly invited me to visit his household was deaf to
our hint that the presence of a lady from one of the French government
schools might facilitate our intercourse.
When we drove up to his palace, one of the stateliest in Marrakech, the
street was thronged with clansmen and clients. Dignified merchants in
white muslin, whose grooms held white mules saddled with rose-coloured
velvet, warriors from the Atlas wearing the corkscrew ringlets which are
a sign of military prowess, Jewish traders in black gabardines,
leather-gaitered peasant-women with chickens and cheese, and beggars
rolling their blind eyes or exposing their fly-plastered sores, were
gathered in Oriental promiscuity about the great man's door; while under
the archway stood a group of youths and warlike-looking older men who
were evidently of his own clan.
The Caïd's chamberlain, a middle-aged man of dignified appearance,
advanced to meet us between bowing clients and tradesmen. He led us
through cool passages lined with the intricate mosaic-work of Fez, past
beggars who sat on stone benches whining out their blessings, and pale
Fazi craftsmen laying a floor of delicate tiles. The Caïd is a lover of
old Arab architecture. His splendid house, which is not yet finished,
has been planned and decorated on the lines of the old Imperial palaces,
and when a few years of sun and rain and Oriental neglect have worked
their way on its cedar-wood and gilding and ivory stucco it will have
the same faded loveliness as the fairy palaces of Fez.
In a garden where fountains splashed and roses climbed among cypresses,
the Caïd himself awaited us. This great fighter and loyal friend of
France is a magnificent eagle-beaked man, brown, lean and sinewy, with
vigilant eyes looking out under his carefully draped muslin turban, and
negroid lips half-hidden by a close black beard.
Tea was prepared in the familiar setting; a long arcaded room with
painted ceiling and richly stuccoed walls. All around were ranged the
usual mattresses covered with striped ticking and piled with muslin
cushions. A bedstead of brass, imitating a Louis XVI cane bed, and
adorned with brass garlands and bows, throned on the usual platform; and
the only other ornaments were a few clocks and bunches of wax flowers
under glass. Like all Orientals, this hero of the Atlas, who spends half
his life with his fighting clansmen in a mediæval stronghold among the
snows, and the other half rolling in a 60 h.p. motor over smooth French
roads, seems unaware of any degrees of beauty or appropriateness in
objects of European design, and places against the exquisite mosaics
and traceries of his Fazi craftsmen the tawdriest bric-à-brac of the
cheap department-store.
While tea was being served I noticed a tiny negress, not more than six
or seven years old, who stood motionless in the embrasure of an archway.
Like most of the Moroccan slaves, even in the greatest households, she
was shabbily, almost raggedly, dressed. A dirty _gandourah_ of striped
muslin covered her faded caftan, and a cheap kerchief was wound above
her grave and precocious little face. With preternatural vigilance she
watched each movement of the Caïd, who never spoke to her, looked at
her, or made her the slightest perceptible sign, but whose least wish
she instantly divined, refilling his tea-cup, passing the plates of
sweets, or removing our empty glasses, in obedience to some secret
telegraphy on which her whole being hung.
The Caïd is a great man. He and his famous elder brother, holding the
southern marches of Morocco against alien enemies and internal
rebellion, played a preponderant part in the defence of the French
colonies in North Africa during the long struggle of the war.
Enlightened, cultivated, a friend of the arts, a scholar and
diplomatist, he seems, unlike many Orientals, to have selected the best
in assimilating European influences. Yet when I looked at the tiny
creature watching him with those anxious joyless eyes I felt once more
the abyss that slavery and the seraglio put between the most
Europeanized Mahometan and the western conception of life. The Caïd's
little black slaves are well-known in Morocco, and behind the sad child
leaning in the archway stood all the shadowy evils of the social system
that hangs like a millstone about the neck of Islam.
Presently a handsome tattered negress came across the garden to invite
me to the harem. Captain de S. and his wife, who had accompanied me,
were old friends of the Chief's, and it was owing to this that the
jealously-guarded doors of the women's quarters were opened to Mme de S.
and myself. We followed the negress to a marble-paved court where
pigeons fluttered and strutted about the central fountain. From under a
trellised arcade hung with linen curtains several ladies came forward.
They greeted my companion with exclamations of delight; then they led us
into the usual commonplace room with divans and whitewashed walls. Even
in the most sumptuous Moroccan palaces little care seems to be expended
on the fittings of the women's quarters: unless, indeed, the room in
which visitors are received corresponds with a boarding-school
"parlour," and the personal touch is reserved for the private
apartments.
The ladies who greeted us were more richly dressed than any I had seen
except the Sultan's favourites; but their faces were more distinguished,
more European in outline, than those of the round-cheeked beauties of
Rabat. My companions had told me that the Caïd's harem was recruited
from Georgia, and that the ladies receiving us had been brought up in
the relative freedom of life in Constantinople; and it was easy to read
in their wistfully smiling eyes memories of a life unknown to the
passive daughters of Morocco.
They appeared to make no secret of their regrets, for presently one of
them, with a smile, called my attention to some faded photographs
hanging over the divan. They represented groups of plump
provincial-looking young women in dowdy European ball-dresses; and it
required an effort of the imagination to believe that the lovely
creatures in velvet caftans, with delicately tattooed temples under
complicated head-dresses, and hennaed feet crossed on muslin cushions,
were the same as the beaming frumps in the photographs. But to the
sumptuously-clad exiles these faded photographs and ugly dresses
represented freedom, happiness, and all they had forfeited when fate
(probably in the shape of an opulent Hebrew couple "travelling with
their daughters") carried them from the Bosphorus to the Atlas.
As in the other harems I had visited, perfect equality seemed to prevail
between the ladies, and while they chatted with Mme de S. whose few
words of Arabic had loosed their tongues, I tried to guess which was the
favourite, or at least the first in rank. My choice wavered between the
pretty pale creature with a _ferronnière_ across her temples and a
tea-rose caftan veiled in blue gauze, and the nut-brown beauty in red
velvet hung with pearls whose languid attitudes and long-lidded eyes
were so like the Keepsake portraits of Byron's Haïdee. Or was it perhaps
the third, less pretty but more vivid and animated, who sat behind the
tea-tray, and mimicked so expressively a soldier shouldering his rifle,
and another falling dead, in her effort to ask us "when the dreadful war
would be over"? Perhaps ... unless, indeed, it were the handsome
octoroon, slightly older than the others, but even more richly dressed,
so free and noble in her movements, and treated by the others with such
friendly deference.
I was struck by the fact that among them all there was not a child; it
was the first harem without babies that I had seen in that prolific
land. Presently one of the ladies asked Mme. de S. about her children;
in reply, she enquired for the Caïd's little boy, the son of his wife
who had died. The ladies' faces lit up wistfully, a slave was given an
order, and presently a large-eyed ghost of a child was brought into the
room.
Instantly all the bracelet-laden arms were held out to the dead woman's
son; and as I watched the weak little body hung with amulets and the
heavy head covered with thin curls pressed against a brocaded bosom, I
was reminded of one of the coral-hung child-Christs of Crivelli,
standing livid and waxen on the knee of a splendidly dressed Madonna.
The poor baby on whom such hopes and ambitions hung stared at us with a
solemn unamused gaze. Would all his pretty mothers, his eyes seemed to
ask, succeed in bringing him to maturity in spite of the parched summers
of the south and the stifling existence of the harem? It was evident
that no precaution had been neglected to protect him from maleficent
influences and the danger that walks by night, for his frail neck and
wrists were hung with innumerable charms: Koranic verses, Soudanese
incantations, and images of forgotten idols in amber and coral and horn
and ambergris. Perhaps they will ward off the powers of evil, and let
him grow up to shoulder the burden of the great Caïds of the south.
FOOTNOTES:
[20] The _msalla_ is used for the performance of religious ceremonies
when the crowd is too great to be contained in the court of the mosque.
VI
GENERAL LYAUTEY'S WORK IN MOROCCO
I
It is not too much to say that General Lyautey has twice saved Morocco
from destruction: once in 1912, when the inertia and double-dealing of
Abd-el-Hafid abandoned the country to the rebellious tribes who had
attacked him in Fez, and the second time in August, 1914, when Germany
declared war on France.
In 1912, in consequence of the threatening attitude of the dissident
tribes and the generally disturbed condition of the country, the Sultan
Abd-el-Hafid had asked France to establish a protectorate in Morocco.
The agreement entered into, called the "Convention of Fez," stipulated
that a French Resident-General should be sent to Morocco with authority
to act as the Sultan's sole representative in treating with the other
powers. The convention was signed in March, 1912, and a few days
afterward an uprising more serious than any that had gone before took
place in Fez. This sudden outbreak was due in part to purely local and
native difficulties, in part to the intrinsic weakness of the French
situation. The French government had imagined that a native army
commanded by French officers could be counted on to support the Makhzen
and maintain order; but Abd-el-Hafid's growing unpopularity had
estranged his own people from him, and the army turned on the government
and on the French. On the 17th of April, 1912, the Moroccan soldiers
massacred their French officers after inflicting horrible tortures on
them; the population of Fez rose against the European civilians, and for
a fortnight the Oued Fez ran red with the blood of harmless French
colonists. It was then that France appointed General Lyautey
Resident-General in Morocco.
When he reached Fez it was besieged by twenty thousand Berbers. Rebel
tribes were flocking in to their support, to the cry of the Holy War;
and the terrified Sultan, who had already announced his intention of
resigning, warned the French troops who were trying to protect him that
unless they guaranteed to get him safely to Rabat he would turn his
influence against them. Two days afterward the Berbers attacked Fez and
broke in at two gates. The French drove them out and forced them back
twenty miles. The outskirts of the city were rapidly fortified, and a
few weeks later General Gouraud, attacking the rebels in the valley of
the Sebou, completely disengaged Fez.
The military danger overcome, General Lyautey began his great task of
civilian administration. His aim was to support and strengthen the
existing government, to reassure and pacify the distrustful and
antagonistic elements, and to assert French authority without irritating
or discouraging native ambitions.
Meanwhile a new Mahdi (Ahmed-el-Hiba) had risen in the south.
Treacherously supported by Abd-el-Hafid, he was proclaimed Sultan at
Tiznit, and acknowledged by the whole of the Souss. In Marrakech, native
unrest had caused the Europeans to fly to the coast, and in the north a
new group of rebellious tribes menaced Fez.
El-Hiba entered Marrakech in August, 1912, and the French consul and
several other French residents were taken prisoner. El-Hiba's forces
then advanced to a point half way between Marrakech and Mazagan, where
General Mangin, at that time a colonial colonel, met and utterly routed
them. The disorder in the south, and the appeals of the native
population for protection against the savage depredations of the new
Mahdist rebels, made it necessary for the French troops to follow up
their success; and in September Marrakech was taken.
Such were the swift and brilliant results of General Lyautey's
intervention. The first difficulties had been quickly overcome; others,
far more complicated, remained. The military occupation of Morocco had
to be followed up by its civil reorganization. By the Franco-German
treaty of 1911 Germany had finally agreed to recognize the French
protectorate in Morocco; but in spite of an apparently explicit
acknowledgment of this right, Germany, as usual, managed to slip into
the contract certain ambiguities of form that were likely to lead to
future trouble.
To obtain even this incomplete treaty France had had to sacrifice part
of her colonies in equatorial Africa; and in addition to the uncertain
relation with Germany there remained the dead weight of the Spanish zone
and the confused international administration of Tangier. The
disastrously misgoverned Spanish zone has always been a centre for
German intrigue and native conspiracies, as well as a permanent obstacle
to the economic development of Morocco.
Such were the problems that General Lyautey found awaiting him. A long
colonial experience, and an unusual combination of military and
administrative talents, prepared him for the almost impossible task of
dealing with them. Swift and decisive when military action is required,
he has above all the long views and endless patience necessary to the
successful colonial governor. The policy of France in Morocco has been
weak and spasmodic; in his hands it became firm and consecutive. A
sympathetic understanding of the native prejudices, and a real affection
for the native character, made him try to build up an administration
which should be, not an application of French ideas to African
conditions, but a development of the best native aspirations. The
difficulties were immense. The attempt to govern as far as possible
through the Great Chiefs was a wise one; but it was hampered by the fact
that these powerful leaders, however loyal to the Protectorate, knew no
methods of administration but those based on extortion. It was necessary
at once to use them and to educate them; and one of General Lyautey's
greatest achievements has been the successful employment of native
ability in the government of the country.
II
The first thing to do was to create a strong frontier against the
dissident tribes of the Blad-es-Siba. To do this it was necessary that
the French should hold the natural defenses of the country, the
foothills of the Little and of the Great Atlas, and the valley of the
Moulouya, which forms the corridor between western Algeria and Morocco.
This was nearly accomplished in 1914 when war broke out.
At that moment the home government cabled the Resident-General to send
all his available troops to France, abandoning the whole of conquered
territory except the coast towns. To do so would have been to give
France's richest colonies[21] outright to Germany at a moment when what
they could supply--meat and wheat--was exactly what the enemy most
needed.
General Lyautey took forty-eight hours to consider. He then decided to
"empty the egg without breaking the shell"; and the reply he sent was
that of a great patriot and a great general. In effect he said: "I will
give you all the troops you ask, but instead of abandoning the interior
of the country I will hold what we have already taken, and fortify and
enlarge our boundaries." No other military document has so nearly that
ring as Marshal Foch's immortal Marne despatch (written only a few weeks
later): "My centre is broken, my right wing is wavering, the situation
is favorable and I am about to attack."
General Lyautey had framed his answer in a moment of patriotic
exaltation, when the soul of every Frenchman was strung up to a
superhuman pitch. But the pledge once made, it had to be carried out;
and even those who most applauded his decision wondered how he would
meet the almost insuperable difficulties it involved. Morocco, when he
was called there, was already honey-combed by German trading interests
and secret political intrigue, and the fruit seemed ready to fall when
the declaration of war shook the bough. The only way to save the colony
for France was to keep its industrial and agricultural life going, and
give to the famous "business as usual" a really justifiable application.
General Lyautey completely succeeded, and the first impression of all
travellers arriving in Morocco two years later was that of suddenly
returning to a world in normal conditions. There was even, so complete
was the illusion, a first moment of almost painful surprise on entering
an active prosperous community, seemingly absorbed in immediate material
interests to the exclusion of all thought of the awful drama that was
being played out in the mother country; and it was only on reflection
that this absorption in the day's task, and this air of smiling faith
in the future, were seen to be Morocco's truest way of serving France.
For not only was France to be supplied with provisions, but the
confidence in her ultimate triumph was at all costs to be kept up in the
native mind. German influence was as deep-seated as a cancer: to cut it
out required the most drastic of operations. And that operation
consisted precisely in letting it be seen that France was strong and
prosperous enough for her colonies to thrive and expand without fear
while she held at bay on her own frontier the most formidable foe the
world has ever seen. Such was the "policy of the smile," consistently
advocated by General Lyautey from the beginning of the war, and of which
he and his household were the first to set the example.
III
The General had said that he would not "break the egg-shell"; but he
knew that this was not enough, and that he must make it appear
unbreakable if he were to retain the confidence of the natives.
How this was achieved, with the aid of the few covering troops left him,
is still almost incomprehensible. To hold the line was virtually
impossible: therefore he pushed it forward. An anonymous writer in
_L'Afrique Française_ (January, 1917) has thus described the
manoeuvre: "General Henrys was instructed to watch for storm-signals
on the front, to stop up the cracks, to strengthen weak points and to
rectify doubtful lines. Thanks to these operations, which kept the
rebels perpetually harassed by always forestalling their own plans, the
occupied territory was enlarged by a succession of strongly fortified
positions." While this was going on in the north, General Lamothe was
extending and strengthening, by means of pacific negotiations, the
influence of the Great Chiefs in the south; and other agents of the
Residency were engaged in watching and thwarting the incessant German
intrigues in the Spanish zone.
General Lyautey is quoted as having said that "a work-shop is worth a
battalion." This precept he managed to put into action even during the
first dark days of 1914, and the interior development of Morocco
proceeded side by side with the strengthening of its defenses. Germany
had long foreseen what an asset northwest Africa would be during the
war; and General Lyautey was determined to prove how right Germany had
been. He did so by getting the government, to whom he had given nearly
all his troops, to give him in exchange an agricultural and industrial
army, or at least enough specialists to form such an army out of the
available material in the country. For every battle fought a road was
made;[22] for every rebel fortress shelled a factory was built, a harbor
developed, or more miles of fallow land ploughed and sown.
But this economic development did not satisfy the Resident. He wished
Morocco to enlarge her commercial relations with France and the other
allied countries, and with this object in view he organized and carried
out with brilliant success a series of exhibitions at Casablanca, Fez
and Rabat. The result of this bold policy surpassed even its creator's
hopes. The Moroccans of the plain are an industrious and money-loving
people, and the sight of these rapidly improvised exhibitions, where the
industrial and artistic products of France and other European countries
were shown in picturesque buildings grouped about flower-filled gardens,
fascinated their imagination and strengthened their confidence in the
country that could find time for such an effort in the midst of a great
war. The Voice of the Bazaar carried the report to the farthest confines
of Moghreb, and one by one the notabilities of the different tribes
arrived, with delegations from Algeria and Tunisia. It was even said
that several rebel chiefs had submitted to the Makhzen in order not to
miss the Exhibition.
At the same time as the "Miracle of the Marne" another, less famous but
almost as vital to France, was being silently performed at the other
end of her dominions. It will not seem an exaggeration to speak of
General Lyautey's achievement during the first year of the war as the
"Miracle of Morocco" if one considers the immense importance of doing
what he did at the moment when he did it. And to understand this it is
only needful to reckon what Germany could have drawn in supplies and men
from a German North Africa, and what would have been the situation of
France during the war with a powerful German colony in control of the
western Mediterranean.
General Lyautey has always been one of the clear-sighted administrators
who understand that the successful government of a foreign country
depends on many little things, and not least on the administrator's
genuine sympathy with the traditions, habits and tastes of the people. A
keen feeling for beauty had prepared him to appreciate all that was most
exquisite and venerable in the Arab art of Morocco, and even in the
first struggle with political and military problems he found time to
gather about him a group of archæologists and artists who were charged
with the inspection and preservation of the national monuments and the
revival of the languishing native art-industries. The old pottery,
jewelry, metal-work, rugs and embroideries of the different regions were
carefully collected and classified; schools of decorative art were
founded, skilled artisans sought out, and every effort was made to urge
European residents to follow native models and use native artisans in
building and furnishing.
At the various Exhibitions much space was allotted to these revived
industries, and the matting of Salé, the rugs of Rabat, the embroideries
of Fez and Marrakech have already found a ready market in France,
besides awakening in the educated class of colonists an appreciation of
the old buildings and the old arts of the country that will be its
surest safeguard against the destructive effects of colonial expansion.
It is only necessary to see the havoc wrought in Tunisia and Algeria by
the heavy hand of the colonial government to know what General Lyautey
has achieved in saving Morocco from this form of destruction, also.
All this has been accomplished by the Resident-General during five years
of unexampled and incessant difficulty; and probably the true
explanation of the miracle is that which he himself gives when he says,
with the quiet smile that typifies his Moroccan war-policy: "It was easy
to do because I loved the people."
THE WORK OF THE FRENCH PROTECTORATE, 1912-1918
PORTS
Owing to the fact that the neglected and roadless Spanish zone
intervened between the French possessions and Tangier, which is the
natural port of Morocco, one of the first pre-occupations of General
Lyautey was to make ports along the inhospitable Atlantic coast, where
there are no natural harbours.
Since 1912, in spite of the immense cost and the difficulty of obtaining
labour, the following has been done:
_Casablanca._ A jetty 1900 metres long has been planned: 824 metres
finished December, 1917.
Small jetty begun 1916, finished 1917: length 330 metres. Small harbour
thus created shelters small boats (150 tons) in all weathers.
Quays 747 metres long already finished.
16 steam-cranes working.
Warehouses and depots covering 41,985 square metres completed.
_Rabat._ Work completed December, 1917.
A quay 200 metres long, to which boats with a draught of three metres
can tie up.
Two groups of warehouses, steam-cranes, etc., covering 22,600 square
metres.
A quay 100 metres long on the Salé side of the river.
_Kenitra._ The port of Kenitra is at the mouth of the Sebou River, and
is capable of becoming a good river port.
The work up to December, 1917, comprises:
A channel 100 metres long and three metres deep, cut through the bar of
the Sebou.
Jetties built on each side of the channel.
Quay 100 metres long.
Building of sheds, depots, warehouses, steam-cranes, etc.
At the ports of Fedalah, Mazagan, Safi, Mogador and Agadir similar plans
are in course of execution.
COMMERCE
COMPARATIVE TABLES
1912 1918
Total Commerce Total Commerce
Fcs. 177,737,723 Fcs. 386,238,618
Exports Exports
Fcs. 67,080,383 Fcs. 116,148,081
ROADS BUILT
National roads 2,074 kilometres
Secondary roads 569 "
RAILWAYS BUILT
622 kilometres
LAND CULTIVATED
1915 1918
Approximate area Approximate area
21,165.17 hectares 1,681,308.03 hectares
JUSTICE
1. Creation of French courts for French nationals and those under French
protection. These take cognizance of civil cases where both parties, or
even one, are amenable to French jurisdiction.
2. Moroccan law is Moslem, and administered by Moslem magistrates.
Private law, including that of inheritance, is based on the Koran. The
Sultan has maintained the principle whereby real property and
administrative cases fall under native law. These courts are as far as
possible supervised and controlled by the establishment of a Cherifian
Ministry of Justice to which the native Judges are responsible. Special
care is taken to prevent the alienation of property held collectively,
or any similar transactions likely to produce political and economic
disturbances.
3. Criminal jurisdiction is delegated to Pashas and Cadis by the Sultan,
except of offenses committed against, or in conjunction with, French
nationals and those under French protection. Such cases come before the
tribunals of the French Protectorate.
EDUCATION
The object of the Protectorate has been, on the one hand, to give to the
children of French colonists in Morocco the same education as they would
have received at elementary and secondary schools in France; on the
other, to provide the indigenous population with a system of education
that shall give to the young Moroccans an adequate commercial or manual
training, or prepare them for administrative posts, but without
interfering with their native customs or beliefs.
Before 1912 there existed in Morocco only a few small schools supported
by the French Legation at Tangier and by the Alliance Française, and a
group of Hebrew schools in the Mellahs, maintained by the Universal
Israelite Alliance.
1912. Total number of schools 37
1918. " " " " 191
1912. Total number of pupils 3006
1918. " " " " 21,520
1912. Total number of teachers 61
1918. " " " " 668
In addition to the French and indigenous schools, sewing-schools have
been formed for the native girls and have been exceptionally successful.
Moslem colleges have been founded at Rabat and Fez in order to
supplement the native education of young Mahometans of the upper
classes, who intend to take up wholesale business or banking, or prepare
for political, judicial or administrative posts under the Sultan's
government. The course lasts four years and comprises: Arabic, French,
mathematics, history, geography, religious (Mahometan) instruction, and
the law of the Koran.
The "Ecole Supérieure de la langue arabe et des dialectes berbères" at
Rabat receives European and Moroccan students. The courses are: Arabic,
the Berber dialects, Arab literature, ethnography, administrative
Moroccan law, Moslem law, Berber customary law.
MEDICAL AID
The Protectorate has established 113 medical centres for the native
population, ranging from simple dispensaries and small native
infirmaries to the important hospitals of Rabat, Fez, Meknez, Marrakech,
and Casablanca.
Mobile sanitary formations supplied with light motor ambulances travel
about the country, vaccinating, making tours of sanitary inspection,
investigating infected areas, and giving general hygienic education
throughout the remoter regions.
Native patients treated in 1916 over 900,000
" " " " 1917 " 1,220,800
Night-shelters in towns. Every town is provided with a shelter for the
indigent wayfarers so numerous in Morocco. These shelters are used as
disinfection centres, from which suspicious cases are sent to
quarantine camp at the gates of the towns.
_Central Laboratory at Rabat._ This is a kind of Pasteur Institute. In
1917, 210,000 persons were vaccinated throughout the country and 356
patients treated at the Laboratory for rabies.
_Clinics for venereal diseases_ have been established at Casablanca,
Fez, Rabat, and Marrakech.
More than 15,000 cases were treated in 1917.
_Ophthalmic clinics_ in the same cities gave in 1917, 44,600
consultations.
_Radiotherapy._ Clinics have been opened at Fez and Rabat for the
treatment of skin diseases of the head, from which the native children
habitually suffer.
The French Department of Health distributes annually immense quantities
of quinine in the malarial districts.
Madame Lyautey's private charities comprise admirably administered
child-welfare centres in the principal cities, with dispensaries for the
native mothers and children.
FOOTNOTES:
[21] The loss of Morocco would inevitably have been followed by that of
the whole of French North Africa.
[22] During the first year of the war roads were built in Morocco by
German prisoners; and it was because Germany was so thoroughly aware of
the economic value of the country, and so anxious not to have her
prestige diminished, that she immediately protested, on the absurd plea
of the unwholesomeness of the climate, and threatened reprisals unless
the prisoners were withdrawn.
VII
A SKETCH OF MOROCCAN HISTORY
NOTE.--In the chapters on Moroccan history and art I have tried to set
down a slight and superficial outline of a large and confused subject.
In extenuation of this summary attempt I hasten to explain that its
chief merit is its lack of originality.
Its facts are chiefly drawn from the books mentioned in the short
bibliography at the end of the volume; in addition to which I am deeply
indebted for information given on the spot to the group of remarkable
specialists attached to the French administration, and to the cultivated
and cordial French officials, military and civilian, who, at each stage
of my rapid journey, did their best to answer my questions and open my
eyes.
I
THE BERBERS
In the briefest survey of the Moroccan past account must first of all be
taken of the factor which, from the beginning of recorded events, has
conditioned the whole history of North Africa: the existence, from the
Sahara to the Mediterranean, of a mysterious irreducible indigenous race
with which every successive foreign rule, from Carthage to France, has
had to reckon, and which has but imperfectly and partially assimilated
the language, the religion, and the culture that successive
civilizations have tried to impose upon it.
This race, the race of Berbers, has never, modern explorers tell us,
become really Islamite, any more than it ever really became Phenician,
Roman or Vandal. It has imposed its habits while it appeared to adopt
those of its invaders, and has perpetually represented, outside the
Ismalitic and Hispano-Arabic circle of the Makhzen, the vast tormenting
element of the dissident, the rebellious, the unsubdued tribes of the
Blad-es-Siba.
Who were these indigenous tribes with whom the Phenicians, when they
founded their first counting-houses on the north and west coast of
Africa, exchanged stuffs and pottery and arms for ivory,
ostrich-feathers and slaves?
Historians frankly say they do not know. All sorts of material obstacles
have hitherto hampered the study of Berber origins; but it seems clear
that from the earliest historic times they were a mixed race, and the
ethnologist who attempts to define them is faced by the same problem as
the historian of modern America who should try to find the racial
definition of an "American." For centuries, for ages, North Africa has
been what America now is: the clearing-house of the world. When at
length it occurred to the explorer that the natives of North Africa were
not all Arabs or Moors, he was bewildered by the many vistas of all they
were or might be: so many and tangled were the threads leading up to
them, so interwoven was their pre-Islamite culture with worn-out shreds
of older and richer societies.
M. Saladin, in his "Manuel d'Architecture Musulmane," after attempting
to unravel the influences which went to the making of the mosque of
Kairouan, the walls of Marrakech, the Medersas of Fez--influences that
lead him back to Chaldæan branch-huts, to the walls of Babylon and the
embroideries of Coptic Egypt--somewhat despairingly sums up the result:
"The principal elements contributed to Moslem art by the styles
preceding it may be thus enumerated: from India, floral ornament; from
Persia, the structural principles of the Acheminedes, and the Sassanian
vault. Mesopotamia contributes a system of vaulting, incised ornament,
and proportion; the Copts, ornamental detail in general; Egypt, mass and
unbroken wall-spaces; Spain, construction and Romano-Iberian ornament;
Africa, decorative detail and Romano-Berber traditions (with Byzantine
influences in Persia); Asia Minor, a mixture of Byzantine and Persian
characteristics."
As with the art of North Africa, so with its supposedly indigenous
population. The Berber dialects extend from the Lybian desert to
Senegal. Their language was probably related to Coptic, itself related
to the ancient Egyptian and the non-Semitic dialects of Abyssinia and
Nubia. Yet philologists have discovered what appears to be a far-off
link between the Berber and Semitic languages, and the Chleuhs of the
Draa and the Souss, with their tall slim Egyptian-looking bodies and
hooked noses, may have a strain of Semitic blood. M. Augustin Bernard,
in speaking of the natives of North Africa, ends, much on the same note
as M. Saladin in speaking of Moslem art: "In their blood are the
sediments of many races, Phenician, Punic, Egyptian and Arab."
They were not, like the Arabs, wholly nomadic; but the tent, the flock,
the tribe always entered into their conception of life. M. Augustin
Bernard has pointed out that, in North Africa, the sedentary and nomadic
habit do not imply a permanent difference, but rather a temporary one of
situation and opportunity. The sedentary Berbers are nomadic in certain
conditions; and from the earliest times the invading nomad Berbers
tended to become sedentary when they reached the rich plains north of
the Atlas. But when they built cities it was as their ancestors and
their neighbours pitched tents; and they destroyed or abandoned them as
lightly as their desert forbears packed their camel-bags and moved to
new pastures. Everywhere behind the bristling walls and rock-clamped
towers of old Morocco lurks the shadowy spirit of instability. Every new
Sultan builds himself a new house and lets his predecessors' palaces
fall into decay; and as with the Sultan so with his vassals and
officials. Change is the rule in this apparently unchanged civilization,
where "nought may abide but Mutability."
II
PHENICIANS, ROMANS AND VANDALS
Far to the south of the Anti-Atlas, in the yellow deserts that lead to
Timbuctoo, live the wild Touaregs, the Veiled Men of the south, who ride
to war with their faces covered by linen masks.
These Veiled Men are Berbers; but their alphabet is composed of Lybian
characters, and these are closely related to the signs engraved on
certain vases of the Nile valley that are probably six thousand years
old. Moreover, among the rock-cut images of the African desert is the
likeness of Theban Ammon crowned with the solar disk between serpents;
and the old Berber religion, with its sun and animal worship, has many
points of resemblance with Egyptian beliefs. All this implies trade
contacts far below the horizon of history, and obscure comings and
goings of restless throngs across incredible distances long before the
Phenicians planted their first trading posts on the north African coast
about 1200 B. C.
Five hundred years before Christ, Carthage sent one of her admirals on a
voyage of colonization beyond the Pillars of Hercules. Hannon set out
with sixty fifty-oared galleys carrying thirty thousand people. Some of
them settled at Mehedyia, at the mouth of the Sebou, where Phenician
remains have been found; and apparently the exploration was pushed as
far south as the coast of Guinea, for the inscription recording it
relates that Hannon beheld elephants, hairy men and "savages called
gorillas." At any rate, Carthage founded stable colonies at Melilla,
Larache, Salé and Casablanca.
Then came the Romans, who carried on the business, set up one of their
easy tolerant protectorates over "Tingitanian Mauretania,"[23] and built
one important military outpost, Volubilis in the Zerhoun, which a series
of minor defenses probably connected with Salé on the west coast, thus
guarding the Roman province against the unconquered Berbers to the
south.
Tingitanian Mauretania was one of the numerous African granaries of
Rome. She also supplied the Imperial armies with their famous African
cavalry; and among minor articles of exportation were guinea-hens,
snails, honey, euphorbia, wild beasts, horses and pearls. The Roman
dominion ceased at the line drawn between Volubilis and Salé. There was
no interest in pushing farther south, since the ivory and slave trade
with the Soudan was carried on by way of Tripoli. But the spirit of
enterprise never slept in the race, and Pliny records the journey of a
Roman general--Suetonius Paulinus--who appears to have crossed the
Atlas, probably by the pass of Tizi-n-Telremt, which is even now so
beset with difficulties that access by land to the Souss will remain an
arduous undertaking until the way by Imintanout is safe for European
travel.
The Vandals swept away the Romans in the fifth century. The Lower Empire
restored a brief period of civilization; but its authority finally
dwindled to the half-legendary rule of Count Julian, shut up within his
walls of Ceuta. Then Europe vanished from the shores of Africa; and
though Christianity lingered here and there in vague Donatist colonies,
and in the names of Roman bishoprics, its last faint hold went down in
the eighth century before the irresistible cry: "There is no God but
Allah!"
III
THE ARAB CONQUEST
The first Arab invasion of Morocco is said to have reached the Atlantic
coast; but it left no lasting traces, and the real Islamisation of
Barbary did not happen till near the end of the eighth century, when a
descendant of Ali, driven from Mesopotamia by the Caliphate, reached the
mountains above Volubilis and there founded an empire. The Berbers,
though indifferent in religious matters, had always, from a spirit of
independence, tended to heresy and schism. Under the rule of Christian
Rome they had been Donatists, as M. Bernard puts it, "out of opposition
to the Empire"; and so, out of opposition to the Caliphate, they took up
the cause of one Moslem schismatic after another. Their great popular
movements have always had a religious basis, or perhaps it would be
truer to say, a religious pretext; for they have been in reality the
partly moral, partly envious revolt of hungry and ascetic warrior tribes
against the fatness and corruption of the "cities of the plain."
Idriss I became the first national saint and ruler of Morocco. His rule
extended throughout northern Morocco, and his son, Idriss II, attacking
a Berber tribe on the banks of the Oued Fez, routed them, took
possession of their oasis and founded the city of Fez. Thither came
schismatic refugees from Kairouan and Moors from Andalusia. The Islamite
Empire of Morocco was founded, and Idriss II has become the legendary
ancestor of all its subsequent rulers.
The Idrissite rule is a welter of obscure struggles between rapidly
melting groups of adherents. Its chief features are: the founding of
Moulay Idriss and Fez, and the building of the mosques of El Andalous
and Kairouiyin at Fez for the two groups of refugees from Tunisia and
Spain. Meanwhile the Caliphate of Cordova had reached the height of its
power, while that of the Fatimites extended from the Nile to western
Morocco, and the little Idrissite empire, pulverized under the weight of
these expanding powers, became once more a dust of disintegrated tribes.
It was only in the eleventh century that the dust again conglomerated.
Two Arab tribes from the desert of the Hedjaz, suddenly driven westward
by the Fatimites, entered Morocco, not with a small military expedition,
as the Arabs had hitherto done, but with a horde of emigrants reckoned
as high as 200,000 families; and this first colonizing expedition was
doubtless succeeded by others.
To strengthen their hold in Morocco the Arab colonists embraced the
dynastic feuds of the Berbers. They inaugurated a period of general
havoc which destroyed what little prosperity had survived the break-up
of the Idrissite rule, and many Berber tribes took refuge in the
mountains; but others remained and were merged with the invaders,
reforming into new tribes of mixed Berber and Arab blood. This invasion
was almost purely destructive; it marks one of the most desolate periods
in the progress of the "wasteful Empire" of Moghreb.
IV
ALMORAVIDS AND ALMOHADS
While the Hilalian Arabs were conquering and destroying northern Morocco
another but more fruitful invasion was upon her from the south. The
Almoravids, one of the tribes of Veiled Men of the south, driven by the
usual mixture of religious zeal and lust of booty, set out to invade the
rich black kingdoms north of the Sahara. Thence they crossed the Atlas
under their great chief, Youssef-ben-Tachfin, and founded the city of
Marrakech in 1062. From Marrakech they advanced on Idrissite Fez and the
valley of the Moulouya. Fez rose against her conquerors, and Youssef
put all the male inhabitants to death. By 1084 he was master of Tangier
and the Rif, and his rule stretched as far west as Tlemcen, Oran and
finally Algiers.
His ambition drove him across the straits to Spain, where he conquered
one Moslem prince after another and wiped out the luxurious civilization
of Moorish Andalusia. In 1086, at Zallarca, Youssef gave battle to
Alphonso VI of Castile and Leon. The Almoravid army was a strange rabble
of Arabs, Berbers, blacks, wild tribes of the Sahara and Christian
mercenaries. They conquered the Spanish forces, and Youssef left to his
successors an empire extending from the Ebro to Senegal and from the
Atlantic coast of Africa to the borders of Tunisia. But the empire fell
to pieces of its own weight, leaving little record of its brief and
stormy existence. While Youssef was routing the forces of Christianity
at Zallarca in Spain, another schismatic tribe of his own people was
detaching Marrakech and the south from his rule.
The leader of the new invasion was a Mahdi, one of the numerous Saviours
of the World who have carried death and destruction throughout Islam.
His name was Ibn-Toumert, and he had travelled in Egypt, Syria and
Spain, and made the pilgrimage to Mecca. Preaching the doctrine of a
purified monotheism, he called his followers the Almohads or Unitarians,
to distinguish them from the polytheistic Almoravids, whose heresies he
denounced. He fortified the city of Tinmel in the Souss, and built there
a mosque of which the ruins still exist. When he died, in 1128, he
designated as his successor Abd-el-Moumen, the son of a potter, who had
been his disciple.
Abd-el-Moumen carried on the campaign against the Almoravids. He fought
them not only in Morocco but in Spain, taking Cadiz, Cordova, Granada as
well as Tlemcen and Fez. In 1152 his African dominion reached from
Tripoli to the Souss, and he had formed a disciplined army in which
Christian mercenaries from France and Spain fought side by side with
Berbers and Soudanese. This great captain was also a great
administrator, and under his rule Africa was surveyed from the Souss to
Barka, the country was policed, agriculture was protected, and the
caravans journeyed safely over the trade-routes.
Abd-el-Moumen died in 1163 and was followed by his son, who, though he
suffered reverses in Spain, was also a great ruler. He died in 1184, and
his son, Yacoub-el-Mansour, avenged his father's ill-success in Spain by
the great victory of Alarcos and the conquest of Madrid.
Yacoub-el-Mansour was the greatest of Moroccan Sultans. So far did his
fame extend that the illustrious Saladin sent him presents and asked the
help of his fleet. He was a builder as well as a fighter, and the
noblest period of Arab art in Morocco and Spain coincides with his
reign.
After his death, the Almohad empire followed the downward curve to which
all Oriental rule seems destined. In Spain, the Berber forces were
beaten in the great Christian victory of Las-Navas-de Tolosa; and in
Morocco itself the first stirrings of the Beni-Merins (a new tribe from
the Sahara) were preparing the way for a new dynasty.
V
THE MERINIDS
The Beni-Merins or Merinids were nomads who ranged the desert between
Biskra and the Tafilelt. It was not a religious upheaval that drove them
to the conquest of Morocco. The demoralized Almohads called them in as
mercenaries to defend their crumbling empire; and the Merinids came,
drove out the Almohads, and replaced them.
They took Fez, Meknez, Salé, Rabat and Sidjilmassa in the Tafilelt; and
their second Sultan, Abou-Youssef, built New Fez (Eldjid) on the height
above the old Idrissite city. The Merinids renewed the struggle with the
Sultan of Tlemcen, and carried the Holy War once more into Spain. The
conflict with Tlemcen was long and unsuccessful, and one of the Merinid
Sultans died assassinated under its walls. In the fourteenth century the
Sultan Abou Hassan tried to piece together the scattered bits of the
Almohad empire. Tlemcen was finally taken, and the whole of Algeria
annexed. But in the plain of Kairouan, in Tunisia, Abou Hassan was
defeated by the Arabs. Meanwhile one of his brothers had headed a revolt
in Morocco, and the princes of Tlemcen won back their ancient kingdom.
Constantine and Bougie rebelled in turn, and the kingdom of Abou Hassan
vanished like a mirage. His successors struggled vainly to control
their vassals in Morocco, and to keep their possessions beyond its
borders. Before the end of the fourteenth century Morocco from end to
end was a chaos of antagonistic tribes, owning no allegiance, abiding by
no laws. The last of the Merinids, divided, diminished, bound by
humiliating treaties with Christian Spain, kept up a semblance of
sovereignty at Fez and Marrakech, at war with one another and with their
neighbours; and Spain and Portugal seized this moment of internal
dissolution to drive them from Spain, and carry the war into Morocco
itself.
The short and stormy passage of the Beni-Merins seems hardly to leave
room for the development of the humaner qualities; yet the flowering of
Moroccan art and culture coincided with those tumultuous years, and it
was under the Merinid Sultans that Fez became the centre of Moroccan
learning and industry, a kind of Oxford with Birmingham annexed.
VI
THE SAADIANS
Meanwhile, behind all the Berber turmoil a secret work of religious
propaganda was going on. The Arab element had been crushed but not
extirpated. The crude idolatrous wealth-loving Berbers apparently
dominated; but whenever there was a new uprising or a new invasion it
was based on the religious discontent perpetually stirred up by
Mahometan agents. The longing for a Mahdi, a Saviour, the craving for
purification combined with an opportunity to murder and rob, always gave
the Moslem apostle a ready opening; and the downfall of the Merinids was
the result of a long series of religious movements to which the European
invasion gave an object and a war-cry.
The Saadians were Cherifian Arabs, newcomers from Arabia, to whom the
lax Berber paganism was abhorrent. They preached a return to the creed
of Mahomet, and proclaimed the Holy War against the hated Portuguese,
who had set up fortified posts all along the west coast of Morocco.
It is a mistake to suppose that hatred of the Christian has always
existed among the North African Moslems. The earlier dynasties, and
especially the great Almohad Sultans, were on friendly terms with the
Catholic powers of Europe, and in the thirteenth century a treaty
assured to Christians in Africa full religious liberty, excepting only
the right to preach their doctrine in public places. There was a
Catholic diocese at Fez, and afterward at Marrakech under Gregory IX,
and there is a letter of the Pope thanking the "Miromilan" (the Emir El
Moumenin) for his kindness to the Bishop and the friars living in his
dominions. Another Bishop was recommended by Innocent IV to the Sultan
of Morocco; the Pope even asked that certain strongholds should be
assigned to the Christians in Morocco as places of refuge in times of
disturbance. But the best proof of the friendly relations between
Christians and infidels is the fact that the Christian armies which
helped the Sultans of Morocco to defeat Spain and subjugate Algeria and
Tunisia were not composed of "renegadoes" or captives, as is generally
supposed, but of Christian mercenaries, French and English, led by
knights and nobles, and fighting for the Sultan of Morocco exactly as
they would have fought for the Duke of Burgundy, the Count of Flanders,
or any other Prince who offered high pay and held out the hope of rich
spoils. Any one who has read "Villehardouin" and "Joinville" will own
that there is not much to choose between the motives animating these
noble freebooters and those which caused the Crusaders to loot
Constantinople "on the way" to the Holy Sepulchre. War in those days was
regarded as a lucrative and legitimate form of business, exactly as it
was when the earlier heroes started out to take the rich robber-town of
Troy.
The Berbers have never been religious fanatics, and the Vicomte de
Foucauld, when he made his great journey of exploration in the Atlas in
1883, remarked that antagonism to the foreigner was always due to the
fear of military espionage and never to religious motives. This equally
applies to the Berbers of the sixteenth century, when the Holy War
against Catholic Spain and Portugal was preached. The real cause of the
sudden deadly hatred of the foreigner was twofold. The Spaniards were
detested because of the ferocious cruelty with which they had driven the
Moors from Spain under Ferdinand and Isabella; and the Portuguese
because of the arrogance and brutality of their military colonists in
the fortified trading stations of the west coast. And both were feared
as possible conquerors and overlords.
There was a third incentive also: the Moroccans, dealing in black slaves
for the European market, had discovered the value of white slaves in
Moslem markets. The Sultan had his fleet, and each coast-town its
powerful pirate vessels, and from pirate-nests like Salé and Tangier the
raiders continued, till well on into the first half of the nineteenth
century, to seize European ships and carry their passengers to the
slave-markets of Fez and Marrakech.[24] The miseries endured by these
captives, and so poignantly described in John Windus's travels, and in
the "Naufrage du Brick Sophie" by Charles Cochelet,[25] show how savage
the feeling against the foreigner had become.
With the advent of the Cherifian dynasties, which coincided with this
religious reform, and was in fact brought about by it, Morocco became a
closed country, as fiercely guarded as Japan against European
penetration. Cut off from civilizing influences, the Moslems isolated
themselves in a lonely fanaticism, far more racial than religious, and
the history of the country from the fall of the Merinids till the French
annexation is mainly a dull tale of tribal warfare.
The religious movement of the sixteenth century was led and fed by
zealots from the Sahara. One of them took possession of Rabat and
Azemmour, and preached the Holy War; other "feudal fiefs" (as M.
Augustin Bernard has well called them) were founded at Tameslout, Ilegh,
Tamgrout: the tombs of the _marabouts_ who led these revolts are
scattered all along the west coast, and are still objects of popular
veneration. The unorthodox saint worship which marks Moroccan Moslemism,
and is commemorated by the countless white _koubbas_ throughout the
country, grew up chiefly at the time of the religious revival under the
Saadian dynasty, and almost all the "Moulays" and "Sidis" venerated
between Tangier and the Atlas were warrior monks who issued forth from
their fortified _Zaouïas_ to drive the Christians out of Africa.
The Saadians were probably rather embarrassed by these fanatics, whom
they found useful to oppose to the Merinids, but troublesome where their
own plans were concerned. They were ambitious and luxury-loving princes,
who invaded the wealthy kingdom of the Soudan, conquered the Sultan of
Timbuctoo, and came back laden with slaves and gold to embellish
Marrakech and spend their treasure in the usual demoralizing orgies.
Their exquisite tombs at Marrakech commemorate in courtly language the
superhuman virtues of a series of rulers whose debaucheries and vices
were usually cut short by assassination. Finally another austere and
fanatical mountain tribe surged down on them, wiped them out, and ruled
in their stead.
VII
THE HASSANIANS
The new rulers came from the Tafilelt, which has always been a
troublesome corner of Morocco. The first two Hassanian Sultans were the
usual tribal chiefs bent on taking advantage of Saadian misrule to loot
and conquer. But the third was the great Moulay-Ismaël, the tale of
whose long and triumphant rule (1672 to 1727) has already been told in
the chapter on Meknez. This savage and enlightened old man once more
drew order out of anarchy, and left, when he died, an organized and
administered empire, as well as a progeny of seven hundred sons and
unnumbered daughters.[26]
The empire fell apart as usual, and no less quickly than usual, under
his successors; and from his death until the strong hand of General
Lyautey took over the direction of affairs the Hassanian rule in Morocco
was little more than a tumult of incoherent ambitions. The successors of
Moulay-Ismaël inherited his blood-lust and his passion for dominion
without his capacity to govern. In 1757 Sidi-Mohammed, one of his sons,
tried to put order into his kingdom, and drove the last Portuguese out
of Morocco; but under his successors the country remained isolated and
stagnant, making spasmodic efforts to defend itself against the
encroachments of European influence, while its rulers wasted their
energy in a policy of double-dealing and dissimulation. Early in the
nineteenth century the government was compelled by the European powers
to suppress piracy and the trade in Christian slaves; and in 1830 the
French conquest of Algeria broke down the wall of isolation behind which
the country was mouldering away by placing a European power on one of
its frontiers.
At first the conquest of Algeria tended to create a link between France
and Morocco. The Dey of Algiers was a Turk, and, therefore, an
hereditary enemy; and Morocco was disposed to favour the power which had
broken Turkish rule in a neighbouring country. But the Sultan could not
help trying to profit by the general disturbance to seize Tlemcen and
raise insurrections in western Algeria; and presently Morocco was
engaged in a Holy War against France. Abd-el-Kader, the Sultan of
Algeria, had taken refuge in Morocco, and the Sultan of Morocco having
furnished him with supplies and munitions, France sent an official
remonstrance. At the same time Marshal Bugeaud landed at Mers-el-Kebir,
and invited the Makhzen to discuss the situation. The offer was accepted
and General Bedeau and the Caïd El Guennaoui met in an open place.
Behind them their respective troops were drawn up, and almost as soon
as the first salutes were exchanged the Caïd declared the negotiations
broken off. The French troops accordingly withdrew to the coast, but
during their retreat they were attacked by the Moroccans. This put an
end to peaceful negotiations, and Tangier was besieged and taken. The
following August Bugeaud brought his troops up from Oudjda, through the
defile that leads from West Algeria, and routed the Moroccans. He wished
to advance on Fez, but international politics interfered, and he was not
allowed to carry out his plans. England looked unfavourably on the
French penetration of Morocco, and it became necessary to conclude peace
at once to prove that France had no territorial ambitions west of
Oudjda.
Meanwhile a great Sultan was once more to appear in the land.
Moulay-el-Hassan, who ruled from 1873 to 1894, was an able and energetic
administrator. He pieced together his broken empire, asserted his
authority in Fez and Marrakech, and fought the rebellious tribes of the
west. In 1877 he asked the French government to send him a permanent
military mission to assist in organizing his army. He planned an
expedition to the Souss, but the want of food and water in the
wilderness traversed by the army caused the most cruel sufferings.
Moulay-el-Hassan had provisions sent by sea, but the weather was too
stormy to allow of a landing on the exposed Atlantic coast, and the
Sultan, who had never seen the sea, was as surprised and indignant as
Canute to find that the waves would not obey him.
His son Abd-el-Aziz was only thirteen years old when he succeeded to the
throne. For six years he remained under the guardianship of Ba-Ahmed,
the black Vizier of Moulay-el-Hassan, who built the fairy palace of the
Bahia at Marrakech, with its mysterious pale green padlocked door
leading down to the secret vaults where his treasure was hidden. When
the all-powerful Ba-Ahmed died the young Sultan was nineteen. He was
intelligent, charming, and fond of the society of Europeans; but he was
indifferent to religious questions and still more to military affairs,
and thus doubly at the mercy of native mistrust and European intrigue.
Some clumsy attempts at fiscal reform, and a too great leaning toward
European habits and associates, roused the animosity of the people, and
of the conservative party in the upper class. The Sultan's eldest
brother, who had been set aside in his favour, was intriguing against
him; the usual Cherifian Pretender was stirring up the factious tribes
in the mountains; and the European powers were attempting, in the
confusion of an ungoverned country, to assert their respective
ascendencies.
The demoralized condition of the country justified these attempts, and
made European interference inevitable. But the powers were jealously
watching each other, and Germany, already coveting the certain
agricultural resources and the conjectured mineral wealth of Morocco,
was above all determined that a French protectorate should not be set
up.
In 1908 another son of Moulay-Hassan, Abd-el-Hafid, was proclaimed
Sultan by the reactionary Islamite faction, who accused Abd-el-Aziz of
having sold his country to the Christians. Abd-el-Aziz was defeated in a
battle near Marrakech, and retired to Tangier, where he still lives in
futile state. Abd-el-Hafid, proclaimed Sultan at Fez, was recognized by
the whole country; but he found himself unable to cope with the factious
tribes (those outside the Blad-el-Makhzen, or _governed country_). These
rebel tribes besieged Fez, and the Sultan had to ask France for aid.
France sent troops to his relief, but as soon as the dissidents were
routed, and he himself was safe, Abd-el-Hafid refused to give the French
army his support, and in 1912, after the horrible massacres of Fez, he
abdicated in favour of another brother, Moulay Youssef, the actual ruler
of Morocco.
FOOTNOTES:
[23] East of the Moulouya, the African protectorate (now west Algeria
and the Sud Oranais) was called the Mauretania of Cæsar.
[24] The Moroccans being very poor seamen, these corsair-vessels were
usually commanded and manned by Christian renegadoes and Turks.
[25] Cochelet was wrecked on the coast near Agadir early in the
nineteenth century and was taken with his fellow-travellers overland to
El-Ksar and Tangier, enduring terrible hardships by the way.
[26] Moulay-Ismaël was a learned theologian and often held religious
discussions with the Fathers of the Order of Mercy and the Trinitarians.
He was scrupulously orthodox in his religious observances, and wrote a
treatise in defense of his faith which he sent to James II of England,
urging him to become a Mahometan. He invented most of the most exquisite
forms of torture which subsequent Sultans have applied to their victims
(see Loti, _Au Maroc_), and was fond of flowers, and extremely simple
and frugal in his personal habits.
VIII
NOTE ON MOROCCAN ARCHITECTURE
I
M. H. Saladin, whose "Manual of Moslem Architecture" was published in
1907, ends his chapter on Morocco with the words: "It is especially
urgent that we should know, and penetrate into, Morocco as soon as
possible, in order to study its monuments. It is the only country but
Persia where Moslem art actually survives; and the tradition handed down
to the present day will doubtless clear up many things."
M. Saladin's wish has been partly realized. Much has been done since
1912, when General Lyautey was appointed Resident-General, to clear up
and classify the history of Moroccan art; but since 1914, though the
work has never been dropped, it has necessarily been much delayed,
especially as regards its published record; and as yet only a few
monographs and articles have summed up some of the interesting
investigations of the last five years.
II
When I was in Marrakech word was sent to Captain de S., who was with me,
that a Caïd of the Atlas, whose prisoner he had been several years
before, had himself been taken by the Pasha's troops, and was in
Marrakech. Captain de S. was asked to identify several rifles which his
old enemy had taken from him, and on receiving them found that, in the
interval, they had been elaborately ornamented with the Arab niello work
of which the tradition goes back to Damascus.
This little incident is a good example of the degree to which the
mediæval tradition alluded to by M. Saladin has survived in Moroccan
life. Nowhere else in the world, except among the moribund
fresco-painters of the Greek monasteries, has a formula of art persisted
from the seventh or eighth century to the present day; and in Morocco
the formula is not the mechanical expression of a petrified theology but
the setting of the life of a people who have gone on wearing the same
clothes, observing the same customs, believing in the same fetiches, and
using the same saddles, ploughs, looms, and dye-stuffs as in the days
when the foundations of the first mosque of El Kairouiyin were laid.
[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_
Marrakech--a street fountain]
The origin of this tradition is confused and obscure. The Arabs have
never been creative artists, nor are the Berbers known to have been so.
As investigations proceed in Syria and Mesopotamia it seems more and
more probable that the sources of inspiration of pre-Moslem art in North
Africa are to be found in Egypt, Persia, and India. Each new
investigation pushes these sources farther back and farther east; but it
is not of much use to retrace these ancient vestiges, since Moroccan art
has, so far, nothing to show of pre-Islamite art, save what is purely
Phenician or Roman.
In any case, however, it is not in Morocco that the clue to Moroccan art
is to be sought; though interesting hints and mysterious reminiscences
will doubtless be found in such places as Tinmel, in the gorges of the
Atlas, where a ruined mosque of the earliest Almohad period has been
photographed by M. Doutté, and in the curious Algerian towns of Sedrata
and the Kalaa of the Beni Hammads. Both of these latter towns were rich
and prosperous communities in the tenth century and both were destroyed
in the eleventh, so that they survive as mediæval Pompeiis of a quite
exceptional interest, since their architecture appears to have been
almost unaffected by classic or Byzantine influences.
Traces of a very old indigenous art are found in the designs on the
modern white and black Berber pottery; but this work, specimens of which
are to be seen in the Oriental Department of the Louvre, seems to go
back, by way of Central America, Greece (sixth century B. C.) and Susa
(twelfth century B. C.), to the far-off period before the streams of
human invention had divided, and when the same loops and ripples and
spirals formed on the flowing surface of every current.
It is a disputed question whether Spanish influence was foremost in
developing the peculiarly Moroccan art of the earliest Moslem period, or
whether European influences came by way of Syria and Palestine, and
afterward met and were crossed with those of Moorish Spain. Probably
both things happened, since the Almoravids were in Spain; and no doubt
the currents met and mingled. At any rate, Byzantine, Greece, and the
Palestine and Syria of the Crusaders, contributed as much as Rome and
Greece to the formation of that peculiar Moslem art which, all the way
from India to the Pillars of Hercules, built itself, with minor
variations, out of the same elements.
Arab conquerors always destroy as much as they can of the work of their
predecessors, and nothing remains, as far as is known, of Almoravid
architecture in Morocco. But the great Almohad Sultans covered Spain and
Northwest Africa with their monuments, and no later buildings in Africa
equal them in strength and majesty.
It is no doubt because the Almohads built in stone that so much of what
they made survives. The Merinids took to rubble and a soft tufa, and the
Cherifian dynasties built in clay like the Spaniards in South America.
And so seventeenth century Meknez has perished while the Almohad walls
and towers of the tenth century still stand.
The principal old buildings of Morocco are defensive and religious--and
under the latter term the beautiful collegiate houses (the medersas) of
Fez and Salé may fairly be included, since the educational system of
Islam is essentially and fundamentally theological. Of old secular
buildings, palaces or private houses, virtually none are known to
exist; but their plan and decorations may easily be reconstituted from
the early chronicles, and also from the surviving palaces built in the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and even those which the wealthy
nobles of modern Morocco are building to this day.
The whole of civilian Moslem architecture from Persia to Morocco is
based on four unchanging conditions: a hot climate, slavery, polygamy
and the segregation of women. The private house in Mahometan countries
is in fact a fortress, a convent and a temple: a temple of which the god
(as in all ancient religions) frequently descends to visit his
cloistered votaresses. For where slavery and polygamy exist every
house-master is necessarily a god, and the house he inhabits a shrine
built about his divinity.
[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_
Rabat--gate of the Kasbah of the Oudayas]
The first thought of the Moroccan chieftain was always defensive. As
soon as he pitched a camp or founded a city it had to be guarded against
the hungry hordes who encompassed him on every side. Each little centre
of culture and luxury in Moghreb was an islet in a sea of perpetual
storms. The wonder is that, thus incessantly threatened from without and
conspired against from within--with the desert at their doors, and
their slaves on the threshold--these violent men managed to create about
them an atmosphere of luxury and stability that astonished not only the
obsequious native chronicler but travellers and captives from western
Europe.
The truth is, as has been often pointed out, that, even until the end of
the seventeenth century, the refinements of civilization were in many
respects no greater in France and England than in North Africa. North
Africa had long been in more direct communication with the old Empires
of immemorial luxury, and was therefore farther advanced in the arts of
living than the Spain and France of the Dark Ages; and this is why, in a
country that to the average modern European seems as savage as Ashantee,
one finds traces of a refinement of life and taste hardly to be matched
by Carlovingian and early Capetian Europe.
III
The brief Almoravid dynasty left no monuments behind it.
Fez had already been founded by the Idrissites, and its first mosques
(Kairouiyin and Les Andalous) existed. Of the Almoravid Fez and
Marrakech the chroniclers relate great things; but the wild Hilalian
invasion and the subsequent descent of the Almohads from the High Atlas
swept away whatever the first dynasties had created.
The Almohads were mighty builders, and their great monuments are all of
stone. The earliest known example of their architecture which has
survived is the ruined mosque of Tinmel, in the High Atlas, discovered
and photographed by M. Doutté. This mosque was built by the inspired
mystic, Ibn-Toumert, who founded the line. Following him came the great
palace-making Sultans whose walled cities of splendid mosques and towers
have Romanesque qualities of mass and proportion, and, as M. Raymond
Koechlin has pointed out, inevitably recall the "robust simplicity of
the master builders who at the very same moment were beginning in France
the construction of the first Gothic cathedrals and the noblest feudal
castles."
[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_
Fez--Medersa Bouanyana]
In the thirteenth century, with the coming of the Merinids, Moroccan
architecture grew more delicate, more luxurious, and perhaps also more
peculiarly itself. That interaction of Spanish and Arab art which
produced the style known as Moorish reached, on the African side of the
Straits, its greatest completeness in Morocco. It was under the Merinids
that Moorish art grew into full beauty in Spain, and under the Merinids
that Fez rebuilt the mosque Kairouiyin and that of the Andalusians, and
created six of its nine _Medersas_, the most perfect surviving buildings
of that unique moment of sober elegance and dignity.
The Cherifian dynasties brought with them a decline in taste. A crude
desire for immediate effect, and the tendency toward a more barbaric
luxury, resulted in the piling up of frail palaces as impermanent as
tents. Yet a last flower grew from the deformed and dying trunk of the
old Empire. The Saadian Sultan who invaded the Soudan and came back
laden with gold and treasure from the great black city of Timbuctoo
covered Marrakech with hasty monuments of which hardly a trace survives.
But there, in a nettle-grown corner of a ruinous quarter, lay hidden
till yesterday the Chapel of the Tombs: the last emanation of pure
beauty of a mysterious, incomplete, forever retrogressive and yet
forever forward-straining people. The Merinid tombs of Fez have fallen;
but those of their destroyers linger on in precarious grace, like a
flower on the edge of a precipice.
IV
Moroccan architecture, then, is easily divided into four groups: the
fortress, the mosque, the collegiate building and the private house.
[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_
Fez--the praying-chapel in the Medersa el Attarine]
The kernel of the mosque is always the _mihrab_, or niche facing toward
the Kasbah of Mecca, where the _imam_[27] stands to say the prayer. This
arrangement, which enabled as many as possible of the faithful to kneel
facing the _mihrab_, results in a ground-plan necessarily consisting of
long aisles parallel with the wall of the _mihrab_, to which more and
more aisles are added as the number of worshippers grows. Where there
was not space to increase these lateral aisles they were lengthened at
each end. This typical plan is modified in the Moroccan mosques by a
wider transverse space, corresponding with the nave of a Christian
church, and extending across the mosque from the praying niche to the
principal door. To the right of the _mihrab_ is the _minbar_, the carved
pulpit (usually of cedar-wood incrusted with mother-of-pearl and ebony)
from which the Koran is read. In some Algerian and Egyptian mosques (and
at Cordova, for instance) the _mihrab_ is enclosed in a sort of screen
called the _maksoura_; but in Morocco this modification of the simpler
plan was apparently not adopted.
The interior construction of the mosque was no doubt usually affected by
the nearness of Roman or Byzantine ruins. M. Saladin points out that
there seem to be few instances of the use of columns made by native
builders; but it does not therefore follow that all the columns used in
the early mosques were taken from Roman temples or Christian basilicas.
The Arab invaders brought their architects and engineers with them; and
it is very possible that some of the earlier mosques were built by
prisoners or fortune-hunters from Greece or Italy or Spain.
At any rate, the column on which the arcades of the vaulting rests in
the earlier mosques, as at Tunis and Kairouan, and the mosque El
Kairouiyin at Fez, gives way later to the use of piers, foursquare, or
with flanking engaged pilasters as at Algiers and Tlemcen. The exterior
of the mosques, as a rule, is almost entirely hidden by a mushroom
growth of buildings, lanes and covered bazaars; but where the outer
walls have remained disengaged they show, as at Kairouan and Cordova,
great masses of windowless masonry pierced at intervals with majestic
gateways.
Beyond the mosque, and opening into it by many wide doors of beaten
bronze or carved cedar-wood, lies the Court of the Ablutions. The
openings in the façade were multiplied in order that, on great days, the
faithful who were not able to enter the mosque might hear the prayers
and catch a glimpse of the _mihrab_.
In a corner of the courts stands the minaret. It is the structure on
which Moslem art has played the greatest number of variations, cutting
off its angles, building it on a circular or polygonal plan, and
endlessly modifying the pyramids and pendentives by which the
ground-plan of one story passes into that of the next. These problems of
transition, always fascinating to the architect, led in Persia,
Mesopotamia and Egypt to many different compositions and ways of
treatment; but in Morocco the minaret, till modern times, remained
steadfastly square, and proved that no other plan is so beautiful as
this simplest one of all.
Surrounding the Court of the Ablutions are the school-rooms, libraries
and other dependencies, which grew as the Mahometan religion prospered
and Arab culture developed.
The medersa was a farther extension of the mosque: it was the academy
where the Moslem schoolman prepared his theology and the other branches
of strange learning which, to the present day, make up the curriculum of
the Mahometan university. The medersa is an adaptation of the private
house to religious and educational ends; or, if one prefers another
analogy, it is a _fondak_ built above a miniature mosque. The
ground-plan is always the same: in the centre an arcaded court with a
fountain, on one side the long narrow praying-chapel with the _mihrab_,
on the other a class-room with the same ground-plan; and on the next
story a series of cell-like rooms for the students, opening on carved
cedar-wood balconies. This cloistered plan, where all the effect is
reserved for the interior façades about the court, lends itself to a
delicacy of detail that would be inappropriate on a street-front; and
the medersas of Fez are endlessly varied in their fanciful but never
exuberant decoration.
M. Tranchant de Lunel has pointed out (in "France-Maroc") with what a
sure sense of suitability the Merinid architects adapted this decoration
to the uses of the buildings. On the lower floor, under the cloister, is
a revêtement of marble (often alabaster) or of the almost indestructible
ceramic mosaic.[28] On the floor above, massive cedar-wood corbels
ending in monsters of almost Gothic inspiration support the fretted
balconies; and above rise stucco interlacings, placed too high up to be
injured by man, and guarded from the weather by projecting eaves.
[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_
Salé--interior court of the Medersa]
The private house, whether merchant's dwelling or chieftain's palace, is
laid out on the same lines, with the addition of the reserved quarters
for women; and what remains in Spain and Sicily of Moorish secular
architecture shows that, in the Merinid period, the play of ornament
must have been--as was natural--even greater than in the medersas.
The Arab chroniclers paint pictures of Merinid palaces, such as the
House of the Favourite at Cordova, which the soberer modern imagination
refused to accept until the medersas of Fez were revealed, and the old
decorative tradition was shown in the eighteenth century Moroccan
palaces. The descriptions given of the palaces of Fez and of Marrakech
in the preceding articles, which make it unnecessary, in so slight a
note as this, to go again into the detail of their planning and
decoration, will serve to show how gracefully the art of the mosque and
the medersa was lightened and domesticated to suit these cool chambers
and flower-filled courts.
With regard to the immense fortifications that are the most picturesque
and noticeable architectural features of Morocco, the first thing to
strike the traveller is the difficulty of discerning any difference in
the probable date of their construction until certain structural
peculiarities are examined, or the ornamental details of the great
gateways are noted. Thus the Almohad portions of the walls of Fez and
Rabat are built of stone, while later parts are of rubble; and the touch
of European influence in certain gateways of Meknez and Fez at once
situate them in the seventeenth century. But the mediæval outline of
these great piles of masonry, and certain technicalities in their plan,
such as the disposition of the towers, alternating in the inner and
outer walls, continued unchanged throughout the different dynasties; and
this immutability of the Moroccan military architecture enables the
imagination to picture, not only what was the aspect of the fortified
cities which the Greeks built in Palestine and Syria, and the Crusaders
brought back to Europe, but even that of the far-off Assyrio-Chaldæan
strongholds to which the whole fortified architecture of the Middle Ages
in Europe seems to lead back.
[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_
Marrakech--the gate of the Portuguese]
FOOTNOTES:
[27] The "deacon" or elder of the Moslem religion, which has no order of
priests.
[28] These Moroccan mosaics are called _zellijes_.
IX
BOOKS CONSULTED
Afrique Française (L'), Bulletin Mensuel du Comité de l'Afrique
Française. Paris, 21, rue Cassette.
Bernard, Augustin. Le Maroc. Paris, F. Alcan, 1916.
Budgett-Meakin. The Land of the Moors. London, 1902.
Châtelain, L. Recherches archéologiques au Maroc. Volubilis.
(Published by the Military Command in Morocco.)
Les Fouilles de Volubilis. (Extrait du Bulletin Archéologique,
1916.)
Chevrillon, A. Crépuscule d'Islam.
Cochelet, Charles. Le Naufrage du Brick Sophie.
Conférences Marocaines. Paris, Plon-Nourrit.
Doutté, E. En Tribu. Paris, 1914.
Foucauld, Vicomte de. La Reconnaissance au Maroc. Paris, 1888.
France-Maroc. Revue Mensuelle, Paris, 4, rue Chauveau-Lagarde.
Gaillard. Une Ville d'Islam, Fez. Paris, 1909.
Gayet, Al. L'Art Arabe. Paris, 1906.
Houdas, O. Le Maroc de 1631 à 1812. Extrait d'une histoire du Maroc
intitulée "L'Interprète qui s'exprime clairement sur les dynasties
de l'Orient et de l'Occident" par Ezziani. Paris, E. Leroux, 1886.
Koechlin, Raymond. Une Exposition d'Art Marocain. (Gazette des
Beaux-Arts, Juillet-Septembre, 1917.)
Leo Africanus, Description of Africa.
Loti, Pierre. Au Maroc.
Migeon, Gaston. Manuel d'Art Musulman. II. Les Arts Plastiques et
Industriels. Paris, A. Picard et Fils, 1907.
Saladin, H. Manuel d'Art Musulman. I. L'Architecture. Paris, A.
Picard et Fils, 1907.
Segonzac, Marquis de. Voyages au Maroc. Paris, 1903. Au Coeur de
l'Atlas. Paris, 1910.
Tarde, A. de. Les Villes du Maroc: Fez, Marrakech, Rabat. (Journal
de l'Université des Annales, 15 Oct., 1 Nov., 1918.)
Windus. A Journey to Mequinez. London, 1721.
INDEX
Abdallah-ben-Aïssa, 59
Abd-el-Aziz, 256-258
Abd-el-Hafid, 209-211, 258
Abd-el-Kader, 255
Abd-el-Moumen, 30, 243, 244
Abou-el-Abbas ("The Golden"), 152, 153
Abou Hassan, 245, 246
Abou-Youssef, 245
Agdal, olive-yards of the, 139
Ahmed-Baba, 152
Ahmed-el-Hiba, 211, 212
Aïd-el-Kebir, the, 164-170
Aïssaouas, the, of Kairouan, 48
dance of, 52
Algeria, French conquest of, 254-256
Almohads, the, invasion of Morocco by, 243-245
architecture of, 265, 268
Almoravids, the, invasion of Morocco by, 241-243
destruction of architecture of, 265, 268
Andalusian Moors, the, mosque of, 101, 102, 240, 268, 269
Arabs, conquest of Morocco by, 239-241
Architecture, Moroccan, four basic conditions of, 266
four groups of, 270
of the Almohad dynasty, 268
of the Cherifian dynasties, 269
of the Merinid dynasty, 269, 274, 275
the Saadian mausoleum, 155
the collegiate building, 273-275
the fortress, 276
the mosque, 270-273
the private house, 275
Art, Moroccan, sources of influence on, 104, 262-265
disappearance of treasures of, 86, 87
and Moorish art, 269
Ba-Ahmed, builder of the Bahia, 129, 256, 257
Bab F'touh cemetery, at Fez, 102-104
Bahia, the, palace of, at Marrakech, 129-133
apartment of Grand Vizier's Favourite in, 131
Bazaars, of Fez, 91, 107-109
of Marrakech, 135-138
of Salé, 24, 25
Beni-Merins. _See_ Merinids
Berbers, the, attack of, on Fez, 210, 211
origins of, 232
dialects of, 234
nomadic character of, 234, 235
heresy and schisms of, 239
Bernard, M. Augustin, 69, 234, 235, 239, 251
Black Guard, the Sultan's, 164-167
uniform of, 176
Moulay-Ismaël's method of raising, 44, 67-69
Blue Men of the Sahara, the, 112
Bou-Jeloud, palace of, 80, 81, 83
Bugeaud, Marshal, 255
Carthage, African colonies of, 236, 237
Casablanca, exhibitions at, 219
port of, 222, 223
Catholics, in Morocco, 248, 249
Cemetery, El Alou, 17, 18
Bab F'touh, 102-104
Châtelain, M. Louis, 46
Chella, ruins of, 28-30
Cherifian dynasties, the, 247, 251
architecture of, 269
Children, Moroccan,
in the harem, 194
negro, 43, 44, 199-201
training of, for Black Guard, 67-69
Chleuh boys, dance of, 148
Christians, captive, and the building of Meknez, 69, 70, 73
religious liberty to, in Africa, 248, 249
Clocks, in Sultan's harem at Rabat, 172, 173
Cochelet, Charles, his "Naufrage du Brick Sophie," 250
Colleges, at Fez, 97-100, 105-107
at Salé, 19-22, 25, 26
Moslem, 225
architecture of Moroccan, 273-275
Colors, of North African towns, 50
Commerce, Moroccan, 223
Conti, Princesse de, 59
Convention of Fez, the, 209
Courts of Justice, Moroccan, 224
Crowds, Moroccan street, 161, 162
Culture, in North Africa, 104-106, 246, 267
Dance, of Chleuh boys, 148
of the Hamadchas, 48, 49, 51-57
Dawn, in Africa, 37
Djebilets, the, 125
Doutté, M., 264, 268
Dust-storm, at Marrakech, 145-147
Education, in Morocco, 225, 226
Elakhdar, mosque of, 62
El Alou, cemetery of, 17, 18
El Andalous, mosque of, 101, 102, 240, 268, 269
Elbali (Old Fez), 88 _et seq._
harems of, 188-196
Eldjid (New Fez), 77, 80
palaces of, 84-87
founding of, 245
El Kairouiyin, mosque of, 80, 83, 93, 95-100, 240, 263, 268, 269
the praying-hall of, 98
the court of ablutions of, 99, 100
legend of the tortoise of, 97
El-Ksar, 11, 12, 152
El-Mansour, Yacoub, 16, 30-33
Elmansour, palace of, 63
Empress Mother, the, 177, 178
English emissaries, visit of, to Meknez, 71-73
Exhibitions, planned by General Lyautey, 219-221
Ezziani, chronicler of Moulay-Ismaël, 60, 61, 64, 66, 67, 70
Fatimites, the, 240, 241
Fez, the approach to, 77
unchanged character of, 78
ruins of Merinid tombs of, 78, 79
the upper or new, 80
old summer-palace at, 80-83
night in, 82, 116-119
antiquity of, 83
palaces of, 84-87
the inns at, 86, 94, 116, 117
streets of, 88-91
a city of wealth, 90
the merchant of, 90
bazaars of, 91, 92, 107-109
a melancholy city, 92, 109
twilight in, 93
the shrines of, 93
mosque of Moulay Idriss at, 94, 95
mosque of El Kairouiyinat, 95-100
the University of, 97, 100, 101
Medersas of, 99, 105-107, 274
mosque of El Andalous at, 101, 102
Bab F'touh cemetery of, 102-104
the potters of, 103
art and culture of, 104-106, 247
the Mellah of, 113
harems of Old, 188-196
the Convention of, 209
uprising in, 210
attack of Berbers on, 211
exhibitions at, 219
Moslem college at, 225
founding of, 240
Almoravid conquest of, 242
centre of Moroccan learning, 247
Catholic diocese at, 248
massacres at, 258
Fez Elbali, 88 _et seq._, 188-196
Fez Eldjid, 77, 80, 83-87, 245
Fondak Nedjarine, the, at Fez, 94
Fortifications, Moroccan, architecture of, 276
Foucauld, Vicomte de, 110, 249
Franco-German treaty of 1911, 212
French Protectorate in Morocco, 209-222
work of, 222-227
French, conquests in Morocco, 254-256
at Fez, 258
Furniture, disappearance of Merinid, 86, 87
Ghilis, the, 125
Gouraud, General, 211
Hamadch, tomb of, 49, 56
Hamadchas, the, ritual dance of, 48, 49, 51-57
Harem, in old Fez, 188-196
an Imperial, 170-181
in Marrakech, 197-205
in old Rabat, 182-187
Hassan, Sultan, 129, 245, 246, 256
Hassan, tower of, at Rabat, 31, 32
Hassanians, the, rule of, 253-258
Holy War, the, against France, 255,
against Spain and Portugal, 248-250
Hospitals, in Morocco, 226, 227
Houses, Moroccan, architecture of, 266, 275
color of, 50
plan of, 20
rich private, 86, 106
Ibn-Toumert, 243, 268
Idriss I, 94, 239
Idriss II, 61, 80, 83, 94, 240
Idrissite empire, the, 240, 241
Inns, Moroccan, 86, 94, 116, 117
Jews, of Sefrou, 113-116
treatment of North African, 114
Kairouan, the Alïssaouas of, 48, 52
Great Mosque of, 93, 95, 272
Kairouiyin, mosque of. _See_ El Kairouiyin
Kalaa, ruins of, 264
Kenitra, port of, 38, 223
Koechlin, M. Raymond, 268
Koutoubya, tower of the, 127, 128
Lamothe, General, 218
Land, area of cultivated, in Morocco, 224
Louis XIV, and Moulay-Ismaël, 58, 59, 70
Lunel, M. Tranchant de, 106, 274
Lyautey, General, 23, 149, 150
at Sultan's court, 179
appointed Resident-General in Morocco, 210
military occupation of Morocco by, 211, 212
policy of, 213 _et seq._
economic development of Morocco achieved by, 218-222
summary of work of, 222-226
Maclean, Sir Harry, 144
Mamora, forest of, 14
Mangin, General, 212
Mansourah, mosque of, 150
Market, of Marrakech, 144
in Moulay Idriss, 49
of Salé, 26, 27
of Sefrou, 111-113
Marrakech, the road to, 123-126
founders of, 128, 129, 242
tower of the Koutoubya at, 127, 128
palace of the Bahia at, 129-133
the lamp-lighters of, 133
mixed population of, 134
bazaars of, 135-138
the "morocco" workers of, 137
olive-yards of, 139
the Menara of, 139, 140
a holiday of merchants of, 140-142
the Square of the Dead in, 143-145
French administration office at, 144
fruit-market of, 144
dance of Chleuh boys in, 148
Saadian tombs of, 149, 154-158, 252
a harem in, 197-205
taken by the French, 212
Catholic diocese at, 248
Chapel of the Tombs at, 270
Medersa, the, of the Oudayas, 19-22
Attarine, 99
at Fez, 99, 105-107
at Salé, 25, 26
architecture of, 273-275
Mehedyia, Phenician colony of, 38, 237
Meknez, building of, 57-64, 69, 70
the Kasbah of, 62
palaces of, 63
stables of, 63
entrance into, 64
ruins of, 64-66
sunken gardens of, 72
visit of English emissaries to, 71-73
Mellah, of Fez, 113
of Sefrou, 113-116
Menara, the, in the Agdal, 139, 140
Mequinez. _See_ Meknez
Merinids, the, tombs of, at Fez, 78, 79
conquest of Morocco by, 245-247
architecture of, 269, 274, 275
Mirador, the Imperial, 170-181
Moorish art, 269
Mosque, of Elakhador, 62
of El Andalous, 101, 102, 240, 268, 269
of El Kairouiyin, 80, 83, 93-100, 240, 263, 268, 269
of Kairouan, 93
of Mansourah, 150
of Rabat, 32
of Tinmel, 243, 268
of Tunisia, 96
architecture of Moroccan, 270-273
Moulay Hafid, 81
Moulay-el-Hassan, 129, 256
Moulay Idriss I, rule of, 239
tomb of, 94
Moulay Idriss II, tomb of, 61, 80, 83, 94
rule of, 240
Moulay Idriss, Sacred City of, 5, 39, 45-57
Street of the Weavers in, 47
feast of the Hamadchas in, 48-57
market-place of, 49
whiteness of, 50
founding of, 240
Moulay-Ismaël, and Louis XIV, 58, 59, 70
exploits of, 60-62
mausoleum of Moulay Idriss enlarged by, 61
Meknez built by, 62, 63, 69, 70
the Black Guard of, 44, 67-69
description of, 71
palaces of, 72
and English emissaries, 72, 73
death of, 73, 74
rule of, 253
successors of, 254
Moulay Youssef, 180, 181, 258
Nedjarine, fountain and inn of, 94
Night, in Fez, 116-119
Oases, Moroccan, 109, 110
Marrakech, 127 _et seq._
Sefrou, 110 _et seq._
Settat, 124
Oudayas, the, Kasbah of, 16, 17
Medersa of, 19-22
Palaces, Moroccan, the Bahia, 129-133
Bou-Jeloud, 80-83
at Fez, 80-87
at Meknez, 63
of Moulay-Ismaël, 72
Phenicians, the, African explorations of, 236, 237
Pilgrimage to Salé, a, 41
Population, Moroccan, varied elements of, 89, 134
Ports, Moroccan, 222, 223
Portugal, the Holy War against, 248-250
Pottery, Berber, 264
Potters' Field, the, 104
Rabat, 15, 16
Tower of Hassan at, 31, 32
ruins of mosque at, 32
called "Camp of Victory," 33
Sacrifice of the Sheep at, 163 _et seq._
Sultan's harem of, 170-181
visit to a harem in old, 182-187
exhibitions at, 219
port of, 223
Moslem college at, 225
Central Laboratory at, 226
Railways, Moroccan, built by French Protectorate, 224
Rarb, the, 38, 44
Roads, Moroccan, built by French Protectorate, 224
Romans, the, African explorations of, 237, 238
Saadian Sultans, the, history of, 151-153
tombs of, 149, 154-158, 252
rule of, 247-252
Sacrifice of the Sheep, the, 164-170
Saint-Amand, M. de, 58
Saladin, M. H., his "Manual of Moslem Architecture," 233, 261, 271
Salé, first view of, 14
type of untouched Moroccan city, 23, 24
bazaar of, 24, 25
Medersas of, 19-22, 25, 26
market of, 26, 27
colors of, 50
Schools, in Morocco, 225, 226
Sedrata, ruins of, 264
Sefrou, 110-116
market-place of, 111-113
men and women of, 112, 113
Jewish colony of, 113-116
Senegal, 152
Settat, oasis of, 124
Sheep, sacrifice of the, 164-170
Sidi-Mohammed, 254
Slaves, Moroccan, 171, 191, 199-201
trade in white, 250
_Sloughi_, bronze, at Volubilis, 46, 87
Soudan, 152
Spain, the Holy War against, 248-250
Spanish zone, the, German intrigue in, 213, 218
Stables, of Meknez, 63
Stewart, Commodore, 71
Street of the Weavers (Moulay Idriss), 47
Streets, Moroccan, 47, 88-91, 161, 162
Tangier, 3-8
colors of, 50
taken by the French, 255
Tetuan, bronze chandelier of, 87
Timbuctoo, the Sultanate of, 152
Tingitanian Mauretania, 237
Tinmel, ruins of mosque at, 243, 268
Tlemcen, the conflict for, 245, 246
Touaregs, the, 236
Tower, of Hassan, 31, 32
of the Koutoubya, 127, 128
Tunisia, Almohad sanctuary of, 96
Vandals, the, African invasion by, 238
Veiled Men, the, 236, 241
Versailles and Meknez, 58
Villages, "sedentary," 43
Volubilis, ruins of, 44-46
bronze _sloughi_ of, 46, 87
founded by Romans, 237
Wedding, Jewish, procession bringing gifts for, 108
Windus, John, 70-72, 250
Women, Moroccan, dress of, 51, 52
of Sefrou, 112, 113
of the harems, 187-189
in Sultan's harem, 173-175
in harems of Old Fez, 188, 192-194
in harem of Marrakech, 202-204
in harem of Rabat, 184-187
negro, 43, 191
Yacoub-el-Mansour, 16, 30-33, 244
Youssef-ben-Tachfin, 242
* * * * *
_BY EDITH WHARTON_
THE GREATER INCLINATION
THE TOUCHSTONE
CRUCIAL INSTANCES
THE VALLEY OF DECISION
SANCTUARY
THE DESCENT OF MAN
THE HOUSE OF MIRTH
THE FRUIT OF THE TREE
THE HERMIT AND THE WILD WOMAN
TALES OF MEN AND GHOSTS
ETHAN FROME
THE CUSTOM OF THE COUNTRY
XINGU
* * * * *
IN MOROCCO
FIGHTING FRANCE
ITALIAN BACKGROUNDS
A MOTOR FLIGHT THROUGH FRANCE
ARTEMIS TO ACTÆON
THE DECORATION OF HOUSES
_CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS_
TALES OF MEN AND GHOSTS
By Edith Wharton
London
1910
CONTENTS
I _The Bolted Door_
II _His Father’s Son_
III _The Daunt Diana_
IV _The Debt_
V _Full Circle_
VI _The Legend_
VII _The Eyes_
VIII _The Blond Beast_
IX _Afterward_
X _The Letters_
THE BOLTED DOOR
I
HUBERT GRANICE, pacing the length of his pleasant lamp-lit library,
paused to compare his watch with the clock on the chimney-piece.
Three minutes to eight.
In exactly three minutes Mr. Peter Ascham, of the eminent legal firm of
Ascham and Pettilow, would have his punctual hand on the door-bell of
the flat. It was a comfort to reflect that Ascham was so punctual--the
suspense was beginning to make his host nervous. And the sound of the
door-bell would be the beginning of the end--after that there’d be no
going back, by God--no going back!
Granice resumed his pacing. Each time he reached the end of the room
opposite the door he caught his reflection in the Florentine mirror
above the fine old walnut _credence_ he had picked up at Dijon--saw
himself spare, quick-moving, carefully brushed and dressed, but
furrowed, gray about the temples, with a stoop which he corrected by
a spasmodic straightening of the shoulders whenever a glass confronted
him: a tired middle-aged man, baffled, beaten, worn out.
As he summed himself up thus for the third or fourth time the door
opened and he turned with a thrill of relief to greet his guest. But it
was only the man-servant who entered, advancing silently over the mossy
surface of the old Turkey rug.
“Mr. Ascham telephones, sir, to say he’s unexpectedly detained and can’t
be here till eight-thirty.”
Granice made a curt gesture of annoyance. It was becoming harder and
harder for him to control these reflexes. He turned on his heel, tossing
to the servant over his shoulder: “Very good. Put off dinner.”
Down his spine he felt the man’s injured stare. Mr. Granice had always
been so mild-spoken to his people--no doubt the odd change in his manner
had already been noticed and discussed below stairs. And very likely
they suspected the cause. He stood drumming on the writing-table till he
heard the servant go out; then he threw himself into a chair, propping
his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his locked hands.
Another half hour alone with it!
He wondered irritably what could have detained his guest. Some
professional matter, no doubt--the punctilious lawyer would have allowed
nothing less to interfere with a dinner engagement, more especially
since Granice, in his note, had said: “I shall want a little business
chat afterward.”
But what professional matter could have come up at that unprofessional
hour? Perhaps some other soul in misery had called on the lawyer; and,
after all, Granice’s note had given no hint of his own need! No doubt
Ascham thought he merely wanted to make another change in his will.
Since he had come into his little property, ten years earlier, Granice
had been perpetually tinkering with his will.
Suddenly another thought pulled him up, sending a flush to his sallow
temples. He remembered a word he had tossed to the lawyer some six weeks
earlier, at the Century Club. “Yes--my play’s as good as taken. I shall
be calling on you soon to go over the contract. Those theatrical chaps
are so slippery--I won’t trust anybody but you to tie the knot for me!”
That, of course, was what Ascham would think he was wanted for. Granice,
at the idea, broke into an audible laugh--a queer stage-laugh, like
the cackle of a baffled villain in a melodrama. The absurdity, the
unnaturalness of the sound abashed him, and he compressed his lips
angrily. Would he take to soliloquy next?
He lowered his arms and pulled open the upper drawer of the
writing-table. In the right-hand corner lay a thick manuscript, bound
in paper folders, and tied with a string beneath which a letter had been
slipped. Next to the manuscript was a small revolver. Granice stared a
moment at these oddly associated objects; then he took the letter from
under the string and slowly began to open it. He had known he should do
so from the moment his hand touched the drawer. Whenever his eye fell on
that letter some relentless force compelled him to re-read it.
It was dated about four weeks back, under the letter-head of
“The Diversity Theatre.”
“MY DEAR MR. GRANICE:
“I have given the matter my best consideration for the last month,
and it’s no use--the play won’t do. I have talked it over with Miss
Melrose--and you know there isn’t a gamer artist on our stage--and I
regret to tell you she feels just as I do about it. It isn’t the poetry
that scares her--or me either. We both want to do all we can to help
along the poetic drama--we believe the public’s ready for it, and we’re
willing to take a big financial risk in order to be the first to give
them what they want. _But we don’t believe they could be made to
want this._ The fact is, there isn’t enough drama in your play to the
allowance of poetry--the thing drags all through. You’ve got a big idea,
but it’s not out of swaddling clothes.
“If this was your first play I’d say: _Try again_. But it has been
just the same with all the others you’ve shown me. And you remember
the result of ‘The Lee Shore,’ where you carried all the expenses of
production yourself, and we couldn’t fill the theatre for a week. Yet
‘The Lee Shore’ was a modern problem play--much easier to swing than
blank verse. It isn’t as if you hadn’t tried all kinds--”
Granice folded the letter and put it carefully back into the envelope.
Why on earth was he re-reading it, when he knew every phrase in it by
heart, when for a month past he had seen it, night after night, stand
out in letters of flame against the darkness of his sleepless lids?
“_It has been just the same with all the others you’ve shown me._”
That was the way they dismissed ten years of passionate unremitting
work!
“_You remember the result of ‘The Lee Shore.’_”
Good God--as if he were likely to forget it! He re-lived it all now in a
drowning flash: the persistent rejection of the play, his sudden resolve
to put it on at his own cost, to spend ten thousand dollars of his
inheritance on testing his chance of success--the fever of preparation,
the dry-mouthed agony of the “first night,” the flat fall, the stupid
press, his secret rush to Europe to escape the condolence of his
friends!
“_It isn’t as if you hadn’t tried all kinds._”
No--he had tried all kinds: comedy, tragedy, prose and verse, the light
curtain-raiser, the short sharp drama, the bourgeois-realistic and the
lyrical-romantic--finally deciding that he would no longer “prostitute
his talent” to win popularity, but would impose on the public his own
theory of art in the form of five acts of blank verse. Yes, he had
offered them everything--and always with the same result.
Ten years of it--ten years of dogged work and unrelieved failure. The
ten years from forty to fifty--the best ten years of his life! And if
one counted the years before, the silent years of dreams, assimilation,
preparation--then call it half a man’s life-time: half a man’s life-time
thrown away!
And what was he to do with the remaining half? Well, he had settled
that, thank God! He turned and glanced anxiously at the clock. Ten
minutes past eight--only ten minutes had been consumed in that stormy
rush through his whole past! And he must wait another twenty minutes for
Ascham. It was one of the worst symptoms of his case that, in proportion
as he had grown to shrink from human company, he dreaded more and more
to be alone. ... But why the devil was he waiting for Ascham? Why didn’t
he cut the knot himself? Since he was so unutterably sick of the whole
business, why did he have to call in an outsider to rid him of this
nightmare of living?
He opened the drawer again and laid his hand on the revolver. It was a
small slim ivory toy--just the instrument for a tired sufferer to give
himself a “hypodermic” with. Granice raised it slowly in one hand, while
with the other he felt under the thin hair at the back of his head,
between the ear and the nape. He knew just where to place the muzzle: he
had once got a young surgeon to show him. And as he found the spot, and
lifted the revolver to it, the inevitable phenomenon occurred. The hand
that held the weapon began to shake, the tremor communicated itself
to his arm, his heart gave a wild leap which sent up a wave of deadly
nausea to his throat, he smelt the powder, he sickened at the crash of
the bullet through his skull, and a sweat of fear broke out over his
forehead and ran down his quivering face...
He laid away the revolver with an oath and, pulling out a
cologne-scented handkerchief, passed it tremulously over his brow and
temples. It was no use--he knew he could never do it in that way. His
attempts at self-destruction were as futile as his snatches at fame! He
couldn’t make himself a real life, and he couldn’t get rid of the life
he had. And that was why he had sent for Ascham to help him...
The lawyer, over the Camembert and Burgundy, began to excuse himself for
his delay.
“I didn’t like to say anything while your man was about--but the fact
is, I was sent for on a rather unusual matter--”
“Oh, it’s all right,” said Granice cheerfully. He was beginning to
feel the usual reaction that food and company produced. It was not any
recovered pleasure in life that he felt, but only a deeper withdrawal
into himself. It was easier to go on automatically with the social
gestures than to uncover to any human eye the abyss within him.
“My dear fellow, it’s sacrilege to keep a dinner waiting--especially
the production of an artist like yours.” Mr. Ascham sipped his Burgundy
luxuriously. “But the fact is, Mrs. Ashgrove sent for me.”
Granice raised his head with a quick movement of surprise. For a moment
he was shaken out of his self-absorption.
“_Mrs. Ashgrove?_”
Ascham smiled. “I thought you’d be interested; I know your passion for
_causes celebres_. And this promises to be one. Of course it’s out of
our line entirely--we never touch criminal cases. But she wanted to
consult me as a friend. Ashgrove was a distant connection of my wife’s.
And, by Jove, it _is_ a queer case!” The servant re-entered, and Ascham
snapped his lips shut.
Would the gentlemen have their coffee in the dining-room?
“No--serve it in the library,” said Granice, rising. He led the way back
to the curtained confidential room. He was really curious to hear what
Ascham had to tell him.
While the coffee and cigars were being served he fidgeted about the
library, glancing at his letters--the usual meaningless notes and
bills--and picking up the evening paper. As he unfolded it a headline
caught his eye.
“ROSE MELROSE WANTS TO PLAY POETRY.
“THINKS SHE HAS FOUND HER POET.”
He read on with a thumping heart--found the name of a young author he
had barely heard of, saw the title of a play, a “poetic drama,” dance
before his eyes, and dropped the paper, sick, disgusted. It was true,
then--she _was_ “game”--it was not the manner but the matter she
mistrusted!
Granice turned to the servant, who seemed to be purposely lingering. “I
shan’t need you this evening, Flint. I’ll lock up myself.”
He fancied the man’s acquiescence implied surprise. What was going on,
Flint seemed to wonder, that Mr. Granice should want him out of the
way? Probably he would find a pretext for coming back to see. Granice
suddenly felt himself enveloped in a network of espionage.
As the door closed he threw himself into an armchair and leaned forward
to take a light from Ascham’s cigar.
“Tell me about Mrs. Ashgrove,” he said, seeming to himself to speak
stiffly, as if his lips were cracked.
“Mrs. Ashgrove? Well, there’s not much to _tell_.”
“And you couldn’t if there were?” Granice smiled.
“Probably not. As a matter of fact, she wanted my advice about her
choice of counsel. There was nothing especially confidential in our
talk.”
“And what’s your impression, now you’ve seen her?”
“My impression is, very distinctly, _that nothing will ever be known._”
“Ah--?” Granice murmured, puffing at his cigar.
“I’m more and more convinced that whoever poisoned Ashgrove knew his
business, and will consequently never be found out. That’s a capital
cigar you’ve given me.”
“You like it? I get them over from Cuba.” Granice examined his own
reflectively. “Then you believe in the theory that the clever criminals
never _are_ caught?”
“Of course I do. Look about you--look back for the last dozen
years--none of the big murder problems are ever solved.” The lawyer
ruminated behind his blue cloud. “Why, take the instance in your own
family: I’d forgotten I had an illustration at hand! Take old Joseph
Lenman’s murder--do you suppose that will ever be explained?”
As the words dropped from Ascham’s lips his host looked slowly about
the library, and every object in it stared back at him with a stale
unescapable familiarity. How sick he was of looking at that room! It was
as dull as the face of a wife one has wearied of. He cleared his throat
slowly; then he turned his head to the lawyer and said: “I could explain
the Lenman murder myself.”
Ascham’s eye kindled: he shared Granice’s interest in criminal cases.
“By Jove! You’ve had a theory all this time? It’s odd you never
mentioned it. Go ahead and tell me. There are certain features in the
Lenman case not unlike this Ashgrove affair, and your idea may be a
help.”
Granice paused and his eye reverted instinctively to the table drawer in
which the revolver and the manuscript lay side by side. What if he were
to try another appeal to Rose Melrose? Then he looked at the notes
and bills on the table, and the horror of taking up again the lifeless
routine of life--of performing the same automatic gestures another
day--displaced his fleeting vision.
“I haven’t a theory. I _know_ who murdered Joseph Lenman.”
Ascham settled himself comfortably in his chair, prepared for enjoyment.
“You _know?_ Well, who did?” he laughed.
“I did,” said Granice, rising.
He stood before Ascham, and the lawyer lay back staring up at him. Then
he broke into another laugh.
“Why, this is glorious! You murdered him, did you? To inherit his money,
I suppose? Better and better! Go on, my boy! Unbosom yourself! Tell me
all about it! Confession is good for the soul.”
Granice waited till the lawyer had shaken the last peal of laughter from
his throat; then he repeated doggedly: “I murdered him.”
The two men looked at each other for a long moment, and this time Ascham
did not laugh.
“Granice!”
“I murdered him--to get his money, as you say.”
There was another pause, and Granice, with a vague underlying sense of
amusement, saw his guest’s look change from pleasantry to apprehension.
“What’s the joke, my dear fellow? I fail to see.”
“It’s not a joke. It’s the truth. I murdered him.” He had spoken
painfully at first, as if there were a knot in his throat; but each time
he repeated the words he found they were easier to say.
Ascham laid down his extinct cigar.
“What’s the matter? Aren’t you well? What on earth are you driving at?”
“I’m perfectly well. But I murdered my cousin, Joseph Lenman, and I want
it known that I murdered him.”
“_You want it known?_”
“Yes. That’s why I sent for you. I’m sick of living, and when I try to
kill myself I funk it.” He spoke quite naturally now, as if the knot in
his throat had been untied.
“Good Lord--good Lord,” the lawyer gasped.
“But I suppose,” Granice continued, “there’s no doubt this would be
murder in the first degree? I’m sure of the chair if I own up?”
Ascham drew a long breath; then he said slowly: “Sit down, Granice.
Let’s talk.”
II
GRANICE told his story simply, connectedly.
He began by a quick survey of his early years--the years of drudgery and
privation. His father, a charming man who could never say “no,” had so
signally failed to say it on certain essential occasions that when he
died he left an illegitimate family and a mortgaged estate. His lawful
kin found themselves hanging over a gulf of debt, and young Granice, to
support his mother and sister, had to leave Harvard and bury himself at
eighteen in a broker’s office. He loathed his work, and he was always
poor, always worried and in ill-health. A few years later his mother
died, but his sister, an ineffectual neurasthenic, remained on his
hands. His own health gave out, and he had to go away for six months,
and work harder than ever when he came back. He had no knack for
business, no head for figures, no dimmest insight into the mysteries of
commerce. He wanted to travel and write--those were his inmost longings.
And as the years dragged on, and he neared middle-age without making
any more money, or acquiring any firmer health, a sick despair possessed
him. He tried writing, but he always came home from the office so tired
that his brain could not work. For half the year he did not reach his
dim up-town flat till after dark, and could only “brush up” for dinner,
and afterward lie on the lounge with his pipe, while his sister droned
through the evening paper. Sometimes he spent an evening at the theatre;
or he dined out, or, more rarely, strayed off with an acquaintance or
two in quest of what is known as “pleasure.” And in summer, when he
and Kate went to the sea-side for a month, he dozed through the days in
utter weariness. Once he fell in love with a charming girl--but what had
he to offer her, in God’s name? She seemed to like him, and in common
decency he had to drop out of the running. Apparently no one
replaced him, for she never married, but grew stoutish, grayish,
philanthropic--yet how sweet she had been when he had first kissed her!
One more wasted life, he reflected...
But the stage had always been his master-passion. He would have sold his
soul for the time and freedom to write plays! It was _in him_--he could
not remember when it had not been his deepest-seated instinct. As the
years passed it became a morbid, a relentless obsession--yet with every
year the material conditions were more and more against it. He felt
himself growing middle-aged, and he watched the reflection of the
process in his sister’s wasted face. At eighteen she had been
pretty, and as full of enthusiasm as he. Now she was sour, trivial,
insignificant--she had missed her chance of life. And she had no
resources, poor creature, was fashioned simply for the primitive
functions she had been denied the chance to fulfil! It exasperated him
to think of it--and to reflect that even now a little travel, a
little health, a little money, might transform her, make her young and
desirable... The chief fruit of his experience was that there is no such
fixed state as age or youth--there is only health as against sickness,
wealth as against poverty; and age or youth as the outcome of the lot
one draws.
At this point in his narrative Granice stood up, and went to lean
against the mantel-piece, looking down at Ascham, who had not moved from
his seat, or changed his attitude of rigid fascinated attention.
“Then came the summer when we went to Wrenfield to be near old
Lenman--my mother’s cousin, as you know. Some of the family always
mounted guard over him--generally a niece or so. But that year they were
all scattered, and one of the nieces offered to lend us her cottage if
we’d relieve her of duty for two months. It was a nuisance for me, of
course, for Wrenfield is two hours from town; but my mother, who was a
slave to family observances, had always been good to the old man, so it
was natural we should be called on--and there was the saving of rent and
the good air for Kate. So we went.
“You never knew Joseph Lenman? Well, picture to yourself an amoeba or
some primitive organism of that sort, under a Titan’s microscope. He was
large, undifferentiated, inert--since I could remember him he had done
nothing but take his temperature and read the _Churchman_. Oh,
and cultivate melons--that was his hobby. Not vulgar, out-of-door
melons--his were grown under glass. He had miles of it at Wrenfield--his
big kitchen-garden was surrounded by blinking battalions of
green-houses. And in nearly all of them melons were grown--early melons
and late, French, English, domestic--dwarf melons and monsters: every
shape, colour and variety. They were petted and nursed like children--a
staff of trained attendants waited on them. I’m not sure they didn’t
have a doctor to take their temperature--at any rate the place was full
of thermometers. And they didn’t sprawl on the ground like ordinary
melons; they were trained against the glass like nectarines, and each
melon hung in a net which sustained its weight and left it free on all
sides to the sun and air...
“It used to strike me sometimes that old Lenman was just like one of
his own melons--the pale-fleshed English kind. His life, apathetic
and motionless, hung in a net of gold, in an equable warm ventilated
atmosphere, high above sordid earthly worries. The cardinal rule of
his existence was not to let himself be ‘worried.’ . . I remember his
advising me to try it myself, one day when I spoke to him about Kate’s
bad health, and her need of a change. ‘I never let myself worry,’ he
said complacently. ‘It’s the worst thing for the liver--and you look to
me as if you had a liver. Take my advice and be cheerful. You’ll make
yourself happier and others too.’ And all he had to do was to write a
cheque, and send the poor girl off for a holiday!
“The hardest part of it was that the money half-belonged to us already.
The old skin-flint only had it for life, in trust for us and the others.
But his life was a good deal sounder than mine or Kate’s--and one could
picture him taking extra care of it for the joke of keeping us waiting.
I always felt that the sight of our hungry eyes was a tonic to him.
“Well, I tried to see if I couldn’t reach him through his vanity. I
flattered him, feigned a passionate interest in his melons. And he was
taken in, and used to discourse on them by the hour. On fine days he was
driven to the green-houses in his pony-chair, and waddled through them,
prodding and leering at the fruit, like a fat Turk in his seraglio.
When he bragged to me of the expense of growing them I was reminded of
a hideous old Lothario bragging of what his pleasures cost. And the
resemblance was completed by the fact that he couldn’t eat as much as
a mouthful of his melons--had lived for years on buttermilk and toast.
‘But, after all, it’s my only hobby--why shouldn’t I indulge it?’ he
said sentimentally. As if I’d ever been able to indulge any of mine! On
the keep of those melons Kate and I could have lived like gods...
“One day toward the end of the summer, when Kate was too unwell to drag
herself up to the big house, she asked me to go and spend the afternoon
with cousin Joseph. It was a lovely soft September afternoon--a day to
lie under a Roman stone-pine, with one’s eyes on the sky, and let the
cosmic harmonies rush through one. Perhaps the vision was suggested
by the fact that, as I entered cousin Joseph’s hideous black walnut
library, I passed one of the under-gardeners, a handsome full-throated
Italian, who dashed out in such a hurry that he nearly knocked me down.
I remember thinking it queer that the fellow, whom I had often seen
about the melon-houses, did not bow to me, or even seem to see me.
“Cousin Joseph sat in his usual seat, behind the darkened windows, his
fat hands folded on his protuberant waistcoat, the last number of the
_Churchman_ at his elbow, and near it, on a huge dish, a fat melon--the
fattest melon I’d ever seen. As I looked at it I pictured the ecstasy
of contemplation from which I must have roused him, and congratulated
myself on finding him in such a mood, since I had made up my mind to ask
him a favour. Then I noticed that his face, instead of looking as calm
as an egg-shell, was distorted and whimpering--and without stopping to
greet me he pointed passionately to the melon.
“‘Look at it, look at it--did you ever see such a beauty? Such
firmness--roundness--such delicious smoothness to the touch?’ It was
as if he had said ‘she’ instead of ‘it,’ and when he put out his senile
hand and touched the melon I positively had to look the other way.
“Then he told me what had happened. The Italian under-gardener, who had
been specially recommended for the melon-houses--though it was against
my cousin’s principles to employ a Papist--had been assigned to the care
of the monster: for it had revealed itself, early in its existence, as
destined to become a monster, to surpass its plumpest, pulpiest
sisters, carry off prizes at agricultural shows, and be photographed and
celebrated in every gardening paper in the land. The Italian had done
well--seemed to have a sense of responsibility. And that very morning
he had been ordered to pick the melon, which was to be shown next day at
the county fair, and to bring it in for Mr. Lenman to gaze on its blonde
virginity. But in picking it, what had the damned scoundrelly Jesuit
done but drop it--drop it crash on the sharp spout of a watering-pot,
so that it received a deep gash in its firm pale rotundity, and was
henceforth but a bruised, ruined, fallen melon?
“The old man’s rage was fearful in its impotence--he shook, spluttered
and strangled with it. He had just had the Italian up and had sacked
him on the spot, without wages or character--had threatened to have him
arrested if he was ever caught prowling about Wrenfield. ‘By God, and
I’ll do it--I’ll write to Washington--I’ll have the pauper scoundrel
deported! I’ll show him what money can do!’ As likely as not there was
some murderous Black-hand business under it--it would be found that the
fellow was a member of a ‘gang.’ Those Italians would murder you for a
quarter. He meant to have the police look into it... And then he grew
frightened at his own excitement. ‘But I must calm myself,’ he said. He
took his temperature, rang for his drops, and turned to the _Churchman_.
He had been reading an article on Nestorianism when the melon was
brought in. He asked me to go on with it, and I read to him for an
hour, in the dim close room, with a fat fly buzzing stealthily about the
fallen melon.
“All the while one phrase of the old man’s buzzed in my brain like the
fly about the melon. ‘_I’ll show him what money can do!_’ Good heaven!
If _I_ could but show the old man! If I could make him see his power of
giving happiness as a new outlet for his monstrous egotism! I tried
to tell him something about my situation and Kate’s--spoke of my
ill-health, my unsuccessful drudgery, my longing to write, to make
myself a name--I stammered out an entreaty for a loan. ‘I can guarantee
to repay you, sir--I’ve a half-written play as security...’
“I shall never forget his glassy stare. His face had grown as smooth as
an egg-shell again--his eyes peered over his fat cheeks like sentinels
over a slippery rampart.
“‘A half-written play--a play of _yours_ as security?’ He looked at me
almost fearfully, as if detecting the first symptoms of insanity. ‘Do
you understand anything of business?’ he enquired mildly. I laughed and
answered: ‘No, not much.’
“He leaned back with closed lids. ‘All this excitement has been too much
for me,’ he said. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll prepare for my nap.’ And I
stumbled out of the room, blindly, like the Italian.”
Granice moved away from the mantel-piece, and walked across to the tray
set out with decanters and soda-water. He poured himself a tall glass of
soda-water, emptied it, and glanced at Ascham’s dead cigar.
“Better light another,” he suggested.
The lawyer shook his head, and Granice went on with his tale. He told
of his mounting obsession--how the murderous impulse had waked in him on
the instant of his cousin’s refusal, and he had muttered to himself:
“By God, if you won’t, I’ll make you.” He spoke more tranquilly as the
narrative proceeded, as though his rage had died down once the resolve
to act on it was taken. He applied his whole mind to the question of how
the old man was to be “disposed of.” Suddenly he remembered the outcry:
“Those Italians will murder you for a quarter!” But no definite project
presented itself: he simply waited for an inspiration.
Granice and his sister moved to town a day or two after the incident of
the melon. But the cousins, who had returned, kept them informed of
the old man’s condition. One day, about three weeks later, Granice,
on getting home, found Kate excited over a report from Wrenfield. The
Italian had been there again--had somehow slipped into the house,
made his way up to the library, and “used threatening language.” The
house-keeper found cousin Joseph gasping, the whites of his eyes showing
“something awful.” The doctor was sent for, and the attack warded off;
and the police had ordered the Italian from the neighbourhood.
But cousin Joseph, thereafter, languished, had “nerves,” and lost his
taste for toast and butter-milk. The doctor called in a colleague, and
the consultation amused and excited the old man--he became once more
an important figure. The medical men reassured the family--too
completely!--and to the patient they recommended a more varied diet:
advised him to take whatever “tempted him.” And so one day, tremulously,
prayerfully, he decided on a tiny bit of melon. It was brought up
with ceremony, and consumed in the presence of the house-keeper and a
hovering cousin; and twenty minutes later he was dead...
“But you remember the circumstances,” Granice went on; “how suspicion
turned at once on the Italian? In spite of the hint the police had given
him he had been seen hanging about the house since ‘the scene.’ It was
said that he had tender relations with the kitchen-maid, and the rest
seemed easy to explain. But when they looked round to ask him for the
explanation he was gone--gone clean out of sight. He had been ‘warned’
to leave Wrenfield, and he had taken the warning so to heart that no one
ever laid eyes on him again.”
Granice paused. He had dropped into a chair opposite the lawyer’s, and
he sat for a moment, his head thrown back, looking about the familiar
room. Everything in it had grown grimacing and alien, and each strange
insistent object seemed craning forward from its place to hear him.
“It was I who put the stuff in the melon,” he said. “And I don’t want
you to think I’m sorry for it. This isn’t ‘remorse,’ understand. I’m
glad the old skin-flint is dead--I’m glad the others have their money.
But mine’s no use to me any more. My sister married miserably, and died.
And I’ve never had what I wanted.”
Ascham continued to stare; then he said: “What on earth was your object,
then?”
“Why, to _get_ what I wanted--what I fancied was in reach! I wanted
change, rest, _life_, for both of us--wanted, above all, for myself, the
chance to write! I travelled, got back my health, and came home to
tie myself up to my work. And I’ve slaved at it steadily for ten years
without reward--without the most distant hope of success! Nobody will
look at my stuff. And now I’m fifty, and I’m beaten, and I know it.”
His chin dropped forward on his breast. “I want to chuck the whole
business,” he ended.
III
IT was after midnight when Ascham left.
His hand on Granice’s shoulder, as he turned to go--“District Attorney
be hanged; see a doctor, see a doctor!” he had cried; and so, with an
exaggerated laugh, had pulled on his coat and departed.
Granice turned back into the library. It had never occurred to him that
Ascham would not believe his story. For three hours he had explained,
elucidated, patiently and painfully gone over every detail--but without
once breaking down the iron incredulity of the lawyer’s eye.
At first Ascham had feigned to be convinced--but that, as Granice now
perceived, was simply to get him to expose himself, to entrap him into
contradictions. And when the attempt failed, when Granice triumphantly
met and refuted each disconcerting question, the lawyer dropped the mask
suddenly, and said with a good-humoured laugh: “By Jove, Granice you’ll
write a successful play yet. The way you’ve worked this all out is a
marvel.”
Granice swung about furiously--that last sneer about the play inflamed
him. Was all the world in a conspiracy to deride his failure?
“I did it, I did it,” he muttered sullenly, his rage spending itself
against the impenetrable surface of the other’s mockery; and Ascham
answered with a smile: “Ever read any of those books on hallucination?
I’ve got a fairly good medico-legal library. I could send you one or two
if you like...”
Left alone, Granice cowered down in the chair before his writing-table.
He understood that Ascham thought him off his head.
“Good God--what if they all think me crazy?”
The horror of it broke out over him in a cold sweat--he sat there and
shook, his eyes hidden in his icy hands. But gradually, as he began
to rehearse his story for the thousandth time, he saw again how
incontrovertible it was, and felt sure that any criminal lawyer would
believe him.
“That’s the trouble--Ascham’s not a criminal lawyer. And then he’s a
friend. What a fool I was to talk to a friend! Even if he did believe
me, he’d never let me see it--his instinct would be to cover the whole
thing up... But in that case--if he _did_ believe me--he might think it
a kindness to get me shut up in an asylum...” Granice began to tremble
again. “Good heaven! If he should bring in an expert--one of those
damned alienists! Ascham and Pettilow can do anything--their word always
goes. If Ascham drops a hint that I’d better be shut up, I’ll be in a
strait-jacket by to-morrow! And he’d do it from the kindest motives--be
quite right to do it if he thinks I’m a murderer!”
The vision froze him to his chair. He pressed his fists to his bursting
temples and tried to think. For the first time he hoped that Ascham had
not believed his story.
“But he did--he did! I can see it now--I noticed what a queer eye he
cocked at me. Good God, what shall I do--what shall I do?”
He started up and looked at the clock. Half-past one. What if Ascham
should think the case urgent, rout out an alienist, and come back with
him? Granice jumped to his feet, and his sudden gesture brushed the
morning paper from the table. Mechanically he stooped to pick it up, and
the movement started a new train of association.
He sat down again, and reached for the telephone book in the rack by his
chair.
“Give me three-o-ten ... yes.”
The new idea in his mind had revived his flagging energy. He would
act--act at once. It was only by thus planning ahead, committing himself
to some unavoidable line of conduct, that he could pull himself through
the meaningless days. Each time he reached a fresh decision it was like
coming out of a foggy weltering sea into a calm harbour with lights. One
of the queerest phases of his long agony was the intense relief produced
by these momentary lulls.
“That the office of the _Investigator?_ Yes? Give me Mr. Denver,
please... Hallo, Denver... Yes, Hubert Granice. ... Just caught you?
Going straight home? Can I come and see you ... yes, now ... have a
talk? It’s rather urgent ... yes, might give you some first-rate ‘copy.’
... All right!” He hung up the receiver with a laugh. It had been a
happy thought to call up the editor of the _Investigator_--Robert Denver
was the very man he needed...
Granice put out the lights in the library--it was odd how the automatic
gestures persisted!--went into the hall, put on his hat and overcoat,
and let himself out of the flat. In the hall, a sleepy elevator boy
blinked at him and then dropped his head on his folded arms. Granice
passed out into the street. At the corner of Fifth Avenue he hailed a
crawling cab, and called out an up-town address. The long thoroughfare
stretched before him, dim and deserted, like an ancient avenue of tombs.
But from Denver’s house a friendly beam fell on the pavement; and as
Granice sprang from his cab the editor’s electric turned the corner.
The two men grasped hands, and Denver, feeling for his latch-key,
ushered Granice into the brightly-lit hall.
“Disturb me? Not a bit. You might have, at ten to-morrow morning ... but
this is my liveliest hour ... you know my habits of old.”
Granice had known Robert Denver for fifteen years--watched his rise
through all the stages of journalism to the Olympian pinnacle of the
_Investigator’s_ editorial office. In the thick-set man with grizzling
hair there were few traces left of the hungry-eyed young reporter who,
on his way home in the small hours, used to “bob in” on Granice, while
the latter sat grinding at his plays. Denver had to pass Granice’s flat
on the way to his own, and it became a habit, if he saw a light in the
window, and Granice’s shadow against the blind, to go in, smoke a pipe,
and discuss the universe.
“Well--this is like old times--a good old habit reversed.” The editor
smote his visitor genially on the shoulder. “Reminds me of the nights
when I used to rout you out... How’s the play, by the way? There _is_
a play, I suppose? It’s as safe to ask you that as to say to some men:
‘How’s the baby?’”
Denver laughed good-naturedly, and Granice thought how thick and heavy
he had grown. It was evident, even to Granice’s tortured nerves, that
the words had not been uttered in malice--and the fact gave him a new
measure of his insignificance. Denver did not even know that he had been
a failure! The fact hurt more than Ascham’s irony.
“Come in--come in.” The editor led the way into a small cheerful room,
where there were cigars and decanters. He pushed an arm-chair toward his
visitor, and dropped into another with a comfortable groan.
“Now, then--help yourself. And let’s hear all about it.”
He beamed at Granice over his pipe-bowl, and the latter, lighting his
cigar, said to himself: “Success makes men comfortable, but it makes
them stupid.”
Then he turned, and began: “Denver, I want to tell you--”
The clock ticked rhythmically on the mantel-piece. The room was
gradually filled with drifting blue layers of smoke, and through them
the editor’s face came and went like the moon through a moving sky. Once
the hour struck--then the rhythmical ticking began again. The atmosphere
grew denser and heavier, and beads of perspiration began to roll from
Granice’s forehead.
“Do you mind if I open the window?”
“No. It _is_ stuffy in here. Wait--I’ll do it myself.” Denver pushed
down the upper sash, and returned to his chair. “Well--go on,” he said,
filling another pipe. His composure exasperated Granice.
“There’s no use in my going on if you don’t believe me.”
The editor remained unmoved. “Who says I don’t believe you? And how can
I tell till you’ve finished?”
Granice went on, ashamed of his outburst. “It was simple enough, as
you’ll see. From the day the old man said to me, ‘Those Italians would
murder you for a quarter,’ I dropped everything and just worked at
my scheme. It struck me at once that I must find a way of getting to
Wrenfield and back in a night--and that led to the idea of a motor. A
motor--that never occurred to you? You wonder where I got the money, I
suppose. Well, I had a thousand or so put by, and I nosed around till I
found what I wanted--a second-hand racer. I knew how to drive a car,
and I tried the thing and found it was all right. Times were bad, and I
bought it for my price, and stored it away. Where? Why, in one of those
no-questions-asked garages where they keep motors that are not for
family use. I had a lively cousin who had put me up to that dodge, and I
looked about till I found a queer hole where they took in my car like a
baby in a foundling asylum... Then I practiced running to Wrenfield and
back in a night. I knew the way pretty well, for I’d done it often with
the same lively cousin--and in the small hours, too. The distance is
over ninety miles, and on the third trial I did it under two hours. But
my arms were so lame that I could hardly get dressed the next morning...
“Well, then came the report about the Italian’s threats, and I saw I
must act at once... I meant to break into the old man’s room, shoot him,
and get away again. It was a big risk, but I thought I could manage it.
Then we heard that he was ill--that there’d been a consultation. Perhaps
the fates were going to do it for me! Good Lord, if that could only be!...”
Granice stopped and wiped his forehead: the open window did not seem to
have cooled the room.
“Then came word that he was better; and the day after, when I came up
from my office, I found Kate laughing over the news that he was to try
a bit of melon. The house-keeper had just telephoned her--all Wrenfield
was in a flutter. The doctor himself had picked out the melon, one of
the little French ones that are hardly bigger than a large tomato--and
the patient was to eat it at his breakfast the next morning.
“In a flash I saw my chance. It was a bare chance, no more. But I knew
the ways of the house--I was sure the melon would be brought in over
night and put in the pantry ice-box. If there were only one melon in the
ice-box I could be fairly sure it was the one I wanted. Melons
didn’t lie around loose in that house--every one was known, numbered,
catalogued. The old man was beset by the dread that the servants would
eat them, and he took a hundred mean precautions to prevent it. Yes,
I felt pretty sure of my melon ... and poisoning was much safer than
shooting. It would have been the devil and all to get into the old man’s
bedroom without his rousing the house; but I ought to be able to break
into the pantry without much trouble.
“It was a cloudy night, too--everything served me. I dined quietly, and
sat down at my desk. Kate had one of her usual headaches, and went to
bed early. As soon as she was gone I slipped out. I had got together a
sort of disguise--red beard and queer-looking ulster. I shoved them
into a bag, and went round to the garage. There was no one there but a
half-drunken machinist whom I’d never seen before. That served me, too.
They were always changing machinists, and this new fellow didn’t even
bother to ask if the car belonged to me. It was a very easy-going
place...
“Well, I jumped in, ran up Broadway, and let the car go as soon as I was
out of Harlem. Dark as it was, I could trust myself to strike a sharp
pace. In the shadow of a wood I stopped a second and got into the beard
and ulster. Then away again--it was just eleven-thirty when I got to
Wrenfield.
“I left the car in a dark lane behind the Lenman place, and slipped
through the kitchen-garden. The melon-houses winked at me through the
dark--I remember thinking that they knew what I wanted to know. ... By
the stable a dog came out growling--but he nosed me out, jumped on me,
and went back... The house was as dark as the grave. I knew everybody
went to bed by ten. But there might be a prowling servant--the
kitchen-maid might have come down to let in her Italian. I had to
risk that, of course. I crept around by the back door and hid in the
shrubbery. Then I listened. It was all as silent as death. I crossed
over to the house, pried open the pantry window and climbed in. I had a
little electric lamp in my pocket, and shielding it with my cap I groped
my way to the ice-box, opened it--and there was the little French
melon... only one.
“I stopped to listen--I was quite cool. Then I pulled out my bottle of
stuff and my syringe, and gave each section of the melon a hypodermic.
It was all done inside of three minutes--at ten minutes to twelve I was
back in the car. I got out of the lane as quietly as I could, struck a
back road that skirted the village, and let the car out as soon as I was
beyond the last houses. I only stopped once on the way in, to drop the
beard and ulster into a pond. I had a big stone ready to weight them
with and they went down plump, like a dead body--and at two o’clock I
was back at my desk.”
Granice stopped speaking and looked across the smoke-fumes at his
listener; but Denver’s face remained inscrutable.
At length he said: “Why did you want to tell me this?”
The question startled Granice. He was about to explain, as he had
explained to Ascham; but suddenly it occurred to him that if his motive
had not seemed convincing to the lawyer it would carry much less weight
with Denver. Both were successful men, and success does not understand
the subtle agony of failure. Granice cast about for another reason.
“Why, I--the thing haunts me ... remorse, I suppose you’d call it...”
Denver struck the ashes from his empty pipe.
“Remorse? Bosh!” he said energetically.
Granice’s heart sank. “You don’t believe in--_remorse?_”
“Not an atom: in the man of action. The mere fact of your talking of
remorse proves to me that you’re not the man to have planned and put
through such a job.”
Granice groaned. “Well--I lied to you about remorse. I’ve never felt
any.”
Denver’s lips tightened sceptically about his freshly-filled pipe. “What
was your motive, then? You must have had one.”
“I’ll tell you--” And Granice began again to rehearse the story of his
failure, of his loathing for life. “Don’t say you don’t believe me this
time ... that this isn’t a real reason!” he stammered out piteously as
he ended.
Denver meditated. “No, I won’t say that. I’ve seen too many queer
things. There’s always a reason for wanting to get out of life--the
wonder is that we find so many for staying in!”
Granice’s heart grew light. “Then you _do_ believe me?” he faltered.
“Believe that you’re sick of the job? Yes. And that you haven’t the
nerve to pull the trigger? Oh, yes--that’s easy enough, too. But all
that doesn’t make you a murderer--though I don’t say it proves you could
never have been one.”
“I _have_ been one, Denver--I swear to you.”
“Perhaps.” He meditated. “Just tell me one or two things.”
“Oh, go ahead. You won’t stump me!” Granice heard himself say with a
laugh.
“Well--how did you make all those trial trips without exciting your
sister’s curiosity? I knew your night habits pretty well at that time,
remember. You were very seldom out late. Didn’t the change in your ways
surprise her?”
“No; because she was away at the time. She went to pay several visits in
the country soon after we came back from Wrenfield, and was only in town
for a night or two before--before I did the job.”
“And that night she went to bed early with a headache?”
“Yes--blinding. She didn’t know anything when she had that kind. And her
room was at the back of the flat.”
Denver again meditated. “And when you got back--she didn’t hear you? You
got in without her knowing it?”
“Yes. I went straight to my work--took it up at the word where I’d left
off--_why, Denver, don’t you remember?_” Granice suddenly, passionately
interjected.
“Remember--?”
“Yes; how you found me--when you looked in that morning, between two and
three ... your usual hour ...?”
“Yes,” the editor nodded.
Granice gave a short laugh. “In my old coat--with my pipe: looked as if
I’d been working all night, didn’t I? Well, I hadn’t been in my chair
ten minutes!”
Denver uncrossed his legs and then crossed them again. “I didn’t know
whether _you_ remembered that.”
“What?”
“My coming in that particular night--or morning.”
Granice swung round in his chair. “Why, man alive! That’s why I’m here
now. Because it was you who spoke for me at the inquest, when they
looked round to see what all the old man’s heirs had been doing that
night--you who testified to having dropped in and found me at my desk as
usual. ... I thought _that_ would appeal to your journalistic sense if
nothing else would!”
Denver smiled. “Oh, my journalistic sense is still susceptible
enough--and the idea’s picturesque, I grant you: asking the man who
proved your alibi to establish your guilt.”
“That’s it--that’s it!” Granice’s laugh had a ring of triumph.
“Well, but how about the other chap’s testimony--I mean that young
doctor: what was his name? Ned Ranney. Don’t you remember my testifying
that I’d met him at the elevated station, and told him I was on my way
to smoke a pipe with you, and his saying: ‘All right; you’ll find him
in. I passed the house two hours ago, and saw his shadow against the
blind, as usual.’ And the lady with the toothache in the flat across the
way: she corroborated his statement, you remember.”
“Yes; I remember.”
“Well, then?”
“Simple enough. Before starting I rigged up a kind of mannikin with old
coats and a cushion--something to cast a shadow on the blind. All
you fellows were used to seeing my shadow there in the small hours--I
counted on that, and knew you’d take any vague outline as mine.”
“Simple enough, as you say. But the woman with the toothache saw the
shadow move--you remember she said she saw you sink forward, as if you’d
fallen asleep.”
“Yes; and she was right. It _did_ move. I suppose some extra-heavy dray
must have jolted by the flimsy building--at any rate, something gave my
mannikin a jar, and when I came back he had sunk forward, half over the
table.”
There was a long silence between the two men. Granice, with a throbbing
heart, watched Denver refill his pipe. The editor, at any rate, did not
sneer and flout him. After all, journalism gave a deeper insight than
the law into the fantastic possibilities of life, prepared one better to
allow for the incalculableness of human impulses.
“Well?” Granice faltered out.
Denver stood up with a shrug. “Look here, man--what’s wrong with you?
Make a clean breast of it! Nerves gone to smash? I’d like to take you
to see a chap I know--an ex-prize-fighter--who’s a wonder at pulling
fellows in your state out of their hole--”
“Oh, oh--” Granice broke in. He stood up also, and the two men eyed each
other. “You don’t believe me, then?”
“This yarn--how can I? There wasn’t a flaw in your alibi.”
“But haven’t I filled it full of them now?”
Denver shook his head. “I might think so if I hadn’t happened to know
that you _wanted_ to. There’s the hitch, don’t you see?”
Granice groaned. “No, I didn’t. You mean my wanting to be found
guilty--?”
“Of course! If somebody else had accused you, the story might have been
worth looking into. As it is, a child could have invented it. It doesn’t
do much credit to your ingenuity.”
Granice turned sullenly toward the door. What was the use of arguing?
But on the threshold a sudden impulse drew him back. “Look here,
Denver--I daresay you’re right. But will you do just one thing to
prove it? Put my statement in the _Investigator_, just as I’ve made it.
Ridicule it as much as you like. Only give the other fellows a chance at
it--men who don’t know anything about me. Set them talking and looking
about. I don’t care a damn whether _you_ believe me--what I want is
to convince the Grand Jury! I oughtn’t to have come to a man who knows
me--your cursed incredulity is infectious. I don’t put my case well,
because I know in advance it’s discredited, and I almost end by not
believing it myself. That’s why I can’t convince _you_. It’s a vicious
circle.” He laid a hand on Denver’s arm. “Send a stenographer, and put
my statement in the paper.”
But Denver did not warm to the idea. “My dear fellow, you seem to forget
that all the evidence was pretty thoroughly sifted at the time, every
possible clue followed up. The public would have been ready enough then
to believe that you murdered old Lenman--you or anybody else. All they
wanted was a murderer--the most improbable would have served. But your
alibi was too confoundedly complete. And nothing you’ve told me has
shaken it.” Denver laid his cool hand over the other’s burning fingers.
“Look here, old fellow, go home and work up a better case--then come in
and submit it to the _Investigator_.”
IV
THE perspiration was rolling off Granice’s forehead. Every few minutes
he had to draw out his handkerchief and wipe the moisture from his
haggard face.
For an hour and a half he had been talking steadily, putting his case
to the District Attorney. Luckily he had a speaking acquaintance with
Allonby, and had obtained, without much difficulty, a private audience
on the very day after his talk with Robert Denver. In the interval
between he had hurried home, got out of his evening clothes, and gone
forth again at once into the dreary dawn. His fear of Ascham and the
alienist made it impossible for him to remain in his rooms. And it
seemed to him that the only way of averting that hideous peril was by
establishing, in some sane impartial mind, the proof of his guilt. Even
if he had not been so incurably sick of life, the electric chair seemed
now the only alternative to the strait-jacket.
As he paused to wipe his forehead he saw the District Attorney glance at
his watch. The gesture was significant, and Granice lifted an appealing
hand. “I don’t expect you to believe me now--but can’t you put me under
arrest, and have the thing looked into?”
Allonby smiled faintly under his heavy grayish moustache. He had a ruddy
face, full and jovial, in which his keen professional eyes seemed to
keep watch over impulses not strictly professional.
“Well, I don’t know that we need lock you up just yet. But of course I’m
bound to look into your statement--”
Granice rose with an exquisite sense of relief. Surely Allonby wouldn’t
have said that if he hadn’t believed him!
“That’s all right. Then I needn’t detain you. I can be found at any time
at my apartment.” He gave the address.
The District Attorney smiled again, more openly. “What do you say to
leaving it for an hour or two this evening? I’m giving a little supper
at Rector’s--quiet, little affair, you understand: just Miss Melrose--I
think you know her--and a friend or two; and if you’ll join us...”
Granice stumbled out of the office without knowing what reply he had
made.
He waited for four days--four days of concentrated horror. During the
first twenty-four hours the fear of Ascham’s alienist dogged him; and as
that subsided, it was replaced by the exasperating sense that his avowal
had made no impression on the District Attorney. Evidently, if he had
been going to look into the case, Allonby would have been heard from
before now. ... And that mocking invitation to supper showed clearly
enough how little the story had impressed him!
Granice was overcome by the futility of any farther attempt to inculpate
himself. He was chained to life--a “prisoner of consciousness.” Where
was it he had read the phrase? Well, he was learning what it meant. In
the glaring night-hours, when his brain seemed ablaze, he was visited
by a sense of his fixed identity, of his irreducible, inexpugnable
_selfness_, keener, more insidious, more unescapable, than any sensation
he had ever known. He had not guessed that the mind was capable of such
intricacies of self-realization, of penetrating so deep into its own
dark windings. Often he woke from his brief snatches of sleep with the
feeling that something material was clinging to him, was on his hands
and face, and in his throat--and as his brain cleared he understood that
it was the sense of his own loathed personality that stuck to him like
some thick viscous substance.
Then, in the first morning hours, he would rise and look out of
his window at the awakening activities of the street--at the
street-cleaners, the ash-cart drivers, and the other dingy workers
flitting hurriedly by through the sallow winter light. Oh, to be one of
them--any of them--to take his chance in any of their skins! They were
the toilers--the men whose lot was pitied--the victims wept over and
ranted about by altruists and economists; and how gladly he would have
taken up the load of any one of them, if only he might have shaken off
his own! But, no--the iron circle of consciousness held them too: each
one was hand-cuffed to his own hideous ego. Why wish to be any one man
rather than another? The only absolute good was not to be ... And Flint,
coming in to draw his bath, would ask if he preferred his eggs scrambled
or poached that morning?
On the fifth day he wrote a long urgent letter to Allonby; and for the
succeeding two days he had the occupation of waiting for an answer. He
hardly stirred from his rooms, in his fear of missing the letter by a
moment; but would the District Attorney write, or send a representative:
a policeman, a “secret agent,” or some other mysterious emissary of the
law?
On the third morning Flint, stepping softly--as if, confound it! his
master were ill--entered the library where Granice sat behind an unread
newspaper, and proferred a card on a tray.
Granice read the name--J. B. Hewson--and underneath, in pencil, “From
the District Attorney’s office.” He started up with a thumping heart,
and signed an assent to the servant.
Mr. Hewson was a slight sallow nondescript man of about fifty--the kind
of man of whom one is sure to see a specimen in any crowd. “Just the
type of the successful detective,” Granice reflected as he shook hands
with his visitor.
And it was in that character that Mr. Hewson briefly introduced himself.
He had been sent by the District Attorney to have “a quiet talk” with
Mr. Granice--to ask him to repeat the statement he had made about the
Lenman murder.
His manner was so quiet, so reasonable and receptive, that Granice’s
self-confidence returned. Here was a sensible man--a man who knew
his business--it would be easy enough to make _him_ see through that
ridiculous alibi! Granice offered Mr. Hewson a cigar, and lighting one
himself--to prove his coolness--began again to tell his story.
He was conscious, as he proceeded, of telling it better than ever
before. Practice helped, no doubt; and his listener’s detached,
impartial attitude helped still more. He could see that Hewson, at
least, had not decided in advance to disbelieve him, and the sense of
being trusted made him more lucid and more consecutive. Yes, this time
his words would certainly carry conviction...
V
DESPAIRINGLY, Granice gazed up and down the shabby street. Beside him
stood a young man with bright prominent eyes, a smooth but not too
smoothly-shaven face, and an Irish smile. The young man’s nimble glance
followed Granice’s.
“Sure of the number, are you?” he asked briskly.
“Oh, yes--it was 104.”
“Well, then, the new building has swallowed it up--that’s certain.”
He tilted his head back and surveyed the half-finished front of a brick
and limestone flat-house that reared its flimsy elegance above a row of
tottering tenements and stables.
“Dead sure?” he repeated.
“Yes,” said Granice, discouraged. “And even if I hadn’t been, I know the
garage was just opposite Leffler’s over there.” He pointed across the
street to a tumble-down stable with a blotched sign on which the words
“Livery and Boarding” were still faintly discernible.
The young man dashed across to the opposite pavement. “Well, that’s
something--may get a clue there. Leffler’s--same name there, anyhow. You
remember that name?”
“Yes--distinctly.”
Granice had felt a return of confidence since he had enlisted the
interest of the _Explorer’s_ “smartest” reporter. If there were moments
when he hardly believed his own story, there were others when it
seemed impossible that every one should not believe it; and young Peter
McCarren, peering, listening, questioning, jotting down notes, inspired
him with an exquisite sense of security. McCarren had fastened on the
case at once, “like a leech,” as he phrased it--jumped at it, thrilled
to it, and settled down to “draw the last drop of fact from it, and
had not let go till he had.” No one else had treated Granice in that
way--even Allonby’s detective had not taken a single note. And though
a week had elapsed since the visit of that authorized official,
nothing had been heard from the District Attorney’s office: Allonby had
apparently dropped the matter again. But McCarren wasn’t going to drop
it--not he! He positively hung on Granice’s footsteps. They had spent
the greater part of the previous day together, and now they were off
again, running down clues.
But at Leffler’s they got none, after all. Leffler’s was no longer
a stable. It was condemned to demolition, and in the respite between
sentence and execution it had become a vague place of storage, a
hospital for broken-down carriages and carts, presided over by a
blear-eyed old woman who knew nothing of Flood’s garage across
the way--did not even remember what had stood there before the new
flat-house began to rise.
“Well--we may run Leffler down somewhere; I’ve seen harder jobs done,”
said McCarren, cheerfully noting down the name.
As they walked back toward Sixth Avenue he added, in a less sanguine
tone: “I’d undertake now to put the thing through if you could only put
me on the track of that cyanide.”
Granice’s heart sank. Yes--there was the weak spot; he had felt it from
the first! But he still hoped to convince McCarren that his case was
strong enough without it; and he urged the reporter to come back to his
rooms and sum up the facts with him again.
“Sorry, Mr. Granice, but I’m due at the office now. Besides, it’d be
no use till I get some fresh stuff to work on. Suppose I call you up
tomorrow or next day?”
He plunged into a trolley and left Granice gazing desolately after him.
Two days later he reappeared at the apartment, a shade less jaunty in
demeanor.
“Well, Mr. Granice, the stars in their courses are against you, as the
bard says. Can’t get a trace of Flood, or of Leffler either. And you say
you bought the motor through Flood, and sold it through him, too?”
“Yes,” said Granice wearily.
“Who bought it, do you know?”
Granice wrinkled his brows. “Why, Flood--yes, Flood himself. I sold it
back to him three months later.”
“Flood? The devil! And I’ve ransacked the town for Flood. That kind of
business disappears as if the earth had swallowed it.”
Granice, discouraged, kept silence.
“That brings us back to the poison,” McCarren continued, his note-book
out. “Just go over that again, will you?”
And Granice went over it again. It had all been so simple at the
time--and he had been so clever in covering up his traces! As soon as he
decided on poison he looked about for an acquaintance who manufactured
chemicals; and there was Jim Dawes, a Harvard classmate, in the dyeing
business--just the man. But at the last moment it occurred to him that
suspicion might turn toward so obvious an opportunity, and he decided
on a more tortuous course. Another friend, Carrick Venn, a student of
medicine whom irremediable ill-health had kept from the practice of
his profession, amused his leisure with experiments in physics, for the
exercise of which he had set up a simple laboratory. Granice had the
habit of dropping in to smoke a cigar with him on Sunday afternoons, and
the friends generally sat in Venn’s work-shop, at the back of the old
family house in Stuyvesant Square. Off this work-shop was the cupboard
of supplies, with its row of deadly bottles. Carrick Venn was an
original, a man of restless curious tastes, and his place, on a Sunday,
was often full of visitors: a cheerful crowd of journalists, scribblers,
painters, experimenters in divers forms of expression. Coming and going
among so many, it was easy enough to pass unperceived; and one afternoon
Granice, arriving before Venn had returned home, found himself alone in
the work-shop, and quickly slipping into the cupboard, transferred the
drug to his pocket.
But that had happened ten years ago; and Venn, poor fellow, was long
since dead of his dragging ailment. His old father was dead, too, the
house in Stuyvesant Square had been turned into a boarding-house, and
the shifting life of New York had passed its rapid sponge over every
trace of their obscure little history. Even the optimistic McCarren
seemed to acknowledge the hopelessness of seeking for proof in that
direction.
“And there’s the third door slammed in our faces.” He shut his
note-book, and throwing back his head, rested his bright inquisitive
eyes on Granice’s furrowed face.
“Look here, Mr. Granice--you see the weak spot, don’t you?”
The other made a despairing motion. “I see so many!”
“Yes: but the one that weakens all the others. Why the deuce do you want
this thing known? Why do you want to put your head into the noose?”
Granice looked at him hopelessly, trying to take the measure of his
quick light irreverent mind. No one so full of a cheerful animal life
would believe in the craving for death as a sufficient motive; and
Granice racked his brain for one more convincing. But suddenly he saw
the reporter’s face soften, and melt to a naive sentimentalism.
“Mr. Granice--has the memory of it always haunted you?”
Granice stared a moment, and then leapt at the opening. “That’s it--the
memory of it ... always ...”
McCarren nodded vehemently. “Dogged your steps, eh? Wouldn’t let you
sleep? The time came when you _had_ to make a clean breast of it?”
“I had to. Can’t you understand?”
The reporter struck his fist on the table. “God, sir! I don’t suppose
there’s a human being with a drop of warm blood in him that can’t
picture the deadly horrors of remorse--”
The Celtic imagination was aflame, and Granice mutely thanked him for
the word. What neither Ascham nor Denver would accept as a conceivable
motive the Irish reporter seized on as the most adequate; and, as he
said, once one could find a convincing motive, the difficulties of the
case became so many incentives to effort.
“Remorse--_remorse_,” he repeated, rolling the word under his tongue
with an accent that was a clue to the psychology of the popular drama;
and Granice, perversely, said to himself: “If I could only have struck
that note I should have been running in six theatres at once.”
He saw that from that moment McCarren’s professional zeal would be
fanned by emotional curiosity; and he profited by the fact to propose
that they should dine together, and go on afterward to some music-hall
or theatre. It was becoming necessary to Granice to feel himself an
object of pre-occupation, to find himself in another mind. He took a
kind of gray penumbral pleasure in riveting McCarren’s attention on his
case; and to feign the grimaces of moral anguish became a passionately
engrossing game. He had not entered a theatre for months; but he sat out
the meaningless performance in rigid tolerance, sustained by the sense
of the reporter’s observation.
Between the acts, McCarren amused him with anecdotes about the audience:
he knew every one by sight, and could lift the curtain from every
physiognomy. Granice listened indulgently. He had lost all interest in
his kind, but he knew that he was himself the real centre of McCarren’s
attention, and that every word the latter spoke had an indirect bearing
on his own problem.
“See that fellow over there--the little dried-up man in the third
row, pulling his moustache? _His_ memoirs would be worth publishing,”
McCarren said suddenly in the last _entr’acte_.
Granice, following his glance, recognized the detective from Allonby’s
office. For a moment he had the thrilling sense that he was being
shadowed.
“Caesar, if _he_ could talk--!” McCarren continued. “Know who he is, of
course? Dr. John B. Stell, the biggest alienist in the country--”
Granice, with a start, bent again between the heads in front of him.
“_That_ man--the fourth from the aisle? You’re mistaken. That’s not Dr.
Stell.”
McCarren laughed. “Well, I guess I’ve been in court enough to know Stell
when I see him. He testifies in nearly all the big cases where they
plead insanity.”
A cold shiver ran down Granice’s spine, but he repeated obstinately:
“That’s not Dr. Stell.”
“Not Stell? Why, man, I _know_ him. Look--here he comes. If it isn’t
Stell, he won’t speak to me.”
The little dried-up man was moving slowly up the aisle. As he neared
McCarren he made a slight gesture of recognition.
“How’do, Doctor Stell? Pretty slim show, ain’t it?” the reporter
cheerfully flung out at him. And Mr. J. B. Hewson, with a nod of
amicable assent, passed on.
Granice sat benumbed. He knew he had not been mistaken--the man who
had just passed was the same man whom Allonby had sent to see him:
a physician disguised as a detective. Allonby, then, had thought him
insane, like the others--had regarded his confession as the maundering
of a maniac. The discovery froze Granice with horror--he seemed to see
the mad-house gaping for him.
“Isn’t there a man a good deal like him--a detective named J. B.
Hewson?”
But he knew in advance what McCarren’s answer would be. “Hewson? J.
B. Hewson? Never heard of him. But that was J. B. Stell fast enough--I
guess he can be trusted to know himself, and you saw he answered to his
name.”
VI
SOME days passed before Granice could obtain a word with the District
Attorney: he began to think that Allonby avoided him.
But when they were face to face Allonby’s jovial countenance showed
no sign of embarrassment. He waved his visitor to a chair, and leaned
across his desk with the encouraging smile of a consulting physician.
Granice broke out at once: “That detective you sent me the other day--”
Allonby raised a deprecating hand.
“--I know: it was Stell the alienist. Why did you do that, Allonby?”
The other’s face did not lose its composure. “Because I looked up your
story first--and there’s nothing in it.”
“Nothing in it?” Granice furiously interposed.
“Absolutely nothing. If there is, why the deuce don’t you bring me
proofs? I know you’ve been talking to Peter Ascham, and to Denver, and
to that little ferret McCarren of the _Explorer_. Have any of them been
able to make out a case for you? No. Well, what am I to do?”
Granice’s lips began to tremble. “Why did you play me that trick?”
“About Stell? I had to, my dear fellow: it’s part of my business. Stell
_is_ a detective, if you come to that--every doctor is.”
The trembling of Granice’s lips increased, communicating itself in a
long quiver to his facial muscles. He forced a laugh through his dry
throat. “Well--and what did he detect?”
“In you? Oh, he thinks it’s overwork--overwork and too much smoking. If
you look in on him some day at his office he’ll show you the record of
hundreds of cases like yours, and advise you what treatment to follow.
It’s one of the commonest forms of hallucination. Have a cigar, all the
same.”
“But, Allonby, I killed that man!”
The District Attorney’s large hand, outstretched on his desk, had an
almost imperceptible gesture, and a moment later, as if an answer to the
call of an electric bell, a clerk looked in from the outer office.
“Sorry, my dear fellow--lot of people waiting. Drop in on Stell some
morning,” Allonby said, shaking hands.
McCarren had to own himself beaten: there was absolutely no flaw in the
alibi. And since his duty to his journal obviously forbade his wasting
time on insoluble mysteries, he ceased to frequent Granice, who dropped
back into a deeper isolation. For a day or two after his visit to
Allonby he continued to live in dread of Dr. Stell. Why might not
Allonby have deceived him as to the alienist’s diagnosis? What if he
were really being shadowed, not by a police agent but by a mad-doctor?
To have the truth out, he suddenly determined to call on Dr. Stell.
The physician received him kindly, and reverted without embarrassment
to the conditions of their previous meeting. “We have to do that
occasionally, Mr. Granice; it’s one of our methods. And you had given
Allonby a fright.”
Granice was silent. He would have liked to reaffirm his guilt, to
produce the fresh arguments which had occurred to him since his last
talk with the physician; but he feared his eagerness might be taken
for a symptom of derangement, and he affected to smile away Dr. Stell’s
allusion.
“You think, then, it’s a case of brain-fag--nothing more?”
“Nothing more. And I should advise you to knock off tobacco. You smoke a
good deal, don’t you?”
He developed his treatment, recommending massage, gymnastics, travel, or
any form of diversion that did not--that in short--
Granice interrupted him impatiently. “Oh, I loathe all that--and I’m
sick of travelling.”
“H’m. Then some larger interest--politics, reform, philanthropy?
Something to take you out of yourself.”
“Yes. I understand,” said Granice wearily.
“Above all, don’t lose heart. I see hundreds of cases like yours,” the
doctor added cheerfully from the threshold.
On the doorstep Granice stood still and laughed. Hundreds of cases like
his--the case of a man who had committed a murder, who confessed his
guilt, and whom no one would believe! Why, there had never been a case
like it in the world. What a good figure Stell would have made in a
play: the great alienist who couldn’t read a man’s mind any better than
that!
Granice saw huge comic opportunities in the type.
But as he walked away, his fears dispelled, the sense of listlessness
returned on him. For the first time since his avowal to Peter Ascham
he found himself without an occupation, and understood that he had been
carried through the past weeks only by the necessity of constant action.
Now his life had once more become a stagnant backwater, and as he stood
on the street corner watching the tides of traffic sweep by, he asked
himself despairingly how much longer he could endure to float about in
the sluggish circle of his consciousness.
The thought of self-destruction recurred to him; but again his flesh
recoiled. He yearned for death from other hands, but he could never take
it from his own. And, aside from his insuperable physical reluctance,
another motive restrained him. He was possessed by the dogged desire
to establish the truth of his story. He refused to be swept aside as
an irresponsible dreamer--even if he had to kill himself in the end,
he would not do so before proving to society that he had deserved death
from it.
He began to write long letters to the papers; but after the first had
been published and commented on, public curiosity was quelled by a
brief statement from the District Attorney’s office, and the rest of his
communications remained unprinted. Ascham came to see him, and begged
him to travel. Robert Denver dropped in, and tried to joke him out of
his delusion; till Granice, mistrustful of their motives, began to dread
the reappearance of Dr. Stell, and set a guard on his lips. But the
words he kept back engendered others and still others in his brain.
His inner self became a humming factory of arguments, and he spent long
hours reciting and writing down elaborate statements of his crime,
which he constantly retouched and developed. Then gradually his activity
languished under the lack of an audience, the sense of being buried
beneath deepening drifts of indifference. In a passion of resentment he
swore that he would prove himself a murderer, even if he had to commit
another crime to do it; and for a sleepless night or two the thought
flamed red on his darkness. But daylight dispelled it. The determining
impulse was lacking and he hated too promiscuously to choose his
victim... So he was thrown back on the unavailing struggle to impose
the truth of his story. As fast as one channel closed on him he tried to
pierce another through the sliding sands of incredulity. But every issue
seemed blocked, and the whole human race leagued together to cheat one
man of the right to die.
Thus viewed, the situation became so monstrous that he lost his last
shred of self-restraint in contemplating it. What if he were really
the victim of some mocking experiment, the centre of a ring of
holiday-makers jeering at a poor creature in its blind dashes against
the solid walls of consciousness? But, no--men were not so uniformly
cruel: there were flaws in the close surface of their indifference,
cracks of weakness and pity here and there...
Granice began to think that his mistake lay in having appealed to
persons more or less familiar with his past, and to whom the visible
conformities of his life seemed a final disproof of its one fierce
secret deviation. The general tendency was to take for the whole of life
the slit seen between the blinders of habit: and in his walk down that
narrow vista Granice cut a correct enough figure. To a vision free to
follow his whole orbit his story would be more intelligible: it would
be easier to convince a chance idler in the street than the trained
intelligence hampered by a sense of his antecedents. This idea shot up
in him with the tropic luxuriance of each new seed of thought, and he
began to walk the streets, and to frequent out-of-the-way chop-houses
and bars in his search for the impartial stranger to whom he should
disclose himself.
At first every face looked encouragement; but at the crucial moment he
always held back. So much was at stake, and it was so essential that
his first choice should be decisive. He dreaded stupidity, timidity,
intolerance. The imaginative eye, the furrowed brow, were what he
sought. He must reveal himself only to a heart versed in the tortuous
motions of the human will; and he began to hate the dull benevolence
of the average face. Once or twice, obscurely, allusively, he made a
beginning--once sitting down at a man’s side in a basement chop-house,
another day approaching a lounger on an east-side wharf. But in both
cases the premonition of failure checked him on the brink of avowal. His
dread of being taken for a man in the clutch of a fixed idea gave him an
unnatural keenness in reading the expression of his interlocutors, and
he had provided himself in advance with a series of verbal alternatives,
trap-doors of evasion from the first dart of ridicule or suspicion.
He passed the greater part of the day in the streets, coming home at
irregular hours, dreading the silence and orderliness of his apartment,
and the critical scrutiny of Flint. His real life was spent in a
world so remote from this familiar setting that he sometimes had the
mysterious sense of a living metempsychosis, a furtive passage from one
identity to another--yet the other as unescapably himself!
One humiliation he was spared: the desire to live never revived in
him. Not for a moment was he tempted to a shabby pact with existing
conditions. He wanted to die, wanted it with the fixed unwavering desire
which alone attains its end. And still the end eluded him! It would not
always, of course--he had full faith in the dark star of his destiny.
And he could prove it best by repeating his story, persistently and
indefatigably, pouring it into indifferent ears, hammering it into dull
brains, till at last it kindled a spark, and some one of the careless
millions paused, listened, believed...
It was a mild March day, and he had been loitering on the west-side
docks, looking at faces. He was becoming an expert in physiognomies: his
eagerness no longer made rash darts and awkward recoils. He knew now the
face he needed, as clearly as if it had come to him in a vision; and
not till he found it would he speak. As he walked eastward through the
shabby reeking streets he had a premonition that he should find it that
morning. Perhaps it was the promise of spring in the air--certainly he
felt calmer than for many days...
He turned into Washington Square, struck across it obliquely, and walked
up University Place. Its heterogeneous passers always allured him--they
were less hurried than in Broadway, less enclosed and classified than in
Fifth Avenue. He walked slowly, watching for his face.
At Union Square he felt a sudden relapse into discouragement, like a
votary who has watched too long for a sign from the altar. Perhaps,
after all, he should never find his face... The air was languid, and
he felt tired. He walked between the bald grass-plots and the twisted
trees, making for an empty seat. Presently he passed a bench on which a
girl sat alone, and something as definite as the twitch of a cord made
him stop before her. He had never dreamed of telling his story to a
girl, had hardly looked at the women’s faces as they passed. His case
was man’s work: how could a woman help him? But this girl’s face was
extraordinary--quiet and wide as a clear evening sky. It suggested a
hundred images of space, distance, mystery, like ships he had seen, as
a boy, quietly berthed by a familiar wharf, but with the breath of far
seas and strange harbours in their shrouds... Certainly this girl would
understand. He went up to her quietly, lifting his hat, observing the
forms--wishing her to see at once that he was “a gentleman.”
“I am a stranger to you,” he began, sitting down beside her, “but your
face is so extremely intelligent that I feel... I feel it is the face
I’ve waited for ... looked for everywhere; and I want to tell you--”
The girl’s eyes widened: she rose to her feet. She was escaping him!
In his dismay he ran a few steps after her, and caught her roughly by
the arm.
“Here--wait--listen! Oh, don’t scream, you fool!” he shouted out.
He felt a hand on his own arm; turned and confronted a policeman.
Instantly he understood that he was being arrested, and something hard
within him was loosened and ran to tears.
“Ah, you know--you _know_ I’m guilty!”
He was conscious that a crowd was forming, and that the girl’s
frightened face had disappeared. But what did he care about her face? It
was the policeman who had really understood him. He turned and followed,
the crowd at his heels...
VII
IN the charming place in which he found himself there were so many
sympathetic faces that he felt more than ever convinced of the certainty
of making himself heard.
It was a bad blow, at first, to find that he had not been arrested
for murder; but Ascham, who had come to him at once, explained that he
needed rest, and the time to “review” his statements; it appeared that
reiteration had made them a little confused and contradictory. To
this end he had willingly acquiesced in his removal to a large quiet
establishment, with an open space and trees about it, where he had
found a number of intelligent companions, some, like himself, engaged
in preparing or reviewing statements of their cases, and others ready to
lend an interested ear to his own recital.
For a time he was content to let himself go on the tranquil current of
this existence; but although his auditors gave him for the most part
an encouraging attention, which, in some, went the length of really
brilliant and helpful suggestion, he gradually felt a recurrence of his
old doubts. Either his hearers were not sincere, or else they had
less power to aid him than they boasted. His interminable conferences
resulted in nothing, and as the benefit of the long rest made itself
felt, it produced an increased mental lucidity which rendered inaction
more and more unbearable. At length he discovered that on certain days
visitors from the outer world were admitted to his retreat; and he wrote
out long and logically constructed relations of his crime, and furtively
slipped them into the hands of these messengers of hope.
This occupation gave him a fresh lease of patience, and he now lived
only to watch for the visitors’ days, and scan the faces that swept by
him like stars seen and lost in the rifts of a hurrying sky.
Mostly, these faces were strange and less intelligent than those of his
companions. But they represented his last means of access to the world,
a kind of subterranean channel on which he could set his “statements”
afloat, like paper boats which the mysterious current might sweep out
into the open seas of life.
One day, however, his attention was arrested by a familiar contour,
a pair of bright prominent eyes, and a chin insufficiently shaved. He
sprang up and stood in the path of Peter McCarren.
The journalist looked at him doubtfully, then held out his hand with a
startled deprecating, “_Why--?_”
“You didn’t know me? I’m so changed?” Granice faltered, feeling the
rebound of the other’s wonder.
“Why, no; but you’re looking quieter--smoothed out,” McCarren smiled.
“Yes: that’s what I’m here for--to rest. And I’ve taken the opportunity
to write out a clearer statement--”
Granice’s hand shook so that he could hardly draw the folded paper from
his pocket. As he did so he noticed that the reporter was accompanied by
a tall man with grave compassionate eyes. It came to Granice in a wild
thrill of conviction that this was the face he had waited for...
“Perhaps your friend--he _is_ your friend?--would glance over it--or
I could put the case in a few words if you have time?” Granice’s voice
shook like his hand. If this chance escaped him he felt that his last
hope was gone. McCarren and the stranger looked at each other, and the
former glanced at his watch.
“I’m sorry we can’t stay and talk it over now, Mr. Granice; but my
friend has an engagement, and we’re rather pressed--”
Granice continued to proffer the paper. “I’m sorry--I think I could have
explained. But you’ll take this, at any rate?”
The stranger looked at him gently. “Certainly--I’ll take it.” He had his
hand out. “Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” Granice echoed.
He stood watching the two men move away from him through the long light
hall; and as he watched them a tear ran down his face. But as soon as
they were out of sight he turned and walked hastily toward his room,
beginning to hope again, already planning a new statement.
Outside the building the two men stood still, and the journalist’s
companion looked up curiously at the long monotonous rows of barred
windows.
“So that was Granice?”
“Yes--that was Granice, poor devil,” said McCarren.
“Strange case! I suppose there’s never been one just like it? He’s still
absolutely convinced that he committed that murder?”
“Absolutely. Yes.”
The stranger reflected. “And there was no conceivable ground for the
idea? No one could make out how it started? A quiet conventional sort of
fellow like that--where do you suppose he got such a delusion? Did you
ever get the least clue to it?”
McCarren stood still, his hands in his pockets, his head cocked up in
contemplation of the barred windows. Then he turned his bright hard gaze
on his companion.
“That was the queer part of it. I’ve never spoken of it--but I _did_ get
a clue.”
“By Jove! That’s interesting. What was it?”
McCarren formed his red lips into a whistle. “Why--that it wasn’t a
delusion.”
He produced his effect--the other turned on him with a pallid stare.
“He murdered the man all right. I tumbled on the truth by the merest
accident, when I’d pretty nearly chucked the whole job.”
“He murdered him--murdered his cousin?”
“Sure as you live. Only don’t split on me. It’s about the queerest
business I ever ran into... _Do about it?_ Why, what was I to do? I
couldn’t hang the poor devil, could I? Lord, but I was glad when they
collared him, and had him stowed away safe in there!”
The tall man listened with a grave face, grasping Granice’s statement in
his hand.
“Here--take this; it makes me sick,” he said abruptly, thrusting the
paper at the reporter; and the two men turned and walked in silence to
the gates.
HIS FATHER’S SON
I
AFTER his wife’s death Mason Grew took the momentous step of selling out
his business and moving from Wingfield, Connecticut, to Brooklyn.
For years he had secretly nursed the hope of such a change, but had
never dared to suggest it to Mrs. Grew, a woman of immutable habits.
Mr. Grew himself was attached to Wingfield, where he had grown up,
prospered, and become what the local press described as “prominent.”
He was attached to his ugly brick house with sandstone trimmings and
a cast-iron area-railing neatly sanded to match; to the similar row of
houses across the street, the “trolley” wires forming a kind of aerial
pathway between, and the sprawling vista closed by the steeple of the
church which he and his wife had always attended, and where their only
child had been baptized.
It was hard to snap all these threads of association, visual and
sentimental; yet still harder, now that he was alone, to live so far
from his boy. Ronald Grew was practising law in New York, and there
was no more chance of returning to live at Wingfield than of a river’s
flowing inland from the sea. Therefore to be near him his father must
move; and it was characteristic of Mr. Grew, and of the situation
generally, that the translation, when it took place, was to Brooklyn,
and not to New York.
“Why you bury yourself in that hole I can’t think,” had been Ronald’s
comment; and Mr. Grew simply replied that rents were lower in Brooklyn,
and that he had heard of a house that would suit him. In reality he had
said to himself--being the only recipient of his own confidences--that
if he went to New York he might be on the boy’s mind; whereas, if
he lived in Brooklyn, Ronald would always have a good excuse for not
popping over to see him every other day. The sociological isolation of
Brooklyn, combined with its geographical nearness, presented in fact the
precise conditions for Mr. Grew’s case. He wanted to be near enough to
New York to go there often, to feel under his feet the same pavement
that Ronald trod, to sit now and then in the same theatres, and find
on his breakfast-table the journals which, with increasing frequency,
inserted Ronald’s name in the sacred bounds of the society column. It
had always been a trial to Mr. Grew to have to wait twenty-four hours to
read that “among those present was Mr. Ronald Grew.” Now he had it
with his coffee, and left it on the breakfast-table to the perusal of a
“hired girl” cosmopolitan enough to do it justice. In such ways Brooklyn
attested the advantages of its propinquity to New York, while remaining,
as regards Ronald’s duty to his father, as remote and inaccessible as
Wingfield.
It was not that Ronald shirked his filial obligations, but rather
because of his heavy sense of them, that Mr. Grew so persistently sought
to minimize and lighten them. It was he who insisted, to Ronald, on the
immense difficulty of getting from New York to Brooklyn.
“Any way you look at it, it makes a big hole in the day; and there’s not
much use in the ragged rim left. You say you’re dining out next Sunday?
Then I forbid you to come over here for lunch. Do you understand me,
sir? You disobey at the risk of your father’s malediction! Where did you
say you were dining? With the Waltham Bankshires again? Why, that’s
the second time in three weeks, ain’t it? Big blow-out, I suppose? Gold
plate and orchids--opera singers in afterward? Well, you’d be in a nice
box if there was a fog on the river, and you got hung up half-way over.
That’d be a handsome return for the attention Mrs. Bankshire has shown
you--singling out a whipper-snapper like you twice in three weeks!
(What’s the daughter’s name--Daisy?) No, _sir_--don’t you come fooling
round here next Sunday, or I’ll set the dogs on you. And you wouldn’t
find me in anyhow, come to think of it. I’m lunching out myself, as it
happens--yes sir, _lunching out_. Is there anything especially comic in
my lunching out? I don’t often do it, you say? Well, that’s no reason
why I never should. Who with? Why, with--with old Dr. Bleaker: Dr.
Eliphalet Bleaker. No, you wouldn’t know about him--he’s only an old
friend of your mother’s and mine.”
Gradually Ronald’s insistence became less difficult to overcome. With
his customary sweetness and tact (as Mr. Grew put it) he began to
“take the hint,” to give in to “the old gentleman’s” growing desire for
solitude.
“I’m set in my ways, Ronny, that’s about the size of it; I like to
go tick-ticking along like a clock. I always did. And when you come
bouncing in I never feel sure there’s enough for dinner--or that I
haven’t sent Maria out for the evening. And I don’t want the neighbors
to see me opening my own door to my son. That’s the kind of cringing
snob I am. Don’t give me away, will you? I want ‘em to think I keep four
or five powdered flunkeys in the hall day and night--same as the lobby
of one of those Fifth Avenue hotels. And if you pop over when you’re not
expected, how am I going to keep up the bluff?”
Ronald yielded after the proper amount of resistance--his intuitive
sense, in every social transaction, of the proper amount of force to be
expended, was one of the qualities his father most admired in him. Mr.
Grew’s perceptions in this line were probably more acute than his son
suspected. The souls of short thick-set men, with chubby features,
mutton-chop whiskers, and pale eyes peering between folds of fat like
almond kernels in half-split shells--souls thus encased do not reveal
themselves to the casual scrutiny as delicate emotional instruments.
But in spite of the dense disguise in which he walked Mr. Grew vibrated
exquisitely in response to every imaginative appeal; and his son Ronald
was perpetually stimulating and feeding his imagination.
Ronald in fact constituted his father’s one escape from the impenetrable
element of mediocrity which had always hemmed him in. To a man so
enamoured of beauty, and so little qualified to add to its sum total,
it was a wonderful privilege to have bestowed on the world such a being.
Ronald’s resemblance to Mr. Grew’s early conception of what he himself
would have liked to look might have put new life into the discredited
theory of pre-natal influences. At any rate, if the young man owed his
beauty, his distinction and his winning manner to the dreams of one of
his parents, it was certainly to those of Mr. Grew, who, while outwardly
devoting his life to the manufacture and dissemination of Grew’s Secure
Suspender Buckle, moved in an enchanted inward world peopled with all
the figures of romance. In this high company Mr. Grew cut as brilliant
a figure as any of its noble phantoms; and to see his vision of himself
suddenly projected on the outer world in the shape of a brilliant
popular conquering son, seemed, in retrospect, to give to that image a
belated objective reality. There were even moments when, forgetting his
physiognomy, Mr. Grew said to himself that if he’d had “half a chance”
he might have done as well as Ronald; but this only fortified his
resolve that Ronald should do infinitely better.
Ronald’s ability to do well almost equalled his gift of looking well.
Mr. Grew constantly affirmed to himself that the boy was “not a genius”;
but, barring this slight deficiency, he was almost everything that
a parent could wish. Even at Harvard he had managed to be several
desirable things at once--writing poetry in the college magazine,
playing delightfully “by ear,” acquitting himself honorably in his
studies, and yet holding his own in the fashionable sporting set that
formed, as it were, the gateway of the temple of Society. Mr. Grew’s
idealism did not preclude the frank desire that his son should pass
through that gateway; but the wish was not prompted by material
considerations. It was Mr. Grew’s notion that, in the rough and hurrying
current of a new civilization, the little pools of leisure and enjoyment
must nurture delicate growths, material graces as well as moral
refinements, likely to be uprooted and swept away by the rush of the
main torrent. He based his theory on the fact that he had liked the
few “society” people he had met--had found their manners simpler, their
voices more agreeable, their views more consonant with his own, than
those of the leading citizens of Wingfield. But then he had met very
few.
Ronald’s sympathies needed no urging in the same direction. He took
naturally, dauntlessly, to all the high and exceptional things about
which his father’s imagination had so long sheepishly and ineffectually
hovered--from the start he _was_ what Mr. Grew had dreamed of being.
And so precise, so detailed, was Mr. Grew’s vision of his own imaginary
career, that as Ronald grew up, and began to travel in a widening orbit,
his father had an almost uncanny sense of the extent to which that
career was enacting itself before him. At Harvard, Ronald had done
exactly what the hypothetical Mason Grew would have done, had not his
actual self, at the same age, been working his way up in old Slagden’s
button factory--the institution which was later to acquire fame, and
even notoriety, as the birthplace of Grew’s Secure Suspender Buckle.
Afterward, at a period when the actual Grew had passed from the factory
to the bookkeeper’s desk, his invisible double had been reading law at
Columbia--precisely again what Ronald did! But it was when the young man
left the paths laid out for him by the parental hand, and cast himself
boldly on the world, that his adventures began to bear the most
astonishing resemblance to those of the unrealized Mason Grew. It was in
New York that the scene of this hypothetical being’s first exploits had
always been laid; and it was in New York that Ronald was to achieve
his first triumph. There was nothing small or timid about Mr. Grew’s
imagination; it had never stopped at anything between Wingfield and
the metropolis. And the real Ronald had the same cosmic vision as his
parent. He brushed aside with a contemptuous laugh his mother’s tearful
entreaty that he should stay at Wingfield and continue the dynasty of
the Grew Suspender Buckle. Mr. Grew knew that in reality Ronald winced
at the Buckle, loathed it, blushed for his connection with it. Yet it
was the Buckle that had seen him through Groton, Harvard and the Law
School, and had permitted him to enter the office of a distinguished
corporation lawyer, instead of being enslaved to some sordid business
with quick returns. The Buckle had been Ronald’s fairy godmother--yet
his father did not blame him for abhorring and disowning it. Mr. Grew
himself often bitterly regretted having bestowed his own name on the
instrument of his material success, though, at the time, his doing so
had been the natural expression of his romanticism. When he invented
the Buckle, and took out his patent, he and his wife both felt that to
bestow their name on it was like naming a battle-ship or a peak of the
Andes.
Mrs. Grew had never learned to know better; but Mr. Grew had discovered
his error before Ronald was out of school. He read it first in a black
eye of his boy’s. Ronald’s symmetry had been marred by the insolent fist
of a fourth former whom he had chastised for alluding to his father as
“Old Buckles;” and when Mr. Grew heard the epithet he understood in a
flash that the Buckle was a thing to blush for. It was too late then
to dissociate his name from it, or to efface from the hoardings of the
entire continent the picture of two gentlemen, one contorting himself in
the abject effort to repair a broken brace, while the careless ease
of the other’s attitude proclaimed his trust in the Secure Suspender
Buckle. These records were indelible, but Ronald could at least be
spared all direct connection with them; and from that day Mr. Grew
resolved that the boy should not return to Wingfield.
“You’ll see,” he had said to Mrs. Grew, “he’ll take right hold in New
York. Ronald’s got my knack for taking hold,” he added, throwing out his
chest.
“But the way you took hold was in business,” objected Mrs. Grew, who was
large and literal.
Mr. Grew’s chest collapsed, and he became suddenly conscious of his
comic face in its rim of sandy whiskers. “That’s not the only way,” he
said, with a touch of wistfulness which escaped his wife’s analysis.
“Well, of course you could have written beautifully,” she rejoined with
admiring eyes.
“_ Written?_ Me!” Mr. Grew became sardonic.
“Why, those letters--weren’t _they_ beautiful, I’d like to know?”
The couple exchanged a glance, innocently allusive and amused on the
wife’s part, and charged with a sudden tragic significance on the
husband’s.
“Well, I’ve got to be going along to the office now,” he merely said,
dragging himself out of his rocking-chair.
This had happened while Ronald was still at school; and now Mrs. Grew
slept in the Wingfield cemetery, under a life-size theological virtue of
her own choosing, and Mr. Grew’s prognostications as to Ronald’s ability
to “take right hold” in New York were being more and more brilliantly
fulfilled.
II
RONALD obeyed his father’s injunction not to come to luncheon on the day
of the Bankshires’ dinner; but in the middle of the following week Mr.
Grew was surprised by a telegram from his son.
“Want to see you important matter. Expect me to-morrow afternoon.”
Mr. Grew received the telegram after breakfast. To peruse it he had
lifted his eye from a paragraph of the morning paper describing a
fancy-dress dinner which had taken place the night before at the
Hamilton Gliddens’ for the house-warming of their new Fifth Avenue
palace.
“Among the couples who afterward danced in the Poets’ Quadrille were
Miss Daisy Bankshire, looking more than usually lovely as Laura, and Mr.
Ronald Grew as the young Petrarch.”
Petrarch and Laura! Well--if _anything_ meant anything, Mr. Grew
supposed he knew what that meant. For weeks past he had noticed how
constantly the names of the young people appeared together in the
society notes he so insatiably devoured. Even the soulless reporter was
getting into the habit of coupling them in his lists. And this Laura and
Petrarch business was almost an announcement...
Mr. Grew dropped the telegram, wiped his eye-glasses, and re-read the
paragraph. “Miss Daisy Bankshire ... more than usually lovely...” Yes;
she _was_ lovely. He had often seen her photograph in the papers--seen
her represented in every conceivable attitude of the mundane game:
fondling her prize bull-dog, taking a fence on her thoroughbred, dancing
a _gavotte_, all patches and plumes, or fingering a guitar, all tulle
and lilies; and once he had caught a glimpse of her at the theatre.
Hearing that Ronald was going to a fashionable first-night with the
Bankshires, Mr. Grew had for once overcome his repugnance to following
his son’s movements, and had secured for himself, under the shadow of
the balcony, a stall whence he could observe the Bankshire box without
fear of detection. Ronald had never known of his father’s presence at
the play; and for three blessed hours Mr. Grew had watched his boy’s
handsome dark head bent above the dense fair hair and white averted
shoulder that were all he could catch of Miss Bankshire’s beauties.
He recalled the vision now; and with it came, as usual, its ghostly
double: the vision of his young self bending above such a white shoulder
and such shining hair. Needless to say that the real Mason Grew had
never found himself in so enviable a situation. The late Mrs. Grew had
no more resembled Miss Daisy Bankshire than he had looked like the happy
victorious Ronald. And the mystery was that from their dull faces,
their dull endearments, the miracle of Ronald should have sprung. It was
almost--fantastically--as if the boy had been a changeling, child of a
Latmian night, whom the divine companion of Mr. Grew’s early reveries
had secretly laid in the cradle of the Wingfield bedroom while Mr. And
Mrs. Grew slept the deep sleep of conjugal indifference.
The young Mason Grew had not at first accepted this astral episode as
the complete cancelling of his claims on romance. He too had grasped at
the high-hung glory; and, with his fatal tendency to reach too far when
he reached at all, had singled out the prettiest girl in Wingfield.
When he recalled his stammered confession of love his face still tingled
under her cool bright stare. The wonder of his audacity had struck her
dumb; and when she recovered her voice it was to fling a taunt at him.
“Don’t be too discouraged, you know--have you ever thought of trying
Addie Wicks?”
All Wingfield would have understood the gibe: Addie Wicks was the
dullest girl in town. And a year later he had married Addie Wicks...
He looked up from the perusal of Ronald’s telegram with this memory in
his mind. Now at last his dream was coming true! His boy would taste
of the joys that had mocked his thwarted youth and his dull gray
middle-age. And it was fitting that they should be realized in Ronald’s
destiny. Ronald was made to take happiness boldly by the hand and lead
it home like a bridegroom. He had the carriage, the confidence, the high
faith in his fortune, that compel the wilful stars. And, thanks to
the Buckle, he would have the exceptional setting, the background of
material elegance, that became his conquering person. Since Mr. Grew
had retired from business his investments had prospered, and he had been
saving up his income for just such a contingency. His own wants were
few: he had transferred the Wingfield furniture to Brooklyn, and his
sitting-room was a replica of that in which the long years of his
married life had been spent. Even the florid carpet on which Ronald’s
tottering footsteps had been taken was carefully matched when it
became too threadbare. And on the marble centre-table, with its
chenille-fringed cover and bunch of dyed pampas grass, lay the
illustrated Longfellow and the copy of Ingersoll’s lectures which
represented literature to Mr. Grew when he had led home his bride. In
the light of Ronald’s romance, Mr. Grew found himself re-living, with
a strange tremor of mingled pain and tenderness, all the poor prosaic
incidents of his own personal history. Curiously enough, with this new
splendor on them they began to emit a small faint ray of their own. His
wife’s armchair, in its usual place by the fire, recalled her placid
unperceiving presence, seated opposite to him during the long drowsy
years; and he felt her kindness, her equanimity, where formerly he had
only ached at her obtuseness. And from the chair he glanced up at the
large discolored photograph on the wall above, with a brittle brown
wreath suspended on a corner of the frame. The photograph represented
a young man with a poetic necktie and untrammelled hair, leaning
negligently against a Gothic chair-back, a roll of music in his hand;
and beneath was scrawled a bar of Chopin, with the words: “_ Adieu,
Adele_.”
The portrait was that of the great pianist, Fortune Dolbrowski; and its
presence on the wall of Mr. Grew’s sitting-room commemorated the only
exquisite hour of his life save that of Ronald’s birth. It was some time
before the latter memorable event, a few months only after Mr. Grew’s
marriage, that he had taken his wife to New York to hear the great
Dolbrowski. Their evening had been magically beautiful, and even Addie,
roused from her habitual inexpressiveness, had quivered into a momentary
semblance of life. “I never--I never--” she gasped out helplessly when
they had regained their hotel bedroom, and sat staring back entranced
at the evening’s evocations. Her large immovable face was pink and
tremulous, and she sat with her hands on her knees, forgetting to roll
up her bonnet-strings and prepare her curl-papers.
“I’d like to _write_ him just how I felt--I wisht I knew how!” she burst
out suddenly in a final effervescence of emotion.
Her husband lifted his head and looked at her.
“Would you? I feel that way too,” he said with a sheepish laugh. And
they continued to stare at each other shyly through a transfiguring mist
of sound.
Mr. Grew recalled the scene as he gazed up at the pianist’s faded
photograph. “Well, I owe her that anyhow--poor Addie!” he said, with a
smile at the inconsequences of fate. With Ronald’s telegram in his hand
he was in a mood to count his mercies.
III
“A CLEAR twenty-five thousand a year: that’s what you can tell ‘em
with my compliments,” said Mr. Grew, glancing complacently across the
centre-table at his boy’s charming face.
It struck him that Ronald’s gift for looking his part in life had never
so romantically expressed itself. Other young men, at such a moment,
would have been red, damp, tight about the collar; but Ronald’s cheek
was only a shade paler, and the contrast made his dark eyes more
expressive.
“A clear twenty-five thousand; yes, sir--that’s what I always meant you
to have.”
Mr. Grew leaned back, his hands thrust carelessly in his pockets, as
though to divert attention from the agitation of his features. He had
often pictured himself rolling out that phrase to Ronald, and now that
it was actually on his lips he could not control their tremor.
Ronald listened in silence, lifting a nervous hand to his slight dark
moustache, as though he, too, wished to hide some involuntary betrayal
of emotion. At first Mr. Grew took his silence for an expression of
gratified surprise; but as it prolonged itself it became less easy to
interpret.
“I--see here, my boy; did you expect more? Isn’t it enough?” Mr. Grew
cleared his throat. “Do _they_ expect more?” he asked nervously. He was
hardly able to face the pain of inflicting a disappointment on Ronald
at the very moment when he had counted on putting the final touch to his
felicity.
Ronald moved uneasily in his chair and his eyes wandered upward to the
laurel-wreathed photograph of the pianist above his father’s head.
“_ Is_ it that, Ronald? Speak out, my boy. We’ll see, we’ll look
round--I’ll manage somehow.”
“No, no,” the young man interrupted, abruptly raising his hand as though
to silence his father.
Mr. Grew recovered his cheerfulness. “Well, what’s the matter than, if
_she’s_ willing?”
Ronald shifted his position again, and finally rose from his seat.
“Father--I--there’s something I’ve got to tell you. I can’t take your
money.”
Mr. Grew sat speechless a moment, staring blankly at his son; then he
emitted a puzzled laugh. “My money? What are you talking about? What’s
this about my money? Why, it ain’t _mine_, Ronny; it’s all yours--every
cent of it!” he cried.
The young man met his tender look with a gaze of tragic rejection.
“No, no, it’s not mine--not even in the sense you mean. Not in any
sense. Can’t you understand my feeling so?”
“Feeling so? I don’t know how you’re feeling. I don’t know what you’re
talking about. Are you too proud to touch any money you haven’t earned?
Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“No. It’s not that. You must know--”
Mr. Grew flushed to the rim of his bristling whiskers. “Know? Know
_what?_ Can’t you speak?”
Ronald hesitated, and the two men faced each other for a long strained
moment, during which Mr. Grew’s congested countenance grew gradually
pale again.
“What’s the meaning of this? Is it because you’ve done something ...
something you’re ashamed of ... ashamed to tell me?” he suddenly
gasped out; and walking around the table he laid his hand on his son’s
shoulder. “There’s nothing you can’t tell me, my boy.”
“It’s not that. Why do you make it so hard for me?” Ronald broke out
with passion. “You must have known this was sure to happen sooner or
later.”
“Happen? What was sure to hap--?” Mr. Grew’s question wavered on his lip
and passed into a tremulous laugh. “Is it something _I’ve_ done that you
don’t approve of? Is it--is it _the Buckle_ you’re ashamed of, Ronald
Grew?”
Ronald laughed too, impatiently. “The Buckle? No, I’m not ashamed of
the Buckle; not any more than you are,” he returned with a sudden
bright flush. “But I’m ashamed of all I owe to it--all I owe to
you--when--when--” He broke off and took a few distracted steps across
the room. “You might make this easier for me,” he protested, turning
back to his father.
“Make what easier? I know less and less what you’re driving at,” Mr.
Grew groaned.
Ronald’s walk had once more brought him beneath the photograph on the
wall. He lifted his head for a moment and looked at it; then he looked
again at Mr. Grew.
“Do you suppose I haven’t always known?”
“Known--?”
“Even before you gave me those letters--after my mother’s death--even
before that, I suspected. I don’t know how it began ... perhaps from
little things you let drop ... you and she ... and resemblances that I
couldn’t help seeing ... in myself ... How on earth could you suppose
I shouldn’t guess? I always thought you gave me the letters as a way of
telling me--”
Mr. Grew rose slowly from his chair. “The letters? Dolbrowski’s
letters?”
Ronald nodded with white lips. “You must remember giving them to me the
day after the funeral.”
Mr. Grew nodded back. “Of course. I wanted you to have everything your
mother valued.”
“Well--how could I help knowing after that?”
“Knowing _what?_” Mr. Grew stood staring helplessly at his son. Suddenly
his look caught at a clue that seemed to confront it with a deeper
bewilderment. “You thought--you thought those letters ... Dolbrowski’s
letters ... you thought they meant ...”
“Oh, it wasn’t only the letters. There were so many other signs. My love
of music--my--all my feelings about life ... and art... And when you
gave me the letters I thought you must mean me to know.”
Mr. Grew had grown quiet. His lips were firm, and his small eyes looked
out steadily from their creased lids.
“To know that you were Fortune Dolbrowski’s son?”
Ronald made a mute sign of assent.
“I see. And what did you mean to do?”
“I meant to wait till I could earn my living, and then repay you ...
as far as I can ever repay you... But now that there’s a chance of
my marrying ... and your generosity overwhelms me ... I’m obliged to
speak.”
“I see,” said Mr. Grew again. He let himself down into his chair,
looking steadily and not unkindly at the young man. “Sit down, Ronald.
Let’s talk.”
Ronald made a protesting movement. “Is anything to be gained by it?
You can’t change me--change what I feel. The reading of those letters
transformed my whole life--I was a boy till then: they made a man of me.
From that moment I understood myself.” He paused, and then looked up at
Mr. Grew’s face. “Don’t imagine I don’t appreciate your kindness--your
extraordinary generosity. But I can’t go through life in disguise. And I
want you to know that I have not won Daisy under false pretences--”
Mr. Grew started up with the first expletive Ronald had ever heard on
his lips.
“You damned young fool, you, you haven’t _told_ her--?”
Ronald raised his head quickly. “Oh, you don’t know her, sir! She thinks
no worse of me for knowing my secret. She is above and beyond all
such conventional prejudices. She’s _proud_ of my parentage--” he
straightened his slim young shoulders--“as I’m proud of it ... yes, sir,
proud of it...”
Mr. Grew sank back into his seat with a dry laugh. “Well, you ought to
be. You come of good stock. And you’re father’s son, every inch of you!”
He laughed again, as though the humor of the situation grew on him with
its closer contemplation.
“Yes, I’ve always felt that,” Ronald murmured, flushing.
“Your father’s son, and no mistake.” Mr. Grew leaned forward. “You’re
the son of as big a fool as yourself. And here he sits, Ronald Grew.”
The young man’s flush deepened to crimson; but Mr. Grew checked his
reply with a decisive gesture. “Here he sits, with all your young
nonsense still alive in him. Don’t you see the likeness? If you don’t,
I’ll tell you the story of those letters.”
Ronald stared. “What do you mean? Don’t they tell their own story?”
“I supposed they did when I gave them to you; but you’ve given it a
twist that needs straightening out.” Mr. Grew squared his elbows on the
table, and looked at the young man across the gift-books and the dyed
pampas grass. “I wrote all the letters that Dolbrowski answered.”
Ronald gave back his look in frowning perplexity. “You wrote them? I
don’t understand. His letters are all addressed to my mother.”
“Yes. And he thought he was corresponding with her.”
“But my mother--what did she think?”
Mr. Grew hesitated, puckering his thick lids. “Well, I guess she kinder
thought it was a joke. Your mother didn’t think about things much.”
Ronald continued to bend a puzzled frown on the question. “I don’t
understand,” he reiterated.
Mr. Grew cleared his throat with a nervous laugh. “Well, I don’t know
as you ever will--_quite_. But this is the way it came about. I had a
toughish time of it when I was young. Oh, I don’t mean so much the fight
I had to put up to make my way--there was always plenty of fight in
me. But inside of myself it was kinder lonesome. And the outside didn’t
attract callers.” He laughed again, with an apologetic gesture toward
his broad blinking face. “When I went round with the other young fellows
I was always the forlorn hope--the one that had to eat the drumsticks
and dance with the left-overs. As sure as there was a blighter at a
picnic I had to swing her, and feed her, and drive her home. And all the
time I was mad after all the things you’ve got--poetry and music and all
the joy-forever business. So there were the pair of us--my face and my
imagination--chained together, and fighting, and hating each other like
poison.
“Then your mother came along and took pity on me. It sets up a gawky
fellow to find a girl who ain’t ashamed to be seen walking with him
Sundays. And I was grateful to your mother, and we got along first-rate.
Only I couldn’t say things to her--and she couldn’t answer. Well--one
day, a few months after we were married, Dolbrowski came to New York,
and the whole place went wild about him. I’d never heard any good music,
but I’d always had an inkling of what it must be like, though I couldn’t
tell you to this day how I knew. Well, your mother read about him in the
papers too, and she thought it’d be the swagger thing to go to New York
and hear him play--so we went... I’ll never forget that evening. Your
mother wasn’t easily stirred up--she never seemed to need to let off
steam. But that night she seemed to understand the way I felt. And when
we got back to the hotel she said suddenly: ‘I’d like to tell him how I
feel. I’d like to sit right down and write to him.’
“‘Would you?’ I said. ‘So would I.’
“There was paper and pens there before us, and I pulled a sheet toward
me, and began to write. ‘Is this what you’d like to say to him?’ I
asked her when the letter was done. And she got pink and said: ‘I don’t
understand it, but it’s lovely.’ And she copied it out and signed her
name to it, and sent it.”
Mr. Grew paused, and Ronald sat silent, with lowered eyes.
“That’s how it began; and that’s where I thought it would end. But it
didn’t, because Dolbrowski answered. His first letter was dated January
10, 1872. I guess you’ll find I’m correct. Well, I went back to hear him
again, and I wrote him after the performance, and he answered again. And
after that we kept it up for six months. Your mother always copied the
letters and signed them. She seemed to think it was a kinder joke, and
she was proud of his answering my letters. But she never went back to
New York to hear him, though I saved up enough to give her the treat
again. She was too lazy, and she let me go without her. I heard him
three times in New York; and in the spring he came to Wingfield and
played once at the Academy. Your mother was sick and couldn’t go; so I
went alone. After the performance I meant to get one of the directors to
take me in to see him; but when the time came, I just went back home
and wrote to him instead. And the month after, before he went back to
Europe, he sent your mother a last little note, and that picture hanging
up there...”
Mr. Grew paused again, and both men lifted their eyes to the photograph.
“Is that all?” Ronald slowly asked.
“That’s all--every bit of it,” said Mr. Grew.
“And my mother--my mother never even spoke to Dolbrowski?”
“Never. She never even saw him but that once in New York at his
concert.”
The blood crept again to Ronald’s face. “Are you sure of that, sir?” he
asked in a trembling voice.
“Sure as I am that I’m sitting here. Why, she was too lazy to look at
his letters after the first novelty wore off. She copied the answers
just to humor me--but she always said she couldn’t understand what we
wrote.”
“But how could you go on with such a correspondence? It’s incredible!”
Mr. Grew looked at his son thoughtfully. “I suppose it is, to you.
You’ve only had to put out your hand and get the things I was starving
for--music, and good talk, and ideas. Those letters gave me all that.
You’ve read them, and you know that Dolbrowski was not only a great
musician but a great man. There was nothing beautiful he didn’t see,
nothing fine he didn’t feel. For six months I breathed his air, and I’ve
lived on it ever since. Do you begin to understand a little now?”
“Yes--a little. But why write in my mother’s name? Why make it a
sentimental correspondence?”
Mr. Grew reddened to his bald temples. “Why, I tell you it began that
way, as a kinder joke. And when I saw that the first letter pleased and
interested him, I was afraid to tell him--_I couldn’t_ tell him. Do you
suppose he’d gone on writing if he’d ever seen me, Ronny?”
Ronald suddenly looked at him with new eyes. “But he must have thought
your letters very beautiful--to go on as he did,” he broke out.
“Well--I did my best,” said Mr. Grew modestly.
Ronald pursued his idea. “Where _are_ all your letters, I wonder?
Weren’t they returned to you at his death?”
Mr. Grew laughed. “Lord, no. I guess he had trunks and trunks full of
better ones. I guess Queens and Empresses wrote to him.”
“I should have liked to see your letters,” the young man insisted.
“Well, they weren’t bad,” said Mr. Grew drily. “But I’ll tell you one
thing, Ronny,” he added suddenly. Ronald raised his head with a quick
glance, and Mr. Grew continued: “I’ll tell you where the best of those
letters is--it’s in _you_. If it hadn’t been for that one look at life I
couldn’t have made you what you are. Oh, I know you’ve done a good deal
of your own making--but I’ve been there behind you all the time. And
you’ll never know the work I’ve spared you and the time I’ve saved you.
Fortune Dolbrowski helped me do that. I never saw things in little again
after I’d looked at ‘em with him. And I tried to give you the big view
from the stars... So that’s what became of my letters.”
Mr. Grew paused, and for a long time Ronald sat motionless, his elbows
on the table, his face dropped on his hands.
Suddenly Mr. Grew’s touch fell on his shoulder.
“Look at here, Ronald Grew--do you want me to tell you how you’re
feeling at this minute? Just a mite let down, after all, at the idea
that you ain’t the romantic figure you’d got to think yourself... Well,
that’s natural enough, too; but I’ll tell you what it proves. It proves
you’re my son right enough, if any more proof was needed. For it’s just
the kind of fool nonsense I used to feel at your age--and if there’s
anybody here to laugh at it’s myself, and not you. And you can laugh at
me just as much as you like...”
THE DAUNT DIANA
I
“WHAT’S become of the Daunt Diana? You mean to say you never heard the
sequel?”
Ringham Finney threw himself back into his chair with the smile of the
collector who has a good thing to show. He knew he had a good listener,
at any rate. I don’t think much of Ringham’s snuff-boxes, but his
anecdotes are usually worth while. He’s a psychologist astray among
_bibelots_, and the best bits he brings back from his raids on
Christie’s and the Hotel Drouot are the fragments of human nature he
picks up on those historic battle-fields. If his _flair_ in enamel had
been half as good we should have heard of the Finney collection by this
time.
He really has--queer fatuous investigator!--an unusually sensitive touch
for the human texture, and the specimens he gathers into his museum
of heterogeneous memories have almost always some mark of the rare and
chosen. I felt, therefore, that I was really to be congratulated on
the fact that I didn’t know what had become of the Daunt Diana, and on
having before me a long evening in which to learn. I had just led
my friend back, after an excellent dinner at Foyot’s, to the shabby
pleasant sitting-room of my _rive-gauche_ hotel; and I knew that, once
I had settled him in a good arm-chair, and put a box of cigars at his
elbow, I could trust him not to budge till I had the story.
II
YOU remember old Neave, of course? Little Humphrey Neave, I mean. We
used to see him pottering about Rome years ago. He lived in two tiny
rooms over a wine shop, on polenta and lentils, and prowled among the
refuse of the Ripetta whenever he had a few _soldi_ to spend. But you’ve
been out of the collector’s world for so long that you may not know what
happened to him afterward...
He was always a queer chap, Neave; years older than you and me, of
course--and even when I first knew him, in my raw Roman days, he gave
me an extraordinary sense of age and experience. I don’t think I’ve ever
known any one who was at once so intelligent and so simple. It’s the
precise combination that results in romance; and poor little Neave was
romantic.
He told me once how he’d come to Rome. He was _originaire_ of Mystic,
Connecticut--and he wanted to get as far away from it as possible. Rome
seemed as far as anything on the same planet could be; and after he’d
worried his way through Harvard--with shifts and shavings that you and
I can’t imagine--he contrived to get sent to Switzerland as tutor to a
chap who’d failed in his examinations. With only the Alps between, he
wasn’t likely to turn back; and he got another fellow to take his pupil
home, and struck out on foot for the seven hills.
I’m telling you these early details merely to give you a notion of the
man’s idealism. There was a cool persistency and a headlong courage in
his dash for Rome that one wouldn’t have guessed in the little pottering
chap we used to know. Once on the spot, he got more tutoring, managed to
make himself a name for coaxing balky youths to take their fences, and
was finally able to take up the more congenial task of expounding “the
antiquities” to cultured travellers. I call it more congenial--but how
it must have seared his soul! Fancy unveiling the sacred scars of Time
to ladies who murmur: “Was this _actually_ the spot--?” while they
absently feel for their hatpins! He used to say that nothing kept him
at it but the exquisite thought of accumulating the _lire_ for his
collection. For the Neave collection, my dear fellow, began early, began
almost with his Roman life, began in a series of little nameless odds
and ends, broken trinkets, torn embroideries, the amputated extremities
of maimed marbles: things that even the rag-picker had pitched away when
he sifted his haul. But they weren’t nameless or meaningless to Neave;
his strength lay in his instinct for identifying, putting together,
seeing significant relations. He was a regular Cuvier of bric-a-brac.
And during those early years, when he had time to brood over trifles and
note imperceptible differences, he gradually sharpened his instinct, and
made it into the delicate and redoubtable instrument it is. Before he
had a thousand francs’ worth of _anticaglie_ to his name he began to be
known as an expert, and the big dealers were glad to consult him. But
we’re getting no nearer the Daunt Diana...
Well, some fifteen years ago, in London, I ran across Neave at
Christie’s. He was the same little man we’d known, effaced, bleached,
indistinct, like a poor “impression”--as unnoticeable as one of his own
early finds, yet, like them, with a _quality_, if one had an eye for
it. He told me he still lived in Rome, and had contrived, by fierce
self-denial, to get a few decent bits together--“piecemeal, little by
little, with fasting and prayer; and I mean the fasting literally!” he
said.
He had run over to London for his annual “look-round”--I fancy one or
another of the big collectors usually paid his journey--and when we met
he was on his way to see the Daunt collection. You know old Daunt was a
surly brute, and the things weren’t easily seen; but he had heard Neave
was in London, and had sent--yes, actually sent!--for him to come and
give his opinion on a few bits, including the Diana. The little man bore
himself discreetly, but you can imagine his pride. In his exultation he
asked me to come with him--“Oh, I’ve the _grandes et petites entrees_,
my dear fellow: I’ve made my conditions--” and so it happened that I saw
the first meeting between Humphrey Neave and his fate.
For that collection _was_ his fate: or, one may say, it was embodied in
the Diana who was queen and goddess of the realm. Yes--I shall always be
glad I was with Neave when he had his first look at the Diana. I see him
now, blinking at her through his white lashes, and stroking his seedy
wisp of a moustache to hide a twitch of the muscles. It was all very
quiet, but it was the _coup de foudre_. I could see that by the way
his hands trembled when he turned away and began to examine the other
things. You remember Neave’s hands--thin, sallow, dry, with long
inquisitive fingers thrown out like antennae? Whatever they hold--bronze
or lace, hard enamel or brittle glass--they have an air of conforming
themselves to the texture of the thing, and sucking out of it, by every
finger-tip, the mysterious essence it has secreted. Well, that day,
as he moved about among Daunt’s treasures, the Diana followed him
everywhere. He didn’t look back at her--he gave himself to the business
he was there for--but whatever he touched, he felt her. And on the
threshold he turned and gave her his first free look--the kind of look
that says: _“You’re mine.”_
It amused me at the time--the idea of little Neave making eyes at any of
Daunt’s belongings. He might as well have coquetted with the Kohinoor.
And the same idea seemed to strike him; for as we turned away from the
big house in Belgravia he glanced up at it and said, with a bitterness
I’d never heard in him: “Good Lord! To think of that lumpy fool having
those things to handle! Did you notice his stupid stumps of fingers? I
suppose he blunted them gouging nuggets out of the gold fields. And in
exchange for the nuggets he gets all that in a year--only has to hold
out his callous palm to have that great ripe sphere of beauty drop into
it! That’s my idea of heaven--to have a great collection drop into
one’s hand, as success, or love, or any of the big shining things,
drop suddenly on some men. And I’ve had to worry along for nearly fifty
years, saving and paring, and haggling and intriguing, to get here a
bit and there a bit--and not one perfection in the lot! It’s enough to
poison a man’s life.”
The outbreak was so unlike Neave that I remember every word of it:
remember, too, saying in answer: “But, look here, Neave, you wouldn’t
take Daunt’s hands for yours, I imagine?”
He stared a moment and smiled. “Have all that, and grope my way through
it like a blind cave fish? What a question! But the sense that it’s
always the blind fish that live in that kind of aquarium is what makes
anarchists, sir!” He looked back from the corner of the square, where we
had paused while he delivered himself of this remarkable metaphor. “God,
I’d like to throw a bomb at that place, and be in at the looting!”
And with that, on the way home, he unpacked his grievance--pulled the
bandage off the wound, and showed me the ugly mark it had made on his
little white soul.
It wasn’t the struggling, stinting, self-denying that galled him--it was
the inadequacy of the result. It was, in short, the old tragedy of the
discrepancy between a man’s wants and his power to gratify them. Neave’s
taste was too exquisite for his means--was like some strange, delicate,
capricious animal, that he cherished and pampered and couldn’t satisfy.
“Don’t you know those little glittering lizards that die if they’re not
fed on some wonderful tropical fly? Well, my taste’s like that, with
one important difference--if it doesn’t get its fly, it simply turns and
feeds on me. Oh, it doesn’t die, my taste--worse luck! It gets larger
and stronger and more fastidious, and takes a bigger bite of me--that’s
all.”
That was all. Year by year, day by day, he had made himself into this
delicate register of perceptions and sensations--as far above the
ordinary human faculty of appreciation as some scientific registering
instrument is beyond the rough human senses--only to find that the
beauty which alone could satisfy him was unattainable--that he was never
to know the last deep identification which only possession can give. He
had trained himself in short, to feel, in the rare great thing--such
an utterance of beauty as the Daunt Diana, say--a hundred elements of
perfection, a hundred _reasons why_, imperceptible, inexplicable even,
to the average “artistic” sense; he had reached this point by a long
austere process of discrimination and rejection, the renewed great
refusals of the intelligence which perpetually asks more, which will
make no pact with its self of yesterday, and is never to be beguiled
from its purpose by the wiles of the next-best-thing. Oh, it’s a
poignant case, but not a common one; for the next-best-thing usually
wins...
You see, the worst of Neave’s state was the fact of his not being a mere
collector, even the collector raised to his highest pitch of efficiency.
The whole thing was blent in him with poetry--his imagination had
romanticized the acquisitive instinct, as the religious feeling of the
Middle Ages turned passion into love. And yet his could never be the
abstract enjoyment of the philosopher who says: “This or that object is
really mine because I’m capable of appreciating it.” Neave _wanted_ what
he appreciated--wanted it with his touch and his sight as well as with
his imagination.
It was hardly a year afterward that, coming back from a long tour in
India, I picked up a London paper and read the amazing headline: “Mr.
Humphrey Neave buys the Daunt collection”... I rubbed my eyes and read
again. Yes, it could only be our old friend Humphrey. “An American
living in Rome ... one of our most discerning collectors”; there was no
mistaking the description. I clapped on my hat and bolted out to see the
first dealer I could find; and there I had the incredible details. Neave
had come into a fortune--two or three million dollars, amassed by an
uncle who had a corset-factory, and who had attained wealth as the
creator of the Mystic Super-straight. (Corset-factory sounds odd, by
the way, doesn’t it? One had fancied that the corset was a personal, a
highly specialized garment, more or less shaped on the form it was to
modify; but, after all, the Tanagras were all made from two or
three moulds--and so, I suppose, are the ladies who wear the Mystic
Super-straight.)
The uncle had a son, and Neave had never dreamed of seeing a penny of
the money; but the son died suddenly, and the father followed, leaving
a codicil that gave everything to our friend. Humphrey had to go out to
“realize” on the corset-factory; and his description of _that_ ... Well,
he came back with his money in his pocket, and the day he landed old
Daunt went to smash. It all fitted in like a Chinese puzzle. I believe
Neave drove straight from Euston to Daunt House: at any rate, within two
months the collection was his, and at a price that made the trade sit
up. Trust old Daunt for that!
I was in Rome the following spring, and you’d better believe I looked
him up. A big porter glared at me from the door of the Palazzo Neave:
I had almost to produce my passport to get in. But that wasn’t Neave’s
fault--the poor fellow was so beset by people clamouring to see his
collection that he had to barricade himself, literally. When I had
mounted the state _Scalone_, and come on him, at the end of half a dozen
echoing saloons, in the farthest, smallest _reduit_ of the vast suite, I
received the same welcome that he used to give us in his little den over
the wine shop.
“Well--so you’ve got her?” I said. For I’d caught sight of the Diana
in passing, against the bluish blur of an old _verdure_--just the
background for her poised loveliness. Only I rather wondered why she
wasn’t in the room where he sat.
He smiled. “Yes, I’ve got her,” he returned, more calmly than I had
expected.
“And all the rest of the loot?”
“Yes. I had to buy the lump.”
“Had to? But you wanted to, didn’t you? You used to say it was your
idea of heaven--to stretch out your hand and have a great ripe sphere of
beauty drop into it. I’m quoting your own words, by the way.”
Neave blinked and stroked his seedy moustache. “Oh, yes. I remember the
phrase. It’s true--it _is_ the last luxury.” He paused, as if seeking a
pretext for his lack of warmth. “The thing that bothered me was having
to move. I couldn’t cram all the stuff into my old quarters.”
“Well, I should say not! This is rather a better setting.”
He got up. “Come and take a look round. I want to show you two or three
things--new attributions I’ve made. I’m doing the catalogue over.”
The interest of showing me the things seemed to dispel the vague apathy
I had felt in him. He grew keen again in detailing his redistribution of
values, and above all in convicting old Daunt and his advisers of their
repeated aberrations of judgment. “The miracle is that he should have
got such things, knowing as little as he did what he was getting. And
the egregious asses who bought for him were no better, were worse in
fact, since they had all sorts of humbugging wrong reasons for admiring
what old Daunt simply coveted because it belonged to some other rich
man.”
Never had Neave had so wondrous a field for the exercise of his
perfected faculty; and I saw then how in the real, the great collector’s
appreciations the keenest scientific perception is suffused with
imaginative sensibility, and how it’s to the latter undefinable quality
that in the last resort he trusts himself.
Nevertheless, I still felt the shadow of that hovering apathy, and he
knew I felt it, and was always breaking off to give me reasons for it.
For one thing, he wasn’t used to his new quarters--hated their bigness
and formality; then the requests to show his things drove him mad. “The
women--oh, the women!” he wailed, and interrupted himself to describe
a heavy-footed German Princess who had marched past his treasures as
if she were inspecting a cavalry regiment, applying an unmodulated
_Mugneeficent_ to everything from the engraved gems to the Hercules
torso.
“Not that she was half as bad as the other kind,” he added, as if with
a last effort at optimism. “The kind who discriminate and say: ‘I’m not
sure if it’s Botticelli or Cellini I mean, but _one of that school_, at
any rate.’ And the worst of all are the ones who know--up to a certain
point: have the schools, and the dates and the jargon pat, and yet
wouldn’t know a Phidias if it stood where they hadn’t expected it.”
He had all my sympathy, poor Neave; yet these were trials inseparable
from the collector’s lot, and not always without their secret
compensations. Certainly they did not wholly explain my friend’s
attitude; and for a moment I wondered if it were due to some strange
disillusionment as to the quality of his treasures. But no! the Daunt
collection was almost above criticism; and as we passed from one object
to another I saw there was no mistaking the genuineness of Neave’s pride
in his possessions. The ripe sphere of beauty was his, and he had found
no flaw in it as yet...
A year later came the amazing announcement--the Daunt collection was for
sale. At first we all supposed it was a case of weeding out (though how
old Daunt would have raged at the thought of anybody’s weeding _his_
collection!) But no--the catalogue corrected that idea. Every stick and
stone was to go under the hammer. The news ran like wildfire from Rome
to Berlin, from Paris to London and New York. Was Neave ruined, then?
Wrong again--the dealers nosed that out in no time. He was simply
selling because he chose to sell; and in due time the things came up at
Christie’s.
But you may be sure the trade had found an answer to the riddle; and
the answer was that, on close inspection, Neave had found the collection
less impeccable than he had supposed. It was a preposterous answer--but
then there was no other. Neave, by this time, was pretty generally
recognized as having the subtlest _flair_ of any collector in Europe,
and if he didn’t choose to keep the Daunt collection it could be only
because he had reason to think he could do better.
In a flash this report had gone the rounds and the buyers were on their
guard. I had run over to London to see the thing through, and it was the
queerest sale I ever was at. Some of the things held their own, but a
lot--and a few of the best among them--went for half their value. You
see, they’d been locked up in old Daunt’s house for nearly twenty years,
and hardly shown to any one, so that the whole younger generation of
dealers and collectors knew of them only by hearsay. Then you know
the effect of suggestion in such cases. The undefinable sense we were
speaking of is a ticklish instrument, easily thrown out of gear by
a sudden fall of temperature; and the sharpest experts grow shy and
self-distrustful when the cold current of depreciation touches them. The
sale was a slaughter--and when I saw the Daunt Diana fall at the wink of
a little third-rate _brocanteur_ from Vienna I turned sick at the folly
of my kind.
For my part, I had never believed that Neave had sold the collection
because he’d “found it out”; and within a year my incredulity was
justified. As soon as the things were put in circulation they were known
for the marvels they are. There was hardly a poor bit in the lot; and
my wonder grew at Neave’s madness. All over Europe, dealers began to be
fighting for the spoils; and all kinds of stuff were palmed off on the
unsuspecting as fragments of the Daunt collection!
Meanwhile, what was Neave doing? For a long time I didn’t hear, and
chance kept me from returning to Rome. But one day, in Paris, I ran
across a dealer who had captured for a song one of the best Florentine
bronzes in the Daunt collection--a marvellous _plaquette_ of
Donatello’s. I asked him what had become of it, and he said with a grin:
“I sold it the other day,” naming a price that staggered me.
“Ye gods! Who paid you that for it?”
His grin broadened, and he answered: “Neave.”
“_ Neave?_ Humphrey Neave?”
“Didn’t you know he was buying back his things?”
“Nonsense!”
“He is, though. Not in his own name--but he’s doing it.”
And he _was_, do you know--and at prices that would have made a sane man
shudder! A few weeks later I ran across his tracks in London, where he
was trying to get hold of a Penicaud enamel--another of his scattered
treasures. Then I hunted him down at his hotel, and had it out with him.
“Look here, Neave, what are you up to?”
He wouldn’t tell me at first: stared and laughed and denied. But I
took him off to dine, and after dinner, while we smoked, I happened
to mention casually that I had a pull over the man who had the
Penicaud--and at that he broke down and confessed.
“Yes, I’m buying them back, Finney--it’s true.” He laughed nervously,
twitching his moustache. And then he let me have the story.
“You know how I’d hungered and thirsted for the _real thing_--you quoted
my own phrase to me once, about the ‘ripe sphere of beauty.’ So when I
got my money, and Daunt lost his, almost at the same moment, I saw the
hand of Providence in it. I knew that, even if I’d been younger, and had
more time, I could never hope, nowadays, to form such a collection as
_that_. There was the ripe sphere, within reach; and I took it. But when
I got it, and began to live with it, I found out my mistake. It was a
_mariage de convenance_--there’d been no wooing, no winning. Each of
my little old bits--the rubbish I chucked out to make room for Daunt’s
glories--had its own personal history, the drama of my relation to it,
of the discovery, the struggle, the capture, the first divine moment
of possession. There was a romantic secret between us. And then I
had absorbed its beauties one by one, they had become a part of
my imagination, they held me by a hundred threads of far-reaching
association. And suddenly I had expected to create this kind of
intense personal tie between myself and a roomful of new cold alien
presences--things staring at me vacantly from the depths of unknown
pasts! Can you fancy a more preposterous hope? Why, my other things, my
_own_ things, had wooed me as passionately as I wooed them: there was a
certain little bronze, a little Venus Callipyge, who had drawn me,
drawn me, drawn me, imploring me to rescue her from her unspeakable
surroundings in a vulgar bric-a-brac shop at Biarritz, where she shrank
out of sight among sham Sevres and Dutch silver, as one has seen
certain women--rare, shy, exquisite--made almost invisible by the vulgar
splendours surrounding them. Well! that little Venus, who was just
a specious seventeenth century attempt at the ‘antique,’ but who had
penetrated me with her pleading grace, touched me by the easily
guessed story of her obscure, anonymous origin, was more to me
imaginatively--yes! more than the cold bought beauty of the Daunt
Diana...”
“The Daunt Diana!” I broke in. “Hold up, Neave--_the Daunt Diana?_”
He smiled contemptuously. “A professional beauty, my dear
fellow--expected every head to be turned when she came into a room.”
“Oh, Neave,” I groaned.
“Yes, I know. You’re thinking of what we felt that day we first saw her
in London. Many a poor devil has sold his soul as the result of such
a first sight! Well, I sold _her_ instead. Do you want the truth about
her? _Elle etait bete a pleurer._”
He laughed, and stood up with a little shrug of disenchantment.
“And so you’re impenitent?” I paused. “And yet you’re buying some of the
things back?”
Neave laughed again, ironically. “I knew you’d find me out and call
me to account. Well, yes: I’m buying back.” He stood before me half
sheepish, half defiant. “I’m buying back because there’s nothing else
as good in the market. And because I’ve a queer feeling that, this time,
they’ll be _mine_. But I’m ruining myself at the game!” he confessed.
It was true: Neave was ruining himself. And he’s gone on ruining himself
ever since, till now the job’s nearly done. Bit by bit, year by year,
he has gathered in his scattered treasures, at higher prices than the
dealers ever dreamed of getting. There are fabulous details in the story
of his quest. Now and then I ran across him, and was able to help him
recover a fragment; and it was wonderful to see his delight in the
moment of reunion. Finally, about two years ago, we met in Paris, and he
told me he had got back all the important pieces except the Diana.
“The Diana? But you told me you didn’t care for her.”
“Didn’t care?” He leaned across the restaurant table that divided us.
“Well, no, in a sense I didn’t. I wanted her to want me, you see; and
she didn’t then! Whereas now she’s crying to me to come to her. You know
where she is?” he broke off.
Yes, I knew: in the centre of Mrs. Willy P. Goldmark’s yellow and gold
drawing-room, under a thousand-candle-power chandelier, with reflectors
aimed at her from every point of the compass. I had seen her wincing and
shivering there in her outraged nudity at one of the Goldmark “crushes.”
“But you can’t get her, Neave,” I objected.
“No, I can’t get her,” he said.
Well, last month I was in Rome, for the first time in six or seven
years, and of course I looked about for Neave. The Palazzo Neave was let
to some rich Russians, and the splendid new porter didn’t know where the
proprietor lived. But I got on his trail easily enough, and it led me to
a strange old place in the Trastevere, an ancient crevassed black palace
turned tenement house, and fluttering with pauper clothes-lines. I found
Neave under the leads, in two or three cold rooms that smelt of the
_cuisine_ of all his neighbours: a poor shrunken little figure, seedier
and shabbier than ever, yet more alive than when we had made the tour of
his collection in the Palazzo Neave.
The collection was around him again, not displayed in tall cabinets and
on marble tables, but huddled on shelves, perched on chairs, crammed in
corners, putting the gleam of bronze, the opalescence of old glass, the
pale lustre of marble, into all the angles of his low dim rooms. There
they were, the proud presences that had stared at him down the vistas of
Daunt House, and shone in cold transplanted beauty under his own painted
cornices: there they were, gathered in humble promiscuity about his bent
shabby figure, like superb wild creatures tamed to become the familiars
of some harmless old wizard.
As we went from bit to bit, as he lifted one piece after another, and
held it to the light of his low windows, I saw in his hands the same
tremor of sensation that I had noticed when he first examined the same
objects at Daunt House. All his life was in his finger-tips, and it
seemed to communicate life to the exquisite things he touched. But
you’ll think me infected by his mysticism if I tell you they gained new
beauty while he held them...
We went the rounds slowly and reverently; and then, when I supposed our
inspection was over, and was turning to take my leave, he opened a door
I had not noticed, and showed me into a slit of a room beyond. It was
a mere monastic cell, scarcely large enough for his narrow iron bed and
the chest which probably held his few clothes; but there, in a niche of
the bare wall, facing the foot of the bed--there stood the Daunt Diana.
I gasped at the sight and turned to him; and he looked back at me
without speaking.
“In the name of magic, Neave, how did you do it?”
He smiled as if from the depths of some secret rapture. “Call it magic,
if you like; but I ruined myself doing it,” he said.
I stared at him in silence, breathless with the madness and the
wonder of it; and suddenly, red to the ears, he flung out his boyish
confession. “I lied to you that day in London--the day I said I didn’t
care for her. I always cared--always worshipped--always wanted her. But
she wasn’t mine then, and I knew it, and she knew it ... and now at last
we understand each other.” He looked at me shyly, and then glanced about
the bare cold cell. “The setting isn’t worthy of her, I know; she
was meant for glories I can’t give her; but beautiful things, my dear
Finney, like beautiful spirits, live in houses not made with hands...”
His face shone with extraordinary sweetness as he spoke; and I saw he’d
got hold of the secret we’re all after. No, the setting isn’t worthy of
her, if you like. The rooms are as shabby and mean as those we used
to see him in years ago over the wine shop. I’m not sure they’re not
shabbier and meaner. But she rules there at last, she shines and hovers
there above him, and there at night, I doubt not, steals down from her
cloud to give him the Latmian kiss.
THE DEBT
I
YOU remember--it’s not so long ago--the talk there was about Dredge’s
“Arrival of the Fittest”? The talk has subsided, but the book of
course remains: stands up, in fact, as the tallest thing of its kind
since--well, I’d almost said since “The Origin of Species.”
I’m not wrong, at any rate, in calling it the most important
contribution yet made to the development of the Darwinian theory, or
rather to the solution of the awkward problem about which that theory
has had to make such a circuit. Dredge’s hypothesis will be contested,
may one day be disproved; but at least it has swept out of the way all
previous conjectures, including of course Lanfear’s magnificent attempt;
and for our generation of scientific investigators it will serve as the
first safe bridge across a murderous black whirlpool.
It’s all very interesting--there are few things more stirring to the
imagination than that sudden projection of the new hypothesis, light as
a cobweb and strong as steel, across the intellectual abyss; but, for
an idle observer of human motives, the other, the personal, side of
Dredge’s case is even more interesting and arresting.
Personal side? You didn’t know there was one? Pictured him simply as
a thinking machine, a highly specialized instrument of precision, the
result of a long series of “adaptations,” as his own jargon would put
it? Well, I don’t wonder--if you’ve met him. He does give the impression
of being something out of his own laboratory: a delicate scientific
instrument that reveals wonders to the initiated, and is absolutely
useless in an ordinary hand.
In his youth it was just the other way. I knew him twenty years ago, as
an awkward lout whom young Archie Lanfear had picked up at college, and
brought home for a visit. I happened to be staying at the Lanfears’ when
the boys arrived, and I shall never forget Dredge’s first appearance on
the scene. You know the Lanfears always lived very simply. That summer
they had gone to Buzzard’s Bay, in order that Professor Lanfear might be
near the Biological Station at Wood’s Holl, and they were picnicking in
a kind of sketchy bungalow without any attempt at elegance. But Galen
Dredge couldn’t have been more awe-struck if he’d been suddenly plunged
into a Fifth Avenue ball-room. He nearly knocked his shock head against
the low doorway, and in dodging this peril trod heavily on Mabel
Lanfear’s foot, and became hopelessly entangled in her mother’s
draperies--though how he managed it I never knew, for Mrs. Lanfear’s
dowdy muslins ran to no excess of train.
When the Professor himself came in it was ten times worse, and I saw
then that Dredge’s emotion was a tribute to the great man’s proximity.
That made the boy interesting, and I began to watch. Archie, always
enthusiastic but vague, had said: “Oh, he’s a tremendous chap--you’ll
see--” but I hadn’t expected to see quite so clearly. Lanfear’s vision,
of course, was sharper than mine; and the next morning he had carried
Dredge off to the Biological Station. And that was the way it began.
Dredge is the son of a Baptist minister. He comes from East Lethe, New
York State, and was working his way through college--waiting at White
Mountain hotels in summer--when Archie Lanfear ran across him. There
were eight children in the family, and the mother was an invalid. Dredge
never had a penny from his father after he was fourteen; but his mother
wanted him to be a scholar, and “kept at him,” as he put it, in the hope
of his going back to “teach school” at East Lethe. He developed slowly,
as the scientific mind generally does, and was still adrift about
himself and his tendencies when Archie took him down to Buzzard’s Bay.
But he had read Lanfear’s “Utility and Variation,” and had always been
a patient and curious observer of nature. And his first meeting with
Lanfear explained him to himself. It didn’t, however, enable him to
explain himself to others, and for a long time he remained, to all but
Lanfear, an object of incredulity and conjecture.
“_ Why_ my husband wants him about--” poor Mrs. Lanfear, the kindest of
women, privately lamented to her friends; for Dredge, at that time--they
kept him all summer at the bungalow--had one of the most encumbering
personalities you can imagine. He was as inexpressive as he is to-day,
and yet oddly obtrusive: one of those uncomfortable presences whose
silence is an interruption.
The poor Lanfears almost died of him that summer, and the pity of it
was that he never suspected it, but continued to lavish on them a
floundering devotion as uncomfortable as the endearments of a dripping
dog--all out of gratitude for the Professor’s kindness! He was full,
in those days, of raw enthusiasms, which he forced on any one who
would listen when his first shyness had worn off. You can’t picture him
spouting sentimental poetry, can you? Yet I’ve seen him petrify a whole
group of Mrs. Lanfear’s callers by suddenly discharging on them, in the
strident drawl of Western New York, “Barbara Frietchie” or “The Queen of
the May.” His taste in literature was uniformly bad, but very definite,
and far more assertive than his views on biological questions. In his
scientific judgments he showed, even then, a remarkable temperance, a
precocious openness to the opposite view; but in literature he was a
furious propagandist, aggressive, disputatious, and extremely sensitive
to adverse opinion.
Lanfear, of course, had been struck from the first by his gift of
accurate observation, and by the fact that his eagerness to learn was
offset by his reluctance to conclude. I remember Lanfear’s telling me
that he had never known a lad of Dredge’s age who gave such promise of
uniting an aptitude for general ideas with the plodding patience of the
accumulator of facts. Of course when Lanfear talked like that of a young
biologist his fate was sealed. There could be no question of Dredge’s
going back to “teach school” at East Lethe. He must take a course in
biology at Columbia, spend his vacations at the Wood’s Holl laboratory,
and then, if possible, go to Germany for a year or two.
All this meant his virtual adoption by the Lanfears. Most of Lanfear’s
fortune went in helping young students to a start, and he devoted his
heaviest subsidies to Dredge.
“Dredge will be my biggest dividend--you’ll see!” he used to say, in the
chrysalis days when poor Galen was known to the world of science only
as a perpetual slouching presence in Mrs. Lanfear’s drawing-room. And
Dredge, it must be said, took his obligations simply, with that kind of
personal dignity, and quiet sense of his own worth, which in such cases
saves the beneficiary from abjectness. He seemed to trust himself as
fully as Lanfear trusted him.
The comic part of it was that his only idea of making what is known as
“a return” was to devote himself to the Professor’s family. When I hear
pretty women lamenting that they can’t coax Professor Dredge out of his
laboratory I remember Mabel Lanfear’s cry to me: “If Galen would only
keep away!” When Mabel fell on the ice and broke her leg, Galen walked
seven miles in a blizzard to get a surgeon; but if he did her this
service one day in the year, he bored her by being in the way for the
other three hundred and sixty-four. One would have imagined at that
time that he thought his perpetual presence the greatest gift he could
bestow; for, except on the occasion of his fetching the surgeon, I don’t
remember his taking any other way of expressing his gratitude.
In love with Mabel? Not a bit! But the queer thing was that he _did_
have a passion in those days--a blind, hopeless passion for Mrs.
Lanfear! Yes: I know what I’m saying. I mean Mrs. Lanfear, the
Professor’s wife, poor Mrs. Lanfear, with her tight hair and her loose
figure, her blameless brow and earnest eye-glasses, and her perpetual
attitude of mild misapprehension. I can see Dredge cowering, long and
many-jointed, in a diminutive drawing-room chair, one square-toed
shoe coiled round an exposed ankle, his knees clasped in a knot of
red knuckles, and his spectacles perpetually seeking Mrs. Lanfear’s
eye-glasses. I never knew if the poor lady was aware of the sentiment
she inspired, but her children observed it, and it provoked them to
irreverent mirth. Galen was the predestined butt of Mabel and
Archie; and secure in their mother’s virtuous obtuseness, and in her
worshipper’s timidity, they allowed themselves a latitude of banter
that sometimes turned their audience cold. Dredge meanwhile was going on
obstinately with his work. Now and then he had queer fits of idleness,
when he lapsed into a state of sulky inertia from which even Lanfear’s
admonitions could not rouse him. Once, just before an examination,
he suddenly went off to the Maine woods for two weeks, came back, and
failed to pass. I don’t know if his benefactor ever lost hope; but at
times his confidence must have been sorely strained. The queer part of
it was that when Dredge emerged from these eclipses he seemed keener and
more active than ever. His slowly growing intelligence probably needed
its periodical pauses of assimilation; and Lanfear was marvellously
patient.
At last Dredge finished his course and went to Germany; and when he came
back he was a new man--was, in fact, the Dredge we all know. He seemed
to have shed his blundering, encumbering personality, and come to
life as a disembodied intelligence. His fidelity to the Lanfears
was unchanged; but he showed it negatively, by his discretions and
abstentions. I have an idea that Mabel was less disposed to deride him,
might even have been induced to softer sentiments; but I doubt if Dredge
even noticed the change. As for his ex-goddess, he seemed to regard her
as a motherly household divinity, the guardian genius of the darning
needle; but on Professor Lanfear he looked with a deepening reverence.
If the rest of the family had diminished in his eyes, its head had grown
even greater.
II
FROM that day Dredge’s progress continued steadily. If not always
perceptible to the untrained eye, in Lanfear’s sight it never deviated,
and the great man began to associate Dredge with his work, and to lean
on him more and more. Lanfear’s health was already failing, and in my
confidential talks with him I saw how he counted on Galen Dredge to
continue and amplify his doctrine. If he did not describe the young man
as his predestined Huxley, it was because any such comparison between
himself and his great predecessors would have been repugnant to his
taste; but he evidently felt that it would be Dredge’s role to reveal
him to posterity. And the young man seemed at that time to take the same
view of his calling. When he was not busy about Lanfear’s work he was
recording their conversations with the diligence of a biographer and the
accuracy of a naturalist. Any attempt to question or minimize Lanfear’s
theories roused in his disciple the only flashes of wrath I have ever
seen a scientific discussion provoke in him. In defending his master
he became almost as intemperate as in the early period of his literary
passions.
Such filial dedication must have been all the more precious to Lanfear
because, about that time, it became evident that Archie would never
carry on his father’s work. He had begun brilliantly, you may remember,
by a little paper on _Limulus Polyphemus_ that attracted a good deal
of notice when it appeared in the _Central Blatt_; but gradually his
zoological ardour yielded to an absorbing passion for the violin,
which was followed by a sudden plunge into physics. At present, after a
side-glance at the drama, I understand he’s devoting what is left of his
father’s money to archaeological explorations in Asia Minor.
“Archie’s got a delightful little mind,” Lanfear used to say to me,
rather wistfully, “but it’s just a highly polished surface held up to
the show as it passes. Dredge’s mind takes in only a bit at a time,
but the bit stays, and other bits are joined to it, in a hard mosaic of
fact, of which imagination weaves the pattern. I saw just how it would
be years ago, when my boy used to take my meaning in a flash, and answer
me with clever objections, while Galen disappeared into one of his
fathomless silences, and then came to the surface like a dripping
retriever, a long way beyond Archie’s objections, and with an answer to
them in his mouth.”
It was about this time that the crowning satisfaction of Lanfear’s
career came to him: I mean, of course, John Weyman’s gift to Columbia
of the Lanfear Laboratory, and the founding, in connection with it, of a
chair of Experimental Evolution. Weyman had always taken an interest in
Lanfear’s work, but no one had supposed that his interest would express
itself so magnificently. The honour came to Lanfear at a time when he
was fighting an accumulation of troubles: failing health, the
money difficulties resulting from his irrepressible generosity, his
disappointment about Archie’s career, and perhaps also the persistent
attacks of the new school of German zoologists.
“If I hadn’t Galen I should feel the game was up,” he said to me once,
in a fit of half-real, half-mocking despondency. “But he’ll do what I
haven’t time to do myself, and what my boy can’t do for me.”
That meant that he would answer the critics, and triumphantly affirm
Lanfear’s theory, which had been rudely shaken, but not displaced.
“A scientific hypothesis lasts till there’s something else to put in
its place. People who want to get across a river will use the old bridge
till the new one’s built. And I don’t see any one who’s particularly
anxious, in this case, to take a contract for the new one,” Lanfear
ended; and I remember answering with a laugh: “Not while Horatius Dredge
holds the other.”
It was generally known that Lanfear had not long to live, and the
Laboratory was hardly opened before the question of his successor in
the chair of Experimental Evolution began to be a matter of public
discussion. It was conceded that whoever followed him ought to be a
man of achieved reputation, some one carrying, as the French say, a
considerable “baggage.” At the same time, even Lanfear’s critics felt
that he should be succeeded by a man who held his views and would
continue his teaching. This was not in itself a difficulty, for German
criticism had so far been mainly negative, and there were plenty of
good men who, while they questioned the permanent validity of Lanfear’s
conclusions, were yet ready to accept them for their provisional
usefulness. And then there was the added inducement of the Laboratory!
The Columbia Professor of Experimental Evolution has at his disposal the
most complete instrument of biological research that modern ingenuity
has yet produced; and it’s not only in theology or politics _que Paris
vaut bien une messe!_ There was no trouble about finding a candidate;
but the whole thing turned on Lanfear’s decision, since it was tacitly
understood that, by Weyman’s wish, he was to select his successor. And
what a cry there was when he selected Galen Dredge!
Not in the scientific world, though. The specialists were beginning to
know about Dredge. His remarkable paper on Sexual Dimorphism had been
translated into several languages, and a furious polemic had broken out
over it. When a young fellow can get the big men fighting over him his
future is pretty well assured. But Dredge was only thirty-four, and some
people seemed to feel that there was a kind of deflected nepotism in
Lanfear’s choice.
“If he could choose Dredge he might as well have chosen his own son,”
I’ve heard it said; and the irony was that Archie--will you believe
it?--actually thought so himself! But Lanfear had Weyman behind him,
and when the end came the Faculty at once appointed Galen Dredge to the
chair of Experimental Evolution.
For the first two years things went quietly, along accustomed
lines. Dredge simply continued the course which Lanfear’s death had
interrupted. He lectured well even then, with a persuasive simplicity
surprising in the slow, inarticulate creature one knew him for. But
haven’t you noticed that certain personalities reveal themselves only
in the more impersonal relations of life? It’s as if they woke only
to collective contacts, and the single consciousness were an unmeaning
fragment to them.
If there was anything to criticize in that first part of the course,
it was the avoidance of general ideas, of those brilliant rockets of
conjecture that Lanfear’s students were used to seeing him fling
across the darkness. I remember once saying this to Archie, who, having
recovered from his absurd disappointment, had returned to his old
allegiance to Dredge.
“Oh, that’s Galen all over. He doesn’t want to jump into the ring till
he has a big swishing knock-down argument in his fist. He’ll wait twenty
years if he has to. That’s his strength: he’s never afraid to wait.”
I thought this shrewd of Archie, as well as generous; and I saw the
wisdom of Dredge’s course. As Lanfear himself had said, his theory was
safe enough till somebody found a more attractive one; and before
that day Dredge would probably have accumulated sufficient proof to
crystallize the fluid hypothesis.
III
THE third winter I was off collecting in Central America, and didn’t
get back till Dredge’s course had been going for a couple of months.
The very day I turned up in town Archie Lanfear descended on me with a
summons from his mother. I was wanted at once at a family council.
I found the Lanfear ladies in a state of incoherent distress, which
Archie’s own indignation hardly made more intelligible. But gradually
I put together their fragmentary charges, and learned that Dredge’s
lectures were turning into an organized assault on his master’s
doctrine.
“It amounts to just this,” Archie said, controlling his women with the
masterful gesture of the weak man. “Galen has simply turned round and
betrayed my father.”
“Just for a handful of silver he left us,” Mabel sobbed in parenthesis,
while Mrs. Lanfear tearfully cited Hamlet.
Archie silenced them again. “The ugly part of it is that he must have
had this up his sleeve for years. He must have known when he was asked
to succeed my father what use he meant to make of his opportunity. What
he’s doing isn’t the result of a hasty conclusion: it means years of
work and preparation.”
Archie broke off to explain himself. He had returned from Europe the
week before, and had learned on arriving that Dredge’s lectures were
stirring the world of science as nothing had stirred it since Lanfear’s
“Utility and Variation.” And the incredible outrage was that they owed
their sensational effect to the fact of being an attempted refutation of
Lanfear’s great work.
I own that I was staggered: the case looked ugly, as Archie said. And
there was a veil of reticence, of secrecy, about Dredge, that always
kept his conduct in a half-light of uncertainty. Of some men one would
have said off-hand: “It’s impossible!” But one couldn’t affirm it of
him.
Archie hadn’t seen him as yet; and Mrs. Lanfear had sent for me because
she wished me to be present at the interview between the two men. The
Lanfear ladies had a touching belief in Archie’s violence: they thought
him as terrible as a natural force. My own idea was that if there were
any broken bones they wouldn’t be Dredge’s; but I was too curious as to
the outcome not to be glad to offer my services as moderator.
First, however, I wanted to hear one of the lectures; and I went the
next afternoon. The hall was jammed, and I saw, as soon as Dredge
appeared, what increased security and ease the interest of his public
had given him. He had been clear the year before, now he was also
eloquent. The lecture was a remarkable effort: you’ll find the gist of
it in Chapter VII of “The Arrival of the Fittest.” Archie sat at my
side in a white rage; he was too clever not to measure the extent of the
disaster. And I was almost as indignant as he when we went to see Dredge
the next day.
I saw at a glance that the latter suspected nothing; and it was
characteristic of him that he began by questioning me about my finds,
and only afterward turned to reproach Archie for having been back a week
without notifying him.
“You know I’m up to my neck in this job. Why in the world didn’t you
hunt me up before this?”
The question was exasperating, and I could understand Archie’s stammer
of wrath.
“Hunt you up? Hunt you up? What the deuce are you made of, to ask me
such a question instead of wondering why I’m here now?”
Dredge bent his slow calm scrutiny on his friend’s quivering face; then
he turned to me.
“What’s the matter?” he said simply.
“The matter?” shrieked Archie, his clenched fist hovering excitedly
above the desk by which he stood; but Dredge, with unwonted quickness,
caught the fist as it descended.
“Careful--I’ve got a _Kallima_ in that jar there.” He pushed a chair
forward, and added quietly: “Sit down.”
Archie, ignoring the gesture, towered pale and avenging in his place;
and Dredge, after a moment, took the chair himself.
“The matter?” Archie reiterated with rising passion. “Are you so lost to
all sense of decency and honour that you can put that question in good
faith? Don’t you really _know_ what’s the matter?”
Dredge smiled slowly. “There are so few things one _really knows_.”
“Oh, damn your scientific hair-splitting! Don’t you know you’re
insulting my father’s memory?”
Dredge stared again, turning his spectacles thoughtfully from one of us
to the other.
“Oh, that’s it, is it? Then you’d better sit down. If you don’t see at
once it’ll take some time to make you.”
Archie burst into an ironic laugh.
“I rather think it will!” he conceded.
“Sit down, Archie,” I said, setting the example; and he obeyed, with a
gesture that made his consent a protest.
Dredge seemed to notice nothing beyond the fact that his visitors were
seated. He reached for his pipe, and filled it with the care which the
habit of delicate manipulations gave to all the motions of his long,
knotty hands.
“It’s about the lectures?” he said.
Archie’s answer was a deep scornful breath.
“You’ve only been back a week, so you’ve only heard one, I suppose?”
“It was not necessary to hear even that one. You must know the talk
they’re making. If notoriety is what you’re after--”
“Well, I’m not sorry to make a noise,” said Dredge, putting a match to
his pipe.
Archie bounded in his chair. “There’s no easier way of doing it than to
attack a man who can’t answer you!”
Dredge raised a sobering hand. “Hold on. Perhaps you and I don’t mean
the same thing. Tell me first what’s in your mind.”
The request steadied Archie, who turned on Dredge a countenance really
eloquent with filial indignation.
“It’s an odd question for you to ask; it makes me wonder what’s in
yours. Not much thought of my father, at any rate, or you couldn’t stand
in his place and use the chance he’s given you to push yourself at his
expense.”
Dredge received this in silence, puffing slowly at his pipe.
“Is that the way it strikes you?” he asked at length.
“God! It’s the way it would strike most men.”
He turned to me. “You too?”
“I can see how Archie feels,” I said.
“That I’m attacking his father’s memory to glorify myself?”
“Well, not precisely: I think what he really feels is that, if your
convictions didn’t permit you to continue his father’s teaching, you
might perhaps have done better to sever your connection with the Lanfear
lectureship.”
“Then you and he regard the Lanfear lectureship as having been founded
to perpetuate a dogma, not to try and get at the truth?”
“Certainly not,” Archie broke in. “But there’s a question of taste,
of delicacy, involved in the case that can’t be decided on abstract
principles. We know as well as you that my father meant the laboratory
and the lectureship to serve the ends of science, at whatever cost to
his own special convictions; what we feel--and you don’t seem to--is
that you’re the last man to put them to that use; and I don’t want to
remind you why.”
A slight redness rose through Dredge’s sallow skin. “You needn’t,” he
said. “It’s because he pulled me out of my hole, woke me up, made me,
shoved me off from the shore. Because he saved me ten or twenty years
of muddled effort, and put me where I am at an age when my best working
years are still ahead of me. Every one knows that’s what your father did
for me, but I’m the only person who knows the time and trouble that it
took.”
It was well said, and I glanced quickly at Archie, who was never closed
to generous emotions.
“Well, then--?” he said, flushing also.
“Well, then,” Dredge continued, his voice deepening and losing its nasal
edge, “I had to pay him back, didn’t I?”
The sudden drop flung Archie back on his prepared attitude of irony. “It
would be the natural inference--with most men.”
“Just so. And I’m not so very different. I knew your father wanted a
successor--some one who’d try and tie up the loose ends. And I took the
lectureship with that object.”
“And you’re using it to tear the whole fabric to pieces!”
Dredge paused to re-light his pipe. “Looks that way,” he conceded. “This
year anyhow.”
“_ This year_--?” Archie gasped at him.
“Yes. When I took up the job I saw it just as your father left it. Or
rather, I didn’t see any other way of going on with it. The change came
gradually, as I worked.”
“Gradually? So that you had time to look round you, to know where you
were, to see you were fatally committed to undoing the work he had
done?”
“Oh, yes--I had time,” Dredge conceded.
“And yet you kept the chair and went on with the course?”
Dredge refilled his pipe, and then turned in his seat so that he looked
squarely at Archie.
“What would your father have done in my place?” he asked.
“In your place--?”
“Yes: supposing he’d found out the things I’ve found out in the last
year or two. You’ll see what they are, and how much they count, if
you’ll run over the report of the lectures. If your father’d been alive
he might have come across the same facts just as easily.”
There was a silence which Archie at last broke by saying: “But he
didn’t, and you did. There’s the difference.”
“The difference? What difference? Would your father have suppressed the
facts if he’d found them? It’s _you_ who insult his memory by implying
it! And if I’d brought them to him, would he have used his hold over me
to get me to suppress them?”
“Certainly not. But can’t you see it’s his death that makes the
difference? He’s not here to defend his case.”
Dredge laughed, but not unkindly. “My dear Archie, your father wasn’t
one of the kind who bother to defend their case. Men like him are the
masters, not the servants, of their theories. They respect an idea only
as long as it’s of use to them; when it’s usefulness ends they chuck it
out. And that’s what your father would have done.”
Archie reddened. “Don’t you assume a good deal in taking it for granted
that he would have had to in this particular case?”
Dredge reflected. “Yes: I was going too far. Each of us can only answer
for himself. But to my mind your father’s theory is refuted.”
“And you don’t hesitate to be the man to do it?”
“Should I have been of any use if I had? And did your father ever ask
anything of me but to be of as much use as I could?”
It was Archie’s turn to reflect. “No. That was what he always wanted, of
course.”
“That’s the way I’ve always felt. The first day he took me away from
East Lethe I knew the debt I was piling up against him, and I never had
any doubt as to how I’d pay it, or how he’d want it paid. He didn’t pick
me out and train me for any object but to carry on the light. Do you
suppose he’d have wanted me to snuff it out because it happened to light
up a fact he didn’t fancy? I’m using _his_ oil to feed my torch with:
yes, but it isn’t really his torch or mine, or his oil or mine: they
belong to each of us till we drop and hand them on.”
Archie turned a sobered glance on him. “I see your point. But if the job
had to be done I don’t see that you need have done it from his chair.”
“There’s where we differ. If I did it at all I had to do it in the
best way, and with all the authority his backing gave me. If I owe your
father anything, I owe him that. It would have made him sick to see the
job badly done. And don’t you see that the way to honour him, and show
what he’s done for science, was to spare no advantage in my attack on
him--that I’m proving the strength of his position by the desperateness
of my assault?” Dredge paused and squared his lounging shoulders. “After
all,” he added, “he’s not down yet, and if I leave him standing I guess
it’ll be some time before anybody else cares to tackle him.”
There was a silence between the two men; then Dredge continued in a
lighter tone: “There’s one thing, though, that we’re both in danger
of forgetting: and that is how little, in the long run, it all counts
either way.” He smiled a little at Archie’s outraged gesture. “The
most we can any of us do--even by such a magnificent effort as your
father’s--is to turn the great marching army a hair’s breadth nearer
what seems to us the right direction; if one of us drops out, here and
there, the loss of headway’s hardly perceptible. And that’s what I’m
coming to now.”
He rose from his seat, and walked across to the hearth; then, cautiously
resting his shoulder-blades against the mantel-shelf jammed with
miscellaneous specimens, he bent his musing spectacles on Archie.
“Your father would have understood why I’ve done, what I’m doing; but
that’s no reason why the rest of you should. And I rather think it’s
the rest of you who’ve suffered most from me. He always knew what I was
_there for_, and that must have been some comfort even when I was most
in the way; but I was just an ordinary nuisance to you and your mother
and Mabel. You were all too kind to let me see it at the time, but I’ve
seen it since, and it makes me feel that, after all, the settling of
this matter lies with you. If it hurts you to have me go on with my
examination of your father’s theory, I’m ready to drop the lectures
to-morrow, and trust to the Lanfear Laboratory to breed up a young chap
who’ll knock us both out in time. You’ve only got to say the word.”
There was a pause while Dredge turned and laid his extinguished
pipe carefully between a jar of embryo sea-urchins and a colony of
regenerating planarians.
Then Archie rose and held out his hand.
“No,” he said simply; “go on.”
FULL CIRCLE
I
GEOFFREY BETTON woke rather late--so late that the winter sunlight
sliding across his warm red carpet struck his eyes as he turned on the
pillow.
Strett, the valet, had been in, drawn the bath in the adjoining
dressing-room, placed the crystal and silver cigarette-box at his side,
put a match to the fire, and thrown open the windows to the bright
morning air. It brought in, on the glitter of sun, all the shrill crisp
morning noises--those piercing notes of the American thoroughfare
that seem to take a sharper vibration from the clearness of the medium
through which they pass.
Betton raised himself languidly. That was the voice of Fifth Avenue
below his windows. He remembered that when he moved into his rooms
eighteen months before, the sound had been like music to him: the
complex orchestration to which the tune of his new life was set. Now it
filled him with horror and weariness, since it had become the symbol of
the hurry and noise of that new life. He had been far less hurried in
the old days when he had to be up by seven, and down at the office sharp
at nine. Now that he got up when he chose, and his life had no fixed
framework of duties, the hours hunted him like a pack of blood-hounds.
He dropped back on his pillows with a groan. Yes--not a year ago there
had been a positively sensuous joy in getting out of bed, feeling
under his bare feet the softness of the sunlit carpet, and entering the
shining tiled sanctuary where his great porcelain bath proffered its
renovating flood. But then a year ago he could still call up the horror
of the communal plunge at his earlier lodgings: the listening for other
bathers, the dodging of shrouded ladies in “crimping”-pins, the cold
wait on the landing, the reluctant descent into a blotchy tin bath, and
the effort to identify one’s soap and nail-brush among the promiscuous
implements of ablution. That memory had faded now, and Betton saw only
the dark hours to which his blue and white temple of refreshment formed
a kind of glittering antechamber. For after his bath came his breakfast,
and on the breakfast-tray his letters. His letters!
He remembered--and _that_ memory had not faded!--the thrill with which
he had opened the first missive in a strange feminine hand: the letter
beginning: “I wonder if you’ll mind an unknown reader’s telling you all
that your book has been to her?”
_ Mind?_ Ye gods, he minded now! For more than a year after
the publication of “Diadems and Faggots” the letters, the inane
indiscriminate letters of condemnation, of criticism, of interrogation,
had poured in on him by every post. Hundreds of unknown readers had told
him with unsparing detail all that his book had been to them. And the
wonder of it was, when all was said and done, that it had really been so
little--that when their thick broth of praise was strained through the
author’s anxious vanity there remained to him so small a sediment of
definite specific understanding! No--it was always the same thing, over
and over and over again--the same vague gush of adjectives, the same
incorrigible tendency to estimate his effort according to each writer’s
personal preferences, instead of regarding it as a work of art, a thing
to be measured by objective standards!
He smiled to think how little, at first, he had felt the vanity of it
all. He had found a savour even in the grosser evidences of popularity:
the advertisements of his book, the daily shower of “clippings,” the
sense that, when he entered a restaurant or a theatre, people nudged
each other and said “That’s Betton.” Yes, the publicity had been sweet
to him--at first. He had been touched by the sympathy of his fellow-men:
had thought indulgently of the world, as a better place than the
failures and the dyspeptics would acknowledge. And then his success
began to submerge him: he gasped under the thickening shower of letters.
His admirers were really unappeasable. And they wanted him to do such
preposterous things--to give lectures, to head movements, to be tendered
receptions, to speak at banquets, to address mothers, to plead for
orphans, to go up in balloons, to lead the struggle for sterilized milk.
They wanted his photograph for literary supplements, his autograph for
charity bazaars, his name on committees, literary, educational,
and social; above all, they wanted his opinion on everything: on
Christianity, Buddhism, tight lacing, the drug-habit, democratic
government, female suffrage and love. Perhaps the chief benefit of this
demand was his incidentally learning from it how few opinions he really
had: the only one that remained with him was a rooted horror of all
forms of correspondence. He had been unutterably thankful when the
letters began to fall off.
“Diadems and Faggots” was now two years old, and the moment was at hand
when its author might have counted on regaining the blessed shelter of
oblivion--if only he had not written another book! For it was the
worst part of his plight that his first success had goaded him to
the perpetration of this particular folly--that one of the incentives
(hideous thought!) to his new work had been the desire to extend and
perpetuate his popularity. And this very week the book was to come out,
and the letters, the cursed letters, would begin again!
Wistfully, almost plaintively, he contemplated the breakfast-tray with
which Strett presently appeared. It bore only two notes and the morning
journals, but he knew that within the week it would groan under its
epistolary burden. The very newspapers flung the fact at him as he
opened them.
READY ON MONDAY.
GEOFFREY BETTON’S NEW NOVEL
ABUNDANCE.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “DIADEMS AND FAGGOTS.”
FIRST EDITION OF ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY THOUSAND ALREADY SOLD OUT.
ORDER NOW.
A hundred and fifty thousand volumes! And an average of three readers to
each! Half a million of people would be reading him within a week, and
every one of them would write to him, and their friends and relations
would write too. He laid down the paper with a shudder.
The two notes looked harmless enough, and the calligraphy of one was
vaguely familiar. He opened the envelope and looked at the signature:
_Duncan Vyse_. He had not seen the name in years--what on earth could
Duncan Vyse have to say? He ran over the page and dropped it with a
wondering exclamation, which the watchful Strett, re-entering, met by a
tentative “Yes, sir?”
“Nothing. Yes--that is--” Betton picked up the note. “There’s a
gentleman, a Mr. Vyse, coming to see me at ten.”
Strett glanced at the clock. “Yes, sir. You’ll remember that ten was the
hour you appointed for the secretaries to call, sir.”
Betton nodded. “I’ll see Mr. Vyse first. My clothes, please.”
As he got into them, in the state of irritable hurry that had become
almost chronic with him, he continued to think about Duncan Vyse. They
had seen a lot of each other for the few years after both had left
Harvard: the hard happy years when Betton had been grinding at his
business and Vyse--poor devil!--trying to write. The novelist recalled
his friend’s attempts with a smile; then the memory of one small volume
came back to him. It was a novel: “The Lifted Lamp.” There was stuff in
that, certainly. He remembered Vyse’s tossing it down on his table with
a gesture of despair when it came back from the last publisher. Betton,
taking it up indifferently, had sat riveted till daylight. When he
ended, the impression was so strong that he said to himself: “I’ll
tell Apthorn about it--I’ll go and see him to-morrow.” His own secret
literary yearnings gave him a passionate desire to champion Vyse, to see
him triumph over the ignorance and timidity of the publishers. Apthorn
was the youngest of the guild, still capable of opinions and the courage
of them, a personal friend of Betton’s, and, as it happened, the man
afterward to become known as the privileged publisher of “Diadems and
Faggots.” Unluckily the next day something unexpected turned up, and
Betton forgot about Vyse and his manuscript. He continued to forget for
a month, and then came a note from Vyse, who was ill, and wrote to
ask what his friend had done. Betton did not like to say “I’ve done
nothing,” so he left the note unanswered, and vowed again: “I’ll see
Apthorn.”
The following day he was called to the West on business, and was gone
a month. When he came back, there was another note from Vyse, who was
still ill, and desperately hard up. “I’ll take anything for the book,
if they’ll advance me two hundred dollars.” Betton, full of compunction,
would gladly have advanced the sum himself; but he was hard up too,
and could only swear inwardly: “I’ll write to Apthorn.” Then he glanced
again at the manuscript, and reflected: “No--there are things in it that
need explaining. I’d better see him.”
Once he went so far as to telephone Apthorn, but the publisher was out.
Then he finally and completely forgot.
One Sunday he went out of town, and on his return, rummaging among
the papers on his desk, he missed “The Lifted Lamp,” which had been
gathering dust there for half a year. What the deuce could have become
of it? Betton spent a feverish hour in vainly increasing the disorder of
his documents, and then bethought himself of calling the maid-servant,
who first indignantly denied having touched anything (“I can see that’s
true from the dust,” Betton scathingly interjected), and then mentioned
with hauteur that a young lady had called in his absence and asked to be
allowed to get a book.
“A lady? Did you let her come up?”
“She said somebody’d sent her.”
Vyse, of course--Vyse had sent her for his manuscript! He was always
mixed up with some woman, and it was just like him to send the girl of
the moment to Betton’s lodgings, with instructions to force the door
in his absence. Vyse had never been remarkable for delicacy. Betton,
furious, glanced over his table to see if any of his own effects were
missing--one couldn’t tell, with the company Vyse kept!--and then
dismissed the matter from his mind, with a vague sense of magnanimity in
doing so. He felt himself exonerated by Vyse’s conduct.
The sense of magnanimity was still uppermost when the valet opened the
door to announce “Mr. Vyse,” and Betton, a moment later, crossed the
threshold of his pleasant library.
His first thought was that the man facing him from the hearth-rug was
the very Duncan Vyse of old: small, starved, bleached-looking, with the
same sidelong movements, the same queer air of anaemic truculence. Only
he had grown shabbier, and bald.
Betton held out a hospitable hand.
“This is a good surprise! Glad you looked me up, my dear fellow.”
Vyse’s palm was damp and bony: he had always had a disagreeable hand.
“You got my note? You know what I’ve come for?” he said.
“About the secretaryship? (Sit down.) Is that really serious?”
Betton lowered himself luxuriously into one of his vast Maple
arm-chairs. He had grown stouter in the last year, and the cushion
behind him fitted comfortably into the crease of his nape. As he leaned
back he caught sight of his image in the mirror between the windows, and
reflected uneasily that Vyse would not find _him_ unchanged.
“Serious?” Vyse rejoined. “Why not? Aren’t _you?_”
“Oh, perfectly.” Betton laughed apologetically. “Only--well, the fact
is, you may not understand what rubbish a secretary of mine would have
to deal with. In advertising for one I never imagined--I didn’t aspire
to any one above the ordinary hack.”
“I’m the ordinary hack,” said Vyse drily.
Betton’s affable gesture protested. “My dear fellow--. You see it’s not
business--what I’m in now,” he continued with a laugh.
Vyse’s thin lips seemed to form a noiseless “_ Isn’t_ it?” which they
instantly transposed into the audibly reply: “I inferred from your
advertisement that you want some one to relieve you in your literary
work. Dictation, short-hand--that kind of thing?”
“Well, no: not that either. I type my own things. What I’m looking for
is somebody who won’t be above tackling my correspondence.”
Vyse looked slightly surprised. “I should be glad of the job,” he then
said.
Betton began to feel a vague embarrassment. He had supposed that such a
proposal would be instantly rejected. “It would be only for an hour
or two a day--if you’re doing any writing of your own?” he threw out
interrogatively.
“No. I’ve given all that up. I’m in an office now--business. But it
doesn’t take all my time, or pay enough to keep me alive.”
“In that case, my dear fellow--if you could come every morning; but
it’s mostly awful bosh, you know,” Betton again broke off, with growing
awkwardness.
Vyse glanced at him humorously. “What you want me to write?”
“Well, that depends--” Betton sketched the obligatory smile. “But I was
thinking of the letters you’ll have to answer. Letters about my books,
you know--I’ve another one appearing next week. And I want to be
beforehand now--dam the flood before it swamps me. Have you any idea of
the deluge of stuff that people write to a successful novelist?”
As Betton spoke, he saw a tinge of red on Vyse’s thin cheek, and his own
reflected it in a richer glow of shame. “I mean--I mean--” he stammered
helplessly.
“No, I haven’t,” said Vyse; “but it will be awfully jolly finding out.”
There was a pause, groping and desperate on Betton’s part, sardonically
calm on his visitor’s.
“You--you’ve given up writing altogether?” Betton continued.
“Yes; we’ve changed places, as it were.” Vyse paused. “But about these
letters--you dictate the answers?”
“Lord, no! That’s the reason why I said I wanted somebody--er--well used
to writing. I don’t want to have anything to do with them--not a thing!
You’ll have to answer them as if they were written to _you_--” Betton
pulled himself up again, and rising in confusion jerked open one of the
drawers of his writing-table.
“Here--this kind of rubbish,” he said, tossing a packet of letters onto
Vyse’s knee.
“Oh--you keep them, do you?” said Vyse simply.
“I--well--some of them; a few of the funniest only.”
Vyse slipped off the band and began to open the letters. While he was
glancing over them Betton again caught his own reflection in the
glass, and asked himself what impression he had made on his visitor.
It occurred to him for the first time that his high-coloured well-fed
person presented the image of commercial rather than of intellectual
achievement. He did not look like his own idea of the author of “Diadems
and Faggots”--and he wondered why.
Vyse laid the letters aside. “I think I can do it--if you’ll give me a
notion of the tone I’m to take.”
“The tone?”
“Yes--that is, if I’m to sign your name.”
“Oh, of course: I expect you to sign for me. As for the tone, say just
what you’d--well, say all you can without encouraging them to answer.”
Vyse rose from his seat. “I could submit a few specimens,” he suggested.
“Oh, as to that--you always wrote better than I do,” said Betton
handsomely.
“I’ve never had this kind of thing to write. When do you wish me to
begin?” Vyse enquired, ignoring the tribute.
“The book’s out on Monday. The deluge will begin about three days after.
Will you turn up on Thursday at this hour?” Betton held his hand out
with real heartiness. “It was great luck for me, your striking that
advertisement. Don’t be too harsh with my correspondents--I owe them
something for having brought us together.”
II
THE deluge began punctually on the Thursday, and Vyse, arriving as
punctually, had an impressive pile of letters to attack. Betton, on his
way to the Park for a ride, came into the library, smoking the cigarette
of indolence, to look over his secretary’s shoulder.
“How many of ‘em? Twenty? Good Lord! It’s going to be worse than
‘Diadems.’ I’ve just had my first quiet breakfast in two years--time
to read the papers and loaf. How I used to dread the sight of my
letter-box! Now I sha’n’t know I have one.”
He leaned over Vyse’s chair, and the secretary handed him a letter.
“Here’s rather an exceptional one--lady, evidently. I thought you might
want to answer it yourself--”
“Exceptional?” Betton ran over the mauve pages and tossed them down.
“Why, my dear man, I get hundreds like that. You’ll have to be pretty
short with her, or she’ll send her photograph.”
He clapped Vyse on the shoulder and turned away, humming a tune. “Stay
to luncheon,” he called back gaily from the threshold.
After luncheon Vyse insisted on showing a few of his answers to the
first batch of letters. “If I’ve struck the note I won’t bother you
again,” he urged; and Betton groaningly consented.
“My dear fellow, they’re beautiful--too beautiful. I’ll be let in for a
correspondence with every one of these people.”
Vyse, at this, meditated for a while above a blank sheet. “All
right--how’s this?” he said, after another interval of rapid writing.
Betton glanced over the page. “By George--by George! Won’t she _see_
it?” he exulted, between fear and rapture.
“It’s wonderful how little people see,” said Vyse reassuringly.
The letters continued to pour in for several weeks after the appearance
of “Abundance.” For five or six blissful days Betton did not even have
his mail brought to him, trusting to Vyse to single out his personal
correspondence, and to deal with the rest according to their agreement.
During those days he luxuriated in a sense of wild and lawless freedom;
then, gradually, he began to feel the need of fresh restraints to break,
and learned that the zest of liberty lies in the escape from specific
obligations. At first he was conscious only of a vague hunger, but in
time the craving resolved into a shame-faced desire to see his letters.
“After all, I hated them only because I had to answer them”; and he told
Vyse carelessly that he wished all his letters submitted to him before
the secretary answered them.
At first he pushed aside those beginning: “I have just laid down
‘Abundance’ after a third reading,” or: “Every day for the last month
I have been telephoning my bookseller to know when your novel would be
out.” But little by little the freshness of his interest revived, and
even this stereotyped homage began to arrest his eye. At last a day came
when he read all the letters, from the first word to the last, as he had
done when “Diadems and Faggots” appeared. It was really a pleasure to
read them, now that he was relieved of the burden of replying: his new
relation to his correspondents had the glow of a love-affair unchilled
by the contingency of marriage.
One day it struck him that the letters were coming in more slowly and in
smaller numbers. Certainly there had been more of a rush when “Diadems
and Faggots” came out. Betton began to wonder if Vyse were exercising
an unauthorized discrimination, and keeping back the communications
he deemed least important. This sudden conjecture carried the
novelist straight to his library, where he found Vyse bending over the
writing-table with his usual inscrutable pale smile. But once there,
Betton hardly knew how to frame his question, and blundered into an
enquiry for a missing invitation.
“There’s a note--a personal note--I ought to have had this morning. Sure
you haven’t kept it back by mistake among the others?”
Vyse laid down his pen. “The others? But I never keep back any.”
Betton had foreseen the answer. “Not even the worst twaddle about my
book?” he suggested lightly, pushing the papers about.
“Nothing. I understood you wanted to go over them all first.”
“Well, perhaps it’s safer,” Betton conceded, as if the idea were new to
him. With an embarrassed hand he continued to turn over the letters at
Vyse’s elbow.
“Those are yesterday’s,” said the secretary; “here are to-day’s,” he
added, pointing to a meagre trio.
“H’m--only these?” Betton took them and looked them over lingeringly.
“I don’t see what the deuce that chap means about the first part of
‘Abundance’ ‘certainly justifying the title’--do you?”
Vyse was silent, and the novelist continued irritably: “Damned cheek,
his writing, if he doesn’t like the book. Who cares what he thinks about
it, anyhow?”
And his morning ride was embittered by the discovery that it was
unexpectedly disagreeable to have Vyse read any letters which did not
express unqualified praise of his books. He began to fancy there was
a latent rancour, a kind of baffled sneer, under Vyse’s manner; and he
decided to return to the practice of having his mail brought straight to
his room. In that way he could edit the letters before his secretary saw
them.
Vyse made no comment on the change, and Betton was reduced to
wondering whether his imperturbable composure were the mask of complete
indifference or of a watchful jealousy. The latter view being more
agreeable to his employer’s self-esteem, the next step was to conclude
that Vyse had not forgotten the episode of “The Lifted Lamp,” and would
naturally take a vindictive joy in any unfavourable judgments passed on
his rival’s work. This did not simplify the situation, for there was
no denying that unfavourable criticisms preponderated in Betton’s
correspondence. “Abundance” was neither meeting with the unrestricted
welcome of “Diadems and Faggots,” nor enjoying the alternative of an
animated controversy: it was simply found dull, and its readers said so
in language not too tactfully tempered by regretful comparisons with its
predecessor. To withhold unfavourable comments from Vyse was, therefore,
to make it appear that correspondence about the book had died out; and
its author, mindful of his unguarded predictions, found this even more
embarrassing. The simplest solution would be to get rid of Vyse; and to
this end Betton began to address his energies.
One evening, finding himself unexpectedly disengaged, he asked Vyse
to dine; it had occurred to him that, in the course of an after-dinner
chat, he might delicately hint his feeling that the work he had offered
his friend was unworthy so accomplished a hand.
Vyse surprised him by a momentary hesitation. “I may not have time to
dress.”
Betton stared. “What’s the odds? We’ll dine here--and as late as you
like.”
Vyse thanked him, and appeared, punctually at eight, in all the
shabbiness of his daily wear. He looked paler and more shyly truculent
than usual, and Betton, from the height of his florid stature, said to
himself, with the sudden professional instinct for “type”: “He might be
an agent of something--a chap who carries deadly secrets.”
Vyse, it was to appear, did carry a deadly secret; but one less
perilous to society than to himself. He was simply poor--inexcusably,
irremediably poor. Everything failed him, had always failed him:
whatever he put his hand to went to bits.
This was the confession that, reluctantly, yet with a kind of
white-lipped bravado, he flung at Betton in answer to the latter’s
tentative suggestion that, really, the letter-answering job wasn’t worth
bothering him with--a thing that any type-writer could do.
“If you mean you’re paying me more than it’s worth, I’ll take less,”
Vyse rushed out after a pause.
“Oh, my dear fellow--” Betton protested, flushing.
“What _do_ you mean, then? Don’t I answer the letters as you want them
answered?”
Betton anxiously stroked his silken ankle. “You do it beautifully,
too beautifully. I mean what I say: the work’s not worthy of you. I’m
ashamed to ask you--”
“Oh, hang shame,” Vyse interrupted. “Do you know why I said I shouldn’t
have time to dress to-night? Because I haven’t any evening clothes. As
a matter of fact, I haven’t much but the clothes I stand in. One thing
after another’s gone against me; all the infernal ingenuities of chance.
It’s been a slow Chinese torture, the kind where they keep you alive to
have more fun killing you.” He straightened himself with a sudden blush.
“Oh, I’m all right now--getting on capitally. But I’m still walking
rather a narrow plank; and if I do your work well enough--if I take your
idea--”
Betton stared into the fire without answering. He knew next to nothing
of Vyse’s history, of the mischance or mis-management that had brought
him, with his brains and his training, to so unlikely a pass. But a pang
of compunction shot through him as he remembered the manuscript of “The
Lifted Lamp” gathering dust on his table for half a year.
“Not that it would have made any earthly difference--since he’s
evidently never been able to get the thing published.” But this
reflection did not wholly console Betton, and he found it impossible, at
the moment, to tell Vyse that his services were not needed.
III
DURING the ensuing weeks the letters grew fewer and fewer, and Betton
foresaw the approach of the fatal day when his secretary, in common
decency, would have to say: “I can’t draw my pay for doing nothing.”
What a triumph for Vyse!
The thought was intolerable, and Betton cursed his weakness in not
having dismissed the fellow before such a possibility arose.
“If I tell him I’ve no use for him now, he’ll see straight through it,
of course;--and then, hang it, he looks so poor!”
This consideration came after the other, but Betton, in rearranging
them, put it first, because he thought it looked better there, and
also because he immediately perceived its value in justifying a plan of
action that was beginning to take shape in his mind.
“Poor devil, I’m damned if I don’t do it for him!” said Betton, sitting
down at his desk.
Three or four days later he sent word to Vyse that he didn’t care to go
over the letters any longer, and that they would once more be carried
directly to the library.
The next time he lounged in, on his way to his morning ride, he found
his secretary’s pen in active motion.
“A lot to-day,” Vyse told him cheerfully.
His tone irritated Betton: it had the inane optimism of the physician
reassuring a discouraged patient.
“Oh, Lord--I thought it was almost over,” groaned the novelist.
“No: they’ve just got their second wind. Here’s one from a Chicago
publisher--never heard the name--offering you thirty per cent. on your
next novel, with an advance royalty of twenty thousand. And here’s a
chap who wants to syndicate it for a bunch of Sunday papers: big offer,
too. That’s from Ann Arbor. And this--oh, _this_ one’s funny!”
He held up a small scented sheet to Betton, who made no movement to
receive it.
“Funny? Why’s it funny?” he growled.
“Well, it’s from a girl--a lady--and she thinks she’s the only person
who understands ‘Abundance’--has the clue to it. Says she’s never seen a
book so misrepresented by the critics--”
“Ha, ha! That _is_ good!” Betton agreed with too loud a laugh.
“This one’s from a lady, too--married woman. Says she’s misunderstood,
and would like to correspond.”
“Oh, Lord,” said Betton.--“What are you looking at?” he added sharply,
as Vyse continued to bend his blinking gaze on the letters.
“I was only thinking I’d never seen such short letters from women.
Neither one fills the first page.”
“Well, what of that?” queried Betton.
Vyse reflected. “I’d like to meet a woman like that,” he said wearily;
and Betton laughed again.
The letters continued to pour in, and there could be no farther question
of dispensing with Vyse’s services. But one morning, about three weeks
later, the latter asked for a word with his employer, and Betton, on
entering the library, found his secretary with half a dozen documents
spread out before him.
“What’s up?” queried Betton, with a touch of impatience.
Vyse was attentively scanning the outspread letters.
“I don’t know: can’t make out.” His voice had a faint note of
embarrassment. “Do you remember a note signed _Hester Macklin_ that
came three or four weeks ago? Married--misunderstood--Western army
post--wanted to correspond?”
Betton seemed to grope among his memories; then he assented vaguely.
“A short note,” Vyse went on: “the whole story in half a page. The
shortness struck me so much--and the directness--that I wrote her: wrote
in my own name, I mean.”
“In your own name?” Betton stood amazed; then he broke into a groan.
“Good Lord, Vyse--you’re incorrigible!”
The secretary pulled his thin moustache with a nervous laugh. “If you
mean I’m an ass, you’re right. Look here.” He held out an envelope
stamped with the words: “Dead Letter Office.” “My effusion has come back
to me marked ‘unknown.’ There’s no such person at the address she gave
you.”
Betton seemed for an instant to share his secretary’s embarrassment;
then he burst into an uproarious laugh.
“Hoax, was it? That’s rough on you, old fellow!”
Vyse shrugged his shoulders. “Yes; but the interesting question is--why
on earth didn’t _your_ answer come back, too?”
“My answer?”
“The official one--the one I wrote in your name. If she’s unknown,
what’s become of _that?_”
Betton stared at him with eyes wrinkled by amusement. “Perhaps she
hadn’t disappeared then.”
Vyse disregarded the conjecture. “Look here--I believe _all_ these
letters are a hoax,” he broke out.
Betton stared at him with a face that turned slowly red and angry. “What
are you talking about? All what letters?”
“These I’ve spread out here: I’ve been comparing them. And I believe
they’re all written by one man.”
Burton’s redness turned to a purple that made his ruddy moustache seem
pale. “What the devil are you driving at?” he asked.
“Well, just look at it,” Vyse persisted, still bent above the letters.
“I’ve been studying them carefully--those that have come within the last
two or three weeks--and there’s a queer likeness in the writing of some
of them. The _g_‘s are all like corkscrews. And the same phrases keep
recurring--the Ann Arbor news-agent uses the same expressions as the
President of the Girls’ College at Euphorbia, Maine.”
Betton laughed. “Aren’t the critics always groaning over the shrinkage
of the national vocabulary? Of course we all use the same expressions.”
“Yes,” said Vyse obstinately. “But how about using the same _g_‘s?”
Betton laughed again, but Vyse continued without heeding him: “Look
here, Betton--could Strett have written them?”
“Strett?” Betton roared. “_ Strett?_” He threw himself into his
arm-chair to shake out his mirth at greater ease.
“I’ll tell you why. Strett always posts all my answers. He comes in for
them every day before I leave. He posted the letter to the misunderstood
party--the letter from _you_ that the Dead Letter Office didn’t return.
_I_ posted my own letter to her; and that came back.”
A measurable silence followed the emission of this ingenious conjecture;
then Betton observed with gentle irony: “Extremely neat. And of course
it’s no business of yours to supply any valid motive for this remarkable
attention on my valet’s part.”
Vyse cast on him a slanting glance.
“If you’ve found that human conduct’s generally based on valid
motives--!”
“Well, outside of mad-houses it’s supposed to be not quite
incalculable.”
Vyse had an odd smile under his thin moustache. “Every house is a
mad-house at some time or another.”
Betton rose with a careless shake of the shoulders. “This one will be if
I talk to you much longer,” he said, moving away with a laugh.
IV
BETTON did not for a moment believe that Vyse suspected the valet of
having written the letters.
“Why the devil don’t he say out what he thinks? He was always a tortuous
chap,” he grumbled inwardly.
The sense of being held under the lens of Vyse’s mute scrutiny became
more and more exasperating. Betton, by this time, had squared his
shoulders to the fact that “Abundance” was a failure with the public:
a confessed and glaring failure. The press told him so openly, and
his friends emphasized the fact by their circumlocutions and evasions.
Betton minded it a good deal more than he had expected, but not nearly
as much as he minded Vyse’s knowing it. That remained the central
twinge in his diffused discomfort. And the problem of getting rid of his
secretary once more engaged him.
He had set aside all sentimental pretexts for retaining Vyse; but a
practical argument replaced them. “If I ship him now he’ll think it’s
because I’m ashamed to have him see that I’m not getting any more
letters.”
For the letters had ceased again, almost abruptly, since Vyse had
hazarded the conjecture that they were the product of Strett’s devoted
pen. Betton had reverted only once to the subject--to ask ironically,
a day or two later: “Is Strett writing to me as much as ever?”--and, on
Vyse’s replying with a neutral head-shake, had added with a laugh: “If
you suspect _him_ you might as well think I write the letters myself!”
“There are very few to-day,” said Vyse, with his irritating evasiveness;
and Betton rejoined squarely: “Oh, they’ll stop soon. The book’s a
failure.”
A few mornings later he felt a rush of shame at his own tergiversations,
and stalked into the library with Vyse’s sentence on his tongue.
Vyse started back with one of his anaemic blushes. “I was hoping you’d
be in. I wanted to speak to you. There’ve been no letters the last day
or two,” he explained.
Betton drew a quick breath of relief. The man had some sense of decency,
then! He meant to dismiss himself.
“I told you so, my dear fellow; the book’s a flat failure,” he said,
almost gaily.
Vyse made a deprecating gesture. “I don’t know that I should regard
the absence of letters as the ultimate test. But I wanted to ask you
if there isn’t something else I can do on the days when there’s no
writing.” He turned his glance toward the book-lined walls. “Don’t you
want your library catalogued?” he asked insidiously.
“Had it done last year, thanks.” Betton glanced away from Vyse’s face.
It was piteous, how he needed the job!
“I see. ... Of course this is just a temporary lull in the letters.
They’ll begin again--as they did before. The people who read carefully
read slowly--you haven’t heard yet what _they_ think.”
Betton felt a rush of puerile joy at the suggestion. Actually, he hadn’t
thought of that!
“There _was_ a big second crop after ‘Diadems and Faggots,’” he mused
aloud.
“Of course. Wait and see,” said Vyse confidently.
The letters in fact began again--more gradually and in smaller numbers.
But their quality was different, as Vyse had predicted. And in two
cases Betton’s correspondents, not content to compress into one rapid
communication the thoughts inspired by his work, developed their views
in a succession of really remarkable letters. One of the writers was
a professor in a Western college; the other was a girl in Florida. In
their language, their point of view, their reasons for appreciating
“Abundance,” they differed almost diametrically; but this only made
the unanimity of their approval the more striking. The rush of
correspondence evoked by Betton’s earlier novel had produced nothing
so personal, so exceptional as these communications. He had gulped the
praise of “Diadems and Faggots” as undiscriminatingly as it was offered;
now he knew for the first time the subtler pleasures of the palate. He
tried to feign indifference, even to himself; and to Vyse he made no
sign. But gradually he felt a desire to know what his secretary thought
of the letters, and, above all, what he was saying in reply to them.
And he resented acutely the possibility of Vyse’s starting one of his
clandestine correspondences with the girl in Florida. Vyse’s notorious
lack of delicacy had never been more vividly present to Betton’s
imagination; and he made up his mind to answer the letters himself.
He would keep Vyse on, of course: there were other communications that
the secretary could attend to. And, if necessary, Betton would invent an
occupation: he cursed his stupidity in having betrayed the fact that his
books were already catalogued.
Vyse showed no surprise when Betton announced his intention of dealing
personally with the two correspondents who showed so flattering a
reluctance to take their leave. But Betton immediately read a criticism
in his lack of comment, and put forth, on a note of challenge: “After
all, one must be decent!”
Vyse looked at him with an evanescent smile. “You’ll have to explain
that you didn’t write the first answers.”
Betton halted. “Well--I--I more or less dictated them, didn’t I?”
“Oh, virtually, they’re yours, of course.”
“You think I can put it that way?”
“Why not?” The secretary absently drew an arabesque on the blotting-pad.
“Of course they’ll keep it up longer if you write yourself,” he
suggested.
Betton blushed, but faced the issue. “Hang it all, I sha’n’t be sorry.
They interest me. They’re remarkable letters.” And Vyse, without
observation, returned to his writings.
The spring, that year, was delicious to Betton. His college professor
continued to address him tersely but cogently at fixed intervals, and
twice a week eight serried pages came from Florida. There were other
letters, too; he had the solace of feeling that at last “Abundance” was
making its way, was reaching the people who, as Vyse said, read slowly
because they read intelligently. But welcome as were all these proofs
of his restored authority they were but the background of his happiness.
His life revolved for the moment about the personality of his two
chief correspondents. The professor’s letters satisfied his craving for
intellectual recognition, and the satisfaction he felt in them proved
how completely he had lost faith in himself. He blushed to think that
his opinion of his work had been swayed by the shallow judgments of
a public whose taste he despised. Was it possible that he had allowed
himself to think less well of “Abundance” because it was not to
the taste of the average novel-reader? Such false humility was less
excusable than the crudest appetite for praise: it was ridiculous to
try to do conscientious work if one’s self-esteem were at the mercy
of popular judgments. All this the professor’s letters delicately
and indirectly conveyed to Betton, with the result that the author of
“Abundance” began to recognize in it the ripest flower of his genius.
But if the professor understood his book, the girl in Florida understood
_him;_ and Betton was fully alive to the superior qualities of
discernment which this process implied. For his lovely correspondent
his novel was but the starting-point, the pretext of her discourse: he
himself was her real object, and he had the delicious sense, as their
exchange of thoughts proceeded, that she was interested in “Abundance”
because of its author, rather than in the author because of his book. Of
course she laid stress on the fact that his ideas were the object of
her contemplation; but Betton’s agreeable person had permitted him some
insight into the incorrigible subjectiveness of female judgments, and he
was pleasantly aware, from the lady’s tone, that she guessed him to be
neither old nor ridiculous. And suddenly he wrote to ask if he might see
her. ...
The answer was long in coming. Betton fumed at the delay, watched,
wondered, fretted; then he received the one word “Impossible.”
He wrote back more urgently, and awaited the reply with increasing
eagerness. A certain shyness had kept him from once more modifying the
instructions regarding his mail, and Strett still carried the letters
directly to Vyse. The hour when he knew they were passing under the
latter’s eyes was now becoming intolerable to Betton, and it was a
profound relief when the secretary, suddenly advised of his father’s
illness, asked permission to absent himself for a fortnight.
Vyse departed just after Betton had despatched to Florida his second
missive of entreaty, and for ten days he tasted the furtive joy of a
first perusal of his letters. The answer from Florida was not among
them; but Betton said to himself “She’s thinking it over,” and delay, in
that light, seemed favourable. So charming, in fact, was this phase of
sentimental suspense that he felt a start of resentment when a telegram
apprised him one morning that Vyse would return to his post that day.
Betton had slept later than usual, and, springing out of bed with the
telegram in his hand, he learned from the clock that his secretary was
due in half an hour. He reflected that the morning’s mail must long
since be in; and, too impatient to wait for its appearance with his
breakfast-tray, he threw on a dressing-gown and went to the library.
There lay the letters, half a dozen of them: but his eye flew to one
envelope, and as he tore it open a warm wave rocked his heart.
The letter was dated a few days after its writer must have received his
own: it had all the qualities of grace and insight to which his unknown
friend had accustomed him, but it contained no allusion, however
indirect, to the special purport of his appeal. Even a vanity less
ingenious than Betton’s might have read in the lady’s silence one of
the most familiar motions of consent; but the smile provoked by this
inference faded as he turned to his other letters. For the uppermost
bore the superscription “Dead Letter Office,” and the document that fell
from it was his own last letter from Florida.
Betton studied the ironic “Unknown” for an appreciable space of time;
then he broke into a laugh. He had suddenly recalled Vyse’s similar
experience with “Hester Macklin,” and the light he was able to throw
on that obscure episode was searching enough to penetrate all the
dark corners of his own adventure. He felt a rush of heat to the
ears; catching sight of himself in the glass, he saw a red ridiculous
congested countenance, and dropped into a chair to hide it between
flushed fists. He was roused by the opening of the door, and Vyse
appeared on the threshold.
“Oh, I beg pardon--you’re ill?” said the secretary.
Betton’s only answer was an inarticulate murmur of derision; then he
pushed forward the letter with the imprint of the Dead Letter Office.
“Look at that,” he jeered.
Vyse peered at the envelope, and turned it over slowly in his hands.
Betton’s eyes, fixed on him, saw his face decompose like a substance
touched by some powerful acid. He clung to the envelope as if to gain
time.
“It’s from the young lady you’ve been writing to at Swazee Springs?” he
asked at length.
“It’s from the young lady I’ve been writing to at Swazee Springs.”
“Well--I suppose she’s gone away,” continued Vyse, rebuilding his
countenance rapidly.
“Yes; and in a community numbering perhaps a hundred and seventy-five
souls, including the dogs and chickens, the local post-office is so
ignorant of her movements that my letter has to be sent to the Dead
Letter Office.”
Vyse meditated on this; then he laughed in turn. “After all, the same
thing happened to me--with ‘Hester Macklin,’ I mean,” he recalled
sheepishly.
“Just so,” said Betton, bringing down his clenched fist on the table. “_
Just so_,” he repeated, in italics.
He caught his secretary’s glance, and held it with his own for a moment.
Then he dropped it as, in pity, one releases something scared and
squirming.
“The very day my letter was returned from Swazee Springs she wrote me
this from there,” he said, holding up the last Florida missive.
“Ha! That’s funny,” said Vyse, with a damp forehead.
“Yes, it’s funny; it’s funny,” said Betton. He leaned back, his hands
in his pockets, staring up at the ceiling, and noticing a crack in the
cornice. Vyse, at the corner of the writing-table, waited.
“Shall I get to work?” he began, after a silence measurable by minutes.
Betton’s gaze descended from the cornice.
“I’ve got your seat, haven’t I?” he said, rising and moving away from
the table.
Vyse, with a quick gleam of relief, slipped into the vacant chair, and
began to stir about vaguely among the papers.
“How’s your father?” Betton asked from the hearth.
“Oh, better--better, thank you. He’ll pull out of it.”
“But you had a sharp scare for a day or two?”
“Yes--it was touch and go when I got there.”
Another pause, while Vyse began to classify the letters.
“And I suppose,” Betton continued in a steady tone, “your anxiety
made you forget your usual precautions--whatever they were--about this
Florida correspondence, and before you’d had time to prevent it the
Swazee post-office blundered?”
Vyse lifted his head with a quick movement. “What do you mean?” he
asked, pushing his chair back.
“I mean that you saw I couldn’t live without flattery, and that you’ve
been ladling it out to me to earn your keep.”
Vyse sat motionless and shrunken, digging the blotting-pad with his pen.
“What on earth are you driving at?” he repeated.
“Though why the deuce,” Betton continued in the same steady tone, “you
should need to do this kind of work when you’ve got such faculties at
your service--those letters were magnificent, my dear fellow! Why in the
world don’t you write novels, instead of writing to other people about
them?”
Vyse straightened himself with an effort. “What are you talking about,
Betton? Why the devil do you think _I_ wrote those letters?”
Betton held back his answer, with a brooding face. “Because I wrote
‘Hester Macklin’s’--to myself!”
Vyse sat stock-still, without the least outcry of wonder. “Well--?” he
finally said, in a low tone.
“And because you found me out (you see, you can’t even feign
surprise!)--because you saw through it at a glance, knew at once that
the letters were faked. And when you’d foolishly put me on my guard
by pointing out to me that they were a clumsy forgery, and had then
suddenly guessed that _I_ was the forger, you drew the natural inference
that I had to have popular approval, or at least had to make _you_ think
I had it. You saw that, to me, the worst thing about the failure of the
book was having _you_ know it was a failure. And so you applied your
superior--your immeasurably superior--abilities to carrying on the
humbug, and deceiving me as I’d tried to deceive you. And you did it
so successfully that I don’t see why the devil you haven’t made your
fortune writing novels!”
Vyse remained silent, his head slightly bent under the mounting tide of
Betton’s denunciation.
“The way you differentiated your people--characterised them--avoided my
stupid mistake of making the women’s letters too short and logical, of
letting my different correspondents use the same expressions: the amount
of ingenuity and art you wasted on it! I swear, Vyse, I’m sorry that
damned post-office went back on you,” Betton went on, piling up the
waves of his irony.
But at this height they suddenly paused, drew back on themselves, and
began to recede before the spectacle of Vyse’s pale distress. Something
warm and emotional in Betton’s nature--a lurking kindliness, perhaps,
for any one who tried to soothe and smooth his writhing ego--softened
his eye as it rested on the drooping figure of his secretary.
“Look here, Vyse--I’m not sorry--not altogether sorry this has
happened!” He moved slowly across the room, and laid a friendly palm
on Vyse’s shoulder. “In a queer illogical way it evens up things, as
it were. I did you a shabby turn once, years ago--oh, out of sheer
carelessness, of course--about that novel of yours I promised to give to
Apthorn. If I _had_ given it, it might not have made any difference--I’m
not sure it wasn’t too good for success--but anyhow, I dare say you
thought my personal influence might have helped you, might at least have
got you a quicker hearing. Perhaps you thought it was because the thing
_was_ so good that I kept it back, that I felt some nasty jealousy of
your superiority. I swear to you it wasn’t that--I clean forgot it. And
one day when I came home it was gone: you’d sent and taken it. And I’ve
always thought since you might have owed me a grudge--and not unjustly;
so this ... this business of the letters ... the sympathy you’ve shown
... for I suppose it _is_ sympathy ... ?”
Vyse startled and checked him by a queer crackling laugh.
“It’s _not_ sympathy?” broke in Betton, the moisture drying out of his
voice. He withdrew his hand from Vyse’s shoulder. “What is it, then? The
joy of uncovering my nakedness? An eye for an eye? Is it _that?_”
Vyse rose from his seat, and with a mechanical gesture swept into a heap
all the letters he had sorted.
“I’m stone broke, and wanted to keep my job--that’s what it is,” he said
wearily ...
THE LEGEND
I
ARTHUR BERNALD could never afterward recall just when the first
conjecture flashed on him: oddly enough, there was no record of it
in the agitated jottings of his diary. But, as it seemed to him in
retrospect, he had always felt that the queer man at the Wades’ must
be John Pellerin, if only for the negative reason that he couldn’t
imaginably be any one else. It was impossible, in the confused pattern
of the century’s intellectual life, to fit the stranger in anywhere,
save in the big gap which, some five and twenty years earlier, had been
left by Pellerin’s unaccountable disappearance; and conversely, such a
man as the Wades’ visitor couldn’t have lived for sixty years without
filling, somewhere in space, a nearly equivalent void.
At all events, it was certainly not to Doctor Wade or to his mother that
Bernald owed the hint: the good unconscious Wades, one of whose chief
charms in the young man’s eyes was that they remained so robustly
untainted by Pellerinism, in spite of the fact that Doctor Wade’s
younger brother, Howland, was among its most impudently flourishing
high-priests.
The incident had begun by Bernald’s running across Doctor Robert Wade
one hot summer night at the University Club, and by Wade’s saying, in
the tone of unprofessional laxity which the shadowy stillness of the
place invited: “I got hold of a queer fish at St. Martin’s the other
day--case of heat-prostration picked up in Central Park. When we’d
patched him up I found he had nowhere to go, and not a dollar in his
pocket, and I sent him down to our place at Portchester to re-build.”
The opening roused his hearer’s attention. Bob Wade had an odd
unformulated sense of values that Bernald had learned to trust.
“What sort of chap? Young or old?”
“Oh, every age--full of years, and yet with a lot left. He called
himself sixty on the books.”
“Sixty’s a good age for some kinds of living. And age is of course
purely subjective. How has he used his sixty years?”
“Well--part of them in educating himself, apparently. He’s a
scholar--humanities, languages, and so forth.”
“Oh--decayed gentleman,” Bernald murmured, disappointed.
“Decayed? Not much!” cried the doctor with his accustomed literalness.
“I only mentioned that side of Winterman--his name’s Winterman--because
it was the side my mother noticed first. I suppose women generally do.
But it’s only a part--a small part. The man’s the big thing.”
“Really big?”
“Well--there again. ... When I took him down to the country, looking
rather like a tramp from a ‘Shelter,’ with an untrimmed beard, and a
suit of reach-me-downs he’d slept round the Park in for a week, I felt
sure my mother’d carry the silver up to her room, and send for the
gardener’s dog to sleep in the hall the first night. But she didn’t.”
“I see. ‘Women and children love him.’ Oh, Wade!” Bernald groaned.
“Not a bit of it! You’re out again. We don’t love him, either of us. But
we _feel_ him--the air’s charged with him. You’ll see.”
And Bernald agreed that he _would_ see, the following Sunday. Wade’s
inarticulate attempts to characterize the stranger had struck his
friend. The human revelation had for Bernald a poignant and ever-renewed
interest, which his trade, as the dramatic critic of a daily paper, had
hitherto failed to discourage. And he knew that Bob Wade, simple and
undefiled by literature--Bernald’s specific affliction--had a free and
personal way of judging men, and the diviner’s knack of reaching their
hidden springs. During the days that followed, the young doctor gave
Bernald farther details about John Winterman: details not of fact--for
in that respect his visitor’s reticence was baffling--but of impression.
It appeared that Winterman, while lying insensible in the Park, had been
robbed of the few dollars he possessed; and on leaving the hospital,
still weak and half-blind, he had quite simply and unprotestingly
accepted the Wades’ offer to give him shelter till such time as he
should be strong enough to go to work.
“But what’s his work?” Bernald interjected. “Hasn’t he at least told you
that?”
“Well, writing. Some kind of writing.” Doctor Bob always became vague
and clumsy when he approached the confines of literature. “He means to
take it up again as soon as his eyes get right.”
Bernald groaned. “Oh, Lord--that finishes him; and _me!_ He’s looking
for a publisher, of course--he wants a ‘favourable notice.’ I won’t
come!”
“He hasn’t written a line for twenty years.”
“A line of _what?_ What kind of literature can one keep corked up for
twenty years?”
Wade surprised him. “The real kind, I should say. But I don’t know
Winterman’s line,” the doctor added. “He speaks of the things he used
to write merely as ‘stuff that wouldn’t sell.’ He has a wonderfully
confidential way of _not_ telling one things. But he says he’ll have to
do something for his living as soon as his eyes are patched up, and that
writing is the only trade he knows. The queer thing is that he seems
pretty sure of selling _now_. He even talked of buying the bungalow of
us, with an acre or two about it.”
“The bungalow? What’s that?”
“The studio down by the shore that we built for Howland when he thought
he meant to paint.” (Howland Wade, as Bernald knew, had experienced
various “calls.”) “Since he’s taken to writing nobody’s been near it. I
offered it to Winterman, and he camps there--cooks his meals, does
his own house-keeping, and never comes up to the house except in the
evenings, when he joins us on the verandah, in the dark, and smokes
while my mother knits.”
“A discreet visitor, eh?”
“More than he need be. My mother actually wanted him to stay on in the
house--in her pink chintz room. Think of it! But he says houses smother
him. I take it he’s lived for years in the open.”
“In the open where?”
“I can’t make out, except that it was somewhere in the East. ‘East of
everything--beyond the day-spring. In places not on the map.’ That’s
the way he put it; and when I said: ‘You’ve been an explorer, then?’ he
smiled in his beard, and answered: ‘Yes; that’s it--an explorer.’ Yet he
doesn’t strike me as a man of action: hasn’t the hands or the eyes.”
“What sort of hands and eyes has he?”
Wade reflected. His range of observation was not large, but within its
limits it was exact and could give an account of itself.
“He’s worked a lot with his hands, but that’s not what they were made
for. I should say they were extraordinarily delicate conductors of
sensation. And his eye--his eye too. He hasn’t used it to dominate
people: he didn’t care to. He simply looks through ‘em all like windows.
Makes me feel like the fellows who think they’re made of glass.
The mitigating circumstance is that he seems to see such a glorious
landscape through me.” Wade grinned at the thought of serving such a
purpose.
“I see. I’ll come on Sunday and be looked through!” Bernald cried.
II
BERNALD came on two successive Sundays; and the second time he lingered
till the Tuesday.
“Here he comes!” Wade had said, the first evening, as the two young men,
with Wade’s mother sat in the sultry dusk, with the Virginian creeper
drawing, between the verandah arches, its black arabesques against a
moon-lined sky.
In the darkness Bernald heard a step on the gravel, and saw the red flit
of a cigar through the shrubs. Then a loosely-moving figure obscured the
patch of sky between the creepers, and the red spark became the centre
of a dim bearded face, in which Bernald discerned only a broad white
gleam of forehead.
It was the young man’s subsequent impression that Winterman had not
spoken much that first evening; at any rate, Bernald himself remembered
chiefly what the Wades had said. And this was the more curious because
he had come for the purpose of studying their visitor, and because
there was nothing to divert him from that purpose in Wade’s halting
communications or his mother’s artless comments. He reflected afterward
that there must have been a mysteriously fertilizing quality in the
stranger’s silence: it had brooded over their talk like a large moist
cloud above a dry country.
Mrs. Wade, apparently apprehensive lest her son should have given
Bernald an exaggerated notion of their visitor’s importance, had
hastened to qualify it before the latter appeared.
“He’s not what you or Howland would call intellectual--“(Bernald writhed
at the coupling of the names)--“not in the least _literary;_ though he
told Bob he used to write. I don’t think, though, it could have been
what Howland would call writing.” Mrs. Wade always mentioned her younger
son with a reverential drop of the voice. She viewed literature much as
she did Providence, as an inscrutably mystery; and she spoke of Howland
as a dedicated being, set apart to perform secret rites within the veil
of the sanctuary.
“I shouldn’t say he had a quick mind,” she continued, reverting
apologetically to Winterman. “Sometimes he hardly seems to follow what
we’re saying. But he’s got such sound ideas--when he does speak he’s
never silly. And clever people sometimes _are_, don’t you think so?”
Bernald groaned an unqualified assent. “And he’s so capable. The other
day something went wrong with the kitchen range, just as I was expecting
some friends of Bob’s for dinner; and do you know, when Mr. Winterman
heard we were in trouble, he came and took a look, and knew at once what
to do? I told him it was a dreadful pity he wasn’t married!”
Close on midnight, when the session on the verandah ended, and the
two young men were strolling down to the bungalow at Winterman’s side,
Bernald’s mind reverted to the image of the fertilizing cloud. There was
something brooding, pregnant, in the silent presence beside him: he had,
in place of any circumscribing impression of the individual, a large
hovering sense of manifold latent meanings. And he felt a distinct
thrill of relief when, half-way down the lawn, Doctor Bob was checked by
a voice that called him back to the telephone.
“Now I’ll be with him alone!” thought Bernald, with a throb like a
lover’s.
In the low-ceilinged bungalow Winterman had to grope for the lamp on his
desk, and as its light struck up into his face Bernald’s sense of the
rareness of his opportunity increased. He couldn’t have said why, for
the face, with its ridged brows, its shabby greyish beard and blunt
Socratic nose, made no direct appeal to the eye. It seemed rather like
a stage on which remarkable things might be enacted, like some shaggy
moorland landscape dependent for form and expression on the clouds
rolling over it, and the bursts of light between; and one of these
flashed out in the smile with which Winterman, as if in answer to his
companion’s thought, said simply, as he turned to fill his pipe: “Now
we’ll talk.”
So he’d known all along that they hadn’t yet--and had guessed that, with
Bernald, one might!
The young man’s glow of pleasure was so intense that it left him for
a moment unable to meet the challenge; and in that moment he felt the
brush of something winged and summoning. His spirit rose to it with a
rush; but just as he felt himself poised between the ascending pinions,
the door opened and Bob Wade plunged in.
“Too bad! I’m so sorry! It was from Howland, to say he can’t come
to-morrow after all.” The doctor panted out his news with honest grief.
“I tried my best to pull it off for you; and my brother _wants_ to
come--he’s keen to talk to you and see what he can do. But you see he’s
so tremendously in demand. He’ll try for another Sunday later on.”
Winterman nodded with a whimsical gesture. “Oh, he’ll find me here. I
shall work my time out slowly.” He pointed to the scattered sheets on
the kitchen table which formed his writing desk.
“Not slowly enough to suit us,” Wade answered hospitably. “Only, if
Howland could have come he might have given you a tip or two--put you on
the right track--shown you how to get in touch with the public.”
Winterman, his hands in his sagging pockets, lounged against the bare
pine walls, twisting his pipe under his beard. “Does your brother enjoy
the privilege of that contact?” he questioned gravely.
Wade stared a little. “Oh, of course Howland’s not what you’d call a
_popular_ writer; he despises that kind of thing. But whatever he says
goes with--well, with the chaps that count; and every one tells me he’s
written _the_ book on Pellerin. You must read it when you get back your
eyes.” He paused, as if to let the name sink in, but Winterman drew
at his pipe with a blank face. “You must have heard of Pellerin, I
suppose?” the doctor continued. “I’ve never read a word of him myself:
he’s too big a proposition for _me_. But one can’t escape the talk about
him. I have him crammed down my throat even in hospital. The internes
read him at the clinics. He tumbles out of the nurses’ pockets. The
patients keep him under their pillows. Oh, with most of them, of
course, it’s just a craze, like the last new game or puzzle: they don’t
understand him in the least. Howland says that even now, twenty-five
years after his death, and with his books in everybody’s hands, there
are not twenty people who really understand Pellerin; and Howland ought
to know, if anybody does. He’s--what’s their great word?--_interpreted_
him. You must get Howland to put you through a course of Pellerin.”
And as the young men, having taken leave of Winterman, retraced
their way across the lawn, Wade continued to develop the theme of his
brother’s accomplishments.
“I wish I _could_ get Howland to take an interest in Winterman: this
is the third Sunday he’s chucked us. Of course he does get bored with
people consulting him about their writings--but I believe if he could
only talk to Winterman he’d see something in him, as we do. And it would
be such a god-send to the poor man to have some one to advise him about
his work. I’m going to make a desperate effort to get Howland here next
Sunday.”
It was then that Bernald vowed to himself that he would return the
next Sunday at all costs. He hardly knew whether he was prompted by the
impulse to shield Winterman from Howland Wade’s ineptitude, or by the
desire to see the latter abandon himself to the full shamelessness of
its display; but of one fact he was blissfully assured--and that was of
the existence in Winterman of some quality which would provoke Howland
to the amplest exercise of his fatuity. “How he’ll draw him--how he’ll
draw him!” Bernald chuckled, with a security the more unaccountable
that his one glimpse of Winterman had shown the latter only as a passive
subject for experimentation; and he felt himself avenged in advance for
the injury of Howland Wade’s existence.
III
THAT this hope was to be frustrated Bernald learned from Howland Wade’s
own lips, the day before the two young men were to meet at Portchester.
“I can’t really, my dear fellow,” the Interpreter lisped, passing a
polished hand over the faded smoothness of his face. “Oh, an authentic
engagement, I assure you: otherwise, to oblige old Bob I’d submit
cheerfully to looking over his foundling’s literature. But I’m pledged
this week to the Pellerin Society of Kenosha: I had a hand in founding
it, and for two years now they’ve been patiently waiting for a word from
me--the _Fiat Lux_, so to speak. You see it’s a ministry, Bernald--I
assure you, I look upon my calling quite religiously.”
As Bernald listened, his disappointment gradually changed to relief.
Howland, on trial, always turned out to be too insufferable, and the
pleasure of watching his antics was invariably lost in the impulse to
put a sanguinary end to them.
“If he’d only keep his beastly pink hands off Pellerin,” Bernald
groaned, thinking of the thick manuscript condemned to perpetual
incarceration in his own desk by the publication of Howland’s
“definitive” work on the great man. One couldn’t, _after _Howland
Wade, expose one’s self to the derision of writing about Pellerin: the
eagerness with which Wade’s book had been devoured proved, not that the
public had enough appetite for another, but simply that, for a stomach
so undiscriminating, anything better than Wade had given it would be too
good. And Bernald, in the confidence that his own work was open to
this objection, had stoically locked it up. Yet if he had resigned his
exasperated intelligence to the fact that Wade’s book existed, and was
already passing into the immortality of perpetual republication, he
could not, after repeated trials, adjust himself to the author’s talk
about Pellerin. When Wade wrote of the great dead he was egregious, but
in conversation he was familiar and fond. It might have been supposed
that one of the beauties of Pellerin’s hidden life and mysterious taking
off would have been to guard him from the fingering of anecdote; but
biographers like Howland Wade were born to rise above such obstacles. He
might be vague or inaccurate in dealing with the few recorded events of
his subject’s life; but when he left fact for conjecture no one had a
firmer footing. Whole chapters in his volume were constructed in the
conditional mood and packed with hypothetical detail; and in talk, by
the very law of the process, hypothesis became affirmation, and he was
ready to tell you confidentially the exact circumstances of Pellerin’s
death, and of the “distressing incident” leading up to it. Bernald
himself not only questioned the form under which this incident was
shaping itself before posterity, but the mere radical fact of its
occurrence: he had never been able to discover any break in the dense
cloud enveloping Pellerin’s later life and its mysterious termination.
He had gone away--that was all that any of them knew: he who had so
little, at any time, been with them or of them; and his going had so
slightly stirred the public consciousness that even the subsequent news
of his death, laconically imparted from afar, had dropped unheeded into
the universal scrap-basket, to be long afterward fished out, with all
its details missing, when some enquiring spirit first became aware, by
chance encounter with a two-penny volume in a London book-stall, not
only that such a man as John Pellerin had died, but that he had ever
lived, or written.
It need hardly be noted that Howland Wade had not been the pioneer in
question: his had been the wiser part of swelling the chorus when it
rose, and gradually drowning the other voices by his own insistent note.
He had pitched the note so screamingly, and held it so long, that he was
now the accepted authority on Pellerin, not only in the land which had
given birth to his genius but in the Europe which had first acclaimed
it; and it was the central point of pain in Bernald’s sense of the
situation that a man who had so yearned for silence as Pellerin should
have his grave piped over by such a voice as Wade’s.
Bernald’s talk with the Interpreter had revived this ache to the
momentary exclusion of other sensations; and he was still sore with
it when, the next afternoon, he arrived at Portchester for his second
Sunday with the Wades.
At the station he had the surprise of seeing Winterman’s face on the
platform, and of hearing from him that Doctor Bob had been called away
to assist at an operation in a distant town.
“Mrs. Wade wanted to put you off, but I believe the message came too
late; so she sent me down to break the news to you,” said Winterman,
holding out his hand.
Perhaps because they were the first conventional words that Bernald had
heard him speak, the young man was struck by the relief his intonation
gave them.
“She wanted to send a carriage,” Winterman added, “but I told her
we’d walk back through the woods.” He looked at Bernald with a sudden
kindness that flushed the young man with pleasure.
“Are you strong enough? It’s not too far?”
“Oh, no. I’m pulling myself together. Getting back to work is the
slowest part of the business: not on account of my eyes--I can use them
now, though not for reading; but some of the links between things are
missing. It’s a kind of broken spectrum ... here, that boy will look
after your bag.”
The walk through the woods remained in Bernald’s memory as an enchanted
hour. He used the word literally, as descriptive of the way in which
Winterman’s contact changed the face of things, or perhaps restored them
to their primitive meanings. And the scene they traversed--one of those
little untended woods that still, in America, fringe the tawdry skirts
of civilization--acquired, as a background to Winterman, the hush of
a spot aware of transcendent visitings. Did he talk, or did he make
Bernald talk? The young man never knew. He recalled only a sense of
lightness and liberation, as if the hard walls of individuality had
melted, and he were merged in the poet’s deeper interfusion, yet without
losing the least sharp edge of self. This general impression resolved
itself afterward into the sense of Winterman’s wide elemental range.
His thought encircled things like the horizon at sea. He didn’t, as it
happened, touch on lofty themes--Bernald was gleefully aware that,
to Howland Wade, their talk would hardly have been Talk at all--but
Winterman’s mind, applied to lowly topics, was like a powerful lens that
brought out microscopic delicacies and differences.
The lack of Sunday trains kept Doctor Bob for two days on the scene
of his surgical duties, and during those two days Bernald seized every
moment of communion with his friend’s guest. Winterman, as Wade had
said, was reticent as to his personal affairs, or rather as to the
practical and material conditions to which the term is generally
applied. But it was evident that, in Winterman’s case, the usual
classification must be reversed, and that the discussion of ideas
carried one much farther into his intimacy than any specific
acquaintance with the incidents of his life.
“That’s exactly what Howland Wade and his tribe have never understood
about Pellerin: that it’s much less important to know how, or even why,
he disapp--”
Bernald pulled himself up with a jerk, and turned to look full at his
companion. It was late on the Monday evening, and the two men, after an
hour’s chat on the verandah to the tune of Mrs. Wade’s knitting-needles,
had bidden their hostess good-night and strolled back to the bungalow
together.
“Come and have a pipe before you turn in,” Winterman had said; and they
had sat on together till midnight, with the door of the bungalow open on
a heaving moonlit bay, and summer insects bumping against the chimney of
the lamp. Winterman had just bent down to re-fill his pipe from the
jar on the table, and Bernald, jerking about to catch him in the yellow
circle of lamplight, sat speechless, staring at a fact that seemed
suddenly to have substituted itself for Winterman’s face, or rather to
have taken on its features.
“No, they never saw that Pellerin’s ideas _were_ Pellerin. ...” He
continued to stare at Winterman. “Just as this man’s ideas are--why,
_are_ Pellerin!”
The thought uttered itself in a kind of inner shout, and Bernald started
upright with the violent impact of his conclusion. Again and again in
the last forty-eight hours he had exclaimed to himself: “This is as good
as Pellerin.” Why hadn’t he said till now: “This _is_ Pellerin”? ...
Surprising as the answer was, he had no choice but to take it. He hadn’t
said so simply because Winterman was _better than Pellerin_--that there
was so much more of him, so to speak. Yes; but--it came to Bernald in
a flash--wouldn’t there by this time have been any amount more of
Pellerin? ... The young man felt actually dizzy with the thought. That
was it--there was the solution of the haunting problem! This man
was Pellerin, and more than Pellerin! It was so fantastic and yet so
unanswerable that he burst into a sudden startled laugh.
Winterman, at the same moment, brought his palm down with a sudden crash
on the pile of manuscript covering the desk.
“What’s the matter?” Bernald gasped.
“My match wasn’t out. In another minute the destruction of the library
of Alexandria would have been a trifle compared to what you’d have
seen.” Winterman, with his large deep laugh, shook out the smouldering
sheets. “And I should have been a pensioner on Doctor Bob the Lord knows
how much longer!”
Bernald pulled himself together. “You’ve really got going again? The
thing’s actually getting into shape?”
“This particular thing _is_ in shape. I drove at it hard all last week,
thinking our friend’s brother would be down on Sunday, and might look it
over.”
Bernald had to repress the tendency to another wild laugh.
“Howland--you meant to show _Howland_ what you’ve done?”
Winterman, looming against the moonlight, slowly turned a dusky shaggy
head toward him.
“Isn’t it a good thing to do?”
Bernald wavered, torn between loyalty to his friends and the
grotesqueness of answering in the affirmative. After all, it was none of
his business to furnish Winterman with an estimate of Howland Wade.
“Well, you see, you’ve never told me what your line _is_,” he answered,
temporizing.
“No, because nobody’s ever told _me_. It’s exactly what I want to find
out,” said the other genially.
“And you expect Wade--?”
“Why, I gathered from our good Doctor that it’s his trade. Doesn’t he
explain--interpret?”
“In his own domain--which is Pellerinism.”
Winterman gazed out musingly upon the moon-touched dusk of waters. “And
what _is_ Pellerinism?” he asked.
Bernald sprang to his feet with a cry. “Ah, I don’t know--but you’re
Pellerin!”
They stood for a minute facing each other, among the uncertain swaying
shadows of the room, with the sea breathing through it as something
immense and inarticulate breathed through young Bernald’s thoughts; then
Winterman threw up his arms with a humorous gesture.
“Don’t shoot!” he said.
IV
DAWN found them there, and the risen sun laid its beams on the rough
floor of the bungalow, before either of the men was conscious of the
passage of time. Bernald, vaguely trying to define his own state in
retrospect, could only phrase it: “I floated ... floated. ...”
The gist of fact at the core of the extraordinary experience was
simply that John Pellerin, twenty-five years earlier, had voluntarily
disappeared, causing the rumour of his death to be reported to an
inattentive world; and that now he had come back to see what that world
had made of him.
“You’ll hardly believe it of me; I hardly believe it of myself; but I
went away in a rage of disappointment, of wounded pride--no, vanity!
I don’t know which cut deepest--the sneers or the silence--but between
them, there wasn’t an inch of me that wasn’t raw. I had just the one
thing in me: the message, the cry, the revelation. But nobody saw and
nobody listened. Nobody wanted what I had to give. I was like a poor
devil of a tramp looking for shelter on a bitter night, in a town with
every door bolted and all the windows dark. And suddenly I felt that the
easiest thing would be to lie down and go to sleep in the snow. Perhaps
I’d a vague notion that if they found me there at daylight, frozen
stiff, the pathetic spectacle might produce a reaction, a feeling of
remorse. ... So I took care to be found! Well, a good many thousand
people die every day on the face of the globe; and I soon discovered
that I was simply one of the thousands; and when I made that discovery
I really died--and stayed dead a year or two. ... When I came to life
again I was off on the under side of the world, in regions unaware of
what we know as ‘the public.’ Have you any notion how it shifts the
point of view to wake under new constellations? I advise any who’s been
in love with a woman under Cassiopeia to go and think about her under
the Southern Cross. ... It’s the only way to tell the pivotal truths
from the others. ... I didn’t believe in my theory any less--there was
my triumph and my vindication! It held out, resisted, measured itself
with the stars. But I didn’t care a snap of my finger whether anybody
else believed in it, or even knew it had been formulated. It escaped out
of my books--my poor still-born books--like Psyche from the chrysalis
and soared away into the blue, and lived there. I knew then how it frees
an idea to be ignored; how apprehension circumscribes and deforms it.
... Once I’d learned that, it was easy enough to turn to and shift
for myself. I was sure now that my idea would live: the good ones are
self-supporting. I had to learn to be so; and I tried my hand at a
number of things ... adventurous, menial, commercial. ... It’s not a bad
thing for a man to have to live his life--and we nearly all manage to
dodge it. Our first round with the Sphinx may strike something out of
us--a book or a picture or a symphony; and we’re amazed at our feat,
and go on letting that first work breed others, as some animal forms
reproduce each other without renewed fertilization. So there we are,
committed to our first guess at the riddle; and our works look as like
as successive impressions of the same plate, each with the lines a
little fainter; whereas they ought to be--if we touch earth between
times--as different from each other as those other creatures--jellyfish,
aren’t they, of a kind?--where successive generations produce new forms,
and it takes a zoologist to see the hidden likeness. ...
“Well, I proved my first guess, off there in the wilds, and it lived,
and grew, and took care of itself. And I said ‘Some day it will make
itself heard; but by that time my atoms will have waltzed into a new
pattern.’ Then, in Cashmere one day, I met a fellow in a caravan, with
a dog-eared book in his pocket. He said he never stirred without
it--wanted to know where I’d been, never to have heard of it. It was _my
guess_--in its twentieth edition! ... The globe spun round at that, and
all of a sudden I was under the old stars. That’s the way it happens
when the ballast of vanity shifts! I’d lived a third of a life
out there, unconscious of human opinion--because I supposed it was
unconscious of _me_. But now--now! Oh, it was different. I wanted to
know what they said. ... Not exactly that, either: I wanted to know
_what I’d made them say_. There’s a difference. ... And here I am,” said
John Pellerin, with a pull at his pipe.
So much Bernald retained of his companion’s actual narrative; the rest
was swept away under the tide of wonder that rose and submerged him as
Pellerin--at some indefinitely later stage of their talk--picked up his
manuscript and began to read. Bernald sat opposite, his elbows propped
on the table, his eyes fixed on the swaying waters outside, from which
the moon gradually faded, leaving them to make a denser blackness in the
night. As Pellerin read, this density of blackness--which never for a
moment seemed inert or unalive--was attenuated by imperceptible degrees,
till a greyish pallour replaced it; then the pallour breathed and
brightened, and suddenly dawn was on the sea.
Something of the same nature went on in the young man’s mind while he
watched and listened. He was conscious of a gradually withdrawing light,
of an interval of obscurity full of the stir of invisible forces, and
then of the victorious flush of day. And as the light rose, he saw how
far he had travelled and what wonders the night had prepared. Pellerin
had been right in saying that his first idea had survived, had borne the
test of time; but he had given his hearer no hint of the extent to which
it had been enlarged and modified, of the fresh implications it now
unfolded. In a brief flash of retrospection Bernald saw the earlier
books dwindle and fall into their place as mere precursors of this
fuller revelation; then, with a leap of helpless rage, he pictured
Howland Wade’s pink hands on the new treasure, and his prophetic feet
upon the lecture platform.
V
“IT won’t do--oh, he let him down as gently as possible; but it appears
it simply won’t do.”
Doctor Bob imparted the ineluctable fact to Bernald while the two men,
accidentally meeting at their club a few nights later, sat together over
the dinner they had immediately agreed to consume in company.
Bernald had left Portchester the morning after his strange discovery,
and he and Bob Wade had not seen each other since. And now Bernald,
moved by an irresistible instinct of postponement, had waited for his
companion to bring up Winterman’s name, and had even executed several
conversational diversions in the hope of delaying its mention. For how
could one talk of Winterman with the thought of Pellerin swelling one’s
breast?
“Yes; the very day Howland got back from Kenosha I brought the
manuscript to town, and got him to read it. And yesterday evening I
nailed him, and dragged an answer out of him.”
“Then Howland hasn’t seen Winterman yet?”
“No. He said: ‘Before you let him loose on me I’ll go over the stuff,
and see if it’s at all worth while.’”
Bernald drew a freer breath. “And he found it wasn’t?”
“Between ourselves, he found it was of no account at all. Queer, isn’t
it, when the _man_ ... but of course literature’s another proposition.
Howland says it’s one of the cases where an idea might seem original and
striking if one didn’t happen to be able to trace its descent. And this
is straight out of bosh--by Pellerin. ... Yes: Pellerin. It seems that
everything in the article that isn’t pure nonsense is just Pellerinism.
Howland thinks poor Winterman must have been tremendously struck by
Pellerin’s writings, and have lived too much out of the world to know
that they’ve become the text-books of modern thought. Otherwise, of
course, he’d have taken more trouble to disguise his plagiarisms.”
“I see,” Bernald mused. “Yet you say there _is_ an original element?”
“Yes; but unluckily it’s no good.”
“It’s not--conceivably--in any sense a development of Pellerin’s idea: a
logical step farther?”
“_Logical?_ Howland says it’s twaddle at white heat.”
Bernald sat silent, divided between the fierce satisfaction of seeing
the Interpreter rush upon his fate, and the despair of knowing that the
state of mind he represented was indestructible. Then both emotions were
swept away on a wave of pure joy, as he reflected that now, at last,
Howland Wade had given him back John Pellerin.
The possession was one he did not mean to part with lightly; and the
dread of its being torn from him constrained him to extraordinary
precautions.
“You’ve told Winterman, I suppose? How did he take it?”
“Why, unexpectedly, as he does most things. You can never tell which way
he’ll jump. I thought he’d take a high tone, or else laugh it off; but
he did neither. He seemed awfully cast down. I wished myself well out
of the job when I saw how cut up he was.” Bernald thrilled at the words.
Pellerin had shared his pang, then--the “old woe of the world” at the
perpetuity of human dulness!
“But what did he say to the charge of plagiarism--if you made it?”
“Oh, I told him straight out what Howland said. I thought it fairer. And
his answer to that was the rummest part of all.”
“What was it?” Bernald questioned, with a tremor.
“He said: ‘That’s queer, for I’ve never read Pellerin.’”
Bernald drew a deep breath of ecstasy. “Well--and I suppose you believed
him?”
“I believed him, because I know him. But the public won’t--the critics
won’t. And if it’s a pure coincidence it’s just as bad for him as if it
were a straight steal--isn’t it?”
Bernald sighed his acquiescence.
“It bothers me awfully,” Wade continued, knitting his kindly brows,
“because I could see what a blow it was to him. He’s got to earn his
living, and I don’t suppose he knows how to do anything else. At his
age it’s hard to start fresh. I put that to Howland--asked him if
there wasn’t a chance he might do better if he only had a little
encouragement. I can’t help feeling he’s got the essential thing in him.
But of course I’m no judge when it comes to books. And Howland says it
would be cruel to give him any hope.” Wade paused, turned his wineglass
about under a meditative stare, and then leaned across the table toward
Bernald. “Look here--do you know what I’ve proposed to Winterman? That
he should come to town with me to-morrow and go in the evening to hear
Howland lecture to the Uplift Club. They’re to meet at Mrs. Beecher
Bain’s, and Howland is to repeat the lecture that he gave the other day
before the Pellerin Society at Kenosha. It will give Winterman a chance
to get some notion of what Pellerin _was:_ he’ll get it much straighter
from Howland than if he tried to plough through Pellerin’s books. And
then afterward--as if accidentally--I thought I might bring him and
Howland together. If Howland could only see him and hear him talk,
there’s no knowing what might come of it. He couldn’t help feeling the
man’s force, as we do; and he might give him a pointer--tell him what
line to take. Anyhow, it would please Winterman, and take the edge off
his disappointment. I saw that as soon as I proposed it.”
“Some one who’s never heard of Pellerin?”
Mrs. Beecher Bain, large, smiling, diffuse, reached out parenthetically
from the incoming throng on her threshold to waylay Bernald with the
question as he was about to move past her in the wake of his companion.
“Oh, keep straight on, Mr. Winterman!” she interrupted herself to call
after the latter. “Into the back drawing-room, please! And remember,
you’re to sit next to me--in the corner on the left, close under the
platform.”
She renewed her interrogative clutch on Bernald’s sleeve. “Most curious!
Doctor Wade has been telling me all about him--how remarkable you all
think him. And it’s actually true that he’s never heard of Pellerin?
Of course as soon as Doctor Wade told me _that_, I said ‘Bring him!’
It will be so extraordinarily interesting to watch the first
impression.--Yes, do follow him, dear Mr. Bernald, and be sure that you
and he secure the seats next to me. Of course Alice Fosdick insists on
being with us. She was wild with excitement when I told her she was to
meet some one who’d never heard of Pellerin!”
On the indulgent lips of Mrs. Beecher Bain conjecture speedily passed
into affirmation; and as Bernald’s companion, broad and shaggy in his
visibly new evening clothes, moved down the length of the crowded rooms,
he was already, to the ladies drawing aside their skirts to let him
pass, the interesting Huron of the fable.
How far he was aware of the character ascribed to him it was impossible
for Bernald to discover. He was as unconscious as a tree or a cloud, and
his observer had never known any one so alive to human contacts and yet
so secure from them. But the scene was playing such a lively tune on
Bernald’s own sensibilities that for the moment he could not adjust
himself to the probable effect it produced on his companion. The young
man, of late, had made but rare appearances in the group of which Mrs.
Beecher Bain was one of the most indefatigable hostesses, and the Uplift
Club the chief medium of expression. To a critic, obliged by his trade
to cultivate convictions, it was the essence of luxury to leave them at
home in his hours of ease; and Bernald gave his preference to circles in
which less finality of judgment prevailed, and it was consequently less
embarrassing to be caught without an opinion.
But in his fresher days he had known the spell of the Uplift Club and
the thrill of moving among the Emancipated; and he felt an odd sense
of rejuvenation as he looked at the rows of faces packed about the
embowered platform from which Howland Wade was presently to hand down
the eternal verities. Many of these countenances belonged to the
old days, when the gospel of Pellerin was unknown, and it required
considerable intellectual courage to avow one’s acceptance of the very
doctrines he had since demolished. The latter moral revolution seemed to
have been accepted as submissively as a change in hair-dressing; and it
even struck Bernald that, in the case of many of the assembled ladies,
their convictions were rather newer than their clothes.
One of the most interesting examples of this facility of adaptation was
actually, in the person of Miss Alice Fosdick, brushing his elbow with
exotic amulets, and enveloping him in Arabian odours, as she leaned
forward to murmur her sympathetic sense of the situation. Miss Fosdick,
who was one of the most advanced exponents of Pellerinism, had large
eyes and a plaintive mouth, and Bernald had always fancied that she
might have been pretty if she had not been perpetually explaining
things.
“Yes, I know--Isabella Bain told me all about him. (He can’t hear us,
can he?) And I wonder if you realize how remarkably interesting it is
that we should have such an opportunity _now_--I mean the opportunity to
see the impression of Pellerinism on a perfectly fresh mind. (You
must introduce him as soon as the lecture’s over.) I explained that to
Isabella as soon as she showed me Doctor Wade’s note. Of course you see
why, don’t you?” Bernald made a faint motion of acquiescence, which she
instantly swept aside. “At least I think I can _make you see why_.
(If you’re sure he can’t hear?) Why, it’s just this--Pellerinism is in
danger of becoming a truism. Oh, it’s an awful thing to say! But then
I’m not afraid of saying awful things! I rather believe it’s my mission.
What I mean is, that we’re getting into the way of taking Pellerin for
granted--as we do the air we breathe. We don’t sufficiently lead our
_conscious life_ in him--we’re gradually letting him become subliminal.”
She swayed closer to the young man, and he saw that she was making a
graceful attempt to throw her explanatory net over his companion, who,
evading Mrs. Bain’s hospitable signal, had cautiously wedged himself
into a seat between Bernald and the wall.
“_Did_ you hear what I was saying, Mr. Winterman? (Yes, I know who you
are, of course!) Oh, well, I don’t really mind if you did. I was talking
about you--about you and Pellerin. I was explaining to Mr. Bernald that
what we need at this very minute is a Pellerin revival; and we need
some one like you--to whom his message comes as a wonderful new
interpretation of life--to lead the revival, and rouse us out of our
apathy. ...
“You see,” she went on winningly, “it’s not only the big public
that needs it (of course _their_ Pellerin isn’t ours!) It’s we, his
disciples, his interpreters, who discovered him and gave him to the
world--we, the Chosen People, the Custodians of the Sacred Books, as
Howland Wade calls us--it’s _we_, who are in perpetual danger of sinking
back into the old stagnant ideals, and practising the Seven Deadly
Virtues; it’s _we_ who need to count our mercies, and realize anew what
he’s done for us, and what we ought to do for him! And it’s for that
reason that I urged Mr. Wade to speak here, in the very inner sanctuary
of Pellerinism, exactly as he would speak to the uninitiated--to repeat,
simply, his Kenosha lecture, ‘What Pellerinism means’; and we ought all,
I think, to listen to him with the hearts of little children--just as
_you_ will, Mr. Winterman--as if he were telling us new things, and
we--”
“Alice, _dear_--” Mrs. Bain murmured with a deprecating gesture;
and Howland Wade, emerging between the palms, took the centre of the
platform.
A pang of commiseration shot through Bernald as he saw him there, so
innocent and so exposed. His plump pulpy body, which made his evening
dress fall into intimate and wrapper-like folds, was like a wide surface
spread to the shafts of irony; and the mild ripples of his voice
seemed to enlarge the vulnerable area as he leaned forward, poised on
confidential finger-tips, to say persuasively: “Let me try to tell you
what Pellerinism means.”
Bernald moved restlessly in his seat. He had the obscure sense of being
a party to something not wholly honourable. He ought not to have come;
he ought not to have let his companion come. Yet how could he have done
otherwise? John Pellerin’s secret was his own. As long as he chose
to remain John Winterman it was no one’s business to gainsay him; and
Bernald’s scruples were really justifiable only in respect of his own
presence on the scene. But even in this connection he ceased to feel
them as soon as Howland Wade began to speak.
VI
IT had been arranged that Pellerin, after the meeting of the Uplift
Club, should join Bernald at his rooms and spend the night there,
instead of returning to Portchester. The plan had been eagerly
elaborated by the young man, but he had been unprepared for the alacrity
with which his wonderful friend accepted it. He was beginning to see
that it was a part of Pellerin’s wonderfulness to fall in, quite simply
and naturally, with any arrangements made for his convenience, or
tending to promote the convenience of others. Bernald felt that his
extreme docility in such matters was proportioned to the force of
resistance which, for nearly half a life-time, had kept him, with his
back to the wall, fighting alone against the powers of darkness. In such
a scale of values how little the small daily alternatives must weigh!
At the close of Howland Wade’s discourse, Bernald, charged with his
prodigious secret, had felt the need to escape for an instant from
the liberated rush of talk. The interest of watching Pellerin was so
perilously great that the watcher felt it might, at any moment, betray
him. He lingered in the crowded drawing-room long enough to see his
friend enclosed in a mounting tide, above which Mrs. Beecher Bain and
Miss Fosdick actively waved their conversational tridents; then he took
refuge, at the back of the house, in a small dim library where, in his
younger days, he had discussed personal immortality and the problem of
consciousness with beautiful girls whose names he could not remember.
In this retreat he surprised Mr. Beecher Bain, a quiet man with a mild
brow, who was smoking a surreptitious cigar over the last number of the
_Strand_. Mr. Bain, at Bernald’s approach, dissembled the _Strand_ under
a copy of the _Hibbert Journal_, but tendered his cigar-case with the
remark that stocks were heavy again; and Bernald blissfully abandoned
himself to this unexpected contact with reality.
On his return to the drawing-room he found that the tide had set toward
the supper-table, and when it finally carried him thither it was to land
him in the welcoming arms of Bob Wade.
“Hullo, old man! Where have you been all this time?--Winterman? Oh,
_he’s_ talking to Howland: yes, I managed it finally. I believe
Mrs. Bain has steered them into the library, so that they shan’t be
disturbed. I gave her an idea of the situation, and she was awfully
kind. We’d better leave them alone, don’t you think? I’m trying to get a
croquette for Miss Fosdick.”
Bernald’s secret leapt in his bosom, and he devoted himself to the task
of distributing sandwiches and champagne while his pulses danced to the
tune of the cosmic laughter. The vision of Pellerin and his Interpreter,
face to face at last, had a Cyclopean grandeur that dwarfed all other
comedy. “And I shall hear of it presently; in an hour or two he’ll be
telling me about it. And that hour will be all mine--mine and his!” The
dizziness of the thought made it difficult for Bernald to preserve the
balance of the supper-plates he was distributing. Life had for him at
that moment the completeness which seems to defy disintegration.
The throng in the dining-room was thickening, and Bernald’s efforts
as purveyor were interrupted by frequent appeals, from ladies who had
reached repleteness, that he should sit down a moment and tell them all
about his interesting friend. Winterman’s fame, trumpeted abroad by Miss
Fosdick, had reached the four corners of the Uplift Club, and Bernald
found himself fabricating _de toutes pieces_ a Winterman legend which
should in some degree respond to the Club’s demand for the human
document. When at length he had acquitted himself of this obligation,
and was free to work his way back through the lessening groups into the
drawing-room, he was at last rewarded by a glimpse of his friend, who,
still densely encompassed, towered in the centre of the room in all his
sovran ugliness.
Their eyes met across the crowd; but Bernald gathered only perplexity
from the encounter. What were Pellerin’s eyes saying to him? What
orders, what confidences, what indefinable apprehension did their long
look impart? The young man was still trying to decipher their complex
message when he felt a tap on the arm, and turned to encounter the
rueful gaze of Bob Wade, whose meaning lay clearly enough on the surface
of his good blue stare.
“Well, it won’t work--it won’t work,” the doctor groaned.
“What won’t?”
“I mean with Howland. Winterman won’t. Howland doesn’t take to him.
Says he’s crude--frightfully crude. And you know how Howland hates
crudeness.”
“Oh, I know,” Bernald exulted. It was the word he had waited for--he saw
it now! Once more he was lost in wonder at Howland’s miraculous faculty
for always, as the naturalists said, being true to type.
“So I’m afraid it’s all up with his chance of writing. At least _I_ can
do no more,” said Wade, discouraged.
Bernald pressed him for farther details. “Does Winterman seem to mind
much? Did you hear his version?”
“His version?”
“I mean what he said to Howland.”
“Why no. What the deuce was there for him to say?”
“What indeed? I think I’ll take him home,” said Bernald gaily.
He turned away to join the circle from which, a few minutes before,
Pellerin’s eyes had vainly and enigmatically signalled to him; but the
circle had dispersed, and Pellerin himself was not in sight.
Bernald, looking about him, saw that during his brief aside with Wade
the party had passed into the final phase of dissolution. People still
delayed, in diminishing groups, but the current had set toward the
doors, and every moment or two it bore away a few more lingerers.
Bernald, from his post, commanded the clearing perspective of the two
drawing-rooms, and a rapid survey of their length sufficed to assure
him that Pellerin was not in either. Taking leave of Wade, the young
man made his way back to the drawing-room, where only a few hardened
feasters remained, and then passed on to the library which had been the
scene of the late momentous colloquy. But the library too was empty, and
drifting back uncertainly to the inner drawing-room Bernald found
Mrs. Beecher Bain domestically putting out the wax candles on the
mantel-piece.
“Dear Mr. Bernald! Do sit down and have a little chat. What a wonderful
privilege it has been! I don’t know when I’ve had such an intense
impression.”
She made way for him, hospitably, in a corner of the sofa to which she
had sunk; and he echoed her vaguely: “You _were_ impressed, then?”
“I can’t express to you how it affected me! As Alice said, it was a
resurrection--it was as if John Pellerin were actually here in the room
with us!”
Bernald turned on her with a half-audible gasp. “You felt that, dear
Mrs. Bain?”
“We all felt it--every one of us! I don’t wonder the Greeks--it _was_
the Greeks?--regarded eloquence as a supernatural power. As Alice says,
when one looked at Howland Wade one understood what they meant by the
Afflatus.”
Bernald rose and held out his hand. “Oh, I see--it was Howland who made
you feel as if Pellerin were in the room? And he made Miss Fosdick feel
so too?”
“Why, of course. But why are you rushing off?”
“Because I must hunt up my friend, who’s not used to such late hours.”
“Your friend?” Mrs. Bain had to collect her thoughts. “Oh, Mr.
Winterman, you mean? But he’s gone already.”
“Gone?” Bernald exclaimed, with an odd twinge of foreboding. Remembering
Pellerin’s signal across the crowd, he reproached himself for not having
answered it more promptly. Yet it was certainly strange that his friend
should have left the house without him.
“Are you quite sure?” he asked, with a startled glance at the clock.
“Oh, perfectly. He went half an hour ago. But you needn’t hurry home
on his account, for Alice Fosdick carried him off with her. I saw them
leave together.”
“Carried him off? She took him home with her, you mean?”
“Yes. You know what strange hours she keeps. She told me she was going
to give him a Welsh rabbit, and explain Pellerinism to him.”
“Oh, _if_ she’s going to explain--” Bernald murmured. But his amazement
at the news struggled with a confused impatience to reach his rooms in
time to be there for his friend’s arrival. There could be no stranger
spectacle beneath the stars than that of John Pellerin carried off by
Miss Fosdick, and listening, in the small hours, to her elucidation of
his doctrines; but Bernald knew enough of his sex to be aware that such
an experiment may present a less humorous side to its subject than to
an impartial observer. Even the Uplift Club and its connotations might
benefit by the attraction of the unknown; and it was conceivable that
to a traveller from Mesopotamia Miss Fosdick might present elements of
interest which she had lost for the frequenters of Fifth Avenue. There
was, at any rate, no denying that the affair had become unexpectedly
complex, and that its farther development promised to be rich in comedy.
In the charmed contemplation of these possibilities Bernald sat over his
fire, listening for Pellerin’s ring. He had arranged his modest quarters
with the reverent care of a celebrant awaiting the descent of his deity.
He guessed Pellerin to be unconscious of visual detail, but sensitive
to the happy blending of sensuous impressions: to the intimate spell of
lamplight on books, and of a deep chair placed where one could watch
the fire. The chair was there, and Bernald, facing it across the hearth,
already saw it filled by Pellerin’s lounging figure. The autumn dawn
came late, and even now they had before them the promise of some
untroubled hours. Bernald, sitting there alone in the warm stillness of
his room, and in the profounder hush of his expectancy, was conscious
of gathering up all his sensibilities and perceptions into one
exquisitely-adjusted instrument of notation. Until now he had tasted
Pellerin’s society only in unpremeditated snatches, and had always left
him with a sense, on his own part, of waste and shortcoming. Now, in the
lull of this dedicated hour, he felt that he should miss nothing, and
forget nothing, of the initiation that awaited him. And catching sight
of Pellerin’s pipe, he rose and laid it carefully on a table by the
arm-chair.
“No. I’ve never had any news of him,” Bernald heard himself repeating.
He spoke in a low tone, and with the automatic utterance that alone made
it possible to say the words.
They were addressed to Miss Fosdick, into whose neighbourhood chance had
thrown him at a dinner, a year or so later than their encounter at the
Uplift Club. Hitherto he had successfully, and intentionally, avoided
Miss Fosdick, not from any animosity toward that unconscious instrument
of fate, but from an intense reluctance to pronounce the words which he
knew he should have to speak if they met.
Now, as it turned out, his chief surprise was that she should wait so
long to make him speak them. All through the dinner she had swept him
along on a rapid current of talk which showed no tendency to linger or
turn back upon the past. At first he ascribed her reserve to a sense
of delicacy with which he reproached himself for not having previously
credited her; then he saw that she had been carried so far beyond the
point at which they had last faced each other, that it was by the merest
hazard of associated ideas that she was now finally borne back to it.
For it appeared that the very next evening, at Mrs. Beecher Bain’s, a
Hindu Mahatma was to lecture to the Uplift Club on the Limits of the
Subliminal; and it was owing to no less a person than Howland Wade that
this exceptional privilege had been obtained.
“Of course Howland’s known all over the world as the interpreter of
Pellerinism, and the Aga Gautch, who had absolutely declined to speak
anywhere in public, wrote to Isabella that he could not refuse anything
that Mr. Wade asked. Did you know that Howland’s lecture, ‘What
Pellerinism Means,’ has been translated into twenty-two languages, and
gone into a fifth edition in Icelandic? Why, that reminds me,”
Miss Fosdick broke off--“I’ve never heard what became of your queer
friend--what was his name?--whom you and Bob Wade accused me of
spiriting away after that very lecture. And I’ve never seen _you_ since
you rushed into the house the next morning, and dragged me out of bed to
know what I’d done with him!”
With a sharp effort Bernald gathered himself together to have it out.
“Well, what _did_ you do with him?” he retorted.
She laughed her appreciation of his humour. “Just what I told you, of
course. I said good-bye to him on Isabella’s door-step.”
Bernald looked at her. “It’s really true, then, that he didn’t go home
with you?”
She bantered back: “Have you suspected me, all this time, of hiding his
remains in the cellar?” And with a droop of her fine lids she added:
“I wish he _had_ come home with me, for he was rather interesting, and
there were things I think I could have explained to him.”
Bernald helped himself to a nectarine, and Miss Fosdick continued on a
note of amused curiosity: “So you’ve really never had any news of him
since that night?”
“No--I’ve never had any news of him.”
“Not the least little message?”
“Not the least little message.”
“Or a rumour or report of any kind?”
“Or a rumour or report of any kind.”
Miss Fosdick’s interest seemed to be revived by the strangeness of the
case. “It’s rather creepy, isn’t it? What _could_ have happened? You
don’t suppose he could have been waylaid and murdered?” she asked with
brightening eyes.
Bernald shook his head serenely. “No. I’m sure he’s safe--quite safe.”
“But if you’re sure, you must know something.”
“No. I know nothing,” he repeated.
She scanned him incredulously. “But what’s your theory--for you must
have a theory? What in the world can have become of him?”
Bernald returned her look and hesitated. “Do you happen to remember the
last thing he said to you--the very last, on the door-step, when he left
you?”
“The last thing?” She poised her fork above the peach on her plate. “I
don’t think he said anything. Oh, yes--when I reminded him that he’d
solemnly promised to come back with me and have a little talk he said he
couldn’t because he was going home.”
“Well, then, I suppose,” said Bernald, “he went home.”
She glanced at him as if suspecting a trap. “Dear me, how flat! I always
inclined to a mysterious murder. But of course you know more of him than
you say.”
She began to cut her peach, but paused above a lifted bit to ask, with a
renewal of animation in her expressive eyes: “By the way, had you heard
that Howland Wade has been gradually getting farther and farther away
from Pellerinism? It seems he’s begun to feel that there’s a Positivist
element in it which is narrowing to any one who has gone at all deeply
into the Wisdom of the East. He was intensely interesting about it the
other day, and of course I _do_ see what he feels. ... Oh, it’s too
long to tell you now; but if you could manage to come in to tea some
afternoon soon--any day but Wednesday--I should so like to explain--”
THE EYES
I
WE had been put in the mood for ghosts, that evening, after an excellent
dinner at our old friend Culwin’s, by a tale of Fred Murchard’s--the
narrative of a strange personal visitation.
Seen through the haze of our cigars, and by the drowsy gleam of a coal
fire, Culwin’s library, with its oak walls and dark old bindings, made a
good setting for such evocations; and ghostly experiences at first hand
being, after Murchard’s brilliant opening, the only kind acceptable to
us, we proceeded to take stock of our group and tax each member for a
contribution. There were eight of us, and seven contrived, in a manner
more or less adequate, to fulfil the condition imposed. It surprised
us all to find that we could muster such a show of supernatural
impressions, for none of us, excepting Murchard himself and young Phil
Frenham--whose story was the slightest of the lot--had the habit of
sending our souls into the invisible. So that, on the whole, we had
every reason to be proud of our seven “exhibits,” and none of us would
have dreamed of expecting an eighth from our host.
Our old friend, Mr. Andrew Culwin, who had sat back in his arm-chair,
listening and blinking through the smoke circles with the cheerful
tolerance of a wise old idol, was not the kind of man likely to be
favoured with such contacts, though he had imagination enough to enjoy,
without envying, the superior privileges of his guests. By age and by
education he belonged to the stout Positivist tradition, and his habit
of thought had been formed in the days of the epic struggle between
physics and metaphysics. But he had been, then and always, essentially
a spectator, a humorous detached observer of the immense muddled variety
show of life, slipping out of his seat now and then for a brief dip into
the convivialities at the back of the house, but never, as far as one
knew, showing the least desire to jump on the stage and do a “turn.”
Among his contemporaries there lingered a vague tradition of his having,
at a remote period, and in a romantic clime, been wounded in a duel;
but this legend no more tallied with what we younger men knew of his
character than my mother’s assertion that he had once been “a charming
little man with nice eyes” corresponded to any possible reconstitution
of his dry thwarted physiognomy.
“He never can have looked like anything but a bundle of sticks,”
Murchard had once said of him. “Or a phosphorescent log, rather,” some
one else amended; and we recognized the happiness of this description
of his small squat trunk, with the red blink of the eyes in a face like
mottled bark. He had always been possessed of a leisure which he had
nursed and protected, instead of squandering it in vain activities. His
carefully guarded hours had been devoted to the cultivation of a fine
intelligence and a few judiciously chosen habits; and none of the
disturbances common to human experience seemed to have crossed his sky.
Nevertheless, his dispassionate survey of the universe had not raised
his opinion of that costly experiment, and his study of the human race
seemed to have resulted in the conclusion that all men were superfluous,
and women necessary only because some one had to do the cooking. On the
importance of this point his convictions were absolute, and gastronomy
was the only science which he revered as dogma. It must be owned that
his little dinners were a strong argument in favour of this view,
besides being a reason--though not the main one--for the fidelity of his
friends.
Mentally he exercised a hospitality less seductive but no less
stimulating. His mind was like a forum, or some open meeting-place for
the exchange of ideas: somewhat cold and draughty, but light, spacious
and orderly--a kind of academic grove from which all the leaves had
fallen. In this privileged area a dozen of us were wont to stretch our
muscles and expand our lungs; and, as if to prolong as much as possible
the tradition of what we felt to be a vanishing institution, one or two
neophytes were now and then added to our band.
Young Phil Frenham was the last, and the most interesting, of these
recruits, and a good example of Murchard’s somewhat morbid assertion
that our old friend “liked ‘em juicy.” It was indeed a fact that Culwin,
for all his mental dryness, specially tasted the lyric qualities in
youth. As he was far too good an Epicurean to nip the flowers of
soul which he gathered for his garden, his friendship was not a
disintegrating influence: on the contrary, it forced the young idea
to robuster bloom. And in Phil Frenham he had a fine subject for
experimentation. The boy was really intelligent, and the soundness of
his nature was like the pure paste under a delicate glaze. Culwin had
fished him out of a thick fog of family dulness, and pulled him up to
a peak in Darien; and the adventure hadn’t hurt him a bit. Indeed,
the skill with which Culwin had contrived to stimulate his curiosities
without robbing them of their young bloom of awe seemed to me a
sufficient answer to Murchard’s ogreish metaphor. There was nothing
hectic in Frenham’s efflorescence, and his old friend had not laid even
a finger-tip on the sacred stupidities. One wanted no better proof of
that than the fact that Frenham still reverenced them in Culwin.
“There’s a side of him you fellows don’t see. _I_ believe that story
about the duel!” he declared; and it was of the very essence of
this belief that it should impel him--just as our little party was
dispersing--to turn back to our host with the absurd demand: “And now
you’ve got to tell us about _your_ ghost!”
The outer door had closed on Murchard and the others; only Frenham and I
remained; and the vigilant servant who presided over Culwin’s destinies,
having brought a fresh supply of soda-water, had been laconically
ordered to bed.
Culwin’s sociability was a night-blooming flower, and we knew that he
expected the nucleus of his group to tighten around him after midnight.
But Frenham’s appeal seemed to disconcert him comically, and he rose
from the chair in which he had just reseated himself after his farewells
in the hall.
“_My_ ghost? Do you suppose I’m fool enough to go to the expense of
keeping one of my own, when there are so many charming ones in my
friends’ closets?--Take another cigar,” he said, revolving toward me
with a laugh.
Frenham laughed too, pulling up his slender height before the
chimney-piece as he turned to face his short bristling friend.
“Oh,” he said, “you’d never be content to share if you met one you
really liked.”
Culwin had dropped back into his armchair, his shock head embedded in
its habitual hollow, his little eyes glimmering over a fresh cigar.
“Liked--_liked?_ Good Lord!” he growled.
“Ah, you _have_, then!” Frenham pounced on him in the same instant, with
a sidewise glance of victory at me; but Culwin cowered gnomelike among
his cushions, dissembling himself in a protective cloud of smoke.
“What’s the use of denying it? You’ve seen everything, so of course
you’ve seen a ghost!” his young friend persisted, talking intrepidly
into the cloud. “Or, if you haven’t seen one, it’s only because you’ve
seen two!”
The form of the challenge seemed to strike our host. He shot his head
out of the mist with a queer tortoise-like motion he sometimes had, and
blinked approvingly at Frenham.
“Yes,” he suddenly flung at us on a shrill jerk of laughter; “it’s only
because I’ve seen two!”
The words were so unexpected that they dropped down and down into a
fathomless silence, while we continued to stare at each other over
Culwin’s head, and Culwin stared at his ghosts. At length Frenham,
without speaking, threw himself into the chair on the other side of the
hearth, and leaned forward with his listening smile ...
II
“OH, of course they’re not show ghosts--a collector wouldn’t think
anything of them ... Don’t let me raise your hopes ... their one merit
is their numerical strength: the exceptional fact of their being _two_.
But, as against this, I’m bound to admit that at any moment I
could probably have exorcised them both by asking my doctor for a
prescription, or my oculist for a pair of spectacles. Only, as I
never could make up my mind whether to go to the doctor or the
oculist--whether I was afflicted by an optical or a digestive
delusion--I left them to pursue their interesting double life, though at
times they made mine exceedingly comfortable ...
“Yes--uncomfortable; and you know how I hate to be uncomfortable! But it
was part of my stupid pride, when the thing began, not to admit that I
could be disturbed by the trifling matter of seeing two--
“And then I’d no reason, really, to suppose I was ill. As far as I knew
I was simply bored--horribly bored. But it was part of my boredom--I
remember--that I was feeling so uncommonly well, and didn’t know how
on earth to work off my surplus energy. I had come back from a long
journey--down in South America and Mexico--and had settled down for the
winter near New York, with an old aunt who had known Washington Irving
and corresponded with N. P. Willis. She lived, not far from Irvington,
in a damp Gothic villa, overhung by Norway spruces, and looking exactly
like a memorial emblem done in hair. Her personal appearance was in
keeping with this image, and her own hair--of which there was little
left--might have been sacrificed to the manufacture of the emblem.
“I had just reached the end of an agitated year, with considerable
arrears to make up in money and emotion; and theoretically it seemed as
though my aunt’s mild hospitality would be as beneficial to my nerves as
to my purse. But the deuce of it was that as soon as I felt myself safe
and sheltered my energy began to revive; and how was I to work it off
inside of a memorial emblem? I had, at that time, the agreeable illusion
that sustained intellectual effort could engage a man’s whole activity;
and I decided to write a great book--I forget about what. My aunt,
impressed by my plan, gave up to me her Gothic library, filled with
classics in black cloth and daguerrotypes of faded celebrities; and I
sat down at my desk to make myself a place among their number. And to
facilitate my task she lent me a cousin to copy my manuscript.
“The cousin was a nice girl, and I had an idea that a nice girl was just
what I needed to restore my faith in human nature, and principally
in myself. She was neither beautiful nor intelligent--poor Alice
Nowell!--but it interested me to see any woman content to be so
uninteresting, and I wanted to find out the secret of her content. In
doing this I handled it rather rashly, and put it out of joint--oh, just
for a moment! There’s no fatuity in telling you this, for the poor girl
had never seen any one but cousins ...
“Well, I was sorry for what I’d done, of course, and confoundedly
bothered as to how I should put it straight. She was staying in the
house, and one evening, after my aunt had gone to bed, she came down to
the library to fetch a book she’d mislaid, like any artless heroine on
the shelves behind us. She was pink-nosed and flustered, and it suddenly
occurred to me that her hair, though it was fairly thick and pretty,
would look exactly like my aunt’s when she grew older. I was glad I had
noticed this, for it made it easier for me to do what was right; and
when I had found the book she hadn’t lost I told her I was leaving for
Europe that week.
“Europe was terribly far off in those days, and Alice knew at once what
I meant. She didn’t take it in the least as I’d expected--it would have
been easier if she had. She held her book very tight, and turned away a
moment to wind up the lamp on my desk--it had a ground glass shade with
vine leaves, and glass drops around the edge, I remember. Then she came
back, held out her hand, and said: ‘Good-bye.’ And as she said it she
looked straight at me and kissed me. I had never felt anything as fresh
and shy and brave as her kiss. It was worse than any reproach, and it
made me ashamed to deserve a reproach from her. I said to myself: ‘I’ll
marry her, and when my aunt dies she’ll leave us this house, and I’ll
sit here at the desk and go on with my book; and Alice will sit over
there with her embroidery and look at me as she’s looking now. And life
will go on like that for any number of years.’ The prospect frightened
me a little, but at the time it didn’t frighten me as much as doing
anything to hurt her; and ten minutes later she had my seal ring on my
finger, and my promise that when I went abroad she should go with me.
“You’ll wonder why I’m enlarging on this familiar incident. It’s because
the evening on which it took place was the very evening on which I
first saw the queer sight I’ve spoken of. Being at that time an ardent
believer in a necessary sequence between cause and effect I naturally
tried to trace some kind of link between what had just happened to me in
my aunt’s library, and what was to happen a few hours later on the same
night; and so the coincidence between the two events always remained in
my mind.
“I went up to bed with rather a heavy heart, for I was bowed under the
weight of the first good action I had ever consciously committed; and
young as I was, I saw the gravity of my situation. Don’t imagine from
this that I had hitherto been an instrument of destruction. I had been
merely a harmless young man, who had followed his bent and declined all
collaboration with Providence. Now I had suddenly undertaken to promote
the moral order of the world, and I felt a good deal like the trustful
spectator who has given his gold watch to the conjurer, and doesn’t know
in what shape he’ll get it back when the trick is over ... Still, a
glow of self-righteousness tempered my fears, and I said to myself as I
undressed that when I’d got used to being good it probably wouldn’t make
me as nervous as it did at the start. And by the time I was in bed, and
had blown out my candle, I felt that I really _was_ getting used to it,
and that, as far as I’d got, it was not unlike sinking down into one of
my aunt’s very softest wool mattresses.
“I closed my eyes on this image, and when I opened them it must have
been a good deal later, for my room had grown cold, and the night was
intensely still. I was waked suddenly by the feeling we all know--the
feeling that there was something near me that hadn’t been there when I
fell asleep. I sat up and strained my eyes into the darkness. The room
was pitch black, and at first I saw nothing; but gradually a vague
glimmer at the foot of the bed turned into two eyes staring back at me.
I couldn’t see the face attached to them--on account of the darkness,
I imagined--but as I looked the eyes grew more and more distinct: they
gave out a light of their own.
“The sensation of being thus gazed at was far from pleasant, and you
might suppose that my first impulse would have been to jump out of bed
and hurl myself on the invisible figure attached to the eyes. But it
wasn’t--my impulse was simply to lie still ... I can’t say whether
this was due to an immediate sense of the uncanny nature of the
apparition--to the certainty that if I did jump out of bed I should
hurl myself on nothing--or merely to the benumbing effect of the eyes
themselves. They were the very worst eyes I’ve ever seen: a man’s
eyes--but what a man! My first thought was that he must be frightfully
old. The orbits were sunk, and the thick red-lined lids hung over the
eyeballs like blinds of which the cords are broken. One lid drooped
a little lower than the other, with the effect of a crooked leer; and
between these pulpy folds of flesh, with their scant bristle of lashes,
the eyes themselves, small glassy disks with an agate-like rim about the
pupils, looked like sea-pebbles in the grip of a starfish.
“But the age of the eyes was not the most unpleasant thing about them.
What turned me sick was their expression of vicious security. I don’t
know how else to describe the fact that they seemed to belong to a man
who had done a lot of harm in his life, but had always kept just inside
the danger lines. They were not the eyes of a coward, but of some one
much too clever to take risks; and my gorge rose at their look of base
astuteness. Yet even that wasn’t the worst; for as we continued to scan
each other I saw in them a tinge of faint derision, and felt myself to
be its object.
“At that I was seized by an impulse of rage that jerked me out of bed
and pitched me straight on the unseen figure at its foot. But of course
there wasn’t any figure there, and my fists struck at emptiness. Ashamed
and cold, I groped about for a match and lit the candles. The room
looked just as usual--as I had known it would; and I crawled back to
bed, and blew out the lights.
“As soon as the room was dark again the eyes reappeared; and I now
applied myself to explaining them on scientific principles. At first
I thought the illusion might have been caused by the glow of the last
embers in the chimney; but the fire-place was on the other side of my
bed, and so placed that the fire could not possibly be reflected in my
toilet glass, which was the only mirror in the room. Then it occurred
to me that I might have been tricked by the reflection of the embers in
some polished bit of wood or metal; and though I couldn’t discover any
object of the sort in my line of vision, I got up again, groped my way
to the hearth, and covered what was left of the fire. But as soon as I
was back in bed the eyes were back at its foot.
“They were an hallucination, then: that was plain. But the fact
that they were not due to any external dupery didn’t make them a
bit pleasanter to see. For if they were a projection of my inner
consciousness, what the deuce was the matter with that organ? I had gone
deeply enough into the mystery of morbid pathological states to picture
the conditions under which an exploring mind might lay itself open to
such a midnight admonition; but I couldn’t fit it to my present case.
I had never felt more normal, mentally and physically; and the only
unusual fact in my situation--that of having assured the happiness of an
amiable girl--did not seem of a kind to summon unclean spirits about my
pillow. But there were the eyes still looking at me ...
“I shut mine, and tried to evoke a vision of Alice Nowell’s. They were
not remarkable eyes, but they were as wholesome as fresh water, and if
she had had more imagination--or longer lashes--their expression might
have been interesting. As it was, they did not prove very efficacious,
and in a few moments I perceived that they had mysteriously changed into
the eyes at the foot of the bed. It exasperated me more to feel these
glaring at me through my shut lids than to see them, and I opened my
eyes again and looked straight into their hateful stare ...
“And so it went on all night. I can’t tell you what that night was, nor
how long it lasted. Have you ever lain in bed, hopelessly wide awake,
and tried to keep your eyes shut, knowing that if you opened ‘em you’d
see something you dreaded and loathed? It sounds easy, but it’s devilish
hard. Those eyes hung there and drew me. I had the _vertige de l’abime_,
and their red lids were the edge of my abyss. ... I had known nervous
hours before: hours when I’d felt the wind of danger in my neck; but
never this kind of strain. It wasn’t that the eyes were so awful; they
hadn’t the majesty of the powers of darkness. But they had--how shall
I say?--a physical effect that was the equivalent of a bad smell: their
look left a smear like a snail’s. And I didn’t see what business they
had with me, anyhow--and I stared and stared, trying to find out ...
“I don’t know what effect they were trying to produce; but the effect
they _did_ produce was that of making me pack my portmanteau and bolt to
town early the next morning. I left a note for my aunt, explaining that
I was ill and had gone to see my doctor; and as a matter of fact I did
feel uncommonly ill--the night seemed to have pumped all the blood out
of me. But when I reached town I didn’t go to the doctor’s. I went to
a friend’s rooms, and threw myself on a bed, and slept for ten heavenly
hours. When I woke it was the middle of the night, and I turned cold
at the thought of what might be waiting for me. I sat up, shaking,
and stared into the darkness; but there wasn’t a break in its blessed
surface, and when I saw that the eyes were not there I dropped back into
another long sleep.
“I had left no word for Alice when I fled, because I meant to go back
the next morning. But the next morning I was too exhausted to stir. As
the day went on the exhaustion increased, instead of wearing off like
the lassitude left by an ordinary night of insomnia: the effect of the
eyes seemed to be cumulative, and the thought of seeing them again grew
intolerable. For two days I struggled with my dread; but on the third
evening I pulled myself together and decided to go back the next
morning. I felt a good deal happier as soon as I’d decided, for I knew
that my abrupt disappearance, and the strangeness of my not writing,
must have been very painful for poor Alice. That night I went to bed
with an easy mind, and fell asleep at once; but in the middle of the
night I woke, and there were the eyes ...
“Well, I simply couldn’t face them; and instead of going back to my
aunt’s I bundled a few things into a trunk and jumped onto the first
steamer for England. I was so dead tired when I got on board that I
crawled straight into my berth, and slept most of the way over; and I
can’t tell you the bliss it was to wake from those long stretches of
dreamless sleep and look fearlessly into the darkness, _knowing_ that I
shouldn’t see the eyes ...
“I stayed abroad for a year, and then I stayed for another; and during
that time I never had a glimpse of them. That was enough reason for
prolonging my stay if I’d been on a desert island. Another was, of
course, that I had perfectly come to see, on the voyage over, the folly,
complete impossibility, of my marrying Alice Nowell. The fact that I had
been so slow in making this discovery annoyed me, and made me want to
avoid explanations. The bliss of escaping at one stroke from the eyes,
and from this other embarrassment, gave my freedom an extraordinary
zest; and the longer I savoured it the better I liked its taste.
“The eyes had burned such a hole in my consciousness that for a long
time I went on puzzling over the nature of the apparition, and wondering
nervously if it would ever come back. But as time passed I lost this
dread, and retained only the precision of the image. Then that faded in
its turn.
“The second year found me settled in Rome, where I was planning, I
believe, to write another great book--a definitive work on Etruscan
influences in Italian art. At any rate, I’d found some pretext of the
kind for taking a sunny apartment in the Piazza di Spagna and dabbling
about indefinitely in the Forum; and there, one morning, a charming
youth came to me. As he stood there in the warm light, slender and
smooth and hyacinthine, he might have stepped from a ruined altar--one
to Antinous, say--but he’d come instead from New York, with a letter (of
all people) from Alice Nowell. The letter--the first I’d had from her
since our break--was simply a line introducing her young cousin, Gilbert
Noyes, and appealing to me to befriend him. It appeared, poor lad, that
he ‘had talent,’ and ‘wanted to write’; and, an obdurate family having
insisted that his calligraphy should take the form of double entry,
Alice had intervened to win him six months’ respite, during which he was
to travel on a meagre pittance, and somehow prove his ultimate ability
to increase it by his pen. The quaint conditions of the test struck me
first: it seemed about as conclusive as a mediaeval ‘ordeal.’ Then I was
touched by her having sent him to me. I had always wanted to do her some
service, to justify myself in my own eyes rather than hers; and here was
a beautiful embodiment of my chance.
“Well, I imagine it’s safe to lay down the general principle that
predestined geniuses don’t, as a rule, appear before one in the spring
sunshine of the Forum looking like one of its banished gods. At any
rate, poor Noyes wasn’t a predestined genius. But he _was_ beautiful to
see, and charming as a comrade too. It was only when he began to talk
literature that my heart failed me. I knew all the symptoms so well--the
things he had ‘in him,’ and the things outside him that impinged!
There’s the real test, after all. It was always--punctually, inevitably,
with the inexorableness of a mechanical law--it was _always_ the wrong
thing that struck him. I grew to find a certain grim fascination
in deciding in advance exactly which wrong thing he’d select; and I
acquired an astonishing skill at the game ...
“The worst of it was that his _betise_ wasn’t of the too obvious sort.
Ladies who met him at picnics thought him intellectual; and even at
dinners he passed for clever. I, who had him under the microscope,
fancied now and then that he might develop some kind of a slim talent,
something that he could make ‘do’ and be happy on; and wasn’t that,
after all, what I was concerned with? He was so charming--he continued
to be so charming--that he called forth all my charity in support of
this argument; and for the first few months I really believed there was
a chance for him ...
“Those months were delightful. Noyes was constantly with me, and the
more I saw of him the better I liked him. His stupidity was a natural
grace--it was as beautiful, really, as his eye-lashes. And he was so
gay, so affectionate, and so happy with me, that telling him the truth
would have been about as pleasant as slitting the throat of some artless
animal. At first I used to wonder what had put into that radiant head
the detestable delusion that it held a brain. Then I began to see that
it was simply protective mimicry--an instinctive ruse to get away
from family life and an office desk. Not that Gilbert didn’t--dear
lad!--believe in himself. There wasn’t a trace of hypocrisy in his
composition. He was sure that his ‘call’ was irresistible, while to me
it was the saving grace of his situation that it _wasn’t_, and that a
little money, a little leisure, a little pleasure would have turned
him into an inoffensive idler. Unluckily, however, there was no hope of
money, and with the grim alternative of the office desk before him he
couldn’t postpone his attempt at literature. The stuff he turned out
was deplorable, and I see now that I knew it from the first. Still, the
absurdity of deciding a man’s whole future on a first trial seemed to
justify me in withholding my verdict, and perhaps even in encouraging
him a little, on the ground that the human plant generally needs warmth
to flower.
“At any rate, I proceeded on that principle, and carried it to the point
of getting his term of probation extended. When I left Rome he went with
me, and we idled away a delicious summer between Capri and Venice. I
said to myself: ‘If he has anything in him, it will come out now; and it
_did_. He was never more enchanting and enchanted. There were moments
of our pilgrimage when beauty born of murmuring sound seemed actually
to pass into his face--but only to issue forth in a shallow flood of the
palest ink ...
“Well the time came to turn off the tap; and I knew there was no hand
but mine to do it. We were back in Rome, and I had taken him to stay
with me, not wanting him to be alone in his dismal _pension_ when he had
to face the necessity of renouncing his ambition. I hadn’t, of course,
relied solely on my own judgment in deciding to advise him to drop
literature. I had sent his stuff to various people--editors and
critics--and they had always sent it back with the same chilling lack of
comment. Really there was nothing on earth to say about it--
“I confess I never felt more shabbily than I did on the day when I
decided to have it out with Gilbert. It was well enough to tell myself
that it was my duty to knock the poor boy’s hopes into splinters--but
I’d like to know what act of gratuitous cruelty hasn’t been justified on
that plea? I’ve always shrunk from usurping the functions of Providence,
and when I have to exercise them I decidedly prefer that it shouldn’t
be on an errand of destruction. Besides, in the last issue, who was I to
decide, even after a year’s trial, if poor Gilbert had it in him or not?
“The more I looked at the part I’d resolved to play, the less I liked
it; and I liked it still less when Gilbert sat opposite me, with his
head thrown back in the lamplight, just as Phil’s is now ... I’d been
going over his last manuscript, and he knew it, and he knew that his
future hung on my verdict--we’d tacitly agreed to that. The manuscript
lay between us, on my table--a novel, his first novel, if you
please!--and he reached over and laid his hand on it, and looked up at
me with all his life in the look.
“I stood up and cleared my throat, trying to keep my eyes away from his
face and on the manuscript.
“‘The fact is, my dear Gilbert,’ I began--
“I saw him turn pale, but he was up and facing me in an instant.
“‘Oh, look here, don’t take on so, my dear fellow! I’m not so awfully
cut up as all that!’ His hands were on my shoulders, and he was laughing
down on me from his full height, with a kind of mortally-stricken gaiety
that drove the knife into my side.
“He was too beautifully brave for me to keep up any humbug about my
duty. And it came over me suddenly how I should hurt others in hurting
him: myself first, since sending him home meant losing him; but more
particularly poor Alice Nowell, to whom I had so uneasily longed to
prove my good faith and my immense desire to serve her. It really seemed
like failing her twice to fail Gilbert--
“But my intuition was like one of those lightning flashes that encircle
the whole horizon, and in the same instant I saw what I might be letting
myself in for if I didn’t tell the truth. I said to myself: ‘I shall
have him for life’--and I’d never yet seen any one, man or woman, whom I
was quite sure of wanting on those terms. Well, this impulse of egotism
decided me. I was ashamed of it, and to get away from it I took a leap
that landed me straight in Gilbert’s arms.
“‘The thing’s all right, and you’re all wrong!’ I shouted up at him; and
as he hugged me, and I laughed and shook in his incredulous clutch,
I had for a minute the sense of self-complacency that is supposed to
attend the footsteps of the just. Hang it all, making people happy _has_
its charms--
“Gilbert, of course, was for celebrating his emancipation in some
spectacular manner; but I sent him away alone to explode his emotions,
and went to bed to sleep off mine. As I undressed I began to wonder what
their after-taste would be--so many of the finest don’t keep! Still, I
wasn’t sorry, and I meant to empty the bottle, even if it _did_ turn a
trifle flat.
“After I got into bed I lay for a long time smiling at the memory of his
eyes--his blissful eyes... Then I fell asleep, and when I woke the room
was deathly cold, and I sat up with a jerk--and there were _the other
eyes_ ...
“It was three years since I’d seen them, but I’d thought of them so
often that I fancied they could never take me unawares again. Now, with
their red sneer on me, I knew that I had never really believed they
would come back, and that I was as defenceless as ever against them ...
As before, it was the insane irrelevance of their coming that made it
so horrible. What the deuce were they after, to leap out at me at such
a time? I had lived more or less carelessly in the years since I’d seen
them, though my worst indiscretions were not dark enough to invite the
searchings of their infernal glare; but at this particular moment I was
really in what might have been called a state of grace; and I can’t tell
you how the fact added to their horror ...
“But it’s not enough to say they were as bad as before: they were worse.
Worse by just so much as I’d learned of life in the interval; by all the
damnable implications my wider experience read into them. I saw now
what I hadn’t seen before: that they were eyes which had grown hideous
gradually, which had built up their baseness coral-wise, bit by bit,
out of a series of small turpitudes slowly accumulated through the
industrious years. Yes--it came to me that what made them so bad was
that they’d grown bad so slowly ...
“There they hung in the darkness, their swollen lids dropped across the
little watery bulbs rolling loose in the orbits, and the puff of fat
flesh making a muddy shadow underneath--and as their filmy stare moved
with my movements, there came over me a sense of their tacit complicity,
of a deep hidden understanding between us that was worse than the first
shock of their strangeness. Not that I understood them; but that they
made it so clear that some day I should ... Yes, that was the worst part
of it, decidedly; and it was the feeling that became stronger each time
they came back to me ...
“For they got into the damnable habit of coming back. They reminded me
of vampires with a taste for young flesh, they seemed so to gloat over
the taste of a good conscience. Every night for a month they came to
claim their morsel of mine: since I’d made Gilbert happy they simply
wouldn’t loosen their fangs. The coincidence almost made me hate him,
poor lad, fortuitous as I felt it to be. I puzzled over it a good deal,
but couldn’t find any hint of an explanation except in the chance of his
association with Alice Nowell. But then the eyes had let up on me the
moment I had abandoned her, so they could hardly be the emissaries of a
woman scorned, even if one could have pictured poor Alice charging such
spirits to avenge her. That set me thinking, and I began to wonder
if they would let up on me if I abandoned Gilbert. The temptation was
insidious, and I had to stiffen myself against it; but really, dear boy!
he was too charming to be sacrificed to such demons. And so, after all,
I never found out what they wanted ...”
III
THE fire crumbled, sending up a flash which threw into relief the
narrator’s gnarled red face under its grey-black stubble. Pressed into
the hollow of the dark leather armchair, it stood out an instant like
an intaglio of yellowish red-veined stone, with spots of enamel for the
eyes; then the fire sank and in the shaded lamp-light it became once
more a dim Rembrandtish blur.
Phil Frenham, sitting in a low chair on the opposite side of the hearth,
one long arm propped on the table behind him, one hand supporting his
thrown-back head, and his eyes steadily fixed on his old friend’s face,
had not moved since the tale began. He continued to maintain his silent
immobility after Culwin had ceased to speak, and it was I who, with a
vague sense of disappointment at the sudden drop of the story, finally
asked: “But how long did you keep on seeing them?”
Culwin, so sunk into his chair that he seemed like a heap of his own
empty clothes, stirred a little, as if in surprise at my question. He
appeared to have half-forgotten what he had been telling us.
“How long? Oh, off and on all that winter. It was infernal. I never got
used to them. I grew really ill.”
Frenham shifted his attitude silently, and as he did so his elbow struck
against a small mirror in a bronze frame standing on the table behind
him. He turned and changed its angle slightly; then he resumed his
former attitude, his dark head thrown back on his lifted palm, his eyes
intent on Culwin’s face. Something in his stare embarrassed me, and as
if to divert attention from it I pressed on with another question:
“And you never tried sacrificing Noyes?”
“Oh, no. The fact is I didn’t have to. He did it for me, poor infatuated
boy!”
“Did it for you? How do you mean?”
“He wore me out--wore everybody out. He kept on pouring out his
lamentable twaddle, and hawking it up and down the place till he became
a thing of terror. I tried to wean him from writing--oh, ever so gently,
you understand, by throwing him with agreeable people, giving him a
chance to make himself felt, to come to a sense of what he _really_ had
to give. I’d foreseen this solution from the beginning--felt sure that,
once the first ardour of authorship was quenched, he’d drop into his
place as a charming parasitic thing, the kind of chronic Cherubino for
whom, in old societies, there’s always a seat at table, and a shelter
behind the ladies’ skirts. I saw him take his place as ‘the poet’: the
poet who doesn’t write. One knows the type in every drawing-room. Living
in that way doesn’t cost much--I’d worked it all out in my mind, and
felt sure that, with a little help, he could manage it for the next
few years; and meanwhile he’d be sure to marry. I saw him married to
a widow, rather older, with a good cook and a well-run house. And I
actually had my eye on the widow ... Meanwhile I did everything to
facilitate the transition--lent him money to ease his conscience,
introduced him to pretty women to make him forget his vows. But nothing
would do him: he had but one idea in his beautiful obstinate head. He
wanted the laurel and not the rose, and he kept on repeating Gautier’s
axiom, and battering and filing at his limp prose till he’d spread it
out over Lord knows how many thousand sloppy pages. Now and then he
would send a pailful to a publisher, and of course it would always come
back.
“At first it didn’t matter--he thought he was ‘misunderstood.’ He took
the attitudes of genius, and whenever an opus came home he wrote another
to keep it company. Then he had a reaction of despair, and accused me of
deceiving him, and Lord knows what. I got angry at that, and told him
it was he who had deceived himself. He’d come to me determined to write,
and I’d done my best to help him. That was the extent of my offence, and
I’d done it for his cousin’s sake, not his.
“That seemed to strike home, and he didn’t answer for a minute. Then he
said: ‘My time’s up and my money’s up. What do you think I’d better do?’
“‘I think you’d better not be an ass,’ I said.
“He turned red, and asked: ‘What do you mean by being an ass?’
“I took a letter from my desk and held it out to him.
“‘I mean refusing this offer of Mrs. Ellinger’s: to be her secretary at
a salary of five thousand dollars. There may be a lot more in it than
that.’
“He flung out his hand with a violence that struck the letter from mine.
‘Oh, I know well enough what’s in it!’ he said, scarlet to the roots of
his hair.
“‘And what’s your answer, if you know?’ I asked.
“He made none at the minute, but turned away slowly to the door. There,
with his hand on the threshold, he stopped to ask, almost under his
breath: ‘Then you really think my stuff’s no good?’
“I was tired and exasperated, and I laughed. I don’t defend my laugh--it
was in wretched taste. But I must plead in extenuation that the boy was
a fool, and that I’d done my best for him--I really had.
“He went out of the room, shutting the door quietly after him. That
afternoon I left for Frascati, where I’d promised to spend the Sunday
with some friends. I was glad to escape from Gilbert, and by the same
token, as I learned that night, I had also escaped from the eyes. I
dropped into the same lethargic sleep that had come to me before when
their visitations ceased; and when I woke the next morning, in my
peaceful painted room above the ilexes, I felt the utter weariness and
deep relief that always followed on that repairing slumber. I put in two
blessed nights at Frascati, and when I got back to my rooms in Rome I
found that Gilbert had gone ... Oh, nothing tragic had happened--the
episode never rose to _that_. He’d simply packed his manuscripts and
left for America--for his family and the Wall Street desk. He left a
decent little note to tell me of his decision, and behaved altogether,
in the circumstances, as little like a fool as it’s possible for a fool
to behave ...”
IV
CULWIN paused again, and again Frenham sat motionless, the dusky contour
of his young head reflected in the mirror at his back.
“And what became of Noyes afterward?” I finally asked, still disquieted
by a sense of incompleteness, by the need of some connecting thread
between the parallel lines of the tale.
Culwin twitched his shoulders. “Oh, nothing became of him--because he
became nothing. There could be no question of ‘becoming’ about it. He
vegetated in an office, I believe, and finally got a clerkship in a
consulate, and married drearily in China. I saw him once in Hong Kong,
years afterward. He was fat and hadn’t shaved. I was told he drank. He
didn’t recognize me.”
“And the eyes?” I asked, after another pause which Frenham’s continued
silence made oppressive.
Culwin, stroking his chin, blinked at me meditatively through the
shadows. “I never saw them after my last talk with Gilbert. Put two and
two together if you can. For my part, I haven’t found the link.”
He rose stiffly, his hands in his pockets, and walked over to the table
on which reviving drinks had been set out.
“You must be parched after this dry tale. Here, help yourself, my dear
fellow. Here, Phil--” He turned back to the hearth.
Frenham still sat in his low chair, making no response to his host’s
hospitable summons. But as Culwin advanced toward him, their eyes met in
a long look; after which, to my intense surprise, the young man, turning
suddenly in his seat, flung his arms across the table, and dropped his
face upon them.
Culwin, at the unexpected gesture, stopped short, a flush on his face.
“Phil--what the deuce? Why, have the eyes scared _you?_ My dear boy--my
dear fellow--I never had such a tribute to my literary ability, never!”
He broke into a chuckle at the thought, and halted on the hearth-rug,
his hands still in his pockets, gazing down in honest perplexity at the
youth’s bowed head. Then, as Frenham still made no answer, he moved a
step or two nearer.
“Cheer up, my dear Phil! It’s years since I’ve seen them--apparently
I’ve done nothing lately bad enough to call them out of chaos. Unless my
present evocation of them has made _you_ see them; which would be their
worst stroke yet!”
His bantering appeal quivered off into an uneasy laugh, and he moved
still nearer, bending over Frenham, and laying his gouty hands on the
lad’s shoulders.
“Phil, my dear boy, really--what’s the matter? Why don’t you answer?
_Have_ you seen the eyes?”
Frenham’s face was still pressed against his arms, and from where I
stood behind Culwin I saw the latter, as if under the rebuff of this
unaccountable attitude, draw back slowly from his friend. As he did so,
the light of the lamp on the table fell full on his perplexed congested
face, and I caught its sudden reflection in the mirror behind Frenham’s
head.
Culwin saw the reflection also. He paused, his face level with the
mirror, as if scarcely recognizing the countenance in it as his own. But
as he looked his expression gradually changed, and for an appreciable
space of time he and the image in the glass confronted each other with
a glare of slowly gathering hate. Then Culwin let go of Frenham’s
shoulders, and drew back a step, covering his eyes with his hands ...
Frenham, his face still hidden, did not stir.
THE BLOND BEAST
I
IT had been almost too easy--that was young Millner’s first feeling,
as he stood again on the Spence door-step, the great moment of his
interview behind him, and Fifth Avenue rolling its grimy Pactolus at his
feet.
Halting there in the winter light, with the clang of the ponderous
vestibule doors in his ears, and his eyes carried down the perspective
of the packed interminable thoroughfare, he even dared to remember
Rastignac’s apostrophe to Paris, and to hazard recklessly under his
small fair moustache: “Who knows?”
He, Hugh Millner, at any rate, knew a good deal already: a good deal
more than he had imagined it possible to learn in half an hour’s talk
with a man like Orlando G. Spence; and the loud-rumouring city spread
out there before him seemed to grin like an accomplice who knew the
rest.
A gust of wind, whirling down from the dizzy height of the building on
the next corner, drove sharply through his overcoat and compelled him
to clutch at his hat. It was a bitter January day, a day of fierce light
and air, when the sunshine cut like icicles and the wind sucked one into
black gulfs at the street corners. But Millner’s complacency was like
a warm lining to his shabby coat, and heaving steadied his hat he
continued to stand on the Spence threshold, lost in the vision revealed
to him from the Pisgah of its marble steps. Yes, it was wonderful what
the vision showed him. ... In his absorption he might have frozen
fast to the door-step if the Rhadamanthine portals behind him had not
suddenly opened to let out a slim fur-coated figure, the figure, as he
perceived, of the youth whom he had caught in the act of withdrawal as
he entered Mr. Spence’s study, and whom the latter, with a wave of his
affable hand, had detained to introduce as “my son Draper.”
It was characteristic of the odd friendliness of the whole scene that
the great man should have thought it worth while to call back and name
his heir to a mere humble applicant like Millner; and that the heir
should shed on him, from a pale high-browed face, a smile of such
deprecating kindness. It was characteristic, equally, of Millner, that
he should at once mark the narrowness of the shoulders sustaining this
ingenuous head; a narrowness, as he now observed, imperfectly concealed
by the wide fur collar of young Spence’s expensive and badly cut coat.
But the face took on, as the youth smiled his surprise at their second
meeting, a look of almost plaintive good-will: the kind of look that
Millner scorned and yet could never quite resist.
“Mr. Millner? Are you--er--waiting?” the lad asked, with an intention
of serviceableness that was like a finer echo of his father’s resounding
cordiality.
“For my motor? No,” Millner jested in his frank free voice. “The fact
is, I was just standing here lost in the contemplation of my luck”--and
as his companion’s pale blue eyes seemed to shape a question, “my
extraordinary luck,” he explained, “in having been engaged as your
father’s secretary.”
“Oh,” the other rejoined, with a faint colour in his sallow cheek. “I’m
so glad,” he murmured: “but I was sure--” He stopped, and the two looked
kindly at each other.
Millner averted his gaze first, almost fearful of its betraying the
added sense of his own strength and dexterity which he drew from the
contrast of the other’s frailness.
“Sure? How could any one be sure? I don’t believe in it yet!” he laughed
out in the irony of his triumph.
The boy’s words did not sound like a mere civility--Millner felt in them
an homage to his power.
“Oh, yes: I was sure,” young Draper repeated. “Sure as soon as I saw
you, I mean.”
Millner tingled again with this tribute to his physical straightness and
bloom. Yes, he looked his part, hang it--he looked it!
But his companion still lingered, a shy sociability in his eye.
“If you’re walking, then, can I go along a little way?” And he nodded
southward down the shabby gaudy avenue.
That, again, was part of the high comedy of the hour--that Millner
should descend the Spence steps at young Spence’s side, and stroll down
Fifth Avenue with him at the proudest moment of the afternoon; O. G.
Spence’s secretary walking abroad with O. G. Spence’s heir! He had the
scientific detachment to pull out his watch and furtively note the hour.
Yes--it was exactly forty minutes since he had rung the Spence door-bell
and handed his card to a gelid footman, who, openly sceptical of his
claim to be received, had left him unceremoniously planted on the cold
tessellations of the vestibule.
“Some day,” Miller grinned to himself, “I think I’ll take that footman
as furnace-man--or to do the boots.” And he pictured his marble palace
rising from the earth to form the mausoleum of a footman’s pride.
Only forty minutes ago! And now he had his opportunity fast! And he
never meant to let it go! It was incredible, what had happened in the
interval. He had gone up the Spence steps an unknown young man, out of a
job, and with no substantial hope of getting into one: a needy young
man with a mother and two limp sisters to be helped, and a lengthening
figure of debt that stood by his bed through the anxious nights. And he
went down the steps with his present assured, and his future lit by the
hues of the rainbow above the pot of gold. Certainly a fellow who made
his way at that rate had it “in him,” and could afford to trust his
star.
Descending from this joyous flight he stooped his ear to the discourse
of young Spence.
“My father’ll work you rather hard, you know: but you look as if you
wouldn’t mind that.”
Millner pulled up his inches with the self-consciousness of the man who
had none to waste. “Oh, no, I shan’t mind that: I don’t mind any amount
of work if it leads to something.”
“Just so,” Draper Spence assented eagerly. “That’s what I feel. And
you’ll find that whatever my father undertakes leads to such awfully
fine things.”
Millner tightened his lips on a grin. He was thinking only of where the
work would lead him, not in the least of where it might land the eminent
Orlando G. Spence. But he looked at his companion sympathetically.
“You’re a philanthropist like your father, I see?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” They had paused at a crossing, and young Draper,
with a dubious air, stood striking his agate-headed stick against the
curb-stone. “I believe in a purpose, don’t you?” he asked, lifting his
blue eyes suddenly to Millner’s face.
“A purpose? I should rather say so! I believe in nothing else,” cried
Millner, feeling as if his were something he could grip in his hand and
swing like a club.
Young Spence seemed relieved. “Yes--I tie up to that. There _is_ a
Purpose. And so, after all, even if I don’t agree with my father on
minor points ...” He coloured quickly, and looked again at Millner. “I
should like to talk to you about this some day.”
Millner smothered another smile. “We’ll have lots of talks, I hope.”
“Oh, if you can spare the time--!” said Draper, almost humbly.
“Why, I shall be there on tap!”
“For father, not me.” Draper hesitated, with another self-confessing
smile. “Father thinks I talk too much--that I keep going in and out of
things. He doesn’t believe in analyzing: he thinks it’s destructive.
But it hasn’t destroyed my ideals.” He looked wistfully up and down the
clanging street. “And that’s the main thing, isn’t it? I mean, that
one should have an Ideal.” He turned back almost gaily to Millner. “I
suspect you’re a revolutionist too!”
“Revolutionist? Rather! I belong to the Red Syndicate and the Black
Hand!” Millner joyfully assented.
Young Draper chuckled at the enormity of the joke. “First rate! We’ll
have incendiary meetings!” He pulled an elaborately armorial watch from
his enfolding furs. “I’m so sorry, but I must say good-bye--this is my
street,” he explained. Millner, with a faint twinge of envy, glanced
across at the colonnaded marble edifice in the farther corner. “Going to
the club?” he said carelessly.
His companion looked surprised. “Oh, no: I never go _there_. It’s too
boring.” And he brought out, after one of the pauses in which he seemed
rather breathlessly to measure the chances of his listener’s indulgence:
“I’m just going over to a little Bible Class I have in Tenth Avenue.”
Millner, for a moment or two, stood watching the slim figure wind its
way through the mass of vehicles to the opposite corner; then he pursued
his own course down Fifth Avenue, measuring his steps to the rhythmic
refrain: “It’s too easy--it’s too easy--it’s too easy!”
His own destination being the small shabby flat off University Place
where three tender females awaited the result of his mission, he had
time, on the way home, after abandoning himself to a general sense
of triumph, to dwell specifically on the various aspects of his
achievement. Viewed materially and practically, it was a thing to be
proud of; yet it was chiefly on aesthetic grounds--because he had done
so exactly what he had set out to do--that he glowed with pride at the
afternoon’s work. For, after all, any young man with the proper “pull”
might have applied to Orlando G. Spence for the post of secretary, and
even have penetrated as far as the great man’s study; but that he, Hugh
Millner, should not only have forced his way to this fastness, but
have established, within a short half hour, his right to remain there
permanently: well, this, if it proved anything, proved that the first
rule of success was to know how to live up to one’s principles.
“One must have a plan--one must have a plan,” the young man murmured,
looking with pity at the vague faces which the crowd bore past him, and
feeling almost impelled to detain them and expound his doctrine. But the
planlessness of average human nature was of course the measure of his
opportunity; and he smiled to think that every purposeless face he met
was a guarantee of his own advancement, a rung in the ladder he meant to
climb.
Yes, the whole secret of success was to know what one wanted to do, and
not to be afraid to do it. His own history was proving that already.
He had not been afraid to give up his small but safe position in
a real-estate office for the precarious adventure of a private
secretaryship; and his first glimpse of his new employer had convinced
him that he had not mistaken his calling. When one has a “way” with
one--as, in all modesty, Millner knew he had--not to utilize it is a
stupid waste of force. And when he had learned that Orlando G. Spence
was in search of a private secretary who should be able to give him
intelligent assistance in the execution of his philanthropic schemes,
the young man felt that his hour had come. It was no part of his plan
to associate himself with one of the masters of finance: he had a notion
that minnows who go to a whale to learn how to grow bigger are likely to
be swallowed in the process. The opportunity of a clever young man
with a cool head and no prejudices (this again was drawn from life) lay
rather in making himself indispensable to one of the beneficent rich,
and in using the timidities and conformities of his patron as the means
of his scruples about formulating these principles to himself. It
was not for nothing that, in his college days, he had hunted the
hypothetical “moral sense” to its lair, and dragged from their
concealment the various self-advancing sentiments dissembled under its
edifying guise. His strength lay in his precocious insight into the
springs of action, and in his refusal to classify them according to the
accepted moral and social sanctions. He had to the full the courage of
his lack of convictions.
To a young man so untrammelled by prejudice it was self-evident that
helpless philanthropists like Orlando G. Spence were just as much the
natural diet of the strong as the lamb is of the wolf. It was pleasanter
to eat than to be eaten, in a world where, as yet, there seemed to be no
third alternative; and any scruples one might feel as to the temporary
discomfort of one’s victim were speedily dispelled by that larger
scientific view which took into account the social destructiveness
of the benevolent. Millner was persuaded that every individual woe
mitigated by the philanthropy of Orlando G. Spence added just so much
to the sum-total of human inefficiency, and it was one of his favourite
subjects of speculation to picture the innumerable social evils that may
follow upon the rescue of one infant from Mount Taygetus.
“We’re all born to prey on each other, and pity for suffering is one of
the most elementary stages of egotism. Until one has passed beyond, and
acquired a taste for the more complex forms of the instinct--”
He stopped suddenly, checked in his advance by a sallow wisp of a dog
which had plunged through the press of vehicles to hurl itself between
his legs. Millner did not dislike animals, though he preferred that they
should be healthy and handsome. The dog under his feet was neither. Its
cringing contour showed an injudicious mingling of races, and its
meagre coat betrayed the deplorable habit of sleeping in coal-holes
and subsisting on an innutritious diet. In addition to these physical
disadvantages, its shrinking and inconsequent movements revealed a
congenital weakness of character which, even under more favourable
conditions, would hardly have qualified it to become a useful member of
society; and Millner was not sorry to notice that it moved with a limp
of the hind leg that probably doomed it to speedy extinction.
The absurdity of such an animal’s attempting to cross Fifth Avenue at
the most crowded hour of the afternoon struck him as only less great
than the irony of its having been permitted to achieve the feat; and
he stood a moment looking at it, and wondering what had moved it to
the attempt. It was really a perfect type of the human derelict
which Orlando G. Spence and his kind were devoting their millions to
perpetuate, and he reflected how much better Nature knew her business in
dealing with the superfluous quadruped.
An elderly lady advancing in the opposite direction evidently took
a less dispassionate view of the case, for she paused to remark
emotionally: “Oh, you poor thing!” while she stooped to caress
the object of her sympathy. The dog, with characteristic lack of
discrimination, viewed her gesture with suspicion, and met it with a
snarl. The lady turned pale and shrank away, a chivalrous male repelled
the animal with his umbrella, and two idle boys backed his action by a
vigorous “Hi!” The object of these hostile demonstrations, apparently
attributing them not to its own unsocial conduct, but merely to the
chronic animosity of the universe, dashed wildly around the corner into
a side street, and as it did so Millner noticed that the lame leg left
a little trail of blood. Irresistibly, he turned the corner to see what
would happen next. It was deplorably clear that the animal itself had
no plan; but after several inconsequent and contradictory movements
it plunged down an area, where it backed up against the iron gate,
forlornly and foolishly at bay.
Millner, still following, looked down at it, and wondered. Then he
whistled, just to see if it would come; but this only caused it to start
up on its quivering legs, with desperate turns of the head that measured
the chances of escape.
“Oh, hang it, you poor devil, stay there if you like!” the young man
murmured, walking away.
A few yards off he looked back, and saw that the dog had made a rush
out of the area and was limping furtively down the street. The idle
boys were in the offing, and he disliked the thought of leaving them in
control of the situation. Softly, with infinite precautions, he began to
follow the dog. He did not know why he was doing it, but the impulse was
overmastering. For a moment he seemed to be gaining upon his quarry,
but with a cunning sense of his approach it suddenly turned and hobbled
across the frozen grass-plot adjoining a shuttered house. Against the
wall at the back of the plot it cowered down in a dirty snow-drift, as
if disheartened by the struggle. Millner stood outside the railings and
looked at it. He reflected that under the shelter of the winter dusk it
might have the luck to remain there unmolested, and that in the morning
it would probably be dead of cold. This was so obviously the best
solution that he began to move away again; but as he did so the idle
boys confronted him.
“Ketch yer dog for yer, boss?” they grinned.
Millner consigned them to the devil, and stood sternly watching them
till the first stage of the journey had carried them around the nearest
corner; then, after pausing to look once more up and down the empty
street, laid his hand on the railing, and vaulted over it into the
grass-plot. As he did so, he reflected that, since pity for suffering
was one of the most elementary forms of egotism, he ought to have
remembered that it was necessarily one of the most tenacious.
II
“My chief aim in life?” Orlando G. Spence repeated. He threw himself
back in his chair, straightened the tortoise-shell _pince-nez_, on his
short blunt nose, and beamed down the luncheon table at the two young
men who shared his repast.
His glance rested on his son Draper, seated opposite him behind a
barrier of Georgian silver and orchids; but his words were addressed to
his secretary who, stylograph in hand, had turned from the seductions
of a mushroom _souffle_ in order to jot down, for the Sunday
_Investigator_, an outline of his employer’s views and intentions
respecting the newly endowed Orlando G. Spence College for Missionaries.
It was Mr. Spence’s practice to receive in person the journalists
privileged to impart his opinions to a waiting world; but during the
last few months--and especially since the vast project of the Missionary
College had been in process of development--the pressure of business
and beneficence had necessitated Millner’s frequent intervention,
and compelled the secretary to snatch the sense of his patron’s
elucubrations between the courses of their hasty meals.
Young Millner had a healthy appetite, and it was not one of his least
sacrifices to be so often obliged to curb it in the interest of his
advancement; but whenever he waved aside one of the triumphs of Mr.
Spence’s _chef_ he was conscious of rising a step in his employer’s
favour. Mr. Spence did not despise the pleasures of the table, though
he appeared to regard them as the reward of success rather than as the
alleviation of effort; and it increased his sense of his secretary’s
merit to note how keenly the young man enjoyed the fare which he was
so frequently obliged to deny himself. Draper, having subsisted since
infancy on a diet of truffles and terrapin, consumed such delicacies
with the insensibility of a traveller swallowing a railway sandwich; but
Millner never made the mistake of concealing from Mr. Spence his sense
of what he was losing when duty constrained him to exchange the fork for
the pen.
“My chief aim in life!” Mr. Spence repeated, removing his eye-glass and
swinging it thoughtfully on his finger. (“I’m sorry you should miss this
_souffle_, Millner: it’s worth while.) Why, I suppose I might say that
my chief aim in life is to leave the world better than I found it. Yes:
I don’t know that I could put it better than that. To leave the world
better than I found it. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to use that as a
head-line. _‘Wants to leave the world better than he found it.’_ It’s
exactly the point I should like to make in this talk about the College.”
Mr. Spence paused, and his glance once more reverted to his son, who,
having pushed aside his plate, sat watching Millner with a dreamy
intensity.
“And it’s the point I want to make with you, too, Draper,” his father
continued genially, while he turned over with a critical fork the plump
and perfectly matched asparagus which a footman was presenting to his
notice. “I want to make you feel that nothing else counts in comparison
with that--no amount of literary success or intellectual celebrity.”
“Oh, I _do_ feel that,” Draper murmured, with one of his quick blushes,
and a glance that wavered between his father and Millner. The secretary
kept his eyes on his notes, and young Spence continued, after a pause:
“Only the thing is--isn’t it?--to try and find out just what _does_ make
the world better?”
“To _try_ to find out?” his father echoed compassionately. “It’s not
necessary to try very hard. Goodness is what makes the world better.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” his son nervously interposed; “but the question
is, what _is_ good--”
Mr. Spence, with a darkening brow, brought his fist down emphatically on
the damask. “I’ll thank you not to blaspheme, my son!”
Draper’s head reared itself a trifle higher on his thin neck. “I was not
going to blaspheme; only there may be different ways--”
“There’s where you’re mistaken, Draper. There’s only one way: there’s my
way,” said Mr. Spence in a tone of unshaken conviction.
“I know, father; I see what you mean. But don’t you see that even your
way wouldn’t be the right way for you if you ceased to believe that it
was?”
His father looked at him with mingled bewilderment and reprobation. “Do
you mean to say that the fact of goodness depends on my conception of
it, and not on God Almighty’s?”
“I do ... yes ... in a specific sense ...” young Draper falteringly
maintained; and Mr. Spence turned with a discouraged gesture toward his
secretary’s suspended pen.
“I don’t understand your scientific jargon, Draper; and I don’t want
to.--What’s the next point, Millner? (No; no _savarin_. Bring the
fruit--and the coffee with it.)”
Millner, keenly aware that an aromatic _savarin au rhum_ was describing
an arc behind his head previous to being rushed back to the pantry under
young Draper’s indifferent eye, stiffened himself against this last
assault of the enemy, and read out firmly: “_ What relation do you
consider that a man’s business conduct should bear to his religious and
domestic life?_”
Mr. Spence mused a moment. “Why, that’s a stupid question. It goes
over the same ground as the other one. A man ought to do good with his
money--that’s all. Go on.”
At this point the butler’s murmur in his ear caused him to push back his
chair, and to arrest Millner’s interrogatory by a rapid gesture.
“Yes; I’m coming. Hold the wire.” Mr. Spence rose and plunged into
the adjoining “office,” where a telephone and a Remington divided the
attention of a young lady in spectacles who was preparing for Zenana
work in the East.
As the door closed, the butler, having placed the coffee and liqueurs on
the table, withdrew in the rear of his battalion, and the two young men
were left alone beneath the Rembrandts and Hobbemas on the dining-room
walls.
There was a moment’s silence between them; then young Spence, leaning
across the table, said in the lowered tone of intimacy: “Why do you
suppose he dodged that last question?”
Millner, who had rapidly taken an opulent purple fig from the fruit-dish
nearest him, paused in surprise in the act of hurrying it to his lips.
“I mean,” Draper hastened on, “the question as to the relation between
business and private morality. It’s such an interesting one, and he’s
just the person who ought to tackle it.”
Millner, despatching the fig, glanced down at his notes. “I don’t think
your father meant to dodge the question.”
Young Draper continued to look at him intently. “You think he imagined
that his answer really covers the ground?”
“As much as it needs to be covered.”
The son of the house glanced away with a sigh. “You know things about
him that I don’t,” he said wistfully, but without a tinge of resentment
in his tone.
“Oh, as to that--(may I give myself some coffee?)” Millner, in his walk
around the table to fill his cup, paused a moment to lay an affectionate
hand on Draper’s shoulder. “Perhaps I know him _better_, in a sense:
outsiders often get a more accurate focus.”
Draper considered this. “And your idea is that he acts on principles he
has never thought of testing or defining?”
Millner looked up quickly, and for an instant their glances crossed.
“How do you mean?”
“I mean: that he’s an inconscient instrument of goodness, as it were?
A--a sort of blindly beneficent force?”
The other smiled. “That’s not a bad definition. I know one thing about
him, at any rate: he’s awfully upset at your having chucked your Bible
Class.”
A shadow fell on young Spence’s candid brow. “I know. But what can I do
about it? That’s what I was thinking of when I tried to show him that
goodness, in a certain sense, is purely subjective: that one can’t do
good against one’s principles.” Again his glance appealed to Millner. “_
You_ understand me, don’t you?”
Millner stirred his coffee in a silence not unclouded by perplexity.
“Theoretically, perhaps. It’s a pretty question, certainly. But I also
understand your father’s feeling that it hasn’t much to do with real
life: especially now that he’s got to make a speech in connection with
the founding of this Missionary College. He may think that any hint of
internecine strife will weaken his prestige. Mightn’t you have waited a
little longer?”
“How could I, when I might have been expected to take a part in this
performance? To talk, and say things I didn’t mean? That was exactly
what made me decide not to wait.”
The door opened and Mr. Spence re-entered the room. As he did so his son
rose abruptly as if to leave it.
“Where are you off to, Draper?” the banker asked.
“I’m in rather a hurry, sir--”
Mr. Spence looked at his watch. “You can’t be in more of a hurry than I
am; and I’ve got seven minutes and a half.” He seated himself behind the
coffee--tray, lit a cigar, laid his watch on the table, and signed
to Draper to resume his place. “No, Millner, don’t you go; I want you
both.” He turned to the secretary. “You know that Draper’s given up his
Bible Class? I understand it’s not from the pressure of engagements--”
Mr. Spence’s narrow lips took an ironic curve under the straight-clipped
stubble of his moustache--“it’s on principle, he tells me. He’s
_principled_ against doing good!”
Draper lifted a protesting hand. “It’s not exactly that, father--”
“I know: you’ll tell me it’s some scientific quibble that I
don’t understand. I’ve never had time to go in for intellectual
hair-splitting. I’ve found too many people down in the mire who needed a
hand to pull them out. A busy man has to take his choice between helping
his fellow-men and theorizing about them. I’ve preferred to help. (You
might take that down for the _Investigator_, Millner.) And I thank
God I’ve never stopped to ask what made me want to do good. I’ve just
yielded to the impulse--that’s all.” Mr. Spence turned back to his son.
“Better men than either of us have been satisfied with that creed, my
son.”
Draper was silent, and Mr. Spence once more addressed himself to his
secretary. “Millner, you’re a reader: I’ve caught you at it. And I know
this boy talks to you. What have you got to say? Do you suppose a Bible
Class ever _hurt_ anybody?”
Millner paused a moment, feeling all through his nervous system the
fateful tremor of the balance. “That’s what I was just trying to tell
him, sir--”
“Ah; you were? That’s good. Then I’ll only say one thing more. Your
doing what you’ve done at this particular moment hurts me more, Draper,
than your teaching the gospel of Jesus could possibly have hurt those
young men over in Tenth Avenue.” Mr. Spence arose and restored his watch
to his pocket. “I shall want you in twenty minutes, Millner.”
The door closed on him, and for a while the two young men sat silent
behind their cigar fumes. Then Draper Spence broke out, with a catch
in his throat: “That’s what I can’t bear, Millner, what I simply
can’t _bear:_ to hurt him, to hurt his faith in _me!_ It’s an awful
responsibility, isn’t it, to tamper with anybody’s faith in anything?”
III
THE twenty minutes prolonged themselves to forty, the forty to fifty,
and the fifty to an hour; and still Millner waited for Mr. Spence’s
summons.
During the two years of his secretaryship the young man had learned the
significance of such postponements. Mr. Spence’s days were organized
like a railway time-table, and a delay of an hour implied a casualty
as far-reaching as the breaking down of an express. Of the cause of the
present derangement Hugh Millner was ignorant; and the experience of the
last months allowed him to fluctuate between conflicting conjectures.
All were based on the indisputable fact that Mr. Spence was
“bothered”--had for some time past been “bothered.” And it was one of
Millner’s discoveries that an extremely parsimonious use of the emotions
underlay Mr. Spence’s expansive manner and fraternal phraseology, and
that he did not throw away his feelings any more than (for all his
philanthropy) he threw away his money. If he was bothered, then, it
could be only because a careful survey of his situation had forced on
him some unpleasant fact with which he was not immediately prepared to
deal; and any unpreparedness on Mr. Spence’s part was also a significant
symptom.
Obviously, Millner’s original conception of his employer’s character had
suffered extensive modification; but no final outline had replaced the
first conjectural image. The two years spent in Mr. Spence’s service
had produced too many contradictory impressions to be fitted into any
definite pattern; and the chief lesson Millner had learned from them
was that life was less of an exact science, and character a more
incalculable element, than he had been taught in the schools. In the
light of this revised impression, his own footing seemed less secure
than he had imagined, and the rungs of the ladder he was climbing
more slippery than they had looked from below. He was not without
the reassuring sense of having made himself, in certain small ways,
necessary to Mr. Spence; and this conviction was confirmed by Draper’s
reiterated assurance of his father’s appreciation. But Millner had begun
to suspect that one might be necessary to Mr. Spence one day, and
a superfluity, if not an obstacle, the next; and that it would take
superhuman astuteness to foresee how and when the change would occur.
Every fluctuation of the great man’s mood was therefore anxiously noted
by the young meteorologist in his service; and this observer’s vigilance
was now strained to the utmost by the little cloud, no bigger than a
man’s hand, adumbrated by the banker’s unpunctuality.
When Mr. Spence finally appeared, his aspect did not tend to dissipate
the cloud. He wore what Millner had learned to call his “back-door
face”: a blank barred countenance, in which only an occasional twitch of
the lids behind his glasses suggested that some one was on the watch.
In this mood Mr. Spence usually seemed unconscious of his secretary’s
presence, or aware of it only as an arm terminating in a pen. Millner,
accustomed on such occasions to exist merely as a function, sat waiting
for the click of the spring that should set him in action; but the
pressure not being applied, he finally hazarded: “Are we to go on with
the _Investigator_, sir?”
Mr. Spence, who had been pacing up and down between the desk and the
fireplace, threw himself into his usual seat at Millner’s elbow.
“I don’t understand this new notion of Draper’s,” he said abruptly.
“Where’s he got it from? No one ever learned irreligion in my
household.”
He turned his eyes on Millner, who had the sense of being scrutinized
through a ground-glass window which left him visible while it concealed
his observer. The young man let his pen describe two or three vague
patterns on the blank sheet before him.
“Draper has ideas--” he risked at last.
Mr. Spence looked hard at him. “That’s all right,” he said. “I want
my son to have everything. But what’s the point of mixing up ideas and
principles? I’ve seen fellows who did that, and they were generally
trying to borrow five dollars to get away from the sheriff. What’s all
this talk about goodness? Goodness isn’t an idea. It’s a fact. It’s as
solid as a business proposition. And it’s Draper’s duty, as the son of a
wealthy man, and the prospective steward of a great fortune, to elevate
the standards of other young men--of young men who haven’t had his
opportunities. The rich ought to preach contentment, and to set the
example themselves. We have our cares, but we ought to conceal them. We
ought to be cheerful, and accept things as they are--not go about sowing
dissent and restlessness. What has Draper got to give these boys in his
Bible Class, that’s so much better than what he wants to take from them?
That’s the question I’d like to have answered?”
Mr. Spence, carried away by his own eloquence, had removed his
_pince-nez_ and was twirling it about his extended fore-finger with the
gesture habitual to him when he spoke in public. After a pause, he went
on, with a drop to the level of private intercourse: “I tell you this
because I know you have a good deal of influence with Draper. He has a
high opinion of your brains. But you’re a practical fellow, and you must
see what I mean. Try to make Draper see it. Make him understand how it
looks to have him drop his Bible Class just at this particular time.
It was his own choice to take up religious teaching among young men. He
began with our office-boys, and then the work spread and was blessed.
I was almost alarmed, at one time, at the way it took hold of him: when
the papers began to talk about him as a formative influence I was afraid
he’d lose his head and go into the church. Luckily he tried University
Settlement first; but just as I thought he was settling down to that, he
took to worrying about the Higher Criticism, and saying he couldn’t go
on teaching fairy-tales as history. I can’t see that any good ever came
of criticizing what our parents believed, and it’s a queer time for
Draper to criticize _my_ belief just as I’m backing it to the extent of
five millions.”
Millner remained silent; and, as though his silence were an argument,
Mr. Spence continued combatively: “Draper’s always talking about some
distinction between religion and morality. I don’t understand what he
means. I got my morals out of the Bible, and I guess there’s enough left
in it for Draper. If religion won’t make a man moral, I don’t see why
irreligion should. And he talks about using his mind--well, can’t he use
that in Wall Street? A man can get a good deal farther in life watching
the market than picking holes in Genesis; and he can do more good too.
There’s a time for everything; and Draper seems to me to have mixed up
week-days with Sunday.”
Mr. Spence replaced his eye-glasses, and stretching his hand to the
silver box at his elbow, extracted from it one of the long cigars
sheathed in gold-leaf which were reserved for his private consumption.
The secretary hastened to tender him a match, and for a moment he puffed
in silence. When he spoke again it was in a different note.
“I’ve got about all the bother I can handle just now, without this
nonsense of Draper’s. That was one of the Trustees of the College with
me. It seems the _Flashlight_ has been trying to stir up a fuss--” Mr.
Spence paused, and turned his _pince-nez_ on his secretary. “You haven’t
heard from them?” he asked.
“From the _Flashlight?_ No.” Millner’s surprise was genuine.
He detected a gleam of relief behind Mr. Spence’s glasses. “It may be
just malicious talk. That’s the worst of good works; they bring out all
the meanness in human nature. And then there are always women mixed up
in them, and there never was a woman yet who understood the difference
between philanthropy and business.” He drew again at his cigar, and
then, with an unwonted movement, leaned forward and mechanically pushed
the box toward Millner. “Help yourself,” he said.
Millner, as mechanically, took one of the virginally cinctured cigars,
and began to undo its wrappings. It was the first time he had ever been
privileged to detach that golden girdle, and nothing could have given
him a better measure of the importance of the situation, and of the
degree to which he was apparently involved in it. “You remember that
San Pablo rubber business? That’s what they’ve been raking up,” said Mr.
Spence abruptly.
Millner paused in the act of striking a match. Then, with an appreciable
effort of the will, he completed the gesture, applied the flame to his
cigar, and took a long inhalation. The cigar was certainly delicious.
Mr. Spence, drawing a little closer, leaned forward and touched him on
the arm. The touch caused Millner to turn his head, and for an instant
the glance of the two men crossed at short range. Millner was conscious,
first, of a nearer view than he had ever had of his employer’s face,
and of its vaguely suggesting a seamed sandstone head, the kind of thing
that lies in a corner in the court of a museum, and in which only the
round enamelled eyes have resisted the wear of time. His next feeling
was that he had now reached the moment to which the offer of the cigar
had been a prelude. He had always known that, sooner or later, such a
moment would come; all his life, in a sense, had been a preparation for
it. But in entering Mr. Spence’s service he had not foreseen that it
would present itself in this form. He had seen himself consciously
guiding that gentleman up to the moment, rather than being thrust into
it by a stronger hand. And his first act of reflection was the resolve
that, in the end, his hand should prove the stronger of the two. This
was followed, almost immediately, by the idea that to be stronger than
Mr. Spence’s it would have to be very strong indeed. It was odd that he
should feel this, since--as far as verbal communication went--it was Mr.
Spence who was asking for his support. In a theoretical statement of the
case the banker would have figured as being at Millner’s mercy; but one
of the queerest things about experience was the way it made light
of theory. Millner felt now as though he were being crushed by some
inexorable engine of which he had been playing with the lever. ...
He had always been intensely interested in observing his own reactions,
and had regarded this faculty of self-detachment as of immense advantage
in such a career as he had planned. He felt this still, even in the act
of noting his own bewilderment--felt it the more in contrast to the odd
unconsciousness of Mr. Spence’s attitude, of the incredible candour of
his self-abasement and self-abandonment. It was clear that Mr. Spence
was not troubled by the repercussion of his actions in the consciousness
of others; and this looked like a weakness--unless it were, instead, a
great strength. ...
Through the hum of these swarming thoughts Mr. Spence’s voice was going
on. “That’s the only rag of proof they’ve got; and they got it by one
of those nasty accidents that nobody can guard against. I don’t care
how conscientiously a man attends to business, he can’t always protect
himself against meddlesome people. I don’t pretend to know how the
letter came into their hands; but they’ve got it; and they mean to use
it--and they mean to say that you wrote it for me, and that you knew
what it was about when you wrote it. ... They’ll probably be after you
tomorrow--”
Mr. Spence, restoring his cigar to his lips, puffed at it slowly. In
the pause that followed there was an instant during which the universe
seemed to Hugh Millner like a sounding-board bent above his single
consciousness. If he spoke, what thunders would be sent back to him from
that intently listening vastness?
“You see?” said Mr. Spence.
The universal ear bent closer, as if to catch the least articulation
of Millner’s narrowed lips; but when he opened them it was merely to
re-insert his cigar, and for a short space nothing passed between the
two men but an exchange of smoke-rings.
“What do you mean to do? There’s the point,” Mr. Spence at length sent
through the rings.
Oh, yes, the point was there, as distinctly before Millner as the tip of
his expensive cigar: he had seen it coming quite as soon as Mr. Spence.
He knew that fate was handing him an ultimatum; but the sense of the
formidable echo which his least answer would rouse kept him doggedly,
and almost helplessly, silent. To let Mr. Spence talk on as long as
possible was no doubt the best way of gaining time; but Millner knew
that his silence was really due to his dread of the echo. Suddenly,
however, in a reaction of impatience at his own indecision, he began to
speak.
The sound of his voice cleared his mind and strengthened his resolve.
It was odd how the word seemed to shape the act, though one knew how
ancillary it really was. As he talked, it was as if the globe had
swung around, and he himself were upright on its axis, with Mr. Spence
underneath, on his head. Through the ensuing interchange of concise and
rapid speech there sounded in Millner’s ears the refrain to which he had
walked down Fifth Avenue after his first talk with Mr. Spence: “It’s too
easy--it’s too easy--it’s too easy.” Yes, it was even easier than he
had expected. His sensation was that of the skilful carver who feels his
good blade sink into a tender joint.
As he went on talking, this surprised sense of mastery was like wine in
his veins. Mr. Spence was at his mercy, after all--that was what it came
to; but this new view of the case did not lessen Millner’s sense of Mr.
Spence’s strength, it merely revealed to him his own superiority. Mr.
Spence was even stronger than he had suspected. There could be no better
proof of that than his faith in Millner’s power to grasp the situation,
and his tacit recognition of the young man’s right to make the most of
it. Millner felt that Mr. Spence would have despised him even more for
not using his advantage than for not seeing it; and this homage to
his capacity nerved him to greater alertness, and made the concluding
moments of their talk as physically exhilarating as some hotly contested
game.
When the conclusion was reached, and Millner stood at the goal, the
golden trophy in his grasp, his first conscious thought was one of
regret that the struggle was over. He would have liked to prolong their
talk for the purely aesthetic pleasure of making Mr. Spence lose time,
and, better still, of making him forget that he was losing it. The sense
of advantage that the situation conferred was so great that when Mr.
Spence rose it was as if Millner were dismissing him, and when he
reached his hand toward the cigar-box it seemed to be one of Millner’s
cigars that he was taking.
IV
THERE had been only one condition attached to the transaction: Millner
was to speak to Draper about the Bible Class.
The condition was easy to fulfil. Millner was confident of his power to
deflect his young friend’s purpose; and he knew the opportunity would be
given him before the day was over. His professional duties despatched,
he had only to go up to his room to wait. Draper nearly always looked
in on him for a moment before dinner: it was the hour most propitious to
their elliptic interchange of words and silences.
Meanwhile, the waiting was an occupation in itself. Millner looked about
his room with new eyes. Since the first thrill of initiation into its
complicated comforts--the shower-bath, the telephone, the many-jointed
reading-lamp and the vast mirrored presses through which he was always
hunting his scant outfit--Millner’s room had interested him no more than
a railway-carriage in which he might have been travelling. But now
it had acquired a sort of historic significance as the witness of the
astounding change in his fate. It was Corsica, it was Brienne--it was
the kind of spot that posterity might yet mark with a tablet. Then
he reflected that he should soon be leaving it, and the lustre of its
monumental mahogany was veiled in pathos. Why indeed should he linger on
in bondage? He perceived with a certain surprise that the only thing he
should regret would be leaving Draper. ...
It was odd, it was inconsequent, it was almost exasperating, that such
a regret should obscure his triumph. Why in the world should he suddenly
take to regretting Draper? If there were any logic in human likings,
it should be to Mr. Spence that he inclined. Draper, dear lad, had the
illusion of an “intellectual sympathy” between them; but that, Millner
knew, was an affair of reading and not of character. Draper’s temerities
would always be of that kind; whereas his own--well, his own, put to the
proof, had now definitely classed him with Mr. Spence rather than with
Mr. Spence’s son. It was a consequence of this new condition--of his
having thus distinctly and irrevocably classed himself--that, when
Draper at length brought upon the scene his shy shamble and his wistful
smile, Millner, for the first time, had to steel himself against them
instead of yielding to their charm.
In the new order upon which he had entered, one principle of the old
survived: the point of honour between allies. And Millner had promised
Mr. Spence to speak to Draper about his Bible Class. ...
Draper, thrown back in his chair, and swinging a loose leg across a
meagre knee, listened with his habitual gravity. His downcast eyes
seemed to pursue the vision which Millner’s words evoked; and the words,
to their speaker, took on a new sound as that candid consciousness
refracted them.
“You know, dear boy, I perfectly see your father’s point. It’s naturally
distressing to him, at this particular time, to have any hint of civil
war leak out--”
Draper sat upright, laying his lank legs knee to knee.
“That’s it, then? I thought that was it!”
Millner raised a surprised glance. “_ What’s_ it?”
“That it should be at this particular time--”
“Why, naturally, as I say! Just as he’s making, as it were, his public
profession of faith. You know, to men like your father convictions are
irreducible elements--they can’t be split up, and differently combined.
And your exegetical scruples seem to him to strike at the very root of
his convictions.”
Draper pulled himself to his feet and shuffled across the room. Then he
turned about, and stood before his friend.
“Is it that--or is it this?” he said; and with the word he drew a letter
from his pocket and proffered it silently to Millner.
The latter, as he unfolded it, was first aware of an intense surprise at
the young man’s abruptness of tone and gesture. Usually Draper fluttered
long about his point before making it; and his sudden movement seemed as
mechanical as the impulsion conveyed by some strong spring. The spring,
of course, was in the letter; and to it Millner turned his startled
glance, feeling the while that, by some curious cleavage of perception,
he was continuing to watch Draper while he read.
“Oh, the beasts!” he cried.
He and Draper were face to face across the sheet which had dropped
between them. The youth’s features were tightened by a smile that was
like the ligature of a wound. He looked white and withered.
“Ah--you knew, then?”
Millner sat still, and after a moment Draper turned from him, walked
to the hearth, and leaned against the chimney, propping his chin on his
hands. Millner, his head thrown back, stared up at the ceiling, which
had suddenly become to him the image of the universal sounding-board
hanging over his consciousness.
“You knew, then?” Draper repeated.
Millner remained silent. He had perceived, with the surprise of a
mathematician working out a new problem, that the lie which Mr. Spence
had just bought of him was exactly the one gift he could give of his own
free will to Mr. Spence’s son. This discovery gave the world a strange
new topsy-turvyness, and set Millner’s theories spinning about his brain
like the cabin furniture of a tossing ship.
“You _knew_,” said Draper, in a tone of quiet affirmation.
Millner righted himself, and grasped the arms of his chair as if that
too were reeling. “About this blackguardly charge?”
Draper was studying him intently. “What does it matter if it’s
blackguardly?”
“Matter--?” Millner stammered.
“It’s that, of course, in any case. But the point is whether it’s true
or not.” Draper bent down, and picking up the crumpled letter, smoothed
it out between his fingers. “The point, is, whether my father, when he
was publicly denouncing the peonage abuses on the San Pablo plantations
over a year ago, had actually sold out his stock, as he announced at the
time; or whether, as they say here--how do they put it?--he had simply
transferred it to a dummy till the scandal should blow over, and has
meanwhile gone on drawing his forty per cent interest on five thousand
shares? There’s the point.”
Millner had never before heard his young friend put a case with such
unadorned precision. His language was like that of Mr. Spence making
a statement to a committee meeting; and the resemblance to his father
flashed out with ironic incongruity.
“You see why I’ve brought this letter to you--I couldn’t go to _him_
with it!” Draper’s voice faltered, and the resemblance vanished as
suddenly as it had appeared.
“No; you couldn’t go to him with it,” said Millner slowly.
“And since they say here that _you_ know: that they’ve got your letter
proving it--” The muscles of Draper’s face quivered as if a blinding
light had been swept over it. “For God’s sake, Millner--it’s all right?”
“It’s all right,” said Millner, rising to his feet.
Draper caught him by the wrist. “You’re sure--you’re absolutely sure?”
“Sure. They know they’ve got nothing to go on.”
Draper fell back a step and looked almost sternly at his friend. “You
know that’s not what I mean. I don’t care a straw what they think
they’ve got to go on. I want to know if my father’s all right. If he is,
they can say what they please.”
Millner, again, felt himself under the concentrated scrutiny of the
ceiling. “Of course, of course. I understand.”
“You understand? Then why don’t you answer?”
Millner looked compassionately at the boy’s struggling face. Decidedly,
the battle was to the strong, and he was not sorry to be on the side of
the legions. But Draper’s pain was as awkward as a material obstacle, as
something that one stumbled over in a race.
“You know what I’m driving at, Millner.” Again Mr. Spence’s
committee-meeting tone sounded oddly through his son’s strained voice.
“If my father’s so awfully upset about my giving up my Bible Class, and
letting it be known that I do so on conscientious grounds, is it because
he’s afraid it may be considered a criticism on something _he_ has done
which--which won’t bear the test of the doctrines he believes in?”
Draper, with the last question, squared himself in front of Millner, as
if suspecting that the latter meant to evade it by flight. But Millner
had never felt more disposed to stand his ground than at that moment.
“No--by Jove, no! It’s not _that_.” His relief almost escaped him in a
cry, as he lifted his head to give back Draper’s look.
“On your honour?” the other passionately pressed him.
“Oh, on anybody’s you like--on _yours!_” Millner could hardly restrain
a laugh of relief. It was vertiginous to find himself spared, after all,
the need of an altruistic lie: he perceived that they were the kind he
least liked.
Draper took a deep breath. “You don’t--Millner, a lot depends on
this--you don’t really think my father has any ulterior motive?”
“I think he has none but his horror of seeing you go straight to
perdition!”
They looked at each other again, and Draper’s tension was suddenly
relieved by a free boyish laugh. “It’s his convictions--it’s just his
funny old convictions?”
“It’s that, and nothing else on earth!”
Draper turned back to the arm-chair he had left, and let his narrow
figure sink down into it as into a bath. Then he looked over at Millner
with a smile. “I can see that I’ve been worrying him horribly. So he
really thinks I’m on the road to perdition? Of course you can fancy what
a sick minute I had when I thought it might be this other reason--the
damnable insinuation in this letter.” Draper crumpled the paper in his
hand, and leaned forward to toss it into the coals of the grate. “I
ought to have known better, of course. I ought to have remembered that,
as you say, my father can’t conceive how conduct may be independent of
creed. That’s where I was stupid--and rather base. But that letter made
me dizzy--I couldn’t think. Even now I can’t very clearly. I’m not sure
what _my_ convictions require of me: they seem to me so much less to be
considered than his! When I’ve done half the good to people that he
has, it will be time enough to begin attacking their beliefs.
Meanwhile--meanwhile I can’t touch his. ...” Draper leaned forward,
stretching his lank arms along his knees. His face was as clear as a
spring sky. “I _won’t_ touch them, Millner--Go and tell him so. ...”
V
In the study a half hour later Mr. Spence, watch in hand, was doling
out his minutes again. The peril conjured, he had recovered his dominion
over time. He turned his commanding eye-glasses on Millner.
“It’s all settled, then? Tell Draper I’m sorry not to see him
again to-night--but I’m to speak at the dinner of the Legal Relief
Association, and I’m due there in five minutes. You and he dine alone
here, I suppose? Tell him I appreciate what he’s done. Some day he’ll
see that to leave the world better than we find it is the best we can
hope to do. (You’ve finished the notes for the _Investigator?_ Be sure
you don’t forget that phrase.) Well, good evening: that’s all, I think.”
Smooth and compact in his glossy evening clothes, Mr. Spence advanced
toward the study door; but as he reached it, his secretary stood there
before him.
“It’s not quite all, Mr. Spence.”
Mr. Spence turned on him a look in which impatience was faintly tinged
with apprehension. “What else is there? It’s two and a half minutes to
eight.”
Millner stood his ground. “It won’t take longer than that. I want to
tell you that, if you can conveniently replace me, I’d like--there are
reasons why I shall have to leave you.”
Millner was conscious of reddening as he spoke. His redness deepened
under Mr. Spence’s dispassionate scrutiny. He saw at once that the
banker was not surprised at his announcement.
“Well, I suppose that’s natural enough. You’ll want to make a start for
yourself now. Only, of course, for the sake of appearances--”
“Oh, certainly,” Millner hastily agreed.
“Well, then: is that all?” Mr. Spence repeated.
“Nearly.” Millner paused, as if in search of an appropriate formula.
But after a moment he gave up the search, and pulled from his pocket an
envelope which he held out to his employer. “I merely want to give this
back.”
The hand which Mr. Spence had extended dropped to his side, and his
sand-coloured face grew chalky. “Give it back?” His voice was as thick
as Millner’s. “What’s happened? Is the bargain off?”
“Oh, no. I’ve given you my word.”
“Your word?” Mr. Spence lowered at him. “I’d like to know what that’s
worth!”
Millner continued to hold out the envelope. “You do know, now. It’s
worth _that_. It’s worth my place.”
Mr. Spence, standing motionless before him, hesitated for an appreciable
space of time. His lips parted once or twice under their square-clipped
stubble, and at last emitted: “How much more do you want?”
Millner broke into a laugh. “Oh, I’ve got all I want--all and more!”
“What--from the others? Are you crazy?”
“No, you are,” said Millner with a sudden recovery of composure. “But
you’re safe--you’re as safe as you’ll ever be. Only I don’t care to take
this for making you so.”
Mr. Spence slowly moistened his lips with his tongue, and removing his
_pince-nez_, took a long hard look at Millner.
“I don’t understand. What other guarantee have I got?”
“That I mean what I say?” Millner glanced past the banker’s figure at
his rich densely coloured background of Spanish leather and mahogany. He
remembered that it was from this very threshold that he had first seen
Mr. Spence’s son.
“What guarantee? You’ve got Draper!” he said.
AFTERWARD
I
“Oh, there _is_ one, of course, but you’ll never know it.”
The assertion, laughingly flung out six months earlier in a bright June
garden, came back to Mary Boyne with a sharp perception of its latent
significance as she stood, in the December dusk, waiting for the lamps
to be brought into the library.
The words had been spoken by their friend Alida Stair, as they sat at
tea on her lawn at Pangbourne, in reference to the very house of which
the library in question was the central, the pivotal “feature.” Mary
Boyne and her husband, in quest of a country place in one of the
southern or southwestern counties, had, on their arrival in England,
carried their problem straight to Alida Stair, who had successfully
solved it in her own case; but it was not until they had rejected,
almost capriciously, several practical and judicious suggestions that
she threw it out: “Well, there’s Lyng, in Dorsetshire. It belongs to
Hugo’s cousins, and you can get it for a song.”
The reasons she gave for its being obtainable on these terms--its
remoteness from a station, its lack of electric light, hot-water pipes,
and other vulgar necessities--were exactly those pleading in its
favor with two romantic Americans perversely in search of the economic
drawbacks which were associated, in their tradition, with unusual
architectural felicities.
“I should never believe I was living in an old house unless I was
thoroughly uncomfortable,” Ned Boyne, the more extravagant of the two,
had jocosely insisted; “the least hint of ‘convenience’ would make me
think it had been bought out of an exhibition, with the pieces numbered,
and set up again.” And they had proceeded to enumerate, with humorous
precision, their various suspicions and exactions, refusing to believe
that the house their cousin recommended was _really_ Tudor till they
learned it had no heating system, or that the village church was
literally in the grounds till she assured them of the deplorable
uncertainty of the water-supply.
“It’s too uncomfortable to be true!” Edward Boyne had continued to exult
as the avowal of each disadvantage was successively wrung from her; but
he had cut short his rhapsody to ask, with a sudden relapse to distrust:
“And the ghost? You’ve been concealing from us the fact that there is no
ghost!”
Mary, at the moment, had laughed with him, yet almost with her laugh,
being possessed of several sets of independent perceptions, had noted a
sudden flatness of tone in Alida’s answering hilarity.
“Oh, Dorsetshire’s full of ghosts, you know.”
“Yes, yes; but that won’t do. I don’t want to have to drive ten miles
to see somebody else’s ghost. I want one of my own on the premises. _Is_
there a ghost at Lyng?”
His rejoinder had made Alida laugh again, and it was then that she had
flung back tantalizingly: “Oh, there _is_ one, of course, but you’ll
never know it.”
“Never know it?” Boyne pulled her up. “But what in the world constitutes
a ghost except the fact of its being known for one?”
“I can’t say. But that’s the story.”
“That there’s a ghost, but that nobody knows it’s a ghost?”
“Well--not till afterward, at any rate.”
“Till afterward?”
“Not till long, long afterward.”
“But if it’s once been identified as an unearthly visitant, why hasn’t
its _signalement_ been handed down in the family? How has it managed to
preserve its incognito?”
Alida could only shake her head. “Don’t ask me. But it has.”
“And then suddenly--” Mary spoke up as if from some cavernous depth of
divination--“suddenly, long afterward, one says to one’s self, _‘That
was_ it?’”
She was oddly startled at the sepulchral sound with which her question
fell on the banter of the other two, and she saw the shadow of the same
surprise flit across Alida’s clear pupils. “I suppose so. One just has
to wait.”
“Oh, hang waiting!” Ned broke in. “Life’s too short for a ghost who can
only be enjoyed in retrospect. Can’t we do better than that, Mary?”
But it turned out that in the event they were not destined to, for
within three months of their conversation with Mrs. Stair they were
established at Lyng, and the life they had yearned for to the point of
planning it out in all its daily details had actually begun for them.
It was to sit, in the thick December dusk, by just such a wide-hooded
fireplace, under just such black oak rafters, with the sense that beyond
the mullioned panes the downs were darkening to a deeper solitude: it
was for the ultimate indulgence in such sensations that Mary Boyne had
endured for nearly fourteen years the soul-deadening ugliness of the
Middle West, and that Boyne had ground on doggedly at his engineering
till, with a suddenness that still made her blink, the prodigious
windfall of the Blue Star Mine had put them at a stroke in possession
of life and the leisure to taste it. They had never for a moment meant
their new state to be one of idleness; but they meant to give themselves
only to harmonious activities. She had her vision of painting and
gardening (against a background of gray walls), he dreamed of the
production of his long-planned book on the “Economic Basis of
Culture”; and with such absorbing work ahead no existence could be too
sequestered; they could not get far enough from the world, or plunge
deep enough into the past.
Dorsetshire had attracted them from the first by a semblance of
remoteness out of all proportion to its geographical position. But
to the Boynes it was one of the ever-recurring wonders of the whole
incredibly compressed island--a nest of counties, as they put it--that
for the production of its effects so little of a given quality went
so far: that so few miles made a distance, and so short a distance a
difference.
“It’s that,” Ned had once enthusiastically explained, “that gives such
depth to their effects, such relief to their least contrasts. They’ve
been able to lay the butter so thick on every exquisite mouthful.”
The butter had certainly been laid on thick at Lyng: the old gray house,
hidden under a shoulder of the downs, had almost all the finer marks of
commerce with a protracted past. The mere fact that it was neither large
nor exceptional made it, to the Boynes, abound the more richly in
its special sense--the sense of having been for centuries a deep, dim
reservoir of life. The life had probably not been of the most vivid
order: for long periods, no doubt, it had fallen as noiselessly into
the past as the quiet drizzle of autumn fell, hour after hour, into the
green fish-pond between the yews; but these back-waters of existence
sometimes breed, in their sluggish depths, strange acuities of emotion,
and Mary Boyne had felt from the first the occasional brush of an
intenser memory.
The feeling had never been stronger than on the December afternoon when,
waiting in the library for the belated lamps, she rose from her seat and
stood among the shadows of the hearth. Her husband had gone off, after
luncheon, for one of his long tramps on the downs. She had noticed of
late that he preferred to be unaccompanied on these occasions; and,
in the tried security of their personal relations, had been driven
to conclude that his book was bothering him, and that he needed the
afternoons to turn over in solitude the problems left from the morning’s
work. Certainly the book was not going as smoothly as she had imagined
it would, and the lines of perplexity between his eyes had never been
there in his engineering days. Then he had often looked fagged to the
verge of illness, but the native demon of “worry” had never branded his
brow. Yet the few pages he had so far read to her--the introduction, and
a synopsis of the opening chapter--gave evidences of a firm possession
of his subject, and a deepening confidence in his powers.
The fact threw her into deeper perplexity, since, now that he had done
with “business” and its disturbing contingencies, the one other possible
element of anxiety was eliminated. Unless it were his health, then?
But physically he had gained since they had come to Dorsetshire, grown
robuster, ruddier, and fresher-eyed. It was only within a week that she
had felt in him the undefinable change that made her restless in his
absence, and as tongue-tied in his presence as though it were _she_ who
had a secret to keep from him!
The thought that there _was_ a secret somewhere between them struck her
with a sudden smart rap of wonder, and she looked about her down the
dim, long room.
“Can it be the house?” she mused.
The room itself might have been full of secrets. They seemed to be
piling themselves up, as evening fell, like the layers and layers of
velvet shadow dropping from the low ceiling, the dusky walls of books,
the smoke-blurred sculpture of the hooded hearth.
“Why, of course--the house is haunted!” she reflected.
The ghost--Alida’s imperceptible ghost--after figuring largely in the
banter of their first month or two at Lyng, had been gradually discarded
as too ineffectual for imaginative use. Mary had, indeed, as became the
tenant of a haunted house, made the customary inquiries among her few
rural neighbors, but, beyond a vague, “They du say so, Ma’am,” the
villagers had nothing to impart. The elusive specter had apparently
never had sufficient identity for a legend to crystallize about it,
and after a time the Boynes had laughingly set the matter down to their
profit-and-loss account, agreeing that Lyng was one of the few houses
good enough in itself to dispense with supernatural enhancements.
“And I suppose, poor, ineffectual demon, that’s why it beats its
beautiful wings in vain in the void,” Mary had laughingly concluded.
“Or, rather,” Ned answered, in the same strain, “why, amid so much
that’s ghostly, it can never affirm its separate existence as _the_
ghost.” And thereupon their invisible housemate had finally dropped out
of their references, which were numerous enough to make them promptly
unaware of the loss.
Now, as she stood on the hearth, the subject of their earlier curiosity
revived in her with a new sense of its meaning--a sense gradually
acquired through close daily contact with the scene of the lurking
mystery. It was the house itself, of course, that possessed the
ghost-seeing faculty, that communed visually but secretly with its own
past; and if one could only get into close enough communion with the
house, one might surprise its secret, and acquire the ghost-sight on
one’s own account. Perhaps, in his long solitary hours in this very
room, where she never trespassed till the afternoon, her husband _had_
acquired it already, and was silently carrying the dread weight of
whatever it had revealed to him. Mary was too well-versed in the code of
the spectral world not to know that one could not talk about the ghosts
one saw: to do so was almost as great a breach of good-breeding as to
name a lady in a club. But this explanation did not really satisfy her.
“What, after all, except for the fun of the _frisson_,” she reflected,
“would he really care for any of their old ghosts?” And thence she was
thrown back once more on the fundamental dilemma: the fact that one’s
greater or less susceptibility to spectral influences had no particular
bearing on the case, since, when one _did_ see a ghost at Lyng, one did
not know it.
“Not till long afterward,” Alida Stair had said. Well, supposing Ned
_had_ seen one when they first came, and had known only within the last
week what had happened to him? More and more under the spell of the
hour, she threw back her searching thoughts to the early days of their
tenancy, but at first only to recall a gay confusion of unpacking,
settling, arranging of books, and calling to each other from remote
corners of the house as treasure after treasure of their habitation
revealed itself to them. It was in this particular connection that she
presently recalled a certain soft afternoon of the previous October,
when, passing from the first rapturous flurry of exploration to a
detailed inspection of the old house, she had pressed (like a novel
heroine) a panel that opened at her touch, on a narrow flight of stairs
leading to an unsuspected flat ledge of the roof--the roof which,
from below, seemed to slope away on all sides too abruptly for any but
practised feet to scale.
The view from this hidden coign was enchanting, and she had flown down
to snatch Ned from his papers and give him the freedom of her discovery.
She remembered still how, standing on the narrow ledge, he had passed
his arm about her while their gaze flew to the long, tossed horizon-line
of the downs, and then dropped contentedly back to trace the arabesque
of yew hedges about the fish-pond, and the shadow of the cedar on the
lawn.
“And now the other way,” he had said, gently turning her about within
his arm; and closely pressed to him, she had absorbed, like some long,
satisfying draft, the picture of the gray-walled court, the squat lions
on the gates, and the lime-avenue reaching up to the highroad under the
downs.
It was just then, while they gazed and held each other, that she had
felt his arm relax, and heard a sharp “Hullo!” that made her turn to
glance at him.
Distinctly, yes, she now recalled she had seen, as she glanced, a shadow
of anxiety, of perplexity, rather, fall across his face; and, following
his eyes, had beheld the figure of a man--a man in loose, grayish
clothes, as it appeared to her--who was sauntering down the lime-avenue
to the court with the tentative gait of a stranger seeking his way. Her
short-sighted eyes had given her but a blurred impression of slightness
and grayness, with something foreign, or at least unlocal, in the cut of
the figure or its garb; but her husband had apparently seen more--seen
enough to make him push past her with a sharp “Wait!” and dash down the
twisting stairs without pausing to give her a hand for the descent.
A slight tendency to dizziness obliged her, after a provisional clutch
at the chimney against which they had been leaning, to follow him down
more cautiously; and when she had reached the attic landing she paused
again for a less definite reason, leaning over the oak banister to
strain her eyes through the silence of the brown, sun-flecked depths
below. She lingered there till, somewhere in those depths, she heard
the closing of a door; then, mechanically impelled, she went down the
shallow flights of steps till she reached the lower hall.
The front door stood open on the mild sunlight of the court, and
hall and court were empty. The library door was open, too, and after
listening in vain for any sound of voices within, she quickly crossed
the threshold, and found her husband alone, vaguely fingering the papers
on his desk.
He looked up, as if surprised at her precipitate entrance, but the
shadow of anxiety had passed from his face, leaving it even, as she
fancied, a little brighter and clearer than usual.
“What was it? Who was it?” she asked.
“Who?” he repeated, with the surprise still all on his side.
“The man we saw coming toward the house.” Boyne shrugged his shoulders.
“So I thought; but he must have got up steam in the interval. What do
you say to our trying a scramble up Meldon Steep before sunset?”
That was all. At the time the occurrence had been less than nothing,
had, indeed, been immediately obliterated by the magic of their first
vision from Meldon Steep, a height which they had dreamed of climbing
ever since they had first seen its bare spine heaving itself above the
low roof of Lyng. Doubtless it was the mere fact of the other incident’s
having occurred on the very day of their ascent to Meldon that had kept
it stored away in the unconscious fold of association from which it now
emerged; for in itself it had no mark of the portentous. At the moment
there could have been nothing more natural than that Ned should dash
himself from the roof in the pursuit of dilatory tradesmen. It was the
period when they were always on the watch for one or the other of the
specialists employed about the place; always lying in wait for them,
and dashing out at them with questions, reproaches, or reminders. And
certainly in the distance the gray figure had looked like Peters.
Yet now, as she reviewed the rapid scene, she felt her husband’s
explanation of it to have been invalidated by the look of anxiety on his
face. Why had the familiar appearance of Peters made him anxious?
Why, above all, if it was of such prime necessity to confer with that
authority on the subject of the stable-drains, had the failure to find
him produced such a look of relief? Mary could not say that any one
of these considerations had occurred to her at the time, yet, from the
promptness with which they now marshaled themselves at her summons, she
had a sudden sense that they must all along have been there, waiting
their hour.
II
Weary with her thoughts, she moved toward the window. The library was
now completely dark, and she was surprised to see how much faint light
the outer world still held.
As she peered out into it across the court, a figure shaped itself in
the tapering perspective of bare lines: it looked a mere blot of deeper
gray in the grayness, and for an instant, as it moved toward her, her
heart thumped to the thought, “It’s the ghost!”
She had time, in that long instant, to feel suddenly that the man of
whom, two months earlier, she had a brief distant vision from the roof
was now, at his predestined hour, about to reveal himself as _not_
having been Peters; and her spirit sank under the impending fear of the
disclosure. But almost with the next tick of the clock the ambiguous
figure, gaining substance and character, showed itself even to her weak
sight as her husband’s; and she turned away to meet him, as he entered,
with the confession of her folly.
“It’s really too absurd,” she laughed out from the threshold, “but I
never _can_ remember!”
“Remember what?” Boyne questioned as they drew together.
“That when one sees the Lyng ghost one never knows it.”
Her hand was on his sleeve, and he kept it there, but with no response
in his gesture or in the lines of his fagged, preoccupied face.
“Did you think you’d seen it?” he asked, after an appreciable interval.
“Why, I actually took _you_ for it, my dear, in my mad determination to
spot it!”
“Me--just now?” His arm dropped away, and he turned from her with a
faint echo of her laugh. “Really, dearest, you’d better give it up, if
that’s the best you can do.”
“Yes, I give it up--I give it up. Have _you?”_ she asked, turning round
on him abruptly.
The parlor-maid had entered with letters and a lamp, and the light
struck up into Boyne’s face as he bent above the tray she presented.
“Have _you?”_ Mary perversely insisted, when the servant had disappeared
on her errand of illumination.
“Have I what?” he rejoined absently, the light bringing out the sharp
stamp of worry between his brows as he turned over the letters.
“I never tried,” he said, tearing open the wrapper of a newspaper.
“Well, of course,” Mary persisted, “the exasperating thing is that
there’s no use trying, since one can’t be sure till so long afterward.”
He was unfolding the paper as if he had hardly heard her; but after a
pause, during which the sheets rustled spasmodically between his hands,
he lifted his head to say abruptly, “Have you any idea _how long?”_
Mary had sunk into a low chair beside the fireplace. From her seat
she looked up, startled, at her husband’s profile, which was darkly
projected against the circle of lamplight.
“No; none. Have _you_” she retorted, repeating her former phrase with an
added keenness of intention.
Boyne crumpled the paper into a bunch, and then inconsequently turned
back with it toward the lamp.
“Lord, no! I only meant,” he explained, with a faint tinge of
impatience, “is there any legend, any tradition, as to that?”
“Not that I know of,” she answered; but the impulse to add, “What makes
you ask?” was checked by the reappearance of the parlor-maid with tea
and a second lamp.
With the dispersal of shadows, and the repetition of the daily domestic
office, Mary Boyne felt herself less oppressed by that sense of
something mutely imminent which had darkened her solitary afternoon. For
a few moments she gave herself silently to the details of her task, and
when she looked up from it she was struck to the point of bewilderment
by the change in her husband’s face. He had seated himself near the
farther lamp, and was absorbed in the perusal of his letters; but was it
something he had found in them, or merely the shifting of her own point
of view, that had restored his features to their normal aspect? The
longer she looked, the more definitely the change affirmed itself. The
lines of painful tension had vanished, and such traces of fatigue as
lingered were of the kind easily attributable to steady mental effort.
He glanced up, as if drawn by her gaze, and met her eyes with a smile.
“I’m dying for my tea, you know; and here’s a letter for you,” he said.
She took the letter he held out in exchange for the cup she proffered
him, and, returning to her seat, broke the seal with the languid gesture
of the reader whose interests are all inclosed in the circle of one
cherished presence.
Her next conscious motion was that of starting to her feet, the letter
falling to them as she rose, while she held out to her husband a long
newspaper clipping.
“Ned! What’s this? What does it mean?”
He had risen at the same instant, almost as if hearing her cry before
she uttered it; and for a perceptible space of time he and she studied
each other, like adversaries watching for an advantage, across the space
between her chair and his desk.
“What’s what? You fairly made me jump!” Boyne said at length, moving
toward her with a sudden, half-exasperated laugh. The shadow of
apprehension was on his face again, not now a look of fixed foreboding,
but a shifting vigilance of lips and eyes that gave her the sense of his
feeling himself invisibly surrounded.
Her hand shook so that she could hardly give him the clipping.
“This article--from the ‘Waukesha Sentinel’--that a man named Elwell has
brought suit against you--that there was something wrong about the Blue
Star Mine. I can’t understand more than half.”
They continued to face each other as she spoke, and to her astonishment,
she saw that her words had the almost immediate effect of dissipating
the strained watchfulness of his look.
“Oh, _that_!” He glanced down the printed slip, and then folded it with
the gesture of one who handles something harmless and familiar. “What’s
the matter with you this afternoon, Mary? I thought you’d got bad news.”
She stood before him with her undefinable terror subsiding slowly under
the reassuring touch of his composure.
“You knew about this, then--it’s all right?”
“Certainly I knew about it; and it’s all right.”
“But what _is_ it? I don’t understand. What does this man accuse you
of?”
“Oh, pretty nearly every crime in the calendar.” Boyne had tossed the
clipping down, and thrown himself comfortably into an arm-chair near
the fire. “Do you want to hear the story? It’s not particularly
interesting--just a squabble over interests in the Blue Star.”
“But who is this Elwell? I don’t know the name.”
“Oh, he’s a fellow I put into it--gave him a hand up. I told you all
about him at the time.”
“I daresay. I must have forgotten.” Vainly she strained back among her
memories. “But if you helped him, why does he make this return?”
“Oh, probably some shyster lawyer got hold of him and talked him over.
It’s all rather technical and complicated. I thought that kind of thing
bored you.”
His wife felt a sting of compunction. Theoretically, she deprecated the
American wife’s detachment from her husband’s professional interests,
but in practice she had always found it difficult to fix her attention
on Boyne’s report of the transactions in which his varied interests
involved him. Besides, she had felt from the first that, in a community
where the amenities of living could be obtained only at the cost of
efforts as arduous as her husband’s professional labors, such brief
leisure as they could command should be used as an escape from immediate
preoccupations, a flight to the life they always dreamed of living. Once
or twice, now that this new life had actually drawn its magic circle
about them, she had asked herself if she had done right; but hitherto
such conjectures had been no more than the retrospective excursions of
an active fancy. Now, for the first time, it startled her a little
to find how little she knew of the material foundation on which her
happiness was built.
She glanced again at her husband, and was reassured by the composure
of his face; yet she felt the need of more definite grounds for her
reassurance.
“But doesn’t this suit worry you? Why have you never spoken to me about
it?”
He answered both questions at once: “I didn’t speak of it at first
because it _did_ worry me--annoyed me, rather. But it’s all ancient
history now. Your correspondent must have got hold of a back number of
the ‘Sentinel.’”
She felt a quick thrill of relief. “You mean it’s over? He’s lost his
case?”
There was a just perceptible delay in Boyne’s reply. “The suit’s been
withdrawn--that’s all.”
But she persisted, as if to exonerate herself from the inward charge of
being too easily put off. “Withdrawn because he saw he had no chance?”
“Oh, he had no chance,” Boyne answered.
She was still struggling with a dimly felt perplexity at the back of her
thoughts.
“How long ago was it withdrawn?”
He paused, as if with a slight return of his former uncertainty. “I’ve
just had the news now; but I’ve been expecting it.”
“Just now--in one of your letters?”
“Yes; in one of my letters.”
She made no answer, and was aware only, after a short interval of
waiting, that he had risen, and strolling across the room, had placed
himself on the sofa at her side. She felt him, as he did so, pass an arm
about her, she felt his hand seek hers and clasp it, and turning slowly,
drawn by the warmth of his cheek, she met the smiling clearness of his
eyes.
“It’s all right--it’s all right?” she questioned, through the flood of
her dissolving doubts; and “I give you my word it never was righter!” he
laughed back at her, holding her close.
III
One of the strangest things she was afterward to recall out of all the
next day’s incredible strangeness was the sudden and complete recovery
of her sense of security.
It was in the air when she woke in her low-ceilinged, dusky room; it
accompanied her down-stairs to the breakfast-table, flashed out at her
from the fire, and re-duplicated itself brightly from the flanks of the
urn and the sturdy flutings of the Georgian teapot. It was as if, in
some roundabout way, all her diffused apprehensions of the previous
day, with their moment of sharp concentration about the newspaper
article,--as if this dim questioning of the future, and startled return
upon the past,--had between them liquidated the arrears of some haunting
moral obligation. If she had indeed been careless of her husband’s
affairs, it was, her new state seemed to prove, because her faith in him
instinctively justified such carelessness; and his right to her faith
had overwhelmingly affirmed itself in the very face of menace and
suspicion. She had never seen him more untroubled, more naturally and
unconsciously in possession of himself, than after the cross-examination
to which she had subjected him: it was almost as if he had been aware of
her lurking doubts, and had wanted the air cleared as much as she did.
It was as clear, thank Heaven! as the bright outer light that surprised
her almost with a touch of summer when she issued from the house for her
daily round of the gardens. She had left Boyne at his desk, indulging
herself, as she passed the library door, by a last peep at his quiet
face, where he bent, pipe in his mouth, above his papers, and now she
had her own morning’s task to perform. The task involved on such charmed
winter days almost as much delighted loitering about the different
quarters of her demesne as if spring were already at work on shrubs and
borders. There were such inexhaustible possibilities still before her,
such opportunities to bring out the latent graces of the old place,
without a single irreverent touch of alteration, that the winter months
were all too short to plan what spring and autumn executed. And her
recovered sense of safety gave, on this particular morning, a peculiar
zest to her progress through the sweet, still place. She went first to
the kitchen-garden, where the espaliered pear-trees drew complicated
patterns on the walls, and pigeons were fluttering and preening about
the silvery-slated roof of their cot. There was something wrong about
the piping of the hothouse, and she was expecting an authority from
Dorchester, who was to drive out between trains and make a diagnosis of
the boiler. But when she dipped into the damp heat of the greenhouses,
among the spiced scents and waxy pinks and reds of old-fashioned
exotics,--even the flora of Lyng was in the note!--she learned that the
great man had not arrived, and the day being too rare to waste in an
artificial atmosphere, she came out again and paced slowly along the
springy turf of the bowling-green to the gardens behind the house. At
their farther end rose a grass terrace, commanding, over the fish-pond
and the yew hedges, a view of the long house-front, with its twisted
chimney-stacks and the blue shadows of its roof angles, all drenched in
the pale gold moisture of the air.
Seen thus, across the level tracery of the yews, under the suffused,
mild light, it sent her, from its open windows and hospitably smoking
chimneys, the look of some warm human presence, of a mind slowly ripened
on a sunny wall of experience. She had never before had so deep a sense
of her intimacy with it, such a conviction that its secrets were
all beneficent, kept, as they said to children, “for one’s good,” so
complete a trust in its power to gather up her life and Ned’s into the
harmonious pattern of the long, long story it sat there weaving in the
sun.
She heard steps behind her, and turned, expecting to see the gardener,
accompanied by the engineer from Dorchester. But only one figure was
in sight, that of a youngish, slightly built man, who, for reasons she
could not on the spot have specified, did not remotely resemble her
preconceived notion of an authority on hot-house boilers. The
new-comer, on seeing her, lifted his hat, and paused with the air of a
gentleman--perhaps a traveler--desirous of having it immediately known
that his intrusion is involuntary. The local fame of Lyng occasionally
attracted the more intelligent sight-seer, and Mary half-expected to see
the stranger dissemble a camera, or justify his presence by producing
it. But he made no gesture of any sort, and after a moment she asked,
in a tone responding to the courteous deprecation of his attitude: “Is
there any one you wish to see?”
“I came to see Mr. Boyne,” he replied. His intonation, rather than his
accent, was faintly American, and Mary, at the familiar note, looked
at him more closely. The brim of his soft felt hat cast a shade on his
face, which, thus obscured, wore to her short-sighted gaze a look of
seriousness, as of a person arriving “on business,” and civilly but
firmly aware of his rights.
Past experience had made Mary equally sensible to such claims; but she
was jealous of her husband’s morning hours, and doubtful of his having
given any one the right to intrude on them.
“Have you an appointment with Mr. Boyne?” she asked.
He hesitated, as if unprepared for the question.
“Not exactly an appointment,” he replied.
“Then I’m afraid, this being his working-time, that he can’t receive you
now. Will you give me a message, or come back later?”
The visitor, again lifting his hat, briefly replied that he would come
back later, and walked away, as if to regain the front of the house. As
his figure receded down the walk between the yew hedges, Mary saw him
pause and look up an instant at the peaceful house-front bathed in faint
winter sunshine; and it struck her, with a tardy touch of compunction,
that it would have been more humane to ask if he had come from a
distance, and to offer, in that case, to inquire if her husband could
receive him. But as the thought occurred to her he passed out of
sight behind a pyramidal yew, and at the same moment her attention was
distracted by the approach of the gardener, attended by the bearded
pepper-and-salt figure of the boiler-maker from Dorchester.
The encounter with this authority led to such far-reaching issues that
they resulted in his finding it expedient to ignore his train, and
beguiled Mary into spending the remainder of the morning in absorbed
confabulation among the greenhouses. She was startled to find, when the
colloquy ended, that it was nearly luncheon-time, and she half expected,
as she hurried back to the house, to see her husband coming out to meet
her. But she found no one in the court but an under-gardener raking
the gravel, and the hall, when she entered it, was so silent that she
guessed Boyne to be still at work behind the closed door of the library.
Not wishing to disturb him, she turned into the drawing-room, and there,
at her writing-table, lost herself in renewed calculations of the outlay
to which the morning’s conference had committed her. The knowledge that
she could permit herself such follies had not yet lost its novelty; and
somehow, in contrast to the vague apprehensions of the previous days, it
now seemed an element of her recovered security, of the sense that, as
Ned had said, things in general had never been “righter.”
She was still luxuriating in a lavish play of figures when the
parlor-maid, from the threshold, roused her with a dubiously worded
inquiry as to the expediency of serving luncheon. It was one of their
jokes that Trimmle announced luncheon as if she were divulging a
state secret, and Mary, intent upon her papers, merely murmured an
absent-minded assent.
She felt Trimmle wavering expressively on the threshold as if in rebuke
of such offhand acquiescence; then her retreating steps sounded down the
passage, and Mary, pushing away her papers, crossed the hall, and went
to the library door. It was still closed, and she wavered in her turn,
disliking to disturb her husband, yet anxious that he should not exceed
his normal measure of work. As she stood there, balancing her impulses,
the esoteric Trimmle returned with the announcement of luncheon, and
Mary, thus impelled, opened the door and went into the library.
Boyne was not at his desk, and she peered about her, expecting to
discover him at the book-shelves, somewhere down the length of the room;
but her call brought no response, and gradually it became clear to her
that he was not in the library.
She turned back to the parlor-maid.
“Mr. Boyne must be up-stairs. Please tell him that luncheon is ready.”
The parlor-maid appeared to hesitate between the obvious duty of obeying
orders and an equally obvious conviction of the foolishness of
the injunction laid upon her. The struggle resulted in her saying
doubtfully, “If you please, Madam, Mr. Boyne’s not up-stairs.”
“Not in his room? Are you sure?”
“I’m sure, Madam.”
Mary consulted the clock. “Where is he, then?”
“He’s gone out,” Trimmle announced, with the superior air of one who has
respectfully waited for the question that a well-ordered mind would have
first propounded.
Mary’s previous conjecture had been right, then. Boyne must have gone to
the gardens to meet her, and since she had missed him, it was clear that
he had taken the shorter way by the south door, instead of going round
to the court. She crossed the hall to the glass portal opening directly
on the yew garden, but the parlor-maid, after another moment of inner
conflict, decided to bring out recklessly, “Please, Madam, Mr. Boyne
didn’t go that way.”
Mary turned back. “Where _did_ he go? And when?”
“He went out of the front door, up the drive, Madam.” It was a matter of
principle with Trimmle never to answer more than one question at a time.
“Up the drive? At this hour?” Mary went to the door herself, and
glanced across the court through the long tunnel of bare limes. But
its perspective was as empty as when she had scanned it on entering the
house.
“Did Mr. Boyne leave no message?” she asked.
Trimmle seemed to surrender herself to a last struggle with the forces
of chaos.
“No, Madam. He just went out with the gentleman.”
“The gentleman? What gentleman?” Mary wheeled about, as if to front this
new factor.
“The gentleman who called, Madam,” said Trimmle, resignedly.
“When did a gentleman call? Do explain yourself, Trimmle!”
Only the fact that Mary was very hungry, and that she wanted to consult
her husband about the greenhouses, would have caused her to lay so
unusual an injunction on her attendant; and even now she was detached
enough to note in Trimmle’s eye the dawning defiance of the respectful
subordinate who has been pressed too hard.
“I couldn’t exactly say the hour, Madam, because I didn’t let the
gentleman in,” she replied, with the air of magnanimously ignoring the
irregularity of her mistress’s course.
“You didn’t let him in?”
“No, Madam. When the bell rang I was dressing, and Agnes--”
“Go and ask Agnes, then,” Mary interjected. Trimmle still wore her
look of patient magnanimity. “Agnes would not know, Madam, for she had
unfortunately burnt her hand in trying the wick of the new lamp from
town--” Trimmle, as Mary was aware, had always been opposed to the new
lamp--“and so Mrs. Dockett sent the kitchen-maid instead.”
Mary looked again at the clock. “It’s after two! Go and ask the
kitchen-maid if Mr. Boyne left any word.”
She went into luncheon without waiting, and Trimmle presently brought
her there the kitchen-maid’s statement that the gentleman had called
about one o’clock, that Mr. Boyne had gone out with him without leaving
any message. The kitchen-maid did not even know the caller’s name, for
he had written it on a slip of paper, which he had folded and handed to
her, with the injunction to deliver it at once to Mr. Boyne.
Mary finished her luncheon, still wondering, and when it was over,
and Trimmle had brought the coffee to the drawing-room, her wonder had
deepened to a first faint tinge of disquietude. It was unlike Boyne
to absent himself without explanation at so unwonted an hour, and the
difficulty of identifying the visitor whose summons he had apparently
obeyed made his disappearance the more unaccountable. Mary Boyne’s
experience as the wife of a busy engineer, subject to sudden calls and
compelled to keep irregular hours, had trained her to the philosophic
acceptance of surprises; but since Boyne’s withdrawal from business he
had adopted a Benedictine regularity of life. As if to make up for the
dispersed and agitated years, with their “stand-up” lunches and dinners
rattled down to the joltings of the dining-car, he cultivated the last
refinements of punctuality and monotony, discouraging his wife’s fancy
for the unexpected; and declaring that to a delicate taste there were
infinite gradations of pleasure in the fixed recurrences of habit.
Still, since no life can completely defend itself from the unforeseen,
it was evident that all Boyne’s precautions would sooner or later prove
unavailable, and Mary concluded that he had cut short a tiresome visit
by walking with his caller to the station, or at least accompanying him
for part of the way.
This conclusion relieved her from farther preoccupation, and she went
out herself to take up her conference with the gardener. Thence she
walked to the village post-office, a mile or so away; and when she
turned toward home, the early twilight was setting in.
She had taken a foot-path across the downs, and as Boyne, meanwhile,
had probably returned from the station by the highroad, there was little
likelihood of their meeting on the way. She felt sure, however, of his
having reached the house before her; so sure that, when she entered it
herself, without even pausing to inquire of Trimmle, she made directly
for the library. But the library was still empty, and with an unwonted
precision of visual memory she immediately observed that the papers on
her husband’s desk lay precisely as they had lain when she had gone in
to call him to luncheon.
Then of a sudden she was seized by a vague dread of the unknown. She had
closed the door behind her on entering, and as she stood alone in the
long, silent, shadowy room, her dread seemed to take shape and sound,
to be there audibly breathing and lurking among the shadows. Her
short-sighted eyes strained through them, half-discerning an actual
presence, something aloof, that watched and knew; and in the recoil from
that intangible propinquity she threw herself suddenly on the bell-rope
and gave it a desperate pull.
The long, quavering summons brought Trimmle in precipitately with a
lamp, and Mary breathed again at this sobering reappearance of the
usual.
“You may bring tea if Mr. Boyne is in,” she said, to justify her ring.
“Very well, Madam. But Mr. Boyne is not in,” said Trimmle, putting down
the lamp.
“Not in? You mean he’s come back and gone out again?”
“No, Madam. He’s never been back.”
The dread stirred again, and Mary knew that now it had her fast.
“Not since he went out with--the gentleman?”
“Not since he went out with the gentleman.”
“But who _was_ the gentleman?” Mary gasped out, with the sharp note of
some one trying to be heard through a confusion of meaningless noises.
“That I couldn’t say, Madam.” Trimmle, standing there by the lamp,
seemed suddenly to grow less round and rosy, as though eclipsed by the
same creeping shade of apprehension.
“But the kitchen-maid knows--wasn’t it the kitchen-maid who let him in?”
“She doesn’t know either, Madam, for he wrote his name on a folded
paper.”
Mary, through her agitation, was aware that they were both designating
the unknown visitor by a vague pronoun, instead of the conventional
formula which, till then, had kept their allusions within the bounds of
custom. And at the same moment her mind caught at the suggestion of the
folded paper.
“But he must have a name! Where is the paper?”
She moved to the desk, and began to turn over the scattered documents
that littered it. The first that caught her eye was an unfinished letter
in her husband’s hand, with his pen lying across it, as though dropped
there at a sudden summons.
“My dear Parvis,”--who was Parvis?--“I have just received your letter
announcing Elwell’s death, and while I suppose there is now no farther
risk of trouble, it might be safer--”
She tossed the sheet aside, and continued her search; but no folded
paper was discoverable among the letters and pages of manuscript which
had been swept together in a promiscuous heap, as if by a hurried or a
startled gesture.
“But the kitchen-maid _saw_ him. Send her here,” she commanded,
wondering at her dullness in not thinking sooner of so simple a
solution.
Trimmle, at the behest, vanished in a flash, as if thankful to be out
of the room, and when she reappeared, conducting the agitated underling,
Mary had regained her self-possession, and had her questions pat.
The gentleman was a stranger, yes--that she understood. But what had he
said? And, above all, what had he looked like? The first question was
easily enough answered, for the disconcerting reason that he had said so
little--had merely asked for Mr. Boyne, and, scribbling something on a
bit of paper, had requested that it should at once be carried in to him.
“Then you don’t know what he wrote? You’re not sure it _was_ his name?”
The kitchen-maid was not sure, but supposed it was, since he had written
it in answer to her inquiry as to whom she should announce.
“And when you carried the paper in to Mr. Boyne, what did he say?”
The kitchen-maid did not think that Mr. Boyne had said anything, but she
could not be sure, for just as she had handed him the paper and he was
opening it, she had become aware that the visitor had followed her
into the library, and she had slipped out, leaving the two gentlemen
together.
“But then, if you left them in the library, how do you know that they
went out of the house?”
This question plunged the witness into momentary inarticulateness,
from which she was rescued by Trimmle, who, by means of ingenious
circumlocutions, elicited the statement that before she could cross the
hall to the back passage she had heard the gentlemen behind her, and had
seen them go out of the front door together.
“Then, if you saw the gentleman twice, you must be able to tell me what
he looked like.”
But with this final challenge to her powers of expression it became
clear that the limit of the kitchen-maid’s endurance had been reached.
The obligation of going to the front door to “show in” a visitor was
in itself so subversive of the fundamental order of things that it had
thrown her faculties into hopeless disarray, and she could only stammer
out, after various panting efforts at evocation, “His hat, mum, was
different-like, as you might say--”
“Different? How different?” Mary flashed out at her, her own mind, in
the same instant, leaping back to an image left on it that morning, but
temporarily lost under layers of subsequent impressions.
“His hat had a wide brim, you mean? and his face was pale--a youngish
face?” Mary pressed her, with a white-lipped intensity of interrogation.
But if the kitchen-maid found any adequate answer to this challenge,
it was swept away for her listener down the rushing current of her own
convictions. The stranger--the stranger in the garden! Why had Mary not
thought of him before? She needed no one now to tell her that it was he
who had called for her husband and gone away with him. But who was he,
and why had Boyne obeyed his call?
IV
It leaped out at her suddenly, like a grin out of the dark, that they
had often called England so little--“such a confoundedly hard place to
get lost in.”
_A confoundedly hard place to get lost in!_ That had been her husband’s
phrase. And now, with the whole machinery of official investigation
sweeping its flash-lights from shore to shore, and across the dividing
straits; now, with Boyne’s name blazing from the walls of every town
and village, his portrait (how that wrung her!) hawked up and down the
country like the image of a hunted criminal; now the little compact,
populous island, so policed, surveyed, and administered, revealed itself
as a Sphinx-like guardian of abysmal mysteries, staring back into his
wife’s anguished eyes as if with the malicious joy of knowing something
they would never know!
In the fortnight since Boyne’s disappearance there had been no word of
him, no trace of his movements. Even the usual misleading reports that
raise expectancy in tortured bosoms had been few and fleeting. No one
but the bewildered kitchen-maid had seen him leave the house, and no one
else had seen “the gentleman” who accompanied him. All inquiries in the
neighborhood failed to elicit the memory of a stranger’s presence that
day in the neighborhood of Lyng. And no one had met Edward Boyne, either
alone or in company, in any of the neighboring villages, or on the road
across the downs, or at either of the local railway-stations. The sunny
English noon had swallowed him as completely as if he had gone out into
Cimmerian night.
Mary, while every external means of investigation was working at its
highest pressure, had ransacked her husband’s papers for any trace of
antecedent complications, of entanglements or obligations unknown to
her, that might throw a faint ray into the darkness. But if any such
had existed in the background of Boyne’s life, they had disappeared as
completely as the slip of paper on which the visitor had written his
name. There remained no possible thread of guidance except--if it were
indeed an exception--the letter which Boyne had apparently been in the
act of writing when he received his mysterious summons. That letter,
read and reread by his wife, and submitted by her to the police, yielded
little enough for conjecture to feed on.
“I have just heard of Elwell’s death, and while I suppose there is now
no farther risk of trouble, it might be safer--” That was all. The “risk
of trouble” was easily explained by the newspaper clipping which had
apprised Mary of the suit brought against her husband by one of his
associates in the Blue Star enterprise. The only new information
conveyed in the letter was the fact of its showing Boyne, when he wrote
it, to be still apprehensive of the results of the suit, though he
had assured his wife that it had been withdrawn, and though the letter
itself declared that the plaintiff was dead. It took several weeks
of exhaustive cabling to fix the identity of the “Parvis” to whom the
fragmentary communication was addressed, but even after these inquiries
had shown him to be a Waukesha lawyer, no new facts concerning the
Elwell suit were elicited. He appeared to have had no direct concern
in it, but to have been conversant with the facts merely as an
acquaintance, and possible intermediary; and he declared himself unable
to divine with what object Boyne intended to seek his assistance.
This negative information, sole fruit of the first fortnight’s feverish
search, was not increased by a jot during the slow weeks that followed.
Mary knew that the investigations were still being carried on, but she
had a vague sense of their gradually slackening, as the actual march of
time seemed to slacken. It was as though the days, flying horror-struck
from the shrouded image of the one inscrutable day, gained assurance as
the distance lengthened, till at last they fell back into their normal
gait. And so with the human imaginations at work on the dark event. No
doubt it occupied them still, but week by week and hour by hour it grew
less absorbing, took up less space, was slowly but inevitably crowded
out of the foreground of consciousness by the new problems perpetually
bubbling up from the vaporous caldron of human experience.
Even Mary Boyne’s consciousness gradually felt the same lowering of
velocity. It still swayed with the incessant oscillations of conjecture;
but they were slower, more rhythmical in their beat. There were moments
of overwhelming lassitude when, like the victim of some poison which
leaves the brain clear, but holds the body motionless, she saw herself
domesticated with the Horror, accepting its perpetual presence as one of
the fixed conditions of life.
These moments lengthened into hours and days, till she passed into a
phase of stolid acquiescence. She watched the familiar routine of life
with the incurious eye of a savage on whom the meaningless processes of
civilization make but the faintest impression. She had come to regard
herself as part of the routine, a spoke of the wheel, revolving with its
motion; she felt almost like the furniture of the room in which she sat,
an insensate object to be dusted and pushed about with the chairs and
tables. And this deepening apathy held her fast at Lyng, in spite of
the urgent entreaties of friends and the usual medical recommendation of
“change.” Her friends supposed that her refusal to move was inspired by
the belief that her husband would one day return to the spot from which
he had vanished, and a beautiful legend grew up about this imaginary
state of waiting. But in reality she had no such belief: the depths of
anguish inclosing her were no longer lighted by flashes of hope. She was
sure that Boyne would never come back, that he had gone out of her sight
as completely as if Death itself had waited that day on the threshold.
She had even renounced, one by one, the various theories as to his
disappearance which had been advanced by the press, the police, and her
own agonized imagination. In sheer lassitude her mind turned from these
alternatives of horror, and sank back into the blank fact that he was
gone.
No, she would never know what had become of him--no one would ever know.
But the house _knew_; the library in which she spent her long, lonely
evenings knew. For it was here that the last scene had been enacted,
here that the stranger had come, and spoken the word which had caused
Boyne to rise and follow him. The floor she trod had felt his tread; the
books on the shelves had seen his face; and there were moments when the
intense consciousness of the old, dusky walls seemed about to break out
into some audible revelation of their secret. But the revelation
never came, and she knew it would never come. Lyng was not one of the
garrulous old houses that betray the secrets intrusted to them. Its
very legend proved that it had always been the mute accomplice, the
incorruptible custodian of the mysteries it had surprised. And Mary
Boyne, sitting face to face with its portentous silence, felt the
futility of seeking to break it by any human means.
V
“I don’t say it _wasn’t_ straight, yet don’t say it _was_ straight. It
was business.”
Mary, at the words, lifted her head with a start, and looked intently at
the speaker.
When, half an hour before, a card with “Mr. Parvis” on it had been
brought up to her, she had been immediately aware that the name had been
a part of her consciousness ever since she had read it at the head of
Boyne’s unfinished letter. In the library she had found awaiting her a
small neutral-tinted man with a bald head and gold eye-glasses, and it
sent a strange tremor through her to know that this was the person to
whom her husband’s last known thought had been directed.
Parvis, civilly, but without vain preamble,--in the manner of a man who
has his watch in his hand,--had set forth the object of his visit.
He had “run over” to England on business, and finding himself in the
neighborhood of Dorchester, had not wished to leave it without paying
his respects to Mrs. Boyne; without asking her, if the occasion offered,
what she meant to do about Bob Elwell’s family.
The words touched the spring of some obscure dread in Mary’s bosom.
Did her visitor, after all, know what Boyne had meant by his unfinished
phrase? She asked for an elucidation of his question, and noticed at
once that he seemed surprised at her continued ignorance of the subject.
Was it possible that she really knew as little as she said?
“I know nothing--you must tell me,” she faltered out; and her visitor
thereupon proceeded to unfold his story. It threw, even to her confused
perceptions, and imperfectly initiated vision, a lurid glare on the
whole hazy episode of the Blue Star Mine. Her husband had made his money
in that brilliant speculation at the cost of “getting ahead” of some one
less alert to seize the chance; the victim of his ingenuity was young
Robert Elwell, who had “put him on” to the Blue Star scheme.
Parvis, at Mary’s first startled cry, had thrown her a sobering glance
through his impartial glasses.
“Bob Elwell wasn’t smart enough, that’s all; if he had been, he might
have turned round and served Boyne the same way. It’s the kind of thing
that happens every day in business. I guess it’s what the scientists
call the survival of the fittest,” said Mr. Parvis, evidently pleased
with the aptness of his analogy.
Mary felt a physical shrinking from the next question she tried to
frame; it was as though the words on her lips had a taste that nauseated
her.
“But then--you accuse my husband of doing something dishonorable?”
Mr. Parvis surveyed the question dispassionately. “Oh, no, I don’t.
I don’t even say it wasn’t straight.” He glanced up and down the long
lines of books, as if one of them might have supplied him with the
definition he sought. “I don’t say it _wasn’t_ straight, and yet I don’t
say it _was_ straight. It was business.” After all, no definition in his
category could be more comprehensive than that.
Mary sat staring at him with a look of terror. He seemed to her like the
indifferent, implacable emissary of some dark, formless power.
“But Mr. Elwell’s lawyers apparently did not take your view, since I
suppose the suit was withdrawn by their advice.”
“Oh, yes, they knew he hadn’t a leg to stand on, technically. It was
when they advised him to withdraw the suit that he got desperate. You
see, he’d borrowed most of the money he lost in the Blue Star, and he
was up a tree. That’s why he shot himself when they told him he had no
show.”
The horror was sweeping over Mary in great, deafening waves.
“He shot himself? He killed himself because of _that?_”
“Well, he didn’t kill himself, exactly. He dragged on two months before
he died.” Parvis emitted the statement as unemotionally as a gramophone
grinding out its “record.”
“You mean that he tried to kill himself, and failed? And tried again?”
“Oh, he didn’t have to try again,” said Parvis, grimly.
They sat opposite each other in silence, he swinging his eye-glass
thoughtfully about his finger, she, motionless, her arms stretched along
her knees in an attitude of rigid tension.
“But if you knew all this,” she began at length, hardly able to force
her voice above a whisper, “how is it that when I wrote you at the
time of my husband’s disappearance you said you didn’t understand his
letter?”
Parvis received this without perceptible discomfiture. “Why, I didn’t
understand it--strictly speaking. And it wasn’t the time to talk
about it, if I had. The Elwell business was settled when the suit was
withdrawn. Nothing I could have told you would have helped you to find
your husband.”
Mary continued to scrutinize him. “Then why are you telling me now?”
Still Parvis did not hesitate. “Well, to begin with, I supposed you
knew more than you appear to--I mean about the circumstances of Elwell’s
death. And then people are talking of it now; the whole matter’s been
raked up again. And I thought, if you didn’t know, you ought to.”
She remained silent, and he continued: “You see, it’s only come out
lately what a bad state Elwell’s affairs were in. His wife’s a proud
woman, and she fought on as long as she could, going out to work, and
taking sewing at home, when she got too sick--something with the heart,
I believe. But she had his bedridden mother to look after, and the
children, and she broke down under it, and finally had to ask for help.
That attracted attention to the case, and the papers took it up, and a
subscription was started. Everybody out there liked Bob Elwell, and most
of the prominent names in the place are down on the list, and people
began to wonder why--”
Parvis broke off to fumble in an inner pocket. “Here,” he continued,
“here’s an account of the whole thing from the ‘Sentinel’--a little
sensational, of course. But I guess you’d better look it over.”
He held out a newspaper to Mary, who unfolded it slowly, remembering,
as she did so, the evening when, in that same room, the perusal of
a clipping from the “Sentinel” had first shaken the depths of her
security.
As she opened the paper, her eyes, shrinking from the glaring
head-lines, “Widow of Boyne’s Victim Forced to Appeal for Aid,” ran down
the column of text to two portraits inserted in it. The first was
her husband’s, taken from a photograph made the year they had come to
England. It was the picture of him that she liked best, the one that
stood on the writing-table up-stairs in her bedroom. As the eyes in the
photograph met hers, she felt it would be impossible to read what was
said of him, and closed her lids with the sharpness of the pain.
“I thought if you felt disposed to put your name down--” she heard
Parvis continue.
She opened her eyes with an effort, and they fell on the other portrait.
It was that of a youngish man, slightly built, in rough clothes, with
features somewhat blurred by the shadow of a projecting hat-brim. Where
had she seen that outline before? She stared at it confusedly, her heart
hammering in her throat and ears. Then she gave a cry.
“This is the man--the man who came for my husband!”
She heard Parvis start to his feet, and was dimly aware that she had
slipped backward into the corner of the sofa, and that he was bending
above her in alarm. With an intense effort she straightened herself, and
reached out for the paper, which she had dropped.
“It’s the man! I should know him anywhere!” she cried in a voice that
sounded in her own ears like a scream.
Parvis’s voice seemed to come to her from far off, down endless,
fog-muffled windings.
“Mrs. Boyne, you’re not very well. Shall I call somebody? Shall I get a
glass of water?”
“No, no, no!” She threw herself toward him, her hand frantically
clenching the newspaper. “I tell you, it’s the man! I _know_ him! He
spoke to me in the garden!”
Parvis took the journal from her, directing his glasses to the portrait.
“It can’t be, Mrs. Boyne. It’s Robert Elwell.”
“Robert Elwell?” Her white stare seemed to travel into space. “Then it
was Robert Elwell who came for him.”
“Came for Boyne? The day he went away?” Parvis’s voice dropped as hers
rose. He bent over, laying a fraternal hand on her, as if to coax her
gently back into her seat. “Why, Elwell was dead! Don’t you remember?”
Mary sat with her eyes fixed on the picture, unconscious of what he was
saying.
“Don’t you remember Boyne’s unfinished letter to me--the one you found
on his desk that day? It was written just after he’d heard of Elwell’s
death.” She noticed an odd shake in Parvis’s unemotional voice. “Surely
you remember that!” he urged her.
Yes, she remembered: that was the profoundest horror of it. Elwell had
died the day before her husband’s disappearance; and this was Elwell’s
portrait; and it was the portrait of the man who had spoken to her in
the garden. She lifted her head and looked slowly about the library. The
library could have borne witness that it was also the portrait of the
man who had come in that day to call Boyne from his unfinished letter.
Through the misty surgings of her brain she heard the faint boom
of half-forgotten words--words spoken by Alida Stair on the lawn at
Pangbourne before Boyne and his wife had ever seen the house at Lyng, or
had imagined that they might one day live there.
“This was the man who spoke to me,” she repeated.
She looked again at Parvis. He was trying to conceal his disturbance
under what he imagined to be an expression of indulgent commiseration;
but the edges of his lips were blue. “He thinks me mad; but I’m not
mad,” she reflected; and suddenly there flashed upon her a way of
justifying her strange affirmation.
She sat quiet, controlling the quiver of her lips, and waiting till she
could trust her voice to keep its habitual level; then she said, looking
straight at Parvis: “Will you answer me one question, please? When was
it that Robert Elwell tried to kill himself?”
“When--when?” Parvis stammered.
“Yes; the date. Please try to remember.”
She saw that he was growing still more afraid of her. “I have a reason,”
she insisted gently.
“Yes, yes. Only I can’t remember. About two months before, I should
say.”
“I want the date,” she repeated.
Parvis picked up the newspaper. “We might see here,” he said, still
humoring her. He ran his eyes down the page. “Here it is. Last
October--the--”
She caught the words from him. “The 20th, wasn’t it?” With a sharp look
at her, he verified. “Yes, the 20th. Then you _did_ know?”
“I know now.” Her white stare continued to travel past him. “Sunday, the
20th--that was the day he came first.”
Parvis’s voice was almost inaudible. “Came _here_ first?”
“Yes.”
“You saw him twice, then?”
“Yes, twice.” She breathed it at him with dilated eyes. “He came first
on the 20th of October. I remember the date because it was the day
we went up Meldon Steep for the first time.” She felt a faint gasp
of inward laughter at the thought that but for that she might have
forgotten.
Parvis continued to scrutinize her, as if trying to intercept her gaze.
“We saw him from the roof,” she went on. “He came down the lime-avenue
toward the house. He was dressed just as he is in that picture. My
husband saw him first. He was frightened, and ran down ahead of me; but
there was no one there. He had vanished.”
“Elwell had vanished?” Parvis faltered.
“Yes.” Their two whispers seemed to grope for each other. “I couldn’t
think what had happened. I see now. He _tried_ to come then; but he
wasn’t dead enough--he couldn’t reach us. He had to wait for two months;
and then he came back again--and Ned went with him.”
She nodded at Parvis with the look of triumph of a child who has
successfully worked out a difficult puzzle. But suddenly she lifted her
hands with a desperate gesture, pressing them to her bursting temples.
“Oh, my God! I sent him to Ned--I told him where to go! I sent him to
this room!” she screamed out.
She felt the walls of the room rush toward her, like inward falling
ruins; and she heard Parvis, a long way off, as if through the ruins,
crying to her, and struggling to get at her. But she was numb to his
touch, she did not know what he was saying. Through the tumult she heard
but one clear note, the voice of Alida Stair, speaking on the lawn at
Pangbourne.
“You won’t know till afterward,” it said. “You won’t know till long,
long afterward.”
THE LETTERS
I
UP the long hill from the station at St.-Cloud, Lizzie West climbed in
the cold spring sunshine. As she breasted the incline, she noticed the
first waves of wistaria over courtyard railings and the high lights of
new foliage against the walls of ivy-matted gardens; and she thought
again, as she had thought a hundred times before, that she had never
seen so beautiful a spring.
She was on her way to the Deerings’ house, in a street near the hilltop;
and every step was dear and familiar to her. She went there five times
a week to teach little Juliet Deering, the daughter of Mr. Vincent
Deering, the distinguished American artist. Juliet had been her pupil
for two years, and day after day, during that time, Lizzie West had
mounted the hill in all weathers; sometimes with her umbrella bent
against a driving rain, sometimes with her frail cotton parasol unfurled
beneath a fiery sun, sometimes with the snow soaking through her patched
boots or a bitter wind piercing her thin jacket, sometimes with the dust
whirling about her and bleaching the flowers of the poor little hat that
_had_ to “carry her through” till next summer.
At first the ascent had seemed tedious enough, as dull as the trudge to
her other lessons. Lizzie was not a heaven-sent teacher; she had no born
zeal for her calling, and though she dealt kindly and dutifully with her
pupils, she did not fly to them on winged feet. But one day something
had happened to change the face of life, and since then the climb to the
Deering house had seemed like a dream-flight up a heavenly stairway.
Her heart beat faster as she remembered it--no longer in a tumult of
fright and self-reproach, but softly, peacefully, as if brooding over a
possession that none could take from her.
It was on a day of the previous October that she had stopped, after
Juliet’s lesson, to ask if she might speak to Juliet’s papa. One had
always to apply to Mr. Deering if there was anything to be said about
the lessons. Mrs. Deering lay on her lounge up-stairs, reading greasy
relays of dog-eared novels, the choice of which she left to the cook
and the nurse, who were always fetching them for her from the _cabinet
de lecture;_ and it was understood in the house that she was not to be
“bothered” about Juliet. Mr. Deering’s interest in his daughter was
fitful rather than consecutive; but at least he was approachable, and
listened sympathetically, if a little absently, stroking his long, fair
mustache, while Lizzie stated her difficulty or put in her plea for maps
or copy-books.
“Yes, yes--of course--whatever you think right,” he would always assent,
sometimes drawing a five-franc piece from his pocket, and laying it
carelessly on the table, or oftener saying, with his charming smile:
“Get what you please, and just put it on your account, you know.”
But this time Lizzie had not come to ask for maps or copy-books, or
even to hint, in crimson misery,--as once, poor soul! she had had
to do,--that Mr. Deering had overlooked her last little account had
probably not noticed that she had left it, some two months earlier, on
a corner of his littered writing-table. That hour had been bad enough,
though he had done his best to make it easy to carry it off gallantly
and gaily; but this was infinitely worse. For she had come to complain
of her pupil; to say that, much as she loved little Juliet, it was
useless, unless Mr. Deering could “do something,” to go on with the
lessons.
“It wouldn’t be honest--I should be robbing you; I’m not sure that I
haven’t already,” she half laughed, through mounting tears, as she
put her case. Little Juliet would not work, would not obey. Her poor,
little, drifting existence floated aimlessly between the kitchen and the
_lingerie_, and all the groping tendrils of her curiosity were fastened
about the doings of the backstairs.
It was the same kind of curiosity that Mrs. Deering, overhead in her
drug-scented room, lavished on her dog-eared novels and on the “society
notes” of the morning paper; but since Juliet’s horizon was not yet wide
enough to embrace these loftier objects, her interest was centered in
the anecdotes that Celeste and Suzanne brought back from the market
and the library. That these were not always of an edifying nature the
child’s artless prattle too often betrayed; but unhappily they occupied
her fancy to the complete exclusion of such nourishing items as dates
and dynasties, and the sources of the principal European rivers.
At length the crisis became so acute that poor Lizzie felt herself bound
to resign her charge or ask Mr. Deering’s intervention; and for Juliet’s
sake she chose the harder alternative. It _was_ hard to speak to him not
only because one hated still more to ascribe it to such vulgar causes,
but because one blushed to bring them to the notice of a spirit engaged
with higher things. Mr. Deering was very busy at that moment: he had a
new picture “on.” And Lizzie entered the studio with the flutter of one
profanely intruding on some sacred rite; she almost heard the rustle of
retreating wings as she approached.
And then--and then--how differently it had all turned out! Perhaps it
wouldn’t have, if she hadn’t been such a goose--she who so seldom cried,
so prided herself on a stoic control of her little twittering cageful of
“feelings.” But if she had cried, it was because he had looked at her so
kindly, so softly, and because she had nevertheless felt him so pained
and shamed by what she said. The pain, of course, lay for both in the
implication behind her words--in the one word they left unspoken.
If little Juliet was as she was, it was because of the mother
up-stairs--the mother who had given her child her futile impulses, and
grudged her the care that might have guided them. The wretched case so
obviously revolved in its own vicious circle that when Mr. Deering had
murmured, “Of course if my wife were not an invalid,” they both turned
with a simultaneous spring to the flagrant “bad example” of Celeste and
Suzanne, fastening on that with a mutual insistence that ended in his
crying out, “All the more, then, how can you leave her to them?”
“But if I do her no good?” Lizzie wailed; and it was then that,--when he
took her hand and assured her gently, “But you do, you do!”--it was then
that, in the traditional phrase, she “broke down,” and her conventional
protest quivered off into tears.
“You do _me_ good, at any rate--you make the house seem less like a
desert,” she heard him say; and the next moment she felt herself drawn
to him, and they kissed each other through her weeping.
They kissed each other--there was the new fact. One does not, if one is
a poor little teacher living in Mme. Clopin’s Pension Suisse at Passy,
and if one has pretty brown hair and eyes that reach out trustfully to
other eyes--one does not, under these common but defenseless
conditions, arrive at the age of twenty-five without being now and then
kissed,--waylaid once by a noisy student between two doors, surprised
once by one’s gray-bearded professor as one bent over the “theme” he was
correcting,--but these episodes, if they tarnish the surface, do not
reach the heart: it is not the kiss endured, but the kiss returned, that
lives. And Lizzie West’s first kiss was for Vincent Deering.
As she drew back from it, something new awoke in her--something deeper
than the fright and the shame, and the penitent thought of Mrs. Deering.
A sleeping germ of life thrilled and unfolded, and started out blindly
to seek the sun.
She might have felt differently, perhaps,--the shame and penitence might
have prevailed,--had she not known him so kind and tender, and guessed
him so baffled, poor, and disappointed. She knew the failure of his
married life, and she divined a corresponding failure in his artistic
career. Lizzie, who had made her own faltering snatch at the same
laurels, brought her thwarted proficiency to bear on the question of his
pictures, which she judged to be extremely brilliant, but suspected of
having somehow failed to affirm their merit publicly. She understood
that he had tasted an earlier moment of success: a mention, a medal,
something official and tangible; then the tide of publicity had somehow
set the other way, and left him stranded in a noble isolation. It was
extraordinary and unbelievable that any one so naturally eminent and
exceptional should have been subject to the same vulgar necessities
that governed her own life, should have known poverty and obscurity and
indifference. But she gathered that this had been the case, and felt
that it formed the miraculous link between them. For through what
medium less revealing than that of shared misfortune would he ever have
perceived so inconspicuous an object as herself? And she recalled now
how gently his eyes had rested on her from the first--the gray eyes that
might have seemed mocking if they had not been so gentle.
She remembered how he had met her the first day, when Mrs. Deering’s
inevitable headache had prevented her from receiving the new teacher,
and how his few questions had at once revealed his interest in the
little stranded, compatriot, doomed to earn a precarious living so far
from her native shore. Sweet as the moment of unburdening had been,
she wondered afterward what had determined it: how she, so shy and
sequestered, had found herself letting slip her whole poverty-stricken
story, even to the avowal of the ineffectual “artistic” tendencies that
had drawn her to Paris, and had then left her there to the dry task of
tuition. She wondered at first, but she understood now; she understood
everything after he had kissed her. It was simply because he was as kind
as he was great.
She thought of this now as she mounted the hill in the spring sunshine,
and she thought of all that had happened since. The intervening months,
as she looked back at them, were merged in a vast golden haze, through
which here and there rose the outline of a shining island. The haze was
the general enveloping sense of his love, and the shining islands were
the days they had spent together. They had never kissed again under his
own roof. Lizzie’s professional honor had a keen edge, but she had been
spared the vulgar necessity of making him feel it. It was of the essence
of her fatality that he always “understood” when his failing to do so
might have imperiled his hold on her.
But her Thursdays and Sundays were free, and it soon became a habit to
give them to him. She knew, for her peace of mind, only too much about
pictures, and galleries and churches had been the one bright outlet from
the grayness of her personal atmosphere. For poetry, too, and the other
imaginative forms of literature, she had always felt more than she had
hitherto had occasion to betray; and now all these folded sympathies
shot out their tendrils to the light. Mr. Deering knew how to express
with unmatched clearness and competence the thoughts that trembled
in her mind: to talk with him was to soar up into the azure on
the outspread wings of his intelligence, and look down dizzily yet
distinctly, on all the wonders and glories of the world. She was a
little ashamed, sometimes, to find how few definite impressions she
brought back from these flights; but that was doubtless because her
heart beat so fast when he was near, and his smile made his words like
a long quiver of light. Afterward, in quieter hours, fragments of
their talk emerged in her memory with wondrous precision, every syllable
as minutely chiseled as some of the delicate objects in crystal or
ivory that he pointed out in the museums they frequented. It was always
a puzzle to Lizzie that some of their hours should be so blurred and
others so vivid.
On the morning in question she was reliving all these memories with
unusual distinctness, for it was a fortnight since she had seen her
friend. Mrs. Deering, some six weeks previously, had gone to visit a
relation at St.-Raphael; and, after she had been a month absent, her
husband and the little girl had joined her. Lizzie’s adieux to Deering
had been made on a rainy afternoon in the damp corridors of the Aquarium
at the Trocadero. She could not receive him at her own _pension_. That a
teacher should be visited by the father of a pupil, especially when that
father was still, as Madame Clopin said, _si bien_, was against that
lady’s austere Helvetian code. From Deering’s first tentative hint of
another solution Lizzie had recoiled in a wild unreasoned flurry of all
her scruples, he took her “No, no, _no!_” as he took all her twists and
turns of conscience, with eyes half-tender and half-mocking, and an
instant acquiescence which was the finest homage to the “lady” she felt
he divined and honored in her.
So they continued to meet in museums and galleries, or to extend, on
fine days, their explorations to the suburbs, where now and then, in
the solitude of grove or garden, the kiss renewed itself, fleeting,
isolated, or prolonged in a shy, silent pressure of the hand. But on
the day of his leave-taking the rain kept them under cover; and as they
threaded the subterranean windings of the Aquarium, and Lizzie looked
unseeingly at the monstrous faces glaring at her through walls of glass,
she felt like a poor drowned wretch at the bottom of the sea, with all
her glancing, sunlit memories rolling over her like the waves of its
surface.
“You’ll never see him again--never see him again,” the waves boomed in
her ears through his last words; and when she had said good-by to him
at the corner, and had scrambled, wet and shivering, into the Passy
omnibus, its great, grinding wheels took up the derisive burden--“Never
see him, never see him again.”
All that was only two weeks ago, and here she was, as happy as a lark,
mounting the hill to his door in the spring sunshine. So weak a heart
did not deserve such a radiant fate; and Lizzie said to herself that she
would never again distrust her star.
II
THE cracked bell tinkled sweetly through her heart as she stood
listening for the scamper of Juliet’s feet. Juliet, anticipating the
laggard Suzanne, almost always opened the door for her governess, not
from any unnatural zeal to hasten the hour of her studies, but from the
irrepressible desire to see what was going on in the street. But on this
occasion Lizzie listened vainly for a step, and at length gave the bell
another twitch. Doubtless some unusually absorbing incident had detained
the child below-stairs; thus only could her absence be explained.
A third ring produced no response, and Lizzie, full of dawning fears,
drew back to look up at the shabby, blistered house. She saw that the
studio shutters stood wide, and then noticed, without surprise, that
Mrs. Deering’s were still unopened. No doubt Mrs. Deering was resting
after the fatigue of the journey. Instinctively Lizzie’s eyes turned
again to the studio; and as she looked, she saw Deering at the window.
He caught sight of her, and an instant later came to the door. He looked
paler than usual, and she noticed that he wore a black coat.
“I rang and rang--where is Juliet?”
He looked at her gravely, almost solemnly; then, without answering, he
led her down the passage to the studio, and closed the door when she had
entered.
“My wife is dead--she died suddenly ten days ago. Didn’t you see it in
the papers?”
Lizzie, with a little cry, sank down on the rickety divan. She seldom
saw a newspaper, since she could not afford one for her own perusal, and
those supplied to the Pension Clopin were usually in the hands of its
more privileged lodgers till long after the hour when she set out on her
morning round.
“No; I didn’t see it,” she stammered.
Deering was silent. He stood a little way off, twisting an unlit
cigarette in his hand, and looking down at her with a gaze that was both
hesitating and constrained.
She, too, felt the constraint of the situation, the impossibility of
finding words that, after what had passed between them, should seem
neither false nor heartless; and at last she exclaimed, standing up:
“Poor little Juliet! Can’t I go to her?”
“Juliet is not here. I left her at St.-Raphael with the relations with
whom my wife was staying.”
“Oh,” Lizzie murmured, feeling vaguely that this added to the difficulty
of the moment. How differently she had pictured their meeting!
“I’m so--so sorry for her!” she faltered out.
Deering made no reply, but, turning on his heel, walked the length of
the studio, and then halted vaguely before the picture on the easel. It
was the landscape he had begun the previous autumn, with the
intention of sending it to the Salon that spring. But it was still
unfinished--seemed, indeed, hardly more advanced than on the fateful
October day when Lizzie, standing before it for the first time, had
confessed her inability to deal with Juliet. Perhaps the same thought
struck its creator, for he broke into a dry laugh, and turned from the
easel with a shrug.
Under his protracted silence Lizzie roused herself to the fact that,
since her pupil was absent, there was no reason for her remaining any
longer; and as Deering again moved toward her she said with an effort:
“I’ll go, then. You’ll send for me when she comes back?”
Deering still hesitated, tormenting the cigarette between his fingers.
“She’s not coming back--not at present.”
Lizzie heard him with a drop of the heart. Was everything to be changed
in their lives? But of course; how could she have dreamed it would be
otherwise? She could only stupidly repeat: “Not coming back? Not this
spring?”
“Probably not, since are friends are so good as to keep her. The fact
is, I’ve got to go to America. My wife left a little property, a few
pennies, that I must go and see to--for the child.”
Lizzie stood before him, a cold knife in her breast. “I see--I see,”
she reiterated, feeling all the while that she strained her eyes into
impenetrable blackness.
“It’s a nuisance, having to pull up stakes,” he went on, with a fretful
glance about the studio.
She lifted her eyes slowly to his face. “Shall you be gone long?” she
took courage to ask.
“There again--I can’t tell. It’s all so frightfully mixed up.” He met
her look for an incredibly long, strange moment. “I hate to go!” he
murmured as if to himself.
Lizzie felt a rush of moisture to her lashes, and the old, familiar
wave of weakness at her heart. She raised her hand to her face with an
instinctive gesture, and as she did so he held out his arms.
“Come here, Lizzie!” he said.
And she went--went with a sweet, wild throb of liberation, with the
sense that at last the house was his, that _she_ was his, if he wanted
her; that never again would that silent, rebuking presence in the room
above constrain and shame her rapture.
He pushed back her veil and covered her face with kisses. “Don’t cry,
you little goose!” he said.
III
THAT they must see each other again before his departure, in someplace
less exposed than their usual haunts, was as clear to Lizzie as it
appeared to be to Deering. His expressing the wish seemed, indeed, the
sweetest testimony to the quality of his feeling, since, in the first
weeks of the most perfunctory widowerhood, a man of his stamp is
presumed to abstain from light adventures. If, then, at such a moment,
he wished so much to be quietly and gravely with her, it could be only
for reasons she did not call by name, but of which she felt the sacred
tremor in her heart; and it would have seemed incredibly vain and vulgar
to put forward, at such a crisis, the conventional objections by means
of which such little-exposed existences defend the treasure of their
freshness.
In such a mood as this one may descend from the Passy omnibus at the
corner of the Pont de la Concorde (she had not let him fetch her in a
cab) with a sense of dedication almost solemn, and may advance to meet
one’s fate, in the shape of a gentleman of melancholy elegance, with an
auto-taxi at his call, as one has advanced to the altar-steps in some
girlish bridal vision.
Even the experienced waiter ushering them into an upper room of the
quiet restaurant on the Seine could hardly have supposed their quest
for seclusion to be based on sentimental motives, so soberly did Deering
give his orders, while his companion sat small and grave at his side.
She did not, indeed, mean to let her private pang obscure their hour
together: she was already learning that Deering shrank from sadness.
He should see that she had courage and gaiety to face their coming
separation, and yet give herself meanwhile to this completer nearness;
but she waited, as always, for him to strike the opening note.
Looking back at it later, she wondered at the mild suavity of the hour.
Her heart was unversed in happiness, but he had found the tone to lull
her apprehensions, and make her trust her fate for any golden wonder.
Deepest of all, he gave her the sense of something tacit and confirmed
between them, as if his tenderness were a habit of the heart hardly
needing the support of outward proof.
Such proof as he offered came, therefore, as a kind of crowning
luxury, the flower of a profoundly rooted sentiment; and here again the
instinctive reserves and defenses would have seemed to vulgarize what
his trust ennobled. But if all the tender casuistries of her heart were
at his service, he took no grave advantage of them. Even when they sat
alone after dinner, with the lights of the river trembling through their
one low window, and the vast rumor of Paris inclosing them in a heart
of silence, he seemed, as much as herself, under the spell of
hallowing influences. She felt it most of all as she yielded to the arm
he presently put about her, to the long caress he laid on her lips and
eyes: not a word or gesture missed the note of quiet union, or cast a
doubt, in retrospect, on the pact they sealed with their last look.
That pact, as she reviewed it through a sleepless night, seemed to have
consisted mainly, on his part, in pleadings for full and frequent news
of her, on hers in the assurance that it should be given as often as
he asked it. She had felt an intense desire not to betray any undue
eagerness, any crude desire to affirm and define her hold on him. Her
life had given her a certain acquaintance with the arts of defense:
girls in her situation were commonly supposed to know them all, and
to use them as occasion called. But Lizzie’s very need of them had
intensified her disdain. Just because she was so poor, and had always,
materially, so to count her change and calculate her margin, she would
at least know the joy of emotional prodigality, would give her heart
as recklessly as the rich their millions. She was sure now that Deering
loved her, and if he had seized the occasion of their farewell to give
her some definitely worded sign of his feeling--if, more plainly, he
had asked her to marry him,--his doing so would have seemed less like
a proof of his sincerity than of his suspecting in her the need of a
verbal warrant. That he had abstained seemed to show that he trusted
her as she trusted him, and that they were one most of all in this deep
security of understanding.
She had tried to make him divine all this in the chariness of her
promise to write. She would write; of course she would. But he would be
busy, preoccupied, on the move: it was for him to let her know when he
wished a word, to spare her the embarrassment of ill-timed intrusions.
“Intrusions?” He had smiled the word away. “You can’t well intrude, my
darling, on a heart where you’re already established, to the complete
exclusion of other lodgers.” And then, taking her hands, and looking up
from them into her happy, dizzy eyes: “You don’t know much about being
in love, do you, Lizzie?” he laughingly ended.
It seemed easy enough to reject this imputation in a kiss; but she
wondered afterward if she had not deserved it. Was she really cold and
conventional, and did other women give more richly and recklessly? She
found that it was possible to turn about every one of her reserves
and delicacies so that they looked like selfish scruples and petty
pruderies, and at this game she came in time to exhaust all the
resources of an over-abundant casuistry.
Meanwhile the first days after Deering’s departure wore a soft,
refracted light like the radiance lingering after sunset. _He_, at any
rate, was taxable with no reserves, no calculations, and his letters
of farewell, from train and steamer, filled her with long murmurs and
echoes of his presence. How he loved her, how he loved her--and how he
knew how to tell her so!
She was not sure of possessing the same aptitude. Unused to the
expression of personal emotion, she fluctuated between the impulse to
pour out all she felt and the fear lest her extravagance should amuse or
even bore him. She never lost the sense that what was to her the central
crisis of experience must be a mere episode in a life so predestined as
his to romantic accidents. All that she felt and said would be subjected
to the test of comparison with what others had already given him: from
all quarters of the globe she saw passionate missives winging their way
toward Deering, for whom her poor little swallow-flight of devotion could
certainly not make a summer. But such moments were succeeded by others
in which she raised her head and dared inwardly to affirm her conviction
that no woman had ever loved him just as she had, and that none,
therefore, had probably found just such things to say to him. And this
conviction strengthened the other less solidly based belief that
_he_ also, for the same reason, had found new accents to express his
tenderness, and that the three letters she wore all day in her shabby
blouse, and hid all night beneath her pillow, surpassed not only in
beauty, but in quality, all he had ever penned for other eyes.
They gave her, at any rate, during the weeks that she wore them on her
heart, sensations even more complex and delicate than Deering’s actual
presence had ever occasioned. To be with him was always like breasting
a bright, rough sea, that blinded while it buoyed her: but his letters
formed a still pool of contemplation, above which she could bend, and
see the reflection of the sky, and the myriad movements of life
that flitted and gleamed below the surface. The wealth of his hidden
life--that was what most surprised her! It was incredible to her now
that she had had no inkling of it, but had kept on blindly along the
narrow track of habit, like a traveler climbing a road in a fog, who
suddenly finds himself on a sunlit crag between blue leagues of sky and
dizzy depths of valley. And the odd thing was that all the people about
her--the whole world of the Passy pension--were still plodding along the
same dull path, preoccupied with the pebbles underfoot, and unconscious
of the glory beyond the fog!
There were wild hours when she longed to cry out to them what one saw
from the summit--and hours of tremulous abasement when she asked herself
why _her_ happy feet had been guided there, while others, no doubt as
worthy, stumbled and blundered in obscurity. She felt, in particular,
a sudden urgent pity for the two or three other girls at Mme.
Clopin’s--girls older, duller, less alive than she, and by that very
token more appealingly flung upon her sympathy. Would they ever know?
Had they ever known?--those were the questions that haunted her as she
crossed her companions on the stairs, faced them at the dinner-table,
and listened to their poor, pining talk in the dim-lit slippery-seated
_salon_. One of the girls was Swiss, the other English; the third, Andora
Macy, was a young lady from the Southern States who was studying French
with the ultimate object of imparting it to the inmates of a girls’
school at Macon, Georgia.
Andora Macy was pale, faded, immature. She had a drooping Southern
accent, and a manner which fluctuated between arch audacity and fits of
panicky hauteur. She yearned to be admired, and feared to be insulted;
and yet seemed tragically conscious that she was destined to miss both
these extremes of sensation, or to enjoy them only at second hand in the
experiences of her more privileged friends.
It was perhaps for this reason that she took a wistful interest in
Lizzie, who had shrunk from her at first, as the depressing image of her
own probable future, but to whom she had now suddenly become an object
of sentimental pity.
IV
MISS MACY’s room was next to Miss West’s, and the Southerner’s knock
often appealed to Lizzie’s hospitality when Mme. Clopin’s early curfew
had driven her boarders from the _salon_. It sounded thus one evening
just as Lizzie, tired from an unusually long day of tuition, was in the
act of removing her dress. She was in too indulgent a mood to withhold
her “Come in,” and as Miss Macy crossed the threshold, Lizzie felt that
Vincent Deering’s first letter--the letter from the train--had slipped
from her loosened bodice to the floor.
Miss Macy, as promptly noting the fact, darted forward to recover the
letter. Lizzie stooped also, fiercely jealous of her touch; but the
other reached the precious paper first, and as she seized it, Lizzie knew
that she had seen whence it fell, and was weaving round the incident a
rapid web of romance.
Lizzie blushed with annoyance. “It’s too stupid, having no pockets! If
one gets a letter as she is going out in the morning, she has to carry
it in her blouse all day.”
Miss Macy looked at her with swimming eyes. “It’s warm from your heart!”
she breathed, reluctantly yielding up the missive.
Lizzie laughed, for she knew better: she knew it was the letter that had
warmed her heart. Poor Andora Macy! _She_ would never know. Her bleak
bosom would never take fire from such a contact. Lizzie looked at her
with kind eyes, secretly chafing at the injustice of fate.
The next evening, on her return home, she found Andora hovering in the
entrance hall.
“I thought you’d like me to put this in your own hand,” Miss Macy
whispered significantly, pressing a letter upon Lizzie. “I couldn’t
_bear_ to see it lying on the table with the others.”
It was Deering’s letter from the steamer. Lizzie blushed to the forehead,
but without resenting Andora’s divination. She could not have breathed
a word of her bliss, but she was not altogether sorry to have it guessed,
and pity for Andora’s destitution yielded to the pleasure of using it
as a mirror for her own abundance. DEERING wrote again on reaching New
York, a long, fond, dissatisfied letter, vague in its indication of his
own projects, specific in the expression of his love. Lizzie brooded
over every syllable of it till they formed the undercurrent of all
her waking thoughts, and murmured through her midnight dreams; but
she would have been happier if they had shed some definite light on the
future.
That would come, no doubt, when he had had time to look about and
get his bearings. She counted up the days that must elapse before she
received his next letter, and stole down early to peep at the papers,
and learn when the next American mail was due. At length the happy date
arrived, and she hurried distractedly through the day’s work, trying to
conceal her impatience by the endearments she bestowed upon her pupils.
It was easier, in her present mood, to kiss them than to keep them at
their grammars.
That evening, on Mme. Clopin’s threshold, her heart beat so wildly that
she had to lean a moment against the door-post before entering. But on
the hall table, where the letters lay, there was none for her.
She went over them with a feverish hand, her heart dropping down
and down, as she had sometimes fallen down an endless stairway in a
dream--the very same stairway up which she had seemed to fly when she
climbed the long hill to Deering’s door. Then it suddenly struck her
that Andora might have found and secreted her letter, and with a spring
she was on the actual stairs and rattling Miss Macy’s door-handle.
“You’ve a letter for me, haven’t you?” she panted.
Miss Macy, turning from the toilet-table, inclosed her in attenuated
arms. “Oh, darling, did you expect one to-day?”
“Do give it to me!” Lizzie pleaded with burning eyes.
“But I haven’t any! There hasn’t been a sign of a letter for you.”
“I know there is. There _must_ be,” Lizzie persisted, stamping her foot.
“But, dearest, I’ve _watched_ for you, and there’s been nothing,
absolutely nothing.”
Day after day, for the ensuing weeks, the same scene reenacted itself
with endless variations. Lizzie, after the first sharp spasm of
disappointment, made no effort to conceal her anxiety from Miss Macy,
and the fond Andora was charged to keep a vigilant eye upon the postman’s
coming, and to spy on the _bonne_ for possible negligence or perfidy.
But these elaborate precautions remained fruitless, and no letter from
Deering came.
During the first fortnight of silence Lizzie exhausted all the
ingenuities of explanation. She marveled afterward at the reasons she
had found for Deering’s silence: there were moments when she almost
argued herself into thinking it more natural than his continuing to
write. There was only one reason which her intelligence consistently
rejected, and that was the possibility that he had forgotten her, that
the whole episode had faded from his mind like a breath from a mirror.
From that she resolutely turned her thoughts, aware that if she suffered
herself to contemplate it, the motive power of life would fail, and she
would no longer understand why she rose up in the morning and laydown at
night.
If she had had leisure to indulge her anguish she might have been unable
to keep such speculations at bay. But she had to be up and working: the
_blanchisseuse_ had to be paid, and Mme. Clopin’s weekly bill, and all
the little “extras” that even her frugal habits had to reckon with.
And in the depths of her thought dwelt the dogging fear of illness and
incapacity, goading her to work while she could. She hardly remembered
the time when she had been without that fear; it was second nature now,
and it kept her on her feet when other incentives might have failed. In
the blankness of her misery she felt no dread of death; but the horror of
being ill and “dependent” was in her blood.
In the first weeks of silence she wrote again and again to Deering,
entreating him for a word, for a mere sign of life. From the first she
had shrunk from seeming to assert any claim on his future, yet in
her aching bewilderment she now charged herself with having been
too possessive, too exacting in her tone. She told herself that his
fastidiousness shrank from any but a “light touch,” and that hers had
not been light enough. She should have kept to the character of the
“little friend,” the artless consciousness in which tormented genius may
find an escape from its complexities; and instead, she had dramatized
their relation, exaggerated her own part in it, presumed, forsooth, to
share the front of the stage with him, instead of being content to serve
as scenery or chorus.
But though to herself she admitted, and even insisted on, the episodical
nature of the experience, on the fact that for Deering it could be no
more than an incident, she was still convinced that his sentiment for
her, however fugitive, had been genuine.
His had not been the attitude of the unscrupulous male seeking a vulgar
“advantage.” For a moment he had really needed her, and if he was silent
now, it was perhaps because he feared that she had mistaken the nature
of the need and built vain hopes on its possible duration.
It was of the very essence of Lizzie’s devotion that it sought
instinctively the larger freedom of its object; she could not conceive
of love under any form of exaction or compulsion. To make this clear
to Deering became an overwhelming need, and in a last short letter
she explicitly freed him from whatever sentimental obligation its
predecessors might have seemed to impose. In this studied communication
she playfully accused herself of having unwittingly sentimentalized
their relation, affirming, in self-defense, a retrospective astuteness,
a sense of the impermanence of the tenderer sentiments, that almost
put Deering in the fatuous position of having mistaken coquetry for
surrender. And she ended gracefully with a plea for the continuance of
the friendly regard which she had “always understood” to be the basis of
their sympathy. The document, when completed, seemed to her worthy of
what she conceived to be Deering’s conception of a woman of the world,
and she found a spectral satisfaction in the thought of making her final
appearance before him in that distinguished character. But she was never
destined to learn what effect the appearance produced; for the letter,
like those it sought to excuse, remained unanswered.
V
THE fresh spring sunshine which had so often attended Lizzie Weston
her dusty climb up the hill of St.-Cloud beamed on her, some two years
later, in a scene and a situation of altered import.
The horse-chestnuts of the Champs-Elysees filtered its rays through
the symmetrical umbrage inclosing the graveled space about Daurent’s
restaurant, and Miss West, seated at a table within that privileged
circle, presented to the light a hat much better able to sustain its
scrutiny than those which had sheltered the brow of Juliet Deering’s
instructress.
Her dress was in keeping with the hat, and both belonged to a situation
rich in such possibilities as the act of a leisurely luncheon at
Daurent’s in the opening week of the Salon. Her companions, of both
sexes, confirmed and emphasized this impression by an elaborateness of
garb and an ease of attitude implying the largest range of selection
between the forms of Parisian idleness; and even Andora Macy, seated
opposite, as in the place of co-hostess or companion, reflected, in coy
grays and mauves, the festal note of the occasion.
This note reverberated persistently in the ears of a solitary gentleman
straining for glimpses of the group from a table wedged in the remotest
corner of the garden; but to Miss West herself the occurrence did not
rise above the usual. For nearly a year she had been acquiring the habit
of such situations, and the act of offering a luncheon at Daurent’s
to her cousins, the Harvey Mearses of Providence, and their friend Mr.
Jackson Benn, produced in her no emotion beyond the languid glow which
Mr. Benn’s presence was beginning to impart to such scenes.
“It’s frightful, the way you’ve got used to it,” Andora Macy had wailed
in the first days of her friend’s transfigured fortune, when Lizzie
West had waked one morning to find herself among the heirs of an old
and miserly cousin whose testamentary dispositions had formed, since her
earliest childhood, the subject of pleasantry and conjecture in her own
improvident family. Old Hezron Mears had never given any sign of life to
the luckless Wests; had perhaps hardly been conscious of including
them in the carefully drawn will which, following the old American
convention, scrupulously divided his hoarded millions among his kin. It
was by a mere genealogical accident that Lizzie, falling just within
the golden circle, found herself possessed of a pittance sufficient to
release her from the prospect of a long gray future in Mme. Clopin’s
pension.
The release had seemed wonderful at first; yet she presently found that
it had destroyed her former world without giving her anew one. On the
ruins of the old pension life bloomed the only flower that had ever
sweetened her path; and beyond the sense of present ease, and the
removal of anxiety for the future, her reconstructed existence
blossomed with no compensating joys. She had hoped great things from the
opportunity to rest, to travel, to look about her, above all, in
various artful feminine ways, to be “nice” to the companions of her less
privileged state; but such widenings of scope left her, as it were, but
the more conscious of the empty margin of personal life beyond them. It
was not till she woke to the leisure of her new days that she had the
full sense of what was gone from them.
Their very emptiness made her strain to pack them with transient
sensations: she was like the possessor of an unfurnished house, with
random furniture and bric-a-brac perpetually pouring in “on approval.”
It was in this experimental character that Mr. Jackson Benn had fixed
her attention, and the languid effort of her imagination to adjust him
to her requirements was seconded by the fond complicity of Andora and
the smiling approval of her cousins. Lizzie did not discourage these
demonstrations: she suffered serenely Andora’s allusions to Mr. Benn’s
infatuation, and Mrs. Mears’s casual boast of his business standing.
All the better if they could drape his narrow square-shouldered frame and
round unwinking countenance in the trailing mists of sentiment: Lizzie
looked and listened, not unhopeful of the miracle.
“I never saw anything like the way these Frenchmen stare! Doesn’t it
make you nervous, Lizzie?” Mrs. Mears broke out suddenly, ruffling her
feather boa about an outraged bosom. Mrs. Mears was still in that stage
of development when her countrywomen taste to the full the peril of
being exposed to the gaze of the licentious Gaul.
Lizzie roused herself from the contemplation of Mr. Benn’s round baby
cheeks and the square blue jaw resting on his perpendicular collar. “Is
some one staring at me?” she asked with a smile.
“Don’t turn round, whatever you do! There--just over there, between the
rhododendrons--the tall fair man alone at that table. Really, Harvey,
I think you ought to speak to the head-waiter, or something; though I
suppose in one of these places they’d only laugh at you,” Mrs. Mears
shudderingly concluded.
Her husband, as if inclining to this probability, continued the
undisturbed dissection of his chicken wing; but Mr. Benn, perhaps
aware that his situation demanded a more punctilious attitude, sternly
revolved upon the parapet of his high collar in the direction of Mrs.
Mears’s glance.
“What, that fellow all alone over there? Why, _he’s_ not French; he’s an
American,” he then proclaimed with a perceptible relaxing of the facial
muscles.
“Oh!” murmured Mrs. Mears, as perceptibly disappointed, and Mr. Benn
continued carelessly: “He came over on the steamer with me. He’s some
kind of an artist--a fellow named Deering. He was staring at _me_, I
guess: wondering whether I was going to remember him. Why, how d’ ‘e do?
How are you? Why, yes, of course; with pleasure--my friends, Mrs. Harvey
Mears--Mr. Mears; my friends Miss Macy and Miss West.”
“I have the pleasure of knowing Miss West,” said Vincent Deering with a
smile.
VI
EVEN through his smile Lizzie had seen, in the first moment, how changed
he was; and the impression of the change deepened to the point of pain
when, a few days later, in reply to his brief note, she accorded him a
private hour.
That the first sight of his writing--the first answer to
his letters--should have come, after three long years, in the shape of
this impersonal line, too curt to be called humble, yet confessing to a
consciousness of the past by the studied avoidance of its language! As
she read, her mind flashed back over what she had dreamed his letters
would be, over the exquisite answers she had composed above his name.
There was nothing exquisite in the conventional lines before her; but
dormant nerves began to throb again at the mere touch of the paper he
had touched, and she threw the little note into the fire before she
dared to reply to it.
Now that he was actually before her again, he became, as usual, the one
live spot in her consciousness. Once more her tormented throbbing self
sank back passive and numb, but now with all its power of suffering
mysteriously transferred to the presence, so known, yet so unknown, at
the opposite corner of her hearth. She was still Lizzie West, and he was
still Vincent Deering; but the Styx rolled between them, and she saw his
face through its fog. It was his face, really, rather than his words,
that told her, as she furtively studied it, the tale of failure and
slow discouragement which had so blurred its handsome lines. She kept
afterward no precise memory of the actual details of his narrative: the
pain it evidently cost him to impart it was so much the sharpest fact
in her new vision of him. Confusedly, however, she gathered that
on reaching America he had found his wife’s small property gravely
impaired; and that, while lingering on to secure what remained of it,
he had contrived to sell a picture or two, and had even known a brief
moment of success, during which he received orders and set up a studio.
But inexplicably the tide had ebbed, his work remained on his hands, and
a tedious illness, with its miserable sequel of debt, soon wiped out his
small advantage. There followed a period of eclipse, still more vaguely
pictured, during which she was allowed to infer that he had tried
his hand at divers means of livelihood, accepting employment from
a fashionable house-decorator, designing wall-papers, illustrating
magazine articles, and acting for a time, she dimly understood, as the
social tout of a new hotel desirous of advertising its restaurant.
These disjointed facts were strung on a slender thread of personal
allusions--references to friends who had been kind (jealously, she
guessed them to be women), and to enemies who had darkly schemed against
him. But, true to his tradition of “correctness,” he carefully avoided
the mention of names, and left her trembling conjectures to grope dimly
through an alien crowded world in which there seemed little room for her
small shy presence.
As she listened, her private pang was merged in the intolerable sense of
his unhappiness. Nothing he had said explained or excused his conduct to
her; but he had suffered, he had been lonely, had been humiliated,
and she suddenly felt, with a fierce maternal rage, that there was no
conceivable justification for any scheme of things in which such facts
were possible. She could not have said why: she simply knew that it hurt
too much to see him hurt.
Gradually it came to her that her unconsciousness of any personal
grievance was due to her having so definitely determined her own future.
She was glad she had decided, as she now felt she had, to marry Jackson
Benn, if only for the sense of detachment it gave her in dealing
with the case of Vincent Deering. Her personal safety insured her the
requisite impartiality, and justified her in dwelling as long as
she chose on the last lines of a chapter to which her own act had
deliberately fixed the close. Any lingering hesitations as to the
finality of her decision were dispelled by the imminent need of making
it known to Deering; and when her visitor paused in his reminiscences to
say, with a sigh, “But many things have happened to you too,” his words
did not so much evoke the sense of her altered fortunes as the image of
the protector to whom she was about to intrust them.
“Yes, many things; it’s three years,” she answered.
Deering sat leaning forward, in his sad exiled elegance, his eyes gently
bent on hers; and at his side she saw the solid form of Mr. Jackson
Benn, with shoulders preternaturally squared by the cut of his tight
black coat, and a tall shiny collar sustaining his baby cheeks and hard
blue chin. Then the vision faded as Deering began to speak.
“Three years,” he repeated, musingly taking up her words. “I’ve so often
wondered what they’d brought you.”
She lifted her head with a quick blush, and the terrified wish that he
should not, at the cost of all his notions of correctness, lapse into
the blunder of becoming “personal.”
“You’ve wondered?” She smiled back bravely.
“Do you suppose I haven’t?” His look dwelt on her. “Yes, I daresay that
_was_ what you thought of me.”
She had her answer pat--“Why, frankly, you know, I _didn’t_ think of
you.” But the mounting tide of her poor dishonored memories swept it
indignantly away. If it was his correctness to ignore, it could never be
hers to disavow.
“_ Was_ that what you thought of me?” she heard him repeat in a tone
of sad insistence; and at that, with a quick lift of her head, she
resolutely answered: “How could I know what to think? I had no word from
you.”
If she had expected, and perhaps almost hoped, that this answer would
create a difficulty for him, the gaze of quiet fortitude with which he
met it proved that she had underestimated his resources.
“No, you had no word. I kept my vow,” he said.
“Your vow?”
“That you _shouldn’t_ have a word--not a syllable. Oh, I kept it through
everything!”
Lizzie’s heart was sounding in her ears the old confused rumor of the
sea of life, but through it she desperately tried to distinguish the
still small voice of reason.
“What _was_ your vow? Why shouldn’t I have had a syllable from you?”
He sat motionless, still holding her with a look so gentle that it
almost seemed forgiving.
Then abruptly he rose, and crossing the space between them, sat down in
a chair at her side. The deliberation of his movement might have implied
a forgetfulness of changed conditions, and Lizzie, as if thus viewing
it, drew slightly back; but he appeared not to notice her recoil, and
his eyes, at last leaving her face, slowly and approvingly made the
round of the small bright drawing-room. “This is charming. Yes, things
_have_ changed for you,” he said.
A moment before she had prayed that he might be spared the error of
a vain return upon the past. It was as if all her retrospective
tenderness, dreading to see him at such a disadvantage, rose up to
protect him from it. But his evasiveness exasperated her, and suddenly
she felt the inconsistent desire to hold him fast, face to face with his
own words.
Before she could reiterate her question, however, he had met her with
another.
“You _did_ think of me, then? Why are you afraid to tell me that you
did?”
The unexpectedness of the challenge wrung an indignant cry from her.
“Didn’t my letters tell you so enough?”
“Ah, your letters!” Keeping her gaze on his in a passion of unrelenting
fixity, she could detect in him no confusion, not the least quiver of a
sensitive nerve. He only gazed back at her more sadly.
“They went everywhere with me--your letters,” he said.
“Yet you never answered them.” At last the accusation trembled to her
lips.
“Yet I never answered them.”
“Did you ever so much as read them, I wonder?”
All the demons of self-torture were up in her now, and she loosed them
on him, as if to escape from their rage.
Deering hardly seemed to hear her question. He merely shifted his
attitude, leaning a little nearer to her, but without attempting, by the
least gesture, to remind her of the privileges which such nearness had
once implied.
“There were beautiful, wonderful things in them,” he said, smiling.
She felt herself stiffen under his smile.
“You’ve waited three years to tell me so!”
He looked at her with grave surprise. “And do you resent my telling you
even now?”
His parries were incredible. They left her with a breathless sense of
thrusting at emptiness, and a desperate, almost vindictive desire to
drive him against the wall and pin him there.
“No. Only I wonder you should take the trouble to tell me, when at the
time--”
And now, with a sudden turn, he gave her the final surprise of meeting
her squarely on her own ground.
“When at the time I didn’t? But how _could_ I--at the time?”
“Why couldn’t you? You’ve not yet told me?”
He gave her again his look of disarming patience. “Do I need to? Hasn’t
my whole wretched story told you?”
“Told me why you never answered my letters?”
“Yes, since I could only answer them in one way--by protesting my love
and my longing.”
There was a long pause of resigned expectancy on his part, on hers, of
a wild confused reconstruction of her shattered past. “You mean, then,
that you didn’t write because--”
“Because I found, when I reached America, that I was a pauper; that my
wife’s money was gone, and that what I could earn--I’ve so little gift
that way!--was barely enough to keep Juliet clothed and educated. It was
as if an iron door had been suddenly locked and barred between us.”
Lizzie felt herself driven back, panting upon the last defenses of her
incredulity. “You might at least have told me--have explained. Do you
think I shouldn’t have understood?”
He did not hesitate. “You would have understood. It wasn’t that.”
“What was it then?” she quavered.
“It’s wonderful you shouldn’t see! Simply that I couldn’t write you
_that_. Anything else--not _that!_”
“And so you preferred to let me suffer?”
There was a shade of reproach in his eyes. “I suffered too,” he said.
It was his first direct appeal to her compassion, and for a moment it
nearly unsettled the delicate poise of her sympathies, and sent them
trembling in the direction of scorn and irony. But even as the impulse
rose, it was stayed by another sensation. Once again, as so often in
the past, she became aware of a fact which, in his absence, she always
failed to reckon with--the fact of the deep irreducible difference
between his image in her mind and his actual self, the mysterious
alteration in her judgment produced by the inflections of his voice, the
look of his eyes, the whole complex pressure of his personality. She had
phrased it once self-reproachfully by saying to herself that she “never
could remember him,” so completely did the sight of him supersede the
counterfeit about which her fancy wove its perpetual wonders. Bright and
breathing as that counterfeit was, it became a gray figment of the mind
at the touch of his presence; and on this occasion the immediate result
was to cause her to feel his possible unhappiness with an intensity
beside which her private injury paled.
“I suffered horribly,” he repeated, “and all the more that I couldn’t
make a sign, couldn’t cry out my misery. There was only one escape from
it all--to hold my tongue, and pray that you might hate me.”
The blood rushed to Lizzie’s forehead. “Hate you--you prayed that I
might hate you?”
He rose from his seat, and moving closer, lifted her hand gently in
his. “Yes; because your letters showed me that, if you didn’t, you’d be
unhappier still.”
Her hand lay motionless, with the warmth of his flowing through it, and
her thoughts, too--her poor fluttering stormy thoughts--felt themselves
suddenly penetrated by the same soft current of communion.
“And I meant to keep my resolve,” he went on, slowly releasing his
clasp. “I meant to keep it even after the random stream of things swept
me back here in your way; but when I saw you the other day, I felt that
what had been possible at a distance was impossible now that we were
near each other. How was it possible to see you and want you to hate me?”
He had moved away, but not to resume his seat. He merely paused at
a little distance, his hand resting on a chair-back, in the transient
attitude that precedes departure.
Lizzie’s heart contracted. He was going, then, and this was his farewell.
He was going, and she could find no word to detain him but the senseless
stammer “I never hated you.”
He considered her with his faint grave smile. “It’s not necessary, at
any rate, that you should do so now. Time and circumstances have made me
so harmless--that’s exactly why I’ve dared to venture back. And I wanted
to tell you how I rejoice in your good fortune. It’s the only obstacle
between us that I can’t bring myself to wish away.”
Lizzie sat silent, spellbound, as she listened, by the sudden evocation
of Mr. Jackson Benn. He stood there again, between herself and Deering,
perpendicular and reproachful, but less solid and sharply outlined than
before, with a look in his small hard eyes that desperately wailed for
reembodiment.
Deering was continuing his farewell speech. “You’re rich now, you’re
free. You will marry.” She vaguely saw him holding out his hand.
“It’s not true that I’m engaged!” she broke out. They were the last
words she had meant to utter; they were hardly related to her conscious
thoughts; but she felt her whole will suddenly gathered up in the
irrepressible impulse to repudiate and fling away from her forever the
spectral claim of Mr. Jackson Benn.
VII
IT was the firm conviction of Andora Macy that every object in the
Vincent Deerings’ charming little house at Neuilly had been expressly
designed for the Deerings’ son to play with.
The house was full of pretty things, some not obviously applicable to
the purpose; but Miss Macy’s casuistry was equal tothe baby’s appetite,
and the baby’s mother was no match for them in the art of defending her
possessions. There were moments, in fact, when Lizzie almost fell in
with Andora’s summary division of her works of art into articles safe
or unsafe for the baby to lick, or resisted it only to the extent of
occasionally substituting some less precious or less perishable object
for the particular fragility on which her son’s desire was fixed. And
it was with this intention that, on a certain fair spring morning--which
wore the added luster of being the baby’s second birthday--she had
murmured, with her mouth in his curls, and one hand holding a bit of
Chelsea above his dangerous clutch: “Wouldn’t he rather have that
beautiful shiny thing over there in Aunt Andorra’s hand?”
The two friends were together in Lizzie’s little morning-room--the room
she had chosen, on acquiring the house, because, when she sat there, she
could hear Deering’s step as he paced up and down before his easel
in the studio she had built for him. His step had been less regularly
audible than she had hoped, for, after three years of wedded bliss, he
had somehow failed to settle down to the great work which was to result
from that privileged state; but even when she did not hear him she knew
that he was there, above her head, stretched out on the old divan from
Passy, and smoking endless cigarettes while he skimmed the morning
papers; and the sense of his nearness had not yet lost its first keen
edge of bliss.
Lizzie herself, on the day in question, was engaged in a more arduous
task than the study of the morning’s news. She had never unlearned the
habit of orderly activity, and the trait she least understood in her
husband’s character was his way of letting the loose ends of life hang
as they would. She had been disposed at first to ascribe this to the
chronic incoherence of his first _menage;_ but now she knew that, though
he basked under the rule of her beneficent hand, he would never feel any
active impulse to further its work. He liked to see things fall
into place about him at a wave of her wand; but his enjoyment of her
household magic in no way diminished his smiling irresponsibility, and
it was with one of its least amiable consequences that his wife and her
friend were now dealing.
Before them stood two travel-worn trunks and a distended portmanteau,
which had shed their contents in heterogeneous heaps over Lizzie’s rosy
carpet. They represented the hostages left by her husband on his somewhat
precipitate departure from a New York boarding-house, and indignantly
redeemed by her on her learning, in a curt letter from his landlady,
that the latter was not disposed to regard them as an equivalent for the
arrears of Deering’s board.
Lizzie had not been shocked by the discovery that her husband had left
America in debt. She had too sad an acquaintance with the economic
strain to see any humiliation in such accidents; but it offended her
sense of order that he should not have liquidated his obligation in
the three years since their marriage. He took her remonstrance with his
usual disarming grace, and left her to forward the liberating draft,
though her delicacy had provided him with a bank-account which assured
his personal independence. Lizzie had discharged the duty without
repugnance, since she knew that his delegating it to her was the result
of his good-humored indolence and not of any design on her exchequer.
Deering was not dazzled by money; his altered fortunes had tempted him
to no excesses: he was simply too lazy to draw the check, as he had been
too lazy to remember the debt it canceled.
“No, dear! No!” Lizzie lifted the Chelsea figure higher. “Can’t you find
something for him, Andora, among that rubbish over there? Where’s the
beaded bag you had in your hand just now? I don’t think it could hurt
him to lick that.”
Miss Macy, bag in hand, rose from her knees, and stumbled through the
slough of frayed garments and old studio properties. Before the group of
mother and son she fell into a raptured attitude.
“Do look at him reach for it, the tyrant! Isn’t he just like the young
Napoleon?”
Lizzie laughed and swung her son in air. “Dangle it before him, Andora.
If you let him have it too quickly, he won’t care for it. He’s just like
any man, I think.”
Andora slowly lowered the shining bag till the heir of the Deerings
closed his masterful fist upon it. “There--my Chelsea’s safe!” Lizzie
smiled, setting her boy on the floor, and watching him stagger away with
his booty.
Andora stood beside her, watching too. “Have you any idea where that bag
came from, Lizzie?”
Mrs. Deering, bent above a pile of dis-collared shirts, shook an
inattentive head. “I never saw such wicked washing! There isn’t one
that’s fit to mend. The bag? No; I’ve not the least idea.”
Andora surveyed her dramatically. “Doesn’t it make you utterly miserable
to think that some woman may have made it for him?”
Lizzie, bowed in anxious scrutiny above the shirts, broke into an
unruffled laugh. “Really, Andora, really--six, seven, nine; no, there
isn’t even a dozen. There isn’t a whole dozen of _anything_. I don’t see
how men live alone!”
Andora broodingly pursued her theme. “Do you mean to tell me it doesn’t
make you jealous to handle these things of his that other women may have
given him?”
Lizzie shook her head again, and, straightening herself with a smile,
tossed a bundle in her friend’s direction. “No, it doesn’t make me the
least bit jealous. Here, count these socks for me, like a darling.”
Andora moaned, “Don’t you feel _anything at all?_” as the socks landed in
her hollow bosom; but Lizzie, intent upon her task, tranquilly continued
to unfold and sort. She felt a great deal as she did so, but her
feelings were too deep and delicate for the simplifying process of
speech. She only knew that each article she drew from the trunks sent
through her the long tremor of Deering’s touch. It was part of her
wonderful new life that everything belonging to him contained an
infinitesimal fraction of himself--a fraction becoming visible in the
warmth of her love as certain secret elements become visible in rare
intensities of temperature. And in the case of the objects before
her, poor shabby witnesses of his days of failure, what they gave out
acquired a special poignancy from its contrast to his present cherished
state. His shirts were all in round dozens now, and washed as carefully
as old lace. As for his socks, she knew the pattern of every pair, and
would have liked to see the washerwoman who dared to mislay one, or
bring it home with the colors “run”! And in these homely tokens of his
well-being she saw the symbol of what her tenderness had brought him.
He was safe in it, encompassed by it, morally and materially, and she
defied the embattled powers of malice to reach him through the armor of
her love. Such feelings, however, were not communicable, even had one
desired to express them: they were no more to be distinguished from the
sense of life itself than bees from the lime-blossoms in which they
murmur.
“Oh, do _look_ at him, Lizzie! He’s found out how to open the bag!”
Lizzie lifted her head to smile a moment at her son, who sat throned on
a heap of studio rubbish, with Andora before him on adoring knees.
She thought vaguely, “Poor Andora!” and then resumed the discouraged
inspection of a buttonless white waistcoat. The next sound she was aware
of was a fluttered exclamation from her friend.
“Why, Lizzie, do you know what he used the bag for? To keep your letters
in!”
Lizzie looked up more quickly. She was aware that Andora’s pronoun had
changed its object, and was now applied to Deering. And it struck her
as odd, and slightly disagreeable, that a letter of hers should be found
among the rubbish abandoned in her husband’s New York lodgings.
“How funny! Give it to me, please.”
“Give the bag to Aunt Andora, darling! Here--look inside, and see what
else a big big boy can find there! Yes, here’s another! Why, why--”
Lizzie rose with a shade of impatience and crossed the floor to the
romping group beside the other trunk.
“What is it? Give me the letters, please.” As she spoke, she suddenly
recalled the day when, in Mme. Clopin’s _pension_, she had addressed a
similar behest to Andora Macy.
Andora had lifted a look of startled conjecture. “Why, this one’s never
been opened! Do you suppose that awful woman could have kept it from
him?”
Lizzie laughed. Andora’s imaginings were really puerile. “What awful
woman? His landlady? Don’t be such a goose, Andora. How can it have been
kept back from him, when we’ve found it here among his things?”
“Yes; but then why was it never opened?”
Andora held out the letter, and Lizzie took it. The writing was hers; the
envelop bore the Passy postmark; and it was unopened. She stood looking
at it with a sudden sharp drop of the heart.
“Why, so are the others--all unopened!” Andora threw out on a rising
note; but Lizzie, stooping over, stretched out her hand.
“Give them to me, please.”
“Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie--” Andora, still on her knees, continued to hold
back the packet, her pale face paler with anger and compassion. “Lizzie,
they’re the letters I used to post for you--_the letters he never
answered!_ Look!”
“Give them back to me, please.”
The two women faced each other, Andora kneeling, Lizzie motionless
before her, the letters in her hand. The blood had rushed to her face,
humming in her ears, and forcing itself into the veins of her temples
like hot lead. Then it ebbed, and she felt cold and weak.
“It must have been some plot--some conspiracy!” Andora cried, so fired
by the ecstasy of invention that for the moment she seemed lost to all
but the esthetic aspect of the case.
Lizzie turned away her eyes with an effort, and they rested on the boy,
who sat at her feet placidly sucking the tassels of the bag. His mother
stooped and extracted them from his rosy mouth, which a cry of wrath
immediately filled. She lifted him in her arms, and for the first time
no current of life ran from his body into hers. He felt heavy and clumsy,
like some one else’s child; and his screams annoyed her.
“Take him away, please, Andora.”
“Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie!” Andora wailed.
Lizzie held out the child, and Andora, struggling to her feet, received
him.
“I know just how you feel,” she gasped out above the baby’s head.
Lizzie, in some dark hollow of herself, heard the echo of a laugh.
Andora always thought she knew how people felt!
“Tell Marthe to take him with her when she fetches Juliet home from
school.”
“Yes, yes.” Andora gloated over her. “If you’d only give way, my
darling!”
The baby, howling, dived over Andora’s shoulder for the bag.
“Oh, _take_ him!” his mother ordered.
Andora, from the door, cried out: “I’ll be back at once. Remember, love,
you’re not alone!”
But Lizzie insisted, “Go with them--I wish you to go with them,” in the
tone to which Miss Macy had never learned the answer.
The door closed on her outraged back, and Lizzie stood alone. She looked
about the disordered room, which offered a dreary image of the havoc
of her life. An hour or two ago everything about her had been so
exquisitely ordered, without and within; her thoughts and emotions had
lain outspread before her like delicate jewels laid away symmetrically
in a collector’s cabinet. Now they had been tossed down helter-skelter
among the rubbish there on the floor, and had themselves turned to
rubbish like the rest. Yes, there lay her life at her feet, among all
that tarnished trash.
She knelt and picked up her letters, ten in all, and examined the flaps
of the envelops. Not one had been opened--not one. As she looked, every
word she had written fluttered to life, and every feeling prompting it
sent a tremor through her. With vertiginous speed and microscopic vision
she was reliving that whole period of her life, stripping bare again the
black ruin over which the drift of three happy years had fallen.
She laughed at Andora’s notion of a conspiracy--of the letters having
been “kept back.” She required no extraneous aid in deciphering the
mystery: her three years’ experience of Deering shed on it all the
light she needed. And yet a moment before she had believed herself to be
perfectly happy! Now it was the worst part of her anguish that it did not
really surprise her.
She knew so well how it must have happened. The letters had reached him
when he was busy, occupied with something else, and had been put aside
to be read at some future time--a time which never came. Perhaps on his
way to America, on the steamer, even, he had met “some one else”--the
“some one” who lurks, veiled and ominous, in the background of every
woman’s thoughts about her lover. Or perhaps he had been merely
forgetful. She had learned from experience that the sensations which he
seemed to feel with the most exquisite intensity left no reverberations
in his mind--that he did not relive either his pleasures or his pains.
She needed no better proof of that than the lightness of his conduct
toward his daughter. He seemed to have taken it for granted that Juliet
would remain indefinitely with the friends who had received her
after her mother’s death, and it was at Lizzie’s suggestion that the
little girl was brought home and that they had established themselves at
Neuilly to be near her school. But Juliet once with them, he became the
model of a tender father, and Lizzie wondered that he had not felt
the child’s absence, since he seemed so affectionately aware of her
presence.
Lizzie had noted all this in Juliet’s case, but had taken for granted
that her own was different; that she formed, for Deering, the exception
which every woman secretly supposes herself to form in the experience
of the man she loves. Certainly, she had learned by this time that she
could not modify his habits, but she imagined that she had deepened his
sensibilities, had furnished him with an “ideal”--angelic function!
And she now saw that the fact of her letters--her unanswered
letters--having, on his own assurance, “meant so much” to him, had been
the basis on which this beautiful fabric was reared.
There they lay now, the letters, precisely as when they had left her
hands. He had not had time to read them; and there had been a moment in
her past when that discovery would have been the sharpest pang imaginable
to her heart. She had traveled far beyond that point. She could have
forgiven him now for having forgotten her; but she could never forgive
him for having deceived her.
She sat down, and looked again vaguely about the room. Suddenly she
heard his step overhead, and her heart contracted. She was afraid he was
coming down to her. She sprang up and bolted the door; then she dropped
into the nearest chair, tremulous and exhausted, as if the pushing of
the bolt had required an immense muscular effort. A moment later she
heard him on the stairs, and her tremor broke into a cold fit of shaking.
“I loathe you--I loathe you!” she cried.
She listened apprehensively for his touch on the handle of the door.
He would come in, humming a tune, to ask some idle question and lay
a caress on her hair. But no, the door was bolted; she was safe. She
continued to listen, and the step passed on. He had not been coming
to her, then. He must have gone down-stairs to fetch something--another
newspaper, perhaps. He seemed to read little else, and she sometimes
wondered when he had found time to store the material that used to serve
for their famous “literary” talks. The wonder shot through her again,
barbed with a sneer. At that moment it seemed to her that everything he
had ever done and been was a lie.
She heard the house-door close, and started up. Was he going out? It was
not his habit to leave the house in the morning.
She crossed the room to the window, and saw him walking, with a quick
decided step, between the budding lilacs to the gate. What could have
called him forth at that unwonted hour? It was odd that he should not
have told her. The fact that she thought it odd suddenly showed her how
closely their lives were interwoven. She had become a habit to him, and
he was fond of his habits. But to her it was as if a stranger had opened
the gate and gone out. She wondered what he would feel if he knew that
she felt _that_.
“In an hour he will know,” she said to herself, with a kind of fierce
exultation; and immediately she began to dramatize the scene. As soon as
he came in she meant to call him up to her room and hand him the letters
without a word. For a moment she gloated on the picture; then her
imagination recoiled from it. She was humiliated by the thought of
humiliating him. She wanted to keep his image intact; she would not see
him.
He had lied to her about her letters--had lied to her when he found it
to his interest to regain her favor. Yes, there was the point to hold
fast. He had sought her out when he learned that she was rich. Perhaps
he had come back from America on purpose to marry her; no doubt he had
come back on purpose. It was incredible that she had not seen this
at the time. She turned sick at the thought of her fatuity and of
the grossness of his arts. Well, the event proved that they were all
he needed. But why had he gone out at such an hour? She was irritated to
find herself still preoccupied by his comings and goings.
Turning from the window, she sat down again. She wondered what she meant
to do next. No, she would not show him the letters; she would simply
leave them on his table and go away. She would leave the house with her
boy and Andora. It was a relief to feel a definite plan forming itself
in her mind--something that her uprooted thoughts could fasten on. She
would go away, of course; and meanwhile, in order not to see him, she
would feign a headache, and remain in her room till after luncheon. Then
she and Andora would pack a few things, and fly with the child while he
was dawdling about up-stairs in the studio. When one’s house fell, one
fled from the ruins: nothing could be simpler, more inevitable.
Her thoughts were checked by the impossibility of picturing what would
happen next. Try as she would, she could not see herself and the child
away from Deering. But that, of course, was because of her nervous
weakness. She had youth, money, energy: all the trumps were on her side.
It was much more difficult to imagine what would become of Deering. He
was so dependent on her, and they had been so happy together! The fact
struck her as illogical, and even immoral, and yet she knew he had been
happy with her. It never happened like that in novels: happiness “built
on a lie” always crumbled, and buried the presumptuous architect beneath
the ruins. According to the laws of every novel she had ever read,
Deering, having deceived her once, would inevitably have gone on
deceiving her. Yet she knew he had not gone on deceiving her.
She tried again to picture her new life. Her friends, of course, would
rally about her. But the prospect left her cold; she did not want them
to rally. She wanted only one thing--the life she had been living before
she had given her baby the embroidered bag to play with. Oh, why had she
given him the bag? She had been so happy, they had all been so
happy! Every nerve in her clamored for her lost happiness, angrily,
unreasonably, as the boy had clamored for his bag! It was horrible to
know too much; there was always blood in the foundations. Parents “kept
things” from children--protected them from all the dark secrets of pain
and evil. And was any life livable unless it were thus protected? Could
any one look in the Medusa’s face and live?
But why should she leave the house, since it was hers? Here, with her
boy and Andora, she could still make for herself the semblance of a
life. It was Deering who would have to go; he would understand that as
soon as he saw the letters.
She pictured him in the act of going--leaving the house as he had left
it just now. She saw the gate closing on him for the last time. Now her
vision was acute enough: she saw him as distinctly as if he were in the
room. Ah, he would not like returning to the old life of privations and
expedients! And yet she knew he would not plead with her.
Suddenly a new thought rushed through her mind. What if Andora had
rushed to him with the tale of the discovery of the letters--with the
“Fly, you are discovered!” of romantic fiction? What if he _had_ left
her for good? It would not be unlike him, after all. Under his wonderful
gentleness he was always evasive and inscrutable. He might have said to
himself that he would forestall her action, and place himself at once
on the defensive. It might be that she _had_ seen him go out of the gate
for the last time.
She looked about the room again, as if this thought had given it a new
aspect. Yes, this alone could explain her husband’s going out. It was
past twelve o’clock, their usual luncheon hour, and he was scrupulously
punctual at meals, and gently reproachful if she kept him waiting. Only
some unwonted event could have caused him to leave the house at such
an hour and with such marks of haste. Well, perhaps it was better that
Andora should have spoken. She mistrusted her own courage; she almost
hoped the deed had been done for her. Yet her next sensation was one of
confused resentment. She said to herself, “Why has Andora interfered?”
She felt baffled and angry, as though her prey had escaped her. If
Deering had been in the house, she would have gone to him instantly and
overwhelmed him with her scorn. But he had gone out, and she did not
know where he had gone, and oddly mingled with her anger against him was
the latent instinct of vigilance, the solicitude of the woman accustomed
to watch over the man she loves. It would be strange never to feel that
solicitude again, never to hear him say, with his hand on her hair:
“Why, you foolish child, were you worried? Am I late?”
The sense of his touch was so real that she stiffened herself against
it, flinging back her head as if to throw off his hand. The mere thought
of his caress was hateful; yet she felt it in all her traitorous veins.
Yes, she felt it, but with horror and repugnance. It was something she
wanted to escape from, and the fact of struggling against it was what
made its hold so strong. It was as though her mind were sounding her
body to make sure of its allegiance, spying on it for any secret movement
of revolt.
To escape from the sensation, she rose and went again to the window. No
one was in sight. But presently the gate began to swing back, and her
heart gave a leap--she knew not whether up or down. A moment later the
gate opened slowly to admit a perambulator, propelled by the nurse and
flanked by Juliet and Andora. Lizzie’s eyes rested on the familiar group
as if she had never seen it before, and she stood motionless, instead of
flying down to meet the children.
Suddenly there was a step on the stairs, and she heard Andora’s agitated
knock. She unbolted the door, and was strained to her friend’s emaciated
bosom.
“My darling!” Miss Macy cried. “Remember you have your child--and me!”
Lizzie loosened herself gently. She looked at Andora with a feeling of
estrangement which she could not explain.
“Have you spoken to my husband?” she asked, drawing coldly back.
“Spoken to him? No.” Andora stared at her in genuine wonder.
“Then you haven’t met him since he left me?”
“No, my love. Is he out? I haven’t met him.”
Lizzie sat down with a confused sense of relief, which welled up to her
throat and made speech difficult.
Suddenly light came to Andora. “I understand, dearest. You don’t feel
able to see him yourself. You want me to go to him for you.” She looked
about her, scenting the battle. “You’re right, darling. As soon as he
comes in I’ll go to him. The sooner we get it over the better.”
She followed Lizzie, who without answering her had turned mechanically
back to the window. As they stood there, the gate moved again, and
Deering entered the garden.
“There he is now!” Lizzie felt Andora’s fervent clutch upon her arm.
“Where are the letters? I will go down at once. You allow me to speak
for you? You trust my woman’s heart? Oh, believe me, darling,” Miss Macy
panted, “I shall know just what to say to him!”
“What to say to him?” Lizzie absently repeated.
As her husband advanced up the path she had a sudden trembling vision of
their three years together. Those years were her whole life; everything
before them had been colorless and unconscious, like the blind life of
the plant before it reaches the surface of the soil. They had not been
exactly what she dreamed; but if they had taken away certain illusions,
they had left richer realities in their stead. She understood now that
she had gradually adjusted herself to the new image of her husband as he
was, as he would always be. He was not the hero of her dream, but he was
the man she loved, and who had loved her. For she saw now, in this last
wide flash of pity and initiation, that, as a solid marble may be made
out of worthless scraps of mortar, glass and pebbles, so out of mean
mixed substances may be fashioned a love that will bear the stress of
life.
More urgently, she felt the pressure of Miss Macy’s hand.
“I shall hand him the letters without a word. You may rely, love, on my
sense of dignity. I know everything you’re feeling at this moment!”
Deering had reached the door-step. Lizzie continued to watch him in
silence till he disappeared under the glazed roof of the porch below the
window; then she turned and looked almost compassionately at her friend.
“Oh, poor Andora, you don’t know anything--you don’t know anything at
all!” she said.
THE END
