‘It’s curious,’ he continued, ‘how the memories of childhood come to
the surface in old age. It’s rather the way an ebbing stream discloses
the soft formless ooze that lies beneath it. I can remember now just
how I felt as a youngster, remember all my desires and fears with a
surprising vividness. And I had plenty of fears.’ He paused, nodding
his head. ‘I think I must have been afraid of everything, when I was
young. In that way’--he lifted his eyebrows--‘I’m sure I was different
from you. Of course, I never let any one know I was afraid. I buried
it all deep down, created an image over it--an image of myself as a
valiant, aggressive, reckless youngster. But I knew it was there all
the time, and the very thought of it seemed to give me a savage desire
to show my strength. And yet I couldn’t when it came to the test. I was
afraid to fight. The other boys knew I was and so I never made friends
with boys of my own age. I always went about with the younger boys;
they couldn’t destroy this image I had created; on the contrary, it
seemed to grow larger the more I was with them. I used to bully them
like a regular little cad.
‘You know’--he shook his head--‘what boys are, Judge. Queer little
animals; just as eager to maintain their prestige as any full-grown
man, and just as clever about it, too.’ He leaned back, crossed his
sharp narrow knees. ‘Did that thought ever occur to you?’
‘I can’t say it has,’ Judge Rodenbaugh answered. His eyes searched his
companion’s face with a veiled wavering glance, then fell away. Judge
Avery lifted his hand to his mouth, smoothed his upper lip.
‘I suppose old men, like dead men, should tell no tales.’ His smile
seemed to vanish into a lurking shadow. ‘I must tell you a little
story and then we’ll take up the matters you want to discuss. At
boarding-school--I presume you went to Saint Thomas?’
The judge moved his head.
‘It might have been better if I’d gone there, too. They sent me to
Milford. Well, I wasn’t a great success. I was quick enough in class,
but that didn’t count; for some reason the boys didn’t like me. I
wasn’t good at athletics, I couldn’t play football, and the cold
punishment of the track simply filled me with dread. There was nothing
of that sort that I could do and, naturally, I didn’t become a leader,
and I didn’t want friendship on any other terms. So I put up my image
and looked around for some younger boy to keep it in place.
‘It was little Immanuel Pleasants the last term. I seem to remember him
better than any of the others. He was the son of Agamemnon Pleasants,
the teacher of Latin--a thin, frightened, large-eared man with a
white face and eyes like a Sealyham terrier. Immanuel’s mother was
named Lucilla, and, of course, we always called her Clytemnestra. They
lived in a little house near the main building and were constantly
asking unwilling boys in to tea. Even as youngsters we recognized their
“inferiority complex,” as I believe the psychologists nowadays call
it. Old Aggie--I suppose he was thirty-five--used to call us “young
barbarians” in a timid jocular voice, and give us little half-hearted
pats on the shoulder and look at us with his doubtful evasive eyes. We
thought he wasn’t much of a man, and I daresay he wasn’t; and as for
Clytemnestra we liked her still less; there was something depressing
about her red swollen eyelids and the soft pink of her nose--as if she
were always having a cold. I think even Immanuel, at times, doubted the
worldly value of his parents, and I know some of us used to encourage
him in his attitude of unbelief. It was always easy to encourage
Immanuel on any subject. He was susceptible to every influence about
him; a pathetic, eager little fellow, filled with an unreasoning
desire to please; one of those boys that hang about the older boys
and do things for them and talk about them a little breathlessly. I
thought him quite absurd, with his weasel face and his silly hat and
his big translucent ears. I’ve often wondered’--the judge stared at
the bookcase as if he had forgotten his companion--‘what became of
Immanuel. He was manifestly unfitted for this world. I suppose’--he
looked at Judge Rodenbaugh--‘you knew boys like that at school?’
‘Yes,’ said the judge. He frowned and pulled heavily at his cigar;
behind the dissolving smoke his face seemed to darken with a slow
menacing flush. ‘But I can’t see,’--he paused, then straightened up,
looked at his companion. ‘I can’t see----’
‘There’s no need to,’ interrupted Judge Avery. He lifted his long thin
hand from the table. ‘Don’t try. I’ll be through now, in just a minute.
You must let me finish about Immanuel. I rather like Immanuel! I almost
feel as if I’d invented him for you!’ His smile was hard and bright
with a little curl at the corners. ‘Now what was I going to say? Oh,
yes--I wanted to tell you about our play.
‘Somewhere I’d picked up the story of King Agamemnon and the wily
Ægisthus who killed him and married the faithless Queen Clytemnestra
and, one dull afternoon when Immanuel and Kinsey and little Pollock
were loafing in my room, I conceived the idea of putting the story into
a play. I thought it would be amusing to see Immanuel act the part
of his father, and I explained to him carefully just what sort of a
silly ass Agamemnon was and how Clytemnestra fooled him. I remember I
took particular pleasure in rolling out the word “Agamemnon”; little
Kinsey and Pollock were tremendously pleased and Immanuel stood
there with that foolish, half-frightened, expectant look he always
had when we made fun of his father. But, when it came to acting the
part, he rebelled and, of course, that made me angry and all the more
persistent. I told him he’d have to do it or he couldn’t go about with
me any longer, but even that threat didn’t seem to make any difference;
he only stood there shaking his head, his queer little weasel face very
sharp and pinched, his eyes flickering with a dumb-animal refusal. I
remember it made me quite angry. I felt in some way as if Immanuel were
threatening my prestige, depriving me of a satisfaction to which I was
entitled. And so, to punish him, I began to imitate his father myself.
Little Pollock and Kinsey went into screams on the bed and I rather
expected Immanuel to laugh before I was through: laughing had always
been his final mode of defense. But he didn’t: he only stood there
looking down, his stubby fingers twisting at the absurd pearl buttons
his mother had sewed on his coat. So I went on, getting more and more
savage as I went, it seemed as if his very speechlessness, the fumbling
inarticulate motion of his hands, filled me with rage. I must have gone
on for five minutes or so, when suddenly he hunched up his shoulders
and lifted his arm to his face, and then ran to the door with a queer
little squeak like a bat that’s been hit with a towel. I heard some one
calling after him in the hall and the next minute Danforth came to the
door.
‘“What’s the matter with Pleasants?” he said.
‘I felt startled and rather uncomfortable at Danforth’s sudden
appearance: he was captain of the baseball team, and one of the leaders
of the school. He’d never paid much attention to me. Well, I put my
hands in my pockets and walked over toward him. “Nothing, Danforth,” I
said. “We were horsing Pleasants a little, that’s all. He can’t take a
joke.” I shook my head in a superior manner. “He needs hardening up, I
should say.”
‘“You think so!” Danforth looked at me with perfectly frank disgust.
“I should say you needed it a bit yourself! Lying around all afternoon
with a lot of kids when you ought to be out in the field! Why don’t you
take some one your size?” He waited a minute and then walked away. “You
let Pleasants alone,” he said when he reached the door. “It’s filthy
the way you devil the younger boys. When I get through practice this
afternoon I’ll put on the gloves with you, if you still feel you have
to harden some one up!” He gave me an ugly smile and then disappeared
down the hall.
‘Well, I felt pretty sick. I remember that very clearly, but,
unfortunately, what I don’t remember is that it did me any permanent
good. It was not until long after I was grown that I learned my lesson;
and then, strangely enough, it took old Melchior Van Zandt and a little
lawyer like Kardos to teach me. I don’t suppose you remember Melchior
Van Zandt. He was the leader of the bar in my time; and the kind of man
we’re not likely to see again.’ The judge shook his head. ‘The day of
outstanding personalities has gone, I’m afraid. A high level reduces
the lofty peaks--I believe that’s the explanation given. You can take
it or not, as you like. To me, at times, the plateau doesn’t seem so
high. Of course, that may be only age: the old are apt to see the great
men of their youth through the eyes of their youth--and they loom very
large. However,’--he shrugged his shoulders--‘I must tell you about
Melchior Van Zandt and the lawyer like Kardos.’ He leaned forward a
little, a cold stealthy watchfulness in his eyes. ‘I think I’d been on
the bench just about as long as you have when it happened.’
Judge Rodenbaugh lowered his head, stared at the carpet with an angry
frown. Then he rose, thrust his hands into his pockets, his face turned
away, his chin sunk in a heavy fold between the square points of his
collar. ‘I don’t propose, Judge,’ he began. His grating voice had an
ugly snarl that sounded like the snapping of empty jaws. ‘I don’t
propose to listen to this kind of thing any longer!’ He shut his mouth
and the muscles above his jaws trembled slightly. ‘It’s insulting and
I’m not going to stand it! You have no business’--he stared at the
judge with eyes that seemed curiously futile and stricken--‘you have no
business----’
‘Oh, yes, I have!’ said Judge Avery. ‘Sit down, please.’ He paused.
‘Sit down, I said!’ His voice leaped like a sharp blue flame through
the room. ‘When the vessels of the law become old crockery, there’s
a certain courtesy due them, and that I intend to have from you.’ He
stretched out his hand. ‘Take your seat, please, and listen until I’ve
finished.’
For an instant Judge Rodenbaugh’s stare met his; then it wavered,
seemed to turn sullenly inward. ‘You presume on your age,’ he said, in
a husky voice. He sat down awkwardly. ‘Also, I think you’re presuming
on my intelligence. If you have any more to say, will you kindly be
brief? I don’t care to spend the afternoon listening to stories of
childhood.’
‘_My_ childhood,’ corrected the judge. ‘I wouldn’t presume to intrude
on yours.’ He looked pleasantly across the table. ‘I only presume on
my age, as you said--that, and a certain feeling for what I believe
is called the art of narration. Quite a remarkable art; I admit I
practise it very badly. But that doesn’t matter so long as I hold your
attention. And what old Melchior Van Zandt said to me is worthy of your
attention.
‘I’d been on the bench just about a month when it happened. I was older
than you are, and I’d tried quite a number of cases. But, nevertheless,
I was developing that splendid sense of power you spoke of so feelingly
just a moment ago. There was a little lawyer who came into my court
in those days--he’s dead now--who was rather like Kardos, and he
irritated me the way Kardos irritates you. I remember one morning when
I had a full list, he came bustling into the courtroom with a great
cloud of witnesses behind him and that air of his, of terrible absurd
importance, which, in view of his hopeless incompetence, always annoyed
me intensely. Well, his case was reached that afternoon and when I
called it, he came fussing up to the bar with his greasy frock-coat
buttoned about him and began to splutter at me, the way he always
did. He had a high squeaky voice, and his words seemed to come out
in bunches, as if he blew them out from the back of his mouth. “Mr.
Stover,” I said,--the very sight of him made me angry,--“as far as I
can gather from what you say, you want to butcher another case for us
this afternoon.” Then I looked around and waited for the laugh.
‘Of course it came. It always does when the judge makes a joke. I
grinned down at Stover and he wrinkled his forehead, then gave me a
sallow little smile. “As long as your Honor’s made a shambles out of
the court, I suppose I might as well begin,” he said.’ The judge shook
his head. ‘Pretty good, wasn’t it?’ he laughed. ‘He didn’t leave me
much to say! After Court old Melchior came stumping into my chambers
swinging his big green bag at his side like a Hercules-club. “Avery!”
he grunted. “You deserved what you got this afternoon.” He put his
bag down on the table. “I didn’t think little Stover had it in him.
Remember!” He shook his head at me--he had hair like the mane of an old
gray lion. “The bench is the coward’s castle, my boy. You’re safe, and
the other man isn’t.” Then he picked up his bag and stumped out.’
The judge sighed, smoothed his hair thoughtfully, passed his hand over
his cheek. ‘It all seems so very long ago,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid in
recalling the facts I may have been just a little vague. I only hope
that I haven’t bored you.’ He paused, then settled back in his chair,
touched the tips of his fingers together. ‘And, now, what did you want
to discuss with me?’
‘Nothing,’ Judge Rodenbaugh answered. He rose with a hesitant
awkwardness, his face turned away. ‘I’ve heard that story about the
shambles before. Unfortunately for the truth of your autobiography
it’s never been connected with you.’
‘Indeed?’ said Judge Avery brightly. ‘I must have made it my own then.
It’s not a bad story, though, is it?’
‘No,’ said the judge. He walked to the doorway. ‘Walrath!’ he called.
‘Ask Mr. Kardos to step over, will you?’ He turned sharply about. ‘I’ve
listened to you; now I’ll ask you to wait until Kardos comes and then
listen to me!’
‘Certainly,’ said Judge Avery.