voice. What did he say?" asked the fat man turning towards Busyong and
Islao.
Islao nudged Busyong to get him to come out of the store.
"Come, come, let us go home, lest we hurt with our laughing their
susceptible feelings, especially of that young dandy--pardon me, I mean
doctor," said Islao aside to Busyong when they reached the corner of a
street and turned to the left.
"O Momus, son of Mox!" exclaimed Busyong smiling after a short time,
"how jocund indeed must you be with the people here!"
"Surely, he must be," said Islao.
"By the way, I remember that the tailor--that is, the fat man--seemed
to boast a political party."
"Oh, yes!"
"What is that party?"
"It is called the National Talukap Party. You know, this country is a
democracy in name, but an oligarchy in fact, as the people here say,
for the government is in the hands of only a very few of the native
countrymen; most of the power is in foreign hands. So the _Talukap_
party aims to reverse the condition of things; nay, to have the control
of the government wholly in the hands of the people of this country.
I am warmly in favor of this policy. But what I do find objectionable
in this Talukap party is their affectation and tautology, and their
pretension and empty show in their outward conduct. For my part, I
believe in doing things silently but effectively. On the other hand,
I am not in favor of the other party, which is called the National
Kinagisnan Party, whose policy is to be contented slavishly with the
present condition of things or with whatever condition for the time
being. The people who belong to this Kinagisnan party are very few in
comparison with those that belong to the Talukap party. Being in very
close contact with the sovereign, the Kinagisnan people are very apt to
become flatterers."
"Moreover, the ideal of your Talukap party, I think, becomes less
feasible, if not impossible, when you consider these dandies like those
two chums over there who are clasping one another by the waist. Indeed,
they live in a very peculiar world by themselves."
"And with Momus, I suppose, as their Supreme Being."
"Ha, yes, I should think so, too. But after all they are not to be
blamed. Everything goes step by step. Even my native country in the
planet Earth has had the same defects practically as these people here.
Now I am glad that there in my native land the people, especially
the young men, have reached, by education and the bitter lesson of
experience, of course, a stage where their old views of the world have
become greatly changed, most especially in this respect: now they
hate affectation under any form whatever, whether in dress, manners,
knowledge or in deeds."
"Why, that is a condition to be envied greatly."
By this time the two friends, Busyong and Islao, were standing in front
of the farmer's house. The old man and his wife were awaiting them
in order that all might dine together. The rest of the day glided by
pleasantly.
Next morning Busyong decided to return to the planet Earth, although
the old farmer and his son tried to delay him longer in Jupiter.
He promised to come back to them. While in his large balloon, and
recollecting vividly all the things he had observed in the country he
was leaving, Busyong let his mind run upon the following ancient lines:
"Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!"
Just then he remembered with a start that when he had begun to crank
his balloon he had taken out his sound assorters and laid them on the
edge of the car. He had wanted to hear the familiar noise without
distribution in order to feel that all was safe. And now when he looked
for those precious assorters he could not find them. They must have
fallen overboard. And worst of all, he had neglected to get the whole
explanation from the Jupiterite.
--Manuel Candido.
III. Tale of Scientific Discovery and Mechanical Invention
[Beginning in imaginary voyages]
Tales of scientific discovery and mechanical invention appeal to us
as being extremely modern. Yet the essential elements had a beginning
at least two centuries and a half ago. The quality of the marvelous
is easy enough to trace; and the logicalness hardly less so. We find
both in the imaginary voyages. De Bergerac discovers that he can lift
himself from the earth by the expansion of phials of dew affixed to
his person, and from this experiment he goes on to invent an elastic
machine which bears him to the moon. Klim, too, arrives at his
wonderful adventures by a scientific beginning: he sets out to explore
a rocky orifice in the Weathercock Mountain, and causes himself to be
let down by a rope. The rope snaps, and he is precipitated into an
intra-terrestrial astral system, where he begins immediately to revolve
around a planet Azar, his biscuits which he had attempted to throw
away performing meanwhile an orbit around his own body. He alights,
of course, finally by accident, and goes on with his governmental
experiences.
[Difference one of emphasis]
These learned elements in the imaginary voyages point definitely to
our modern stories. The difference lies in the emphasis: our modern
stories are severely and consistently logical, and interest centers in
the machine or the scientific theory. The reader does not ask to go on
long journeys to see chimeras, but he asks to see ultra-logical man.
He does not encourage the author in being satiric; he wants him to be
inventive, to be more ingenious than the race has been. The reader
wants the author to show him what man would be if he were consistently
progressive and wise, what he would come to if he worked day and night
at his science and applied what he learned,--indeed, what he already
knows. For it is an open secret in the scientific world that there
is hardly a wonderful modern machine that is not an almost foolishly
simple application of a well-known law. Take our marvelous future
trains, for instance, that are to run on one rail and be as wide and
commodious as houses--they are but to follow a principle that every
school-boy sees in operation when he spins a top. I dare say, if some
person would only write a story telling us where to affix the wheel and
the balance, we might convert our present houses into private Pullmans,
as it were, that could at any time transport us, family and all, with
everyone of our personal and familiar conveniences intact therein, to
any spot we chose, the only extra expense to us for each trip being a
slight rent for wheel space for the time that we were running over the
single-rail track that led thitherward.
[Essential elements]
Shading off from the imaginary voyage type, therefore, is this modern
one which I have designated by the somewhat long title, tales of
scientific discovery and mechanical invention. By this title I mean to
distinguish stories in which the occurrences, though startling, are
perfectly logical in sequence, granted the premise--extraordinary, but
not improbable under the conditions set forth. The words discovery
and mechanical express the fact that the sustaining structure of a
story such as these is often some invention superimposed upon modern
science. In the use of electricity, for instance, the characters in the
narrative go one step further than Mr. Edison; in the construction and
operation of the flying-machine, several steps further than the Wright
brothers; in the discovery of elements, someone finds something more
useful and of greater power than radium; or, after long experimenting,
he mixes a paint so black or so white that the object beneath it
becomes invisible; and so on and so on--but all plausible, all with
precise truth-likeness.
[Stories of this type]
Many of our present-day magazine stories are of this type. Of
the earlier modern, the "Diamond Lens" by Fitz-James O'Brien is
interesting. "The Spider's Eye" is still sometimes read. "The Life
Magnet" is well known. A burlesque verse tale of mechanical invention
is "The Wonderful One Hoss Shay" by Oliver Wendell Holmes. The prince
of all ingenious story-tellers, however, is Frank R. Stockton.
To construct a narrative of this class, you must of course first get
your underlying theory. Experiments in the chemical and physical
laboratory will afford many a starting point. They will at least
suggest the realm in which to proceed. Astronomy, meteorology, geology,
mechanics, mineralogy, geometry, optics, domestic science even,--select
a simple problem in any of these and begin to imagine.
[Suggestions on how to write the type]
After you have the starting point, it is a good idea to fix your goal.
Where should you like to go, what should you like to do, what powers
should you like to have above those of your fellows? Do you wish to
overcome the restrictions of distance, absence, darkness, death, birth,
poverty, the past, the future, the present?
With these points of your theory settled, you must then look to the
course of events. Shall the incidents befall you while discovering or
while applying the scientific fact, while constructing or while working
your machine? Shall you be looking forward or shall you be looking back
upon the events? Next you must find the point of greatest stress.
The climax of a story with the first alternative will evidently be
reached at the culmination of the inventor's labors; with the second
alternative, at the most exciting adventure in the use of the machine
or in the direct application of the scientific fact.
The logical close of the story is in both cases the disappearance
of the machine or the scientist; but you will be repaid by thinking
carefully over this matter and being here as elsewhere as ingenious and
original as you can.
Your deductions must appear to be sound. Of course, your reasoning may
have to be largely specious and in the gross, as it were, unless you
are a better inventor than the inventors. But you have this advantage
over the practical man: you can avoid the greater difficulties
by keeping silent about them; and for actual achievement you can
substitute assertion. You must seem on the surface, however, to be
perfectly logical. The reader will not question you too closely, if you
are only spirited and entertaining. But the next is a point that you
must note without fail.
If the reader's interest in any particular part of your narrative will
depend upon an understanding of a bit of mechanism or a scientific
theory, you must be careful to supply the information beforehand.
However trite to a mechanic or a scientist the principle may be, you
must not assume that the casual reader knows it. He probably does not
know it, or if he does, more than likely he has forgotten it. On the
other hand, you must not appear to be self-assertively instructing
him. What you can do is this: you can politely seem to be recalling
something to his memory, and can thus make the point clear, so that
your future use of it will not fall flat.
To add a semblance of reality, it will be permissible to employ a few
technical terms; but these also must be indisputably clear in meaning,
and their use must not be pedantic. You should study, however, to
put into the mouths of your characters the vocabulary that would be
actually used by the kind of people you represent.
Genial humor is a fine asset to a writer of this type of narrative.
If you can be artistically serious and philosophically gay at the
same time you will not fail to please. The relationship of stories of
scientific discovery and mechanical invention to imaginary voyages is
testified to by the reader's expectation of a display of wit. But in
the scientific, ridicule is softened down to genial logic. Although
the aim in this kind of narrative is good construction rather than
character-sketching, yet every neat touch of portraiture that you can
add will help draw your composition away from the mere exercise and
toward the literary production.
If you should choose your theory in the realm of art, you would by that
very choice raise your story above the ordinary--I mean to say, of
course, you would if you knew anything about art. Mr. Alexander Wilson
Drake knows a great deal about art and has given us, besides many
other beautiful surprises in _Saint Nicholas_ and the _Century_, some
narratives embodying exquisite theories of shadow and color.
[Illustration]
=The Curious Vehicle=
Reprinted by permission of the Century Company.
It was midnight in early December. A dense silver mist hid the sleeping
city, the street-lamps gave a faint yellow glimmer through the almost
impenetrable gloom, the air was like the cold breath from the dying,
the fog hanging in great drops on my clothing. Stray policemen had
taken refuge in sheltering doorways, and my own footsteps echoed with
unfamiliar and uncanny sound down the long street--the only sound that
broke the midnight stillness, save the hoarse whistles of wandering and
belated ferryboats on the distant river.
As I emerged from a narrow street into the main thoroughfare, my
shivering attention was attracted to a curious covered vehicle standing
in the bright glare of an electric light. It was neither carriage nor
wagon, but an odd, strongly made affair, painted olive green, with
square windows in the sides, reaching from just above the middle of the
roof, and a smaller window in the back near the top. On each side of
the middle window were two panels of glass. From the middle window only
a dim light shone, like the subdued light from a nurse's lamp. On the
seat in front, underneath a projecting hood, sat a little old black
man wrapped in a buffalo-robe and a great fur coat partly covered with
a rubber cape or mackintosh, and with a fur cap pulled down over his
ears. The horse was heavily blanketed, and also well protected with
rubber covers. Both man and beast waited with unquestioning patience.
Both seemed lost in reverie or sleep.
With chattering teeth I stood, wondering what could be going on in that
queer box-like wagon at that time of night. The silence was oppressive.
There stood the dimly lighted wagon; there stood the horse; there sat
the negro--and I the only observer of this queer vehicle.
I stepped cautiously to the side of the wagon, and listened. Not a
sound from within. Shivering and benumbed, I, too, like the policemen,
took refuge in a doorway, and waited and watched for some sound or sign
from that mysterious interior. I was too fond of adventure to give it
up. It seemed to me that hours passed and I stood unrewarded. Just as
I was reluctantly leaving, much chagrined to find that I had waited
in vain, I saw, thrown against the window for a few moments only, a
curious enlarged shadow of a man's head. It seemed to wear a kind of
tam-o'-shanter, below which was a shade or visor sticking out beyond
the man's face like the gigantic beak of a bird. A mass of wavy hair
and beard showed underneath the cap. Suddenly the shadow disappeared,
much to my disappointment, and although I watched in the fog and
dampness for half an hour longer, it did not again appear.
I wandered home, puzzled and speculating, but determined that I would
wait until morning if I were ever fortunate enough to come across
the vehicle again. Weeks passed before the opportunity occurred, and
even then, had it not been for a very singular incident, I doubt if I
should ever have fathomed the mystery of the curious vehicle.
It was Christmas eve, the night bitterly cold. I had clothed myself
in my thickest ulster. My feet were incased in arctics, my hands in
warm fur gloves, and with rough Scotch cap I felt sure I could brave
the coldest night. Thus equipped, I started out, and when I returned
at midnight in the beginning of a whirling, almost blinding snowstorm,
the Christmas chimes were ringing, and the whole air seemed filled with
Christmas cheer.
Turning a corner, I discovered the vehicle in the same place and
position. This time, as I had before resolved, I would wait until
morning if necessary. So I began pacing up and down the sidewalk in
front of the vehicle, taking strolls of five or ten minutes apart, and
then returning. I walked until I was almost exhausted. In spite of my
heavy ulster I began to feel chilly, so I again took refuge in the
doorway of a building opposite.
Should I give it up, I asked myself, after waiting so long? I stood
debating the question. No, I would wait a little longer; so, puffing
my pipe, I shivered, and watched for developments. At last I was about
determined that I must go or perish, when suddenly I saw through the
blinding snow the shadow of a pair of hands appear at the dimly lighted
window, adjusting a frame or inner sash. You can imagine my interest in
the proceedings.
Just at this moment a street sparrow, numb with the cold, and crowded
from a window-blind by its companions, dropped, half falling, half
flying, to the sidewalk directly in front of the window of the vehicle.
It sat blinking in the bright rays of the electric light, quite
bewildered, turning its little head first one way, then the other. In
the meantime the shadows of the two hands were still visible. The
sparrow, probably attracted by the light and the movement of the hands,
suddenly flew up, not striking the glass, but hovering with a quick
motion of the wings directly in front of the window, its magnified
shadow thrown on it by the rays of the electric light. Then the bird
dropped to the ground. The occupant was evidently much startled by the
large shadow coming so suddenly and at such a time of night. The shadow
of his hands quickly disappeared, and so did the frame. In another
moment the door of the vehicle opened, giving me a glimpse of a cozy
and remarkable interior. It seemed, in contrast with the cold and storm
without, filled with warmth and sunshine. It was like a pictorial
little room rather than the inside of a wagon or carriage. The occupant
looked out in a surprised, excited, and questioning way, as much as to
say, "What could that have been?" His whole manner implied that he had
been disturbed.
This was my opportunity, and, seizing it instantly, I walked boldly to
the door of the vehicle, and said, "It was a little sparrow benumbed
with the cold, that fluttered down to the sidewalk, where it lay for a
moment, until, probably attracted by the light, it hovered for a few
seconds before your window, then fell to the ground again."
I felt the man eying me intently, studying me with a most searching
glance. Was he in doubt as to my sincerity? Was it a hidden bond of
sympathy between us that made him suddenly relent and invite me to
enter his vehicle? What else could have prompted him? For my own part,
I instinctively felt for the man, without knowing why, a deep pity.
"Please step inside," he said; "it is cold."
And so, at last, I was really admitted, invited into the little
interior--that little interior which had piqued my curiosity for so
long a time. Yes, I was admitted at last, and now had a chance to look
about, and to study the general appearance of the occupant as he moved
over for me to sit beside him on the roomy, luxurious seat. What a
curious personality! He was a tall, raw-boned man of strong character.
His soft, gray beard and hair made a marked contrast to the dark
surroundings. Now I understood the shadow which I had seen thrown on
the window for a few seconds. He wore a tam-o'-shanter cap, and beneath
it, to protect his eyes from the lamp-light, a large visor, or shade,
which threw his entire face into deep shadow, giving him the look of
a painting by an old master. He had on a loose coat of some rough
material.
Surely the interior of no conveyance could be more interesting than
this. In the front, just back of the driver, were two square windows
with sliding wooden shutters, and between the two was a little square
mirror. Above these was a rod, from which hung a dark-green cloth
curtain which could be drawn at will. Underneath was a chest, or
cabinet, of shallow drawers filling the entire width of the carriage,
with small brass rings by which to pull them out. On top of this
cabinet stood several clear glass jars half filled with pure water.
There were two or three oil-lamps with large shades hung in brackets
with sockets like steamer-lamps, only one of which was lighted.
Underneath the seat was a locker. On the floor of the conveyance, along
its four sides, were oblong bars of iron, and in the center was a warm
fur rug. One side only of the carriage opened. On the side opposite the
door was a rack reaching from the window to the floor, in which stood
six or eight light but strongly made frames, over which was stretched
the thinnest parchment-like paper. The top of the vehicle was tufted
and padded. The prevailing color was dark green. In shape it was
somewhat longer and broader than the usual carriage. There was a small
revolving circular ventilator in front, over the mirror, which could be
opened or closed at will, and which could also be used by the occupant
for conversing with the driver.
The man arose, and, opening the ventilator, told the coachman to
drive on. Meanwhile I enjoyed the wonderful effect of the little
interior--its rich gloom, the strong light from the shaded lamp which
was thrown over the floor, the bright electric light gleaming through
the falling snow into the window on my left.
The night, being so disagreeable, made the interior seem very bright
and comfortable by contrast, as the man closed the sliding wooden
shutters, separating us entirely from the snowstorm without. There was
an artificial warmth which I could not understand, and with it all a
sense of security and coziness. The stranger's manner was both gentle
and reassuring. We rode in silence over the rough pavement until we
reached the smooth asphalt. Then he began:
"I do not consider myself superstitious, but somehow I don't like
it--that little bird hovering in front of my window. It seems like a
bad omen, and it was a shadow which startled me. My life seems haunted
with shadows, and they always bring misfortune to me."
We were both silent for a time, when he went on: "How curious life is!
Here am I riding with you, a total stranger, long past midnight. You
are the first I have ever admitted into this wagon, with the exception
of my faithful Cato, who is driving. If one could only see from the
beginning how strangely one's life is to be ordered."
The stranger's voice was rich and deep. I hoped he would continue so
that I might get some idea of him and his peculiar mode of life, and
what was going on night after night in this interior. I waited for him
to proceed.
"Have you known trouble or sorrow in your life?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied; "I have lost nearly all who were dear to me in this
round world."
"Then," said he, "I will tell you my story with the hope that it will
be both understood and appreciated. I loved from childhood a charming
girl, sweet and pure. I need not go into the detail of all that
boyish love, but in my early manhood and her early womanhood we were
married--and what a sweet bride she was!
"We lived in an old white farmhouse in a village near the great city--a
beautiful place, a long, low, two-story-and-attic, farmhouse, probably
fifty or sixty years old. How well I can see it--its sloping roof,
the extension, the quaint doorway with side-lights and with a window
over the top, the front porch with graceful shaped newels, the long
piazza running the entire length of the extension, great chimneys at
each end, and enormous pine-trees in front of the house! The house
stood on a little elevation, with terraced bank, and with a pretty
fence inclosing it. Beyond was an old well with lattice-work sides
and door, and a pathway trodden by the foot of former occupants, long
since dead. In front of the house were circular beds of old-time
flowers--sweet-williams, lady's-slippers, larkspur, and foxglove. At
the rear, great banks of tiger-lilies threw their delicate blue shadows
against the white surface of our little home. In one corner of our
garden we had left the weeds to grow luxuriantly, like miniature forest
trees, and found much pleasure in studying their beautiful forms. How
fine they looked in silhouette against the sunset sky! On one side of
the old-fashioned doorway were shrubs and a rose-of-Sharon tree, and on
the other, honeysuckle and syringa-bushes. There were also many kinds
of fruit and shade-trees.
"How happily we walked up and down the shady lanes of that little
village! For us the birds sang sweetly. We took delight in our flowers
and everything about us. In the evening we would enjoy the sunsets,
returning home arm in arm in the afterglow, to sit in the cool of the
evening on the piazza and to listen to the wind as it sighed through
the pines. What music they made for us! We compared it with what poets
of all ages had sung of them, and went to sleep, lulled to rest by the
wind through their soft boughs."
He paused again, evidently thinking of the happy time.
"How can I tell you," he resumed, "of the life that went on in
that simple old farmhouse? Our pleasant wood-fire on the hearth;
a few photographs from the old masters on the walls; our favorite
books of poetry and fiction, which we read together during the long
winter evenings, while the pine-trees sighed outside, and all was so
comfortable and cozy within; or the lovely walks in spring and summer,
through the byways of the pretty little village, with its hedgerows,
blackberries, and wild flowers. How we watched for the first violets,
and what joy the early blossoms gave us! What pleasure we took in those
delightful years, and how smoothly our lives ran on! Each day I went
to the city, and was always cheered by the thought that my sweet wife
would be at the station to meet me. How pure she looked in the summer
evening, clad in her thin white dresses, with a silver fan and brooch,
her dark hair and eyes like those of a startled fawn!
"Well, I need not dwell longer on all this. It was only for a few short
years, when one cruel, cold day, about the happy Christmas-time, she
was taken ill, and grew steadily worse, and all that could be done for
her would not save her. She died. I can see her now--her dark hair
laid back on the pillow, and the peaceful, happy smile on her face.
We buried her beneath the snow, in the old graveyard overlooking the
river, and I went home broken-hearted."
I heard the poor fellow sigh, and for a time he was silent as the
carriage went on through the snow. "What can be the connection of this
queer craft with what he is telling me?" I thought. When he resumed, he
said:
"For months I tried to live on in the little house, but life became
terrible. In the evenings, as I sat by the pleasant log-fire, I would
imagine I heard her footsteps on the stairs, and her voice calling me.
I did my best to conquer my grief, but it was of no use. The light
seemed gone out of my life. At last I could stand it no longer, and I
moved all my worldly possessions to another house in the same village.
I could not bear to think of going away from the place entirely.
"When the springtime came again, and the lovely flowers were in bloom,
and the birds were singing their sweet songs; when the wind breathed
softly through the pine-trees, and she was gone, the sunsets were in
vain, and all nature seemed mourning. After this I busied myself with
all kinds of occupation, but without success. Life became sadder and
sadder, until finally in despair I took a foreign trip. I traveled far
and wide, but always with the same weary despondency and gloom. The
image of my loved one was always with me. Nothing in life satisfied me.
I wandered through country after country, looking at the old masters,
grand churches, listening to cathedral music, but always before me was
the same picture--the old, white farm-house, the great mournful pines,
and with it all the memory of the sweet life now departed, for which
nothing could make amends."
Then he was silent, and as we drove over the soft, snow-covered asphalt
he became absorbed in thought.
"After a year or so of restless travel I drifted back to my own country
and to the little village. Night after night I wandered around the
empty house where we had lived, and through the little garden, and
would stand at midnight listening to the sad sighing of the wind
through the pine-trees, which to me sounded like a requiem for the
dead. Many a moonlight night have I stood gazing into the windows, and
imagined her looking out at me as in the happy days of old, and I would
walk up and down the path thinking, oh, how sadly! of the times we used
to return by it from our evening walks.
"Finally the little village became hateful to me. I could endure it
no longer, and I shook its dust from my feet. With reluctance I moved
away into the heart of the great city, but with the same longing in my
heart--the same despair. I hunted up my two faithful black servants
who had lived with us for several years. I bought a house in the old
part of the city, and there we now live, and I am well cared for by
them. Let me read you portions of a letter from her--one of the last
she wrote," and he took from his pocket a little morocco book with
monogram in silver script letters. He rose and asked the driver to
stop, and, turning the light up, said: "This will give you some idea
of the sweet life, with its love of nature, that went on in and about
that little cottage. The letter was written to me when I was in another
city." He read as follows:
"My dear, I can hardly tell you how lovely the shadows looked as I
strolled around our little house this evening, and was filled with
delight by their beautiful but evasive forms. To begin with, you
remember the exquisite, almost silhouette, shadow of the rose-of-Sharon
bush by the front door. I gave it a long study to-night. Its fine,
decorative character reminded me of a Japanese drawing, only it is far
more delicate and subtle. If this could be painted in soft gray on the
door-posts and around the little side windows, how it would beautify
our plain dwelling, and what a permanent reminder it would be of our
delightful summer days!
"But if I spend too much time on a single shadow, I shall have no room
left to tell you of the greater ones we have enjoyed together.... From
the path near the gate, and looking toward the house, I saw to-night,
and seemed to feel for the first time, the wonderful tenderness of the
great shadow which nearly covers the end and side of our home. How
mysterious our kitchen became, with its shed completely inclosed in
velvety gloom, suggesting both sorrow and tragedy; while the other end
of the house was covered with fantastic forms, soft and ethereal, and
with a delicacy indescribable.... But when the moon came up, and the
soft shadows of the pines were cast on the pure white weather-boards
of our little home,--the shadows of our own pines, the pines we love
so well, and through whose branches we have heard music sweet and
low, soft and sad,--then I thought of you as I studied their masses
tossing so gently, their movement almost imperceptible, and I longed
for you as I studied their moving forms, their richness, variety, and
texture--for you tell me of their artistic beauty--your delicate,
poetic appreciation of their loveliness.... And at last, may the sun
and moon shine brightly and cast beautiful shadows among and over the
tombstones for you and for me, my dear, and may a blessed hope make the
sunset of life glorious for us both."
When he had finished reading, and had asked the driver to drive on, he
became absorbed and silent, and I thought, "How strange to be riding
through the streets of the city after midnight in a whirling snow-storm
with a stranger, in a vehicle so remarkable, listening to such a
pathetic love-story, such a beautiful description of quiet domestic
life." It was a charming idyl.
"You can get an idea from this," he said, "of the delightful, contented
life which went on in the little cottage," and he sat holding the
book in his hands as though he were living it all over again, while
the bright silver script monogram gleamed and glistened on the cover
until he turned down the light, and for a time we drove over the smooth
asphalt in utter silence.
"Do you wonder," he suddenly asked, "that the shadow of that little
bird has caused me uneasiness, and yet do you not see that almost the
last letter she wrote to me was filled with omens, shadows? It is but
natural that I should have some feeling about it--and yet, why should I
care? I have only myself and my two old servants who could be affected
by it, bad or good. For myself, my only desire is to live long enough
to complete my work; then I am both ready and willing to go. I shall
welcome death with delight."
I had become so absorbed in his story that I had forgotten all about my
surroundings; but now as he paused I again asked myself what strange
connection had this sad story, and the letter, and all that he had been
telling me, with the wagon; for I was sure that in some queer way the
story would help to explain it all.
"While in Europe," he went on, "I studied the old masters a great
deal, particularly the halos and nimbuses surrounding the heads of
the saints. I cannot begin to tell you how interesting they became to
me. I was struck with the exquisite workmanship bestowed on many of
them, but fine as they were, they never came up to my idea of what
a halo should be. As my loved one was so pure and gentle, I always
thought of her as a saint (and indeed she is such), and I would become
interested and imagine what kind of halo I would surround her with if
I were painting her--not one of the halos of the old masters seemed
fine enough or ethereal enough for her. I had always been fond of art,
and had been considered a fair amateur artist. One evening after I
had moved to the city, and while riding in a cab (oh, how gloomy!) on
a snowy evening something like this very night, I looked through the
window at an electric light, and there I saw the loveliest halo, in
miniature. Such tints! A heavenly vision! I thought of the old masters,
of the beautiful Siena Madonnas, and with sudden joy I thought: Why
should I not paint the image of her I love? Why should I not clothe
her in Madonna-like robes, with a halo which could come only out of
the nineteenth century? Why should she not have a halo far outshining
and far surpassing in beauty halo ever painted by mortal man?' I
rode nearly the whole night through, evidently to the despair of the
driver, as I repeatedly asked him to stop opposite electric lights and
street-lamps.
"From that day I had a new purpose in life. I had this wagon built just
as you see it. For months I thought of it. Over and over again I drew
my plans before the vehicle was actually constructed. Then I began
my work. Old Cato, who is driving, sits night after night, unmindful
of the cold, wrapped in his great fur coat, and he waits and I work
through the midnight hours to conceive and make real the new Madonna."
What a strange, subtle connection the whole thing had, as he suddenly
tapped on the small window and we stopped directly in front of an
electric light! As he opened the sliding shutter I saw, through the
frosted window and the feathery snow, such a vision of loveliness--a
little halo that could scarcely be described in words. It was like a
miniature circular rainbow, intensified and glorified by the glittering
rays of the penetrating electric light.
"What could be more beautiful than that? Isn't it exquisite?" he asked.
"Did ever painted saint have a halo like that?"
I held my breath, for I had never seen anything so beautiful.
"I have worked at it for a long time. I have not yet accomplished
it, but I hope to. I am coming nearer to it every night in which
I can work. There are not many during the winter; the conditions
of atmosphere and temperature must be just right. On foggy nights,
or when the air is filled with light, flying snow--these are the
nights in which the little halos glow around the electric lights,
street-lamps, and lights in show-windows. Oh," he said, "they fill me
with a happiness and delight I cannot describe, as I try all kinds of
experiments to transfix the beautiful colors of their delicate rays!
"Let me show you," he went on, and he lifted one of the frames which
I have already described, covered with a thin parchment-like paper.
This he carefully buttoned to a groove in the window. On the surface
of the stretched parchment the little halo glowed with its prismatic
tints, and again I held my breath at the beauty of it. I, too, was
becoming a halo-worshiper. Then he lifted from the rack on the side,
and held up to the light, first one and then another of the frames, on
the parchment surface of which he had actually traced lines of color,
against the gloom beyond, radiating lines crossing and re-crossing,
glowing with rainbow tints seen through and against the window.
"Do you know anything of Frankenstein's wonderful Magic Reciprocals,
sometimes called Harmonic Responses?"[4] he asked. "How I longed for
his marvelous power, so that I might experiment with them. But they
were far beyond my skill, and also, perhaps, too scientific and
geometric for my purpose; and so I was forced to discard them and
begin afresh in my own way. I have had reasonable success, although
I have not yet reached the purity of color nor the brilliancy that I
wish. I do not know that mortal man ever can. I have tried all sorts
of experiments--lines of silver crossed with lines of gold; prismatic
threads of silk; and now I have abandoned them all, and am beginning
again, perhaps for the fortieth time. But if I am only able to do it,
nothing can give me greater happiness. I can close my eyes in peace at
last."
After he had shown me his experiments, he removed the little frame from
the window, closed the sliding shutter on the side, and, turning the
circular ventilator, asked the driver to drive on.
"Now for an extended view," he said, and he opened the shutter of one
of the front windows, and then of the other on each side of the mirror.
What a vista of loveliness! A long perspective of glowing halos,
vanishing down the street through the flying snow, until they were mere
specks of light in the distance. The whole atmosphere was filled with
circular rainbows, and again he dwelt on their beauty. They glowed
with ultramarine, with delicate green, with gold and silver, and like
light from burnished copper, and our little vehicle seemed a moving
palace of delight as we drove on through the blinding storm. Turning
into one of the narrower streets, away from the electric lights, we
saw the long line of receding gas-lamps, each with its softly subdued
nimbus, and he said in a low and gentle voice, almost a whisper, "The
street of halos."
When he had closed the shutters again he said, "Let me show you my
cabinet of colors and working tools." He pulled out a shallow drawer,
and there, on small porcelain plaques (the kind used by water-color
painters), side by side, in regular order, was every shade of red,
from the faintest pink to the deepest crimson. He opened the next
drawer, and instead of the red was an arrangement of blues, from
delicate turquoise to deepest ultramarine. In the third drawer was an
arrangement of yellows, running from Naples to deepest cadmium.
"I deal in primary colors," he said, "for what would you paint rainbows
in but red, blue, and yellow?"
Then he opened the fourth drawer, and there, laid with precision, were
long-handled brushes from the finest sable (mere pin-points) up to
thick ones as large as one's finger. There were flat ones and round
ones, short ones and long ones. As he opened the fifth drawer, "For
odds and ends," he said. This was a little deeper than the others, and
in it were sponges fine and coarse, erasers, scrapers, and boxes of
drawing-tacks of various sizes. In the last drawer were soft white rags
and sheets of blotting-paper of assorted sizes.
After he had shown me the contents of the cabinet he said, "I have been
quite disturbed by the shadow of that little bird. Will you join me
in a glass of old sherry?" He opened the locker underneath the seat,
and brought out an odd-shaped bottle, which he unscrewed, handing me a
small, thistle-shaped glass and a tin box containing crackers.
"It is a bad night," he said, "a very bad night. I feel it, even with
the warmth of this interior. Those long bars of iron are filled with
hot water, which usually keeps me very warm."
Then he passed through the ventilator, to the driver, some crackers
and sherry. After he had closed it, and put away the bottle, box, and
glasses, we both mused a long time, the halo-painter completely lost
in reverie, and I thinking of the undying love of such a man--a man
who could love but one, and for whom no other eyes or voice could ever
mean so much. With him love was an all-absorbing passion. He had given
his heart without reserve, and for him no other love could ever bloom
again. I thought of him sitting, night after night, in his solitary
vehicle working at the halo--a new halo which should surround the head
of her he loved. I thought of him in the lonely early morning hours,
working at a nimbus which was far to outshine in beauty and delicacy
any painted or dreamed of by God-fearing saint-painters of old.
He opened the shutters, and the light from the lamp began to grow
dimmer as the early morning light shone faintly through the windows. I
noticed the deep furrows of care and sorrow which marked his strong,
pathetic face, purified by suffering and lighted by divine hope--the
face of one who lived in another world, and for whom all of life was
centered in his ideal--one who was in the world, but not of it.
As he bade me good-by, his face beamed in the early Christmas morning
light with indescribable tenderness; and as the little wagon with its
faithful old black driver disappeared through the snow, I thought again
and again of the beautiful, touching love of the man who would sit
night after night trying to realize his dream of beauty, to clothe in
the garb of a saint the form of her he loved.
--Alexander W. Drake.
=The Spyglass of the Past=
It is possible for a man to have two hobbies. Dr. Aukirt demonstrated
the fact. No one would have thought that the quiet man, who was so
often poring over the Egyptian cases at the British Museum, was an
optician; but then the truth is apt to be unsuspected. He used to say
that it was all a mistake--that he was an explorer pure and simple,
but that he explored the past and the heavens instead of the forest
and rivers. At any rate, an archeologist he was, and a noted one
too, or the British government would not have put him at the head of
the expedition to excavate the ruins of Karnac, that greatest of all
temples.
The men had gone to their camp as usual, but Dr. Aukirt remained
behind. During the day an interesting inscription had been uncovered,
and the moon shone in among the pillars of Karnac before the explorer
thought of leaving the scene of the day's work. As he turned to go,
he noticed a slight movement at his feet, and stopped. A tiny stream
of sand was sliding slowly into a crevice between two stones in the
pavement, and was disappearing beneath him. He seized a pick and at
length was able to dislodge the block. A flight of steps led down
into the darkness. He soon stood at the foot of the stairway with the
wealth of his discovery about him. The light from his pocket lamp was
reflected from the thousands of silver points in the ceiling of _lapis
lazuli_ and from the porphyry pillars with their exquisite capitals
of lotus leaves. Under a frieze of small windows was a divan with the
imprint of a head so plainly visible in the draperies that it seemed as
though the sleeper must have but just arisen, but the fabric crumbled
to dust under the Doctor's hand.
At the other side of the room was a table, evidently a student's desk,
with a litter of writing materials and curious instruments. Across
an unfinished papyrus lay a brass tube with a lens at each end. Dr.
Aukirt picked up the strange telescope and instinctively applied it
to his eye, although he was convinced that he should be unable to see
anything, for the body of the glass was a double curve, like a much
elongated S. But as he pointed the lens toward the divan, a priestly
figure seemed to be sleeping there, and this room brightened, light
streamed in through the windows which had been hidden by the sand of
hundreds of years. The Doctor looked up; everything was dusty and
deserted.
When he reached the open air again, he saw that the sun was rising away
at the rim of the desert; and once more he looked through the new-found
spy-glass. The surface of the Nile that had been so peaceful a moment
ago, was aswarm with boats. Figures of dusky slaves with sad Hebraic
features passed and repassed with their burdens. He turned to the ruin
which he had just left, and beheld a stately temple with the sunbeams
flashing from its carved and polished façade.
The puzzled and astonished archeologist went to his tent with his
treasures, the papyrus and the glass, and for weeks he studied them
that he might learn to use the instrument. Sometimes it seemed to him
as though his search were to be rewarded, but the truth constantly
eluded him, although by a smaller and smaller margin, or so he was
pleased to think. One day he brought his glass once more to the banks
of the Nile near Karnac. Victory seemed very near just now. Carefully
he opened the instrument to its full extent--and saw a savage people
warring with each other on the peaceful river bank. Then came a
stronger tribe, and then a stronger still, until at length he saw
the mighty procession of the Pharaoh coming to inspect the temple of
Karnac. He saw the rise and fall of nations: the slow march of the ages
passed before his vision like the gliding of a dream. The Egyptian
had written truth: "I have made an instrument which will gather up
the scattered and tangled images of the past, and focus them upon the
present."
Appalled at the magnitude of his discovery, Dr. Aukirt stood in
silence, and then the thought came, "Victory is not complete, the
instrument can be so adjusted as to presage the future." He made what
seemed to him the necessary changes; but when he attempted to look
through his glass again, there was no light; the lens was broken.
--Hazel Adelle Orcutt.
=Up a Water-Spout=
I was a poor, hard-working sailor on a fishing smack plying between
Nantucket Island and Cape Cod. My parents before me had been of scanty
means, living from hand to mouth, and I was compelled early in life
to provide for myself. Naturally, I had little education; that is,
education from books; but if traveling possesses half the advantages
attributed to it in that line, I own I must be the best educated man--I
say this with all modesty--on this small globe of ours.
Once a year the captains of the several boats with their respective
crews made a more extended trip down the coast for pickerel. This year
with the usual company of fishing-craft we sailed southward toward the
Bahamas.
Favorable winds hastened our journey until at a point just off Cape
Fear we ran into a dead calm. For four days we never moved. The heat
was scorching. The boards warped and cracked, and not even a flapping
sail indicated the slightest disturbance in the air. All the boats had
dropped anchor within hailing distance of each other, so with the aid
of the dories to carry us around from one ship to another we passed the
time quite agreeably.
On the fifth morning, however, a thick rim of cloud covered the western
horizon and seemed to be moving rapidly toward us. Almost in the center
of this cloud projected a small point of mist. It grew and widened,
then shrank back to half its size, finally running down a long, slender
finger until it reached the water. Instantly foam and spray began to
rise, and we knew that we were in the path of a water-spout. All
anchors had been hoisted and the captains were giving hoarse orders
to put on every inch of sail. But there seemed to be an upper current
that was carrying that water-spout right among us; yet we were still
becalmed and helpless.
As it approached it grew in circumference into a huge column of water,
foaming and swirling in a horrible manner. Every man rushed for the
cabin. We tightly closed the doors and windows. Then--we waited. The
boat gave a sharp twist as we entered the whirling pool, and a great
wave passed over us.
Silently we sat there expecting the boat to be swamped and broken into
bits. But this is far from what really took place; for after the first
shock, we felt the boat to be rising. Trembling and cautious we peeped
out of the window. All the other boats were circling around in the air
near us, and were rising too. We seemed to be surrounded by a hollow
cylinder of water, also rising like ourselves. It seemed impossible,
and yet we were forced to recognize the fact that we were inside the
water-spout, and the suction that was drawing up the water, had picked
our vessel up bodily and was carrying us--where? Where, indeed? Miles
we went. Finally we left behind the column of water which had been
growing thinner and thinner, and we passed swiftly through clouds and
mists. Gradually these cleared away and the earth came into view. For
three months our journey lasted. We wandered here and there over the
earth wherever currents bore us. Luckily, we had an extraordinarily
large supply of provisions on board.
One day we saw a dim speck in the distance and the watch involuntarily
cried out, "A sail." We laughed, but sure enough, within a few hours,
another boat wheeled up along side. We had no way of stopping, so our
communication was short. It was found out that they had met the same
fate as we, and had, like us, probably been reported at home as lost
at sea. They said that if by any chance we should return to earth, we
should tell their friends that they were quite happy, only, were weary
of such constant travel, but must continue it, they supposed, unless
sometime in their course they might come upon another water-spout to
afford them a passage to earth again. And I might add here, if we had
not been thus fortunate, we should still be journeying monotonously
through the heavens.
But the circumstance of all our trip that I felt would interest you
most, is the fact that we saw and talked with Captain Anson. You
remember Captain Anson, the man who set out in an airship to find the
South Pole? Well, he has found it. He declares that it is a veritable
Eden to which man can gain admittance only by passing through a
water-spout, and it seems that his machine was thus transported, being
caught in a spout while crossing an inland lake. Also he wished us to
tell the people at home not to expect his return, for, he declares,
he is supremely happy and has found a place far superior in climate
and beauty to anything yet discovered on the earth. There, he asserts
further, and we know this to be true for we beheld it ourselves, the
problem of supplying energy is not a problem at all; for as a result
of the magnetic force, so strong everywhere there, perpetual motion
machines are used entirely for mechanical purposes. And I might add
here that it was only through this magnetic attraction for the bolts
in our ship that we were able to stop at all. But here we hovered for
several days until a particularly strong current seized the boat and
carried us on. We sped from ocean to ocean, time and time again until
we, too, were almost in despair, of ever seeing the earth again, except
by a bird's-eye view.
But one cloudy day, as we were shipping quietly through the mist, we
all experienced a sensation of falling. The mist began to grow thicker,
and we were again surrounded by curved walls of rising water. We were
filled with a sense of familiarity, for we recognized our water-spout.
Having reached the bottom, with one short dive we were through that
wall of water, and were sailing swiftly across the Atlantic in an
opposite direction from the water-spout, which was fast disappearing
over the horizon. We looked at it with regret; for we realized that
probably never again should we have the opportunity of another such
trip, unless perhaps sometime in our future journeyings we should come
upon its like.
If fortune should never so favor us, then the way to that delightful
land of the South Pole would be closed forever.
But if any of you feel inclined to travel, and see the world in a
large perspective, go to some body of water, and watch for one of
these natural elevators, and if one does happen in your way, be sure
that all the hatches and windows are closed, and then steer straight
for the center of that swirling mass; for this is a pleasant mode of
travel--slow, and doesn't jar.
--Edna Collister.
=IV. The Detective Story and Other Tales of Pure Plot=
[Detective story: Connection with stories of ingenuity]
A few detective stories could be classed with our last preceding type
as well as with this. Those like F. R. Burton's suppressed prize
contribution to a Western newspaper might be put under mechanical
inventions; that is, all that contain, like his, a practicable
theory. The report goes that Mr. Burton and a friend worked together
and produced a story of bank robbers who overcame the time-lock
device. So explicitly was the ingenious method written out that the
editors decided not to publish it, convinced that if they spread the
knowledge abroad no time-lock thereafter would be secure. "The Black
Pearl" by Victorien Sardou, on the other hand, might be called a
scientific-discovery detective tale. It perfectly combines the two
elements--mystery and the astounding action of a nature phenomenon.
Not all detective stories, however, are so dangerous or so interesting
as these. Most, rather, are amusing or merely entertaining; but we
class them in the ingenious group because of the effort at pure plot.
There are many crude attempts at writing detective stories, and
the cheap, ten-cent-novel kind disgusts persons of taste; but the
popularity of the type attests its excellence. When in the hands of
such men as Edgar Allan Poe and A. Conan Doyle, it yields an artistic
short-story. "The Purloined Letter" and the "Adventures of Sherlock
Holmes" are worthy of their fame. "The Murders in the Rue Morgue" and
the "Mystery of Marie Rogêt" are not so pleasant, but are equally
ingenious.
Of course, the author of the ordinary tale of this type has the
advantage over the real detective, since the author first creates the
mystery before solving it. His ingenuity, therefore, will lie revealed
in the construction of the crime which he pretends to be unearthing and
explaining. Evidently, though, his process of mind can be no different
from that of the actual analyzer, who must unravel what to him is a
real mystery. He, too, if he is to succeed, must re-image the whole
train of events, not as points or dots, but as vivid scenes. Thus
only will both workers come at small incidents that are original and
ingenious and essentially pertinent. It happened that Poe, in the story
of Marie Rogêt, was acting the part of a real detective, since he was
reasoning upon an actual mystery, the details of which had baffled
the police. In his imaginary case he reinstalled the crime as he felt
it must have taken place, and, strange to say--or rather not strange
to say, for Poe had the qualities of more than a paper detective--the
facts, by a woman's confessions later, were found to be exactly as Poe
had imagined them, even in minor details.
[Other stories of plot]
But stories that emphasize plot do not wholly lie in the detective's
realm. There is the pure reasoner's great domain of fancy. "The Lady
or the Tiger" illustrates the class completely, even by the whimsical
ending. The man that could make up that situation could have solved it,
or have carried it on interminably, as he laughingly shows you in the
"Discourager of Hesitancy." His "Transferred Ghost" is another quirk,
of "reasonable" fantasy. Poe's "Gold Bug" is almost pure plot and has
the interesting device of the cryptogram in addition. Pushkin's "Snow
Storm" is built upon a queer coincidence.
The story that emphasizes plot is primarily a narrative of a series of
happenings, and only incidentally the record of character or place. The
author has no interest in what kind of men perform the deeds, except
that they shall be the general large types: the soldier and his friend,
the lover and his rival, the magistrate and the citizen, the sovereign
and his subject, the doctor and his patient, and so on. Interest
centers in the question, What will they do next? not, What are they and
what will they become?
[Romance]
In longer prose the story with a plot is the romance, the modern
romance. In it, too, the author is concerned mainly with the course of
events. Take "Ivanhoe" or "The Prisoner of Zenda," for instance, and
what have you?--actors about whom there is no question of character
growth. What they were at the beginning, that they are at the
end--except, perhaps, Rebecca. In romance the happenings are largely
adventure. As they become preposterous the narrative borders on the
mere wonder type.
[A few suggestions]
To write a detective tale or other story of pure plot, you must first
get your plot--as the old fisherman would say about the eel when you
wish to skin it. If you can grasp one and hold it, you are an expert.
The difficulty will be that you will probably find your plot a shadow,
when you hoped for a good solid piece of reasoning. In the detective
tale you must propound your mystery at the beginning of the narrative
and then work backwards to the first step. In the other story, you
must start out with the simplest and seemingly most insignificant
incident and work steadily up to a fantastic or astounding climax. In
the second you naïvely keep adding one to one, as it were, and get a
hundred; in the first, you subtract one after one from your hundred
until you get a unit.
=Thou Art the Man=
I will now play the Œdipus to the Rattleborough enigma. I will expound
to you--as I alone can--the secret of the enginery that effected the
Rattleborough miracle--the one, the true, the admitted, the undisputed,
the indisputable miracle, which put a definite end to infidelity among
the Rattleburghers and converted to the orthodox of the grandames all
the carnal-minded who had ventured to be sceptical before.
This event--which I should be sorry to discuss in a tone of unsuitable
levity--occurred in the summer of 18--. Mr. Barnabas Shuttleworthy--one
of the wealthiest and most respectable citizens of the borough--had
been missing for several days under circumstances which gave rise
to suspicion of foul play. Mr. Shuttleworthy had set out from
Rattleborough very early one Saturday morning, on horseback, with the
avowed intention of proceeding to the city of----, about fifteen miles
distant, and of returning the night of the same day. Two hours after
his departure, however, his horse returned without him, and without the
saddle-bags which had been strapped on his back at starting. The animal
was wounded too, and covered with mud. These circumstances naturally
gave rise to much alarm among the friends of the missing man; and
when it was found, on Sunday morning, that he had not yet made his
appearance, the whole borough arose _en masse_ to go and look for his
body.
The foremost and most energetic in instituting this search was the
bosom friend of Mr. Shuttleworthy--a Mr. Charles Goodfellow, or, as
he was universally called, "Charley Goodfellow," or "Old Charley
Goodfellow." Now, whether it is a marvellous coincidence, or whether
it was that the name itself has an imperceptible effect upon the
character, I have never yet been able to ascertain; but the fact is
unquestionable, that there never yet was any person named Charles who
was not an open, manly, honest, good-natured, and frank-hearted fellow,
with a rich, clear voice, that did you good to hear it, and an eye that
looked you always straight in the face, as much as to say: "I have a
clear conscience myself, am afraid of no man, and am altogether above
doing a mean action." And thus all the hearty, careless, "walking
gentlemen", of the stage are very certain to be called Charles.
Now, "Old Charley Goodfellow," although he had been in Rattleborough
not longer than six months or thereabouts, and although nobody knew
anything about him before he came to settle in the neighborhood, had
experienced no difficulty in the world in making the acquaintance of
all the respectable people in the borough. Not a man of them but would
have taken his bare word for a thousand at any moment; and as for the
women, there is no saying what they would not have done to oblige him.
And all this came of his having been christened Charles, and of his
possessing, in consequence, that ingenuous face which is proverbially
the very "best letter of recommendation."
I have already said that Mr. Shuttleworthy was one of the most
respectable and, undoubtedly, he was the most wealthy man in
Rattleborough, while "Old Charley Goodfellow" was upon as intimate
terms with him as if he had been his own brother. The two old gentlemen
were next-door neighbors, and, although Mr. Shuttleworthy seldom,
if ever, visited "Old Charley," and never was known to take a meal
in his house, still that did not prevent the two friends from being
exceedingly intimate, as I have just observed; for "Old Charley" never
let a day pass without stepping in three or four times to see how his
neighbor came on, and very often he would stay to breakfast or tea, and
always to dinner; and then the amount of wine that was made way with
by the two cronies at a sitting, it would really be a difficult thing
to ascertain. "Old Charley's" favorite beverage was _Chateau Margaux_,
and it appeared to do Mr. Shuttleworthy's heart good to see the old
fellow swallow it, as he did, quart after quart; so that, one day,
when the wine was _in_ and the wit, as a natural consequence, somewhat
_out_, he said to his crony, as he slapped him upon the back: "I tell
you what it is, 'Old Charley,' you are, by all odds, the heartiest old
fellow I ever came across in all my born days; and, since you love to
guzzle the wine at that fashion, I'll be darned if I don't have to make
thee a present of a big box of the Chateau Margaux. Od rot me," (Mr.
Shuttleworthy had a sad habit of swearing, although he seldom went
beyond "Od rot me," or "By gosh," or "By the jolly golly"). "Od rot
me," says he, "if I don't send an order to town this very afternoon
for a double box of the best that can be got, and I'll make ye a
present of it, I will!--ye needn't say a word now--I _will_, I tell ye,
and there's an end of it; so look out for it--it will come to hand some
of these fine days, precisely when ye are looking for it the least!" I
mention this little bit of liberty on the part of Mr. Shuttleworthy,
just by way of showing you how _very_ intimate an understanding existed
between the two friends.
Well, on the Sunday morning in question, when it came to be fairly
understood that Mr. Shuttleworthy had met with foul play, I never
saw any one so profoundly affected as "Old Charley Goodfellow." When
he first heard that the horse had come home without his master, and
without his master's saddle-bags, and all bloody from a pistol-shot,
that had gone clean through and through the poor animal's chest without
quite killing him--when he heard all this, he turned as pale as if the
missing man had been his own dear brother or father, and shivered and
shook all over as if he had had a fit of the ague.
At first he was too much overpowered with grief to be able to do
anything at all, or to decide upon any plan of action; so that for a
long time he endeavored to dissuade Mr. Shuttleworthy's other friends
from making a stir about the matter, thinking it best to wait a
while--say for a week or two, or a month, or two--to see if something
wouldn't turn up, or if Mr. Shuttleworthy wouldn't come in the natural
way, and explain his reasons for sending his horse on before. I dare
say you have often observed this disposition to temporize, or to
procrastinate, in people who are laboring under any very poignant
sorrow. Their powers of mind seem to be rendered torpid, so that they
have a horror of anything like action, and like nothing in the world
so well as to lie quietly in bed and "nurse their grief," as the old
ladies express it--that is to say, ruminate over the trouble.
The people of Rattleborough had, indeed, so high an opinion of the
wisdom and discretion of "Old Charley," that the greater part of
them felt disposed to agree with him, and not make a stir in the
business "until something should turn up," as the honest old gentleman
worded it; and I believe that, after all, this would have been the
general determination, but for the very suspicious interference of
Mr. Shuttleworthy's nephew, a young man of very dissipated habits,
and otherwise of rather bad character. This nephew, whose name was
Pennifeather, would listen to nothing like reason in the matter of
"lying quiet," but insisted upon making immediate search for the
"corpse of the murdered man." This was the expression he employed, and
Mr. Goodfellow acutely remarked at the time, that it was "a _singular_
expression, to say no more." This remark of "Old Charley's" too,
had great effect upon the crowd; and one of the party was heard to
ask, very impressively, "how it happened that young Mr. Pennifeather
was so intimately cognizant of all the circumstances connected with
his wealthy uncle's disappearance, as to feel authorized to assert,
distinctly and unequivocally, that his uncle _was_ 'a murdered man.'"
Hereupon some little squibbling and bickering occurred among the
various members of the crowd, and especially between "Old Charley"
and Mr. Pennifeather--although this latter occurrence was, indeed,
by no means a novelty, for little good-will had subsisted between
the parties for the last three or four months; and matters had been
gone so far that Mr. Pennifeather had actually knocked down his
uncle's friend for some alleged excess of liberty that the latter had
taken in the uncle's house, of which the nephew was an inmate. Upon
this occasion "Old Charley" is said to have behaved with exemplary
moderation and Christian charity. He arose from the blow, adjusted his
clothes, and made no attempt at retaliation at all--merely muttered
a few words about "taking summary vengeance at the first convenient
opportunity,"--a natural and very justifiable ebullition of anger,
which meant nothing, however; and, beyond doubt, was no sooner given
vent to than forgotten.
However these matters may be (which have no reference to the point
now at issue), it is quite certain that the people of Rattleborough,
principally through the persuasion of Mr. Pennifeather, came at length
to the determination of dispersion over the adjacent country in search
of the missing Mr. Shuttleworthy. I say they came to this determination
in the first instance. After it had been fully resolved that a search
should be made, it was considered almost a matter of course that the
seekers should disperse--that is to say, distribute themselves in
parties--for the more thorough examination of the region round about.
I forgot, however, by what ingenious train of reasoning it was that
"Old Charley" finally convinced the assembly that this was the most
injudicious plan that could be pursued. Convince them, however, he
did--all except Mr. Pennifeather; and, in the end, it was arranged that
a search should be instituted, carefully and very thoroughly, by the
burghers _en masse_, "Old Charley" himself leading the way.
As for the matter of that, there could have been no better pioneer
than "Old Charley," whom everybody knew to have the eye of a lynx;
but, although he led them into all manner of out-of-the-way holes and
corners, by routes that nobody had ever suspected of existing in the
neighborhood, and although the search was incessantly kept up day and
night for nearly a week, still no trace of Mr. Shuttleworthy could be
discovered. When I say no trace, however, I must not be understood
to speak literally; for trace, to some extent, there certainly was.
The poor gentleman had been tracked, by his horse's shoes (which were
peculiar), to a spot about three miles to the east of the borough,
on the main road leading to the city. Here the track made off into a
bypath through a piece of woodland--the path coming out again into the
main road, and cutting off about half a mile of the regular distance.
Following the shoemarks down this lane, the party came at length to
a pool of stagnant water, half hidden by the brambles, to the right
of the lane, and opposite this pool all vestige of the track was
lost sight of. It appeared, however, that a struggle of some nature
had here taken place, and it seemed as if some large and heavy body,
much larger and heavier than a man, had been drawn from the bypath to
the pool. This latter was carefully dragged twice, but nothing was
found; and the party were upon the point of going away, in despair
of coming to any result, when Providence suggested to Mr. Goodfellow
the expediency of draining the water off altogether. This project was
received with cheers, and many high compliments to "Old Charley" upon
his sagacity and consideration. As many of the burghers had brought
spades with them, supposing that they might possibly be called upon
to disinter a corpse, the drain was easily and speedily effected; and
no sooner was the bottom visible, than right in the middle of the mud
that remained was discovered a black silk velvet waistcoat, which
nearly every one present immediately recognized as the property of Mr.
Pennifeather. This waistcoat was much torn and stained with blood,
and there were several persons among the party who had a distinct
remembrance of its having been worn by its owner on the very morning of
Mr. Shuttleworthy's departure for the city; while there were others,
again, ready to testify upon oath, if required, that Mr. P. did not
wear the garment in question at any period during the remainder of
that memorable day; nor could any one be found to say that he had
seen it upon Mr. P.'s person at any period at all subsequent to Mr.
Shuttleworthy's disappearance.
Matters now wore a very serious aspect for Mr. Pennifeather, and it
was observed, as an indubitable confirmation of the suspicions which
were excited against him, that he grew exceedingly pale, and when asked
what he had to say for himself, was utterly incapable of saying a word.
Hereupon, the few friends his riotous mode of living had left him
deserted him at once to a man, and were even more clamorous than his
ancient and avowed enemies for his instantaneous arrest. But, on the
other hand, the magnanimity of Mr. Goodfellow shone forth with only the
more brilliant lustre through contrast. He made a warm and intensely
eloquent defense of Mr. Pennifeather, in which he alluded more than
once to his own sincere forgiveness of that wild young gentleman--"the
heir of the worthy Mr. Shuttleworthy"--for the insult which he (the
young gentleman) had, no doubt in the heat of passion, thought proper
to put upon him (Mr. Goodfellow). "He forgave him for it," he said,
"from the very bottom of his heart; and for himself (Mr. Goodfellow),
so far from pushing the suspicious circumstances to extremity, which he
was sorry to say, really had arisen against Mr. Pennifeather, he (Mr.
Goodfellow) would make every exertion in his power, would employ all
the little eloquence in his possession to--to--to--soften down, as much
as he could conscientiously do so, the worst features of this really
exceedingly perplexing piece of business."
Mr. Goodfellow went on for some half hour longer in this strain,
very much to the credit both of his head and of his heart; but your
warm-hearted people are seldom opposite in their observations--they run
into all sorts of blunders, _contre-temps_ and _mal-apropos-isms_, in
the hot-headedness of their zeal to serve a friend--thus, often with
the kindest intentions in the world, doing infinitely more to prejudice
his cause than to advance it.
So, in the present instance, it turned out with all the eloquence of
"Old Charley"; for, although he labored earnestly in behalf of the
suspected, yet it so happened, somehow or other that every syllable he
uttered of which the direct but unfitting tendency was not to exalt
the speaker in the good opinion of his audience, had the effect of
deepening the suspicion already attached to the individual whose cause
he pled, and of arousing against him the fury of the mob.
One of the most unaccountable errors committed by the orator was his
allusion to the suspected as "the heir of the worthy old gentleman, Mr.
Shuttleworthy." The people had really never thought of this before?
They had only remembered certain threats of disinheritance uttered
a year or two previously by the uncle (who had no living relative
except the nephew), and they had, therefore, always looked upon this
disinheritance as a matter that was settled--so single-minded a race
of beings were the Rattleburghers; but the remark of "Old Charley"
brought them at once to a consideration of this point, and thus gave
them to see the possibility of the threats having been nothing more
than a threat. And straightway hereupon, arose the natural question
of _cui bono?_--a question; that tended even more than the waistcoat
to fasten the terrible crime upon the young man. And here, lest I
may be misunderstood, permit me to digress for one moment merely to
observe that the exceedingly brief and simple Latin phrase which I
have employed, is invariably mistranslated and misconceived. "_Cui
bono_" in all the crack novels and elsewhere--in those of Mrs. Gore,
for example (the author of "Cecil"), a lady who quotes all tongues from
the Chaldaean to Chickasaw, and is helped to her learning, "as needed,"
upon a systematic plan, by Mr. Beckford--in all the crack novels,
I say, from those of Bulwer and Dickens to those of Turnapenny and
Ainsworth, the two little Latin words _cui bono_ are rendered "to what
purpose?" or (as if _quo bono_), "to what good?" Their true meaning,
nevertheless, is "for whose advantage." _Cui_, to whom; _bono_, is it
for a benefit. It is a purely legal phrase, and applicable precisely in
cases such as we have under consideration, where probability of the
doer of a deed hinges upon the probability of the benefit accruing to
this individual or to that from the deed's accomplishment. Now in the
present instance, the question _cui bono?_ very pointedly implicated
Mr. Pennifeather. His uncle had threatened him, after making a will in
his favor, with disinheritance. But the threat had not been actually
kept; the original will, it appeared, had not been altered. Had it
been altered, the only supposable motive for murder on the part of the
suspected would have been the ordinary one of revenge; and even this
would have been counteracted by the hope of reinstation into the good
graces of the uncle. But the will being unaltered, while the threat
to alter remained suspended over the nephew's head, there appears at
once the very strongest possible inducement for the atrocity; and so
concluded very sagaciously, the worthy citizens of the borough of
Rattle.
Mr. Pennifeather was, accordingly, arrested upon the spot, and the
crowd, after some further search, proceeded homeward, having him in
custody. On the route, however, another circumstance occurred tending
to confirm the suspicion entertained. Mr. Goodfellow, whose zeal led
him to be always a little in advance of the party, was seen suddenly
to run forward a few paces, stoop, and then apparently to pick up
some small object from the grass. Having quickly examined it, he
was observed too, to make a sort of attempt at concealing it in his
coat pocket; but this action was noticed, as I say, and consequently
prevented, when the object picked up was found to be a Spanish
knife which a dozen persons at once recognized as belonging to Mr.
Pennifeather. Moreover, his initials were engraved upon the handle.
The blade of this knife was open and bloody.
No doubt now remained of the guilt of the nephew, and immediately upon
reaching Rattleborough he was taken before a magistrate for examination.
Here matters again took a most unfavorable turn. The prisoner, being
questioned as to his whereabouts on the morning of Mr. Shuttleworthy's
disappearance, had absolutely the audacity to acknowledge that on that
very morning he had been out with his rifle deer-stalking, in the
immediate neighborhood of the pool where the bloodstained waistcoat had
been discovered through the sagacity of Mr. Goodfellow.
This latter now came forward, and, with tears in his eyes, asked
permission to be examined. He said that a stern sense of the duty he
owed his Maker, not less than his fellow-men, would permit him no
longer to remain silent. Hitherto, the sincerest affection for the
young man (notwithstanding the latter's ill-treatment of himself,
Mr. Goodfellow), had induced him to make every hypothesis which
imagination could suggest, by way of endeavoring to account for what
appeared suspicious in the circumstances that told so seriously against
Mr. Pennifeather; but these circumstances were now altogether too
convincing--too damning; he would hesitate no longer--he would tell all
he knew, although his heart (Mr. Goodfellow's), should absolutely burst
asunder in the effort. He then went on to state that on the afternoon
of the day previous to Mr. Shuttleworthy's departure for the city, that
worthy old gentleman had mentioned to his nephew, in his hearing (Mr.
Goodfellow's), that his object in going to town on the morrow was to
make a deposit of an unusually large sum of money in the "Farmers' and
Merchants' Bank," and that, then and there, the said Mr. Shuttleworthy
had distinctly avowed to the said nephew his irrevocable determination
of rescinding the will originally made, and of cutting him off with
a shilling. He (the witness) now solemnly called upon the accused to
state whether what he (the witness) had just stated was or was not the
truth in every substantial particular. Much to the astonishment of
every one present, Mr. Pennifeather frankly admitted that it was.
The magistrate now considered it his duty to send a couple of
constables to search the chamber of the accused in the house of his
uncle. From this search they almost immediately returned with the
well-known steel-bound, russet leather pocket-book which the old
gentleman had been in the habit of carrying for years. Its valuable
contents, however, had been abstracted, and the magistrate in vain
endeavored to extort from the prisoner the use which had been made of
them, or the place of their concealment. Indeed, he obstinately denied
all knowledge of the matter. The constables also discovered, between
the bed and sacking of the unhappy man, a shirt and neck-handkerchief
both marked with the initials of his name, and both hideously besmeared
with the blood of the victim.
At this juncture, it was announced that the horse of the murdered man
had just expired in the stable from the effects of the wound he had
received, and it was proposed by Mr. Goodfellow that a _post-mortem_
examination of the beast should be immediately made, with the view, if
possible, of discovering the ball. This was accordingly done; and,
as if to demonstrate beyond a question the guilt of the accused, Mr.
Goodfellow, after considerable searching in the cavity of the chest,
was enabled to detect and to pull forth a bullet of very extraordinary
size which, upon trial, was found to be exactly adapted to the bore of
Mr. Pennifeather's rifle, while it was far too large for that of any
other person in the borough or its vicinity. To render the matter even
surer yet, however, this bullet was discovered to have a flaw or seam
at a right angles to the usual suture, and upon examination, this seam
corresponded precisely with an accidental ridge or elevation in a pair
of moulds acknowledged by the accused himself to be his own property.
Upon finding of this bullet, the examining magistrate refused to listen
to any further testimony, and immediately committed the prisoner for
trial--declining resolutely to take any bail in the case, although
against this severity Mr. Goodfellow very warmly remonstrated, and
offered to become surety in whatever amount might be required. This
generosity on the part of "Old Charley" was only in accordance with the
whole tenor of his amiable and chivalrous conduct during the entire
period of his sojourn in the borough of Rattle. In the present instance
the worthy man was so entirely carried away by the excessive warmth of
his sympathy, that he seemed to have quite forgotten, when he offered
to go bail for his young friend, that he himself (Mr. Goodfellow) did
not possess a single dollar's worth of property upon the face of the
earth.
The result of the committal may be readily foreseen. Mr. Pennifeather,
amid the loud execrations of all Rattleborough, was brought to trial at
the next criminal sessions, when the chain of circumstantial evidence
(strengthened as it was by some additional damning facts, which Mr.
Goodfellow's sensitive conscientiousness forbade him to withhold from
the court), was considered so unbroken and so thoroughly conclusive,
that the jury, without leaving their seats, returned an immediate
verdict of "_Guilty of murder in the first degree_." Soon afterward
the unhappy wretch received sentence of death, and was remanded to the
county jail to await the inexorable vengeance of the law.
In the meantime, the noble behavior of "Old Charley Goodfellow"
had doubly endeared him to the honest citizens of the borough. He
became ten times a greater favorite than ever; and, as a natural
result of the hospitality with which he was treated, he relaxed,
as it were, perforce, the extremely parsimonious habits which his
poverty had hitherto impelled him to observe, and very frequently
had little _réunions_ at his own house, when wit and jollity reigned
supreme--dampened a little, of course, by the occasional remembrance of
the untoward and melancholy fate which impended over the nephew of the
late lamented bosom friend of the generous host.
One fine day, this magnanimous old gentleman was agreeably surprised at
the receipt of the following letter:
Charles Goodfellow, Esq., Rattleborough.
From H., F., B. & Co.
Chat. Mar. A.--No. 1--6 doz. bottles. (½ gross.)
"Charles Goodfellow, Esquire:
"Dear Sir--In conformity with an order transmitted to our firm
about two months since, by our esteemed correspondent, Mr.
Barnabas Shuttleworthy, we have the honor of forwarding this
morning, to your address, a double box of Chateau-Margaux, of the
antelope brand, violet seal. Box numbered and marked as per margin.
"We remain, sir,
"Your most ob'nt ser'ts,
"Hoggs, Frogs, Bogs & Co."
"City of----,
June 21, 18--.
"P. S.--The box will reach you by wagon, on the day after your
receipt of this letter. Our respects to Mr. Shuttleworthy.
"H., F., B. & Co."
The fact is, that Mr. Goodfellow had, since the death of Mr.
Shuttleworthy, given over all expectation of ever receiving the
promised Chateau-Margaux; and he, therefore, looked upon it now as
a sort of especial dispensation of Providence in his behalf. He was
highly delighted, of course, and in the exuberance of his joy, invited
a large party of friends to a _petit souper_ on the morrow, for the
purpose of broaching the good old Shuttleworthy's present. Not that he
said anything about "the good old Mr. Shuttleworthy" when he issued the
invitations. The fact is, he thought much and concluded to say nothing
at all. He did not mention to any one--if I remember aright--that he
had received a present of Chateau-Margaux. He merely asked his friends
to come and help him drink some of a remarkably fine quality and rich
flavor that he had ordered up from the city a couple of months ago,
and of which he would be in the receipt upon the morrow. I have often
puzzled myself to imagine _why_ it was that "Old Charley" came to
the conclusion to say nothing about having received the wine from his
old friend, but I could never precisely understand his reason for the
silence, although he had _some_ excellent and very magnanimous reason,
no doubt.
The morrow at length arrived, and with it a very large and highly
respectable company at Mr. Goodfellow's house. Indeed, half the borough
was there--I myself among the number--but, much to the vexation of the
host, the Chateau-Margaux did not arrive until a late hour, and when
the sumptuous supper supplied by "Old Charley" had been done very ample
justice by the guests. It came at length, however--a monstrously big
box of it there was, too--and as the whole party were in excessively
good humor, it was decided, _nem. con._, that it should be lifted upon
the table and its contents disembowelled forthwith.
No sooner said than done. I lent a helping hand; and, in a trice,
we had the box upon the table, in the midst of all the bottles and
glasses, not a few of which were demolished in the scuffle. "Old
Charley," who was pretty much intoxicated, and excessively red in the
face, now took a seat, with an air of mock dignity, at the head of the
board, and thumped furiously upon it with a decanter, calling upon
the company to keep order "during the ceremony of disinterring the
treasure."
After some vociferation, quiet was at length fully restored, and, as
very often happens in similar cases, a profound and remarkable silence
ensued. Being then requested to force open the lid, I complied, of
course, "with an infinite deal of pleasure." I inserted a chisel, and
giving it a few slight taps with a hammer, the top of the box flew
suddenly off, and, at the same instant, there sprang up into a sitting
position, directly facing the host, the bruised, bloody, and nearly
putrid corpse of the murdered Mr. Shuttleworthy himself. It gazed for a
few seconds, fixedly and sorrowfully, with its decaying and lack-lustre
eyes, full into the countenance of Mr. Goodfellow; uttered slowly,
but clearly and impressively, the words, "Thou art the man!" and
then, falling over the side of the chest as if thoroughly satisfied,
stretched out its limbs quivering upon the table.
The scene that ensued is altogether beyond description. The rush for
the doors and windows was terrific, and many of the most robust men
in the room fainted outright through sheer horror. But after the
first wild, shrieking burst of affright, all eyes were directed to
Mr. Goodfellow. If I live a thousand years, I can never forget the
more than mortal agony which was depicted in that ghastly face of his,
so lately rubicund with triumph and wine. For several minutes he sat
rigidly as a statue of marble; his eyes seeming, in the intense vacancy
of their gaze, to be turned inward and absorbed in the contemplation of
his own miserable, murderous soul. At length their expression appeared
to flash suddenly out into the external world, when, with a quick
leap, he sprang from his chair, and falling heavily with his head and
shoulders upon the table, and in contact with the corpse, poured out
rapidly and vehemently a detailed confession of the hideous crime for
which Mr. Pennifeather was then imprisoned and doomed to die.
What he recounted was in substance this: He followed his victim to the
vicinity of the pool; there shot his horse with a pistol; despatched
its rider with the butt end; possessed himself of the pocket-book;
and, supposing the horse dead, dragged it with great labor to the
brambles by the pond. Upon his own beast he slung the corpse of Mr.
Shuttleworthy, and thus bore it to a secure place of concealment a long
distance off through the woods.
The waistcoat, the knife, the pocket-book, and bullet had been placed
by himself where found, with the view of avenging himself upon Mr.
Pennifeather. He had also contrived the discovery of the stained
handkerchief and shirt.
Toward the end of the blood-chilling recital the words of the guilty
wretch faltered and grew hollow. When the record was finally exhausted,
he arose, staggered backward from the table, and fell--_dead_.
* * * * *
The means by which this happily-timed confession was extorted, although
efficient, were simple indeed. Mr. Goodfellow's excess of frankness had
disgusted me, and excited my suspicions from the first. I was present
when Mr. Pennifeather had struck him, and the fiendish expression which
then arose upon his countenance, although momentary, assured me that
his threat of vengeance would, if possible, be rigidly fulfilled. I
was thus prepared to view the _maneuvering_ of "Old Charley" in a very
different light from that in which it was regarded by the good citizens
of Rattleborough. I saw at once that all the criminating discoveries
arose, either directly or indirectly, from himself. But the fact which
clearly opened my eyes to the true state of the case, was the affair
of the bullet, found by Mr. G. in the carcass of the horse. I had not
forgotten, although the Rattleburghers had, that there was a hole
where the ball had entered the horse, and another where it went out.
If it were found in the animal then, after having made its exit, I saw
clearly that it must have been deposited by the person who found it.
The bloody shirt and handkerchief confirmed the idea suggested by the
bullet; for the blood on examination proved to be capital claret, and
no more. When I came to think of these things, and also of the late
increase of liberality and expenditure an the part of Mr. Goodfellow, I
entertained a suspicion which was none the less strong because I kept
it altogether to myself.
In the meantime, I instituted a rigorous private search for the corpse
of Mr. Shuttleworthy, and, for good reasons, searched in quarters as
divergent as possible from those to which Mr. Goodfellow conducted his
party. The result was that, after some days, I came across an old dry
well, the mouth of which was nearly hidden by brambles; and here, at
the bottom, I discovered what I sought.
Now, it so happened that I had overheard the colloquy between the two
cronies, when Mr. Goodfellow had contrived to cajole his host into the
promise of a box of Chateau-Margaux. Upon this hint I acted. I procured
a stiff piece of whalebone, thrust it down the throat of the corpse;
and deposited the latter in an old wine box--taking care so to double
the body up as to double the whalebone with it. In this manner I had
to press forcibly upon the lid to keep it down while I secured it with
nails; and I anticipated, of course, that as soon as these latter were
removed, the top would fly off and the body up.
Having thus arranged the box, I marked, numbered and addressed it
as already told; and then writing a letter in the name of the wine
merchants with whom Mr. Shuttleworthy dealt, I gave instructions to my
servant to wheel the box to Mr. Goodfellow's door, in a barrow, at a
given signal from myself. For the words which I intended the corpse to
speak I confidently depended upon my ventriloquial abilities; for their
effect, I counted upon the conscience of the murderous wretch.
I believe there is nothing more to be explained. Mr. Pennifeather was
released upon the spot, inherited the fortune of his uncle, profited by
the lessons of experience, turned over a new leaf, and led happily ever
afterward a new life.
--Edgar Allan Poe.
=The Picture of Lhasa=
"Jim, Jim, come here quick! She's in sight! Oh, hustle!"
"Well, she'll stay where she is until I get there, won't she?" came a
drawl from a little lower down on the precipitous path, as the speaker,
in spite of his indifferent words, made strenuous efforts to join his
companion on the rocky ledge with as little delay as possible. Behind
him, scarcely visible, lay the trail winding about along the sides of
the lofty mountains which have for so long been keeping this little
corner of the earth from the knowledge of Western nations, while, far
beneath him, rolled a little stream, the Kyi-chu, which dashed against
the rocks as though it were impatient to be out in a broader world.
"I'm glad she's in sight, Chad," Jim continued, when he had gained the
shelf of rock on which his companion stood, "but what is she, anyhow?
I don't believe you said," and he laughed, with his eyes fastened upon
the flash of reflected sunlight, his first sight of Lhasa and her
wonderful Buddhist Cathedral.
"Is the camera all right?" Chad's voice was anxious. "It would be a
pity to come so far and then have the plates no good."
"What's wrong with you, Chad? You don't intend to take a picture of a
place ten miles away, do you?"
"Of course not, you idiot, but I wish that you had kept the camera
yourself, instead of leaving it with John's load. I don't like the look
of his yellow cap just now."
"You're too suspicious, Chad. John's a good fellow; aren't you
Chinkey?" Jim called out as an evil-looking Chinaman came around a bend
in the trail.
The Chinaman's only response was a look of utter ignorance, at which
Jim laughed again, and said, "Just one look at the man ought to
convince you that he is too dull to frighten a Yankee. Besides, he
doesn't understand English, and can't possibly know that we are here to
get the picture of Lhasa, and that of the Grand Lama, too, if we can."
Had either of the men been looking, he might have seen the cunning in
the one black eye of the servant; but the expression passed unnoticed.
"Another day and we'll be near enough to begin on the pictures. I'll
be glad to start home, too. It has been a hard trip. I don't see why
Milligan couldn't have taken the pictures for his book himself,
instead of sending us off here for them."
"Jim, my boy, where's your regard for your daily bread--and the butter
therefor? Where should you be if you hadn't had this chance?"
"Well," Jim returned quickly, "I shouldn't have been ruining my
constitution in this infernal climate, at any rate."
Chad looked him over with profound gravity. "Well, Jim, I'm glad you
are telling me that you are cut out for an early grave; I should never
have believed it if you hadn't said so yourself."
"Wouldn't there be a rumpus if the Lamas knew about this trip of ours?"
Chad resumed as though fascinated with the idea. "I can see ourselves
calling each other lucky because we only got kicked over this precipice
here."
"You can occupy yourself with such thoughts if you want to," exclaimed
Jim; "but I'm going to hustle up that John Chinaman. It seems to me
he's pretty slow this evening, and I'm hungry."
"If your constitution is spoiled?" laughed Chad. "Well, good luck; call
me when you're ready," and the young reporter threw himself down upon
the rocks and looked off toward Lhasa. In a few minutes he heard Jim's
voice raised in alarm. "John! John! Oh, John-n!" As Chad sprang up and
started along the path, he met Jim coming back.
"Say, Chad, that rascal of a chink has vanished completely with a good
half of the supplies, and if you say, 'I told you so,' I'll light out
too!"
"Is the camera safe?" was Chad's instant response.
"Why, I guess so; the box is anyhow--I didn't look inside."
"Well, I guess we'll get along then. I ought to be able to cook well
enough to suit a man of your enfeebled condition," and Chad looked at
Jim's broad shoulders in some amusement in spite of the seriousness of
the situation.
"Really, Chad, is it safe to go on? Do you think we ought to risk it?"
"Risk it! Are we going to take three months for preparation, and then
come four thousand miles on a trip of this sort, only to give it up in
sight of the end, because a rogue runs off? Well, I guess not."
"All right," Jim returned laconically, "I just wanted to know how you
felt about it."
Some three hours later the two men were wrapped up in their furs ready
for the night. "Say, Chad," said Jim, as he lay watching the stars in
the clear sky, "what makes a Chinaman so afraid of a camera? I am quite
certain that you never told me."
"I believe that they think a man's soul is killed when his picture is
taken," said Chad sleepily. "'Buddha doesn't like it' is quite reason
enough for most of 'em." The last sentence was half lost in a snore,
and the Grand Lama was photographed a dozen times in Jim's dreams.
The next morning the two men set out again with the one donkey and
its load which the Chinaman left to them, and, after a few hours'
hard travel, they came to the mountain spur just above the capital of
Tibet. The city was well within range, and a few minutes after they had
arrived the camera was set up, and Chad was finding the focus. While
they were both occupied busily, a group of yellow-clad figures was
approaching from a lamasery that was half-hidden on the mountainside.
The leader of the band, a one-eyed Chinaman with an almost idiotic
expression, was evidently greatly respected by his followers; for the
party did not change its position without his direction. Slowly and
with the utmost caution they approached the unconscious workers and
surrounded them; then with a yell the mob of Buddhist priests was about
the camera. In another instant it was rattling down the mountainside,
Chad and Jim were firmly bound, and the march back had begun.
The few rays of sunlight that found entrance into the Buddhist lamasery
served only to reveal the filthiness of the place; but not even the
disgusting sights and odors could suppress the strangers' curiosity. In
the first room was an immense statue of Buddha with a large cylinder in
front of it. "A prayer wheel," whispered Chad. Jim nodded.
Suddenly Chad's eyes flashed with an inspiration. Turning to the leader
he exclaimed, "You speak English _now_, don't you?"
The man bowed gravely, courteously. The honorable strangers' honorable
conversation was greatly edifying, he murmured.
"Well, then," Chad continued, "Will you tell me why we are detained
here?"
"The insignificant custom of the Tibetans is to resent having their
souls destroyed." The voice was calm and matter-of-fact, but the words
were terrible to the two men looking into the circle of hostile faces
which showed so clearly their superstition and ignorance.
"You know, John, or Your Highness, if that suits your present position
better," the Chinaman's face remained impassive, "you know how
carefully we guarded the black box. Did you know that it was not an
ordinary instrument, but the home of a spirit more powerful than even
your Buddha there? The photographic spirit is the child of the Fire
God, and the Fire God protects all who guard his children. See, here is
a part of the Spirit's house," and Chad pulled an extra lens from his
pocket. "With this I can attract the god's attention, and he will do
my bidding." He placed the glass in the sunlight and the robe of the
nearest Lama began to smolder. The priests started back in great alarm,
but Chad continued with only a sufficient number of pauses for the
leading Lama to translate to the others. "While you were masquerading
as my servant, you saw how careful I was of the camera; you can judge
for yourself whether or not the Fiery One will protect me. What do you
think will be the fate of you who have destroyed this mighty spirit's
home? I will tell you. He will descend from the sky and will burn you
with a hotter fire than you have ever felt--a fire so hot that the
spirit of the camera cannot approach it in intensity." And the Lama
screamed as he felt the heat of the powerful ray upon his arm. "What do
you think? Will you anger this mighty one by further crimes against his
favorites?"
"Buddha will protect us," stolidly responded a priest.
"Ask your leader if Buddha could protect him from the burning of the
camera spirit, and then judge whether Buddha can guard you against the
power of the Fire Dragon when he is roused to vengeance.
Panic began to seize upon the priests. One by one they disappeared
until at length only the Chief Lama was left. "If the honorable
gentlemen will tarry for a few moments I will bring them their beasts."
When the donkeys were brought in, Chad looked their packs over and
prepared them for the journey, while Jim started back to the ledge,
hoping that part of their supplies might have been unmolested. When
Chad came around the rock ten minutes later, he stopped in amazement
and stared at the camera, which Jim had rescued from the tree in which
it had lodged uninjured save for a broken plate.
As Chad approached, Jim looked up and said, "I've got one; I'll bet
it's a dandy!"
--Hazel Orcutt.