though somewhat polished and sharpened by the progressiveness of
distant Latin neighbors, were still large, florid, and untrammelled, as
became the half of him which was barbaric. He was a man of exuberant
fancy, and, withal, of an authority so irresistible that, at his will,
he turned his varied fancies into facts. He was greatly given to
self-communing, and when he and himself agreed upon anything, the thing
was done. When every member of his domestic and political systems moved
smoothly in its appointed course, his nature was bland and genial; but
whenever there was a little hitch, and some of his orbs got out of
their orbits, he was blander and more genial still, for nothing pleased
him so much as to make the crooked straight, and crush down uneven
places.
Among the borrowed notions by which his barbarism had become semified
was that of the public arena, in which, by exhibitions of manly and
beastly valor, the minds of his subjects were refined and cultured.
But even here the exuberant and barbaric fancy asserted itself. The
arena of the king was built, not to give the people an opportunity of
hearing the rhapsodies of dying gladiators, nor to enable them to view
the inevitable conclusion of a conflict between religious opinions and
hungry jaws, but for purposes far better adapted to widen and develop
the mental energies of the people. This vast amphitheatre, with its
encircling galleries, its mysterious vaults, and its unseen passages,
was an agent of poetic justice, in which crime was punished, or virtue
rewarded, by the decrees of an impartial and incorruptible chance.
When a subject was accused of a crime of sufficient importance to
interest the king, public notice was given that on an appointed day
the fate of the accused person would be decided in the king’s arena—a
structure which well deserved its name; for, although its form and plan
were borrowed from afar, its purpose emanated solely from the brain
of this man, who, every barleycorn a king, knew no tradition to which
he owed more allegiance than pleased his fancy, and who ingrafted on
every adopted form of human thought and action the rich growth of his
barbaric idealism.
When all the people had assembled in the galleries, and the king,
surrounded by his court, sat high up on his throne of royal state on
one side of the arena, he gave a signal, a door beneath him opened,
and the accused subject stepped out into the amphitheatre. Directly
opposite him, on the other side of the enclosed space, were two doors,
exactly alike and side by side. It was the duty and the privilege
of the person on trial to walk directly to these doors and open one
of them. He could open either door he pleased. He was subject to no
guidance or influence but that of the aforementioned impartial and
incorruptible chance. If he opened the one, there came out of it a
hungry tiger, the fiercest and most cruel that could be procured, which
immediately sprang upon him, and tore him to pieces, as a punishment
for his guilt. The moment that the case of the criminal was thus
decided, doleful iron bells were clanged, great wails went up from the
hired mourners posted on the outer rim of the arena, and the vast
audience, with bowed heads and downcast hearts, wended slowly their
homeward way, mourning greatly that one so young and fair, or so old
and respected, should have merited so dire a fate.
But if the accused person opened the other door, there came forth
from it a lady, the most suitable to his years and station that his
Majesty could select among his fair subjects; and to this lady he was
immediately married, as a reward of his innocence. It mattered not that
he might already possess a wife and family, or that his affections
might be engaged upon an object of his own selection. The king allowed
no such subordinate arrangements to interfere with his great scheme
of retribution and reward. The exercises, as in the other instance,
took place immediately, and in the arena. Another door opened beneath
the king, and a priest, followed by a band of choristers, and dancing
maidens blowing joyous airs on golden horns and treading an epithalamic
measure, advanced to where the pair stood side by side, and the wedding
was promptly and cheerily solemnized. Then the gay brass bells rang
forth their merry peals, the people shouted glad hurrahs, and the
innocent man, preceded by children strewing flowers on his path, led
his bride to his home.
This was the king’s semi-barbaric method of administering justice.
Its perfect fairness is obvious. The criminal could not know out of
which door would come the lady. He opened either he pleased, without
having the slightest idea whether, in the next instant, he was to be
devoured or married. On some occasions the tiger came out of one door,
and on some out of the other. The decisions of this tribunal were not
only fair—they were positively determinate. The accused person was
instantly punished if he found himself guilty, and if innocent he was
rewarded on the spot, whether he liked it or not. There was no escape
from the judgments of the king’s arena.
The institution was a very popular one. When the people gathered
together on one of the great trial days, they never knew whether they
were to witness a bloody slaughter or a hilarious wedding. This element
of uncertainty lent an interest to the occasion which it could not
otherwise have attained. Thus the masses were entertained and pleased,
and the thinking part of the community could bring no charge of
unfairness against this plan; for did not the accused person have the
whole matter in his own hands?
This semi-barbaric king had a daughter as blooming as his most florid
fancies, and with a soul as fervent and imperious as his own. As is
usual in such cases, she was the apple of his eye, and was loved by
him above all humanity. Among his courtiers was a young man of that
fineness of blood and lowness of station common to the conventional
heroes of romance who love royal maidens. This royal maiden was well
satisfied with her lover, for he was handsome and brave to a degree
unsurpassed in all this kingdom, and she loved him with an ardor that
had enough of barbarism in it to make it exceedingly warm and strong.
This love affair moved on happily for many months, until, one day, the
king happened to discover its existence. He did not hesitate nor waver
in regard to his duty in the premises. The youth was immediately cast
into prison, and a day was appointed for his trial in the king’s arena.
This, of course, was an especially important occasion, and his Majesty,
as well as all the people, was greatly interested in the workings and
development of this trial. Never before had such a case occurred—never
before had a subject dared to love the daughter of a king. In after
years such things became commonplace enough, but then they were, in no
slight degree, novel and startling.
The tiger cages of the kingdom were searched for the most savage and
relentless beasts, from which the fiercest monster might be selected
for the arena, and the ranks of maiden youth and beauty throughout the
land were carefully surveyed by competent judges, in order that the
young man might have a fitting bride in case fate did not determine for
him a different destiny. Of course, everybody knew that the deed with
which the accused was charged had been done. He had loved the princess,
and neither he, she, nor any one else thought of denying the fact. But
the king would not think of allowing any fact of this kind to interfere
with the workings of the tribunal, in which he took such great delight
and satisfaction. No matter how the affair turned out, the youth
would be disposed of, and the king would take an æsthetic pleasure in
watching the course of events which would determine whether or not the
young man had done wrong in allowing himself to love the princess.
The appointed day arrived. From far and near the people gathered, and
thronged the great galleries of the arena, while crowds, unable to gain
admittance, massed themselves against its outside walls. The king and
his court were in their places, opposite the twin doors—those fateful
portals, so terrible in their similarity!
All was ready. The signal was given. A door beneath the royal party
opened, and the lover of the princess walked into the arena. Tall,
beautiful, fair, his appearance was greeted with a low hum of
admiration and anxiety. Half the audience had not known so grand a
youth had lived among them. No wonder the princess loved him! What a
terrible thing for him to be there!
As the youth advanced into the arena, he turned, as the custom was, to
bow to the king. But he did not think at all of that royal personage;
his eyes were fixed upon the princess, who sat to the right of her
father. Had it not been for the moiety of barbarism in her nature, it
is probable that lady would not have been there. But her intense and
fervid soul would not allow her to be absent on an occasion in which
she was so terribly interested. From the moment that the decree had
gone forth that her lover should decide his fate in the king’s arena,
she had thought of nothing, night or day, but this great event and the
various subjects connected with it. Possessed of more power, influence,
and force of character than any one who had ever before been interested
in such a case, she had done what no other person had done—she had
possessed herself of the secret of the doors. She knew in which of the
two rooms behind those doors stood the cage of the tiger, with its open
front, and in which waited the lady. Through these thick doors, heavily
curtained with skins on the inside, it was impossible that any noise or
suggestion should come from within to the person who should approach to
raise the latch of one of them. But gold, and the power of a woman’s
will, had brought the secret to the princess.
Not only did she know in which room stood the lady, ready to emerge,
all blushing and radiant, should her door be opened, but she knew who
the lady was. It was one of the fairest and loveliest of the damsels
of the court who had been selected as the reward of the accused youth,
should he be proved innocent of the crime of aspiring to one so far
above him; and the princess hated her. Often had she seen, or imagined
that she had seen, this fair creature throwing glances of admiration
upon the person of her lover, and sometimes she thought these glances
were perceived and even returned. Now and then she had seen them
talking together. It was but for a moment or two, but much can be said
in a brief space. It may have been on most unimportant topics, but how
could she know that? The girl was lovely, but she had dared to raise
her eyes to the loved one of the princess, and, with all the intensity
of the savage blood transmitted to her through long lines of wholly
barbaric ancestors, she hated the woman who blushed and trembled behind
that silent door.
When her lover turned and looked at her, and his eye met hers as she
sat there paler and whiter than any one in the vast ocean of anxious
faces about her, he saw, by that power of quick perception which is
given to those whose souls are one, that she knew behind which door
crouched the tiger, and behind which stood the lady. He had expected
her to know it. He understood her nature, and his soul was assured that
she would never rest until she had made plain to herself this thing,
hidden to all other lookers-on, even to the king. The only hope for the
youth in which there was any element of certainty was based upon the
success of the princess in discovering this mystery, and the moment he
looked upon her, he saw she had succeeded.
Then it was that his quick and anxious glance asked the question,
“Which?” It was as plain to her as if he shouted it from where he
stood. There was not an instant to be lost. The question was asked in a
flash; it must be answered in another.
Her right arm lay on the cushioned parapet before her. She raised her
hand, and made a slight, quick movement toward the right. No one but
her lover saw her. Every eye but his was fixed on the man in the arena.
He turned, and with a firm and rapid step he walked across the empty
space. Every heart stopped beating, every breath was held, every eye
was fixed immovably upon that man. Without the slightest hesitation, he
went to the door on the right, and opened it.
* * * * *
Now, the point of the story is this: Did the tiger come out of that
door, or did the lady?
The more we reflect upon this question, the harder it is to answer.
It involves a study of the human heart which leads us through devious
mazes of passion, out of which it is difficult to find our way. Think
of it, fair reader, not as if the decision of the question depended
upon yourself, but upon that hot-blooded, semi-barbaric princess,
her soul at a white heat beneath the combined fires of despair and
jealousy. She had lost him, but who should have him?
How often, in her waking hours and in her dreams, had she started in
wild horror and covered her face with her hands as she thought of her
lover opening the door on the other side of which waited the cruel
fangs of the tiger!
But how much oftener had she seen him at the other door! How in her
grievous reveries had she gnashed her teeth and torn her hair when
she saw his start of rapturous delight as he opened the door of the
lady! How her soul had burned in agony when she had seen him rush to
meet that woman, with her flushing cheek and sparkling eye of triumph;
when she had seen him lead her forth, his whole frame kindled with the
joy of recovered life; when she had heard the glad shouts from the
multitude, and the wild ringing of the happy bells; when she had seen
the priest, with his joyous followers, advance to the couple, and make
them man and wife before her very eyes; and when she had seen them walk
away together upon their path of flowers, followed by the tremendous
shouts of the hilarious multitude, in which her one despairing shriek
was lost and drowned!
Would it not be better for him to die at once, and go to wait for her
in the blessed regions of semi-barbaric futurity?
And yet, that awful tiger, those shrieks, that blood!
Her decision had been indicated in an instant, but it had been made
after days and nights of anguished deliberation. She had known she
would be asked, she had decided what she would answer, and, without the
slightest hesitation, she had moved her hand to the right.
The question of her decision is one not to be lightly considered, and
it is not for me to presume to set up myself as the one person able to
answer it. So I leave it with all of you: Which came out of the opened
door—the lady or the tiger?
THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT
BY
FRANCIS BRET HARTE
This is often called a story of local color. And it is. It is rich
in the characteristics of California in the gold-seeking days. It is
also classified as a story of setting. And it is. The setting is a
determining factor in the conduct of these outcasts. They are men and
women as inevitably drawn to the mining camp as the ill-fated ship in
“The Arabian Nights” was attracted to the lode-stone mountain, and with
as much certainty of shipwreck. These the blizzard of the west gathers
into its embrace, and compels them to reveal their better selves. But
it is more than a story of local color and of setting. It is also an
illustration of the artistic blending of plot, character, and setting,
and of the magical power of youth to see life at the time truly enough,
but to transform it later into something fine and noble.
THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT[17]
As Mr. John Oakhurst, gambler, stepped into the main street of Poker
Flat on the morning of the twenty-third of November, 1850, he was
conscious of a change in its moral atmosphere since the preceding
night. Two or three men, conversing earnestly together, ceased as he
approached, and exchanged significant glances. There was a Sabbath lull
in the air, which, in a settlement unused to Sabbath influences, looked
ominous.
Mr. Oakhurst’s calm, handsome face betrayed small concern of these
indications. Whether he was conscious of any predisposing cause, was
another question. “I reckon they’re after somebody,” he reflected;
“likely it’s me.” He returned to his pocket the handkerchief with which
he had been whipping away the red dust of Poker Flat from his neat
boots, and quietly discharged his mind of any further conjecture.
In point of fact, Poker Flat was “after somebody.” It had lately
suffered the loss of several thousand dollars, two valuable horses, and
a prominent citizen. It was experiencing a spasm of virtuous reaction,
quite as lawless and ungovernable as any of the acts that had provoked
it. A secret committee had determined to rid the town of all improper
persons. This was done permanently in regard of two men who were then
hanging from the boughs of a sycamore in the gulch, and temporarily in
the banishment of certain other objectionable characters. I regret to
say that some of these were ladies. It is but due to the sex, however,
to state that their impropriety was professional, and it was only in
such easily established standards of evil that Poker Flat ventured to
sit in judgment.
Mr. Oakhurst was right in supposing that he was included in this
category. A few of the committee had urged hanging him as a possible
example, and a sure method of reimbursing themselves from his pockets
of the sums he had won from them. “It’s agin justice,” said Jim
Wheeler, “to let this yer young man from Roaring Camp—an entire
stranger—carry away our money.” But a crude sentiment of equity
residing in the breasts of those who had been fortunate enough to win
from Mr. Oakhurst overruled this narrower local prejudice.
Mr. Oakhurst received his sentence with philosophic calmness, none the
less coolly that he was aware of the hesitation of his judges. He was
too much of a gambler not to accept Fate. With him life was at best an
uncertain game, and he recognized the usual percentage in favor of the
dealer.
A body of armed men accompanied the deported wickedness of Poker Flat
to the outskirts of the settlement. Besides Mr. Oakhurst, who was
known to be a coolly desperate man, and for whose intimidation the
armed escort was intended, the expatriated party consisted of a young
woman familiarly known as “The Duchess”; another, who had gained the
infelicitous title of “Mother Shipton”; and “Uncle Billy,” a suspected
sluice-robber and confirmed drunkard. The cavalcade provoked no
comments from the spectators, nor was any word uttered by the escort.
Only, when the gulch which marked the uttermost limit of Poker Flat
was reached, the leader spoke briefly and to the point. The exiles
were forbidden to return at the peril of their lives.
As the escort disappeared, their pent-up feelings found vent in a few
hysterical tears from “The Duchess,” some bad language from Mother
Shipton, and a Parthian volley of expletives from Uncle Billy. The
philosophic Oakhurst alone remained silent. He listened calmly to
Mother Shipton’s desire to cut somebody’s heart out, to the repeated
statements of “The Duchess” that she would die in the road, and to
the alarming oaths that seemed to be bumped out of Uncle Billy as he
rode forward. With the easy good-humor characteristic of his class, he
insisted upon exchanging his own riding-horse, “Five Spot,” for the
sorry mule which the Duchess rode. But even this act did not draw the
party into any closer sympathy. The young woman readjusted her somewhat
draggled plumes with a feeble, faded coquetry; Mother Shipton eyed the
possessor of “Five Spot” with malevolence, and Uncle Billy included the
whole party in one sweeping anathema.
The road to Sandy Bar—a camp that, not having as yet experienced the
regenerating influences of Poker Flat, consequently seemed to offer
some invitation to the emigrants—lay over a steep mountain range. It
was distant a day’s severe journey. In that advanced season, the party
soon passed out of the moist, temperate regions of the foot-hills
into the dry, cold, bracing air of the Sierras. The trail was narrow
and difficult. At noon the Duchess, rolling out of her saddle upon
the ground, declared her intention of going no farther, and the party
halted.
The spot was singularly wild and impressive. A wooded amphitheatre,
surrounded on three sides by precipitous cliffs of naked granite,
sloped gently toward the crest of another precipice that overlooked
the valley. It was undoubtedly the most suitable spot for a camp, had
camping been advisable. But Mr. Oakhurst knew that scarcely half the
journey to Sandy Bar was accomplished, and the party were not equipped
or provisioned for delay. This fact he pointed out to his companions
curtly, with a philosophic commentary on the folly of “throwing up
their hand before the game was played out.” But they were furnished
with liquor, which in this emergency stood them in place of food, fuel,
rest, and prescience. In spite of his remonstrances, it was not long
before they were more or less under its influence. Uncle Billy passed
rapidly from a bellicose state into one of stupor, the Duchess became
maudlin, and Mother Shipton snored. Mr. Oakhurst alone remained erect,
leaning against a rock, calmly surveying them.
Mr. Oakhurst did not drink. It interfered with a profession which
required coolness, impassiveness, and presence of mind, and, in his
own language, he “couldn’t afford it.” As he gazed at his recumbent
fellow-exiles, the loneliness begotten of his pariah-trade, his habits
of life, his very vices, for the first time seriously oppressed him.
He bestirred himself in dusting his black clothes, washing his hands
and face, and other acts characteristic of his studiously neat habits,
and for a moment forgot his annoyance. The thought of deserting his
weaker and more pitiable companions never perhaps occurred to him.
Yet he could not help feeling the want of that excitement which,
singularly enough, was most conducive to that calm equanimity for which
he was notorious. He looked at the gloomy walls that rose a thousand
feet sheer above the circling pines around him; at the sky, ominously
clouded; at the valley below, already deepening into shadow. And,
doing so, suddenly he heard his own name called.
A horseman slowly ascended the trail. In the fresh, open face of the
new-comer Mr. Oakhurst recognized Tom Simson, otherwise known as
“The Innocent” of Sandy Bar. He had met him some months before over
a “little game,” and had, with perfect equanimity, won the entire
fortune—amounting to some forty dollars—of that guileless youth.
After the game was finished, Mr. Oakhurst drew the youthful speculator
behind the door and thus addressed him: “Tommy, you’re a good little
man, but you can’t gamble worth a cent. Don’t try it over again.” He
then handed him his money back, pushed him gently from the room, and so
made a devoted slave of Tom Simson.
There was a remembrance of this in his boyish and enthusiastic greeting
of Mr. Oakhurst. He had started, he said, to go to Poker Flat to seek
his fortune. “Alone?” No, not exactly alone; in fact—a giggle—he had
run away with Piney Woods. Didn’t Mr. Oakhurst remember Piney? She
that used to wait on the table at the Temperance House? They had been
engaged a long time, but old Jake Woods had objected, and so they had
run away, and were going to Poker Flat to be married, and here they
were. And they were tired out, and how lucky it was they had found a
place to camp and company. All this the Innocent delivered rapidly,
while Piney—a stout, comely damsel of fifteen—emerged from behind the
pine-tree, where she had been blushing unseen, and rode to the side of
her lover.
Mr. Oakhurst seldom troubled himself with sentiment, still less
with propriety; but he had a vague idea that the situation was not
felicitous. He retained, however, his presence of mind sufficiently to
kick Uncle Billy, who was about to say something, and Uncle Billy was
sober enough to recognize in Mr. Oakhurst’s kick a superior power that
would not bear trifling. He then endeavored to dissuade Tom Simson from
delaying further, but in vain. He even pointed out the fact that there
was no provision, nor means of making a camp. But, unluckily, “The
Innocent” met this objection by assuring the party that he was provided
with an extra mule loaded with provisions, and by the discovery of a
rude attempt at a log-house near the trail. “Piney can stay with Mrs.
Oakhurst,” said the Innocent, pointing to the Duchess, “and I can shift
for myself.”