cigar, Rutherford, on your life. Peter will have these atrocities.
Here--Kaki, bring the doctor the other box.--That's better.--I don't
believe what I said? Now listen. How could the fact that the world was
turned into a military camp, officers commanding, privates obeying,
rank, rank, rank everywhere throughout mankind, how could that fail to
hinder democracy, which is in its essence the leveling of ranks? Tell me
that!"
The doctor grinned at the Russian. "What about it, General? What do you
think?"
The General answered slowly, with a small accent but in the wonderfully
good English of an educated Russian. "I do not agree with the
Sena-torr," he stated, and five heads turned to listen. There was a
quality of large personality in the burr of the voice, in the poise and
soldierly bearing, in the very silence of the man, which made his slow
words of importance. "I believe indeed that the Sena-torr is
partly--shall I say speaking for argument?"
The Senator laughed.
"The great war, in which all of us here had the honor to bear arms--that
death grapple of tyranny against freedom--it did not hold back the cause
of humanity, of democracy, that war. Else thousands upon thousands of
good lives were given in vain."
There was a hushed moment. Each of the men, men now from fifty to sixty
years old, had been a young soldier in that Homeric struggle. Each was
caught back at the words of the Russian to a vision of terrible places,
of thundering of great guns, of young, generous blood flowing like
water. The deep, assured tones of the Russian spoke into the solemn
pause.
"There is an episode of the war which I remember. It goes to show, so
far as one incident may, where every hour was crowded with drama, how
forces worked together for democracy. It is the story of a common man of
my country who was a private in the army of your country, and who was
lifted by an American gentleman to hope and opportunity, and, as God
willed it, to honor. My old friend the Judge can tell that episode
better than I. My active part in it was small. If you like"--the dark
foreign eyes flashed about the group--"if you like I should much enjoy
hearing my old friend review that little story of democracy."
There was a murmur of approval. One man spoke, a fighting parson he had
been. "It argues democracy in itself, General, that a Russian
aristocrat, the brother of a Duke, should remember so well the
adventures of a common soldier."
The smouldering eyes of the Slav turned to the speaker and regarded him
gravely. "I remember those adventures well," he answered.
The Judge, flung back in a corner of the davenport, his knees crossed
and rings from his cigar ascending, stared at the ceiling, "Come along,
Peter. You're due to entertain us," the Senator adjured him, and the
Judge, staring upwards, began.
"This is the year 1947. It was in 1917 that the United States went into
war--thirty years ago. The fifth of June, 1917, was set, as you
remember, for the registration of all men in the country over
twenty-one and under thirty-one for the draft. I was twenty-three,
living in this house with my father and mother, both dead before the war
ended. Being outside of the city, the polling place where I was due to
register was three miles off, at Hiawatha. I registered in the morning;
the polls were open from seven A.M. to nine P.M. My mother drove me
over, and the road was being mended, and, as happened in those days in
the country, half a mile of it was almost impassable. There were no
adjustable lift-roads invented then. We got through the ruts and
stonework, but it was hard going, and we came home by a detour through
the city rather than pass again that beastly half mile. That night was
dark and stormy, with rain at intervals, and as we sat in this room,
reading, the three of us--" The Judge paused and gazed a moment at the
faces in the lamplight, at the chairs where his guests sat. It was as if
he called back to their old environment for a moment the two familiar
figures which had belonged here, which had gone out of his life. "We sat
in this room, the three of us," he repeated, "and the butler came in.
"'If you please, sir, there's a young man here who wants to register,'
he said.
"'Wants to register!' my father threw at him. 'What do you mean?'
"We all went outside, and there we found not one, but five boys,
Russians. There was a munitions plant a mile back of us and the lads
worked there, and had wakened to the necessity of registering at the
last moment, being new in the country and with little English. They had
directions to go to the same polling place as mint, Hiawatha, but had
gotten lost, and, seeing our lights, brought up here. Hiawatha, as I
said, is three miles away. It was eight-thirty and the polls closed at
nine. We brought the youngsters inside, and I dashed to the garage for
the car and piled the delighted lads into it and drove them across.
"At least I tried to. But when we came to the bad half mile the car
rebelled at going the bit twice in a day, and the motor stalled. There
we were--eight-forty-five P.M.--polls due to close at nine--a year's
imprisonment for five well-meaning boys for neglecting to register. I
was in despair. Then suddenly one of the boys saw a small red light
ahead, the tail light of an automobile. We ran along and found a big car
standing in front of a house. As we got there, out from the car stepped
a woman with a lantern, and as the light swung upward I saw that she was
tall and fair and young and very lovely. She stopped as the six of us
loomed out of the darkness. I knew that a professor from the University
in town had taken this house for the summer, but I don't know the people
or their name. It was no time to be shy. I gave my name and stated the
case.
"The girl looked at me. 'I've seen you,' she said. 'I know you are Mr.
McLane. I'll drive you across. One moment, till I tell my mother.'
"She was in the house and out again without wasting a second, and as she
flashed into the car I heard a gasp, and I turned and saw in the glare
of the headlights as they sprang on one of my Russians, a gigantic
youngster of six feet four or so, standing with his cap off and his head
bent, as he might have stood before a shrine, staring at the spot where
the girl had disappeared into the car. Then the engine purred and my
squad tumbled in.
"We made the polls on the tap of nine. Afterwards we drove back to my
car and among us, with the lantern, we got the motor running again, the
girl helping efficiently. The big fellow, when we told her good-night,
astonished me by dropping on his knees and kissing the edge of her
skirt. But I put it down to Slavic temperament and took it casually.
I've learned since what Russian depth of feeling means--and tenacity of
purpose. There was one more incident. When I finally drove the lads up
to their village the big chap, who spoke rather good English when he
spoke at all, which was seldom, invited me to have some beer. I was
tired and wanted to get home, so I didn't. Then the young giant
excavated in his pocket and brought out a dollar bill.
"'You get beer tomorrow.' And when I laughed and shoved it back he
flushed. 'Excuse--Mr. Sir,' he said. 'I make mistake.' Suddenly he drew
himself up--about to the treetops, it looked, for he was a huge, a
magnificent lad. He tossed out his arm to me. 'Some day,' he stated
dramatically, 'I do two things. Some day I give Mr. Sir somethings more
than dollar--and he will take. And--some day I marry--Miss Angel!'
"You may believe I was staggered. But I simply stuck out my fist and
shook his and said: 'Good. No reason on earth why a fellow with the
right stuff shouldn't get anywhere. It's a free country.' And the giant
drew his black brows together and remarked slowly: 'All
countries--world--is to be free. War will sweep up kings--and
other--rubbish. I--shall be--a man.'
"Besides his impressive build, the boy had--had--" the Judge glanced at
the Russian General, whose eyes glowed at the fire. "The boy had a
remarkable face. It was cut like a granite hill, in sweeping masses. All
strength. His eyes were coals. I went home thoughtful, and the Russian
boy's intense face was in my mind for days, and I told myself many times
that he not only would be, but already was, a man.
"Events quickstepped after that. I got to France within the year, and,
as you remember, work was ready. It was perhaps eighteen months after
that registration day, June fifth, which we keep so rightly now as one
of our sacred days, that one morning I was in a fight. Our artillery had
demoralized the enemy at a point and sent them running. There was one
machine gun left working in the Hun trenches--doing a lot of damage.
Suddenly it jammed. I was commanding my company, and I saw the chance,
but also I saw a horrid mess of barbed wire. So I just ran forward a bit
and up to the wire and started clipping, while that machine gun stayed
jammed. Out of the corner of an eye I could see men rushing towards it
in the German trench, and I knew I had only a moment before they got it
firing again. Then, as I leaped far forward to reach a bit of
entanglement, my foot slipped in a puddle and as I sprawled I saw our
uniform and a dead American boy's face under me, and I fell headlong in
his blood over him and into a bunch of wire. And couldn't get up. The
wire held like the devil. I got more tied up at every pull. And my
clippers had fallen from my hand and landed out of reach.
"'It's good night for me,' I thought, and was aware of a sharp regret.
To be killed because of a nasty bit of wire! I had wanted to do a lot of
things yet. With that something leaped, and I saw clippers flashing
close by. A big man was cutting me loose, dragging me out, setting me on
my feet. Then the roar of an exploding shell; the man fell--fell into
the wire from which he had just saved me. There was no time to consider
that; somehow I was back and leading my men--and then we had the
trenches.
"The rest of that day was confusion, but we won a mile of earthworks,
and at night I remembered the incident of the wire and the man who
rescued me. By a miracle I found him in the field hospital. His head was
bandaged, for the bit of shell had scraped his cheek and jaw, but his
eyes were safe, and something in the glance out of them was familiar.
Yet I didn't know him till he drew me over and whispered painfully, for
it hurt him to talk:
"'Yester--day I did--give Mr. Sir somethings more than dollar. And he
did--take it.'
"Then I know the big young Russian of registration day who had tried to
tip me. Bless him! I got him transferred to my command and--" the Judge
hesitated a bit and glanced at his distinguished guest. One surmised
embarrassment in telling the story of the General's humble compatriot.
The General rose to his feet and stood before the fire facing the
handful of men. "I can continue this anecdote from the point that is
more easily than my friend the Judge," spoke the General. "I was in the
confidence of that countryman of mine. I know. It was so that after he
had been thus slightly useful to my friend the Judge, who was the
Captain McLane at that time--"
The Judge broke in with a shout of deep laughter worthy of a boy of
eighteen. "He 'slightly obliged me by saving my life." The American,
threw that into the Russian's smooth sentences. "I put that fact before
the jury."
The four men listening laughed also, but the Russian held up a hand and
went on gravely: "It was quite simple, that episode, and the man's
pleasure. I knew him well. But what followed was not ordinary. The
Captain McLane saw to it that the soldier had his chance. He became an
officer. He went alive through the war, and at the end the Captain
McLane made it possible that he should be educated. His career was a
gift from the Captain McLane--from my friend the Judge to that man, who
is now--" the finished sentence halted a mere second--"who is now a
responsible person of Russia.
"And it is the incident of that sort, it is that incident itself which I
know, which leads me to combat--" he turned with a deep bow--"the
position of the Sena-torr that the great war did not make for democracy.
Gentlemen, my compatriot was a peasant, a person of ignorance, yet with
a desire of fulfilling his possibilities. He had been born in social
chains and tied to most sordid life, beyond hope, in old Russia. To try
to shake free he had gone to America. But it was that caldron of fire,
the war, which freed him, which fused his life and the life of the
Captain McLane, so different in opportunity, and burned from them all
trivialities and put them, stark-naked of advantages and of drawbacks
artificial, side by side, as two lives merely. It made them--brothers.
One gave and the other took as brothers without thought of false pride.
They came from the furnace men. Both. Which is democracy--a chance for a
tree to grow, for a flame to burn, for a river to flow; a chance for a
man to become a man and not rest a vegetable anchored to the earth
as--Oh, God!--for many centuries the Russian mujiks have rested. It is
that which I understand by democracy. Freedom of development for
everything which wants to develop. It was the earthquake of war which
broke chains, loosened dams, cleared the land for young forests. It was
war which made Russia a republic, which threw down the kingships, which
joined common men and princes as comrades. God bless that liberating
war! God grant that never in all centuries may this poor planet have
another! God save democracy--humanity! Does the Sena-torr yet believe
that the great war retarded democracy?" The Russian's brilliant,
smouldering eyes swept about, inquiring.
There was a hush in the peaceful, firelit, lamp-lit room. And with that,
as of one impulse, led by the Senator, the five men broke into
handclapping. Tears stood in eyes, faces were twisted with emotion; each
of these men had seen what the thing was--war; each knew what a price
humanity had paid for freedom. Out of the stirring of emotion, out of
the visions of trenches and charges and blood and agony and heroism and
unselfishness and steadfastness, the fighting parson, he who had bent,
under fire, many a day over dying men who waited his voice to help them
across the border--the parson led the little company from the intense
moment to commonplace.
"You haven't quite finished the story, General. The boy promised to do
two things. He did the first; he gave the Judge 'something more than a
dollar,' and the Judge took it--his life. But he said also he was going
to marry--what did he call her?--Miss Angel. How about that?"
The Russian General, standing on the hearthrug, appeared to draw himself
up suddenly with an access of dignity, and the Judge's boyish big laugh
broke into the silence, "Tell them, Michael," said the Judge. "You've
gone so far with the fairy story that they have a right to know the
crowning glory of it. Tell them."
And suddenly the men sitting about noticed with one accord what,
listening to the General's voice, they had not thought about--that the
Russian was uncommonly tall--six feet four perhaps; that his face was
carved in sweeping lines like a granite hillside, and that an old, long
scar stretched from the vivid eyes to the mouth. The men stared,
startled with a sudden simultaneous thought. The Judge, watching,
smiled. Slowly the General put his hand into the breast pocket of his
evening coat; slowly he drew out a case of dark leather, tooled
wonderfully, set with stones. He opened the case and looked down; the
strong face changed as if a breeze and sunshine passed over a mountain.
He glanced up at the men waiting.
"I am no Duke's brother," he said, smiling, suddenly radiant. "That is a
mistake of the likeness of a name, which all the world makes. I am born
a mujik of Russia. But you, sir," and he turned to the parson, "you wish
an answer of 'Miss Angel,' as the big peasant boy called that lovely
spirit, so far above him in that night, so far above him still, and yet,
God be thanked, so close today! Yes? Then this is my answer." He held
out the miniature set with jewels.
ROBINA'S DOLL
Massive, sprawling, uncertain writing, two sentences to the page; a
violent slant in the second line, down right, balanced by a drastic
lessening of the letters, up right, in the line underneath; spelling not
as advised in the Century Dictionary--a letter from Robina, aged eight.
Robina's Aunt Evelyn, sitting in her dress and cap of a Red Cross nurse
in the big base hospital in Paris, read the wandering, painstaking, very
unsuccessful literary effort, laughing, half-crying, and kissed it
enthusiastically.
"The darling baby! She shall have her doll if it takes--" Aunt Evelyn
stopped thoughtfully.
It would take something serious to buy and equip the doll that Robina,
with eight-year-old definiteness, had specified. The girl in the Red
Cross dress read the letter over.
"Dear Aunt Evelyn," began Robina and struck no snags so far. "I liked
your postcard so much." (The facilis descensus to an averni of
literature began with a swoop down here.) "Mother is wel. Fother is wel.
The baby is wel. The dog has sevven kitens." (Robina robbed Peter to pay
Paul habitually in her spelling.) "Fother sais they lukk like choklit
eclares. I miss you, dere Aunt Evelyn, because I lov you sew. I hope
Santa Claus wil bring me a doll. I want a very bigg bride doll with a
vale and flours an a trunk of close, and all her under-close to buton
and unboton and to have pink ribons run into. I don't want anythig sode
on. Come home, Aunt Evelyn, becaus I miss you. But if the poor wundead
soljers ned you then don't come. But as soone as you can come to yure
loving own girl--ROBINA."
The dear angel! Every affectionate, labored word was from the warm
little heart; Evelyn Bruce knew that. She sat, smiling, holding the
paper against her, seeing a vision of the faraway, beloved child who
wrote it. She saw the dancing, happy brown eyes and the shining, cropped
head of pale golden brown, and the straight, strong little figure; she
heard the merry, ready giggle and the soft, slow tones that were always
full of love to her. Robina, her sister's child, her own god-daughter
had been her close friend from babyhood, and between them there was a
bond of understanding which made nothing of the difference in years.
Darling little Robina! Such a good, unspoiled little girl, for all of
the luxury and devotion that surrounded her!
But--there was a difficulty just there. Robina was unspoiled indeed,
yet, as the children of the very rich, she was, even at eight,
sophisticated in a baby way. She had been given too many grand dolls not
to know just the sort she wanted. She did not know that what she wanted
cost money, but she knew the points desired--and they did cost money.
Aunt Evelyn had not much money.
"This one extravagant thing I will do," said Evelyn Bruce, "and I'll
give up my trip to England next week, and I'll do it in style. Robina
won't want dolls much longer and this time she's got to have her heart's
desire."
Which was doubtless foolish, yet when one is separated by an ocean and a
war from one's own, it is perhaps easier to be foolish for a child's
face and a child's voice, and love sent across the sea. So Evelyn Bruce
wrote a letter to her cousin in England saying that she could not come
to her till after Christmas. Then she went out into Paris and ordered
the doll, and reveled in the ordering, for a very gorgeous person indeed
it was, and worthy to journey from Paris to a little American. It was to
be ready in just two weeks, and Miss Bruce was to come in and look over
the fine lady and her equipment as often as desired, before she started
on her ocean voyage.
"It would simply break my heart if she were torpedoed."
Evelyn confided that, childlike, to the black-browed, stout Frenchwoman
who took a personal interest in every "buton," and then she opened her
bag and brought out Robina's photograph, standing, in a ruffled bonnet,
her solemn West Highland White terrier dog in her arms, on the garden
path of "Graystones" between tall foxgloves. And the Frenchwoman tossed
up enraptured hands at the beauty of the little girl who was to get the
doll, and did not miss the great, splendid house in the background, or
the fact that the dog was of a "_chic_" variety.
The two weeks fled, every day full of the breathless life--and death--of
a hospital in war-torn France. Every day the girl saw sights and heard
sounds which it seemed difficult to see and hear and go on living, but
she moved serene through such an environment, because she could help.
Every day she gave all that was in her to the suffering boys who were
carried, in a never-ending stream of stretchers, into the hospital. And
the strength she gave flowed back to her endlessly from, she could not
but believe it, the underlying source of all strength, which stretches
beneath and about us all, and from which those who give greatly know how
to draw.
Two or three times, during the two weeks, Evelyn had gone in to inspect
the progress of Robina's doll, and spent a happy and light-hearted
quarter of an hour with friendly Madame of the shop, deciding the color
of the lady's party coat, and of the ribbons in her minute underclothes,
and packing and repacking the trunk with enchanting fairy
foolishnesses. Again and again she smiled to herself, in bed at night,
going about her work in the long days, as she thought of the little
girl's rapture over the many and carefully planned details. For, with
all the presents showered on her, Robina's aunt knew that Robina had
never had anything as perfect as this exquisite Paris doll and her
trousseau.
The day came on which Evelyn was to make her final visit to "La
Marquise," as Madame called the doll, and the nurse was needed in the
hospital and could not go. But she telephoned Madame and made an
appointment for tomorrow.
"'La Marquise' finds herself quite ready for the voyage," Madame spoke
over the telephone. "She is all which there is of most lovely; Paris
itself has never seen a so ravishing doll. I say it. We wait anxiously
to greet Mademoiselle, I and La Marquise," Madame assured her. Evelyn,
laughing with sheer pleasure, made an engagement for the next day,
without fail, and went back to her work.
There was a badly wounded _poilu_ in her ward, whom the girl had come to
know well. He was young, perhaps twenty-seven, and his warm brown eyes
were full of a quality of gentleness which endeared him to everyone who
came near him. He was very grateful, very uncomplaining, a
simple-minded, honest, common, young peasant, with a charm uncommon. The
unending bright courage with which he made light of cruel pain, was
almost more than Evelyn, used as she was to brave men's pain, could
bear. He could not get well--the doctors said that--and it seemed that
he could not die.
"If Corporal Duplessis might die," Evelyn spoke to the surgeon.
He answered, considering: "I don't see what keeps him alive."
"I believe," said Evelyn, "there's something on his mind. He sighs
constantly. Broken-heartedly. I believe he can't die until his mind is
relieved."
"It may be that," agreed Dr. Norton. "You could help him if you could
get him to tell you." And moved on to the next shattered thing that had
been, so lately, a strong, buoyant boy.
Evelyn went back to Duplessis and bent over him and spoke cheerful
words; he smiled up at her with quick French responsiveness, and then
sighed the heavy, anxious sigh which had come to be part of him. With
that the girl took his one good hand and stroked it. "If you could tell
the American Sister what it is," she spoke softly, "that troubles your
mind, perhaps I might help you. We Americans, you know," and she smiled
at him, "we are wonderful people. We can do all sorts of magic--and I
want to help you to rest, so much. I'd do anything to help you. Won't
you tell me what it is that bothers?" Evelyn Bruce's voice was winning,
and Duplessis' eyes rested on her affectionately.
"But how the Sister understands one!" he said. "It is true that there is
a trouble. It hinders me to die"--and the heavy sigh swept out again.
"It would be a luxury for me--dying. The pain is bad, at times. Yet the
Sister knows I am glad to have it, for France. Ah, yes! But--if I might
be released. Yet the thought of what I said to her keeps me from dying
always."
"What you said 'to her,' corporal?" repeated Evelyn. "Can't you tell me
what it was? I would try so hard to help you. I might perhaps."