Narcissus saw his image, and fell in love with it,
But jilted pretty Echo, who wailed and never quit.
This beauteous youth was far less kind than I,
my friend, or you:
For we adore our own good looks and love our echoes, too.
--_Adventures in Egoism_.
I really shrink from giving an account of the result of the Bellevale
caucuses next evening, for fear of imparting to the general reader--who
is, of course, a violent patriot--the idea that I am narrating facts
showing an exceptionally bad condition in municipal affairs, in the
triumph of one or the other of two bad men. This impression I should
be loath to give. Colonel McCorkle, whom we know by hearsay only,
seems to be so good a citizen that his belated attempt to be "broad"
and "liberal" excites laughter in some quarters. As for Mr.
Brassfield, there are at least nine chances in ten that he is the man
who would have received the support of the gentle reader had it been
his own city's campaign.
In fact, Mr. Brassfield is psychologically incapable of deviating much
from the course marked out by the average ethics of his surroundings.
This subconscious mind which--as Professor Blatherwick so clearly
explained to us--normally operates below the plane of consciousness,
happens, in his case, to be abnormally acting consciously; but it is
still controlled by suggestion. The money-making mania being in all
minds, he becomes a money-maker. The usual attitude of society toward
all things--including, let us say, women, poetry, politics and public
duty--is the one into which the Brassfield mind inevitably fell. The
men on whom any age bestows the accolade of greatness, are those who
embody the qualities--virtues and vices--of that age. Your popular
statesman and hero is merely the incarnate Now. Every president is to
his supporters "fit to rank with Washington and Lincoln." Future ages
may accord to him only respectable mediocrity; but the generation which
sees itself reflected in him, sees beauty and greatness in the
reflection. Bellevale was psychically reflected in Brassfield.
Therefore Bellevale raised him on the shield of popularity. One may
see this reflected in the conversation of Major Pumphrey, one of
Bellevale's solid citizens, with Mr. Smith, who owned the department
store, on the morning after the caucuses.
"Rather lively times, I hear," said Major Pumphrey, catching step with
Mr. Smith on their walk down town. "Rather lively times at the
caucuses last evening."
"Really," answered Mr. Smith, "I don't know. I never attend caucuses.
Every one has his friends, you know, and by not taking sides one saves
many enmities."
"I don't agree with you," said the major. "Every one should attend his
party primaries, as a matter of duty."
"You were out last night?" said the merchant interrogatively.
"Why, no," said the major, "not last night. The fact is, Colonel
McCorkle and I served in the same regiment, and belong to the post
here, and he expected me to support him. At the same time, the
nomination of Mr. Brassfield appeared to be the only right thing from
the standpoint of party expediency or business wisdom. Brassfield can
be elected. He is strong in business circles. His integrity is
unquestioned, and there'll be no graft or shady deals under him. He
stands well in society, too. I just saw Doctor Bulkon, who expressed
himself as thoroughly delighted with the nomination of so good a man as
Brassfield, and intends to preach next Sunday on 'The Christian's
Vote,' handling the subject in such a way as to point to Brassfield as
the right man. I couldn't consistently oppose Brassfield, and so I
stayed at home."
"Oh, you're quite right!" exclaimed Mr. Smith. "My attendance would
not have made any difference in the result. Colonel McCorkle is a good
man, but after Mr. Brassfield made us a present of the money to pay off
our church debt recently none of us could decently have gone out and
worked against him even for the colonel. They say that McCorkle is a
good deal chagrined by the small showing he made--claims that the
saloons and the lower classes ran the caucuses, and that the decent
element stayed away altogether."
"Pooh!" scoffed Mr. Pumphrey. "A little sore is all--soon get over it.
I only hope Brassfield will be able to get us that trolley line he
promises. That would bring Bellevale abreast of the times."
"That's certainly true," was Mr. Smith's answer. "Mr. Brassfield is an
enterprising citizen, broad and liberal, safe and sane, and fully in
touch with the great business interests of the country. His nomination
will reflect credit on Bellevale."
Inasmuch as such citizens as Conlon, Pierson, Sheehan and Zalinsky were
equally well contented, no one, it would seem, ought to have been
dissatisfied. The fact that Mr. Brassfield's success meant the giving
away of Bellevale's streets to Brassfield's interurban trolley line
must be considered in connection with the fact that Bellevale seemed
only too anxious to give them away.
One must look at such things from all sides, if one is to come to a
satisfactory conclusion. Miss Waldron, having a keenly personal
interest in the matter, and being a member of the cultured and leisure
class, endeavored to do this. Her conclusions, both personal and
political, seem to be fully set forth in a letter which she wrote to
her friend Estelle in New York.
"You know I always was a queer little beast," said this letter, after a
few pages in which such words as "chiffon," "corsage," "lingerie,"
"full ritual," and similar expressions occur with some frequency, but
the contents of which are quite obscure in their bearing on the course
of this history--"and was ever finding happiness where others saw
misery, and _vice versa_. Well, I am doing something of the same sort
now in turning over and over in my mind the question as to whether I
should ever marry any one or not. I know perfectly well that no one
can ever be the One for me if Eugene is not--but is there a One? Don't
say that I am a little--goose, but listen and ponder.
"You remember the sort of literary friendship I had with George L----?
Well, of course George was a veritable Miss Nancy, and perfectly
absurd, but there was something basically likeable about him. Now, I
always have thought that if one could grind George and Eugene to a pulp
and mix them, the compromise would be my ideal. I like men who do
things, and Eugene is the most forceful man I ever knew. Owing to your
absence when he was in New York you missed seeing him, but his pictures
must have shown you how handsome and strong and masterly he is. Well,
this phase of a man must please any girl.
"Is it possible for such qualities to subsist in the same personality
with those I loved (there's no use denying it--in a platonic sense) in
George? In other words, can one reasonably expect to find a man who
can win battles in the world's life of this twentieth century, who will
not stare at one in utter lack of comprehension when he finds one
dropping tears on the pages of _Charmides_, or _McAndrew's Prayer_, or
Omar, and perhaps try to comfort one--at the moment when the divine
despair wrought by poignant beauty fills one with divine happiness?
It's horribly clumsy as I put it; but you'll know.
"He's just as good and kind and considerate as a man can be, and as
little spoiled by the fierce battles which he has fought--_and
won!_--as could possibly be expected--in fact, not at all spoiled.
Even this suspicion of a lack of the gift of seeing that the violet
'neath a mossy stone is a good deal more than that--the chief good
quality George had--around which I have been writing in these pages,
seems to be more a suspicion than a reality; for recently he has once
or twice ventured on discussions of such matters with a confidence and
an insight which put me--me, who have plumed myself on my mental St.
Simeon's tower, like a detestable intellectual cockatoo (you must
untwist the metaphors!)--at his feet in the attitude of a humble
learner. It took some of the conceit out of me; and yet, with true
Elizabethan inconsistency I turned this new view of his character
against him, and because he--well, it doesn't matter what--I gave him a
pre-nuptial instalment of 'cruel and inhuman treatment.'
"Then he became timid and over-respectful, and not at all like himself,
and I all the time just longing to make up to him all the arrears of
kindness which were due. It seemed as if I had a new lover, one who
needed encouragement, one who made a goddess of me, in the place of the
almost too bold gallant who had been mine; and lo! when he suddenly
comes on me with all his pristine assurance and seeming contempt for
the weepful things I mentioned above, I don't like it at all. I feel
as if two men in the same mask are courting me, and I without
discernment enough to tell one from the other.
"Now, if I am so shilly-shallying as this before marriage, what shall I
be after? Can I go on with so much of doubt in my own mind?
"Oh, if I could only be sure of the Eugene I think I sometimes see,
strong to do, tender to feel, and with the uplift of insight----
"To show how thoroughly insane my state of mind is, I have only to say
to you that by the exercise of the most tremendous pressure on the part
of our very best men, Eugene, much against his will, has been put in
nomination for mayor. He will purify the civic life of our town, and,
I am assured, will, if he will enter public life to that extent, be
sent to Washington.
"I have always thought that I'd like Washington society----"
Here Elizabeth's letter came to an end. She read it over carefully,
tore it up, threw the fragments in the grate, and wrote her friend
another and maybe a wiser one. Then she wrote to Mr. Brassfield a note
which Mr. Amidon found in his room when he returned to being.
One can easily see from that which has gone before, what happened to
Colonel McCorkle. Edgington and Alvord and Brassfield talked it over
in the Turkish room at Tony's after the caucuses.
"Of course you've made an ass of yourself, Edgington," said Mr.
Brassfield, "but you've gone through with it consistently, and it's all
right. I could have explained all that idiotic talk of mine about not
running--but why go over that now? Fill your glasses, and let's forget
it!"
"That's the talk!" said Alvord. "Forget it and all pull together in
this campaign you've made me the manager of."
"Well, as for forgetting it and pulling together," said Edgington, "I,
as the originator of the Brassfield idea, am not likely to hang back in
the harness. So, here's to success! But----"
"There's no 'but' in this," said Alvord. "The 'buts' are postponed
until after election."
"There's nothing to the election," said Edgington. "You have things
lined up----"
"_We_ have things lined up----" suggested Alvord.
"Yes, that's right," acquiesced Edgington. "It's '_we_,' with all my
heart since the decision. I was saying that the way you have the
different interests working together is perfectly ideal, the wets and
the drys, the wide-opens and the closed-lids, the saloons and the dives
and the churches--all shouting for Brassfield; and each class thinks
he's for its policy. The other man has about as much show--well, the
next is on me. Would you mind pressing the button, Jim?"
The waiter came, bringing a penciled note to Mr. Brassfield.
"One of your constituents," it read, "would like a moment's
conversation with you in the lobby."
Brassfield drew the waiter aside.
"Who is this, George?" asked he, tapping the note. "A woman?"
"A young lady, suh," was the answer. "A mahty hahnsome young lady,
suh."
"Bright auburn hair?" asked Brassfield, "and short?"
"Er--no, suh," answered the waiter, "sutn'y not that kin' o' haiah; an'
tall, suh."
"Make mine the same," said Brassfield, "and excuse me a moment, boys.
I'll be right back."
The note had said in the lobby, but the waiter guided him to a private
room. Brassfield, cautious as usual, by a gesture commanded the waiter
to precede him into the room, and himself halted at the entrance,
looking about the room for the young woman. She sat near the window,
and rose to greet him as he entered--a tall and graceful girl with
wonderful eyes and variegated hair.
"I could not wait to give you my congratulations," said she, offering
him her hand, "until you came home. We at the hotel are wondering why
we have lost you. Let me rejoice with you in your great triumph."
Brassfield's eyes sought hers. His soul recognized this as the queen
of those hazy recollections which he could scarcely believe more than
dreams, and felt her dominance.
"Thank you, ever so much," said he. "I was just coming up to see you."
"How nice of you," said she. "And in that case, why not go up with me
and join me at my supper, which will be served in ten minutes?"
"Why not, indeed!" said Brassfield. "George, tell Mr. Alvord and Mr.
Edgington that I'll see them in the morning!"