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[Illustration: Carleton H. Parker]
AN AMERICAN IDYLL
THE LIFE OF
CARLETON H. PARKER
_By_
CORNELIA STRATTON PARKER
[Illustration]
BOSTON
THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS
1919
_The poem on the opposite page is here
reprinted with the express permission of
Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons, publishers
of Robert Louis Stevenson's Works._
_Yet, O stricken heart, remember, O remember,
How of human days he lived the better part.
April came to bloom, and never dim December
Breathed its killing chill upon the head or heart.
Doomed to know not Winter, only Spring, a being
Trod the flowery April blithely for a while,
Took his fill of music, joy of thought and seeing,
Came and stayed and went, nor ever ceased to smile.
Came and stayed and went, and now when all is finished,
You alone have crossed the melancholy stream,
Yours the pang, but his, O his, the undiminished,
Undecaying gladness, undeparted dream.
All that life contains of torture, toil, and treason,
Shame, dishonor, death, to him were but a name.
Here, a boy, he dwelt through all the singing season
And ere the day of sorrow departed as he came._
_Written for our three children.
Dedicated to all those kindred souls, friends of
Carl Parker whether they knew him or not, who
are making the fight, without bitterness but with
all the understanding, patience, and enthusiasm
they possess, for a saner, kindlier, and more joyous
world.
And to those especially who love greatly along
the way._
PREFACE
It was a year ago to-day that Carl Parker died--March 17, 1918. His
fortieth birthday would have come on March 31. His friends, his
students, were free to pay their tribute to him, both in the press and
in letters which I treasure. I alone of all,--I who knew him best and
loved him most,--had no way to give some outlet to my soul; could see no
chance to pay _my_ tribute.
One and another have written of what was and will be his valuable
service to economic thought and progress; of the effects of his
mediation of labor disputes, in the Northwest and throughout the nation;
and of his inestimable qualities as friend, comrade, and teacher.
"He gave as a Federal mediator,"--so runs one estimate of him,--"all his
unparalleled knowledge and understanding of labor and its point of view.
That knowledge, that understanding he gained, not by academic
investigation, but by working in mines and woods, in shops and on farms.
He had the trust and confidence of both sides in disputes between labor
and capital; his services were called in whenever trouble was
brewing. . . . Thanks to him, strikes were averted; war-work of the most
vital importance, threatened by misunderstandings and smouldering
discontent, went on."
But almost every one who has written for publication has told of but one
side of him, and there were such countless sides. Would it then be so
out of place if I, his wife, could write of all of him, even to the
manner of husband he was?
I have hesitated for some months to do this. He had not yet made so
truly national a name, perhaps, as to warrant any assumption that such a
work would be acceptable. Many of his close friends have asked me to do
just this, however; for they realize, as I do so strongly, that his life
was so big, so full, so potential, that, even as the story of a man, it
would be worth the reading.
And, at the risk of sharing intimacies that should be kept in one's
heart only, I long to have the world know something of the life we led
together.
An old friend wrote: "Dear, splendid Carl, the very embodiment of life,
energized and joyful to a degree I have never known. And the thought of
the separation of you two makes me turn cold. . . . The world can never be
the same to me with Carl out of it. I loved his high spirit, his
helpfulness, his humor, his adoration of you. Knowing you and Carl, and
seeing your life together, has been one of the most perfect things in my
life."
An Eastern professor, who had visited at our home from time to time
wrote: "You have lost one of the finest husbands I have ever known. Ever
since I have known the Parker family, I have considered their home life
as ideal. I had hoped that the too few hours I spent in your home might
be multiplied many times in coming years. . . . I have never known a man
more in love with a woman than Carl was with you."
So I write of him for these reasons: because I must, to ease my own
pent-up feelings; because his life was so well worth writing about;
because so many friends have sent word to me: "Some day, when you have
the time, I hope you will sit down and write me about Carl"--the newer
friends asking especially about his earlier years, the older friends
wishing to know of his later interests, and especially of the last
months, and of--what I have written to no one as yet--his death. I can
answer them all this way.
And, lastly, there is the most intimate reason of all. I want our
children to know about their father--not just his academic worth, his
public career, but the life he led from day to day. If I live till they
are old enough to understand, I, of course, can tell them. If not, how
are they to know? And so, in the last instance, this is a document for
them.
C.S.P.
March 17, 1919
AN AMERICAN IDYLL
CHAPTER I
Such hosts of memories come tumbling in on me. More than fifteen years
ago, on September 3, 1903, I met Carl Parker. He had just returned to
college, two weeks late for the beginning of his Senior year. There was
much concern among his friends, for he had gone on a two months'
hunting-trip into the wilds of Idaho, and had planned to return in time
for college. I met him his first afternoon in Berkeley. He was on the
top of a step-ladder, helping put up an awning for our sorority dance
that evening, uttering his proverbial joyous banter to any one who came
along, be it the man with the cakes, the sedate house-mother, fellow
awning-hangers, or the girls busying about.
Thus he was introduced to me--a Freshman of two weeks. He called down
gayly, "How do you do, young lady?" Within a week we were fast friends,
I looking up to him as a Freshman would to a Senior, and a Senior seven
years older than herself at that. Within a month I remember deciding
that, if ever I became engaged, I would tell Carl Parker before I told
any one else on earth!
After about two months, he called one evening with his pictures of
Idaho. Such a treat as my mountain-loving soul did have! I still have
the map he drew that night, with the trails and camping-places marked.
And I said, innocence itself, "_I'm_ going to Idaho on my honeymoon!"
And he said, "I'm not going to marry till I find a girl who wants to go
to Idaho on her honeymoon!" Then we both laughed.
But the deciding event in his eyes was when we planned our first long
walk in the Berkeley hills for a certain Saturday, November 22, and that
morning it rained. One of the tenets I was brought up on by my father
was that bad weather was _never_ an excuse for postponing anything; so I
took it for granted that we would start on our walk as planned.
Carl telephoned anon and said, "Of course the walk is off."
"But why?" I asked.
"The rain!" he answered.
"As if that makes any difference!"
At which he gasped a little and said all right, he'd be around in a
minute; which he was, in his Idaho outfit, the lunch he had suggested
being entirely responsible for bulging one pocket. Off we started in the
rain, and such a day as we had! We climbed Grizzly Peak,--only we did
not know it for the fog and rain,--and just over the summit, in the
shelter of a very drippy oak tree, we sat down for lunch. A fairly
sanctified expression came over Carl's face as he drew forth a rather
damp and frayed-looking paper-bag--as a king might look who uncovered
the chest of his most precious court jewels before a courtier deemed
worthy of that honor. And before my puzzled and somewhat doubtful eyes
he spread his treasure--jerked bear-meat, nothing but jerked bear-meat.
I never had seen jerked anything, let alone tasted it. I was used to
the conventional picnic sandwiches done up in waxed paper, plus a
stuffed egg, fruit, and cake. I was ready for a lunch after the
conservative pattern, and here I gazed upon a mess of most
unappetizing-looking, wrinkled, shrunken, jerked bear-meat, the rain
dropping down on it through the oak tree.
I would have gasped if I had not caught the look of awe and reverence on
Carl's face as he gazed eagerly, and with what respect, on his offering.
I merely took a hunk of what was supplied, set my teeth into it, and
pulled. It was salty, very; it looked queer, tasted queer, _was_ queer.
Yet that lunch! We walked farther, sat now and then under other drippy
trees, and at last decided that we must slide home, by that time soaked
to the skin, and I minus the heel to one shoe.
I had just got myself out of the bath and into dry clothes when the
telephone rang. It was Carl. Could he come over to the house and spend
the rest of the afternoon? It was then about four-thirty. He came, and
from then on things were decidedly--different.
How I should love to go into the details of that Freshman year of mine!
I am happier right now writing about it than I have been in six months.
I shall not go into detail--only to say that the night of the Junior
Prom of my Freshman year Carl Parker asked me to marry him, and two days
later, up again in our hills, I said that I would. To think of that
now--to think of waiting two whole days to decide whether I would marry
Carl Parker or not!! And for fourteen years from the day I met him,
there was never one small moment of misunderstanding, one day that was
not happiness--except when we were parted. Perhaps there are people who
would consider it stupid, boresome, to live in such peace as that. All I
can answer is that it was _not_ stupid, it was _not_ boresome--oh, how
far from it! In fact, in those early days we took our vow that the one
thing we would never do was to let the world get commonplace for us;
that the time should never come when we would not be eager for the start
of each new day. The Kipling poem we loved the most, for it was the
spirit of both of us, was "The Long Trail." You know the last of it:--
The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass,
And the Deuce knows what we may do--
But we're back once more on the old trail,
our own trail, the out trail,
We're down, hull down, on the Long Trail--the
trail that is always new!