In the morning they went home with others of the party by train. They
could not wait for Charlie and his automobile, because Monday was the
opening night of the Opera, and no one could miss that. Here Society
would appear in its most gorgeous raiment, and, there would be a show
of jewellery such as could be seen nowhere else in the world.
General Prentice and his wife had opened their town-house, and had
invited them to dinner and to share their box; and so at about
half-past nine o’clock Montague found himself seated in a great balcony
of the shape of a horseshoe, with several hundred of the richest people
in the city. There was another tier of boxes above, and three galleries
above that, and a thousand or more people seated and standing below
him. Upon the big stage there was an elaborate and showy play, the
words of which were sung to the accompaniment of an orchestra.
Now Montague had never heard an opera, and he was fond of music. The
second act had just begun when he came in, and all through it he sat
quite spellbound, listening to the most ravishing strains that ever he
had heard in his life. He scarcely noticed that Mrs. Prentice was
spending her time studying the occupants of the other boxes through a
jewelled lorgnette, or that Oliver was chattering to her daughter.
But after the act was over, Oliver got him alone outside the box, and
whispered, “For God’s sake, Allan, don’t make a fool of yourself.”
“Why, what’s the matter?” asked the other.
“What will people think,” exclaimed Oliver, “seeing you sitting there
like a man in a dope dream?”
“Why,” laughed the other, “they’ll think I’m listening to the music.”
To which Oliver responded, “People don’t come to the Opera to listen to
the music.”
This sounded like a joke, but it was not. To Society the Opera was a
great state function, an exhibition of far more exclusiveness and
magnificence than the Horse Show; and Society certainly had the right
to say, for it owned the opera-house and ran it. The real music-lovers
who came, either stood up in the back, or sat in the fifth gallery,
close to the ceiling, where the air was foul and hot. How much Society
cared about the play was sufficiently indicated by the fact that all of
the operas were sung in foreign languages, and sung so carelessly that
the few who understood the languages could make but little of the
words. Once there was a world-poet who devoted his life to trying to
make the Opera an art; and in the battle with Society he all but
starved to death. Now, after half a century, his genius had triumphed,
and Society consented to sit for hours in darkness and listen to the
domestic disputes of German gods and goddesses. But what Society really
cared for was a play with beautiful costumes and scenery and dancing,
and pretty songs to which one could listen while one talked; the story
must be elemental and passionate, so that one could understand it in
pantomime—say the tragic love of a beautiful and noble-minded courtesan
for a gallant young man of fashion.
Nearly every one who came to the Opera had a glass, by means of which
he could bring each gorgeously-clad society dame close to him, and
study her at leisure. There were said to be two hundred million
dollars’ worth of diamonds in New York, and those that were not in the
stores were very apt to be at this show; for here was where they could
accomplish the purpose for which they existed—here was where all the
world came to stare at them. There were nine prominent Society women,
who among them displayed five million dollars’ worth of jewels. You
would see stomachers which looked like a piece of a coat of mail, and
were made wholly of blazing diamonds. You would see emeralds and rubies
and diamonds and pearls made in tiaras—that is to say, imitation crowns
and coronets—and exhibited with a stout and solemn dowager for a
pediment. One of the Wallings had set this fashion, and now every one
of importance wore them. One lady to whom Montague was introduced made
a speciality of pearls—two black pearl ear-rings at forty thousand
dollars, a string at three hundred thousand, a brooch of pink pearls at
fifty thousand, and two necklaces at a quarter of a million each!
This incessant repetition of the prices of things came to seem very
sordid; but Montague found that there was no getting away from it. The
people in Society who paid these prices affected to be above all such
considerations, to be interested only in the beauty and artistic
excellence of the things themselves; but one found that they always
talked about the prices which other people had paid, and that somehow
other people always knew what they had paid. They took care also to see
that the public and the newspapers knew what they had paid, and knew
everything else that they were doing. At this Opera, for instance,
there was a diagram of the boxes printed upon the programme, and a list
of all the box-holders, so that anyone could tell who was who. You
might see these great dames in their gorgeous robes coming from their
carriages, with crowds staring at them and detectives hovering about.
And the bosom of each would be throbbing with a wild and wonderful
vision of the moment when she would enter her box, and the music would
be forgotten, and all eyes would be turned upon her; and she would lay
aside her wraps, and flash upon the staring throngs, a vision of
dazzling splendour.
Some of these jewels were family treasures, well known to New York for
generations; and in such cases it was becoming the fashion to leave the
real jewels in the safe-deposit vault, and to wear imitation stones
exactly like them. From homes where the jewels were kept, detectives
were never absent, and in many cases there were detectives watching the
detectives; and yet every once in a while the newspapers would be full
of a sensational story of a robbery. Then the unfortunates who chanced
to be suspected would be seized by the police and subjected to what was
jocularly termed the “third degree,” and consisted of tortures as
elaborate and cruel as any which the Spanish Inquisition had invented.
The advertising value of this kind of thing was found to be so great
that famous actresses also had costly jewels, and now and then would
have them stolen.
That night, when they had got home, Montague had a talk with his cousin
about Charlie Carter. He discovered a peculiar situation. It seemed
that Alice already knew that Charlie had been “bad.” He was sick and
miserable; and her beauty and innocence had touched him and made him
ashamed of himself, and he had hinted darkly at dreadful evils. Thus
carefully veiled, and tinged with mystery and romance, Montague could
understand how Charlie made an interesting and appealing figure. “He
says I’m different from any girl he ever met,” said Alice—a remark of
such striking originality that her cousin could not keep back his
smile.
Alice was not the least bit in love with him, and had no idea of being;
and she said that she would accept no invitations, and never go alone
with him; but she did not see how she could avoid him when she met him
at other people’s houses. And to this Montague had to assent.
General Prentice had inquired kindly as to what Montague had seen in
New York, and how he was getting along. He added that he had talked
about him to Judge Ellis, and that when he was ready to get to work,
the Judge would perhaps have some suggestions to make to him. He
approved, however, of Montague’s plan of getting his bearings first;
and said that he would introduce him and put him up at a couple of the
leading clubs.
All this remained in Montague’s mind; but there was no use trying to
think of it at the moment. Thanksgiving was at hand, and in countless
country mansions there would be gaieties under way. Bertie Stuyvesant
had planned an excursion to his Adirondack camp, and had invited a
score or so of young people, including the Montagues. This would be a
new feature of the city’s life, worth knowing about.
Their expedition began with a theatre-party. Bertie had engaged four
boxes, and they met there, an hour or so after the performance had
begun. This made no difference, however, for the play was like the
opera-a number of songs and dances strung together, and with only plot
enough to provide occasion for elaborate scenery and costumes. From the
play they were carried to the Grand Central Station, and a little
before midnight Bertie’s private train set out on its journey.
This train was a completely equipped hotel. There was a baggage
compartment and a dining-car and kitchen; and a drawing-room and
library-car; and a bedroom-car—not with berths, such as the ordinary
sleeping-car provides, but with comfortable bedrooms, furnished in
white mahogany, and provided with running water and electric light. All
these cars were built of steel, and automatically ventilated: and they
were furnished in the luxurious fashion of everything with which Bertie
Stuyvesant had anything to do. In the library-car there were velvet
carpets upon the floor, and furniture of South American mahogany, and
paintings upon the walls over which great artists had laboured for
years.
Bertie’s chef and servants were on board, and a supper was ready in the
dining-car, which they ate while watching the Hudson by moonlight. And
the next morning they reached their destination, a little station in
the mountain wilderness. The train lay upon a switch, and so they had
breakfast at their leisure, and then, bundled in furs, came out into
the crisp pine-laden air of the woods. There was snow upon the ground,
and eight big sleighs waiting; and for nearly three hours they drove in
the frosty sunlight, through most beautiful mountain scenery. A good
part of the drive was in Bertie’s “preserve,” and the road was private,
as big signs notified one every hundred yards or so.
So at last they reached a lake, winding like a snake among towering
hills, and with a huge baronial castle standing out upon the rocky
shore. This imitation fortress was the “camp.”
Bertie’s father had built it, and visited it only half a dozen times in
his life. Bertie himself had only been here twice, he said. The deer
were so plentiful that in the winter they died in scores. Nevertheless
there were thirty game-keepers to guard the ten thousand acres of
forest, and prevent anyone’s hunting in it. There were many such
“preserves” in this Adirondack wilderness, so Montague was told; one
man had a whole mountain fenced about with heavy iron railing, and had
moose and elk and even wild boar inside. And as for the “camps,” there
were so many that a new style of architecture had been developed
here—to say nothing of those which followed old styles, like this
imported Rhine castle. One of Bertie’s crowd had a big Swiss chalet;
and one of the Wallings had a Japanese palace to which he came every
August—a house which had been built from plans drawn in Japan, and by
labourers imported especially from Japan. It was full of Japanese
ware—furniture, tapestry, and mosaics; and the guides remembered with
wonder the strange silent, brown-skinned little men who had laboured
for days at carving a bit of wood, and had built a tiny pagoda-like
tea-house with more bits of wood in it than a man could count in a
week.
They had a luncheon of fresh venison and partridges and trout, and in
the afternoon a hunt. The more active set out to track the deer in the
snow; but most prepared to watch the lake-shore, while the game-keepers
turned loose the dogs back in the hills. This “hounding” was against
the law, but Bertie was his own law here—and at the worst there could
simply be a small fine, imposed upon some of the keepers. They drove
eight or ten deer to water; and as they fired as many as twenty shots
at one deer, they had quite a lively time. Then at dusk they came back,
in a fine glow of excitement, and spent the evening before the blazing
logs, telling over their adventures.
The party spent two days and a half here, and on the last evening,
which was Thanksgiving, they had a wild turkey which Bertie had shot
the week before in Virginia, and were entertained by a minstrel show
which had been brought up from New York the night before. The next
afternoon they drove back to the train.
In the morning, when they reached the city, Alice found a note from
Mrs. Winnie Duval, begging her and Montague to come to lunch and attend
a private lecture by the Swami Babubanana, who would tell them all
about the previous states of their souls. They went—though not without
a protest from old Mrs. Montague, who declared it was “worse than Bob
Ingersoll.”
And then, in the evening, came Mrs. de Graffenried’s opening
entertainment, which was one of the great events of the social year. In
the general rush of things Montague had not had a chance properly to
realize it; but Reggie Mann and Mrs. de Graffenried had been working
over it for weeks. When the Montagues arrived, they found the Riverside
mansion—which was decorated in imitation of an Arabian palace—turned
into a jungle of tropical plants.
They had come early at Reggie’s request, and he introduced them to Mrs.
de Graffenried, a tall and angular lady with a leathern complexion
painfully painted; Mrs. de Graffenried was about fifty years of age,
but like all the women of Society she was made up for thirty. Just at
present there were beads of perspiration upon her forehead; something
had gone wrong at the last moment, and so Reggie would have no time to
show them the favours, as he had intended.
About a hundred and fifty guests were invited to this entertainment. A
supper was served at little tables in the great ball-room, and
afterward the guests wandered about the house while the tables were
whisked out of the way and the room turned into a play-house. A company
from one of the Broadway theatres would be bundled into cabs at the end
of the performance, and by midnight they would be ready to repeat the
performance at Mrs. de Graffenried’s. Montague chanced to be near when
this company arrived, and he observed that the guests had crowded up
too close, and not left room enough for the actors. So the manager had
placed them in a little ante-room, and when Mrs. de Graffenried
observed this, she rushed at the man, and swore at him like a dragoon,
and ordered the bewildered performers out into the main room.
But this was peering behind the scenes, and he was supposed to be
watching the play. The entertainment was another “musical comedy” like
the one he had seen a few nights before. On that occasion, however,
Bertie Stuyvesant’s sister had talked to him the whole time, while now
he was let alone, and had a chance to watch the performance.
This was a very popular play; it had had a long run, and the papers
told how its author had an income of a couple of hundred thousand
dollars a year. And here was an audience of the most rich and
influential people in the city; and they laughed and clapped, and made
it clear that they were enjoying themselves heartily. And what sort of
a play was it?
It was called “The Kaliph of Kamskatka.” It had no shred of a plot; the
Kaliph had seventeen wives, and there was an American drummer who
wanted to sell him another—but then you did not need to remember this,
for nothing came of it. There was nothing in the play which could be
called a character—there was nothing which could be connected with any
real emotion ever felt by human beings. Nor could one say that there
was any incident—at least nothing happened because of anything else.
Each event was a separate thing, like the spasmodic jerking in the face
of an idiot. Of this sort of “action” there was any quantity—at an
instant’s notice every one on the stage would fall simultaneously into
this condition of idiotic jerking. There was rushing about, shouting,
laughing, exclaiming; the stage was in a continual uproar of
excitement, which was without any reason or meaning. So it was
impossible to think of the actors in their parts; one kept thinking of
them as human beings—thinking of the awful tragedy of full-grown men
and women being compelled by the pressure of hunger to dress up and
paint themselves, and then come out in public and dance, stamp, leap
about, wring their hands, make faces, and otherwise be “lively.”
The costumes were of two sorts: one fantastic, supposed to represent
the East, and the other a kind of _reductio ad absurdum_ of fashionable
garb. The leading man wore a “natty” outing-suit, and strutted with a
little cane; his stock-in-trade was a jaunty air, a kind of perpetual
flourish, and a wink that suggested the cunning of a satyr. The leading
lady changed her costume several times in each act; but it invariably
contained the elements of bare arms and bosom and back, and a skirt
which did not reach her knees, and bright-coloured silk stockings, and
slippers with heels two inches high. Upon the least provocation she
would execute a little pirouette, which would reveal the rest of her
legs, surrounded by a mass of lace ruffles. It is the nature of the
human mind to seek the end of things; if this woman had worn a suit of
tights and nothing else, she would have been as uninteresting as an
underwear advertisement in a magazine; but this incessant
not-quite-revealing of herself exerted a subtle fascination. At
frequent intervals the orchestra would start up a jerky little tune,
and the two “stars” would begin to sing in nasal voices some words
expressive of passion; then the man would take the woman about the
waist and dance and swing her about and bend her backward and gaze into
her eyes—actions all vaguely suggestive of the relationship of sex. At
the end of the verse a chorus would come gliding on, clad in any sort
of costume which admitted of colour and the display of legs; the
painted women of this chorus were never still for an instant—if they
were not actually dancing, they were wriggling their legs, and jerking
their bodies from side to side, and nodding their heads, and in all
other possible ways being “lively.”
But it was not the physical indecency of this show that struck Montague
so much as its intellectual content. The dialogue of the piece was what
is called “smart”; that is, it was full of a kind of innuendo which
implied a secret understanding of evil between the actor and his
audience—a sort of countersign which passed between them. After all, it
would have been an error to say that there were no ideas in the
play—there was one idea upon which all the interest of it was based;
and Montague strove to analyze this idea and formulate it to himself.
There are certain life principles—one might call them moral
axioms—which are the result of the experience of countless ages of the
human race, and upon the adherence to which the continuance of the race
depends. And here was an audience by whom all these principles were—not
questioned, nor yet disputed, nor yet denied—but to whom the denial was
the axiom, something which it would be too banal to state flatly, but
which it was elegant and witty to take for granted. In this audience
there were elderly people, and married men and women, and young men and
maidens; and a perfect gale of laughter swept through it at a story of
a married woman whose lover had left her when he got married:—
“She must have been heartbroken,” said the leading lady.
“She was desperate,” said the leading man, with a grin.
“What did she do?” asked the lady “Go and shoot herself?”
“Worse than that,” said the man. “She, went back to her husband and had
a baby!”
But to complete your understanding of the significance of this play,
you must bring yourself to realize that it was not merely a play, but a
_kind_ of a play; it had a name—a “musical comedy”—the meaning of which
every one understood. Hundreds of such plays were written and produced,
and “dramatic critics” went to see them and gravely discussed them, and
many thousands of people made their livings by travelling over the
country and playing them; stately theatres were built for them, and
hundreds of thousands of people paid their money every night to see
them. And all this no joke and no nightmare—but a thing that really
existed. Men and women were doing these things—actual flesh-and-blood
human beings.
Montague wondered, in an awestricken sort of way, what kind of human
being it could be who had flourished the cane and made the grimaces in
that play. Later on, when he came to know the “Tenderloin,” he met this
same actor, and he found that he had begun life as a little Irish
“mick” who lived in a tenement, and whose mother stood at the head of
the stairway and defended him with a rolling-pin against a policeman
who was chasing him. He had discovered that he could make a living by
his comical antics; but when he came home and told his mother that he
had been offered twenty dollars a week by a show manager, she gave him
a licking for lying to her. Now he was making three thousand dollars a
week—more than the President of the United States and his Cabinet; but
he was not happy, as he confided to Montague, because he did not know
how to read, and this was a cause of perpetual humiliation. The secret
desire of this little actor’s heart was to play Shakespeare; he had
“Hamlet” read to him, and pondered how to act it—all the time that he
was flourishing his little cane and making his grimaces! He had chanced
to be on the stage when a fire had broken out, and five or six hundred
victims of greed were roasted to death. The actor had pleaded with the
people to keep their seats, but all in vain; and all his life
thereafter he went about with this vision of horror in his mind, and
haunted by the passionate conviction that he had failed because of his
lack of education—that if only he had been a man of culture, he would
have been able to think of something to say to hold those
terror-stricken people!
At three o’clock in the morning the performance came to an end, and
then there were more refreshments; and Mrs. Vivie Patton came and sat
by him, and they had a nice comfortable gossip. When Mrs. Vivie once
got started at talking about people, her tongue ran on like a windmill.
There was Reggie Mann, meandering about and simpering at people. Reggie
was in his glory at Mrs. de Graffenried’s affairs. Reggie had arranged
all this—he did the designing and the ordering, and contracted for the
shows with the agents. You could bet that he had got his commission on
them, too—though sometimes Mrs. de Graffenried got the shows to come
for nothing, because of the advertising her name would bring.
Commissions were Reggie’s speciality—he had begun life as an auto
agent. Montague didn’t know what that was? An auto agent was a man who
was for ever begging his friends to use a certain kind of car, so that
he might make a living; and Reggie had made about thirty thousand a
year in that way. He had come from Boston, where his reputation had
been made by the fact that early one morning, as they were driving home
from a celebration, he had dared a young society matron to take off her
shoes and stockings, and get out and wade in the public fountain; and
she had done it, and he had followed her. On the strength of the eclat
of this he had been taken up by Mrs. Devon; and one day Mrs. Devon had
worn a white gown, and asked him what he thought of it. “It needs but
one thing to make it perfect,” said Reggie, and taking a red rose, he
pinned it upon her corsage. The effect was magical; every one exclaimed
with delight, and so Reggie’s reputation as an authority upon dress was
made for ever. Now he was Mrs. de Graffenried’s right-hand man, and
they made up their pranks together. Once they had walked down the
street in Newport with a big rag doll between them. And Reggie had
given a dinner at which the guest of honour had been a monkey—surely
Montague had heard of that, for it had been the sensation of the
season. It was really the funniest thing imaginable; the monkey wore a
suit of broad-cloth with collar and cuffs, and he shook hands with all
the guests, and behaved himself exactly like a gentleman—except that he
did not get drunk.
And then Mrs. Vivie pointed out the great Mrs. Ridgley-Clieveden, who
was sitting with one of her favourites, a grave, black-bearded
gentleman who had leaped into fame by inheriting fifty million dollars.
“Mrs. R.-C.” had taken him up, and ordered his engagement book for him,
and he was solemnly playing the part of a social light. He had
purchased an old New York mansion, upon the decoration of which three
million dollars had been spent; and when he came down to business from
Tuxedo, his private train waited all day for him with steam up. Mrs.
Vivie told an amusing tale of a woman who had announced her engagement
to him, and borrowed large sums of money upon the strength of it,
before his denial came out. That had been a source of great delight to
Mrs. de Graffenried, who was furiously jealous of “Mrs. R. C.”
From the anecdotes that people told, Montague judged that Mrs. de
Graffenried must be one of those new leaders of Society, who, as Mrs.
Alden said, were inclined to the bizarre and fantastic. Mrs. de
Graffenried spent half a million dollars every season to hold the
position of leader of the Newport set, and you could always count upon
her for new and striking ideas. Once she had given away as cotillion
favours tiny globes with goldfish in them; again she had given a dance
at which everybody got themselves up as different vegetables. She was
fond of going about at Newport and inviting people haphazard to
lunch—thirty or forty at a time—and then surprising them with a
splendid banquet. Again she would give a big formal dinner, and perplex
people by offering them something which they really cared to eat. “You
see,” explained Mrs. Vivie, “at these dinners we generally get thick
green turtle soup, and omelettes with some sort of Florida water poured
over them, and mushrooms cooked under glass, and real hand-made
desserts; but Mrs. de Graffenried dares to have baked ham and sweet
potatoes, or even real roast beef. You saw to-night that she had green
corn; she must have arranged for that months ahead—we can never get it
from Porto Rico until January. And you see this little dish of wild
strawberries—they were probably transplanted and raised in a hothouse,
and every single one wrapped separately before they were shipped.”
All these labours had made Mrs. de Graffenried a tremendous power in
the social world. She had a savage tongue, said Mrs. Vivie, and every
one lived in terror of her; but once in a while she met her match. Once
she had invited a comic opera star to sing for her guests, and all the
men had crowded round this actress, and Mrs. de Graffenried had flown
into a passion and tried to drive them away; and the actress, lolling
back in her chair, and gazing up idly at Mrs. de Graffenried, had
drawled, “_Ten years older than God!_” Poor Mrs. de Graffenried would
carry that saying with her until she died.
Something reminiscent of this came under Montague’s notice that same
evening. At about four o’clock Mrs. Vivie wished to go home, and asked
him to find her escort, the Count St. Elmo de Champignon—the man, by
the way, for whom her husband was gunning. Montague roamed all about
the house, and finally went downstairs, where a room had been set apart
for the theatrical company to partake of refreshments. Mrs. de
Graffenried’s secretary was on guard at the door; but some of the boys
had got into the room, and were drinking champagne and “making dates”
with the chorus-girls. And here was Mrs. de Graffenried herself,
pushing them bodily out of the room, a score and more of them—and among
them Mrs. Vivie’s Count!
Montague delivered his message, and then went upstairs to wait until
his own party should be ready to leave. In the smoking-room were a
number of men, also waiting; and among them he noticed Major Venable,
in conversation with a man whom he did not know. “Come over here,” the
Major called; and Montague obeyed, at the same time noticing the
stranger.
He was a tall, loose-jointed, powerfully built man, a small head and a
very striking face: a grim mouth with drooping corners tightly set, and
a hawk-like nose, and deep-set, peering eyes. “Have you met Mr. Hegan?”
said the Major. “Hegan, this is Mr. Allan Montague.” Jim Hegan!
Montague repressed a stare and took the chair which they offered him.
“Have a cigar,” said Hegan, holding out his case.
“Mr. Montague has just come to New York,” said the Major. “He is a
Southerner, too.”
“Indeed?” said Hegan, and inquired what State he came from. Montague
replied, and added, “I had the pleasure of meeting your daughter last
week, at the Horse Show.”
That served to start a conversation; for Hegan came from Texas, and
when he found that Montague knew about horses—real horses—he warmed to
him. Then the Major’s party called him away, and the other two were
left to carry on the conversation.
It was very easy to chat with Hegan; and yet underneath, in the other’s
mind, there lurked a vague feeling of trepidation, as he realized that
he was chatting with a hundred millions of dollars. Montague was new
enough at the game to imagine that there ought to be something strange,
some atmosphere of awe and mystery, about a man who was master of a
dozen railroads and of the politics of half a dozen States. He was
simple and very kindly in his manner, a plain man, interested in plain
things. There was about him, as he talked, a trace of timidity, almost
of apology, which Montague noticed and wondered at. It was only later,
when he had time to think about it, that he realized that Hegan had
begun as a farmer’s boy in Texas, a “poor white”; and could it be that
after all these years an instinct remained in him, so that whenever he
met a gentleman of the old South he stood by with a little deference,
seeming to beg pardon for his hundred millions of dollars?
And yet there was the power of the man. Even chatting about horses, you
felt it; you felt that there was a part of him which did not chat, but
which sat behind and watched. And strangest of all, Montague found
himself fancying that behind the face that smiled was another face,
that did not smile, but that was grim and set. It was a strange face,
with its broad, sweeping eyebrows and its drooping mouth; it haunted
Montague and made him feel ill at ease.
There came Laura Hegan, who greeted them in her stately way; and Mrs.
Hegan, bustling and vivacious, costumed _en grande dame_. “Come and see
me some time,” said the man. “You won’t be apt to meet me otherwise,
for I don’t go about much.” And so they took their departure; and
Montague sat alone and smoked and thought. The face still stayed with
him; and now suddenly, in a burst of light, it came to him what it was:
the face of a bird of prey—of the great wild, lonely eagle! You have
seen it, perhaps, in a menagerie; sitting high up, submitting
patiently, biding its time. But all the while the soul of the eagle is
far away, ranging the wide spaces, ready for the lightning swoop, and
the clutch with the cruel talons!