1
It took some years to become a “rich fool,” but Garrison accomplished
it. He had no business ability, at least that is what he told people,
and honestly believed it; how could he? he had never been in business.
He thought it well over, and became what he had always condemned in
others--a gambler. He risked every dollar he had, and all he could
borrow in hazardous real estate speculations. It was touch and go many
times, as the values rose and fell. They called him “Lucky Garrison”;
he knew better, but there was a grim satisfaction in his success. He
realized as he had learnt to manipulate money that a man can attain
nothing without it. Other “big” interests developed. Every bit of his
energy came into play; there was always some interesting thing coming
up, which led to great connections, such as international finance and
the like. New “deals” got to be a necessary physical tonic, like a
cocktail before dinner, and a strong cigar and black coffee after....
* * * * *
He scanned the morning paper at the breakfast table, looking carefully
over the financial news and rate of exchange.
“We are sailing into prosperous times,” said he to Julie. He was an
optimist, like all good American millionaires. Julie had no opinion,
she smiled.
As Dr. McClaren predicted, her religious mania passed off--she was
now deeply interested in Art, a patroness of the Museum, and much
sought after by budding talent. Floyd encouraged this “mania”; it was
harmless. There was a busy day before him, a big deal to close; he was
in a hurry to get to his office. She went with him to the door. He
looked up at the imposing staircase and beautiful Tiffany glass window.
He hated it once; how could he have been so prejudiced? It was all in
the very best of taste, Julie was perfectly framed in it.
“I’ll meet you at the Museum about five o’clock; we’ll drive around for
an hour. I forgot to tell you, I’ve invited some men to dinner; it’s
business. Do you mind?”
Julie smiled again.
“Oh, no!”
With a sudden impulse he took her hand.
“Are you happy, Julie?”
She looked at him; what made him ask that?
“Oh yes!--I have every reason to be.”
“Is there anything I can buy for you?”
“Nothing.”
She stood watching him drive off and waved her hand. It was well-known
in their circle that the Garrisons were a very devoted couple.
Floyd leaned back in the car, puffing at a cigar. The years had
changed him; the sensitive boy had become a man of affairs, a
Capitalist. He was very sane; his Puritan instincts rebelled against
the rioting emotions of the Latins. His life was made up of facts and
figures; ultimately he would have become an image of clay, like his
father’s statues, but there was a secret element of his life, of which
no one had the slightest clue. The Past had ceased to torture him; it
became a consolation. He lived over and over again the Romance of his
youth, the agony, the passion, his first years with Julie, the rage of
the murderer, the whole tragedy, but it didn’t hurt him now; Martin
was dead, forgiven. We count the years we have lived to know how old
we are--correct mathematics, but our age corresponds to other numbers.
Heart swings are the rhythm of our seasons, recording in spiritual
time, the real life.
The car stopped in Twelfth Street. Floyd jumped out, stood for a moment
looking up at the imposing twenty-story office building which he had
erected on the site of his old home. It had rented well. There was
not a room empty. He had retained an office for himself on the third
floor. He sat down to his desk, read his mail. He was about to sell
the building--the psychological moment had come to “turn it over” and
get a handsome profit. He never kept any real estate very long. New
York neighborhoods change and values fluctuate. Then it occurred to
him quite suddenly that the room in which he sat was about the height
of his father’s workshop in the little house where he was born. There
was no emotion, but it was strange he had never thought of it before.
He looked at the heavy safe, the walls lined with repositories, where
contracts were kept--and saw--clay images. He looked down at his desk;
it was littered with old rags, bits of arms, legs--a young man, with an
agonized face, dropped a candle.
He smiled. What courage youth has! It was well done. The home of his
childhood was still his; he had not desecrated it. He saw Mary flying
past him up the stairs; she had become a world figure, the head of an
international organization of nurses. When Julie’s “headaches” came on,
Mary was always there. He’d go softly to the door and wait; he didn’t
knock; he knew she’d come out.
“Mrs. Garrison is much better; I’m sure she’ll be all right in the
morning.” Then the worn face, dim eyes, streaked hair would vanish. She
stood again at the window in her bare room, where they had loved each
other for a moment.
The telephone at his elbow startled him. Julie’s voice--would he order
some flowers for the dinner table.
“Certainly, and a bunch for you. Anything else?”
“Yes,” her tone became confidential. “What wine do you want
served?--are the gentlemen heavy drinkers?”
“No, but they’ll take all you give them.”
He dropped the receiver, smiling. How eager he used to be to do all
those small errands! the night of their house-warming--he drank too
much. That Swede was a nice man. The den on the top floor was hung now
with maps of suburban towns, new fields for speculation; he spent many
evenings poring over them. Somehow his business mind always worked well
up there in that room where a man was murdered by his wife.
The stenographer put a paper before him. He started, came back to
reality; it was a bill of sale and very satisfactory.
“I’ll close the deal tonight.”
Then he commenced searching in an old desk for some papers he wanted,
and came across a sealed envelope; on it was written “Boodle.”
Boodle? What did it mean? He broke the seal and took out three
five-dollar bills.
Tom Dillon! He had quite forgotten him, but he had a vague idea that he
owned a Taxi Company, and was strong in local politics.
He put back the fifteen dollars, resealed the envelope, and wrote on
it, “The foundation of the Garrison fortune.” He would give the story
to his publicity man--how an impoverished son of wealth started in
life by earning fifteen dollars as a chauffeur. Tom Dillon! was the
real thing. What _was_ the real thing? Had _he_ found it? or was he
chasing phantoms? He had that feeling sometimes, in his most successful
moments; it was a queer sensation, as if he had caught a thing of vapor
that melted out of hand and challenged him again from far off--and
again that shadow race!
He thought often of Tom Dillon after that, and one election night
he saw him in the crowd, with a fine young fellow, the image of his
father; they were laughing and nudging each other like two boy friends.
Floyd shook off a feeling of loneliness and got out of their way.
2
Julie was recovering from an attack which left her mentally exhausted.
She lay back in the sedan, her deep-rimmed eyes like smouldering coals.
She arrived at the Museum an hour before the time agreed on with Floyd,
wandered through the rooms, making notes about the hanging and grouping
of new pictures. There was a small canvas in a corner which she thought
was somewhat crowded in. She asked about it. It had been received very
recently and was not yet catalogued. “Yes, it was badly hung.”
She sank down on a divan before the picture--a Swiss landscape, with a
mountain background sloping down to a grassy plateau; below, a bank of
mist, through which could be distinguished an old chapel, with a broken
cross on top. In a corner, hardly visible to the naked eye, she read,
“Val Sinestra,” and underneath, two letters, M. S.
She bent nearer, looking eagerly into the picture. Was it her
imagination! or did she really see a shadowy outline of a man with a
white figure in his arms? Martin! Martin! with flaming eyes, distorted
face!--desperate! mad!
“A charming picture, isn’t it? like a Corot. It’s the first of this
artist, he’s not known in America.”
It was a member of the committee who spoke. Then Floyd came up and
introduced his business friends. She smiled, asked them if they had
seen some gems in the next room, and led them away from that picture in
the corner.
On arriving home she went through the house looking for something and
finally found it, hidden away on a top shelf covered with dust; it was
a small glass vase with a delicate stem. The engraving was beautiful
like a white mist over it. The butler washed it and held it up to the
light; colors flashed through it.
“It’s Bohemian glass, Madame. It will break easily.”
“No! It’s very strong, I’ve had it a long time.”
She put it on her bed-table, with a dark red rose in it. From that
time the “headaches” were less frequent, the ravings about punishment
ceased. Mary said to the doctor:
“I think she’s getting over those horrible nightmares.”
“I’m glad of that,” said the doctor wearily. He himself was suffering
from an attack of nerves. He was getting old, and the hives of human
bees he cared for didn’t always contain honey. They stung him at his
patients’ table, at births, at marriages; at deaths, less so--that
was a release. He fought them with his Scotch tenacity, but they grew
too much for him. Finally he got rid of them by retiring from active
practice and putting the whole “bunch” without names or dates, into a
book on psychical research, which became celebrated.
Julie devoted much time to her boy--took him in her car every morning
to St. John’s College, called for him in the afternoon, preached
religion to him at home, warned him of the great evils which arise from
lack of it. She had been very negligent in her youth, and was punished
for it. Religion was a great consolation.
He listened to her with deference. He was extraordinarily gifted and
devoured everything he could lay his hands on in the way of serious
reading. His father was proud of him, but there was a growing sense of
uneasiness about his religious studies. He saw little of the boy, who
spent his evenings in his own room, filled with books he had bought
himself in the old book shops. Floyd couldn’t understand them. The maps
which hung on the walls of his den were more intelligible.
A distant cousin of Julie’s came to America ostensibly on business.
The Bank, taken over by the family, had grown enormously rich under
American management. Mr. Gonzola was highly cultured--a dark, handsome
man with white hands and long tapering fingers. He was delighted with
the boy and his knowledge of international literature. He found him
reading Renan.
“That’s forbidden, isn’t it?”
The boy answered with a gleam of humor.
“Not forbidden, but not taught. I read all they recommend in school,
and all they forget, out of it.”
Then came a letter from Father Cabello to Julie. He was very glad to
hear that everything continued to be so satisfactory with her. The
wonderful gifts of her boy interested him; he saw in his genius the
hand of God leading him into the Divine path. They must decide now
about his career.
Julie handed the letter to Floyd, who read it carefully and understood
its hidden significance.
“This means the priesthood.”
“Yes,” said Julie, “but don’t speak of that to Joseph.”
That evening at dinner, she said:
“Joseph, would you like to go to Rome to visit Father Cabello?”
The boy’s eyes lit up.
“Oh yes, it’s the dream of my life. And--I would like to go to Vienna,
to see your people.”
Mr. Gonzola spoke quietly, his arm around the boy.
“Let me take him, Julie. I promise you there will be no influence. Our
family has been split into different religious camps for generations;
those who have remained true to their faith have made no effort to
bring the others back. We do not proselytize. The missionary is unknown
to us.”
Julie hesitated, looked at Floyd; it was a great responsibility. The
boy was bending over eagerly watching his father, who decided quickly,
as was his way in business. His theory was, when a man weighs the pros
and cons of an enterprise, the difficulties grow so great that he
generally ends in not undertaking it. He would give the boy his chance;
he was old enough now to decide for himself.
“Go with Mr. Gonzola,” said Floyd.
The boy flung his arms around his father; “I will do what is right!”
“I’m sure you will, my boy,” answered Floyd. At that moment he caught
sight of Julie’s face reflected in the mirror; it was lit by a quick
flash of joy.
3
When Father Cabello received a letter from Julie informing him Joseph
had sailed with a Gonzola, he proceeded at once to counteract any
possible “baleful” influence. He communicated with the Catholic members
of the family in Vienna, hinting that the boy was destined for the
church. This branch of the Gonzolas were devout Catholics, generations
old; they welcomed Joseph affectionately and brought him as early as
possible to Rome. There he remained for some time, a member of Father
Cabello’s household, coming and going at will. The priest watched,
waited; the mind of the boy was not yet ripe for decision.
Joseph was dazzled with his first glimpse of the Pagan City--its
remains of Hellenic civilization; the pomp and splendor of its
churches; the Cardinals in their decaying palaces, clinging to the
traditions of the Past; the art of the great Masters, those faithful
servants of the Church, with their wonderful portrayal of legendary
religion. The unearthly beauty of their divine types, fired the boy’s
imagination, stimulated him like rich wine, tasted for the first time,
taken again in long draughts until his senses reeled. The people
fascinated him with their magnetism, their emotional sensuality, their
worship of women, symbolized in the Blessed Virgin and Child; their
passions--jealousy, hate, revenge, repentance. He roamed day after day
through the streets, sat for hours in the churches listening to the
chanting of the priests, with a pleasant sense of drowsiness, like the
after effects of a narcotic. He followed the processions of monks,
pilgrims, peasants, into churches, away from churches, sprinkling with
holy water, kissing burnt pieces of sacred wood--and always that music!
Oh! that music! swelling in waves of overpowering sadness from the
throats of unsexed men--the terrible sweetness of it, sucking him down
into the waters of oblivion, of self-deception; the soul in safety,
interceded for, the load of personal responsibility fallen away,
care-free on earth, secure of Heaven, an unutterable sense of rest from
that torturing brain which keeps persecuting with its unceasing cry,
“Think while ’tis day, for the night cometh when no man can think.”
In moments of realization, he would say to the priest, “Father, I am
going to Vienna; I must go.” The priest did not keep him back. The boy
must live through the inevitable experience of intoxication, reaction,
submission. He was travelling smoothly; he would arrive safely.
4
When Joseph went from Rome to Vienna to visit the Gonzolas, he was in
a state of mental unrest and indecision. The artist in him shrank from
activity. He was very sensitive; he couldn’t bear pain, disappointment.
The Church would be a shelter from the materialism of the world. It
would be ideal to work for the poor. The garb of piety appealed to
his imagination--a priest walking among the wretched, the persecuted,
the unhappy, giving everything, his material wealth, himself, living
a simple contemplative life. The beauty of it all still remained with
him, keeping him in a semi-intoxicated emotional state. He thought of
the works of immortal art created in the quiet of the cloister. He was
sorely tempted, not by the flesh like St. Anthony, but by the spirit
and the longing for release from a leaden sense of responsibility.
“If not that, what?” He saw nothing for him in the future. His father
had at least the satisfaction of success. He himself had created his
capital. It was a game, like racing, roulette, politics--a game, life
a game! what else? what else?--It was all so ugly; the yearning for
beauty came again, he was sorely tempted....
Mr. Gonzola’s wife and three daughters were models of domesticated
womanhood. Their home was very modern, with just enough of the idealism
of religion to give it spiritual charm. The girls were well educated,
practical women, keenly alive to the responsibility of their wealth,
full of enthusiasm and hope for the future of the world. They received
Joseph with great cordiality, helped him perfect his German, and were
silently sympathetic toward his unsettled spiritual condition of mind.
Mrs. Gonzola was one hundred per cent maternal: she mothered her
husband, her daughters, her friends, her poor, and any stray animal who
instinctively came to her for shelter. Joseph was her life’s crowning
joy, the realization of a hope long dead--a son! She found him too
thin, too pale; poor boy, he had never known the cuisine of Israel, the
finest in the world. No Cordon-bleu can equal the Jewish mother, who
cooks with the subtlety and cleanliness of religious tradition and puts
into her cakes the honey of love. This healthy sane atmosphere was a
good tonic for Joseph’s over-excited mind.
Mr. Gonzola’s ethics were very simple. He kept the two principles
of life wide apart, and gave “to God what was His, to men, what was
theirs.” He was an able man of business, and did not consider a good
bargain with legitimate profit, ungodly. Sometimes he had an uneasy
feeling; the religious ground was slipping like sand from under his
feet. He said to Joseph with a sigh:
“I do not live up to ritual laws as strictly as I should. My daughters
won’t let me; but I am going to take you to Frankfort to visit the head
of the family, Pedro Gonzala, who has preserved the original spelling
of our name and the tradition of our ancestors. In his home you will
see pure orthodoxy, but--don’t forget the responsibility is on my
shoulders. I have given my word to your mother--and I want to keep
it--if possible.”
Joseph laughed. Mr. Gonzola was an honest man.
5
The family of bankers, with branches all over the world, were assembled
this year in Frankfort. Pedro Gonzala, despite his great age, was
consulted about every detail by the “young” men of the firm, from fifty
years old and upward. The “children” under fifty stood meekly silent,
and listened to warnings against the ardor of youth and the temptation
of speculative times. The house of Gonzola had braved many storms,
was sometimes drawn into international financial catastrophes, but it
had always kept its honor unimpeached and continued to live up to its
reputation as creditors of the world. These cold men of finance led a
dual existence. When they stepped over the thresholds of their palatial
homes, the world outside was forgotten. They lived their religious life
with extreme exactness. Their wives and daughters were faithful to the
Law, in their domestic life, their marriage life, and in the education
of their children. They were the remains of a vanishing caste, which
lived upon its own fanaticism.
When Joseph first met Pedro Gonzala in his private office, he saw a
very old man wearing a black silk skull cap, otherwise well groomed
and modern in appearance. He was seated at his desk, surrounded by the
members of the firm who listened to him with great respect.
The “old gentleman” came to business every day in his carriage,
although he had many cars but was never known to ride in them. He
was interested in the breeding of horses, frequented the races, and
patronized art, music, and the theatre. Most of his time was devoted
to philanthropic enterprises, but he kept a firm hand on the ship of
finance, of which he remained until the end of his life the undisputed
head.
He questioned Joseph about his mother, remarking upon the success of
the Gonzola bank in New York. He knew all about “lucky Garrison” who
had shown himself very able. He invited Joseph to dinner at his home.
The Gonzala mansion was sheltered from the gaze of the curious, by
a closely planted row of very old trees, whose entwined branches
symbolized the unity of the family, a treasure-house of antiques, from
all parts of the world--collected with taste and discernment by each
succeeding generation. The picture gallery was celebrated for its
rare masterpieces. Joseph took great delight in a corner of family
portraits. But the most cherished treasure of Pedro Gonzala’s home was
Ruth, his granddaughter, just approaching womanhood; she was all that
was left of his immediate family. The World War had swept the younger
men away. He had lived ten years longer than the allotted Biblical
time; he was life-worn, but before he went to his long rest, his little
Ruth must be married to a righteous man, a student of the Talmud,
and--of _equal birth_. Such a one was difficult to find.
Pedro Gonzala stood in the grand salon surrounded by beautiful
dark-eyed women and serious men of finance. He welcomed Joseph in the
name of the family, as a great grandson of that learned man and deep
thinker, Joseph Abravanel, who fought with all his strength against the
wave of assimilation which had engulfed his immediate family.
“You, my boy, are in the third generation of those who were led away
from the old tradition; it is not your fault, but no student or thinker
can afford to neglect the study of a race which gave to the world the
first revelation of one God. Hebrew thought, in its inception, its
ethics, its morals, is the pure wine of religion; in America, they
have thinned it with the water of reform, and put it into fine-looking
bottles with gold labels.”
There was a ripple of applause; the old gentleman told his little jokes
like an actor, expecting response, which the family gave at the proper
time; then he related the oft-repeated story of his youth, when his
dear Sarah, “God rest her soul,” was alive. He led the boy before a
portrait painted by Rembrandt, representing a stately, handsome matron.
At a ball in Paris, given to them by the diplomats and aristocrats of
France, there were rumors of war, and much disquietude. He himself
was absent, called away to a serious Cabinet consultation. The guests
crowded about Mrs. Gonzala, who was gracious and smiling.
“Are you not worried, Madame?” asked a celebrated diplomat.
“Oh! No,” laughed Mrs. Gonzala. “I am certain there will be no war,
because I will not permit my husband to lend the money for it.”
Ruth stepped daintily down the marble staircase. Her grandfather had
bade her array herself. It was a gala occasion--the reunion of the
family, and a welcome to a young Gonzola from America. Around her neck
were rows of costly pearls; diamonds sparkled in her hair; she wore
a cape of ermine, a young queen of an old dynasty--an inheritance of
beauty and purity. She put out her hand to Joseph, and said “Welcome,
cousin Joseph”--raising her face to his. He bent down and kissed her
cheek; they stood looking at each other, speechless. The women nudged
each other. “What an ideal couple they might have been”--it was a great
pity.
The long dinner table was a beautiful picture with its service of gold,
priceless glass and fine linen, and the Patriarchal figure at its head.
Ruth sat beside him.
“I am dazzled,” said Joseph, “such lovely women, such jewels, such
wealth.”
“We are not wealthy,” answered Ruth, “because it is a principle of the
family to give away a large part of its income, and you will see that
we live very simply; but tonight all this is in your honor. Our jewels,
furs, laces have come down to us from generations back; our home and
pictures can never be sold, unless the business goes under, and that
will never happen.”
“I hope not,” said Joseph, “it has meant too much to the world; but
all these jewels must have been bought once.”
“Oh, yes, in the times of the Ghetto, when the Jews were not allowed to
own real estate--so they bought jewels and hung them around the necks
of their wives who wore them in secret and gave them to their daughters
and daughters’ daughters. This has an interesting history.” She touched
a necklace of shining, pink, living things lying against her white
skin. “When the Romans separated Queen Berenice from her kingly lover,
the last thing he did was to throw these pearls around her neck. She
went back to her own dominion and the pearls after her death became
the property of the Temple. We have had them in our family for many
generations.”
He bent down to examine the pearls, but his gaze stopped at her soft
dark eyes.
“And you will give them to your daughter?”
“Yes,” said Ruth, “but I don’t think I shall ever marry.”
“Why--” insisted Joseph.
“Because,” her voice dropped, he bent lower to listen, “I can only
marry one of my own faith; they are all dying out. They have forgotten
their ancestry.”
6
Father Cabello had reached the zenith of his earthly ambition, the
Cardinalate. He had easily won in the race for advancement--a man of
wealth and winning personality. The magic word “America” gave him
prestige; it was a sign of goodwill to the church in the United States.
The priest was generally beloved, his doors were always open to the
poor, to whom he gave liberal hands; they crowded the steps of his
house, penetrated into his apartments. All efforts of his attendants to
keep them away was futile.
“Let them in,” said the Father, “they will be my future associates,
‘for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.’”
His secretary, a member of an old patrician family, shrugged his
shoulders; his unspoken thought was, “if I have to live with them in
Heaven, I hope I’ll never die.”
The Cardinal had been confined to his room for some days with an attack
of weakness, the result of an overtaxed heart. The doctor said to him,
“Your Eminence, you must shun all excitement--no more receptions, no
more arduous night work, no activity of any kind.”
The Cardinal smiled, “That would be premature death; I must take my
chances. But at present I cannot work; I have no strength.”
His new honors had not changed his mode of living. His _palazzo_, a
relic of past grandeur, was simply furnished with only the necessary
chairs and tables, and completely bare of drapery or superfluous
decorations. The Roman sun flooded his rooms through the high-arched
windows. The garden of boxwood hedges and old trees was beautiful
and fragrant; he could stand on his terrace and see the cupolas
and innumerable spires of the city of churches, and listen to the
bells pealing--now soft, caressing, pleading--now loud, harsh,
commanding--those eternal bells that have welcomed into the world, and
followed out of it, millions of souls.
The Cardinal sat in his private apartment. His fingers tapped
nervously on the polished wood of the table upon which was a dish of
fruits--figs, honey, and a silver jug of iced water--a habit he had
brought from the land of his adoption. He was waiting for Joseph. In
the excitement of his new honors, weeks had passed with only now and
then the accustomed epistolary greetings, but the time was approaching
to speak of the future. If he could realize his plan, thought out in
every detail, this boy would inherit his wealth, would carry on his
work among the poor.
A spasm of agony turned his lips blue, his face livid. He quickly
dropped a tablet into a glass of water and swallowed it. The unbearable
pain slowly subsided; the brain moved again.
“If God would be merciful and let him live to see the boy ordained.”
A flash of determination, of invincible Will. Yes, it would be! It
must be! He forgot the dark-cornered room; he saw the cathedral, the
procession of priests, the young divine. Why didn’t the boy come? He
was eager to stamp his plan with the seal of realization. A shaft of
sunlight shooting through the window struck the chair opposite him.
His sick heart bounded. Seated there he saw his old friend and enemy,
Joseph Abravanel. He slowly made his way to the chair, passing his hand
over it; it was empty. His thought had conjured up a momentary vision.
How often had they sat like that, opposite each other at a table set
with fruit and wine, the long evening passing like a flash over the
chess board which became symbolical of the spiritual struggle between
them. The tenacity of that old man, who would not give up hope, even
after the conversion of his daughter!
“You have won this time, but there is the next generation.”
When Julie was born, he was cheated again in this game for souls; but
he would not give in, “God’s chosen people cannot die; they may lose
the path, but they will find it again; they will come back in the third
generation.”
A spasm of fear convulsed the priest. Joseph Abravanel had the
prophetic clairvoyance of his race. No! No! The boy was a good,
faithful child of the Church, a believer in the true Faith.
He glanced again at the chair opposite; again he met those eyes long
extinct--spirit eyes.
The servant announced, “Joseph Abravanel Gonzola Garrison.”...
Joseph threw himself with a gush of irresistible love into the old
man’s arms; then, remembering, he dropped on his knees and kissed the
ring of His Eminence. The Cardinal raised him, looking long into that
mobile face aglow with the joy of life.
“Sit down, Joseph, we have much to talk over. No! no! not there, here.”
He pointed to a chair close beside him; there were three now at the
table--indomitable spirits; one, invisible.
The Cardinal felt his way, asked about the family; he had not heard
from Julie for some time.
“Oh, Mother is a bad correspondent, but if I miss a mail she cables.”
His laughter rang through the high-vaulted room. “Father wants me to go
into the banking business; the Gonzolas think I have talent for it.”
He was peeling an apple, careful not to break the ring; the Cardinal
noticed his long tapering fingers, his white hands.
“Well, what do you think about it?”
The boy’s eyes shot a mischievous gleam.
“Our great ancestor on my father’s side was a baker, on my mother’s
side they added a letter to it, and it became banker. Now if it is true
that the third generation goes back, I think I’d rather make cakes
than money.”
The Cardinal laughed; the boy’s merriment was contagious. Then he grew
grave again.
“My son, there is something in each generation which belongs neither to
the Past nor the Present, but to the Future; it is God’s will working
in us. The time has come to tell you of my wishes for you. I want you
to continue my work, to take up the staff of Divine Duty, to lay upon
the altar of renunciation the great gifts bestowed upon you by an
All-Seeing God; you will give your youth, your manhood, your old age,
to save those helpless souls who need your intercession, your spiritual
support. You will one day succeed me in Rome; it has been my only
earthly dream, ever since I held you as an infant in my arms. My time
is short; I want to see you enter upon the path before I die.”
The boy was on his feet, his face quivering with grief, the tears
streaming from his eyes.
“No, no; you must not die! I love you! I love you! If I could prolong
your life for one hour I would give my right hand.”
He held it up, firm, strong, beautiful. The Cardinal’s imagination
played him a trick again. He saw another white hand held up, old,
feeble, trembling; the light shone through it.
The boy’s heart was heavy--that beloved face before him, with the
pallor of death on it. How could he say what he must?...
“I have thought long and deeply of your wishes for me. I cannot! I
cannot! There is something in me that rebels against the chastisement
of the flesh. I don’t want to think always of death, to pray always;
I want to work, I want to live. No one can intercede for me; I can
intercede for no one. Each must work out his own salvation. The old
world is spiritually decaying; the young must be the pioneers of a
new world. We must tear down and dig and set the stones of a new
foundation, and those who come after us will build. The Future will see
miracles; the human being will awaken to the truth, that he himself is
God.”
“Stop! Blasphemer!” The old man broke into choking sobs. “Joseph!
Joseph! I am responsible for your soul’s salvation; this is all
madness! You will repent when it is too late.”
“Father! it hurts me to give you pain, but it is impossible. I cannot!
I cannot!”
The Cardinal was cold to the soul--his boy, his heart’s idol, a
heretic, an infidel; the stripling was strange to him, standing there
with a look in his face of iron determination. He would break that
will; he must!
“You do not know what you are doing. You are too young. You have been
influenced by that old sophisticated fox, Pedro Gonzala. I fought a
greater man than he and won; I will fight again--I will save you, as I
saved your mother.”
“No! No! They have not influenced me. I have given up dogma, I will
not be chained again by ritual, I will not be a mummy wrapped in the
superstition of past ages. I am a living, thinking being. I am free!
free!”
The priest’s eyes went past him to that shadowy figure, looking down
now, as it had so often done in life, at a chess board on the table,
fingering the pieces, moving, removing, trying new combinations.
Neither had won; it was a drawn game;--stalemate. With a low moan he
sank back in his chair.
The boy gave a cry of terror.
“Father, speak to me! Speak to me!”
The priest heard him not. He had renounced this world for the glory of
the next. He was going to his reward, where there would be no dogma, no
ritual, no religion.
A terrible fear clutched the boy. He looked about despairingly. He was
forsaking the shelter of those old walls. He had stripped himself bare.
He must go out naked to meet the stones of the Philistines. He threw
himself down before the beloved guide of his childhood, sobbing out his
love, his loneliness.
“Come back! Come back! Don’t leave me! I am afraid, afraid!”
He called in vain; those wonderful dreams--the hope of immortality, the
joy of Heaven--would never come back; they had gone into the past, like
that still form, deaf to his entreaties, to his cries--gone forever!
7
Mr. Garrison was getting into his coat in the hall; it was after nine.
“Good-bye, Julie, I’m off.”
Her answer came from above.
“Don’t go yet. I want to speak to you; it is something important.”
With a suppressed feeling of impatience, he took off his coat and went
up the stairs. He wondered how much Julie would ask for. She was very
extravagant. He was surprised to find her waiting at the door of the
sitting-room for him. She had slipped out of bed and thrown on a filmy
wrapper; he was struck anew by her youthfulness. Her skin was like
satin. She was forty and could easily be taken for ten years younger;
but her beauty had ceased to disturb him. It was an accepted fact, like
his luck in business.
As he bent to kiss her, she noticed his hair was getting thin on the
top. He would soon be bald.
He dropped down on the sofa beside her.
“You looked tired this morning; didn’t you sleep well?” said Julie.
“As well as usual.”
Floyd’s mind was overstrained; his accumulating interests kept him on
a severe tension. His eyes troubled him and he wore strong owl-like
spectacles framed in tortoise shell which gave him a look of comic
solemnity. He didn’t tell Julie how very badly he slept; his many
speculations took gibbering forms and danced around his pillow. He
spent whole nights in his den, where a man had “sweated blood.” He was
beginning to feel the significance of that expression. At first the
thought of possessing a million made his head reel, now he laughed at
his modest pretensions. Desire grows until it ceases to be servant
and becomes master. He hunted gain like a gambler who risks his
last dollar. Envious competitors said, “Garrison’s getting to be a
skin-flint; he’d sell his soul for money.”
It came back to him from a friend; he wasn’t annoyed, but wondered in a
vague way if it were really true.
When the news arrived of Cardinal Cabello’s sudden death and Joseph’s
decision, Julie took it very hard; she spent days in the convent
praying for her son’s soul.
Floyd consulted with Dr. McClaren.
“She’ll get over it. It’s only a temporary disturbance. A bit of good
news now will set her all right again. And how are you, Mr. Garrison?
My medicine worked well, I see.”
“Oh! yes,” said Floyd, “but times are bad--a man must be careful how he
invests his money.”
“That never troubles me; I haven’t any to invest.”
“You’ve been a successful doctor, haven’t you?”
“I hope so.”
The trouble with Dr. McClaren was that his bills were ridiculously
small.
“He underestimates his own ability,” said Floyd to Julie. “A man must
set the price of his life’s work, and as he appraises himself, the
world values him.”
“I have a letter from Joseph,” answered Julie.
“So have I; he keeps me well posted on complications abroad; I am sure,
if he will only get down to it, he’ll make a first-class financier.”
This was Floyd’s ambition for his son.
She took a letter from the table beside her. It was long, covering many
sheets of paper.
“The Gonzalas have been very good to him; he is in much better spirits.
It was terrible, that struggle with His Eminence. I would have given
in.”
She always thought now of Cabello as “His Eminence,” in glittering
robes, sparkling with jewels.
“Yes,” said Floyd. “You always gave in. That was the trouble.” He
turned to go.
“Stop a moment; you must hear this.”
He pushed away the call of business; he would rather have read it
himself, when he found time, at luncheon perhaps. He hated to be read
to. He couldn’t concentrate; his mind wandered off in figures. She
read in a low voice very rapidly, stopping now and again; he knew
she was skipping something; he wasn’t offended. He had always felt
like a third party, and thought of Joseph as “Julie’s boy.” It was
an interesting letter written in picturesque metaphors, just the way
Julie’s mother used to speak, thought Floyd. The boy told of his many
visits to Frankfort, and of closer acquaintance with Pedro Gonzala,
and his granddaughter. They had given a costume ball to celebrate her
sixteenth birthday.
“A costume ball--that’s rather sporty,” remarked Floyd. He had in mind
those French masquerades given in his youth, where Martin danced the
Can-Can with indecent French women.
“Oh, no,” answered Julie, “listen; Joseph explains it.
“This was a ball, where the family personated their ancestors, the
portraits in the gallery. Ruth took me around, told me their history
for generations back. Wonderful, so full of struggle, tragedy,
romance. I couldn’t hear enough of it!”
“It didn’t affect me like that--those portraits you sent away gave me a
cold chill.”
“They were not your ancestors,” said Julie with a touch of sarcasm.
Then she went on reading.
“They called one of the portraits ‘the unhappy Pedro Gonzala,’
because he was an illegitimate son. That was Grandfather! I couldn’t
tear myself away from him; he had such brave defiant eyes. Dearest
Mother, I think it is a great injustice to brand a human being like
that. There is nothing illegitimate in Nature. I’d rather be the
child of love, than of calculation born in wedlock.”
Floyd frowned.
“I don’t approve of those views. I’m afraid the boy is catching
European radicalism.”
Julie didn’t answer; she was absorbed in the letter. Floyd looked at
his watch and jumped up.
“Wait, wait, it is not finished.
“Mother, I’ve written you often about Ruth, but I’m sure you don’t
know what she is like. When I am with her, I’m afraid to look at her,
and when I’m away, I can’t imagine how she looks. She’s something
indescribable. Mother, I have fought with all my might against her,
because I knew it was hopeless, but when she said she loved me, I
went straight to her grandfather. I told him about the struggle with
my conscience and our dear friend’s sudden death--he was very much
moved, and put his hand over my head and blessed me; then I took
courage and asked him for Ruth. He was silent a long time before he
answered. I could see he was thinking deeply. Then he said: ‘The
uncompromising adherence of our people to the Law in the days of the
Ghetto preserved the virility of the Race; but today our blood is in
the veins of the world. That obstinate orthodoxy with which we are
reproached has saved us from being swept away in a great tidal wave
of assimilation. Come to us! We will leave you free in all worldly
matters, but you must live according to our ritual, you must worship
in our synagogue, you must bring up your children in our tradition.
You will realize as you get older the righteousness of my demands.’”
Floyd was annoyed.
“They _will_ keep harping on those future generations. How can we lay
down the law for our grandchildren; they’ll know a lot more than we do.”
Julie evidently didn’t agree, she kept on reading.
“I walked about for days--trying to find some way--I wanted Ruth!
Mother--you don’t know how much! I couldn’t keep away from her--she
was waiting for me in the garden; she knew I would come. Mother,
there was something so pure about her; such sweetness, I have never
seen in any human thing. She was pale, but she spoke quietly.
‘Joseph, I know what Grandfather has asked you to do for my sake;
you mustn’t do it. It wouldn’t be right for you. We try to bring the
Past into the Present, to preserve our religion. We think we live,
but it is only a waking dream, and we are happy they let us dream;
but dreams are not for you. Joseph, you must go out on the high road
of Progress--and I--I must stay here with my grandfather.’ Then I
fell into the depths of despair and cried, how I cried. ‘I won’t let
you; it is a living death; you are young! young!’ Mother, I’ll never
forget her face when she answered. ‘I look young, but my soul is
old.’”
A sob choked Julie’s voice; herself at sixteen, with that “old soul.”
Floyd took the letter and read it rapidly to the finish.
“She has shown me the way; it is all clear to me now, and I am not
unhappy. We are only separated for a little while; and Mother, I want
you to write a letter to her grandfather--and plead for us. It might
do some good. You are always asking me what I want. I want Ruth; give
me Ruth!”
It was pathetic how the boy clung to his childish illusions. His mother
could give him everything. Julie was crying silently.
The letter dropped from Floyd’s hand; waves of memory swept over him.
The struggle between Joseph Abravanel and Father Cabello against
him--the bitterness, the tragedy. He was on his feet; there was a
youthful ring in his voice which had long been absent. He flung his
spectacles, that badge of age, on the table. His eyes were young again.
“We must bring it about; the boy must not be disappointed. He must have
his love dream; he must not lose the best part of his life.”
With a cry of joy Julie came to him and put her arms around his neck;
they stood together, the light of that young romance across the sea
reflected in their faces. Floyd bent down and whispered: “I was an
ardent lover, wasn’t I, Julie? You were so sweet, so sweet.”
Then he remembered a business deal, and put on his spectacles. At the
door he stopped.
“I shall write at once to Pedro Gonzala and make him a business
proposition, which it would be madness to refuse; it will be a
brilliant future for Joseph. This will cure him. He will see now that
money can buy him everything! Don’t cry, Julie; it’s all for the best,
and don’t miss the mail. It’s a five-cent stamp to Germany.”
The Colonel lunched that day at the club, with Floyd, who was full of
his plan to “dazzle” the Gonzolas. The Colonel was very sympathetic,
then he said with a touch of sadness,
“I’m getting old. People have no use for a bachelor, when he ceases to
be eligible. If I had a boy like yours, a wife like yours, I’d be a
happy man.”
Floyd thought a moment.
“I have been lucky; I come out well from very serious complications.”
The Colonel thought he meant business deals.
“You often risked too much; you were once on the brink of disaster.”
“More than once,” answered Floyd, “but now things seem to be going my
way. I would like to do some philanthropic construction work; a man
must have something to keep him from drying up.”
There was a responsive flash from the Colonel.
“I thought I was the only one who thought like that.”
Floyd looked around at the crowded room; there was laughter, jingling
of glasses, the perfume of good tobacco.
“I think they all do!”
8
Joseph had spent the winter in Geneva, studying the classic and modern
languages. In the spring he joined a band of students, on a walking
tour through the mountains. At Tarasp he bade them good-bye--he was
going to see the Val Sinestra, where his mother, years before, had been
caught in a storm and where his father’s best friend, his Uncle Martin,
had been lost in the mountains.
He passed the hotel, climbed down into the ravine, and stood before
the little chapel, where by a strange coincidence they had met Father
Cabello. He pushed open the door. How old it was, how very old!--the
fading wall pictures, the broken windows, the time-stained Virgin and
Child looming up out of the shadows. There was a sudden impulse to go
to her, to speak to her, as he used to, when she was living to him. He
gazed and gazed; she was drawing him down the aisle--
He went out, shutting the door softly behind him. Ghosts followed him
as he climbed up the open road; then they melted away in the warm
sunlight.
He was soon going home. His father’s “dazzling” business proposition
had been enthusiastically received by the younger Gonzolas--but the
“old gentleman” remained obdurate. The boy must accept his conditions.
Floyd had written to Joseph, advising him to “give in while the old man
lived.” But Joseph refused to make any concession; Ruth wouldn’t let
him.
He strolled along, his knapsack on his back, his hat and cape in
his belt, a handsome young student; one meets them often in the
mountains--fine happy lads, their only wealth, the Future. He knelt
down by a stream, caught the falling water in his hands, and drank it;
then he poetized.
Spring dances in the mountains.
Winter’s young daughter, peeps at her
Sweet face in the Lake mirror.
The old Snow-man growls;
His blanket is thin, his feet stick out;
They are warm, he is melting.
He flies to the heights, in his
March-wind aeroplane.
There he can keep cool.
The bride robes herself in
Green and gold.
Flowers fall from her long curls.
The nuptial couch is white
With blossoms.
Wedding bells, birds caroling--
Cattle calls--Alpine horns,
Love time!
He threw back his head and laughed--Ruth would like it. He would bring
her and show her where he wrote it--on their wedding day!
He read it again; it was a whimsical thing. He was sorry for the poets
of the past who were chained in rhyme. The world had been rhyming so
long, about everything--love, religion, the soul, the origin of man.
People rhymed themselves into a state of poetic fiction; then suddenly
they found out it was all rhyme and no reason.
9
The path ran along the side of the mountain. In the valley below he saw
people running, heard the sound of music in the distance. He stopped a
barefoot boy, who told him it was fête day in the Canton, to welcome
their great Switzer home from Geneva, the artist Staehli.
“Staehli? Yes, I know. I admired his paintings at the exhibition.”
Then he saw a procession of peasants in gala array, cows adorned with
flowers, maidens singing, dancing. A tall man walked amongst them with
swinging step, a peasant like the others. He puts his hand to his mouth
and gives out a long piercing yodel. Above at a châlet a woman answers.
“That is Angela, his wife; she is the doctor of the Dorf; she heals
with her hands and brews herb tea which has a magic power!”
“Oh! I’d like to meet the artist. Do you think he’ll receive me?”
“Oh, yes! All are welcome; they have the best milk and cheese in the
village. I’ll take you down.”
Near the châlet, they were stopped by an enormous hay wagon drawn by
oxen. The young peasant leading them moved aside, smiling at Joseph.
“That’s Martin Staehli, born and raised here,” said the boy.
The artist was standing outside the châlet watching the procession wind
its way around the path and out of sight.
“Could I rest here awhile? I’ve walked from Tarasp.”
“I shall have great pleasure.” He spoke English hesitatingly with a
Swiss accent.
They entered a very large room, the light streaming in from all sides.
“This is my studio. My home is a little distance away in our family
châlet. It is old; I will show it to you if you are interested in
antiques.” He went to the door and called.
“Angela! Angela!”
He looked keenly at the boy.
“You are not a European?”
“No, I am an American.” He raised his head with a gesture of pride
which became him well. “My name is Joseph Abravanel Gonzola Garrison.”
The artist put his hand over his eyes: Julie’s boy! The child he had
held in his arms! He heard again that sweet young voice, felt the soft
lips pressed against his. “I love you, Uncle Martin.” Julie’s boy!
Angela came in with milk, bread, and cheese. Joseph thought she was the
noblest-looking woman he had ever seen.
The artist sat tracing lines on paper. He must hold that vision of the
past; it would soon vanish. Angela apologized for his silence.
“My husband is sketching you, he loves beautiful heads.”
Joseph sat willingly for the artist.
“It’s only for myself--and for you, if you will accept it.” Then
pointing to a black band around the boy’s arm, he said with a touch of
fear, “Are you in mourning?”
“Yes, for our dearest friend, Cardinal Cabello.”
“Cabello, a Cardinal? I am quite out of the world. I met him many years
ago in America.”
“He helped my mother bring me up. I was like his own son. I had to
grieve him terribly before his death; but I couldn’t help it. I must go
soon again to Rome; there is a large sum of money coming to the Church
from my grandmother. It was left to me conditionally--I have forfeited
it.”
“Don’t look so sad,” said the artist. “I want the brightness of you.
Tell me, have you sisters and brothers.”
“No, I am an only child, and very much spoilt.”
“Your parents, are they--living?”
“Oh yes, and still young. My mother is the most beautiful woman in New
York.”
The artist caught the smile, then set him talking again, looking keenly
into his face with its quick changes, its light and shade. He laughed
often; he would throw back his head with a gush of merriment. That
laugh thrilled the artist; it was like a far-away echo; it played on
the chord of remembrance, bringing out a melody long unheard.
“You are not of pure American stock?”
“Oh yes, my mother and grandmother were born there. Mother is of
Spanish-Hebrew blood. Father is of Dutch extraction; he is proud
of being ‘pure American’--he forgets the Indian. All others are of
emigrant origin; only some came over on earlier ships. A European
called us a melting pot. I hate that expression; people don’t melt.
We are not a smelting furnace. To me the United States is like a big
Colonial mansion, with many windows made up of little panes of glass,
which I call Race. Each one colors his glass with his own racial
impulse.”
“What color do you see?”
“Oh, my window looks toward the East where the sun rises; it is
gorgeous, with many colors,” laughed the boy.
“I think I catch your meaning. It would make a good symbolical picture.
A great prairie, and standing in it a White House built on Colonial
lines. It is flooded with a glare of strong light, which in the
individual separates into its prismatic colors--the different races.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean; only an artist could think it out like that.
Will you paint it?”
“Perhaps some day, but why not you? You have the instinct in you; I
feel it.”
The boy’s face lit up. “How strange you should know that. I love art;
I’ve studied it in Paris. I’ve been dabbling a bit in oil. They say I
have talent.”
The man bent forward. “I have a class of young artists in Geneva; they
are all unusually gifted. Join us!” How eager he was; he hung on to the
boy’s answer.
“I would like it, but an artist’s career is too passive for me. I have
no patience. I want action, results; I want to work for the great
World Reformation which is coming. I want to help bring down to this
miserable, unhappy earth, a little of the Heaven we have been dreaming
of so long. We must wake up! We must commence now and fight the monster
of materialism which is destroying us.” He was on his feet, his head
erect, his eyes blazing. A young David sharpening his sword for the
great encounter with the Giant of superstition, lies, false Gods.
“I must go now. May I come again? I’m going to write all about you to
my mother. Were you here that time they were caught in the storm?”
Angela put her hand on her husband’s shoulder. He started, looked up.
“I was in America, I was very unfortunate there. I often lost my
way--in jungles. Race instinct made me restless. The peasant blood was
strong in me.”
“Race instinct?” repeated the boy. “I’ve felt that--but I didn’t
know what it was, stirring in me. I can’t express it. It was like a
melody--from far, far away, coming back in snatches--like--like the
strains of--a National Hymn. It excites me.”
Angela’s eyes shone.
“You are living a great romance, the romance of race.”
“The romance of race, yes, that’s what it is.” Then he came nearer to
them, and told his love story.
“Ruth is to me not only my love, she is the ideal in my life. I am
going to take her out of that beautiful dark house with its old
portraits. I am going to make her soul young again.”
The artist went with him down the path to the bend of the road.
“Where shall I send the sketch?”
“To the College in Geneva. Would you mind if I gave it to my mother?”
“Oh, no! I will try to make it beautiful.”
Joseph lingered, looking again into the artist’s face with a touch of
sadness.
“I feel as if I had known you a very long time.”
“You have--”
He drew the boy to him and kissed him and stood watching the young
figure until it disappeared.
Angela touched his arm.
“Angela! that boy! that boy!”
“Is he the son of the unhappy man who spent the night here?”
“Yes--”
The young peasant sent out a call from the barn, where he was flinging
the hay lightly with a heavy pitchfork into the loft.
“What are you going to do with our boy? He does not care for books; he
has no talent for painting? You are not ambitious for him--” There was
a note of reproach in her voice.
“Yes, very ambitious. I want him to be what nature has made him, a
peasant; nothing could be nobler.”
That night the artist remained in his studio to finish the sketch; he
worked for hours with intense concentration, until the pencil dropped
from his numb fingers. Then he threw himself down on the couch, but
couldn’t rest. Ashes strewn over the fire had smothered but not
extinguished it; the flames broke through. That boy! The Past living
again, with all its wonder of passion, its uncontrollable love. He went
to the window, leaned out; a white mist hovered over the dark valley.
His eyes pierced it deeper. He was again a desperate man, holding a
woman in his arms--Mad Martin!...
When the sketch was finished he painted it on ivory, framed it in
silver, put it in a velvet case, and sent it to Joseph as a souvenir
of their meeting. It was a speaking likeness; it went over the sea, a
message to his first love.
10
The Garrisons were “at home.”
The reception tonight was in honor of a distinguished Englishman. Julie
stood before the mirror, putting the last touches to her toilette; she
wore a creamy lace décolleté gown, with splashes of red velvet. The
Gonzola diamonds glittered in her corsage.
Her maid handed her a letter and package. It was from Joseph; now the
evening would be perfect.
The boy was full of hope, enthusiasm; he had just returned from
Switzerland, where he saw the Val Sinestra and the old chapel she had
told him about when he was a child, at night, before he went to sleep.
I visited an artist who lives near there. He’s been in America; he
didn’t say much about himself, but he drew me out to get atmosphere
for a portrait he made of me, which I am sending to you, with my best
love. I am writing him a long letter; I hope he will answer. He’s
married to a wonderful woman; they say she has magnetic power, and it
is true; she drew out all my secrets. I had to tell her about Ruth.
She loves her husband with her whole soul--her eyes never leave him.
They have a son, a big strong peasant lad. Mother, the artist is
the most interesting man I have ever met; his hair is turning gray.
He must have had a terrible struggle when he was young. I think he
starved; he has deep lines in his face. I had to tear myself away. I
love him, Mother, I love him! and I’m sure he loves me. When I left,
he put his arms around me and kissed me; I felt his heart beating in
big throbs.
“Martin’s heart-beats!”
She opened the package; Joseph laughed back at her. She gazed and
gazed, until the young face vanished, and she saw Martin, with her boy
in his arms.
She sank down in her chair in a rush of hysterical joy.
Martin alive! Happy; no! no! not happy--content, peaceful, at work. How
wonderful! Those two had met; they loved each other. God had given her
absolution. How thankful she was! how thankful!
She sprang up, peered into the mirror, and saw--a white despairing face
with spotted gray unkempt hair; it faded slowly; youth had touched
it. A beautiful smiling woman was reflected there, with head erect,
triumphant, free from that haunting fear of years.
She put out the lights and went to the door with resilient steps--then
stopped, suddenly grew pale, as she looked back. The room was shadowy;
one lamp shone down on the little table beside her bed, bringing
out in sharp relief, the torn old Hebrew prayer book, beside it an
ivory crucifix turning yellow, and--a beautiful rose, eternally
young--symbols of her soul’s secrets, its melody, its madness.
Finis
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.