"Bears?"
"Mais oui, bruins--bars; pour les faire dancer--"
"You mane your mother was a gypsy that went round the counthry showin'
off dancin' bears?"
"Yah-oui. Ah mane so. She haf been seek--malade--how you say, petite
verole--so like de Pere Honore?" He made with his forefinger dents in
his face and forehead.
"An' is it the shmall pox yer mane?"
"Yah-oui, shmall pookes. She was haf it, an' tout le monde--how you
say?--efferybodyee was haf fear. She was haf nottin' to eat--nottin' to
drrink; le Pere Honore was fin' her in de bois--foret, an' was been tak'
ma pauvre mere in hees ahrms, an' he place her in de sugair-house, an'
il l'a soignee--how you say?" He appealed to the Italian whose interest
was on the increase.
"Nurrsed?"
"Yah--oui, nurrsed her, an' moi aussi--lee'l bebe'--"
"D' yer mane his Riverince nursed you and yer mother through the shmall
pox?" demanded McCann. Several of the workmen stopped short with hammers
uplifted to hear Antoine's answer.
"Mais oui, il l'a soignee jusqu'a ce qu'elle was been dead; he l'a
enterree--place in de terre--airth, an' moi he haf place chez un farmyer
a Mo'real. An' le Pere Honore was tak' la petite verole--shmall pookes
in de sugair-house, an' de farmyer was gif him to eat an' to drrink par
la porte--de door; de farmyer haf non passe par de door. Le Pere Honore
m'a sauve--haf safe, hein? An' Ah was been work ten, twenty, dirty year,
Ah tink. Ah gagne--gain, hein?--two hundert pieces. Ah been come to de
quairries, pour l'amour de bon Pere Honore qui m'a safe, hein? Ah be
tres content; Ah gagne, gain two, tree pieces--dollaires--par jour."
He nodded at one and all, his gold half-moon earrings twinkling in his
evident satisfaction with himself and "le bon Pere Honore."
The men were silent. Jim McCann's eyes were blurred with tears. The
thought of his own six-months boy presented itself in contrast to the
small waif in the Canada woods and the dying gypsy mother, nursed by the
priest who had christened his own little Billy.
"It's a bad night for the lecture," said a Scotchman, and broke
therewith the emotional spell that was holding the men who had made out
the principal points of Antoine's story.
"Yes, but Father Honore says it's all about the cathedrals, an' not many
will want to miss it," said another. "They say there's a crowd coming
down from the quarries to-night to hear it."
"Faith, an' it's Mr. Van Ostend will be after havin' to put on an a
trailer to his new hall," said McCann; "the b'ys know a good thing whin
they see it, an' we was like to smother, the whole kit of us, whin they
had the last pitchers of them mountins in Alasky on the sheet. It's the
stairioptican that takes best wid the b'ys."
The four o'clock whistle began to sound. Three hundred chisels and
hammers were dropped on the instant. The men hurried to the doors that
were opened their full width to give egress to the hastening throngs.
They streamed out; there was laughing and chaffing; now and then, among
the younger ones, some good-natured fisticuffs were exchanged. Many
sought the electrics to The Gore; others took the car to The Corners.
From the three sheds, the power-house, the engine-house, the office, the
dark files streamed forth from their toil. Within fifteen minutes the
lights were turned out, the watchman was making his first round. Instead
of the sounds of a vast industry, nothing was heard but the
_sz-szz-szzz_ of the vanishing trams, the sputter of an arc-light, the
barking of a dog. The gray twilight of a bleak March day shut down
rapidly over frozen field and ice-rimmed lake.
V
Champney Googe left the shed with the rest; no one spoke to him,
although many a curious look was turned his way when he had passed, and
he spoke to no one. He waited for a car to Flamsted. There he got out.
He found a restaurant near The Greenbush and ordered something to eat.
Afterwards he went about the town, changed almost beyond recognition. He
saw no face he knew. There were foreigners everywhere--men who were to
be the fathers of the future American race. A fairly large opera house
attracted his attention; it was evidently new. He looked for the
year--1901. A little farther on he found the hall, built, so he had
gathered from the few words among the men in the sheds, by Mr. Van
Ostend. The name was on the lintel: "Flamsted Quarries Hall." Every few
minutes an electric tram went whizzing through Main Street towards The
Bow. Crowds of young people were on the street.
He looked upon all he saw almost indifferently, feeling little, caring
little. It was as if a mental and spiritual numbness had possession of
every faculty except the manual; he felt at home only while he was
working for that short half-hour in the shed. He was not at ease here
among this merry careless crowd. He stopped to look in at the windows of
a large fine shop for fruits and groceries; he glanced up at the
sign:--"Poggi and Company."
"Poggi--Poggi" he said to himself; he was thinking it out. "Luigi
Poggi--Luigi--Ah!" It was a long-drawn breath. He had found his clew.
He heard again that cry: "Champney,--O Champney! what has he done to
you!" The night came back to him in all its detail. It sickened him.
He was about to turn from the window and seek the quiet of The Bow until
the hall should be open--at "sharp seven" he heard the men say--when a
woman passed him and entered the shop. She took a seat at the counter
just inside the show-window. He stood gazing at her, unable to move his
eyes from the form, the face. It was she--Aileen!
The sickening feeling increased for a moment, then it gave place to
strange electric currents that passed and repassed through every nerve.
It was a sensation as if his whole body--flesh, muscles, nerves,
arteries, veins, every lobe of his brain, every cell within each lobe,
had been, as the saying is of an arm or leg, "asleep" and was now
"coming to." The tingling sensation increased almost to torture; but he
could not move. That face held him.
He must get away before she came out! That was his one thought. The
first torment of awakening sensation to a new life was passing. He
advanced a foot, then the other; he moved slowly, but he moved at last.
He walked on down the street, not up towards The Bow as he had intended;
walked on past The Greenbush towards The Corners; walked on and on till
the nightmare of this awakening from a nearly seven-years abnormal sleep
of feeling was over. Then he turned back to the town. The town clock was
striking seven. The men were entering the hall by tens and twenties.
He took his seat in a corner beneath the shadow of a large gallery at
the back, over the entrance.
There were only men admitted. He looked upon the hundreds assembled, and
realized for the first time in more than six years that he was again a
free man among free men. He drew a long breath of relief, of
realization.
At a quarter past seven Father Honore made his appearance on the
platform. The men settled at once into silence, and the priest began
without preface:
"My friends, we will take up to-night what we may call the Brotherhood
of Stone."
The men looked at one another and smiled. Here was something new.
"That is the right thought for all of you to take with you into the
quarries and the sheds. Don't forget it!"
He made certain distinct pauses after a few sentences. This was done
with intention; for the men before him were of various nationalities,
although he called this his "English night." But many were learning and
understood imperfectly; it was for them he paused frequently. He wanted
to give them time to take in what he was saying. Sometimes he repeated
his words in Italian, in French, that the foreigners might better
comprehend his meaning.
"Perhaps some of you have worked in the limestone quarries on the Bay?
All who have hold up hands."
A hundred hands, perhaps more, were raised.
"Any worked in the marble quarries of Vermont?"
A dozen or more Canucks waved their hands vigorously.
"Here are three pieces--limestone, marble, and granite." He held up
specimens of the three. "All of them are well known to most of you. Now
mark what I say of these three:--first, the limestone gets burned
principally; second, the marble gets sculptured principally; third, the
granite gets hammered and chiselled principally. Fire, chisel, and
hammer at work on these three rocks; but, they are all _quarried_ first.
This fact of their being quarried puts them in the Brotherhood--of
Labor."
The men nudged one another, and nodded emphatically.
"They are all three taken from the crust of the earth; this Earth is to
them the earth-mother. Now mark again what I say:--this fact of their
common earth-mother puts them in the Brotherhood--of Kin."
He took up three specimens of quartz crystals.
"This quartz crystal"--he turned it in the light, and the hexagonal
prisms caught and reflected dazzling rays--"I found in the limestone
quarry on the Bay. This," he took up another smaller one, "I found after
a long search in the marble quarries of Vermont. This here," he held up
a third, a smaller, less brilliant, less perfect one--"I took out of our
upper quarry after a three weeks' search for it.
"This fact, that these rocks, although of different market value and put
to different uses, may yield the same perfect crystal, puts the
limestone, the marble, the granite in the Brotherhood--of Equality.
"In our other talks, we have named the elements of each rock, and given
some study to each. We have found that some of their elements are the
basic elements of our own mortal frames--our bodies have a common
earth-mother with these stones.
"This last fact puts them in the Brotherhood--of Man."
The seven hundred men showed their appreciation of the point made by
prolonged applause.
"Now I want to make clear to you that, although these rocks have
different market values, are put to different uses, the real value for
us this evening consists in the fact that each, in its own place, can
yield a crystal equal in purity to the others.--Remember this the next
time you go to work in the quarries and the sheds."
He laid aside the specimens.
"We had a talk last month about the guilds of four hundred years ago. I
asked you then to look upon yourselves as members of a great twentieth
century working guild. Have you done it? Has every man, who was present
then, said since, when hewing a foundation stone, a block for a bridge
abutment, a corner-stone for a cathedral or a railroad station, a
cap-stone for a monument, a milestone, a lintel for a door, a
hearthstone or a step for an altar, 'I belong to the great guild of the
makers of this country; I quarry and hew the rock that lays the enduring
bed for the iron or electric horses which rush from sea to sea and carry
the burden of humanity'?--Think of it, men! Yours are the hands that
make this great track of commerce possible. Yours are the hands that
curve the stones, afterwards reared into noble arches beneath which the
people assemble to do God reverence. Yours are the hands that square the
deep foundations of the great bridges which, like the Brooklyn, cross
high in mid-air from shore to shore! Have you said this? Have you done
it?"
"Ay, ay.--Sure.--We done it." The murmuring assent was polyglot.
"Very well--see that you keep on doing it, and show that you do it by
the good work you furnish."
He motioned to the manipulators in the gallery to make ready for the
stereopticon views. The blank blinding round played erratically on the
curtain. The entire audience sat expectant.
There was flashed upon the screen the interior of a Canadian "cabin."
The family were at supper; the whole interior, simple and homely, was
indicative of warmth and cheerful family life.
The Canucks in the audience lost their heads. The clapping was frantic.
Father Honore smiled. He tapped the portrayed wall with the end of his
pointer.
"This is comfort--no cold can penetrate these walls; they are double
plastered. Credit limestone with that!"
The audience showed its appreciation in no uncertain way.
"The crystal--can any one see that--find that in this interior?"
The men were silent. Father Honore was pointing to the mother and her
child; the father was holding out his arms to the little one who, with
loving impatience, was reaching away from his mother over the table to
his father. They comprehended the priest's thought in the lesson of the
limestone:--the love and trust of the human. No words were needed. An
emotional silence made itself felt.
The picture shifted. There was thrown upon the screen the marble
Cathedral of Milan. A murmur of delight ran through the house.
"Here we have the limestone in the form of marble. Its beauty is the
price of unremitting toil. This, too, belongs in the brotherhoods of
labor, kin, and equality.--Do you find the crystal?"
His pointer swept the hierarchy of statues on the roof, upwards to the
cross on the pinnacle, where it rested.
"This crystal is the symbol of what inspires and glorifies humanity. The
crystal is yours, men, if with believing hearts you are willing to say
'Our Father' in the face of His works."
He paused a moment. It was an understood thing in the semi-monthly
talks, that the men were free to ask questions and to express an
opinion, even, at times, to argue a point. The men's eyes were fixed
with keen appreciation on the marble beauty before them, when a voice
broke the silence.
"That sounds all right enough, your Reverence, what you've said about
'Our Father' and the brotherhoods, but there's many a man says it that
won't own me for a brother. There's a weak joint somewhere--and no
offence meant."
Some of the men applauded.
Father Honore turned from the screen and faced the men; his eyes
flashed. The audience loved to see him in this mood, for they knew by
experience that he was generally able to meet his adversary, and no odds
given or taken.
"That's you, is it, Szchenetzy?"
"Yes, it's me."
"Do you remember in last month's talk that I showed you the
Dolomites--the curious mountains of the Tyrol?--and in connection with
those the Brenner Pass?"
"Yes."
"Well, something like seven hundred years ago a poor man, a poet and
travelling musician, was riding over that pass and down into that very
region of the Dolomites. He made his living by stopping at the
stronghold-castles of those times and entertaining the powerful of the
earth by singing his poems set to music of his own making. Sometimes he
got a suit of cast-off clothes in payment; sometimes only bed and board
for a time. But he kept on singing his little poems and making more of
them as he grew rich in experience of men and things; for he never grew
rich in gold--money was the last thing they ever gave him. So he
continued long his wandering life, singing his songs in courtyard and
castle hall until they sang their way into the hearts of the men of his
generation. And while he wandered, he gained a wonderful knowledge of
life and its ways among rich and poor, high and low; and, pondering the
things he had seen and the many ways of this world, he said to himself,
that day when he was riding over the Brenner Pass, the same thing that
you have just said--in almost the same words:--'Many a man calls God
"Father" who won't acknowledge me for a brother.'
"I don't know how he reconciled facts--for your fact seems plain
enough--nor do I know how you can reconcile them; but what I do know is
this:--that man, poor in this world's goods, but rich in experience and
in a natural endowment of poetic thought and musical ability, _kept on
making poems, kept on singing them_, despite that fact to which he had
given expression as he fared over the Brenner; despite the fact that a
suit of cast-off clothes was all he got for his entertainment of those
who would not call him 'brother.' Discouraged at times--for he was very
human--he kept on giving the best that was in him, doing the work
appointed for him in this world--and doing it with a whole heart
Godwards and Christwards, despite his poverty, despite the broken
promises of the great to reward him pecuniarily, despite the world,
despite _facts_, Szchenetzy! He sang when he was young of earthly love
and in middle age of heavenly love, and his songs are cherished, for
their beauty of wisdom and love, in the hearts of men to this day."
He smiled genially across the sea of faces to Szchenetzy.
"Come up some night with your violin, Szchenetzy, and we will try over
some of those very songs that the Germans have set to music of their
own, those words of Walter of the Bird-Meadow--so they called him then,
and men keep on calling him that even to this day."
He turned again to the screen.
"What is to be thrown on the screen now--in rapid succession for our
hour is brief--I call our Marble Quarry. Just think of it! quarried by
the same hard work which you all know, by which you earn your daily
bread; sculptured into forms of exceeding beauty by the same hard toil
of other hands. And behind all the toil there is the _soul of art_, ever
seeking expression through the human instrument of the practised hand
that quarries, then sculptures, then places, and builds! I shall give a
word or two of explanation in regard to time and locality; next month we
will take the subjects one by one."
There flashed upon the screen and in quick succession, although the men
protested and begged for an extension of exposures, the noble Pisan
group and Niccola Pisano's pulpit in the baptistery--the horses from the
Parthenon frieze--the Zeus group from the great altar at
Pergamos--Theseus and the Centaur--the Wrestlers--the Discus Thrower
and, last, the exquisite little church of Saint Mary of the Thorn,--the
Arno's jewel, the seafarers' own,--that looks out over the Pisan waters
to the Mediterranean.
It was a magnificent showing. No words from Father Honore were needed to
bring home to his audience the lesson of the Marble Quarry.
"I call the next series, which will be shown without explanation and
merely named, other members of the Brotherhood of Stone. We study them
separately later on in the summer."
The cathedrals of York, Amiens, Westminster, Cologne, Mayence, St.
Mark's--a noble array of man's handiwork, were thrown upon the screen.
The men showed their appreciation by thunderous applause.
The screen was again a blank; then it filled suddenly with the great
Upper Quarry in The Gore. The granite ledges sloped upward to meet the
blue of the sky. The great steel derricks and their crisscrossing cables
cast curiously foreshortened shadows on the gleaming white expanse. Here
and there a group of men showed dark against a ledge. In the centre, one
of the monster derricks held suspended in its chains a forty-ton block
of granite just lifted from its eternal bed. Beside it a workman showed
like a pigmy.
Some one proposed a three times three for the home quarries. The men
rose to their feet and the cheers were given with a will. The ringing
echo of the last had not died away when the quarry vanished, and in its
place stood the finished cathedral of A.--the work which the hands of
those present were to create. It was a reproduction of the architect's
water-color sketch.
The men still remained standing; they gave no outward expression to
their admiration; that, indeed, although evident in their faces, was
overshadowed by something like awe. _Their_ hands were to be the
instruments by which this great creation of the mind of man should
become a fact. Without those hands the architect's idea could not be
materialized; without the "idea" their daily work would fail.
The truth went home to each man present--even to that unknown one
beneath the gallery who, when the men had risen to cheer, shrank farther
into his dark corner and drew short sharp breaths. The Past would not
down at his bidding; he was beginning to feel his weakness when he had
most need of strength.
He did not hear Father Honore's parting words:--"Here you find the third
crystal--strength, solidity, the bedrock of endeavor. Take these three
home with you:--the pure crystal of human love and trust, the heart
believing in its Maker, the strength of good character. There you have
the three that make for equality in this world--and nothing else does.
Good night, my friends."