Hoping so, I telephone on the line, in Robet’s voice:
“It is my darling!”
I hear back: “It is sounding from the clouds in accents of her voice. O,
clouds, speak again.”
“When will my darling come again?”
“Do you want me, dear? I will wander no more. But it is fine up here. I
go like light. Thoughts cannot travel faster.”
“My darling is like a spirit of air for speed.”
“I will speed to you, dear.”
“His daughter pines for him.”
“Not her.”
“My heart is full of love. This winter I will marry him and journey with
him in the famous sky. Here are ten thousand kisses to last till winter
shall bring him home.”
“My coach frets to be going. But this winter it shall stop for a
season.”
The button darts upward.
Robet—I say in my mind—weep not. There are fairies around. I look up to
see Show Off in front of me.
“What,” he says, “come to school?”
“Yes,” I answer vaguely, seeing no sign of such institution.
He slides back of me in the foliage, a door revealing a busy scene:
Men, women and children are scattered about, variously occupied. Some
are writing upon sheets of transparent material. The pictured script,
which subjected to a solution, is shrunk to microscopic dimensions.
Other occupations are on each side, extending in a line.
On the farther side of each room are windows looking outside. The school
rooms being divided from the inner halls and libraries by the umbrageous
alley, in which we sit.
Wheeling my seat ahead (which goes, tree and all, as though one piece on
rollers) Show Off explains:
“This school or fair, as Charley calls it, (would I could take it home
for exhibition) is devoted to silk.”
I see in process of construction pictures, screens, garments, carpets
(which I had taken for sward) with American articles devised from
Charley’s lectures. These last are brought out to me for my benefit. A
worker hands me a glass of water, which another puts a bouquet of
flowers into, on which lights a canary and sings a song, as a fuzzy dog
puts up his paws at my side. All are silk.
Down spinning comes a spider. I did not like its looks. It opens its
mouth saying:
“Come into my parlor.”
I turn away saying: “No American parlor this, but fairyland, sung of
poets and imagined in spirit by painters. As I become absent-minded,
Show Off closes the doors and leaves me alone.”
I look straight up into the sky, thinking of the button, when an odd
little sky speck attracts my inquisitiveness, for it is growing larger
very last, as it no doubt is coming down very fast. Strangely heavy for
a fleecy cloud, which it looks to be. Down to the opening, through to
the tower top it stops by my side. The cloud is off, as out steps father
and Saucy, and I spring convulsively to my feet off the rock I had
leaned on in case.
Holding my hands together Mae quiets my nerves.
“O, auntie,” with glowing cheeks and shining eyes of sky angel. “Did you
not know they do this here? See, this is the string of the cloud balloon
I hold.”
“But Mae, the Traveler is up there and is not friendly.”
“O, Grandpa has been civilizing him, so I have asked him to the
wedding.”
“How is that?”
“Serpenta is his niece, so he might as well come and be reconciled.
Won’t there be an explosive,” she adds gleefully.
“Now Grandpa and Auntie,” as she sits down by my side, “take up your
bill of fare, and while we dine, we will talk of going home.”
A table in our midst has been spread, a la American.
“Bill of fare?” I query.
“Yes, that menu by your plate.”
I had taken it for a leaf decoration. It is named at the top _A Leaf
From Webster_. Webster’s dictionary? It is the first page of S as that
initial heads each dish. Sabine-fish, sacar-game, saccharine-pastry,
sack-drink.
Serpenta comes in with Show Off behind her and sits up opposite. As we
part the fish with our knives and forks, so new to them, they are
delighted and get us to do theirs.
As Saucy blandly puts a piece in her mouth with her fork, they rush to
her, thinking her mouth speared. She drops the fork.
In father’s hand is so familiar shape of white China cup and filling
also. I hastily taste my own. It is “ice cream,” the white cup a
macaroon.
But as the spoon, with which I tasted, goes into my mouth, they rush to
me, thinking it strained. We drop now our spoon and take up the sack,
which is in Arc cups shaped like bottles, which are gum paste.
To cover our discomfiture, we arise in unison, touch and drink boon
fashion. When boom, crack, roar, the ground beneath us shakes.
The two opposite, natives here, spring to their feet with distending
eyes, standing transfixed as the cracking roar continues, listening to
the approach of a sucking, whistling sound, which long drawn, lessens
and gradually disappears when they recover composure.
My first idea of the panic was that it was God’s displeasure of our
dissipation. Quickly banishing this I recognized the crackling as that
of ice, which denoted the real danger. The sucking sound was so like
water, which, escaping to the river, had ended the commotion. Ah Arc!
Highest of all! Yet is death ever beneath!
Resuming our seats I bethink me of Saucy’s proposition:
“Going home, Saucy?”
“Yes, to America.”
“To America!” I echo again.
“Yes, will this be an easy way?” getting up and coming to take hold of
me, as though I was to be scared.
“An easy way.” I cannot think what she is driving at, when it comes out.
“Yes, the way we are sailing in the air.”
I clutch the rock (as did Fitz James) muttering as did he, “This rock
shall fly from its firm base, as soon as I.”
But too late, the rock is flying with me on it through the air in
combination of the rest on the plot. Tower and schools are left behind,
so quick done I had been unobservant.
By effort accepting the situation, I turn to Show Off, jocularly:
“How far can this go?” in reference to the proposition.
“To the sun, if you want a scorcher,” he answers with assurance.
“I have been studying, Auntie.” She studying, “We can place relays of
these over the border.”
“But the compass?” I interrupt.
“We will measure straight between each relay until the compass rights
itself,” sitting down herself contentedly.
I get up and choke her with a hug. “You blessed child, given me a way to
get home.”
I forgive her immediately and all the rest for the dreadful scares I
have been victim. I think of home scenes, so far away, and compare with
these of this delightful land. I must confess, I prefer as magnificence,
these. But the blessed mascot has studied how to get home.
It being possible, my full spirits rebound.
“Next spring will do to go,” I say, anxious now to stay, where before I
was anxious to go—now that I could.
The next day I am so light of heart and light of step, I take trust that
my old statue heaviness cannot again weigh me down.
Initiated to the schools, as the place where all work, (Arc life above,
mostly a recreation) I become alert to choose an industry. Saucy
arriving, takes from her pocket silk and needle, deftly fashions a
butterfly, which she affixes, waving to my shoulder. As I ask: “What can
I do?”
“O, you can print the books you write, you know. And Charley,” laughing,
“can paint.”
The days fly swiftly by. The sun has rounded down toward the horizon.
Twilight is our only day. Clouds skim the blue sky. Cream foam in
portend of storm, driving us to the warmth of the towers that are now
getting a layer of arctic protection.
Bright days only let us out to tour the cities, making the round trip
roundly. Each tour develops a new specialty, marvelous and absorbing our
interest. Though the upper sky, out of the crevasse, is getting a soft
black color, still the air around has a light of its own that is not
artificial in any sense—proceeding from the center aurora, that is
becoming oftener in action. Scanning it closely one day, as I am
returning home, I mistake the door and curiously look around at the
grand hall in which I find myself.
The walls, like all others, shining and sparkling, are here, strangely
glimmering and glinting, quite dazing my eyes.
I ask a slim little Arc maid I see walking about in absorbed fashion,
“What place is this?”
“Holy Hall,” is her impressive reply.
“Then you have a church after all. Do you pray to God?”
“Not in words as you. God knows before.”
“Then what is Holy Hall?” I persist.
“Where people are holy.”
“O, what makes it glisten so?”
“It holy spiritualizes all within.”
“Then no evil spirits can come to this communion of saints.” Quite
bestows comfort and relief.
The walls are landscaped in crackled scenery, and at intervals against
their centers aloft, are fastened most gorgeous state chairs, supported
by brackets that have a separate and more distinct gleam. I turn again
quickly, awed to inquire. I look into the face of Savant, who is
intently regarding my expression.
“The chairs,” I say, “are they alive?”
“Yes,” he replies, “to make the dead alive, who will come to sit in
them.”
“O, is this where Roban saw the scientific angel?”
I rigidly regard the one nearest to me to see it being occupied by a
familiar face and form. (Familiar by engraving). “It is _George
Washington_.”
A hand appears from the air, resting on his arm, which slowly
materializes the form to which it is attached.
I open my mouth in awe, for I recognize again President Lincoln—the
_martyr_, as joining him in touch appear his generals. My memory goes
back to that struggle of civil strength, at the sight.
Then I strive to awaken myself, as though I must have fallen strangely
asleep, scarcely believing the illusion before me.
Not crediting the tales of spiritualist societies, I cannot likewise
discredit the Bible records. Knowing I have not, as likely the excellent
souls in Arc, have not, in wantonness profanely tempted this array, I,
in deference to the manifestation, wait resignedly. I clasp my hands in
added awe as Savant touches me to inquire:
“Who are they?”
“Upon the other side of our country’s father has appeared. Ah, who?
Jefferson Davis and his gray-clad staff.”