The pretty little theatre attached to the building of the Unicorn Club
had been hired for a certain January afternoon by Mr. Herbert Loring,
who wished to give therein a somewhat novel performance, to which he
had invited a small audience consisting entirely of friends and
acquaintances.
Loring was a handsome fellow about thirty years old, who had travelled
far and studied much. He had recently made a long sojourn in the far
East, and his friends had been invited to the theatre to see some of
the wonderful things he had brought from that country of wonders. As
Loring was a club-man, and belonged to a family of good social
standing, his circle of acquaintances was large, and in this circle a
good many unpleasant remarks had been made regarding the proposed
entertainment--made, of course, by the people who had not been invited
to be present. Some of the gossip on the subject had reached Loring,
who did not hesitate to say that he could not talk to a crowd, and that
he did not care to show the curious things he had collected to people
who would not thoroughly appreciate them. He had been very particular
in regard to his invitations.
At three o'clock on the appointed afternoon nearly all the people who
had been invited to the Unicorn Theatre were in their seats. No one
had stayed away except for some very good reason, for it was well known
that if Herbert Loring offered to show anything it was worth seeing.
About forty people were present, who sat talking to one another, or
admiring the decoration of the theatre. As Loring stood upon the
stage--where he was entirely alone, his exhibition requiring no
assistants--he gazed through a loophole in the curtain upon a very
interesting array of faces. There were the faces of many men and women
of society, of students, of workers in various fields of thought, and
even of idlers in all fields of thought; but there was not one which
indicated a frivolous or listless disposition. The owners of those
faces had come to see something, and they wished to see it.
For a quarter of an hour after the time announced for the opening of
the exhibition Loring peered through the hole in the curtain, and then,
although all the people he had expected had not arrived, he felt it
would not do for him to wait any longer. The audience was composed of
well-bred and courteous men and women, but despite their polite
self-restraint Loring could see that some of them were getting tired of
waiting. So, very reluctantly, and feeling that further delay was
impossible, he raised the curtain and came forward on the stage.
Briefly he announced that the exhibition would open with some fireworks
he had brought from Corea. It was plain to see that the statement that
fireworks were about to be set off on a theatre stage, by an amateur,
had rather startled some of the audience, and Loring hastened to
explain that these were not real fireworks, but that they were
contrivances made of colored glass, which were illuminated by the
powerful lens of a lantern which was placed out of sight, and while the
apparent pyrotechnic display would resemble fireworks of strange and
grotesque designs, it would be absolutely without danger. He brought
out some little bunches of bits of colored glass, hung them at some
distance apart on a wire which was stretched across the stage just high
enough for him to reach it, and then lighted his lantern, which he
placed in one of the wings, lowered all the lights in the theatre, and
began his exhibition.
As Loring turned his lantern on one of the clusters of glass lenses,
strips, and points, and, unseen himself, caused them to move by means
of long cords attached, the effects were beautiful and marvellous.
Little wheels of colored fire rapidly revolved, miniature rockets
appeared to rise a few feet and to explode in the air, and while all
the ordinary forms of fireworks were produced on a diminutive scale,
there were some effects that were entirely novel to the audience. As
the light was turned successively upon one and another of the clusters
of glass, sometimes it would flash along the whole line so rapidly that
all the various combinations of color and motion seemed to be combined
in one, and then for a time each particular set of fireworks would
blaze, sparkle, and coruscate by itself, scattering particles of
colored light as if they had been real sparks of fire.
This curious and beautiful exhibition of miniature pyrotechnics was
extremely interesting to the audience, who gazed upward with rapt and
eager attention at the line of wheels, stars, and revolving spheres.
So far as interest gave evidence of satisfaction, there was never a
better satisfied audience. At first there had been some hushed murmurs
of pleasure, but very soon the attention of every one seemed so
completely engrossed by the dazzling display that they simply gazed in
silence.
For twenty minutes or longer the glittering show went on, and not a
sign of weariness or inattention was made by any one of the assembled
company. Then gradually the colors of the little fireworks faded, the
stars and wheels revolved more slowly, the lights in the body of the
theatre were gradually raised, and the stage curtain went softly down.
Anxiously, and a little pale, Herbert Loring peered through the
loophole in the curtain. It was not easy to judge of the effects of
his exhibition, and he did not know whether or not it had been a
success. There was no applause, but, on the other hand, there was no
signs that any one resented the exhibition as a childish display of
colored lights. It was impossible to look upon that audience without
believing that they had been thoroughly interested in what they had
seen, and that they expected to see more.
For two or three minutes Loring gazed through his loophole, and then,
still with some doubt in his heart, but with a little more color in his
checks, he prepared for the second part of his performance.
At this moment there entered the theatre, at the very back of the
house, a young lady. She was handsome and well dressed, and as she
opened the door--Loring had employed no ushers or other assistants in
this little social performance--she paused for a moment and looked into
the theatre, and then noiselessly stepped to a chair in the back row
and sat down.
This was Edith Starr, who, a month before, had been betrothed to
Herbert Loring. Edith and her mother had been invited to this
performance, and front seats had been reserved for them, for each guest
had received a numbered card. But Mrs. Starr had a headache, and could
not go out that afternoon, and for a time her daughter had thought that
she, too, must give up the pleasure Loring had promised her, and stay
with her mother. But when the elder lady dropped into a quiet sleep,
Edith thought that, late as it was, she would go by herself, and see
what she could of the performance.
She was quite certain that if her presence were known to Loring he
would stop whatever he was doing until she had been provided with a
seat which he thought suitable for her, for he had made a point of her
being properly seated when he gave the invitations. Therefore, being
equally desirous of not disturbing the performance and of not being
herself conspicuous, she sat behind two rather large men, where she
could see the stage perfectly well, but where she herself would not be
likely to be seen.
In a few moments the curtain rose, and Loring came forward, carrying a
small, light table, which he placed near the front of the stage, and
for a moment stood quietly by it. Edith noticed upon his face the
expression of uncertainty and anxiety which had not yet left it.
Standing by the side of the table, and speaking very slowly, but so
clearly that his words could be heard distinctly in all parts of the
room, he began some introductory remarks regarding the second part of
his performance.
"The extraordinary, and I may say marvellous, thing which I am about to
show you," he said, "is known among East Indian magicians as the magic
egg. The exhibition is a very uncommon one, and has seldom been seen
by Americans or Europeans, and it was by a piece of rare good fortune
that I became possessed of the appliances necessary for this
exhibition. They are indeed very few and simple, but never before, to
the best of my knowledge and belief, have they been seen outside of
India.
"I will now get the little box which contains the articles necessary
for this magical performance, and I will say that if I had time to tell
you of the strange and amazing adventure which resulted in my
possession of this box, I am sure you would be as much interested in
that as I expect you to be in the contents of the box. But in order
that none of you may think this is an ordinary trick, executed by means
of concealed traps or doors, I wish you to take particular notice of
this table, which is, as you see, a plain, unpainted pine table, with
nothing but a flat top, and four straight legs at the corners. You can
see under and around it, and it gives no opportunity to conceal
anything." Then, standing for a few moments as if he had something else
to say, he turned and stepped toward one of the wings.
Edith was troubled as she looked at her lover during these remarks.
Her interest was great, greater, indeed, than that of the people about
her, but it was not a pleasant interest. As Loring stopped speaking,
and looked about him, there was a momentary flush on his face. She
knew this was caused by excitement, and she was pale from the same
cause.
Very soon Loring came forward, and stood by the table.
"Here is the box," he said, "of which I spoke, and as I hold it up I
think you all can see it. It is not large, being certainly not more
than twelve inches in length and two deep, but it contains some very
wonderful things. The outside of this box is covered with delicate
engraving and carving which you cannot see, and these marks and lines
have, I think, some magical meaning, but I do not know what it is. I
will now open the box and show you what is inside. The first thing I
take out is this little stick, not thicker than a lead-pencil, but
somewhat longer, as you see. This is a magical wand, and is covered
with inscriptions of the same character as those on the outside of the
box. The next thing is this little red bag, well filled, as you see,
which I shall put on the table, for I shall not yet need it.
"Now I take out a piece of cloth which is folded into a very small
compass, but as I unfold it you will perceive that it is more than a
foot square, and is covered with embroidery. All those strange lines
and figures in gold and red, which you can plainly see on the cloth as
I hold it up, are also characters in the same magic language as those
on the box and wand. I will now spread the cloth on the table, and
then take out the only remaining thing in the box, and this is nothing
in the world but an egg--a simple, ordinary hen's egg, as you all see
as I hold it up. It may be a trifle larger than an ordinary egg, but
then, after all, it is nothing but a common egg--that is, in
appearance. In reality it is a good deal more.
"Now I will begin the performance." And as he stood by the back of the
table, over which he had been slightly bending, and threw his eyes over
the audience, his voice was stronger, and his face had lost all its
pallor. He was evidently warming up with his subject.
"I now take up this wand," he said, "which, while I hold it, gives me
power to produce the phenomena which you are about to behold. You may
not all believe that there is any magic whatever about this little
performance, and that it is all a bit of machinery; but whatever you
may think about it, you shall see what you shall see.
"Now with this wand I gently touch this egg which is lying on the
square of cloth. I do not believe you can see what has happened to
this egg, but I will tell you. There is a little line, like a hair,
entirely around it. Now that line has become a crack. Now you can see
it, I know. It grows wider and wider! Look! The shell of the egg is
separating in the middle. The whole egg slightly moves. Do you notice
that? Now you can see something yellow showing itself between the two
parts of the shell. See! It is moving a good deal, and the two halves
of the shell are separating more and more. And now out tumbles this
queer little object. Do you see what it is? It is a poor, weak,
little chick, not able to stand, but alive--alive! You can all
perceive that it is alive. Now you can see that it is standing on its
feet, feebly enough, but still standing.
"Behold, it takes a few steps! You cannot doubt that it is alive, and
came out of that egg. It is beginning to walk about over the cloth.
Do you notice that it is picking the embroidery? Now, little chick, I
will give you something to eat. This little red bag contains grain, a
magical grain, with which I shall feed the chicken. You must excuse my
awkwardness in opening the bag, as I still hold the wand; but this
little stick I must not drop. See, little chick, there are some
grains! They look like rice, but, in fact, I have no idea what they
are. But he knows, he knows! Look at him! See how he picks it up!
There! He has swallowed one, two, three. That will do, little chick,
for a first meal.
"The grain seems to have strengthened him already, for see how lively
he is, and how his yellow down stands out on him, so puffy and warm!
You are looking for some more grain, are you? Well, you cannot have it
just yet, and keep away from those pieces of eggshell, which, by the
way, I will put back into the box. Now, sir, try to avoid the edge of
the table, and, to quiet you, I will give you a little tap on the back
with my wand. Now, then, please observe closely. The down which just
now covered him has almost gone. He is really a good deal bigger, and
ever so much uglier. See the little pin-feathers sticking out over
him! Some spots here and there are almost bare, but he is ever so much
more active. Ha! Listen to that! He is so strong that you can hear
his beak as he pecks at the table. He is actually growing bigger and
bigger before our very eyes! See that funny little tail, how it begins
to stick up, and quills are showing at the end of his wings.
"Another tap, and a few more grains. Careful, sir! Don't tear the
cloth! See how rapidly he grows! He is fairly covered with feathers,
red and black, with a tip of yellow in front. You could hardly get
that fellow into an ostrich egg! Now, then, what do you think of him?
He is big enough for a broiler, though I don't think any one would want
to take him for that purpose. Some more grain, and another tap from my
wand. See! He does not mind the little stick, for he has been used to
it from his very birth. Now, then, he is what you would call a good
half-grown chick. Rather more than half grown, I should say. Do you
notice his tail? There is no mistaking him for a pullet. The long
feathers are beginning to curl over already. He must have a little
more grain. Look out, sir, or you will be off the table! Come back
here! This table is too small for him, but if he were on the floor you
could not see him so well.
"Another tap. Now see that comb on the top of his head; you scarcely
noticed it before, and now it is bright red. And see his spurs
beginning to show--on good thick legs, too. There is a fine young
fellow for you! Look how he jerks his head from side to side, like the
young prince of a poultry-yard, as he well deserves to be!"
The attentive interest which had at first characterized the audience
now changed to excited admiration and amazement. Some leaned forward
with mouths wide open. Others stood up so that they could see better.
Ejaculations of astonishment and wonder were heard on every side, and a
more thoroughly fascinated and absorbed audience was never seen.
"Now, my friends," Loring continued, "I will give this handsome fowl
another tap. Behold the result--a noble, full-grown cock! Behold his
spurs! They are nearly an inch long! See, there is a comb for you!
And what a magnificent tail of green and black, contrasting so finely
with the deep red of the rest of his body! Well, sir, you are truly
too big for this table. As I cannot give you more room, I will set you
up higher. Move over a little, and I will set this chair on the table.
There! Upon the seat! That's right, but don't stop. There is the
back, which is higher yet! Up with you! Ha! There, he nearly upset
the chair, but I will hold it. See! He has turned around. Now, then,
look at him. See his wings as he flaps them! He could fly with such
wings. Look at him! See that swelling breast! Ha, ha! Listen! Did
you ever hear a crow like that? It fairly rings through the house.
Yes, I knew it! There is another!"
At this point the people in the house were in a state of wild
excitement. Nearly all of them were on their feet, and they were in
such a condition of frantic enthusiasm that Loring was afraid some of
them might make a run for the stage.
"Come, sir," cried Loring, now almost shouting, "that will do. You
have shown us the strength of your lungs. Jump down on the seat of the
chair; now on the table. There, I will take away the chair, and you
can stand for a moment on the table and let our friends look at you;
but only for a moment. Take that tap on your back. Now do you see any
difference? Perhaps you may not, but I do. Yes, I believe you all do.
He is not the big fellow he was a minute ago. He is really
smaller--only a fine cockerel. A nice tail that, but with none of the
noble sweep that it had a minute ago. No, don't try to get off the
table. You can't escape my wand. Another tap. Behold a half-grown
chicken, good to eat, but with not a crow in him. Hungry, are you?
But you need not pick at the table that way. You get no more grain,
but only this little tap. Ha, ha! What are you coming to? There is a
chicken barely feathered enough for us to tell what color he is going
to be.
"Another tap will take still more of the conceit out of him. Look at
him! There are his pin-feathers, and his bare spots. Don't try to get
away; I can easily tap you again. Now then. Here is a lovely little
chick, fluffy with yellow down. He is active enough, but I shall quiet
him. One tap, and now what do you see? A poor, feeble chicken,
scarcely able to stand, with his down all packed close to him as if he
had been out in the rain. Ah, little chick, I will take the two halves
of the egg-shell from which you came, and put them on each side of you.
Come, now get in! I close them up. You are lost to view. There is
nothing to be seen but a crack around the shell! Now it has gone!
There, my friends; as I hold it on high, behold the magic egg, exactly
as it was when I first took it out of the box, into which I will place
it again, with the cloth and the wand and the little red bag, and shut
it up with a snap. I will let you take one more look at this box
before I put it away behind the scenes. Are you satisfied with what I
have shown you? Do you think it is really as wonderful as you supposed
it would be?"
At these words the whole audience burst into riotous applause, during
which Loring disappeared, but he was back in a moment.
"Thank you!" he cried, bowing low, and waving his arms before him in
the manner of an Eastern magician making a salaam. From side to side
he turned, bowing and thanking, and then, with a hearty "Good-by to
you; good-by to you all!" he stepped back and let down the curtain.
For some moments the audience remained in their seats as if they were
expecting something more, and then they rose quietly and began to
disperse. Most of them were acquainted with one another, and there was
a good deal of greeting and talking as they went out of the theatre.
When Loring was sure the last person had departed, he turned down the
lights, locked the door, and gave the key to the steward of the club.
He walked to his home a happy man. His exhibition had been a perfect
success, with not a break or a flaw in it from beginning to end.
"I feel," thought the young man, as he strode along, "as if I could fly
to the top of that steeple, and flap and crow until all the world heard
me."
That evening, as was his daily custom, Herbert Loring called upon Miss
Starr. He found the young lady in the library.
"I came in here," she said, "because I have a good deal to talk to you
about, and I do not want interruptions."
With this arrangement the young man expressed his entire satisfaction,
and immediately began to inquire the cause of her absence from his
exhibition in the afternoon.
"But I was there," said Edith. "You did not see me, but I was there.
Mother had a headache, and I went by myself."
"You were there!" exclaimed Loring, almost starting from his chair. "I
don't understand. You were not in your seat."
"No," answered Edith. "I was on the very back row of seats.
You could not see me, and I did not wish you to see me."
"Edith!" exclaimed Loring, rising to his feet and leaning over the
library table, which was between them. "When did you come? How much
of the performance did you see?"
"I was late," she said. "I did not arrive until after the fireworks,
or whatever they were."
For a moment Loring was silent, as if he did not understand the
situation.
"Fireworks!" he said. "How did you know there had been fireworks?"
"I heard the people talking of them as they left the theatre," she
answered.
"And what did they say?" he inquired quickly.
"They seemed to like them very well," she replied, "but I do not think
they were quite satisfied. From what I heard some persons say, I
inferred that they thought it was not very much of a show to which you
had invited them."
Again Loring stood in thought, looking down at the table. But before
he could speak again, Edith sprang to her feet.
"Herbert Loring," she cried, "what does all this mean? I was there
during the whole of the exhibition of what you called the magic egg. I
saw all those people wild with excitement at the wonderful sight of the
chicken that came out of the egg, and grew to full size, and then
dwindled down again, and went back into the egg, and, Herbert, there
was no egg, and there was no little box, and there was no wand, and no
embroidered cloth, and there was no red bag, nor any little chick, and
there was no full-grown fowl, and there was no chair that you put on
the table! There was nothing, absolutely nothing, but you and that
table! Even the table was not what you said it was. It was not an
unpainted pine table with four straight legs. It was a table of dark
polished wood, and it stood on a single post with feet. There was
nothing there that you said was there. Everything was a sham and a
delusion; every word you spoke was untrue. And yet everybody in that
theatre, excepting you and me, saw all the things that you said were on
the stage. I know they saw them all, for I was with the people, and
heard them, and saw them, and at times I fairly felt the thrill of
enthusiasm which possessed them as they glared at the miracles and
wonders you said were happening."
Loring smiled. "Sit down, my dear Edith," he said. "You are excited,
and there is not the slightest cause for it. I will explain the whole
affair to you. It is simple enough. You know that study is the great
object of my life. I study all sorts of things; and just now I am
greatly interested in hypnotism. The subject has become fascinating to
me. I have made a great many successful trials of my power, and the
affair of this afternoon was nothing but a trial of my powers on a more
extensive scale than anything I have yet attempted. I wanted to see if
it were possible for me to hypnotize a considerable number of people
without any one suspecting what I intended to do. The result was a
success. I hypnotized all those people by means of the first part of
my performance, which consisted of some combinations of colored glass
with lights thrown upon them. They revolved, and looked like
fireworks, and were strung on a wire high up on the stage.
"I kept up the glittering and dazzling show--which was well worth
seeing, I can assure you--until the people had been straining their
eyes upward for almost half an hour. And this sort of thing--I will
tell you if you do not know it--is one of the methods of producing
hypnotic sleep.
"There was no one present who was not an impressionable subject, for I
was very careful in sending out my invitations, and when I became
almost certain that my audience was thoroughly hypnotized, I stopped
the show and began the real exhibition, which was not really for their
benefit, but for mine.
"Of course, I was dreadfully anxious for fear I had not succeeded
entirely, and that there might be at least some one person who had not
succumbed to the hypnotic influences, and so I tested the matter by
bringing out that table and telling them it was something it was not.
If I had had any reason for supposing that some of the audience saw the
table as it really was, I had an explanation ready, and I could have
retired from my position without any one supposing that I had intended
making hypnotic experiments. The rest of the exhibition would have
been some things that any one could see, and as soon as possible I
would have released from their spell those who were hypnotized. But
when I became positively assured that every one saw a light pine table
with four straight legs, I confidently went on with the performances of
the magic egg."
Edith Starr was still standing by the library table. She had not
heeded Loring's advice to sit down, and she was trembling with emotion.
"Herbert Loring," she said, "you invited my mother and me to that
exhibition. You gave us tickets for front seats, where we would be
certain to be hypnotized if your experiment succeeded, and you would
have made us see that false show, which faded from those people's minds
as soon as they recovered from the spell, for as they went away they
were talking only of the fireworks, and not one of them mentioned a
magic egg, or a chicken, or anything of the kind. Answer me this: did
you not intend that I should come and be put under that spell?"
Loring smiled. "Yes," he said, "of course I did. But then your case
would have been different from that of the other spectators: I should
have explained the whole thing to you, and I am sure we would have had
a great deal of pleasure, and profit too, in discussing your
experiences. The subject is extremely--"
"Explain to me!" she cried. "You would not have dared to do it! I do
not know how brave you may be, but I know you would not have had the
courage to come here and tell me that you had taken away my reason and
my judgment, as you took them away from all those people, and that you
had made me a mere tool of your will--glaring and panting with
excitement at the wonderful things you told me to see where nothing
existed. I have nothing to say about the others. They can speak for
themselves if they ever come to know what you did to them. I speak for
myself. I stood up with the rest of the people. I gazed with all my
power, and over and over again I asked myself if it could be possible
that anything was the matter with my eyes or my brain, and if I could
be the only person there who could not see the marvellous spectacle
that you were describing. But now I know that nothing was real, not
even the little pine table--not even the man!"
"Not even me!" exclaimed Loring. "Surely I was real enough!"
"On that stage, yes," she said. "But you there proved you were not the
Herbert Loring to whom I promised myself. He was an unreal being. If
he had existed he would not have been a man who would have brought me
to that public place, all ignorant of his intentions, to cloud my
perceptions, to subject my intellect to his own, and make me believe a
lie. If a man should treat me in that way once he would treat me so at
other times, and in other ways, if he had the chance. You have treated
me in the past as to-day you treated those people who glared at the
magic egg. In the days gone by you made me see an unreal man, but you
will never do it again! Good-by."
"Edith," cried Loring, "you don't--"
But she had disappeared through a side door, and he never spoke to her
again.
Walking home through the dimly lighted streets, Loring involuntarily
spoke aloud.
"And this," he said, "is what came out of the magic egg!"
"HIS WIFE'S DECEASED SISTER"
It is now five years since an event occurred which so colored my life,
or rather so changed some of its original colors, that I have thought
it well to write an account of it, deeming that its lessons may be of
advantage to persons whose situations in life are similar to my own.
When I was quite a young man I adopted literature as a profession, and
having passed through the necessary preparatory grades, I found myself,
after a good many years of hard and often unremunerative work, in
possession of what might be called a fair literary practice. My
articles, grave, gay, practical, or fanciful, had come to be considered
with a favor by the editors of the various periodicals for which I
wrote, on which I found in time I could rely with a very comfortable
certainty. My productions created no enthusiasm in the reading public;
they gave me no great reputation or very valuable pecuniary return; but
they were always accepted, and my receipts from them, at the time to
which I have referred, were as regular and reliable as a salary, and
quite sufficient to give me more than a comfortable support.
It was at this time I married. I had been engaged for more than a
year, but had not been willing to assume the support of a wife until I
felt that my pecuniary position was so assured that I could do so with
full satisfaction to my own conscience. There was now no doubt in
regard to this position, either in my mind or in that of my wife. I
worked with great steadiness and regularity, I knew exactly where to
place the productions of my pen, and could calculate, with a fair
degree of accuracy, the sums I should receive for them. We were by no
means rich, but we had enough, and were thoroughly satisfied and
content.
Those of my readers who are married will have no difficulty in
remembering the peculiar ecstasy of the first weeks of their wedded
life. It is then that the flowers of this world bloom brightest; that
its sun is the most genial; that its clouds are the scarcest; that its
fruit is the most delicious; that the air is the most balmy; that its
cigars are of the highest flavor; that the warmth and radiance of early
matrimonial felicity so rarefy the intellectual atmosphere that the
soul mounts higher, and enjoys a wider prospect, than ever before.
These experiences were mine. The plain claret of my mind was changed
to sparkling champagne, and at the very height of its effervescence I
wrote a story. The happy thought that then struck me for a tale was of
a very peculiar character, and it interested me so much that I went to
work at it with great delight and enthusiasm, and finished it in a
comparatively short time. The title of the story was "His Wife's
Deceased Sister," and when I read it to Hypatia she was delighted with
it, and at times was so affected by its pathos that her uncontrollable
emotion caused a sympathetic dimness in my eyes which prevented my
seeing the words I had written. When the reading was ended and my wife
had dried her eyes, she turned to me and said, "This story will make
your fortune. There has been nothing so pathetic since Lamartine's
`History of a Servant Girl.'"
As soon as possible the next day I sent my story to the editor of the
periodical for which I wrote most frequently, and in which my best
productions generally appeared. In a few days I had a letter from the
editor, in which he praised my story as he had never before praised
anything from my pen. It had interested and charmed, he said, not only
himself, but all his associates in the office. Even old Gibson, who
never cared to read anything until it was in proof, and who never
praised anything which had not a joke in it, was induced by the example
of the others to read this manuscript, and shed, as he asserted, the
first tears that had come from his eyes since his final paternal
castigation some forty years before. The story would appear, the
editor assured me, as soon as he could possibly find room for it.
If anything could make our skies more genial, our flowers
brighter, and the flavor of our fruit and cigars more delicious, it was
a letter like this. And when, in a very short time, the story was
published, we found that the reading public was inclined to receive it
with as much sympathetic interest and favor as had been shown to it by
the editors. My personal friends soon began to express enthusiastic
opinions upon it. It was highly praised in many of the leading
newspapers, and, altogether, it was a great literary success. I am not
inclined to be vain of my writings, and, in general, my wife tells me,
I think too little of them. But I did feel a good deal of pride and
satisfaction in the success of "His Wife's Deceased Sister." If it did
not make my fortune, as my wife asserted it would, it certainly would
help me very much in my literary career.
In less than a month from the writing of this story, something very
unusual and unexpected happened to me. A manuscript was returned by
the editor of the periodical in which "His Wife's Deceased Sister" had
appeared.
"It is a good story," he wrote, "but not equal to what you have just
done. You have made a great hit, and it would not do to interfere with
the reputation you have gained by publishing anything inferior to `His
Wife's Deceased Sister,' which has had such a deserved success."
I was so unaccustomed to having my work thrown back on my hands that I
think I must have turned a little pale when I read the letter. I said
nothing of the matter to my wife, for it would be foolish to drop such
grains of sand as this into the smoothly oiled machinery of our
domestic felicity, but I immediately sent the story to another editor.
I am not able to express the astonishment I felt when, in the course of
a week, it was sent back to me. The tone of the note accompanying it
indicated a somewhat injured feeling on the part of the editor.
"I am reluctant," he said, "to decline a manuscript from you; but you
know very well that if you sent me anything like `His Wife's Deceased
Sister' it would be most promptly accepted."
I now felt obliged to speak of the affair to my wife, who was quite as
much surprised, though, perhaps, not quite as much shocked, as I had
been.
"Let us read the story again," she said, "and see what is the matter
with it." When we had finished its perusal, Hypatia remarked: "It is
quite as good as many of the stories you have had printed, and I think
it very interesting, although, of course, it is not equal to `His
Wife's Deceased Sister.'"
"Of course not," said I; "that was an inspiration that I cannot expect
every day. But there must be something wrong about this last story
which we do not perceive. Perhaps my recent success may have made me a
little careless in writing it."
"I don't believe that," said Hypatia.
"At any rate," I continued, "I will lay it aside, and will go to work
on a new one."
In due course of time I had another manuscript finished, and I sent it
to my favorite periodical. It was retained some weeks, and then came
back to me.
"It will never do," the editor wrote, quite warmly, "for you to go
backward. The demand for the number containing `His Wife's Deceased
Sister' still continues, and we do not intend to let you disappoint
that great body of readers who would be so eager to see another number
containing one of your stories."
I sent this manuscript to four other periodicals, and from each of them
it was returned with remarks to the effect that, although it was not a
bad story in itself, it was not what they would expect from the author
of "His Wife's Deceased Sister."
The editor of a Western magazine wrote to me for a story to be
published in a special number which he would issue for the holidays. I
wrote him one of the character and length he desired, and sent it to
him. By return mail it came back to me.
"I had hoped," the editor wrote, "when I asked for a story from your
pen, to receive something like `His Wife's Deceased Sister,' and I must
own that I am very much disappointed."
I was so filled with anger when I read this note that I openly
objurgated "His Wife's Deceased Sister." "You must excuse me," I said
to my astonished wife, "for expressing myself thus in your presence,
but that confounded story will be the ruin of me yet. Until it is
forgotten nobody will ever take anything I write."
"And you cannot expect it ever to be forgotten," said Hypatia, with
tears in her eyes.
It is needless for me to detail my literary efforts in the course of
the next few months. The ideas of the editors with whom my principal
business had been done, in regard to my literary ability, had been so
raised by my unfortunate story of "His Wife's Deceased Sister" that I
found it was of no use to send them anything of lesser merit. And as
to the other journals which I tried, they evidently considered it an
insult for me to send them matter inferior to that by which my
reputation had lately risen. The fact was that my successful story had
ruined me. My income was at an end, and want actually stared me in the
face; and I must admit that I did not like the expression of its
countenance. It was of no use for me to try to write another story
like "His Wife's Deceased Sister." I could not get married every time
I began a new manuscript, and it was the exaltation of mind caused by
my wedded felicity which produced that story.
"It's perfectly dreadful!" said my wife. "If I had had a sister, and
she had died, I would have thought it was my fault."
"It could not be your fault," I answered, "and I do not think it was
mine. I had no intention of deceiving anybody into the belief that I
could do that sort of thing every time, and it ought not to be expected
of me. Suppose Raphael's patrons had tried to keep him screwed up to
the pitch of the Sistine Madonna, and had refused to buy anything which
was not as good as that. In that case I think he would have occupied a
much earlier and narrower grave than the one on which Mr. Morris Moore
hangs his funeral decorations."
"But, my dear," said Hypatia, who was posted on such subjects, "the
Sistine Madonna was one of his latest paintings."
"Very true," said I. "But if he had married as I did, he would have
painted it earlier."
I was walking homeward one afternoon about this time, when I met
Barbel, a man I had known well in my early literary career. He was now
about fifty years of age, but looked older. His hair and beard were
quite gray, and his clothes, which were of the same general hue, gave
me the idea that they, like his hair, had originally been black. Age
is very hard on a man's external appointments. Barbel had an air of
having been to let for a long time, and quite out of repair. But there
was a kindly gleam in his eye, and he welcomed me cordially.
"Why, what is the matter, old fellow?" said he. "I never saw you look
so woe-begone."
I had no reason to conceal anything from Barbel. In my younger days he
had been of great use to me, and he had a right to know the state of my
affairs. I laid the whole case plainly before him.
"Look here," he said, when I had finished; "come with me to my room; I
have something I would like to say to you there."
I followed Barbel to his room. It was at the top of a very dirty and
well-worn house, which stood in a narrow and lumpy street, into which
few vehicles ever penetrated, except the ash and garbage-carts, and the
rickety wagons of the venders of stale vegetables.
"This is not exactly a fashionable promenade," said Barbel, as we
approached the house, "but in some respects it reminds me of the
streets in Italian towns, where the palaces lean over toward each other
in such a friendly way."
Barbel's room was, to my mind, rather more doleful than the street. It
was dark, it was dusty, and cobwebs hung from every corner. The few
chairs upon the floor and the books upon a greasy table seemed to be
afflicted with some dorsal epidemic, for their backs were either gone
or broken. A little bedstead in the corner was covered with a spread
made of New York "Heralds" with their edges pasted together.
"There is nothing better," said Barbel, noticing my glance toward this
novel counterpane, "for a bed-covering than newspapers; they keep you
as warm as a blanket, and are much lighter. I used to use `Tribunes,'
but they rattled too much."
The only part of the room which was well lighted was one end near the
solitary window. Here, upon a table with a spliced leg, stood a little
grindstone.
"At the other end of the room," said Barbel, "is my cook-stove, which
you can't see unless I light the candle in the bottle which stands by
it. But if you don't care particularly to examine it, I won't go to
the expense of lighting up. You might pick up a good many odd pieces
of bric-a-brac, around here, if you chose to strike a match and
investigate. But I would not advise you to do so. It would pay better
to throw the things out of the window than to carry them down-stairs.
The particular piece of indoor decoration to which I wish to call your
attention is this." And he led me to a little wooden frame which hung
against the wall near the window. Behind a dusty piece of glass it
held what appeared to be a leaf from a small magazine or journal.
"There," said he, "you see a page from the `Grasshopper,' a humorous
paper which flourished in this city some half-dozen years ago. I used
to write regularly for that paper, as you may remember."
"Oh, yes, indeed!" I exclaimed. "And I shall never forget your
`Conundrum of the Anvil' which appeared in it. How often have I
laughed at that most wonderful conceit, and how often have I put it to
my friends!"
Barbel gazed at me silently for a moment, and then he pointed to the
frame. "That printed page," he said solemnly, "contains the `Conundrum
of the Anvil.' I hang it there so that I can see it while I work.
That conundrum ruined me. It was the last thing I wrote for the
`Grasshopper.' How I ever came to imagine it, I cannot tell. It is
one of those things which occur to a man but once in a lifetime. After
the wild shout of delight with which the public greeted that conundrum,
my subsequent efforts met with hoots of derision. The `Grasshopper'
turned its hind legs upon me. I sank from bad to worse,--much
worse,--until at last I found myself reduced to my present occupation,
which is that of grinding points on pins. By this I procure my bread,
coffee, and tobacco, and sometimes potatoes and meat. One day while I
was hard at work, an organ-grinder came into the street below. He
played the serenade from `Trovatore' and the familiar notes brought
back visions of old days and old delights, when the successful writer
wore good clothes and sat at operas, when he looked into sweet eyes and
talked of Italian airs, when his future appeared all a succession of
bright scenery and joyous acts, without any provision for a
drop-curtain. And as my ear listened, and my mind wandered in this
happy retrospect, my every faculty seemed exalted, and, without any
thought upon the matter, I ground points upon my pins so fine, so
regular, and so smooth that they would have pierced with ease the
leather of a boot, or slipped, without abrasion, among the finest
threads of rare old lace. When the organ stopped, and I fell back into
my real world of cobwebs and mustiness, I gazed upon the pins I had
just ground, and, without a moment's hesitation, I threw them into the
street, and reported the lot as spoiled. This cost me a little money,
but it saved me my livelihood."
After a few moments of silence, Barbel resumed:
"I have no more to say to you, my young friend. All I want you to do
is to look upon that framed conundrum, then upon this grindstone, and
then to go home and reflect. As for me, I have a gross of pins to
grind before the sun goes down."
I cannot say that my depression of mind was at all relieved by what I
had seen and heard. I had lost sight of Barbel for some years, and I
had supposed him still floating on the sun-sparkling stream of
prosperity where I had last seen him. It was a great shock to me to
find him in such a condition of poverty and squalor, and to see a man
who had originated the "Conundrum of the Anvil" reduced to the
soul-depressing occupation of grinding pin-points. As I walked and
thought, the dreadful picture of a totally eclipsed future arose before
my mind. The moral of Barbel sank deep into my heart.
When I reached home I told my wife the story of my friend Barbel. She
listened with a sad and eager interest.
"I am afraid," she said, "if our fortunes do not quickly mend, that we
shall have to buy two little grindstones. You know I could help you at
that sort of thing."
For a long time we sat together and talked, and devised many plans for
the future. I did not think it necessary yet for me to look out for a
pin contract; but I must find some way of making money, or we should
starve to death. Of course, the first thing that suggested itself was
the possibility of finding some other business. But, apart from the
difficulty of immediately obtaining remunerative work in occupations to
which I had not been trained, I felt a great and natural reluctance to
give up a profession for which I had carefully prepared myself, and
which I had adopted as my life-work. It would be very hard for me to
lay down my pen forever, and to close the top of my inkstand upon all
the bright and happy fancies which I had seen mirrored in its tranquil
pool. We talked and pondered the rest of that day and a good deal of
the night, but we came to no conclusion as to what it would be best for
us to do.
The next day I determined to go and call upon the editor of the journal
for which, in happier days, before the blight of "His Wife's Deceased
Sister" rested upon me, I used most frequently to write, and, having
frankly explained my condition to him, to ask his advice. The editor
was a good man, and had always been my friend. He listened with great
attention to what I told him, and evidently sympathized with me in my
trouble.
"As we have written to you," he said, "the only reason why we did not
accept the manuscripts you sent us was that they would have
disappointed the high hopes that the public had formed in regard to
you. We have had letter after letter asking when we were going to
publish another story like `His Wife's Deceased Sister.' We felt, and
we still feel, that it would be wrong to allow you to destroy the fair
fabric which you yourself have raised. But," he added, with a kind
smile, "I see very plainly that your well-deserved reputation will be
of little advantage to you if you should starve at the moment that its
genial beams are, so to speak, lighting you up."
"Its beams are not genial," I answered. "They have scorched and
withered me."
"How would you like," said the editor, after a short reflection, "to
allow us to publish the stories you have recently written under some
other name than your own? That would satisfy us and the public, would
put money in your pocket, and would not interfere with your reputation."
Joyfully I seized the noble fellow by the hand, and instantly accepted
his proposition. "Of course," said I, "a reputation is a very good
thing; but no reputation can take the place of food, clothes, and a
house to live in, and I gladly agree to sink my over-illumined name
into oblivion, and to appear before the public as a new and unknown
writer."
"I hope that need not be for long," he said, "for I feel sure that you
will yet write stories as good as `His Wife's Deceased Sister.'"
All the manuscripts I had on hand I now sent to my good friend the
editor, and in due and proper order they appeared in his journal under
the name of John Darmstadt, which I had selected as a substitute for my
own, permanently disabled. I made a similar arrangement with other
editors, and John Darmstadt received the credit of everything that
proceeded from my pen. Our circumstances now became very comfortable,
and occasionally we even allowed ourselves to indulge in little dreams
of prosperity.
Time passed on very pleasantly. One year, another, and then a little
son was born to us. It is often difficult, I believe, for thoughtful
persons to decide whether the beginning of their conjugal career, or
the earliest weeks in the life of their first-born, be the happiest and
proudest period of their existence. For myself I can only say that the
same exaltation of mind, the same rarefication of idea and invention,
which succeeded upon my wedding day came upon me now. As then, my
ecstatic emotions crystallized themselves into a motive for a story,
and without delay I set myself to work upon it. My boy was about six
weeks old when the manuscript was finished, and one evening, as we sat
before a comfortable fire in our sitting-room, with the curtains drawn,
and the soft lamp lighted, and the baby sleeping soundly in the
adjoining chamber, I read the story to my wife.
When I had finished, my wife arose and threw herself into my arms. "I
was never so proud of you," she said, her glad eyes sparkling, "as I am
at this moment. That is a wonderful story! It is, indeed I am sure it
is, just as good as `His Wife's Deceased Sister.'"
As she spoke these words, a sudden and chilling sensation crept over us
both. All her warmth and fervor, and the proud and happy glow
engendered within me by this praise and appreciation from one I loved,
vanished in an instant. We stepped apart, and gazed upon each other
with pallid faces. In the same moment the terrible truth had flashed
upon us both. This story WAS as good as "His Wife's Deceased Sister"!
We stood silent. The exceptional lot of Barbel's super-pointed pins
seemed to pierce our very souls. A dreadful vision rose before me of
an impending fall and crash, in which our domestic happiness should
vanish, and our prospects for our boy be wrecked, just as we had began
to build them up.
My wife approached me, and took my hand in hers, which was as cold as
ice. "Be strong and firm," she said. "A great danger threatens us,
but you must brace yourself against it. Be strong and firm."