THE CHARM OF AN OLD TOWN.
The spiritual atmosphere of Bolanyo was like the charm of an old book
that we prize only for the almost secret art of its expression, an art
too ethereal to be caught and inspected. Sometimes it was drowsy, with
all the dreamy laziness of a hamlet in the south of Spain, but there
were days when it seemed to rebel against its own ease and unconcern,
when a sense of Americanism asserted itself to demand a share in the
bustling affairs of noisy commerce. Court day was a time of special
activity. It was then that the local market felt a stimulating thrill.
My window looked out upon the public square, a macadamized space, white
and dazzling in the sun. Sometimes the scene was busy and interesting
in variety; wagons loaded with hay still fragrant of the meadow; a brisk
horse trotted up and down in front of an auctioneer; negroes with live
chickens tied in bunches; a drunken man making a speech on the wretched
condition of the country; a "fakir" on the corner selling a soap that
would remove a stain from even a tarnished reputation.
Life along the levee was ever interesting to me, for it was there that I
could study the slowly vanishing type of boatmen, once so distinctive as
to threaten the coming of a new and haughty aristocracy. Singing the
song of long ago, with their eyes fixed upon the river, the old negroes
stumbled over the railway track that a new progress had thrown across
their domain. Great red warehouses were falling into decay, and rank
weeds were growing in the bow of a half-submerged steamer that years ago
had won a great race on the river. Everywhere lay the rotting ends and
broken ravelings of the past, but nowhere, not even in the oddest
corner, could there be found the thread of a hope for the future. The
business interests of the town had grown away from the river, leaving it
to melancholy poetry and to death. And here I loitered, day after day,
in a vague contentment extracted from a distress more vague. To a
thoughtful mind there is more of interest in decay than in progress; the
"Decline and Fall" is a greater book than could have been written on the
"Origin and Rise."
I could find no one to tell me much of the history of Bolanyo; no one
appeared to take an interest in that part of its existence which lay
behind the halcyon and now almost holy day of the steamboat. I knew
that, in a corrupted form, it retained the name given originally to the
Spanish fortification. But that was enough to know, for the exact dates
of the historian might have made it, in comparison with places of real
antiquity, a toadstool of yesterday.
I saw the Senator nearly every day, in the office or on the street.
Election was not far away, and he had begun to mingle more freely with
the people; and though his manner was as cordial and as solicitous as on
the day when driving with me he had saluted everyone whom he met in the
road, he was far from being familiar, and no one, except his most
intimate friends, presumed to call him Giles.
The sight of his house, pillared and stately, on the summit of the
graceful rise, was always a pleasure, and while strolling about, with no
intention of calling (having, doubtless, called the day before), I kept
it in view, for my eyes were never weary with looking upon it, so white
and peaceful. It was not a palace, not really a mansion, and in the rich
communities of the North it would not have been noteworthy except as a
sort of quaint renaissance in home building, but to me it had not been
set there by the hand of man, but by the Genii of the Lamp.
Upon calling one afternoon, I was told by the negro woman that the
Senator was asleep, and, not wishing to have him disturbed, I walked
out into the garden, where Washington was at work among the flowers.
With the instinct of his race, he was humming a tune, and he did not
hear me until I spoke to him, and then, uplifting his hand with a sign
of caution, he pointed at a tree not far away. My eyes leaped to follow
him, for I felt that the young woman was near, and there on a bench she
sat, her head against the tree, her hat on the ground--asleep.
"Don't make a noise," he said, in tones but little louder than a
whisper. "Sarah, the colored woman there in the house, say--says the
young lady didn't sleep hardly at all last night, and she went to sleep
out there just now."
"She isn't ill, is she?" I asked.
"Sick? No, Sir, she is well, but she's got to sleep some time. How do
you like my flowers?"
"They are very beautiful."
"Yes, Sir, but don't talk quite so loud. Seems to me like you are
trying to wake her up. I didn't want to take money for this work," he
went on, bending over and pulling up a weed, "for I like to do it, but
they insist on paying me. Yes, Sir. And I reckon--I suppose we have here
the finest clump of magnolias in all this part of the country. This one,
right here, was set out the day Miss Florence was born, twenty-four
years ago, now."
"And it is the most graceful tree of them all," I replied.
He cut his black eyes at me. "Yes, Sir, I believe it is, but, even if it
wasn't, you might say it was. I beg your pardon, Sir, but you just as
well board here. Oh, all the whole human family is not blind. If the
rest of them are, I'm not."
"Look here, Washington."
"I'm looking, Sir," he said, his eyes full upon me.
"You were very kind to me, and I am grateful, but I don't want your
guardianship, and I won't have your insinuations."
"Why, bless you, Sir, I don't want to be your guardian, and I don't
intend to insinuate. I spoke to you once about a danger, and I was
afraid you had forgotten it. Don't misunderstand me. I believe you are
an honorable man, but honor is not always careful enough when it comes
to talking to a lady, and none but an honorable man could make trouble
on this occasion. The only trouble you can make--there (nodding toward
the bench whereon the young woman sat, in fluffy white), the only
trouble you can cause there," he repeated, "would be to make her still
more dissatisfied with life. And a trouble might fall hard on you, Sir.
Let me tell you something in confidence. People have said that my
wedding to the church was what kept me from a marriage of the flesh. I
let them believe so, but it is not true. Mr. Belford, a soul that is now
cool and quiet in this black breast was once raging and on fire. It was
a long time ago. I had just begun to preach. I lived at the house of a
friend--over yonder."
He waved his hand toward a distant hill on which was clustered a negro
settlement.
"And there was a woman with a face like cream when the cow has eaten the
first buds of the clover; and her eyes were as bright as the star that
hung above the manger, and her laugh was as sweet as the notes that
dripped like honey from the harp of David."
He stood erect, a pose of black dignity, his arms folded on his breast,
and in one hand he held the weed that he had uprooted from among the
flowers. I did not question the sincerity of his religious zeal; from
what I had heard and from what I had seen of him I was persuaded that
with honesty he had dedicated his life to the service of his creed, but
now I felt that he was making a conscious picture of his sentiment and
his sacrifice. The bigotry of applauded self-righteousness was in the
look that he bent upon me, and my blood rose in resentment, but I said
nothing; I let him proceed.
"This woman was a wife, beyond my reach, and I felt that there was no
danger for me, and therefore I was not careful, but the first thing I
knew I was called upon to choose between the spirit of the Lord and the
flesh of the devil."
"Washington, you are talking what is popularly known as rot. How can you
compare a handsome woman with the flesh of the devil?"
"The devil's flesh may be beautiful, Sir; and beautiful flesh may not be
conscious that it was laid on by the devil."
"But if the devil can tint the flesh and make it beautiful, he is an
artist."
"Yes," he said, "and the devil might arm an agent with a paint brush."
"More rot, Washington. The beautiful things are of the Lord and not of
the devil. The devil may have made the weed you hold in your hand, but
the flowers belong to God."
With a shudder he dropped the weed, as if suddenly it had burnt him.
"Well, the end of your love story; how did it come out?"
"It made the woman dissatisfied with the cold clod she was living with;
and if I had not let my duty rule me there might have been a scandal,
and then my day of usefulness would have been gone."
"Yes; I suppose that a preacher must necessarily look upon a woman as a
sort of trap door. He may recover from the disgrace of wine, but
woman--" I glanced toward the bench, to find Mrs. Estell engaged in the
very human act of rubbing her eyes. I did not wait to finish the
sentence, but stepped off briskly; and, looking round before she
recognized my coming, I saw that Washington had dropped his dignity and
was bending among the flowers. She was not startled when she saw me; she
did not even show surprise, for my odd-hour presence had become
commonplace.
"I'm glad you came," she said in quiet frankness, and with a smile of
welcome. "Sit down. Isn't it a sleepy day?"
"Yes. And even the soft air is gently snoring among the leaves," I
replied, rather pleased with the fancy.
"Don't talk that way," she said. "You'll put me to sleep again." She
turned her face away to hide a yawn. "Have you begun work on your play?"
"Well, yes, I have taken some very important steps. Day before yesterday
I got some paper, got a pint of ink yesterday, and I expect to get a box
of pens to-day."
"Oh, you are making great progress. You are going to let me read it, I
suppose?"
"Yes, after I've had it typewritten."
"Oh, I won't want to read it then--all the character of the work will be
gone--I couldn't find any of your moods and troubles in it; couldn't
tell where it was easy nor where you got stuck. I always think that
handwriting holds something for me alone, but a typewritten thing is
intended for everybody. The other day I got a typewritten letter from
Mr. Estell, and I sent it back to him without reading it. Of course, he
had to dictate it. And he sent an apology by the next mail."
"Also dictated?" I asked.
"It would have been just like him," she laughed, "but it was scratched
with a pen. I hate anything that's dictated; I actually hate it. Some
time ago I read that a favorite author of mine dictated his books or
worked the typewriter himself, and since then I can't read him. It seems
to me that the mellowest work was done by the poets when they wrote with
a quill. Imagine Byron setting fire to a page with a typewriter!"
There was the humor of scorn in her "glad eyes" as she looked up at me.
"So, if I am to read your play, it must not be when the typewriter has
hammered _you_ out of it," she said.
"I will read it to you. How will that do?"
"From the original sheets? That will do; that is, if you want to. I
don't want you to feel that it's a duty."
"Oh, no; it will be a pleasure. The path of duty is too straight for
me."
"It's the winding path that leads to the sweetest flowers," she said,
with a motion of her hand toward a clump of roses not far away.
There were a hundred points on which I had yearned to question her, and
the most vital of them all--why had she taken the name of that
unsympathetic man?--arose to my mind, but instantly it sank again. Her
manner toward me was cordial and intimate, but in it I recognized a
command against familiarity; that quiet something which tells a man more
than a volume of words could imply. I wanted to believe that she was
persuaded by her father. I was willing to believe almost anything except
that she could ever have loved him. It was not alone the eye of
prejudice that made him look old; it was actual age. He was older than
the Senator. But his people had been great--the lords of old Virginia.
I would wait, and perhaps at some time in the future she might forget a
high-strung woman's caution; she might drop a thoughtless word, a
firefly to glow in the dark.
The negro preacher came walking slowly down the patch, to give his
attention to another part of the garden. He was humming a tune, with his
eyes on the ground, and he neither spoke nor halted, but at my feet he
dropped a weed.
"You have a faithful gardener," I remarked, when Washington had passed
beyond the reach of a low tone.
"Yes; there was only one George Washington, and there's only one
Washington Smith."
"But don't you think he's a little too zealous?"
"Too zealous? How?" she inquired, turning her eyes full upon me.
"Well, I don't know that zealous is the word. Perhaps I should have said
intolerant."
"Oh, he is intolerant--yes. He believes that he's one of the anointed."
"That's all very well, but he oughtn't to believe that he is appointed
to look after the souls of other men."
"Then he would have no mission," she replied. "The true strength of the
preacher is his sense of responsibility."
"Pardon me, I didn't know you were of the strictly orthodox fold."
"Didn't you? Don't you know I go to church every Sunday?"
"Yes, I ought to. I have more than once waited for you to come home."
She looked at me in surprise, and I made haste to add: "The Senator and
I have needed you to arbitrate our disputes, you know."
"Oh, yes, and I think you were wise in acknowledging that he had brought
you into his party. We all take a great interest in our converts.
Everybody is looking forward to the coming of your dramatic season," she
went on after a moment's pause. "And I think you'll become quite a
favorite in society. I heard Mrs. Atkinson speak of you. She's our
leader. She saw you somewhere. Of course there was some little prejudice
against you, at first, but that has worn off. And there's a splendid
catch here for you--Miss Rodney--distantly related to the Estell family.
She has seen you, too. She says you must be very romantic; and she asked
me all sorts of questions."
"Of course I want to be agreeable, _but_--"
"But what?"
"I simply don't care anything for society."
"Our stupid society, you mean."
"No, I mean any society. I like individuals but I don't care for sets."
"Oh, and you are going to rob me of the distinction of showing you off.
Very well, Sir."
"I wouldn't be a distinction--more of a humiliation."
"We'll see when the time comes. You have no idea what a source of--what
shall I say? Pleasure--gratification you have been to me."
"Do you really mean it?"
"Mean it? Why shouldn't I? You have helped me to pick things to pieces;
and we can have a great time when you know the people here well enough
to gossip about them. It's always interesting to hear what a stranger
has to say of one's old acquaintances."
"Yes, if he speaks what he conceives to be the truth. The truth is spicy
and not infrequently malicious."
"You make me laugh. Do you suppose I want to hear anyone speak ill of my
friends?"
"Why, yes. You might demur, but you would listen."
"Yes, I believe I would," she laughed, "and isn't it mean? I've tried so
hard to be good, but I can't."
"It is hard to be good, and--" I hesitated.
"And what?"
"Will you pardon an impudence?"
"Yes, if it's not _too_ bad."
"Hard to be good and beautiful."
Her face was turned from me, but I saw a red tint rise and spread over
her neck. She spoke without looking at me, and her voice was steady and
deep. "I helped you to set a trap and then walked into it, and therefore
I've no right to feel offended, but if my treatment of you leads up to
such compliments, I must change it."
"No!" I cried, abashed; and the negro on his knees at a tulip bed, down
the path, looked up at me. "It was simply a jest; there has never been
anything in your manner to warrant it. Let me tell you that at times I
am a barbarian; I lose respect for polite customs. I have known ladies
who liked to be told that they were beautiful--women who were charmed to
have their pictures in a magazine among a collection of "types"
celebrated for beauty. I--" was she laughing at me? She was.
"The fact that you take it so to heart wipes out the impudence," she
said, still laughing.
I felt that my crime existed in the fact that her husband was more than
twenty year older than herself. And I have reason to believe that the
young woman who marries an old man, and who is constantly striving to
maintain her own self-respect, has a fancied or perhaps a real cause to
stand in dread of a compliment. It may be sincere, but in its candor
lies an insinuation and a reproach. But when Mrs. Estell saw that no
insinuation was intended, she was even more free than she had been
before. She laughed with such gayety that Washington went about his work
and paid no further heed to us. We talked about the people of the town,
the leader of society and the young woman who had been put forward as a
splendid catch for me; and once I ventured near the verge of an awkward
sentiment. In making a gesture she accidentally touched my hand, and
with the thrill of the moment I could have leaped high in the air. But
it took only a flash of reason to assure me that I was a fool. I will
say, though, and without evil, that I would have given all my prospects,
the theatre and the play--anything--to have clasped her in my arms. No,
not anything. I would not have given up the respect which I hoped she
had for me. Ah, how many hearts are this moment aching for a love that
the law has hedged about with Duty! And this to me was monstrous, for I
was of a mimic life, where love pretended that there were locksmiths to
be laughed at, but where in reality the law itself was vain.
The Senator came striding down the path, and seeing me, he cried: "Ha!
Mr. Manager, why didn't you have them wake me? Don't want to waste any
more daylight than I am compelled to, but the fact is, I've been at work
pretty hard of late. A campaign always stirs me up."
We made room for him and he sat down, continuing to talk. "Didn't hear
about my speech out at Briar Flat last night, did you? Well, Sir, we
had a lively time. You see the Convention is really the election, and to
win I must get votes enough to secure the nomination. There's a Cheap
John of a fellow announced as a candidate against anybody our party may
put up, a schemer out after the country vote. Well, he came to our
meeting--had no earthly business there, mind you, but he came. He
interrupted me several times with his fool questions, and at last I
said, 'See here, Mister Whatever-your-name-may-be, I am perfectly
willing to answer any question that one of these farmers may ask, but
I've got no time for a man who farms with his mouth.' Well, Sir, the
boys laughed and he got red hot. He stood up and cried out that any man
who said he wasn't a practical farmer and a gentleman was a liar. Huh!
Well! I handed my hat to a friend and--"
"Now, father," Mrs. Estell broke in, "you promised me--"
"Hold on, now; it wasn't a fight. Nothing of the sort. I know what I
promised you, and I'll keep my word. Yes, I handed my hat to a friend
and stepped down to where the fellow stood, with his back against the
wall. I asked him--I was polite--if he meant to insinuate that I was a
liar. There was no violation of a promise in that, was there, Florence?"
"No, Sir, not if you asked him politely," she answered, laughing.
"It was polite, I assure you. Well, he studied a moment, and then
declared that he never did insinuate, that he came right out and said
what he meant. And, Belford, I rather admired him for that. But, er--the
fact is--"
"You struck him," Mrs. Estell interjected. "Didn't you?"
"Well, that depends upon the way you look at it. Now, here, Florence,
you wouldn't want to know that a man had stood up in front of a whole
houseful of people and called your father a liar. I mean that under such
circumstances you wouldn't blame me for--for tapping him."
"Of course not," she replied.
"Ah, ha, and I did tap him. Belford, I hit that fellow a crack that
he'll remember the longest day he lives. Fell? Why, Sir, he fell like a
beef; and when they had taken him away, the meeting was kind enough to
name me as its unanimous choice."
The negro woman who had announced her suspicion of all men came out upon
the veranda to ring the supper bell, and, astonished to realize that the
sun was no longer shining, I bounced up with a declaration that I must
get back to town.
"No, Sir, not till you have had supper," the Senator replied. "Why, what
can you be thinking about to run away at a time like this? Come on," he
added, taking my arm and turning me toward the house. "I want to have a
talk with you after supper--on business. Come, Florence."