MR. UTTERLY CONTINUES HIS SEARCH
Hat and cane in hand and carrying under his arm the three old magazines
which he contemplated from time to time so earnestly, Utterly ascended
the steps of the Lister porch. There, in mid-afternoon, Dr. Lister sat
alone, the dinner guests having departed to join the general exodus on
the five-o'clock train. Mrs. Lister had gone upstairs to change her
black dress for one of lighter weight, and now sat quietly and happily
beside her window. Such periods of unhappiness as she had lived through
that morning were followed by spaces of calm when a crust seemed to form
over the grief which could still burn so fiercely. The house was very
still; the only movement indoors was that of the thin curtains swaying
gently in the summer air.
Hearing a strange voice on the porch, she made haste to complete her
change of apparel. She was as punctilious in the small relations of life
as she was in its more important principles. Perhaps the visitor did not
wish to see her; if he lingered she would go quietly down into the hall
and find out.
Dr. Lister had seen Utterly and had wondered who he was. Now, saying to
himself that Waltonville was seldom glorified by so well-clad a figure,
he rose to meet his guest. Dr. Lister loved Greek and taught his boys
and girls faithfully, but without much enthusiasm for their
capabilities or possibilities. His mind was more intently occupied with
the affairs of the great world which seemed to lie so far away, with
prospective changes in the English cabinet, with ominous stirrings in
the East. It seemed to him at the first glance that his guest belonged
to that interesting outer world.
"This is Dr. Lister?" Utterly saw the eager eyes. Here was a man! "I am
Mr. Utterly of 'Willard's Magazine.' Can you spare me a few moments of
your time?"
Dr. Lister motioned the stranger to one of the comfortable chairs. He
had been thinking of a few minutes' sleep before supper, but he gave it
up willingly and even eagerly in the prospect of a talk with this keen
stranger.
"My vacation began at noon, sir. I shall be glad to give you all the
time you wish."
Utterly sat with the magazines in his hand. This Waltonville, he said,
was charming.
"A New Yorker would find it rather dull," answered Dr. Lister.
"There would be compensation here for anything New York could offer,"
said Utterly, without meaning it in the least. "This peaceful Attic
flavor"--with a gesture toward the green trees and the smooth lawn and
Dr. Lister's canna beds--"makes one feel that after all some persons and
some places do arrive at serenity. We never do in New York. We don't
know what serenity is." Then Utterly descended from the pedestal upon
which Dr. Lister had for the moment established him. He added a "don't
you know" to his sentence. "We don't know what serenity is, don't you
know." The phrase was still not common property in America, but it
offended Dr. Lister's ear.
"I listened with great pleasure to your boys and girls, especially to
the playing of your own boy--I believe it was your son who played the
organ?"
"Yes," said Dr. Lister.
"I stood at the campus gate and watched your peaceful procession with
envy and I might say with awe. I felt that it wasn't real. I seemed to
have stepped back just about two thousand years. You ought to keep it
forever as a spectacle. Pilgrimages ought to be made here, not by train,
but on foot. Everything in the world is changing--you have something
that is old. I couldn't help thinking of 'Thou still unravish'd bride of
quietness,' and so forth, don't you know?"
Dr. Lister shifted his knees so that the one which had been uppermost
was now beneath the other. Who was this strange, bearded, sentimental
youth, robed like the lilies, who quoted poetry at first acquaintance?
Dr. Lister read poetry, but he did not quote it to men whom he did not
know. He wished that the young man, still running eloquently on about
the Attic scene, would state his errand and go. He thought longingly of
his couch in the cool study.
Then, in the still afternoon, thus far so like any other Commencement
afternoon, he was startled out of all sleepiness.
"It is difficult to understand how Basil Everman with such an
environment could have looked so keenly and seeingly at the grimmer side
of life."
Dr. Lister turned his head.
"I didn't understand you."
"I said that it is difficult to understand how Basil Everman, with such
an environment as this in his youth, could have presented so completely
a side of life so grim and terrible."
"_Basil Everman!_" repeated Dr. Lister. Still he could not believe that
he had heard aright. He had been sleepy and he had misunderstood.
"Why, yes! It surely is not possible that Dr. Lister does not know Basil
Everman!"
"Basil Everman was my wife's brother. He has been dead for twenty
years!"
"You did not know him as a writer?" Utterly's eyes arraigned Dr. Lister
for stupidity or some worse fault.
"No. What do you mean?" Dr. Lister lowered his voice. His impressions of
Basil Everman, whom he had not known, were not extensive, but they were
very positive. He had been a strange youth who had brought sorrow, and
sorrow only, to those who loved him, talented without question, but
lacking in balance of mind. He had often felt for him a stern
disapproval, coupled with a half-defined jealousy because of the
devotion of his sister to a memory which was best put away.
"I am a member of the staff of 'Willard's Magazine,'" explained Utterly.
"Some weeks ago I looked carefully over the old files with a view to
making a comparison of the shorter fiction of to-day with that which
was being written twenty-five years or more ago. Ours to-day is vastly
superior." Suddenly Utterly's words came in a flood. He grew ardent and
excited. "We are beginning to learn from the French and Russians. We are
learning the beauty of the lowly, even of the degraded. We are learning
to look at life with our eyes and not with our puritanic moral sense. I
have no words with which to express my contempt for that dull, blind,
wickedly perverted thing called Puritanism."
Dr. Lister now sat motionless, his knees a limp parallel. His perfect
quiet, the intentness of his gaze, the complete stillness of all about
them, suggested to Utterly a breathless moment in a play. He felt that
he was talking well, that he had never talked better in his life.
"But here, twenty years ago, was an exception, a glorious, shining
exception. I found a story called 'Bitter Bread,' an essay called 'Roses
of Pæstum,' and a poem called 'Storm.' Every one who has read them
considers them extraordinary. They exhibit not only marvelous
imaginative power, but an extensive experience of life, the experience
of a man who has seen many things and felt all things. I am not one of
those who hold that genius finds both its source and its material in
itself, furnishing at once its own fuel and its own fire."
Utterly paused for breath. Here was a well-expressed sentiment of which
he must make mental and afterwards written note.
"But--" began Dr. Lister.
Utterly lifted his hand.
"We found after a good deal of searching that one of the original
manuscripts had been preserved. It was mailed from Waltonville,
Pennsylvania, though the answer was to be sent to Baltimore. I had
another errand here, and I was anxious to discover what I could about
this contributor of twenty-five years ago, who promised such
extraordinary things and who then, as far as we know, ceased to write. I
belong to that class of biographers who believe that all is sacred and
valuable in the development of genius. The facts of a writer's life are
of transcendent importance. The power of imagination fails after a
certain point, rather it does not begin until a certain degree of
experience has been reached. A writer must have _lived_. I am hungry to
know all you can tell me of Basil Everman. I mean to write about him at
length." Utterly settled himself a little more comfortably in his chair.
"You say that he is dead? How unfortunate!"
"Yes," said Dr. Lister slowly. "He has been dead for twenty years."
"Did he die here?"
"No. He died away from home in an epidemic. It was not possible to bring
his body home. His death seriously affected my wife, who is his sister,
and who lost her father about the same time. I never saw Basil Everman
either in life or death."
"And you never knew or suspected that he wrote?"
"I never heard that he was supposed to have talent of any sort. He was
very young."
"So was Keats when he wrote 'St. Agnes Eve.' Surely Basil Everman's
sister knew about his talent!"
"I do not believe she ever knew that he had published any writings."
"May I see her?"
"I--I will see."
Dr. Lister rose, bewildered, and went slowly toward the door. Surely
Mary Alcestis could have known nothing of this! The idea that she might
have mental reservations was new. He was certain that she would be
shocked by this inquiry and he wished that there were time to prepare
her for it. He could, if she wished, ask the stranger to come at another
time, or he could excuse her entirely.
He found her in the hall. He had a fleeting impression that she had been
for some time where she stood now, by the stairway with her hand on the
newel post. But she came forward at once, her smooth and slightly pale
face showing only its usual expression of placid content.
"Did you have a rest, mother?" asked Dr. Lister.
"Yes," she answered in her steady voice. "All that I needed."
"There is a literary man here who comes from a New York magazine who
wishes to speak to you."
"To me?" repeated Mrs. Lister. It was not a question, real or
rhetorical, it was simply a mechanical repetition of her husband's
words.
"Yes. He wishes, strangely enough, mother, to ask you about some
literary work of your brother Basil's."
"Of Basil's." Mrs. Lister did not seem so much surprised as benumbed.
Dr. Lister was now certain that she had heard the stranger, and had
tried, and was still trying, to gather herself together.
"He says that your brother sent to his magazine many years ago some
remarkable compositions which they published anonymously. Did you know
of them?"
"He used to write some," said Mrs. Lister in a childish way. "He played
some, too, on the piano. No, I didn't know that anything was published."
"Will you come out and speak to this gentleman? Do you feel able to
speak to him?"
Mrs. Lister walked toward the door without answering. She rested her
hand for an instant on the door frame and felt for the step with
perceptible confusion. If the sunshine looked suddenly dark, and the
honeysuckle seemed to exhale a sickly odor, it was not the first time in
her life that under like circumstances she had held her head bravely.
She had heard every word the stranger had said. If she had put on
spectacles of some strange, distorting medium, he could not have looked
more monstrous, more frightful to her. She gave him a cold hand because
his own hand reached for it, and then sat down.
Utterly repeated his account of the finding of Basil Everman's stories
and his estimate of his genius. He expressed in even more realistic
phrase his admiration for the insight of the younger generation of
writers. He said that modern literature was finding material in thieves,
drunkards, in what had hitherto been considered bottomless pits. Even
Keats had said that truth was beauty.
He recounted with witty embroidery how he had asked the brakeman and the
conductor and the person whom he called "mine host" about Basil Everman
and how none of them could tell him anything.
"But the little tavern gave the whole thing away. The heroine of 'Bitter
Bread' takes refuge in just such a place; there is the identical worn
doorstep and the fly-blown bottles and the print over the bar which
pictures exactly her own arrival. There, at least, Basil Everman must
have been long enough to have a photographic impression printed on his
sensitive brain."
Dr. Lister's hands, lying upon the arms of his chair, straightened
themselves as though, using them as a fulcrum, he meant to rise with a
mighty spring. The tavern was not a place for Mary Alcestis's brother to
be connected with! But he looked at Mrs. Lister and sat still. Her face
was a little whiter, but it was unruffled. Now that he had been so
unwise as to let her see this creature, the interview had better be
conducted as she chose.
"Then I went to the house of the Professor of English and he knew
nothing. If it hadn't been for the tavern, I should have despaired
entirely. Will you"--Utterly, looking at Mrs. Lister decided that so
Victorian a person could not possibly understand or appreciate her
brother. "Will you tell me about Basil Everman? Will you not tell me
everything?"
Mrs. Lister began in a smooth voice as though she were reciting a
well-conned lesson. Not a quiver betrayed her spinning world.
"Basil was born here in this house. My father was president of the
college before Dr. Lister. Basil was his only son and I his only
daughter. He had no other children. Basil was only twenty-five years old
when he died. He died of diphtheria." Mrs. Lister had evidently
concluded. "In Baltimore," she added as though that put a period to her
sentence.
"Yes?" said Utterly.
Mary Alcestis smiled a meaningless little smile and said nothing.
"That isn't all, Mrs. Lister!" cried Utterly.
"Yes."
"Oh, but Mrs. Lister!" Utterly was delighted to see that suddenly her
eyes burned and her hands twitched. "What was he like? Do you remember
him distinctly? What did he look like?"
"_Remember him!_" said Mrs. Lister's heart. "_Remember Basil!_" Aloud
she said steadily and clearly, "He was quite tall and slender. He had
black hair, curly hair. His eyes were large and bright."
"You have photographs of him, of course?"
Dr. Lister rose at Mrs. Lister's command to fetch the album from the
parlor table. He recalled more and more distinctly those long hours when
she had lain sleepless at his side suffering her abnormal and
unwholesome grief for her brother. He moved his chair closer to hers as
he handed the stranger Basil's picture.
"What extraordinary eyes!" said Utterly. "They look like another pair
of eyes I've seen recently." He frowned, but could not remember what
eyes. "That is, their shape is the same. What color were they?"
"Basil had gray eyes."
"You surely must have known that he was wonderful!"
"He was bright," conceded Mrs. Lister.
"Was he a graduate of this college?"
"No."
"He must have traveled a great deal. He could not have written 'Roses of
Pæstum' without having been at Pæstum, and one does not get to Pæstum
without going through some other places. I think your father was
extraordinarily wise to let him get his education in that way. Did he
live abroad?"
"He was never abroad."
"He never saw Pæstum!"
"No."
Utterly looked at Mrs. Lister as though he did not believe her. Again
Dr. Lister's hands flattened on the arms of his chair.
"Extraordinary! And he lived here in this house!" Utterly looked up at
the walls as though he expected them to bear a memorial plate or some
other record. "Was he"--He turned impatiently to Dr. Lister--"Are there
no interesting facts about him, no _memorabilia_, no traditions of any
kind? If he has been dead only twenty years, he should still be alive in
the minds of men and women, especially of women. A man like that
couldn't simply grow up and die, like a vegetable! We used to think the
Brontës had only lived and grown up and died, but we are learning
differently. It was silly ever to have thought otherwise. Moreover, the
reading public is determined to have the facts about those whom it
admires. You cannot keep people from knowing," concluded Utterly in a
harsh tone, some basic rudeness in his nature showing suddenly through
the outer veneer. He was certain that they were withholding something
from him, certain that Mrs. Lister knew a great deal more than she would
tell. To him Basil Everman grew each moment more unusual, more
mysterious, the position of the scholar who should discover him more to
be desired. If he could see Dr. Lister alone, he might be able to learn
more. He rose and asked whether he might leave the magazines until the
next day.
"I suppose you will wish to read them?"
"Certainly," answered Dr. Lister, rising also.
"Basil Everman stands only second to Edgar Allan Poe among the
_littérateurs_ of the United States; of that even this small amount of
work gives ample proof. It is the most deplorable tragedy in the history
of American literature that the amount should be so small. Are you
_sure_ there is nothing else?"
"Other magazines of the period might have something, might they not?"
suggested Dr. Lister. "Have you thought of looking there? If the style
is so individual, you should be able to recognize the work of the author
elsewhere."
"Even if I did, I couldn't ask questions. Don't you see that I don't
want any one else to find out now? Any calling of the attention of
another magazine to Basil Everman would bring a representative here at
once. There is no reason why I shouldn't have the facts as well as any
one else."
Mrs. Lister rose heavily. The interview had been prolonged a moment too
long and her composure was gone. What she said startled her husband more
than anything that had preceded.
"Do you know all the facts about Homer, or about Shakespeare, or other
writers? I know that you don't know anything about Shakespeare because
there are some people who think that Bacon wrote his works. Why _should_
you know?"
"We should never cease to give thanks if we could find out, dear lady,"
answered Utterly. "I'll give you a hundred dollars a word for any
authentic information about Shakespeare, and a thousand for any about
Homer. Homer and Shakespeare have been dead for centuries and men are
still trying to find out about them. _And will keep on trying_," he
added.
When Utterly was well out of sight, Dr. Lister took his wife's hand.
"Why, my dear! What is it?"
Mrs. Lister turned upon him a gray face. She looked old, terrified,
distraught.
"That is a wolfish man," said she. "Make them leave poor Basil in his
grave! I will tell nothing about Basil. I have nothing to tell about
him."