"Yes, that's so. Your brother spoke to me about you. Well, take a seat.
You will be looked after."
He walked off, and after an hour or so I was still waiting, for what I
scarcely knew--a room, something to eat possibly, some one to speak a
friendly word to me, but no one did.
While I was waiting in this rather nondescript antechamber, hung with
hats, caps, riding whips and gauntlets, I had an opportunity to study
some of the men with whom presumably I was to live for a number of
weeks. It was between two and three in the afternoon, and many of them
were idling about in pairs or threes, talking, reading, all in rather
commonplace athletic costumes--soft woolen shirts, knee trousers,
stockings and running or walking shoes. They were in the main evidently
of the so-called learned professions or the arts--doctors, lawyers,
preachers, actors, writers, with a goodly sprinkling of merchants,
manufacturers and young and middle-aged society men, as well as
politicians and monied idlers, generally a little the worse for their
pleasures or weaknesses. A distinguished judge of one of the superior
courts of New York and an actor known everywhere in the English-speaking
world were instantly recognized by me. Others, as I was subsequently
informed, were related by birth or achievement to some one fact or
another of public significance. The reason for the presence of so many
people rather above than under the average in intellect lay, as I came
to believe later, in their ability or that of some one connected with
them to sincerely appreciate or to at least be amused and benefited by
the somewhat different theory of physical repair which the lord of the
manor had invented, or for which at least he had become famous.
I have remarked that I was not inclined to be impressed. Sanitariums
with their isms and theories did not appeal to me. However, as I was
waiting here an incident occurred which stuck in my mind. A smart
conveyance drove up, occupied by a singularly lean and haughty-looking
individual, who, after looking about him, expecting some one to come out
to him no doubt, clambered cautiously out, and after seeing that his
various grips and one trunk were properly deposited on the gravel square
outside, paid and feed his driver, then walked in and remarked:
"Ah--where is Mr. Culhane?"
"I don't know, sir," I replied, being the only one present. "He was
here, but he's gone. I presume some one will show up presently."
He walked up and down a little while, and then added: "Um--rather
peculiar method of receiving one, isn't it? I wired him I'd be here." He
walked restlessly and almost waspishly to and fro, looking out of the
window at times, at others commenting on the rather casual character of
it all. I agreed.
Thus, some fifteen minutes having gone by without any one approaching
us, and occasional servants or "guests" passing through the room or
being seen in the offing without even so much as vouchsafing a word or
appearing to be interested in us, the new arrival grew excited.
"This is very unusual," he fumed, walking up and down. "I wired him
only three hours ago. I've been here now fully three-quarters of an
hour! A most unheard-of method of doing business, I should say!"
Presently our stern, steely-eyed host returned. He seemed to be going
somewhere, to be nowise interested in us. Yet into our presence,
probably into the consciousness of this new "guest," he carried that air
of savage strength and indifference, eyeing the stranger quite sharply
and making no effort to apologize for our long wait.
"You wish to see me?" he inquired brusquely once more.
Like a wasp, the stranger was vibrant with rage. Plainly he felt himself
insulted or terribly underrated.
"Are you Mr. Culhane?" he asked crisply.
"Yes."
"I am Mr. Squiers," he exclaimed. "I wired you from Buffalo and ordered
a room," this last with an irritated wave of the hand.
"Oh, no, you didn't order any room," replied the host sourly and with an
obvious desire to show his indifference and contempt even. "You wired to
know if you _could engage_ a room."
He paused. The temperature seemed to drop perceptibly. The prospective
guest seemed to realize that he had made a mistake somewhere, had been
misinformed as to conditions here.
"Oh! Um--ah! Yes! Well, have you a room?"
"I don't know. I doubt it. We don't take every one." His eyes seemed to
bore into the interior of his would-be guest.
"Well, but I was told--my friend, Mr. X----," the stranger began a
rapid, semi-irritated, semi-apologetic explanation of how he came to be
here.
"I don't know anything about your friend or what he told you. If he told
you you could order a room by telegraph, he's mistaken. Anyhow, you're
not dealing with him, but with me. Now that you're here, though, if you
want to sit down and rest yourself a little I'll see what I can do for
you. I can't decide now whether I can let you stay. You'll have to wait
a while." He turned and walked off.
The other stared. "Well," he commented to me after a time, walking and
twisting, "if a man wants to come here I suppose he has to put up with
such things, but it's certainly unusual, isn't it?" He sat down, wilted,
and waited.
Later a clerk in charge of the registry book took us in hand, and then I
heard him explaining that his lungs were not in good shape. He had come
a long way--Denver, I believe. He had heard that all one needed to do
was to wire, especially one in his circumstances.
"Some people think that way," solemnly commented the clerk, "but they
don't know Mr. Culhane. He does about as he pleases in these matters. He
doesn't do this any more to make money but rather to amuse himself, I
think. He always has more applicants than he accepts."
I began to see a light. Perhaps there was something to this place after
all. I did not even partially sense the drift of the situation, though,
until bedtime when, after having been served a very frugal meal and
shown to my very simple room, a kind of cell, promptly at nine o'clock
lights were turned off. I lit a small candle and was looking over some
things which I had placed in a grip, when I heard a voice in the hall
outside: "Candles out, please! Candles out! All guests in bed!" Then it
came to me that a very rigorous régime was being enforced here.
The next morning as I was still soundly sleeping at five-thirty a loud
rap sounded at my door. The night before I had noticed above my bed a
framed sign which read: "Guests must be dressed in running trunks, shoes
and sweater, and appear in the gymnasium by six sharp." "Gymnasium at
six! Gymnasium at six!" a voice echoed down the hall. I bounced out of
bed. Something about the very air of the place made me feel that it was
dangerous to attempt to trifle with the routine here. The tiger-like
eyes of my host did not appeal to me as retaining any softer ray in them
for me than for others. I had paid my six hundred ... I had better earn
it. I was down in the great room in my trunks, sweater, dressing-gown,
running shoes in less than five minutes.
And that room! By that time as odd a company of people as I have ever
seen in a gymnasium had already begun to assemble. The leanness! the
osseosity! the grandiloquent whiskers parted in the middle! the
mustachios! the goatees! the fat, Hoti-like stomachs! the protuberant
knees! the thin arms! the bald or semi-bald pates! the spectacles or
horn glasses or pince-nezes!--laid aside a few moments later, as the
exercises began. Youth and strength in the pink of condition, when clad
only in trunks, a sweater and running shoes, are none too
acceptable--but middle age! And out in the world, I reflected rather
sadly, they all wore the best of clothes, had their cars, servants, city
and country houses perhaps, their factories, employees, institutions.
Ridiculous! Pitiful! As lymphatic and flabby as oysters without their
shells, myself included. It was really painful.
Even as I meditated, however, I was advised, by many who saw that I was
a stranger, to choose a partner, any partner, for medicine ball
practice, for it might save me being taken or called by _him_. I
hastened so to do. Even as we were assembling or beginning to practice,
keeping two or three light medicine balls going between each pair, our
host entered--that iron man, that mount of brawn. In his cowled
dressing-gown he looked more like some great monk or fighting abbot of
the medieval years than a trainer. He walked to the center, hung up his
cowl and revealed himself lithe and lion-like and costumed like
ourselves. But how much more attractive as he strode about, his legs
lean and sturdy, his chest full, his arms powerful and graceful! At once
he seized a large leather-covered medicine ball, as had all the others,
and calling a name to which responded a lean whiskerando with a
semi-bald pate, thin legs and arms, and very much caricatured, I
presume, by the wearing of trunks and sweater. Taking his place opposite
the host, he was immediately made the recipient of a volley of balls and
brow-beating epithets.
"Hurry up now! Faster! Ah, come on! Put the ball back to me! Put the
ball back! Do you want to keep it all day? Great God! What are you
standing there for? What are you standing there for? What do you think
you're doing--drinking tea? Come on! I haven't all morning for you
alone. Move! Move, you ham! You call yourself an editor! Why, you
couldn't edit a handbill! You can't even throw a ball straight! Throw it
straight! Throw it straight! For Christ's sake where do you think I
am--out in the office? Throw it straight! Hell!" and all the time one
and another ball, grabbed from anywhere, for the floor was always
littered with them, would be thrown in the victim's direction, and
before he could well appreciate what was happening to him he was being
struck, once in the neck and again on the chest by the rapidly delivered
six ounce air-filled balls, two of which at least he and the host were
supposed to keep in constant motion between them. Later, a ball striking
him in the stomach, he emitted a weak "Ooph!" and laying his hands over
the affected part ceased all effort. At this the master of the situation
only smirked on him leoninely and holding up a ball as if to throw it
continued, "What's the matter with you now? Come on! What do you want to
stop for? What do you want to stand there for? You're not hurt. How do
you expect to get anywhere if you can't keep two silly little balls like
these going between us?" (There had probably been six or eight.) "Here I
am sixty and you're forty, and you can't even keep up with me. And you
pretend to give the general public advice on life! Well, go on; God pity
the public, is all I say," and he dismissed him, calling out another
name.
Now came a fat, bald soul, with dewlaps and a protruding stomach, who
later I learned was a manufacturer of clothing--six hundred employees
under him--down in health and nerves, really all "shot to pieces"
physically. Plainly nervous at the sound of his name, he puffed quickly
into position, grabbing wildly after the purposely eccentric throws
which his host made and which kept him running to left and right in an
all but panicky mood.
"Move! Move!" insisted our host as before, and, if anything, more
irritably. "Say, you work like a crab! What a motion! If you had more
head and less guts you could do this better. A fine specimen you are!
This is what comes of riding about in taxis and eating midnight suppers
instead of exercising. Wake up! Wake up! A belt would have kept your
stomach in long ago. A little less food and less sleep, and you wouldn't
have any fat cheeks. Even your hair might stay on! Wake up! Wake up!
What do you want to do--die?" and as he talked he pitched the balls so
quickly that his victim looked at times as though he were about to weep.
His physical deficiencies were all too plain in every way. He was
generally obese and looked as though he might drop, his face a flaming
red, his hands trembling and missing, when a "Well, go on," sounded and
a third victim was called. This time it was a well-known actor who
responded, a star, rather spry and well set up, but still nervous, for
he realized quite well what was before him. He had been here for weeks
and was in pretty fair trim, but still he was plainly on edge. He ran
and began receiving and tossing as swiftly as he could, but as with the
others so it was his turn now to be given such a grilling and
tongue-lashing as falls to few of us in this world, let alone among the
successful in the realm of the footlights. "Say, you're not an
actor--you're a woman! You're a stewed onion! Move! Move! Come on! Come
on! Look at those motions now, will you? Look at that one arm up! Where
do you suppose the ball is? On the ceiling? It's not a lamp! Come on!
Come on! It's a wonder when you're killed as Hamlet that you don't stay
dead. You are. You're really dead now, you know. Move! Move!" and so it
would go until finally the poor thespian, no match for his master and
beset by flying balls, landing upon his neck, ear, stomach, finally gave
up and cried:
"Well, I can't go any faster than I can, can I? I can't do any more than
I can!"
"Ah, go on! Go back into the chorus!" called his host, who now abandoned
him. "Get somebody from the baby class to play marbles with you," and he
called another.
By now, as may well be imagined, I was fairly stirred up as to the
probabilities of the situation. He might call me! The man who was
playing opposite me--a small, decayed person who chose me, I think,
because he knew I was new, innocuous and probably awkward--seemed to
realize my thoughts as well as his own. By lively exercise with me he
was doing his utmost to create an impression of great and valuable
effort here. "Come on, let's play fast so he won't notice us," he said
most pathetically at one point. You would have thought I had known him
all my life.
But he didn't call us--not this morning at any rate. Whether owing to
our efforts or the fact that I at least was too insignificant, too
obscure, we escaped. He did reach me, however, on the fourth or fifth
day, and no spindling failure could have done worse. I was struck and
tripped and pounded until I all but fell prone upon the floor, half
convinced that I was being killed, but I was not. I was merely sent
stumbling and drooping back to the sidelines to recover while he
tortured some one else. But the names he called me! The comments on my
none too smoothly articulated bones--and my alleged mind! As in my
schooldays when, a laggard in the fierce and seemingly malevolent
atmosphere in which I was taught my ABC's, I crept shamefacedly and
beaten from the scene.
It was in the adjoining bathroom, where the host daily personally
superintended the ablutions of his guests, that even more of his
remarkable method was revealed. Here a goodly portion of the force of
his method was his skill in removing any sense of ability, agility,
authority or worth from those with whom he dealt. Apparently to him, in
his strength and energy, they were all children, weaklings, failures,
numbskulls, no matter what they might be in the world outside. They had
no understanding of the most important of their possessions, their
bodies. And here again, even more than in the gymnasium, they were at
the disadvantage of feeling themselves spectacles, for here they were
naked. However grand an osseous, leathery lawyer or judge or doctor or
politician or society man may look out in the world addressing a jury or
a crowd or walking in some favorite place, glistening in his raiment,
here, whiskered, thin of legs, arms and neck, with bulging brow and
stripped not only of his gown but everything else this side of his
skin--well, draw your own conclusion. For after performing certain
additional exercises--one hundred times up on your toes, one hundred
times (if you could) squatting to your knees, one hundred times throwing
your arms out straight before you from your chest or up from your
shoulders or out at right angles, right and left from your body and back
to your hips until your fingers touched and the sweat once more ran--you
were then ready to be told (for once in your life) how to swiftly and
agilely take a bath.
"Well, now, you're ready, are you?" this to a noble jurist who, like
myself perhaps, had arrived only the day before. "Come on, now. Now you
have just ten seconds in which to jump under the water and get yourself
wet all over, twenty seconds in which to jump out and soap yourself
thoroughly, ten seconds in which to get back in again and rinse off all
the soap, and twenty seconds in which to rub and dry your skin
thoroughly--now start!"
The distinguished jurist began, but instead of following the advice
given him for rapid action huddled himself in a shivering position under
the water and stood all but inert despite the previous explanation of
the host that the sole method of escaping the weakening influence of
cold water was by counteracting it with activity, when it would prove
beneficial.
He was such a noble, stalky, bony affair, his gold eyeglasses laid aside
for the time being, his tweeds and carefully laundered linen all
dispensed with during his stay here. As he came, meticulously and
gingerly and quite undone by his efforts, from under the water, where he
had been most roughly urged by Culhane, I hoped that he and not I would
continue to be seized upon by this savage who seemed to take infinite
delight in disturbing the social and intellectual poise of us all.
"Soap yourself!" exclaimed the latter most harshly now that the bather
was out in the room once more. "Soap your chest! Soap your stomach! Soap
your arms, damn it! Soap your arms! And don't rub them all day either!
Now soap your legs, damn it! Soap your legs! Don't you know how to soap
your legs! Don't stand there all day! Soap your legs! Now turn round and
soap your back--soap your back! For Christ's sake, soap your back! Do it
quick--quick! Now come back under the water again and see if you can get
it off. Don't act as though you were cold molasses! Move! Move! Lord,
you act as though you had all day--as though you had never taken a bath
in your life! I never saw such an old poke. You come up here and expect
me to do some things for you, and then you stand around as though you
were made of bone! Quick now, move!"
The noble jurist did as demanded--that is, as quickly as he could--only
the mental inadequacy and feebleness which he displayed before all the
others, of course, was the worst of his cruel treatment here, and in
this as in many instances it cut deep. So often it was the shock to
one's dignity more than anything else which hurt so, to be called an old
poke when one was perhaps a grave and reverent senior, or to be told
that one was made of bone when one was a famous doctor or merchant.
Once under the water this particular specimen had begun by nervously
rubbing his hands and face in order to get the soap off, and when
shouted at and abused for that had then turned his attention to one
other spot--the back of his left forearm.
Mine host seemed enraged. "Well, well!" he exclaimed irascibly, watching
him as might a hawk. "Are you going to spend all day rubbing that one
spot? For God's sake, don't you know enough to rub your whole body and
get out from under the water? Move! Move! Rub your chest! Rub your
belly! Hell, rub your back! Rub your toes and get out!"
When routed from the ludicrous effort of vigorously rubbing one spot he
was continually being driven on to some other, as though his body were
some vast complex machine which he had never rightly understood before.
He was very much flustered of course and seemed wholly unable to grasp
how it was done, let alone please his exacting host.
"Come on!" insisted the latter finally and wearily. "Get out from under
the water. A lot you know about washing yourself! For a man who has been
on the bench for fifteen years you're the dullest person I ever met. If
you bathe like that at home, how do you keep clean? Come on out and dry
yourself!"
The distinguished victim, drying himself rather ruefully on an
exceedingly rough towel, looked a little weary and disgusted. "Such
language!" some one afterwards said he said to some one else. "He's not
used to dealing with gentlemen, that's plain. The man talks like a
blackguard. And to think we pay for such things! Well, well! I'll not
stand it, I'm afraid. I've had about enough. It's positively revolting,
positively revolting!" But he stayed on, just the same--second thoughts,
a good breakfast, his own physical needs. At any rate weeks later he was
still there and in much better shape physically if not mentally.
About the second or third day I witnessed another such spectacle, which
made me laugh--only not in my host's presence--nay, verily! For into
this same chamber had come another distinguished personage, a lawyer or
society man, I couldn't tell which, who was washing himself rather
leisurely, as was _not_ the prescribed way, when suddenly he was spied
by mine host, who was invariably instructing some one in this swift
one-minute or less system. Now he eyed the operation narrowly for a few
seconds, then came over and exclaimed:
"Wash your toes, can't you? Wash your toes! Can't you wash your toes?"
The skilled gentleman, realizing that he was now living under very
different conditions from those to which presumably he was accustomed,
reached down and began to rub the tops of his toes but without any
desire apparently to widen the operation.
"Here!" called the host, this time much more sharply, "I said wash your
toes, not the outside of them! Soap them! Don't you know how to wash
your toes yet? You're old enough, God knows! Wash between 'em! Wash
under 'em!"
"Certainly I know how to wash my toes," replied the other irritably and
straightening up, "and what's more, I'd like you to know that I am a
gentleman."
"Well, then, if you're a gentleman," retorted the other, "you ought to
know how to wash your toes. Wash 'em--and don't talk back!"
"Pah!" exclaimed the bather now, looking twice as ridiculous as before.
"I'm not used to having such language addressed to me."
"I can't help that," said Culhane. "If you knew how to wash your toes
perhaps you wouldn't have to have such language addressed to you."
"Oh, hell!" fumed the other. "This is positively outrageous! I'll leave
the place, by George!"
"Very well," rejoined the other, "only before you go you'll have to wash
your toes!"
And he did, the host standing by and calmly watching the performance
until it was finally completed.
It was just this atmosphere which made the place the most astonishing in
which I have ever been. It seemed to be drawing the celebrated and the
successful as a magnet might iron, and yet it offered conditions which
one might presume they would be most opposed to. No one here was really
any one, however much he might be outside. Our host was all. He had a
great blazing personality which dominated everybody, and he did not
hesitate to show before one and all that he did so do.
Breakfast here consisted of a cereal, a chop and coffee--plentiful but
very plain, I thought. After breakfast, between eight-thirty and eleven,
we were free to do as we chose: write letters, pack our bags if we were
leaving, do up our laundry to be sent out, read, or merely sit about. At
eleven, or ten-thirty, according to the nature of the exercise, one had
to join a group, either one that was to do the long or short block, as
they were known here, or one that was to ride horseback, all exercises
being so timed that by proper execution one would arrive at the bathroom
door in time to bathe, dress and take ten minutes' rest before luncheon.
These exercises were simple enough in themselves, consisting, as they
did in the case of the long and the short blocks (the long block seven,
the short four miles in length), of our walking, or walking and running
betimes, about or over courses laid up hill and down dale, over or
through unpaved mudroads in many instances, along dry or wet beds of
brooks or streams, and across stony or weedy fields, often still damp
with dew or the spring rains. But in most cases, when people had not
taken any regular exercise for a long time, this was by no means easy.
The first day I thought I should never make it, and I was by no means a
poor walker. Others, the new ones especially, often gave out and had to
be sent for, or came in an hour late to be most severely and
irritatingly ragged by the host. He seemed to all but despise weakness
and had apparently a thousand disagreeable ways of showing it.
"If you want to see what poor bags of mush some people can become," he
once said in regard to some poor specimen who had seemingly had great
difficulty in doing the short block, "look at this. Here comes a man
sent out to do four measly country miles in fifty minutes, and look at
him. You'd think he was going to die. He probably thinks so himself. In
New York he'd do seventeen miles in a night running from barroom to
barroom or one lobster palace to another--that's a good name for them,
by the way--and never say a word. But out here in the country, with
plenty of fresh air and a night's rest and a good breakfast, he can't
even do four miles in fifty minutes! Think of it! And he probably
thinks of himself as a man--boasts before his friends, or his wife,
anyhow. Lord!"
A day or two later there arrived here a certain major of the United
States Army, a large, broad-chested, rather pompous person of about
forty-eight or -nine, who from taking his ease in one sinecure and
another had finally reached the place where he was unable to endure
certain tests (or he thought so) which were about to be made with a view
to retiring certain officers grown fat in the service. As he explained
to Culhane, and the latter was always open and ribald afterward in his
comments on those who offered explanations of any kind, his plan was to
take the course here in order to be able to make the difficult tests
later.
Culhane resented this, I think. He resented people using him or his
methods to get anywhere, do anything more in life than he could do, and
yet he received them. He felt, and I think in the main that he was
right, that they looked down on him because of his lowly birth and
purely material and mechanical career, and yet having attained some
distinction by it he could not forego this work which raised him, in a
way, to a position of dominance over these people. Now the sight of
presumably so efficient a person in need of aid or exercise, to be built
up, was all that was required to spur him on to the most waspish or
wolfish attitude imaginable. In part at least he argued, I think (for in
the last analysis he was really too wise and experienced to take any
such petty view, although there is a subconscious "past-lack" motivating
impulse in all our views), that here he was, an ex-policeman,
ex-wrestler, ex-prize fighter, ex-private, ex-waiter, beef-carrier,
bouncer, trainer; and here was this grand major, trained at West Point,
who actually didn't know any more about life or how to take care of his
body than to be compelled to come here, broken down at forty-eight,
whereas he, because of his stamina and Spartan energy, had been able to
survive in perfect condition until sixty and was now in a position to
rebuild all these men and wastrels and to control this great
institution. And to a certain extent he was right, although he seemed to
forget or not to know that he was not the creator of his own great
strength, by any means, impulses and tendencies over which he had no
control having arranged for that.
However that may be, here was the major a suppliant for his services,
and here was he, Culhane, and although the major was paying well for his
minute room and his probably greatly decreased diet, still Culhane could
not resist the temptation to make a show of him, to picture him as the
more or less pathetic example that he was, in order perhaps that he,
Culhane, might shine by contrast. Thus on the first day, having sent him
around the short block with the others, it was found at twelve, when the
"joggers" were expected to return, and again at twelve-thirty when they
were supposed to take their places at the luncheon table, that the heavy
major had not arrived. He had been seen and passed by all, of course.
After the first mile or two probably he had given out and was making his
way as best he might up hill and down dale, or along some more direct
road, to the "shop," or maybe he had dropped out entirely, as some did,
via a kindly truck or farmer's wagon, and was on his way to the nearest
railway station.
At any rate, as Culhane sat down at his very small private table, which
stood in the center of the dining-room and far apart from the others (a
vantage point, as it were), he looked about and, not seeing the new
guest, inquired, "Has any one seen that alleged army officer who arrived
here this morning?"
No one could say anything more than that they had left him two or three
miles back.
"I thought so," he said tersely. "There you have a fine example of the
desk general and major--we had 'em in the army--men who sit in a swivel
chair all day, wear a braided uniform and issue orders to other people.
You'd think a man like that who had been trained at West Point and seen
service in the Philippines would have sense enough to keep himself in
condition. Not at all. As soon as they get a little way up in their
profession they want to sit around hotel grills or society ballrooms and
show off, tell how wonderful they are. Here's a man, an army officer, in
such rotten shape that if I sent a good horse after him now it's ten to
one he couldn't get on him. I'll have to send a truck or some such
thing."
He subsided. About an hour later the major did appear, much the worse
for wear. A groom with a horse had been sent out after him, and, as the
latter confided to some one afterward, he "had to help the major on."
From that time on, on the short block and the long, as well as on those
horseback tours which every second or third morning we were supposed to
take, the major was his especial target. He loved to pick on him, to
tell him that he was "nearly all guts"--a phrase which literally
sickened me at that time--to ask him how he expected to stay in the army
if he couldn't do this or that, what good was he to the army, how could
any soldier respect a thing like him, and so on _ad infinitum_ until,
while at first I pitied the major, later on I admired his pluck. Culhane
foisted upon him his sorriest and boniest nag, the meanest animal he
could find, yet he never complained; and although he forced on him all
the foods he knew the major could not like, still there was no
complaint; he insisted that he should be out and around of an afternoon
when most of us lay about, allowed him no drinks whatever, although he
was accustomed to them. The major, as I learned afterwards, stayed not
six but twelve weeks and passed the tests which permitted him to remain
in the army.
But to return to Culhane himself. The latter's method always contained
this element of nag and pester which, along with his brazen reliance on
and pride in his brute strength at sixty, made all these others look so
puny and ineffectual. They might have brains and skill but here they
were in his institution, more or less undone nervously and physically,
and here he was, cold, contemptuous, not caring much whether they came,
stayed or went, and laughing at them even as they raged. Now and then it
was rumored that he found some single individual in whom he would take
an interest, but not often. In the main I think he despised them one and
all for the puny machines they were. He even despised life and the
pleasures and dissipations or swinish indolence which, in his judgment,
characterized most men. I recall once, for instance, his telling us how
as a private in the United States Army when the division of which he was
a unit was shut up in winter quarters, huddled about stoves, smoking (as
he characterized them) "filthy pipes" or chewing tobacco and spitting,
actually lousy, and never changing their clothes for weeks on end--how
he, revolting at all this and the disease and fevers ensuing, had kept
out of doors as much as possible, even in the coldest weather, and
finding no other way of keeping clean the single shift of underwear and
the one uniform he possessed he had, every other day or so, washed all,
uniform and underwear, with or without soap as conditions might compel,
in a nearby stream, often breaking the ice to get to the water, and
dancing about naked in the cold, running and jumping, while they dried
on bushes or the branch of a tree.
"Those poor rats," he added most contemptuously, "used to sit inside and
wonder at me or laugh and jeer, hovering over their stoves, but a lot of
them died that very winter, and here I am today."
And well we knew it. I used to study the faces of many of the puffy,
gelatinous souls, so long confined to their comfortable offices,
restaurants and homes that two hours on horseback all but wore them out,
and wonder how this appealed to them. I think that in the main they took
it as an illustration of either one of two things: insanity, or giant
and therefore not-to-be-imitated strength.
But in regard to them Culhane was by no means so tolerant. One day, as I
recall, there arrived at the sanitarium a stout and mushy-looking
Hebrew, with a semi-bald pate, protruding paunch and fat arms and legs,
who applied to Culhane for admission. And, as much to irritate his other
guests, I think, as to torture this particular specimen into some
semblance of vitality, he admitted him. And thereafter, from the hour he
entered until he left about the time I did, Culhane seemed to follow him
with a wolfish and savage idea. He gave him a most damnable and savage
horse, one that kicked and bit, and at mounting time would place Mr.
Itzky (I think his name was) up near the front of the procession where
he could watch him. Always at mount-time, when we were permitted to
ride, there was inside the great stable a kind of preliminary military
inspection of all our accouterments, seeing that we had to saddle and
bridle and bring forth our own steeds. This particular person could not
saddle a horse very well nor put on his bit and bridle. The animal was
inclined to rear and plunge when he came near, to fix him with an evil
eye and bite at him.
And above all things Culhane seemed to value strain of this kind. If he
could just make his guests feel the pressure of necessity in connection
with their work he was happy. To this end he would employ the most
contemptuous and grilling comment. Thus to Mr. Itzky he was most unkind.
He would look over all most cynically, examining the saddles and
bridles, and then say, "Oh, I see you haven't learned how to tighten a
belly-band yet," or "I do believe you have your saddle hind-side to. You
would if you could, that's one thing sure. How do you expect a horse to
be sensible or quiet when he knows that he isn't saddled right? Any
horse knows that much, and whether he has an ass for a rider. I'd kick
and bite too if I were some of these horses, having a lot of damned
fools and wasters to pack all over the country. Loosen that belt and
fasten it right" (there might be nothing wrong with it) "and move your
saddle up. Do you want to sit over the horse's rump?"
Then would come the fateful moment of mounting. There was of course the
accepted and perfect way--his way: left foot in stirrup, an easy
balanced spring and light descent into the seat. One should be able to
slip the right foot into the right stirrup with the same motion of
mounting. But imagine fifty, sixty, seventy men, all sizes, weights and
differing conditions of health and mood. A number of these people had
never ridden a horse before coming here and were as nervous and
frightened as children. Such mounts! Such fumbling around, once they
were in their saddles, for the right stirrup! And all the while Culhane
would be sitting out front like an army captain on the only decent steed
in the place, eyeing us with a look of infinite and weary contempt that
served to increase our troubles a thousandfold.
"Well, you're all on, are you? You all do it so gracefully I like to sit
here and admire you. Hulbert there throws his leg over his horse's back
so artistically that he almost kicks his teeth out. And Effingham does
his best to fall off on the other side. And where's Itzky? I don't even
see him. Oh, yes, there he is. Well" (this to Itzky, frantically
endeavoring to get one fat foot in a stirrup and pull himself up), "what
about you? Can't you get your leg that high? Here's a man who for
twenty-five years has been running a cloak-and-suit business and
employing five hundred people, but he can't get on a horse! Imagine!
Five hundred people dependent on that for their living!" (At this point,
say, Itzky succeeds in mounting.) "Well, he's actually on! Now see if
you can stick while we ride a block or two. You'll find the right
stirrup, Itzky, just a little forward of your horse's belly on the right
side--see? A fine bunch this is to lead out through a gentleman's
country! Hell, no wonder I've got a bad reputation throughout this
section! Well, forward, and see if you can keep from falling off."
Then we were out through the stable-door and the privet gate at a smart
trot, only to burst into a headlong gallop a little farther on down the
road. To the seasoned riders it was all well enough, but to beginners,
those nervous about horses, fearful about themselves! The first day, not
having ridden in years and being uncertain as to my skill, I could
scarcely stay on. Several days later, I by then having become a
reasonably seasoned rider, it was Mr. Itzky who appeared on the scene,
and after him various others. On this particular trip I am thinking of,
Mr. Itzky fell or rolled off and could not again mount. He was miles
from the repair shop and Culhane, discovering his plight, was by no
means sympathetic. We had a short ride back to where he sat lamely by
the roadside viewing disconsolately the cavalcade and the country in
general.
"Well, what's the matter with you now?" It was Culhane, eyeing him most
severely.
"I hef hurt my foot. I kent stay on."
"You mean you'd rather walk, do you, and lead your horse?"
"Vell, I kent ride."
"All right, then, you lead your horse back to the stable if you want any
lunch, and hereafter you run with the baby-class on the short block
until you think you can ride without falling off. What's the good of my
keeping a stable of first-class horses at the service of a lot of
mush-heads who don't even know how to use 'em? All they do is ruin 'em.
In a week or two, after a good horse is put in the stable, he's not fit
for a gentleman to ride. They pull and haul and kick and beat, when as
a matter of fact the horse has a damned sight more sense than they
have."
We rode off, leaving Itzky alone. The men on either side of me--we were
riding three abreast--scoffed under their breath at the statement that
we were furnished decent horses. "The nerve! This nag!" "This bag of
bones!" "To think a thing like this should be called a horse!" But there
were no outward murmurs and no particular sympathy for Mr. Itzky. He was
a fat stuff, a sweat-shop manufacturer, they would bet; let him walk and
sweat.
So much for sympathy in this gay realm where all were seeking to restore
their own little bodies, whatever happened.
So many of these men varied so greatly in their looks, capacities and
troubles that they were always amusing. Thus I recall one lean iron
manufacturer, the millionaire president of a great "frog and switch"
company, who had come on from Kansas City, troubled with anæmia,
neurasthenia, "nervous derangement of the heart" and various other
things. He was over fifty, very much concerned about himself, his
family, his business, his friends; anxious to obtain the benefits of
this celebrated course of which he had heard so much. Walking or running
near me on his first day, he took occasion to make inquiries in regard
to Culhane, the life here, and later on confidences as to his own
condition. It appeared that his chief trouble was his heart, a kind of
phantom disturbance which made him fear that he was about to drop dead
and which came and went, leaving him uncertain as to whether he had it
or not. On entering he had confided to Culhane the mysteries of his
case, and the latter had examined him, pronouncing him ("Rather
roughly," as he explained to me), quite fit to do "all the silly work he
would have to do here."
Nevertheless while we were out on the short block his heart was hurting
him. At the same time it had been made rather clear to him that if he
wished to stay here he would have to fulfill all the obligations
imposed. After a mile or two or three of quick walking and jogging he
was saying to me, "You know, I'm not really sure that I can do this.
It's very severe, more so than I thought. My heart is not doing very
well. It feels very fluttery."
"But," I said, "if he told you you could stand it, you can, I'm sure.
It's not very likely he'd say you could if you couldn't. He examined
you, didn't he? I don't believe he'd deliberately put a strain on any
one who couldn't stand it."
"Yes," he admitted doubtfully, "that's true perhaps."
Still he continued to complain and complain and to grow more and more
worried, until finally he slowed up and was lost in the background.
Reaching the gymnasium at the proper time I bathed and dressed myself
quickly and waited on the balcony over the bathroom to see what would
happen in this case. As a rule Culhane stood in or near the door at this
time, having just returned from some route or "block" himself, to see
how the others were faring. And he was there when the iron manufacturer
came limping up, fifteen minutes late, one hand over his heart, the
other to his mouth, and exclaiming as he drew near, "I do believe, Mr.
Culhane, that I can't stand this. I'm afraid there is something the
matter with my heart. It's fluttering so."
"To hell with your heart! Didn't I tell you there was nothing the matter
with it? Get into the bath!"
The troubled manufacturer, overawed or reassured as the case might be,
entered the bath and ten minutes later might have been seen entering the
dining-room, as comfortable apparently as any one. Afterwards he
confessed to me on one of our jogs that there was something about
Culhane which _gave him confidence_ and made him believe that there
wasn't anything wrong with his heart--which there wasn't, I presume.
The intensely interesting thing about Culhane was this different, very
original and forthright if at times brutal point of view. It was a
blazing material world of which he was the center, the sun, and yet
always I had the sense of very great life. With no knowledge of or
interest in the superior mental sciences or arts or philosophies, still
he seemed to suggest and even live them. He was in his way an
exemplification of that ancient Greek regimen and stark thought which
brought back the ten thousand from Cunaxa. He seemed even to suggest in
his rough way historical perspective and balance. He knew men, and
apparently he sensed how at best and at bottom life was to be lived,
with not too much emotional or appetitive swaying in any one direction,
and not too little either.
Yet in "trapseing" about this particular realm each day with ministers,
lawyers, doctors, actors, manufacturers, papa's or mamma's young
hopefuls and petted heirs, young scapegraces and so-called "society men"
of the extreme "upper crust," stuffed and plethoric with money and as
innocent of sound knowledge or necessary energy in some instances as any
one might well be, one could not help speculating as to how it was that
such a man, as indifferent and all but discourteous as this one, could
attract them (and so many) to him. They came from all parts of
America--the Pacific, the Gulf, the Atlantic and Canada--and yet,
although they did not relish, him or his treatment of them, once here
they stayed. Walking or running or idling about with them one could
always hear from one or another that Culhane was too harsh, a "bounder,"
an "upstart," a "cheap pugilist" or "wrestler" at best (I myself thought
so at times when I was angry), yet here they were, and here I was, and
staying. He was low, vulgar--yet here we were. And yet, meditating on
him, I began to think that he was really one of the most remarkable men
I had ever known, for these people he dealt with were of all the most
difficult to deal with. In the main they were of that order or condition
of mind which springs from (1), too much wealth too easily acquired or
inherited; or (2), from a blazing material success, the cause of which
was their own savage self-interested viewpoint. Hence a colder and in
some respects a more critical group of men I have never known. Most of
them had already seen so much of life in a libertine way that there was
little left to enjoy. They sniffed at almost everything, Culhane
included, and yet they were obviously drawn to him. I tried to explain
this to myself on the ground that there is some iron power in some
people which literally compels this, whether one will or no; or that
they were in the main so tired of life and so truly selfish and
egotistic that it required some such different iron or caviar mood plus
such a threatening regimen to make them really take an interest. Sick as
they were, he was about the only thing left on which they could sharpen
their teeth with any result.
As I have said, a part of Culhane's general scheme was to arrange the
starting time for the walks and jogs about the long and short blocks so
that if one moved along briskly he reached the sanitarium at
twelve-thirty and had a few minutes in which to bathe and cool off and
change his clothes before entering the dining-room, where, if not at the
bathroom door beforehand, Culhane would be waiting, seated at his little
table, ready to keep watch on the time and condition of all those due.
Thus one day, a group of us having done the long block in less time than
we should have devoted to it, came in panting and rejoicing that we had
cut the record by seven minutes. We did not know that he was around. But
in the dining-room as we entered he scoffed at our achievement.
"You think you're smart, don't you?" he said sourly and without any
preliminary statement as to how he knew we had done it in less time.
"You come out here and pay me one hundred a week and then you want to be
cute and play tricks with your own money and health. I want you to
remember just one thing: my reputation is just as much involved with the
results here as your money. I don't need anybody's money, and I do need
my orders obeyed. Now you all have watches. You just time yourselves and
do that block in the time required. If you can't do it, that's one
thing; I can forgive a man too weak or sick to do it. But I haven't any
use for a mere smart aleck, and I don't want any more of it, see?"
That luncheon was very sad.
Another thing in connection with these luncheons and dinners, which were
sharply timed to the minute, were these crisp table speeches, often made
_in re_ some particular offender or his offense, at other times mere
sarcastic comments on life in general and the innate cussedness of human
nature, which amused at the same time that they were certain to irritate
some. For who is it that is not interested in hearing the peccadilloes
of his neighbor aired?
Thus while I was there, there was a New York society man by the name of
Blake, who unfortunately was given to severe periods of alcoholism, the
results of which were, after a time, nervous disorders which sent him
here. In many ways he was as amiable and courteous and considerate a
soul as one could meet anywhere. He had that smooth, gracious something
about him--good nature, for one thing, a kind of understanding and
sympathy for various forms of life--which left him highly noncensorious,
if genially examining at times. But his love of drink, or rather his
mild attempts here to arrange some method by which in this droughty
world he could obtain a little, aroused in Culhane not so much
opposition as an amused contempt, for at bottom I think he really liked
the man. Blake was so orderly, so sincere in his attempts to fulfill
conditions, only about once every week or so he would suggest that he be
allowed to go to White Plains or Rye, or even New York, on some errand
or other--most of which requests were promptly and nearly always
publicly refused. For although Culhane had his private suite at one end
of the great building, where one might suppose one might go to make a
private plea, still one could never find him there. He refused to
receive complaints or requests or visits of any kind there. If you
wanted to speak to him you had to do it when he was with the group in
its entirety--a commonsense enough policy. But just the same there were
those who had reasonable requests or complaints, and these, by a fine
intuition as to who was who in this institution and what might be
expected of each one, he managed to hear very softly, withdrawing slowly
as they talked or inviting them into the office. In the main however the
requests were very much like those of Blake--men who wanted to get off
somewhere for a day or two, feeling, as they did after a week or two or
three, especially fit and beginning to think no doubt of the various
comforts and pleasures which the city offered.
But to all these he was more or less adamant. By hook or by crook, by
special arrangements with friends or agents in nearby towns and the
principal showy resorts of New York, he managed to know, providing they
did leave the grounds, either with or without his consent, about where
they were and what they had done, and in case any of his rules or their
agreements were broken their privileges were thereafter cut off or they
were promptly ejected, their trunks being set out on the roadway in
front of the estate and they being left to make their way to shelter
elsewhere as best they might.
On one occasion, however, Blake had been allowed to go to New York over
Saturday and Sunday to attend to some urgent business, as he said, he on
his honor having promised to avoid the white lights. Nevertheless he did
not manage so to do but instead, in some comfortable section of that
region, was seen drinking enough to last him until perhaps he should
have another opportunity to return to the city.
On his return to the "shop" on Monday morning or late Sunday night,
Culhane pretended not to see him until noonday lunch, when, his jog over
the long block done with and his bath taken, he came dapperly into the
dining-room, wishing to look as innocent and fit as possible. But
Culhane was there before him at his little table in the center of the
room, and patting the head of one of the two pure-blooded collies that
always followed him about on the grounds or in the house, began as
follows:
"A dog," he said very distinctly and in his most cynical tone and
apparently apropos of nothing, which usually augured that the lightning
of his criticism was about to strike somewhere, "is so much better than
the average man that it's an insult to the dog to compare them. The
dog's really decent. He has no sloppy vices. You set a plate of food
before a regularly-fed, blooded dog, and he won't think of gorging
himself sick or silly. He eats what he needs, and then stops. So does a
cat" (which is of course by no means true, but still--). "A dog doesn't
get a red nose from drinking too much." By now all eyes were turning in
the direction of Blake, whose nose was faintly tinged. "He doesn't get
gonorrhea or syphilis." The united glances veered in the direction of
three or four young scapegraces of wealth, all of whom were suspected of
these diseases. "He doesn't hang around hotel bars and swill and get his
tongue thick and talk about how rich he is or how old his family is."
(This augured that Blake did such things, which I doubt, but once more
all eyes were shifted to him.) "He doesn't break his word. Within the
limits of his poor little brain he's faithful. He does what he thinks
he's called upon to do.
"But you take a man--more especially a gentleman--one of these fellows
who is always very pointed in emphasizing that he is a gentleman" (which
Blake never did). "Let him inherit eight or ten millions, give him a
college education, let him be socially well connected, and what does he
do? Not a damned thing if he can help it except contract vices--run from
one saloon to another, one gambling house to another, one girl to
another, one meal to another. He doesn't need to know anything
necessarily. He may be the lowest dog physically and in every other way,
and still he's a gentleman--because he has money, wears spats and a high
hat. Why I've seen fifty poor boob prize fighters in my time who could
put it all over most of the so-called gentlemen I have ever seen. They
kept their word. They tried to be physically fit. They tried to stand up
in the world and earn their own living and be somebody." (He was
probably thinking of himself.) "But a gentleman wants to boast of his
past and his family, to tell you that he must go to the city on
business--his lawyers or some directors want to see him. Then he swills
around at hotel bars, stays with some of his lady whores, and then comes
back here and expects me to pull him into shape again, to make his nose
a little less red. He thinks he can use my place to fall back on when he
can't go any longer, to fix him up to do some more swilling later on.
"Well, I want to serve notice on all so-called gentlemen here, and _one
gentleman_ in particular" (and he heavily and sardonically emphasized
the words), "that it won't do. This isn't a hospital attached to a
whorehouse or a saloon. And as for the trashy little six hundred paid
here, I don't need it. I've turned away more men who have been here once
or twice and have shown me that they were just using this place and me
as something to help them go on with their lousy drinking and carousing,
than would fill this building. Sensible men know it. They don't try to
use me. It's only the wastrels, or their mothers or fathers who bring
their boys and husbands and cry, who try to use me, and I take 'em once
or twice, but not oftener. When a man goes out of here cured, I know he
is cured. I never want to see him again. I want him to go out in the
world and stand up. I don't want him to come back here in six months
sniveling to be put in shape again. He disgusts me. He makes me sick. I
feel like ordering him off the place, and I do, and that's the end of
him. Let him go and bamboozle somebody else. I've shown him all I know.
There's no mystery. He can do as much for himself, once he's been here,
as I can. If he won't, well and good. And I'm saying one thing more:
There's one man here to whom this particularly applies today. This is
his last call. He's been here twice. When he goes out this time he can't
come back. Now see if some of you can remember some of the things I've
been telling you."
He subsided and opened his little pint of wine.
Another day while I was there he began as follows:
"If there's one class of men that needs to be improved in this country,
it's lawyers. I don't know why it is, but there's something in the very
nature of the work of a lawyer which appears to make him cynical and to
want to wear a know-it-all look. Most lawyers are little more than
sharper crooks than the crooks they have to deal with. They're always
trying to get in on some case or other where they have to outwit the
law, save some one from getting what he justly deserves, and then they
are supposed to be honest and high-minded! Think of it! To judge by some
of the specimens I get up here," and then some lawyer in the place would
turn a shrewd inquiring glance in his direction or steadfastly gaze at
his plate or out the window, while the others stared at him, "you would
think they were the salt of the earth or that they were following a
really noble profession or that they were above or better than other men
in their abilities. Well, if being conniving and tricky are fine traits,
I suppose they are, but personally I can't see it. Generally speaking,
they're physically the poorest fish I get here. They're slow and
meditative and sallow, mostly because they get too little exercise, I
presume. And they're never direct and enthusiastic in an argument. A
lawyer always wants to stick in an 'if' or a 'but,' to get around you in
some way. He's never willing to answer you quickly or directly. I've
watched 'em now for nearly fifteen years, and they're all more or less
alike. They think they're very individual and different, but they're
not. Most of them don't know nearly as much about life as a good,
all-around business or society man," this in the absence of any desire
to discuss these two breeds for the time being. "For the life of me I
could never see why a really attractive woman would ever want to marry a
lawyer"--and so he would talk on, revealing one little unsatisfactory
trait after another in connection with the tribe, sand-papering their
raw places as it were, until you would about conclude, supposing you had
never heard him talk concerning any other profession, that lawyers were
the most ignoble, the pettiest, the most inefficient physically and
mentally, of all the men he had ever encountered; and in his noble
savage state there would not be one to disagree with him, for he had
such an animal, tiger-like mien that you had the feeling that instead of
an argument you would get a physical rip which would leave you bleeding
for days.
The next day, or a day or two or four or six later--according to his
mood--it would be doctors or merchants or society men or politicians he
would discourse about--and, kind heaven, what a drubbing they would get!
He seemed always to be meditating on the vulnerable points of his
victims, anxious (and yet presumably not) to show them what poor,
fallible, shabby, petty and all but drooling creatures they were. Thus
in regard to merchants:
"The average man who has a little business of some kind, a factory or a
wholesale or brokerage house or a hotel or a restaurant, usually has a
distinctly middle-class mind." At this all the merchants and
manufacturers were likely to give a very sharp ear. "As a rule, you'll
find that they know just the one little line with which they're
connected, and nothing more. One man knows all about cloaks and suits"
(this may have been a slap at poor Itzky) "or he knows a little
something about leather goods or shoes or lamps or furniture, and that's
all he knows. If he's an American he'll buckle down to that little
business and work night and day, sweat blood and make every one else
connected with him sweat it, underpay his employees, swindle his
friends, half-starve himself and his family, in order to get a few
thousand dollars and seem as good as some one else who has a few
thousand. And yet he doesn't want to be different from--he wants to be
just like--the other fellow. If some one in his line has a house up on
the Hudson or on Riverside Drive, when he gets his money he wants to go
there and live. If the fellow in his line, or some other that he knows
something about, belongs to a certain club, he has to belong to it even
if the club doesn't want him or he wouldn't look well in it. He wants to
have the same tailor, the same grocer, smoke the same brand of cigars
and go to the same summer resort as the other fellow. They even want to
look alike. God! And then when they're just like every one else, they
think they're somebody. They haven't a single idea outside their line,
and yet because they've made money they want to tell other people how
to live and think. Imagine a rich butcher or cloak-maker, or any one
else, presuming to tell me how to think or live!"
He stared about him as though he saw many exemplifications of his
picture present. And it was always interesting to see how those whom his
description really did fit look as though he could not possibly be
referring to them.
Of all types or professions that came here, I think he disliked doctors
most. The reason was of course that the work they did or were about to
do in the world bordered on that which he was trying to accomplish, and
the chances were that they sniffed at or at least critically examined
what he was doing with an eye to finding its weak spots. In many cases
no doubt he fancied that they were there to study and copy his methods
and ideas, without having the decency later on to attribute their
knowledge to him. It was short shrift for any one of them with ideas or
"notions" unfriendly to him advanced in his presence. For a little while
during my stay there was a smooth-faced, rather solid physically and
decidedly self-opinionated mentally, doctor who ate at the same small
table as I and who was never tired of airing his views, medical and
otherwise. He confided to me rather loftily that there was, to be sure,
something to Culhane's views and methods but that they were
"over-emphasized here, over-emphasized." Still, one could over-emphasize
the value of drugs too. As for himself he had decided to achieve a happy
medium if possible, and for this reason (for one) he had come here to
study Culhane.
As for Culhane, in spite of the young doctor's condescension and
understanding, or perhaps better yet because of it, he thoroughly
disliked, barely tolerated, him, and was never tired of commenting on
little dancing medics with their "pill cases" and easily acquired book
knowledge, boasting of their supposed learning "which somebody else had
paid for," as he once said--their fathers, of course. And when they were
sick, some of them at least, they had to come out here to him, or they
came to steal his theory and start a shabby grafting sanitarium of their
own. He knew them.
One noon we were at lunch. Occasionally before seating himself at his
small central table he would walk or glance about and, having good eyes,
would spy some little defect or delinquency somewhere and of course
immediately act upon it. One of the rules of the repair shop was that
you were to eat what was put before you, especially when it differed
from what your table companion received. Thus a fat man at a table with
a lean one might receive a small portion of lean meat, no potatoes and
no bread or one little roll, whereas his lean acquaintance opposite
would be receiving a large portion of fat meat, a baked or boiled
potato, plenty of bread and butter, and possibly a side dish of some
kind. Now it might well be, as indeed was often the case, that each
would be dissatisfied with his apportionment and would attempt to change
plates.
But this was the one thing that Culhane would not endure. So upon one
occasion, passing near the table at which sat myself and the
above-mentioned doctor, table-mates for the time being, he noticed that
he was not eating his carrots, a dish which had been especially prepared
for him, I imagine--for if one unconsciously ignored certain things the
first day or two of his stay, those very things would be all but rammed
down his throat during the remainder of his stay; a thing concerning
which one guest and another occasionally cautioned newcomers. However
this may have been in this particular case, he noticed the uneaten
carrots and, pausing a moment, observed:
"What's the matter? Aren't you eating your carrots?" We had almost
finished eating.
"Who, me?" replied the medic, looking up. "Oh, no, I never eat carrots,
you know. I don't like them."
"Oh, don't you?" said Culhane sweetly. "You don't like them, and so you
don't eat them! Well, suppose you eat them here. They may do you a
little good just as a change."
"But I never eat carrots," retorted the medic tersely and with a slight
show of resentment or opposition, scenting perhaps a new order.
"No, not outside perhaps, but here you do. You eat carrots here, see?"
"Yes, but why should I eat them if I don't like them? They don't agree
with me. Must I eat something that doesn't agree with me just because
it's a rule or to please you?"
"To please me, or the carrots, or any damned thing you please--but eat
'em."
The doctor subsided. For a day or two he went about commenting on what a
farce the whole thing was, how ridiculous to make any one eat what was
not suited to him, but just the same while he was there he ate them.
As for myself, I was very fond of large boiled potatoes and substantial
orders of fat and lean meat, and in consequence, having been so foolish
as to show this preference, I received but the weakest, most
contemptible and puling little spuds and pale orders of meat--with, it
is true, plenty of other "side dishes"; whereas a later table-mate of
mine, a distressed and neurasthenic society man, was receiving--I soon
learned he especially abhorred them--potatoes as big as my two fists.
"Now look at that! Now look at that!" he often said peevishly and with a
kind of sickly whine in his voice when he saw one being put before him.
"He knows I don't like potatoes, and see what I get! And look at the
little bit of a thing he gives you! It's a shame, the way he nags
people, especially over this food question. I don't think there's a
thing to it. I don't think eating a big potato does me a bit of good, or
you the little one, and yet I have to eat the blank-blank things or get
out. And I need to get on my feet just now."
"Well, cheer up," I said sympathetically and with an eye on the large
potato perhaps. "He isn't always looking, and we can fix it. You mash up
your big potato and put butter and salt on it, and I'll do the same with
my little one. Then when he's not looking we'll shift."
"Oh, that's all right," he commented, "but we'd better look out. If he
sees us he'll be as sore as the devil."
This system worked well enough for a time, and for days I was getting
all the potato I wanted and congratulating myself on my skill, when one
day as I was slyly forking potatoes out of his dish, moved helpfully in
my direction, I saw Culhane approaching and feared that our trick had
been discovered. It had. Perhaps some snaky waitress has told on us, or
he had seen us, even from his table.
"Now I know what's going on here at this table," he growled savagely,
"and I want you two to cut it out. This big boob here" (he was referring
to my esteemed self) "who hasn't strength of will or character enough to
keep himself in good health and has to be brought up here by his
brother, hasn't brains enough to see that when I plan a thing for his
benefit it is for his benefit, and not mine. Like most of the other
damned fools that come up here and waste their money and my time, he
thinks I'm playing some cute game with him--tag or something that will
let him show how much cuter he is than I am. And he's supposed to be a
writer and have a little horse-sense! His brother claims it, anyhow. And
as for this other simp here," and now he was addressing the assembled
diners while nodding toward my friend, "it hasn't been three weeks since
he was begging to know what I could do for him. And now look at
him--entering into a petty little game of potato-cheating!
"I swear," he went on savagely, talking to the room in general,
"sometimes I don't know what to do with such damned fools. The right
thing would be to set these two, and about fifty others in this place,
out on the main road with their trunks and let them go to hell. They
don't deserve the attention of a conscientious man. I prohibit
gambling--what happens? A lot of nincompoops and mental lightweights
with more money than brains sneak off into a field of an afternoon on
the excuse that they are going for a walk, and then sit down and lose or
win a bucket of money just to show off what hells of fellows they are,
what sports, what big 'I ams.' I prohibit cigarette-smoking, not because
I think it's literally going to kill anybody but because I think it
looks bad here, sets a bad example to a lot of young wasters who come
here and who ought to be broken of the vice, and besides, because I
don't like cigarette-smoking here--don't want it and won't have it. What
happens? A lot of sissies and mamma's boys and pet heirs, whose fathers
haven't got enough brains to cut 'em off and make 'em get out and work,
come up here, sneak in cigarettes or get the servants to, and then hide
out behind the barn or a tree down in the lot and sneak and smoke like
a lot of cheap schoolboys. God, it makes me sick! What's the use of a
man working out a fact during a lifetime and letting other people have
the benefit of it--not because he needs their money, but that they need
his help--if all the time he is going to have such cattle to deal with?
Not one out of twenty or forty men that come here really wants me to
help him or to help himself. What he wants is to have some one drive him
in the way he ought to go, kick him into it, instead of his buckling
down and helping himself. What's the good of bothering with such damned
fools? A man ought to take the whole pack and run 'em off the place with
a dog-whip." He waved his hand in the air. "It's sickening. It's
impossible.
"As for you two," he added, turning to us, but suddenly stopped. "Hell,
what's the use! Why should I bother with you? Do as you damned well
please, and stay sick or die!"
He turned on his heel and walked out of the dining-room, leaving us to
sit there. I was so dumbfounded by the harangue our pseudo-cleverness
had released that I could scarcely speak. My appetite was gone and I
felt wretched. To think of having been the cause of this unnecessary
tongue-lashing to the others! And I felt that we were, and justly, the
target for their rather censorious eyes.
"My God!" moaned my companion most dolefully. "That's always the way
with me. Nothing that I ever do comes out right. All my life I've been
unlucky. My mother died when I was seven, and my father's never had any
use for me. I started in three or four businesses four or five years
ago, but none of them ever came out right. My yacht burned last summer,
and I've had neurasthenia for two years." He catalogued a list of ills
that would have done honor to Job himself, and he was worth nine
millions, so I heard!
Two or three additional and amusing incidents, and I am done.
One of the most outré things in connection with our rides about the
countryside was Culhane's attitude toward life and the natives and
passing strangers as representing life. Thus one day, as I recall very
well, we were riding along a backwoods country road, very shadowy and
branch-covered, a great company of us four abreast, when suddenly and
after his very military fashion there came a "Halt! Right by fours!
Right dress! Face!" and presently we were all lined up in a row facing a
greensward which had suddenly been revealed to the left and on which,
and before a small plumber's stove standing outside some gentleman's
stable, was stretched a plumber and his helper. The former, a man of
perhaps thirty-five, the latter a lad of, say, fourteen or fifteen, were
both very grimy and dirty, but taking their ease in the morning sun, a
little pot of lead on the stove being waited for, I presume, that it
might boil.
Culhane, leaving his place at the head of the column, returned to the
center nearest the plumber and his helper and pointing at them and
addressing us in a very clear voice, said:
"There you have it. There's American labor for you, at its best--union
labor, the poor, downtrodden workingman. Look at him." We all looked.
"This poor hard-working plumber here," and at that the latter stirred
and sat up, scarcely even now grasping what it was all about, so
suddenly had we descended upon him, "earns or demands sixty cents an
hour, and this poor sweating little helper here has to have forty.
They're working now. They're waiting for that little bit of lead to
boil, at a dollar an hour between them. They can't do a thing, either of
'em, until it does, and lead has to be well done, you know, before it
can be used.
"Well, now, these two here," he continued, suddenly shifting his tone
from one of light sarcasm to a kind of savage contempt, "imagine they
are getting along, making life a lot better for themselves, when they
lie about this way and swindle another man out of his honest due in
connection with the work he is paying for. He can't help himself. He
can't know everything. If he did he'd probably find what's wrong in
there and fix it himself in three minutes. But if he did that and the
union heard of it they'd boycott him. They'd come around and blackmail
him, blow up his barn, or make him pay for the work he did himself. I
know 'em. I have to deal with 'em. They fix my pipes in the same way
that these two are fixing his--lying on the grass at a dollar an hour.
And they want five dollars a pound for every bit of lead they use. If
they forget anything and have to go back to town for it, you pay for
it, at a dollar an hour. They get on the job at nine and quit at four,
in the country. If you say anything, they quit altogether--they're
_union_ laborers--and they won't let any one else do it, either. Once
they're on the job they have to rest every few minutes, like these two.
Something has to boil, or they have to wait for something. Isn't it
wonderful! Isn't it beautiful! And all of us of course are made free and
equal! They're just as good as we are! If you work and make money and
have any plumbing to do you have to support 'em--Right by fours! Guide
right! Forward!" and off we trotted, breaking into a headlong gallop a
little farther on as if he wished to outrun the mood which was holding
him at the moment.
The plumber and his assistant, fully awake now to the import of what had
occurred, stared after us. The journeyman plumber, who was short and
fat, sat and blinked. At last he recovered his wits sufficiently to cry,
"Aw, go to hell, you ---- ---- ----!" but by that time we were well along
the road and I am not sure that Culhane even heard.
Another day as we were riding along a road which led into a nearby city
of, say, twenty thousand, we encountered a beer truck of great size and
on its seat so large and ruddy and obese a German as one might go a long
way and still not see. It was very hot. The German was drowsy and taking
his time in the matter of driving. As we drew near, Culhane suddenly
called a halt and, lining us up as was his rule, called to the horses of
the brewery wagon, who also obeyed his lusty "Whoa!" The driver, from
his high perch above, stared down on us with mingled curiosity and
wonder.
"Now, here's an illustration of what I mean," Culhane began, apropos of
nothing at all, "when I say that the word man ought to be modified or
changed in some way so that when we use it we would mean something more
definite than we mean now. That thing you see sitting up on that
wagon-seat there--call that a man? And then call me one? Or a man like
Charles A. Dana? Or a man like General Grant? Hell! Look at him! Look at
his shape! Look at that stomach! You think a thing like that--call it a
man if you want to--has any brains or that he's really any better than a
pig in a sty? If you turn a horse out to shift for himself he'll eat
just enough to keep in condition; same way with a dog, a cat or a bird.
But let one of these things, that some people call a _man_, come along,
give him a job and enough money or a chance to stuff himself, and see
what happens. A thing like that connects himself with one end of a beer
hose and then he thinks he's all right. He gets enough guts to start a
sausage factory, and then he blows up, I suppose, or rots. Think of it!
And we call him a man--or some do!"
During this amazing and wholly unexpected harangue (I never saw him stop
any one before), the heavy driver, who did not understand English very
well, first gazed and then strained with his eyebrows, not being able
quite to make out what it was all about. From the chuckling and laughter
that finally set up in one place and another he began dimly to
comprehend that he was being made fun of, used as an unsatisfactory jest
of some kind. Finally his face clouded for a storm and his eyes blazed,
the while his fat red cheeks grew redder. "_Donnervetter!_" he began
gutturally to roar. "_Schweine hunde! Hunds knoche! Nach der polizei
soll man reufen!_"
I for one pulled my horse cautiously back, as he cracked a great whip,
and, charging savagely through us, drove on. Culhane, having made his
unkind comments, gave orders for our orderly formation once more and
calmly led us away.
Perhaps the most amusing phase of him was his opposition to and contempt
for inefficiency of any kind. If he asked you to do anything, no matter
what, and you didn't at once leap to the task ready and willing and able
so to do, he scarcely had words enough with which to express himself. On
one occasion, as I recall all too well, he took us for a drive in his
tally-ho--one or two or three that he possessed--a great lumbering,
highly lacquered, yellow-wheeled vehicle, to which he attached seven or
eight or nine horses, I forget which. This tally-ho ride was a regular
Sunday morning or afternoon affair unless it was raining, a call
suddenly sounding from about the grounds somewhere at eleven or at two
in the afternoon, "Tally-ho at eleven-thirty" (or two-thirty, as the
case might be). "All aboard!" Gathering all the reins in his hands and
perching himself in the high seat above, with perhaps one of his guests
beside him, all the rest crowded willy-nilly on the seats within and on
top, he would carry us off, careening about the countryside most madly,
several of his hostlers acting as liveried footmen or outriders and one
of them perched up behind on the little seat, the technical name of
which I have forgotten, waving and blowing the long silver trumpet, the
regulation blasts on which had to be exactly as made and provided for
such occasions. Often, having been given no warning as to just when it
was to be, there would be a mad scramble to get into our _de rigueur_
Sunday clothes, for Culhane would not endure any flaws in our
appearance, and if we were not ready and waiting when one of his
stablemen swung the vehicle up to the door at the appointed time he was
absolutely furious.
On the particular occasion I have in mind we all clambered on in good
time, all spick and span and in our very best, shaved, powdered, hands
appropriately gloved, our whiskers curled and parted, our shoes shined,
our hats brushed; and up in front was Culhane, gentleman de luxe for the
occasion, his long-tailed whip looped exactly as it should be, no doubt,
ready to be flicked out over the farthest horse's head, and up behind
was the trumpeter--high hat, yellow-topped boots, a uniform of some
grand color, I forget which.
But, as it turned out on this occasion, there had been a hitch at the
last minute. The regular hostler or stableman who acted as footman
extraordinary and trumpeter plenipotentiary, the one who could truly and
ably blow this magnificent horn, was sick or his mother was dead. At any
rate, there he wasn't. And in order not to irritate Culhane, a second
hostler had been dressed and given his seat and horn--only he couldn't
blow it. As we began to clamber in I heard him asking, "Can any of you
gentleman blow the trumpet? Do any of you gentleman know the regular
trumpet call?"
No one responded, although there was much discussion in a low key. Some
could, or thought they could, but hesitated to assume so frightful a
risk. At the same time Culhane, hearing the fuss and knowing perhaps
that his substitute could not trumpet, turned grimly around and said,
"Say, do you mean to say there isn't any one back there who knows how to
blow that thing? What's the matter with you, Caswell?" he called to
one, and getting only mumbled explanations from that quarter, called to
another, "How about you, Drewberry? Or you, Crashaw?"
All three apologized briskly. They were terrified by the mere thought of
trying. Indeed no one seemed eager to assume the responsibility, until
finally he became so threatening and assured us so volubly that unless
some immediate and cheerful response were made he would never again
waste one blank minute on a lot of blank-blank this and thats, that one
youth, a rash young society somebody from Rochester, volunteered more or
less feebly that he "thought" that "maybe he could manage it." He took a
seat directly under the pompously placed trumpeter, and we were off.
"Heigh-ho!" Out the gate and down the road and up a nearby slope at a
smart clip, all of us gazing cheerfully and possibly vainly about, for
it was a bright day and a gay country. Now the trumpeter, as is provided
for on all such occasions, lifted the trumpet to his lips and began on
the grandiose "ta-ra-ta-ta," but to our grief and pain, although he got
through fairly successfully on his first attempt, there was one place
where there was a slight hitch, a "false crack," as some one rowdyishly
remarked. Culhane, although tucking up his lines and stiffening his back
irritably at this flaw, said nothing. For after all a poor trumpeter was
better than none at all. A little later, however, the trumpeter having
hesitated to begin again, he called back, "Well, what about the horn?
What about the horn? Can't you do something with it? Have you quit for
the day?"
Up went the horn once more, and a most noble and encouraging
"Ta-ra-ta-ta" was begun, but just at the critical point, and when we
were all most prayerfully hoping against hope, as it were, that this
time he would round the dangerous curves of it gracefully and come to a
grand finish, there was a most disconcerting and disheartening squeak.
It was pathetic, ghastly. As one man we wilted. What would Culhane say
to that? We were not long in doubt. "Great Christ!" he shouted, looking
back and showing a countenance so black that it was positively
terrifying. "Who did that? Throw him off! What do you think--that I want
the whole country to know I'm airing a lot of lunatics? Somebody who
can blow that thing, take it and blow it, for God's sake! I'm not going
to drive around here without a trumpeter!"
For a few moments there was more or less painful gabbling in all the
rows, pathetic whisperings and "go ons" or eager urgings of one and
another to sacrifice himself upon the altar of necessity, insistences by
the ex-trumpeter that he had blown trumpets in his day as good as any
one--what the deuce had got into him anyhow? It must be the horn!
"Well," shouted Culhane finally, as a stop-gap to all this, "isn't any
one going to blow that thing? Do you mean to tell me that I'm hauling
all of you around, with not a man among you able to blow a dinky little
horn? What's the use of my keeping a lot of fancy vehicles in my barn
when all I have to deal with is a lot of shoe salesmen and floorwalkers?
Hell! Any child can blow it. It's as easy as a fish-horn. If I hadn't
these horses to attend to I'd blow it myself. Come on--come on!
Kerrigan, what's the matter with you blowing it?"
"The truth is, Mr. Culhane," explained Mr. Kerrigan, the very dapper and
polite heir of a Philadelphia starch millionaire, "I haven't had any
chance to practice with one of those for several years. I'll try it if
you want me to, but I can't guarantee--"
"Try!" insisted Culhane violently. "You can't do any worse than that
other mutt, if you blow for a million years. Blow it! Blow it!"
Mr. Kerrigan turned back and being very cheerfully tendered the horn by
the last failure, wetted and adjusted his lips, lifted it upward and
backward--and--
It was pathetic. It was positively dreadful, the wheezing, grinding
sounds that were emitted.
"God!" shouted Culhane, pulling up the coach to a dead stop. "Stop that!
Whoa! Whoa!!! Do you mean to say that that's the best you can do? Well,
this finishes me! Whoa! What kind of a bunch of cattle have I got up
here, anyhow? Whoa! And out in this country too where I'm known and
where they know all about such things! God! Whoa! Here I spend thousands
of dollars to get together an equipment that will make a pleasant
afternoon for a crowd of gentlemen, and this is what I draw--hams! A lot
of barflies who never saw a tally-ho! Well, I'm done! I'm through! I'll
split the damned thing up for firewood before I ever take it out again!
Get down! Get out, all of you! I'll not haul one of you back a step!
Walk back or anywhere you please--to hell, for all I care! I'm through!
Get out! I'm going to turn around and get back to the barn as quick as I
can--up some alley if I can find one. To think of having such a bunch of
hacks to deal with!"
Humbly and wearily we climbed down and, while he drove savagely on to
some turning-place, stood about first in small groups, then by twos and
threes began making our way--rather gingerly, I must confess, in our
fine clothes--along the winding road back to the place on the hill. But
such swearing! Such un-Sabbath-like comments! The number of times his
sturdy Irish soul was wished into innermost and almost sacrosanct
portions of Sheol! He was cursed from more angles and in more
artistically and architecturally nobly constructed phrases and even
paragraphs than any human being that I have ever heard of before or
since, phrases so livid and glistening that they smoked.
Talk about the carved ivories of speech! The mosaics of verbal precious
stones!
You should have heard us on our way back!
And still we stayed.
* * * * *
Some two years later I was passing this place in company with some
friends, when I asked my host, who also knew of the place, to turn in.
During my stay it had been the privilege and custom among those who knew
much of this institution to drive through the grounds and past the very
doors of the "repair shop," even to stop if Culhane chanced to be
visible and talking to or at least greeting him, in some cases. A custom
of Culhane's was, in the summer time, to have erected on the lawn a
large green-and-white striped marquee tent, a very handsome thing
indeed, in which was placed a field-officer's table and several camp
chairs, and some books and papers. Here of a hot day, when he was not
busy with us, he would sit and read. And when he was in here or
somewhere about, a little pennant was run up, possibly as guide to
visiting guests or friends. At any rate, it was the presence of this
pennant which caused me to know that he was about and to wish that I
might have a look at him once more, great lion that he was. As "guests,"
none of us were ever allowed to come within more than ten feet of it,
let alone in it. As passing visitors, however, we might, and many did,
stop, remind him that we had once been his humble slaves, and ask leave
to congratulate him on his health and sturdy years. At such times, if
the visitors looked interesting enough, or he remembered them well, he
would deign to come to the tent-fly and, standing there à la Napoleon at
Lodi or Grant in the Wilderness, be for the first time in his relations
with them a bit civil.
Anyway, on this occasion, urged on by curiosity to see my liege once
more and also to learn whether he would remember me at all, I had my
present host roll his car up to the tent door, where Culhane was
reading. Feeling that by this venturesome deed I had "let myself in for
it" and had to "make a showing," I climbed briskly out and, approaching,
recalled myself to him. With a semi-wry expression, half smile, half
contemptuous curl of the corners of his mouth, he recalled me and took
my extended hand; then seeing that possibly my friends if not myself
looked interesting, he arose and came to the door. I introduced
them--one a naval officer of distinction, the other the owner of a great
estate some miles farther on. For the first time in my relations with
him I had an opportunity to note how grandly gracious he could be. He
accepted my friends' congratulations as to the view with a princely nod
and suggested that on other days it was even better. He was soon to be
busy now or he would have some one show my friends through the shop.
Some Saturday afternoon, if they would telephone or stop in passing, he
would oblige.
I noted at once that he had not aged in the least. He was sixty-two
or -three now and as vigorous and trim as ever. And now he treated me as
courteously and formally as though he had never browbeaten me in the
least. "Good heavens," I said, "how much better to be a visitor than a
guest!" After a moment or two we offered many thanks and sped on, but
not without many a backward glance on my part, for the place fascinated
me. That simply furnished institution! That severe regimen! This
latter-day Stoic and Spartan in his tent! And, above all things, and the
most astounding to me, so little could one know him, the book he had
been reading and which he had laid upon his little table as I entered--I
could not help noting the title for he laid it back up, open face
down--was Lecky's "History of European Morals"!
Now!
Well!