wireless. It occurred to him that everyone, ever since he was a boy, had
been wanting him to work. They had all told him what great things they
expected of his talent if he would only use it. His mother had cherished
a letter from a boyhood schoolmaster, which dwelt in glowing terms on his
artistic ability, while at the same time it decried his indolence. His
wife had refused many suitors as importunate and more wealthy than he
because she was in love with him, and believed that her love could make
him fight for the success which was expected of him. Well, his father was
right—it was time to start work. They had had enough disappointments in
him, and now he must do something to make them proud of him. It wouldn’t
be hard.
In an exceedingly virtuous mood Carlos bent over and kissed his sleeping
wife. What a wonderful girl Eloise was, and what a trump to have believed
in him enough to have married him. He would work as he never had before
as soon as they got settled in New York. With which resolutions he got
into bed to dream of painting portraits for the kings and queens of
Europe.
* * * * *
Four months later in a studio-apartment in the low Fifties a wet
paint-brush was hurled viciously at a small statue of the Laocoon. It
struck the largest figure full in the face with a comforting smack, and
clattered to the floor. Carlos Bentley had been trying to do a portrait.
Eloise, who in lieu of a regular model had been sitting for him, started
at the sound, then relaxed her pose. She was an appealing figure with
a touch of dynamic force in the aggressive tilt of her chin that made
Carlos, jokingly and yet half-seriously, call her his will-power; at this
moment she seemed to be bracing herself as if to meet something.
“Why, Carlos dear, what is the matter?” she asked, approaching her
husband doubtfully.
Carlos stood before a half-finished picture removing his painting jacket,
which he hurled into a corner before turning to his wife.
“I’m going to stop,” he said impatiently. “I don’t seem to feel in a
mood for it to-day somehow. Besides we’ve been working for quite a while
and we need a rest.” His eyes met hers half-defiantly, as if he were
expecting some remonstrance. Then he added, “Come on down to a show,
dear. We can do some more to-night on this.”
His wife turned away.
“I don’t care to go down, Carlos,” she answered slowly, “and I had hoped
you’d want to work this afternoon. We’ve only been up here a little over
an hour. Won’t you stay a little longer? You were just beginning to get
the right feeling in the picture. I know you were.”
Carlos laughed and kissed her.
“There’s plenty of time for the picture and it’s too wonderful an
afternoon to stay indoors. I’m going out for a walk. Sorry you won’t
come.” He slammed the door as he went out.
Eloise sat down dejectedly on a straight chair. Her lips trembled until
she could hardly keep from crying. For seven weeks this same thing had
happened continuously until she was sick to death of trying to fight
against it. Every day Carlos had alternated playing around the city with
attempts to work which always ended like to-day. In all that time he had
only finished one picture—but it had been good, and had shown the talent
that was being wasted. If only she knew some way to touch the spark to
that talent. Eloise found herself wondering whether perhaps she had not
undertaken a task too difficult even for her love. It seemed as if Carlos
utterly lacked the requisite energy to produce what he was capable of.
With a sigh she turned to putting the studio in order.
Meanwhile Carlos, after wandering out onto the street, had set off in the
direction of the park. The refreshing air of a sunny autumn afternoon
soon cleared his brain, but there was still an uneasy feeling in the back
of his mind. He felt that he ought to be working, yet was unable to, and
he knew vaguely that he was not happy even in the freedom of the moment.
In this contradictory frame of mind he entered the park, strolling
aimlessly along the walks, where the park-loungers basked in the
unexpected warmth, and nurse-maids and children tried to make the best of
each other’s company. Carlos, deep in thought, paid little attention to
anyone unless some child inadvertently threatened to collide with him,
when he would start, step aside, and relapse again into his reverie.
It was during one of these lapses that Carlos failed to note the
appearance of a phenomenon. This consisted of a very dirty girl who was
leading—or being led by—a little white dog on a long rope, who, strangely
enough, was as clean as his mistress was dirty. The two came charging
down the path toward Carlos, evidently expecting to go past him on the
left. But just before they reached him, the little dog with all the
unexpectedness of little dogs darted to the right. The next moment Carlos
was startled to feel his feet being jerked backward and wound up tightly
in several yards of cotton clothesline on one end of which was a little
girl, who was the most striking surprise of all. In spite of an evident
absence of any recent ablution her features had a peculiarly charming
grace which was surprising under the circumstances and so pleasant that
Carlos found suddenly that he wanted to paint it.
When the child straightened up from her task of unwinding the little
white dog, which she now held in her arms, she was adorable as she tried
confusedly to explain and apologize for what had happened.
“Never mind that—I don’t appear to be any the worse. But would you mind
telling me your name?”
The vision was entirely agreeable.
“It’s Rosalie,” she replied. “At least I think so. I haven’t no father or
mother. I live with Aunt Bess, but Toots is my dog.”
“I’d like to paint a picture of you, Rosalie. That’s my business, you
see; I’m an artist—or supposed to be. Do you think your aunt would let
you come up to my house to-morrow afternoon, and would you like to?”
The child stared open eyed, but she quickly assimilated the facts. Her
reply was frank.
“Sure I would. Aunt Bess don’t care where I go. Will you have some
cookies? What do you want to paint me for?”
“Yes, there might be something to eat. Then you will come? That’s fine.
My house is at 16 West 5—th Street. Can you remember that, Rosalie?” The
child nodded. “Then I’ll expect you at two o’clock to-morrow afternoon.”
Carlos walked home in high spirits. The child’s face had so impressed
him that it seemed as if he could never wait till the next day. Eloise
was still at the apartment. To her he recounted his find in such glowing
terms that she began to share his enthusiasm and help him make his plans.
“We’ll have to give her a bath,” he said cheerfully. “She’s horribly
dirty. And we’ve got to find out whether she can come regularly. But
we can do that to-morrow. Let’s celebrate to-night. I know a wonderful
little restaurant. By the way, her name’s Rosalie.”
They were still talking about the child when they returned late in the
evening.
The next afternoon at a quarter of two the bell rang, and Rosalie was
announced by a shocked and protesting doorman. Shortly after Rosalie
herself appeared. Believing it her duty to do her best to make the
picture a success, and feeling that the occasion demanded something out
of the ordinary, the child had worn her best clothes and even gone to the
length of a somewhat tentative washing. The dress—it was her Sunday one,
she explained—was hideous, but Eloise, who was as fascinated by the child
as her husband had been, with infinite tact persuaded her to put on some
things they had bought for her the afternoon before.
Posing the child presented little difficulty. All Carlos asked was to
have her sit in a little rocker with an open picture book in her lap,
which Rosalie did with such a natural grace and unembarrassed manner
that she might have been sitting in little rockers for her picture all
her life. Her hair, which Eloise had loosened, hung in long curls that
completely covered her shoulders, and from which the exquisite little
face looked out like an ivory miniature in a golden frame. As he gazed
speechless at the effect, Carlos knew that at last he had found his
inspiration. He began feverishly to sketch in the first rough outlines of
the portrait.
As long as the light lasted he worked rapidly, looking up at the child on
the platform where the chair had been placed and down to the canvas, as
he touched it with quick, sure strokes. Sometimes he paused, seemingly
forgetful of the picture, looking for long intervals at the girl as if
to draw her whole personality out of herself and place it on the canvas.
Finally Rosalie began to become more and more restless, until Eloise was
forced to interrupt the work.
“You’ll have to stop now, dear,” she said. “The poor child is tired out
and it’s too dark now, anyway.”
Carlos paid no attention, but went on painting. All he said was, “Tell
her to sit still. Can’t stop now.”
But at last she persuaded him to lay aside his brushes, so that Rosalie
could go home, after promising faithfully to return the next afternoon.
Carlos was triumphant.
“It’s going to be the best thing I ever did. The kid gets into me in a
way I can’t explain, but I’m putting it in the picture.”
For two weeks the child came almost every day and each time the picture
advanced further. Carlos had been right—it was the best thing he had ever
done, incomparably the best. To Eloise, who in the months in Paris had
gained a good critical knowledge of pictures, it was evident that it was
a masterpiece. The feeling of greatness was in it; in the perfection of
the body, in the grace of the pose, and most of all in the face. There
was something so compelling about the personality of that face, that
Eloise would often sit and look at it alone when Carlos had gone out.
It was the only time she was ever alone with it, for if he were in the
apartment, he spent all his time in the studio.
Then one late afternoon after Rosalie had left, Carlos said:
“One more day, Eloise. Just one more day and it will be done. To-morrow
night I’ll be satisfied with it—I’ll even be a little proud of it,
because it is good, isn’t it?”
And Eloise nodded happily. For the past two weeks she had been happier
than she had ever been before, and now she was too overcome to speak.
The next day Rosalie did not come, although they waited impatiently all
afternoon. Carlos tried to go on with the picture from memory, but gave
up in disgust. Without the child he was unable to go any further. When
she did not appear the next day, Carlos became desperate. The picture was
so tantalizingly near completion, yet there was something to be added,
something indefinite which he could not name and the lack of which left
him dissatisfied and uneasy. He went to the house where she had said she
lived, but even the aunt had gone, and no one knew anything about either
of them. For a week, two weeks, Carlos alternately waited in the studio
and made fruitless attempts to locate the child. When Eloise, fearing he
would go mad with impatience, tried to make him work on other pictures,
he seemed unable to concentrate for long on anything. The old indolence
had returned with a new force which he was unable and half-unwilling to
overcome; for the child was the only thing that could fill him with that
burning desire to paint that had driven him on, often in spite of himself.
Carlos refused to give up the hope that she might yet return. For hours
in the afternoon he would go up to the studio, and, putting on his
painting jacket, sit gazing hopelessly at the picture, or make sudden
attempts that were over almost as soon as begun to complete the portrait.
Fall passed—the fall that had so nearly brought realization—and winter
came. The studio became dark early in the afternoons, and no childish
laugh returned to lighten the dusk.
STANLEY MILLER COOPER.
_The Dreamer_
Pine tree, pine tree,
Pointing to the sky,
Your branches are all naked
And all your leaves are dry.
Pine tree, pine tree,
And did you reach too high,
And did your soul grow weary,
Leaving you to die?
Pine tree, pine tree,
In my heart I know
You are pointing out to us
The way we should not go.
WILLIAM TROY.
_Book Reviews_
_The Chronicles of Rodriguez._ By LORD DUNSANY. (G. P. Putnam’s Sons.)
“Be always drunken!” said Charles Baudelaire. “Be always and forever
drunken—with wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you choose.” Our best
of all possible worlds has, indeed, run aground on evil days since then.
To become drunken by any of the means which Baudelaire suggests, is to
arouse comment, if not suspicion, in the year nineteen twenty-two.
Only one last refuge is left to those who would be always and forever
drunken—the tales of Lord Dunsany. And, in his latest book, this literary
Bacchus has not failed us. For “The Chronicles of Rodriguez” are apt to
make all lovers of beauty in words very drunken—as drunken as men used to
grow in Merry England who drank too deeply of the magic rymes of Spenser.
His real name was Rodriguez Trinidad Fernandez Concepcion Henrique
Maria—and, before the tale is done, even that stupendous name has grown
in stature by the breadth of a title or two, such is the magic warmth
of Golden Spain. His father, the old Lord of the Valleys of Arguento
Harez, from whose heights Angelico swore he saw Valladolid once; his
father was grieved, as he lay dying, to see that Rodriguez’s younger
brother had grown to manhood dull and clever, one on whom those traits
that women love had not been bestowed by God. And so, knowing that the
poor fellow could gain nothing for himself, since women are the arbiters
of all things here on earth, and for aught he knew hereafter, the old
Lord gave him all his lands and goods, except only his ancient Castilian
sword. This he gave to Rodriguez, his eldest son, in the grand manner
that they had at that time in Spain, saying, “I leave you, my son, well
content that you have the two accomplishments that are most needful in a
Christian man, skill with the sword and a way with the mandolin.” Then he
gathered up his strength for the last time and looked at his son. “The
sword to the wars,” he said. “The mandolin to the balconies.”
And now, since no one can hear of such a tale and rest content until they
know what further magic is in store, I leave you all, like the old Lord,
content that you will go to seek the wars and the balconies—which is the
business of a book reviewer.
L. S. G.
_Shoes of the Wind._ By HILDA CONKLING. (Frederick A. Stokes Co.)
Readers of “Poems by a Little Girl” who were surprised at the
extraordinarily beautiful poetry such a little girl could produce,
will be even more surprised and pleased by the contents of this second
volume. Hilda Conkling, with her childhood simplicity of ideas, seems
to have discovered unconsciously the most satisfactory content for
poems in _verse libre_. Naïveté is stilted in metrical form, but seems
to run truly like “shoes of the wind” along the irregularities of free
verse, whereas the vulgar aphorisms of some contemporaries would be more
likeable if they were better clothed with the conventionalities of metre
and rhyme.
Wordsworth would have loved Hilda Conkling. She would have been ample
proof for him that children come, “trailing clouds of glory”. Here is her
own expression of it:
I was thinking
The tenderness children need
Is in soft shadow-things;
Is a kind of magic ...
Petals of a dark pansy ...
Cloudy wings....
“Shoes of the Wind” will delight anyone who likes lyrical poetry of the
most beautiful sort.
D. C. C.
_The Glimpses of the Moon._ By EDITH WHARTON. (D. Appleton & Company.)
At the moment of writing this review, Mrs. Wharton’s publishers announce
that the public continues to inconsiderately overtax and distress them,
by calling for “Glimpses of the Moon” at the rate of three thousand
copies a day. This, of course, is quite as it should be. But we still
venture to hope that at least one hundred persons per day will join us in
a courageous effort to forget all about it, and await Mrs. Wharton’s next
book, just as if nothing had happened. It is evidently too much to hope
for another “Age of Innocence” at once—but one is only too glad to wait
for it.
As for the immensely more important two thousand nine hundred, they will
find that they have purchased three hundred and sixty-four pages of what
looks like good solid reading matter, only to find it so adroitly written
that it slips away at almost a single sitting, and forces one to decide
what to read next.
Should they decide to turn out the light and pull up the covers, however,
they may do so secure in the knowledge that Susy and her Nick at last
realize that “this is love! This must be love!”, and determined to call
off the divorce that has been threatening all through the book. It is
all very splendid, for Nick could have married the Hicks millions, and
Susy might have been Lady Altringham five minutes after the decree was
issued. Lest anyone should be unduly stampeded by this outline of the
plot, we might mention that Mrs. Wharton has carefully avoided “the
tiny garments”, and that it is while mothering the children of a stray
acquaintance that she, together with Nick, finally glimpses the moon,
which has been decidedly under a cloud during most of the book.
L. S. G.
_Breath of Life._ By ARTHUR TUCKERMAN. (G. P. Putnam’s Sons.)
We learn from the jacket (that most entertaining part of so many
books; for there pure imagination soars into the literary empyrian—)
that Mr Tuckerman is “a new American writer of twenty-five”. Warned
by that designation to expect one of the precocious works of cynical
sophistication of the terrible “younger school”, we cannot be anything
but agreeably surprised when that turns out to be an erroneous
supposition. In its early chapters “Breath of Life” does not treat
of the collegiate youth who sits out dances with worldly-wise and
unsurpriseable débutantes, and gets drunk in fashionable cafés; but
that sort of thing has been done so much in “first novels” of late
that the aspect is negligible. The main part of the story is frankly
given over to that type which calls for gallant action, and gay, not
too-analytically-treated romance; as such it makes for easy, delightful
reading.
Everett Gail has left college—“New Haven”—after two lazy, profitless
years, to see whether business cannot end his restlessness and give
purpose to his existence. He soon finds that office work makes him an
automaton, and the incidental round of parties bores him. He disgraces
himself before the one girl he cares at all about by getting drunk, and
it is while in this condition that he climbs aboard a ship bound for
the Caribbean. The harsh realities of the work on shipboard end when
he dives overboard in the harbor of Santa Palina, and there he finds
the life of excitement which he craves. Days of adventurous intrigue
and revolutionary plots follow, with the necessary love-element in the
person of an insurgent leader’s charming daughter. In the end he saves an
astonishing number of American Marines’ lives, receives the thanks of his
government,—and sails back home.
“Breath of Life” is not a profound book; it propounds no unsolvable
problems; and there are certain banalities and traces of a still immature
style evident. These are the natural signs of a new author’s development.
But it is the sort of book that you will enjoy reading. Mr. Tuckerman’s
characterizations are rather good; his sense of scene is excellent. For
those of us who desire an occasional respite from the rigors of Yale’s
iron-clad curriculum, “Breath of Life” offers pleasant relaxation.
C. G. P.
_Editor’s Table_
_The Climax._
It was past twelve, on make-up night. Two hundred odd contributors were
clustered about the window of the LIT. office in which the Table of
Contents was to be posted. The Yale Literary Renaissance had converted
into a mob-scene what had been formerly a nocturne embracing a window, a
lamp-post and a deserted middle-ground.
A general tensity prevailed. There was, to be sure, a certain amount of
thoughtless jostling and crowding. The YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE seldom
publishes more than ten pieces, of which approximately seven are by the
editors. This fact tends to whet outside competition, and introduces an
element of curiosity and despair.
_The Anti-Climax._
Inside the office, Richard Cory, Ahaseurus, Bukis, The Egoist, and Mr.
Benson were all sound asleep. In this unguarded moment of repose there
was little if anything about their countenances which indicated the
Intellegensia. I am glad to say that the only one of these gentlemen who
was superior enough not to snore was
MR. BENSON.
_Yale Lit. Advertiser._
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