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•

ST.PAUL'S is the historic "Church of the Confederacy," referred to by Mrs. Jefferson Davis as "The Westminster Abbey of the South." Pews occupied by President Davis and General Robert E. Lee are marked by silver tablets. The memorials to Confederate leaders and others are among the most beautiful in the entire country.

A liberal Christian message, for thoughtful and forward-looking young men and women ts preached from its pulpit.

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UNIVERSITYOF RICHMOND INCLUDES

1. Richmond College, a College of Liberal Arts for Men.

2. Westhampton College, a College of Liberal Arts for Women. 3. The T. C. Williams School of Law, a Professional School of Law, offering the Degree of LL. B. 4.

The Summer School. W . L. Prince, M. A., Director. Richmond College for Men W. L. PRINCE,

M, A.,

DEAN

Richmond College for Men is an old and well-endowed College of Liberal Arts, which is recognized everywhere as a Standard American College. Its degrees are accepted at face value in the great graduate and technical schools of America. Its alumni are so widely scattered through the nation that the new graduate immediately joins a large and friendly group of men holding positions of power and influence. The College occupies modern and well-equipped buildings, on a beautiful campus of 150 acres in the western suburbs of Richmond.

Westhampton College MAY LANSFIELD

KELLER,

PH.

D.,

DEAN

Wes th amp ton College for Women, co-ordinate with Richmond College for Men, is housed in handsome buildings on a campus of 140 acres, separated from the Richmond College campus by a beautiful lake of about nine acres. All degrees are given by the University of Richmond, and those conferred on women are, in all respects, equivalent to those conferred on men. While the two institutions are co-ordinate, they are not co-educational.

The T. C. Williams School of Law J . H. BARNETT,

JR,,

LL.

B., SECRETARY

Three years required for degree of LL. B. in the Morning Division, four years in the Evening Division. Strong faculty of ten professors. Large Library. Moderate Fees. Open to both Men and Vl<imen. Students who so desire can work their way. For catalogue, booklet, or views, or other information concerning entrance into any College, address the Dean or Secretary.

F. W. BOATWRIGHT

- President

THE

MESSENGER

Students' Literary Monthly since 1876 EDITORIAL DEPARTMENT

W. E. SLAUGHTER JEAN

MAcCARTY

• Richmond College Westhampton College

• •

BUSINESS DEPARTMENT

VOL.

JAMES

H. GORDON

GRAY

ROBINSON

LII

• Richmond College Westhampton College JANUARY,

1927

No. 3

CONTENTS (Poem)

CREPUSCULE

4 Marian R. Marsh, '26

THE

GIFT

(Short Story) J. Donald DeVilbiss, '26

GROTESQUERIE

(Short Story)

Louise Gayle, ex '28 HUMIDITY

(Poem) Anne Opus, '27

(Play)

REINCARNATION

Elmer Potter, '29

"A TINKLING

OF THE

CAMEL-BELLS"

(Short Story)

Harry Lyles, '27 Two

PoEMS

Poon Kant Mok IMITATIONS

(Short Story)

Mildred Anderson, '28

(Poem) J. W. Kincheloe, '28

"WHIP-POOR-WILL!"

PEN

$2.00 THE COLLEGE YEAR

35 CENTS A COPY

THE

EDITORIAL

THE MESSENGER is published every month from November to June inclusive by the students of the University of Richmond in Virginia . Contributions are welcomed from all members of the student body and from the alumni. Manuscripts not found available for publication will be returned . All business communications should be addressed to the Business Managers. Entered as second-class matter at the postoffice at the University of Rich~ond, Virginia. Copyright, 1926, by W. E. Slaughter . ~

CREPUSCULE (Twilight)

You left when dawn for me had just begun, And sped with light unreasoning feet away, Stilling my song, a curious shining one But newly born, that all inviolate lay. Oftimes, the darkly-hanging clouds you left Are driven ,before the memory of your face, And rifted into bits to let a glim Pse Of gold and half-forgotten dreams have place. Their wake is prodigally sweet again Until old mockeries renew despair, Then dusk drifts in my heart like falling rain To snuff the glint of joy still huddled there. -MARIAN

R. MARSH, '26.

GROTESQUERIE J. DONALD DEVILBISS,

'26

Marmud Kuzr paced before his tent and wrung his hands, weeping bitterly, for Kirza, the idol of his heart, lay dying-dying-the red blood of life ebbing drop by drop, moment by moment-her pale beautiful face contorted in awful agony-her great black eyes brimming pools of pain and wonder. . .. . for there was come a son to Kirza. . . . And Taman Shur, the old soothsayer, foretold that the babe would some day be a poet, and all the world should bend its ear to catch the notes dropping from his lyre-now softly beautiful like the moonbeams filtering through the shifting leaves of the palms-now fierce with passion like the hot sands blown against the face of the traveler. . . . and thenceforth the male-child was Omar the poet. So the Poet was come to manhood, and yet no golden notes fell from his lyre . . . and the elders questioned among themselves, wherefore they should call this man the Poet. About this time there came upon the desert one who was like unto none other in all the land. Some said she was a spy from among the fair-haired barbarians of the North. Some that she was Mahomet's handmaiden, Mazurka, whose eyes were the twin stars, Gemini, whose hair was spun from the clouds which attend the sun at its setting. Howbeit, the Poet questioned not whence nor whither, but looked upon her and loved. For fools and sages it is left to question whence and whither-while youth may love. . . . And thus the hours slipped away into days, and the days also slipped away, and the Poet tore out his heart and lay it at the feet of the blonde woman, and she loved him with all her soul. But she wanted to dance and sing in the sunshine . . . while the Poet thought of a tent of his own, with her by his side-where the days might slip into years and the years into the lap of the Prophet (Salla-'llahu 'aleyhi wasellem !) and the soft warm night wind of the desert folded itself about the Poet, and his heart cried out in anguish with the sweetness of her hands-her lips . and he desired her with a poignant hunger-but there was still the dance and song.

THE

MESSENGER

And these few days were noted on the books of the Great Recorder (Salla-'llahu 'aleyhi wasellem !) and He glanced at the next page, written by God in invisible fluid which the next day's Sun would cause to stand out in stark, unflinching blackness-and He sighed deeply as He thought of the Poet, and He changed the warm wind to a chill, bitter gust, and passed His hand across the face of the Moon-and the Poet knew. . . . So he buried his lips once more in the fragrant hair of gold and crept away to his lonely tent. And when the Sun cast his first blood-smeared spear points across the limpid Sky of Dawn, the Poet awoke and heard that the blonde woman was gone from the desert . . ~ and he lay upon his rug amid the ruins of a shattered dream-shell, and he wanted never to arise and live on the Earth again. But he remembered a beautiful melody from the dream, an exquisite harmony: the treble the drippling of the little spring in the oasis; the basso the sough of the warm breeze in the palm treesand the words were the blonde woman's eyes and lips, poetry beyond poetry; as heartbreakingly beautiful as a nude angel weeping silver tears over a star fallen from the coronet of Heaven. And the melodies came crowding one upon another-the one behind treading the hem of the tunic of the one before-and the Poet traveled the length and breadth of the land, and many women, sloeeyed and amorous, showered their affections upon him who sang with such depth of passion. . . . And a part of his being loved them and desired the pressure of their warm arms about his neck and the soft ardor of their perfumed breath against his lips-but he of the songs stood afar off in the desert, and laughed sometimes, and sometimes cried bitterly-but always stood afar off and made songs of a blonde woman, and the songs came to the lips of the body that frequented the cities. And there was always the sparkling vintage of the grape, and the velvet smooth cheeks of virgin creatures, and always that soul of hi,s-the soul which drank in the moonlight by the trinkling springs of an afar oasis and translated the divine poetry of a vanished dream. And thus the years spun by, as the Supreme Banker (Salla'llahu 'aleyhi wasellem !) whirled the wheel of fortune: click-click -click. And the Poet staked wealth and youth and beauty and strength upon the turn of the wheel, and always lost with a twisting smile curling his lips. And the Banker's hand was ever stretched

GROTESQUERIE

forth until the Poet had no more to give, for only Memory remained, and that the Banker would not take !

In these latter years a wretched shell hunched in the marketplace of the great, filthy city, holding in its hands such a lyre that one could not say which was the more broken, man or harp. But with the vibration of the one remaining cord, the passersby stopped in their tracks-for the drab walls were swept away and the moon flung its radiance upon a green oasis, and the night birds of the desert cooed with the ecstacy of soul-hunger. Across the square, in a gaudy bazaar, there danced one whose blonde hair covered her face like a veil, whose white body swayed and flashed in the sunbeams as a glistering pendant flung upon the wastes. There, in the midst of her dance, she heard the wretch's song and her legs dragged like iron as her heart cried out to Allah ( Salla'llahu 'aleyhi wasellem !) to ease the pain of its breaking. So every morn a guiding spirit led the Poet to the square, and every day a woman's golden hair hid her tears as they fell like autumn rain.

Mistletoe snowy white Little pearls of parasite Clinging tightly Growing sprightly On the lofty limbs above -Harry

Hill.

THE GIFT LoursE GAYLE,ex '28 Emily's chair creaked monotonously as she rocked slowly back and forth, back and forth, on her thickly shaded front porch. She must finish this blouse today, because Mary Allen was to be married week after next, and there was still so much to be done. Then, too, she had promised to make those cakes for the church social tomorrow. Miss Helen had said that there simply couldn't be a social if Emily didn't make the cakes. Always so much to be done,smiled Emily. Work was the only thing that made life possible or desirable, and once it alone had made life endurable for Emily. She had no one of her own to work for , so for many years it had been her habit to do for all her neighbors the things for which they had no time or found distasteful. Her eyes roved again to the newspaper on the floor at her side and the picture of the rather stern looking man, well past middle age. "Senator John Carew appointed to Judgeship" stood out in bold type beneath the picture. Emily sighed. Creak-creak-creak went her chair, as she moved back and forth through the bars of sunlight that fell through the clematis vine. Should she make two chocolate cakes and one cocoatnut, or should all three be chocolate?

Everyone in the village had accepted it as predestined that Emily and John should some day be married. They had played dolls together, started to school on the same day and had been inseparable, until John reached an age when he considered it "sissy" to play with girls. Then he had wandered off to learn how to swim, and turn handsprings, and stand on his head on the grass plot in front of the old stone courthouse. Emily had been lonesome in those days, because there were few other girls near her own age in the village. Not many years elapsed, however, before John offered to turn his handsprings in Emily's own front yard, while she watched, rapt with admiration. By the time they finished high school, they were as inseparable as on the day on which they first started. John's father and mother had long ago decided that their only son was to go to college, and their enthusiasm was surpassed only by his own. Emily had never thought much about the world outside the village, until that last night before John went away. When he told her that some day, when he'd finished school, they'd be married and live in a big city, she knew from the look in his eyes that it was

THE

GIFT

not of her he was thinking, but of the world he meant to conquer. Then, too, Emily didn't want to go and live in a big city. She knew she'd feel terribly out of place. Why must John leave the village where life was not a struggle, and where there were no battles to be won? Emily could see no glory in struggle. She wanted to spend the rest of her life quietly in the village. But she didn't tell John her thoughts. Instead, she listened as bright-eyed as he to all his plans . All that winter John's letters were full of glowing accounts of an existence more thrilling than anything Emily could imagine. She hated that new world passionately, and all the allurement it held for John. When he returned the following summer, Emily could find no great change in him, except that he made continual plans for the day when he would be a great lawyer, thrilling courtrooms with the power of his pleas. Then later he would enter into politics. Emily listened while she fought against a black blanket of fear, which threatened to smother her. The mere thought of a great politician made Emily withdraw timidly within herself. The following summer , just before John came back to the village, the Morelands bought the big house on the hill as a summer home. The feeling which Elizabeth Moreland inspired in Emily from the first was not one of envy or even dislike, but of despair. She represented the femininity of that outer world, which was steadily and inevitably drawing John away from the only things which were dear to Emily, and which she understood. She and John were introduced to Elizabeth together at church one Sunday morning. "Attractive girl," said John, looking after Elizabeth as she moved away. "Yes, very," answered Emily. She was acutely conscious of the other's poise. A week later, John mentioned casually that he had called on Elizabeth, and, as the summer wore on, Emily watched a friendship grow up between the two. It would never have occurred to John that he was paining Emily by anything he said or did, for he was totally unconscious of the fact that he had undergone any change since the days when they walked home from school together. He told himself that he had always known that some day he would be a great man, but Emily was just awakening to the fact that she could never be a great woman. He still took Emily as much for granted as ever. Of course, she would marry him some time, when he was famous. He did not dream that she considered herself pitifully in-

THE

MESSENGER

adequate for such an exalted position. From his references to Elizabeth Moreland, Emily came to realize that their friendship was based upon something mutual, that Elizabeth could discuss with him the things of his world, while Emily could only listen. To all of John's invitations that she visit Elizabeth with him, Emily made excuses. She could not bear the thought that John should have an opportunity to compare them side by side. That winter John's letters made Emily realize that the barrier between them was insurmountable. She knew that he was totally unaware of the agony of heart and mind through which she was passing-that she was afraid of his world and its self assurance. He would be shocked at the thought that she would not marry him; but Emily knew with indescribable heartache that he would not be inconsolable. There would always be something just ahead for John, something just around the corner. For John had been born with the dream of far places in his eyes. John and Elizabeth arrived at the village almost simultaneously the following summer-John's last summer at home, as Emily well knew. Also, she thought, the last summer when she would be more than a half-forgotten memory in his life-the last summer in which life itself would have any real meaning for Emily. Affairs progressed between the three much as in the previous summer, until one evening, as Emily and John sat on the front porch, he turned to her and said, "You're so quiet, Emily. I guess there's just nothing here in the village to talk about, though. What do you do with yourself all winter ? I declare you ought to read more." Emily said to herself that John would rather have died than hurt her so, if he had only known. "I'm not quiet. You didn't used to think so. It's just that you've got so much more to tell than I have." "Oh, I was just teasing! When you're my wife in the city, you'll hold big meetings to electioneer for me. I'll bet you can beat me making speeches !" But Emily didn't want to make speeches. She wanted a small house in the village-and John. She wanted to spend her life in the quiet, secluded atmosphere she had always known and loved. Battles to be won were to Emily merely the unpleasant subjects of uninteresting books. To John they were the essence of life-the continual groping after illusion, which made existence the adventure which it was. Emily tried to tell John these thoughts which burnt through

THE

GIFT

her brain, but words to express them would not come. She could never explain her feelings to John. She must find some other way to make a gift of him to posterity. For even then Emily had somehow realized more fully than anyone else that some day he would be a greater man than he had imagined. Two weeks later Emily was gathering the last of the gooseberries which grew on the bushes on the farther side of the meadow behind her house, when she saw John hurrying towards her. Both his excited expression and his rapid gait on such a warm day, told her that something unusual had happened. "It's the end; it's the end," a bumble bee droned monotonously as he crawled from one red clover to the next. John stopped in front of her breathlessly. "A telegram!" he said. "I'm to go to town at once! Mr. Lindsay -you know I told you about him-wants me in his office! He's talked to me about it before. . . . I'm to be there the rest of the summer and all the time I can spare this winter. . . . And after ! Oh, couldn't anything better have happened to I graduate . . a young lawyer. . . . Why, Mr. Lindsay is the greatest lawyer in the South!" Emily had gradually dropped the gooseberries she held in her hand to the ground, one by one. She liked to hear the dull, thumping sound they made. John suddenly became aware of her attitude. "Why, Emily, aren't you glad? Can't you see it's the biggest thing in the world for me?" "Yes-I'm glad." "And, Emily, there's something else. I don't leave till next week. Let's get married, and you come back with me. I'll have enough salary!" Until his next words, Emily feared lest she should lack strength to carry out her resolve. How exultantly his eyes shone! "I'm going to start this thing out right! All the big lawyers are always carrying other famous men to their homes. I'm going to start out right, too !" The old fear grasped Emily's heart. "John, I've been thinking-I don't guess I can marry you after all!" He started. "Why, what do you mean? We've always been planning to get married!"

THE

MESSENGER

"I know . . . but . . . you see, John, since you've been away so much, I've just decided I don't love you enough. That's all." She picked up the bucket of gooseberries from the ground, and began to grope her way towards the house. She refused to let herself think of anything, except that when you shut your eyes against the bright sunlight, you saw red and green balls against your closed eyelids. At the top of the gentle slope, she turned and looked back. John was already a third of the way towards Elizabeth Moreland's house. At least, thought Emily, he'll never see me fail him when he needs me most. Then, some minutes later, as he went into the gate at the Moreland's, she whispered to herself between gasping sobs, "She can make a great man out of him, but she couldn't have done it except for me !"

Emily sighed again. As she took the last stitches in Mary Allen's blouse, she said to herself, "I believe I'll make four cakes instead of three this time. If they don't sell them all, they can give the rest away to the children."

HUMIDITY Hazy street lamps fitfully glimmering Through the fog-blurred night; Loosened bricks on slimy sidewalks -Dirty red bricks, moss-bound and treacherousSlushing beneath hastening footsteps; Swish! as a speeding taxicab Bounces dully over grimy cobblestones Still soggy from a spring rain . Quiet! Four cigarettes glowing nervously Beneath a fog-blurred lamp; A rustle of passing skirts, A suggestive shrug of a slender shoulder. . . . Three cigarettes glowing nervously Beneath a fog-blurred lamp.

-Anne

Opus, '27.

REINCARNATION ELMERPOTTER CAST ELOISE MEREDITH. SARAH KENDLE,her companion. MRs. BEAUCHAMP,a guest at Mountain Lake Hotel . MRS. THURMAN, a wai,tress. ALFREDARMISTEAD,a stranger. A DOCTOR. (SCENE: Room in the Merediths' suite at Mountain Lake Hotel. There are two doors up le£t; one in le£t wall opens on corridor ; other in rear wall leads to bedroom. A tall open window in the right wall affords a magnificent view of sunlit mountains. There is a table up center. When the curtain rises, two women are discovered standing in the middle of the stage. One, a matronly woman in maid's uniform, is Sarah Kendle. In the city she is general housekeeper in the Meredith home and companion to Mrs. Meredith, but at fashionable Mountain Lake she is known as "lady's maid." She has a room to herself and comes every morning and evening to help Mrs. Meredith to dressa process which Mrs. Meredith manages by herself very well at home . . . but this is Mountain Lake. The other, dressed in somewhat shabby mourning, is Mrs. Thurman of the night shift in a nearby restaurant. It is near sunset, and the nearly horizontal rays of the sun flood the room. Mrs. Thurman is the bearer of bad news. The women talk in subdued voices.) MRS. THURMAN• ( wringing her hands) : It was horrible, Mrs. Kendle. I shall never forget this day . Never ! SARAH: You saw him fall? MRs. THURMAN: With these eyes of mine I saw them standing side by side away up there glorying in the sunset. And then I saw him step forward into the thin air like as if a great hand was a-drawing him on. (She shudders.) I closed my eyes. SARAH: Well? MRs. THURMAN: When I opened 'em, he lay crushed to death on the rocks not a hundred yards from where I stood! SARAH: Poor Mr. Meredith! He wasn't a bad sort . MRs. THURMAN: I tried to run away, but I couldn't. I had to stay and watch them shovel him into a basket. Ugh! SARAH: And Mrs. Meredith? Is she bearing it bravely?

THE MESSENGER

MRS. THURMAN: That's the strangest part of it all. I saw them fetch her down from the mountain, and she was-laughing! SARAH: Laughing? Lord ! Then her mind is gone. MRS. THURMAN: No, no. She became rational enough before I left. But it did sound queer to hear a woman laughing when her husband's body lay all mangled under a bit of bloody canvas at her feet. SARAH: They were a queer pair-the Merediths. MRS. THURMAN: They were that. SARAH: They treated me like one of the family while I was there. I tried not to notice anything out of the ordinary, but there were strange goings-on in that house. Many's the night they and a few friends 'ould lock themselves up in a dark room and sit for hours a-talking with the dead. MRS. THURMAN: Talking with the dead? Lord! That's an odd thing to do. SARAH: It is that, Mrs. Thurman. I thought as much myself sometimes. But talk they did. I've heard queer voices coming from the seance room back at home. MRS. THURMAN: I suppose Mrs. Meredith was what they call a medium. SARAH: Maybe so. Maybe not. It's little I know about such things. I only know that there was something odd about the pair of them. MRS. THURMAN (writhing) : Lord! If I could only forget! his blood When I close my eyes I can see him lying there-with I spreading out into little puddles and seeping into the ground-and can hear her laughing-and laughing! SARAH (putting an arm around Mrs. Thurman): There, dear, you must go home and go to bed. Tomorrow all this will seem like a fearful dream-nothing more. MRS. THURMAN: No, no. I shan't go to bed, for then I should think and go mad. I am going to work as usual tonight. That may keep my mind away from such things and maybe help me to forget. (She goes to the 'Window and leans on the sill. Something in the street attracts her attention.) Look! They're coming! SARAH (jommg her) : Who are coming? MRS. THURMAN: See! The doctor's car with the shades all pulled down! She's inside. I heard Doctor say he'd bring her back to the hotel in his automobile.

REINCARNATION

SARAH (watching the scene below her intently): She's getting out of the car without any help. MRS. THURMAN: She must be a brave woman. SARAH: Look at her run up the steps-brisk as a rabbit. Lord! You'd think she was coming from a wedding or something. How do you suppose she can be so calm? MRS. THURMAN: How do you suppose she could have laughed the way she did? SARAH: And she seemed to think the world of him. It's strange indeed. (They watch in silence. It is Mrs. Thurman who first speaks.) MRS. THURMAN: Who is that young man with the brown beard? SARAH ( looking at her sharply) : How should I know? MRs. THURMAN: I thought perhaps you might. He seems to be a friend of Doctor's. SARAH: No, I-I don't know him. (She glances about the room.) Lord! I must tidy this room up a bit if they're coming in here. MRS. THURMAN ( sinking into a chair) : I must try to forget. SARAH: Look. The roses have shed their petals on the floor. (The roses in the vase on the table have only a few petals left among the green leaves of the stems. Sarah picks up the petals from the floor and drops them into a waste-basket.) MRs. THURMAN (once more in despair): I saw him fall. Why couldn't I have been somewhere else when it happened? SARAH (as she busies herself tidying and straightening): I told Mrs. Meredith she'd better let me throw them out before they got too full blown, but she wouldn't hear of it. They say it's an ill omen to let roses drop their petals before they're taken from the vasethings! and strange things have come to pass-fearful MRS. THURMAN: I'll never walk in the hills again! (The sun is setting. Sarah pulls the lamp-cord. The room becomes lighter.) MRS. THURMAN: If I had somebody to talk to o' nights, it wouldn't be so bad. But I'm a lonely widow like yourself. (Some one raps on the door.) SARAH: Lord! There they are now. Quick! Stick that dust cloth in the drawer ! Now! Does everything look all right? (Another rap. Sarah opens the door. The doctor enters.) DOCTOR: I wish to speak with Mrs. Meredith's maid. SARAH: I am Mrs. Meredith's maid, sir.

THE MESSENGER

DocTOR: Is her room ready? once.

It is necessary that she retire at

( Eloise Meredith enters very calmly.) ELOISE: Never mind about my room, Sarah. (To the doctor) : I am not going to bed, Doctor. I am quite comfortable. DocTOR (kindly): But, dear lady, you must get some rest. nerves-ELOISE: You are mistaken ; I am not nervous.

(Enter Mrs. Beauchamp, a guest.) MRs. BEAUCHAMP (going to Eloise): down.

That's right.

The terrible shock.

Your

Why, you poor dear, sit

(She gently forces her into

a chair, but Eloise quickly rises.) ELOISE: No, Mrs. Beauchamp, I am in no mood today to sit still. I should prefer to-to-(she goes to the window) to watch the sunset. Beautiful, is it not?

(The doctor and Mrs. Beauchamp exchange wondering glances. Enter Alfred Armistead, a rather handsome young man. He wears a carefully trimmed Van Dyke. The doctor greets him, and they go to one side where they hold a whispered consultation. Sarah stands watching Armistead, who, when he notices, drops his eyes and turns his back upon her.) MRs. BEAUCHAMP (impulsively going up to Eloise): Come, dear, you must obey the doctor's orders. ELOISE: The doctor's orders ? MRs. BEAucHAMP: You must go to bed at once. ELOISE: Why?

I am not ill.

MRs. BEAUCHAMP: It must have shattered your nerves. ELOISE: Not at all. MRs. BEAUCHAMP: I know, my dear, but it was all so unexpected. Your husband-ELOISE: They say Leonard was killed instantly. That greater comfort could be mine than to know he did not suffer ? DocTOR ( coming forward) : That is true. painful subject.

But let us drop this

ELOISE (simply) : Painful? I do not find it so, Doctor. certain that death was instantaneous? DocTOR: Quite. pain whatever.

Is it

We have proof that he could have suffered no

ELOISE: I am glad.

REINCARNATION

MRS. BEAUCHAMP( after a silence) : Dear, have you any friends among the women guests at the hotel ? ELOISE: None at all-unless I may consider you as such, Mrs. Beauchamp. MRs. BEAUCHAMP:Be assured you may, my dear, and be assured that I shall do whatever I can to relieve you in your hour of need. ELOISE: You are kind. MRs. BEAUCHAMP: You may rest quietly in your room. I shall make all arrangements at once. ELOISE: Arrangements ? MRS. BEAUCHAMP: Such as-mourning clothes. I don't suppose you brought anything suitable with you. ELOISE: Mourning? MRs. BEAUCHAMP: Yes, dear. Will you wear a veil? ELOISE (placing her hands on Mrs. Beauchamp's shoulders): My dear Mrs. Beauchamp, I shall never cease to thank you for the kind interest you have taken in me-a woman suddenly left alone far away from home. Believe that my gratitude is sincere and do not misunderstand me when I say that it will be impossible for me to avail myself of your kindness since I do not intend to wear mourning. MRS. BEAucHAMP (taken aback) : Not intend to wear mourning ! But your husband-ELOISE: I am sure my husband would not wish me to drape myself in black in memory of his death. It was a promise. He made me vow that when he died I should dress in the brightest colors. I shall not break that vow. This evening I shall appear at dinner in my smartest evening gown. MRs. BEAUCHAMP: At dinner 1 DocTOR: My dear Mrs. Meredith, your nerves-ELOISE ( looking quizzically from one to the other, a half smile on her lips) : I begin to understand your viewpoint, my friends. You think me a lone woman trying to be brave in the face of death. You look upon my indifference as clever acting. You suppose that I am concealing a bleeding heart beneath a surface of bravado. No, that is not my nature. I am not ashamed of my fee~ings. If my heart bled, I should hold it high that the world might see its scars. But there are no scars on this heart. I smile-because I see no cause for grief. And this evening at dinner-MRS. BEAUCHAMP(interrupting): No, no, you must not be seen downstairs this evening. What will people say?

THE MESSENGER

ELOISE: Let them say what they please, so long as I am carrying out Leonard's wishes. DocTOR: Pardon me, Mrs. Meredith, but I must say that you are acting strangely this evening. ELOISE (speaking slowly and watching the effect of her words): If I have not displayed the customary signs of grief, it is because I know that my husband is not truly dead. DocTOR: Not dead ! ELOISE: Do you not believe in life after death, Doctor?

I begin to understand, Mrs. Meredith. DocTOR: Why-yes. is the best consolation in bereavement. religion daresay, I all, After ELOISE ( shaking her head slowly) : No, you do not understand. None of you understand. Shall I tell you a strange story? I see a full confession is necessary. This story deals with Leonard and me. We believed in life after death most emphatically. We believed moreover in the free will of the soul in the hereafter, and we confirmed · our beliefs by certain psychic experiments. DocTOR ( turning away) : Humph ! ELOISE (pityingly): Oh, I know, Doctor, that you do not believe in communication with the dead. That is because you lack the necessary faith to make a proper investigation and thereby learn the truth. You and your fell ow scientists have yet to discover that the eternal can never be fathomed by means of your physical instruments. You try, fail, and so declare that there is no eternal - no hereafter. Leonard and I knew better, and on the basis of our knowledge we made certain vows which I promise you we shall keep. We vowed to each other that should either be released within a year he would forswear the joys of heaven and return to his mate. Leonard has promised. He will come back. (Armistead has been watching her fascinatedly. Mrs. Thurnian crosses herself.) MRS. BEAUCHAMP(half convmced): Tell me: how will he come back? As a spirit? ELOISE ( with a fervor akin to religious ecstasy) : No. There was more to our vow that I have told you. We agreed that the homeless soul should search the earth until it found another spirit beating at the doors of immortality. There it should take its stand and wait until the struggling soul had burst open the bars of its prison and fluttered onward, whilst he, preferring life to death, would gratefully take the empty prison for a home, and so clothed in different flesh

REINCARNATION

return to his beloved. Is it not simple? Ah, Doctor, you are still incredulous, but I am not. I stood near him on the mountain yonder. I saw his form go hurtling down to death. And then I felt him again by my side, felt his spirit hand reach out to mine, gently press it, and thus sealed our promises. Oh, he will return, never doubt it. He even now is ransacking the universe for a body on point of death to make his own when the soul within is past beyond. Ah, yes. Then he will come back to me. He will come back-perhaps in an hour, perhaps in a day, a week, a month, a year, but he will come back. He will not break his promise. (Silence.) Now you know my secret. Now you know why I choose to be happy-not to mourn him that is living and will return. Please excuse me, Mrs. Beauchamp and gentlemen. I shall see you again at dinner, and-perhaps-I shall not be alone. Profound silence. All nod. Mrs. Beauchamp and the doctor exit into hallway as Mrs. Meredith exits into bedroom. Mrs. Thurman follows the doctor. In crossmg the room, she cannot restrain an awed "Lord!" Sarah Kendle and Alfred Armistead are left alone in the room. The latter drops into an armchair and buries his face Ht his hands.) SARAH ( approaching him) : Oh, Alfred! (Armistead does not answer.) SARAH: Alfred, what are you thinking? (She places a hand on his head.) ALFRED( without looking up) : What could I think, Sarah? SARAH: It is strange-strange ! ALFRED ( looking up; he is very pale) : Why do · you say that, Sarah? Men have been killed before. SARAH: I cannot help saying it, Alfred, for something deep within me-something barbaric and primitive, I suppose-keeps crying: "Sorcery! Sorcery!" ALFRED( with disgust) : That you would say such a thing ! Sorcery! SARAH: Yes, dear. Sorcery that he should have died at such a time. ALFRED: Yes, to think that they had been married only-SARAH (interrupting) : That is not what I mean. But that he should have died so opportunely, as it were! ALFRED: Opportunely? How can you say that?

THE MESSENGER

SARAH: Oh, Alfred, do you think I am blind? Am I not your sister, and haven't I seen you praying for his death? That's why I call it sorcery. I sometimes think there's something to the old idea that wishing a thing hard enough may make it come true. ALFRED: Are you my sister, and do you say such a thing? SARAH: I say it because it's true, Alfred, and you can't deny it. I know why you suddenly went straight, and I know why you came to Mountain Lake. ALFRED: It was you that made me change my way of living, Sarah. SARAH: No, Alf red, I've been trying to reform you for years. It's not I. It's that woman who had succeeded where I've failed, and it's love of her that's held you here. ALFRED: What woman? Mrs. Meredith? SARAH: Yes, it's Eloise Meredith has reclaimed you. It's none of my doing. ALFRED: It's not like you to talk such nonsense, Sarah. I've never spoken to her even. SARAH: That is true. But a poet may be expected to select an unattainable ideal as the object of his worship. From the day you first visited me back in the city you've been different-so different. ALFRED (reminiscent) : Yes, it was on that visit I first saw her. SARAH ( watching him) : What a remarkable coincidence that you both should choose to spend the summer at Mountain Lake ! (He does not speak.) Tell me, Alfred: why have you grown a beard? I've often wondered. ALFRED (sullenly) : Do you think I wanted to be recognized as the brother of her housekeeper ? SARAH: Oho, do you suppose she noticed you enough to recognize you? ALFRED(crushed):

No, I suppose not.

SARAH: But you have admitted def eat. do love her ; do you not?

(Coming closer) : You

ALFRED ( rising, defiantly) : What if I do? I am not ashamed of it! From the filth of the gutter I have climbed the mountain top to worship the evening star. My love for her has been the only truly beautiful thing in my life. It made me disgusted with my dirty past, and I've broken away from everything unworthy of her. Oh, it

REINCARNATION

has been sweet to carry my secret love around in my heart with the knowledge that I might never touch so much as the hem of her cloak. SARAH (insinuatingly) : And Leonard Meredith-what of him? ALFRED: He seemed like a cloud obscuring my evening star. She was his-all his-a paradise of love and beauty-all his. And he spent half his evenings with women not fit to look upon that paradise. Yet he remained enthroned in her heart while I starved for a morsel of love. A man is only a refined ape until the love of some good woman gives him that touch of divinity that makes him human. But the mind of Leonard Meredith was too low and too sordid to compre hend the divine, and yet she loved him-loved him. Is it any wonder that I longed to-to--Oh, Sarah! SARAH (harshly): And Leonard Meredith died! (Armistead shudders. He walks to the window. It is rapidly growing dark outside. When, after a moment, he turns, the expression of hopelessness and despair ·is replaced by one of wild determination.) ALFRED(quietly) : Come, sit down, Sarah. I am brave enough to bear the truth. SARAH ( wonderingly, sitting down) : The truth? ALFRED: You must have guessed it. I killed Leonard Meredith! SARAH: Alfred! What are you saying? ALFRED(quietly) : I killed Leonard Meredith. SARAH: No, no. Mr. Meredith fell. ALFRED: Things like that don't just happen, Sarah. Don't be a fool. SARAH: But they were up there alone-Mr. and Mrs. Meredith. ALFRED: Men don't just fall off cliffs, unless . . . (He rises and crosses to left. Near the door he turns facing Sa.rah.) Leonard Meredith was intoxicated ! SARAH: What? ALFRED: I had long ago made friends with Meredith. I thought our friendship might prove useful. SARAH ( striving to be calm) : Well? ALFRED: It has been useful. When I heard he was gomg to attempt Mount Hendrix today, under pretext of my friendship, I got him to drink-drink heavily. SARAH (rising) : Oh, Alfred, this is infamous! ately--

You deliber-

THE MESSENGER

ALFRED( dropping mto a chair, once more hopelessly) : I don't know. When I got him to drink, I had no clear notion why. I only knew he had a dangerous climb before him, and I hoped that he might commit some indiscretion and get hurt. I hated him so, you see. SARAH: No, no, Alfred, you are not a murderer. Never accuse yourself of that. ALFRED: It amounts to the same thing. (After a silence) : I'm so tired. SARAH: You must rest, dear . ALFRED: It will be a long rest. SARAH ( divining his meaning) : Alfred ! ALFRED: You see, the evening star is farther away than ever now. Yes, I must rest. SARAH: For my sake, Alfred, think about other things. It's true I see little of you, but you're my little brother-and I should miss you so. ALFRED: The lake is cool-and deep. SARAH: Oh, Alfred; don't despair. ALFRED: The star of evening has vanished forever. (Sarah turns to the window, thinking. There is a long and painful silence until she turns facing Armistead.) SARAH (slowly shaking her head): No, Alfred, it is nearer than ever before. ALFRED: What are you saying? SARAH ( coming closer) : Did you hear what she said-about her husband returning? ALFRED: You see-she is still his. From the grave he proclaims her for his own. SARAH (at last determined what course to pursue): remove your beard at once. ALFRED: What?

You must

SARAH: In her trunk there in the bedroom are letters from her husband. I shall get them for you. You must read them-every one. ALFRED: But why? SARAH: You must go down and engage the next room-the with a window on the same balcony as this. ALFRED: Why should I do these things ?

one

REINCARNATION

SARAH(slowly) : She said, "he will return." Do you understand? ALFRED( comprehending, horrified) : No, no, not that! SARAH: I give you your evening star. ALFRED: But I cannot-SARAH: Hush! I hear her coming. Do as I told you. Then come back and wait in the hallway. Go. ALFRED: But-SARAH: Go, I say! (She a.lmost forces him out into the },,all. Just as Sarah closes the door behind him, enter Eloise Meredith from the bedroom. She is clad i,n lavender negligee and bedroom slippers.) SARAH: Why, Mrs. Meredith, ma'am, I thought you were going to dress for dinner. ELOISE: I had intended to, but these foolish people have set my nerves on edge. I'm going to bed instead. (She looks about the room.) There's no one here? I thought I heard someone speaking while I was in the other room. SARAH (confused): Speaking? A-I daresay you did, Mrs. Meredith. I-I seem lately to have developed a disagreeable habit of talking to myself. (Eloise, about to cross the room, finds herself facing the window. She pales.) ELOISE: Draw those curtains, Sarah. (Turning) : I can see it in the darkness. SARAH (not comprehending, a ,little nervously): See it? ELOISE: The mountain ! SARAH: I understand. (She pulls the shade down.) This must have been a terrible trial for you, ma'am. (Eloise sits in a chair under the lamp. She gazes into the air before her. When she speaks, i,t is partly to Sarah and partly to herself.) ELOISE: Ah, Sarah, it was exquisite agony to see him one moment standing there strong, beautiful, the spirit of youth itself and the next to see him hurled mile-downward to destruction-to imagine his body, then, mangled, crushed, bleeding, repulsive to look upon. Exquisite agony ! SARAH: Exquisite?

How can you say that?

ELOISE: Ah, yes, exquisite! Does it shock you, Sarah, to learn that, as soon as I realized all that had happened-that the mountain

THE MESSENGER

had taken my beloved, I laughed? I laughed-a little idiotically perhaps, but I was happy-defiantly happy to know that we-Leonard and I-had cheated the mountain of its prey. I turned and shook my clenched fists at its crags ; I shouted my contempt and defiance at them. And I laughed-and laughed. Thus they found melaughing-with tears in my eyes. They thought me insane and carried me down the mountain side to the doctor's automobile. They thought me insane because they didn't know that I had seen him-and felt his hand press mine before he started on his quest. The mountain had crushed his body, and the crags laughed back at me because they did not know that they had not-could not destroy his immortal soul, or that his soul was to find another residence upon the earth and in another form return to me. I laughed-and laughed-SARAH ( testing her) : But, dear lady, if what you say and believe is true, he must come back changed-another man, in fact. Could you love him then? ELOISE: I could. You cannot understand, Sarah. It is not his body I love. The love of twin souls is far, far greater, and purer, and sweeter. My love shall be undiminished. SARAH: But if he should come back ugly-ELOISE: It would make no difference, so the soul were the same. But he will come back no less beautiful than he left, for he will not select an ugly body, or, if he did, his soul within would make it lovely. SARAH ( somewhat awed) : You have remarkable faith, ma'am. ELOISE: Who could have lived with him, as I have, and not learned confidence in him? He must come. He has sworn it. SARAH ( drawing nearer Eloise) : How soon, do you think? ELOISE: How should I know? He will come as soon as he can. I shall wait here a week. If he has not returned by then, I shall go home and wait a month. SARAH: And then if he does not return? ELOISE: I shall suppose that his soul has stumbled upon an invalid body and so shall seek him a year. You see, there is some possibility that he may be unable to come back. Physical infirmity or sickness. Yes, I shall dedicate a year to the search-if he does not return. SARAH: And after a year. ELOISE: Oh, he cannot take that long!

REINCARNATION

SARAH: He may. If he does not return, will you then settle down, forget, and-a£ ter a while, perhaps, marry again. ELOISE: Hush! . SARAH: Will you? ELOISE: He will return. SARAH: If he does not? ELOISE (wildly) : Then at the end of a year, I'll come back to this hotel. I shall take this suite. And one fine morning I shall climb again the heights of Mount Hendrix. And I shall stand again on that high precipice where we stood this evening watching the sunset. SARAH: Would it be wise to return to a place of such bitter memories? ELOISE: I shall not stay there long. SARAH: No? ELOISE: No, for very soon they shall find me at its foot--crushed, bleeding, repulsive to look upon. Ah, yes. And they shall listen and hear the old mountain laughing, this time triumphantly. SARAH ( horrified) : Oh, this cannot be! ELOISE: No, it shall not be, for he will return. He will return to me, and the crags shall cease to laugh. SARAH: God grant! (As Eloise rises, her tragic mood drops away like a cloak) ELOISE (going to the table) : The roses have shed their petals. What a shame! They seemed so fresh and beautiful when we left for the hills. Bring me those in the bedroom. They're still in the box. They were Leonard's last gift. SARAH: Yes, ma'am. (Exit Sarah into bedroom. Eloise removes the rose stems from the vase and drops them into a waste-basket. She waits; Sarah does not return.) ELOISE: Sarah! SARAH (outside): Yes, ma'am, I'm coming. (She enters. In her right hand she carries the flower box. With her left, she furtively thrusts something mto her apron pocket.) I had difficulty finding the box. (She places the box on the table, opens •t, and smoothes the green tissue paper, revealing long-stemmed, waxlike, red rosebuds.) ELOISE (removing them from the box): Leonard's last gift! (She presses the long stems against her breast and nestles her face

THE

MESSENGER

among the buds.) He will return before they fade. He must. They are a talisman. (She silently places them one by one in the tall vase.) SARAH: May I help you, ma'am? ELOISE (picking up the vase): No, Sarah, I am retiring now. You may go to your room whenever you wish. Be sure the door is locked. SARAH: I shall, ma'am. ELOISE ( in the doorway to the bedroom; she elevates the vase) : Are they not beautiful? I shall place his gift beside my bed tonight. (Exit.)

(Sarah pauses a moment, then slowly opens the door to the corridor. Alfred Armistead is standmg in the doorway. She starts.) SARAH: Why, Alfred, how you frightened me! already?

You are back

ALFRED( entering the room) : I have not le£t that door. every word you both said.

I heard

SARAH ( somewhat timidly) : Well, what do you think now? ALFRED: Lord ! How she loved him ! If I had known-SARAH: Don't speak so loudly.

She'll hear you.

ALFRED(bitterly) : How could she have been so blind? A woman like her! No doubt, the glib-tongued scoundrel has held her spellbound. I suppose his words have kept her enchanted and blinded her to his sordidness. · SARAH: Enchanted?

And you've broken the enchantment!

ALFRED( sitting left) : I don't deny it. But I swear I didn't mean to make her unhappy. SARAH: So you think he held her spell-bound. ALFRED: Oh, they all fall for smooth words. Do you fancy she loved that shell for himself? No, no, she couldn't have been so blind. It's merely the enchantmeut of romance. It couldn't have lasted another year.

(Sarah, with her back to Armistead, takes the letters from her pocket, looks at them, pauses, then, turning, shows them to him.) SARAH: See. I have her letters here. ALFRED: Her letters? SARAH: The letters he wrote her. ALFRED: More smooth, empty words.

REINCARNATION

SARAH: She has read some of them to me. They are very beautiful. ALFRED: No doubt. Beautiful-and meaningless! ( with a gesture of disgust). Throw them away; I won't touch them. SARAH: But, Alfred, you need them, you know. ALFRED: Not I. SARAH: Have you forgotten so soon what we planned awhile ago? ALFRED: It was your plan, not mine. SARAH: You will do it, Alfred. ALFRED ( vehemently, half rising) : Oh, Sarah, dare you suggest such a thing? (Dropping back into his chair, quietly): It would be to crush the lily and destroy what few tatters of self-respect I have left. SARAH ( drawing closer) : Did you hear her threat of suicide? ALFRED: I did. SARAH ( standing erect, seeming to tower over him) : Do you realize what that means? It means that she is giving her life for Leonard Meredith when you might-ALFRED (glancing about as if seeking an avenue of escape) : Oh, Sarah-SARAH ( thrusting the letters at him) : You must do it! ALFRED ( drawing away) : You tempt me. SARAH: You must! ALFRED ( taking the letters) : You tempt me, and I am weak.

(He looks long at the packet of letters m his hand. Then, impulsively , he leans forward and buries his fac e in his arms. Sarah watches him silently. When he rises there is a mystic strangeness in his expression. He looks about as if waking from a dream.) SARAH ( in alarm) : Alfred, what's the matter ! ALFRED ( with a start) : Oh, is it you, Sarah? SARAH: Are you ill ? ALFRED: There are three of us in this room, Sarah. SARAH: Three? ALFRED (gazing straight before him): You, I, and another. SARAH: After all perhaps you'd better wait until another night.

THE

MESSENGER

ALFRED(gruffly) : Oh, you think I'm wandering, do you? My mind is as clear as yours and far more rational. (Slowly) : I tell you the ghost of Leonard Meredith is stalking through this room! SARAH: Alfred! (Alfred rises and walks down left where he stands as if talking to an inmsible person.) ALFRED: Mr. Meredith, there is an adventure before us tonight, is there not? SARAH: Not tonight, Alfred, you are in no condition-ALFRED ( at the door) : Yes, Sarah, tonight! You tempted me and I was weak. There is no withdrawing now. Armed with these letters, I shall make ready for my little adventure. Good night. (He opens the door.) SARAH: Alfred, not tonight!

(Armistead, his hands upraised before him, his eyes fixed on the darkness of the hallway, leaves the room like a s.leepwalker.) ALFRED ( in the hallway) : I am coming, Leonard Meredith; I am coming! SARAH (at the door): Alfred! Alfred! (After a moment she closes the door and stands with her back against it. Presently she crosses the room, walking slowly, and ratses the window shade. She turns and starts back across the room.) SARAH: God forgive me! I did it to save his life and reason. ( She pulls the ,lamp cord, plunging the room into darkness.) If it only isn't too late! (She is heard fumbling with the latch; a door slams, and silence reigns.) (The curtain is lowered to denote the lapse of several hours.)

( When the curtain rises for the second time, the room is still in darkness, but the moon shines brilliantly outside. After a few moments, a dark figure appears silhouetted against the window curtains. The window is open, and the figure quietly enters the room. Silence follows; then a soft impact as of someone stumbling against f1trniture; a muttered oath. A not her short silence; then a door opens, ,and the lamp is lighted. Mrs. Meredith wearing a kimono over her nightgown stands by the bedroom door. It was she who pulled the lampcord. Near the window stands Alfred Armistead greatly changed. His beard is gone; his hair is tous,led;

REINCARNATION

he wears rough clothing. Eloise Meredith's appearance indicates that she has not slept. Upon perceiving tlie stranger, she suppresses a scream.) ALFRED: Hush ! ELOISE: What do you want? ALFRED: I want you, Eloise. ELOISE: Who are you that calls me Eloise ? ALFRED: I am your husband. ELOISE: No, you are not. Go away! ALFRED: I am Leonard Meredith. Ewsrn ( wonderingly taking a step closer) : You call yourself Leonard Meredith? ALFRED: I am Leonard Meredith. ELOISE: No, you are not he. I do not know you. ALFRED( approaching her) : I am your husband. Can't you trust me, Eloise? I have come back as I promised. He that was lost is found ! He that was dead is living ! Cannot you believe? ELOISE (gazing f ascinatedly at him,) : Leonard ! ALFRED: I am he. ELOISE: I want to believe, but-ALFRED: Yes ? ELOISE: Give me a sign. Then I shall be certain. ALFRED: What sign shall I give you? Shall I remind you of a midnight stroll along Irving Beach-a midnight stroll that you and I alone knew of? Have you forgotten? ELOISE: No, no, Leonard, but it's so hard to believe that it 1s you that have returned so soon. ALFRED: I promised. Have you forgotten that? ELOISE: I remember each blessed vow. ALFRED: Have you forgotten a letter-written by me the first time we parted-after our wedding. I was gone only a week, but how long it seemed ! ELOISE: Ah, that precious letter! It lies in my trunk there. ALFRED: And you remember it? ELOISE: Each precious word ! ALFRED: You recall how it ran: "Should you grow hungry for my love, as I for yours, then in the evening when the wind is still,

THE MESSENGER

you shall hear me speaking, whispering to you from the moon, and the stars, from the soft green grass, and the sighing boughs." BoTH (reciiting together) : And: "In all that is beautiful, all that is lovely, all that is pure and undefiled, I seem to see you, Eloise, waiting, waiting for me, and I long to return to--" ELOISE (interrupting) : Listen! ALFRED ( alarmed) : What? ELOISE: They have ceased to laugh. ALFRED: Who have ceased to laugh? ELOISE: The crags yonder. They have ceased their jeering forever. ALFRED: Ah ... ELOISE ( rushing to the window and shakmg her fist) : Ha ! ha! I mock you ! He that was dead is living! (Turning) : Leonard ! ALFRED: You believe ? ELOISE ( approaching him) : Ah, yes, I trust you know-I trust you. Forgive me for doubting. ALFRED: Ah, dear, there is nothing to forgive. How could you have known? (He becomes very pale and turns away.) ELOISE: Leonard ! What is it? ALFRED( in anguish) : Eloise ! Eloise ! Eloise ! I cannot. ELOISE: What, dear ? ALFRED ( turning toward her, his face in his hands) : It was a terrible dream. I dreamed that I climbed another man's garden wall and plucked a lily because its leaves were white and pure. But when I breathed upon it, the petals shriveled, and the lily hung withered on its stem. ELOISE: The lily withered? That must have made you sad. ALFRED: For a while it did, but then I awoke and found it was only a dream, dear. ELOISE ( drawing him to her) : Ah, yes, forget all dreams but one eternal. For while the earth lives, we shall live, dear, and joy of while the world lasts, we .shall not be parted. We shall live and love forever. ALFRED ( taking her in hi,s arms) : I shall banish all phantoms from my mind, Eloise, for there is no robbery when the robber and the robbed are one. (CURTAIN)

"A TINKLING OF THE CAMEL-BELLS" HARRY

LYLES,

'27

Peace and comfort were the thoughts uppermost in the mind of the artist who designed the room . Peace-in the harmonious blendings of soft colors in the furniture and draperies. Comfort-in the deep low divans and the brightly burning grate-fires. But there was no peace in the mind of David as he slouched in one of the divans, and gazed with a frown into the fire. The soft bronzes and reds of the room, planned so carefully that one's mind might be at rest there-that one might dream there-did not ease the soul of David. For he had an unpleasant task to perform, and he waited until he had gained courage to accomplish that task. And Lyda sensed that something unusual was about to happen. Sensed that some deep-rooted force was at work within him, so she, too, waited calmly betraying none of the restlessness she felt, until he should tell her. Fire-light danced carelessly over the scene. Touching with a soft glow the exotic beauty of Lyda-dressed in a gown of old gold that matched the soft gold of her skin-her sleek black hair parted in the center and drawn to a simple knot behind, bound with a single band of gold-large grey eyes-tinted red lips-and long, slender jade ear-rings. Fire-light cast into dark lines the frown on the clean moulded features of the man. Emphasized the despondent slouch of the wellmade figure, dressed in conventional black and white. He straightened a trifle. For the first time in an hour the silence of the room was broken. "Lyda, this can't go on." The woman gazed at him curiously. "Tired or bored, already, David?" "You don't understand me. I-I mean that our relations must not continue," he replied. Lyda stiffened . "So-it has happened," she said softly. "Yes . . . we have sinned . . . sinned horribly against God's laws . . . everything that is holy . . . and the girl I am about , to 'marry." Lyda dropped her head against the back of her chair and raised one slender hand to her forehead. Silence hung heavily once more,

THE

MESSENGER

while the clock pounded out minutes with startling loudness. When she finally spoke, it was in a strained, low voice. "You have never told me that you intended to marry, David." "I am to marry Anna May Coverling within the month," he replied. "Oh, Lyda . . . don't think that this doesn't hurt . I feel like a cad. . . . You have meant so much to me--" "Then why, David, do you wish to stop . . . now?" "I can't let you give yourself to me so completely . . . so absolutely. . . . I feel as though I am desecrating a temple ... and then there is your husband." His eyes met hers for the first time ... misery in their depths. He continued in a hoarse voice. "It isn't fair to you . . . or to him." "Martin means nothing to me. . . . Oh, you know the story the other woman. He has given me nothing . . . never Now his jealousy won't allow him to give me a divorce love .... . . . and I love you, David." The man arose and strode nervously . . . impatiently . . . around the floor. He stopped in front of the grate. The firelight threw a huge, black, silhouette of him across the room. Finally he turned to her, and exclaimed passionately, "That's just it ... but what have we gained, Lyda, except a sense of outraged morals . . . a tormenting conscience . . . a veritable Hell of Conscience." "Do you wish to know what I have gained, David?" she asked in her calm, low voice. "I have gained a love that has given to me understanding . . . understanding of Life . . . of Music . . . has shown to me the beauty of Art . . . of God. Love-that in the commonplace-the beauty in ugliness. Love-that has taught me how to give. Because of your love I have become more of an artist. . . . I feel as an artist feels . . . I have found my own soul . . . I have gained a sense of values . . . I have lived more fully, more intensely. If you go now, David, I shall not lose these things . . . no, I can never lose that which I have gained through our love. I shall lose only you." The man stirred uncomfortably in his seat. "I know, Lyda, it has been wonderful. But there are two roads now-one leading to temporary happiness, but with misery and suffering at its end. Then sure, the the other road-the safe one-not so happy perhaps-but road that Conscience dictates." "Conscience," she spoke as if thinking aloud, "conscience, a thing conventionalized, patterned by laws, and rules of conduct-handed

"A TINKLING

OF THE

CAMEL-BELLS"

out to us on a platter with a set of directions-the result of an environment of 'Thou shahs' and 'Thou shalt nots.' Conscience cannot bind or limit love to one little circle . . . neither can the cut-anddried speech of a minister consecrate love-nor all the laws of man govern love . . . they may legalize it, according to man's ideas. Love-is the strongest emotion within us and it cannot be controlled by laws. Love-is the divine expression of the only divine thing in man-his soul. Love-comes from God, and knows only God's laws.'' David rose again from his chair. He avoided her eyes as he picked up his hat and coat from a table. Pausing, as if unable to make up his mind, he remarked, "You may be right, Lyda, but the rules are there. We must obey them. There is no choice." He did not see the slight smile on her face, nor catch the slightest inflection of her voice when she answered, "Yes, David, we must obey the rules.'' As he hesitated, he saw a leather-bound volume on a divan, one that he had never noticed before. "Something you have been reading?" he asked. "Yes," she replied, "a philosophic poem by a Persian poet.'' "And, is it interesting?" "Very interesting-to me," she turned rapidly to the middle of the book and pointed to two marked passages, "especially these two stanzas.'' David read: "Do what thy manhood bids thee do, from none but self expect applause; He noblest lives and noblest dies who makes and keeps his self-made laws. "All other life is living death, a world where none but Phantoms dwell, A breath, a wind, a sound, a voice, a tinkling of the camel-bells." David strode from the home of Lyda into a storm. Unconscious of the pouring rain, preoccupied with his thoughts, he walked slowly through the streets. The peace of the room, the comfort, and the golden beauty of Lyda he could not drive from his mind. She had given him everything, he reflected, and was happy in the giving. Lyda would always fill a place no other woman could fill. But-it

THE

MESSENGER

and then her words came back to him : "Love . . . was best knows only God's laws . . . all other life is living death-a wind -a voice-a tinkling of the camel-bells."

Firelight danced carelessly through a bronze and red room, and threw golden shadows over the soft beauty of Lyda as she waited . . . waited. The clock had pounded out an eternity of minutes since . . . a telephone broke, with a startling clearness, the stilla man's voice, strained, of ness of the room. She answered-and unnatural hoarseness came over the wire to her. She smiled as he blurted out the words, "Lyda . . . I can't . . . I can't . . . I'm coming back to you."

FIRST LOVE She asked me when I began to love her. "The birds sing when the flowers open, " was my reply. I asked her when she began to love me. "The flowers open when the birds sing," was her's.

-Poon

Kant Mok.

CROSSING They say yonder is the sweet river, and I am standing by the water of bitterness, with the market-dusts heavy upon my coat. The hurried cranes are fanning their homesick wings, afraid of looking back at the closing-nigh shadows. The shepherd's bugle for the scattering cattle is blowing, breaking the evening silence, and after that, a drearier silence. I hear through that drearier silence a clear call from the yonder shore: "From you I will take away that dusty coat. " give me a seat in your boat, or a little corner if it is too Ferry-man, crowded, for I am languid with the market-dusts upon my coat. Have your toll if you must, but do not take all that I have. I must keep something for the one on the yonder shore.

-Poon

Kant Mok.

IMITATIONS MILDRED

ANDERSON,

'28

It was quarter to five. In a few minutes the day would be over, and one could go back to a dingy back room at Mrs. Mason's and wait for another day to start. All days were alike, except Sundays. They started at seven when the shrill sound from an alarm clock in the next room was changed into a hoarse buzzing as if its owner had suddenly thrust it beneath the bed-clothes. Funny things, alarm clocks, they had one duty to perform and they did it, but one always hated them for it. But it wouldn't always be that way, waking up at seven every morning and going down to a Ten Cent Store to stand behind a counter where they sold jewelry, silly glass stones made into rings and pins. They glistened when the sun shone on them as if they were trying to pretend they were the real article and not just imitations, but when the sun was around the other side, they gave up in despair, and lay there ugly and glaring. But it wouldn't always be like that, especially if one's name was Anita O'Conner and had a career, or rather if one were contemplating a career. Maisie, over at the hooks and eyes, didn't seem to mind much though. She thought one silly if one couldn't stand Mr. Colebrooke with his silly line about the "sixty-five branch stores, Miss O'Conner, and a grand opportunity for a man with a little ambition who wants to succeed." She'd give a gold-plated hair pin if Mr. Colebrooke would ask her out to lunch, but Nita was so funny, and Maisie passed a very crimson lip-stick over a very crimson mouth and chewed a little nervously on a wad of chewing gum. But Maisie didn't understand, probably never heard of having a career and being a dancer and having one's name in bright light across an inky black sky. Maisie couldn't see beyond five-thirty and a movie and having a date with somebody that was a hot number and danced like a whiz. For Maisie was very frilled and blond and adored the way Mr. Colebrooke combed his hair. Back in Carsonville it had seemed awfully easy just to go up to the big city one bright day and let the career happen. Anita had danced in the Odd Fellows' Pageant and Mr. Jim Gore himself had said she had Ziegfield's stars beat all hollow, and Mr. Jim went to New York every year and knew what he was talking about. So Anita had packed her grip and bought a ticket with the .ten dollars Uncle Joe had given her for a birthday present. She'd started out all pepped up about it, but the managers at the theatres didn't see it that way, .ind they had never heard of Mr. Jim Gore.

THE

MESSENGER

And so the money had run out after a day or so, and there wasn't any opportunity open anywhere except a sign in the Ten Cent Store window that said "Clerk Wanted." It had hurt Anita's pride a lot to go up and ask for the job, but it hurt even more not to know where her next meal was coming from, especially when she hadn't eaten since yesterday at noon. For when it comes right down to it, materialism can always conquer idealism, and he who hesitates is lost. And so Anita had come to work at the Ten Cent Store next to Maisie with the "Hooks and Eyes" and Mr. Colebrooke with his everlasting pacing up-and-down, for floor-walkers will be floor walkers. "Wake up, 'Nita, customer talking to you," Maisie called from Hooks and Eyes. "Oh," said Anita, "I beg your pardon." The customer smiled. "You know," she said, "I'm invited to a costume party tonight, and I think I'll be a gypsy." She was trying on countless bracelets and beads. "I haven't even made the dress yet, but I don't guess it'll take long." "No," said 'Nita, "because the jewelry'll set off the costume. Just sew up two seams and there you are!" Anita liked the customer. She put some beads around her own neck and hung a long brass earring in each of her ears. "You'd make a lovely gypsy," said the customer. She paid for the jewelry and was gone. Five-thirty. A little bell jangled in the rear of the store, and Mr. Colebrooke began shutting the doors. Maisie drew out her compact and rouged her lips again. "Oh," said Anita. She had picked up a package and opened it. It contained cambric and satine and cheese-cloth; it was what was going to be the customer's costume and she'd left it behind her. "Now she can't go to the party," said Anita. "Who can't?" asked Maisie. "The lady. She was going to be a gypsy, and she's left her goods for the dress." "That's her hard luck," said Maisie, but Anita didn't hear her. She was thinking very fast and very hard. "Come on. Ready?" said Maisie. "You go on. I'll meet you at the corner." Maisie said "0. K." and hurried on. The lady wouldn't need the costume, and she could buy herself some jewelry. Anita drew fifty cents from her pocket and wrapped

IMITATIONS

it in a piece of paper. On the outside she wrote, "To pay for the jewelry. Thanks." She put on her coat and pulled her hat down over one eye. She felt very happy. The career had suddenly become almost real.

"Bo" Wagner pranced up and down his tiny office in sheer desperation. Here it was opening night for his "Merry Widow Cafe" and that temperamental Senorita down with the mumps. She was the drawing card; promised her a lot of jack to dance at the opening, and look what happened. Just like a Dago. Of all the tempera mental things to do. Go and get the mumps at a time like this. Not a soul in sight that could break their contract to come and dance for him. He'd telephoned high and low. A timid knock sounded at the door. "Come in," he yelled. viously very tearful.

She came, very tall and slender and ob-

"What the--" "Bo" Wagner stared. Another Dago, decked out like a gypsy or something and crying to beat the band. "Oh," she sobbed. "It ees too sad." "Out with it," said "Bo." "What's the matter. If you were in the fix I'm in you'd have something to cry about." But the sobbing did not cease. "For heaven's sake, kid, shut up, or I'll bust out cryin' myself. Tell me what's the matter. Come on now, be a good egg." "It ees ver' sad," said the sobs. "Oh, ees it?" said "Bo." "Yis," said the sobs. "I'll tell you." "Atta kid," said "Bo." "I ees a wanderin' geepsy. We wander all over ze worl', but my tribe, he ees gon' and le£' me, and I haf no money, no nuffin. We wander to-gether till we get here and then they leaf me by mistake." "Maybe they'll come back," suggested "Bo" hopefully. "No," said the gypsy that had wandered. "There was a boat. I was asleep on ze bank, and wen I woke they was gon' and the leetle boat with bees smoke was out there meeting ze sun." The sobs began afresh. "That's tough," said "Bo." "But what does that make me?" And he told her the very sad story of a Senorita who had gotten the mumps on opening night.

THE

MESSENGER

"I know," said the gypsy. "I dance tonight for opening. I dance a sad dance. I wander ze whole worl' over and my tribe haf gone to sea. I dance until they see the leetle white boat with hees smoke kissing ze sunset." Her voice began to quiver a little. "All right," said "Bo," "let's see you step." And she did. She hummed a little song as she danced and the sunlight fell on her glass beads until they looked like the real article instead of just an imitation. And "Bo" Wagner thanked his lucky stars that the boat had left her on opening night. "My name ees Vendetta," she said when she had finished. "It will look nice on a sign." "Be back at six," said "Bo" and Vendetta went out toward the street. "Bo" was already calling Jumpy the sign painter to come and fix a sign to stick out front.

Anita had about decided that the public liked being fooled. Each night for a week she danced at the "Merry Widow." The people who came told others about her and more people came and "Bo" was very pleased, until Saturday night. There was a large crowd. The spotlight fell on Anita's dress as she swerved about the floor. There were muttered "Ahs" of pleasure from the spectators. Anita circled, she drew a little dagger from her belt and pretended to stab herself. Swooped and pirouetted and circled again and perched on the tip of her toes she ended the dance. She paused for breath and looked around. What she saw at the nearest table made her gasp. There sat Maisie with Mr. Colebrooke, and Mr. Colebroke was in the state known as "high." She attempted to hurry off, but it was too late. Mr. Colebrooke had grabbed her dress. "Oh," he shrieked, "Djever see such a thing. Lil' 'Nita all dressed up like a--" "Hush!" said Anita, but it was too late. Everybody had heard. Mr. Colebrooke continued. "Le£' my lil' old Ten Cent Store for a joint like this." He drew out his handkerchief and began to weep. "Bo" came up. The people were becoming angry. They had been tricked, fooled. She was an imposter; the signs said she was a real gypsy and she was just an imitation. Anita wanted to run away, but there was too big a crowd. "Bo" got up on a little table to quiet the customers.

IMITATIONS

"We have all been fooled," he said, "but it ends right here. Tomorrow the Senorita will be well enough to appear. You have heard of her, perhaps?" They had. She was real. Anita tried to move off, but Maisie held her. "Don't mind that, kid," she said. "Remember the lady that left the package that evening? Well, she came back next morning looking for you. She's Janet Tyler, kid, the artist, and she wants you to pose for a picture."

"Bo" Wagner was looking at a painting called the Gypsy Dancer. He surveyed it a long while and then said, "You called yourself Vendetta when you danced for me that day and told me that bunk about the lost tribe. Vendetta, they say, it means revenge, and you certainly got it, old girl, revenge against a career."

"WHIP-POOR-WILL!" Just at moth-hour of the day, When nocturnal insects play, Whistling calls oft break the stillClearly pealing, "Whip-poor-Will!" Wide-mouthed birds of somber brown Flit from limb to limb or ground, Catching moths, while now and then rings down the glen. "Whip-poor-Will!" Just a plaintive "Whip-poor-Will!" But how sorrowful and shrill Sounds this song of evening shades As it echoes through the glades. Strange must be the life they IiveJ udging from the call they give; Many times I wonder why Birds could give so weird a cry. Bird of shadows and the night, Shy, and quick to take afright, Oft-times heard in glen or hillHere's to thee, lone Whip-poor-Will.

-J.

W. Kincheloe, Jr.

THE MESSENGER RICHMOND

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W. E. SLAUGHTER, Editor-in-Chief JAMES H. GORDON, Business Manager WELLFORD TAYLOR, Asst. Bus. Mgr. M. S. SHOCKLEY, Assistant Editor REGINALD TATE, Asst. Bus. Mgr. H. G. KINCHELOE, Exchange Editor LLOYD CASTER, Staff Artist

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LA CULTURE A lady said recently, "Mrs. H. is a very cultured woman, isn't she?" "No," replied the lady questioned, "I do not call her cultured. Now, there is a vast difference between the I call her traveled." two, as we see at once. We ordinarily think of people who have traveled a great deal as being cultured. It seems strange that they could miss it, and yet, often they do. If men and women who have had the advantages of the great art and music centers of the world cannot acquire culture, is it remarkable that people who have very few advantages should lack it? But of ten those who have the fewest advantages have the most culture because they are alive to their opportunities. Perhaps the little lady who sits in her cottage and pours you tea from her blue willow tea pot, and talks about Coleridge has more culture than the lady who has traveled the world over. We use the term, "culture," nonchalantly; we seldom stop to think of its meaning. We think only of something illusive, highly valuable ( at least some think of it as valuable). We never really think of it as something which is within the reach of practically every one if he or she will only take the trouble and the time to acquire it, for it takes time and effort. It is absurd, however, for someone to say, "Now, I am going out and get cultured!" and then proceed to dash madly around for about a week hearing a good concert, reading a good book, seeing a good play. At the end of the week he relapses into jazz and third rate magazines with a sigh of relief and blissfully forgets all his high ambitions. Now culture can never be attained in any such way. It is a gradual process by which we come to have an appreciation, an evaluation of the best, the most worthwhile, and to really enjoy it. To be cultured doesn't mean to

EDITORIAL

be highbrow either. One can enjoy dancing to Jazz, and at the same time love Chopin. Some people begin acquiring culture from earliest childhood through their environment. To them culture is a part of their character. It is a certain "savoir faire," a "savoir vivre." At the time of Louis XV Voltaire called the people of France the "whipped cream of Europe" because they possessed this very "savoir vivre."

If we admire those who are more "sensible," to use a French term, to the refinements of life, why shouldn't we make a steady effort to imitate them, and to acquire refinement of taste for ourselves? We all immediately mark the man who speaks beautiful English. We say he is cultured. And yet, some of us care little enough about using the correct word which makes for beauty on account of its correctness. Sometimes we think that at college we have time only to scramble through the required work, and then go to a rally. We have four years given us in which to obtain the thing which is the greatest factor in making people charming . We can all take time to note the beauty of style of a book; to listen to well played music; or to enjoy the charming illustrations in a fairy tale book. The really nice thing about the pursuit of culture is that no one is making us do it. But we know that we shall get a great deal more pleasure from life, and that we shall mean far more to others if we J. MAcC. develop our appreciation to the fullest.

SHORT STORY CONTEST THE MESSENGERannounces a Short Story Contest, open to all students of the University of Richmond, members of the Writers' Club and Sigma Upsilon excepted. Stories must not exceed in length 3500 words, and may be written in any style and upon any subject. All contributions must be mailed or handed to either of the editors by March 1, 1927. A nom de plume must be used on the manuscript, which must be accompanied by a sealed envelope containing the name of the story and the author. Judges will be selected from the faculty of the University and prizes to the winners will be announced later. The winning stories will be published in the April number of THE MESSENGER.

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