THE PASSING OF THE ANCIENT PHILOSOPHER (Sketch) Catherine Branch
LOTUS Buns (Short Story) • Margaret Lowe
SUNSET ON THE MOUNTAIN (Poem) H. Haddon Dudley
WHICH? (Sketch) • John Hinchliff
THE GRIM LOVER (Short Story)
WILD FLOWER (Poem)
Helen Covey
J. W. Kincheloe
THE SLUGGISH STREAM (Short Story) .
BOOK REVIEWS
EDITORIAL Corinne Morecock
$2.00 THE COLLEGE YEAR 3 5 CENTS A COPY
THE MESSENGER is published every month from November to June inelusive 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 Richmond, Virginia. Copyright 1927, by Wellford Taylor.
J3carjfoolisb
MILDRED ANDERSON
7f T was all a mistake-really it was, but she could never make Jerry :lJ understand why. She could never really and truly talk to Jerry seriously, and tell him the deepest down silly reasons for thinking they had made a mistake. He would call her "Dear Foolish," and smile at her very benignly. She couldn't walk right up to him and say, "Listen, Jerry, I'm going to leave you because-well," and that was the trouble. Jerry would say, "Because~-" and smile very kindly, and there she would stand until he would say, "Dear Foolish" again, and kiss her. He couldn't understand-because he had never loved anyone so very much-Jerry hadn't. He could pretend he had by saying sweet, beautiful things at the right moment, and finding lovely unusual presents for birthdays and anniversaries. But that wasn't love-indeed no ! Love was sacrifice, and Jerry could never understand.
Jinny sat very still in the blue living room, where splinters of golden sunlight sought out the little tucked away treasures that she loved so very much. The tiny marble horse that Jerry had found in Florence-Florence on a damp and chilly day when they had pretended that they were Tito and the silly little Tessa, and Paolo and Francesca and finally the di Medici. Pretending-and they had found the little horse and bought it from a wizened antique dealer because it smiled with its eyes. But Jerry-dear Jerry with his silly fancies and whimsical turns of mind would never understand. He could not feature himself or anyone else outside the calm, pleasant, wellplanned life that he had always known. He wouldn't understand how one could really and honestly love stuffy garrets and "first nights" in dingy little theatres. He didn't know how another past life could keep bobbing up and haunting one, and how one could care for people-all sor.ts of people, and be interested in the sorry, hurt places in their lives. She knew he didn't. Why, when he read Dickens aloud to her sometimes, the same scenes of poverty that made Jinny's shoulders ache and her eyes burn did not disturb him at all. She wanted to shout out at him-scream out at him that he was hurting a part of her, and he read on, the smug, well-fed Jerry as if he were saying "Good morning" to some passer-by. "Good morning" when the daffodils were laughing in the April sunshine. "Good morning" with lilacs bending over stone walls. "Good morn-
ing" with chubby red-cheeked children clattering off to school, dashing down neat little walks from well laundered doorways.
And so Jimmy lifted the pen from the fat ink-well-nice ink-well, bronze, with figures of saints on it going to a festival-going-that was it, leaving something, but never getting anywhere-going round and round an ink-well and they thought they were going to a festival. Dear, silly people, don't you know you aren't getting anywheregoing round and round. Dear, silly people-going round and round!
That was it. She couldn't just say to Jerry, "Listen, love-let's get away. Let's drop it all; let's give up a perfectly good bonding business and kite off. Let's don't get staid and old and stupidgoing round and round."
And so she dipped the pen in the fat ink-well again and started off-to tell Jerry that she couldn't stay there any longer; that he shouldn't have expected to pick up the daughter of an actor and actress-not a real actor and actress, at that, only "Wandering Stock Company" ones-and make a perfectly splendid, stay-at-homewhere-I-put-you wife out of her. Even the very finest sort of sow's ears never turn out to be very good silk purses; not even the very finest. And she told him that she really did love him-and this was the sacrificing part of love-that it was beautiful because it meant giving up things she cared for very much.
She pulled her smart, felt hat over one eye and pulled on her gloves and walked out. Calmly-just like that-as if she were saying, "Come again" and "Glad to have met you" to ladies who dropped in for tea. As if she were leaving a card, "Be back at four" like the one on the doctor's door-when really she was going away-across the street-now-calmly.
That was all that she remembered except a blast like a bugle call in one of Scott's martial songs. Trumpets and bugles-and crowdswanting very much to be left alone-quite alone-and wanting to see Jerry most of all.
When she "awoke," she was "Home again, home again, jiggity, jig" like the little pig or somebody in the nursery rhyme. Home again, with Jerry asking over and over, "Why doesn't she come to?" and a stiff, starched nurse murmuring words like, "fractures; bones; automobile; accident" and shaking down a silver and white thermometer in the sunshine-nice golden sunshine finding little hidden treasures all around the room-little tiny sunbeams going all sorts of places, as Alice did after she drank the liquid from the magic bottle.
Nice sunshine; her own voice saying, "Howdy, Jerry"-and what did Jerry say?
"Loveliest lady, I didn't know we were 'going round and round' until you got delirious and told me. 'A stitch in time saves nine,' but it took twelve to bring you back to me. Twelve and a foolish little Ford, painted up with mottoes about walking carefully was the cause of it."
"But the note--"
"Dear Foolish; don't worry. Out we go. Not round and round. Let's be gypsies and wander! 'Follow the Romany pateran--'"
And little splintered sunbeams finding hidden treasures all around the room.
Ode to a Pipe
The long day is over; The toil, the endeavor, the pain Of the goal I did not attain Taunts me. Memory again, Like a disappointed lover, Wanders in fields melancholic 'Til all of which life is symbolic Vanishes as the midday rain.
In my loneliness, I turn To that faithful companion Who, through days of long duration, Despite the time or pccasion, Ministers to me. I learn The joys of peaceful meditation, As he outpours his soul In silent conversation.
As his blue breath hovers About me, fragrant as ruby wine, The cares of the past are behind, The prize of the future is mine; With the heart of a flaming volcano And the lips of a laughing lass, My sadness with mirth he covers, And grants me whatever I ask.
-Joseph E. Nettles.
mtsconttnt
H. G. KINCHELOE
ffl HERE is a bustle and stir in the port of Antioch. Simon the \:I merchant, of the house of Mohar, is departing on a voyage to Rome. Simon is just returned from a wondrous successful trading trip in the East, and he celebrates his success with a voyage to the great capital. Black, sweating Ethiopians with heavy packs on their broad, brutal, heavy-muscled backs, move busily to and from the ship, carrying stores and food for the voyage. Rough, upkempt, swarthy sailors make final preparations for the departure. Dirty-looking dogs sneak here and there, sniffing at piled up packs on the wharves, till they run yelping and with tail between legs from the vicious kicks of one of the brutish-looking slaves. Little children chase up and down the waterfront in play, or stand beside their mothers and watch the busy slaves and sailors. Suddenly there is a hurried movement of bodies, a snatching of little gamins into mothers' arms, a hasty clearing of the street. Make way! Make way! Simon, the greatest merchant of Antioch, is coming! Clear the streets! Simon's train approaches!
Down the street there comes a magnificent procession. Champing stallions snort, and pull at tightened reins that hold them stubbornly in check. Black horses, guided by slaves as jet-black as their steeds, head the procession. In the midst of the train rides the great Simon himself. His horse is snowy white, a pure Arabian, a gift from an Eastern prince. Simon sits astride him, an elegant figure in his costly raiment of beautiful silks and cloth of shining gold. Simon is a vain, a pompous man. Success has filled him with a conceit that pervades his whole being. He revels in the glory of his power and the extent of his possessions. He will show his power to the Romans, and he will bask in their praise and adoration as he rides through the streets of the greatest city in the world. Ah, that is what he loves-the admiring gazes of the crowd, the gasps of astonishment at the splendor of his retinue. Yes, that is a joy to be coveted by anyone.
The sun shone brightly on a wharf in Antioch, of Syria. In the pleasing warmth of the morning rays a lame beggar sat. And as he sat he muttered to himself: "How pleasant life would be if I were rich. But God must have forgotten me when he was distributing good fortune in the world. I was born in misery, never will my ill-
fortune leave me. Why, even today it is that Simon of Antioch, known over the entire Mediterranean and in the East as well, is sailing for Rome. Would that I could live the life he lives. What a fine thing it would be if I possessed his riches. Then I would feel a joy in living in the world. Why, anyone would be happy with his wealth."
In the midst of the Mediterranean a ship rolls heavily in a storm . It sloughs and wallows in the trough of the giant waves that flail and lash it to and fro; it raises its prow to meet a wave and then is halfsubmerged as the heavy seas go rolling, dashing across its deck. The sailors are frantically trying to furl the sails, but now and then a man is snatched from their number by a wave that shivers the ship with the force of its striking. The pilot's seat is empty. The sea has taken for its own the body of the steersman, and the pilot-wheel, no longer gripped by a human hand, whirls first to the right and then to the left in the ever-tightening, ever-loosening grip of the roaring vortex of waters.
In the cabin below a dozen or more drunken men move helplessly amid a mass of shattered glass, of splintered wood, and food thrown here and there by the rolling of the ship. They stare with dull, stupor-laden eyes at the wreckage of the ship's magnificent banquet room. Wine has so taken away their senses that they seem not to understand the meaning of all this. Still they sit, looking-by instinct clutching at some stationary object as the ship lurches back and forth.
The black storm cloud rolls over the ship and shuts it in in darkness. The thunder booms and crashes, the lightning spits out its forked tongues of venom. Suddenly there is a glaring, blinding flash, a terrific roar of thunder. A spar, splintered by the bolt, crashes to the deck of the ship, and the yells and cries of frightened men rise above the noise of the rolling angry waves. A wave strikes the side of the ship and turns it half-over. It fills quickly, and in a moment only a few sticks of broken driftwood toss back and forth on the wave-crests to mark the spot where a ship rode but a little while ago.
* * * * * * *
On a dock in Antioch, of Syria, a lame beggar sat, gaining the warmth of a morning sun. And as he sat he muttered to himself : "Now, that merchant Simon, if only I had his money, in truth I could enjoy life. Anyone would be happy with his wealth."
~tit
of 11\u~t
0. A. LUNDIN, JR
.. MOW, Naako, it is your turn to tell us a story." ;!;'I Naako knocked the ash from his cigarette with a slim, white finger.
"What makes you think I can tell a story?" he said in a soft voice.
"You can certainly recall some of your experiences of Japan, some episode of your youth."
Naako gazed into the broad fireplace a long time before replying. Finally, with a deep sigh, he said:
"Yes, I will tell you a true story of my youth. ·when you have heard, you will understand why I came to this country and never returned to my home. I came here to forget, but for me, there is no forgetting.
"While a student in the University in Tokio, I made the acquaintance of a man of about myown age. His name was Matsuri. I soon discovered that Matsuri possessed the keenest mind of any man in college. In the laboratories he was a positive genius, having made several important discoveries.
"I, myself, was engaged in some secret research work along the lines of the old alchemists, of whom I had read. Of course I was aware of the derision with which modern scientists treated such ideas, but with the enthusiasm of youth, immortal youth, I hoped to conquer the unknown. I made repeated experiments, and tried everything that had ever been tried, when one day I was surprised in my laboratory by Matsuri, from whom I had kept my work secret.
"His keen eyes detected at once what I was doing, but instead of ridiculing me, he asked many questions and showed such an interest in my work, that I, in the rush of my eagerness, told him of all that I had done. By his superior knowledge he pointed out the fallacies in my ideas, and then to my surprise, he said :
" 'I have had in mind a method by which it may be possible to transmute the baser metals into gold,' and thereupon he began to explain it to me. Briefly, his plan was to gassify the metal and then pass an extremely high voltage through the vapor. He believed that the high tension current would break down the structure of the atom, that is, change it from an atom of one element to an atom of another.
THE MESSENGER
"As he told it to me step by step, I was seized with a new fire, a desire to begin work at once. But he said:
"'We must do our work with the utmost secrecy. If we succeed, we shall have the world at our feet, and our lives will be in danger.'
"We then began work on our apparatus. \Ve needed a source of intense heat, of temperature high enough to turn molten metal into gas. We built an air-tight compartment, to which we connected a pump, by which we could create an extremely high vacuum. Into this chamber, which was about the size of a casket, we introduced the electrodes of an electric furnace. These electrodes were also to be the terminals of our spark gap.
"Of course, this work took an enormous amount of time. \Ve could not absent ourselves from the rest of the students for very long intervals, and we found as we proceeded with our experiments that there were many details that had to be planned with great care.
"Shortly before we had completed our vacuum chamber, as we called it, we had occasion to visit the home of one of our professors, in regard to some of our work. While there we saw his daughter, and with me it was a case of love at first sight. For several days I dreamed of her, and bewailed the strict customs of our people, which kept the young women of rank from contact with young men. But love will find a way, and I managed to see her occasionally. My suit progressed, and as I was of a high family, I finally decided to ask my professor for his daughter.
"I had kept my love a secret ; I guarded it more carefully than our work, but in some way Matsuri discovered it. Immediately his manner toward me changed. He talked little and was always sullen and morose. He was jealous.
"Meanwhile, our apparatus was being rapidly completed. Our furnace and vacuum chamber were finished, and all that remained was the construction of the huge transformers necessary to produce the high voltage required.
"At last we were ready for our first trial. We filled the chamber with lead, which we had first purified, exhausted the air and turned on the current. We had no idea as to how long we should let it remain so, accordingly, after the lapse of twelve hours, we turned off the current, and allowing time for the furnace to cool, we opened the vacuum chamber.
"We found the lead unchanged.
"'We must try again,' said Matsuri, 'and leave the current on for a longer time.'
"The second trial was to be for twenty hours. In the meantime I decided to go to my professor, and ask for his daughter in marriage. Matsuri was there on the same errand. I shall not dwell on what followed. Matsuri was turned down; I was accepted.
"Overjoyed with my good fortune, I did not care whether our experiments were a success or not. Still, when the twenty hours were up I went to the laboratory with my partner. We opened the chamber. This time we found nothing but a pile of thick, grey dust. We had left the current on too long.
"My approaching marriage so filled my mind that I was for abandoning the experiment, but Matsuri would not hear of it. He argued that we should try a length of time between our other two trials. I agreed, and told him to arrange the details.
"The next afternoon, I was just about to go to the laboratory, when a message was brought to me from my professor. He wanted me at once.
"I was absolutely terrified when I saw his face.
" 'What has happened?' I asked
"'My daughter disappeared last night,' he said handing me a paper.
"Mechanically I took it and read:
"'You will find her in the vacuum chamber.
'M atsuri.' ·
"With a thrill of horror, I rushed to the laboratory. The dynamos were running, and the apparatus was set for a maximum flow of current. I opened the switches, and without waiting for the furnace to cool, I jerked back the lid of the chamber.
"Inside was a pile of dust "
DISILLUSIONMENT
Fall's a gipsy maiden With poppies in her hair; And she's singing a lilting song. She'll lure me from the high road To one away somewhere, And I'll follow blindly along. She'll tell me my fortune Flir a bit of marigold, y But when the sun is sinking in the sea, She'll leave me on a hill top I With a wind that's growing cold 114 And her mocking, youthful laughter haunting me.
CATHERINE BRANCH
11tltHEN the world was in its youth, and the rays of the sun were purely white, except for iridescent tints, not being yet mellowed into gold by age, there lived an ancient philosopher, a teacher of simple truths, and a man of great wisdom and love of beauty. He had always been ancient. No one then living could remember him other than as a man with flowing white hair, a dignity of spirit, and an expression of austerity produced by his limitless wisdom. And because he was a worshipper of the god Pan and a lover of beauty in life, his smile held youth. He had for disciples young men eager to hear, waiting to learn of the philosopher's wisdom.
It is a morning of clear sunlight and far-away blue skies-a day of fresh green fields and pastures with white sheep. Birds fly far overhead, making black silhouettes in space. They call out joyously to their friends who would rather listen to the lilting waters, as they flow through cool green woods, than soar in air. On the road in front of us, two white oxen walk slowly, drawing a cart piled high with ripe grain. Soft currents of air strike us as we make our way through patches of small white flowers. A morning of youth and of dreams.
But someone is speaking, a voice deeply musical, youthfully firm and confident As we draw nearer we see a man apparently old, standing on a slightly elevated plane of grass-covered ground. His hair is long and white. He wears white robes and sandals halfcovered by the grass at his feet. His face is curiously glorified by a radiance of kindliness and joy. It is the eyes which attract the attention immediately: they are of no particular color, but wonderfully luminous, with soft gray lights . Around him are youths with animated faces.
We stand silent for the philosopher is speaking: "And now, my sons and brothers, for I am no older than you in your youth, I will tell you the secret of my mortal life. I am of no age and of all ages. In my earliest youth I lived in the realms of the great god Pan. Him have I many times seen in the early morning sunshine, o-r at noon in the shade of large trees.
"But I had heard of the kingdoms of the earth. I entreated the great god to allow me to become a mortal on earth. He, thinking
of my youth-which is a far more beautiful thing in the realms of the great god-sent me to earth bearing the heart and spirit of immortal youth, but the physical appearance of an old man. As you see me now, so was I always on earth.
"Today I return to the realms of the great god. I go to take on a youthful body. My care shall be to watch over you. I would leave with you a very small part of my wisdom. Listen well, I bid you. Hold it well within your hearts.
"The greatest joy that can come into your lives will be a true appreciation of things beautiful-true appreciation, which comes only through a silent reverence for beauty. You of this world are too much given to trying to express your ideas on objects which demand your silence and thought. It is granted to the few to be in close enough contact with the great god to be able to make fitting tribute to the perfect harmony which is beauty.
"You must live in an age when men believe that exchange of ideas is a demand made justly on their fellowmen. This is in reality merely an exchange of words, a bartering of phrases which men attempt to polish in order to show their so-called culture. You accredit me with being a philosopher of great wisdom. I, too, believe in art exchange of ideas, but not a verbal exchange of meaningless exclamations supposed to be appreciative of beauty. Before an harmonious mass of the beautiful, there should exist a silence which is worshipful, a spiritual communion Stop and listen to beauty. Then will you find music in your hearts. Lie in the open fields at night and worship the stars! Walk by the road and greet the fields of grain and flowers with reverence! Wander through rest-giving forests, and let your wonder be one of gratitude! . . ."
But there is no longer a voice deeply musical. Only the youths still listen in silence to the thoughts of the ancient philospher. The man of immortal youth has returned to the realms of the great god.
ffl'HE city was flooded with lotus, exquisite pink buds and banks W of creamy white cups. They stood erect among their leaves, which were blue in the late summer night, gently whispering as they floated on the filmy waters of the Lake of a Thousand Springs. They stood alone in large earthenware jars, breeding places for mosquitoes, in the tiny courtyard of the Chen home. Mrs. Chen sat on the quaint stone bench, absorbing the cool August night air and the life-giving perfume of the lotus. Her whole body was expressive of intense weariness, but her face was full of content. Had she not been working for the master of the house, her much esteemed husband, and had he not, less than an hour ago, his pouchy body comfortably filled with food cooked by her own hands, praised the excellent seasoning of the rice stew?
The courtyard of the Chen home was a paradise in Mrs. Chen's eyes. Surrounded on three sides by single-storied buildings, it was shut in on the fourth by a smug mud brick wall, whose whitewash was cracked and peeling off in many places. Red geraniums climbed discontentedly out of their common clay pots, their tendrils tightly curled about the intricate lattice work placed above them, which partly hid the glaring, splotched wall. Only in Tsinan, the city of springs did the geraniums grow to such heights, and only for Mrs. Chen did they smile with strawberry red faces; for Mrs. Chen passionately loved them and sprinkled them tenderly every evening. The ground was hard and naked ; grass could not live during the scorching summer months. The bench upon which Mrs. Chen was sitting was opposite the geranium-flanked wall and close by the family well. This well was merely a hole dug several feet deep in the ground; for in the city of springs there was no need of the deep hard-dug wells so necessary in other cities.
Mrs. Chen sat heavily on the hard bench, her hands crossed neatly on her lap and her coarse blue cotton garment smoothed out beneath them. The bright starlight lighted up the distant end of the court, softening the harshness of the outlines, just as the artist smoothes away the hard edgings of the picture he loves. The kerosene lantern, hung above Mrs. Chen's head, intensified every detail of her appearance. Its dirty yellow light outlined boldly the many deep wrinkles of the weary face. ' One knew that these wrinkles were not those of age; for a single glance at the tiny tortured feet told of
THE MESSENGER
age-long hours of suffering. It glittered over the carefully oiled straight black hair, drawn tightly back from the high forehead and stabbed at the neck by a miniature silver dagger. Under its evil light the blackness of the quick eyes deepened and short abrupt shadows were cast by the stiff lashes. It left the nose and mouth obscure, but accentuated the determination of the slightly prominent chin.
Suddenly the flame of the light began to flicker fitfully, and Mrs. Chen arose quickly to turn down the wick. The light was a luxury. Mr. Chen had gone to a village to buy some new silks for his little shop, as he said, and would not be home until the next morning. Never would he have allowed such a waste of oil as to burn a light in the courtyard even on the blackest night. But Mrs. Chen was deathly afraid of the dark, and so she sat in the flickering light, thinking of h~r husband and their married life.
H ow well she remembered the stormy weeping of her marriage day. Even now the quick tears gathered in self-pity for that young bride she had been. She had been so young and so shy ! The first glance of her new never-before-seen-husband had terrified her as the yellow chicken is terrified by the glance of the hawk. She had hated him those first few hours, but later--. She drew a quick breath. How pleased she was when he praised her cooking ! How her heart beat when he glanced approvingly at her neatly garmented form ! How carefully she swept out the rooms with their scanty furnishings and dirt floors! Even now her heart sang in time with her brisk movements as she sewed up a new pair of shoes for his feet or chopped noisily at the tough beef.
After fifteen years (she had only been fifteen when she was taken in the flowery chair from the home of her father) their life had settled into complacent affection with not even a mother-in-law to ruffle it. How much she had been spared by the early death of her husband's mother she could only gather from the high, angry and odious epithets which reached her ears from the courtyards of her neighbors. That was sufficient to make her offer thanks each morning before the kitchen gods.
A sharp whine at her feet broke into her wandering thoughts, and she leaned over and picked up the scrawny Pekingese; she realized that it must be very late. Slowly she took down the lantern and walked toward the room on the right of the court, her still slender body swaying and erect like the lotus.
Early the next morning she was up, and set out for the canal, where the women of the neighborhood did their week's laundry. This morning there was no one else there; and quickly and silently she beat the wet garments on a flat rock with a short club, her kwaya carefully tucked up around her waist. Just as she was pounding the last piece one of her neighbors, a fat gossipy woman, the wife of a street peddlar, came bristling up.
"Ay, ya!" she said. "And so your old Chen is not satisfied with your face and your housekeeping ?"
Mrs. Chen flushed quickly, her sensitive nature touched. "vVhy, old meddler, do you say such things which the kitchen god himself knows are false ?"
A malicious grin overspread Chang Toa Syoa's greasy face. Evidently the fool did not know in what way the wind blew. All the better, for now she would have the pleasure of breaking the news. Keeping one eye fixed on her laundry and the other on Mrs. Chen's face, she said, "And so, you do not know what your honorable lord has been to the village for?' '
With a quick look of relief Mrs. Chen answered, "Surely, yes! He is gone to buy more and finer silks for his store, but what business is that of yours, old gossip?"
"Surely he has brought back silks, finer and more beautiful than ever before. But not in bags. Oh, no! This time they are the clothing of a small wife." With an evil chuckle she looked up with both eyes to note the effect on her neighbor, but the slender back, rapidly retreating, did not betray the hurt and anger of its owner.
She could not bear to face the curious glances and blunt questions of those whom she could not fail to meet if she entered by the front gate, and so she went through the alleys, dirty and vile-smelling, entering quietly by the back gate. Setting down her wet burden, she lost no time making her way to the central living quarters. Anger now flooded her heart, and she desired only to let it overflow in violent words before her husband and that insufferable yet unseen creature, who was with him.
There they sat side by side on the kang. Mrs. Chen stopped abruptly. She had not expected to see a girl so beautiful as this one and so happy looking. If she had been pale, common-place appearing, and overcome with grief all would perhaps have blown over, but this was not so. Beautiful as the lotus blossoms in the courtyard,
she was as gay as a young gull. Mr. Chen looked superfluous and decayed beside her. They both looked up as she entered, and he said to her, far more genially and heartily than was his usual manner : "Ah, my wife! You are no longer merely the wife, but you are now the big wife. See what a lovely little flower of a girl I have brought to help---"
"So you are not content with me," Mrs. Chen broke in, her black eyes gleaming with jealousy, and her usually soft voice strident with anger.
"You do not like my cooking or my care of the house so you must bring a foolish girl here to flaunt in my face." Then turning to the girl, she said, "So, pretty face, you think that you can take my husband from me with your big eyes, and pink cheeks, and rice-colored face! I will also let you cook for him and sew for him, and soon you will be far uglier than I."
The new small wife did not even cry, but turned smilingly to her new husband, whom she had seen for the first time an hour before, but whom she already liked. This smile took monstrous proportions before the anger-glazed eyes of the old wife, and her control snapped. Out rushed her anger in flood force, all the wild crazing anger of the untaught Chinese, terrible in its intensity, in its primitive passion. She uttered fearful words-terrible, scathing words which seared the two sitting before her like branding irons. Suddenly the violence of her rage left her, weak and trembling, hardly able to stand and desperately sick. Blindly she turned to the women's quarters and threw herself without care on the hard brick bed !
Although the violence of the anger was gone, jealousy of the beautiful small wife and injured pride still tormented her. As is common in times of great emotional upheaval her mind reasoned very clearly. She knew well that there was not a man in the neighborhood who did not have at least two wives, and that her friends had borne the entrance of a second and younger wife as a matter of course. But this was different. In the first place, she was not like the other women; for she was intensely jealous of sharing anything with another ; in the second place, her husband had lived so long contentedly with her alone. It was true there were no children, but he had not seemed to care about that. If only the new wife had not been so beautiful she might have endured it. At once her mind was made up. She would go to her friend's house in a nearby village, and not be forced to endure the continual presence of a young and beautiful girl.
She left that afternoon. She had not kept her departure a secret, but had even told her destination. At first Mr. Chen had remonstrated; for he felt a real affection for her and perhaps dreaded the gossip, which would fly about the neighborhood. When she seemed determined, he said no more; for he felt it would not be difficult to content himself with the new wife.
Mrs. Warig, being a true friend, was glad to see Mrs. Chen, and agreed emphatically with her action. Being herself a widow with strong healthy sons, she was held in much esteeem in the village and could afford to agree since there was no danger of her having to test out her reaction to a similar experience. Within a few days Mrs. Chen was quite happy in her new life. Since she had not ever loved her husband passionately, but had felt merely an affection for him, her jealousy of the small wife waned. Still she would not have returned; for she felt that her husband's taking a new wife had been an indignity toward her. She and her friend lived quietly together, working on the exquisite laces by which Mrs. Wang earned her living. They lived in frugality, almost poverty, but they were happy, and, since Mrs. Chen contributed about half of the money by her lacemaking, she did not feel a burden on Mrs. Wang's kindness.
Things were not prospering so well at the Chen home. At first all was favorable, as if the gods themselves had arranged matters. The beauty of Little Blossom was so intoxicating that Mr. Chen did not notice the stupidity which lay behind the lovely smile or care about the way in which she cooked. The great sage was right when he said, "Beauty alone cannot suffice," and Mr. Chen soon began to be weary of hard-centered, soggy rice and pork, which one must chew endlessly. It was no longer a pleasure to come home in the evenings, for the house was seldom clean, and the fixed smile of Little Blossom grew monotonous. More and more he realized what his other wife had meant to him. How pleasant it would be to have her to cook his food, and keep the house clean, and always be responsive to his remarks, and also to have Little Blossom to look at and bear his children. More and more he cherished this idea until it became an obsession.
Twice he visited the village and argued for many hours trying to convince Mrs. Chen of the futility of her staying away and how much he needed her. She would not be convinced. The thought of the indignity of serving merely as a cook and servant to her husband while another woman delighted his eyes had become obnoxious to her.
THE MESSENGER
Mr. Chen could not bear to be crossed. The quick impatient twitch to his thin lips revealed it. Never before had he been so determined about a thing and not acquired it. Persuasion had no effect, and he did not think of force. The thing worked upon his mind so long that it kneaded out all other thoughts, working the insane into the sane. When finally he thought of a last method to secure his wife's return, it was a drastic one.
Late the next day he set out again for the village. August was slowly fading into September, and the rich millet fields were changing to amber. Winter would soon be upon them, and he felt an intensified need of his other wife. The clumsy wheelbarrow at last reached the village. He got down stiffly before the house of his wife's faithful friend. Entering quietly he found the two women working busily over their lace, discussing the appearance of the latest bride .
Feeling very resolute and tragic, he said, "Honorable ladies, I am come to make my final appeal, and if--" ·
"Oh! old turtle," interrupted Mrs. Chen. "How many times must I tell you I will not--"
"Very well then," he in turn interrupted her. "I swear by all the gods that I will cut my throat tomorrow night on the steps of this hut if you do not come home with me tomorrow," and with this intensely solemn oath he left.
Startled and stupified by the horrible threat, the two women stared at the place where he had stood. Like people who have seen a ghost, which they have scoffed at, they sat there, silent, overcome by the oath. Then slowly, mechanically, Mrs. Chen arose and went out into the perfumed millet field, which stood behind the house.
Like someone in a nightmare she dragged her unresponsive body through the fragrant golden stalks, and sank down stiffly at the foot of a tree whose sympathetic shadow enveloped her. Here she sat all night like a paralytic, never shifting even a foot. But it was only her body which was paralyzed. Her thoughts waged bitter war. All night long the war was waged. Her feelings told her she could not return home and share her life and husband with another, and her heart told her she could not let her husband kill himself. Even if she could bear to let him die in such a manner on account of her, she could not let her friend be ruined; for the law required that if a man kill himself on a person's doorstep, that person must pay his funeral expenses. Even the cheapest funeral would be far beyond her friend's means. Again and again she declared she could not
do the first, and again and again the second became more and more unthinkable. But gradually the awfulness of the latter outweighed the humility of the former, and the war was won.
The next morning she set to work cleaning up the sadly neglected house. Her heart was singing, as it had before, as she planned that she would have meat dumplings as a special treat for Mr. Chen that night. Out in the courtyard the small wife sat embroidering, and all about her the lotus buds in their earthenware jars had changed to dry seed filled pods, while out on the Lake of the Thousand Springs the tiny brown boys and girls gathered the pods off the tall erect stems.
Sunset on the Mountain "'->-
Mystic veils of filmy down, Deftly drawn across the skies, Silent, save the call of night. Nature shuts her weary eyes For a night of sweet repose. Strength to give a new tomorrow, Bright with happiness and joy, Free from pain, defeat, and sorrow.
-H. Haddon Dudley.
JOHN HINCHLIFF
NOTHER shell screamed overhead; the staccatic crash of mus..&'\- ketry was maddening. Wounded men lay on the scanty strawa bare covering for the earthen floor of the old tobacco barn. Cruelly the wind shrieked and moaned without, reaching into the wretched structure an icy hand that gripped and crushed the weary hearts of those unfortunates who had only just missed the glory of death in action. For the grim reaper stood always in the gloom of the field hospital-there-just beyond the rays of the single smoking lantern. The loathsome reek of anesthetics was unbearable; more shells burst overhead; the very earth shuddered in sullen protest.
Two soldiers there were, side by side, staring at one another, blindly, without recognition in their bloodshot eyes. They had all but killed each other out yonder, just now; so here they lay. Between them knelt one divine in the grey garb of the ministering angels. Her quivering lips moved as in prayer; her pleading eyes, brimming with tears, cried out their unspeakable message-fixed on the man in grey, and now on him in blue. Close again had death brought them, once bound by ties more endearing than brotherhood, until conflict had led them apart-and together!
Both regarded the apparition whose mute appeal had penetrated agonized consciousness. Both recognized-remembered. The same ghostly smile touched their lips, lips which opened to speak the words that would not come. A shell blasted the roof and exploded within; the stifling gases mingled with odor of burning straw; some of the stricken essayed to crawl beyond the flames. But two lived only in the heaven of her beauty, weirdly etched by the flickering flare.
A frightened attendant burst into the doomed building; he realized the situation, well-knowing there was time to carry but one man to safety. Clouds of acrid smoke rolled about him as he groped his way. He stooped to lift the man in blue, but stopped at sight of the woman's horrified face. Quick as thought he grasped the man m grey, but was again arrested by her look of pain and pity.
Despairing he rose, following her frenzied glance from one to another. Smoke and flames enveloped the tableau. The wind shrieked in demoniac fury. Another shell crashed.
~bt ~rim JLobtr
HELEN COVEY
ffl HE old lady looked at us apologetically as she rattled the key in W the lock. "It's a little stiff."
Jim stepped to her side and unlocked the door. One twist of his broad square fingers, one lunge of his shoulder, and we were inside.
The room was huge, with pyramids of shadows heaped in the corners. Cobwebs and dust festooned the walls, and jagged cracks ran crazily about the ceiling. All the furniture, shrouded in drab covers, huddled together in a far corner. The whole room had a lazarus-like aspect, as if it had reluctantly risen from the dead at our summons.
The old lady kept watching me anxiously. "I'm sure you'll like it," she repeated again and again, "after it's cleaned up, of course."
We explored the other rooms, and refrained from comment on their bleak spaciousness and dust as if they had been dead things which we would not criticize. There was a funereal air about the place. It affected even the old lady, for in the narrow dark butler's pantry she suddenly grew faint and lurched against my arm so that we hastened with her to the front porch and fanned her.
"I haven't been here since I was twenty," she explained. She had still the air of being apologetic and a little afraid. "Old memories, you know. . . . Folks can easily be affected by memories of their youth. I used to live here when I was a girl."
"Has the house been vacant ever since then?" I asked in surprise, noticing her white hair and faded face.
"No, no, sure not," Jim declared, with his best real estate agent manner. He had in his eyes the gleam which usually accompanies such phrases as "all modern conveniences" and "strictly desirable neighborhood." But he could scarcely apply these terms to an ancient house, deserted, in the country. But he didn't fail to point out such advantages as the place did have. "People's been here off 'n' on, up until 'bout year ago. Never was a hard place to rent. Big, roomy, peaceful -roof don't leak. Can get it cheap, too; can't he, Miss Arnold?"
The old lady nodded. "I don't care much about the income from it; I can live on little or nothing. But I can't bear to think of this house not having anybody living in it, just being deserted to - well,
with-with nothing in it." She became uneasy, glancing apprehensively over her shoulder and quickly back again. Then her narrowed eyes were so full of the shadow of some tragic mystery that I felt my scalp prickle as I watched her. She lowered her voice to say, "I couldn ' t live here, of course, but somebody ought to."
"What's the matter? Ghosts?" I tried to laugh away my uneasiness. The old lady was immediately silent, sphinx-like, studying me with her intent brooding eyes.
Jim came to the rescue of the reputation of the house, which he was trying to rent to me. "Some fool story about a haunt. 'Bout forgotten now, so old. People never see nothing while they ' re living here. Just fool talk."
Old Miss Arnold sat stiff and straight in the wooden rocker, clutching the arms with thin hands. She spoke slowly, deliberately. "There is no ghost. No tenant has ever been molested. But for me, the house is haunted by memories of a ghost which has appeared only to members of my family. So long as someone else is here, there is no hint of it; but when I was a girl. . . . You see, I think you should know about this , or someone may alarm you and your wife with exaggerated accounts "
"Now, Miss Arnold," Jim interrupted uneasily, "won ' t it be too much strain, you going over your troubles with him? That old story won't interest him nowhow."
She scarcely noticed him. Her eyes were focused on the interior of the house, dim and shadowy, through the half-open door. I remember wondering what she could have expected and feared so terribly to see among those shifting shadows.
"It was the ghost of Arthur Wain," the old lady said. "I knew him when I was a child. His hair was white, and his face was, too; and his hands were white and thin. His expression was as severe and cold as a saint's.
"You think you're in love," she remarked to me; "bringing your bride here to start out life together. You both think nobody was in love before. But you don't know .... Arthur Wain was in love with my mother. He never was sane, quite, after she married my father. Most of his love, it seemed, soured into the bitterest hatred against my mother, father, brother, and myself. He never even saw us-just seemed to look through us and pass on.
"He lived in a little cabin alone about three miles from here. \Ve saw him passing by sometimes on his way home from town, at dusk,
never making a sound. He took slow even steps, and his white head, bare in all weather, moved smoothly, not bobbing up and down. My brother and I were afraid of him. Whenever we were bad, our old nurse Mag would say, 'Arthur Wain'll git ye! Old Arthur'll ketch ye if ye don't be good!"
"Then one night the preacher from town stopped by our houseI was about twenty years old-and said he thought somebody ought to be taking care of old Arthur. He said the old man had asked him that day if a man has the same wife in heaven that he has on earth. When the preacher said yes and talked to him kindly about giving up earthly ties, he had said that wives weren't any sweeter than revenge and had gone tearing home like mad.
"So my father and the preacher and Mr. White, our neighbor on the next farm, went to Arthur's cabin and found him hanging from the rafters in his kitchen with a rope around his neck.
"Then in the late afternoon of the next day my mother came running out of the butler's pantry, screaming and crying that she had seen Arthur Wain in there.
"'Foolishness!' my father said 'He's dead.'
"But none of us ever dared go in that room after that except old Mag the nurse, who had a rabbit's left hind foot.
"About a month later we were burning leaves in the yard, trying to dispose of them before the storm broke. I was in such a hurry, pushing the leaves into the flame with my rake, that my sleeve caught fire and my arm was burned badly. They put me on the couch in the middle of that big living room, where I could see the long dark hall into the kitchen; the door next to the kitchen was the entrance to the butler's pantry. I was lying there moaning, waiting for old Mag to return with the doctor , when Mother said, 'There's some soda in the pantry that'll relieve burns.' She just said it, didn't off er to get it. I could see that she was still thinking of what she had seen in there. The next time I moaned, she started with a white face down the hall in spite of her fear.
" 'Don't you go !' called my father. He sent her back to me and went into the pantry himself. He didn't come back.
"We waited for about ten minutes, hearing no sound from the room at the end of the hall. It was as if he had stepped silently off the earth as he crossed the threshold of that little room. Mother's eyes grew wider and wider, and her face was ashy. 'Why did I let
him go!' she murmured over and over. She called to him: 'Can't you find it?' and heard not even an echo for an answer. Even my bold young brother shivered.
"Without any warning Mother ran down the hall and into that room. Still there was no sound. We called and shouted, my brother and I, to our parents until we were frightened at the sound of our own voices in that awfully still house, with just the dismal drumming of the rain on the roof.
"My brother was determined to investigate. I tried to dissuade him, using in my terror the words old Mag had frightened us with when we were small, 'Old Arthur'll get you. Stay here with me; I tell you Arthur Wain is in there!' But he argued, mainly to raise his own courage, that old Arthur could have no grudge against him. And he, too, went down that long dark hall. As he paused at the door of the butler's pantry, I saw his shoulders droop and his face turn whiter. But he went in.
"I stayed alone on the couch so long as I was able to endure the horrible solitude. I can remember running through the door into the rain and on and on. I was sick for weeks after old Mag and the doctor found me running down the road ; they didn't know me at first, for my hair was white, turned in an hour. But when I think of everything that happened in that hour!"
I shuddered and looked at Jim, half hoping that he would declare this story "fool talk." But he was silent, under the spell of the old lady's brooding eyes. In the strained silence I noticed distinctly the patter of rain and the mutter of approaching thunder.
"Storm's coming," said Jim briskly. "Time for us to lock up and leave."
"It was raining much harder that day than it is now. I wish you would come and lower the windows we opened ; it will be raining right into the kitchen and the-the butler's pantry."
We started into the house with a shudder, and I postponed my entrance by pausing to ask Jim: "How long ago did all this happen?"
" 'Bout fifteen years," he replied, watching the old lady walk slowly down the hall towards the kitchen.
"What! Do you mean to tell me that she is only thirty-five years old? She looks seventy."
Jim nodded. "Been looking old like that ever since all her family died in one afternoon during a thunderstorm. Struck by lightning, maybe. She's kind of cracked, too; can tell by the way she believes
that fool ghost yarn she just told. Been sick mostly since then, too, afraid to come near this place."
We did not find Miss Arnold in the kitchen. We searched in the adjacent rooms, avoiding the one she had feared so deeply. We called her, and she did not answer. Even the imperturable Jim grew pale. We came upon her in the butler's pantry, on her knees, leaning a little against the wall. Her arm was thrown up as if to shield her face, and she was stone cold.
I swear that there was no evidence of lightning m that room where the grim lover had finally come into his own.
Wild Flower
Tiny delicately carved flower, I pause lest I should tread In all my superior power Upon your beautiful head.
I wish that other men might pause Lest they should tread on my life, too, For I harm no one, and because I would live beautifully like you.
-J. W. Kincheloe.
CORINNE MoRECOCK
7fSAAC FALCON dropped his hat down on the bench outside :Y his ancestral home, and set a tobacco sprayer on an old Elizabethan sideboard. It bore the marks of abuse and disregard, but it had once been laden with silver and sparkling wine. One especially long scratch was brighter than the others. It had been put there when Sir James Falcon was having the sideboard transported from England, immediately after he had received the huge grant of land in America from Charles IL
Isaac pushed open the creaking old carved door, through which revolutionary Falcons and rebel Falcons had entered for four centuries. Now, the head of the house of Falcons was entering unmindful of the deeds of his ancestors.
"Hi, you Isaac, cum' 'ere, an' he'p me put dese here noos papers on de wall. Nex' week is meetin' at Carter's Chapel, an' Br'er Johnson is cumin' here to spend de night. If we ain't got no crap to show him, this here ol' cobwebby house is gwine ter look fine," called Katie, his black wife.
Isaac slouched over to the wall, and held the various News and Observers, Grits, and Saturday Evening Posts, while his black wife pasted them on the wall. He thought, "Whut fun do Katie git outen stickin' dem papers on de wall? Hit don't make it look no better. Whut fun do she git outen havin' de preacher cum' to spen' de night?"
''I'se gwine to take <lat ol' pictcher ofen de wall an' put dis pretty one up, whut Mis' Ivey give me dis mornin', when I went up ter de house to churn," said Katie.
Isaac looked up full into the face of his noble ancestor, Sir James Falcon. The picture had hung there for two centuries. It had gazed calmly on the ruin of its family, while dust and soot gathered around it on the cracked old wall. One could easily see the resemblance between the noble ancestor and his tainted descendant. They had the same aquiline nose and high cheek bones. The same sensitive lines about the mouth. The ancestor's head was a smooth shining black. The descendant's head was black, too, but that telling kink was there. Around the nobleman's neck was soft lace and velvet; the faded and ragged cotton shirt thrown back from the poor farmer's neck revealed his thin throat disturbed by a traveling Adam's apple, and the long black hairs pasted to his yellow chest by perspiration.
Katie got up on a high box and lifted the picture off the nail; the frame came apart. The noble ancestor hit the floor, made a grimace in twisting, and broke into two pieces.
"Dere, I'll clean <lat up atter I put supper on de table. 'Tis time de chillun wuz cumin' in warmin' 'bacco," said Katie.
Katie threw some papers on the bed and took from the hearth a dish of cabbage and two pones of corn bread and put them on the table along with six cracked plates.
"Ma, you had better come here; Baldy an' Jess is fightin' ," called a tall yellow girl entering the door.
"What air you all fightin' 'bout now? I'll burn de las' one o' yer up. Cum' 'ere 'fore I kill yer," screamed Katie.
Two lean brown boys with sulky faces walked in and slumped down to the table.
"Whar is Tom?" asked Isaac.
"He's don' gon' to ol' man Jones' settin' up," said Jess.
"Whut ! Gone to a settin' up in his ol' clo'es ?" said Katie.
"Well, he ain't got no better," objected Baldy.
A shudder passed over Isaac's frame at these cutting words. Katie lighted a small oil lamp, and put it on the table. They all gathered around and began eating.
"Isaac, you is de laziest man whut I eber seed. De worms is eatin' <lat little 'bacco lef' on de stalk an' you ain't ten' de barn lak you ought. Hit '11 ruin an' you won't git two cents a poun' fer it. De chillun ain't got no clo'es an' de winter is cumin'," began Katie in a sharp voice, her rolling eyes making her face blacker in the lamplight.
"Now, Katie, I done wu'k hard all dis summer. I can't do no better. I'se done conjured. Som' fo'ks don't neber hab no luck, an' we ain't neber gwine ter hab none."
"Why cum' you can't mak' a crap? You got a hundred acres er lan'; heap o' niggers ain't got <lat much. You got to do sumpin'. Chaney ain't got nary coat fittin' to w'ar to meetin' ," said Katie.
"Ma, I don't want no dress to w'ar to meetin'. Pap do wu'k hard, but he's conjured; he can't do no better," said Chaney.
"I don' know why cum' I eber ma'ied you. I thought I had sumpin' fine 'cause you's mos' white. Han' me de cabbages. I wish I'd had Mister Jones. He's black as soot, but he sho' do mak' a fine crap," complained Katie.
"Well, you better go an' try to get Mister Jones. I'se <loin' de bes' I kin. Whut you gwine ter do when I tells you Mister Picot's comin' here in de mo'nin' ter git de mules? He won't let us finish dis crap. We's already two hundred dollar in debt now," said Isaac.
"Well, I won't stay wid you any mo'. I'se gwine home to my mammy, whut is a respectable cullud lady. , I'll take my chillun an' carry dem wid me. I'll show dem how to raise a crap o' 'bacco an' no worms won't eat hit up. Come on, chillun, le's go ter yer gran'mammy's house . vVe ain't got no clo'es an' no furmature 'cepin' <lat ol' sideboard whut is fallin' to pieces. I done live in dis ghos'ly al' house long en'uf," shrieked Katie.
"Mammy, I'se gwine ter stay wid Pa; he's got ter hab somebody ter stay wid him," said Chaney.
When Isaac heard the words of his daughter, something new, something of understanding leaped into his face, but when he glanced at his wife the same old bewilderment settled over it again.
"You stay here den, an' perish to deaf. You always wuz ha'£ crazy. You an' yer ol' daddy'll be beggin' me ter give yer a pone o' corn bread ; I won't eber open my door ter yer. Yau kin clean up dese here supper dishes, den you kin git up in de mo'nin' an' fix bre'kfus', fer you all won't neber see me ag'in," said Katie.
As Katie walked across the floor, she stepped on the fallen picture. She mashed the nose flat and put a spot of dirt on his white lace, but as she went out, the ancestor seemed to sm[le as the picture straightened out.
Chaney flung herself down on the dingy bed and began crying. Isaac heard the fading voices of Katie and the boys-and their bare feet swishing in the gravels, above Chaney's muffled sobs. He sat down by the unfinished supper . The oil lamp sent forked flames up into the smutty chimney. Thunder rumbled far in the west and heat lightning flashed back and forth. Chaney continued crying. He thought, "Whut's de matter wid me; whut is I got le£'? My ol' 'oman an' two boys is le£' me. Why come I'se always reachin' out atter sumpin' an' can't niver git it?" A sharp flash of lightning zig-zagged across the room. Thunder broke the awful monotony of Chaney's crying. "Why come she don't stop?" The lamp gave a fitful flicker. He heard something tapping up stairs on the floor. "Whut is it? Is it ol' man Jim Falcon cum' back to pester me? He died in <lat very room. His shoes is dere whar he le£' dem, wid the ribber mud stickin' on dem. He took dem off fifty years ago ter crawl up in his ol' dirty bed an' die." He heard the tapping grow louder. "Hit sho'
is ol' Jim in dat room; I ain't skeered ub him. De con jury doctor done tol' me dat I'se gwine ter lib a hundred an' one years. Chaney's done stop cryin'. Po' gal, she sho' do hab a hard time. Whut ails me? Why cum' I can't make no crap ·? Why cum' I don' feel happy lak all de yuther niggers? I done lived here a long time, but I don't nebber make nuthin'. Sometimes when I move off fer a spell I mak' a fair crap. Sumpin' just pulls me back ter dis ol' place."
He picked up a spoonful of cabbage from the dish and swallowed it with a gulp . "I don' git no fun goin' ter chu'ch lak t'other niggers. Sometime I hab a good time, bit I don' nebber feel lak shoutin'.
He heard a faint knocking at the door. "Hit's Mis' Bess Falcon cumin' back. She wuz jes' ez white an' sickly. She used to frown up her face lak a thunder storm an' look at me lak she jes' hated me. She looked lak a crazy 'oman <lat day. We wuz in de fiel' pickin' cotton . She started coffiin' an' she look lak she'd coff her head off, an' couldn't stop. She died in a little while. 'Mis' Bess, cum' 'ere an' kill me. I'se ready ter die She don' want me.' She cryin' 'bout Mr. Phil an' Mis' Sal. Dey wuz a bad brudder an' sister. Oh! How Mis' Sal did holler when she died two years ago. She scream out, Tse gwine ter hell , I knows it; I'se wicked. God knows it, everybody knows it. Oh! Mammy, why did you die when I was so young? Pappy couldn't he'p me none. Oh Bess! Come an' git me!'
Dat's de same tappin' whut we heard de night Mis' Sal died.
"Mis' Sal lef' me a hundred acres of Ian'. None de yuther niggers ain't got <lat much. She lef' me sumpin' else. Sumpin' de yuther niggers ain't got. Whut is it? . . . . I ain't nebber gwine ter make nuthin'. Why cum' my chillun ain't happy lak other nigger chillun? Why cum' dey don't play an' sing? When dey dance dey don' mak' a good fuss wid dere feet. Dey don't do lak Katie. Dey's lazy all de time . Dey jes' sets 'roun in de shade an' looks lak dey's mad. Look lak dey's jes' 'bout ter do sumpin'. Dey can learn eberyt'ing in dere books. Other nigger chillun can't learn lak dem. I wuz lak dat when I wuz young.''
One of Katie's ragged aprons, after a slow process of sliding off the footboard, hit the floor. Isaac noticed it. "Why come I don' do lak Katie? She happy all de time, long as she got sumpin' ter eat, an' clo'es ter put on her back. She is de shoutin'est 'oman in de whole chu'ch. She all time t'ink sumpin' good is gwine ter happen. She t' ink de white fo'ks'll holp her out. She say nobody eber starved to deaf in dis country wid de good Lawd lookin' on. Whut is de good Lawd? He ain't nuthin' but sumpin' to shout 'bout
an' build a chu'ch fer. He ain't nebber he'p me none-makes me wuk when de sun is hot an' snow is on de groun'."
The wind came through the windows bringing fine raindrops. When they touched his hot forehead, his despondent face seemed to lighten. "I'm lak Katie sometimes: I t'ink eberyt'ing's goin' ter turn out good. I loves tP,r go to chu' ch when I kin stop wu'k. 'Tain't do no good to wu'k. I jes' well go to chu'ch an' hear de preacher holler. I ain't wu'th nothin' stayin' here. De 'bacco ain't wu'th nothin' if I stay ter home or go ter chu'ch."
Chaney moaned in her sleep. "I ought ter go an' fix up <lat barn fire. Chaney an' me has got teT hab sumpin' to lib on nex' winter. Dat ol' barn of 'bacco ain't no good anyway. I don't git two cents a poun' fer it."
He heard a great noise out in the yard. "Dat ol' mule '11 kick outen <lat stall in a few minutes. I don't keer, he ain't mine. I can't make no crap wid <lat mule gone."
A loud clap of thunder broke overhead, and the rain and hail beat through the open window. The lamp flickered and almost went out. When it flared up again it sent a long puff of black smoke up the chimney. A big cat jumped up on the table and began nibbling the unfinished supper. Isaac slapped him off, and his padded feet hit the floor with a dull thud. Isaac got up and went to the window. He saw in the brief flashes of lightning the wind twisting the green leaves of the trees and the blinds slamming on an old house. He turned toward the table and stumbled over the picture of his ancestor, who lay smiling up at him. The smile made him start, and he saw in the crooked looking-glass that he was exactly like the picture.
"God! I know whut ails me-all my white fo'ks has done put a spell on me. Dey has cussed me. I ain't lak Katie, but I ain't lak Mister Abraham kaze he is white. He all time t'inkin' 'bout nex 1 winter an' nex' summer. She's happy all de time. Mister Jim an' Mis' Sal has lef' me sumpin' whut is wuss clan all de conjurin' in worl'. I'se got mixed blood. 'Tain't right."
Chaney turned over, and one of the slats fell out of the bed and hit the floor with a bang. She sighed and continued sleeping. "Po' gal, I got ter do sumpin' for her. I'll git up in de mornin' an' beg Mister Picot to leave de mules. I'll make a crap yit. Katie an' de boys'll come back. De boys'11 grow up fine, an' Chaney'll ma'y a sma't man. Dem boys is gwine off ter school lak Katie's brudders did. I'll buy Katie a red silk coat fer to w'ar to meetin'."
He heard it thunder far in the distance. "I'll go ter de barn an' fix de fire._ De rain is done stopped. Dat oughter he'p de corn crap. De ol' 'bacco ain't wu'th a cuss. I ain't goin' ter bother 'bout hit. 01' Jim an' Mis' Bess has done put a spell on me. All dem high white fo'ks is lookin' down on me from hebben. Dey is gwine ter stop eberyt'ing I tries ter do. I can't think lak white fo'ks. Eber' time I gits started, sumpin' stops me. I can't be lak Katie. I can't be lak Mister Abraham. De debil's gwine ter git me."
Isaac put his head down on the greasy supper table; the chair creaked under his weight. His thin shoulders hung loose, and his big hands almost touched the floor. The lamp flickered and seemed to send out a thousand yellow needles to his eyes. As he turned his head over, the light ran down the tight waves of his black hair, and made his ear appear huge as a cabbage leaf in the shadow on the wall. He fell asleep.
The sluggish stream of black blood had conquered.
jiook Rtbittu
Something About Eve. By James Branch Cabell. Robert M. McBride & Company, 1927.
Here, it seems, one of the greatest of living authors has made his last gesture: and the Biography-as he is wont to call it-is now complete ....
Cabell has, by certain statements in several of his volumes, furnished the basis for a rumor that at the early age of nineteen he had conceived the entire plan of his works, at which time he began writing much of the verse for incidental use throughout these volumes. One may surmise by the order in which these books have been written that by instinct or by purpose the greater worksJurgen, Figures of Earth, and The Silv.er Stallion-were put near the end of this hypothetical list, when the author would be more ready and capable to utilize his ability to the greatest extent. Something About Eve completes the Poictesmian series and embodies his entire creed as a literary era£tsman.
The hero of this final romance is Gerald Musgrave-it might have been tall Dom Manuel, or Jurgen, or James Branch Cabell: the names do not matter. And as the allegory goes on you perceive that this ambiguous person epitomizes the idealistic creative artist who subordinates the unalterable Two Truths to a doubt£ ul Third of his own making, and is urged always on toward Antan by a compelling strange desire which he cannot comprehend. You are led through many and colorful anagrammatic lands, until at last you find contentment upon Mispec Moor, with Maya, or Havvah, or Sereda, or Eve-again the names do not matter. And in this land of Compromise you remain for a very long while, contentedly disposing willynilly of all in you that is rebellious and fine and unreasonable : and Antan, the goal of all the gods, where the Third Truth will be received with its justly deserved acclamation, is just visible from here. . . . But you can see to that tomorrow-why should a god be hurrying, who has all eternity at his disposal? . . .
Thus far Cabell paints upon a shining canvas, using many new pigments which he would have considered quite taboo in 1919, all in all sacrificing little of his beauty of style and obtaining quite a few not wholly bad effects. At only one place throughout the entire work does his style fail him: and that one place is the instant when Gerald's voice breaks during a certain speech which would be incapable of giving rise to so powerful an emotion. Examine Jurgen; notice that Jurgen' s voice breaks only once during the entire story,
and then in the midst of the finest speech in the whole volume. And the result is one of the most unforgetable effects in nineteen books. No, Mr . Cabell's magic is very potent-but not infallible. But to return. . . .
Even after many years upon Mispec Moor, nothing is found stable save only one god and one goddess, and theri, upon a sudden, gray magickings are set about , and for Gerald, at least, Antan is de stroyed.
Then in the two short chapters which compose the Book of Remnants, Cabell seems to conjure up every hidden particle of his superb wizardry: and moods creep upon you as only Cabell ' s can. Assuredly this disillusionment of an idealist who strives even yet to be defiant shows Horvendile-pardon-Cabell at still newer heights. But one feels that perhaps this is the last brilliant flare from a sadly beautiful candle that now gutters out. . . .
Many new persons not wholly unfamiliar are to be encountered in this book which is Jurgen, F igures of Earth, Straws and Prayer Books, and Beyond Life in one volume. The identity of the brown man is here disclosed, the Sphinx and God Himself have a word to say. \i\Then the last page is reached, and instead of the customary Expvicit there is a decided The End , and when the full significance of this is realized, strange emotions arise in a lover of this man Cabell. Nevermore a new romance by one of the finest masters of creative art America has known! It is quite ununderstandable. But in that small masterpiece, the chapter entitled Farewell to all Welfare, Cabell himself has sighed: "All, all is perished! . . I am content upon Mi spec Moor. . . . I cry farewell . . ."
And out of England we have a very wise novel dealing with the question that confronts every generation some time or other, decadent Youth; so it was a century ago, and so will it be a century hence. The Puritans had theirs, the Quakers theirs, and so have we, wild, restless Youth. Youth, ever seeking to go forward, delving deeper into the philosophy of life, moulding its own ideals, ferreting truth to the best of its ability, is not to be deplored, but rather envied
THE MESSENGER
for its frank openness and general clean living, says Gibbs in this latest novel of his.
Strange as it may seem, this book has no semblance of the sermon we might expect to read. Far from it, this book deals, so far as we can see, fairly and justifiably with the problems of the younger generation. If anything it is biased in the cause of Youth.
Skilfully weaving a plot of no little interest, Gibbs has succeeded admirably in catching the spirit of the new order without letting the spirit of the old, slip entirely through his grasp. It takes a great deal longer to rebuild an edifice when the foundation is destroyed as well. Judging from Mr. Gibbs' novel, the American institution needs n:mch less rebuilding than the English, perhaps a little remodeling will do.
We are amazed at the tremendous part that the youth of England takes in politics. Government, to most American college students, is a vague machine which does a great deal of screeching as it grinds. America is a republic, England is a monarchy of a sort, another paradox to be added to the question and answer books.
Gibbs takes us breathlessly through the vicissitudes of ex-service men j ob hunting in merry old England, lets us linger a while in night clubs and with the idle rich, abruptly tours us to a free lodging-house in Battersea, collects his characters from these several places, and begins his story, stopping once more only, to ask a stern bishop, his family, and a spinster sportswoman, to become members of the cast.
We might be called a little idealistic in saying that Gibbs did not write this book for money alone , but as well to def end the cause of Youth and to hurl down the gauntlet to a few bigoted idiots who, alas, are still said to exist.
The story, however interesting it is , does not strike the most respondent chord, but merely serves us a vehicle by which the novelist puts over an amusing idea, a League of Youth. We are led to an unique climax, a general strike throughout Great Britain, in which Youth is able to prove its own worth.
" 'The younger crowd !' said Elizabeth Pomeroy, spinster sportswoman and defendant of Youth, on that day when the strike ended. 'What's wrong with them, I should like to know? What's wrong with England when we have such spirit? . . . If only we could pull together!' "
The whole thing is quite delightful and we are glad to say that this book can be found at the University library. It is well worth your reading.
-LAWRENCE N. BLOOMBERG.
RICHMOND COLLEGE
M. S. SHOCKLEY, Editor-in-Chief
WELLFORD TAYLOR, Business Manager
ELMER POTIER, Assistant Editor H. G. KINCHELOE, Assistant Editor
LLOYD CASTER, Staff Artist
WESTHAMPTON COLLEGE
ELINOR PHYSIOC, Editor-in-Chief
CATHERINE BRANCH, II ss't Editor
MILDRED ANDERSON, Business Mgr.
~bitorial
LOOKING BACKWARD
raEFORE THE MESSENGERwas published, the name of the college '.WImagazine was the Monthly Musings, an eight page paper about twice the size of the present MESSENGER. The Musings was started in January, 1876, and was re-christened THE MESSENGERin October, 1878. We quote from THE MESSENGERof that date.
"The Monthly Musings is dead. . . . Scarcely were the burial services concluded when announcement was made of the birth of a stranger, similar in many respects to the Musings, but larger and more rebust in form. . . . Some proposed to call it the Phito-M u Sigma Rhonian. This was rejected. The infant, it was hoped, would acquire some distinction, and hence its name would appear in print and the typesetting would be too costly. These and many other reasons induced those who rule to give a plainer, easier name, by which we now introduce it to the world: THE RICHMONDCOLLEGE MESSENGER."
To continue with the December issue of the same year: "THE MESSENGERmay now be said to be fairly under way, and we think it would not be too presumptive to give an idea of what we intend to do. The magazine is published in the interests of the students of Richmond College, and will contain articles from their pens, accounts of their celebrations, and other college news. . . . V./e feel justified in promising an article each month from a member of the faculty. Besides the attractions we have been promised contributions from
MESSENGER
several citizens well known in the literary world. The editors promise to do all in their power to carry out this scheme and ask the cooperation of the alumni and students."
In March, 1885 : "The entire debt of THE MESSENGERhas been paid. We feel that great credit is due the present business manager for his exertions in behalf of the magazine. It is now on a firmer financial basis than for several years past."
Early MESSENGERScarried departments of "Jokes," "Locals," and "Personals." We find numerous journalistic accounts of baseball games during the time when Randolph-Macon was our most intense rival.
We feel that THE MESSENGERhas made great progress. Especially so when we read from the Editorial Department of May, 1885 : "Write, boys, write with care, Write for the pages of THE MESSENGAIR."
From such faltering and humble beginnings THE MESSENGER has come to hold a place among the best known college literary magazines. Starting as a literary society journal, THE MESSENGERhas become the "Students' literary publication of the University of Richmond." THE MESSENGERmaintains a high standard of literary excellence. It welcomes contributions from all the students.
This issue inaugurates the fifty-fourth year of our magazine. The present staff has no revolutionary plans and no inspiring promises. We take the position of editor with a sense of profound responsibility. THE MESSENGERis a magazine of unquestioned quality. We accept as our duty the task of carrying on.
