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 Richmond, Virginia. Copyright 1927, by Wellford Taylor.
THAT NIGHT YOU WENT AWAY
That night you went away So brave, so debonair . You took with you my heart You did not know .•• or care. You took with you my heart And left me in its place, Among my broken dreams, The vision of your face.
And sometimes now, I think I feel you standing near; My heart starts up, although I know you are not there.
-Elizabeth Reynolds.
THE WEST WINDOW
VIRGINIA McMuRTRY
THE architect looked at the great English Tudor library and was well pleased. Here was his masterpiece, fittingly set among other buildings harmoniously designed. There was the science building, a good structure for its purpose, solidly built upon such unquestioned facts as red American bricks. To the right, on the crest of the next hill, stood the dormitory as modern as the students could wish, as imposing as the administration could desire. The class room building, easily accessible to the dormitory, was adequate. No blackboard was misplaced. The seats were arranged so that the light coming through the leaded Gothic panes of the casement windows fell properly over the left shoulders of the students. As a whole, the university was a great success in situation and buildings, but the library was the masterpiece. It was no mere chance that the great Gothic window of this library faced the west, for this architect knew the glory of the sun setting over a still lake. Here students of the university would do their great work. Some would write of the beauty of this Gothic Tudor library, with the evening sun sifting golden rays through thousands of leaded panes; artists would paint it for the blind ones; musicians would sing it for the deaf ones. The architect looked, dreamed and was well pleased.
Students in groups of twos and fours, sometimes as many as six, sat around the creaking tables in alcoves lined with fading, dusty books. "Winter term exams only a week off, and five hundred pages of history parallel to read yet" . . . "an education paper due in three more days, and not one line written" . . . "critical reading on all that Renaissance art to finish before exams" . . . "the philosophy of the idealistic school to master." . . . Snatches of such conversation floated about, more bids for sympathy than conversation. Students read and read, scanning through one book after another, wondering if there were anything important on that last page . Occasionally a slight noise aroused attention, students looked up, somebody had slammed a large history book shut with vindicative force, but she had already picked up another large volume, blown off the dust, and resumed reading. Other students wrote on and on, with loose papers spread all over the table. A table creaked as someone leaned his elbows on it. Somebody said "Damn," half
audibly, as his fountain pen squi-rted ink on a finished page that must be done over. It was nearly five o'clock and the library would close soon.
·
All this while the early setting winter sun made a thousand pictures of its brilliance framed in the leaded panes of the great western Gothic window. The lower branches of the sky-reaching pine tree that grew just across the path from the window were silhouetted against the panes, details of needles, long, slender and rigid, curling pine cones and twigs, patterned without purpose. The panes changed from burning red gold to pale yellow gold, then to a deep, suffusing rose, that faded to delicate pink. The pine showed blacker against the window with each change of the colored background.
And fountain pens scratched on, and students read on, for examinations were only one week off. One unconscientious soul held a book laxly before her, and looked not at it, but at the west window, marvelling at the versatility, experiencing beauty. In one weak moment of desire to share the beautiful, she turned to the student nearest her and whispered, less in awe of the librarian than of the setting sun, "Look at the thousands of images of that sunset in that window." And a scientific soul answered her, "There are seven hundred and fourteen panes in that window; I counted them twice, and got the same result both times."
The conversation in the club turned to a much reviewed book of the month. "A new author, I notice. Her first published novel. Well done for a first attempt, don't you think? Who is this Jean Warner?"
Another answered her. "Graduated from my college, couple of years after I did. No one would ever have guessed she would be illustrious. Used to spend a good deal of her time dreaming, or walking through the woods, while the rest of us boned away. She didn't always come to class prepared. Once she wrote a poem for a math assignment."
"Then you remember the window that figures so repeatedly in the book? Is it really as she says?"
"Oh yes, I remember the window. I didn't see it just as she does. Some day I'll go back and see it through her eyes." * * * * * * *
American tourists roamed through a European art gallery, casually viewing the most recent interpretations of modern art. Suddenly
a light of recognition dawned in the eye of one man of the party, one who had been among the most casual.
"Follow the artist's train of thought, old top? Remarkable! What! Spellbound before an English church window?"
* * * * * *
"English church window, nothing! That's the west window of the library of my college. That window has seven hundred and fourteen panes. I spent over an hour verifying that one day. Good coloring, isn't it? Never remember the window just that way. Guess I'll go back and look at it some time. Gee, but that makes me feel almost young again! Who's the artist?" Here he consulted his catalogue. "Well! Who would have expected it? Old Walton Lee. Well!" * * * * * * *
A young violinist was appearing in a certain large city for t he first time, and he was eager to make an impression on the critics. His first numbers betrayed his nervousness. A bored critic turned to his companion.
"I'll sit through one more, then we'll go home and play the victrola. The audacity ! The next selection is composed by none other than the artist himself. Maybe, we had better leave now." But the violinist was already beginning his next number. And his nervousness vanished. The critic showed signs of interest, realized it, and frowned, yet even while he was frowning, he leaned forward a trifle in his seat, and listened. At the end of it, the triumph of the artist was sweet, for even the critic applauded.
"Strange thing, that piece. Familiar, yet unlike anything I've ever heard. Recall something I knew a long time ago. Can't remember just what. But, say, that fellow 1s good. He's coming." * * * * * * *
And in the library students read dusty books while the setting sun shone red and gold through the great Gothic window in the west.
BAHIA
T. P. MATHEWSON
ILANDED there from off the Royal Mail liner "Andes" as she lay out in the Bahia Bay, a brief pause of a few hours in the great ship's twenty-three days' voyage from Buenos Aires to Southampton. The harbor being too shallow to accommodate such large liners we were to be taken off by the motor launches which gathered around us as soon as we had dropped anchor. After the customary jockeying with the launch owner over the price of carrying me and my luggage to the docks , I was soon on my way across the bay to the docks and custom house. But there I encountered one of those little exasperations typically Brazilian. "Hoje dia da festa, sefior. Today is a holiday." And so the traveler finds most every day on which he is especially desirous of some service from the officials . All luggage must lie in the customs warehouses until the following day. Oh, yes, as a special favor they might look through our hand bags. But no amount of entreaty will move them further out of their holiday lethargy. Accordingly by the aid of a tenmilreis tip I received a corresponding amount of alacrity, and my bags at:1dI were soon on the way to the Hotel Grande Esplendid.
Now I knew well the type of hotel that would bear such a name; in Brazil, as in most countries, the grander the name even more so does it belie the actual condition of the hotel. But it did boast a bathroom with shower which fact in itself seems to its managers sufficient justification for such a presumptuous name.
I was greeted with all the effervescent cordiality which is reserved strictly for "Os Americanos," since Americans invariably spelled extravagant wealth.
Up to my room, which, as is usual, had not been cleaned up since the last occupant, or perhaps it was being occupied by one of the servants of the hotel. I washed and then hastened down to the office to consult time tables and boat sailings of my intended trip back up through the hinterland.
Luck repaid my haste and I found that a river boat would leave for Nazareth in less than an hour. This I decided to take. So after repacking in two small suitcases all that I might need for the trip I dashed down to the port. A wretched little side-wheeler it was on which I was to make the six-hour trip. By sailing time, how-
ever, the one deck was quite crowded with natives and their packs. A milreis-minded steward made me as comfortable as I had right to expect up front of the pilot house, where I would be somewhat separated from the jabbering mass on deck.
Across the bay for four hours splashed the little tub, then as darkness came on turned its nose up the narrow Jaguaripe River toward Nazareth. It was about ten that night when I was almost jarred from my seat as the boat lurched and stopped. I soon discovered that we were on a sand bar. The crew put off in a skiff, carrying a cable which they fastened to a tree on the bank, the other end being attached to the hand-winch on the bow of the boat. But no luck, for after several attempts we only succeeded in pulling down the trees into the water. We were stuck, and no chance to get off until the next high tide. The pilot blew the boat's whistle for a while and then all hands settled down to sleep. I being more sleepy than curious also curled up for the night.
It was two hours later when I was awakened to find the boat all in a bustle. A babble of voices soon led me to the discovery that on both sides of our boat had gathered a number of very large dugout canoes, each manned by two husky near-naked Indians. What a picture they made, jabbering and milling around down there in the water under the flickering light of our boat's lanterns! So this was the answer to our boat's whistling, and here at 2 A. M. had come these natives from their homes up and down the river to rescue the passengers from this predicament and incidentally to gain a few milreis. I was quick to engage one of the safest looking canoes, and my bags and I were off on the last lap of my journey for that night. What an experience, swishing through the waters up this narrow stream late at night with only moonlight piercing the dense tropical forest which overshadowed us from the banks. Occasionally I would hear swishing and then might discern another canoe drifting slowly by us.
An hour of paddling upstream and I stepped out on the river bank at Nazareth, gladly paid the trifling sum that the canoeman asked and went up the street to the only hotel in this little town. Another dirty little room with only a mattress to sleep on, if one didn't mind the bugs.
I didn't, and next morning at six was awakened and told that the train to Santo Antonio left shortly. I was to ride on the only railroad in that region. It ran up country one day and back the next.
I caught the train and was one of the few passengers to be hauled by a dinky little wood-burning engine and to pay the equivalent of seventy-two cents American money to ride five hours in order to cover forty-seven miles. But I will add that we encountered some pretty bad grades which caused the engine to pause of ten while it gathered another head of steam.
At Santo Antonio I was met by an Englishman, the representative of our company in that territory, and we occupied the remainder of that day in visiting the nearby farms, looking at their tobacco crops, and getting information as to the methods used in the handling of their crops.
Early the next morning I was up and found that my English friend had prepared for a trip across country on horseback. After coffee there was waiting for us, horses for ourselves, a guide, a packman for my luggage, a water carrier with two small kegs of water, and a strapping fellow with a rifle who was to serve as our guard. Our little caravan of six horseman was soon under way. The guide set an easy pace which made it not uncomfortable and noon found us high up on a tableland overlooking all the surrounding country. We rested while we ate our lunch of cake and water, and the horses rolled in the grass. All around below us was a mass of tropical forest broken only occasionally by a clearing around some native's thatched hut. As we lazed there in the shade we watched the myriads of brilliant butterflies, the many strange birds, the agile lizards, and an occasional shuffling armadillo.
Once again we took up the trail under the blazing sun, but with the satisfaction of knowing that within a few hours we would arrive in Born Fin. All went well and at five we rode into the village and up to the hotel. We were glad indeed to dismount and stretch our legs, order something hot to eat, and then wash up. After eating our lunch we paid off, bid farewall to our caravan and then ordered the only auto in town, a Ford taxi. In this we set off on a very good road to the town of Castro Alves, some twenty miles distant, and our destination for the night. We arrived there shortly after nightfall. A bit better hotel this time, bigger beds with bigger bugs. But our sleep that night was one of exhaustion and no mere difference in the size of our bed fellows affected us. Most of the next day was spent in and around Castro Alves and that evening found us on a train to Sao Felix.
Sao Felix and Cahoeira ! The city of churches in a setting which might exist only in the artist's imagination. Two separate towns,
THE MESSENGER
one on each bank of the Paraguassu River. And all in a very deep narrow valley. At night the lights of the city grouped around either bank, tapered off high up the steep mountain sides. And in the river lay numerous sailing craft, many with sails furled, others with sails all set ready to go out down the river on the next high tide. At low ' tide the river is very narrow and so shallow that one might wade across, but at high tide the river becomes some fifteen hundred feet in width. At all times the inhabitants of the two towns cross in the innumerable dugouts, which are always at your bidding for the nominal sum of two cents. On both sides of the river one sees the spires of the numerous churches, for which the town is famous all over Brazil, showing a devout Catholic population as one could judge further by the presence at every street corner of the crucifix affixed to the wall, at which the people in passing would pause, cross themselves in prayer, and perhaps leave an offering which the priest would later collect.
In this town I remained for two days enjoying the delightful atmosphere and picturesqueness of an old town as yet unsmirched by the mechanical hand of our so-called modern civilization. And here also were made the majority of the famous Bahia hand-made cigars. This process absorbed much of my attention.
My tour of observation completed, I boarded the river boat down the Paraguassu River back to Bahia, where I revelled in the hotel's shower bath, and then one beautiful morning I took a motor launch out to the R. M. S. S. "Asturias" as she lay in the bay, and a little later I stood on the deck and bid a reluctant farewell to the slowly receding coast of the State of Bahia of Brazil.
Ditty
I have cast my love away And she will lie a dying, But what care I for a dying love When I have you today.
-Frances Genevieve.
FROM SUCH AS THESE
(Influenced by Willa Cather)
J. J. SCHERER
IT WAS unusual for such cold weather to rush in on this little Virginia town, even in February, and the group of booted, mackinawed men stamped their disgust on the station platform.
Up on the hill the three or four street lights of the town blinked uncertainly on snow-covered Main Street. It looked as if they were nodding and laughing and winking with each other at the way Mother Nature had fooled the lazy populace with her unusually cold caprices. The waiters huddled beside the railroad track, had their minds wandered from the thing at hand, might easily have believed that these dim lights were mocking them. But their minds were not that kind. They did know, however, that they were worthy of any mockery that might fall upon them. Who were they, listless, unambitious, ever satisfied by their gatherings in the store, to be waiting thus for the arrival of the Flyer and its dead passenger. Waiting for the Flyer was all right. They often stirred themselves up and slouched down to the station to watch the fast train whiz past. One or two of them had even wished that they might some day be carried away from their farms and taken to the outside world on these very rails, black against the snow-stretching side by side down the valley, ever closer and closer, until they finally came together at that point way down yonder beyond which few of these people had ventured-from which not one had returned. Yes, some had wishes-but John Koiner's cow was surprisingly weak, and she had given no milk for quite a while. John would want help down at his place before long. There was a colt, too, just foaled, and there was wood to be gathered, and hams to be cured, and in the spring, corn to be raised, and always--children to be borne. They deserved mockery all right, but there was no one to mock them. As one they deserved it and the only person who could have shamed them was dead. Yet, he would not have scolded had he been still living. That was not his way. Of all the babies that had been born in that languid town in the past century, he was the only one that had grown through boyhood with other thoughts than plowing and hoeing and living there the rest of his life.
Ben Goddard drew away from the group of men and their commonplace remarks. He had been to college. Almost he had traveled the unusual road to "out yonder," but it had been his inheritance, this inability to break away. At that though, he was the only member
of that passive group who could imagine things. The stark coldness of the black rails made him shiver until he looked at the breathing warmth of the snow. He even smiled grimly as he thought of the approaching train and the body in its cold express car and wondered what would happen if a snowflake settled into a pile of black, steel rails. That was it. They were all rails--every one of them,-and this-Ronald Hommel-a snowflake. Any minute he would drop in among them. Dead, to be sure, but still. . . Ben started as the Flyer gave off her weird scream. She did that every night about this time. This same cry that had beckoned Ronald to "out yonder" and seemed to warn everyone else that they should stay where they were. John Koiner's calf, the newly foaled colt, the babies. . The hearse slowly backed up to the opening of the car. Huge hands stretched up from shoving, clumsy bodies. With a thud the coffin was in and the doors latched. He had gone away-the scream of the Flyer had beckoned--<:ould he not have returned some other way?
Goddard lent a hand to the youngster who was climbing down from the now slowly moving car. It was that way with the Flyer. On the few occasions it did have to stop, it hurried away as if afraid that it, too, if it tarried too long, might not be able to pass that point way off down yonder. The stranger's neat city attire was little suited for the rough mile to town.
"Glenn is my name," he said, reaching for Goddard's hand. "Nathan Glenn. I came along with-with-the body. I was one of his pupils."
"I'm Goddard, maybe you've heard Ronald speak of me. I'm the doctor."
"Oh yes, I have heard Mr. Hommel speak of you often." This youth seemed to be entirely at a loss as to how to accept this delegation of home towners who had come down to meet the train. "Is none of the family here?" he asked.
"Well, no, Mr. Glenn. The old gentleman has been sick for quite a while, and this is no trip for ladies. They're all up at the house. You're not dressed for this sort of walking; you'd better jump up with Oscar there on the wagon."
There were three of the townsmen on the hard seat, Oscar Davis, the postmaster; Henry Stone, a farmer from nearby; and Lem Wray, the inevitable ne'er-do-well. Glenn met them all with a nod and clambered aboard. During that ride, which seemed to be unending, he made no pretense at talking to his companions, only speaking in answer to a point blank question. He was amazed at their cold, calcu-
lating manner and tried to keep to his own thoughts, and wondered when they came to a stop in front of a rickety wooden house.
The short, narrow path leading up to the gate was muddy. The gate itself swung to and fro and grated on his nerves. The feeble rays of an oil lamp barely forced their way through the dirty pane of one of the first floor windows. It wasn't possible that such a genius had come from surroundings such as these. But they were taking the coffin out of the hearse and Glenn ran up to it. He felt that something might happen if he were not near it.
Half way up the path they were met by a tall gaunt person, dressed entirely in black, whose loud screams made him fear that they might reach even the ears of Ronald. This shrieking woman was followed by another, so nearly identical at first sight that Glenn noticed no difference in them except that the second was trying to constrain the first.
Her efforts were in vain, however, for with a loud moan the first of the two threw herself upon the front end of the coffin, and its . bearers were forced to put it down in the mud.
Goddard shuddered. Must it be that this man, who had shaken off as had no other the unbearableness of this place, had to return even in death to the filth and slime which covered the lower inches of the coffin? He looked at the young fell ow who had come along from Boston, and wondered what he thought of it all.
Glenn, however, suddenly darted around the group, into the marshy yard, and waded through ankle deep water and half dragged the woman away and into the house. Even this water, which had been standing there for weeks, seemed unable to seep through the ground and must needs settle there to become stagnant.
This hysteria! woman must be the mother. Ugh-and the other was her daughter, the dead man's sister. As Glenn reached the door with his burden, a bent figure, obviously old before his time, reached the bottom of the creaky steps that led into the living quarters of the house. The father, no doubt.
The undertaker ran into the clammy, ill-smelling parlor and put up his stand. The men followed and gently put the coffin in its place. The mother broke away from restraining hands and ran up to it. Her wails were not as they should be as she cried, "Take it off. I want to see my boy." She fell upon the dead son, the while moaning and crying. There were no tears, just noise. As the daughter pulled her away and led her up the stairs the old gentleman limped silently in, and bent over the casket. To Glenn it seemed that none of them
understood, but he saw that the old father at least had tried. The others didn't understand af!d plainly had not made any attempt to do so. The great show of grief, unnatural, by the mother had been repulsive, and it was in a measure soothing to see the wistful, somewhat shameful, glance the father cast upon the face of his dead son.
"He was a good boy, but none of us understood him," he muttered. He was called away by the continuing cries of his wife, and stumbled slowly up the steps.
All but Goddard and Glenn were leaving when "Rev. Reams" arrived. He and Goddard settled down in the room while Glenn walked up and down, trying to be quiet on the squeaky planks. He finally resigned his efforts at combining silence and walking, and sank down in a stiff chair near the door.
He could not reconcile this horrible place with the polished artist who had been his teacher. This domineering mother and a father without the strength of his convictions. This hovel in this impossible town-and Ronald Hommel had come from such as these.
Goddard seemed to be thinking similar things. Presently he quietly said, "I don't suppose you understand this at all, Mr. Glenn. I don't understand it myself. Ronald was always different. I went to college with him. Everyone said we were both foolish. I believed them and came back. Ronald didn't pay any attention to them. He went out to that great beyond of yours. It's a shame that he had to come back again, even in death. But there seems to be no escape from this pig pen of humanity." He got up and tiptoed over to the coffin. "When you look at him and think of these other people who haven't got the courage to be anything but puppets back here, he seems to be from another world. 'Way back, thirty years ago, he would climb the mountain there and walk three miles to see the sun set behind the knob. It was a byword in town that 'Ron was off watching the sun go down.' But he saw things up there that few of us are given to see." He walked back and sat down.
The minister was beginning to speak when the door swung open and the postmaster and Lem Wray came in. They had put the horses up and had come back to sit up with the body. Oscar found a chair by the preacher and sat down. Lem carried a chair across the room and tilted it against the fireless stove. At intervals he would reach over and open the door of the stove and spit in upon the cold grate. Oscar stretched his feet out under the head of the casket, and closing his eyes dropped his head back upon the wall.
"I guess he made quite some at thet paintin' of his," suggested Lem, "I dunno what the old folks'll do with it. They ain't never had none before." Oscar opened his eyes. "I hear he was a right handy one with his brush, Mr. Glenn. It's a pity, though, the way they talk about his drinking. I never took much stock in that. I say that a man can't drink all the time and then make up them pretty picters like he did. Was he really such a wild one?"
Glenn was dumbfounded. These fellow-townsmen, sitting as they were at his coffin, and discussing his faults with the calculating coolness of a commonwealth's attorney. He, Ronald Hommel, the only person who had ever left that town and been a success, one of the greatest painters of the day, subjected to this raking over the coals by morons who knew of nothing but horses and seeds. It made the pupil boil up with suppressed anger. The artist, known far and wide for his painting, "Inspiration," receiving this in his own home.
Glenn thought of this picture. It was the half portrait of a woman Beautiful beyond description, in short-inspiration. He had often asked the master of this canvas. There had been no model. It seemed to have arisen from his dreams and transplanted itself upon the easel. In answer to the question, "Is that your mother, sir?" he had smiled wistfully and said nothing at all. Glenn's reflections were disturbed when a voice at his elbow whispered, "There will be some coffee for you gentlemen in a few minutes." The speaker had slipped in the door unnoticed and was backing out when he looked up. It was a mulatto woman who was softly closing the door. Her face was fami1iar, but she had gone toward the kitchen before the truth dawned upon the youth. He arose and walked softly back to the rear of the house.
There she was, sobbing softly, with her head resting upon the kitchen table-the woman of his master's picture. She looked up as he entered and he was amazed at her beautiful eyes. Never had he seen so much expression in eyes before. They wanted to talk to him, to tell him a story. Glenn softly pulled up a chair and sat down beside her. What had this mulatto to do with Ronald's life. It was her portrait that had gained for him the plaudits of the entire world. She must tell him. . . .
"For years I brought him up thinking that he must leave here as soon as possible and get out into the world of humans," she began. Her voice was tender. It was plain that she had thought a great deal of him. "I taught him that the clouds and the stars and the sun and the wind were beautiful things. I kept him clean of the filthy rut of
the place." She smiled, "I think he loved me. I cannot bear to see him there," she pointed to the front of the house, "with those people. Is there nothing we can do?"
Glenn, too, had wondered if something could not be done. He arose and walked to the parlor door and beckoned to Goddard. Together they went to the kitchen. It was nothing to rig up the wagon, and with no thought of what they were doing save that they knew that he would pref er it; all three went to the parlor. The mulatto stood over him in silent grief. She sobbed gently. There was no noise, but tears.
The ride to the cemetery was short and the freshly upturned mound of earth was easily found.
The three did it alone; Goddard, the mulatto, and Glenn, and as they stood before the bare patted down rectangle, the moon rose above the knob and the silvery light shown full upon this last resting place and seemed to understand with them.
The three stood together on the station platform waiting for the train which was to take Glenn north. As a faint whistle was heard in the distance he turned to the mulatto, "Why did you, a servant in the house, have such an influence upon my master?"
The woman smiled. "I was his mother."
The engine whistled hoarsely as the train slowly pulled out from the station carrying Glenn away into the night. As the lights faded away in the distance the mulatto woman stood on the platform weeping softly.
THE GULLS
WILLIAM MACNEILL
PLEASANT-to lie back in the lee of a wind-swept sand dune by the lake and watch the sky, the ever changing clouds, the restless waters, and the gulls. The dark, white-capped waves break rhythmically on the beach. The wind piles the clouds in pillowy masses, drives them through space, rolls them along the horizon, tears them to wisps, like a child playing among heaps of cotton. The sky was never so blue as now-and never so distant. Far, far up fly the gulls. Floating, circling, banking, swooping, turning, sporting in the air, they pass the long hours. For Time they care not. The sky is theirs. They revel in it as the fish revel in the lake below. The sun flashes on their silvery wings. Children of the air!
It is very comfortable in the Iittle hollow. You are sheltered from the wind and warmed by the sun. Move not a muscle, or you'll remember you have arms and legs instead of wings. Through your half-closed eye-lids the gulls look like winged specks, vanishing and reappearing, swimming in circles through the liquescent sky.
Henley must have been gazing thus at the gulls when he first thought of his lyric, Gulls in an Aery Morrice. Van Dyke watched them flying over the city, and wrote the Sea Gulls of Manhattan. No doubt others also have watched the gulls, but have kept their lyrics in their hearts. And how many there are who never see the gulls at all.
I think I have known them always. The room where I used to sleep faced the lake, and on fine summer mornings the gulls from the harbor would awaken me with their noisy calling. Their sleepy cries were the last sounds I heard at night. Through long long days of illness I watched them from my window. I spent whole afternoons tramping along the shore, and when I stopped for rest, I watched the gulls. They were with us throughout the winter, and I used to sit shivering on the wharf, fascinated by their flying. I have among my puerilia a quatrain on the gulls in winter :
"Above the ice-bound port the gulls float high, Rejoicing in their airy paradise, Then gliding downward from the clear blue sky, Alight and warm their toes upon the ice."
I still think it a good verse-quite neat and epigrammatic, with a naive, paradoxical little twist to the last line, like the unexpected end-
ing of an 0. Henry story. (It's not every poetaster that can be his own critic.)
Be that as it may, the little quirk in the last line is really symbolical of the gull's life. He is one of nature's commonest paradoxes. There is no doubt that he is a beautiful bird. His plumage is of iridescent pearl, and his flying is the beau ideal of airy grace. Yet this master of the sky, whose notes should be joyously musical and whose food should be of the best ( the clean-cut lake trout, for instance) is a harsh screamer and a harbor scavenger. It is disillusioning to know that his marvelous powers of flight and his keen eyesight were given him that he might forage far and wide for refuse and be able to see it from a distance. Those gulls we saw floating so calmly over the lake finally dropped down toward the nearby harbor and fell screaming in the wake of a returning fish-tug, diving into the water and gulping clown huge mouthfuls of the fish entrails thrown overboard by the men. Nature, however, was a poet when she evolved the gull. She made him f eecl on offal, but kept him beautiful in spite of it, or rather because of it.
Waiting
Every day you do not come, A petal flutters from the rose, Its coral beauty fading In its last repose.
Every day you do not come, A little later wakes the dawn; A little sooner quiet dusk Steals across the lawn.
Every day you do not come, My heart still sadder grows With the lateness of the dawn, The dying of the rose.
-M. C. Williamson.
THE LORD'S CHILD
EUGENIA RIDDICK
"YER pa ain't come up yit. Ring the bell while I feed the younguns." The thick smell of boiling cabbage and fat filled the house. Mira could almost feel the grease coating her mouth, and she wiped it hard with the back of her hand. The salty taste of her hand helped and she continued to rest her tongue against it 'till her tongue smarted as if it had been burned. She gave the bell three long pulls, and, as the echo sounded from the mountain side, she came back into the house and leaned against the wall. A rock, lodged in the mud that held the logs together, stuck into her back, and Mira moved into the doorway. Mira looked at her mother, soiled and greasy tending to the children. If she had thought at all she would have thought "you poor dull creature," but Mira didn't think. She had ceased to think long ago, she only felt. Thinking, she knew, would drive her mad. Her solid greasy mother tending to the children. Tending to eight children all living in a two-roomed log cabin with a loft over top. Eight children. Eight dirty, greasy solid children with eight noses that ran and eight mouths that cried. Some day she would be living in a two-roomed log cabin with eight children. She felt it and she trembled and felt sick, weak in her knees and troubled in her stomach.
"Dish up the cabbage, Mira; there's yer pa. The corn pone's under the ashes."
Mira caught hold of the crane and pulled it out until the big black pot hung over the hearth. She dished up the limp cabbage with great hunks of fat meat
Heavy feet stumbled against the stone block outside, and a huge, gaunt giant stooped his shoulders to come into the cabin. This was Mira's father. Both of them were large and thin, yet with a suggestion of something delicate or fragile in their very boniness. Both had mouths that were grim. Grim from life rather than from determination. But their eyes were eyes that haunted men, good and bad alike. Deep black eyes, yet holding a certain clearness in them. Clear in their resentment; clear in their reproach. The resentment made Mira's eyes burn with a light which some people mistook for spirit. The brightness had long since burned from her father's eyes, only the resentment was left.
"Squire Singlon's nigger John come down to the lower field." Silence, save for the crunching of corn bread.
"Whadid he want ?"
"He said the nex' time he cotched me settin' traps on his plot he were gwin to tel' the squire."
"Hm, nex' tim~ I cotch any black brats a-thievin' my mellons I'm gonna git the ax after 'em. I'll kill them black devils."
"You kill one o' the squire's niggers and you'll .see him agin, sooner than you 'spected to."
"Then I'll kill 'em. I aint feared of black or white or red devils. I ain't gonna have 'em hanging over my fence an' callin' me po' white trash!" Mira spoke with feeling, and her eyes flamed up. Perhaps after all she had inherited a little spirit, along with her name, from one of her more fortunate ancestors.
"You shet yo' mouth," said her mother. "Settin' there an' callin' on the devil. It ud serve you right if he come and gotcha right now, 'fore your time."
Mira shrank not an inch. Why should she believe in a Devil any more than in a God? The preacher talked about both, and she was sure there was no God. Then why should there be a Devil. The preacher was lying and Mira knew it. She never got religion at the meetings. Her mother did at every meeting, yet Mira could not see that she was any happier or better off for having gotten it. Mira went to the meetings. Of course, she went, every time there was one. Anything to break the deathly strain of her monotonous life. She went and sat and grew colder, while all around her swayed and sobbed. She would go tonight. She would have to go to help her mother back home, tired and worn from three hours of high emotional strain.
Mira cleared the table, while her mother nursed the youngest. It was hot, and Mira had to scoop off a fly that had got his feet caught in the melting butter. In a little while she would slip away from her mother, unnoticed, and go to the forest. She would go to the little stream that fed the spring and take off all her clothes and lie in the cool fresh young grass. It was only like this that Mira forgot to feel, she lost herself in the tender young grass and the rippling stream. Then she was nothing, she was nature again, just as the grass and the stream were nature. Then she was happy. Some times she would lie like this for hours, with the warmness on her back or stomach, until the sun would go down and the dew would begin to collect on the ground. Then she would get chilled and
dress and go home. Back to her solid greasy mother with her eight noisy children.
Mira and her mother went to the meetings regularly. Sometimes her father went with them, but often he was too tired. People began to gather early after sundown at the little log church. Tired people all of them, who came for the excitement their natures craved. The church was almost filled when Mira and her mother got there. They found a seat near the front, and seated themselves on the hard bench. The preacher rose from his chair, and every one was quiet. He reminded Mira somehow of her father, tall and lean and lank. But this man had a hungry grasping look in his eyes instead of reproach or resentment.
"Brethren and Sistren," he began in a toneless voice. "I take my text this evening from the Book of John: 'And the Lord sayeth, whatsoever ye ask in My name that shall be given unto you.' Brethren, how many of you really ask the Lord's advice? It was Him that said 'if you have faith you can move mountains,' yet you don't ask the Lord's help in the least thing. Give the Lord His chance, brethren; ask Him for His help.'' On , on the preacher went. Sometimes his voice rose so high it was a shriek; sometimes it sank to an almost inaudible whisper. The meeting house was depressingly hot. Mira's head throbbed in rhythm to the preacher's words. Aska Cord, the big Swede, loosed his collar and great beads of perspiration ran down his red face. The mourners' bench was fast filling up. Mira's mother had already gone. There was great moaning and patting of feet and swaying of bodies. In one corner an old man, too decrepit to really shout, swayed and moaned "Amen! Amen!"
Sarah Binks at once end of the bench began to twitch. "She's getting the jerks again," Mira thought. All around her, women overcome by their emotions, rose and screamed, tearing at their hair and clutching the people next to them. Only Mira remained calm and distant through it all. God had never done anything for her. She knew there was no God. Suddenly the preacher leaned forward and shouted :
"The devils are here! I see 'em. Oh sinners, give yourself to the Lord. The Lord will help you fight 'em. Come over to His side!"
Sarah Binks gave one mighty twitch, and flinging wide her arms, she cried : "Oh Lord, take your child!"
Mira jumped, frightened by this scream so close to her, and as she jumped the preacher caught her eye.
"Oh woman, woman, the Lord is descending. See Him! See Him! He's battling for you, woman!" the preacher was pointing his finger at Mira, "He's battling for you, woman, but the devil's holding you tight. See Him! See Him! Oh woman, come to the Lord's side. Help Him fight the devil. The devil's coming closer, woman. He's coming closer, he's coming closer. He's got you, woman! He's got you!"
A great frenzy shook Mira. She trembled and shook violently. She rose from her seat, shaking all over, and with her eyes rolling in a wild manner. With one mighty leap she landed in the aisle, and she ran out of the church, frenzied and wild.
Mira ran and ran, stumbling over stones and ditches. Finally she hurled herself into a great tree, and sank to the ground, sobs racking her body. She heaved as she cried until it seemed her sides would touch.
"I clone cotched yer at yer tricks."
Mira sprang to her feet, the sobs leaving her in a great fear that clutched at her throat and made her feel sick and weak. She was looking into the leering face of Singlon's nigger John. She screamed with all the breath the sobs had left to her, and yet she could not make a sound. She screamed again. Surely this time her sob would rend the air and bring her help. She heard no sound save the threatening sound the nigger's smile seemed to make. She knew what it meant. Her kind knew what a smile like that meant. vVhy couldn't she scream? Perhaps she had gone deaf and couldn't hear her own cnes.
"Oh Lord, oh Goel," that was it. "'The Lord is your refuge, come unto Him, sinners. Ask and it shall be given unto you.' Oh Goel, oh Lord, I'm askin', oh Goel, I'm askin', oh Lord, I'm askin'. 'Ask and it shall be given unto you.' Oh Goel, I'm askin'. What am I askin'? Oh Goel, I'm askin' ."
Suddenly her mind cleared, and she heard the crunching sound of carriage wheels over dry dirt. Now she would scream. She opened wide her mouth. She pushed the air from out her lungs so harshly that her throat was made quite raw. The only sound she heard was nigger John's, "I gotcha now."
Mira felt him coming towards her. She struck his face and ran into the road. The horses were close, very close. She could feel their breath hot against her cheek.
"Oh God, I asked you!" she said, and with another leap she sank into the ditch on the other side of the road. But the horses reared, for their hoofs had struck something soft, soft and black.
"Whoa!" rang out a negro voice.
"What's that, Tim?"
"De horses done run down something. I 'low, Marse Benjamin."
The carriage door opened and Squire Singlon, with a lantern in his hand, walked over to the object lying in the road.
"Well, I'll be damned. It's that fool nigger John. Now, what was he doing in the road this time o' night. Hm, run down my own nigger. He was a good, strong nigger, too. Hey, you black rascal! Quit sitting up there like you were frozen. Come, help me pile him into the carriage. Dead as a door nail, though. The horses' hoofs crushed his skull."
The carriage crunched away.
Mira lay crumpled in the ditch. Slowly the realization of what had happened crept over her. Slowly her heart began to beat out:
"You did it, God. You did it, God. You did it, God!" faster and faster and louder each time, until the words were ringing all over her body, in and out of her ears. She rose and almost seemed to float back to the church. Her body was twitching in time to her heart beats of:
"You did it, God, you did it, God." Suddenly she screamed. This time she heard her scream:
"Get that devil off me, get him off ! I'm on yo' side now, Lord !" She threw herself into the church and with her arms flung wide from her body she sang out, "Oh Lord, take yo' child!" Then she fell to the floor, writhing and with foam flecking the corners of her mouth.
And the old man sitting in the corner moaned "Amen! Amen!"
VIN D'HONNEUR
BY ONE WHO w AS THERE
THERE are some events in connection with my stay in France during the war and for eight months of the period of the Armistice that seem to come back to me oftener than others. Strange as it may seem it is not the scenes of hon-or and suffering and strife and chaos that come most vividly to mind, but rather those things which were amusing or had no bearing whatever upon the war. Two of the events that I remember most vividly are the marriage of one of my soldier friends to a French girl, at which I was best man, and a banquet given by the city of Dijon, France, to the students of the University.
Both of these happened after the signing of the Armistice and while I was a student at the University of Dijon. Each is a story within itself and should be so treated.
I was fortunate enough to be among the men selected from the American army to attend a French University. I was ordered to Dijon in the heart of the Cote D'or region in the center of the most famous wine section of all France. The country round .about is noted for its grapes and the manufacture of Burbon wine and for its women with large breasts. The women pride themselves on this latter.
After some considerable traveling in which a goodly portion of France was covered I arrived at the old city to which I had been directed and matriculated at its famous seat of learning. Soon after the special session for the American students had begun we were given a reception at the opera house. The opera house in Dijon is owned by the city, and it is possible for one to see for a few francs the best operas in all France, as they make their journey from Paris to the southern seacoast. The best seats in the house sell for about a dollar, including war tax. Much formality prevailed at this reception, and many long speeches were made while most of us slipped out and across the street to a noted caf e. The formal reception, however, proved not to be the only way of welcoming the Americans to this old historic city.
Cards were soon sent out to each American student, to each French student both men and women, to many American nurses, Y. M. C. A. canteen workers, and to a few officers of organizations quartered in or near Dijon. These were invitations to be present at a wine dinner to be given in the Hotel d'Ville. Much excitement was caused by the reception of these invitations. Many of the
American students debated whether it would be more enjoyable to go or to spend the evening at a cafe or show. We were afraid that it would be too formal for us. Seven months on the front had caused me to lose all desire for attending formal affairs. We knew that we had lost all of our manners and found it hard to change from those of the trench, dug-out and rest billet to those of the Salle des Estats de Bourgogne.
Although not really intending to go to the Vin D'Honneur several of us, my most intimate friends and I, put on our tailor-made uniforms and tan shoes and best leggins and slicked our hair down under our overseas caps and went over and stood opposite the entrance to the banquet hall. We wanted to see who would be present. We saw and seeing changed our minds about going. Fishing our cards out of our pockets, we presented them at the door and dimbed the long flight of stairs that led to the long brilliantly lighted hall.
Along the center of the long room ran a narrow table upon which sat a double row of long slender handled glasses and a double row of bottles sitting as close together as they could without crowding each other off. An orchestra was half hidden behind beautiful palms, and at the far end of the room, on a raised dais decorated with red, white and blue flags, sat the mayor of the city and the president of the university. No chairs were placed at the table, but a few were sitting along the wall and in these were seated the women students of the university. We had hardly had time to get a good look at the co-eds when the orchestra struck up the "Marseilles." This was followed by the "Star-Spangled Banner." Vve all stood at attention and listened to these beautiful strains; especially were we stirred, that is the American contingent, by our own national song.
We could not help but think of how in this same hall, where soldiers from a foreign country across the seas were now standing as honored guests listening to their own national air, the victorious troops of Dijon had been welcomed home for centuries past. The hall was hundreds of years old and men in armor, such as could be seen in the museum in another wing of that great building, had trod its floor with clinking spur and sword.
The music was hushed and the mayor arose to deliver his speech. We sighed. He had spoken at the formal reception given us at the opera house and we remembered the length of his speech. But we were delightfully surprised. It is not hard to quote the mayor's entire speech: "Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the city of Dijon I welcome you here. Before me is a table and extending off to my
right in this room is another. [We stretched our necks and saw that the room of which he spoke was as long as the one in which we stood and that its table was just as crowded with bottles as the one in the room where we were.] On these tables you will find the best Burbon wines and champagnes that this country produces. Drink to the health of President Poincaire; drink to the health of President Wilson; drink to the health of all of your friends."
Each guest then took his glass in hand and started around the room. When he met a friend, and all present were friends, they would touch glasses and drink to the health of each other and to the health of their various friends who did not happen to be present. As soon as the glasses were empty, a waiter, of which there were a great number, would rush forward and replenish the supply. Each waiter carried three bottles , two in his left hand with the necks running up through his fingers and one in his right. When the one in his right hand was empty, he exchanged it for a full one from his left. When all were empty he rushed back to the supply room for more.
The American soldiers were considered as good fighters as any on the field of battle, but they also had the reputation of being the worst swearers , the best lovers, the meanest fist fighters, and the biggest drinkers of any troops in the world. On the night of the Vin D'Honneur the American students certainly carried off the drinking honors. They beat the French at their own game. The banquet had hardly gotten under way before some of the co-eds had to be assisted down the long flight of steps leading from the hall.
In one of my rounds of the hall I met a Y. M. C. A. worker who was holding to the table with one hand and to her glass with the other. She was anxious to explain to me that she had stayed after some of the other American girls had left in order to uphold the honor of the organization. She thought it shameful that some of the other girls had had to leave. I did not say so, but I thought that it would have been better if she had gone home a hour or two earlier.
The chaplain, from the post just outside the city, explained that the reason he was there was to keep the colonel from getting drunk. He had to hug me around the neck and lean against the wall as he explained his presence at such a banquet. If he got home that night the colonel, who knew how to carry his drinks, had to carry him.
As the night grew older the gathering grew smaller. Finally one of the few French students who was left informed us as he hung over a chair that the French were going to beat up the Americans, but
since we had all gotten drunk they would have pity on us. He said he couldn't lead his men against us when we were in such condition. Lucky for them that he thought that way about it. He would have changed his i:nind had he seen that crew on leave in some little village just after pay-day. We, however, just to amuse him, carried him to the top of the stairs and sat him down. We never knew whether or not he wore out the seat of his trousers, as he made his exit, but some of the men swore that they saw the fire fly as he went down. He did not come back.
On my return to the hall I was met by the adjutant of the school detachment, who happened to be from the same State as the writer. He was sure that we had not pledged each other's health on that evening, and was also sure that we hadn't drunk to the health of the girls of our State nor to the State itself. The waiters were putting away the bottles and insisted that the captain and I both had had enough, but our tip was large enough to get another bottle. The captain could play the piano so we sang "Carry Me Back to Ole Virginny," and were going to sing some more for our own benefit and that of half dozen other American soldiers who had weathered the storm, but the head waiter insisted that it was time to turn out the lights.
I was helped to my feet by a couple of military police who were standing at the foot of that long flight of stairs especially for that purpose. They explained that they had been detailed to help all who had attended the banquet to reach their places of residence. The entire company had been kept busy for the past two hours. Among those who had been carried home was the provost marshall of that area. One of the police started down the street with me, but soon saw that I could navigate a fairly straight course, so returned to his quarters.
I had some trouble catching my bed as it flew round and round the room, but otherwise considered myself lucky. My room-mate didn't get home for a couple of days. The next morning, however, I found my room in a state of considerable disorder, so much so that I thought an explanation due my landlady. She tossed her head, and said anything was excusable in anyone after attending a Vin D'Honneur given by the city of Dijon.
PIERROT THE GREAT
LAWRENCE N. BLOOMBERG
ABLINDING spotlight courses its way up and down an enormous stage. In the center of this flare. a fantastic figure leaps high into the air, turns several flips and lands nimbly on his feet; this is followed by a series of other expert tumbling tricks. The man stops, his breath coming in gasps, and makes a pathetically funny bow. Roars of applause and laughter resound throughout the great theatre. The orchestra strikes up a lively tune and a dozen clowns break through the paper on a gigantic hoop and begin to go through their mirth exciting antics to the hilarious enjoyment of the crowd. There is one, the chief of clowns, who runs back and forth across the stage pointing out this and that, doubling himself up with laughter, or thrusting strange countenances to the audience. They laughed . and laughed. He laughed . . . . and laughed . . . until the tears ran down the paint-besmeared face. Soon, it was over . the curtain fell. The theatre was haunted with an empty silence.
In one of the side wings of the stage a little girl of about ten years stood watching the performance. It was the first time that she had seen the show from backstage. Many times, ever since she could first remember, she had heard about this mysterious world of ropes, pulleys, grease paint, props, and costumes . . . all of them were more or less vague terms to her childish mind, but here they were, and she was interested. The deep blue of her innocent eyes shone radiant with delight.
"Oh, Gamby, look!" she said, clapping her hands in high glee when she saw the funny man dressed like a rooster making a highpitched noise, "Cockle, doodle, dooo."
She drew back a little when a man with an enormous hatchet cut off the rooster's head; the body flipped and flopped about wildly, then sang into a heap.
"Gamby, why did they do that?" she said, a little tearfully. But just then the head of a clown appeared where the neck of the rooster had been. The head turned towards her and she saw a wink and a broad smile.
"Oh, it's Daddy dear!" In spite of the paint and disguise she knew him. He had often dressed up just like that and played with her, and winked like that and smiled like that. She, too, laughed . . . and laughed.
She, too, saw the final curtain go down; the orchestra boomed out an exit march as the people filed sluggishly along the aisles. Soon there was silence.
This was the zenith of his power; as he stood poised in a precarious position, he saw the curtain rise and the painful spotlight was turned upon him . . . he welcomed it. Unrelentingly, the glare followed him, watched him, and showed plainly his every movement. He bathed in it, reveled in it, took a deep breath to inhale the exhilarating atmosphere of a "first night" and went on with the show.
He gazed out over the maze of faces, but saw nothing but eyes . . . eyes . . . watching him him. Suddenly a face stood out before him, it was so near that he felt that he could reach out and touch it. Is it she? Yes, by God, he thought, it is. So she had come to see him; he had attained the heights and she had come. A tear, or so, coarsed down his cheek. Those who were close enough to see it, thought it had been manufactured for the little puppies that were being put into a huge grinder and coming out on the other side in the shape of sausages.
"Isn't he just wonderful?" they whispered to one another; most of them knew that he took the business of being funny, seriously. To him, it was an art; he had an ardent desire to perfect it. The newspapers had given columns of space to this new kind of clowning. Glowing tributes to its originator filled many news stories and interviews. They told of his early life, his childhood ambitions, the inevitable struggle to succeed, but there was one part of his life, an unwritten chapter, which he kept bitterly to himself.
For many minutes he and other clowns kept the crowd in an uproar, hearty laughs from the most merrily inclined, chuckles from the more reserved, and at least smiles from the most icy of dispositions, but from one . . . tears.
He caught a glimpse of Margie Dee, in the same spot where he had put her to see the performance, just after he had finished that rooster trick. He winked at her, sadly he thought to himself; she clapped her hands and laughed. Then followed a series of cartwheels; when he finally came to his feet, the world spinning around before him, that one face flashed and reflashed before his eyes so quickly that he blinked.
The remainder of his performance was machine like; he laughed because it was time to laugh, but sometimes cried when it was not
time to cry. Everyone enjoyed it; the newspapers next mornmg spoke of his wonderful exhibit of "spontaneous humor."
After an interminably long evening, the last curtain made its way downward, only to ascend and descend several more times, until the people were fully satisfied with seeing the star of the performance, the great Pierrot.
As soon as it was over, he rushed over to the side wing where Margie Dee, despite the red paint, threw her arms around him and kissed him; this left her face bathed in a crimson smile. He took her under one of his arms, and with the other caught hold of Gamby and dragged both away to his dressing room.
Margie Dee plunked herself down into the soft comfort of a deep easy chair and began to dig into a large box of chocolates which stood so temptingly near. Gamby took the great Pierrot by the shoulders. "\,Vhat a triumph for you, my son; you turned them this way and that; made them laugh or cry, as you wished. It is art. How I wished that I . . ."
"It was all of my body tonight, but only part of my soul . . . the other part was yours. I've come to realize all that I owe to you. Never leave me, Gamby, no matter what happens," Pierrot answered, "I must be strong."
Gamby seemed to ignore most of what was said to him. "If only I hadn't turned to look at her that night, I, too, might be famous," he said, looking down at the hopelessly crippled leg and grasping his cane clenchingly. Then it dawned upon him, the import of what Pierrot had said. "Ever since I fell from that trapeze four years ago, you have cared for me. Whatever I can give to you, more than belongs to you . . . you and Margie Dee."
The older and the younger man shook hands solemnly, neither saying another word.
"Gamby, here's a chocolate peppermint for you," broke in a treble voice, driving away an ogre of silence and thoughts. "But, Daddy, there aren't any gum drops for you. Why don't you get the kind you like?'
"Well, you give Gamby the chocolate peppermints, and then pick out some for me. I'll leave it up to you," answered Pierrot, as he stuck his hand into a jar of cold cream and put some on his face.
Margie Dee slipped out of the arm chair and went over to where Gamby was sitting and held out the box of candy. "There are the peppermints," she said, pointing them out, "now let me see what
Daddy would like." Finally she decided and took out two pieces which she extended to her father.
"Do you like this kind?" asked Pierrot.
"Not much," she answered.
"Then why did you give them to me?"
"Because they're the largest," answered Margie Dee reassuringly.
The two men threw back their heads and laughed . The little girl grinned merrily and went back to the arm chair. Pierrot suddenly turned serious, "Come here, little laqy," he said, "and let me get that red paint off of your face. You look like a little Indian."
"An Indian, Daddy?" questioned Margie Dee, as she hesitatingly went over and let her father rub some cold cream on her face and then wipe the paint off with a towel.
There came a knock from without. Pierrot answered the door, opening it only on a crack. A card was thrust in. He took it. "Mrs. Harvey Chesterton" the card read. Pierrot passed his hand over his eyes, then turned and looked at Margie Dee, who was now engaged in confident conversation with Gamby. He hesitated a moment; his face fi~led with a sardonic smile , "No," he said to himself, "I am still just a clown," then he said to the porter without , "Tell Mrs. Chesterton that I am not well; I can't see her tonight; some other time I should indeed be glad to have the honor."
He shut the door and raised his eyes to heaven. "God forgive me, but she won't see Margie Dee if I can help it."
That was all that was heard of Mrs. Harvey Chesterton for quite a while, for after her second husband died she became attracted by a royal title and went to live abroad with her third.
Then followed happy days, eight years slipped by without trouble. Success followed success, theatres all over the country clambered for an engagement of Pierrot and his troupe; for, during the off season in New York, he would make a tour of all of the larger cities where he played to packed houses. He had made an art of clowning and was hailed throughout the world as the greatest fun-maker of them all. Crowned heads and statesmen, soldiers and laymen laughed as he laughed and cried when he cried.
The humble flat, which had been the scene of their early struggles, gave way to a beautiful apartment, luxuriously furnished.
He belonged to the best clubs, was a well-known figure at the races, was honored with the presidency of the Lamb's Club. But he
was happiest when on an outing with Gamby and Marge, the childhood Margie Dee having faded into disuse, but not oblivion.
The world looked up to him as the happiest of mortals. Even the minute observation under the spotlight , so often producing scandal, failed to induce aught but admiration and respect.
Marge was thrilled with life; she was eighteen and very beautiful. Not every young girl was accorded the honors that had been heaped upon her. She had traveled the world over with Gamby and Daddy; had visited strange lands and had seen queer things and people. But why was her Daddy so jealously careful of her? He seemed to resent young men showing attentions to her . Quite according to her true feminine qualities, however, she followed them, and fell desperately in love with a young embassy attache whom she had met in Vienna and was now returned to his home town, New York, awaiting a further appointment.
Her father had been indulgent to the fullest extent of his large wealth and she loved him devotedly. She thrilled to each of his new successes and was immensely proud of him . . . but now she was in love. The heart which had held only the thought of him and Gamby now harbored another. The first two had to move over a little for the third.
Today she was extremely happy; last night he had asked her to be his wife. He had been just about to put the ring on her finger when she had stopped him, "Y ou'II have to ask Daddy first." She went over to the mantel above which hung a picture of the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, her mother. "I wish that you could know him," she said endearingly to the picture, "you would love him."
It was a fine morning, brisk and invigorating; a warming sun streamed in at the window when Pierrot tumbled out of bed at ten, as was his custom, and slipped into his house slippers to run to the bath for an exhilarating shower. Fifteen minutes later he was fully dressed and entered the drawing room, where he found Marge staring at her mother's picture.
He hesitated for a moment, and then cheerily and in the best of spirits he said, "Good m orning , Marge dear. Out a bit late last night, weren't you?"
She ran up to him and threw her arms about his neck and smothered him with kisses. "Good morning, Daddy dear. Yes, it was a bit late when I came in, but you didn't mind, did you?"
Pierrot only smiled and patted Marge's cheek. He had now come to the realization that he couldn't always have her for just his own.
"Daddy, come here and sit down; I've something to tell you." She led him over to a big chair, pushed him down into it and jumped into his lap. "Supposing I were to get married, what would you think of that?" she began. ·
"Why, Marge, you aren't . . ." ejaculated Pierrot, his face clouding, "you aren't thinking of that yet; you are too young."
"Yes, Daddy, I am; Tom asked me last night."
"And what did you say?"
"I said that it was up to you."
"Of course, Tom is a very fine young man, but I'll have to think it over. Are you sure that you love him?"
"Oh, yes! When . . . when will you let us know?"
"Tonight after the show; you, Tom, and Gamby meet me and we'll have a little supper together."
Pierrot turned away to choke back the tears that were rising to his eyes; he went and put on his hat and overcoat, then left the apartment, mumbling something about an early appointment that he had down town, about a new show.
Marge married Tom and they all lived happily together, as had been agreed. Pierrot and Gamby kept together and interfered with the young folks as little as possible, but they were both near their Margie Dee.
But the Fates would not have it so; Tom received an appointment to the Paris legation and Marge must go away with him.
They were going to sail tomorrow ! Marge had been trying to choke back the tears all day, but they burst out just after supper and she sank sobbing on the sofa. Pierrot did his best to comfort her and told her that it would only be a short while before he would be over to Paris to see her and that any time that she felt that she wanted to, she could come over to see him . . . although tears were in his own eyes.
It was a sad and lonely pair that entered the empty apartment that afternoon; they had just returned from the dock where the Mauritania had carried away their treasure.
"Well, she's gone," said Pierrot.
"I can't realize it," answered Gamby . . . and there was no Margie Dee to say, "Gamby, here's a chocolate peppermint for you."
Then followed lonesome days; the only relief was work, work, work. The brain wracking job of trying to keep people amused began to tell on Pierrot; he lay awake at nights thinking; his hair commenced to turn grey. He kept to himself, was no longer seen at the clubs and races.
To top it all, Gamby contracted pneumonia , and after a short illness died. Pierrot was distracted; he had loved Gamby devotedly . "Oh God," he said aloud after he returned home from laying Gamby's remains away, "why do you take one after another of my dearest friends away from me?"
There only remained to him his love of the stage, his art, his work. How he labored that his success might not be tempered with a failure here or there! The children idolized him, grown up folks enjoyed his antics. "When a man can be a child's delight, stirring thousands to innocent laughter, he has not lived unworthily."
But he was not happy . . . a talent for humor and laugh provoking antics is only too likely to be not the expression of a natural light-heartedness in the individual, but a refuge, conscious or subconscious, from the hobgoblins of melancholy.
He received glowing letters from Marge and would read and re-read them, sitting alone in front of a dying fire, most of the time after midnight, when the show and the daily shamming was over . . . but it was his life.
It was winter; white flakes were falling outside when Pierrot turned over in bed and looked out of the window. He tried to get up and a sharp stab of pain shot through his leg; it was intense. All that he could do was to call out, "Charles, Charles," to his valet.
Charles came running into the room : "What is it, sir?" he said.
"Send for a doctor at once, Charles; I don't know what is the matter with my leg, I can hardly move it."
It was not long before the favorite physician of the camaraderie of actors was at the bedside of the great Pierrot. It seemed like ages until the doctor spoke, "Bad case of inflammatory rheumatism, I'm afraid ; it will take a long time, but I think that I can cure you. Complete rest and this medicine three times a day," he said, writing a prescription from his tablet.
"You . . . you mean that I can't go to the theatre . . . tonight. . . . I have to," stammered Pierrot.
"Absolutely not, sir, and furthermore I should suggest that you never do again the acrobatic tricks to which you have been accustomed; it will be dangerous after this attack," answered the doctor with all the innate hardness of the experienced physician.
"But it will spoil my acts. . . . "
"Better spoil your acts than your life, sir. Any violent usage of that leg is liable to bring on infection and if that occurs, who knows what might happen?"
"Thank you; good day," and Pierrot sank back.
"Good day, sir; remember, a complete rest. I'll be to see you in the morning," said the doctor, leaving the room.
It fell upon Pierrot like a mill stone. Never again to go upon the stage that meant so much to him . . . even life itself! He would send for Marge; he must see her. No, why bother her for a little thing that he could remedy himself? Better dead as the great Pierrot than pitied as the faltering Pierrot, as he thought.
The emptiness of his life flashed before him . . . and he could see nothing beyond . . . only years, years, empty ones. Marge would come and care for him if he cabled, but why spoil her blossoming young life with a burden of care and trouble. She was happily married and would be cared for if he . . . if he should die. She would have plenty of money left to her. Yes, he had decided.
"Charles, bring me some paper and a pen," he called.
He propped himself up in bed as best he could and wrote. "Dearest Margie Dee: By the time that this reaches you, I shall have passed into the great beyond. Forgive me if you can . . . the doctor says that I can never go upon the stage again, the stage which is the breath of my body and the beat of my heart. I could never go along like that. . . . There is something else that I feel that you should know . . . your mother is not dead, as I have led you to believe; she lives in Paris, the Countess Villier du Bois. . . . When you were a little tot and I was a struggling mountebank, a wealthy man fell in love with her; she left me, said that I was just a common clown and always would be, but I have shown her . . . Yet I loved her and have done so throughout the years of our separation. Find her and tell her that .... Now, my dearest, goodbye . . . you have meant everything to me . . . forgive me and pray for me .... Love, me, and remember me. Daddy."
Then he reached for his check book and filled out a check, and wrote another letter of instructions to Charles which he placed in the same envelope as the one to Marge.
"Charles," he called, "take this message to the nearest office and send it for me; cable it to the address on the envelope."
As soon as Charles had gone from the room, Pierrot dragged himself from the bed over to a trunk which he opened with some difficulty. He took out one costume after another and laid them on the floor. The pain was terrific. Finally he picked out a clown suit of white and black . . . his favorite and slipped it on as best he could. He crawled across the floor dragging his lame leg behind him until he reached his dressing table, then he slowly pulled himself up into the chair. The familiar jar of cold cream stood before him; he took some of it out and rubbed it on his face. He took his entire set of make-up out of the drawer and spread the boxes before him. Finally, he succeeded in reproducing the character . . . the one which had been loved by the public for years. He smiled, laughed a little even . . . hysterically. His hand crept into another drawer, from which he drew a shiny automatic. He drew himself up to full height and looked steadily into the mirror . . . a sharp report!
Pierrot, the great, had played the last act alone and rung down the final curtain . . . himself.
Spray
The spray will beat against the rocks tonight, And broken waves will feel their way along The rugged shore; rushing with all their might Among the crags, asleep, below my feet. Rending the air with their saddening song.
So close, so close they beat Like a shuddering roll of thunder, As the waves so closely wander To nearly touch my feet .
And now they break and beat a sad retreat From 'round the sands and crags below my feet. I sit and sigh, and pray, now let me roam O'er seas that lure me with their white-capped foam, And break my heart with their enchanting song.
-Robert Cavais.
RICHMOND COLLEGE
M. S. SHOCKLEY, Editor-in-Chief
WELLFORD TAYLOR, Business Manager
ELMER POTTER, Assistant Editor H. G. KINCHELOE, Assistant Editor
LLOYD CASTER, Staff Artist
WESTHAMPTON COLLEGE
ELINOR PHYSIOC, Editor-in-Chief
CATHERINE BRANCH, Ass't Editor MILDRED ANDERSON, Business Mgr.
EMERALD BRISTOW, Staff Artist
EDITORIAL
CAMPUS and dormitory life is still veiled from the outside world by the rosy anticipation of high school seniors and the equally colorful reminiscences of alumni. In fact, the true picture of college days is as closely shrouded as the lady of seven veils. The movies have played up to every time-worn characteristic of fraternity men and sorority women; and who has not subsisted for a greater part of one's adolescence on the flashing hero and heroine of "college series" in fiction as food for thought?
Beginning with our own high school days the vogue of collegiate swept the land. But this fashion was not limited to the student alone. Office boys, stenographers, society buds, and tea hounds sought to emulate the clothing, conversation and manners of college youths. Magazines were evolved to meet the demand for college humor and customs. The world went wild over football, and is at this moment. Until 1924 this wave of enthusiasm for the undergraduate had not reached its peak. But with our advent into a small university we began to realize that coon-skin coats, be-sloganed tin lizzies and voluminous trousers played a very meagre part in campus activities. We found out that women students got marcels only on gala occasions and that they wore orchid corsages once a year only, and even then they might not have the good fortune to have a "steady."
However, the outside world still reveled in its ridiculous delusion, and the college series movies and fiction retained its popularity. This
year we are delighted to read articles in several leading magazines and newspapers striving at last to present the true situation to the misguided public.
We are not speaking of educational methods. We are trying to emphasize the need for a truthful presentation of collegiate atmosphere to the magazine-reading and movie-going hordes. It appears that an undergraduate should be the one most fitted to offer the world an authetic piece of fiction which might show forth that all students aren't grinds, do not wear horn-rimmed spectacles and neither are they flaming youths in sporty cars disdaining all study. If this is so, we make a plea that the masterpiece of college life be started, be finished and even, here we get reckless, printed in installments in THE MESSENGER.
