EDITORIAL DEPARTMENT Richmond College Westhampton College
BUSINESS DEPARTMENT
WELLFORD TAYLOR MILDRED ANDERSON • Richmond College Westhampton College
Vol.LIII MAY, 1928
CONTENTS
FAINT ECHO (Short Story) Helen Covey
OPINION (Poem)
Mildred Anderson
" LATE, LATE YESTERE'EN (Sketch) . Mildred Anderson
DIE TOLLE (Dramatic Sketch) Elmer Potter
CUTHBERT WHOOSIS , Ex '25
Leslie L. Jone s RECOMPENSE (Poem)
Mildred Anderson
ONE OF MAN'S VERY OLD SEARCHES (Short Story) Francis Franklin
THE Su1cIDE RING (Short Story)
REVIEWS EDITORIAL 0. A. Lundin, Jr.
$2.00 THE COLLEGE YEAR 35 CENTS A COPY
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 he addressed to the Business Managers . Entered as second-class matter at the postoffice at the University of Rich • mond, Virginia Copyright 1927, by Wellford Taylor.
FAINT ECHO
HELEN COVEY
MRS. NICHOLAS B. MANNING, the former Princess Sara of Russia, had arrived at the hospital to pay a visit. She could see whispering nurses, their caps a little askew on lank pale hair, appear at the windows to stare at the silken richness of her sables, the long straight lines of her figure, the chauffeur's crisp black smartness. Creatures, eyeing her critically! She remembered wistfully then how her wedding procession had passed twelve years ago between two rows of Russian peasants, her father's serfs, who had not dared to lift their bowed heads , to adore her festal beauty with smoldering eyes. And these American creatures stared! One could not object to that now. Even those innocuous peasants had lifted their eyes to the sacred person of the Czar, and had slaughtered him; the mere nobility had found it necessary to endure all things , suffer all things. Mrs. Nicholas Manning shuddered delicately, as she entered the hospital.
A little haughtily she explained to the superintendent just why they were having the honor. "A note, you remember, which you mailed to me three clays ago , supposed to have been written by a Russian woman here. I have decided to see her. It was a quaint stately note, you must understand, or I should never have noticed it. In very good Russian Is she still living?"
Highly excitable? Well, one could guess that after seeing the irregular, wavering handwriting of the note. Reticent? Very proud? A typical Russian, then, of the old regime. Tuberculosis? That faintly suggested Siberia. Much about this unknown woman faintly suggested things.
Imagine having to wait while this strange invalid was being asked whether she cared to receive Mrs. Nicholas B. Manning! In Russia, the Princess Sara had waited for no one at all-except, of course, the Czar and his family. But that had been a coveted privilege-to attend the scarlet pomp of the imperial presence and the calm dignity of his daughters. Sara had even had the honor of giving precedence to that most womanly queen, too gracious to be a formidable ruler. If only the world had not come to an encl in a deluge of carnage! The former Princess was a little sad, reflecting the regal tone of her reminiscences in the dignity of her posture as she stood beside a window where the afternoon sun threw a lemon-tinted scarf of light over the lustre of her furs, over the cool glint of a dull silver necklace.
Oh, she would see her visitor at last? So kind, indeed ! Mrs. Nicholas B. Maning, fully conscious of the importance of her former exalted position and present prestige, entered the darkened room with a queenly step.
The woman in the narrow white bed greeted her with a quiet "Sara!" and extended her hand. A thin square hand, strong, but with a droop at the wrist strangely suggestive of kisses imprinted on it by fervent worshippers. Mrs. Manning chose to ignore the gesture and its implications of superiority. The hand dropped, and after a cold moment of silence the woman spoke again. "You have not yet recognized me, Sara? You think that I do not resemble the Princess Anastasia ?"
Mrs. Manning was startled, but she betrayed it by only a slight widening of her dark eyes; that resemblance was precisely what she had been noticing. It was disquieting. There was a rugged strength in the rounded features of the dark face, and the eyes blazed in its bleakness like a fire among sand-dunes.
"I am Anastasia," the woman said.
"Everyone knows that that Princess was killed ten years ago with the Czar and his other daughters, and his wife, at Ekaterinberg. There are witnesses." But the very firmness of Sara had an air of eagerness to be shaken.
The woman's eyes burned firecely, and her voice was unsteady. "Yes, there are witnesses, bitter ones. For I saw them die-my father, my royal mother, my sisters-hunted down like rats and slaughtered. I saw death snatch them-silently-for even with steel in their bodies they did not cry out. Nor did I." She flung out a thin arm, and Mrs. Manning recoiled at the sight of red scars from a dozen gashes.
"But you," she murmured to this gaunt dark woman, "how did you escape? Everyone believed that it would be impossible."
"Vladimir saved me. He wanted to be the father of a new line of Czars, a union of the old imperial and new peasant regime. And so he saved me from death at that time."
Mrs. Manning leaned eagerly toward her. "Then he will explain that you are really the Princess, and how you succeeded in escaping the massacre and reaching here. You will have no trouble establishing your claim. Everyone will want to know how he effected the impossible."
"Vladimir aid me?" The woman was wearily cynical. "Oh, no. I must assert my authority without aid. Only he and I knew that Anastasia did not die, and I have killed him."
Mrs. Manning shrank away from the woman. Could this actually be the dignified Princess, or some crude peasant imposter? If she could only know ! The same deep reverence for royalty which impelled her to accept this claim also warned her to be wary of deception. If she acknowledged this remnant of the beloved empire, she ran the risk of accepting' an imposter; if she refused to receive this precarious revival, she would lose an opportunity to re-establish her social consciousness through a thrill of loyalty to the royal line. She alone could know how she had hungered for some personification, in America where dignity was lacking and reverence impossible for her. She wanted a Princess to lavish loyalty upon.
Her yearning to recognize again the authority before whom she had bowed in her girlhood crept into her voice. "Won't you talk with me of the old imperial days-of the concerts, and balls, and banquets? I love to think of them."
But the fire had died in the woman's eyes., "I don't remember." Her voice was duller than lead.
"Then how do you know that you are Anastasia?" ·
"I am. I am certain of my identity, and of that alone." The woman struggled up and leaned upon her elbow. Her strong face brooded over the aristocratic delicacy of Mrs. Nicholas B. Manning, formerly Princess Sara of Russia, Brooded over her, and read the hesitation in her mind. "Sara," she whispered wearily, "you think that I am mad. Well, I am. But I am Anastasia. You, however, cannot believe that. So go away."
Mrs. Manning was reluctant to leave this-her last hope of the old regime. She condescended to plead. "But how can I know? How will you prove it to me?"
The gaunt Russian woman fell back against her pillow. All her fire and vitality had disappeared, and she no longer had a regal fierceness. She was merely a very sick woman, with her features drawn into a pattern of suffering that would have been common to peasant and princess alike. She was mumbling. "How could you know, except that I told you? Useless. Go away, Sara."
The Princess Sara lingered a moment, her lips half parted for a concilitary speech. Then the possible words of her matter-of-fact American husband occurred to her : "You're so sentimental, Sara, that anybody could impose on you. You believe everything." But
this time she would be discreet; she would consider the possibilities and the impossibilities of this story.
As she left the room, she heard a last faint murmur, "Old Russia is dead. It is useless."
Her husband dismissed lightly her account of her interview with the so-called Princess Anastasia of Russia. "Some old hag wants an easy job the rest of her life working on the sympathies of gullible people. Anybody can see through that."
But Mrs. Nicholas B. Manning was not satisfied. She had seen, she told herself, what she had seen, and it had carried an air of conv1ct10n. Her interest led her to inquire at the hospital a week later. "Our only record is that she died two days ago after a severe hemorrhage."
"And under just what name was she registered there?" asked Mrs. Manning wistfully.
The answer came: "Woman unknown, from Russia."
OPINION
There are those who say that Beauty Is the cold white marble that the Greeks loved; I should say that Beauty is the warm, fragrant sunshine Flooding a roof top.
There are those who say that Pain Is the heart-break for losses; I should say that Pain is the breath-taking Beauty Of Understanding.
-Mildred Anderson.
"LATE, LATE YESTRE'EN"
MILDRED ANDERSON
SHE was very young. There were freckles on the tip of her tilted nose and her eyes matched the freckles-Bill said. Perhaps that wasn't a definite compliment. but Bill had meant it to be, probably. You could pretend he had, especially if the sky were blue velvet with prick holes for the stars; if the moon were a hammock hung between the trees-branches of renovated trees. Everything was nicer in the spring. The rains weren't even disagreeable. They only washed the skies clean and new until now they looked like spick and span kitchens flooded with sunlight. After all, Billy was satisfactory; more so than Philip had been last spring. Philip had been, she thought, very wise, until one fragrant May night when he had talked so stupidly of Vernal Equinox and what the Chaldees thought about the stars. But then, last night Billy only talked of 500 horsepower engines and plant capacity and civil engineering and bridges. Men were queer! There was the moon "stooping to tie her silver sandals" and a star that she had meant to tell Billy might be their star, and there he sat drawing diagrams on the arm of the porch chair. But maybe next spring when Billy had gone and Philip was only the wisest of memories, there'd come somebody real, whose face was like that of the men on cigarette ads, a hero like those in the stories you read. It is the spring. She wrinkled her nose; the ginger bread was burning ! * * * *
The old lady sat and rocked. The sun was warm-soft and warm. It made you feel like a kitten-a grey kitten in a maltese shawl. No-no a maltese kitten. Funny how-when you were old, you couldn't think quite straight. Almost, but not quite. The sun was so lovely, and it was spring. The wistaria trailed over the porch; a wind stirred and a petal fluttered down. Maybe lilacs were more satifactory-neater, perhaps, neat as a pin. Only, were pins neat? That was a queer expression-as if a pin were dressed in stiff starchy crepe paper. Oh, well! The old lady sighed. Spring made you remember lots of things. Maybe, dreams were made in the spring, and you saved them for a rainy day when the wind whipped the leaves from the trees and you felt old and sad. There had been so many springs filling life with new vigor; warming the cockels of your heart until you felt that you weren't old. Youth and Love; War and Peace, while the same wistaria blossomed each spring, covering its gnarled old vines with brilliant petals. Happiness and Tears; Laughter and Sadness, while the same sunlight flooded the doorway. The old lady drew her shawl a little more closely about her shoulders. The wind was colder; better go in to the fire; probably rain before night.
DIE TOLLE
ELMER POTTER
SCENE I
Late in the afternoon of a very grey and cheerless day in October, a blackrobed monk is slowly making his way along the sinuous road that winds through the legended valley of Trollgeld. From time to time the monk pauses and leans on his pilgrim's staff. He sighs; and a silent wind stirs his white hair as he gazes upon the desolation about him. But he must hurry on, for the sun is about to set, and it is not pleasant to be alone in the valley of Trollgeld when it is dark.
The road now twists madly to his left and plunges into a thicket of sage, whence emerging, the traveler stops short. For between two overhanging crags he discerns, some half mile down the valley, the object of his journyings-the ancient castle of Markburg. The castle is walled and turreted, but the walls are crumbling and the turrets are aged-blackened and fungus-encrusted. The scene is melancholy in the extreme, and the mournful breezes carry vague whisperings of madness and of death. The traveler trembles a little as he draws his cloak about his shoulders and continues his journey toward the venerable and forbidding ruin. And now, as the shadows begin to lengthen across the valley and the sky becomes more drab and cheerless than ever, from a tiny slit-like window in the gaunt north tower there beacons forth a ray of light. The monk, beholding this sign of life, utters a cry almost of joy and redoubles his pace.
SCENE II
The monk stands before the great gate of the castle of Markburg. He pauses a moment, then deliberately takes the knocker in both hands and, raising it, lets it fall heavily against the solid wooden frame. The sound of this summons echoes hollowly through he courtyard within.
SCENE III
The courtyard of Markburg Castle. The pavement is of rough and uneven flagstones, whence rise abruptly the grey and lichen-covered walls of the north tower. Toward the right, a short flight of worn and discolored steps leads up to double oak doors of extraordinary weight. This is the entrance to the tower. To the left, a smaller door leads to the guardrooms and kitchen. Left of center stands a wide table surrounded by several chairs and a bench. Beyond this, the court is bare except for a broken trellis extending off right which bears clinging to it the withered remains of a dead rosevine.
Nedda, a gaunt and cadaverous old serving woman, has placed a meal before the priest who sits at the table. The old man eats hungrily, but listens with great interest to what she is saying.
NEDDA: You will not believe it, father, but I have seen the time when there was the noise of industry to be heard in these lands, and it was said that no barony in the west of Saxony was half so prosperous as the barony of Markburg. But those times are gone alas! and since the baroness took to her chambers some thirty years ago, the devil himself has played his tricks on Trollgeld. First there came the great drought, and, when the baroness refused the peasants a bounty, the ungrateful creatures sold themselves and their holdings to our neighbor landholders. Now the soldiery has grown insubordinate, the land has gone to waste, and all the cattle are dead or
strayed. (Looking about uneasily.) The castle itself is full of strange shadows . and even the air seems dead.
PRIEST: In Saxony . . . I have heard them tell strange things of Markburg.
NEDDA: I am not surprised at that, father. What do they tell in Saxony?
PRIEST (slowly) : I have heard them say that the baroness of Markburg is mad. Is that true?
NEDDA: Mad? ... Well, father, that is what they say in Markburg, too. And that is what the soldiers shout under her very windows in the evening when they are full of drink.
PRIEST : And you-do you believe she is mad ?
NEDDA: I am not so old as the baroness, father, but I cannot remember a time when I was not attached to her chambers, and now that the others had left her I am her only companion. I never leave her except when she is asleep.
PRIEST: Then you, if anyone, must know. Is she quite sane?
NEDDA: As to that I cannot say. But I am certain that she is not mad.
PRIEST : Not mad ?
NEDDA: No. Rather, I should say, weighed down by a great sorrow. At times she says queer things, but then I think that it is only the sorrow that makes her speak thus and I say nothing about it.
PRIEST: What sort of sorrow could have darkened her life so, my sister?
NEDDA: Ah, you priests. How little you know of women ! When a man goes mad, it may be because he has lost his lands, or his money, or his honor even; or it may be caused by the shock of battle or a storm at sea . . . but when the mind of a woman becomes clouded there can be but one cause.
PRIEST : What is that?
NEDDA: A woman's busines,: in life, father, is to love. All else is incidental. And the only sorrow great enough to overthrow a woman's mind is the memory of a love that was lost. In some women such wounds do not heal.
PRIEST: And the baroness was such a woman?
NEDDA: Such a woman, father? . . . They say that in the old days she never wept-that when her father, the old baron, died, she walked behind his casket with dry eyes. But that sort of w:oman
suffers most, father. And when the great sorrow came into her life, she said nothing; she merely shut herself up in the north tower. Years have passed, the barony has gone to waste, and the soldiery has grown insubordinate in its indolence . . . but still she says .. nothing.
PRIEST: And this great sorrow, my sister; tell me about it.
NEDDA (looking at him earnestly) : I believe you will honor my confidence, father, and I will tell you. It was a great while agothirty years to be exact. . . .
The story is cut short by the solemn clanging of a gong high in the tower.
NEDDA: There! She is awake. I must go at once. Make yourself comfortable-and mind the soldiers; they are sometimes rude when they have been drinking. Good-night, father.
PRIEST: Must you always hurry off when the baroness rings?
NEDDA: Always. She flies into a rage if I am a moment late.
PRIEST: Good-night, then, sister.
NEDDA (At the top of the steps leading to the tower. Pauses): It is strange , father. There is no reason why it should be so, but I never open this door without trembling. . . . Good-night , father. She ent ers the tower. The great doors solemnly close behind her. The priest sits in semi-darkness, meditating. From a distance there are h eard snatches of song and ribald laughter. In a moment the door to the left is flung open, and enter fa crowd of rowdy soldiers. The foremost carries a lantern. He is Captain Waldmeister. The others have each a stein of beer. W aldmeister snatches a half-full stein from a young fellow.
WALDMEISTER: A toast to the hag of Markburg ! . . (Perceiving the priest. Raises lantf;irn to get a better view.) Hello, we have a guest. (Sets stein on table and cordially extends a rough hand.) Greetings, father.
PRIEST ( taking W aldmeister' s hand) : God bless you, my son.
WALDMEISTER: A powerful clasp for a priest! (Awkward pause. W aldmeister hits upon an idea.) A collection, gentlemen . . . (passes his empty stein about) a few pennies for your poor, father. Come, Leuterbach, loosen up.
PRIEST ( surprised) : And have you money to give so freely?
WALD MEISTER: Ay, father, money in plenty . . . and drink in plenty while it lasts. Here, Meyer, you have given nothing and you, Schnitzel . . . wake up, you scoundrel! . . . have
MESSENGER
you contributed? so . . . there, father, a tidy pile of coins and the best of will from the guards of Markburg. A drink to his welfare, gentleman (All drink.) . and now off with you.
PRIEST (taken aback): Why ... the woman who took me in said that I might spend the night.
WALDMEISTER: And I say, father, that you must go at once. Strange things shall come to pass within these walls tonight and even your reverence' robes may fail to be respected.
PRIEST: I have come a great way. . . .
WALDMEISTER:There is an inn at the foot of the valley. You'd spend a pleasanter night there methinks than here.
PRIEST: But . . .
Letzen , the young est of the · soldiers, comes forward.
LETZEN (ti m idly) : It is true, sir. The captain speaks for your own interests. You'd best begone.
PRIEST (quietly) : There is to be danger here tonight?
LETZEN: Well, you see . . .
PRIEST ( with a searching glance) : And the baroness, Lady Markburg-is she to be in danger ?
WALDMEISTER( embarrassed) : As to that, I cannot say. However ...
PRIEST (decisively) : I shall remain here tonight!
W ALDMEISTER:Your reverence . . .
LETZEN: Father . . .
PRIEST: My dear fellow, you see my priestly vestments and think me incapable of any but the quieter sort of courage one attributes to priests and women. But though I wear skirts, I am a man. Give me a musket. You fought under Phillip of Hesse? So did I. There. Your hand.
SCHNITZEL ( very much intoxicated) : Ha! Ha! Ha!
PRIEST: Who is laughing?
SCHNITZEL ( coming forward unsteadily) : Pardon your reverence, I'm sure. But, as a philosopher, I have occasioned to observe the most astonishing effects of danger on men of many classes. In the face of approaching peril, soldiers are wont to address themselves to p-rayer , . . while priests throw down the prayer · book for the musket.
W ALDMEISTER:Be quiet, Schnitzel.
MEYER: He's drunk.
W ALMEISTER : Never mind him, father.
SCHNITZEL: Ah, no. No one minds Schnitzel. No one minds Schnitzel. He's only fit for laughter and drinking. Tuck up your robes, father-and give him a charge of powder. Dark things, says Schnitzel, are to come to pass beneath the dark of the moon, but no one minds Schnitzel. Only, tonight, while death is stalking through these halls, Schnitzel shall sit among his wine-casks and there he shall laugh monstrously. Ha! Ha! Ha! Adieu, father, and farewell, comrades, the cellars of Markburg contain excellent wine.
He bows and goes out unsteadily.
PRIEST: Is the fellow mad?
WALDMEISTER(gloomily): Ay, we are all mad m Markburg, methinks.
MEYER: It is the crone in the tower.
LEUTERBACH:Ay, the hag of Markburg.
PRIEST: Is that what you call the baroness?
W ALDMEISTER:What else should we call her? It is she who has brought the great sorrow on these lands. There is a pestilence on Markburg. Not a green thing will grow here in the valley save nightshades, and poison ivy, and the wild grass of Tuscany which even the cattle refuse to eat. It was not so when John of Markburg was master of this castle. Then Markburg and the vale of Trollgeld were garden spots of the Empire. What have these thirty years left us but marshlands and desert-lands, and drought?
PRIEST: Thirty years ?
WALDMEISTER:It has been that long since the devil cast his curse over Markburg . . . and over her for her sins.
The soldiers all begin speaking at once.
MEYER: She has never left her tower since then.
M DELLER: She is a hag.
LEUTERBACH: She is a witch, rather.
SCHNELL: She should be burned at the stake.
W ALDMEISTER:Were she of the common people, she would have been punished long ago.
MEYER: She is mad.
PRIEST: Mad ?
W ALDMEISTER:As the furies of hell.
PRIEST: Does no one ever see her ?
LETZEN: I saw her once at dawn sitting on her little balcony. She was combing her hair and muttering to herself. When she saw
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me, her eyes grew big. She gave a great cry and ran back into the tower. It quite unnerved me, sir. She reminded me of a frightened animal.
W ALDMEISTER:There is no doubt that she is quite mad.
SCHNELL: And in league with the devil, maybe.
W ALDMEISTER:There! You see what we have had to endure, father.
PRIEST: You seem well fed, nevertheless.
W ALDMEISTER: Because we have broken into the cellars and larders of the castle. But they will soon be empty.
PRIEST: And you feel that you have been done a great injustice?
W ALDMEISTER:When John of Mark burg ruled here, the guards were great men; now the sons of these great men serve Markburg, and they are less than beggars . . . guarding a pile of ruins. When John of Markburg ruled here, all were paid like proper soldiers; now we must turn thieves to feed ourselves. And this has been the order of things for thirty years . . . but tonight . . .
PRIEST: Tonight?
W ALDMEISTER : . . . there shall come a change.
The priest is alarmed by the tone in which this last is spoken. He questions them further and /at last extracts the confession that they have planned to kill the baroness and loot the castle. W a.ldmeister boasts that he is nwn 'Without )conscience and 'Without scruples, but the priest detects a certain falsity in the captain!s nwnner.
PRIEST ( after a pause) : I am now privy to your plans. Therefore, I think I may say that I am one of you?
W ALDMEISTER(uncertainly) : Why . . . yes.
PRIEST: Good. And now may I speak to you as man to manas soldier to soldier ?
w ALDMEISTER:Of course.
PRIEST: Alone?
WALDMEISTER:If you wish. (To the others): Gentlemen, retire.
PRIEST (sitting): And now, my son, let us talk. You consider yourself a strong man?
W ALDMEISTER : I think I may say so.
PRIEST: A man without scruples?
WALDMEISTER: I think I may say so.
PRIEST: And in this business you are serving your own interests ?
WALDMEISTER:Yes.
PRIEST: You are to receive proper compensation?
W ALDMEISTER:I shall be sufficiently rewarded.
PRIEST: Good. And the soldiers ?
WALDMEISTER:They are animals. They do not matter.
PRIEST: I see.
W ALDMEISTER:They can be fed on promises.
PRIEST: V:aluable men. (He smiles. Waldmeister stirs uneasily.) And so you have achieved mastery over your men by feeding them on promises ?
W ALDMEISTER ( beginning to smile) : It was not so easy as that. They are very weak men. They have consciences.
PRIEST: And how did you soothe their consciences?
W ALDMEISTER:I told them she was a witch, and it was the will of heaven that she be destroyed; ergo, we were the instruments of God. That made them very happy . . . and served my purpose admirably. Of course, your reverence, you and I who have had a broader view of life . . . we do not believe in such things. But we must have handles and pulleys to manipulate the ignorant . . . and superstition is one of them. Therefore, shall she be a witch.
PRIEST: Capital! You are a clever soldier, Waldmeister. My compliments.
They shake hands. There follows a long pause in which Waldmeilster leans back in his chair chuckling in self-satisfaction. At last the priest who has been watching him very closely begins to speak.
PRIEST: Waldmeister, how many times have you planned ah . . getting rid of this . . . hag of Markburg?
w ALDMEISTER:Why . . .
PRIEST: You need not answer. I can tell that you have laid your plans many times. Why, in all these years, have you never succeeded ? It seems an absurdly easy thing to do.
W ALDMEISTER:Not so easy as you might think. She never comes out, and (pointing to the tower doors) you should see the thickness of those doors.
PRIEST: Those are mere excuses, Waldmeister. I think I have perceived the real reason.
W ALDMEISTER.:The real reason?
PRIEST: I have perceived that you, my captain, are a very feeble man.
WALDMEISTER:Feeble, your reverence?
PRIEST: Very feeble, my son, for you are ignorant of the principles of life, and your aims are as inconstant as the shifting sands. And now I will tell you something . All life , ay, all matter is dominated by an unconscious power from within that forces all things to produce and to become. It is that which not being, strives to be. It is neither subject to the laws of space and time, nor capable of being known. The Eleatics have called this force , this unknown, allpervading power, the one and all. Others have called it substance. There are those who called it the eternal; and many who have called it the will of God made manifest. As to that, I cannot say, but this I know: that the greatest gift bestowed by heaven on its favorite, man, is volition-or will. And that precious gift, my son-rnnscious will-is but a little of that all-pervading power that controls the universe. Do you follow me? Can you perceive that, with this God-like power, man may rule all life and all matter? And the greatest loss a man can suffer is the loss of his right to will-to think for himself. And the greatest sacrifice a man can make is to sacrifice his will-to-power. There are those who say such a sacrifice is wrong. Scruple and regret are unknown to them. They condemn our Christian concept of God, because it demands such sacrifice. Our attitude, they say, is God degenerated into a contradiction of life, instead of being its transfiguration and its everlasting yea. I will not go so far as to say they are wrong, my son, but there is, I say, a higher attitude. For by such philosophy , wherein are we greater than the animals? Stronger than he who is unafraid to will, is he who is unafraid to deny his will. The strong man, perceiving the futility of life as it is and realizing that the common human virtues are but the splendid vices of egotism, renounces being. What has he left? The only virtue worthy of the name . the only unselfish virtue . . and that is pity.
W ALDMEISTER:You speak of learned matters, father, which I cannot altogether comprehend. What do you want me to do?
PRIEST: I am asking you to make a sacrifice, my son.
W ALDMEISTER(after a pause) : I am not what you priests would call a good man, father; I have never believed in God.
PRIEST: I would not direct you to creeds to seek your God nor to books for your code of morals. I would have you rather seek your creator in the spaces between the stars and draw your ethics
from the world of living men. With such a concept, your sacrifice will seem very small indeed.
W ALDMEISTER : What do you want me to do?
PRIEST: I want you to sacrifice your will-to-power. I want you to pity.
WALDMEISTER: To pity?
PRIEST: If you are a strong man, you will pity.
W ALDMEISTER : Whom?
PRIEST: How long have you been attached to the garrison of this castle?
WALDMEISTER: Thirty-five years. I came here as a boy.
PRIEST: What sort of woman was the baroness, then?
W ALDMEISTER:Oh, she was young, then.
PRIEST: Yes, but what sort of person was she?
W ALDMEISTER:How should I know? She never spoke to me; I was only a common soldier.
PRIEST: She was haughty, then?
WALDMEISTER: Yes.
PRIEST: And extravagant, I suppose?
WALDMEISTER:Yes.
PRIEST: And she never spoke to any of the soldiers?
W ALDMEISTER:I said she never spoke to me.
PRIEST: What do you mean?
W ALDMEISTER : There was one of us. . . .
PRIEST: Yes.
W ALDMEISTER:A young fellow. It was said that he was in love with the baroness . . . and some said that his love was returned.
PRIEST: Yes ?
W ALDMEISTER: But there was a great deal of idle talk flying about.
PRIEST: Is that all?
WALDMEISTER: Yes. Except that the young fellow suddenly left one day and was never heard of again.
PRIEST: And the baroness ?
WALDMEISTER: They said for a while that she was to be wed to a duke ... but the marriage never took place.
PRIEST: No?
W ALDMEISTER:No. For it was then that the great curse fell upon the land and madness seized the baroness
PRIEST: It was then she shut herself in her tower?
WALDMEISTER:Ay.
PRIEST: Is that your story?
W ALDMEISTER:That is all I know about the matter.
PRIEST: Then let me tell you what I know . This young soldierhis name was Franz . . .
WALDMEISTER: Ay, Franz. That was his name.
PRIEST: This young soldier, I say, did love the baroness and his love was returned. But the duke, meanwhile, was making formal suit for Lady Markburg's hand. Poor Franz realized that he could never maintain a woman of the baroness' extravagant upbringing-besides he was a commoner. What was he to do?
W ALDMEISTER:Ay, what?
PRIEST: Thereupon, my son, this young fellow did a very brave and admirable thing. He practiced negation of will. He sacrificed his own will and happiness to what he considered the lady ' s best interests. He quietly disappeared one morning-intending never to return.
W ALDMEISTER:But the baroness never married this duke.
PRIEST: No, for young Franz had not properly estimated the woman for whom he had sacrificed his happiness. She, too, was strong. She had never intended wedding the duke. When young Franz could not be found, they say she told his lordship the truth and dismissed him.
W aldmeister is interested, for he has never heard this story before. But there are two things which he still does ,not understand. In the first place, the curse. . . .
PRIEST: There was no curse. Any land will become a wilderness when the peasants are no longer there to sow and till-and when the soldiery in their indolence let it go to waste.
WALDMEISTER:And the baroness? Would you say she is mad?
PRIEST: God knows-poor soul. That is what I must find out . . . And now tell me , Waldmeister, do you not find it in your heart to pity this lonely old woman ?
WALDMEISTER(surprised): The hag of Markburg?
PRIEST: Can you still call her that?
W ALDMEISTER:That is what she is.
PRIEST: You have not changed your attitude?
W ALDMEISTER(stubbornly) : My attitude, father, is the growth of thirty years. All my men think as I do.
PRIEST: Then you do not pity her.
W ALDMEISTER : N 0.
PRIEST: Now I perceive that you are indeed the weakest of men.
W ALDMEISTER(hotly) : I know nothing of your foolish philosophies, father; I know only that I am a man.
PRIEST: Man, the animal: not man, the god.
WALDMEISTER: My strong right arm. .
PRIEST: And your puny soul. . . .
The tower doors open and enter Ursule, a maid. She places a finger to her lips.
URSULE: Hush.
W ALDMEISTER:What is it?
URSULE: You must leave the courtyard at once. The baroness is coming to stroll in the fresh air. She must see no one.
W ALDMEISTER:The baroness coming here?
URSULE: She has commanded that everyone leave the courtyard.
W ALDMEISTER:The baroness coming here?
The two men stand gazing intently at one another. As Waldmeister speaks, an almost imperceptible tremor runs through the body of the pr~est.
WALDMEISTER(drawing his sword): Now is the time for proper action. You shall see, priest, how I can keep my word. Tell her to come.
U RSULE : What are you going to do ?
The maid remains wide-eyed at the top of the steps. The priest stands facing Waldmeister a moment, then, drawing himself to his full height, starts moving toward him.
PRIEST: Now you shall feel my strength, weak man. Put that sword up!
W aldmeister' s jaw drops. He slowly obeys.
PRIEST: I am without weapon and yet I am stronger than you. Go !
Waldmeister, seeming scarcely to realize what he is doing, backs through doorway left. The priest closes and bolts it after him.
PRIEST ( to maid) : Tell her highness that her orders have been carried out.
URSULE: Yes, father. (Exit . )
The priest pauses thoughtfully a moment He looks at the heavy doors of the tower and sighs very softly. Then, quite slowly, he crosses the courtyard and diisappears right, among the shadows. Reenter maid who crosses and looks about. Enter Nedda.
NEDDA: Is anyone there?
U
RSULE : No one
NEDDA( speaking into the tower) : They are all gone, your highness.
Enter the baroness of M arkburg. She pauses just outside the door as if sniffing the air-then timidly descends step by step. She seems incredibly old. Her claw-like hands are knotted and ridged. She wears a trailing gown of faded velvet. Her hair is well brushed, however, and bears a jewel comb. Her expression is the fixed stare of madness.
As ,she advances slowly toward the center of the courtyard, she gazes wonderingly up at the starlit heavens.
BARONESS(slowly, softly, almost to herself): Then every autumn night had its moon . but that was in the olden day . . . (looking about). Nedda, Nedda, is it not a long time since I was here?
NEDDA: Very long, highness.
BARONESS : And the garden is the same, but not so lovely as then. The very stones of the pavement are the same, but now they are very cold . . . ah . . . and this trellis . . . is it the same?
NEDDA : Nothing has changed, highness.
BARONESS : Yes, yes, all has changed. There is no sweetness in the air tonight. . . . Tell me, little Nedda, do roses still bloom in May?
NEDDA: Yes, highness.
BARONESS : How can that be . . . and he not here to pluck them to leave by my chamber door? Little Franz . . . he was such a baby. (Quickly) But one must not speak of that. Nedda, do they still call me Lady Mark burg in the valley of Trollgeld?
NEDDA: Yes.
BARONESS:And are there still those who obey my commands?
NEDDA: I am always here, your highness.
BARONESS: Ah, but the others? Do not say they grumble, or they shall smart for it! I'll show them yet who rules in Markburg.
Ah, dear lady, the stars are very bright tonight, but they say the moon is mad and will not shine again on Markburg. . .. Tell me, Nedda, am I still beautiful?
NEDDA: Yes, highness, very beautiful.
BARONESS:Then you shall bring me a new gown every morning, and I will ride in my coach through the valley, and when I pass the duke, I shall smile archly. So! And when word goes abroad of my beauty, perhaps Franz will hear and come back. . . . Ah, Nedda, do you suppose they could have killed him. No, no, no, no, do not answer. . . . These walls are very cold. And the castle is full of shadows, but there is a sun, they say, in Italy. . . . Bring me a mirror, Nedda. Nay, nay, do not. . . . It is dark here ... and very cold.
NEDDA : Your highness had best come in ; it is growing colder.
BARONESS : Ah, yes. Throw open the portal, my lackeys ! The baroness of Markburg is returned from the chase. Light the chambers! kindle the fires ! and let them roar toward heaven. Come, Nedda, to my chambers ! And when they ask you wherefore, tell them we go to make riddles and talk of old times together. Come! She starts toward the steps. Nedda runs ahead and opens the door. Just as the baroness reaches the bottom step, she stops short. The priest has entered and flung himself at her feet. She stares wildly at the kneeling man for a moment, and then ...
BARONESS ( with rapture) : Franz! ( Then, almost sadly) Franz! . . . (fondling his hair) I know you still, though your hair is white as snow. . . . I have waited so long and I am very tired. Do you remember, Franz, when every autumn night had its moon . . . in the olden day?
CUTHBERT WHOOSIS, EX '25
LESLIE L. JONES
EDITOR'SNoTE: Few students now at the University of Richmond knew the subject of this sketch personally. Upperclassmen, h;wever, have made his acquaintance through these pages, several of his articles having appeared in THE MESSENGERduring 1925 and 1926 . . . Cuthbert Whoosis left the University of Richmond in the spring of 1924, to return only for brief visits. He had been a soldier in the late World War, and had seen service in France. Shortly after the cessation of hostilities, due to old wounds and the effects of poison gas, Mr . Whoosis began to experience much trouble with his lungs. In the intervals of better health, he managed to attend several sessions at Richmond College. Nineteen twenty-four, however, terminated this. . . . The war, for Cuthbert Whoosis, was never quite over (as it still is not over for so many others) until last week. Last week, after a battle of almost nine years, he laid down his arms . He died on Easter Monday at a United States Veterans' Bureau hospital in North Carolina .. . . Mr. Jones, who had known him in college, and who, perhaps, was his nearest friend, was visiting him at the time of his death. Although his friends were many, he did not, it seems, have any close relatives.
"Jonesie," he said, "I like you."
"Thanks, old man," I stammered. And there my voice broke. It is not easy to watch a man die.
"You have never pitied me," he continued, his voice quite strong for a man with scarcely any lungs, "and you have never said, 'my poor, dear fellow,' 'my poor, dear man.' In fact, lad, you have even envied me at times. N' est-ce pas?"
He paused and fought a bit for breath. moist hand pressed feebly upon my own.
"Aye, you have envied me, lad .. by inches stuff. Not that . . . but . silence.
The fingers of his thin,
Not this . . . this dying " his voice trailed into
It was April. A thousand apple trees, in the valley, held their flowered heads proudly up towards the mountains. To those mountains upon which squatted the long, low buildings in which a thousand , tired young men lay on white-sheeted cots and looked up at clean, white walls. Looked up at clean, bare, white walls, and remembered ....
I sat there for a long time, it seemed, with his fingers in mine, and his eyes closed as if in sleep. A group of visitors, in charge of a young major, moved from bed to bed with professional cherriness. A soft, warm wind stole up the valley, and the orchards became little, white rolling seas.
When the visitors reached his bed his eyes opened. A stout, prosperous looking man of middle age laid a great, blue-veined fist upon
the pale, thin hand resting on the covers. "My poor, dear fellow," he murmured, "my poor, dear boy." And then a lady with several chins spoke. "You dear, brave boy. And how is our little hero today?"
There was amusement in the soldier's eyes, and something of bitterness, but mostly amusement. "Your poor, little hero," he whispered, "is dying."
There was a pause, then, a long awkward silence. The man on the bed laughed. Laughed raspingly, and coughed.
"Poor?" he said, when the coughing had ceased, "poor ?" He looked up at the soft, rounded bodies about him. "I? Certainly not I? . . Does not a grateful government give me eighty dollars each and every month? And have I not a nice, clean bed, and plenty to eat? For five years I have had a nice clean bed, and plenty to eat. . . . With nothing to do but look at the ceiling .... Poor?"
The inevitable coughing stopped him-for a moment. "And next week they will lay a flag across me, and fire rifles over me, and there will be one hundred dollars appropriated for that. One hundred dollars for a funeral. Poor?"
I wish he had not laughed then. But he did, rather cruelly, it seemed to me, and none of us were quite comfortable.
"Poor, dear fellow," he repeated slowly, but the bitterness, suddenly, had gone. A gentleness crept into his eyes, and a smile to his lips. "Poor, dear fellow?" he murmured again . It was a question.
"Why do you pity me?" he asked, speaking slowly, and very softly, and quietly, as if hoarding his breath. "And all these others?" His head moved slightly as if to include the entire ward. "Is it because you have lived fifty years and still have health, and perhaps, wealth, while I am twenty-eight and dying? Is that . . ."
"Sarge," said the nurse, taking one of his thin, white hands in both of hers and holding it against her breast-she was very pretty, and her voice was soft and lovely like apple blossoms-"Sarge, you are talking nonsense. We'll get you well yet, if you'll stop talking yourself into a fever. A good soldier obeys orders."
"I know, mon ange," he scarcely breathed the last word, "but I am no longer a good soldier. A good soldier should be on his feet." He seemed to have forgotten us, now, his large, burning eyes holding only her. "I wish," he said somewhat wistfully, a bit of the old
faceity creeping into his voice, "that you were not so beautiful. It would be easier to die if you were not so beautiful." A tear showed on the girl's cheek, and she looked away.
He gazed at her silently for a few moments, and none of us spoke. His smile rather baffled us. And then, too, our throats were dry.
"But fancy them envying me. . . Me, cherie." He laughed. Not loudly, but quietly, and as if amused. He turned to the man who had first spoken. "Have you ever lain in a ditch in a cabbage field, and looked through the twilight into hell?"
His voice was steady, a bit exultant, even. "Have you ever roamed through the devil's ground under a little, white moon, too filled with fear to be afraid? . . . Have you ever swung along at the head of a column through the rain and the night with the world on fire and gone mad? . . . Have you ever fallen asleep in the mud, the soft, friendly mud, too weary to hear the cannon twenty feet from your head ?"
He spoke with a strange deliberateness, for him, quietly, unhurried, smilingly, as if living again those high moments of ten years gone.
"Have you ever known what a bed could be after three weeks on the wet ground? . . Or the feel of water when you have not washed your hands for ten days? . . . Have you ever crept into a flaming town at dawn or at dusk, and you eighteen and afraid, and almost a god ?"
He paused a moment. His voice was very weak, now. "Have you ever known how soft and tender a girl's arms could be, and how warm her lips, when you have come back a few hours from hell? . . . Have you ever matched through the streets of your own town, with flags and drums, and girls throwing roses at your feet? . . . We could scarcely hear him now. He looked up at the girl who held his hand to her lips. The smile grew stronger. "And . . . yet . . . they . . . pity . . . me. . . . Can . . . you fancy . . . that ?" His eyes closed.
They hurried away after that, and that night, around sunset, he died. Only the nurse and I were with him. "If you were not so lovely," he told her again, "it would be easier to die." And then, "But somehow, it's not easy anyway. . . Will you . . . sing Goodbye-eee ?"
And there in the twilight, softly, she sang the little song he had once sung in Flanders ten years ago, a foolish little song of the British soldier which he had taught her months before. "Good-by-eee, don't cry-eee, Wipe the tear, baby dear, from your ey-eee. Though it's hard to part, I know, I'll be tickled to death to go, Don't cry-eee, don't sigh-eee, There's a silver lining in the sky-eee. Bon soir, old thing, cheerio, chin-chin, Napoo, toodle-de-oo, good-by-eee."
As she finished, a bugle from the post in the valley, sounded mess call. He stirred slightly under the covers, opened his eyes, and smiled. "When do we eat ?" he murmured. And was gone.
RECOMPENSE
If I were Pan, I'd lie beside a stream And weave me music on a flute of reeds; Until the naiads came to dance for me, From out the woods where green and brown paths lead.
If I were Pindar, I would sing a song Of crimson dawns behind a misty hill, Of one lone cry of whippoorwills at dusk, When the sun is low and when the winds are still.
Now I can only sigh and turn away. There ' s too much beauty when the Spring is new. But when the winds are cold and skies are gray, I shall remember all these dreams I knew.
-Mildred Anderson.
ONE OF MAN'S VERY OLD .SEARCHES
FRANCIS FRANKLIN
HIS story was told me by the old farmer who lived across the river from Simon Hamlin's island-farm.
Poor "Si" had been quite old, but more in spirit than even years, when the only event worth speaking of took place in his life, and just about put an end to him. He had grown up on his father's farm, a spoiled and stupid boy. He had not been more than twenty miles away from home during all his sixty years, and had learned no more from school than how to spell out a very few words. In fact, his neighbors said he was "too dumb to learn," and it seemed to be a fact. He let most of his father's farm slip away from him very gradually, at least he was forever selling parts of it, and, in his sixtieth year, there was left only a little island of about forty acres in the middle of a river. Here he managed to live in a tumbled-down cabin, with one lean horse, some chickens, and a lean hound dog. From the corn that he raised he made enough to buy groceries from the nearest store, except when the river overflowed his corn, and then he had nothing. The neighbors usually in such a case gave things to help him, and he cut wood in return.
He became quite a familiar figure among his few neighbors, but was very shy and rarely spoke to any of them. Indeed, he appeared to cringe when approaching another, unless he was asking for work, in case his corn had been washed away. His dog was always with him. He carried a thick stick, and hunched far over when he walked. He did not see through what was said to him very well.
Of course, he had never married. He had been too shy to notice girls when a boy. They were incomprehensible creatures. The neighbors did say he had once worshipped a girl, had followed and gazed at her from a distance, but he had never had the courage to speak to her. And then, too, there was no girl that would have had him, as the farmer who was telling me the tale remarked, "He had no life about him, and was a little queer." He had no relatives but his parents, who died when he was twenty, and he made no friends, so all his life had been spent alone.
The neighbors wondered about some of his actions. He was continually selling parts of his farm, which was of very rich soil, and to begin with had been rather large. Yet he never had more than enough upon which to exist, and, when his corn failed, had to live on charity. His clothes were the same that he had always worn,
it seemed, for none ever saw him with anything new. They were forever flecked with hay, and they smelt of earth. In pity, some of the good wives of the community gave him worn clothing. Yet in spite of these things, "Si" got quite a sum from the parts of his farm he sold.
"What do you do with your money, Si?" the neighbors asked him occasionally. "Didn't you get nothin' from that sale? Why ain't you out here havin' a big time off'n what you get? . . . You ain't no old man yet. . . . Heh ! . . . Seems like you might be lookin' roun' over some o' these gals. . . . Eh? . . ."
They spoke jocularly and condescendingly, rough, like people close to the elements. There was a rough feeling of sympathy , and they meant to cheer, but perhaps their crude good humor hurt the old man instead . He seemed to cringe more, and gave feeble cackles .
"Heh . . . heh . . . heh . Wal, I guess that ain't for me .... Heh! ... "
"But what are you gonna do, Si? You got money now, ain't you?"
"Wal, I guess I gotta put away sump'n' for ol' age .... Yea . . . I'm jus' waitin' .... Gonna 'joy myse'f when I'm ol'."
None ever discovered whether he did really have anything, or how much, or how he expected to enjoy himself. Sometimes his yellowed lips would break into the ghost of a smile, and then he would stand still, with his reddish-blue eyes blinking rapidly without seeing, as though he dreamed. It is uncertain of exactly what he dreamed.
Yet he had a certain idea. He told Peter Johnson, who was the farmer that told me this, "Soon's I get a certain 'mount, a certain 'mount . . " and then looked far away without finishing what he meant.
"Why don't you buy yourself warmer clothes, Si?" Peter asked him. "You've money enough. . . . Why, I give you right much for that little plot o' land I got. . . ."
But "No, not yet. ... Mus' wait. an' then it'll do sump'n'. No less . . .. Heh!"
"Do what, Si?" said Peter. . . Mus' be jus' right, no . . it wouldn't do.
"Ah . . ." he answered, "it's hard to tell. . . . Hard to tell. But jus' wait . I don't know 'exactly. . . But I'm gonna 'joy myse'f. . . . Gotta work now . . . gotta work now."
He did not talk to others even as much as to Peter. And this was all Peter knew of his aim, that he was working for some definite amount, which he thought would bring happiness. Till he got that, he must renounce . . . though then he would "'joy himse'f."
About the middle of Si's sixtieth year, a certain professional fortune teller, who also claimed to be something of a medium, came into the community. Though there had been some excitement caused by his appearance, Si as yet was unaware of his existence-or even of the existence of fortune-telling. Indeed, he had of late seemed unusually preoccupied, and his eyes had been more wont to stare into nothing.
One morning he had just gone into the store near his farm when he saw several farmers' wives gathered round the store. They were discussing the new fortune teller.
"Heard 'bout the new fortune teller, Si?" asked a red-faced woman, who smelt of sweet milk.
"Heh?" he answered, and they all began to laugh.
"The new fortune teller," she shouted.
"Oh!" he replied. But his eyes were bewildered.
"The man that can tell you what's gonna happen to you," said another in explanation.
"Oh!" he said again.
"Better go see 'im, Si," cautioned another, chuckling, and in high spirits at what she considered her wit. . . . "Yea . . . he'll tell you what to do with all that money you got . . ."
"Yea . . . tell you where you can get a good wife."
"Yes, sir, you mus'n't miss 'im. He'll fix everything up for you. Tell you jus' what to do."
"Does he really know?" asked Si. His eyes stared rather dubiously.
"Why, sure. He can look in the future. He knows everything. Sure."
"Eh . . . eh . . . eh . . . he c'n tell you wha-what's gonna happen, an' what to do? . . . He knows it?"
"Sure. . . . Better go," admonished the fat woman who had spoken first.
Si stood there quite a while in meditation, rapidly blinking his eyes, till his dog began to howl, and look toward the door.
"Heh! . . . Mebbe 'e can. Le's see. . . . It's jus' right now . . . ju' right . . . the 'mount."
"Where is 'e . this man?" he asked aloud.
"In a room right up over the drug store," answered the large woman.
And thereupon Si stumbled out awkwardly, sneezing rather violently.
"Helpin' Lorontini's trade, ain't I?" laughed the red-faced woman, who smelt of sweet milk, after Si had slammed the door. The women laughed loudly, and several men, standing near, joined in the chorus.
Si was seen, after walking a short distance, to sit down beneath a big oak tree, where he sat lost in meditation a very long time. He puffed at his pipe, and did not see the wagons and trucks that passed before him. His dog nervously scratched himself, and continued to emit low howls.
A smile began to flicker over Si's dry lips. mumbled. "Jus' right . . . an' just the right go see what he says."
"Jus' in time," he 'mount. . . . I'll
He arose, and went to the room over the drug store, where he saw Lorontini ....
He went forth, a great while afterwards, in a state of exaltation, and all who saw him wondered at the remarkable joy there seemed written on his features and how that he moved as one in a trance, almost unconscious of all surroundings.
Old Peter, having heard of his visit to the medium ( for indeed it was neighborhood talk) went to see him that night. Others, who had questioned him, as he hobbled along the road after coming forth, had received no answer, for in truth he had not even noticed their existence.
Peter, on first coming up to the house, had seen Si through the window, sitting on a box in front of his fireplace, smoking a corncob pipe. He seemed to be lost, and abstractedly stroked the head of the snoring dog beside him.
It was perhaps the first real visit that Si had ever received, and at first he was rather dazed, thought it was business, and told Peter he "wasn't gonna work no mo'."
Peter sat on another box before the fire. There was no other light in the room, and this filled it with stinging smoke that made Peter sneeze. There was little furniture, and that little was untidy. The room smelt strongly of tobacco, of hay and of earth.
Si seemed greatly embarrassed.
"Heard you went down to see that thar fortune teller, Si," remarked Peter, after which he sneezed rather violently, and tried to wipe the tears from his eyes.
"Yessir," said Si, and his eyes blinked more rapidly. He seemed to be "lifted up," as Peter described it.
"What'd he tell you, Si?" asked Peter after a long while.
Si cleared his throat a number of times, his hands trembled, but his whole face seemed to shine.
"Oh . . . nothin' much . . . nothin' much."
There was another long pause.
"Reckon you're gonna stay on livin' in th' same way as ever, eh Si?" remarked Peter eventually.
"Wal . . . ."said Si, after a very long time, during which he seemed to try to control himself. "Reckon I'll begin tryin' t' enjoy myse'f a little now . . . c'n do it now . . . heh . . . heh . . heh . . ." He laughed feebly.
"An' how you plannin' to do it, Si?" he was asked after a while.
Si stammered slightly, "Eh . . . eh . . . I been thinkin' 'bout .. 'bout gettin' married, Mr. Johnson," whereupon Peter had slightly started.
But outwardly he remained very calm. What a great tale he'd have to tell when he went back! He began to laugh within himself in anticipation of what he expected to hear.
"An' who might she be," Si?''
Si stammered that he didn't know -not exactly . . . though "Cnythy' 'was her name.
"Cynthy!" said Peter, "Cynthy who?"
Well . . . eh . . . she wasn't like most people, it seemed. Si numbled rather incoherently. She was going to come down from somewhere, from Heaven, he thought. Anyway he had heard her talk from a great distance at Signor Lorontini's. Further particulars he would not give .
Peter left him greatly puzzled as to what idea had got into the head of Si.
Thereafter, Si was observed very frequently to visit the fortuneteller, and more and more to live in a bedazed condition. He stopped work altogether. The news of Cynthia, who was to come down from
Heaven, had spread throughout the neighborhood, but more news he refused to give, and was not even conscious of his questioners.
When he bought himself a new suit of clothes, it produced a small stir of excitement.
Then, one evening after dusk, Si arrayed magnificently in his new suit, was observed to enter the room that Signor Lorontini had occupied. But as it happened, Lorontini had left the night before, and now there was no one there. Accordingly this seemed rather strange.
Several, who saw him enter, went to the bottom of the steps, where they might hear and so find out what he did. They heard him slowly climb the stairs breathing deeply, his dog trotting a step at a time before him. At the top, he pushed open the door, which creaked on its hinges, and entered.
They heard him call very low.
"Cynthy!"
There was a very long pause, while the listeners held their breath, and several giggled.
Directly he called in a loud whisper again, and began to stumble about, tapping with his cane. They heard him gasp deeply, and his cane fell to the floor. The dog ran across the room, poked his head down the stairs, and whimpered. . .
All night long, old Si remained. . . All night he muttered "Cynthy" at regular intervals. . . .
Next morning the listeners returned, and still heard his deep breaths. Now and then also he called "Cynthy." . .
Peter Johnson came riding gaily into town, red and jolly, cracking his whip and singing a merry song, just as the run rose. He set his milk cans off on the platform of the station, whence they would be borne to a distant dairy, and walked to the drug store to warm himself from the early morning drive.
"Come here," said a boy at the foot of the stairs, "an' listen."
Peter stamped heavily to where they were.
The breathing above was very loud, and directly they heard the word "Cyn-thy" spoken quite aloud. The old man seemed to stumble across the floor as though to gaze out of the window, then rushed back, and appeared to fall. Peter looked around, and his brow was troubled.
"Wait," he said, and slowly mounted the stairs to the room. It was perfectly bare, and was streaked by the morning sun shining
through the slats of the blinds. In the middle, on the only chair, sat Si blue with cold. His cane was on the floor, near the snoring dog. He held a piece of paper crumpled tightly in his hand.
"What's this, Si?" said Peter softly.
Si turned around. He was shivering, and Peter noticed salty stains on his cheeks.
"Read," said Si, and held out the paper.
On it was written hastily:
"Thanks enormously for the $5,000 , and we are reaUy very sorry about Cynthia."
Si hobbled over weakly. . . "What's it say?" he gasped.
"What have you done?" said Peter.
His story slowly, incoherently came forth . He had asked Lorontini how to "'joy himse'f" with his "certain ' mount," and they had told him of Cynthia, who was to come from Heaven to be his bride. Only first he must buy clothes anp jewels for her which he should leave at Lorontini's. So he had given his money to Mrs. Lorontini to buy them with. It was this night that "Cynthy" was to have come to him. He'd been waiting .... But ... "What's note say?"
Peter turned away, and looked for a moment out the window. He understood .
As kindly as possible, he tried to explain the meaning of the note. But Si fell forward with his head on his knees, and would not be consoled ....
They never recovered his money, and he went back to work as before, refusing all offered help. He'd made another $5,000. Only he died soon after. . . .
THE SUICIDE RING
0. A. LUNDIN, JR.
"JTwas quite a select company at the Earl of S---'s dinner that night; the banker, W---, and his wife, several American celebrities, the Marquis de P---, and quite a few of the English nobility. There was also present a young widow from Pittsburg, who was just recovering from a nervous breakdown, brought on by her husband's suicide. It was rumored back home that she had bankrupted him by her passion for diamonds.
"In the course of the evening, the conversation turned to the subject of jewels, and the earl was prevailed upon to exhibit his famous collection of medieval rings, bracelets and other things.
" 'I have collected these ornaments from all parts of Europe,' he said. 'Each one is a precious relic of the past. This ring,' holding up a massive circle of tarnished gold, 'was worn by my ancestor at the battle of Hastings. This bracelet, which you can see has been partly melted, is a souvenir of the great London fire. And there are others that have come down in the family. Many I have collected in my travels.'
"At this point in the earl's discourse, I happened to glance at Mrs. Hilton, the young widow. She was looking, as if fascinated, at a huge ruby, which lay all to itself, in a little compartment in the tray. The mounting of the beautiful stone was of heavy gold, shaped to resemble two serpents. The ruby was held between their heads. The earl must have noticed her intense gaze, for he immediately picked up the ring, so that all could see it.
" 'This is supposed to have been the property of Marie Antoinette. Whether it was, or not, is a matter of speculation; however, you must all admit that it is a remarkable bit of work.'
"Mrs. Hilton reached forward to take it in her hand.
"'May I examine it?' she asked.
" 'Perhaps you had better hear its history, before you touch it,' S--- replied, with a smile. 'It was made by Rene, who you remember, was the tool and accomplice of the Medicis in many of their crimes. Well, Rene always feared some sort of horrible punishment for his connection with them, and to protect himself, he devised this ring. The jewel is hollow and contains a tiny needle which is held up by a catch. The tip of the needle is poisoned, and when the catch is released, it is forced down into the finger of the wearer. Instantly the poison takes effect. The catch is so delicate
that the slightest pressure on the under side of the jewel will release the needle. On account of its sinister purpose, it was called the "Suicide Ring."
"'Catherine de Medici had a particular enemy, who was so wary, that she could never reach him by her ordinary methods. She took this ring from Rene and sent it to her enemy, disgusing the package so that it appeared to be a gift from a friend. However, the victim suspected something, and very carefully put the deadly thing in a place of safe keeping. His chateau was entered by thieves one night, and among other things taken was the "Suicide Ring." The robber put it on his finger, and in attempting to escape, released the needle. His death was almost instantaneous. The owner of the chateau carefully removed the fatal thing and locked it up.
"'Nearly two hundred and fifty years later, one of his descendants gave it to Marie Antoinette as a means of escape from the guillotine. As we know, the queen never used it, and it was afterwards found, together with a paper giving its history, in an old monastery in the southern part of France. Some years ago, while traveling through that region, I bought the thing from an old man, who claimed that it had been stolen by his father from the monks.'
"After this tale, no one in the party evinced any desire to take the ring in hand, although Mrs. Hilton continued to look at it, as if she were fascinated.
"Shortly after the ladies had retired, it struck me that it was a pretty dangerous thing to have lying about. I mentioned it to the earl.
" 'Oh, I had the needle removed long ago,' he said, laughing. 'I don't want any tragedies in my home.'
* * * * * * *
"That night I lay in bed thinking about the queer ring and its romantic history. How long I lay awake, I do not know, but in my sleep I was visited by terrifying dreams. I seemed to be in the midst of the mob in the Place de la Greve. Then the scene changed. I was in a dungeon in the Bastile. I could hear stealthy footsteps, and presently saw a dark form creeping toward me. He held the 'Suicide Ring' in his hand and was holding it out to me. He motioned to me to put it on.
"I awoke with a start. The dream was so vivid that I still imagined that I heard footsteps. • I listened intently. They seemed to be in
the corridor outside of my chamber. Suddenly I realized that these were actual footsteps that I heard, and not the continuation of my dream.
"Cautiously I opened my door, and peered out into the hall. But it was too dark for me to see. However, I could hear the muffled sounds slowly descending the stairs to the drawing room. Very quietly I stole after them. When I reached the bottom of the steps, I saw the figure of Mrs. Hilton standing before the earl's secretary. By the pale light of the moon, I saw that her eyes were closed !
"She was sleep-walking!
"I had seen somnambulists before, and I was certain.
"Curiously I watched her. With marvelous precision, she selected from all of the rings in the tray, the 'Suicide Ring' of the Medicis, and slipped it on her finger.
"At this instant, she opened her eyes. She seemed somewhat bewildered at first, but she made no sound. She raised her hand to her face, and, seeing the ring on her finger, she screamed, 'The Suicide Ring !' and collapsed.
"When I reached her side, she was dead !"
BOOK REVIEWS
The Bridge of San Luis Rey, by Thornton Wilder. Albert and Charles Boni, 1928.
"On Friday noon, July the twentieth, 1714, the finest bridge in all Peru broke and precipitated five travelers into the gulf below." And thusly readers are hurled, so to speak , into the pages of Mr. Wilder's The Bridge of San Luis Rey with the simple statement above.
It so happens that we are indebted for the story to a monk , Brother Juniper, who was traveling towards the bridge and was resting on a little hill above it , when the accident occurred. A splendid thing for us that a man with the deeply philosophical mind of Brother Juniper should have been witness when the finest bridge in all Peru, woven of osier centuries before by an Incas civilization, hurtled , without apparent cause, into the abyss below carrying five travelers to their death.
And Brother Juniper set out on the task of trying to make an _ exact science out of theology . An analysis of his mind would probably have shown the following summary: Does Fate strike out blindly and kill those who first come under her hand or is there a careful selection of who is next to pass out of this life?
"Some say that we shall never know and that to the gods we are like the flies that the boys kill on a summer day, and some say, on the contrary, that the very sparrows do not lose a feather that has not been brushed away by the finger of God ."
Brother Juniper had long dreamed of experiments that justify the ways of God to man, but what he had heretofore lacked was a laboratory. There had never been any lack of specimens; any number had met calamity-spiders had stung them; their lungs had been touched; their houses had burned down. . . . But these occasions of human woe had never been quite fit for scientific examination. They had lacked what the savants call proper control. The accident had been dependent upon human error, for example, or had contained elements of probability. But this collapse of the bridge of San Luis Rey was a sheer act of God. It afforded a perfect laboratory. Here at last one could surprise His intentions in a pure state.
The subsequent pages are given over to an analysis of the five persons who met their death when the bridge fell; Marquesa de Montemayor and her servant girl, Pepita, Esteban, Uncle Pio, and Don Jaime, the son of Camila, the Perichole, an actress. Each section could be read by itself and perfectly understood. We might infer
from this, that the book is little more than a series of character sketches. It is more than this, however . . . there is a unified theme which one must look for carefully, if he is to get the most from the novel. The author understands his people thoroughly and imparts to his readers as well, the power to understand them.
We admired the absence of sentimentalism from Mr. Wilder's pages. Our sympathies were not causelessly or wilfully aroused. The unpleasant fact is never withheld in order to heighten our response. This is realism in the best sense of the word, for it ihcludes all . . . not only the external picture which so often passes for realism , but the interior revelation without which external appearances must always be deceptive.
Mr. Wilder paints a mellow and urbane outlook on life. He sets forth his story without the usual tricks of the novelist and seems to have developed a simple, straightforward, and pleasing style . . . heightened considerably by the deft appliance of incidental description exactly at the time it is needed to furnish a background.
As for the philosophy of the book, it seems to be summed up in the final speech of Madre Maria de! Pilar, the Abbess of the Convent of Santa Maria Rosa de las Rosas. "Even now almost no one remembers Esteban and Pepita, but myself. Camila alone remembers her Uncle Pio and her son; Dofia Clara is the only one who remembers her mother. But soon we shall die and all memory of those five will have left the earth, and we ourselves shall be loved for a while and forgotten. But the love will have been enough; all those impulses of love return to the love that made them. Even memory is not necessary for love. There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning."
Mr. Wilder, with his two books, The Cabala and The Bridge of San Luis Rey takes his place among the leading novelists.
-L. N. BLOOMBERG.
Circus Parade, by Jim Tully. Albert and Charles Boni, 1927.
Whatever this Circus Parade may be called by some folks, it is a great piece of realism . . . one of the most impressive accounts we have read in some time.
Mr. Tully has, of course, been accused of lacking the technique by which many persons judge a novel without looking into the human side and trying to find out what the man has to say, not how he says it. So be it that Mr. Tully may lack some of the well-accepted finesse, he has a story to tell and does it without first sugar-coating and doctoring it into a unrecognizable mess. Tully's work is artistry
in the highest degree-presented in a form as near the original as it is possible to print, Circus Parade is tremendously impressive.
Gone is the glamor with which many authors are prone to paint circus life . . . the big top stands stripped of song and story and is shown as a refuge, a harboring place of insidious passions, bestiality in its lowest form, obscenity, dirt, filth, lust, jealousy, stench, ironical love, pity . . . the bitterness of it all.
It is a very somber and disagreeable picture ; the sickening stench of the circus is not pleasing. But as an adventure into places we know nothing of and cannot possibly comprehend without seeing, we think that one must wade through this to understand life .
And still on the other hand, we read a thrilling tale . . . vibrant and pulsating with real life. Every angle of human existence can be shown under a circus tent it seems. Man fighting man, man' s relations with woman, man and beast, can be studied in a primitive state from a calmly philosophical viewpoint.
Mr. Tully actually carries one along with the circus for an entire season . . . when it is cold and rainy, one shivers . . . when the heat is unbearable, he suffers . . . when the smell of the circus become too sickening, he clamps his fingers over his nose . . . he is present at the loading and unloading of the circus . . . is given a little inside dope on the shell games . . . is made acquainted with the loves and passions of the freaks, Lila, the fat woman, and the Moss Haired Girl who bathes her locks in stale beer.
A word about Lila, the fat woman . . . Tully fastens upon her the irony of that poetic name. She is the one who waits for the man of her heart . . . conjuring up her ideal with the aid of numerous paper backed romances over which her monstrous bosom would heave. Then comes the man of her dreams, the top man of an acrobatic act. He learns of her immense wealth, three or four thousand dollars, and makes violent love to her which causes such a display o.f excess emotion that at the night performance she lifts three more country louts at one time that is her wont. The acrobat tells her that he knows of a little farm where they could live together . . . that it is a very beautiful and profitable place . . . since geese land on the little lake at night . . . the lake freezes over and the next morning all they have to do is to go out and pick the geese off the lake where the ice has held them tight. She gives him two thousand dollars to make the "first payment." He doesn't come back. Three days later she is found with an empty bottle nearby and cyanide burns on her lips. It is a thrilling and powerful thing, this Circus Parade. -L. N. BLOOMBERG.
RICHMOND COLLEGE
M. S. SHOCKLEY, Editor-in-Chief
WELLFORD TAYLOR, Business Manager
ELMER POITER, Assistant Editor
H. G. KINCHELOE, Assistant Editor
JOHN HARRIS WELSH, Asst. Bus. Mgr .
CARROLL T. TAYLOR, Asst. Bus. Mgr.
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
WHILE we have been engaged in academic pursuits in this small but sufficient university, our greatest delight has been the privilege of listening in with its still smaller but more than sufficient group of literati. Fortunately, our period of novitate state took place during the Evans-Jones or Harlan-Marsh Renaissance. Our trembling hands applauded the efforts to establish a coterie which might elevate the literary creative and critical standards of the colleges. Through the zealous work of the leaders of this Renaissance, the students gained a freedom of expression in the publications of this university, which same we now enjoy. They broke through the bonds characteristic of a small denominational institution, and, with tact, began a campaign to insure our search for unbiased literature approbation from the friends of our Alma Mater. Our present group enjoys the result of that pioneering.
This issue of THE MESSENGERis dedicated to the work of the Writers' Club and Sigma Upsilon. These two societies represent the unified attempts of both colleges to continue the unrestricted expression of collegiate ideas. A very pleasant relationship exists between the clubs. Teas have been given, at which every one has opportunity to flaunt his or her pet bon mot with a flourish and yet not have it held against him. Occasionally, a person has been known to forget himself so far as to try to write something. But this causes small
disturbance among the friendly comrades in the order. Opuses are read in the gatherings among much chaffing and good -natured criticism, for though cine of the literati admits no inferiority in an opus to those outside the charmed circle, he knows well that he can never bluff "those who know."
Nevertheless, out of this more or less organized banter has grown ·a well-defined literary appreciation on this campus which will, we believe, endure. Competition has become keener among the more talented of students, while a higher goal has been set for the lesser lights and those beginning to write. A bond of common interest has joined the writing group in friendship, that of setting a high literary standard here.
Many delightful memories are ours m days to come. THE MESSENGER'Spages do not contain many of the best works of the "near-geniuses," the historic Char-Lady, the person who asked for "tea of course," Herr and Mons are lQst to the outside world. But to the "outsiders" we dedicate this issue that they may know that our Swan song is to the Writers' Club and Sigma U.
