For all his haste the squire, as was also remembered later, was almost the last to enter the door; and before he did enter he halted and searched the flawless sky as though for signs of rain. Then he hurried on after the others, who clumped single file along a narrow little hall, the bare, uncarpeted floor creaking loudly under their heavy farm shoes, and entered a good-sized room that had in it, among other things, a high-piled feather bed and a cottage organ—Bristow's best room, now to be placed at the disposal of the law's representatives for the inquest. The squire took the largest chair and drew it to the very center of the room, in front of a fireplace, where the grate was banked with withering asparagus ferns. The constable took his place formally at one side of the presiding official. The others sat or stood about where they could find room—all but six of them, whom the squire picked for his coroner's jury, and who backed themselves against the wall.
The squire showed haste. He drove the preliminaries forward with a sort of tremulous insistence. Bristow's wife brought a bucket of fresh drinking water and a gourd, and almost before she was out of the room and the door closed behind her the squire had sworn his jurors and was calling the first witness, who it seemed likely would also be the only witness—Bristow's oldest boy. The boy wriggled in confusion as he sat on a cane-bottomed chair facing the old magistrate. All there, barring one or two, had heard his story a dozen times already, but now it was to be repeated under oath; and so they bent their heads, listening as though it were a brand-new tale. All eyes were on him; none were fastened on the squire as he, too, gravely bent his head, listening—listening.
The witness began—but had no more than started when the squire gave a great, screeching howl and sprang from his chair and staggered backward, his eyes popped and the pouch under his chin quivering as though it had a separate life all its own. Startled, the constable made toward him and they struck together heavily and went down—both on all fours—right in front of the fireplace.
The constable scrambled free and got upon his feet, in a squat of astonishment, with his head craned; but the squire stayed upon the floor, face downward, his feet flopping among the rustling asparagus greens—a picture of slavering animal fear. And now his gagging screech resolved itself into articulate speech.
"I done it!" they made out his shrieked words. "I done it! I own up—I killed him! He aimed fur to break up my home and I tolled him off into Niggerwool and killed him! There's a hole in his back if you'll look fur it. I done it—oh, I done it—and I'll tell everything jest like it happened if you'll jest keep that thing away from me! Oh, my Lawdy! Don't you hear it? It's a-comin' clos'ter and clos'ter—it's a-comin' after me! Keep it away——" His voice gave out and he buried his head in his hands and rolled upon the gaudy carpet.
And now they heard what he had heard first—they heard the tonk-tonk-tonk of a cowbell, coming near and nearer toward them along the hallway without. It was as though the sound floated along. There was no creak of footsteps upon the loose, bare boards—and the bell jangled faster than it would dangling from a cow's neck. The sound came right to the door and Squire Gathers wallowed among the chairlegs.
The door swung open. In the doorway stood a negro child, barefooted and naked except for a single garment, eying them with serious, rolling eyes—and, with all the strength of his two puny arms, proudly but solemnly tolling a small, rusty cowbell he had found in the cowyard.
Isaac Frederick Marcosson, editor and author, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, September 13, 1876, of Jewish ancestry. He was educated in the public schools of Louisville, and attended High School for a year. In 1894 he entered journalism, joining the staff of the Louisville Times, of which he was subsequently literary and city editor. In 1903 Mr. Marcosson went to New York, and became associate editor of The World's Work; and in connection with this work he served its publishers, Doubleday, Page and Company, as literary adviser. While with The World's Work he wrote many articles on topics of vital interest. From March, 1907, to 1910, Mr. Marcosson was financial editor of The Saturday Evening Post of Philadelphia. For The Post he conducted three popular departments: "Your Savings"; "Literary Folks"; and "Wall Street Men." Every other week he had a signed article upon some subject of general interest. Some of his articles upon "Your Savings" have been collected and published in a small book, called How to Invest Your Savings (Philadelphia, 1907). Mr. Marcosson's latest book, The Autobiography of a Clown (New York, 1910), written upon an unusual subject, attracted wide attention. A part of it was originally published anonymously as a serial in The Post, and the response it evoked encouraged Mr. Marcosson to make a little book of his hero, who was none other than Jules Turnour, the famous Ringling clown. Jules furnished the facts, or part of them, perhaps, but Mr. Marcosson made him more attractive in cold type than he had ever been under the big tent. The Autobiography of a Clown deserved all the kind things that were said about it. Since 1910 Mr. Marcosson has been associate editor of Munsey's Magazine and the other periodicals that are owned by Mr. Munsey. His articles usually lead the magazine.
Bibliography. The Bookman (April; June; December, 1910).
THE WAGON CIRCUS[87]
[From The Autobiography of a Clown (New York, 1910)]
All the circuses then were wagon shows. They traveled from town to town in wagons. The performers went ahead to the hotel in 'buses or snatched what sleep they could in specially built vans. The start for the next town was usually made about three o'clock in the morning. No "run" from town to town was more than twenty miles, and more often it was considerably less. At the head of the cavalcade rode the leader, on horseback, with a lantern. Torches flickered from most of the wagons, and cast big shadows. The procession of creaking vehicles, neighing horses, and sometimes roaring beasts was an odd picture as it wound through the night. Many of the drivers slept on their seats. The elephant always walked majestically, with a sleepy groom alongside. The route was indicated by flaming torches left at points where the roads turned. Sometimes these torches went out, and the show got lost. More than once a farmer was rudely aroused from his slumbers, and nearly lost his wits when he poked his head out of his window and saw the black bulk of an elephant in his front yard. It was, indeed, the picturesque day of the circus.
My first engagement was with the Burr Robbins circus, which was a big wagon show. The night traveling in the wagons was new to me, and at first strange. But I got to like it very much. It was a great relief to lie in the wagons, out under the stars, and feel the sweet breath of the country. Often the nights were so still that the only sounds were the creaking of the wagons, and occasionally the words, "Mile up," that the elephant driver always used to urge his patient, plodding beast.
The circus arrangement then was much different from now. Then the whole outfit halted outside the town, which was never reached until after daylight. The canvas men would hurry to the "lot" to put up the tents while we remained behind to spruce up for the parade. Gay flags were hoisted over the dusty wagons; the tired and sleepy performers turned out of tousled beds to put on the finery of the Orient. A gorgeous howdah was placed on the elephant's back, and a dark-eyed beauty, usually from some eastern city, was hoisted aloft to ride in state, and to be the envy and admiration of every village maiden. No matter how long, wet, or dusty had been our journey from the last town, everybody, man and beast, always braced up for the parade. Of course, by this time we were surrounded by a crowd of gaping countrymen. Often the triumphant parade of the town was made on empty stomachs, for there was to be no let-up until the people of the community had had every bit of "free doing" that the circus could supply. The clowns always drove mules in the parade. When the parade reached the grounds, the performers changed clothes, hastened back to the village hotel, and ate heartily. If there was time, we snatched a few hours of sleep. But sleep and the circus man are strangers during the season. Ask any circus man when he sleeps, and he will say, "In the winter time."
Mrs. Gertrude King Tufts, author of The Landlubbers, was born in Boone county, Kentucky, in 1877, the daughter of Col. William S. King. She was educated in Kentucky and at private schools in Philadelphia, after which she took a library course and went to New York to work. The property she had inherited had been squandered, so she was compelled to seek her own fortune. For a while she did well, but her struggle for success was most severe. For nearly two years Miss King knew "physical pain and the utter want of money." Finally, however, in 1907, she became editor of the educational department of the Macmillan Company, and then she set to work upon her novel, The Landlubbers (New York, 1909), which was first conceived as a short story, and was finished in the hot summer of 1908. Polly, heroine, is a school teacher out West, who hates her job, saves her money, and decides to see the world. On the trip across the Atlantic, she falls in with Flossie, confidence queen, and she is soon "broke." Suicide seems to be the only way out of her predicament and, at midnight, she quits her state-room to silently slip into the ocean. She is no sooner on deck, however, than she is confronted with cries from the crew and captain that the ship has struck an iceberg and is sinking. The next day Polly finds herself and Dick, hero-lover, on the old battered ship and alone. They, then, are "the landlubbers," and their experiences on the drifting, water-soaked craft, is the story. Miss King dramatized her novel, as she is anxious to become famous as a playwright, "not as a mere yarn-spinner." She also prepared a wonderful human document of her struggles in New York that was most interesting as an excellent piece of writing, and as an advertisement for her book. At the present time Miss King is said to be engaged upon a "long novel——a leisurely, picturesque thing into which I want to put a good deal of life." Miss King was married on February 26, 1912, to Mr. Walter B. Tufts, a New York business man. She is a kinswoman of Mr. Credo Harris, the Kentucky novelist.
Bibliography. The Bookman (May, 1909); Lexington Leader (May 16, 1909).
SHIPWRECKED[88]
[From The Landlubbers (New York, 1909)]
I woke, not roused by any unusual sound or motion, but disturbed by a sense of hovering evil, a horror imminent and unescapable. I sat up, looked at my watch—for I had not turned off the light—and saw that it was toward half-past eleven o'clock. The great ship was silent, save for the throbbing of her iron pulses. As I listened, the fog-horn moaned out its warning, and as the deep note died away seven bells rang faintly from above. My watch, then, was right—and it was time!
I remembered what I had to do, and obeyed the decision of my more wakeful self, though I was far more influenced by the sense of vague, impersonal fear. Still muffled in the stupor of sleep, and shaken from head to foot by a nervous trembling, I rose, put on my long cloak, and flung a scarf over my disordered hair, for if I were to meet anyone I must seem merely a restless passenger seeking a breath of fresh air. I moved rapidly as I grew more wakeful, and tried not to think. From habit I folded my rugs neatly, and plumped up the pillow on which I had been lying. My throat and lips were dry, and I drank a glass of water before I unlocked my door and stepped out into the passage.
There rose above me a long, horrible cry, a shout blent discordantly of the voices of two-score men, a fearful sound as of the essence of brute fear. Many feet pattered upon the deck. There were wordless shouts, shrieked oaths, sharp commands, the boatswain's whistle piercing through the whole mass of confused sound. The great horn boomed just once more—I heard it through my hands upon my ears as I cowered against the wall.
Then the deck quivered under my feet as a horrible, grinding, rending crash shut out every other sound, and the great ship trembled throughout her length, and began to reel drunkenly from side to side, settling over, with every swing, further and further to port.
A new, more deafening clamour arose all about me, as the sleepers were aroused, and in half a minute the corridor was filled with whitefaced people in all sorts of dress and undress, carrying all kinds of queer treasures, weeping, shrieking, cursing; there was even laughter, hysterical and uncontrollable, and strange stammered words of blasphemy, prayer, reassurance, were shaken out between chattering teeth. A fat steward ran by, shoving rudely aside those whom till now he had lovingly tended as the source of tips. Now he struck away the trembling hands which clutched at his white jacket, ignoring the shivering inquiries as to "What was the matter?" The rapid passage of him gave the excited crowd the impulse it needed, and as one man they surged toward the stair—I with the rest.
But at the foot of the stair reason returned to me, and I reflected that it was absurd for me to join in the struggle for that life which I had just prepared to renounce. Here was death held out to me in the cold hand of Fate, as I could not doubt—and here was I pitiably trying to thrust away the gift!
I wrenched myself out of that frantic crowd, and made my way back to my stateroom with some difficulty, owing to the ship's unusual motion and the increasing list to port. She quivered no longer, indeed, but there passed through her from time to time a long, waving shudder, like the throe of a dying thing, unspeakably fearful and very sickening. As I passed beyond the close-packed crowd the sounds of their terror became more awful. I could discern the cries of little children, the quavering clamour of the very old. The pity of it overcame me, and I staggered into my stateroom and closed the door upon it all. But overhead there was still the swift tramp of feet, the harsh sound of voices—steadier now, and less multiplied, the tokens of a brave and awful preparation.
The next quarter of an hour—for I am sure that the time could not have been as much as twenty minutes, though it seemed that I sat with clenched hands for several days—was spent in a struggle with myself which devoured all my strength. I had heard much, and, in the folly of my peaceful, untempted youth, had often spoken of the cowardice of suicide. But now it required more courage and strength of will than I had ever believed myself capable of just to sit upon that divan, passively waiting to give back my warm, vigorous life to the infinity whence it came. Several times I gave in, and rose and laid my hand upon the doorknob—and conquered myself and went back to the divan and sat down again. Meanwhile, the noise went on above and about me; the fat steward, his face green with fear, flung my door open without knocking. "To the boats, Miss—captain's orders—no luggage——" He went on to the next room: "To the boats, sir!" The room was empty, and he passed to the next: "To the boats——" His teeth knocked against each other, tears of fright glittered down his broad face, but I heard him open doors faithfully the length of the starboard passage. It was, I suppose, his great hour.
I went to close the door, and found myself confronted by a man, barefooted, clad in shirt and trousers. It was Champion. "You awake, miss? I came to call you—All right? I'm going to get Mr. Darragh on deck," and he vanished.
His friendly, anxious look broke down something in me, and I was on a sudden overwhelmed by the passion of life; my humanity awoke again, and I longed for life, for life however stern, painful, hardwrung from peril and deprivation, for life snatched with bleeding hands out of the fanged jaws of the universe. I stood irresolute, the handle of the door in my hand, for I know not how long. The swaying of the ship became less regular, and the sounds of her straining, wrenched framework sickened me. I stepped over the threshold—the ship gave a last long trembling lurch from which it seemed she could not right herself; there rose a mighty hissing roar and the shriek of the steam from the hold, louder cries from the deck, the lights went out. I stumbled in the dark and fell, striking my head, and something warm and wet trickled down my face as a huge silence settled down upon me, swift and gentle as the wing of a great brooding bird, and I was very peaceful and very happy, for was I not being rocked—no, I was swinging, "letting the old cat die" in the big backyard at Carsonville, Illinois. No, it was better than that—I was dying, for the dark was shot by flashes of golden light, throbbing and raying painfully from my head, and then everything ebbed quietly, gently away.
Charles Hanson Towne, poet of New York's many-sided life, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, February 2, 1877, the son of Professor Paul Towne. He left Kentucky before he was five years old, and he has been living in New York practically ever since. Mr. Towne was educated in the public schools of New York, and then spent a year at the College of the City of New York. He was editor of The Smart Set for several years, but he resigned this position to become literary editor of The Delineator. At the present time Mr. Towne is managing editor of The Designer, one of the Butterick publications. With H. Clough-Leighter he published two song-cycles, entitled A Love Garden, and An April Heart; and with Amy Woodforde-Finden he collaborated in the preparation of three song-cycles, entitled A Lover in Damascus, Five Little Japanese Songs, and A Dream of Egypt. His original and independent work is to be found in his three volumes of verse, the first of which was The Quiet Singer and Other Poems (New York, 1908), a collection of lyrics reprinted from various magazines; Manhattan: a Poem (New York, 1909), an epic of New York City; and Youth and Other Poems (New York, 1911), a metrical romance of domestic happiness, with a group of pleasing shorter poems. Manhattan is the best thing Mr. Towne has done so far. The poem is the life of the present-day New Yorker, the rich and the poor, the famous and the infamous, from many points of view. The poet has turned the most commonplace events of every-day life into verse of exceptional quality and much strength. As the singer of the passing show in New York City, Mr. Towne has done his best work.
Bibliography. The Bookman (March, 1910); The Forum (June, 1911); Cosmopolitan Magazine (December, 1912).
SPRING[89]
[From Manhattan, a Poem (New York, 1909)]
SLOW PARTING[90]
[From Youth and Other Poems (New York, 1911)]
OF DEATH
(To Michael Monahan)
[From the same]
William English Walling, writer upon sociological subjects, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, March 14, 1877. When twenty years of age he was graduated from the University of Chicago with the B. S. degree; and he subsequently did graduate work in economics and sociology for a year at the same institution. Since 1902 Mr. Walling has been a resident at the University Settlement in New York. He has contributed to many of the high-class magazines, but he is best seen as a writer in his two books, entitled Russia's Message (New York, 1908); and Socialism As It Is (New York, 1912). The first title, Russia's Message, is one of the authoritative works upon that race; and it has been received as such in many quarters. And the same statement may be made of his excellent discussion of socialism. Mr. Walling is a member of many political and social societies. He has an attractive home at Cedarhurst, Long Island. In the early spring of 1913 the Macmillan Company will issue another book for Mr. Walling, entitled The Larger Aspects of Socialism.
Bibliography. The Nation (August 6, 1908); Review of Reviews (August, 1908); The Independent (May 16, 1912).
RUSSIA AND AMERICA[91]
[From Russia's Message (New York, 1908)]
Russia, like the United States, is a self-sufficient country; more than a country, a world. Like the new world, the Russian world forms an almost complete economic whole, embracing under a single government nearly all, if not all, climates and nearly all the raw products used in modern life; both countries are large exporters of agricultural products, both are devoted more to agriculture than to manufacturing industry. Both of these worlds are composed largely of newly acquired and newly settled territory; though both are inhabited by very many races, in each a single race prevails numerically and in most other respects over all the rest, and keeps them together as a single whole. As the result of the mixture of races and the recent settlement of large parts of both countries, their culture is international, world-culture, unmarked by the comparatively provincial nationalistic tendencies of England, Germany, or France. We may look, according to a great German publicist, Kautsky, to America for the great economic experiments of the near future and to Russia for the new (social) politics.
America is essentially a country of rapid economic evolution, while Russia is undeveloped, economically and financially dependent. America is the country of economic genius, a nation whose conceptions of material development have reached even a spiritual height. The great American qualities, the American virtues, the American imagination, have thrown themselves almost wholly into business, the material development of the country. Americans are the first of modern peoples that have learned to respect the repeated failures of enterprising individuals with a genius for affairs, knowing that such failures often lead to greater heights of success. They have learned how to excuse enormous waste when it was made for the sake of economics lying in the distant future. They can appreciate the enterprise of persons who, instead of immediately exploiting their properties, know how to wait, like some of our most able builders that, foreseeing the brilliant future of the locality in which they are situated, are satisfied with temporary structures and poor incomes until the time is ripe for some of the magnificent modern achievements in architecture, in which we so clearly lead. All three of these types of men we admire are true revolutionists, who prefer to wait, to waste, or to fail, rather than to accept the lesser for the greater good.
So it is with Russians in their politics. There seems no reason for doubting that the near future will show that the political failures now being made by the Russians are the failures of political genius, that the waste of lives and property will be repaid later a hundredfold, and that the hopeful and planful patience with which the Russians are looking forward and working to a great social transformation promises the greatest and most magnificent results when that transformation is achieved. Already the political revolution of the Russian people, though not yet embodied in political institutions, is becoming as rapid, as remarkable, as phenomenal, as the economic revolution of the United States.
Thompson Buchanan, novelist and playwright, was born at New York City, June 21, 1877. Before he was thirteen years of age his family settled at Louisville, Kentucky; and from 1890 to 1894 he attended the Male High School in that city. Being the son of a retired clergyman of the Episcopal church, it was fitting that he should select the University of the South as his college, and in September, 1895, he reached the little town of Sewanee, in the Tennessee mountains, and matriculated in the University. He left college without a degree in July, 1897, and returned to his home at Louisville, where he shortly afterwards became police court reporter for the now defunct Louisville Commercial. Mr. Buchanan was connected with the Commercial until 1900, save six months of service as a private in the First Kentucky Volunteer Infantry during the Spanish-American War. He saw service in the Porto Rico campaign with his regiment and, after peace was declared, returned to his home and to his position on the paper. In 1900 Mr. Buchanan went with The Courier-Journal; and during the same year he was dubbed a lieutenant in the Kentucky State Guards. In 1902 he left Colonel Watterson's paper for The Louisville Herald, of which he was dramatic critic for more than a year. The year of 1904 found Mr. Buchanan in New York on The Evening Journal, with which he was connected for four years, when he abandoned journalism in order to devote his entire attention to literature. Mr. Buchanan's first book, The Castle Comedy (New York, 1904), a romance of the time of Napoleon, which many critics compared to Booth Tarkington's Monsieur Beaucaire, was followed by Judith Triumphant (New York, 1905), another novel, set in the ancient city of Bethulia, with the Judith of the Apocrypha as the heroine. His dramatization of The Castle Comedy was so generally commended, that he decided to desert the field of fiction for the writing of plays. His first effort, Nancy Don't Care, was met with a like response from the public, and the young playwright presented The Intruder, which certainly justified belief in his ultimate arrival as a dramatist, if it did nothing more. The play that brought Mr. Buchanan wider fame than anything he has done hitherto was A Woman's Way, a comedy of manners, in which Miss Grace George created the character of the wife with convincing power. Marion Stanton is quite unfortunately in love with her exceedingly rich, but bored, husband, Howard Stanton, who seeks the society of other women, one of whom happens to be with him when his motor car is wrecked near New Haven at a most unseemly hour. The New York "yellows" are advised of the accident and they, of course, desire details—which desire precipitates the action of the play. "Scandal," in type the size of an ordinary country weekly, is flashed across the "heads" of the big dailies, extras are put forth hourly, a family conference is called at the home of the Stantons, a rich young widow from the South is regarded by the papers as Stanton's partner in the accident, and a very merry time is had by all concerned. The way the woman took out of her difficulties is unfrequented by many, although it should have been well-worn long before Marion made it famous. The drama was one of the authentic successes of 1909, and it certainly established its author's reputation. A novelization of A Woman's Way (New York, 1909), was made by Charles Somerville, and accorded a large sale, but how infinitely better would have been a publication of the play as produced! Quite absurd novelizations of plays are at the present time one of the literary fads which should have been in at the birth and death of Charles Lamb. The Cub, produced in 1910, a comedy with a mixture of melodrama and farce, was concerned with a young Louisville newspaper man, "a cub," who is assigned to "cover" a family feud in the Kentucky mountains. That he finds himself in many situations, pleasant and otherwise, we may be sure. A celebrated critic called The Cub "one of the wittiest of plays"—which opinion was shared by many who saw it. Lula's Husbands, a farce from the French, was also produced in 1910. The Rack, produced in 1911, was followed by Natalie, and Her Mother's Daughter, all of which were given stage presentation. Mr. Buchanan spent most of the year of 1912 writing and rehearsing his new play, The Bridal Path, a matrimonial comedy in three acts, which is to be produced in February, 1913. None of his plays have been issued in book form, but, besides his first two romances and the novelization of A Woman's Way, two other novels have appeared, entitled The Second Wife (New York, 1911); and Making People Happy (New York, 1911). That Thompson Buchanan is the ablest playwright Kentucky has produced is open to no sort of serious discussion; with the exception of Mr. Dazey and Mrs. Flexner he is, indeed, quite alone in his field. Kentucky has poetic dramatists almost without number, but the practical playwright, whose lines reach his audience across the footlights, is a rara avis. Augustus Thomas, the foremost living American playwright, resided at Louisville for a short time, and his finest drama, The Witching Hour, is set wholly at Louisville, although written in New York, but Kentucky's claim upon him is too slender to admit of much investigation. Mr. Buchanan has done so much in such a short space of time that one is tempted to turn his own favorite shibboleth upon him and exclaim: "Fine!"
Bibliography. The Theatre Magazine (April; May, 1909); The American Magazine (November, 1910); The Green Book (January, 1911).
THE WIFE WHO DIDN'T GIVE UP[92]
[From A Woman's Way (Current Literature, New York, June, 1909)]
Act III, Scene I. Mr. Lynch, the reporter, enters, joining General Livingston, Mrs. Stanton's father, and Bob, Morris, and Whitney, all of whom have had escapades with the winsome widow.
General Livingston. I represent Mr. Stanton, and I tell you, sir, I do not propose to have him hounded in this damnable fashion any longer. I shall hold you personally responsible.
Lynch. General, you're the fifth man who's said that to me since three o'clock.
General Livingston. (Sharp.) What!
Lynch. And if you do physically assault me, General, I shall certainly land you in the night court, and collect space on the story spread on the front page, sure—"Famous old soldier fined for brutally assaulting innocent young newspaper man."
(General Livingston stands completely dumbfounded, his hands twitching, quivering with rage.)
General Livingston. (Gasps almost tearfully.) Have you newspaper men no sense of personal decency, personal dignity?
Lynch. Don't be too hard on us, General. During business hours, our associations are very bad.
General Livingston. What do you mean?
Lynch. We have the name of the lady who was with Mr. Stanton in his car at the time of his accident. We have learned all about the trip and we have the woman's name. So I have come to give Mr. Stanton a——
General Livingston. (Interrupting.) Would the papers print that?
Lynch. Would they print it? Well—(Smiles significantly.)
General Livingston. Then I shall say nothing, but our lawyers will take action.
Lynch. They'd better take it quick. You'll have fifty reporters up here by to-morrow night. If Mr. Stanton refuses to say anything, we will simply send out the story that the woman in the car with him at the time of his automobile accident was——(Pauses, then with dramatic emphasis.) Mrs. Elizabeth Blakemore.
General Livingston. (Starting back in amazement.) Good gracious!!
Bob and Morris. (Turn, face each other, absolute amazement showing on their faces, speak together.) Well, what do you think of that? (Whitney alone is not surprised. The situation is held a moment, then Stanton enters. He does not see Lynch at first.)
Stanton. (As he comes on.) General, I wish to apologize——(Stops short, seeing Lynch.)
General Livingston. (Whirling on Stanton.) Apologize! Apologize! How dare you, sir! (Losing his self-control.) My great-grandfather killed his man for just such an insult——
[Marion enters to save the situation. The reporter withdraws for a moment, while the general informs her that Mrs. Blakemore must leave the house at once. Marion demurs.]
Marion. Father, I told you once what concerns my own life I must settle my own way. I don't want to appear disrespectful, but you cannot coerce me in my own house. (Walks past him to the door and opens it.) Good evening, Mr. Lynch.
Lynch. (Sincere tone.) I hope you will believe me, Mrs. Stanton, when I tell you it is not a pleasure to me to have to come on this errand.
Marion. Thank you, Mr. Lynch.
Lynch. I'd rather talk to Mr. Stanton.
Marion. Sorry, but——(Her manner is pleasant and friendly, but firm. Lynch evidently likes her and with a shrug he accepts situation.)
Lynch. Then please understand my position, and how I regret personally the question that, as a newspaper man, I must put. (Marion bows.) Bluntly, Mrs. Stanton, we have the name of that woman.
Marion. Yes.
Lynch. And we are going to publish it unless it can be proven wrong.
Marion. I'd expect that. Who is she?
Lynch. Mrs. Elizabeth Blakemore. (Lynch pronounces the name regretfully. Marion stares at him a moment in amazement, then throws back her head and gives way to a peal of laughter. The men on the stage stare at Marion amazed.)
Marion. Oh, this is too good! Too good! Forgive me, Mr. Lynch. (Goes off into another peal of laughter, turns to the men.) Howard, Dad, all of you, did you hear that? What a splendid joke! (The men try awkwardly to back her up.)
General Livingston. Splendid! Haw! Haw!
Bob. Fine, he, he!
Morris. (At head of table.) Ho, ho. I never knew anything like it.
Whitney. I told Mr. Lynch he was on a cold trail.
Lynch. (Grimly.) You can't laugh me off.
Marion. (Struggling for self-control.) Of course not. But you must forgive my having my laugh first. I'll offer more substantial proof. (Opens door, letting in immediately the sound of women's talking and laughter which stop short as though the women had looked around at the opening of the door. Calling in her most dulcet tone.) Elizabeth!
Mrs. Blakemore. (Her voice heard off stage.) Yes, Marion, dear. (An amazed gasp from the men. Mrs. Blakemore appears at the door.)
Marion. Come in! (Mrs. Blakemore enters, looks about quickly, almost fearfully. Marion slips her arm about Mrs. Blakemore's waist in reassuring fashion, laughing, but at the same time giving Mrs. Blakemore a warning pressure with her arm.) Don't say a word, dear. The greatest joke you ever heard! Come! (Mrs. Blakemore, following suit, slips her arm about Marion. They come down stage to Lynch, their arms about each other's waist most affectionately. The men are staring at them dumfounded. Marion and Mrs. Blakemore stop opposite Lynch. Marion speaks gaily.) Mr. Lynch, of the City News, may I present Mrs. Elizabeth Blakemore?
Lynch. (In amazement.) Mrs. Blakemore!
Mrs. Blakemore. (Bowing pleasantly.) Glad to meet you, Mr. Lynch.
Lynch. (Repeating, dazed.) Mrs. Blakemore!
Marion. (Gaily.) And you see she's not lame a bit from her broken leg.
Mrs. Blakemore. What's the joke?
Marion. (Taunting.) You would not expect, Mr. Lynch, to find plaintiff and corespondent so friendly.
Mrs. Blakemore. (Gasping.) Plaintiff! Corespondent!
Marion. Yes, dear. Mr. Lynch came all the way up from down town to tell me that I am going to bring a divorce suit against Howard, naming you as corespondent. Now wasn't that sweet of him? (She keeps her warning pressure about Mrs. Blakemore's waist.)
Mrs. Blakemore. (Taking the cue.) This is awful! Horrible!
Marion. Now, dear, don't lose your sense of humor. (To Lynch.) Are you satisfied, Mr. Lynch?
Lynch. Forgive me. Mrs. Stanton, but you are so confounded clever you might run in a "ringer." (Reaches in his pocket, brings out a picture, holds it up and compares the picture with Mrs. Blakemore. Finally looks up.) Guess you win, Mrs. Stanton.
Marion. Thanks. (Bows satirically.)
Lynch. Yes, you must be right I don't believe even you could put your arm about the other woman. (A suppressed, gasping exclamation from the men.)
Marion. That observation hardly requires an answer, Mr. Lynch.
Lynch. Sorry to have disturbed you. Good night!
All. (With relief.) Good night.
[The flabbergasted reporter withdraws, but Marion still keeps her arm about Mrs. Blakemore. When he re-opens the door, as if he had forgotten something, he finds the picture undisturbed. Mrs. Blakemore thanks Marion for her generosity, and goes out, followed by the others. "Good night, my friend," the widow remarks, "you'll get all that is coming to you." Stanton calls back Marion who has also deserted the room.]
Stanton. Marion! Marion!
Marion. (Enters.) Has she gone?
Stanton. Who?
Marion. Puss?
Stanton. Oh, she's not my Puss.
Marion. Not your Puss, Howard? Then whose Puss is she?
Stanton. God knows—maybe. Marion. I've loved you all the time. I've been a fool, a weak, dazzled fool. I love you. Won't you forgive me and take me back?
Marion. Take you back? Why, I've never even given you up. Do you think I could stand for that cat—Puss, I mean—in this house and me off to Reno?
Curtain.
Will Levington Comfort, "the new style novelist," was born at Kalamazoo, Michigan, January 17, 1878. He was educated in the grammar and high schools of Detroit, and was at Albion College, Albion, Michigan, for a short time. Mr. Comfort was a newspaper reporter in Detroit for a few months, but, in 1898, he did his first real reporting on papers in Cincinnati, Ohio, and Covington, Kentucky. During the Spanish-American War he served in the Fifth United States Cavalry; and in 1899 he was war correspondent in the Philippines and China for the "Detroit Journal Newspaper Syndicate;" and in 1904 he was in Russia and Japan during the war for the "Pittsburgh Dispatch Newspaper Syndicate." Thus he followed the war-god almost around the world; and out of his experiences he wrote his anti-war novel, Routledge Rides Alone (Philadelphia, 1909). This proved to be one of the most popular of recent American novels, now in its ninth edition. It was followed by She Buildeth Her House (Philadelphia, 1911), his quasi-Kentucky novel. In order to get the local color for this book, Mr. Comfort spent some months at Danville, Kentucky, the Danube of the story, and of his stay in the little town, together with his opinion of the Kentucky actress in the book, Selma Cross, he has written: "I always considered Selma Cross the real thing. I had quite a wonderful time doing her, and she came to be most emphatically in Kentucky. It was a night in Danville when some amateur theatricals were put on, that I got the first idea of a big crude woman with a handicap of beauty-lack, but big enough to win against every law. She had to go on the anvil, hard and long. I was interested to watch her in the sharp odor of decadence to which her life carried her. She wabbles, becomes tainted a bit, but rises to shake it all off. I did the Selma Cross part of She Buildeth Her House in the Clemons House, Danville.... I also did a novelette while I was in Kentucky. The Lippincotts published it under the caption, Lady Thoroughbred, Kentuckian." No critic has written nearer the truth of Selma Cross than the author himself: "She was a bit strong medicine for most people." Mr. Comfort has made many horseback trips through Kentucky, and he has "come to feel authoritative and warmly tender in all that concerns the folk and the land." His latest novel, Fate Knocks at the Door (Philadelphia, 1912), is far and away the strongest story he has written. Mr. Comfort has created a style that the critics are calling "new, big, but crude in spots;" and it certainly does isolate him from any other American novelist of today. Whatever may be said for or against his style, this much is certain: he who runs may read it—some other time! His work is seldom clear at first glances. Mr. Comfort devoted the year 1912 to the writing of a new novel, The Road of Living Men, which will be issued by his publishers, the Lippincotts, in March, 1913. He has an attractive home and family at Detroit.
Bibliography. Lippincott's Magazine (March, 1908); Lippincott's Magazine (March; April; August, 1912).
AN ACTRESS'S HEART[93]
[From She Buildeth Her House (Philadelphia, 1911)]
Selma Cross was sick for a friend, sick from containing herself. On this night of achievement there was something pitiful in the need of her heart.
"New York has turned rather too many pages of life before my eyes, Selma, for me to feel far above any one whose struggles I have not endured."
The other leaned forward eagerly. "I liked you from the first moment, Paula," she said. "You were so rounded—it seemed to me. I'm all streaky, all one-sided. You're bred. I'm cattle.... Some time I'll tell you how it all began. I said I would be the greatest living tragedienne—hurled this at a lot of cat-minds down in Kentucky fifteen years ago. Of course, I shall. It does not mean so much to me as I thought, and it may be a bauble to you, but I wanted it. Its far-away-ness doesn't torture me as it once did, but one pays a ghastly price. Yes, it's a climb, dear. You must have bone and blood and brain—a sort of brain—and you should have a cheer from below; but I didn't. I wonder if there ever was a fight that can match mine? If so, it would not be a good tale for children or grown-ups with delicate nerves. Little women always hated me. I remember one restaurant cashier on Eighth Avenue told me I was too unsightly to be a waitress. I have done kitchen pot-boilers and scrubbed tenement-stairs. Then, because I repeated parts of plays in those horrid halls—they said I was crazy.... Why, I have felt a perfect lust for suicide—felt my breast ache for a cool knife and my hand rise gladly. Once I played a freak part—that was my greater degradation—debased my soul by making my body look worse than it is. I went down to hell for that—and was forgiven. I have been so homesick, Paula, that I could have eaten the dirt in the road of that little Kentucky town.... Yes, I pressed against the steel until something broke—it was the steel, not me. Oh, I could tell you much!"...
She paused but a moment.
"The thing so dreadful to overcome was that I have a body like a great Dane. It would not have hurt a writer, a painter, even a singer, so much, but we of the drama are so dependent upon the shape of our bodies. Then, my face is like a dog or a horse or a cat—all these I have been likened to. Then I was slow to learn repression. This a part of culture, I guess—breeding. Mine is a lineage of Kentucky poor white trash, who knows, but a speck of 'nigger'? I don't care now, only it gave me a temper of seven devils, if it was so. These are some of the things I have contended with. I would go to a manager and he would laugh me along, trying to get rid of me gracefully, thinking that some of his friends were playing a practical joke on him. Vhruebert thought that at first. Vhruebert calls me The Thing now. I could have done better had I been a cripple; there are parts for a cripple. And you watch, Paula, next January when I burn up things here, they'll say my success is largely due to my figure and face!"
Frank Waller Allen, novelist, was born at Milton, Kentucky, September 30, 1878, the son of a clergyman. He spent his boyhood days at Louisville, and, in the fall of 1896, he entered Kentucky (Transylvania) University, Lexington, Kentucky. While in college he was editor of The Transylvanian, the University literary magazine; and he also did newspaper work for The Louisville Times, and The Courier-Journal. Mr. Allen quit college to become a reporter on the Kansas City Journal, later going with the Kansas City Times as book editor. He resigned this position to return to Kentucky University to study theology. He is now pastor of the First Christian (Disciples) church, at Paris, Missouri. Mr. Allen's first stories were published in Munsey's, The Reader, and other periodicals, but it is upon his books that he has won a wide reputation in Kentucky and the West. The first title was a sketch, My Ships Aground (Chicago, 1900), and his next work was an exquisite tale of love and Nature, entitled Back to Arcady (Boston, 1905), which has sold far into the thousands and is now in its third edition. A more perfect story has not been written by a Kentuckian of Mr. Allen's years. The Maker of Joys (Kansas City, 1907), was so slight that it attracted little attention, yet it is exceedingly well-done; and in his latest book, The Golden Road (New York, 1910), he just failed to do what one or two other writers have recently done so admirably. His Nature-loving tinker falls a bit short, but some excellent writing may be found in this book. Mr. Allen has recently completed another novel, The Lovers of Skye, which will be issued by the Bobbs-Merrill Company in the spring of 1913.
Bibliography. The Reader Magazine (October, 1905); Who's Who in America (1912-1913).
A WOMAN ANSWERED
[From The Maker of Joys (Kansas City, Missouri, 1907)]
At this moment the servant lifted the tapestries and announced: "The lady, sir."
This time, before he could stop her, she took his hand and kissed it.
"There was little use in my coming today," she said, "except to thank you."
"Why, I do not quite understand you. What for?" asked the rector in surprise.
"For answering my question."
"Tell me?" he replied.
"You've known me a long time," she answered, "and being Jimmy Duke, it isn't necessary for me to tell you how I've lived. But you and me—once youth is gone, sir, and people are a long time old. I've thought of this a great deal lately, and I've been trying to decide what's right and what's wrong.... Then I read in the papers about you. About the things you preach and the like, and I knew you could tell me. I knew you'd know whether good people are faking, and which life is best. You see, I'd never thought of it in all my life before until just a little while ago. Just a month or such a matter."
"And now?" asked the Shepherd of St. Mark's.
"I could have left the old life years ago if I had wanted to," she continued, ignoring his question. "There is a man—well, there's several of them—but this a special one, who, for years, has wanted me to marry him. I always liked him better than anybody I knew, but I just couldn't give up the life. He is a plain man in a little village in Missouri, and I thought I'd die if I went. He offered to move to the city and I was afraid for him. You see I just didn't know what was good and what was bad, yet I didn't want this man to become like other men I knew."
"Tell me, what are you going to do?" he asked eagerly. He had almost said, "Tell me what to do."
"Well," she answered, "since I have been thinking it all over, things as they are have become empty. There is no joy in it, and I am weary of it all.... Yesterday I came to you. I wanted to ask you whether it was best or not to leave the old life. But I did not have to ask you. I saw how it was when you told me what you had done. And O, how I thank you for straightening it all out for me. Besides," she added with hesitancy, "after I left you last night I telegraphed for the man in the little village out west."
When she had gone he gazed out of the window after her as she walked buoyant and happy through the night.
"Perhaps," softly said the Maker of Joys, "it is the memory of the old days that is sweetest after all."
Miss Venita Seibert, whose charming stories of German-American child life have been widely read and appreciated, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, December 29, 1878. Miss Seibert was educated in the Louisville public schools, and almost at once entered upon a literary career. She contributed short stories and verse to the leading periodicals, her first big serial story being published in The American Magazine during 1907 and 1908, entitled The Different World. This dealt with the life and imaginings of a little German-American girl, a dreamy, sensitive child, and showing the poetry of German home life and the originality of childhood. The story was highly praised by Miss Ida M. Tarbell and other able critics. Under the title of The Gossamer Thread (Boston, 1910), Miss Seibert brought these tales together in one volume. There "the chronicles of Velleda, who understood about 'the different world,'" may be read to the heart's desire. Miss Seibert, who resides at Louisville, Kentucky, promises big for the future, and her next book should bring her a wider public, as well as greater growth in literary power.
Bibliography. McClure's Magazine (September, 1903); Library of Southern Literature (Atlanta, 1910, v. xv).
THE ORIGIN OF BABIES[94]
[From The Gossamer Thread (Boston, 1910)]
Oh, it was a puzzling world. Not the least puzzling thing was babies. Mrs. Katzman had come several times with a little brown satchel and brought one to Tante—a little, little thing that had to be fed catnip tea and rolled in a shawl and kept out of draughts. The advantage of having a new baby in the house was that it meant a glorious period of running wild, for of course one did not pretend to obey the girl who came to cook. Also, there was much company who brought nice things to eat for Tante, who naturally left the biggest part for the children.
Of course God sent the little babies, but how did he get them down to Mrs. Katzman? She averred that she got them out of the river, but this Velleda knew to be a fib, for of course they would drown in the river. Tante said they fell down from Heaven, but of course such a fall would kill a little baby. Gros-mamma Wallenstein said a stork brought them, and for a time Velleda thought Mrs. Katzman must be a stork; but when she saw a picture of one she knew that it was only a bird. Then she decided that the stork carried the babies to Mrs. Katzman's and she divided them around; but Mrs. Katzman's little boy, questioned in the most searching manner, declared that he had never seen a sign of any stork about the premises.
Just after Baby Ernest's coming, Velleda and Freddy went all the way to Mrs. Katzman's house—and it was quite a long way, fully three blocks—to beg her to exchange him for a girl.
"We've only used him two days and he's just as good as new," stated Velleda, guiltily concealing the fact that he cried a great deal. But Mrs. Katzman said she really couldn't think of it, as God settled all those matters himself. It was on this occasion that Velleda had cross-examined Mrs. Katzman's little boy regarding the stork. There was no doubting the truth of Georgie's statements, for he told Velleda dolefully that he himself had long desired a brother or a sister, but never a baby had he seen in that house. Evidently Mrs. Katzman fetched them from somewhere else in the brown satchel.
"You might have had ours," said Velleda. "We didn't want him. We prayed for a girl."
"Oh, you'll soon find out that don't do any good." Georgie kicked gloomily at a stone. "I used to pray, too, but God's awful stubborn when it comes to babies."
Velleda wondered at the strangeness of things. All the little girls and some of the little boys who had no baby brother or sister to take care of, thought it a great treat to be allowed to wheel the baby-buggy up and down the square, really a most irksome task, as Velleda could testify. At Velleda's house they believed with the poet that "Time's noblest offspring is the last," so the baby reigned king, which was not always pleasant for his smaller slaves. Therefore she wondered at Georgie's taste. However, since he evidently regarded his brotherless state as a deep misfortune, she was full of sympathy and would do what she could for him.
"You just pray a little harder," she advised; "and," struck by a brilliant thought, "look in the brown satchel every night! Maybe you'll find one left over."
She and Freddy went home feeling very sorry for Georgie. He was only another illustration of the old saying which Onkel often commented on—the shoemaker's children wear ragged shoes, the painter's own house is the last to receive a fresh coat, and the stork woman has no baby of her own.
Regarding this great question there was one point upon which everybody agreed. Velleda had her own system of deciding questions; she sifted the versions of her various informants, retained those points upon which all agreed, and upon this common ground proceeded to erect the structure of her own reasoning. Grown-ups, she knew, had a weakness for mild fibbing, which was not lying and not wrong at all, but was naturally very disconcerting when one burned to learn the real truth about a thing. The stork theory, the river theory, the falling from Heaven theory—all possessed one mutual starting point: God sent the little babies. There was of course no doubt in that regard, and Velleda finally decided that God placed them in the woods in a certain spot, marked where they were to go, and then vanished into Heaven (for of course no one had ever seen God), whereupon Mrs. Katzman approached with the brown satchel.
This was a most satisfactory theory, with no flaws in its logic, reasonable and probable, and conflicting with no known law. The question was shelved.
Velleda, going up to the third floor room of Nellie Johnson with a pitcher of milk which the dairywoman had asked her to deliver, found the girl huddled up before a small stove, looking so white and miserable that Velleda's heart ached for her, although she knew that Nellie was a very wicked person and nobody in the neighborhood spoke to her. Across her knees lay a white bundle. Velleda considered the matter.
"I guess God loves you anyway, Nellie," she concluded. "He has sent you a little baby."
The girl tossed the bundle upon the bed with a fierce gesture.
"God?" she said bitterly. "It ain't God sent that baby. The Devil sent him!"
Velleda fled down the stairs.
It is indeed a puzzling world.