The pastor answered with just a touch of good-natured satire.
“If there are no secrets, how is it that the Church has prospered there?”
The priest smiled enigmatically.
“The Church adapts itself....
“I am going back to Rome, with a mind at rest. We have held together the thread of two lives which threatened to snap, nay, three lives: there is a boy whose career must be watched closely. Other forces are at work—race impulses; they must be eradicated.”
“Is that possible?”
“Yes, but difficult. I shall bring the boy to Rome; there, all other influences will be neutralized.”
The pastor offered his hospitality for the night, which was gratefully accepted. It had been a turbulent time ending happily. The priest was in a frame of mind harmonizing with the beauty of approaching twilight. They sat outside the châlet. The pastor filled long glasses with the wine of the Canton, which expands the Soul. They sat there, looking into the Val Sinestra, until the sun scattered rubies and the moon threw down a silver veil.
They talked of the future of religion and the wave of unbelief sweeping over the world.
“When I meet a man like you,” said the priest, “I regret the loss to the Church. Protestantism was at best a frail child; it cannot survive without support. Why should it not come back? We would kill the fatted calf to celebrate the return of our Prodigal Son.”
The pastor saved the situation with a fine sense of humor.
“My friend, we are not father and son: we are brothers, prodigal children of the great original God of the Hebrews.”
The priest’s eyes gleamed.
“Then why not a family reunion? It has been my life’s dream—all sects united in the spacious bosom of the true Faith.”
The pastor nodded in silent approval. ThenLuther would come into his own. At this same moment, far away in the East, the muezzin was chanting from the minarets, calling the people to prayer. “There is but one God, and Mohammed is his Prophet,” and at this same time, millions of humans, prostrate before Buddha, were praying to attain the perfection of the Soul—Nirvana; and the “chosen people” once again in Jerusalem were praising the “only” God, who had led them out of exile into the land of their fathers. The priest and the pastor would soon solve their problem—they were both approaching with silent rapid steps, the solution of the Great Mystery.
The next morning Father Cabello thanked the pastor again for his good offices. He was a practical man, and in the light of day, dreams evaporate. He did not speak of buying the chapel; he wanted to go in peace.
Angela sat at the wheel, her quick skilful fingers spinning the yellow thread. The girl, with her unerring instinct of the unseen, felt the air weighing heavily. The atmosphere of the house was charged with sadness; unhappy spirits had passed through, leaving something of their sorrow, their passions. The anguish of Floyd still lingering in her little room kept her awake at night. The dead man wasalways before her—his uneven gait, the passionate face, the glittering eyes. A great longing went out from her to that rebellious soul, beating so long against bars, a prisoner in his own body....
The pastor had gone over to the hotel for Martin’s one valise and the little deerskin box. He spoke to the woman of the house; she remembered her father telling of a Staehli who went “across seas” and never came back. The crooked gardener, shuffling about, chimed in.
“Yes, I knew Martin Staehli. He had a quarrel with a guide about a woman, and shot him dead. He was hot blooded.”
“The man lost on the mountain was his grandson,” said the pastor.
“Strange things happen in a lifetime,” mumbled the gardener. “Now who would believe, to look at me, that I was once the champion wrestler of the village!”...
The next morning at sunrise the pastor knocked at Angela’s door.
“Angela, we are going ‘up there’ today.”
During the summer, when they were pasturing the cattle, she and the pastor spent many a happy time with the peasant boys and girls who had gone up in June, clinging gradually from one plateau to another until they reached the top, where they would stay until the weather drove them down.
Angela sprang joyfully out of bed and went to fetch her basket; on the way up she would look forherbs. It was wonderful how she spied the rare plants hid away under the rocks and at the bottom of brooks. They went slowly, at first, Angela timing her steps to the pastor’s, who grasped his stick, gaining strength as he climbed. Not far behind, a guide followed, carrying the belongings of the unfortunate man. In Switzerland every waterfall, river, flower, bush, and tree has its legendary Spirit. Miracle stories come down by word of mouth. The old grandmother sitting outside the châlet at night, a pipe between her toothless gums, her needle running a race with her tongue, tells the children of the wonders of the mountains:
“In the old days, when a mountaineer had been lost on the heights, the peasants would go from peak to peak calling his name. Where the echo repeated they stopped, and would throw down articles of clothing and a large cheese from the milk of the missing man’s herd, to keep his spirit from cold and starvation. They tell of a peasant who was lost. They let down his dog on a rope. The faithful animal, whining in low dog tones, eagerly scented the way. When they drew up the rope it was bitten through. The dog had found the body of his master and would not leave him. Whenever there is a thick mist the peasant is seen, his dog beside him, on the edge of the chasm, pointing with a warning finger to the precipice.”...
The merry band of dairy workers welcomed the pastor with shrill cries and clarion notes fromAlpine horns. It was a modest community; each one owned his little herd. There were many huts, where the milk is set in earthen bowls, yielding cream, butter, cheese, their only wealth. The pastor drew a herdsman aside and spoke to him in low tones. A stillness fell on the merry band. The man led them across the field to a deep pool fed by mountain torrents; at a narrow end was a rough rustic bridge, which they crossed in single file, and came into a thick pine grove. Farther on, the clearing was carpeted with roses, anemones, violets. They walked carefully, not to crush them; then they climbed up a steep rock to a cow-hut on the top.
Angela gave a low cry. A man lay on a bed of hay, his arm in a rough splinter, his face the wax of death. She dropped down beside him, listened to his heart, tried to raise his closed lids.
“He is dead.”
“I think not,” answered the peasant. “I have seen many such cases of suspended animation, from the shock of a heavy fall.”
Then he told them how Martin had been saved from going to the bottom of the precipice by being caught in a crevice of the rocks. He was found tightly wedged in, covered by the stones that had rolled down. The dog had scented the place where he lay. It would be a miracle if he lived.
The pastor patted the head of the animal, who would now and again put his paw very gently on the man’s chest, as if seeking for heart-beats. Thenhe’d lick the white face, wag his tail, and stretch himself out again.
“I won’t give up hope,” said the pastor, “until the dog howls and slinks away.”
Angela was moving about. She made a wood fire on the rock outside, filled a large iron pot with water, and stirred in her herbs with which she would bathe his bruised body. They emitted a pungent, agreeable perfume. The pastor watched her as she stood, a bright figure against the dark pine background: “a blessed child.”
Angela passed the night in a hut with the dairy maids. She was intensely awake, concentrating her entire spiritual power. She ceased to be a human thing; she became a Thought, a disembodied Will. She arose from the bed where the peasant girls were sleeping, three together, their arms entwined, their hair sweeping the ground, their white arms and bosoms like ivory in the night light—a great picture of future mothers, bearing in their bodies the next generation. She stepped out into the air, listened to the walking of the waters, the talking of the trees; she heard panting. Something warm pressed against her. The dog jumped on her, whining. What was the message? Was it death? She followed the excited animal over the stones, over the pool, into the hut. The man was lying as she had left him, but there was something in his face that made her heart leap. She took the limp form in her arms. The breath of her young body,the life that was in the sap of the trees, the minerals of the springs, the healing balsam of the air, all the natural force in her, and more, the dynamic power of the spirit, went out to him. Her hands, tingling with electricity, moved tensely over his chest, his limbs; the dog watched, helping with his mute soul. Suddenly the curtains over the heavy eyes quivered, opened, then dropped again; her fingers on his pulse felt slow intermittent throbs. She had dragged him from the depths—he hovered for weeks between Life and the Beyond, coming back slowly, but the mind remained inert. The summer was unusually mild; they put him outside on a soft bed of boughs, where he lay day and night in silence with the dog beside him, his eyes following Angela as she moved about. She taught him to walk again, guiding his steps carefully.
The pastor came weekly to see him, spoke to him, but he didn’t answer. Angela grew anxious.
“Does he think?”
“I believe not,” said the pastor. “It is a kind of aphasia, which time will cure.”
Angela wondered if he could distinguish sounds—the chirping of the birds, the bark of the dog, the music of the herd. The peasants would tell in lowered voices of a shadow of a man standing under the pines, so still, the chamois would come closer, closer, looking at him with their soft, beseeching eyes; then they’d scamper away....
August!—It was bleak. The man sat on thetrunk of a tree; he was without the thrill of life.
The pastor spoke to him.
“Do you want anything?”
“No.”
“Do you know me?”
A flash passed over the face.
“Yes.”
The pastor’s voice grew stern.
“You will go down tomorrow with the herdsmen. You are the peasant Staehli: they are your people; you are one of them. You have been all your life in exile; now you are on your natural soil. The voice of race will awaken in you—you will find yourself.”
The man listened, agonized with the intensity of concentration; the words cut like sharp stones into him.
“You understand, you are the peasant Staehli.”
The answer came back mechanically:
“I am the peasant Staehli.”
The next day, Staehli the peasant went down with the herds from plateau to plateau, lingering while the weather favored. Late in the summer they reached the valley.
Winter in that little hidden-away corner of the world, snow without beginning, without end,scarcity of food, dread of the avalanche. The peasant is a fatalist, accepting the inevitable with silence, with awe. “God is good; He sends summer as a rich reward.”
The pastor shared the hard lot of his parish. The Devil was always there in the shape of “schnaaps,” driving the simple souls to madness, making cretins of their children. The pastor fought the “Evil One” with holy ire like his great ancestor Martin Luther. Every night he would take his lantern and tramp over to the Inn, sit with “his children,” drink with them moderately, see the liquor locked up, put the key in his pocket, and go his way. Many a morning he found the cupboard tampered with, pretending not to see the lock had been repaired. Now Martin went with him, sitting silent, answering laconically.
The pastor gave him much physical labor—washed out roads to remake, wood to cut and draw. There was a landslide; a part of the village was under snow. Martin worked with pick and shovel to dig out the people, carrying the women and children in his arms, his strength growing as the hardiest collapsed. When it was too cold for the old man, Martin went alone to the Inn to lock up.
One night, walking home, the sky like velvet studded with clustered diamonds, the mysterious blue light on the snow, the silence, the penetrating beauty, threw a spell over him. He wandered till the unseen sun shot up faint rays, turning the whiteworld into faded rose; then memory stirred in him. Angela saw him tracing with a piece of charcoal on a board. She put slips of paper and pencil in his way; he scribbled on them, threw them down, forgot them. They were confused lines crossing, recrossing, impressionist shapes of mountains, and always the faint outlines of a woman’s head. She put them carefully in a box he would remember some day. She saw quick flashes in his eyes, sparks blazing up, dying out.
He sat outside the châlet, hammering nails into the soles of the mountain boots he had made for himself. The Staehlis had always learnt a trade—they were shoemakers, tanners, blacksmiths, herders, sons of toil and of the soil. The pastor stood watching him.
“The snow has melted in the valley, the sky is clear. We will wander forth—to the south first, and back on foot when the trees blossom.”
They started off in the early morning. An old peasant, leaning somewhat heavily on his solid staff of hickory wood, a young peasant, silent, unsmiling. Angela put paper and crayon in his knapsack.
“Bring me pictures; they tell more than words.”
They tramped through valleys, over hills, jumping on hay-wagons, climbing into stage-coaches, riding the sure-footed mountain pony. The pastor watched Martin. There were blood streaks in his eyes; his face was like a wax mask.
They came to lovely Lugano, the Fatima in Switzerland’s harem of beauties, warm, passionate—the soft Italian patois, Italian air, Italian skies.
“Over there across the lake is Milan, Rome, the Raphael frescoes.”
Martin’s eyes gleamed; then he shook his head. The pastor sighed—would he ever wake up?
Geneva—intellectual, proud of its men of genius. They walked through Rousseau’s Island of Exile.
“He was greatly gifted,” said the pastor, “but the victim of his own sensuality.”
“We are all that,” said Martin. Then the veil of melancholy dropped again.
“When we are conscious of it, the cure is there. Rousseau was the mind of his generation; he might have been its soul, but he never found himself.”
Einsiedeln—with its monasteries a thousand years old, its few sad Benedictine hermits poring over their ancient manuscripts, restoring the eaten-away remnants, kept with pious reverence hidden in old chests. Einsiedeln—its pilgrims, its Life Eternal, hypnotized, under the spell of religion.
Arosa—the bleak mountains, the hopeless sick wrapped in blankets on open balconies. Martin shivered.
“Let us go.”
Zurich again, with its historical surroundings. The pastor told the story of Charlemagne who, finding a toad sitting in the nest of a beautiful serpent, drove it out and killed it with one blow ofhis heavy stick. “There was a banquet at the Palace that night; the guards were terrified at the sight of a white spotted snake who crawled into the hall, wound herself up on the legs of a chair, and dropped a priceless jewel into the goblet of wine which the monarch held to his lips, giving him the magic gift of compelling the love of all who set eyes on him.”
“A toad in her nest,” repeated Martin....
Two months in the cities, then the country beautiful—the trees heavy with white blossoms, bearing embryonic fruit. Toward evening the air grew heavy with the day’s perfume; the night was warm in the valley. Martin moved about restlessly.
“I cannot sleep; let us go into the woods.”
They walked through dark trails, lit faintly by stars shining through the trees; then he broke a long silence, speaking of himself for the first time, slowly, timidly.
“The air goes through me; it is sweeping away that terrible fear. If I could be free of the horror that tears at me, the horror of—madness.”
The pastor spoke eagerly.
“Fight it, Martin, drive it out. It is an illusion, an evil thought that does not exist. Martin, your soul is in prison, beating its wings against the bars of your own obstinacy; let it soar.”
“I cannot. I am choked with wild impulses, driving me to distraction. I am mad! I tell you, mad!”
“Martin! there is a madness which destroys, and a madness that reveals; such madness has been the salvation of the world. Come, sit down with me, here in this forest, where once lived and suffered our great ancestor, our patron Saint, Mad Martin.”
“Mad Martin?”
Then he told in picturesque English, lapsing unconsciously into his own musical Romansch, the legend of Mad Martin.
“He was one of a lawless band, the youngest bandit of them all—a beautiful youth with the grace of a wild stag, without fear or sense of right, prowling about with his carbine, robbing, killing, consorting with lewd women. One night, a night like this in the woods where holiness dwelt, something stirred within him—a voice clear, beautiful, said wonderful things which gave his soul wings.”
“Yes! that happens sometimes, a voice from within,” said Martin.
“He left the band, made his way to the church and begged to be taken in. He was rarely gifted; the monks saw in him the white fervor of the saint. The Lord had changed the murderous rage of the robber into the divine madness of the fanatic. He went to Einsiedeln and there, it was said, heard the voice of God, who commanded him to become a monk. As the story goes, the Lord, to try his piety, put in his way a last temptation. He was walking in the woods, reading his prayers, when he suddenly came upon a beautiful vicious thing whohad loved him in his bandit days; she put her arms around him, her mouth to his. He forgot Heaven. He tried to tear himself away. Her kisses held him. She lured him to her cabin and in the intoxication of passion, he took no count of time.”
“Her kisses held him,” repeated Martin.
“She made a plan that would bind him to her forever; she plied him with wine until his senses fled, stripped him naked, crowned him with a wreath of red poppies, left him dancing and singing ribald songs, a young Bacchus in the woods; then she called the priests to witness his degradation. They believed her not; the young Divine was deep in the under cells, fasting, praying, purifying his body, preparing for his ordination. She mocked at them.
“‘Fools! He is no priest, he is Mad Martin. He cannot change; his blood still riots in him, calling for wine, for women. If I lie, burn me at the stake!’
“Mad Martin in the woods heard the angry voices of the people, the mocking gibes of the woman, and realized his degradation. He fled to the cabin, locked himself in, fell on his knees, and prayed for help. The chanting of priests, the cries of the people grew louder—their axes were breaking down the door. The poor sinner raised his arms to Heaven, with a cry, in which his battered, stricken soul took joyful flight. When the enraged people burst into the cabin, they found it empty.They searched the cells of the monastery; there was no trace of him. The Father Superior, a holy man of years, was calm.
“‘Wait, he will not fail us.’
“The day of consecration came; among the young priests stood a tall figure in white, ready to take his vows. He was pale and faint from fasting, but his voice was like a bell sounding from the distance. As he left the altar there was a bright light on his face. The people followed him on their knees. He put out his hands, blessed them, and the cripples threw away their crutches and the sick were well. Then he blessed Einsiedeln and made it a holy place for pilgrims in the ages to come. He blessed the village under the mountain, where he was born, sinned, and atoned, and prophesied its future peace, prosperity. Then he disappeared before their eyes, but he has been kept alive in our hearts and memory. Every three years, the people of our village give in the little chapel ‘The Miracle of Saint Martin.’”
There was a long silence. Martin sat, his face buried in his hands. The pastor spoke again.
“Martin! Free yourself of this horror; let Hope in. Life is knocking at your door with gifts of fulfillment!”
Martin struggled with the torrent of feeling rushing through him; then the dry eyes grew moist, the tears came. The fever of hate, the passion of Love, the terrible impulse of self destruction, adevil tempting in the night, the thought of life with reason gone—all the dangers of an overwrought mind were washed away in those tears. He dropped down, broken, helpless, on the new sweet hay in a little hut near by; the cool air swept over him. A bird’s plaintive call startled the silence—an unforgettable night of spiritual revelation, Peace....
It was dawn when he awoke. He looked about for the Pastor, found him lying in a corner, his mantle wrapped about him. Martin looked long at the noble snow-crowned head, then stole softly out, came upon a clear pool hidden in the trees—we meet them unexpectedly in Switzerland, startling us with their limpid loveliness.
There was a flash of Glory!—the Sun! He felt a sense of elation, of new birth. The sky turned purple, pink, gold; the color ecstasy crept into his blood. Color! the life of the world! Color clamored in his brain for expression, for air; he was obsessed with the madness that reveals, the divine madness of the artist.
The pastor stood beside him. The sun was climbing. Martin pointed to a ball of fire down deep in the lake.
“I’m going to bring it up,” he said. He slipped off his clothes and dived in, floating, twisting himself like a dolphin, spouting water in the air; then he ran along the green borders, his body gleamingin the sun. The pastor thought of the legend of the Water Gods.
They went slowly on foot toward home, stopping at the little Dorfs, where the peasants greeted them with acclamations. “A fine lad! a Staehli, every inch of him.” Martin returned their gripping handshakes, tossed down their schnaaps, gave them points on the disinfection of barns and the care of cows, danced with the maids on the green, kissed them; they pelted him with flowers.
At the door of the châlet, Angela stood waiting. He put a portfolio in her hands, bits of color he had caught on the way. Her eyes were fixed on his face. This was not the Martin she had known: it was like the same face reflected in clear water, etherealized by the refraction of light. She heard him in the fields, his strong voice filling the distance with melody. She looked up at the great mountain. An unfortunate man called Martin Steele lay there, dead.
The Garrisons came back to their home on Park Avenue. With Mary’s help and his own will, Floyd learnt to diagnose Julie’s actions as “psychic impulses.” She herself couldn’t do wrong; she fought against a “subconscious tendency.” From her girlhood it had always been “like that”; this was the bridge over which he could pass to reconciliation.He had every reason to be satisfied with his wife. She was in correspondence with Father Cabello, whose influence revealed itself in her piety. She became very devout, Heavenly love drove out the earthly in her. She attended daily mass; the big-eyed woman with her beautiful boy were well-known at the Cathedral. Floyd noticed after coming home from service a rapt expression on her face; she went about with upturned eyes like St. Cecilia. He had a vision of a black-robed nun. He spoke to Dr. McClaren.
“I am afraid my wife is developing a religious complex.”
“I think not,” answered the doctor. “I imagine before it gets so far, that insatiable emotional craving of hers will find a new stimulus.”
There was something wrong with Floyd. His intense desire to forget the “unpleasant” episode in Switzerland had overstrained his nerves. They reacted in a strange manner. He’d leave his home in the morning with the intention of going to see the Colonel, and would find himself wandering aimlessly in quite a different direction. He’d walk for hours through parts of the city unknown to him; he saw strange faces, strange places, another world. He lounged about where the ships came in. The immigrants had an irresistible fascination. He watched them, listened to their unintelligible jargon. A dark-eyed Madonna with a shawl on her head, a child at her breast, was not strange to him.He knew her: she was Julie’s sister. A bearded old man, carrying on his bent shoulders the tragedy of his race, looked at him with the eyes of Joseph Abravanel. A straight tall peasant with bundles, bewildered by the city, was Martin’s grandfather. It was a kind of mental phantasmagoria of those who had worked a sinister influence in his life. He couldn’t get rid of them; he saw their Past, their Present, their Future, the struggles, the agony, the hopelessness. He was flung backward, forward with them. Must he go on living with them all his life? A horror seized him.
“Taxi, sir, take you anywhere—”
A tall chauffeur with dark goggles took him by the arm and lifted him into the cab.
“Where to, sir?”
Floyd bent forward, he knew that voice.
“Tom Dillon!”
“Mr. Garrison. You won’t say anything.”
Floyd grasped his hand with quick sympathy and drew him into the car. Tom choked at first, but gradually recovering himself, told his story.
“I married Maudy, because I couldn’t get her any other way. Oh, she was a kisser. She’d go as far as the fence, but she wouldn’t jump it. We were coming home from a dance up the road. I tried it on. ‘Tom,’ she said, ‘if you want me, you’ll have to marry me.’ I married her. I didn’t take it seriously. I thought this way: It’s as broad as it’s long. When I get enough, there’s Reno. Sheflung the dough like Hell; I couldn’t see any value for it, only a heap of rags. Anyhow, a man can get liquor and women—”
“Yes, I know.”
Tom shifted uneasily in his seat.
“When you don’t earn, money melts. My credit kept me going for a time. Then I had to tell her. I was sure she’d leave me. I’m only good to hand out. She told me that lots of times.”
“She left you?”
Tom’s eyes snapped; he was radiant with pride.
“She didn’t. She had an auction sale. All her friends were there; they wouldn’t miss it. She sold everything, even her engagement ring, and paid every cent I owed. By God! she did.” There was a choked sob. “I had to do something to get even, didn’t I?”
“Yes, Tom.” Floyd was beginning to respect him.
“I went to my friends, but they wanted solid men in their business, and I couldn’t blame ’em. I walked about like a crazy man, couldn’t get a job. She kept enough to furnish a band-box in the Bronx. She does all the work. You must see her. She’s as pretty as a peach, and the place is as neat as wax.”
“But how did you come to this, Tom?”
“She sent me to sell the car; that hurt me. I went and sat around the garage with the boys. Iwas down and out; they had money to burn. They said, ‘Sell? nothing doing—a car like yours is capital.’ Well, I didn’t sell; I commenced going out nights. I was ashamed to be seen, but I got over that. Then I risked it in the daytime; now I flaunt my shame. I tell you! it’s a rotten world—when I had money it was a stunt to do my own repairs. When I took the crowd out joy riding, I was a good sport, but to ‘hack’ for a living is common. I’m done with that swell bunch. Maudy says they’re beneath us.”
Then he sat looking at Floyd, his eyes begging.
“Tom, you’ve solved your problem, I’m proud of you.”
Tom heaved a sigh of relief and got back to business.
“Now I suppose you want to get home.”
“I don’t know,” said Floyd, wearily.
Tom gave him a sharp look.
“What are you doing down here anyhow, seeing some capitalist off?”
“No, watching poor wretches come in. I’ve been through a lot, and I haven’t quite got my bearings.”
Tom asked no questions, but he told Maudy afterwards he was sure Garrison “had some trouble with that crazy wife of his.”
“You’d better come outside with me and get some fresh air—you don’t mind me taking a fare if it comes my way. I’ve got another car; there’sa guy in with me. I dope it out this way: he gets twenty-five per cent of the takings, I get the rest and pay for the damn gas. The car’s on instalment; when we pay it off we’ll go it equal. Fair enough, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
Tom had coarsened; the veneer of wealth was gone. Floyd liked him that way.
“You’ve grown stouter, Tom; you’re the picture of health.”
Tom, slapping his chest complacently, came in collision with an enormous truck. He let out a stream of oaths, which paralyzed the physically inferior opponent. The poor devil cranked frantically and got out of his way.
“It was your fault, Tom, not his.”
“Of course it was, but that alien wouldn’t dare open his mouth to a free-born American. If he tried it on, they’d wipe him out.”
Tom spoke with a rich Irish inherited brogue, which all his college education hadn’t eradicated.
“We were talking about me, weren’t we?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve gained thirty pounds, I eat like a hog, and I’m for Prohibition every time. At first I worried myself to bones about Maudy. I was afraid to tell her I was hacking. Her family’s a hundred per cent American and she’s damn proud. When I brought home money she wouldn’t take it—‘You’re on the crook, Tom, and I’m going to leave you.’Then I blurted it all out. I was frightened stiff—what do you think she did?”
“Haven’t any idea, Tom—abused you roundly for a piker?”
“Na—she just hugged me till I didn’t have a breath left. ‘Tom,’ she said, ‘I’ve cried many a long night. I couldn’t seeyoumaking a living. God is good; He wouldn’t let me go begging to my rich friends. Hacking’s a fine business, but there’s something against it—those flappers. Don’t take ’em in your car; sooner lose a fare. You’re good looking and they’ll get you.’”
Floyd laughed. Tom was the right medicine for him.
They were driving uptown—Tom’s tongue went faster than the car; he had acquired a lot of practical information. “They’re starring the crime wave now, all bunk—we’re no worse than we were. Wait till after the election, the prisons will be so empty they’ll have to turn ’em into meeting houses. What do you think of them stinking Republicans up in Washington?”
“Tom, don’t insult my inherited political party. I’ve had them handed down to me, and I must carry them.”
Tom opened his mouth, the brimstone flowed, the air was blue; then suddenly he was dazzled by two shapely legs encased in flesh-colored cobwebs, and a pair of bright eyes emitting sparks.
“Taxi, Miss?” He drew up to the curbstone,smiling at her, showing his white teeth, sprang out, opened the door, dusted off the seat, held the rug in his hand.
She was undecided. “I don’t want to go, yet....”
“Yes you do, but you don’t know it,” laughed Tom.
A gust of cold wind blew her against him. Tom glanced downward.
“Your legs are cold?”
“Oh! Warm as toast.”
“Your blood keeps them warm.”
She twisted her little mouth.
“No, my vanity.”
Clever girl. Tom lifted her bodily into the car; they were old friends now. He wrapped her in the warm rug and put a match to her cigarette.
“Who’s the melancholy Dane in front?”
“Oh! He’s a guy I’m breaking in.”
They drove to Madison Avenue. She jumped out and gave him a generous fare.
“I want to go out again tonight; call for me?”
He smiled into the pretty laughing eyes. “Awful sorry, Miss, but there’s nothing doing. I’m married.” He heaved a big sigh.
“She was nice—wasn’t she.”
Floyd slapped him on the back. “You’re a hero, Tom. It was a great temptation.” Tom beamed.
“They’ve taken it into their pretty heads to star the chauffeur. We’re the cowboys of the East.We drive and slash about, and lasso them in. Say, I’m afraid I’m going to lose my man—handsome lad, good family. There’s a little snipe baiting for him, and she’ll hook him too.”
At the garage he found a note.
Married this morning to Ida, family approve.
Married this morning to Ida, family approve.
Tom’s sorrow was pathetic. “They’re rich brokers. They’ll put him on the street. He’ll never be able to earn an honest penny again. Where shall I find another like him? The girls fell for him every time. He was a handsome fish. You’ve got nothing to do; help me out just for today. You can run a car. It doesn’t need so much experience, and I can’t afford to let her stand idle.”
“I haven’t got the experience, Tom, but I can hand you the good looks,” said Floyd, modestly.
Tom was jubilant; he’d have to keep his mind on the wheel—and a few knocks would shake him up.
“Now I’ll give you the fruits of my experience. Before you turn a corner, blow the horn, then stop and listen. Don’t try to pass anything; let the other fellow smash you up—then you’ll get damages. The wise guy says, ‘we’ve got a third eye in the back of our heads.’ Exercise yours; it’ll work after a while. When an old woman or a cat gets in front, don’t run her down, jump off and put her on the sidewalk. Train your ears to hear the pistol in a man’s pocket. Keep your foot on the brake and a curb on your temper; a timely joke can make it adollar more. You’ll get into tough places, so does a doctor. Your fare is your patient; save his life if you can. When it comes to a toss up, you know who gets the preference. Never argue with a crook; take whatever he gives. If it’s nothing, say thank you and get away. Don’t let pretty feet lead you astray. A man’s strength depends on his disposition, and the time of night. If you fall for it, forget it. Do what you can’t help, but—whatever you do, don’t get found out. It’s all contradiction; you do something now and you don’t do it the next time. If the same thing happens twice, it’s never the same thing. You’ve got to be not only a good chauffeur but a good actor, a good talker, a good curser, a good fighter, a good navigator, a good all-around regular feller, and then you don’t half fill the bill. Now scoot.”
“Yes sir,” said Floyd, and plunged into the depths of the night city.
His first venture in the taxi business was a personal success.
“Taxi, sir, taxi, Miss, take you anywhere—where to, Miss?” The women jumped in at once; he picked up two, going to the theatre. Would he call for them at eleven-thirty?
“With great pleasure,” answered Floyd. He helped them out, and stood with his hat in his hand. He forgot he was a chauffeur for a moment. Then he drove people uptown, downtown, all over town, guiding his car in and out of the great mass of congested traffic.
A young fellow rushed at him. “Drive for your life, my wife is dying.”
It was up in the Bronx. Floyd put on the speed. He got away from two policemen and landed at a brick house with the blinds lowered. The man dashed up the steps.
“Is she alive? Thank God!”
He threw Floyd a bill.
“You did well, my man, keep the change.”
Floyd felt like a public benefactor. Hacking was a noble profession.
He was hailed by two men who jumped in. He didn’t like them. He heard the pistol; looked into the butt of it. They gave him a street number outside the city limits.
“Drive like Hell!” He did. The men jumped out into a vacant lot. “Now cut away, and don’t squeal.”
Floyd said “Thank you,” and shot across the town. He was held up and questioned. No, he hadn’t seen anybody. He had no compunctions. He wouldn’t give the guys away; that wasn’t sport. Then he took the car back to the garage, and went home in the subway. He had thirty dollars. He put fifteen in an envelope, addressed it to Tom, and wrote on a slip of paper:
Dear Tom: Here is half the boodle. It was a great experience. Ready to help out at any time.
Dear Tom: Here is half the boodle. It was a great experience. Ready to help out at any time.
Tom got back early to the garage, washed his khaki suit, hung it up to dry, cleaned his car, lookedover the motor. He waited for Floyd, but he didn’t show up; he was sure the car would come back damaged. He expected that, but he hoped Garrison wouldn’t get hurt. Then he grew impatient. It didn’t matter to ‘that guy’ how long he stayed out—hiswife wasn’t waiting for him. He said good night to the man in the garage, told him to look out for a ‘green-hand,’ and showed him where the bandages were. Then for a bit of exercise he walked up to the Bronx, taking a drink now and then to ease his mind. It was two o’clock when he opened the door of the little flat. The kitchen was spotless, the blue and white oilcloth shone like marble tiles. There was a tray on the table, with cold corned beef and three large baked potatoes; the coffee was gurgling on the gas stove. He devoured everything in sight, washed up the dishes, then went into the next room and stood at the bed. Maudy was in a deep sleep, how pretty she was. She must have been very tired or she would have heard him come in. She’d been scrubbing that damn kitchen floor again. She couldn’t wait till Sunday morning; that was his job. He looked at her small hands. They were rough from the washing soda, and the nails were not manicured. He had to kiss them, he couldn’t help it. She opened her eyes, smelt the hootch.
“Tom, you’re going it; you’ll break your neck one night, and I’ll be a widow—take a bath.” The sleepy eyes closed, she dropped off again.
Tom put a roll of bills under her pillow, slipped out of his clothes and fell on the sofa. He didn’t take a bath, he’d gotten over that pastime; he had something better to do.
Floyd woke up the next morning, his head aching, his limbs weary. The experience had battered his body, but shook up his mind. His share of the “boodle” lay on the table—three five-dollar bills. He examined them curiously, turning them over and over—the first money he had ever earned. Was it money? No—he threw away much more than that paltry sum every day. But this was different; he had worked for it with the “sweat of his brow.” He felt the pressure of the masses, who were earning their bread. This meant money to them. He remembered how the Colonel looked at him, when he told him to sell something—they were needing more and more. “You’re destroying capital,” said the Colonel. “You should preserve it, it’s your only source of income.”
Capital! capital! He wondered if they had blown in all his father had left—blown in, where?—into the air like soap bubbles, which glittered for a moment in the sun, then burst and disappeared.
He put his hand to his head. Where could he go to pass the morning? Julie was not visible untiltwelve. She was lucky; the day was only half as long for her. Then that queer feeling came again; he went to see Dr. McClaren.
“How’s your wife?” said the doctor.
“Very well, as far as I can see. I want to speak to you about myself—my mind wanders—I cannot concentrate, nothing interests me; I go back always to the past; the things I have lived through haunt me.”
“You are trying too hard to forget.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No, you don’t. If we wipe out memory, we throw into the dust heap of oblivion the best part of our life, experience.”
“But if that experience is unbearable?”
“We can make it bearable. We must work it the right way.”
“But I cannot see how! Father Cabello spoke about the ‘gift of forgetting.’”
The doctor smiled. “I am not for such narcotics. We shouldn’t go about hypnotizing ourselves. A man of mind should be able to deal with the complications of his nature in an intelligent manner.”
This meant nothing to Floyd; the doctor was talking “over his head.”
“I’ll try to make it clearer to you. You have got yourself tangled up. What you think so terrible one day will be precious to you in years to come. How do you stand financially?”
“I don’t know, I’m not sure—badly, I think.”
The doctor knew; he had seen the Colonel.
“I want you to try to get rich.”
Floyd had a shock. He looked sharply at the doctor; there was no glare in his eyes, but he was fingering a paper cutter—no, he wasn’t mad—but he was a mind reader. Floyd had been thinking of money—in a vague way, wondering that so many people whose names he had never heard had bobbed up as millionaires.
“The pursuit of wealth may be sordid, but if we succeed, we are compensated by a gratifying sense of self-confidence, authority, power, not speaking of the good we can do with our ‘ill gotten’ gains. As for the spiritual side being starved, well, we don’t think so; if we concentrate on the world of the spirit, it will demoralize us in our practical life, which is our end of it. We must uphold that, for the sake of bankrupt Europe.”
“Doctor, I dreamt last night that I was enormously rich.”
“Good! make it a complex. It will drive more harmful ideas out of your mind. Come and see me again. I am curious to know how my prescription’s going to work....”
Floyd found the Colonel, erect, well satisfied; he had no complexes, he wasn’t married.
“How do I stand?”
The Colonel hesitated.
“Come, out with it; I want the truth.”
“Well, you’ll have to practice strict economy tomake up for your enormous expenditure of the last few years. Do you want to sell your house?”
“Economy? Sell the house? Julie!—impossible.”
“Nowadays a man can’t live on interest.”
Floyd snapped his fingers.
“Economy, bah! We’ll have to create new capital.” The Colonel opened a drawer, took out a card of the Garrison estate, kept as a physician does the history of a patient’s disease; then he placed a map on the table. It was interlaced with red lines designating the shrinkage. Floyd looked over it.
“The entire water-front is crossed off, I see.”
“Yes, the Martin Steele Corporation bought it for investment. By the way, that was a great thing young Steele did.”
“What thing?”
“He left his entire business to his employees, equal shares, and the money to keep it going. Waldbridge told me about it with tears in his eyes, the other day, at the memorial service they gave for him.”
“Memorial service?”
“Didn’t you know? I saw Mrs. Garrison there, but she was gone before I could get through the crowd.”
Julie there? She hadn’t told him. He thought he knew all her movements.
“It was wonderful; I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. They are going to screen it. It was a queer mixed crowd—artists he had saved from starvation, musicians he had sent abroad, women he had started right—they all got up and told their stories. It was like a Christian Science service. A man sang, a barber named Hippolyte, well-known on Fifth Avenue, a wonderful voice. They say an opera manager has engaged him. He sang psalms in Greek and Hebrew, wails in the minor key, just tore at your entrails. He set them all crying. One poor cripple made a scene; swore he saw the dead man’s spirit. Of course, that hypnotized the others; they all saw it. There was a tall man in a corner—the light struck him for a moment. I tell you, Garrison, I’ve got the hide of a rhinoceros, but it made my flesh creep. Now there are two left of those river shanties, we’ll pull them down and build one big office building—”
Floyd didn’t hear him; he was in the church listening to the voice of Hippolyte, the cries, the prayers for Martin—the philanthropist, the good man. He forced himself to say something.
“I knew Martin Steele all my life, but had no idea of that side of him.”
“Nor I, but most men keep the best part of them hidden.”
“Yes,” said Floyd, tracing lines on the map. “I’ll go down with you and look at those shanties. Iwant money and lots of it; every fool’s got it. I can be as big a fool as the next one.”
The Colonel didn’t contradict him, but he doubted if Garrison would ever be that kind of a fool.