“Mother, I’ve written you often about Ruth, but I’m sure you don’t know what she is like. When I am with her, I’m afraid to look at her, and when I’m away, I can’t imagine how she looks. She’s something indescribable. Mother, I have fought with all my might against her, because I knew it was hopeless, but when she said she loved me, I went straight to her grandfather. I told him about the struggle with my conscience and our dear friend’s sudden death—he was very much moved, and put his hand over my head and blessed me; then I took courage and asked him for Ruth. He was silent a long time before he answered. I could see he was thinking deeply. Then he said: ‘The uncompromising adherence of our people to the Law in the days of the Ghetto preserved the virility of the Race; but today our blood is in the veins of the world. That obstinate orthodoxy with which we are reproached has saved us from being swept away in a great tidal wave of assimilation. Come to us! We will leave you free in all worldly matters, but you must live according to our ritual, you must worship in our synagogue, you must bring up your children in our tradition. You will realize as you get older the righteousness of my demands.’”
“Mother, I’ve written you often about Ruth, but I’m sure you don’t know what she is like. When I am with her, I’m afraid to look at her, and when I’m away, I can’t imagine how she looks. She’s something indescribable. Mother, I have fought with all my might against her, because I knew it was hopeless, but when she said she loved me, I went straight to her grandfather. I told him about the struggle with my conscience and our dear friend’s sudden death—he was very much moved, and put his hand over my head and blessed me; then I took courage and asked him for Ruth. He was silent a long time before he answered. I could see he was thinking deeply. Then he said: ‘The uncompromising adherence of our people to the Law in the days of the Ghetto preserved the virility of the Race; but today our blood is in the veins of the world. That obstinate orthodoxy with which we are reproached has saved us from being swept away in a great tidal wave of assimilation. Come to us! We will leave you free in all worldly matters, but you must live according to our ritual, you must worship in our synagogue, you must bring up your children in our tradition. You will realize as you get older the righteousness of my demands.’”
Floyd was annoyed.
“Theywillkeep harping on those future generations. How can we lay down the law for our grandchildren; they’ll know a lot more than we do.”
Julie evidently didn’t agree, she kept on reading.
“I walked about for days—trying to find some way—I wanted Ruth! Mother—you don’t know how much! I couldn’t keep away from her—she was waiting for me in the garden; she knew I would come. Mother, there was something so pure about her; such sweetness, I have never seen in any human thing. She waspale, but she spoke quietly. ‘Joseph, I know what Grandfather has asked you to do for my sake; you mustn’t do it. It wouldn’t be right for you. We try to bring the Past into the Present, to preserve our religion. We think we live, but it is only a waking dream, and we are happy they let us dream; but dreams are not for you. Joseph, you must go out on the high road of Progress—and I—I must stay here with my grandfather.’ Then I fell into the depths of despair and cried, how I cried. ‘I won’t let you; it is a living death; you are young! young!’ Mother, I’ll never forget her face when she answered. ‘I look young, but my soul is old.’”
“I walked about for days—trying to find some way—I wanted Ruth! Mother—you don’t know how much! I couldn’t keep away from her—she was waiting for me in the garden; she knew I would come. Mother, there was something so pure about her; such sweetness, I have never seen in any human thing. She waspale, but she spoke quietly. ‘Joseph, I know what Grandfather has asked you to do for my sake; you mustn’t do it. It wouldn’t be right for you. We try to bring the Past into the Present, to preserve our religion. We think we live, but it is only a waking dream, and we are happy they let us dream; but dreams are not for you. Joseph, you must go out on the high road of Progress—and I—I must stay here with my grandfather.’ Then I fell into the depths of despair and cried, how I cried. ‘I won’t let you; it is a living death; you are young! young!’ Mother, I’ll never forget her face when she answered. ‘I look young, but my soul is old.’”
A sob choked Julie’s voice; herself at sixteen, with that “old soul.”
Floyd took the letter and read it rapidly to the finish.
“She has shown me the way; it is all clear to me now, and I am not unhappy. We are only separated for a little while; and Mother, I want you to write a letter to her grandfather—and plead for us. It might do some good. You are always asking me what I want. I want Ruth; give me Ruth!”
“She has shown me the way; it is all clear to me now, and I am not unhappy. We are only separated for a little while; and Mother, I want you to write a letter to her grandfather—and plead for us. It might do some good. You are always asking me what I want. I want Ruth; give me Ruth!”
It was pathetic how the boy clung to his childish illusions. His mother could give him everything. Julie was crying silently.
The letter dropped from Floyd’s hand; waves of memory swept over him. The struggle between Joseph Abravanel and Father Cabello against him—the bitterness, the tragedy. He was on his feet; there was a youthful ring in his voice which had long been absent. He flung his spectacles, that badge of age, on the table. His eyes were young again.
“We must bring it about; the boy must not be disappointed. He must have his love dream; he must not lose the best part of his life.”
With a cry of joy Julie came to him and put her arms around his neck; they stood together, the light of that young romance across the sea reflected in their faces. Floyd bent down and whispered: “I was an ardent lover, wasn’t I, Julie? You were so sweet, so sweet.”
Then he remembered a business deal, and put on his spectacles. At the door he stopped.
“I shall write at once to Pedro Gonzala and make him a business proposition, which it would be madness to refuse; it will be a brilliant future for Joseph. This will cure him. He will see now that money can buy him everything! Don’t cry, Julie; it’s all for the best, and don’t miss the mail. It’s a five-cent stamp to Germany.”
The Colonel lunched that day at the club, with Floyd, who was full of his plan to “dazzle” the Gonzolas. The Colonel was very sympathetic, then he said with a touch of sadness,
“I’m getting old. People have no use for a bachelor, when he ceases to be eligible. If I had a boy like yours, a wife like yours, I’d be a happy man.”
Floyd thought a moment.
“I have been lucky; I come out well from very serious complications.”
The Colonel thought he meant business deals.
“You often risked too much; you were once on the brink of disaster.”
“More than once,” answered Floyd, “but now things seem to be going my way. I would like to do some philanthropic construction work; a man must have something to keep him from drying up.”
There was a responsive flash from the Colonel.
“I thought I was the only one who thought like that.”
Floyd looked around at the crowded room; there was laughter, jingling of glasses, the perfume of good tobacco.
“I think they all do!”
Joseph had spent the winter in Geneva, studying the classic and modern languages. In the spring he joined a band of students, on a walking tour through the mountains. At Tarasp he bade them good-bye—he was going to see the Val Sinestra, where his mother, years before, had been caught in a storm and where his father’s best friend, his Uncle Martin, had been lost in the mountains.
He passed the hotel, climbed down into the ravine, and stood before the little chapel, where by a strange coincidence they had met Father Cabello. He pushed open the door. How old it was, how very old!—the fading wall pictures, the brokenwindows, the time-stained Virgin and Child looming up out of the shadows. There was a sudden impulse to go to her, to speak to her, as he used to, when she was living to him. He gazed and gazed; she was drawing him down the aisle—
He went out, shutting the door softly behind him. Ghosts followed him as he climbed up the open road; then they melted away in the warm sunlight.
He was soon going home. His father’s “dazzling” business proposition had been enthusiastically received by the younger Gonzolas—but the “old gentleman” remained obdurate. The boy must accept his conditions. Floyd had written to Joseph, advising him to “give in while the old man lived.” But Joseph refused to make any concession; Ruth wouldn’t let him.
He strolled along, his knapsack on his back, his hat and cape in his belt, a handsome young student; one meets them often in the mountains—fine happy lads, their only wealth, the Future. He knelt down by a stream, caught the falling water in his hands, and drank it; then he poetized.
Spring dances in the mountains.Winter’s young daughter, peeps at herSweet face in the Lake mirror.The old Snow-man growls;His blanket is thin, his feet stick out;They are warm, he is melting.He flies to the heights, in hisMarch-wind aeroplane.There he can keep cool.The bride robes herself inGreen and gold.Flowers fall from her long curls.The nuptial couch is whiteWith blossoms.Wedding bells, birds caroling—Cattle calls—Alpine horns,Love time!
Spring dances in the mountains.Winter’s young daughter, peeps at herSweet face in the Lake mirror.The old Snow-man growls;His blanket is thin, his feet stick out;They are warm, he is melting.He flies to the heights, in hisMarch-wind aeroplane.There he can keep cool.The bride robes herself inGreen and gold.Flowers fall from her long curls.The nuptial couch is whiteWith blossoms.Wedding bells, birds caroling—Cattle calls—Alpine horns,Love time!
Spring dances in the mountains.
Winter’s young daughter, peeps at her
Sweet face in the Lake mirror.
The old Snow-man growls;
His blanket is thin, his feet stick out;
They are warm, he is melting.
He flies to the heights, in his
March-wind aeroplane.
There he can keep cool.
The bride robes herself in
Green and gold.
Flowers fall from her long curls.
The nuptial couch is white
With blossoms.
Wedding bells, birds caroling—
Cattle calls—Alpine horns,
Love time!
He threw back his head and laughed—Ruth would like it. He would bring her and show her where he wrote it—on their wedding day!
He read it again; it was a whimsical thing. He was sorry for the poets of the past who were chained in rhyme. The world had been rhyming so long, about everything—love, religion, the soul, the origin of man. People rhymed themselves into a state of poetic fiction; then suddenly they found out it was all rhyme and no reason.
The path ran along the side of the mountain. In the valley below he saw people running, heard the sound of music in the distance. He stopped a barefoot boy, who told him it was fête day in the Canton, to welcome their great Switzer home from Geneva, the artist Staehli.
“Staehli? Yes, I know. I admired his paintings at the exhibition.”
Then he saw a procession of peasants in gala array, cows adorned with flowers, maidens singing,dancing. A tall man walked amongst them with swinging step, a peasant like the others. He puts his hand to his mouth and gives out a long piercing yodel. Above at a châlet a woman answers.
“That is Angela, his wife; she is the doctor of the Dorf; she heals with her hands and brews herb tea which has a magic power!”
“Oh! I’d like to meet the artist. Do you think he’ll receive me?”
“Oh, yes! All are welcome; they have the best milk and cheese in the village. I’ll take you down.”
Near the châlet, they were stopped by an enormous hay wagon drawn by oxen. The young peasant leading them moved aside, smiling at Joseph.
“That’s Martin Staehli, born and raised here,” said the boy.
The artist was standing outside the châlet watching the procession wind its way around the path and out of sight.
“Could I rest here awhile? I’ve walked from Tarasp.”
“I shall have great pleasure.” He spoke English hesitatingly with a Swiss accent.
They entered a very large room, the light streaming in from all sides.
“This is my studio. My home is a little distance away in our family châlet. It is old; I will show it to you if you are interested in antiques.” He went to the door and called.
“Angela! Angela!”
He looked keenly at the boy.
“You are not a European?”
“No, I am an American.” He raised his head with a gesture of pride which became him well. “My name is Joseph Abravanel Gonzola Garrison.”
The artist put his hand over his eyes: Julie’s boy! The child he had held in his arms! He heard again that sweet young voice, felt the soft lips pressed against his. “I love you, Uncle Martin.” Julie’s boy!
Angela came in with milk, bread, and cheese. Joseph thought she was the noblest-looking woman he had ever seen.
The artist sat tracing lines on paper. He must hold that vision of the past; it would soon vanish. Angela apologized for his silence.
“My husband is sketching you, he loves beautiful heads.”
Joseph sat willingly for the artist.
“It’s only for myself—and for you, if you will accept it.” Then pointing to a black band around the boy’s arm, he said with a touch of fear, “Are you in mourning?”
“Yes, for our dearest friend, Cardinal Cabello.”
“Cabello, a Cardinal? I am quite out of the world. I met him many years ago in America.”
“He helped my mother bring me up. I was like his own son. I had to grieve him terribly before his death; but I couldn’t help it. I must go soonagain to Rome; there is a large sum of money coming to the Church from my grandmother. It was left to me conditionally—I have forfeited it.”
“Don’t look so sad,” said the artist. “I want the brightness of you. Tell me, have you sisters and brothers.”
“No, I am an only child, and very much spoilt.”
“Your parents, are they—living?”
“Oh yes, and still young. My mother is the most beautiful woman in New York.”
The artist caught the smile, then set him talking again, looking keenly into his face with its quick changes, its light and shade. He laughed often; he would throw back his head with a gush of merriment. That laugh thrilled the artist; it was like a far-away echo; it played on the chord of remembrance, bringing out a melody long unheard.
“You are not of pure American stock?”
“Oh yes, my mother and grandmother were born there. Mother is of Spanish-Hebrew blood. Father is of Dutch extraction; he is proud of being ‘pure American’—he forgets the Indian. All others are of emigrant origin; only some came over on earlier ships. A European called us a melting pot. I hate that expression; people don’t melt. We are not a smelting furnace. To me the United States is like a big Colonial mansion, with many windows made up of little panes of glass, which I call Race. Each one colors his glass with his own racial impulse.”
“What color do you see?”
“Oh, my window looks toward the East where the sun rises; it is gorgeous, with many colors,” laughed the boy.
“I think I catch your meaning. It would make a good symbolical picture. A great prairie, and standing in it a White House built on Colonial lines. It is flooded with a glare of strong light, which in the individual separates into its prismatic colors—the different races.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean; only an artist could think it out like that. Will you paint it?”
“Perhaps some day, but why not you? You have the instinct in you; I feel it.”
The boy’s face lit up. “How strange you should know that. I love art; I’ve studied it in Paris. I’ve been dabbling a bit in oil. They say I have talent.”
The man bent forward. “I have a class of young artists in Geneva; they are all unusually gifted. Join us!” How eager he was; he hung on to the boy’s answer.
“I would like it, but an artist’s career is too passive for me. I have no patience. I want action, results; I want to work for the great World Reformation which is coming. I want to help bring down to this miserable, unhappy earth, a little of the Heaven we have been dreaming of so long. We must wake up! We must commence now and fight the monster of materialism which is destroying us.”He was on his feet, his head erect, his eyes blazing. A young David sharpening his sword for the great encounter with the Giant of superstition, lies, false Gods.
“I must go now. May I come again? I’m going to write all about you to my mother. Were you here that time they were caught in the storm?”
Angela put her hand on her husband’s shoulder. He started, looked up.
“I was in America, I was very unfortunate there. I often lost my way—in jungles. Race instinct made me restless. The peasant blood was strong in me.”
“Race instinct?” repeated the boy. “I’ve felt that—but I didn’t know what it was, stirring in me. I can’t express it. It was like a melody—from far, far away, coming back in snatches—like—like the strains of—a National Hymn. It excites me.”
Angela’s eyes shone.
“You are living a great romance, the romance of race.”
“The romance of race, yes, that’s what it is.” Then he came nearer to them, and told his love story.
“Ruth is to me not only my love, she is the ideal in my life. I am going to take her out of that beautiful dark house with its old portraits. I am going to make her soul young again.”
The artist went with him down the path to the bend of the road.
“Where shall I send the sketch?”
“To the College in Geneva. Would you mind if I gave it to my mother?”
“Oh, no! I will try to make it beautiful.”
Joseph lingered, looking again into the artist’s face with a touch of sadness.
“I feel as if I had known you a very long time.”
“You have—”
He drew the boy to him and kissed him and stood watching the young figure until it disappeared.
Angela touched his arm.
“Angela! that boy! that boy!”
“Is he the son of the unhappy man who spent the night here?”
“Yes—”
The young peasant sent out a call from the barn, where he was flinging the hay lightly with a heavy pitchfork into the loft.
“What are you going to do with our boy? He does not care for books; he has no talent for painting? You are not ambitious for him—” There was a note of reproach in her voice.
“Yes, very ambitious. I want him to be what nature has made him, a peasant; nothing could be nobler.”
That night the artist remained in his studio to finish the sketch; he worked for hours with intense concentration, until the pencil dropped from his numb fingers. Then he threw himself down on the couch, but couldn’t rest. Ashes strewn over thefire had smothered but not extinguished it; the flames broke through. That boy! The Past living again, with all its wonder of passion, its uncontrollable love. He went to the window, leaned out; a white mist hovered over the dark valley. His eyes pierced it deeper. He was again a desperate man, holding a woman in his arms—Mad Martin!...
When the sketch was finished he painted it on ivory, framed it in silver, put it in a velvet case, and sent it to Joseph as a souvenir of their meeting. It was a speaking likeness; it went over the sea, a message to his first love.
The Garrisons were “at home.”
The reception tonight was in honor of a distinguished Englishman. Julie stood before the mirror, putting the last touches to her toilette; she wore a creamy lace décolleté gown, with splashes of red velvet. The Gonzola diamonds glittered in her corsage.
Her maid handed her a letter and package. It was from Joseph; now the evening would be perfect.
The boy was full of hope, enthusiasm; he had just returned from Switzerland, where he saw the Val Sinestra and the old chapel she had told himabout when he was a child, at night, before he went to sleep.
I visited an artist who lives near there. He’s been in America; he didn’t say much about himself, but he drew me out to get atmosphere for a portrait he made of me, which I am sending to you, with my best love. I am writing him a long letter; I hope he will answer. He’s married to a wonderful woman; they say she has magnetic power, and it is true; she drew out all my secrets. I had to tell her about Ruth. She loves her husband with her whole soul—her eyes never leave him. They have a son, a big strong peasant lad. Mother, the artist is the most interesting man I have ever met; his hair is turning gray. He must have had a terrible struggle when he was young. I think he starved; he has deep lines in his face. I had to tear myself away. I love him, Mother, I love him! and I’m sure he loves me. When I left, he put his arms around me and kissed me; I felt his heart beating in big throbs.
I visited an artist who lives near there. He’s been in America; he didn’t say much about himself, but he drew me out to get atmosphere for a portrait he made of me, which I am sending to you, with my best love. I am writing him a long letter; I hope he will answer. He’s married to a wonderful woman; they say she has magnetic power, and it is true; she drew out all my secrets. I had to tell her about Ruth. She loves her husband with her whole soul—her eyes never leave him. They have a son, a big strong peasant lad. Mother, the artist is the most interesting man I have ever met; his hair is turning gray. He must have had a terrible struggle when he was young. I think he starved; he has deep lines in his face. I had to tear myself away. I love him, Mother, I love him! and I’m sure he loves me. When I left, he put his arms around me and kissed me; I felt his heart beating in big throbs.
“Martin’s heart-beats!”
She opened the package; Joseph laughed back at her. She gazed and gazed, until the young face vanished, and she saw Martin, with her boy in his arms.
She sank down in her chair in a rush of hysterical joy.
Martin alive! Happy; no! no! not happy—content, peaceful, at work. How wonderful! Those two had met; they loved each other. God had given her absolution. How thankful she was! how thankful!
She sprang up, peered into the mirror, and saw—a white despairing face with spotted gray unkempt hair; it faded slowly; youth had touched it. Abeautiful smiling woman was reflected there, with head erect, triumphant, free from that haunting fear of years.
She put out the lights and went to the door with resilient steps—then stopped, suddenly grew pale, as she looked back. The room was shadowy; one lamp shone down on the little table beside her bed, bringing out in sharp relief, the torn old Hebrew prayer book, beside it an ivory crucifix turning yellow, and—a beautiful rose, eternally young—symbols of her soul’s secrets, its melody, its madness.
Finis
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.