Chapter II: Part 2

“I was a very little fellow, only six years old; it was not more than two years since I had begun to wear trousers. My father, who was captain of a ship at that time, being almost always on the sea, I had been brought up by two women, my mother and my aunt—Aunt Marie! I loved them equally. I had, in fact, two mothers. Although they were sensible people, they both spoiled me.”

‘One can only spoil that which is bad,’ said Aunt Marie.

‘And Jacques is good,’ added my mother.

“It appears that at five years of age I was angelic. You see I have changed,” said the general, interrupting his tale an instant, and addressing himself to one of us who had smiled a little. “What do you expect, my dear Robert, life does not leave intact all those whom it touches.”

“Say rather, General,” replied the young officer who had been addressed—a good fellow, although a little audacious at times—“if you have changed, we know well that it is almost always to our advantage.”

The General shook his head and continued: “If I had never left my two mothers, it is very probable that I should have been as gentle as a girl. However this may be, and whether I was good or bad, between these two charming women, I was the happiest little being in creation, and curiously enough, I fully realized my happiness. My aunt, who played more of a part than my mother in this story which I am telling you, was a tall and remarkably beautiful person. My mother alone equalled her in beauty, and that for a very simple reason—they were twins, and resembled one another closely. Happily, their costumes differed completely, and prevented me from making a mistake; my mother belonged to the world, and Aunt Marie did not. Aunt Marie was the Superior of the Sisters of Charity of a large military hospital in the town of —— where I was born. We lived in this town during the long absences of my father. Mamma and her sister, whom I often called “Aunt Sister Marie,” divided between them my entire affection. It was indeed a great joy when my mother took me to see Aunt Marie. Although this pleasure was to be found only between the cold walls of a hospital, it was always greatly desired, and awaited with the very greatest impatience on my part.

“To run in the vast, long court where the convalescents were accustomed to walk, or to sit in the sunshine, to wander around that immense garden, which was my Place du Carrousel and my Champs de Mars, to be caught in passing, to be stopped in my wild flight, either by one of the convalescent soldiers who were amused by my antics, or by one of the sisters of Aunt Marie, or above all by Aunt Marie herself, who, when seeing me too heated, left her room, which served her also as a pharmacy, to come and quiet me and kiss me; to gallop over the sandy grounds of this court, riding horse-back on a cane, or on the crutch of an aged, infirm sister, who usually sat knitting on one of the benches—all this was for me the joy of joys.

“The day of which I speak, a beautiful summer day, I had obtained permission to play in my dear court for a whole hour. My mother had to make a visit in the town, which would have been tiresome for me. She had left me in charge of her sister and Aunt Marie, from her open window, was not to lose sight of me for a moment. The aged Sister Rose was asked to watch me as well, and then I had her crutch, without which she was unable to walk. You see I was well guarded.

“Aunt Marie, having mounted to her private room, saw from her window that a door of the large building at the extremity of the court, a double door, and one which I had always seen shut, was open. She hailed one of the nurses and asked him to shut it; but from his answer she probably judged that it was not possible, for it stayed open, and Aunt Marie having called me to her, said: ‘You see that large open door, at the end of the court, little Jacques?’ ‘Yes, Aunt Marie.’ ‘Very well! It is the door of a large room, very dark and very cold, where even big people are not permitted to enter. It is written over the door that entrance is forbidden to the public! Promise me, dear, not to go there.’

“I gave the promise with the intention of keeping it, but I had not rendered due count of the fascinations of Sister Rose’s crutch. Having jumped about a great deal, having pranced round and round the timid Sister Rose, having thoughtlessly knocked against, and annoyed in a thousand ways the soldiers who were playing at _drogue_, (a game which always makes me laugh, as pieces of wood are placed on the noses of the losers.) I was, as you may imagine, very much excited; my horse ended by running away with me, and, instead of stopping on the threshold of the forbidden door, which more than once I had had the imprudence to approach too closely, he carried me irresistibly to the extremity of the dark room, which I ought not to have entered. I was going so rapidly that before I had time to think I arrived with a shock against the wall at the farther end. I knocked myself so severely that I raised a big bump upon my forehead, which brought me effectually to my senses. My steed, Sister Rose’s crutch, fatigued by the violence of our course, fell, out of breath, but not without noise, at my feet. The silence of the room sent back from its four corners the echo of the fall. Startled by this strange sound, I turned around quickly. I was already impressed by the sense of my disobedience. I had done wrong to come there.

“The sudden change from the light to the obscurity which surrounded me, the cold chill of that room, following quickly the warm atmosphere of the court which I had left all in sunshine, added to my uneasiness, and the rest did not reassure me. A lugubrious row of large white beds, all alike, enclosed by curtains of a most severe aspect, which I had not seen in the rapidity of my entrance, occupied the whole length of the room at my left. Not a breath came from behind these curtains; the beds then were empty. I did not like to be alone among these shadows. The blinds being shut, the daylight ended a few steps from the door by which I had come into this redoubtable place, and did not penetrate to my corner. For an instant I dared not stir, and yet I well knew that I must leave this spot, forbidden to grown persons, just as quickly as I could. Intimidated by my surroundings, and above all by the obscurity and the silence, which are not the friends of children, even the sound of my breathing frightened me; I heard, not without fear, the rapid beatings of my heart. Forgetting at once both Sister Rose and my horse, I resolved to reach the door, and I walked instinctively on the tips of my toes so as to make as little disturbance as possible. When I had taken about twenty steps, hesitating from time to time to regain my courage, seeing that after all I approached the light, my presence of mind gradually came back to me and I cast about one of those questioning regards of a child who wishes, while he has the opportunity, to profit by the occasion and explore the region into which he has unwittingly ventured. I found myself particularly attracted toward a large black bench which was placed along the wall to the left of the entrance, and which occupied more space than a bed.

“Why was this bench, larger and a little lower than the benches in the court, two-thirds covered by a white sheet? Was anything hidden under this sheet? It certainly appeared so to me. While asking myself these questions, I had already arrived three-quarters of the way; a little more daylight reached me thereby. Light is a blessing at any age, but for a child it is sometimes a remedy for all ills. Less anxious as to what might happen to me in the room itself, I began to be more uneasy in regard to what would pass when I had left it. What would Aunt Marie think of my disobedience? Truly I was in no great hurry to regain the court, and I said to myself that being there, it would not cost me any more to learn why a white sheet covered that big bench. In a few steps I drew still nearer to it. The top of the bench was uneven. Without doubt something was hidden there; but what? My curiosity carried me on, and without having the least idea of what I was going to discover, with a bold movement I lifted one entire end of the sheet.

“That which there appeared to my astonished eyes I shall never forget. I see it even yet, as I speak to you, as plainly as when I was six years old in the room of the hospital of ——. Yes, I see it and I shall see it all my life.

“I saw death! a dead person! for the first time.

“Since then I have seen many dead people, more than I can count; this one has rested in my memory more clearly than them all.

“That which I had uncovered was the head, white hair, nude shoulders and chest of a man already old, whose immobility and extraordinary pallor seemed inexpressibly terrible to me. I felt that I stood before a great event. Nothing can give an idea of the stupor which enveloped me. A hundred confusing questions surged in my brain. Has a man from his earliest years an intuition as to what will be the end of his life on earth? I firmly believe so. In any case I was not deceived for a single moment by the thought that I beheld a sleeping man. I understood that it was not a simple sleep. One is never so absent, so calm, when one only sleeps. But then what was it that I saw? What was he doing on the bench—that impassible being?

“‘Suppose I should call Aunt Marie?’ I said to myself; ‘Aunt Marie, who knows everything, and can do everything? Suppose, however, (but the simple thought seemed formidable to me) I should touch him first!’ And, in contradiction to the idea which I had that his sleep was not of that kind which could be disturbed. I said to myself again: ‘Perhaps he will get up. Perhaps he does not know that he is there.’

“I dared to place my hand on his shoulder. I drew it away quickly. That sort of cold was frightful.

“A dreadful thought flashed through my brain. The very truth of truths penetrated my inmost being. People must become like this when they are no longer alive. But then—— I had touched a dead man! I had thereby shown a disrespect toward him. I had troubled that which ought never to be troubled!

“My heart ceased to beat.”

* * * * *

“I imagined that I had done something irreparable. I tried to find a name for my action, which I judged abominable. The idea of sacrilege, one of those dreaded words of which a child does not comprehend the meaning, came into my mind, and I said to myself: ‘That is it, I have committed a sacrilege!’

“Terror took possession of me, and in my fright, instead of escaping through the door which was now quite near me, I took refuge, trembling, in the shadowy end of the room which had lately given me so much trouble to leave. Perhaps I hoped to escape more surely in the darkness from that vision, from that unexplained revelation of death which had then for the first time greeted me.

“I stood again with my face pressed against the wall at the end of the room prohibited to all, hardly breathing, without the power to cry, and not daring to turn round. I fell on my knees and, with a flood of tears, I demanded pardon of God for the great sin which I had committed, and prayed Him to show me the means of effacing it. Did God pardon me? I believe that he did, for I arose from my knees having formed a resolution to repair the wrong which I had done. But it must be done immediately, and all alone. I had uncovered the head of a dead man, and my duty was, first of all, to go and ask his pardon, and, secondly, to render him peaceful by recovering him as before.

“Such a resolution—the idea that he has a duty to accomplish—makes a man of even a child, once he has decided to perform it. I gathered together all my courage and started bravely enough. When I arrived a few steps from the bench and saw that terribly calm visage, with those marble lids closed forever, my heart failed me, and, taking flight, I very soon found myself at the end of the room.

“But strength alone, not will, failed me. Three times I returned, without being able to approach him closely—and yet, it was necessary to do so! I invoked the memory of Aunt Marie, of my mother, who would forgive me if I could repair my fault, of my father who was said to be so brave, and I made an effort to start again, repeating to myself when I was about to weaken, that the pardon of others, of myself as well, and above all, that of the dead man whom I had offended, could be obtained only at this price.

“I am astonished even now when I think of the amount of energy, the superhuman efforts to surmount an insurmountable fear, paralyzing him at each step, that was shown by the unhappy little boy that I then was. I have been in many a trying situation in my career as a soldier, but they have all been as nothing when compared to that one, which preceded them by so many years. What was I saying? Feeling myself ready to fail, with a supreme effort, I desperately finished my course. I stood before the dead man and demanded his pardon, with a voice which probably the dead alone could hear, because it resembled a dying breath, and my hand at last succeeded in covering the awful visage with the sheet which I thought necessary to his repose.

“That done, I arrived with a single bound in the middle of the court; but I was at the end of my strength, and giving vent to a sharp cry, I fell, deprived of all feeling, like a mortally wounded bird, at the feet of poor Sister Rose.”

* * * * *

“My fainting fit lasted, they say, about two hours. I recovered consciousness in the arms of Aunt Marie, who had heard my cry of distress. My mother had returned. On her knees before her sister and me, she bathed my forehead and temples and made me inhale something which burnt my nostrils a little but which smelt very good. I burst into tears and my first word, when I was able to speak, was to ask and re-ask pardon; and when I had to stop for want of breath, it was only to cry again, ‘Pardon! Pardon!’ for that which was to me an irredeemable fault.

“‘Pardon for what, my poor child?’ said my mother, when I had completely recovered consciousness. ‘Is it because you went into the big room?’ But Aunt Marie has already forgiven you. Do you not see how she kisses you?’

“The kiss, yes, that was the pardon of Aunt Marie, but it was not only of that which she knew that I needed forgiveness. All was not yet known. I felt that I must make a complete confession, and, in an account, broken by tears and sobs, I told ‘this all’ to Aunt Marie and my mother. I told them all that it had cost me for having lacked proper respect for the dead.

“My confession was not only complete, it was public; the surgeon of the hospital and five or six soldiers were around us.

“‘Ah!’ said one of the latter, addressing the doctor, ‘the child must have seen the old Marshal who was not able to recover from yesterday’s amputation.’

“When I had finished my tale, when by kind words they had established a relative calm in my conscience, when they had told me many times that the dead man could never again be angry, especially as I had asked his pardon, when Aunt Marie had made me understand besides that although one should respect and honor the dead one should not be afraid of them, a young sergeant who was there, and whom I had teased oftener than the others because he most frequently wore the piece of wood on his nose from losing at ‘drogue,’ asked permission of my mother to kiss ‘that little one.’

“When he had availed himself of the permission, which my mother willingly gave him, he said to her, as he placed me on his knee, ‘Madame, when one shows such courage as that at six years of age, there is little danger of his becoming cowardly later on. That mite will some day be a giant.’

“Whether I have become a giant or not,” said the general, relighting his cigar,—“I cannot say, but that which I do know is that in all my military experience I have never striven harder to be brave than I did that day when I was brought face to face with death for the first time.”

After listening to this story, we all of us realized that courage also consists in overcoming fear.

The general was right. This history of a child was at bottom the history of a man. It interested its hearers, and enabled each one of them to make use of it as a lesson for himself. It was not at all a bad preparation for the work of the following morning, which was likely to demand of each of us a great deal more of perseverance, of resolution and presence of mind, than of brilliancy and dash.

_Adapted from the French by Adele Bacon._

(“The Second Fear,” of the “Four Fears of Our General,” will be published in the February issue.)

That we reserve for ourselves the compliment of the first _bouquet_ we trust will not be regarded as an impropriety. The necessity of making a formal bow on entering for the first time the presence of the great Public is well recognized, and in the performance of this duty, which holds for us a rare pleasure, a little well meant selfishness is perhaps pardonable.

DIXIE is introduced to your notice as the result of the latest attempt to establish a Southern magazine. Despite the precedents of failure that are ours, we believe success to be possible for such a venture under existing conditions. It is difficult to accept as truth what has been said so often of the Southern people, that they are in general unappreciative of good literature and good art. That we do not concur in the belief the appearance of DIXIE is conclusive evidence. We confidently expect the most liberal support from the cultivated class of every state of the South, believing a periodical of this order—a native production having at heart the interests of the Southern people—will meet with an eager and a sincere welcome.

We have thought it best to make a modest beginning rather than to herald our undertaking with a brilliant first number at the cost of strength that might better be reserved for exigencies of the struggle yet to come. We have chosen to build, and would have our success—if success await us—be the result of growth. Having obtained the services of a number of the well known writers and artists of the country, we are in the position to promise a continual improvement both in the contents and the appearance of the magazine.

It was found necessary to make the first number somewhat local in tone, but this is only a passing condition. We have secured for future issues contributions of more general interest.

With this brief introductory note, DIXIE is offered to your consideration.

* * * * *

The greatest praise is due Mr. Philip de Boilleau for his beautiful and distinguished painting entitled “Hydrangias,” which we reproduce on the opposite page. This picture,—an harmonious arrangement in soft grays,—was painted in Milan during the past summer, and has only recently been brought to Baltimore. We consider it one of Mr. Boilleau’s best works, and pin this modest little _boutonniere_ on the lapel of his coat in recognition of his resourceful and extremely personal talent.

_Painted by Philip de Boilleau._]

* * * * *

The presence of the Boston Symphony organization in Baltimore this fall was thoroughly enjoyed, but it would not have been financially possible had not ten of our wealthy and very liberal citizens formed a guarantee fund and contributed enough money to insure the entire success of the venture. We have not yet seen any public commendation of this very public spirited action, and therefore feel that it would not be amiss to assure these gentlemen (whose names are withheld at their own request) that the professional musicians as a class, and the real music-loving Baltimoreans as well, are deeply appreciative and grateful for the signal liberality they have shown and the example they have set for others to follow. Such things should not be taken as a matter of course, or be passed over in complete silence.

* * * * *

Mr. George N. Mackenzie’s suggestion, made public in the SUN of Dec. 13th, of placing tablets on houses that have sheltered famous persons should commend itself to all those interested in historical work or the improvement of the city. Southern towns are particularly rich in this class of historic objects, as the result of a pronounced reverence for old things and a reluctance to tear down and rebuild. However strongly present methods of progress may demand the destruction of these ancient piles, we cannot altogether condemn the unprogressiveness that leaves them standing. They are a means of important instruction to the public; and their presence in a town cannot but add to its attractiveness and prosperity, if attention is properly directed to their existence. It may safely be said that the solidarity of the English nation is in great part maintained by the constant inspiration afforded by the innumerable monuments, of all kinds, that cover English soil. They are material evidence of past greatness. Is there a more powerful agent than precedent? We step from the past to the present, and in proportion to the firmness of the position of the rear foot we advance. Preserve the monuments at any cost! The houses of great men are as sacred as their graves; and it should be a shame to that city that negligently or wilfully suffers them to be destroyed.

There is a very laudable scheme on foot just now to erect a monument, or statue, to the memory of Maryland’s contingent of Confederate and Federal soldiers who lost their lives on the battle-field of Antietam. The idea of such a memorial does great credit to the magnanimity of the American people, and offers another convincing proof to the world at large that we are again a truly united and broadminded nation. The lofty patriotism that suggests and makes practicable the erection of a monument of this description is beyond all praise and cannot be commended too highly: There is, however,—if a recent experience teaches us anything—an unfortunate element of danger that, no matter what noble-minded motives may have originally inspired this projected tribute to our brave dead, its artistic side may actually leave much to be desired; and that in the next century, when we shall have at length become a truly artistic people, we may turn our heads aside and blush for it, as we do now for the hideous Firemen’s Tablet and the Lord Baltimore of Cathedral street.

There is no reason but ignorance for the existence of such a state of things. Nothing is easier than to get expert judgment on those architectural and sculptural plans that may be submitted to the committee in charge of the erection of this monument. There is a very common, and most erroneous, idea that trained technical and artistic knowledge is unnecessary in such cases, whereas no task is in reality more difficult. To be able to choose correctly, from the many rough little wax and clay suggestions huddled momentarily together, the project which will produce, when it is thrown up on a large scale and carefully finished, the most beautiful and inspiring work of art, requires an experience that is almost invariably lacking in the persons so thoughtlessly given the power to say which theme is to be adjudged the best.

In the recent case to which we have referred, a committee of laymen apparently judged the sketches submitted to them solely from the point of view of finish,—a most immaterial matter in a sketch, as every artist knows,—and consequently one of our great national heroes, instead of being eternally honored as was intended by many of his admirers, is compelled to rest under a mediocre pile of stone and bronze that, while far from being as good as it ought to be, is just good enough to insure its remaining where it is for many years to come. Is this sort of thing fair to the art-loving people who contribute to the building of our public monuments, or to posterity that must receive and preserve them, or to those heroes themselves in whose memory and to whose glory we would like to erect enduring proofs of our love and admiration?

The Theatrical Trust has at last met with a well merited rebuke for its peculiar methods of business. The BALTIMORE NEWS took it in hand the other day and told it some very plain truths. It seems that the local representative of the Trust went to the NEWS office with a proposition to publish a half-page “ad” every Saturday providing a local “ad-writer”, who thinks himself an authority on things theatrical, was allowed to polish up the swell front advance notices. The NEWS not only declined the proposition but exposed the whole affair. The Academy took its “ad” out immediately, and published for a few days, “We do not advertise in the News.” Foolish mistake! What is the use of flinging mud at a man who owns a mud-machine?

We heartily commend the NEWS for the action it has taken in this matter. It is an outrage that a few men should attempt to control this business. They made every effort to close the doors of the very popular Lyceum, and leave Mr. Albaugh to starve if he saw fit, but the energy and perseverance of his son Jack were entirely successful in defeating their purpose, and the good people of Baltimore have fully shown their appreciation of his pluck. Now the Trust is measuring steel with the Fords, but in spite of giving them the worst of it in the way of attractions, the Fords are making more money than the Academy. Ford and Albaugh are the names that represent everything theatrical in Baltimore. Years and years ago these two men had firmly established themselves with Baltimoreans, and it will take more than a theatrical trust to inspire hostility where there has always existed confidence and good-will.

* * * * *

There can be no doubt as to the precarious condition of music in Baltimore at the beginning of the year eighteen hundred and ninety-nine; but there is much that can be done to improve its really sad plight. In other words, its state, while deplorable in the extreme, is not altogether hopeless. It is deeply to be regretted that the recent manager of the Peabody Institute, a man of great and acknowledged musical ability, having had the chance to make Baltimore the recognized musical centre of America, should have failed so utterly to add that distinction to the metropolis of the South.

His successor, a young man of education, of refinement, and of apparent ambition, although undoubtedly handicapped by the legacy of sterile contentions and discouragements left him by his predecessor, has still a very brilliant opportunity before him. Will he succeed ultimately where his master has so conspicuously failed? We sincerely hope so, and trust that some few of our misgivings, arising from what we fear is a tendency to cultivate the noisy and pretentious few at the expense of the more modest, but by far the more musical, majority may prove after all to be groundless.

* * * * *

Nothing so forcibly illustrates the inability of even educated persons to distinguish between the good and the bad as the family portrait. How seldom one sees in houses otherwise marked by refinement and good taste this really necessary and, to future generations, valuable object characterized by sufficient artistic merit to insure to it one’s attention for five minutes. And how often it is a mere caricature of the person whose portrayal has been attempted. What man dare call himself educated who has not sufficiently acquainted himself with the elements of drawing and color to know when he, or some member of his family, is being transferred to canvas for no better purpose than to afford amusement for persons of greater knowledge and judgment. It is true all of us cannot spare the time to acquire even the elements of an art education, but then it is equally true that the upper class of Americans is not truly a cultivated class, is not possessed of the culture of the same class in Europe. This is lamentable; but sadder still is the knowledge that the egotism (widely known as the American spirit) of the average man of refinement will preclude for a long time to come a betterment of the situation.

Baltimore, among other cities noted for their educated class, has been, and still is, an easy victim to the artist of the solar-print. Nothing more thoroughly delights the heart of a Baltimorean of average development than to come into possession of one of those family portraits that exhibit all the rotundity of objects turned on a lathe, the burnish (in the high lights) of excessively polished metal-ware, and the finish of a miniature done under the glass of a microscope. In such work the ideal of portrait painting is reached—for the Baltimorean of average development. The revered canvas is given the place of honor in the most prominent room of the house and there left for the adoration of all who enter—no one daring to call down upon his head, for adverse criticism, the pitying scorn of the deluded family. “It is a speaking likeness rendered with unusual technical skill.” One often wishes, as a relief for tortured eyes, that painters could do without technique altogether, and might be allowed to indulge the wildest flights of imagination conceivable in depicting the features of beloved relatives and friends.

But little can be said in defense of the “artist” who produces this class of work. It is the result of either a base commercial spirit or of untalented affrontery that trades on the ignorance of those who should blush for their little knowledge. In many instances these painters have had every opportunity for study at home and abroad, and yet seek to degrade a profession they can in no wise benefit. Have the patrons of these men concluded that honesty has lost its worth, and that a bad painter is more useful that a good photographer? An almost hopeless ignorance of art is, in these cases, the true explanation of why this phase of brush-work has not long since disappeared from among intelligent people. As long as men are found willing to pay for a bad thing the parodists of art will continue to flourish. That it is not the ignorant, or unscrupulous, painter who needs to be educated is easily seen.

Baltimore, with its unusually large number of thinking people, is not altogether hopeless of improvement in its ideas of art. Fortunately there are here a few families that have true judgment in such matters, and whose influence, although at present but little felt, has a tendency to create a future favorable to good work. May that happy epoch not be synchronous with the Millennium.

* * * * *

MR. JAMES TURNS THE SCREW.

Mr. Henry James is perhaps the one anomaly of American art. True, we have Howells at his heels, some people may say at his head, but Howells is by no means an inexplicable product, and he is as far from being like James as James is far from being the counterpart of Turgeneff, the master inspiration of them both. One may not like Mr. James—and there are many who will simply not face his difficulties—but one must concede that he is literature. He is indeed so emphatically literature that he is not always life as well. It is not a little to say of an author on the shady side of his prime that he still reserves for his public the quality of continual surprise. Long ere this, one is minded to assert, judging on general principles, Mr. James must have declared his reach. Such utterances are, however, always contradicted by his latest book. And his latest books, especially in the last few years, have been a succession of surprises—shocks would be a better word, it may be—that uproot presumptions. “What Maizie Knew,” for example, was a glance of Mr. James’ brilliancy from quite a new angle. It was such an extraordinary ray of his art that it has not yet ceased to leave a green spot of bewilderment on the vision of the critic. With the cry caused by “In a Cage” still in the air, comes his very newest volume, “The Two Magics” (New York: The Macmillan Co.,) as unprecedented a composition as any of his repertory. To say that “The Turn of the Screw” dashes one with amazement is not to be in the least hyperbolic. It does amaze—it simply takes one’s breath and keeps it until one has finished the tale. One is amazed at the art, one is amazed at the substance—and one is amazed at Mr. James himself, and that, perhaps, most of all. It is an incredible production for a Bostonian, no matter though he be long acclimated to foreign heaths as in the instances of the author. We know of no other case where Bostonian blood has failed so signally to tell.

One is saved from the supreme shock, however, by one thing—the matter of Maizie. Maizie in “What Maizie knew” was at least an intimation of the terrible facts of Miles and Flora. These angelic visions of eight and ten are a twin-birth of horror before which the hideous perspicacity of Maizie pales to insignificance. They are veritable limbs of Satan not in any human forgivable sense, but astounding monsters of precocious sinfulness that give one a positive chill to consider as within the bounds of possibility. Their portrayal is a slaughter of the innocents equal to that of Herod. One arraigns Mr. James’ inhumanity in thus stooping to cast so cruel a stain on the character of childhood. Maizie was surely enough—much more than enough.

Can the treatment of such abomination be within the pales of art? One is obliged to admit that it can be, because Mr. James has demonstrated it—demonstrated it as we hope it will not be demonstrated often. It has, however, required all the resources of his skill. The marvel is that he never even falters—makes one false stroke with his brush. As it stands, “The Turn of the Screw” is a masterpiece; one fails to see how it could be improved. Its art gives the envelopment to the subject that saves it superbly. It is the kind of envelopment one finds in the portraits of Whistler, for instance, and that is perfect.

Far from blurting out the business he may have in hand, Mr. James can scarcely be said, at least in these latter days of his art, to tell it at all. Most readers of “What Maizie Knew” must have been struck in the perusal with the fact that never once did the story for all its plotless volume state in cold type what the child really did know. And yet that Maizie knew what she shouldn’t have known was as obvious as though she had drawn naughty pictures on her slate. The reader knew what Maizie knew by a more subtle means of intelligence—by a kind of telepathic communication. The book was a supreme piece of insinuation. Perfectly proper, indeed, as far as the print was concerned, but what scandal between the lines! One finds oneself subject to this same sort of telepathic play in “The Turn of the Screw.” It is all secretive enough—superficially. The nightmare of children’s little obsessed souls is not dragged into the light of day, but the horror is there, nevertheless, patent to the eye and palpable to the touch. Mr. James turns the screw, indeed! To set down the details of the story would be to mar its subtle relation of style and substance. It is for the reader to take or to leave, as he finds it in Mr. James’ volume.

“Covering End,” the other tale, included under the title of “The Two Magics,” is quite in Mr. James’ usual manner. The “magic” of this charming comedy is a very white magic, being no more than the brisk spell exerted by the heroine—a Daisy Miller of later growth—upon the hero, the owner of an old English “show” country house. “It was magnificent and shabby, and the eyes of the dozen dark old portraits seemed, in their eternal attention, to count the cracks in the pavement, the rents in the seats of the chairs and the missing tones in the Flemish tapestry.” We have again all the sentiment of “old things” as found in “The Spoils of Poynton.” The story is the kind of comedy that would “scream” in the hands of ordinary art. Mr. James’ material is, however, never so ill-bred. Mrs. Gracedew, widow, “from Missouri Top,” bursts upon all this faded splendor and question of mortgages with a perfect whirl of Americanism. Her conversation is a kind of metal skirt-dancing—a perpetual flash of pink fleshings. She is everywhere in the house at the same time—“an apparition, a presence requiring announcement and explanation,” indeed. She covets the house, she covets “the good and faithful servant”—poor Chivers, whom she calls “Rembrant van Rhyn, with three stars”; she covets the mortgaged owner, Clement Yule. They are all “types.” Even Cora Prodmore is a type—“the ‘awfully nice girl’ of all the English novels, the ‘simple maiden in her flower’ of—who is it?—your great poet.” It is Daisy Miller with additional assurance of widowhood. She “grabs” the whole situation with all the prompt enterprise of Missouri Top. “I’m here,” she announces to “the lawful heir,” “for an act of salvation—I’m here to avert a sacrifice!” That she will avert it the reader never questions. It is all delightfully spirited and worthy of Mr. James. It is quite as much a masterpiece of subtlety and finished style as “The Turn of the Screw,” if not so new a note in conception. After the horror of this latter tale it is more than a matter of refreshment—it has the virtue of salvation.

A GERMAN MASTERPIECE.

The interest of the Anglo-Saxon public in German fiction has always been languid compared with the avidity with which it devours the works, good, bad and indifferent, of French authors. Mrs. Wister, Clara Bell, and a few other translators, suffice to supply the English-speaking market with all it demands in literature from the land of Goethe and Schiller, while, on the other hand, hundreds can scarcely fill the publishers’ orders for translations from the French. It may be that German novels are too limited in their appeal—too intrinsically German and hearth-centered—too largely lacking in that modern “finish” for which English authors so frantically strive and French authors so frequently attain; too deficient in what we are pleased to regard as the saving sense of “smartness.” German novels as a rule have more soul than smartness, and that is almost unforgivable in an age when genius like the reformed pirate is expected to do fancy work.

It is perhaps because of this characteristic “high seriousness,” to use a favorite phrase of Matthew Arnold’s, of Hermann Sudermann’s pen that he has remained so little known to us in spite of his rare force. He belongs to the brainy band of modern novelists which can almost be told off on the fingers; of which in England Geo. Meredith is the lone Pompey’s Pillar; Balzac, in France, the pyramid; and in Russia Turgeneff, the sardonic sphinx. Sudermannn first reached our transatlantic consciousness through the success of Duse’s portrayal of Magda in “Home”, a tragedy full of fierce psychic value and human pathos.

In “Regina or The Sins of Fathers,” translated by Beatrice Marshall (London and New York, John Lane) Sudermann has given us in the heroine a character of such stuff as Magdas are made of—a Magda in the raw, a Magda unintellectualized. The story treats of man’s honor and truth to himself as in “Home” the author treats of woman’s. The main difference is that in “Regina,” Boleslav’s self-trust comes too late for happiness. It is only as the story closes he echoes Arnold’s

“Ah! love, let us be true
To one another—”

in a burst of passionate insight; but the chance had passed, Regina’s lifeless, blood-smeared body lay under the Cats’ Bridge, where her imbecile father had hurled it. Her fate is not unlike Ophelia’s. She is piteously involved in the misfortunes of a hero burdened with a performance as harsh as it was akin to that of Hamlet’s. The novel is a virile work, deep-voiced, full of dramatic color and agitating some vital moral questions. Acrid to the taste it is in many respects, but absorbing throughout in its appeal.

Boleslav is pursued by the curse of his father’s treason with a good deal of that grimness with which a hero of the Greek tragedies is harrowed by the Eumenides. One lash of the furies’ whip provokes another until life seems a madness scarcely to be borne. His friends and sweetheart forsake him; the false name under which he enters the German Array fails to protect him from the ignominy of the paternal crime; he is ostracised by the whole world. We find him as the story opens returning to the ruined home of his ancestors, where lies the dead body of his traitor sire, denied the last offices of the church. It is there he meets Regina, the mistress of the deceased, a wild and beautiful peasant girl, to the portraiture of whom the story owes its chief interest. Regina is a magnificent, unforgettable creature—one of those rich chords that nature but rarely strikes upon the harp of being; she reverberates through one’s senses with a rough sweetness that represents a real experience. Her mould is Homeric; she is a creation of primal days and primal passions. To blame her is to quarrel with nature itself. Regina becomes the refuge of the stricken man whose noble motive of life is to redeem his father’s name from shame, to rebuild the homestead of his race, to face unmerited dishonor with manly dignity.

His heart still harbors the image of his early love, and for long he cannot overcome the repugnance he feels for the sturdy pariah who with pathetic self-denial and endurance becomes his slave in the maintenance of the dreary rat’s hole in the ruined castle where the two live. His ideal of womanhood is the simpering Helene who obeys her papa. It takes him a long time to realize that dangerous maxim of Nietzche’s: “Passions become evil when they are held to be evil.” And Regina’s passions are as clear-eyed as were the children of Eden before they picked the apple of Original Sin. As he realizes the fact, the girl’s character gradually usurps his soul. A powerful scene is where they struggle together—the master and the slave—for domination; the man’s strength against the peasant’s Boadicean sinew. It is like the contest of sex in the African jungle. There is no sense of masculine meanness in the contest. One recognizes some deep inner justification in it: that this fierce strife is the materialization of what is really heart warfare. It is a spiritual imbroglio. In the midst of the contest, as they pant together defiantly, Boleslav suddenly kisses the girl on the mouth; and a moment after he is fleeing from himself into the snowy night. The scene is infinitely human. In it Sudermann bares the strange mystery of the human heart as only genius can.

In spite of this flash of soul-knowledge of Boleslav’s, the pair do not become lovers. The man’s self-restraint still worships at Helene’s shrine. He finds that altar clay at last. In the agony of disillusion he lets his soul fly toward its true magnet, but the fortunes of the two have reached a tragic pass. It is Regina’s dead lips that fate now alone offers Boleslav. Under the charred rafters of his ancestral home that the peasants had burned in their patriotic fury, clasping the girl’s cold body, his mind shivers amidst the phantasmagoria of human existence. The world’s conventions seem to shrivel like a consuming scroll. Nothing remains but ashes and the conviction that Regina was “one of those perfect, developed individuals such as nature created before a herding social system, with its paralyzing ordinances, bungled her handiwork, when every youthful creature was allowed to bloom, unhindered, into the fullness of its power, and to remain, in good and in evil, part and parcel of the natural life.”

Sudermann does not set his seal to the sophistries that Boleslav’s despair formulates in these gloomy moments as he scoops out the frozen ground nearby the pedestal of a broken statue of Diana, as a resting place for his drowned Ophelia,—buried “with pagan rites.” His point of view is that of the philosophic spectator of the world’s strifes and follies, who sees in bold-browed convention its justifications, but also its flaws, its misreadings of nature, its littleness, its lack of large mercifulness. Over Regina, as over Margaret, the voice of higher reason pronounces the verdict of exoneration, Boleslav in his struggles with fell destiny offers a strengthening exemplar of manliness. He is portrayed by the author with a discriminating realism that couples weakness with might in a human way which wins for the hero our sympathy, as the character of Regina compels our admiration.

—_Edward A. Uffington Valentine._

THE LE-O-PARD.

This is the Le-o-pard, my child;
His tem-per’s anything but mild.
The Le-o-pard can’t change his spots,
And that—so say the Hot-ten-tots—
Is why he is so wild.

Year in, year out, he may not change,
No mat-ter how the wea-ther range,
From cold to hot. No won-der, child,
We hear the Le-o-pard is wild.

—_“A Child’s Primer of Natural History,” by Oliver Herford._

TURNING A NEW LEAF.

Twelve months again have rolled around,
The time has come, in brief,
When chaps like me are duty bound
To turn another leaf.
So, meditating thus, I find
’Tis needful that I stop
And designate within my mind
What habits I shall drop.

I will not smoke. Won’t I? Let’s see.
This surely’s not the worst
Of all my faults. Accordingly
I’ll take the others first.
I couldn’t stop it anyhow—
I’ve failed to times galore.
Perhaps I’d better tackle now
A job not tried before.

I don’t drink much—a special brew—
A glass when with a friend.
I reckon I’m not called on to
So slight a folly end.
And cards—oh, pshaw, I never lose!
I have such luck, you know.
And therefore why should I refuse
To play a hand or so?

I win my bets—a habit I
Would be a chump to quit.
My slang would not annoy a fly;
I hardly swear a bit.
What else—yes, what? Well, you can smile,
But I am free to say
I think of nothing that’s worth while
To drop on New Year’s Day.

_Edwin L. Sabin, in Munsey’s Magazine, January, 1899._

THE WINKTUM FAMILY AND THEIR FRIENDS.

[The Winktum Family and Their Friends are introduced to our little readers as persons who are likely to prove unusually interesting. We shall try to give each month some new idea of their manners and customs.]

Here is the Winktum Family, rather queer as families go,
But, if you’ll take my word for it, they’re jolly folks to know;
Just where they live we cannot say, but will, we think, as soon
As some bright fellow finds the way to travel to the moon.

“Good morning, Mrs. Winktum! my name is Tinky-tee;
I’m a person of distinction, and my home is in the sea.
The day is such a fine one, I’m sure you’d like to walk,
And, if I’m not mistaken, enjoy a pleasant talk.”

* * * * *

S. W. CORNER CHARLES AND SARATOGA STREETS.

C. Bennett, Proprietor.

Mr. Bennett presents his compliments to the Baltimore public, and begs to announce that he has recently added a Rathskeller to his establishment, and has now every facility for serving his patrons with the best that may be had in the way of meat and drink.]

* * * * *

_BALTIMORE._

An Up-to-date fire-proof ... European Hotel.

_EDWARD RENNERT, MANAGER._]

* * * * *

AN ECHO OF CHRISTMAS.

HOW LITTLE IKEY FOOLED SANTA CLAUS.

* * * * *

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IN SILVER WROUGHT,
I, IN HIS SHOP, DID SEE.”

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DESIGNERS AND MAKERS

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* * * * *

—_He hurt hisself. We was a-playing who could lean fartherest out of the window—en he won._]

_The Lady—There is very little to do around here._

_Weary Willie—Well er very little will do fer me._]

* * * * *

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PHOTOGRAPHIC ARTIST

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“I consider Mr. Mesny possessed of a most unusual amount of real judgment, both in the posing and the lighting of his sitters.”—_Clinton Peters._

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“An artist as well as a photographer. The only photographer for people of artistic tastes.”—_Philip de Boilleau._

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—_Unhappily. The editor rejected it._]

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* * * * *

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_J. G. ROHR, Manager._]

* * * * *

—_Oh! He’s holding his own._

—_Yes and he’s holding ten of mine too._]

_Miss Lakeside—Which reminds me. I just got another divorce. It’s lovely. All tied with white ribbon and a seal on it._]

* * * * *

H. R. EISENBRANDT’S SONS,

N. E. Cor. Charles and Lexington Streets.

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The experience gained in this great length of time assures to our patrons that our methods, our goods, and our prices, are right. Pianos and Organs at reasonable prices, and on easy terms.

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“Up-to-date Print Shop.”

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9 S. Charles Street, Baltimore.]

* * * * *

—_That’s all right, old man. I belong to the “Don’t Worry Club.”_]

* * * * *

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