Chapter III (1)

We imagined that the throwing forward of our brigade was the initial movement of a general advance of the army: but that, as the reader will remember, did not take place until the following March. The Confederates had fallen back to Centreville without firing a shot, and the National troops were in possession of Lewinsville, Vienna, and Fairfax Court-House. Our new position was nearly identical with that which we had occupied on the night previous to the battle of Bull Run,--on the old turnpike road to Manassas, where the enemy was supposed to be in great force. With a field-glass we could see the Rebel pickets moving in a belt of woodland on our right, and morning and evening we heard the spiteful roll of their snare-drums.

Those pickets soon became a nuisance to us. Hardly a night passed but they fired upon our outposts, so far with no harmful result; but after a while it grew to be a serious matter. The Rebels would crawl out on all-fours from the wood into a field covered with underbrush, and lie there in the dark for hours, waiting for a shot. Then our men took to the rifle-pits,--pits ten or twelve feet long by four or five feet deep, with the loose earth banked up a few inches high on the exposed sides. All the pits bore names, more or less felicitous, by which they were known to their transient tenants. One was called "The Pepper-Box," another "Uncle Sam's Well," another "The Reb-Trap," and another, I am constrained to say, was named after a not to be mentioned tropical locality. Though this rude sort of nomenclature predominated, there was no lack of softer titles, such as "Fortress Matilda" and "Castle Mary," and one had, though unintentionally, a literary flavor to it, "Blair's Grave," which was not popularly considered as reflecting unpleasantly on Nat Blair, who had assisted in making the excavation.

Some of the regiment had discovered a field of late corn in the neighborhood, and used to boil a few ears every day, while it lasted, for the boys detailed on the night-picket. The corn-cobs were always scrupulously preserved and mounted on the parapets of the pits. Whenever a Rebel shot carried away one of these _barbette_ guns, there was swearing in that particular trench. Strong, who was very sensitive to this kind of disaster, was complaining bitterly one morning, because he had lost three "pieces" the night before.

"There's Quite So, now," said Strong, "when a Minie-ball comes _ping_! and knocks one of his guns to flinders, he merely smiles, and doesn't at all see the degradation of the thing."

Poor Bladburn! As I watched him day by day going about his duties, in his shy, cheery way, with a smile for every one and not an extra word for anybody, it was hard to believe he was the same man who, that night before we broke camp by the Potomac, had poured out to me the story of his love and sorrow in words that burned in my memory.

While Strong was speaking, Blakely lifted aside the flap of the tent and looked in on us.

"Boys, Quite So was hurt last night," he said, with a white tremor to his lip.

"What!"

"Shot on picket."

"Why, he was in the pit next to mine," cried Strong.

"Badly hurt?"

"Badly hurt."

I knew he was; I need not have asked the question. He never meant to go back to New England!

* * * * *

Bladburn was lying on the stretcher in the hospital-tent. The surgeon had knelt down by him, and was carefully cutting away the bosom of his blouse. The Latin grammar, stained and torn, slipped, and fell to the floor. Bladburn gave me a quick glance. I picked up the book, and as I placed it in his hand, the icy fingers closed softly over mine. He was sinking fast. In a few minutes the surgeon finished his examination. When he rose to his feet there were tears on the weather-beaten cheeks. He was a rough outside, but a tender heart.

"My poor lad," he blurted out, "it's no use. If you've anything to say, say it now, for you've nearly done with this world."

Then Bladburn lifted his eyes slowly to the surgeon, and the old smile flitted over his face as he murmured,--

"Quite so."

NOTES

=the first battle of Bull Run=:--Fought July 21, 1861; known in the South as Manassas.

=Long Bridge=:--A bridge over which the Union soldiers crossed in fleeing to Washington after the battle of Bull Run.

=Shenandoah=:--A river and a valley in Virginia--the scene of many events in the Civil War.

=Fairfax Court House=:--Near Manassas Junction.

=On to Richmond=:--In 1861 the newspapers of the North were violently demanding an attack on Richmond.

=Faneuil Hall=:--An historic hall in Boston, in which important meetings were held before the Revolution.

=McDowell=:--Irving McDowell, who commanded the Union troops at Bull Run.

=McClellan=:--George B. McClellan, commander of the Army of the Potomac.

=Wandering Jew=:--A legendary person said to have been condemned to wander over the earth, undying, till the Day of Judgment. The legend is probably founded on a passage in the Bible--John 21:20-23.

=folding its tents=:--A quotation from _The Day is Done_, by Longfellow. The lines are:--

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

=Big Bethel=:--The Union troops were defeated here on June 10, 1861.

=Ball's Bluff=:--A place on the Potomac where the Union soldiers were beaten, October 21, 1861.

=Centreville=:--A small town, the Union base in the first Battle of Bull Run.

=Lewinsville=:--A small town, north of Centreville.

=Vienna=:--A village in the Bull Run district.

=Blair's Grave=:--Robert Blair, a Scotch writer, published (1743) a poem in blank verse called "The Grave."

=barbette guns=:--Guns elevated to fire over the top of a turret or parapet.

=minie-ball=:--A conical ball plugged with iron, named after its inventor, Captain Minié, of France.

QUESTIONS FOR STUDY

Read the piece through without stopping, so that you can get the story. Then go back to the beginning and study with the help of the following questions:--

Compare the first sentence with the first sentence of _Tennessee's Partner_. What do you think of the method? What is the use of the first paragraph in _Quite So_? Why the long paragraph giving the setting? Is this a good method in writing a story? What had become of "Little Billy"? Who was "Johnny Reb"? What do you think of bringing in humorous touches when one is dealing with things so serious as war and battles? What does "Drop that!" refer to? Why does Strong change his tone? Note what details the author has selected in order to give a clear picture of "Quite So" in a few words. How does the conversation reveal the stranger's character? What is shown by the fact that "Quite So" does not write any letters? What is the purpose of the episode of "Muffin Fan"? What devices does the author use, in order to bring out the mystery and the loneliness of "Quite So"? Note how the author emphasizes the passage of time. Why does Bladburn finally tell his story? How does it reveal his character? Was Mary right in what she did? Why are some sentences in the text printed in italics? Was Bladburn right in leaving his home village without explanation? Why did he do so? What do you get from the sentence, "He never meant to go back to New England"? What is the impression made by the last sentence? Do you like the story?

THEME SUBJECTS

A Mysterious Person The New Girl at School The Schoolmaster's Romance A Sudden Departure A Camp Scene The G.A.R. on Memorial Day The Militia in our Town An Old Soldier A Story of the Civil War Some Relics of the Civil War Watching the Cadets Drill My Uncle's Experiences in the War A Sham Battle A Visit to an Old Battlefield On Picket Duty A Daughter of the Confederacy "Stonewall" Jackson Modern Ways of Preventing War The Soldiers' Home An Escape from a Military Prison The Women's Relief Corps Women in the Civil War

SUGGESTIONS FOR WRITING

=An Old Soldier=:--Tell how you happen to know this old soldier. Where does he live? Do you see him often? What is he doing when you see him? Describe him as vividly as you can:--his general appearance; his clothes; his way of walking. Speak particularly of his face and its expression. If possible, let us hear him talk. Perhaps you can tell some of his war stories--in his own words.

=A Mysterious Person=:--Imagine a mysterious person appearing in a little town where everybody knows everybody else. Tell how he (or she) arrives. How does he look? What does he do? Explain clearly why he is particularly hard to account for. What do people say about him? Try to make each person's remarks fit his individual character. How do people try to find out about the stranger? Does he notice their curiosity? Do they ask him questions? If so, give some bits of their conversations with him. You might go on and make a story of some length out of this. Show whether the stranger really has any reason for concealing his identity. Does he get into any trouble? Does an accident reveal who he is and why he is in the town? Does some one find out by spying upon him? Or does he tell all about himself, when the right time comes?

Perhaps you can put the story into the form of a series of brief conversations about the stranger or with him.

=An Incident of the Civil War=:--Select some historical incident, or one that you have heard from an old soldier, and tell it simply and vividly in your own words.

COLLATERAL READINGS

The Story of a Bad Boy Thomas Bailey Aldrich Marjorie Daw and Other People " " " The Stillwater Tragedy " " " Prudence Palfrey " " " From Ponkapog to Pesth " " " The Queen of Sheba " " " A Sea Turn and Other Matters " " " For Bravery on the Field of Battle (in _Two Bites at a Cherry_) " " " The Return of a Private (in _Main-Travelled Roads_) Hamlin Garland On the Eve of the Fourth Harold Frederic Marse Chan Thomas Nelson Page Meh Lady " " " The Burial of the Guns " " " Red Rock " " " The Long Roll Mary Johnston Cease Firing " " The Crisis Winston Churchill Where the Battle was Fought Mary N. Murfree The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come John Fox, Jr. Hospital Sketches Louisa M. Alcott A Blockaded Family P.A. Hague He Knew Lincoln[2] Ida Tarbell The Perfect Tribute[3] M.R.S. Andrews The Toy Shop[4] M.S. Gerry Thomas Bailey Aldrich Ferris Greenslet Park Street Papers, pp. 143-70 Bliss Perry American Writers of To-day, pp. 104-23 H.C. Vedder American Authors and their Homes, pp. 89-98 F.W. Halsey American Authors at Home, pp. 3-16 J.L. and J.B. Gilder Literary Pilgrimages in New England, pp. 89-97 E.M. Bacon Thomas Bailey Aldrich (poem) Henry van Dyke

For biographies and criticisms of Thomas B. Aldrich, see also: Outlook, 86:922, August 24, 1907; 84:735, November 24, 1906; 85:737, March 30, 1907. Bookman, 24:317, December, 1906 (Portrait); also 25:218 (Portrait). Current Literature, 42:49, January, 1907 (Portrait). Chautauquan, 65:168, January, 1912.

PAN IN WALL STREET

A.D. 1867

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN

Just where the Treasury's marble front
Looks over Wall Street's mingled nations;
Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont
To throng for trade and last quotations;
Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold
Outrival, in the ears of people,
The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled
From Trinity's undaunted steeple,--

Even there I heard a strange, wild strain
Sound high above the modern clamor,
Above the cries of greed and gain,
The curbstone war, the auction's hammer;
And swift, on Music's misty ways,
It led, from all this strife for millions.
To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days
Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians.

And as it stilled the multitude,
And yet more joyous rose, and shriller,
I saw the minstrel where he stood
At ease against a Doric pillar:
One hand a droning organ played,
The other held a Pan's-pipe (fashioned
Like those of old) to lips that made
The reeds give out that strain impassioned.

'Twas Pan himself had wandered here
A-strolling through this sordid city,
And piping to the civic ear
The prelude of some pastoral ditty!
The demigod had crossed the seas,--
From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and satyr,
And Syracusan times,--to these
Far shores and twenty centuries later.

A ragged cap was on his head;
But--hidden thus--there was no doubting
That, all with crispy locks o'erspread,
His gnarlèd horns were somewhere sprouting;
His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes,
Were crossed, as on some frieze you see them,
And trousers, patched of divers hues,
Concealed his crooked shanks beneath them.

He filled the quivering reeds with sound,
And o'er his mouth their changes shifted,
And with his goat's-eyes looked around
Where'er the passing current drifted;
And soon, as on Trinacrian hills
The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear him,
Even now the tradesmen from their tills,
With clerks and porters, crowded near him.

The bulls and bears together drew
From Jauncey Court and New Street Alley,
As erst, if pastorals be true,
Came beasts from every wooded valley;
And random passers stayed to list,--
A boxer Ægon, rough and merry,
A Broadway Daphnis, on his tryst
With Nais at the Brooklyn Ferry.

A one-eyed Cyclops halted long
In tattered cloak of army pattern,
And Galatea joined the throng,--
A blowsy apple-vending slattern;
While old Silenus staggered out
From some new-fangled lunch-house handy,
And bade the piper, with a shout,
To strike up Yankee Doodle Dandy!

A newsboy and a peanut-girl
Like little Fauns began to caper;
His hair was all in tangled curl,
Her tawny legs were bare and taper;
And still the gathering larger grew,
And gave its pence and crowded nigher,
While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew
His pipe, and struck the gamut higher.

O heart of Nature, beating still
With throbs her vernal passion taught her,--
Even here, as on the vine-clad hill,
Or by the Arethusan water!
New forms may fold the speech, new lands
Arise within these ocean-portals,
But Music waves eternal wands,--
Enchantress of the souls of mortals!

So thought I,--but among us trod
A man in blue, with legal baton,
And scoffed the vagrant demigod,
And pushed him from the step I sat on.
Doubting I mused upon the cry,
"Great Pan is dead!"--and all the people
Went on their ways:--and clear and high
The quarter sounded from the steeple.

NOTES

=Wall Street=:--An old street in New York faced by the Stock Exchange and the offices of the wealthiest bankers and brokers.

=the Treasury=:--The Sub-Treasury Building.

=last quotations=:--The latest information on stock values given out before the Stock Exchange closes.

=Trinity=:--The famous old church that stands at the head of Wall Street.

=curbstone war=:--The clamorous quoting, auctioning, and bidding of stock out on the street curb, where the "curb brokers"--brokers who do not have seats on the Stock Exchange--do business.

=sweet-do-nothing=:--A translation of an Italian expression, _dolce far niente_.

=Sicilians=:--Theocritus (3rd century before Christ), the Greek pastoral poet, wrote of the happy life of the shepherds and shepherdesses in Sicily.

=Doric pillar=:--A heavy marble pillar, such as was used in the architecture of the Dorians in Greece.

=Pan's pipe=:--Pan was the Greek god of shepherds, and patron of fishing and hunting. He is represented as having the head and body of a man, with the legs, horns, and tail of a goat. It was said that he invented the shepherd's pipe or flute, which he made from reeds plucked on the bank of a stream.

=pastoral ditty=:--A poem about shepherds and the happy outdoor life. The word pastoral comes from the Latin _pastor_, shepherd.

=Syracusan times=:--Syracuse was an important city in Sicily. See the note on Sicilians, above.

=Trinacrian hills=:--Trinacria is an old name for Sicily.

=bulls and bears=:--A bull, on the Stock Exchange, is one who operates in expectation of a rise in stocks; a bear is a person who sells stocks in expectation of a fall in the market.

=Jauncey Court=:--The Jauncey family were prominent in the early New York days. This court was probably named after them.

=Ægon=:--Usually spelled Ægaeon; another name for Briareus, a monster with a hundred arms.

=Daphnis=:--In Greek myth, a shepherd who loved music.

=Nais=:--In Greek myth, a happy young girl, a nymph.

=Cyclops=:--One of a race of giants having but one eye--in the middle of the forehead. These giants helped Vulcan at his forge under Aetna.

=Galatea=:--A sea-nymph beloved by the Cyclops Polyphemus.

=Silenus=:--The foster-father and companion of Bacchus, god of wine. In pictures and sculpture Silenus is usually represented as intoxicated.

=Fauns=:--Fabled beings, half goat and half man.

=Arethusan water=:--Arethusa, in Greek myth, was a wood-nymph, who was pursued by the river Alpheus. She was changed into a fountain, and ran under the sea to Sicily, where she rose near the city of Syracuse. Shelley has a poem on Arethusa.

=baton=:--A rod or wand; here, of course, a policeman's club.

SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY

The author sees an organ-grinder playing his gay tunes in Wall Street, New York, among the buildings where enormous financial transactions are carried on. He (the author) imagines this wandering minstrel to be Pan himself, assuming a modern form. Read the notes carefully for what is said about Pan. Notice, in the poem, how skillfully the author brings out the contrast between the easy-going days of ancient Greece and the busy, rushing times of modern America. Of what value is the word _serenely_ in the first stanza? What is the "curbstone war"? Do you think the old-fashioned Pan's pipe is common now? Could a man play an organ and a pipe at the same time? Why is the city spoken of as "sordid"? What is the "civic ear"? In the description of the player, how is the idea of his being Pan emphasized? How was it that the bulls and bears drew together? In plain words who were the people whom the author describes under Greek names? Show how aptly the mythological characters are fitted to modern persons. Read carefully what is said about the power of music, in the stanza beginning "O heart of Nature." Who was the man in blue? Why did he interfere? Why is the organ-grinder called a "vagrant demigod"? What was it that the author doubted? What is meant here by "Great Pan is dead"? Does the author mean more than the mere words seem to express? Do you think that people are any happier in these commercial times than they were in ancient Greece? After you have studied the poem and mastered all the references, read the poem through, thinking of its meaning and its lively measure.

Read Mrs. Browning's poem, _A Musical Instrument_, which is about Pan and his pipe of reeds.

COLLATERAL READINGS

Nooks and Corners of Old New York Charles Hemstreet In Old New York Thomas A. Janvier The Greatest Street in the World: Broadway Stephen Jenkins The God of Music (poem) Edith M. Thomas A Musical Instrument Elizabeth Barrett Browning Classic Myths (See Index) C.M. Gayley The Age of Fable Thomas Bulfinch A Butterfly in Wall Street (in _Madrigals and Catches_) Frank D. Sherman Come Pan, and Pipe (in _Madrigals and Catches_) " " " Pan Learns Music (poem) Henry van Dyke Peeps at Great Cities: New York Hildegarde Hawthorne Vignettes of Manhattan Brander Matthews New York Society Ralph Pulitzer In the Cities (poem) R.W. Gilder Up at a Villa--Down in the City Robert Browning The Faun in Wall Street[5] (poem) John Myers O'Hara

THE HAND OF LINCOLN

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN

Look on this cast, and know the hand
That bore a nation in its hold;
From this mute witness understand
What Lincoln was,--how large of mould

The man who sped the woodman's team,
And deepest sunk the ploughman's share,
And pushed the laden raft astream,
Of fate before him unaware.

This was the hand that knew to swing
The axe--since thus would Freedom train
Her son--and made the forest ring,
And drove the wedge, and toiled amain.

Firm hand, that loftier office took,
A conscious leader's will obeyed,
And, when men sought his word and look,
With steadfast might the gathering swayed.

No courtier's, toying with a sword,
Nor minstrel's, laid across a lute;
A chief's, uplifted to the Lord
When all the kings of earth were mute!

The hand of Anak, sinewed strong,
The fingers that on greatness clutch;
Yet, lo! the marks their lines along
Of one who strove and suffered much.

For here in knotted cord and vein
I trace the varying chart of years;
I know the troubled heart, the strain,
The weight of Atlas--and the tears.

Again I see the patient brow
That palm erewhile was wont to press;
And now 'tis furrowed deep, and now
Made smooth with hope and tenderness.

For something of a formless grace
This moulded outline plays about;
A pitying flame, beyond our trace,
Breathes like a spirit, in and out,--

The love that cast an aureole
Round one who, longer to endure,
Called mirth to ease his ceaseless dole,
Yet kept his nobler purpose sure.

Lo, as I gaze, the statured man,
Built up from yon large hand, appears;
A type that Nature wills to plan
But once in all a people's years.

What better than this voiceless cast
To tell of such a one as he,
Since through its living semblance passed
The thought that bade a race be free!

NOTES

=this cast=:--A cast of Lincoln's hand was made by Leonard W. Volk, in 1860, on the Sunday following the nomination of Lincoln for the Presidency. The original, in bronze, can be seen at the National Museum in Washington. Various copies have been made in plaster. An anecdote concerning one of these is told on page 107 of William Dean Howells's _Literary Friends and Acquaintances_; facing page 106 of the same book there is an interesting picture. In the _Critic_, volume 44, page 510, there is an article by Isabel Moore, entitled _Hands that have Done Things_; a picture of Lincoln's hand, in plaster, is given in the course of this article.

=Anak=:--The sons of Anak are spoken of in the Bible as a race of giants. See Numbers, 13:33; Deuteronomy, 9:2.

=Atlas=:--In Greek story, the giant who held the world on his shoulders.

=the thought=:--The Emancipation Proclamation.

SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY

Read the poem through from beginning to end. Then go back to the first and study it more carefully. Notice that there is no pause at the end of the first stanza. In the ninth line, mentally put in _how_ after _know_. Explain what is said about Freedom's training her son. _Loftier office_: Loftier than what? Note that _might_ is a noun. Mentally insert _hand_ after _courtier's_. Can you tell from the hand of a person whether he has suffered or not? What does the author mean here by "the weight of Atlas"? What is a "formless grace"? Is the expression appropriate here? What characteristic of Lincoln is referred to in the line beginning "Called mirth"? Are great men so rare as the author seems to think? Why is the cast a good means of telling of "such a one as he"? Look carefully at one of Lincoln's portraits, and then read this poem aloud to yourself.

Compare this poem with the sonnet _On the Life-Mask of Abraham Lincoln_, page 210.

COLLATERAL READINGS

Abraham Lincoln: A Short Life John G. Nicolay The Boys' Life of Lincoln Helen Nicolay Personal Traits of Abraham Lincoln " " Lincoln the Lawyer F.T. Hill Passages from the Speeches and Letters of Abraham Lincoln R.W. Gilder (Ed.) Lincoln's Own Stories Anthony Gross Lincoln Norman Hapgood Abraham Lincoln, the Boy and the Man James Morgan Father Abraham Ida Tarbell He Knew Lincoln[6] " " Life of Abraham Lincoln " " Abraham Lincoln Robert G. Ingersoll Abraham Lincoln Noah Brooks Abraham Lincoln for Boys and Girls C.W. Moores The Graysons Edward Eggleston The Perfect Tribute[6] M.R.S. Andrews The Toy Shop[6] M.S. Gerry We Talked of Lincoln (poem)[7] E.W. Thomson Lincoln and the Sleeping Sentinel L.E. Chittenden O Captain, my Captain! Walt Whitman When Lilacs last in the Dooryard Bloomed " " Poems E.C. Stedman An American Anthology " " " American Authors and their Homes, pp. 157-172 F.W. Halsey American Authors at Home, pp. 273-291 J.L. and J.B. Gilder

For portraits of E.C. Stedman, see Bookman, 34:592; Current Literature, 42:49.

JEAN VALJEAN

AUGUSTA STEVENSON

(Dramatized from Victor Hugo's _Les Misérables_)

SCENE II

TIME: _Evening._

PLACE: _Village of D----; dining room of the Bishop's house._

* * * * *

[_The room is poorly furnished, but orderly. A door at the back opens on the street. At one side, a window overlooks the garden; at the other, curtains hang before an alcove._ MADEMOISELLE, _the Bishop's_ SISTER, _a sweet-faced lady, sits by the fire, knitting._ MADAME, _his_ HOUSEKEEPER, _is laying the table for supper._]

MLLE. Has the Bishop returned from the service?

MADAME. Yes, Mademoiselle. He is in his room, reading. Shall I call him?

MLLE. No, do not disturb him--he will come in good time--when supper is ready.

MADAME. Dear me--I forgot to get bread when I went out to-day.

MLLE. Go to the baker's, then; we will wait.

[_Exit Madame. Pause._]

[_Enter the_ BISHOP. _He is an old man, gentle and kindly._]

BISHOP. I hope I have not kept you waiting, sister.

MLLE. No, brother, Madame has just gone out for bread. She forgot it this morning.

BISHOP (_having seated himself by the fire_). The wind blows cold from the mountains to-night.

MLLE. (_nodding_). All day it has been growing colder.

BISHOP. 'Twill bring great suffering to the poor.

MLLE. Who suffer too much already.

BISHOP. I would I could help them more than I do!

MLLE. You give all you have, my brother. You keep nothing for yourself--you have only bare necessities.

BISHOP. Well, I have sent in a bill for carriage hire in making pastoral visits.

MLLE. Carriage hire! I did not know you ever rode. Now I am glad to hear that. A bishop should go in state sometimes. I venture to say your bill is small.

BISHOP. Three thousand francs.

MLLE. Three thousand francs! Why, I cannot believe it!

BISHOP. Here is the bill.

MLLE. (_reading bill_). What is this!

EXPENSES OF CARRIAGE

For furnishing soup to hospital 1500 francs For charitable society of D---- 500 " For foundlings 500 " For orphans 500 " ---- Total 3000 francs

So! that is your carriage hire! Ha, ha! I might have known it!

[_They laugh together._]

[_Enter_ MADAME, _excited, with bread._]

MADAME. Such news as I have heard! The whole town is talking about it! We should have locks put on our doors at once!

MLLE. What is it, Madame? What have you heard?

MADAME. They say there is a suspicious vagabond in the town. The inn-keeper refused to take him in. They say he is a released convict who once committed an awful crime.

[_The Bishop is looking into the fire, paying no attention to Madame._]

MLLE. Do you hear what Madame is saying, brother?

BISHOP. Only a little. Are we in danger, Madame?

MADAME. There is a convict in town, your Reverence!

BISHOP. Do you fear we shall be robbed?

MADAME. I do, indeed!

BISHOP. Of what?

MADAME. There are the six silver plates and the silver soup-ladle and the two silver candlesticks.

BISHOP. All of which we could do without.

MADAME. Do without!

MLLE. 'Twould be a great loss, brother. We could not treat a guest as is our wont.

BISHOP. Ah, there you have me, sister. I love to see the silver laid out for every guest who comes here. And I like the candles lighted, too; it makes a brighter welcome.

MLLE. A bishop's house should show some state.

BISHOP. Aye--to every stranger! Henceforth, I should like every one of our six plates on the table whenever we have a guest here.

MLLE. All of them?

MADAME. For one guest?

BISHOP. Yes--we have no right to hide treasures. Each guest shall enjoy all that we have.

MADAME. Then 'tis time we should look to the locks on the doors, if we would keep our silver. I'll go for the locksmith now--

BISHOP. Stay! This house shall not be locked against any man! Would you have me lock out my brothers?

[_A loud knock is heard at street door._]

Come in!

[_Enter_ JEAN VALJEAN, _with his knapsack and cudgel. The women are frightened._]

JEAN (_roughly_). See here! My name is Jean Valjean. I am a convict from the galleys. I was set free four days ago, and I am looking for work. I hoped to find a lodging here, but no one will have me. It was the same way yesterday and the day before. To-night a good woman told me to knock at your door. I have knocked. Is this an inn?

BISHOP. Madame, put on another plate.

JEAN. Stop! You do not understand, I think. Here is my passport--see what it says: "Jean Valjean, discharged convict, has been nineteen years in the galleys; five years for theft; fourteen years for having attempted to escape. He is a very dangerous man." There! you know it all. I ask only for straw in your stable.

BISHOP. Madame, you will put white sheets on the bed in the alcove.

[_Exit Madame. The Bishop turns to Jean._]

We shall dine presently. Sit here by the fire, sir.

JEAN. What! You will keep me? You call me "sir"! Oh! I am going to dine! I am to have a bed with sheets like the rest of the world--a bed! It is nineteen years since I have slept in a bed! I will pay anything you ask. You are a fine man. You are an innkeeper, are you not?

BISHOP. I am a priest who lives here.

JEAN. A priest! Ah, yes--I ask your pardon--I didn't notice your cap and gown.

BISHOP. Be seated near the fire, sir.

[_Jean deposits his knapsack, repeating to himself with delight._]

JEAN. He calls me _sir_--_sir_. (_Aloud._) You will require me to pay, will you not?

BISHOP. No, keep your money. How much have you?

JEAN. One hundred and nine francs.

BISHOP. How long did it take you to earn it?

JEAN. Nineteen years.

BISHOP (_sadly_). Nineteen years--the best part of your life!

JEAN. Aye, the best part--I am now forty-six. A beast of burden would have earned more.

BISHOP. This lamp gives a very bad light, sister.

[_Mlle. gets the two silver candlesticks from the mantel, lights them, and places them on the table._]

JEAN. Ah, but you are good! You don't despise me. You light your candles for me,--you treat me as a guest,--and I've told you where I come from, who I am!

BISHOP. This house does not demand of him who enters whether he has a name, but whether he has a grief. You suffer--you are hungry--you are welcome.

JEAN. I cannot understand it--

BISHOP. This house is home to the man who needs a refuge. So, sir, this is your house now more than it is mine. Whatever is here is yours. What need have I to know your name? Besides, before you told me, I knew it.

JEAN. What! You knew my name!

BISHOP. Yes, your name is--Brother.

JEAN. Stop! I cannot bear it--you are so good--

[_He buries his face in his hands._]

[_Enter_ MADAME _with dishes for the table; she continues passing in and out, preparing supper._]

BISHOP. You have suffered much, sir--

JEAN (_nodding_). The red shirt, the ball on the ankle, a plank to sleep on, heat, cold, toil, the whip, the double chain for nothing, the cell for one word--even when sick in bed, still the chain! Dogs, dogs are happier! Nineteen years! and now the yellow passport!

BISHOP. Yes, you have suffered.

JEAN (_with violence_). I hate this world of laws and courts! I hate the men who rule it! For nineteen years my soul has had only thoughts of hate. For nineteen years I've planned revenge. Do you hear? Revenge--revenge!

BISHOP. It is not strange that you should feel so. And if you continue to harbor those thoughts, you are only deserving of pity. But listen, my brother; if, in spite of all you have passed through, your thoughts could be of peace and love, you would be better than any one of us.

[_Pause. Jean reflects._]

JEAN (_speaking violently_). No, no! I do not belong to your world of men. I am apart--a different creature from you all. The galleys made me different. I'll have nothing to do with any of you!

MADAME. The supper, your Reverence.

[_The Bishop glances at the table_.]

BISHOP. It strikes me there is something missing from this table.

[_Madame hesitates._]

MLLE. Madame, do you not understand?

[_Madame steps to a cupboard, gets the remaining silver plates, and places them on the table._]

BISHOP (_gayly, turning to Jean_). To table then, my friend! To table!

[_Jean remains for a moment, standing doggedly apart; then he steps over to the chair awaiting him, jerks it back, and sinks into it, without looking up._]

SCENE III

TIME: _Daybreak the next morning._

PLACE: _The Bishop's dining room._

* * * * *

[_The room is dark, except for a faint light that comes in through window curtains._ JEAN VALJEAN _creeps in from the alcove. He carries his knapsack and cudgel in one hand; in the other, his shoes. He opens the window overlooking the garden; the room becomes lighter. Jean steps to the mantel and lifts a silver candlestick._]

JEAN (_whispering_). Two hundred francs--double what I have earned in nineteen years!

[_He puts it in his knapsack; takes up the other candlestick; shudders, and sets it down again._]

No, no, he is good--he called me "sir"--

[_He stands still, staring before him, his hand still gripping the candlestick. Suddenly he straightens up; speaks bitterly._]

Why not? 'Tis easy to give a bed and food! Why doesn't he keep men from the galleys? Nineteen years for a loaf of bread!

[_Pauses a moment, then resolutely puts both candlesticks into his bag; steps to the cupboard and takes out the silver plates and the ladle, and slips them into the bag._]

All solid--I should gain at least one thousand francs. 'Tis due me--due me for all these years!

[_Closes the bag. Pause._]

No, not the candles--I owe him that much--

[_He puts the candlesticks on mantel; takes up cudgel, knapsack, and shoes; jumps out window and disappears. Pause._]

[_Enter_ MADAME. _She shivers; discovers the open window._]

MADAME. Why is that window open? I closed it last night myself. Oh! Could it be possible?

[_Crosses and looks at open cupboard._]

It is gone!

[_Enter the_ BISHOP _from his room._]

BISHOP. Good morning, Madame!

MADAME. Your Reverence! The silver is gone! Where is that man?

BISHOP. In the alcove sleeping, I suppose.

[_Madame runs to curtains of alcove and looks in. Enter_ MADEMOISELLE. _Madame turns._]

He is gone!

MLLE. Gone?

MADAME. Aye, gone--gone! He has stolen our silver, the beautiful plates and the ladle! I'll inform the police at once!

[_Starts off. The Bishop stops her._]

BISHOP. Wait!--Let me ask you this--was that silver ours?

MADAME. Why--why not?

BISHOP. Because it has always belonged to the poor. I have withheld it wrongfully.

MLLE. Its loss makes no difference to Madame or me.

MADAME. Oh, no! But what is your Reverence to eat from now?

BISHOP. Are there no pewter plates?

MADAME. Pewter has an odor.

BISHOP. Iron ones, then.

MADAME. Iron has a taste.

BISHOP. Well, then, wooden plates.

[_A knock is heard at street door._]

Come in.

[_Enter an_ OFFICER _and two_ SOLDIERS, _dragging in_ JEAN VALJEAN.]

OFFICER. Your Reverence, we found your silver on this man.

BISHOP. Why not? I gave it to him. I am glad to see you again, Jean. Why did you not take the candlesticks, too?

JEAN (_trembling_). Your Reverence--

BISHOP. I told you everything in this house was yours, my brother.

OFFICER. Ah, then what he said was true. But, of course, we did not believe him. We saw him creeping from your garden--

BISHOP. It is all right, I assure you. This man is a friend of mine.

OFFICER. Then we can let him go?

BISHOP. Certainly.

[_Soldiers step back._]

JEAN (_trembling_). I am free?

OFFICER. Yes! You can go. Do you not understand?

[_Steps back._]

BISHOP (_to Jean_). My friend, before you go away--here are your candlesticks (_going to the mantel and bringing the candlesticks_); take them.

[_Jean takes the candlesticks, seeming not to know what he is doing._]

By the way, my friend, when you come again you need not come through the garden. The front door is closed only with a latch, day or night. (_To the Officer and Soldiers._) Gentlemen, you may withdraw.

[_Exit Officer and Soldiers._]

JEAN (_recoiling and holding out the candlesticks_). No--no--I--I--

BISHOP. Say no more; I understand. You felt that they were all owing to you from a world that had used you ill. Keep them, my friend, keep them. I would I had more to give you. It is small recompense for nineteen years.

[_Jean stands bewildered, looking down at the candlesticks in his hands._]

They will add something to your hundred francs. But do not forget, never forget, that you have promised to use the money in becoming an honest man.

JEAN. I--promised--?

BISHOP (_not heeding_). Jean Valjean, my brother, you no longer belong to evil, but to good. It is your soul that I am buying for you: I withdraw it from thoughts of hatred and revenge--I give it to peace and hope and God.

[_Jean stands as if stunned, staring at the Bishop, then turns and walks unsteadily from the room._]

SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY

Jean Valjean, as a young man, was sent to the galleys for stealing a loaf of bread to feed his sister's hungry children. From time to time, when he tried to escape, his sentence was increased, so that he spent nineteen years as a convict. Scene I of Miss Stevenson's dramatization shows Jean Valjean being turned away from the inn because he has been in prison.

What does the stage setting tell of the Bishop and his sister? Notice, as you read, why each of the items in the stage setting is mentioned. Why is Madame made to leave the room--how does her absence help the action of the play? What is the purpose of the conversation about the weather? About the carriage hire? Why is the Bishop not more excited at Madame's news? What is gained by the talk about the silver? Notice the dramatic value of the Bishop's speech beginning "Stay!" Why does Jean Valjean speak so roughly when he enters? Why does he not try to conceal the fact that he is a convict? Why does not the Bishop reply directly to Jean Valjean's question? What would be the action of Mademoiselle and Madame while Jean is speaking? What is Madame's action as she goes out? What is gained by the conversation between Jean and the Bishop? Why does the Bishop not reproach Jean for saying he will have revenge? Why is the silver mentioned so many times?

While you are reading the first part of Scene III, think how it should be played. Note how much the stage directions add to the clearness of the scene. How long should the pause be, before Madame enters? What is gained by the calmness of the Bishop? How can he say that the silver was not his? What does the Bishop mean when he says, "I gave it to him"? What are Mademoiselle and Madame doing while the conversation with the officers and Jean Valjean is going on? Is it a good plan to let them drop so completely out of the conversation? Why does the Bishop say that Jean has promised? Why does the scene close without Jean's replying to the Bishop? How do you think the Bishop's kindness has affected Jean Valjean's attitude toward life?

Note how the action and the conversation increase in intensity as the play proceeds: Is this a good method? Notice the use of contrast in speech and action. Note how the chief characters are emphasized. Can you discover the quality called "restraint," in this fragment of a play? How is it gained, and what is its value?

EXERCISES[8]

Select a short passage from some book that you like, and try to put it into dramatic form, using this selection as a kind of model. Do not attempt too much at once, but think out carefully the setting, the stage directions, and the dialogue for a brief fragment of a play.

Make a series of dramatic scenes from the same book, so that a connected story is worked out.

Read a part of some modern drama, such as _The Piper_, or _The Blue Bird_, or one of Mr. Howells's little farces, and notice how it makes use of setting and stage directions; how the conversation is broken up; how the situation is brought out in the dialogue; how each person is made to speak in his own character.

After you have done the reading suggested above, make another attempt at dramatizing a scene from a book, and see what improvement you can make upon the sort of thing you did at first.

It might be interesting for two or three persons to work on a bit of dramatization together, and then give the fragment of a play in simple fashion before the class. Or the whole class may work on the play, and then select some of their number to perform it.

COLLATERAL READINGS

A Dramatic Reader: Book Five Augusta Stevenson Plays for the Home " " Jean Valjean (translated and abridged from Victor Hugo's _Les Misérables_) S.E. Wiltse (Ed.) The Little Men Play (adapted from Louisa Alcott's _Little Men_) E.L. Gould The Little Women Play " " " The St. Nicholas Book of Plays Century Company The Silver Thread and Other Folk Plays Constance Mackay Patriotic Plays and Pageants " " Fairy Tale Plays and How to Act Them Mrs. Hugh Bell Festival Plays Marguerite Merington Short Plays from Dickens H.B. Browne The Piper Josephine Preston Peabody The Blue Bird Maurice Maeterlinck Riders to the Sea J.M. Synge She Stoops to Conquer Oliver Goldsmith The Rivals Richard Brinsley Sheridan Prince Otto R.L. Stevenson The Canterbury Pilgrims Percy Mackaye The Elevator William Dean Howells The Mouse Trap " " " The Sleeping Car William Dean Howells The Register " " " The Story of Waterloo Henry Irving The Children's Theatre A. Minnie Herts The Art of Play-writing Alfred Hennequin

A COMBAT ON THE SANDS

MARY JOHNSTON

(From _To Have and to Hold_, Chapters XXI and XXII)

A few minutes later saw me almost upon the party gathered about the grave. The grave had received that which it was to hold until the crack of doom, and was now being rapidly filled with sand. The crew of deep-dyed villains worked or stood or sat in silence, but all looked at the grave, and saw me not. As the last handful of sand made it level with the beach, I walked into their midst, and found myself face to face with the three candidates for the now vacant captaincy.

"Give you good-day, gentlemen," I cried. "Is it your captain that you bury or one of your crew, or is it only pezos and pieces of eight?

"The sun shining on so much bare steel hurts my eyes," I said. "Put up, gentlemen, put up! Cannot one rover attend the funeral of another without all this crowding and display of cutlery? If you will take the trouble to look around you, you will see that I have brought to the obsequies only myself."

One by one cutlass and sword were lowered, and those who had drawn them, falling somewhat back, spat and swore and laughed. The man in black and silver only smiled gently and sadly. "Did you drop from the blue?" he asked. "Or did you come up from the sea?"

"I came out of it," I said. "My ship went down in the storm yesterday. Your little cockboat yonder was more fortunate." I waved my hand toward that ship of three hundred tons, then twirled my mustaches and stood at gaze.

"Was your ship so large, then?" demanded Paradise, while a murmur of admiration, larded with oaths, ran around the circle.

"She was a very great galleon," I replied, with a sigh for the good ship that was gone.

A moment's silence, during which they all looked at me. "A galleon," then said Paradise softly.

"They that sailed her yesterday are to-day at the bottom of the sea," I continued. "Alackaday! so are one hundred thousand pezos of gold, three thousand bars of silver, ten frails of pearls, jewels uncounted, cloth of gold and cloth of silver. She was a very rich prize."

The circle sucked in their breath. "All at the bottom of the sea?" queried Red Gil, with gloating eyes fixed upon the smiling water. "Not one pezo left, not one little, little pearl?"

I shook my head and heaved a prodigious sigh. "The treasure is gone," I said, "and the men with whom I took it are gone. I am a captain with neither ship nor crew. I take you, my friends, for a ship and crew without a captain. The inference is obvious."

The ring gaped with wonder, then strange oaths arose. Red Gil broke into a bellow of angry laughter, while the Spaniard glared like a catamount about to spring. "So you would be our captain?" said Paradise, picking up another shell, and poising it upon a hand as fine and small as a woman's.

"Faith, you might go farther and fare worse," I answered, and began to hum a tune. When I had finished it, "I am Kirby," I said, and waited to see if that shot should go wide or through the hull.

For two minutes the dash of the surf and the cries of the wheeling sea fowl made the only sound in that part of the world; then from those half-clad rapscallions arose a shout of "Kirby!"--a shout in which the three leaders did not join. That one who looked a gentleman rose from the sand and made me a low bow. "Well met, noble captain," he cried in those his honey tones. "You will doubtless remember me who was with you that time at Maracaibo when you sunk the galleasses. Five years have passed since then, and yet I see you ten years younger and three inches taller."

"I touched once at the Lucayas, and found the spring de Leon sought," I said. "Sure the waters have a marvelous effect, and if they give not eternal youth at least renew that which we have lost."

"Truly a potent aqua vitæ," he remarked, still with thoughtful melancholy. "I see that it hath changed your eyes from black to gray."

"It hath that peculiar virtue," I said, "that it can make black seem white."

The man with the woman's mantle drawn about him now thrust himself from the rear to the front rank. "That's not Kirby!" he bawled. "He's no more Kirby than I am Kirby! Didn't I sail with Kirby from the Summer Isles to Cartagena and back again? He's a cheat, and I am a-going to cut his heart out!" He was making at me with a long knife, when I whipped out my rapier.

"Am I not Kirby, you dog?" I cried, and ran him through the shoulder.

He dropped, and his fellows surged forward with a yell. "Yet a little patience, my masters!" said Paradise in a raised voice and with genuine amusement in his eyes. "It is true that that Kirby with whom I and our friend there on the ground sailed was somewhat short and as swart as a raven, besides having a cut across his face that had taken away part of his lip and the top of his ear, and that this gentleman who announces himself as Kirby hath none of Kirby's marks. But we are fair and generous and open to conviction"--

"He'll have to convince my cutlass!" roared Red Gil.

I turned upon him. "If I do convince it, what then?" I demanded. "If I convince your sword, you of Spain, and yours, Sir Black and Silver?"

The Spaniard stared. "I was the best sword in Lima," he said stiffly. "I and my Toledo will not change our minds."

"Let him try to convince Paradise; he's got no reputation as a swordsman!" cried out the grave-digger with the broken head.

A roar of laughter followed this suggestion, and I gathered from it and from the oaths and allusions to this or that time and place that Paradise was not without reputation.

I turned to him. "If I fight you three, one by one, and win, am I Kirby?"

He regarded the shell with which he was toying with a thoughtful smile, held it up that the light might strike through its rose and pearl, then crushed it to dust between his fingers.

"Ay," he said with an oath. "If you win against the cutlass of Red Gil, the best blade of Lima, and the sword of Paradise, you may call yourself the devil an you please, and we will all subscribe to it."

I lifted my hand. "I am to have fair play?"

As one man that crew of desperate villains swore that the odds should be only three to one. By this the whole matter had presented itself to them as an entertainment more diverting than bullfight or bear-baiting. They that follow the sea, whether honest men or black-hearted knaves, have in their composition a certain childlikeness that makes them easily turned, easily led, and easily pleased. The wind of their passion shifts quickly from point to point, one moment blowing a hurricane, the next sinking to a happy-go-lucky summer breeze. I have seen a little thing convert a crew on the point of mutiny into a set of rollicking, good-natured souls who--until the wind veered again--would not hurt a fly. So with these. They spread themselves into a circle, squatting or kneeling or standing upon the white sand in the bright sunshine, their sinewy hands that should have been ingrained red clasped over their knees, or, arms akimbo, resting upon their hips, on their scoundrel faces a broad smile, and in their eyes that had looked on nameless horrors a pleasurable expectation as of spectators in a playhouse awaiting the entrance of the players.

"There is really no good reason why we should gratify your whim," said Paradise, still amused. "But it will serve to pass the time. We will fight you, one by one."

"And if I win?"

He laughed. "Then, on the honor of a gentleman, you are Kirby and our captain. If you lose, we will leave you where you stand for the gulls to bury."

"A bargain," I said, and drew my sword.

"I first!" roared Red Gil. "God's wounds! there will need no second!"

As he spoke he swung his cutlass and made an arc of blue flame. The weapon became in his hands a flail, terrible to look upon, making lightnings and whistling in the air, but in reality not so deadly as it seemed. The fury of his onslaught would have beaten down the guard of any mere swordsman, but that I was not. A man, knowing his weakness and insufficiency in many and many a thing, may yet know his strength in one or two and his modesty take no hurt. I was ever master of my sword, and it did the thing I would have it do. Moreover, as I fought I saw her as I had last seen her, standing against the bank of sand, her dark hair, half braided, drawn over her bosom and hanging to her knees. Her eyes haunted me, and my lips yet felt the touch of her hand. I fought well,--how well the lapsing of oaths and laughter into breathless silence bore witness.

The ruffian against whom I was pitted began to draw his breath in gasps. He was a scoundrel not fit to die, less fit to live, unworthy of a gentleman's steel. I presently ran him through with as little compunction and as great a desire to be quit of a dirty job as if he had been a mad dog. He fell, and a little later, while I was engaged with the Spaniard, his soul went to that hell which had long gaped for it. To those his companions his death was as slight a thing as would theirs have been to him. In the eyes of the two remaining would-be leaders he was a stumbling-block removed, and to the squatting, open-mouthed commonalty his taking off weighed not a feather against the solid entertainment I was affording them. I was now a better man than Red Gil,--that was all.