Chapter V: Front Matter (5)

P.S. Don’t tell your guide or _any one_, but Helene sent Zillah’s
mother a check for fifteen hundred dollars. I saw it with my own
eyes. And all Zillah asked for that day was just a little blue
serge suit. It seems she’d promised her kid sister a little blue
serge suit for July, and it sort of worried her.

Helene sent the little blue serge suit, too, and a hat. The hat
had bluebells on it. Do you think when you come home, if I haven’t
spent too much money on wall-papers, that I could have a blue hat
with bluebells on it? Excuse me for bothering you, but you forgot
to leave me enough money.

It was some indefinite, pleasant time on Thursday, the twenty-fifth of June, that the Senior Surgeon received the second letter. It was Friday, the twenty-sixth of June, exactly at dawn, that the Senior Surgeon started homeward.

(To be concluded)

THE GENTLE READER

BY ARTHUR DAVISON FICKE

“Why does the poet choose to sing?
No impulse ever stirred in me
The wish to make myself a thing
To which all mocking gibes might cling.”
_Perhaps he sees more than you see._

“Why should this fool go crying out
The secrets of his soul? In steel
I case myself, nor care to shout
Those things one does not talk about.”
_Perhaps he feels more than you feel._

“If I had wisdom to impart,
I’d say the thing, and let it go,
Not trifle with a foolish art
And make a motley of my heart.”
_Perhaps he knows more than you know._

SUBMARINE MOUNTAINS

BY CALE YOUNG RICE

Under the sea, which is their sky, they rise
To watery altitudes as vast as those
Of far Himalayan peaks impent in snows,
And veils of cloud and sacred deep repose.
Under the sea, their flowing firmament,
More dark than any ray of sun can pierce,
The earthquake thrust them up with mighty tierce,
And left them to be seen but by the eyes
Of awed imagination inward bent.

Their vegetation is the viscid ooze,
Whose mysteries are past belief or thought.
Creation seems around them devil-wrought,
Or by some cosmic urgence gone distraught.
A-down their precipices, chill and dense
With the dank midnight, creep or crawl or climb
Such tentacled and eyeless things of slime,
Such monster shapes as tempt us to accuse
Life of a miscreative impotence.

About their peaks the shark, their eagle, floats
In the thick azure far beneath the air,
Or downward sweeps upon what prey may dare
Set forth from any silent, weedy lair.
But one desire on all their slopes is found,
Desire of food, the awful hunger strife;
Yet here, it may be, was begun our life,
Here all the dreams on which our vision dotes
In unevolved obscurity were bound.

Too strange it is, too terrible! And yet
It matters not how we were wrought, or whence
Life came to us with all its throb intense,
If in it is a Godly Immanence.
It matters not,--if haply we are more
Than creatures half conceived by a blind force
That sweeps the universe in a chance course:
For only in Unmeaning Might is met
The intolerable thought none can ignore.

A VISIT TO WHISTLER

BY MARIA TORRILHON BUEL

In May, 1899, we were two women in Paris for hats, gowns, and the season’s show of pictures. I was under the wing of a handsome matron who had a latent desire to see herself transferred to canvas should she chance upon a painter with an appealing portrait of some other woman. Through friends, several great studios were opened to us, and we grew more and more enterprising, until one day my guide and mentor, suddenly turning to me, said, “Let us visit Whistler!”

It fairly took my breath away, for I recalled much caustic wit of alleged Whistler origin that I had seen in the public prints, and, feeling the promptings of caution, I exclaimed, “How dare you?”

“Because he has invited me,” she replied.

It was true, for, a few years before, my friend’s husband, shrewd in the law, and equally daring in his connoisseurship, had paid a large price for a Whistler “Nocturne” of a beauty so characteristic that even amateurs could look at it and wonder what it was all about. This nocturne began its existence in my friend’s home by perpetrating a joke. It had been brought to the house by one of Whistler’s pupils, just from Europe. We two women entered the drawing-room to find it alone in its glory, which did not seem to be dimmed by the fact that it was on the carpet with a Louis Quinze chair for an easel. We gazed in wonderment, from all possible angles, and finally exclaimed that it was “quite Japanese” in style and coloring. Then the reverent pupil entered, kneeled before it, wiped it softly with his silk handkerchief, smiled, and reversed it--for we had been studying the _chef-d’œuvre_ upside down. He withdrew without taking notice of our chagrin. Evidently the joke was too good to keep, for the incident has become one of the stock Whistler anecdotes. Within a year a friend has regaled me with it, without a suspicion of carrying coals to Newcastle.

That purchase had given the artist much satisfaction, aside from the lofty price, and he used to write charming letters, asking my friend to visit him in Paris.

That same day we went to his studio in the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs.

Arriving at a forbidding area, with a winding staircase, we looked at each other with feminine indecision. Before we could arrange a retreat, the concierge, who was somewhere near the top, caught sight of us and called down to learn whom we wanted. I made a megaphone of my hand and screamed aloft, “Monsieur Whist-lai-ai-re!”

“_Là bas_, on the fifth,” she answered.

After a slow ascent, we stood at last on the top steps of the winding staircase. I can still hear the prolonged jingle of the primitive bell my vigorous pull had roused. Before it was stilled, the door opened suddenly, and there stood Whistler, the great Whistler--in his shirt-sleeves!

The first impression was of a little, big personage who completely filled the doorway. He appeared much smaller than any idea of personality conveyed by the portraits of him that we had seen. On his left arm he held a large palette, with a bunch of brushes in his hand. All were moist, as were also to some extent his sleeves and clothing, for he was without a painting-apron. But the famous monocle was there, and the whisk of white hair was in the right place. The _signalement_ was complete.

There he stood, silent, obviously waiting for us to explain the intrusion. In the dim light I imagined that I could see his monocle bristling, and I felt much like a conscience-stricken child about to be eaten by an ogre. As my friend remained dumb, in a weak voice I murmured the name that was to be our talisman, meekly adding my own; but that was lost in his “Ah!” of recognition.

“You are the bold woman who bought my picture! I have a sitter now; but come to-morrow at four, and we will have tea.”

We accepted in unison, the door was closed in our faces, and with a sense of deep satisfaction at having escaped an unknown peril we tripped lightly down the staircase. While we were standing at his door, Whistler had so managed that we could not have moved half an inch farther toward the forbidden sanctuary. It was probably a well-planned, habitual, and defensive position on his part.

On the following day, punctually at four o’clock, we again stood in constrained positions on the narrow steps, but without a sense of awkwardness; again the bell jingled wildly.

Again the great Whistler opened the door, but now dressed in a suit of black, with the red ribbon of the Legion of Honor in his lapel. His welcome was graceful and cordial. With easy confidence we walked into the studio. A bright fire glowed at one end, in front of which was a round table covered with green rep, on which were tea-things, and dishes filled with dainty French cakes. A little maid, in neat cap and apron, was hovering about. All about us, turned to the wall and unframed, were seemingly hundreds of canvases. What has become of all those treasures since Whistler’s death?

As we entered, he said, with a wave of the hand toward the hidden canvases, “See how careful I am!”

As a whole, the studio, though spacious, was simple in its furnishings, except for the amazing decoration of masterpieces turned to the wall. He offered us chairs, and seated himself on the edge of a long table. Reaching out for a copy of “The Gentle Art of Making Enemies,” he began to read to us his most spicy letters.

He read on and on, until we began to wonder whether all the afternoon was to be spent in this novel and entertaining way. Meanwhile I glanced about and noticed a large phonograph, which seemed the only discordant note in an otherwise harmonious place. It soon became a discord, for suddenly tiring of his own wit, he turned lovingly to the instrument, and regaled us with a medley of “coon” songs, orchestral numbers, and other music. Had we dared, we should have glanced at each other in amazement.

At last Whistler reverted to art, and brought a canvas to the easel. He oiled it slightly, tenderly, and, lo! a handsome Italian boy shone forth, soul and all. It was magical. We had previously agreed to say but little, and never to gush over anything we might be shown. We did not speak, indeed hardly dared to, for he was watching us as a nurse watches a thermometer in an overheated room.

Again he made search, and brought before us another picture. This time the oiling and dusting disclosed the portrait of a beautiful American girl, wearing an evening cloak, the collar of which was very high. Such breeding and poise in the picture! It was more than a reproduction: something of the inner woman was there. Over this we allowed ourselves to exclaim in admiration, which moved the master to say:

“It took a long time to paint this portrait.”

There was a pause, of which my friend took advantage to say that she would much like to have him paint her portrait.

“How long shall you be in Paris?” he asked.

“Another week.”

“There you are! You Americans are all the same; here to-day, gone to-morrow; _à Paris aujourd’hui, demain, à Hoboken_. One might as well try to paint fish jumping out of the water,” he added with his captivating laugh.

With this laugh, all the ice that had been accumulating melted away. I found voice to say that I had recognized him immediately the day before from having seen and greatly admired his portrait by a fellow-artist. To my complete discomfiture, he shrugged his shoulders and said:

“He _imagines_ that he has painted my portrait.”

At last we were having a glimpse of the real Whistler, or, rather, of the one we had heard of and read about.

He showed us two more canvases, one by a pupil. Then he drew up to the tea-table and began to discourse on the “Nocturne” which my friend had bought. This led to a recital of his hopes of the budding “Académie Whistler,” which had been formally opened in the autumn of 1898. However, the academy did not remain open long. Nothing in his training or natural gifts gave him the endurance and patience required of a teacher; besides, his health failed, and he went to a milder climate. We dared ask him how he liked being a teacher, to which he answered:

“You know what the French call _une bête de somme--un cheval de fiacre--quoi!_” Again he shrugged and sighed.

We had brought with us two copies of Nicholson’s caricature of Whistler, in which he is standing at full-length, monocled, against a nocturnal sky. We asked him to sign them, and he was exceedingly gracious about it.

“These caricatures were my idea,” he explained; “I told Nicholson how to do them. They are a great success.”

On each he sketched a butterfly in pencil, adding on one, “_Tant pis_” and on the other, “With all proper regrets.”

He told us that he often became very much attached to his work. Once he had an order from a man for a portrait; it was duly finished, and amply paid for. He still held it, although the man wrote periodically to have it sent to him. “I really feel that it is much too good for him,” he explained. “The worst of it is that the longer I keep it the more I like it, and”--after a pause he whispered--“the less likely he is to get it.”

As the afternoon had waned, we suggested driving him home. He assented, putting on his famous high hat and a pair of black gloves, and we clattered down the five flights together, the air seeming fairly saturated with his presence.

Entering the one-horse victoria which had brought us from the hotel, I had to sit on the _strapontin_, about which I festooned myself as best I could. To my astonishment, our appearance did not seem to create much commotion in the Quartier, though I knew how exotic we must look.

We drove through a round porte-cochère, which was the entrance to a sort of tunnel; at the end of it we emerged into a courtyard flanked by the little house Whistler occupied.

On reaching his home, the master insisted on our coming in to see it. We found it rather gloomy, with a garden in the rear, which was shown with great pride. There were a few pictures on the walls. The cloth was spread on the dining-table, and many dishes and plates were stacked in the middle.

The good-bys were said, with an invitation extended to visit his studio again on our next trip. We had had a memorable visit with him, and were taking away with us impressions of the real Whistler--the Whistler whom the world at large knew not, the kind, genial, courteous, humanly sorrowful, and sorrowing man of genius.

DOWN·TOWN
IN
NEW·YORK

LOWER MANHATTAN, FROM THE HUDSON, OR NORTH, RIVER]

The portico of the Stock Exchange is at the left, a part of the portico of the Sub-Treasury is seen at Wall and Nassau Streets, and the crowd in the street, at the right, is the outdoor exchange known as “The Curb.”]

The Hudson Terminal is seen at the left, and the Investment Building and Singer Tower at the right.]

The portico of St. Paul’s is in the foreground, and the Singer Tower in the distance.]

THE BOOK OF HIS HEART

BY ALLAN UPDEGRAFF

Author of “The Siren of the Air,” etc.

WITH A PICTURE BY HERMAN PFEIFER

On Monday, April 11, Mr. Francis wrote in the book:

“She was in again to-day. Dressed quite different from the first
time. Not expensive, but tasteful and excellent. Took samples of
blue pongee and _crêpe de chine_. I said I thought that delicate
new London mist would become her better. She thanked me, and let
me give her a sample of that. She showed a knowledge of silks that
was most pleasing, considering the general ignorance among women on
such subjects. We talked about some things not important enough to
mention here.

‘All are architects of Fate,
Working in these walls of time.’

_Longfellow._”

His reason for adding this selection was not very clear; but somehow a little touch of poetry seemed suitable after an entry of that sort. There was a good deal of poetry in the book, selections copied from various magazines and volumes that had helped to brighten his prosaic existence as a silk salesman in McDavitt’s department store.

One would have had to be a good observer to guess that behind the plain, neat, black-and-white exterior of Mr. Francis there was the soul of a poet. Judged by the frost-touched blackness of his hair, he might have been thirty-eight years old. His face, tending to delicacy of feature in the forehead and nose, and rendered a little wistful by the worry-lines about his eyes, had the pallor that comes from years of living in artificial light. He invariably looked as though he had been smooth-shaven five minutes before, and he invariably was ready to give his most earnest attention to the desires of a customer. He fitted in the high-classed old establishment that employed him, and paid him well for a silk salesman. The consideration shown him he repaid by immaculateness in dress, scrupulousness in his reports, and the air of an English butler in dealing with customers.

His inner self was revealed in only two of his daily activities--in the handling of the silks that had been his familiars from boyhood, and in the keeping of a large red-morocco diary that he carried in the breast-pocket of his black frock-coat.

The silks--how he caressed their shimmering textures and colors, how he made them display all their subtle beauties and allurements! It was quite without guile on his part: the idea of urging or inveigling any one into buying would have filled him with horror. He displayed his wares to their best advantage because he loved them. Therefore he did it so wonderfully well that many a fine lady, after watching his firm, white, well-kept hands play among the folds, bought stuffs for which she had no possible use. This gained him some dislike and trouble, for McDavitt’s does not exchange dress-goods.

But Mr. Francis’s real self-revelation was reserved for the diary. Every night he made an entry. During the several hours every day when the choiceness, and therefore sparseness, of McDavitt’s clientele left him with nothing to do, he often took out the book, opened it among the shining silks on the mahogany counter, and made a note or two in it. It was a rather large book for a diary, and the India-paper leaves gave its thousand pages the bulk of a far smaller number in ordinary diaries. The words “Personal Journal” were printed in gold across the front cover, and there was a bunch of gold forget-me-nots, tied with a gold true-lover’s knot, in the upper left-hand corner. Beneath the forget-me-nots, in small, precise roman capitals, Mr. Francis had printed his name, ROLAND FARWELL FRANCIS.

To one prying into the secrets of Mr. Francis’s life through the medium of this diary, the number of entries like the one quoted above might have seemed somewhat appalling.

The pages were full of hints of romance, or, rather, of an almost indefinite number of romances. The vague beginnings were recorded in statements like “She was in again to-day.” Later there were conjectures about “her,” bits of personal description, faint suggestions of longing, of aspiration; then commiserations of his own unworthiness, bitter self-analysis leading up to relinquishment, final fits of despondency, during which he loaded pages with the most mortuary poetry he could find. But he was an invincible idealist; soon the process started all over again. From the time when he began work, aged seventeen years, as a stock clerk in McDavitt’s silk department, he must have approximated a round hundred of these catalectic romances.

His station in life, his work, his poetic temperament, made the result inevitable. His silks attracted beauty, he adored beauty, and beauty considered him in much the same class as the glass-and-ebony display-fixtures. Like a modern Tantalus, he watched the waters of life flow by so close that they fairly enveloped him, and yet he was powerless to lift one drop for the quenching of the thirst of his soul. A cheaper man might have solaced himself with cheaper beauty, a more practical man might have sought beauty as true in less inaccessible places, a luckier man might have stumbled upon it nearer home. Mr. Francis, lacking cheapness and practicality and luck, had remained a virtuous bachelor.

On Friday, April 15, Mr. Francis wrote in the book:

“She has not been in again. Several times I thought I saw her some
aisles away. Her face is an unusual one. It is strange I seem
always to be seeing it.

“I heard a few minutes ago a rumor that I was being considered for
a great piece of good fortune if Mr. Baldwin’s illness continues to
prevent him from resuming his duties. I do not know why I am not so
very much thrilled by the prospect. I suppose I ought to be.

“She must have decided that McDavitt’s is too expensive. Her dress
was tasteful, but not at all luxurious. She gave me a feeling of
great respect.

‘Friend, let us cease to vex the Eternal Why:
’Tis very good to live; better, perhaps, to die.’

_Reader Magazine._”

On Monday, April 18, he wrote:

“To-day, on account of the continued illness of Mr. Baldwin, I was
promoted to be the assistant buyer and manager of this department.
Three thousand a year, nearly sixty dollars a week! Once I looked
forward to thirty per w’k like millions. Now sixty is not so much.
I must be getting old. It will help me to lay up a competence
for my declining years. Perhaps I should send one of my nephews
to college. It has been the regret of my life that I entered on
an active business career immediately after graduation from high
school. Doubtless I should have made an effort to work my way
through Columbia. Yes, I will write to my brother and offer to send
one of the boys to college.

“She has not been in again. Doubtless she decided to purchase
elsewhere. McDavitt’s _is_ expensive. Perhaps I should strive to
have the margin of profit reduced. She did not dress or act like
one with much money. Doubtless she was attracted to Mc’s by their
reputation for handling only the best. I remember she looked
worried whenever I quoted prices. Still, she wished the best. But
the state of her purse made her careful, and finally made her
decide to purchase in a cheaper store. I think I can understand
her. That London mist would have suited her, trimmed with a little
old gold. However, of course it is foolish for me to allow myself
to indulge in such reflections. I shall probably never see her
again.

“Mrs. Benson congratulated me warmly on my advancement. She has
been very thoughtful of my comforts for the last seven years, going
on eight. She mentioned how she had always tried to, and I thanked
her deeply. She said she hoped I wouldn’t feel impelled to move
elsewhere, and I assured her I had no such intentions. I despise
a man who is puffed up by a little success. Vanity of vanities,
_vanitas vanitatis_. Or _vanitatium_? I wish I remembered more of
my Latin; my memory is far from what I should like it to be. Mrs.
B. also said she had two tickets to The Empire Vaudeville given her
by the new couple in the back parlor. They are in the theatrical
profession, and are getting a try-out there this week. I could not
well refuse her invitation to accompany her, although I do not care
for vaudeville. She says she goes at least once every week. It
brightens up her dull life. Poor soul! I guess she needs it. Hers
is not a very gay life.”

“‘SHE WAS THREE AISLES AWAY, LOOKING OVER THAT NEW IMPORTATION OF CHINESE MANDARINS’”]

During the considerable period that Mr. Francis had rented Mrs. Benson’s most expensive room, the second-floor front, his intimacy with her had consisted of one heart-to-heart talk in the week following Mr. Benson’s decease. Mr. Benson, who had been indefinitely “in the clothing business,” had caught a cold which developed into pneumonia, with fatal results. When, a few days after the funeral, Mrs. Benson wept on Mr. Francis’s shoulder, she had said that she wished never to speak to another man, never even to see one, except in the necessary course of business. She ran a boarding-house, and she would accept men as well as women for boarders; other relations with them she could not consider.

Mr. Francis had always respected her wishes. Even when she presided at the Sunday evening dinner-table, a wide, tight vision of black silk, and conversation was supposed to be more unrestricted than on week-days, Mr. Francis had been careful not to trespass on the sacred confines of her bereavement. Her conversation with the other men at the table, in which she attempted to include him, he passed off as her necessary sacrifice to the business that supported her widowhood. He was even more literal-minded than the average idealist.

On Thursday, April 21, he wrote in the book:

“I am quite sure she was in again to-day. She was three aisles
away, looking over that new importation of Chinese mandarins,
but she departed before I approached. She was dressed altogether
different from the first two times, but I am sure it was she. I
would notice her face among a thousand. I noticed those two little
lines at the top of her nose between her eyebrows. And yet she is
not old; one would not call her young, either; and not middle-aged,
either. Before I got over wondering whether I should go over and
wait on her personally, she had gone. He who hesitates is lost. The
clerk said she had taken samples of all the new silks. He thought
she had taken too many, and said she did not act like a buyer.
I requested him to follow McDavitt’s principle to give all the
samples asked for and not comment on it.

“To be much of my time in the office, as my new position forces me
to be, has some drawbacks. Doubtless, however, even were I back
in my old place, I should never see her again. And what possible
good can come if I do see her? I am little more than a servant, a
lackey. But I forget that I am now an assistant buyer. Perhaps that
raises me a little in the scale. But how little--not enough to make
any difference to her.

“From the library to-day I got a book, ‘Selections from the English
Poets of the Nineteenth Century.’ It is more complete than the
‘Golden Treasury,’ and I anticipate a great deal of pleasure and
profit from it. It contains Shelley’s ‘Defense of Poetry,’ which I
can well afford to read again.”

Under the entry of Friday, April 22, he copied entire Shelley’s “Indian Serenade,” beginning,

“I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night.”

“Sunday, April 24.

“This evening has been a most eventful one for me. I am engaged to
Mrs. Benson. I am still so astonished that I do not know precisely
how it occurred. I do not know how to describe my feelings. They
are so mixed. Words fail me.

“I escorted her to a Sunday-evening concert at the Metropolitan. I
owed her something, of course, in return for The Empire Vaudeville,
and when she reminded me of that, I said maybe she would like to
go to the Metropolitan. The music was beautiful. Homer and Bonci
sang. I have always gone alone before. Mrs. Benson wept because it
was so beautiful. Then she said she was partly weeping because the
boarders had begun to cast insinuations about her and me.

“Words cannot express how overcome I was. She has, of course,
nothing but her reputation. How bitterer than a serpent’s tooth
is a slanderous tongue! I asked her who started it, but she would
not tell me for fear I would attack him, which would make matters
worse. I would have done so, too; at least I would have demanded a
retraction. Before I knew it we were engaged.

“I am not sorry. How lonely my life has been! Perhaps I have at
last found happiness where I least expected it. She is a good,
honest, capable woman, and she says she’s going to begin exercising
to reduce her weight. I fear I am unworthy. Would that I could
adore her more! Everything is not just as I imagined love to be;
but I am not sorry. I should be happy in my good fortune. It is not
good for man to live alone.

‘Duty is an Archangel on the right-hand side of God.’

_Anon._”

Nevertheless, it was a much chastened, even saddened, Mr. Francis who returned to work the following morning. He had lived in his dreams, his romances had been the deepest and sweetest part of his life, for so long that such a reality as his engagement to Mrs. Benson hurt him through and through.

Perhaps any reality in the matter of romance would have hurt him. He had become a confirmed dreamer, even as he had become a confirmed bachelor, and he was not fitted to cope with practical details. Even the preparations, the hundred and one rather sordid arrangements, he would have had to go through in order to marry his latest ideal would probably have saddened him a good deal. It was thrice in vain that he attempted to be practical in the matter of marriage with Mrs. Benson; he suffered by every necessary preparation that brushed the star-dust off the butterfly’s wings of his dream ideal of love--suffered agonies that gave him a feeling of weakness in the diaphragm and in the knees.

Until eleven o’clock he was busy with the morning instalment of traveling-salesmen who came to offer their wares. This duty disposed of, he strolled out into the department where he was supposed to oversee the stock and clerks. Wicked hopes that she, the lady of his dream romance, would return he suppressed so firmly that he had a continuous ache in his throat. Gone were his shimmering dreams, his vistas of poetic reverie. He threw himself desperately into the business of arranging displays, stationing clerks, verifying price-tags. He was thoroughly melancholy and businesslike and stern-faced and miserable.

His evenings at the boarding-house were even more uncomfortable than his days in the store. Mrs. Benson had lost no time in announcing her engagement, and Mr. Francis now occupied the place of honor at her right hand at meals; he had long refused this place through feelings of delicacy about trespassing on Mrs. Benson’s known reverence for her late husband, and the honor sat heavily upon him. The smiles and insinuations of the boarders, the sordid jocularity of it all, seared his soul. Idealist that he was, his sense of humor was not much developed; and remarks like, “Can’t you just see Mr. Francis walking the floor with a bundle of yell in his arms?” sent all the blood from his heart into his face, and back again, in two frantic leaps.

On one point he was trying to be firm: he would not let Mrs. Benson read in “The Book of his Heart.” She found it on the second evening of their prenuptial bliss in the front parlor, and triumphantly drew it forth. Desperately he reclaimed his property; frantically he argued that it was sacred to him, that there were some things they wouldn’t have to share in common. No theory could have been more repugnant to Mrs. Benson, and none could have so solidified her determination to read that “Personal Journal” from cover to cover. The issues were pitched, the armies drawn up, the bugles blown; and struggle as he would, Mr. Francis realized that he was foredoomed to the woe of the vanquished. She would read the book, she would despise it, and she would burn it because of its wicked references to women other than herself. Realizing this certain outcome, Mr. Francis vacillated between the wisdom of burning the book himself and the wickedness of hiding it and telling her that he had burned it. In the meantime he kept his coat buttoned and his door locked.

On Thursday, April 28, he wrote at one o’clock in the morning:

“God have mercy on me, a miserable sinner! She was in again to-day,
and I adore her still.

“I could not greet Mrs. Benson as usual this evening. I could not.
She insisted, but I said I had a sore throat and might infect her.
She said I must have a doctor, but I was firm, I declared I would
get along all right. She came up with a mustard-plaster while I was
retiring. I could not let her in. It was terrible. Several of the
boarders heard her; I could hear them laughing. The knowledge of my
turpitude debases me like a crawling worm. I have always striven to
live an upright life, so that I could look all men and women in the
face. My duty is plain. Shall I be a hypocrite and deceiver? Shall
I give up my self-respect, which has meant so much to me all these
years? I am in a terrible dilemma.

“I will rise at five o’clock and leave the house before any one is
stirring to-morrow morning. But what shall I do to-morrow evening?
Heaven help and guide me!

“And yet my heart is not able to be sorry that she was in again
to-day. I had given up expecting her, and the sight of her
confounded me. The blueness of her eyes is like still waters. Her
brown hair is as soft as brown silk in the skein. Her gentleness
restoreth my soul. Yes, though I walked through the Valley of
Death, I would love her. I am a vile man, loathsome to myself. And
I am a liar. I told Mrs. Benson I was kept at the store while in
truth I was walking in Central Park. Through the night under the
stars. Full of the thought of her. Full of poetry no one ever yet
wrote the like of. Full of wonder and hope and exceeding glory and
brightness.

“She is a sampler. I ought to have suspected it ever since that
clerk spoke about her taking samples of all those new mandarins
and she never bought anything. She had an idea to do it on a large
scale. Instead of being in the employ of only one rival store,
she has eight she supplies samples to. She spends all her time
supplying samples to the stores that employ her. But she’s afraid
her idea won’t work. She dresses as different as she can, but the
department managers get to recognize her, with unfortunate results.

“I went up to her as soon as I recognized her, and asked to be
allowed to wait on her. I lost once by my hesitation. She seemed
much disappointed because I recognized her. I said, ‘I suspect you
are a sampler, but I will take the responsibility of supplying
you with all the samples from McDavitt’s silk department that you
desire.’ Of course I had no right to make such an offer, but I
did not think of it at the time. She looked all broken up, and
told me she was deeply obliged, but she thought she’d have to quit
and go back in Seaton-Baum’s silk department. She said she wished
she could get into McDavitt’s, if only we didn’t employ only men
clerks. I said I thought McDavitt’s was behind the times in that as
well as in many other things, and I had intended to take the matter
up with the superintendent. This was true. I asked for her name and
address, so that I might notify her if anything came of it. She
gave them to me.

“She said she wondered how I recognized her when she dressed
differently every time, and I said I should remember her face among
a million. She said that didn’t prejudice her against me as it
would if most men had said it. She shook hands with me when she
said good-by.

“I will not put her name down here. There are some things I cannot
put down even here. And yet why shouldn’t I? I have always tried to
be sincere and frank here. Miss Anna Wright. Anna. But doubtless I
shall never see her again. Ours is a purely business acquaintance.
I fear I shall not be able to change the policy about men clerks.
It is an unprogressive policy. How her face would brighten the
department! And she knows silks better than most of our men clerks.
She has a feeling about them that counts a great deal; she really
understands them. My slight acquaintance with her has filled me
with the deepest respect. There is a great deal of sincerity about
her, but she looks as if her life had not been altogether happy. I
do not feel bashful when I talk to her, as I do with most women.
This is most strange, considering how I feel toward her. I have a
sort of feeling that she trusts me. What would I not give if I were
worthy! Thank Heaven, she does not know how I have treated poor
Mrs. Benson!”

On Friday, April 29, Mr. Francis wrote in the book:

“I am inscribing these words in a furnished room that I rented
shortly after the store closed this evening. I sent an expressman
to Mrs. Benson’s to get my things. Try as I would, reason with my
self, all was in vain. I am a coward; I could not go back to Mrs.
Benson’s.

“I thought I would go back and say something against Mr. Benson,
thus breaking off the engagement in a respectable manner. Mrs.
Benson has often said that if I ever said anything against Mr.
Benson, everything between us would be at an end. I thought this
would be a good way to end matters. God knows I have nothing
against Mr. Benson, and I know he would have forgiven me if he had
heard of it in the place wherever the dead are. But I could not do
it. When within a block of the house I could not force myself to go
any farther. I could not, as God is my witness. I have tried to do
right, but I am such a coward I would have succumbed in the street
if I had gone on.

“Mrs. Benson refused to allow the expressman to get my things,
although I had sent the money to pay a week’s rent in advance with
him. She tried to make him give her my address, but I had warned
him not to do that, and I gave him a dollar when he returned and
told me how he had resisted her. I regret that she would not let
him have my things. I can get a new outfit, of course, but I had
become accustomed to some of the things I had. Some of them I have
had since my seventeenth year. Still, I am content. I have deserved
much worse than has been meted out to me.

“Later. Mrs. Benson has been here. The expressman deceived me; he
gave her my address, after all. I will not write down what she said
while irresponsible through her emotions, and I do not remember
what I said. At any rate, she is gone. I can hardly write.

“Later. The landlady of this house has just been in to tell me I
must move out in the morning. She doesn’t desire men like me in
her house. She says she knows my kind, and I am worse than the
white-slavers the papers tell about. Perhaps she is right. I have
no words to express my misery at my conduct. I will rise at five
o’clock in the morning and seek a new rooming-house where I am not
known.”

“Saturday, April 30.

“I have another furnished room. It is not highly desirable. I
rented it under an assumed name, and I will move when the present
danger has had time to decrease. I tremble lest Mrs. Benson should
come to seek me in the store. I spend as much of my time in the
office as possible, and keep a sharp lookout when I am on the floor.

‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practise to deceive!’

I know now something of the feeling of the felon who has escaped
and whom every man’s hand is raised against. But I have brought it
on myself. I only hope it will not result in my final expulsion
from the store. McDavitt’s is very careful about the character of
their employees.

“I put the matter about lady clerks in the department up to the
manager this afternoon. To my surprise, he took to it rather
kindly, and will refer it up to the proper authorities.

“A chilly, rainy day. I am tired out, but very happy to be secluded
in this room. It is pleasant to sit alone and hear the rain
outside.

“But I am not altogether alone. I have a memory, and a name, and I
have a hope. Anna. But why is my heart lifted up? I am not worthy
even to think of her.

‘For be the day never so long,
At last the bell ringeth to evensong.’

_Stephen Hawes._”

“Tuesday, May 3.

“The superintendent has refused to entertain my suggestion about
women clerks in the silk department. It would be against McDavitt’s
policy. I have written and expressed his decision. So everything
ends. I shall never see her again. I am a broken reed. One thing I
can be thankful for: Mrs. Benson has not come to ask for me at the
store.”

“Wednesday, May 4.

“This evening after dinner I walked over to the address. It is an
apartment-house, and it is just such a place as I should think she
would choose to live in. Nothing showy, but very neat and quiet and
respectable. I walked in front of the house several times before
returning. Something expanded in me every time I walked before the
house and thought it was the place where she lives. I wonder whom
she lives with? Doubtless with her mother and father and perhaps a
sister or brother. I picked out a window that looked like it might
be hers on the third floor. There was a soft yellow light like the
light of a lamp in it.

“But of course I was mistaken. Probably she was out. She must be
much sought after, and doubtless goes out a great deal in the
evenings. Still, I found my heart lifted up just to walk slowly
by and imagine she was in the room with the yellow lamp. I came
home with peace and happiness in my heart, and yet with a great
yearning. I will not conceal that I had that also. How poorly that
expresses my feeling! The power of verbal expression is not my
forte.”

The entry of Thursday, May 5, ended:

“She has not replied to my note telling of the superintendent’s
decision; but of course no reply was necessary. Walked before her
house this evening. Had not expected to, but could not resist
the temptation. Have no right even to think of her. Legally, of
course, I am still engaged to Mrs. Benson.”

The entries of May 6, 7, and 8 related that he had walked past “her” house. He avoided mentioning her name, as an ancient Hebrew would have avoided mentioning the name of Jehovah, or a modern Japanese the name of his emperor.

On Monday, May 9, Mr. Francis wrote in the book:

“I have a note from her, thanking me for my efforts in her behalf
and regretting that McDavitt’s is so unprogressive. She ends: ‘I
shall apply to you again when your store has got out of the rut of
ages. I like McDavitt’s for its air of gentility and old-fashioned
niceness.’ How she can write! I shall treasure her note. She says
she would have written, thanking me, before, but my note reached
her just as they were moving to another apartment. She sends me
the new address unconsciously on the heading of her letter. I am
glad I know she has moved. Suppose I had continued to walk before
her former residence, thinking she still lived there? And yet that
might have served me just as well, as long as I thought she was
there.

“Now I have to record a very unpleasant matter. Mr. A. I.
Sugenheim, an attorney-at-law, was in the store to-day to see me,
and he said Mrs. Benson had decided to start a suit for breach
of promise against me for $10,000; but if I wished to avoid the
disgrace of having my name and picture in all the papers, I could
pay the money, and he would not start the suit. He gave me an
unpleasant impression. I said I should have to consult a lawyer
before I decided. I recognized Mrs. Benson had grounds for damages,
but I didn’t have $10,000. He said I could pay in instalments.

“I said I would consider the matter. He then said he would
compromise for $5000 cash. My dealings with traveling-salesmen
stood me in good stead. I said I would not think of paying a cent
more than $2000. I had $1200 in the savings-bank, and I would pay
the rest $100 a month.

“He begged me to remember that I had committed a very grave
offense. Both from a legal and moral point of view I was culpable,
and I had no right to pinch pennies to put myself square with the
world. I was obliged to admit all this. But I did not like the
way he said it; his manner did not give me a feeling of frankness
and sincerity. I answered that $2000 was a great deal of money.
‘Make it $2500, for your conscience’ sake, at least,’ he said. I
saw he was weakening; his nature was exactly like that of many of
the salesmen I have to deal with. I turned away, saying, ‘I will
make it $2100 and I cannot in conscience make it a cent more.’ He
caught me by the arm and told me to believe him I would regret it
to my dying day if I did not make it $2400, anyway; but I was firm.
Finally he agreed to accept $2100. Unpleasant as the details were,
I have a great feeling of relief. To-morrow I shall withdraw all my
savings from the savings-bank and meet him at his office at 6:30
~P.M.~ After that I shall be free.

“Walked past her new home this evening. It is perhaps not so nice
as the other place, but eminently respectable. I debated all the
way whether I would act unwarrantedly if I wrote her another note
in answer to her last. How she would despise me if she knew the
unfortunate details of my private life! I bow my head in shame when
I think of her and of them.”

“Tuesday, May 10.

“Mr. Sugenheim said last night Mrs. Benson had refused to accept
$2100. She had been wounded too deeply, and disgraced forever in
the eyes of the boarders. I was overcome with grief at this news.
But she would accept $2400. I at once agreed. I can save nearly two
hundred dollars a month out of my salary by living carefully, and I
feel more absolved from my turpitude than if I had paid a smaller
amount. But it is a base thing to try to feel that I can acquit
myself by a money payment. This will be a lesson to me never to
trifle with a woman’s feelings again unless I really love her. I
think I can say on my honor that I never really loved Mrs. Benson.
This makes me feel at once more blameworthy and more relieved than
if I had loved her. It is hard to explain just how.

“Walked past her new home again this evening. I have chosen
another window on the third floor, right-hand corner, as the one
that belongs to her. This is foolish, but why should I not do it
if it pleases me? I started to write several notes to her this
evening, but tore them up. I have no excuse to inflict myself upon
her.”

The entries of the next few days dealt chiefly with his evening parades and with the struggles of his conscience as to whether he ought to write her again. By pressure of the longing in his soul he became bolder; one evening he even had the courage to go into the front hall of the apartment-house and search out her name in the long row of letter-boxes above the electric-bell buttons. The simple “Wright” printed there held him spellbound for so long that, when he recollected himself, he fled fearfully from the building, and trembled afterward at the thought of the risk he had run. But his timidity did not prevent him from continuing to haunt the vicinity of her home.

Such was his absorption in his romance, such interesting business filled his evenings, that he was never lonely, as he had often been even in the company of the other boarders at Mrs. Benson’s. Except for an occasional visit to his brother and sister-in-law in Brooklyn, he had no more human associations, and desired none. The place where he lived was a rooming-house; he took his solitary meals in restaurants, seeking out the cheapest places, so that he might save every possible cent toward discharging the financial burden his engagement and dereliction had put upon him.

But taking it all in all, he was happier than he had ever been in his life before. Never had one of his ideal romances developed so far; and never, thanks principally to the affectionate, if brief advances, of Mrs. Benson, had he had so true an idea of the meaning of love. He composed many notes to Miss Anna Wright,--I hope he will forgive me for setting forth her name in cold type,--and he knew that the time was approaching when he would send one to her.

On Friday, May 13, Mr. Francis wrote in the book:

“Five o’clock in the morning. I have met her face to face, I have
spoken to her, and walked with her! We ran into each other,
almost. I was gawking up at her window,--I mean the one I call
hers,--and I did not see her until she stopped and spoke to me.

“What a fool I must have seemed! I could not say anything--not a
word. She asked me if I lived in the neighborhood, and I said no.
She said she was just going out for a walk over to Central Park and
back to get the air. I said it was a pleasant evening for a walk,
fool that I am! She said several other things; asked me about the
store. Then she said good evening, and went on. I went on, too, in
the direction I was going when I met her.

“But there are times when a man forgets everything but one thing.
I turned back before I had gone half a block. I followed her.
I cannot describe how I felt. All the way up Fifth Avenue from
Thirty-eighth Street I kept her in sight. I do not know how I had
the courage to go up and speak to her while she was passing St.
Patrick’s Cathedral. Something outside myself forced me to do it. I
was not myself. She let me walk with her. She let me walk back to
her door again with her.

“Some time I will put down where we went, the bench beside the
little lagoon with the swans where we sat, and all she said. I
remember everything perfectly. But I cannot write it down now.

“After I had told her good-night, I went back and did everything
we had done together, and recalled everything she had said. I sat
for over two hours on the bench where we had sat together. She told
me a great deal about herself, and I was right: she has not had a
very happy life. And she asked me about myself. I told her all she
asked. I told her about the book, and she said sometime she’d like
to read the extracts about her in it, and I said she could.

“It is beginning to be dawn. I am glad my window faces east. The
sky is pale golden. There is something about the dawn, something
sacred. It is like her; I cannot describe how.

“I cannot write any more. I will go out and take another walk until
breakfast. Perhaps I will go over to the East River. Yes, I will go
over to the East River and look at the boats. There is something
magnificent about boats.”

“Sunday, May 22.

“To-day we went out to Pelham Bay Park. We went early in the
morning and stayed all day. We took a boat-ride over to Closson’s
Point, and sat under a tree, and I let her read the book--all there
was in it. She did not reproach me for the many things that I
regret I ever wrote in it. At times she laughed, and at times I am
sure that there were tears in her eyes. I could not well understand
her at all times, even when she explained to me why it made her
feel as she said it did.