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 Para Howard, que acreditou;
e para Jennie, que acreditou em Howard
 SUMÁRIO

FOLHA DE ROSTO
DEDICATÓRIA
SUMÁRIO

1 CAPÍTULO UM
2 CAPÍTULO DOIS
3 CAPÍTULO TRÊS
4 CAPÍTULO QUATRO
5 CAPÍTULO CINCO
6 CAPÍTULO SEIS
7 CAPÍTULO SETE
8 CAPÍTULO OITO
9 CAPÍTULO NOVE
10 CAPÍTULO DEZ
11 CAPÍTULO ONZE
12 CAPÍTULO DOZE
13 CAPÍTULO TREZE

PÁGINA DE DIREITOS AUTORAIS

Sam Bowden está deitado de costas sob um sol a pino, sábado,
olhos fechados, a mão direita agarrada à meia lata de cerveja que
esquenta aos poucos. Ele tinha consciência da proximidade de
Carol. Faziam a digestão do piquenique tranquilamente. Jamie e
Bucky se agitavam no matagal de um morro baixo, atrás da prainha,
e Sam sabia que não demoraria muito até Jamie, de onze anos,
mandar Bucky, de seis, vir até eles para perguntar se já podiam
entrar outra vez na água. Nos outros anos, Nancy estaria correndo e
berrando junto dos menorezinhos.
Mas, neste ano, Nancy tinha catorze, e neste ano trouxera um
convidado junto — um menino de quinze anos, chamado Pike
Foster. Nancy e Pike tomavam sol na proa do Bela Sioux III, com um
rádio portátil sintonizado na programação singular de um DJ
progressista. O Bela Sioux estava atracado a trinta metros praia
abaixo, a proa encalhada na areia, e a música era praticamente
inaudível.
Sam Bowden está deitado com o sol atravessando vermelho
por suas pálpebras, tentando, quase em desespero, dizer a si
mesmo que tudo ia bem com seu mundo em particular. Tudo estava
bem. Essa era a primeira viagem do ano à ilha. Os Bowden fariam
três ou quatro dessas viagens esse ano, do mesmo jeito que faziam
todo ano desde 1950, quando a descobriram, um ano antes de
Bucky nascer. Era uma ilhota ridiculamente pequena, vinte
quilômetros no meio do lago, a noroeste de New Essex. Era
pequena demais para ter um nome. Merecia apenas um pontinho no
mapa e um alerta sobre os bancos de areia. Tinha um morro, uma
praia e água razoavelmente profunda, logo em sua borda.
Tudo estava sob controle. O casamento era da melhor
qualidade. Todos tinham saúde. Ele era sócio na firma de advocacia
desde 1948. Sua casa, bem próxima ao povoado de Harper, a
cinquenta quilômetros de New Essex, era bem maior do que ele
deveria ter comprado, mas ele podia se consolar com a valorização
crescente de seus quatro hectares de terra. Não tinham muitas
economias em que se fiar, apenas algumas ações mais ou menos
estáveis no mercado. Mas seu plano de seguros robusto dava certa
sensação de proteção.
Levantou a cabeça e, sem abrir os olhos, terminou com a lata
de cerveja. Disse a si mesmo que não havia absolutamente nenhum
motivo para reclamação. Não fazia sentido ficar histérico. Pense
sobre isso como só mais um problema a ser tratado de forma hábil,
tranquila, com rapidez e eficiência.
“Ei!”, disse Col.
“Ahn?”
“Acorde e olhe para mim, seu peso morto.”
Ele se virou sobre um dos cotovelos ossudos e a espiou. “Você
parece bem”, disse. E ela parecia, de fato. O maiô azul-bebê
ressaltava sua pele escura. Seus cabelos eram negros, grossos e
lustrosos, herança da porção remota de sangue indígena que
também nomeara, inevitavelmente, os três barcos que possuíam.
Seus olhos eram belos e negros e grandes. Seu nariz, que ela
desprezava, era aquilino, marcadamente curvo. Ele sempre gostara
disso. Seus trinta e sete anos se apresentavam nas rugas pelo
canto dos olhos, possivelmente nas veias das costas das mãos,
mas nunca em seu corpo delgado e leve, ou no contorno de suas
pernas ágeis.
“Não estou pedindo elogio”, ela disse com firmeza. “Estou
falando sério. Preste atenção.”
“Sim, senhora!”
 “Já começou na quinta-feira quando você voltou do escritório.
Você estava fisicamente ali, mas seu espírito estava perdido. E
ontem, a mesma coisa. E hoje, de novo. Quinze anos de
casamento, meu amiguinho, dão um aparato extrassensorial a uma
garota.”
“Que excitante. Esse aparato fica bem em você.”
“Quieto! Não banque o espertinho, Samuel. Sem segredos.
Sem rodeios, senhor, por favor. Quero saber. Agora mesmo, você
está franzindo a testa mais do que o sol exige. Eu sei quando algo o
está incomodando.”
“Por toda New Essex eu sou conhecido como Sam Sutil.
Ninguém sabe no que estou pensando. Não são capazes de
desvendar meu sorriso de Monalisa. Eu posso armar a maior mão
no pôquer sem sequer tremer. Mas você tem esse incrível…”
“Por favor”, ela disse, com uma voz completamente diferente, e
ele sabia que teria de contar. Ele abriu o isopor e tirou de lá outra
lata de cerveja. Abriu-a e a ofereceu a ela, mas ela sacudiu a
cabeça. Bebeu um terço da lata. “Certo. Mas você precisa saber que
eu sou preocupado por natureza. Tudo está tão bem que eu fico
supersticioso. Queria manter esses nossos ótimos planos
funcionando direitinho.”
“Talvez eu possa ajudar.”
“Ou possa rir de mim. Espero. Uma coisa esquisita aconteceu
quando voltei do escritório na quinta-feira. Mas esse não é o ponto
de partida. Começou em uma certa viagem para o exterior de que
você possivelmente se lembra.”
Ele sabia que ela lembraria. Houve apenas uma viagem em
1943, quando o primeiro-tenente Samuel B. Bowden, do
Departamento do Procurador-Geral Militar, esteve em um cruzeiro
prolongado no velho Comte de Biancamano, então operado pela
Marinha dos Estados Unidos. Ele embarcara vestido com sua
palidez de Pentágono e por fim acabara em Nova Déli, no quartel-
general do Teatro de Operações para a China, Birmânia e Índia.
“Não estou decidida a esquecê-la, amor. Você ficou fora um
bom tempo. Um bom tempo fora de minha vida. Um mau tempo,
devo dizer.”
 “Já faz algum tempo que você não me vê ocupado com o
simpósio Bowden de histórias cômicas de guerra, mas por acaso se
lembra da anedota sobre Melbourne? Não era realmente
engraçada.”
“Mais ou menos. Deixe-me ver. Você desembarcou lá e ficou
enrolado com alguma coisa, então o navio partiu sem você porque
você tinha de testemunhar, e nunca conseguiu recuperar aquela
mala que arrumamos com tanto carinho.”
“Eu era testemunha-chave em uma corte marcial. Um caso de
estupro.”
“Sim, disso eu lembro. Mas não lembro como você se tornou
uma testemunha.”
“Vários de nós fomos a um quarto de hotel e eu fiquei bêbado
de cerveja australiana. Parece feita de marretas fermentadas. Era
uma noite de junho, fria. Resolvi que tinha de voltar para o navio.
Eram duas da manhã. Enquanto eu me perdia completamente no
caminho, ouvi um choro vindo de um beco. Pensei que fosse um
cachorrinho ou um gatinho. Mas era uma menina. Tinha catorze
anos.”
Ele sabia que aquele sabor meio bêbado daquela noite jamais
deixaria sua memória. A enorme cidade de pedra com suas ruas
largas e desertas, apenas algumas luzes acesas. O som de seus
passos ecoando pelas paredes frias. Cantarolava “Roll Out the
Barrel”, que ressoou perfeitamente claro quando chegou à entrada
do beco.
Chegou à conclusão de que um filhotinho poderia ser
contrabandeado para dentro do navio. Então, encarou sem
compreender nada daquelas pernas no chão, do ritmo bruto do
agressor e ouviu o choramingo animal, ouviu o som de um punho
acertando em cheio a cara dela. Com a compreensão veio também
uma ira bárbara. Ele arrancou o soldado de cima dela e, conforme o
homem se punha de pé, acertou ele violentamente no queixo. O
homem se agarrou a ele sem muita força, depois caiu de costas e,
para o espanto de Sam, começou a roncar. Ele correu dali e poucos
minutos depois chamou um jipe da ronda terrestre.
Eles o seguraram para a corte marcial. A menina tinha catorze
anos, grande para a idade e de aparência comum. Seu pai estivera
doente naquela noite, e ela seguia sozinha para a casa da tia para
buscar ajuda quando um soldado embriagado, Max Cady, abordara-
a e a arrastara para o beco.
“Eles não o enforcaram?”
“Não, mas quase. Ele era um sargento subalterno de vinte e
cinco anos, com sete anos de serviço e mais de duzentos dias de
combate nas ilhas. Havia sido afastado por conta de um caso grave
de leishmaniose e ataque de nervos, e mandado para uma unidade
de convalescência perto de Melbourne. Aquela foi sua primeira ida à
cidade. Estava bêbado. Ela parecia mais velha, e estava na rua às
duas da madrugada.”
“Mas mesmo assim.”
“Eles o condenaram a trabalhos forçados, prisão perpétua.”
Lembrava-se da aparência do sargento no tribunal. Parecia um
animal. Taciturno, cruel e perigoso. E fisicamente forte. Sam o
olhara e tinha ciência de como fora sortudo com aquele soco. Cady
havia olhado para Sam, do outro lado do tribunal, como se fosse se
deleitar em matá-lo com as próprias mãos. O cabelo negro cobria
sua testa. Tinha a boca e o queixo pesados. Olhos pequenos e
castanhos no fundo de órbitas simiescas. Sam era capaz de dizer
no que Cady pensava. Um tenente não combatente, almofadinha.
Um enxerido vestido com um uniforme bonito e que nunca ouvira
um tiro espocar em fúria. Então, esse tenentezinho devia ter dado
as costas ao beco, seguido seu caminho e deixado um soldado de
verdade em paz.
“Sam, querido, você está tentando dizer que…” Ela tinha uma
expressão assustada.
“Vamos, nada de ficar nervosa. Não precisa se preocupar, meu
bem.”
“Você encontrou esse homem na quinta-feira? Ele foi solto?”
Suspirou. “Nunca tenho chance de terminar nada. Sim. Ele foi
solto.”
Ele não havia esperado que Cady brotasse novamente de uma
história antiga. Simplesmente esquecera de toda a situação. Muitas
outras impressões daqueles anos no estrangeiro haviam apagado a
lembrança de Cady. Ele voltara para casa em 1945 com a patente
de capitão. Dava-se bem com seu coronel, um homem chamado Bill
Stetch, e depois da guerra viera a New Essex a convite de Bill para
se juntar à firma de advocacia.
“Conte mais. Como ele é? Como diabos ele o encontrou?”
“Não acho que seja um problema. Podemos lidar com isso. De
todo modo, quando seguia para o estacionamento na quinta-feira,
um homem que eu tinha certeza de não conhecer veio andando
bem do meu lado. Ficou sorrindo de um jeito esquisito, engraçado.
Pensei que ele era louco.”
“Podemos entrar agora? Podemos? Já deu tempo?” Bucky
berrava estridente, correndo na direção deles.
Sam olhou para o relógio. “Marcou bobeira, meu amiguinho
desatento. Vocês já poderiam ter entrado cinco minutos atrás.”
“Ei, Jamie! Já deu tempo.”
“Bucky, espere um pouco”, disse Carol. “Não vá para além
daquela pedra. Você ou Jamie. Entendido?”
“A Nancy vai bem depois dela.”
“E quando você passar pelos testes de salva-vidas que ela
passou, vai poder ir bem depois também”, Sam falou. “Não faça
manha. E veja se não arruma confusão.”
Observaram os dois meninos entrarem na água. Nancy e o
amigo se levantaram. Ela acenou aos pais, enfiando o cabelo negro
sob a touca enquanto caminhava para a popa do Bela Sioux. Sam
olhou para ela e se sentiu triste e ancião quando percebeu a rapidez
com que sua figura esbelta havia amadurecido. E, como sempre,
agradeceu aos deuses por Nancy ter puxado à mãe. Os meninos
pareciam com ele. Cabelos acastanhados, ossos largos, olhos
azuis, sardas e dentes grandes. Era evidente que os meninos
seriam iguais ao pai, quando crescessem. Incuravelmente magros,
desengonçados, compridos e altos, homens de físico indolente e
pouca robustez. Seria trágico se ele desejasse à única filha o
mesmo destino.
“Era o mesmo sargento, não era?”, Carol perguntou em uma
voz encolhida.
“O mesmo. Eu tinha esquecido seu nome. Max Cady. Sua
condenação foi revista. Foi solto setembro passado. Serviu treze
anos de trabalhos forçados. Eu não o teria reconhecido. Quase um
metro e oitenta, forte e parrudo. Está bem calvo e bastante
bronzeado, parece durão o bastante para aguentar uma
machadada. Os olhos são os mesmos e o queixo e boca também,
mas isso é tudo.”
“Ele o ameaçou?”
“Não de forma explícita. Ele tinha controle da situação. Estava
se divertindo. Ficou me contando que eu nunca captara a
mensagem, nunca vira o quadro completo. E sorria debochado.
Acho que nunca vi um sorriso mais desconcertante. Ou dentes mais
brancos, mais artificiais. Ele sabia bem até demais que estava me
deixando desconfortável. Seguiu-me até o estacionamento e eu
entrei no carro, dando a partida. Daí ele se moveu como um gato e
agarrou as chaves, debruçando-se na porta, olhando para mim. O
carro parecia um forno. Eu estava sentado em meu próprio suor.
Não sabia que diabos fazer. Não tinha como tentar tirar a chave
dele. Um absurdo.”
“Você não podia sair e procurar a polícia?”
“Talvez. Mas não parecia muito… digno. Era como correr para
a professora. Então eu escutei. Ele estava orgulhoso pela forma
como me encontrara. Quando seu advogado de defesa me
questionou, acabou ficando claro que eu me formara em Direito em
Penn. Então, Cady foi à Pensilvânia e arranjou alguém para conferir
os registros de alunos para ele, onde conseguiu os endereços de
casa e do trabalho. Ele queria se assegurar de que eu soubesse
como haviam sido os treze anos de trabalho forçado. Chamou-me
de tenente. Usava a palavra em toda frase. Fez com que ela soasse
como um palavrão. Como era junho, disse que era uma espécie de
aniversário nosso. E disse que vinha pensando em mim há catorze
anos. E que estava feliz por me ver tão bem. Que não desejava ter
me encontrado cheio de problemas.”
“O que… ele quer fazer?”
“Só disse que queria ter certeza de que eu entenderia a
mensagem, veria o quadro completo. Fiquei sentado lá, suando, e
quando finalmente exigi as chaves do carro, ele as entregou. E
tentou me dar um charuto. Tinha um bolso na camisa cheio deles.
Disse que eram bons charutos, duas folhas cada. Quando me
afastei ele disse, ainda arreganhando os dentes: “Mande
lembranças à esposa e às crianças, tenente”.
 “Que aflição.”
Sam ponderou se deveria contar-lhe o resto, e soube que sim.
Ela precisava saber o resto da história, assim não ficaria descuidada
— se chegasse a esse ponto.
Deu uns tapinhas na mão dela. “Agora se prepare, Carolzinha.
Pode ser só coisa da minha cabeça. Espero que seja. Mas é isso
que tem me comido por dentro. Você lembra que cheguei tarde na
quinta-feira. Cady me tomou meia hora. Tive bastante tempo para
observá-lo. E quanto mais eu escutava, mais sentia um alerta, cada
vez maior. Você não precisa ser um psicanalista treinado. De algum
jeito, quando alguém é diferente, você sabe. Suponho que todos
fazemos parte de um rebanho, de certo modo. E é sempre possível
perceber pequenas pistas que indicam o animal arredio. Não
acredito que Cady seja são.”
“Meu Deus!”
“Acho que você precisa saber sobre ele. Posso estar errado.
Não sei que palavras os médicos usariam. Paranoico. Não sei. Mas
ele não consegue assumir a culpa. Tentei dizer a ele que era sua
responsabilidade. Ele dizia que se elas eram grandes o suficiente,
eram adultas o suficiente, e que ela era só outra puta australiana.
Eu não entendia a mensagem. Eu não via o quadro completo. Acho
que ele é o tipo de recruta que despreza todos os oficiais, de todo
modo. E se convenceu de que o incidente no beco fora
perfeitamente normal. Então, eu roubara treze anos de sua vida e
devia pagar por isso.”
“Mas ele não falou isso?”
“Não. Ele não falou. Estava curtindo seu momento. Sabia que
estava me afetando. Então, por que se preocupar?”
Os olhos dela estavam vidrados e arregalados. Olhava para
além dele. “Há quanto tempo ele está em New Essex?”
“Não sei. Tive a impressão de que ele está por aí há algumas
semanas.”
“Ele tem um carro?”
“Não sei.”
“Como estava vestido?”
“Calças cáquis, não muito limpas. Uma camiseta branca de
manga curta. Sem chapéu.”
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Philistine
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

Title: The Philistine

a periodical of protest (Vol. I, No. 3, August 1895)

Author: Various

Editor: Harry Persons Taber

Release date: June 23, 2022 [eBook #68383]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: The Society of the

Philistines, 1895

Credits: hekula03 and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team

at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from
images made available by the HathiTrust Digital
Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE

PHILISTINE ***
 The Philistine:
A Periodical of Protest.

“A harmless necessary cat.”—Shylock.

Printed Every Little While for The Society of The Philistines and
Published by Them Monthly. Subscription, One Dollar Yearly;
Single Copies, 10 Cents.
Number 3. August, 1895.
 THE PHILISTINE.
Edited by H. P. Taber.

CONTENTS FOR AUGUST, 1895.

JEREMIADS:
A Word About Art,
Ouida
The Confessional in Letters,
Elbert Hubbard
The Social Spotter,
William McIntosh

OTHER THINGS:
The Dream,
William Morris
Verses,
Stephen Crane
For Honor,
Jean Wright
The Story of the Little Sister,
H. P. T.
Notes.

The Philistine is published monthly at $1 a year, 10 cents a

single copy. Subscriptions may be left with newsdealers or sent
direct to the publishers.
Business communications should be addressed to The
Philistine. East Aurora, New York. Matter intended for publication
may be sent to the same address or to Box 6, Cambridge,
Massachusetts.
Entered at the Postoffice at East Aurora, New York, for
transmission as mail matter of the second class.
COPYRIGHT, 1895.
 AND THIS, THEN, IS THE THIRD OF
THE BOOK OF THE PHILISTINE AND
FIRST HERE IS PRINTED THE LINES
CALLED “THE DREAM” WRITTEN BY
MR. WILLIAM MORRIS: TO WHOM BE
PRAISE AND REVERENCE AND
MUCH THANKFULNESS FOR MANY
DEEDS.
I dreamed
A dream of you,
Not as you seemed
When you were late unkind,
And blind
To my eyes pleading for a debt long due;
But touched and true,
And all inclined
To tenderest fancies on love’s inmost theme.
How sweet you were to me, and ah, how kind
In that dear dream!
I felt
Your lips on mine
Mingle and melt,
And your cheek touch my cheek.
I, weak
With vain desires and asking for a sign
Of love divine,
Found my grief break,
And wept and wept in an unending stream
Of sudden joy set free, yet could not speak:
Dumb in my dream.

I knew
You loved me then,
And I knew, too,
The bliss of souls in Heaven,
New-shriven,
Who look with pity on still sinning men
And turn again
To be forgiven
In the dear arms of their God holding them,
And spend themselves in praise from morn
’Till even,
Nor break their dream.
I woke
In my mid-bliss
At midnight’s stroke
And knew you lost and gone.
Forlorn
I called you back to my unfinished kiss,
But only this
One word of scorn
You answered me, “’Twas better loved to seem
Than loved to be, since all love is foresworn,
Always a dream.”
 A WORD ABOUT ART.
How can we have great art in our day? We have no
Is there
faith. Belief of some sort is the life-blood of art. When
Athene and Zeus ceased to excite veneration in the minds of men,
sculpture and architecture both lost their greatness. When the
Madonna and her Son lost that mystery and divinity, which for the
simple minds of the early painters they possessed, the soul went out
of canvas and of wood. When we carve a Venus now, she is but a
frivolous woman; when we paint a Jesus now, it is but a little
suckling, or a sorrowful prisoner.
We want a great inspiration. We ought to find it in a woman,
the things that are really beautiful, but we are not sure even in
enough, perhaps, what is so. What does dominate us
is a passion for nature: for the sea, for the sky, for the mountain, for
the forest, for the evening storm, for the break of day. Perhaps when
we are thoroughly steeped in this, we shall reach greatness once
more. But the artificiality of all modern life is against it, so is its
cynicism. Sadness and sarcasm make a great Lucretius and as a
great Juvenal; and scorn makes a strong Aristophanes: but they do
not make a Praxiteles and an Apelles; they do not even make a
Raffaelle or a Flaxman.
Art, if it be anything, is the perpetual uplifting of Boston,
what is beautiful in the sight of the multitude—the
perpetual adoration of that loveliness, material and moral, which men
in the haste and greed of their lives are everlastingly forgetting:
unless it be that, it is empty and useless as a child’s reed-pipe when
the reed is snapt and the child’s breath spent.
It must have been such a good life—a painter’s in who can
those days: those early days of art. Fancy the
gladness of it then—modern painters can know nothing of it.
 When all the delicate delights of distance were only produce
half perceived; when the treatment of light and literature
shadow was barely dreamed of; when aerial
perspective was just breaking on the mind in all its wonder and
power; when it was still regarded as a marvellous boldness to draw
from the natural form in a natural fashion—in those early days only
fancy the delights of a painter!
Something fresh to be won at each step; something equal
new to be penetrated at each moment; something
beautiful and rash to be ventured on with each touch of colour—the
painter in those days had all the breathless pleasure of an explorer;
without leaving his birthplace he knew the joys of Columbus.
And one can fancy nothing better than a life such
to this?
as Spinello led for nigh a century up on the hill here,
painting because he loved it, till death took him. Of all lives, perhaps,
that this world has ever seen, the lives of painters, I say, in those
days were the most perfect.
In quiet places such as Arezzo and Volterra, and Modena and
Urbino, and Cortona and Perugia, there would grow up a gentle lad
who from infancy most loved to stand and gaze at the missal
paintings in his mother’s house, and the coena in the monk’s
refectory, and when he had fulfilled some twelve or fifteen years, his
people would give in to his wish and send him to some bottega to
learn the management of colours.
Then he would grow to be a man; and his town
No, not
would be proud of him, and find him the choicest of all even
work in its churches and its convents, so that all his
days were filled without his ever wandering out of reach of his native
vesper bells.
He would make his dwelling in the heart of his
in Boston!
birthplace, close under its cathedral, with the tender
sadness of the olive hills stretching above and around in the
basiliche or the monasteries his labor would daily lie; he would have
a docile band of hopeful boyish pupils with innocent eyes of wonder
for all he did or said; he would paint his wife’s face for the
Madonna’s, and his little son’s for the child Angel’s; he would go out
into the fields and gather the olive bow, and the feathery corn, and
the golden fruits, and paint them tenderly on ground of gold or blue,
in symbol of those heavenly things of which the bells were forever
telling all those who chose to hear; he would sit in the lustrous nights
in the shade of his own vines and pity those who were not as he
was; now and then horsemen would come spurring in across the hills
and bring news with them of battles fought, of cities lost and won;
and he would listen with the rest in the market-place, and go home
through the moonlight thinking that it was well to create the holy
things before which the fiercest rider and the rudest free-lance would
drop the point of the sword and make the sign of the cross.
It must have been a good life—good to its close in the cathedral
crypt—and so common too; there were scores of such lived out in
these little towns of Italy, half monastery and half fortress, that were
scattered over hill and plain, by sea and river, on marsh and
mountain, from the daydawn of Cimabue to the after-glow of the
Carracci.
And their work lives after them; the little towns are all grey and still
and half peopled now; the iris grows on the ramparts, the canes
wave in the moats, the shadows sleep in the silent market-place, the
great convents shelter half a dozen monks, the dim majestic
churches are damp and desolate, and have the scent of the
sepulchre.
But there, above the altars, the wife lives in the Madonna and the
child smiles in the Angel, and the olive and the wheat are fadeless
on their ground of gold and blue; and by the tomb in the crypt the
sacristan will shade his lantern and murmur with a sacred
tenderness:
“Here he sleeps.”
Ouida.
 FOR HONOR.
By a turn of chance a father and son were thrown together in one of
the Western frontier posts, the father as colonel in command, the
son as a second lieutenant in one of the four companies quartered
there. When the order came which had brought them together after
the three years which had gone by since the boy left West Point, it
brought great, but silent, happiness to the stern and gloomy old
soldier, and a light-hearted pleasure to the young man; once more
he would be with “dear old dad,” and besides, life must be rather
exciting out there, and altogether worth a man’s while. And so he
packed his traps in double-quick time, as a soldier must, and was off
in twenty-four hours. The meeting between the two was a strange
one. Effusive and very gay on the part of the young man, who made
no effort to conceal his delight; stiff, even cold, on the part of the old
man, whose very heart quivered with joy; and on whose stern and
bronzed face a light came which the boy did not even see.
The colonel was not a popular man, hard and cold, rigid in the
performance of his own duty, and with little sympathy for failure on
the part of his men, he was respected, and, in a certain sense,
admired, but not loved; sternly just according to his own light, but
narrow and intolerant. With two passions—the exaggerated, hide-
bound honor of a soldier who believes his profession to be the only
one; the honor of a strictly honest and very proud man, jealous of the
slightest stain upon his unimpeachable integrity. The other passion a
carefully hidden but almost idolatrous love for his son. There had
been one other passion, but she died.
Within a month after his coming, the young lieutenant was the
most popular man at the post. He sang, he danced, he rode, and he
played cards; he also drank rather more than was necessary.
Within two months it all palled upon him. Deadly ennui took
possession of him. The great sunlit barren plains stretched out
interminable. There were no Indians even to break the monotony.
The iron routine of one day followed upon another with what seemed
to him a stupid, trivial and meaningless regularity. So he stopped
singing and dancing, and went on playing cards and drinking.
Another thing that annoyed him was his father’s suppressed but
uncompromising disapproval. Inward the colonel’s soul writhed that
his boy should blemish his record as a soldier in this way; he did not
doubt his courage should the time come for proving it, but in the
meantime to show himself a weak and foolish man was almost
unbearable. He could not understand the boy, and he said nothing,
which was perhaps unfortunate.
Three weeks went by and the young lieutenant was deep in debt
to the captain of another company. A sneering, black faced fellow,
who had risen from the ranks; gaining his promotions during the last
fifteen years for acts of dare-devil bravery. He was not a pleasant
man to owe to; particularly if one was not too sure of being able to
pay up when the notes fell due. Another month, and things were no
better. It was in the early part of September, and the flat plains
stretched out parched and arid, the sun beat down pitilessly on the
treeless little post, and the money to the captain had to be paid to-
morrow. It was certainly a disagreeable situation. But they played
hard and drank hard, and the young lieutenant almost forgot that to-
morrow was coming.
But about one o’clock in the morning there was a
Is
row, and before many hours the whole post knew
cheating
what was the matter. It does not take long for news to
at cards
travel among a few hundred people, particularly so
so rare as
interesting and exciting a bit as this. For this gay this?
young fellow, this dashing young soldier, this son of
the stern old martinet of a colonel, had been caught cheating at
cards, and was disgraced forever.
The news got round and finally reached the colonel. It was a brave
man who told him. He waited an hour, and then putting a pistol in his
holster, he went across to his son’s quarters. There was no answer
to his knock, so he opened the door and went in. The boy was sitting
by the table, with his head buried in his arms. He did not look up
when his father spoke, “My son, there is but one thing for you to do.
You know what it is,” and he laid the pistol on the table. There was
no reply; and the colonel stood silent, straight and stern, but his face
was gray, and his iron mouth was drawn. Presently the boy raised
his head and looked straight into his father’s eyes. For the first time
in his life he understood. “Yes, father,” he said. The colonel stood a
moment, and then went out and shut the door. When he was half
way across the parade ground he heard a pistol shot, but he did not
go back.
Jean Wright.
 THE CONFESSIONAL IN LETTERS.
In the year 1848 Ralph Waldo Emerson of Concord, Mass., made a
lecturing tour through England. Among the towns he visited was
Coventry, where he was entertained at the residence of Mr. Charles
Bray. In the family of Mr. Bray lived a young woman by the name of
Mary Ann Evans, and although this Miss Evans was not handsome,
either in face or figure, she made a decided impression on Mr.
Emerson.
A little excursion was arranged to Stratford, an antiquated town of
some note in the same county. On this trip Mr. Emerson and Miss
Evans paired off very naturally, and Miss Evans of Coventry was so
bold as to set Mr. Emerson of Concord straight on several matters
relating to Mr. Shakespeare, formerly of Stratford.
“What is your favorite book?” said Mr. Emerson to Miss Evans,
somewhat abruptly.
“Rousseau’s Confessions,” said the young woman instantly.
“And so it is mine,” answered Mr. Emerson.
All of which is related by Moncure D. Conway in a volume entitled
Emerson at Home and Abroad.
A copy of Conway’s book was sent to Walt Whitman, and when he
read the passage to which I have just referred he remarked, “And so
it is mine.”
Emerson and Whitman are probably the two strongest names in
American letters, and George Eliot stands first among women writers
of all time; and as they in common with many Lesser Wits stand side
by side and salute Jean Jacques Rousseau, it may be worth our
while to take just a glance at M. Rousseau’s book in order, if we can,
to know why it appeals to people of worth.
 The first thing about the volume that attracts is the title. There is
something charmingly alluring and sweetly seductive in a confession.
Mr. Henry James has said: “The sweetest experience that can come
to a man on his pilgrimage through this vale of tears is to have a
lovely woman ‘confess’ to him; and it is said that while neither
argument, threat, plea of justification, nor gold can fully placate a
woman who believes she has been wronged by a man, yet she
speedily produces, not only a branch, but a whole olive tree when he
comes humbly home and confesses.”
Now here is a man about to ’fess to the world, and we take up the
volume, glance around to see if any one is looking, and begin at the
first paragraph to read:
“I purpose an undertaking that never had an example and the
execution of which will never have an imitation. I would exhibit
myself to all men as I am—a man....
“Let the last trumpet sound when it will, I will come, with this book
in my hand, and present myself before the Sovereign Judge. I will
boldly proclaim: Thus have I acted, thus have I thought, such was I.
With equal frankness have I disclosed the good and the evil. I have
omitted nothing bad, added nothing good. I have exhibited myself,
despisable and vile when so; virtuous, generous, sublime when so. I
have unveiled my interior being as Thou, Eternal One, hast seen it.”
Now where is the man or woman who could stop there, even though
the cows were in the corn?
And as we read further we find things that are “unfit for publication”
and confessions of sensations that are so universal to healthy men
that they are irrelevant, and straightway we arise and lock the door
so as to finish the chapter undisturbed. For as superfluous things are
the things we cannot do without, so is the irrelevant in literature the
necessary.
Having finished this chapter, oblivious to calls that dinner is
waiting, we begin the next; and finding items so interesting that they
are disgusting, and others so indecent that they are entertaining, we
forget the dinner that is getting cold and read on.
 And the reason we read on is not because we love the indecent,
or because we crave the disgusting, although I believe Burke hints at
the contrary, but simply because the writing down of these
unbecoming things convinces us that the man is honest and that the
confession is genuine. In short we come to the conclusion that any
man who deliberately puts himself in such a bad light—caring not a
fig either for our approbation or our censure—is no sham.
And there you have it! We want honesty in literature.
The great orator always shows a dash of contempt for the opinions
of his audience, and the great writer is he who loses self
consciousness and writes himself down as he is, for at the last
analysis all literature is a confession.
The Ishmaelites who purvey culture by the ton, and issue
magazines that burden the mails—study very carefully the public
palate. They know full well that a “confession” is salacious: it is an
exposure. A confession implies something that is peculiar, private
and distinctly different from what we are used to. It is a removing the
veil, a making plain things that are thought and performed in secret.
And so we see articles on “The Women Who Have Influenced
Me,” “The Books that Have Made Me,” “My Literary Passions,” etc.
But like the circus bills, these titles call for animals that the big tent
never shows; and this perhaps is well, for otherwise ’twould fright the
ladies.
Yes, I frankly admit that these “confessions” suit the constituency
of The Ladies’ Home Journal better than the truth; and although its
editor be a Jew, the fact that the writers of his confessions practice
careful concealment of the truth that they have hands, senses, eyes,
ears, organs, dimensions, passions, is a wise commercial stroke.
You can prick them and they do not bleed, tickle them and they do
not laugh, poison them and they do not die; simply because they are
only puppets parading as certain virtues, and these virtues the own
particular brand in which the subscribers delight.
That excellent publication, The Forum, increased its circulation by
many thousand when it ran a series of confessions of great men
wherein these great men made sham pretense of laying their lives
bare before the public gaze. Nothing was told that did not redound to
the credit of the confessor. The “Formative Influences” of sin, error
and blunders were carefully concealed or calmly waived. The lack of
good faith was as apparent in these articles as the rouge on the
cheek of a courtesan: the color is genuine and the woman not dead,
that’s all.
And the loss lies in this: These writers—mostly able men—sell
their souls for a price, and produce a literature that lives the length of
life of a moth, whereas they might write for immortality. Instead of
inspiring the great, they act as clowns to entertain the rabble.
Of course I know that Rousseau’s Confessions, Amiel’s Journal
and Marie Bashkirtseff’s Diary have all been declared carefully
worked out artifices. And admitting all the wonderful things that
scheming man can perform, I still maintain that there are a few
things that life and nature will continue to work out in the old, old
way. I appeal to those who have tried both plans, whether it is not
easier to tell the truth than to concoct a lie. And I assiduously
maintain that if the case is to be tried by a jury of great men, that the
shocking facts will serve the end far better than sugared half-truth.
When Richard Le Gallienne tells us of the birth of his baby and for
weeks before how White Soul was sure she should die; and Marie
Bashkirtseff makes painstaking note of the size of her hips and the
development of her bust; and poor Amiel bewails the fate of eating
breakfast facing an empty chair; and Rousseau explains the delicate
sensations and smells that swept over him on opening his wardrobe
and finding smocks and petticoats hanging in careless negligence
amid his man’s clothes; and all those other pathetic, foolish,
charming, irrelevant bits of prattle, one is convinced of the author’s
honesty. No thorough-going literary man, hot for success, would
leave such stuff in; he would as soon think of using a flesh brush on
the public street; these are his own private affairs—his good sense
would have forbade.
A good lie for its own sake is ever pleasing to honest men, but a
patched up record never. And when such small men as Samuel