Part 36 (1/2)
”What kind?”
”Ah, that's beyond any one! And we have several things the matter with us--as bad a case, for example, of complacency as I've met in history.
Complacency's a very dangerous disease, seldom got rid of without the purge of a great calamity. And worse, where does our dishonesty begin, and where end? The boy goes to college, and there in football it awaits him; he graduates, and in the down-town office it smirks at him; he rises into the confidence of his superiors, the town's chief citizens, and finds their gray hairs crowned with it,--the very men he has looked up to, believed in, his ideals, his examples, the merchant prince, the railroad magnate, the president of insurance companies--all dirty rascals! Presently he faces worldly success or failure, and then, in the new ocean of mind that has swallowed morals up, he sinks with his isolated honesty, like a fool, or swims to respectability with his brother knaves. And into this mess the immigrant sewage of Europe is steadily pouring. Such is our continent to-day, with all its fair winds and tides and fields favorable to us, and only our shallow, complacent, dishonest selves against us! But don't let these considerations make you gloomy; for (I must say it again) nothing is final; and even if we rot before we ripen--which would be a wholly novel phenomenon--we shall have made our contribution to mankind in demonstrating by our collapse that the sow's ear belongs with the rest of the animal, and not in the voting booth or the legislature, and that the doctrine of universal suffrage should have waited until men were born honest and equal. That in itself would be a memorable service to have rendered.”
We had come into the divine, sad stillness of the woods, where the warm sunlight shone through the gray moss, lighting the curtained solitudes away and away into the depths of the golden afternoon; and somewhere amid the miles of sleeping wilderness sounded the hoa.r.s.e honk of the automobile. The Replacers were abroad, enjoying what they could in this country where they did not belong, and which did not as yet belong to them. Once again we heard their honk off to our left, from a farther distance, and I am glad to say that we did not see them at all.
”If,” said John Mayrant, ”what you have said is true, the nation had better get on its knees and pray G.o.d to give it grace.”
I looked at the boy and saw that his countenance had grown very fine.
”The act,” I said, ”would bring grace, wherever it comes from.”
”Yes,” he a.s.sented. ”If in the stars and awfulness of s.p.a.ce there's nothing, that does not trouble me; for my greater self is inside me, safe. And our country has a greater self somewhere. Think!”
”I do not have to think,” I replied, ”when I know the n.o.bleness we have risen to at times.”
”And I,” he pursued, ”happen to believe it is not all only stars and s.p.a.ce; and that G.o.d, as much as any s.h.i.+p-builder, rejoices to watch every tiniest boat meet and brave the storm.”
Out of his troubles he had brought such mood, sweetness instead of bitterness; he was saying as plainly as if his actual words said it, ”Misfortune has come to me, and I am going to make the best of it.” His n.o.bleness, his moral elegance, compelled him to this, and I envied him, not sure if I myself, thus placed, would acquit myself so well. And there was in his sweetness a contagion that strangely reconciled me to the troubled aspects of our national hour. I thought, ”Invisible among our eighty millions there is a quiet legion living untainted in the depths, while the yellow rich, the prismatic sc.u.m and bubbles, boil on the surface.” Yes, he had accidentally helped me, and I wished doubly that I might help him. It was well enough he should feel he must not s.h.i.+rk his duty, but how much better if he could be led to see that marrying where he did not love was no duty of his.
I knew what I had to say to him, but lacked the beginning of it; and of this beginning I was in search as we drove up among the live-oaks of Udolpho to the little club-house, or hunting lodge, where a negro and his wife received us, and took the baskets and set about preparing supper. My beginning sat so heavily upon my attention that I took scant notice of Udolpho as we walked about its adjacent grounds in the twilight before supper, and John Mayrant pointed out to me its fine old trees, its placid stream, and bade me admire the snug character of the hunting lodge, buried away for bachelors' delights deep in the heart of the pleasant forest. I heard him indulging in memories and anecdotes of date sittings after long hunts; but I was myself always on a hunt for my beginning, and none of his words clearly reached my intelligence until I was aware of his reciting an excellently pertinent couplet:--
”If you would hold your father's land, You must wash your throat before your hand--”
and found myself standing by the lodge table, upon which he had set two gla.s.ses, containing, I soon ascertained, gin, vermouth, orange bitters, and a cherry at the bottom--all which he had very skillfully mingled himself in the happiest proportions.
”The poetry,” he remarked, ”is hereditary in my family;” and setting down the empty gla.s.ses we also washed our hands. A moon half-grown looked in at the window from the filmy darkness, and John, catching sight of it, paused with the wet soap in his hand and stared out at the dimly visible trees. ”Oh, the times, the times!” he murmured to himself, gazing long; and then with a sort of start he returned to the present moment, and rinsed and dried his hands. Presently we were sitting at the table, pledging each other in well-cooled champagne; and it was not long after this that not only the negro who waited on us was plainly reveling in John's remarks, but also the cook, with her bandannaed ebony head poked round the corner of the kitchen door, was doing her utmost to lose no word of this entertainment. For John, taking up the young and the old, the quick and the dead, of masculine Kings Port, proceeded to narrate their private exploits, until by coffee-time he had unrolled for me the richest tapestry of gayeties that I remember, and I sat without breath, tearful and aching, while the two negroes had retired far into the kitchen to m.u.f.fle their emotions.
”Tom, oh Tom! you Tom!” called John Mayrant; and after the man had come from the kitchen: ”You may put the punch-bowl and things on the table, and clear away and go to bed. My Great-uncle Marston Chartain,” he continued to me, ”was of eccentric taste, and for the last twenty years of his life never had anybody to dinner but the undertaker.” He paused at this point to mix the punch, and then resumed: ”But for all that, he appears to have been a lively old gentleman to the end, and left us his version of a saying which is considered by some people an improvement on the original, 'Cherchez la femme.' Uncle Marston had it, 'Hunt the other woman.' Don't go too fast with that punch; it isn't as gentle as it seems.”
But John and his Uncle Marston had between them given me my beginning, and, as I sat sipping my punch, I ceased to hear the anecdotes which followed. I sat sipping and smoking, and was presently aware of the deepening silence of the night, and of John no longer at the table, but by the window, looking out into the forest, and muttering once more, ”Oh, the times, the times!”
”It's always a triangle,” I began.
He turned round from his window. ”Triangle?” He looked at my gla.s.s of punch, and then at me. ”Go easy with the Bombo,” he repeated.
”Bombo?” I echoed. ”You call this Bombo? You don't know how remarkable that is, but that's because you don't know Aunt Carola, who is very remarkable, too. Well, never mind her now. Point is, it's always a triangle.”
”I haven't a doubt of it,” he replied.
”There you're right. And so was your uncle. He knew. Triangle.” Here I found myself nodding portentously at John, and beating the table with my finger very solemnly.
He stood by his window seeming to wait for me. And now everything in the universe grew perfectly clear to me; I rose on mastering tides of thought, and all problems lay disposed of at my feet, while delicious strength and calm floated in my brain and being. Nothing was difficult for me. But I was getting away from the triangle, and there was John waiting at the window, and I mustn't say too much, mustn't say too much.
My will reached out and caught the triangle and brought it close, and I saw it all perfectly clear again.
”What are they all,” I said, ”the old romances? You take Paris and Helen and Menelaus. What's that? You take Launcelot and Arthur and Guinevere.
You take Paola and Francesca and her husband, what's-his-name, or Tristram and Iseult and Mark. Two men, one woman. Triangle and trouble.
Other way around you get Tannhauser and Venus and Elizabeth; two women, one man; more triangle and more trouble. Yes.” And I nodded at him again. The tide of my thought was pulling me hard away from this to other important world-problems, but my will held, struggling, and I kept to it.
”You wait,” I told him. ”I know what I mean. Trouble is, so hard to advise him right.”