Part 39 (1/2)

Mr. Bartlett took the proffered chair. He looked about the dim room and could see in outline the machine.

”David has told you something of my invention, I remember and its object,” said Mr. Procter.

”Yes, David has told me,” Mr. Bartlett replied. ”You're attempting a tremendously big thing, Mr. Procter. David told me about the colors and your theory of their meaning.”

”Yes. Did David tell you, too, that my daughter Suzanna produced on the plate of the machine purple and gold? In my book I had written down . . .

'Purple: high talent for writing.'”

Mr. Bartlett hesitated a moment before replying.

”But it hasn't been proven that Suzanna can write. You will have to wait a few years for evidence.”

”True, still she is talented. I may dare say that even though I happen to be her father. She possesses an insatiable curiosity concerning life, the divine birthright of the artist, the creator.”

”Still I'm not convinced that such a machine as David drew for me is possible,” said Mr. Bartlett. ”I can understand that if you place a person in contact with an instrument and proceed to change his circulation by arousing his emotions that chemical change might be registered upon a sensitive plate. But how can a mere machine be so miraculous as to show forth by color or any other method one's 'meaning'? It's too big for my imagination, that's all. There are so many parts that go to make up a human being, so many points in his favor for a certain line of work, so many against it.”

Still the inventor did not speak. And so Mr. Bartlett continued: ”There's a man's state of health, his sympathies, his hereditary tendencies; all to be considered.”

”Well, you see,” Mr. Procter answered at last, ”the elements you enumerate are but results of evolution, of environment, of education, and do not alter the purpose for which the man was born. And that purpose, even though given no chance to work itself out, is so vital a part of the man that it remains an undying flame going on into eternity.”

Mr. Bartlett did not answer.

”Will you let me make a color test of you, Mr. Bartlett?” the inventor asked at length.

”Yes, though I am very skeptical.”

He seated himself before the machine. Mr. Procter let the helmet down till it was just above the subject's head. ”You see no part of the instrument touches you,” he said. ”There's no opportunity to say that chemical changes in the circulation are the cause of the color produced. Now please watch the gla.s.s plate.” Mr. Bartlett did as directed. For some moments the plate remained clear, then rays of color played upon it.

”Green, a rare, soft green,” said Mr. Procter. He went on slowly but without hesitation. ”The color of poetry. That color belongs in one who lies on the gra.s.s and gazes at the sky--and dreams; dreams to waken men's souls with the beauty of his music--a poet, a maker of songs, to uplift, to keep man's eyes from the ground.”

The light faded, the little clicking sound ceased, and yet Mr. Bartlett did not speak. If in his mind there dwelt the memory of an overstuffed drawer with reams of paper covered with verses, he said nothing. His face gave no evidence to the inventor of his thoughts.

At last he roused himself, shrugged his shoulders. ”My dear man,” he said, ”did you ever hear of a poet at heart making a fortune as I have done?”

”It could be done,” returned Mr. Procter sadly, ”even by a poet.”

Mr. Bartlett rose. ”I did not aver,” continued Mr. Procter, ”that you could only be a poet. I said that your real meaning was to give to the world the rare visions which grew in your heart.”

Mr. Bartlett gazed with some astonishment at the machine.

”The day when Suzanna was born, as I stood looking down at her, the thought came winging to me that she had come charged with a purpose which she alone could fulfill. And so was planted the first seed in my mind for the making of my machine.”

Mr. Bartlett spoke again after a silence given to some pondering.

”Still, Procter, have you thought how impractical the machine must prove to be? The world is after all as it is. Suppose a man, a poor young man, has a rare gift. He must eat to live; he may have to support others. How is he going to develop that gift?”

The inventor's face was suddenly filled with a fine light. He laid his hand on Mr. Bartlett's arm. ”There, sir, as I told John Ma.s.sey, is where the capitalist seeking to invest his money in the highest way finds his great chance. He helps that young man to live in comfort while he is developing his talent.”