Part 21 (1/2)

”No,” said Leighton; ”Americans.”

”So!” cried the woman, her face brightening. She turned to the two listening groups. ”They are not English, after all,” she called gaily.

”They are Americans--Americans of New York!”

There was an instant change of the social atmosphere, a buzz of eager talk. The old men and the old women drew near. Then came shy, but eager, questions. Hans, Fritz, Anna were in New York. Could Leighton give any news of them? Each had his little pathetically confident cry for news of son or daughter, and Leighton's personal acquaintance, as an American, was taken to range from Toronto to Buenos Aires.

Leighton treated them like children; laughed at them, and then described gravely in simple words the distances of the New World, the size and the turmoil of its cities.

”Your children are young and strong,” he added, noting their wistful eyes; ”they can stand it. But you--you old folks--are much better off here.”

”And yet,” said an old woman, with longing in her pale eyes, ”I have stood many things.”

Leighton turned to Lewis.

”All old, eh?” he repeated. ”Young ones all gone. Do you remember what I said about this being the best-regulated state on earth?”

Lewis nodded.

”Well,” continued Leighton, ”a perfectly regulated state is a fine thing, a great thing for humanity. It has only one fault: n.o.body wants to live in it.”

Two days later they reached Heidelberg and, on the day following, climbed the mountain to the Konigstuhl. They stood on the top of the tower and gazed on such a sight as Lewis had never seen. Here were no endless sands and thorn-trees, no lonely reaches, no tropic glare. All was river and wooded glade, harvest and harvesters, spires above knotted groups of houses, castle, and hovel. Here and there and everywhere, still spirals of smoke hung above the abodes of men. It was like a vision of peace and plenty from the Bible.

Lewis was surprised to find that his father was not looking at the scene. Leighton was bending over such a dial as no other spot on earth could boast. Its radiating spokes of varying lengths pointed to a hundred places, almost within the range of sight--names famous in song and story, in peace and in war. Leighton read them out, name after name.

He glanced at Lewis's puzzled face.

”They mean nothing to you?” he asked.

Lewis shook his head.

”So you're not quite educated, after all,” said Leighton.

They descended almost at a run to the gardens behind the Schloss. As they reached them a long string of carriages drove up from the town.

They were full of tourists, many of whom wore the enameled flag of the United States in their b.u.t.tonholes. Some of the women carried little red, white, and blue silk flags.

Lewis saw his father wince.

”Dad,” he asked, ”are they Americans?”

”Yes, boy,” said Leighton. ”Do you remember what I told you about the evanescent spirit in art?”

Lewis nodded.

”Well,” said Leighton, ”a beloved flag has an evanescent spirit, too.

One shouldn't finger carelessly the image one would adore. That's why I winced just now. Collectively, we Americans have never lowered the Stars and Stripes, but individually we do it pretty often.” Then he threw up his head and smiled. ”After all, there's a bright side even to blatant patriotism. A nation can put up with every form of devotion so long as it gets it from all.”

”But, Dad,” said Lewis, ”I thought all American women were beautiful.”