Part 10

“Yes. There was no real danger, only some risk.”

“The deuce there wasn’t,” rather surprised at Paul’s nonchalance.

“I knew you would pick me up. Onset floated, but was nearly a goner when I reached him.”

“What possessed the fellow?”

“I don’t know. He was scared wild when I first saw him, beating his arms about in every direction. That’s what kept him from sinking, even if his head went under at times. Got any more whiskey?”

Paul had been in the water only about half an hour, no longer than during many a previous dip in the surf, but the nervous tension had been severe.

The Doctor took hold of his hands and found the finger tips were merely cold, not blue, and as usual the form and vitality of the hand showed every element of power to give many a good grip yet.

“Ah!” thought the Doctor, “your type can put forth the strenuous effort if your spirit calls for it, and it does sometimes draw upon the physical too much; the best swimmers are for this cause sometimes drowned. Don’t do it again, my boy. When the reaction comes you require stimulants even more than at the time of exertion,” and he again gave Paul the flask.

Mr. Onset was similarly cared for in the other boat. When the two crews came together near the steamer Doctor Wise inquired of the physician in charge what Onset had to say for himself.

“He says he became giddy and fell over. I don’t believe him.”

“H’m,” mused the Doctor, “weak head and hysterical legs--what will he do next?”

Once on board again and the steamer well on her course, the incident produced quite a little sensation, a surface ripple, but very little serious impression.

Paul, in spite of himself, had to gratify curiosity and explain details--how he first caught one of the floating deck stools (“the one I threw over,” said the benign countenance with the woollen hood), then swam towards where he thought Onset might be, and saw his head against the sheen on the water, and then kept his eye on the head while swimming; how it did not seem a long swim, but a little slow after finding a life preserver to tow along; how he managed to get the floats under Onset, after first boxing his ears to keep him quiet, and then ducked into the life preserver himself, “and there we were until the steamer turned head on and the search light became so blinding that I could not see what I could see.”

“Oh, you good boy!” again exclaimed the beaming hooded countenance, who had evidently been reading one of Mr. Frank Stockton’s stories. “Do tell us, is it true, as Miss Frank says, that you wore black stockings to keep off sharks?”

“Trousers, this time, madame--trousers! I really didn’t have time to change.”

* * * * *

“All’s well that ends well,” but with Adele it was not the end, much more the real beginning.

The part she had taken in connection with the case of Onset’s hysteria, her mental activity during the discussion with Mrs. Geyser and the spiritual experience she had just encountered in learning Paul’s decided force of character, made the young woman live and breathe intensely. Her whole being had been brought into play. She developed more during that eventful week of their life in mid-ocean than she might have done in a whole year on land. Not that aught of her past was lost or ignored, but it was made effective and she herself made more completely alive. She was now indeed amid the turmoils of life, where she found herself taking an active part.

The strange and varied motives which actuated many, also the lofty aspirations and the power to act, seemed very similar to her own ideals, far more so than she had expected. This took away some of her own youthful conceit, but gave her a much deeper and stronger appreciation of things as a whole.

Naturally a strong conviction arose within her that two individuals with different characteristics, yet harmonious in purpose, must be able to work better together than alone. She had always felt rather independent as to any methods she chose to adopt, but now she felt herself confronted by a whole series of things she could not do, no matter how good the motive. Paul, for instance, being a man, had done just what she would have liked to do, but could not, being a woman. She felt quite able to have done it--oh, yes; she could dive and swim and keep it up; but somehow, for her to have jumped overboard--well, don’t do it--foolishness--ridiculous. But Paul could--no foolishness, nothing ridiculous; in fact, a praiseworthy act, a reasonable risk, approved by his conscience at the time and eventually strengthening his character. She began to obtain a realizing sense of the complementary equivalent in human nature.

Unavoidably Paul rose higher in her estimation. Twice he had shown himself her equal, perhaps even her superior, not mentally, but somehow in a forcible manner which taxed her spirit as well as her intellect to comprehend. He had once proved how her own vocal accomplishments, so much more highly developed than his, could be in spirit most potent when made subsidiary to the words and sentiment of a song; now he had shown that actions are more convincing than words themselves in spiritual significance. She no longer thought of Paul as like other men, two-sided, one side good and the other--well, not so good; but rather as good all round, a really good man. Being an idealist, she put Paul on a pedestal and took a good look at him. Certainly he was very sensible and brave, also fascinating, now that she saw him in a good light.

This was the state of affairs when the crossing of the Atlantic ended by their entering the Straits of Gibraltar.

XIX

GIBRALTAR APPEARS AND DISAPPEARS

It may seem superfluous to observe that the military spirit dominated every other at “The Gib,” but the ladies of the Cultus party had little idea how forcibly it would affect them until they were behind the guns.

Four regiments were quartered at the station--brilliant uniforms in all directions. Regulation scarlet most in vogue; also “the sporty Rifles,” parti-colored like paroquets, green predominating; also Scotch Highlanders in white and flesh tints of nature. Bands and bag-pipes, fifers and drum corps perambulated the narrow streets--action, color, martial music in the air--the spirit of the place exhilarating at first and its activity contagious.

“Look at those red-breasts, and, oh, dear, how very perky!” exclaimed Miss Winchester, as Tommy Atkins and a group of his chums went by--Tommy had winked at her when passing.

“Come, Paul, fall in! Keep step! We’ll take that battery just ahead.”

“Look before you leap!” cried Adele, laughing.

“Oh, that’s only a military mote in your eye,” laughed Miss Winchester, “soldiers don’t mind a small matter like that----” and she drew the young people off along the crooked street which led to the hotel, Convent (headquarters), Park and Alameda beyond, Professor and Mrs. Cultus following in a carriage. As they looked upward the Rock frowned upon them from a great height, and O’Hara’s Tower appeared near as the bird flies, but a fatiguing ascent for those on foot. At the Signal House flags were fluttering, and with a glass one could distinguish “wig-wagging” in the direction of the Mediterranean, possibly to an approaching steamer many miles distant, on the way from that Far East which they all hoped soon to reach.

Life at “The Gib” not forming an integral part of this narrative, it is enough to recall that during their stop-over between steamers they were fortunate in assisting at a battle upon the neutral-ground, after which they attended a ball at the “Convent.” Our interest just now is to note how well Mrs. Cultus improved her opportunity, especially after visiting Tangiers.

When at home Mrs. Cultus was a busy member in several clubs, all fashionably active in good works. She had a pigeonhole for each particular style of club letter paper, with headings artistically engraved. Among them, “Politely Civil Club,” “Amateurs’ Topographical,” “Domestic Relief Association,” “Cat Home,” and “Old Man’s Depository.” Mrs. Cultus doted on cats and variety in good works, and was determined to prove all things and hold fast to that which is good. In a spasm of zeal previous to her departure she had faithfully promised to report from abroad such of her observations “obtained by travel on the spot,” as might be interesting in connection with the club work at home. It goes without saying that both Gibraltar and Tangiers each proved to be a bonanza to Mrs. Cultus, and she very wisely determined to get rid of the troublesome business at once.

“I know I can write something better than that communication about ‘Tobogganing in St. Petersburg,’ and as to the one on ‘Seesawing in Alaska,’ it was a very trivial production. In civil matters it’s quite as important to know what not to do as what to do, and I certainly do see here on ‘The Gib’ many things highly instructive to Uncle Sam in connection with our new colonies. Now, let me see! Let me arrange my thoughts before writing them out.

“Why, I feel quite an embarrassment of riches” (she repeated it in French): “Gibraltar! certainly the most cosmopolitan region we have yet reached, a perfect conglomeration of diversified interests, and yet they are not at loggerheads; military, also millinery, costumes very important; not so much commercial as confidential; financial, with four kinds of currency; national yet international, geographically considered; diplomatic, aromatic, and ethical; all substantial problems working in harmony--not a gun fired to keep the peace, only for salutes.”

Mrs. Cultus’ finished production proved to be in a style quite unique, what might be called demi-semi-official or colloquial-realistic, with “side tags” to inform the Club in what direction the region might be further “explored.” Of course her full text became part of the archives of the Society, but her opening and closing sentences were in this case so brilliant that the world at large should really have the benefit of their luminosity. No expert in the modern school of English composition had greater appreciation than Mrs. Cultus of the real value of an opening sentence to attract attention in the right direction. What she fired off at the Amateurs’ Topographical thus began:

“We are supposed to be in Europe, en route from America to Asia; as a matter of fact we are in Africa, just across the way. I write from the Café Maure, in order to get the flavor of the place.” With her literary feet thus planted on four continents at once, why, of course the Club knew precisely where she stood, and obtained a glimpse of the habits and customs of the population, also of Mrs. Cultus in particular. Her closing sentence was also a masterpiece, this time of imagery and charming retrospection, all carefully led up to by a vivid description of the Zok or market place; introducing a group of snake-charmers at work charming, fascinating to watch, especially fascinating when the charmers, accompanied by tom-toms and a sana (tambourine), appeared to eat the snakes.

“It was diabolical,” wrote Mrs. Cultus; “I fled, and called the others to escape fascination also. We had enough of the Zok and snakes. Unfortunately, camels were in our way. I had nothing but my parasol to keep the beasts off. No doubt they too had been fascinated by the snakes, for a hubbub arose which completely demoralized the dromedaries. A camel with both humps up and rear legs in the air and his front legs helping him to scream is calculated to make one leave his vicinity unceremoniously. We did, we made our exit--_sans ceremonie_--as I have the profound honor of now doing at the end of this report.”

And the Society sent her a note of appreciation later on for the sincere observation and vivid realism displayed in her graphic report--_noblesse oblige_.

But in the meantime, while the report was on its way home, Mrs. Cultus, when thinking it over, seemed not quite sure as to its effect, in fact rather worried.

“I know,” said she, “that my style embodies that happy medium between dignity and frivolity which is sure to take at the Club, but, oh, just suppose somebody has described Tangiers before!”

Miss Winchester overheard this terrible conjecture with the keen interest of a real member of the literary craft, and naturally came to the rescue of Mrs. Cultus, who was yet a novice.

“Tangiers!--sung about before? Not more frequently than some other good songs.”

“What song are you talking about, Frank? I sang no song.”

“‘Thou art like unto a flower, O Tangiers! so pure, so white,’ et cetera. A Morocco rose by any other name will always smell as sweet.”

“Anyhow, it’s Oriental,” quoth Mrs. Cultus, “and that’s what I’m after just at present.”

Oriental--yes; they had been fascinated by their first glimpse of the Orient and its surfeit of varied impressions. From this time forward Adele was continually looking Eastward with great and increasing eagerness. The shores of the Mediterranean had yet in store for her some experiences quite as forcible as those of the Atlantic mid-ocean, but she knew it not. No doubt this had something to do with her present mood when they came to leave Gibraltar, and she stood with Paul and the Doctor upon deck, watching the disappearance of the Rock.

The steamer took a southerly course when leaving port, heading for the African shore, then bore off towards the Orient, which was the real goal of their voyage. When passing Europa Point the impregnable Rock, with terraced fortifications, loomed up in gigantic proportions; seen edgewise, its decreased width added to the apparent height. Lofty and massive, it was indeed a Pillar of Hercules at the Gateway of the Inland Sea.

The steamer passed into more open waters, the Rock rising higher and higher, as if determined to assert its majesty, no longer a pillar but a column of Victory, a strong and mighty outpost of Europe, an advance guard of that domain which lay behind, a bulwark of defence, a salient point for attack, a formidable diplomatic menace to the nomads of Africa--“Thus far shalt thou go and no farther.” And they sailed onwards, out upon the blue expanse of sea and sky; the landscape receded from view and different objects sank in turn beneath the horizon. The graceful curves of the Iberian coast faded away in the background, the mainland of Europe but a thin line in the distance; the gateway of the Straits soon followed, and the Atlantic, highway to America and home, was lost to sight. There was naught left in what they saw to suggest America.

As the ship sailed on, the sunlight pouring upon the sands of Africa produced a hazy, luminous, rose-tinted mist o’er the Land of the Moors, the mountains of Morocco blended away amid the fleecy clouds in the azure of distance.

And they gazed until the sombre outline of the Rock alone remained, an isolated dot upon the waters. A fisherman’s craft scudded across the open, the Rock was hidden behind a sail. A sea gull flitted along the horizon, the Rock was no larger than a bird. The human eye grew weak in the effort to retain its whereabouts. Could it yet be seen? Yes, it is there--a mere speck in space! No, ’tis gone! Gibraltar had disappeared.

Adele, standing between the Doctor and Paul, clinging to the arms of her good friends, looked dreamily upon the vacancy. In thoughtful silence this vivid experience in life had become but a thing of the past.

XX

THE ARTISTIC SENSE

What is the long and short of it? Art is long, life is short.

After a short tour through Italy, they had reached the Vesuvian Bay. As Mrs. Cultus expressed it, “Heretofore we have been visiting lakes and crypts, ruins and picture galleries, and now at last have met a volcano. It’s really beautiful, I assure you, quite as artistic as in pictures, and set in a frame of landscape which I don’t wonder artists love to paint. I feel just that way myself. Oh, it is so exquisite with these sloping shores! and in the distance that beautiful Island of Capri.”

Capri, the haunt of so many emperors in art as well as in government. Capri, favorite of the imagination, one of the enchanted isles, legendary locality, with its rustic stone ladder to ascend heavenward. Capricious Capri, with its grotto in blue, whereas ordinary mortals would be satisfied with grottoes in green. Picturesque Capri, with rocky foreground, no middle distance whatever, and several Paradises in the background. Mythological Capri, ever under the watchful eye of Minerva of the Promontory. Sportive Capri, with quails on toast, and woodcocks twice a year. Historic Capri, famous to the antiquary and modern economist; infamous, but only in days gone by.

All this appeared very mysterious on the morning that the Doctor looked from Capo da Monti over the Bay of Naples. The island, enveloped in light mist, hung, as it were, in mid-air between sea and sky. Adele and Paul were with him.

“Hazy atmosphere,” remarked the Doctor.

“I see violet tints,” remarked Adele. “I love violets.”

“It looks as if the island had no weight,” said Paul; “it might be blown away by the wind.”

“One of those atmospheric effects,” continued the Doctor, “which some artists portray with great success because much is left to the imagination.”

“Then the other fellow imagines what he likes best; safe, sure plan that; it just suits me,” said Paul. “All the pictures I had in my room at college had a ‘go’ in them, and I imagined what was coming.”

“Happy the artist who has the art of suggestion. It is a rare gift; inborn, I think--the power to make others complete the picture by reading their own best thoughts into it.”

“Some seem to care very little about what they say,” remarked Adele. “I never could understand why they paint a woman looking at herself in a glass; one’s back hair should not be the most conspicuous thing in the picture; and as to those extraordinary soap-bubble-cherubs, they don’t appeal to me, no matter how well they are painted.”

“What sort do you like?” asked Paul the innocent.

“Why, dancing, of course--dancing on one’s knee--that’s the place they would enjoy it most, stretching out their arms in play, not catching flies. Those fly-catching cherubs are just as bad as the bubblers.”

“How much you’re like your mother at times,” thought the Doctor while laughing; then audibly: “You’re right, Adele; art never is very high unless it reaches for something better than catching flies--fleeting impressions.”

“Then from your point of view,” said Paul, “the technical part and the science _per se_ may appeal to the physical and mental only; but if you want a picture to be thought about afterwards, the subject must speak to the spiritual sense.”

“Well, rather!” exclaimed the Doctor, now getting somewhat excited; “and more than that, many a well executed work of art has been utterly forgotten simply because the subject had better be forgotten. Some artists have actually killed their pictures before they first touched brush to canvas.”

Adele appeared to agree to this, but said nothing. Paul was not so loftily mystical in his appreciation.

“Perhaps they belong to the ‘yellow’ school?”

“And have the jaundice themselves?” quoth the Doctor, warming up; “perhaps, for a bad subject is apt to have bad influence. No picture worthy the title of masterpiece endures as such unless it possesses the spiritual element and excites spiritual perception of the right kind. In the final analysis, the higher spiritual element is the salvation of any artistic production. Woe betide the artist who belittles his art by what might be called aspiration towards the low, and thinks to justify it by a perfect technique! That is a false position for a true man; for there is but one art--the Art Divine, which cannot be debased by unworthy association.”

“Of course you mean Music,” said Paul, smiling. “Now you’re off on your hobby; every man thinks his own hobby the best--his art divine. You’re just like ’em all, Doc! Look out! don’t measure everything by your own pocket-rule.” The Doctor paid no attention.

“In other arts than Music,” said he, “the physical association is so intimate and permanent that the artist has increased responsibility in consequence.”

“Then greater achievement when he does succeed,” interrupted Adele.

“Possibly, but not probably,” said the Doctor. “I only referred to music because it furnishes an ideal standard by which to judge of the unlimited power (of course divine, if unlimited) which may be exercised through the artistic sense. For instance, Mozart’s ability to excite pure spiritual aspirations towards the good and true by means of the beautiful in melodic phrase, was, and is (for he is immortal), so great that those who yield themselves to his art are often led to forget even the debased Don Juan (miserable subject), and have pure emotions and beautiful visions suggested by the melodic beauty of the music. One might almost say Mozart’s inspired art awakens the dormant Angel who sleeps within the nature of every man. You know what we find stated in Rau’s ‘Tone King’ about him?”

Adele drew close to listen.

“Mozart, when on the border land, when his lovely spirit so melodious in expression could see upwards even more clearly than around and about him, said something like this:

“‘All work is divine, and raises man above earth. We all love earthly things, but there are higher delights than these. I, too, know something of this higher joy of creating. The faculties God has given me render me happy; but I feel that these powers within me are capable of fuller development in eternity. To think that my power of producing something great and fine could cease just when it begins to rise to the full consciousness of all that might be accomplished, would be to doubt the perfection of Divine Wisdom--perhaps my whole being may be absorbed in one flow of immortal harmony, for the musical spheres within one cannot perish.’”

After a pause, the Doctor asked, with much feeling:

“I suppose you know what all this means?”

“Tell us,” whispered Adele.

“It means that all true art in this life springs from Love Divine, and aids in bringing life and immortality to light.”

As the Doctor said this the sound of a simple, plaintive melody came floating upward toward the crest of the hill on which they stood. Paul went forward to see whence it came.

“Some peasants in the next field; one is singing, another playing a pipe, before a shrine.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the Doctor; “not the first time that shepherds abiding in a field have heard music with a spiritual significance.”

“And neither a Mozart nor very fine art,” remarked Paul.

Adele stood musing, then added, in a subdued voice:

“Yes; it is yet bringing Life and Immortality to Light.”

XXI

AN ARTIST WITH DOUBLE VISION

They were again overlooking the Vesuvian Bay, Capri still in the distance, but more distinct, not unlike a phantom appearing and disappearing as the mist passed by. The intermediate space was much clearer, more light, better definition, as photographers say.

“Paul,” began the Doctor, “you remember George Le Roy, the artist we met at Tarpon Bayou, Florida? He is now at Capri.”

“Good!” exclaimed Paul. “A genius if ever there was one. He takes me a walk out into the country whenever I look at his pictures.”

“‘Art is his religion,’ so he says,” quoth the Doctor. “His palette and his Bible tell the same story, or something like that.”

“I can’t tell exactly why I like his pictures,” said Paul, “but I do.”

“His pictures speak,” said the Doctor; “they echo the Mind of Nature, the Voice, yet he never copies a tree or a cloud. You hear something said to you, yet not a word spoken. Now, Paul, that’s quite as high a flight for the artist as one is apt to find in figure painting.”

“Oh, I can’t agree with you there. The human form requires far greater ability to portray; one must depict action, and emotions, too--in fact, a better draughtsman is required.”

The Doctor took him up.