BOOK III

1

It took some years to become a “rich fool,” but Garrison accomplished it. He had no business ability, at least that is what he told people, and honestly believed it; how could he? he had never been in business. He thought it well over, and became what he had always condemned in others--a gambler. He risked every dollar he had, and all he could borrow in hazardous real estate speculations. It was touch and go many times, as the values rose and fell. They called him “Lucky Garrison”; he knew better, but there was a grim satisfaction in his success. He realized as he had learnt to manipulate money that a man can attain nothing without it. Other “big” interests developed. Every bit of his energy came into play; there was always some interesting thing coming up, which led to great connections, such as international finance and the like. New “deals” got to be a necessary physical tonic, like a cocktail before dinner, and a strong cigar and black coffee after....

* * * * *

He scanned the morning paper at the breakfast table, looking carefully over the financial news and rate of exchange.

“We are sailing into prosperous times,” said he to Julie. He was an optimist, like all good American millionaires. Julie had no opinion, she smiled.

As Dr. McClaren predicted, her religious mania passed off--she was now deeply interested in Art, a patroness of the Museum, and much sought after by budding talent. Floyd encouraged this “mania”; it was harmless. There was a busy day before him, a big deal to close; he was in a hurry to get to his office. She went with him to the door. He looked up at the imposing staircase and beautiful Tiffany glass window. He hated it once; how could he have been so prejudiced? It was all in the very best of taste, Julie was perfectly framed in it.

“I’ll meet you at the Museum about five o’clock; we’ll drive around for an hour. I forgot to tell you, I’ve invited some men to dinner; it’s business. Do you mind?”

Julie smiled again.

“Oh, no!”

With a sudden impulse he took her hand.

“Are you happy, Julie?”

She looked at him; what made him ask that?

“Oh yes!--I have every reason to be.”

“Is there anything I can buy for you?”

“Nothing.”

She stood watching him drive off and waved her hand. It was well-known in their circle that the Garrisons were a very devoted couple.

Floyd leaned back in the car, puffing at a cigar. The years had changed him; the sensitive boy had become a man of affairs, a Capitalist. He was very sane; his Puritan instincts rebelled against the rioting emotions of the Latins. His life was made up of facts and figures; ultimately he would have become an image of clay, like his father’s statues, but there was a secret element of his life, of which no one had the slightest clue. The Past had ceased to torture him; it became a consolation. He lived over and over again the Romance of his youth, the agony, the passion, his first years with Julie, the rage of the murderer, the whole tragedy, but it didn’t hurt him now; Martin was dead, forgiven. We count the years we have lived to know how old we are--correct mathematics, but our age corresponds to other numbers. Heart swings are the rhythm of our seasons, recording in spiritual time, the real life.

The car stopped in Twelfth Street. Floyd jumped out, stood for a moment looking up at the imposing twenty-story office building which he had erected on the site of his old home. It had rented well. There was not a room empty. He had retained an office for himself on the third floor. He sat down to his desk, read his mail. He was about to sell the building--the psychological moment had come to “turn it over” and get a handsome profit. He never kept any real estate very long. New York neighborhoods change and values fluctuate. Then it occurred to him quite suddenly that the room in which he sat was about the height of his father’s workshop in the little house where he was born. There was no emotion, but it was strange he had never thought of it before. He looked at the heavy safe, the walls lined with repositories, where contracts were kept--and saw--clay images. He looked down at his desk; it was littered with old rags, bits of arms, legs--a young man, with an agonized face, dropped a candle.

He smiled. What courage youth has! It was well done. The home of his childhood was still his; he had not desecrated it. He saw Mary flying past him up the stairs; she had become a world figure, the head of an international organization of nurses. When Julie’s “headaches” came on, Mary was always there. He’d go softly to the door and wait; he didn’t knock; he knew she’d come out.

“Mrs. Garrison is much better; I’m sure she’ll be all right in the morning.” Then the worn face, dim eyes, streaked hair would vanish. She stood again at the window in her bare room, where they had loved each other for a moment.

The telephone at his elbow startled him. Julie’s voice--would he order some flowers for the dinner table.

“Certainly, and a bunch for you. Anything else?”

“Yes,” her tone became confidential. “What wine do you want served?--are the gentlemen heavy drinkers?”

“No, but they’ll take all you give them.”

He dropped the receiver, smiling. How eager he used to be to do all those small errands! the night of their house-warming--he drank too much. That Swede was a nice man. The den on the top floor was hung now with maps of suburban towns, new fields for speculation; he spent many evenings poring over them. Somehow his business mind always worked well up there in that room where a man was murdered by his wife.

The stenographer put a paper before him. He started, came back to reality; it was a bill of sale and very satisfactory.

“I’ll close the deal tonight.”

Then he commenced searching in an old desk for some papers he wanted, and came across a sealed envelope; on it was written “Boodle.”

Boodle? What did it mean? He broke the seal and took out three five-dollar bills.

Tom Dillon! He had quite forgotten him, but he had a vague idea that he owned a Taxi Company, and was strong in local politics.

He put back the fifteen dollars, resealed the envelope, and wrote on it, “The foundation of the Garrison fortune.” He would give the story to his publicity man--how an impoverished son of wealth started in life by earning fifteen dollars as a chauffeur. Tom Dillon! was the real thing. What _was_ the real thing? Had _he_ found it? or was he chasing phantoms? He had that feeling sometimes, in his most successful moments; it was a queer sensation, as if he had caught a thing of vapor that melted out of hand and challenged him again from far off--and again that shadow race!

He thought often of Tom Dillon after that, and one election night he saw him in the crowd, with a fine young fellow, the image of his father; they were laughing and nudging each other like two boy friends. Floyd shook off a feeling of loneliness and got out of their way.

2

Julie was recovering from an attack which left her mentally exhausted. She lay back in the sedan, her deep-rimmed eyes like smouldering coals. She arrived at the Museum an hour before the time agreed on with Floyd, wandered through the rooms, making notes about the hanging and grouping of new pictures. There was a small canvas in a corner which she thought was somewhat crowded in. She asked about it. It had been received very recently and was not yet catalogued. “Yes, it was badly hung.”

She sank down on a divan before the picture--a Swiss landscape, with a mountain background sloping down to a grassy plateau; below, a bank of mist, through which could be distinguished an old chapel, with a broken cross on top. In a corner, hardly visible to the naked eye, she read, “Val Sinestra,” and underneath, two letters, M. S.

She bent nearer, looking eagerly into the picture. Was it her imagination! or did she really see a shadowy outline of a man with a white figure in his arms? Martin! Martin! with flaming eyes, distorted face!--desperate! mad!

“A charming picture, isn’t it? like a Corot. It’s the first of this artist, he’s not known in America.”

It was a member of the committee who spoke. Then Floyd came up and introduced his business friends. She smiled, asked them if they had seen some gems in the next room, and led them away from that picture in the corner.

On arriving home she went through the house looking for something and finally found it, hidden away on a top shelf covered with dust; it was a small glass vase with a delicate stem. The engraving was beautiful like a white mist over it. The butler washed it and held it up to the light; colors flashed through it.

“It’s Bohemian glass, Madame. It will break easily.”

“No! It’s very strong, I’ve had it a long time.”

She put it on her bed-table, with a dark red rose in it. From that time the “headaches” were less frequent, the ravings about punishment ceased. Mary said to the doctor:

“I think she’s getting over those horrible nightmares.”

“I’m glad of that,” said the doctor wearily. He himself was suffering from an attack of nerves. He was getting old, and the hives of human bees he cared for didn’t always contain honey. They stung him at his patients’ table, at births, at marriages; at deaths, less so--that was a release. He fought them with his Scotch tenacity, but they grew too much for him. Finally he got rid of them by retiring from active practice and putting the whole “bunch” without names or dates, into a book on psychical research, which became celebrated.

Julie devoted much time to her boy--took him in her car every morning to St. John’s College, called for him in the afternoon, preached religion to him at home, warned him of the great evils which arise from lack of it. She had been very negligent in her youth, and was punished for it. Religion was a great consolation.

He listened to her with deference. He was extraordinarily gifted and devoured everything he could lay his hands on in the way of serious reading. His father was proud of him, but there was a growing sense of uneasiness about his religious studies. He saw little of the boy, who spent his evenings in his own room, filled with books he had bought himself in the old book shops. Floyd couldn’t understand them. The maps which hung on the walls of his den were more intelligible.

A distant cousin of Julie’s came to America ostensibly on business. The Bank, taken over by the family, had grown enormously rich under American management. Mr. Gonzola was highly cultured--a dark, handsome man with white hands and long tapering fingers. He was delighted with the boy and his knowledge of international literature. He found him reading Renan.

“That’s forbidden, isn’t it?”

The boy answered with a gleam of humor.

“Not forbidden, but not taught. I read all they recommend in school, and all they forget, out of it.”

Then came a letter from Father Cabello to Julie. He was very glad to hear that everything continued to be so satisfactory with her. The wonderful gifts of her boy interested him; he saw in his genius the hand of God leading him into the Divine path. They must decide now about his career.

Julie handed the letter to Floyd, who read it carefully and understood its hidden significance.

“This means the priesthood.”

“Yes,” said Julie, “but don’t speak of that to Joseph.”

That evening at dinner, she said:

“Joseph, would you like to go to Rome to visit Father Cabello?”

The boy’s eyes lit up.

“Oh yes, it’s the dream of my life. And--I would like to go to Vienna, to see your people.”

Mr. Gonzola spoke quietly, his arm around the boy.

“Let me take him, Julie. I promise you there will be no influence. Our family has been split into different religious camps for generations; those who have remained true to their faith have made no effort to bring the others back. We do not proselytize. The missionary is unknown to us.”

Julie hesitated, looked at Floyd; it was a great responsibility. The boy was bending over eagerly watching his father, who decided quickly, as was his way in business. His theory was, when a man weighs the pros and cons of an enterprise, the difficulties grow so great that he generally ends in not undertaking it. He would give the boy his chance; he was old enough now to decide for himself.

“Go with Mr. Gonzola,” said Floyd.

The boy flung his arms around his father; “I will do what is right!”

“I’m sure you will, my boy,” answered Floyd. At that moment he caught sight of Julie’s face reflected in the mirror; it was lit by a quick flash of joy.

3

When Father Cabello received a letter from Julie informing him Joseph had sailed with a Gonzola, he proceeded at once to counteract any possible “baleful” influence. He communicated with the Catholic members of the family in Vienna, hinting that the boy was destined for the church. This branch of the Gonzolas were devout Catholics, generations old; they welcomed Joseph affectionately and brought him as early as possible to Rome. There he remained for some time, a member of Father Cabello’s household, coming and going at will. The priest watched, waited; the mind of the boy was not yet ripe for decision.

Joseph was dazzled with his first glimpse of the Pagan City--its remains of Hellenic civilization; the pomp and splendor of its churches; the Cardinals in their decaying palaces, clinging to the traditions of the Past; the art of the great Masters, those faithful servants of the Church, with their wonderful portrayal of legendary religion. The unearthly beauty of their divine types, fired the boy’s imagination, stimulated him like rich wine, tasted for the first time, taken again in long draughts until his senses reeled. The people fascinated him with their magnetism, their emotional sensuality, their worship of women, symbolized in the Blessed Virgin and Child; their passions--jealousy, hate, revenge, repentance. He roamed day after day through the streets, sat for hours in the churches listening to the chanting of the priests, with a pleasant sense of drowsiness, like the after effects of a narcotic. He followed the processions of monks, pilgrims, peasants, into churches, away from churches, sprinkling with holy water, kissing burnt pieces of sacred wood--and always that music! Oh! that music! swelling in waves of overpowering sadness from the throats of unsexed men--the terrible sweetness of it, sucking him down into the waters of oblivion, of self-deception; the soul in safety, interceded for, the load of personal responsibility fallen away, care-free on earth, secure of Heaven, an unutterable sense of rest from that torturing brain which keeps persecuting with its unceasing cry, “Think while ’tis day, for the night cometh when no man can think.”

In moments of realization, he would say to the priest, “Father, I am going to Vienna; I must go.” The priest did not keep him back. The boy must live through the inevitable experience of intoxication, reaction, submission. He was travelling smoothly; he would arrive safely.

4

When Joseph went from Rome to Vienna to visit the Gonzolas, he was in a state of mental unrest and indecision. The artist in him shrank from activity. He was very sensitive; he couldn’t bear pain, disappointment. The Church would be a shelter from the materialism of the world. It would be ideal to work for the poor. The garb of piety appealed to his imagination--a priest walking among the wretched, the persecuted, the unhappy, giving everything, his material wealth, himself, living a simple contemplative life. The beauty of it all still remained with him, keeping him in a semi-intoxicated emotional state. He thought of the works of immortal art created in the quiet of the cloister. He was sorely tempted, not by the flesh like St. Anthony, but by the spirit and the longing for release from a leaden sense of responsibility.

“If not that, what?” He saw nothing for him in the future. His father had at least the satisfaction of success. He himself had created his capital. It was a game, like racing, roulette, politics--a game, life a game! what else? what else?--It was all so ugly; the yearning for beauty came again, he was sorely tempted....

Mr. Gonzola’s wife and three daughters were models of domesticated womanhood. Their home was very modern, with just enough of the idealism of religion to give it spiritual charm. The girls were well educated, practical women, keenly alive to the responsibility of their wealth, full of enthusiasm and hope for the future of the world. They received Joseph with great cordiality, helped him perfect his German, and were silently sympathetic toward his unsettled spiritual condition of mind.

Mrs. Gonzola was one hundred per cent maternal: she mothered her husband, her daughters, her friends, her poor, and any stray animal who instinctively came to her for shelter. Joseph was her life’s crowning joy, the realization of a hope long dead--a son! She found him too thin, too pale; poor boy, he had never known the cuisine of Israel, the finest in the world. No Cordon-bleu can equal the Jewish mother, who cooks with the subtlety and cleanliness of religious tradition and puts into her cakes the honey of love. This healthy sane atmosphere was a good tonic for Joseph’s over-excited mind.

Mr. Gonzola’s ethics were very simple. He kept the two principles of life wide apart, and gave “to God what was His, to men, what was theirs.” He was an able man of business, and did not consider a good bargain with legitimate profit, ungodly. Sometimes he had an uneasy feeling; the religious ground was slipping like sand from under his feet. He said to Joseph with a sigh:

“I do not live up to ritual laws as strictly as I should. My daughters won’t let me; but I am going to take you to Frankfort to visit the head of the family, Pedro Gonzala, who has preserved the original spelling of our name and the tradition of our ancestors. In his home you will see pure orthodoxy, but--don’t forget the responsibility is on my shoulders. I have given my word to your mother--and I want to keep it--if possible.”

Joseph laughed. Mr. Gonzola was an honest man.

5

The family of bankers, with branches all over the world, were assembled this year in Frankfort. Pedro Gonzala, despite his great age, was consulted about every detail by the “young” men of the firm, from fifty years old and upward. The “children” under fifty stood meekly silent, and listened to warnings against the ardor of youth and the temptation of speculative times. The house of Gonzola had braved many storms, was sometimes drawn into international financial catastrophes, but it had always kept its honor unimpeached and continued to live up to its reputation as creditors of the world. These cold men of finance led a dual existence. When they stepped over the thresholds of their palatial homes, the world outside was forgotten. They lived their religious life with extreme exactness. Their wives and daughters were faithful to the Law, in their domestic life, their marriage life, and in the education of their children. They were the remains of a vanishing caste, which lived upon its own fanaticism.

When Joseph first met Pedro Gonzala in his private office, he saw a very old man wearing a black silk skull cap, otherwise well groomed and modern in appearance. He was seated at his desk, surrounded by the members of the firm who listened to him with great respect.

The “old gentleman” came to business every day in his carriage, although he had many cars but was never known to ride in them. He was interested in the breeding of horses, frequented the races, and patronized art, music, and the theatre. Most of his time was devoted to philanthropic enterprises, but he kept a firm hand on the ship of finance, of which he remained until the end of his life the undisputed head.

He questioned Joseph about his mother, remarking upon the success of the Gonzola bank in New York. He knew all about “lucky Garrison” who had shown himself very able. He invited Joseph to dinner at his home.

The Gonzala mansion was sheltered from the gaze of the curious, by a closely planted row of very old trees, whose entwined branches symbolized the unity of the family, a treasure-house of antiques, from all parts of the world--collected with taste and discernment by each succeeding generation. The picture gallery was celebrated for its rare masterpieces. Joseph took great delight in a corner of family portraits. But the most cherished treasure of Pedro Gonzala’s home was Ruth, his granddaughter, just approaching womanhood; she was all that was left of his immediate family. The World War had swept the younger men away. He had lived ten years longer than the allotted Biblical time; he was life-worn, but before he went to his long rest, his little Ruth must be married to a righteous man, a student of the Talmud, and--of _equal birth_. Such a one was difficult to find.

Pedro Gonzala stood in the grand salon surrounded by beautiful dark-eyed women and serious men of finance. He welcomed Joseph in the name of the family, as a great grandson of that learned man and deep thinker, Joseph Abravanel, who fought with all his strength against the wave of assimilation which had engulfed his immediate family.

“You, my boy, are in the third generation of those who were led away from the old tradition; it is not your fault, but no student or thinker can afford to neglect the study of a race which gave to the world the first revelation of one God. Hebrew thought, in its inception, its ethics, its morals, is the pure wine of religion; in America, they have thinned it with the water of reform, and put it into fine-looking bottles with gold labels.”

There was a ripple of applause; the old gentleman told his little jokes like an actor, expecting response, which the family gave at the proper time; then he related the oft-repeated story of his youth, when his dear Sarah, “God rest her soul,” was alive. He led the boy before a portrait painted by Rembrandt, representing a stately, handsome matron. At a ball in Paris, given to them by the diplomats and aristocrats of France, there were rumors of war, and much disquietude. He himself was absent, called away to a serious Cabinet consultation. The guests crowded about Mrs. Gonzala, who was gracious and smiling.

“Are you not worried, Madame?” asked a celebrated diplomat.

“Oh! No,” laughed Mrs. Gonzala. “I am certain there will be no war, because I will not permit my husband to lend the money for it.”

Ruth stepped daintily down the marble staircase. Her grandfather had bade her array herself. It was a gala occasion--the reunion of the family, and a welcome to a young Gonzola from America. Around her neck were rows of costly pearls; diamonds sparkled in her hair; she wore a cape of ermine, a young queen of an old dynasty--an inheritance of beauty and purity. She put out her hand to Joseph, and said “Welcome, cousin Joseph”--raising her face to his. He bent down and kissed her cheek; they stood looking at each other, speechless. The women nudged each other. “What an ideal couple they might have been”--it was a great pity.

The long dinner table was a beautiful picture with its service of gold, priceless glass and fine linen, and the Patriarchal figure at its head. Ruth sat beside him.

“I am dazzled,” said Joseph, “such lovely women, such jewels, such wealth.”

“We are not wealthy,” answered Ruth, “because it is a principle of the family to give away a large part of its income, and you will see that we live very simply; but tonight all this is in your honor. Our jewels, furs, laces have come down to us from generations back; our home and pictures can never be sold, unless the business goes under, and that will never happen.”

“I hope not,” said Joseph, “it has meant too much to the world; but all these jewels must have been bought once.”

“Oh, yes, in the times of the Ghetto, when the Jews were not allowed to own real estate--so they bought jewels and hung them around the necks of their wives who wore them in secret and gave them to their daughters and daughters’ daughters. This has an interesting history.” She touched a necklace of shining, pink, living things lying against her white skin. “When the Romans separated Queen Berenice from her kingly lover, the last thing he did was to throw these pearls around her neck. She went back to her own dominion and the pearls after her death became the property of the Temple. We have had them in our family for many generations.”

He bent down to examine the pearls, but his gaze stopped at her soft dark eyes.

“And you will give them to your daughter?”

“Yes,” said Ruth, “but I don’t think I shall ever marry.”

“Why--” insisted Joseph.

“Because,” her voice dropped, he bent lower to listen, “I can only marry one of my own faith; they are all dying out. They have forgotten their ancestry.”

6

Father Cabello had reached the zenith of his earthly ambition, the Cardinalate. He had easily won in the race for advancement--a man of wealth and winning personality. The magic word “America” gave him prestige; it was a sign of goodwill to the church in the United States. The priest was generally beloved, his doors were always open to the poor, to whom he gave liberal hands; they crowded the steps of his house, penetrated into his apartments. All efforts of his attendants to keep them away was futile.

“Let them in,” said the Father, “they will be my future associates, ‘for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.’”

His secretary, a member of an old patrician family, shrugged his shoulders; his unspoken thought was, “if I have to live with them in Heaven, I hope I’ll never die.”

The Cardinal had been confined to his room for some days with an attack of weakness, the result of an overtaxed heart. The doctor said to him, “Your Eminence, you must shun all excitement--no more receptions, no more arduous night work, no activity of any kind.”

The Cardinal smiled, “That would be premature death; I must take my chances. But at present I cannot work; I have no strength.”

His new honors had not changed his mode of living. His _palazzo_, a relic of past grandeur, was simply furnished with only the necessary chairs and tables, and completely bare of drapery or superfluous decorations. The Roman sun flooded his rooms through the high-arched windows. The garden of boxwood hedges and old trees was beautiful and fragrant; he could stand on his terrace and see the cupolas and innumerable spires of the city of churches, and listen to the bells pealing--now soft, caressing, pleading--now loud, harsh, commanding--those eternal bells that have welcomed into the world, and followed out of it, millions of souls.

The Cardinal sat in his private apartment. His fingers tapped nervously on the polished wood of the table upon which was a dish of fruits--figs, honey, and a silver jug of iced water--a habit he had brought from the land of his adoption. He was waiting for Joseph. In the excitement of his new honors, weeks had passed with only now and then the accustomed epistolary greetings, but the time was approaching to speak of the future. If he could realize his plan, thought out in every detail, this boy would inherit his wealth, would carry on his work among the poor.

A spasm of agony turned his lips blue, his face livid. He quickly dropped a tablet into a glass of water and swallowed it. The unbearable pain slowly subsided; the brain moved again.

“If God would be merciful and let him live to see the boy ordained.”

A flash of determination, of invincible Will. Yes, it would be! It must be! He forgot the dark-cornered room; he saw the cathedral, the procession of priests, the young divine. Why didn’t the boy come? He was eager to stamp his plan with the seal of realization. A shaft of sunlight shooting through the window struck the chair opposite him. His sick heart bounded. Seated there he saw his old friend and enemy, Joseph Abravanel. He slowly made his way to the chair, passing his hand over it; it was empty. His thought had conjured up a momentary vision. How often had they sat like that, opposite each other at a table set with fruit and wine, the long evening passing like a flash over the chess board which became symbolical of the spiritual struggle between them. The tenacity of that old man, who would not give up hope, even after the conversion of his daughter!

“You have won this time, but there is the next generation.”

When Julie was born, he was cheated again in this game for souls; but he would not give in, “God’s chosen people cannot die; they may lose the path, but they will find it again; they will come back in the third generation.”

A spasm of fear convulsed the priest. Joseph Abravanel had the prophetic clairvoyance of his race. No! No! The boy was a good, faithful child of the Church, a believer in the true Faith.

He glanced again at the chair opposite; again he met those eyes long extinct--spirit eyes.

The servant announced, “Joseph Abravanel Gonzola Garrison.”...

Joseph threw himself with a gush of irresistible love into the old man’s arms; then, remembering, he dropped on his knees and kissed the ring of His Eminence. The Cardinal raised him, looking long into that mobile face aglow with the joy of life.

“Sit down, Joseph, we have much to talk over. No! no! not there, here.”

He pointed to a chair close beside him; there were three now at the table--indomitable spirits; one, invisible.

The Cardinal felt his way, asked about the family; he had not heard from Julie for some time.

“Oh, Mother is a bad correspondent, but if I miss a mail she cables.” His laughter rang through the high-vaulted room. “Father wants me to go into the banking business; the Gonzolas think I have talent for it.”

He was peeling an apple, careful not to break the ring; the Cardinal noticed his long tapering fingers, his white hands.

“Well, what do you think about it?”

The boy’s eyes shot a mischievous gleam.

“Our great ancestor on my father’s side was a baker, on my mother’s side they added a letter to it, and it became banker. Now if it is true that the third generation goes back, I think I’d rather make cakes than money.”

The Cardinal laughed; the boy’s merriment was contagious. Then he grew grave again.

“My son, there is something in each generation which belongs neither to the Past nor the Present, but to the Future; it is God’s will working in us. The time has come to tell you of my wishes for you. I want you to continue my work, to take up the staff of Divine Duty, to lay upon the altar of renunciation the great gifts bestowed upon you by an All-Seeing God; you will give your youth, your manhood, your old age, to save those helpless souls who need your intercession, your spiritual support. You will one day succeed me in Rome; it has been my only earthly dream, ever since I held you as an infant in my arms. My time is short; I want to see you enter upon the path before I die.”

The boy was on his feet, his face quivering with grief, the tears streaming from his eyes.

“No, no; you must not die! I love you! I love you! If I could prolong your life for one hour I would give my right hand.”

He held it up, firm, strong, beautiful. The Cardinal’s imagination played him a trick again. He saw another white hand held up, old, feeble, trembling; the light shone through it.

The boy’s heart was heavy--that beloved face before him, with the pallor of death on it. How could he say what he must?...

“I have thought long and deeply of your wishes for me. I cannot! I cannot! There is something in me that rebels against the chastisement of the flesh. I don’t want to think always of death, to pray always; I want to work, I want to live. No one can intercede for me; I can intercede for no one. Each must work out his own salvation. The old world is spiritually decaying; the young must be the pioneers of a new world. We must tear down and dig and set the stones of a new foundation, and those who come after us will build. The Future will see miracles; the human being will awaken to the truth, that he himself is God.”

“Stop! Blasphemer!” The old man broke into choking sobs. “Joseph! Joseph! I am responsible for your soul’s salvation; this is all madness! You will repent when it is too late.”

“Father! it hurts me to give you pain, but it is impossible. I cannot! I cannot!”

The Cardinal was cold to the soul--his boy, his heart’s idol, a heretic, an infidel; the stripling was strange to him, standing there with a look in his face of iron determination. He would break that will; he must!

“You do not know what you are doing. You are too young. You have been influenced by that old sophisticated fox, Pedro Gonzala. I fought a greater man than he and won; I will fight again--I will save you, as I saved your mother.”

“No! No! They have not influenced me. I have given up dogma, I will not be chained again by ritual, I will not be a mummy wrapped in the superstition of past ages. I am a living, thinking being. I am free! free!”

The priest’s eyes went past him to that shadowy figure, looking down now, as it had so often done in life, at a chess board on the table, fingering the pieces, moving, removing, trying new combinations. Neither had won; it was a drawn game;--stalemate. With a low moan he sank back in his chair.

The boy gave a cry of terror.

“Father, speak to me! Speak to me!”

The priest heard him not. He had renounced this world for the glory of the next. He was going to his reward, where there would be no dogma, no ritual, no religion.

A terrible fear clutched the boy. He looked about despairingly. He was forsaking the shelter of those old walls. He had stripped himself bare. He must go out naked to meet the stones of the Philistines. He threw himself down before the beloved guide of his childhood, sobbing out his love, his loneliness.

“Come back! Come back! Don’t leave me! I am afraid, afraid!”

He called in vain; those wonderful dreams--the hope of immortality, the joy of Heaven--would never come back; they had gone into the past, like that still form, deaf to his entreaties, to his cries--gone forever!

7

Mr. Garrison was getting into his coat in the hall; it was after nine.

“Good-bye, Julie, I’m off.”

Her answer came from above.

“Don’t go yet. I want to speak to you; it is something important.”

With a suppressed feeling of impatience, he took off his coat and went up the stairs. He wondered how much Julie would ask for. She was very extravagant. He was surprised to find her waiting at the door of the sitting-room for him. She had slipped out of bed and thrown on a filmy wrapper; he was struck anew by her youthfulness. Her skin was like satin. She was forty and could easily be taken for ten years younger; but her beauty had ceased to disturb him. It was an accepted fact, like his luck in business.

As he bent to kiss her, she noticed his hair was getting thin on the top. He would soon be bald.

He dropped down on the sofa beside her.

“You looked tired this morning; didn’t you sleep well?” said Julie.

“As well as usual.”

Floyd’s mind was overstrained; his accumulating interests kept him on a severe tension. His eyes troubled him and he wore strong owl-like spectacles framed in tortoise shell which gave him a look of comic solemnity. He didn’t tell Julie how very badly he slept; his many speculations took gibbering forms and danced around his pillow. He spent whole nights in his den, where a man had “sweated blood.” He was beginning to feel the significance of that expression. At first the thought of possessing a million made his head reel, now he laughed at his modest pretensions. Desire grows until it ceases to be servant and becomes master. He hunted gain like a gambler who risks his last dollar. Envious competitors said, “Garrison’s getting to be a skin-flint; he’d sell his soul for money.”

It came back to him from a friend; he wasn’t annoyed, but wondered in a vague way if it were really true.

When the news arrived of Cardinal Cabello’s sudden death and Joseph’s decision, Julie took it very hard; she spent days in the convent praying for her son’s soul.

Floyd consulted with Dr. McClaren.

“She’ll get over it. It’s only a temporary disturbance. A bit of good news now will set her all right again. And how are you, Mr. Garrison? My medicine worked well, I see.”

“Oh! yes,” said Floyd, “but times are bad--a man must be careful how he invests his money.”

“That never troubles me; I haven’t any to invest.”

“You’ve been a successful doctor, haven’t you?”

“I hope so.”

The trouble with Dr. McClaren was that his bills were ridiculously small.

“He underestimates his own ability,” said Floyd to Julie. “A man must set the price of his life’s work, and as he appraises himself, the world values him.”

“I have a letter from Joseph,” answered Julie.

“So have I; he keeps me well posted on complications abroad; I am sure, if he will only get down to it, he’ll make a first-class financier.”

This was Floyd’s ambition for his son.

She took a letter from the table beside her. It was long, covering many sheets of paper.

“The Gonzalas have been very good to him; he is in much better spirits. It was terrible, that struggle with His Eminence. I would have given in.”

She always thought now of Cabello as “His Eminence,” in glittering robes, sparkling with jewels.

“Yes,” said Floyd. “You always gave in. That was the trouble.” He turned to go.

“Stop a moment; you must hear this.”

He pushed away the call of business; he would rather have read it himself, when he found time, at luncheon perhaps. He hated to be read to. He couldn’t concentrate; his mind wandered off in figures. She read in a low voice very rapidly, stopping now and again; he knew she was skipping something; he wasn’t offended. He had always felt like a third party, and thought of Joseph as “Julie’s boy.” It was an interesting letter written in picturesque metaphors, just the way Julie’s mother used to speak, thought Floyd. The boy told of his many visits to Frankfort, and of closer acquaintance with Pedro Gonzala, and his granddaughter. They had given a costume ball to celebrate her sixteenth birthday.

“A costume ball--that’s rather sporty,” remarked Floyd. He had in mind those French masquerades given in his youth, where Martin danced the Can-Can with indecent French women.

“Oh, no,” answered Julie, “listen; Joseph explains it.

“This was a ball, where the family personated their ancestors, the portraits in the gallery. Ruth took me around, told me their history for generations back. Wonderful, so full of struggle, tragedy, romance. I couldn’t hear enough of it!”

“It didn’t affect me like that--those portraits you sent away gave me a cold chill.”

“They were not your ancestors,” said Julie with a touch of sarcasm. Then she went on reading.

“They called one of the portraits ‘the unhappy Pedro Gonzala,’ because he was an illegitimate son. That was Grandfather! I couldn’t tear myself away from him; he had such brave defiant eyes. Dearest Mother, I think it is a great injustice to brand a human being like that. There is nothing illegitimate in Nature. I’d rather be the child of love, than of calculation born in wedlock.”

Floyd frowned.

“I don’t approve of those views. I’m afraid the boy is catching European radicalism.”

Julie didn’t answer; she was absorbed in the letter. Floyd looked at his watch and jumped up.

“Wait, wait, it is not finished.

“Mother, I’ve written you often about Ruth, but I’m sure you don’t know what she is like. When I am with her, I’m afraid to look at her, and when I’m away, I can’t imagine how she looks. She’s something indescribable. Mother, I have fought with all my might against her, because I knew it was hopeless, but when she said she loved me, I went straight to her grandfather. I told him about the struggle with my conscience and our dear friend’s sudden death--he was very much moved, and put his hand over my head and blessed me; then I took courage and asked him for Ruth. He was silent a long time before he answered. I could see he was thinking deeply. Then he said: ‘The uncompromising adherence of our people to the Law in the days of the Ghetto preserved the virility of the Race; but today our blood is in the veins of the world. That obstinate orthodoxy with which we are reproached has saved us from being swept away in a great tidal wave of assimilation. Come to us! We will leave you free in all worldly matters, but you must live according to our ritual, you must worship in our synagogue, you must bring up your children in our tradition. You will realize as you get older the righteousness of my demands.’”

Floyd was annoyed.

“They _will_ keep harping on those future generations. How can we lay down the law for our grandchildren; they’ll know a lot more than we do.”

Julie evidently didn’t agree, she kept on reading.

“I walked about for days--trying to find some way--I wanted Ruth! Mother--you don’t know how much! I couldn’t keep away from her--she was waiting for me in the garden; she knew I would come. Mother, there was something so pure about her; such sweetness, I have never seen in any human thing. She was pale, but she spoke quietly. ‘Joseph, I know what Grandfather has asked you to do for my sake; you mustn’t do it. It wouldn’t be right for you. We try to bring the Past into the Present, to preserve our religion. We think we live, but it is only a waking dream, and we are happy they let us dream; but dreams are not for you. Joseph, you must go out on the high road of Progress--and I--I must stay here with my grandfather.’ Then I fell into the depths of despair and cried, how I cried. ‘I won’t let you; it is a living death; you are young! young!’ Mother, I’ll never forget her face when she answered. ‘I look young, but my soul is old.’”

A sob choked Julie’s voice; herself at sixteen, with that “old soul.”

Floyd took the letter and read it rapidly to the finish.

“She has shown me the way; it is all clear to me now, and I am not unhappy. We are only separated for a little while; and Mother, I want you to write a letter to her grandfather--and plead for us. It might do some good. You are always asking me what I want. I want Ruth; give me Ruth!”

It was pathetic how the boy clung to his childish illusions. His mother could give him everything. Julie was crying silently.

The letter dropped from Floyd’s hand; waves of memory swept over him. The struggle between Joseph Abravanel and Father Cabello against him--the bitterness, the tragedy. He was on his feet; there was a youthful ring in his voice which had long been absent. He flung his spectacles, that badge of age, on the table. His eyes were young again.

“We must bring it about; the boy must not be disappointed. He must have his love dream; he must not lose the best part of his life.”

With a cry of joy Julie came to him and put her arms around his neck; they stood together, the light of that young romance across the sea reflected in their faces. Floyd bent down and whispered: “I was an ardent lover, wasn’t I, Julie? You were so sweet, so sweet.”

Then he remembered a business deal, and put on his spectacles. At the door he stopped.

“I shall write at once to Pedro Gonzala and make him a business proposition, which it would be madness to refuse; it will be a brilliant future for Joseph. This will cure him. He will see now that money can buy him everything! Don’t cry, Julie; it’s all for the best, and don’t miss the mail. It’s a five-cent stamp to Germany.”

The Colonel lunched that day at the club, with Floyd, who was full of his plan to “dazzle” the Gonzolas. The Colonel was very sympathetic, then he said with a touch of sadness,

“I’m getting old. People have no use for a bachelor, when he ceases to be eligible. If I had a boy like yours, a wife like yours, I’d be a happy man.”

Floyd thought a moment.

“I have been lucky; I come out well from very serious complications.”

The Colonel thought he meant business deals.

“You often risked too much; you were once on the brink of disaster.”

“More than once,” answered Floyd, “but now things seem to be going my way. I would like to do some philanthropic construction work; a man must have something to keep him from drying up.”

There was a responsive flash from the Colonel.

“I thought I was the only one who thought like that.”

Floyd looked around at the crowded room; there was laughter, jingling of glasses, the perfume of good tobacco.

“I think they all do!”

8

Joseph had spent the winter in Geneva, studying the classic and modern languages. In the spring he joined a band of students, on a walking tour through the mountains. At Tarasp he bade them good-bye--he was going to see the Val Sinestra, where his mother, years before, had been caught in a storm and where his father’s best friend, his Uncle Martin, had been lost in the mountains.

He passed the hotel, climbed down into the ravine, and stood before the little chapel, where by a strange coincidence they had met Father Cabello. He pushed open the door. How old it was, how very old!--the fading wall pictures, the broken windows, the time-stained Virgin and Child looming up out of the shadows. There was a sudden impulse to go to her, to speak to her, as he used to, when she was living to him. He gazed and gazed; she was drawing him down the aisle--

He went out, shutting the door softly behind him. Ghosts followed him as he climbed up the open road; then they melted away in the warm sunlight.

He was soon going home. His father’s “dazzling” business proposition had been enthusiastically received by the younger Gonzolas--but the “old gentleman” remained obdurate. The boy must accept his conditions. Floyd had written to Joseph, advising him to “give in while the old man lived.” But Joseph refused to make any concession; Ruth wouldn’t let him.

He strolled along, his knapsack on his back, his hat and cape in his belt, a handsome young student; one meets them often in the mountains--fine happy lads, their only wealth, the Future. He knelt down by a stream, caught the falling water in his hands, and drank it; then he poetized.

Spring dances in the mountains. Winter’s young daughter, peeps at her Sweet face in the Lake mirror. The old Snow-man growls; His blanket is thin, his feet stick out; They are warm, he is melting. He flies to the heights, in his March-wind aeroplane. There he can keep cool. The bride robes herself in Green and gold. Flowers fall from her long curls. The nuptial couch is white With blossoms. Wedding bells, birds caroling-- Cattle calls--Alpine horns, Love time!

He threw back his head and laughed--Ruth would like it. He would bring her and show her where he wrote it--on their wedding day!

He read it again; it was a whimsical thing. He was sorry for the poets of the past who were chained in rhyme. The world had been rhyming so long, about everything--love, religion, the soul, the origin of man. People rhymed themselves into a state of poetic fiction; then suddenly they found out it was all rhyme and no reason.

9

The path ran along the side of the mountain. In the valley below he saw people running, heard the sound of music in the distance. He stopped a barefoot boy, who told him it was fête day in the Canton, to welcome their great Switzer home from Geneva, the artist Staehli.

“Staehli? Yes, I know. I admired his paintings at the exhibition.”

Then he saw a procession of peasants in gala array, cows adorned with flowers, maidens singing, dancing. A tall man walked amongst them with swinging step, a peasant like the others. He puts his hand to his mouth and gives out a long piercing yodel. Above at a châlet a woman answers.

“That is Angela, his wife; she is the doctor of the Dorf; she heals with her hands and brews herb tea which has a magic power!”

“Oh! I’d like to meet the artist. Do you think he’ll receive me?”

“Oh, yes! All are welcome; they have the best milk and cheese in the village. I’ll take you down.”

Near the châlet, they were stopped by an enormous hay wagon drawn by oxen. The young peasant leading them moved aside, smiling at Joseph.

“That’s Martin Staehli, born and raised here,” said the boy.

The artist was standing outside the châlet watching the procession wind its way around the path and out of sight.

“Could I rest here awhile? I’ve walked from Tarasp.”

“I shall have great pleasure.” He spoke English hesitatingly with a Swiss accent.

They entered a very large room, the light streaming in from all sides.

“This is my studio. My home is a little distance away in our family châlet. It is old; I will show it to you if you are interested in antiques.” He went to the door and called.

“Angela! Angela!”

He looked keenly at the boy.

“You are not a European?”

“No, I am an American.” He raised his head with a gesture of pride which became him well. “My name is Joseph Abravanel Gonzola Garrison.”

The artist put his hand over his eyes: Julie’s boy! The child he had held in his arms! He heard again that sweet young voice, felt the soft lips pressed against his. “I love you, Uncle Martin.” Julie’s boy!

Angela came in with milk, bread, and cheese. Joseph thought she was the noblest-looking woman he had ever seen.

The artist sat tracing lines on paper. He must hold that vision of the past; it would soon vanish. Angela apologized for his silence.

“My husband is sketching you, he loves beautiful heads.”

Joseph sat willingly for the artist.

“It’s only for myself--and for you, if you will accept it.” Then pointing to a black band around the boy’s arm, he said with a touch of fear, “Are you in mourning?”

“Yes, for our dearest friend, Cardinal Cabello.”

“Cabello, a Cardinal? I am quite out of the world. I met him many years ago in America.”

“He helped my mother bring me up. I was like his own son. I had to grieve him terribly before his death; but I couldn’t help it. I must go soon again to Rome; there is a large sum of money coming to the Church from my grandmother. It was left to me conditionally--I have forfeited it.”

“Don’t look so sad,” said the artist. “I want the brightness of you. Tell me, have you sisters and brothers.”

“No, I am an only child, and very much spoilt.”

“Your parents, are they--living?”

“Oh yes, and still young. My mother is the most beautiful woman in New York.”

The artist caught the smile, then set him talking again, looking keenly into his face with its quick changes, its light and shade. He laughed often; he would throw back his head with a gush of merriment. That laugh thrilled the artist; it was like a far-away echo; it played on the chord of remembrance, bringing out a melody long unheard.

“You are not of pure American stock?”

“Oh yes, my mother and grandmother were born there. Mother is of Spanish-Hebrew blood. Father is of Dutch extraction; he is proud of being ‘pure American’--he forgets the Indian. All others are of emigrant origin; only some came over on earlier ships. A European called us a melting pot. I hate that expression; people don’t melt. We are not a smelting furnace. To me the United States is like a big Colonial mansion, with many windows made up of little panes of glass, which I call Race. Each one colors his glass with his own racial impulse.”

“What color do you see?”

“Oh, my window looks toward the East where the sun rises; it is gorgeous, with many colors,” laughed the boy.

“I think I catch your meaning. It would make a good symbolical picture. A great prairie, and standing in it a White House built on Colonial lines. It is flooded with a glare of strong light, which in the individual separates into its prismatic colors--the different races.”

“Yes, that’s what I mean; only an artist could think it out like that. Will you paint it?”

“Perhaps some day, but why not you? You have the instinct in you; I feel it.”

The boy’s face lit up. “How strange you should know that. I love art; I’ve studied it in Paris. I’ve been dabbling a bit in oil. They say I have talent.”

The man bent forward. “I have a class of young artists in Geneva; they are all unusually gifted. Join us!” How eager he was; he hung on to the boy’s answer.

“I would like it, but an artist’s career is too passive for me. I have no patience. I want action, results; I want to work for the great World Reformation which is coming. I want to help bring down to this miserable, unhappy earth, a little of the Heaven we have been dreaming of so long. We must wake up! We must commence now and fight the monster of materialism which is destroying us.” He was on his feet, his head erect, his eyes blazing. A young David sharpening his sword for the great encounter with the Giant of superstition, lies, false Gods.

“I must go now. May I come again? I’m going to write all about you to my mother. Were you here that time they were caught in the storm?”

Angela put her hand on her husband’s shoulder. He started, looked up.

“I was in America, I was very unfortunate there. I often lost my way--in jungles. Race instinct made me restless. The peasant blood was strong in me.”

“Race instinct?” repeated the boy. “I’ve felt that--but I didn’t know what it was, stirring in me. I can’t express it. It was like a melody--from far, far away, coming back in snatches--like--like the strains of--a National Hymn. It excites me.”

Angela’s eyes shone.

“You are living a great romance, the romance of race.”

“The romance of race, yes, that’s what it is.” Then he came nearer to them, and told his love story.

“Ruth is to me not only my love, she is the ideal in my life. I am going to take her out of that beautiful dark house with its old portraits. I am going to make her soul young again.”

The artist went with him down the path to the bend of the road.

“Where shall I send the sketch?”

“To the College in Geneva. Would you mind if I gave it to my mother?”

“Oh, no! I will try to make it beautiful.”

Joseph lingered, looking again into the artist’s face with a touch of sadness.

“I feel as if I had known you a very long time.”

“You have--”

He drew the boy to him and kissed him and stood watching the young figure until it disappeared.

Angela touched his arm.

“Angela! that boy! that boy!”

“Is he the son of the unhappy man who spent the night here?”

“Yes--”

The young peasant sent out a call from the barn, where he was flinging the hay lightly with a heavy pitchfork into the loft.

“What are you going to do with our boy? He does not care for books; he has no talent for painting? You are not ambitious for him--” There was a note of reproach in her voice.

“Yes, very ambitious. I want him to be what nature has made him, a peasant; nothing could be nobler.”

That night the artist remained in his studio to finish the sketch; he worked for hours with intense concentration, until the pencil dropped from his numb fingers. Then he threw himself down on the couch, but couldn’t rest. Ashes strewn over the fire had smothered but not extinguished it; the flames broke through. That boy! The Past living again, with all its wonder of passion, its uncontrollable love. He went to the window, leaned out; a white mist hovered over the dark valley. His eyes pierced it deeper. He was again a desperate man, holding a woman in his arms--Mad Martin!...

When the sketch was finished he painted it on ivory, framed it in silver, put it in a velvet case, and sent it to Joseph as a souvenir of their meeting. It was a speaking likeness; it went over the sea, a message to his first love.

10

The Garrisons were “at home.”

The reception tonight was in honor of a distinguished Englishman. Julie stood before the mirror, putting the last touches to her toilette; she wore a creamy lace décolleté gown, with splashes of red velvet. The Gonzola diamonds glittered in her corsage.

Her maid handed her a letter and package. It was from Joseph; now the evening would be perfect.

The boy was full of hope, enthusiasm; he had just returned from Switzerland, where he saw the Val Sinestra and the old chapel she had told him about when he was a child, at night, before he went to sleep.

I visited an artist who lives near there. He’s been in America; he didn’t say much about himself, but he drew me out to get atmosphere for a portrait he made of me, which I am sending to you, with my best love. I am writing him a long letter; I hope he will answer. He’s married to a wonderful woman; they say she has magnetic power, and it is true; she drew out all my secrets. I had to tell her about Ruth. She loves her husband with her whole soul--her eyes never leave him. They have a son, a big strong peasant lad. Mother, the artist is the most interesting man I have ever met; his hair is turning gray. He must have had a terrible struggle when he was young. I think he starved; he has deep lines in his face. I had to tear myself away. I love him, Mother, I love him! and I’m sure he loves me. When I left, he put his arms around me and kissed me; I felt his heart beating in big throbs.

“Martin’s heart-beats!”

She opened the package; Joseph laughed back at her. She gazed and gazed, until the young face vanished, and she saw Martin, with her boy in his arms.

She sank down in her chair in a rush of hysterical joy.

Martin alive! Happy; no! no! not happy--content, peaceful, at work. How wonderful! Those two had met; they loved each other. God had given her absolution. How thankful she was! how thankful!

She sprang up, peered into the mirror, and saw--a white despairing face with spotted gray unkempt hair; it faded slowly; youth had touched it. A beautiful smiling woman was reflected there, with head erect, triumphant, free from that haunting fear of years.

She put out the lights and went to the door with resilient steps--then stopped, suddenly grew pale, as she looked back. The room was shadowy; one lamp shone down on the little table beside her bed, bringing out in sharp relief, the torn old Hebrew prayer book, beside it an ivory crucifix turning yellow, and--a beautiful rose, eternally young--symbols of her soul’s secrets, its melody, its madness.

Finis

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.