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diff --git a/25189-h/25189-h.htm b/25189-h/25189-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cca10ce --- /dev/null +++ b/25189-h/25189-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4684 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Idler Magazine, An Illustrated Monthly, June 1893. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + + .fn { font-variant: normal; font-size: .8em;} + + h1,h2,h3 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + .notes {background-color: #eeeeee; color: #000; padding: .5em; + margin-left: 30%; margin-right: 30%; text-align: center;} + + .box { width: 800px; + margin: 0 auto; + text-align: center; + padding: 1em; + border-style: none; } + + .box1 { width: 700px; + margin: 0 auto; + text-align: center; + padding: 1em; + border-style: none; } + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + a { text-decoration: none; } + + .pagenum { visibility: hidden; + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + + .sidenote { clear: right; font-weight: bold; + float: left; margin: 1em 1em .5em -2%; + width: 15%; text-align: left + } + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .caption {font-weight: bold; font-variant: small-caps; + } + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .figleft {float: left; clear: left; margin-left: 0; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: + 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; margin-right: 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + .fnanchor { font-size: .8em; text-decoration: none;} + + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's The Idler Magazine, Volume III, June 1893, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Idler Magazine, Volume III, June 1893 + An Illustrated Monthly + +Author: Various + +Release Date: April 27, 2008 [EBook #25189] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IDLER, VOLUME III, JUNE 1893 *** + + + + +Produced by Victorian/Edwardian Pictorial Magazines, +Jonathan Ingram, Anne Storer and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<p class="notes">Transcribers Notes: Title and Table of Contents added.</p> + + +<hr style='width: 100%;' /> + +<h1>THE IDLER MAGAZINE.</h1> +<p style="font-size: 120%;" class="center"><strong>AN ILLUSTRATED MONTHLY.<br /><br /> +June 1893.</strong></p> + +<hr style='width: 65%;' /> + + +<h2>CONTENTS.</h2> + + +<p class="center"> + <a href="#Page_470">MEMOIRS OF A FEMALE NIHILIST.</a><br /> + II.—IN PRISON.<br /> + by Sophie Wassilieff.<br /><br /> + + <a href="#Page_485">THE LEGS OF SISTER URSULA.</a><br /> + by Rudyard Kipling.<br /><br /> + + <a href="#Page_496">“LIONS IN THEIR DENS.”</a><br /> + VI.—EMILE ZOLA.<br /> + by V. R. Mooney.<br /><br /> + + <a href="#Page_511">PEOPLE I HAVE NEVER MET.</a><br /> + by Scott Rankin.<br /><br /> + + <a href="#Page_512">AN ETHIOPIAN CRICKET MATCH.</a><br /> + by Eden Phillpotts.<br /><br /> + + <a href="#Page_526">MY FIRST BOOK.</a><br /> + by R. M. Ballantyne.<br /><br /> + + <a href="#Page_538">TRIALS AND TROUBLES OF AN ARTIST.</a><br /> + by Fred Miller.<br /><br /> + + <a href="#Page_547">THE BROTHERS’ AGENCY.</a><br /> + by Do Bahin.<br /><br /> + + <a href="#Page_557">MY OWN MURDERER.</a><br /> + by E. J. Goodman.<br /><br /> + + <a href="#Page_568">THE IDLERS CLUB.</a><br /> + SHALL WE HAVE A DRAMATIC ACADEMY?</p> + + +<hr style='width: 65%;' /> + +<div class="box"> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_470" id="Page_470">[Pg 470]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 334px;"> +<img src="images/img470.jpg" width="334" height="500" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“‘no. 16 for an interview.’”</span> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_471" id="Page_471">[Pg 471]</a></span></p> +<h1><em>Memoirs of a Female Nihilist.</em></h1> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By Sophie Wassilieff.</span></p> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Illustrations by J. St. M. Fitz-Gerald.</span></p> + +<hr style="width: 10%;" /> + +<p class="center"><strong>II.—IN PRISON.</strong></p> + + +<p>The life of a female prisoner! It is so uniformly dull that I fear to +weary you, friends, in repeating its history; while for me, even now, +outside of some few days only too memorable, the twenty-seven months +spent in the fortress are like a great hole, empty and badly lighted, at +the bottom of which sometimes passed human shadows and some few +phantasmagorical scenes.</p> + +<p>In these scattered remembrances, the foremost is my cell and the first +moments I passed there.</p> + +<p>About ten feet square, its stone walls were covered with whitewash. For +furniture, a whitewood stool showing the marks of time and hard wear, a +rough deal table, a narrow iron bedstead with thin mattress, a pillow +filled with horsehair, and a coarse grey blanket such as is used for +covering horses. These details, lighted up for a moment by the candle +held by the director of the prison who accompanied me, soon fade away, +not into darkness, but into semi-obscurity, for above the door, the dark +outlines of which form a contrast with the surrounding whitewashed +walls, is a square of glass the width of the door, and behind this burns +a small paraffin lamp. By the uncertain light of this lamp, I try to get +a more exact idea of my new abode.</p> + +<p>High up in the wall opposite the door is a deep and dark hole which I +presume to be a window. On the floor, in addition to the slender +furniture noticed by the light of the candle, I vaguely distinguish the +outlines of my travelling trunk and of a water-jug. The cold humid air +gives off a musty odour. Silence reigns, but, as I move, the sound of my +footsteps echoes and re-echoes beneath the vaulted roof of the corridor.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 384px;"> +<img src="images/img472.jpg" width="384" height="500" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">the face at the wicket.</span> +</div> + +<p>All this gives to my cell the aspect of a funeral vault, into which, a +few moments ago, I entered full of feverish life and vibrating emotion, +and in which I now suddenly find myself buried. From time to time, at +intervals of about ten minutes, this cavern is lighted up a little more +brightly. There is in the door, at about the height of a man, another +window much smaller than that to +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_472" id="Page_472">[Pg 472]</a></span> +which I have already referred, a sort +of wicket that I have not before noticed, and which on the outside +appears to be protected by a shutter. At intervals, this shutter opens +with a metallic noise; a ray of bluish light penetrates into my cell, +and behind the wicket appears the head and part of the shoulders of a +man. He wears a moustache, and for several seconds regards me +attentively. Accustomed to the stronger gaslight burning in the +corridor, he can only vaguely distinguish what is going on in the cell. +His eyes, fixed on me at short intervals, vex and trouble me. +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_473" id="Page_473">[Pg 473]</a></span> Taking +advantage of one of these intervals, I rapidly change the clothes I am +wearing for others larger and more comfortable, which Aunt Vera has put +into my trunk, and then I throw myself upon my narrow bed. A few minutes +later, amidst the noise of iron bars and padlocks being removed, my cell +door opens, and then a woman appears, and behind her I notice several +men wearing blue uniforms braided with silver. The woman, whose +features, owing to her back being turned towards the light, I can only +vaguely distinguish, appears to be either a servant, or a woman of the +people; she alone enters my cell.</p> + +<p>This apparition causes a shudder to go through my entire being. I have +before now heard of an atrocious and odious proceeding, of a special +search, for the carrying out of which the prisoners, gagged and strapped +on their beds, or to the iron rings found in the walls of the cells of +all political prisons, are reduced to absolute helplessness, while men +and women appointed to this work examine their mouths, their hair, their +ears, every fold of their garments and of their bodies, in the search +for some scrap of paper hidden at the last moment, and on which, +perchance, may be found a name or an address.</p> + +<p>The sudden remembrance of these examinations +<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> +exasperates and freezes +me with terror. I rise and stand trembling by the side of my bed, with +arms outstretched to defend myself, while I follow each of my visitor’s +movements, and question her, “What does she require? Why has she come?” +She neither replies nor turns her head, but gathers up the garments I +have taken off, together with the few toilet necessaries I have placed +on the table, then turning towards me she extends her right arm. I start +back, and my question, “What do you require of me?” becomes almost a +scream.</p> + +<p>Ah! no—happily, no!—it is only to take the fur mantle that I have used +to cover my feet, and that, silently, and with the same noiseless +footsteps, my ghostly visitor takes away, together with my other +effects.</p> + +<p>Are they to be examined, or are they simply taken away in order to be +replaced by the prisoner’s garb? I know not, and the question is one of +perfect indifference to me. But the clang of iron bars and padlocks +being replaced on the door, all this noise of +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_474" id="Page_474">[Pg 474]</a></span> +iron, which so painfully +affected me an hour ago, I now listen to with a sigh of relief.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 364px;"> +<img src="images/img474.jpg" width="364" height="500" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“turning towards me,<br /> +she extends her right arm.”</span> +</div> + +<p>This noise, and possibly my cry, appears to have awakened some of the +other prisoners. I hear blows struck on the doors; voices, unknown to +me, or rendered unrecognisable by reason of the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_475" id="Page_475">[Pg 475]</a></span> +thickness of these +cursed walls, appear to be crying out and questioning. The questions +remain unanswered, but they tell me that I am not alone; that I need +only cry for help in order, if need be, to put the entire prison in a +state of revolt. This idea soothes my nerves, and I lie close against +the humid wall, behind which I feel there is an unknown but blessed +protection, and with my face pressed into the hard horsehair pillow, I +give vent to my first prisoner’s tears; tears of agony and impotent +revolt, tears of farewell to life.</p> + +<p>By daylight the appearance of my cell is not improved. The narrow door +made from rough oak is crossed on the inside with iron bars, while those +on the outside, together with the locks and padlocks, render it almost +as solid as the walls. As to the latter, white at night, they appear in +the day, thanks to the moisture with which they are covered, a bluish +grey. The window, placed high in a niche of the wall, is about twenty +inches square, and is protected on the inner side by a grating. It is +double, composed of eight small panes, those on the inner side being of +fluted ground-glass, so that it is impossible to see what is going on +outside. As the window is never opened, the dust has accumulated, and +the light that now filters through is dull and grey. Grey are the stone +blocks of which the floor is composed; grey the oak door, the furniture, +and the walls; grey the narrow bed, with coarse grey covering, and all +this grey, of which afterwards I learned to distinguish the shades, +constitutes a cloud which presses and weighs upon the prisoner. Later +on, in the Swiss mountains, it sometimes happened that I was enveloped +in a cloud which, intercepting light and sound, cut me off from the rest +of the world. A sojourn in one of these clouds gives to the surprised +traveller, by reason of its rarity, a series of curious impressions. But +twenty-seven months in a cloud is a long time! A very long time! Three +times each day, with a noise of falling iron, the door of my cell +opened, and on the threshold appeared two men in blue uniforms braided +with silver, and armed with swords and revolvers. A third, dressed as an +orderly, entered my cell carrying a tray, on which, morning and evening, +was placed a glass, a teapot, sugar, and bread—at noon, a bowl of soup, +and a plate containing the daily ration of meat and vegetables, all cut +in small pieces. In the morning the orderly swept out my cell, filled my +water-jug, and, if so desired, opened a movable pane at the top of the +window, which when closed was secured by a catch.</p> + +<p>These three silent and regular visits were the sole events of +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_476" id="Page_476">[Pg 476]</a></span>the day. +Outside of these—an absolute void, a heavy silence, broken from time to +time by the clang of a sword-scabbard on the pavement or the jingle of a +spur, instantly suppressed.</p> + +<p>This silence, this void, I feel but in a slight degree during the first +days after my arrest—that is to say, physically. Morally, however, +although separated from the world by these thick walls, I am still too +near to it. At every hour of the day I can picture to myself what is +taking place at home and amongst my friends, and I live their life. The +desire to know if the others have been arrested, and under what +circumstances, mingles with the anxiety which preoccupies me. I await +with impatience the first interrogatory examination, for the questions +then asked are for the political prisoner the only indications +obtainable from which he can form an idea of why he has been arrested, +what are the charges against him, and what fate he may expect!</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 345px;"> +<img src="images/img476.jpg" width="345" height="400" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">telegraphic signals.</span> +</div> + +<p>I am very weary because of sleepless nights, partly due to being obliged +to lie down in my clothes, and also because of excitement, which tends +to keep me awake. My days I spend in alternately feverishly promenading +my cell and lying on my bed in a state which is neither sleeping nor +waking. Gradually I learn to correspond with my neighbours by means of +telegraphic signals. Ah! those signals! How carefully should they be +studied by all those whose fate it may one day be to be confined in a +political prison, and who in Russia is not liable to such a fate? I know +the signals theoretically—that is to say, I know how the alphabet is +produced. But from theory to practice is a long stride, and to what +movements of impatience have I given way, how desperately in my unnerved +state have I struggled in order to learn the meaning of the light blows +struck against the walls, and to understand the precious words that were +addressed to me.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_477" id="Page_477">[Pg 477]</a></span> +After a fortnight of such days, each of which, taken by itself, seemed +more empty and slower than the previous one, but which, taken as a +whole, appeared, by reason of their absolute uniformity, to have passed +like a dream, I am at last summoned to the cabinet of the director of +the prison, in order to be interrogated. The cabinet is at the other end +of the corridor, and only separated from the latter by an antechamber, +the doors and windows of which are barred and grilled in the same manner +as the cells. Notwithstanding this, and although the distance is so +short, an escort, composed of an officer of constabulary, two +subalterns, and a private, await me outside my cell, armed with +revolvers in their belts and sword-bayonets in their hands. This display +of force for a woman prisoner, who is little more than a child, causes +me to smile.</p> + +<p>Arrived at the Director’s cabinet, a large whitewashed room, in the +centre of which is a table covered by a green cloth, and on which are +papers, I find myself in the presence of three gentlemen. The first of +these is a short, fat man, with bald pointed head, sharp, crafty grey +eyes, and he reminds me of one of the rats with which the prison +abounds, but it is a rat in uniform. This is the director of the prison, +Capt. W——. The second is Col. P——, who, a fortnight ago, arrested +me. He is still young, tall, broad-shouldered, and his constabulary +uniform seems almost too tight for him. His face, square and massive, is +pitted with smallpox, his moustache small and fair, and his eyes sharp +and ferret-like. The third, who is in mufti, is Mr. N——, the procurer +to the Chamber of Judgments.<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a> +<a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> Tall, stout, with an insignificant face, +brown eyes, and a brown beard shaved on the chin, he is still a young +man. In the town of X——, where he is a stranger, he enjoys a +reputation for ability and intelligence in conducting examinations. I +know him by sight, and his presence gives me cause for inquietude, for, +as a rule, in ordinary cases he is satisfied to leave their conduct to +one of his substitutes. I cannot help noticing the air of wellbeing and +repose which characterises these gentlemen, as compared with my nervous +and fatigued state, and the comparison puts me on my guard.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 314px;"> +<img src="images/img478.jpg" width="314" height="400" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">colonel p——.</span> +</div> + +<p>I mistrust the half-closed eyes, apparently tired and sleepy, with +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_478" id="Page_478">[Pg 478]</a></span> +which Mr. N—— examines me, and I also mistrust my outspoken +nature and the ease with which I am carried away, characteristics which +Serge and Aunt Vera have so often tried to repress. On the table is the +parcel of books found at my home at the time of my arrest. Where they +come from remains an enigma which I fear to touch, because its solution +may compromise some of my relatives and friends. Therefore, after I have +replied to sundry questions concerning my social status, I refuse to +answer any other. My refusal provokes much dissatisfaction, especially +on the part of Colonel P——, who resorts to heroic measures, promising, +if I speak, to immediately set me at liberty, but threatening, if I +refuse, a long imprisonment and, possibly, hard labour. After +half-an-hour devoted to a discussion, in which Mr. N—— takes +only a very small part, I am escorted to my cell, and informed that I +have a week in which to reflect. Tired out, nervously excited, I have +learnt nothing as to my probable fate. On the other hand, the large +sheet of white paper, which was intended for my confession, only bears +my name, age, address, and the statement that, <em>as to my political +opinions</em>, I am a revolutionary socialist, and this document I have +signed.</p> + +<p>The scene in the Director’s cabinet is renewed two or three times. I +take advantage of these examinations to ask for books and the removal of +the “blue angel,” whose almost continual presence at the wicket of my +door is intended to keep me from communicating with my neighbours, to +render my life more miserable, to force me to confess, and to make it a +matter of impossibility for me to change my garments, or enjoy any +repose. Aunt Vera, to whom, according to prison regulations, I am +allowed to write once a month, works towards the same end. At last, one +fine day, Capt. W—— comes to my cell and informs me that, +morning or evening, when I desire it, I can dismiss the sentry for +half-an-hour. Two men who follow Capt. W—— bring in my large +travelling trunk, in which, among other things, I find part of my +boarding <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_479" id="Page_479">[Pg 479]</a></span> +school trousseau, including bedding and the numbered knife, +fork, and spoon. At the same time, I obtain permission to take books +from the prison library. These consist principally of various editions +of the Gospels, and the dull “lives” of saints who never troubled +themselves about earthly affairs.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/img479.jpg" width="400" height="332" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">at night.</span> +</div> + +<p>Thanks to these books, of which I soon get a selection, to be later on +replaced by others sent by Aunt Vera; thanks to the whiteness of my +quilt and tablecloth<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a> +<a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a>; and, lastly, to a few toilet objects found in +my trunk, and an alarm clock, which I still possess, my cell appears +less repulsive than heretofore. And when at night, dressed in one of +those long white flannel dressing-gowns, which Aunt Vera has made +especially for me, I stretch myself in my bed, I am happy as one rarely +is between those walls covered with the dew of prisoners’ tears, and +dream of immense steppes, the blue sea, and a vast expanse free and +flooded in sunlight.</p> + + +<p class="center">II.</p> + +<p>This period, so poor in events, is for me most memorable, for it is the +commencement of my monotonous life as a prisoner. I spend the greater +portion of my time reading. Pen, ink, and paper are forbidden to +political prisoners, as are also newspapers, reviews, and other works +dealing with current events. Even the books allowed, although they have +already been passed by the Public Censor, are again examined by Colonel +P——, who rigorously eliminates every line even distantly hinting at +politics or social life, or which may appear to him “subversive.” Thanks +to this system, I for some time read nothing but scientific and +philosophic works, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_480" id="Page_480">[Pg 480]</a></span> +for which classes of reading I am too young and but +ill-prepared. Gradually, however, these works take hold upon me; they +appeal to my pride, and I struggle to vanquish the difficulties of +understanding these vast systems which rule the world, of which I know +so little. They cause me to reflect, and appeal to my imagination. +Outside of these works, I write Aunt Vera to send me those of different +poets and celebrated novelists, and to send them as much as possible in +chronological order, so that I may improve my knowledge of literature. +This simple desire is in opposition to Colonel P—— ’s system. +Fortunately, he does not know foreign languages, and such books are sent +for approval to Mr. N——, who, more intelligent than his colleague, +does not need to read a book through to grasp its motive, and so he +signs most of what is presented to him, and then they are sent to me. +Reading, with short intervals for needlework or embroidery, constitutes +my daily life, excepting for the interruptions for meals and the daily +walk in the narrow prison yard. There is very little to attract in this +solitary walk in a small paved court-yard, surrounded by high walls, and +with a soldier or policeman at each corner. The walk is soon over, +however, for only one prisoner is allowed there at one time, and there +are many prisoners, and the winter days are short. The most peaceable +time is the twilight hour. Then the feeble light reflected from the snow +and filtered through the frost-covered panes of my window rapidly +declines. Then I am forced to drop work or reading, and I abandon myself +to the current of my sad thoughts. I feel tired and discouraged. The +slow course of a political trial of which the preliminary examinations +often extend over several years; the absolute and arbitrary character of +the proceedings, the ready-made verdict sent from St. Petersburg; the +prisoner’s ignorance of the offence of which he is accused, and of which +he seldom obtains details until the trial is ended; the disastrous +influence which prison life exercises, even on the strongest, all tend +to prove that, once in prison, one can never be certain of regaining +liberty. This idea, which the anxiety and the fatigue of the first few +days chases away, returns later on with renewed force. Then another, not +less painful and more important, creeps into the brain, namely, the +absolute inutility of all that one can do or learn. At such times, in +the semi-obscurity of my cell, when the wind is shaking my window as +though it would tear it from its stone casing, I, who am only eighteen +or nineteen years of age, ask myself, with infinite agony of soul, of +what use are these books, of what use +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_481" id="Page_481">[Pg 481]</a></span> +is life, if it is only to be a +longer or shorter suffering, without the opportunity of being useful for +something or to somebody?</p> + +<p>To escape from these thoughts, I often pass the twilight hour at my +window. The prison regulations forbid it, but prisoners pay little +attention to this or any other rule, and our keepers, soldiers, +officers, or Captain W—— passing by, and noticing a prisoner at +the window, simply shrug their shoulders as who would say, “What can +they see?” And after all they are right, for there is little to be seen. +Above, a small patch of sky; below, under the window, a sentry pacing up +and down; farther on, the wall surrounding the prison; beyond that, the +outside wall surrounding the fortress; and lastly, a plain, through +which a river takes its course. At times on this plain I notice moving +figures. Sometimes, too, the evening breeze brings to my ears the sound +of laughter, a call, or a soldier’s song. These indications of life in +the distance are so feeble that in reality they amount to very little. +And yet, in order to catch them on the wing, I sometimes pass hours at +the little open square in my window, in spite of the cold and the snow +and rain beating upon my face.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 294px;"> +<img src="images/img481.jpg" width="294" height="500" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">in the prison yard.</span> +</div> + +<p>But now it is night. Tea is served, together with cold meat, purchased +with money deposited at the prison office by prisoners +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_482" id="Page_482">[Pg 482]</a></span> or their +friends. The little lamp above the door is lighted, the cell is locked, +and the key handed over to the prison director. This regulation is not +without its dangers<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a> +<a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a>, +but I am thankful to know that, although I +cannot go out, nor even receive the friends I so much desire to see, +still there is no fear of a sudden visit from Colonel P—— or +his soldiers; nor of one of those examinations that sometimes take place +in the cells. I also like the lamplight at night. Too dim to read or +work by, it enlarges and transforms my little cell, so sad and grey by +daylight, and in filling it with a golden mist produces an illusion of +warmth and life. Besides, the evening is the time for telegraphic +communications with neighbours, conversations which, thanks to the +impossibility of the “blue angel’s” interruption, are often prolonged +far into the night. This is also the hour for memories and dreams. Tired +of counting the rapid and hardly perceptible blows, and putting together +the letters and words composing the sentences they convey, I stretch +myself upon my bed; I gaze into the dim and golden mist, and gradually +people it with life and movement. Again I see our immense plains, the +towns, the country with its innumerable natural riches, and the +suffering and misery which our <em>régime</em> imposes upon the inhabitants, +and the view of which agonises my heart. The scene is gradually peopled +with known and loved faces, amongst which those of Serge and Aunt Vera +oftenest appear. Sometimes the figures appear one after the other, then +in groups, bringing back details of their life and of mine. These +figures appearing before me stand out in such strong relief, they are so +truly alive, that I sometimes forget my past and try to read the future +of those for whom it exists—and for others I build castles in Spain. +Often, too, joining my desires to all that my intelligence and +imagination can create that is beautiful, I indulge in Utopias, and +before my eyes, enlarged by the feverish dream, pass immense crowds, +free, good, beautiful and happy, crowds grand as humanity.</p> + +<p>The noise of footsteps, or the closing of a door, a groan or a cry, +sometimes disperse these memories and dreams; for in the prison no doors +open at night save to commit fresh prisoners, and no cries are heard +save cries for help. Uneasy, I rise, as others did the night I was +brought here, and listen. If the noise or +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_483" id="Page_483">[Pg 483]</a></span> +the groan is prolonged, if +the cry is repeated, I and others knock on the wicket of our doors in +order to call the attention of the “blue angel.” As he is not allowed to +speak to the prisoners, he generally indicates by dumb motions that all +is well and that one may sleep in peace. But as he opens the wicket we +obtain a glimpse of part of the corridor, and that often enables us to +judge of what is taking place. Besides, these signals are intended to +convey to the new arrival, or the comrade taken ill, that he is not +alone, and that we are watching. Generally this suffices, but if not, +then one or more of the prisoners takes up some hard object, such as a +bottle or stool, and commences to knock on the door. In an instant the +prison is alarmed, the prisoners, suddenly awakened, call for an +explanation, often difficult to furnish, and in turn seize their stools +and strike. The din produced by these blows, struck simultaneously, is +enormous, and I know and can imagine nothing more +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_484" id="Page_484">[Pg 484]</a></span>frightfully +lugubrious than to be suddenly awakened by this awful noise, and to find +oneself in a cold cell from which there is no issue.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 479px;"> +<img src="images/img483.jpg" width="479" height="500" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“ghosts.”</span> +</div> + +<p>This method, one of the few employed by prisoners for the purpose of +imposing their collective will, is only resorted to in exceptional +cases, as, for instance, when it is necessary to force the warders and +the director to attend to a sick comrade, or to summon the doctor at an +unusual hour.</p> + +<p>Outside of these events, outside of memories and dreams, my prison life +has also its joys. These consist in the letters I receive from Serge and +Aunt Vera. The former are full of a forced gaiety, short and +commonplace, for the prison regulations forbid prisoners to write on +other subjects save their health, clothes, and books, and they are all +read by a constabulary officer, who acts as censor.</p> + +<p>Aunt Vera’s letters are long, and she tries to encourage me by a recital +of the efforts she is making in order to obtain an interview with me, +and each of her dear letters ends with “until we meet.” But that “until” +is long, and lasts eight months. At last, one day, at the commencement +of summer, I hear a male voice in the corridor cry, “No. 16 for an +interview.” My heart throbs as though it would burst, and as soon as my +door is opened I rush into the corridor, and then into the antechamber. +I push the door pointed out by the warder, who enters with me, and +instead of finding myself in Aunt Vera’s arms, rush against a wire +screen, light but strong, and closely woven. This network is high, and +stretched entirely across the room. A few steps beyond is a similar +screen, and between, as in a cage, is a constabulary officer with red, +bloated face, who, with hands behind his back, walks slowly up and down.</p> + +<p>This officer, these nets, this drunkard’s face, blot out at intervals +the gentle form of Aunt Vera, who, on the other side of the cage, is +doing her utmost to smile at me through her tears. Later on I get +accustomed to all this, but at this first interview, so much desired, so +long waited for, I feel choking with rage and despair. I do not know how +to reply to Aunt Vera’s enquiries, and, when I do, my voice is so +strange that it causes her to murmur in despair—“My God, how you are +changed, my little one!”</p> + +<p>Changed! It is possible! The prison so crushes its victims that it is no +wonder they change, especially when they are young and stay there a long +time. Of the changes in myself I am aware only much later. In waiting, +my slow, dull life is passed in a cloud, which covers and presses upon +the prisoner until the day when the lightning flash and the tempest +rends the clouds and brings down showers of tears and blood.</p> + +<p class="center">(<em>To be continued.</em>)</p> + +</div> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a> +<a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> +These examinations of the person only take place in cases +of exceptional gravity. On the other hand, it is not prisoners alone who +have to submit to the ordeal, but all persons suspected of concealing +papers, Russian travellers returning from abroad, &c., &c.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a> +<a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> +Court of Justice which, if necessary, revises the +judgements of the other courts, and deals with cases of exceptional +gravity. Doubting the best judges—since the acquittal of Vera +Vassoulitch—the Government no longer confides political cases to civil +courts, but hands them over either to martial courts, or the Chamber of +Judgments. This latter court has no examining judge, that function being +undertaken by the procurer.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a> +<a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> +The regulations admit only articles in white, black, or +grey.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a> +<a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> +In 1877, or ’78, an Odessa prisoner, named Solomine, in an +access of melancholia, tied himself on his bed and then set fire to the +bedding. The smoke issuing through the door cracks warned the keepers, +but the key had been handed to the director, and he was in town. When +the door was at last forced open there only remained the ashes of the +bedding and a partly carbonised corpse.</p></div> + +</div> + + +<div class="box"> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_485" id="Page_485">[Pg 485]</a></span></p> +<h1><em>The Legs of Sister Ursula.</em></h1> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By Rudyard Kipling.</span></p> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Illustrations by Hal Hurst.</span></p> + +<hr style="width: 10%;" /> + + +<p>The one man of all men who could have told this tale and lived has long +since gone to his place; and there is no apology for those that would +follow in the footsteps of Lawrence Sterne.</p> + +<p>In a nameless city of a land that shall be nameless, a rich man lived +alone. His wealth had bought him a luxurious flat on the fifth floor of +a red-brick mansion, whose grilles were of hammered iron, and whose +halls were of inlaid marble. When he needed attendance, coals, his +letters, a meal, a messenger or a carriage, he pressed an electric +button and his wants were satisfied almost as swiftly as even petulant +wealth could expect. An exceedingly swift lift bore him to and from his +rooms, and in his rooms he had gathered about him all that his eye +desired—books in rich cases with felted hinges, ivories from all the +world, rugs, lamps, cushions, couches, engravings and rings with +engravings upon them, miniatures of pretty women, scientific toys and +china from Persia. He had friends and acquaintances as many as he could +befriend or know; and some said that more than one woman had given him +her whole love. Therefore, he could have lacked nothing whatever.</p> + +<p>One day a hot sickness touched him with its finger, and he became no +more than a sick man alone among his possessions, the sport of dreams +and devils and shadows, sometimes a log and sometimes a lunatic crying +in delirium. Before his friends forsook him altogether, as healthy +brutes will forsake the wounded, they saw that he was efficiently +doctored, and the expensive physician who called upon him at first three +times a day, and later only once, caused him to be nursed by a nun. +“Science is good,” said the physician, “but for steady, continuous +nursing, with no science in it, Religion is better—and I know Sister +Ursula.”</p> + +<p>So this sick man was nursed by a nun, young and fairly pretty, but, +above all, skilful. When he got better he would give the convent, and +not Sister Ursula, a thankoffering which would be spent among the poor +whom Sister Ursula chiefly attended. At first the man knew nothing of +the nun’s existence—he was in the country beyond all creeds—but later +a white coifed face came and went across his visions, and at last, spent +and broken, he woke to +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_486" id="Page_486">[Pg 486]</a></span> +see a very quiet young woman in black moving +about his room. He was too weak to speak: too weak almost to cling to +life any more. In his despair he thought that it was not worth clinging +to; but the woman was at least a woman and alive. The touch of her +fingers in his as she gave him the medicine was warm. She testified to +the existence of a world full of women also alive—the world he was +beginning to disbelieve in. He watched her sitting in the sunshine by +the window, and counted the light creeping down from bead to bead of the +rosary at her waist. They then moved his bed to the window that he might +look down upon the stately avenue that ran by the flat-house, and watch +the people going to and fro about their business. But the change, +instead of +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_487" id="Page_487">[Pg 487]</a></span> +cheering, cast him into a deeper melancholy. It was nearly a +hundred feet, sheer drop, to those healthy people walking so fast, and +the mere distance depressed him unutterably. He played with the scores +of visiting-cards that his friends had left for him, and he tried to +play with the knobs of the desk close to the head of his bed, and he was +very, very wretched.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 393px;"> +<img src="images/img486.jpg" width="393" height="500" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“a hot sickness touched him with its finger.”</span> +</div> + +<p>One morning he turned his face away from the sunlight and took no +interest in anything, while the hand turned back upon the dial so +swiftly that it almost alarmed the doctor. He said to himself: “Bored, +eh? Yes. You’re just the kind of over-educated, over-refined man that +would drop his hold on life through sheer boredom. You’ve been a most +interesting case so far, and I won’t lose you.” He said to Sister Ursula +that he would send an entirely fresh prescription by his boy, and that +Sister Ursula must give it to the invalid every twenty minutes without +fail. Also, if the man responded, it might be well to talk to him a +little. “He needs cheering up. There is nothing the matter with him now; +but he won’t pick up.”</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/img487.jpg" width="400" height="316" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“sister ursula.”</span> +</div> + +<p>There can be few points of sympathy between a man born, bred, trained, +and sold for and to the world and a good nun made for the service of +other things. Sister Ursula’s voice was very sweet, but the matter of +her speech did not interest. The invalid lay still, looking out of the +window upon the street all dressed in its Sunday afternoon emptiness. +Then he shut his eyes. The doctor’s boy rang at the door. Sister Ursula +stepped out into the hall, not to disturb the sleeper, and took the +medicine from the boy’s hand. Then the lift shot down again, and even as +she turned the wind of its descent puffed up and blew to the spring-lock +door of the rooms with a click only a little more loud than the leap of +her terrified heart.</p> + +<p>Sister Ursula tried the door softly, but rich men with many hundred +pounds worth of <em>bric-à-brac</em> buy themselves very well made doors that +fasten with singularly cunning locks. Then the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_488" id="Page_488">[Pg 488]</a></span> +lift returned with the +boy in charge, and, so soon as his Sunday and rather distracted +attention was drawn to the state of affairs, he suggested that Sister +Ursula should go down to the basement and speak to the caretaker, who +doubtless had a duplicate key. To the basement, therefore, Sister Ursula +went with the medicine-bottle clasped to her breast, and there, among +mops and brooms and sinks and heating pipes, and the termini of all the +electric communications of that many-storied warren, she found, not the +caretaker, but his wife, reading a paper, with her feet on a box of +soap. The caretaker’s wife was Irish, and a Catholic, reverencing the +Church in all its manifestations. She was not only sympathetic, but +polite. Her husband had gone out, and, being a prudent guardian of the +interests confided to him, had locked up all the duplicate keys.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 380px;"> +<img src="images/img488.jpg" width="380" height="400" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“reading a paper, with her feet on a box of soap.”</span> +</div> + +<p>“An’ the saints only know whin Mike’ll be back av a Sunday,” she +concluded cheerfully, after a history of Mike’s peculiarities. “He’ll be +afther havin’ supper wid friends.”</p> + +<p>“The medicine!” said Sister Ursula, looking at the inscription on the +bottle. “It must begin at twenty minutes past five. There are only ten +minutes now. There <em>must</em>—oh! there must be a way!”</p> + +<p>“Give him a double dose next time. The docthor won’t know the differ.” +The convent of Sister Ursula is not modelled after Irish ideals, and the +present duty before its nun was to return to the locked room with the +medicine. Meantime the minutes flew bridleless, and Sister Ursula’s eyes +were full of tears.</p> + +<p>“I must get to the room,” she insisted. “Oh, surely, there is a way, any +way!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_489" id="Page_489">[Pg 489]</a></span> +“There’s wan way,” said the caretaker’s wife, stung to profitable +thought by the other’s distress. “And that’s the way the tenants would +go in case av fire. To be sure now I might send the lift boy.”</p> + +<p>“It would frighten him to death. He must not see strangers. What is the +way?”</p> + +<p>“If we wint into the cellar an’ out into the area, we’ll find the ground +ends av the fire-eshcapes that take to all the rooms. Go aisy, dear.”</p> + +<p>Sister Ursula had gone down the basement steps through the cellar into +the area, and with clenched teeth was looking up the monstrous sheer of +red-brick wall cut into long strips by the lessening perspective of +perpendicular iron ladders. Under each window each ladder opened out +into a little, a very little, balcony. The rest was straighter than a +ship’s mast.</p> + +<p>The caretaker’s wife followed, panting; came out into the sunshine, and, +shading her eyes, took stock of the ground.</p> + +<p>“He’ll be No. 42 on the Fifth. Thin this ladder goes up to it. Bad luck +to thim, they’ve the eshcapes front an’ back, spoilin’ the look av a +fine house: but it’s all paid for in the rint. Glory be to God, the +avenue’s empty—all but. But it should ha’ been the back—it should ha’ +been the back!”</p> + +<p>Two children were playing in the gutter. But for these the avenue was +deserted, and the hush of a Sabbath afternoon hung over it all. Sister +Ursula put the medicine-bottle carefully into the pocket of her gown. +Her face was as white as her coif.</p> + +<p>“’Tis not for me,” said the caretaker’s wife, shaking her head sadly. +“I’m so’s to be round, or I’d go wid ye. Those ladders do be runnin’ +powerful straight up an’ down. ’Tis scandalous to think—but in a fire, +an’ runnin’ wid their night clothes, they’d not stop to think. Go away, +ye two little imps, there! The bottle’s in your pocket? You’ll not lose +good hold av the irons. What is ut?—oh!”</p> + +<p>Sister Ursula retreated into the cellar, dropped on her knees, and was +praying—praying as Lady Godiva prayed before she mounted her palfrey. +The caretaker’s wife had barely time to cross herself, and follow her +example, when she was on her feet again, and her feet were on the lowest +rungs of the ladder.</p> + +<p>“Hould tight,” said the caretaker’s wife. “Oh, darlint, wait till Mike +comes! Come down, now!—the good angels be wid you. There should have +been a way at the back. Walk tinderly an’ hould tight. Heaven above sind +there’ll be no wind! Oh, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_490" id="Page_490">[Pg 490]</a></span> +why wasn’t his ugly rooms at the back, where +’tis only yards an’ bedroom windows!”</p> + +<p>The voice grew fainter and stopped. Sister Ursula was at the level of +the first floor windows when the two children caught sight of her, +raising together a shrill shout. The devil that delights in torturing +good nuns inspired them next to separate and run the one up and the +other down the avenue, yelling, “O—oh! There’s a nun up the +fire-escape! A nun on the fire-escape!” and, since one word at least was +familiar, a score of heads came to windows in the avenue, and were much +interested.</p> + +<p>In spite of her prayers, Sister Ursula was not happy. The +medicine-bottle banged and bumped in her pocket as she gripped the iron +bars hand over hand and toiled aloft. “It is for the sake of a life,” +she panted to herself. “It is a good work. He might die if I did not +come. Ah! it is terrible.” A flake of rust from the long disused irons +had fallen on her nose. The rungs were chafing her hands, and the +minutes were flying. The round, red face of the caretaker’s wife grew +smaller and smaller below her, and there was a rumbling of wheels in the +avenue. An idle coachman, drawn by the shouts of the children, had +turned the corner to see what was to be seen. And Sister Ursula climbed +in agony of spirit, the heelless black cloth shoes that nuns wear +slipping on the rungs of the ladder, and all earth reeling a hundred +thousand feet below.</p> + +<p>She passed one set of apartments, and they were empty of people, but the +fire, the books on the table, and the child’s toy cast on the hearthrug +showed it was deserted only for a minute. Sister Ursula drew breath on +the balcony, and then hurried upwards. There was iron rust red on both +her hands, the front of her gown was speckled with it, and a reflection +in the stately double window showed a stainless stiff fold of her +head-gear battered down over her eye. Her shoe, yes, the mended one, had +burst at the side near the toe in a generous bulge of white stocking. +She climbed on wearily, for the bottle was swinging again, and in her +ears there came unbidden the nursery refrain that she used to sing to +the little sick children in the hospital at Quebec:</p> + +<p class="center"> +“This is the cow with the crumpled horn.”</p> + +<p>Between earth and heaven, it is said, the soul on its upward journey +must pass the buffeting of many evil spirits. There flashed into Sister +Ursula’s mind the remembrance of a picture of a man gazing from the +leads down the side of +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_491" id="Page_491">[Pg 491]</a></span> +a house—a wonderful piece of foreshortening +that made one dizzy to see. Where had she seen that picture? Memory, +that works indifferently on earth or in vacuo, told her of a book read +by stealth in her novitiate, such a book as perils body and soul, and +Sister Ursula blushed redder than the brickwork a foot before her nose. +Everything that she had read in or thought about that book raced through +her mind as all his past life does not race through the soul of a +drowning man. It was horrible, most horrible. Then rose a fierce wave of +rage and indignation that she, a sister of irreproachable life and +demeanour (the book had been an indiscretion, long since bitterly +repented of), should be singled out for these humiliating exercises. +There were other nuns of her acquaintance, proud, haughty and +overbearing (her foot slipped here as a reminder against the sin of +hasty judgments, and she felt that it was a small and niggling Justice +that counted offences at such a crisis), and—and thinking too much of +their holiness, to whom this mortification, with all the rust flakes in +bosom and kerchief, would have been salutary and wholesome. But that +she, Sister Ursula, who only desired a quiet life, should climb +fire-escapes in the face of the shameless sun and a watching population! +It was too terrible. None the less she did not come down.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 208px;"> +<img src="images/img491.jpg" width="208" height="500" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“sister ursula<br /> +looked down.”</span> +</div> + +<p>Praying to be delivered from evil thoughts, praying that the swinging +bottle would not smash itself against the iron ladders, she toiled on. +The second and third flats were empty, and she heard a murmur in the +street; a hum of encouraging tumult, cheerful outcries bidding her go up +higher, and crisp enquiries as to whether this were the end of the +performance. Her Saint—she that had not prevailed against the +Nuns—would not help Sister Ursula, and it came over her, as cold water +slides down the spine, that at her journey’s end she would have +to—go—through—the window. There is no vestibule, portico, or +robing-room at the upper end of a fire-escape. It is designed for such +as move in a hurry, unstudious of the graces, being for the most part +not over-dressed, and yet seeking publicity—that publicity which came +to Sister Ursula unsought. She must go +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_492" id="Page_492">[Pg 492]</a></span> +through that window in order to +give her invalid his medicine. Her head must go first, and her feet, and +the bursten shoe, must go last. It was the very breaking point in the +strain, and here her saint, mistaking the needs of the case, sent her a +companion. Her head was level with the window of the fourth story, and +she was rejoicing to find that that also was empty when the door opened, +and there entered a man something elderly, of prominent figure, and +dressed according to the most rigid canons laid down for afternoon +visits. He was millions of leagues removed from Sister Ursula’s +world—this person with the tall silk hat, the long frock-coat, the +light grey trousers, the tiny yellow buttonhole rose, and the marvellous +puffed cravat anchored about with black pearl-headed pins—but an +imperative need for justification was upon her. Her own mission, the +absolute rightness of her own mission, were so clear to herself that she +never doubted anyone might misunderstand when she pointed upwards to the +skies, and the flat above.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 306px;"> +<img src="images/img492.jpg" width="306" height="400" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“sank panting at the foot of the bed.”</span> +</div> + +<p>The man, who was in the act of laying his tall hat absently upon the +table, looked up as the shadow took the light, saw the gesture, and +stared. Then his jaw dropped, and his face became ashy-grey. Sister +Ursula had never seen Terror in the flesh, well-dressed and fresh from a +round of calls. She gathered herself up to climb on, but the man within +uttered a cry that even the double windows could not altogether stifle, +and ran round the room in circles as a dog runs seeking a lost glove.</p> + +<p>“He is mad,” thought Sister Ursula. “Oh, heavens, +and <em>that</em> is what has driven him mad.”</p> + +<p>He was stooping fondly over something that seemed like the coffin of a +little child. Then he rushed directly at the window open-mouthed. Sister +Ursula went upwards and onwards, none the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_493" id="Page_493">[Pg 493]</a></span> +less swiftly because she +heard a muffled oath, the crash of broken glass, and the tinkling of the +broken splinters on the pavestones below. For the second time only in +her career, she looked down—down between the ladder and the wall. A +silk hat was bobbing wildly, as a fishing-float on a troubled stream, +not a dozen rungs beneath, and a voice—the voice of fear—cried +hoarsely, “Where is it? Where is it?” Then went up to the roofs the +roaring and the laughter of a great crowd; yells, cat-calls, ki-yis and +hootings many times multiplied. Her Saint had heard her at last, and +caused Sister Ursula to disregard the pains of going through the window. +Her one desire now was to reach that haven, to jump, dive, leap-frog +through it if necessary, and shut out the unfortunate maniac. It was a +short race, but swift, and Saint Ursula took care of the bottle. A long +course of afternoon calls, with refreshments at clubs in the intervals, +is not such good training as the care of the sick in all weathers for +sprinting over a course laid at ninety degrees. Nor again can the best +of athletes go swiftly up a ladder if he carries a priceless violin in +one hand and its equally priceless bow in his teeth, and handicaps +himself with varnished leather buttoned boots. They climbed, the one +below the other.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 296px;"> +<img src="images/img493.jpg" width="296" height="400" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“‘open the window!’ roared cott.”</span> +</div> + +<p>The window at the foot of the invalid’s bed was open. At the next window +was the white face of the invalid. Sister Ursula reached the sash, threw +it up, went through—let no man ask how—shut it gently but with amazing +quickness, and sank panting at the foot of the bed, one hand on the +bottle.</p> + +<p>“There was no other way,” she panted. “The door was locked. I could not +help. Oh! He is here!”</p> + +<p>The face of Terror in the top hat rose to the window-level inch by inch. +The violin-bow was between his teeth, and his hat hung over one eye in +the fashion of early dawn.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_494" id="Page_494">[Pg 494]</a></span> +“It’s Cott van Cott,” said the invalid, slowly and critically. “He looks +quite an old man. Cott and his Strad. How very bad for the Strad!”</p> + +<p>“Open the window. Where is it? Is there a way? Open the window!” roared +Cott, without removing the violin-bow.</p> + +<p>Sister Ursula held up one hand warningly as she stooped over the +invalid.</p> + +<p>For the second time did Cott van Cott misinterpret the gesture and +heaved himself upward, the violin and the bow clicking and rattling at +every stride. He was fleeing to the leads to save his life and his +violin from death by fire—fire in the basement—and the crowd in the +street roared below him with the roar of a full-fed conflagration.</p> + +<p>The invalid fell back on the pillows and wiped his eyes. The hands of +the clock were on the hour appointed for the medicine, lacking only the +thirty seconds necessary for pouring it into a wine-glass. He took it +from Sister Ursula’s hand, still shaking with helpless laughter.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 390px;"> +<img src="images/img494.jpg" width="390" height="450" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“took one little brass thimble-like thing<br /> +from its inside.”</span> +</div> + +<p>“God bless you, Sister Ursula,” he said. “You’ve saved my life.”</p> + +<p>“The medicine was to be given,” she answered simply. “I—I could not +help coming that way.”</p> + +<p>“If you only knew,” said the invalid. “If you only knew! I saw it from +out of the windows. Good heavens! the dear old world is just the same as +ever. I must get back to it. I must positively get well and get back. +And, Sister Ursula, do you mind telling me when you’re quite composed +everything that happened between the time the door shut and—and you +came in that way?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_495" id="Page_495">[Pg 495]</a></span> +After a little Sister Ursula told, and the invalid laughed himself faint +once more. When Sister Ursula re-settled the pillows, her hand fell on +the butt of a revolver that had come from the desk by the head of the +bed. She did not understand what it was, but the sight pained her.</p> + +<p>“Wait a minute,” said the invalid, and he took one little brass +thimble-like thing from its inside. “I—I wanted to use it for something +before you went out, but I saw you come up, and I don’t want it any +more. I must certainly get back to the world again. Dear old world! Nice +old world! And Mrs. Cassidy prayed with you in the cellar, did she? And +Van Cott thought it was a fire? Do you know, Sister Ursula, that all +those things would have been impossible on any other planet? I’m going +to get well, Sister Ursula.”</p> + +<p>In the long night, Sister Ursula, blushing all over under the eyes of +the night-light, heard him laughing softly in his sleep.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/img495.jpg" width="400" height="74" alt="page decoration" title="" /> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_496" id="Page_496">[Pg 496]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 419px;"> +<img src="images/img496.jpg" width="419" height="600" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">emile zola.</span> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 10%;" /> + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_497" id="Page_497">[Pg 497]</a></span></p> +<h1><em>“Lions in Their Dens.”</em></h1> + +<p class="center"><strong>VI.—EMILE ZOLA.</strong></p> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By V. R. Mooney. Illustrations by E. M. Jessop.</span></p> + +<p class="center">(<em>With photographs at various ages.</em>)</p> + +<hr style="width: 10%;" /> + + +<p>“M. Zola?”</p> + +<p>“No, monsieur, this is <em>not</em> No. 21 <em>bis</em>—this is No. 21.”</p> + +<p>By way of justification for the asperity of the tones in which this +reply is given forth the concierge of No. 21 proceeds to inform me that +every one makes the same mistake.</p> + +<p>“It is a perpetual procession here,” she goes on. “It is nothing but M. +Zola? M. Zola? M. Zola? without cease. I wish people would learn the +right address.”</p> + +<p>Now I at least ought to have known better, for I had visited M. Zola +before, so, feeling rather small, I beat a hurried retreat, and betook +myself to No. 21 <em>bis</em>.</p> + +<p>Unlike most Parisians, Zola has a whole house to himself, and, as you +perceive at a glance on entering, a very richly decorated house it is; +tapestries, bronzes, bas-reliefs, sculptures in stone and marble, are +studiously arranged about the hall and the handsome staircase, the +general effect, in the subdued light of windows of stained glass, being +most artistic.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 255px;"> +<img src="images/img497.jpg" width="255" height="400" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">emile zola.</span> +</div> + +<p>On the first landing, lances and swords and armour of different kinds +shine out from behind tropical plants. On this landing is Zola’s studio, +which is full of indications of his love for the antique—a love that is +not carried to extremes, however, for the high-backed, uncomfortable +chairs of our forefathers, in which so many of his fellow-collectors +find it necessary to seat themselves (or their visitors), are here +replaced by spacious modern armchairs.</p> + +<p>I am not kept long waiting.</p> + +<p>“Well, I am glad that this is a wet day, or else you would very likely +have regretted losing the opportunity of going to the Bois.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_498" id="Page_498">[Pg 498]</a></span> +Such are the <em>maitre’s</em> first words after a hearty shake of the hands.</p> + +<p>“So you want to know <em>all</em> about me. Now let me see what I can tell you +without repeating myself.”</p> + +<p>And Zola sinks down into a small but comfortable armchair, with a small +Turkish inlaid coffee and cigarette stand covered with books on one +side, and on the other an antique wrought iron fender placed in front of +an immense fireplace, and commences placidly the following monologue, +which I give as nearly as possible in his own words.</p> + +<p>“My father’s mother was a Corfiote, he himself a Venetian, and my mother +was a Parisian. My father and mother met in Paris, during one of my +father’s numerous visits here in connection with an aqueduct which he +wanted to construct at Aix in Provence. Within a very short time of +their first meeting, they were married. It was a love match. I was born +in Paris, in 1840, and to-day I am, therefore, 53.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 408px;"> +<img src="images/img498.jpg" width="408" height="550" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">(facsimile of m. zola’s handwriting.)</span> +</div> + +<p>“In 1847 my father died, and left very little behind him, except +lawsuits, which, through inexperience more than anything else, my mother +and grandmother managed to lose.</p> + +<p>“My education only then began, but until 12, when I had finally to enter +college, I had it pretty much my own way. That +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_499" id="Page_499">[Pg 499]</a></span> +means I worked very +little, and spent most of my time in the open air, running about in our +glorious southern fields, and learning how to love and admire nature.</p> + +<p>“At college I studied with varying success.</p> + +<p>“What I liked best were mathematics and science. I hated Greek and +Latin.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 420px;"> +<img src="images/img499.jpg" width="420" height="550" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">the staircase.</span> +</div> + +<p>“It was during the last year of my college life that I made the +acquaintance of two young fellows who may have been instrumental in +making of me what I am now. As we had pretty much the same tastes it was +our passion, whenever we could indulge in it, to run out in the fields, +get on the banks of a stream, and for hours, under the shade of some +tree, read the books of fiction which came to our possession. After each +book had been gone through, we discussed its merits, chapter by chapter, +studied the characters and the plot; all this more from a metaphysical +than a literary point of view.</p> + +<p>“I left college in 1848, and came to Paris to get work, in order to help +my mother. I found a situation which I soon had to give up, and, till +1861, I went through all the hardships that a destitute young man can +undergo in Paris.</p> + +<p>“Often have I spent in my attic the best part of the day, lying in bed +to keep warm.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_500" id="Page_500">[Pg 500]</a></span> +“Although, as you see, I am better off now, I often look back upon that +time regretting that it cannot return.</p> + +<p>“<em>Voyez vous</em>, privations and suffering were my lot, but I had in me the +fire of youth. I had health, hope, unbounded confidence in myself, and +ambition.</p> + +<p>“<em>Ah oui!</em> It was a glorious time. I remember how I used to write for +hours and hours in my bed; how everything was then fresh to me, how my +inexperience made me look hopefully forward. <em>Enfin</em>, life seemed +bright, beautiful, and cheerful.</p> + +<p>“After all, I really think hope is a higher satisfaction than +possession.</p> + +<p>“But I stray from the subject.</p> + +<p>“Let me see, you left me in bed trying to get warm, and waiting for +someone to provide the necessary number of coppers for a dinner.</p> + +<p>“In 1861, I at last found a sufficiently remunerative situation at +Hachette’s, the publishers.</p> + +<p>“I began at 200 francs a month. I did my work so thoroughly that I was +soon raised. After a certain time I was placed in the advertising +department, and there came in contact with the writers and newspaper +men, who, in my first literary efforts, gave me a helping hand.</p> + +<p>“During my stay in that office, I never ceased writing.</p> + +<p>“You must know that I was all my life a very hard and conscientious +worker.</p> + +<p>“After my day’s work at the office, I used to read and write for hours +at home by candlelight. In fact, the habit of writing at night became so +inveterate that, long afterwards, when I had time in the day, I pulled +down the blinds in my room and lit the lamp in order to work.</p> + +<p>“Towards this epoch I met my two college friends again. One had gained +some notoriety as a painter, the other was a student at the <em>ecole +polytechnique</em>. We resumed our rambles in the woods and our discussions. +This, I am convinced, was of great use to me, as our different ways of +looking at things enabled me to judge of characters, and to appreciate +differing opinions.</p> + +<p>“Before I left college, viz., when I was 17, I had written the ‘<em>Contes +à Ninon</em>.’ These I retouched a little, and determined to try my luck as +a writer with them.</p> + +<p>“As usual, with young and unknown writers, publishers received me and +politely returned my manuscript. I tried my employer, but, although he +encouraged me, and showed his sense +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_501" id="Page_501">[Pg 501]</a></span> +of appreciation, by giving me a +more responsible position, he refused to publish my story. Finally, I +presented it to Mr. Hetzel, and to my indescribable joy he accepted it.</p> + +<p>“The book was very favourably reviewed, but sold very poorly.</p> + +<p>“Soon afterwards, I began contributing to the <em>Vie Parisienne</em> and the +<em>Petit Journal</em>, and thus got launched in journalism.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 455px;"> +<img src="images/img501.jpg" width="455" height="500" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">the bedroom.</span> +</div> + +<p>“As my evenings alone did not enable me to do all the work I had in +hand, I resigned my situation in 1867, and devoted myself exclusively to +literature.</p> + +<p>“This did not improve my position, and I was obliged, for a certain +time, to suffer new hardships and privations.</p> + +<p>“It is needless to follow my career step by step. You know what I am +now—you see I have succeeded.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_502" id="Page_502">[Pg 502]</a></span> +“Well, <em>mon cher maitre</em>, not many men can boast of a success equal to +yours. Indeed, there is evidence enough in this very room of that +success.”</p> + +<p>“That implies, of course, that you think I have an enormous account at +the bank. You are mistaken. Every centime I get comes from the sale of +my books, the rights of translation, etc. My royalty is 60 centimes per +volume. This brings me about 300,000 francs a year, and I am not a man +to economise. All this furniture, and the articles you see scattered +about, I have slowly accumulated. I began to purchase with the first +economies I ever made.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 249px;"> +<img src="images/img502.jpg" width="249" height="350" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">emile zola.</span> +</div> + +<p>“This passion which obliged me frequently to change residences in order +to find room for the ever increasing number of objects was acquired by +me through reading Victor Hugo in my childhood. It is not so ardent now, +I regret to say.”</p> + +<p>As he got up to show me round, the light fell full on his face. I +thought I noticed a look of melancholy, and made a remark to that +effect.</p> + +<p>With a sigh he replied, “<em>Mon cher monsieur</em>, I repeat I always think +with pleasure of my garret. I had then no cares. I was, what I call, +absolutely independent.”</p> + +<p>“But in what way are you dependent now?”</p> + +<p>“More than you think. I was then my own reader and my only critic. I +lived in my writings, and thought them perfect. Since then I belong to +the public, upon whose judgment my success depends, upon whose +appreciation my reward lies. Do not imagine that I do not frequently +suffer deeply, that I am not wounded, and that I do not feel mortified +and become discouraged by the misinterpretation of my motives. These are +passing clouds, but they are not pleasant, I can assure you.”</p> + +<p>As he was unburdening his sorrows, we visited the apartment. It would be +impossible to describe it in the short space of an article, as I must +admit I seldom found such a mass, and at the same time such a variety, +of objects collected.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_503" id="Page_503">[Pg 503]</a></span> +The accompanying photos will be more eloquent than my pen.</p> + +<p>Taste presides in everything; choice, disposal, grouping, and colouring. +The southern nature of the host reveals itself in its love for bright +colours, education and refinement in the subdued tones and harmonious +<em>ensemble</em>.</p> + +<p>He did not hesitate to show me everything; unfortunately, however, had I +seen less, I would have remembered more.</p> + +<p>As we walked back to the studio I returned to the previous subject, and +asked him whether, as was generally supposed, he dashed through his +books after a painstaking preliminary work.</p> + +<p>He denied this.</p> + +<p>“It is an error; I work very hard.”</p> + +<p>“What way do you proceed then, <em>cher maitre</em>?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I never prepare a plot. I cannot do it. I have frequently +meditated for hours, buried my head in my hands, closed my eyes, and got +ill over it. But no use. I finally gave it up. What I do is to make +three kinds of studies for each novel. The first I call a sketch, viz., +I determine the dominant idea of the book, and the elements required to +develop this idea. I also establish certain logical connections between +one series of facts and another. The next <em>dossier</em> contains a study of +the character of each actor in my work. For the principal ones I go even +further. I enquire into the character of both father and mother, their +life, the influence of their mutual relations on the temperament of the +child. The way the latter was brought up, his schooldays, the +surroundings and his associates up to the time I introduce him in my +book. You see, therefore, I sail as close to nature as possible, and +even take into account his personal appearance, health and heredity. My +third preoccupation is to study the surroundings into which I intend to +place my actors, the locality and the spot where certain parts may be +acted. I enquire into the manners, habits, character, language, and even +learn the jargon of the inhabitants of such localities.</p> + +<p>“I frequently take pencil sketches and measurement of rooms, and know +exactly how the furniture is placed. Finally, I know the appearance of +such quarters by night and by day. After I have collected laboriously +all this material, I sit down to my work regularly every morning, and do +not write more than three pages of print a day.”</p> + +<p>“How long does it take you to produce that?”</p> + +<p>“Well, not very long. The subject is so vivid that the work +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_504" id="Page_504">[Pg 504]</a></span>proceeds +slowly, but without interruption. In fact, I hardly ever make any +erasures or alterations, and once my sheet is written and laid aside, I +do not look at it again. The next morning I resume the thread, and the +story proceeds to the end by logical progression.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 468px;"> +<img src="images/img504.jpg" width="468" height="600" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">the dining room.</span> +</div> + +<p>“I work like a mathematician. Before I begin I know into how many +chapters the novel shall be divided. The descriptive parts have an +allotted space, and if they are too long for one chapter +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_505" id="Page_505">[Pg 505]</a></span>I terminate +them in another. I try also to give some rest to the mind of the reader, +or rather remove the tension caused by too long and stirring a passage, +by interlarding something which diverts the attention for a time.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 243px;"> +<img src="images/img505.jpg" width="243" height="350" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">emile zola.</span> +</div> + +<p>“Finally, I repeat, I have no preconceived plot. I do not know at the +beginning of a chapter how it will end. Situations must logically follow +one another, that is all.”</p> + +<p>Of course, after this, the conversation rolled on some of his principal +works, particularly “La Terre.”</p> + +<p>In reply to the objection taken to that book, one of his arguments is +that progress and science have made of man a being distinct from that of +last century, and insisted that nowadays we must abandon the study of +the metaphysical man of years gone by for an enquiry into the +physiological creature of our days. That is my opinion, and it is in +defence of this conviction that I worked for years.</p> + +<p>The next subject upon which I thought I might tackle him was the +“Debacle.”</p> + +<p>“How did I prepare my ‘Debacle’? Well, in the same way as all my other +books. You know I went over most of the battlefields described by me. +Moreover, I received innumerable letters on the subject. The most +interesting ones came from the professors of Paris schools, who, being +left without employment, enlisted. These letters, coming from educated +men, contain, without one exception, the same lamentations, and give +similar accounts of privations and suffering. They all describe how for +days they had to go without food, and ragged; and how fast their numbers +were thinned. Each had in his memoirs accounts illustrating the +blundering ignorance of the commanders! I was violently attacked when +the ‘Debacle’ appeared. Everything was criticised as usual, and many +details declared inaccurate. But I ask you whether it is always possible +to be as absolutely accurate in small details in a novel as in a +history?</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 437px;"> +<img src="images/img506.jpg" width="437" height="600" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">the drawing room.</span> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_506" id="Page_506">[Pg 506]</a></span> +“Some dates have been misplaced, and some details relating to the colour +of the troopers’ collars were not right; but criticism of such absurd +details cannot affect the treatment and the development of the subject, +and the conclusions arrived at. I am told that Marshal MacMahon is wild +against me, and that he is preparing a reply to my book. It has always +been my object to avoid +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_507" id="Page_507">[Pg 507]</a></span> +personalities. I never once accused MacMahon, +but the facts prove that he acted ignorantly. History will be severer, +and when those who write it consult documents as I did, they will not +treat him with the deference I used.</p> + +<p>“General Gallifet is also my enemy. Do you know why? Because I have not +mentioned him.”</p> + +<p>“How does your ‘Debacle’ sell now, <em>cher maitre</em>?”</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 424px;"> +<img src="images/img507.jpg" width="424" height="550" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">study corner.</span> +</div> + +<p>“Not so well as at the beginning, and the cause of it is the Panama +scandal. When the unscrupulousness of a certain class of men was made +bare, the initiators of the enquiry were accused by a section of the +nation with want of patriotism. Curiously enough, the same accusation +was levelled against my book, therefore, instead of being thanked for +the courage I had of disclosing the evils, I am punished for it. The +same influences acted against me in the last Academy elections. Before +the Panama affair, I was certain to have a chair.”</p> + +<p>“Will you continue presenting yourself?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly, until I get a seat. There is no reason why I should be +excluded from that body, and if I abstain from presenting my +candidature, it might be construed as an admission on my part that I +considered justified the action of the academicians against me.”</p> + +<p>“When is your novel about ‘Lourdes’ going to appear?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_508" id="Page_508">[Pg 508]</a></span> +“Later than you think. I am working at present at Dr. Pascal, which +closes my series of the Rougon Macquart novels.”</p> + +<p>“Would it be indiscreet to ask you what subject you intend treating this +time?”</p> + +<p>“No. It will be a philosophical and scientific defence of the principal +work of my life—the twenty volumes of the Rougon Macquarts. You see I +attach the greatest importance to this, and therefore give special +attention to my work, which is meant to be a justification of my +theories and <em>hardiesses</em>. After this I’ll take ‘Lourdes’ in hand. +‘Lourdes’ will be followed by ‘Rome,’ and then by ‘Paris.’ They will +form a triptych.”</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 239px;"> +<img src="images/img508.jpg" width="239" height="350" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">emile zola.</span> +</div> + +<p>“Namely?”</p> + +<p>“Well, in the first I shall try to prove that the great scientific +development of our time has inspired hopes in the mind of all classes, +hopes which it has not realised to the satisfaction of the most +impressionable, therefore the most exacting and unreasonable minds. How +such minds have returned with greater conviction to the belief in the +existence of something more powerful than science, a something which can +alleviate the evils from which they suffer, or imagine they do.</p> + +<p>“Among these there may even be social philanthropists, who may think +that divine intercession is more efficacious to cure the suffering of +the people than anarchist theories. In my ‘Rome’ I shall treat of the +Neo-Catholicism, with its ambitions, its struggle, etc., as distinct +from the pure religious sentiment of the pilgrims of ‘Lourdes.’</p> + +<p>“Finally, in ‘Paris’ I shall endeavour to lay bare the corruption and +vice which devour that city; vice and corruption to which the whole +civilised world brings its share. I need not say that these will be +written in the shape of novels.</p> + +<p>“For ‘Lourdes’ I have collected all my material. As you know, I followed +a pilgrimage, and was given the kindest assistance by the clergy, who +allowed me to consult every document in their possession. As usual, I +receive every day letters from laymen and priests, who spontaneously +supply me with information.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_509" id="Page_509">[Pg 509]</a></span> +Zola thereupon got up, opened a drawer, and showed me piles of such +letters. Among these I read one from a priest, who seemed convinced that +before long Zola would be a convert. I asked him what he had seen at +Lourdes.</p> + +<p>“Nothing that I did not expect, considering that before going there I +had had long conversations with eminent specialists in nervous diseases. +I saw cures which would be called extraordinary by such as ignore the +curative power of faith in hysteric complaints and its derivatives. But +I did not see limbs straightened or replaced, nor has any monk or priest +showed me or even alluded to such cures.</p> + +<p>“But what struck me was that, contrary to what one is made to expect, I +did not find among the clergy that aggressive and ostentatious +proselytism. Everything is conducted in a dignified, quiet, unassuming +manner.”</p> + +<p>Continuing to look among the letters, I picked one from an English lady, +expressing the sincere hope that the “Debacle” would bear fruit, that +the lesson it taught would be a warning to France, and save the nation +from the errors it had fallen into during the Empire.</p> + +<p>When I had done, Zola assured me that since the “Debacle” he was happy +to say that he receives numerous such letters from England. This shows +him that the hostile feeling against him tends to disappear.</p> + +<p>Before withdrawing, I asked him whether he had heard any more of the +thief who, assuming the title of a journalist, had stolen some of his +bronzes.</p> + +<p>With a laugh, Zola replied in the negative, and explained that he had to +thank “Lourdes” for the theft.</p> + +<p>“Since it has become known that I prepare that book, the clerical papers +send me their reporters. I receive them without exception. On this +occasion, I was talking to a friend when a card was presented bearing +the title of a small such paper. I requested the servant to show the +bearer in the drawing-room.</p> + +<p>“Five minutes later I was with the fellow, who asked a couple of +questions. Instead, however, of waiting for complete information, which +I volunteered to give, he very politely withdrew, and only the next day +did I discover that he had removed valuables for about 700 francs.”</p> + +<p>For how long I might have engaged the great and amiable novelist in +conversation I don’t know; but at this point, having listened to him for +more than an hour and a half, I rose to leave.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_510" id="Page_510">[Pg 510]</a></span> +And now that the heavy door has closed behind me, shall I attempt to +compose a picture of Zola as I have seen him there in his room in his +warm, many-pocketed Tyrolese jacket, braided with green, and buttoned up +to the throat? Perhaps it is unnecessary, for his features must by this +time be familiar to almost all.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 448px;"> +<img src="images/img510.jpg" width="448" height="550" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">zola at work.</span> +</div> + +<p>Like all Southerners, Zola helps out his voice with frequent gestures; +but he has none of the exuberant eloquence of his race. In society he is +still, to a certain degree, and must always remain the victim of +bashfulness; and his one attempt at public speaking was a complete +failure. He has in him nothing of the boulevardier, and he is happy only +when at work. Enforced idleness would mean misery to him.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_511" id="Page_511">[Pg 511]</a></span></p> +<h1><em>People I Have Never Met.</em></h1> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By Scott Rankin.</span></p> + +<hr style="width: 10%;" /> + +<p class="center">RUDYARD KIPLING.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 495px;"> +<img src="images/img511.jpg" width="495" height="550" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“the light that failed.”</span> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_512" id="Page_512">[Pg 512]</a></span></p> +<h1><em>An Ethiopian Cricket Match.</em></h1> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By Eden Phillpotts.</span></p> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Illustrations by Geo. Hutchinson.</span></p> + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/img512.jpg" width="600" height="402" alt="image" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>After the “Rhine” had been anchored in the harbour of St. Thomas, West +Indies, for the space of two days, our First Officer, more generally +known in these records as the Model Man, received a rather remarkable +communication. It was a letter from a black sportsman, who issued a +challenge to our ship on behalf of a local club. This note reminded the +Model Man of a most successful cricket match in the past, when an eleven +from the “Rhine” was victorious; and it suggested that, during the +present visit of our vessel, a return match might be played. We talked +the matter over, and I said:</p> + +<p>“Of course you will accept.”</p> + +<p>But the Treasure answered:</p> + +<p>“You see there is always one great difficulty with black cricketers. +They have a theory you cannot play the game properly in clothes, and +they get themselves up for a match much the same as we should if we were +going swimming.”</p> + +<p>“Why, last time we played,” continued the Model Man, “only one man had +anything you could fairly call raiment. He came on to the pitch with +what he regarded as a pair of cocoanut-fibre trousers, and his team made +him captain upon the strength of them.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_513" id="Page_513">[Pg 513]</a></span> +I said:</p> + +<p>“If they prefer to play undraped, I don’t see that it much matters to +us.”</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 262px;"> +<img src="images/img513.jpg" width="262" height="400" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“as if they were<br /> +going in swimming.”</span> +</div> + +<p>“Not personally, but a mixed audience cannot be expected to stand it,” +replied the Treasure. “We play cricket in St. Thomas upon a very public +and central piece of ground, and, at one time, everybody used to turn +out and watch the matches; but now, owing to the barbarous reasons I +have given you, cricket has fallen into disrepute. Of course, to see an +eleven taking the field in a state of nature makes dead against +civilisation and human progress.”</p> + +<p>Finally, the Model Man wrote to say that it would give him great +pleasure to bring a team to the ground upon the following morning if the +local talent promised to wear clothes. “My eleven will absolutely refuse +to play against anybody in the nude,” he wound up.</p> + +<p>An hour later a negro in a boat paddled out to us with an answer. He +hailed us, and we asked him if his people would accept our terms.</p> + +<p>“Yes, massa, we all put fings on, but we much sooner play cricket +widdout.”</p> + +<p>“Nonsense,” shouted back the Model Man. “Cricket is a civilised game, +and must be followed in a civilised way, or not at all. We will be on +the ground at ten o’clock.”</p> + +<p>The messenger rowed off, and a great discussion began as to the +constitution of our team. Everybody wanted to go to the match, and sit +in the shade and look on and criticise, but no one much cared about +playing. The Captain of the “Rhine” absolutely refused, to begin with. +He said:</p> + +<p>“I would do anything for my officers—anything in reason; but cricket is +out of the question. I shall, however, be on the ground with some +ladies. A good appreciative audience is everything in these cases. +Moreover, I will umpire if the tide turns against us.”</p> + +<p>The Treasure only consented to play after much pressure. He said:</p> + +<p>“You know what the wicket is like; it’s simply mountainous, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_514" id="Page_514">[Pg 514]</a></span>and black +men have no control over their bowling. For you medium-sized chaps it +may be comparatively safe, but bowling at me is like bowling at a +haystack—you cannot miss. When I go in, the blacks never bother about +the stumps, but just let fly at random on the chance of winging me. Last +match here, I hit their crack fast bowler all over the island, and he +got mad at last, and gave up attempting to bowl me, but just tried to +kill me.”</p> + +<p>“You scored off him, though,” said our Fourth Officer, who remembered +the incident.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/img514.jpg" width="600" height="403" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“nearly knocked a limb off him.”</span> +</div> + +<p>“I did,” admitted the Treasure. “I slapped one straight back, as hard as +ever I could lay in to it, and he funked it, and tried to get out of the +way and failed. I nearly knocked a limb off him, and then he abandoned +the ball, and went and sulked and chattered to himself in the deep +field.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor said it would give him great pleasure to play, but he added +that he should feel very averse to bowling against anybody with nothing +on. Then the Model Man answered:</p> + +<p>“You need not fear. The negroes are very particular about pads and such +things. They don’t wear shoes, for nothing could hurt their feet, but +they never dream of batting without leg-guards, because a nigger’s shins +are his weak spot. These fellows are not much good at cricket after you +have once hit them hard. Either they get cross and throw up the whole +thing, and leave the ground and go home to their families, or else they +become frightened and servile. I have known them almost beg for mercy +before each ball.”</p> + +<p>“You’ll play, of course,” said the Fourth Officer to me.</p> + +<p>“Certainly, if you will,” I answered. Then he replied:</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_515" id="Page_515">[Pg 515]</a></span> +“I shall undoubtedly play. I’m not a man who does much with the bat, but +my bowling is rather out of the common. I have a natural leg-break which +baffles fellows frightfully. Why, there was a question raised once about +playing me for my county.”</p> + +<p>I did not ask him which county, because one should never goad a willing +horse. The Fourth Officer had been in a thoroughly mendacious vein ever +since we left St. Kitts; the fault grew upon him, and now he began to +utter transparent inaccuracies at all hours, from sheer love of them.</p> + +<p>After much argument and conversation, our team was finally selected, the +last man chosen being a black stoker of great size and strength.</p> + +<p>“I regard him as a speculation,” explained the Captain of our side; +“either he will get out first ball or make a hundred. There are no +half-measures with him.”</p> + +<p>As we approached the ground on the following morning, our Model Man +confided to me a great source of anxiety. This was the fielding. He +said:</p> + +<p>“You see, men don’t mind batting, but they get very unsportsmanlike when +it comes to going out into the field. Some actually hide, or pretend +they have engagements; others feign illness and retire; others, again, +salve their miserable consciences by paying a negro a shilling to go and +field for them. I only mention this. I know you’re not the man to do +such things; but, between ourselves, I fear the Doctor is just a sort of +chap to escape fielding. There are others also I must keep an eye upon. +Being captain of a scratch cricket team in the Tropics is no light task, +I can tell you.”</p> + +<p>A considerable crowd had gathered to see the conflict. The negroes sat +and lolled round the ground, while, behind them, buggies and horsemen +were drawn up. Conspicuous in that gay throng appeared the Captain of +the “Rhine,” seated on a brown horse, amid female equestrians. Beyond +the audience rose a belt of tamarind and flamboyant trees, the latter +with gigantic green and brown seed-pods hanging from their branches; and +above these woods, sloping upwards to the blue sky, extended the hills, +with winding roads, visible here and there through the foliage that +covered them, and with many a flagstaff and white cottage scattered upon +their sides.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/img516a.jpg" width="400" height="385" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“nibbled the bails.”</span> +</div> + +<p>The ground itself suggested golf rather than cricket. Here and there a +little dried-up grass occurred, but it collected in lonely tufts, +between which extended great ravines and hillocks and boulders and +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_516" id="Page_516">[Pg 516]</a></span> +patches of desolation. Upon a barren spot in the middle, the wickets had +been pitched. When we arrived, they appeared to be an object of no +little interest to sundry goats. These beasts evidently regarding the +stumps as some strange new form of vegetation, sprang up in a single +night from the arid soil, sauntered round them enquiringly, and a shabby +he-goat, braver than his companions, nibbled the bails.</p> + +<p>Our opponents, adequately attired, had arrived. They constituted a +motley, good-humoured gathering in all shades. One, John Smith, a genial +hybrid, commanded them, and presently a great shout arose, when it +transpired that he had secured choice of innings. The Doctor said, in a +tone of reproof:</p> + +<p>“Hang it, John, you’ve only won the toss. You couldn’t make a bigger row +if you’d won the match.”</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 233px;"> +<img src="images/img516b.jpg" width="233" height="400" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">john smith.</span> +</div> + +<p>“Great fing to go in fus, sar,” explained John; “we go in fus now, when +we’s fresh.”</p> + +<p>Then the Model Man led out his warriors.</p> + +<p>I sauntered across the pitch with the Treasure, and examined its +peculiarities. We were discussing a curious geological formation, midway +between the wickets, when our Fourth Officer approached in some glee at +a great discovery. He had found a little hill, rather wide of the +stumps, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_517" id="Page_517">[Pg 517]</a></span>on one side, and he explained that whenever he dropped a ball +on this elevation, he must bowl an Ethiop.</p> + +<p>“You see, my natural leg-break will take the ball dead into the wicket +every time,” he said.</p> + +<p>We hoped it might be so; and he begged us to keep the thing a profound +secret, because, as he said, if it got about that we were going to +utilise this hill to such an extent, the enemy would probably send out +and have it removed, or alter the pitch.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 398px;"> +<img src="images/img517.jpg" width="398" height="450" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“driven back a trifle.”</span> +</div> + +<p>After the goats cleared away, and the juvenile spectators driven back a +trifle, our Model Man arranged his field. More correctly speaking, the +field arranged itself. Indeed, our team hardly proved as amenable as +might have been wished. The Doctor insisted on taking long-leg and +long-oft.</p> + +<p>“Why?” asked his Captain, looking rather distrustfully at a buggy with +some red parasols in it, which would be extremely close to the Doctor at +long-leg.</p> + +<p>“It isn’t that, old chap,” replied our physician, cheerfully, following +the Model Man’s eye. “In fact, I’m not sure if I even know those girls. +I only suggested a place in the long field because I’m a safe catch. +That’s important.”</p> + +<p>So he had his way.</p> + +<p>Meantime, the Treasure found some other parasols—white ones—and placed +himself within easy chatting distance. Investigation proved that the +white parasols were protecting the Enchantress and her mother. The Model +Man said that he might just as well be on the ship as there. So he +ordered his man up<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_518" id="Page_518">[Pg 518]</a></span> +to take the wicket. The Treasure came reluctantly, +and absolutely declined to keep wicket. He declared that it was simple +murder to make a person of his size attempt such a thing on such a +ground.</p> + +<p>He led me aside privately, and said:</p> + +<p>“Look here, you know that walking-stick of mine, manufactured from a +shark’s backbone—the one you are always worrying me to give you? Well, +I will, when we go back to the ship, if you’ll take the wicket. If you +fall at your post, then your heirs shall have it.”</p> + +<p>I closed on this bargain promptly, and while I dressed up in all sorts +of life-saving inventions used at cricket, the Treasure took an +unobtrusive, circuitous route back to the white parasols.</p> + +<p>John Smith himself and another negro, who was said to be related to him +by marriage, came in first. They were padded up to the eyes, and +evidently felt the importance of their position. Then a black umpire +said: “Play, gem’men,” and our Fourth Officer started with his +world-famed, natural leg-break. He bowled three wides in succession as a +preliminary. It is not easy to bowl wides underhand, but that Fourth +Officer managed it; and I began to understand why, after all, his county +had determined to struggle along without him.</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter, old man?” asked our Captain, who was fielding at +short-slip.</p> + +<p>“It’s all right, old chap; you wait,” answered the Fourth Officer, full +of confidence.</p> + +<p>“Yes, quite so, but they count one against us every time. I didn’t know +whether you knew it,” explained the Model Man.</p> + +<p>Meantime the bowler made further futile attempts to drop the ball upon +the mound he had discovered. At last he actually did do so, but instead +of breaking in and taking a wicket, as we, who were in the secret, +hoped, the batsman got hold of it, and hit it high and hard to long-leg. +All eyes turned to see if the Doctor’s estimate of his own powers at a +catch was justified. But he had disappeared entirely. He had not even +left a substitute. Everybody shouted with dismay, and then the Doctor +suddenly bounded on to the field. He distinctly came out of the buggy, +from between the red parasols. If he had not actually known those girls, +he must have introduced himself, or prevailed upon somebody else to do +so. He tore into the scene of action, looking for the ball.</p> + +<p>“It’s in the air, you fool,” yelled a dozen voices. Then it fell within +a yard of the Doctor. A child could have caught it. We were all quite +unsettled. The Model Man said:</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_519" id="Page_519">[Pg 519]</a></span> +“I’m not a bit surprised—it’s just what I expected.”</p> + +<p>And the Fourth Officer said:</p> + +<p>“I don’t really see what good it is my bowling for catches at long-leg +if there’s no long-leg.”</p> + +<p>And the Doctor said:</p> + +<p>“Wouldn’t have done it for money. Hadn’t the faintest idea you’d +started. I saw you bowling balls all over the place, miles away from the +wicket, and I thought you were merely practising.” Which was rather an +unpleasant thing for the Fourth Officer to hear.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 254px;"> +<img src="images/img519.jpg" width="254" height="400" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“a black umpire.”</span> +</div> + +<p>Then the game steadied down and proceeded. Our Captain took the ball, +after the underhand expert had got a few within sight of the wicket, and +so finished his over. The Model Man was much more successful, for he +clean-bowled a negro with his third delivery. It pitched in a sort of +mountain-pass, about ten feet from the wicket; then it branched off to +the right and hit a stone, and came back again, and finally took the off +stump. I don’t see how anybody alive could have played it. The batsman +retired utterly bewildered, and the Model Man assured me he had never +sent down a better ball.</p> + +<p>A slogger came in next, and made runs rather rapidly, but nothing much +happened until the Fourth Officer’s third over. Then he fell foul of me, +and took exception to my method of keeping the wicket. He was being hit +about pretty generally, and had become very hot, so, at another time, I +should not have retorted upon him; but, when he spoke, I was hot too, +and being hit about also, so I answered without deliberation. He said:</p> + +<p>“Can’t you even try to stump them?”</p> + +<p>And I replied:</p> + +<p>“I might, if my arms were ten feet long.”</p> + +<p>Then he said:</p> + +<p>“You’ve had dozens of chances. I always want a wicket-keeper for my +bowling.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_520" id="Page_520">[Pg 520]</a></span> +Whereupon I answered:</p> + +<p>“You want twenty—in a row. One’s no good.”</p> + +<p>He said:</p> + +<p>“You don’t like standing up to my fast ones, that’s the truth.”</p> + +<p>And I responded:</p> + +<p>“Oh, bless you, I’d stand up to them all right, if I knew <em>where</em> to +stand. A wicket-keeper’s supposed to keep the wicket, not run all over +the ground after wides.”</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 412px;"> +<img src="images/img520.jpg" width="412" height="500" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“refreshments were being sold.”</span> +</div> + +<p>During this unseemly argument, the Model Man, the Treasure, and the +Doctor were all having an unpleasantness on their own account. The +Doctor was imploring our Captain to take himself off and let somebody +else bowl. He said: “Can’t you see they’ve collared you? They’ve scored +twenty runs. Don’t think that <em>I</em> want to go on. Far from it. I’m only +speaking for the good of the side.”</p> + +<p>But the Model Man refused to leave off bowling for anybody. He +emphatically denied that they had collared him. Then he changed the +subject, and turned upon the Treasure, and asked him where he supposed +he was fielding.</p> + +<p>The Treasure answered:</p> + +<p>“This is mid-on. I’m all right.”</p> + +<p>“You may think it’s mid-on, but it isn’t,” shouted back the worried +Model Man. “I’ve no doubt you’re all right,” he continued, bitterly, +“but you’re no sportsman.”</p> + +<p>After twenty more runs had been scored, the Fourth Officer unexpectedly +and frankly admitted that he was not in form. He relinquished the ball, +and said he had the makings of a sunstroke about his head, and went off +to field among a few friends in a patch of shade under a tree, where all +kinds of refreshments were +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_521" id="Page_521">[Pg 521]</a></span> +being sold. Then our Captain held a +consultation, and determined to try a complete change in the attack. He +called upon the Doctor and the Treasure, and told them just to bowl +quietly and carefully, and as straight as possible.</p> + +<p>The Treasure started with yorkers; which was about the most effective +thing he could have done, for, whenever he got one on the wicket, it +bowled a black man. Two negroes, including the slogger, fell to him in +his first over. Then the Doctor tried his hand, and began by being +absurdly particular about the field. He put five men in the slips, and +then started with terrifically fast full pitches to leg. A good player +would have hit one and all of these right out of the island into the +sea, but the people who were now at the wickets merely got out of the +way, and let the Doctor’s deliveries proceed to the boundary for three +byes each.</p> + +<p>Upon this he insulted me, as the Fourth Officer had done before him. He +said:</p> + +<p>“Do stand up to them, old man.”</p> + +<p>I said:</p> + +<p>“Why should I? I’m out to enjoy myself. I’m a human being, not a target. +Besides, long-stop will lose interest in the game if he has nothing to +do.”</p> + +<p>“They don’t have long-stops in first-class cricket,” grumbled the +Doctor. “You’ve got no proper pride.”</p> + +<p>Then I said:</p> + +<p>“Of course, if you are mistaking this display for first-class cricket, +it’s no good arguing with you.”</p> + +<p>In his second over the Doctor bowled a shade straighter, and began +knocking the batsmen about, and hurting them and frightening them. If +they had only kept in front of the wicket, and put their bats between +their legs out of the way, they might have been safe enough, but they +dashed nervously about and tried to escape; and the ball would shoot and +hit their toes, or rise and threaten their heads, or break back into +their stomachs. Then the bowler got a man “retired hurt,” and a regular +panic set in.</p> + +<p>“I’m keeping down the run-getting, anyhow,” said the elated Doctor.</p> + +<p>“Yes, and you’ll have to mend all these local celebrities for nothing +after the match,” replied our Treasure.</p> + +<p>The latter had taken several more wickets, and now the score stood at +sixty, with three further blacks to bat. About this time I made an +appeal to the umpire upon a question of stumping a +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_522" id="Page_522">[Pg 522]</a></span> +man, but he had his +back turned and was buying a piece of sugarcane. He apologised +profusely. He said:</p> + +<p>“I’se too sorry, Massa, jus’ too sorry, but I’se dam +hungry, Sar.”</p> + +<p>Hungry! Whoever heard of an umpire being hungry? Thirsty they may be, +and generally are, but hunger is a paltry plea to raise.</p> + +<p>Soon afterwards, our black stoker made two brilliant catches, one after +the other, the Treasure quickly bowled their last man, and the innings +closed for seventy-three runs.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 216px;"> +<img src="images/img522.jpg" width="216" height="400" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“black stoker made two<br /> +brilliant catches.”</span> +</div> + +<p>Then the rival teams scattered through St. Thomas for luncheon, the +spectators dispersed, and the goats had the cricket ground all to +themselves until the afternoon.</p> + +<p>Some lively betting took place during our meal. The Model Man was +gloomy, and doubted the ability of his eleven to make the necessary +score on such a wicket; but the Doctor appeared extremely sanguine, and +the Fourth Officer actually guaranteed half the runs himself. He said:</p> + +<p>“Though not a finished bat, yet it often happens that I come off with +the willow when I fail with the leather.”</p> + +<p>It struck me that if his success with one was proportionate to his +failure with the other, there seemed just reason for hoping he would get +into three figures that afternoon.</p> + +<p>Our Captain grew very anxious about the order of going in. Finally, he +determined to start with the black stoker and me. He said:</p> + +<p>“You play steadily and cautiously and let him hit. If it chances to be +his day, we may, after all, win with ten wickets in hand. Stranger +things have happened at cricket.”</p> + +<p>“Not many,” I replied; “but we will do our best.”</p> + +<p>Our best, unfortunately, did not amount to much. The match was resumed +at half-past three, before an increased gathering of onlookers; and +three distinct rounds of applause greeted the gigantic stoker and me as +we marched to the wickets. It proved +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_523" id="Page_523">[Pg 523]</a></span> +a fortunate thing that we got the +applause then, because we might have missed it later. My own innings, +for instance, did not afford the smallest loophole for enthusiasm at any +time.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 387px;"> +<img src="images/img523.jpg" width="387" height="400" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“somewhere in the small ribs.”</span> +</div> + +<p>The black certainly began well. He hit the first ball he received clean +out of the ground for six runs, but the second ball retaliated and smote +him direfully somewhere in the small ribs. Thereupon, he fell down and +rolled twenty yards to allay the agony, after which he rose up and +withdrew, declaring that he had met his death, and that no power on +earth would induce him to bat again. These negroes never forget an +injury of this kind. If our black stoker lives over to-morrow, he will +probably collect his colleagues from the ship, and row ashore by night +and seek out the local bowler, and make it very unrestful and exciting +for him.</p> + +<p>The Model Man now came in, but he had the misfortune to lose my +assistance almost immediately. I was caught at short leg after a patient +innings of ten, slightly marred, however, by about the same number of +chances. The Fourth Officer took my place. He began by nearly running +out his Captain. If point had not stopped to dance and rub his leg, the +wicket must have fallen. Then the new-comer settled down and played with +great care, and irritated the bowlers extremely by giving them advice +and criticising their efforts. Once they sent him so slow a ball that it +never reached the wicket at all. Then our Fourth Officer rushed out and +hit it after it had stopped, and so, rather ingeniously, scored two. It +was a revolutionary sort of stroke, and the umpire said it must not be +counted, but the batsman insisted upon having the runs put down. Of +course, to argue with any umpire is madness. This black one simply +waited for the next over, and then gave our Fourth Officer out “leg +before.” There was a great argument, but the umpire’s ruling had to be +upheld, and the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_524" id="Page_524">[Pg 524]</a></span> +batsman retired, declaring that he would never play +cricket with savages again as long as he lived. He said:</p> + +<p>“In the first place the ball was a wide, and in the second, after +breaking a yard and a half, it hit my elbow. Then that black ass gives +me out ‘leg before.’ It’s sickening. Emancipation is the biggest error +of the century. I’m going back to the ship.” But he did not. He found +something under a yellow parasol that comforted him.</p> + +<p>The Doctor came in next, and hit the first ball he received over the +bowler’s head for three. Encouraged by this success, he ran half across +the ground to the next one, missed it, and would have been stumped under +ordinary circumstances, but the ball, instead of going to the +wicket-keeper, shunted off at a sort of junction, and proceeded to +short-slip. He, desiring the honour of defeating the Doctor, would not +give the ball up, and tried to put the wicket down himself. This the +outraged custodian of the stumps refused to permit, and while they were +wrangling about it, and the rest of the team were screaming directions, +our batsman galloped safely back amidst loud applause.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/img524.jpg" width="400" height="340" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“there was a great argument.”</span> +</div> + +<p>We made fifty-eight for four wickets, the Model Man being the next to +succumb. He had performed well, in something approaching style, for +thirty runs. After him came the Treasure. He played forward very tamely +at everything, until a ball suddenly got up and skinned two of his +knuckles. Then he grew excited, and began hitting very hard, and making +runs at a tremendous pace.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile the Doctor, finding his wicket still intact, suddenly became +enthusiastic and took extraordinary interest in his innings. Between +each ball he marched about the pitch and grubbed up +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_525" id="Page_525">[Pg 525]</a></span> +tufts of grass and +threw away stones, and patted the different elevations and acclivities +with his bat. But he might just as well have patted the Alps, or any +other mountain range. He hit a fast ball straight up into the air, when +only five or six runs were wanted to win the match. It was one of those +awkward, lofty hits that half the field can get to, if they only look +alive. In this case, four negroes were all waiting to secure him, so the +Doctor escaped again. Then, evidently under the impression that he bore +a charmed life, he began taking great liberties, and pulling straight +balls and strolling about out of his ground, and so forth. Finally, amid +some intricate manœuvres, he jumped on to his own wicket, and retired +well pleased with his performance. The Treasure went on hitting and +being hit for a few minutes longer; then he made the winning stroke, and +the contest came to a happy conclusion.</p> + +<p>With one or two exceptions, everybody had much enjoyed the match; and +that night, I recollect, we sat and smoked late on the deck of the +“Rhine,” fought our battle once more, explained our theories of cricket +to one another, and agreed that it was a great and grand amusement.</p> + +<p>“But,” said the Fourth Officer, “it is not a pastime in which your +nigger will ever excel. He cannot learn the rules, let alone play the +game.”</p> + +<p>“No,” I answered, “he does not excel at it, because, ‘unstable as +water,’ the Ethiopian will never excel at anything; but he does quite as +well as one might have expected, and, if he had a better ground, might +play a better game.”</p> + +<p>Certainly that cricket ground requires attention. To level it, though +doubtless an engineering feat, should not be impossible. If an +earthquake could be arranged, it might leave a surface for steam rollers +to begin working upon; but no mere patching or tinkering will answer the +purpose. Something definite and drastic and colossal must be done to the +cricket ground we played on at St. Thomas before it can become fairly +worthy of the name.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_526" id="Page_526">[Pg 526]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 429px;"> +<img src="images/img526.jpg" width="429" height="600" alt="R M Ballantyne" title="" /> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 10%;" /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_527" id="Page_527">[Pg 527]</a></span></p> +<h1><em>My First Book.</em></h1> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By R. M. Ballantyne.</span></p> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Illustrations by Geo. Hutchinson.</span></p> + +<p class="center">(<em>Photographs by Messrs. Fradelle & Young.</em>)</p> + +<hr style="width: 10%;" /> + + +<p>Having been asked to give some account of the commencement of my +literary career, I begin by remarking that my first book was not a tale +or “story-book,” but a free-and-easy record of personal adventure and +every-day life in those wild regions of North America which are known, +variously, as Rupert’s Land—The Hudson’s Bay Territory—The Nor’ West, +and “The Great Lone Land.”</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 314px;"> +<img src="images/img527.jpg" width="314" height="350" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“where i wrote my first book.”<br /> +<span class="fn">(<em>A Sketch by the Author.</em>)</span> +</span> +</div> + +<p>The record was never meant to see the light in the form of a book. It +was written solely for the eye of my mother, but, as it may be said that +it was the means of leading me ultimately into the path of my life-work, +and was penned under somewhat peculiar circumstances, it may not be out +of place to refer to it particularly here.</p> + +<p>The circumstances were as follows:—</p> + +<p>After having spent about six years in the wild Nor’ West, as a servant +of the Hudson’s Bay Fur Company, I found myself, one summer—at the +advanced age of twenty-two—in charge of an outpost on the uninhabited +northern shores of the gulf of St. Lawrence named Seven Islands. It was +a dreary, desolate spot; at that +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_528" id="Page_528">[Pg 528]</a></span> +time far beyond the bounds of +civilisation. The gulf, just opposite the establishment, was about fifty +miles broad. The ships which passed up and down it were invisible, not +only on account of distance, but because of seven islands at the mouth +of the bay coming between them and the outpost. My next neighbour, in +command of a similar post up the gulf, was about seventy miles distant. +The nearest house down the gulf was about eighty miles off, and behind +us lay the virgin forests, with swamps, lakes, prairies, and mountains, +stretching away without break right across the continent to the Pacific +Ocean.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/img528.jpg" width="500" height="407" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">mr. ballantyne’s house at harrow.</span> +</div> + +<p>The outpost—which, in virtue of a ship’s carronade and a flagstaff, was +occasionally styled a “fort”—consisted of four wooden buildings. One of +these—the largest, with a verandah—was the Residency. There was an +offshoot in rear which served as a kitchen. The other houses were a +store for goods wherewith to carry on trade with the Indians, a stable, +and a workshop. The whole population of the establishment—indeed of the +surrounding district—consisted of myself and one man—also a horse! The +horse occupied the stable, I dwelt in the Residency, the rest of the +population lived in the kitchen.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_529" id="Page_529">[Pg 529]</a></span> +There were, indeed, other five men belonging to the establishment, but +these did not affect its desolation, for they were away netting salmon +at a river about twenty miles distant at the time I write of.</p> + +<p>My “Friday”—who was a French-Canadian—being cook, as well as +man-of-all-works, found a little occupation in attending to the duties +of his office, but the unfortunate Governor had nothing whatever to do +except await the arrival of Indians, who were not due at that time. The +horse was a bad one, without a saddle, and in possession of a pronounced +backbone. My “Friday” was not sociable. I had no books, no newspapers, +no magazines or literature of any kind, no game to shoot, no boat +wherewith to prosecute fishing in the bay, and no prospect of seeing any +one to speak to for weeks, if not months, to come. But I had pen and +ink, and, by great good fortune, was in possession of a blank paper book +fully an inch thick.</p> + +<p>These, then, were the circumstances in which I began my first book.</p> + +<p>When that book was finished, and, not long afterwards, submitted to +the—I need hardly say favourable—criticism of my mother, I had not the +most distant idea of taking to authorship as a profession. Even when a +printer-cousin, seeing the MS., offered to print it, and the well-known +Blackwood, of Edinburgh, seeing the book, offered to publish it—and did +publish it—my ambition was still so absolutely asleep that I did not +again put pen to paper in <em>that</em> way for eight years thereafter, +although I might have been encouraged thereto by the fact that this +first book—named “Hudson’s Bay”—besides being a commercial success, +received favourable notice from the press.</p> + +<p>It was not until the year 1854 that my literary path was opened up. At +that time I was a partner in the late publishing firm of Constable & Co. +of Edinburgh. Happening one day to meet with the late William Nelson, +publisher, I was asked by him how I should like the idea of taking to +literature as a profession. My answer I forget. It must have been vague, +for I had never thought of the subject before.</p> + +<p>“Well,” said he, “what would you think of trying to write a story?”</p> + +<p>Somewhat amused, I replied that I did not know what to think, but I +would try if he wished me to do so.</p> + +<p>“Do so,” said he, “and go to work at once”—or words to that effect.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_530" id="Page_530">[Pg 530]</a></span> +I went to work at once, and wrote my first story or work of fiction. It +was published in 1855 under the name of “Snowflakes and Sunbeams; or, +The Young Furtraders.” Afterwards the first part of the title was +dropped, and the book is now known as “The Young Furtraders.” From that +day to this I have lived by making story-books for young folk.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 495px;"> +<img src="images/img530.jpg" width="495" height="600" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">the hall.</span> +</div> + +<p>From what I have said it will be seen that I have never aimed at the +achieving of this position, and I hope that it is not presumptuous in me +to think—and to derive much comfort from the thought—that God led me +into the particular path along which I have walked for so many years.</p> + +<p>The scene of my first story was naturally laid in those backwoods with +which I was familiar, and the story itself was founded +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_531" id="Page_531">[Pg 531]</a></span>on the +adventures and experiences of myself and my companions. When a second +book was required of me, I stuck to the same regions, but changed the +locality. When casting about in my mind for a suitable subject, I +happened to meet with an old retired “Nor’wester” who had spent an +adventurous life in Rupert’s Land. Among other duties he had been sent +to establish an outpost of the Hudson Bay Company at Ungava Bay, one of +the most dreary parts of a desolate region. On hearing what I wanted he +sat down and wrote a long narrative of his proceedings there, which he +placed at my disposal, and thus furnished me with the foundation of +“Ungava.”</p> + +<p>But now I had reached the end of my tether, and when a third story was +wanted I was compelled to seek new fields of adventure in the books of +travellers. Regarding the Southern seas as the most romantic part of the +world—after the backwoods!—I mentally and spiritually plunged into +those warm waters, and the dive resulted in the “Coral Island.”</p> + +<p>It now began to be borne in upon me that there was something not quite +satisfactory in describing, expatiating on, and energising in, regions +which one has never seen. For one thing, it was needful to be always +carefully on the watch to avoid falling into mistakes geographical, +topographical, natural-historical, and otherwise.</p> + +<p>For instance, despite the utmost care of which I was capable while +studying up for the “Coral Island,” I fell into a blunder through +ignorance in regard to a familiar fruit. I was under the impression that +cocoanuts grew on their trees in the same form as that in which they are +usually presented to us in grocers’ windows—namely, about the size of a +large fist with three spots at one end. Learning from trustworthy books +that at a certain stage of development the nut contains a delicious +beverage like lemonade, I sent one of my heroes up a tree for a nut, +through the shell of which he bored a hole with a penknife. It was not +till long after the story was published that my own brother—who had +voyaged in Southern seas—wrote to draw my attention to the fact that +the cocoanut is nearly as large as a man’s head, and its outer husk is +over an inch thick, so that no ordinary penknife could bore to its +interior! Of course I should have known this, and, perhaps, should be +ashamed of my ignorance, but, somehow, I’m not!</p> + +<p>I admit that this was a slip, but such, and other slips, hardly justify +the remark that some people have not hesitated to make, namely, that I +have a tendency to draw the long bow. I feel +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_532" id="Page_532">[Pg 532]</a></span> +almost sensitive on this +point, for I have always laboured to be true to nature and to fact even +in my wildest flights of fancy.</p> + +<p>This reminds me of the remark made to myself once by a lady in reference +to this same “Coral Island.” “There is one thing, Mr. Ballantyne,” she +said, “which I really find it hard to believe. You make one of your +three boys dive into a clear pool, go to the bottom, and then, turning +on his back, look up and wink and laugh at the other two.”</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 408px;"> +<img src="images/img532.jpg" width="408" height="500" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">trophies from mr. ballantyne’s travels.</span> +</div> + +<p>“No, no, not ‘<em>laugh</em>,’” said I, remonstratively.</p> + +<p>“Well, then, you make him smile.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, that is true, but there is a vast difference between laughing and +smiling under water. But is it not singular that you should doubt the +only incident in the story which I personally verified? I happened to be +in lodgings at the seaside while writing that story, and, after penning +the passage you refer to, I +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_533" id="Page_533">[Pg 533]</a></span> +went down to the shore, pulled off my +clothes, dived to the bottom, turned on my back, and, looking up, I +smiled and winked.”</p> + +<p>The lady laughed, but I have never been quite sure, from the tone of +that laugh, whether it was a laugh of conviction or of unbelief. It is +not improbable that my fair friend’s mental constitution may have been +somewhat similar to that of the old woman who declined to believe her +sailor-grandson when he told her he had seen flying-fish, but at once +recognised his veracity when he said he had seen the remains of +Pharaoh’s chariot wheels on the shores of the Red Sea.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/img533.jpg" width="500" height="401" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">the dining room.</span> +</div> + +<p>Recognising, then, the difficulties of my position, I formed the +resolution to visit—when possible—the scenes in which my stories were +laid; converse with the people who, under modification, were to form the +<em>dramatis personæ</em> of the tales, and, generally, to obtain information +in each case, as far as lay in my power, from the fountain head.</p> + +<p>Thus, when about to begin “The Lifeboat,” I went to Ramsgate, and, for +some time, was hand and glove with Jarman, the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_534" id="Page_534">[Pg 534]</a></span> +heroic coxswain of the +Ramsgate boat, a lion-like as well as lion-hearted man, who rescued +hundreds of lives from the fatal Goodwin Sands during his career. In +like manner, when getting up information for “The Lighthouse,” I +obtained permission from the Commissioners of Northern Lights to visit +the Bell Rock Lighthouse, where I hobnobbed with the three keepers of +that celebrated pillar-in-the-sea for three weeks, and read Stevenson’s +graphic account of the building of the structure in the library, or +visitors’ room, just under the lantern. I was absolutely a prisoner +there during those three weeks, for no boats ever came near us, and it +need scarcely be said that ships kept well out of our way. By good +fortune there came on a pretty stiff gale at the time, and Stevenson’s +thrilling narrative was read to the tune of whistling winds and roaring +seas, many of which latter sent the spray right up to the lantern and +caused the building, more than once, to quiver to its foundation.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/img534.jpg" width="500" height="404" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">the study.</span> +</div> + +<p>In order to do justice to “Fighting the Flames” I careered through the +streets of London on fire-engines, clad in a pea-jacket +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_535" id="Page_535">[Pg 535]</a></span>and a black +leather helmet of the Salvage Corps. This, to enable me to pass the +cordon of police without question—though not without recognition, as +was made apparent to me on one occasion at a fire by a fireman +whispering confidentially, “I know what <em>you</em> are, sir, you’re a +hamitoor!”</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 444px;"> +<img src="images/img535.jpg" width="444" height="600" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">mr. r. m. ballantyne.</span> +</div> + +<p>“Right you are,” said I, and moved away in order to change the subject.</p> + +<p>It was a glorious experience, by the way, this galloping on fire-engines +through the crowded streets. It had in it much of the excitement of the +chase—possibly that of war—with +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_536" id="Page_536">[Pg 536]</a></span> +the noble end in view of saving +instead of destroying life! Such tearing along at headlong speed; such +wild roaring of the firemen to clear the way; such frantic dashing aside +of cabs, carts, ’buses, and pedestrians; such reckless courage on the +part of the men, and volcanic spoutings on the part of the fires! But I +must not linger. The memory of it is too enticing. “Deep Down” took me +to Cornwall, where, over two hundred fathoms beneath the green turf, and +more than half-a-mile out under the bed of the sea, I saw the sturdy +miners at work winning copper and tin from the solid rock, and acquired +some knowledge of their life, sufferings, and toils.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/img536.jpg" width="500" height="403" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">the drawing room.</span> +</div> + +<p>In the land of the Vikings I shot ptarmigan, caught salmon, and gathered +material for “Erling the Bold.” A winter in Algiers made me familiar +with the “Pirate City.” I enjoyed a fortnight with the hearty +inhabitants of the Gull Lightship off the Goodwin Sands; and went to the +Cape of Good Hope, and up into the interior of the Colony, to spy out +the land and hold intercourse with “The Settler and the +Savage”—although I am bound to confess +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_537" id="Page_537">[Pg 537]</a></span> +that, with regard to the +latter, I talked to him only with mine eyes. I also went afloat for a +short time with the fishermen of the North Sea in order to be able to do +justice to “The Young Trawler.”</p> + +<p>To arrive still closer at the truth, and to avoid errors, I have always +endeavoured to submit my proof sheets, when possible, to experts and men +who knew the subjects well. Thus, Capt. Shaw, late chief of the London +Fire Brigade, kindly read the proofs of “Fighting the Flames,” and +prevented my getting off the rails in matters of detail, and Sir Arthur +Blackwood, financial secretary to the General Post Office, obligingly +did me the same favour in regard to “Post Haste.”</p> + +<p>One other word in conclusion. Always, while writing—whatever might be +the subject of my story—I have been influenced by an undercurrent of +effort and desire to direct the minds and affections of my readers +towards the higher life.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_538" id="Page_538">[Pg 538]</a></span></p> +<h1><em>Trials And Troubles of an Artist.</em></h1> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By Fred Miller.</span></p> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Illustrations by E. M. Jessop.</span></p> + +<hr style="width: 10%;" /> + + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 290px;"> +<img src="images/img538a.jpg" width="290" height="400" alt="near twickenham" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>Are any professional men so liable to public insults as painters? Only +last summer a new, and I think unique, type of insult was dropped upon +me. I had a picture in hand, and wanted a bit of background to complete +it. I had seen just the very thing near Twickenham, so, taking my +sketching-box and camp-stool, I trained out, and in due course started +work. Although I was painting by the side of a public road, the traffic +was small and the passers-by few. Still there <em>were</em> passers-by, mostly +children, with their nurses or governesses. I am too used to being +looked at to take any notice of those who try to peep as they pass, and +I soon got quite absorbed in my task. Presently, I was aroused from my +artistic abstraction by a little girl dropping a penny in my box, and +before I had time to explain, expostulate, or thank her, she had run +away. “The world is less hard-hearted than I thought,” was my reflection +as I resumed painting. A little while after this I noticed, during the +pauses of my work, another little girl hovering about +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_539" id="Page_539">[Pg 539]</a></span>me in an +undecided sort of way. After a few moments’ indecision, <em>she</em> dropped a +penny in my box and disappeared. “This is encouraging,” I said to +myself, “I shall certainly come here again.”</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/img538b.jpg" width="500" height="431" alt="quite absorbed in my task" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>I resumed my sketch, when presently a young girl with two children came +and stood near me. These were of a different class. There was no +timidity or reticence about them. After standing at my side, and finding +that they could not see to advantage, the three sidled round to the +back, and gradually edged themselves nearer and nearer until they +commanded a satisfactory view of the sketch.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 353px;"> +<img src="images/img539a.jpg" width="353" height="400" alt="dropping a penny in my box" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>They watched in silence for awhile, and then the girl said—“You ain’t +done much yet. ’Spose you’re going to finish it at ’ome?”</p> + +<p>The tone of her voice made me inclined to humour her, so I replied—</p> + +<p>“Well, you see, miss, I haven’t taken enough yet. Can’t afford to go +home on twopence.”</p> + +<p>“<em>My</em> brother paints. He’s in the sixth standard. I give ’im a box of +paints on his birthday, and he’s going to paint me a picture for my +bedroom.”</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 371px;"> +<img src="images/img539b.jpg" width="371" height="400" alt="you aint done much yet" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>The gulf that <em>might</em> have divided us was bridged now, so I got what +satisfaction I could out of her chatter.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_540" id="Page_540">[Pg 540]</a></span> +“I wish I could paint. I’d like to do them tex’s what they gives yer at +Sunday school.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, that’s the line you’d like to take up, Julia, is it?”</p> + +<p>Another pause.</p> + +<p>“D’yer like them paintin’s what they gives yer at the tea grocers? My +brother says ’e’s going to paint them sort when ’e gets them colours +what you squeezes out of tubes; you know, like them ladies’ tormenters, +same as you gets on Bank ’olidays on ’Ampstead ’Eath.”</p> + +<p>I wanted to go on with my picture, so I suggested to Julia (I had no +reason to suppose that her name was not Julia) that it was getting near +tea-time.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/img540a.jpg" width="400" height="334" alt="my brother paints" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>“Oh, is it,” she said; “come along, Halbert.” Then, turning to me, she +added—“Are yer comin’ to-morrer? I’d like yer to see my brother’s +paintin’s.”</p> + +<p>“That depends upon how much I make to-day, Julia,” I answered—“whether +the ‘pitch’ is a good one or not.”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” said Julia, thoughtfully; “I’d like yer to come to-morrer,” and +then as she passed she dropped a halfpenny into my box.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 275px;"> +<img src="images/img540b.jpg" width="275" height="300" alt="bank olidays on ampstead eath" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>On other occasions, when out painting in poor neighbourhoods, my easel, +camp-stool, and self have been used as “home” in games like “Hi-spi-Hoy” +and “Hoop,” and I have, during the progress of my sketch, been more than +once in imminent danger of being carried away, and my kit sent flying, +during a sudden rush of the excited players. +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_541" id="Page_541">[Pg 541]</a></span> +But even such an indignity +as this does not touch bottom. Boys have before now made me a “Harbour +of Refuge,” with the poetry left out, and bricks and various missiles +substituted. They have dodged behind me to escape the consequences of +“cheekiness” to bigger boys, and have used my canvas as a screen to +shield off stones.</p> + +<p>And what are you to do? Just at that moment, in all likelihood, you are +putting in a crisp, telling touch that will “do the trick,” and if the +news were brought to you that your favourite aunt had fallen downstairs, +it would not be sufficient to make you rise from off your camp-stool.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/img541.jpg" width="400" height="398" alt="Hi spi Hoy" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>I was sketching once near a row of those cheap one-storied cottages, +generally called Villa This and Villa That, inhabited by a tribe the +mothers of which seem always to have a baby on hand, and several others +in various stages of development. These children spend most of their +time, so far as I can judge, in hanging about, just outside the front +garden, waiting for something to turn up to amuse them, and I had been +much bothered by their creeping round behind me, or edging closer and +closer to my side, and occasionally shoving each other so as to shake me +or my sketch. I tried to forget them, and maintained a chilling silence. +The numbers, however, kept on increasing, and presently games were +projected in my immediate vicinity, as though I were the centre of +gravity, or the hub of the universe. The climax was reached when a young +nurse, aged seven or thereabouts, with a child just on the brink of +independence in her arms, came up and said—</p> + +<p>“D’yer mind me leaving my baby here, while I have a game with the +Tubbses? She’ll be all right if I sit her on your jacket.”</p> + +<p>Nice thing when seeking material for a masterpiece for next year’s +Academy to be asked to look after baby!</p> + +<p>The remarks made by street loafers and errand-boys, too, who +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_542" id="Page_542">[Pg 542]</a></span>stand at +your elbow for half-an-hour at a stretch, are not encouraging, as a +rule. One boy, in what he considers a tone of confidence, will say to +another—</p> + +<p>“S’elp me, Bob, aint ’e a doin’ it a fair treat.”</p> + +<p>“Carry me out” (it is impossible to write “out” as <em>they</em> pronounce it), +“’Arree, ain’t it fine” +(rising intonation on the “I”)—“I wish I wos a +bloomin’ hartist.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t ’e fancy ’isself, just.”</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 327px;"> +<img src="images/img542a.jpg" width="327" height="400" alt="do yer mind me leaving my baby here" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>It is difficult to keep quietly on at work with every appearance of +indifference under such circumstances. It is also exasperating to be +called “Matey,” as though you were a pal of theirs, and lived on the +same landing. Yet these are only a few of the indignities with which a +poor artist has to put up.</p> + +<p>Who has not, when on a sketching tour, felt the contempt that the +bucolic mind has for a man who, day after day, and week after week, sits +out of doors on his camp-stool, doing his best to catch some of Nature’s +mystery and fleeting beauty, and give it an abiding place on his canvas.</p> + +<p>My friend S—— is a big, healthy, bearded fellow, who looks as +though he could pick half-hundred weights up in each hand with the ease +that I pick up my palette. The following dialogue took place on one +occasion between him and an elderly rustic who had been standing +watching him for some time, as he sat by the roadside, painting.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 350px;"> +<img src="images/img542b.jpg" width="350" height="308" alt="aint e a doin it a fair treat" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>“No offence, sir,” said the agriculturist, “but is anything the matter +wi’ yer?”</p> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<p>“No,” answered S—— “What makes you ask?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_543" id="Page_543">[Pg 543]</a></span> +“Yer hain’t lame, are yer?”</p> + +<p>“Lame! Good gracious, no!”</p> + +<p>“You hain’t ’ad a misfortune in any way? The sciatics or lumbager, +that’s kind o’ laid yer by?”</p> + +<p>“No, I’m as well as I have always been.”</p> + +<p>“An’ yer call yerself a man and can sit theer a doin’ o’ that. Well, I’m +d—— d!”</p> + +<p>I never go out sketching without feeling this silent contempt, for it is +only rarely that it finds expression. The remarks made by villagers show +how utterly unable they are to grasp the idea of anyone valuing an +artist’s efforts. The old story of the painter who was asked by the +farmer whose cow he had been drawing, what the said picture might be +worth when finished, is typical.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 266px;"> +<img src="images/img543a.jpg" width="266" height="300" alt="yer haint lame are yer" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>“Oh, I hope to get thirty pounds for it if it is well hung,” explained +the artist.</p> + +<p>“Thutty pound for the mere picture!” cried the old fellow in +astonishment. “Why, I’d sell you the old cow itself for ten.”</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 345px;"> +<img src="images/img543b.jpg" width="345" height="400" alt="whose cow he had been drawing" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>A spirit of commiseration underlies a good many of the remarks made by +the bucolic. I went down on one occasion to see a couple of painters who +had taken a small cottage at one and sixpence a week in order to paint +some orchard pictures. When their neighbours, who were farm hands, got +to know them a bit, they were very friendly disposed, and made them +presents of vegetables, and one old fellow who was reputed to have +“saved a +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_544" id="Page_544">[Pg 544]</a></span> +smart bit o’ money,” said to one of the “painter chaps,” as +they were called—</p> + +<p>“There don’t seem much of a living in your business, sir. I s’pose +trade’s a bit dull with ye, now folks is a spring cleaning. What do yer +say now to paintin’ my cart in yer dinner hour? I shall want it done +afore long, and I’d like to gie ye the job, for a shilling or two down’t +come amiss to any of us. Do it now?”</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 326px;"> +<img src="images/img544a.jpg" width="326" height="350" alt="what do you say to paintin my cart" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>Another job refused by these same artists was to clean and touch up an +old picture that had been bought for a few shillings at a sale. The old +chap who had purchased it went so far as to offer them a shilling to do +the work, and that offer being declined, he threw in a pint of stout as +an additional inducement.</p> + +<p>A friend who had painted a 50 x 40 canvas outside during one summer, +spending some five or six weeks upon it, told me that one old chap, who +looked like a jobbing gardener, used to pass by every day, and +invariably stayed to stare at the work, but always at a respectful +distance, and it was not until the picture was nearly completed that he +broke the silence.</p> + +<p>“D’yer moind me ’aving a look at it, sir?”</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 291px;"> +<img src="images/img544b.jpg" width="291" height="400" alt="stayed to stare at the work" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>“Oh, certainly not,” and my friend got off his camp-stool to let the +critic have an uninterrupted view. The subject was a careful study of +wild flowers and herbage, growing in the corner +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_545" id="Page_545">[Pg 545]</a></span> +of an orchard. The old +fellow seemed to take the picture in very carefully, and at length said:</p> + +<p>“Is it a view in Ireland, sir?”</p> + +<p>“View in Ireland! What made you think of that? Don’t you see it’s the +corner of the orchard there, with all the thistles and docks and wild +flowers?”</p> + +<p>“Well, to be sure! Fancy anyone a paintin’ them weeds and trumpery!” and +with that cheerless remark the old fellow sheered off.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 200px;"> +<img src="images/img545a.jpg" width="200" height="500" alt="modelling a milkmaid" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>Sculptors, unlike painters, rarely venture out of their studios, but it +happened that a sculptor came down to spend a few days with us when in a +Norfolk village, and so liked the place that he hired a barn, had a lot +of clay and a turntable sent down, and started modelling a milkmaid. As +the work progressed, it became the talk of the place, and, in due +course, numbers came to see the clay image that my friend was setting up +in the barn. This work <em>did</em> appeal to them. They could see at a glance +what it was meant to represent, and the chorus of approval was loud and +general, except on the part of the village constable. He was a taciturn +man, and used to come and smoke his pipe and preserve a contemptuous +silence. One day he said—</p> + +<p>“Are you making that image for a church?”</p> + +<p>“No. Why did you think I was?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, nothing. Only when I was in London, and that’s a smart while ago, I +worked on a church as was a buildin’, and we had to fix some figures; +only they were made in what we calls Portland cement.”</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/img545b.jpg" width="500" height="231" alt="numbers came to see the clay image" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>“Oh, then, you have seen sculpture before?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_546" id="Page_546">[Pg 546]</a></span> +“Yes, sir, ’tain’t the first time as I’ve seed a graven image, as the +Bible calls ’em. D’yer ever make them figures they puts over doors and +winders of houses?”</p> + +<p>“No; I can’t say I do.”</p> + +<p>“Did you ever see them two figures in the Lord Mayor’s palace in the +City? You <em>ought</em> to see them, sir. I reckon they’re the best things in +that line you can see anywhere?”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid I don’t remember which figures you refer to.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, they ain’t like your work, not a little bit. They’re picked out in +all kinds of colours, and are ever so big. I was thinking they must +represent two of them heathen gods what the Children of Israel fell down +and worshipped. You know the figures I mean?”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid I don’t. Can’t you remember their names?”</p> + +<p>“Why, Gog and Magog, aren’t they, sir?”</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 274px;"> +<img src="images/img546.jpg" width="274" height="300" alt="the village constable" title="" /> +</div> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_547" id="Page_547">[Pg 547]</a></span></p> +<h1><em>The Brothers’ Agency.</em></h1> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By Do Bahin.</span></p> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Illustrations by The Misses Hammond.</span></p> + +<hr style="width: 10%;" /> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 201px;"> +<img src="images/img547.jpg" width="201" height="400" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“she won’t see you.”</span> +</div> + +<p>“She won’t see you, my boy,” said Grigsby, as I stood on the steps of +the Scandalmongers’ Club waiting for the next West Kensington ’bus; +“she’s doing a roaring trade, and don’t want any more advertisements; +and if she does she’ll put up her own notices, and not use you for +billsticker.”</p> + +<p>“Grigsby may not be right this time,” I reflected, as I scaled the ’bus. +“He seldom is! And haven’t I triumphantly interviewed all the most +unmanageable celebrities of the last ten years, from Lord Tennyson to +the Royal baby? I suppose it’s my bland appearance. It lulls suspicion +and excites curiosity. People want to see whether it is possible for any +man to <em>be</em> such a fool as I <em>look</em>. Anyhow, I must go through with it +now, as I’ve let it out to Grigsby.”</p> + +<p>The fact is, I was about to try to interview Miss Jenny T. Buller, the +inventress and manager of the “Brothers’ Agency,” perhaps the most +important social factor of the present century. In due course I found +myself opposite a smart-looking house, on whose door-plate was engraved +“The Brothers’ Agency.”</p> + +<p>Being taken no doubt for a postulant Brother, I was shown upstairs into +a severe but elegant room, in the middle of which, at a huge desk loaded +with papers, sat a fashionable young lady of the frailest type of +Transatlantic beauty.</p> + +<p>“Miss Buller, I believe.”</p> + +<p>“You will not suit,” she said, after one short but decisive stare. “You +are not up to our mark.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t wish to be a Brother,” I replied.</p> + +<p>“Then what do you want?” she answered.</p> + +<p>“Miss Buller,” I inquired, as if my life depended on the response, “how +did you ever think of this wonderful scheme?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_548" id="Page_548">[Pg 548]</a></span> +She laid down her pen, and turned in her chair; and I saw that I had +won.</p> + +<p>“I’m tired of writing just now,” she began, “and I don’t mind if I tell +you.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 287px;"> +<img src="images/img548.jpg" width="287" height="400" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“‘i don’t mind if i tell you.’”</span> +</div> + +<p>“I found myself obliged to increase my income by some means. I first +thought of starting a servants’ agency; but the inconvenience I +experienced from having no brothers to take me about suggested a novel +idea to me. I was wondering if other girls felt as I did, when it +flashed upon me that young men who, from any reasons, are in want of +money, might let themselves out as brothers to well-to-do damsels +possessing no fraternal relations. I immediately settled to start an +agency for this object—somewhat on the principle of ‘Lady Guides’—the +full title being ‘The agency for supplying Brothers to brotherless +girls, or those with unobliging brothers.’ I resolved to call it shortly +‘The Brothers’ Agency.’ It is a good name, and gives to the undertaking +a kind of monastic flavour that I find is very taking.</p> + +<p>“Of course I only began in a small way amongst the men and girls I knew +personally; but my business spread so rapidly that I soon started a +regular office, and issued printed rules.</p> + +<p>“I decided that the Brothers should go to their work during the day (as +such relations do), and only be engaged for the evening to escort my +clients, as their sisters, to balls, theatres, etc. I knew that young +men in London society were supposed to let themselves out for dances; so +why not as Brothers?”</p> + +<p>“Why not, indeed?” I murmured sympathetically.</p> + +<p>“We do not find,” she continued vivaciously, “that it leads to +matrimonial complications, as the men who seek employment as Brothers +are usually so very impecunious that they understand that marriage is +out of the question for them. I was told by my friends, by which I mean +all those who felt themselves privileged to say nasty things to me, that +we should degenerate into a matrimonial agency, but I have not found it +so. On the contrary, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_549" id="Page_549">[Pg 549]</a></span> +every man entering his name on our books, and +every girl engaging a Brother, signs a paper agreeing to pay a large +prohibitive fine should they get engaged to each other during the period +of fraternity. Any man known to be engaged is obliged to take his name +off the books <em>at once</em>, as we find <em>fiancées</em> very prejudiced, and +several unpleasant visits were paid to me at the office. Any man +becoming engaged while fulfilling a contract is liable to instant +dismissal at the employer’s pleasure, it having been found that he +almost invariably becomes remiss and inattentive in his discharge of +duties.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 494px;"> +<img src="images/img549.jpg" width="494" height="600" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“one sister was seen at the theatre by an old maiden +aunt.”</span> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_550" id="Page_550">[Pg 550]</a></span> +“Of course, till the significance of the title of ‘Brother’ became +generally known in London society, there arose a good deal of scandal +and confusion.</p> + +<p>“One sister was seen at the theatre by an old maiden aunt, who had never +heard of the Agency. The young lady offered as an explanation that the +man with her was ‘only engaged for the time,’ which so shocked the poor +old lady that she made a codicil next day to her will reciting her +niece’s misbehaviour and disinheriting her.”</p> + +<p>“That kind of misunderstanding,” I said, “can hardly occur any longer.”</p> + +<p>“I should think not,” she retorted. “And meantime, thank goodness, the +term ‘Brother’ has put an end to that hackneyed form of refusal, ‘I love +you as a brother.’ The sisters are only allowed to require the attention +of the Brothers for a stated number of nights a week, and the work is +well paid. On the other hand, the sisters escape all the duties they +generally have to perform for their real brothers, such as practising +accompaniments, mending, shopping, or running messages.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 298px;"> +<img src="images/img550.jpg" width="298" height="350" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“mending.”</span> +</div> + +<p>“Brothers are engaged by the week; but I always recommend that the same +Brother should not be retained for more than a month, as too long a +service makes them—like old family servants—presume, and fancy +themselves invaluable.”</p> + +<p>“And how do you manage about characters?” I here enquired.</p> + +<p>“I never,” she said, “consent to act as agent for any man I have not +seen, or to procure a Brother for any girl I have not talked to; and I +study their characters so as to know how any arrangement is likely to +answer. We often have photographs of Brothers ready for engagement—in +fact, those who keep their names permanently on the books usually supply +us with cabinet pictures for reference, and I arrange for interviews as +between mistresses and servants.”</p> + +<p>“And what terms are generally asked by the Brothers?” I said.</p> + +<p>“These, of course,” she replied, “depend largely on the nature of the +situation, and the qualifications of the Brother. +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_551" id="Page_551">[Pg 551]</a></span>Vulgar or +disagreeable girls have to pay very heavily. Families with several girls +are charged more in proportion, as many men object to go where other +Brothers are kept. Some men are willing to go as joint Brother to a +family of girls, but this rarely works well.</p> + +<p>“They are paid so much a week, and their theatre money if they have to +escort the lady to the play (like beer money, you know). One man +required his buttonhole bouquets, but I said he was clearly above his +place. We do not arrange any engagements for the summer vacation, as we +have found it too dangerous. I really think,” she added thoughtfully, +“that the best way of explaining our methods to you would be to show +some entries in our books.”</p> + +<p>“I should be deeply interested,” I answered, stifling my eagerness, “and +it would be very kind of you.”</p> + +<p>She drew a great ledger towards her, and showed me one or two entries. +The first ran as follows:</p> + +<p>“‘A Brother, six feet high; dresses well; aristocratic manners; a good +dancer, and knows all the newest steps, including the Pas de Quatre; +obliging, and good-tempered; a teetotaller, and only smokes the best +tobacco. Has the highest credentials from his last place. Available for +“Church Parade” on Sunday, but prefers not to attend church previously, +as he cannot get up so early.’”</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 161px;"> +<img src="images/img551.jpg" width="161" height="400" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“knows all the newest steps.”</span> +</div> + +<p>“What a paragon!” I exclaimed.</p> + +<p>“Ah! but he asks a very large salary,” she rejoined; “he is so much +sought after. This is a less expensive one—</p> + +<p>“‘A Brother, aged 27, something in the City; bad figure, but pleasant +smile, and amusing to talk to; slightly provincial, but very highly +educated; <em>most</em> respectable and steady; musical, and a good tennis +player. Very few private engagements, and therefore available most days +of the week. Charges strictly moderate.’”</p> + +<p>“We have one man on the books who owns a dogcart,” resumed Miss Buller. +“He is in the Guards, and preferred to earn a little money to being +obliged to leave his regiment. I need hardly say that his charges are +very high.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_552" id="Page_552">[Pg 552]</a></span> +“Naturally,” I murmured.</p> + +<p>“Here is an advertisement addressed to young ladies of a religious turn +of mind:</p> + +<p>“‘A young curate, who has a conscientious objection to bazaars, would be +glad to augment his income (the money to be devoted to charitable +objects) by obtaining employment as a Brother. He does not dance +himself, but would give the sanction of his presence to such +entertainments any day except Friday. He is fond of tennis and a good +oar. He will give assistance to any lady district-visiting, or taking a +Sunday-school class in his own parish. He prefers, as the object is a +charitable one, leaving the question of salary to the sister’s own good +feeling.’</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 283px;"> +<img src="images/img552.jpg" width="283" height="450" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“a young curate.”</span> +</div> + +<p>“You wouldn’t believe,” said Miss Buller, “what a run there is on him; +but I find I can easily supply every kind of variety now. A barrister, +on this next page, suggests that, as he has influential legal +connections, he can generally procure for his sister an excellent place +at the sensational trials that have become so fashionable for ladies to +attend! He commands a huge salary, especially being a gifted +conversationalist, and taking the charge of a dinner table brilliantly; +he has credentials from his last place for being ‘witty without +vulgarity.’”</p> + +<p>“And now,” I said, “I should like to see the sort of advertisement used +by ladies needing Brothers, if you would be kind enough to show me one.”</p> + +<p>“They are not so interesting,” she replied, “but here is one I received +to-day:</p> + +<p>“‘A Brother is required during the hunting season by two sisters. He +must be a good rider, capable of giving a lead, but very obliging, as +two Brothers have been parted with lately, owing to over-excitement in +the field causing them to neglect their sisters. The Brother will be +mounted by the ladies’ parents.’”</p> + +<p>“Don’t you find that disputes arise,” I asked, “between Brothers and +their employers? I should have thought the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_553" id="Page_553">[Pg 553]</a></span> +position might become +irksome to a young man, if the sister was unpleasant.”</p> + +<p>“Of course,” she answered pensively, “an ill-tempered girl can make +matters very unpleasant; but such people pay very highly, as I pointed +out only yesterday to one of our most promising Brothers. ‘She is rather +a common girl,’ I said, ‘but you know you were very unlucky at Newmarket +lately; and you sit up incessantly playing poker; and if you take my +advice you will make your losses good by sticking to your place. I dare +say the theatres are rather trying, but, on the other hand, as you don’t +go into at all the same society that she does, you are not likely to +meet anyone you know at the parties she takes you to; and, of course, as +her Brother, you need not dance incessantly with her!’ He finally took +my advice.”</p> + +<p>“Now that,” I said, in my very stupidest manner, “is one of the +difficulties which has occurred to me. A man who has been engaged as a +Brother finds himself saddled with an undesirable acquaintance after the +engagement is over.”</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/img553.jpg" width="400" height="289" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“an ill-tempered girl can<br /> +make matters very unpleasant.”</span> +</div> + +<p>“I should have thought,” she replied, indignantly, “that you would have +understood that neither the lady nor the Brother are expected to +recognise each other when they meet after the termination of the +engagement.”</p> + +<p>“It must be anxious work sometimes,” I remarked, “settling the disputes +that arise.”</p> + +<p>“It is, indeed,” said Miss Buller. “One contract on the part of a rising +young artist was actually broken off in the middle because the sister +who had engaged him, an inordinately vain girl, insisted on being +introduced as a central figure into his Academy picture for the year. He +refused, and appealed to me; I supported him; on which the young lady +came to the office and abused us both. My fear now is,” she continued, +“that <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_554" id="Page_554">[Pg 554]</a></span> +Mr. Whiteley will step in and ‘provide’ Brothers, but I feel sure +that this business could only be managed successfully by a lady. A +dispute arose last week over the question of a Brother being required to +introduce any friends he might meet at a party to his sister. I vetoed +this at once, as real brothers often decline to do this, unless they +consider their sister does them credit. On another occasion a Brother +insisted on smoking a strong cigar in a cab, coming back from the +theatre, saying that he was not accustomed to treat his sisters with +ceremony.”</p> + +<p>“That was rude,” I remarked; “but still I pity the men if they are +engaged by very exacting sisters, because, after all, they are not real +brothers.”</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/img554.jpg" width="500" height="315" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“abused us both.”</span> +</div> + +<p>“Oh,” said Miss Buller, “I admit that sometimes sisters do get +troublesome. One situation I find very hard to fill: the Brothers +complain of its being such a hard place, as the young lady is so +unpopular that no men ever come to speak to her, and her idea of a +Brother is a person who never quits your side in the Row, or elsewhere. +The consequence is, that the wretched Brother never has a moment’s +relaxation. She pays very highly, however. You know, many men stipulate +that, even if fulfilling engagements, they shall be free to attend race +meetings. We are obliged to consider the Brothers, as I assure you the +competition for our best ones is tremendous. They are engaged—like +seats at the theatre—for weeks beforehand. I forgot to mention that +they are paid less highly in the winter than in the Season.”</p> + +<p>“You are certainly doing an excellent work,” I exclaimed, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_555" id="Page_555">[Pg 555]</a></span>growing +bolder as I felt my copy was made; “and, if I could hire myself out as +<em>your</em> Brother,”—I paused expressively.</p> + +<p>“I guess I don’t need to hire,” she replied gaily, “I find all the +Brothers are willing to take me out for nothing.”</p> + +<p>“For love, and not for money,”—I interrupted, bowing.</p> + +<p>“When they are disengaged,” she continued, laughingly. “Besides, being +American, I don’t need to call them Brothers.”</p> + +<p>“The Brothers have taste!” was my remark; and then I added, “I suppose +the work nearly all falls on your shoulders?”</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 267px;"> +<img src="images/img555.jpg" width="267" height="450" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“‘for love, and not for money,’<br /> +—i interrupted.”</span> +</div> + +<p>“Yes; that is inevitable. Arranging for engagements is nothing, but I +find it necessary to make the Brothers refer all disputes to me, and +delicate points arise. One arose last week, when a lady called upon her +Brother to chastise an erring suitor, who had jilted her. However, I +said at once that this was not included in his duties, as the offence +was prior to his entering on his present Brothership.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I think you were quite right,” I said; “but I’m afraid your +position is not so enviable as I fancied at first. I shouldn’t care +myself to settle such delicate points.”</p> + +<p>“Nonsense!” she replied, “these are crumpled rose leaves. The agency is +paying splendidly. I am making my fortune, and at the same time +conferring a boon on society. Why there is no longer a dearth of +partners at dances, as most girls bring a Brother. In fact, the agency +is doing so well that I shall soon have to take larger premises.”</p> + +<p>“Well, Miss Buller,” I said, taking up my hat, “I hardly know how to +thank you for your courtesy and patience in answering all my questions. +I now thoroughly understand the working of your excellent agency, and I +am sure that it is a scheme that will continue to flourish.”</p> + +<p>“Till the Brothers form a Union, and go out on strike,” replied Miss +Buller gaily. “The demand already exceeds the supply!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_556" id="Page_556">[Pg 556]</a></span> +She rang the bell, and a neat parlourmaid showed me out.</p> + +<p>As I walked away, I marvelled that this inspired scheme, which bids fair +to revolutionise modern society, should be the fruit of one mind.</p> + +<p>I also thought with pleasure of my next meeting with Grigsby.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;"> +<img src="images/img556.jpg" width="450" height="209" alt="image" title="" /> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_557" id="Page_557">[Pg 557]</a></span></p> +<h1><em>My Own Murderer.</em></h1> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By E. J. Goodman.</span></p> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Illustrations by J. Greig.</span></p> + +<hr style="width: 10%;" /> + + +<p>When I say that my name is Samuel Chillip, of course you will know who I +am. Yes, I am the author—it has been said the famous author—of “The +Poisoned Waterbottle,” “Steeped in Gore,” “The Demon Detective,” and +other highly sensational and blood-curdling stories. But though these +tales of mine have brought me some fame and a fair amount of profit, I +am not particularly proud of them. I really don’t know how I, so to +speak, drifted into crime. I never liked it, and, of course, never +practised it myself. I would much rather have written sentimental or +moral stories, but I seemed somehow fated to turn my attention to fraud +and violence, and I could not get away from such subjects.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 327px;"> +<img src="images/img557.jpg" width="327" height="450" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“i burn the midnight oil.”</span> +</div> + +<p>I am a family man with a wife and children, and live the most +domesticated and harmless of lives. I rent a small villa at St. John’s +Wood, and have got a pretty garden, which I cultivate myself. I take my +children out for walks in the Park, and have even been known to nurse +the baby. Never was there a man whose mode of life was so different from +his mode of getting a living. I burn the midnight oil, that is to say, I +do my best work at night. The cares of a large family distract me so +much that I can never concentrate my attention on my plots and +situations in the daytime. It is only when the wife has retired, and the +children, the darlings! are put to bed, that I can sit down quietly and +develop my deeds of darkness.</p> + +<p>Nothing out of the usual course had happened on the memorable evening of +which I am about to tell, and which was destined to have so marked an +influence on my literary career. I had had tea with my beloved Seraphina +and our six children at seven o’clock, and afterwards we all sat +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_558" id="Page_558">[Pg 558]</a></span>round +the fire, and I told stories—stories not of crime and cruelty, but of +good fairies and enchanted princesses, of boys and girls at school, and +innocent loves and faithful lovers, which always started with “once upon +a time,” and ended with “happy ever after.”</p> + +<p>During the evening my little flock gradually melted away till nothing +was left of it but my dear wife and our eldest girl, aged fourteen. At +ten o’clock we supped off cold roast pork and rice pudding, with a +little mild ale as a beverage, and then my beloved ones kissed me, +wished me good night, and left me to my labours.</p> + +<p>By half-past ten I was hard at work in my study, deep in the most +critical chapter of my new story, “The Chemist’s Revenge.” I rather +prided myself on the originality of the crime committed in this +thrilling tale. The wicked hero had invented a hideous pill, compounded +of ingredients which would explode within a human body and blow it to +atoms. And now I was approaching the terrible scene in which the fatal +dose was about to be administered to the hapless victim.</p> + +<p>It was a quiet night; there was not a breath of wind even to stir the +trees out of doors, and all was still within, save when a coal fell from +the fireplace into the grate and the clock on my mantelpiece chimed the +hour. Midnight had just struck, when my ears were suddenly startled and +my heart set beating by a sound out of doors. It was that of a slow, +heavy step, crunching the gravel of the garden path and coming nearer +and nearer to my door. And then the footsteps ceased, and there was a +knock—a single knock.</p> + +<p>If I had made the flesh of my readers to creep in my time, now it was +the turn of my own. No one had ever visited me before by night in this +way. I could not imagine who it could be or what he—for it was the +tread of a man that I had heard—could want.</p> + +<p>I turned cold and shivered. But a moment’s thought told me that after +all it might be only a policeman, suspecting burglars, come to inquire +why my light was burning, or it might be a “mistake.”</p> + +<p>So I went to the door and opened it without removing the chain.</p> + +<p>“Who is there?” I asked.</p> + +<p>Then a voice inquired, “Is this Mr. Samuel Chillip’s?” It was a somewhat +hoarse, gruff voice, but its tone was subdued and quiet. It threatened +nothing unpleasant.</p> + +<p>“Yes, I am Mr. Chillip,” I said.</p> + +<p>“Can I speak with you a moment?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_559" id="Page_559">[Pg 559]</a></span> +“About what? Who are you?”</p> + +<p>“I am a stranger, and I cannot well explain my business here, but it is +important and urgent.”</p> + +<p>This was said in so tranquil and respectful a manner as to allay any +apprehension I might have felt, while exciting my curiosity. Still I +hesitated. The stranger might be a beggar. But he anticipated my +thought.</p> + +<p>“I have not come to beg,” he said, “or to trouble you in any way. I have +an important communication to make to you, likely to be useful to you in +your occupation, and it must be made at once or it will be too late.”</p> + +<p>Here was a mystery equal to many that I myself had invented. What could +it mean? I was eager to know, and alas! let the stranger in.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 247px;"> +<img src="images/img559a.jpg" width="247" height="450" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“who is there?”</span> +</div> + +<p>He asked me to allow him to accompany me to my study, and I did so. +There was but a dim light in the passage, and it was not till he had +entered my room, and the rays of my lamp had fallen upon him, that I +discovered what manner of man it was that I had rashly admitted.</p> + +<p>He was a tall, big man, with a hard, square face, and deep-set, +glittering eyes, and his chin fringed with a round, shaggy beard, while +he was attired in a rough pilot coat, and on his head he wore a +broad-brimmed felt hat. He looked like a seafaring man, and was not a +prepossessing person.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 367px;"> +<img src="images/img559b.jpg" width="367" height="450" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“he was a tall, big man.”</span> +</div> + +<p>I asked him to take a seat, and seated myself in my round-backed writing +chair beside my desk.</p> + +<p>He had taken off his hat, and held it on his knee with his left hand, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_560" id="Page_560">[Pg 560]</a></span> +while the other he buried in his capacious side pocket. I thought he was +going to produce something, but he did not.</p> + +<p>He merely opened a conversation, and I may say that the tone of his +voice throughout was always as quiet, as calm, as subdued, as when he +addressed me at the door.</p> + +<p>“You are Mr. Samuel Chillip?” he asked, or remarked, again.</p> + +<p>I bowed in reply.</p> + +<p>“The author of ‘The Poisoned Waterbottle’ and other stories?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Tales of crime?”</p> + +<p>“You may call them so.”</p> + +<p>“What do you know of crime?”</p> + +<p>The question startled me. In the first place, it was an extraordinary +one to ask under the circumstances, and in the next, it was not an easy +one to answer.</p> + +<p>“May I inquire,” I said, “why you put this question?”</p> + +<p>“Because I wish to know.”</p> + +<p>“For what purpose?”</p> + +<p>“That you will discover presently.”</p> + +<p>The man had evidently an object in view, so I thought I would humour +him.</p> + +<p>“I have taken great interest in the subject,” I said, “and have studied +it in books and newspapers and in the courts of justice, and have also +derived a good deal of information from persons who have come in contact +with criminals.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! you know nothing of it from personal experience?”</p> + +<p>“How do you mean?”</p> + +<p>“You never, for instance, saw a murderer?”</p> + +<p>“Only in the dock.”</p> + +<p>“Would you <em>like</em> to see a murderer?”</p> + +<p>“Well,” I replied, with a nervous laugh, “‘like’ +is hardly the word. If I happened to come across such an individual, I should feel interested, +no doubt.”</p> + +<p>“No doubt,” this strangest of strangers echoed, adding, after a pause, +“and you never saw a murder done?”</p> + +<p>“Never.”</p> + +<p>“Would you <em>like</em> to see a murder done?”</p> + +<p>This gruesome question almost startled me out of my chair.</p> + +<p>“Good gracious!” I exclaimed, “certainly not.”</p> + +<p>“And yet you write about such things.”</p> + +<p>“That is quite a different matter. But you must excuse me +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_561" id="Page_561">[Pg 561]</a></span>for saying +that I do not understand the object of these questions. May I ask who +you are?”</p> + +<p>“I am a murderer.”</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 247px;"> +<img src="images/img561a.jpg" width="247" height="400" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“i am a murderer.”</span> +</div> + +<p>My visitor said this in the calmest way, as though he were only calling +himself a clerk or a carpenter.</p> + +<p>“A murderer?” I gasped rather than asked.</p> + +<p>“A murderer in intention only at present. I am going to do a murder, and +I want you to witness it.”</p> + +<p>Good heavens! I looked at the stranger; I met his terrible wild eyes, +and in a moment it flashed upon me that I was in the presence of a +madman.</p> + +<p>I started from my chair, and was about to rush to the bell and call for +help, but the stranger put his left hand on my shoulder and kept me in +my seat, while he drew his right hand from his coat pocket, and +something glittered in the lamplight. Oh, horror! a bright, new, large, +six-chambered revolver!</p> + +<p>“Be still, be silent,” he said, almost in a whisper, “or you are a dead +man.”</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 339px;"> +<img src="images/img561b.jpg" width="339" height="450" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“something glittered in the lamplight.”</span> +</div> + +<p>I need hardly say that I was quiet enough after this, and sat grasping +my chair arms with both hands, and staring at the stranger, perhaps with +my hair standing on end.</p> + +<p>“I don’t want to hurt you,” the dreadful man went on, “unless I can get +nobody better to kill. But I mean to kill someone to-night, and I want +you to see me do it. You must come with me out into the streets, and go +about with me until we find somebody worth killing. You must keep very +quiet, utter no cry, give no alarm, excite no suspicion. Otherwise I +shall shoot you dead on the spot. I would not mind killing you, the +author of so many +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_562" id="Page_562">[Pg 562]</a></span> +stories of crime, but I would rather slay someone of +higher social position, and leave you to live and record the deed.”</p> + +<p>I reflected that I should prefer this arrangement myself, but, still +better, I would rather get out of the whole horrible business +altogether. But the madman, as I regarded him, was imperative.</p> + +<p>“Put on your hat and coat and come with me quietly,” he said. “Make no +noise or I fire.”</p> + +<p>It was a frightful situation, such as I had never conceived even in my +wildest dreams, but what was I to do? In silence I attired myself for +this terrible expedition. My companion made me precede him to the street +door, opened it himself, and closed it quietly behind us.</p> + +<p>Side by side in silence we walked, the maniac keeping half a step in my +rear, and I knew all the while that he had his right hand in his side +pocket. Now and then he indicated the way we should go, and then he led +me across the Regent’s Park, and so through street after street till we +reached Hyde Park Corner. We passed several policemen by the way, but, +unfortunately, none of them suspected or even particularly noticed us. I +dared not give an alarm or attract attention, for did I not know that +that dreadful hand was still in that dreadful side pocket?</p> + +<p>Presently my companion paused, and said, as though speaking to himself:</p> + +<p>“A member of the Royal Family would be best.”</p> + +<p>I was rather glad to hear this, because if he intended that an +illustrious personage should be his victim he was likely to be +disappointed. Royal Highnesses are not usually found walking about in +the neighbourhood of their palaces at two o’clock in the morning.</p> + +<p>Thus we rambled to and fro near Buckingham and St. James’s Palaces and +Marlborough House, need I say with no result? Not a single Prince was to +be seen anywhere, and my companion seemed slightly disgusted.</p> + +<p>“Hum!” he muttered. “They are hiding. Let us go now to Downing Street.”</p> + +<p>He evidently thought that, failing Royalty, his next best course would +be to slay a Cabinet Minister. But neither the Premier nor any of the +Secretaries of State happened to be abroad at that hour.</p> + +<p>Our walk down Whitehall proving uneventful, the madman next suggested +that we should “try the Houses of Parliament.” Here the position seemed +more dangerous. The House of +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_563" id="Page_563">[Pg 563]</a></span> +Commons could not have long adjourned—it +was in the days of late sittings—and it was quite possible that some +belated M.P. might be on his way home.</p> + +<p>Presently, indeed, my companion made a remark that filled me with +horror.</p> + +<p>“That looks like one,” he said. “Now steady.”</p> + +<p>An elderly, respectable-looking gentleman was approaching us, walking +alone from the direction of the House, and my terrible associate was +standing under a lamp-post still with his hand in his pocket.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 447px;"> +<img src="images/img563.jpg" width="447" height="600" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“that looks like one.”</span> +</div> + +<p>My presence of mind together with my faculty of invention, here happily +came to my aid.</p> + +<p>“Stay,” I whispered; “mind what you are about, or you will make a +mistake. That is not a member of Parliament. I know him by sight but not +to speak to. He is a retail grocer who keeps a shop in Oxford Street.”</p> + +<p>“Are you quite sure?”</p> + +<p>“Quite.”</p> + +<p>And so the elderly stranger passed us, little guessing what a narrow +escape he had had.</p> + +<p>The position was truly appalling. Now we neared the Royal Academy, at +that time still situated in Trafalgar Square, and my would-be murderer +muttered something about “picking off” an R.A. or an Associate. The +wretched creature seemed well up in honorary titles. Next we wandered +along the Strand, and he thought of destroying a distinguished actor, +but the theatrical profession had doubtless long since gone to bed. +Thank goodness he had not gone far +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_564" id="Page_564">[Pg 564]</a></span> +into the heart of Clubland, or he +might have found there a victim worthy of his murderous weapon.</p> + +<p>On, on he led me, past Temple Bar, not without an eye for wandering +Judges and Queen’s Counsel. Fortunately, at that hour, it was now about +four a.m., the newspapers had all gone to press, and there were no +eminent journalists about. Then he came to St. Paul’s, and talked about +archbishops, bishops and canons, and I almost laughed at the idea of our +meeting a Church dignitary abroad at such a time.</p> + +<p>Finally, we got into the heart of the City, and here I felt safe if he +had any designs on the Directors of the Bank of England or members of +the Stock Exchange.</p> + +<p>It was in the middle of the deserted road opposite the Mansion House +that he stopped at last, and cast a fond look at the residence of the +Lord Mayor.</p> + +<p>“He won’t come out,” he murmured; “none of them will, the cowards. Not +even an alderman.”</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 363px;"> +<img src="images/img564.jpg" width="363" height="450" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“then he came to st. paul’s.”</span> +</div> + +<p>Then, after looking about him for a time—why, oh! why, were not the +suspicions of some policeman excited by our strange proceedings?—he +suddenly exclaimed, to my great joy:</p> + +<p>“I am afraid it is no good. We shall have to give it up for to-night; +they are all in hiding, every one of them. To be sure, I might pick off +some stranger, and take my chance, but it is hardly good enough. I +should waste myself.”</p> + +<p>This was the pleasantest speech he had yet made, but his next was not so +agreeable.</p> + +<p>“After all,” he said, turning to me, “I don’t think I could get anybody +better than you. You are a rather distinguished novelist, and the fact +that you write stories of crime would make it sound remarkable. What do +you say?”</p> + +<p>I was almost too frightened to say anything. I was trembling all over, +for in a moment that dreadful hand might leap out of that dreadful +pocket, and my fate would be sealed. But, happily, my imagination once +more came to my aid.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_565" id="Page_565">[Pg 565]</a></span> +“It is not a bad idea,” I replied; “but I think you could do better. +Don’t be in a hurry—there are plenty of distinguished people about, but +not at so late an hour as when you called on me last night. Come a +little earlier to-night, say at ten o’clock, and we’ll see if we can’t +find a Prince. I know them all by sight, and will point one out to you, +a good one. Of course, if you can’t get anybody better, you can shoot +me.”</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 475px;"> +<img src="images/img565.jpg" width="475" height="500" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“‘thank you,’ he said.”</span> +</div> + +<p>“Thank you,” he said, and for the first time he drew his hand out of +that horrible pocket of his, and grasped my own. “It is a good idea. +To-night then it shall be, at ten o’clock. Good morning.”</p> + +<p>I could hardly believe my senses when I saw the dreadful creature slowly +making his way towards Cheapside. But, indeed, my senses were failing +me. I turned giddy, and staggered against a lamp-post, where presently I +was found by a wandering policeman.</p> + +<p>I put my hand to my throat, for I felt choking.</p> + +<p>“Stop him, stop him!” I cried. “He has got a revolver—he is a +murderer—he——”</p> + +<p>But the miserable constable took no notice of my warning. He only took +me by the arm, and, turning his bull’s eye and a suspicious glance upon +my countenance, said:</p> + +<p>“Here, you had better go home quietly, sir. I suppose you have been +dining out rather late. Hi, hansom!”</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 311px;"> +<img src="images/img566.jpg" width="311" height="600" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“you had better go home quietly, sir.”</span> +</div> + +<p>And he bundled me into a cab, and took my name and address, and the next +moment I was bowling along on my road to St. John’s Wood.</p> + +<p>It was nearly six in the morning when I arrived, and, fortunately, no +one heard me when I let myself in with my latch-key.</p> + +<p>My wife thought I had only been sitting up extra late at my +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_566" id="Page_566">[Pg 566]</a></span>work, and I +told her nothing of my night’s adventure. But I summoned two able-bodied +detectives to my aid, and they agreed to await with me the lunatic’s +second visit. My family supposed that the detectives had come to assist +me in getting up a tale of crime, and I did not undeceive them. So I +despatched them to bed at an earlier hour than usual, on the plea that I +did not wish to be disturbed, and sat with my companions in the study +watching for the madman.</p> + +<p>Precisely at ten o’clock there was heard a heavy footstep on the gravel +path without, and once more a knock—a single knock.</p> + +<p>“He has come,” we whispered.</p> + +<p>We had duly arranged our “plan of campaign,” and now proceeded to carry +it out. The most stalwart of the detectives was to open the front door, +and the other to hide behind it. My post was on the threshold of my +study, where I was to stand as a “reserve.”</p> + +<p>The men were wonderfully prompt in executing their operations. The +street door had hardly been opened when there was a scuffle and a heavy +fall, accompanied by much growling and cursing, and then the +unmistakable sound of the snapping of a pair of handcuffs.</p> + +<p>“It’s all right,” said the detective who had been behind the door, “we +have got him and his six-shooter too.”</p> + +<p>Whereupon he produced the very weapon with which the maniac had +threatened me—the large, bright, new revolver. I identified it at once.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 232px;"> +<img src="images/img567.jpg" width="232" height="500" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“there was a scuffle.”</span> +</div> + +<p>“I got it out of his side pocket quick as thought,” said the man.</p> + +<p>Good! And now I retired into my study while the other detective brought +the stranger forward.</p> + +<p>“What the devil are you fools about?” I heard him cry, as he entered, +handcuffed, at the door.</p> + +<p>The sound of his voice startled me. It was <em>not</em> that of my +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_567" id="Page_567">[Pg 567]</a></span>visitor the +night before. A single glance showed me that it was quite a different +sort of person.</p> + +<p>“Halloa!” I cried, “there is some mistake here. That’s not the lunatic.”</p> + +<p>“Lunatic!” exclaimed the captured man, “I should think not indeed. It is +you who are the lunatics. I am a policeman!”</p> + +<p>And a policeman he was—in plain clothes. He had come to tell me that +the maniac was dead. He had shot himself almost immediately after +leaving me, and the constable who had put me into a hansom remembered my +words and my name and address. Hence I was now summoned to give evidence +at the inquest.</p> + +<p>Of course the policeman was easily pacified, and, indeed, regarded his +rough treatment by two of his own colleagues as a joke rather than +otherwise.</p> + +<p>I duly gave evidence at the inquest, but I am sorry to say that when I +told my story it was not listened to quite so gravely as I thought it +ought to have been.</p> + +<p>So altogether this adventure rather disgusted me with the occupation I +had hitherto been following, and now, for some time past, instead of +composing tales of crime, I have gone in for writing moral stories for +boys.</p> + +</div> + + + +<div class="box1"> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_568" id="Page_568">[Pg 568]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/img568.jpg" width="600" height="448" alt="the idlers club subject for discussion Shall We Have a Dramatic Academy" title="" /> +</div> + +<p> </p> + + +<div class="sidenote">Miss Fanny Brough thinks that it is indispensable.</div> + +<p>Of course, there will be the usual outcry that we don’t want an Academy +of British Dramatic Art because we have not had one hitherto; but there +are many things wanted now-a-days which our forefathers had to do +without. I don’t say for a moment that the heads of the profession in +England are not equal to those of France or other countries; it is the +rank and file of whom I complain. They never get a chance of learning +how to walk or talk properly on the stage, and, consequently, minor +parts are frequently very badly played in English theatres. For +instance, I went on the stage—in the provinces—just when the old +system of stock companies was dying out. A few years before then it +would have been possible to receive an admirable training in the +provinces. But when I went on the stage, touring companies took +possession of the land, and I had only two parts in eighteen months. +What possible chance was there of learning to act under such a system? +None at all. The result was that when I came to London, and had a +comparatively good part offered me, I did not feel satisfied with the +way I played it, and returned to the provinces. The difficulty, of +course, is how to exist whilst qualifying for the stage. I maintain that +a Dramatic Academy would do away with this difficulty, and tend to the +improvement of British Dramatic Art in numberless ways. There are +hundreds of inefficient teachers who profess to train people for the +stage, although they themselves know nothing of the art of acting. As +long as there are wealthy tyros mad to go on the stage at any cost, so +long will inefficient teachers continue to flourish.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_569" id="Page_569">[Pg 569]</a></span></p> +<div class="sidenote">The Dramatic Academy must be subsidised.</div> + +<p>Of course, the Dramatic Academy would have to be subsidised, either by +the Government or private individuals. The experiment is not a new one. +It has been tried at the Paris Conservatoire, the National Dramatic +Academy at Buda-Pesth, the theatrical school at Berlin, and the Dramatic +Conservatoires in Vienna and Amsterdam. Surely it would be possible to +collate the experiences of these various institutions and arrive at a +basis on which to work. A committee of our leading actors and managers +might be appointed to report on the matter. There is a great deal of +nonsense talked about the heaven-born genius plunging into the first +ranks of the profession at a bound, but, as a rule, the heaven-born +genius requires a great deal of preparatory work to fit him for his +profession. Mr. Grein, of the Independent Theatre, puts forward a very +comprehensive plan for the working of such an academy. He proposes—(1.) +The school should be open to children at thirteen. (2.) That they should +pass a competitive examination. (3.) That the school should be divided +into five classes, the three lower ones to be entirely preparatory. (4.) +That the tuition for acting should not begin until these three classes +are passed, or, in other words, that the pupil should spend four years +in merely preparatory work. (5.) That if the pupil then shows no special +aptitude, he should be recommended to give up all idea of the stage. +(6.) That six hours a week should be bestowed on diction and acting. +(7.) That at the end of the course the pupils should submit to a +semi-public examination, and receive a diploma if proficient. (8.) That +the co-operation of managers should be invited, and that the conduct of +the school should be entrusted to one man (not an actor) under the +supervision of three eminent actors or actor-managers. (9.) That the +school must be endowed amply enough to tide it over the first five years +of its existence, and that the fees to pupils should be made as low as +possible. If a certain amount of energy and determination are brought to +bear on the subject, I see no reason why it should not speedily be +brought within the range of practical politics.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<div class="sidenote">Mr. John Hare thinks not.</div> + +<p>I am loath to say anything to discourage any scheme framed for the +purpose of benefiting our art, but I cannot honestly say that, in my +opinion, the establishment of a Dramatic Academy would, in any way, +serve that purpose. The question was fully gone into by a most +influential committee called together to consider the subject some ten +years ago. It consisted of Mr. Irving, Mr. Boucicault, Mr. Bancroft, Mr. +Vezin, Mr. Kendal, Mr. Neville, Mr. H. J. Byrne, myself, and many +others. After a full discussion we found, amongst many other +difficulties, it was quite impossible to find enough competent teachers +who would undertake the work of instruction, so the matter fell through, +and, as I do not believe in +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_570" id="Page_570">[Pg 570]</a></span> +the “blind leading the blind,” I am +convinced that any attempt to establish an English Dramatic Academy will +prove abortive.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<div class="sidenote">Mr. J. L. Toole is not quite prepared to express a decided +opinion.</div> + +<p>I am not quite prepared to express a decided opinion on the matter. I +am, however, more inclined to the view that a sound provincial training +will always be found the more beneficial course.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<div class="sidenote">Mr. Edward Terry’s experience.</div> + +<p>I think it desirable, but scarcely practicable. Some years ago I was +concerned in a scheme to promote the same object, my desire being that +we should start by renting a small theatre, and playing a <em>répertoire</em> +of pieces—that established actors should give their services for a +minimum fee as professors, and when out of engagements should undertake +to appear and act, taking less than their regular salaries. If the +theatre or academy succeeded, and held its own for a year, I would then +have asked for a Government subsidy. A great deal of good work was done +some few years ago by the “Dramatic Students,” and I regret exceedingly +the society has ceased to exist.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<div class="sidenote">Sir Augustus Harris looks upon the idea as a myth.</div> + +<p>What can I say? Of course, a Dramatic Academy would be a splendid +institution, with all the best actors as masters teaching the young idea +how to shoot—shoot straight, of course; and what a saving it would be +to poor managers, who then could refer the thousands of aspirants for +dramatic glory to it to become pupils and get prizes before asking for +engagements. But alas! and alas!! where are the actors who will give +their time and trouble to such a noble cause? I think our rough and +ready way the only one suited to our peculiarities, and, therefore, look +upon the idea as a myth.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<div class="sidenote">Miss Rose Norreys thinks it would be a difficult project.</div> + +<p>An Academy of Dramatic Art, where each student must first win a diploma +before being eligible for the stage, would be an inestimable advantage; +but, unless this academy were founded and endowed by the “State,” it +would again prove to be impracticable. Moreover, as there is an +universally accepted theory that the British public does <em>not want Art</em>, +but merely demands to be amused, or to have its attention attracted (by +some means or other), I fear it would be a somewhat difficult affair to +induce the “State” to regard the proposition as anything but a trivial +one.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_571" id="Page_571">[Pg 571]</a></span></p> +<div class="sidenote">Mr. William Terriss thinks there is no necessity.</div> + +<p>I do not think the profession to which I have the honour to belong has +any necessity for a Dramatic Academy. Actors and actresses have come, +and are constantly coming, to the front who have learnt their business +at the best of schools—the stage, which is always self-instructing. It +is not so much a lack of ability (which is the cause of a seeming lack +of artists) as opportunity.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<div class="sidenote">Cyril Maude thinks it necessary.</div> + +<p>It seems to me that under the existing state of affairs, actors and +actresses have to spend the best and most useful years of their life in +a struggle to acquire a bare knowledge of the principles of their art. +Could not the acquisition of this knowledge be aided and accelerated by +a school in which, for reasonable terms, the beginner could learn the +adjuncts of the art he has chosen, such as ease of carriage, how to +speak properly (let us drop that misused word <em>elocution</em>, which only +suggests the schoolgirl’s recitation), fencing, production of voice, +dancing, etc., not forgetting how to make up? <em>Then</em> let the tyro go +into the provinces, where he must gain a certain amount of experience +with constant change of theatres and of audience week by week. Who will +say that this preliminary training would not be of enormous advantage to +the beginner? <em>But</em> surely this school should not profess to teach +<em>acting</em>, but the different arts and accomplishments which go to help to +make the actor.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<div class="sidenote">Mr. Murray Carson is of opinion that the actor’s own +discretion should be his tutor.</div> + +<p>I do not think a Dramatic College is either practicable or necessary. +You could not expect the public, or the critics, to attend a series of +performances given by novices; and as constant appearances in public +must outweigh all other forms of teaching, it would be more profitable +to the beginner to join a provincial <em>répertoire</em> company, and thus come +into nightly encounter with his final judges, the public, thereby +learning the most essential quality of the art—how to make his +personality and his particular form or method the master of their +feelings. Now, as the personality of every actor differs, so, I contend, +must his method vary, not only in what is termed the “reading” of a +part, but also in the technique of his execution. If to become a mere +walking, talking machine, be the object of a beginner, by all means let +him be instructed in calisthenics and elocution, and the art of +first-night speech-making; but to call such a combination of classes a +School of Dramatic Art is degrading; it robs the calling of its highest +attribute—imagination. Innate ability must undoubtedly be developed, +“which nobody can deny,” but such an institution as is suggested would +develop everything in the same form; and as there is no accepted +standard to <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_572" id="Page_572">[Pg 572]</a></span> +aim at, the result would be, so many impressions of the +mind of the teacher, who might possibly be wrong. It is impossible to +talk about learning to “walk the stage,” dancing, fencing, etc., etc., +as being of sufficient importance to demand a national institution. I +have known very fine actors who neither walked well nor spoke +distinctly. A school <em>supported by the profession</em>, at which it would be +possible for an actor to take lessons in any of these <em>accessories</em> from +accredited masters, for a small fee, would be invaluable, but it could +not by any possibility lay claim to the title “School of Dramatic Art.” +After a few general hints, which are not in the nature of an academical +lecture, Shakespeare himself says, in that memorable address to the +players, “But let your own discretion be your tutor.” You cannot learn +discretion, it must be the result of experience—an experience made up +of hard work, many disappointments, self-analysis, and, above all, much +patience.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<div class="sidenote">Cecil Rayleigh does not believe in it.</div> + +<p>I do not believe in an Academy of Acting, because I do not believe that +the art of acting can be taught. The art of the actor is merely the +faculty or instinct for simulation that everybody possesses in a greater +or less degree. Every savage can simulate or imitate the cries of birds +and beasts. Every savage can cover himself with a skin and stalk a herd +of deer so disguised. But some savages do these things better than +others. Every child, when it wants to thoroughly enjoy itself, plays at +being something other than it really is. The girl takes a doll and plays +at being a mother. The boy puts on a paper cocked hat and plays at being +a soldier. We can all act more or less. Between Mr. Irving as <em>King +Lear</em>, and the beggar who shivers on your door-step and swears that his +wife and six children have not tasted food for a fortnight, the +difference is one of degree, not of kind. The Pharisees of Scripture +pretended to be what they were not, and got roundly denounced as +hypocrites for their pains. As a fact, they were only incipient actors. +The talk about teaching is, to my thinking, undiluted twaddle. The +inherent desire to simulate grows, or it does not grow. You cannot make +it grow. If a naturally awkward man can simulate the graces of a dancing +master, if a naturally graceful man can simulate the limp of a cripple +or the clumsiness of a hobbledehoy, if a comparative dwarf—like +Kean—can assume the majesty of a monarch, then he is an actor. You may +teach him to fence, and to dance, and to elocute till he is black in the +face; you will never teach him to play “Othello” unless he is an actor. +That fencing, dancing, and elocution are useful to the actor I do not +deny. But if he is an actor he will pick these things up for himself +easily enough under existing circumstances. A high development of the +faculty for simulation necessarily implies a corresponding development +in the faculty of observation. The actor sees, notes, and reproduces. +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_573" id="Page_573">[Pg 573]</a></span> +That is to say, he simulates. Moreover, being an artist, he only +reproduces just so much as is necessary. He need not study anatomy, and +walk a hospital, in order to indicate with a few graphic gestures the +cripple’s limp. Equally he need not be a superb swordsman in order to +get through an effective stage combat. It is not absolutely essential +that he should be elevated to the peerage before being permitted to play +a duke. People talk about fencing, dancing, and elocution, as if actors +had nothing to do but fence, dance, and spout. An actor has to simulate +everything, from “shouts off” to a crowned king in the centre of the +stage. As in all probability neither the unseen but angry shouters, nor +the king, knew anything whatever of the acquirements alluded to, why +should the actor bother about them? They do not help in the least. If he +is an actor he can act. If he is not he can’t. In the old days when an +actor had to go before the curtain between the weary acts of an +interminable tragedy and engage in a broadsword combat or dance a +hornpipe, I can understand the necessity for his having to be a +swordsman and a dancer. But I do not see the use of those +accomplishments now. In these days a man need not, like Mr. Gilbert’s +“Jester,” always climb an oak to say “I’m up a tree.” In these days we +prefer the actor who thinks to the actor who dances. The institution of +an Academy of Acting would do one thing, and one thing only. It would +deluge an already overcrowded profession with a flood of mediocre +automatons.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<div class="sidenote">Addison Bright says it depends upon the style of acting which +is required.</div> + +<p>Whether or no a Dramatic Academy be needed appears to me to depend on +the kind of acting required. Do you affect the French school? Is your +aching void filled by the exquisite elaboration, the delicacy, the +half-tones, the subdued light and grey shadow, in which the French +delight?—then, obviously, it were best to adopt the Conservatoire +system, which hitherto has ensured these things being done better in +France. “The proof of the pudding,” and what better proof of the value +of a Dramatic Academy could be forthcoming than the brilliant work of +Coquelin, Febvre, Maubant, Delaunay, Got, Worms, Laroche, Blanche +Barretta, Emilie Broisat, Madeleine Brohan? Here is a group of clever +men and women. There is not a genius among them. The Bernhardts, +Croizettes, Jane Hadings, and Mounet-Sullys, I purposely omit, as +possibly unaffected by the argument. But of this band of “merely +talented,” there is not one but has by some means or other—and, in the +first place, presumably, the method by which they were grounded in their +art—become an artist, matured, solid, unapproachable. If, therefore, +this be what you want, surely the Conservatoire system is the shortest +cut to it. It is likely, however, that you, being English, want nothing +of the kind. Kickshaws and daintiness are your aversion. The histrionic +Roast Beef of Old England is your craving. You do not ask an +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_574" id="Page_574">[Pg 574]</a></span>actor to +merge or transform himself into the character he assumes, but simply to +employ the author as a medium for the display of his own more or less +striking individuality. In this case, schooling of any kind would, of +course, be fatal. Teaching would only interfere with the development of +that most precious possession, his personality. There is, indeed, only +one way to help the actor of this class—a class numerous and highly +popular in England and America—and that is by pointing out his faults. +This, at first sight, seems a simple matter. His faults are generally +multitudinous and glaring. But woe to the man who points the finger at +them. He is merely qualifying for a species of martyrdom. The libel +laws, reinforcing the instinct of self-preservation, forbid the critics +doing it, and anybody else who tries is instantly regarded as a +malignant private enemy of the criticised. Yet something in this +direction ought to be done, for even actors recruited from the +’Varsities will murder the language, debase the currency of manners, +mumble unchecked of “libery,” and “Febuery,” and “seckertery,” and in +many other barbarous ways betray the vulgarising influence of culture. +Only one or two courses seem open to mitigate this evil—to end the +harmful conspiracy of silence which fosters it. The establishment of +such an academy as Miss Brough, Mr. Tree, and Mr. Alexander favour, if +practicable (but where are the sufficiently eminent teachers to inspire +confidence?) might do much; but better still would be an institution +where not teaching, but criticism, real never-nowadays-practised +criticism, was the object in view. And I think the best kind of +institution for the simultaneous correction of faults and encouragement +of promising talent would be a stock company, run at some big provincial +theatre by a syndicate of London managers, who might there produce their +London successes, turn and turn about, all the year round, and thus be +brought into personal contact with the younger actors (who should be +bound to them for a term of apprenticeship) impelled in their own +interests to impart advice and admonition, and kept on the alert to +discover genuine talent, and to snap it up when they saw it for their +London houses.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<div class="sidenote">J. T. Grein goes into figures.</div> + +<p>I have expressed my opinion on a Dramatic Academy in the <em>Daily +Chronicle</em> some time ago, and have been promptly abused for it. +Consequently, I am most firmly convinced that the reasons which I +brought forward are sound. Nowadays, abuse is the highest form of +approbation. There are just two little points on which I wish to touch +just now, not in defence, but to explain. I mean that famous £50,000. It +has been repeated that I want £50,000. I want them very much indeed, +privately, but for the academy—<em>c’est autre chose</em>. All that I really +want is that someone (the inevitable “someone,” who plays such a +star-part in our theatrical world) should lend a sum of £50,000 for five +years, which should +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_575" id="Page_575">[Pg 575]</a></span> +be placed in a bank under trustees, and the +usufruct of which should serve to maintain the establishment during its +period of dentition, if I may call it so. After five years the capital +would return to its owner, who would be none the poorer, while art would +have been a great deal the richer for it. It is also insinuated that, +because I opined that <em>one</em> man—not an actor—should stand at the head +of affairs, I had clearly indicated who should be that man. I—of +course! Such accusations of self-nepotism are a sign of the times. No +one can speak disinterestedly about a subject now; we all must have a +motive. We are all mercenary, we are automatic advertising machines of +our own selves, we are always insincere. Charming! But for my own part, +I wish to state it very plainly that I never have thought, or could +think, of putting my own candidature forward if ever the academy should +become a fact. I have no desire to fill such a post, an Englishman born +should do it: it is a national affair. One thing should not deter us +from advocating the academy. I refer to the failure of the former +school. All I know about it is from hearsay, but it must have been a +most miserable business, and if half the tales which are in circulation +about the management are true, it was fit for anything except education. +The radical and principal fault of the old school was that it had too +many heads and not one competent ruler. Big names alone will not +accomplish the work, and large committees are the most troublesome spoke +in the wheel-work of any machinery. The former draw the money and the +latter spend it. When the funds had dried up the whole thing collapsed. +And what had it done? Nothing, absolutely nothing of any importance, +nothing which could not have been done better and cheaper. Let this +precedent be a warning. Let us have patrons by all means, a legion of +titles and lions, for they may prompt munificence. But let the reins be +in competent hands: one director and three guardians (selected from the +patrons), who should keep a watchful eye on the management of the +school. As for the <em>raison d’être</em>, the working, the subject of a +national Dramatic Academy, I have no more to say at this juncture. My +plan will be found summed up by Miss Brough. I hold that it is +practical.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<div class="sidenote">Jerome wishes to educate the Playgoer.</div> + +<p>I think the establishment of a Dramatic Academy would be of immense +benefit to the stage. Whether such an institution would be of +practicable service in teaching actors and actresses the rudiments of +their art—whether it is advisable that they should be taught—whether +it is possible to teach them—are debatable questions that I will not +here enter upon. But such an institution would achieve a much more +important and lasting result. It would educate the British Playgoer. At +present this individual is most lamentably ignorant concerning all +things connected with the theatre. He understands neither drama nor +acting. To him the play is not an art, but an entertainment. He does not +yet know <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_576" id="Page_576">[Pg 576]</a></span> +enough about the matter to dissociate the player from the +part. He speaks not of <em>Hamlet</em> as portrayed by Mr. H. Irving, but of +Mr. Irving as <em>Hamlet</em>, which sounds the same thing, but isn’t. The +following conversation is not invented, but recollected. I heard it in +an omnibus. Said the lady next to me to the lady opposite: “How did you +like Hare?” “Oh, not at all,” replied the other, “I thought him a horrid +man—so nasty to his mother.” “Oh, yes,” said the first speaker, “you +saw him in <em>Robin Goodfellow</em>, didn’t you? Oh, it isn’t fair to judge +him by that. You go and see him in <em>The Spectacles</em>. He’s a <em>dear</em> old +gentleman.” No doubt the second lady will take the next opportunity of +seeing Mr. Hare in <em>The Spectacles</em>, and will be delighted to notice how +greatly he has improved. That this is the general attitude taken up by +the public towards its stage servants is proved by the fact that no +favourite actor can play an unsympathetic part with impunity. To “name” +would be dangerous, but reflect for a moment upon the many plays—good +plays—that have failed in recent years simply because the beloved +actor-manager has been cast for the part of an objectionable person.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<div class="sidenote">Thinks it can be done.</div> + +<p>In the interests of playwriters and play-actors, I wish to see the +playgoer—our dramatic lawgiver—be educated; and I think this might be +done by means of a “Royal Dramatic Academy.” Our Royal Academy of Art +has been the means of bringing into existence an artistic public, which, +if small, is at all events growing and enthusiastic; and a man can paint +a picture with the certainty that some, at all events, of the people who +come to look at it will be capable of comprehending his meaning. Without +our Royal Academy of Music it is probable that <em>Ta-ra-boom-de-ay</em> would +represent the high-water mark of our national taste. With the advent of +a “Royal Dramatic Academy” (the “Royal” printed fairly large) people +would begin to grasp the idea that acting was an art. A public would +grow up able to appreciate a play as a play, and not merely as a +digester or a pick-me-up; playwriting would not be the lottery it is; +and the actor, no longer a mere public pet, would receive more dignified +recognition as an artist. In France, in Germany, in Austria, in Holland, +there are dramatic schools, and acting is regarded as an art. In +England, keeping a theatre is supposed to be on all fours with keeping a +shop. I should be sorry to add to the dustheap of rubbishy talk about +Art, but thought and emotion, though it is legitimate to live by them, +are not on all fours with other merchandise. An artist has a right to +sell what he may possess of them, but he has no right to adulterate them +to suit the taste of his customers. Something is needed to come between +the drama and the entertainment-seeking public—something that shall, on +the one hand, foster a purer taste, and, on the other, support and +encourage a higher aim. I think a Dramatic Academy might accomplish +this. If not, I know of nothing that would.</p> + +</div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Idler Magazine, Volume III, June +1893, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IDLER, VOLUME III, JUNE 1893 *** + +***** This file should be named 25189-h.htm or 25189-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/5/1/8/25189/ + +Produced by Victorian/Edwardian Pictorial Magazines, +Jonathan Ingram, Anne Storer and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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