Produced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Transcriberâs Note: The Table of Contents and the list of illustrations were added by the transcriber. [Illustration: Sincerely yours Frank R. Stockton] MCCLUREâs MAGAZINE. VOL. I. NOVEMBER, 1893. No. 6. Copyright, 1893, by S. S. MCCLURE, Limited. All rights reserved. Table of Contents PAGE A DIALOGUE BETWEEN FRANK R. STOCKTON AND EDITH M. THOMAS. 467 âINCURABLE.â A GHETTO TRAGEDY. 478 âHUMAN DOCUMENTS.â 487 THE PERSONAL FORCE OF CLEVELAND. By E. Jay Edwards. 493 PATTI AT CRAIG-Y-NOS. By Arthur Warren. 501 ONCE ABOARD THE LUGGER. By âQ.â 515 SONG. By Thomas Lovell Beddoes. 523 AN INTERVIEW WITH PROFESSOR JAMES DEWAR. By Henry J. W. Dam. 524 THE HOUSE WITH THE TALL PORCH. By Gilbert Parker. 533 STRANGER THAN FICTION. By Doctor William Wright. 535 THE HYPNOTIC EXPERIMENTS OF DOCTOR LUYS. By R. H. Sherard. 547 THE SURGEONâS MIRACLE. By Joseph Kirkland. 555 Illustrations PAGE FRONTISPIECE 466 MISS EDITH M. THOMAS. 467 A CORNER OF THE DRAWING-ROOM. 472 THE DINING-ROOM. 476 VIEW FROM A WINDOW IN THE TOWER. 477 A. CONAN DOYLE. 488 R. E. PEARY, C. E., U. S. N. 489 CAMILLE FLAMMARION. 491 F. HOPKINSON SMITH. 492 GROVER CLEVELAND. 494 CRAIG-Y-NOS. 502 CRAIG-Y-NOS AND TERRACES FROM THE RIVER. 503 MADAME PATTIâS FATHER. 504 MADAME PATTI AT EIGHTEEN. 504 MADAME PATTI IN 1869 AND IN 1877. 505 THE DINING-ROOM. 506 THE CONSERVATORY. 507 MADAMEâS BOUDOIR. 508 THE SITTING-ROOM. 509 THE FRENCH BILLIARD-ROOM. 510 THE ENGLISH BILLIARD-ROOM. 511 SIGNOR NICOLINI. 512 A BIT IN THE PARK. THE SUSPENSION BRIDGE. 513 THE PROSCENIUM OF CRAIG-Y-NOS THEATER. 514 THE LABORATORY OF DAVY AND FARADAY AT THE ROYAL INSTITUTION. 525 PROFESSOR DEWAR IN THE LABORATORY OF THE ROYAL INSTITUTION. 527 THE LECTURE-ROOM OF THE ROYAL INSTITUTION. 528 PROFESSOR DEWARâS LECTURE-TABLE. 529 EARLY AND LATEST FORMS OF VESSELS FOR HOLDING LIQUEFIED OXYGEN. 530 THE âCOMPRESSORS.â 531 DOCTOR LUYS. 547 PLEASING EFFECT OF THE NORTH POLE OF A MAGNET. 548 REPULSIVE EFFECT OF THE SOUTH POLE OF A MAGNET. 549 ESTHER, DOCTOR LUYSâ SUBJECT. 550 ESTHER IN THE LETHARGIC STATE. 551 ATTRACTION OF THE HAND IN THE LETHARGIC STATE. 551 THE ACTION OF WATER. 552 PLEASURE CAUSED BY PEPPER PRESENTED TO THE LEFT SIDE. 552 ANXIETY CAUSED BY PEPPER PRESENTED TO THE RIGHT SIDE. 553 PLEASURE CAUSED BY FENNEL PRESENTED TO THE RIGHT EYE. 553 ANXIETY CAUSED BY HELIOTROPE. 554 THE EFFECT OF THYME. 554 FRIGHT PRODUCED BY SULPHATE OF SPARTEINE. 554 TERROR CAUSED BY FRANKINCENSE. 554 ABE WAS FOLLOWING THE PLOUGH. 555 AND EPHE HE WAS TICKLED. 556 AND SHE PITCHED IN. 556 FIRST SPIRT OF BLOOD. 557 âDO YOU KNOW ME?â 558 REAL CONVERSATIONS.--III. A DIALOGUE BETWEEN FRANK R. STOCKTON AND EDITH M. THOMAS. RECORDED BY MISS THOMAS. _Nature provides no lovelier mise-en-scÃ¨ne for a story, a poem or, a âconversationâ than is to be found in the sylvan and pastoral world that looks out upon the gradual crescendo of the Blue Ridge mountains in northern New Jersey._ _âThose green-robed senators of mighty woods,_ _Tall oaks----â_ _Tall beeches, hickories, chestnuts, and maples, too, rise on all sides to clothe fertile slope or wilder acclivity. Those who have never experimentally proved what riches the landscape-loving eye counts for its own in this portion of the State may still hold to the calumnious tradition that all Jersey is flat and unprofitable to the searcher for the beautiful in pictorial nature. There is no hilltop of this gracious country that does not rise to salute some yet more sightly hill; no sunny hollow or winding dell that does not seem the key to some Happy Valley beyond, where a Rasselas might be content to abide forever; no woodland glade that would not satisfy Leigh Huntâs description,_ _âPlaces of nestling green, for poets made.â_ [Illustration: MISS EDITH M. THOMAS.] _Yet it would hardly be judicious for a poet to live here, lest he should be diverted altogether from thoughts of work, and, like the bees in Florida, lend himself to present enjoyment, without forecast of the morrow._ _âGive me health and a day,â says Emerson, âand I will make the pomp of emperors ridiculous.â While we venture no such reduction of royal heads, we are rich in the sense of privilege and of immunity from all the troubled voices of the world, given such a scene, such a fair September morning._ _The Holt, the wooded hill on which stands Mr. Stocktonâs home, rises on three sides--gently, leisurely; nothing abrupt, but as befits the site for an ideal homestead. Even were no houses made with hands erected in this place, the noble grove, comprising the whole congress of good trees and true, that yield fuel and timber for manâs use, would enclose and tapestry around a sort of spacious woodland chamber for the abode of contemplation and comfort. In truth, close beside the ample piazza, a group of stately pines, joined in brotherly love, securely roof over a little parlor where the gentle shower would scarce admonish a loiterer in a rustic seat._ _Down this easy slope the trees descend to make a green, dream-lighted dell, through which we see the winding course of a wood-path, where the pilgrim of a day may saunter. So sauntering, or tarrying, the pilgrim proceeds leisurely along; at last, a little climb and a deft turn of the path deliver us into a sweetly secluded nook christened âStudio Bluff.â_ _And now to return to the sheltering eaves of the âHoltâ and repair to the study. Yonder is the great desk, as full, it may be, of hives and honey as were the pockets of the Bee Man of Orn!_ _There is the bookcase, containing, among its volumes of reference and service, sundry eccentricities of literature: âMr. Salmon,â for instance, with his exhaustive âGeographical and Historical Grammar,â sandwiching between its useful rules and tables tidbits of valuable information, including such subjects as âCleopatraâs Asp;â adding also âa few paradoxes,â otherwise childish riddles, wherewith the simple olden time was wont to amuse itself. Here, on the walls hangs the sampler of one of the ladies Stockton, long since skilled with the âfine needle and nice thread.â Close beside this notable needlework hangs a parchment, the will of one of the forefathers of the house, who held it no âbaseness to write fair,â if this scarcely faded engrossing bespeaks the writerâs creed in penmanship. Here, a grim, gaunt candlestick does picket duty all by itself: it is a bayonet taken from the last battlefield of the South--a bayonet inverted, the point thrust into a standard, the stock serving as socket for the candle. In this rapid survey of the room, the lines of old Turberville attract the eye, where they appear inscribed over the mantel:_ _âYee that frequent the hilles and highest holtes of all,_ _Assist mee with your skilful quilles, and listen when I call.â_ [Illustration] _On the mantel reposes a wickedly crooked dirk, sheathed and quiescent now. It is the weapon that slew the redoubted Po Money, a Dacoit chief, of whom the missionary who consigned it to the present owner naÃ¯vely observes, on his card of presentation, âSince he would never repent, it seemed best that he should be out of the world.â_ _By this window are flowers, a few; by choice a vase for each; for here the individuality of a flower is prized, and the crowded and discomfited loveliness of flowers in the mass is not tolerated. So a day-lily, or an early dahlia, may have its place, by itself, in undisputed queendom. A branch of vari-colored âfoliage plantâ completes the decorative floral company. But who is this--coming as in dyed garments from Bozrah--that reposes among these pied leaves, beneath their âprotective coloringâ? A cramped prisoner but a few hours before, in the world, but not of it. The bright creature rests in the sunny window until its wings gain strength to lift and bear it away._ * * * * * _Guest._ And so you will give me the fancy of packing the butterfly back into his case? _Host._ Yes, I give up all claim upon it. It is yours to have and to hold--only see that the poor fellow isnât hurt in packing him up. _Guest._ That deserves caution. This is the second lucky suggestion that has come in my way to-day. Both are too good to be lost. The muse learns thrift and treasures up all suggestions. _Host._ How does your muse ordinarily get her suggestions? _Guest._ Oh, in all sorts of ways; from reading, from some oneâs mere chance expression; sometimes from the particular insistence of some object in nature to be seen or heard; as though it had been waiting for its historian to come along. Usually, with the object is associated some slight touch of pathos. Dreams, too, offer suggestions. These suggestions, of course, are fantastic. They often have a touch of absurdity which the muse wisely omits, generally taking them for their allegorical face value. I dreamed once of seeing a rich cluster of purple blossoms, heavy with dew. The name, I learned was âhoney-trope,â and so I transplanted the flower, root and branch, into a small garden plot of verses. I would think some of your whimsical situations and characters might come in this way. [Illustration] _Host._ No, I donât remember deriving suggestions from actual dreams; but I owe a great many to day-dreams. I used to entertain myself in this way constantly when a schoolboy. In walking home from school I would take up the thread of a plot and carry it on from day to day until the thing became a serial story. The habit was continued for years, simply because I enjoyed it--especially when walking. If anybody had known or asked me about it I should have confessed that I thought it a dreadful waste of time. _Guest._ But it proved, I dare say, a sort of peripatetic training-school of fiction. _Host._ Perhaps it might be called so. At any rate, years after, I used to go back to these stories for motives, especially in tales written for children. But there was another way in which, in later years, I have made use of day-dreams. I often woke very early in the morning--too early to think of rising, even if I had been thriftily inclined--and after some experimenting I found that the best way to put myself to sleep again was to construct some regular story. _Guest._ (Stockton stories do not have that effect in the experience of readers!) _Host._ Some regular story carried through to the end. I would begin a story one morning, continue it the next, and the next, until it ran into the serial. Some of these stories lasted for a long time; one ran through a whole year, I know. I got it all the way from America to Africa. _Guest._ Perhaps you anticipated reality. For a friend of mine who reads every book of travels in Africa which she can lay hands on, firmly believes that the Dark Continent will be opened up as a pleasure and health resort for the whole world! But what became of the story? _Host._ Well, a long time after, a portion of it came to light again in âThe Great War Syndicate.â The idea of âNegative Gravityâ was taken from another day-dream, the hero of which invented all sorts of applications of negative gravity, and from these I made a selection for the printed story. _Guest._ Delightful--for we may hear from this hero again. I hope he is inexhaustible. How fortunate to have a treasure-house of characters and exploits. You have only to open the door and whatever you want comes out! You donât have to go to any âAnatomy of Melancholyâ or LempriÃ¨re, or Old Play, where somebody else is going, too, and will anticipate you--the hard luck of some of the rhyming fraternity! _Host._ Of course, some suggestions are wholly involuntary. You do not know how or whence they come. I think of a good illustration of this involuntary action of the mind in conjuring up suggestion for a story. Some time ago, as I was lying in a hammock under the trees, I happened to look up through the branches and saw a great patch of blue sky absolutely clear. I said to myself: âSuppose I saw a little black spot appear in that blue sky.â I kept on thinking. Gradually the idea came of a man who _did_ see such a little spot in the clear sky. And now I am working up this notion in a story I call âAs One Woman to Another.â _Guest._ You literally had given you less than the conditions given for describing a circle, for you had but a simple point to start with. One might conclude, all that is necessary is to fix upon some central idea, no matter how slight, and then the rest will come, drawn by a kind of mysterious attraction toward the centre. [Illustration] _Host._ Ah, but it will not do for the professional writer to depend upon any such luck or chance, for if you wait for suggestions to come from the ether or anywhere else, you _may_ wait in vain. You must begin something. If the mind has been well stored with incident and anecdote, these will furnish useful material, but not the plot. It is often necessary to get oneâs self into a proper condition for the reception of impressions, and then to expose the mind, thus prepared, to the influence of the ideal atmosphere. If the proper fancy floats along it is instantly absorbed by the sensitive surface of the mind, where it speedily grows into an available thought, and from that anything can come. _Guest._ But with the maker of verse such a resolution sometimes so offends the muse that she turns upon her votary with the most inhuman cruelty. Once I resolved, yes, deliberately resolved, to write some verses about the American Indian--to the effect that he must soon bid good-by and take his place with all broken and departed dynasties of the world--the goal to be some far western region of mournful and dying splendors. The first result of this resolution was rather encouraging. It was: âNow, get thee on, beyond the sunset----â There inspiration stopped short, limping for lack of half a foot! Each morning, on first waking up, I tried to fill out the line. At last, one morning it was done, presto!--quite taken out of my hands. The result was totally involuntary, I may say. _Host._ Well, how did the lines run? _Guest._ âNow get thee on beyond the sunset--git!â _Host._ Yes, that was cruel! I suppose you could never finish the poem after that. But poets must have to do a great deal more waiting than any other class of literary workers, for they have to wait not only for ideas but for words, which, in poetry, have so much to do with the mechanism of the verse as well as the expression of the idea. [Illustration] _Guest._ What the _Dii Majores_ may do, or may have done, I could not presume to say; but with us verse-makers, sometimes it is only the _words_ that do come, at first. The sense, import, and whole motive sometimes arrive much later. This ought to be kept a secret, for it is not to our credit. But I remember once, some one used the phrase, âFor the time being.â It was immediately invested with a subtle extra value which seemed left to me to discover and define. Any maker of verse, I should guess, would in the same way be followed up continually by refrains and catch-words--the mere gossip of Parnassus, one might say. You have the fragments of a puzzle; they are scattered; some are missing. They must be hunted up and fitted together. Sometimes the last will be first and the first will be last, when the metrical whole is completed. For example of how detached and meaningless these first suggestions may be, take this line and a half: âIn the dim meadows flecked with asphodel, I shall remember!â It was months after this suggestion came to me that I found the context and motive of the verse. I had to wait for the rest, and take whatever came. [Illustration: A CORNER OF THE DRAWING-ROOM.] _Host._ This subject of suggestions, and how they come, is an interesting one. It reminds me of what the astronomers tell us of certain methods they employ. For instance, they expose, by means of telescopic action, a sensitive photographic plate to the action of light from portions of the heavens where nothing is seen. After a long exposure they look at the plate, and something may be seen that was never seen before--star, nebulÃ¦, or perhaps a comet--something which the telescope will not reveal to the eye. As an instance of my use of this exposure plan I will mention this: some years ago I read a great deal about shipwrecks--a subject which always interests me--some accounts in the daily papers and some sea stories, such as those of Clark Russell, who is my favorite marine author, and the question came into my mind: âIs it possible that there should be any kind of shipwreck which has not been already discovered?â For days and days I exposed my mind to the influence of ideas about shipwrecks. At last a novel notion floated in upon me, and I wrote âThe Remarkable Wreck of the Thomas Hyke.â I have since had another idea of an out-of-the-way shipwreck, which I think is another example of a wreck that has never occurred; but this is a variation and amplification of a wreck about which I read. _Guest._ Has it ever happened that any of your fancies turned out to be actual fact? Truth is said to be stranger than fiction. _Host._ In some instances just that thing has happened. In one story I had a character whose occupation was that of an analyzer of lava, specimens being sent to him from all parts of the world. In this connection a foreigner inquired of him if there were any volcanoes near Boston, to which city he was on his way. This preposterous idea was, of course, quickly dismissed in the story. But I received a letter from a scientific man in New England who thought I would like to know that, not far from Boston, but in a spot now covered by the ocean, there existed in prehistoric times an active volcano. As to the practical application of some of my fanciful inventions, I may say that two young ladies on Cape Cod imitated the example of Mrs. Leeks and Mrs. Aleshine, and having put on life preservers, and each taking an oar, found no difficulty in sweeping themselves through the water, after the fashion of the two good women in the story. I will also say that the Negative Gravity machine is nothing but a condensed balloon. As soon as a man can make a balloon which can bear his weight and can also be put in a money belt, he can do all the things that the man in the story did. I may also say that naval men have written to me stating that it is not impossible that some of the contrivances mentioned in âThe Great War Syndicateâ may some day be used in marine warfare. I myself have no doubt of this, for there is no reason why a turtle-backed little ironclad, almost submerged, should not steam under the stern of a great man-of-war like the âCamperdown,â and having disabled her propeller blades, tow her _nolens volens_ into an American port, where she could be detained until peace should be declared. _Guest._ I would not like to live in the port in whose harbor the captive vessel was detained. _Host._ It might be disagreeable; perhaps it would be better to keep the captured vessel continually on the tow-path through unfrequented waters. [Illustration] _Guest._ But we were speaking of the necessity of having a definite purpose at the outset of a piece of work. _Host._ It amounts to a necessity, almost. For instance, if I am about to write a fairy tale, I must get my mind in an entirely different condition from what it would be were I planning a story of country life of the present day. With me the proper condition often requires hard work. The fairy tale will come when the other kind is wanted. But the ideas of one class must be kept back and those of the other encouraged until at last the proper condition exists and the story begins. But I suppose you poets do not set out in this way. _Guest._ It would be a revelation to the public to be let into the secret of some of our âmotives,â and the various ways we have of mingling âpoetic-honeyâ and âtrade-wax,â as Tom Hood calls it. The spur of necessity, real or fancied, is often a capital provocation to eloquence. I know a woman who writes verses, who is not only unnecessarily neglectful of worldly interests, but is careless in detail, and self-indulgent and absent-minded. On one occasion, losing quite a sum of money from her pocket-book, and wishing to give herself a lesson to be remembered, she set herself the task of writing certain verses to defray the expenses of her carelessness, as it were. Involuntarily, and yet with a kind of grim fitness in things, the subject that came to hand was, âLosses.â The poem was written and disposed of, and the writer was square with her conscience once more; and the poem was not manifestly worse for having a prosaic prompting behind it. It is well, I think, that the public doesnât always fathom these little hidden sequences in our logic. [Illustration] _Host._ Speaking of âhidden sequences in logic,â as you call them, reminds me of a story a little girl told me. There was a nest in a tree, and the nest was full of young birds. One very forward one always would sit on the edge of the nest, and had several falls in this way. The old birds picked it up repeatedly, and told it that it would most certainly be caught by cats. After they found that it would not reform, the mother-bird took it by one wing and the father-bird took it by the other, and together they carried it to London, where they left it. I could not imagine why they carried it to London; but a day or two later I discovered that the little girl had been reading the story of Dick Whittington, which was founded on the fact that there were no cats in London. _Guest._ I am constantly surprised at the adroitness children manifest in their little stories. Where does it vanish when they grow older? If almost any child kept up the promise of its story-telling infancy, every grown person would be a clever novelist. But there was a question I had in mind to ask you while we were on the subject of suggestion and plot. Do you ever receive any available ideas from other people? _Host._ Yes, a great many excellent suggestions have come to me from others. But the better they are the less I like to use them, for a good idea deserves hard work, and when the work were done I would not feel that the story were really mine. In a few cases I have used suggestions from other people. For instance, there have been publishers who desired a story written upon a certain incident or idea. _Guest._ The sense of ideal property is strong. One feels an honest indignation at taking what belongs to another, even though but a thought, and that of no account to the thinker, in his own opinion of it. Nevertheless, you feel how easily this ideal property of his might be ârealizedâ with just a touch of art. Somehow, that touch of art, contributed by you, you feel would not quite make the material yours. _Host._ I have been thinking why it is that very often the work of an author of fiction is not as true as the work of an artist, and I have concluded that the artist has one great advantage over the author of fiction, and over the poet, even. The artist has his models for his characters--models which he selects to come as near as possible to what his creations are going to be. The unfortunate author has no such models. He must rely entirely upon the characters he has casually seen, upon reading, upon imagination. How I envy my friend Frost! Last summer, when he wished to sketch a winter scene in Canada, he had a model sitting with two overcoats on, and the day was hot. Now, I couldnât have any such models. I should have to describe my cold man just by thinking of him. [Illustration] _Guest._ Or learn to shiver, yourself, like the boy in âGrimmâs Talesâ--and describe that! _Host._ But it is a serious matter. The best artists have live models to work from. But your writer of fiction--how, for instance, can he see a love scene enacted? He must describe it as best he can, and, although he may remember some of his own, he will never describe those. _Guest._ Goethe was able to overcome such objections, I believe; and Heine tells us that, âOut of my own great woes I make my little songs.â But please go on. _Host._ I think the beautiful young heroine of fiction generally gives the author of love stories a great deal of trouble. Such ladies exist, and their appearances may be described; but it is very difficult to find out what they would do under certain conditions necessary to the story, and therefore the author is obliged to rely upon his imagination, or upon the few examples he has met with in his reading, where men or women have delivered love-clinics at their own bedsides, or have had the rare opportunities of describing them at the bedsides of others. For this reason people who are not in love, and whose actions are open to the observations of others, are often better treated by the novelist than are his lovers. I have sometimes thought that a new profession might be created--that of Literary Model. Of course we would have none but the very highest order of dramatic performers, but such assistance as they might be able to give would be invaluable. Suppose the writer wanted to portray the behavior of a woman who has just received the tidings of the sudden death of her rejected lover. How does a writer, who has never heard such intelligence delivered, know what expressions of face, or what gestures, to give to his heroine in this situation? How would the intense, high-strung, nervous woman conduct herself? How would the fair-haired, phlegmatic type of women receive the news? The professional literary model might be enormously useful in delineating the various phases assumed by oneâs hero or heroine. _Guest._ The idea is certainly novel. But Iâm afraid the professional literary model, if a woman, would never be content with âwell enough.â She would want to excel herself; and, if you didnât employ her constantly, would be devising new rÃ´les for herself to fill. She would be super-serviceable. _Host._ Perhaps. But such zeal could easily be restrained. It might be a good idea for a novel-writer to have a study near the greenroom of a theatre, and then between the acts he might send for this or that performer to give him a living picture of a certain character in a certain situation. It might not take a minute to do this. By the way, the writerâs model would have a better time than one who sat for an artist, for the sittings would generally be very short. _Guest._ All the worldâs a stage, and a thoroughly good actor might make a good literary model. But all sorts of people must help as models, by simply going on with their own little dramas of life, before the eyes of the sagacious author. _Host._ That is true enough, so far as the comedy scenes of the play are concerned. But, as I said before, who is going to set the author the copy for tragedy or love scenes? Occasionally you get oblique views--mere intimations of such scenes. I wish I had had the good fortune to see what a lady of my acquaintance saw a while ago. She is one of the very few who have ever seen a proposal of love and its acceptance, carried on before spectators, exactly as if the contracting parties were alone. The scene took place in a street car between two young persons of foreign tongue, one of whom was about to take a steamer; and the man knew that what he had to say must be said then or never said at all. With the total oblivion of the presence of others these two opened their hearts to each other, the affair proceeded through all its stages, and the compact was sealed. This would have been a rare opportunity for a literary artist. [Illustration: THE DINING-ROOM.] _Guest._ How perverse fate is in this respect! It seems as if there were a conspiracy to show up the most dramatic scenes either just before we come into the audience or just after we have left. But, take it all in all, I suppose the material we are best fitted to make use of is the kind that sooner or later comes in our way. We only take what we can easiest assimilate; the novelist his own proper food, the essayist another sort, the writer of verse the âcud of sweet and bitter fancies,â most likely. Have I asked a great many questions? I want to ask just one more--have you ever written any poetry? It is a pet theory of mine that everybody has, at some time or other, made verses because he couldnât help it--itâs instinctive! Now for a clean confession. _Host._ Let me see. Yes, now I remember one such effort. I devised a poem, and two lines at the beginning of it and two lines at the end of it came readily into my mind. But I had only written two or three lines when a breeze came up and blew my paper away. _Guest._ Lost, like the Sibylline books! Do you remember what the lines were? _Host._ Only the first two and the last two, which had been in my mind for some time. Those I put on paper are entirely gone. _Guest._ Can you give me the lines and the intervening argument? _Host._ The poem began thus: âWe walked in a garden of roses, Miss Jane, Sir Cupid, and I.â The story then proceeded to the effect that Sir Cupid and I walked through the narrow alleys side by side, while Miss Jane always flitted some distance in front, and would never stop that I might overtake her. I entreated her to wait for me, but she always laughed, and declined, hurrying on, sometimes picking a white rose, sometimes a red, and always answering, when she spoke at all, that the paths were not wide enough for three. After a good deal of this fruitless chase I became disheartened, and, with my companion, Sir Cupid, left the garden. The poem concluded thus: âThe next time I looked into the garden The rascal was walking with her.â Now, will you not take these lines and these ideas and finish the poem?[1] I shall never be able to do it. _Guest._ Ah! Those Sibylline leaves should have blown into the hands of a Dobson. But weâll try at restoring the lost passages. _Host._ The experiment may lead to great things. I almost think I see a new volume, with the title, âCollaborative Verses,â etc. And now choose whether you will go for a drive to Green Village or to the Black Meadows. _A Gentle Voice of Deprecation._ Oh! donât take her to Green Village! There isnât anything remarkable there. She will like the Black Meadows much more. [Illustration: VIEW FROM A WINDOW IN THE TOWER.] _Guest._ Yes, there might be adventures in such a region. And I want to put in a plea to be taken to that sylvan road where you saw the original sign of the Squirrel Inn. _Host._ Well, it shall be to the Black Meadows, and so, on! * * * * * [1] MISS JANE, SIR CUPID, AND I. _A Collaborative Poem by E. M. T. and F. R. S._ We walked in a garden of roses, Miss Jane, Sir Cupid, and I-- Nay, rather, she walked by herself, And never would answer me why. The more I besought her, still farther And farther she flitted ahead, Laughing and scattering roses-- Roses, the white and the red. At last she gave me her âreason;â Surely I âought to have knownâ-- âSir Cupidâ--and--âThree are too many,â Sheâd walk with me, if alone! So, lost in the maze of the roses, Forever she flitted before; And I said, with a sigh, to Sir Cupid: âIâll follow the truant no more!â The next time I drew near to the roses, I listened; I heard a faint stir, And when I looked into the garden The rascal was walking with her! Then softly I crept in, and caught her; She blushed, but would not be free. By keeping Sir Cupid between us There was room in those alleys for three. âINCURABLEâ A GHETTO TRAGEDY BY I. ZANGWILL, Author of âChildren of the Ghetto.â [Illustration] âCast off among the dead, like the slain that lie in the grave. Whom thou rememberest no more, and they are cut off from thy hand. Thou hast laid me in the lowest pit, in dark places, in the deeps. Thy wrath lieth hard upon me, and thou hast afflicted me with all thy waves. Thou hast put mine acquaintance far from me; thou hast made me an abomination unto them; I am shut up, and I cannot come forth. Mine eye wasteth away by reason of affliction. I have called daily upon thee, O Lord, I have spread forth my hands unto thee.â--_Eighty-eighth Psalm._ There was a restless air about the Refuge. In a few minutes the friends of the patients would be admitted. The incurables would hear the latest gossip of the Ghetto, for the world was still very much with these abortive lives, avid of sensations, Jewish to the end. It was an unpretentious institution--two corner houses knocked together--near the east lung of London; supported mainly by the poor at a penny a week, and scarcely recognized by the rich, so that paraplegia and vertigo and rachitis and a dozen other hopeless diseases knocked hopelessly at its narrow portals. But it was a model institution all the same, and the patients lacked for nothing except freedom from pain. There was even a miniature synagogue for their spiritual needs, with the womenâs compartment religiously railed off from the menâs, as if these grotesque ruins of sex might still distract each otherâs devotions. Yet the rabbis knew human nature. The sprightly hydrocephalous paralytic, Leah, had had the chair she inhabited carried down into the menâs sitting-room to beguile the moments, and was smiling fascinatingly upon the deaf blind man who had the Braille Bible at his fingersâ ends, and read on as stolidly as St. Anthony. Mad Mo had strolled vacuously into the ladiesâ ward, and, indifferent to the pretty, white-aproned Christian nurses, was loitering by the side of a weird, hatchet-faced cripple, with a stiletto-shaped nose supporting big spectacles. Like most of the patients, she was up and dressed. Only a few of the white pallets ranged along the walls were occupied. âLeah says sheâd be quite happy if she could walk like you,â said Mad Mo, in complimentary tones. âShe always says Milly walks so beautiful. She says you can walk the whole length of the garden.â Milly, huddled in her chair, smiled miserably. âYouâre crying again, Rachel,â protested a dark-eyed, bright-faced dwarf, in excellent English, as she touched her friendâs withered hand. âYou are in the blues again. Why, that page is all blistered.â âNo, I feel so nice,â said the sad-eyed Russian in her quaint, musical accent, âYou sall not tink I cry because I am not happy. When I read sad tings--like my life--den only I am happy.â The dwarf gave a short laugh that made her pendant earrings oscillate. âI thought you were brooding over your love affairs,â she said. âMe!â cried Rachel. âI lost too young my leg to be in love. No, it is Psalm lxxxviii that I brood over. âI am afflicted and ready to die from my youth up.â Yes, I was only a girl when I had to go to KÃ¶nigsberg to find a doctor to cut off my leg. âLover and friend hast thou put far from me, and mine acquaintance into darkness.ââ Her face shone ecstatic. âHush!â whispered the dwarf, with a warning nudge and a slight nod in the direction of a neighboring waterbed, on which a pale, rigid, middle-aged woman lay with shut, sleepless eyes. âSe cannot understand Englis,â said the Russian girl, proudly. âDonât be so sure. Look how the nurses here have picked up Yiddish!â Rachel shook her head incredulously. âSarah is a Polisâ woman,â she said. âFor years dey are in England and dey learn noding.â â_Ich bin krank! Krank! Krank!_â suddenly moaned a shrivelled Polish grandmother, as if to corroborate the girlâs contention. She was squatting monkey-like on her bed, every now and again murmuring her querulous burden of sickness, and jabbering at the nurses to shut all the windows. Fresh air she objected to as vehemently as if it were butter or some other heterodox dainty. [Illustration] Hard upon her crooning came blood-curdling screams from the room above, sounds that reminded the visitor he was not in a Barnum show, that the monstrosities were genuine. Pretty Sister Margaret--not yet indurated--thrilled with pity, as before her inner vision rose the ashen, perspiring face of the palsied sufferer, who sat quivering all the long day in an easy-chair, her swollen, jelly-like hands resting on cotton-wool pads, an air pillow between her knees, her whole frame racked at frequent intervals by fierce spasms of pain, her only diversion faint, blurred reflections of episodes of the street in the glass of a framed picture: yet morbidly suspicious of slow poison in her drink, and cursed with an incurable vitality. Meantime Sarah lay silent, bitter thoughts moving beneath her white, impassive face like salt tides below a frozen surface. It was a strong, stern face, telling of a present of pain and faintly hinting of a past of prettiness. She seemed alone in the populated ward, and, indeed, the world was bare for her. Most of her life had been spent in the Warsaw Ghetto, where she was married at sixteen, nineteen years before. Her only surviving son--a youth whom the English atmosphere had not improved--had sailed away to trade with the Kafirs. And her husband had not been to see her for a fortnight. When the visitors began to arrive her torpor vanished. She eagerly raised the half of her that was not paralyzed, partially sitting up. But gradually expectation died out of her large gray eyes. There was a buzz of talk in the room--the hydrocephalous girl was the gay centre of a group; the Polish grandmother who cursed her grandchildren when they didnât come, and when they did, was denouncing their neglect of her to their faces; everybody had somebody to kiss or quarrel with. One or two acquaintances approached the bed-ridden wife, too, but she would speak no word, too proud to ask after her husband, and wincing under the significant glances occasionally cast in her direction. By and by she had the red screen placed round her bed, which gave her artificial walls and a quasi-privacy. Her husband would know where to look for her. âWoe is me!â wailed her octogenarian countrywoman, rocking to and fro. âWhat sin have I committed to get such grandchildren? You only come to see if the old grandmother isnât dead yet. So sick! So sick! So sick!â Twilight filled the wards. The white beds looked ghostly in the darkness. The last visitor departed. Sarahâs husband had not yet come. âHe is not well, Mrs. Kretznow,â Sister Margaret ventured to say in her best Yiddish. âOr he is busy working. Work is not so slack any more.â Alone in the institution she shared Sarahâs ignorance of the Kretznow scandal. Talk of it died before her youth and sweetness. âHe would have written,â said Sarah, sternly. âHe is wearied of me. I have lain here a year. Jobâs curse is on me.â âShall I to him,â Sister Margaret paused to excogitate the word, âwrite?â âNo. He hears me knocking at his heart.â They had flashes of strange savage poetry, these crude yet complex souls. Sister Margaret, who was still liable to be startled, murmured feebly, âBut----â âLeave me in peace!â with a cry like that of a wounded animal. The matron gently touched the noviceâs arm, and drew her away. âI will write to him,â she whispered. Night fell, but sleep fell only for some. Sarah Kretznow tossed in a hell of loneliness. Ah, surely her husband had not forgotten her; surely she would not lie thus till death--that far-off death her strong religious instinct would forbid her hastening! She had gone into the Refuge to save him the constant sight of her helplessness and the cost of her keep. Was she now to be cut off forever from the sight of his strength? The next day he came by special invitation. His face was sallow, rimmed with swarthy hair; his under lip was sensuous. He hung his head, half veiling the shifty eyes. Sister Margaret ran to tell his wife. Sarahâs face sparkled. âPut up the screen!â she murmured, and in its shelter drew her husbandâs head to her bosom and pressed her lips to his hair. But he, surprised into indiscretion, murmured: âI thought thou wast dying.â A beautiful light came into the gray eyes. âThy heart told thee right, Herzel, my life, I was dying for a sight of thee.â âBut the matron wrote to me pressingly,â he blurted out. He felt her breast heave convulsively under his face; with her hands she thrust him away. âGodâs fool that I am--I should have known; to-day is not visiting day. They have compassion on me--they see my sorrows--it is public talk.â His pulse seemed to stop. âThey have talked to thee of me,â he faltered. âI did not ask their pity. But they saw how I suffered--one cannot hide oneâs heart.â âThey have no right to talk,â he muttered, in sulky trepidation. âThey have every right,â she rejoined, sharply. âIf thou hadst come to see me even once--why hast thou not?â âI--I--have been travelling in the country with cheap jewelry. The tailoring is so slack.â âLook me in the eyes! The law of Moses? No; it is a lie. God shall forgive thee. Why hast thou not come?â âI have told thee.â âTell that to the Sabbath fire-woman! Why hast thou not come? Is it so very much to spare me an hour or two a week? If I could go out like some of the patients, I would come to thee. But I have tired thee out utterly----â âNo, no, Sarah,â he murmured uneasily. âThen why----â He was covered with shame and confusion. His face was turned away. âI did not like to come,â he said desperately. âWhy not?â Crimson patches came and went on the white cheeks; her heart beat madly. âSurely thou canst understand?â âUnderstand what? I speak of green and thou answerest of blue.â âI answer as thou askest.â âThou answerest not at all.â âNo answer is also an answer,â he snarled, driven to bay. âThou understandest well enough. Thyself saidst it was public talk.â âAh-h-h!â in a stifled shriek of despair. Her intuition divined everything. The shadowy, sinister suggestions she had so long beat back by force of will took form and substance. Her head fell back on the pillow, the eyes closed. He stayed on, bending awkwardly over her. âSo sick! So sick! So sick!â moaned the grandmother. âThou sayest they have compassion on thee in their talk,â he murmured at last, half deprecatingly, half resentfully. âHave they none on me?â Her silence chilled him. âBut thou hast compassion, Sarah,â he urged. âThou understandest.â Presently she reopened her eyes. âThou art not gone?â she murmured. âNo; thou seest I am not tired of thee, Sarah, my life. Only----â âWilt thou wash my skin and not make me wet?â she interrupted bitterly. âGo home. Go home to her!â âI will not go home.â âThen go under like Korah.â He shuffled out. That night her lonely hell was made lonelier by the opening of a peephole into paradise--a paradise of Adam and Eve and forbidden fruit. For days she preserved a stony silence toward the sympathy of the inmates. Of what avail words against the flames of jealousy in which she writhed? He lingered about the passage on the next visiting day, vaguely remorseful; but she would not see him. So he went away sulkily indignant, and his new housemate comforted him, and he came no more. When you lie on your back all day and all night, you have time to think, especially if you do not sleep. A situation presents itself in many lights from dawn to dusk, and from dusk to dawn. One such light flashed on the paradise and showed it to her as but the portico of purgatory. Her husband would be damned in the next world, even as she was in this. His soul would be cut off from among its people. On this thought she brooded till it loomed horribly in her darkness. And at last she dictated a letter to the matron, asking Herzel to come and see her. He obeyed, and stood shame-faced at her side, fidgeting with his peaked cap. Her hard face softened momentarily at the sight of him, her bosom heaved, suppressed sobs swelled her throat. [Illustration] âThou hast sent for me?â he murmured. âYes; perhaps thou didst again imagine I was on my deathbed?â she replied, with bitter irony. âIt is not so, Sarah. I would have come of myself, only thou wouldst not see my face.â âI have seen it for twenty years--it is anotherâs turn now.â He was silent. âIt is true all the same. I am on my deathbed.â He started. A pang shot through his breast. He darted an agitated glance at her face. âIs it not so? In this bed I shall die. But God knows how many years I shall lie in it.â Her calm gave him an uncanny shudder. âAnd till the Holy One, blessed be He, takes me, thou wilt live a daily sinner.â âI am not to blame. God has stricken me. I am a young man.â âThou art to blame!â Her eyes flashed fire. âBlasphemer! Life is sweet to thee, yet perhaps thou wilt die first.â His face grew livid. âI am a young man,â he repeated tremulously. âThou dost forget what Rabbi Eliezer said: âRepent one day before thy deathâ--that is to-day, for who knows?â âWhat wouldst thou have me do?â âGive up----â âNo, no,â he interrupted. âIt is useless. I cannot. I am so lonely.â âGive up,â she repeated inexorably, âthy wife.â âWhat sayest thou? My wife! But she is not my wife. Thou art my wife.â âEven so. Give me up. Give me Gett [divorce].â His breath failed, his heart thumped at the suggestion. âGive thee Gett!â he whispered. âYes. Why didst thou not send me a bill of divorcement when I left thy home for this?â He averted his face. âI thought of it,â he stammered. âAnd then----â âAnd then?â He seemed to see a sardonic glitter in the gray eyes. âI--I was afraid.â âAfraid!â She laughed in grim mirthlessness. âAfraid of a bed-ridden woman!â âI was afraid it would make thee unhappy.â The sardonic gleam melted into softness, then became more terrible than before. âAnd so thou hast made me happy instead!â âStab me not more than I merit. I did not think people would be cruel enough to tell thee.â âThine own lips told me.â âNay, by my soul,â he cried, startled. âThine eyes told me, then.â âI feared so,â he said, turning them away. âWhen she--came into my house, I--I dared not go to see thee--that was why I did not come, though I always meant to, Sarah, my life. I feared to look thee in the eyes. I foresaw they would read the secret in mine--so I was afraid.â âAfraid!â she repeated, bitterly. âAfraid I would scratch them out! Nay, they are
{'title': "McClure's Magazine, Vol. 1, No. 6, November 1893 by Various", 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}