VAL SINESTRA VAL SINESTRA BY MARTHA MORTON [Illustration] â_Oh Soul! Mysterious Vale Where Spirits dwell--of Light--of Darkest Night! Who knows Thee, âVal Sinestra,â --Thy Melody--Thy Madness?_â [From the Romash Dialect] NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 681 FIFTH AVENUE Copyright 1924 By E. P. Dutton & Company _All Rights Reserved_ _Printed in the United States of America_ VAL SINESTRA BOOK I âThe lives of men and women are pictures thrown upon the screen of Time. The Past--its misty perspective, its legendary charm; Truth veiled in Fiction.â VAL SINESTRA BOOK I 1 About twenty-five years ago, Pedro Gonzola bought that handsome brown stone residence at the corner of Twelfth Street and Fifth Avenue, and presented it to his bride on their wedding day. As the name implied, they were of Spanish origin, and known as devout Catholics, supporting the Church spiritually and materially. Shortly before Julie was born, her father died suddenly, stricken down with heart failure. The young widow was stunned by the loss of her handsome adoring husband; her uncontrollable grief nearly cost her the life of her coming child, who suffered from her motherâs anguish--at least thatâs what the good Dr. McClaren said. After her great misfortune Mrs. Gonzola gave up the world and devoted herself to her religion and the care of her little daughter. Julie was sent to the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Seventeenth Street. The Sisters educated her under the personal supervision of her mother; their reports were satisfactory; the child was docile and receptive, but inclined to emotional exaggeration; she would remain in the chapel long after the other children had left, and once they found her prostrate before the Virgin in a state of ecstatic self-oblivion, which ended in a fit of hysteria. There was no cause for worry, as otherwise she was âfull of lifeâ and a general favorite. Mrs. Gonzola tried conscientiously to impress her daughter with the dignity of her wealth, social position, and family distinction; but as the girl grew into a woman, there was an ever-present irritating sense of failure. Julie Gonzola at sixteen, with her brilliant exotic beauty, was a mystery to her friends, her mother, herself. She was acutely conscious of strange emotions, which she instinctively concealed; hers was a nature of unexpected impulses, tragic possibilities, baffling secrets. She came of an old stock on her fatherâs side, and on her motherâs she could look down a long corridor, where she saw shadowy forms, which frightened her. She was different from her girl friend, who was care-free, bubbling, sparkling, dashing along like a brook which overflows its bounds out of sheer rapture. Maud Ailsworth lived down the street. There were no complications in _her_ life. She ruled her mother, who was an invalid, and physically her inferior. Maud romped all day long in the street with the boys. Mrs. Gonzola never allowed Julie to do that; she was very indulgent in her way, denying the girl nothing--but freedom. Julie was outwardly submissive; she was sorry for her mother, who sat alone in her room crying, silent iron tears of impotent despair. There were two boys in the street whom Maud liked; as she grew older she determined to marry one of them, but she found to her great disappointment they were both hot after Julie. Floyd Garrison, a pretty boy of an old American family, was very well brought up; Martin Steele was a mongrel, a brute, a ruffian, but there was something very likable about him. Maud looked on, watched them wrestling for the privilege of carrying Julieâs books when she came from school, with her maid. There were fist fights for her as children, rivalry as youths, and bitterness as men. But Maud wasnât discouraged; Julie couldnât marry both of them; there would be always one left for her. Then she had Tom Dillon in reserve; he was common, but she owned him; he was her slave. Julie was afraid of Martin Steele; he had bad manners and a violent temper. He was always mussing up her hair, and winding her curls around his fingers. Floyd was too polite to do that. There was a party at Maud Ailsworthâs; Tom Dillon, that mischievous imp, put out the lights. The boy next to Julie kissed her, pressing her to him with terrible force; it was Martin. After that, he kissed her whenever he found her alone, and he managed it often. She liked his hot unboyish kisses. 2 The Garrisons had lived four generations in a little wooden house in East Twelfth Street, âa very pretty shantyâ Martin called it, set back, with a garden, and a wooden fence to protect the lawn and flowers from passing vandals. A portrait of the ancestor who founded the family fortune hangs today in our Museum. âYan Geritsen, baker,â endowed with business sagacity, bought land under water in New Amsterdam for âthirty cents,â left it to his son, with orders not to sell. Succeeding generations drained and developed it. The name smelt of newly baked bread; it gradually evolved itself into Garrison. They were one of the fast disappearing families, who remained as they began--modest and thankful. They brought up their son with a sense of responsibility, as trustee for the coming son. There were no girls as far back as could be remembered; each family branch had one son. Floydâs father, âJimmyâ Garrison, married a school marm. He became acquainted with her in Boston. She was very poor, but descended from _the_ Aldens. Prudence Alden was a pale silent girl with a hidden fountain of irrepressible love in all its rare purity. Young Garrisonâs friends couldnât see what _he_ saw in her. Garrison had never been in business; he disliked the everlasting talk about money which was rapidly becoming God under the title of the âAlmightyâ dollar. He had many acquaintances and one faithful friend, Colonel Garland, a Southern gentleman, who had made a reputation âup Northâ as a corporation lawyer, when trusts were springing up over night like toadstools. The Colonel retained his sombrero, his soft accent, his passionate devotion to a few friends, and many women. When Jimmy Garrison put the administration of his estate into Colonel Garlandâs hands, it was intact, just as his father had left it. âLet us pull down those old hulks and build up warehouses,â said the Colonel. Garrison refused to consider that. âThe estate was not bought yesterday, for speculation. It has always brought us enough to live on modestly, and something over; if I get four per cent., Iâm well satisfied.â In time, modern buildings were erected on both sides of the Garrison âhulks,â which, although kept clean and in repair, had to be rented below the market value. Conservative policy has its good side; many went under in the frenzy of over-building. In such a young country the cult of silence, material rest, creative thought were as yet unknown; the man who did not create capital was considered an idler; Garrison continued to the end of his peaceful, worryless life, a gentleman. The first realization of pain was the sudden death of his beloved Prudence; he had to live for his boy and looked about, seeking a sustaining force. He rigged up a workshop in the top of his house, and took to modeling figures, which were very well done--every-day people he had known, the little Italian shoe boy, the newspaper woman, his friends, idealized of course, his wife in every mood, his boy. He was particularly successful with a smiling old Irishman, a pipe in his mouth, a hod on his shoulder, standing at the foot of a ladder looking upward. He called that figure âthe Ancestor,â which title was a secret source of amusement to him, although he was too good-natured to say _whose_ ancestor. When asked the inevitable question, âWhat business are you in, Mr. Garrison?â Garrison would answer gravely, âI muddle in clay.â 3 The Steeles lived next door to the Garrisons in an ugly high-stoop, four-story brick mansion, which threw a dark shadow on one side of the little garden, necessitating Garrison to move his flower-beds away. Martin was five years older than Floyd and twenty years more experienced. He loved Floyd in his way, but love was not an element of his nature. Floyd looked up to him, as a little boy would to an elder one who condescended to be his friend; he was sorry for Martin because Mrs. Steele was only his stepmother, that was what was wrong with him--he never had a ârealâ mother. Mrs. Steele was born Dolly Winthrop of Boston; she was very tall, very thin, very straight, with small transparent ears lying flat against her head. The only large thing about her was her flow of language--that was tremendous. Mrs. Steeleâs âfamily treeâ reposed on the parlor table in a red velvet album--âreposedâ is a very inappropriate word, for she never gave the poor thing any rest. She was constantly turning over its pages, adding, multiplying, never subtracting, until it fell quite to pieces, but she convinced the old New Yorkers of her right to be one of them. The âexclusivesâ of Massachusetts never forgave Dolly Winthropâs marriage with âthat Steele manâ who was fat, florid, wordless, and a widower with a child. There were still spots in the Union where pedigree and culture were of more value than âmoneyâ; but Dolly Winthrop had made her calculation and it turned out a good bargain. Her husband and his father devoted all their time to business; they accumulated great wealth, and were not perceptible in her richly woven society tapestry. There was one she couldnât wipe out--that terrible boy Martin. She tried honestly to make something of him, but he was not to be moulded. She took him to her summer home in Nantucket. The Winthrop Homestead had ship-lamps, a model of the _Mayflower_, clocks that struck âbellsâ--numbered hours were disdained; there were also stuffed seagulls which Martin set up as skittles, and a tottering old sailor who took care of the garden and gave the necessary atmosphere. Aunt Priscilla, Mrs. Steeleâs maiden sister, lived there all the year. In Nantucket, Martinâs capacity of hatred found fertile soil for expansion; he hated the ocean; its unceasing roar fretted him; he thought of a big sea monster in chains, writhing, howling, foaming at the mouth. He hated Aunt Priscilla, who was Calvinist, Puritan, Patriot, anti-everything else. She took unusual pains to enlighten the âlittle savageâ about the distinguished pedigree of his stepmotherâs family. One day she read to him for three hours, in her correct English âtwang,â the history of those good old Colonial times, when her direct ancestor was a Judge in Salem. The boyâs eyes took on a glitter which meant mischief. âIâd like to be a Judge in them times.â âYou mean, youâd like to _have_ been a Judge in _those_ times,â corrected Aunt Priscilla. âHave been,â mumbled the boy. Aunt Priscilla was delighted; at last she had awakened the pride of ancestry in that little soul. âNow tell me, dear, what would you _have done_ if you _had been_ a Judge in Salem.â âIâd burn you.â 4 One day Floyd found out there was a mystery on the top floor of the Steele house; it was Martinâs fourteenth birthday. He invited Floyd to ice-cream and cake. âJulie Gonzola was coming.â There was plenty to eat, but Floyd lost his appetite looking at little Julie sitting up on a high chair with all the best things piled before her. She let Martin pile them, but she didnât touch them--she couldnât, in a strange house. Toward evening the maid came to take her home. The two boys stood at the window as she went past enveloped in white furs, her little feet stepping out firmly, her head erect. Martinâs eyes snapped. âIâm going to marry Julie.â âNot if I know it.â Martin turned and swept the boy with a cold disdain terrible in one so young. It hurt Floyd; he remembered that look, years after. He said nothing, but turned to go. Martin stopped him. âStay with me; Iâm lonesome.â There was a touch of pathos in his voice. âCome, Iâll show you some family relics.â He led the way to the garret, four stories high; it was filled with old furniture, spinning wheels, oil paintings--some wretchedly bad, others fairly good, all with heavy gold frames; every piece was ticketed with a name and date, in the different generations of the family. Then Martin became confidential. âIâll tell you something, but donât mention it to my mother. These things are all fakes; she haunts the auction sales, sheâs a good judge--she knows what fits in, sheâs got a whole lot more in storage. Weâre going to move away from here.â Floyd got a chill. âWhat! You were born here! You will never leave your home?â Martinâs mocking laugh rang out. âOh, youâre too sentimental. Sheâs not going to sell the house; that wouldnât look well. Sheâs going to fill it with our âfamilyâ antiques, and donate it to the city as an âArt Museum.ââ Floyd was struck silent as usual by Martinâs terrible lack of heart. âWhatâs that?â âWhat?â âSomebody singing.â Martin looked troubled. âNonsense, thereâs nobody up here. Letâs go down.â He drew Floyd into the hall; there was a door opposite. It _was_ somebody singing--a manâs voice, broken, harsh, rising, and falling in a strange inflection. Martin, with a look of fear mingled with shame, tried to draw Floyd downstairs. A heavy fist on the door pushed it open. A man of gigantic stature rushed out. At first glance, Floyd saw only a pair of wonderful mocking eyes--Martinâs eyes; there was a strange light in them. The man was mad. Martin sprang at him, tried to push him back into the room. He was too strong for the boy. Then Martin coaxed him. Was that Martinâs voice, so loving, so sweet? He spoke in a foreign tongue, strange to Floyd. The old man looked curiously at Floyd, then said âGrutsieâ and bowed respectfully. He learnt afterwards âGrutsieâ was Swiss dialect for âI greet you.â The man had huge hands, knotty, sun-dried; the open flannel shirt revealed a chest covered with thick hair. He had an enormous head, and a thick white mane falling over his eyes. He wore corduroy trousers to the knees and a pair of high deerskin boots with heavy nails in the soles. He paced unceasingly. The floor was covered with indentures. Martin shut the door carefully, took down a harness with bells which hung on the wall, threw it over the old manâs head, cracking a heavy whip, yelling at the top of his voice, lashing him with sharp quick blows. The old man growled like a beaten beast; the whip hurt him; the young devil was strong; in the sensual intoxication of brute force, they forgot the horrified boy looking on. The door was flung open. Mrs. Steele stood there, deathly pale. âStop that noise, youâll rouse the neighbors; how dare you bring Floyd up here?â She grasped Martinâs hand, pushing him toward the door. The old man slunk into a corner; he was evidently afraid of her. âLet me go!â roared Martin. âI wonât. Youâll be punished for this.â Then a struggle followed; Floyd never forgot it. She held him with her small strong hands; he bit them. She struck him across the mouth; he kicked her. She cried out with pain, but she held him fast. Floyd, with a terrified cry, rushed down the stairs and out of the house. 5 Mr. Garrison was working at his clay figures, thinking how much Floyd was growing like his mother; he had her sensitive, ideal nature. The boyâs love for Julie might be a great blessing; it might be the contrary.... He would like to live long enough to see that beautiful little girl a woman. Floyd broke into the room, sobbing out what he had seen. Mr. Garrison quieted him, and told him the story of the Steele family, as he had it from his friend, Colonel Garland. The old man in the garret was Martinâs grandfather, a Swiss peasant, who had come to America in the steerage, with his boy, a child of four. He obtained a position as waiter in a downtown cafe, and the boy grew up in the streets. In ten years the father was head waiter in a Fifth Avenue hotel, frequented by Wall Street men. He never spoke more than a waiterâs English. His boy came out of school with a correct knowledge of grammar, but was silent, uncouth, unfriendly. Waiting for his father one night, in the kitchen of the hotel, he noticed one of the dishwashers, a very young blonde girl, crying bitterly. He questioned her; she told him she was Swiss, like himself, that she had been in America a short time, and was very unhappy. He comforted her. When it became no longer possible to conceal her condition, he married her; this was a bitter blow to the old waiter, who had, in those twenty years of deprivation, saved one hundred thousand dollars, and wanted to make a gentleman out of his son. Fate favored him. The girl died giving birth to a boy. The doctors could not understand the case; she was a very strong, healthy peasant; but Martin in a burst of anguish insisted she had died of homesickness. Mr. Garrison explained to Floyd the word ânostalgia,â originating with the Swiss, which meant their longing for their native soil when absent; the pain is intolerable, ending often in death. Floyd was very sorry for the poor peasant mother. âThen what happened?â âThe old man started in the hotel supply business; he rented one of my shanties on the river front. The firm is still there. I used to see old Steele walking up and down before that sign on the door. âMartin Steele and Son.â I could never make friends with young Steele; he was sullen, wordless, and seemed to be out of his element. Then they bought the house next door and lived there a solitary life. Your mother was sorry for lonely little Martin, and had him often in here to play with you. When Dolly Winthrop came from Boston to visit us, we saw she had her eye on the rich widower.â âAnd she got him,â said Floyd. âYes, unfortunately for him.â âAnd what happened then, father?â âShe dominated those poor men with her culture, shamed them with her pedigree, crushed them with her contempt. The old man fell into bad habits, drank to excess. His mind failed; people spoke of an illiterate grandfather in the house, but visitors never saw him.â... After that episode in the garret, Mrs. Steeleâs patience with the boy gave out. She insisted on sending him to a strict military school. Heâd come home in the summertime when she was in Nantucket, and prowl about the city during the long evenings. In Twelfth Street, seemingly deserted, heâd run up and down stoops, pulling bells; then the âspring rollersâ would fly up, and heâd count the genteel poor who were sweltering in New York; when he grew too old for such pranks, he would spend his evenings in the garret watching his father and grandfather playing a strange game of cards called âTaracâ and listening to their jargon. He learnt the game and the jargon, with great rapidity. His father, who was always afraid of troubling his wife, died suddenly at his desk; then the old manâs mind bolted. Mrs. Steele in a burst of confidence said one day to Mr. Garrison: âIt may be very wicked of me, but I pray to God not to let him live long.â Her prayer was answered; unrighteous prayers usually are. After that, Mrs. Steele closed the house and went to live in Boston; later she sent Martin to Harvard. Floyd wrote him several times, but his letters were not answered; it was many years before the two boys met again. 6 Floyd didnât go to college--his father couldnât spare him, but he gave him a good classical education, under the best professors. Mr. Garrison wasnât training his son for business; he wanted him to be a man of culture. They took long walks into the country, with Emerson, Hawthorne, Longfellow for companions. Thoreau was revolutionary, a disjointed mind. The historical novels then in vogue were read and reread, also foreign literature. Realism, Nihilism, and all the other isms were looked into and studied as the result of âunhealthyâ European conditions. Mr. Garrison moulded his son in good clay. Sunday was the happiest day in the week for Floyd. He would slip out of the little Dutch Reform church around the corner, restless when the pastor strung out his sermon fearing he should miss Julie, who went to the Cathedral. Lately, he was fortunate to find her there without her mother. Good Friday,--the Cathedral draped in black. The sorrow-laden music, the odor of incense gave him a sensuous feeling of emotion. Julie came down the aisle, her prayer book pressed against her heart, her eyes seeking things beyond this world. It seemed to the impressionable youth a desecration to âbring her back.â He looked at the sad faces and bowed heads. âItâs wonderful after so many centuries, this sense of personal loss in the people; life would be unbearable without the Easter joy, the lilies, the Resurrection.â His words sounded poetical to him as he spoke; he was very young. Julie smiled; she seemed less divine out in the sunlight. âI donât feel that way, but Mother is ill and insists on my going; an empty pew doesnât look well.â Floyd was shocked. He had read in the âgreatâ writers those traditional truisms we repeat mechanically. âThe womanâs emotional nature endows her with the gift of Faith; she has held aloft the Banner of Religion in the great struggle against skepticism.â They walked down Fifth Avenue. There was an expression he had never seen in Julieâs calm face, an indefinable something, as if she had pulled down a veil over her eyes. Before her house, she didnât give him her hand as usual. She was looking expectantly at the upper windows; he followed her gaze. She waved her hand, smilingly; there was a face looking out; the light made it transparent like yellow wax. In a moment it was gone. âWho was that?â âMy grandfather.â âWhy havenât I seen him before?â âHe doesnât come downstairs.â âIs he ill?â âNo. Iâve wanted to tell you for some time, but Mother said it was nobodyâs business.â Floyd was hurt. âAnything that concerns you is of vital interest to me. You know that, donât you, Julie?â âYes, I know it.â She braced her shoulders, looking him straight in the face; she was very proud. He liked that; most girls held themselves too cheaply. âMy grandfather doesnât come down because he disapproves of the way we live. He says we have sold our souls.â âI donât understand you.â âWe are Jews. You neednât come here again.â She went quickly up the steps and entered the house without looking back. Floyd walked down the street towards his house. He was terribly excited; socially, he had never known any Jews. He had seen some dark fellows who were wonders at mathematics and chess; boys of their creed were limited in numbers in the colleges, kept out of social clubs, but somehow they managed to filter through everywhere. What did it mean? How could the Gonzolas be Jews? They were Catholics. A young man came towards him, of striking appearance, with a touch of something about him not American. He put out his hand laughingly to Floyd. It was Martin. âYouâve done with me?â âYou deserve it. Why didnât you answer my letters?â âOh! I had no time; they kept my nose to the grindstone. I walked off with the prizes just to spite Aunt Priscilla. Mother is very proud of me; she calls me âmy sonâ now.â There was the old mocking glitter in his eye; he had not changed. âDonât be angry with me.â He took Floydâs arm. Martin could be very winning when he wanted to. âYouâve grown into a fine, handsome fellow, with the unmistakable brand of the aristocrat; strong with the women, eh?â âI donât know.â âAs gone as ever on Julie?â âMore than ever.â Then Floyd shot out a question. âDo you know the history of the Gonzolas?â Martinâs answer came back as quickly. âYes, they are baptized Jews.â A red streak flushed Floydâs forehead. âTell me about them.â Martin leaned against the gate, revelling in Floydâs agitation. âThe Gonzolas go back to the time when the Church in Spain commenced war on the Jews; thousands of them were baptized, but they still practiced their religion in secret. Romantic, isnât it?â âNo; terrible.â âMany of the Catholic Gonzolas became Bishops, Cardinals, and high state officials on account of their wealth and culture, but others, true to their Faith, fled to Amsterdam, where they founded the great banking house which spread its branches all over Europe. Julieâs grandfather was a handsome, dashing fellow. He married in the family--they all do--but he had an affair with an Austrian actress which lasted for years. Their son was brought up in the religion of his mother who became pious with age and as expiation, dedicated him to the Church. She died before he was ordained, and Gonzola, naturally opposed, easily persuaded the boy against it--and sent him to America where he took the family name. The bank he founded here was successful; he became very rich. This bastard was Julieâs father.â âBut they are Catholics, not Jews,â insisted Floyd. âThatâs the joke of it,â laughed Martin. âAn ironic witticism, an impish trick of Fate. Pedro came with letters from his father, to an old friend, Joseph Abravanel, an orthodox Jew, a fanatic, of Spanish origin with infernal pride of race. He boasts his ancestors provided money to help Columbus fit out his ship. Pedro fell desperately in love with Ruth Abravanel; those Spanish Jewesses are handsome, but most of them are old maids, because they wonât marry the Germans whom they look down upon.â âThat old man I saw today at the window?â âIs Joseph Abravanel, Mrs. Gonzolaâs father.â âBut how did you know all this?â âIâve heard it scores of times from Julie. The crossing of the races interests me; Iâve got my own ideas about that. Iâm waiting to see how it comes out.â âItâs shocking for people to change their religion.â Martin laughed a bit too loud, Floyd thought. âWhatâs the difference? Who believes in it anyhow; do you?â Floyd evaded a direct answer. âWe practice many things out of respect for our parents and our social position.â He was undeniably well brought up. âThereâs one thing I like about Julie,â said Martin. âIn spite of everything, she remains a true daughter of her race. I like in her the sensuousness of the Oriental; oh, I donât mean sexness--that may also be there latent; I hope it is. I see in her the Shulamite maiden who gets up from her couch at night and goes to seek her lover.â âWhat do you know about Julie? Youâve been away so long.â âIâve been a week in New York.â Floyd was angry, injured. âPerhaps youâve been writing to her all this time.â âPerhaps I have.â âI suppose she was very glad to see you.â âI donât know. I was mad to see her. I couldnât wait; I went straight there.â There was a look of passion in Martinâs face. Floyd hated him. He turned and entered the gate. Martin was at his elbow. âIâm coming in to see your father.â At dinner Martin kept up a fire of witty criticisms. Floyd was silent, preoccupied. âYour house has been shut up for some time. Where is your mother?â âIn Nantucket. She loves the shores where her ancestors landed, in sailing vessels.â âYour motherâs pride of nationality is quite natural; I also feel it.â âYou donât parade it. My mother makes capital out of it.â âBut,â insisted Mr. Garrison, âyou are an American; you were born here; you know no other home. English is your mother tongue.â âYes, but race is stronger than language. My people were Swiss peasants. I may look and speak like a gentleman, but sometimes the lout in me is hard to suppress.â There was a silence. Mr. Garrison changed the subject. âAre you going into your fatherâs business?â âNo--Iâd smash it with my mad notions.â Then he flashed a bright look. âIâve been daubing in oil; itâs the only thing that interests me. I shall go to Paris to study, if I live.â Mr. Garrison was all animation. âThatâs very good news. You will live; youâre young, strong.â âWho knows--America is going into the wholesale slaughter business. She needs butchers.â âYou mean--â âI think weâll be pushed into the War.â Floyd was all attention. He spoke with a thrill in his voice. âIf it comes, we Americans will not be wanting in patriotism.â Martin didnât seem to feel the insinuation. âPatriotism, bah! Who cares? Weâll have to go; if we donât, theyâll shoot us.â Mr. Garrison was sitting with his head in his hands. Floyd arose and went to him. He had been failing for some time, complained of dizziness. Dr. McClaren couldnât discover any organic trouble. Floyd, who watched every change of expression, saw him grow pale. âFather--you donât feel well.â âOh yes!--but I think Iâll go and rest awhile.â He rose from the chair, staggered; Martin caught him, carried him up, and laid him on the bed. Floyd bent over his father, frantically begging him to speak. The stricken man raised his hand in a mute blessing, then closed his eyes. To Floyd, the next few weeks were chaotic; time, space, light, darkness lost all meaning. Martin never left him during those black days; always there in the sleepless horror of the night, to read to him, to go out and pace the streets with him, when the walls became insupportable. He would have gone under without Martin. The funeral over, the will read by Colonel Garland, the sole executor, the few distant relatives from far and near come and gone, Floyd took up again the routine of life. Mr. Garrison had left everything to his son, whom he hoped would marry young and be happy in the old home, leaving it to _his_ son after him. The Garrisons had always lived well, in a modest way, befitting their position. He was sure Floyd would keep up the family tradition. He left money to many philanthropic institutions and to his club where he and his father before him had spent many pleasant hours and where he hoped his boy would sit many years after him. Colonel Garland, commenting on the will to Martin, said: âA sane, righteous testament. He was a good man....â 7 In the months that followed, Floyd saw little of Julie. She called several times with her mother, who was very sweet and amiable. âI hope when you feel more like seeing people youâll come to us often,â said Mrs. Gonzola. Floyd looked at Julie, who smiled at him, and returned the pressure of his hand. Martin was a great deal at the Gonzolasâ, but he didnât mention that to Floyd. One Sunday afternoon Mrs. Gonzola came into the parlor, Martin was sitting very close to Julie, reading in rich passionate tones a love poem by Oscar Wilde; Julie started up and Martin left, but all that day she couldnât meet her motherâs clairvoyant eyes. âI donât like him, Julie. Heâs no class. He was an unmannerly boy and heâs a dangerous man. Iâve told James to say youâre out, the next time he calls. If you meet him accidentally, avoid him.â âYes, Mother,â said Julie. After that she saw him often with the assistance of a sympathetic French teacher, whose room was post-office and rendezvous for the lovers. Martin gave Julie glimpses of âlife.â He took her to all kinds of strange places--a chop suey restaurant, with its unpalatable dishes, soft lights, and insidious Chinamen; a dancing cafe which at that time was not supposed to be a place for young ladies--but best of all was Hippolyte. Hippolyteâs Parlor flaunted on Fifth Avenue. It had a magnificent plate glass show window, fitted with Circassian walnut, in which was one red feather fan on a cushion of Nile green velvet, one jeweled comb, and a Pierrot costumed in black silk with a large white ruff, his face wonderful in its languid perversity. Up the side street there was a private door which opened halfway to let in ladies heavily veiled. Julieâs ambition was to see what was behind that fascinating door; today it is no longer a mystery. In the Middle Ages, Hippolyte would have been a miracle man summoned to a fair Venetian to deepen the red of her hair, the rose in her cheeks, the marvel of her eyes--selling for a purse of gold, charms to rob a rival of a coveted lover. Times have not changed, nor people; only appearances. Martin took Julie into the shop one day and introduced her to Hippolyte, who pronounced her âravissanteâ; thereupon Martin bought a costly box of perfume. Julie was afraid to take it home. âIâll settle that,â laughed Martin, and poured it over her, then they ran around the reservoir to get rid of the odor. Mrs. Gonzola noticed it, but said nothing. Julie was standing at the window waiting for her mother. Her gloved hands impatiently agitating the curtains. âMother, the car is here. I shall be late for my music lesson.â The voice answering from upstairs was nervous, trembling. âItâs impossible for me to go with you today; Iâm not well.â A flash illumined Julieâs face, but her voice was under perfect control. âIâm sorry.â From the upper window, her mother watched her, music-roll in hand, stepping into the car. Mrs. Gonzola realized more and more acutely that her lovely child was developing into a beautiful woman; there was no feeling of joyful pride. Horrible, agonizing fear stopped the current of her blood. Julie, alone in the car, drew a long breath. The pink of her lips turned red, the color slowly overflowing into her cheeks. She pulled the cord, asked the chauffeur in her soft, sensuous voice to stop at the nearest drug store; there she telephoned, then drove to the house of her professor. She was a gifted pianiste; she played with a sure, velvety touch, surmounting with ease all technical difficulties. The professor went into ecstasies about the beautiful child-woman with âEternal Love in her fingers.â The car turned into the Park. Martin was walking up and down by the little lake. He hated to wait. She never kept an appointment; if she didnât come today he was through. His heart leaped when he saw her. The girl had a terrible power over him. She said smilingly: âWeâll go across town and up Riverside Drive for an hour. Then Iâll drop you at the club.â They sped along in the car. He pulled down the shades, drew off her gloves, tearing the buttons in his haste, crushed her two hands in his moist hot ones, spoke quickly, panting with excitement: âIâve thought it all out. Iâm going to your mother tonight.â âNo! No!â gasped Julie. âWrite to her first.â âI have written to her, as politely as I knew how. I told her I loved you and wanted you to be my wife.â He read the answer, his voice shaking with anger and wounded pride: I have no words to reply to your impertinent letter. Julie will not marry until she is of age. You are not the man I consider worthy of her. You take it for granted that she is willing. I know her better. She will not consent. I warn you not to molest her with further attentions, and consider the matter closed. She crouched in the corner, speechless. âShe will blame me. She will say I encouraged you.â âYou did, didnât you?â âYes, but marriage! Iâm too young yet.â He pressed her to him with a force that left her helpless. He would show her haughty mother who was the master. With his face pressed against hers, he talked, expostulated, begged, threatened to kill himself, kissing her again and again, until she gave in. She would do anything, everything he asked of her, but he must give her twenty-four hours to win over her mother. âIf you fail?â âThen, I will go with you.â âYou promise.â âYes.â âJulie! Your mother will influence you against me!â âNo one can do that.â âYou are mine; I will not give you up.â He swore an oath, which made her shudder. With a quiver of terrible joy, she put her arms around his neck. Her lips sought his. 8 Every afternoon, Floyd Garrison occupied a deep chair in the window of his club on upper Fifth Avenue--a privilege inherited by the law of precedence, from his father and grandfather. His great-grandfather was one of the founders of the original club-house which was downtown--an old building with raftered ceilings, wooden models of ships, and a portrait of Peter with the game leg. In time the âyoungstersâ of 1850 moved uptown, refurnished in plush, and became very exclusive. They kept people out for lack of pedigree, or difference of religious conviction. A young scion of the new-rich said enviously to Floyd: âI spend much more on my tailor than you do; you can afford to wear your old clothes.â Floyd smiled. He took in the young man--a fighting figure, physically strong, eager, on the alert, with gamblerâs eyes. âYouâve never had to sweat blood for money.â The expression was coarse, but it threw a mental picture. âNo, Iâve never âsweated bloodâ for a living.â âI didnât say a living, I said money. Any idiot can make a living. A man must have money and lots of it to be anybody; itâs a hot game.â He wiped his forehead. Floyd wondered if money could buy his armchair in the club-window. He was sure it couldnât, but he was a gentlemanly young fellow; he wouldnât hurt the manâs feelings. Destiny had been more than kind to him. He wasnât grateful; he took lifeâs favors as a matter of course. In fact, he never gave it any thought. When his father died, sorrow blunted the keen edge of existence; now after a year he was waking up. His heartâs desire was Julie Gonzola. He had no fear; it was the eve of fulfillment. Sitting there in the club-window, idly watching the traffic, he saw the Gonzola car. Julie was inside with Martin. They stopped at the entrance. Martin sprang out; Floyd waited for him with a pleasant touch of expectancy. Now there would be a long talk about Julie. He came swinging in, his dark face quivering with excitement. Floyd didnât take Martin seriously; his unpleasant emotional nature gave his actions a touch of exaggeration, which repelled Floyd, with his calm, undisturbed nature. âWell, why all this excitement? Whatâs happened now?â He spoke laughingly. Martin was always getting into some transient mix-up. âI may as well tell you, youâll have to know it. Iâve asked Julie to marry me.â Floyd was on his feet, hurt, angry; Martin had listened hours to what he called âlove ravingsâ about Julie, knowing he was waiting only for his year of mourning to expire. It was treachery. They faced each other--Martin had an air of triumph, but he turned away from Floydâs accusing eyes. âIâve given her twenty-four hours to prepare her mother.â âSheâll not consent.â âOh, wonât she? I know the way to make her.â Then he walked away. 9 Julie crouched in the corner of the car, her dark pupils contracting, dilating; she was going home to prepare her mother. The contempt in that letter she had written to Martin was awful, but she had promised and she braced herself for the fight. She was used to battles, bitter, uncompromising; used to the struggle of antagonistic spirits; but she had always been kept out of all that agony, pampered, spoilt, worshipped by her mother, indulged by her grandfather--and now she must fight them both, and she would. If they stood out against Martin, she would keep her word and go away with him; this was her determination. She stepped out of the car and found her mother waiting for her in the hall; she knew what was coming. Mrs. Gonzola led the way upstairs to her bedroom--watched Julie take off her hat and coat, and smooth down her hair. âHow long have you been meeting this man without my knowledge?â âYou mean Martin?â âYes.â âSince you forbade him the house.â âThis is the first time in your life that you have openly disobeyed me. Why did you do it?â âI love him, Mother, and he loves me, and I am going to marry him.â She had rehearsed it in the car. Mrs. Gonzola implored her not to marry that âruffianâ who had intrigued to get her affection. No man of honor would have acted like that. He was not the man for her--she was too young to realize it--she would hate him in the end. She begged, entreated her to wait a year. Julie burst into convulsed sobs. âHe wonât wait, Mother--Iâve been through all that with him. Mother! Mother! Donât stop it, donât, I _must_ marry him! I _must_!â Mrs. Gonzola gave a terrible cry. âWhat do you mean--tell me! Why must you marry him? Why?â âBecause! because!--he says heâll kill me if I donât.â Then Mrs. Gonzola warned her of the anger of Father Cabello, who would never marry her to an atheist, a heretic--warned her of her grandfatherâs curses (and the old Jew could curse); she heard him again, as he stood over her on the day of _her_ marriage, pouring out his anger. His curses had come true in her wretched life, and this disobedient child--she was suffering as he had suffered that day--but now the old man was her only hope; Julie worshipped him. She threatened her with his anger, the wrath of the great Jewish God who does not forgive, who would bring down punishment upon her and her childrenâs children. The girl lay flat on the ground, quivering with horror, fear--then she became quite cold and stiff, and fell into a cataleptic trance, which lasted an hour. Mrs. Gonzola undressed her, put her into bed, and lay beside her, holding her close. The girl gradually grew warm, and smiled at her mother. The spasm of obstinacy over, she was again the submissive child. She would sacrifice herself and Martin, it was her duty; she became calm, almost cheerful, as was usual after those spells. She wanted her mother to dress her as she did when she was a child. Mrs. Gonzola was happy; her life was bound up in this girl. âYou look so beautiful, Julie; go and show grandfather.â Mrs. Gonzola stood at the bottom of the stairs till Julie went in where Joseph Abravanel sat reading, unconscious of the tragedy which had been enacted below. He blessed her, called her a good child, the hope of his life. Then she and her mother dined in the big room with its dark Spanish tapestry and gold plate; it was a festive occasion. Mrs. Gonzola praised Floyd and his devotion to the memory of his father. âYou always liked him best as a child, didnât you, Julie?â âNo, Mother--I--I liked them _both_--â Then the fear came again of Martin! âHe will kill me, Mother. Iâm afraid of him, afraid.â âJulie, I have no strength to fight for you. Marry Floyd; he is a simple honest boy. He has always loved you.â To her motherâs great amazement Julie answered in slow deliberate tones-- âThat will be the only way to save myself--but it must be at once. I mustnât have time to think about it--or I couldnât do it.â 10 Floyd went home early that afternoon, stopping before the little gate. He had taken great pains with his garden. The lawn was velvety smooth; beds of flowers were banked up against the porch; geraniums bloomed in boxes at the windows. The polished brass knocker, the soft white curtain, gave the little house an atmosphere of purity, cleanliness. Passers stopped to admire it; they felt that âniceâ people lived there. Floyd shook off a sick feeling; anger nauseated him. The knocker gave out a musical call. The door was opened by a bright little Japanese boy--the old servants had gradually left during the lonely year of mourning. There was nothing changed in the house--the wood fire lit, the candles on the table set for two; he saw his father at the head of it. After dinner the boy brought his slippers and velvet house jacket. He stretched himself in a big chair and lit his pipe. He loved his pipe--that was the Knickerbocker strain in him; he smoked it with reverence as the old Dutchmen did--in the days when pipes were longer and tobacco better. He loved to sit before the wood fire, and listen to its hissing, crackling, singing; he thought of his motherâs ancestors, those sturdy Pioneers in their cabins, piling on the logs, bolting their iron shutters against the howling wolves outside, who devoured the bodies and cracked the bones of men. The Puritans are gone, but the wolves are still with us; they eat the soul and sow wolf seed. Then he thought how his father had planned his life for him, just as he had laid out his garden. It had not occurred to him that his sonâs life must be different from his own. His fatherâs time was far away. Today things change with a flash--there is no more âslow developmentâ--a fire!--a storm, lightning, ruins! He was a fool to be so sure of Julie; she had been very sympathetic in his year of mourning. He took it for love--Martin, that vulgarian, with his family history! He never had the slightest suspicion of what was going on between them. Heâd been a blind fool. He jumped to his feet; the clock struck ten. Twenty-four hours to prepare her mother. Why hadnât she said âNoâ at once and put an end to it? She couldnât want to marry him; it was unthinkable, but he never knew quite what she did think. When he said, âA penny for your thoughts,â she grew very serious. âMy thoughts are only for myself.â He became impatient. Why make the thing so complicated? It was simple enough; they both wanted her and theyâd have to fight for her as they did as boys. They never knew which of them she liked. The telephone rang. He took up the receiver. It was Mrs. Gonzolaâs voice. âIs it you, Floyd?â âYes.â âCould you come over for a few moments? Itâs late, but--â âIâll come at once.â He stood before the mirror in the hall. It reflected a young man, clean-shaven, straight brows, eyes deep blue, almost black, the mouth set with suppressed pain; that was all the image gave out--nothing of the unsounded depths. The narcotic of ease and inherited aloofness had kept the lion of character sleeping. Passing the Dillon house, Floyd noticed vaguely a sign âFor Sale.â Tom Dillon had inherited a large fortune which his father made in whiskey; he had boasted he would drink up the well-stocked cellar before he got rid of the house. It was illuminated tonight; he heard music and loud laughter; Tom was on the job. In the parlor of the Gonzola mansion the butler pressed a button which lit up the unaccountable glass prisms of the electrified fixture; it was a familiar room. As a boy, its grandeur had awed him; when he grew older, he thought it old-fashioned, but he didnât want to see it changed. He knew little of the other part of the house, excepting the dining-room which was in old leather, heavy, dark. He had always spoken with superiority of the âcharming Spanish atmosphereâ of the room. Tonight it struck him differently. âWhat an ignorant fool he was.â A man who mentally kicks himself for being all kinds of a fool is often awakening to wisdom. The floor was parquet, smooth and polished. There were Oriental rugs and deep armchairs, upholstered in Turkish, and a broad divan with wonderful silk rugs thrown over it. Fur animals lay about with enormous heads and glassy eyes. The window hangings were of costly lace. He had often looked at that bronze figure in a corner; tonight it spoke to him. It was the Moses of Michael Angelo--a noble head with a rippling, flowing beard. The walls were covered with family portraits in gilt frames,
{'title': 'Val Sinestra by Martha Morton', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}