Chapter IV: The Victorious Penance (2)

“All right,” interrupted Hardman impatiently. “Say what you like about Hauptmann and Sudermann. They are no friends of mine. Be as ferocious with them as you please. But you surely do not mean to claim that the right kind of study and understanding of the classics could have had any practical influence on the German character, or any value in saving the German Empire from its horrible blunders.”

“Precisely that is what I do mean.”

“But how?”

“Through the mind, _animus_, the intelligent directing spirit which guides human conduct in all who have passed beyond the stage of mere barbarism.”

“You exaggerate the part played by what you call the mind. Human conduct is mainly a matter of heredity and environment. Most of it is determined by instinct, impulse, and habit.”

“Granted, for the sake of argument. But may there not be a mental as well as a physical inheritance, an environment of thought as well as of bodily circumstances?”

“Perhaps so. Yes, I suppose that is true to a certain extent.”

“A poor phrase, my dear Hardman; but let it pass. Will you admit that there may be habits of thinking and feeling as well as habits of doing and making things?”

“Certainly.”

“And do you recognize a difference between bad habits and good habits?”

“Of course.”

“And you agree that this difference exists both in mental and in physical affairs? For example, you would call the foreman of a machine-shop who directed his work in accordance with the natural laws of his material and of his steam or electric power a man of good habits, would you not?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“And you would not deny him this name, but would rather emphasize it, if in addition he had the habit of paying regard to the moral and social laws which condition the welfare and efficiency of his workmen; for example, self-control, cheerfulness, honesty, fair play, honor, human kindness, and so on. If he taught these things, not only by word but by deed, you would call him an excellent foreman, would you not?”

“Without a question. That machine-shop would be a great success, a model.”

“But suppose your foreman had none of these good mental and moral habits. Suppose he was proud, overbearing, dishonest, unfair, and cruel. Do you not believe he would have a bad influence upon his men? Would not the shop, no matter what kind of work it turned out, become a nest of evil and a menace to its neighbors?”

“It surely would.”

“What, then, would you do with the foreman?”

“I would try to teach him better. If that failed, I would discharge him.”

“In what method and by what means would you endeavor to teach him?”

“By all the means that I could command. By precept and by example, by warning him of his faults and by showing him better ways, by wholesome books and good company.”

“And if he refused to learn; if he remained obstinate; if he mocked you and called you a hypocrite; if he claimed that his way was the best, in fact the only way, divinely inspired, and therefore beyond all criticism, then you would throw him out?”

“Certainly, and quickly! I should regard him as morally insane, and try my best to put him where he could do no more harm. But tell me why this protracted imitation of Socrates? Where are you trying to lead me? Do you want me to say that the German Kaiser is a very bad foreman of his shop; that he has got it into a horrible mess and made it despised and hated by all the other shops; that he ought to be put out? If that is your point, I am with you in advance.”

“Right you are!” cried Dick joyously. “Can the Kaiser! We all agree to that. And here the bout ends, with honors for both sides, and a special prize for the Governor.”

The professor smiled, recognizing in the name more affection than disrespect. He leaned forward in his chair, lighting a fresh cigar with gusto.

“Not yet,” he said, “O too enthusiastic youth! Our friend here has not yet come to the point at which I was aiming. The application of my remarks to the Kaiser--whom I regard as a gifted paranoiac--is altogether too personal and limited. I was thinking of something larger and more important. Do you give me leave to develop the idea?”

“Fire away, sir,” said Dick.

Hardman nodded his assent. “I should like very much to hear in what possible way you connect the misconduct of Germany, which I admit, with your idea of the present value of classical study, which I question.”

“In this way,” said the professor earnestly. “Germany has been living for fifty years with a closed mind. Oh, I grant you it was an active mind, scientific, laborious, immensely patient. But it was an ingrowing mind. Sure of its own superiority, it took no counsel with antiquity and scorned the advice of its neighbors. It was intent on producing something entirely new and all its own--a purely German _Kultur_, independent of the past, and irresponsible to any laws except those of Germany's interests and needs. Hence it fell into bad habits of thought and feeling, got into trouble, and brought infinite trouble upon the world.”

“And do you claim,” interrupted Hardman, “that this would have been prevented by reading the classics? Would that have been the only and efficient cure for Germany's disease? Rather a large claim, that!”

“Much too large,” replied the professor. “I did not make it. In the first place, it may be that Germany's trouble had gone beyond any cure but the knife. In the second place, I regard the intelligent reading of the Bible and the vital apprehension of the real spirit of Christianity as the best of all cures for mental and moral ills. All that I claim for the classics--the works of the greatest of the Greek and Roman writers--is that they have in them a certain remedial and sanitary quality. They contain noble thoughts in noble forms. They show the strength of self-restraint. They breathe the air of clearness and candor. They set forth ideals of character and conduct which are elevating. They also disclose the weakness and the ugliness of things mean and base. They have the broad and generous spirit of the true _literae humaniores._ They reveal the springs of civilization and lead us--

'To the glory that was Greece,
To the grandeur that was Rome.'

Now these are precisely the remedies 'indicated,' as the physicians say, for the cure, or at least the mitigation, of the specific bad habits which finally caused the madness of Germany.”

“Please tell us, sir,” asked Dick gravely, “how you mean us to take that. Do you really think it would have done any good to those brutes who ravaged Belgium and outraged France to read Tacitus or Virgil or the Greek tragedies? They couldn't have done it, anyhow.”

“Probably not,” answered the professor, while Hardman sat staring intently into the fire, “probably not. But suppose the leaders and guides of Germany (her masters, in effect, who moulded and _kultured_ the people to serve their nefarious purpose of dominating the world by violence), suppose these masters had really known the meaning and felt the truth of the Greek tragedies, which unveil reckless arrogance--_Hybris_--as the fatal sin, hateful to the gods and doomed to an inevitable Nemesis. Might not this truth, filtering through the masters to the people, have led them to the abatement of the ruinous pride which sent Germany out to subjugate the other nations in 1914? The egregious General von der Goltz voiced the insane arrogance which made this war when he said, 'The nineteenth century saw a German Empire, the twentieth shall see a German world.'

“Or suppose the Teutonic teachers and pastors had read with understanding and taken to heart the passages of Csesar in which he curtly describes the violent and thievish qualities of the ancient Germans--how they spread desolation around them to protect their borders, and encouraged their young men in brigandage in order to keep them in practice. Might not these plain lessons have been used as a warning to the people of modern Germany to discourage their predatory propensities and their habits of devastation and to hold them back from their relapse into the _Schrecklichkeit_ of savage warfare? George Meredith says a good thing in 'Diana of the Crossways': 'Before you can civilize a man, you must first de-barbarize him.' That is the trouble with the Germans, especially their leaders and masters. They have never gotten rid of their fundamental barbarism, the idolatry of might above right.

They have only put on a varnish of civilization.
It cracks and peels off in the heat.

“Take one more illustration. Suppose these German thought-masters and war-lords had really understood and assimilated the true greatness of the conception of the old Roman Empire as it is shown, let us say, by Virgil. You remember that splendid passage in the Sixth Book of the AEneid where the Romans are called to remember that it is their mission 'to crown Peace with Law, to spare the humbled, and to subdue and tame the proud.' Might not sucn a noble doctrine have detached the Germans a little from their blind devotion to the Hohenzollern-Hollweg conception of the modern pinchbeck German Empire--a predatory state, greedy to gain new territory but incapable of ruling it when gained, scornful of the rights of smaller peoples, oppressing them when subjugated, as she has oppressed Poland and Schleswig-Holstein and Alsace-Lorraine, a clumsy and exterminating tyrant in her own colonies, as she has shown herself in East and West Africa? I tell you that a vital perception of what the Roman Empire really meant in its palmy days might have been good medicine for Germany. It might have taught her to make herself fit for power before seeking to grasp it.”

“Granted, granted,” broke in Hardman, impatiently poking the fire. “You can't say anything about Germany too severe to suit me. Whatever she needed to keep her from committing the criminal blunder of this war, it is certain that she did not get it. The blunder was made and the price must be paid. But what I say now, as I said at the beginning, is that Latin and Greek are dead languages. For us, for the future, for the competitions of the modern industrial and social era, the classics are no good. For a few ornamental persons a knowledge of them may be a pleasing accomplishment. But they are luxuries, not necessaries. They belong to a bygone age. They have nothing to tell us about the things we most need to know--chemistry and physics, engineering and intensive agriculture, the discovery of new forms and applications of power, the organization of labor and the distribution of wealth, the development of mechanical skill and the increase of production--these are the things that we must study. I say they are the only things that will count for success in the new democracy.”

“That is what _you_ say,” replied Professor De Vries dryly. “But the wisest men of the world have said something very different. No democracy ever has survived, or ever will survive, without an aristocracy at the heart of it. Not an aristocracy of birth and privilege, but one of worth and intelligence; not a band of hereditary lords, but a company of well-chosen leaders. Their value will depend not so much upon their technical knowledge and skill as upon the breadth of their mind, the clearness of their thought, the loftiness of their motives, the balance of their judgment, and the strength of their devotion to duty. For the cultivation of these things I say--pardon the apparent contradiction of what _you_ said--I say the study of the classics has been and still is of the greatest value.”

“What did George Washington know about the classics?” Hardman interrupted sharply. “He was one of your aristocrats of democracy, I suppose?”

“He was,” answered the professor blandly, “and he knew more about the classics than, I fear, you do, my dear Hardman. At all events, he understood what was meant when he was called 'the Cincinnatus of the West'--and he lived up to the ideal, otherwise we should have had no American Republic.

“But let us not drop to personalities. What I maintain is that Latin and Greek are not dead languages, because they still convey living thoughts. The real success of a democracy--the production of a finer manhood--depends less upon mechanics than upon morale. For that the teachings of the classics are excellent. They have a bracing and a steadying quality. They instil a sense of order and they inspire a sense of admiration, both of which are needed by the people--especially the plain people--of a sane democracy. The classics are fresher, younger, more vital and encouraging than most modern books. They have lessons for us to-day--believe me--great words for the present crisis and the pressing duty of the hour.”

“Give us an example,” said Dick; “something classic to fit this war.”

“I have one at hand,” responded the professor promptly. He went to the book-shelves and pulled out a small brown volume with a slip of paper in it. He opened the book at the marked place. “It is from the Eighth Satire of Juvenal, beginning at line 79. I will read the Latin first, and afterward a little version which I made the other day.”

The old man rolled the lines out in his sonorous voice, almost chanting:

“'Esto bonus miles, tutor bonus, arbiter idem
Integer; ambiguae si quando citabere testis
Incertaeque rei, Phalaris licet imperet ut sis
Falsus et admoto dictet periuria tauro,
_Summum crede nefas, animam praeferre pudori
Et propter vitam vivendi perdere causas.'”_

“Please to translate, sir,” said Dick, copying exactly the professor's classroom phrase and manner.

“To gratify my nephew,” said the professor, nodding and winking at Hardman. “But, understand, this is not a real translation. It is only a paraphrase. Here it is:

“Be a good soldier, and a guardian just;
Likewise an upright judge. Let no one thrust
You in a dubious cause to testify,
Through fear of tyrant's vengeance, to a lie.
Count it a baseness if your soul prefer
Safety above what Honor asks of her:
And hold it manly life itself to give,
Rather than lose the things for which we live.

It is not half as good as the Latin. But it gives the meaning. How do you like it, Richard?”

“Fine!” answered the young man quickly; “especially the last lines. They are great.” He hesitated slightly, and then went on. “Perhaps I ought to tell you now, sir, that I have signed up and got my papers for the training-school at Madison Barracks. I hope you will not be angry with me.”

The old man put both hands on the lad's shoulders and looked at him with a suspicious moisture in his eyes. He swallowed hard a couple of times. You could see the big Adam's apple moving up and down in his wrinkled throat.

“Angry!” he cried. “Why, boy, I love you for it.”

Hardman, who was a thoroughly good fellow at heart, held out his hand.

“Good for you, Dick! But I must be going now. I am putting up at the Ivy. Will you walk up with me? I'd like to have a word with you.”

The two men walked in silence along the shady, moon-flecked streets of the tranquil old university town. Then the elder one spoke.

“You have done the right thing, I am sure. That officers' training-school is a good place to get a practical education. When you are through, how would you like to have a post in the Ordnance Department at Washington? I have some influence there and believe I could get you in without difficulty.”

“Thanks, a lot,” answered the lad modestly. “You're awfully kind. But, if you don't mind my saying so, I think I'd rather have service at the front--that is, if I can qualify for it.”

There was another long silence before Hardman spoke again, with an apparent change of subject:

“I wish you would tell me what you really think of your uncle's views on the classics, you and the other fellows of your age in the university.”

Dick hesitated a moment before he replied:

“Well, personally, you know, I believe what Uncle says is usually about right. He has the habit of it. But I allow when he gets on his hobby he rides rather hard. Most of the other fellows have given up the classics--they like the modern-language course with sciences better--perhaps it's softer. They say not; but I know the classics are hard enough. I flunked out on my Greek exam junior year. So, you see, I'm not a very good judge. But, anyhow, wasn't the bit he read us from Juvenal simply fine? And didn't he read it well? I've felt that a hundred times, but never knew how to say it.”

It was in the early fall of 1918, more than a year later, that Hardman came once more into the familiar library at Calvinton. He had read the casualty list of the last week of August and came to condole with his friend De Vries.

The old man sat in the twilight of the tranquil book-lined room, leaning back in his armchair, with an open letter on the table before him. He gave his hand cordially to Hardman and thanked him for his sympathetic words. He talked quietly and naturally about Dick, and confessed how much he should miss the boy--as it were, his only son.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I am going to be lonely, but I am not forsaken. I shall be sad sometimes, but never sorry--always proud of my boy. Would you like to see this letter? It is the last that he wrote.”

It was a young, simple letter, full of cheerful joking and personal details and words of affection which the shy lad would never have spoken face to face. At the end he wrote:

“Well, dear Governor, this is a rough life, and some parts are not easy to bear. But I want you to know that I was never happier in all my days. I know that we are fighting for a good cause, justice, and freedom, and a world made clean from this beastly German militarism. The things that the Germans have done to France and Belgium must be stopped, and they must never be done again. We want a decent world to live in, and we are going to have it, no matter what it costs. Of course I should like to live through it all, if I can do it with honor. But a man never can tell what is going to happen. And I certainly would rather give up my life than the things we are fighting for--the things you taught me to believe are according to the will of God. So good-night for the present, Uncle, and sleep well.

“Your loving nephew and son,

“DICK.”

Hardman's hand shook a little as he laid the paper on the table.

“It is a beautiful letter,” he said.

“Yes,” nodded the old professor, putting his hand upon it; “it is a classic; very clear and simple and high-minded. The German Crown Prince says our American soldiers do not know what they are fighting for. But Richard knew. It was to defend 'the things for which we live' that he gladly gave his life.”

September, 1918.

HALF-TOLD TALES

THE NEW ERA AND CARRY ON

The Commandant of the Marine Hospital was at his desk, working hard, when the door of the room was flung open and the Officer of the Day rushed in.

“Sir,” he exploded, “the New Era has come.”

“Very likely, Mr. Corker,” answered the Commandant. “It has been coming continually since the world began. But is that any reason why you should enter without knocking, and with your coat covered with bread-crumbs and cigarette-ashes?”

So the Officer of the Day went outside, brushed his coat, knocked at the door, and awaited orders.

“Mr. Corker,” said the Commandant, “have the kindness to bring me your report on the condition of yesterday's cases, and let me know what operations are indicated for to-day. Good morning. Orderly, my compliments to the Executive Officer, and I wish to see him at once.”

When the Executive Officer arrived, he began:

“Sir, the New Era--”

“Quite so, Mr. Greel, but you understand this Hospital has to carry on as required in any kind of an era. How many patients did we receive yesterday? Good. Have we enough bedding and provisions? Bad. Attend to it immediately, and let me know the result of your efforts to remedy a situation which should never have arisen. The Navy cannot be run on hot air.”

As the Executive Officer went out he held the door open for the Head Nurse to pass in. She was a fine, upstanding creature, tremulous with emotion.

“Oh, Doctor,” she cried, “I simply must tell you about the New Era. Woman Suffrage is going to save the world.”

“I hope so, Miss Dooby, it certainly needs saving. Meantime how are things in the pneumonia ward?”

“Two deaths last night, sir, three new cases this morning. Oxygen is running short: no beef-tea or milk. Five of my nurses have gone to attend conventions of woman--”

“Slackers,” interrupted the Commandant. “Put them on report for leaving the ship without permission. I shall attend to their cases. Fill their places from the volunteer list. Be so good as to send the head steward here immediately.”

“I'm very sorry, Sir,” said the steward, “but ye see it's just this way. The mess-boys was holdin' a New Era mass-meetin', and the cook he forgot--”

“Milk and beef-tea!” growled the Commandant as if they were swear-words. “What the devil is this new influenza that has struck the hospital? Steward, you will provide what the head nurse requires at once. Orderly, my cap, and call Mr. Greel to accompany me on inspection.”

In the galley the fires were out, the ovens cold, the soup-kettles empty, and all the cooks, dish-washers, and scrubbers were absorbing the eloquence of the third assistant pie-maker, who stood on an empty biscuit-box and explained the glories of the one-hour day in the New Era.

'“Ten_shun!_” yelled the Orderly, and the force of habit brought the men up, stiff and silent. The Commandant looked around the circle, grinning.

“My word!” he cried, “what a beautiful sight! What do you think this is--a blooming debating society? Wrong! It's a hospital, with near a thousand sick and wounded to take care of. And it's going to be done, see? And you're going to help do it, see? No work--no pay and no food! Neglect of orders means extra duty and no liberty--perhaps a couple of twenty-four-hour days in the brig. That's the rule in all eras, see? Now get busy, all of you. Chow at twelve as usual. Carry on, men.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” they answered cheerily, for they were weary of the third assistant pie-maker's brand of talk and felt the pangs of healthy hunger.

Then came the second engineer, out of breath with running, followed by two or three helpers.

“Fire, captain,” he gasped, “fire in the fuel-room--awful blaze--started in the wood box--cigarette--we were just settin' round talkin' over what we were goin' to do in the New Era, an' the first thing we knew it was burnin' like--”

“The New Era,” snapped the Commandant, “and be damned to it! Sound the fire-call. All hands to quarters. Lead along the hose. Follow me,” he cried, hurrying forward through the gathering smoke, “this ship must be saved.”

And so it was--strictly in conformity with the old laws that fire burns, water quenches, and every man must do his duty promptly. On these ancient principles, and others equally venerable, the hospital carried on its good work. But the Commandant made one new rule. It cost five dollars to mention the New Era within its walls.

THE PRIMITIVE AND HIS SANDALS

“I am sick of all this,” said the Great Author, sweeping his hand over the silver-laden dinner-table. He seemed to include in his gesture the whole house and the broad estate surrounding it. “It bores me, and I don't believe it can be right.”

His wife, at the other end of the table, shining in her low-necked dress with diamonds on her breast and in her hair, leaned forward anxiously, knowing her husband's temperament.

“But, Nicholas,” she said, “what do you mean? You have earned all this by your work as a writer. You are the greatest man in the country. You are entitled to a fine house and a large estate.”

He gravely nodded his big head with its flamboyant locks, and lit a fresh cigarette.

“Quite right, my dear,” said he, “you are always right on practical affairs. But, you see, this is an artistic affair. My books are realistic and radical. They teach the doctrine of the universal level, that no man can be above other men. They have made poverty, perhaps not exactly popular, but at least romantic. My villains are always rich and my heroes poor. The people like this; but it is rather a strain to believe it and keep on believing it. If my work is to hold the public it must have illustrations--moving pictures, you know! Something in character! Nobody else can do that as well as I can. It will be better than many advertisements. I am going to become a virtuous peasant, a son of the soil, a primitive.”

His wife laughed, with a slight nervous tremor in her voice. She knew her husband's temperament, to be sure, but she never knew just how far it would carry him.

“I think you must be a little crazy, Nicholas,” she said.

“Thank you, Alexandra,” he answered, “thank you for the temperate flattery. Evidently you have heard the old proverb about genius and madness. But why not make the compliment complete and say 'absolutely crazy'?”

“Well,” she replied, “because I do not understand just what you propose to do. Are you going to impoverish yourself and the whole family? Are you thinking of turning over your farms to these stupid peasants who will let them go to rack and ruin? Will you give your property to the village council who will drink it up in a month? You know how much money Peter needs; he is a member of twelve first-class clubs. And Olga's husband is not earning much. Are you going to starve your children and grandchildren for the sake of an idea of consistency in art?”

The Great Author was now standing in front of the fireplace, warming himself and filling a pipe. The flames behind him made an aureole in his extravagant white hair and beard. He smiled and puffed slowly at his pipe. At last he answered.

“My dear, you go too fast and too far. You know I am enthusiastic, but have you ever known me to be silly? It would be wrong to make you and the children suffer. I have no right to do that.”

She nodded her head emphatically, and a look of comprehension spread over her face. “Suppose,” he continued, “suppose that I should make over the real estate and farms to you--you are an excellent manager. And suppose that I should put the personal estate, including copyrights, into a trust, the income to be paid to you and the children. You would take care of me while I became a primitive, wouldn't you?”

“I would,” she answered, “you know I would. But think how uncomfortable it will be for you. While we are living in luxury, you--”

“Don't worry about that,” he interrupted with a laugh. “I shall have all the luxury I want: flannel shirts, loose around the neck, instead of these infernal stiff collars; velveteen trousers and jacket instead of this waiter's uniform; and I shall go barefoot when the weather is suitable--do you understand? Barefoot in the summer grass--it will be immense.”

“But your food,” she asked, “how will you manage that on a primitive basis?”

“You will manage it,” he replied, “you know I have always preferred beefsteak and onions to any French dish. Champagne does not agree with me. I'd rather have a glass of the straight stuff, without any gas in it.”

“But your sleeping arrangements,” she murmured, “are you going to leave the house? Our bedroom is not exactly primitive.”

“No fear of it,” he answered. “There is a little room beyond your bathroom. Put an iron cot in there, with a soft mattress, linen sheets, and light blankets. I'll do my morning wash at the pump in the yard, for the sake of the picture. When I want a bath you'll leave the door of the room open if you are not actually in the tub.”

“Nicholas,” she said, with a Mona Lisa smile, “for an author you have a very clever way of putting things. But suppose we have guests at the house, you can't come to dinner in dirty clothes and with bare feet.”

“Certainly not,” he answered. “I shall put on clean flannels, clean velveteens, and sandals.”

“Sandals,” she murmured, “sandals for dinner are simply wonderful. Do you think I could--”

“Not at all, my dear,” said the Great Author firmly. “Your present style of dress becomes you amazingly. I am the only one who has to do the primitive.”

So the arrangements were completed. The interviewers who came to the house described the Great Author in his loose flannels and velveteens, with bare feet, returning from labor in the fields. The moving pictures were full of him. But the sandals did not appear. There were no flash-lights permitted at the part-primitive dinner-table.

DIANA AND THE LIONS

In the darkest hour before the dawn, Diana floated away from her Garden Tower and came down between the Lions on the Library Steps.

At first, she did not know they were Lions. She thought they were Cats, and so she was afraid. For she was very lightly clad; and (except in Egypt) Cats are terrible to undomesticated goddesses. Diana shivered as she strung her bow for defense. She felt that she was divine, but she knew that she had cold feet.

In truth, the Library Steps were wet and glistening, for there had been a shower after midnight. But now the gibbous moon was giving a silent imitation of an arc-light high in the western heaven. Her beams silver-plated the weird architecture of the shrines of Commerce which face the great Temple dedicated to the Three Muses of New York--Astor, Lenox, and Tilden.

But on the awful animals guarding the steps the light was florid, like a flush of sunburn discovered by the ablution of a warranted complexion cream. They were wonderfully pink, and Diana hastened to draw an arrow from her quiver, for it seemed to her as if her feline neighbors were beginning to glow with rage.

“Do not shoot,” said the ruddier one; “we are not angry, we are only blushing.” And he glanced at her costume.

Diana was astonished to hear a masculine voice utter such a modest sentiment. But being a woman, she knew that the first word does not count.

“Cats never blush,” she answered boldly, “no matter how big they are.”

“But we are not Cats,” they cried, ramping suddenly like crests on a millionaire's note-paper. “We are Lions!”

Diana smiled at this, for now she felt safe, remembering that when a male begins to boast he is not dangerous.

“Roar a little for me, please,” she said, laying down her unconcealed weapon.

“Impossible,” said the Northern Lion, “a city ordinance forbids unnecessary noise.”

“Nonsense!” interrupted the Southern Lion. “Who would not break a law to oblige a lady?”

“Let us compromise,” said the Northern Lion, “and give her our reproduction of an automobile horn.”

“No,” said the Southern Lion, “we will give her our automatic record of a Book-Advertisement; it is louder.”

Then Diana trembled, indeed. But she bravely continued smiling, and said: “Thank you a thousand times for doing it once! And now please tell me what kind of Lions you are.”

“Literary Lions,” was their prompt and unanimous reply.

“Ah,” she cried, clapping her hands with a charming gesture, “how glad I am to meet you! I have been in New York more than twenty years and never seen any one like you before! Come and sit beside me and talk.”

The Lions looked at each other rather sheepishly, and glanced up and down the street, as if fearing the approach of a city ordinance. But there was no one in sight except Diana, so they shook their literary locks into a becoming disorder and sat on the steps with her, purring gently.

“Now tell me,” she said, “who you are.”

If she had been less beautiful they would have resented this. But, as it was, they looked sorry, and asked her if she had never read “Who's Who in America”? She shook her head, and admitted that she had not read it all through.

“Well,” said her neighbor on the south, “this is rather an offhand _soiree,_ and we may as well cut out proper names. But I will put you wise to the fact that I am the Magazine Lion. I got away from Roosevelt in Africa. He called me 'Mucky,' and I made tracks. Here he cannot hurt me, for they will never let that man do anything in good old New York, not even touch a Tiger.”

“And I,” said her neighbor on the north, “I am the Academic Lion, of whom you must have heard. My character is noted for its concealed sweetness, and my style leaves nothing to be hoped for. I am literally a man of letters, for I have seventeen degrees. Usually I look literary-lean and nobly dissatisfied, but yesterday I swallowed a British Female Novelist by accident, and that accounts for my inartistic air of cheerfulness. I won my splendid reputation by telling other Lions how they ought to have done their little tricks. But now, tired of that, I have gone into politics. This is my first public office.”

Diana was somewhat confused and benumbed by these personally conducted biographies, but she was too well-bred not to appear interested.

“How lovely,” she murmured, “to sit between two such Great Personages! I wonder what brought poor little Me to such an honor. And, by the way, how do you happen to be just here? What is this beautiful building behind you? Is it your Palace?”

“It is a Library,” said the Academic Lion, with a superior tone.

“The biggest book-heap in America,” said the Magazine Lion in his vivid way. “We have them all beaten to a finish--except the old junk-shop down in Washington.”

“You forget Boston,” said the Academic Lion.

“Who wouldn't?” growled the Magazine Lion.

“Do you mean to tell me,” asked Diana, with her most engaging and sprightly air, “that this splendid place is a Library, all full of books, and that you are its most prominent figures, its figureheads, so to speak? How interesting! I have travelled a great deal--under the name of Pasht or Bast, in Egypt, where the Cats liked me; and under the name of Artemis in Greece; and under my own name in Italy. Believe me, I have seen all things that the moon shines upon. But I do not remember having seen Lions on a Library before. How original! How appropriate! How suggestive! But what does it suggest? What are you here for?”

“For educational purposes,” said the Academic Lion.

“To catch the eye,” said the Magazine Lion, “same as head-lines in a newspaper.”

“I see,” exclaimed Diana. “You are here to keep the people from getting at the books? How modern!”

This remark made the Academic Lion look like a Sphinx, as if he knew something but did not want to tell. But the Magazine Lion was distinctly flattered.

“Right you are,” said he cheerfully, “or next door to it. We don't propose to keep the people out, only the authors. Why, when this place was publicly opened there was not a single author in the exhibit, except John Bigelow.”

“Why did you not keep him out?” asked Diana.

“We were not on the spot, then,” said the Lion. “Besides, there are some things that even a Lion does not dare to do.”

“But I do not understand,” said Diana, “precisely why authors should be kept away from a library.”

The Magazine Lion laughed. “Silly little thing!” he said, with a fascinating tone of virile condescension. “An author's business is to write books, not to read them. If he reads, he grows intelligent and thoughtful and careful about his work. Those old books spoil him for the modern market. But if he just goes ahead and writes whatever comes into his head, he can do it with a bang, and everybody sits up and pays attention. That's the only way to be original. See?”

“Excuse me,” broke in the Academic Lion, “but you go too far, brother. Authors should be encouraged to read, but only under critical guidance and professorial direction. Otherwise they will not be able to classify the books, and tabulate their writers, and know which ones to admire and praise. How can you expect a mere author to comprehend the faulty method of Shakespeare, or the ethical commonplaceness of Dickens and Thackeray, or the vital Ibsenism of Bernard Shaw and the other near-Ibsens, without assistance?”

“But the other people,” asked Diana, “what is going to happen to them if you let them go in free and browse among the books?”

“They are less important,” answered the Academic Lion. “Besides we expect soon to establish a cranial, neurological, and psychopathic examination which will determine the subliminal, temperamental needs of every applicant. Then we classify the readers in groups, and the books in lists, and the whole thing works with automatic precision.”

“And I am going to make the book-lists!” said the Magazine Lion, ecstatically wagging his tail, and half-unconsciously putting his paw around the lady's waist in a spirit of pure comradeship.

But she gently slipped away, stood up, and gracefully covered a yawn with her hand.

“I am ever so much obliged to you Literary Lions for not eating me,” said she. “Probably I should have disagreed with you even more than your conversation has with me. I am quite sleepy. And the moon has almost disappeared. I must be going where I can bid it good night.”

So Diana rose, with shining limbs, above the housetops, and vanished toward her Garden Tower. The Lions looked disconcerted. “Old-fashioned, Victorian prude!” said one, “Brazen hussy!” said the other. And they climbed back on their Pedestals, resuming their supercilious expression. There I suppose they will stay, no matter what Diana may think of them.

THE HERO AND TIN SOLDIERS

On December twenty-fifth, 1918, that little white house in the park was certainly the happiest dwelling in Calvinton. It was simply running over with Christmas.

You see, there had come to it a most wonderful present, a surprise full of tears and laughter. Captain Walter Mayne reached home on Christmas Eve.

For a while they had thought that he would never come back at all. News had been received that he was grievously wounded in France--shot to pieces, in effect, leading his men near Chateau-Thierry. His life hung on the ragged edge of those wounds. But his wife Katharine always believed that he would pull through. So he did. But he was lacking a leg, his right arm was knocked out of commission for the present, and various other _souvenirs de la grande guerre_ were inscribed upon his body.

Then word arrived that he was coming on a transport, with other wounded, to be patched up in a hospital on Staten Island. So his wife Katharine smiled her way through innumerable entanglements of red tape and went to nurse him. Then she set her steady hand to pull all the wires necessary to get him discharged and sent home. Christmas was in her heart and she would not be denied. So it came to pass that the one-legged Hero was in his own house on the happy day, and joy was bubbling all around him.

When the old Pastor entered, late in the afternoon, the Christmas-tree was twinkling with lights, the children swarming and buzzing all over the place, so that he was dazed for a moment. There were Walter's mother and his aunt and his sisters-in-law, boys and girls of various sizes, and a jubilant and entrancing baby. The Pastor took it all in, and was glad of it, but his mind was on the Hero.

Katharine, who always understood everything, whispered softly: “Walter is waiting to see you, Doctor. He is in his study, just across the hall.”

_Waiting?_ Well, what can a man whose right leg has been cut off above the knee, and who has not yet been able to get an artificial one--what can he do but wait?

The room was rather dimly lighted; brilliance is not good for the eyes of the wounded. Walter was in a long chair in the corner; his face was bronzed, drawn and lined a little by suffering; but steady and cheerful as ever, with the eager look which had made his students listen to him when he talked to them about English literature.

“My dear Walter,” said the Pastor, “my dear boy, we are so glad to have you home with us again. We are very proud of you. You are our Hero.”

“Thank you,” said Walter, “it is mighty good to be home again. But there is no hero business about it. I only did what all the other Americans who went over there did--fought my--excuse me, my best, against the beastly Germans.”

“But your leg,” said the Pastor impulsively, “it is gone. Aren't you angry about that?”

Walter was silent for a moment. Then he answered.

“No, I don't think angry is the right word. You remember that story about Nathan Hale in the Revolution--'I only regret that I have but one life to give to my country.' Well, I'm glad that I had two legs to give for my country, and particularly glad that she only needed one of them.”

“Tell me a bit about the fighting,” said the Pastor, “I want to know what it was like--the hero-touch--you understand?”

“Not for me,” said Walter, “and certainly not now. Later on I can tell you something, perhaps. But this is Christmas Day. And war? Well, Doctor, believe me, war is a horrible thing, full of grime and pain, madness, agony, hell--a thing that ought not to be. I have fought alongside of the other fellows to put an end to it, and now--”

The door swung open, and Sammy, the eldest son of the house, pranced in.

“Look, Daddy,” he cried, “see what Aunt Emily has sent me for Christmas--a big box of tin soldiers!”

Mayne smiled as the little boy carefully laid the box on his knee; but there was a shadow of pain in his eyes, and he closed them for a few seconds, as if his mind were going back, somewhere, far away. Then he spoke, tenderly, but with a grave voice.

“That's fine, sonny--all those tin soldiers. But don't you think they ought to belong to me? You have lots of other toys, you know. Would you give the soldiers to me?”

The child looked up at him, puzzled for a moment; then a flash of comprehension passed over his face, and he nodded valiantly.

“Sure, Father,” he said, “You're the Captain. Keep the soldiers. I'll play with the other toys,” and he skipped out of the room.

Mayne's look followed him with love. Then he turned to the old Pastor and a strange expression came into his face, half whimsical and half grim.

“Doctor,” he said, “will you do me a favor? Poke up that fire till it blazes. That's right. Now lay this box in the hottest part of the flames. That's right. It will soon be gone.”

The elder man did what was asked, with an air of slight bewilderment, as one humors the fancies of an invalid. He wondered whether Mayne's fever had quite left him. He watched the fire bulging the lid and catching round the edges of the box. Then he heard Mayne's voice behind him, speaking very quietly.

“If ever I find my little boy _playing with tin soldiers,_ I shall spank him well. No, that wouldn't be quite fair, would it? But I shall tell him why he must not do it, and _I shall make him understand that it's an impossible thing.”_

Then the old Pastor comprehended. There was no touch of fever. The one-legged Hero had come home from the wars completely well and sound in mind. So the two men sat together in love by the Christmas fire, and saw the tin soldiers melt away.

SALVAGE POINT

The Hermanns built their house at the very end of the island, five or six miles from the more or less violently rustic “summer-cottages” which adorned the hills and bluffs around the native village of Winterport.

There was a long point running out to the southward at the mouth of the great bay, rough and rocky for the most part, with little woods of pointed firs on it, some acres of pasture, and a few pockets of fertile soil lying between the stony ridges. A yellow farmhouse, with a red barn beside it, had nestled for near a hundred years in one of these hollows, buying shelter from the winter winds at the cost of an outlook over sea and shore.

It was a large price to pay. The view from the summit of the little hill a few hundred yards away was superb--a wonder even on that wonderful coast of Maine where mountain and sea meet together, forest and flood kiss each other.

But I suppose the old Yankee farmer knew what he wanted when he paid the price and snuggled his house in the hollow. I am certain the Hermanns knew what they wanted when they bought the whole point and perched their house on the very top of the hill, where all the winds of heaven might visit it as roughly as they pleased, but where nothing could rob the outlook of its ever-changing splendor and mystery, its fluent wonder and abiding charm.

You see, the Hermanns knew what they wanted because they had come through a lot of trouble. I met them when they were young--no matter how many years ago--when they were in the thick of it.

Alice Mackaye and Will Hermann had the rare luck to fall in love--a very real and great love--when they were in their early twenties. You would think that extraordinary piece of good fortune would have been enough to set them up for life, wouldn't you? But no. There was an Obstacle. And that Obstacle came very near wrecking them both.

Will Hermann was an artist and the son of an artist. The love of beauty ran in his blood. Otherwise he was poor. He earned a decent living by his painting, but each year's living depended on each year's work. Hence he was in the proletarian class.

Alice Mackaye, on the other hand, belonged to the capitalist class. I say “belonged,” because that is precisely the word to describe her situation. Her father was a millionaire sugar-merchant, who lived in an ugly palace near Morristown, New Jersey, and was accustomed to have his own way in that and other States. He was the Obstacle.

He was a florid, handsome old Scotchman, orthodox in religion, shrewd in business, correct in conduct, but with no more sentiment than a hard-shell crab, and obstinate as the devil. His fixed idea was that none of his daughters should ever be carried off by a fortune-hunter. The two older girls apparently escaped this danger by making fairly wealthy matches. But Alice--come away! why should she take up with this impecunious painter? He was good-looking and had the gift of the gab, but what was that worth? If he would come into the sugar-business, where a place was waiting for him, and make good there, it would be all right. Otherwise, the affair must be broken off, absolutely, finally, and forever. From this you can see that the Obstacle was not bad-hearted, but only pig-headed.

Well, for five or six years things drifted rather miserably along this way. Will Hermann was forbidden the house at Morristown. Alice was practically a captive; her correspondence was censored. But of course, even before Marconi, wireless communication in matters of this kind has always been possible.

The trouble was that the state of affairs between them, while conventionally correct, was thoroughly unnatural and full of peril. Alice, a very good girl, obedient and tractable, was in danger of becoming a recalcitrant and sour old maid. Will, a healthy and normal young man, with no bad habits, was in danger of being driven to them by the emptiness and exasperation of his mind. The worst of it all was that both of the young people were, in accordance with a well-known law of nature, growing older with what seemed to them a frightful and unreasonable rapidity. The years crawled like snails. But the sum of them rose by leaps and bounds to an appalling total. Alice found two grey hairs in her red-gold locks. Will had to use glasses for reading fine print at night. From their point of view, decrepitude, senility, dotage stared them in the face, while the bright voyage of life which they were resolved to make only together, was threatened with shipwreck among the shoals of interminable delay.

It was at this juncture of affairs that they came to me, as fine-looking a young couple as ever I saw. They were good, as mortals go; they were loyal and upright, they wanted no scandal, no rumpus in the family, no trouble or pain for anybody else; but they wanted to belong to each other much more than they wanted to belong to any class, artistic, proletarian, or capitalist. And they were desperate because of the pertinacity of the Obstacle, whom they both respected fully as much as he deserved.

When they had stated their case, I made my answer.

“So far as I can see, the salvage of your ship of love depends entirely on yourselves. Mr. Hermann is not after a fortune, he only wants his girl; is that so? [Hermann nodded vigorously.] And Miss Mackaye does not care about being supported in the manner of living to which she has been accustomed; she only wants to live with the man whom she has chosen; is that so? [Alice blushed and nodded.] Well, then, why shouldn't you lay your course and sail ahead together? You are both of age, aren't you?”

They smiled at each other. “Yes, and a little over.”

“But my father!” said Alice. “You know I honor him, and I can never deny his authority over me.”

Here was the turn of the talk, the critical moment, the point where the chosen counsellor had to fall back upon the ultimate reality of his faith.

“Well,” I said, “you are absolutely correct, dear daughter, in your feeling toward your father. He has earned his money and has a right to dispose of it as he will. But, you know, there is a statute of limitations in regard to the authority of parents over the _lives_ of their children. You have passed the limitation. What do you want to do?”

“To be married to Will Hermann,” she said, “for better for worse, for richer for poorer, I don't care. But I don't want a family quarrel, a runaway match, all that horrid newspaper talk.” Here she was evidently a little excited and on the verge of tears.

“Certainly not,” I hastened to reassure her, “you can't possibly have a runaway match, because there is nothing for you to run away from. There is not a single duty in your father's house which you have not fulfilled, and of which your sisters can not now relieve you. There is no authority in the world which has the right to command the sacrifice of your life to another's judgment. There is only one thing that stands in your way, and that is your claim on a large inheritance. I understand you are quite willing to let that go. You are not even 'running away' from it--that is not the word--you are ready to _jettison_ it.”

She looked puzzled, and murmured; “I don't exactly understand what that means.”

“To jettison,” I said, in that learned and dispassionate manner which is sometimes useful in relieving an emotional situation, “is a seafaring phrase. It means throwing overboard a part or the whole of a cargo in order to save the ship. As far as I can see that is the question which is up to you and your best friend at the present moment. Are you prepared to jettison the claim on a big fortune for the sake of making your voyage of life together?”

They looked at each other and a kind of radiance spread over their faces. “Surely,” they answered with one voice. “But how can the marriage be arranged,” asked Alice, “without a row in the family?”