August First

by Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews and Roy Irving Murray

noticed [McBirneysmiled queerly], because I have been doing a thing. You said youdidn't advise me to go slumming--though I think you did--what else?You said I ought to get beyond the view-point of a child; to realizethe world outside myself.

  I sat down, and in my limited way--I mean that, sincerely, humbly--Iconsidered what I could do. No slumming--and, in any case, there'snone to be done in Forest Gate. So I thought I'd better clear myvision with great books. I went to Robert Halarkenden, the onlybookish person in my surroundings, and asked him about it--about whatwould open up a larger horizon for me. And he, not understanding muchwhat I was at, recommended two or three things which I have been and amreading. I thought I'd try to be a little more intelligent at leastbefore I answered your letter. Don't thunder at me--I'm stumblingabout, trying to get somewhere. I've read some William James and someJohn Fiske, and I realize this--that I did more or less think God was avery large, stately old man. An "anthropomorphic deity." Fiske saysthat is the God of the lower peoples; that was my God. Also I realizethis--that, somehow, some God, _the_ God if I can get to Him, mighthelp might be my only chance. What do you think? Is this any better?Is it any step? If it is, it's a very precarious one, for though itthrills me to my bones sometimes to think that a real power might liftme and bring me through, if I just ask Him, yet sometimes all that hopegoes and I drop in a heap mentally with no starch in me, no grip to tryto hold to any idea--just a heap of tired, dull mind and nerves, andfor my only desire that subtle, pushing desire to end it all quickly.Once an odd thing happened. When I was collapsed like that, justexisting, suddenly there was a feeling, a brand-new feeling of lettinggo of the old rubbish that was and somebody else pervading it throughand through and taking all the responsibility. And I held on tight,something as I do to your letters, and the first thing, I was believingthat help was coming--and help came. That was the best day I've hadsince I saw those devil doctors. Do you suppose that was faith? Wheredid it come from? I'd been praying--but awfully queer prayers; I said"Oh just put me through somehow; give me what I need; _I_ don't knowwhat it is; how can you expect me to--I'm a worm." I suppose that wasirreverent, but I can't help it. It was all I could say. And thatcame, whatever it was. Do you suppose it was an answer to my blind,gasping prayer?

  Now I'm going to ask you to do a thing--but don't if it's the leastbother. I don't want you to talk to me about myself just now, anymore. And I want to hear more about North Baxter Court and such. Youdon't know how that stirred me. What a worth-while life you lead,doing actual, life-and-death things for people who bitterly need thingsdone. It seems to me glorious. I could give up everything to feel astream of genuine living through me such as you have, all your rushingdays. Yes--I could--but yet, maybe I wouldn't make good. But I docare for "life, and life more abundantly," and the only way of gettingit that I've known has been higher fences to jump, and more dances andbetter tennis and such. I never once realized the way you get it--my!what a big way. And how heavenly it must be to give hope and healthand help to people. I adore sending the maids out in the car, orgiving them my clothes. I just selfishly like pleasing people, and Ithink giving is the best amusement extant--and you give your very selffrom morning to night. You lucky person! How could I do that? CouldI? Would I balk, do you think? You say I'm not capable of lovinganything or anybody. I think you are wrong. I think I could, someday, love somebody as hard as any woman or man has, ever. Not Alec.What will happen if I marry Alec and then do that--if the somebodycomes? That would be a mess; the worst mess yet. The end of theworld; but I forget; my world ends anyhow. I'll be a stone image in achair--a cold, unloveable stone image with a hot, boiling heart. Iwon't--I _won't_. This world is just five minutes, maybe--but me--in achair--ten years. Oh--I _won't_.

  What I want you to do is to write me just about the things you'redoing, and the people--the poor people, and the pitiful things and thefunny things--the atmosphere of it. Could you forget that you don'tknow me, and write as you would to a cousin or an old friend? Thatwould be good. That would help. Only, anyhow, write, for without yourletters I can't tell what bomb may burst. Don't thunder next time.But even if you thunder, write. The letters do guard the pistol--Ican't help it if you say not. It has to be so now, anyway. They guardit. Always--

  AUGUST FIRST.

  WARCHESTER, St. Andrew's Parish House, Sept. 12th.

  You're right. It's idiotic to leap on people like that. I knew I wasall wrong the moment after the letter went. And when nothing came fromyou--it wasn't pleasant. I nearly wrote--I more nearly telegraphedyour Robert Halarkenden. Do you mind if I say that for two days, justlately--in fact, they were yesterday and the day before--I was on theedge of asking for leave of absence to go west? You see, if you haddone it, it was so plainly my fault. And I had to know. Then Iargued--it's ghastly, but I argued that it would be in the papers. Andit wasn't. Of course, it might possibly have been kept out. Butgenerally it isn't. My knowledge of happenings in Chicago andthereabouts, since my last letter, would probably surprise you alittle. Yes, I "noticed" that you didn't write--more than I noticedthe heat, which, now I think, has been bad. But when you're prettysure you've blundered in a matter of life and death, you don't pray forrain.

  You've turned a corner. _A_ corner. _The_ corner--the big one, isfurther along, and then there's the hill and the hot sun on the dustyroad. You'll need your sporting instincts. But you've got them. Sohad St. Paul and those others who furnished the groundwork for thatoft-mentioned Roman holiday. That's religion, as I see it. That'swhat _they_ did; pushed on--faced things down--went outsmiling--"gentlemen unafraid." It's like swimming--you can't go underif you make the least effort. That's the law--of physics and,therefore, of God. The experience you tell of is exactly what you havethe right to expect. The prayer you said; that's the only way to comeat it, yourself--talking--with that Other. There's a poem--youknow--the man who "caught at God's skirts and prayed."

  But you said not to write about you. All right then, I've been to thetheatre, the one at the end of our block. That may strike you as tame.But you don't know Mrs. Jameson. She's the relict of the late seniorwarden. A disapproving party, trimmed with jet beads and a lorgnette.A few days after the rector left me in charge she triumphed into theoffice, rattled the beads and got behind the lorgnette. She presumed Iwas the new curate. No loop-hole out of that. I had been seen at thetheatre--not once nor twice. I could well believe it. The lateColonel Jameson, it appeared, had not approved of clergymen attendingplayhouses. She did not approve of it herself. She presumed Irealized the standing of this parish in the diocese? She dwelt on theforce of example to the young. Of course, the opera--but that waswidely different. She would suggest--she did suggest--not in the leastvaguely. Sometime, perhaps, I would come to luncheon? She had reallyrather interested herself in the sermon yesterday--a little abrupt,possibly, at the close--still, of course, a young man, and not veryexperienced--besides, the Doctor had spoiled them for almost anybodyelse. Naturally.

  The room widened after she had gone. You know these ladies with thethick atmosphere.

  That night I went to the theatre. There's a stock company there forthe summer and I have come to know one of the actors. He belongs tous--was married in the church last summer. The place waspacked--always is--it's a good company. And Everett--he's theone--kept the house shouting. He's the regular funny man. The playthat week was very funny anyhow--one of those things the billboardscall a "scream." It was just that. Everett was the play. He stormedand galloped through his scenes until everybody was helpless. Peoplelike him; it's his third summer here. Well, at the end, nobody went.A lot of lads in the gallery began calling for Everett. We're commonhere; and not many of the quality patronize stock. Soon he pushed outfrom behind the curtain and made one of those fool speeches whichgenerally fall flat. Only this one didn't.

  Then I went "behind." The dressing rooms at the Alhambra are nothome-like. Bare walls with a row of pegs along
one side--a couple ofchairs--a table piled with make-up stuff and over it a mirror flankedby electric lights with wire netting around them. Not gay. And greasepaint, at close range, is not attractive. A man shouldn't cry afterhe's made up--that's a theatrical commandment, or ought to be.Probably a man shouldn't anyhow. But some do. I imagined Everett had,and that he'd done it with his head in his arms and his arms in thelitter of the big table. I think I shook hands with him--one doesinane things sometimes--but I don't know what I said. I had somethinglike your experience--I just wasn't there for a minute or two.

  Afterward, I went home with him--a long half-hour on the trolley, thenup three flights into "light housekeeping" rooms in the back. Therewas cold meat on the table, and bread. The janitor's wife, good soul,had made a pot of coffee. "Light housekeeping" is a literalexpression, let me tell you, and doctor's bills make it lighter. Ifollowed him into the last room of the three. It looked different fromthe way I remembered it the afternoon before. When he turned the gashigher I saw why--the bed was gone--one of those stretcher things takesless room. Besides, they say it's better. So there she was--all thathe had left of all that he had had--the girl he'd been mad about andmarried in our church a year ago. He wasn't even with her when shedied; there was the Sunday afternoon rehearsal to attend. She wouldn'tlet him miss that. "Go on," she told him. "I'll wait for you." Shedidn't wait.

  And he faced it down, he jammed it through, that young chap did--andwas funny, oh, as funny as you can think, for hours, in front ofhundreds of people. He never missed a cue, never bungled a line, andall the time seeing, up there in the light-housekeeping rooms, in thelast room of them all, how she lay, in the utter silence.

  Perhaps I shall come across a braver thing than that before I die, butI doubt it. I tried, of course, to get him not to do it. But it wasvery simple to him. It was his job. Nobody else knew the part; it wastoo late to substitute. The rest would lose their salaries if theyclosed down for the week, and God knew they needed them. So he saidnothing--and was funny.

  I don't know what you'd call it, but I think you know why I've told itto you. There's a splendor about it and a glory. To do one'sjob--isn't that the big thing, after all?

  Meantime, mine's waiting for me on the other side of this desk. He haslaid hands on every article in the room at least three times, and forthe last few minutes has been groaning very loud. I think you'd likehim--he's so alive.

  Your letter saves me the cost of the western papers, and now that Iknow you'll--but you said not to write about you.

  The Job has stopped groaning, and wants to know if I'm "writing allnight just because, or, for the reason that."

  It's night now--big night, and so still down-town here. Sometimes Istay up late to realize that I'm alive. The days are so crammed withhappenings. And late at night seems so wide and everlasting. You'vegot the idea that I do things. Well, I don't. There are whole rows ofdays when it seems just a muddle of half-started attempts--a manner ofhopeless confusion. There's a good deal of futility in it, first andlast. That boy tonight for instance. And, sometimes, I get towondering if, after all, one has the right to meddle in other people'slives. It's curious, but with you I've been quite sure. Always it hasbeen as clear as light to me that you must come through this--that itwill be right. I don't know how. Even that day you came, I was sure.As soon as _you_ are sure, the thing is done. That man isn't to beworried about--or the doctors. Easy for me to say, isn't it?

  Are you interested to know that I'm to have my building on the WestSide? There was a meeting today. It's the best thing that's happenedyet, that is, parochially. Maybe she's human after all. I mean Mrs.Jameson. She's going to pay for it.

  I think that's all. You can't say I've tried to thunder at you thistime. I really didn't last time. I've known all along that youwouldn't be impressed by thunder. The answer to that young devil'squestion seems to be: I'm writing "for the reason that," and not, "justbecause." Every time I think of that boy's name I have to laugh.

  GEOFFREY McBIRNEY.

  September 17th.

  MY DEAR MR. McBIRNEY--

  What _is_ the boy's name? It must be queer if you laugh every time youthink of it. Don't forget to tell me.

  Your letters leave me breathless with things to say back. I supposethat's inspiration, to make people feel full of new ideas, and thatyou're crammed with it. In the first place I'm in a terrible hurry totell you that something really big has touched the edge of my anaemiclife, and that I have recognized it; I'm pleased that I recognized it.Listen--please--this is it. Robert Halarkenden; I must tell you who heis. Thirteen years ago my uncle was on a camping trip in Canada andone of the guides was a silent Scotchman, mixed in with French-Canadianhabitants and half-breed Indians. My uncle was interested in him--hewas picturesque and conspicuous--but he would not talk about himself.Another guide told Uncle Ted all that anyone has ever known about him,till yesterday. He was a guardian of the club and lived alone in acamp in the wildest part of it, and in summer he guided one or twoparties, by special permission of the club secretary. This other guidehad been to his cabin and told my uncle that it was full of books; theguide found the number astounding--"_effrayant_." Also he had a gardenof forest flowers, and he knew everything about every wild thing thatgrew in the woods. Well, Uncle Ted was so taken with the man that heasked the secretary about him, and the secretary shook his head. Allthat he could tell was that he was a remarkable woodsman and a perfectguide and that he had been recommended to him in the first place by SirArchibald Graye of Toronto, who had refused to give reasons but askedas a personal favor that the man should be given any job he wished.This is getting rather a long story. Of course you know that the manwas Halarkenden and you are now to know that my uncle brought him toForest Gate as his gardener. He thought over it a day when Uncle Tedasked him and then said that he had lived fifteen years in the forestand that now he would like to live in a garden; he would come if UncleTed would let him make a garden as beautiful as he wished. Uncle Tedsaid yes, and he has done it. You have never seen such a garden--noone ever has. It is four acres and it lies on the bluff above thelake; that was a good beginning. If you had seen the rows of lilieslast June, with pink roses blossoming through them, you would haveknown that Robert Halarkenden is a poet and no common man. Of coursewe have known it all along, but in thirteen years one gets to takemiracles for granted. Yesterday I went down into the wild garden whichlies between the woods and the flowers--this is a large place--and Igot into the corner under the pines, and lay flat on the pink-brownneedles, all warm with splashes of September sunlight, and looked atthe goldenrod and purple asters swinging in the breeze and wondered ifI could forget my blessed bones and live in the beauty and joy of justthings, just the lovely world. Or whether it wouldn't be simpler topull a trigger when I went back to my room, instead of kicking andstruggling day after day to be and feel some other way. I get so sickand tired of fighting myself--you don't know. Anyhow, suddenly therewas a rustle in the gold and purple hedge, and there was RobertHalarkenden. I wish I could make you see him as he stood there, in hisblue working blouse, a pair of big clippers in his hand, his thick,half-gray, silvery thatch of hair bare and blowing around his scholar'sforehead, his bony Scotch face solemn and quiet. His deep-set eyeswere fixed with such a gentle gaze on me. We are good friends, Robinand I. I call him Robin; he taught me to when I was ten, so I alwayshave. "You're no feeling well, lassie?" he asked; he has known me along time, you see. And I suddenly sat up and told him about my oldbones. I didn't mean to; I have told no one but you; not Uncle Tedeven. But I did. And "Get up, lassie, and sit on the bench. I willtalk to you," said Robin. So we both sat down on the rustic benchunder the blowy pines, and I cried like a spring torrent, and Robinpatted my hand steadily, which seems an odd thing for one's uncle'sgardener to do, till I got through. Then I laughed and said, "MaybeI'll shoot myself." And he answered calmly, "I hope not, lassie."Then I said nothing and he said nothing
for quite a bit, and then hebegan talking gently about how everybody who counted had to go throughthings. "A character has to be hammered into the likeness of God," hesaid. "A soul doesn't grow beautiful by sunlight and rich earth," andhe looked out at his scarlet and blue and gold September garden andsmiled a little. "We're no like the flowers." Then he consideredagain, and then he asked if it would interest me at all to hear alittle tale, and I told him yes, of course. "Maybe it will seemcompanionable to know that other people have faced a bit of trouble,"he said. And then he told me. I don't know if you will believe it; itseems too much of a drama to be credible to me, if I had not heardRobert Halarkenden tell it in his entirely simple way, sitting in hisworkingman's blouse, with the big clippers in his right hand. Thirtyyears before he had been laird of a small property in Scotland, andabout to marry the girl whom he cared for. Then suddenly he found thatshe was in love with his cousin--with whom he had been brought up, andwho was as dear as a brother--and his cousin with her. In almost nomore words than I am using he told me of the crisis he lived throughand how he had gone off on the mountains and made his decision.