MONTES THE MATADOR 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
B Y FRANK HARRIS 
 THE MAN SHAKESPEARE 
 
 THE BOMB 
 ELDER CONKLIN 
 MONTES THE MATADOR 
 
 MR. AND MRS. DAVENTRY 
 SHAKESPEARE AND HIS LOVE 
 
MONTES 
 THE MATADOR 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANK HARRIS 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 MITCHELL KENNERLEY 
 
 MCMX 
 
Copyright igiO by 
 Mitchell Kennerley 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Monies The Matador: P, 3 ^^ 
 
 First Love: A Confession: P. 61 
 
 Profit and Loss: P. 87 
 
 The Interpreter: A Mere Episode: P, 163 
 
 Sonia: P. 175 
 
 28i4G9 
 
MONTES, THE MATADOR 
 
MONTES, THE MATADOR 
 
 YES ! I'm better, and the doctor tells me I've 
 escaped once more — as if I cared! . . . 
 And all through the fever you came every 
 day to see me, so my niece says, and brought me 
 the cool drink that drove the heat away and gave 
 me sleep. You thought, I suppose, like the 
 doctor, that I'd escape you, too. Ha! ha! And 
 that you'd never hear old Montes tell what he 
 knows of bull-fighting and you don't. ... Or 
 perhaps it was kindness; though, why you, a for- 
 eigner and a heretic, should be kind to me, God 
 knows. . . . The doctor says I've not got much 
 more life in me, and you're going to leave 
 Spain within the week — within the week, you said, 
 didn't you.? . . . Well, then, I don't mind tell- 
 ing you the story. 
 
 " Thirty years ago I wanted to tell it often 
 enough, but I knew no one I could trust. After 
 that fit passed, I said to myself I'd never tell it; 
 but as you're going away, I'll tell it to you, if 
 you swear by the Virgin you'll never t^ it to any 
 one, at least until I'm dead. You'll^wear, will 
 you.? easily enough! they all will; but as you're 
 going away, it's much the same. Besides, you 
 can do nothing now ; no one can do anything ; they 
 never could have done anything. Why, they 
 wouldn't believe you if you told it to them, the 
 fools! . . . My story will teach you more about 
 
 3 
 
Monies, the Matador 
 
 bull-fighting than Frascuelo or Mazzantinl, or — 
 yes, Lagartijo knows. Weren't there Frascuelos 
 and Mazzantinis in my day? Dozens of them. 
 You could pick one Frascuelo out of every thou- 
 sand labourers if 3^ou gave him the training and 
 the practice, and could keep him awaj^ from wine 
 and women. But a Montes is not to be found 
 every day, if you searched all Spain for one. 
 . . . What's the good of bragging.^ I never 
 bragged when I was at work: the deed talks — 
 louder than any words. Yet I think, no one has 
 ever done the things I used to do; for I read in 
 a paper once an account of a thing I often did, 
 and the writer said 'twas incredible. Ha, ha! in- 
 credible to the Frascuelos and Mazzantinis and the 
 rest, who can kill bulls and are called espadas. 
 Oh, yes! bulls so tired out they can't lift their 
 heads. You didn't guess when you were telling 
 me about Frascuelo and Mazzantini that I knew 
 them. I knew all about both of them before you 
 told me. I know their work, though I've not 
 been within sight of a ring for more than thirty 
 years. . . . Well, I'll tell you my story: I'll 
 tell you my story — if I can." 
 
 The old man said the last words as if to himself 
 in a low voice, then sank back in the armchair, 
 and for a time was silent. 
 
 Let me say a word or two about myself and the 
 circumstances which led me to seek out Montes. 
 
 I had been in Spain off and on a good deal, and 
 from the first had taken a great liking to the peo- 
 ple and country; and no one can love Spain and 
 the Spaniards without becoming interested in the 
 
 4 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 bull-ring — the sport is so characteristic of the 
 people, and in itself so enthralling. I set myself 
 to study it in earnest, and when I came to know 
 the best bull-fighters, Frascuelo, Mazzantini, and 
 Lagartijo, and heard them talk of their trade, I 
 began to understand what skill and courage, what 
 qualities of eye and hand and heart, this game 
 demands. Through my love of the sport, I came 
 to hear of Montes. He had left so great a name 
 that thirty years after he had disappeared from 
 the scene of his triumphs, he was still spoken of 
 not infrequently. He would perhaps have been 
 better remembered, had the feats attributed to him 
 been less astounding. It was Frascuelo who told 
 me that Montes was still alive: 
 
 " Montes," he cried out in answer to me ; " I 
 can tell you about Montes. You mean the old 
 espada who, they say, used to kill the bull in its 
 first rush into the ring — as if any one could do 
 that! I can tell you about him. He must have 
 been clever; for an old aficionado I know, swears 
 no one of us is fit to be in his cuadrilla. Those 
 old fellows are all like that, and I don't believe 
 half they tell about Montes. I dare say he was 
 good enough in his day, but there are just as good 
 men now as ever there were. When I was in 
 Ronda, four years ago, I went to see Montes. He 
 lives out of the town in a nice, little house all alone, 
 with one woman to attend to him, a niece of his, 
 they say. You know he was born in Ronda; but 
 he would not talk to me ; he only looked at me and 
 laughed — the little, lame, conceited one ! " 
 
 "You don't believe then, in spite of what they 
 5 
 
Monies, the Matador 
 
 say, that he was better than Lagartijo or Mazzan- 
 tini," I asked. 
 
 " No, I don't," Frascuelo replied. " Of course, 
 he may have known more than they do; that 
 wouldn't be difficult, for neither of them knows 
 much. Mazzantini is a good matador because he's 
 very tall and strong — that's his advantage. For 
 that, too, the women like him, and when he makes 
 a mistake and has to try again, he gets forgiven. 
 It wasn't so when I began. There were aficionados 
 then, and if you made a mistake they began to 
 jeer, and you were soon pelted out of the ring. 
 Now the crowd knows nothing and is no longer 
 content to follow those who do know. Lagartijo.'^ 
 Oh! he's very quick and daring, and the women 
 and boys like that, too. But he's ignorant: he 
 knows nothing about a bull. Why, he's been 
 wounded oftener in his five years than I in my 
 twenty. And that's a pretty good test. Montes 
 must have been clever; for he's very small and I 
 shouldn't think he was ever very strong, and then 
 he was lame almost from the beginning, I've heard. 
 I've no doubt he could teach the business to Maz- 
 zantini or Lagartijo, but that's not saying much. 
 . . . He must have made a lot of money, too, to 
 be able to live on it ever since. And they didn't 
 pay as high then or even when I began as they do 
 now." 
 
 So much I knew about Montes when, in the 
 spring of 188 — , I rode from Seville to Ronda, fell 
 in love with the place at first sight, and resolved 
 to stop at Polos' inn for some time. Ronda is 
 built, so to speak, upon an island tableland high 
 
 6 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 above the sea-level, and is ringed about by still 
 higher mountain ranges. It is one of the most 
 peculiar and picturesque places in the world. A 
 river runs almost all round it; and the sheer cliffs 
 fall in many places three or four hundred feet, 
 from the tableland to the water, like a wall. No 
 wonder that the Moors held Ronda after they had 
 lost every other foot of ground in Spain. Tak- 
 ing Ronda as my headquarters I made almost daily 
 excursions, chiefly on foot, into the surrounding 
 mountains. On one of these I heard again of 
 Montes. A peasant with whom I had been talking 
 and who was showing me a short cut back to the 
 town, suddenly stopped and said, pointing to a 
 little hut perched on the mountain-shoulder in front 
 of us, " From that house you can see Ronda. 
 That's the house where Montes, the great matador, 
 was born," he added, evidently with some pride. 
 Then and there the conversation with Frascuelo 
 came back to my memory, and I made up my mind 
 to find Montes out and have a talk with him. I 
 went to his house, which lay just outside the town, 
 next day with the alcalde, who introduced me to 
 him and then left us. The first sight of the man 
 interested me. He was short — about five feet 
 three or four, I should think — of well-knit, mus- 
 cular frame. He seemed to me to have Moorish 
 blood in him. His complexion was very dark and 
 tanned ; the features clean-cut ; the nose sharp and 
 inquisitive; the nostrils astonishingly mobile; the 
 chin and jaws square, boney — resolute. His hair 
 and thick moustache were snowwhite, and this, to- 
 gether with the deep wrinkles on the forehead and 
 
 7 
 
Montes, the Matador 
 
 round the eyes and mouth, gave him an appearance 
 of great age. He seemed to move, too, with ex- 
 treme difficulty, his lameness, as he afterwards told 
 me, being complicated with rheumatism. But 
 when one looked at his eyes, the appearance of age 
 vanished. They were large and brown, usually 
 inexpressive, or rather impenetrable, brooding wells 
 of unknown depths. But when anything excited 
 him, the eyes would suddenly flash to life and be- 
 come intensely luminous. The effect was starthng. 
 It seemed as if all the vast vitality of the man had 
 been transmuted into those wonderful gleaming 
 orbs: they radiated courage, energy, intellect. 
 Then as his mood changed, the light would die 
 out of the eyes, and the old, wizened, wrinkled face 
 would settle down into its ordinary, ill-tempered, 
 wearied expression. There was evidently so much 
 in the man — courage, melancholy, keen intelli- 
 gence — that in spite of an anything but flatter- 
 ing reception I returned again and again to the 
 house. One day his niece told me that Montes 
 was in bed, and from her description I inferred that 
 he was suffering from an attack of malarial fever. 
 The doctor who attended him, and whom I knew, 
 confirmed this. Naturally enough I did what I 
 could for the sufferer, and so it came about that 
 after his recovery he received me with kindness, 
 and at last made up his mind to tell me the story 
 of his life. 
 
 " I may as well begin at the beginning," Montes 
 went on. "I was born near here about sixty years 
 ago. You thought I was older. Don't deny it. 
 I saw the surprise in your face. But it's true: 
 
 8 
 
Frank Hams 
 
 in fact, I am not yet, I think, quite sixty. My 
 father was a peasant with a few acres of land of 
 his own and a cottage." 
 
 " I know it," I said. " I saw it the other 
 day." 
 
 " Then you may have seen on the further side of 
 the hill the pasture-ground for cattle which was 
 my father's chief possession. It was good pas- 
 ture ; very good. . . . My mother was of a better 
 class than my father ; she was the daughter of the 
 chemist in Ronda ; she could read and write, and 
 she did read, I remember, whenever she could get 
 the chance, which wasn't often, with her four chil- 
 dren to take care of — three girls and a boy — and 
 the house to look after. We all loved her, she was 
 so gentle; besides, she told us wonderful stories; 
 but I think I was her favourite. You see I was 
 the youngest and a boy, and women are like that. 
 My father was hard — at least, I thought him so, 
 and feared rather than loved him; but the girls 
 got on better with him. He never talked to me 
 as he did to them. My mother wanted me to go 
 to school and become a priest; she had taught 
 me to read and write by the time I was six. But 
 my father would not hear of it. ' If you had had 
 three boys and one girl,' I remember him saying 
 to her once, ' you could have done what you likrd 
 with this one. But as there is only one boy, lie 
 must work and help me.' So by the time I was 
 nine I used to go oif down to the pasture and 
 watch the bulls all day long. For though the herd 
 was a small one — only about twenty head — it re- 
 quired to be constantl}^ watched. The cows were 
 
 9 
 
Monies, the Matador 
 
 attended to in an enclosure close to the house. It 
 was my task to mind the bulls in the lower pas- 
 ture. Of course I had a pony, for such bulls in 
 Spain are seldom approached, and cannot be 
 driven by a man on foot. I see you don't under- 
 stand. But it's simple enough. My father's bulls 
 were of good stock, savage and strong; they were 
 always taken for the ring, and he got high prices 
 for them. He generally managed to sell three 
 nomllos and two bulls of four years old each year. 
 And there was no bargaining, no trouble; the 
 money was always ready for that class of animal. 
 All day long I sat on my pony, or stood near it, 
 minding the bulls. If any of them strayed too 
 far, I had to go and get him back again. But in 
 the heat of the day they never moved about much, 
 and that time I turned to use by learning the 
 lessons my mother gave me. So a couple of years 
 passed. Of course In that time I got to know 
 our bulls pretty well; but it was a remark of my 
 father which first taught me that each bull had an 
 individual character and first set me to watch them 
 closely. I must have been then about twelve years 
 old ; and in that summer I learned more than in the 
 two previous years. My father, though he said 
 nothing to me, must have noticed that I had gained 
 confidence in dealing with the bulls ; for one night, 
 when I was in bed, I heard him say to my mother 
 — * The little fellow is as good as a man now.' I 
 was proud of his praise, and from that time on, I 
 set to work to learn everything I could about the 
 buUs. 
 
 " By degrees I came to know every one of them 
 10 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 — better far than I ever got to know men or 
 women later. Bulls, I found, were just like men, 
 only simpler and kinder ; some were good-tempered 
 and honest, others were sulky and cunning. There 
 was a black one which was wild and hot-tempered, 
 but at bottom good, while there was one almost 
 as black, with light horns and flanks, which I never 
 trusted. The other bulls didn't like him. I could 
 see they didn't; they were all afraid of him. He 
 was cunning and suspicious, and never made friends 
 with any of them ; he would always eat by himself 
 far away from the others — but he had courage, 
 too ; I knew that as well as they did. He was sold 
 that very summer with the black one for the ring 
 in Ronda. One Sunday night, y>'hen my father 
 and eldest sister (my mother would never go to los 
 toros) came back from seeing the game in Ronda, 
 they were wild with excitement, and began to tell 
 the mother how one of our bulls had caught the 
 matador and tossed him, and how the chulos could 
 scarcely get the matador away. Then I cried out 
 — * I know ; 'twas Judas ' ( so I had christened 
 him), and as I saw my father's look of surprise 
 I went on confusedly, ' the bull with the white 
 horns I mean. Juan, the black one, wouldn't have 
 been clever enough.' My father only said, ' The 
 boy's right ' ; but my mother drew me to her and 
 kissed me, as if she were afraid. . . . Poor mother ! 
 I think even then she knew or divined something 
 of what came to pass later. . . . 
 
 " It was the next summer, I think, that my 
 father first found out how much I knew about the 
 bulls. It happened in this way. There hadn't 
 
 11 
 
Monies, the Matador 
 
 been mucK rain in the spring, the pasture, there- 
 fore, was thin, and that, of course, made the bulls 
 restless. In the summer the weather was unsettled 
 — spells of heat and then thunderstorms — till the 
 animals became very excitable. One day, there 
 was thunder in the air I remember, they gave me 
 a great deal of trouble and that annoyed me, for 
 I wanted to read. I had got to a very interesting 
 tale in the story-book my mother had given me on 
 the day our bulls were sold. The story was about 
 Cervantes — ah, you know who I mean, the great 
 writer. Well, he was a great man, too. The 
 stor}^ told how he escaped from the prison over 
 there in Algiers and got back to Cadiz, and how 
 a widow came to him to find out if he knew her 
 son, who was also a slave of the Moors. And when 
 she heard that Cervantes had seen her son working 
 in chains, she bemoaned her wretchedness and ill- 
 fortune, till the heart of the great man melted 
 with pity, and he said to her, ' Come, mother, be 
 hopeful, in one month your son shall be here with 
 you.' And then the book told how Cervantes went 
 back to slavery, and how glad the Bey was to get 
 him again, for he was very clever; and how he 
 asked the Bey, as he had returned of his free will, 
 to send the widow's son home In his stead ; and the 
 Bey consented. That Cervantes was a man ! . . . 
 Well, I was reading the story, and I believed every 
 word of it, as I do still, for no ordinary person 
 could invent that sort of tale; and I grew very 
 much excited and wanted to know all about Cer- 
 vantes. But as I could only read slowly and with 
 difficulty, I was afraid the sun would go down 
 
 13 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 before I could get to the end. While I was read- 
 ing as hard as ever I could, \\\y father came down 
 on foot and caught me. He hated to see me read- 
 ing — I don't know why; and he was angry and 
 struck at me. As I avoided the blow and got away 
 from him, he pulled up the picket hne, and got on 
 my pony to drive one of the bulls back to the herd. 
 I have thought since, he must have been very much 
 annoyed before he came down and caught me. 
 For though he knew a good deal about bulls, he 
 didn't show it then. My pony was too weak to 
 carry him easily, yet he acted as if he had been 
 well mounted. For as I said, the bulls were hun- 
 gry and excited, and my father should have seen 
 this and driven the bull back quietly and w ith great 
 patience. But no ; he wouldn't let him feed even 
 for a moment. At last the bull turned on him. 
 My father held the goad fairly against his neck, 
 but the bull came on just the same, and the pony 
 could scarcely get out of the way in time. In a 
 moment the bull turned and prepared to rush at 
 him again. My father sat still on the little pony 
 and held the goad; but I knew that was no use; 
 he knew it too; but he was angry and wouldn't 
 give in. At once I ran in between him and the 
 bull, and then called to the bull, and went slowly 
 up to him where he was shaking his head and paw- 
 ing the ground. He was very angry, but he knew 
 the difference between us quite well, and he let 
 me come close to him without rushing at me, and 
 then just shook his head to show me he was still 
 angry, and soon began to feed quietly. In a mo- 
 ment or two I left him and went back to my 
 
 13 
 
Monies, the Matador 
 
 father. He had got off the pony and was white 
 and trembling, and he said, 
 
 " ' Are you hurt ? ' 
 
 " And I said laughing, * No : he didn't want to 
 hurt me. He was only showing off his temper.' 
 
 " And my father said, ' There's not a man in 
 all Spain that could have done that ! You know 
 more than I do — more than anybody.' 
 
 " After that he let me do as I liked, and the 
 next two years were very happy ones. First came 
 the marriage of my second sister; then the eldest 
 one was married, and they were both good matches. 
 And the bulls sold well, and my father had less to 
 do, as I could attend to the whole herd by myself. 
 Those were two good years. My mother seemed 
 to love me more and more every day, or I suppose 
 I noticed it more, and she praised me for doing 
 the lessons she gave me ; and I had more and more 
 time to study as the herd got to know me better 
 and better. 
 
 " My only trouble was that I had never seen the 
 bulls in the ring. But when I found my father 
 was willing to take me, and 'twas mother who 
 wanted me not to go, I put up with that, too, and 
 said nothing, for I loved her greatly. Then of a 
 sudden came the sorrow. It was in the late winter, 
 just before my fifteenth birthday. I was born 
 in March, I think. In January my mother caught 
 cold, and as she grew worse my father fetched the 
 doctor, and then her father and mother came to 
 see her, but nothing did any good. In April she 
 died. I wanted to die too. 
 
 " After her death my father took to grumbling 
 14i 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 about the food and house and everything. Noth- 
 ing my sister could do was right. I beheve she 
 only married in the summer because she couldn't 
 stand his constant blame. At any rate she mar- 
 ried badly, a good-for-nothing who had twice her 
 years, and who ill-treated her continually. A 
 month or two later my father, who must have been 
 fifty, married again, a young woman, a labourer's 
 daughter without a duro. He told me he was go- 
 ing to do it, for the house needed a woman. I sup- 
 pose he was right. But I was too young then 
 to take such things into consideration, and I had 
 loved my mother. When I saw his new wife I 
 did not like her, and we did not get on well to- 
 gether. 
 
 " Before this, however, early in the summer that 
 followed the death of my mother, I went for the 
 first time to see a bull-fight. My father wanted 
 me to go, and my sister, too; so I went. I shall 
 never forget that day. The cJiulos made me 
 laugh, they skipped about so and took such extra- 
 good care of themselves ; but the handerilleros 
 interested me. Their work required skill and cour- 
 age, that I saw at once ; but after they had planted 
 the banderillas twice, I knew how it was done, and 
 felt I could do it just as well or better. For the 
 third or fourth handerillero made a mistake! He 
 didn't even know with which horn the bull was go- 
 ing to strike; so he got frightened, and did not 
 plant the banderillas fairly — in fact, one was on 
 the side of the shoulder and the other didn't even 
 stick in. As for the picadores, they didn't inter- 
 est me at all. There was no skill or knowledge in 
 
 15 
 
Montesy the Matador 
 
 their work. It was for the crowd, who Hked to 
 see blood and wlio understand nothing. Then 
 came the turn of the espada. Ah! that seemed 
 splendid to me. He knew his work I thought at 
 first, and his work evidently required knowledge, 
 skill, courage, strength — everything. I was in- 
 tensely excited, and when the bull, struck to the 
 heart, fell prone on his knees, and the blood gushed 
 from his nose and mouth, I cheered and cheered till 
 I was hoarse. But before the games were over, 
 that very first day, I saw more than one matador 
 make a mistake. At first I thought I must be 
 wrong, but soon the event showed I was right. 
 For the matador hadn't even got the bull to stand 
 square when he tried his stroke and failed. You 
 don't know what that means — ' to stand square.' " 
 
 " I do partly," I replied, " but I don't see the 
 reason of it. Will you explain.? " 
 
 " It's very simple," Montes answered. " So 
 long as the bull's standing with one hoof in front 
 of the other, his shoulder-blades almost meet, just 
 as when you throw your arms back and your chest 
 out; they don't meet, of course, but the space be- 
 tween them is not as regular, and, therefore, not as 
 large as it is when their front hooves are square. 
 The space between the shoulder-blades is none too 
 large at any time, for you have to strike with force 
 to drive the sword through the inch-thick hide, 
 and through a foot of muscle, sinew, and flesh be- 
 sides to the heart. Nor is the stroke a straight 
 one. Then, too, there's always the backbone to 
 avoid. And the space between the backbone and 
 the nearest thick gristle of the shoulder-blade is 
 
 16 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 never more than an inch and a half. So if you 
 narrow this space by even half an inch you increase 
 your difficulty immensely. And that's not your 
 object. Well, all this I've been telling you, I di- 
 vined at once. Therefore, when I saw the bull 
 wasn't standing quite square I knew the matador 
 was either a bungler or else very clever and strong 
 indeed. In a moment he proved himself to be a 
 bungler, for his sword turned on the shoulder- 
 blade, and the bull, throwing up his head, almost 
 caught him on his horns. Then I hissed and cried, 
 ' Shame ! ' And the people stared at me. That 
 butcher tried five times before he killed the bull, 
 and at last even the most ignorant of the spec- 
 tators knew I had been right in hissing him. He 
 was one of your Mazzantinis, I suppose." 
 
 " Oh, no ! " I replied, " I've seen Mazzantini try 
 twice, but never five times. That's too much ! " 
 
 " Well," Montes continued quietly, " the man 
 who tries once and fails ought never to be allowed 
 in a ring again. But to go on. That first day 
 taught me I could be an espada. The only doubt 
 in my mind was in regard to the nature of the bulls. 
 Should I be able to understand new bulls — ^bulls, 
 too, from different herds and of different race, 
 as well as I understood our bulls? Going home 
 that evening I tried to talk to my father, but he 
 thought the sport had been very good, and when 
 I wanted to show him the mistakes the matadores 
 had made, he laughed at me, and, taking hold of 
 my arm, he said, ' Here's where you need the 
 gristle before you could kill a bull with a sword, 
 even if he were tied for you.' My father was very 
 
 17 
 
Monies, the Matador 
 
 proud of his size and strength, but what he said 
 had reason in it, and made me doubt myself. Then 
 he talked about the gains of the matadores. A 
 fortune, he said, was given for a single day's work. 
 Even the pay of the chulos seemed to me to be 
 extravagant, and a handerillero got enough to 
 make one rich for life. That night I thought 
 over all I had seen and heard, and fell asleep and 
 dreamt I was an espada, the best in Spain, and 
 rich, and married to a lovely girl with golden hair 
 — as boys do dream. 
 
 " Next day I set myself to practice with our 
 bulls. First I teased one till he grew angry and 
 rushed at me; then, as a cliulOy I stepped aside. 
 And after I had practised this several times, I be- 
 gan to try to move aside as late as possible and only 
 just as far as was needful; for I soon found out 
 the play of horn of every bull we had. The older 
 the bull the heavier his neck and shoulders become, 
 and, therefore, the sweep of horns in an old bull 
 is much smaller than a young one's. Before the 
 first morning's sport was over I knew that with 
 our bulls at any rate I could beat any chulo I had 
 seen the day before. Then I set myself to quiet 
 the bulls, which was a little difficult, and after I 
 had succeeded I went back to my pony to read 
 and dream. Next day I played at being a ban- 
 der'illerOy and found out at once that my knowl- 
 edge of the animal was all important. For I knew 
 always on which side to move to avoid the bull's 
 rush. I knew how he meant to strike by the way 
 he put his head down. To plant the banderillas 
 perfectly would have been child's play to me, at 
 
 18 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 least with our bulls. The matador^s work was 
 harder to practise. I had no sword; besides, the 
 bull I wished to pretend to kill, was not tired and 
 wouldn't keep quiet. Yet I went on trying. The 
 game had a fascination for me. A few days later, 
 provided with a makeshift red capay I got a bull 
 far away from the others. Then I played with 
 him till he was tired out. First I played as a 
 chulo, and avoided his rushes by an inch or two 
 only; then, as banderillero, I escaped his stroke, 
 and, as I did so, struck his neck with two sticks. 
 When he was tired I approached him with the capa 
 and found I could make him do what I pleased, 
 stand crooked or square in a moment, just as I 
 liked. For I learned at once that as a rule the bull 
 rushes at the capa and not at the man who holds 
 it. Some bulls, however, are clever enough to 
 charge the man. For weeks I kept up this game, 
 till one day my father expressed his surprise at 
 the thin and wretched appearance of the bulls. 
 No wonder ! The pasture ground had been a ring 
 to them and me for many a week. 
 
 " After this I had to play matador — the only 
 part which had any interest for me — without first 
 tiring them. Then came a long series of new 
 experiences, which in time made me what I was, 
 a real espada, but which I can scarcely describe 
 to you. 
 
 " For power over wild animals comes to a man, 
 as it were, by leaps and bounds. Of a sudden one 
 finds he can make a bull do something which the 
 day before he could not make him do. It is all a 
 matter of intimate knowledge of the nature of the 
 
 19 
 
Monies, the Matador 
 
 animal. Just as the shepherd, as I've been told, 
 knows the face of each sheep in a flock of a thou- 
 sand, though I can see no difference between the 
 faces of sheep, which are all alike stupid to me, 
 so I came to know bulls, with a complete under- 
 standing of the nature and temper of each one. 
 It's just because I can't tell you how I acquired 
 this part of my knowledge that I was so long- 
 winded in explaining to you my first steps. What 
 I knew more than I have told you, will appear as 
 I go on with my story, and that you must believe 
 or disbelieve as you think best." 
 
 *' Oh," I cried, " you've explained everything so 
 clearly, and thrown light on so many things I 
 didn't understand, that I shall believe whatever you 
 tell me." 
 
 Old Montes went on as if he hadn't heard my 
 protestation : 
 
 " The next three years were intolerable to me : 
 my stepmother repaid my dislike with interest and 
 found a hundred ways of making me uncomfort- 
 able, without doing anything I could complain of 
 and get altered. In the spring of my nineteenth 
 year I told my father I intended to go to Madrid 
 and become an espada. When he found he couldn't 
 induce me to stay, he said I might go. We parted, 
 and I walked to Seville; there I did odd jobs for 
 a few weeks in connection with the bull-ring, such 
 as feeding the bulls, helping to separate them, and 
 so forth; and there I' made an acquaintance who 
 was afterwards a friend. Juan Valdera was one 
 of the cuadrilla of Girvalda, a matador of the 
 ordinary type. Juan was from Estramadura, and 
 
 2U 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 we could scarce!}^ understand each other at first ; 
 but he was kindly and careless and I took a great 
 liking to him. He was a fine man; tall, strong 
 and handsome, with short, dark, wavy hair and 
 dark moustache, and great black eyes. He liked 
 me, I suppose, because I admired him and because 
 I never wearied of hearing him tell of his con- 
 quests among women and even great ladies. Of 
 course I told him I wished to enter the ring, and 
 he promised to help me to get a place in Madrid 
 where he knew many of the officials. ' You may 
 do well with the capa,^ I remember he said con- 
 descendingly, ' or even as a handerillero, but you'll 
 never go further. You see, to be an espada, as I 
 intend to be, you must have height and strength,' 
 and he stretched his fine figure as he spoke. I 
 acquiesced humbly enough. I felt that perhaps 
 he and my father were right, and I didn't know 
 whether I should ever have strength enough for 
 the task of an espada. To be brief, I saved a 
 little money, and managed to get to Madrid late 
 in the year, too late for the bull-ring. Thinking 
 over the matter I resolved to get work in a black- 
 smith's shop, and at length succeeded. As I had 
 thought, the labour strengthened me greatly, and 
 in the spring of my twentieth year, by Juan's help, 
 
 I got employed on trial one Sunday as a chulo. 
 ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 
 
 '' I suppose," Montes went on, after a pause, 
 ** I ought to have been excited and nervous on that 
 first Sunday — but I wasn't; I was only eager to 
 do well in order to get engaged for the season. 
 The blacksmith, Antonio, whom I had worked with, 
 
 21 
 
Monies, the Matador 
 
 had advanced me the money for my costume, and 
 Juan had taken me to a tailor and got the things 
 made, and what I owed Antonio and the tailor 
 weighed on me. Well, on that Sunday I was a 
 failure at first. I went in the procession with the 
 rest, then with the others I fluttered my capa; 
 but when the bull rushed at me, instead of run- 
 ning away, like the rest, I wrapped my capa about 
 me and, just as his horns were touching me, I 
 moved aside — not half a pace. The spectators 
 cheered me, it is true, and I thought I had done 
 very well, until Juan came over to me, and said: 
 
 " ' You mustn't show off^ like that. First of 
 all, you'll get killed if you play that game; and 
 then you fellows with the capa are there to make 
 the bull run about, to tire him out so that we 
 matadores may kill him.' 
 
 " That was my first lesson in professional jeal- 
 ousy. After that I ran about like the rest, but 
 without much heart in the sport. It seemed to 
 me stupid. Besides, from Juan's anger and con- 
 tempt, I felt sure I shouldn't get a permanent 
 engagement. Bit by bit, however, my spirits rose 
 again w ith the exercise, and when the fifth or sixth 
 bull came in^ I resolved to make him run. It was 
 a good, honest bull; I saw that at once; he stood 
 in the middle of the ring, excited, but not angry, 
 in spite of the waving of the capas all round him. 
 As soon as my turn came, I ran forward, nearer 
 to him than the others had considered safe, and 
 waved the challenge with my capa. At once he 
 rushed at it, and I gave him a long run, half 
 round the circle, and ended it by stopping and 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 letting him toss the capa which I held not quite 
 at arm's length from my body. As I did this I 
 didn't turn round to face him. I knew he'd toss 
 the capa and not me, but the crowd rose and 
 cheered as if the thing were extraordinary. Then 
 I felt sure I should be engaged, and I was per- 
 fectly happy. Only Juan said to me a few min- 
 utes later: 
 
 " ' You'll be killed, my boy, one of these fine 
 daj^s if you try those games. Your life will be 
 a short one if you begin by trusting a bull.' 
 
 " But I didn't mind what he said. I thought he 
 meant it as a friendly warning, and I was anxious 
 only to get permanently engaged. And sure 
 enough, as soon as the games were over, I was 
 sent for by the director. He was kind to me, and 
 asked me where I had played before. I told him 
 that was my first trial. 
 
 " ' Ah ! ' he said, turning to a gentleman who 
 was with him, ' I knew it, Senor Duque ; such cour- 
 age always comes from — want of experience, let 
 me call it.' 
 
 " ' No,' replied the gentleman, whom I after- 
 wards knew as the Duke of Medina Celi, the best 
 aficionado, and one of the noblest men in Spain; 
 ' I'm not so sure of that. Why,' he went on, 
 speaking now to me, ' did you keep your back 
 turned to the bull?' 
 
 " ' Senor,' I answered, * 'twas an honest bull, and 
 not angry, and I knew he'd toss the capa without 
 paying any attention to me.' 
 
 "'Well,' said the Duke, 'if you know that 
 much, and aren't afraid to risk your life on your 
 
Monies, the Matador 
 
 knowledge, you'll go far. I must have a talk 
 with you some day, when I've more time ; you can 
 come and see me. Send in your name ; I shall re- 
 member.' And as he said this, he nodded to me 
 and waved his hand to the director, and went 
 away. 
 
 " Then and there the director made me sign an 
 engagement for the season, and gave me one hun- 
 dred duros as earnest money in advance of my 
 pay. What an evening we had after that ! Juan, 
 the tailor, Antonio the blacksmith, and I. How 
 glad and proud I was to be able to pay my debts 
 and still have sixty duros in my pocket after en- 
 tertaining my friends. If Juan had not hurt me 
 every now and then by the way he talked of my 
 f oolhardiness, I should have told them all I knew ; 
 but I didn't. I only said I was engaged at a 
 salary of a hundred duros a month. 
 
 " ' What ! ' said Juan. ' Come, tell the truth ; 
 make it fifty.' 
 
 " * No,' I said ; ' it was a hundred,' and I pulled 
 out the money. 
 
 " ' Well,' he said, ' that only shows what it is 
 to be small and young and foolhardy ! Here am I, 
 after six years' experience, second, too, in the 
 cuadrilla of Girvalda, and I'm not getting much 
 more than that.' 
 
 " Still, in spite of such little drawbacks, in spite, 
 too, of the fact that Juan had to go away early, 
 to meet ' a lovely creature,' as he said, that even- 
 ing was one of the happiest I ever spent. 
 
 " All that summer through I worked every Sun- 
 day, and grew in favour with the Madrilenos, and 
 
 24 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 with the Madrilenas, though not with these in 
 Juan's way. I was timid and young; besides, I 
 had a picture of a woman in my mind, and I saw 
 no one hke it. So I went on studying the bulls, 
 learning all I could about the different breeds, and 
 watching them in the ring. Then I sent money 
 to my sister and to my father, and was happy. 
 
 " In the winter I was a good deal with Antonio ; 
 every day I did a spell of work in his shop to 
 strengthen myself, and he, I think, got to know 
 that I intended to become an espada. At any rate, 
 after my first performance with the capa^ he be- 
 lieved I could do whatever I wished. He used often 
 to say God had given him strength and me brains, 
 and he only wished he could exchange some of his 
 muscle for some of my wits. Antonio was not 
 very bright, but he was good-tempered, kind, and 
 hard-working, the only friend I ever had. May 
 Our Lady give his soul rest ! 
 
 " Next spring when the director sent for me, I 
 said that I wanted to work as a banderillero. He 
 seemed to be surprised, told me I was a favourite 
 with the capa, and had better stick to that for 
 another season at least. But I was firm. Then 
 he asked me whether I had ever used the handerillas 
 and where? The director always believed I had 
 been employed in some other ring before I came 
 to Madrid. I told him I was confident I could do 
 the work. ' Besides,' I added, ' I want more pay,' 
 which was an untruth; but the argument seemed 
 to him decisive, and he engaged me at two hun- 
 dred duros a month, under the condition that, if 
 the spectators wished it, I should work now and 
 
 25 
 
Montesy the Matador 
 
 then with the capa as well. It didn't take me long 
 to show the aficionados in Madrid that I was as 
 good with the handerillas as I was with the capa. 
 I could plant them when and where I liked. For 
 in this season I found I could make the bull do 
 almost anything. You know how the handerillero 
 has to excite the bull to charge him before he can 
 plant the darts. He does that to make the bull 
 lower his head well, and he runs towards the bull 
 partly so that the bull may not know when to toss 
 his head up, partly because he can throw himself 
 aside more easily when he's running fairly fast. 
 Well, again and again I made the bull lower his 
 head and then walked to him, planted the handeril- 
 las, and as he struck upwards swayed aside just 
 enough to avoid the blow. That was an infinitely 
 more difficult feat than anything I had ever done 
 with the capa, and it gave me reputation among 
 the aficionados and also with the espadas; but the 
 ignorant herd of spectators preferred my trick 
 with the capa. So the season came and went. I 
 had many a carouse with Juan, and gave him 
 money from time to time, because women always 
 made him spend more than he got. From that 
 time, too, I gave my sister fifty duros a month, 
 and my father Miy. For before the season was 
 half over my pay was raised to four hundred duros 
 a month, and my name was always put on the 
 bills. In fact I was rich and a favourite of the 
 public. 
 
 " So time went on, and my third season in 
 Madrid began, and with it came the beginning of 
 the end. Never was any one more absolutely con- 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 tent than I when we were told los toros would begin 
 in a fortnight. On the first Sunday I was walk- 
 ing carelessly in the procession beside Juan, 
 though I could have been next to the espadas, had 
 I wished, when he suddenly nudged me, saying: 
 
 " ' Look up ! there on the second tier ; there's 
 a face for you.' 
 
 " I looked up, and saw a girl with the face of 
 my dreams, only much more beautiful. I sup- 
 pose I must have stopped, for Juan pulled me by 
 the arm crying : ' You're moonstruck, man ; come 
 on ! ' and on I went — lovestruck in heart and brain 
 and body. What a face it was ! The golden hair 
 framed it like a picture, but the great eyes were 
 hazel, and the lips scarlet, and she wore the man- 
 tilla like a queen. I moved forward like a man 
 in a dream, conscious of nothing that went on 
 round me, till I heard Juan say: 
 
 " ' She's looking at us. She kndws we've noticed 
 her. All right, pretty one! we'll make friends 
 afterwards.' 
 
 " ' But how ? ' I asked, stupidly. 
 
 "'How!' he replied, mockingly. * I'll just 
 send some one to find out who she is, and then 
 you can send her a box for next Sunday, and pray 
 for her acquaintance, and the thing's done. I 
 suppose that's her mother sitting behind her,' he 
 went on. ' I wonder if the other girl next to her 
 is the sister. She's as good-looking as the fair- 
 haired one, and easier to win, I'd bet. Strange 
 how all the timid ones take to me.' And again he 
 looked up. 
 
 " I said nothing ; nor did I look up at the place 
 27 
 
Monies, the Matador 
 
 where she was sitting ; but I worked that day as I 
 had never worked before. Then, for the first time, 
 I did something that has never been done since by 
 any one. The first bull was honest and kindly: I 
 knew the sort. So, when the people began to call 
 for El Pequefio (the little fellow) — that was the 
 nickname they had given me — I took up a capa, 
 and, when the bull chased me, I stopped suddenly, 
 faced him, and threw the caya round me. He was 
 within ten paces of me before he saw I had stopped, 
 and he began to stop; but before he came to a 
 standstill his horns were within a foot of me. He 
 tossed his head once or twice as if he would strike 
 me, and then went off. The people cheered and 
 cheered as if they would never cease. Then I looked 
 up at her. She must have been watching me, for 
 she took the red rose from her hair and threw it 
 into the ring towards me, crying, ' Bien ! Muy 
 bien ! El Pequefio ! ' 
 
 " As I picked up the rose, pressed it to my lips, 
 and hid it in my breast, I realized all that life 
 holds of triumphant joy! . . . Then I made up 
 my mind to show what I could do, and everything 
 I did that day seemed to delight the public. At 
 last, as I planted the banderillas, standing in front 
 of the bull, and he tried twice in quick succession 
 to strike me and failed, the crowd cheered and 
 cheered and cheered, so that, even when I went 
 away, after bowing and stood among my fellows, 
 ten minutes passed before they would let the game 
 go on. I didn't look up again. No! I wanted to 
 keep the memory of what she looked like when she 
 threw me the rose. 
 
 38 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 " After the games were over, I met her, that 
 same evening. Juan had brought it about, and 
 he talked easily enough to the mother and daugh- 
 ter and niece, while I listened. We all went, I 
 remember, to a restaurant in the Puerta del Sol, 
 and ate and drank together. I said little or noth- 
 ing the whole evening. The mother told us they 
 had just come from the north: Alvareda was the 
 family name; her daughter was Clemencia, the 
 niece, Liberata. I heard ever3^thing in a sort of 
 fever of hot pulses and cold fits of humility, while 
 Juan told them all about himself, and what he 
 meant to do and to be. While Clemencia listened 
 to him, I took my fill of gazing at her. At last 
 Juan invited them all to los toros on the following 
 Sunday, and promised them the best palco in the 
 ring. He found out, too, where they lived, in a 
 little street running parallel to the Alcala, and 
 assured them of our visit within the week. Then 
 they left, and as they w^nt out of the door Liber- 
 ata looked at Juan, while Clemencia chatted with 
 him and teased him. 
 
 " ' That's all right,' said Juan, turning to me 
 when they were gone, ' and I don't know which is 
 the more taking, the niece or Clemencia. Perhaps 
 the niece; she looks at one so appealingly; and 
 those who talk so with their eyes are always the 
 best. I wonder have they any money. One might 
 do worse than either with a good portion.' 
 
 " ' Is that your real opinion ? ' I asked hesitat- 
 ingly. 
 
 " ' Yes,' he answered ; ' why ? ' 
 
 " * Because, in that case leave Clemencia to me. 
 39 
 
MonteSy the Matador 
 
 Of course jou could win her if j^ou wanted to. But 
 it makes no difference to you, and to me all the 
 difference. If I cannot marry her, I shall never 
 marry.' 
 
 " ' Gesu ! ' he cried, ' how fast you go, but I'd 
 do more than that for you, Montes ; and besides, 
 the niece really pleases me better.' 
 
 " So the matter was settled between us. 
 
 " Now, if I could tell yoii all that happened, I 
 would. But much escaped me at the time that I 
 afterwards remembered, and many things that 
 then seemed to me to be as sure as a straight 
 stroke, have since grown confused. I only know 
 that Juan and I met them often, and that Juan 
 paid court to the niece, while I from time to time 
 talked timidly to Clemencia. 
 
 " One Sunday after another came and went, and 
 we grew to know each other well. Clemencia did 
 not chatter like other women: I liked her the bet- 
 ter for it, and when I came to know she was very 
 proud, I liked that, too. She charmed me; why.^^ 
 I can scarcely tell. I saw her faults gradually, 
 but even her faults appeared to me fascinating. 
 Her pride was insensate. I remember one Sunday 
 afternoon after the games, I happened to go into 
 a restaurant, and found her sitting there with her 
 mother. I was in costume and carried in my hand 
 a great nosegay of roses that a lady had thrown 
 me in the ring. Of course as soon as I saw Cle- 
 mencia I went over to her and — you know it is the 
 privilege of the matadores in Spain, even if they 
 do not know the lady — taking a rose from the 
 bunch I presented it to her as the fairest of the 
 
 30 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 fair. Coming from the cold North, she didn't 
 know the custom and scarcely seemed pleased. 
 When I explained it to her, she exclaimed that it 
 was monstrous; she'd never allow a mere matador 
 to take such a liberty unless she knew and liked 
 him. Juan expostulated with her laughingly; I 
 said nothing; I knew what qualities our work re- 
 quired, and didn't think it needed any defence. I 
 believe in that first season, I came to see that her 
 name Clemencia wasn't very appropriate. At any 
 rate she had courage and pride, that was certain. 
 Very early in our friendship she wanted to know 
 why I didn't become an espada. 
 
 " ' A man without ambition,' she said, ' was like 
 a woman without beauty.' 
 
 " I laughed at this and told her my ambition was 
 to do my work well, and advancement was sure to 
 follow in due course. Love of her seemed to have 
 killed ambition in me. But no. She wouldn't rest 
 content in spite of Juan's telling her my position 
 already was more brilliant than that of most of 
 the espadas. 
 
 " ' He does things with the capa and the bander- 
 illas which no espada in all Spain would care 
 to imitate. And that's position enough. Be- 
 sides, to be an espada requires height and 
 strength.' 
 
 " As he said this she seemed to be convinced, 
 but it annoyed me a little, and afterwards as we 
 walked together, I said to her, 
 
 " ' If you want to see me work as an espada, you 
 shall.' 
 
 " ' Oh, no ! ' she answered half carelessly ; ' if 
 
 31 
 
Monies^ the Matador 
 
 3^ou can't do it, as Juan says, why should you try ? 
 to fail is worse than to lack ambition.' 
 
 " ' Well,' I answered, ' you shall see.' 
 
 " And then I took my courage in both hands 
 and went on: 
 
 " ' If you cared for me I should be the first 
 espada in the world next season.' 
 
 " She turned and looked at me curiously and 
 said, 
 
 " ' Of course I'd wish it if you could do it.' 
 
 " And I said, ' See, I love you as the priest loves 
 the Virgin ; tell me to be an espada and I shall be 
 one for the sake of your love.' 
 
 " ' That's what all men say, but love doesn't 
 make a man tall and strong.' 
 
 " ' No ; nor do size and strength take the place 
 of heart and head. Do you love me? That's the 
 question.' 
 
 " ' I like you, yes. But love — love, they say, 
 comes after marriage." 
 
 " ' Will you marry me.^^ ' 
 
 " ' Become an espada and then ask me again,' 
 she answered coquettishly. 
 
 " The very next day I went to see the Duke 
 of Medina Celi; the servants would scarcely let 
 me pass till they heard my name and that the Duke 
 had asked me to come. He received me kindly. 
 I told him what I wanted. 
 
 " ' Have you ever used the sword? ' he asked in 
 surprise. ' Can you do it? You see we don't 
 want to lose the best man with capa and hande- 
 rillas ever known, to get another second-class 
 espada.' 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 '' And I answered him, 
 
 " ' Senor Duque, I have done better with the 
 handerillas than I could with the cap a. I shall 
 do better with the espada than with the han- 
 derillas.' 
 
 " ' You little fiend ! ' he laughed, ' I believe you 
 will, though it is unheard of to become an espada 
 without training; but now for the means. All the 
 espadas are engaged ; it'll be difficult. Let me see. 
 . . . The Queen has asked me to superintend the 
 sports early in July, and then I shall give you your 
 chance. Will that do.'' In the meantime, aston- 
 ish us all with capa and handerillas^ so that men 
 may not think me mad when I put your name first 
 on the bill.' 
 
 " I thanked him from my heart, as was his due, 
 and after a little more talk I went away to tell 
 Clemencia the news. She only said: 
 
 " ' I'm glad. Now you'll get Juan to help you.' 
 
 " I stared at her. 
 
 "'Yes!' she went on, a little impatiently; 'he 
 has been taught the work; he's sure to be able to 
 show you a great deal.' 
 
 " I said not a word. She was sincere, I saw, 
 but then she came from the North and knew noth- 
 ing. I said to myself, ' That's how women are ! ' 
 
 " She continued, ' Of course you're clever with 
 the capa and handerillas, and now you must do 
 more than ever, as the Duke said, to deserve your 
 chance.' And then she asked carelessly, ' Couldn't 
 you bring the Duke and introduce him to us some 
 time or other? I should like to thank him.' 
 
 "And I, thinking it meant our betrothal, was 
 33 
 
Monies, the Matador 
 
 glad, and promised. And I remember I did bring 
 him once to the box and he was kind in a way, but 
 not cordial as he always was when alone with me, 
 and he told Clemencia that I'd go very far, and 
 that any woman would be lucky to get me for a 
 husband, and so on. And after a little while he 
 went away. But Clemencia was angry with him 
 and said he put on airs, and, indeed, I had never 
 seen him so cold and reserved; I could say little 
 or nothing in his defence. 
 
 " Well, all that May I worked as I had never 
 done. The Director told me he knew I was to use 
 the espada on the first Sunday in July, and he 
 seemed to be glad; and one or two of the best 
 espadas came to me and said they'd heard the news 
 and should be glad to welcome me among them. 
 All this excited me, and I did better and better. 
 I used to pick out the old prints of Go^^a, the great 
 painter — you know his works are in the Prado — 
 and do everything the old matadores did, and in- 
 vent new things. But nothing ' took ' like my 
 trick with the capa. One Sunday, I remember, I 
 had done it with six bulls, one after the other, and 
 the people cheered and cheered. But the seventh 
 was a bad bull, and, of course, I didn't do it. And 
 afterv\'ards Clemencia asked me why I didn't, and 
 I told her. For you see I didn't know then that 
 women rate high what they don't understand. 
 Mystery is everything to them. As if the explan- 
 ation of such a thing makes it any easier. A 
 man wins great battles by seizing the right moment 
 and using it — the explanation is simple. One 
 must be great in order to know the moment, that's 
 
 34 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 all. But women don't see that it is only small 
 men who exaggerate the difficulties of their work. 
 Great men find their work easy and say so, and, 
 therefore, you'll find that women underrate great 
 men and overpraise small ones. Clemencia really 
 thought I ought to learn the espada's work from 
 Juan. Ah! women are strange creatures. . . . 
 Well, after that Sunday she was always bothering 
 me to do the capa trick with every bull. 
 
 " ' If you don't,' she used to say, ' you won't 
 get the chance of being an espada' And when 
 she saw I laughed and paid no attention to her 
 talk, she became more and more obstinate. 
 
 " ' If the people get to know you can only 
 do it with some bulls, they won't think much of 
 you. Do it with every bull, then they can't say 
 anything.' 
 
 " And I said ' No ! and I shouldn't be able to 
 say anything either.' 
 
 " ' If you love me you will do as I say ! ' 
 " And when I didn't do as she wished, — it was 
 madness — she grew cold to me, and sneered vX 
 me, and then urged me again, till I half yielded. 
 Really, by that time I hardly knew what I couldn'b 
 do, for each day I seemed to get greater power 
 over the bulls. At length a Sunday came, the 
 first, I think in June, or the last in May. Clemen- 
 cia sat with her mother and cousin in the best 
 palco; I had got it from the Director, who now 
 refused me nothing. I had done my capa trick 
 with three bulls, one after the other, then the 
 fourth came in. As soon as I saw him, I knew 
 he was bad, cunning I mean, and with black rage 
 
 35 
 
Monies, the Matador 
 
 m the heart of him. The other men stood aside 
 to let me do the trick, but I wouldn't. I ran away 
 like the rest, and let him toss the capa. The peo- 
 ple liked me, and so they cheered just the same, 
 thinking I was tired; but suddenly Clemencia 
 called out : ' The capa round the shoulders ; the 
 capa trick ! ' and I looked up at her ; and she leaned 
 over the front of the palco, and called out the 
 words again. 
 
 " Then rage came into me, rage at her folly 
 and cold heart; I took off my cap to her, and 
 tui-ned and challenged the bull with the capa, and, 
 as he put down his head and rushed, I threw the 
 capa round me and stood still. I did not even 
 look at him. I knew it was no use. He struck 
 me here on the thigh, and I went up Into the air. 
 The shock took away my senses. As I came to 
 myself they were carrying me out of the ring, and 
 the people were all standing up; but, as I looked 
 towards the palco, I saw she wasn't standing up: 
 she had a handkerchief before her face. At first 
 I thought she was crying, and I felt well, and 
 longed to say to her, ' It doesn't matter, I'm con- 
 tent ; ' then she put down the handkerchief and I 
 saw she wasn't crying; there wasn't a tear in her 
 eyes. She seemed surprised merely and shocked. 
 I suppose she thought I could work miracles, or 
 rather she didn't care much whether I was hurt 
 or not. That turned me faint again. I came to 
 myself in my bed, where I spent the next month. 
 The doctor told the Duke of [Medina Celi — ^he 
 had come to see me the same afternoon — that the 
 shock hadn't injured me, but I should be lame al- 
 
 36 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 ways, as the bull's horn had torn the muscles of 
 my thigh from the bone. " How he didn't 
 bleed to death,' he said, ' is a wonder ; now he'll pull 
 through, but no more play with the bulls for him.' 
 I knew better than the doctor, but I said nothing 
 to him, only to the Duke I said : 
 
 " ' Senor, a promise is a promise ; I shall use the 
 espada in your show in July.' 
 
 " And he said, ' Yes, my poor boy, if you wish 
 it, and are able to; but how came you to make 
 such a mistake? ' 
 
 " ' I made no mistake, Senor.' 
 " ' You knew you'd be struck ? ' 
 " I nodded. He looked at me for a moment, 
 and then held out his hand. He understood every- 
 thing I'm sure ; but he said nothing to me then. 
 
 " Juan came to see me in the evening, and next 
 day Clemencia and her mother. Clemencia was 
 sorry, that I could see, and wanted me to forgive 
 her. As if I had anything to forgive when she 
 stood there so lithe and straight, with her flower- 
 like face and the appealing eyes. Then came days 
 of pain while the doctors forced the muscles back 
 into their places. Soon I was able to get up, with 
 a crutch, and limp about. As I grew better, Cle- 
 mencia came seldomer, and when she came, her 
 mother never left the room. I knew what that 
 meant. She had told her mother not to go away ; 
 for, though the mother thought no one good 
 enough for her daughter, yet she pitied me, and 
 would have left us alone — sometimes. She had a 
 woman's heart. But no, not once. Then I set 
 myself to get well soon. I would show them all, 
 
 37 
 
Montesy the Matador 
 
 I said to myself, that a lame Montes was worth 
 more than other men. And I got better, so the 
 doctor said, with surprising speed. . . . One day, 
 towards the end of June, I said to the servant of 
 the Duke — he sent a servant every day to me with 
 fruit and flowers — that I wished greatly to see 
 his master. And the Duke came to see me, the 
 very same day. 
 
 " I thanked him first for all his kindness to me, 
 and then asked: 
 
 " ' Senor, have you put my name on the bills 
 as espada? ' 
 
 " ' No,' he replied ; ' you must get well first, 
 and, indeed, if I were in your place, I should not 
 try an}' thing more till next season.' 
 
 " And I said, ' Senor Duque, it presses. Be- 
 lieve me, weak as I am, I can use the sword.' 
 
 " And he answered my very thought : ' Ah ! She 
 thinks you can't. And you want to prove the 
 contrary. I shouldn't take the trouble, if I were 
 you; but there! Don't deceive yourself or me; 
 there is time yet for three or four days : I'll come 
 again to see you, and if you wish to have your 
 chance you shall. I give you my word.' As he 
 left the room I had tears in my eyes; but I was 
 glad, too, and confident : I'd teach the false friends 
 a lesson. Save Antonio, the blacksmith, and 
 some strangers, and the Duke's servant, no one 
 had come near me for more than a week. Three 
 days afterwards I wrote to the Duke asking him 
 to fulfil his promise, and the very next day Juan, 
 Clemencia, and her mother all came to see me to- 
 gether. The}' all wanted to know what it meant. 
 
 C3 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 My name as espada for the next Sunday, they 
 said, was first on the bills placarded all over Mad- 
 rid, and the Duke had put underneath it — ' By 
 special request of H.M. the Queen.' I said noth- 
 ing but that I was going to work; and I noticed 
 that Clemencia wouldn't meet my eyes. 
 
 " What a day that was ! That Sunday I mean. 
 The Queen was in her box with the Duke beside 
 her as our procession saluted them, and the great 
 ring was crowded tier on tier, and she was in the 
 best box I could get. But I tried not to think 
 about her. My heart seemed to be frozen. Still 
 I know now that I worked for her even then. 
 When the first bull came in and the capa men 
 played him, the people began to shout for me — 
 'El Pequeno! El Pequeno ! ElPequeno!' — and 
 wouldn't let the games go on. So I limped for- 
 ward in my espada's dress and took a capa from 
 a man and challenged the bull, and he rushed at 
 me — the honest one; I caught his look and knew 
 it was all right, so I threw the capa round me and 
 turned my back upon him. In one flash I saw the 
 people rise in their places, and the Duke lean 
 over the front of the palco; then, as the bull hesi- 
 tated and stopped, and they began to cheer, I 
 handed back the capa, and, after bowing, went 
 again among the espadas. Then the people 
 christened me afresh — ' El Cojo! ' (The Cripple!) 
 — and I had to come forward and bow again and 
 again, and the Queen threw me a gold cigarette 
 case. I have it still. There it is. ... I never 
 looked up at Clemencia, though I could see her 
 always. She threw no rose to me that day. . . • 
 
Monies, the Matador 
 
 Then the time came when I should kill the bull. 
 I took the muleta in my left hand and went towards 
 him with the sword uncovered in my right. I 
 needed no trick. I held him with my will, and 
 he looked up at me. ' Poor brute,' I thought, 
 * you are happier than I am.' And he bowed his 
 head with the great, wondering, kindly eyes, and 
 I struck straight through to the heart. On his 
 knees he fell at my feet, and rolled over dead, 
 almost without a quiver. As I hid my sword in 
 the muleta and turned away, the people found their 
 voices, ' Well done. The Cripple ! Well done ! ' 
 When I left the ring that day I left it as the first 
 espada in Spain. So the Duke said, and he knew 
 — none better. After one more Sunday the sports 
 were over for the year, but that second Sunday 
 I did better than the first, and I was engaged for 
 the next season as first espada^ with fifty thou- 
 sand duros salary. Forty thousand I invested as 
 the Duke advised — I have lived on the interest ever 
 
 since — the other ten thousand I kept by me. 
 ***** 
 
 " I had resolved never to go near Clemencia 
 again, and I kept my resolve for weeks. One day 
 Juan came and told me Clemencia was suffering 
 because of my absence. He said : 
 
 " ' She's proud, you know, proud as the devil, 
 and she won't come and see you or send to you, 
 but she loves you. There's no doubt of that: she 
 loves you. I know them, and I never saw a girl 
 so gone on a man. Besides they're poor now, she 
 and her mother; they've eaten up nearly all they 
 had, and you're rich and could help them.' 
 
 40 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 " That made me think. I felt sure she didn't 
 love me. That was plain enough. She hadn't 
 even a good heart, or she would have come and 
 cheered me up when I lay wounded — because of 
 her obstinate folly. No! It wasn't worth while 
 suffering any more on her account. That was 
 clear. But if she needed me, if she were really 
 poor? Oh, that I couldn't stand. I'd go to her. 
 ' Are you sure? ' I asked Juan, and when he said 
 he was, I said : 
 
 " ' Then I'll visit them to-morrow.' 
 
 " And on the next day I went. Clemencia re- 
 ceived me as usual : she was too proud to notice my 
 long absence, but the mother wanted to know why 
 I had kept away from them so long. From that 
 time on the mother seemed to like me greatly. I 
 told her I was still sore — which was the truth — 
 and I had had much to do. 
 
 " ' Some lady fallen in love with you, I suppose,' 
 said Clemencia half scoffingly — so that I could 
 hardly believe she had wanted to see me. 
 
 " ' No,' I answered, looking at her, ' one doesn't 
 get love without seeking for it, sometimes not even 
 then — when one's small and lame as I am.' 
 
 " Gradually the old relations established them- 
 selves again. But I had grown wiser, and watched 
 her now with keen eyes as I had never done for- 
 merly. I found she had changed — in some subtle 
 way had become different. She seemed kinder to 
 me, but at the same time her character appeared 
 to be even stronger than it had been. I remember 
 noticing one peculiarity in her I had not remarked 
 before. Her admiration of the physique of men 
 
 41 ^ 
 
Montesy the Matador 
 
 was now keen and outspoken. When we went to 
 the theatre (as we often did) I saw that the better- 
 looking and more finely-formed actors had a great 
 attraction for her. I had never noticed this in her 
 before. In fact she had seemed to me to know 
 nothing about virile beauty, beyond a girl's vague 
 liking for men who were tall and strong. But now 
 she looked at men critically. She had changed; 
 that was certain. What was the cause.? ... I 
 could not divine. Poor fool that I was ! I didn't 
 know then that good women seldom or never care 
 much for mere bodily qualities in a man; the 
 women who do are generally worthless. Now, too, 
 she spoke well of the men of Southern Spain ; when 
 I first met her she professed to admire the women 
 of the South, but to think little of the men. Now 
 she admired the men, too; they were warmer- 
 hearted, she said; had more love and passion in 
 them, and were gentler with women than those of 
 the North. Somehow I hoped that she referred 
 to me, that her heart was beginning to plead for 
 me, and I was very glad and proud, though it all 
 seemed too good to be true. 
 
 " One day in October, when I called with Juan, 
 we found them packing their things. They had 
 to leave, they said, and take cheaper lodgings. 
 Juan looked at me, and some way or other I got 
 him to take Clemencia into another room. Then 
 I spoke to the mother: Clemencia, I hoped, would 
 soon be my wife; in any case I couldn't allow her 
 to want for anything; I would bring a thousand 
 duros the next day, and they must not think of 
 leaving their comfortable apartments. The mother 
 
 42 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 cried and said, I was good : * God makes few such 
 men,' and so forth. The next day I gave her the 
 money, and it was arranged between us without 
 saying anything to Clemencia. I remember about 
 this time, in the early winter of that year, I began 
 to see her faults more clearly, and I noticed that 
 she had altered in many ways. Her temper had 
 changed. It used to be equable though passion- 
 ate. It had become uncertain and irritable. She 
 had changed greatly. For now, she would let me 
 kiss her without remonstrance, and sometimes al- 
 most as if she didn't notice the kiss, whereas before 
 it used always to be a matter of importance. And 
 when I asked her when she would marry me she 
 would answer half-carelessly, ' Some time, I sup- 
 pose,' as she used to do, but her manner was quite 
 different. She even sighed once as she spoke. 
 Certainly she had changed. What was the cause .^ 
 I couldn't make it out, therefore I watched, not 
 suspiciously, but she had grown a little strange 
 to me — a sort of puzzle, since she had been so 
 unkind when I lay wounded. And partly from 
 this feeling, partly from my great love for her, 
 I noticed everything. Still I urged her to marry 
 me. I thought as soon as we were married, and 
 she had a child to take care of and to love, it would 
 be all right with both of us. Fool that I was ! 
 
 " In April, which was fine, I remember, that 
 year in Madrid — you know how cold it is away up 
 there, and how keen the wind is ; as the Madrilenos 
 say, ' 'twon't blow out a candle, but it'll kill a man ' 
 • — Clemencia began to grow pale and nervous. I 
 couldn't make her out; and so, more than ever, 
 
 43 
 
MonteSy the Matador 
 
 pity strengthening love in me, I urged her to tell 
 me when she would marry me; and one day she 
 turned to me, and I saw she was quite white as she 
 said: 
 
 " ' After the season, perhaps.* 
 
 " Then I was happy, and ceased to press her. 
 Early in May the games began — my golden time. 
 I had grown quite strong again, and was surer of 
 myself than ever. Besides, I wanted to do some- 
 thing to deserve my great happiness. Therefore, 
 on one of the first days when the Queen and the 
 Duke and Clemencia were looking on, I killed the 
 bull with the sword immediately after he entered 
 the ring, and before he had been tired at all. From 
 that day on the people seemed crazy about me. 
 I couldn't walk in the streets without being 
 cheered; a crowd followed me wherever I went; 
 great nobles asked me to their houses, and their 
 ladies made much of me. But I didn't care, for 
 all the time Clemencia was kind, and so I was 
 happy. 
 
 " One day suddenly she asked me why I didn't 
 make Juan an espada. I told her I had offered 
 him the first place in my cuadrilla; but he wouldn't 
 accept it. She declared that it was natural of 
 him to refuse when I had passed him in the race; 
 but why didn't I go to the Duke and get him made 
 an espada? I replied laughingly that the Duke 
 didn't make men espadasy but God or their parents. 
 Then her brows drew down, and she said she hadn't 
 thought to find such mean jealousy in me. So I 
 answered her seriously that I didn't believe Juan 
 would succeed as an espada, or else I should do 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 what I could to get him appointed. At once she 
 came and put her arms on my shoulders, and said 
 'twas like me, and she would tell Juan; and after 
 that I could do nothing but kiss her. A little 
 later I asked Juan about it, and he told me he 
 thought he could do the work at least as well as 
 Girvalda, and if I got him the place, he would 
 never forget my kindness. So I went to the Di- 
 rector and told him what I wished. At first he 
 refused, saying Juan had no talent, he would only 
 get killed. When I pressed him he said all the 
 espadas were engaged, and made other such ex- 
 cuses. So at last I said I'd work no more unless 
 he gave Juan a chance. Then he yielded after 
 grumbling a great deal. 
 
 " Two Sundays later Juan entered the ring for 
 the first time as an espada. He looked the part 
 to perfection. Never was there a more splendid 
 figure of a man, and he was radiant in silver and 
 blue. His mother was in the box that day with 
 Clemencia and her mother. Just before we all 
 parted as the sports were about to begin, Clemen- 
 cia drew me on one side, and said, ' You'll see that 
 he succeeds, won't you? ' And I replied, ' Yes, of 
 course, I will. Trust me ; it'll be all right.' And 
 it was, though I don't think it would have been, 
 if she hadn't spoken. I remembered my promise 
 to her, and when I saw that the bull which Juan 
 ought to kill was vicious, I told another espada 
 to kill him, and so got Juan an easy bull, which 
 I took care to have tired out before I told him 
 the moment had come. Juan wasn't a coward — 
 no! but he hadn't the peculiar nerve needed for 
 
 45 
 
Montesy the Matador 
 
 the business. The matador^s spirit should rise 
 to the danger, and Juan's didn't rise. He was 
 white, but determined to do his best. That I 
 could see. So I said to him, * Go on, man ! Don't 
 lose time, or he'll get his wind again. You're all 
 right; I shall be near you as one of your cuadrilla.* 
 And so I was, and if I hadn't been, Juan would 
 have come to grief. Yes, he'd have come to grief 
 that very first day. 
 
 " Naturally enough we spent the evening to- 
 gether. It was a real tertulia, Seiiora Alvareda 
 said ; but Clemencia sat silent with the great, dark 
 eyes turned in upon her thoughts, and the niece 
 and myself were nearly as quiet, while Juan talked 
 for every one, not forgetting himself. As he had 
 been depressed before the trial so now he was un- 
 duly exultant, forgetting altogether, as it seemed 
 to me, not only his nervousness but also that it 
 had taken him two strokes to kill the bull. His 
 first attempt was a failure, and the second one, 
 though it brought the bull to his knees, never 
 reached his heart. But Juan was delighted and 
 seemed never to weary of describing the bull and 
 how he had struck him, his mother listening to him 
 the while adoringly. It was past midnight when 
 we parted from our friends ; and Juan, as we re- 
 turned to my rooms, would talk of nothing but the 
 salary he expected to get. I was out of sorts ; he 
 had bragged so incessantly I had scarcely got a 
 word with Clemencia, who could hardly find time 
 to tell me she had a bad headache. Juan would 
 come up with me; he wanted to know whether I'd 
 go on the morrow to the Director to get him a 
 
 46 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 permanent engagement. I got rid of him, at 
 last, by saying I was tired to death, and it would 
 look better to let the Director come and ask for 
 his services. So at length we parted. After he 
 left me I sat for some time wondering at Clemen- 
 cia's paleness. She was growing thin too! And 
 what thoughts had induced that rapt expression 
 of face.? 
 
 " Next morning I awoke late and had so much 
 to do that I resolved to put off my visit to Cle- 
 mencia till the afternoon, but in the meantime 
 the Director spoke to me of Juan as rather a 
 bungler, and when I defended him, agreed at last 
 to engage him for the next four Sundays. This 
 was a better result than I had expected, so as 
 soon as I was free I made oiF to tell Juan the 
 good news. I met his mother at the street door 
 where she was talking with some women; she fol- 
 lowed me into the patio saying Juan was not at 
 home. 
 
 " ' Never mind,' I replied carelessly, ' I have 
 good news for him, so I'll go upstairs to his room 
 and wait.' 
 
 "'Oh!' she said, * you cin't do that; you 
 mustn't; Juan wouldn't like it.' 
 
 " Then I laughed outright. Juan wouldn't like 
 it — oh no! It was amusing to say that when we 
 had lived together like brothers for years, and had 
 had no secrets from one another. But she per- 
 sisted and grew strangely hot and excited. Then 
 I thought to myself — there you are again; these 
 women understand nothing. So I went away, tell- 
 ing her to send Juan to me as soon as he came in, 
 
 47 
 
Monies, the Matador 
 
 At this she seemed hugely reheved and became 
 voluble in excuses. In fact her manner altered so 
 entirely that before I had gone fifty yards down 
 the street, it forced me to wonder. Suddenly my 
 wonder changed to suspicion. Juan wasn't out! 
 Who was with him I mustn't see.? 
 
 " As I stopped involuntarily, I saw a man on 
 the other side of the street who bowed to me. I 
 went across and said: 
 
 " ' Friend, I am Montes, the matador. Do you 
 own this house? ' 
 
 " He answered that he did, and that every one 
 in Madrid knew me. 
 
 " So I said, ' Lend me a room on your first-floor 
 for an hour; cosa de mujer; (A lady's in the case.) 
 you understand.' 
 
 " At once he led me up-stairs and showed me a 
 room from the windows of which I could see the 
 entrance to Juan's lodging. I thanked him, and 
 when he left me I stood near the window and 
 smoked and thought. What could it all mean.? 
 . . . Had Clemencia anything to do with Juan.? 
 She made me get him his trial as espada; charged 
 me to take care of him. He was from the 
 South, too, and she had grown to like Southern 
 men : ' they were passionate and gentle with 
 women.' Curses on her! Her paleness occurred 
 to me, her fits of abstraction. As I thought, every 
 memory fitted into its place, and what had been 
 mysterious grew plain to me; but I wouldn't ac- 
 cept the evidence of reason. No! I'd wait and 
 see. Then I'd — at once I grew quiet. But again 
 the thoughts came — like the flies that plague the 
 
 48 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 cattle in summer time — and again I brushed them 
 aside, and again thej returned. 
 
 " Suddenly I saw Juan's mother come into the 
 street wearing altogether too careless an expres- 
 sion. She looked about at haphazard as if she 
 expected someone. After a moment or two of this 
 she slipped back into the 'patio with mystery in 
 her sudden decision and haste. Then out came a 
 form I knew well, and, with stately, even step, 
 looking neither to the right hand nor the left, 
 walked down the street. It was Clemencia, as my 
 heart had told me it would be. I should have 
 known her anywhere even had she not — just below 
 the window where I was watching — put back her 
 mantilla with a certain proud grace of movement 
 which I had admired a hundred times. As she 
 moved her head to feel that the mantilla draped 
 her properly I saw her face ; it was drawn and set 
 like one fighting against pain. That made me 
 smile with pleasure. 
 
 " Five minutes later Juan swung out of the 
 doorway in the full costume of an espada — ^he 
 seemed to sleep in it now — with a cigarette between 
 his teeth. Then I grew sad and pitiful. We had 
 been such friends. I had meant only good to him 
 always. And he was such a fool! I understood 
 it all now; knew, as if I had been told, that the 
 intimacy between them dated from the time when 
 I lay suffering in bed. Thinking me useless and 
 never having had any real affection for me, Cle- 
 mencia had then followed her inclination and tried 
 to win Juan. She had succeeded easily enough, 
 no doubt, but not in getting him to marry her. 
 
 49 
 
Montesy the Matador 
 
 Later, she induced me to make Juan an es'pada, 
 hoping against hope that he'd marry her when 
 his new position had made him rich. On the other 
 hand he had set himself to cheat me because of 
 the money I had given her mother, which relieved 
 him from the necessity of helping them, and sec- 
 ondly, because it was only through my influence 
 that he could hope to become an espada. Ignoble 
 beasts ! And then jealousy seized me as I thought 
 of her admiration of handsome men, and at once 
 I saw her in his arms. Forthwith pity, and sad- 
 ness, and anger left me, and, as I thought of him 
 swaggering past the window, I laughed aloud. 
 Poor weak fools ! I, too, could cheat. 
 
 " He had passed out of the street. I went down- 
 stairs and thanked the landlord for his kindness 
 to me. ' For your good-nature,' I said, ' you must 
 come and see me work from a box next Sunday. 
 Ask for me, I won't forget.' And he thanked me 
 wdth many words and said he had never missed a 
 Sunday since he had first seen me play with the 
 capa three years before. I laughed and nodded 
 to him and went my way homewards, whither I 
 knew Juan had gone before me. 
 
 " As I entered my room, he rose to meet me with 
 a shadow as of doubt or fear upon him. But I 
 laughed cheerfully, gaily enough to deceive even 
 so finished an actor as he was, and told him the 
 good news. ' Engaged,' I cried, slapping him on 
 the shoulder. ' The Director engages you for 
 four Sundays certain.' And that word ' certain ' 
 made me laugh louder still — jubilantly. Then 
 afraid of overdoing my part, I sat quietly for 
 
 50 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 some time and listened to his expressions of fat- 
 uous self-satisfaction. As he left me to go and 
 trumpet the news from cafe to cafe, I had to 
 choke down my contempt for him by recalling that 
 picture, by forcing myself to see them in each 
 other's arms. Then I grew quiet again and went 
 to call upon my betrothed. 
 
 " She was at home and received me as usual, but 
 with more kindness than was her wont. ' She feels 
 a little remorse at deceiving me,' I said to myself, 
 reading her now as if her soul were an open book. 
 I told her of Juan's engagement and she let slip 
 ' I wish I had known that sooner ! ' But I did not 
 appear to notice anything. It amused me now to 
 see how shallow she was and how blind I had been. 
 And then I played with her as she had often, 
 doubtless, played with me. ' He will go far, will 
 Juan,' I said, ' now that he has begun — very far, 
 in a short time.' And within me I laughed at the 
 double meaning as she turned startled eyes upon 
 me. And then, ' His old loves will mourn for the 
 distance which must soon separate him from them. 
 Oh, yes, Juan will go far and leave them behind.' 
 I saw a shade come upon her face, and, therefore, 
 added : ' But no one will grudge him his success. 
 He's so good-looking and good-tempered, and kind 
 and true.' And then she burst into tears, and I 
 went to her and asked as if suspiciously, ' Why, 
 what's the matter ? Clemencia ! ' Amid her sobs, 
 she told me she didn't know, but she felt upset, 
 out of sorts, nervous : she had a headache. ' Heart- 
 ache,' I laughed to myself, and bade her go and 
 lie down; rest would do her good; I'd come again 
 
 51 
 
Monies, the Matador 
 
 on the morrow. As I turned to leave the room 
 she called me back and put her arms round my 
 neck and asked me to be patient with her ; she was 
 foolish, but she'd make it up to me yet. . . . And 
 I comforted her, the poor, shallow fool, and went 
 away. 
 
 " In some such fashion as this the days passed ; 
 each hour — now my eyes were opened — bring- 
 ing me some fresh entertainment; for, in spite of 
 their acting, I saw that none of them were happy. 
 I knew everything. I guessed that Juan, loving 
 his liberty, was advising Clemencia to make up 
 to me, and I saw how badly she played her part. 
 And all this had escaped me a few days before; I 
 laughed at myself more contemptuously than at 
 them. It interested me, too, to see that Liberata 
 had grown suspicious. She no longer trusted 
 Juan's protestations implicitly. Every now and 
 then, with feminine bitterness, she thrust the knife 
 of her own doubt and fear into Clemencia's wound. 
 ' Don't you think, Montes, Clemencia is getting 
 pale and thin? ' she'd ask; ' it is for love of you, 
 you know. She should marry soon.' And all the 
 while she cursed me in her heart for a fool, while 
 I laughed to myself. The comedy was infinitely 
 amusing to me, for now I held the cords in my 
 hand, and knew I could drop the curtain and cut 
 short the acting just when I liked. Clemencia's 
 mother, too, would sometimes set to work to amuse 
 me as she went about with eyes troubled, as if 
 anxious for the future, and yet stomach-satisfied 
 with the comforts of the present. She, too, 
 thought it worth while, now and then, to befool 
 
 52 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 me, when fear came upon her — between meals. 
 That did not please me ! When she tried to play 
 with me, the inconceivable stupidity of my former 
 blind trust became a torture to me. Juan's mother 
 I saw but little of ; yet I liked her. She was honest 
 at least, and deceit was difficult to her. Juan was 
 her idol ; all he did was right in her eyes ; it was 
 not her fault that she couldn't see he was like a 
 poisoned well. All these days Juan was friendly 
 to me as usual, with scarcely a shade of the old 
 condescension in his manner. He no longer showed 
 envy by remarking upon my luck. Since he him- 
 self had been tested, he seemed to give me as much 
 respect as his self-love could spare. Nor did he 
 now boast, as he used to do, of his height and 
 strength. Once, however, on the Friday evening, 
 I think it was, he congratulated Clemencia on my 
 love for her, and joked about our marriage. The 
 time had come to drop the curtain and make an 
 end. 
 
 " On the Saturday I w^nt to the ring and or- 
 dered my 'palco to be filled with flowers. From 
 there I went to the Duke of Medina Celi. He re- 
 ceived me as always, with kindness, thought I 
 looked ill, and asked me whether I felt the old 
 wound still. ' No,' I replied, ' no, Senor Duque, 
 and if I come to you now it is only to thank you 
 once more for all your goodness to me.' 
 
 " And he said after a pause — I remember each 
 word ; for he meant well : 
 
 " ' Montes, there's something very wrong.' And 
 then, ' Montes, one should never adore a woman ; 
 they all want a master. My hairs have grown 
 
 53 
 
Monies, the Matador 
 
 grey in learning that. ... A woman, you see, 
 may look well and yet be cold-hearted and — not 
 good. But a man would be a fool to refuse nuts 
 because one that looked all right was hollow.' 
 
 " ' You are wise,' I said, ' Senor Duque! and I 
 have been foolish. I hope it may be well with you 
 always ; but wisdom and folly come to the same 
 end at last.' 
 
 " After I left him I went to Antonio and 
 thanked him, and gave him a letter to be opened 
 in a week. There were three enclosures in it — one 
 for himself, one for the mother of Juan, and one 
 for the mother of Clemencia, and each held three 
 thousand duros. As they had cheated me for 
 money, money they should have — with my con- 
 tempt. Then I went back to the ring, and as I 
 looked up to my palco and saw that the front of 
 it was one bed of white and scarlet blossoms, I 
 smiled. ' White for purity,' I said, ' and scarlet 
 for blood, a fit show ! ' And I went home and slept 
 like a child. 
 
 " Next day in the ring I killed two bulls, one 
 on his first rush, and the other after the usual 
 play. Then another espada worked, and then 
 came the turn of Juan. As the bull stood pant- 
 ing I looked up at the palco. There they all were, 
 Clemencia with hands clasped on the flowers and 
 fixed, dilated eyes, her mother half asleep behind 
 her. Next to Clemencia, the niece with flushed 
 cheeks, and leaning on her shoulder his mother. 
 Juan was much more nervous than he had been 
 on the previous Sunday. As his bull came into 
 the ring he asked me hurriedly : ' Do you think 
 
 54 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 it's an easy one ? ' I told him carelessly that all 
 bulls were easy and he seemed to grow more and 
 more nervous. When the bull was ready for him 
 he turned to me, passing his tongue feverishly 
 over his dry lips. 
 
 "'You'll stand by me, won't you, Montes?' 
 
 " And I asked with a smile : 
 
 " ' Shall I stand by you as you've stood by 
 me? ' 
 
 " ' Yes, of course, we've always been friends.' 
 
 " ' I shall be as true to you as you have been 
 to me ! ' I said. And I moved to his right hand 
 and looked at the bull. It was a good one; I 
 couldn't have picked a better. In his eyes I saw 
 courage that would never yield and hate that 
 would strike in the death-throe, and I exulted and 
 held his eyes with mine, and promised him revenge. 
 While he bowed his horns to the muleta, he still 
 looked at me and I at him; and as I felt that 
 Juan had levelled his sword, and was on the point 
 of striking, I raised my head with a sweep to the 
 side, as if I had been the bull ; and as I swung, so 
 the brave bull swung too. And then — then all 
 the ring swam round with me, and yet I had heard 
 the shouting and seen the spectators spring to 
 their feet. . . . 
 
 " I was in the street close to the Alvaredas'. 
 The mother met me at the door; she was crying 
 and the tears were running down her fat, greasy 
 cheeks. She told me Clemencia had fainted and 
 had been carried home, and Juan was dead — 
 ripped open — and his mother distracted, and 'twas 
 a pity, for he was so handsome and kind and good- 
 
 55 
 
Monies y the Matador 
 
 natured, and her best dress was ruined, and los 
 toros shouldn't be allowed, and — as I brushed past 
 her in disgust — that Clemencia was in her room 
 crying. 
 
 " I went up-stairs and entered the room. There 
 she sat with her elbows on the table and her hair 
 all round her face and down her back, and her fixed 
 eyes stared at me. As I closed the door and folded 
 my arms and looked at her, she rose, and her stare 
 grew wild with surprise and horror, and then, al- 
 most without moving her lips, she said: 
 
 " ' Holy Virgin ! You did it ! I see it in your 
 face!' 
 
 " And my heart jumped against my arms for 
 joy, and I said in the same slow whisper, imitating 
 her: 
 
 « * Yes ; I did it.' 
 
 " As I spoke she sprang forward with hate in 
 her face, and poured out a stream of loathing and 
 contempt on me. She vomited abuse as from her 
 very soul : I was low and base and cowardly ; I was 
 — God knows what all. And he was handsome and 
 kind, with a face like a king. . . . And I had 
 thought she could love me, me, the ugly, little, 
 lame cur while he was there. And she laughed. 
 She'd never have let my lips touch her if it hadn't 
 been that her mother liked me and to please him. 
 And now I had killed him, the best friend I had. 
 Oh, 'twas horrible! Then she struck her head 
 with her fists and asked how God, God, God could 
 allow me to kill a man whose finger was worth a 
 thousand lives such as mine ! 
 
 " Then I laughed and said : 
 56 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 " ' You mistake. You killed him. You made 
 him an espada — you ! ' 
 
 " As I spoke her eyes grew fixed and her mouth 
 opened, and she seemed to struggle to speak, but 
 she only groaned — and fell face forwards on the 
 floor. 
 
 " I turned and left the room as her mother en- 
 tered it." After a long pause Montes went on: 
 
 " I heard afterwards that she died next morning 
 in premature child-birth. I left Madrid that night 
 and came here, where I have lived ever since, if 
 this can be called living. . . . Yet at times now 
 fairly content, save for one thing — ' Remorse .f^ ' 
 Yes ! " — And the old man rose to his feet, while 
 his great eyes blazing with passion held me — " Re- 
 morse! That I let the bull kill him. 
 
 " I should have torn his throat out with my 
 own hands." 
 
 $7 
 
FIRST LOVE (A CONFESSION) 
 
 S9 
 
FIRST LOVE (A CONFESSION) 
 
 MY boyhood and youth were passed In Brigh- 
 ton. I entered the College there as a boy 
 of ten, and went through every class on 
 the Modern side in the usual seven years. I only 
 tell this to show that from the beginning my father 
 intended me to go into business, and that I was 
 not particularly clever at books. I loved football 
 as much as I hated French, and I learned more of 
 " fives " in half an hour than I knew of German 
 after eight years' teaching. In fact, if It had not 
 been for mathematics I should not have got my 
 " remove " each year regularly as I managed to 
 do. There were lots of fellows who could beat 
 my head off at learning; but there were very few 
 as strong or as good at games, and I'd have been 
 Captain of the School If Wilson, who was one of 
 the best " bats " of his day (he played afterwards 
 for the " Gentlemen "), had not been a contempor- 
 ary of mine. I was not bad-looking either. I do 
 not mean I was handsome or anything of that 
 sort ; but I was tall and dark, and my features 
 were fairly regular, and, as I had more of a 
 moustache than almost any fellow in the school, 
 I rather fancied myself. 
 
 After leaving Brighton College, my father got 
 me a clerkship with Lawrence, Loewenthal and 
 Co., stockbrokers, of Copthall Court. My father 
 was rector of a Brighton parish, and knew Mr. 
 
 61 
 
First Love {A Confession) 
 
 Lawrence who came regularly to his clmrcb. The 
 two old boys were great " pals," because, as my 
 father said, they were both Protestants and not 
 Catholics in disguise; but I always thought that 
 my father's liking for Mr. Lawrence's port and 
 Mr. Lawrence's respect for my father's birth and 
 learning had more to do with their mutual esteem. 
 However that may be, old Lawrence gave me a 
 good start and I turned it to account. From the 
 first I took to business. The school work at Latin 
 and Greek had had no meaning for me ; but in the 
 City the tangible results of energy and skill were 
 always before me, interesting me in spite of myself, 
 and exciting me to do my best. And rivalry soon 
 came to lend another spur. In Throgmorton 
 Street my chief competitors were young German 
 Jews, keen as mustard in everything relating to 
 business, and preternaturally sharp in scenting 
 personal profit. Their acuteness and boldness fas- 
 cinated me: I went about with them a good deal, 
 picked up conversational German without much 
 effort, and soon learned from my mentors how 
 fortunes were to be made. A little group of us 
 pooled our savings, and began to speculate and, 
 after a succession of gains and losses which about 
 balanced themselves, turned our tens into hundreds 
 over a " slump " in American rails. Our success 
 was due to Waldstein — the Julius Waldstein who 
 has since made a great fortune, and whom I should 
 like to write about some day or other, as I look 
 upon him as the first financial genius of the age. 
 But now I must get on with my story. It was a 
 remark I made after this lucky " deal " that drew 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 Mr. Lawrence's attention to me and gave me my 
 first step up in the house. I had gone into his 
 private room with some transfers to be signed. 
 He was reading a letter; in the middle of it he 
 rang for the managing clerk, and asked him : 
 
 "How are Louisvilles going?" 
 
 " I'll see," was the reply ; and in a minute or 
 two old Simkins returned with : 
 
 " Steady at 48." 
 
 I could not help muttering " They'll be steadier 
 at 35." 
 
 "What do you know about it?" asked Law- 
 rence, with an air of amused surprise. His tone 
 put me on my mettle, and I laid my reasons, or 
 rather Waldstein's, before him, and he soon saw 
 that I knew what I was talking about. A year 
 afterwards, I, too, was a managing clerk and a 
 member of the Stock Exchange; and from that 
 time on have never found it very difficult to lay by 
 something each year. It's curious, too, how the 
 habit of saving grows on one — but I am forget- 
 ting my story. 
 
 As I became interested in my work and confi- 
 dent of success I wanted some one to talk to, to 
 brag to if the truth must be told, and life, I have 
 noticed, generally furnishes us with the oppor- 
 tunity of gratifying our desires. I still kept up 
 the custom of going home to Brighton from Sat- 
 urday till Monday. And one Sunday coming out 
 of church my sister introduced me to some people 
 whom I took to immediately, Mrs. and Miss Long- 
 den. Mabel Longden was tall and good-looking, 
 but too dark for my taste. Still, we chummed at 
 
First Love {A Confession) 
 
 once, and perhaps got along together better than 
 if we had fallen in love at first sight — a thing, by 
 the way, which I have never believed in. Mrs. 
 Longden was the widow of a major in the army, 
 and lived in a small house in Kemp Town. She 
 had only a hundred a year or so beyond her pen- 
 sion, and her one ambition in life was to keep her- 
 self and her two daughters like ladies. Her love 
 of gentilit}' was so passionate that when the ru- 
 mour got about that she was the daughter of a 
 small tradesman, everyone believed it. Mabel had 
 a sister whom I have not mentioned yet, perhaps 
 because I saw little of her for some time, and the 
 little I saw did not interest me. She could not have 
 been more than thirteen or fourteen years of age 
 when I first met her, and she seemed to me an 
 ordinary schoolgirl — all ribs and ankles. Her 
 face was not even pretty ; the eyes were all right, 
 greyish and large, but the nose was inclined to 
 be thick and the oval of the face was too narrow ; 
 the jaws seemed pinched in, and this peculiarity 
 gave her an uncomfortably sharp look. She was 
 a strange child in every way, and I did not like 
 her. I remember the first time I really noticed her. 
 I had been talking to Mabel about business; tell- 
 ing her how I had nabbed a fellow who had tried 
 to cheat me, when suddenly I looked up and found 
 Blanche gazing at me. As our eyes met she looked 
 away quietly, and then got up and went out of 
 the room, leaving me under the impression that 
 she disapproved of me, or did not like what I had 
 been saying. I put this down to " cheek " that 
 deserved to be snubbed ; but she never gave me the 
 
 64 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 opportunity of snubbing her; she seemed rather 
 to avoid me. 
 
 A few weeks later I was waiting one afternoon 
 in the little parlour. Mabel had gone up to dress 
 to go out with me, when suddenly Blanche came 
 into the room with her cheeks aglow, crying, 
 "Where's mother .'^ " She had been skating, and 
 her sparkling eyes and rich colour so improved 
 her that I exclaimed, " Why, Blanche, you're quite 
 pretty ! " I suppose the astonishment in my voice 
 was rather marked; for as I looked her eyes grew 
 indignant; the colour in her cheeks flamed from 
 pink to scarlet, and she turned and stalked out 
 of the room with her chin in the air. An absurd 
 child; she annoyed without interesting me, and I 
 resolved to take no further notice of her. 
 
 It was easy to keep that resolution ; for about 
 this time my companionship with Mabel became 
 close: we began to spoon in fact, and soon tried 
 to believe ourselves very much in love with each 
 other. But there w^as always something lacking 
 in our intimacy, and now, looking back, I see that 
 there was no real bond between us, and I begin to 
 suspect that kisses often stand youth in lieu of 
 sympathy. For even if I would, I really could 
 not tell much of my flirtation with Mabel Longden. 
 She was good to look at and good to be with, too 
 uniformly sweet-tempered ever to have cared much 
 about me, I imagine ; but I know little of her true 
 character and temperament ; for love was not in 
 her, love with its terrible need of self-betrayal. 
 There were moments, it is true, when we seemed 
 drawn together, moments when her eyes sought 
 
First Love {A Confession) 
 
 mine with timid abandonment, and when pride in 
 her looks and pity of her weakness grew in me 
 to unselfish tenderness; but there was no enduring 
 strength in the feeling, no roots of life in it, and 
 a few days' separation chilled us both. I am glad 
 now to think that the play was pure comedy on 
 both sides, though at the time I was often vaguely 
 disappointed with our aloofness from one another, 
 and tried by dwelling on her beauty to bring my- 
 self to the passionate ardour I ought to have felt 
 for her. Mabel never really loved me at all; at 
 the height of our intimacy I noticed that she used 
 to lead me on to talk of the fortune I should make, 
 and of the great house we should have and the 
 horses and carriages, and it seems to me now, 
 though I am half ashamed to say it, that it was 
 some picture in her mind of dress and jewelry and 
 distinction which made her try to like me. In any 
 case the matter is not worth thinking about any 
 longer, and I only mention it now because it be- 
 longs to my story. 
 
 I had known Mabel Longden for nearly two 
 years, and for six or eight months had spent three- 
 fourths of the time I passed in Brighton, with her, 
 when I called early one Saturday evening and 
 found that she was out. I was a little hurt — more 
 in vanity than in affection, I think — and disap- 
 pointed, which I took to be a proof of feeling, 
 whereas it was merely the result of balked habit. 
 True, I was later than usual, much later in fact; 
 but then my father had kept me talking of my 
 younger brother Tom, and I had bought tickets 
 for the opera to make up for my late coming. I 
 
 66 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 found it difficult to disguise my bad humour when 
 I was told that Mabel had gone out for the even- 
 ing and would probably not be home till eleven. 
 
 " You see," said Mrs. Longden apologetically, 
 " you never sent her word, and I presume she 
 thought you were not coming at all." While she 
 was speaking, my eyes, wandering about in hesi- 
 tation and annoyance, suddenly caught sight of 
 an expression of indignant contempt on Blanche's 
 face as she sat looking into the fire. 
 
 " But what am I to do with these tickets ? " I 
 asked, in helpless irritation. As I spoke Blanche 
 kicked the fender and got up hastily, and an idea 
 came into my head. 
 
 " Would you let me take Blanche.? " and I 
 turned to Mrs. Longden. 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Longden after a moment's 
 hesitation, only to be noticed because of her un- 
 varying suavity ; " yes, certainly ; and I think 
 Blanche would enjoy it. She loves music." 
 
 "Well, Blanche?" I asked; but there was no 
 need of an answer, for the girl's eyes were dancing. 
 
 " Oh," she said in a low voice, as if to excuse 
 her joy, " it is ' Le Nozze di Figaro ' isn't it.? and 
 I love music, and Titiens and Trebelli are both in 
 it. Oh," and she drew in her breath with delight 
 and clasped her hands, " it is kind of you ! " 
 
 " What will you wear, dear ? " asked her mother, 
 and the girl's face fell so lugubriously that I could 
 not help laughing. " Anything will do : we must 
 start at once," I said, and bustled them both up- 
 stairs. I like music as much as most people, but 
 I like, too, to talk between the acts, and my com- 
 
 67 
 
First Love {A Confession) 
 
 panion that night was more than silent; still 
 Tit lens was very good in spite of her bulk, and 
 Trebelli the most enchanting page that was ever 
 seen. When she sang " Voi che sapete " with that 
 angelic voice of hers, I was carried off my feet. 
 
 As she finished the song my companion gave a 
 queer, little, hysterical squeak that turned all eyes 
 upon her. I saw that the child was overwrought ; 
 her face was pale and pinched, and the eyes blaz- 
 ing, so I whispered, "Let us go, Blanche, eh?" 
 
 " Oh, no ! " she said. " No ! it is too beautiful 
 — please, please don't go." 
 
 " If we stay," I insisted, " you mustn't cry out ; 
 the people are all looking at you." 
 
 "What do the people matter?" she snapped, 
 and then, pleadingly, " please, let me listen." Of 
 course there was nothing more to be said, and we 
 stayed to the end. 
 
 It was a fine night, and we walked home to- 
 gether, Blanche taking my arm. 
 
 " Are you glad I took you ? " I asked, feeling 
 that I should like her to thank me; she pressed 
 my arm. But I wanted to talk, so I went on: 
 
 "You liked the play, didn't you?" That 
 started her off ; she was so excited with enthusiasm 
 and admiration that she talked like one out of 
 breath. 
 
 " The music," she said, " was divine ; so beauti- 
 ful, it hurt. I ache with it still. I can never, 
 never forget it." 
 
 I laughed at her exaggerations, and brought 
 her down to common sense, and then she began to 
 attack the play. 
 
 68 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 " It was beastly," if you please ; " all falsehood 
 and deceit and cheating. I hope life isn't like 
 that," she burst out, " if it is, I shall hate it. How 
 could Mozart have given that lovely music to those 
 horrid words and horrid people? How could he? " 
 
 There seemed to be some sense in what she said, 
 but as I knew very little about it, I preferred to 
 change the subject. And then the conversation 
 died away. 
 
 When we reached her house I left her at the 
 door. Somehow or other I did not feel inclined to 
 go in and make up my little difference with Mabel. 
 It seems to me now as if our estrangement began 
 that evening; but, indeed, I did not trouble much 
 about it, either then or later. And it was not any 
 affection for Blanche that put Mabel out of my 
 head: no, the child excited my curiosity, and that 
 was all ; she was evidently clever, and I liked that ; 
 but she was also intensely emotional, which seemed 
 odd rather than pleasant to me. 
 
 For some weeks I did not call at the Longdens, 
 and when I called I noticed that Mabel was affected 
 in manner and speech. Her coldness I didn't 
 mind ; in fact, I felt relieved by it ; but her grace- 
 ful poses and little slang phrases of gentility 
 seemed ridiculous to me. I wondered that I had 
 never been disagreeably impressed by them before. 
 I felt, too, that they were characteristic of her; 
 she was affected and vain. I did not want to be 
 alone with her, and though we spent several after- 
 noons together I maintained my attitude of polite 
 carelessness. Mabel scarcely seemed to notice my 
 change of manner; she was often out when I 
 
First Love {A Confession) 
 
 called, and I fell upon the idea of asking Blanche 
 to accompany us whenever Mabel happened to go 
 out with me. At first Blanche used to refuse point 
 blank; but as I returned to the charge she con- 
 sented now and then, evidently in accord with her 
 sister; indeed, Mabel often pressed her to say 
 " Yes." 
 
 I remember one Saturday evening taking them 
 both to dine at Mutton's. We had a private room 
 and the best dinner the place could afford ; for suc- 
 cess and Waldstein's example were teaching me to 
 be extravagant in such matters. The week had 
 been a red-letter one for me ; I had cleared a thou- 
 sand pounds in it and naturally was cock-a-hoop, 
 though I did not conceal from m3'self, or even 
 from the Longdens, that my success was due to 
 Waldstein. In fact, towards the end of the din- 
 ner I set his whole plan before them and gave all 
 his reasons for the course he took. Before I had 
 got half through the story it was impossible not 
 to notice that Blanche was my only listener. Mabel 
 made polite exclamations of attention at the 
 proper places ; but she was manifestly rather bored 
 by the account, whereas Blanche asked about every- 
 thing she didn't understand, and appeared to be 
 really engrossed by the dramatic elements in the 
 struggle for wealth. Piqued by Mabel's manner, 
 I did my best to interest Blanche and succeeded, I 
 suppose, for Mabel at length left the table and 
 took to drumming on the window pane to show her 
 impatience. 
 
 " I must go ! " she exclaimed at last. " I ex- 
 pect Captain Burroughs to call this evening to try 
 
 70 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 over a song with me, and I don't want to be late." 
 After that there was nothing left for us but to 
 put on our wraps and go. I had met Captain Bur- 
 roughs at the Longdens more than once, but had 
 not paid much attention to him. He was an ordi- 
 nary-looking man, I thought, with nothing par- 
 ticular about him except that he was well set-up 
 and had large blue eyes. Now as Mabel spoke his 
 image came before me, and I understood that he 
 was good-looking, that she thought him exceed- 
 ingly attractive, and had more than consoled her- 
 self with his courtship for my inattention. Per- 
 haps even she had begun to go her own way before 
 I had thought of going mine. Yes, she had; a 
 hundred little signs unnoticed at the time assured 
 me that she had. The discovery relieved and 
 pleased me greatly; I grew excited and felt quite 
 cordial to her. She was a fine girl after all, and 
 deserved a handsome husband like Burroughs. 
 Was it this elation or the wine I had drunk that 
 made me act as I did? I don't know; the bare 
 facts are not flattering to me, but I'll set them 
 down. Mabel went out of the room first, as if in 
 a hurry to get to her Captain; she disappeared 
 just as I took up Blanche's jacket to help her on 
 with it. As the young girl swung round before 
 me I noticed for the first time that she had a figure, 
 a figure that promised to be a very pretty one, 
 and after putting on her jacket I could not help 
 taking her slender waist in my hands. Of course 
 I said something to cover my action : " Go along, 
 let us catch Mabel," or something of that sort; 
 but the words died on my lips, for she turned 
 
 71 
 
First Love {A Confession) 
 
 abruptly and faced me with an imperative: 
 "Don't!" 
 
 " Go along," I repeated awkwardly, " you're 
 only a child." 
 
 She moved away haughtily, without a word, and 
 followed her sister downstairs. 
 
 The cab was waiting for us, and as soon as we 
 were seated in it I forced a conversation with 
 Mabel on the subject of her song and Captain 
 Burroughs' voice. 
 
 After this incident Blanche avoided me persist- 
 ently. At first, feeling rather uncomfortable, I 
 was not at all sorry to get out of a complete ex- 
 planation. But as the feeling of shame wore off 
 I began to contrive occasions for being alone with 
 her. " I don't care for her," I used to say to 
 myself, " but I don't want her to think me a howl- 
 ing cad.'' But though I did not care for her she 
 was in my thoughts a good deal, and knew how 
 to pique my vanity at least by continually avoid- 
 ing me. She was more successful in this than she 
 could have been a few months before; for now I 
 never went to the house without finding Burroughs 
 in the little parlour on the ground floor, filling the 
 place I had formerly occupied beside Mabel. In 
 fact, about this time Mrs. Longden confided to 
 me that the pair were engaged, and when I con- 
 gratulated Mabel I noticed that she was prettier 
 and less affected than I had ever imagined she 
 could be. Love is like youth for hiding faults 
 and setting off merits. After this event my 
 chances of meeting Blanche alone became too 
 slight to be worth the risk of disturbing the lovers, 
 
 n 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 and so I gave up going to the house at all regu- 
 larly. Mere chance soon helped me where pur- 
 pose had failed. One afternoon late, as I reached 
 the house I found the servant at the door, who 
 told me that every one was out except Miss 
 Blanche. I was very glad to hear it. Blanche 
 was in the parlour alone, and as I entered she 
 stood up hastily, and returned my greeting with 
 a cold " I'll see if mother or Mabel is in." But 
 I stopped in front of the door, and said: 
 
 " Won't you speak to me, Blanche ? If I've of- 
 fended you, I beg your pardon. Forgive me, and 
 let us be friends again." I caught myself speak- 
 ing with an intensity far greater than I had 
 thought of using; and, as her face did not relax 
 and she kept her eyes obstinately bent on the 
 ground, I began again with an extraordinary 
 eagerness : 
 
 " Why will you bear malice.? I had no idea you 
 could be so cross. Just remember what a great 
 talk we had that night, and forgive me." Still 
 the same silence and little downcast face, scarcely 
 to be seen in the gathering shadows. I began 
 again : " Really, Blanche, you ought to be 
 ashamed of yourself. It is childish to sulk so: 
 yes, childish," I repeated, for she had looked up 
 at last. " If you were older you would know that 
 every woman forgives when the man apologizes 
 and asks for pardon." She looked me straight in 
 the face, but said nothing. Had I excited myself 
 by my own pleading, or what was it? I don't 
 know ; but I began again in a different tone : 
 
 " Upon my word, if you won't speak, I'll treat 
 73 
 
First Love {A Confession) 
 
 you like the little girl you are, and kiss you into 
 a good temper." 
 
 " You daren't," she said, and stood rigidly. 
 
 "You mustn't dare me," I cried, and I threw 
 my left arm round her waist, and held her face to 
 mine with my right hand. At first she struggled 
 desperately, and writhed so that I could hardly 
 hold her. Then gradually I overcame her strug- 
 gles, and kissed her again and again. I shall 
 never be able to describe the strange, keen pleasure 
 I took in the touch of her lips ; nor the intimate, 
 intense delight it gave me to hold her tender, pant- 
 ing form against my breast in the darkness. 
 Whilst I was still embracing and kissing her, the 
 idea came to me that her resistance had become 
 merely formal; that she was not trying to avoid 
 my lips. At once conscience smote me, and I felt 
 that I had been a brute. No sort of excuse for me 
 — none. I pulled myself together, and stopped 
 kissing her. Then I began pleading again. 
 
 "Little Blanche, have you forgiven me? Are 
 we friends again? Won't you speak to me now? " 
 And I laid my cheek to hers: the girl's face was 
 wet, and I realized with a pang that she was cry- 
 ing silently. This was worse than I had feared. 
 I was genuinely grieved. 
 
 " Oh, Blanche," I exclaimed, " if you knew how 
 sorry I am! Please don't cry; I didn't mean to 
 hurt you; I'm so sorry — what am I to do? I'll 
 never, never forgive myself." As I began to speak 
 she slipped from my arms and went to the door. 
 
 " Blanche," I went on— for I couldn't let her 
 go like that — " you must hate me to leave me so ; 
 
 74 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 won't you say you'll forgive me, please ? " She 
 paused, holding the door ajar; then I heard her 
 say in a little subdued voice, 
 
 " There's nothing to forgive," and then " It 
 wasn't your fault," and the door closed behind 
 her quickly, leaving me in the dark, half penitent 
 and half in doubt as to her meaning, though the 
 tone of her voice had partially reassured me. 
 
 After she left me I seemed to be possessed by 
 a demon of unrest. Up and down the parade I 
 tramped reproaching myself for what I had done. 
 I had no business to kiss her. It was a shame. I 
 felt very clearly that kisses meant infinitely more 
 to her than they did to her sister. What was I 
 to do? I didn't love her, and yet I had never 
 kissed anyone with such passion. She was an in-^ 
 scrutable mystery to me. Why had she cried .^ 
 Did she dislike me? Had she grown tired of 
 struggling, or merely affected to struggle, wishing 
 all the time to be kissed? This flattering hypo- 
 thesis seemed to be true ; but, if true, why had she 
 begun to cry? And if she had cried out of vexa- 
 tion, why did she say that there was nothing to 
 forgive, and that it wasn't my fault? I couldn't 
 read the riddle ; and it was too fascinating to leave 
 unread. I wanted to return to the house to see 
 her if but for a moment, but that went against my 
 pride. I resolved to write to her. The girl was 
 a mystery, and the mystery had an attraction for 
 me that I could not account for nor explain. That 
 night I went up to my little bedroom and sat down 
 to write to her. I soon found that the task was 
 exceedingly difficult. At one moment I was writ- 
 
 75 
 
First Love {A Confession) 
 
 ing as if I loved her, and the next I was warning 
 her that I did not love her yet. At length I began 
 to quiet myself: "Why write at all?" But I 
 couldn't leave her without a word, and so I decided 
 at last to write just a brief note, saying how 
 grieved I should be to hurt or offend her in any 
 way, and declaring that I would call next Satur- 
 day afternoon as soon as I reached Brighton. I 
 began " Dear little Blanche," and ended up with 
 " I shall think of you all through the week ; yours, 
 Will Rutherford." 
 
 The week passed much as other weeks had 
 passed, with this difference however, that from 
 Monday on I began to look forward more and 
 more eagerly to seeing Blanche again. I did not 
 write this to her in the meantime, partly out of 
 prudence, partly out of the wish to tell it to her 
 when we met. As soon as I reached Brighton on 
 the Saturday I hurried off to the Longdens. The 
 mother met me in the parlour. 
 
 "Where's Blanche.?" I asked, gaily. 
 
 " Blanche ! " repeated Mrs. Longden, with a 
 slight tone of surprise ; " she has gone into the 
 country to stay with some friends." 
 
 " Into the country," I muttered, in confusion ; 
 "where to.?" 
 
 " Near Winchester," came the calm reply. 
 
 " But did she leave no message for me — no 
 letter.?" 
 
 " Not that I'm aware of," replied Mrs. Long- 
 den, smilingly ; " I didn't even know that you took 
 interest enough in each other to write or send 
 messages." 
 
 76 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 And that was all. I left the house more be- 
 wildered than ever ; but my pride was up in arms, 
 and I resolved to put Blanche out of my mind 
 completely. That seemed easy enough at first; 
 but with time it became increasingly difficult. The 
 mystery puzzled me more and more, and the abrupt 
 parting piqued my curiosity. As the weeks passed 
 and I recalled all our meetings and what she had 
 said, I began to see that she was very intelligent 
 and very ingenuous. At length I couldn't stand 
 it any longer; so I wrote to her, telling her how 
 constantly I thought of her, and begging her to 
 let me see her. I took the letter to Mrs. Longden, 
 who promised to forward it, with a request to 
 Blanche to answer it, and next week Mrs. Longden 
 showed me the end of a letter Blanche had written 
 to her : " I received the letter you sent me ; please 
 tell him there's no answer. I have nothing to 
 say." 
 
 I had gone as far as my pride would allow. 
 From that day I never went near the Longdens, 
 but gave myself up to work, and gradually the 
 fascination of business took hold of me once again. 
 Four or five years later I married and bought a 
 little country place near Winchester. A year or 
 so afterwards I took my wife to a ball given by 
 the officers of the Hussars, who were quar- 
 tered in the Cathedral city. I knew a good many 
 people, and, as I liked dancing, prepared to en- 
 joy myself; feeling sure that my wife would be 
 well taken care of. After the second or third 
 dance, a Captain Wolfe come up to me and said, 
 " You're in luck, my friend ; I'm going to intro- 
 
 77 
 
First Love {A Confession) 
 
 duce you to the belle of the ball." With some 
 laughing protestation I followed him and he pre- 
 sented me by simply saying " This is Mr. Ruther- 
 ford." 
 
 The girl certainly deserved his praise; she was 
 one of those bewitchingly pretty girls one sees now 
 and then in England and nowhere else in the world. 
 I cannot describe her except by saying that she 
 was above the middle height and of a very perfect 
 lissom figure, with the most dazzingly beautiful 
 face I have ever seen. 
 
 " Pardon me," I said, " but Captain Wolfe for- 
 got to tell me your name." 
 
 " Don't you know it? " she asked, while her blue 
 eyes danced with amusement. 
 
 " No," I replied, " how should 1? I have never 
 seen you before." 
 
 I spoke with absolute conviction. 
 
 " What a bad compliment — ^to forget me and 
 deny me! Aren't you ashamed of yourself.'^ " and 
 she pouted adorably. 
 
 " The best of compliments," I retorted warmly ; 
 " the certainty that if I had ever seen you I could 
 never have forgotten you." 
 
 She swept me a low courtesy, and then, with 
 sudden gravity, " Allow me to introduce myself. 
 Miss Blanche Longden that was, now Miss Long- 
 den." 
 
 I was dumbfounded. The grace, the charm, the 
 self-possession, I could understand, even the fine 
 figure : but not the change in face. Blanche's nose 
 had been rather heavy and shapeless, and now it 
 was daintily cut; the pointed chin was rounded, 
 
 78 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 the oval of the face had filled out, the eyes had 
 surely grown darker, the complexion that had 
 been muddy was now like exquisite porcelain; but 
 even these extraordinary changes did not account 
 for her entrancing loveliness. I was lost in 
 wonder. 
 
 She laughed in a pleased way at my embarrass- 
 ment: 
 
 " You don't recognize me even now ? " 
 
 " No," I confessed ruefully. " You are alto- 
 gether changed: even your voice has improved be- 
 yond recognition." 
 
 " Let us sit down," she said, " and talk, if you 
 have this dance free ; " and I sat down, careless 
 whether I was free or not. At last I should get 
 the mystery solved. What did we talk about ? At 
 first the usual things. Her sister, I learned, was 
 married and had three children. She was in India 
 now with her husband, and Mrs. Longden, in 
 Brittany, was taking care of the little ones. At 
 last I put my question: 
 
 " Why did you go away from Brighton, and 
 never answer my letters ? " 
 
 " I did answer them. Mother told me she 
 showed you my answer." 
 
 " That was no answer. You have no idea how 
 disappointed and hurt I was ; how I grieved over 
 your silence." I could not help being much more 
 intense with this girl than I had any right to be. 
 " But tell me why you left me so, and I'll forgive 
 you." 
 
 She seemed to consider, and then: 
 
 " I don't know; there was nothing to be said; " 
 
 m 
 
First Love {A Confession) 
 
 and then, " You are married, aren't you ? " I 
 nodded ; she went on : " I want to know your wife ; 
 you must introduce me." 
 
 " With pleasure," I replied : " but my answer ; 
 you will explain the mystery now." 
 
 " But you must have understood ^ " 
 
 " No ; I did not, I assure you, and even now I 
 can't make out why you acted as you did. 
 
 " How strange ! " And she laughed, looking 
 away from me. On reflection afterwards, it seemed 
 to me that this laughter of hers was a trifle forced ; 
 but I may be mistaken. At the time I didn't re- 
 mark the false note. How strange ! " she re- 
 peated ; and then, with sudden gravity, " Shall I 
 dot the ' is ' and cross the ' ts ' for you, and con- 
 fess.? I wonder will it be good for my soul. The 
 truth is very simple, and yet very hard to tell. I 
 loved you. Oh ! as a child, of course, I mean, but 
 with an ideal passion. You never guessed it.? I'm 
 glad. Do you know, I think it began that night 
 at the theatre. You won something of the charm 
 of that fatal music that seemed to me the voice 
 of my soul's desire. It transformed me ; the tide 
 of it swept through me, and ebbed and flowed in 
 me, and bore me av, ay out upon it till the sweet 
 tears scalded my e3^es and made my heart ache. 
 After that my guard broke down before you ; the 
 way was open and you took possession of the 
 empty throne. How I loved you ! I invested you 
 with every grace and every power ; you were the lay 
 figure and I the artist. Forgive me, I don't mean 
 to hurt you; but that's the truth. You brought 
 the wild fresh air of struggle and triumph into 
 
 80 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 our close narrow life, and I made a hero of you, 
 that was all. 
 
 " I think I began by pitying you ; even in short 
 frocks some of us are mothers. I saw that Mabel 
 didn't love you and was indignant with her. After 
 seeing her with you my heart has ached for you, 
 and I've gone out of the room hating her make- 
 believe of love and stopped in the hall to talk to 
 your coat. How I used to kiss and stroke it and 
 put my cheek against it and whisper sweet things 
 to it ! ' Tell him, dear coat,' I used to say, ' that I 
 love him, and he mustn't be sad or lonely. Tell 
 him — tell him that I love him.' I used to believe 
 that unconsciously you must receive some comfort 
 from those assurances. 
 
 " Do you remember the dinner when you touched 
 me? I stopped you; I was so glad at heart that 
 I had to pretend to be angry for fear you'd under- 
 stand. And that afternoon when you kissed me; 
 I provoked it — on purpose? I don't know. I do 
 know that I resisted as long as I could, and when 
 I could resist no longer, you stopped. How the 
 passion of shame hurt me then ! I thought I 
 should die of it, and then I thought of the sweet 
 unknown affection I had been giving you — all past 
 and at an end — and the tears came. . . . Well, 
 there's my confession. You see now that I could 
 not answer your letters. I had to win back self- 
 respect, and I did." 
 
 There ; that's all the story. I know I've told it 
 badly, but I've done my best. What did I say to 
 
 81 
 
First Love {A Confession) 
 
 her? I played the fool. I could find nothing 
 sensible to say ; I held my head in my hands and 
 muttered : 
 
 "And now?" 
 
 " And now," she repeated, smiling through wet 
 eyes, " I'm grown up and you're married, and I 
 want to know your wife." 
 
 "And that's all?" I blundered on. 
 
 "All?" she said; "all — ^and enough too, I 
 should think." Her voice had changed and grown 
 hard ; even as a girl she was quick-tempered : " Do 
 you know I look at you and can't tell what pos- 
 sessed me, what I could have seen in you? You're 
 not even like the mental picture I had made of you. 
 I don't know how I could have dressed you up in 
 those heroic vestments. When I look at you I 
 wonder at myself. I must really ask your wife 
 what she sees in you; for " 
 
 At last I came to sense; the beautiful play 
 was over, and I had offended her; but she had 
 gone too far in punishment: the words came to 
 me: 
 
 " If you go on hurting me, I shall think you are 
 daring me again." 
 
 The blood surged to the roots of her hair; she 
 rose and took the arm of a man who had just 
 come up, and vanished from my sight; and with 
 her going romance died out of my life, and the 
 grey walls of the ordinary shrank round and 
 hemmed me in for ever. 
 
 In the years that have elapsed since, my business 
 instincts have often forced me to try and strike a 
 balance: I was richer by a wonderful memory and 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 poorer by the sense of incalculable loss. Some- 
 times I try to console mj^self with the thought 
 that perhaps that is all life holds, even for the 
 luckiest of us. 
 
PROFIT AND LOSS 
 
 85 
 
PROFIT AND LOSS 
 
 THE great dry-goods store was silent and 
 shadowful. A misty light glimmering 
 through the frosted glass of a little office 
 at the back discovered dimly the lines of counters 
 stretching away into the darkness and the spectral 
 grey-brown hangings which hid the shelves of 
 goods. In the office a man sat working amid a 
 pile of account-books. He was very young — to 
 judge by his thin, dark moustache not more than 
 two or three and twenty years of age, but the ver- 
 tical lines between his eyebrows and a certain 
 hardness of compressed lips made him appear five 
 years older. David Tryon was not to be called 
 good-looking, though his features were sharply 
 cut and for the most part regular, and his dark 
 eyes intent with purpose. His ugliest trait, a long 
 square chin, deepened the impression made by brow 
 and eyes and imparted to his face a character of 
 extraordinary resolution. As he laid down his 
 pen and closed the ledger he had been using, an 
 expression of complete lassitude came over his 
 tensely-strung features ; he was evidently ex- 
 hausted. The July day had been excessively hot, 
 and the summer stock-taking had made his labour 
 as cashier very heavy. For a week past he had 
 
 87 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 worked eighteen hours out of every twenty-four, 
 and now he had just completed the annual state- 
 ment and drawn out the profit and loss account. 
 This task was supposed to take about a month, 
 but Tryon knew that his principal had some special 
 reason for wishing to ascertain as soon as possi- 
 ble how his affairs stood, and accordingly he had 
 overworked himself, as ambitious young men of 
 a nervous, bilious temperament are apt to do. He 
 was so worn out that he could scarcely think; 
 sleepiness seemed to blunt and numb his senses. 
 He didn't notice the opening of the office-door, 
 and he started when he felt a hand laid upon his 
 shoulder and found himself face to face with his 
 chief, Mr. Jefferson Boulger. Tryon was greatly 
 surprised. Mr. Boulger lived in the country, and 
 it was most unusual to see him in the store at ten 
 o'clock at night. 
 
 " Been working hard as usual, Dave," said his 
 employer pleasantly, as the young man started to 
 his feet and roughly brushed his hair back with 
 his hand as if to drive away his weariness. 
 
 " I guess it'll worry you to get out the balance- 
 sheet this year — eh?" 
 
 " It has cost some work," Tryon replied, " but 
 it's done now and the statement of profit and loss 
 as well." 
 
 " You don't say ! I reckoned 'twould take an- 
 other week at least. But you're real smart at 
 figures, and as I was in town I thought I'd look in 
 on the chance " — ^liere Mr. Boulger as if correcting 
 himself added hastily, " That is, I s'posed you'd 
 know about how we stood, and anyway I'd have a 
 
 88 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 talk with you. Is that it? " and he pointed to a 
 sheet of foolscap on the desk. 
 
 " That's it," Tryon answered, handing the paper 
 to his chief. 
 
 Mr. Boulger had a large experience of life and 
 some quickness of perception, but he was not a 
 good enough actor at this moment to conceal his 
 emotion. Though he turned sideways half-hiding 
 his face as if to read the statement by the lamp, 
 his nervousness was manifest. In truth, he had 
 good reason for anxiety. 
 
 Mr. Boulger was a handsome man — tall and well- 
 formed, with regular features, large blue eyes, and 
 fair moustache. In spite of his fifty-five years he 
 seemed to be in his prime; life had always been 
 easy to him; his good looks had made it easy. 
 They had won for him when still a young man a 
 wife with money and connections, and this circum- 
 stance had transformed him from a clerk into the 
 owner of a business at the time when Kansas City 
 began to grow with such rapidit}^ that almost every 
 use of capital brought large profits. Mr. Boulger 
 was sufficiently vain of his person, but he was far 
 vainer of his intelligence. He ascribed all his suc- 
 cess in life to his ability ; the extraordinary chances 
 which had favoured him, never entered into his 
 thoughts. It had, however, been borne in upon 
 him lately that the prosperity of his business was 
 anything but assured. The causes of this 
 phenomenon lay beyond his powers of vision. The 
 truth was that the growth of Kansas City had be- 
 gun to attract attention throughout the Union. 
 Capitalists from Eastern cities had flocked in and 
 
 89 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 established business-houses on a scale formerly un- 
 known in the Western town. And Mr. Boulger 
 had not kept pace with these new competitors, 
 while for reasons which will soon be set forth, his 
 expenses, always large, had of late been very 
 largely increased. For some time past he had been 
 short of money ; he was now embarrassed for want 
 of it ; and a series of novel and unpleasant experi- 
 ences had, at length, made him anxious. Hence 
 his excitement when he took up the statement which 
 must show his exact position. Mechanically he 
 turned over the pages without seeing the figures, 
 though pretending to scan them closely, but when 
 he came to the nett results his surprise and fear 
 overcame his prudence: 
 
 " A million ! A million of goods here.? " 
 " Yes," said Tryon, as if following the thread 
 of the elder man's thought. " The buyers this 
 year have been — unlucky; the silk and velvet pat- 
 terns have not gone off well, and in the cotton 
 goods Marchants have taken nearly all the trade 
 away from us by cutting prices, and so the balance 
 is bad." 
 
 " Bad," repeated Mr. Boulger, while his blue 
 eyes dilated with mingled fear and anger. " Bad. 
 I reckon 'tis bad. I don't see how it could be much 
 worse. The buyers must go. They ain't worth 
 their salt. Wh}^, we sold more than this, fifteen 
 years ago, when a hundred thousand dollars would 
 have bought up the whole place. Bad," and his 
 voice rose passionately, " the salesmen must be bad 
 too. I don't believe," he went on, bringing his 
 shapely hand down on the desk with a thump in 
 
 90 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 his excitement, " I don't believe there's a man in 
 the place does his work properly — of course ex- 
 cept you, Dave." 
 
 " That ain't quite so," Try on objected. " The 
 salesmen are fairly good, and they do their best. 
 But the buyers don't seem to know what the folk 
 out here want, and there's no one to put them 
 right." 
 
 " It's just too bad," resumed Mr. Boulger, who 
 seemed to have overheard Tryon's concluding 
 words. " Too bad. Year after year the stock 
 gets larger, and these last four or five years the 
 sales have been f allin' off. Why, I remember when 
 I first took over the place. I ran the sales up 
 year after year, and the stock remained about the 
 same. Then I extended the business ; made this 
 the biggest dry-goods house in all the West; and 
 still we used to be short of stock often. Now it 
 seems as if nothin' would go — nothin'. ... I wish 
 I'd had a son to take my place. No business goes 
 well unless the head's there all the time, and since 
 that fever four years ago I've not been able to 
 stick to work as I used to do. I guess that's got 
 something to do with it. I wish I'd had a son. 
 But there! I believed the store would run itself; 
 it always seemed so easy to make things go well; 
 and then I thought that you, Dave, would look 
 after everything. Why, since I first took you in, 
 I've just pushed you right along till you've got 
 the best place in the house, and now " 
 
 " You forget, Mr. Boulger, that when I advised 
 Williams three years ago what to buy, he went to 
 you, and you told me to mind my own business 
 
 91 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 and not to interfere with the buying. But even 
 now," Tryon went on, with keen decision in his 
 voice, " it's not too late to alter. I'll undertake, 
 if you give me the power, to clear out a quarter, 
 at least, of this stock within the year." (Mr. 
 JBoulgcr made a gesture of hopelessness.) "I 
 mean at fair prices. Of course, there'd be a loss, 
 but not much. Though I'd rather realise three- 
 quarters of the stock for what it would bring, and 
 then start fresh — most of it's out of fashion. 
 There's no reason why the business shouldn't go 
 better than ever it has gone. For though Mar- 
 chants are smart competitors, the town's growing 
 very fast, and there's room enough for us all." 
 
 " Perhaps, but not time enough, Dave, not time 
 enough." And then, as if taking up a new train 
 of thought, and abandoning his despairing medi- 
 tation, Mr. Boulger laid his hand on Tryon's 
 shoulder, and went on earnestly: 
 
 " I've been kind to you, Dave, and I guess you 
 won't go back on me now. No, I'm sure you won't. 
 Well, time's what we want — time and money. 
 You're surprised. It seems strange, don't it? but 
 it's true. My home costs a good deal ; I've always 
 lived well. And when Milly was married I had to 
 fit her out. I put up the house for her and all 
 that, and gave her a good many thousand dollars 
 besides. I don't hold with the Yankee idea that 
 daughters should go empty-handed to their hus- 
 bands. And Mrs. Boulger and the younger girls 
 spent a pile in Europe. I guess livin's dear there. 
 And they had to make some sort of a show. Any 
 way, I'm very short now. There's no doubt about 
 
 92 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 that. Stewart wants a large cheque to clear his 
 account, and I don't like to try to borrow from the 
 bank here — even if they'd lend it. I don't know 
 why I talk to you like this, Dave ; but I guess you 
 know about how matters stand, and I've always 
 liked you. You know that. . . . 
 
 " I didn't realise at first how the business was 
 goin'. I had kinder got used to success, and took 
 things too easily, hopin' for better times ; and now, 
 just when I had made up my mind to work again 
 — you may have noticed I've come regularly to 
 business this last month — it's too late. There's a 
 million on these shelves, and I'm pressed, worried 
 for a hundred thousand dollars. It's too bad ! " 
 
 " But can't you sell your real estate, Mr. Boul- 
 ger, and your trotting horses ? I don't mean your 
 house, but the farms and " 
 
 Mr. Boulger shook his head mournfully. 
 
 " I've done everything, Dave. The real estate 
 is mortgaged, and if I sold my trottin' horses 
 every one would talk and my credit would be gone. 
 No," he added, shortly, " that's not the way." 
 Then, after a pause, during which his fine eyes 
 had taken in the young man's excitement and a cer- 
 tain pained, embarrassed look on the nervous face, 
 he repeated, " That's no good." The silence that 
 ensued was painful to Try on ; evidently he was at 
 a loss what to advise. 
 
 Suddenly Mr. Boulger asked, as if the thought 
 had just come into his head. 
 
 "What's the place insured for.? A million at 
 least, ain't it.?" 
 
 " About that, I think, but it's placed in so many 
 93 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 different companies that I couldn't tell exactly 
 without looking it up in the books." 
 
 " That ain't necessary," Mr. Boulger went on ; 
 " I don't put all my eggs in one basket. It would 
 be worth while for any Insurance Office to contest 
 a claim of a million, but wnen a loss is small, an 
 Insurance Company prefers to pay up promptly." 
 The look of comprehension which came over Try- 
 on's face at this remark stimulated the vanity of 
 the older man, who went on complacently : " Be- 
 sides, I guess you'll find the London, Liverpool and 
 Globe is down for the largest amount, and it sort 
 o' way consoles Americans when foreigners lose 
 more than they do. I haven't lost all business 
 sense yet, I reckon. Any way I feel certain that 
 if the place burnt down I'd get every cent of the 
 insurance money. An' think what that would do, 
 Dave; 'twould set us all O. K. again. A million. 
 I wish the store would catch fire an' burn right out. 
 I'd give a hundred thousand dollars to get rid 
 of all that stock — an' be glad to do it." Here 
 Mr. Boulger paused significantly as if inviting an 
 answer. But Tr^^on didn't speak, couldn't speak 
 Indeed, though it was manifest that he had fully 
 grasped his principal's meaning. 
 
 Tryon's parentage and training had been pecu- 
 liar. He had never known his father, who had died 
 when he was still a young child. He had been 
 brought up entirely by his mother, and a better 
 nurture in some respects no boy ever enjoyed; for 
 Mrs. Tryon w^as one of those rare persons whose 
 good qualities inspire affectionate admiration. Be- 
 fore her marriage she had been a schoolmistress 
 
 94 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 in Hanley, Vermont, and when her husband died, 
 a few years after their emigration to Missouri, she 
 returned to her old occupation with an eagerness 
 that testified eloquently to the trials of her mar- 
 ried life. Of these she never spoke, even to her 
 son. She talked to Dave of his father's brains 
 and quickness; but she seemed to have forgotten 
 the fits of drunkenness that had turned her life 
 into a martyrdom of shame. Her energy and op- 
 timism made her school-work enjoyable to her, but, 
 curiously enough, she attributed her success as a 
 teacher, not to her moral qualities, not to the sound 
 judgment, amiability, and firmness which she pos- 
 sessed in an eminent degree, but to her intelligence. 
 She had always been " smart and spry," she 
 thought proudly, and it was perhaps the cruellest 
 disappointment of her life to find that her son 
 Dave was not " smart." She had, however, en- 
 dowed him with not a little of her own strength 
 of character, and when he was about thirteen, he 
 found with surprise that he was gradually out- 
 stripping boys whom for years he had regarded 
 as cleverer than himself. This consciousness 
 brought about a revulsion in his nature; stubborn 
 humility gave place to eager pride, and under tlie 
 impulse of this new feeling, he redoubled his exer- 
 tions at a time when most of his school- fellows, 
 quickening with the passions and hopes of ap- 
 proaching manhood, began to lose interest in the 
 routine of lessons. It was one of the sweetest 
 moments in his life when his mother declared with 
 glad tears that he had completely outgrown her as- 
 sistance. About this time, on the very threshold of 
 
 95 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 youth, Dave met Miss Georgie Boulger. She en- 
 tered the high-school as a girl of fourteen, when 
 he was on the point of leaving it at sixteen, with 
 the reputation of having easily surpassed all his 
 competitors. But he had never spoken first to a 
 girl in his life, and it never entered his head to 
 speak to Miss Georgie Boulger who wore a fur 
 cloak, and was accompanied to and from school 
 hy a negro servant. It was not her social supe- 
 riority, however, which won Tryon, although un- 
 doubtedly it attracted him, but Georgia's aplomb 
 and talkativeness and, above all, her kindness to 
 him. She spoke to him first about a difficulty in 
 a lesson, and seemed grateful for the help which 
 he bashfully offered. The pair soon became fast 
 friends. Miss Georgie's girlish vanity was grati- 
 fied by her conquest. The strength of Tryon's 
 character, his pride and gratitude, were all en- 
 listed on the side of his affection. He no more let 
 his thoughts wander from the young girl than he 
 would have dreamed of giving up a problem un- 
 solved. Success, he had found out, came by perse- 
 verance, and, as usual, the effort required for suc- 
 cess — all the sacrifices it demanded — serv^ed to 
 increase his desire. When his mother, delighted 
 with his steadiness and boyish triumphs, pressed 
 him to continue his studies, and go to the univer- 
 sity, he wouldn't hear of it. He'd try to get a 
 place in Boulger's store; she had worked long 
 enough for him; he wanted to help her now; and 
 at last the mother, touched to the heart by the de- 
 votion which she had given, but never expected to 
 receive, yielded. 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 Tryon took up his work in the store as he had 
 studied in school, with the difference that now he 
 made Hght of difficulties which he felt sure of his 
 own power to overcome. In a very few months 
 Mr. Boulger learned to appreciate his assistant 
 cashier, who certainly knew more about the stock 
 and business than anyone else in the place. And 
 when three or four years later, his chief cashier 
 and manager, Mr. Curtis, died suddenly, Mr. Boul- 
 ger at once offered his place to Tryon, with a salary 
 of a hundred and fifty dollars a month. But when 
 he found that this advancement only intensified his 
 young cashier's energy and devotion, instead of 
 further increasing his salary he began to treat him 
 with a great show of kindness, and at last got into 
 the habit of frequently inviting him to come out 
 to his house and spend the night. There Tryon 
 renewed acquaintance with Miss Georgie, who re- 
 sponded to his advances with the old kindliness 
 and laughing good temper, touched to a keener 
 issue by a certain maidenly sense of what court- 
 ship meant. Tryon had vastly improved in man- 
 ner and bearing in the five years which had passed 
 since he left school, and though he was not fully 
 conscious of this, or of the natural effect upon a 
 girl's nature of an assured and resolute self-pos- 
 session, Miss Georgie noted and admired the 
 change. Tryon felt simply that his perseverance 
 was again meeting with its reward ; he had but to 
 work he thought and he'd reach this goal, too, 
 when the news came that the Boulger girls with 
 their mother were going for a trip to Europe. 
 Then for the first time since his boyhood he 
 97 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 realised the full bitterness of failure, intensified 
 in this case by the hopes of success which he had 
 cherished. But with the years his character had 
 grown in strength, and as soon as he had said 
 farewell he turned again to his work with renewed 
 vigour. Hadn't Georgie, in reply to his expressed 
 fear that in Europe she'd forget old friends, 
 laughed up in his face with the words, " Anyway, 
 I won't forget you, Mr. Try on " ? That was hope 
 enough for his persistent and steadfast nature. 
 And when the trip of six months lengthened to a 
 year, and when the year became two, his hopes 
 grew with his own growth in self-confidence. The 
 fact was always there that Miss Georgie was still 
 unmarried, and that encouraged him. 
 
 In the years which Tryon had passed in Boul- 
 ger's, there had taken place that change in the 
 business which has already been noticed. Natur- 
 ally enough Tryon was the first to feel the keener 
 competition, and to realise the necessity of meeting 
 it by increased exertions. But here he found him- 
 self thwarted by his chief. The influence which 
 each of these men exercised upon the other was 
 anything but happy. Just at the time when Mr. 
 Boulger began to feel that he deserved rest. Try- 
 on's energy and ability rendered it unnecessary for 
 him to occupy himself actively in the store. Mr. 
 Boulger, too, had found that Tryon knew more 
 about the business than he did, and this conscious- 
 ness, while giving him freedom, irritated his rest- 
 less vanity. When Trj^on came to him with sug- 
 gestions he assented to them with difficulty, even 
 when he understood their value and importance, 
 
 98 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 but whenever he could, without manifestly injuring 
 the business, he waved the young man's proposals 
 loftily, or even contemptuously aside. Tryon, he 
 felt, was inchned " to play boss." His prolonged 
 absence from business made it impossible for Mr. 
 Boulger to understand the changing conditions of 
 trade, and so it came about that while unable him- 
 self to make head against his new competitors, he 
 wouldn't allow Tryon to do his best to stem the 
 tide. The business went from bad to worse. It 
 would be difficult to describe Tryon's continual, 
 resolute efforts to constrain fortune. All was in 
 vain; Mr. Boulger's jealousy of him foiled his best 
 plans. Still what he could do he did, and at 
 length, to brighten his almost hopeless labour, 
 came the news that Mrs. Boulger and her daugh- 
 ters had returned home. But weeks passed, and 
 still his employer didn't invite him to his house, 
 and so the temptation came to Tryon at a moment 
 when he was cast down in spirit by the fear that 
 his efforts to better the business had lost him Mr. 
 Boulger's liking, and with it all chance of win- 
 ning his daughter, Georgie. 
 
 If Mr. Boulger had been gifted with omni- 
 science he could hardly have chosen a fitter moment 
 for his proposal. And yet when he spoke Tryon 
 kept silent. The plan suggested by his chief 
 shocked him. His first movement was one of in- 
 stinctive, passionate recoil. But he had laboured 
 incessantly, with all nerves strung, for years, in 
 order to bring himself nearer to Georgie; and he 
 curbed his first impulse of indignation, fearing 
 that if he gave way to it, his path to her would 
 
 99 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 be blocked for ever. And once his honest instincts 
 were held in silence, the issue of the struggle was 
 not doubtful. If it is true that one's actions grad- 
 ually change the character, it is also true that 
 thoughts and desires long persisted in, modify the 
 texture of the mind. From childhood David 
 Tryon had been trained to think chiefly of success. 
 The triumphs of successful endeavour had hitherto 
 been his chief pleasures ; how was he now to give 
 up all that was delightful to him in life when he 
 had never so much as contemplated the possibility 
 of such renunciation.'^ Having conquered the first 
 movement of revolt, the intoxication of an imme- 
 diate triumph overpowered him. He did not dwell 
 long upon the condition ; he had been trained in a 
 school of life which judges by results, and is little 
 scrupulous as to means. He could not help feel- 
 ing that an opportunity now presented itself to 
 him which might never come again, an opportunity 
 which opened a broad road to the object of his 
 desires. It was not the money-bribe which tempted 
 him as much as the escape from a harassed and 
 fettered activity into a wide field of free effort, 
 and — Georgie. Yet — 
 
 While Tryon stood to all appearance impassive 
 and thoughtful Mr. Boulger grew impatient. He 
 felt that he had gone too far to recede; he must 
 go on and take the risk of refusal. Tryon's si- 
 lence must mean consent. Besides, his position 
 was desperate and this last throw, even if it failed, 
 would leave him no worse off than he had been be- 
 fore speaking. No one, he thought, would beheve 
 Tryon's word against his. But evidently he must 
 100 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 bid higher — that was plain. So he began again 
 in a strained voice : 
 
 " Dave, you see I trust you, and a hundred 
 thousand dollars or say a hundred and fifty thou- 
 sand ain't to be won every day. What do you 
 say ? " Then impatience mastered him, and he 
 added, 
 
 "Will you do it? That's the point. You 
 ain't afraid, I know, and the risk ain't anythin', 
 but will you? " 
 
 The words, the manner, the impatient eagerness 
 of the voice recalled Tryon's business wits. Often 
 in his school days his slowness in grasping the full 
 import of a question had stood him in good stead, 
 and as the slowness changed to quickness of appre- 
 hension by dint of effort and concentrated atten- 
 tion, he had made it a habit to think carefully be- 
 fore he spoke, having again and again realised the 
 advantages of second thoughts. Accordingly, 
 though his heart was beating fast and hard, he held 
 the question before him and forced himself to con- 
 sider it in all its bearings, understanding that his 
 silence had already induced Mr. Boulger to in- 
 crease his offer and that to take time might well 
 serve him in more ways than one. Besides, at the 
 bottom of his heart he hated the proposal. Was 
 there no other way? Yet he must not offend 
 Georgie's father. If only — 
 
 " If you'd renew that bill of Stewart's for thirty 
 days and give me a free hand here, we could have 
 a clearance sale that would meet the bill and give 
 us money to go on with. This store's a fortune. 
 The other thing's foolish." 
 101 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 " The bill has been renewed twice and they won't 
 renew it again, and the bank won't take it up — I'm 
 in debt to the bank. Dave, there's no other way 
 out — not one. Will you take a hundred and fifty 
 thousand dollars and set me on my feet again — 
 that's the question ? " 
 
 " I'd rather work and wait. Crime — " 
 
 " Oh, pshaw ! " And Mr. Boulger laughed 
 noisily to conceal his agitation. " There ain't no 
 risk. With your head, Dave, one don't get 
 caught, and a man can work and wait a long time 
 before he gets a hundred and fifty thousand dol- 
 lars. You know that as well as I do." 
 
 " The risk's there and I hate it ; 'tisn't needed. 
 Besides, your promise — " 
 
 " Why, Dave, I guess you can trust me — I 
 don't go back on my word, you know that. I've 
 shown you, I reckon, that I like you and think a 
 heap of you. Of course I'd pay what I say I 
 would." Mr. Boulger spoke wath the accents of 
 an almost affectionate reproach. He was evi- 
 dently feverishly anxious. 
 
 " Do you mean a promissory note — three months 
 after date?" 
 
 " Dave, I can't do that. You might die or — 
 but I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll make you man- 
 ager right off and give you five thousand a year 
 and an engagement for five years certain. Then 
 if I got the insurance money and didn't want to 
 pay you, you'd have a primd-facie case against 
 me. The largeness of the salary would testify 
 against me — will that do ? " 
 
 " How could I sue you without confessing." 
 103 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 " What am I to do ? " exclaimed Mr. Boulger, 
 exasperated by the reasonableness of the objection 
 and intensely desirous, as only a weak nature is, 
 to have the matter settled without further sus- 
 pense. 
 
 " I can't see any way but a promissory note. It 
 might be deposited with some third person who 
 would keep it until we both asked him to return 
 it." 
 
 " No. I can't do that. Why should you and I, 
 Dave, give ourselves into the power of any third 
 party. I'll make you manager at once and bind 
 the agreement as I said, but the note's foolish. 
 You can surely trust me .? " 
 
 Try on knew INIr. Boulger well enough to know 
 that when pressed too far he was apt to become 
 stupidly obstinate. After a short pause for 
 thought he began: 
 
 " The risk's great ; the store mightn't be burned 
 out ; the fire brigade's well organised ; but what I 
 undertake to do, shall be done as well as I can do 
 it. Yet I must think of myself, too. Do you 
 mind," and here he looked Mr. Boulger in the 
 face, " giving that note to Miss Georgie to keep.? 
 I guess you can trust her." In spite of himself 
 a light as of comprehension and satisfaction came 
 over the upper part of Mr. Boulger's countenance. 
 Quickly Tryon went on : " You might take me out 
 with you some evening. If she tells me she'll keep 
 the paper for two months and then give it to me 
 or open it herself before us, and decide between 
 us, I shall be content." 
 
 " If you care for Georgie," broke in Mr. Boul- 
 103 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 ger, joyously, "the matter's settled. Georgie's 
 good ; she'll not go back on either of us, and I had 
 reckoned anyway on glvin' her nearly as much 
 when she married." 
 
 "Yes," answered Tryon, "I love her, or else 
 I'd never think of doing what you want." 
 
 " Pshaw, man! " Mr. Boulger said loudly, " the 
 risk ain't w^orth considerin'. Everything'll turn 
 out right as I always felt it must. Dave, I'm real 
 glad. There's no one I'd rather have for a son- 
 in-law than you — no one. I'm glad I came in this 
 evenin'. Now I can go home and sleep with my 
 mind at rest. But 'twas a near thing; that bill 
 of Stewart's '11 fall due in six weeks, and my note 
 at the bank, too. I guess we'll be able to pay 
 them, eh, Dave? " 
 
 The loud satisfaction, the inconsequent speech, 
 grated upon Tryon's nerves. Oppressed by 
 doubts he could not still, he answered coldly : 
 
 " Yes, perhaps you will." 
 
 The words and voice seemed to Mr. Boulger to 
 indicate doubt if not regret. Accordingly he 
 hastened to clinch the bargain without delay, and 
 to give vent to his relief and joy in what seemed 
 to him a generous way. Putting his arm on the 
 young man's shoulder, he exclaimed, with kindly 
 eagerness : 
 
 " But I was f orgettin' ! The least I can do is 
 to make my son-in-law manager right off, eh, 
 Dave? I can do that right now. An' it'll show 
 you that I'm willin' to keep my word." 
 
 Tryon protested sincerely, " 'twas time enough 
 for that; a day or two wouldn't matter; 'twould 
 104 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 be better to sleep on it," — and so forth. His in- 
 heritance of honest instincts had begun to stir in 
 him again, and made him hesitate to engage him- 
 self. But Mr. Boulger wouldn't be denied. Try- 
 on's protestations only excited him to immediate 
 action ; he sat down at the desk and wrote the ap- 
 pointment. As he dried the ink the thought came 
 to him that he was giving something for nothing ; 
 but he consoled himself by calling to mind the 
 powers employers possessed to rid themselves of 
 cashiers, or even managers, who didn't please them. 
 Besides, Tryon was worth the money in any house 
 of business, and as a son-in-law he'd be more easily 
 dealt with; — Mr. Boulger's fears prevented him 
 from thinking clearly. Folding the paper care- 
 fully he handed it to Tryon. 
 
 " There, Dave," he said, trying to speak im- 
 pressively, " that's a long step towards fortune. 
 I guess managers often turn into partners. An' 
 I don't wish for a better partner than you. I'll 
 get that other thing written right soon, and I'll 
 speak to Mrs. Boulger to-night. Then you can 
 come out whenever you like." With the feeling 
 that he had done his best, and might lose all influ- 
 ence over his seemingly impassive listener if he 
 continued, he added shortly — 
 
 "Now, I guess, I'll have to be goin'. Good 
 night, Dave," and left the store. But before he 
 had walked a hundred yards towards the livery- 
 stable where he had " put up " his horses and 
 buggy, he had begun, not only to regret his de- 
 cision, but to resolve to modify it. His thoughts 
 ran thus: 
 
 105 
 
profit and Loss 
 
 " He's smart, I guess, very smart. I didn't in- 
 tend to make him manager or to offer more than 
 a hundred thousand. I hadn't no need to ; he's in 
 love with Georgie ; he'd have done it for her, per- 
 haps. Why, he said so. He did ! I don't mind 
 the hundred thousand, though it's too much — far 
 too much. Any young man would have done it 
 for fifty. I was too hasty, though I was in a real 
 tight place. And then, as manager he'll want to 
 do every thin'. I'll have to give way before — and 
 afterwards it'll be hard to alter. I was too hasty, 
 I was, and too generous. That's always been my 
 fault — generosity. I like to do things largely; 
 I hate meanness. And then I give myself away 
 every time." But as this course of self-reproach 
 recalled unpleasant memories, Mr. Boulger broke 
 it off: 
 
 "What's to be done now? Of course, I want 
 to treat him fairly, — I guess I'll draw that note 
 and leave the sum blank. Then I'll say, ' See here, 
 Dave, you belong to us now, and I've two other 
 girls ; I reckon I'll fill this in for a hundred thou- 
 sand, eh?' He can't object — put in that way. 
 He won't : he wants Georgie. He'll have seen her 
 then and talked to her. I guess it'll be all right. 
 He'll do it : there's no fear about that. . . . 
 
 " Damn those insurance companies anyway. 
 They've got premiums out of me for thirty years. 
 Now, it's my turn. I'm only getting back my own 
 money from them after all." 
 
 David Tryon wasn't able to console himself so 
 easily, nor so completely. Brought face to face 
 with fraud and crime, his deeper nature revolted. 
 106 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 Yet his own dissatisfied conscience forced him to 
 think with bitterest contempt of Mr. Boulger. 
 
 " He wouldn't do the work nor let me do it either. 
 The vain fool ! Always running about showing 
 off, and leaving his business to take care of itself, 
 and this is what it has come to. I've to save him, 
 and how! In six months the business properly 
 worked would bring him out all right, but he goes 
 and leaves everything to the last moment, and then, 
 puts it all on to me." 
 
 This train of thought, however, seemed to Tryon 
 unprofitable ; his understanding of his own resolu- 
 tion forced him to renounce the pleasure of con- 
 demning his master. " I guess he only acted ac- 
 cording to his nature — and now I've to go right 
 on." 
 
 Characteristically he thought first of what he 
 ought to do, the steps which should be taken. 
 Forethought would avert suspicion. In outline at 
 least the enterprise was soon clear to him. He 
 trusted much to time and careful deliberation; he 
 intended to consider the whole scheme again and 
 again before proceeding to carry it into execution. 
 IMeanwhile he wouldn't delay any needful prepara- 
 tion. Having decided so much, he allowed his 
 thoughts to wander. It was characteristic of his 
 nature that they turned first to his mother, and 
 to the joy she would feel in his success. Tryon 
 was neither passionate nor very affectionate, but 
 his affections were of those which grow with cus- 
 tom and assoglation ; and the isolation of the life 
 he had led with his widowed mother made him con- 
 nect her with himself in an intimate community 
 lOT 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 of feeling and interest. It irritated him, there- 
 fore, to realise all at once that he could take no 
 pleasure in his mother's delight ; he felt distinctly 
 that she wouldn't be glad if she knew all, and the 
 sincerity in him prevented him from sharing even 
 in anticipation in her joy. 
 
 As he put the agreement In his pocket, turned 
 out the lamp, and set forth for home. It came to 
 him suddenly that if his mother's suspicions were 
 aroused, If the rapidity of his rise led her to fear, 
 however vaguely, anything resembling the truth, 
 she would certainly oppose his design with all her 
 strength. For the first time there was a gulf be- 
 tween them. But instead of setting himself to 
 think of the meaning and cause of this separation 
 he simply resolved to pretend to be frank and de- 
 ceive her. His mind was made up. It was better 
 that she should know nothing. Yet as he reached 
 the house he felt intensely uncomfortable. Deceit 
 was painful to him. He resolved to say as little 
 as possible. 
 
 According to her invariable custom, his mother 
 was waiting up for him. When he spoke to her of 
 getting a larger house and engaging a " help," 
 and showed her the agreement, attributing his ad- 
 vancement to the way he had worked In getting out 
 the balance-sheet, she seemed In no way surprised, 
 though the sudden delight brought quick tears 
 to her eyes. Her boy thought of her first of all. 
 This was perhaps the heart of her joy, and yet 
 she gave no expression to it In words. Even when 
 most deeply moved, men and women speak gener- 
 ally from the ruffled surface of their souls. The 
 108 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 tranquil depths of perfect honesty and self-abne- 
 gation in this mother-heart could not come easily 
 to expression. 
 
 " It makes me very happy for you, Dave," she 
 said, trying to smile, " but you deserve it all ; 
 you've worked night and da}^ ; all last night you 
 were writing. Oh, I heard you. A mother doesn't 
 sleep when her son's waking. . . . I've got more 
 happiness through you than I ever expected in 
 this world. It makes me feel as if all my prayers 
 had been answered. God's very good to me, 
 Dave." And through her tears she added, with a 
 deprecating smile, " To think I used to be afraid 
 you weren't smart ! " 
 
 With a sigh of relief Tryon felt that the chief 
 ordeal was passed; he felt, too, somewhat to his 
 surprise, that he did enjoy his mother's deep hap- 
 piness, though he knew he had no right to enjoy 
 it. Success, he understood, might bring him more 
 even than assured position and wealth; it might 
 bring content. After a talk, which was cut short 
 by his mother insisting that he must go to bed 
 and get a good rest, Tryon went to his room to 
 think of Georgie. He felt certain that under the 
 present circumstances she wouldn't refuse him. 
 And in his self-controlled nature, desires awoke 
 alien to his habit and coloured the picture his 
 fancy painted of a future passed between his 
 mother and his wife. 
 
 Long after her son had gone to sleep the mother 
 sat nursing her delight, following it into all its 
 possibilities. What wouldn't her Dave do and be- 
 come? A member of Congress, perhaps, loved and 
 109 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 honoured by all, as he deserved. Woman-like she 
 had made an Idol of him ever since his school-boy 
 triumphs ; and to her larger, more expansive, and 
 more generous nature his cool self-restraint and 
 steady purpose seemed the ideal of noble man- 
 hood. And mingled with her admiration of his 
 strength and resolution, was an intense tingling 
 gratitude for his affection. He had thought first 
 of her and her wellbeing. At the remembrance of 
 his words quick, sweet tears of pleasure came again 
 to her eyes. A sense of life's compensations pene- 
 trated her as she thought of her husband and son 
 together. Yet she was superstitiously afraid to 
 admit even to herself what she felt to be the fact, 
 that she was blessed in her son beyond her own 
 deserts, beyond all previous suffering. Great joy, 
 she felt, must be followed by lasting sorrow. She 
 set herself, therefore, to wonder when he would 
 marry, and whom he would choose. No one in 
 Kansas City was at all worthy of him ; she'd ad- 
 vise him to wait; meanwhile she'd look out for 
 him, for she knew exactly the sort of woman who 
 would make him happy. And yet not even the 
 ideal in her mind was worthy of her son — of Dave ! 
 
 II 
 
 About a week after Mr. Boulger's nocturnal 
 visit to his house of business, his wife and his three 
 unmarried daughters were assembled in the draw- 
 ing-room of their country residence, awaiting his 
 arrival, and that of the manager, Mr, Tryon, 
 110 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 whom, to their surprise, Mr. Boulger seemed re- 
 solved to honour. A word or two about Mrs. 
 Boulger and her daughters may not be out of 
 place here. 
 
 In person Mrs. Boulger was thin and dry, but 
 in spite of sallow complexion and round black eyes ' 
 the sharp-featured face and tall figure had a cer- 
 tain dignity. She belonged, as she was pleased to 
 inform everyone, to an old Southern family — a 
 family, she used to add, that had been slave-hold- 
 ers " for generations." In truth, the little plan- 
 tation of the Carters had been bought by the 
 grandfather, but as she advanced in life, and her 
 position improved, Mrs. Boulger's ancestors grew 
 in number and legendary importance. Pride was 
 her dominant quality and, in process of time, it 
 had swollen to such exaggeration that it bred vir- 
 tues in her, foreign to her nature. Just as it would 
 have been difficult to induce her to do anything 
 which seemed to her unworthy of a great position, 
 so nothing would prevent her doing what she 
 thought her position demanded. She lived, there- 
 fore, at the rate which her ever-increasing knowl- 
 edge of luxuries required, careless of the fact that 
 in the last years she had spent more than her hus- 
 band could earn. 
 
 The eldest daughter, Ada, resembled her mother 
 save that she was good-looking, well-educated and 
 accepted in faith her mother's imaginary descent 
 and hereditary splendour. She was selfish, as her 
 mother was, unconsciously and intensely, with a 
 complacent self-approval that her mother could 
 hardly reach. The unity of type of Mrs. Boulger 
 111 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 and Ada had had certain curious effects upon the 
 two younger girls. 
 
 Ivy, the youngest, seemed in many ways to take 
 after her father. In person she was an inferior 
 copy — small and slight of figure, with a doll's 
 face. The self-satisfied pride of her mother and 
 eldest sister had intensified and developed her ego- 
 tism to deliberate and conscious purpose. Her 
 emulative instincts and her desire to please had led 
 her to cultivate her manners, which would have 
 been perfect had she been able to comprehend any 
 nature other than her own. Her ruthless self- 
 seeking and obstinacy had won the unwilling re- 
 spect even of her mother, and she was undoubtedly 
 her father's favourite. 
 
 Georgie, on the other hand, was by nature hon- 
 est, frank and kindly. She tried to dwell on the 
 good qualities of her mother and sisters, but un- 
 known to herself their egotism brought out and 
 developed the unselfishness in her. She found it 
 easy to yield to the demands they were continually 
 making on her good-nature ; though sometimes she 
 rendered service with a certain contempt. For 
 Georgie was not a saint to whom self-sacrifice was 
 a pleasure, but a sound-hearted girl with a strong 
 craving for affection. To her alone the return to 
 Kansas City was a source of satisfaction. She 
 looked forward hopefully and with a confused yet 
 eager anticipation of life's joy and purpose to the 
 meeting with Tryon, whom she had liked and 
 trusted from the first. She thought of herself 
 and even of her person with reasonable pleasure. 
 She knew perfectly well that she was not so tall 
 113 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 or elegant as Ada, but she was stronger and had 
 better health. Again and again, too, she had 
 noticed that if men were first attracted by Ada's 
 good looks and stateliness or by Ivy's charming 
 manners and affectation of intense interest, the 
 majority of them came gradually to pay her at- 
 tentions which, if not passionate, were, at least, 
 constant and sincere. She had, accordingly, a pre- 
 monition that life would afford her what she most 
 desired, and therewith she was content. If her 
 outlook was narrow it was clear. She was truth- 
 ful and trustworthy, as are the unimaginative. 
 Neither her father nor Tryon had reason to fear 
 betrayal from her; she held to the plain rules of 
 conduct and liked the straight lines cut by Ameri- 
 can roads and streets. As soon as her father had 
 spoken of Tryon, even before he mentioned his 
 promotion to the post of manager she had divined 
 that her future was intimately concerned. And 
 this gratified not only the better part of her na- 
 ture but also a certain vanity. She had always 
 wished to be married before either of her sisters; 
 she felt that she had more affection to give than 
 they possessed, and Ivy's vanity and selfishness 
 and Ada's complacent pride seemed to her to ren- 
 der them distinctly her inferiors. 
 
 In spite of the unusual enthusiasm with which 
 Mr. Boulger spoke of Tryon, neither Mrs. Boulger 
 nor Ada was at all inclined to attribute much 
 importance to his visit. They knew themselves to 
 be far above clerkdom. But Ivy noticed at once 
 that her father seemed to speak at Georgia in par- 
 ticular, and it was easy for her to interpret her 
 113 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 favourite sister's manner. When she entered the 
 drawing-room she saw that Georgie, like herself, 
 had dressed with more than ordinary care. A cer- 
 tain feminine jealousy in her came at once to 
 speech, though she tried to modify the bitterness 
 of her words because it was no part of her policy 
 to offend the sister who was continually doing her 
 kindnesses, and whom she liked as much as she 
 could like any one. 
 
 " I'm afraid," she said carelessly, " it's no use 
 for you and me to get ourselves up for Mr. Tryon 
 w^hile Ada's there. We haven't a chance with her. 
 After all, I don't mind. I don't want papa's man- 
 ager. But it's a pity you're not looking your 
 best to-day — you've too much colour." 
 
 Georgie felt the keenness of the shaft which, 
 indeed deepened the healthy flush of her cheeks, 
 but she maintained her self-control, and after a 
 short pause, spoke of indifferent things. 
 
 A few minutes later, just after the lights had 
 been brought in, and the windows closed, Mr. 
 Boulger and Tryon entered the room. Mrs. 
 Boulger was polite, and even pleasant to Tr^^on, 
 as she always was to new acquaintances, and Ada 
 attempted to appropriate him as if each and every 
 man must needs wish to be at her feet. Tryon, 
 though not at ease, showed to advantage. His 
 purpose was so strong that nothing of the self- 
 conscious awkwardness of his youth was visible, 
 and when, after replying politely to the elder sis- 
 ter, he turned to Georgie, she was astonished by 
 the improvement in him. He was more manly, 
 masterful even, she thought, with a flush of pleas- 
 114, 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 ure, which gave her a charming expression of girl- 
 ish embarrassment. Besides, she really felt some- 
 what shy. The fidelity in Tryon's look brought 
 the future very close to her, and she was aston- 
 ished at the strength of the feelings he called 
 forth in her. 
 
 The evening passed pleasantly enough. Ada, it 
 is true, was at times contemptuous ; Ivy made re- 
 marks which were significant and slightly malicious, 
 but Mr. Boulger's unceasing good-humour, and 
 Mrs. Boulger's pleasure in recounting her Euro- 
 pean experiences made things go smoothly. From 
 her conversation, Tryon gathered that Mrs. Boul- 
 ger looked upon America since the abolition of 
 slavery as a very poor place ; " The servants were 
 ill-taught and independent," was a phrase, the 
 sense of which he could not seize. The dinner 
 seemed to him oppressive in length ; he felt that it 
 wasn't right for people to drink wine with their 
 meals, and that the house was too splendid to be 
 comfortable. He told his mother afterwards that 
 it was like being dressed always in one's best 
 clothes. But Georgie's eyes and words showed 
 him that she, at any rate, understood and appre- 
 ciated him, and that was enough. After dinner, 
 too, she arranged matters so that Tryon could 
 talk to her tete-a-tete, and when he hoped that she 
 had kept her promise not to forget old friends, she 
 replied without affectation that she had not for- 
 gotten him. Her frankness put him at his ease, 
 and to his own surprise he found himself speaking 
 to her with interest of the business and the im- 
 provements he hoped to effect in it. The insight 
 115 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 and energy in him impressed Her, but more still 
 the strength and persistence which she felt to be 
 the foundation of his character. Once, at least, 
 she caught herself blushing, half with surprise at 
 an incautious phrase which betrayed the strength 
 of her feeling for him. As he grew in her esteem 
 she showed a good humour and enjoyment which 
 made her quite pretty. In fine, they both ap- 
 peared at their best; they were both conscious of 
 this, and each accordingly felt increased sympathy 
 for the other. Towards eleven o'clock Mr. Boulger 
 approached them. 
 
 " Georgie," he said, in a low voice, after a few 
 careless sentences, " we both want you to come 
 down early to-morrow morning; we've something 
 to talk over with you, and as Dave wants to go to 
 business before eight o'clock, you should be down 
 at seven to give him and me breakfast." 
 
 Mr. Boulger's tone and confidential manner were 
 highly significant. Most girls would have felt 
 somewhat embarrassed at the quick approach of 
 the decisive moment, but Georgie answered quite 
 naturally : 
 
 " All right, father, I'll be here at half-past six. 
 Now it's time to go to bed, I suppose, though, 
 thanks to Mr. Try on, the evening has seemed very 
 short." 
 
 For some time after he reached his room, Tryon 
 gave himself up to thought. He felt certain that 
 Georgie cared for him, and that she would consent 
 to be his wife. Her frankness and good humour 
 had been very pleasant to him, almost as delightful 
 in fact as certain signs of affection which he re- 
 116 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 called with joy. On all points save one liis mmd 
 was at rest. Her frank affection had increased 
 his confidence in her to such an extent that he felt 
 inclined to confide in her without reserve. She 
 deserved complete trust, he knew, and he felt that 
 she ought to know beforehand what he intended 
 to do. The influence of his business training had 
 been so immoral that he would have decided prob- 
 ably to tell her his secret had not his high opinion 
 of his mother restrained him. Perhaps Georgie 
 would take the same view of it as his mother would. 
 Perhaps? Certainly. Then there was nothing 
 more to think of; he would say nothing, and go 
 ahead. 
 
 Alt ^ ^/U 4)& JJJL 
 
 The next morning Tryon was in the breakfast- 
 room at six o'clock. The servants were leaving the 
 room as he entered it. He had not waited long 
 when Georgie came in. She looked so bright and 
 neat; her blue eyes so glad and her complexion 
 so fresh that he felt his senses stir again in him 
 as they had stirred more than once during the 
 previous evening. 
 
 '' Good morning, Mr. Tryon. You are down 
 early. Has father appeared yet ? " 
 
 " No, and Pm glad he hasn't," replied Tryon 
 steadily, " for I've something to ask you first," he 
 added, as their hands met. " Do you remember," 
 he went on, " how kind you were to me when I was 
 with you at school ? " 
 
 Georgie tried to meet his eyes but could not. It 
 was too sudden. Still she would have controlled 
 even this faint testimony to her joy and satlsfac- 
 
 iir 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 tion had not a delicious feeling of pride in his di- 
 rectness and a certain shy longing to yield herself 
 completely to his masterfulness made it impossible 
 for her to do anything save try by thinking of 
 something else to still the tumultuous beating of 
 her heart while following his every word. 
 
 " Well, ever since that day you asked me about 
 the sum, I've loved you, and now, Georgie, I want 
 to know whether you care enough for me to be my 
 wife?" 
 
 At the direct question, none of the romantic 
 imaginings of her girlhood came into her head ; on 
 the contrary, her previous emotions even seemed to 
 leave her. She regained self-possession at once 
 and, looking him in the face, she answered, 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 As he put his arms round her and kissed her 
 again and again, the tumultuous emotions came 
 back to her with an added keenness of pleasure in 
 being so embraced, which made it impossible for 
 her at first to add anything to the simplicity of her 
 avowal. But in a moment or two she disengaged 
 herself. She felt afraid of herself— afraid lest 
 these new, strong, delightful emotions might carry 
 her further than she ought to go. She felt shy, 
 too, and strove to hide her shyness under an af- 
 fected confidence. 
 
 " Now," she said, with an added flush on her 
 cheeks and brightness in her glance, " after hav- 
 ing crumpled my frock and loosened my hair, 
 and made me hot, perhaps you'll tell me was this 
 the reason why papa wanted me to come down 
 early.?" 
 
 118 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 " One of the reasons, I think," said Trjon, smil- 
 ing in response to her smile. " Didn't you guess 
 it, Georgie? " and he put his hand on her shoulder 
 as he spoke. 
 
 " Perhaps ; but do you know you've altered a 
 great deal ; you're not like what you were — I mean 
 you're — older, and I thought — " 
 
 " Then you did think of me sometimes, 
 Georgie? " 
 
 The girl nodded her head with deep tenderness 
 in her eyes. A need of frank confession was upon 
 her, for her whole nature opened to this affection 
 freely, as a flower to the sun's warmth. 
 
 " I just hated Europe and wanted that tour to 
 end, for I was lonely often, and I thought perhaps 
 you cared for me, though I wasn't sure you did so 
 much — till last night. It is good to like some one, 
 isn't it, and to be — liked?" 
 
 After this she did not seek to free herself, but 
 suffered him to kiss her and to lead her to the 
 sofa. The talk between them, made up of memo- 
 ries, and the questions and answers of a happy 
 affection, seemed to have lasted but a minute when 
 Mr. Boulger came into the room. 
 
 " That's right," he exclaimed joyfully, rubbing 
 his hands, as the two stood up quickly as he came 
 towards them, " that's right. I guess you've set- 
 tled the main point already." But the part of 
 happy father, difficult for Mr. Boulger to play 
 at any time, was impossible without the help of 
 even a word from either of the young people, 
 and so, after a pause, he added more seriously 
 and in almost his ordinary tone : " Now, Georgie, 
 119 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 you must let me take Dave away for a minute, 
 as we've somethin' to settle first. We'll be back 
 soon." 
 
 Without more ado he led Tryon into the draw- 
 ing-room, and, taking a long white envelope from 
 his breast-pocket as he went, he said hastily: 
 
 " Here's the note, Dave. You see I've filled in 
 the sum as a hundred thousand. I've other girls, 
 and — an' that was my first proposition. Wasn't 
 it? You won't mind, I guess; you'll have ten or 
 fifteen thousand dollars a year to live on, an' 
 Georgie's a good girl an' not extravagant, an' 
 3'ou'n be better off anyway than any young pair 
 in the town, an' " 
 
 Tryon's real rapidity of judgment stood him in 
 good stead on this occasion. He felt it was im- 
 possible for him to bargain at such a time, al- 
 though the trick was palpable and irritated him. 
 He saw at a glance, however, that nothing re- 
 mained for him but to accept the situation. It was 
 evidence of his rare adaptability that he also re- 
 solved to humour the cheat. Georgie's father was 
 worth conciliating. 
 
 " All right," he replied slowly but with a smile. 
 " I guess it's hard to trade with you and come out 
 even. You're smart. There's no doubt about 
 that." 
 
 The smile of self-satisfaction which spread over 
 Mr. Boulger's face at what he accepted as a pleas- 
 ant truth showed Tryon that he had said enough, 
 so he broke off, and after looking over the paper 
 carefully, he folded it up, and placing it again in 
 the envelope, returned it. 
 120 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 '' That makes you somethin' like my partner, 
 you know, Dave," said Mr. Boulger conciliatlngly, 
 " and I mean to act fair by you always. I've ever}^ 
 reason to now — but I'll be glad when it's all over. 
 When do you think — but I guess we'll have time 
 to talk of that after breakfast. Now, come." 
 
 On their return to the breakfast-room Mr. Boul- 
 ger handed the envelope to Georgie. 
 
 " You're to keep that, Georgie, for three 
 months." (The girl flushed.) "Then you're to 
 give it to Dave, or, if I object, you're to open it 
 and decide fairly bet'ween us. D'you understand.^ 
 I guess we can both count on you — eh.'^" 
 
 " Yes," said the girl, knitting her brows and 
 looking from her lover to her father. " At the end 
 of three months I'm to give it to Mr. Tryon, un- 
 less you object, but if jou. do, I'm to open it and 
 decide. It seems strange. Mayn't I know what's 
 in this mysterious envelope ? " 
 
 " Girls mustn't know too much at once," replied 
 Mr. Boulger carelessl}^ ; " but now keep the paper 
 safe, and let's have breakfast. I'm real hungry. 
 An' I guess Dave '11 be able to eat a square meal, 
 too. Happiness is a good sauce — eh.'^" 
 
 The breakfast was cheerful and pleasant. Mr. 
 Boulger talked incessantly in a somewhat excited 
 way, which left the young people to their thoughts 
 and interchange of looks. Dave Tryon was more 
 than satisfied with his success. Georgie seemed to 
 him an ideal wife ; and the girl herself would have 
 been lost in her deep content had she not noticed 
 anxiously that her lover now and then seemed very 
 thoughtful. 
 
 121 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 in 
 
 The store was composed of four storeys, three 
 of which were filled with goods. The staircase ran 
 from close to Tryon's office, in the back part of 
 the first floor, towards the front, and emerged on 
 the fourth floor, dividing it into two almost equal 
 halves. Here in a sort of attic lived a German 
 with his wife, who, by way of rent, took care of 
 the building, sweeping and dusting it out in the 
 mornings and at night, airing it in summer, light- 
 ing the fires in winter, and so on. As soon as 
 Tryon thought of getting in wood he remembered 
 the Lenzes. He had always given Lenz the money 
 for the wood and current expenses, and he had now 
 to see him in order, if possible, to get Lenz to pro- 
 pose to buy a quantity of wood at once for cheap- 
 ness' sake and to store it beneath the stairway. 
 This was easily accomplished; a few words of 
 praise induced the simple German to take upon 
 himself the honour — and the responsibility — of 
 having suggested this important purchase. So far 
 so good. But Tryon understood that if he tried 
 to get the Lenzes to leave the store on any pretence 
 whatever, suspicion would at once attach to him. 
 They must go out of their own accord, and he 
 would have to take advantage of the opportunity 
 which chance or their habits might offer. The 
 worst of it was that he knew next to nothing of 
 the Lenzes or of their way of living. They did 
 their work so well that he had had but few occa- 
 sions to speak to them, and the contempt which 
 
 in 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 Americans feel for all foreigners, and particularly 
 for those who speak with a foreign accent, had 
 hindered him from having any intercourse with 
 them. Try on realised that it would never do to 
 question Lenz as to his habits and customs. These 
 he must learn from others. So he began to fre- 
 quent a German lager-bier saloon in the evenings 
 and talk with the customers. This served another 
 purpose. Tryon's rooted repugnance to fraud 
 was stirred to activity chiefly by his mother; in- 
 tercourse with her awakened all that was honest 
 in him, and again and again led him to question 
 his resolve. And this was very painful to him: 
 hesitation being intolerable to men accustomed to 
 action. Accordingly he soon became aware that 
 his visits to the lager-bier saloon not only increased 
 his knowledge of Germans and their ways, but also 
 diminished the unconscious influence of his mother 
 upon him, and so freed him from remorseful doubt- 
 ings, which were hard to combat. He, therefore, 
 kept up his visits to the saloon long after his 
 primary object was accomplished, and he excused 
 himself to his mother for the lateness of his home- 
 comings by alleging the necessity for increased 
 exertions in his new position. Mrs. Tryon accepted 
 this excuse the more readily as her son had, of 
 course, informed her that he was engaged to 
 Georgie Boulger. In spite of Mrs. Tryon's natu- 
 ral jealousy, the girl's frankness had made a fa- 
 vourable impression upon her, and the two soon 
 became as good friends as such a connection per- 
 mits even between women who are both of kindly 
 nature. 
 
 1^ 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 In his third or fourth visit to the saloon Tryon 
 found out that the Turn-Verein Fest, a sort of 
 annual festival, which all Germans of the middle 
 and lower classes are accustomed to attend, would 
 be held on the 1st of August (his visit to the 
 Boulger's took place on the 10th July). A few- 
 evenings later he learned that Lenz and his wife 
 were almost sure to be present, and as Lenz held 
 some sort of subordinate office in the Verein, he 
 would be kept at the festival till midnight or later. 
 Tryon had, therefore, nothing to do but prepare 
 everything, wait for the evening of the 1st, and 
 then act. Methodically, according to his habit, 
 he took the evenings in the saloon for thought, 
 and during the day set himself to organise and 
 develop the business with all his energy. That he 
 knew would avert suspicion from him. Who could 
 imagine that the energetic manager would set the 
 building on fire wherein he worked with tireless de- 
 votion? And in the evenings spent in the saloon, 
 while considering and reconsidering all the details 
 of his plan, he w^as but little troubled by remorse 
 or doubts. The unfamiliar faces in the saloon, 
 and the strange speech, moved him to dislike and 
 contempt; excited, indeed, his combative instincts 
 while subduing his better nature. So the da3^s 
 passed, marked by no incident save an occasional 
 sentence or two exchanged with Georgie when, 
 from time to time, she, with her mother or sisters, 
 visited the store. Mr. Boulger seldom went to 
 business after Tryon's inauguration as manager; 
 and, when he did go, the mere sight of Tryon's 
 activity and resolution seemed to assure him that 
 124 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 his cause was in good hands. It was character- 
 istic of Tryon, and of his opinion of Mr. Boulger 
 that he never told his employer when or how he 
 intended to effect their purpose. Somehow or other 
 Tryon felt sure that if Mr. Boulger knew the 
 moment, he would " fuss " and perhaps excite sus- 
 picion ; besides, as he had undertaken to do the 
 thing, he wished to do it in his own way, taking all 
 the responsibility upon his own shoulders. He 
 felt stronger alone than with any associate. 
 
 At length the 1st of August dawned. A cloud- 
 less, hot day even when Tryon awoke at half-past 
 five. There was wind, too, a moderate breeze from 
 the north-east, of all winds the most favourable to 
 his design. He couldn't help smiling as the prov- 
 erb came into his head, " It's an ill wind ." 
 
 He felt proud of himself; as the trial came near 
 he was neither elated nor depressed. As usual he 
 talked quietly with his mother over his breakfast 
 and then walked to the store. All the day through 
 he worked as usual, perhaps with a slight increase 
 of energy, but with all his wits about him. To- 
 wards six o'clock he happened to be standing just 
 outside his office when the Lenzes, dressed in their 
 best clothes, came down the stairs towards him. 
 The shop was filled with customers availing them- 
 selves of the comparative coolness of the evening 
 to make their purchases. No one of the clerks had 
 time to notice the outgoing couple or the short 
 conversation which took place between Lenz and 
 Tryon. 
 
 " Going out, Mr. Lenz.? " asked Tryon care- 
 lessly. 
 
 125 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 " Yes, sir, but we come back before twelve hour 
 and den I set everjtink in order." 
 
 The man appeared to have more to say; but 
 Tryon turned away smiling, and Mrs. Lenz drew 
 her spouse towards the back door. With their 
 departure Tryon felt that his last anxiety was 
 lifted. An hour or so later he sat in his office 
 alone. In half an hour more he had posted his 
 books in his usual, firm, clear hand. It was still 
 quite light. He went up the staircase looking 
 round each room as he went. When he reached 
 the third floor he walked to one of the front win- 
 dows and threw it up. By an instinct of careful- 
 ness when he returned to the staircase he went up 
 the narrow stairs which were unprotected by a 
 hand-rail, to the fourth floor and looked round the 
 bare attic. On his right stood a wooden partition 
 which cut off* the Lenzes' abode from the rest of 
 the huge space ; he saw their door ; it was closed. 
 Of course, he thought, they've locked it till their 
 return. He went down the stairs again and 
 stopped before the petroleum cask which stood in 
 the corner formed by his office ; it was covered from 
 view by a piece of cloth (damaged goods), which 
 lay on it half unrolled. In the short interval 
 which had elapsed since he had ascended the stairs, 
 it had grown dark. By moving a step or two, 
 however, he could still see to the top of the flight, 
 but while he looked the shadows came and shrouded 
 everything in night and mystery. He needed no 
 light. He knew it was about nine o'clock and that 
 was the hour he had fixed upon as most favourable 
 to his purpose — a little earlier and business people 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 were still about, a little later and the frequenters 
 of saloons and bars would be on their homeward 
 way. His fire had a clear hour or so in which to 
 do its work ; less than half that time he had decided 
 would be more than sufficient. Quietly he moved 
 to the back-door, drew aside the green curtain and 
 peered out over the empty lot. Nothing stirred. 
 He could just see dimly across the lane to the 
 backs of the houses which fronted north on Jack- 
 son Street; their outlines cast shadows against the 
 sky. Nothing stirred. He dropped the curtain 
 and returned to the cask of petroleum ; he didn't 
 even lift up the cloth which covered it ; he put his 
 hand down underneath it and — turned the tap. 
 He had studied the floor carefully weeks ago; he 
 knew that the number of people passing up and 
 down the staircase must have depressed the floor 
 there. He heard nothing but the glug, glug, glug, 
 of the running oil, which seemed to keep time to 
 the strong thumping of his heart. A few moments 
 and the glug, glug grew slower and then silence 
 reigned again. He had drawn a step or two back- 
 wards just to make sure that none of the oil 
 spreading should come on his boots. 
 
 Now he struck a wax-match, and looked. Every- 
 thing had taken place just as he had planned it. 
 The petroleum had run from the corner, and now 
 lay in a broad pool at the foot of the stairs, 
 spreading two, oily, dark arms around it as if to 
 embrace its prey. Just on the edge of the pool 
 stood his basket of waste-paper, and reaching 
 from the basket to the dry floor a long horn of 
 paper. For a moment Tryon paused, but only 
 12T 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 for a moment ; then he stepped forward and put 
 the match to the end of the paper-horn. As the 
 paper caught fire he turned and walked quickly to 
 the back-door. He opened it and looked out for 
 a minute or so while he unlocked the outside iron 
 grating: nothing stirred. He entered the store 
 again, and, holding the door nearly shut in his 
 hand, he put his foot against the large pane of 
 glass and pressed steadily. Suddenly it broke 
 under the pressure and fell jingling. Nothing 
 stirred, and yet he uttered an exclamation to de- 
 ceive a possible listener. People later, would think 
 the glass was broken b}' the heat. It was worth 
 risking to create a thorough draught. One glance 
 backward showed him the thick horn of paper 
 blazing. Quickly he stepped outside and shut the 
 door. As he put the key in the lock he heard above 
 its grating a sort of hissing noise. He peered 
 about him. Nothinoc stirred ; silence and darkness 
 enfolded him. Standing in front of the broken 
 window, he put his hand carefully through and 
 drew a small piece of the curtain aside, then, 
 stooping, he looked in. At once he let the cur- 
 tain go, and, turning, passed through the iron 
 grating, which he locked. As he went to the lane 
 and walked down it he felt a glow of heat on his 
 back — fancy, of course; but it wasn't fancy the 
 great flame w^hich had shocked his eyes a moment 
 ago, and which still seemed to blind him. It wasn't 
 fancy either that crackling noise of dry wood blaz- 
 ing. But he hadn't gone fifty yards down the lane 
 before the breathless excitement left him, giving 
 place to a feeling of satisfaction. He had done 
 128 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 his work well, as he always did, and if nothing 
 stirred and no one had seen him, that was only 
 what experience had taught him to expect. As 
 he walked rapidly towards the German saloon his 
 satisfaction grew almost to exultation. He had 
 foreseen everything; planned everything rightly, 
 even to the draught, and now the wood under the 
 staircase was blazing, and the staircase itself a 
 tunnel of flame. Half an hour and Boulger's store 
 would be afire so that no engines could extinguish 
 the flames till the floors fell in, leaving the black- 
 ened walls to be gazed at by a crowd, as when 
 Treadwell's burned down in the winter. And no 
 one had seen him ; he knew beforehand that it was 
 a hundred chances to one that no one would,* and 
 with the long odds went success — Georgie and 
 money, and a full, strong life of successful labour. 
 That was the difference between men like himself 
 and criminals. Those who committed crimes, as a 
 rule, were degraded and debased specimens of hu- 
 manity, who had neither foresight nor coolness. 
 He had both, therefore everything went well with 
 him. With these thoughts and in the mood they 
 indicate, he reached the saloon. It was nearly 
 empty; he took his usual seat and called for a 
 glass of lager-bier. Instinctively when in the light 
 he looked at his right foot — no, neither the oil nor 
 the glass had marked it; he was too cool, had 
 taken too much care to make any slightest mis- 
 take. As the Kellner brought him his beer Tryon 
 watched to see if the man noticed anything un- 
 usual in his appearance or manner. No; with a 
 " Goot evenin' ! " the man put the glass before him, 
 129 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 and turned away indifferently. Reassured, Tryon 
 set himself to consider once again, as he had often 
 considered in the last few days, the question 
 whether any one could connect him with the fire? 
 No — no one. Suspicion there might be. It was 
 to Boulger's interest that the store should be 
 burned; the insurance was very heavy, and there- 
 fore he, or some one moved by him, might have 
 done the work, but then Boulger's name was good, 
 and of proof or of connecting link there wasn't a 
 trace. 
 
 It w^as characteristic of Tryon that his feeling 
 of complete security should awaken remorse in 
 him. 
 
 " 'Twas a miserable thing to have done after all 
 — a mean fraud. Theft," he faced the word, 
 " theft. What a fool Boulger had been ; what a 
 
 vain, weak Now, there was nothing for it 
 
 but to get to work. If Boulger played fair and 
 made him a partner, he might yet get rich enough 
 to make up for the fraud. He didn't want to 
 steal; there was no dishonest instinct in him, he 
 felt proudly. He knew what he could make of 
 the business; with half the stock it should bring 
 in at least a hundred thousand dollars profit the 
 first year, and more in every succeeding year. 
 Then if he got rich he'd pay the money back in 
 some way — pay it to the poor; they needed it 
 more than the rich insurance companies. But he'd 
 see that they got something, too. The new store 
 would, of course, be fireproof; he'd insure it for 
 more than the proper amount, for more than it 
 was insured at before, and he'd not carry half the 
 130 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 stock. So the insurance companies would get some 
 of their money back, anyway. There'd be no more 
 fires while Dave Tryon was manager; he'd take 
 care of that." 
 
 Here his reflections broke off in a chill of 
 anxiety. 
 
 " If the fire hadn't caught, had burned out in 
 spite of all his care. Absurd. It had caught — 
 it must have. He had done his work too well to 
 be afraid of that. But if it had caught, some 
 one should have seen it ere this. No. 'Twas bet- 
 ter that no one should notice it for at least half 
 an hour, and he hadn't been sitting down ten 
 minutes yet. 
 
 " Suppose some one noticed it now — now ! and 
 gave the alarm. It might be put out, and all his 
 work lost and hopes gone." Mechanically he took 
 out his handkerchief and wiped the cold perspira- 
 tion from his forehead. For the first time in his 
 life he took up the glass and drank the beer. 
 Usually he spilled some of it and left the rest. In 
 a moment again his throat was parched; but he 
 wouldn't drink any more; the Kellner might re- 
 mark it, if he asked for a second glass. 
 
 Every moment that passed made his position 
 better. " 'Twould be all right." And so he sat 
 and waited, outwardly calm; but every minute 
 seemed an hour to him, till he ventured to look at 
 his watch, and saw that it was half-past nine. Then 
 relief came for a time. 
 
 " 'Twas all right now ; the traces of his work 
 had all been destroyed by this time, swallowed up 
 by the flames. Poor work it was — mighty poor." 
 131 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 For ten minutes or a quarter of an hour this 
 thouglit was with him in all its bitterness; then 
 the old doubts came to him again. 
 
 " Perhaps it hadn't caught, after all ! — hadn't 
 got to the piled-up wood. Some one would surely 
 have noticed it by now if it had really caught, as 
 he intended it should. But, no! That hour was 
 the quietest in the whole day. Besides the front 
 door was so protected; till the second storey was 
 blazing no one could see anything. But as the 
 minutes passed the doubt grew stronger and 
 stronger. In spite of his resolution and courage 
 his feverish anxiety made it almost impossible for 
 him to sit quietly there and wait while the precious 
 minutes flew. Weeks ago, he had made up his 
 mind to go back to the store at half-past ten, if 
 the alarm had not been given before, and in case 
 the fire had burnt out, to do his best to hide his 
 handiw^ork. And it was already quarter past ten ; 
 his face seemed to grow harder and thinner as he 
 thought that, after all, it was possible that his 
 labour and care had been vain. 
 
 Of a sudden his eager senses became aware of a 
 stir in the distance; he listened, and could hear 
 nothing. Yet again, and far aw^ay the air seemed 
 to be stirred with sound, though he could distin- 
 guish nothing. He looked about him; no one 
 seemed to have noticed anything unusual. Yet he 
 was sure, and his heart and temples throbbed tu- 
 multuously. There ! Distinctly he heard running 
 footsteps pass the corner hastening up Lee Street. 
 Would those dolts never hear, and so give him the 
 chance of flying to the scene of action? There! 
 
Fratik Harris 
 
 and again the hurr3ang footsteps and the vibrant, 
 living air with its eager message seemed to draw 
 nearer and nearer, and past the door of the saloon 
 went one racing. At last the Germans seemed to 
 become conscious that something unusual was 
 afoot. 
 
 As the Kellner stopped on his way to an open- 
 mouthed customer and looked towards the door, 
 which hurr^'ing footsteps were again passing, 
 Tryon rose quietly and walked to the bar. As he 
 laid down his quarter he said to the proprietor: 
 
 " I guess there's something the matter." 
 
 He was proud of the fact that his voice was as 
 quiet and even as usual, though the beatings of 
 his heart seemed to shake his chest. As the man 
 turned towards him, the brazen voice of the alarm- 
 bell shocked the air. With the first note Tryon 
 was in the street ; he had felt that all had risen to 
 the warning, and that he was free to act. What 
 a relief it was to run lightly along the bending 
 wooden sidewalk to the corner. No more restraint 
 needed ; he could have shouted with the mere delight 
 of freedom and excitement. As he turned into Lee 
 Street he found himself beside another man who 
 was racing, his breath coming in short, laboured 
 gasps. 
 
 " Where is it .? " cried Tryon to him. 
 
 " Don't know." 
 
 Then others were beside him, and soon among 
 the knot running some one said : 
 
 " It's Boulger's." 
 
 " What ! " exclaimed Tryon, as if horrified, and 
 at once sped away from them. 
 133 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 As he stopped in front of the building he found 
 himself in a group of some thirty or forty men and 
 boys, who were all gazing up at the ominous red 
 gleam in the window of the second storey. Thick 
 smoke was issuing from the window on the third 
 floor, and in spite of the darkness of the night 
 could be seen against the sky, whirling away in 
 black wisps of rack. At the same moment Tryon 
 became aware of a noise within the building which 
 was at once crackle and hiss and muffled roar, the 
 sound which once heard is never afterwards mis- 
 taken for any other — the voice of a great fire with 
 its chords of menace and rage and triumph. 
 
 "What's to be done?" he cried, pushing his 
 way towards the great entrance. " I've the 
 keys." 
 
 " Nothin', I guess," some one answered, " here's 
 the engine." 
 
 Down the street it came, like a thing alive, the 
 horses galloping, the men shouting, and drew up 
 before the door. As the firemen, with an astonish- 
 ing celerity, got to work, each man in his place, 
 opening the main, attaching the hose-pipe, etc., 
 with the practical genius characteristic of the race, 
 and which is always seen at its best when the need 
 of action is greatest, Tryon stepped to the side 
 of the chief — " I've the keys. Shall I open the 
 door?" 
 
 " No, 'twould make a draught," came the quick 
 answer ; " we'll have to get to work through the 
 second storey, though I'm afraid we're too late." 
 
 The man had hardly finished speaking when 
 there came a loud crash and the noise of breaking 
 134) 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 glass, and then the flames, leaping from their con- 
 finement out into the air through the second storey 
 casements, lit up great clouds of dust which rose 
 from the quivering building, and the faces of the 
 firemen and those of the crowd of people who filled 
 the further side-walk, revealing every incident of 
 the scene in one glare of yellow-red light. Then 
 the flames drew in again as a man draws breath for 
 a further eff'ort. 
 
 " By God ! The first floor's gone ; the place'll 
 fall in before we get three engines to work. Clear 
 the side-walks there! Fifty yards from the en- 
 gine. Stand back ! " 
 
 As the order was given the crowd fell back 
 quietly, drawing Tryon with them. In a whirl of 
 emotions and sensations not to be analyzed then 
 or afterwards, Tryon stood among his fellows 
 while a ladder was reared against the building, 
 and a fireman climbed it and began to pla}^ through 
 the shattered windows of the second storey. He 
 saw the flames leap out against the stream of 
 water as if in combat; he heard men about him 
 saying that in an hour the building would fall in ; 
 he was conscious that a second engine had come 
 to aid the first, and a little later that a third had 
 arrived, but thought was whelmed in feeling. He 
 realised that all eff'orts were in vain, that nothing 
 could check the fire, that his work was done — com- 
 pletely. And then remorse came upon him; at 
 first with a vague sense of loss, such as one feels 
 in missing the familiar and accustomed; later, 
 with the full understanding of waste and destruc- 
 tion, as acutely keen regret. Suddenly the feehng 
 135 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 ebbed, leaving him conscious of utter weariness ; 
 instinctively he changed his posture and began 
 to look about him. He was on the edge of the 
 side-walk, about twenty yards below the circle 
 wherein stood the three engines, with the firemen 
 moving about automatically in the strong light 
 which poured from the windows of the second 
 storey. Far away up and down the street the 
 crowd stretched into the darkness. With clear 
 brain now he took in all the details of the scene. 
 Two streams of water rose from the street like 
 silver serpents, bent in an arc which ended hissing 
 among the flames from the casements: the third, 
 directed by a fireman standing on a ladder at the 
 height of the second storey, but a little way from 
 the window, ran out from the pipe in a long arrow 
 which, now here, now there, gleamed like a ray 
 of moonlight. Try on' s heart lay heavy within 
 him as he took in the progress of the ruin he had 
 wrought. " Never again," he muttered to him- 
 self, " never again." 
 
 All at once came the sharp noise of glass break- 
 ing on the side-walk, and then from the height 
 above the fireman on the ladder, from a window 
 of the fourth storey a cry — a shrill child's voice 
 shrieking in terror — and as Tryon looked up he 
 saw two thin arms waving and a little black head 
 which suddenly disappeared. Speechless, with a 
 dread he would not acknowledge and was afraid 
 to understand, he stood at gaze. 
 
 "Whose is the child?" 
 
 They were asking him! How should he know? 
 He could do nothing but look his horror. " A 
 136 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 little nigger. A coloured girl. 'Bout twelve 
 years old ; " the hurried exclamations fluttered ; 
 then all eyes turned again to the burning building. 
 Mechanically Tryon's followed. Three serpents 
 instead of two now curved from the street to the 
 window^s. Four of five men were moving the ladder 
 a little more to the left, and then came a groan of 
 disappointment as it was seen that the ladder only 
 just reached to the window of the third floor. 
 Quickly a fireman ran up it and disappeared 
 through the window; the crowd surged forward, 
 carrying Tryon with it. The movement seemed to 
 give him conscious thought. 
 
 "Not fire then— not theft. Murder!" The 
 child must have been employed by the Lenzes. The 
 man's hesitation came back to him. He under- 
 stood it all at once. His previous remorse inten- 
 sified to horror. And in his horror came strangely 
 the thought of his mother, nerving him to action. 
 " No, that mustn't be, sha'n't be," he said to him- 
 self; "not that! not that!" 
 
 With the resolution the blood came back into 
 his veins In quick thrills. Just at this moment he 
 saw the fireman appear again at the window on 
 the third storey, with a gesture as of regret. As 
 the man climbed over the sill and began to descend 
 the ladder, Tryon with all his senses about him, 
 tore himself through the crowd as a bramble is 
 torn from a garment. As the firemen pushed him 
 back from the foot of the ladder, he said simply, 
 " I know the way." They pointed to the man de- 
 scending and he waited a moment quietly. He 
 was not one of those who act bravely on an im- 
 137 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 pulse; he needed thought and time for decision, 
 but once his resolution taken he was sure to carry 
 it out undeterred by fear of danger. As the fire- 
 man put his foot on the ground, Tryon began to 
 mount the ladder — slowly, for the work was new 
 to him — carefully, for he didn't mean to fall. As 
 he went up, rung by rung, more and more surely 
 and quickly, stern joy came to him. 
 
 " This was the way. So he'd blot out his fault." 
 Such was his thought till he found himself on 
 the third floor moving towards the ladder stair- 
 case. He had gone perhaps half the way when he 
 felt himself choking with the smoke ; his eyes, too, 
 were burning; he closed them and held his breath 
 and went on quickly. A dozen steps and he opened 
 his eyes again. Before him to his left was the 
 staircase, a round furnace mouth of flame eating 
 away at the ladder which led to the fourth floor; 
 it scorched his face ; unconsciously he drew breath 
 and was nearly choked with the thick smoke. One 
 quick glance and he turned and ran back to the 
 v/indow. 
 
 The firem.an had followed him up. Tryon 
 thrust his head past him into the air and drew two 
 or three long, cool breaths. The fireman said, 
 " It's no use. No one can do it." Tryon filled 
 his lungs to the uttei*most and turning with eyes 
 shut ran down the store. He had judged the dis- 
 tance in his mind. Of a sudden he stopped and 
 opening his eyes found himself almost where he had 
 been before. Measuring the space with his eye 
 he took two quick steps — and jumped. He landed 
 on the ladder and scrambled up it. As he came 
 138 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 to the top he fell forward on his face on the fourth 
 floor. He could still breathe there. Instinctively 
 he rubbed his legs together to put out the fire 
 which had caught his trousers and was burning 
 him. Then he called out, " Where are you? " No 
 answer. He ran to a window and smashed it with 
 his fist in a sort of vague hope to get light and 
 air. Again and again he called as he went along 
 the front wall feeling sure the child would be 
 there. Suddenly he saw her crouching in the far- 
 thest comer. He picked her up at once and 
 ran as well as he could towards the ladder. As 
 he put his foot on the first step, she began to 
 scream and struggle. No wonder: it seemed to 
 her as if they were going into the heart of the 
 furnace which was roaring beneath them. Tryon' 
 held her firmly and went down a few steps carefully 
 to get beneath the floor. The heat was too fright- 
 ful; he could go no further. As he turned on 
 the ladder he felt almost sure that he couldn't 
 jump beyond the flames. But there was nothing 
 else to be done. Holding the child tightly to 
 him with his left arm, he sprang out with desper- 
 ate eff^ort. 
 
 So far he was fully conscious and sensible. 
 But in his determination to protect the child, he 
 had jumped in such a way that if he fell his 
 right arm would sustain the shock. As he landed 
 on the floor and pitched forward just clear of the 
 flames, his right arm snapped under his weight. 
 His consciousness seemed to turn to sick agony. 
 He rolled over on his back, and he had to push with 
 the broken arm to regain his balance and rise to 
 139 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 his feet. Each time, too, he put his right foot 
 to the ground, he grew faint. How he got for- 
 ward, he never knew. But the will in him held, 
 sharpened now by a dread which was all instinc- 
 tive. Of a sudden as it seemed to him, he reached 
 the window ; he saw the fireman's hand on the sill ; 
 he pushed the child against it. In an instant the 
 fireman had taken the child, lifted her over the sill 
 and disappeared with her down the ladder. With 
 the removal of his burden, Tryon seemed to lose 
 his purpose and almost his senses. A sick faint- 
 ness came over him and he sank down against the 
 sill without strength sufficient to put his leg over 
 it, much less to descend the ladder. His force was 
 spent. But the fresh air revived him a little, and 
 the intense pain of his wrist rousing him to a sense 
 of danger, moved him to a last effort. Slowly and 
 with infinite pain he got his right leg over the sill, 
 and so lay astride upon it, half unconscious, inca- 
 pable of movement. But the crowd below, much 
 more interested in him than in the saved child, 
 shouted to the firemen, two of whom, realising his 
 state, ran up the ladder almost side by side. Just 
 as the foremost reached him, there came another 
 crash, and, as the third floor fell in, the imprisoned 
 flames sprang up round Tryon, as if reluctant to 
 lose their prey. For a moment the crowd saw him 
 in the heart of the fire, and then he w^as dragged 
 down on to the ladder and held in front of the fire- 
 men, who began to descend slowly, letting the un- 
 conscious body slide after them. As he passed the 
 light of the second storey it appeared to everyone 
 in the crowd that Tryon was dead. So limp he 
 140 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 lay and helpless, with the right hand bent back, 
 like a broken stick which hangs only by the bark. 
 As the men reached the ground and bore him 
 across the street and laid him on the pavement not 
 a sound was to be heard, save the hysterical sob- 
 bing of the negro-girl. A few moments passed, 
 moments of intense anxiety to thousands who didn't 
 even know Tryon's name, and then as the doctor 
 stood up with, " I think he'll bear carrying," a 
 wave of joy went through the crowd, and tears 
 came into many eyes unused to weeping. Stretched 
 on a mattrass he was borne still unconscjous to his 
 mother's house. The crowd followed quietly; the 
 interest in the fire was lost in this deeper interest. 
 As the doctor reached the door just before the 
 bearers, it was opened to him by Mrs. Try on. 
 
 In a few hasty words he told her of her son's 
 daring, and assured her that he thought he would 
 pull through. The mother took the sentence with- 
 out flinching, and candle in hand showed the way 
 into her own bedroom on the ground floor. As 
 the bearers emerged from the house and closed the 
 street-door after them, the crowd began to move 
 away. It occurred to them at last that the night 
 was far advanced. But still they went in groups 
 talking and discussing the story. 
 
 " Jack Whatman said it couldn't be done. The 
 smoke was awful. ... All for a nigger-girl. I'll 
 just be damned. He has sand in him. . . . But 
 why did he go? Not I for a nigger. . . . He's 
 broke his arm. And leg ! Did ye hear the nigger 
 cryin'.f' I guess he was more worth'n a pile of 
 nigger girls. . . . The doctor thinks he'll live. 
 141 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 He'll never be as good a man again. Never ! . . . 
 What'll Boulger say? What'll he do? He's in- 
 sured, I guess. You bet. He ain't no fool. The 
 nigger might have burned for him. He'll get the 
 greenbacks. . . . Who d'ye think will be manager 
 now? " 
 
 IV 
 
 Mr. Boulger drove into Kansas City very early 
 the morning after the fire so as to catch Tryon 
 alone before the store opened ; he had a difficult and 
 unpleasant task to perform. It was manifest to 
 him that Tryon, in spite of his resolute manner, 
 was " lettin' things slide." He had gone to busi- 
 ness again and again with the intention of press- 
 ing Tryon to immediate action, but somehow or 
 other he felt it impossible even to approach the 
 subject when he came face to face with his strong 
 manager. Yet, since their compact had been set- 
 tled he had never entered the store with any other 
 object. And this for a good reason. He knew 
 that Tryon had taken control of the business as 
 master ; he felt that his presence in the store under 
 these circumstances would be a tacit recognition 
 of Tryon's position and authority, and that it 
 would be difficult for him later to turn the whilom 
 manager into a subordinate. Accordingly, he had 
 determined not to go to the store till afterwards, 
 when he could at once show Tryon his true posi- 
 tion. Tryon, he felt, was altogether too master- 
 ful, and besides, he was young and inexperienced. 
 In fact, it was almost impossible for Mr. Boulger 
 U2 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 to contemplate any one as manager of the business 
 which he flattered himself he and he alone under- 
 stood in all its bearings. Tryon's astonishing 
 knowledge of the business in its details and possi- 
 ble development was a perpetual annoyance to his 
 employer, Mr. Boulger liked to ask questions 
 which no one could answer; it showed his superior 
 intelligence. But Tryon had an answer to all 
 relevant questions, and he simply did not hear ir- 
 relevant ones. His knowledge was insulting. 
 Then, too, Mr. Boulger liked to make suggestions, 
 to propose new schemes by which the business 
 might be developed. And Tryon had either put 
 these schemes into operation already or else was 
 prepared to demonstrate their impracticability. 
 He was always so d d conceited. And this con- 
 ceit enraged Mr. Boulger. Again and again he 
 had made up his mind not to go near the store 
 till — But yes, he'd just look in for a moment 
 and ask carelessly, " Well, Dave, is everything 
 goin' on all right ? " No one but Tryon could un- 
 derstand that. And a word in reply would be suf- 
 ficient. That was all he wanted — ^to know the 
 thing was movin'. But 'twas ' npossible to ask the 
 question. There was Tryon directing, managing 
 everything, pretending to be very busy, scarcely 
 vouchsafing a word to him, who, after all, was not 
 only the owner, but knew more of the business than 
 any one else could possibly know. 'Twas exasper- 
 atin% and he didn't intend to put up with such 
 treatment any longer. 
 
 For all the while Tryon was just tradin' on his 
 generosity. 'Twas all very well for him to play 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 manager and take five tliousand dollars a year; to 
 talk and whisper to Georgie as if he were already 
 her husband ; but what had lie done for it all? 
 Nothin'. Nothin' as 3^et an^^way. And perhaps 
 — perhaps he didn't mean to do anythin'? Who 
 could tell? Mr. Boulger grew cold with fear at 
 the thought, and then viciously angry. He'd put 
 down his foot. He wasn't to be fooled easily; he 
 knew a thing or two ; he could play a game as well 
 as the next man. Damn him! He'd show him 
 that kindness, generosity, yes, generosity, didn't 
 mean foolishness — w^asn't to be pla^^ed with. 
 And so this very morning he told Georgie that she 
 was altogether too free with Tryon. She shouldn't 
 talk to him in the store. It didn't look well. She 
 was treating him as if he were her husband, and 
 those daily visits to his mother were out of place 
 — altogether out of place. 
 
 The girl had regarded him with astonishment, 
 and her astonishment brought him to a standstill. 
 He saw he had gone too far. 
 
 Of course, he thought a pile of Tryon. Tryon 
 was hard working, and 'twould all come right with 
 time, he guessed ; but there was no use in goin' too 
 fast. Girls shouldn't go too fast; 'twarn't their 
 place, and so forth — the reproaches dying away 
 into weak generalities. 
 
 But the consciousness of this impotent conclu- 
 sion only exasperated him the more with Tryon. 
 "Was he or was he not goin' to do the work? 
 And if so, when?" These were the questions to 
 which Mr. Boulger resolved to get an immediate 
 answer, and as he drove into the city he made up 
 144 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 his mind that he would grasp the thistle firmly. 
 He wouldn't give Tryon any more time; he had 
 given more than enough already. Besides, time 
 was everythin' In this matter. That bill of Stew- 
 art's pressed, and Tryon knew about It. 'Twas 
 too bad of Tryon to keep him in such anxiety. 
 'Twarn't fair of him. No, he'd have an answer at 
 last. He'd Insist on having one. 
 
 Immersed In such reflections as these, Mr. Boul- 
 ger reached Lee Street. Owing partly to the 
 earllness of the hour, and partly to his own pre- 
 occupation, he had almost reached the store before 
 noticing anything unusual. But as he turned Into 
 Lee Street at the very block whereon his house of 
 business stood, he banished thought and looked 
 about him. The street seemed crowded; people 
 had come to business earlier than usual. What 
 was that.? Impulsively he drew the reins tight, 
 and his trotter's speed quickened to racing pace. 
 In another minute, with white face and trembling 
 lips, he was in front of the blackened four walls, 
 from which smoke was still issuing — the walls 
 which but 3^esterday had been his store. Para- 
 lyzed with amazement and fear he sat in the buggy 
 staring. The surprise stood him in good stead. 
 
 "Why, Mr. Boulger, you look astonished?" 
 The sarcastic Interrogation came from the agent of 
 a New York Insurance Company, which stood to 
 pay Mr. Boulger a hundred thousand dollars — If, 
 indeed, the fire was an accident. The agent, a 
 young and able man who commanded the respect 
 of his colleagues, had a very strong suspicion that 
 this fire, so extraordinary in its completeness, was 
 145 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 not due to mere chance; but when he saw turned 
 upon him Mr. Boulger's white face, trembling lips 
 and vacant stare of wonder, all his doubts disap- 
 peared. This man evidently knew nothing of the 
 catastrophe, and as he was the only party inter- 
 ested — Mr. Jenkins at once changed his tone. 
 
 " Hadn't you heard the news.? " 
 
 " When — ? " The interrogation caused Mr. 
 Boulger a gulp. 
 
 " Between nine and ten last night. 'Twas all 
 over by twelve, before that German and his wife 
 got back from their doggoned festival. I guess 
 he had left somethin' bumin'. But hain't you 
 heard of Tryon, your manager? Every one's 
 talkin' of him." 
 
 Mr. Boulger shook his head; fear seized him. 
 What about Tryon? For the life of him he 
 couldn't have uttered a word. Then, as the crowd 
 gathered about his buggy, Mr. Boulger heard the 
 whole story. As he listened to the curt phrases 
 which seemed to sharpen the edges of the tragedy 
 and to lend weight to the praise of Tryon's con- 
 duct, Mr. Boulger's muscles relaxed, and his face 
 gradually regained its colour and ordinary ex- 
 pression. What should he say ? He felt that Jen- 
 kins was takin' him in and postin' him up. The 
 enthusiasm with which the crowd listened to the 
 meagre statement of what Tryon had done, gave 
 Mr. Boulger his cue. 
 
 " Well, the fire's bad enough for me, but I'd lose 
 twice as much to know that Tryon was out of dan- 
 ger." With the actor's instinct, which is insepa- 
 rable from vanity, he saw from the faces of the 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 people that he had struck the right note, and so he 
 went on. " Why, he's engaged to my daughter ! 
 I must go right off and see him. What'll — " 
 From a dozen men came words of approval and 
 sympathy. Mr. Boulger glowed with pleasure; 
 he felt at ease again, but his inventive faculty was 
 neither facile nor profound. 
 
 " Georgie'll want to know whether there's any 
 hope. I — " The chord seemed false, not equal 
 to the diapason of popular sympathy and rever- 
 ence. Mr. Boulger felt that he had made a mis- 
 take, but having to say something, struck the right 
 key immediately, with — 
 
 " I'll fetch my daughter : she'll do him good, I 
 guess." Again the murmur of approval; and 
 forthwith he drove rapidly up the street home- 
 wards. Again his impressionable nature had 
 served him better than any calculation could have 
 done. As Mr. Boulger turned and drove away 
 without even a word to him, Jenkins, the insurance 
 agent, felt his last doubts removed. Clearly Boul- 
 ger knew nothing of the tragedy and feared no 
 investigation; he wasn't conciliatory, not polite 
 even. So Mr. Jenkins set himself to think how 
 he could turn this knowledge to account. Utterly 
 unconscious of the effect he had produced, or of its 
 importance, Mr. Boulger drove on in a whirl of 
 emotions and thoughts. 
 
 He was glad. Yes. The store was burned 
 clean out; the insurance money was safe; he was 
 all right; Stewart's bill all right too; but what 
 did it all mean ? Try on wounded and badly burnt 
 was to him a source of dread. What mightn't 
 14T 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 happen? He might be delirious; might begin to 
 talk ; might — God, what bad luck ! 
 
 " He might die — without speakin'." Mr. Boul- 
 ger felt a w^arm thrill of pleasure run through him 
 at the thought. " But nothin' ever turns out quite 
 right — nothin'. Still he might. Who knows.? 
 The men seemed to say he was very bad." 
 
 With the feeling that Tryon was pretty sure 
 to die, Mr. Boulger was conscious of a certain 
 pity and almost affection for him. " Poor devil, 
 it's hard on him ; he did the thing well ; " but as the 
 thought came again that perhaps Tryon might 
 " let out " something instead of dying quietly, the 
 pity gave place in Mr. Boulger to a sort of sur- 
 prised indignation not unmixed with contempt. 
 
 " What did he want tryin' to save a nigger girl? 
 Why didn't he go quietly home and let the store 
 burn? 'Twas foolish goin' back. And then to 
 try what the jfireman said was impossible. That 
 was just like him; he always knew better than any 
 one else : he'd never take good advice — he deserved 
 what he had got." 
 
 Mr. Boulger thought with warm self-satisfac- 
 tion how differently he'd have acted had he been 
 in Tryon's place. He'd have just gone in at the 
 window, as the fireman did, and then come out 
 again; that would have looked well, and would 
 have cost nothin'. No. Tryon wasn't really 
 smart — he wasn't; he was rather stupid; hard- 
 working, yes, but slow — dull, that was the word, 
 dull. 
 
 "Would he die? That was the point." 
 
 And how would Georgie take it ? She'd get on 
 148 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 her high horse, he felt, and play the fool; girls 
 always did; they hadn't any sense. Mr. Boulger 
 realised with a sting of keen annoyance that he 
 could do nothing to restrain his daughter. Tryon, 
 he felt, had got into favour with the people and — 
 yes, that was a good thing for him, too. The in- 
 surance companies would make no fuss about 
 payin'. Well, so far, at any rate, it had gone all 
 right, and if Tryon had got hurt, 'twas his own 
 fault; and if Georgie acted fooHsh, that was her 
 business. After all, he couldn't force her to be 
 sensible. 
 
 With such thoughts as these in his mind, Mr. 
 Boulger drew up at his own door. As he gave 
 the reins to a negro boy, and thought of what he 
 should say to Georgie, the popular feeling came 
 back to him in all its strength, and he resolved to 
 act as if he admired Tryon. And he did admire 
 him : very few would have done what he did, and if 
 'twas foolish, well, after all, so far it had done 
 no harm — rather the contrary, in fact. 
 
 As he entered the sitting-room, Georgie came to 
 meet him, startled by his quick return and by the 
 unwonted seriousness of his manner. Scarcely had 
 he begun his story, when she interrupted him : 
 
 " And Mr. Tryon.? Is he — .? " and she flushed 
 crimson. 
 
 In spite of himself, he answered her excitement 
 with direct narration. As soon as he had finished 
 the story she left the room hurriedly. But Mr. 
 Boulger went on talking; Tryon's heroism im- 
 pressed him while he described it; he thought it 
 wise, too, to add that though he was insured, yet, 
 149 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 of course, he'd have to lose something. 'Twould 
 take three or four months, workin' night and day, 
 to rebuild the store; and, as Tryon was in bed, 
 he'd have to direct everythin' himself. But then 
 'twould be better done. So p'r'aps 'twas just as 
 well. His women-folk didn't receive his self-gratu- 
 lation as sympathetically as usual, and this made 
 Mr. Boulger feel ill at ease. In truth, they were 
 more moved than they cared to show. Ada felt 
 sorry that she had treated Tryon with contempt; 
 perhaps, she thought, if she had encouraged him a 
 
 little . Ivy regretted that she had yielded the 
 
 place so quickly to Georgle, and thought Georgie 
 
 ought to be very grateful to her, still . Mrs. 
 
 Boulger condescended to say that the young man 
 had acted very well — " 'twas a pity he had had no 
 advantages." Then Georgie came into the room 
 dressed to go out. " Let's go, father," she said, 
 and at once Mr. Boulger yielded. He felt 'twould 
 look well to take her in without loss of time; 
 'twould be the right thing to do ; only 
 
 On their way into town the girl drew from him 
 the whole story over again. And Mr. Boulger 
 felt it to be impossible to warn her, as he had 
 meant to do. Her seriousness kept him at bay. 
 She shivered as she passed the store. The smoke 
 rising from the roofless building, the height of the 
 third storey, appalled her. And the glimpse of 
 blue sky she caught through the blackened win- 
 dows chilled her with apprehension. She almost 
 took it as an omen. 
 
 They had been in the front room but a moment 
 or two when Mrs. Tryon came in. She was calm, 
 150 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 but very pale. Impulsively Georgie took a step 
 or two towards her, and then, stopping, burst into 
 tears. The mother's strong, silent grief fright- 
 ened her. But Mr. Boulger said : 
 
 " Mrs. Tryon, we've come to ask after Dave; we 
 hope he's not much hurt. And if we could do any- 
 thing for him, we " 
 
 " He's very ill," Mrs. Tryon spoke quietly, 
 " and I mustn't leave him long. The doctor says 
 he may be — lame for life, even if he ever recovers. 
 And his arm's broken, too. But I feel he'll get 
 well; he must get well. He's not conscious some- 
 times, but he lies quite still and never complains. 
 My boy ! The doctor says everybody is talking of 
 him," and the mother's Hp quivered. " But now 
 I must go to him; I hear him stirring," and she 
 passed noiselessly into the sick-room. 
 
 Mr. Boulger was so relieved to know that Tryon 
 lay quite still that he felt almost grateful to him, 
 and forgave Georgie her tears. In a few mo- 
 ments Mrs. Tryon returned. 
 
 "He wants to see you," she said to Georgie 
 coldly ; " but you must take care and not excite 
 him. The doctor said that would be bad for him ; 
 and you mustn't cry nor make a noise." As the 
 girl turned towards her a tear-wet face, the large- 
 hearted woman added more sympathetically, 
 " There, it'll be all right, I guess. There ! dry 
 your eyes and come ; it'll do him good to see you." 
 What it cost her to add the last phrase, only a 
 woman can understand. 
 
 With a great effort Georgie dried her eyes and 
 disappeared into the room after Mrs. Tryon. The 
 151 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 colloquy didn't last long. In ten minutes she was 
 again in the buggy with her father. 
 
 " Well, what did he say? " 
 
 " He — he only asked me to read the letter if — 
 if he died." Georgie's eyes filled as she spoke. 
 " He looked terrible — all black ; his mother says 
 that'll go off, but oh, I hope his eyebrows will grow 
 again. And he's so weak. Father, do you think 
 he'll ever get well? He could scarcely speak; he 
 just lay and looked at us, and whispered. Oh, I 
 l^ope — I hope he won't die," and again Georgie 
 burst into tears. The catastrophe had not upset 
 her as much as Mrs. Tryon's strong self-repression 
 which she felt was born of dread. 
 
 " He'll get well, I guess," replied Mr. Boulger, 
 to soothe her. " In a month he'll be up and about 
 again ; but, Georgie, remember you weren't to open 
 that letter unless we both wanted you to. He 
 can't alter that now. 'Twouldn't be right, would 
 it?" 
 
 " Oh, father ! " the girl cried reproachfully, " I 
 must do what he asked me. I said I would." 
 
 " Well," replied Mr. Boulger, " we'll have time 
 to think over that." His resignation came from 
 the sudden reflection that if Georgie insisted upon 
 opening the letter he'd tell her that his promise 
 to pay Tryon a hundred thousand dollars was 
 given on condition that they were married — as a 
 wedding-present, in fact. 
 
 159 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 About SIX weeks later Tryon and his bride were 
 seated side by side near the open window in the 
 sitting-room of his mother's house. Half reclin- 
 ing in an easy chair with his right arm in a sling, 
 he looked anything but strong. Yet though his 
 face was thin and drawn, the eyes were bright and 
 a spot of colour on the cheeks made him appear 
 better than he was. He was excited a little by the 
 thought that this was the day fixed for the pre- 
 sentation by the mayor and chief dignitaries of the 
 city of the cheque for five thousand dollars which 
 had been collected for him. Tryon felt no incon- 
 gruity in this testimonial of respect and admira- 
 tion. His direct and practical nature had from the 
 beginning looked upon the saving of the girl as 
 atonement for setting fire to the store. Whenever 
 he thought of that night, and he thought of it but 
 seldom, for his sufferings and slow convalescence 
 had removed it into the far past, it seemed to him 
 that he had been punished more than sufficiently. 
 It was the future which occupied his mind. 
 
 Even on this occasion the lovers' talk was of 
 the new store, for Georgie's tenderness excited by 
 admiration took interest for the time being only 
 in what interested her lover. 
 
 " Father says everything shall be done as you 
 wish, and the side-door you wanted near the front- 
 entrance is already half made. It looks so small 
 and cute. The foreman told me the building goes 
 up three feet in every twenty-four hours, and 
 153 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 there's not a store east of the Mississippi river as 
 strongly built. He says it'll be quite fire-proof," 
 and the girl shivered as she spoke. 
 
 " It'll be finished then in twenty days more," 
 said Tryon thoughtfully, " and all roofed in about 
 the time we're married; then we'll go and see it, 
 won't we.? I want to arrange everything inside 
 myself. We must have show-room enough. When 
 goods are crowded, nothin' looks well. I wish 
 'twas the twenty-fourth of September to-day; 
 don't you, Georgie?" And he kissed her as he 
 spoke. The girl nodded her head, smiling with 
 eyes wide open, in tender joy and gladness. 
 
 At this moment the door opened and Mrs. Tryon 
 came in, followed by Mr. Boulger. Mrs. Trj^on 
 had regained her usual cheerful manner. Mr. 
 Boulger seemed handsomer than ever. Clearly 
 prosperity agreed with him. The truth was that 
 the public feeling for Tryon had carried him away 
 on its strong tide. It was impossible to his vanity 
 to be left out of the flow of expansive good feeling. 
 And he had thought of a means of playing a con- 
 spicuous part in the honour about to be paid to 
 Tryon. 
 
 " Dave," he said cheerfully smiling. " I con- 
 gratulate you. Now you've got into this room, 
 you'll soon be allowed out and then, then," he said, 
 laying his hand on his daughter's head, " you'll 
 soon get into the church, eh? And you deserve it 
 all. There's no question about that. But now 
 before the Mayor and Committee come, I want a 
 word with you alone, and Mrs. Tryon declares 
 you'll be able to bear it. Eh, Mrs. Tryon? " 
 154 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 The mother smiled pleasantly, and taking Geor- 
 gie's arm left the room. 
 
 "Dave, it's just this. The insurance money 
 has all been paid, every cent. 'Twas Jenkins 
 started it: he got a good advertisement by bein' 
 the first. 'The Banner' just whooped it right 
 along, talked of his business energy, and all the 
 other agents followed suit when the preachers be- 
 gan gettin' up the subscription for you. The 
 money's all in the bank now, and if it hadn't been 
 for you I'd have left it there. I've worked long 
 enough, but you want your turn, and so the store's 
 bein' rebuilt. That'll cost a hundred and fifty 
 thousand dollars, with fittings complete. Fifty 
 thousand dollars must stand for current expenses, 
 and I think four hundred thousand dollars '11 be 
 enough for stock. Six hundred thousand dollars 
 in all. Now what do you say? I propose to put 
 in the six hundred thousand and take you in as 
 partner to the extent of a fourth share for the 
 note which Georgie has. I say a fourth instead of 
 a fifth so as to make up for your salary as man- 
 ager. I guess that's fair, ain't it.?" (Try on 
 nodded.) "Well, I've had the deeds of partner- 
 ship drawn out to be signed on your marriage with 
 Georgie, and I thought if you were agreed I'd just 
 announce the fact to-day. 'Twouldn't look well 
 if I was the only person to do no thin' on such a 
 day to show my appreciation of you. I guess 
 Boulger, Tryon and Co. will do over the entrance, 
 eh?" And Mr. Boulger's face shone with the 
 consciousness of kindly generosity. 
 
 For all answer Tryon held out his left hand with 
 155 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 a smile of acceptance. To him the proposition 
 seemed highly advantageous; he knew what he 
 could do with the business, and if it had been re- 
 vealed to him that Mr. Boulger's chief reason for 
 making the proposal was that he imagined he would 
 have more control over a junior partner than he 
 could have over a strong-willed and popular man- 
 ager who, with a hundred thousand dollars at his 
 back could always set up for himself, and might be- 
 come a dangerous competitor, Tryon would only 
 have smiled dryly. He knew that work tends to 
 fall into the hands that can do it. 
 
 Half an hour later the street in which the Try- 
 ons lived began to fill with people. " The Banner " 
 had insisted upon the desirability of a popular 
 demonstration in honour of David Tryon, and the 
 people were nothing loath to Hghten the monoto- 
 nous grind of life with a new and interesting cele- 
 bration. 
 
 After a few minutes of waiting the crowd opened 
 to allow free passage to the Mayor, Judge What- 
 ley of the District Court, and the Rev. Mr. Jack- 
 son of the First Episcopal Church. As this com- 
 mittee entered the house the people cheered. After 
 the usual greetings, the Mayor cleared his throat 
 and began his speech, every word of which was 
 heard through the open windows by the listening 
 crowd. 
 
 " Mr. Tryon, it would be impossible, and I 
 think it's unnecessary for me to tell you how deeply 
 your courage and unselfish heroism have moved the 
 hearts of your fellow-citizens. I have never seen 
 anything like it. You have had our sympathy in 
 156 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 your sufferings; we rejoice in your restoration to 
 health. Sir, we feel that you are an honour even to 
 this great community, and it has been unanimously 
 resolved in full City Council that this committee 
 should express to you our appreciation of your 
 conduct and should present you with this cheque 
 for five thousand dollars as a token of the admira- 
 tion which every citizen feels for your heroism. 
 Sir, I'm proud to shake your hand." 
 
 Having suited the action to the word the sturdy 
 hardware manufacturer moved a step or two to the 
 rear amid the cheers of the crowd outside. 
 
 Judge Whatley spoke briefly in much the same 
 strain, and then amid the renewed cheers of the 
 populace Mr. Jackson began. Highly nervous and 
 vain, but intensely matter-of-fact, he had been the 
 first to propose to his congregation on the Sunday 
 after the fire to make up for Tryon's unmerited 
 suffering by a general subscription. His initiative 
 had been followed; he was now modestly elated by 
 his success and the position he held as mouthpiece. 
 His reed-like piping came as a relief after the loud 
 voice of the Mayor, and the hard high clearness 
 of the Judge's utterance. 
 
 " I have been sent here, Mr. Tryon, to give 
 unanimous expression to the feeling of Christians 
 and Christian teachers in regard to your action. 
 No words of mine can convey our admiration of it. 
 ' Greater love hath no man than this that he lay 
 down his life for his friend,' and yet to save the 
 life of a coloured girl-child, a stranger, you im- 
 perilled your life and almost lost it. Your action 
 was an emanation from the spirit of the Master 
 157 
 
Profit and Loss 
 
 himself. Every person in this city, and many out- 
 side its limits, will be better men and women be- 
 cause of your deed. That is your reward. The 
 money subscribed is but an expression of our ad- 
 miration and gratitude — a thanks-offering to you 
 for an act of Christian self-sacrifice and heroism 
 such as has rarely been recorded in the annals of 
 Time. It is as a Christian hero that we all value 
 you, and hope that your life may be a long and 
 happy one." 
 
 Mr. Jackson's words were listened to in respect- 
 ful silence by the crowd, as by those inside the 
 room. It was felt with a sort of astonishment that 
 he had " put Tryon away up," and that Tryon 
 deserved the honour paid him. As Mr. Jackson 
 drew back, Tryon said simply, "I thank you, 
 gentlemen, for your kindness." 
 
 In the pause which ensued Mr. Boulger found 
 his opportunity. His vanity moved him to speech 
 with irresistible force ; his impressionability helped 
 him to words. 
 
 " Mr. Mayor and Gentlemen, — I'd like to be 
 allowed to say a few words, for in this matter I 
 naturally feel strongly. I know David Tryon well, 
 I've known him for years. I was glad when he 
 came to work for me ; I advanced him from clerk 
 to cashier, and then made him manager, and I can 
 say truly that I had learned to esteem him before 
 the fire took place. I look upon him as a hero, and 
 I'm proud to think he's going to be my son-in-law 
 and my partner. Yes, sir, the firm of Boulger 
 will in future be known as Boulger, Tryon and Co. 
 I guess it'll get along all right. Dave's young, 
 158 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 but he's a hero, as Mr. Jackson has said, a Chris- 
 tian hero." 
 
 While Mr. Boulger covered his inability to find 
 further words by shaking the Mayor vigorously by 
 the hand, Tryon sat in silence. The cheering of 
 the crowd, the eulogies pronounced upon his con- 
 duct moved him to momentary self -question. 
 
 " A hero ? Had all heroes been like " 
 
 159 
 
THE INTERPRETER 
 (A MERE EPISODE) 
 
THE INTERPRETER 
 
 .(A MERE EPISODE) 
 
 IT was in the entrance hall of the Hotel de Roma 
 at Madrid. I had come downstairs to see if 
 I could get an interpreter or competent guide 
 to accompany my wife to the Museum of the 
 Prado, whilst I went off with a Toreador to a rus- 
 tic wedding. There was a man in the hall who 
 rather puzzled me ; he was not well dressed enough 
 for a visitor to the hotel ; yet his eye did not seek 
 mine with the servile solicitation which is the mark 
 of the guide tribe in all civilized capitals, nor did 
 he show that dignified indifference to one's obvious 
 wants which is, so to say, the livery of the Span- 
 iard in quest of employment. He was about the 
 middle height, of commonplace appearance; but 
 there was something in the thoughtful quietude of 
 his look and manner that pleased me. As there 
 was nothing for it but to speak to him, I made 
 up my mind to speak in English : " Good morn- 
 ing." 
 
 " Good morning, sir," he answered quietly. His 
 tone encouraged me. 
 
 " Do you happen to be an interpreter .f^ " I 
 asked. 
 
 " No, I am not an interpreter." There was 
 something subdued, half melancholy, in his tone, 
 but he was a Spaniard; the r's betrayed him un- 
 mistakably. 
 
 163 
 
The Interpreter 
 
 " What a bore," I said disconsolately, turning 
 half aside ; " Mazzantini will be waiting for me, 
 and I wanted some one to go with mj wife to the 
 Museum." 
 
 " I shall be happy to accompany Madame," said 
 the Spaniard, " and if Madame cares for paint- 
 ings, she will have emotions in the Prado." 
 
 " Thanks, as you are not a guide, I must not 
 trouble you." 
 
 " I often go with people to the Prado," he an- 
 swered simply. 
 
 " But then," I went on with British love of a 
 fact, " you must be either an interpreter or a 
 guide." 
 
 " I am not an interpreter," he replied abruptly, 
 his manner almost rude as he turned away. 
 
 " Well," I said, feeling my mistake, " at any 
 rate you speak English better than any Spaniard 
 I have met, and I dare say you know more about 
 the pictures than the ordinary guide." 
 
 He turned to me, lifting his eyebrows in depre- 
 cating pity, and as my wife appeared at the mo- 
 ment, I confided her to his charge. When we met 
 before dinner my wife spoke of him : " Such a 
 strange man — so terribly enthusiastic. He bored 
 me to extinction about Velasquez, and seemed quite 
 hurt because I could not appreciate — ' las Meni- 
 nas,' yes, that was the name — a quite absurd pic- 
 ture. Polite.? Oh yes, for a foreigner and a man 
 in his position." 
 
 After this I met the man frequently, and often 
 talked with him. I found that he knew a great 
 deal about the Spanish school of painting, and es- 
 164 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 pecially about Velasquez and Goya ; but his knowl- 
 edge was curiously fragmentary. He had evi- 
 dently divined more than he had read, and his ideas 
 about men and things had grown to have all the 
 weight of facts for his mind. There was, too, a 
 curious mixture of self-assertion and humility 
 about him which I could not account for. I ven- 
 tured to ask him, one evening, how he had come 
 to learn so much about painting, and especially 
 about Velasquez. He went on twirling a cigarette 
 between his yellow-stained fingers, while his little 
 brown eyes contracted with the effort of thinking. 
 After a pause, he said: 
 
 " I was in the Prado every day, and some- 
 how or other the little pictures grew hideous to 
 me and the masterpieces more and more interest- 
 ing." 
 
 " That's a rare experience," I said, " but not 
 singular ; I have a friend who declares that no one 
 can really understand a picture till he has lived 
 with it. But of course there are people who can 
 appreciate even a masterpiece at first sight." As 
 I saw he didn't agree with me, I went on probing : 
 " Surely you must have got some of your knowl- 
 edge from books?" 
 
 " Yes," he replied indifferently, " what I knew 
 before, I found in books and little else. But most 
 people like what they call facts, so I read in order 
 to get facts. But I am so constituted that I can 
 only remember such facts as possess some vital or 
 spiritual significance, so I am not much better off 
 for all my reading. Other men's knowledge 
 doesn't help one much." 
 
 165 
 
The Interpreter 
 
 ** Then 3^ou have always been a guide and in- 
 terpreter? " I interrupted. 
 
 He turned upon me abruptly in a revolt of con- 
 ceit : 
 
 " Oh yes, Senor, I was an interpreter once. I 
 did not only interpret our language, but the pic- 
 tures of our greatest masters in the Prado to ordi- 
 nary visitors. You know that as a rule people 
 do not see pictures at all until their beauties have 
 been pointed out to them. Well, I revealed to 
 Englishmen, Frenchmen and Germans the immor- 
 tal works of Zurbaran, Velasquez, and Go^^a. And 
 when there were any willing to listen, I went fur- 
 ther and showed them how these masters had dis- 
 covered their souls in their paintings; and thus I 
 interpreted to foreign tourists the spiritual essence 
 of our greatest. Ah, it was strange! For one 
 who admired the strength and dignity of Zurbaran 
 there were a dozen who loved the brutality of 
 Goya, and the voluptuousness of his may as; and 
 for a score who understood Zurbaran, there was 
 only one to care for the soul of Velasquez, who saw 
 dwarfs and kings, ministers and women, horses and 
 dogs, as God's sunlight sees them. Curious, isn't 
 it? that only the noble can love nobility, and that 
 a thousand wanted me to translate to them some 
 silly piece of newspaper scandal for one who 
 wished to understand how Velasquez felt towards 
 Christ. ... I began as a democrat," he went 
 on, as if to himself, " but I soon came to hate 
 and despise the people. Nine men out of ten have 
 no reverence in them, no desire to learn and grow. 
 I used to think rtiy trade the best in the world," 
 166 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 he broke oiF, — " in itself an education that refines 
 and ennobles. Yes, oh yes," he repeated, nodding 
 his head, while a sort of flush came over his sallow 
 cheeks, " I was an interpreter — once." 
 
 In spite of his self-assertion the man impressed 
 me; I noticed now a certain intellectuality in his 
 breadth of brow and patient insistence in his peer- 
 ing eyes; his mouth, too, was very sensitive and 
 refined. But underneath my sympath3^ there was 
 the prickling of vulgar curiosity, and after a cer- 
 tain amount of lighter talk I couldn't help asking 
 him: 
 
 " Why did you tell me the first evening that 
 you were not an interpreter? And why don't you 
 wear the band on your cap ? " 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. 
 I pressed him, and at length he spoke : 
 
 " When the visitors found out I was a real in- 
 terpreter, they began to recommend me to their 
 friends, and I got constant employment, more than 
 I could do; and as I got money, I grew proud. 
 The proprietor let me have rooms in the hotel. . . . 
 
 " One day, out of the season, an English gentle- 
 man, called Mr. Ponsonby, came here, and after 
 spending a day in his room, he asked me what 
 there was to do in this dull place, and I took him 
 to the Prado. He was very affable and quick, and 
 liked all I told him. He said I ought to have a 
 great reputation, and when I said I thought I had, 
 he said he did not mean that sort of reputation. 
 I ought to write down what I knew about the 
 painters, and the book would sell, and make me 
 a reputation throughout Europe.' We passed the 
 16T 
 
The Interpreter 
 
 evening together in this cafe; see, at that table. 
 All the next day, too, we spent together; he did 
 not seem to want to be alone; it was so damned 
 dull, he said, without anyone to talk to. He al- 
 ways read the English newspapers as soon as they 
 came. Except for that time, I was with him every 
 minute for three days. 
 
 " On the fourth morning, about nine o'clock, I 
 was in the hall waiting for him, when suddenly 
 there came up to me my sister's husband's brother's 
 son, the youngest of the family. He was in the 
 police and had got on. I had known him as a 
 baby, and played with him often; his third name 
 was Jose, after me. We began to talk. I asked 
 him about the family ; they all live in Toledo. And 
 so we passed about ten minutes; then he said to 
 me: 
 
 "'Are you doing anything now.^* Why don't 
 you go and see them ? ' 
 
 " ' Ah, no,' I replied ; ' I stick to my work. Be- 
 sides, I have an English gentleman here now, who 
 takes me everywhere with him ; such a nice gentle- 
 man, a Mr. Ponsonby.' 
 
 " ' Is he in the hotel now ? ' he asked. 
 
 " ' He is in his room ; I am waiting for him,' was 
 my answer. 
 
 " ' Take me up to him, won't you ^ I think I 
 have something to tell him — or something for him.' 
 
 " I forget exactly what he said ; but I replied : 
 ' All right, come on.' 
 
 " I was sure Mr. Ponsonby would not be angry 
 with me; he was so pleasant, and I, like a vain 
 fool, never paused to think. We went up to the 
 168 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 room, and I knocked at the door. Mr. Ponsonby 
 asked sharply: 'Who's there?' and I said: 
 
 " ' It is I, Mr. Ponsonby, your guide, Jose, 
 who ' 
 
 " Then we heard him unlocking the door. 
 
 " As he opened it I began : ' Mr. Ponsonby, I 
 
 have brought ' ; but before I could finish, my 
 
 sister's husband's brother's son stepped before me, 
 and put his hand on Mr. Ponsonby's shoulder, say- 
 ing in English (I did not know he knew a word 
 of it) : 
 
 " ' Mr. Ponsonby Pigott, you must come with 
 me.' 
 
 " I still did not understand, and I was a little 
 angry at being pushed aside, so I went forward 
 and asked him : 
 
 " * What do you mean ? ' 
 
 " He looked at me with a smile and said : ' Mr. 
 Pigott understands ; he is my prisoner.' 
 
 " Then I knew, and I said to my sister's hus- 
 band's brother's son: 
 
 " ' You have made me a spy like yourself, you 
 devil. You have made me help to give my friend 
 up, you low beast, you . . .' and I went on. I 
 was mad with rage, because I felt the guilt in 
 myself; but Mr. Ponsonby Pigott, he did not re- 
 proach me. He was too much of a gentleman ; he 
 grew a little pale, that was all. 
 
 " Pointing to the alcove where the bed stood, he 
 asked the detective : ' May I go to get my brushes 
 and things ? ' 
 
 " I stepped in front of the young man, and 
 said: 
 
 169 
 
The Interpreter 
 
 " * Certainly, Mr. Ponsonby Pigott, you shall 
 get what you like ; he does not dare to disturb you.' 
 
 " Oh, I was determined to be a fine fool to the 
 end ! When he went to the alcove, I turned to my 
 sister's husband's brother's son, and I spat on the 
 floor and said — What did I not say? I have not 
 forgiven him; he will see yet. 
 
 " All the while I was thinking what a brute I 
 had been and fool, to be outwitted by a boy. Sud- 
 denly there came a click, and — as the detective 
 rushed past me — the bang of a revolver. When 
 we got to the alcove, there he lay, Mr. Ponsonby 
 who had been so kind to me, all huddled up on the 
 floor — with his brains scattered on the pillow and 
 the wall — dead. 
 
 " Then I knew what I had done, and I turned 
 and went out of the room, and in the hall they all 
 met me, and asked: 
 
 " * What is the matter. Interpreter.? ' 
 
 " And I took the band on my cap with * Inter- 
 preter ' on it, and I tore it off my cap, and I said : 
 
 " ' I am no interpreter, I am a fool.' 
 
 " I went out crying 
 
 " Yes, I've heard he was a forger and a cheat ; 
 he may have been a bad man ; but whatever crimes 
 he committed, there was something kindly in him 
 and noble ; at all events he knew when to die. . . . 
 
 " I was greatly to blame, greatly ; I was too 
 self-sufficient and proud. That is why I will never 
 wear the badge again nor call myself an inter- 
 preter. I am not worthy of the name ; but if Mr. 
 ITO 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 Pigott had liked me as I liked him, and trusted 
 me, I would have hidden him away here in Madrid, 
 so that they would never have found him, never. I 
 cannot bear to think of it now, he was so pleasant 
 and kind " 
 
 171 
 
SONIA 
 
SONIA 
 
 IT was a chance meeting — pure chance, if indeed 
 there is such a thing. I was giving a sort of 
 farewell dinner to people I had met in Mu- 
 nich ; in another ten minutes I should have been in 
 my own room and have missed her. She had only 
 stopped with her mother to rest for the night on 
 the way from Paris to Vienna and had come down- 
 stairs by chance — chance? 
 
 How well I remember the meeting! It was in 
 the smoking-room of the Vierjahreszeiten Hotel. 
 A couple of professors, some men from the em- 
 bassies, and a captain of Uhlans had been dining 
 with me. The dinner had been dull ; our talk had 
 gradually degenerated into spasmodic remarks; 
 and in spite of the efforts of the French attache to 
 be witty in a language he had only a smattering of, 
 I had come to the conclusion that specialists do 
 not make good company, when suddenly I saw a 
 face — a girl's face — looking through the upper 
 part of the glass door. It disappeared, and I was 
 just hoping that my guests would go away soon 
 when the door opened and the girl came into the 
 room and took a seat at the table almost opposite 
 me. The room was a public room, usually used 
 for smoking and coffee, but in Germany one does 
 not expect to see a young woman act with inde- 
 pendence and I was a little surprised. The curious 
 part of the matter is that from the moment she 
 175 
 
Son 
 
 ta 
 
 entered I remember everything that happened — 
 every word she said, each of her slightest gestures 
 — with extraordinary vividness. At first she was 
 silent. She merely drew the black lace mantilla 
 she was wearing a little further forward on her 
 head and then let her eyes rest for a moment or 
 two, first on one man and then on the next. There 
 was nothing impertinent in her scrutiny, no curi- 
 osity even; the glance seemed merely meditative 
 and impersonal; but the French attache instinct- 
 ively twisted his moustache to a bolder curve. 
 When the eyes that had travelled round the half 
 circle met mine, I was curiously interested. Was 
 it the girl's indifference to the other men that 
 piqued me.'' or was there something really impres- 
 sive in her calm self-possession? 
 
 My looks must have betrayed the interest I felt 
 in her; for she suddenly spoke to me in French, 
 " You're not a German, are you ? " 
 
 " No," I replied in the same tongue, " I am 
 English. These gentlemen are guests of mine." 
 Then taking my courage in both hands, I added, 
 " If I had the pleasure of knowing your name, I 
 would introduce them to you." 
 
 " No, please not," she said, quickly disposing of 
 my attempt to bring my friends into the conversa- 
 tion ; " I am glad you are English ; I have wanted 
 to know an Englishman for a long time." She 
 spoke quickly, but with long pauses between the 
 sentences ; the effect was to heighten one's interest 
 in what she was saying. 
 
 " I hope I may consider that as a compliment," 
 I replied inanely. I never talked so stupidly as to 
 176 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 this girl on whom already I wished to make a good 
 impression. 
 
 " Scarcely," she retorted with imperturbable 
 seriousness ; " the reverse, I think." 
 
 " Really," I exclaimed in amazement, " may I 
 ask why ? " 
 
 "It is plain ; but — your guests are going." 
 
 And so they were. Headed by the French at- 
 tache, with his " c/i^r," and " combien je regrette,'' 
 and his bow that passed to the lady with a deep 
 inclination of respectful reproach, they all took 
 their leave. They had scarcely disappeared when 
 I turned to speak to her again. But that was not 
 her humour. Solemnly rising opposite me, she 
 drew her heels together and bowed to me as if 
 she had a hinge in her back with such an exact 
 imitation of the German captain's salute that I 
 could not help laughing. She laughed too — mer- 
 rily, like a child. 
 
 " What strange people," she cried. " What 
 strange people. Did you ever see such marion- 
 ettes.?" 
 
 " They are a little stiff," I admitted, " but you 
 were going to tell me why you don't like English- 
 men." 
 
 " I don't know any Englishmen," she said, look- 
 ing at me with frank directness, " and from what 
 I have read about them, I'm afraid I should not 
 like them. I'm afraid not," she repeated decisively. 
 
 " What do you mean? " I asked; and while she 
 
 set to work to answer me, I took the opportunity 
 
 of looking at her in order to make up my mind 
 
 whether she was really good-looking or not. I 
 
 177 
 
Sonia 
 
 knew already — her walk and movements showed — 
 that she had a good figure ; but her complexion was 
 tallowy, as if she had lived much in close rooms, 
 and it took more than one glance to see that her 
 features were good. Perhaps the oval of the face 
 was too round for beauty — the forehead was cer- 
 tainly too broad — but the eyes were really fine, a 
 clear hazel flecked with gold, which doesn't at all 
 explain the impression they gave of transparent 
 sincerity and courage. Her staccato manner of 
 speaking with long pauses between each sentence 
 became more marked, I noticed, when the subject 
 matter interested her. 
 
 "The French — we know what they are," she 
 began. " Nothing will ever alter them. The Ger- 
 mans, too, we know ; they are all like that," — with 
 a gesture that seemed to people again the empty 
 room. " But the English are hard to know well. 
 They have done great things in the past — brought 
 political liberty into life and built up a great em- 
 pire; but one feels as if their work were finished. 
 Don't you know what I mean.? A selfish indi- 
 vidualism is the soul of them — the characteristic — 
 and that is not what we want to-day." 
 
 I was more than interested, I was much aston- 
 ished and half annoyed at her frank if somewhat 
 doctrinaire criticism. 
 
 " I don't know exactly what you mean," I re- 
 plied. "What do you find us lacking in? We 
 don't seem yet to have failed in the world," I 
 added, with more composure, feeling that at last 
 I had got on safe ground. 
 
 "That's just it," she retorted quickly, laying 
 178 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 her hand on the table, " you are successful, and 
 therefore satisfied, as if material success and con- 
 tentment were not a proof of spiritual failure." 
 
 " Now I'm afraid you have got beyond me," I 
 replied, and, half to cover my pique, I forced a 
 smile, " unless, indeed, you will mention a nation 
 that has failed materially and yet been a spiritual 
 success." 
 
 " Athens," she cried, with a look of astonish- 
 ment. (Her eyes were magnificent.) " And Judea 
 — they both speak to the soul and are more in- 
 teresting to humanity than Rome, for instance, 
 with its insensate pride and lust of domination." 
 
 I was silenced, if not convinced. No satisfac- 
 tory reply suggesting itself at the moment, I 
 tried to make our talk lighter, more personal, by 
 asking : 
 
 " And what countrywoman are you.^ " 
 
 " Guess," she threw out with a smile. 
 
 " I am at a loss," I replied hesitatingly. " You 
 are dark, and might be a Spaniard from the man- 
 tilla. But you have no accent in French and none 
 in German that I can distinguish. I am puzzled." 
 
 " You are mistaken," she said, " I have an ac- 
 cent in German — a strong accent. I am a Rus- 
 sian." 
 
 "A Russian. Strange! I'm going to Russia 
 soon." Her look of interest exciting me, I went 
 on : "A teacher at Oxford put the idea into my 
 head; an odd mixture, he is, of art-critic and 
 socialist." 
 
 " What is his name ? " she asked. 
 
 " Oh, you would scarcely have heard of him, 
 179 
 
Sonia 
 
 and yet he's interesting ; his name's Ruskin ; a sort 
 of professor at Oxford, and a wonderful writer." 
 
 " So," she said, " he has sympathies with the 
 poor, has he ? " 
 
 " The deepest sympathy ; he gave nearly aU his 
 fortune away to them and preached a sort of new 
 crusade in their favour." 
 
 "An Englishman.?" she asked wonderingly. 
 
 " Yes, indeed," I replied warmly. " There's 
 nothing strange in that, surely. Everyone must 
 admit that we have done more for the poor than 
 any other nation." 
 
 " We knew you had more to do," she replied, 
 and then after a long pause, she added, " but not 
 that you had done more." 
 
 " I wish you knew Ruskin," I went on, feeling 
 that his fine personality gave me the best chance 
 of interesting her. " He is all enthusiasm and un- 
 selfishness — a remarkable man. He had a great 
 influence at Oxford and did a lot of good." 
 
 "And now you are coming to Russia.?" 
 
 " Yes, that was a sort of farewell dinner I was 
 giving." 
 
 " Then you are coming at once? " 
 
 At this moment the door opened and a young 
 man entered the room. The girl presented him 
 simply — " My brother ; " we bowed and shook 
 hands. One thing was sure ; he was utterly unlike 
 his sister. She was tall and graceful, whereas he 
 was below the average height and very slight. A 
 little, thin, nervous apparition with the tiniest 
 hands, and dressed with excessive care like a 
 French dandy. 
 
 180 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 His sister wont on, " This gentleman is thinking 
 of coming to Russia to learn Russian and he is in- 
 terested in social questions. We are too, are we 
 not, Andre? " and she put her arm caressingly on 
 the young man's shoulder. 
 
 " You are," he said smiling; the glance was sym- 
 pathetic and made me like him. ^ i 
 
 I don't know why, but the entrance of this new 
 person on the scene seemed to remove the girl 
 from me, and I was surprised to find resentment 
 in me at the discovery. I determined to do my 
 best to keep up the acquaintance. 
 
 " I was telling your sister," I began, " that I 
 was just leaving Munich to go to Russia. I hope 
 we may meet there." 
 
 " But if you are going soon," she said, " why 
 not go with us? We are leaving for Vienna this 
 evening by the express." 
 
 " Yes," said the young man, nodding in answer 
 to my look of inquiry, " why not come with us? " 
 
 " But you have probably a father or a mother 
 who might object to my intrusion." 
 
 "Oh, no," the girl broke in, "my mother is 
 resting upstairs, but I am sure that she would be 
 glad if you would come with us. And then we 
 might learn more about Ruskin and his socialistic 
 
 ideas." nw t • 
 
 "Are you sure she wouldn't object? I m- 
 
 sisted. 
 
 " Of course, I'm sure ; but I will write and ask 
 her and show you what she says. Then you will 
 know." She turned to the table and drew the 
 writing materials towards her. 
 181 
 
Sonia 
 
 " You see," the brother said, smiling to me, 
 " everyone does what Sonia wants. She always 
 has her own way, and it is generally a good way." 
 
 As he spoke, the girl turned round blushing 
 vividly and looking wonderfully pretty. " Now, 
 Andrushka, you are praising me and that's not 
 allowed. Besides, if you talk about me how can 
 I write my letter.? I must listen;" and she 
 laughed at the implied confession. 
 
 A moment later she had rung the bell and given 
 the note to the waiter. 
 
 " Now tell me of your Ruskin," she said, turn- 
 ing round in her chair. " He interests me. He 
 must be like a man I knew in Petersburg, who had 
 a great influence on me, MichailofF. He was a 
 great man in some ways, a great intelHgence, but 
 he was not good." 
 
 " Ah," I said, " Ruskin is good. That's per- 
 haps the secret of his power." Somehow or other, 
 I felt that I was carrying my audience with me in 
 my enthusiasm and the impulse to continue over- 
 came me. " His belief comes from the heart and 
 he is not afraid to speak to the heart." (She 
 : nodded with quick approval. ) " In one of his lec- 
 tures at Oxford — a lecture to a thousand, irrev- 
 erent under-graduates — I remember he paused in 
 the middle of something he was saying and turned 
 upon us with the words, ' We should all be fre- 
 quent in breaking bread with the poor.' The ef- 
 fect was extraordinary; one felt that Jesus must 
 have spoken like that. 
 
 " It was he who put the idea into my head of 
 studying social questions on the Continent; he 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 thought that the student, like the apprentice, 
 should have his Wander jahre.''* 
 
 At this moment the German waiter came in and 
 handed the girl a note. After one glance at it 
 she handed it to me. It was from her mother and 
 this is how it began: "Je serai charmee de faire 
 la connaissance d'un Anglais; ils sont si comme- 
 il-faut. Ton ami sera le bienvenu. . . ." 
 
 " You see," said Sonia quietly, " my mother has 
 answered as I knew she would. Now you will 
 come, won't you ? " 
 
 " I can hardly come to-night," I replied. " I 
 have to pack and some friends to see; but I will 
 follow. If you will tell me the hotel you are going 
 to in Vienna, I will follow you — in forty-eight 
 hours at most." 
 
 At this they both rose: the brother seemed too 
 nervous to sit still for any length of time. 
 
 " Your Ruskin interests me," the girl said 
 quietly, " and you interest me more, for you may 
 act while he has only talked or written." (She 
 spoke without a trace of coquetry. ) "I shall be 
 glad to see you in Vienna. I am glad already that 
 I did not obey my first impulse and run away when 
 I looked through the door and saw you all sitting 
 there like automatons, so stiff and prim," and she 
 laughed again at the recollection. 
 
 "Did you really feel shy?" I asked. "You 
 seemed perfectly composed." 
 
 " I'm glad," she replied ; " shyness is childish. 
 One has to conquer those impulses, don't you 
 think.?" 
 
 Since I had talked of Ruskin, her manner had 
 183 
 
oma 
 
 grown quite friendly, and the change pleased 
 me. 
 
 At this moment her brother opened the door, 
 and she passed out of the room with the words, 
 " The Ring Hotel, Wednesday afternoon," on her 
 lips. I stood looking after her, feehng as if some 
 of the brightness had gone out of the air and the 
 warmth. . . . 
 
 Until that day I had never thought myself very 
 impressionable, but I was now to learn the extra- 
 ordinary influence a girl could exercise on me after 
 a single meeting. At first I seemed to feel noth- 
 ing but surprise at her intelligence. We had only 
 talked for a short time and yet she had astonished 
 me ; was " material success " really " a proof of 
 spiritual failure?" as she had said. I could not 
 believe that; it seemed a paradox to me, and yet 
 a paradox full of disquieting possibilities. She 
 had evidently peculiar standards. The talk about 
 Ruskin had touched her emotions; was he her 
 ideal? Hardly. Almost her last words showed 
 that she preferred men of action to writers or 
 speakers. And then my thought passed to her 
 confession that when she first looked into the room 
 she had felt too shy to enter it, and I dwelt on that ; 
 it seemed to bring her closer to me. Her manner, 
 too, had been wholly womanly and sympathetic 
 when she told me she would be glad to see me in 
 Vienna. I kept recalling this and her delicious 
 shyness, and her vivid blushing under her brother's 
 praise. In spite of her intellect, she was a woman 
 — charming. I wanted to see her again ; I would 
 go to the train to see them off, I thought. No, 
 184) 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 that would appear too marked an attention. I 
 mustn't make a fool of myself ; I didn't know who 
 she was, nor her name even. But I should like to 
 know what she meant exactly, when she said that I 
 might act; as if deeds were more than any speech 
 or book. What sort of action did she mean? . . . 
 
 I went out for my usual walk in the afternoon, 
 but I walked as one in a dream. I could not help 
 recalling her words, her rare gestures, her looks — 
 every glance had meaning in it. By the way, what 
 a funny trick of speaking she had; nervously 
 abrupt and quick, with long pauses. Was that 
 like her shjmess, an impulse held in rein by reason.? 
 And why was shyness so wonderful and charming 
 in \iQV? In was common enough in other girls and 
 in them rather uninteresting. The whole charm 
 lay, of course, in the magic of her personality. 
 She might be anyone, I felt, or do anything. I 
 could not quite understand her, and that excited 
 me. . . . 
 
 Why should I not go to the train? She had 
 been perfectly frank with me; why should I not 
 be as ingenuous with her? I wanted to go; that 
 was certain. I wanted to see her again ; to feel 
 the cool, firm hand, and win from her, if possible, 
 another expression of interest in me. Yes, that 
 was it. I desired this girl's interest and her praise 
 more than I ever desired praise from anybody in 
 my life. I felt that what she said would be ab- 
 solutely sincere. That was not love, I said to 
 myself ; it was the effect her nature made on mine. 
 In reality I wanted praise. I, go to the station. 
 It was silly not to go. I, meet them on the plat- 
 185 
 
Sonia 
 
 form with some flowers — one bunch for the mother 
 and one for the girl. That would make it look all 
 right. I, hurry back and get the flowers. . . . 
 I was on the platform waiting for them before 
 the train was made up. I had a Dienstmann with 
 me carrying my bouquets, and had already paid 
 him and given him most definite instructions to 
 make himself scarce, the moment I took the flowers 
 from him, when suddenly I saw them coming to- 
 wards me. They were almost the first arrivals, 
 and walking towards them I thought, "we shall 
 have quite ten minutes together." The mother 
 was being wheeled along in a chair, and the daugh- 
 ter w^as walking by her side. The old lady was 
 very stout and seemed almost incapable of moving, 
 but her eyes were bright and intelligent — ^hazel 
 too, though far smaller than her daughter's ; and 
 as soon as the daughter presented me with, " This 
 is the gentleman, mother," she told me in very 
 perfect French that she was glad to see me and 
 still more glad to think that I should meet them 
 in Vienna and go with them to their place near 
 Petersburg. 
 
 " I am a great invalid," she went on, " but Sonia 
 and Andre will keep you company, and if you want 
 to learn Russian, it is certainly dull enough at 
 to learn anything." 
 
 Of course I thanked her and said how sorry I 
 was to see that she was not strong, but she inter- 
 rupted me briskly: 
 
 " Oh, I am strong, quite strong ; it is my body 
 that is weak, and above all lazy— very lazy," and 
 
 she laughed. 
 
 186 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 " Mother says that," said Sonia, " but she is 
 indeed ailing. You know you were very ill in 
 Paris, mother." 
 
 " Ah, dear Paris," repeated the old lady, with a 
 sigh, " how I love it, with its frivolity and gaiety. 
 It is all so pleasant to me. There seems to be no 
 winter there, and in Russia it is all winter and 
 solitude, and I hate it." 
 
 " You see," said the girl gravely, " mother is 
 scarcely a Russian. She speaks very little Rus- 
 sian; she lived nearly all her youth in Paris; her 
 father was in the Embassy there. I often say 
 she is not a Russian or she could not speak of Rus- 
 sia as she does." 
 
 " Of course," retorted the mother with a comical 
 little smile, " children nowadays know more than 
 their parents. But I must be getting into the 
 train. I am very heavy and almost helpless." 
 
 In a few minutes we had got her into the car- 
 riage and settled her among books and wraps, and 
 then for the first time I remembered my flowers 
 and handed her a bouquet, which brought forth 
 voluble thanks. She loved flowers, she said; it 
 was so kind of me to think of them ; an old woman 
 was not used to such attentions, and so forth. 
 
 My opportunity had come. Turning to the 
 girl, I gave her the other bouquet, and in a voice 
 which I made as matter of course as possible, asked 
 her to walk up the platform with me. With rare 
 opportuneness, the brother had gone off to get 
 papers, and without a word Sonia turned from the 
 carriage and I was alone with her. I hardly knew 
 how to begin. 
 
 187 
 
Sonia 
 
 "You love Russia," I said, still under the Im- 
 pression of the feeling with which she had spoken. 
 
 She turned to me and nodded slowly. 
 
 " Yes, I love it," she said. " I love it with all 
 my heart and soul." After a pause she went on, 
 " our peasants call it ' Holy Russia,' you know, 
 and to us it is even more than that. The other 
 European nations are uninteresting. What they 
 have done, they will do again; their course is 
 traced; the orbit known. Their future will be as 
 common as their past. But everything is possible 
 to Russia. If humanity is ever to do or be any- 
 thing great, if men are ever to rise to the possi- 
 bihties in them and live noble lives. It must be In 
 Russia. She is the last of the European nations 
 to enter into her birthright. How can one help 
 loving her, ' Holy Russia ! ' " 
 
 She spoke with extraordinary passion ; but what 
 she said was too reasoned and decided, I thought ; 
 It seemed to put a great distance between us; I 
 hardly knew how to answer her. The conversation 
 went lamely afterwards, and in a minute or so 
 the bell rang. As she entered the carriage, she 
 said: 
 
 " I shall be looking for you on Wednesday after- 
 noon. You are sympathetic." 
 
 Perhaps it was her foreign phrase that made 
 me act like a foreigner; I bowed my head to her 
 and kissed her hand, and the next moment she was 
 In the train and had taken her seat. I remember 
 shaking hands with her brother; but she did not 
 come to the window, and I went away from the 
 station with a vision In my mind of her first ap- 
 188 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 pearance as I saw her walking by the side of her 
 mother's chair, tall and graceful. 
 
 When I thought over this meeting I was dis- 
 appointed ; nothing new had come to me from her. 
 The truth probably was that I had already been 
 moved so intensely in the afternoon that my feel- 
 ings were incapable of receiving another new and 
 profound impression of the same sort in the even- 
 ing. But still her strength of character and 
 passionate enthusiasm were clearer to me than they 
 had been. Her soul appeared to me like a flame 
 of extraordinary steadiness and height. An as- 
 tonishing girl, I said to myself, most astonish- 
 ing! 
 
 As my stay in Munich drew to an end I began 
 to dwell more and more on the womanly and charm- 
 ing side of her character, and especially on the 
 interest she seemed to take in me; and so I culti- 
 vated, I suppose, the growth of a similar feeling 
 in myself. All through life we are merely chil- 
 dren, and turn naturally to what is sweet to us; 
 but my longing for the pleasant fruit was checked 
 by a sort of natural caution. I could see that my 
 new friends were people of some importance, but 
 I resolved to find out much more about them before 
 I committed myself definitely, and thus I lulled my 
 inborn prudence to rest. 
 
 On the Wednesday morning, when I got into 
 the train, I could not help noticing that my usual 
 indiflPerence had deserted me. I was so unnatur- 
 ally eager that every now and again I had to laugh 
 at my own impatience. I took no interest in what 
 went on about me; in imagination I was already 
 189 
 
Sonta 
 
 at the goal, standing before her, looking Into her 
 eyes, touching her hands. And so I lived in my 
 dream-paradise, shutting out as far as I could 
 the banalities of the railway journey. As soon 
 as I had unpacked my luggage and made myself 
 decent, I got the waiter to take me to their sitting- 
 room. In a moment Sonia was before me, holding 
 out both hands to me. I took them in some sur- 
 prise ; the mute appeal was so intense ; but her first 
 words explained everything. 
 
 " He is so ill," she cried. " Andrushka. I was 
 afraid ; but now you have come, it will all be right," 
 and she sighed with relief. 
 
 " 111 ! " I repeated. " Sit down and tell me 
 about it. What is the matter? When did it be- 
 gin?" 
 
 " He must have caught cold," she replied. 
 " You know he has always been very delicate, and 
 he won't take care of himself. We reached 
 Vienna very early on Tuesday morning; it was 
 cold, and he must have caught a chill, for In the 
 afternoon he complained of headache and pains in 
 his limbs, so I put him to bed and sent for a 
 doctor. But the fever has increased ; his tempera- 
 ture rose all through the night, and though It is 
 supposed to go down a little in the morning, it has 
 not gone down but gone up, ever since the begin- 
 ning, and the doctor looks very grave." 
 
 Tears came into her eyes. I wanted to take her 
 In my arms and console her, and the Impulse was 
 so strong that I rose to my feet in order by brusque 
 movement to throw it off. 
 
 "What does the doctor call It?" I asked. 
 190 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 " Dangerous fevers don't come like that in a day 
 from any ordinary chill." 
 
 " You will see the doctor," she replied. " He 
 will be back in an hour or so, and you must ask 
 him. But since you have come I am less anxious." 
 
 She spoke like a child, a tired child, and as I 
 took in the weariness of her face, I said : 
 
 " You have been up all night. You have not 
 changed your clothes, I am sure. Now go away 
 at once and change. Then you must come back 
 and have some tea." 
 
 She nodded her head again like a child and smiled 
 faintly as she passed into the room on the other 
 side of the sitting-room. In half an hour she was 
 back again looking far brighter and better. We 
 had tea together, and I for one enjoyed it. Then 
 began for us a perpetual interchange of emotions, 
 a partnership of hopes and fears which gradually 
 drew us closer and closer in sympathy and mutual 
 comprehension. 
 
 I saw at once that her love for her brother had 
 made her excessively anxious about him ; the quick- 
 ness of her intelligence acting on her ignorance 
 of disease had frightened her so that she dreaded 
 the worst before there was any cause for anxiety. 
 Of course, I set myself to combat her fears and give 
 her confidence, and I got the German doctor to help 
 me. At first he wanted to make out that the case 
 was serious. All doctors do this, I think; it ex- 
 alts one's opinion of their skill if the patient re- 
 covers, and if he chance to die — well, the doctor is 
 safe, for at the very beginning he said it was seri- 
 ous. But pushed into a comer, the doctor had to 
 191 
 
Son 
 
 la 
 
 admit that dangerous fevers are generally of long 
 inception ; and that young Andre was probably 
 suffering from nothing but a feverish attack 
 which would pass off almost as quickly as it had 
 come. I was more than repaid for all my ef- 
 forts when Sonia said to me after the doctor had 
 left: 
 
 " What courage you give me ! what confidence ! " 
 
 I tried to persuade her to go to bed and let me 
 sit up in her stead, but this she would not hear of. 
 Nor could I persuade her to dine with me. She 
 felt quite strong, she said, after the tea, and did 
 not want anything more. All I could do was to 
 order a cup of consomme to be left in the room 
 and make her promise to take it during the night, 
 and then she insisted on my going. I was not to 
 stay in the sitting-room ; I was not to return after 
 my dinner; she felt she ought not to leave her 
 brother or to see me again that evening. No, it 
 must be good-bye till to-morrow morning, and all 
 I could do was to repeat, " Good-night, good-night, 
 Sonia," and take my leave. 
 
 I went to the dining-room rather pleased with 
 myself. I felt that I had made considerable pro- 
 gress ; I had called her " Sonia " without rebuff. 
 I saw that she liked me, too ; and altogether I was 
 pretty confident. In this hopeful mind I made a 
 good dinner, went to bed, and slept like a top. 
 
 In the morning I called upon her only to find 
 her even more anxious than she had been the day 
 before. The patient had scarcely slept at all; 
 his temperature was still going up ; the pulse rapid 
 and fitful. In spite of her attempts at self-con- 
 193 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 trol, Sonia was evidently very nervous, and I had 
 harder work to arouse her courage this time be- 
 cause she was tired out with another night's watch- 
 ing and sleeplessness. I could not persuade her 
 to go to rest or let me take her place. It was 
 enough for her, she said, that I was in the hotel. 
 It did her good. But she would not hear of me 
 as a nurse; that was her business. 
 
 " But," I said, " you are wearing yourself out. 
 You are suffering already; you will make your- 
 self ill if you go on like this." 
 
 " Think of what he is suffering," she said in a 
 pitiful little whisper, and turned to go to him 
 again. I tried to keep her in the room, and when 
 I saw that was impossible, tried to make her prom- 
 ise to see me again in an hour, but she wouldn't. 
 I could come back in the afternoon, she said, or 
 better still in the evening at seven o'clock, when 
 the doctor was to come, and then she would see 
 me. She seemed to take a positive pleasure in her 
 own weariness and discomfort, as if her suffering 
 could diminish her brother's. 
 
 I went out, walked about, and bought some neces- 
 saries, and thus wore through a gloomy and stupid 
 day. I had begun to blame myself for always 
 giving in to Sonia ; the man, it seemed to me, should 
 make his will dominant, whereas I was continually 
 doing what she wished. Then I remembered what 
 her brother had said, that everyone did what Sonia 
 swished, and that usually her way was the best way, 
 and with this thought I tried to appease my 
 vanity. But a spirit of revolt was in me, a resolve 
 to have my way a little, and so in the evening I 
 193 
 
Son 
 
 la 
 
 waylaid the doctor in the porch of the hotel and 
 persuaded him to take my side and insist on Soma's 
 going to bed. A compliment or two made him 
 willing to do all I wanted. She was very nervous 
 and over-sensitive, he said, and the brother had no 
 constitution and seemed to have wasted the greater 
 part of the little vital energy he was born with. 
 " The girl is strong and healthy," was his con- 
 clusion, " but the boy is a poor creature." 
 
 After he had been in the bedroom a few minutes, 
 I went into the sitting-room and waited for them, 
 and when they came in together, I attacked at 
 once. But in spite of the doctor's assistance I 
 should not have carried my point if I had not shown 
 Sonia that the only way to sit up on Saturday 
 night and on Sunday night was to go to bed on 
 Friday night. Then she consented, on my prom- 
 ising to wake her up if any change took place in 
 the patient's condition ; but before she would go 
 to her room she gave me a multitude of minute di- 
 rections. At length I was left alone with the pa- 
 tient. He did not seem to know me, but that was 
 not very wonderful, as his temperature was about 
 
 104. If it went up a point higher I was to give 
 him a little weak brandy and water, otherwise noth- 
 ing but milk and soda, and I was to take his tem- 
 perature every two hours. 
 
 At ten o'clock I found his temperature nearly 
 
 105. I gave him some brandy and water. Hold- 
 ing his pulse, I soon noticed that the stimulant 
 had done him good; it was strength he needed; I 
 repeated the dose again and again. At twelve 
 o'clock his temperature was 103, and as I turned 
 
 194 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 from him I saw that Sonia had come to the bedside. 
 I immediately led her away into the sitting-room; 
 told her of the fortunate turn the fever had taken, 
 and insisted upon her going to bed. But it needed 
 no insistence; she was quite reasonable now. 
 
 " I am so glad," she said over and over again, 
 and almost immediately afterwards, " Do you 
 know, I am very tired and thirsty. Might I have 
 something to drink .f^ " 
 
 I poured her out some soda and milk, and had the 
 satisfaction of hearing her promise that she would 
 go to bed at once. After that I closed her own 
 door on her and went again to her brother's bed- 
 side. It was all plain sailing afterwards. The 
 patient's temperature gradually diminished, until 
 at six o'clock it was barely 101, or less than it 
 had been on Wednesday afternoon. 
 
 I had the chart in my hand and was studying 
 it in the half-light of the curtain-shaded room, 
 when I suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder and 
 the next moment Sonia put her finger on the chart 
 with a little gleeful whisper: 
 
 " Then it was true ! I'm so glad. He's much 
 better, isn't he ? " and as I replied very confidently, 
 " He is all right, I think," she took my head in 
 both her hands and kissed me twice on the fore- 
 head. 
 
 " You have cured him," she said. " I knew 
 you would ; you are all health, one with nature and 
 life — not overwrought or tortured, I mean, like we 
 are. And I, of course, I kept awake for days, 
 and then at the crisis overslept myself." 
 
 She looked so dainty fresh as she spoke that I 
 195 
 
Sonia 
 
 tried to take her In my arms, but she drew herself 
 away from me at once with a finger on her lips 
 and a glance at the bed, so that I could only smile 
 my entire satisfaction. 
 
 " Come out," she said, " and tell me all about it," 
 and in the sitting-room I told her of the happy 
 change. 
 
 All she said was, " You cured him. I felt sure 
 you would from the first, you healer ! " When I 
 tried to give the doctor the credit, she would not 
 have it; she merely shook her head imperiously 
 and said, " I know, I know." And in this state 
 the doctor found us. 
 
 After a short examination of the patient he con- 
 firmed us in the belief that the crisis was over and 
 that there was no longer any danger. In fact he 
 declared that as the day was going to be warm the 
 windows of the sick-room could be opened and the 
 patient might take a little bouillon. He had 
 brought a nurse with him, too, and insisted that she 
 should take Sonia's place at the bedside. 
 
 " But what shall I do ? " asked Sonia, in a dismal 
 way that made us both laugh. 
 
 " Well," he said, " I think you had better go 
 for a drive and have a pleasant day after all your 
 anxieties." 
 
 I could have hugged him for the suggestion, 
 which I took care, however, to receive in as matter 
 of course a way as possible. When I said that I 
 would come back at eleven with a carriage, the 
 doctor backed me up valiantly as one who knew 
 that he was pleasing his clients by his determined 
 attitude. 
 
 196 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 " I will answer for the patient," he said ; " you 
 go and enjoy yourselves." 
 
 " But first I must tell mother," said Sonia ; and 
 she hurried off. 
 
 After my tub and breakfast I felt completely 
 refreshed, so spent my time in hunting up the 
 best droshky I could find ; and punctually at eleven 
 I called for Sonia. She had only to put her hat 
 on, she said, but first I must come in and see how 
 much better Andre was. I found a marvellous 
 change in him. His face was peaky and white, of 
 course, and his hands thin to transparency, but he 
 looked something like his old self and had de- 
 veloped, the nurse said, a remarkable appetite. 
 He was almost too weak to speak, but he smiled at 
 us and seemed quite comfortable. 
 
 Shall I ever forget that drive, I wonder. We 
 went down the Ring, through the crowds and past 
 the shops, and then out along the Prater. The 
 air was like champagne. In spite of the sun's 
 warmth it was cool under the trees, with the 
 Danube water gleaming through the leaves on our 
 left. Everything was gay and bright in the sum- 
 mer sunshine, and Sonia chattered away with the 
 absolute unconsciousness of a happy child. What 
 she said I don't know, and I would not reproduce 
 it if I could. It was all so light and unimportant 
 and happy, just the natural rebound of her spirit 
 from the depression and anxiety of the last few 
 days. 
 
 Suddenly she said she was hungry, and I asked 
 her which was the best place to get something to 
 eat. She called out the name of a restaurant to 
 197 
 
oonia 
 
 the driver, who at once turned towards the city. 
 The restaurant stood on one of the corners of 
 the Ringstrasse, but Sonia insisted on the driver 
 going to the side-entrance. 
 
 " The private rooms are there," she explained, 
 " and we don't want to go into a pubhc room to- 
 day, do we? " 
 
 Of course, I agreed with her, but a little chill 
 came over me. Had she gone to a private room 
 before, I wondered.^ With some other man, per- 
 haps? The gaiety and intoxication seemed to 
 have gone out of the air. As I followed her up 
 the red carpeted stairs, I was plunged back into 
 my old self and became a little more critical even 
 than usual. 
 
 But Sonia would not have it, and sulkiness was 
 impossible in her company. The lunch was to be 
 the most wonderful lunch that was ever ordered; 
 I must choose it all ; but she was very hungry and 
 it must come quick. And wasn't the bread in 
 Vienna the best I had ever eaten, and wasn't it a 
 glorious day, and splendid to be together, till at 
 last I, too, entered into her mood and talked and 
 laughed without knowing why. 
 
 The lunch was not half over however when Sonia 
 declared she must hurry and get back. In vain I 
 remonstrated with her. I told her that in Vienna 
 the coffee was even better than the bread and that 
 I wanted some, but she would not listen to me. 
 She must go back. If I wanted to, I could stay 
 and drink my old coffee; she'd go home by her- 
 self. Before I knew what I was doing she had 
 whisked me downstairs and into the droshky. 
 198 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 At the staircase of the hotel she left me, telling 
 me that she would be back in a quarter of an hour ; 
 and she was back in that time. Andre, it ap- 
 peared, was really much better; his mother was 
 sitting with him and we were free to go wherever 
 we liked. So off we went, side by side, into the 
 solitude of the crowded streets. 
 
 From this day our true companionship began, 
 an intimacy of every hour, which lasted for weeks 
 and weeks and makes it impossible for me to at- 
 tempt to chronicle any single day's doings. I re- 
 member nearly every hour of it, though I must 
 resolve now not to tell everything I remember; 
 but simply the deepest impressions made upon me, 
 whatever was at once novel and enduring in our in- 
 tercourse. 
 
 One morning, for instance, was spent in the 
 Belvedere Gallery ; Sonia wanted to show me this, 
 that, and the other picture. I soon found she was 
 a most interesting guide. She did not judge like 
 any one else whom I had ever seen. She evidently 
 knew something about painting and loved colours 
 for their own sake; but her judgment was always 
 of the spirit. I do not mean by that that she 
 judged pictures from the literary point of view — 
 by the story they told; she seemed to judge them 
 by the soul in them, the amount of emotion they 
 contained ; and she was often quite curiously right, 
 I thought. In this way and that the days passed, 
 and for some time I was content to feel that our 
 intimacy was growing happier, the lighter side of 
 her nature was charming to me. 
 
 What surprised me most in her was that she did 
 199 
 
Sonia 
 
 not at once lose that frank gaiety of spirit I had 
 noticed in her for the first time on the morning 
 after her brother's recovery. Again and again 
 she forced me to laughter by her quaint imitations 
 of the faces and gestures we saw in street and cafe. 
 Everything that was unreal or artificial struck her 
 humour, and she was continually taking off the 
 endless affectations of the Germans, the pompous- 
 ness of the men and the trivialities of the women, 
 with a power of mimicry that would have made 
 her fortune on the stage. But though the humour 
 was light and joyous, one felt every now and then 
 piercing through it the contempt of a sincerer race, 
 or at least of a race with a surer instinct and un- 
 derstanding of the art of living. 
 
 " The Germans," she said once, " are like their 
 language, large, but ill- formed and awkward ; dis- 
 ciplined mediocrities they all seem to me, and their 
 women, hens, 'Cluck, cluck, cluck, kaffee klatsch!'" 
 and her laughter had contempt and dislike in it. 
 And just as I noticed a seriousness behind her 
 mimicry so I soon felt a deep melanchoh^ under- 
 lying her almost feverish gaiety. Sometimes she 
 would brood for hours without speaking, till I 
 roused her, in fact, and sometimes she would grow 
 bitterly indignant at some little snobbism that 
 seemed to me perfectly harmless. She was a re- 
 voltee, I told myself; but the changes in her of 
 temper and nature fascinated me and day by day 
 her beauty grew upon me; for I now saw that 
 she was beautiful or more than beautiful. The 
 slim grace of her figure was as the swaying of 
 a lily-stem in water and her eager face with the 
 200 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 soulful eyes and sensitive mouth was infinitely se- 
 ductive. 
 
 From hour to hour passion grew in me till I lost 
 count of all she did or said that did not feed my 
 desire, and at last I spoke. We had spent the 
 morning, I remember, with her brother and mother, 
 and in the afternoon while they went shopping to- 
 gether, she and I drove out as by mutual consent 
 along the river. She was in a strange mood ; now 
 she would rally me on my silence, and when I spoke, 
 would herself begin to brood. We left the car- 
 riage at my impulse to avoid the coachman, and 
 as we walked together in perfect solitude among 
 the trees I tried to speak; but my mouth was 
 parched as with fever. I stood still, and the scene 
 rises again before me as I write. There within 
 reach of me the slight figure, etched against the 
 coppery reds and golds and greens of sunset. On 
 this side of the sky, tones of turquoise and sap- 
 phire blended with the iris of mother of pearl, and 
 on that side, cloud-castles of fantastic architecture 
 shot through by jets of flame glowed and faded 
 in a final conflagration. I could not speak; I 
 stretched out my arms and drew her to me, and 
 turned her face up to mine and kissed her as if 
 I would never part from her again. I was sur- 
 prised at my own passion ; for a moment or two 
 she was wholly mine. As she moved away from 
 me I asked her hungrily: 
 
 "Do you love me, Sonia? You know I love 
 you." 
 
 Her eyes dwelt on mine with pitying tenderness ; 
 but in a moment she regained self-mastery : 
 201 
 
Son 
 
 ta 
 
 "Yes; but—" 
 
 "But what?" I exclaimed. " What do you 
 mean? What can separate us if we love each 
 other. Every time you give me a little of your- 
 self, you take it back next time we meet. Why? " 
 
 " Don't say that," she cried appealingly, " I 
 would give you anything, everything, gladly, if I 
 were free." 
 
 " But you are free," I cried hotly. " You told 
 me that you cared for no one else and are engaged 
 to no one." 
 
 " Ah," she said, " don't let us talk and spoil the 
 golden hours. Love me if you can and I will love 
 you as I can. For a little while we are together, 
 and the past is far away and affection's sweet," 
 and she laid her hand on my arm and gave herself 
 to me in a look. I didn't understand her; but I 
 drew her to me and kissed her mouth. The slim 
 body fluttered in my hands as a bird flutters, and 
 then was still ; but as she felt me against her I saw 
 the vivid flush rise in her cheeks and she began to 
 draw herself away from me, slowly but irresistibly. 
 I was conscious of the determination in her and let 
 her go; for something told me that time was on 
 my side and that the sweetness of our caresses 
 would grow on licr and not diminish. In silence 
 we walked together and soon she took my hand 
 and put it to her cheek, and we went on hand in 
 hand like children, while my heart leaped in glad- 
 ness and I could have thanked God for the win- 
 ning of my imperious delight. 
 
 But my hopes fell verj^ low in the days that fol- 
 lowed. Again and again my passionate exclama- 
 203 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 tlon came back to me as the exact truth — whenever 
 she gave me a little of herself, she seemed to take 
 it back the next time we met. I had perpetually to 
 reconquer her, and this intensified my desire and 
 exasperated my nerves, till at times I was little 
 better than an animal. Scarcely ever did she yield 
 enough to call forth in me that divine tenderness 
 which is the seventh heaven of passion. 
 
 It was about this time that she began to ask me 
 about myself and my plans for my future life. 
 Naturally I told her everything. I described the 
 old days in the Union at Oxford, and said that I 
 wanted to enter Parliament, hoping to do some 
 little good. Somehow or other the more enthu- 
 siastically I talked, the colder she seemed to be- 
 come. I could not account for it; and yet — God 
 help me ! — I tried to win her by exaggerating sym- 
 pathies which were not the deepest in me.^ I told 
 her of what had been done for the poor in Eng- 
 land ; I described the working of the Factory Acts 
 and the Poorhouses, and pointed out that more 
 would have to be done ; that pensions for the aged 
 poor would be estabhshed by the State and all taxes 
 on necessaries would be abolished, while the taxes 
 on luxuries would be greatly increased. It was all 
 no good. She listened with a curious interest 
 which was a part of her intellectual being, but 
 behind the mask of sympathetic manner I felt a 
 barrier of resolute indifference I could not explain 
 or account for. 
 
 As the days went on and the date of our de- 
 parture came nearer, she seemed to grow colder, 
 more detached; she certainly yieldod herself less 
 
Sonia 
 
 to me. What was the mysterious influence that 
 was drawing her from me? — I asked myself in 
 vain. Again and again I tried to win her; but 
 her resolution stood firm. Now and then she'd let 
 herself go to love for a moment ; but the next mo- 
 ment she'd draw back. I was really half glad when 
 our stay came to an end. Andre was completely 
 cured, and his mother wished to spend the full 
 summer in her country house. Just before start- 
 ing, my exasperated nerves gave way, and I re- 
 proached Sonia with her coldness, and told her 
 that her reserve was drawing out the worst in me 
 and not the best. As soon as I said that, she put 
 her hand on my mouth and looked at me with such 
 a passion of deprecation and regret, that I choked 
 my thoughts to silence. In vain I cudgelled my 
 brains for some explanation of her conduct; I 
 could find none. It was really enough to drive one 
 mad, the continual vain groping to understand the 
 enigma ; and yet the clue was to be given me sooner 
 than I dared to hope. 
 
 We had resolved to go over Warsaw to Peters- 
 burg ; for their country-house was only about 
 
 thirty miles up the Neva from the capital. If I 
 would, I could not describe the long journey from 
 Vienna to Warsaw. I was chiefly occupied in 
 amusing the mother and daughter and attending 
 to their comforts, hoping vaguely in some way or 
 other to make myself pleasant to them through 
 companionship. The wish to ingratiate myself, 
 which seemed to me a degradation and to some ex- 
 tent an abdication of my manhood, had come to 
 me from that last fortnight in Vienna, in which the 
 204. 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 fear of losing my love had grown upon me like a 
 nightmare. The journey was pleasant enough. 
 Andre and his mother were interested in every de- 
 tail, and that gave rest to Sonia and myself. We 
 spent a night in Warsaw, in a huge ill-furnished 
 hotel, and the next day we were off again over the 
 boundless bare plains that seemed to me so de- 
 pressing. In the afternoon I remember we crossed 
 
 the true Russian frontier at I forget the 
 
 name of the station. As soon as we started again, 
 I found on entering the train that Sonia had low- 
 ered the double windows in one part of the corridor 
 and was leaning out. I walked up to her and half- 
 timidly put my hand on her shoulder. She did not 
 draAv away ; for a moment or two she did not even 
 seem to notice it, and then she turned to me with 
 tears shining in her eyes and her whole face quiv- 
 ering. 
 
 " Russia," she said, " our Russia ! Don't you 
 love it.? I love every bit of it. You said a little 
 while ago in Poland that the boundless plains were 
 monotonous. My God, how could you have said 
 that.? There is the great earth, naked and fruit- 
 ful where men labour, w^here they are born and live 
 and die, and over them the heavens arched. ' Ugly,' 
 you said. These plains ugly ! And you talked of 
 the need of wood and hill to make a scene beautiful, 
 just like a landscape gardener. Ah, if it is ugly, 
 I love its ugliness. Here at any rate one can take 
 long breaths uncontaminated and feel oneself 
 alone. I return to nature as to a mother when I 
 get back to Russia, and feel myself at one with 
 the earth and air and sky." 
 205 
 
Son 
 
 la 
 
 "But won't you think of England, Sonia?" I 
 said, " and our lives there." 
 
 " Oh ! " she answered imperiously, " there it is 
 again, England, England. But what can we do 
 in England, I ask you.? You told me that there 
 were dozens of men from her universities, just like 
 you — well-born, well-taught and far too well- 
 dressed," and she put her hand on me deprecat- 
 ingly, " eager to enter Parliament, to extend the 
 already overgrown British Empire and to debase 
 poverty with the cast-oiF clothes and broken meats 
 of waste. England is finished, I tell you," and 
 she sprang upright, " she is hide-bound in her tra- 
 ditions and her past, and her conventions choke 
 her; but here we have to make traditions. Think 
 of that. We are not bound in any wa}^ ; we are 
 only asked to make our lives memorable. Ah ! there 
 is a thirst in me for great deeds. I hate your 
 ordinary commonplace life. There! it is said." 
 And she began to move up and down like a caged 
 wild thing, heedless of the people in the other com- 
 partments who stared out at her. In a moment 
 or two she stopped by me again : 
 
 " Will no man be born like Russia, worthy of 
 her.? " and she put her hands on my shoulders and 
 her passion swept her away. 
 
 " Don't you see how we want a man .? " she cried. 
 " Every nation wants one. Look at that accursed 
 German emperor ! Because the French stole Alsace 
 from Germany, when he took it back again, he stole 
 Lorraine with it. Lorraine, the country of Jeanne 
 d'Arc! Lorraine that is all French, that is as 
 much French as Berlin is German! The ignoble 
 206 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 thief! And now he might give it back and give 
 peace to the world as well and establish right as 
 a sacred thing, and he is content to drill and dress 
 and feed and sleep. Will no one kill the dog and 
 make place for a better man ? " 
 
 Her reckless violence shocked me. " His suc- 
 cessor would be no better," I said, " probably 
 worse." 
 
 " Not so," she said, with eager pointing hand, 
 " were his father swept away terribly the son 
 might listen to his conscience. The one great fact 
 would bring him nearer to all other facts. . . . 
 Ah, to think of it. Any one of those Hohenzol- 
 lerns by giving back Lorraine to France might 
 win immortal reputation by a single generous act. 
 There are two crowns before each of them — ^the 
 heavy, hard gold symbol, and the exquisite circlet 
 forged of peace and love and the gratitude of 
 humanity. And they all choose the metal crown 
 and strut through bowing apes and stand in God's 
 sunshine without fear." 
 
 She seemed no longer conscious of my existence. 
 Her speech was like a storm torn by flashes of hate 
 and sarcasm. 
 
 " And here in Russia it is worse. We have a 
 nincompoop as Tsar — an Alexander," she said bit- 
 terly, " when we want a great man. Was there 
 ever such irony.'' The people ask him for liberty, 
 for a patch of land, for ordered peaceful life — 
 space for their souls to breathe in — and he sits 
 on their necks choking them. And our people 
 are so kind, so patient, so long-suffering. ' A 
 good man ! ' they call him, it maddens me to hear 
 207 
 
oonia 
 
 them. Will no one free us from the lies and 
 liars?" 
 
 " Ah," I said, " you are kicking against the 
 pricks. Every fine nature does that." 
 
 " And gets tired of doing it too, eh.? " she said, 
 sinking down into her seat wearily and staring 
 again out of the window. 
 
 I did not know what to say. Her recklessness 
 had surprised me, shocked me, too, a little. I 
 moved to her and put my hand again on her 
 shoulder. She sighed restlessly, but did not move, 
 and so we stood for a long time together, till I 
 w^ent back to the others and left her still sitting 
 there. 
 
 An hour or so afterwards Andre looked out of 
 the door and saw her, and turned again to his 
 ordinary chatter with a shrug of the shoulders: 
 
 " Sonia is in one of her moods. To be severely 
 left alone is the only cure." 
 
 But I could not take this philosophic view. I 
 was still shaken by the passion with which she had 
 spoken — shaken and surprised. What did it mean, 
 this storm of enthusiasm, and what was to be the 
 outcome of it? I could not guess. It was long 
 before my heart began to beat equably again, and 
 then I felt incapable of thought, exhausted, as one 
 snatched up to the heights where living is a 
 delirium. 
 
 It was late at night, and everyone was waiting 
 for the beds to be made up before she came in. 
 She had evidently been crying. Her face was 
 startling in its pallor; the eyes seemed half-dead 
 and drooping like flowers beaten by heavy rain. 
 208 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 She made no attempt to conceal her tears, but 
 simply sat down in her corner wiping her eyes, and 
 sighing heavily from time to time. My heart wept 
 with her ; I longed to take her in my arms and kiss 
 the tears away. She was unlike anybody else in 
 the world, I thought, nobler at once and weaker. 
 And so I tried to tell her as I said good-night, 
 bowing low before her and kissing her hand with 
 a strange mixture of tenderness and veneration. 
 She understood m}^ tacit sympathy, for as I lifted 
 my head she took it in her hands and kissed me 
 on the forehead before them all. I went out of 
 the carriage trembling with emotion, prouder and 
 happier than I had ever been in my life. 
 
 As the hours passed, however, my old self, that 
 had been crushed and silenced by the whirlwind 
 of her passion, slowly rose again, and soon con- 
 vinced me that Sonia was wrong, altogether wrong. 
 I determined to persuade her that she was mis- 
 taken, to show her that what had been, must be; 
 for the one unchangeable thing in the world is 
 the nature of man, and that determines all his in- 
 stitutions. If the institutions are bad it is because 
 of a corresponding vileness in mankind. One had 
 as much right to complain of the top hat as of a 
 king, both answered to some idiotic desire in man, 
 or they would not exist — 
 
 We passed through Petersburg at night : it was 
 quite eleven o'clock before we reached the little 
 station four miles from their country house. We 
 got to our journey's end in complete darkness, and 
 I could see nothing but a long, low building. What 
 I noticed this first night was the obsequious yet 
 209 . 
 
Sonia 
 
 boisterous affection of a host of servants, male and 
 female. 
 
 In the morning I saw the place better. Sonia, 
 the gay Sonia, the Sonia I had known for one or 
 two days in Vienna, had come to life again; she 
 knocked at my door before I was half dressed, and 
 cried to me to hurry down, for she wanted to show 
 me everything. 
 
 How I wish I could paint her as I found her, 
 framed in the French window against the dazzling 
 sunshine of that summer morning. Always strik- 
 ing in appearance, she yet varied more in looks 
 than most women ; she was often almost plain, but 
 now and then her beauty struck me as pure witch- 
 ery, and this happened to be one of her rare days. 
 She always parted her hair at the side like a boy, 
 which gave a strange alert look to her face. And 
 this look was quickened and deepened now by the 
 incomparable warmth of her eyes into an expres- 
 sion so soulful and courageous that I only wanted 
 to love and kiss her. Her dress always seemed to 
 be perfectly simple and careless. I have been told 
 that such dresses are the most costly, but I don't 
 think that was true in her case. They often fitted 
 badly, but the rounded grace of her figure was not 
 to be disguised by a crease or a fold. The mo- 
 ment I came into the room she held out both hands 
 to me, and then taking my arm whirled. -fne but of 
 doors. I was to see everything, and ^ once. 
 
 " But first you must know," she began breath- 
 lessly, " that this house was built a long time ago. 
 In 1730 or '40 my great-grandfather, who had 
 spent some years at the French court, came back 
 210 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 to live here. He had forgotten his Russian, and 
 had to curse the servants in French. Three-quar- 
 ters of the house was in existence before his time ; 
 but he determined to level it with the ground and 
 build a palace here after the fashion of Versailles. 
 He had the best intentions, the dear man ! But 
 the first thing was to have an avenue of trees, for 
 trees take time to grow, so the trees must come 
 first he thought. The house, you see faces north. 
 My great-grandfather thought a house should 
 face south; he therefore began to construct his 
 avenue of trees from the kitchen door, meaning 
 when he rebuilt the house to make the entrance 
 there. Come, I will show it you," and she swept 
 me off round the house to a superb avenue of 
 trees, which did indeed begin opposite the kitchen 
 door, on the further side of the great unpaved 
 dirty yard. " Come along," she said, and we 
 walked rapidly down the avenue of alternate chest- 
 nut and acacia trees for more than half a mile. 
 Some distance from the house the ground dropped 
 suddenly, and when we got to the slope Sonia 
 pointed out to me that the avenue ended in a 
 swamp. 
 
 " Yes," she cried, laughing merrily, " my great- 
 grandfather thought nothing of the swamp ; when 
 he came upon it he determined to drain it, and he 
 set to work. You shall come and see the little 
 summer-house in it that I built in memory of the 
 great Andre; for I have a sneaking regard — in 
 spite of your wise counsels — for my half-mad 
 great-grandfather, who would make avenues and 
 drain swamps and build a Versailles here in the 
 211 
 
oonia 
 
 wilds. I see what you are thinking, sir," she went 
 on, nodding her head with childish gaiety. " You 
 are thinking that I like my great-grandfather be- 
 cause I am like him. It is perhaps true, you sober 
 Englishman; but is not the avenue beautiful, 
 though it is of no use and does not serve any pur- 
 pose of parade? I love my avenue better because 
 it is like no other avenue in the world. Here the 
 trees grow and flower all by themselves, content to 
 fill the air with perfume and take the eye with 
 beauty. They would be covered with dust if we 
 drove up and down between them. My grand- 
 father's ideas of perfection have a good deal to 
 say for themselves even in this world." And she 
 looked at me with those strange luminous eyes as 
 if she had half divined my mental attitude. 
 
 I am glad to say that for the moment I did not 
 feel inclined to argue, but replied merrily, " I 
 think your great-grandfather a wonderful person, 
 and his avenue quite beautiful. I suppose he meant 
 to continue it to the high road?" 
 
 " Four versts off," she nodded gravely, " and he 
 did too, but the swamp in the middle of it would 
 not be drained, and there is about a hundred yards 
 of road made at the end of the avenue to run into 
 the main road, and that's all. You see," she said 
 laughing, " French ideas could not survive in Rus- 
 sia; dear, lazy, happy-go-lucky Russia wouldn't 
 have a Versailles and so my grandfather died be- 
 fore he had half carried out his plans." After a 
 pause she added, in a lower tone, " Untamed and 
 untamable Russia wasn't to learn French ways. 
 Perhaps," she continued gravely, " it will show 
 2n 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 itself just as rebellious to English ideas and Eng- 
 lish ways." 
 
 But I would not be drawn. She was too perfect 
 as she was ; the day was too bright ; I was too 
 pleased to find her in such a happy mood to dis- 
 turb it with arguments ; so I laughed at her and 
 with her, and we took our way back to the house 
 and breakfast arm in arm. 
 
 But somewhere in the depths of me there was a 
 desire to refute her arguments and convert her, 
 and sooner or later I was bound to speak. We 
 were in the little summer-house, I remember, one 
 afternoon with the swaying willow branches in 
 front of us, when I began: 
 
 " I wonder, Sonia, if you would let me try to 
 show you why I do not agree with your views 
 about society and its reformation." 
 
 She turned to me with positive fear in her 
 face, and clasping her hands on the table cried: 
 " Oh, don't ! " but a moment afterwards she 
 added : 
 
 " I knew it would come to speech. I knew it 
 would. What a pity ! " 
 
 " What do you mean? " I asked in surprise. 
 
 " Oh," she replied abruptly, " do you think we 
 need to speak in order to be understood? I think 
 we often feel things more clearly than words can 
 render them. I knew your thoughts. I felt the 
 antagonism in you all the while. Besides you have 
 a way of your own of talking, my friend. When 
 you hear something you don't like, your brows go 
 up, your jaws set, and your eyes flash; I'm not 
 blind. But go on," she added, " I will listen. I 
 213 
 
oonia 
 
 sometimes wish I could be persuaded," she con- 
 cluded wistfully. 
 
 I was discouraged at the outset. I felt that 
 the attempt would make me lose ground with 
 her, but it seemed to me merely honest to go on 
 — a sort of duty to her and myself — so I did my 
 best. 
 
 " You think institutions can be altered," I be- 
 gan, " because they don't suit you, don't accord 
 with your ideas of right and justice and goodness. 
 But institutions are there because men are what 
 they are. The institutions are not made to suit 
 you, Sonia, an extraordinary woman, but the aver- 
 age man, and they do suit him fairly well or he 
 would alter them." 
 
 She did not reply, but I could see that she was 
 listening. I went on in the same strain for some 
 time; she heard me out in silence, and then replied 
 in a gentle, hopeless, tolerant way: 
 
 " I think you answer yourself," she began. 
 " You are still half a Christian, aren't you? Well, 
 has not Jesus altered the world? Is he not alter- 
 ing men still? making them ashamed of their brutal 
 passions and brutish selfishness. Surely, my friend, 
 you must see that you are on the wrong side, on 
 the side of immobility, while I am on the side of 
 progress. Men linger on the upward path to sat- 
 isfy their baser appetites. You should not defend 
 that." 
 
 I was not persuaded. " If man climbs fast," I 
 
 began, " he falls back again. We English tried to 
 
 go fast with Cromwell and fell back with Charles 
 
 II. You would put a Cromwell out of breath. If 
 
 214. 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 we were to adopt your rate of progress we should 
 need a Christ in every street." 
 
 " Even that does not seem impossible to me," 
 she cried, starting to her feet and beginning to 
 pace backwards and forwards as if she needed a 
 physical outlet for her emotion : " Nothing is im- 
 possible : there are no limits to what the soul may 
 do. . . . You talk of a Christ in every street ; 
 but you have forgotten that there is a woman in 
 every house. Look what we have already done for 
 the humanization and refinement of man, and what 
 we are still doing. He is ashamed now to be dis- 
 solute and drunken; he will soon be ashamed of 
 greed and self-seeking. Woman is gradually 
 moulding man to her ideal ! For ages she has done 
 it unconsciously, now that she is beginning to do 
 it consciously the progress will be more rapid than 
 you can imagine." 
 
 " Just as Russia is a new factor in the prob- 
 lem," she went on, after a pause, " so is woman. 
 She is bound by no traditions; it is for her to 
 make her own traditions. The women of to-day 
 have to set the example; they will find followers! 
 It was Jeanne d'Arc that made Charlotte Corday 
 possible." 
 
 She had got into her habitual train of thought, 
 and now she talked with a passion of spiritual ex- 
 altation that thrilled me in spite of myself. 
 
 " How men miss-see their saviours ! No one has 
 written a real hfe of Charlotte Corday, and yet she 
 was the first of the great modern women, greater, I 
 think, even than Jeanne d'Arc, for she had no faith 
 to sustain her, only her own great heart. Don't 
 215 
 
Soma 
 
 you know what she said about her deed when the 
 Public Prosecutor tried to make out that she was 
 the assassin of a great and good man? 'I have 
 killed him,' she said, ' and he is dead. You cannot 
 kill great men.' And she was right ; she had killed 
 him. After his death they started INIarat hats in 
 Paris, and Marat this and Marat that, but the 
 vile worship could not last. Within the year his 
 body was taken from the grave and tossed in dust 
 to the winds! Charlotte Corday had killed him; 
 he was dead." 
 
 There were tears in her voice and eyes as she 
 spoke. It was all so real to her that I answered 
 her half afraid: 
 
 " Surely you would not do evil — and such evil — 
 that good might come." 
 
 She stopped with a great sigh and sat down at 
 the table, shaking her head as if in utter hopeless- 
 ness. I had to repeat my question; and then she 
 replied slowly — half-wearily : 
 
 " Do you ask that seriously .? What a creature 
 of convention you are! What a load you carry 
 about with you of outworn moral platitudes ! 
 Would you take one life to save ten thousand? 
 That's the question. I would. I would — gladly." 
 
 " You must not speak like that, dear," I said, 
 putting my hand on her clasped hands. 
 
 She turned and looked at me with a great, glad 
 resolve in her eyes that shocked me. A moment or 
 two afterwards she said, " Let us go into the air," 
 and by a sort of unconscious agreement we began 
 to talk of ordinary things. I made up my mind 
 not to excite her again if I could help it ; opposi- 
 216 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 tion seemed only to confirm her in her wild, im- 
 practicable enthusiasms. 
 
 For days and days my purpose of self-repres- 
 sion held, and indeed the next serious talk that we 
 had was wholly different. I had been noticing the 
 way she waited on her brother, and her pleasure 
 in the service. She tried to amuse him and interest 
 him at home ; she evidently dreaded the life of the 
 capital for him. In fact, she told me once that she 
 only stayed in the country house for Andrushka 
 and because it suited her mother's health. Self- 
 abnegation sat lightly on her; she seemed to take 
 delight in it ; I could not help telling her one morn- 
 ing how much I admired her for this. 
 
 " Oh," she cried, blushing, " don't praise me for 
 unselfishness nor set me on a pedestal for any- 
 thing! I am not worthy of it. I have had ter- 
 rible fights with myself ; to make myself decent at 
 all was hard. As a child I was a wretched little 
 animal. 
 
 " You perhaps ought to know something," she 
 went on ; " at any rate, it will put 3^ou right about 
 me, and take some of the dirty conceit out of me. 
 As a child I was a sort of unconscious liar," and 
 she flushed again. " I used to romance, say I had 
 met people, and that they had said things to me, 
 and my mother and Andre used to believe me, 
 which encouraged me to go on. Of course, as I 
 grew older I became a little asliamed of m^^self for 
 this and tried to stop it, but it was very hard to 
 break it off. I was always romancing, and once or 
 twice I got caught or half caught, and nearly died 
 of shame. But the world of my fancy was always 
 ?17 
 
onia 
 
 as vivid to me as the real world, so I went on lying 
 for years and years. Then I met that man I told 
 you of, MichailofF. He first gave me faith in my- 
 self, faith that I could do something worth the 
 
 doing, that I was one " and again she flushed. 
 
 " He taught me a great deal, too. I owe him 
 much. Of course, I began to make a hero of him, 
 began to care for him, and then found out that he 
 was base — a brute, and a liar. He was making up 
 to one I had thought my friend, Hetty Helfmann, 
 all the time he was telling me that I was the only 
 woman in the world for him. A liar ! But it was 
 the faith he had given me in myself that made me 
 hate my lying, so I made up my mind to say every 
 sentence over to myself and see whether it was true, 
 before I uttered it. That makes my speech slow 
 very often, even now. Ah, you have noticed it," 
 she cried, looking at me. 
 
 " I have noticed the abruptness of speech," I 
 answered, " and the pauses, without understanding 
 the reason. It alwa3^s seems to me that you ought 
 to speak very quickly." 
 
 " I used to," she went on ; " lies come quickly off 
 the tongue; it is the exact truth that is slow. I 
 often exaggerate still. But that does not matter 
 now; nothing matters now. Besides," she began, 
 as if falling into a new train of thought, " I have 
 not the vestige of a desire now to deceive any one 
 in the world. . . . But I must go down to the 
 village. No, you cannot come with me ; it would 
 only hurt them," and off she started on some mis- 
 sion of kindness. 
 
 Our next talk was about this village and the 
 218 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 poor in it. Her mother had said at luncheon that 
 it was silly to waste money on the villagers ; for 
 there was no gratitude in them. 
 
 " I don't do it for a reward, mother," Sonia re- 
 plied. 
 
 " Why do you do it.? " I asked curiously. 
 
 " To appease my sympathy, I think," she said, 
 " and because they need it." 
 
 " Need it indeed ! " sniffed the mother. " What 
 
 nonsense! " 
 
 " The whole dispute, mother, was about the 
 laundress and what you paid her. I said that her 
 prices were very cheap, for by rights she should be 
 paid what you would give, rather than do the work 
 yourself. But you only give what competition, 
 that is, the necessities of the poor, compel them to 
 accept. I say that is as much theft as any other 
 robbery by force. We are worse than thieves, too, 
 for we rob without running any risk. I am sick of 
 it all — the poor degraded by poverty and the rich 
 debased by luxury and power." 
 
 " Yet One said that the poor would always be 
 with us," I interjected. 
 
 She turned on me at once. " I don't think the 
 poor suffered when He was with them." 
 
 " Oh, I am so glad, Mr. Lascelles," said the 
 mother, " that you are taking her to task. She 
 keeps the whole village; it is absurd. And look 
 how she is dressed — ridiculous ! she owes it to her 
 position and name to be properly dressed. But 
 no ! she would rather play Lady Bountiful to a 
 pack of cunning ne'er-do-weels." 
 
 While the mother was speaking, a verse that I 
 219 
 
Soma 
 
 read at Oxford came into my head, the verse of 
 a woman poet: 
 
 "They shall take all to buy them bread; take all I ha,vc to 
 give. 
 I, if I perish, perish; they to-day shall eat and live." 
 
 The feeling of Christina Rossetti was the same 
 as that of Sonia; but something in me that I 
 thought was reason, fought against the emotion 
 and I used my knowledge against my sympathy. 
 I don't know why I did it ; I was warned by the 
 look in Sonia's face, but I could not refrain from 
 adding something that I thought effective to my 
 argument of the day before. 
 
 " It is curious," I said, " how every spiritual 
 movement has its drawbacks. The Crusades were 
 due to a wave of spiritual enthusiasm, and the 
 Crusaders brought back with them to Europe the 
 vilest disease known to our civilization. Curious, 
 too, how material progress is bound up with 
 spiritual advancement; men accumulate wealth, 
 and art immediately comes to humanize them." 
 
 " Pure scepticism — all that," replied Sonia 
 sharply. " Scepticism that has never done any- 
 thing good in the world. It merely lames right 
 action; it should be called the devil's advocate. 
 You are always on the wrong side, my friend." 
 
 I was wounded by the coldness in her voice, and 
 so I persisted: 
 
 " After all," I said, " it is not scepticism but 
 plain truth that our social laws — payments, pun- 
 ishments and the rest — are merely the outcome of 
 the forces, the men and women who make up the 
 Q20 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 community. The height of a pyramid must bear 
 a proportion to the breadth of the base, and the 
 base must always rest on the ground — in the 
 mud." 
 
 "It is false," Sonia cried, starting up and 
 speaking with astonishing vehemence. " False and 
 vile. You make life mechanical. You crush the 
 soul. How can you take that side.? I can't endure 
 it," and she left the room. 
 
 "Don't mind, Mr. Lascelles," said the mother 
 soothingly, " she will get over her tantrums 
 soon." 
 
 " That's just like Sonia," said Andre. " She 
 keeps us all here for our health, eh, mother? but 
 I believe it is because she likes to play queen to 
 those cursed villagers. I'm sick of the place," and 
 he yawned. 
 
 As soon as I decently could, I went after Sonia, 
 w^hom I found in the avenue. I walked with her, 
 but as soon as I began to speak, she cried: 
 
 " No more arguments, my friend, no more argu- 
 ments. You are you, and I am I. In either case 
 the tree has got to its full height now and cannot 
 be bent or altered. Words have no effect on our 
 natures. Character is not to be changed by a little 
 breath. It was folly to think that." 
 
 " No, no," she went on, preventing me from 
 speaking, " I will not hear you again. I under- 
 stand now. Your English view of life is Chinese. 
 You accept what you call ' facts ' — the lower the 
 better. Your society is all mechanical, caged in 
 conventions ; you excuse your selfishness by talking 
 of necessity — ' things are because they must be ' 
 221 
 
Soma 
 
 — and you choke us with ' what is, shall be.' I will 
 not have it. I don't believe it. The world to me 
 is fluid, men and women malleable — everything 
 noble is possible." 
 
 " But think," I cried, " you contradict yourself. 
 You have just argued that character is stable, and 
 cannot be altered by mere arguments. Now you 
 say we are infinitely malleable." 
 
 " What do I care for contradictions ? " she re- 
 plied impatiently. " I see both sides of the shield, 
 that is all. But in the main I am against you, 
 against you heart and soul. I think nobly of men 
 and you think ignobly of them. Each time that 
 I talk with 3^ou I go away with my soul fainting 
 and weak. Yes, I must say it. I know that if I 
 married you and went to England, I should live a 
 life of ease and comfort, and at every turn my 
 woman's vanity would be tickled and pleased. I 
 should be made much of and everything would go 
 well with me. You care for me too and are kind 
 and good. But the soul in me would die. I should 
 pass my life ignobly, and — God help me — perhaps 
 I should get to love my prison of scented cotton 
 wool. That frightens me. The soul in me would 
 die there, I tell you — the enthusiasm and the reso- 
 lution — and I live for them and for nothing else. 
 I w^ould rather suffer a thousand deaths than give 
 up my beliefs ; they redeem me to myself." And 
 she turned from me and walked quickly into the 
 house. 
 
 As she went, fear fell upon me, abject fear. I 
 had lost her. What a fool and brute I was! I 
 had spoken against my feelings too ; she was right, 
 222 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 and again the line came back and sang itself in my 
 ears: 
 
 " I, if I perish, perish; they to-day shall eat and live." 
 
 Almost I resolved to seek her out and tell her 
 that there should be no more controversy, no more 
 disagreement between us, that I would work with 
 her. But something masculine in me rebelled 
 against this as weakness ; and reason — or perhaps 
 dialectic — began to furnish me wdth arguments 
 against her. There could be no doubt that in the 
 main the poor were incapable and wastrels and the 
 well-to-do industrious and provident — that was the 
 truth to anchor to. . . . 
 
 I spent the whole day and nearly the whole night 
 fighting with myself, heart against head, and onXy 
 won rest by persuading myself that Sonia couldn't 
 give me up. The fear that she might do so was 
 baseless, I argued; I had never heard nor read of 
 such abandonment for a mere idea. 
 
 But next day I had difficulty in finding her. 
 She avoided me. When I asked after her I was 
 told by the servant with uplifted hands and eye- 
 brows, that she was probably locked in her room, 
 that nobody could find her. I was conscious that 
 these were only excuses, but consoled myself with 
 the idea that I should see her at the midday meal 
 and then get a chance to talk to her. The hours 
 went by on feet of lead. At last the bell rang for 
 lunch. I was more than disappointed — I was 
 heart-sick with fear, when I saw that she was not 
 in her place and that no one seemed to notice her 
 absence. I asked after her and was told that she 
 
Sonia 
 
 had probably eaten In her room. Andre was al- 
 most certain that he had seen her going out walk- 
 ing as he came down to dinner. Immediately the 
 meal was over, I went among the outdoor servants 
 and found this was true; Sonia had gone out by 
 herself and might be away the whole day, they said. 
 All that afternoon I spent wandering about the 
 house — like a dog without its master, as I thought 
 to myself bitterly — waiting, looking, longing for 
 the form that never came; and all the while my 
 fear grew, the fear of irreparable loss. 
 
 The long summer day dragged to its end; the 
 rose lights faded out of the sky; the gathering 
 shadows chilled me. It was ten o'clock before I 
 saw her coming up the avenue ; and, strange to say, 
 as soon as I saw her, my fears fled and a sort of 
 irritation and anger took their place. How could 
 she hurt me so? I would not go to meet her; I 
 would stand and let her come to me. She was in 
 the wrong, not I. But when she saw me, — and she 
 did not see me till she was within twenty yards of 
 me, for I was in the shadow of the trees — she 
 stopped too, and for a moment made as if she 
 would leave the avenue and go into the house by 
 the side door through the orchard. That hurt me 
 inexpressibly, and with the pain my fears came 
 back on me with a rush ; all the irritation vanished 
 and I went quickly to her with a reproachful : 
 
 " Sonia, I have waited all day for you." 
 
 When I saw her face, I was tenfold more pitiful. 
 It was pale and drawn with great violet rings 
 round the eyes; she had evidently been crying. 
 
 " Oh," I went on hurriedly, " Sonia, what have 
 234 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 I done? Let us love each other and think of noth- 
 ing else. It IS too terrible to be parted from you." 
 As she nodded slowly, I took her in my arms. I 
 was glad she did not speak. I went on talking to 
 comfort her, telling her how I had waited and 
 longed for her and how glad I was to see her ; but 
 I suddenly noticed that although she was very 
 gentle and let her hand rest in mine, she was walk- 
 ing steadily to the house, and when I tried to re- 
 strain her, she looked up at me with the brave eyes 
 and said quietly: 
 
 " I am worn out, George ; I must rest." 
 
 " Of course, of course," I said, again walking 
 on by her side. " But you will see me to-morrow, 
 won't you ? I want to be with you." I would not 
 even say that I wanted to talk to her for fear of 
 alarming her, and she bowed her head in agree- 
 ment. As we came to the house, I kissed her hand : 
 
 " Good-night, Sonia." She seemed to bend her 
 head just a little as she passed through the door. 
 
 To describe the conflict of my feelings that night 
 would be impossible to me. As is usual I fear in 
 such cases, I began by blaming myself, and as her 
 influence on me faded I ended by blaming Sonia. 
 After all she was unreasonable ; the poor were the 
 wastrels and the rich were the efficient. Of course, 
 there were exceptions, numberless exceptions, but 
 that was the rule and the rule made for progress, 
 for right. I would not disguise my convictions on 
 that point ; it would be treason to my intelligence. 
 But then all my resolution was shaken by the 
 memory of her pitiful, pale face, and I resolved to 
 be as sweet to her as I could be, to make everj- 
 225 
 
Sonia 
 
 thing easy to her; for I loved her and I had no 
 doubt in spite of what had passed that she loved 
 me. And loving each other I felt sure that all 
 would come right — in time. 
 
 I did not see her in the forenoon, but word was 
 brought to me from her about eleven o'clock that 
 she would be down to lunch and would see me in 
 the afternoon. After lunch we went out and, by 
 some unconscious agreement, walked round the 
 house and down the avenue to the summer-house 
 in the swamp, Sonia's favourite place. She seemed 
 very quiet, unnaturally quiet. That brought back 
 my fears, and the conflict going on within me, the 
 old conflict between my head and my heart, con- 
 fused me ; but when we were seated in the summer- 
 house and the brave sad eyes looked at me, I knew 
 what to say — the truth. I would tell her the sim- 
 ple truth. And I did, and she listened to me to 
 the end without a word ; only when I told her how 
 I had doubted her love, she stroked my head with 
 her hand pitifully. Helped by that cue I dwelt 
 on my love for her and her love for me. I could 
 not help saying at the end : 
 
 " If I lost you, Sonia, now, I should go mad, I 
 think. I know I should not care for anything 
 else in the world or be worth anything ; I should be 
 given over to the devil." 
 
 At once her brows knit and her face grew cold. 
 
 " You must not talk like that," she said, " it is 
 not true, I am sure." 
 
 " But you see what I mean," I cried, shifting 
 my ground quickly. " In heart I am with you al- 
 together, and my brain sympathizes with much 
 926 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 that you say. Give me a little time. Whatever 
 you wish to do for the poor shall be done, whatever 
 you wish to give to them, shall be given. To- 
 gether we will fight every abuse, every injustice. 
 I will try to live as you would have me live; but 
 you must not speak of leaving me ; that hardens 
 me, brings out all the worst in me." 
 
 She shook her head slowly. " Oh, my friend," 
 she said, and there was infinite tenderness and re- 
 gret in her voice, " the trouble is deeper, far 
 deeper. Don't let us deceive ourselves. You are 
 an Englishman and I am a Russian — ^that's the 
 real difficulty. You could only be happy and 
 strong and at your best in England, and I cannot 
 give up Russia. Look," and she spoke hur- 
 riedly, " before I met you I was bound to her in a 
 hundred ways, by a hundred ties. Over there in 
 Petersburg there are men and women who need me 
 and I have promised myself to them. I cannot 
 draw back now." 
 
 " But how would our love and marriage inter- 
 fere with that .? " I asked, with a terrible sinking 
 at heart, a terrible dread. 
 
 " What right," she answered, " have I to sac- 
 rifice you.P None; I should ruin your life, blast 
 it. By what right.?" 
 
 " By the right," I broke in, " that I wish it, 
 that I am eager to give it." 
 
 She put her hand on my mouth. " Hush, hush," 
 she said. " I am not willing. I could not work 
 with you beside me. My own life is mine to break 
 and throw away as I please; but yours — oh, I 
 could do nothing if you were there. I should be 
 227 
 
Sonia 
 
 a coward for you, and I shall need all ray cour- 
 age." 
 
 " What do you mean? " I asked harshly, feeling 
 myself grow pale with anger. In some way or 
 other I was certain then that her resolution was 
 irrevocable. " I offer to share your life whatever 
 it may be. You tell me that you will not accept 
 my companionship. Then you don't love me. If 
 you loved me, you could not speak like that." 
 
 " Ah," she cried wildly, " why do you tempt me 
 and torture me ? " And with a supreme effort at 
 self-control, she rose and came over to me, and I 
 drew her down on my knee and she laid her head 
 beside mine. 
 
 " Don't say such things," she said to me. 
 " You mustn't even think them. I love you too 
 well," she whispered, " I love to put my face 
 against yours. Hush, don't look," she went on, 
 holding my head, for I tried to draw away from her 
 to look at her. "If you look I can't tell you. 
 But when you touch me, George, when our hands 
 meet just by chance, I thrill from head to foot; 
 all my body cries for you. Ah, God, if I did not 
 love you, how easy it would all be ! How easy it 
 would be to part from you and never see you again 
 and go on with my work. But now it is hard, so 
 hard," and her voice had a pitiful break in it. 
 " It is worse than death to leave you ; but I must, 
 I must. — My work calls me, my work " 
 
 She put my head from her resolutely and stood 
 up with her hands in front of her face, and as she 
 shook the tears away, she walked out of the hut. 
 I sat dnd saw her go. What was there to say? I 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 felt an immovable resolution in her, and I was ex- 
 hausted with the strain. There I sat in the hut 
 with my dead hopes about me, my heart aching 
 and my brain numb. I could feel nothing, could 
 not think; but the verse sang itself in my ears 
 with a sort of insane exaltation : 
 
 " I, if I perish, perish; in the name of God I go." 
 
 How long I stayed in the hut I don't know. I 
 left it like a wounded animal, with one fear in me 
 ■ — that I should go mad, with one wish — to tire my 
 body to a rag and then sleep. I walked for hours, 
 driving myself on whenever I noticed that my pace 
 slackened, and yet with some unconscious purpose 
 of making a round and getting back to the house 
 at last. It was after midnight when I returned. 
 The short summer night was quickening to the 
 dawn and I was glad of it ; it had been a terrible 
 day ; I was glad to have done with it, glad. 
 
 When I awoke I felt perfectly refreshed and 
 curiously composed and contented. There was a 
 little dull pain about my heart I noticed, but that 
 would go off, I thought, with delight, and I pulled 
 the curtains back and threw the window up and 
 stretched myself in the sunlight. I even went so 
 far as to jest with myself; if Sonia did not care 
 for me, perhaps some one else would, and if no one 
 would, a state of single-blessedness was not so 
 bad, after all. There was nothing to be gained 
 by crying over spilt milk and inscrutable women. 
 As I got out of my tub, I whistled. The cold 
 water had done me good, brought me back com- 
 pletely to the realities of existence. There is sun- 
 
Sonia 
 
 shine m life, I said, and rubbed myself hard. 
 Nothing like exercise, sleep and a cold bath for 
 us English, I exulted: so we chase away fevered 
 dreams and despairs. I dressed quickly. But 
 when I had dressed, the thought of meeting Sonia 
 came to me with a shock of fear that almost un- 
 nerved me. My mind was made up, however, and 
 in a moment I had regained self-control and passed 
 resolutely down-stairs. There was no one in the 
 sitting-room, so I went out into the orchard. I 
 would not go back to the avenue. No, I would 
 walk about under the trees, and not think at all 
 but enjoy the sunshine and the song of birds. 
 There, an hour later, a servant found me; he 
 brought me a letter. As I opened it, I felt my 
 heart turn to water; I knew it was from Sonia; 
 it was very short. 
 
 " Dear One," it began, " It would be better for 
 us not to meet again for some time. I am suffer- 
 ing so much that I must beg you to give me time 
 and solitude to let me come to myself; I could not 
 meet you now. You will go to Petersburg, I know, 
 to-day, and later perhaps we may meet calmly. 
 
 " She who loves you. " Sonia." 
 
 I folded the letter up again and smiled at the 
 messenger like a mandarin, and wondered as I 
 walked away under the trees why I did not fall; 
 for sky and earth were w^hirling round me, and I 
 could have screamed with the pain. In a few mo- 
 ments I came to reason. So this was my dismissal ; 
 curt enough, and complete enough. Rage came 
 230 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 into me ; I turned and walked hastily to the house ; 
 and in ten minutes I had packed my things. Then 
 I sat down to write to her. 
 
 " Your wishes shall be followed, Sonia." I 
 wrote; but I could not close the letter there as I 
 wanted to ; my heart would not let me ; in spite of 
 myself I added, " But I rely on your promise that 
 
 we shall meet again. I shall be at the 
 
 Hotel." 
 
 I signed it boldly, " Your lover, George Las- 
 celles." 
 
 It suddenly came to me that I could not meet her 
 mother and brother without betraying myself. I 
 would write to them, too; and I wrote hinting 
 clearly to the mother that it was Sonia's will that 
 I should go at once and not mine, and giving my 
 address very carefully at the Hotel in Peters- 
 burg, as I had given It to Sonla. To the brother 
 I wrote still more briefly, thanking him for his 
 kindness to me, and hoping that he would let me 
 see him when he came to town. 
 
 In the afternoon of that day I was In Peters- 
 burg. I immediately dressed myself for dinner 
 and went off to the Embassy. I must hunt up 
 one of our fellows there, I thought; I could not 
 dine by myself: my memories were terrible com- 
 pany. I dined with Green, the Green who has 
 since made a name for himself In diplomacy, and a 
 jolly good dinner we had, I remember. I en- 
 joyed everything at the Restaurant Fran9als, the 
 careful service, the excellent food, and the unde- 
 niable champagne. I had said to myself that I 
 wouldn't think, and I didn't; I simply chattered 
 231 
 
Sonia 
 
 to Green and listened to his chatter, and did myself 
 right well. 
 
 Looking back, as I am now doing, it seems to 
 me that the most curious point in my mental con- 
 dition at this time was the fact that at first I did 
 not suffer. On the contrary, I felt a sense of re- 
 lief, and this relief was not chiefly due to the 
 merging of anxiety Into certainty, but was posi- 
 tive and substantial. For days and days I was 
 like a schoolboy just released from school. I can 
 only explain this feeling by comparing Sonia's 
 exaltation of mind to living high up a mountain- 
 side where the air Is thin and mere breathing an 
 exertion. I had been mentall}^ on the strain for 
 weeks, and now that the tension was over I went 
 back with delight to the old easeful way of life. 
 This relaxation had one consequence which at the 
 moment I did not think of, but which In the long 
 run became of the greatest Importance. When I 
 left — I meant to write to Sonia within the week. 
 At the back of my mind, indeed, I Intended to 
 write to her frequently ; but the people at the Em- 
 bassy were extremely kind to me ; the old life, with 
 its calls, dinners, and parties, very engrossing, and 
 so I put off writing. At the end of a fortnight 
 it was harder to write than at the end of the week, 
 because I should have had to excuse or explain 
 my silence, and I did not feel inclined to Invent 
 lies. There was a little pique at the bottom of 
 me, I suppose towards Sonia, which strengthened 
 my disinclination to write; she had thrown me 
 over, and my paltry vanity took pleasure in sulk- 
 ing. For three or four weeks I went on comfort- 
 233 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 ably enough. But as soon as my mind had rested 
 and my spirits had regained their tone, the society 
 I was moving in, began to pall upon me ; the women 
 seemed to me silly and frivolous, the men bored 
 me. How was it, I asked myself, that before 
 Sonia took off the German Frauen, I had never no- 
 ticed how like women were to hens? They 
 strutted about and made little noises exactly like 
 hens; their faces, too, had some strange family 
 likeness to the faces of hf~r.s, and their voices and 
 manners reminded me of a farmyard. Again and 
 again I burst out laughing at some unholy resem- 
 blance of this sort, and my merriment was some- 
 times difficult to account for. 
 
 As mixed society grew more and more tedious 
 to me, I withdrew from it and began to give men's 
 dinners. But soon the men, too, struck me as af- 
 fected and painfully dull; their conversation was 
 as matter-of-fact as the intercourse of animals, 
 and I felt rising in me a sense of contempt and in- 
 dignation which I had never felt before and which 
 I had no right to feel, I who a few months before 
 would have condemned intellectual conversation as 
 bad form, a sort of showing off. In sheer disgust 
 at the tedium of my fellows I withdrew from so- 
 ciety altogether, and began to live entirely alone. 
 I worked a little at Russian, but found the days 
 drag. In the slow, heavy hours of solitude Sonia's 
 face came back to me, and the sense of my loss 
 grew to pain, a pain of every moment, an aching 
 desire that increased in intensity, and seemed at 
 length to change the very nature of my mind. In- 
 stead of condemning Sonia I began to condemn 
 
Son 
 
 la 
 
 myself, and at length I could only escape from 
 misery by putting Sonia on a pedestal as one of 
 the most extraordinary women in the world, and so 
 excusing in part my own stupid resistance to her 
 influence. For now I saw clearly that she had 
 been right and that I had been mistaken, that the 
 cause of progress and reform was the only cause 
 for a man to defend, and that I had sinned against 
 the light in trying to damp her enthusiasm. I 
 took a pleasure now in going into the poorer dis- 
 tricts of Petersburg and helping poverty here and 
 there, as I thought Sonia would have liked me to 
 do. The destitution and misery I found on every 
 side strengthened my newborn feelings and brought 
 me more and more into sympathy with Sonia's re- 
 volt. Indeed, so close did I come to her in sym- 
 pathy that one day I sat down and wrote her a 
 long letter, setting forth much of what I have put 
 down here, but particularly dwelling on the change 
 in me, my conversion, I called it; and in truth it 
 was a conversion, for never again was I able to 
 think the old individualistic thoughts or to live the 
 old life entirely devoted to selfish enjoyment. I 
 sent the letter to their country house. It was 
 xVndre who told me to send it there. From time 
 to time I still came across him in the fashionable 
 quarter. He could never tell me where his sister 
 was or what she was doing ; or, perhaps, he would 
 not tell me, though I am inclined to think he could 
 not, for he did not appear to take the sHghtest 
 interest in what she was doing or where she was 
 staying. 
 
 " She is always about with dirty workmen," he 
 234 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 said, " or with women whose hair has been cut 
 short and who look hke ill-dressed boys. I can't 
 stand the set. She'll get herself locked up, if she 
 doesn't look out." 
 
 And so he went his way, burning his little bit 
 of candle at both ends. 
 
 After waiting a fortnight or so, I got an an- 
 swer from Sonia. The letter was lying on my 
 table one afternoon when I came in. How hun- 
 grily I read the address, how I played with my de- 
 light ! I would not open the letter, I would touch 
 it just where her hand had touched it, and I ended 
 by kissing it again and again in a wild rapture. 
 Her mere influence transports one beyond reason, 
 I thought with a smile. At length I tore the en- 
 velope open and read : 
 
 " Your letter made me glad for you and sorry 
 for our fate. It will be better for us not to meet 
 yet. 
 
 " Yours in all sympathy and affection, 
 
 " Sonia." 
 
 After writing as I had written, I must have felt 
 sure that she would give me a meeting, for her 
 letter was a terrible disappointment. For some 
 days everything was weary, flat and unprofitable 
 to me; and then I began to work again at my 
 Russian in the morning, and in the afternoon to go 
 out among the poor. 
 
 One of the first days I went out I had rather a 
 curious adventure. In a workman's restaurant 
 where I sometimes dined, I found a pretty and 
 235 
 
Sonia 
 
 rather well-dressed girl of Jewish type seated al- 
 most opposite my accustomed place. She spoke 
 to me first, I think, but I really paid so little atten- 
 tion to the matter that I could not be sure. She 
 was pretty, very pretty, in a sort of rich sensuous 
 way, but she did not appeal to me. She seemed 
 affected and a little common; but she evidently 
 knew the poor and the poorer districts of Peters- 
 burg intimately, and I could not help admitting 
 that she was not only well educated but well read. 
 Almost at the beginning of our conversation, I 
 remember, the talk fell on Turgenieff's " Fathers 
 and Sons " and his extraordinary picture of Ba- 
 zarov, the Nihilist. But the girl would not accept 
 Bazarov as a representative of the Reform move- 
 ment in Russia, and her criticism had something in 
 it. 
 
 " Bazarov," she said, " is a hard, selfish brute, 
 while the very essence of the Reform movement 
 is unselfish devotion to others. If you only knew 
 some of the real leaders of reform — Bakounlne's 
 nephew, for instance, or Michalloff, they are Ni- 
 hilists if 3^ou like." 
 
 I pricked up my ears at the name. " Ah," I 
 said, " tell me about Michalloff, will you ^ Do 
 you know him well? " 
 
 She cast her eyes down in a little confusion that 
 seemed to me chiefly pretence, as I asked her 
 whether she knew Michalloff; but in a moment she 
 regained her self-possession and said demurely: 
 
 " At one time I knew him very well. He is an 
 extraordinary man and devoted to the cause. You 
 ought to meet him." 
 
 ^36 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 "I should like to," I replied coldly. "But 
 cannot you tell me about him, what he does, how he 
 shows his devotion ? " 
 
 " He was left fairly w^ell-off, you know," she 
 began, " his father was a shopkeeper, I think, in 
 Little Russia; but he lives just like a workman, 
 allows himself only ten roubles a week and gives 
 all the rest to the Nihilist propaganda. He is 
 sure to be arrested one of these days." 
 
 This last phrase convinced me that she knew 
 MichailofF better than she wished to appear to 
 know him. I was right ; she tried again and again 
 to find out from me where I had heard of him and 
 why I took an interest in him ; but her whole being 
 was common and insincere and I told her nothing. 
 
 I did not return to the restaurant for a fort- 
 night ; but when I went back again, I found her in 
 the same place as before. That gave me pause, 
 made me vaguely suspicious and put me on my 
 guard with her. She seemed over-dressed now 
 and coarser than ever, but she met me with a great 
 show of frankness. 
 
 " I must introduce myself," she said, almost as 
 soon as I sat down. " My name is Hetty Helf- 
 mann." I bowed and told her my name. 
 
 " I remembered what you said," she began, 
 " about wishing to meet some of the real leaders 
 of the revolutionary party, but they naturally 
 avoid strangers, and MichailofF is so taken up with 
 his new flame that I could not get him to promise 
 to give us even an hour of his valuable time." 
 
 " Indeed," I replied coldly ; but she went on, 
 with affected carelessness: 
 237 
 
Son 
 
 la 
 
 " It is Sonia this and Sonia that with him now. 
 He can talk of nothing else." And her eyes 
 searched me as she spoke. 
 
 I felt myself flushing ; but if I could not control 
 my blood, I could my tongue, and I did not give 
 her the satisfaction of asking a single question 
 about Sonia. I would not bring her name again 
 on those lips. I was put to it to turn the conver- 
 sation, but found the easiest way was to talk to 
 Miss Helfmann about herself; and so I began 
 with awkward directness to praise her hat and 
 dress, knowing, with my new-born insight into 
 women — insight that was half contempt — that she 
 would take a compliment to her hat as if it were 
 paid to herself. She was delighted, and kept 
 asking for more sweets, like a greedy child. I 
 gave them to her till I thought her appetite for 
 flattery should be satisfied, and then got up and 
 regretted that I'd have to go away. She tried in 
 vain to keep me, and when I persisted that I had 
 an appointment, she betrayed herself: 
 
 " By the way, I forgot," she said, " I wanted 
 to tell you that Michailoff^ is always to be found 
 
 now, at the afternoon meetings, in a house in 
 
 Street. His new mistress goes there, too, I be- 
 lieve ; she is thinner than ever, and dresses down to 
 Michailoff''s taste." 
 
 I put on an aff'ectation of interest as if I were 
 trying to seem interested and was not, and went 
 away with the sound of her malicious laughter in 
 my ears. She had evidently given the address in 
 order that I might go to one of the meetings — 
 probably with the hope that I might turn out to 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 be a closer friend of Sonia's than MichailofF would 
 like. 
 
 I found myself saying, " She would stop at 
 nothing, that woman, nothing ! " and I made up 
 my mind to warn Sonia. But then her last letter 
 came into my mind, and in the light of what the 
 cursed Jewess had said I began to think she no 
 longer cared for me. Of course, the Jewess's story 
 was all lies; Sonia was not MichailofF's mistress; 
 but it was strange that she should meet him, after 
 speaking of him as base and a liar. She went on 
 meeting him, too; I was sure the Jewess had told 
 me the truth in this particular ; for, by giving me 
 the time and the place of the meeting, she had 
 given me the power of verifying her story. The 
 poison got into my blood and worked there — 
 Sonia and Michailoff together every afternoon; 
 Sonia, who would not meet me, who would not 
 take the trouble to write me more than two or three 
 lines. Strange, too, how she knew that private 
 room in the Vienna restaurant. Was I doing her 
 wrong by the suspicion? Perhaps. Perhaps not, 
 too. What did I know about her, after all? One 
 thing was certain; she was with MichailofF every 
 afternoon. I did not write to warn her. I put it 
 off. 
 
 Those meetings of mine with the Jewess must 
 have taken place in October, for it was December 
 and the terrible northern winter had laid icy hands 
 on the city before anything else happened to me of 
 note. By this time I had got to understand Rus- 
 sian and to speak it a little, and I used to move 
 about with much greater freedom than heretofore. 
 
Soma 
 
 One afternoon I had been in the poorer quarters 
 and was hurrying back to the hotel, for it had 
 begun to snow, when I saw a figure moving before 
 me that I could not mistake even in the gloom. 
 It set all my pulses throbbing ; it was Sonia, I felt 
 sure. I vralked a little more rapidly and drew up 
 to v.ithin fifteen or twenty yards of her and was 
 certain ; no one else moved like that. At the sight 
 my anger and suspicion melted away. For some 
 reason or other I was conscious that the story told 
 of her, and my suspicions of her were alike un- 
 worthy and false. I was surprised to find how 
 glad I was to see her, how much I wanted to speak 
 to her, to meet her once again, to take measure of 
 the distance she and I had travelled since the sum- 
 mer; and I quickened my pace. Suddenly I 
 thought, " if I speak to her in the street, she may 
 choke me off," and then the thought of the " meet- 
 ing " came to me and at once it seemed the better 
 plan to follow her to the " meeting," for then I 
 should see her for perhaps half an hour and cer- 
 tainly have a talk with her at the end. 
 
 We carry, I notice, the mental atmosphere of 
 our home with us wherever we go. A " meeting " 
 the Jewess had said, and the impression left on my 
 mind was that of a pohtical meeting such as might 
 take place among Radicals in England. If I had 
 exercised my thought upon the matter conscious!}^ 
 I should have known that this was not the case; 
 but I did not like to think about it, and so the 
 word took its meaning from the associations of my 
 past. 
 
 Sonia walked on rapidly without looking behind 
 240 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 her, and It was with a shock that I found myself 
 passing by the side of the Fortress Peter and 
 Paul and then turning into a narrow street behind 
 it. Evidently the Jewess had given me the right 
 address. In a minute or two more Sonia entered 
 a house with just a nod to the police watchman at 
 the door. I followed within half-a-dozen yards of 
 her. The man started up as if to stop me; but I 
 had quickened my pace to overtake Sonia, and I 
 suppose the intention to speak to her was already 
 in my face, for he let me pass without a word. 
 On the second landing I was at her heels. Her 
 name was almost on my lips when she opened a door 
 and went into a room; before she could close the 
 door I had passed in after her, saying " Sonia." 
 She turned and saw me, but before she spoke, 
 before she turned, I had time to realise that the 
 meeting was not such a meeting as I had uncon- 
 sciously expected. The room was a large one, 
 almost destitute of furniture; there was no ikon 
 in it, I noticed, and the stove had evidently only 
 been lit a short time; for they still kept the door 
 of it open to get a draught and some of the smoke 
 had blown through the room and made it look par- 
 ticularly comfortless. But what surprised me was 
 that the room had fifteen or twenty men in it and 
 no women at all, and it was evident at first glance 
 that these men were of a better class than their 
 clothes would lead one to believe. Some were 
 dressed like common workmen, others like artisans, 
 others again like poor clerks, but one look at their 
 faces showed that many of them were masquerad- 
 ing. 
 
 241 
 
Sonia 
 
 As Sonia entered the room, a man detached him- 
 self from the group and came towards her. I put 
 him down at once in my mind as MichailofF — a man 
 about thirty-five, of medium height, with small 
 golden-brown moustache. He was very good- 
 looking — distinguished-looking even — in spite of 
 his clothes. 
 
 As Sonia turned to me, she cried in wonder, 
 "You here! Did you follow me.?" The em- 
 phasis she laid on the word " follow " made me 
 flush hotly. 
 
 " I did," I replied. The astonishment visible in 
 the men's faces, and the angry surprise of Mich- 
 ailofF prevented me showing the embarrassment I 
 felt and gave me self-control. " I did," I re- 
 peated ; " but your friends," and I pointed to the 
 circle, " do not seem pleased to see me." I would 
 let them understand, at any rate, that I was not 
 desirous of conciliating them. 
 
 " This is no place for you," she said hurriedly. 
 " You should not have come here. You must go 
 away at once." 
 
 " Not at once, surely," said MichailofF, coming 
 forward and speaking in Russian. " We must 
 know who the gentleman is and how he found his 
 way here." 
 
 Sonia answered him in Russian shortly : 
 
 " I will be responsible for him ; " and then turn- 
 ing to me she said in French : 
 
 " But now you must go at once." 
 
 " I understood what your friend said," I re- 
 marked quietly, " and also what you answered ; but 
 I do not see why you should make yourself respon- 
 242 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 sible for me. I saw you walking before me, I fol- 
 lowed you at a short distance, surely there is no 
 crime in that." I spoke in Russian so that they 
 might all understand. I wanted to defy them 
 all — all these men who met Sonia every day and 
 could be with her hour after hour when she would 
 not give me five minutes. I suppose she felt the 
 antagonism between me and the others, for she 
 simply said to them: 
 
 " I will be back immediately," then took me by 
 the arm, saying, " Come with me," and drew me 
 outside the door. 
 
 We were alone together, and the outside world 
 fell away from me. Later I knew that as soon 
 as the door closed upon us there arose inside the 
 room a hubbub of indistinguishable voices; but 
 at the moment I was unconscious of this; Sonia 
 was with me and that was enough. I had no 
 time to think of what I should say, so what I 
 did say came from my unconscious self, from the 
 heart. 
 
 " I want to see you, Sonia," I cried, " and your 
 letter was so cold." 
 
 Her eyes did not yield to me. She remarked 
 bitterly : 
 
 " I suppose your new friend. Miss Helfmann, 
 told you where you would find me ? " 
 
 Instead of answering the accusation and con- 
 firming her suspicion, I simply thought of clear- 
 ing myself: 
 
 "She is no friend of mine," I replied hotly. 
 " A vulgar Jewess. Since I saw her the second 
 time, I have never been again to the restaurant I 
 S43 
 
oonia 
 
 met her In. You cannot have thought that I would 
 care to meet such a creature." 
 
 I spoke hotly, but it was warm at my heart that 
 Sonia did care about my intercourse with the 
 Jewess. At once she melted to me, and with the 
 old gesture I loved so much, she stretched out both 
 hands to me, and as I took them and kissed them 
 again and again, she said: 
 
 " I believe you ; you speak the truth always. 
 How good it is to be able to trust. But now you 
 must really go. You are in danger here." 
 
 " Danger," I questioned, " from your friends ? " 
 
 She flushed to the temples, and I could have 
 kissed her for it. 
 
 " Yes," she replied, bravely, " but don't ask me 
 why or wherefore. Promise me that you will never 
 speak of this place again, or of our meeting here. 
 Not to anyone — and I will meet you again. I al- 
 ways meant to give you a meeting," and her eyes 
 rested on mine. 
 
 " If that's a promise, Sonia," I said, " I can go 
 on working cheerfully and wait your time." 
 
 " It is a promise, " she said simply. But I could 
 not part from her like that ; as she turned to go I 
 threw my arms around her, and drew her to me, 
 and kissed her on the forehead and on the hair, 
 and said again and again: 
 
 " I love you, I love you, I love you, my heart's 
 delight!" 
 
 A moment later she had wound herself out of 
 
 my arms, and with the words, " Remember your 
 
 promise," had disappeared into the room. The 
 
 noise ceased as she entered, and as the door closed 
 
 244 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 everything was still and solitude came about me; 
 but my heart was glad as I went down the stairs, 
 and out into the night. It was dark now and 
 snowing heavily ; but what did I care for the dark- 
 ness and cold; I was in Paradise warmed and 
 lighted and gladdened with hope. 
 
 For some time after this meeting I was content 
 and happy ; Sonia's warmth to me and her promise 
 to see me again, brightened life for me ; but as the 
 days grew to weeks, and the weeks to months, I be- 
 came despondent. I never fell into the utter mis- 
 ery that possessed me before; I had one consola- 
 tion now that I had previously lacked — I wrote to 
 her regularly. True, she did not answer me; but 
 I knew that my letters would be a tie between us 
 and so I kept them up. As the weeks grew into 
 months, however, my letters, I am afraid, became 
 rarer. 
 
 I noticed now that there were all sorts of ru- 
 mours of Nihilist conspiracies flying about, but 
 they had little or no effect on the gaieties of the 
 capital, and I paid little heed to them. I read a 
 good deal in the winter evenings, and went a good 
 deal to the theatre. I was amused by the love of 
 dancing shown by this northern people; the bal- 
 lets in the theatre often lasted the whole evening, 
 and there were sometimes as many as three or four 
 hundred dancers together on the stage. Russia 
 is the only country in Europe in which dancing is 
 still regarded as one of the fine arts. But after all 
 the reading of the modern Russian writers, Tolstoi, 
 Dostoievsky, and TurgeniefF, was my chief occu- 
 pation and pleasure. 
 
 245 
 
Cionia 
 
 One evening, I remember, I had got hold of Tol- 
 stoi's " Cossacks," or rather the story had got 
 hold of me. The wish to finish it kept me up late, 
 and I had only closed the book a few moments 
 when a knock came at my door. I called out, and 
 to my astonishment the night porter came in, 
 saying: 
 
 " There's a lady for 3^ou, sir." 
 
 " A lady," I repeated, utterly bewildered. " I 
 don't know any lady. You must be making a mis- 
 take." 
 
 " Oh, no, he's not," said a voice I knew well, and 
 Sonia passed him and came into the room. There 
 she stood in a great white fur wrap that hid every- 
 thing except her face. I could not realise it; it 
 was too sudden; I was hardly able to believe my 
 eyes. 
 
 She put the hood from off her head, and taking 
 the great fur in both hands threw it backwards 
 from her on a chair: she was in ball dress. 
 
 "Have you no welcome for me?" she asked, 
 holding out both her hands. The old familiar ges- 
 ture brought me to myself and gave me words. 
 
 " Welcome ! " I said, and took her cold hands in 
 mine and pressed them against my heart, " Wel- 
 come ! " She smiled as if pleased with my emotion 
 and I went on, " I never knew before, Sonia, why 
 jewellers make their boxes so uncouth and shape- 
 less outside ; it is to show off the exquisite beauty 
 of the jewel within; and so with you, 3'^ou witch! 
 that uncouth great wrap sets off your loveli- 
 ness ! " 
 
 And indeed at the moment I was overpowered 
 246 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 with the sense of her physical seduction. The 
 charm of it came over me as a perfume sometimes 
 comes, with such excess of sweetness that it makes 
 one giddy. I could feel my mouth parching as I 
 looked at her. 
 
 Suddenly a thought occurred to me — a poison- 
 ous thought. 
 
 " But this is not the meeting you promised me, 
 is it ? " I asked, and I held her from me in sudden 
 dread. 
 
 " Yes, dear," she replied, " the only one I could 
 give you without hurting you." 
 
 " Hurting me ! " I repeated bitterly, all the dis- 
 appointment of my long solitude welling up in me. 
 "You think a great deal of my suffering, don't 
 you? when a letter from you — three careless lines 
 — would have made me so happy that angels would 
 have envied me, and yet you kept silent and sent 
 me not a word — seventeen weeks and not one little 
 word!" 
 
 " Also for fear of hurting you," and the great 
 eyes forced me to believe her though I didn't see 
 how it could be true. " But I have come now and 
 I want to tell you how good your letters were to 
 me, how sweet they were, the only sweet things in 
 my life since I last saw you." 
 
 But the fear of her going away was upon me 
 and prevented me giving myself up to the happi- 
 ness. 
 
 " But now," I said, " you will have to go. Your 
 carriage is waiting, of course; it would compro- 
 mise you if you stayed more than a few moments 
 in a hotel at this time of night." 
 247 
 
oonia 
 
 She drew her hands from me and walked to the 
 fire before she spoke. 
 
 " I am cold," she began in a thin toneless voice, 
 " and you make it colder with your little rags of 
 convention. Sometimes I think of you as going 
 about in your baby-clothes. Can you never get 
 rid of them altogether?" and she turned to me 
 with the old imperious accent in her voice. " What 
 do you think I care about compromising myself? " 
 and she laughed. " If you only knew how com- 
 promised I am already, you would see that this 
 visit if it ever gets out, instead of blackening me, 
 will shine white against my robe of darkness and 
 death." 
 
 " What do you mean? " I asked in fear, taking 
 her hands ; for she was too sincere to be theatrical. 
 
 " Mean," she repeated in the same strained tone. 
 " I mean that I have come to see you, my lover — 
 so you sign yourself, don't you? — to see you for 
 perhaps the last time — alone at midnight — and 
 3'ou meet me with coldness and tell me I must not 
 compromise myself." 
 
 " You don't know what you are saying," I an- 
 swered; but I interpreted what she said as a 
 challenge and my fevered blood rushed over will 
 and sense. I took her in my arms and drew her 
 to me and covered her face and neck with kisses. 
 A moment afterwards she was holding me from her 
 breathless : 
 
 " Be reasonable, be reasonable," she said with a 
 smile, and sat down in the low chair. 
 
 " Reasonable," I said, throwing myself on my 
 knees beside her and putting my arms round her 
 248 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 waist. " How do you think I can be reasonable 
 when you tell me that you have come to your 
 lover for perhaps the last time and find him cold. 
 That is not true, Sonia, that is not true. My 
 kisses are still on your neck. Say that it is not 
 true. 
 
 " Do you know," I went on, " that I have never 
 seen you before in a low dress? How exquisite 
 you are ! Like some strange lily with the white 
 leaves turned back," and I put my lips again 
 on the smooth veined flesh. A moment, and her 
 cool skin fired my blood, and my heart shook me 
 with its beating: "Cold!" I repeated. "Am I 
 cold.?" 
 
 She lifted my head from her neck, saying, " No, 
 love," beseechingly. 
 
 " But how can you call me ' love,' " I said, " and 
 speak of the ' last time ' .? " and again I drew her 
 to me. 
 
 " ' Perhaps the last time,' " she corrected 
 me, flushing and still holding my head from 
 her. 
 
 " That's the same thing," I said roughly, with 
 a sort of physical exasperation at her restraint. 
 " What do you mean ? If you don't explain it or 
 take it back, I will keep you here always and it will 
 indeed be the last time that you will plague me 
 with absence," and I began to caress the restrain- 
 ing arms with my lips. 
 
 " Ah," she cried, " be reasonable, George, be 
 reasonable. If you only knew, the fear that you 
 might think worse of me for coming made it diffi- 
 cult to come." 
 
 U9 
 
Cionia 
 
 " How could you ? " I interrupted ; but she shook 
 her head sadly. 
 
 " Ah, yes, I could," she replied. " You showed 
 me that in Vienna when I took you to that private 
 room; I saw it in your face, and it hurt me, hurt 
 me. It is always hurting me." 
 
 " Forgive me," I cried, overcome with shame and 
 remorse, " forgive me, Sonia ! Really I put it out 
 of my mind ; it had no effect on me ; I never har- 
 boured it. One only learns such a nature as yours 
 little by little ; forgive me, sweet ! " 
 
 Even as I spoke I struggled for self-possession 
 and the power to think, and with this same pur- 
 pose I added: 
 
 " But won't your carriage be waiting? Hadn't 
 I better send it home.'' " 
 
 " No," she said, " I came in a droshky. I will 
 go back in it when you are tired of me." 
 
 " Tired of you," I repeated, " that will never be. 
 But why do you provoke me," I went on wildly, 
 " when I am half mad and unable to think ? Your 
 beaut}^ intoxicates me. Don't you know that I 
 have longed for 3^ou and dreamed of you for 
 months.? Why do you talk of my being ' tired '.? " 
 
 "Why," she repeated, "why? That's hard to 
 tell unless you knew all that I know. But do you 
 think it has cost me nothing to keep away from 
 you all these months? All the time I have lived 
 for others and crushed my own heart. Is that 
 nothing? Now I come and let my heart speak 
 for the moment ; is that wonderful? " She clasped 
 her hands and went on as if she had caught the 
 clue. 
 
 S50 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 " Is it wonderful," she repeated, starting up, 
 " that one finds it hard to die before one has lived? 
 wonderful that one who gives everything should 
 want to keep one moment for the man she loves? 
 wonderful that one cannot be resolute all through 
 but must be a woman at the last ? " 
 
 " At the last," I said, as if waking suddenly to 
 something strange and strained in her. " What do 
 you mean ? " 
 
 " Don't ask me," she replied, still in the same 
 tone of exaltation. " I am mad to-night — or sane, 
 for once — I don't know which or care. One thing's 
 sure; my life is mine now to do as I please with. 
 At last it is mine — or yours if you will." 
 
 Her voice played on my nerves like music. 
 
 " Do you remember telling me once," she went 
 on, " that to rouse your passion and not satisfy it, 
 was unfair, for it drew out the worst in you? I 
 told you then that I would give you anything — 
 everything, if I were free. 
 
 " Now I am free — free as fire or air — and I 
 come to you." 
 
 She held out her hands to me, and in my poor 
 brain came the thought, the one thought, that the 
 bond of the flesh would indeed be a bond between 
 us that she could never break, that so she would 
 always return to me and at last be mine. And I 
 took her slowly in my arms and put my lips to 
 hers. . . . 
 
 An hour afterwards I was seated in the chair 
 
 and she was in my arms, and I noticed that her 
 
 face was pale and thin, and the violet rings about 
 
 her eyes made my heart weep. I tried to comfort 
 
 251 
 
Sonia 
 
 her by telling her how I would live in Petersburg 
 always and make myself a Russian and do what- 
 ever pleased her, and all these sentences I said in 
 Russian carefully to her ; but she put her hand on 
 my mouth with infinite tenderness: 
 
 " No plans, dear, no plans, and no regrets. The 
 past does not belong to us any more, and the fu- 
 ture may never be ours. It is this moment that 
 we own, and it consoles me for everything to feet 
 your arms about me and to know that you are 
 happy. You are, aren't you ? " 
 
 " More than happy," I said, " if to-day is the 
 beginning of a new life for us, if you will be my 
 wife and give 3"ourself to me for ever." 
 
 " ' For ever,' " she repeated, in a tone drenched 
 with emotion, " our ' for ever ' is but a moment, 
 and yet it repays me for all I have suffered and 
 for all I may suffer still," and she put her hand 
 through my hair in a caress. 
 
 What could I say? Her words brought tears 
 of joy to my eyes, and yet made me feel di- 
 vinely humble. I lifted her from me and slipped 
 down beside her on my knees with my arms 
 still about her — that was my place I felt — and 
 then I drew down her eyes and kissed them again 
 and again, with my heaii: now, and not my lips 
 alone. 
 
 And so we sat for a long time, speaking, I think, 
 but little, and yet getting to know each other more 
 and more intimately with the mysterious divination 
 of love. 
 
 Suddenly there came a sound in the hotel: the 
 night was gone ; some one on my floor was being 
 ^52 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 called for an early train, and as soon as she heard 
 the noise Sonia started to her feet: 
 
 " I must go ! " 
 
 " Go ! " I said, " but let me go with you ; I must' 
 see you home." 
 
 " No, no ! " she cried, " you must not ; " but I 
 persisted. 
 
 "Why not, Sonia?" 
 
 She turned to me with her whole face shaken 
 and her eyes brimming over. The sadness in her 
 face was despairing. 
 
 " You must not question me, dear one ; I have 
 no explanations to give. I only want you to know 
 one thing, to put it in your soul, as it is in mine — 
 that I owe you all the sweetness of my life." 
 
 She put her arms about my neck, and in her 
 eyes . . . there was the love that is stronger than 
 death. I took her down to the door of the hotel. 
 As soon as the door opened on the dull gray morn- 
 ing a droshky that had evidently been on the look 
 out, whirled up and in a moment she had gone 
 and I was alone. 
 
 The next two or three days passed in a dream 
 with me. I wrote to Sonia in the morning saying 
 that I would have to see her again at once, that I 
 could not live without her, and that I was deter- 
 mined to share her fate, whatever it might be. I 
 added that if I did not hear from her, I should 
 seek her till I found her. The afternoon of the 
 same day brought me a note. The porter told me 
 that an isvostchik had left it and gone away at 
 once. It was from Sonia and just like her; here 
 it is: 
 
 S53 
 
Sonia 
 
 "Dear Heart, 
 
 " You must not see me. I do not wish it. 
 You shall hear from me soon. 
 
 Yours till death, 
 
 " Sonia." 
 
 Two or three days later I came down to lunch 
 rather late. I had been conscious for a little while 
 that there was an unusual hurrying and scurrying 
 about in the hotel, but I was so wrapped up in my 
 own feelings and hopes that I paid little attention 
 to it all. When I got down to the restaurant, I 
 found everything in confusion. Waiters came into 
 the room and went out again quickly, and though, 
 strange to say, there was no one but myself to 
 serve, they did not attend to me. Three several 
 times I gave my order and the waiter took it, went 
 awa}^ and never came back. At last I got up, 
 caught a half-scared waiter by the ear, and said 
 to him in Russian : 
 
 "What's the matter .^^ Have you all lost your 
 wits.?" 
 
 " No, sir," he replied, " but the Tsar is dead, 
 they say." 
 
 " What, man ? " I cried, " what do you 
 mean.'' " 
 
 It was true. The head-waiter came in, and in a 
 moment told me the whole tragedy — the Tsar had 
 been out driving; on his way back to the Winter 
 Palace bombs had been thrown which had blown 
 his horses and himself to pieces. 
 
 " And the throwers ? " I asked. 
 
 His eyebrows went up. " The police have one," 
 254 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 he said, " and they are searching. They say it is 
 the NihiHsts. . . ." 
 
 Half an hour afterwards, a note was brought to 
 me from Green, asking me to come to the Embassy 
 at once, I went, and found him in a state of con- 
 sternation ; and yet he could not help saying what 
 everyone was saying, " the greatest crime of the 
 century." Green was sure to make his way in 
 diplomacy — his thoughts kept the common road: 
 everyone would be pleased with him. 
 
 " It is terrible," I said, " but what has it all to 
 do with me? " 
 
 " Much," he replied quickly. " Some time ago 
 the police came here to find out about you, to find 
 out if you were favourably known to us. Of 
 course, we told them that you were all right; but 
 they came back a couple of days ago and said " — 
 he began turning over some papers till at last he 
 found a slip on which some memoranda were scrib- 
 bled — " that you were known to be in communica- 
 tion with Nihilists, notably with a Jewess, one 
 Helfmann, and that you should be warned." He 
 threw down the paper and went on. " The moment 
 I got the news of this tragedy, I sent for you to 
 tell you. I think you had better take this despatch 
 box and go to Berlin with it at once as one of our 
 messengers." 
 
 " Not I," I replied. " I have done nothing 
 wrong." 
 
 " Mere suspicion now," he said, " would put you 
 
 in prison for a year, and we could not help you. 
 
 Believe me, you must go. I cannot tell you all my 
 
 reasons, but you must leave Petersburg to-night." 
 
 »5& 
 
Soma 
 
 His insistence was so peculiar, so menacing, that 
 I told him at last I would take his advice; and 
 I did. 
 
 But first I wrote to Sonia and told her what had 
 befallen me and gave her my address, begging her 
 to write. I left Petersburg that evening, and I 
 left it not a moment too soon. The next day it 
 would have been impossible to leave without a spe- 
 cial permit countersigned by the chief of police ; 
 and he would never have given it to me. 
 
 That was an exciting time in Berlin, and, I sup- 
 pose, all over the civilized world. Men talked of 
 nothing and read of nothing but the great trag- 
 edy, and every detail that came to hand only in- 
 creased the public interest. Everyone felt that 
 this crime was like no other crime; it was not the 
 deed of one or two monomaniacs ; there were 
 dozens implicated in it, and in spite of numberless 
 spies and detectives, a whole government organized 
 for defence, nothing had been suspected, nothing 
 had leaked out. Yet one day we read that had 
 the Tsar returned to his palace by another route, 
 the whole street would have gone into the air with 
 him — the whole of Garden Street had been under- 
 mined from side to side and turned into a huge 
 magazine. A little later we heard that the assas- 
 sins were all volunteers — the picked and chosen 
 out of forty-seven who hrd offered themselves for 
 the work ; and a little later still came the news that 
 two days before the assassination, three of the 
 murderers had actually rehearsed the crime. They 
 had dared to go through the police-crowded streets 
 of Petersburg to a piece of waste land on the out- 
 25Q 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 skirts of the town and there throw one of the five- 
 inch tin bombs in order to study what its effect 
 would be. The imagination was palsied by such 
 facts. 
 
 The later conduct of these conspirators was no 
 less extraordinary. One hundred and fifty accused 
 and not a single informer ! Not a single person 
 who tried to save his own life at the expense of his 
 fellows! And everyone knew enough of the 
 methods of Russian prisons to know that neither 
 punishment nor reward was spared to win betrayal 
 and make conviction sure. Scenes to shake the 
 soul; on the one side mind-torture, planned and 
 perfect; on the other, silence. 
 
 " You met so-and-so at such-and-such a place.? " 
 questioned the magistrate. " We know it. You 
 were dressed as a workman ; he was dressed as an 
 artisan. You see we know everything. Admit it 
 and you shall go free." 
 
 A smile was the answer. The most astonishing 
 thing was that these criminals would tell of them- 
 selves freely; they seemed indeed to court death; 
 but not a word to hurt their fellows. 
 
 And so by these individual confessions little by 
 little we came to the heart of the matter and 
 learned that it was a woman, a mere girl, who had 
 been the soul of the conspiracy; the master-spirit 
 w^ho drew the others to her and inflamed them with 
 her own white heat of purpose; and bit by bit we 
 were enabled to reconstruct the last scene. 
 
 The place was the bridge leading over the Cath- 
 erine Canal. On the rise of the bridge itself as 
 on a platform whence she could see and be seen, 
 257 
 
Sonia 
 
 the girl took her stand; below her were her three 
 assistants, RisakofF, Elnikoff, and another. The 
 girl was to wave her pocket handkerchief, as the 
 death signal. 
 
 Suddenly the horses and the closed carriage sur- 
 rounded by its escort of Cossacks, appeared whirl- 
 ing towards the bridge. The handkerchief flut- 
 tered, and at once RisakofF threw his bomb. It 
 smashed the hinder part of the carriage and killed 
 a Cossack and a moujik w^ho happened to be stand- 
 ing near. The hind wheels being blown away, the 
 carriage fell and stopped the horses. A moment 
 after, the Tsar opened the door and stepped out 
 unhurt. Seeing the Cossack and the moujik lying 
 in their blood on the ground, he was overpowered 
 by the sense of his own escape and cried, " Thank 
 God." 
 
 At this moment, RisakofF, who had been seized 
 by some of the bystanders, was heard to say : " It 
 is too soon to thank God yet." The same instant 
 the handkerchief fluttered again, and ElnikofF 
 rushed forward, lifted his hands high above his 
 head and hurled his bomb down between himself 
 and the Emperor. He was blown to pieces; the 
 Tsar's limbs were shattered. The awful sight 
 turned the third murderer to pity; he shoved his 
 bomb into his pocket and helped to lift the dying 
 monarch into a sledge. Oh wonderful heart of 
 man that includes in itself all contradictions ! In 
 one moment this assassin became a nurse at the 
 risk of his life. Meanwhile the girl, seeing her 
 work was done, walked on over the bridge 
 and disappeared among the crowd — to give her- 
 25S 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 self up three days afterwards in the Nevski 
 Prospekt. 
 
 As I read all this, the blood ebbed from my 
 heart and left me gasping. The simplicity of the 
 signal, the deadly resolution, filled me with a fear 
 which I did not dare to put into words. I was 
 relieved when I read later that the girl-chief was 
 supposed to be the mistress of the peasant Jelaboff , 
 and that her name was Lydia Voinoff. 
 
 But a day or two later still we heard that she 
 was not the only woman implicated, that there were 
 two women among the six who were put on their 
 trial for murder before the High Court of the 
 Senate, and that the second woman was a Jewess, 
 one Hetty Helfmann. With that name a weight 
 of fear came on me, crushing me, and I was afraid 
 to think; yet without conscious thinking my fear 
 took form and went with me everywhere. 
 
 I scarcely dared to go out. I was waiting for 
 news — " news," that horrible word — in my room, 
 when the door opened and a man came in without 
 ceremony of any kind. 
 
 " What do you want ? " I asked in astonishment. 
 
 He took off his rough cap as he answered : " You 
 don't remember me ! " 
 
 It was MichailofF. 
 
 " Yes," I said, conscious of hate and anger ; " I 
 remember you perfectly." And I did. I could 
 see the bare room and the wisps of smoke blown 
 through it and the crowd of men, and Sonia stand- 
 ing with her back to me — I remembered everything, 
 even to the dirt the men's boots had brought into 
 the room and left on the bare boards. 
 259 
 
Son 
 
 la 
 
 But the man had altered. This was not the 
 smiling face and the little moustache with its hand- 
 some upward curl. He had shaved moustache and 
 beard: the eyes were different too; they were 
 without light or steadiness. What was it that 
 made me avoid them? Was the man mad? He 
 seemed to resent either my manner or my scrutiny ; 
 but he came forward without speaking and threw 
 himself heavily into a chair. 
 
 " I am done," he said, " I have not eaten for 
 days nor slept for a week. Give me food and 
 drink." 
 
 The remains of my lunch were on the table. As 
 I went to the bell he stopped me. 
 
 " Don't ring," he said. " This will do ; " and 
 he turned and began to eat, while I poured out 
 wine for him. 
 
 When he had finished, he took up a cigarette; 
 then leaned back in the chair and began to smoke. 
 
 " Do you know? " he began quietly, " I meant 
 to kill you, once. How silly it all seems now, how 
 unreal ! I have come from Petersburg to see you ; 
 to hear you speak ; to find out what it is that made 
 such a woman love you ! You are tall and strong 
 and clean ; but that's all I can see — and that's not 
 enough." 
 
 " Did you come here to tell me that ? " I asked 
 him. 
 
 " No," he replied quietly, " no, I came here as a 
 messenger to answer whatever you had to ask and 
 to give you a letter." 
 
 " Give it me," I said, holding out my hand ; and 
 after a moment of what I took to be hesitation he 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 handed me a letter. It was from Sonia. I opened 
 it and read the first hne at a glance: 
 
 " When you get this, I shall be dead, my lover." 
 
 I stood with the letter in my hand and felt my 
 heart stop. 
 
 " What does it mean ? " My voice startled me, 
 it was so small and thin. 
 
 " Mean," he answered, " it means that you were 
 loved by the greatest woman in the world — you! 
 It means that she adored you — she whom we all 
 worshipped and now she is dead — Sophia Perov- 
 skaia." 
 
 Then it was true ; I was not surprised ; I seemed 
 to have known it always ; but I could not think. 
 
 "Ah, the sacred name ! " he went on, " the sacred 
 name ! " 
 
 " Tell me about her," I interrupted him. " Tell 
 me about it. What did she do .? " 
 
 " Do," he said, " do. Good God ! he did not 
 even know her." 
 
 " What did she do ? " he cried after a pause. 
 " I will tell you. She was the soul of our move- 
 ment; she foresaw everything; organized every- 
 thing; and at the last, directed everything. Ah, 
 she chose her instruments well." 
 
 My whole being w^oke to hate of him and his 
 theatrical speech. 
 
 " And you? " I said. " She chose you as a mes- 
 senger ! " and I laughed. 
 
 He dropped into the chair and put his face in 
 his hands. 
 
 " No," he said, after a pause ; " she sent me 
 out of Petersburg at the critical time, persuading 
 261 
 
Sonia 
 
 me that my brain and tongue alone could do some 
 work in Moscow that had to be done, and so I 
 escaped the police; but when I came back, and I 
 came back as soon as I heard the news, it was too 
 late to do anything for her or the others. I found 
 she had left a letter for you ; no one seemed to know 
 you, so I took it and followed you here. I don't 
 know why now — with some wish, I think, to hurt 
 you. But I have no such wish now. I can think 
 of nothing but her — and you're right, she despised 
 me!" 
 
 " Tell me of her," I heard myself saying. 
 
 " Have you heard of the end.? " he asked. 
 
 " No," I said in rage ; " how could I have 
 heard.?" 
 
 " That's true," he said. " I have come straight 
 through," and he began hurriedly, as if he liked 
 to tell of it, and his rhetoric hardly ever left him. 
 
 " It was awful and beautiful too. There were 
 crowds and crowds of people; the ten thousand 
 soldiers were but a thin wall to keep the ocean of 
 people back. There was the black scaffold — two 
 poles and a crossbar and five rings with dangling 
 halters. We waited for hours. The snow and ice 
 on the plain had melted under the hot sun, and 
 been churned to mud by the myriad feet. One 
 shivered and burned in turns. 
 
 " Suddenly we saw the two tumbrils, high upon 
 the first Risakoff and Jelaboff, and in the next the 
 other three, Sonia in the middle — the one divine 
 thing in the world, with her smiling pale face and 
 God-illumined eyes ! 
 
 " All of them in black — black robes, black caps ; 
 
Frank Harris 
 
 great placards on their breasts, ' Murderers of the 
 Tsar ! ' The good Tsar," he added bitterly, " the 
 Tsar who cried ' Thank God,' when he saw his 
 Cossacks and moujiks lying dead and thought he 
 had escaped! 
 
 " When they unbound them on the platform I 
 could see her walk about cheering each of them, 
 kissing them, encouraging them, but no one could 
 hear what she said for the noise of the drums. 
 Yet her courage lifted the soul and made the place 
 sacred! Then one after the other they mounted 
 the stool. ... I see her hanging still! ... As I 
 came away everyone was crying, the soldiers and 
 the people alike — everyone. And now," he added, 
 " I am worse than dead. There is nothing for me 
 to hope for in the world — nothing." 
 
 He rose and left the room, and I let him go, 
 for I wanted to be alone with my love and her last 
 words to me. Here is her letter: 
 
 " When you get this I shall be dead, my lover. 
 Dead, the word looks strange ; and yet all it means 
 is simply rest and sleep, and I am tired, tired and 
 worse than tired. 
 
 " Ever since I left you, I have been in doubt, 
 wondering always whether it would not be better 
 to leave the work undone and just go back and lie 
 in your arms again and feel your kisses on my 
 face. 
 
 " It was not only the temptation of your love 
 that tortured me, but fear, too — an awful fear! 
 Do you remember once saying to me that ideas 
 were better than deeds, that deeds had always some 
 of the dirt of the world on them? How true that 
 
oonta 
 
 IS ! and how terrible ! Since I left you I have been 
 in the dirt and I shall never be clean again ; though 
 my heart loathes it; but still the thing had to be 
 done and that must be enough for me. 
 
 " I could not do anything else, dear. I was not 
 made to do anything else ; I could not have lived 
 a great life ; the slow hours w ould have broken me. 
 I see that now clearly. 
 
 " I want to say one thing to you before I go, 
 love; one thing that is sure where everything else 
 breaks and changes. 
 
 " You always compared society to a pyramid, 
 do you remember "^ and said that the base of it must 
 rest in the mud. It isn't true, dear; we w^ill lift 
 the pyramid by putting our own breasts under it. 
 It may crush us, but others will follow the example 
 — that is sure ! 
 
 " You will not increase the weight of the pyra- 
 mid for us; but lighten it and help to lift it, my 
 lover. 
 
 " And now, dear. . . ." 
 
 But I can copy no more; the rest of the letter 
 belongs to me alone, for the loss is mine. 
 
 264» 
 
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