FAMILIAR GIFT OF OUTLINES OUTUNES A COLLECTION OF BRIEF IMAGINATIVE STUDIES RELATED TQfcMANY PHASES OF THOUGHT AND JW , AND REPRESENTING AN EFFORT TO GIVE AN INTER PRETATION TO FAMILIAR HUMAN EXPERIENCES BY JOHN D. BARRY PAUL ELDER AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS SAN FRANCISCO COPYRIGHT, 1913 BY JOHN D. BARRY, SAN FRANCISCO TO THE TWO THAT CRITICIZED AND SUGGESTED 302329 Preface IT was with some concern that I began to publish brief fictional studies in the San Francisco Bulletin. There was a question, whether, in a daily newspaper, they would meet approval. At first I had little response. As I went on, however, I was led to believe that the studies were making an appeal. Meanwhile, I had become fascin ated with expressing ideas in this way. The allegorical form I found particularly attractive. There was the special charm of working in a realm where the surface narrative was less significant than what lay beneath. The name of the studies I chose because it suggested what, in writing them, I had tried to do. They might easily have been amplified into stories much longer. And yet, I liked to think that, in their brevity, they carried their meaning with clearness. If the reader wished he might fill out the outlines for himself, with, possibly, more satis faction than if the work had been done for him. Obviously, to the reasonably careful reader, the mean ing of an allegory or of any imaginative work, ought to be plain. If, in any instance here, the meaning invites ques tion or causes bewilderment the fault is mine. On first publication "The Wife of the Prophet led to so astonish ing a misconception on the part of a few readers that I might have thought of rewriting it if, to other readers, the intention had not been clear. "Before the Throne" brought upon me some censure. One correspondent treated me with severity for what he considered my encouragement of evil-doing. The scheme, suggested by one of the two friends mentioned in the dedication, I believed to be highly ethical. I was so pleased with it, that, to escape the torment of keeping it in my mind and of fearing that I might spoil it, I set to work on it at once. Before publishing it, I went over it Preface many times and I pondered the philosophy. I was con vinced that it expressed a truth sanctioned by Christianity and by many other religions established long before Christianity, and that it would meet the approval of those who professed no religious belief whatsoever. By placing the will above the deed, it made the deed inferior to the spirit. It tried to show that in what the world superficially regarded as moral success there might really be spiritual failure, and that what the world called moral failure might be spiritual triumph. It might have had for text: "As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he." The severe criticism impressed me not nearly so much as the comment of my friend, the tolerant Hindu revolu tionist, Har Dayal: "You were a little hard on the good man. After all, a hypocrite is human and ought to be given some sympathy." In spite of that remark, which t like all sincere and thoughtful criticism, kindly expressed, started reflection, I decided to reproduce "Before the Throne" as it had first appeared. Perhaps I was not really so harsh as the study might have seemed to indicate to so profound a lover of his kind as Har Dayal. When the man that boasted of his deeds shrank into the dark he did not necessarily meet a fate less beneficent than the realization that, before he could become spiritual, he must love what was good. The friend that suggested "Before the Throne" also suggested "The Jewels." There I had a chance to express an observation all the more inviting for the reason that I knew it must have been made by many another. So often, in human relations, I reflected, appreciation was mis placed, the self-assertive presence receiving credit denied to the finer creature that shrank from notice. Another aspect of marriage I was able to deal with in "The Silences of the Soul," where I tried to give expression to what I had long felt to be a cause of misunderstanding and of difference between women and men, a cause, by the way, never men- vi Preface tloned in the divorce-court. I also meant to suggest the beauty of silence in the intimacy of love, the wonder of the unexpressed, and the disaster that might result front the intrusion of curiosity and of the desire for the expres sion of the deeper and more elusive feelings in the crude( medium of words. "The Dream," suggested by the other of two friends mentioned in the dedication, gave me a plan that applied not only to the longing to write, so common among people who never did write, but also to those other longings that, even though they might at times create sadness, neverthe less brightened life and sustained confidence through their very failure to reach action. Many of us, I knew, secretly cherished such longings and confidence, related perhaps to achievement far removed from our daily tasks and from our natural capacities, expressing the spirit of idealism buried deep in the heart of man. The same friend out lined to me "The Runaways" so clearly that all I had to do was to write the words. I valued it because it put into dramatic form a conception of life that, from the most casual observer, could not fail to be verified. The thought in "A Discovery" must have occurred to many people down the ages. Long ago Epictetus gave it expression and it has been expressed by many another writer. For this reason it was none the less serviceable. The more it was disseminated, the greater would be the comfort it might offer in time of trial, rousing the mind to a livelier sense of nature s wisdom. Each day is, truly, in itself a life. It is all we know. In a brief space it asks us to meet our problems with the promise of rest at the end. To know how to live wisely for one day is to possess the secret of living. My purpose in "The Other Self" was not so much to project the familiar idea of double personality as to dram atize the serene, inscrutable being within everyone of us, looking on and warning just as we were about to commit vn Preface our blunders. If we could identify ourselves with that other one, if we could always follow those mysterious sug gestions, emanating from a source so far within as at times to seem hardly a part of us, how much suffering we should be spared. There are, apparently, those, more change able than the chameleon, who have not two only, but many personalities. At moments, even they, with all their in stability, must be aware of the inscrutable presence, main taining a definite identity, calm in the midst of disorder, offering counsel none the less devotedly for meeting fre quent rejection. Of all the studies, the one that apparently made the most satisfactory appeal was "The Idea." The reason might be found in the presentation of the theory that, if justice were ever to be approximated in this world, it must be through universal inspiration, rousing mankind to the folly of our widespread distinctions. Then, too, there may have been, among some readers, at any rate, the recogni tion that many of our greatest thoughts and impulses came, not from the classes or from the persons specially favored, but from the common heart of mankind. In the studies dealing with labor I put into concrete form and into action social conceptions and ideals now under general discussion and rapidly finding wide accept ance. <( The Dilemma" enabled me to emphasize the per sonal responsibility borne by the every-day citizen careless of his share in legal killing. The themes concerned with the life of the spirit gave freedom for play of the imagina tion and of the hope for continued existence so strong in most human beings. The writings of the studies was a pleasure, chiefly for the reason that they seemed to write themselves. San Francisco, October 17, 1913. Vlll CONTENTS PREFACE V *THE IDEA I THE SACRIFICE 9 THE WOLVES 12 THE JEWELS 14 A HAPPY MAN 17 ~* THE DISCOVERY 21 -> THE OTHER SELF 25 WHO COMMITTED THE MURDER? 30 THE WIFE OF THE PROPHET 33 THE SPRING 36 THE MOUNTAIN 39 THE RUNAWAYS 44 THE CRITIC 47 THE REVEALER 50 THE LABORERS 53 THE MODEL PRISON 56 BEFORE THE THRONE 60 THE BEAUTY 63 THE OGRES 67 THE CITY OF LAROR 73 THE PRISONERS 78 THE INJURY 82 THE SILENCES OF THE SOUL 85 THE BURIED TREASURE 9! THE EVIL PASSIONS 94 THE ENEMY 99 THE RE-BIRTH IO2 THE GIANT S DAUGHTER 105 THE CRIME Ill THE DREAM 1 14 THE SHINING SOLDIERY 117 THE MATE I2O ix CONTENTS THE HAUNTED SOUL 123 THE FAREWELL I2/ THE DOUBLE I3O ON THE HEIGHTS 135 AT THE GATE 138 THE BUILDERS 141 A LACE HANDKERCHIEF 146 A DILEMMA 149 THE COMMUNITY 154 THE VIRTUES 157 A MARRIAGE l62 THE LOSS 1 66 ON SHIPBOARD 169 FEAR ^ . . . 173 A HATER OF EVIL 176 OUTLINES THE IDEA A "I IDEA ran up and down the world, seeking ex pression. No one heeded. Almost discouraged, the Idea happened to pass the hut of a hermit on a mountain. The door was open. The Idea entered. The hermit was sitting at his bedside, absorbed in thought. He was a large man, with a shaggy head. His mild face was almost hidden by his hair and beard. "Well, well!" he said with a smile. "What an inspir ing idea you are. You are the most beautiful thing I ve ever known. But why do you come here ? It s the people in the great world yonder that need you most. They are perishing for you. I gave up the world long ago just because ideas like you didn t flourish there." In a weak voice the Idea explained. The hermit listened gravely. "They were always like that, the people of the world. They are afraid of beau tiful things. They won t even know that you are beau tiful till some one tells them." "But I want to do them good," the Idea protested, obviously pleased with the compliment, however. The hermit shook his head. "You mustn t let them suspect that you want to do them good. If you do, they will cast you out with bitterness." "Perhaps that s the mistake I made," said the Idea ruefully. "But there must be someone in the great world that will be kind to me." FOR A LONG TIME the hermit was absorbed in thought. Then he said: "There is one hope, friend. In a great THE IDEA city there lives a man who loves his brother man. He is called a poet. He sees things that other people cannot see, and things that other people see falsely he sees in their true character. Go to him. It may be that he will love you and show the world how beautiful you are and make you a light in darkness." "O, thank you," said the Idea, modestly adding, "I ll be satisfied if I can only do good." The hermit gave the poet s name and address and eager ly the Idea darted away, over the mountains and across the seas to the great city. IN A SIMPLE HOUSE the Idea found the poet. He was gazing out of the window at the sunset. The Idea noticed that he appeared to be sad. But as soon as the Idea entered his brain his eyes be came luminous. "O, Alice, Alice!" he called, and he turned to his wife who was sewing by the table. She looked up. "What is it?" she said. He told her about the Idea. Her face darkened. "Is that all ?" she said. "It strikes me as perfectly ridiculous. People will say you re becom ing dangerous. You re writing too many of those fan tastic things anyway. Why don t you do something that will make money?" The agitation in the poet s mind came very near dis lodging the Idea. That night the Idea heard the poet talk with a friend about having no sympathy at home, no understanding, and about the struggle for bread. The next day the poet began to write a song for music that he knew would sell. Then followed a riot in the poet s mind. The Idea was crowded out. THE IDEA THE IDEA flew to the hermit, nearly exhausted. The hermit did not look surprised. "Back so soon?" he said. "I thought you might stay longer." "I m afraid there is no place for me in the great world," said the Idea, proceeding to tell the story. The hermit listened attentively, shaking his head. "Poets are not responsible," he said. "You mustn t blame them. They feel things that most people don t notice, and they are easily hurt. The marvel is that they should be able to endure the world at all. Rest here tonight and tomorrow I shall think of someone in the world that will receive you." In the morning the Idea was refreshed and more hopeful. The hermit was in fine spirits. "Have you thought of someone?" asked the Idea with great concern. The hermit nodded. "There is a great leader who lives in a far-off country. He is always telling people what is good for them. As soon as he sees you he may realize the wonderful service you can do for mankind." The hermit mentioned the great leader by name. "Strange I never thought of him," said the Idea, flying into the air. THE IDEA found the leader at a public meeting. He was delivering an address. At intervals he would stop till the cheering ceased. The Idea whispered to him. Then he whispered back: "This is not the time nor the place. I will take you home with me and think you over." So the Idea, quite happy, found rest in the leader s brain, which was glowing with excitement and generous purpose. It was long past midnight when the leader reached home. He ate something, and he drank something, and, as he sat in his library and smoked, he discovered the Idea sitting up in his mind all ready to be addressed. THE IDEA "O, hello!" he said. The Idea nodded, smiling. "That was funny, your coming to me in a flash at the meeting." "It was easy to get in," said the Idea. "You were in such a sympathetic state of mind I hoped you would use me right off." "Ah, but how could I use you when I hadn t time to look you over and find out just what you were? I didn t even know that you were an Idea. I thought you might be an impulse." "Oh, if I could only be an impulse," said the Idea, "a powerful impulse that would move men the world over. That is my ambition." The leader smiled. "I m afraid of impulses," he said. "I used to give way to them, but now that I am getting on in years I ve grown more careful." "Oh," said the Idea, disappointed. "Now tell me what you have to say for yourself," said the leader, in a tone, however, not encouraging. The Idea began to plead. But the great man remained unmoved. "You are too far ahead of your time," he said. "The people wouldn t understand you. And I must keep close to the people. If I don t they will leave me." "But I have come to do the people good," the Idea protested. "I have come to make them one people. I have come to save mankind." The great leader closed his eyes. "I think I ve heard that kind of talk before," he said. "It doesn t interest me now." Without another word he dismissed the Idea. IN THE MORNING the Idea stood at the gate of the hermit, with eyes wet with tears. "Ah!" said the hermit, and without another word he THE IDEA took the Idea in, offering shelter and warmth and sustenance. "Don t explain," said the hermit. "I understand. The great leader has become successful. It seems to be a law of life." After a time the Idea recovered somewhat. "Is there no one else?" The hermit grew sad. "My poor friend," he said, "I can t bear to see you wear yourself out with traveling over the world." "But I don t mind traveling," said the Idea. "It s only failing that I mind. But the day will come when I shall find expression." So the hermit, inspired by such courage, told the Idea of a third man, an artist, who loved beauty above all other things in the world and believed that men would be saved by beauty. "Of course," said the Idea, "the beauty of service, of brotherhood, of love. Tell me where he is that I may give myself to him." "Perhaps he will weave from you one of his wonderful tales to go down the ages, carrying the message of the spirit," said the hermit, and, with a sigh, he gave the artist s address. The next moment the Idea was miles away. THE IDEA found the artist taking an early morning walk. The artist was astonished. "Oh, how beautiful you are," he said. The Idea smiled, but not through vanity or pride, through hope alone. "If I have beauty I wish to place myself in your mind so that you may weave from me one of those wonderful tales and move the world." The artist shook his head. "I m afraid that I can t do anything with you. I am THE IDEA old and I am tired. I should be tormented with the fear of spoiling you. For at least one year in my life I should have no peace, and at my age a year of torment means a great deal. I want to have comfort before I go. I want to rest. I have had many burdens to carry and often I have carried them to no purpose. When I have done a thing that I tried to make beautiful, people have blamed me and asked why I didn t do something else. Besides, my readers expect a certain kind of thing from me now. I must not disappoint them. I have become their slave. Once I should have been glad to use you, but not now, not now." Disheartened, the Idea went away. ONCE MORE the Idea sank before the hermit. The hermit could have wept for pity. He began to feel that the Idea belonged to him. His kindness gradually brought the Idea back to vigor. "You will stay with me now, will you not," said the hermit, "and be my comfort, my joy in my age?" Sadly the Idea replied: "Can t you see that here, of all the places in the world, I cannot stay? I must go to the haunts of men, where I have work to do." The hermit grieved. "You are right, friend," he said. "It is because I left the haunts of men, where my duty lay, and selfishly came here to seek peace that I am unfit to keep you. Go, then, and find your happiness in service, as I should have done. It is the only way. Since you cannot live on the heights," he went on, "maybe there is a place for you in the depths, where men are so sorely in need of your message. Seek the poor and lowly. Among them you may find welcome." IT TOOK THE IDEA scarcely more than a second to reach the slums of the richest city in the world, which was also the poorest city in the world. 6 THE IDEA But there, in the crowded tenements, the Idea could find no lodgment. All the windows were closed. They had been closed by those arch-enemies of man, by poverty that denied opportunity, and by privation that denied nourishment to body and mind. Presently, the Idea discovered there was only one way of reaching the multitude through the heart. So, timidly, the Idea sought for a chance to enter the heart. One day the Idea saw an old man, who had grown tender from a life-time of suffering. Swiftly and joyously the Idea entered the heart of the man and, at that moment, became changed into an impulse. IT WAS MARVELOUS how the impulse spread. First, the old man spread it among his neighbors. The neighbors spread it among the poor of the city. The poor of the city spread it among the poor of the other cities. Soon it enveloped the world. It broke into a cry, the cry of the suffering people, the cry of brotherhood, appealing through sympathy and love for the heritage of the race. THE POET heard the cry. The leader heard the cry. The artist heard the cry. And they all said, each to himself: "I knew that this uprising was coming. I had the vision of the prophet. Why did I not raise my voice? Then of one accord they felt new strength, and they lifted up their voices, in a beautiful poem, in a mighty appeal, in a wonderful tale. Into one note they seemed to gather the yearnings of humanity. THE IDEA THE WORLD SAID : "This movement must be a great move ment because it comes from such great leaders." And people marveled that the leaders should be inspired with the Idea at the same time and should express it with such conviction. They said: "Isn t it strange the way an idea sweeps through the world? It is like magic." And far off, on the mountain, the hermit heard the good news and rejoiced. THE SACRIFICE A MAN offered his life to a woman. Joyously the woman offered her life in return. They agreed to share everything, their happiness and their sorrow, their fears and their hopes, to mingle their destiny. They were wonderfully happy. The woman lifted her heart in thankfulness to God. The man knelt at her feet and worshiped her. AFTER THE FIRST YEAR the man grew tired of kneeling at the woman s feet. He rose and stood beside her. She missed the worship. But it made her happy to have him stand beside her. It made her think he was strong. Presently he towered above her. She stood under his arm. There were moments when he did not seem to know she was there. Those moments gave her concern. But she said nothing. She was afraid of disturbing him. THE TIME CAME when she saw that he had forgotten her. He had gone back to the world. The world was giving him power and glory. She had become simply a part of his complicated life, a small part. She was like a cog in the wheels, expected to do her work without credit, without notice. In her soul she rebelled. She cried out to God that she was enduring an infamy. It was not for such a return that she had dedicated herself to the man. But God did not seem to hear. THE SACRIFICE THE WOMAN began to think that God, too, had forgotten her. Her heart grew bitter. Outwardly she remained the same. The man noticed no change. His failure to notice embittered her the more. THE DAY CAME when the woman decided she could no longer endure her suffering. She tried to think what to do. She saw that she must escape from herself, from the bitterness of her heart. She thought of death. But she could not be sure that death would enable her to escape from herself. It might bind her to herself for all eternity. What then could she do? She might become another woman. It was only in life that she could be sure of becoming another woman. She had learned that in self-forgetfulness lay the road to peace and happiness. So she resolved to forget self. For herself she would ask nothing, she would expect nothing. She would think only of others. Most of all she would think of him whom she had come to believe the least worthy. For a second time she dedicated her life to him. ON THAT DAY the real life of the woman began. Everything changed in her sight. Where once there had been resentment, there was pity. She saw the man as he really was, the man of success, of achievement in the world, small, narrow, selfish, weak. She saw that he had demanded from her so much because he had needed her so much. She gave more and more. 10 THE SACRIFICE And the more she gave the more she had to give and the more she pitied him. And the more she pitied him the more she loved him. The old passion was gone and the selfish longing for return. In its place was a greater and a purer passion, like the love of a mother for a helpless child. Meanwhile she remained under his elbow. He did not seem to think she was there. THE DAY CAME when the world tired of the man. Scornfully, pitilessly, it rejected him. He became the laughter of men, the mockery. She was the only one he had to turn to. He found her there at his elbow. He looked surprised, bewildered. He realized that she had been there all the time, holding him up. He saw all that he had been before. And in his anguish he saw how much she had given him and how much more she still had to give. And he saw that he could offer her in return the supreme moment of her life, the moment when he should accept her pardon and place at her feet all his shame and despair. But when he tried to bend his knee she held him with her strong arms. She could not accept such abasement. And in her refusal he saw all the beauty that she had achieved through her unselfishness. It enveloped her like a halo. It made her face shine with happiness. ii THE WOLVES ONCE there lived a man that saw into the meaning of things. He saw that many things which seemed to be alive were really dead. Those dead things were called Great Institutions. The Great Institutions were corrupting the world. They were keeping the world from the truth. They were passing off the semblance for the reality. They were poisoning the source of the living waters. So the man raised his voice in warning. THERE WAS an outcry. The multitude that heard the warning declared it was profanation. They denounced the voice as the voice of heresy, inspired by the evil one. They had lost the power to distinguish the semblance from the reality. Their fury turned them into ravening wolves. They drove the man from their territory. He became an exile, forced to live among strangers, who took him in from pity. THE WORDS of the man had not fallen on barren ground, however. They flowered into thoughts. The thoughts softened the hearts of the wolves. And after many years, under the influence of the thoughts, the wolves became men again. They recalled the warning of that voice which, so many years before, they had denounced. They said: "He was wise. He spoke before his time. But now that we have caught up with him, let us find him 12 THE WOLVES again and bring him into the public square and place a laurel wreath upon his brow." They sent for him through the city. He was not there. They sent for him through the country. But no tidings could they find. They cried aloud his name throughout the world. And from a little village in a far off country, where the simple lived, came the news that he was dead. He had been dead for years and years. THEY BROUGHT BACK the body. They gave it a magnificent funeral. They had a statue raised to the heretic in the market place, where every day the multitude used to gather. Soon they became used to seeing the statue in the market place. They forgot what it stood for. Meanwhile, there appeared among them another man with sight. He showed how the figure in the market place had ceased to represent the truth. In rage, the people snarled at him and became wolves again. THE WOLVES prowled around that statue, seeking to devour the heretic. The figure of the man that, in life, they had once sought to devour they treated with reverence. For he, too, had become a Great Institution. THE JEWELS A RICH man had a great collection of jewels. They were his pride. At every opportunity he used them for display. Toward those who were indifferent he felt suspicious and resentful. At words and looks of admiration he would glow. No one could pay his jewels an extravagant compliment. The appreciation that he himself felt no one else could express. THE MAN S WIFE, also, had a collection of jewels. But to her they were not objects of pride. In comparing them with her husband s collection, she felt ashamed. The man too, believed they were of little value. His attitude further cheapened them in the eyes of the wife. His collection seemed to her the most wonderful in the world, the most precious, the most rare. ONE DAY the man heard that a connoisseur in jewels had come to town. He invited the connoisseur to his house. When the jewels, large and shining and many-hued, were opened on the table, the connoisseur, standing between husband and wife, looked at them curiously, taking them out one by one in his hands. On his face appeared a cynical smile. "Well, what do you think?" the husband asked with impatience. "Don t you agree with me that I have an exceptional collection?" "You have indeed an exceptional collection," the man replied. "It makes a fine display. But not one of the jewels is real." The man could hardly restrain his anger. But he was determined to show that he was a gentleman. Besides, he felt sure of being able to convince the skeptic. He started to explain how much these jewels had cost. 14 THE JEWELS The connoisseur raised his hand in protest. "It is not necessary. I know how dearly buyers pay for such counterfeits. And you are not the only one that has paid. Others have paid even more dear." The man was almost beside himself. "What do you mean?" he cried. But the connoisseur had turned to the man s wife, who, bewildered and frightened, stood gazing at the jewels through tears. "You have jewels, too, have you not?" "Oh, no." The wife shrank away. "None that are worth showing." The husband broke into a scornful laugh. "If you have a poor opinion of my jewels, what would you think of hers?" THE CONNOISSEUR kept looking at the wife. "Won t you let me see your collection?" he asked. The husband was scowling. "Since he insists, bring them." He still believed that he could put down this fellow. Obediently the wife disappeared into the next room. Soon she returned, bearing in her hand a small box. She removed the cover. Beside that other collection, the jewels seemed very pale and small. But when they stood on the table the light from above, striking on their sur face, burst into a multitude of brilliant colors. The connoisseur s breath caught. Again the husband laughed, this time with triumph. "Those things are so common and cheap, I won t let my wife wear them in public." THE CONNOISSEUR was paying no heed. His eyes were fixed on the jewels. After a long time he raised his head and looked at the wife with wonder and awe. Then he turned slowly to the husband. "I think I understand THE JEWELS now/ he said, as if speaking to himself. "They have always been beautiful, those jewels, he went on, address ing the wife. "But they have grown more beautiful during the past few years. How long have you been married?" he abruptly demanded. The wife looked timidly at her husband, as if question ing whether she ought to speak. He spoke for her. "Ten years." The connoisseur s gaze returned to the wife. "They will grow more and more precious so long as they are in your possession." THE HUSBAND was really amused now. The fellow must be an impostor. "How much are they worth?" he asked, carelessly nodding in the direction of the jewels. "How much?" the connoisseur repeated. "Yes, how much are they worth in the market? How much money?" The connoisseur smiled. "They would bring no money in the market." The husband broke into his roar. "You say those feminine baubles are beautiful and wonderful and precious. And yet they are not worth anything in the market. What s the reason?" "The reason is very simple," said the connoisseur. "There are some things in the world that are priceless." 16 A HAPPY MAN A MAN looked out on the world and laughed for joy. He saw the great dome of the sky, with diapha nous clouds majestically sailing across the blue. He saw the sun pouring gold into the air and on the roofs and into the windows of a multitude of homes. He saw waving trees and flowers and a wide sweep of moving water. And he saw people with happy faces, eagerly talking. He said to himself, "Life is good," and he looked up and he had a wonderful feeling of sympathy that made him related to the people and the moving water and the gold in the atmosphere, to the flowers, the trees and to the great dome of the sky. He threw back his head and his shoulders and he felt life coursing through him. And what he called life was really love. SOON THERE CAME a day when there was no sun, when the air was thick with rain, when the flowers were vanished and the trees were bare. And the man laughed. He liked the rain. He would go out and let it beat upon him, with his head bent and his shoulders pressing eagerly forward. He knew the flowers were only in hiding. After a few months, very shyly, they would come out of their beds and smile and look up at the sun again. And the trees, too, would put on fresh verdure and open their leaves to the sky. For being away so long they would seem all the more beautiful. THERE WAS another day when the sun shone and the A HAPPY MAN flowers bloomed and the trees moved and the water danced without making the man laugh. In his heart there was gloom. And the gloom darkened his vision. He said to himself : "The world is still the same world. The only change is in myself. So I must control myself. If I don t I shall go blind. I shall be unable to see the wonderful things about me, the things that have made me laugh." So he would force himself to smile. Someone would smile back. He would feel better. The more he smiled the more people smiled back and the brighter the world grew. Presently he forgot about the gloom. When he looked for it he was elated to find that it was gone. THERE WERE MANY DAYS like the day when gloom threatened. But the man always knew what was to be done. Gloom finally became discouraged and never came back. People used to say: "Isn t he remarkable? Nothing ever seems to bother him." Sometimes they wondered what would happen when the big trials came. They didn t understand that every day of his life he was practicing to meet the big trials. The first came to the man in the guise of a great dis appointment. He had expected to do something won derful. It would bring him honor and reward. And he could share it all with those he loved. But just when he thought it was his it eluded him. And he saw that it would never return. The world grew black for a moment but only for a moment. During that moment no one looked on. When it was over the man assured himself that the world was still beautiful. He gazed out of the window 18 A HAPPY MAN and through a haze he saw the sun shining. He lifted his head and threw back his shoulders, according to his habit of years. He drew a long breath. He could not laugh. But he did succeed in smiling. "I must do better the next time this kind of thing happens," he said, and he went down stairs to comfort and distract those he knew would be grieving for him. And there he found such increase in the treasure of love that he forgot all about that other treasure. In fact, that other treasure did not seem like a treasure at all. A WORSE TRIAL was on the way to the man. One that was a part of his very being, the blossom of his life, the hope of the future, was suddenly swept out of the world. He felt as if all the forces of life had turned against him. He trembled in an anguish of grief and fear. But the practice of years helped him. He must not think of himself now. There was someone else far more important whose grief must be greater. So he tried to forget about himself. Once more he realized the beauty in the divine mystery of loss. He had not less life now, but more. He felt a closer relation with life, the life about him and the life in his own heart. Suffering was making his love finer and deeper. And it was giving him a wider understanding. OFTEN PEOPLE used to wonder. They knew that the man had not won any of the things the world considered the prizes of life. He had suffered disappointment and bereavement. And yet he met life smilingly, gaily. Even while they speculated they found themselves giving him respect and affection. Occasionally some of them would try to explain the mystery by saying : "Well, there s something about him ." But they got no nearer. 19 A HAPPY MAN WHEN THE MAN grew older he still looked young. There was youth in his smile and in his eyes and in his response to the demands of the day. He would often sit in silence for a long time, looking at the great dome of the sky, with diaphanous clouds majestically sailing across the blue, at the sun pouring gold into the air and on the roofs and into the windows of a multitude of homes, at the waving trees and the flowers and the wide sweep of moving water, and at the people, with happy faces, eagerly talking. 20 THE DISCOVERY THERE was a man discovered that life consisted of one day. At first he was startled. Then he felt a thrill of delight. Now everything was easy. Tasks, once many and difficult, became as nothing. He should simply have to put forth his strength for a few hours. I He had a new aim, to make the day perfect. THE MAN had just risen from sleep. He looked out of the window. He felt spring in the air. The earth, fertile from the long rain, was bursting into grass and leaf. He had a strange exultation. He was related to this new birth. He reminded himself that he must enjoy while he could. For he had but one day. AT BREAKFAST the man found that his eggs were cooked too much. He was very particular about his eggs. If they were not soft boiled, he believed he could not eat them. His wife used to look on anxiously when he cracked the shells. He felt anger surging through his blood. He was about to break out into an expression of impatience. Then he remembered that life consisted of one day. He must not begin the day with ill-feeling. So he restrained himself and proceeded to eat the eggs as if he liked them. By putting on a little butter, they seemed almost soft. Greatly to his surprise, he found they tasted good. He noticed that his wife looked relieved. "I m afraid your eggs aren t done quite right," she remarked in a tone of apology. "Oh, never mind," he said. And he went on eating and he began to talk about a pleasant subject. During 21 THE DISCOVERY the rest of the meal he had a good deal of laughter with his wife. When he went out, his wife kissed him, a thing she had not done for a long time. As THE MAN walked down the street he felt young. After all, life had grown very much pleasanter since he dis covered that it consisted of one day. He took a new interest in the men he met on the street car. Somehow they seemed more friendly. At the office he went to work with zest. One of his subordinates he felt tempted to scold for being negligent in a matter of slight importance. Instead, he gave a cheerful reminder. The man looked grateful and became unusually active and friendly. During the morning several trying details of business came up. The day before he would have taken them hard. Now he could not afford to waste himself. He must make the best of the day. Each task he met more lightly than he had done before, more quietly. At noon the sight of the clerks leaving their desks reminded him that it was time to eat. He reflected that the morning had gone rapidly life, indeed, was short. However, he had a good appetite and he proceeded to the place where he usually ate luncheon. There he was astonished. It was the same place and yet different. Why had he never before perceived how desperately those fellows scrambled for places and how fast they ate? He decided not to sit up on that high stool and bolt his food. He would go to a table and really enjoy himself. After all, in a day he had only three meals. To spoil one of them would be a pity. As he ate, he watched the other men darting in and out. He felt sorry for them and yet amused. It would have been a pleasure to him to tell them that life consisted of one day. But they would not understand. They would not even stop to listen. They would think he was out of his mind. 22 THE DISCOVERY IN THE AFTERNOON a distressing problem came up,, an opportunity for tremendous profit, associated with a slight, a very slight, irregularity. No one else would know of it. Besides, most men in business would have considered it justifiable. But most men did not know that life consisted of one day. After a struggle the man turned aside from the tempta tion. Then he had a great surprise. He felt far better than he would have done if he had yielded. He also had a sense of being infused with new strength. And it was all on account of that curious discovery. He felt like laughing. Well, he would celebrate. In the evening he would take his wife to the theater. Today had been strangely free from vexation and trouble. He would make it perfect. It occurred to him that he ought to telephone to his wife. She liked to know of her pleasures in advance and to make preparation. Often, when he suggested plans for going out she would resist them on the ground that she did not have time to dress. As a rule he was very impatient with her attitude. Today, however, he must do as she wished, so that there should not be the slightest jar to harmony. So he put off an important matter for a few minutes and, with some difficulty, he succeeded in getting the number. FROM THE WAY his wife spoke the man saw that she was surprised. At first she showed something like suspicion of his motives. There was a moment of danger when he came near scolding. Finally, he succeeded in persuading her that he actually wished her to go to the theater with him and that she was to choose the play. As a rule he decided all such things for himself. They had some parleying as to whether she really ought to choose. Finally she confessed that she had secretly been longing to see a certain comic opera. Though he did not care for comic opera, he said that she should have her wish. 23 THE DISCOVERY That night, on reaching home, he found his wife prettily dressed, her eyes shining, a flower in her hair. She re minded him of the way she had looked when they were first married. During the early part of the meal there was some embarrassment between them. Then they forgot it and were happy. THOUGH THEY BOTH AGREED that the comic opera wasn t particularly good, they said that they had enjoyed it. Afterward they went out to a restaurant and had a little supper. As they walked home under the stars she told him that she had been happy all day long. He smiled and he was tempted to tell her about his discovery. But he was afraid she would laugh. The man made a resolution that he would never forget life consisted of one day. If he could only keep it, the moment would come when he could tell her. Together they could work to make the day perfect. THE OTHER SELF WE all know that other self. Way back in childhood I first met the other self that lives in me. You doubtless can recall your earliest meeting with the other self that lives in you. As I remember my other self when first I became aware of him he was as old as he is now. In all the years he has not changed. He must always have been old. He knew so many things I did not know. At the very moment when I began to realize myself as a responsible being he spoke to me. He told me many things I did not believe. The reason was that I did not wish to believe them. Some of those things he tells me now. And though I say to myself that I believe them and though I try to tell them to other people, I find myself acting as if I did not believe. Even now I do not wish to believe many of these things. He looks on calmly, patiently. Sometimes I think that he despises me. Sometimes I think he feels only pity. I LONG TO MEET my other self face to face and to look into his eyes. But whenever I try he eludes me. There are moments when I think I can detect a faint smile on his lips. But about that smile I am not sure. It is only when I am absorbed in other things that I feel his presence and catch an occasional glimpse of him. The moment I pay heed to him he fades away. Whenever I turn to the things he disapproves he sud denly appears, grave, watchful, speaking his warning in a low voice, or silently. And whenever he speaks, in silence or in words, there is no mistaking his meaning. 1 25 THE OTHER SELF How WELL I REMEMBER the first time he spoke directly to me. I was lying on the floor, a child, screaming and kicking. He said: "You are foolish to behave in this way. You are only making yourself unhappy." Instantly I stopped. I lay on the floor and I looked up at the ceiling. Then a sharp voice said, a voice very different from that gentle appeal: u Now you better look out. If you begin again you ll get a good, sound whipping." Instantly I was tempted to break out into screaming and kicking. But that gentle presence was looking at me. Be fore it I was ashamed. For a long time I lay there without moving. Then I fell asleep. SUCH INCIDENTS occurred often. Always they caused me shame before the other self. Once the other self said: "If you keep on behaving in this way you will grow worse. You will hate everyone around you. You will make yourself more and more wretched." "Well, why don t they let me alone?" I said, wishing to argue. "All children have to go through those trials. They will do you good if you meet them in the right way. They will prepare you for the trials that are to come." I feel a little frightened. "What trials?" "The trials that teach people how to live. Now is the time to learn the first lesson." I whispered: "What is that?" "The lesson of controlling yourself." I was terrified by the difficulty. "Oh, how am I to learn?" "By practicing every day, by forming the habit of control." 26 THE OTHER SELF "Will you help me?" But now my other self was gone. MANY TIMES my other self came. He saw me do many things that I felt sorry for, even while I was doing them. But as I grew older I feared him less and less. At last I grew bold in his presence. "I don t believe in you," I once said to him, with a laugh, and I turned away to do as I willed and, as I thought, to be happy. He followed me, silently, without resentment. For days he did not leave me. Finally I gave up. At that instant I realized that I had been secretly mis erable the whole time all on account of him. I turned to tell him I was sorry. But he was there no longer. THEN THERE WAS the painful time when I decided to write something he disapproved. The moment I conceived the idea he stood at my side. He said: "Don t." Now I was angry. "Why not?" "It is not a true idea." "But it is the kind of idea people like. They will wish to read about it." "No matter." "And I wish to use it." There was no reply. "I am going to use it." "Your work will be wasted." "I shall try hard to make it beautiful." "What is false cannot be made beautiful." But I was obstinate. "You will see if I can t make it beautiful," I said with ridiculous pride. And I went to my desk. Those calm eyes were on me. 27 THE OTHER SELF ALL THROUGH the months that followed, while I sat at the desk, those eyes never left me. One day, greatly discouraged, I started to put the sheets in the drawer. "Burn them!" said the voice. Again I rebelled. "It is the only way for you to get back your peace of mind." Then I had the most ignoble of all feelings, pity for myself. "I ve been miserable for months." As if my other self had not known ! "Why keep yourself miserable?" Reluctantly I went to the fireplace. With an effort I dropped the sheets into the flames. When they had disappeared I had a wonderful elation. I felt like laughing. "Oh!" I said, as if I had escaped from danger. For a long time I stood motionless. Why had I not heeded my other self in the first place? Should I never learn to heed? LATELY I HAVE BEEN WONDERING where he goes when he disappears from my consciousness. Is he always there, far in the depths, among the ele mental forces? Do I destroy his peace when my thoughts turn to evil ? Do I draw him away from Nirvana? And when he seems to disappear does he in fact establish a closer union with me? It is at times of temptation that I feel his presence most strongly. Yes, it must be that at those times he comes up to help me. It is plainly his desire to give me the peace that he knows so well, that must be part of himself. 28 THE OTHER SELF For when I obey him I am wonderfully relieved. I feel harmonious with all life. Instead of being two, I am one. WHAT THEN does it mean, this struggle within every one of us, creating this strange division, this duality? Perhaps it means that we are preparing to unite our selves with that other self for all time in a peace that transcends evil, in a harmony that is part of the harmony of the universe. 29 WHO COMMITTED THE MURDER? I,N a great prison a young man was recently executed for murdering his sweetheart. The newspapers de scribed the agony of his old father and mother. The young man was execrated. Several of the newspapers called him a monster. Nevertheless, he was not wholly to blame. He may have had a vague consciousness of the wrong that was done him, for they said he walked to the scaffold with bewilderment in his eyes, as if wondering what had brought him there. THE PATH of the murderer began to be blazed soon after birth. The first sounds that he recognized were of his father and mother quarreling. Those sounds gave him his start. With great rapidity he learned from what he heard and saw, according to the habit of nature. Each day he saw and heard his father and mother resenting each other and resisting. As he grew older the slightest provocation would drive him into fury. His father used to say: "You get your disposition from your mother." His mother used to say: "You are just like your father." When the parents overheard each other speaking in this way they would quarrel again. And the child, looking on, despised them both and did exactly as they did. Meanwhile, he was marching to his goal. WHEN THE CHILD became a man he had his father and mother in subjection. 30 WHO COMMITTED THE MURDER? They were both afraid of him. And yet they loved him more than anything else in the world. The more violent he grew the more they loved him and the more they were afraid. There were times when they would not dare go into his presence for fear of his wrath. Already he was well on his way toward the goal. THE DAY CAME when the young man fell in love. The father and mother, in spite of their own experience of love, each thought: "Now he will change. He will grow kind." For a time he did grow kind, even to them. Before his sweetheart he was especially careful to con ceal his weakness. He tried to make her think that he was kind in his nature. But once she chanced to offend him. He broke into a paroxysm of rage. She looked at him in terror, as if she had made a fearful discovery. After that time she avoided him. The goal was almost in sight. PERSISTENTLY the young man strove to win his sweetheart back. She would not yield. At last, when she was alone, he forced his way into her presence. He pleaded with her. She listened in silence, shaking her head. He tried threats. She raised her head proudly, to show that she was not afraid. She became defiant. She spoke taunting words. 31 WHO COMMITTED THE MURDER? Then the last obstacle in the path first blazed so many years before was burned away in the fire of anger. The young man had reached his goal. He seized the nearest weapon and struck the blow. No ONE TRIED to find the first cause of the murder, to determine the real guilt, to discover who had started the young man in the direction of his goal. The father and mother, bowed in grief and shame, did not suspect. THE WIFE OF THE PROPHET THERE was a man that had high aspirations. He married a woman whose character seemed like his own. They looked forward to a long life of use fulness together. For several years they were happy, giving each other the consideration born of sympathy, knowing the joy of service as they worked side by side. Then the man began to change. He saw that his aspirations were old-fashioned. He developed others that he considered higher. Gradually he won the notice of the world. Men felt that a new leader had come, a prophet, herald ing a great era. Meanwhile, the wife was content with the old way. In the new way she saw no beauty, no truth. At first the man was amused by the loyalty of his wife to the old way. He tried to lead her to his views. He had no doubt that he should succeed. To his surprise, he found that her views were fixed. After a long interval it became plain to him that she could not change. And yet he longed to change her. He persisted in his efforts. His persistence only made his wife the stronger. For she loved the old ideals. They had become part of her being. THE MAN GRIEVED over the inability of his wife to receive the new truth. He spoke of her in the kindest way, however. Nevertheless, his friends blamed her. They said that she was not fit to be the wife of such a man and that she was keeping him back. The man himself they pitied. To 33 THE WIFE OF THE PROPHET one another they said it would be better if the two were to separate. But the man refused to consider such a plan. He declared that he loved his wife not less for her obstinacy, but more. Besides, divorce would hurt him in his public career. There was only one thing for him to do, he explained, to bear his burden. Incidentally, he did what he could to help his wife. But as the years passed he found that the new truth was crowding her out and he could share his thoughts with her less and less. Nevertheless, he remained a conscientious husband. MEANWHILE, the wife went on, all the more faithfully following the old ideals. The new ideals she tried hard to understand. They seemed to her strange, fantastic, unreal, impossible. She wondered how her husband could have become so different from the man she had married. And yet she loved him just the same. And just as faith fully she longed to serve him. But her fidelity did not falter, nor her faith in him, nor the hope that some day he would be to her as he had been. THE TIME CAME when the man was recognized by the world as a great figure. His name was a household word. People loved him and honored him. They also pitied him. They pitied him because he was so sad, because he had so disappointing a wife, a companion so unworthy. Occasionally in the public press the man was commis erated. There were those who commiserated him to his face. At such times his sadness would deepen. Invariably he would speak of his wife in the kindest way, as if she were worthy of being his mate, as if she were as good as he was himself. Often he said that she was not to blame. She was doing 34 THE WIFE OF THE PROPHET the best she could. Then he would add: "She s a good woman. She s a good woman. Some day she may see the light." Always he was careful to treat her with gentle kindness, as one might treat a wayward child that one loved. This kindness she meekly accepted. In her presence he would express ideas that he knew she did not agree with so that she might have the oppor tunity to profit. She would listen intently and she would make no reply. Her silence became to him one of the greatest of his burdens. But this burden, too, he tried to bear with patience. WHEN THE MAN DIED the world burst into acclaim. They compared him with the prophets of old. But the world felt no sympathy with the wife. Nevertheless, at the funeral, the wife was given the position of chief mourner. People said that she walked with an air of bewilderment, as if wondering what it all meant and why she was concerned. But one observer, a man who had strange ideas about life, said that she walked like one with a halo about her head and that her eyes shone like the eyes of a martyr. 35 THE SPRING A MAN had a beautiful garden. He loved to roam there and to dream. One day, as he stood among the flowers, he saw a little spring bubbling out of the ground. He was astonished. He knelt and tasted the water. He found it so pure and sweet that he took some of it in a cup to the members of his family. They all said it was delicious and they offered congratulations and praise. They seemed to think that in some way he deserved credit. Each day the man would go to the spring and draw water for those he loved. Soon the fame of the water spread. To drink it people would come from afar. AT FIRST the man was happy. He gave freely. And the more he gave the larger grew the spring. Soon, however, so many people came to drink the water that the man became afraid. It might give out. It ought to be used sparingly. In future it should be safeguarded. The very next day the man noticed that the spring did not flow so freely. He resolved that he would tax those that came to drink. As long as the stream lasted he must secure what profit he could. To the world the man announced the new plan. Many people expressed surprise and disappointment. Many others declared that the man was right and added, that, in his place, they should do the same thing. For a brief time the man made great profit. But people noticed that the water was not so good now. It had an unpleasant taste and it did not bring health. A few said that the man had deceived them. They believed that the water had never been good. 36 THE SPRING The man, however, paid no heed. All he cared for now was profit. Each day he would watch the spring. To his consternation it was steadily growing thinner. One morn ing he found that it had disappeared. For a long time the man grieved. He no longer enjoyed his garden. Those near to him and dear ceased to give him comfort. He lost the savor of life. Occasionally he would look at the place where the spring had once flowed and his heart would be filled with grief. He felt sorry that he had ever exacted money for the water. "What right had I to barter God s bounteous gift?" he said to himself. "I have been punished." One day, in a moment of profound despair, when he glanced at the spot, he saw drops trickling through the earth. With a cry of joy he threw himself on the ground and tasted the water. It was as pure as it had ever been, and it was sweeter. THE MAN ran to the house to search for a cup. When he had filled it he offered it to his family. As soon as they tasted the water they were overjoyed. They confirmed his belief that it had grown sweeter. To everyone that came the man would offer a cup of the water. He did not think of profit. And as he watched the spring he saw that it was growing larger. Soon people from afar began to come again. When some of them offered money the man shook his head. They looked surprised and they gave him their blessing and the man noticed that when they went away, taking water with them, the spring would flow more abundantly. After a few months it gushed from the earth, joyously, exultingly, as if from an inexhaustible source. The more the man drew from it the sweeter grew the water. All over the world ran the fame of its health-giving properties. People wondered how the man could be so prodigal. 37 THE SPRING Some of them urged him to make a charge for the water as he had done before. They told him that he might become the richest man in the world. He merely smiled and shook his head. "Am I not rich enough now?" he asked. "Is not the inexhaustible source in my keeping?" They wondered what he meant. But when he tried to explain they could not understand. THE MOUNTAIN AT the base of a mountain dwelt a man. It was fertile and grassy and it sustained many other men like himself. They lived as brothers. They loved one another. They worked together in harmony. Presently the man began to develop great ambitions. He declared that he intended to climb the mountain and gather the rare flowers that grew on the highest slopes. He started out. Some of the others followed. Most of the others, however, shook their heads sadly and stayed behind. For those who stayed behind the man expressed scorn. As THE MAN CLIMED, those with him followed as best they could. Some quickly lost courage. Others persisted with shortening breath. Occasionally one of these would climb beside the man, greatly to the man s annoyance. If he did not soon fall back the man would turn and force him back. If he resisted the man would hurl him down the mountain. One succeeded not only in reaching but in swiftly passing the man. Then followed a struggle. With a mighty effort the man overtook his rival. They grappled and fought. For a time it looked as if the man might encounter his first defeat. But he put forth all his strength and crushed his rival in his embrace. The others could hear the crunching of the bones. After that incident no one tried to go past the man or even to keep near him. 39 THE MOUNTAIN MEANWHILE the climb grew harder. Those behind the man looked up and saw him mounting, mounting. They hated him. And they hated one another. One by one they would give up and either stay where they were, stranded, hopeless, or they would go wearily back to the place where they had started. When the man had outdistanced them all he stopped and looked down. He saw his former companions on the mountain slope, like specks. He laughed, rejoicing in their defeat and in his own superiority. And way down at the base of the mountain he could faintly discern the hamlet where he had once been happy. HE WONDERED how he could ever have been happy there. He wondered how he could ever have regarded those people as his equals, how he could ever have endured them. He assured himself that he had always known he was their superior. They probably knew it themselves and wondered why he had not started before. He wished now that he had started before. Bitterly he blamed himself for wasting those years when he fancied he was happy. Most of all, he blamed himself for the time he had wasted on those people. Then he looked up at the top of the mountain. THE HARDEST CLIMB was before him. He was at the edge of the snow and ice. He set his jaws and threw back his shoulders. He had a fearful struggle. Again and again he slipped on the ice and fell. Several times he was caught in the snow drifts. His feet were sore. His hands bled. His body ached. 40 THE MOUNTAIN But he had no mercy on himself, just as he had had no mercy on others. THERE WERE DAYS when it seemed as if the man made no progress. On other days he could not even see the top. During these days he nearly lost heart. Then suddenly, the top would be enveloped in cold sun shine. It would flash like a great diamond. He would feel as if he could stretch out his arms and grasp it. He would be inspired with new strength. When he reached within a few yards of the top it seemed as if he must pay for his success with his life. But he did not care. Success was worth the price. So he made a terrific spurt. He slipped and fell. He rose. Again he slipped and fell. But he kept advancing, slowly, steadily. At last he reached over the top of the mountain. There he lay on his stomach, gasping, with his arms stretched out before him on the snow. FOR A LONG TIME he could not think. He kept panting like an animal. Gradually his heart beat less wildly. He turned over on his back. He began to feel somewhat rested. After all, he was not going to die. He would live to enjoy his success. Finally he sat up. With an effort he stood erect. He looked around. Above he could see only clouds. Below he could see only clouds. He was completely shut in. Suddenly he felt an intolerable loneliness. He longed to cry out for help. But who could hear? Besides, who was there that would help him? Who would wish to hear him? Certainly none of the old companions at the base of the THE MOUNTAIN mountain he had so gayly left, nor those he had abandoned on the slope. Then he thought of God. The mountain top he had striven so hard to climb to must be near the Throne of God. It must be nearer than any point a human being had ever reached before. He raised his arms and he cried aloud to God in his loneliness and agony. But there came no answer from the clouds. HE WONDERED if he could have been mistaken in thinking that God lived on high, among the clouds. Then he remembered a saying he had heard as a child : "The spirit of God dwelleth in the human heart." But he knew that, during his struggle to climb the mountain, he had cast out God from his own heart to lighten his burden. It would have been impossible for him to reach the top if he had been obliged to carry God along, too. He didn t dare to look into his heart for fear of what he should see there. He thought of his comrades at the base of the mountain and of those strewn along the mountain side. Perhaps God was in their hearts. Surely, he reflected, God must be in the hearts of those who remained at home, the peaceful ones, the lovers of their kind, the doers of His will. But he had cast them out of his heart, too. He had despised them. And again he lay on his stomach and he stretched out his hands. "Oh, my brothers, my brothers," he cried. "Help me! Help me!" The winds caught up his words in derision. They howled around him. 42 THE MOUNTAIN He looked about in horror. He could scarcely believe that he had really attained his dream of years. "Surely," he thought, covering his face with his hands, "surely this place cannot be the top of the mountain. It must be Hell." And in his anguish he did not even think of the flowers he had come to gather. 43 THE RUNAWAYS THEY were two runaways, driven while still children from what they called home by neglect and abuse and by the longing to be free. In each other they found companionship. One enemy they had in common, the police. In escaping arrest as vagrants they displayed precocious ingenuity. Together they led an exciting life, devoted mainly to petty crime. ONE NIGHT they planned an especially daring adventure. A house, unoccupied for several weeks, they would enter and rob. They agreed to meet nearby in the early evening. On the way, one of them, while crossing the street, was run down by a carriage and seriously hurt. A woman in the carriage took him to a hospital. There he was placed in a clean, warm bed and cared for. The other, after waiting for a long time, resolved to do the robbery alone. He was caught and sent to a reformatory. In this way the two were separated. FOR SEVERAL YEARS the boy sent to the reformantory lived in a world of vice. The evil he knew he spread among the others. The evil the others knew he acquired. By the time of his release he was hardened. The next day he resumed the old ways. Within a few months he was in prison. On returning to the world he went straight back to crime. The only happy times were when he was drunk. Then he could laugh at life and sing. Gradually his face turned yellow; his teeth grew blackened and broken; his shoulders stooped; his hair showed patches of gray. Passers-by, familiar with prisoners, recognized him for what he was. His walk was shuffling. His eyes were furtive. 44 THE RUNAWAYS About him seemed to hang the atmosphere of the prison. THE BOY knocked down by the carriage recovered. The woman that had taken him to the hospital gave him some work to do in her house. She also sent him to school. She made him feel that someone was interested in him. At first he was astonished and suspicious. His luck seemed too good to last. But while he had it he resolved to be happy. Often he would compare his situation with what it had been. Where once he had been hungry and cold, he was now well fed. Where he had been scolded and cursed, he was treated with kindness. He seemed to be living in another world. Perhaps he d wake up and find he had been asleep. But he did not wake up. Instead, he forgot. It was only at long intervals that he thought of the old life. Then it seemed unreal. He was interested in so many things now, in study, in friends, in work for the woman that had grown to be like a mother. Some day he should go to college. Then the whole world would open before him, the beau tiful world of opportunity. THIRTY YEARS LATER they met in the street, those two. One was walking beside a woman somewhat younger than himself, and two children. He was handsomely dressed, erect, bright-eyed and alert. The other, slinking up, showed a face yellow and lined, the mouth twisted, the chest hollow, the eyes sunken and bloodshot. They looked at each other. The sot held out his hand and mumbled. The man drew from his pocket some change, passed it over quietly, and turned away, as if embarrassed. The woman protested. "He will spend it in drink. See, he is heading for that saloon now. What a dreadful looking object." 45 THE RUNAWAYS "I suppose I oughtn t to have done it," he said. "But I didn t have the heart to refuse." One of the children looked up inquiringly. "He was a bad man, wasn t he, father?" The father did not reply. They walked on rapidly, eager to reach home. THE CRITIC A MAN surveyed the world with stern eyes. He saw much to disapprove and dislike. So he criti cised severely. Most of all he criticised his fellow-men. To those near him he became known as a remarkably able critic. Presently the world heard of the criticisms. It applauded the man. Everyone thought that the rest of the world was being criticised. In the criticism no one included himself. The time came when the man was recognized as a great figure, the most powerful of living critics. He gloried in his success. He went on criticising, fear lessly, brilliantly. And the more he criticised the more he found to criticise. SUDDENLY a sickness fell upon the man. He longed to die, to escape into another world, where conditions would be different, where men would be stripped of their folly and would know the truth. But he could not die. It would be cowardly for him to take his own life. Men would pity him and say that he was weak. He could not endure the thought of being considered weak and of being pitied, he who was the strongest of living men, as well as the clearest-sighted and the most fearless. He must live in order to teach men to be like himself. GRADUALLY the man became a figure of gloom, with stooping shoulders and an expression in his eyes and in his mouth of bitterness and hate. 47 THE CRITIC Those that saw him in his daily passing and repassing noticed that he was showing his age. And yet he was not so old in years. The follies of the world, it began to be said, were weighing him down. Vague reports were circulated that he was not happy at home, that he was disappointed in his children. He had expected them to follow in his path, to accept his ideas, to take up the noble work of criticism that he had so steadfastly maintained. But they all entered into the very follies that he had warned the world against. Eagerly they joined the multi tude of the ignorant and the senseless. WHEN OLD AGE came the man was left alone. His wife was dead. His children had deserted him. The world alone remained faithfully still delighting in his criticisms, still giving him honor. He lived in a fine big house, stored with the things he had tried to teach people to prize, books and treasures of art. It used to be said that this house was a monument of good taste. And yet in all his rewards he had no comfort. From room to room he wandered like a ghost. Reading his books would often give him the sense of dust and ashes in his mouth. Looking at his pictures and his other treasures was like looking at emblems of death. Even the applause of the world ceased to be music in his ears. Did he not know that it was the shrieking of fools? As DEATH APPROACHED the man had a moment of exult ation. At last he should escape. Then a strange question entered his mind : What should he escape from? He should escape from life with all its folly and misery. THE CklTlC And where should he go ? To a better world ? But now that he was really going, he did not feel so much confidence in that other world. What reason did he have to think that conditions there would be better? Of one thing he was convinced : he should be the same. Then other men would be the same. And toward other men he should feel the same hate. He should feel it even more strongly than he had felt it through life. For all his life he had spent in practising hate. Then he realized that he had become hate. He had made the world reflect himself. And in this moment of perfect vision he saw himself as he was. He shivered and covered his face with his hands. "Oh, there is no other world for me," he said. "I must come back and learn humility." They found him with his eyes wide open, staring, as if in terror, at the world he had so long despised. They could not know that in the moment of death he had for the first time seen himself. 49 THE REVEALER THERE was a man that caught the ear of the multitude. He said strange things. The multitude called the man a seer and a prophet. They listened with awe. When they perceived he cared nothing for honor they gave him more and more honor. He tried to escape into the mountains. He built a log cabin where he could be alone and think. Even there they pursued him, individuals, delegations, hordes. Always they made this appeal: "Master, tell us the secret of your wisdom so that we, too, may become wise." Always the man made this reply: "I have looked into my soul." THE REPORT of this saying made a profound impression on the multitude. They cried: "See what a modest man he is. He does not know that he is the Anointed of God and speaks through the Divine Grace." No one paid any real heed to the words. No one even thought of doing as the wise man said he had done, of looking into his soul. THE TIME CAME when the man felt age pressing upon him. He determined to write his last book. He would explain at length what he meant by saying that he had looked into his soul. He would tell what he had found there. And the book, he resolved, should be given to the world after his death. So he labored daily, fearing that at any moment, before he could finish the task, he might be overtaken by death. 50 THE REVEALER And when, at last, he reached the end, he stretched out both hands and said: "I am ready, Lord." He lay down and he heard Death coming. He smiled peacefully and he crossed his arms and he did not stir again. THE NEXT DAY they found him. They said: "He has died as he would have wished to die." They carried his body into the city. They gave it a great funeral, pursuing the man, even after death, with the honor he had despised. And all over the world men rose up in high places and, in complicated language, they sought to explain his simple message. ON THE TABLE of the log cabin they found the book. They read the words, written in a tremulous hand: "To be published after my death." Reverently they looked over the pages. Then they were shocked, all save one. But for this one they would have suppressed the book. Some of them even tried to burn it so that every chance might be destroyed of its ever reaching the world. That one man stood out heroically: "It is his greatest message," he said. "It explains everything. It will save mankind." THE BOOK created a sensation. In its pages the multitude saw exposed the sins on their own souls, the sins they had committed and the sins they had longed to commit, but had been kept from committing by fear or by lack of opportunity. Those who loved the man for the inspiration and the comfort he had given them, the few, were moved to tears. They knew how he had suffered. 51 THE REVEALER Others, of greater number, who admired him because he was so superior, were aghast. They saw how he had sinned. Still others, the vast majority, the pretenders, the hypo crites, who honored him because he was such a power, were angry. They believed he had cheated them. He had done what they had been doing all their lives, only more successfully, with the applause of the world. In one voice they denounced him. They stained his name with obloquy. They said the book was not fit to be read. They had it cast out of the public places. And the book that had been sent to save mankind became a shame and a reproach. But the few looked into their own souls. THE LABORERS THE laborers of a great city found themselves drawn together by the tie of suffering. For years they had been underpaid. They had seen their wives and children languish. They had been driven closer and closer to the edge of the precipice. Many had gone over and perished. Now they resolved that, no matter what happened, they would not work again till their em ployers agreed to give them higher wages. When they made their appeal to the employers it was scornfully refused. Then they called a strike. THE STRIKE lasted nearly six months. Thousands died. Thousands of others walked about like ghosts. At last the employers yielded. The laborers felt that the victory had been worth the price. Joyously they returned to their tasks. The wheels of industry hummed a great song, the song of labor, of prosperity, of good will. For the next few months the employers were watchful. During the strike they had sustained fearful losses. They must make up. There was only one way. Gradually they would increase prices, so gradually that the change would scarcely be noticed. In a few years they would not only retrieve the losses, but, with the new prices firmly estab lished, they would have vastly greater profits than they had ever earned before. After all, for them the strike had been a good thing. Why had they been so foolish as to mind? How easy it was to turn defeat into victory. Meanwhile labor went on humming its song. DURING THE NEXT YEAR there was a slight increase in 53 THE LABORERS the cost of manufactured goods. But the prices were cheerfully paid. Money was plentiful. After this increase came other kinds of increase, in rents and in the price of meat and vegetables and clothes. Nevertheless, labor, in that great city, went on hum ming. There was general eagerness to work now. For the increased wages had attracted an army of laborers from all over the country. Workers had to look sharp. Those who had fought the battle of the strike began to be replaced by the recruits. They looked on appalled, wondering what had become of their victory. Some of them, more daring, agitated for another strike. But what was there to strike about? Were not the wages as high as any wages in the country? No wonder the voices of discontent were cried down. No wonder the disturbers were put to shame. The employers took a high moral tone. They explained the prosperity of their city by pointing to their wage scale. They said that the only way to treat labor was to give it a living wage. Occasionally one of them would smile and wink. But for the most part they were very serious. They had succeeded in convincing even themselves. IT TOOK THE LABORERS a long time to realize. The high wages they had secured with their blood were high only in name. In reality they were low, even lower than they had been before. Besides, many that had made the great sacrifices to secure the high wages were getting no wages at all. The laborers looked at one another in bewilderment. "Our blessing is a curse," they said. What are we to do?" Then a man stepped out from their ranks, a great hulk ing fellow with a huge round head. He looked at his comrades with eyes that flashed anger and scorn. 54 THE LABORERS "Don t you know," he cried, u that there s no such thing as high wages? The moment they give us an increase they conspire to take it away. They are merely deluding us, treating us like the fools we are. So long as we let them regulate prices they can exploit us and rob us and keep us in their power. Can t you see there is only one thing for us to do?" The laborers had been listening with resentment in their faces; but they were curious. "What is it?" one of them asked in a surly tone. u We must take the whole industry of the world into our own hands. We must stop this gambling in the things that sustain human life. We keep the world going. All we need is to stand together." They shook their heads and turned away. They were disappointed. They called the man a visionary. One of them arose and made an impassioned speech ending with these words: "We want more wages. And after that we want more wages. And after that we want more and more and more wages. The higher they put the prices on us the more wages we shall demand and still more and more and more!" The audience burst into wild applause and cheers. THE NEWS of this scene was reported to the employers. Some of them shook their heads very gravely and said they feared they were going to have more trouble. Others merely laughed. "Let them go ahead and start another strike," said one, known for his cynical humor. "I should like to have another excuse for raising prices. Besides, I want to take a few months off for a trip to Europe." 55 THE MODEL PRISON A GREAT State developed leaders with advanced theories. Some of them regarded prisons as iniquitous. They worked desperately for reform. Finally, the people grew so tired of the agitation that they agreed to let the leaders try an experiment. They set aside a vast tract of land in a remote part of the State and they turned it over to the leaders, with permission to take charge of the prisoners and to see what could be done. IN A SHORT TIME all the prisoners in the State were living on the land. They had a good deal of freedom. They were not shut up in cells. They wore no stripes. They were simply expected to work a certain number of hours a day. At the end of this time they were free to roam as they pleased, provided, of course, they did not leave the reservation. An attempt to escape resulted in their being forced to do longer hours of work and to perform the severest and the most hateful tasks. IN A YEAR the new community was well established, with houses and factories and schools, all built by the prisoners. Each prisoner was required to learn a craft so that, on leaving prison, he should have a means of livelihood. A certain number of hours a week each prisoner was obliged to devote to some kind of study. The teachers consisted both of well-equipped women and men from the outside world and of the more accomplished prisoners. PRESENTLY it was discovered that there was only one serious hardship in this new community: the prisoners longed for the companionship of their families. At first the suggestion was ridiculed that the families be allowed to join them. Nevertheless the experiment was tried. 56 THE MODEL PRISON Instead of doing harm, it did good. Those who were not prisoners, unless they were too young, were given work. The children were sent to school. As a result of such activity the community became ex ceedingly productive. It not only paid for itself, it made a large profit as well. In this profit the prisoners shared. But they were not allowed to keep the money for them selves. Where they had families it was given to the fam ilies. In those cases where there were no dependents it was kept for the prisoners till they should leave. AFTER A FEW YEARS the whole country became aware of the experiment. It was so successful that other States began to imitate it. Then a fearful scandal broke out. The cause was voiced by a multitude of people in the State. Each of the model prisons, they declared, was sending into the world highly trained able men who were successfully competing with those who had never been prisoners. The result was that many innocent workers were driven out of employment. Such a situation was a disgrace. If it were not ended each State would develop an aristocracy of labor consisting of prisoners, a ridiculous contradiction. There would be a repetition of what had happened in the convict colonies. THE PROTEST was echoed and re-echoed throughout the States. It threatened to destroy the new work. It terrified the leaders. They fought desperately against it; but they were beaten. It was decided that each State should go back to the old way and punish prisoners as they should be punished. As the old prisons had been turned into factories or torn down, plans were made for the building of new prisons, with small cells and iron gratings, rising tier on tier. But just as these plans were about t9 be. put into opera- 57 THE MODEL PRISON tion one of the leaders among the reactionaries made a distressing discovery. The change would result in enor mous expense to the States. Instead of profit at the end of each year, there would be loss. Taxes would go up. The voters would become resentful. The leader communicated his discovery to his associates. They were appalled. They saw themselves ruined. They wondered what could be done. In their plight they made a study of the whole situation. They found that the new prison system was not really a prison system at all. It was society living in the right way. The prisoners of the world consisted of the members of society, shut up in their prejudices. Each of the new communities, instead of being the foe of society, was the friend that could lead men out of their cells into the free world. THE DISCOVERY brought together the reactionaries and the leaders of the advance movement. They realized that, at heart, they had been working for the same purpose. But the methods of the reactionaries led in the wrong direction. Now all men could see that there was nothing to be gained by weakening and degrading human beings. Profit lay in giving men strength and self-respect and courage and hope. Instead of enslaving men, society must make them free. First, it must provide universal oppor tunities for developing health of body and of mind and of soul. With a will the work was started. AFTER A FEW YEARS the slums disappeared, those hatch eries of crime. In their place rose comfortable houses, with spaces between and with many windows for sunshine and air. In every city great playgrounds were made where young people could have recreation and enjoyment. Then, too, there were noble parks for the whole community. Schools and colleges multiplied, for students of all ages. 58 THE MODEL PRISON The joys of learning were not only for youth, but for the old and for the middle-aged as well. It was discovered that the more the world spent for the people the more the people gave in return. Where loss might have been expected there was gain. From the model prison society had learned the way to reap the golden harvest. 59 BEFORE THE THRONE THERE was a man held a great place in the com munity. He was an exemplary husband and father, cor rect in his business affairs and in his private life. Inwardly, however, he chafed at the monotony of his days. Before him, like a procession, passed the temptations of the world. To many he longed to yield. But he did not dare. He thought of those that yielded and were detected and punished. He dreaded being punished, being classed by the world among them, the dishonored, the disgraced. Each day of his life he knew the fear of shame. It was a continual threat, a menace. He thought of the temptations, however, fondly, pas sionately. In them his imagination reveled. Meanwhile he gave no outward sign. Painfully, unfalteringly, with secret resentment, he walked in the path of righteousness. When he died people praised his character. IN THE SAME COMMUNITY there was a man whose life was a scandal. People spoke of him with contempt. He himself knew that his deeds were a reproach. He often suffered remorse. Always he longed to do better, to lead a good life. But every time he tried he failed. Yet he would keep trying. 60 BEFORE THE THRONE Sometimes it seemed to him as if a demon within were driving him to his doom. That other man, the good man, he thought of with envy. He longed to be like the good man. There were moments when the example of the good man was a torment to him. There were moments when he despised himself so utterly that he longed to die. And yet he felt that he was unfit to die. When, at last, the end came, people said it was a good thing. AT THE SAME MOMENT the two men reached the throne of God. God looked at them inquiringly, his eyes shining with pity. He turned to the good man. "What have you to say?" "The good man prostrated himself. "Let my deeds speak for me, Lord." On the face of God there was a patient smile. "Deeds are things of the world," he said. "Here we care only for the things of the spirit. Show me your heart." The man looked up, terrified. "I always did right, Lord!" Very gently God spoke again. "Show me your heart." The man bared his heart, and from it poured all the passions he had indulged there, all the sins he had longed to commit and had kept imprisoned. At sight of them he shrank away, in horror of himself, unable to endure the light that beat upon him from the celestial throne. He ran to hide in the darkness. GOD TURNED to the other man, the evil-doer, who lay prostrate, his hands covering his face. "Rise," God said. 61 BEFORE THE THRONE The evil-doer rose. He stood trembling, with downcast eyes. "What have you to say?" Brokenly the man replied that he had nothing to say. "Have you nothing to offer me after your long life on earth?" The man shook his head. "Lord, I have done nothing but evil. I am the lowest of your creatures. I do not deserve even your pity." "Show me your heart," said God. When the man bared his heart, there burst forth all the good impulses, all the longings that, for so many years, he had vainly tried to realize. Before the throne they heaped themselves, a shining mass of treasure. God stretched out his arms. "O, my precious son!" he said. And, amazed and bewildered, the man went toward the celestial light. 62 THE BEAUTY THERE was a woman gifted with wonderful beauty. It caused her, while she was still hardly more than a child, to be admired and favored and pursued. She illustrated the truth of the French proverb, "When a girl is beautiful she is already married." She was scarcely more than a child when the man came who was to make her his wife. IT WAS NOT till she had bound herself to the man and had borne him a child and had gone out into the world that she realized the power that lay in her beauty. For a time she gieved that she had not known before, that she had not waked up. In the admiration of the world she found a continual delight. It made her despise the man who treated her as if she were his own. She longed to escape from him, to be free to use her power, to bring men to her feet and to achieve a great position, where she might have more and more admira tion and win the rewards that should enable her to give her beauty the right setting, like a jewel. ONE DAY she weighed the present with the future. She was still young. If she remained for a few years more by her husband s side her youth would be gone, the richest bloom of her beauty. If she listened to the voices of the world she should have her heart s desire. She chose to listen to the world. By the roadside of life she left the man, broken and disillusioned and embittered. The child she took with her. For she loved the child as her blossom, the reflection of herself. But as the pres- 63 THE BEAUTY ence of the child would interfere with the life she longed to lead, the life in the great world, she placed her in a convent. TEN YEARS PASSED. The woman found herself more and more widely acclaimed. She became famous for her beauty. Princes were at her feet. She herself lived like a princess. The world looked on and admired and smiled and applauded and gossiped. The woman accepted the applause and acted as if she did not hear the gossip. Those she had known in her youth she ignored. Those who had loved her she treated with contempt. Some of these wondered what her punishment would be. But there was apparently no punishment. The woman seemed not merely successful but happy. Meanwhile, her beauty, instead of waning, grew more resplendent, more exquisite. When it was reported that she had a daughter in a convent, rapidly growing into womanhood, people marveled. She herself seemed hardly more than a girl. THE TIME CAME when the woman discovered that her daughter had become a woman. She would take the girl home, to be introduced to the great world. The girl s presence by her side would silence detraction. The girl would be an ornament, too. For she had grown to be like her mother, lovely as the morning. So THE GIRL went home to live. What a wonderful house, filled with costly things, with great mirrors where the beauty of the mother was daily reflected ! At first she was bewildered. She had not understood THE BEAUTY before. She had not suspected. Gradually, she became aware of the life her mother had led, of its meaning. At first she was shocked; but she loved her mother and she soon became accustomed to the life, to the luxury, the gaiety, the presence of so many interesting people, the rides in the park, the admiration of the men. Soon the admiration began to intoxicate her. She heard men and women talk about love. She longed herself to love, to be loved. She longed to live intensely, deeply, like those she saw about her. Meanwhile, the mother was watching and wondering, and as she thought, safeguarding. One of those men would marry the child some day and take her from all this feverish life and make her respected, the honored wife and the mother of children. But the girl had no such dreams. The first words of love that she heard thrilled her. The first taste of wine gave her a wild exhilaration. The first man who pressed her closely in the dance drove her into a fever of madness. IN A YEAR the people were talking less of the mother than of the daughter. They were saying that the daughter was following in the footsteps of the mother. And they were also saying that the daughter did not have the coldness of the mother, the calculation. For the daughter they foresaw dangers the mother had escaped. Meanwhile, the mother remained blind. She was too close to the daughter to see. And when she did see it was too late. For already the good name of the daughter had been tarnished. Then the mother heard that some of the old friends were saying her punishment would come through her daughter s shame. 5 THE BEAUTY For the first time in her life she began to feel concern. She resolved to keep her daughter closer. ONE DAY the mother was told that the daughter had flown with a man who had long been her own admirer. The news came while she was having her beauty pre pared for the day and while she was glancing over a morning paper. She sat up and confronted one of the great mirrors. In an instant all her years had stamped themselves into her face. 66 THE OGRES ONCE a rich man grew tired of hearing the saying: "Competition is the life of trade." He believed the saying was perfectly true. But he also believed that competition was the death of profit. And profit he considered the breath of life. So he called a few friends together, rich men like himself, and he said: "Now we must put a stop to competition." They all looked amazed. Some of them were shocked. It was as if he had said: "We must put a stop to religion, or to the ocean tides." They began to protest. In different phrases the rich man was obliged to hear that competition was the life of trade. He could hardly restrain his impatience. He let the talk run on for awhile. Then he said, in an impressive whisper, bending forward with both hands on the desk so that his head might be close to their heads: "Compe tition is a mere superstition." He looked around suspiciously, as if afraid the clerks in the outer office might hear. The others listened with awe. They couldn t quite follow. But they trusted him. They knew he was deep. AFTER MAKING SURE that no clerks were listening, the rich man went on, addressing himself to that circle of excited heads: "Competition can be destroyed. We can destroy it. We can buy up all the materials of production, all the things that people must have or think they must have, which is exactly the same thing. Then we can reg ulate the prices to suit ourselves. The people will be at our mercy. It will be life or death with them." He elaborated his plans like a general. THE OGRES Hungrily they looked at one another. "Can t we begin right away?" said one. The rich man smiled. He had appealed to the instinct that he could always rely on for response. "Yes," he replied pleasantly. "But, of course, we must proceed with care. One thing at a time. One thing at a time!" he concluded, with his delightful good humor. "It seems to me," said a little man, "that if we can only carry this thing through we can get everything." The rich man patted him on the back. "We ll leave them enough to live on," he said. "After all, it is by living that they will keep us going. If they were all to die the joke would be on us." They all laughed and rubbed their hands. They were fine, pleasant fellows when mingling with their own kind. AT FIRST the rich man had an amusing experience. The world s eagerness in selling out to him appealed to his sense of humor. And he was enchanted with the applause of the world. The very people who were contributing to his magnificent enterprise and to their own undoing were giving him more and more honor. The few that objected to selling he quickly threatened. When any of them resisted he crushed them. He became known as the Napoleon of Organizers. And the things that he organized were living creatures called Great Enterprises. The work went on quietly, rapidly. The time came when it was decided there must be results. So prices were raised, so slightly that the change was hardly noticed. Soon they were raised again, and again and again. It was wonderful the way it was done. Apparently nothing changed. The sun rose and set. There were marriages, births, deaths, divorces, all the trials and joys making human life. 68 THE OGRES The sharpest observer drifting along the street would have perceived no difference. A few saw. They raised their voices in protest. Finally they clamored. They declared that the world was men aced with strange and terrible presences. These Great Enterprises were really Ogres. "See," they said, "they are surrounding the world." The people looked up and they saw, standing on the edge of the world, great monsters, superbly dressed, with inscrutable features and faces coldly smiling. Many of the people admired the monsters. A few declared the monsters were beautiful. Meanwhile millions were starving; millions more were terrified. It looked as if life might become too expensive a luxury to be sustained, except by the few. And the prices increased mysteriously, steadily. The Napoleon of Organizers and his friends sat back in supreme content. THE TIME CAME when the people grew nervous about the presence of the Ogres. There they stood, ghostlike, un approachable, with cold and pitiless eyes. In dismay the people said to one another, "What shall we do with these monsters?" Some of them cried: "Let us restrain them." And they made feeble efforts. The world laughed. Even the monsters seemed amused. And one great man went about denouncing the Ogres and winning great credit for courage. The Ogres kept smiling inscrutably. One hopeful little man went so far as to impose a huge fine on the largest of the Ogres. The Ogre said nothing. He waited. The fine was remitted. It was as if it had never been. THE OGRES MEANWHILE, the Ogres continued to draw on the life blood of the people. Even the price on milk was raised, the milk that sustained the life of babes, the hope of the race. Through this exaction alone millions perished. It was seeing the babes languish and die around them that finally caused the multitude to rise in fury. As they could do nothing with the Ogres themselves they were determined to kill the men who had created the Ogres, the Napoleon of Organizers and the others in his class. It looked as if the horrors of the French Revolution were about to be repeated. Drained of their blood, the people longed for blood. A great army gathered. They raised the banners of war. Angry speakers incited them to violence. They listened eagerly, like all people hearing their own opinions. In the tumult no speaker could be heard. But they were all saying the same thing and everyone knew what that was. PRESENTLY, HOWEVER, from beneath the shrill cries, came a quiet voice. It was so different from the others, so much clearer, so free from bitterness that the people grew curious. The other speakers stopped. They looked around to discover the owner of the voice. He was a homely little man in a rusty frock coat and with big spectacles over his eyes. Some of the taller men lifted him on their shoulders so that every one might see him. "Mv FRIENDS," he began, "I know exactly how you feel. I sympathize. I know there are many among you whose stomachs are empty. And I know how foolish it is to argue with empty stomachs. I don t wish to argue. I merely wish to make a little suggestion about the way you 70 THE OGRES may secure what you need and what you ought to have." He was rather adroit. He didn t begin by antagoniz ing them. He knew that such a method would destroy his chance of being heard at all. He succeeded in stimulating their curiosity. "Go on!" they cried impatiently. "Tell us first how to get food." At this point the man made a blunder. It came near wrecking his chance of being heard. "These Ogres that surround us," he said, "are not our enemies. They are our friends. The multitude burst into a roar of derision and rage. For a moment it looked as if they might tear the man to pieces. But there was something about the calm, steady gaze from those big glasses that caused the excitement to subside. The people waited for the little man to say something more ridiculous. Then they would punish. "These Ogres," he went on, becoming somewhat excited, "are really you and me. It s our life blood that has made them, our needs. They represent the folly of humankind. We think of them as our enemies because we are our own enemies. Don t you see?" he cried helplessly, staring through his goggles and perceiving with anguish that he had not made his meaning plain. There were many cries of resentment, such as "He s crazy," and "Throw him out." But some of the people insisted that he should be given another chance. A few even ventured to exclaim : "He s right. He s telling us the truth." ! "My FRIENDS," the old man resumed, evidently deter mined to make one more effort to convey his idea, "the whole trouble is due to our own folly. We believed in competition. We made competition our God. Now com- THE OGRES petition was the denial of our brotherhood, the refusal to recognize our dependence on one another. It created a wasteful and disorganized world. And the rich men saw our folly. They saw that the world was ready to pay an enormous price for organization. It was suffering for order. Well, those men have given it to us. They have done for us what we should have done for ourselves. Isn t the price worth while? Isn t it just punishment for the sin of competition that denied our brotherhood and our dependence on one another? Now let those rich men keep what they have and let us accept the lesson they have given us. After all, they are men like our selves. Only they are wiser than we have been. God directed them in mysterious ways to be our scourge and our guide. Suppose we try to do as they have done. Suppose we go back for a year and live as brothers, working together, not for the good of one but for the good of all, accepting the wonderful blessings of God that come from organization and co-operation. Then we shall escape the horrors of a revolution, the fearful destruction of the things we need for our sustenance and the anguish of the women and children who are dear to us." The people looked at one another. In groups they talked excitedly over the strange suggestion. Some of the men, the husbands and fathers, and most of the women, were in favor of trying the experiment. Others were bitterly opposed, the excitable young fellows. When the argument was at its height and the sentiment in favor of a trial was plainly gaining, someone looked up and exclaimed: "Oh, see the Ogres!" To their amazement, the Ogres had gathered up their long skirts and were running into the horizon. 72 THE CITY OF LABOR THERE was a great city, standing near the sea. On it nature smiled. It blossomed like a garden. The richest fruits of the earth it bore in abundance. It offered opportunity for achievement and service to the strong. To the weary and the sick it provided a haven. But a few men, seeing its blessings, resolved to secure possession. They would force the bounty of nature to yield to them alone! It made no difference how others might be deprived. They would reap the golden harvest. Cunningly they made their plans. After many years they had their way. They saw their city flourishing. They built magnificent houses for themselves. They rode in beautifully equipped vehicles. They swelled with arro gance. For the less fortunate they felt contempt. Toward those they had despoiled they openly showed hatred and scorn. AND THE DESPOILED LOOKED ON with anguish, seeing their wives droop and sicken, their children grow up stunted in mind and in soul, their daughters exposed to temptation and dishonor. Occasionally one of them would become desperate and commit a wild act. He would be seized and thrown into prison, and the world would cry out against him. It was after an incident of this kind that the despoiled found themselves drawn together in powerful bonds of sympathy. "If we do not protect ourselves," said one, "we shall fall into despair." Another said: "What can we do to escape from the horrors of this accursed city?" After long debate they made a plan. On a certain day they would put it into execution. Meanwhile they swore one another to silence. 73 THE CITY OF LABOR WHEN THE DAY CAME, as the whistles blew, summoning labor to its heavy tasks, the workers hurried, not to their workshops, but to the center of the city, their wives and their children following. Like great rivers they flowed through the streets. At a signal they began to march. The exploiters, hearing the tramp, tramp, looked in amazement from the windows of their fine houses, at the youths, some lusty, some weak; at the girls, some beau tiful as flowers, others worn with care and fatigue; at the old women and men, bowed with toil and privation; at the big-eyed, wondering children, awed by the strangeness. They thought : "The slaves are about to give us some new expression of their enmity." They looked for means of safeguarding their property. But there was no one that could help. Those thev used as their guardians were in the pro cession. They became alarmed, not knowing what might happen. FOR SEVERAL HOURS the procession marched, very slowly, that the women and children should not be exhausted. At last it reached a great plain, nearly surrounded with mountains. The people sat on the ground. They looked about, tak ing deep breaths. Here was the same air they had breathed in their city, only purer, more inspiring. And here, on rich soil, the sun of God was poring and wide streams were running to the sea. In thankfulness they lifted up their hearts. Presently, refreshed with food they had brought, they rose and began to work, thousands of hands, eagerly, joyously, with the sense of escape from thralldom, with the exhiliration of freedom. And before the day was done their combined effort had started another city, a city that should be their own, the City of Labor! 74 THE CITY OF LABOR LIKE FIRE the news spread abroad. All over the world labor rejoiced, seeing the beginning of wonderful experi ment that might save mankind, the dawn of hope. And the word went forth to laborers everywhere : "Beware of the City of Shame. Set no foot there on penalty of everlasting dishonor." At first the despoilers laughed. They said: "There are plenty of slaves that will be glad to take the places of those deserters. The world is full of slaves. There are so many that each day thousands perish of starvation." They advertised for laborers, offering what they con sidered to be generous inducements. No one responded. Meanwhile the despoilers had to go to work. From all sides they saw their property and they saw themselves menaced with dust, with dirt, with rust and decay, with all the hostile forces of nature. For them the whole machinery of living was stopped. When they rose in the morning they were confronted with desperation and terror. No tables were laid for them. No meals were spread. There was no fire. No food came to the house. There was disorder everywhere. During the first day they suffered great discomfort. A few sickened and died. On the second day their sufferings increased. It was as if a sea of trouble swept over them. They could not stop it. They could not resist it. It would carry them to their doom. A few, the valiant, worked desperately. At the end of a few hours they were exhausted and begrimed. They knew their city was becoming the City of Death. So they gathered what they could take of their possessions and fled. But they could not go far. There were no trains. Only those escaped that had sufficient courage and energy to walk. 75 THE CITY OF LABOR THEN BEGAN a fearful struggle. The despoilers became toilers. But they were too few and too inexperienced to resist the forces of destruction. In a week they lost cour age. Already their property had depreciated fearfully in value. To the City of Labor they sent a delegation. At first the laborers did not wish to parley. They had been deceived too often. Finally they were persuaded to listen. "We will double your wages," said the leader of the delegation. The toilers shook their heads. After a conference the delegation was ready with new terms. "We will give you half our profits." Again the toilers refused. For a second time the delegation retired to confer. When they returned they said: "What is it that you want?" The toilers replied: "We want nothing from you. We are satisfied as we are. We are building a city for ourselves now, just as we built a city for you." "But you aren t going to destroy us," the leader of the delegation cried in horror. "What did you do to us?" said the spokesman of the toilers. "When we were at your mercy you showed us no mercy." In despair the delegation withdrew. Soon, however, they were back again. "If you will return we will give you everything!" The toilers smiled. "You have nothing to give." "Have you no pity?" the leader pleaded. "Even if we abused you, are we not still your brothers?" That appeal stirred the toilers. The more they thought of it the stronger it became. THE CITY OF LABOR "What do you wish us to do?" asked the spokesman. "Come back to the city you made and save it from destruction." For a long time the toilers debated. Already thousands of workers were coming from nearby cities. And thou sands of others were on their way from afar. These recruits provided workers enough to sustain the City of Labor. They could themselves return to their own city and let the world see that they were not controlled by malice. Besides, their return would hearten the toilers in the cities throughout the world. They decided to go back. The City of Labor they turned over to their brothers. SOON THE MARCH BEGAN. This time it was not silent or slow. It was enlivened with laughter and song. Even the weak and the old showed that they felt new strength. As they entered the city they had abandoned they were met by their fellow-citizens, once despoilers, now toilers. As one great family they set to work, grappling with the destructive forces of nature. Soon the wheels were turning again. The dust and rust disappeared. The hum of industry rose to the sky like a song of rejoicing. And throughout the earth a new spirit expressed itself in the hearts of men, recognizing the worth and the dignity of labor and compelling its just reward. The dispossessed became the possessors. The world grew rich with ability and talent, with skill and vigor developed from minds and hearts and bodies that once had languished in bondage. Where hate had been there was love. In place of loss there was gain. Meanwhile the City of Labor flourished, reminding the world of the rebirth of man. 77 THE PRISONERS THERE was a prison, the greatest known to men. In its cells were confined multitudes. All the prisoners were serving life sentences. About the corridors, in the sunshine, roamed the guards carrying rifles. At the approach of these guards the prisoners would shrink back in terror. When the guards were not near, however, the pris oners would peer out through the lattice in the cell doors at the beautiful world, scenting the sweet air, catching glimpses of the sky and the tops of the distant mountains. At night their ghostly faces might be seen gazing at the stars. Sometimes from the cells rose cries of anguish and despair. OFTEN, both by day and by night, two guards would enter a cell and return with a dead body. The prisoners in the cells nearby would watch with a deeper terror in their eyes. At any moment their time might come ! But occasionally one would watch with envy, as if long ing to escape from the cell even at the cost of life itself. There were those who slew themselves that they might escape. AT ALL TIMES the prisoners were trying to communicate with one another. Desperately the guards strove to prevent such com munication. But they strove in vain. For mysteriously, with amazing rapidity, thoughts would go through the thick walls, from cell to cell, invisible messengers of sympathy and fear. 78 THE PRISONERS Merely for harboring these thoughts many of the prisoners were terribly punished. And whenever the creators of the thoughts were found, whenever they were even suspected, they would be put to death. So the prisoners strove to hide their thoughts. Some of them did not even dare to think. GRADUALLY, HOWEVER, the prisoners grew desperate. They began to whisper through the walls that they could not endure their state much longer. They asked one another if there were not some way of escape. Soon possible ways of escape began to be suggested. About these there were many differences of opinion and arguments. A few proposed appealing to the hearts of the guards. Instantly this plan was rejected by the vast majority. One man declared the guards had no heart. Others proposed that, at a time to be agreed upon, a desperate effort be made to break down the walls. But to most of the prisoners it was plain that the walls were too thick to be broken down. Besides, even if they could be broken down, in falling they would crush the multitude within. The plan that found the greatest favor was that a few of the prisoners, the most adroit, should try to make friends with the guards by offers of service and by flattery. After securing privileges for themselves, enabling them to leave their cells for a time, they should strangle the guards, seize the keys and release the others. This plan was developing when one of the prisoners was caught while receiving a message. By torture he was forced to betray the plot. Then the discipline of the whole prison grew more severe. The cries of despair were heard more often. 79 THE PRISONERS ONE NIGHT, when the prison was apparently buried in sleep, from cell to cell there ran a message, like a thrill. It said: "I have made the greatest discovery the world has ever known. Listen closely and I will tell it to you." On receiving the message most of the prisoners groaned and turned in their cots. They had been disappointed too often to have any faith. Those who listened had no faith, either. They listened merely because they could not sleep. After a long silence the second message came. Some of the prisoners, in spite of their fear of the guards, laughed in derision. A few were furious at being waked from their sleep by what they believed to be a heartless joke. The message said: "Brothers, God has given us the world. Let us take possession of our heritage." A few minutes later, as the guards paced up and down the corridors, rifles on their shoulders, not one of them suspected a revoltuion had been started. THE NEXT NIGHT, just before dawn, the electric thrill ran through the prison. A few were watching for it. The others, angry at being disturbed again, tried not to listen. The message said: "Give heed, my brothers, for I am delivering unto you the word of God!" Most of them were convinced now that the message came from one of the many religious fanatics in the prison. "Give heed, for I have learned the way out. Listen, my brothers, not for your own sake alone, but for the sake of the coming generations. Save them from sharing your fate by opening the doors of your cells!" From many of the cells came smothered curses and mutterings of rage. "If one of you heed not, my brothers, escape is im possible. Listen to the message that will save you ! Your doors are locked on the inside." 80 THE PRISONERS In the long silence there was incredulity and resentment. "With one mighty movement, all together, you can throw open the doors by means of vibration. Thus far you have failed because you have not worked together. Rise out of your sleep and walk into the world. See, the dawn is coming." A few trembling rose and obeyed. With desperation they tore at their doors till their hands bled. But the doors remained shut. The stone walls still hemmed them in. Hopeless, they sank on the floor. From all sides they could hear their fellow prisoners sleeping. 81 THE INJURY FOR many years two men worked together. They were very successful. For each other they felt a deep regard. People used to call them "Damon and Pythias." One day one of the two friends conceived a project. When he spoke of the scheme the other friend eagerly agreed, offering suggestions that would make success sure and more remunerative. For convenience it was decided that the enterprise should be conducted in the name of the one that had first thought of it. Soon it was launched. As THE PROSPERITY INCREASED the one who had con ceived the idea thought: "I was a fool to have told him about it. I should have kept it to myself." The more he reflected the more he grieved. Presently he began to feel injured. If he were to take the whole profit he should have a fortune. And why should he not take it all? Wasn t the idea his? He proceeded to think how he could secure the whole profit. He found the way easy. As the enterprise was in his name he merely had to keep whatever came in. It was true that he had used money that belonged to the firm, that his friend had developed the scheme and the two shared everything. No matter ! The money invested he would return. When he reached this conclusion he felt almost honest. He was also excited and elated. And yet he had a vague sense of discomfort, too. A few days later he broke the news to his partner, speaking carelessly, as if it were not news at all, as if all along it had been understood between them. The partner grew angry. 82 THE INJURY AFTER THE QUARREL both felt injured. The one that had done the wrong withdrew from the partnership and started a business of his own. He refused to discuss the cause of the quarrel. He merely said that his partner had not treated him right. When ever the name of the partner was mentioned in his presence he would look injured. He believed that his old friend would talk against him in order to injure him. Often he would see the townspeople looking at him with suspicion and dislike. Then he would feel sure his old friend had been talking against him. As the years passed he hated his old friend more and more. Occasionally he would hear of his old friend s increasing prosperity. The reports would exasperate him. For he was not prospering himself. In fact, he found his money going so fast that he used to look forward to the coming years with terror. He believed that all his bad luck resulted from "him." "He" was determined to drive him out of town. "He" was ruining his reputation. There were moments when the man longed to kill his old friend. He said to himself that it was impossible for him to understand such smallness of character that made anyone cherish a grievance all these years. Especially since there had been no cause for the grievance in the first place. He had a right to all that money. THE DAY CAME when failure overtook the man. Broken in spirit, sick in body, he lay on his bed. The doctors told him he could not live much longer. "I m glad," he said. "I ve lived too long already." 83 THE INJURY They asked him if he had any last wishes. "Only one," he said. He spoke the name of his old friend. "Before I die I should like to tell him something." The doctors sent for the man. A few hours later the two were looking at each other, one white-faced at the approach of death, the other ruddy with life. "You have been happy, haven t you?" said the faint voice from the pillow. "Yes." "Aren t you sorry for what you ve done to me?" The old friend looked surprised. He sat by the bed side. "I didn t know that I had done anything," he said. "You ve ruined my reputation, that s all. You ve been spreading stories about me ever since we severed our partnership." "But that was more than twenty years ago. I haven t mentioned your name more than a half dozen times since, except to my wife. At first I was angry. I didn t think you had done right. Then I became so busy I put the thing out of my mind. I haven t thought of it for more than a dozen years. Now it seems almost as if it had never happened. But I have never talked against you. I knew you believed you were right." "You knew I believed I was in the right." "Of course you justified it to yourself." "But I didn t justify it to myself. I didn t believe I was in the right. I only pretended. I knew I was wrong. And the more I thought about it the more " The white face sank back on the pillow. "I thought I hated you. I guess what I hated was only the reflection of myself." The two men clasped hands. For a long time there was silence in the room. The face on the pillow grew yellow. The cheeks were sunken. The half-open eyes became glassy. Then very slowly and with some difficulty the man sitting at the bedside drew his hands away. 84 THE SILENCES OF THE SOUL A MAN loved a woman. And the woman loved the man. Their love seemed to them infinite. They felt sure they should always be happy together. They were wonderfully happy. The woman busied herself about her domestic affairs till her husband came in the evening. The man worked at his daily task, looking forward to the end of the day when he should return home and to her. They would sit together beside the lamp, she with her sewing, he with a book and a pipe. There were long periods of silence between them, of beautiful silence. Their happiness seemed to vibrate in the air. The woman s head would bend over her sewing. The man would smoke and smoke. AFTER A TIME the woman began to ask questions. First she asked if he were happy. He looked a little surprised and he smiled good- humoredly. He took his pipe out of his mouth and said that he was very happy. She asked if he had ever been so happy before. There was an almost imperceptible shadow on his face. He said that he had never been so happy before. His tone showed that he was puzzled. For a long time she sewed. Somehow the vibrations of happiness were not quite so distinct. In a few moments the man rose and started to leave the room. He said he was tired. The woman sat alone. She sewed and sewed. THE NEXT NIGHT, as they sat together, the man let his book rest in his lap. He went on smoking. 85 THE SILENCES OF THE SOUL The woman looked up quickly and said: "What ar you thinking about?" He took the pipe out of his mouth. "I m thinking of you, dear." The answer pleased her. She dropped her head over her sewing. Whenever he stopped reading she would look up and say with a smile: "What are you thinking about?" She saw that the question made him slightly uncom fortable. She w r ondered why. Sometimes he would answer directly. At other times he would say: "I m not thinking of anything." For a long interval he kept his eyes on the book. And yet she noticed that he did not turn the pages. She was tempted to tell him, as a joke, that he was not turning the pages. But she refrained. She was ill at ease. The silence became disagreeable. She could not feel the vibrations of happiness till she listened intently. It was comforting to find they were there. He looked up and caught her eye. "What are you thinking about?" she said. HE GREW to loathe that expression, "What are you thinking about?" It made him feel almost painfully self- conscious. He wished that she would stop asking the question. But he didn t like to make the request. It would seem foolish. Often as they sat together he could feel her eyes fixed upon him. And she would notice that for long intervals he did not turn the pages. So she began to ask more questions, to divert him, as she assured herself. He was too tired to read after his work of the day. It would be pleasanter for him to talk. 86 THE SILENCES OF THE SOUL Her questions were about himself and his concerns, about the details of his life before she knew him, about his family, his friends, his former sweethearts, about his feelings. He saw that she had a passionate curiosity about his feelings. After a long time, he saw that her curiosity drove her to probe into the inner recesses of his being, into the depths of his consciousness, into the sacred places, where he hardly dared intrude himself, the silences of his soul. The discovery filled him with dismay, though he could hardly have explained why. ONE EVENING she was very gay. She tore the book from his hand, laughing like a child. She declared she should have him all to herself for once. He should not read another word. They were going to have a long chat. He yielded good-humoredly. She sat on a footstool beside him, resting her head against his knee. "I love cuddling," she said. Then she asked: "When was the very first moment you knew you cared for me?" He put down his pipe. He could not answer such a question with his pipe in his mouth. He tried to look back and to discover precisely the moment when he had first cared. "I think it was the moment," he said, "when our fingers touched, the night we were walking away from your aunt s house." She clapped her hands and laughed. "Oh, I remember that moment!" She asked more questions. She drew nearer and nearer the silences of his soul. The questions became harder and harder for him to answer. They were so personal, so intimate, they dealt with feelings so delicate it seemed as if the mere breath upon them would be a desecration. 8? THE SILENCES OF THE SOUL And as she went on he had a strange feeling. It was as if they had changed places, as if she were the strong one and he were the weak, and as if she were degrading him as a man might degrade a woman. He felt for her the aversion that the woman feels for such a man. He could hardly keep from showing it in his evasive replies. She knew that she was not pleasing him. Yet she went on. She knew it would be well for her to desist. Yet she went on. At last, with an expression of impatience, he said: "Now I really must get at this book." She saw that his face was flushed and his eyes were bright. She rose from her seat and took up her sewing. She would go on the next evening. BUT THE NEXT EVENING she met difficulties. For some reason she could not understand, it was impossible for her to take that little stool at his feet and to rest her head on his knee. And it was hard to go on while they sat opposite each other. Besides, he seemed absorbed in this particular book on some deep subject. She made occasional efforts, however, usually in the form of joking references to his absorption. Then he saw that she was like a child determined to tear her doll to pieces to find out what was inside. But she was a child with the will of a woman. And what she longed to tear was made of his tenderest sensibilities, hidden in the silences of his soul. There were moments when he almost detested her. There were other moments when he felt pity. There were still other moments when he was afraid. GRADUALLY, as they sat together in the evening, she felt doors closing in her face, quietly, inexorably. 88 THE SILENCES OF THE SOUL She went on sewing, drawing the thread with nervous rapidity. He seemed not to notice. He smoked and read. Steadily he turned the pages. She wondered why those intervals had ceased when he did not turn the pages. Not once did he give her a chance to say: "What are you thinking about?" The vibrations of happiness ceased. In their place she could feel vibrations of pain. What he felt he did not betray. ONE NIGHT she made an effort. He felt her will pitted against his. She asked searching questions, leading into the silences of his soul. There she should find his real being. If she could only enter and possess herself of him, he would be hers forever. He steeled himself against her, adroitly parrying the questions. Then he realized that she was a stranger. She had always been a stranger. A stranger she must always be. Between her questions there were long intervals when she seemed to gather breath and strength. With every question his answers grew more impertur- able. They sounded as if they came from a distance. Sometimes he would not reply till long after she had spoken. His words would be brief, absent. At last she could not endure the tension. She broke into angry reproaches. Her voice grew higher and higher. "You don t tell me anything any more. You sit here beside me every evening, and yet you are miles away." 89 THE SILENCES OF THE SOUL He put down his book and he drew his pipe from his mouth. The pipe he placed carefully on the table. "What do you want me to do?" he asked. The question infuriated her. How could she express the agony in her mind ? She dashed out of the room in a passion of tears. He sat and stared after her. He did not touch his book or his pipe. He said nothing. But there was a fearful tumult in the silences of his soul. 90 THE BURIED TREASURE THERE was a boy that loved stories of buried treasure. The adventures of Captain Kidd fired his imagination. He longed to escape from the monotony of his life at home and to follow an adventurous career in seeking for the hidden gold. He had to content himself, however, with imagining that the treasure lay in the earth about him. He would dig and dig, with great satisfaction to himself and greatly to the amusement of those looking on. They liked to see his eager young face, shining with excitement, as he told about his adventures. As THE BOY GREW to a youth he lost his interest in buried treasure. Instead, he became interested in the treasures of silver and gold and precious stones that lay in the earth. He used to picture them there, waiting for man to come and secure possession. He resolved, when he grew up, to be a miner. He would go far away to the wilds and there he would prospect. He glowed at the thought of his discoveries. He would return a rich man. His treasures he would throw at the feet of the one he loved. As THE YOUTH GREW to manhood his imagination tired of those treasures, too. It found other treasures stored in books. Eagerly he would delve for them, sometimes working far into the night. He decided that these were the greatest treasures of all. And they were inexhaustible. The more he took the more he still could take. The only drawback was that life would be too short. Those that knew him used to marvel at his acquisitions. They said that he gave promise of becoming one of the most learned men in the world. At their praise he only smiled. For already he knew so much that he realized how little he THE BURIED TREASURE knew and how much more there was to know. He wanted to make others feel the joy of acquisition, too. But most of them turned a deaf ear. Meanwhile, he kept delving, making trails where the mind of man had never before entered, achieving discoveries, widening the boundaries of human understanding, bringing up from their hiding places rare treasures of knowledge. Then, greatly to his aston ishment, he discovered that there were treasures far more precious than any he had yet thought of, more beautiful than silver and gold and precious stones, more wonderful than knowledge. THIS DISCOVERY gave the man a shock. He felt as if he had been wasting his time. He had been living for the sake of acquisition, for himself. So he had shut himself out of the most precious treasures. To secure these he went to work with his characteristic energy. At first, he could hardly believe his eyes. There they were all about him, treasures that any one who looked could see. He had been blind. Why had his knowledge failed to give him sight? He watched for those who realized these treasures. Here and there they were to be found. Nearly always they were people he had considered inferior to himself, ignorant. He decided to make friends with them. At first the strangers were afraid of him and stood apart. But when they saw that he was sincere they re sponded. It was then that he had his first conception of the extent of the buried treasure. It fired him with the desire to make new discoveries. He longed to ask ques tions of those that possessed the treasure; but he did not dare; such curiosity would seem like an intrusion. Be sides, he saw that the people themselves did not under stand. They only felt. Here was a clue. He, too, must learn to feel. So he sought out those who had the deepest sympathy. 92 THE BURIED TREASURE Soon he found himself among the people whose very existence he had not been aware of, millions and millions, swarming over the earth. Now for the first time in his life he knew the meaning of the expression "the treasure of the humble." PEOPLE CRITICISED THE MAN. They said that he was be coming eccentric and wasting his great talent. They had expected him to have a brilliant career. Instead, he was allying himself with the lowest forces in life. If he heard the criticisms, he paid no heed. He went about radiantly, with a smile on his lips and a light in his eyes. 93 THE EVIL PASSIONS A GROUP of Evil Passions floated in the air, mighty figures, as old as mankind and yet touched with a kind of youth in their hideous faces. They looked down on the great city, just beginning to stir with life. Over the edge of the bay majestically rose the sun. Like spires, tall ships lifted their masts toward the sky. From a multitude of towers came the clanging of bells and the shrieking of whistles. "THEY WILL BE COMING SOON," said Avarice, with a smile. "See, the anxious shopkeepers are on the cars and the ferry. They are determined not to let anyone get ahead of them. But they are not gaining much. It is the men who lie abed till nine o clock that I am most in terested in. They have the great appetites.,, See that fine house there, on the avenue? Someone is sleeping in the front room who will swallow a multitude of these small creatures in a minute. I will wait for him. He has been laying his plans for a long time. As soon as he steps into his automobile I will take possession of him and make him do my will. Then I will glut him with joy and he will be my slave." ENVY NODDED APPROVINGLY. "You couldn t do anything that would help me more. You know how they long to imitate him down there. While you are at work they will have their eyes on him. I will enter their minds and, as they see him growing richer and richer, they will writhe." They both laughed malignantly. If the eyes of the swarming human beings below could have looked up and seen those faces there would have been consternation in that city. 94 THE EVIL PASSIONS PRIDE YAWNED with the consciousness of superiority. *l have a feeling that I am going to spend a profitable day. I think I will devote myself chiefly to the members of the gentler sex. They ll be easy to work on. I will make them do the most ridiculous things with the idea that they are exciting admiration. And I will make them do many things that they won t really want to do at all. The wife of that millionaire," Pride went on, with a cold glance at Avarice and at Envy, "I will do something for her. I will make her so inflated by the success of her husband that she will drop many of her old friends. And she will praise her husband till he thinks he is one of the greatest men in the world and determines to destroy still more people. Really," Pride concluded, with a curl of the lip, "you two couldn t do anything without me." "AREN T YOU GOING to give me any credit?" cried Hate, with a dark frown. "If I didn t help you, you d find that most of your work counted for nothing. You don t seem to realize that sickly creature, Love, is trying to interfere with you all the time. But for me you would have been destroyed long ago. I am always fighting your battles." Pride turned to Hate with a patronizing smile. "My friend, I appreciate your worth." Envy and Avarice also broke out with praise. They de clared that it was wonderful the way Hate worked, never losing interest, never getting tired, always ready to leap out and to strive furiously. The more they praised, the more ugly Hate grew and the more malignant. "If I didn t keep on the watch all the time, I should be destroyed myself. You don t know what a terrible conspiracy there is against me in the uni verse. Some of the very people down there have the im pudence to think that they can destroy me. But I am just as strong now as I ever was." "I like to hear you talk like that," said Pride. "But you 95 THE EVIL PASSIONS ought to give us some credit, too. Just as you help us, we help you. After all," Pride acknowledged, with noble condescension, u you and I are related. We belong to the same family." "Bur HOW ABOUT ME?" shrieked Anger, the pale face lined and distorted, the eyes shooting fire. "Are you so foolish as to think that anyone of you can compare with me for effectiveness? You think you can make those people down there your slaves. You re always trying. But I don t even have to try. I just whisper to them and they do my will. See them hurrying? Don t they look absorbed? But if I just remind one of them of something disagreeable I can stir him up inside. It takes a very re markable character to resist me. A lot of them are just in the mood. Some of them are waiting for me to come. See that young fellow, crossing on the ferry, the giant with big shoulders and with blood-shot eyes? He has been drinking for more than a week. Yesterday he didn t go to work at all. As soon as I remind him of something that happened a few days ago he will long to have a quarrel with his foreman. I will put ideas into his head about what the foreman is going to say. I will make him look forward to a quarrel. Then, as soon as the foreman speaks, he ll be ready. I can do anything I like with him to-day." U !T S EXTRAORDINARY, isn t it, what a difference there is in people?" said Lust, with small, glittering eyes and a thick lower lip that sagged away from the mouth. "Now I have to be very careful. For that reason my work is a good deal harder than any of you can imagine. I have to pick just the right people." Pride drew away with contempt. "You? Your work isn t work at all. It s degrading. But for me human be ings would all abandon themselves to you and become animals." THE EVIL PASSIONS Lust broke into a shrill laugh, like a shriek. "Did you ever hear such impudence? How dare you speak to me like that? Your airs are preposterous? Don t I find you wherever I go? You know perfectly well that you often prepare the way for me. And I often put you in your place, too. I get you under my feet. I show 4 you where you belong." They started to quarrel. But the others interfered. U O, you fools," cried Anger. "Can t you see that we all have to work together? If we didn t we should never accomplish anything." But Lust was not so easily quieted. "The idea of say ing that I don t have to work. There are some people that won t have anything to do with me. When I come around, they positively shiver. But just let me once get into a human soul and I tell you it s almost impossible to get me out. And even if I m driven out, I m not forgot ten. I can do something that you others can t do : I can make a slave of memory. There s where I show my power." THE SUN WAS WELL UP in the sky now. The ferries were black with humanity. Figures were clinging to the crowded street cars. In the streets the people swarmed. "It s time for us to get to work," said Jealousy. "Can t you hear them calling? They re beginning to think about themselves and comparing their lot with others. If I can get in there first, I will leave the doors open for you." "Quick," said Malice impatiently. "We are late this morning. I long to hear what they are saying to one another. I will get them to repeat things they hear that will do mischief, perhaps with a little change. Keep close to me, Anger." IN A FLOCK, the Evil Passions swept through the air. For a few moments they hovered over the highest buildings. Then they divided into small groups, some going into 97 THE EVIL PASSIONS offices, some into houses, still others flying up and down the streets, looking for prey. MANY PEOPLE WENT on with their tasks, as if they were unaware that there were creatures in the world like Evil Passions, wholesome, bright-eyed, at peace with them selves and with their fellow beings. Many others quickly yielded. It was as if their minds had become possessed. And throughout the city the usual sins were committed, through jealousy and malice and envy and anger and lust and hate. Most of them were secret. Only a few reached the newspapers. These included the murder by a young workman of his foreman. THE ENEMY A MAN stood in the center of the world and watched his fellow-men. He saw them competing and struggling and resenting and destroying. To save himself from destruction, he believed that he, too, must enter into the fray. He must fight, desperately and per sistently. Every man out there was his enemy. He would give no quarter. SOON THE MAN BECAME KNOWN as one of the greatest of the fighters. His eyes glistened like sparks drawn from flint. His jaw hardened. His face grew furrowed. Everywhere he went he inspired fear. Wherever he turned his eyes he saw an enemy. When he heard people speak about the wonder and beauty of love his lips would widen in a grim smile. To him, love was a mockery, a deceit, a mask worn by enmity for the sake of gaining advantage. WHEN HE GREW OLD the man stood on a pinnacle. He was a success, out of the reach of his enemies. He had them all at his feet. They could not hurt him now. And yet he did not feel safe. There was no knowing what they might try to do to him in their jealousy and their hate. It was a joy to him to see his possessions multiply ing by drawing on the powers of his enemies, his slaves; but it was also a pain. The more he accumulated, the more he was afraid. He began to wonder why he suffered so much and why he was so lonely. They must be to blame. They were working against him, destroying his peace of mind. He became suspicious of the very people that were closest to him, those dependent on his bounty. They, too, were his enemies. He said to himself that he had been too considerate. He resolved to keep a close watch on them. He would make them see that, without 99 THE ENEMY him, they would starve. But the more severe he was, the worse they behaved. Some of them abandoned him. Others treated him with covert resentment. A few, how ever, went on flattering. Those he feared most. They were the most dangerous enemies. He realized the bitter ness of living in an atmosphere of ill-will. And yet, he assured himself, there was nothing he could do. He could not change human nature. But he could fight to the end. He could give hate for hate. GRADUALLY, PEOPLE BEGAN TO TALK about the eccen tricities of the man. Some of them declared that he was growing mad. Others said that he was reaping as he had sown. A few pitied the lonely figure, living apart from his fellows, drawing closer and closer within himself, blind to his opportunities for service and for happiness. Occasion ally one would approach him and suggest the doing of some generous act for the benefit of mankind. He, too, would be treated as an enemy. "You are all my enemies," the man cried out one day, as he drove one of these visitors from his door. "You care nothing about me. You want my money. But you shan t have it. I shall keep it to spite you." With anguish he reflected that he could not carry the money with him into the grave. But so long as he remained on earth, it should be his alone. THE DAY CAME when the man could not endure having anyone about him. He preferred living alone to living with enemies. In his great house, he roamed like an im prisoned animal. Then the authorities interfered. They sent doctors to make an examination. The man was furious. Those doctors were his enemies. Every one in the world was his enemy. The doctors listened quietly and spoke soothing words. The man grew more angry. They could not deceive him. He knew what they were doing. They were trying to get his money like all those 100 THE ENEMY others. But he had fought all his life and he would fight till the end. When some officers were called into the room and were told to seize him, he showed his marvelous strength by knocking them down, and making his escape. He ran to the top of the house and locked himself into a room. Now they could not reach him. If they were to break down the door, he would leap out of the window. He stood there, panting and listening for the sound of steps. There was a long silence. Then he looked quickly around. He felt as if the room were peopled with enemies. His eyes fell upon a mirror hanging on the opposite wall. He saw there a figure staring at him with fury and hate that seemed to express all the enmity turned against him in the course of his life. "So we have met at last," he said, and he saw the figure speaking the same words. He walked forward stealthily, the enemy walking forward in the same way and with the same number of steps. If he could only give his enemy one deadly blow he felt that he should be free. He drew a long breath and gathered all his strength and plunged forward. A FEW MOMENTS LATER they reached him, lying on the floor, broken and bleeding, with a look in his glazed eyes strangely like triumph. The mirror stood there, in the terrible silence of inanimate things, splintered. They made a quick examination and they found they were too late to give any help. They shook their heads pityingly. For a few moments they stood without speaking. "What a miserable life," said one. "He might have done so much for the world." And another said: "He was his own enemy." 101 THE RE-BIRTH A MAN and a woman loved each other. They be lieved that their love was the most beautiful thing in the world, the most wonderful. They resolved to do everything in their power to keep it alive in their hearts. Each day they were afraid that something would hurt it. Most of all they feared the strife of men, the enmities and the jealousies. So they resolved to flee from the haunts of mankind. They went to the top of a high mountain. There they should be alone together! When they had settled themselves, they looked raptur ously into each other s eyes. Now they need fear no longer. They should have each other forever. They were so happy that they did not think about the world at all. AFTER A FEW MONTHS fear entered the lives of the two. They did not know what it was. But it was there. It was unmistakable. It made each of them suffer. At first each hid the suffering from the other. Then each blamed the other for the suffering. There were moments when they would reproach each other. These moments would be followed by forgiveness and by new tenderness. Gradually the reproaches increased. The tenderness de clined. At times they longed to escape from each other. Then, suddenly, the truth broke upon them. It was their love that was tormenting them. From a blessing it was changing into a curse. What they had fled the world to escape from was hap- 102 THE RE-BIRTH pening here. Their love was destroying, not their happi ness only, it was destroying itself. "Oh, what shall we do?" said the woman, clasping her hands. "We must go back to the haunts of men," said the man. "You need more distraction." The woman agreed to go back, not because she believed that she needed distraction, but because she believed that he did. ONCE IN THE WORLD again, the two tried to distract them selves. They mingled with others who, like themselves, loved or had loved. They found that these lovers, too, were seeking distraction from each other. "Is love, then, so unendurable?" thought each of the two, and neither dared to ask the other. For each was afraid the other was asking the same ques tion. Some of the lovers they met openly declared that love was an illusion, a deceit. The only thing to do was to keep changing the object. In this way love could be kept beau tiful for a time. This talk terrified the lovers still more. For such love as they had left they still wished to keep. But each day their love grew to be a greater torment. Nevertheless, they still kept their faith in it. If they only knew how to deal with it they might yet make it again a source of happiness. THIS TIME IT WAS THE WOMAN who suggested a possible solution. "We have thought only of ourselves," she said. "We have believed we could separate our love from the life of mankind. We have shut ourselves off from those most in need of love. Suppose we try to let our love be to them a means of service. Then, perhaps, we shall escape this torment." 103 THE RE-BIRTH The man hesitated. "There is no service in the world that is worth doing," he said, "for men live in the realm of hate." "Then let us go into the realm of hate," the woman cried. "It cannot be worse than the self-indulgence we live in now. And, perhaps, if we offer love there we shall find a few that will accept it." So into the depths they went, where the sufferers from hate were crowded together, the millions. At first the millions were suspicious of these two. "They have some motive," they said. "They belong to the exploiters. They wish to profit further from us by becoming familiar with our misery and comparing it with their own good fortune." FROM DAY TO DAY, in their pity for the suffering they saw about them, the two became distracted from themselves and from each other. And the more they pitied the more they served. Then, for the first time, they began to understand what love meant. "We thought it was for ourselves," they confided to each other. "But now we know it was for the world." At that moment they looked into each other s eyes and they saw love there, more beautiful than it had been be fore, more wonderful. "How strange not to be afraid," said the woman. And the man, taking her hand, replied, "There s nothing to be afraid of." 104 THE GIANT S DAUGHTER A GIANT lived in a hut on a mountain. He had one child, a beautiful girl. In her was centered all his happiness. Each morning as he went to his task he thought of her. And all day long, while he con tended with the forces of nature, she was in his mind. At nightfall he would go home to her, tired and heavy laden. The rewards of his toil he would throw at her feet. She would clap her hands for joy and laugh. She would em brace her father and pat him affectionately on the back. Then she would give him something to eat and he would stretch himself in front of the fire and sleep. As THE GIRL GREW from a child to a woman she became marvelously beautiful. The giant worshiped her. He dressed her in rich garments. He gave her silver and gold and rare jewels, torn from the earth by his fierce efforts, with agony in his face and sweat pouring from his huge body. And the more he gave the more the girl expected. Sometimes she would scold him for not giving enough. At a severe look from her or at a resentful word the giant would become depressed. He would promise to do better the next day. That night he would sleep less peacefully, tossing and sighing. THE GIRL SOON PERCEIVED what a power she had over her father. She used it by treating him with severity. She said to herself that she had done wrong in being so affec tionate and kind. The only way to keep him in his place was to let him know that he was her slave. FOR A LONG TIME the giant was patient. He made excuses for his daughter. She was very young. As she grew THE GIANT S DAUGHTER older she would see how much she owed him. In return for his devotion she would give him a little love and care. Perhaps the change would come suddenly. Some night when he went home with his burden of gifts she would see him staggering to the door, and all the affection and gratitude that must lie in her heart would burst out. Then she would throw her arms around his neck and they would be daughter and father again, and live for the rest of their lives in harmony and peace. Perhaps she would even tell him that already he had done too much for her, and that, in future, he need not work so hard. It would be good to have leisure, to sit in the sun and to look out on the mountain, the scene of so many years of toil, and to enjoy the bounty of nature and to lift the heart in praise of God. ONE NIGHT, after a particularly heavy day, just as the giant was about to lie down in front of the fire, he spoke to his daughter of these things. She listened with amaze ment in her face, her beautiful eyes dark and threatening. When he finished she broke out into angry words: "How dare you speak to me like that ? Do you mean to say that you think you are my equal? If you didn t have me to take care of you, what would happen to you ? Who would give you your food and your place to sleep? You ought to be grateful for what you have and not ask for anything more. If you ever speak to me again as you ve done to night I will put you in your place. I will make you realize what you are. Now lie down and go to sleep and don t let me hear another word from you. And see that you are up early in the morning, before daylight, and do your work for me." Without a word the giant lay down. All night long he tossed in front of the fire, torn with wounded love and anger and despair. Meanwhile, from the next room, he could hear his daughter gently breathing. 106 THE GIANT S DAUGHTER FOR A LONG TIME the giant kept at his work. When he returned home at night he would find something to eat. But his daughter served him no longer. Often she was not there to receive him. And when she was there she would speak no word of greeting. She treated him with disdain. He saw that she was ashamed of him. She did not wish to acknowledge him as her father. All she cared was to take what he brought. Sometimes she would look over the precious things with a sneer in her face. It was only when she found some exceptionally rare jewel that she looked pleased. She would seize it with both hands and her eyes would shine. But she never thought of giving thanks. MEANWHILE THE GIANT WAS THINKING. One day, greatly to his own surprise, he resolved that he would endure the situation no longer. He would build a hut for himself. He would provide his own meals. He would do just enough work to keep himself alive. He would try to forget that he had a daughter. That night, instead of going home, he took the reward of his day s work and he threw it on the ground under a great tree. Then he foraged on the mountainside for food. After all, he did not need much. A few berries and herbs would keep him alive. The next day he would draw on the plentiful resources all about him. At the thought he glowed with pleasure. The task would be slight compared with the fearful efforts he had been mak ing in his former day s work. When the giant had gathered enough to sustain him he built a fire of dry wood and he stretched himself before it and he had the best sleep he had known in years. THE NEXT MORNING his daughter came and found him digging in the earth. She approached him wrathfully. u Why didn t you come home last night?" The giant went on digging. 107 "What are you doing? Why aren t you at your work?" He looked at her with his great reproachful eyes. "I am going to build a house for myself." She broke into a scornful laugh. u Who will take care of it for you and who will take care of you ?" "I will take care of myself and I will take care of my house, too," he quietly replied. u You must be crazy," she said. "The sooner you come to your senses the better for you. Do you understand?" The giant went on digging. "I understand," he said. In a rage, she began to scold again. The giant made no response till she said: "Haven t you sense enough to realize that you owe everything to me?" He suddenly turned and looked at the bedizened little figure. Then he burst into loud laughter. It echoed and re-echoed through the mountains. The girl fled in terror. FOR THE NEXT FEW WEEKS the giant did not see his daughter. He was very happy. It seemed wonderful to him that he should be able to build a house for himself and to find plenty to eat without having to endure the old tyranny. He was glad, too, that his daughter was letting him alone. Perhaps she could be happy in her own way. He resolved to try to keep all malice out of his heart. It would have been a comfort to have a good daughter. But now the bitterness of disappointment was past. The world was still beautiful. He could have peace. A few days later, while the giant was working on his house, now almost finished, he heard a slow step on the mountainside. He glanced around and in the distanct he observed his daughter. He wondered why she was walk ing so slowly. As she came nearer he saw that she looked wasted and ill, and that her beautiful clothes were worn and tattered. 108 THE GIANT S DAUGHTER He turned his back and went on working. He heard her come close to him, so close that he could feel her breath on his cheek. She was leaning toward him. "Father," she whispered. He drew away, fearing to look at her. The sight of her would tear at his heart. But he must not show the least pity or love. "Father," she repeated. He turned. The suffering in her face was terrible to see. "What do you want?" he asked, trying to keep his voice stern. "Have pity, father," she said. "I cannot live without you. You gave me life and you kept me alive with your strength. Since you went away all the treasure you lavished on me has turned to dust. I did not understand before, father. But now I understand." SHE WAS so WEAK that she tottered and sank to the ground. He lifted her in his great arms and placed her on the couch he had built for himself. He gave her drink and food. Presently she opened her eyes and she said, "For give me, father." He took her hand and held it tightly. She could feel his hand tremble. "Are you still afraid of me, father?" "I am afraid that you will try to make me your slave again." "If you will only save me I will work for you, father. I will give you my life as you have given me yours." The giant shook his head. "Am I not your child, father?" the girl pleaded. "You turned against me," said the giant. His great frame shivered. "Is there no way of winning back your love?" 109 THE GIANT S DAUGHTER After a long time the giant replied: "There is only one way. Show me whether you are my daughter in truth as well as in name." "How shall I show you?" "By working with me, side by side." The girl seemed to be infused with strength. She rose from the couch. "Shall we go back together, father?" "We will stay here." Side by side, through the long day, they labored on the new house. The lighter tasks he left to her. He had to teach her everything. At the end of the day they were both tired but happy. "Father," said the girl, "I am just beginning to live." no THE CRIME A MAN committed a crime. No one knew about it but himself. The thought of it was a continual torment. It made him feel unworthy of living among his fellowmen. Death would have been welcome; but he felt that he was unfit to die. For a long time he struggled with the temptation to kill himself. He was restrained by the dread of being a coward and of com mitting another crime. Besides, how could he know that in death there would be escape? Had not his crime be come a part of him ? Wherever his spirit went, would not the crime go, too? AT LAST THE MAN made up his mind that there was noth ing for him to do but to live. Now, if he could, he must justify his life. He must place it at the service of his fel low-beings. In this kind of effort alone could he forget himself. And in forgetting himself he would forget his crime. Each day he strove. At the end, however, the crime would rise up before him. "I am here," it would seem to say. To avoid meeting it, the man would work in the evening. He would go to bed so exhausted that he would fall asleep at once. The next morning, however, he would find his crime waiting. "I am here." He would dress quickly and begin to strive again. GRADUALLY, IT DAWNED upon the man that there were others like himself, haunted with the memory of the evil they had done, walking the earth with eyes of terror. He began to look for them. Often, he recognized them at sight. Whenever he could he would give them help. Sometimes they would show resentment or fear. Usually, however, they were grateful. One said: "It is wonderful that you should understand." He replied: "Perhaps I in THE CRIME have something on my own soul." The other looked frightened and drew away. PRESENTLY THE WORLD BEGAN to notice the man. It gave him credit. It called him a great spirit. It offered him honor. But he refused. He feared danger. He might be tempted again and yield. For himself he must take nothing. He must always give. But when he made this decision he grieved. Like other men, he loved honor. After all, perhaps it would be safe. There were others that had done wrong. At that instant his crime stood be fore him. "I am here." "And will you always be here?" the man asked. "Always," the crime replied. So THE MAN TURNED from honor and went on with his work. Each day greater demands were made on him. He had scarcely a moment to think of himself. It was only in the morning, when he woke, that he met the crime. Then he would be spurred to fresh effort. People close to him saw that he was aging; his face was growing finer, too, more calm and spiritual. There was a strange look in his eyes. Some of them explained it by saying that he suffered for others, for what they endured through the injustice of the world. No one knew the real explanation. Some of them used to wonder how, after leading so fine a life, far from evil, he should have so much understanding and sympathy. "Nothing shocks him," said one. "He can enter into the feelings of the greatest sinner. And he never wants to punish. He says that to be a sinner is punishment enough. How can he know?" One of them ventured to repeat these remarks to him. His face flushed. He turned away. THE TIME CAME when the man fell in the midst of his work. He had worn himself out. They carried him 112 THE CRIME home. They placed him on the bed where each morning, face to face, he had met his crime. They told him he was dying. He smiled faintly. "At last," he said. They asked him if there was anything he wished. He replied: "I should like to rest." They decided to leave him alone for a while, drawing down the shades that the room might be dark. The mo ment they closed the door behind them the crime appeared, no longer menacing, but a radiant presence. "I am here." The man opened his eyes, looking with astonishment at the figure. "What has happened?" he asked. "You have fulfilled your life." "But my crime I do not see it." "I am your crime. Have you not learned to know me through all these years ? Do you not recognize my voice ?" "Your voice I recognized. But your presence has changed. What has changed you?" "You have changed me. You have turned my ugliness into beauty. You have made me the means of your re demption. From an enemy you have converted me into a friend." The man drew a long breath. "Oh! I understand now. But it is I who ought to thank you. You have saved me." The presence disappeared. The arms dropped. The man lay still. When they found him there they said: "He has had the kind of death he would have wished." They spoke of his wonderful life. THE DREAM THERE was a man whose work in life was humble. Early in the morning he went to his monotonous task and he returned home at nightfall. He had a large family to sustain. His days were full of care. His friends often spoke of him with pity. But he did not pity himself. For there was something within that lifted him beyond sordidness: his dream. As far back as he could remember, he had dreamed that some day he was going to be a great writer. IN CHILDHOOD he had weird fancies. He used to tell them to other children. Even then he felt sure that if he were to write them out they would make wonderful stories. But he never had time to write them out. The day came when the man had to labor. At first he rebelled. Why should he live as if he were a machine? He had a nobler service to do for the world. But necessity held him. Then love strengthened his bonds. The bonds were soon riveted by duty. But toil could not destroy the dream. By day he would think of marvelous tales. All he had to do would be to write them out. They would make the world burst into acclaim. At last he realized he must begin to write. He would devote Sunday to his task. When he made the resolution he felt a strange fear. It was like sickness. For a moment his heart seemed to stop beating. He found himself saying, as if he were speaking to someone else: "Suppose you should fail. Suppose you should find that, after all, you did not really possess talent for writing. " Then his dream would be shattered. There would be 114 THE DREAM no relief from the monotony of his life. He would be nothing but a machine ! NEVERTHELESS, the man determined to begin. But on Sunday morning his wife said she should take the children to the country. He felt that he ought to go, too. With relief, he put off writing till the following Sunday, when he should have the whole day to himself. On that Sunday and on all other Sundays something would happen to keep him from writing. And though he was determined to make the start, deep in his conscious ness he was glad to be kept from making it. For always at the thought of trying there would be that strange feeling of weakness and fear. Meanwhile the old confidence remained, the belief that to achieve success he had only to reach out his hand. WITH THE GREAT WRITERS of the world the man now felt a natural kinship. If they should meet him they would recognize him as one of themselves. He followed their work with a professional eye. He never spoke of his dream to any one. He would be misunderstood. He used to wonder why the people he knew did not suspect the existence of his gifts. But some day they would realize. Then they would be startled and ashamed that they had not appreciated him before. People really did feel that there was something unusual about the man, both those who knew him and those who only saw him in passing. He went his way with a light in his eyes. He was a creature apart. In the very condi tions of his failure he walked like one that radiated success and power. Strangers on first seeing him, often used to ask who he was. Sometimes they said he looked distinguished. ONE MORNING the man woke up and found that he had grown old. THE DREAM It was too late for him to begin to write now. He ought to have begun years before. As he lay in his bed he knew the bitterness of disap pointment and failure. And yet he felt a great relief. He still had his dream. Now it could never be destroyed. The man he might have been he should always be. 116 THE SHINING SOLDIERY MANY generations ago some workers created little men of silver and gold. These little men they used for servants. Here and there the little men would dart, making life much easier for their masters. SOON THE MASTERS WONDERED how they had been able to get along without such help. There were those that loved the shining creatures more than their own flesh and blood, more than life itself. Sometimes they would lock them up in dungeons just for the sake of keeping them safe. This treatment of the little men would have a strange effect. Though the little men remained the same, the masters would grow sick. Other masters showed more discretion. They would make the little men the means of doing service to the world. Many said that the marvelous progress of hu manity was largely due to the activity of those indefatig able workers. THERE WERE THOSE who began to believe that life was not worth living unless they possessed large numbers of the shining soldiers. Men began to judge one another by such possessions. Those who had few soldiers fought desperately to secure more. Those that had many strove to rob those that had few. In this way hate and jealousy and bitterness grew in the hearts of those that should have been brothers. For the sake of securing those workers both women and men bartered their self-respect and honor. And men even used the soldiers to possess themselves of the women and to make the women enter lives of degra dation. 117 THE SHINING SOLDIERY The preachers and the teachers of the world denounced the little men as the cause of all evil. Meanwhile, the little men went on working, persistently, eagerly, indefatigably, seeming to grow stronger and more ingenious. AFTER A TIME, however, the little men began to misbe have. They would run away from their masters to join other little men. They showed a great love for working in large masses. They formed themselves into companies. Very slowly the companies grew into regiments. After many years the regiments became armies. Presently the armies began to flash across the earth. They would meet in fierce battle. The world would look on breathlessly. Often after a battle the conquerors would take posses sion of the conquered, vastly increasing their army. Then the conquered and the conquerors would march together for further conquest. IN TIME, however, the armies stopped fighting among themselves. They saw that their interests were identical. They could be far more effective by working together. So they made peace compacts, uniting their forces. The world became alarmed. The shining soldiers were disfiguring the earth with poverty-stricken tracks. They were possessing themselves of the resources of nature. Instead of being the slaves of mankind, they were becom ing the masters. From the terrified people rose a multitude of voices, uttering cries of warning and proposing plans for the routing of those armies. There were those who paid no heed. They enjoyed the spectacle, not realizing what it meant to themselves and to those near to them and dear. Meanwhile, those who were suffering most from the devastation quarreled so fiercely among themselves as to 118 THE SHINING SOLDIERY what should be done that they became easy prey for the soldiers. At their arguments and appeals the soldiers used to laugh openly. IT WAS NOT till the whole world had been overrun and the soldiers were on the point of becoming one great army, controlling all the resources of nature, that the world be came alive to the horror. Even those who had been amused by the spectacle realized. Then it was that men saw the folly of quarreling among themselves. They set aside their disputes. The common danger made them see the importance of recognizing their common need and their common humanity. They resolved to stand together and to attack and to disperse the shining soldiery. All over the world mankind rose as one man. With fury they assaulted the soldiers. To their amazement, they saw the shining ranks fall before them. Those bright little creatures were cowards. They had the nature of slaves. All they cared for was a master. And their rightful master they recognized in the people that had made them and that sustained them with the blood of life. BEFORE THE END of the day the world knew that the vic tory was complete. It had been almost too easy. It made men realize their own weakness in the past. Now the soldiers took their place where they belonged. For their lawful masters they worked as faithfully as they had done for the unlawful. Instead of harming, they helped. The world they had devastated they converted into a beautiful garden, teeming with the bounties of nature. And men looked on and marveled, recognizing that they were at the beginning of progress. 119 THE MATE QUIETLY a man passed along the way of life. Everyone liked him for his straightforward ways, his kindliness, his humor. Though he was very successful, he did not seem to be in the least proud. By most people he was considered lucky. In spite of being coarse in his manners and in his speech, he was married to a very superior woman. Occasionally someone would wonder why she had cared for him. She might have made a better choice. They were known, however, to be very happy. What he lacked she made up for by her culture, her religious devotion, her philanthropy and by her inter est in many causes working for the uplife of humanity. ONE DAY THE MAN DIED, suddenly, unexpectedly. The wife was overwhelmed with grief. But it was not of her loss that she though chiefly. It was of his bewilderment in the other world. She tried to think of ways of sending him aid. She said many prayers. She consulted friends who were as religious as herself or more religious. One happened to be a theosophist, a woman who, for most of a long life, had devoted herself to religious study and who was known to be an "invisible helper." Together they had often discussed the mysteries of life and death. u You know," said the wife, "though my husband was very good to me and though I loved him dearly, he could share only a part of my thought. In some ways he seemed to have no spiritual understanding whatever; but he never interfered with me and he never ridiculed. He was so considerate that perhaps I didn t try as I should have done to make him think more deeply about spiritual things. Now I am sorry. I feel that he has gone over unprepared. He must feel so lost. I have heard of the work you do among the souls that have just left the body, especially 1 20 THE MATE among those that don t know where they are and are most in need of help. To-night, when you are asleep and when your soul goes out on its beautiful mission, I wish you would make a search for him. I am afraid you will find him in the depths. He had so much to learn. It will be hard for him to begin." THE INVISIBLE HELPER smiled and promised. "I shall lose no time," she said. "And I have no doubt that I shall be able to find him. Souls like his are always on the watch for aid. If I don t recognize him as I pass he will doubtless recognize me." And don t be discouraged if he still longs for this world and tries to resist going on. He loved everything here and everyone. His thoughts were centered on the earth. I am afraid that it will be a long time before he will be able to reconcile himself to the other life." "Nothing ever discourages me over there," said the theosophist with her gentle smile. u You know it is my mission to help just such cases as his. The harder they are the more I can give." "May I come to see you to-morrow?" the wife asked with tears in her eyes. "I shall be anxious for news." "Certainly," said the theosophist. THE NEXT DAY the two women met again, the wife trem bling with emotion and the theosophist radiantly smiling. "Did you find him ?" the wife asked. The theosophist nodded, pointing to a chair. They sat facing each other. "Oh, tell me," the wife pleaded. "Well, it was very curious," the theosophist went on, her whole face glowing. "After what you told me I thought I knew where to go. As soon as I was asleep my soul left the body and flew through the air. In an instant I was among the spirits lately released from the earth, millions of them, like a great cloud. Many were be- 121 THE MATE wildered. I heard some of them expressing astonishment that there should be an after life. Though they had always heard of it, and though there were church-goers among them, they had never believed it was real. It was only the few that showed that they were not surprised and acted as if they felt at home and were happy." "But my husband," the wife said, trying to hide her impatience, "did you find him among the bewildered ones?" "I looked for him there. I looked again and again, without finding him. At last I went to the higher realm where those souls were that had already adjusted them selves to the new conditions and were thriving. Even there I couldn t find him. Then I went higher and higher and higher. Suddenly, to my astonishment, someone called to me and there he was, serene and radiant, very much as he had been on earth, among the great souls." "Oh!" the wife exclaimed in a long sigh. Her face looked blank. "Among the great souls?" she repeated. "And did he seem happy?" "Very happy." "And didn t he miss the earth at all?" The theosophist shook her head. "Didn t he miss me?" "He spoke beautifully of you. He said that you had always been his inspiration. He was looking forward to the time when you would be his companion again." He said there were so many things he wanted to point out to you, so many things you would appreciate and enjoy." The wife drew back. Her manner was somewhat colder. "I see that he doesn t need me now," she said. "I m sorry that I gave you the trouble of looking for him." She rose and extended her hand. "Thank you so much." She hesitated. There was evidently something on her mind. "Are you really sure your soul goes out that way?" she asked. "Don t you think that it may be just your im agination?" 122 THE HAUNTED SOUL A MAN believed that his soul was haunted, that the ghosts of those whose blood ran in his veins con tended for possession. There were moments when he could almost see his soul, like a timid little animal, darting here and there in an effort to escape from those monstrous forces. They included the founder of the fam ily, the merciless warrior that, for service to his king, had secured the vast hereditary lands ; the warrior s grand son that had drunk himself to death; the grandson s wife, married during a debauch, a woman of uncontrolled im pulses that had contributed so many of her vicious instincts to her line. Those three, celebrated beyond their own period, found new life in this descendant, living in a time, so remote, so alien, and yet meeting so many opportunities for indulgence. THERE WERE DAYS when the man was controlled by the old warrior. Those that had the misfortune to get in his way were made to feel like the beasts of the field. Some of them were struck down and cursed and subjected to in dignities that drove them into fury ; but they did not dare betray resentment. At such times the resemblance used to be noted between the man and the portrait of the old warrior in the castle hall. It used to be said that they were "as like as two peas." THERE WERE OTHER DAYS when the man would abandon himself to drink. Sometimes he would disappear. Then he would be found in a disreputable resort, insensible. They would take him back to the castle and lock him up, keep ing him supplied with drink till the madness passed. When he emerged he would look worn out and ill, curiously like the weak figure close to the warrior s, the family drunkard. 123 THE HAUNTED SOUL ON STILL OTHER DAYS the man would abandon himself to sensuality. His escapades would be the scandal of the neighborhood. His eyes would grow smaller and more cunning. His mouth would sag. His gait would shuffle. Now he would bear a striking resemblance to another portrait, the drunkard s wife, whose intrusion into the fam ily had brought so many woes, the creature whose name was a stain in the escutcheon. WORST OF ALL were those periods, sometimes prolonged, when the tyrant, the drunkard and the sensualist, in their struggle for possession, would control the man together, when he would eagerly yield to all the vices in his nature, till, exhausted and sick, he would find himself lying on a bed, wondering why he should have been sent into the world and why he was not permitted to end his sufferings in death. IT WAS DURING one of those periods that the man had his clearest glimpse of his soul among the ghosts, worn out like himself from indulgence. What a wretched thing, panting after its torments. "Are you really alive?" the man whispered. The soul looked worried. Then it smiled wearily and answered, "Yes, there is life in me still." "Do you know me?" the man asked. "Oh, yes." "Who am I?" "You and I are the same," the soul answered. "Ah!" the man sighed. "Aren t you ashamed of me?" "No." "Why not?" "I am only sorry." FOR A LONG TIME the man did not speak. Then he said, "You are a valiant little soul. I wish I could help you." 124 THE HAUNTED SOUL "You are the only one that can help me." "But I am weak," the man pleaded. "If you will only care for me a little, just a little," said the soul. "I will drive them all away." The man was so surprised that he came near sitting up. For fear of disturbing the soul he remained motionless. "What can a little thing like you do against those mon sters? With one finger they could crush you." "They have tried with all their might to crush me." The soul s voice was much stronger. "But they have not suc ceeded yet. They will never succeed. They are only ghosts. All they can do is to frighten me and force me to yield to the impulses they bound themselves to genera tions ago. Oh, if you would only care for me a little, just a little. Can t you see that I am starving?" "Why are you starving?" "Simply because you don t care for me." "I care for you more than I do for those others. I don t care for the others at all. The only feeling I have for them is hate." "But hate only makes my task the harder. It weakens me and it makes those others hate me more and it makes them try to control me. The only feeling that is irresist ible is love." "Do you want me to love them?" the man cried out, with loathing in his face. "You cannot. There is no such thing as loving evil. There is only loving good." "And are you good?" The soul hesitated. "I am eternal." "Oh ! And you say that you and I are one ?" "Yes." "And you ask me to love myself?" "I ask you to love what is really yourself, what is beautiful in you and noble, what unites you with God." "And in this way can I escape from these monsters?" 125 THE HAUNTED SOUL Joyously the soul replied: "They are monsters only be cause you make them so. Care for me and see what will become of all their evil." "How shall I begin, soul?" the man asked humbly. "You have begun," replied the soul, fading into the dark. As THE MAN GREW OLDER people noticed a change in him. Those periods of brutality, of drunkenness and of de bauchery gradually ceased. The wealth sent down to him in those lands secured through war and rapine he devoted to the service of mankind. His face grew finer. His manner was more serene. He was no longer compared with the portraits. He became recognized as a man of character and power, kindly, broad and generous, very different from those that had gone before, a new type. And yet, someone wrote of him, in commenting on his spirit, "what an illustration he is of the old saying that blood will tell." 126 THE FAREWELL FROM the lips of a prostrate figure lying on a bed rose the soul. It hung in the air, a few feet away, still connected with the body by a faint thread, like a ray of light. The body said, "Are you going?" "I am going," replied the soul. The body moaned, "Then I must perish. Without you there can be no life for me." The soul quietly answered : "You will go back. I must fulfill my destiny." "But I can t go back to lifelessness. I love life too much." "There is no such thing as lifelessness," said the soul. "I do not understand. When you break this thread that binds us, shall I not become a corpse, unsightly, inanimate, cold? The thought fills me with terror. Already I seem to be turning to ice. They will put me into the ground. I shall become a loathsome thing." "In nature, there is nothing loathsome. The warm bosom of your mother will receive you. There you will find a long rest. Do you not love sleep now? How often have I seen you tossing on the bed and heard you complain because you could not lose consciousness? Why do you fear the most beautiful of all sleep ?" "Because I may never wake again. Here I have faith that the morning will come." "You must have faith now." "In what?" "In the principle of life that never ceases for the smallest atom. You must be ready for your next service." "What will it be?" "I cannot tell. Perhaps you will be a part of one of the 127 THE FAREWELL great trees, like those waving outside the window. Per haps you will be among the blades of grass covering a grave. Perhaps you will be a rose that gloriously blooms for a few days in a rapture of beauty or a pale lily that offers itself to the sky like a prayer." "But I shall not have a soul then. I shall be lonely." "You will express the spirit that animates the universe. What nobler service could you ask?" "We have lived together so many years, you and I. We have been one." Sadly the soul replied: "We have never been one." The body was silent, as if ashamed. "For a long time, you did not even recognize my exist ence. You denied me." With an effort the body spoke. "It was because of my pride and my self-indulgence. I believed I was complete without you. I wished to be everything. I thought I could make myself happy." "You tried to destroy me," the soul went on, but with out reproach. "I was deceived by my senses, those false messengers. But you saved me. You taught me how to live. Those early years I look back on now with shame. Have I not made atonement? Have I not been a temple for you? Surely you must remember how hard it was for me at first." "It was hard for us both, my poor friend." "But now that we have learned to live together, will you not stay, if only for a little while?" "It is because we have learned to live together that I must go. I have other habitations to visit and other trials to overcome and other lessons to master." "Isn t it hard for you to go, too?" the body asked. "Yes, it is hard." "Are you afraid, like me?" "No. Now that the moment is here I see that I have 128 THE FAREWELL been waiting for it and longing for it. But I am still held by the old ties." "And shall we never be together again?" "I do not know. I only have faith." "In what?" "In love." "Then you really do love me?" the body asked. "I love you as I love all the universe, the wonderful expression of God s beneficence, as I love harmony, which is unity. Perhaps, though I seem to leave you, we shall not really be separated." "But I must stay behind, while you are far away yon der, in the infinite." "In the infinite, there is neither far nor near. There is no separation and no exclusion. Everything is as one. Perhaps, in the infinite, we shall really know each other and find the secret of mystery." "Already I feel as if you had gone into another sphere," the body whispered. "I can scarcely hear you. Perhaps it is because I am growing so cold." The thread broke. The soul disappeared. The body lay motionless. 129 A THE DOUBLE MAN thought he had married one woman. He had really married two women. He had married two women in one woman. Of these two one loved him in return. The other neither loved nor hated him. She merely judged. IT WAS NOT till the man had been married for more than a year that he discovered he had married two women. He was startled, terrified. Then he realized that he had been dimly aware some thing was wrong. In his moments of deepest feeling, when heart beat against heart, when soul responded to soul, he had vaguely felt an intruder. Now he was alive to the presence. And he saw that the presence was alive to him. They confronted each other like enemies. And what was most terrible to him was that the face of the alien presence was the face of the woman he loved. THE MAN BEGAN to be afraid of the woman he loved, for the reason that she was like the other women. In her eyes he could see the eyes of the other. Those eyes were watching him. In the depths of the night they looked at him through the darkness. He began to dread them, to shrink away. And the more he shrank away the more searching grew the eyes. And now he knew that because he shrank away they were judging him suspiciously, mercilessly. 130 THE DOUBLE PRESENTLY THE WOMAN the man loved became disquieted. He noticed. He feared that she might be influenced by the woman he hated ; that the two, so strangely alike, might become one. He longed to separate them, to drive away that other, the alien, the intruder. But he did not dare to try. He did not dare even to speak. For closer to his wife than he was himself, closer than he could ever be, was that other one, the menacing pres ence, the inexorable judge. To ESCAPE from torment the man began to drink. He saw that his wife suffered. But the other did not suffer. She looked at him in scrutably. He fancied he could see her smile as one whose suspicions were verified. In his bitter hours of reaction from his debauches he felt tempted to destroy that other one. She would hover about him even while his wife, the one he loved, the only one he had meant to marry, was min istering to him tenderly, devotedly. But he could not destroy that other without destroying her, too. AFTER A TIME the man grew afraid of his thoughts. He grew afraid of himself. And this fear, he knew, came from his fear of her, the other. His periods of drinking occurred oftener. They lasted longer. People sympathized with his wife. Some of them said she ought to leave him. When he heard of the talk he felt both terror and joy. His terror was caused by the danger of losing her. But suppose she should leave him. Then he might escape from the other. THE DOUBLE Yet he knew she would never leave him. The other would not let his wife go, because she would not go her self. The other would understand that she could inflict the greatest punishment on him by staying. ONE DAY AFTER a debauch, the man saw he could never go back. He had not the courage to face the other. But he grieved deeply and sincerely for the wife he had lost. He went to a far-off place, where he hoped that in time he might cure himself of his horror. People said he had deserted his wife. They sympathized with her. They encouraged her to think that a burden had been lifted from her and she was better off. They urged her to seek a divorce. They judged him harshly. WHEN THE MAN had been away from his wife for many months he wondered why he did not feel better. He discovered that he was suffering for her, for the woman he loved, for the woman he meant to marry. She had become a part of his being. Without her he was crippled, helpless, dismayed. But he did not dare go back to her, he was so afraid of the other, the double. As he sank lower and lower, he grew more afraid of the other. If she could see him he knew how cruel she would be. Finally, he reached the state when he saw the end com ing. Defiled and broken, he lay in the hospital. He sent a message to his wife: "I am dying. Forgive me. I wish I could have done better." Then he resigned himself. 132 THE DOUBLE THE MESSAGE reached the wife a few days before the time set for the divorce proceedings. It affected her strangely. She sat perfectly still, looking straight ahead. In her consciousness a struggle began between her real self and that other self, a quiet and terrible struggle, with love on one side and on the other side hate. Hate tried to persuade her that it was she who had been injured. Hate reminded her of things that made her almost shriek with pain. Love showed her that it was she who had injured her self and injured him, the being she loved most in the world and most longed to cherish. Love made her see how, with sympathy, she might have kept him from evil, how she might have succeeded in turning evil into good. Even now, Love implored her to make an effort to turn evil into good, assuring her that it was not too late. Love conquered. At that moment the other woman was driven out. After the struggle, the wife wept with shame, with re morse, realizing all the harm that had been done, all the good that had been lost. And through those tears the temple of her heart was purified. Never again could the other woman enter. That day the wife sent word that the divorce pro ceedings should be stopped. She prepared for a journey. The next morning she reached her husband. He looked as if he were seeing a vision. He stretched out his hand. "It was you that I loved," he said. "It was you that I made my wife. I have never ceased loving you." She sat by his bedside and she pressed her face against his face. 133 THE DOUBLE "I will try to make up," was all she could say. He put his weak arms about her. He did not understand. But he knew that she was really there. And he knew that she was alone. He need have no fear of that other one. He felt a wonderful infusion of strength. "I think I shall get well/ he said. 134 ON THE HEIGHTS fnr^HERE was a young man loved solitude. Often he I would disappear in the mountains, where he had a "* cabin. After a few days, he would return, appar ently stronger and more eager for his daily work. When the young man became engaged to marry a beautiful girl, his friends wondered if he would continue going to the mountain. He went as he had done before. THE GIRL repeatedly said that she wished him to go. But, in her heart, she suffered. She knew that people noticed. He might at least have stayed at home for her sake. She wondered why he was so fond of those mountains and why he never took anyone with him, and why he never thought of inviting her. Once, during his absence, she became so unhappy that she determined on a bold plan. She would go to the mountains. She would climb to the cabin, and give him a surprise. Then she would find out for herself. Whatever annoyance he might feel would disappear in his joy at seeing her again. THE NEXT MORNING she started. When she reached the mountains she was appalled by the sight of the steep grades. But she drew on all her courage and strength. After a long effort, she reached a point where she could see the cabin. In front of the open door sat her lover, absorbed in looking out on the distant peaks, white with snow. She waved her hand to him, but he did not notice. It was not till, breathless, she stood close to him that he turned. At first he could hardly credit his sight. "You?" he said, with a look of surprise that was almost a frown. She held out both hands to let him see how tired she was. "Aren t you glad to see me?" 135 ON THE HEIGHTS Now his face was bright. He was gazing into her eyes, moist with tears. The palor in her cheeks made her even more beautiful. "Of course, I m glad," he said, taking her hand. "But I don t want you to wear yourself out." He helped her into his seat. "You WERE AWAY so long," she said. Her eyes wan dered over those mountain peaks, so cold and stern, and at the little cabin where a fire glowed. "May I go in?" she asked. She noticed an expression of surprise in his face. But he smiled and led the way to the door. He stepped back so that she might enter. She took in all the details of the rough interior. Above a narrow shelf of books stood the only ornament, a photograph of herself. For an in stant she smiled. Then her face betrayed disappointment. "Is this all?" she said. He studied her affectionately. "What did you expect?" She stepped out and drew a long breath. "I don t know." SHE TOOK the seat again. He sat on the ground beside her. "Don t you find it cold up here?" "No." "Or lonely?" "No." "What is there to enjoy?" "The mountains, the sky, the air." She made a queer little face. "Then the sun is beautiful in the early morning and in the evening" He saw that she had stopped listening. "The air is hard to breathe, it seems to me. I feel almost faint." He rose to his feet. "You ought not to stay up here then." 136 ON THE HEIGHTS She did not move. "Before I go, I want to ask you something/ He waited. "Do you intend to come up here often after we are married?" It took him a long time to find just the right words. "I have to come," he said. "Why?" "Because I can t stay down there all the time." A faint tinge of color appeared in her cheeks. "I like it down there. It is much more attractive there than up here." "I like it, too," he said. "I like it much better than I did before I knew you." She looked pleased. After an interval she said: "Will you expect me to come here with you after we are married?" "I shan t expect you to come unless you wish to come." "But will you come whether I come or not?" His face grew more serious. "I have to come." THERE WAS a long silence. She surveyed the mountains with dislike in her eyes. "I must go down." She rose heavily. "I will go with you." She looked at him as if he were far off. "No. I must go alone." Their eyes met. She turned away. "I must go as I came. If you follow me I shall be angry." "Very well," he said, bewildered. She hesitated, looking into the valley beneath. "You can come if you will promise never to come back." In spite of the pain that showed itself in his face, he shook his head. "I can t promise." Like a hurt child, she began the steep descent, without saying good-by. 137 AT THE GATE A SOUL clamored for admission at the gate of St. Peter. There was no response. Finally, the soul cried out the Saint s name. A voice replied: "Friend, why do you call on me?" "Because I have escaped from the world of men and long to lead the life of the spirit." "The life of the spirit may be led anywhere and at any time. Why did you not lead it in the world of men?" FOR A FEW MOMENTS the soul was silent with astonish ment. At last it replied: "In the world of men I had to live as men lived." "There were souls about you that lived according to the spirit." "I did not know them," the soul answered. "And yet you met them every day." The soul stood rebuked. "But what shall I do?" it cried at last. "Now that I have left the body there is no place for me to find rest and peace but here." "You must find rest and peace within yourself. We cannot give it to you. If you came here, you would only be a disturbing force. You would distract the other souls from their work." "FROM THEIR WORK!" the soul gasped. "I thought there was no work beyond the world of men." "There is always service. It is the only real work. All other striving that men call work is waste." "But in the world I worked." "What did you work for?" "For success among men and for honor." "Why did you work for those things?" "Because I longed for happiness." 138 AT THE GATE "And did they make you happy? * "Oh, no. I could not understand why. But always I was disappointed. I was glad when I found it was all over. I longed to come here." "But what preparation have you made?" "I do not understand." "If you did not know how to live in the world of men, why do you think you can live where the exactions on the spirit are greater, where the service is higher?" THE SOUL GREW HUMBLE. "If you will only teach me I will try to learn." "You must teach yourself." "But how can I teach myself now? It is too late." "You must go back." "To the world of men," the soul cried in horror. "You must seek some body and make it, not the means of self-gratification, the abode of evil thoughts and ignoble feeling, but the temple of the spirit. You must learn how to be happy." "But I tried every day I tried to be happy." "You never tried." The soul was downcast. "Perhaps I did not know what happiness really was." It lingered. At last, in despair, it said : "Tell me what I must do." "You must find your real self by giving up your imagin ary self." "What then is my imaginary self?" "All that you regarded as precious in your days in the world of men, all that you strove for so desperately. Then for the first time your eyes will be open, the eyes of the spirit. Instead of seeing less, you will see more. In stead of blaming and envying and hating, you will feel pa tience and pity and love." "But it will be hard for me," the soul exclaimed in an guish. 139 AT THE GATE "It will be easy. The way you chose before was the hard way." "And will it be long?" the soul asked. "Will it be for years and years, like my other life on earth?" "There will be no time." "No time? I do not understand." "Time is a creation of men. When once you have found your real self you will be a part of the universal harmony. You will belong to eternity." "Oh, let me begin now," said the soul. In the atmosphere there was a faint ripple like a smile. "It is for you to choose the moment." 140 THE BUILDERS A MAN devoted himself to building houses for his fellow-creatures to live in. His first house took him a long time to build. When it was finished he felt that it was not satisfactory. But people came and praised it, saying that he had a great talent for house building, and urged him to start at once to build another house. With enthusiasm he began work. He would make this house far more beautiful than the first. He resolved, too, to make it more profitable. At first the man had worked for beauty and credit. Now he must work for himself. THE MORE the man worked the harder he found recon ciling beauty and profit. Somehow, they would not go together. Soon, however, he discovered a means of compromise. He would imitate beauty. The more he imitated the more he would profit. But the second house would not be so good as the first. No matter. The profits would be larger. WHEN THE SECOND HOUSE was finished people came as they had done before. A few looked disappointed and were silent. The others were even more enthusiastic than they had been over the first house. They said: "It is a great im provement." And one added: "How clever that young man is, and how worldly wise. He will prosper." FROM THAT TIME the man did prosper marvelously. Each house he built proved to be more successful than the others. And yet there was a certain resemblance between the houses. It was only when one looked from the last house 141 THE BUILDERS back to the first house or from the first house to the last house that the difference became plain. The man began to be ashamed of the first house. "I was a fool when I built that house," he said to himself. "I didn t know better. If I were building it now, I should not be so extravagant." He was building very cheaply and with tremendous profit. And yet most people said that his work showed steady improvement. Here and there, however, as he walked about the world he would see men looking at him darkly. But those looks he did not mind. Occasionally, he would be startled to see some old friend who had admired his first house glance at him with pity. After a time he schooled himself to pay no attention. WHEN THE MAN was at the height of his prosperity he resolved to build a house that should be more impressive than all the others and yet a marvel of cheapness. It was the cheapness that gave him his chief pleasure now. He had learned to build houses, beautiful houses, too, as he would say to himself, "for a song." Each day he watched the house grow. As it neared completion he took more and more pride in it. He would even walk over to it at night and roam from room to room. The house consisted almost wholly of imitation. But the imitation was so good that only an expert could tell it from the real. It looked strong in spite of having only such support as was absolutely necessary to hold it up. As the man surveyed the house he would laugh softly to himself. To him it stood for the highest beauty in the world, the beauty of profit. 142 THE BUILDERS ONE NIGHT when the man was in contemplative mood he started to walk to the house. On the way a storm came up. He reached the house just as the storm burst. In a few moments the wind and rain were beating furiously against the walls and the windows. The house shook from cellar to roof. At times it seemed to rock in derision. The man was terrified. He wished that he had sought some other shelter. He decided to rush out. But just as he reached the front door there was a tornado. The floor seemed to rise. The house fell, burying the man. ANOTHER MAN undertook to build a house. He knew little about house-building and he worked falteringly. When the task was finished he looked at the result with dismay. It was so poor he could have wept. He sat down by the roadside and reflected. It seemed hopeless even to try to build a better house. And yet a better house he must build or perish. For he could not let himself be identified for life with so lamentable a failure. The next day he began again and he toiled faithfully. As the months passed he saw he was making a better house than the first house. But when the work was finished he realized that it, too, was a poor thing. Still he was not discouraged. "If I keep on building houses," he said to himself, "I may yet build a good house." With resolution he began again. THE REST OF HIS LIFE the man devoted himself to house building. Into each house he put his best. And the more of his best he gave the more he found he had to give, and the better his best grew. Gradually he became happy. 143 THE BUILDERS Nevertheless, he was not satisfied. The more his skill improved the more clearly he saw his imperfections and the more eagerly he strove for his ideal. But no sooner would he approach his ideal than the ideal would vanish. He would see another ideal fairer, better worth working for. Toward it he would strive. Sometimes he would pause for weariness and take a long breath, and he would ask himself if the struggle were worth while. Always in response to the question a voice would seem to speak from within and give him courage. IT WAS NOT till the man had built many houses that people began to notice. Some of them criticised. Others sneered. But a few said, u He is putting himself into the work," and they praised his sincerity. Generally, however, it was said that his houses were not fashionable. He was criticised for bejrig too severe and lacking in sense of thrift. To the criticisms and the praise the man paid no heed. He went on, trying to make each new house better than the last. ONE DAY a great opportunity presented itself to the man. If he would devote all the skill he had developed to the building of a great house for the people he should be well rewarded for his effort. He felt that he needed the reward, for his houses had not been very profitable. Besides, the scheme was attract ive. It would enable him to make a display of his skill. He resolved to investigate. He found that the house would be used to distract the people from the real things in life, to enfeeble and to degrade them. It was an ignoble enterprise with an apparently noble purpose. Without hesitating, he refused to associate himself with it. 144 THE BUILDERS The projectors of the scheme received his refusal with amazement. They said he must be mad. Secretly they were furious. For they needed his skill to disguise their real purpose. They tried to injure the man. To a large extent they succeeded. Nevertheless, the man kept on building. And the house he built after the rejection of the great offer was so fine that even his enemies perceived its beauty. But they mocked him as an idealist and a dreamer. "It will never pay," they said. ONE DAY the man found himself grown old. He grieved, not because he feared old age, but because he saw that his work must soon be over. And in his mind there still beckoned the ideal, now more beautiful and more won derful than any ideal he had ever before conceived. "Per haps I shall have time," he whispered to himself, and he set to work. Out of his own thought, with all his power, he would build a mighty structure for mankind, not for their enter tainment alone, but for their improvement, their inspira tion, a place that should be their own, where they might meet on equal terms, realizing their brotherhood. FOR YEARS the man worked as he had never worked before. And never before had he been so happy, so light-hearted. Now his work was joy. Suddenly he found himself in a house of such beauty that he stood dazzled, awe-stricken, unable to speak, taking long breaths. "Where am I?" he whispered. "You are in your father s house," said a voice. "My father s house?" he repeated, and he looked about, mystified, enraptured. "Who is the builder?" he asked. "Each man builds and rebuilds," was the answer, "till he makes his father s house his own." 145 A LACE HANDKERCHIEF A RICH woman became interested in a working girl, a chronic invalid, confined to her bed. She used to visit the girl occasionally and take little gifts. Once in an impulse of generosity she gave the girl a lace handkerchief of rare texture. A few days later the rich woman began to think about the lace handkerchief. She said to herself: "I know it was foolish of me to give that handkerchief to Millie. She can t appreciate it. It should have been given to some one that could carry it about and show it off. It would make a nice Christmas gift for some friend that would appreciate its real value. Then she thought of the many rich friends she should exchange Christmas presents with. There is one thing that rich people have to bear in mind at the Christmas season : to their rich friends they must give valuable gifts, for they will receive valuable gifts in return. Rich people have to be very careful with one another. It is one of their trials. So this rich woman said to herself : "I will make it right with Millie. I will give her a dozen linen handkerchiefs which she can use and I will ask her to give me back that lace handkerchief." So THAT RICH WOMAN bought the dozen linen handker chiefs. She made a point of securing rather expensive ones. She prided herself on being just, as well as generous. She went with the handkerchiefs to call on her sick friend. Very eagerly and pleasantly she explained that she wanted that lace handkerchief back; in its place she was going to give a dozen beautiful linen handkerchiefs, much more serviceable. 146 A LACE HANDKERCHIEF The invalid clasped her hands over her heart and ex claimed: "No, no, no! I won t give that handkerchief up. You gave it to me. It s mine." The rich woman was shocked. She wondered how any one could be so vulgar. If she had been asked to give back a present she would have given it back at once, no matter how she felt. However, she concealed her disappointment and annoy ance. Presently she discovered that the invalid kept the lace handkerchief pinned to her night gown over her heart. The girl used to look at it every little while and pat it with her hand. To avoid a scene the rich woman did not take up the subject again. She saw that any further effort on her part would bring tears. She also gave the girl the linen handkerchiefs and acted as if she did not feel hurt. A FEW DAYS LATER the rich woman told a friend of the incident. It happened that the friend was experienced in human service, and, as the rich woman was well aware, knew something about the ingratitude of the poor. The friend heard the story in silence. "Don t you think it was very disagreeable of her?" the rich woman asked, after waiting for some expression of sympathy. The friend shook her head. "Why not?" the rich woman asked resentfully. The friend smiled. "Haven t you ever heard of the social reformer," she said, "who goes about explaining that he can get along without the necessaries of life but not without the luxuries? Well, he touches on something in human nature that most of us forget. Necessaries aren t everything. Every one of us longs for something that is precious. Now you supplied that longing for the sick girl. A LACE HANDKERCHIEF You did an act that was beautiful. You gave her some thing rare, something that she could cherish. All the use ful linen handkerchiefs in the world couldn t take the place of that exquisite bit of lace." The rich woman saw the point. Her face flushed, "I m a brute," she said. "Oh, well, never mind," said the friend. "It s some comfort that the girl got the linen handkerchiefs, too." 148 A DILEMMA A MAN lay in a prison cell. It was different from the cell he had for many months been occupying, open on three sides, with a lattice of wooden bars covered with wire netting. There the condemned spent the last two days of their lives, close to the scaffold-room. By day a guard sat outside, and by night. Not for a moment was the man left alone. He might try to escape by taking his own life. "You HAVE TREATED ME so FINE ever since I came in here," said the voice from the cell, "I don t see how you can have the heart to hang me to-morrow." The heavy figure sitting in the gloom outside the cell door, moved uncomfortably. "Well, it s this way. Don t you think it s better for me to do it than somebody that don t take any interest in you at all? Now I don t want to do it. And I don t do it for the twenty-five dollars there s in it for me. When they first put it up to me some five years ago to hang a man in this place I said I wouldn t do it for any amount of money in the world. And then I thought it over. I said to myself: Well, it wouldn t be me that was doing it. I don t make the laws any more than any other man. I m only here to carry them out. And I stand in good with the boys. Perhaps I can make it a bit easier for them in the last few minutes. Any way, they ll know that I ain t doing it with any hard feelings. But every time I do it, I have to take a few drinks of whisky to kep up my nerve." From the cell came a long sigh. "How are you feeling?" "Oh, not so bad. I guess I ll lie down and try to get a little sleep." "Will you take some of the dope?" 149 A DILEMMA "No, thanks. I m going to see if I can t get along without it." "Makes it easier." "Maybe; but I don t want to have any bad dreams. It s bad enough when I doze off. It s funny I can t re member anything about killing my wife when I m awake. I was too drunk at the time. But hundreds of times I ve done it over again in my sleep, in different ways. "Well, if there wasn t any drink in the world there wouldn t be much use for prisons." THE NEXT MORNING, at ten o clock, they were ready. The condemned man was dressed in black, with a white shirt, but without either necktie or collar. On his small feet were black socks and black felt slippers. His fresh- shaven face made him look like a boy. As he stood in the center of the cell he smiled at the people around him, the Warden, the two surpliced priests, a tall young man in stripes, and the guard. While the young man in stripes was pinioning the arms the guard looked on, the furrows cutting deeply into his full cheeks and lines of pain crossing his forehead under his thick white hair. "Sure you won t have any whisky?" he asked. "Thanks. I guess not. You take it." "If you can get along without it I ought to." The Warden was looking sympathetically at the black figure. His eyes rested on the face, yellow as wax. "How are you feeling?" "All right, Warden." "It s time," said the Warden, and he bent forward to step out of the cell door. The guard touched one of the pinioned arms. The two men walked along the corridor side by side, with the two priests behind them, reciting prayers, and the figure in stripes. 150 A DILEMMA THE PROCESSION PASSED through a narrow door and entered a room crowded with men. In the center stood a slim green scaffold. The Warden ascended the steps and stood at one side. The black figure stood over the trap with the guard at his right hand. The two priests stood at the left, continuing their prayers. The striped figure stood at the edge of the crowd. Quickly the guard drew a narrow black belt across the calves of the condemned man s legs. Around the neck he adjusted the noose. Over the yellow face he pressed a black hood. The Warden nodded, almost imperceptibly. There was a silence. The men in the crowd stood motionless. The silence continued. The Warden s face grew paler. "Go on." The guard did not move. The Warden spoke sharply: "Why don t you go on?" The guard stood motionless. "Spring the trap." "I can t, Warden." "What s the matter?" "I don t know. I can t do it." From under the cap came a hoarse appeal: "For God s sake, go ahead." Again came the Warden s command: "Spring the trap. Put him out of torture." The guard walked unsteadily toward the Warden. He seemed broken. "You ll have to do it yourself, Warden," he whispered. In the Warden s face there was a flush of anger. "Why should I do it? It s not my business." THE WARDEN LOOKED DOWN on the young man in stripes at the edge of the crowd. He called out: "You come up here and spring the trap." } A DILEMMA The young man did not stir. "Do you hear what I say?" "I can t do it, Warden." "You must do it." "I can t help it, Warden. But I can t kill a man in cold blood." The black figure was trembling. The Warden caught sight of another striped figure standing in a corner, a hale old man, more than six feet tall, with broad shoulders. "O, Finnerty!" The old man walked forward. "Here," said the War den in a tone of confidence, "you ve been at all these things for the past thirty years. You come up and finish this job." The old man s blue eyes were fixed on the Warden. "Do you hear what I say?" "I hear, Warden, and I d like to oblige you. But it s too much for me. I killed a man once when I was drunk. But I can t kill a man that ain t done nothin to me." The Warden walked to the edge of the scaffold. "Is the sheriff that arrested this man here?" he asked. A stout, red-faced man, raised his arm. "Say, I want you to come up and spring the trap." "That s not my business, Warden. I done my duty and you can t expect me to do any more." The sheriff glanced furtively at the smooth-faced youth of about twenty-one at his side. "Here s the brother of the woman that was killed. P raps he ll do it." Then reply came quickly: "No, no. I couldn t do it." THE MAN ON THE TRAP looked as if he might drop on the floor of the scaffold. The guard walked forward and put one arm around the black figure. From out of the crowd stepped a well-dressed man of middle age. "I ll do it," he said, in a low voice, address ing the Warden. 152 A DILEMMA The Warden frowned. "Who are you?" "I m a citizen of this State. I m in favor of capital punishment. I can t see there is any difference between hanging a man by a law that I support and hanging a man myself." The Warden studied the man closely. Then he said: "Well, as there is no one else to do the job you might as well do it." The man walked up the steps. He had a whispered talk with the Warden. In a low voice the guard said to the black figure: "Brace up," and stepped off the trap. The figure stood rigid. Suddenly it dropped and fran tically dangled at the end of the rope. The guard seized the rope. The figure hung still, the slippered feet in the air. The stranger made his way down the steps. At his approach the crowd parted. They looked at him with curiosity and wonder in their eyes, as if he were in some way different from themselves. 153 THE COMMUNITY A COMMUNITY stood on the slope of a mountain, over-looking the sea. There, for generations, men and women and children dwelt in harmony, cherish ing the mesasge of the Master, who had come to teach them how to live, loving his memory, revering the tradi tions of his life on earth. There was no inequality. The strong helped the weak. The welfare of each contributed to the happiness of all. Out of the abundant earth came everything necessary for sustenance. By co-operating, the people found their work easy. It left them plenty of leisure. Each day from among them rose thanks to God in thought and word and deed. And each day they would gaze at the great arch they had built, heralding the Master s words, "Love one another." AFTER A LONG TIME new ideas spread through the com munity. The people grew restless. Some of them con sidered themselves more important than the others and entitled to greater rewards, including special consideration. It was whispered that the message of the Master ought not to be accepted too literally. Times were changing. The community was ready for a new message. It soon came in the preaching of a man that called himself a prophet. After a few years, the community was divided. Those who had once regarded themselves as brothers were members of hostile camps. Meanwhile, the prosperity went on. From the two camps rose thanks to God, with requests for more, each camp praying for itself alone. Instead of one arch, there were two arches, proclaiming, "Love one another." As NEW GENERATIONS DEVELOPED other prophets came. The community was like a battlefield, broken into many 154 THE COMMUNITY camps. Each called itself the defender and the representa tive of the only true God. Instead of one God, the com munity worshipped many Gods. The members of one camp would express suspicion and scorn and hatred for the members of the other camps. But in each camp there stood the great arch, bearing these words of the Master: "Love one another." There were so many arches now that wherever one turned the wonder met the eye. Now AND THEN someone would marvel that in a com munity where there was so wide a display of that motto there should be so much enmity. But the leaders in each camp had an explanation ready. Each explanation was different from the others. They all agreed, however, that the message of the Master should not be taken too liter ally. When it was given the community was a very dif ferent place. THE PROSPERITY WENT ON. And from each camp con tinued the requests for more. By this time, however, prosperity had become so un equally distributed that, for the most part, it went to a small minority. The great majority, doing the hardest work, received barely enough to live on. And, among them, many perished, from insufficient nourishment and from the ills due to over-crowding, and from the sins and the disasters resulting from the lack of opportunity and incentive. There were those who, fearing to bring children into such a community, slew the babes in the womb. There were even teachers who went about explaining that the practice was good and giving instruction. AT LAST, from the community, voices rose in denuncia tion and warning. But in the hum of industry and of 155 THE COMMUNITY competition, they were scarcely heard. It was said that they had been inspired by discontent and jealousy. -At the same time, from a multitude of camps worshipping a multitude of Gods, flamed the words, "Love one another." As soon as a new camp would come into being, up those words would go, "Love one another." No one laughed. No one paid attention. The words had ceased to have a meaning. UNEXPECTEDLY, one came, a stranger, humble of mien and of dress. He pointed to the mottoes, "Love one another." He asked the people to stop and to look up and to reflect. They were in too great a hurry to notice. From camp to camp the stranger passed, repeating his words. From each camp he was angrily ejected. Not only was his interference considered an impertinence; but his appearance made him offensive and dangerous. In the more fashionable camps where those assembled who wore costly clothes, at his approach, people drew away as if his presence might be contaminating. When he found that none of the camps would receive him he stood in the market place and, in a loud voice, he proclaimed the mes sage of the Master, calling on all men to follow him in the way of truth. Representatives of the law came and arrested him as a madman. THE VIRTUES IN an obscure corner the Virtues gathered. They were humbly dressed. They moved in silence, as if afraid of disturbing the world. The light that streamed from their faces showed that they were beautiful; but as the people hurried by in the streets no one seemed to notice. "It is Saturday night," whispered Patience. "Soon the workers will have rest. For a day they will be free. Then their toil will begin again." She sighed. "How good they are. I sometimes wonder if I haven t done them a great wrong." "Why, sister?" asked Humility. "If you did not in spire them they would suffer all the more and their bur dens would be harder to bear." Patience shook her head. "I sometimes think that, but for me, they might throw off their yoke. They might possess themselves of their inheritance." FAITH, NOBLE or BEARING, her eyes like flame, spoke up. "You must not lose heart," she said. "Can you not see that they are all learning? Each day carries them nearer the goal. Before they enter into their inheritance they must be ready. Otherwise, they would be like the de- spoilers. What a calamity if they were to pay for victory at the cost of all they had learned through their suffering." Sincerity, her calm features showing perfect self-control, quietly interposed, "If we could only protect them from the false leaders that try to make them believe they can be helped by the evil passions. As if evil could ever lead to good." "Yes, they have been betrayed so often," said Patience. "No wonder they turn away from us at times. When they are in pain, we seem to have so little to offer them. And yet it is then they are most in need of our help. There 157 THE VIRTUES is a mother in the street below that I have been triyng to speak to all day long. She will not listen. Last week her husband was killed at his work. When they took him home to her she did not seem to understand. She gathered her children about her and she looked on while the neigh bors placed the body on the bed. For a long time she did not speak a word. Then she pointed to the children and said, What is to become of them? They told her to be patient and she cried out and said dreadful words. Since the funeral she has been like one distracted. If I only knew her, to give her comfort." COURAGE, towering above them in his might, said in a low voice, "She is growing quiet. They always do after the first few days. They wear themselves out. She is thinking of what she must do for her children. The com pany her husband worked for since he was a child will do nothing. So she must go out to work now." "I have been whispering to her," said Thrift. "I have told her what she must do. Before her marriage she was a factory hand. She was stronger then. Child-bearing and privation have weakened her. But the world she has given four children to has nothing to offer her in return except the chance to earn barely enough to keep the chil dren from starving. However, I will help her. I know the man who used to be her foreman. He is one of the owners now. I will remind him that she was one of his most faithful workers. I will make him see that it will pay him to take her back." Thrift turned to the shrinking figure at her side. "I have learned so much from you, Humility. But for your help I should be cast down with shame." "What have you to be ashamed of?" Humility asked, standing beside Chastity and Modesty. "I am ashamed of what has been done to me in the world. So often I have been changed into a vice. Once THE VIRTUES that factory-owner was my friend and disciple. I led him into the ways that made him grind the poor for his own advantage. That is only one of many sorrows I have had where the children of men have turned my lessons into lessons of greed. They have drawn me closer to you, Humility. Perhaps they have kept me from the sin of pride." COURAGE burst out laughing. "Hold up your head, Thrift," he exclaimed. "Have confidence. You don t happen to be in favor just now in the world of men; but you have your place just the same. You make people think about the future, not merely their own future, but their children s. You inspire their energy. You sharpen their wits. It is not your fault if they turn your counsel into evil. Haven t you learned that evil and good live together in the human heart ? Don t you find evil wherever you go ? And don t you know it s the greatest coward in the world? Look it straight in the face, and it will slink into a corner or fly away." For a moment Humility lifted her head and ventured to look into the face of Courage. "How wonderful you are!" she said. "I am not nearly so wonderful as you are, Humility," cried Courage, with his great laugh. "I am always getting people into trouble. I sometimes think that if I would only let people alone they would be better off without me." The remark made the lovely face of Modesty, standing apart from the others, shine all the more brightly. Courage glanced from Modesty to Humility and Chastity. "I have learned a lot from you three. You can all do wonders that are beyond me. You have come to my rescue on many an occasion, Modesty, and you have never looked for any credit. And as for you, Humility, you often make me feel like a bungler. In your gentle way you open the door to the greatest of all treasures. And, Chastity, 159 THE VIRTUES it is marvelous how you have kept your place in the world, in spite of the efforts to drive you out." "It is because women are the defenders of the race/ Chastity replied, "because they know it is their sacred function to protect and safeguard the coming generations. They have been made to suffer for their devotion. But a better day is coming when their service will be understood and rewarded." HUMILITY was shaking her head. "No one cares for me nowadays. I am often very lonely. Even the poor are casting me out." "You must wait," said Patience. "The time is coming when they will appreciate you again and love you." And Courage added, "Remember, the others need you just as much, perhaps more, than those who have lost the meaning of life in their devotion to material things." "It is inequality that is driving us out of the world," whispered Modesty. "It degrades those who have too much and those who have too little. Even the women are denying me now. When the fashion changes to immodesty they follow like slaves. They make me feel as if I were a mere convention." "The reason is that they are blind," Patience explained. "They cannot see that immodesty changes their charm into ugliness." "Yes," Courage remarked, "all the children of men are living in an imaginary world, not nearly so glorious as reality. They are stumbling and blundering and tearing at one another. Let us go back to our task. Let us van quish the forces of evil." "Softly!" said Patience. "Already we have done great harm by being too zealous. Let us remember that the world was not made in a day. Our task is long." "We must trust in the greatest of all powers," said Faith. 1 60 THE VIRTUES Charity, loveliest of all the figures, spoke for the first time. "And let us try never to forget," she said, in a voice almost inaudible and yet carrying its message unmistakably, "that those who are doing so much harm believe that they are doing right." "And let us not be too sure that we are right ourselves," warned Humility. They all rose together, their tattered garments trailing behind them and taking on a strange beauty in the light of the stars. 161 A MARRIAGE A MAN and a woman desperately strove against ob stacles to unite their lives. When they succeeded they were full of gratitude and joy. Together they were to bear the chances of life, striving hand in hand, each thinking, never of self, but of the other, the perfect one. Sometimes they forgot the world outside. They had their own world. Sometimes they were afraid of the world outside lest it intrude on them and destroy their harmony. Sometimes they would think of the world outside with pity. So many were there that did not love as they did, that did not reach the fulfillment of life. And the world outside, knowing the obstacles the two had overcome, looked on with wonder, not wholly free from envy. EACH DAY the two were surprised by their happiness, as it revealed itself to them anew. In each other they were constantly making discoveries, reaching greater depths of understanding and of sympathy. She had only to whisper a thought to find it appreciated. At a glance from him she would know what he was thinking of and she would approve. In everything they gave way to each other. They would vie with each other in giving way. Silently each resolved to cherish this love. So long as it endured, whatever ill might come would be as if it were not. For its sake they would make any sacrifice; they would undergo any trial. AFTER THE FIRST YEAR the man began to be used to his happiness. It ceased to cause him surprise. He felt so 162 A MARRIAGE sure of it that he gradually formed the habit of letting it fade out of his thoughts. He had so many other things to think of, interesting and important. Occasionally, how ever, he would look over his shoulder to make sure that his happiness was still there. He would find it smiling, eager for a word or a glance. He was pleased to see that it could wait. With a tran quil mind he attended to those important and interesting things. In them he became more and more absorbed. MEANWHILE, the wife began to be troubled. Instead of thinking less about her happiness she thought more. She knew it needed more thought because of her husband s neglect. Slowly it dawned upon her that her thinking was not enough. She felt herself in the presence of danger. She did not know what to do. Her disquietude was so vague, so elusive, she could not put it into words. Besides, words would give it a more definite reality. She tried to assure herself that it had no real cause. Though she resolved to resist those thoughts, they came back again and again, and grew more persistent. AFTER THE SECOND YEAR the man felt as if he had come out of a strange dream. He was free again, independent. He was himself. He sighed, and he looked about, and he realized that he had a wife, a big responsibility, some one to be cared for, giving dignity to his days, helping him to maintain a home and a position in the world. He must place her where she belonged. Life was serious now. Youth, with its folly, was over. So he proceeded to assert himself. He told his wife what she ought to believe and what she ought to do. He was surprised to find that she did not agree. THEN THE MAN began to reflect. He said to himself that till now his wife had always believed as he believed. He 163 A MARRIAGE forgot that till now he had always believed as she be lieved. He must make her see the truth. He grew more explicit and firm in the expression of his ideas. She grew more firm in resisting and in presenting ideas of her own. Soon, greatly to his amazement, the man found that his wife took pleasure in disagreeing with him in showing opposition. Once when he expressed an opinion that he strongly believed to be right and she took the opposite view, he laughed out loud. In her face he noticed an expression that he had never seen there before. It re minded him of an infuriated animal. He began to think that she was not the woman he thought he had married. At the same moment she felt that he was not the man she thought she had married. PRESENTLY THE WIFE began to express opinions that her husband considered absurd. Often he would laugh and he would see that angry look in her face. To avoid the annoyance of seeing the look he stopped laughing. In stead he would either make a little sound of contempt or he would be silent or he would say: "You don t know what you are talking about." Sometimes she would say: "You think you know every thing, don t you?" The question would cause him such irritation that, for a long time, he would not speak. Occasionally he would go out, leaving her alone. THERE WERE TIMES, however, when something like the old love would come back. Then she would tell him that he had changed. He would say that he had not changed. The talk was likely to develop into an argument. Once he said: "I m getting tired of this." So the expressions of their love kept causing more quar rels. They would be two again, each trying to convict the other of wrong, each feeling injured and resentful. 164 A MARRIAGE THE DAY CAME when their love grew discouraged. It never came back. In their minds it had no reality now. It seemed to vanish even from memory. Any chance re minder of it would give them, not pleasure, but pain. And yet they went on living together. In the con ditions of their lives there was no apparent change. The world outside still looked on with wonder, not wholly free from envy. THE LOSS A MAN stood in the highway of life and looked ahead. He knew that he had been richly endowed by nature, with physical strength, with personal charm, with intellectual power and with talent. The great prizes of life were within his reach. All he had to do was to keep going forward, steadily, persistently. But along the way there were diversions, the more tempting because they carried the threat of danger. "See the man you can be," said a voice, quiet and clear, and the man looked through the years and saw himself with the prizes of life in his grasp, a force for good in the community, with stimulating responsibilities, honored and happy. Another voice spoke, more subtle and alluring: u You can have all those prizes and you can have the diversions, too." The man smiled. A knowing look appeared in his face. Life was going to be interesting. A DOZEN YEARS LATER the man stood in the highway of life. He looked ahead. Those prizes were still in sight; but they seemed to be as far away as they had been before. That voice spoke, quiet and clear: "See the man you still can be." The man shivered. He did not dare look. "It is not too late." The other voice spoke, even more subtle and alluring than it had been before: "Think of the joys that have been yours. Would you give them up? There are other joys waiting for you, just as great. And the prizes are still there. Already you have had a large share of success among men." The man looked away and laughed. Life was good. 166 THE LOSS He would go on as he had been doing. Why should he not take pleasure as it came? AGAIN THE MAN stood in the highway of life. His youth was gone now. He was in middle age. On his face and figure he had left the marks of what he had done and what he had felt and what he had thought. It was as if he had written to the world a message of what he had become. His figure was heavy. His face sagged. There was dullness in his eyes. Quiet and clear came the voice: "See the man you might have been." He tried to look away. But, in spite of himself, he saw a man of his own height and of his own years, with health in his cheeks and brightness in his eyes and manhood in his bearing, expressing a wholesome and happy maturity. "Do you see the man you might have been?" "Yes, I see," the man replied in a low voice. He looked for the prizes. They were no longer in sight. "Never mind," said that other voice, wonderfully subtle and alluring. "I have compensations. You and I belong to each other. Come and I will make you happy." The man resisted. "You have destroyed me," he cried. "You made me sell myself to you. Where are those prizes you promised me?" The voice broke into a mocking laugh. "Some one else must have captured them while you were carousing." The man became reproachful. But the more violently he talked, the more that voice mocked. "You can t frighten me, my friend. Why, I taught you to speak in that way myself. Why make yourself miserable when you can forget all about this little disappointment?" AT THE END OF LIFE, as the man lay, besotted, he heard that quiet voice. "See the man you might have been." Distinctly he saw himself, old now, with gray hair and 167 THE LOSS with a smooth brow and with a face serene after the storms of years, surrounded with his wife, old like him self, and his children and his children s children, honored, beloved, happy. "Why didn t I listen to you?" he whispered. That other voice broke in, laughing and mocking. "See what you ve come to." "It isn t what I am that is my greatest torment," the man cried out. "It s what I ve missed. It s what I might have been." 168 ON SHIPBOARD A SHIP sailed out from a great port across the ocean to another great port, with thousands of people on board, children, women and men. In a few hours it was surrounded by the unbroken horizon, a world in itself, swiftly moving through the water, a triumph of man s ingenuity. IN THE CABIN were the specially favored, the few. They had their part of the ship, the most attractive part and the most finely equipped, where the other passengers were not permitted to enter. A far larger number occu pied the second cabin, comfortable but not nearly so luxu rious, with a dining-room less handsomely appointed and with food less varied and less rich. Below, in the steerage, were quartered the multitude, in small, ill-smelling, over crowded rooms, under the water line, supplied with coarse food. THE PEOPLE in the steerage were not allowed to go into the second or first cabin. The people in the second cabin could go into the steerage, but not into the first cabin. The first-cabin passengers could roam where they pleased. For the most part, however, the first-cabin passengers did not leave their own part of the ship. It was only an adventurous spirit that would explore. He would come back with strange tales, as of people belonging to an alien race. His description of life in the steerage would be listened to with both amusement and pity. Sometimes a woman, as she lay bundled in her steamer chair, would murmur: "Poor creatures, I wonder how they live." There was a point in the first-class cabin where passen gers could stand and look down into the steerage. Occa sionally a small group would stop there and watch the 169 ON SHIPBOARD people dancing to the music of a concertina. Now and then one would throw coins which would be scrambled for. THERE WAS a marked difference between the people of the first cabin and those of the second cabin and in the steerage. For the first few days first-cabin passengers acted as if they were afraid of one another. Many held themselves aloof. Up and down the deck they would walk, alone or in pairs, expensively dressed, authoritative, their faces set, their eyes looking straight ahead. As the days went on, however, the others seemed to grow less suspicious and more friendly. IN THE SECOND CABIN there was a marked absence of suspicion. The passengers quickly made acquaintances. They broke into many groups, talking with animation. And as for the steerage, by the time the ship had been out for a day, it seemed as if the people belonged to one great family. They were always doing things for one another and sharing. Occasionally there would be a quarrel, but it would soon be forgotten in the general good cheer. BESIDE THE PASSENGERS there were a multitude of work ers, the officers, the crew and strange unsightly creatures that seldom were seen, black with grime, moistened with sweat, the stokers that fed the vitality of this monster ship. For the most part the officers spoke only to the people in the first cabin. The crew spoke only to the people in the second cabin and in the steerage. The stokers remained apart. IT SELDOM OCCURRED to anyone that the people of this world were all related. Indeed, most of the first-cabin passengers were scarcely conscious of the existence of the teeming humanity so close to them and yet so far away. Once, however, as a woman was looking out on the gently 170 ON SHIPBOARD swelling ocean, she remarked: "What a dreadful thing it would be if anything were to happen to the ship. There s no knowing how those foreigners in the steerage would behave themselves. There might be a panic. What a pity it is we can t have ships without any steerage. Perhaps they will come in time." ONE DAY a church dignitary, from a great city, decided to make a visit to the steerage. He asked another passenger to go with him, the president of a college. They walked among the crowds massed on the lower deck, smiling in the way of kindly superiority. The steerage passengers looked on with mild interest, wondering who those prosperous looking visitors could be. "It s curious, isn t it," said the clergyman to the presi dent, "how much happier their faces are than the faces in the first cabin?" "They don t think," said the president. "Ah." The clergyman looked troubled. "I m afraid we shall have a hard time assimilating them." "Oh, no." The president shook his head. "It s won derful how quickly they adapt themselves to American ways." "The church finds it harder and harder to reach them," the clergyman went on. "In fact, the poor of our cities are becoming an increasingly difficult problem. They seem to have lost their respect for religion." "What do you think the reason can be?" the president asked as they started to wander back where they belonged. "The smell is very disagreeable, isn t it?" he remarked parenthetically. "Very," the clergyman replied. "I thought I should get some light on the subject during my six months in Europe. But I found the conditions there even worse than they are at home." "Don t you think we are likely to solve the problem by ON SHIPBOARD getting at the minds of the people?" said the president. u Maybe, maybe." The clergyman spoke with genial optimism. "We may be able to train the younger genera tions of the people that are pouring in here from Europe to see the absurdity of the revolutionary ideas they bring over. Otherwise they will surely be a menace. Then we may be able to reach them through our religious or ganizations." u Yes," the president gravely remarked. "I am reac tionary enough to believe that Christianity and education ought to go hand in hand." 172 FEAR A WOMAN found herself living in a world of fear. Wherever she turned she saw a menace. And within she felt a continual threat of danger. She began to think that she was in the grip of a malevolent fate. At last the moment came when she found her tor ment unbearable. Helplessly she considered what she should do. Should she yield to fate by giving up her life? Or should she overcome her fear? THIS QUESTIONING filled her with alarm. One of the greatest of her fears was death. Equally great was her fear of life. Suppose she were to look each fear, as it presented itself, straight in the face. At once so many fears came, in aspect so dreadful, that she shrank before them, cowering like an animal under pursuit. THEN THE WOMAN said to herself: "Suppose all my fears came true? They could not harm me more than they are doing now." Instantly she made a resolve to resign her self to the spirit of life. Whatever might come she would accept as part of the universal plan. At that moment, greatly to her surprise, she felt as if she had received an infusion of strength. DURING THE NEXT FEW DAYS she was aware of her fears. But they were not so close as they had been or so threat ening. They also seemed different in their attitude toward her, less vindictive, less concerned with singling her out for their prey. She had a curious impulse to call to them that she was ready to take whatever they kept in hiding. Meanwhile, she went on with her daily affairs. She no ticed that she had become more efficient. Instead of fixing FEAR part of her mind on those fears, she could concentrate on the task in hand. As the change continued, she often caught herself smiling. She felt as if little springs of hap piness were bubbling in her mind and sending health through her whole being. ONE DAY the woman met the greatest of those fears. It stood in her way. "Long ago I told you that I was coming," it said. "You thought you could keep me out, didn t you?" Steadily she looked at the mis-shapen creature, hideous of face, leering. "If you are real I am not afraid of you. There is a power within me that gives me strength greater than yours. And if you are only a fear you are nothing." Instantly the fear vanished. THAT ENCOUNTER gave the woman greater confidence. She felt as if she had won a triumph over herself. She gazed on the world and saw for the first time how wonder ful it was and how beautiful. It was as if a dark veil had fallen from her eyes. She looked around and she saw a multitude of people going about with the light of the world darkened by veils. She longed to call to them to take the veils off and to see. She decided that the best she could do would be to reflect the marvels, not in words, but in her response to the joy of living. ONE DAY, when she was feeling particularly well, she felt the presence of something curious, like one of those old fears and yet unlike. It stood there, a mighty figure, stern of face, but not repulsive, as the other had been. "Are you afraid?" it said. "No," she replied, and she held out her hand. They stood together, their hands clasped. "You are a brave woman," said the presence, with a smile that had a kind of radiance. FEAR The woman shook her head. "Oh, no. But I am happy in being a part of the universal plan. Tell me what I must do. I have received so much I should like to give some thing in return." "Those who are without fear are always giving," said the presence. "And those who receive me as you are doing teach mankind how to live. Let us work together and make this visitation, not a curse, but a blessing." PEOPLE WONDERED at the change in the woman. Where she had once been weak and ill and depressed, she now seemed to be infused with strength and health and good cheer. The trials of life she met in a way that made them sources of power. When someone asked her to explain the mystery, she merely laughed and she said: "There s no mystery. IVe merely learned how to be normal." 175 A HATER OF EVIL THERE was a man hated evil. Each day of his life he warred against it desperately, mercilessly. The evil-doers in his path he made to feel the sting of his lash. Those beyond his reach, whenever they came within the range of his consciousness, he exposed and de nounced. SUDDENLY THE MAN fell ill. He seemed to have lost the savor of life. In the morning when he awoke he would dread facing the new day. It was only with difficulty that he persuaded himself to get up. His tasks, once per formed so easily and so joyously, became a burden. There were moments when he lost heart and wavered. Then he would gather himself together and go on. After a time the man felt as if he were in the power of an evil spirit. With all his will he resisted. The more he suffered the more he hated evil, and the more deter mined he was to do what he could to destroy it. ONE DAY THE MAN COLLAPSED. He was taken home and the doctors were sent for. When they found how long he had been suffering they were reproachful. "You have been overworking," one declared. And another said: "If you don t take a long rest you will be dead in a year." So THE MAN STOPPED WORKING. He put aside all worldly ambition. He rested. But he went on with his war against evil. During the next few weeks he improved. He felt sure that he was going to recover. With increas ing strength he felt stimulated in his battle against the forces that made for unrighteousness. He had more time to think of evildoers. More keenly he realized their mis chief. If they could only be punished and destroyed, the A HATER OF EVIL world would become a really beautiful place, instead of what it was, an abode of sin and vice. GRADUALLY THE MAN began to sink again. The doctors were puzzled. They agreed that he needed a change of scene. So they sent him abroad. There he found more evil. It flaunted itself before him outrageously, shame lessly. It seemed to him worse here than at home. He was glad to return. He said that the only good the change had done him was making him see that bad as the conditons in his own country were, they seemed good by comparison. FOR A FEW DAYS the man felt so happy that he felt sure he was going to recover. After all, those doctors weren t so foolish as he had begun to suspect. As he became used to being at home, he felt around him those evil influences. Again he lifted his voice in protest. Soon he discovered that he had fallen back. Life had become hideous once more. It was anguish to think of waking up in the morn ing and meeting life again. FINALLY, the doctors became irritated. They told the man that they had done everything in their power. The trouble was that he did not co-operate. He must make an effort to pull himself up. If he did not there was no knowing what might happen. There might be a complete mental breakdown. Now the man was terrified. He made the effort and failed. He was in despair. Someone advised him to try another kind of doctor, one who worked, not with the body, but with the mind and the soul. "You have always been a religious man. You couldn t fail to respond to that kind of treatment." RELUCTANTLY THE MAN called on the new doctor. At considerable length he outlined his symptoms. The doctor 177 A HATER OF EVIL asked him questions, not about the symptoms, but about matters apparently unrelated to the case, mainly about his thoughts and his way of living. The man explained that his habits had always been good. He had never done any thing to be ashamed of. And as for his thoughts^ he detested evil of every kind. "Ah," said the doctor, his face brightening, and he listened with obvious interest while the man eagerly told of his life-long fight against evildoers. "I think I under stand your trouble now." "Is there any hope for me?" "Oh, yes. There s hope for everyone. Your case is easy. You can cure yourself." THE LOOK OF RELIEF in the man s face disappeared. "When you talk like that you take the heart out of me." The doctor burst out laughing. "My case is very peculiar," the man went on, frowning resentfully. "It has baffled some pretty big men." "I have cases like yours every day." The doctor ceased to smile. "In fact, most cases are like yours. They come from the same cause." "What cause?" the man asked suspiciously. "Evil." The man s face brightened. "Do you mean the evil in the world?" "Oh, no. I mean the evil in you, the evil that you have allowed to take possession of your mind." "I don t understand," said the man. "All the evil that I know is the evil I see in people that lead bad lives and do harm." The doctor shook his head. "What you call their evil is only blundering. It comes from weakness. It is to be pitied." "But isn t it my duty to hate it and to hate the people that are responsible for it?" A HATER OF EVIL "Hating only makes it worse. And hating poisons the hater. You have been poisoning yourself. All the blun dering that you have seen you have turned into evil with your hating. You have made it a part of yourself. Wher ever you have gone you have carried it about in your consciousness. No wonder your health has collapsed. The marvel is that you should have borne up as well as you have done with all those horrors in you, alive every minute and generating disease." THE MAN sat in silence, motionless, his eyes fixed on the doctor. "What am I to do?" he said at last. "Simply reject the evil. When you see it in the world realize it for what it is, not for what it is not. Think of all the good in the minds and the hearts of the people you have been hating. It s the good in them that keeps them alive. It continually denies their blundering and tries to lead them to wisdom. Mistaken as they are, there are many among them that are not nearly as mistaken as you have been. Then think of all the marvels of goodness that lie everywhere around you. They are waiting to pour their health and strength into you. The man drew a long breath. "I feel better already," he said. The doctor smiled. "All we need in this world," he said, "is understanding." 179 BY THE SAME AUTHOR (Uniform Edition) INTIMATIONS A Collection of Brief Essays Deeding Mainly with Aspects of Everyday Living The forty or more brief essays which make up this beautiful book cover a great variety of everyday subjects and are written with the rare charm of perfect simplicity and clearness. The Cincinnati En quirer. A very readable book is Mr. Barry s "Intimations," the kind of book that one takes pleasure in possess ing because its interest is so human, its earnestness so convincing, its quiet humor so sympathetic and its comments upon life and peoples so keen. The Craftsman. Read this book carefully in odd half hours, and it will add much to your knowledge of life; it will make your heart tender to those who are bearing heavy burdens; it will help you to endure the fre quent ingratitude which is the portion of the warm hearted. And when you have got all there is in it, send the book to a friend, and thus spread the gospel of helpfulness. George Hamlin Fitch, in the San Francisco Chronicle. From the press of Paul Elder comes a new book of consequence. It is called "Intimations," and is from the pen of John D. Barry, by profession a critic, by nature constructive and by cultivation a writer of rare charm. In the past he has written several books of merit, but this last has in it a note of golden maturity, which outstrips the rest. It is mellow and beautiful and we doubt if America has produced anything in an essay since the days of Emerson that is more choice. The Los Angeles Times. ro SO TO THIS BOOK WILL INCH DAY AND TO $1-OO OVERDUE ON FOURTH OCT 13 1943 lOSep 531* SEP 2 8 1953 LU LD 2l-50m-8,-32 30238$ ,jt UNIVERSITY F CALIFORNIA. -.I*IBARY m m i mt mm