The Face And The Mask - Robert Barr
"They do not fear death, and they do not rejoice when it comes. Far from
it. From the peer to the beggar, everyone fights death as long as he
can; the oldest cling to life as eagerly as the youngest. Not a man but
will spend his last gold piece to ward off the inevitable even for an
hour."
"Gold piece--what is that?"
Stanford plunged his hand into his pocket.
"Ah!" he said, "there are some coins left. Here is a gold piece."
The girl took it, and looked at it with keen interest.
"Isn't it pretty?" she said, holding the yellow coin on her pink palm,
and glancing up at him.
"That is the general opinion. To accumulate coins like that, men will
lie, and cheat, and steal--yes, and work. Although they will give their
last sovereign to prolong their lives, yet will they risk life itself
to accumulate gold. Every business in England is formed merely for the
gathering together of bits of metal like that in your hand; huge
companies of men are formed so that it may be piled up in greater
quantities. The man who has most gold has most power, and is generally
the most respected; the company which makes most money is the one
people are most anxious to belong to."
Ruth listened to him with wonder and dismay in her eyes. As he talked
she shuddered, and allowed the yellow coin to slip from her hand to the
ground. "No wonder such a people fears death."
"Do you not fear death?"
"How can we, when we believe in heaven?"
"But would you not be sorry if someone died whom you loved?"
"How could we be so selfish? Would you be sorry if your brother, or
someone you loved, became possessed of whatever you value in England--a
large quantity of this gold, for instance?"
"Certainly not. But then you see--well, it isn't exactly the same
thing. If one you care for dies you are separated from him, and----"
"But only for a short time, and that gives but another reason for
welcoming death. It seems impossible that Christian people should fear
to enter Heaven. Now I begin to understand why our forefathers left
England, and why our teachers will never tell us anything about the
people there. I wonder why missionaries are not sent to England to
teach them the truth, and try to civilize the people?"
"That would, indeed, be coals to Newcastle. But there comes one of the
workers."
"It is my father," cried the girl, rising. "I fear I have been
loitering. I never did such a thing before."
The man who approached was stern of countenance.
"Ruth," he said, "the workers are athirst."
The girl, without reply, picked up her pails and departed.
"I have been receiving," said the young man, coloring slightly, "some
instruction regarding your belief. I had been puzzled by several
remarks I had heard, and wished to make inquiries concerning them."
"It is more fitting," said the man, coldly, "that you should receive
instruction from me or from some of the elders than from one of the
youngest in the community. When you are so far recovered as to be able
to listen to an exposition of our views, I hope to put forth such
arguments as will convince you that they are the true views. If it
should so happen that my arguments are not convincing, then I must
request that you will hold no communication with our younger members.
They must not be contaminated by the heresies of the outside world."
Stanford looked at Ruth standing beside the village well.
"Sir," he said, "you underrate the argumentative powers of the younger
members. There is a text bearing upon the subject which I need not
recall to you. I am already convinced."
THE METAMORPHOSES OF JOHNSON.
I was staying for some weeks at a lovely town in the Tyrol which I
shall take the liberty of naming Schwindleburg. I conceal its real
title because it charges what is termed a visitors' tax, and a heavy
visitors' tax, exacting the same from me through the medium of my hotel
bill. The town also made me pay for the excellent band that performs
morning and afternoon in the Kurpark. Many continental health resorts
support themselves by placing a tax upon visitors, a practice resorted
to by no English town, and so I regard the imposition as a swindle, and
I refuse to advertise any place that practises it. It is true that if
you stay in Schwindleburg less than a week they do not tax you, but I
didn't know that, and the hotel man, being wise in his own generation,
did not present his bill until a day after the week was out, so I found
myself in for the visitors' tax and the music money before I was aware
of it. Thus does a foolish person accumulate wisdom by foreign travel.
I stayed on at this picturesque place, listening to the band every day,
trying to get value for my money. I intended to keep much to myself,
having work to do, and make no acquaintances, but I fell under the
fascination of Johnson, thus breaking my rule. What is the use of
making a rule if you can't have the pleasure of breaking it?
I think the thing that first attracted me to Johnson was his utter
negligence in the matter of his personal appearance. When he stepped down
from the hotel 'bus he looked like a semi-respectable tramp. He wore a
blue woolen shirt, with no collar or necktie. He had a slouch hat, without
the usual affectation of a Tyrolese feather in it. His full beard had
evidently not been trimmed for weeks, and he had one trouser-leg turned
up. He had no alpenstock, and that also was a merit. So I said to
myself, "Here is a man free from the conventionalities of society. If I
become acquainted with anybody it will be with him."
I found Johnson was an American from a Western city named Chicago,
which I had heard of, and we "palled on." He was very fond of music,
and the band in the Kurpark was a good one, so we went there together
twice a day, and talked as we walked up and down the gravel paths. He
had been everywhere, and knew his way about; his conversation was
interesting. In about a week I had come to love Johnson, and I think he
rather liked me.
One day, as we returned together to the Hotel Post, he held out his
hand.
"I'm off to-morrow," he said; "off to Innsbruck. So I shall bid you
good-bye. I am very glad indeed to have met you."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that." I replied. "But I won't say good-bye now,
I'll see you to the station to-morrow."
"No, don't do that. I shall be away before you are up. We'll say good-
bye here."
We did, and when I had breakfast next morning I found Johnson had left
by the early train. I wandered around the park that forenoon mourning
for Johnson. The place seemed lonely without him. In the afternoon I
explored some of the by-paths of the park within hearing distance of
the band, when suddenly, to my intense surprise, I met my departed
friend.
"Hello! Johnson," I cried, "I thought you left this morning."
The man looked at me with no recognition in his face.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "my name is Baumgarten."
Looking more closely at him I at once saw I was mistaken. I had been
thinking of Johnson at the time, which probably accounted for the
error. Still, his likeness to Johnson was remarkable--to Johnson well
groomed. He had neatly-trimmed side-whiskers and moustache, while
Johnson had a full beard. His round hat was new, and he wore an
irreproachable collar, and even cuffs. Besides this he sported a cane,
and evidently possessed many weaknesses to which Johnson was superior.
I apologized for my mistake, and was about to walk on when Baumgarten
showed signs of wishing to become acquainted.
"I have just arrived," he said, "and know nothing of the place. Have
you been here long?"
"About two weeks," I answered.
"Ah! then, you are a resident as it were. Are there any good ascents to
be made around here?"
"I have not been informed that there are. I am not a climber myself,
except by funicular railway. I am always content to take other people's
figures for the heights. The only use I have for a mountain is to look
at it."
Then Baumgarten launched into a very interesting account of mountain
dangers he had passed through. I found him a most entertaining talker,
almost as fascinating as Johnson himself. He told me he was from
Hanover, but he had been educated in Great Britain, which accounted for
his perfect English.
"What hotel are you at?" he asked, as the band ceased playing.
"I am staying at the Post," I answered. "And you?"
"I am at the Adler. You must come to dine with me some evening, and I
will make it even by dining with you. We can thus compare _table
d'hotes_."
Baumgarten improved on acquaintance in spite of his foppishness in
dress. I almost forgot Johnson until one day I was reminded of him one
day by Baumgarten saying, "I leave to-night for Innsbruck."
"Innsbruck? Why, that's where Johnson is. You ought to meet him. He's
an awfully good fellow. A little careless about his clothes, that's
all."
"I should like to meet him. I know no one in Innsbruck. Do you happen
to know the name of his hotel?"
"I do not. I don't even know Johnson's first name. But I'll write you a
note of introduction on my card, and if you should come across him,
give him my regards."
Baumgarten accepted the card with thanks, and we parted.
Next day, being warm, I sat on a bench in the shade listening to the
music. Now that Baumgarten had gone, I was meditating on his strange
resemblance to Johnson, and remembering things. Someone sat down beside
me, but I paid no attention to him. Finally he said: "This seems to be
a very good band."
I started at the sound of his voice, and looked at him too much
astonished to reply.
He wore a moustache, but no whiskers, and a green Tyrolese felt hat
with a feather in it. An alpenstock leaned against the bench beside
him, its iron point in the gravel. He wore knickerbockers; in fact, his
whole appearance was that of the conventional mountaineer-tourist. But
the voice! And the expression of the eyes!
"What did you say?"
"I said the band is very good."
"Oh, yes. Quite so. It's expensive, and it ought to be good. I'm
helping to pay for it. By the way, you arrived this morning, I take
it?"
"I came last night."
"Oh, indeed. And you depart in a few days for Innsbruck?"
"No, I go to Salzburg when I leave here."
"And your name isn't Johnson--or--or Baumgarten, by any chance?"
"It is not."
"You come neither from Chicago nor Hanover?"
"I have never been in America, nor do I know Hanover. Anything else?"
"Nothing else. It's all right. It's none of my business, of course."
"What is none of your business?"
"Who are you."
"Oh, there's no secret about that. I am a Russian. My name is Katzoff.
At least, these are the first and last syllables of my name. I never
use my full name when I travel; it is too complicated."
"Thanks. And how do you account for your perfect English? Educated in
England, I presume? Baumgarten was."
"No, I was not. You know we Russians are reputed to be good linguists."
"Yes, I had forgotten that. We will now return to the point from which
we started. The band is excellent, and it is about to play one of four
favorite selections, Mr. Katzburg."
"Katzoff is the name. As to the selection, I don't know much about
music, although I am fond of popular pieces."
Katzoff and I got along very nicely, although I did not seem to like
him as well as either Johnson or Baumgarten. He left for Salzburg
without bidding me good-bye. Missing him one day, I called at the
Angleterre, and the porter told me he had gone.
Next day I searched for him, wondering in what garb I should find him.
I passed him twice as he sat on the bench, before I was sure enough to
accost him. The sacrifice of his moustache had made a remarkable
difference. His clean-shaven face caused him to look at least ten years
younger. He wore a tall silk hat, and a long black morning coat. I
found myself hardly able to withdraw my eyes from the white spats that
partially covered his polished boots. He was reading an English paper,
and did not observe my scrutiny. I approached him.
"Well, Johnson," I said, "this _is_ a lay out. You're English this
time, I suppose?"
The man looked up in evident surprise. Fumbling around the front of his
waistcoat for a moment, he found a black silk string, which he pulled,
bringing to his hand a little round disc of glass. This he stuck in one
eye, grimacing slightly to keep it in place, and so regarded me
apparently with some curiosity. My certainty that it was Johnson
wavered for a moment, but I braved it out.
"That monocle is a triumph, Johnson. In combination with the spats it
absolutely staggers me. If you had tried that on as Baumgarten I don't
know that I should have recognized you. Johnson, what's your game?"
"You seem to be laboring under some delusion," he said at last. "My
name is not Johnson. I am Lord Somerset Campbell, if you care to know."
"Really? Oh, well, that's all right. I'm the Duke of Argyll, so we must
be relatives. Blood is thicker than water, Campbell. Confess. Whom have
you murdered?"
"I knew," said his lordship, slowly, "that the largest lunatic asylum
in the Tyrol is near here, but I was not aware that the patients were
allowed to stroll in the Kurpark."
"That's all very well, Johnson, but----"
"Campbell, if you please."
"I don't please, as it happens. This masquerade has gone on long
enough. What's your crime? Or are you on the other side of the fence?
Are you practising the detective business?"
"My dear fellow, I don't know you, and I resent your impertinent
curiosity. Allow me to wish you good-day."
"It won't do, Johnson, it has gone too far. You have played on my
feelings, and I won't stand it. I'll go to the authorities and relate
the circumstances. They are just suspicious enough to----"
"Which? The authorities or the circumstances?" asked Johnson, sitting
down again.
"Both, my dear boy, both, and you know it. Now, Johnson, make a clean
breast of it, I won't give you away."
Johnson sighed, and his glass dropped from his eye. He looked around
cautiously. "Sit down," he said.
"Then you _are_ Johnson!" I cried, with some exultation.
"I thought you weren't very sure," began Johnson. "However, it doesn't
matter, but you should be above threatening a man. That was playing it
low down."
"I see you're from Chicago. Go on."
"It's all on account of this accursed visitors' tax. That I decline to
pay. I stay just under the week at a hotel, and then take a 'bus to the
station, and another 'bus to another hotel. Of course my mistake was
getting acquainted with you. I never suspected you were going to stay
here a month."
"But why didn't you let me know? Your misdemeanor is one I thoroughly
sympathize with. I wouldn't have said anything."
Johnson shook his head.
"I took a fellow into my confidence once before. He told it as a dead
secret to a friend, and the friend thought it a good joke, and related
it, always under oath that it should go no further. The authorities had
me arrested before the week was out, and fined me heavily besides
exacting the tax."
"But doesn't the 'bus fares, the changing, and all that amount to as
much as the tax?"
"I suppose it does. It isn't the money I object to, it's the principle
of the thing."
This interview was the last I ever had with Johnson. About a week later
I read in the Visitors' List that Lord Somerset Campbell, who had been
a guest of the Victoria (the swell hotel of the place), had left
Schwindleburg for Innsbruck.
THE RECLAMATION OF JOE HOLLENDS.
The public-houses of Burwell Road--and there were many of them for the
length of the street--were rather proud of Joe Hollends. He was a
perfected specimen of the work a pub produces. He was probably the most
persistent drunkard the Road possessed, and the periodical gathering in
of Joe by the police was one of the stock sights of the street. Many of
the inhabitants could be taken to the station by one policeman; some
required two; but Joe's average was four. He had been heard to boast
that on one occasion he had been accompanied to the station by seven
bobbies, but that was before the force had studied Joe and got him down
to his correct mathematical equivalent. Now they tripped him up, a
policeman taking one kicking leg and another the other, while the
remaining two attended to the upper part of his body. Thus they carried
him, followed by an admiring crowd, and watched by other envious
drunkards who had to content themselves with a single officer when they
went on a similar spree. Sometimes Joe managed to place a kick where it
would do the most good against the stomach of a policeman, and when the
officer rolled over there was for a few moments a renewal of the fight,
silent on the part of the men and vociferous on the part of the
drunkard, who had a fine flow of abusive language. Then the procession
went on again. It was perfectly useless to put Joe on the police
ambulance, for it required two men to sit on him while in transit, and
the barrow is not made to stand such a load.
Of course, when Joe staggered out of the pub and fell in the gutter,
the ambulance did its duty, and trundled Joe to his abiding place, but
the real fun occurred when Joe was gathered in during the third stage
of his debauch. He passed through the oratorical stage, then the
maudlin or sentimental stage, from which he emerged into the fighting
stage, when he was usually ejected into the street, where he forthwith
began to make Rome howl, and paint the town red. At this point the
policeman's whistle sounded, and the force knew Joe was on the warpath,
and that duty called them to the fray.
It was believed in the neighborhood that Joe had been a college man,
and this gave him additional standing with his admirers. His eloquence
was undoubted, after several glasses varying in number according to the
strength of their contents, and a man who had heard the great political
speakers of the day admitted that none of them could hold a candle to
Joe when he got on the subject of the wrongs of the working man and the
tyranny of the capitalist. It was generally understood that Joe might
have been anything he liked, and that he was no man's enemy but his
own. It was also hinted that he could tell the bigwigs a thing or two
if he had been consulted in affairs of State.
One evening, when Joe was slowly progressing as usual, with his feet in
the air, towards the station, supported by the requisite number of
policemen, and declaiming to the delight of the accompanying crowd, a
woman stood with her back to the brick wall, horror-stricken at the
sight. She had a pale, refined face, and was dressed in black. Her
self-imposed mission was among these people, but she had never seen Joe
taken to the station before, and the sight, which was so amusing to the
neighborhood, was shocking to her. She enquired about Joe, and heard
the usual story that he was no man's enemy but his own, although they
might in justice have added the police. Still, a policeman was hardly
looked upon as a human being in that neighborhood. Miss Johnson
reported the case to the committee of the Social League, and took
counsel. Then it was that the reclamation of Joe Hollends was
determined on.
Joe received Miss Johnson with subdued dignity, and a demeanor that
delicately indicated a knowledge on his part of her superiority and his
own degradation. He knew how a lady should be treated even if he was a
drunkard, as he told his cronies afterwards. Joe was perfectly willing
to be reclaimed. Heretofore in his life, no one had ever extended the
hand of fellowship to him. Human sympathy was what Joe needed, and
precious little he had had of it. There were more kicks than halfpence
in this world for a poor man. The rich did not care what became of the
poor; not they--a proposition which Miss Johnson earnestly denied.
It was one of the tenets of the committee that where possible the poor
should help the poor. It was resolved to get Joe a decent suit of
clothes and endeavor to find him a place where work would enable him to
help himself. Miss Johnson went around the neighborhood and collected
pence for the reclamation. Most people were willing to help Joe,
although it was generally felt that the Road would be less gay when he
took on sober habits. In one room, however, Miss Johnson was refused
the penny she pleaded for.
"We cannot spare even a penny," said the woman, whose sickly little boy
clung to her skirts. "My husband is just out of work again. He has had
only four weeks' work this time."
Miss Johnson looked around the room and saw why there was no money. It
was quite evident where the earnings of the husband had gone.
The room was much better furnished than the average apartment of the
neighborhood. There were two sets of dishes where one would have been
quite sufficient. On the mantelshelf and around the walls were various
unnecessary articles which cost money.
Miss Johnson noted all this but said nothing, although she resolved to
report it to the committee. In union is strength and in multitude of
counsel there is wisdom. Miss Johnson had great faith in the wisdom of
the committee.
"How long has your husband been out of work?" she asked.
"Only a few days, but times are very bad and he is afraid he will not
get another situation soon."
"What is his trade?"
"He is a carpenter and a good workman--sober and steady."
"If you give me his name I will put it down in our books. Perhaps we
may be able to help him."
"John Morris is his name."
Miss Johnson wrote it down on her tablets, and when she left, the wife
felt vaguely grateful for benefits to come.
The facts of the case were reported to the committee, and Miss Johnson
was deputed to expostulate with Mrs. Morris upon her extravagance. John
Morris's name was put upon the books among the names of many other
unemployed persons. The case of Joe Hollends then came up, and elicited
much enthusiasm. A decent suit of clothing had been purchased with part
of the money collected for him, and it was determined to keep the rest
in trust, to be doled out to him as occasion warranted.
Two persuasive ladies undertook to find a place for him in one of the
factories, if such a thing were possible.
Joe felt rather uncomfortable in his new suit of clothes, and seemed to
regard the expenditure as, all in all, a waste of good money. He was
also disappointed to find that the funds collected were not to be
handed over to him in a lump. It was not the money he cared about, he
said, but the evident lack of trust. If people had trusted him more, he
might have been a better man. Trust and human sympathy were what Joe
Hollends needed.
The two persuasive ladies appealed to Mr. Stillwell, the proprietor of
a small factory for the making of boxes. They said that if Hollends got
a chance they were sure he would reform. Stillwell replied that he had
no place for anyone. He had enough to do to keep the men already in his
employ. Times were dull in the box business, and he was turning away
applicants every day who were good workmen and who didn't need to be
reformed. However, the ladies were very persuasive, and it is not given
to every man to be able to refuse the appeal of a pretty woman, not to
mention two of them. Stillwell promised to give Hollends a chance, said
he would consult with his foreman, and let the ladies know what could
be done.
Joe Hollends did not receive the news of his luck with the enthusiasm
that might have been expected. Many a man was tramping London in search
of employment and finding none, therefore even the ladies who were so
solicitous about Joe's welfare thought he should be thankful that work
came unsought. He said he would do his best, which is, when you come to
think of it, all that we have a right to expect from any man.
Some days afterwards Jack Morris applied to Mr. Stillwell for a job,
but he had no sub-committee of persuasive ladies to plead for him. He
would be willing to work half-time or quarter-time for that matter. He
had a wife and boy dependent on him. He could show that he was a good
workman and he did not drink. Thus did Morris recite his qualifications
to the unwilling ears of Stillwell the box maker. As he left the place
disheartened with another refusal, he was overtaken by Joe Hollends.
Joe was a lover of his fellow-man, and disliked seeing anyone
downhearted. He had one infallible cure for dejection. Having just been
discharged, he was in high spirits, because his prediction of his own
failure as a reformed character, if work were a condition of the
reclamation, had just been fulfilled.
"Cheer up, old man," he cried, slapping Morris on the shoulder, "what's
the matter? Come and have a drink with me. I've got the money."
"No," said Morris, who knew the professional drunkard but slightly, and
did not care for further acquaintance with him, "I want work, not
beer."
"Every man to his taste. Why don't you ask at the box factory? You can
have my job and welcome. The foreman's just discharged me. Said I
wouldn't work myself, and kept the men off theirs. Thought I talked too
much about capital and labor."
"Do you think I could get your job?"