Part 1
[Illustration: The MM Co.]
[Illustration: “_So they marched away to the tune of ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me’_”]
[Illustration]
HEIMWEH THE SIREN ✳ ✳ ✳ THE LOADED GUN ✳ ✳ LIEBEREICH. ✳ “IUPITER TONANS” ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ “SIS”. THOR’S EMERALD ✳ ✳ GUILE ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳
_By_
JOHN LUTHER LONG
_Author of_ “MADAME BUTTERFLY” “NAUGHTY NAN” “MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM” “THE FOX WOMAN” _Etc._
_ILLUSTRATED_
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY _NEW YORK MCMV_ LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.
COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up and electrotyped. Published August, 1905.
=Norwood Press= J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith Co. Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
WHETHER YOU BE SICK WITH LONGING FOR THESE SQUALID HOMES ON EARTH WHERE LOVE IS NEVER SURE—OR FOR THOSE SPLENDID MANSIONS IN OUR FATHER’S HOUSE WHERE IT WAITS ALWAYS—THESE ARE FOR YOU ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈
[Music: Heimweh, Heimweh, himmlisches Sehnen, Das nach Liebe, das nach Lieben in der fernen Heimath krankt.]
THE CONTENTS
_HEIMWEH_
PAGE I Life has no Future at Twenty-one 3 II Happiness is Better than Church 8 III Open the Door to Joy—Always 12 IV War is Glorious at the Beginning, but not at the End 16 V We go out to Fight under the Flag; we Return—under It 19 VI Growing Old is only an Idea—until we Know 22 VII Making Believe brings Things 27 VIII The End of Life is as its Beginning—Simple 31 IX Good Baskets must keep their Bottoms 35 X Things feel Heavier in Age 41 XI But the Poor-house may be One of the Mansions in Our Father’s House 47
_THE SIREN_
PAGE I Brassid 53 II On the Bottom of the Sea 63 III She may have had Brothers 68 IV But She was Best of All 72 V His Grandfather’s Courage made her want to love Him 77 VI Her Ancestors wore Scales 82 VII Strange that Love should make One Afraid 87
_THE LOADED GUN_
PAGE I Three Gentlemen of Philadelphia 93 II An Ounce of Whiskey or an Ounce of Brains 97 III Calling a Man a Pig 103 IV He did not Know that it was Loaded 108 V A Fool and his Money 114 VI The Old Man’s Last Cent 116 VII Her Big Trump 121
_LIEBEREICH_
PAGE I The House that he and Emmy Built 129 II Emmy and he were never Apart 136 III “Vergissnichtmein” 141 IV The Night-shirt with the Feather-stitching of Blue 145 V The Second Opening of the Door 152
“_IUPITER TONANS_”
PAGE I The Serious Insomnia of Hier Ruhet 157 II And the Polite Cannon of Weiss Nicht 160 III The Soup-spring 166 IV Knock Wood 172 V And Shoot to make Holes 178 VI Who broke Hier Ruhet’s Leg? 183 VII Pooh! 191
“_SIS_”
PAGE I Where the Orchards Smelled 197 II The Eyes that Wept till they went Blind 204 III The Golden Teapot with the Blue Rose 209 IV The Story at Last. Attend! 211 V Hiliary loved Both, and Both loved Him 215 VI She Believed in Miracles. Do you? 221 VII That was a Great Time for Kissing 225 VIII What may be Seen on a Doorstep 232
_THOR’S EMERALD_
PAGE I The Shibboleth of Liberty 237 II When the Summer came Again 245 III The Land of the Brave 254 IV The Home of the Free 260 V The Quality of Justice 268 VI The Foolishness of Preaching 277 VII To a Higher Tribunal 285 VIII The Shadow of Death 288
_GUILE_
PAGE I Chilly Wisdom 295 II Patchouly 301 III The Calyxlike Bonnet 306 IV The Fiddling of Fortune 312 V A Dangerous Train 317 VI Similia Similibus Curantur 322 VII The Ineffable Whirl 329 VIII The Length of a Minute 331 IX At Ten in the Morning 338 X By the Right of a Husband 340
_ILLUSTRATIONS_
“So they marched away to the tune of ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me’” _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE “‘It’s like climbing Zion’s hill,’ said John to himself” 44 “‘I guess you’re the right sort,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Put it there!’” 100 “She was on the floor there before him, her face upraised to his” 126 “Like a picture in its frame, there stood his wife” 152 “The entire ship’s company gathered and viewed it curiously” 192 “‘I want to marry one of you girls, but hanged if I know which one to ask’” 218
HEIMWEH[1]
I LIFE HAS NO FUTURE AT TWENTY-ONE
The neighbors called them “Betsy and John”—_her_ name first, always. Perhaps because she was short and aggressive, he tall and inclined to “lazy.” Only inclined to lazy, understand. For, no one had ever caught him at it. Indeed, with a certain rustic intuition and much experience of his kind, they knew it was “in him”—that he had been “born to it”—and they liked him better for his constant vanquishment of the infirmity. They would have liked him anyhow—he was a very likable fellow. But Betsy they loved. Once in a while some zealous friend of John would contend that he was the very incarnation of industry. John, when he came to know of that sort of thing, always discouraged it—and did it firmly. He would point to the nimble fingers of his wife—a thing he was always glad to do—and say, sighing:
“It is _that_—_she_—_it_—makes me ashamed—to lazy.”
She was twenty, he barely twenty-one, when they were married. She was a basket-maker, he a laborer. They lived in a little town on “the Border.” Differing with the utmost good nature in everything but one—in that they were exactly alike. They had no future—absolutely none! They refused to have one. Strong with the vigor of youth—happy with the unreason of happiness—content with what came—wishing for nothing they had not—ambitious for nothing but a home—they lived but from day to day again—sleeping soundly, working gayly, thinking not. Why should they be vexed about a future—at twenty—twenty-one?
Once in a while they went hungry—and laughed about it. But, usually, there was sufficient demand for her dainty wares; and he was digging trenches in the streets of the adjoining town for the pipes of the new gas company. He made as much as forty cents a day when he worked, while she averaged nearly twice as much. You can see that there was no reason why they should go hungry very often. And, indeed, once, when he felt particularly opulent, John bought Betsy a gold-plated brooch for her birthday. It was in 1835.
But did I say that there was one thing upon which they agreed—in that rejected future? Yes. A home—they wanted a home—a roof over their heads, they called it—that was all. But, even this was forgotten as the happy years went by.
“Home is wherever _we_ are!” laughed Betsy.
Then came the children, and John began to talk and act and think like a very proper father—even though Betsy laughed at him.
“Betsy,” said John, once upon a time, pulling down his face, “we’d ought to begin thinking of the—” Betsy began to smile, but John went on, like a husband and father doing his duty—“er—think of the—er—roof!”
He almost shouted the last word—it seemed so ridiculous when he came to it.
“At twenty-two?” said Betsy.
John was rocking the cradle.
“But when a man gits to be a father—”
“_Papa!_” laughed Betsy at him, and John blushed and stopped.
But that wasn’t Betsy’s way—to chill John with an argument so irrefutable—and at such a distance! She flung her basket away, snatched the baby from the cradle, and, next, John had his whole family in his lap. His wife was laughing, the baby was blinking, and John was very happy.
“Roof!”—she was talking to the baby “do you know what that is? _I_ don’t. You haven’t any yet—neither have I. I’ve forgotten it. We are going to have one, of course—after a while—if your papa wants one—_now_—if he can’t wait—a minute—”
John put his hand on her mouth. She bit it and he kissed her. Then they were tangled in an embrace for a moment—the baby getting the worst of it.
“Look here,” said Betsy, then, “don’t you think you’ve got enough with us? Roof!”
“Yes,” confessed John, shamefacedly, “I don’t want you to bother no more about it.”
“I won’t,” said Betsy.
“We’ll have it—some day!” declared John, in his lazy way, “without any bothering!”
II HAPPINESS IS BETTER THAN CHURCH
Four more were born—boys all—goodly and ruddy—like their little mother. But, one and all, they surprised and delighted her by growing tall like their father.
“You see, John,” said Betsy, “they are going to be big like you, and _good_ like me.”
Well, one by one, they went out into the world—but never very far from the romping comrade-mother. Away from her the world was neither so gay nor so tender. They never found another woman so altogether lovely.
There was no work for any of them on Sunday, so they would all come home. Indeed, in the country of the Germans of Pennsylvania, no one ever worked on Sunday in that day and generation. And such Sundays as they were! No going to church, I fear—a heinous omission perhaps. But how could they? There was gentle revelry in the little house from the first moment—not a soul of them would have missed that for any church on earth—and no church on earth would have done them so much good—then a feast. Sometimes—when all had work and wages were good—a stewed turkey! And, after it all, kisses and hugs and good-nights—till one thought it would never end.
And, after they were gone, Betsy would cry—and John would take her in his lap and say never a word—leaving her to fall asleep there.
But once, instead of sleeping, she sat up and took John by the throat.
“John! I’m glad they’re _not_ girls—_any_ of them.” For this used to be a complaint of Betsy’s—that none of them were girls.
“Yes,” said John, meekly.
She gripped his throat a little tighter and shook him.
“They’d git married if they were. Girls always do. But boys often have better sense. Ours have, anyhow.”
“We got married,” ventured John.
“Well—_of course_!” said Betsy, choking him.
But the thing was in her mind all the week. There seemed danger. The next Sunday, at the table, she said:
“Look here! Why don’t some of yous git—git—married?”
Her hand shook as she dealt out the gravy and waited for their answer.
They looked from one to the other. No one knew.
“Funny,” laughed Ben, “but _I_ never thought of it.”
“Nor I,” said Bart.
“Hanged if I know,” piped Fred. “Don’t see no girls like you—”
“Can I marry you, mammy?” laughed Tom, putting his arm around her as she came over to him. It was Tom she was most afraid of. For he was the youngest—and to her he was little short of a god. He had rebellious yellow hair and blue eyes—and little patches of whiskers were beginning to grow on his face.
“Yes,” said his mother, sweeping his girlish lips with a kiss.
“Me, too,” said “old” Ben—and he got it.
And so on all around while John smiled in ecstasy.
“Boys,” said the little mother, “there ain’t no girl _I_ ever saw that’s fit for any of yous—ain’t so, John?”
John, of course, said yes.
Tom got up, and, after turning her back to the rest wiped the tears from his mother’s eyes.
“Boys,” announced the mother, “next Sunday there will be a turkey—and oyster stuffing!”
As she said it she went over and let her arms glide gently around the neck of Will, who had not spoken on the subject of marriage. He caught her hands and drew her arms closer while he smiled up at her—a little sadly. She kissed him on the great forehead, and he understood. There had been a brief love affair for him, but it was over. Simply a successful rival. He never spoke of it—nor did any one else. But at least two—understood.
III OPEN THE DOOR TO JOY—ALWAYS
But Betsy had caught John surreptitiously saving—to buy the roof, he explained!
“We—we’re gitting old, you know,” he excused.
“Old!—”
Betsy caught up her dainty skirts—very high—and pirouetted before him.
“_Ein’, tswei, drei’, un’ fier. Dass macht sivve’_—”
She stopped a moment.
“John! Don’t you remember Eisenkrantz’s husking—where I first saw you? Oh, John, what a gawk you were! And yit—and yit—John, do you remember _how_ you danced that night? Come!”
She pulled him about with her in a very clumsy attempt at waltzing. Then she pushed him off.
“Oh, _you are_ gitting old. But me—”
A few more mad whirls and she flung herself into his arms.
“Say, John, that’s better than any roof.”
“Er—what?” asked John, whose wits were often left behind by his wife’s.
She came close and shouted in his ear:
“Joy!”
“Oh!” said John, patting her pretty hair.
She slipped her arm about him. And then her voice was very soft and loving.
“And our five boys! Such boys! Where is there another such five! If we _should_ get old—if we _should_ need a roof—why, John—there are our five handsome boys!”
She cried a little, and John asked her for the thousandth time why she did it.
“Why does a woman cry? For joy and sorrow—life and death—good and evil!”
“Oh!” said John, once more.
“John!” His wife woke up and gripped his throat again. “Ben needs a new horse,”—Ben was a huckster,—“Tom wants a drill,”—Tom was a farmer,—“and Fred _must_ have a new Sunday suit. How much money have you saved, you rascal?”
John told her. And Ben got his horse, Tom got his drill, and Fred got his Sunday suit—and John saved no more.
But it was so—they were brave and loving fellows—all. And every Sunday—when they were gone—it was a game of hide-and-seek for Betsy and John—to find the money and presents they had left. Of course, they were all at places where she might easily discover them. But she always went shy of the most likely places at first—thus prolonging the search—sometimes until she was quite tired. In the pocket of her second-best dress (she always wore her best on Sunday)—in the frame of her warped toilet mirror—in the drawers of her scratched dressing bureau—in the loaves of her new bread!
Finally, when the boys all became prosperous, they made her stop weaving baskets, and him stop laboring in the streets; all of them dressed well, and they became quite a company of ladies and gentlemen. Neither John nor Betsy was precisely happy afterward. Sunday was longer in coming. But they sighed for their idleness, laughed for their happiness—and did as the boys told them to do: sat still and looked pretty.
But there is such a thing as getting used even to idleness, and joy comes whether we work or not—if we are wise enough to let it come. And no one in that little cheap house ever shut the door on joy. So Betsy, after a while, learned to wear her Sunday clothes all the week, and John to shave every morning. And the door was kept open always to joy.
IV WAR IS GLORIOUS AT THE BEGINNING BUT NOT AT THE END
Then, one day, in ’61, they formed in the town a “soldier company” to go to the “front.” No one knew much about it—nor where the front was. No one doubted that it was to be a great frolic—no one but Betsy. And there, in the front rank, all together, as brothers should be, stood Betsy’s five boys. And, as if this were not enough, there was John, too! With yellow chevrons on his sleeves—and a sword at his side—brave as a lion and proud as a major-general. Company corporal! Alas! perhaps the privates, too, might have carried swords had there been enough to go around.
John stood it as long as he could. For more than a week he swore that he would stay at home and take care of Betsy. He was too old to frolic. But he went to the drill ground every day. Once or twice he drilled with them when some one was absent. He finally developed such a genius for military affairs that the captain went to Betsy and voiced John’s yearnings—it was for his country that he wanted to fight—it was his duty to fight—it was a privilege to fight—it was a wife’s duty to let him fight.
She let John go, too. For, after all, it was only a great frolic—they told her!
So they marched away to the tune of “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” and the little mother went home to wait. It was very lonely from the first hour, and she willingly took up her work again. They scolded her when she wept, so she tried not to weep. They told her she ought not only to be willing to let them go, but be glad. She tried to think that she was glad. But in her heart she rebelled dismally. “We are coming, Father Abraham!” had been the cry—and her boys, too, had said, with a new light in their faces, which she, a woman, did not, could not, would not, understand, that they were going to fight for their country! Go and fight for their country when they might work for _her_—when they might have those Sunday feasts—when she could darn their stockings—mend their clothes—have her arms about them—theirs about her—give them warm beds—plenty of food—while the country would give them poor food—poor clothes—the ground to sleep on—and no Sundays at home! She could not understand it. No woman who is a mother can. She thought of possible wounds on their splendid bodies—of them lying stark in the night upon some shot-torn battle-field—of burial unknown in some vast trench—of fever—and terrors—of hospitals—and even of the coming home—no more her boys—no more! Soldiers, then, soldiers with rough beards and rough voices. She never once thought of them coming home dead.
Alas! _her_ country was bounded by the Rhine. This was _their_ country!
But still, as they went, she prayed blindly:
“God bless you and keep you, my boys, and send you back to me as you go—_good_ boys. Father Abraham, they are my all—everything on earth I love. Send them back as you receive them.”
V WE GO OUT TO FIGHT UNDER THE FLAG; WE RETURN—UNDER IT
It seemed cruel—it was cruel—that her prayer should be so utterly denied her—that they should all be killed. But so it fell out.
One by one they came home to her and were laid away in the churchyard of Saint Michael’s, in their pine coffins and faded uniforms, with the honors of war. It was heart-breaking to have to follow them, one by one, to their graves—to the same Dead March in Saul—to the same muffled drums—to the cadenced tramp of soldiers—with the Stars and Stripes for shroud—with all the solemn pomp of war.
She thought only of the beautiful thing in the coffin to which she had given life. And each time she prayed dizzily—iterating it—so that God might perhaps the better hear:
“Our Father, who art in heaven—keep the rest—keep the rest—keep John.”
The last of them died at Gettysburg—in the first day’s fight.
It was only a few miles away, and on the third of July he came home. On the fourth, while cannons were bursting for joy, she was following once more the soldiers to the tune of the Dead March. It was the last. She had grown afraid to pray. But once more, at the open grave, she raised her hands:
“Our Father, who art in heaven—keep John,” she begged, in whispers.
When she got home there was a letter for her. It spoke of the devotion of her dead boys. It was almost as if the writer knew them—as she did. This letter was signed “A. Lincoln,” and read:
“Dear Madam:
“I have been shown in the files of the War Department a statement of the Adjutant-General of Pennsylvania that you are the mother of five sons who have died gloriously on the field of battle. I feel how weak and fruitless must be any words of mine which should attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming. But I cannot refrain from tendering to you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the Republic they died to save. I pray that our heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.”
“But they are dead!” cried Betsy to the letter. She cared nothing for the “cause” or for “freedom.” They were dead.
VI GROWING OLD IS ONLY AN IDEA—UNTIL WE KNOW
And then, when the war was quite over, that last pitiful prayer was answered, and John came marching home—from the grand review—with a captain’s straps on his shoulders—a minié ball in his thigh—and a perfectly proper sword—the gift of the United States of America! It is quite certain that John was very proud of the sword—and perhaps even of his limp.
And Betsy was as proud as he—quite. But not of the sword and limp. These, in secret, she hated as much as she could hate. Perhaps I had better say that she was only glad. You may be sure that his glory did not keep her off.
“I don’t care if you _were_ in twenty-one battles. You are only my dear old John.”
“Only your old John,” said the soldier.
“_Dear_, I said! And—and—you’ve got to make up for all the rest—one multiplied by five, you know—_that_ dear.”
She suddenly sobbed.
“Eh?” said John. Then—“Oh!”
He sobbed, too.
“And, as for that limp—I will cure that, or my name is not Betsy.”
And more sobs.
But for all her trying, he limped the more.
So that long afterward she said:
“John—I haven’t done it, and my name’s still Betsy.”
But there was no more sobbing about it.
“It’s better,” prevaricated John.
“No,” said Betsy, “it ain’t. Something is gone. I can’t do things any more.”
John thought a moment.
“Like when you reach out in the dark for something you know is there and it ain’t and you shiver,” he said then. “I used to do that at night on the ground—reach out for—you!”
“John!” cried Betsy, in her old manner, “I never heard you say so much at one time before—nor so nice. What’s the matter?”
“_You_ don’t say so much,” said John. “_I’m_ evening up now.”
“Yes—yes—yes—dear John!” said Betsy, with a tear, she did not know for what—quite. “I must talk more.”
“We’ve lost something and we’ve gained something—at another place,” John went on. “I don’t know what it is—but it’s something.”
“John, I know, and I’ll tell you.”
She came and knelt at his side and tried to reach his neck with her short arms.
“We’re falling in love again!”
John suddenly held her off and stared.
“By jiminy!”
“Yes. It was so long to wait—and there is nobody but you and me now—and we have got to begin all over again. Don’t you see?” And the tears fell again.
“No! I was always in love with you. No!”
And he was quite stubborn about it.
“Yes!” she cried.
“Yes,” John agreed.
“No!” she laughed.
“No,” laughed John.
After a moment she released herself, and, taking John by the throat in the old fashion, said:
“And, John, we _will_ begin all over again. We’re not old! So there!”
She spread her skirts and whirled around on her toes.
“Not a day older than in ’35,” said John, with glistening eyes.