The Contralto

Rev. Charles Maloy, C. M.
St. Joseph's Parish, Emmitsburg, Md.

Chapter 15 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 1

A short man, well on in years, hi a home-spun suit, slouch hat and well polished boots, sauntered up Pennsylvania Avenue gazing leisurely at everything that came within his vision. The massive head, the square jaw, the smooth face, such as Praxiteles loved to carve for Greek gods, were all suggestive of the power to do things; the contour of a Superman, if such exist, not dominated by the will-to-power in egoistic monopoly of the limelight of publicity, but by a moral code which knows no compromise; one of a million of men who live their predestined span in out-of-the-way villages bearing in their hearts all that is noblest and best in our citizenry, an "Uncle Josh" to the cultured dwellers of the city, a hero to the Recording Angel.

All unmindful of the supercilious smiles of the governmental parasites who passed him, he walked along, his face an immobile mask as he viewed the masses of architecture his blood and money had made possible. Near Eleventh St. an insolent colored youth, such as rule the streets of the capital during the administration of a certain political party shouldered the old fellow to one side only to be grabbed by two men who promptly cuffed his ears and threw him into the street. A stalwart police-man of evident Celtic extraction saw the proceeding and smiled in approbation. When the avengers faced the rescued, all three burst into hearty laughter.

"Well, if it isn't Uncle Bennett!"

"How do, Professor; how do, Mr. Galt? Didn't expect to meet you here?"

"Did that damn nigger hurt you?"

"No," with a chuckle, "only made me laugh to think them are the things Whitmore says we fought for."

"You must come to the Raleigh and have lunch." "Mighty fine buildings they got here, don't think much of the White House, though."

"Did you see the President?" asked the Professor.

"No, sir; he's tending to business I presume; ain't got time to bother about the likes of me."

"Come and have lunch with us," again invited Galt; "then we shall show you everything."

"What time do you eat?"

"Right now if you say so."

"Can't do it, got business for twelve o'clock." "Meet us at the hotel when you are through. We shall wait for you."

The reformers had been well received by the postal authorities, had obtained assurances that the Western Maryland Railroad would be compelled to live up to the regulations for the transportation of mails, and left amidst urgent requests that they do their part in reporting delinquencies. They were advised to lay the conditions resorted to by the railroad in adjusting claims for the recent wreck before the Department of Commerce, and on parting with Bennett they repaired to their room in the hotel to discuss this matter.

When he joined them later, all went to the cafe. There was not the least embarrassment on the old fellow's part at his surroundings, though he showed a disinclination to give his hat to the boy, saying he would keep it under his chair. Seated at a table in a corner overlooking the avenue, they began making up their order.

"Shall we take a Martini or a Manhattan?" asked the editor looking at the Professor, quizzically.

"Don't know nothing about fancy drinks; I'll take a little plain liquor," said Uncle Bennett.

When the waiter withdrew, the carpenter chuckled once or twice, then:

"What did I tell you, Professor? I knowed it all the time. By Cricky! I knowed it; wait till I get back, I'll rub it in."

"What is it, Uncle Bennett?"

"It's their darned standard time, that's what it is."

"What have you discovered?"

"Been over to their observ'tory twice, watching them. Just at noon they stop their timepiece and everybody waits. In a minute they begin to dicker with the clock and all the fools standing round change their watches according as the fellow sets it fast or slow. Now I want to know, if they got the right time why in thunder they don't keep it?" the old man's eyes blazed with the spirit of argument.

"You are absolutely right, Uncle Bennett," agreed Galt, "why don't they keep it?"

"They got a whole lot of new-fangled inventions just like their machine lumber, but nobody's going to tell me they can improve on God Almighty's sun. I been a subscriber to the Hagerstown’s Almanac for over fifty years and I ain't caught it napping once. Then there's Olmstead's Physics, I studied that book from cover to cover, and with my sundial and them two books I can get the time just as good as their darned old observ'tory, and I can do what they can't, by Golly! I can keep it."

"You do keep it," assented the Professor.

"When I get back home I'll show the fools of Emmitsburg how much they know about running clocks. If Whitmore or Jack Rabbit Eicheberg opens their mouths to me again, I’ll tell them a thing or two."

The waiter bringing the drinks caused him to cease his denunciations; the cocktails were placed before the editors, a small decanter of whiskey before Bennett.

"Now here's more of it," he continued, "you gentlemen take high-faluting cocktails, and they bring them to you already poured. You ain't got no say as to the size of your drink, just got to take what they offer. I stick to the old way and they let me use my own discretion. Not that I don't allow every man his own way, when it comes to liquor."

They enjoyed an excellent lunch garnished with beverages, and when this was over Uncle Bennett was taken for an automobile ride, his first. They visited the Soldier's Home which caused the carpenter to break out again:

"How can those fellows do it?"

"Do what?" asked his companions.

"Live like beggars fed by the Government in charity; ain't they got no self-respect? I hope the good Lord will sound my last call before I am brought to that. I don't get a pension, and as long as I got two hands to work, I don't want any."

The evening was spent at a performance of Romeo and Juliet, the old man's first visit to a regular theater. He voted the going out between acts the most entertaining portion of the procedure.

It is matter for wonder that the elements of tragedy and comedy, associated with the institution known as the "Turkish Bath," have for so long escaped the attention of the realists. There are to be found all the moral contrasts and catastrophes which we are taught to consider the best material for the naturalistic drama. Could one with the genius of Shakespeare occupy the position of "rubber" for a space in such a place, he would write tragedies as deep as "Hamlet" and comedies more mirth-provoking than the "Merry Wives." Our dramatists forego this field under the mistaken impression that realism must deal with the entanglements of the grand passion alone, at best a small factor in everyday life.

"My Lord, the bar is open;" it was Galt standing over the Professor's couch in the reclining room, bottle and glass in hand.

"Where are we?" sleepily and sitting up.

"We are in a turkish bath, having had a most refreshing sleep; arise and partake of the invigorator, have one hair of the canine that bit you."

"What time is it?"

"Eight-forty-five, and if I be still compos mends, 'tis Sabbath morn."

"Ye gods! where have we been?"

"'Would be difficult to say; but before we begin to reconstruct the past, have something to brush the cobwebs from your memory."

"Thank you," taking the glass in his trembling hand and shuddering as the fiery liquor went down his throat.

"Now, my boy, we shall not indulge in a post-mortem, but get into our clothes and forage for breakfast."

"Did I hear someone remark that the bar was open?" asked a greybeard, his head in the door.

"Yes, Father Time, join us," said the editor.

While the old fellow drank, requiring both hands to convey the glass steadily to his mouth, Harry turned his back to hide the expression of disgust, thinking in the spasm of virtue which follows a debauch in the sensitive, what a devilish thing alcohol is. Getting into his clothes, he found it hard to abstain from a post-mortem, as Galt advised, his mind working diligently to recall the two days which were missing from memory's book. The official card of a police lieutenant found in his overcoat pocket added to his torture; try as he would he could not find its meaning. Wave after wave of remorse swept over him, bringing detached pictures where memory worked and covering him with confusion. He laughed bitterly at the resolutions which arose to his mind, saying audibly, "What's the use?" In the corridor the old man met him.

"Don't be so blue about it boy," he said kindly, you haven't been at it as long as I, or it wouldn't hurt so much."

"How long?"

"Almost forty years off and on."

"Did you never win out?"

"Tried hard enough but there were times when it would get me; lately they have become more frequent."

"Did you ever know anyone who got on the wagon and stayed there?"

"Very few, my boy, very few; it takes some great change in a man's life to bring that about."

"Well, I'm going to effect that change somehow," in a new spasm of resolve.

Returning to the hotel, he shivered, the chill morning air penetrating to the marrow of his bones. Each person seemed to his disturbed mind to be staring him out of countenance and sneering at his downfall. The cheerful greeting of the desk clerk appeared to contain a familiar note of sarcasm, while the smile of the waiter in the cafe was a poignard to his quivering soul. Before they had seated themselves he had determined to take the first train back to Emmitsburg.

Monday morning he did not get out of bed; he had passed a night such as Clarence would not suffer, though it would purchase him a world of happy days. His nerves all unstrung, his soul racked with tortures, the tapestry woven by memory losing both warp and woof in a dark unknown future. The Rector, remarking his condition on arrival, refrained from too intimate discussion of the trip. He now entered with Dr. Brawner.

"I have brought the Doctor, boy; he will give you something to fix you up."

"Yes,as the Rector discreetly withdrew, "you look a little unstrung, been working too hard." "No, Doc, it's a plain case of drunk."

"Nonsense, you haven't been drinking anything to speak of; a little run down, took one or two to tide you over."

"Have your own way," with a sickly attempt at a smile, "you had better prescribe for the real thing, however; I took a sedative last night, but it wouldn't work."

"We'll have you as fit as a fiddle in a day or two, but now you must get some sleep."

The medicines were left with directions for taking; the Doctor, with more assurances of speedy recovery, took his departure. At Peter's he joined the conclave, munching his unlighted cigar, but in no humor to participate in the discussion. Uncle Bennett, for the fourth or fifth time, was expounding the fool methods of the national government in its chronological observations, overcoming all opposition with the authority of an eye-witness.

"I hear the Professor and Mr. Galt were down there; did you meet them?" asked Whitmore.

"Had dinner with them at a first-class hotel."

"They got back last evening; some say they looked as if they'd been celebratin'."

"Who said that?" demanded Dr. Brawner, anticipating Bennett and Peter.

"Blamed if I don't disremember," parried Whitmore.

"Well, they wasn't celebrating," Peter took up, "they was spending their own good money down there trying to get the gov'ment to do something for chuckleheads like you who can't appreciate them and can only set round here backbiting them."

"I ain't sayin' they was, Peter," meekly, "I'm only tellin' what I heard."

"Has anybody seen the Professor this morning?" inquired Dr. Forman.

"Yes," admitted Dr. Brawner, "I just came from there; he isn't well, worn out with his work for the play and his trip."

"I see," said Whitmore, nodding his head.

"What in thunder do you see?" shouted Dr. Brawner, and not awaiting a reply continued, "you've been doing a lot of insinuating ever since I came into this store, Whitmore. You think the Professor's been on a drunk and I'm sobering him up. You're wrong; you're wrong. Pity a man who's a nervous wreck can't be in bed a day or two without a lot of blood suckers trying to rob him of his good name."

"Why, Doc, you was the very first one to say—"

"It's a lie, I never said anything of the kind," and he stormed out, leaving the rest of the assembly to look hard, the one at another. From that day, those still unfriendly to the stranger, found the Doctor a sterile source of information as to his plans and actions.

Towards evening the Professor, having slept fitfully, during the day, arose, dressed and went to the Rector's study. He was received with the kindness of a father, a cigar offered but declined with the declaration that a cigarette was all he could relish for the present. Then followed one of those soul communions consisting of a full confession, not dictated by remorse, but extracted by the sympathetic attitude of the Pastor. When it was over, placing his hand on the young man's shoulder he asked:

"Do you ever pray?"

"I have almost forgotten how."

"Too much thinking has robbed you of the power, my boy, but it will come back; yes it will come back. Try it anyhow; it will change the object of your thought; it will cause you to con-template the infinite mercy of Him who knows the clay of which we are made, instead of your own weakness. Let the dead past bury its dead, my son, begin over again," an absolution which shows the Pastor to be a master in the science of the human heart. Other topics were introduced and soon Harry was relating Uncle Bennett's great discovery with royal good cheer. Returning from a call to the parlor, the Rector told him there was someone to see him.

"Heavens! I cannot meet anyone today."

"Go right down, this person will do you good." "Who is it?" straightening his hair and fixing hiscravat.

Entering the half lighted parlor, for the sun had almost disappeared behind Jack's mountain, he had difficulty in making out who his visitor was. She arose and came forward:

"The Rector tells me you have the blues, and I must see you and cheer you up."

"Oh, yes, Miss Tyson," nervously, "I have one of my neurasthenic attacks."

"That's too bad; you have been overworking yourself with the operetta."

"Scarcely that," with a weak laugh.

"Did you enjoy your trip?"

"The trip was pleasant enough, it's the getting over it that hurts. I did not telephone you," penitently recalling his promise for the first time.

"You were very busy, I didn't mind in the least; that is I know you would have kept your promise if something had not prevented."

"That's very kind of you, but the fact is, I was—" "Yes, of course; what play are you going to produce next?"

"I can't talk about plays now, we must wait a day or two until I get my nerve back."

"Certainly, how stupid of me! talk to me about something else."

"You know a nervous person, when the fit is on him, can talk of nothing but himself, and I'm not a delightful subject of discourse at present."

"Let me play the egoist; you are aware, of course, that I have a divine voice; my one field is the opera-tic stage; I am wasting my talents in this backwoods, I am missing the opportunity to earn millions. Such is the almost unanimous verdict of Higbee, Dr. Forman, and cultured Emmitsburg generally."

"I feel they are right," he assented without enthusiasm.

"What is your personal view?" looking at the floor.

"It is a great life, full of the excitement you confess you crave, a development for mind and heart, a source of wealth once a reputation is established."

"I question your ability to estimate the matter of heart development;" raising her eyes suddenly. "What shall I do? Shall I submit my voice to experts?"

"Have I the right to advise?"

"I give it to you."

"Then we must take time to think it over; it requires thought, deliberation where personal considerations are eliminated," the last words almost spoken to himself.

"Why eliminate personal considerations, they may be the most weighty in the long run?" in the same half tone.

He was at a loss for an answer; conversation drifted into less intimate channels. He watched the girl in the deepening twilight, conscious of her beauty, her superiority to his own vacillating character, feeling that she was the predestined answer to his problem of existence and also, for he was a victim of the superman philosophy, that she was his for the asking. But his resolution was sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thinking; the solution of the life riddle could not be so simple; the Gordian knot for one so great intellectually as he, must be cut under much more dramatic circumstances. All this was accompanied with a certain self-adoration because he thought he was really considering the welfare of the girl who might blindly link her destiny with a moral and mental wreck, the whole complex process leaving him in a state of mild heroics and helping him to resolve against his evil tendency. Fortunately the straightforward girl could not see the workings of his mind.

Chapter 16

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