“Yes, of course. But what does that matter? I keep my own hands clean.”
“Cheers,” said Jonathan.
Robert was becoming too warm in his heavy clothing. He unfastened his tie and then his collar. He took off his coat. I’m a prig; he’s right, he thought. He rolled up the white sleeves of his shirt. The sun was very hot; the soft shadow of trees and the dark caves they made of the streets were very refreshing. The houses were now more scattered and there were many empty lots, dusty and high with early June grass. The scent of stone and vegetation filled the quiet and shining air. There was a great deal to be said in favor of small cities and villages, Robert thought. At least they smelled—honestly. He saw that they were approaching the river and that Jonathan had turned the phaeton toward the River Road. He caught glimpses, between the houses and the trees, of that island which some fool of a woman had named “Heart’s Ease.” In fact, he saw the red-tiled roof of the “castle” clearly, brilliant in the sun, the walls hidden by trees, and the granite enclosures. The water resembled shot silk, blue and full of bright purple shadows.
“You remind me of Omar Khayyam,” said Jonathan.
“Sophomoric again,” said Robert. “What’s wrong with the old tentmaker? If his truths seem worn and obvious, it is because they are truths. What’s a truism? It’s a coin that has had a lot of handling, but it’s a genuine coin, and it wouldn’t have been handled so much if it hadn’t had verity.”
“I bet you read him at least once a month.”
This happened to be true, itself, and it annoyed Robert.
“I do, too,” said Jonathan. “Do you want to know my favorite verse?:
“‘The moving finger writes, and having writ Moves on. Nor all your piety or wit
Can lure it back to cancel half a line, Nor all your tears wash out a word of it!’”
Robert was startled, first because that verse seemed out of character in Jonathan and because it was also his own favorite. It had always been unbearably poignant to him and warningly tragic.
Then he saw that Dr. Ferrier was laughing at him again, and now they were not only on the River Road, but across the water the island seemed only yards away.
Hambledon had not despoiled its river frontage as yet
with factories and disreputable warehouses and shacks. When Robert remarked on this with pleasure, Jonathan said disagreeably, “Just wait. We Ferriers and our friends have stopped it so far. But we are already being accused of being ‘unprogressive’ and ‘standing in the way of The Future.’ The Future, apparently, will be complete ugliness, and utilitarian, if the ‘progressives’ have their way. Let’s enjoy the beautiful, vanishing America while we can. It’s on the way out to make way for the proletarian cult of drabness.”
Robert nodded. “Or Karl Marx’s cult of ‘for use.’ How he hated the farmer! He once looked at a map of Germany, showing the cities and then the broad countryside, and he complained of all that ‘waste land.’ Why, he asked, weren’t the cities spread out over the countryside, so ‘the masses’ could have little plots of land all their own. When it was brought to his attention that the land was needed to cultivate crops to feed people, he waved it away as irrelevant.”
“So, you learned something else besides how to perform autopsies and needless operations,” said Jonathan. “Now, why are you scowling? Never mind. Old Marx was a plagiarist. He got all his ideas from the French Revolution of 1795 and the murderous Jacobins, who probably got their ideas from the Roman traitor Catilina over two thousand years ago. The idea of utilitarianism only and the rule of the undisciplined mobs is an ancient idea that goes back to the sons of Cain. Liberty’s a very fragile flower, indeed, and we’d best enjoy it here in America before it’s stamped out. You don’t think it will be? Young Bob, you’re awfully naive.”
“Oh, that’s ridiculous,” said Robert, with the confidence of youth. “No one listens to Teddy Roosevelt and his ‘progressive’ ideas.”
Jonathan grunted. “This is a new century. Yes, I know, it’s only an artificial man-made marking of time. But I’ve noticed something very odd: New centuries do indeed mark themselves off from the past ones. I don’t believe in astrology, of course. But some madman in Chicago sent me ‘the planetary aspects of the 1900s.’ Don’t recall his name. Anyway, he said this century would be known as ‘The Prelude to Armageddon,’ or ‘The Century of Tyrants and Disaster.’ Maybe. Maybe. Let’s move into this grove of birches. And look for birds,” and he grinned at Robert.
The grove of old birches was aromatic with sweet and pungent scents of earth and leaf and fecund ground. The warm sunlight did not penetrate here. The air was as cool as a fragrant cellar. There were large stands of wildflowers and mushrooms, and everywhere sounded the voice of the river and the colloquy of busy birds. Robert, the city man, was exhilarated. He breathed deeply and listened. Jonathan held his binoculars to his eyes and swung them about, searching the tops of trees and the sunlit branches. “There!” he said. “If that’s not a delayed grackle, then I never saw one!” He held out the binoculars to Robert, who put them to his eyes and directed them at an indicated branch.
He saw a large bird with a peculiar aquamarine beak and a quantity of brilliant feathers. But the binoculars were focused on a great wild eye, staring, mysterious, reflecting remembered forests and hidden wildernesses and the knowledge of ancient ages. Never had Robert seen such an eye before, which held secrets unknown to man, large, dilated, still, as if listening. He was fascinated and a little awed and, strangely,
a
trifle frightened, as man is always frightened by the inexpli- cable. He said to Jonathan, but as though speaking to himself, “What we don’t know!”
“A born bird-watcher,” said Jonathan. “I never knew a bird-watcher who was smug. Or a zoologist who thought man was the crowning glory of creation. Or an astronomer who believed man was ‘little lesser than the angels.’” Jonathan snorted. “The Old Testament boys were cryptic. They never explained what angels they were referring to. Perhaps the ones who followed Satan down into the pit.”
Robert stared at him curiously. “You don’t have a high opinion of your fellowman, do you?”
“The lowest opinion possible,” said Jonathan with promptness. “After all, I literally know him inside and out. If you want to retain your good opinion of mankind, never get too close to it. Squat in your ivory tower and read poetry or spin dreams. Never get out into the streets or mingle with people. Or, God help us, talk to them.”
Robert was strangely oppressed. The sound of the river and the cries of the birds became too imminent to him, and now they had an ominous note.
“Birds,” said Jonathan, “don’t like people. Neither do trees. Very perspicacious of them, isn’t it? We are seeing our last of our edible chestnuts though there’s a great flurry among chemists and such to find a cure for their present disease, which is killing them. One by one other species of trees will begin to die, as they died in China, when the press of populations moved too closely to them. That’s why China is so barren now. It won’t be too long before America begins to lose her trees, too, one species after another. No, they don’t like people, the old ones.”
“You sound like a Druid,” said Robert, the sense of oppression growing.
“There may be something to it,” and Jonathan was authentically grave. “Remember, we were pagans before we were Christians, and we had a knowledge of the earth then. So did the ancient Jews.” He smiled mockingly at Robert. “So, you know about Druids, too? I am beginning to have a respect for you, young Bob.”
“Do you think I’m illiterate?” said Robert, with considerable new anger. “Even if my father was a physician, he was a literate man and had a big library!”
“A vanishing race,” said Jonathan. “The physician of the future will be a specialist, and what he’ll know of the nature of the body and the mind will be strictly circumscribed. Turn those binoculars on that damned island. It’s very interesting.”
Robert obeyed, though automatically. He was too disturbed by his thoughts. Then he focused the binoculars.
The glasses brought the island so close that Robert felt he could reach out and touch it. It was larger than it appeared to the naked eye. It was truly heart-shaped, the widest and indented part rising out of the blue water like the prow of a ship, the pointed end seeming almost level with the river. He could see the granite enclosure clearly, and the white walls of the “castle,” and the crowding masses of trees and the brilliance of flowers beyond them on lawns. The red roof of the building flashed scarlet in the sun.
A figure was climbing up the widest point, and Robert caught a glimpse of blue. The figure appeared young and lithe, climbing with ease and vigor. It moved in and out through copses of trees, rising steadily. Then it reached the highest point, just behind the granite enclosure. Suddenly it was completely revealed. A tall young girl stood there, staring directly across at the grove of birches, and her face, whitely luminous, glowed in the sunlight like marble.
It was a beautiful face, exquisitely boned and delicately formed and strong. A great mass of curling black hair swung about it and fell to the shoulders and below, held back by a red ribbon. The clear, polished brow shone in the light, and the large crimson mouth. The nose was faintly aquiline. Robert noted this, but what demanded his acute attention were her eyes. They were intensely blue and large and dense with black lashes and arched with very dark brows like the gleaming wings of a bird. So extraordinary was the blue of the eyes that the sparkle of them seemed to fill her face, making it blaze.
They were full of passionate and unequivocal hatred, directed at the grove of trees. The hatred struck at Robert and made him drop the glasses precipitately.
“She sees us spying on her!” he exclaimed.
“Nonsense,” said Jonathan, taking the glasses and putting them to his eyes. “That island is almost a mile out in the water. She can’t see that far.” He chuckled as he studied the girl. “Yes, she’s staring at this grove, but she doesn’t see us. She can’t.” He gave the glasses back to Robert “Pretty wench, isn’t she?”
Robert hesitated. He looked through the glasses again. The girl was still looking toward the grove. She was leaning on the granite wall, tensely. She was not only tall. She had a lovely figure, curved and graceful and slender. Her blue dress was simple and open at the throat, and the sleeves came halfway down her arms. She wore a coarse brown apron over her dress, like a servant or a girl who worked in the barns.
“I still think she sees us,” said Robert with uneasiness. “She’s looking straight at me. And she doesn’t like it at all.”
“A mile, almost, away,” repeated Jonathan. “I know. I swam it several times, there and back. The current’s very fast. No, she can’t see us. She’s just hating everybody, as usual.”
“Who is she, Doctor?”
“My niece. Technically.”
Robert turned to him and stared. “What did you say? Your niece? How could that be? The girl is twenty, or older. And your brother is younger than you!”
Jonathan was silent a moment. The fretted shadow of the birches trembled over his face, and it was bleak and hard. He finally said, “Technically, I said. My brother, Harald, married her mother, a Mrs. Peter Heger. From Pittsburgh and Titusville. She was twelve years older than my brother. And that’s her daughter by her first husband. Jennifer. Or Jenny, as she’s usually called.”
“She’s living there? With your brother? All alone?” Robert blushed at his own words.
Jonathan grinned, and Robert again wondered whether he liked or disliked the older man. It was such an unpleasant grimace. Jonathan said, “Ambiguous? Well. That’s a nice word for it. The people in Hambledon don’t think it’s nice at all. However, there’re servants there, too, three of them. And Jenny, apparently, doesn’t give a damn what people say. Her father bought the island and built that silly house there, called the ‘castle,’ in a fit of honeymoon preposterousness. He left all his fortune to his wife, who wasn’t what you’d call very intelligent to begin with. You can never tell what an infatuated woman will do with money, and Myrtle—foolish name, isn’t it?—was infatuated with my brother. He’s a natural roamer, and an artist, and didn’t have a cent in the world when he caught Myrtle’s attention.”
Jonathan paused. “My father knew what he was doing. He divided his money between my mother and me and left artistic Harald only a small lifetime income, not enough for his exquisite tastes. He’s a very bad artist but thinks he’s a genius, as all bad artists think themselves. He’s elegant and ‘sensitive.’ New Cubist, I think. I don’t know much about art. I only know Harald’s stinks. He never sold
a
painting in his life, but he’s been all over the world. I suppose Myrtle was
a
Godsend to him. Anyway, he married her and they lived very happily for several years together until she died. She had mitral stenosis and, later, an infarction. I was her physician.”
Robert had listened to all this intently. Jonathan’s voice, resonant and not too pleasing at the best of times, had become grating and unpleasant, as if he were controlling deep laughter.
“Why doesn’t the girl leave?” asked Robert. “It—it mustn’t be nice for her.”
“What? On one hundred dollars a month, after she’d been brought up like a princess? Jenny’s a shrewd piece. And that island was her home for years until Harald firmly took up residence on it. It was her father’s. He died when she was quite young.”
“I don’t suppose they like each other, your brother and—the girl?”