SH 
 
 Harris 
 Daughters of Eve
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 FRANK HARRIS 
 
 DAUGHTERS OF EVE 
 
 Including Frank Harris 
 SET DO WN IN MALICE 
 By Gerald Cumberland 
 
 1919 
 PEARSON'S (25c) LIBRARY
 
 FRANK HARRIS 
 
 DAUGHTERS OF EVE 
 
 Including Frank Harris 
 SET DO WN IN MALICE 
 By Gerald Cumberland 
 
 1919 
 PEARSON'S (25c) LIBRARY
 
 Copyright, IMO 
 by Frank Harris
 
 FRANK HARRIS 
 
 Set Down in Malice 
 
 By GERALD CUMBERLAND 
 
 Colleg* 
 
 Library 
 
 PR 
 
 
 Reprinted from his latest book published by 
 GRANT RICHARDS, LMTD. 
 
 LONDON
 
 FRAMC ll.uuus 
 
 IT MUST have been five or six years ago that a 
 friend came to me with the news that Frank 
 Harris had expressed a desire to see some of my 
 verse. Precisely what my friend had told Harris about 
 me, I do not know; something very exaggerated, per- 
 haps; something complimentary, doubtless; something 
 that piqued Harris's curiosity, it was evident. As Harris 
 is one of the few modern writers for whom my boyish 
 admiration has survived manhood, I felt subtly gratified 
 that he should take even a fleeting interest in me, and 
 I sat down at once and copied out various poems that 
 had already appeared in The Academy, under Lord 
 Alfred Douglas's editorship, and in The English Re- 
 view in the days of Ford Madox Hueffer, and, more 
 recently, when edited by Austin Harrison. With my 
 verses I sent a letter, hypocritically modest as regards 
 myself, honestly full of admiration as regards Harris. 
 He replied from his villa in Nice, sending me a long 
 letter in which he did me the honour to enter fully into 
 the supposed merits and demerits of my work. Of 
 one poem he said that it was not sufficiently sensual, 
 and I have never been able quite to understand what 
 he meant, for I had, with some particularity, described 
 seven naked ladies swimming in a pool, and I had felt 
 that my verses had obviously enough expressed my 
 feelings. 
 
 The correspondence continued until, one day, Harris 
 wrote to tell me he was returning to London and to 
 invite me to visit him there. In the event, however, 
 my first meeting with Harris was in Manchester, 
 whither he came to lecture on Shakespeare to the local 
 dramatic society. Jack Kahane (a great friend of 
 mine) and I met him at the Midland Hotel upon his 
 arrival, and from the very first moment he intoxicated
 
 SET L>O\VN IN MALICE 
 
 me. Whilst he changed from his travelling clothes to 
 evening dress he talked and ejaculated, beseeching us 
 to remain with him as he had had "a rotten journey 
 from London and felt unutterably bored." I remember 
 very little of what he said except that, with some 
 venom, he called Browning "a not unprospexous 
 gentleman." He refused to eat or drink before his 
 lecture and, presently, we went down to the large room 
 in the hotel where he was to speak. 
 
 We found there a mixed assembly. Everybody in 
 Manchester, it should be explained, writes plays; at 
 least, I never yet met a man in that delectable city 
 who does not. Moreover, they "study" them. They 
 weigh and compare the merits of Stanley Houghton 
 and Ibsen, Harold Brighouse and Strindberg, Allan 
 Monkhouse and Bjornson, Arnold Bennett and Haupt- 
 mann, Laurence Housman and Brieux, and so forth. 
 They search for "inner meanings; the more earnest of 
 them hunt for "messages"; the more delicate seek to 
 perceive Fine Shades. They are veritable disciples of 
 Miss Horniman priggishly intellectual, self-consci- 
 ously superior. And, of course, the rock of their salva- 
 tion is St. Bernard. Innocuous people enough, but 
 impossible to live with in the same city. 
 
 To this assembly of earnest, pale men and spectacled 
 women Harris was to lecture, and I looked from them 
 to Harris and from Harris to them with joyful expecta- 
 tions. From the very first sentence he was fiery and 
 provocative, throwing out daring theories, anathematis- 
 ing all forms of respectability, upholding with unparal- 
 leled fierceness a wonderful ideal of chivalry and 
 nobility and condemning, en bloc, the whole human 
 race, and particularly that portion of it seated before 
 him. Ladies rustled; men stirred uneasily. Then, 
 having delivered himself of a passage of hot eloquence,
 
 FUAiNK JlAKIUS 
 
 he paused. A clock ticked. He looked defiantly at 
 us and still paused. A fat lady in the front row, palp' 
 ably embarrassed by the long silence and, no doubt, 
 feeling that she had reached one oT the most dramatic 
 moments of her existence, banged her plump hands 
 together and ejaculated: "Bravo!" A few other ladies 
 of both sexes joined her, but Harris was not to be 
 placated. Thrusting out his chin, he began again. And 
 this time he attacked the Mancunian literary idol, Pro- 
 fessor C. H. Herford, a great scholar, but a more than 
 suitable object for Harris's ridicule. Herford is a man 
 who has not lived fully: a semi-invalid, asthmatic, 
 bloodless and spectacled ; a man of books and rather 
 dusty books; in effect, a professor. He had recently 
 reviewed Harris's book, The Man Shakespeare, in The 
 Manchester Guardian, and had called it "a disgrace 
 to British scholarship." Why this should have annoyed 
 the author I cannot tell, but Harris is at times a little 
 unreasonable. Indeed, "annoyance" but feebly de- 
 scribes the feeling that spent itself in scalding invective 
 and the most terrible irony. Each sentence he spoke 
 appeared to be the last word in bitterness; but each 
 succeeding sentence leaped above and beyond its pre- 
 decessor, until at length the speaker had lashed himself 
 into a state of feeling to express which words were 
 useless. He stopped magnificently, and this time the 
 room rang with applause. It is probable that not a 
 half-a-dozen people present believed his attack on 
 Professor Herford was justified; indeed, it is probable 
 that not half-a-dozen were qualified to form any opin- 
 ion of value on the matter. Nevertheless, they ap- 
 plauded him with enthusiasm, and they did so because 
 they had been deeply stirred by eloquence that can 
 only be described as superb and by anger that was lava 
 hot in its sincerity. Briefly, the lecture was an over- 
 whelming success.
 
 li\ .MALICE 
 
 I was soon to discover that Harris, like all the men 
 of genius I have met, is vain. I do not mean that he 
 overrates his gifts; he does not; nor that his recognition 
 of his own genius is offensively insistent: such is very 
 far from being the case. I mean that he is inordinately 
 proud, innocently and childlikely proud, of things that 
 are not of the last consequence. At supper in the 
 French Restaurant the head waiter slipped noiselessly 
 across to the table at which Harris, Kahane and I were 
 sitting. (Harris is the kind of a man who acts as a 
 magnet to all head waiters a high tribute to his 
 dominating personality.) When our orders had been 
 given the waiter, turning to go, said: "Very good, Mr. 
 Harris." On the instant Harris looked up. "So you 
 know me?" he asked. "Yes, sir. I have had the 
 pleasure of waiting on you in Monte Carlo and, if I 
 am not mistaken, in New York as well." It is difficult 
 to describe the naive pleasure Harris took in this: it 
 stamped him at once as a man of the world he who, 
 of all people, required, in our opinion, no such stamp. 
 
 For six hours we talked talked long after every 
 other visitor in the hotel had retired, and we were left 
 alone in the Octagon Court in a pool of dim light. 
 Harris is the only brilliant talker I have met who has 
 not made me feel an abject idiot. To begin with, 
 though he has a pronounced strain of violence, almost 
 of brutality, in his nature, he is always infinitely court- 
 eous. He will listen to your (I mean my) feeble con- 
 tributions to a discussion with interest which, if feigned, 
 is so admirably feigned that you are completely de- 
 ceived. And he can keep this sort of thing up in- 
 definitely. Moreover, though his mind is agile enough, 
 his speech is rarely quick; it is slow and deliberate, 
 but without hesitation, without a single word of 
 tautology.
 
 8 FRANK HAKBIS 
 
 I cannot hope, after so long a lapse of time, to re- 
 produce, however faintly, the true quality of Harris's 
 conversation, but I remember the substance of it most 
 vividly. In his lecture earlier in the evening he had 
 mentioned Jesus Christ, and the reference to our 
 Saviour had been so original in its implication, yet so 
 reverent in its manner, that I felt he must have much 
 that is new to say on a subject that has aroused more 
 discussion than any other during the last two thousand 
 years. So I broached it tentatively. He was aroused 
 immediately, and skilfully drew me out to discover if 
 I had anything new to say. I had not. I merely voiced 
 what must be an age-long regret, that only one side of 
 Christ's nature has been presented to us in the Gospels; 
 that the feasting, joyous Christ has been only faintly 
 indicated; and that His tolerance towards the weak- 
 nesses of the body's passions had always been shirked 
 by those of the priestly craft. It thought it possible 
 that at some future crisis in the world's history Christ 
 might come again and, on His second coming, present 
 to the world a more complete embodiment of all the 
 potentialities inherent in human nature. 
 
 With much of this Harris agreed, though I soon per- 
 ceived that his mind had for long been intuitively 
 building up, and giving true proportion to, those ele- 
 ments in Christ's nature that are only hinted at in the 
 Gospels. He was all for a full-blooded, passionate 
 Jesus, for a Jesus who had tested the body's powers, 
 for a Jesus who was crucified by passion before He 
 was crucified by Pilate. In a word, he applied to 
 Jesus the same intuitive method that he had already 
 applied to Shakespeare. The danger of his method, 
 of course, is that one is tempted (and it is almost im- 
 possible not to succumb to the temptation) to project
 
 DOWN IN AI ALICE 
 
 one's own personality into that of the man one is 
 studying. 
 
 "My next book shall be about Jesus Christ," said 
 Harris. "No man in these days has written honestly 
 about Him." 
 
 "Shall you write as a believer?" I asked. 
 
 "Most assuredly," he replied. 
 
 Then Harris told us some stories stories he had 
 written, stories he had yet to write. I remember Austin 
 Harrison once saying to me: "Frank Harris is the most 
 astounding creature! He will tell you a story and tell 
 it so marvellously that, when he has finished, you say 
 to yourself: 'That is the most wonderful thing I have 
 ever heard.' And you say to him: 'Why, in God's 
 name, don't you write that?' Well, he does write it, 
 and when you read it you see that, after all, it is by 
 no means so wonderful a thing as you had thought it." 
 But this is only half true. The story that is told is a 
 very different thing from the story that is written: so 
 different, indeed, that one cannot find any basis for 
 comparison. In telling a story Harris is elliptical; a 
 faint gesture serves for a sentence; a momentary 
 silence is an innuendo; a lifting of the eyebrows, a look, 
 a dropping of the voice, a slowness in his speech all 
 these take the place of words. He is an exquisite actor 
 and he is at his best when he is sinister and menacing. 
 One need scarcely say that the effect of one of Harris's 
 stories, told in private, with only one or two listeners, 
 is extremely powerful, for his personality, so quick to 
 melt and suffuse his speech colouring it and vital- 
 ising it is strong and strange and full of tropical 
 richness. . . . 
 
 But the actor's gift is not rare, whereas that combina- 
 tion of talents that makes a great short-story writer is 
 met with only once or twice in a generation. Harris's
 
 io FRANK HARRIS 
 
 claims to greatness in this direction cannot justly be 
 denied, though of late years there has been a notice- 
 able tendency to treat his work as though it were not 
 of first-rate importance. His choice of subject, the 
 violence of his thought, his strict honesty of mind, his 
 open contempt for many of his contemporaries these 
 have brought him enemies whose only method of re- 
 taliation is to decry work they will not understand. 
 
 But Harris could not be happy without hostility. 
 There is something of the jaguar in his nature; he 
 must, for his soul's peace, have his teeth in the flesh 
 of an enemy. And, if he is not fighting an individual, 
 he is offending society at large. Years ago, so Harris 
 told me, when he was editing The Fortnightly Review 
 with such distinction, he printed one of his own short 
 stories in that magazine a story that, for one reason 
 or another, gave great offence to a large section of 
 readers. Within twenty-four hours he had a hornet's 
 nest about his ears, and the directors of the firm, 
 Messrs Chapman & Hall, who published the Fort- 
 nightly, met in solemn conclave to discuss what should 
 be done with so injudicious and reckless an editor. 
 Needless to say, Harris stood by his guns, and one can 
 imagine the splendidly arrogant way in which he would 
 uphold his right to insert anything he chose in a 
 magazine edited by himself. But discussion made mat- 
 ters only more critical, and Harris told me he would 
 have been compelled to hand in his resignation if an 
 unforeseen event had not occurred. That event was 
 the entrance of George Meredith, who, at that time, 
 was a reader for Messrs Chapman & Hall. As soon 
 as his eyes lit on Harris he held out his hand, and 
 walked quickly up to him, saying: "My warmest con- 
 gratulations! Your story in the new number is quite 
 the finest thing you have done an honour to yourself
 
 SET DOWN IN MALICE 
 
 and the Fortnightly!" That left no further room for 
 discussion and, needless to say, Harris retained his 
 editorship of the great magazine. 
 
 My first meeting with Harris was of the friendliest 
 nature, and on his return to London he wrote to me 
 thanking me for something I had written about him 
 in The Manchester Courier. (I noticed with amuse- 
 ment that The Manchester Guardian, unable, no doubt, 
 to forgive Harris for attacking Professor Herford, had 
 absolutely ignored the Shakespeare lecture, except to 
 announce baldly that it had been given.) 
 
 Very soon after this meeting in Manchester I went 
 to live in London, and called on Harris in Chancery 
 Lane. He was running a curious illustrated weekly, 
 entitled Hearth and Home, and I remember sitting in 
 a little back room in his office turning over the files 
 of his magazine and wondering what on earth he 
 hoped to do with such a production. It was tame; it 
 was watery; it was feeble. I looked at him quizzically. 
 "What do you think of it?" he asked. 
 "Well, don't you see, ..." I began hesitatingly; 
 "don't you see that . . . well, now, look at the title!" 
 "Title's good enough, don't you think?" 
 "Oh yes, good enough . . . good enough for Fleet- 
 way House. Why not sell it to Northcliffe? But 
 you've got no Aunt Maggie's column, and no Beauty 
 Hints, and no Cupid's Corner! Oh, Harris!" 
 He laughed, and invited me out to lunch. 
 I never discovered what strange circumstances had 
 conspired to make him the possessor of this extra- 
 ordinary production. No doubt he bought it for noth- 
 ing, with the intention of rapidly improving it and sell- 
 ing it for something substantial later on. But I believe 
 it died soon after perhaps urged on to its grave by
 
 FRANK HARRIS 
 
 some verses of mine which were printed close to an 
 advertisement of ladies' . 
 
 On our way out of the office we were joined by a 
 very beautiful lady who, it soon transpired, shared my 
 admiration for Harris's genius. We jumped on to a 
 bus running at full speed and alighted, a couple of 
 minutes later, at Simpson's. 
 
 Harris should write a book on cookery. Perhaps he 
 will. Harris should run a hotel. But he has already 
 done so. Harris should be induced to print all the in- 
 discreet things he says over coffee and liqueurs. . . . 
 
 It was a close study of Simpson's menu that started 
 the cookery discussion. The Beautiful Lady and I 
 were told what was wrong and what was right with 
 the menu. And then began a discourse, profound, 
 full of strange knowledge and recondite wisdom, a 
 discourse that Balsac should have heard, that the de 
 Goncourts would have envied. We listened, amazed. 
 And a waiter, having rushed to our table in the stress 
 of his work, stood anchored, his mouth slightly open, 
 his whole attention riveted on the Master from whom 
 no gastronomic secrets were hid. Truly, Harris was 
 amazing! 
 
 After a considerable time his enthusiasm evaporated 
 and we began to eat. And then ensued a long talk, 
 full of indiscretions, of most enjoyable malice. Harris 
 told us many things that, perhaps, it would have been 
 wiser if he had kept to himself. But, in spite of his 
 venom, his real hatred of certain individuals, he never 
 for a moment permits himself to be blinded to the 
 quality of a man's work. 
 
 "So-and-so is the most detestable person," he said, 
 speaking of a well-known writer, "but he is one of the 
 few real poets alive." Again: "X is the most generous-
 
 UONV.N IN LVlALKK 
 
 hearted man I have ever met; it's a pity he can't learn 
 to write." 
 
 Mention of Richard Middleton, who had only re- 
 cently died by his own hand in Brussels, troubled him, 
 and it was clear that he had not yet recovered from 
 the shock of this tragedy. 
 
 "He killed himself in a mood of sheer disgust dis- 
 gust at his lack of success. True, he was still young, 
 and was becoming more widely known month by 
 month; also, he had many friends. Nevertheless, life 
 did not give him what he asked and, tired of asking, 
 he ended life. I remember him coming to me just be- 
 fore, he left England. He wanted to get away. Some 
 mood of loathing had come to him; he was fretful, yet 
 determined. I offered him my villa at Nice; it was 
 empty, the caretaker would attend to his wants and he 
 would have ample leisure for his work. He hesitated, 
 stayed in London a day or two longer and then dis- 
 appeared to Brussels. ... I know the poison he used, 
 and a score of times I have gone over in my mind the 
 tortures he must have endured." 
 
 Harris paled ; his face twitched and, involuntarily, 
 as it seemed, his shoulders twisted themselves. Brood- 
 ing, he was silent for a few minutes, and then, collect- 
 ing himself with a little shudder, began to speak of 
 other things. 
 
 A little later the Beautiful Lady departed and we 
 were left alone. 
 
 "And now," said Harris, "tell me about yourself. 
 What are you doing? Why have you left Manchester? 
 but there is no reason to ask that. Tell me this 
 are you making enough money for yourself?" 
 
 "Well, I've lived in London just one week," said I, 
 "and my tastes are rather expensive. Just before I 
 left Manchester a very experienced journalist told me
 
 14 FUA.XK HAUIUS 
 
 I shoul'd be making a thousand pounds a year at the 
 end of eighteen months; another, equally experienced, 
 declared I should never make more than six pounds 
 a we'ek. I hope the second one won't prove correct." 
 
 He mused for a few moments. 
 
 "You ought to make a thousand pounds a year 
 pretty easily, I should think," he said at length. "Whom 
 do you know?" 
 
 I knew nobody, and said so. He thereupon took a 
 piece of paper from his pocket and wrote a list of 
 names; at the top of the list stood J. L. Garvin; at the 
 bottom Lord Northcliffe. 
 
 "Northcliffe's away," he said, "buying forests in 
 Newfoundland to make paper with. However, he'll 
 be back in a week or two, and in the meantime I'll 
 write you a letter to give to him. And now we'll take 
 a taxi and see people." 
 
 Harris gave up the whole of that day to me and, 
 largely owing to him, I had within the next few days 
 more work offered to me than I could possibly get 
 through. From time to time, months later, good things 
 would come my way, and nearly always I could trace 
 them to something generous and fine that Harris had 
 said for me. 
 
 It was chiefly because he was so generous with his 
 time that I so rarely called upon him. Often I would 
 curb a strong desire to see him, feeling that however 
 embarassing my visit might be, he would, out of a 
 quixotic kindness, throw up his work and come with 
 me to talk. For this reason I had not seen him for 
 some little time, when, one morning, I received a letter 
 from him reproaching me foi my absence. "Why have 
 you hidden yourself for so long?" he asked. "I go 
 to the Cafe every night; come, you will find me there." 
 
 "The Cafe," of course, was the Cafe Royal. It so
 
 Sl.T IKHV.N IN LMAi.in: 15 
 
 chanced that, that very afternoon, my duties took me 
 to a symphony concert in the Queen's Hall; the concert 
 over, I found myself passing the Cafe Royal on my 
 way from the Queen's Hall to Piccadilly Circus, and 
 turned in on the remote chance of finding Harris. 
 
 At the end of the passage, near the windows where 
 French papers are displayed, I found a crowd of a 
 dozen excited men, all talking and gesitculating. The 
 rest of the Cafe was empty, as one would expect at 
 that time of the day. In the middle of the small crowd 
 was Harris, who caught my eye almost at once. He 
 came to me, and I saw that he was rather agitated. 
 
 "Come and sit over here, Cumberland," he said. 
 "I've just been through a beastly quarter of an hour." 
 
 It appeared that a well-known and very disting- 
 uished litterateur had quarrelled with him in the Cafe. 
 . . . Blows had been exchanged. . . . 
 
 We talked of money an ever-absorbing topic both 
 to Harris and to me. He told me his books had 
 brought him practically nothing. For The Bomb, if I 
 remember correctly, he received fifty pounds cer- 
 tainly not more than one hundred pounds. 
 
 "If I had been compelled to live by what my books 
 have brought me," he said, "I should have starved. 
 Yet it is not long ago that Arnold Bennett assured me 
 that I should be able to earn five thousand pounds a 
 year if I gave my whole time to fiction. But Bennett 
 is wrong. My books, ever since Elder Conklin was 
 published, have been enthusiastically praised, but they 
 have not had large sales. Most authors must find book- 
 writing the most unremunerative work in the world. 
 I put an enormous amount of labour into The Bomb, 
 as I do into all my books, and the labour was not made 
 any the less from the fact that much of the earliest 
 part of the book is autobiographical. In my young
 
 1 6 FKANK HAKRLS 
 
 manhood I worked as a labourer, deep under water, 
 at the foundations of Brooklyn Bridge; it is all de- 
 scribed in my book." 
 
 Though I went to the Cafe Royal at frequent in- 
 tervals after that I very rarely -saw Harris there. He 
 had abandoned Hearth and Home, or it had aban- 
 doned him, and he was now throwing away his bril- 
 liant gifts on Modern Society. I was elected an 
 honorary member of the Cabaret Cluib, run by Madame 
 Strindberg, the widow of the great Swedish writer, and 
 I used to look in there occasionally in the early hours 
 of the morning, expecting to run across Harris, who, 
 I heard, also visited the exotic, underground and 
 rather riotous place. But I never chanced to see him, 
 and two or three months must have passed without 
 my hearing of him. 
 
 In March, 1914, I went to Athens for a holiday. 
 Something brave and wonderful in that city, some an- 
 cient Bacchic madness, some fierce exaltation of soul 
 took hold of me, and I remember sitting down one 
 night, after a visit to fever-stricken Eleusis, to write to 
 Harris, feeling the necessity of expressing myself to 
 one who would understand. The reader may be 
 amused that I should think Harris akin to ancient 
 Greece, but if the reader is amused he does not know 
 Harris. Only A. R. Orage is more Greek in spirit than 
 he is. In reply Harris wrote at great length, full of the 
 fervour of a young student. He told me that in his 
 young manhood he had spent a year of study in that 
 wonderful city, and urged me to visit him on my return 
 to England. 
 
 But I was destined not to see him again. Very soon 
 after my return to England he got into trouble with 
 reference to something libellous that he had published 
 in Modern Society. He was kept in prison, if I re-
 
 SET DOWN IN MALICE 17 
 
 member rightly, for about a month. I sought per- 
 mission to visit him there, but was refused, and I was 
 staying in Oxford when he was released. 
 
 Soon after the war broke out he wrote me the follow- 
 ing letter from Paris: 
 
 1 
 
 23, Avenue Du Bois De Boulogne, Paris, 
 29th Aug. '14. 
 
 My dear Cumberland, I'm just back from the 
 frontier. . . . This war of nations is going to test 
 every man as by fire before it's over. It will be long 
 in spite of Mr Kipps and Bernard Shaw. The Russian 
 masses will hardly come decisively into action (they 
 have scarcely any railways and no good roads) till 
 next May or June, and long before then, or rather in 
 a couple of months from now, the French will be 
 pressed back to within twenty miles of besieged Paris, 
 when I hope the English forces on the flank will stop 
 the German advance. Then will begin the slow pro- 
 cess of driving the Germans home, which will be 
 quickened by the Russian weight behind Cossack 
 pricks. Fancy one man having the power to set 400 
 millions of men fighting for their lives. And then they 
 talk of man as a rational animal!! 
 
 Don't say you like what I wrote in The Daily Sketch; 
 all my best things were carefully cut out and filled up 
 with drivel, till my cheeks burned. 
 
 Your sketch of me is very kindly; the fault you find 
 in me is not a fault. Jesus, Shakespeare, Napoleon 
 all the greatest men have known their own value and 
 insisted on it perhaps because they have all come to 
 their own and their own received them not. When you 
 have done great work you feel it is not yours, but given 
 to you; you are only a reed shaken in the wind; you 
 can judge it as if it had nothing to do with you. More-
 
 18 PRANK HARRIS 
 
 over, you see that this failure to recognize greatness 
 is the capital sin of all time, the sin against the Holy 
 Ghost which He said could never be forgiven. Modesty 
 is the fig-leaf of mediocrity don't let us talk of it. 
 Remember how Whistler scourged it. 
 
 I'm writing now on Natural Religion my best thing 
 yet: I've done more than Nietzsche: don't think I'm 
 bragging. I am the Reconciler; though my cocked 
 nose and keen eyes may make you think me a com- 
 batant. Twenty years hence, Cumberland, if your 
 eyes keep their promise, you'll think differently of me. 
 I remember as a young man getting Wagner to praise 
 himself and saying to myself that no man was ever so 
 conceited as the little hawk-faced fellow with the 
 ploughshare chin. Did he not say that the step from 
 Bach to Beethoven was not so great as that from 
 Beethoven to Wagner! And yet for these fifteen years 
 past I have agreed with him and find nothing conceited 
 in the declaration. Only weak men are hurt by 
 another man's conceit; are we not gods also to be 
 spoken of with reverence? 
 
 To see the world in a grain of sand 
 
 And Heaven in a wild flower, 
 To hold Infinity in your hand 
 
 And Eternity in an hour. 
 
 The questin for you is, have I quickened you? En- 
 couraged you to be a brave soldier in the Liberation 
 War of Humanity? Did virtue come out of me? or 
 discouragement? Now at nearly sixty I am about to 
 rebuild my life: my own people have stoned and im- 
 prisoned and exiled me. Well the world's wide. In 
 October I shall be in New York, ready for another
 
 SKT T)O\VN IN MALICE rg 
 
 round with Fate. Meanwhile, all luck to you and all 
 good will from your friend, 
 
 Frank Harris. 
 
 Remember this word of Joubert: there is no such 
 sure sign of mediocrity as constant moderation in 
 praise. Ha! Ha! Ha! Yours ever, F. H. 
 
 There is not in this letter a single word to indicate 
 that he was not, heart and soul, in sympathy with the 
 Allied Cause. Late in September, 1914, I was myself 
 in Paris, having visited Amiens and the Marne. I took 
 the earliest oportunity of calling upon Harris, but dis- 
 covered that he had left his rooms a few days earlier, 
 leaving no indication of his next resting-place. On 
 calling upon the American Counsel I discovered that 
 my friend had already sailed for the States. 
 
 Subsequently he wrote bitterly about England in an 
 American paper. I never had an opportunity of read- 
 ing his articles, but I read various extracts from them in 
 British newspapers, and was astounded Ijoth by the 
 views they contained and by the manner in which 
 those views were expressed. 
 
 Years ago Ruskin wrote Rossetti a curious letter: he 
 said he could regard no man as friend who did not 
 value his (Ruskin's) gifts as highly as he (Ruskin) did. 
 Harris, no doubt, adopted the same kind of attitude 
 towards England. England refused to accept him at 
 his own estimate and, at length, in fierce disgust, 
 Harris turned his back on a country which he deemed 
 unworthy of him. 
 
 Gerald Cumberland.

 
 A Daughter of Eve
 
 HARK is 
 
 AN old-fashioned square house on Long Island, set in a clear- 
 ing of pine trees : a break in the cliff shows a little triangle 
 of sandy beach and the waters of the sound dancing in the 
 moonlight. Half a dozen men are sitting about on the stoop 
 looking over the silvery waters. 
 
 The evening papers had published an account of Mrs. Amory's 
 will which showed that she had left half a million dollars to a 
 nursing home for mill-children in Philadelphia. The news set 
 us all talking of the wonderful work she had done and her self- 
 sacrifice. Most of us assumed that it was a religious motive 
 that had induced this rich and, it was said, handsome woman to 
 give years of her life to improving the lot of the city's waifs 
 and strays. 
 
 The ladies had left us and gone up to bed ; but we still dis- 
 cussed the matter. Suddenly Charlie Railton turned to Judge 
 Barnett of the Supreme Court of -the .State of New York, who 
 sat with his cha?r tilted back against ihe wall ruminating. 
 
 "Say, Judge, what do you think of it anyway? I'd like to hear 
 your opinion." 
 
 "I have no opinion on the matter," replied the Judge, taking 
 the cigar out of his mouth and speakaing very slowly, "I don't 
 know women well enough to be sure about anything where 
 they're concerned." 
 
 "Plead guilty, Judge," cried Railton, who was about thirty years 
 of age. "plead guilty and throw yourself on the mercy of the Court : 
 I guess you know women better than most of us, and they're 
 pretty easy to know, it seems to me." 
 
 "I used to think so, too," said the Judge, "but I got kind o' 
 puzzled once and I've never been sure since." 
 
 "How was that. Judge?" cried our host, one of the boldest 
 speculators on the New York Stock Exchange, scenting a 
 mystery. 
 
 "It's a long story," said Barnett deliberately, "and it's pretty 
 late already." 
 
 We all protested and called for the story and the Judge began : 
 
 "It takes one a long way back, I'am afraid ; back to the late 
 sixties, and it's autobiographical, too; I guess it has every fault.' 1 
 
 "Go on," we cried in chorus. 
 
 After being admitted to the Bar he resumed I went up to 
 my mother's place in Maine, to rest. Along in the winter I got 
 pneumonia on a shooting-trip and could not shake it off. 1 
 crawled through the summer and then made up my mind to go 
 to California or somewhere warm for the winter ; I had had 
 enough of snow and blizzards. I spent the Winter in Santa 
 Barbara and got as fit as a young terrier. 
 
 In the spring I went to 'Frisco and there in a gymnasium and 
 boxing saloon got to know a man who was about the best athlete 
 I ever struck. Winterttein might have been heavyweight champion 
 if he had trained, and he was handsome enough for a sta;, r e lover. 
 He was just under six feet in height, with bold expression and 
 features; dark luiir in little curls all over his head and
 
 A D.u'diiTKu or Kvi: 
 
 agate-dark eyes which grew black when he was excited or angry. 
 
 I found he was a better man physically than I was, and that 
 was the beginning of our friendship ; we soon became intimate 
 and he told me all about his early life. He was born in the 
 North of England, and became a sailor in the English navy, but 
 he could not stand the rigid discipline, poor food, and harsh 
 treatment. He deserted in Quebec while still a lad, and made 
 his way to New York. He had not had much education, butjie 
 had improved what he had by reading. Like most men of in- 
 telligence who have not had a college training, he set great store 
 by books and book learning, and got me to help him with mathe- 
 matics. He had a captain's certificate, it appeared, but he wanted 
 to know .navigation thoroughly; he surprised me one day by 
 telling me he owned a little vessel which was nearly ready for sea. 
 
 "I have just had her overhauled," he said; "would you like to 
 come and see her? She's lying off Meiggs's." 
 
 "What do you do with her?" I questioned, full of curiosity. 
 
 "I go pearling," he said ; "pearls are found nearly all round 
 the Gulf of California. The fisher-folk rake in the oysters and 
 lay them on the beach till they get bad and open of themselves. 
 The children collect the pearls and keep them until I come round. 
 I paid for the craft and have a couple of thousand dollars put 
 by from last year's work." 
 
 "But where did you learn about pearls?" I asked. 
 
 "I worked for a man once and picked it up. Sometimes I make 
 a little mistake, but not often. You see we go to out-of-the-way 
 places where we reckon to give about a quarter what the pearls 
 are worth. That leaves a wide margin for mistakes." 
 
 "But I had no idea that there were pearls in the Gulf," I said 
 
 "Why not come along and see for yourself," he said. "I'll 
 be starting in a week. The schooner had to have her bottom 
 cleaned and the copper repaired, that's what's hung me up for 
 this last month or so. Now I'm about right for another year. 
 If you'd like to come, I'd be glad to have you." 
 
 "And make me mate?" I asked laughing. 
 
 "Commander," he replied seriously, "and you shall have ten 
 per cent of the profits." 
 
 "I'll think it over and let you know," was my answer. 
 
 The adventure tempted me, the strange life and work, the 
 novelty of the thing : I resolved to go pearling. 
 
 I went with Winterstein to the wharf and he showed his craft 
 to me. She looked like a toy vessel, a little schooner, a fifty- 
 footer of about forty tons. She sat on the water like a duck, 
 a little New England model with beautiful lines. Winterstein 
 introduced me to his first .mate, Donkin, and his second mate, 
 Crawford. Donkin was a big lump of a fellow, six feet two in 
 height, broad in proportion and brawny, a good seaman. Craw- 
 ford I soon found out was an even better sailor and more in- 
 telligent, though of only average strength. 
 
 "What about the crew ?" I asked Winterstein when we were 
 alone in the little cabin..
 
 24 FRANK HARRIS 
 
 "I want one more man and a boy," he replied laughing at my 
 surprised face. 
 
 "But," I retorted, "you can't have three officers and one man." 
 
 "It's like this," he said : "Donkin has only been a second mate, 
 but he gets a first mate's certificate provided he stays with me 
 a year, and the same thing with Crawford. The work is not 
 hard," he added apologetically, "they get good wages and a lift 
 in rank and it suits them, and so I get first-rate work cheap. 
 FSur or five men can manage this craft easy so long as we don't 
 strike a cyclone and there ain't much dirty weather in the Gulf." 
 
 A couple of days later Winterstein told me shyly that he had 
 been married recently, and after I had congratulated him, he 
 insisted that I must come and be introduced to the prettiest girl 
 in California. All the way uptown he praised his young wife, 
 and the praise I found was not extravagant. Mrs. Winterstein 
 was charming : tall and fair with Irish gray eyes ; her shyness 
 and love of Winterstein put a sort of aureole about her. She 
 was of Irish parentage : before her marriage her name had been 
 Rose O'Connor. Nothing would do but I must call her Rose 
 at once. The pair lived in a little frame house on the side of the 
 bluff, where now there is a famous park. An old Irishwoman 
 did the chores for Rose and mothered and scolded her just as 
 she had done before her marriage. Rose, I learned, had been 
 a teacher in the High School. In the next few days I saw a 
 good deal of her. She was doing up her quarters and buying 
 knick-knacks for the cabin and tiny stateroom, and I naturally 
 ran her errands and tried to save her trouble. 
 
 Whenever I ventured a shy compliment she always told m 
 I must see her sister Daisy, who was at Sacramento in a finishing 
 school. Daisy was lovely and Daisy was clever ; there was no 
 one like Daisy in her sister's eyes. 
 
 * ;; * 
 
 It was a perfect June morning with just air enough to make 
 the sun dance on the ripples, when at length we were all ready 
 on board and starting out of the bay. 
 
 Our crew had been completed by a young darky called Abraham 
 Lincoln, who at once took over the cooking, and a sailor called 
 Dyer, who was a little lame, but handy enough at his work. 
 
 The first part of the cruise was uneventful : it might have been 
 a yachting trip. Day after day we sailed along in delightful 
 sunshine, with a six- or eight-knot-breeze. The perfect condi- 
 tions would have been monotonous had we not amused ourselves 
 with fishing. One day I refhember we got rather rough weather 
 and when Winterstein, Donkin and myself took our bearing next 
 day we found that we had been swept some distance to the 
 westward. 
 
 It was Crawford who solved the enigma for us. He told us 
 there was a current called the West Wind Drift, which set across 
 the Pacific from East to West as if making for 'Frisco and then 
 flows down the coast from North to South till it meets the North 
 Equatorial current which comes from the South and sweeps out
 
 A l)At UHXliK OF EVK 
 
 to the West, carrying the tail end, so to speak, of the Drift 
 with it. Where the two opposing currents meet off the South 
 California!! coast, one often finds a heavy sea and variable cross- 
 winds. But as soon as we turned into the Gulf the fine weather 
 began again. 
 
 The trading which I had hoped Would be full of adventure 
 turned out to be quite simple and tame. We ran along the shore, 
 stopping wherever there was a village. Usually we dropped 
 anchor pretty close in and rowed 'ashore. At nine places out 
 of ten Winterstein was known. The fishermen brought out their 
 little cotton-bags of pearls and we bought them. Curiously 
 enough, the black pearl, so esteemed to-day, had then no value 
 at all. Whenever we bought a packet of white pearls, the black 
 ones were thrown in as not worth estimating. The pink pearls, 
 too, had no price, unless they were exceptionally large or beauti- 
 fully shaped, and even then they were very cheap. I began to 
 collect the black pearls to make a. necklace for Mrs. Winterstein. 
 I was half in love with her I think from the beginning. She was 
 not only very pretty but laughter-loving, and girlish, and her 
 little matronly airs sat drolly upon her. Everyone on board liked 
 her, I don't know why. I suppose she wanted to please us all, 
 for she was full of consideration for everyone. I have never 
 seen any woman who appealed so unconsciously and so directly 
 to the heart, and her happiness was something that had to be 
 seen to be believed. She simply adored her husband, waited on 
 him hand and foot, and pampered all his little selfishnesses. She 
 was only unhappy when away from him, or when it was rough 
 weather and she was sea-sick. Curiously enough, in spite of 
 the long cruise, she never became a good sailor. In fine weather 
 she was all right, but the moment The Rose commenced to bob 
 about, Mrs. Winterstein used to retire to her cabin. 
 
 I told no one about the necklace. I simply annexed all the 
 black pearls and determined to get them strung together as 
 soon as we got back to 'Frisco. I never landed without asking 
 after them, and even went so far as to buy some which were 
 being used by the native children as trinkets. I remember once 
 coming across an extraordinary specimen as big as a marble, 
 perfectly round, and with a perfect skin. We were passing a 
 cabin where a couple of mestizo girls of fourteen and sixteen 
 were seated on the sand playing a game of bones, which I think 
 must be as old as the world, for the Greeks knew it as astragalos. 
 You- throw the round bones up into the air and turn your hand 
 round quickly and catch them on the back. Among the five 
 bones was a black pearl, which I admired at once and bought 
 for a quarter, I think. I can still see the half-naked girl-child 
 as she handed it to me. She stood on one leg like a stork, and 
 with her right foot rubbed her left ankle, while glancing at me 
 half-shyly out of great liquid dark eyes. She had only a red 
 calico wrap about her body, out of the folds of which one small 
 round amber breast showed: but she was evidently unconscious 
 of her nudity a child in mind, a woman in body. 
 
 I have absolutely nothing interesting to tell of this first cruise
 
 26 FKA.XK HAUKIS 
 
 We stopped once where the sea must have receded from the 
 land, for the town was some four miles inland. I have forgotten 
 the name of the place, but it was quite a town some two or three 
 thousand inhabitants. The smell of the oysters on the sea beach, 
 I remember, was overpowering. Thousands and thousands of 
 bushels had been left to rot. Our harvest of pearls here was 
 so large that Winterstein resolved to go back to 'Frisco at once 
 and market his goods. We were all tired of fish and biscuits, 
 varied with sow-belly fiery with salt and black with age. 
 
 The return trip was just as uneventful as the voyage out. 
 Winterstein's profits were beyond all his former experiences. 
 After paying all expenses, giving me my tenth, and dividing 
 another tenth between the two mates, he cleared up something 
 like six thousand dollars for two month's work. 
 
 He was naturally eager to get to sea again, but there was a 
 flii'iicuhy. Kose found that her sister had left Sacramento, and 
 Had come to live in 'Frisco. She had got work, too, I gathered, 
 in a shop and refused absolutely to be a schoolgirl any longer 
 or to accept her sister's advice. Rose was anxious about her 
 and resolved to take her on board with us the next cruise. But 
 for a long time Miss Daisy refused to come: she preferred, it 
 appeared, to be entirely on her own and it was only when Winter- 
 stein joined Rose in solicitation that she finally consented. I was 
 rather eager to see this very self-willed and independent young 
 lady. 
 
 I was quite ready for another trip. It would please my mother, 
 I thought, if I went back with a couple of thousand dollars in 
 my pocket, and I had got my black pearls strung as a necklace 
 for Rose. 
 
 Winterstein warned me that the next trip would perhaps not 
 be so profitable, as he would leave out the chief places, which 
 he had already touched at, and go to the more remote stations. 
 
 "Pearling," he said, "is like everything else in life the easiest 
 work is the best paid." His philosophy was not very deep though 
 his observation was exact enough. 
 
 We arranged to start one afternoon. I had been in town 
 making purchases. It was wretched weather. A Nor'easter had 
 sprung up and blew sand through the streets in clouds. I only 
 hoped that the departure would be postponed. I found Winter- 
 stein waiting impatiently for me, and his wife's sister, too, was 
 on deck in spite of the rough weather. Winterstein introduced 
 me to her. Daisy O'Connor did not make much impression on 
 me at first ; she was girlish-young and did not seem to be any- 
 thing like so good-looking as her sister. True, she had large 
 dark-brown eyes and good features, but she was smaller than 
 Rose, and without Rose's brilliant coloring or charm of appeal. 
 She treated me rather coolly, I thought. Winterstein seemed to 
 be in a great hurry to get off. 
 
 "Why not put off going till to-morrow ?" I asked. "As soon 
 as we get outside she'll duck into it halfway up her jib." 
 
 "To-morrow's Friday," remarked Miss Daisy.
 
 A DAUGIITKH oi EYE 27 
 
 "Surely you're not superstitous ?" I laughed. 
 "Yes, I am," replied the girl, and a peculiar character of 
 decision came into her face and voice. 
 "You know the old rhyme?" 
 She questioned me with a look, and I repeated the old chanty : 
 
 Monday for health 
 And Tuesday for wealth 
 And Wednesday the best day of all, 
 Thursday for losses 
 .And Friday for crosses 
 And Saturday no day at all ... 
 
 "Thursday will be a bad start," I added. 
 
 "I like a bad start," she retorted : "a good start often means 
 a bad ending." She spoke bitterly, I thought. 
 
 "A resolute little thing," I said to myself carelessly, while 
 getting into my sea-togs. 
 
 In five minutes the anchor was up and the sails set and we 
 were beating out to sea in the teeth of the gale. In the bay the 
 wind came in gusts, but as we held towards Lime Point it settled 
 down to a steady drive which heeled us over till the lee scuppers 
 were under water. Every moment it blew harder. When we 
 went about and opened out the Golden Gate, The Rose went 
 over, over till it looked as if she would turn turtle. I laid hold 
 of the main rigging to keep my feet and get the spindrift out of 
 my eyes. Ten feet from me was the girl with one hand on a stay, 
 her slight figure braced against the gale, evidently enjoying the 
 experience. A different voyage from the first, I thought to 
 myself, and under different auspices. But the work and danger 
 stopped thought. As soon as we were out of the Golden Gate 
 and clear of Point Bonita the sea began to pile up and break in 
 masses on the bar. We were in for a dirty night. In five minutes 
 we were all wet to the skin. The girl had gone below. The 
 companion, skylights and hatches were all battened down and 
 made snug and not a moment too soon. The sea on the bar was 
 terrific: again and again the green water buried the decks, but as 
 soon as we had got outside and turned her bows southward, the 
 gale came fair on the quarter and the little "saucer" as I called 
 The Rose made good weather of it, lifting easily to the great 
 combers and swooping along their shoulders into the night, for 
 all the world like some white sea-bird. 
 
 The coming on board of Daisy O'Connor altered everything. 
 I was too young at the time to explain, or even understand what 
 was taking place. The interest which used to center in Rose 
 and Winterstein and abaft the companion, now followed Daisy 
 all over the ship. For the girl was never long in one place and 
 divided her favors impartially among all the men on board. Now 
 she walked his watch talking to Crawford, or sat discussing a book 
 with me. She was less with Winterstein than with any of us,
 
 JtfBAiN'K. lHABBIS 
 
 which was not remarked, because the weather still continued 
 boisterous and gave him a good deal to do between the stateroom 
 in which his wife spent most of her time and the wave-swept deck. 
 In every way this cruise was different from the first, less 
 pleasant, if more exciting. The first thing I noticed was that 
 Donkin, who appeared to like Winterstein on the first voyage, 
 now disliked him. Winterstein spoke sharply to him one day 
 about the way the jib was sitting: 
 
 "That jib's shivering," he said, "it's not set flat, take a pull 
 at it." 
 
 Donkin looked at him and said sulkily : 
 "That's because she's steered too free.' 
 
 "That's all you know about it," replied Winterstein cheerfully, 
 "at any rate take a pull at the sheet." 
 
 The look of contempt and anger which Donkin threw at the 
 skipper surprised and shocked me. I did not even then notice 
 that Daisy was standing to windward almost between them. It 
 only occured to me long afterwards. The Rose, which had been 
 the most comfortable craft in the world, had become an ordinary 
 sort of vessel. 
 
 The weather was very unsettled; usually we had more than 
 enough wind and a heavy lop of sea, and the little saucer, tossed 
 about like a cork. 
 
 Three days out of four Rose O'Connor kept to her berth, and 
 never showed at all even at meal times, and Daisy O'Connor took 
 her place on the deck and in the cabin as well. Day after day 
 Winterstein and I lunched with her alone. The door leading it 
 Rose's stateroom was generally closed. It was .impossible not 
 to be interested in Daisy. She was very intelligent and self- 
 centered, and as reserved as Rose was ingenuous and open, 
 struck me as being much older than Rose She was a sort of 
 enigma and I could not help wanting to find the key to it. 
 nevJTpraised or complimented one as Rose did; her praise was 
 a word or two, which seemed wrung from her, a tant 
 proud creature. . , 
 
 One day we were running along under some bluffs ; the win 
 was light and fitful; we had all the plain sails set. 
 on deck, seated in a cane arm-chair to windward of the compaaie 
 Winterstein was a consummate seaman, and that day seemed 
 little anxious; he kept running down to look at the barometer, 
 and had a word or two with' Crawford, I remembered^ afterwards 
 Neither of them seemed to like the look of the weather, 
 small attention to externals, for Daisy was walking the deck 
 with me, and I was telling her how I intended to put up iny 
 shingle in New York that winter .and start my law office. 
 was looking her very best and I had begun to wonder whether 
 she was not even niore attractive than her sister. When she got 
 excited or when the wind blew a little sharply, her white skin
 
 A I )AI (,HII:K OF Kvi: 
 
 would take on the faint pink tinge of a sea-shell, and when in- 
 terested her eyes would grow large and deepen in color. Al- 
 together I was beginning to think her fascinating. Unconsciously 
 I was transferring to her my old allegiance to Rose. Rose was 
 not at her best this cruise; she looked washed out and pale; 
 she did what she could, but the bad weather was against her. 
 Clearly the spiritual center of gravity, so to speak, of the vessel, 
 had changed, and I certainly was not blind to the fact that Daisy 
 gave me more of her time than she gave to anyone else, though 
 she would often have long talks with Donkin. The person she 
 spent least time with was distinctly Winterstein. 
 
 While we were walking up and down talking, the wind suddenly 
 ceased, and the little craft shot up at once on an even keel and 
 set Rose's chair sliding. It was stopped by Winterstein, who 
 took his wife below, and as we resumed our walk again I noticed 
 that the look Daisy threw at her sister was more than indifferent ; 
 there was contempt in it. In a minute or two Winterstein came 
 up again and stood near the main sheet and every now 'and then 
 we passed him. The wind was blowing again steadily, and the 
 schooner heeled over under it and all went on as before. Suddenly, 
 without any warning, the wind veered round and blew from 
 almost the opposite point of the compass. With a slash and crash 
 the sails came flapping over our heads and the boom smashed 
 inboard, as if we were going to gibe. I caught the companion 
 to hold myself. Daisy was thrown past me and would have 
 had a nasty fall, had not Winterstein caught her in his arms. She 
 tore herself loose angrily, and he sprang to the mainsheet and 
 drew it taut and stopped the boom from going over. The helms- 
 man, Crawford, had been almost as quick. No sooner had the 
 squall struck us than he put the helm up and the next moment 
 The Rose's bow fell off and her sails filled again and she went on 
 as before. In the nick of time Winterstein eased away the main- 
 sail. 
 
 The fine thing in the occurence was Winterstein's extra- 
 ordinary speed and strength. There he stood holding the main- 
 sheet, his magnificent athlete's figure etched against the sky. 
 Before I had taken in his splendid unconscious pose, Daisy made 
 an inarticulate exclamation as if she had caught her breath; but 
 when I looked at her, her face was as composed as usual and 
 without expression. 
 
 I thought at the time that the weather was chiefly responsible 
 for the change in the moral atmosphere. It is impossible to be 
 good-tempered if you are wet through by day and up half the 
 night shortening sail or ready to shorten it. For the schooner 
 after all . was only a small craft, and heavily sparred even for 
 summer weather. The sails, it was evident, were too big for her, 
 though Winterstein declared he had never seen such weather in 
 September. I had never had harder work. Three days out of 
 the four we worked all day long and half through the night. The 
 little craft was undermanned. And though we were all strong, 
 five or six pairs of hands cannot do the work of ten or twelve,
 
 30 FRANK HARRIS 
 
 and no man can be in two places at once. Our tempers began to 
 get ragged. 
 
 On the first trip Crawford had been a great friend of mine; 
 he was really a fine sailor and intelligent besides, and whenever 
 I wanted to know anything, I used to go and talk with him, and 
 even in 'Frisco I took him out with me to the theatre once or 
 twice, and was very much amused by his shrewd comments. But 
 one day he called me to help him hauling in the jib. 
 
 "Bear a hand, damn you," he cried. I was amazed. 
 
 "What's the matter, Crawford ?" I said afterward, but he turned 
 on his heel and muttered something; about "lazy" in such a tone 
 that I replied : 
 
 "Lazy or not, you had better curse someone else." 
 
 But afterwards, in cool blood, I could not help asking myself 
 what it all meant. I could find no reason for Crawford's change 
 of manner. "Lazy" stuck in my mind. The day before had been 
 fine and I had sat in a chair near Daisy, and read Whittier to her, 
 but that could have nothing to do with Crawford I decided, who 
 seemed to me quite old : he must have been nearly forty. 
 
 The weather made little difference to Daisy. She was up on 
 <|eck in all weathers, and seemed fairly to revel in a hard gale. 
 When it was dry she used to wear a tight-knitted thing, like a 
 long blue jersey, which outlined her slight figure, and when it 
 was wet she would put on a waterproof, and tuck her hair inside 
 a close hood, which seemed to frame her face lovingly ; I liked 
 her best when it simply blew hard, and we could walk about 
 and talk. 
 
 About this time I began to notice that Donkin was trying in 
 his uncouth way to make up to her. He seized every opportunity 
 of talking to her and advising her. It was a remark of Crawford's 
 that opened my eyes. They were standing together chatting one 
 day when Crawford looked at me over his shoulder and said: 
 
 "She does not care for him any more than she cares for the 
 mainmast, but the big fool thinks she does." 
 
 A pang of surprise and anger told me that I cared more than 
 I admitted to myself. The idea of Donkin, great, ugly, sullen 
 Donkin, side by side with that beauty and fine intelligence. 
 
 "Beauty and the beast," I said. Crawford looked at me and 
 turned aside : I realized that I had spoken bitterly. 
 
 All this time there seemed to be less change in Winterstein 
 than in any of the rest of us. Day after day and night after night 
 he did two or three men's work, and did not seem to feel fatigue 
 or need sleep. He was helped, of course, by his magnificent 
 health and strength. He appeared to take it as a matter of course 
 that I should monopolize Daisy, and we talked together at meal 
 times almost as if he were not in the cabin. Our talk was mostly 
 of books and works of art in which it was impossible for him to 
 join. He listened indeed, but could hardly expect to interest her 
 in books as I could. Sometimes I read scraps of Shelley or 
 Swinburne to her, and it was a treat to see her face flush and 
 change with the varying emotions. Her eyes were extraordinary ; 
 they drew the very soul out of one and tempted one perpetually
 
 A DAVGMTKK OF Evi: 31 
 
 to more passionate expression. Talks begun in the cabin continued 
 with us on deck. No one made me talk as she did. She was 
 something more than a sympathetic listener. She made one want 
 to draw forth her interest or rare word of praise. But if she 
 showed intense emotion about a piece of verse or some wonderful 
 cloud-effect, her interest was always impersonal. As soon as the 
 talk became at all sentimental she would break it off and her 
 eyes would grow inexpressive as brown stones. 
 
 After we had rounded the peninsula and turned into the Gulf, 
 the weather suddenly improved. Day after day we floated along 
 with a light breeze under a pale-blue sky, tremulous with excess 
 of light. Day after day now Rose came up and we had tea and 
 even dinner on deck. But somehow or other Rose never regained 
 her position : we liked her and turned to her, attracted by her 
 smiling good humor, but the spiritual interest of the ship was 
 centered in her sister. Everything in Rose was open, comprehen- 
 sible, from her flowerlike beauty to her manifest devotion to 
 Winterstein, but Daisy was a closed book, a tantalizing puzzle; 
 for all of us she had the charm of the unknown and unexplored. 
 She entered into no direct competition with her sister ; she simply 
 kept apart as a rival queen and there could be no doubt that her 
 court was better attended. You flattered Rose and paid com- 
 pliments to her, the other you studied and sought to interest. 
 Rose was always more than fair to her sister. In fact she praised 
 her and made up to her timidly, like the rest of us. One day 
 Winterstein had gone down for a pair of loose boots for his 
 wife, as she wanted to walk. While he put the boots on we 
 naturally talked of feet. I praised Rose's feet, but she would not 
 have it : 
 
 "My feet are huge," she said, "in comparison to Daisy's. I take 
 fours and she takes ones, don't you, Daisy? Show them." 
 
 Daisy looked at her with a little smile, but did not follow her 
 advice. 
 
 "Come, Daisy, show us," I said. 
 
 She turned smiling inscrutable eyes on me and that was all. 
 Suddenly Winterstein laughed. 
 
 "Daisy wants to spare us," he said. Heir face hardened. 
 
 Daisy does not think it a matter of any moment," she said, "but 
 if you are all agreed, thiere you are," and she pulled her feet 
 together and drew up her skirts deliberately, showing tiny feet 
 and two nervous, slight ankles. But almost at the same moment 
 she sprang to her feet : 
 
 "Are. you coming?" she threw to me, and walked down the deck. 
 
 "What wonderful feet you have/ I said, "almost too small for 
 your figure." 
 
 "Why should very small feet and hands be admired?" she said, 
 turning to me. 
 
 I could not give her the answer that came into my mind, and 
 hesitated, seeking some other explanation. 
 
 "It's traditional. ... I hardly know," I hesitated and sprang 
 to knowledge for evasion. "All Greek statues of women have 
 large feet," I remarked.
 
 32 I'' KAN ic HARRIS 
 
 "But there must be a reason," she said, and her eyes probed 
 mine. 
 
 "Yes," I replied, feeling annoyed with myself for getting red. 
 She took it all in coolly and then changed the conversation, 
 perhaps she understood more than she admitted. 
 
 In the Gulf we called at various small stations and did fairly 
 well with the pearls. Rose had given Daisy my black pearl neck- 
 lace, I noticed: it seemed strange to me that all the affection 
 should be on Rose's side. 
 
 The weather got finer an9 finer : it became so hot indeed that 
 Winterstein fixed up an awning from the companion to the poop. 
 We used to keep the awning cool by throwing a couple of buckets 
 of water on it before Rose came on deck, for she felt the heat 
 intensely. 
 
 About this time I began to guess that her paleness and languor 
 had a cause, and we all felt more kindly towards her if that were 
 possible. But the fact itself seemed to set her more and more 
 apart, putting her outside our circle. The heat seemed to affect 
 Daisy no more than it affected the rest of us. I used to get up 
 nearly every morning and bathe, and when there was a wind 
 Donkin or Crawford used to throw a bucket of water over me 
 and I hopped about on the for'castle to dry myself. If there was 
 no wind I went overboard, keeping near the vessel because of the 
 sharks. One day I had just run up after my bath, I was still 
 drying my head, when Daisy came on deck. 
 
 "Oh, how I should like a swim," she said. "I've been so hot 
 in that stewy cabin." 
 
 She did not look hot, she was always the picture of neatness. 
 But Donkin put his oar in at once. 
 
 "Nothing easier, Miss Daisy." 
 
 When had he commenced calling her by her Christian name, 
 I wondered angrily. 
 
 "Oh, but the sharks," she said. "If one were to bite a foot 
 off, or a hand, I should kill myself. I do not mind death, but I 
 would not be deformed for anything." 
 
 "We could rig a sail out on the yard, so that you could have 
 four feet of water, and yet be perfectly safe," he replied. 
 
 "Oh, how splendid," she said, "I wish you would." 
 
 "In ten minutes, Miss Daisy," he said, and turned away to the 
 " work, Crawford following at his heels. 
 
 "I must go down and get ready," she said, "but won't you come 
 in with me, you won't mind bathing again, it will give me 
 courage?" 
 
 "I have no bathing things," I said, "but I can probably get a 
 suit ready for to-morrow." 
 
 "What a pity," she pouted, "bathing alone is no fun. Can't you 
 make something do?" 
 
 "I daresay I can," I replied. 
 
 "Please," and she disappeared down the companion. 
 
 I went below and got myself ready with a loose flannel shirt, 
 and a pair of duck trousers cut off at the knee, promising myself 
 to hem them round next day. The rummaging about took me
 
 A DAUGHTER OF EVE 
 
 3.3 
 
 some time, and when I came on deck Daisy was already waiting 
 and all the preparations had been made. A yard had been sheered 
 out from the ship and stayed against the bulwark and companion. 
 From the end of it a square sail had been let down by a cross 
 yard at the end of the spar. The sail dipped into the water and 
 formed a bath of perhaps twenty feet long, fifteen feet broad and 
 four or five in depth. The gangway opened into the middle of it, 
 and the little ladder led down to the water's edge. When I came 
 up, Daisy was thanking them. 
 
 "Did you ever see such a perfect bath ?" she said, turning to 
 me. "Isn't it clever of them. I think you sailors," and she looked 
 into Donkin's eyes, "can just do anything." (The fellow's weather- 
 beaten hide flushed to brick-red.) "It was Mr. Crawford," she 
 added, "who thought of putting the sail by the gangway. He 
 thinks of everything." 
 
 She was diabolically clever; for the praise was deserved. Craw- 
 ford's white face paled and he fidgetted under her eyes. 
 
 Daisy had on a little green cap, into which she had tucked her 
 hair, and a great white bath sheet. Winterstein came up from 
 below and stood close by. 
 
 "Will you go first?" I said. 
 
 She turned and undid the tapes at her neck, and let the bath 
 towel slip on to the white deck. She was in pale green with 
 knickerbockers ; a little tunic cut low at the neck fell over her 
 hips. Her arms were bare, and her legs from the knees down. 
 Everything suited her. She was adorable girl and woman in 
 one. The next moment she had slid down the ladder into the sea 
 and was swimming about. In a moment I joined her, and then 
 she explained to me that she could never float. 
 
 "My feet always go down," she said, "and before I know it 
 I am standing on my feet upright in the water." Again and 
 again she tried to float, but always with the same result. I 
 wondered if she knew how provocative she was, as she lay there 
 with the men leaning down from the bulwarks, all staring at her 
 with hot eyes. When she came on deck she did not disappear 
 at once into the bath cloak, which Donkin held ready for her. 
 She stood there among the men on deck in her semi-nudity, and 
 cried : 
 
 "Oh, I have enjoyed myself; it has been perfect. I am so much 
 obliged to you," she said, turning to Donkin, "and to you, too, 
 Mr. Crawfrd." 
 
 I noticed that Dyer at the helm devoured her with his eyes 
 while Abraham's black face grinned from the for'castle hatch. 
 
 >'It was kind of all of you," she went on, "the water was not 
 a bit cold. You will put the sail down to-morrow, won't you?" 
 she said to Donkin, as he stretched her arm backwards over her 
 head to get the cloak. The. movement threw her little breasts 
 upward into sharp relief; the next moment she had drawn the 
 cloak about her with a little gay laugh and disappeared down 
 the companionway. It was as if the sun had gone out. For a 
 moment we men stared at each other, and then I went forward 
 to change my things while Donkin and Crawford busied them-
 
 34 FRANK II vmtis 
 
 selves getting in the sail. Suddenly I heard Winterstein's voice : 
 
 "Here, you Abraham, bear a hand with the swab here and dry 
 up this water. As you've come on deck you may as well do 
 something." I turned in surprise, the tone was strangely hard and 
 menacing, utterly unlike Winterstein, but I did not catch a glimpse 
 of his face, for as soon as he had given the order he turned away 
 to stare at the land over the poop. 
 
 What was the meaning of it all, I asked myself, but I soon put 
 the query out of my head, because I did not want to dull the vivid 
 image of the girl's beautiful figure which had been revealed to me. 
 Was anyone else as lovely? I asked myself. Her feet were like 
 baby feet. The marks of sex in her figure were so slight that 
 they merely accentuated the beauty of the slim round outlines. 
 What provocation in the crooked girlish arms, what a challenge 
 in the inscrutable mutinous eyes. She had been delightful to me 
 in the sea : had turned to me familiarly for help ; I had touched 
 her firm flesh again and again, and I was intoxicated with her 
 as with whie. 
 
 I did not see Daisy again that morning until lunchtime, or 
 dinner as we called it. I had fished persistently and called out 
 loudly whenever I had the opportunity, hoping that it would bring 
 her on deck, for she revelled in fishing, and was easily the 
 champion because all the men vied with each other in picking the 
 most attractive baits for her. In this" game Crawford was easily 
 first. He brought up a piece of red flannel one day, cut into the 
 shape of a narrow tongue; on the other side of it he had sewn a 
 glittering piece of white satin. Equipped with this bait no one 
 had a chance with Daisy. She had caught three fish to my one, 
 and as Donkin or Crawford was always at hand to pull up the 
 wet line for her and take the hook from the fish and put the bait 
 straight again she had little to do except amuse herself. 
 
 At lunch she took all my compliments in complete silence. 
 
 "You would be able to float," I insisted, "if you would arch 
 your back and keep your head right back." 
 
 But she would not have it. 
 
 "I do arch my baclc and put my head right back, but my feet 
 pull me upright." 
 
 "Such- tiny feet," I replied, "have not the power to pull anyone 
 down. 
 
 "You shall try, to-morrow," she said. "I will keep as rigid 
 as you please, and you shall put your hand under my back to see 
 whether I am stiff." 
 
 Winterstein suddenly spoke: 
 
 "Why don't you put that French thing on, that knitted thing 
 instead of the tunic?" 
 
 "Do you mean the maillot?" she said slowly, looking him 
 straight in the eyes. 
 
 He nodded. His expression I remembered afterward was a 
 little strained. 
 
 "I have not worn it," she said with her eyes on the cloth, "since 
 I bathed at the Cliff House, but as you wish it," she added slowly, 
 "I will put it on," and she turned away indifferently. There was
 
 A DAIT.HTF.R or EVK 
 
 35 
 
 a tension in the air, but not on her side I thought as much as on 
 his, but why? 
 
 "What is the maillot like?" I said, showing her that I knew 
 the French word. 
 
 "It's a knitted thing," she said ; "all the girls used to wear them 
 and little French slippers. You know we have parties in the 
 baths. I have got all the things still. I'll put them on to-moorow. 
 I think they suit me. Some people used to say so," she added 
 slowly. 
 
 Winterstein got up, and went into his wife's bed-room for 
 something or other. When he returned I was leaving the cabin. 
 Daisy called to me on the way up that she would bring Browning 
 with her. She was sensitive to beauty of words or music and 
 extraordinarily intelligent : I delighted to read her my favorite 
 poems. 
 
 If I were a story-teller I'd try to make all you people feel what 
 we felt next morning. The weather was perfect, the sea like 
 glass : the little schooner seemed to breathe gently as if sleeping 
 on the oily swell. Rose came on deck early and established herself 
 under the awning. I thought that her presence would make a 
 difference, would act as a restraint on her sister and I wished 
 her away. I had got my bathing things in some sort of order the 
 evening before. I rather fancied myself in them. I had not been 
 on deck more than five minutes when I noticed a sort of subdued 
 excitement in everyone. All the men were on deck and they had 
 all rigged themselves out more or less. Donkin was shaved and 
 so was Crawford, Dyer limped about in clean ducks, and Abraham 
 Lincoln had mounted a large white collar with a scarlet and blue 
 tie. Winterstein alone had made no change. He talked to his 
 wife while moving about whistling for wind as if indifferent. . . . 
 
 For the first time I noticed clearly that Rose was soon to became 
 a mother. Her face was a little white and drawn, and when she 
 tried once or twice to take a few turns with Winterstein you 
 could see that her figure had altered in spite of the loose dress 
 she wore. I was looking over the little lifeboat which we carried 
 on the davit amidship when I heard Daisy's voice. 
 
 "What a perfect day," she said, "and how delightful everything 
 looks. I know I shall enjoy the bath." ^ 
 
 Naturally I went towards her. She was standing close to the 
 companion. Rose was sitting a yard or so behind it with her 
 chair against the mahagony top. Everyone was on the tiptoe of 
 excitement. Donkin, Crawford, Abraham Lincoln, all moved like 
 steel nibs toward the magnet, except Winterstein. The girl had 
 her back to the men. Suddenly she opened her wrap a little to 
 show herself in her maillot to her sister. Winterstein and I could 
 not help seeing her as well. It caught my breath. For one 
 moment I thought she was naked. The maillot was white; the 
 meshes of it showed the rose-colored skin beneath. She looked 
 like an ivory statue by some modern French artist : she was 
 rounder, more woman-like than I had pictured her immaturity. 
 
 "Oh, Daisy," cried Rose. 
 
 "He told me to put it on," said Daisy defiantly looking at
 
 36 FRANK HARRIS 
 
 \Yinterstein while drawing the cloak about her again. "You used 
 to say it fitted me perfectly," she added, "and liked me in it." 
 
 "Yes," said Rose, amiably, leaning back and closing her eyes, 
 as if in pain or weariness, "it does suit you, but somehow or other 
 it was different when half a dozen of you children were all wear- 
 ing them in the bath ; besides you've grown, I suppose, and it's 
 in the open and men about . . ." 
 
 "I'll take it off," said Daisy in the hard clear voice which I 
 had come to recognize as a sign of annoyance. 
 
 "Oh, no," said Rose, "I'd bathe in it now I had it on. Go on," 
 she said smiling, "the dip will do you good." 
 
 The girl turned and without a word went down into the cabin. 
 In a minute or two she appeared. 
 
 "Will you go down first," she said to me, "and I will dive in." 
 
 She stood in the gangway with the shapeless wrap about her. 
 I nodded, for my mouth was dry, and without more ado, threw 
 myself into the sea, and in a moment was, standing on the sail 
 dashing the water from my eyes. Daisy opened the wrap slowly 
 and took her arms out of the sleeve with a sort of serpentine 
 movement, infinitely graceful and provocative. She had put on 
 her little tunic over the maillot. I was glad the outline was 
 draped; but having seen her in the maillot the vision of her form 
 was still with me in its half-ripe seduction. But being hidden 
 from the other men it seemed mine and private. Yet I noticed 
 that Donkin received her bathing cloak mechanically without' 
 taking his eyes off her. As she stood above me she swayed back- 
 ward, threw her hands above her head, then bent gradually for- 
 ward down, down, the lines of her flexible young body changing 
 every moment and let herself glide into the sea. All the time 
 she stood poised on the deck there was a steel band of hate round 
 my chest. I do not think the girl knew what she was doing. I 
 do not believe she could have imagined the rage of desire her 
 beauty called to life in these men who had been a month at sea, 
 eating heartily while breathing in the tonic sea air. As soon as 
 she was in the water beside me all anger vanished; she seemed 
 to belong to me then, and I wondered whether she liked me to 
 touch her; at any rate she was not adverse to learning anything 
 I suggested and naturally I was fertile in suggestions. 
 
 Suddenly she said she would float ; she would arch her back 
 and put her head back as far as she could, and I must put my 
 hand under her waist and support her, then I would see how im- 
 possible it was for her to float. I did what I was told without 
 thinking, and at first she floated and I looked into her face and 
 cried : 
 
 "You see, you see." But she was not looking at me, her face 
 was set hard, there was a sort of defiance in it. I followed her 
 glance up and saw Winterstein leaning over the bulwarks gazing 
 down on her. I seemed to catch for the moment a sort of tension 
 between them and then slowly the vaselike outlines of her hips 
 sank lower into the water, and she came up smiling: 
 
 "vSce how my feet drag me down," she said, pushing her right
 
 A DAUGHTER OF EVE 37 
 
 foot up through the water in comic dismay, as if to show me how 
 heavy it was. 
 
 Winterstein had left the bulwarks, but Donkin was looking 
 down at her and Crawford and the others all drinking her in with 
 greedy eyes. She swam about a little and then climbed up the 
 ladder and stood at the top of it, half in the hot sunshine, and 
 half in the shade of the awning to get warm, she said. My foot 
 was on th lower rung of the ladder, I was so close to her that 
 I could see every line of her body, the adorable roundness, and 
 the fine nervous grace of it. I could scarcely refrain from putting 
 my hands on her as she stood there swaying just in front of me, 
 with the wet tunic clinging to her like skin and showing all her 
 adorable nudities. 
 
 "It is too delicious," she said with a little shudder, "the water 
 is warmer than the air. The air makes me shiver, but the water 
 is warm like new milk. You should come and bathe, too, Rose." 
 
 "Put on your wrap and change quickly, or you'll catch cold," 
 said Rose, who had picked up her things and was going down to 
 the cabin. She spoke a little tartly, I thought. 
 
 The girl turned and let Donkin wrap the bathing cloak about 
 her without a word. I caught sight of her as she turned, and the 
 vision of her is with me still. I've wondered since if there ever 
 was a more perfect figure, or if anyone else could be so slim, 
 with such tiny round breasts no - larger than apples. I can still 
 see the dimples in her arms at the elbow and the drips of water 
 diamonding the rosy skin as she lifted up her arms to take the 
 cloak which Donkin was holding. 
 
 The next moment she had vanished down the companion. I 
 stepped forward. Donkin and Crawford were standing close 
 together still staring after the girl. As she disappeared they 
 turned and perhaps by accident jostled each other: in a flash their 
 jealous hate flamed. Before one could think Donkin was holding 
 Crawford by the throat while Crawford was striking him in the 
 face savagely. The next moment Winterstein had thrust them 
 apart. 
 
 "Are you mad?" he said to Donkin in repressed low voice. 
 "I'm ashamed of you," he added, turning to Crawford and speak- 
 ing more naturally. Donkin glowered sullenly while Crawford 
 muttered something and went forward. As I followed him 
 Lincoln's blacke face went down the forehatchway and Dyer 
 turned to take up his watch again ; but not before I had noticed 
 a certain antagonism on every face; they all reminded me of a 
 set of dogs on the point of fighting all rigid, with bared fangs 
 and hating eyes. 
 
 The rest of the day passed in a sort of stupor, Rose was on 
 deck nearly the whole., time, Winterstein always in- attendance. 
 Daisy and I walked the deck a good while together ; I got her 
 to say she liked me, but when I pressed her to say how much, 
 she only laughed and changed the subject. She had a long talk 
 with Donkin and another talk with Crawford; she even managed 
 to smile at Dyer and transport him into the seventh heaven of 
 delight. For the first time I began to realize her insatiate vanity;
 
 38 FRANK 
 
 she wanted all the men to admire her. I raged against her in my 
 heart, raged the more because I was in the toils. I would have 
 given ten years of my life to have been able to have taken that 
 slight figure in my arms, to have crushed those little breasts 
 against mine and kissed the flower of her mouth. 
 
 But of all this she seemed unconscious, she was simply herself, 
 quiet, aloof, and inscrutable till late in the afternoon, when a 
 little breeze sprang up, a land breeze which gave the light schooner 
 three or four knots an hour good steering way. Then she had 
 the lines up and fished from the poop. Donkin and myself waited 
 on her, while Winterstein walked up and down beside his wife 
 from the poop to the companion and from the companion to the 
 poop in silence. Dyer steered and Abraham Lincoln came grinning 
 to us every now and then to bring fresh bait for Miss Daisy. . . . 
 # * * 
 
 The catastrophe came with startling suddeness. I see now that 
 it must have come, that it was all prepared, inevitable. Yet the 
 unexpectedness, the tragic completeness of it were overwhelm- 
 ing. It seems to have blotted out all that went before so that 
 I do not know whether it was two or three days or half a dozen 
 days later than the bathing or not. Anyhow the bathing I have 
 described was the last. For some days after we had lively breezes; 
 the spar had to be taken in and the extemporized bath dismantled. 
 We had called, I remember, at Mulege near Los Coyotes, and had 
 had a good haul of pearls and a lot of hard work. 
 
 One afternoon we had been working hard and had had to row 
 the boat for four or five miles over shallow water to a village 
 where the inhabitants, we found, had collected pearls for years 
 and years and had never before been visited. The bargaining 
 was interminable. The fisher-folk had no standard of value. One 
 man wanted a dollar for three or four fine pearls, another wanted 
 fifty dollars for an insignificant bad specimen, and we were on 
 the strain of all day bargaining and cajoling. I was tuckered out 
 when I got into the boat and took the bow oar to Donkin's stroke 
 while Winterstein sat in the stern "sheets. I think Winterstein. 
 too, must have been tired and exasperated, for he scarcely spoke 
 all the way to the schooner. 
 
 When we got on board a six-knot breeze was blowing. After 
 telling us to keep our course, Winterstein went below. I went 
 down, too, and had a sleep : when I came up again I felt refreshed 
 and vigorous. 
 
 The night was wonderfully beautiful. The moon rose like a 
 crimson wafer through a thin heat mist, but soon shook herself 
 clear of her trailing garments and walked the purple like a queen. 
 T noticed for the first time that the moon's radiance lent the 
 edges of the nearer clouds a brownish smoky rose tinge. As the 
 night wore on the fleecy round clouds gathered closer together 
 like silver shields hanging heavily against the blue vault; the 
 moonlight grew fitful. 
 
 When I went down Daisy and Winterstein were both on deck. 
 They were standing near each other just by the poop. When I 
 came up after having had a cup of coffee and a biscuit they
 
 A DAUGHTER OF LYE 39 
 
 were still talking at intervals. She was sitting on the companion 
 while he stood in front of her or moved away and then came back. 
 I went forward to do something and when I returned they were 
 still talking, which seemed strange to me, for they seldom ex- 
 changed more than a word or two. Every now and then she 
 laughed, and the laugh was hard and clear : she was scornful I 
 thought. They seemed so preoccupied that I was annoyed and 
 would not join them. Abraham Lincoln at the tiller was almost 
 out of earshot. I suppose I was jealous. I noticed that when 
 the moon came out from the darkening clouds they were some 
 distance apart, but as soon as the light was veiled they seemed 
 close together again. I was furious, my pride prevented me going 
 near them, yet I could not but stare toward them at intervals, 
 jealously watchful. Suddenly while I was a little to windward, 
 just in line with the helmsman, the moon came out, and I saw 
 Winterstein take Daisy's head quickly in his hands and kiss her 
 on the lips ; my heart had stopped. The moon showed everything 
 as if it were daylight. I took a quick step forward when just as 
 suddenly I became aware that Rose had come out of the com- 
 panion and had seen her husband kising her sister. 
 
 For a moment she stood petrified. I heard a faint exclamation, 
 or was it merely her breath caught in a gasp and strangled ? She 
 turned and moved across the deck with her hand across her face. 
 She struck the low bulwark and there was a splash in the water. 
 The next moment Winterstein had sprung to the side and plunged 
 in after her. The second splash seemed only a couple of seconds 
 after the first. I jumped to the helm only just in time; for the 
 darky had let it slip from his hands and was staring round where 
 Winterstein disappeared. I crammed the tiller hard down, 
 shouting : 
 
 "Man overboard, man overboard." 
 
 The next moment Crawford sprang on deck. The little schooner 
 was fluttering in the wind; she came about with a jerk just as 
 Crawford and the darky dropped over the side into the dingy and 
 began rowing back. 
 
 "What is it?" cried Donkin, running aft. 
 
 "Mrs. Winterstein fell overboard and Winterstein went after 
 her. How long shall we take to get back, do you think ?" 
 
 "It is a quarter of a mile," he replied, while loosening a life- 
 buoy. 
 
 "Then we must pick them up?" I said. 
 
 "Of course," he answered. "I guess Winterstein's a good 
 swimmer." 
 
 "First rate," I replied, but my heart .was hurting with fear. 
 
 At this moment Daisy passed across my line of vision going 
 to the bulwarks to look ahead. The moon was fuj] out and the 
 light quite strong again. I looked at her face and it seemed as if 
 she were excited, expectant, resolute ; no trace of horror, or fear. 
 I gasped and suspicion came to me. Could it be that she had 
 wished for it? Her sister it was impossible. 
 
 Two minutes more and we were alongside the boat again. 
 Crawford had everything ready as usual and had gone to the very
 
 4O FRANK HABBIS 
 
 . spot, and as we came up in the wind beside the boat I left the 
 helm to the nigger and leaned over the bulwarks. I was just in 
 time to see Winterstein come to the surface and haul himself up 
 by the stern of the boat. 
 
 He stood there poised for a moment, and then hurled himself 
 into the sea again as if he would go to the very bottom. My 
 heart sank : he had not found her yet. 
 
 I called to Crawford to know if he had seen any trace of Rose. 
 
 "No sign," he replied, "and this is the skipper's fourth or fifth 
 dive. I guess it's no good." 
 
 "I think you ought to come into the boat," he said a moment 
 later," "and get Winterstein to come on board. He'll kill himself 
 with his diving. I've never known a man keep down so long; 
 he can't do it again." 
 
 I jumped into the boat, and a couple strokes took us to the 
 spot where Winterstein had disappeared. We stared down on the 
 dark surface, but there was not a sign or a sound. It seemed 
 incredible that any man should be able to stay under so long. 
 
 Suddenly Crawford cried, "There he is," and gave a couple of 
 quick strokes with his oar : slowly the body came to the surface. 
 As we caught hold of him we saw that the blood was streaming 
 from his nose and mouth and ears. 
 
 "He's killed himself," said Crawford, "I thought he would." 
 
 We got back to the schooner in a moment and lifted Winterstein 
 on board. 
 
 As I was helping to carry him toward the companion with his 
 head in my hands. Daisy caught hold of me : 
 
 "Dead?" she cried, her eyes wild in the frozen face. 
 
 " I don't think so," I replied, "he stayed under too long. We 
 must get him downstairs and bring him to." 
 
 "Ah," she gasped, and let my arm go. 
 
 We carried Winterstein down the cabin, turned him over and 
 poured the water out of him. Afterwards I blew whiskey up his 
 nose and poured some down his throat, and in a few minutes he 
 revived. 
 
 "Where is she?" he said, struggling to rise. "Have you got 
 her?" 
 
 "It's no good, Skipper," cried Crawford, holding him down. 
 "We did our best. You did all one man could. She must have 
 gone straight down. There's not a sign of her." 
 
 "I must find her," he said, struggling up. But he was too weak, 
 he fell back fainting. 
 
 I do not know how the kours passed. I felt dazed; but with an 
 ache at my heart and a sort of vague dread ; it was all incredible 
 to me. I could not believe that Rose was dead, drowned, that I 
 should never see her again, that charming woman with her ap- 
 pealing, affectionate soul. It was too awful to realize. I thought 
 I'd wake up and find it all a bad dream. Suddenly I noticed that 
 my legs were cold. I put my hand down, my trousers were 
 dripping wet from carrying Winterstein. The next moment I 
 
 : i ;--.-, i. .inink tjrcd, my eyes
 
 A DAUGJUTKK OF EVE 41 
 
 were closing of themselves. Instinctively I turned into the for'- 
 castle, stretched myself on the lockers and slept. . . . 
 
 When I awoke I did not know where I was : everything was 
 strange to me. Then I remembered, and with the remembrance 
 came the iron band about my chest constricting my heart. I got 
 up and went on deck. No change there. The schooner was just 
 drawing through the water, the sun shining; the light dancing on 
 the wavelets ; the air like wine. Dyer was at the helm. If only 
 last night could have been blotted out? I could scarcely believe 
 it was real. As I went aft, Crawford met me : 
 "How's Winterstein?" I asked. 
 
 "Sleeping now," he replied, "but he's been mighty bad. I never 
 saw a man so done up never. How did it happen? How did 
 Ws wife go overboard? You saw it," and his eyes probed mine. 
 "She came out of the companion," I said, "the deck was on a 
 bit of a slant ... it all happened so quickly." I felt myself 
 flushing. I was angry with my hesitation. 
 
 "But why did she? How did she sink" like that? it's mighty 
 curious," he added suspiciously. 
 
 "Have you seen Miss Daisy?" I asked to change the current of 
 his thought. 
 
 "Miss Daisy," he repeated, emfthasing the Miss, so that I noticed 
 how strange it was for me to use the formal courtesy, "Miss Daisy 
 ain't been up yet. The nigger thinks 'twas jealousy between the 
 two sister; but he saw nothing. You must have seen." 
 
 I had time to recover myself, and choose a better way of putting 
 him off the scent : 
 
 "It's awful, awful;'' I said, as if to myself. I can't understand 
 it." Crawford grunted, still suspicious. 
 
 But in spite of the tragedy, the suspicions, and the dark cloud 
 of fear that hung over me as to what might happen next, the 
 ordinary routine of life went on luckily for all of us. A little 
 after Abe called to me from the for'castle to come and have a 
 cup of coffee. I found I was very hungry and after breakfast 
 felt much better, more hopeful I mean and fitter to meet what- 
 ever might occur. 
 
 Half an hour later, Crawford was at the helm steering. I was 
 standing near the foremast when suddenly Daisy came out of the 
 companion and spoke to Crawford in passing. He replied in a 
 monosyllable, without the usual greeting, and then stared up at 
 the mainsail as if there was nothing' more to be said. The in- 
 stinctive puritanism of the race spoke in his awkward rude rebuff. 
 I saw the color flood her cheeks and then ebb away. I loathed 
 the man ; I could have beaten him for his insolence ; yet I was 
 glad he had insulted her: why? She deserved it all and more, 
 I thought hotly and yet she walked up the slanting deck, her 
 little figure thrown back proudly. I crossed the windward be- 
 tween the masts to cut her off : why ? I don't know. I only 
 know that passion was in me ; she seemed so far away from us 
 all with that level, unseeing, unwavering glance; the proud aloof- 
 ness attracted me. I had never before understood the fascination
 
 FBANK HAEBIS 
 
 of her personality, of her courage. When we met she stopped 
 and her eyes held me. 
 
 "I know you never meant it, Daisy," I said tamely and held 
 out both my hands to her. 
 
 "Are you sure?" she replied, her eyes searching hard. The 
 words shocked me. I did not realize that having just been in- 
 sulted, she was all mistrust and temper ; if only I had said the 
 right word ; but her pride angered me and for the moment I took 
 her question that may have only been doubt of me for an admis- 
 sion of guilt. Fool that I was. 
 
 "God," I exclaimed violently and stepped back. Her face 
 hardened and she swept past me without another word or look, 
 leaving me there confused, angry, wild, and back of all full of 
 forgiveness of admiration. 
 
 I could not but dread the first meeting with Winterstein. What 
 would he say, how would he take it all ? I had not much time to 
 let imagination wander. As I turned in my walk, he was there. 
 His appearance was shocking; it wasn't only that he was white 
 and seemed ill; his clothes hung on him; he was shrunken and 
 his eyes were bad to look upon despairing sad at one moment, 
 the next hot in self-anger and exasperation. 
 
 I went to him at once, my heart full of pity. I saw he was all 
 broken. 
 
 "I'm glad you're up," I cried cordially; "the air'll do you 
 good." 
 
 He looked at me with such dumb misery in the glance that my 
 eyes pricked : he nodded his head once or twice and then went 
 over to the low poop and sat down. 
 
 A little later Dyer went to him and said breakfast was ready. 
 He shook his head merely and sat on gazing moodily at the 
 water. 
 
 The samei thing happened at dinner-time, but when pressed to 
 eat by Crawford he replied, "'twould choke me. I'm all right." 
 
 The sweet old routine of life had done me good so I thought 
 it would do good to everyone and should be kept up ; accordingly 
 I went to dinner in the cabin as usual. As Daisy did not appear 
 I knocked at the stateroom and asked her to come. A minute 
 or so later she entered quietly, but she hardly ate anything and 
 spoke not at all. At supper it was the same thing. 
 
 Winterstein sat on the poop till far into the night. When 
 Crawford came on watch, I took Winterstein below : he said 
 merely, "I shan't sleep," but threw himself on the cabin sofa 
 without undressing. 
 
 The next day passed in the same way, but before dinner Craw- 
 ford told me that he could not get Winterstein to take anything. 
 
 "If he doesn't eat, he'll go crazy," he said. "He's just eatin' 
 himself." 
 
 I told this to Daisy. She looked at me with set face. 
 
 "I have no influence," she said slowly, as if speaking to herself, 
 "no influence, but I'll try." 1 ler face went rigid as she spoke. 
 I nodded and wont with her up the companion ladder. But
 
 A DAUGHTER OF Kvi; 
 
 Winterstein didn't yield at first to her asking; he shook his head, 
 merely saying, "I can't." 
 
 "The soup will help you," she said, and then slowly, "Rose 
 would wish you to take it !" 
 
 "O, God!" he cried starting up and stretching out his arms, 
 as if he couldn't bear to hear the name and then sank down 
 again. She put the cup in his hands and he took it and drank, 
 and then relapsed again into his moody brooding silence. 
 
 When she returned she went straight to her cabin and so an- 
 other day went by. 
 
 The next day Winterstein took some soup I brought him. In 
 the evening Crawford proposed to return at once to 'Frisco. 
 
 "I don't like his looks," he said; 'he's worrying himself crazy 
 and I guess the sooner we all get away from each other the better; 
 perhaps we'll be able to forget the whole darned thing then and 
 live again." 
 
 Donkin agreed with him, and so did I and the ship's course 
 was altered. 
 
 Daisy got into the way of walking the deck with Donkin. He 
 adored the very planks she trod on and perhaps that touched her. 
 Anyway, she was with him now more than with any of us. It 
 made me angry and scornful, kept my zealousy alive, prevented 
 me from understanding her or forgiving I always saw the two 
 heads together and the fatal kiss. 
 
 In this puzzling world mistakes or blunders often have worse 
 results than crimes. The momentary yielding to passion brought 
 the tragedy and the first tragedy inevitably drew on another. 
 
 We had got into the Equatorial Current and were making fine 
 time up the coast toward 'Frisco. The weather was just what 
 sailors like: a fair wind perfectly steady day after day; bright 
 skies, and blue seas with scarcely a white horse to be seen. We 
 did not alter the set of the canvas for days together: there was 
 nothing for us to do. Unfortunately nothing to take our minds 
 off the tragedy, nothing to change the feeling of misery and 
 apprehension. I never passed such miserable days : they seem 
 like a nightmare to me still. 
 
 One morning I heard a row on deck and then what sounded 
 like a shot. I threw a coat on and ran quickly up the companion. 
 To my astonishment there was no one steering, the helm was 
 lashed amidship. I heard a shout from overhead and saw Donkin 
 and Crawford in the main-rigging near the heel of the top-mast. 
 The next moment I noticed Winterstein seated on deck between 
 the two masts. He was playing with a dead snapper making be- 
 lieve that it was about to bite him, drawing his hand away quickly 
 from the dead mouth with a cackle of amusement. 
 
 ''Good God!" I wondered, "what's the matter?" As I went 
 toward him- it suddenly came to me : "He's mad," I said to my- 
 self. I was all broken up with pity. 
 
 The men in the rigging shouted, "Look out," just in time to 
 put me on my guard : for Winterstein had a revolver beside him.
 
 44 FKANK HAKKIS 
 
 and as soon as I came within his line of vision he took up the 
 gun and leveled it at me crying: 
 
 "There's another of 'em," and fired without more ado. 
 
 I called out to him and backed away, but as he was preparing 
 to fire again, I slid across the deck to the lee rigging and went 
 up as fast as I could. Neither Donkin nor Crawford had any- 
 thing new to tell me, except that Crawford had been slightly 
 wounded by the first shot Winterstein had fired at him. It had 
 just touched the right shoulder. 
 
 "It burns a bit," he said, "though it's not much more than skin 
 deep." 
 
 The nigger and Dyer, it appeared, had both fled to the for'- 
 castle. We quickly resolved that the moment Winterstein went 
 down below, one of us should seize him and the others tie him up 
 
 "If I could only get him away from his gun," said Donkin, "I'd 
 find out in five minutes whether he's as strong as he thinks 
 himself." 
 
 "You'll find out how strong he is soon enough," I replied. "He's 
 about the best man with his hands I ever saw. It will be all the 
 three of us can do to get the better of him." 
 
 "I've never seen the man yet," said Donkin sturdily, "I was 
 afraid of." 
 
 The trial came very soon. Of a sudden Winterstein stood up, 
 threw the dogfish overboard and leaving his revolver on deck 
 walked quickly aft, and disappeared down the companion. The 
 next moment we slid down to the deck, Crawford arming himself 
 with an iron belaying pin, a fearsome club at close quarters. I 
 crept stealthily along the weather bulwarks to the companion and 
 Donkin strode boldly down the deck. I think it must have been 
 Donkin's heavy step that Winterstein heard; for just before I got 
 to the companion he passed up it like a flash and stood facing him. 
 
 "Ho ! Ho !" he cried, laughing, "Mr. Donkin wants some gruel, 
 does he? Take it, take it then," and jumping in as lightly as a 
 ballet dancer, he struck out right and left. His left caught Donkin 
 in the face and the blood spurted as if the man had been hit with 
 a hammer, the second blow caught him on the neck and hurled 
 him down. 
 
 "Ho! Ho!" cried the madman again, dancing about so as to 
 face Crawford. 
 
 "Crawford wants some, too." 
 
 Fortunately for Crawford, Donkin was a very strong man, and 
 scarcely had he been knocked down when he picked himself up 
 again. He was angry, too, and his anger did him_no good. With 
 his head down like a bull he rushed at the- skipper. Wirttersteari 
 side-stepped him to windward and as he passed caught him a left- 
 handed shot under the ear with such force that Donkin seemed 
 to touch nothing till he crashed into the lee bulwarks and lay 
 there quiet enough. My chance had come : Winterstein was 
 a yard of me. As he struck Donkin I threw my arms about his 
 waist from behind, pinning his right arm to his side. At the same 
 time with the instinct of the wrestler I lifted him from the deck 
 so as to make him as helpless as possible. For a moment he
 
 A DAUGHTER OF EVE 45 
 
 struggled wildly, roaring like a bull; then in a second broke my 
 grip and got his right hand free. But I still held him and as I was 
 well behind him he could not get at me easily. But he was too 
 strong. The next moment his right hand had caught my collar 
 and shifted to my neck and ear, and I felt myself being dragged 
 round. I knew that the struggle could only last a second or two, 
 and just as I was expecting his blow I heard a thud; the writhing 
 form in my arms grew still and heavy and slid down on the deck. 
 Crawford had run across and struck Winterstein on the temple 
 with the iron belaying pin. Almost at the same moment Dyer 
 and Abraham Lincoln ran up on deck. We hauled Donkin up 
 out of the lee scuppers and told Dyer to throw water over him. 
 We then wiped Winterstein's bleeding head and carried him down 
 below to his berth, where we tied his hands and feet. Just after 
 we had laid him out, Daisy came out of her little stateroom. She 
 looked at us and in a phrase or two Crawford flung the tragedy 
 at her. She did not seem to notice the man. She came straight 
 to Winterstein. 
 
 "Leave him to me;" she said imperiously kneeling down beside 
 him. * * * 
 
 The second tragedy seemed to fall on numbed sense. I scarcely 
 remember any sequence of time in what occured afterwards. I 
 knew it soon came on to blow, but whether it was that day or 
 the next or later, I could not tell. I remembered that Winter- 
 stein appeared on deck again and sat in his old place on the poop 
 gazing out over the sea. His madness seemed to have left him, but 
 his brooding silence now was often broken by periods during which 
 he moved about muttering to himself incessantly. Crawford said 
 he was talking of his wife or to her. He was tragic, terrible a 
 figure of despair. 
 
 We had altered our course again and were steering Nor'west. 
 The Nor'east wind had grown to a gale, while the current was 
 running strong under our feet. Between the tide and the wind 
 the sea grew into hillocks and hills and still it blew harder and 
 harder. . . . 
 
 Long ago we had taken all the sails off her, leaving only a 
 storm jib and a rag of tarpaulin in the mainmast rigging aft, and 
 under these two handkerchiefs the schooner lay over so that her 
 masts were near the water. 
 
 Late in the afternoon Crawford asked me to keep a sharp 
 lookout. 
 
 '"Frisco?" I asked, and he nodded. 
 
 I never was so glad of anything in my life, the band round 
 my chest seemed to loosen. 
 
 The sun was going down in a sort of yellow glare. For over 
 an hour or so Winterstein had been standing by the tarpaulin 
 in the mainmast rigging staring over the waste of water. I clawed 
 my way aft to him. The tarpaulin sheltered us from the fury of 
 the wind and made an oasis of quiet in the uproar. 
 
 "We'll soon be in 'Frisco!" I cried. 
 
 He looked at me with unseeing hopeless eyes : my heart turned 
 to water. Suddenly he caught me by the shoulder.
 
 46 FRANK HARRIS 
 
 "I can't stand it," he said, as if confiding to me ; but in a tone 
 so low I could hardly hear him. "I can't stand it." 
 
 "Time will soften the pain," I said. The words rang false 
 even to me. 
 
 "No, no," he shook his head. "It gets worse. If it had been 
 an accident, I might have stood it : if some one else had done it, 
 perhaps ; but I did it, I : that's the thorn that festers and stings 
 and burns, and gets worse not better, worse all the time. . . . 
 I was glad to go mad : I wish I could go mad again and not think 
 of it all the time." And he passed his hand over his forehead in 
 weary wretchedness. . . . 
 
 "If I hadn't loved her so, I might sleep now and then and forget. 
 I never cared for any other woman : she was perfect to me from 
 the beginning. "Hell," he broke off raging, "what sort of a fool 
 was I eh ? was there ever such a fool a damned fool damned. . . 
 
 "I don't know why I did it: it just took me at the moment. 
 Hell," and his eyes were wild. "I'm not fit to live: this world's 
 no place for fools," and he laughed mirthlessly. . . . 
 
 "I can't stand it, I just can't stand it! Oh, my sweet: fancy 
 hurting you ! . . . 
 
 "Is there any other life, eh?'" I could not answer my heart 
 ached for him. "I never took much stock in it ; but I'll soon 
 know. So long," and he turned into the force of the wind and 
 strode aft. Even then I noticed that he could walk the deck in 
 the gale that seemed to blow my breath down my throat and 
 choke me. 
 
 I clawed my way forward again. Winterstein was beyond 
 my help. I was glad of the gale and the wild seas and the danger, 
 I didn't want to think. I was filled with fear and pain. . . . 
 
 The wind came harder and harder. The tremendous weight of 
 it seemed to flatten the sea, and you could only put your head 
 above the bulwarks if you held on with both hands. 
 
 All that night Crawford stuck to the helm and it needed all his 
 seamanship to bring us through the storm. 
 
 At twelve o'clock we lifted the light and a little later we got 
 a little under the shelter of the land and the sea was not so bad. 
 But the bar gave us an awful half hour. The little schooner 
 came out of the broken water with decks swept clean : the boat 
 had gone and all the bulwarks, and The Rose was leaking in a 
 dozen places : she would never go to sea again. 
 
 When we came to anchor off Meiggs's wharf about three o'clock, 
 we had all had enough of it. In spite of the fear that the little 
 schooner might founder under us and though I was frozen cold 
 and wet, I went below and slept without turning in. I had not 
 had a wink for two nights and had eaten nothing but a biscuit for 
 thirty-six hours. 
 
 Crawford woke me, bright sunshine fell down the hatchway : as 
 soon as I opened my eyes, I knew something was wrong. 
 
 "What is it?" I cried. 
 
 "Winterstein went overboard in the night," he said, "I don't 
 know when, and the girl's been in faint after faint. Donkin's 
 going to take her up to the house. I guess you had better get up,
 
 A DAIT.IITKR OF Kvi: 47 
 
 she may want to see you. But don't say anything harsh to her : 
 she's had it bad enough. . . ." 
 
 I was on deck in five minutes in time to see Donkin bring Daisy 
 out of the companion and take her across the ladder. He fairly 
 lifted her into the boat, and 'as he turned to row her ashore I 
 caught a glimpse of her face. It made me gasp : I never saw 
 such a change, never. Her face had gone quite small like a little 
 child's, and as white as if it had been made out of snow. . . . 
 
 I could not stop on board the schooner; I guess everybody left 
 it as soon as he could. I came East the same week and never 
 
 saw any of 'em again. 
 
 * * * 
 
 A pretty bad story, ain't it? A brute of a story. Just like life. 
 No meaning in it : the punishment out of all proportion to the 
 sin. Sometimes it's like that. Sometimes things a thousand 
 times worse go unpunished and then for a little mistake or slip, 
 tragedy piles itself on tragedy. There ain't no meaning in it, 
 no sense. I don't believe there's any purpose either, anywhere ; 
 it's just chance. 
 
 The Judge broke off. 
 
 The dreadful story had held us ; now some of the men stretched 
 themselves, lit cigars, or took drinks, but no one spoke for quite 
 a while. 
 
 Suddenly Charlie Railton said : 
 
 "That Daisy was a wild piece, sure; but I thought you were 
 going to tell us something about Mrs. Amory, Judge. I thought 
 perhaps you knew her." 
 
 "I knew a good deal about her," replied Barnett quietly, "though 
 I never met her. I was mixed up in her affairs after her husband 
 died. I was agent for the land she bought for almshouses. I let 
 her have it cheaper because of the object." 
 
 "I ought to have met her a dozen times, but I never did, strange 
 to say. Of course I knew all about her for the last two or three 
 years. I knew she was a mighty good woman. Her lawyer, Hutch- 
 ins, whom I knew well, always said so, said she was the best 
 woman he ever saw, and one of the kindest. Amory just wor- 
 shiped her, I believe, and she brought up his daughters by his 
 first wife splendidly. She had only one child of her own and it 
 died. It nearly killed her, Hutchins said. A mighty good 
 woman, and I ought to have met her a dozen times, but it never 
 happened so. ' . . . 
 
 "When she died Hutchins insisted that I should go to the 
 funeral. You know the house. I guess it's one of the finest in 
 the States. They laid her out in the music-room. It looks like 
 a church with its high painted windows and old tapestries and 
 open timber roof : the paintings are all masterpieces : three or four 
 Rembrandts, I believe. Well, they did the room up as a chapelle 
 ardente and laid her out there in state, and all Philadelphia 
 went to visit and a good-many of her girls cried over her. I went 
 with Hutchins and nothing would do but he would have me go 
 right up to the coffin. The moment I looked at her, the moment 
 I saw her face, the little face no bigger than your hand, all frozen
 
 48 FRANK HARRIS 
 
 white; I knew her. That was the face I had seen in the boat 
 when Donkin rowed her ashore thirty years before, 'J ez ebel's 
 daughter/ I used to call her to myself. . . . 
 
 "I was just struck dumb, but I knew that was why I had never 
 met her. She had not wanted to meet me. I was a bit surprised 
 when two or three days later I had a letter from her. Hutchins 
 had to read the will and in it he found a letter addressed to me. 
 I have not got it by me, but I can tell you some of what was in 
 it; she had no reason to be ashamed of it. I was wrong to judge 
 her as I did at the time. Young people are mighty severe in their 
 judgings. As you get older you get more tolerant. . . . 
 
 "With the letter there was a little box, and in the box a string 
 of black pearls, the same I had given her sister. Mrs. Amory 
 began by telling me that she had wanted to give them back to me, 
 as soon as Donkin had told her they were mine, but all trace of 
 me had been lost, and she had never heard of me again till long 
 after her husband's death, when the end was near. She asked 
 me to give the black pearls to my eldest daughter Kate, and she 
 left me a string of white ones to give to my youngest daughter. 
 She seemed to know all about us. ... She told me I had 
 always misjudged her and I guess I had. . . . 
 
 "Winterstein, it appeared, knew her first; used to meet her at 
 the baths and swim with her and make up to her. She thought 
 he was in love with her, and girl-like gave him her soul ; made 
 him her god. Just before she went back to school she brought 
 him home and introduced him to her sister, thinking that through 
 her sister she would keep in touch with him. -She heard no more 
 till her sister told her they were married. She said it drove her 
 nearly crazy. . . . 
 
 "I guess Rose never knew that Daisy loved him, but it was a 
 bad tangle. Daisy did not say that Rose knew, but she said Rose 
 ought to have known anybody would have known. I think she 
 was wrong. She was judging Rose by herself; she was mighty 
 quick and observant while Rose just lived like a flower. Besides 
 Rose would never have wanted her on board the schooner if she 
 had even suspected the truth. No; Rose acted in all innocence. 
 But Daisy couldn't see that; she was hurt too badly to judge 
 fairly. 
 
 "She did not excuse herself in the letter. She confessed it was 
 her wounded vanity led her to provoke Winterstein. But she had 
 no notion of anything worse. 'I saw he admired me,' she said, 
 'and that pleased me.' I was hard and reckless ; I felt hurt and 
 cheated : he was mine and I could have made a great rftan of him, 
 I thought. Oh, I was horribly to blame ; but he caught my head 
 that night and kissed me against my will. I could not get away. 
 If I had been standing up, his lips should never have touched me. 
 You will believe me ; won't you ? and forgive me ; now that I am 
 dead? . . .' 
 
 "I forgave her all right," the Judge said, "or rather I under- 
 stood her and there was nothing to forgive. There s Angel and 
 Devil in all of us, Charlie, and the Heaven and Hell, too, is of 
 our own making, it seems to me. . . ."
 
 5o I-'KANK HARRIS 
 
 PERSONS OF THE STORY. 
 
 REBECCA ISAAC. A brunette of seventeen, very pretty: small with 
 
 regular features and brilliant coloring. David Isaac's 
 
 daughter. 
 DAVID ISAAC. A Jew about sixty with high narrow forehead 
 
 and soft, indecisive chin, gray hair and beard, a little bent. 
 REUBEN LEVISON. A bunker, very rich. A little shorter than 
 
 Isaac, inclined to be stout, bald. David Isaac's cousin. 
 MRS. GOLDSCH M i DT. An old woman attending David Isaac. 
 
 Rebecca. So I can't get the dress. Oh, it's too bad. I've been 
 working for a fortnight and have everything ready, and now I 
 can't go to the dance. It's too bad. [Stamps with her rage.] 
 
 Isaac. But vy not, tear; you can vear something else. 
 
 Rebecca. I've nothing to wear. My clothes are too shocking. 
 I never get a new frock never. 
 
 Isaac. I'm sorry, tear ; but I can't get six pounds in a moment. 
 
 Rebecca. A moment a week, you mean ; you said a week ago 
 you'd try, try pooh ! 
 
 Isaac. And I did try, my tear, I did indeed, but I'm getting 
 old and I can't sell de jewelry like I used and dey won't trust 
 me now mit fine pieces, only cheap shtuff. 
 
 Rebeca. Oh, if I were a man, if only I were a man ! 
 
 Isaac. Don't say dat, tear! Vot would you do? You are so 
 pretty, like an ainchel, my little girl. [He puts his hand caress- 
 ingly on her shoulders.] Everything will come right mit a little 
 patience. 
 
 Rebecca. Patience, that's what you always say, patience I 
 hate the word. . . . Why don't you see your cousin Reuben? 
 [Isaac shrugs his shoulders despairingly and closes his eyes in 
 token that nothing's to be hoped from that quarter : the girl 
 goes on '.] 
 
 Why not take me to see him? 
 
 Isaac. Vot could you do? He's as old as me. 
 
 Rebecca. Oh, I don't know what I'd do : but I'd do anything 
 rather than rot away in this hole like the others. I hate the 
 Commercial Road and the flashy foreigners, leering and sneering. 
 I love gentleman like you see in the park on Sunday, quiet, 
 dignified. ... I hate common people and poverty. It's a 
 crime to be poor a crime. 
 
 Isaac. Oh, my tear, don't say dat : I've alvays worked hard, 
 alvays. I thought honesty und vork would make me rich, but 
 they didn't. I've alvays told my customers the truth, said what 
 de tings cost or nearly : but the world likes to be cheated, likes 
 to tink the false stones real 
 
 Rebecca. And the false stones are real. Oh, if I were a man! 
 
 I'd tell the women the rings would buy 'em sweethearts and 
 money and happiness. I'd fool them as they want to be fooled. 
 Why not? If you don't, some one else will and you'll get left, 
 that's all, stranded, old, poor, despised; poor it's the only crime! 
 
 Isaac. I was alvays too scrupulous, alvays too honorable, and
 
 ISAAC AND HKKKCCA 
 
 now it's too late to begin all over again. Besides, nobody trusts 
 me now, dey all know I'm poor. Dey uused to tink I vos rich and 
 a miser and dey vould give me anyting, now dey know, dey don't 
 trust me no more, dey know I am honest and dey don't trust me 
 
 Rebecca. Why didn't you go to your cousin and make him 
 take you into his bank? Not now, I mean, but when you first 
 married. 
 
 Isaac. I vent to him, but he said I vos a fool to marry a poor 
 girl vidout a penny of dot, and Rachel ven she heard it vos angry 
 and vould not let me go near him even ven you vos born. 
 
 Rebecca. He doesn't know anything about me,, does he? 
 Nothing? You're sure? . . . Tell me about him? Is he big 
 and strong and hard? 
 
 Isaac. He's smaller nor me, a little shtout, bald he vas too ; 
 but he has a vay vid 'im. 
 
 Rebecca. Is the bank large? 
 
 Isaac. Oh, a great place mid dozens of clerks and brass rail- 
 ings, and you hear ze money singing all day long ah ! 
 
 Rebecca [clasping her hands]. Oh, tell me all about it, all! 
 1 looked into a bank the other day ; it was bare and cold, but dig- 
 nified. Has he a room to himself? And a man outside the door 
 t<> stop people going in? 
 
 Isaac. Yes, on the first floor. He is not near the clerks. All 
 by himself upstairs in a great room, vid thick carpets and beauti- 
 ful chairs vid green leather, real Chippendale chairs beautiful. 
 And dere is a room in which you vait, mit all de papers, papers 
 in Cherman, French and English. And dere is anodder room 
 mit a long table and blotting pads and seats all about. Oh, it is 
 a great place ! 
 
 Rebecca. But tell me about him? Is he married? What is 
 his wife like? Has he any children? Tell me all about him. 
 
 Isaac. I don't know anyting, my tear, I've never asked. 
 
 Rebecca. Never asked! Oh! Has he a motor? Is his chauffeur 
 in livery? Have you seen a woman in it? Oh, if I had only seen 
 the outside of it, I'd know if he was married or not. I'd know 
 from the chauffeur, I'd know from the look of the carriage. Is 
 it open or closed? Does it ever have flowers in it? Where do 
 you keep your eyes? 
 
 Isaac. I've only seen it outside de door. I've never looked 
 at it except to tink how fine it was and how big. 
 
 Rebecca. Is it big? How many seats inside? 
 
 Isaac. I don't know. 
 
 Rebecca. Oh, my goodness ! My goodness ! How shall I get 
 away from all this? How shall I? Can't you take me to see 
 him? 
 
 Isaac. How can I, my tear, how can I ? 
 
 Rebecca. When is his birthday? 
 
 Isaac. His birthday? Oh, soon, now, in July, the fift. 
 
 Rebecca. That's only a fortnight to wait and then you must 
 take me. I should have a present for him. I'll ask Julia to 
 embroider some handherchiefs with his initials, and 1 say I 
 did them.
 
 Isaac [admiringly]. You clever girl! 
 
 Rebecca. Now you must go out every day, father, tnd tell lies 
 about the jewelry. What does it matter? Get the girls to put it on. 
 Tell them the rings make their hands look pretty, that a necklace 
 makes them look rich, like fine ladies. Say anything to make me 
 enough money for a new dress. I must have a new dress. 
 
 Isaac. I vill do my best, but 
 
 Rebecca [pouting}. But, but, always but 
 
 [July: Isaac zvaiting. Rebecca dressed to go out.} 
 
 Isaac. Vy, you've got your hair down. Oh, it is pretty. You 
 do look pretty, but dat dress is tight. No? Veil, you know best. 
 But you've powdered your face. Not? Veil, you know best. 
 I like you as you vos every day. You look younger and older. 
 I don't know vot. Veil, veil, you know best. 
 
 Rebecca. My hair's down, of course, I'm fifteen, remember. 
 
 Isaac. He ! he ! Vot a girl it is ! You are seventeen, Rebecca 
 You vos born on the Fourth of April, 1887. Dot's vy ve called 
 you "Jubelee" for your second name, dot's vy. 
 
 Rebecca. My second name's Judith, and I was born in July, '90. 
 I'm not fifteen yet. 
 
 Isaac. My tear, you are mistaken. You are seventeen years 
 past, I'm sure. 
 
 Rebecca [stamping]. You stupid, stupid. I wonder mother 
 could stand you. I'm fifteen, I tell you. 
 
 Isaac. Veil, veil, my dear. If you've made up your mind I'm 
 sure you're right. You know best, just as your mother vos alvays 
 right. Alvays a master-woman, a 
 
 Rebecca. Oh, come along. You'd prose away there all day. 
 [After starting.] What will you say to Uncle Reuben? 
 
 Isaac. Vy, vot you, told me. Dot I vant him to know you, you 
 are so pretty vot? 
 
 Rebecca. What age is he exactly? What is he like? 
 
 Isaac. He's my first cousin. He must be over fifty. He's 
 shtout and shtrong. He's only had to take care of himself all 
 his life. His father vos rich. But vot vill you say to him? 
 
 Rebecca. I don't know till I see him. He's very rich, you 
 say, a real millionaire? An English millionaire? 
 
 Isaac. My tear, he's rich enough for anyting. He has two or 
 tree million. A house in Hampstead like a palace, and servants 
 everywhere. He is de Reuben Levison de great banker. 
 
 Rebecca. And you went to him when mother was ill and he 
 would not help you. What did he say then? 
 
 Isaac. He said so I make my bed so I must lie on it, and tings 
 like dat. 
 
 Rebecca. How can men be such brutes? If he had been poor 
 with children of his own, I could understand it. But rich ana 
 without any one, I can't. He must be hard like stone and cruel. 
 
 Isaac. Oh, no, my tear. But the rich have to refuse to give 
 at de beginning and de habit becomes second nature to dem. 
 Besides, if dey didn't love money more dan anyting, dey'd never 
 get rich, never.
 
 ISAAC AND REBECCA 53 
 
 Rebecca. Why didn't you get rich. Didn't mother want you 
 to get rich? Didn't she spur you on? 
 
 Isaac. She loved me, and ve vos happy. I vos too honest. I 
 told de truth, not lies. But ven I tink of you, I am sorry. I solt 
 more this week from lies, and it pleases everybody better. I told 
 the girls dey all looked so sweet and beautiful, as you told me to. 
 Dot's how I got you the dress, and it is pretty. But it's short, 
 do you like jt so short? You are very pretty in it. 
 
 Rebecca. I'm getting hot. I'll have to use my puff. Why 
 couldn't we drive ? Everything is against the poor everything. 
 . . . You must tell him I'm the prettiest girl in the Road and 
 not fifteen yet. 
 
 Isaac. But vy so young, my tear, fifteen, it's a child. 
 
 Rebecca. Julia Hoppe said old men all liked children. That's 
 why, if you must know. 
 
 Isaac. How clever you are, my tear. 
 
 Rebecca. If you hated poverty like I do, you'd be clever. 
 
 [Reuben Lcvison's office.] 
 
 [Reuben is seated at a table. He looks at Isaac with the aversion 
 
 Reuben. What can I do for you, David, what do you want? 
 
 Reuben. What can I do for you, David, what do yo want? 
 
 Isaac. It's your birthday, Reuben, and I've brought my girl to 
 see you. 
 
 Mr. Levison. Your girl? What do you mean? Your wife? 
 
 Isaac [hurriedly]. No, no, my wife's dead. I mean my little 
 child. She's the prettiest girl in the Road the prettiest in London, 
 and so smart and clever, and she wants to see you, Reuben her 
 rich uncle ! 
 
 .Mr. Levison. But I don't want to see her, I've too much to do, 
 and I can't waste time on children. I'm busy, you must tell her 
 that. 
 
 Isaac [tu'isting his hand about]. Oh .Reuben, I can't, I cant, 
 she'll be so disappointed at not seeing you. You can't refuse. She 
 has worked your initials on some handkerchiefs, oh, so beautifully. 
 She is the prettiest girl in all London, she is like a flower. 
 
 Mr. Levison. What's her name? What age is she? 
 
 Isaac [hurriedly]. Her name's Rebecca, she's she's grown up. 
 
 Mr. Levison. All right, bring her in. I have no time to spare. 
 I can only give her a moment or two. I thought perhaps you 
 wanted to see me on some business. 
 
 Isaac. Oh, I'll bring her, I'll bring her at vonce. [He hurries 
 out of the room. 1 
 
 [A moment or t-wo after; Rebecca comes in alone. Reuben Levi- 
 son looks at her, his sulky, annoyed air vanishes. He gets up as 
 the girl comes toivard him.] 
 
 Mr. Levison. Take a chair, Miss Isaac, take a chair. [Putting 
 one ready for her.] What can I do for you? 
 
 Rebecca [smiling saucily]. Tell me first that the uncle is not 
 ashamed of his niece.
 
 54 FRANK. HABKIS 
 
 Mr. Levison [a little embarrassed, laughs]. Ashamed, indeed, 
 who could be ashamed of so pretty a girl? 
 
 Rebecca [pouting]. Yet you've let all these years pass without 
 caring to know anything about the pretty girl. 
 Mr. Levison. Now is that fair, Miss Rebecca? How did I 
 know that Miss Isaac was so pretty? How could I guess? 1 
 thought you were a child. 
 
 Rebecca [smiling]. Well, I forgive you now. [She produces 
 the handkerchiefs]. I've brought you something for your birthday. 
 But perhaps, Mrs. Levison won't like you to use them. You see 
 I've worked your initial on them. [She lays them on the desk.] 
 
 Mr. Levison [laughing]. They're very pretty, and I'm very 
 much obliged. Of course I'll use them. There's no Mrs. Levison 
 'you see I've had no time to get married ; now I'm too old, 
 too ugly. 
 
 Rebecca. No, indeed you're not ugly. I won't have you slander 
 yourself. And you don't look a bit old. .1 hate boys, they're no 
 good. [She throws him a long glance from under her eyelashes.] 
 
 Mr. Levison. [He gets up as if drawn by a magnet and stands 
 over her.] I wish I was young and handsome enough for you, 
 Rebecca. May I call you Rebecca? 
 
 Rebecca. Of course you may. [Seriously.] I don't care for 
 handsome men; they're always thinking of themselves. [Looking 
 up at him.] You look strong and I love strength. 
 
 Mr. Levison. Oh, I'm strong enough, but I'm old, little girl. 
 What age are you, Rebecca? You look half child, half woman. 
 
 Rebecca [looking up at him]. I'm fifteen, nearly. 
 
 .Mr. Levison [has laid his hands on her shoulder, but now 
 draws them aivay quickly}. Only fifteen, I say, that's too young. 
 My God ! I'd have thought you sixeen at least. 
 [He moves back from her, his face a little flushed.] 
 
 .Rebecca [looking at him with eyes that drink him in]. I said 
 "nearly fifteen," but I may be nearer sixteen .[Archly.] Mayn't 
 I ? Don't you know that all women make themselves younger 
 than they are. [She smiles.] Suppose I said I was sixteen past? 
 
 Mr. Levison. [His face clears, and he steps nearer her, smiling. 
 She rises.] But are you? That's the point. [He lifts her chin in 
 his hand.] 
 
 Rebecca [burning her boats]. Yes, I'm over sixteen. 
 
 Mr. Levison. Really? 
 
 Rebecca [nods her head]. I was born in '87, I'm a Jubilee girl. 
 I'm just seventeen, you see, quite old already. 
 
 Mr. Levison. [Grown bold again, he slips his arm round her 
 shoulders.] I think you're a witch, Rebecca, and know just what 
 I am thinking of. 
 
 Rebecca [looking up at him]. What are you thinking of? 
 
 Mr. Levison. [Their eyes meet.] Of you, of course. I think 
 you're one of the prettiest girls I've ever seen in my life. 
 
 Rebecca [looking up at him again]. But do you mean it? 
 
 Mr. Lcrison \ drawing her to him]. Om course I mean it, and 
 clever, too, if all your father says is true. By the way [he drazvs 
 back again] where is he?
 
 ISAAC AND REBECCA 55 
 
 Rebecca [negligently]. In the waiting-room, I suppose. 
 
 Mr. Levison. [His eyes narrow' cunningly]. Why didn't he 
 come in with you ? 
 
 Rebecca [her eyebrows lifted]. I did not want him to come. 
 Do you want him? 
 
 Mr. Levison [suspiciously]. Why does he wait? 
 
 Rebecca. To take me home again, 1 suppose : he brought me, 
 you know. 
 
 Mr. Levison. Oh, I don't like that, you see I have my business 
 to think of. People may want to see me at any time. I'm really 
 very busy. I told your father so. [Goes back to his desk.] 
 
 Rebecca [biting her lips]. I'm sorry. Do you want me to go? 
 I'm sorry. 
 
 Mr. Levison {recalled to full self-possession). You see I'm 
 busy, my clear Miss Isaac. I'm very busy and your father'll get 
 tired waiting. 
 
 Rebecca. He's used to waiting for me. lie's reading some old 
 German paper,- and has forgotten all about poor little Rebecca. 
 
 Mr. Levison [seating himself resolutely at his desk again and 
 beginning to gather up some papers]. It was very kind of you 
 to come, Miss Rebecca. A very agreeable surprise, but I don't 
 like to keep Isaac waiting, and I'm really very busy this morning. 
 
 Rebecca. Well, good-bye, Uncle [going toward him and hold- 
 ing out her hand, adding in a low, reproachful voice] : You're not 
 angry with me for coming, are you? I was so eager to meet the 
 great Mr. Levison. But now I'm afraid you're angry with me. 
 
 Mr. Levison [gets up and takes her hand]. Oh, no, I'm not 
 angry. Rebecca : you know I'm not angry. But but I am really 
 very busy, some other day, eh? You'll come again, eh? Another 
 time by yourself, eh? 
 
 [Their eyes meet again, and again he flushes ivlrilc putting his 
 other hand on hers. She casts her eyes down, turns and walks 
 quietly to the door.] 
 
 i 
 
 Mr. Levison. [As she disappears he puffs out his breath.] My 
 God, she's pretty, a little devil, a little witch. But I did right. 
 That old father's cunning. What did he want, waiting there? 
 Dpwn at heel, as usual. How much would he want? . . 
 Phew ! I am hot. . . . Who would have thought such an old 
 Cheap- Jack would have had such a daughter. I very nearly kissed 
 her. If I had, would she have taken it? My God, I believe she 
 would. What a sweet girl ! But the father outside the door. 
 Pouf, it makes you careful. ... I wonder is she sixteen past 
 or did she only say it to give me confidence. Oh, she must be 
 sixteen or seventeen. She's perfectly formed, her legs and breasts, 
 yes, seventeen she must be, a perfect little witch. ... I wonder 
 does she know what she's doing? Sometimes she has such a child- 
 air, her eyes are liquid. Some girls are coquettes in the cradle. 
 Whew !.'..! must have Rubie in. Shall I give orders not to 
 let them in again? No, I won't. [Rings bell on desk, the door 
 opens at once. A sort of upper servant enters.] Send Mr. Rubie
 
 56 FBANK HABBIS 
 
 to me, and I'm "not in" to Mr. Isaac any more, you understand? 
 to Mr. Isaac; but if Miss Isaac calls, let her in. 
 Servant. Yes, sir. 
 
 Isaac. Vot did he say, tear, vot did he say? 
 Rebecca. Why did you wait? Let us go. 
 Isaac. Was he nice? Did he was he kind? 
 Rebecca [in a hard voice]. Let us go. 
 
 IS he goes out it'll h her parasol ready to open, and flashing bright 
 smiles to every one she meets. Isaac trots behind, but when they 
 get into the street he ranges up beside her.] 
 
 Isaac. Vot did he say, my tear? I am very anxious. 
 Rebecca Hooking at him with hard eyes]. What was there to 
 say? You were on the other side of the door. Why didn't you 
 go away? 
 
 Isaac. Oh, my tear. I did whatever you vanted. I thought 
 it best to be near you. If you had called out I voiiid have come 
 in at vonce. 
 
 [Rebecca looks at him contemptuously.} 
 
 Rebecca. Come in? What for. [Puts her nose in the air.] 
 
 Isaac [with his irresponsible optimism tries again and again to 
 engage her in conversation]. Vot fine offices and vot nice ser- 
 vants ! His man, dat man in black came in and spoke to me. 
 He remembered me from years ago. Reuben's not married. 1 
 thought you vould like to know. The man told me he lived alone 
 at Hampstead [Rebecca looks at hint pitiyngly] and he has two 
 motors, one closed for the city, and an open one. Oh, he has 
 got on tremendeou ly. Lords come to him in his office und great 
 people. [Rebecca looks at him reflectively.] Oh, I found out 
 a lot. 
 
 Rebecca. You did. What did you tell the man? 
 
 Isaac. I say where we live, and he ask me who you were ; I 
 say my daughter. I am proud of you, tear. I said I had brought 
 you because you had wanted to come, that you had worked some 
 handkerchiefs for your Uncle's birthday. 
 
 Rebecca [looks at him]. Why must you be a fool! 
 
 Isaac. Fool ! Vy, he want to know, and I am proud of you, 
 so proud, Rebecca. 
 
 Rebecca. Silly. I would ask everything and tell nothing. You ! 
 You chatter, chatter, chatter, so that everybody knows your 
 business. That's why I say you're foolish. I'd tell nothing. 
 
 Isaac. But, Rebecca! why are you angry mit me? I can only 
 do my best. [Her face is resigned and a little weary.] I do all 
 I can for you. I do my best. 
 
 Rebecca [looks at him and sums it all up dispassionately]. Why 
 don't you go away and leave me? 
 
 Isaac. I'm sorry I did not. I thought I vould be a help to you. 
 
 Rebecca. Help! You can't help me; you can't even help your-
 
 ISAAC AND REBECCA 
 
 57 
 
 self. You are what they call unlucky. [She shrugs her shoulders.] 
 Isaac [drops his head]. Dat's vot Rachel used to say, I vos 
 unlucky, and perhaps I vos. But it's being too honest that has 
 kept me down. To be honest and truthful one should be rich 
 I'm too good ; the poor have no right to be honest. . . . 
 
 A MONTH LATER 
 
 [Rebecca comes into the room dressed for going out. Isaac 
 looks at her.] 
 
 Isaac. Vere did you get dat dress? How grown up you look! 
 Oh, I like you in dat long dress best ! It makes you look taller, 
 and you've done your hair up, too. Vere are you going? Oh, 
 you are pretty. 
 
 Rebecca [looks an him quietly]. I am going for a walk. I 
 shall perhaps be out to dinner. Julia Hoppe may give me dinner. 
 
 Isaac. Oh, you're going mit Julia? Well, she is nice, but a 
 little fast, my tear, isn't she? You vill be careful? 
 
 Rebecca. It's better to be a little fast than slow these times. 
 [Drawing on a long glove as she speaks.] 
 
 Isaac. Vot splendid gloves ! You must have paid six or seven 
 shilling for dem gloves? Vere are you going? 
 
 Rebecca [sharply]. Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies. 
 I'm going to Julia Hoppe's if you must know. 
 
 Isaac. May I come? I don't like you valking about de streets 
 alone. 
 
 Rebecca. You may come if you want to. But you had much 
 better go out with the tray. It's stopped raining now, and this 
 dress is not paid for yet. 
 
 Isaac. But vould you like me to come? 
 
 Rebecca. I don't care, I think you had better make your round. 
 I'm all right. Nothing'll happen to me. Nothing ever does 
 happen in this dull hole. Now don't worry : I'll be back soon. 
 Nobody'll run away with me. [She goes out of the door.] Worse 
 luck! 
 
 [Air. Levison seated in his room, Rebecca enters quickly.] 
 
 Mr. Levison. How did you get in? Who let you in? Where's 
 Lewis ? 
 
 Rebecca li^ith color in cheeks]. Three questions in one breath: 
 I walked in, simply. No, no! [Coming close to hint.] I'll tell 
 the truth. I waited till Lewis went to the lift with the gentleman 
 who just came out, and then I slipped in. Are you glad to see 
 me? 
 
 Mr. Levison [rises]. I don't know. I'm glad, yes. Who could 
 help being glad? But I'm afraid it's not wise. Where's your 
 father? 
 
 Rebeca. I left him at home. [Taking a scat.] Did you wish 
 to see him ?
 
 58 FKANK HABKIS 
 
 Mr. Levison [dryly]. Not exactly. 
 
 Rebecca. You don't like him, but you're wrong. He's a good 
 sort too good, that's the worst of him. 
 
 Mr. Levison [doubtfully}. Is he? I dare say. But he's poor, 
 and and he always talks morality. 
 
 Rebecca. Talks morality? 
 
 Mr. Lez'isou. Yes, he says he's poor because he's honest and 
 tells the truth, and all that. That moral talk's frightening: in 
 business it always means an extravagantly high price. No one 
 talks morality who does not mean to get six times as much as the 
 tiling's worth ; at any rate that's my experience. 
 
 Rebecca [laughing heartily}. How funny you are and how in- 
 teresting! Every word that's said then you think has something 
 to do with the money people want to get from you ? 
 
 Mr. Levison. Of course. 
 
 Rebecca. Poor Daddy ! You don't understand him. There's 
 no purpose in what he says. He's really very good and kind. 
 
 Mr. Levison. He brought you here, didn't he? 
 
 Rebecca. No. [Hesitates, then boldly.} I wanted to come. 
 I came alone. 
 
 Mr. Levison. Really? And he's not waiting outside for you? 
 Not at the corner? 
 
 Mr. Levison [rising, but still hesitating}. And you really are 
 nearly seventeen, not fifteen? 
 
 'Rebecca [getting /> gravely, and turning round so that he can 
 sec her long dress]. Now do I look fifteen? I was born in '87, 
 I'm a Jubilee girl. [Sitting down again.] You must believe me. 
 Why my second name's "Jubilee." 
 
 Mr. Levison. Is it? H'm ! Write it down there, will you? 
 H'm. Your father'll be expecting you home soon to dinner? 
 
 Rebecca. No. I told him I was going to dine with a girl friend. 
 Miss Hoppe. There now: [laughing]. Does that please you? 
 
 Mr. Levison. That's right. Always tell me everything and 
 we'll get along like a house on fire. [Goes over to her.] So you 
 wanted to see me, eh? little girl? [She looks up at him.] Would 
 you come out to lunch with me, Rebecca? 
 
 Rebecca [formally]. I should be very pleased. 
 
 Mr. Levison [flushing slightly]. You look much better in that 
 dress, taller: Won't you stand up and let me see? 
 
 [Rebecca stands tip. 1 
 
 Mr. Levison [embarrassed]. You are pretty! [Puts his hand 
 on her shoulder and draws her to him.] If you were not so 
 young, I'd ask you for a kiss. [Slides his arm doivn to her 
 waist.} Would you give me one, Rebecca? 
 
 [Rebecca slowly lifts her eyes to his. Mr. Levison kisses her on 
 the lips, he feels her yield herself.] 
 
 Mr. Levison [noisily, to get rid of the significance of the act\. 
 There, now we are friends, eh? Oh, you are lovely, lovely. \Movcs 
 away a stcf>.] What lips you have! we'll be great friends, won't
 
 ISAAC ANII KEBKCCA 59 
 
 we? [Rebecca nods and looks up in his face.} Will you do some- 
 thing for me? 
 
 Rebecca [gravely, like a child}. Yes, I will. 
 Mr. Levison. I want you to go out first, or my clerks'll talk 
 and I don't want 'em to talk about you. I like you too much for 
 that. You go out and wait for me at the next corner, the corner 
 of the street leading to the bank, you know the corner? [Rebecca 
 nods quickly.} I'll come in five minutes or so, do you mind 
 waiting? [Rebecca shakes her head "no" and smiles.] You don't 
 mind. You're a brave girl. \Slie turns to go. Levison puts his 
 anus round her from behind.] But first I want a long kiss, a 
 real kiss. [Rebecca turns her head round and their lips meet. A 
 long pause during which he kisses and caresses her.] Now, run 
 along, Rebecca, run along, my dear, I'll not be five minutes. [She 
 goes out, while he stands rooted in the middle of the room.] She 
 is a miracle, that girl, a blooming miracle ! Seventeen, and kiss 
 like that. She's everything -clever, "bright, quiet and beautiful. 
 [As if defending himself he speaks aloud.] A lovely girl, any 
 man might be proud of her lovely and clever. What lips, what 
 eyes! [Going to his desk.] If I'm the first she'll not repent it. 
 She really cares for me, I do believe. How her lips trembled 
 and clung! My God, I'm hot. But does she care for me? Or is 
 it just my money? Well, what matter. Her kisses are just as 
 sweet perhaps sweeter. . . . She's well dressed, her father 
 must make something. She'll deal with him. She told the truth. 
 I need not trouble. It'll be all right. She cares for me a little 
 perhaps. I must hurry. If she waits there long some fool of a 
 clerk'll speak to her : D n them ! [Pulls his desk to, and looks 
 for his hat.] How lovely she is, what lips, what a figure. [ Stands 
 before the door.] My heart's thumping, lips dry. I didn't believe 
 I could feel like this. I'm more excited than I ever was in the 
 biggest deal. By God, this is living. [Goes out hastily^] 
 
 A YEAR LATER 
 
 [Isaac is in bed. Mrs. Goldschmidt comes into the room.] 
 
 Mrs. Goldschmidt. A gentleman to see you, Sir. 
 
 Isaac. To see me, a gentleman; I'm in bed. I'm not veil. Vot 
 gentleman, vot's his name? 
 
 Mr. Levison [entering the room}. It's only me, Isaac. Thought 
 I'd come to see you. Heard you had a cold. Bad enough to keep 
 you in bed, is it? 
 
 Isaac. Oh, Mr. Levison, this is kind. Yes, it's pleurisy I've got. 
 I vos out in the rain, and this doctor shtuff, he no good. 
 
 Mr. Levison [looking round]. Have you no one to wait on you 
 but that old woman? Where's Rebecca? 
 
 Isaac. She vent out and has not come back yet. Young tings 
 must go out. 
 
 Mr. Levison. But didn't she come back at three? 
 
 Isaac. She generally comes back about dree but I don't know 
 to-day, I vos sleeping.
 
 60 FBANK HAERIS 
 
 Mr. Levison. When did you awake? 
 
 Isaac. About a quarter of an hour ago. Vot time is .it now ? 
 
 Mr. Levison. After nine. But don't you know where she is? 
 "tfou must know. A self-willed young girl like that ought not 
 to be out alone. You know where she is, don't you? 
 
 Isaac. Perhaps I do. 
 
 Mr. Levison, Well, where? 
 
 Isaac. Vy should I tell you? 
 
 Mr. Levison [getting angry]. Because I want to know, and I 
 mean good to her and no one else does. 
 
 Isaac. So you say. 
 
 Mr. Levison. But why don't you help me when I say I mean 
 good to her? 
 
 Isaac. Vy should I help you, Reuben Levison? You took my 
 girl from me, persuaded her to go out vid you. You gave her 
 dose sable furs, which she says are cheap shtuff. But ven I vos 
 young I deal in furs at Lemburg, and I know. . . . 
 
 Mr. Levison. Well, what's that to you? You brought her to 
 see me, didn't you ? I didn't ask you to. You brought her for 
 something ? 
 
 Isaac. She vanted to go: she vos discontent: vot could I do? 
 You vos old and I thought you might help her like a fader : she's 
 so pretty. 
 
 Mr. Levison. Men don't feel like fathers to pretty girls ; at 
 any rate, I don't. And now she's got me. I care for her and 
 want her. If she'll only play fair with me, I'll be good to her. 
 She's a fool sometimes, too self-willed for anything. She's like 
 a man. She just does what she wants to do. ' Now will you 
 help me? 
 
 Isaac [weakly]. Vot can I do? 
 
 Mr. Levison. Does she go out with any one else, tell me? How 
 did you guess the furs came from me? You know a lot, I expect. 
 
 Isaac. Perhaps I do, perhaps I don't. 
 
 Mr. Levison. Surely you want to help your daughter to get on, 
 don't you? 
 
 Isaac. How do I know dot I am helping her? She told me 
 often and often not to interfere. 
 
 Mr. Levison. But you must interfere, man. You must get her 
 to be true to me. I'll give her more than anybody else. 
 
 Isaac. So you say. 
 
 Mr. Levison. If you'll help me all you can, I'll help you, give 
 you an allowance, make it easy for you. 
 
 Isaac. Vot can you do more dan de doctors, and dey can't do 
 noting. My head he ache and you cannot take it away. I get weaker 
 every day, you can't make me stronger. I vish I could leave 
 Rebecca some money ; but I can't. . . . 
 
 ,1/r. l.crison \shrtigs shoulders]. But, Isaac, tell me, Rebecca
 
 ISAAC AJSU KKIMX t A 6l 
 
 was to have dined with me to-night. She did not come. I waited 
 nearly an hour, and then I motored here. Where has she been 
 in the meantime? Did she come here to-day at three? 
 
 Isaac. [The old man tosses his head wearily as if fatigued.] 
 I don't know : I vos sleeping. 
 
 Mr. Levison. May I go into her room and look? It is in 
 there? Isn't it? [Pointing to a door.] 
 
 Isaac [lifting himself in bed]. You must not, you must not. 
 She voufd leave me altogether den. 
 
 Mr. Levison [looks at him angrily and shrugs his shoulders]. 
 Damnation ! 
 
 Isaac [awakened again}. Vot did you give her besides furs? 
 
 Mr. Levison. Oh, I don't know, dresses, whatever she wanted. 
 
 Isaac [nods his head]. Did you give her jewelry a golt 
 bracelet ? 
 
 Mr. Levison. No, has she one? 
 
 Isaac. Who gave her de bracelet? My little girl! 
 
 Mr. Levison. A bracelet! [He stands still.] Come, Isaac, 
 you know more than you say. Tell me, who gave it her? 
 
 Isaac. I know nozing. I don't know if she have bracelet. 
 Rebecca's all right. Vy you bozzer me? 
 
 Mr. Levison. My God, my God! [Taking a sudden resolution, 
 sits doivn by the bed.] Look here, Isaac. I'll marry her; I will, 
 by God ! I can't live without her. f'll marry her at once. Don't 
 you say anything about what you have to said to me. But when 
 she comes home, forbid her to go out again in the evening. Be 
 firm. Say it is not kind to you. She's got a great affection for 
 you. Say it's wrong to leave you alone, and I'll marry her, by 
 God, I will. I always intended to since I knew I was the first, 
 now my mind's made up. 
 
 Isaac. Rebecca's mind, perhaps he's not made up. 
 
 Mr. Levison. What do you mean, Isaac? You don't think 
 she'll leave me in the lurch, and marry some one else, do you ? 
 You don't mean to say it's gone as far as that? Oh, my God, 
 my God! Who is it? Tell me? Do! 
 
 Isaac. I know nozing. I've alvays told the trut. 
 
 Mr. Levison. Afl rot, that talk. You're damn cunning. You 
 know a great deal more than you say. Why do you think she 
 won't marry me? 
 
 Isaac.' I know nozing. I tink if I vere a man tre times her age, 
 like you, I'd marry her quick. All girls like marriage. You'll 
 put it off and off. She say nozing, but she's very proud. 
 
 Mr. Levison. My God, I believe you're right, I've been a fool. 
 She's everthing I want, pretty, clever, and knows more than any- 
 body'd guess. Will you fix it up, Isaac? Say you want her to 
 marry me. 
 
 Isaac. No, you must do that. Why not vait for her, and say 
 it yourself, or come in de morning?
 
 62 FRANK HARRIS 
 
 Mr. Levison, Which would be the better day? One hardly 
 knows what to do with her. She might be angry if I waited, and 
 yet I hate to go away. What do you think, Isaac? Should I 
 wait now, or should I come in the morning? 
 
 Isaac. I tink to-moorow, to morrow is anozer day. 
 
 Mr. Levison. Well, I'll go now and come back to-morrow, but 
 put in a good word for me, Isaac, you'll see I can be grateful 
 later! [Goes.] 
 
 [About midnight. Rebecca, in Russian sables, comes into her 
 father's room. I. c.} 
 
 Rebecca. You awake, father? Mrs. Goldschmidt's asleep. I 
 thought I'd come in and see how you are. 
 
 Isaac. I'm awake, tear, I am awake, but vere have you been? 
 
 Rebecca. I have been to the theater. 
 
 Isaac. Really ? 
 
 Rebecca. Really. Why shouldn't I tell you the truth? It's 
 too much trouble to tell lies. 
 
 Isaac. Why didn't you go with Mr. Levison to dinner? 
 
 Rebecca [quickly]. Has he been here? 
 
 Isaac. Yes, my tear. 
 
 Rebecca. Well, what did he say? 
 
 Isaac. Oh, he say a lot of tings. He vant to know vere you 
 vent. I told him I did not know. He asked me vedder you vere 
 mit anybody else? I told him I not know. 
 
 Rebecca. That was right. I'll make Mr. Levison pay for 
 prying. 
 
 Isaac. Oh, I vould not, Rebecca, I vould not. He's a rich 
 man, and means good to you. He vants to marry you. 
 
 Rebecca. To marry me ! He didn't say so ? 
 
 Isaac. He vill propose. Oh, he's mad after you, mad. He vill 
 propose, he say so. He vanted to vait for you to-night 
 
 Rebecca [her eyes narrowing]. Because I did not meet him 
 once or twice. He always wants to talk about himself and I 
 want to go the the theatres and the opera. Oh, the opera.! [And 
 she claps her hands.] What else did he say to you, father? Tell 
 me everything. 
 
 Isaac. Oh, he said he gave you the furs. 
 
 Rebecca., But how did he come to say he'd marry me? What 
 made him say that? He has never said it to me. 
 Isaac [wearily}. I don't know. I asked him did he give you 
 ze golt bracelet. He say "no," and ask me who give it you? I 
 say I don't know.
 
 ISAAC' AMI) 
 
 Rebecca. The bracelet? But no one has given me any bract-let. 
 Why should any one give me a bracelet ? 
 
 Isaac. \He shrinks.] Don't be angry mit me, Rebecca, but 
 I saw you mit a bracelet vonce and I thought perhaps he had 
 given you the bracelet. 
 
 Rebecca [laughing]. You amuse me. Don't you recognize 
 your own things, you silly Dadda? I got a chain from your tray, 
 from underneath, and plaited it round four times into a bracelet. 
 
 Isaac [sitting uf> in bed, excited]. Dat's vot made him mad: 
 Dat's vy he vant to marry you : dat's vy. 
 
 Rebecca [nods head]. .Oh, you clever, clever Dad! You made 
 him jealous. You clever Dad, who would have thought you'd 
 bring him up to the scratch? 
 
 Isaac. I did it not on purpose. It vos jest chance, or perhaps 
 Gott, Rebecca, ze Gott of our faders ! 
 
 Rebecca. Anyway, it's a bit of all right. \Laughs triumph- 
 antly.] I've always heard that God helps those who help them- 
 selves.
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 FRANK IlAlHiRIS 
 
 SKT DOWN IN MAUCK 3 li> 
 
 A DAUGHTER OF EVK 21 4S 
 
 ISAAC AND REBKCCA 49 C3
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY, LOS ANGELES 
 
 COLLEGE LIBRARY 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below. 
 
 3 
 
 e NfW 7 
 
 Library MUV ' 
 
 RC'D COL UEL 
 
 NOV8 1973 
 
 Book Slip-25m-7,'61(Cl437s4)4280
 
 rfora 
 
 PAMPHLET BINDER 
 
 Syracuse, N. Y. 
 Stockton, Colif. 
 
 UCLA-College Library 
 
 pR4759H37d 
 
 : 005 700 731 : 
 
 PR 
 
 H3i 
 
 A 001 165 839 o