GIFT OF 
 A. P. Morrison 
 
MEMORIES 
 
MEMORIES 
 
 By 
 ALMA NEWTON 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DUFFIELD AND COMPANY 
 1917 
 
COPYBIGHT, 1917, BY 
 
 DUFFIELD AND COMPANY 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 I have always believed that the old-fash- 
 ioned habit of keeping a diary was prompted 
 more by the individual's love of romance and 
 color than by any petty conceit or exagger- 
 ated ego ; for is not a diary often composed 
 of events in the lives of others rather than 
 that of the writer, and may it not possess one 
 incomparable charm, naturalness ? There be- 
 ing no attempt toward the technical and 
 studied, the diary is just a simple, unaffected 
 record of experiences written right out 
 from the heart, with the abandonment of a 
 musician who dares to interpret in his own 
 way, thrusting aside conventional rules re- 
 taining only certain fundamental principles 
 upon which the work is built; forgetting the 
 objective sense of things ; lost in the infinite 
 beauties of the subjective mind, that realm of 
 
 M95630 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 inspiration and mystic depth which annihi- 
 lates all petty conceptions, details and minor 
 emotions. 
 
 It is my desire to write in this way, with 
 daring, naturalness and simplicity directly 
 to the heart of my readers with only one bnr- 
 den upon my sonl : the realization that the ef- 
 fort can only be that of a poor scribe. . . . 
 I now introduce myself, Zarah Kreeshna. 
 
FIRST MEMOEY 
 
The "humility of a great love is ever amazing. 
 
 MAETERLINCK. 
 
MEMORIES 
 
 IT was on Long Island that I met Louis 
 Benaud in a large, over-crowded hotel. He 
 seemed quite aloof and apart from the guests ; 
 he appeared to be entirely engaged with the 
 real things of life. He was tall, dark, impres- 
 sive beautiful, if one might apply that word 
 to a man, in its artistic sense ; a strange com- 
 bination of soul, mind and body. There was 
 something occult about him, with just enough 
 boyishness to make him fascinating. The 
 minute I saw him I cared for him; when I 
 talked with him I cared more ; when I heard 
 him playing his violin I loved him, for then 
 I knew the inner man and the inner man was 
 beautiful. 
 
 He did not specialize in his music, for he 
 
4 MEMORIES 
 
 was a physician of about four and thirty. . . . 
 
 I gave him my love freely, naturally, like 
 a child placing a basket of fresh flowers in his 
 hand and then standing back bewildered, con- 
 founded, when no recognition was received 
 no thanks for my pretty gift. Like a child I 
 ofte$tble \ip* tcj feftrf on the long board walk 
 and pee'p'edinto ttns'ihental basket of nature's 
 layfefiltess^ihiiimg, raittng for the least sign 
 * -a smile", 'a wbrcT'o'f tfeanks or gracious ap- 
 preciation ; bnt never a smile and never one 
 word of encouragement. . . . 
 
 The months wore on, and soon it was time 
 to return to the busy city where I planned lit- 
 tle conventional meetings. I asked him to 
 dine, to tea. He came sometimes, oftener 
 declined. I was puzzled, curious, bewildered. 
 Did he love someone else? Was he engaged 
 or was Ee merely busy? Surely he guessed 
 my love surely it would be returned. 
 
 He must realize our kinship the relation- 
 ship of souls. 
 
 But time passed and there was no change. 
 There were months of suspense weary days 
 and sleepless nights until one morning I 
 awakened to find myself a ghastly creature, 
 
MEMORIES 5 
 
 void of color or life. Listlessly I telephoned 
 to my physician. I remember a few words to 
 him "Come to me," I said, "it is Zarah" 
 that is all I can recall. My next remembrance 
 was in the afternoon when I awakened to find 
 a nurse, and a friend bending over me and 
 the friend saying: "I shall tell him he mnst 
 know it is killing her ! ' ' 
 
 A few hours passed when I was again 
 awakened by voices in the next room. I 
 crept to the door and listened. I heard these 
 words: "I am sorry; it is unfortunate. I 
 admire Zarah, but I do not love her. I am 
 engaged to " Suddenly there was dark- 
 ness, a sharp pain in my heart and then a 
 dropping, dropping a heavy thud another 
 pain, and someone lifting me from the floor 
 two strong arms, Ms arms, and then the 
 nurse, my friend, a hypodermic, a last look 
 at my beloved as he quietly left the room. 
 Then annihilation forgetfulness nothing- 
 ness. 
 
 I shall spare my reader a rehearsal of the 
 dreadful days that followed days of long- 
 ing, waiting, tears, futile prayers, monotony 
 an occasional message from Louis, some 
 
6 MEMOEIES 
 
 formal thought, flowers or a book and noth- 
 ing more. Yet / still cared. Was it weak- 
 ness or destiny? Was it hypnotism or 
 Karma? 
 
 One thing was certain, the problem had to 
 be faced philosophically. This required a 
 prosaic system of dieting, sleep and exercise ; 
 to offset a permanent breakdown, eliminating ; 
 all stimulants, leaving only a dull routine and 
 many leaden hours to be lived through. 
 There were so many hours to be lived hours 
 where all resources had been exhausted ; the 
 body too tired for further effort hours that 
 evolved into an eternity; hours that crawled 
 by in which there was nothing to do. 
 
 Human beings were to be found, of course, 
 but who among them could understand ? And 
 does not reserve often force us into silence, 
 leaving us only the song from the Garden of 
 Allah, so potent, so real, which begins "Only 
 God and I know what is in my heart." 
 
 Finally the mind reaches out for some 
 great wholesome philosophy, perhaps for the 
 words of Emerson: "Give me health for a 
 day and I will make the pomp of emperors 
 insignificant" or Browning's: "All's right 
 
MEMORIES 71 
 
 with the world," or just a little sentence of 
 one's own: "It might be worse, it might be 
 worse" until the soul, all shrouded in grief, 
 suddenly raises its arms in prayer and stag- 
 gers up a mountain path, looking past dim 
 shadows into the faces of bright fairies that 
 beckon and call to distant shepherd boys who 
 leave the remnant of a song or gypsy queens 
 their charms a wild mixture of nature, ro- 
 mance and song; yet hearing still the call of 
 the blood, taunted by the realization that love 
 is the only force which brings happiness to 
 " those strange people" whom Max Muller 
 "so loved since childhood." 
 
 I speak not of the maudlin sentiment or 
 the sordid passion, so often called love. . . . 
 I speak of the love that Buddha called Law; 
 Confucius, Eevelation; and the Nazarene, 
 God. 
 
CHAPTER TWO 
 
 Louis knew that I cared. And yet he 
 seemed rather to regard my interest in him 
 as a bond a tie that would make me his loyal 
 and useful friend. Often he dashed up the 
 stairs to my studio, consumed with enthus- 
 iasm, throwing himself upon the divan, hast- 
 ily lighting a cigarette and beginning the 
 endless eulogy of another woman. 
 
 I continued my painting, glad that the can- 
 vas was between us so that my face was 
 hidden from view, aimlessly painting a 
 woman's lips blue, her eyes staring into space, 
 in unconscious correspondence to the mental 
 vision of myself. The background of my 
 painting was made gray another uncon- 
 scious revelation of days that were gray and 
 dim, when work had been impossible when 
 the evening descended upon mental ashes, the 
 
 8 
 
MEMORIES 9 
 
 effort to follow out a certain system for the 
 day futile the physical self too numbed by 
 pain. There were other days of keen grief 
 and suffering of that exalted, emotional kind 
 where fond hopes and spiritual reminiscences 
 crowd over the mind in splendid dreams, with 
 visions of renunciation and consecration of 
 looking at life from the mountain top forget- 
 ting that a reaction must follow, the human 
 side to assert itself again in mute suffering, 
 too tired to cry out, too hopeless for longing, 
 too wise for futile dreams. . . . 
 
 The woman of whom he spoke so contin- 
 uously was Stella Graham; he described her 
 as possessing rare beauty and a versatile na- 
 ture, standing out from other women in bold 
 relief like an exquisite miniature among com- 
 monplace bric-a-brac. She was as beautiful 
 as Venus in the material sense, he said, and 
 yet her face was as angelic as a Madonna. 
 He described her as dressing in simple gowns, 
 conspicuous in their absence of trimming and 
 jewelry. She wore her hair simply coiled 
 upon her white neck. There was a singularly 
 pensive smile hovering about her lips, ex- 
 pressing wistfulness; something infinitely 
 
10 MEMOEIES 
 
 white, gentle, angelic . . . her nature vibrat- 
 ing with asceticism and high idealism. Again 
 he described her gowned in a most regal 
 way, in warm colors, sensuous, appealing, ir- 
 resistibly human, palpitating with red blood 
 and vivid enthusiasm. He called her Ma- 
 donna and I called her Venus ; quite gradu- 
 ally I began to think of her as Venus and the 
 Madonna, for she seemed to possess a dual 
 personality, two distinct natures in direct con- 
 flict with each other. 
 
 I tried to show no emotion when he told me 
 that Stella Graham was ill and alone in the 
 city and that he wished me to go to her. My 
 feelings were indescribable ! That he should 
 ask something he realized must unnerve me ; 
 to go to the woman he loved. All kinds of 
 emotions welled up in my soul; resentment, 
 indignation and bitterness ; but lastly pride, 
 that indefinable something which causes cer- 
 tain women to dare anything. 
 
 "I will go to her to-morrow," I said in- 
 differently, in an apathetic voice. 
 
 He left me alone with my thoughts, only 
 thanking me formally in a way which either 
 showed complete indifference or lack of real- 
 
MEMOEIES 11 
 
 ization that I still cared for him.^ Or was it 
 merely masculine cruelty I He seemed almost 
 to enjoy the situation ! 
 
 All that night through I fought conflict- 
 ing emotions jealousy, bitterness, indig- 
 nation. 
 
 One thing was certain. If she were so se- 
 riously ill, so alone, there was no time to be 
 lost, a decision must be reached. At dawn I 
 had determined to go to her. I could only 
 think of the word " her," yet I quite knew her 
 name. But it's a way with women, I believe, 
 when thinking of the other woman. 
 
 Another realization came upon me. I was 
 curious to see what she was like. How truly 
 feminine that was! I wondered if she was 
 really so pretty, so versatile, so unique; 
 well, I would see. . . . 
 
 After an hour's walk through the park, in 
 an effort to control my emotion, I reached 
 her door. There was no bell. It was a 
 strange, old-fashioned place. I knocked 
 twice. There was no sound. .Again and 
 again, after waiting breathlessly for minutes 
 that seemed hours, the door opened and I 
 found myself staring into the tense, white 
 
12 MEMOEIES 
 
 face of the man I loved Louis, the physi- 
 cian. 
 
 Quietly I entered the room and my eye 
 caught sight of an old-fashioned, four-poster 
 bed, a table, a chair and a few handsome Per- 
 sian rugs. The clock was striking dismally 
 the hour of noon. 
 
 "Where is she?" I said mechanically. 
 Turning my head toward the window I caught 
 the shadow of a figure coming toward me, as 
 though bewildered, walking in a dream. She 
 looked so pathetic, so young, so helpless. I 
 reached out my hand to steady her as she 
 tottered toward me, and without a word she 
 walked right into my arms like a tired child, 
 charming me by so simple a demonstration; 
 calling out the protective instinct, which, 
 when awakened in some women, responds 
 with warmth and understanding. 
 
 In 'just Ms one minute she had won me. 
 She owned me. 
 
 I forgot myself, my loving, my lover I 
 only thought of this helpless child in my 
 arms. 
 
 And how beautiful she was! Even more 
 exquisite than He had pictured her. A mar- 
 
MEMOEIES 13 
 
 velous combination of child and woman, ani- 
 mal and spirit ; the embodiment of sensuous 
 charm and spiritual loveliness something to 
 be loved and studied, for her soul was like 
 a harp, all full of possibilities, ready to break 
 into beautiful chords. 
 
CHAPTER THREE 
 
 THE day wore on, and I finally persuaded 
 Stella to be quiet, to lie down. She was suf- 
 fering from a nervous breakdown, in which 
 there was a touch of typhoid, and her suifer- 
 ing and restlessness were pathetic. 
 
 A storm raged without as night came on. 
 The shutters creaked, the candle light flut- 
 tered in the darkness, while the wind whistled 
 in weird strains under the door. Stella 
 moaned and tossed in delirium; the heavy 
 odor of herbs boiling in the kettle stifled the 
 -air. Louis walked up and down heavily the 
 floor creaked the lightning flashed, symbolic 
 of ruthless, elemental forces raging without 
 the harsh voice of accompanying thunder 
 echoed in the distance ; rain drops fell upon 
 the tin roof as though in a great reaction of 
 pain. At last there was silence, save for the 
 
 14 
 
MEMORIES 15 
 
 faint breathing of Stella, and a whisper from 
 Louis: 
 
 "Thank God that has passed she is better 
 now!" 
 
 I looked up at him fixedly, but he did not 
 see me did not see that I was tired and 
 weary as a result of the long watch and per- 
 sistent care. I just continued to stare aim- 
 lessly he looking into the dying embers of 
 things I looking into the heart of a man ob- 
 sessed by love for another woman. 
 
 The candle went out, a string on an old 
 harp snapped, the clock solemnly struck the 
 hour of three. Dawn had come, bringing 
 thoughts of courage and renunciation. 
 
 Stella recovered gradually. Was I glad! 
 I had learned to love her, yet strange, weird 
 fancies flitted through my mind. How splen- 
 did it would be if she no longer existed then 
 he would turn to me for comfort, and I would 
 be happy just to be near him, even realizing 
 that his thoughts were of another. Was I 
 lacking in pride? Was I weak, or very 
 strong? Weak in an apparent humbleness of 
 spirit, strong in my steadfast love f I did not 
 know. I only knew that time and indiffer- 
 
16 MEMOKIES 
 
 ence had produced no change that I was 
 only a poor, suffering animal obsessed by one 
 idea, my love and need of him. 
 
 How difficult it is to put aside our dreams 
 that have been visualized so concretely. Just 
 when we believe that we have crushed the 
 memory of an individual, environment faces 
 us with an atmosphere filled with sweet and 
 pathetic dreams. 
 
 I had kept a rosary hanging over his pic- 
 ture. I destroyed that picture and the rosary. 
 How strange, how remote was my room ! The 
 personality was so changed. Marked books, 
 pressed flowers and letters they, too, had 
 gone! Could I live in that room again? I 
 could not. It would stifle me. I could not 
 bear the oppression I would go elsewhere. 
 I would run away. Such is a woman's 
 way. . . . 
 
 When Stella was stronger we had many 
 long, interesting walks together; I was fas- 
 cinated by her new and sudden moods. Sub- 
 tle, artistic, graceful never inconsistent or 
 bad humored; changing from one to another 
 like the moods of a wonderful symphony re- 
 sulting in a perfect whole. How restful and 
 
MEMOEIES 17 
 
 sympathetic it made her; she responded to 
 everything. She represented a trinity in the 
 sense of a perfect development of soul, mind 
 and body. 
 
 There was a minor strain through her na- 
 ture, a genuine sadness not of personal dis- 
 content, but compassion for all suffering, and 
 a deep understanding of humanity. 
 
 Her mind seemed a thousand years old in 
 the depth of its wisdom; her soul as though 
 she had lived with the immortals; her body 
 young and beautiful a combination I had 
 never known before. It was as though she 
 had lived before, lived in many forms from 
 the heights of idealism befitting a priestess of 
 some eastern temple to a Cleopatra type of 
 beauty and desire, down through the ages, 
 and now placed in so strange a setting a 
 setting too new, too modern. It was not the 
 proper environment. . . . 
 
 I revelled in flights of fancy in an effort to 
 diagnose this very unique character, Stella 
 Graham. 
 
 Louis was right in calling her Madonna. 
 In our walks she spoke of children; love of 
 them was a passion with her, ever present, 
 
18 MEMORIES 
 
 over-mastering. This greatly interested me, 
 and I tried to make her talk freely and con- 
 fidingly. 
 
 "Sometimes," she said, "I am awakened at 
 dawn by the indistinct memory of little chil- 
 dren's voices chanting in a minor key, chant- 
 ing of the dignity of their mission in life, the 
 living expression of human love. As I see 
 them, in my reverie, they are enveloped in ex- 
 quisite pastel shades from the faintest bine 
 to rose pink and pale lavender. From these 
 colors spring a chord, a minor chord of al- 
 most happy sadness, for the sadness is more 
 a deep longing than the common form of sad- 
 ness the longing for things supreme, the 
 longing for the consummation of all love into 
 the final call of Nirvana, where only purity 
 and beauty dwell. 
 
 "Sometimes these little ones seem to take 
 pity upon my longing, and in my dreams they 
 draw near and, with their rose-petaled hands, 
 smooth my hair and kiss my lips, dropping 
 wild-flowers and angels'- wings at my feet. 
 
 "This may sound fantastic to you," she 
 continued, "but to me it is very real, believ- 
 ing as I do in the nearness of Paradise. May 
 
MEMOEIES 19 
 
 it not be that little spirit children hover very 
 closely around us bringing peace and bene- 
 diction? 
 
 "For there is no death, no absolute anni- 
 hilation there is only transition. And I 
 wonder if those of us who have suffered and 
 lost do not unconsciously attract the souls in 
 the world of Paradise so that we may be com- 
 forted? Many of us think of that other life 
 as being far away, in the distance, when in 
 reality it is near in, about, around us 
 everywhere. True, we cannot always touch 
 and see it with our physical hands and eyes ; 
 but we know that the greatest Forces are the 
 silent ones ; electricity is silent, yet how near, 
 how potent, how marvelous! How can we 
 doubt? Does not modern science go hand in 
 hand with occultism proving, demonstrat- 
 ing, materializing, the so-called supernatural 
 Forces making us realize that the greatest 
 wisdom was uttered by the Nazarene when 
 He said. ( Because seeing they see not, and 
 hearing they hear not, neither do they under- 
 stand. ' 
 
 "Think of the subtlety of the universe, the 
 constant, penetrating law of vibration! 
 
20 MEMORIES 
 
 Every sound is registered somewhere. Al- 
 ways there is a great chorus of Subjective 
 sound, for everything has its echo just as 
 everything has its complement, only our 
 physical or objective ears hear not. 
 
 "Knowing this to be true, I can quite ex- 
 plain many complex and elusive things to 
 myself through the laws of vibration and 
 gravity. For instance, I feel, when I long 
 and think of little children, that a vibration 
 from these thoughts penetrates into the heart 
 of Paradise itself, the law of gravity acting 
 as a pilot, bringing these little souls through 
 the dense clouds of the ether down to earth, 
 to remain as willing captives of thought." 
 
 She continued talking, her face radiant 
 with emotion. Now and then the voice 
 dropped into a plaintive, appealing note until 
 I could feel her rapture. She had a way of 
 speaking as though addressing an audience, 
 earnest and dramatic, yet in low, measured 
 tones. Now and then I would step forward 
 in our walk to clear the path, catching a 
 glimpse of her face and the simple white gown 
 she wore. I could not resist contrasting this 
 with the one worn the evening before, a vivid, 
 
MEMORIES 21 
 
 sensuous gown, displaying her wonderful 
 shoulders and white arms with daring aban- 
 donment. In all truth she was a woman with 
 two distinct personalities, an interesting psy- 
 chological study. After many minutes of fear 
 and hesitation I ventured to tell her of her 
 dual nature. I feared it might even antago- 
 nize her. Instead, she answered me quite 
 simply and pleasantly. 
 
 "I have heard that before, but from people 
 who do not think. I am not complex, elusive, 
 subtle. I am simple, natural, feminine! I 
 embody the two instincts normal to woman 
 the love for a mate and the love for a child. 
 They are very different loves but they har- 
 monize and blend just as do the different 
 notes of a chord. Most of the women you 
 know in the conventional world are void of 
 the maternal instinct; therefore, when yon 
 meet a woman in whom it is highly developed 
 you immediately begin to look for an abnor- 
 mal explanation when the explanation is so 
 simple and plain. The Venus side that you 
 see is the mere woman. The spiritual side 
 of my nature, which Louis sees, is the Mother 
 in me." 
 
22 MEMORIES 
 
 She threw out her hands dramatically. I 
 saw her face lighting in a more mental ex- 
 pression, and I pressed my questions fur- 
 ther, hoping that she would talk unreserv- 
 edly. 
 
 "But," I continued, "you have so many 
 moods. How do you explain them?" 
 
 This I said with a tinge of sarcasm. She 
 answered me quickly. 
 
 "Everything normal in nature is moody. 
 A sweeping statement, but nevertheless true. 
 The seasons are moody, the sky is moody; 
 the moon, the sun, color, light, sound 
 the universe! There is a constant action and 
 reaction in everything. There is an artistic 
 necessity and beauty in moods. We must be 
 versatile and negative enough to catch the 
 melodies from the beautiful in people as well 
 as things. 
 
 "We must be responsive. 
 
 "We must be moody, to respond and ex- 
 press the Forces about us thus becoming 
 graceful, and complete. I should like to be 
 more full of moods than I am, strange though 
 it may sound. I long to feel that I am an 
 instrument registering everything good and 
 
MEMOEIES 23 
 
 bad so that I may have the opportunity of 
 overcoming the bad ; the privilege of develop- 
 ing the good. If I could create a virtue in 
 character, as well as in art, I would create 
 Versatility, for all nature vibrates with sud- 
 den change, glorious and everlasting. 
 
 "Much more I might say to you, but you 
 would misconstrue my frankness for conceit, 
 my individualism for egotism. I shall say no 
 
 more. 
 
 We retraced our steps, going back to her 
 home. In the distance I could hear the church 
 bells and chimes ringing out from the village. 
 It was Sunday. The peace of the woods was 
 exquisite, the perfume of the newly-cut grass 
 was about us ; the stillness irresistible. 
 
 It was interesting to watch her as she un- 
 consciously fell into the mood of the day 
 gentle and serene, in harmony always in 
 tune with the dominant note for Stella lis- 
 tened and heard. , 
 
CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 THE realization had come to me that 
 Louis's love was well placed and yet I still 
 loved him and wondered how the days were 
 to be lived. 
 
 It was Sunday again the dawn had come 
 like a great message of death, full of fore- 
 bodings and gloomy realities. Something 
 hovered near, some ngly phantom with long 
 black wings of despair, flapping its unearthly 
 messages into the free air polluting the at- 
 mosphere with waves of thought which struck 
 upon the air like the discordant tones of a 
 badly strung guitar tones doubly repellent, 
 because of the realization that those very 
 tones might have been beautiful had the in- 
 strument been just a little more in tune ; or 
 that the phantom might have been fashioned 
 with bright wings of joy and glad tidings. 
 
 24 
 
MEMORIES 25 
 
 It is tEis nearness to perfection that tortures, 
 not its utter absence. . . . 
 
 In this nearness to happiness we are be- 
 wildered by combined hope and fear, men- 
 tally holding to a curfew bell which swings 
 us out into vast spaces of suspense ; clasping 
 with a hand the one instrument of contact, be- 
 ing thrust out far beyond the range of hope ; 
 at the last to be thrown down to earth defeated 
 and ashamed; where only the earth is left 
 us, which we are taught to think of as our 
 Mother. . . . But at this moment of over- 
 whelming desire, what normal person could 
 think of the cold earth as a mother? The 
 desire is to run away from its serene presence 
 of negative consolation. Our tired hearts are 
 longing for an almost fierce understanding, 
 the kind that wraps its arms about us rug- 
 gedly and clasps us deep into the heart of 
 things. 
 
 I once saw a frightened child running from 
 the green loveliness of a summer garden. I 
 wondered then why she ran from the beauti- 
 ful foliage that enveloped her, but now I un- 
 derstand. In our first grief the desire is for 
 human understanding. Afterwards we learn 
 
26 MEMORIES 
 
 that we must retrace our steps and go back 
 to Nature back to the primitive source of 
 life for permanent comfort, courage and in- 
 spiration. 
 
 In a few days my companionship with 
 Stella was ended; she was quite well again 
 and I felt a longing for the country. To be 
 away. To be alone. 
 
 The day before I left there was a sailing 
 party and a dance. 
 
 It was a glorious morning when we started 
 our sail; the air crisp with the breath of 
 spring, the early roses fragrant in their first 
 blooming, the grass so newly green, the sky 
 radiantly tinted in blue, the water clear with 
 an occasional sail-boat drifting out to sea 
 waves dashing against the rocks, making a 
 picturesque setting for Stella, whose person- 
 ality unconsciously blended with these simple 
 manifestations of nature. 
 
 She fairly ran down the path to our boat 
 and jumped swiftly, eagerly, into it with the 
 joyousness of a child. We started, the wind 
 taking us south for a few minutes ; gradually 
 we went more swiftly, Stella standing near 
 me, eyes shining, hair disheveled and falling 
 
MEMOEIES 27 
 
 over a red coat, which greatly heightened the 
 color in her cheeks. 
 
 We sailed for several hours and in those 
 honrs there was very little said. Stella 
 seemed to be lost in the rhythm of tEe boat 
 as it rode the waves. We fairly sped over the 
 water, the waves dashing against onr sturdy 
 craft, the wind blowing the salt water in onr 
 faces, bringing a keen exhilaration. I 
 watched Stella. She seemed indifferent to 
 my interest, unconscious of anything per- 
 sonal. She was natural and primitive in her 
 delight of so simple a pleasure. She did not 
 attempt to sustain any conversation. The 
 few questions asked her were scarcely an- 
 swered. Once or twice I ventured some re- 
 mark, but her only response was a yes or a 
 no until we got to shore again. Leaving the 
 boat, we walked a few yards up the path, 
 where we stood on a rock overlooking the sea. 
 
 "Forgive me, my friend," she said, "for- 
 give me, for I have been a stupid companion 
 this morning. I can never talk when I am 
 near the water. It is like talking when music 
 is heard; I feel that I am talking against 
 rhythm, and rhythm means so much to me I 
 
28 MEMOEIES 
 
 am a slave to it. Do yon know that I love the 
 ticking of a clock? It is quite necessary to 
 my happiness. Does that seem absnrd to 
 you? No matter. I would not remain long 
 in any place where there was not a clock. To 
 me it is the most fascinating thing in a house. 
 Then, too, I have always spent most of my 
 time near the ocean. Another thing neces- 
 sary to my happiness is music dance music 
 where I can throw myself into the spirit of 
 things until every nerve in me responds to 
 rhythm, the complement of melody. " 
 
 "Yes," I said, "but do such things really 
 mean so much to you, Stella? Must you have 
 this kind of environment to be happy?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered quickly. "I suppose 
 many people really feel as I do, but they have 
 never thought about it. When I am with peo- 
 ple, I always divide them into groups Ob- 
 jectives and Subjectives this being the nat- 
 ural tendency of a psychological mind. 
 I " 
 
 Here we were interrupted by Louis, who 
 reminded us of the fact that Stella was to 
 arrange the house for the evening party. 
 And how beautifully she did it. Each touch 
 
MEMORIES 29 
 
 was subtle, distinctive, displaying the taste 
 of a keen, artistic temperament. The color 
 scheme of the house, flowers, everything was 
 symbolic of warmth and intensity. 
 
 A deep rose and gold predominated in 
 many of the rooms and the flowers were ex- 
 otic and abundant. Tall candles and shaded 
 lamps threw soft shadows over the guests, 
 while the heavy odor of incense added to this 
 somewhat oriental atmosphere. There was 
 a well-balanced orchestra composed chiefly 
 of violins which played continuously, the mel- 
 odies mostly Indian and Hawaiian. The or- 
 chestra was placed in the corner of a room 
 where it was curtained by rare foliage and 
 orange trees. The perfume of the jessamine 
 and hyacinth mingled with that of the rose; 
 the Venetian glass, the Sheffield silver and 
 richly painted china added to the handsome 
 setting. 
 
 I was bewildered by the unfathomable 
 beauty and indefinable charm of Stella that 
 evening. She was gowned in a marvelous 
 creation of white and gold satin cut daringly 
 low, revealing a neck of whiteness and fault- 
 less symmetry. The effect of this costume 
 
30 MEMORIES 
 
 was accentuated by a single crimson rose. 
 Her hair was simply arranged, showing to 
 advantage the small, proudly-carried head; 
 her face flushed, eyes sparkling; her figure 
 animated by youth and vivid beauty, radiat- 
 ing joyful love of life. She was startling. 
 Certainly the woman I saw now could have 
 nothing in common with the spiritual person- 
 ality I had talked with the day before as 
 she gazed into the shimmer of the waves, talk- 
 ing to me of transcendental things, looking 
 like a spirit from another sphere, her great 
 dark eyes set in the face of a poet's Madonna. 
 And now, as I sat watching this woman of 
 sensuous beauty her full, crimson lips, vivid 
 coloring and haughty manner I began to 
 think of the former personality as a dream- 
 woman, distant and terribly remote. 
 
 I wondered how she could find anything in 
 common with her guests, who had sacrificed 
 the lovely things of life. For is not social life 
 a bartering of the real things for the flesh 
 pots I But this world meant happiness for 
 Stella. She seemed a personification of 
 worldliness. I wondered how long she could 
 stand these nights of revelry and the ennui 
 
MEMORIES 31 
 
 that would follow. The constant ringing of 
 the telephone the feeling of being a pris- 
 oner at every turn she would be confronted 
 with some obstacle, a hideous phantom which 
 would beckon to her to come on when she 
 was dying to sleep; to be forced to smile 
 when she wished to be serious ; to talk when 
 she longed for silence ; to dance when she was 
 tired; all the time longing to be away from it 
 all from society. 
 
 I wondered if she would not begin sooner 
 or later to realize that strange sadness which 
 comes over one in such gatherings what 
 Wells aptly calls "the psychology of the 
 crowd," that nervous depression which is 
 worse than the depression of loneliness. 
 
 After the party I went to my room, glad 
 that the morrow would take me to my country 
 home away from the futile strain. 
 
 As I walked into my room there was a 
 terrible silence; nothing there seemed alive 
 except the telephone. 
 
 There is an awful personality and tempta- 
 tion about the telephone. It is like a grotes- 
 que demon that taunts with the realization 
 that time and space can be so easily elimi- 
 
32 MEMOEIES 
 
 nated. It looks so stolid, so emotionless 
 yet, by lifting the receiver, great waves of 
 emotion and truth can be passed on to the 
 loved one. 
 
 There were hours spent in pacing up and 
 down the floor, looking longingly at the tele- 
 phone, even lifting the receiver and then list- 
 lessly putting it down realizing that further 
 attempts at communication would prove fu- 
 tile. And then silence and the deep shad- 
 ows of the night encircled me, still near the 
 telephone I glared mutely into many white 
 pages, never to be read by my beloved, pages 
 bearing the emblem of consecration and 
 love. . . . 
 
 I threw myself upon the bed still gowned, 
 and, finally, through exhaustion, I fell asleep 
 with thoughts of him. A vision came to me, 
 as though God Himself felt sorry and sent 
 a messenger to lessen my pain. 
 
 It was a simple dream, but preciously 
 sweet. In it I was still at the evening party 
 yet, somehow, a masquerade party, gor- 
 geous but noisy. Through sheer fatigue I 
 had thrown myself down across two gilded 
 chairs (such was the picture in the dream) 
 
MEMORIES 33 
 
 and languidly looked up to see handsomely 
 gowned women leaving their boxes. 
 
 "It is over at last," I heard myself say 
 pensively, "and he did not come to me." 
 
 I looked down at my gown, which, in my 
 dream was an Egyptian robe of Nile green 
 and blue with trimmings of silver. It was a 
 heavy gown and weighed me down. As I 
 dragged myself wearily from my chair and 
 stood in the corner of my box, my head 
 against the post, waiting listlessly, a masked 
 figure appeared all garbed in yellow. 
 
 "Is it Louis?" I said, without looking up. 
 
 "It is," he said. 
 
 I sprang up like a tigress and glared deep 
 into his eyes; I looked steadily, searchingly 
 at him until I realized that it was indeed my 
 beloved. 
 
 "Come," he said, "we shall dance the last 
 dance together ! ..." 
 
 And then the scene suddenly changed (as 
 it does in dreams), and there were new places, 
 new faces. At last we were alone. It was 
 a room, quite Eoman in design. A marble 
 stairway lead to this room; there were tall 
 columns and a divan gorgeously decorated 
 
34 MEMOEIES 
 
 in pnrple and gold, and upon that divan my 
 beloved and I sat like two children, two young 
 souls who had suddenly realized the exalta- 
 tion of love. Yet we chatted innocently, al- 
 most lightly, so happy were we. Strange mel- 
 odies sang in our newly awakened ears and 
 suddenly I was in his arms ! I can now feel 
 the sweet contact of our young arms and 
 then a great silence a kiss and just the 
 one word, "dear," that commonplace word 
 suddenly turned into a medium of holy 
 love ... in life it would have been "dear- 
 est," at least; in this dream state only a 
 half word, a syllable, a whisper, was neces- 
 sary ; words were barriers rather than reveal- 
 ers of thought, for our hearts had touched 
 there in that beautiful land of dreams ! Our 
 minds were asleep, only the soul of things 
 awake, virile and blessed. 
 
 The scene changed. We ran about our 
 strange dwelling like little boys and girls. It 
 was that old-fashioned game of "the one" 
 eluding "the other," and "the one" being 
 always caught by "the other." A sort of in- 
 nocent game that nymphs and flower children 
 might have played at the feet of the gods ! 
 
MEMOEIES 35 
 
 Around us was a hint of spring, woodland 
 music, fresh flowers and the laughter of 
 young dancers in the distance the deep 
 green grass at our feet fountains of clear 
 water and the deep, mystic blue of the sky 
 above us. 
 
 This I knew that even if it were only a 
 dream that the words of Tagore would cease 
 to be mere words to me but would become 
 solemn realities: 
 
 "You came down from your throne and 
 stood at my cottage door. I was singing all 
 alone in a corner, and the melody caught 
 your ear. You came down and stood at my 
 cottage door. Masters are many in your hall, 
 and songs are sung at all hours. But the 
 simple carol of this novice struck at your 
 love. One plaintive little strain mingled with 
 the great music of the world, and, with a 
 flower for a prize, you came down and stopped 
 at my cottage door." 
 
 Life, with its hopeless, apathetic grief had 
 gone for I knew that our souls had been 
 wedded in that Spiritual life where vast 
 etheric spaces combined in some strange, ma- 
 jestic Force- to claim us as their own. . . . 
 
CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 IT was over; my work was finished; and 
 by four in the afternoon I was packed and 
 ready for the train which took me to my 
 home. 
 
 After a weary trip I reached my station, 
 a strange little station in the Adirondacks. 
 
 I fairly jumped from the train, as though 
 running away from something forward to 
 greet my friends, the mountains and the sky. 
 I walked from the station so that I might en- 
 joy the sweet freshness of the night. It was 
 a good three miles to the mountain top where 
 I lived, and I climbed the path along the steep 
 side until I reached a point where I could 
 see my home, where I caught a glimpse of a 
 lantern hung high up on the porch. This, I 
 realized, was the thought of my old servant, 
 Jane, who always prepared some special and 
 thoughtful form of greeting. The lantern 
 was a Japanese one, which, to her mind, was 
 
 36 
 
MEMORIES 37 
 
 a thing of rare beauty. It swung to and 
 fro gently, waving me a bright welcome. 
 
 I stopped to look at the little cottage with 
 its charm and simple dignity. It was truly 
 a beautiful place in design and situation. 
 Many different kinds of vines and flowers 
 grew on and around the house. I had planted 
 everything that would climb so that some- 
 tiling would be sure to grow. All of these 
 vines and flowers seemed to have developed 
 into marvelous green things. Now and then 
 some hidden mountain flower of deep crim- 
 son or purple peeped through the green, 
 making a bright roof garden of beauty for 
 my beloved little home, for home it was to 
 me, even in its loneliness. At least there was 
 peace and simple comfort and the gentle 
 heavens so near that my head seemed en- 
 veloped in the clouds themselves clouds of 
 white and soft blue. Somehow they nestled 
 about, floating downward, sinking into the 
 deep gold of the west where so often I had 
 watched the sun disappear in the arms of the 
 infinite majestic and regal in its splendor. 
 The wild geese flying high; a gentle breeze 
 stirring the tall trees into music ; that music 
 
38 MEMOEIES 
 
 so dear to a tired heart little lambs calling 
 for their mothers, birds answering their 
 mates alwwys a call and always an answer. 
 That was the beauty in it. The great re- 
 sponse and rhythm in Nature. 
 
 When we cannot have our desires, which, 
 doubtless, have been interrupted by the ir- 
 regularities of the material world made by 
 man we can find comfort in returning to 
 Nature, because here we find the call an- 
 swered. . . . 
 
 I stood in a reverie upon the threshold of 
 my door, drinking in the loveliness, en- 
 tranced by the sweetness and silence of the 
 night. 
 
 Slowly I entered, finding a huge fire and 
 the odor of rare herbs in the dining-room 
 where a simple but delicious supper was 
 being prepared. I was greeted with a smile 
 of genuine affection by my faithful Jane. 
 Why was it that, in spite of my sorrow, great 
 love and longing for the human touch, I was 
 now tranquil and calm whereas, in the city 
 I was not only wretched and nervous but 
 overwrought to a dangerous degree? Why 
 was it? Was there a voice of the silence? 
 
MEMORIES 39 
 
 Do some of us listen and hear? Was it a 
 question of listening, and being en rapport 
 with this silence? Was it the law of attrac- 
 tion? Must we become silent so as to regis- 
 ter the vibrations of the Invisible, "the 
 echoes of incomprehensible art, the true mu- 
 sic of the spheres ? ' ' 
 
 The next morning I awakened at six and 
 went for a walk over the mountain. I walked 
 for an hour, returning for breakfast upon 
 my porch. There was no morning paper, 
 nothing to bring to mind the trials and sordid 
 discontent of the world of action. Only the 
 bright sunshine, the birds, the flowers, the 
 exquisite view. Thoughts of an impersonal 
 nature, of life its problems and of the great 
 Cause, the first principle of Being. I was 
 striving to become an initiate into the king- 
 dom of universal love where I might become 
 a stronger woman and more helpful citizen. 
 
 I spent many days in long walks and 
 drives, enjoying the magnificent beauty of the 
 mountains and the sky. How well I could 
 understand Oscar Wilde's passion for color! 
 As I gazed into the sky, the deep blue shades 
 blending into soft grey and white, this mighty 
 
40 MEMOEIES 
 
 stillness and majestic splendor recalled my 
 childhood days when often I would steal 
 away from unsympathetic companions and 
 throw myself down upon the grass, lying for 
 hours gazing into the sky. I could not take 
 my eyes from it, and with this steady contem- 
 plation and admiration would come peace, 
 that peace much needed to a weary heart. Is 
 there anything more pathetically sad than 
 the sorrow of little children when reason 
 is not sufficiently developed to compete with 
 life's problems, when only the heart can 
 ache and the mind remain dormant and un- 
 resourceful? Keen suffering, injustices, dis- 
 appointments, denial of small pleasures, loss 
 of loved ones the persistent aching void of 
 things with only the sky above to comfort 
 and bring rest to little hearts that can feel 
 with a tenderness and depth incomparably 
 sad. . . . 
 
 How unconsciously do all unaffected and 
 pure exponents of life cling to the elemental 
 manifestations of nature for comfort the 
 affinity is strong and compelling. Often the 
 hurts of a bleak night are annihilated or 
 changed into less sensitive pain by the sweet 
 
MEMOEIES 41 
 
 tranquillity and blessing of the out-of-doors. 
 The sky, the sensuous perfume of flowers, the 
 faint throb of the earth bring courage and 
 belief in future compensation 
 
 Byron was right when he said, "Love is a 
 thing to the man apart, 'tis woman's whole 
 existence." Thus it should be, for if there 
 were not women who made love a creed, mar- 
 riage would cease to be a sacrament, children 
 a benediction and man a hero for love deep 
 and steadfast inspires all beauty, chivalry 
 and charm. It is the absence of love that 
 destroys idealism, and when idealism is gone 
 the soul is annihilated. Love is a chalice 
 from which we drink the communion wine of 
 exaltation and revelation. It leads us into 
 the realms of the Immortals, where we are 
 encircled with a halo of light which shines 
 through long days and dreary nights, leaving 
 ing something beautiful in our personality. 
 Maeterlinck says: "We live in great mo- 
 ments." The memory of such moments illu- 
 mine our lives, making of us Eoad Menders 
 and spiritual guides for less fortunate indi- 
 viduals. . . . 
 
 At one time in my life I had regarded love 
 
42 MEMOEIES 
 
 as hysteria, a mild form of insanity, but some- 
 thing amenable to will. I, too, had laughed at 
 broken hearts, denouncing broken-hearted 
 people as hysterical Neurasthenics to 'at 
 last find myself the victim of a thing I had 
 so scornfully regarded in others to realize 
 that there was love in the world after all, 
 a love so strong, so insidious, that it could 
 wreck an individual; that there was desire 
 which could tear out vitality ; disappointment 
 that crushed; jealousy that would poison; 
 love that could cast one down into the lowest 
 depths of degradation or raise one into the 
 clouds where God himself would smile. 
 
 So often, too, in trying to forget our love 
 we run forward to greet it in another en- 
 vironment. Such is the inconsistency of 
 human nature ; we delude ourselves in think- 
 ing that we are escaping a thing which has 
 hurt us when all the time we are pursuing 
 certain land marks, certain longitudinal di- 
 mensions, making for ourselves a circle of 
 thought which binds us with its tender 
 memories. 
 
CHAPTER SIX 
 
 I recall a conversation with Stella when we 
 were discussing her very interesting self. 
 
 "My friend," she said plaintively, "some- 
 times the wild desire for adventure takes 
 possession of me ; a mad desire to lean over 
 a precipice as it were, but not to fall over it 
 the spirit of a gypsy it is, a passion for the 
 purely unconventional. But just as I stand 
 upon the brink of the precipice a certain in- 
 definable "something" holds me in check. 
 It is tradition, I suppose, a spark created by 
 heredity, something transmitted through the 
 blood of my race. The maternal instinct is 
 strong in me, and brings both danger and 
 conservatism. It causes desire for love in its 
 human form, but also it provides a desire to 
 express this love in the fitting environment. 
 In those few moments of battling against 
 
 43 
 
44 MEMOKIES 
 
 certain forces those moments when a woman 
 only wants to be loved with abandonment, 
 when reason is annihilated, when there is 
 neither thought of right or wrong one 
 ceases to be a woman in the strict sense of 
 the word and is just a human being in love 
 with love. 
 
 4 'Believe me, my friend," she continued, 
 "the saddest thing in the world is a woman 
 full-blooded and young struggling to be per- 
 manently good; a woman inheriting all the 
 passions of the man with the modesty of the 
 woman ; waiting, praying for the good to 
 dominate. To an anaemic, negative woman, 
 such an emotion is unknown; I am speaking 
 of the normal type of woman, the woman pal- 
 pitating with enthusiasm and life. There is 
 much cheap affectation about the physical 
 side of one's nature, much hypocritical de- 
 nial of the sensuous. "We should revere tEe 
 physical and adjust it, not crush it. It should 
 not atrophy and become extinct. 
 
 "Zarah," she said to me vehemently, "I 
 am at least a woman, not a statue! The 
 great number of women who helped to create 
 empires were they cold, negative women? 
 
MEMORIES 45 
 
 No ! For the proper development of human 
 nature is never single ; a strong mind should 
 be supported by a strong body." 
 
 I could understand her perfectly, and I 
 hoped in her life she would never awaken to 
 find everything turned into ashes; no sweet 
 memories, nothing but disappointment, per- 
 sistent and cruel to find herself in an apa- 
 thetic attitude toward life, crushed and dis- 
 couraged. She was a Latin ; I was an Orien- 
 tal; we loved with our souls, our minds, our 
 bodies; everything subservient to love love 
 in its most intense and human form. This 
 is not understood by the phlegmatic type of 
 woman, neither is it understood by the super- 
 ficial woman. 
 
 Thoughts of Stella, her very words, still 
 crowded through my mind. I tried to dis- 
 miss them and lose myself in the beauties of 
 nature, for the evening was exquisite, the 
 sky tinted with faint lavender and blue; 
 there was no pink or gold, only the soft, 
 misty clouds which seemed to form a canopy 
 hovering directly over the house so near 
 and personal, full of blessings, messengers 
 of hope and compensation. 
 
46 MEMORIES 
 
 Now and then I would catch the heavy odor 
 of a flower closely resembling the perfume 
 of the jessamine or tube-rose, compelling and 
 seductive in the sense of romance and beau- 
 ty; for who is there who has not some senti- 
 ment associated with these flowers f Flowers 
 that are dear to our youthful, happy days 
 when we have spent hours strolling over the 
 green hills in the presence of one whose 
 purity has been symbolized by a rose, the 
 memory of which has been imprinted on our 
 hearts. How closely intermingled is the 
 aesthetic and the sensuous, and how exqui- 
 site the union of the two ! 
 
 Days spent on the roads of soft beauty with 
 our loved one, hours together in the pale 
 shadows and the softness of twilight nights 
 with that loved one in our arms or the 
 memory of a terrible yearning. Days and 
 evenings spent together, but the denial of 
 the glorious nights by the cruel hand of Fate, 
 which tortures with the nearness of posses- 
 sion, and then eludes us, leaving only the 
 perfume of the rose. . . . 
 
CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 SEVERAL weeks passed in this quiet existence 
 nntil a letter from Louis brought some excit- 
 ing news that he and Stella had had some 
 quarrel, trifling as he thought, but that she 
 had taken the trouble seriously, and disap- 
 peared. It was about a young artist for 
 whom he thought she cared; that she had 
 suddenly broken off their engagement and 
 gone, leaving no clue. 
 
 He wrote me most intensely, dramatically, 
 thus: 
 
 "My dream is over. Stella is lost to me 
 forever. What will she do ? Where has she 
 gone? She is so fearless and daring and so 
 unprotected, there is no telling what course 
 she may pursue no ties no conventional 
 sense of morality, nothing to act as a rein 
 upon her actions! My home is now turned 
 
 47 
 
48 MEMOKIES 
 
 into a silent tomb where dwells the heart 
 of my love. I awaken rebelliously eacH 
 morning regretting the return of conscious- 
 ness, only to be tortured by my futile 
 thoughts. I wish to remain in the region 
 where one feels nothing, only the joy of anni- 
 hilation! Last evening when the shadows 
 deepened into the black night there were no 
 stars, no delicately tinted twilight only the 
 bleak dreary night pressed upon the last 
 remnant of the day, bringing a fitting en- 
 vironment to my weary heart, where the 
 elements of nature preserved an atmosphere 
 which did not taunt me with brightness and 
 reminiscence. Brightness and color at such 
 times only deepen our sorrows by contrast. 
 I am exhausted, my life meaningless only 
 half a man so to speak, struggling with a grey 
 existence. This morning I am spending in 
 the sunshine which taunts me the sun only 
 plays with me, only touches lightly a body 
 which is unresponsive and exhausted. The 
 idea of suicide to me has never appeared in- 
 sane. The very physical act seems a daring 
 thing. I believe that many sane men soberly 
 analyze their condition and decide to take 
 
MEMOEIES 49 
 
 their lives simply because they do not care 
 to play the game any longer, and not be- 
 cause of any insane or cowardly thought." 
 
 His letter continued in this manner. 
 
 As I held the paper in my hand it seemed 
 for a moment that his sorrow was entirely 
 mine. In a few moments the almost joyful 
 thought that Stella had gone obsessed me, 
 and for hours and days I seemed suddenly 
 lifted up into a bright, new realm of happi- 
 ness and hope. . . . 
 
 Many days passed after I Heard this news. 
 I hoped for another letter from Louis, but 
 he seemed to have forgotten me everything 
 and everyone except Stella and I was filled 
 with suspense and longing. 
 
 A damp, rainy night added to my sorrow. 
 It was late; I sat in the darkness, gazing 
 into the log fire and, after sitting thus for 
 several hours, I decided to light the candle 
 and read. The sound of the wind playing 
 around the house, whistling in an awful 
 minor tone, resulted in a moan; the desola- 
 tion, the loneliness, the blackness of the night 
 brought keenly to my mind the realization of 
 my loneliness. 
 
50 MEMORIES 
 
 I sat musing, leaning upon the table where 
 the candle burned slowly, throwing weird 
 shadows over the room, creating different 
 shades of gray and black, corresponding with 
 the bleakness of the night. The fire was 
 dying in the hearth, symbolic of my state of 
 heart where everything was turning into 
 ashes, with only a memory of futile 
 hopes. 
 
 As I glanced down at the last ray of the 
 dying fire I caught the outline of a shadow, 
 a figure which seemed to come from the win- 
 dow opening upon the porch. I looked again 
 saw nothing. Believing it to be the phan- 
 tasy of a fevered brain, I gave it no further 
 thought, and, blowing out the candle, walked 
 toward the fire to gaze into the last bit of 
 warmth in my room. Instinctively I looked 
 toward the window where again I caught the 
 glimpse of a shadow. Fearing that it might 
 be some crafty mountaineer, I groped my way 
 to the table, drew out a revolver, loaded it 
 and stood waiting to fire upon the intruder. 
 After a moment the shadow became more 
 distinct. I called; 
 
 "Who's there?" 
 
MEMOEIES 51 
 
 No answer. I rushed to the window, threw 
 it open and repeated my call. Again no an- 
 swer. I looked about; there was no one. I 
 called to my servant, Jane ; she came, insist- 
 ing that it was only my imagination, and 
 coaxed me to try to rest. 
 
 She left me and I threw myself upon the 
 bed ; after a long time I dropped off to sleep. 
 Suddenly I awakened with a start ; the wind 
 had subsided, the rain was now a quiet driz- 
 zle all was still. Yet I felt a presence. It 
 was uncanny. I sensed a human being. 
 What was it? Was I developing some kind 
 of brain disorder ? Was my illness resolving 
 into a nervous collapse, or was there some- 
 thing crouching in the darkness near the 
 window a something not tangible or alive, 
 something haunting me? 
 
 Straining my eyes in an effort to see 
 clearly, I gradually stood up in bed, looking 
 at the window. There, I thought I saw the 
 appearance of the profile of a face pressed 
 against the window pane. Creeping out of 
 bed, my revolver cocked and ready to fire, 
 I suddenly realized that it was the face of a 
 ghost, or the face of some ghastly human 
 
52 MEMORIES 
 
 being void of life or expression. Drawing 
 nearer, fearlessly now, I threw the window 
 open. There, staring blankly into space, 
 a shadow of her former self, was Stella 
 Graham! 
 
 I called her name ; she did not answer, but 
 continued to stare into space. Gently I 
 lifted her upon the window sill, drawing her 
 through the window and placing her npon a 
 chair, where she neither replied nor assented 
 to my questions. She was in a dazed condi- 
 tion. I asked more questions, bnt she looked 
 straight ahead without answering. Her 
 mind was apparently a blank, her body thin, 
 her face pale and lifeless. Eushing across 
 the room I poured out a glassful of whiskey 
 and fairly thrust it down her throat. She 
 swallowed slowly, mechanically until a cough- 
 ing spell, induced by the alcohol, took pos- 
 session of Her, bringing light to her eyes and 
 color to her cheeks. 
 
 Throwing her head against the back of the 
 chair she began to speak in a feeble, pathetic 
 voice. 
 
 "For nights I have been sleepless. I have 
 lived in torture. I have not eaten, I have 
 
MEMOKIES 53 
 
 not spoken to a human being. I have been 
 distracted with grief. I have been staying 
 with some poor people at the foot of the 
 mountain, thinking that perhaps Louis would 
 come to you. I could see the light from your 
 window and somehow it drew me up here 
 to you. 
 
 " There is nothing left for me now. He 
 does not believe in me, but I am innocent. 
 I am not what he believes. I did do some- 
 thing very indiscreet, I admit. I did go to 
 the artist's apartment (I mean Joe) of whom 
 you have heard. First, we went to the the- 
 atre. He had long promised to show me his 
 art treasures, and also proof of his hypnotic 
 skill, of which I had often heard him speak. 
 To do this he had said that he required the 
 quiet and power of the night. 
 
 " 'At the witching hour/ he said, which 
 was twelve o'clock, 'if you will come to my 
 apartment you will see there soft lights flow- 
 ing through the darkness, and many other 
 things. You will see me put my valet into 
 a hypnotic sleep of no ordinary kind, when 
 he will reveal many hidden and beautiful 
 truths of the celestial world, a world well- 
 
54 MEMOBIES 
 
 known to the Adepts of the East witH whom 
 I have studied.' 
 
 "Upon onr return from the theatre we 
 entered a dark room in his apartment, and 
 sat silently, solemnly to await the material- 
 ization of nnseen forces. After sitting for 
 an honr I saw the many strange things, but 
 I found it very difficult to believe in them; 
 then the lights were turned on and Joe pro- 
 ceeded to put his valet into a hypnotic sleep. 
 It was then about two o'clock in the morning, 
 and the man remained in this condition a long 
 time, repeating exquisite Indian lyrics and 
 answering many questions lucidly, even ques- 
 tions I asked concerning people and things 
 about whom he knew nothing. I was com- 
 pletely fascinated and entranced by the won- 
 der of it! 
 
 "It was then about daylight an impossible 
 hour for me to return to my home. Joe 
 suggested waiting until a more suitable hour, 
 and breakfasting there with him. To this 
 I willingly assented. So completely ab- 
 absorbed was I with the wonder of these ex- 
 periences that all sense of values was lost as 
 to time, place and conventionality, and tKen 
 
MEMORIES 55 
 
 you know that Venus side of my nature which 
 dominates me at times I loved the novelty 
 of being there, the knowledge of Joe's love 
 for me, the charm of his virile personality, 
 the sensuous beauty of his apartment ! There 
 were rose tints with blue and gold, crimson 
 and purple; all the oriental shades blended 
 in perfect harmony ; paintings suggesting the 
 art of Titian and Eubens; some gorgeous 
 pieces of Satsuma; an old bust of Buddha, 
 under which an Indian priest knelt holding 
 a burner that sent forth a heavy odor of in- 
 cense newly burned; some very old candle- 
 sticks with huge yellow candles set among 
 ivy leaves and white gardenias ! 
 
 A bright fire burned in the old-fashioned 
 fire place; there were deep sofas with Per- 
 sian pillows; foot-stools inches deep in vel- 
 vet ; a small tete-a-tete table arranged exqui- 
 sitely, upon which were choice fruits and 
 sweets, and just enough good red wine to 
 give a touch of hospitality and Joe, whom 
 I so enjoyed! Oh, well, who would have 
 gone home? Would you, Zarah?" 
 
 I did not answer, I was only thinking of 
 some way to help her. I remained speech- 
 
56 MEMORIES 
 
 less for a few moments, unable to say any- 
 thing coherent or worth while, with a reali- 
 zation of the cruel injustice and misunder- 
 standing. We sat facing each other. 
 
 "You said it was Joe's valet who was put 
 into a hypnotic sleep?" I added quickly, 
 "Maybe I can help you." 
 
 "What!" she exclaimed, and before I 
 could finish my sentence she jumped up and 
 grabbed me by both shoulders. 
 
 "Tell me, tell me what can you do, 
 Zarah? You cannot help, even if you want 
 to, because there is no proof; he will not be- 
 lieve you." 
 
 "Yes, I can," I said quietly, "the valet 
 you speak of was Louis' servant for many 
 years. There is proof, you see, my dear; 
 it will be all right, I am sure, for botK of 
 you!" 
 
 With these words of encouragement she 
 grew more tranquil and the wonderful still- 
 ness of the morning seemed to quiet her. 
 Finally her mood changed suddenly from a 
 serious, womanly one to that of a happy 
 child. She ran about the room playfully, 
 making remarks about the place, its coloring, 
 
MEMORIES 57 
 
 decorations, etc. She slipped out and called 
 to Jane in a triumphant voice to come that 
 she wanted to see her. Stella embraced her 
 as she came in, kissing her twice upon both 
 cheeks, and then ran back to me, throwing 
 her arms about me, smiling up into my face 
 quite like a little girl of seven years. 
 
 After a few moments I succeeded in mak- 
 ing her listen to my plan. I would go to the 
 neighboring village and telegraph Louis to 
 come to us. 
 
CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 Louis wired that he would come imme- 
 diately, and arrived almost as soon as Ms 
 telegram. 
 
 It was a strange day for me. It all hap- 
 pened so suddenly. 
 
 After my explanation Lonis decided that 
 Stella and he would be married that after- 
 noon. 
 
 Imagine how I felt at this strange tonch 
 of Fate that 7 should have been selected as 
 the one to bring them together again and 
 that they should be married from my home ! 
 It seemed too much for human endurance ! 
 
 Somehow I went about serenely, helping 
 as best I could, finally to realize that the 
 hour had come when I was to witness the 
 ceremony. 
 
 58 
 
MEMORIES 59 
 
 By four o'clock in the afternoon Louis had 
 made the trip to the village and returned 
 with the license. The carriage was ready 
 to take us to the church at the foot of the 
 mountain. 
 
 The three of us drove down the winding 
 road to the quaint little church. There Louis 
 and Stella were united. They were too 
 happy to realize the formal and wordy bene- 
 diction perhaps it seemed unnecessary, for 
 their love had made the union pure and 
 complete. 
 
 They were to return to my home for supper, 
 and afterwards take the evening train for 
 New York City. 
 
 Most of the drive was spent in silence. 
 They were lost in a deep meditation and 
 reverie of happiness and understanding. 
 
 The beauty of the early evening was ex- 
 quisite. The moon high in the heavens, each 
 star bright yet steady in its dignified setting 
 of repose, white clouds gathering in the dis- 
 tance, manifesting beauty in its most sublime 
 aspect; tall trees whispering messages of 
 hope each little bird gone to nest with its 
 mate everything palpitating with peace, that 
 
60 MEMOKIES 
 
 peace born of mutual longing and expression. 
 
 Finally we caught a glimpse of the light 
 from my little home, the lantern again wav- 
 ing a greeting. 
 
 The carriage wheels seemed to turn in a 
 sweet rhythm of song; the soft air was 
 charged with blessings; distant camp fires 
 sent out red lights; the faint echo of a man's 
 deep voice singing in a minor key and then 
 darkness again and silence. 
 
 Could they draw nearer to the divine? 
 Were they not with nature in its sweetest 
 form, where they could not escape the in- 
 spiration that Nature gives'? 
 
 Once in awhile I caught a glimpse of Stel- 
 la's face. I had noticed before that hers was 
 a face with a halo about it; now there was 
 something ineffably fine in it, making one 
 think of spiritual things. The physical was 
 strongly developed in her nature, the mental 
 keenly alert, yet she commanded aesthetic 
 devotion. Lilacs and snow were about her; 
 lilacs expressing the sweetness" of spring; 
 snow as a symbol of purity. Yet suddenly 
 there would come, as it were, a dash of crim- 
 son and purple in her personality; there was 
 
MEMORIES 61 
 
 a color always about her, potent and exqui- 
 site. 
 
 Finally we reached my home and, as we 
 entered, the fire was burning brightly in the 
 hearth ; there was no other light in the room 
 except two tall candles on the mantelpiece 
 between baskets of wild flowers, the flowers 
 throwing a soft perfume ont into the simple 
 room. 
 
 Stella slipped away for a few moments 
 and upon her return was dressed in a beau- 
 tiful gown of soft tones, a sort of rainbow 
 creation of marvelous beauty. This she had 
 borrowed from me. How weirdly strange it 
 seemed that I should have been so intimately 
 associated with the woman who had married 
 the man I loved. It was Karma, Destiny, 
 I suppose. . . . 
 
 The gown was long and impressive, with 
 a train of lace hanging from the shoulders, 
 suggesting the richness of mediaeval splen- 
 dor and patrician style. 
 
 Louis stood bewildered in her presence, 
 stunned by the realization of such happiness 
 and possession. It seemed that he wanted 
 to say something, to express his love, yet 
 
62 MEMOEIES 
 
 realized that words were so meaningless, so 
 harsh in the face of such loveliness. He only 
 continued to gaze into her eyes like an awk- 
 ward schoolboy frightened by the sublimity 
 of supreme love. Womanlike, she guessed 
 the cause of his silence, and, taking the ini- 
 tiative walked eagerly towards him, fairly 
 throwing herself into his arms, kissing him 
 upon the lips with womanly tenderness and 
 worship. Here was a woman who loved 
 with abandonment in every fibre of her being, 
 and he was the man upon whom such love was 
 lavished! 
 
 How unworthy he must have felt, must any 
 real man feel, how thoroughly insignificant. 
 A mere man upon whom the very Gods had 
 smiled ! 
 
 In the twilight dim shadows began to clus- 
 ter about us ; soft breezes came, bringing the 
 fresh breath of the pine trees; the dead 
 leaves seemed to change into new life; the 
 perfume of a heavy flower sent out its fra- 
 grance, and the faint echo of chimes sounded 
 in the distance. We stood together, listen- 
 ing to the call of the night in that silence 
 which is only relatively silent with the call of 
 
MEMOEIES 63 
 
 Nature and celestial revelation, pressing npon 
 our half-awakened ears, bringing the full- 
 tone motif of peace. 
 
 I slipped away unnoticed, and as I looked 
 back upon these two lovers I realized how 
 superbly some women can give all to their 
 mate, for the first instinct of a true woman 
 is to give. She looked so beautiful as she 
 stood there offering herself, it seemed as 
 though a messenger of peace had kissed her 
 upon the lips, sealing them with permanent 
 holiness, bringing ambassadors of a foreign 
 but beloved country to their side, forever 
 pledging allegiance to their happiness. For 
 a moment there was only the soul expressing 
 itself, triumphant in its beauty; the mental, 
 somewhere in the far distance; the physical 
 completely submerged; and like two white 
 souls of a distant paradise they stood gazing 
 into the depths of each other's eyes. . . . 
 
 Quite gradually the mental awakened and 
 asked a question: What about your arms? 
 Those arms made by the infinite to clasp the 
 beloved in an embrace of ecstasy and aban- 
 donment, resulting in a Trinity of love, the 
 soul, mind and body? 
 
64 MEMOEIES 
 
 Eagerly, hnngrily he took her in his arms, 
 lost in a rapture exquisite in its sweetness 
 the physical is so beautiful when it acts as a 
 medium for the soul. 
 
CHAPTER NINE 
 
 [&. YEAB has passed. I have had many let- 
 ters from Louis and Stella asking me to visit 
 them, but I had not the courage. 
 
 They, too, had taken a little home in the 
 Adirondacks not far from mine perhaps 
 too near. 
 
 I finally determined to go to them for the 
 long promised visit. It seemed to me that 
 nothing mattered any more. I felt no spe- 
 cial degree of pain, but everything seemed 
 one long eternity of waiting, not for worldly 
 happiness but for spiritual Vision and 
 strength, for something I had learned from 
 my communion with Nature a steadfast 
 belief in compensation, a belief in the justice 
 of God. 1 had learned that there was "beauty 
 in consecration, strength in abnegation, reve- 
 lation in sacrifice. Perhaps after all, sorrow 
 had brought me something beautiful. 
 
 65 
 
66 MEMOEIES 
 
 There is much talk about the call of the 
 blood. It is true and powerful, but there is 
 a call of the spirit, so fine and potent that 
 every man must bow his head in recognition 
 at its passing. When once this call is regis- 
 tered there is always a longing for this king- 
 dom of things beautiful, to look into those 
 exquisite things of the soul. The soul is 
 very real, it is not a fantastic creation of the 
 nervous organism. . . . 
 
 I arrived at Stella's home, and found that 
 Stella's Madonna nature had predominated; 
 her dream materialized. Her own child was 
 in her arms; the maternal instinct and call 
 had been answered and she lived in the full- 
 ness of love, enduring and complete. Like 
 the strong woman she was there were no 
 petty illnesses, she was well and more splen- 
 didly beautiful than before; her complexion 
 softer and more rosy, her eyes full of 
 that spiritual expression which comes only 
 through motherhood; her smile just a bit 
 more tender, and the halo has increased, leav- 
 a deep border of mystic blue about her, I 
 fancied, a light that seemed to encircle her 
 in holiness. 
 
MEMORIES 67 
 
 [And what a dear old-fashioned mother she 
 was! She cared for her baby herself; she 
 bathed, dressed and rocked it in just the 
 way our grandmothers used to do, ever watch- 
 ful, patient, and infinitely sweet. 
 
 Many times they have planned to take a 
 home in the city, but the thought of the jar, 
 the harshness intruding upon them, bringing 
 the inharmonies of life, makes them stay a 
 little longer in their quiet home. The * ' now ' ' 
 was too beautifully calm and sweet; they 
 could not bear to lose a moment of such hap- 
 piness where everything blended in a full 
 chord of steadfast repose. 
 
 As for Louis' medicines, they were put 
 aside with disdain, and a few old-fashioned 
 remedies retained, which, in some way, seem 
 to preserve the proper equilibrium. 
 
 Her life was that of the normal woman, 
 in whom the first principle is love. There 
 were no worldly desires to destroy the beauty 
 and tranquility of the deeper life, and she 
 not only gave happiness, but lived as an 
 example of true womanhood, making me feel 
 that in service and consecration no desire 
 could be refused. For once in a while Fate 
 
68 MEMOEIES 
 
 gives us our desires, particularly if they are 
 sweet ones, and I wonder if it is not right to 
 believe that even the angels have their mates 
 that it is just one beautiful, holy family 
 where God himself smiles down upon all 
 lovers and the deeper the love, the sweeter 
 tJie smile. 
 
 END OF THE FIBST MEMORY 
 
SECOND MEMOKY 
 
There are heroes who lie in unvisited tombs. 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
SECOND MEMORY 
 
 IT was with reverence and understanding 
 that I knocked on the door of an old-fashioned 
 house in southern Mississippi. I had heard 
 that the place was to be rented for the first 
 time, and when I caught a glimpse of the 
 garden and the dignified, yet quaint, setting 
 of the place, every line and touch marged 
 with tradition, I hesitated many minutes be- 
 fore taking courage to enter, for I realized 
 that I was treading upon sacred ground. I 
 knocked again, and there was silence only 
 the wind blowing gently in the tree-tops and 
 the soft murmur of the sea answered my 
 call. I knocked again, twice, three times, 
 but again silence. At last the door opened 
 gently and instead of the maid whom I ex- 
 pected to see, there stood a tall, slender girl 
 
 71 
 
72 MEMOEIES 
 
 in her early twenties, sweet, serene, patri- 
 cian. Her deep black eyes held me spell- 
 bound, for instantly I recognized a kins- 
 woman in the occult sense of the word a 
 kindred mentality a comprehensive soul. 
 
 We stared at each other strangely for a 
 second, and then, as though she had suddenly 
 realized my mission, she hastily began to an- 
 ticipate my thought and said conventionally, 
 "I suppose you have come to to rent the 
 house ?" Because of the way she stopped 
 and almost sobbed the words "to rent the 
 house" there came a corresponding note 
 in my voice as I said : 
 
 "Yes, to live here and to cherish this 
 beautiful place as you do." 
 
 An unconventional answer it was, but 
 when I realized that her heart was breaking 
 at the thought of a stranger, an intruder, 
 daring to possess her home that held so many 
 personal and sacred memories, I could but 
 answer as I did, and as I entered the great 
 hall I fully understood her condition of mind 
 and heart. 
 
 First, she led me to the "parlor" as she 
 called it, an old room with the highest ceiling 
 
MEMORIES 73 
 
 I had ever seen, all done in white kalsomine, 
 as it was called ' ' before the "War. ' ' The fur- 
 niture was rosewood, magnificently carved; 
 there were large windows with green shut- 
 ters over which hung heavily brocaded cur- 
 tains that swept the floor; there were some 
 old busts and handsome pieces of bric-a-brac ; 
 an old French clock that reached far above 
 the marble mantel, a combination of Dresden 
 china and old gold, covered by a huge canopy 
 of glass. 
 
 Slowly she led me through the library that 
 held hundreds of books, and the other rooms, 
 until we came to the east end of the house, 
 where she again spoke as though trying to 
 master a tremendous emotion. "This was 
 Ms room," she said, "it was my father's." 
 A door opened and I stood upon the threshold 
 of a large room with four windows overlook- 
 ing a beautiful garden, a garden character- 
 istic of the dead sweet South of long ago. 
 There were trees of sweet olive and magnolia, 
 there were palms, ferns and famous old Mar- 
 shal Neil roses, wisteria, white camelias and 
 red japonicas, and a number of oak trees 
 seeming to reach the sky, through which a 
 
(74 MEMOEIES 
 
 view of the water was to be had where small 
 sail boats were drifting out to sea. 
 
 In the room was a four-poster bed that 
 looked as though it must have remained in 
 the same spot for at least three generations. 
 The paintings were hung by wires almost 
 breaking with age; by the bed was a quaint 
 prayer bench, with old china candlesticks, 
 fresh flowers and a rosary made of heavy 
 black beads, the largest imaginable beads 
 with a long carved cross of gold and precious 
 jewels ; there was incense, too. Indeed it was 
 a veritable altar in its simple dignity and 
 peace. 
 
 After leaving this room we went to the 
 back of the house to a huge gallery; then an- 
 other garden and orchard, and a path which 
 led to the distant cotton fields. Negro serv- 
 ants were singing in the distance and a faint 
 echo of dogs trailing in the woods. Finally 
 we came to her "retreat" as she called it, a 
 little summer house covered with ivy and jes- 
 samine. 
 
 By this time the spark of kinship had 
 leaped into flame, for we were talking vividly, 
 personally, as though we had known each 
 
MEMOBIES 75 
 
 other for years. It was because she, too, 
 had recognized me as a sympathetic friend. 
 We stood during a little chat in this green 
 covered spot. 
 
 She was gowned in black with two small 
 bands of white crepe bound tightly around 
 her small wrists; a band at her throat, two 
 tiny black slippers that peeped out from be- 
 neath her simple gown; her hair was black, 
 her eyes seemed even more black; her com- 
 plexion was colorless, which made her red 
 lips stand out in intense contrast, showing to 
 advantage her aquiline features. 
 
 It was interesting to watch the struggle 
 between her Objective or conventional mind 
 with her Subjective or soul mind. She want- 
 ed to be herself, yet realized what a short 
 friendship ours was; but after a few words 
 of encouragement and sympathetic interest 
 from me she began talking in a monologue, 
 rarely looking at me but rather down to the 
 sea, wistfully, pensively, as though thinking 
 aloud. 
 
 "I am glad you like the place; I am glad 
 that you will have it," she began. "I think 
 you will understand my love for it and how 
 
76 MEMORIES 
 
 it tears my heart to give it up to a stranger. 
 It has been ours for three generations; I 
 have been so happy here but most of all 
 he loved it, and he died here. I mean my 
 father," she added hastily. 
 
 "I understand," I said, "for I, too, loved 
 a father just a father a love so few can 
 understand. The idle love for a sweetheart 
 is understood, the love of a child, a dog, any- 
 thing," I added intensely, "but somehow the 
 love of a parent is placed usually upon a 
 prosaic basis, a casual, negative, plane of 
 mere affection, rather than that of profound 
 love." 
 
 As I said this she got up suddenly yet pret- 
 tily and dramatically, coming over and seat- 
 ing herself directly beside me. 
 
 "I want to be near you," she said. "I 
 want to be close to anyone who feels the 
 same as I do about fathers. Let me sit by 
 you I have never before known anyone 
 who seemed to understand." 
 
 "Tell me, my dear, tell me everything," I 
 said. "Why should two gentlewomen wait 
 for a conventional length of time before we 
 turn to personalities? Surely we can afford 
 
MEMOEIES 77 
 
 to be natural? Perhaps the telling will help 
 you ; perhaps I can give you some small com- 
 fort." 
 
 " Yes, I will tell you/' she said impulsively, 
 like a starved, lonely child. "I will tell you 
 everything. First I shall describe him to 
 you. 
 
 "My earliest recollection of him was as 
 he stood in that doorway superbly dignified, 
 bowing in his stately manner as he went 
 forward to greet his guests, or perhaps some 
 one of us as we entered, with never the slight- 
 est demonstration of his great heart, but 
 with a smile that was a benediction in its 
 simple sweetness, a smile that bore more 
 tears than happiness, a smile that seemed to 
 hold one in its deep sadness, yet gentle pa- 
 tience. My mother died when I was a baby 
 and his heart broke then, for hearts do break, 
 you know! 
 
 "There would be a formal yet lovely din- 
 ner (everything was formal, we were always 
 'at court' as it were), the Major, as he was 
 called, having been on a leave of absence 
 was our guest of honor. 
 
 "I remember the promenade to the dining- 
 
78 MEMORIES 
 
 room through that long winding hall where 
 we walked in couples, even the children, with 
 onr negro mammy at our heels; I can now 
 qnite recall the roasted turkeys, red wines 
 and all kinds of wonderful dishes served on 
 silver platters with flowers all around every- 
 thing; Venetian glass, wax candles and fault- 
 less service. After dinner I would catch 
 strains from his violin, and just as I dropped 
 off to sleep I could hear passages from ' Annie 
 Laurie,' 'Old Black Joe' and 'Massa's in 
 de Cold, Cold Ground.' 
 
 "Then the usual thing happened in the 
 life of a child ; the time soon passed and I was 
 sent away to school. After a few years in 
 Paris I returned to my old home, and what 
 a rejoicing! The servants were assembled 
 at the gate, there was music and dancing, and 
 joy in its height. I ran singing through the 
 house like a child, I was so glad to be home 
 again ! It was lonely and dull to be sure, but 
 Jie was there, 'Papa,' as I called him. But 
 when I went singing through the house I 
 detected a false note, for, in spite of the joy 
 and mirth there was an undercurrent of sad- 
 ness and there was unspeakable sadness in 
 
MEMORIES 79 
 
 the Major's face. He looked so Handsome 
 and well (he had always been well), but yet 
 there was something I could not define. The 
 evening dragged on and passed. 
 
 "The next morning the doctor arrived hur- 
 riedly and asked to see me alone. He 
 brought me here to this spot and told me 
 that my father had heart trouble and could 
 only live a few months that I alone might 
 prolong his life. 'Do not let him know you 
 have learned that he is ill ; sing, laugh, dance 
 and be merry, and you may keep him a little 
 longer with you.' 
 
 ' * The world stopped for me then. I felt too 
 deeply to cry out. I was dazed. I was be- 
 wildered. I seemed to go about in a dream 
 until I realized that I must begin the fight 
 against death. Then the weeks of agony that 
 followed the subsequent suspense, the strain 
 of it all was unbearable and without avail. 
 During Christmas, after the most hideous 
 suffering, the most cruel agony of pain, one 
 night sitting in his chair (for he could not 
 lie down) he lifted up his dear arms toward 
 me and died. . . . 
 
 "I was like a faithful dog who Bad lost its 
 
80 MEMORIES 
 
 master; I wanted to creep off in a corner and 
 die, but I could not. I was helpless. I was 
 prostrated by grief. And then, a superman 
 was dead. A man so physically beautiful 
 that the Greek gods themselves might have 
 envied him. A man so royal in bearing that 
 Caesar might have felt insignificant and a 
 soul as tender as a young mother's. This 
 was the estimate placed upon him by priest, 
 prince and peasant. 
 
 "When this great soul went out into the 
 darkness, the silence, there was a fitting set- 
 ting for his departure. The rain poured in 
 torrents as though the skies themselves must 
 weep. The wind blew ruthlessly, as though 
 the elements resented his leaving. Light- 
 ning tore the sky; the thunder pealed forth 
 in deep groans of rebellion; the candles 
 burned unsteadily, throwing weird shadows 
 over the room where he lay for the last time, 
 and fresh flowers withdrew their perfume 
 and folded their leaves in despair. 
 
 "The night wore on on to the gray dawn 
 of a winter day a day that became a mon- 
 strous fiend because its hours were to em- 
 brace the last rites of the magnificent dead! 
 
MEMOEIES 81 
 
 the sun sank into the infinite arms of 
 an everlasting grief I heard from my window 
 the solemn strains of Gounod and Liszt. 
 Some thoughtful soul had arranged this kind 
 of music, eliminating the commonplace, for 
 orthodoxy to him seemed limited ; his God was 
 that of Emerson and Tagore, the God of uni- 
 versal love, of open mind and imperishable 
 soul. 
 
 "There was no wordy benediction, only a 
 few deep prayers, a clod of earth reverber- 
 ating as it fell upon the black coffin, sending 
 forth an echo of pain silence a tear and 
 a flower the cry of a child in the distance 
 a sob from an old servant the sun casting 
 its rays upon the newly opened ground. Then 
 a turning away, a glimpse of bent figures 
 as they retraced their steps going forth into 
 dusk, the wind whistling in a minor key 
 through the tall trees, and then the awful still- 
 ness which brands itself upon the soul and 
 the words of Shorthouse ringing in my tor- 
 tured brain: 'The injustice of life and the si- 
 lence of God!' 
 
 "Even the green things about at least had 
 hope, for when they awakened on a dark and 
 
82 MEMOEIES 
 
 dreary morning to find the sun not there for 
 a day, with the hateful rain drops falling 
 from the angry sky, they had at least the 
 promise of another day, while I had nothing. 
 "Weeks, months and years have passed, 
 and still the ever present longing memories 
 that refuse to die torture me the crying out 
 for sight and touch the persistent effort to 
 penetrate the barrier, to pass the dwellers 
 upon the threshold and enter into the Celes- 
 tial Empire; the desire to push aside laws 
 governing matter ; to reach the subtle realms 
 of spirit, keep my soul in nightly pilgrim- 
 ages in dreams and visitations ever calling 
 his name. I daily searched for someone 
 with a similar grief but found no one to un- 
 derstand it. Like the woman who takes a 
 lantern and looks into the face of each pilgrim 
 trying to find her lover, so it was that I tried 
 to find a friend who could understand, only 
 to receive a stare or an empty word of ad- 
 vice. So, wearily I put down my lantern and 
 waited in the black night and in waiting I 
 heard an acquaintance saying, 'What is her 
 grief, a great one, lover, husband dead!' 
 
MEMORIES 83 
 
 'No,' was the reply of a so-called friend 'it's 
 nothing much just a father.' 
 
 "Sadly I recoiled in horror at these light 
 words, withdrew from the world of action 
 and wandered into the all-enduring world 
 of nature, of green fields, blue skies and tran- 
 quil repose; straining my ears to catch the 
 melodies of soft mornings and silent nights 
 yet always with those words branded upon 
 my heart, ' Just a Father.' " 
 
 END OF THE SECOND MEMORY 
 
THIRD MEMORY 
 
We talk of love as an emotion when 
 yoe ought to recognize it as a prin- 
 ciple (hat underlies the universe. 
 CHABLES B. NEWCOMB. 
 
THIRD MEMORY 
 
 IT was England. I sat at the window of 
 my room and gazed into the harbor for the 
 first time in many days. I had been ill, per- 
 haps more miserably bored and worried than 
 ill. I sat there at five in the morning 
 watching the sea. In the distance was a 
 quaint windmill, a fishing settlement and a 
 lighthouse, where a Mahatma or wise man 
 of the East lived. I felt a genuine longing 
 for something simple and sincere, and having 
 heard that the Mahatma was a fine student 
 and lived the life of a recluse and that his 
 philosophy was happiness, I was anxious to 
 meet such a unique character who could live 
 in a lonely lighthouse and yet teach happiness. 
 
 I had two hours to wait for my boat, and 
 as I sat there watching the fishing and sail 
 
 87 
 
88 MEMOEIBS 
 
 boats putting out to sea and the brown 
 skinned boys taking their morning swim, I 
 determined to meet this Wise Man. 
 
 The shades this morning were more varied 
 than I had ever seen them, and the sky was 
 tinted in the most delicate pastel shades. 
 There was more lilac and a faint shade of 
 green to be seen than the usual soft blue and 
 rose, with a most exquisite border of vivid 
 gold forming a circle immediately around 
 these colors, finished off with a clear, almost 
 crisp, cloud of silver that deepened into the 
 mystic grey. It was so intense and silent I 
 felt the desire for action, for spiritual ex- 
 pression, a sort of leaning toward the eternal. 
 My best means of reaching this seemed to 
 be through my possible acquaintanceship with 
 this man from the East. I meant to know 
 him; I jumped into my boat with eager im- 
 patience and rowed toward the lighthouse. 
 After much rowing and persistent effort, I 
 reached the lonely spot where dwelt this 
 lonelier soul. After a silent greeting, for 
 he only looked at me in that Oriental way, a 
 looking deep down into the soul as it were, 
 he said: "Come in, my dear." This "my 
 
MEMORIES 89 
 
 dear" was said with true kindliness and 
 benevolent interest, and his greeting somehow 
 made me feel that I had met a friend, as well 
 as a priest. 
 
 He took me to his study, as he called it, 
 where he showed me some very old and rare 
 books, such as one really never sees in shops 
 and libraries, a rare bust of the Buddha, 
 some strangely pressed flowers, a few herbs 
 from which he made his own medicines, a 
 queer little organ and a black rosary with a 
 heavily carved cross of very yellow gold 
 hanging over the face of Christ. This 
 seemed an inconsistency. It seemed strange 
 to find this in the room of an Indian, who, as 
 I supposed, was indifferent or even preju- 
 diced to our beloved Nazarene. I could not 
 conceal my curiosity, and with the keen in- 
 tuition of the East, the Mahatma said to me : 
 
 "Do you think it strange to find your Christ 
 here with our Buddha? Do you not know 
 that as a lover of Divine Wisdom that the 
 first principle or fundamental object in our 
 fraternity is to reconcile all religions, sects 
 and nations under a common system of ethics, 
 based on 'eternal verities'? Do you not 
 
90 MEMORIES 
 
 know that this is our sincere desire, the real- 
 ization of the 'brotherhood of man'? There 
 is a mighty triad acting on and through ethics 
 composed of Buddha, Confucius and Christ. 
 The first, a Hindu, founds a religion which 
 to-day embraces many more people than 
 Christianity, teaching centuries before Christ 
 the same ethics which He taught. Christ 
 repeats these ancient ethics, and Confucius 
 does the same for ancient China. 
 
 * ( These great names represent members of 
 one single Brotherhood who all have a single 
 doctrine. They have identical principles and 
 aim at identical ends. This is not my theory, 
 it is a historical fact. You have only to read 
 and you will find it so." 
 
 "But why do you come so far away from 
 your beloved India, may I ask I ' ' There was 
 more interest than curiosity in my question. 
 
 A wave of sadness, indescribable sadness, 
 passed over his face, and he said in his slow, 
 measured voice : * ' That is a long and unhappy 
 story, but since we are to be friends, and you, 
 I hope, are to be my pupil, I will tell you. 
 
 "Ten years ago I married a beautiful Kaj- 
 pootni, I myself being the son of a king. She 
 
MEMORIES 91 
 
 was my Lotus End, my little Aranyani. One 
 year she lived, just long enough to place a 
 little boy in my arms, to whom we gave the 
 name of Atirupa, because of his strange and 
 wonderful beauty that resembled his mother 
 Aranyani, which translated means, a forest 
 goddess or nymph. He was so like her in his 
 love of the woods. All day long my little 
 one, my little friend, as I called him, wan- 
 dered by the sea and back to the woods. We 
 were inseparable. So much so that it seemed 
 that, as young as he was, he must have felt 
 my grief as keenly as I felt his joy. 
 
 ' ' There was a splendid mutual understand- 
 ing, the kind that was so silent yet subtle, that 
 our hearts were one. It was a real joy to 
 see him playing in the woods at dusk with 
 the 'tamala' shadows falling upon him and 
 the great trees waving their branches over his 
 playground where he found the red fruits 
 and 'gunja' berries that he loved so well. 
 He spent hours rolling over in the tall grass 
 until he fell asleep from the very joy and 
 beauty of these sweet pleasures, and all this 
 time I sat mutely watching his play, dream- 
 ing of his mother, my Digit of the Moon, my 
 
92 MEMORIES 
 
 sweet Lotus Bud, who had passed so swiftly 
 out of my arms. 
 
 "My little Atirupa was all I had left. He 
 was now seven, with a peculiarly precocious 
 mind and strongly developed body. Often 
 we played in the sands and in the blue water, 
 and at night we had supper alone together. 
 We read little boys' stories until bedtime, 
 when we both went to bed like two tired chil- 
 dren. He had the true spirit of adventure. 
 He was fearless and investigating and our 
 days were full of excitement, in spite of our 
 isolation. 
 
 ' ' One evening he asked to go swimming with 
 some big boys whom we knew. I consented 
 and they were off with the glee and fresh joy- 
 ousness that only young boys can feel. I 
 watched them in the distance, my own heart 
 reflecting their sweet joy, feeling the glad 
 thankfulness that comes only to those who 
 have great love and understanding of little 
 joys. I sat in the dusk thinking of the past, 
 of its seeming cruelty, its torturing lessons 
 of sorrow, its long-wearying memories that 
 refused to die. Yet still in my heart there 
 was a great thankfulness, a deep gratitude 
 
MEMOEIES 93 
 
 for this one precious gift, this one source of 
 joy and human companionship, my little boy. 
 When I heard a shout from the beach. I saw 
 nothing but I heard one onlooker say: 'There 
 is something in the water, something in the 
 water. ' Then my mind seemed paralyzed. I 
 stood speechless, motionless, repeating in- 
 sanely : ' There is something in the 
 water !' 
 
 "The words sounded thousands of miles 
 away and yet I felt nothing. I was petrified 
 with grief ; for I saw them lifting a little cold, 
 wet body out of the sea, its mass of black hair 
 all matted in lovely curls upon the calm 
 sweet forehead. They laid him down in the 
 sand. They worked skilfully over him, but it 
 was too late. That little soul had sailed 
 away in the little 'blue boat' of which we had 
 been singing in the morning, sailed to a 
 Heaven where there are always blue boats 
 and morning songs for little children who 
 see God, and where they remain as sweet 
 symbols of the all-enduring love of eternity. 
 
 "They brought me my little one and I 
 gathered him in my arms and walked back to 
 our home which would never be home again. 
 
94: MEMORIES 
 
 I sent the others away; bathed his dear body 
 and kissed his beautiful hair. I thanked 
 Heaven that I had ever been tender and 
 gentle with him. I put the blue boat in his 
 helpless little hands, a cross at his head and 
 the wild flowers we had gathered together at 
 his feet, then I went out into the awful si- 
 lence that terrible silence which speaks 
 nothing to us at such a time, even if we be 
 lovers of God. 
 
 "I watched the silent stars creep into their 
 snowy beds. I saw the moon fade away into 
 clouds of despair; I heard the little breezes 
 in the tall trees, moaning for my little one 
 with the eyes so sweet and voice so tender 
 and then I could bear no more. I ran down 
 towards the sea to lose myself, my sorrow in 
 the bliss of annihilation, when something sud- 
 denly stopped me. It was something almost 
 tangible, something very quiet and very 
 sweet. It said 'He lives, he is marching to 
 little soldier tunes in the mystic blue, and he 
 has his blue boat and his mother, too.' Then 
 something, a far-reaching, all abiding peace 
 took possession of my soul. I felt calmed, 
 strong and resigned, only I couldn't go back. 
 
MEMORIES 95 
 
 I couldn't go back into that house again. I 
 sent for my friends, the neighbors. I watched 
 them take him to the churchyard beyond the 
 Temple gate where they laid him down to 
 sleep in flowers, that sleep which little chil- 
 dren love so well, and I came away far away 
 into a new country, for home was strange to 
 me then; so I stay here keeping the light, 
 guiding the path of the ships, always pray- 
 ing for the safety and happiness of those I 
 guide, and especially if there be any little 
 boys who love wild flowers and who sail in 
 'blue boats' upon the sea. 
 
 "So now you may know why I am con- 
 tented here. Why I choose to be alone. The 
 world can hold nothing for me now; but you 
 are young. You have work to do in the world. 
 Go back to it, and remember my words to 
 you. May I give you some advice? You 
 have heard that I have lived through much 
 unhappiness, yet somehow I still believe in 
 happiness. It is my creed. I wish that you 
 may be happy. Follow me while I give you 
 some advice, a philosophy that I wish you to 
 remember. If I say too much you must for- 
 give me. But I love this subject of life, of 
 
96 MEMORIES 
 
 the individual in his relationship to nature, to 
 happiness, to clear thinking and fine living; 
 for there is a practical value in happiness. 
 Listen and I will give you my thoughts. . . . 
 
 6 ' The Puritan idea of sacrifice and abnega- 
 tion was a distorted conception of Christian- 
 ity. It was carried to unhealthy extremes 
 and the results were usually futile. Sacri- 
 fice can only be noble when it is intelligently 
 directed for a purpose and to a normal end. 
 Sackcloth and ashes have doubtless crushed 
 more souls than they ever developed. On 
 the other hand, happiness is such a wonderful 
 and beautiful thing, can it be other than the 
 normal and right means of development ? All 
 nature is so beautiful and happy, that it 
 would seem that happiness is the High-Priest- 
 ess of God's desire. 
 
 "When we have lost the soul we love most, 
 never to behold in the beauty of the physical 
 again, our hearts turn to stone. We move 
 in the world's arena as bewildered, fright- 
 ened children, groping for new faculties so 
 that we may learn to dwell with the spirit of 
 misery, yet realizing that the only respite 
 
MEMOEIES 97 
 
 from our own tmhappiness is the effort to 
 make others happy. 
 
 "We behold poor, struggling humanity 
 tied by physical faculties and desires which 
 insist upon expression, which seem to possess 
 and overpower. Heredity and environment 
 often combine against pilgrimage toward the 
 Infinite, and the struggle seems both futile 
 and inhuman. We are tossed upon an ocean 
 of hostile forces, too strong for a fair battle. 
 Seeing this struggle, those who understand 
 its value long to see happiness lighting the 
 way, strengthening and sustaining, giving 
 nourishment to those who famish for a torch- 
 bearer in the night so dark and dreary. " 
 
 I left with his words imprinted upon my 
 heart and his last words I can never forget, 
 and neither can I forget Mm. 
 
 "Go in peace," he said, "love Nature with 
 all your heart and with all your mind. Love 
 everything that is beautiful; in loving the 
 beautiful you love God. It is not a means 
 to an end, this love of beauty, for it is the end. 
 There is nothing beyond. It is not a road 
 that leads to the Infinite, for it is the Infinite. 
 The greatest lover is the greatest artist he 
 
98 MEMORIES 
 
 is the great revealer, for he has felt the 
 highest principle of creation love." 
 
 THE END 
 
IB 33537 
 
 M95630 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY