No More Learning

tress, seizing the pretext to give vent to her anger. "Otherwise
you are very deceitful and very sly. You keep everything hidden
in your breast. Those are the lessons Flores teaches you: do
you think I don't notice it? "
Saying this, she pushed the boy away from her, and sprang
from the bed. In the hall outside, almost at the same moment,
was heard a firm and youthful step. Leocadia trembled, and
turning to Minguitos, stammered:-
"Go, go to Flores. Leave me alone. I do not feel well, and
you make me worse. "
Segundo's brow was clouded; and as soon as the joy of seeing
him had subsided, Leocadia was seized with the desire to restore
him to good-humor. She waited patiently for a fitting opportu-
nity, however, and when this came, throwing her arms around his
neck, she began with the complaint: Where had he kept him-
self? Why had he stayed away so long? The poet unburdened
himself of his grievances. It was intolerable to follow in the
train of a great man. And allowing himself to be carried away
by the pleasure of speaking of what occupied his mind, he de-
scribed Don Victoriano and the radicals; satirized Agonde's recep-
tion of his guests, and his manner of entertaining them; spoke
of the hopes he founded in the protection of the ex-minister,
giving them as a reason for the necessity of paying court to Don
Victoriano. Leocadia fixed her dog-like look on Segundo's counte-
nance.
—
"And the Señora and the girl - what are they like? "
Segundo half closed his eyes, the better to contemplate an
attractive and charming image that presented itself to his mental
vision, and to reflect that in the existence of Nieves he played
no part whatsoever,-it being manifest folly for him to think
of Señora de Comba, who did not think of him. This reflec-
tion, natural and simple enough, aroused his anger. There was
awakened within him a keen longing for the unattainable, — that
insensate and unbridled desire with which the likeness of a beau-
tiful woman dead for centuries may inspire some dreamer in a
museum.
"But answer me are those ladies handsome? " the schoolmis-
tress asked again.


## p. 11036 (#248) ##########################################

11036
EMILIA PARDO-BAZÁN
"The mother, yes," answered Segundo, speaking with the
careless frankness of one who is secure of his auditor. "Her
hair is fair, and her eyes are blue-a light blue that makes one
think of the verses of Becquer. "
And he began to recite:-
―
«Tu pupila es azul, y cuando ries
Su claridad suave me recuerda -> »
Leocadia listened to him at first with eyes cast down; after-
ward with her face turned away from him. When he had
finished the poem she said in an altered voice, with feigned
calmness:
"They will invite you to go there. "
"Where? "
"To Las Vides, of course. I hear they intend to have a great
deal of company. "
་་
"Yes; they have given me a pressing invitation, but I shall
not go.
Uncle Clodio insists upon it that I ought to cultivate
the friendship of Don Victoriano, so that he may be of use to
me in Madrid, and help me to get a position there. But, child,
to go and play a sorry part is not to my liking. This suit is the
best I have, and it is in last year's fashion. If they play tresillo
or give tips to the servants—and it is impossible to make my
father understand this- and I shall not try to do so; God forbid.
So that they shall not catch a sight of me in Las Vides. "
When she heard what his intentions were, Leocadia's counte-
nance cleared up, and rising, radiant with happiness, she ran to
the kitchen. Flores was washing plates and cups and saucers by
the light of a lamp, knocking them angerly together, and rubbing
savagely.
"The coffee-pot-did you clean it? "
"Presently, presently," responded the old woman. "Any one
would think that one was made of wood, that one is never to get
tired that one can do things flying. "
"Give it to me;. I will clean it. Put more wood on the fire:
it is going out and the beefsteak will be spoiled. " And so say-
ing, Leocadia washed the coffee-pot, cleaning the filter with a
knitting-needle, and put some fresh water down to boil in a new
saucepan, throwing more wood on the fire.
"Yes, heap on wood," growled Flores, "as we get it for
nothing! "


## p. 11037 (#249) ##########################################

EMILIA PARDO-BAZÁN
11037
Leocadia, who was slicing some potatoes for the beefsteak,
paid no attention to her. When she had cut up as many as she
judged necessary, she washed her hands hastily in the jar of the
drain, full of dirty water, on whose surface floated large patches
of grease. She then hurried to the parlor where Segundo was
waiting for her, and soon afterward Flores brought in the sup-
per, which they ate, seated at a small side-table. By the time
they had got to the coffee Segundo began to be more communi-
cative. This coffee was what Leocadia most prided herself on.
She had bought a set of English china, an imitation lacquer-box,
a vermeil sugar-tongs, and two small silver spoons; and she
always placed on the table with the coffee a liquor-stand, sup-
plied with cumin, rum, and anisette. At the third glass of cumin,
seeing the poet amiable and propitious, Leocadia put her arm
around his neck. He drew back brusquely, noticing with strong
repulsion the odor of cooking and of parsley with which the gar-
ments of the schoolmistress were impregnated.
At this moment precisely, Minguitos, after letting his shoes
drop on the floor, was drawing the coverlet around him with a
sigh. Flores, seated on a low chair, began to recite the rosary.
The sick child required, to put him to sleep, the monotonous
murmur of the husky voice which had lulled him to rest, ever
since his mother had ceased to keep him company at bedtime.
The Ave Marias and Gloria Patris, mumbled rather than pro-
nounced, little by little dulled thought; and by the time the litany
was reached, sleep had stolen over him, and half-unconscious,
it was with difficulty he made the responses to the barbarous
phrases of the old woman: "Juana celi-Ora pro nobis - Sal-es-
enfermorum nobis - Refajos pecadorum -bis-- Consolate flito-
_____
>>
rum-sss-
The only response was the labored, restless, uneven breath-
ing that came through the sleeping boy's half-closed lips. Flores
softly put out the tallow candle, took off her shoes in order to
make no noise, and stole out gently, feeling her way along the
dining-room wall. From the moment in which Minguitos fell
asleep there was no more rattling of dishes in the kitchen.
Translated from the Spanish by Mary J. Serrano.


## p. 11038 (#250) ##########################################

11038
EMILIA PARDO-BAZÁN
RUSSIAN NIHILISM: «GOING TO THE PEOPLE»
From Russia: Its People and Its Literature. Copyright 1890, by A. C.
McClurg & Co.
I
T REQUIRES more courage to do what Russians call going to
the people, than to bear exile or the gallows. In our soci-
ety, which boasts of its democracy, the very equalization of
classes has strengthened the individual instinct of difference;
and especially the aristocrats of mind-the writers and thinkers
-have become terribly nervous, finicky, and inimical to the ple-
beian smell, to the extent that even novels which describe the
common people with sincerity and truth displease the public
taste. Yet the Nihilists, a select company from the point of
view of intellectual culture, go, like apostles, in search of the
poor in spirit, the ignorant and the humble. The sons of fami-
lies belonging to the highest classes, alumni of universities, leave
fine clothes and books, dress like peasants, and mix with factory
hands, so as to know them and to teach them; young ladies of
fine education return from a foreign tour, and accept with the
utmost contentment situations as cooks in manufacturers' houses,
so as to be able to study the labor question in their workshops.
We find very curious instances of this in Turgénief's novel
'Virgin Soil. The heroine Mariana, a Nihilist, in order to learn
how the people live, and to simplify herself (this is a sacramental
term), helps a poor peasant woman in her domestic duties. Here
we have the way of the world reversed: the educated learns of
the ignorant, and in all that the peasant woman does or says, the
young lady finds a crumb of grace and wisdom. "We do not
wish to teach the people," she explains: "we wish to serve them. "
"To serve them? " replies the woman, with hard practicality;
"well, the best way to serve them is to teach them. " Equally
fruitless are the efforts of Mariana's "fictitious husband," or
"husband by free grace," as the peasant woman calls him,—the
poet and dreamer Nedjanof, who thinks himself a Nihilist, but in
the bottom of his soul has the aristocratic instincts of the artist.
Here is the passage where he presents himself to Mariana dressed
in workmen's clothes:-
"Mariana uttered an exclamation of surprise. At first she did not
know him. He wore an old caftan of yellowish drill, short-waisted,
and buttoned with small buttons; his hair was combed in the Russian


## p. 11039 (#251) ##########################################

EMILIA PARDO-BAZÁN
11039
style, with the part in the middle; a blue kerchief was tied around
his neck; he held in his hand an old cap with a torn visor, and his
feet were shod with undressed calfskin. "
Mariana's first act on seeing him in this guise is to tell him.
that he is indeed ugly; after which disagreeable piece of infor-
mation, and a shudder of repugnance at the smell of his greasy
cap and dirty sleeves, they provide themselves with pamphlets
and socialist proclamations, and start out on their Odyssey among
the people, hoping to meet with ineffable sufferings. He would
be no less glad than she of a heroic sacrifice, but he is not
content with a grotesque farce; and the girl is indignant when
Solomine, her professor in nihilism, tells her that her duty act-
ually compels her to wash the children of the poor, to teach
them the alphabet, and to give medicine to the sick. "That is
for Sisters of Charity," she exclaims, inadvertently recognizing a
truth: the Catholic faith contains all ways of loving one's neigh-
bor, and none can ever be invented that it has not foreseen.
But the human type of the novel is Nedjanof, although the Ni-
hilists have sought to deny it. There is one very sad and real
scene in which he returns drunk from one of his propagandist
excursions, because the peasants whom he was haranguing com-
pelled him to drink as much as they. The poor fellow drinks.
and drinks, but he might as well have thrown himself upon a
file of bayonets. He comes home befuddled with vodka, or per-
haps more so with the disgust and nausea which the brutish and
malodorous people produced in him. He had never fully be-
lieved in the work to which he had consecrated himself: now it
is no longer skepticism, it is invincible disgust that takes hold
upon his soul, urging him to despair and suicide. The lament of
his lost revolutionary faith is contained in the little poem entitled
'Dreaming,' which I give literally as follows:-
"It was long since I had seen my birthplace, but I found it not
at all changed. The deathlike sleep, intellectual inertia, roofless
houses, ruined walls, mire and stench, scarcity and misery, the inso-
lent looks of the oppressed peasants, all the same! Only in sleep-
ing, we have outstripped Europe, Asia, and the whole world. Never
did my dear compatriots sleep a sleep so terrible!
"Everything sleeps: wherever I turn, in the fields, in the cities, in
carriages, in sleighs, day and night, sitting or walking; the merchant
and the functionary, and the watchman in the tower, all sleep in the


## p. 11040 (#252) ##########################################

11040
EMILIA PARDO-BAZÁN
cold or in the heat! The accused snores and the judge dozes; the
peasants sleep the sleep of death; asleep they sow and reap and
grind the corn; father, mother, and children sleep! The oppressed
and the oppressor sleep equally well!
"Only the gin-shop is awake, with eyes ever open!
"And hugging to her breast a jug of fire-water, her face to the
Pole, her feet to the Caucasus, thus sleeps and dreams on forever
our Mother, Holy Russia! "
To all Nihilist intents and purposes, particularly to those of a
political character, the masses are apparently asleep. Many elo-
quent anecdotes refer to their indifference. A young lady propa-
gandist, who served as cook on a farm, confesses that the peasants
spitefully accused her of taking bread from the poor. In order
to get them to take their pamphlets and leaflets the Nihilists
present them as religious tracts, adorning the covers with texts
of Scripture and pious mottoes and signs. Only by making good
use of the antiquated idea of distribution (of goods) have they
any chance of success; it is of no use to talk of autonomous fed-
erations, or to attack the Emperor, who has the people on his
side.
The active Nihilists are always young people; and this is rea-
son enough why they are not completely discouraged by the ste-
rility of their efforts. Old age abhors fruitless endeavors; and,
better appreciating the value of life, will not waste it in tiresome
experiments. And this contrast between the ages, like that be-
tween the seasons, is nowhere so sharp as in Russia; nowhere
else is the difference of opinions and feelings between two gen-
erations so marked. Some one has called nihilism a disease of
childhood, like measles or diphtheria; perhaps this is not alto-
gether erroneous, not only as regards individuals, but also as
regards society, for vehemence and furious radicalism are the
fruit of historical inexperience,- of the political youth of a nation.
The precursor of nihilism, Herzen, said, with his brilliant imagery
and vigor of expression, that the Russia of the future lay with a
few insignificant and obscure young folks, who could easily hide
between the earth and the soles of the autocrat's boots; and the
poet Mikailof, who was sentenced to hard labor in 1861, and sub-
sequently died under the lash, exclaimed to the students: "Even
in the darkness of the dungeon I shall preserve sacredly in my
heart of hearts the incomparable faith that I have ingrafted upon
the new generation. "


## p. 11041 (#253) ##########################################

EMILIA PARDO-BAZÁN
11041
It is sad to see youth decrepit and weary from birth, without
enthusiasm or ambition for anything. It is more natural that the
sap should overflow; that a longing for strife and sacrifice, even
though foolish and vain, should arise in its heart. This truth
cannot be too often repeated: to be enthusiastic, to be full of
life, is not ridiculous; but our pusillanimous doctrine of disap-
proval is ridiculous indeed, especially in life's early years,-
ridiculous as baldness at twenty, or wrinkles and palsy at thirty.
Besides, we must recognize something more than youthful ardor
in nihilism, and that is, sympathetic disinterestedness. The path
of nihilism does not lead to brilliant position or destiny: it may
lead to Siberia or to the gibbet.
XIX-691
――――――
Translation of Fanny Hale Gardiner.
as


## p. 11042 (#254) ##########################################

11042
GIUSEPPE PARINI
(1729-1799)
ETTEMBRINI, in his history of Italian literature, chooses Parini
as the purest type of the satirist which his country has.
Giuseppe G ti, whose field is the same as that of Parini,
and who is hardly his inferior, has written his eulogy in a glowing
biography.
Parini was born in 1729, at Bosisio on the Lake of Pusiano. His
parents had a small farm; but observing Giuseppe's abilities, they
sent him to Milan to study under the Barnabites in the Accademia
Arcimboldi. Here he was obliged to support himself by copying
manuscripts. In 1752 he published under the pseudonym "Ripano
Eupilino a volume of poems, which procured his election to the
Accademia dei Transformati at Milan, and to that of the Arcadi at
Rome. He became a tutor in the family of the Borromei and in
that of the Serbelloni, and attained still further prominence through
success in two controversies,-one with Alessandro Bandiera, the
other with Onofrio Branda. He now began to utilize in the compo-
sition of a satire the knowledge which he had gained of aristocratic
life. 'Il Matino (Morning) and 'Il Meriggio' (Noon), which were
published in 1763 and 1765, mark a distinct advance in the form of
blank verse in Italy, and consist in ironical instructions to a young
nobleman as to the way to spend his mornings and middays. This
satire established Parini's popularity and influence. Count Firmian,
the Austrian plenipotentiary, who had been one of his patrons in the
publication of the first volume of poems, now secured his appoint-
ment as professor of belles-lettres in the academy of Brera. Here with
ardent enthusiasm he set forth the beauties of the classics, and was
little by little recognized as the most powerful living exponent of
letters and arts. At the time of the French occupation of Milan,
Parini was appointed by Napoleon municipal magistrate of that city.
The poet, however, soon retired to his literary pursuits, aware that
the much-vaunted liberty of the day was made a means for secur-
ing private ends rather than for the public advancement. On the
return of the Austrians he found his well-being threatened; but he
was then seventy years of age, blind and infirm, and in 1799, before
dangers could mature, he died. Despite the success of his career, he
died as poor as at its commencement. He exerted a distinct influ-
ence for good, however, on a generation prostrated by the corruptions


## p. 11043 (#255) ##########################################

GIUSEPPE PARINI
11043
of the past, but in which there could yet be felt a restless discon-
tent with itself.
He brought his satire 'Il Giorno' (Day) to a close
by 'Il Vespro' (Evening) and 'Il Notte' (Night); but these were not
yet published at the time of his death. 'Il Notte,' indeed, remained
unfinished; and so many and such varying draughts did he leave of
this poem, that one scarcely knows what the ultimate result of his
labors would have been.
The motive of Parini's satires was not to ridicule the idiosyncra-
sies of his contemporaries: he attacked the whole corruption of his
times. It was not to the mere theories of an individual conscience
that he gave voice: he proclaimed the principles held by the whole
moral world. His temperament was that of the student rather than
of the genius; his productions the result of thought rather than of
inspiration. He was a tireless reviser; and his form both of satire
and of lyric is elegant and elaborate, but lacking in the charm of
spontaneity. He is, for a satirist, peculiarly deficient in sparkle and
in humor; but the high moral purpose of his work is strengthened by
a grim pride and by uncompromising scorn.
[The following translations are from Modern Italian Poets,' copyright
1887, by William D. Howells; and are reprinted by permission of Harper &
Brothers, publishers. ]
THE TOILET OF AN EXQUISITE
From The Day'
Α'
T LAST the labor of the learned comb
Is finished, and the elegant artist strews
With lightly shaken hand a powdery mist
To whiten ere their time thy youthful locks.
Now take heart,
And in the bosom of that whirling cloud
Plunge fearlessly. O brave! O mighty! Thus
Appeared thine ancestor through smoke and fire
Of battle, when his country's trembling gods
His sword avenged, and shattered the fierce foe
And put to flight. But he, his visage stained
With dust and smoke, and smirched with gore and sweat,
His hair torn and tossed wild, came from the strife
A terrible vision, even to compatriots
His hand had rescued; milder thou by far,


## p. 11044 (#256) ##########################################

11044
GIUSEPPE PARINI
And fairer to behold, in white array
Shalt issue presently to bless the eyes
Of thy fond country, which the mighty arm
Of thy forefather and thy heavenly smile
Equally keep content and prosperous.
Let purple gaiters clasp thine ankles fine
In noble leather, that no dust or mire
Blemish thy foot; down from thy shoulders flow
Loosely a tunic fair, thy shapely arms
Cased in its closely fitting sleeves, whose borders
Of crimson or of azure velvet let
The heliotrope's color tinge. Thy slender throat
Encircle with a soft and gauzy band.
Thy watch already
Bids thee haste to go. Oh me, how fair
The arsenal of tiny charms that hang
With a harmonious tinkling from its chain!
What hangs not there of fairy carriages
And fairy steeds so marvelously feigned
In gold that every charger seems alive?
Let thy right hand be pressed against thy side
Beneath thy waistcoat, and the other hand
Upon thy snowy linen rest, and hide
Next to thy heart; let the breast rise sublime,
The shoulders broaden both, and bend toward her
Thy pliant neck, then at the corners close
Thy lips a little, pointed in the middle
Somewhat; and from thy mouth thus set exhale
A murmur inaudible. Meanwhile her right
Let her have given, and now softly drop
On the warm ivory a double kiss.
Seat thyself then, and with one hand draw closer
Thy chair to hers, while every tongue is stilled.
Thou only, bending slightly over, with her
Exchange in whisper secret nothings, which
Ye both accompany with mutual smiles
And covert glances that betray- or seem
At least your tender passion to betray.


## p. 11045 (#257) ##########################################

GIUSEPPE PARINI
11045
SHE
THE LADY'S LAP-DOG
From The Day'
HE recalls the day-
Alas, the cruel day! - what time her lap-dog,
Her beauteous lap-dog, darling of the Graces,
Sporting in youthful gayety, impressed
The light mark of her ivory tooth upon
The rude foot of a menial; he, with bold
And sacrilegious toe, flung her away.
Over and over thrice she rolled, and thrice
Rumpled her silken coat, and thrice inhaled
With tender nostril the thick, choking dust.
Then raised imploring cries, and "Help, help, help! "
She seemed to call, while from the gilded vaults
Compassionate Echo answered her again,
And from their cloistral basements in dismay
The servants rushed, and from the upper rooms
The pallid maidens trembling flew all came.
Thy lady's face was with reviving essence
Sprinkled, and she awakened from her swoon.
Anger and grief convulsed her still; she cast
A lightning glance upon the guilty menial,
And thrice with languid voice she called her pet,
Who rushed to her embrace and seemed to invoke
Vengeance with her shrill tenor. And revenge
Thou hadst, fair poodle, darling of the Graces.
The guilty menial trembled, and with eyes
Downcast received his doom. Naught him availed
His twenty years' desert; naught him availed
His zeal in secret services; for him
In vain were prayer and promise: forth he went,
Spoiled of the livery that till now had made him
Enviable with the vulgar. And in vain
He hoped another lord: the tender dames
Were horror-struck at his atrocious crime,
And loathed the author. The false wretch succumbed
With all his squalid brood, and in the streets,
With his lean wife in tatters at his side,
Vainly lamented to the passer-by.


## p. 11046 (#258) ##########################################

11046
GIUSEPPE PARINI
THE AFTERNOON CALL
From The Day'
ND now the ardent friends to greet each other
A Impatient fly, and pressing breast to breast
They tenderly embrace, and with alternate kisses
Their cheeks resound; then clasping hands, they drop
Plummet-like down upon the sofa, both
Together. Seated thus, one flings a phrase,
Subtle and pointed, at the other's heart,
Hinting of certain things that rumor tells,
And in her turn the other with a sting
Assails. The lovely face of one is flushed
With beauteous anger, and the other bites
Her pretty lips a little; evermore
At every instant waxes violent
The anxious agitation of the fans.
So in the age of Turpin, if two knights
Illustrious and well cased in mail encountered
Upon the way, each cavalier aspired
To prove the valor of the other in arms,
And after greetings courteous and fair,
They lowered their lances and their chargers dashed
Ferociously together; then they flung
The splintered fragments of their spears aside,
And, fired with generous fury, drew their huge
Two-handed swords and rushed upon each other!
But in the distance through a savage wood
The clamor of a messenger is heard,
Who comes full gallop to recall the one
Unto King Charles, and th' other to the camp
Of the young Agramante. Dare thou, too,
Dare thou, invincible youth, to expose the curls
And the toupet, so exquisitely dressed
This very morning, to the deadly shock
Of the infuriate fans; to new emprises
Thy fair invite, and thus the extreme effects
Of their periculous enmity suspend.


## p. 11047 (#259) ##########################################

11047
GILBERT PARKER
(1861-)
ILBERT PARKER belongs to the rising generation of novelists
who seem inclined to depart from the morbid realism of
certain jaundiced schools of modern writers, and to revive
the tenets of Scott and Thackeray, of Cooper and Dickens. Through
them the historical romance is being brought again into prominence.
This form of fiction is well adapted for the exercise of Mr. Parker's
literary talent, which is objective and impersonal; and for the mani-
festation of his belief that men are primarily lovers and fighters, and
that life itself revolves about the pivots of love and war. In all of
his tales, whether historical or not, there is the element of strife, and
the element of the strong human affections. He perceives that the
dramatic possibilities of these two elements are endless. His histori-
cal novels, The Trail of the Sword' and 'The Seats of the Mighty,'
are of the time of the French and Indian wars, and involve many
incidents of that period. In them, as in all but the greatest novels
of the same class, the delineation of character is somewhat subordi-
nated to the development of the plot and the setting forth of the
historical background; yet Mr. Parker is too much of an artist to be
merely a good story-teller. For this reason he is most successful in
writing of people with whom he has come into sympathetic contact,
and of localities with which he is familiar. It is this intimacy which
gives charm to his tales of modern Canadian life.
(
He himself was born in Canada in 1861; his father being an Eng-
lish officer in the Artillery, who had come to the country with Sir
John Colburn. From his childhood Mr. Parker was devoted to read-
ing and study; and it may have been his early enthusiasm for Shake-
speare which developed the strong dramatic quality discernible in his
novels. His parents wishing him to enter the church, he began theo-
logical studies at the University of Toronto; he became a lecturer in
Trinity College, and continued to hold this position until, his health
failing, he was ordered to the South Sea.
In Australia he resumed
his lectures: the reputation gained by them influenced the editor of
a Sydney newspaper to invite him to write a series of articles on his
impressions of the country. From that time he gave himself up to
literary work: his talents as a novelist could not long remain hidden.
The editor of the London Illustrated News engaged him to write a


## p. 11048 (#260) ##########################################

11048
GILBERT PARKER
serial story; he became known in England, and then in America,-
the reading public recognizing him not only as a writer of strength
and imagination, but as one whose genius had manifested itself most
clearly in a new field. Mr. Parker is at his best in the stories pub-
lished originally in various magazines, and now collected under the
title 'Pierre and His People. ' The scene of these tales is a country
little known to the outside world,- that vast region extending from
Quebec in the east to British Columbia in the west, and from the
Cypress Hills in the south to the Coppermine River in the north; the
great wilderness of the Hudson's Bay Company. Living on the edges
of this dimly known land from boyhood, its mystery and its romantic
possibilities must have early impressed the creator of Pierre. In a
prefatory note to the book he says:
"Until 1870 the Hudson's Bay Company-first granted its charter by King
Charles II. -practically ruled that vast region stretching from the fiftieth
parallel of latitude to the Arctic Ocean: a handful of adventurous men in-
trenched in forts and posts, yet trading with, and most peacefully conquering,
many savage tribes. Once the sole master of the North, the H. B. C. (as it
is familiarly called) is reverenced by the Indians and half-breeds as much as,
if not more than, the government established at Ottawa. It has had its
forts within the Arctic Circle; it has successfully exploited a country larger
than the United States. The Red River Valley, the Saskatchewan Valley,
and British Columbia, are now belted by a great railway and given to the
plow; but in the far north, life is much the same as it was a hundred years
ago. There the trapper, clerk, trader, and factor are cast in the mold of
another century, though possessing the acuter energies of this. The voyageur
and coureur de bois still exist, though generally under less picturesque names.
"The bare story of the hardy and wonderful career of the adventurers
trading in Hudson's Bay,- of whom Prince Rupert was once chiefest,— and
the life of the prairies, may be found in histories and books of travel; but
their romances, the near narratives of individual lives, have waited the tell-
ing. In this book I have tried to feel my way towards the heart of that
life. »
Mr. Parker has been entirely successful in his endeavor. What
Bret Harte did for the California of '49 he has done for this region
of the north, with its picturesque, heterogeneous population, and its
untrammeled life. Pierre is a half-breed, a strange mixture of saint
and savage, a wanderer over the purple stretches of the prairies, an
incarnation indeed of the spirit of the region,― primitive, restless,
bearing with ill grace the superimposed yoke of civilization.
people are for the most part like him,- brothers and sisters to the
sun and moon, to the wild mountains and the boundless plains. He
moves in and out among them, participating more in the tragedies
than in the comedies of their lives. Over all the stories of himself


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and his brethren there is the half-earthly light of romance, softening
the records of bloodshed, giving a tenderer grace to wild loves, and a
deeper pathos to obscure deaths; through them all sweeps the wind
of the prairie itself, fresh, invigorating, laden with outdoor scents
and with outdoor sounds. The refreshment of nature itself is part
of the charm of these tales.
In 'When Valmond Came to Pontiac,' a fascinating bit of comedy,
Gilbert Parker has told the story of a lost Napoleon; a youth around
whom clings the magic, elusive atmosphere of a great name and a
great lost cause. The scent of the Imperial violets is always about
him. He comes into the little Canadian village of Pontiac, and into
the hearts of a simple people turning ever back to France, and to
overwhelming traditions of the past. He dies at last for his ideal;
not knowing that he is indeed what he personates, the son of the
Napoleon of St. Helena.
The other stories of Mr. Parker's-Mrs. Facchion,' 'An Unpar-
donable Liar,' 'The Translation of a Savage,' 'An Unpardonable Sin,'
and The Trespasser while not showing the power and originality
of 'Pierre' and 'Valmond,' are yet well written, and wholesome in
spirit. Their author deserves no little commendation for adhering to
an ideal of beautiful and vigorous romance, in an age of literature
which has confounded the work of the scavenger with realistic treat-
ment.
THE PATROL OF THE CYPRESS HILLS
From Pierre and His People. ' Copyright 1894, by Stone & Kimball
"H
E's too ha'sh," said old Alexander Windsor, as he shut the
creaking door of the store after a vanishing figure, and
turned to the big iron stove with outstretched hands;
hands that were cold both summer and winter. He was of lean
and frigid make.
"Sergeant Fones is too ha'sh," he repeated, as he pulled out
the damper and cleaned away the ashes with the iron poker.
Pretty Pierre blew a quick, straight column of cigarette
smoke into the air, tilted his chair back, and said, "I do not
know what you mean by 'ha'sh,' but he is the Devil. Eh, well,
there was more than one devil made sometime in the North-
west. " He laughed softly.
"That gives you a chance in history, Pretty Pierre," said a
voice from behind a pile of woolen goods and buffalo skins in
the centre of the floor. The owner of the voice then walked to


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11050
GILBERT PARKER
the window. He scratched some frost from the pane, and looked
out to where the trooper in dogskin coat, and gauntlets, and
cap, was mounting his broncho. The old man came and stood
near the young man,- the owner of the voice,—and said again,
"He is too ha'sh. "
"Harsh you mean, father," added the other.
"Yes, harsh you mean, Old Brown Windsor,- quite harsh,"
said Pierre.
Alexander Windsor, storekeeper and general dealer, was some-
times called "Old Brown Windsor" and sometimes "Old Aleck,”
to distinguish him from his son, who was known as "Young
Aleck. "
As the old man walked back again to the stove to warm his
hands, Young Aleck continued, "He does his duty: that's all.
If he doesn't wear kid gloves while at it, it's his choice. He
doesn't go beyond his duty. You can bank on that. It'd be
hard to exceed that way out here. "
"True, Young Aleck, so true; but then he wears gloves of
iron, of ice. That is not good. Sometime the glove will be too
hard and cold on a man's shoulder, and then-! Well, I should
like to be there," said Pierre, showing his white teeth.
Old Aleck shivered, and held his fingers where the stove was
red-hot.
The young man did not hear this speech; he was watching
Sergeant Fones as he rode toward the Big Divide. Presently
he said, "He's going towards Humphrey's place. I-» He
stopped, bent his brows, caught one corner of his slight mus-
tache between his teeth, and did not stir a muscle until the Ser-
geant had passed over the Divide.
Old Aleck was meanwhile dilating upon his theme before a
passive listener. But Pierre was only passive outwardly. Besides
hearkening to the father's complaints he was closely watching the
son. Pierre was clever, and a good actor. He had learned the
power of reserve and outward immobility. The Indian in him
helped him there. He had heard what Young Aleck had just
muttered; but to the man of the cold fingers he said, "You keep
good whisky in spite of the law and the iron glove, Old Aleck. "
To the young man, "And you can drink it so free, eh, Young
Aleck? " The half-breed looked out of the corners of his eyes
at the young man, but he did not raise the peak of his fur cap
in doing so, and his glances askance were not seen.


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Young Aleck had been writing something with his finger-nail
on the frost of the pane, over and over again. When Pierre
spoke to him thus he scratched out the word he had written,
with what seemed unnecessary force. But in one corner it re-
mained: "Mab-
>>
-
Pierre added, "That is what they say at Humphrey's ranch. ”
"Who says that at Humphrey's? - Pierre, you lie! " was the
sharp and threatening reply. The significance of this last state-
ment had been often attested on the prairies by the piercing
emphasis of a six-chambered revolver. It was evident that Young
Aleck was in earnest. Pierre's eyes glowed in the shadow, but
he idly replied:-
"I do not remember quite who said it Well, mon ami,
perhaps I lie; perhaps. Sometimes we dream things, and these
dreams are true. You call it a lie: bien! Sergeant Fones, he
dreams perhaps Old Aleck sells whisky against the law to men
you call whisky runners, sometimes to Indians and half-breeds-
half-breeds like Pretty Pierre. That was a dream of Sergeant
Fones; but you see he believes it true. It is good sport, eh?
Will you not take-what is it? -a silent partner? Yes; a silent
partner, Old Aleck. Pretty Pierre has spare time, a little to
make money for his friends and for himself, eh? "
When did not Pierre have time to spare? He was a gam-
bler. Unlike the majority of half-breeds, he had a pronounced
French manner, nonchalant and debonair. The Indian in him
gave him coolness and nerve. His cheeks had a tinge of deli-
cate red under their whiteness, like those of a woman. That
was why he was called Pretty Pierre. The country had, how-
ever, felt a kind of weird menace in the name. It was used to
snakes whose rattle gave notice of approach or signal of danger.
But Pretty Pierre was like the death-adder, small and beautiful,
silent and deadly. At one time he had made a secret of his
trade, or thought he was doing so. In those days he was often
to be seen at David Humphrey's home, and often in talk with
Mab Humphrey; but it was there one night that the man who
was ha'sh gave him his true character, with much candor and no
comment.
Afterwards Pierre was not seen at Humphrey's ranch. Men
prophesied that he would have revenge some day on Sergeant
Fones; but he did not show anything on which this opinion could


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GILBERT PARKER
11052
be based.
gambler.
Young Aleck had inherited some money through his dead
mother from his grandfather, a Hudson's Bay factor. He had
been in the East for some years, and when he came back he
brought his "little pile" and an impressionable heart with him.
The former, Pretty Pierre and his friends set about to win; the
latter, Mab Humphrey won without the trying. Yet Mab gave
Young Aleck as much as he gave her. More. Because her love
sprang from a simple, earnest, and uncontaminated life. Her
purity and affection were being played against Pierre's designs
and Young Aleck's weakness. With Aleck cards and liquor went
together. Pierre seldom drank.
But what of Sergeant Fones? If the man that knew him
best the Commandant - had been asked for his history, the
reply would have been: "Five years in the Service, rigid dis-
ciplinarian, best non-commissioned officer on the Patrol of the
Cypress Hills. " That was all the Commandant knew.
A soldier-policeman's life on the frontier is rough, solitary,
and severe. Active duty and responsibility are all that makes it
endurable. To few is it fascinating. A free and thoughtful
nature would however find much in it, in spite of great hard-
ships, to give interest and even pleasure. The sense of breadth
and vastness, and the inspiration of pure air, could be a very
gospel of strength, beauty, and courage, to such a one-for a
time. But was Sergeant Fones such a one? The Command-
ant's scornful reply to a question of the kind would have been:
"He is the best soldier on the Patrol. "
-
He took no umbrage at being called Pretty Pierre the
But for all that he was possessed of a devil.
And so, with hard gallops here and there after the refugees
of crime or misfortune, or both, who fled before them like deer
among the passes of the hills, and like deer at bay, often fought.
like demons to the death; with border watchings, and protection
and care and vigilance of the Indians; with hurried marches.
at sunrise, the thermometer at fifty degrees below zero often in
winter, and open camps beneath the stars, and no camp at all,
as often as not, winter and summer; with rough barrack fun and
parade and drill and guard of prisoners; and with chances now
and then to pay homage to a woman's face,-the Mounted Force
grew full of the Spirit of the West and became brown, val-
iant, and hardy, with wind and weather. Perhaps some of them


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GILBERT PARKER
11053
longed to touch, oftener than they did, the hands of children, and
to consider more the faces of women, for hearts are hearts even
under a belted coat of red on the Fiftieth Parallel,- but men of
nerve do not blazon their feelings.
No one would have accused Sergeant Fones of having a heart.
Men of keen discernment would have seen in him the little Bis-
marck of the Mounted Police. His name carried farther on the
Cypress Hills Patrol than any other; and yet his officers could
never say that he exceeded his duty or enlarged upon the orders
he received. He had no sympathy with crime. Others of the
force might wink at it; but his mind appeared to sit severely
upright upon the cold platform of Penalty, in beholding breaches
of the Statutes. He would not have rained upon the unjust as the
just if he had had the directing of the heavens. As private Gel-
latly put it: "Sergeant Fones has the fear o' God in his heart,
and the law of the land across his saddle, and the newest breech-
loading at that! " He was part of the great machine of Order,
the servant of Justice, the sentinel in the vestibule of Martial
Law. His interpretation of duty worked upward as downward.
Officers and privates were acted on by the force known as
Sergeant Fones. Some people, like Old Brown Windsor, spoke
hardly and openly of this force. There were three people who
never did,— Pretty Pierre, Young Aleck, and Mab Humphrey.
Pierre hated him; Young Aleck admired in him a quality lying.
dormant in himself,-decision; Mab Humphrey spoke unkindly
of no one. Besides- But no!
―――――
-
What was Sergeant Fones's country? No one knew. Where
had he come from? No one asked him more than once. He
could talk French with Pierre,-a kind of French that sometimes
made the undertone of red in the Frenchman's cheeks darker.
He had been heard to speak German to a German prisoner;
and once when a gang of Italians were making trouble on a line
of railway under construction, he arrested the leader, and in a
few swift, sharp words in the language of the rioters settled the
business. He had no accent that betrayed his nationality.
He had been recommended for a commission. The officer
in command had hinted that the sergeant might get a Christmas
present. The officer had further said, "And if it was something
that both you and the patrol would be the better for, you couldn't
object, sergeant. " But the sergeant only saluted, looking steadily
into the eyes of the officer. That was his reply.


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11054
GILBERT PARKER
Private Gellatly, standing without, heard Sergeant Fones say,
as he passed into the open air, and slowly bared his forehead to
the winter sun:
"Exactly. "
And Private Gellatly cried with revolt in his voice, "Divils
me own, the word that a't to have been full o' joy was like the
clip of a rifle breech. "
Justice in a new country is administered with promptitude
and vigor, or else not administered at all. Where an officer
of the Mounted Police Soldiery has all the powers of a magis-
trate, the law's delay and the insolence of office has little space
in which to work. One of the commonest slips of virtue in the
Canadian West was selling whisky contrary to the law of prohi-
bition which prevailed. Whisky runners were land smugglers.
Old Brown Windsor had somehow got the reputation of being
connected with the whisky runners; not a very respectable busi-
ness, and thought to be dangerous. Whisky runners were in-
clined to resent intrusion of their privacy, with a touch of that
biting inhospitableness which a moonlighter of Kentucky uses
toward an inquisitive, unsympathetic marshal. On the Cypress
Hills Patrol, however, the erring servants of Bacchus were hav-
ing a hard time of it. Vigilance never slept there in the days of
which these lines bear record. Old Brown Windsor had, in words,
freely espoused the cause of the sinful. To the careless spectator
it seemed a charitable siding with the suffering; a proof that the
old man's heart was not so cold as his hands. Sergeant Fones
thought differently; and his mission had just been to warn the
storekeeper that there was menacing evidence gathering against
him, and that his friendship with Golden Feather, the Indian
chief, had better cease at once. Sergeant Fones had a way of
putting things. Old Brown Windsor endeavored for a moment
to be sarcastic. This was the brief dialogue in the domain of
sarcasm:-
"I s'pose you just lit round in a friendly sort of way, hopin'
that I'd kenoodle with you later. "
"Exactly. "
There was an unpleasant click to the word. The old man's
hands got colder. He had nothing more to say.
Before leaving, the sergeant said something quietly and
quickly to Young Aleck. Pierre observed, but could not hear.
Young Aleck was uneasy; Pierre was perplexed.
The sergeant


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11055
turned at the door, and said in French, "What are your chances
for a Merry Christmas at Pardon's Drive, Pretty Pierre ? » Pierre
said nothing. He shrugged his shoulders, and as the door closed,
muttered, "Il est le Diable. " And he meant it. What should
Sergeant Fones know of that intended meeting at Pardon's Drive
on Christmas day? And if he knew, what then? It was not
against the law to play euchre. Still it perplexed Pierre. Before
the Windsors, father and son, however, he was, as we have seen,
playfully cool.
After quitting Old Brown Windsor's store, Sergeant Fones
urged his stout broncho to a quicker pace than usual. The bron-
cho was, like himself, wasteful of neither action nor affection.
The sergeant had caught him wild and independent, had brought
him in, broken him, and taught him obedience. They understood
each other; perhaps they loved each other. But about that, even
Private Gellatly had views in common with the general sentiment
as to the character of Sergeant Fones. The private remarked
once on this point, "Sarpints alive!