University of Virginia Library

10. THE RIVAL MECHANICIANS.

“I am growing old; my sight is failing very
fast,” said a famous watch-maker of Geneva, as he
wiped his spectacles to examine several chronometers,
which his two apprentices laid before him.
“Well done! Very well done, my lads,” said he.
“I hardly know which of you will best supply the
place of old Antoine Breguet. Thirty years ago,
(pardon an old man's vanity,) I could have borne
away the palm from a hundred like ye. But my
sight is dim, and my hands tremble. I must retire
from the place I have occupied in this busy world;
and I confess I should like to give up my famous
old stand to a worthy successor. Whichever of
you produces the most perfect piece of mechanism
before the end of two years shall be my partner
and representative, if Rosabella and I both agree in
the decision.”

The grand-daughter, who was busily spinning
flax, looked up bashfully, and met the glance of the
two young men. The countenance of one flushed,
and his eye sparkled; the other turned very pale,
and there was a painfully deep intensity in his fixed
gaze.

The one who blushed was Florien Arnaud, a

youth from the French Cantons. He was slender
and graceful in figure, with beautiful features, clear
blue eyes, and a complexion fresh as Hylas, when
the enamored water-nymphs carried him away in
their arms. He danced like a zephyr, and sang
little airy French romanzas in the sweetest of tenor
voices.

The one who turned pale was Pierre Berthoud,
of Geneva. He had massy features, a bulky frame,
and clumsy motions. But the shape of his head
indicated powerful intellect, and his great dark eyes
glowed from under the pent-house of his brows, like
a forge at midnight. He played on the bass-viol
and the trombone, and when he sang, the tones
sounded as if they came up from deep iron mines.

Rosabella turned quickly away from their expressive
glances, and blushing deeply resumed her
spinning. The Frenchman felt certain the blush
was for him; the Genevan thought he would willingly
give his life to be sure it was for him. But
unlike as the young men were in person and character,
and both attracted toward the same lovely
maiden, they were yet extremely friendly to each
other, and usually found enjoyment in the harmonious
contrast of their different gifts. The first feeling
of estrangement that came between them was
one evening, when Florien sang remarkably well,
and Rosabella accompanied him on her guitar. She
evidently enjoyed the graceful music with all her
soul. Her countenance was more radiantly beautiful

than usual, and when the fascinating singer rose
to go, she begged him to sing another favorite song,
and then another and another. “She never urges
me to sing with her,” said Pierre, as he and Florien
retired for the night. “And with very good reason,”
replied his friend, laughing. “Your stentorian
tones would quite drown her weak sweet voice,
and her light touch on the guitar. You might as
well have a hammer-and-anvil accompaniment to a
Canary bird.” Seeing discontent in the countenance
of his companion, he added soothingly, “Nay,
my good friend, don't be offended by this playful
comparison. Your voice is magnificently strong
and beautifully correct, but it is made for grander
things than those graceful little garlands of sound,
which Rosabella and I weave so easily.”

Pierre sprang up quickly, and went to the other
side of the room. “Rosabella and I,” were sounds
that went hissing through his heart, like a red-hot
arrow. But his manly efforts soon conquered the
jealous feeling, and he said cheerfully, “Well, Florien,
let us accept the offer of good Father Breguet.
We will try our skill fairly and honorably, and
leave him and Rosabella to decide, without knowing
which is your work and which is mine.”

Florien suppressed a rising smile; for he thought
to himself, “She will know my workmanship, as
easily as she could distinguish my fairy romanzas
from your Samson solos.” But he replied, right
cordially, “Honestly and truly, Pierre, I think we

are as mechanicians very nearly equal in skill. But
let us both tax our ingenuity to invent something
which will best please Rosabella. Her birth-day
comes in about six months. In honor of the occasion,
I will make some ornaments for the little arbor
facing the brook, where she loves to sit, in pleasant
weather, and read to the good old grandfather.

“I will do the same,” answered Pierre; “only
let both our ornaments be machines.” They clasped
hands, and looking frankly into each other's eyes,
ratified the agreement. From that hour, they spoke
no more to each other on the subject till the long-anticipated
day arrived. The old watch-maker and
his grandchild were invited to the arbor, to pass
judgment on the productions of his pupils. A
screen was placed before a portion of the brook,
and they sat quietly waiting for it to be removed.
“That duck is of a singular color,” exclaimed the
young girl. “What a solemn looking fellow he
is!” The bird, without paying any attention to her
remarks, waddled into the water, drank, lifted up
his bill to the sky, as if giving thanks for his refreshment,
flapped his wings, floated to the edge
of the brook, and waddled on the grass again.
When Father Breguet threw some crumbs of cake
on the ground, the duck picked them up with apparent
satisfaction. He was about to scatter more
crumbs, when Rosabella exclaimed, “Why, grandfather,
this is not a duck! It is made of bronze.
See how well it is done.”

The old man took it up and examined it. “Really,
I do not think any thing could be more perfect
than this,” he said. “How exquisitely the feathers
are carved! and truly the creature seems alive. He
who beats this must be a skilful mechanician.”

At these words, Pierre and Florien stepped forward,
hand in hand, and bowing to their master,
removed the temporary screen. On a black marble
pedestal in the brook was seated a bronze Naiad,
leaning on an overflowing vase. The figure was
inexpressibly graceful; a silver star with brilliant
points gleamed on her forehead, and in her hand
she held a silver bell, beautifully inlaid with gold
and steel. There was a smile about her mouth,
and she leaned over, as if watching for something
in a little cascade which flowed down a channel in
the pedestal. Presently, she raised her hand and
sounded the bell. A beautiful little gold fish
obeyed the summons, and glided down the channel,
his burnished sides glittering in the sun. Eleven
times more she rang the bell, and each time the
gold fish darted forth. It was exactly noon, and
the water-nymph was a clock.

The watch-maker and his daughter were silent.
It was so beautiful, that they could not easily find
words to express their pleasure. “You need not
speak, my master,” said Pierre, in a manly but sorrowful
tone; “I myself decide in favor of Florien.
The clock is his.”

“The interior workmanship is not yet examined,”

rejoined his amiable competitor. “There is not a
better mechanician in all Switzerland, than Pierre
Berthoud.”

“Ah, but you know how to invest equally good
workmanship with grace and beauty,” replied the
more heavily moulded Genevan.

“Study the Graces, my boy; make yourself familiar
with models of beauty,” said old Antoine
Breguet, laying a friendly hand upon the young
man's shoulder.

“I should but imitate, and he creates,” answered
Pierre, despondingly; “and worst of all, my good
master, I hate myself because I envy him.”

“But you have many and noble gifts, Pierre,”
said Rosabella, gently. “You know how delightfully
very different instruments combine in harmony.
Grandfather says your workmanship will
be far more durable than Florien's. Perhaps you
may both be his partners.”

“But which of us will be thine?” thought Pierre.
He smothered a deep sigh, and only answered, “I
thank you, Rosabella.”

Well aware that these envious feelings were unworthy
of a noble soul, he contended with them
bravely, and treated Florien even more cordially
than usual. “I will follow our good master's advice,”
said he; “I will try to clothe my good
machinery in forms of beauty. Let us both make
a watch for Rosabella, and present it to her on her
next birth-day. You will rival me, no doubt; for

the Graces threw their garlands on you when you
were born.” “Bravo!” shouted Florien, laughing
and clapping his hands. “The poetry is kindling
up in your soul. I always told you that you would
be a poet, if you could only express what was in
you.”

“And your soul expresses itself so easily, so fluently!”
said Pierre, with a sigh.

“Because my springs lie so near the surface, and
yours have depths to come from,” replied his good-natured
companion.

“The worst of it is, the cord is apt to break
before I can draw up my weighty treasures,” rejoined
Pierre, with a smile. “There is no help
for it. There will always be the same difference
between us, that there is in our names. I am a
rock, and you are a flower. I might be hewed
and chiselled into harmonious proportions; but
you grow into beauty.”

“Then be a rock, and a magnificent one,” replied
his friend, “and let the flower grow at your
feet.”

“That sounds modestly and well,” answered
Pierre; “but I wish to be a flower, because—”

“Because what?” inquired Florien, though he
half guessed the secret, from his embarrassed manner.

“Because I think Rosabella likes flowers better
than rocks,” replied Pierre, with uncommon quickness,
as if the words gave him pain.

On New Year's day, the offerings, enclosed in
one box, were presented by the good grandfather.
The first was a golden apple, which opened and
revealed on one side an exquisitely neat watch,
surrounded by a garland tastefully wrought in rich
damaskeening of steel and gold; on the other side
was a rose intertwined with forget-me-nots, very
perfectly done in mosaic. When the stem of the
apple was turned, a favourite little tune of Rosabella's
sounded from within.

“This is surely Florien's,” thought she; and she
looked for the other gift with less interest. It was
an elegant little gold watch, with a Persian landscape,
a gazelle and birds of Paradise beautifully
engraved on the back. When a spring was touched,
the watch opened, a little circular plate of gold slid
away, and up came a beautiful rose, round which a
jewelled bee buzzed audibly. On the edge of the
golden circle below were the words Rosa bella in
ultramarine enamel. When another spring was
touched, the rose went away, and the same melody
that sounded from the heart of the golden apple
seemed to be played by fairies on tinkling dewdrops.
It paused a moment, and then struck up a
lively dance. The circular plate again rolled away,
and up sprung an inch-tall opera-dancer, with enamelled
scarf, and a very small diamond on her
brow. Leaping and whirling on an almost invisible
thread of gold, she kept perfect time to the
music, and turned her scarf most gracefully. Rosabella

drew a long breath, and a roseate tinge mantled
her beautiful face, as she met her grandfather's
gaze fixed lovingly upon her. She thought to herself,
“There is no doubt now which is Florien's;”
but she said aloud, “They are both very beautiful;
are they not, dear grandfather? I am not worthy
that so much pains should be taken to please me.”
The old man smiled upon her, and loudly patted
the luxuriant brown hair, which shone like threads
of amber in the sun. “Which dost thou think most
beautiful?” said he.

She evaded the question, by asking, “Which do
you?”

“I will tell thee when thou hast decided,” answered
he.

She twisted and untwisted the strings of her
boddice, and said she was afraid she should not be
impartial. “Why not?” he inquired. She looked
down bashfully, and murmured, in a very low voice,
“Because I can easily guess which is Florien's.”

“Ah, ha,” exclaimed the kind old man; and he
playfully chucked her under the chin, as he added,
“Then I suppose I shall offend thee when I give a
verdict for the bee and the opera-dancer?”

She looked up blushing, and her large serious
brown eyes had for a moment a comic expression,
as she said, “I shall do the same.”

Never were disciples of the beautiful placed in circumstances
more favourable to the development of
poetic souls. The cottage of Antoine Breguet was

In the stillness of the night, they could hear the
“rushing of the arrowy Rhone.” From a neighbouring
eminence could be seen the transparent Lake
of Geneva, reflecting the deep blue heaven above.
Mountains, in all fantastic forms, enclosed them
round; now draped in heavy masses of sombre
clouds, and now half revealed through sun-lighted
vapour, like a veil of gold. The flowing silver of
little waterfalls gleamed among the dark rocks.
Grape-vines hung their rich festoons by the roadside,
and the beautiful barberry bush embroidered
their leaves with its scarlet clusters. They lived
under the same roof with a guileless good old man,
and with an innocent maiden, just merging into
beautiful womanhood; and more than all, they
were both under the influence of that great inspirer,
Love.

Rosabella was so uniformly kind to both, that
Pierre could never relinquish the hope that constant
devotedness might in time win her affections
for himself. Florien, having a more cheerful character,
and more reliance on his own fascinations,
was merely anxious that the lovely maiden should

prefer his workmanship, as decidedly as she did his
person and manners. Under this powerful stimulus,
in addition to the ambition excited by the old
watch-maker's proposal, the competition between
them was active and incessant. But the ground-work
of their characters was so good, that all little
heart-burnings of envy or jealousy were quickly
checked by the predominance of generous and
kindly sentiments.

One evening, Rosabella was reading to her grandfather
a description of an albino squirrel. The pure
white animal, with pink eyes and a feathery tail,
pleased her fancy extremely, and she expressed a
strong desire to see one. Pierre said nothing; but
not long after, as they sat eating grapes after dinner,
a white squirrel leaped on the table, frisked
from shoulder to shoulder, and at last sat up with a
grape in its paws. Rosabella uttered an exclamation
of delight. “Is it alive?” she said. “Do you
not see that it is?” rejoined Pierre. “Call the dog,
and see what he thinks about it.”

“We have so many things here, which are alive
and yet not alive,” she replied, smiling.

“Florien warmly praised the pretty automaton;
but he was somewhat vexed that he himself did
not think of making the graceful little animal for
which the maiden had expressed a wish. Her pet
Canary had died the day before, and his eye happened
to rest on the empty cage hanging over the
flower-stand. “I too will give her a pleasure,”

thought he. A few weeks after, as they sat at
breakfast, sweet notes were heard from the cage,
precisely the same the Canary used to sing; and,
looking up, the astonished maiden saw him hopping
about, nibbling at the sugar and pecking his
feathers, as lively as ever. Florien smiled, and
said, “Is it as much alive as Pierre's squirrel?”

The approach of the next birth-day was watched
with eager expectation; for even the old man began
to feel keen pleasure in the competition, as if he
had witnessed a race between fleet horses. Pierre,
excited by the maiden's declaration that she mistook
his golden apple for Florien's workmanship,
produced a much more elegant specimen of art than
he had ever before conceived. It was a barometer,
supported by two knights in silver chain-armour,
who went in when it rained, and came out when the
sun shone. On the top of the barometer was a small
silver basket, of exceedingly delicate workmanship,
filled with such flowers as close in damp weather.
When the knights retired, these flowers closed their
enamelled petals, and when the knights returned,
the flowers expanded.

Florien produced a silver chariot, with two spirited
and finely proportioned horses. A revolving
circle in the wheels showed on what day of the
month occurred each day of the week, throughout
the year. Each month was surmounted by its zodical
sign, beautifully enamelled in green, crimson
and gold. At ten o'clock the figure of a young girl,

wearing Rosabella's usual costume, and resembling
her in form and features, ascended slowly from behind
the wheel, and at the same moment, the three
Graces rose up in the chariot and held garlands
over her. From the axle-tree emerged a young
man, in Florien's dress, and kneeling offered a rose
to the maiden.

It was so beautiful as a whole and so exquisitely
finished in all its details, that Pierre clenched his
fingers till the nails cut him, so hard did he try to
conceal the bitterness of his disappointment at his
own manifest inferiority. Could he have been an
hour alone, all would have been well. But, as he
stepped out on the piazza, followed by Florien, he
saw him kiss his hand triumphantly to Rosabella,
and she returned it with a modest but expressive
glance. Unfortunately, he held in his hand a jewelled
dagger, of Turkish workmanship, which Antoine
Breguet had asked him to return to its case
in the workshop. Stung with disappointed love
and ambition, the tempestuous feelings so painfully
restrained burst forth like a whirlwhind. Quick as
a flash of lightning, he made a thrust at his graceful
rival. Then frightened at what he had done,
and full of horror at thoughts of Rosabella's distress,
he rushed into the road, and up the sides of the
mountain, like a madman.

A year passed, and no one heard tidings of him.
On the anniversary of Rosabella's birth, the aged

grandsire sat alone, sunning his white locks at the
open window, when Pierre Barthoud entered, pale
and haggard. He was such a skeleton of his former
self that his master did not recognize him, till
he knelt at his feet, and said, “Forgive me, father.
I am Pierre.”

The poor old man shook violently, and covered
his face with trembling hands. “Ah, thou wretched
one,” said he, “how darest thou come hither, with
murder on thy soul?”

“Murder?” exclaimed Pierre, in a voice so terribly
deep and distinct, that it seemed to freeze the
feeble blood of him who listened. “Is he then
dead? Did I kill the beautiful youth, whom I
loved so much?” He fell forward on the floor, and
the groan that came from his strong chest was like
an earthquake tearing up trees by the roots.

Antoine Breguet was deeply moved, and the
tears flowed fast over his furrowed face. “Rise,
my son,” said he, “and make thy escape, lest they
come to arrest thee.”

“Let them come,” replied Pierre, gloomily;
“Why should I live?” Then raising his head
from the floor, he said slowly, and with great fear,
“Father, where is Rosabella?”

The old man covered his face, and sobbed out,
“I shall never see her again! These old eyes will
never again look on her blessed face.” Many minutes
they remained thus, and when he repeated,
“I shall never see her again!” the young man

clasped his feet convulsively, and groaned in agony.

At last the housekeeper came in; a woman whom
Pierre had known and loved in boyhood. When
her first surprise was over, she promised to conceal
his arrival, and persuaded him to go to the garret
and try to compose his too strongly excited feelings.
In the course of the day she explained to him how
Florien had died of his wound, and how Rosabella
pined away in silent melancholy, often sitting at
the spinning wheel with the suspended thread in
her hand, as if unconscious where she was. During
all that wretched night the young man could not
close his eyes in sleep. Phantoms of the past flitted
through his brain, and remorse gnawed at his heart-strings.
In the deep stillness of midnight, he seemed
to hear the voice of the bereaved old man sounding
mournfully distinct, “I shall never see her again!”
He prayed earnestly to die; but suddenly an idea
flashed into his mind, and revived his desire to
live. Full of his new project, he rose early and
sought his good old master. Sinking on his knees
he exclaimed, “Oh, my father, say that you forgive
me! I implore you to give my guilty soul that one
gleam of consolation. Believe me, I would sooner
have died myself, than have killed him. But my
passions were by nature so strong! Oh, God forgive
me, they were so strong! How I have curbed
them, He alone knows. Alas, that they should
have burst the bounds in that one mad moment,

and destroyed the two I best loved on earth. Oh,
father, can you say that you forgive me?”

With quivering voice he replied, “I do forgive
you, and bless you, my poor son.” He laid his
hand affectionately on the thick matted hair, and
added, “I too have need of forgiveness. I did
very wrong thus to put two generous natures in
rivalship with each other. A genuine love of
beauty, for its own sake is the only healthy stimulus
to produce the beautiful. The spirit of competition
took you out of your sphere, and placed you
in a false position. In grand conceptions, and in
works of durability and strength, you would always
have excelled Florien, as much as he surpassed
you in tastefulness and elegance. By striving
to be what he was, you parted with your own
gifts, without attaining to his. Every man in the
natural sphere of his own talent, and all in harmony;
this is the true order, my son; and I
tempted you to violate it. In my foolish pride, I
earnestly desired to have a world-renowned successor
to the famous Antoine Breguet. I wanted
that the old stand should be kept up in all its glory,
and continue to rival all competitors. I thought
you could super-add Florien's gifts to your own,
and yet retain your own characteristic excellencies.
Therefore, I stimulated your intellect and imagination
to the utmost, without reflecting that your
heart might break in the process. God forgive
me; it was too severe a trial for poor human

nature. And do thou, my son, forgive this insane
ambition; for severely has my pride been
humbled."

Pierre could not speak, but he covered the
wrinkled hands with kisses, and clasped his knees
convulsively. At last he said, "Let me remain
concealed here for a while. You shall see her
again; only give me time." When he explained
that he would make Rosabella's likeness, from
memory, the sorrowing parent shook his head and
sighed, as he answered, "Ah, my son, the soul in
her eye, and the light grace of her motions, no art
can restore."

But to Pierre's excited imagination there was
henceforth only one object in life; and that was to
re-produce Rosabella. In the keen conflict of
competition, under the fiery stimulus of love and
ambition, his strong impetuous soul had become
machine-mad; and now overwhelming grief centered
all his stormy energies on one object. Day
by day, in the loneliness of his garret, he worked
upon the image till he came to love it, almost as
much as he had loved the maiden herself. Antoine
Breguet readily supplied materials. From childhood
he had been interested in all forms of mechanism;
and this image, so intertwined with his
affections, took strong hold of his imagination also.
Nearly a year had passed away, when the housekeeper,
who was in the secret, came to ask for
Rosabella's hair, and the dress she usually wore.

The old man gave her the keys, and wiped the
starting tears, as he turned silently away. A few
days after, Pierre invited him to come and look
upon his work. "Do not go too suddenly," he
said; "prepare yourself for a shock; for indeed it
is very like our lost one."

"I will go, I will go," replied the old man,
eagerly. "Am I not accustomed to see all man
ner of automata and androides? Did I not myself
make a flute-player, which performed sixteen tunes,
to the admiration of all who heard him? And
think you I am to be frightened by an image?"

"Not frightened, dear father," answered Pierre;
"but I was afraid you might be overcome with
emotion." He led him into the apartment, and
said, "Shall I remove the veil now? Can you
bear it, dear father?"

"I can," was the calm reply. But when the
curtain was withdrawn, he started, and exclaimed,
"Santa Maria! It is Rosabella! She is not dead!"
He tottered forward, and kissed the cold lips and
the cold hands, and tears rained on the bright
brown hair, as he cried out, "My child! my
child!"

When the tumult of feeling had subsided, the
aged mourner kissed Pierre's hands, and said, "It
is wonderfully like her, in every feature and every
tint. It seems as if it would move and breathe."

"She will move and breathe," replied Pierre;
only give me time."

His voice sounded so wildly, and his great deep-set
eyes burned with such intense enthusiasm, that
his friend was alarmed. They clasped each other's
hands, and spoke more quietly of the beloved one.
“This is all that remains to us, Pierre,” said the
old man. “We are alone in the world. You
were a friendless orphan when you came to me:
and I am childless.”

With a passionate outburst of grief, the young
man replied, “And it was I, my benefactor, who
made you so. Wretch that I am!”

From that time the work went on with greater
zeal than ever. Pierre often forgot to taste of
food, so absorbed was he in the perfection of his
machine. First, the arms moved obedient to his
wishes, then the eyes turned, and the lips parted.
Meanwhile, his own face grew thinner and paler,
and his eyes glowed with a wilder fire.

Finally, it was whispered in the village that
Pierre Berthoud was concealed in Antoine Breguet's
cottage: and officers came to arrest him.
But the venerable old watch-maker told the story
so touchingly, and painted so strongly the young
man's consuming agony of grief and remorse, and
pleaded so earnestly that he might be allowed to
finish a wonderful image of his beautiful grand-child,
that they promised not to disturb him till
the work was accomplished.

Two years from the day of Pierre's return, on
the anniversary of the memorable birth-day, he

said, “Now, my father, I have done all that art
can do. Come and see the beautiful one.” He
led him into the little room where Rosabella used
to work. There she sat, spinning diligently. The
beautifully formed bust rose and fell under her
neat boddice. Her lips were parted, and her eyes
followed the direction of the thread. But what
made it seem more fearfully like life, was the fact
that ever and anon the wheel rested, and the maiden
held the suspended thread, with her eye-lids lowered,
as if she were lost in thought. Above the
flower-stand, near by, hung the bird-cage, with
Florien's artificial canary. The pretty little automaton
had been silent long; but now its springs
were set in motion, and it poured forth all its melodies.

The bereaved old man pressed Pierre's hand, and
gazed upon his darling grand-child silently. He
caused his arm-chair to be brought into the room,
and ever after, while he retained his faculties, he
refused to sit elsewhere.

The fame of this remarkable android soon spread
through all the region round about. The citizens
of Geneva united in an earnest petition that the
artist might be excused from any penalty for the
accidental murder he had committed. Members of
the State Council came and looked at the breathing
maiden, and touched the beautiful flesh, which
seemed as if it would yield to their pressure. They
saw the wild haggard artist, with lines of suffering

cut so deeply in his youthful brow, and they at
once granted the prayer of the citizens.

But Pierre had nothing more to live for. His
work in the world was done. The artificial energy,
supplied by one absorbing idea was gone; and the
contemplation of his own work was driving him to
madness. It so closely resembled life that he longed
more and more to have it live. The lustrous eyes
moved, but they had no light from the soul, and
they would not answer to his earnest gaze. The
beautiful lips parted, but they never spoke kind
words, as in days of yore. The image began to fill
him with supernatural awe, yet he was continually
drawn toward it by a magic influence. Three
months after its completion, he was found at daylight,
lying at its feet, stone dead.

Antoine Breguet survived him two years. During
the first eighteen months, he was never willing
to have the image of his lost darling out of sight.
The latter part of the time, he often whistled to the
bird, and talked to her, and seemed to imagine that
she answered him. But with increasing imbecility,
Rosabella was forgotten. He sometimes asked,
“Who is that young woman?” At last he said,
“Send her away. She looks at me.”

The magic-lantern of departing memory then
presented a phantom of his wife, dead long ago.
He busied himself with making imaginary watches
and rings for her, and held long conversations, as
if she were present. Afterward, the wife was likewise

forgotten, and he was occupied entirely with
his mother, and the scenes of early childhood.
Finally he wept often, and repeated continually,
“They are all waiting for me; and I want to go
home.” When he was little more than eighty years
old, compassionate angels took the weary pilgrim
in their arms, and carried him home.