 | Castle nowhere |  |
SOLOMON.
MIDWAY in the eastern part of Ohio lies the
coal country; round-topped hills there begin
to show themselves in the level plain, trending back
from Lake Erie; afterwards rising higher and higher,
they stretch away into Pennsylvania and are dignified
by the name of Alleghany Mountains. But no names
have they in their Ohio birthplace, and little do the
people care for them, save as storehouses for fuel. The
roads lie along the slow-moving streams, and the farmers
ride slowly over them in their broad-wheeled wagons,
now and then passing dark holes in the bank from
whence come little carts into the sunshine, and men,
like silhouettes, walking behind them, with glow-worm
lamps fastened in their hat-bands. Neither farmers
nor miners glance up towards the hilltops; no doubt
they consider them useless mounds, and, were it not
for the coal, they would envy their neighbors of the
grain-country, whose broad, level fields stretch unbroken
through Central Ohio; as, however, the canalboats
go away full, and long lines of coal-cars go away
comes back from the great iron-mills of Pittsburgh,
Cincinnati, and Cleveland, the coal country, though
unknown in a picturesque point of view, continues to
grow rich and prosperous.
Yet picturesque it is, and no part more so than the
valley where stands the village of the quaint German
Community on the banks of the slow-moving Tuscarawas
River. One October day we left the lake behind
us and journeyed inland, following the water-courses
and looking forward for the first glimpse of rising
ground; blue are the waters of Erie on a summer day,
red and golden are its autumn sunsets, but so level, so
deadly level are its shores that, at times, there comes
a longing for the sight of distant hills. Hence our
journey. Night found us still in the “Western Reserve.”
Ohio has some queer names of her own for
portions of her territory, the “Fire Lands,” the “Donation
Grant,” the “Salt Section,” the “Refugee's
Tract,” and the “Western Reserve” are names well
known, although not found on the maps. Two days
more and we came into the coal country; near by were
the “Moravian Lands,” and at the end of the last day's
ride we crossed a yellow bridge over a stream called
the “One-Leg Creek.”
“I have tried in vain to discover the origin of this
name,” I said, as we leaned out of the carriage to watch
the red leaves float down the slow tide.
“Create one, then. A one-legged soldier, a farmer's
pretty daughter, an elopement in a flat-bottomed boat,
and a home upon this stream which yields its stores of
catfish for their support,” suggested Erminia.
“The original legend would be better than that if we
could only find it, for real life is always better than
fiction,” I answered.
“In real life we are all masked; but in fiction the
author shows the faces as they are, Dora.”
“I do not believe we are all masked, Erminia. I
can read my friends like a printed page.”
“O, the wonderful faith of youth!” said Erminia,
retiring upon her seniority.
Presently the little church on the hill came into
view through a vista in the trees. We passed the mill
and its flowing race, the blacksmith's shop, the great
grass meadow, and drew up in front of the quaint hotel
where the trustees allowed the world's people, if uninquisitive
and decorous, to remain in the Community
for short periods of time, on the payment of three dollars
per week for each person. This village was our
favorite retreat, our little hiding-place in the hill-country;
at that time it was almost as isolated as a solitary
island, for the Community owned thousands of outlying
acres and held no intercourse with the surrounding
townships. Content with their own, unmindful of the
rest of the world, these Germans grew steadily richer
and richer, solving quietly the problem of co-operative
vain with newspapers, orators, and even cannon to aid
them. The members of the Community were no ascetic
anchorites; each tiled roof covered a home with a
thrifty mother and train of grave little children, the
girls in short-waisted gowns, kerchiefs, and frilled caps,
and the boys in tailed coats, long-flapped vests, and
trousers, as soon as they were able to toddle. We
liked them all, we liked the life; we liked the mountain-high
beds, the coarse snowy linen, and the remarkable
counterpanes; we liked the cream-stewed chicken,
the Käse-lab, and fresh butter, but, best of all, the hot
bretzels for breakfast. And let not the hasty city imagination
turn to the hard, salty, sawdust cake in the
shape of a broken-down figure eight which is served
with lager-beer in saloons and gardens. The Community
bretzel was of a delicate flaky white in the
inside, shading away into a golden-brown crust of crisp
involutions, light as a feather, and flanked by little
pats of fresh, unsalted butter, and a deep-blue cup
wherein the coffee was hot, the cream yellow, and the
sugar broken lumps from the old-fashioned loaf, now
alas! obsolete.
We stayed among the simple people and played at
shepherdesses and pastorellas; we adopted the hours
of the birds, we went to church on Sunday and sang
German chorals as old as Luther. We even played at
work to the extent of helping gather apples, eating the
wains. But one day we heard of a new diversion, a
sulphur-spring over the hills about two miles from the
hotel on land belonging to the Community; and, obeying
the fascination which earth's native medicines exercise
over all earth's children, we immediately started in
search of the nauseous spring. The road wound over
the hill, past one of the apple-orchards, where the girls
were gathering the red fruit, and then down a little
declivity where the track branched off to the Community
coal-mine; then a solitary stretch through the
thick woods, a long hill with a curve, and at the foot a
little dell with a patch of meadow, a brook, and a log-house
with overhanging roof, a forlorn house unpainted
and desolate. There was not even the blue door which
enlivened many of the Community dwellings. “This
looks like the huts of the Black Forest,” said Erminia.
“Who would have supposed that we should find such
an antique in Ohio!”
“I am confident it was built by the M. B.'s,” I replied.
“They tramped, you know, extensively through
the State, burying axes and leaving every now and
then a mastodon behind them.”
“Well, if the Mound-Builders selected this site
they showed good taste,” said Erminia, refusing, in her
afternoon indolence, the argumentum nonsensicum with
which we were accustomed to enliven our conversation.
It was, indeed, a lovely spot, — the little meadow,
over the pebbles, and the hills, gay in red and
yellow foliage, rising abruptly on all sides. After some
labor we swung open the great gate and entered the
yard, crossed the brook on a mossy plank, and followed
the path through the grass towards the lonely house.
An old shepherd-dog lay at the door of a dilapidated
shed, like a block-house, which had once been a stable;
he did not bark, but, rising slowly, came along beside
us, — a large, gaunt animal that looked at us with such
melancholy eyes that Erminia stooped to pat him.
Ermine had a weakness for dogs; she herself owned
a wild beast of the dog kind that went by the name
of the “Emperor Trajan”; and, accompanied by this
dignitary, she was accustomed to stroll up the avenues
of C—, lost in maiden meditations.
We drew near the house and stepped up on the
sunken piazza, but no signs of life appeared. The
little loophole windows were pasted over with paper,
and the plank door had no latch or handle. I knocked,
but no one came. “Apparently it is a haunted house,
and that dog is the spectre,” I said, stepping back.
“Knock three times,” suggested Ermine; “that is
what they always do in ghost-stories.”
“Try it yourself. My knuckles are not castiron.”
Ermine picked up a stone and began tapping on the
door. “Open sesame,” she said, and it opened.
Instantly the dog slunk away to his block-house and
a woman confronted us, her dull face lighting up as
her eyes ran rapidly over our attire from head to foot.
“Is there a sulphur-spring here?” I asked. “We
would like to try the water.”
“Yes, it 's here fast enough in the back hall. Come
in, ladies; I 'm right proud to see you. From the city,
I suppose?”
“From C—,” I answered; “we are spending a few
days in the Community.”
Our hostess led the way through the little hall, and
throwing open a back door pulled up a trap in the
floor, and there we saw the spring, — a shallow well
set in stones, with a jar of butter cooling in its white
water. She brought a cup, and we drank. “Delicious,”
said Ermine. “The true, spoiled-egg flavor!
Four cups is the minimum allowance, Dora.”
“I reckon it 's good for the insides,” said the woman,
standing with arms akimbo and staring at us. She
was a singular creature, with large black eyes, Roman
nose, and a mass of black hair tightly knotted on the
top of her head, but pinched and gaunt; her yellow
forehead was wrinkled with a fixed frown, and her thin
lips drawn down in permanent discontent. Her dress
was a shapeless linsey-woolsey gown, and home-made
list slippers covered her long, lank feet. “Be that the
fashion?” she asked, pointing to my short, closely
fitting walking-dress.
“Yes,” I answered; “do you like it?”
“Well, it does for you, sis, because you 're so little
and peaked-like, but it would n't do for me. The other
lady, now, don't wear nothing like that; is she even
with the style, too?”
“There is such a thing as being above the style,
madam,” replied Ermine, bending to dip up glass number
two.
“Our figgers is a good deal alike,” pursued the woman;
“I reckon that fashion ud suit me best.”
Willowy Erminia glanced at the stick-like hostess.
“You do me honor,” she said, suavely. “I shall consider
myself fortunate, madam, if you will allow me to
send you patterns from C—. What are we if not
well dressed?”
“You have a fine dog,” I began hastily, fearing lest
the great, black eyes should penetrate the sarcasm;
“what is his name?”
“A stupid beast! He 's none of mine; belongs to
my man.”
“Your husband?”
“Yes, my man. He works in the coal-mine over
the hill.”
“You have no children?”
“Not a brat. Glad of it, too.”
“You must be lonely,” I said, glancing around the
desolate house. To my surprise, suddenly the woman
burst into a flood of tears, and sinking down on the
her face with her bony hands.
“What can be the matter with her?” I said in
alarm; and, in my agitation, I dipped up some sulphur-water
and held it to her lips.
“Take away the smelling stuff, — I hate it!” she
cried, pushing the cup angrily from her.
Ermine looked on in silence for a moment or two,
then she took off her neck-tie, a bright-colored Roman
scarf, and threw it across the trap into the woman's
lap. “Do me the favor to accept that trifle, madam,”
she said, in her soft voice.
The woman's sobs ceased as she saw the ribbon; she
fingered it with one hand in silent admiration, wiped
her wet face with the skirt of her gown, and then suddenly
disappeared into an adjoining room, closing the
door behind her.
“Do you think she is crazy?” I whispered.
“O no; merely pensive.”
“Nonsense, Ermine! But why did you give her
that ribbon?”
“To develop her æsthetic taste,” replied my cousin,
finishing her last glass, and beginning to draw on her
delicate gloves.
Immediately I began gulping down my neglected
dose; but so vile was the odor that some time was
required for the operation, and in the midst of my
struggles our hostess reappeared. She had thrown on
tied over her head, and around her sinewed throat reposed
the Roman scarf pinned with a glass brooch.
“Really, madam, you honor us,” said Ermine, gravely.
“Thankee, marm. It 's so long since I 've had on
anything but that old bag, and so long since I 've seen
anything but them Dutch girls over to the Community,
with their wooden shapes and wooden shoes, that it
sorter come over me all 't onct what a miserable life
I 've had. You see, I ain't what I looked like; now
I 've dressed up a bit I feel more like telling you that
I come of good Ohio stock, without a drop of Dutch
blood. My father, he kep' a store in Sandy, and I had
everything I wanted until I must needs get crazy over
Painting Sol at the Community. Father, he would n't
hear to it, and so I ran away; Sol, he turned out good
for nothing to work, and so here I am, yer see, in
spite of all his pictures making me out the Queen
of Sheby.”
“Is your husband an artist?” I asked.
“No, miss. He 's a coal-miner, he is. But he used
to like to paint me all sorts of ways. Wait, I 'll show
yer.” Going up the rough stairs that led into the
attic, the woman came back after a moment with a
number of sheets of drawing-paper which she hung up
along the walls with pins for our inspection. They
were all portraits of the same face, with brick-red
cheeks, enormous black eyes, and a profusion of shining
the costumes were various, but the faces were
the same. I gazed in silence, seeing no likeness to
anything earthly. Erminia took out her glasses and
scanned the pictures slowly.
“Yourself, madam, I perceive,” she said, much to my
surprise.
“Yes, 'm, that 's me,” replied our hostess, complacently.
“I never was like those yellow-haired girls
over to the Community. Sol allers said my face was
real rental.”
“Rental?” I repeated, inquiringly.
“Oriental, of course,” said Ermine. “Mr. — Mr.
Solomon is quite right. May I ask the names of these
characters, madam?”
“Queen of Sheby, Judy, Ruth, Esthy, Po-co-hon-tus,
Goddessaliberty, Sunset, and eight Octobers, them with
the grapes. Sunset 's the one with the red paint behind
it like clouds.”
“Truly a remarkable collection,” said Ermine.
“Does Mr. Solomon devote much time to his art?”
“No, not now. He could n't make a cent out of
it, so he 's took to digging coal. He painted all them
when we was first married, and he went a journey all
the way to Cincinnati to sell 'em. First he was going
to buy me a silk dress and some ear-rings, and, after
that, a farm. But pretty soon home he come on a
canal-boat, without a shilling, and a bringing all the
everything, but he never could keep to any one trade,
for he 'd just as lief quit work in the middle of the
forenoon and go to painting; no boss 'll stand that,
you know. We kep' a going down, and I had to sell
the few things my father give me when he found I was
married whether or no, — my chany, my feather-beds,
and my nice clothes, piece by piece. I held on to the
big looking-glass for four years, but at last it had to go,
and then I just gave up and put on a linsey-woolsey
gown. When a girl's spirit 's once broke, she don't
care for nothing, you know; so, when the Community
offered to take Sol back as coal-digger, I just
said, `Go,' and we come.” Here she tried to smear
the tears away with her bony hands, and gave a low
groan.
“Groaning probably relieves you,” observed Ermine.
“Yes, 'm. It 's kinder company like, when I 'm
all alone. But you see it 's hard on the prettiest
girl in Sandy to have to live in this lone lorn place.
Why, ladies, you might n't believe it, but I had
open-work stockings, and feathers in my winter bunnets
before I was married!” And the tears broke
forth afresh.
“Accept my handkerchief,” said Ermine; “it will
serve your purpose better than fingers.”
The woman took the dainty cambric and surveyed
it curiously, held at arm's length. “Reg'lar thistledown,
locust-tree blossom.”
“Mr. Solomon, then, belonged to the Community?”
I asked, trying to gather up the threads of the story.
“No, he did n't either; he 's no Dutchman, I reckon,
he 's a Lake County man, born near Painesville, he is.”
“I thought you spoke as though he had been in
the Community.”
“So he had; he did n't belong, but he worked for
'em since he was a boy, did middling well, in spite
of the painting, until one day, when he come over
to Sandy on a load of wood and seen me standing
at the door. That was the end of him,” continued
the woman, with an air of girlish pride; “he could
n't work no more for thinking of me.”
“Où la vanité va-t-elle se nicher?” murmured Ermine,
rising. “Come, Dora; it is time to return.”
As I hastily finished my last cup of sulphur-water,
our hostess followed Ermine towards the door. “Will
you have your handkercher back, marm?” she said,
holding it out reluctantly.
“It was a free gift, madam,” replied my cousin; “I
wish you a good afternoon.”
“Say, will yer be coming again to-morrow?” asked
the woman as I took my departure.
“Very likely; good by.”
The door closed, and then, but not till then, the
melancholy dog joined us and stalked behind until we
passed out and turned up the hill; but looking back
we saw the outline of the woman's head at the upper
window, and the dog's head at the bars, both watching
us out of sight.
In the evening there came a cold wind down from
the north, and the parlor, with its primitive ventilators,
square openings in the side of the house, grew chilly.
So a great fire of soft coal was built in the broad
Franklin stove, and before its blaze we made good
cheer, nor needed the one candle which flickered on
the table behind us. Cider fresh from the mill, carded
gingerbread, and new cheese crowned the scene, and
during the evening came a band of singers, the young
people of the Community, and sang for us the song
of the Lorelei, accompanied by home-made violins
and flageolets. At length we were left alone, the
candle had burned out, the house door was barred,
and the peaceful Community was asleep; still we
two sat together with our feet upon the hearth, looking
down into the glowing coals.
Dasz ich so traurig bin,”
“I feel absolutely blue to-night.”
“The memory of the sulphur-woman,” suggested
Ermine.
“Sulphur-woman! What a name!”
“Entirely appropriate, in my opinion.”
“Poor thing! How she longed with a great longing
for the finery of her youth in Sandy.”
“I suppose from those barbarous pictures that she
was originally in the flesh,” mused Ermine; “at
present she is but a bony outline.”
“Such as she is, however, she has had her romance,”
I answered. “She is quite sure that there was one
to love her; then let come what may, she has had
her day.”
“Misquoting Tennyson on such a subject!” said
Ermine, with disdain.
“A man 's a man for all that and a woman 's a
woman too,” I retorted. “You are blind, cousin,
blinded with pride. That woman has had her tragedy,
as real and bitter as any that can come to us.”
“What have you to say for the poor man, then?”
exclaimed Ermine, rousing to the contest. “If there
is a tragedy at the sulphur-house, it belongs to the
sulphur-man, not to the sulphur-woman.”
“He is not a sulphur-man, he is a coal-man; keep
to your bearings, Ermine.”
“I tell you,” pursued my cousin, earnestly, “that
I pitied that unknown man with inward tears all
the while I sat by that trap-door. Depend upon it,
he had his dream, his ideal; and this country girl
with her great eyes and wealth of hair represented
life and hope into her hands, and woke to find his
goddess a common wooden image.”
“Waste sympathy upon a coal-miner!” I said, imitating
my cousin's former tone.
“If any one is blind, it is you,” she answered,
with gleaming eyes. “That man's whole history stood
revealed in the selfish complainings of that creature.
He had been in the Community from boyhood, therefore
of course he had no chance to learn life, to see
its art-treasures. He has been shipwrecked, poor soul,
hopelessly shipwrecked.”
“She too, Ermine.”
“She!”
“Yes. If he loved pictures, she loved her chany
and her feather-beds, not to speak of the big looking-glass.
No doubt she had other lovers, and might
have lived in a red brick farmhouse with ten unopened
front windows and a blistered front door.
The wives of men of genius are always to be pitied;
they do not soar into the crowd of feminine admirers
who circle round the husband, and they are therefore
called `grubs,' `worms of the earth,' `drudges,' and
other sweet titles.”
“Nonsense,” said Ermine, tumbling the arched coals
into chaos with the poker; “it 's after midnight, let
us go up stairs.” I knew very well that my beautiful
cousin enjoyed the society of several poets,
concerning herself about their stay-at-home wives.
The next day the winds were out in battle array,
howling over the Strasburg hills, raging up and down
the river, and whirling the colored leaves wildly
along the lovely road to the One-Leg Creek. Evidently
there could be no rambling in the painted woods
that day, so we went over to old Fritz's shop, played
on his home-made piano, inspected the woolly horse
who turned his crank patiently in an underground
den, and set in motion all the curious little images
which the carpenter's deft fingers had wrought.
Fritz belonged to the Community, and knew nothing
of the outside world; he had a taste for mechanism,
which showed itself in many labor-saving devices,
and with it all he was the roundest, kindest little
man, with bright eyes like a canary-bird.
“Do you know Solomon the coal-miner?” asked
Ermine, in her correct, well-learned German.
“Sol Bangs? Yes, I know him,” replied Fritz, in
his Würtemberg dialect.
“What kind of a man is he?”
“Good for nothing,” replied Fritz, placidly.
“Why?”
“Wrong here”; tapping his forehead.
“Do you know his wife?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“What kind of a woman is she?”
“Too much tongue. Women must not talk much.”
“Old Fritz touched us both there,” I said, as we
ran back laughing to the hotel through the blustering
wind. “In his opinion, I suppose, we have the popular
verdict of the township upon our two protégés,
the sulphur-woman and her husband.”
The next day opened calm, hazy, and warm, the
perfection of Indian summer; the breezy hill was outlined
in purple, and the trees glowed in rich colors.
In the afternoon we started for the sulphur-spring
without shawls or wraps, for the heat was almost
oppressive; we loitered on the way through the still
woods, gathering the tinted leaves, and wondering why
no poet has yet arisen to celebrate in fit words the
glories of the American autumn. At last we reached
the turn whence the lonely house came into view, and
at the bars we saw the dog awaiting us.
“Evidently the sulphur-woman does not like that
melancholy animal,” I said, as we applied our united
strength to the gate.
“Did you ever know a woman of limited mind
who liked a large dog?” replied Ermine. “Occasionally
such a woman will fancy a small cur; but to
appreciate a large, noble dog requires a large, noble
mind.”
“Nonsense with your dogs and minds,” I said,
laughing. “Wonderful! There is a curtain.”
It was true. The paper had been removed from
white drapery, probably part of a sheet rigged as a
curtain.
Before we reached the piazza the door opened, and
our hostess appeared. “Glad to see yer, ladies,” she
said. “Walk right in this way to the keeping-room.”
The dog went away to his block-house, and we
followed the woman into a room on the right of the
hall; there were three rooms, beside the attic above.
An Old-World German stove of brick-work occupied
a large portion of the space, and over it hung a few
tins, and a clock whose pendulum swung outside; a
table, a settle, and some stools completed the furniture;
but on the plastered walls were two rude
brackets, one holding a cup and saucer of figured
china, and the other surmounted by a large bunch
of autumn leaves, so beautiful in themselves and so
exquisitely arranged that we crossed the room to
admire them.
“Sol fixed 'em, he did,” said the sulphur-woman;
“he seen me setting things to rights, and he would
do it. I told him they was trash, but he made me
promise to leave 'em alone in case you should call
again.”
“Madam Bangs, they would adorn a palace,” said
Ermine, severely.
“The cup is pretty too,” I observed, seeing the
woman's eyes turn that way.
“It 's the last of my chany,” she answered, with
pathos in her voice, — “the very last piece.”
As we took our places on the settle we noticed
the brave attire of our hostess. The delaine was
there; but how altered! Flounces it had, skimped,
but still flounces, and at the top was a collar of
crochet cotton reaching nearly to the shoulders; the
hair, too, was braided in imitation of Ermine's sunny
coronet, and the Roman scarf did duty as a belt
around the large flat waist.
“You see she tries to improve,” I whispered, as
Mrs. Bangs went into the hall to get some sulphur-water
for us.
“Vanity,” answered Ermine.
We drank our dose slowly, and our hostess talked
on and on. Even I, her champion, began to weary
of her complainings. “How dark it is!” said Ermine
at last, rising and drawing aside the curtain. “See,
Dora, a storm is close upon us.”
We hurried to the door, but one look at the black
cloud was enough to convince us that we could not
reach the Community hotel before it would break,
and somewhat drearily we returned to the keeping-room,
which grew darker and darker, until our hostess
was obliged to light a candle. “Reckon you 'll
have to stay all night; I 'd like to have you, ladies,”
she said. “The Community ain't got nothing covered
to send after you, except the old king's coach,
storm, steps and all. When it begins to rain in this
valley, it do rain, I can tell you; and from the way
it 's begun, 't won't stop 'fore morning. You just let
me send the Roarer over to the mine, he 'll tell Sol;
Sol can tell the Community folks, so they 'll know
where you be.”
I looked somewhat aghast at this proposal, but
Ermine listened to the rain upon the roof a moment,
and then quietly accepted; she remembered the long
hills of tenacious red clay, and her kid boots were
dear to her.
“The Roarer, I presume, is some faithful kobold
who bears your message to and from the mine,” she
said, making herself as comfortable as the wooden
settle would allow.
The sulphur-woman stared. “Roarer 's Sol's old
dog,” she answered, opening the door; “perhaps one
of you will write a bit of a note for him to carry
in his basket. — Roarer, Roarer!”
The melancholy dog came slowly in, and stood still
while she tied a small covered basket around his neck.
Ermine took a leaf from her tablets and wrote a
line or two with the gold pencil attached to her
watch-chain.
“Well now, you do have everything handy, I do
declare,” said the woman, admiringly.
I glanced at the paper.
“Mr. Solomon Bangs: My cousin Theodora Wentworth
and myself have accepted the hospitality of
your house for the night. Will you be so good as
to send tidings of our safety to the Community, and
oblige,
The Roarer started obediently out into the rain-storm
with his little basket; he did not run, but walked
slowly, as if the storm was nothing compared to his
settled melancholy.
“What a note to send to a coal-miner!” I said,
during a momentary absence of our hostess.
“Never fear; it will be appreciated,” replied
Ermine.
“What is this king's carriage of which you spoke?”
I asked, during the next hour's conversation.
“O, when they first come over from Germany, they
had a sort of a king; he knew more than the rest, and
he lived in that big brick house with dormel-winders
and a cuperler, that stands next the garden. The
carriage was hisn, and it had steps to let down, and
curtains and all; they don't use it much now he 's
dead. They 're a queer set anyhow! The women
look like meal-sacks. After Sol seen me, he could n't
abide to look at 'em.”
Soon after six we heard the great gate creak.
“That 's Sol,” said the woman, “and now of course
Roarer 'll come in and track all over my floor.” The
room, two shadows, — a man and a dog.
“He 's going to wash himself now,” continued the
wife; “he 's always washing himself, just like a
horse.”
“New fact in natural history, Dora love,” observed
Ermine.
After some moments the miner appeared, — a tall,
stooping figure with high forehead, large blue eyes,
and long thin yellow hair; there was a singularly
lifeless expression in his face, and a far-off look in
his eyes. He gazed about the room in an absent
way, as though he scarcely saw us. Behind him
stalked the Roarer, wagging his tail slowly from side
to side.
“Now, then, don't yer see the ladies, Sol? Where 's
yer manners?” said his wife, sharply.
“Ah, — yes, — good evening,” he said, vaguely.
Then his wandering eyes fell upon Ermine's beautiful
face, and fixed themselves there with strange intentness.
“You received my note, Mr. Bangs?” said my cousin
in her soft voice.
“Yes, surely. You are Erminia,” replied the man,
still standing in the centre of the room with fixed eyes.
The Roarer laid himself down behind his master, and
his tail, still wagging, sounded upon the floor with a
regular tap.
“Now then, Sol, since you 've come home, perhaps
you 'll entertain the ladies while I get supper,” quoth
Mrs. Bangs; and forthwith began a clatter of pans.
The man passed his long hand abstractedly over his
forehead. “Eh,” he said with long-drawn utterance, —
“eh-h? Yes, my rose of Sharon, certainly, certainly.”
“Then why don't you do it?” said the woman,
lighting the fire in the brick stove.
“And what will the ladies please to do?” he answered,
his eyes going back to Ermine.
“We will look over your pictures, sir,” said my
cousin, rising; “they are in the upper room, I believe.”
A great flush rose in the painter's thin cheeks.
“Will you,” he said eagerly, — “will you? Come!”
“It 's a broken-down old hole, ladies; Sol will never
let me sweep it out. Reckon you 'll be more comfortable
here,” said Mrs. Bangs, with her arms in the
flour.
“No, no, my lily of the valley. The ladies will
come with me; they will not scorn the poor room.”
“A studio is always interesting,” said Ermine,
sweeping up the rough stairs behind Solomon's candle.
The dog followed us, and laid himself down on an old
mat, as though well accustomed to the place. “Eh-h,
boy, you came bravely through the storm with the
lady's note,” said his master, beginning to light candle
after candle. “See him laugh!”
“Can a dog laugh?” I asked.
“Certainly; look at him now. What is that but a
grin of happy contentment? Don't the Bible say,
`grin like a dog'?”
“You seem much attached to the Roarer.”
“Tuscarora, lady, Tuscarora. Yes, I love him well.
He has been with me through all, and he has watched
the making of all my pictures; he always lies there
when I paint.”
By this time a dozen candles were burning on
shelves and brackets, and we could see all parts of
the attic studio. It was but a poor place, unfloored
in the corners where the roof slanted down, and having
no ceiling but the dark beams and thatch; hung
upon the walls were the pictures we had seen, and
many others, all crude and highly colored, and all
representing the same face, — the sulphur-woman in
her youth, the poor artist's only ideal. He showed
us these one by one, handling them tenderly, and telling
us, in his quaint language, all they symbolized.
“This is Ruth, and denoteth the power of hope,” he
said. “Behold Judith, the queen of revenge. And
this dear one is Rachel, for whom Jacob served seven
years, and they seemed unto him but a day, so well
he loved her.” The light shone on his pale face,
and we noticed the far-off look in his eyes, and
the long, tapering fingers coming out from the hard-worked,
broad palm. To me it was a melancholy
attic.
But Ermine seemed eagerly interested; she looked
at the staring pictures, listened to the explanations,
and at last she said gently, “Let me show you something
of perspective, and the part that shadows play
in a pictured face. Have you any crayons?”
No; the man had only his coarse paints and lumps of
charcoal; taking a piece of the coal in her delicate hand,
my cousin began to work upon a sheet of drawing-paper
attached to the rough easel. Solomon watched
her intently, as she explained and demonstrated some
of the rules of drawing, the lights and shades, and
the manner of representing the different features and
curves. All his pictures were full faces, flat and unshaded;
Ermine showed him the power of the profile
and the three-quarter view. I grew weary of watching
them, and pressing my face against the little window
gazed out into the night; steadily the rain came down
and the hills shut us in like a well. I thought of our
home in C—, and its bright lights, warmth, company,
and life. Why should we come masquerading
out among the Ohio hills at this late season? And
then I remembered that it was because Ermine would
come; she liked such expeditions, and from childhood
I had always followed her lead. “Dux nascitur, etc.,
etc.” Turning away from the gloomy night, I looked
towards the easel again; Solomon's cheeks were deeply
went on, the merely mechanical hand explaining its
art to the ignorant fingers of genius. Ermine had
taken lessons all her life, but she had never produced
an original picture, only copies.
At last the lesson was interrupted by a voice from
below, “Sol, Sol, supper 's ready!” No one stirred
until, feeling some sympathy for the amount of work
which my ears told me had been going on below, I
woke up the two enthusiasts and took them away from
the easel down stairs into the keeping-room, where a
loaded table and a scarlet hostess bore witness to the
truth of my surmise. Strange things we ate that
night, dishes unheard of in towns, but not unpalatable.
Ermine had the one china cup for her corn-coffee; her
grand air always secured her such favors. Tuscarora
was there and ate of the best, now and then laying his
shaggy head on the table, and, as his master said,
“smiling at us”; evidently the evening was his gala
time. It was nearly nine when the feast was ended,
and I immediately proposed retiring to bed, for, having
but little art enthusiasm, I dreaded a vigil in that
dreary attic. Solomon looked disappointed, but I
ruthlessly carried off Ermine to the opposite room,
which we afterwards suspected was the apartment of
our hosts, freshened and set in order in our honor.
The sound of the rain on the piazza roof lulled us soon
to sleep, in spite of the strange surroundings; but more
remembering the lonely house in its lonely valley with
a shiver of discomfort. The next morning we woke at
our usual hour, but some time after the miner's departure;
breakfast was awaiting us in the keeping-room,
and our hostess said that an ox-team from the
Community would come for us before nine. She
seemed sorry to part with us, and refused any remuneration
for our stay; but none the less did we promise
ourselves to send some dresses and even ornaments
from C—, to feed that poor, starving love of finery.
As we rode away in the ox-cart, the Roarer looked
wistfully after us through the bars; but his melancholy
mood was upon him again, and he had not the heart
even to wag his tail.
As we were sitting in the hotel parlor, in front of
our soft-coal fire in the evening of the following day,
and discussing whether or no we should return to the
city within the week, the old landlord entered without
his broad-brimmed hat, — an unusual attention, since
he was a trustee and a man of note in the Community,
and removed his hat for no one nor nothing; we even
suspected that he slept in it.
“You know Zolomon Barngs,” he said, slowly.
“Yes,” we answered.
“Well, he 's dead. Kilt in de mine.” And putting
on the hat, removed, we now saw, in respect for death,
he left the room as suddenly as he had entered it. As
usual, contending for the wife, and Ermine, as usual,
advocating the cause of the husband.
“Let us go out there immediately to see her, poor
woman!” I said, rising.
“Yes, poor man, we will go to him!” said Ermine.
“But the man is dead, cousin.”
“Then he shall at least have one kind, friendly
glance before he is carried to his grave,” answered
Ermine, quietly.
In a short time we set out in the darkness, and
dearly did we have to pay for the night-ride; no one
could understand the motive of our going, but money
was money, and we could pay for all peculiarities. It
was a dark night, and the ride seemed endless as the
oxen moved slowly on through the red-clay mire. At
last we reached the turn and saw the little lonely
house with its upper room brightly lighted.
“He is in the studio,” said Ermine; and so it proved.
He was not dead, but dying; not maimed, but poisoned
by the gas of the mine, and rescued too late for recovery.
They had placed him upon the floor on a
couch of blankets, and the dull-eyed Community doctor
stood at his side. “No good, no good,” he said;
“he must die.” And then, hearing of the returning
cart, he left us, and we could hear the tramp of the
oxen over the little bridge, on their way back to the
village.
The dying man's head lay upon his wife's breast,
and her arms supported him; she did not speak, but
gazed at us with a dumb agony in her large eyes.
Ermine knelt down and took the lifeless hand streaked
with coal-dust in both her own. “Solomon,” she said,
in her soft, clear voice, “do you know me?”
The closed eyes opened slowly, and fixed themselves
upon her face a moment: then they turned towards
the window, as if seeking something.
“It 's the picter he means,” said the wife. “He sat
up most all last night a doing it.”
I lighted all the candles, and Ermine brought forward
the easel; upon it stood a sketch in charcoal
wonderful to behold, — the same face, the face of the
faded wife, but so noble in its idealized beauty that
it might have been a portrait of her glorified face in
Paradise. It was a profile, with the eyes upturned, —
a mere outline, but grand in conception and expression.
I gazed in silent astonishment.
Ermine said, “Yes, I knew you could do it, Solomon.
It is perfect of its kind.” The shadow of a smile stole
over the pallid face, and then the husband's fading
gaze turned upward to meet the wild, dark eyes of
the wife.
“It 's you, Dorcas,” he murmured; “that 's how you
looked to me, but I never could get it right before.”
She bent over him, and silently we watched the coming
of the shadow of death; he spoke only once, “My rose
the poor artist was dead.
Wild, wild was the grief of the ungoverned heart
left behind; she was like a mad-woman, and our
united strength was needed to keep her from injuring
herself in her frenzy. I was frightened, but Ermine's
strong little hands and lithe arms kept her down until,
exhausted, she lay motionless near her dead husband.
Then we carried her down stairs and I watched by the
bedside, while my cousin went back to the studio.
She was absent some time, and then she came back
to keep the vigil with me through the long, still night.
At dawn the woman woke, and her face looked aged
in the gray light. She was quiet, and took without a
word the food we had prepared, awkwardly enough, in
the keeping-room.
“I must go to him, I must go to him,” she murmured,
as we led her back.
“Yes,” said Ermine, “but first let me make you tidy.
He loved to see you neat.” And with deft, gentle
touch she dressed the poor creature, arranging the
heavy hair so artistically that, for the first time, I saw
what she might have been, and understood the husband's
dream.
“What is that?” I said, as a peculiar sound startled
us.
“It 's Roarer. He was tied up last night, but I
suppose he 's gnawed the rope,” said the woman. I
smelling his way directly up the stairs.
“O, he must not go!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, let him go, he loved his master,” said Ermine;
“we will go too.” So silently we all went up into the
chamber of death.
The pictures had been taken down from the walls,
but the wonderful sketch remained on the easel, which
had been moved to the head of the couch where Solomon
lay. His long, light hair was smooth, his face
peacefully quiet, and on his breast lay the beautiful
bunch of autumn leaves which he had arranged in our
honor. It was a striking picture, — the noble face of
the sketch above, and the dead face of the artist below.
It brought to my mind a design I had once seen, where
Fame with her laurels came at last to the door of the
poor artist and gently knocked; but he had died the
night before!
The dog lay at his master's feet, nor stirred until
Solomon was carried out to his grave.
The Community buried the miner in one corner of
the lonely little meadow. No service had they and no
mound was raised to mark the spot, for such was their
custom; but in the early spring we went down again
into the valley, and placed a block of granite over the
grave. It bore the inscription: —
He will finish his work in Heaven.
Strange as it may seem, the wife pined for her artist
husband. We found her in the Community trying to
work, but so aged and bent that we hardly knew her.
Her large eyes had lost their peevish discontent, and
a great sadness had taken the place.
“Seems like I could n't get on without Sol,” she
said, sitting with us in the hotel parlor after workhours.
“I kinder miss his voice, and all them names
he used to call me; he got 'em out of the Bible, so
they must have been good, you know. He always
thought everything I did was right, and he thought
no end of my good looks, too; I suppose I 've lost 'em
all now. He was mighty fond of me; nobody in all
the world cares a straw for me now. Even Roarer
would n't stay with me, for all I petted him; he kep' a
going out to that meader and a lying by Sol, until, one
day, we found him there dead. He just died of sheer
loneliness, I reckon. I sha' n't have to stop long I
know, because I keep a dreaming of Sol, and he always
looks at me like he did when I first knew him. He
was a beautiful boy when I first saw him on that load
of wood coming into Sandy. Well, ladies, I must go.
Thank you kindly for all you 've done for me. And
say, Miss Stuart, when I die you shall have that coal
picter; no one else 'ud vally it so much.”
Three months after, while we were at the sea-shore,
Ermine received a long tin case, directed in a peculiar
handwriting; it had been forwarded from C—, and
“E. Stuart: The woman Dorcas Bangs died this
day. She will be put away by the side of her husband,
Solomon Bangs. She left the enclosed picture,
which we hereby send, and which please acknowledge
by return of mail.
I unfolded the wrappings and looked at the sketch.
“It is indeed striking,” I said. “She must have been
beautiful once, poor woman!”
“Let us hope that at least she is beautiful now, for
her husband's sake, poor man!” replied Ermine.
Even then we could not give up our preferences.
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