University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
A DISTINGUISHED FOREIGNER, WHO, PERHAPS,
HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH IT.

The main building of St. Bart's was large; but the
chief merit in its appearance lay in the variety of its
outline, occasioned by the additions of different shapes
and sizes, according to the need of the time.

Its front doorway was good and substantial, a fair
oval of plate-glass showing, when the door was shut, a
large hall, with a handsome, winding staircase, on the
first landing of which stood one of those long clocks,
which hold so fast a place in the mind of one who knew
them in childhood. Over the doorway, and in front
of a lengthwise window, was a carving, which, to an
intelligent eye, was evidently heraldic: a “wreath,” or
“torse,” of red and white, bore an upright something,
which one, who knew the name of the School, and the
conventional symbol of its saint, might recognize as a
dagger or knife. The blade and handle of this were of
the same colors respectively, or, as they would be called
in heraldry, gules and argent. Beneath, in golden
church text, was the legend, “Sursum,” (upwards).

It was a harmless joke of successive Forms, as they
advanced in Latinity, to say that this motto was an
invitation to the Rector's study, in the second story.

The implement which, as described, decorated the

entrance to St. Bart's, had puzzled a good many visitors.
It was popularly called among the boys “St.
Bart's whittle;” and new-comers to the School were
mystified, where they were capable of it, by hearing it
called his “whistle.” The Rev. Mr. Merritt, one of the
Trustees, when fresh in office, had innocently taken it
for illustration one day as a church steeple, exhorting
the assembled boys to “remember the badge of their
school, — that sky-pointing spire, — and direct their
flight with unflagging wing still upwards;” and when
some one whispered an explanation, as he sat down,
astonished at the laughter which greeted what was
intended to be, and doubtless was, the point of his
speech, said that “the fault was the carver's, and not
his.”

At this door, surveying this heraldic device, and
whatever else ornamented and distinguished the place
of entrance, was standing, on an afternoon in early
autumn, a foreign-looking gentleman, of large size and
distinguished air. He had tried the knocker with little
effect. Apparently those who ought to have heard and
come to this inanimate call were away, or were napping;
and the only result of his experiment with the knocker
was the stopping of a little girl in the road, at a short
distance, who curiously watched his movements. He
proceeded next to ring the door-bell. While he was
still waiting, a small, slight, neatly-dressed man came
up (whose most noticeable feature, perhaps, was a set
of squarely trimmed whiskers and moustache), and said
politely: —

“Perhaps I can help you, sir. I'm at home here. I'm
a trustee of the institution. Did you want to see the
Rector, sir? the Rev. Mister Warren?”

The foreign-looking gentleman turned at this address,
and, like a very courteous and distinguished foreigner,
saluted the Trustee, who had thus come to his help, and
thanking that gentleman for his kind offices, — approving,
perhaps, in his foreign heart, στηθέσσι ἑοῖσι (stethessi
heoisi), as the boys of the Fifth Form might say, after
Dan Homer, this American habit of keeping Trustees
about the premises to wait upon strangers, — inquired
whether the building was a hotel.

The Trustee, smiling as one whom a consciousness of
wit made good-humored, informed him that, “though
they had a good many boarders” (this, as conveying a
joke, and that in a language foreign to the hearer, he
pronounced quite distinctly), “this was not a hotel.”

Answering this assurance with a simple interrogative
“So?” and then asking pardon, the distinguished foreign
gentleman, declining to go in, accepted a seat outside,
and listened attentively to an account of the character
of the institution, of which his informant was a trustee.
Having heard this account through to the end (or at
least to a convenient place for the end), the foreigner,
drawing out his watch, said in outlandish but very intelligible
English that “he wished the manufactories of
Weston to see. Might the gentleman only be so good
and tell him when he could next take the cars?”

Having been informed by the Trustee that he had
“some two hours to wait,” and having met this second
disappointment with the same interrogative monosyllable
as before, “So?” he returned his watch (a rich-looking
and very foreign-looking watch) to his pocket, and
addressed the courteous and communicative Trustee: —

“This is a school for boys?”

The Trustee accepted this interrogative affirmation

with a readiness which implied satisfaction at having
made himself so well understood; and the stranger
continued: —

“If it pleases, how is called that little boy, with curly
head, who plays?”

“That is Brade,” answered the ready Trustee.

“`Bread'?” asked the foreign gentleman, giving a
foreign turn to the name. “That is the best thing: the
first one of whom I ask is `Bread'!” And he smiled,
repeating the name, “`Bread'! that is good; that is the
first wish. Might I with the young gentleman speak?”
And to the Trustee's assurance that he might certainly
speak with any boy, if he wished it, he asked pleasantly,
“You think?”

“He is a foreign child, of very high family, it is supposed,
— some think a Russian,” said the Trustee,
emphasizing the word, as if this intelligence would
give the stranger an interest in the school or in the
scholar.

To this information the distinguished-looking gentleman
listened attentively, but showed no surprise, and
answered only by the expressive monosyllable which he
had several times before employed to so good effect.
The Trustee hastened to call the boy; and Brade, with
cheeks glowing and eyes bright from play, came forward,
turning to bid the “fellows” go on.

The stranger rose at his approach, went forward to
meet him, and at once engaged him in a conversation
of question and answer; the Trustee having first discharged
what he evidently considered a duty, to be
gravely and seriously performed, by informing the boy
that “the gentleman wished to speak with him.” This
duty done, the Trustee stood not far away from the

interview, occupying himself, rather faintly, with several
boys, who, under the pretence of “tag,” or some other
pretence, had contrived to bring themselves within
hearing.

“You have a good name,” said the stranger. “You
are not of this country?”

“My name is Brade, sir,” answered Antony, looking
down a little and blushing, “and I came from Philadelphia.”
At the same time he showed the letters carved,
in the fashion of other boys, upon a hockey-stick which
he had in his hand.

“Ah! so!” said the stranger, looking to the Trustee,
who drew a little nearer, as if invited by the stranger's
look. The name the foreign gentleman, smiling,
spelled out carefully, letter by letter, “B-R-A-D-E,
Brade;” and then, giving back the stick to its owner,
repeated, “B-r-a-d-e, Brade.”

“You love to study very much?” the foreign gentleman
continued; and having received the usual answer,
“Pretty well, sir,” asked again, “You like not to play
at all?” and being answered that Antony “liked play
very much,” he laughed and said, —

“Your father liked to play when he was boy: this
gentleman, also, I think,” looking with a pleasant smile
to the official of the institution for confirmation.
“Omnes, pueri, ludendi avidi fuimus: know you what
means that?”

This sentence, Brade, with the gentleman's good-natured
help in repeating the words, and asking,
“What is subjectum of `fuimus'?” translated pretty
well: “We all, as boys, have been eager for play.”

This translation was accepted with a kindly smile,
and the gentleman asked: —

“You learn Greekish? Not?”

Brade looked round, a little bashfully, to where the
other boys were, and then answered modestly that he
“had begun Greek.”

At the mention of this new language the Trustee,
who had not been unintelligent or unmindful, at once
drew nearer.

“We teach Greek here, sir, of course,” he said, “and
I'm aware that it is the language of the Russians, —
that is, of the Russian Church.”

“You are learned in Greek, self?” asked the courteous
foreigner.

The Trustee took care not to be drawn into a conversation
in that tongue, if the lively foreigner had any
intention of substituting it for honest English.

“You must excuse me, sir,” said he. “I have two
daughters that know botany, and talk about their
`monogramic' and `cryptogramic;' but education was
not so much attended to in my day. I can do one
thing in Greek that not everybody can do, perhaps:
I know how to make Greek Fire,” he added, smiling
with the consciousness of wit, and emphasizing the two
important words.

The foreign gentleman recognized the witticism, and
acknowledged it by a good-natured laugh. Some words
in a very foreign tongue he uttered, at which the Trustee
went through a shoulder-shrugging and grimacing
and gesticulating action, which no doubt seemed to him
most familiar and intelligible to a foreigner, and was
then asked, —

“You were not soldier of the Greek-landish Freeings-war,
— the Liberation-war, perhaps? Too young,
I think.”

The Trustee modestly disclaimed the martial character

also, as well as the scholarly, “though he must
confess that he loved freedom, of course,” he said. “He
had found out the Greek Fire when he was in the East
Bartlett Chemical Works.”

The polite stranger seemed to get no definite information
from that hard proper name, although the
Trustee repeated it very distinctly. The latter polite
gentleman therefore changed the subject for one which
he, doubtless, thought more hopeful.

“I believe, sir, if I'm not mistaken,” he said, “Greek
— the Greek language — is still the language of the
Church?” Then, to make his meaning plainer, he
added, “I think the service-books — the sacred books
— are written in Greek?”

The stranger caught his meaning (as he testified by a
courteous wave of both hands with a bow of the head),
and answered, —

“`The Sacred Books,' yes; the evangelium, certainly.”

“And of the Greek Church, I believe?” interposed
the Trustee, with mild pertinacity. “The Russian is
the same, sir, if I am not mistaken,” looking as if he
had “got” the stranger now.

The boys, who had contrived to come within hearing,
at the beginning of this conference with Brade, now
seeing what turn the conversation was likely to take,
began quietly to withdraw. The stranger-gentleman,
seeing this, hastened to take a formal leave of the little
fellow with whom he had been talking, asking, however,
very courteously, “permission” of the trustee. Having
obtained this, the polite stranger turned to
Brade: —

“I will give you,” said he, “according to your name:

you are called Brade; I will give you some Greek by
your name.” And, taking a heavy gold pencil from
his pocket, he wrote upon a plain card these words:
“ Βραδὐς ί̓σθι, εῖς ὀργής ” (Bradys isthi, eis orgēn), and
gave it to the boy; and, as he gave it, said mysteriously,
“There is a great secret for you to find out.
Some time you will find your name. I liked very
much to talk with you. Adieu!”

So saying, with a very respectful gesture, he took
leave of little Antony, who made his acknowledgments
not uncourteously, though hastily, and who immediately,
folding and putting away in a pocket the writing,
ran after his fellows. These, of course, seeing him
coming, loitered for him; and then, having apparently
persuaded him to show them the paper, seemed to be
for a few moments puzzling their boys' brains over it,
as they walked with their heads all crowded together,
the most pushing of them being Will Hirsett; and
presently after were all at play once more, as at first.

While the stranger had been engaged in writing, the
Trustee, seeing some one whom he addressed as “Mr.
Stout” pass, begged “to be excused for a moment while
the gentleman was engaged,” and joined him, saying to
any who might hear, that “he would be back immediately.”

“A moment” is always longer than a speaker or
caller or shopper (or any one except a person waiting)
expects it to be. The strange gentleman, finding himself
alone, walked quietly round the corner of the
house, in the direction which the Trustee had lately
taken, and looked. The broad barn-door stood invitingly
open, and sounds, such as men make, were coming
forth. He walked to it and entered.

Presently, from the opposite side, appeared the Trustee.
He looked hurriedly this way and that; went
round the corner of the school-room, as he had just
come, and cast a hasty glance toward the boys' play-ground.
Then he looked toward the different roads;
then went to the other corner, and looked toward the
barn, now sending forth no sound; then came hastily
back to the front steps.

Here, having taken one last look all round, he
opened, and shut behind him, the front door, and
like one familiar with the ways of the place passed
up the stairs.