CHIQUITA
I had been rambling about through Calaveras, investigating mining properties, and incidentally enjoying to the full the glorious weather of the early California spring. My search for the pot of gold at the foot of the rainbow had led me far up among the majestic Sierras—those wondrous mountains at the foot of which was verdure more beautiful than any artist could portray, while their snow-covered tops reared themselves proudly through the clouds and, peering beyond, seemed to challenge the very sky to descend and meet them. The ravines and gulches were tortured and torn by rushing torrents from the melting snows above. Every rivulet had become a brook, every brook a river, and every river a veritable Niagara.
So replete with the swift rushing yellow waters were the courses of the mountains and valleys, that the venerable wise-acre, yclept “the oldest inhabitant,” was permitted by his neighbors to croak to his heart’s content, and actually held his audiences while he regaled them with the horrors of “the freshet of the spring of ’61 and ’62,” and chilled the very marrow of their bones with the ominous prophecy that the present gorging of the streams was but the forerunner of a rising of the waters which should make the famous old-time flood of the Sacramento Valley fade into nothingness.
I had been leisurely retracing my steps from the mountains, and returning by the “Big Tree” road through the historic town of Murphy’s Camp—made famous by Bret Harte, and interesting to me because I had there spent several of the years of my childhood—arrived at the little town of Vallecito, where I intended to inspect some placer property.
The ardent, coppery-red ball of the California sun was just descending behind the foothills to westward when I arrived at my destination, hence there was nothing to do save to make myself as comfortable as possible at the little ramshackle inn, “The Miner’s Rest,” and defer all thought of business until the morrow.
Life in the foothills of the Sierras may be monotonous, but it has its pleasant features, not the least of which was the fare of the humble Miner’s Rest. I found that Mr. Jim Truesdell, the landlord, had not boasted when he said genially, “We ain’t much on style hereabouts, Mister, but you kin bet your bottom dollar our feed is just as good, an’ just as plenty as it is at the Frisco Palace; tho’ we ain’t braggin’ none about variety on our meenu kyards.”
Having finished my supper, I lighted a cigar and strolled out upon the rude, tumble-down veranda of the little inn. Seating myself with my feet planted upon the railing and a book upon my lap, I proceeded to enjoy my smoke. Then—my book forgotten—I fell into the revery which the fragrant smoke wreaths of a good cigar and the glorious flame of a dying sun bring to him who is at peace with himself and his surroundings.
More beautiful sunsets there may be than those of my native heath, but I have never seen but one that could in any way compare with them, and even there, in a harbor of far-off Guatemala, the conditions, save for the brilliant ocean rim below which the sun sank to sleep, were much the same. The mountains to the eastward of Vallecito recalled the Sierra Madre, of that distant alien land. There were the same fleecy clouds, illumined by the waning fire of the God of Day, reflecting colors that surely would have been the despair of the most ambitious brush, and floating with soft caress over the snow-capped peaks which, like grim and watchful sentinels, walled in the valley where nestled the little town. There was just breeze enough blowing to give a keen zest to the balm-laden air of the mountains—a feature which that ever to be remembered scene in the Bay of Ocos distinctly lacked, for ’twas a miniature hell down there, night or day.
Save for the weird cry of some mysterious night bird, who ever and anon called his mate, and the infrequent whir of a diminutive species of bat, everything was as quiet as a blue Sunday in staid old New England. The “chug” of the pick, the clamorous ring of the shovel and the rattling of the miner’s cradle were conspicuously absent in the valley and the hills and ravines round about. So still was the little mining town, that a giant elk who was sniffing the air in a spirit of curious and careful investigation far up the mountain side, came nearer and yet nearer, tossing his head with its burden of enormous horns in defiance at first, and then standing stock-still as if amazed. When he had finished his tour of investigation, he turned and stalked majestically away down the side of a rocky gorge that would scarcely have afforded safe footing for a cat. He glanced back several times as though he did not quite understand his undisputed kingship, and then, with a farewell belligerent toss of his mighty antlers, plunged into the obscurity of the beautiful manzanita, and scraggly mésquite and chapparal that fringed the steep canyon sides of the awesome Sierras.
As the elk disappeared, a long, sobbing, terrifying wail was wafted from amid the scrub firs and tall bread pines still higher up on a distant mountain side. It was the cougar’s warning to his tawny mate. The elk was not king, nor yet was the hungry panther, for somewhere amid those far-off mountain ravines was the lair of the grizzly, fiercest of his kind.
The last red glow of the setting sun had faded from the western sky and the chill of night was fast gathering, yet I still sat there upon the veranda, half asleep, but breathing in deeply the invigorating fragrant balm that was borne to me by the cool evening breeze from the spicy mountain firs and pines and giant redwoods. As I dozed my cigar fell from my lips and bounded off the veranda to the ground, where it lay glowering reproachfully at me for a few moments before it finally went out altogether, smothering in its own ashes and spitefully emitting, as a farewell indignant protest, the acrid odor of dead tobacco.
“Buenos tardes, Señor Caballero.”
I came to myself with a start, and turned in the direction of the voice.
At the foot of the two or three steps that led to the veranda where I was sitting, stood a man and a woman—evidently Mexicans—as queer a couple as it had ever been my fortune to meet. The man was apparently about sixty years of age, taller than most of his race, still stalwart and erect and, despite his years, a handsome fellow of his type. He carried his head as haughtily as might an hidalgo of Old Spain. His picturesque costume was bedecked with finery which, faded though it was, indicated the garb of a Mexican of the higher caste. His swarthy face was shaded by an ornate sombrero, from beneath which flashed piercing, fiery eyes that would have compelled attention anywhere. A broad silk sash encircled his waist, and artistically draped over his shoulder were the graceful folds of a bright, many-colored serape. Through the sash was thrust the inevitable murderous-looking cuchillo—the symbol of his individuality and a declaration of that belief in personal responsibility which is as inseparable from the hot Latin blood as though it were dependent upon a special corpuscle.
Unlike her companion, the woman presented a figure that was pathetic, rather than picturesque, although she too showed in her apparel something of the fondness for color and tinsel that characterizes her race. She appeared to be old—much older than her companion, although appearances are very deceptive in judging the age of women of the Latin races. They mature young, and their youth and beauty begin to fade very early, so early that at a period when the woman of fair Anglo-Saxon blood is yet in her prime, her darker-skinned sister is already old and wrinkled.
The old crone—for so she appeared—was bent and withered, with hair as white as human hair ever becomes. Her face was fearfully disfigured by smallpox, that loathsome disease which had become a curse to her people. As she raised her eyes towards me, I noted with something of a shock that she was totally blind—the dull and expressionless eyes showed that only too plainly. Used as I was to the sight of human misery and helplessness, there was something in the poor old woman’s face that impressed me.
“Buenos tardes, Señor Caballero,” again said the man, with a polite bow. “Comprende V. Espanol?”
“Muy poco—very little—Señor,” I replied.
“Then will I speak the tongue of the Americanos, though I speak it not well,” he continued. “I hope el Señor he is not disturb in his smoke of the evening by the speaking to him.”
“Not at all, Sir,” I answered politely.
“Then, maybe, it is not too free to ask el Señor if he will have the fortune told.”
“Oh, you are a fortune teller, eh?”
The Mexican raised his head proudly.
“Non, Señor, it is not I that have fortunes to tell. Ramon Pasquale never has told yet the fortune. He does not know. It is my Chiquita here, she the great fortunes can tell. She can see, oh, so far! She sees not as el Señor sees, with the eyes of the head;—it is with the eyes of the mind, with the eyes of the soul that Chiquita sees. She knows how the past to tell. Aye, and the future too, she knows. She the stars can read—she reads them true. The grave to her is not closed. Fate is to the eyes of her mind as is to el Señor’s eyes the open book upon his knee. She is wonderful, my Chiquita! Is it not so, cara mia?” There was a tender note in his voice as he addressed his aged companion.
“It is so, my Ramon,” replied the woman, in a voice that fairly startled me, so clear and youthful did it seem. “It is so, and if the great Señor will allow me it to tell, I will to him read the story of the past of his life, and for him open the book of the future, that he may know what shall come to him.”
My expression must have betrayed the interest I felt, for the Mexican said eagerly: “To-night must el Señor listen to Chiquita. To-morrow she will be gone, and it too late will be. It is not dear, Señor, it is muy barato—very cheap; only one peso; that is all. And so wonderful, so wonderful, Señor! There is none so wonderful as Chiquita. El Señor he will never forget the fortune she for him will tell—and only one peso.”
And Chiquita told my fortune, and evidently tried to give me good measure, for the stars were out and the moon was silvering the eastern sky ere she had finished.
Granting that Ramon was sincere, and not merely attending to business in his enthusiastic praises of Chiquita’s professional skill, he and I differed somewhat in our estimate of it. There was nothing very new about the fortune the old woman mapped out for me. It had the same rose color as many others I had heard. There were the usual platitudes about the honors I was to win, and the riches I was to gain. I would become famous, also, and was destined to marry a woman for whom my own country surely could hold no place, for, according to the fortune teller’s description, she was to be a duchess, no less. Of course, as I did not tell Chiquita that I was already married, I could find no fault with the bride to be, especially as she was of the blood royal.
But Chiquita was eloquent, in her broken way, and both she and her picturesque companion were so interesting that I did not begrudge the dollar which, after all, she had fairly earned. To hear pleasant things about one’s self is always worth the price—and there always is a price, although we are not often wise enough to know it.
There was that in the poise of Chiquita’s white head and the sweetly modulated tones of her voice which, with her small, slender, beautifully formed brown hands suggested that her birth and breeding were more aristocratic than is usual with itinerant vendors of fortunes.
I was curious to know more of the interesting couple, but had been riding hard that day, and the prospect of a good bed was just then more attractive than character study with a pair of strolling Mexicans for subjects. The séance of fortune telling ended, I was glad to pay for my entertainment and say good-night to them.
“Gracias, Señor—buenos noches. We are much thankful, my Chiquita and I. Is it not so, my Chiquita?”
The old woman bowed gracefully, and echoed her companion’s expression of appreciation and farewell greeting. As I turned to enter the inn the landlord met me at the door, saying:
“Your room’s all ready, Mister. It’s been ready for more’n an hour. I seen you was havin’ your fortune told, an’ as the old gal allus dishes up as good ones for the money as can be had in these diggin’s, I thought I wouldn’t disturb ye. I hope ye got all the trimmin’s that was comin’ to ye,” and he grinned expansively.
“I have no fault to find with the fortune the old woman told me,” I replied smilingly; “it was doubtless better than I deserve, and I suspect much better than I will ever experience. I was far more interested in Chiquita and Ramon, her companion, than in her skill as a fortune teller. I am curious to learn something of them. Do you know anything about them?”
“Why, no, leastwise not enough to hurt. The old gal is some sort of a gypsy, I reckon. She sure is, if there’s any Mexican gypsies. The feller with her is a Greaser all right, though I’ll allow I don’t know nothin’ else agin him. They blew in on this town about ten years ago, an’ have been comin’ here off an’ on, workin’ the fortune tellin’ racket ever since.”
“Well, they are not likely to get rich at it,” I said. “Vallecito does not seem to be a very profitable field for their particular specialty.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” replied the genial Jim. “Of course, this town ain’t what she was in the early days,” and the old “forty-niner” sighed retrospectively. “But it ain’t so bad, after all. It’s a little out o’ season now, but when strangers come through here on the way to Mariposa and Calaveras, I reckon it’s pretty good pickin’ for the old woman and her pal. The Big Trees and the Calaveras caves draw pretty good crowds, and they’re the kind of people that’s got mighty tender feet, too—an’ some money. I sort o’ like them kind, myself.”
“Is anything known of the history of those Mexicans before they came to this part of the country?” I asked.
“No; we folks don’t ask questions much, an’ Ramon, the Greaser, aint one of the talkative kind. Anyhow, he don’t talk much to us. I reckon though, that some o’ them tourists knows how to make him loosen up. There was a feller here once that writ stories for magazines an’ such, who told me that Ramon had spun him some pretty wild yarns, an’ I believe he writ some of ’em down in a book.”
“Ah, then a story has been published about them.”
“Well, I don’t reckon it was published none,” replied mine host, facetiously. “That writer feller tumbled off the foot-bridge into the Tuolumne Canyon about a week after that, an’ I’m afraid he didn’t go to press.
“But I’m runnin’ a hotel, such as it is, an’ hain’t got much time for fairy tales, an’ still less time for Greasers, which the same I don’t like nohow.”
Needless to say, my conversation with the landlord had only served to increase my curiosity. As I bade him good-night I resolved to seek for Chiquita and Ramon in the morning. I had scented a romance; which meant with me that I must take the trail and run the story to earth.
* * * * *
I found the fortune teller and her companion in the cabin of a Mexican sheep herder, among the hills a little way out of town. This is the story that Ramon told me:
“Our story, Señor? It is not much, our story. What you have seen, that is all it is to tell. It is the story of Chiquita, my Chiquita, there, that you should hear. I, Ramon, know the story. Alas! too well do I know it. Listen, Señor:
“Many, many years ago, in the days when los Americanos—the mineros—were by hundreds here in Calaveras and in the valley of Tuolumne, a great hacienda there was, and a great mansion, near Sonora, just by the road that now runs to Vallecito. When the Señor rides to Sonora, at the right hand of the road will he yet see the stones of the crumbling walls of the house. He cannot mistake, for all along the road is there none other like it.
“Don Pedro Salvia, the name was, of the owner of the hacienda. Many broad acres of the hills and valleys were his, and over those acres by the thousands grazed his cattle. All the land it was black with his droves of the long-horned breed of la España. Horses too, there were in vast herds. Never were seen mustangs so many and so fine and swift as those of Don Pedro. Many cattle and many mustangs mean always much money, and Don Pedro was muy rico—of great riches.
“The old Don was proud, oh, so proud, but not his great wealth was it that made him so. Of a famous and haughty race he was. None older was there in all Castile. His blood was what the Americano would call—what is it that they call the blood of the grandee? Ah, I remember—he was of the blue blood. None was there in all Spain so blue.
“In Sonora for many years had the Salvias been—so long that no Americano could remember when the family was not there. Before Don Pedro came, many, many generations of the Salvias had lived and died on the rancheria.
“Fate had laid its hand heavy on the blood of the Salvias, for the Don was of his race the last man. He had one child only—a daughter. La Doña Teresa, her poor mother, had died when she came—the little one.
“Chiquita was of Don Pedro’s life the sun. He worshipped her even as worships the good Catholic the Madonna. Never was maiden so beautiful or so graceful. Ah! like the deer was she graceful. And she was no plant of the hot house. There was none among all the herders who could throw the riata as could Chiquita. Of all the caballeros of Sonora there was not one who in riding could match her. There was no mustang so wild that she could not tame him. And shoot! Not in all California was there a better shot with rifle or pistol than Chiquita.
“And, Señor, she was not afraid—as any caballero she was brave. As free and fearless as the young eagle she came and went among the rough hill people. Once only, was any man so bold as to give to Chiquita the insult. Ah! Señor, beautiful to see it must have been! Almost dead they found Léon Bodigo, the half breed. All of his blood it had run out. The maiden’s little cuchillo, it was sharp, Señor.
“No companions had Chiquita, save the birds and flowers, and the trees and brooks of the mountains,—and Juan, her cousin. But she was happy and had never the—what you call it, eh? Ah, I have it, care. She had not the care. She had never sorrow, and never had tears wet her beautiful eyes since she was small—so very small.
“Juan it was, who was of Chiquita the slave. He was not so old as Chiquita. He was a lad only—fourteen years of the age he was—but there was no caballero more strong of heart than he. Happy also, was Juan, for loved he not Chiquita? Yes, with all his soul he loved her. A thing wonderful to see was the love of Juan for the beautiful Chiquita!
“When the vaqueros made of the cattle the round up, with them rode Chiquita, and beside her was Juan—always Juan. You should have seen the riding, and of the herds the gathering, Señor. Nothing so grand is there now anywhere to see.
“Many times when the throw was made for the branding, and the fierce long-horn to the ground was brought, it was with the riata of Chiquita. And, Juan, too, made his throw for the iron. The count of Chiquita and Juan in the throwing of the cattle the best vaquero could not beat.
“But Paradise it is never to last. Dark days there came to the rancheria of the Salvias. It was over again the story of—Eden, yes? In the beautiful garden the serpent?
“One day to the rancheria came un Inglés, an English Milord. A letter he bring from a friend of Don Pedro’s, asking that he be made welcome. That Englishman he was sick, very sick, Señor. Like a man who is starved he looked. Dios! he was white. He was so thin that when the wind blew he trembled like a leaf that on the tree is dead, and poof! poof!—how he had the cough! He could not sit the mustang, and the vaqueros they smile at him when he ride. So weak he was that on the ground he fall off—bang!
“But el Medico he have said that the Englishman he must ride, ride, ride—or with the lungs he will surely die. And so he try and try, for he had the pluck, that Englishman. By and by, he grow strong—strong like the bull. The air of the hills is like the old wine of Oporto and makes the great miracles. Carramba!—the air it did not know.
“When that Englishman he was strong to ride steady, Juan was happy no more. Wherever Chiquita was, there was Milord. He learned to throw the riata and with the vaqueros to ride the herd. They ride not badly, these cursed Inglés. This fellow he ride bob! bob! bob! up and down, always up and down—but he ride straight like the soldier.
“How Juan hated that English Milord! Little fool, that Juan! He did not know that it was Juan that was too many in the riding of pleasure. Ah! he was the great fool—he thought it was the Englishman! For many days he thought this foolish thought. So it was, until one day Chiquita sent him away on a mission that was useless. When he came back, he saw her riding far away from the hacienda, far away in the hills. The Englishman he was beside her; so close to her he was that together their knees were touching. And then Juan knew! And then, so quick, like the lightning, grew he from boy to man—and such a man!
“It runs hot, the blood of my people, Señor, and in the veins of none of his race had it ever run hotter than it ran that day in the veins of Juan. And bitter it ran, and everything it was red to the eyes of Juan. One thing only was there to do; the Englishman must die, and Juan he must kill him!
“The next day again into the hills rode Chiquita. Milord, the cursed Milord, was as always beside her. Juan saw them at the corral in the starting, and taking his rifle he crawl, like una serpiente, on the belly through a gulch between the hills that open on the road at the turning. In the chapparal he crouched and waited, like the panther that is hungry. Nothing could save Milord, for when did Juan ever miss the mark?
“But Chiquita made with the Englishman a race, and so swift was her mustang that far behind she left him. To the turn of the road she came alone. Juan heard the beating of the hoofs and thought it was time. He stood straight up behind the brush of the greasewood and manzanita, with his rifle at his shoulder—so! Chiquita saw, and all at once she knew.
“So sudden it all was, and she ride so quick, that Juan was close—oh, so close—to killing Chiquita before he saw who was the rider.
“Straight at him the mustang she rode, and then she stopped and looked into his eyes; oh, so sad she looked. For a long time she looked at him. He saw that she knew, and it was not the eyes of Chiquita that fell—it was Juan’s. And then she spoke:
“‘It is not for me, that my cousin he waits. In his eyes is there murder, but it is not for his Chiquita that he sees red. Is my cousin Juan a coward, that he lies in ambush? Does he love me no longer? Is it that he would kill one whom I love? Go, and go quickly, that he may not see you—that he may not know that my little Juan has put upon Chiquita and the house of Salvia the great shame.’
“The Englishman he was not come to the bend of the road before Juan was gone. And Juan came not back to the hacienda for the many, many days. No one knew where he had gone, but he was not far. He was near in the mountains; like the cougar and the grizzly he was hiding. Far from Chiquita he could not go. Many the times she have passed him as he crouched in the mésquite, but she did not know. Always was her Englishman to ride beside her. Three, four, ten times could Juan have killed him, but would not! Was it not that Chiquita had said she have come to love the Milord? And she have said, too, that it is coward to shoot from the ambush. Juan loved Chiquita; her heart he would not make to ache, and, Señor, he was not coward, that little Juan!
“IS MY COUSIN JUAN A COWARD, THAT HE LIES IN AMBUSH?”
“Every day, for many, many days, Juan, from his hiding could see of the rides, the starting—Chiquita and the Englishman—always the cursed Inglés! Not always would they ride near Juan. One way sometimes, then next day another way, but every day some way they ride—Chiquita and her Englishman. And they ride so close, so very close—so close together they ride that Juan sometimes forgets almost, and then he looks at the rifle. So hungry he looks at it, and how the itching it is in the fingers! Always is it loaded, the rifle, and it carries far and true the bullet when Juan fires it. He is fine shot, that little Juan.
“One day Chiquita and the Englishman they not ride together. The Milord is alone. Next day is he alone once more. He does not ride the way of Juan. That is good, for Chiquita is not there, and to remember is hard when she is not there, and the gun it is loaded.
“Two days, then, the Englishman he ride alone. The second day, in the evening, Juan sees the vaqueros and the women run, and run—they run about like jack-rabbits. And then they gather together and talk, talk, always they talk; like el loro, the parrot, they talk. There is no work. For two days, Juan has not seen Don Pedro.
“The third day, in the morning, everything is like dead at the hacienda. No one is stir, only sometimes the dogs they bark. By and by comes the Englishman out of the house, springs quick on his mustang and like the wind he is off. He rides close by Juan, so near that the boy he could have plucked him off his horse. And the Englishman’s face it was white—white just like a corpse. He ride like he is scared—like el diablo—like the devil he ride!
“Juan, too, was scared. He was sure something go bad, very bad, at the hacienda. And so he is go down to the place and look all around, but he is see nobody—they are all gone, the vaqueros and the women.
“And then Juan go into the house. There he find Don Pedro dying with la viruela, the smallpox, Señor! with nobody to care for him but Chiquita, and one old woman that was call for the joke, La Bonita, the beautiful, because she have the pest long before and was, oh, so ugly! Ah! the face of Don Pedro! It was horrible; it made Juan to grow sick!
“But Juan stay and help the women. At first the boy he was afraid, but he loved Chiquita, and soon the pest he forgot.
“Well, Señor, soon and sure the end was. In five days Don Pedro he was dead. And Juan and La Bonita they bury him, with nobody to help. Chiquita her heart is break. She cry and cry and cry, but Juan he knew it was not all for that her father was dead. She would not tell Juan, but he knew. The coward Inglés that have run away—for him also were the tears.
“A few days more and Chiquita too, was take sick with the pest. This time it was not the black smallpox—but it is bad, very bad. Jesu! How the old woman and the boy they make the fight for Chiquita! And Chiquita she is not die—she get well. Her face it is scar—so bad is it scar that La Bonita herself is not less beautiful than the poor Chiquita. And Juan he is afraid—for some day she will know, so he take away from the house all the bright things and the mirrors and tell La Bonita the young Señorita must not know. And the old woman she understand, ah! too well she understand. She remember the sorrow of the day she herself first saw the scar of her face, and she is careful of Chiquita.
“When Chiquita she could once more walk about and breathe the sweet air of the pines, everywhere with her went Juan. Once again it was Juan—always Juan.
“When Chiquita she grew strong again, as before the pest came, the poor boy he might have been happy, but for one thing—tears, tears, always tears in the eyes of Chiquita! And Juan he knew they were not all for Don Pedro. Always in her mind that cursed Milord! Her heart it still ache for the coward Englishman.
“Long walks Chiquita and Juan they take together. She could again ride, but never did she ask for her mustang. She for riding cared no more. Always, you see, she is think of the Englishman. And Juan, he know why she wished not to ride, and his heart it was lead.
“But Juan was kind, so very kind to Chiquita. Always he loved her, and the scar of the face made to him no difference. But every day does he fear the time when she must know. That time, so much does he fear it, that the brooks he would not let her cross; he was afraid that in them her face she might see; yet still did he know sure that sometime she must see it.
“By and by the people is come back to the rancheria, and Juan he is do the best he can to take care of the place, and the cattle and the horses. For a little while things they go along like before the pest it have kill Don Pedro.
“One day Juan he go into the hills for the round up, and for two days he come not back. Before he go he tell La Bonita to keep good watch of the poor Chiquita, but all the same he is afraid. All the time of the riding after the cattle he is afraid it goes not well with Chiquita.
“When Juan he is get back from the round up, the great trouble it have come. Chiquita she is mad—she have gone crazy, Señor, and she does not know anything—not anybody does she know!
“From La Bonita Juan hears the story. The Englishman he has come back to see what is happen at the hacienda. Chiquita is so glad she almost die with the gladness, but el Inglés, he is see her poor face with all the scar, and he is look, ‘Ugh!’ He say nothing, but he look the ‘Ugh!’
“La Bonita she hear the Englishman tell Chiquita he must say adios—for the last time he must say it. She cry, and cry, and cry, like the heart it is to break, and she hold tight to the coat of Milord. And then he push her away hard, so! and tell her about the scar on her face, and she not understand—she not believe. So he take from his pocket el espejo, the looking-glass, and hold it before Chiquita!
“La Bonita she hear the great scream and run quick to Chiquita. She find her on the floor like one who is dead. The Englishman he is not there—he is gone, but on the floor is the devil looking-glass. La Bonita made the curse, and crush the glass into the thousand pieces, so! If the Englishman he had not gone she sure would have kill him, that old woman! She with the poniard could aim true, that Bonita, and for the blood of Milord was she thirsty.
“When he have the work to do, el Mexicano make not the hurry, but when he must kill his enemy, Señor, then does he never say mañana—the to-morrow. To-day is the time he must kill.
“Juan stayed not long at the hacienda. He leave Chiquita with the old woman, and saddle his mustang and ride—swift as the bird flies, rode Juan. The vaqueros they tell him the Englishman he have ride through Sonora, and so Juan he go that way.
“Does el Señor know where is the ferry on the Stanislaus?”
“Yes,” I said, “I know the place well.”
“Then, the Señor he will remember that the mountains are at the ferry high, very high and steep like the wall. The Stanislaus in the spring is so swift that in it a man could not live one second. The rocks, ah! Señor, the rocks in the canyon of the Stanislaus they are plenty, and they are sharp and cruel.
“It was not then as now. There was no ferry, and one must cross by a foot-bridge. The freshet of the spring-time it had washed the bridge away. Very high was then the Stanislaus! When the foot-bridge it was go, one must wait, and wait, and wait—he must wait for the going down of the water and for the mineros a new bridge to build.
“In the cabin of a minero away up on the mountain side the Englishman was wait for the water to go down and the bridge to be built. Here it was that Juan find him.
“He could fight, could that cursed Inglés, and he was so strong that in his hands only a child was that little Juan! But the boy he have the courage, and the right—and, Señor, he have the poniard. It is the poniard that makes the strength as nothing.
“In the cabin of the minero the fight began, and so weak was Juan in the hands of el Inglés that he was by him push through the door and to the edge of the canyon. It is very deep, that canyon, and to the bottom a very long way, and Juan he know what happen if he is not quick and sure.
“The wrist of Juan it is not strong, and his enemy he hold it tight in his hand, so! But, when the Englishman he take the boy around the waist for throw him over the side of the canyon, his foot it make the slip and he fall back! As he fall he let go the wrist of Juan!
“Ah! now for Milord is there no more chance! He must sure die! Quick, like the rattlesnake, struck the boy! One! Two! Three!—five times he bury the knife in the Englishman!
“And when the Englishman fall limp on the ground, Juan is cover thick with the hot red blood. It have spurt, and spurt—all over him it have spurt!
“The Englishman he is not yet so dead that he does not understand when Juan say: ‘My Chiquita, she have send her love to the Milord who was so kind as to show to her in the looking-glass her face.’
“And then Juan laugh in the man’s face as he die.
“When the Englishman he was no more, Juan roll and roll him to the edge of the canyon. He was not strong for the lift, but he could make the push and the roll of the body. When the body was at the edge, Juan make one grand push and crash! over the Englishman go!
“Perhaps el Señor he not comprende—he have not the hot blood of un Español. But, maybe, he too have enemies, and knows the hate, and the feelings of Juan can understand.
“Never was music so sweet to the ear of that little Juan, as the sound of the dead Englishman making the fall. Every time the body it strike the rocks, it bound off like the ball, and spatter much blood! Very beautiful to the eyes of Juan was the red trail of the body on the canyon side.
“When the body of Milord reach the bottom, he look no more like a man—he is like he is blown to the mince-meat by the blast of powder. He fall into the Stanislaus in many pieces, splash! splash! and when Juan saw this, he was happy—Dios! for the one minute he forget.
“Of the story of Chiquita there is not much more to tell, Señor. When Juan was get back to the hacienda, she was still not know anybody. El Medico say she have of the brain a bad sickness. She live, but she no more can see—she is blind!
“And never has Chiquita remembered—Gracios à Dios!
“Not long was it before the rancheria of the Salvias is go to ruin. They all go away, the vaqueros and the women. La Bonita, she stay like the faithful dog till she die. And then was Chiquita alone—alone, till she have found Ramon.”
Here the story-teller gazed tenderly toward the door of the herder’s cabin, where in the quiet shadows just within, sat a pathetic white-haired figure.
“But what became of Juan?” I asked.
There was a peculiar light in the Mexican’s eyes as he replied:
“Long, long ago he die—that little Juan. It was well that he die, for when Ramon came, then was there no more need of Juan. Then, too, my poor Chiquita did not know, and why was it then that Juan should live?”
A DEAD IDEAL
A ROMANCE OF THE DISSECTING ROOM
I had been practising medicine for some years, and had grown tired of the hard daily grind of the general practitioner. I longed for a vacation, but medicine is a hard task mistress and with the busy physician economy of time is so essential that his so-called “rest” is usually merely a change of work. I felt that it must be so with me, and resolved to hie me to some of the eastern centers of medical teaching and take a post graduate course in several special subjects. Polyclinics and post graduate schools being then unknown, I went to New York and matriculated at one of that city’s famous schools, one which had attained a high reputation for practical bedside instruction and abundant clinical material.
It was with all the enthusiasm of a school boy, that I enrolled my name upon the college roster and settled down to earnest work in the hospital wards and dissecting rooms.
As I was desirous of mingling with my classmates as much as possible, and was not averse to a certain degree of practical economy, I formed a combination with three undergraduates, who were recommended to me as desirable associates, and became a guest of a medical students’ boarding house—an establishment characterized by abundant opportunities for the study of entomology and the effects of prolonged fasting upon the human body, rather than by the abundance and variety of its larder. As was the custom among medical students, we clubbed together and occupied a large single room—none too elaborately furnished, but very comfortable withal, and made rather attractive by a large, old fashioned fireplace.
My room-mates were most agreeable associates, although not altogether harmonious in tastes and methods of study. Two were young Southerners—men of superior attainments, but typic ladies’ men, and fond of social dissipation and excitement. Both were possessed of some means, and had adopted our mode of living because of social and bohemian instincts rather than from motives of economy. Time was an unimportant factor with them, hence they rarely suffered from over-study, although they were often the worse for the wear and tear of social dissipation. If ever there was a well matched pair of college cronies it was my young friends, Will Richardson and Charles Favell.
The fourth member of our circle, Harold Parkyn, was about my own age, and as different from our jovial room-mates as possible. He had been an artist, it seems, and an unappreciated one, which was no fault of his, for he had talent that fell but little short of genius. Despairing of success in his chosen profession and abhorring commercial pursuits, he had entered medicine at a rather late period in life.
I have rarely met a man so ill adapted by nature to medicine as was Parkyn. He was a fine, athletic, handsome fellow, with a clear cut, refined and classical face, and magnificent dark eyes which evidenced a temperament far too esthetic, and emotional faculties too exalted and sensitive to withstand the physical and mental strain incidental to intimate association with human suffering. His first visit to the dissecting room was harrowing to witness, and it was weeks before he made an attempt to qualify in practical anatomy. At his first surgical clinic he fainted outright. A large part of the disagreeable features of caring for the sick filled him with disgust. And yet, Parkyn was plucky; his was not a spirit to be easily discouraged, and he applied himself persistently to the task of subduing his finer feelings and acquiring the proverbial callosity of the medical student—an effort in which he most signally failed.
Parkyn was not only of a delicately sensitive nervous organization, but he was rather peculiar in his ways. Affable at times—when his chums were indulging in jollity—he was generally one of the most reserved and taciturn men I have ever met; especially was he unsocial in the presence of ladies. So noticeable was this peculiarity that the young women of the household had dubbed him “Old Crusty”—which disturbed his serenity not at all, even when Richardson and Favell, in a spirit of mischief and with great show of formality, adopted the sobriquet applied to him by the ladies. In grave and solemn caucus these young gentlemen decided that Parkyn was a confirmed woman hater, and deservedly doomed to die an old bachelor. Their favorite occupation was the reading of love letters which they pretended to have received, and the exhibition of photographs of pretty girls to “Old Crusty.”
Being a practitioner, and therefore concededly the oracle of our little student family, I was a sort of balance wheel to the party, standing between the occasional over-exuberance of Richardson and Favell on the one hand, and the extreme sensitiveness of Parkyn on the other.
One evening as we were all sitting before the fireplace enjoying our after-dinner pipes, Favell brought out from the recesses of his wonderfully productive pocket, a photograph of a most beautiful woman, and with a fine show of counterfeit embarrassment, exhibited it as “The picture of a very dear friend of mine, down home—just received this morning. Very charming girl—particular friend of my sister’s,” etc. etc.
The picture was certainly beautiful, and if Favell was telling the truth he had reason to be proud of the charming young woman’s acquaintance, but as I looked at the photograph, I fancied I remembered having seen it before, in a stationer’s shop. I made no comment, however, and Favell proceeded to launch the arrows of his wit at Parkyn.
“Say, old man, here is something that ought to stir your blood at last! How can you remain a woman hater and know that there are such charming creatures on this old planet of ours as Miss—Ahem!—the original of this photograph? Ah! your eyes are actually growing green with envy. You dear old stick, you! Has it been merely a slight touch of sour grapes after all? Tell me, old fellow, did you ever see anything so beautiful as this face? Did you ever know a lovelier girl?”
Parkyn rose from his chair, and with a mournful expression replied, “One only, my dear boy, and she—but pardon me,” he said, coloring up, “you well know that the subject of ladies is one which—bores me. I must leave such things to social butterflies like yourself and our mutual friend Richardson here. And, by the way, gentlemen, I must hie myself to a subject even more distasteful than that of woman in the abstract. I promised Professor Van Buren that I would finish that abominable dissection of the upper extremity to-night. You see that the trend of Favell’s conversation has driven me to extremities. Yes, thank God! to my last extremity.” Saying which he withdrew.
“Now, see here, boys,” I said, after Parkyn had gone. “You mustn’t tease our friend so outrageously. If I am not mistaken you hit him on a tender point just now, and he is far too sensitive and high-strung to always take your badinage so good naturedly as he did to-night. I suspect that Harold Parkyn is quite as human as the rest of us and that he—well, who knows that he may not be bitterly mourning over the grave of buried hopes? No, boys, you must let him alone. You may be inflicting pain upon him.”
“By Jove, doctor!” exclaimed Favell, “I never thought of that. I’ll just bet the dear old fellow has had a love affair. And it hasn’t turned out right; that’s what’s the matter. I’ll apologize to him as soon as he returns.”
“Yes, and a fine mess you’ll make of it!” said Richardson. “You would better let well enough alone. We’ll both have a little sense and delicacy hereafter. To tell the truth, I have for some time been a little ashamed of my part in our chaffing, and I’m only too glad to reform.”
Parkyn was very thoughtful for several days after the affair of the photograph, and even more reserved than usual. The boys kept their promises and did not again attempt to banter him. I fancied that he understood the studious politeness and affectionate consideration with which he was subsequently treated, although there was no comment.
Several weeks later, Parkyn and myself chanced to be alone together and, as is likely to be the case among young professional men, our talk drifted into a discussion of our aims and ambitions in life. In the course of the conversation I quite naturally commented upon the wide variance between Parkyn’s former profession and the one in the study of which he was then engaged.
“It has always puzzled me to understand, I said, how a man of your artistic temperament and admitted ability, could ever have deserted the profession of art for that of medicine.”
“Well,” replied Parkyn, “you have doubtless forgotten the fact which I long ago frankly stated to our mutual friends and yourself, that I was not highly appreciated by the public and finally despaired of success—not in making a living, for I could by dint of strong exertion do that—but in attaining the position in my profession which I felt was justly my due. I, myself, often wonder why I finally selected medicine as my field of labor, but I couldn’t sell groceries; the law wouldn’t do at all, and the ministry was out of the question, so there seemed to be nothing but medicine left.” Parkyn sighed, and remained for some moments dreamily gazing into the fireplace and listlessly poking at the glowing coals with the tongs.
“But, my dear fellow,” I said, “you have selected a profession that is nearly as difficult as art, so far as winning fame and financial success is concerned, and moreover, one which has by comparison no features of attractiveness. You will pardon me if I also say that medicine is a profession to which your sensitive organization is but poorly adapted.”
Parkyn arose and nervously paced the floor. He finally paused and facing me said, “Doctor, I realize the truth of what you say only too keenly, and what is more I detest your profession so far as I have gone. I have, however, determined not only to overcome my repugnance to it, but to blunt by sheer force of will the peculiarities of organization to which you have alluded. Distasteful as it is, medicine is delightful by comparison with the hell into which my chosen profession, art, finally precipitated me. Ye gods, man! You do not realize what—but pshaw! this is not interesting to you, and besides, I never talk of myself.”
“See here, Parkyn,” I said, “it might be far better for you to talk about yourself a little, especially to one who understands you—as I think I do. I have often suspected that there was a story connected with your change of profession and from the best of motives I am anxious to hear it. Come now, old man, out with it—I am as interested and sympathetic as you please, and as deep and silent as a well.”
Parkyn reflected for a moment and then replied, “I am quite sure you understand me much better than most of my friends, but I do not fancy being thought ridiculous, even by you, and my story might seem absurd to a man of your philosophic and rather lymphatic temperament.”
“Oh, nonsense!” I exclaimed, “I’m not so lymphatic as you seem to think. Philosophy puts a check on the impulses of the heart, while art lets them roam fancy free, yet human nature is the same in both philosopher and artist, so fire away, old fellow; I’m all ears—evolutionary relics you know.”
Parkyn leaned languidly against the corner of the mantel, his chin resting upon his hands and began:
“The details of my career up to the date of the circumstances that impelled me to leave the profession for which nature adapted me, are commonplace. My life was that of the average poor boy of artistic tastes and talents, who fights his way to the attainment of a thorough professional training. By hard work, I succeeded in getting enough money together to enable me to study with the most celebrated masters of Europe. I finally settled down in my native city, Boston, and after many trials and vicissitudes, was in due time in a fair way to earn a respectable living, although fame was by no means beating her angelic wings against the windows of my studio. It was too near the roof, I fear,” and Parkyn smiled somewhat bitterly.
“It so happened that the society of artists of which I eventually became a member, instituted a yearly exhibition of paintings patterned after the Paris Salon. As an act of extreme condescension I was especially invited by the directors of the exhibition to contribute. The invitation was gladly accepted and I promptly began casting about for a suitable theme—a matter that often constitutes the most difficult part of the artist’s labors. The department of painting in which I was particularly adept was the study of the nude and I quite naturally resolved to produce something in the line of my favorite work. And then came the search for a model.
“Contrary to the popular notion, a satisfactory model is a very scarce commodity. The human form divine rarely stands the keen professional criticism of the eye artistic. A picture is oftener the composite of several models than the actual delineation of one. The arms and shoulders of one, the feet of another, and the torso of still another may be required. Several months passed away and although the time for the exhibition was dangerously near, I had not yet found what I sought. As you may imagine, I was in despair, for having set my heart upon a certain subject for my picture, I was loth to abandon it, for another of less interest. And now comes the strangest part of my story—the part which I fear is hardly materialistic enough for you, my dear doctor,” and Parkyn hesitated.
“Go on; go on!” I exclaimed.
“I had always been an ardent student of the classics, and was in the habit of reading for an hour or two before retiring. In selecting a book almost at random from the modest little collection of odds and ends—by courtesy my library—I happened one evening to get hold of an old treatise on mythology. While reading of the gods and goddesses therein described, and admiring the artistic opportunities afforded by the social circle in which the heathen deities moved, I fell asleep in my chair, and dreaming, found that for which I had vainly sought in my waking hours—my model.
“You as a practical physician will doubtless attribute my dream to the direct impression made upon my brain by the character of the book I had been reading, and I must admit that my experience had certain features which would justify such an opinion, yet I feel nevertheless that my dream model had a basis of reality.
“I seemed to be in the midst of a vast garden—the most beautiful I had ever seen. The flowers and shrubs surpassed all forms with which I was familiar. Hovering over the rare and many hued exotics were gorgeous butterflies and humming birds, to which no description could possibly do justice. The air was redolent with the odor of the blossoms and vibrant with the songs of rare birds and the melodious strains of unseen musical instruments. ‘Surely,’ I thought, ‘this must be Paradise.’
“As I stood gazing enraptured upon the sensuous things surrounding me I became conscious that I was not alone. The garden was peopled with forms, among which I recognized some of the more familiar of the mythologic deities whom I had just left within the covers of my book. As these luminous beings passed and repassed me, I perceived that there was some central object of attraction. They appeared to be gathering about a beautiful fountain that stood, half hidden by flowering plants and foliage, in the center of the garden. Feeling that my human curiosity was justified by that which even the celestial beings about me were exhibiting, I approached the spot and there beheld a scene which astonished and delighted me beyond measure.
“Just within the spray of the fountain that glittered and sparkled with surprising brilliancy, showing combinations of colors which I had never before seen, was a golden, shell-like couch. Upon, or rather within this couch, lay the sleeping form of a most beautiful woman! Gazing upon this lovely creature, I was not surprised that the strange beings about me were attracted by her beauty. My own artistic eye was fairly entranced. I saw at once that the object of my admiration was different from the beings who peopled the celestial garden. She was human—although the loveliest of womankind.
“My first feeling of mingled awe and admiration was soon replaced by a most gratifying sense of triumph. I had found what was to me a much desired object—a perfect model for my picture! With feverish haste I drew sketch book and pencil from my pocket and endeavored to outline the only perfect female form I had ever seen.
“As is usual in the dream state, I found that I had lost all power of doing those things which were part of my daily life. I could not draw a single line; my artistic talent and indeed, even the power of voluntary motion necessary in drawing, was wholly gone. You may imagine how I despaired. Everything was real to me, and my inability to sketch the model for which I had so long sought in vain, was most distressing, so distressing that I awoke.
“I was greatly impressed by my dream, but inclined to smile at the keen disappointment that I felt on awaking. The peculiar circumstances under which I had found my model were naturally aggravating, but I consoled myself with the reflection that dream pictures are not very substantial after all, and that even though the sketch which I attempted had been made, my sketch book would have been rather evanescent. It certainly would have been lost on the way back to earth.
“Whether because of the vivid impression the vision of the female loveliness made upon me, I cannot say—you are a practical psychologist and should know more of such matters than I—but my dream repeated itself in every detail the following night. Even my unsuccessful endeavor to sketch the beautiful woman was faithfully reproduced, and I again awoke to the consciousness of keen disappointment at the loss of a long sought artistic opportunity.
“A detailed reproduction of a dream, is as you know, not common, but I felt intuitively that a further repetition would quite likely occur and when I retired on the second night following the original dream, it was with a fixed determination to so impress the vision of loveliness I had seen upon my mind, that I could from memory alone, utilize the model which had come to me in such a strange fashion.
“The wished for dream occurred precisely as on the two previous nights, and I remember making a most earnest endeavor to photograph the wonderful model upon my memory—an effort in which I was only too successful. When I awoke, my model was so vividly pictured in my mind that the work of reproducing her upon canvas was no more difficult than if her living form had been actually before me.
“And then came the disaster of my life. It was the story of Pygmalion and Galatea over again. I began my work with the enthusiasm of the artist, and completed it with the ardor of the man. I fell in love with my own creation! The self-confessed misogynist, who had never been susceptible to the real in womankind, became enslaved by an ideal from dreamland which my brush had metamorphosed into something material. I finally became intoxicated with the idea that my model must herself have a material being; that the feminine perfection I had seen in the vision was but the dream picture of a real personage—a fair woman who actually lived in the flesh!
“My picture was done! It was destined to be my last and, like the song of the dying swan, it was my masterpiece. But I had no longer a thought of the exhibition. I became infatuated with the idea that through some occult and mysterious influence I had had the opportunity of utilizing as a model the fairest of womankind. It was not by her own volition that she became my model. To hang her picture at the exhibition would be a crime. The most beautiful model in the whole world should not be gazed upon by the vulgar herd. She was mine, and mine alone. She was real; she lived, and one day we should meet, and then—
“Ah, me! Was it not thus that Aphrodite breathed the spark of life, the material essence of reality into the ivory form of Galatea? Such is the power of that worship of the ideal that the Philistine calls love, over the human heart!
“There is little more to be told. My picture became a shrine at which I worshipped by day and dreamed by night. Its possession was happiness. The failure to find the original was the acme of misery. I lost all interest in the art that had created the painting, and the very thought of devoting the talent which had developed my ideal to subjects that must ever be less worthy became abhorrent to me. My all of art, my all of life, my loftiest aspirations were there in the beautiful painting, the model for which had come to me in my dreams.
“Ah, my dear doctor!” exclaimed Parkyn, as he extended his hand imploringly towards me, “do not laugh at me. Be something more than a man of science, something more than a materialist, and do not discourage me when I say that I know that my ideal lives, know that somehow, somewhere, I am to meet her!
“You have heard my story, my dear friend. You are the first to whom I have told it, and shall be the last.”
“My dear Parkyn,” I said, when my friend had finished his story, “the very essence of materialism itself, should respect the artistic and emotional nature that could develop such an experience as you have had. I am, myself, by no means so materialistic as you suppose. We have not yet solved the mysteries of psychology. We know nothing of the workings of human affinities, and there are those, even among us men of science, who are not altogether blind to the possibilities of the occult. Men have been shattered upon the rocks and shoals of ideality before, and will be again. Not all could have so pure and fair an ideal as you have described. Your vision was extraordinary, and although as a physician I might descant to you on the relation of over-work and lack of exercise to figments of the imagination, still as a man, and one in whom the finer sensibilities are not yet dead, I must acknowledge that I not only sympathize with you, but I—well, I myself suspect that there is somewhere a substantial foundation for your dream. It is by no means impossible that you may one day find your model, and, my dear fellow, I sincerely hope you will.”
Parkyn grasped my hand warmly, and stood in silence for a moment, then, with an expression of gratification and happiness such as I had never before seen on his face, he said slowly:
“You do, indeed, understand me, doctor. Your medical philosophy is tinctured with just enough of the fire of romance, your heart has just enough of the emotional attributes of the true artist, to enable you to be something more than a mere compounder and prescriber of drugs. I understand now, why you have a penchant for psychology. Wise is he who hath read the chapter on hearts in the book of human life!”
* * * * *
The end of the college term was drawing near, and even Favell and Richardson had settled down to something like earnest work preparatory to examinations. I had just finished my dissections, as had my room-mates several weeks before, hence had no occasion to visit that gloomy and dismal room above stairs known as the hall of anatomy. When, therefore, we heard one day of a marvellously interesting subject that had just been brought over from Blackwell’s Island, our interest was not especially excited. The dissecting room is by no means haunted by students who have finished their prescribed course in anatomy. It seems, however, that one of Favell’s friends had induced him to go up to the dissecting-room one morning to inspect the anatomic wonder, which I had understood somewhat vaguely, was the body of a remarkably beautiful woman. Parkyn, Richardson and myself were just preparing to go to dinner, meanwhile wondering what had become of the ever-hungry Favell, when that worthy broke into the room in a state of great excitement, crying, “Say, boys, you just ought to see the subject that’s come in from the Island! Gee, whiz! but it’s a beauty—the handsomest thing in the shape of a woman that ever was born! Why, half the artists and all the newspaper men in New York have been up to see it. They’re all crazy over it. You boys must go up and look at it to-night, and if you don’t say that body is the most beautiful thing you ever saw, I’ll buy the dinners for the crowd. I mean you, especially, Parkyn. I suspect that you are much cleverer than any of those daubers who have seen it, and I know you’ll revel in the beauties of what might have been an artist’s model.”
Richardson and myself promptly agreed to visit the nine days wonder, but it was with extreme difficulty that I induced Parkyn to accompany us. When he did finally yield to my entreaties he turned a deaf ear to my urgent request that he take some sketching materials with him.
“You well know, doctor,” he said, “that I have reformed. I never sketch. Sketching is a lost art so far as I am concerned. You forget, my dear friend—”
I suddenly remembered, and was silent. I alone understood the sentiments that inspired his refusal.
Evening came, and our little party proceeded to the chamber of horrors which, as I supposed, Favell’s boyish nonsense had converted into a mortuary of dead female beauty. I more than half suspected a practical joke. My young friend was much given to such diversions.
Arriving at the dissecting room, we found a large congregation of men standing about one of the tables. Here and there I could see several who, sketch-book in hand, were busily at work utilizing what they evidently considered an artistic opportunity. Favell and Richardson, boylike, pushed their way through the crowd, while Parkyn and I leisurely brought up the rear. I heard the demonstrator of anatomy say—
“Well, gentlemen, we must begin our dissection. We have already devoted too much time to sentiment.”
As the professor poised his gleaming scalpel over the body, Favell exclaimed, “Wait just a moment, sir, please, here comes Parkyn.”
The professor, with whom the cultured and artistic Parkyn was a favorite, stayed his hand, and with knife upraised, waited. The crowd made way for my friend, and I stepped aside to allow him to pass ahead of me.
There are some events which are so replete with action and dramatic excitement that no one, however observing, can faithfully describe them. Note upon this point the conflicting testimony of disinterested eye-witnesses in murder trials. Such was the scene which followed the introduction of Parkyn to the presence of that body.
There was a yell like that of a maniac, a swift rush, the collision of two bodies, a heavy fall! As I sprang quickly into the midst of the swaying, trampling, excited crowd about the table, the demonstrator, pale and frightened, was just rising from the floor, his scalpel still in his trembling hand and his face cut and bleeding where his assailant had struck him in the first mad rush. Parkyn was still lying on the floor, and on endeavoring with the assistance of several students to raise him to his feet, I saw that he was insensible. Upon his temple was a deep, jagged gash where his head had come in contact with the corner of the table.
Temporary emotional insanity in a man of highly wrought nervous organization was the universal verdict, and it was with genuine sorrow and regret that poor Parkyn’s fellow students took him to the hospital, apparently in a lifeless condition.
But Parkyn did not die—his skull was not fractured. This was very fortunate, in the light of subsequent events, for he developed symptoms of meningitis, and hovered between life and death for many weeks. I remained in the city to care for him and was a proud and happy man when I was able to pronounce him out of danger.
How poor Parkyn raved as his fever and delirium rose! No one but myself knew the story of his wild, ecstatic visions and apparently erratic talk—and I said nothing.
During his illness I had occasion to open Parkyn’s trunk. While rummaging about in search of his wearing apparel, I found the pictured dream of his artist days. I knew then how powerful was the shock that made my poor friend, in intent, at least, a murderer. I care not what the world may say of the vagaries of foolish old doctors and the maunderings of aged, would-be philosophers; I care not who may doubt;—I held in my hands the picture of the beautiful subject of the dissecting hall. Beautiful beyond the power of pen or tongue to portray, realistic to a living, breathing, sentient degree, I beheld the portrait of the original of the lifeless clay which was the central figure of the romance of the dissecting room.
When Parkyn recovered from his illness his mind was a blank, so far as his artistic training and the romance of the picture and corpse were concerned. I concealed the picture, deeming it unwise to revive dangerous memories in his mind. It remained in my possession for several years. I kept it hidden because it seemed a sacrilege to permit it to be gazed upon by the eyes of the commonplace. My office was finally destroyed by fire, and I confess that I was not sorry when I discovered that the trunk which contained the painting was not among the properties saved from the flames.
Parkyn became a plodding practitioner in a little country town in New York State. I visited him some years later, and found that his ideals were represented by a short, dumpy, motherly, little red-headed wife and half a dozen tow-headed, freckle-faced youngsters that looked for all the world like turkey eggs and jack o’ lanterns.