9
The path ran along the side of the mountain. In the valley below he saw people running, heard the sound of music in the distance. He stopped a barefoot boy, who told him it was fête day in the Canton, to welcome their great Switzer home from Geneva, the artist Staehli.
“Staehli? Yes, I know. I admired his paintings at the exhibition.”
Then he saw a procession of peasants in gala array, cows adorned with flowers, maidens singing, dancing. A tall man walked amongst them with swinging step, a peasant like the others. He puts his hand to his mouth and gives out a long piercing yodel. Above at a châlet a woman answers.
“That is Angela, his wife; she is the doctor of the Dorf; she heals with her hands and brews herb tea which has a magic power!”
“Oh! I’d like to meet the artist. Do you think he’ll receive me?”
“Oh, yes! All are welcome; they have the best milk and cheese in the village. I’ll take you down.”
Near the châlet, they were stopped by an enormous hay wagon drawn by oxen. The young peasant leading them moved aside, smiling at Joseph.
“That’s Martin Staehli, born and raised here,” said the boy.
The artist was standing outside the châlet watching the procession wind its way around the path and out of sight.
“Could I rest here awhile? I’ve walked from Tarasp.”
“I shall have great pleasure.” He spoke English hesitatingly with a Swiss accent.
They entered a very large room, the light streaming in from all sides.
“This is my studio. My home is a little distance away in our family châlet. It is old; I will show it to you if you are interested in antiques.” He went to the door and called.
He looked keenly at the boy.
“You are not a European?”
“No, I am an American.” He raised his head with a gesture of pride which became him well. “My name is Joseph Abravanel Gonzola Garrison.”
The artist put his hand over his eyes: Julie’s boy! The child he had held in his arms! He heard again that sweet young voice, felt the soft lips pressed against his. “I love you, Uncle Martin.” Julie’s boy!
Angela came in with milk, bread, and cheese. Joseph thought she was the noblest-looking woman he had ever seen.
The artist sat tracing lines on paper. He must hold that vision of the past; it would soon vanish. Angela apologized for his silence.
“My husband is sketching you, he loves beautiful heads.”
Joseph sat willingly for the artist.
“It’s only for myself—and for you, if you will accept it.” Then pointing to a black band around the boy’s arm, he said with a touch of fear, “Are you in mourning?”
“Yes, for our dearest friend, Cardinal Cabello.”
“Cabello, a Cardinal? I am quite out of the world. I met him many years ago in America.”
“He helped my mother bring me up. I was like his own son. I had to grieve him terribly before his death; but I couldn’t help it. I must go soon again to Rome; there is a large sum of money coming to the Church from my grandmother. It was left to me conditionally—I have forfeited it.”
“Don’t look so sad,” said the artist. “I want the brightness of you. Tell me, have you sisters and brothers.”
“No, I am an only child, and very much spoilt.”
“Your parents, are they—living?”
“Oh yes, and still young. My mother is the most beautiful woman in New York.”
The artist caught the smile, then set him talking again, looking keenly into his face with its quick changes, its light and shade. He laughed often; he would throw back his head with a gush of merriment. That laugh thrilled the artist; it was like a far-away echo; it played on the chord of remembrance, bringing out a melody long unheard.
“You are not of pure American stock?”
“Oh yes, my mother and grandmother were born there. Mother is of Spanish-Hebrew blood. Father is of Dutch extraction; he is proud of being ‘pure American’—he forgets the Indian. All others are of emigrant origin; only some came over on earlier ships. A European called us a melting pot. I hate that expression; people don’t melt. We are not a smelting furnace. To me the United States is like a big Colonial mansion, with many windows made up of little panes of glass, which I call Race. Each one colors his glass with his own racial impulse.”
“Oh, my window looks toward the East where the sun rises; it is gorgeous, with many colors,” laughed the boy.
“I think I catch your meaning. It would make a good symbolical picture. A great prairie, and standing in it a White House built on Colonial lines. It is flooded with a glare of strong light, which in the individual separates into its prismatic colors—the different races.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean; only an artist could think it out like that. Will you paint it?”
“Perhaps some day, but why not you? You have the instinct in you; I feel it.”
The boy’s face lit up. “How strange you should know that. I love art; I’ve studied it in Paris. I’ve been dabbling a bit in oil. They say I have talent.”
The man bent forward. “I have a class of young artists in Geneva; they are all unusually gifted. Join us!” How eager he was; he hung on to the boy’s answer.
“I would like it, but an artist’s career is too passive for me. I have no patience. I want action, results; I want to work for the great World Reformation which is coming. I want to help bring down to this miserable, unhappy earth, a little of the Heaven we have been dreaming of so long. We must wake up! We must commence now and fight the monster of materialism which is destroying us.” He was on his feet, his head erect, his eyes blazing. A young David sharpening his sword for the great encounter with the Giant of superstition, lies, false Gods.
“I must go now. May I come again? I’m going to write all about you to my mother. Were you here that time they were caught in the storm?”
Angela put her hand on her husband’s shoulder. He started, looked up.
“I was in America, I was very unfortunate there. I often lost my way—in jungles. Race instinct made me restless. The peasant blood was strong in me.”
“Race instinct?” repeated the boy. “I’ve felt that—but I didn’t know what it was, stirring in me. I can’t express it. It was like a melody—from far, far away, coming back in snatches—like—like the strains of—a National Hymn. It excites me.”
Angela’s eyes shone.
“You are living a great romance, the romance of race.”
“The romance of race, yes, that’s what it is.” Then he came nearer to them, and told his love story.
“Ruth is to me not only my love, she is the ideal in my life. I am going to take her out of that beautiful dark house with its old portraits. I am going to make her soul young again.”
The artist went with him down the path to the bend of the road.
“Where shall I send the sketch?”
“To the College in Geneva. Would you mind if I gave it to my mother?”
“Oh, no! I will try to make it beautiful.”
Joseph lingered, looking again into the artist’s face with a touch of sadness.
“I feel as if I had known you a very long time.”
“You have—”
He drew the boy to him and kissed him and stood watching the young figure until it disappeared.
Angela touched his arm.
“Angela! that boy! that boy!”
“Is he the son of the unhappy man who spent the night here?”
“Yes—”
The young peasant sent out a call from the barn, where he was flinging the hay lightly with a heavy pitchfork into the loft.
“What are you going to do with our boy? He does not care for books; he has no talent for painting? You are not ambitious for him—” There was a note of reproach in her voice.
“Yes, very ambitious. I want him to be what nature has made him, a peasant; nothing could be nobler.”
That night the artist remained in his studio to finish the sketch; he worked for hours with intense concentration, until the pencil dropped from his numb fingers. Then he threw himself down on the couch, but couldn’t rest. Ashes strewn over the fire had smothered but not extinguished it; the flames broke through. That boy! The Past living again, with all its wonder of passion, its uncontrollable love. He went to the window, leaned out; a white mist hovered over the dark valley. His eyes pierced it deeper. He was again a desperate man, holding a woman in his arms—Mad Martin!...
When the sketch was finished he painted it on ivory, framed it in silver, put it in a velvet case, and sent it to Joseph as a souvenir of their meeting. It was a speaking likeness; it went over the sea, a message to his first love.