The Man Behind the Bars

by Winifred Louise Taylor

The interest and the beauty of that fusion of all times and all countries was so absorbing and irresistible that I had stayed on and on until one day in July when I braced myself for the wrench of departure next morning. But the evening mail brought me letters from home and among them one forwarded from Anton, entreating me to come and see him. I had not counted on being remembered by Anton except as a milestone on his path toward freedom—I might have counted on it, however, after my many experiences of the gratitude of prisoners—but his longing to see me was unmistakable; and as I had broken my word so many times about going home that my reputation for unreliability in that direction could not be lowered, I sent a final telegram of delay.—Oh, luxury of having no character to lose!

The next morning I took an early start for the home of the Zabrinskis. In a little back yard—a mere patch of bare ground without the possibility of a blade of grass, with no chance of even looking at the sky unless one lay on one's back, with uniform surroundings of back doors and back stairs—what a contrast to that dream of beauty at Jackson Park!—here it was that I found Anton, listlessly sitting on a bench with a little dog as companion. All hope and animation seemed to have died out within him; even the lights in his deep-blue eyes had given way to shadows; strength and courage had ebbed away, and he had yielded at last to weariness and depression. He had left the prison, indeed, but only to face death; he had come back to his home, only to be carried away from it forever. Even his mother's loving care could not stop that racking cough nor free him from pain. And how limited the longed-for freedom proved! It had reached out from his home only to the hospital dispensary. Weakness and poverty formed impassable barriers beyond which he could not go.

As I realized all this I resolved to give him the most lovely vision in the world to think of and to dream of. "Anton," I said, "how would you like to take a steamer and go on the lake with me to see the World's Fair from the water?"—for him to attempt going on the grounds was not to be thought of.

For a moment he shrank from the effort of getting to the steamer, but after considering it for a while in silence he announced: "When I make up my mind that I will do a thing, I do it; I will go with you." Then we unfolded our plan for adventure to the mother. Rather wild she thought it, but our persuasive eloquence won the day and she consented, insisting only that we should partake of refreshments before starting on our expedition. With the connivance of a neighbor on the next floor Mrs. Zabrinski obtained a delicious green-apple pie from a bakery near by and served it for our delectation.

I find that already the noble lines, with their beautiful lights and shadows, in the Court of Honor of the White City are blending into an indistinct memory; but the picture of Anton Zabrinski as he leaned back in his chair on the steamer, breathing the delicious pure, fresh air, sweeping his glance across the boundless plain of undulating blue, will be with me forever. Here at last was freedom! And how eagerly the boy's perishing being drank it in!

There was everything going on around us to divert and amuse: crowds of people, of course, and a noisy band of musicians; but it all made no impression upon Anton. We two were practically alone with the infinite sky and the far-stretching water. It was easy then for Anton to tell me of his deeper thoughts, and to speak of the change that he knew was coming soon. Life had been so hard, only fruitless effort and a losing battle, and now he longed only for rest. He had felt the desire to give expression to beautiful form, he had felt the stirring of undeveloped creative power. We spoke of the future not as death but as the coming of new life and as the opportunity for the fair unfolding of all the higher possibilities of his nature—as freedom from all fetters. His faith, simple but serious, rested upon his consciousness of having, in his inmost soul, loved and sought the good. His outward life was hopelessly wrecked; but he was going away from that, and it was his soul, his true inner life, that would appear before God. It was all a mystery and he was helpless, but he was not afraid. He had forgiven life.

As we talked together the steamer neared the pier at Jackson Park. "And now, Anton, you must go to the other side of the boat and see the beautiful White City," I said. It was like alabaster in its clear loveliness that radiant morning, and all alive with the lilting colors of innumerable flags. It was Swedish day, and a most gorgeous procession in national costume thronged the dock as our steamer approached, for we had on board some important delegation. A dozen bands were playing and the grand crash of sound and the brilliant massing of color thrilled me to my fingertips. But Anton only looked at it for a moment with unseeing eyes: it was too limited; it was the stir and sound and crowd of the city. He turned again eagerly to the great sweep of sky and water; "You don't know what this lake and this fresh air are to me," he said quietly, and he looked no more toward the land until we had returned to Van Buren Street.

After we left the steamer Anton threw off the spell of the water. He insisted on my taking a glass of soda with him from one of the fountains on the dock; it was his turn to be entertainer now. I drank the soda and live to tell the tale. By that time we had caught the bohemian spirit of the World's Fair, Anton was revived and excited by the hour on the water, and as we crossed over to Michigan Avenue the brilliant life of the street attracted and charmed him, and I proposed walking slowly down to the Auditorium Hotel. Every step of the way was a delight to Anton, and when we reached the great hotel I waited in the ladies' reception-room while Anton strolled through the entrances and office, looking at the richly blended tones of the marbles and the decoration in white and gold. I knew that it would be one more fresh and lovely memory for him to carry back to the little rooms where the brief remnant of his life was to be spent.

At an adjoining flower-stand we found sweet peas for his mother. I saw him safely on board the car that would take him to his home; then, with a parting wave of his hand and a bright, happy smile of farewell, little Anton Zabrinski passed out of my sight.