“Now many people”, said Colombo, “believe that the earth is flat, but”, said Colombo, “such is not at all the case.”
And after an interval Colombo said, “There, my dear, do you not see how ridiculous it is to suppose that the earth is anything but round?”
“Why surely, sire”, said Queen Isabel, “you make it appear very round. And I wonder that I had not thought of that before. And I think”, said Queen Isabel, “that geography is a most fascinating subject and oh, messire Colombo”, said the Queen, “you must come and instruct me often.”
Thus it was that Colombo became Royal Geographer. And the tale tells how after a while various whisperings came to King Ferdinand of his queen's curious enthusiasm for study.
“Now about this geography”, said King Ferdinand one evening to the Queen, “I am, my dear, indeed glad to see you take an interest in such an important study and I have arranged”, said the King, “to have your tutoring in the future done by Father Bernadino who has had fifty-two years' experience at the University, and your lessons”, said the King, “will commence tomorrow.”
Said the Queen, “How can I thank you enough, dear Ferdinand, for your untiring interest in my welfare. For I have been struggling along in my study of geography with a horribly dull clod whose name”, said the Queen, “I cannot remember.”
“Was it, by any chance, Colombo?” asked the King.
“Perhaps”, said the Queen. “But I am oh so glad to be rid of him.” And indeed so great was the happiness of Queen Isabel that her pillow that night was wet with tears.
But King Ferdinand was an unusually efficient king, and he spared no pains in his craving for normalcy. So it was that the next day he called to him the man who had chanced to be Royal Geographer before the coup d'oeuf of Colombo.
“Now tell me”, said the King, “is there any chance that a man who sails to the westward will ever return?”
“None, your Majesty”, said the ex-Royal Geographer. “For many have tried and horrible are the tales which they tell of demons and monsters lying in wait for the ships of men. And I should say definitely, oh King”, said he, “that whoever sails to the westward will never return.”
And the tale tells how that afternoon Colombo stood before King Ferdinand. And very strange to Colombo was the enthusiasm which burned in the King's otherwise somewhat fishlike eye.
COLOMBO TEACHES GEOGRAPHY TO THE QUEEN
“'And I think,' said Queen Isabel, 'that geography is a most fascinating subject, and oh messire Colombo,' said the Queen, 'you must come and instruct me often.'
”Thus it was that Colombo became Royal Geographer. And the tale tells how after a while various whisperings came to King Ferdinand of his queen's curious enghusiasm for study.“
“For know you, Colombo”, the King was saying, “that God has spoken to me and commanded me to save from the fires of hell the inhabitants of those golden lands of which you sang. And to you, my dear Colombo, is to be given the chance which you so ardently desire. For I have this day purchased three ships which await your command, and within a week you should be well on your way on this glorious mission for God and for Spain, and”, said the King, “I might add that the Queen, too, is much interested in this voyage and has even been persuaded to dispose of her jewels in order that you may make haste.”
“Such instant obedience to the will of God”, said Colombo, “and such fine enthusiasm to further His kingdom on earth, does your Majesties great credit. And I shall indeed congratulate the inhabitants of this to-be-discovered land for their good fortune in obtaining such a devout King.”
And the tale tells how that night Colombo took leave of Queen Isabel. “Now do not weep, oh Queen”, said he, “for I am only Colombo whom men call the Dreamer, and I go in search of the land of my imagining, and perhaps”, said Colombo, “I shall return.” But they tell how Queen Isabel refused to be comforted for many and many a day. And unexplainably curious to Father Bernadino was his absolute and complete failure as a royal instructor in geography, for Father Bernadino had taught for fifty-two years at the University.
And so it was that Colombo sat alone in the cabin of the ship which carried him towards the land of his imagining. And strange and somewhat fearsome it was to the sailors to see their captain sitting thus motionless night after night, for already had they left the Canaries far behind and some there were who said that a madman commanded their ship, and others who whispered of horrible monsters in these western seas.
THE VOYAGE TO THE LAND OF COLOMBO'S IMAGINING
“And strange and somewhat fearsome it was to the sailors. . . for already had they left the Canaries far behind, and some there were who said that a madman commanded the ship, and others who whispered of horrible monsters in these western seas.”
And the tale tells how one night Colombo observed across his table one who had not been sitting there a moment before and whose hair was strangely red.
“Well now, truly, sir”, said Colombo, “This is very curious. For I do not remember seeing you among the crew nor were you ever at the court, and on the whole”, said Colombo, “your red hair and your sneering grin interrupt my dreams, and dreams”, said Colombo, “are all that I have left.”
“For know you, sir”, continued he to the stranger who did not speak, “that on this earth man has been able to endure only by playing the ape to his dreams. And in every generation”, said Colombo, “there have been those who dreamed of beautiful things and in every age there have been those who caught some glimpse of that perfect beauty which the Greeks call Helen, and to have seen Helen”, said Colombo, “is to have been touched with divine and unbearable madness.”
And it became strangely quiet in the cabin as Colombo continued:
“And those authors who wrote perfectly of beautiful dreams”, said he, “will, perchance, endure, and those who saw only men as they are, will perish—for so has it been in the past and so will it be in the future. All of which”, said Colombo, “is a rather tiresome and pedantic excuse for the fact that I am about to read you my own poem.”
And Colombo read to the stranger the dream of the land of Colombo's imagining, and when he had finished the stranger smiled and shook his head sadly.
“Come, now,” said Colombo, somewhat hurt. “Do not, I pray you, pretend to like it unless you really do. Of course it is not at all the kind of thing that will sell, is it—and the metre must be patched up in places, don't you think? And some of the most beautiful passages would never be permitted by the censor—but still—” and Colombo paused hopefully, for it was Colombo's poem and into it he had poured the heart of his life and it seemed to him now, more than ever, a beautiful thing.
The stranger handed Colombo a book.
“There”, said he, “is the land of your imagining”, and in his eyes gleamed a curious sardonic mockery.
And Colombo read the book. And when he had finished his face was grey as are old ashes in ancient urns, and about the mouth of him whom men called the Dreamer were curious hard lines.
“Now, by Heaven”, said Colombo brandishing his sword Impavide, “you lie. And your Gopher Prairie is a lie. And you are all, all contemptible, you who dip your pens in tracing ink and seek to banish beautiful dreams from the world.”
But the red-haired stranger had vanished and Colombo found that he was alone and to Colombo the world seemed cheerless and as a place that none has lived in for a long time.
“Now this is curious”, mused Colombo, “for I have evidently been dreaming and a more horrible dream have I never had, and I think”, said Colombo, “that while all this quite certainly did not actually take place, yet that grinning red head has upset me horribly and on the whole”, said Colombo, “I believe the safest course would be to put back at once for Spain, for certainly I have no desire to take the remotest chance of discovering anything which may in the least resemble that Gopher Prairie.”
And the tale tells that as Colombo started for the deck in order that he might give the
signal for the return to Spain, there came across the water from one of the other ships the faint cry of a sailor. And the sailor was waving his hat and shouting, “Land Ho!”
Thus it was that Cristofer Colombo became the discoverer of the land of his imagining, and as he stood on the deck Colombo mused.
THE RED-HAIRED STRANGER APPEARS
“'There,' said the red-haired stranger,'is the Land of Your Imagining,' and in his eyes gleamed a curious sardonic mockery.
”And when Colombo had finished the book his face was grey as are old ashes in ancient urns, and about the mouth of him whom men called the Dreamer were curious hard lines.“
“Now this is a sorrowful jest and a very unfair jest that is happening,” said he. “For I who have dreamed a beautiful dream of the land of my imagining will quite probably henceforth be known only as the discoverer of what will turn out to be merely one more hideous and stupid country.” And tears came to the eyes of Colombo, for on the waves behind him floated the torn and scattered pages of the poem which sang the imagined vision of Beauty of him whom men long and long ago called the Dreamer.
Thus it was in the old days.
ANALYSIS AND SUMMARY OF THE FOREGOING ARTICLE
In the Manner of Dr. Frank Crane
There is a lesson for us all in this beautiful story of how Columbus realized his ambition to be a great discoverer.
Men called Columbus a Dreamer—but that is just what folks once said about Thomas A. Edison and Henry Ford.
The world has a place for Dreamers—if they are Practical Dreamers.
Columbus was ambitious. Ambition is a great thing if it is unselfish ambition. By unselfish I mean for the greatest good of the greatest number. Shakespeare, the great teacher, shows us in “Macbeth” what happens to the selfishly ambitious man.
Columbus got ahead by paying attention to small details. Whatever he did, he did to the best of his ability. Even when engaged in teaching geography to the Queen, Columbus was the best geography teacher he knew how to be. And before long he was made Royal Geographer.
In our daily lives let us all resolve to be good teachers of geography. We may not all become Royal Geographers—but there will be to us the lasting satisfaction of having done our best. And that, as a greater than I has said, is “more precious than rubies—yea, than much fine gold”.
CHAPTER THREE
MAIN STREET—PLYMOUTH, MASS.
In the Manner of Sinclair Lewis
I
1620.
Late autumn.
The sour liver-colored shores of America.
Breaking waves dashing too high on a stern and rockbound coast.
Woods tossing giant branches planlessly against a stormy sky.
Cape Cod Bay—wet and full of codfish. The codfish—wet and full of bones.
* * *
Standing on the deck of the anchored “MayFlower”, gazing reflectively at the shores of the new world, is Priscilla Kennicott.
A youthful bride on a ship full of pilgrims; a lily floating in a dish of prunes; a cloisonné vase in a cargo of oil cans.
Her husband joins her. Together they go forward to where their fellow pilgrims are preparing to embark in small boats.
Priscilla jumps into the bow of the first of these to shove off.
As the small craft bumps the shore, Priscilla rises joyously. She stretches her hands in ecstasy toward the new world. She leans forward against the breeze, her whole figure alive with the joy of expectant youth.
She leaps with an irrepressible “Yippee” from the boat to the shore.
She remains for an instant, a vibrant pagan, drunk with the joy of life; Pan poised for an unforgettable moment on Plymouth Rock.
The next minute her foot slips on the hard, wet, unyielding stone. She clutches desperately. She slides slowly back into the cold chill saltness of Cape Cod Bay.
PRISCILLA KENNICOTT'S FOOT SLIPS
“Cape Cod Bay—wet and full of codfish.
”The codfish—wet and full of bones.
“The next minute Priscilla's foot slips on the hard, wet, unyielding rock. She clutches desperately. She slides slowly back into the cold, chill saltness of the bay. She is pulled, dripping and ashamed, into the boat.
”A coarse, mirthless chuckle.
“The pilgrims disembark.”
She is pulled, dripping and ashamed, into the boat. She crouches there, shivering and hopeless. She hears someone whisper, “Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.”
A coarse mirthless chuckle.
The pilgrims disembark.
II
Plymouth.
A year later.
Night.
She lay sleepless on her bed.
She heard the outside door open; Kennicott returning from prayer meeting.
He sat down on the bed and began pulling off his boots. She knew that the left boot would stick. She knew exactly what he would say and how long it would take him to get it off. She rolled over in bed, a tactical movement which left no blanket for her husband.
“You weren't at prayer meeting,” he said.
“I had a headache,” she lied. He expressed no sympathy.
“Miles Standish was telling me what you did today at the meeting of the Jolly Seventeen.” He had got the boot off at last; he lay down beside her and pulled all the blankets off her onto himself.
“That was kind of Miles.” She jerked at the covers but he held them tight. “What charming story did he tell this time?”
“Now look here, Prissie—Miles Standish isn't given to fabrication. He said you told the Jolly Seventeen that next Thanksgiving they ought to give a dance instead of an all-day prayer service.”
“Well—anything else?” She gave a tremendous tug at the bedclothes and Kennicott was uncovered again.
“He said you suggested that they arrange a series of lectures on modern religions, and invite Quakers and other radicals to speak right here in Plymouth and tell us all about their beliefs. And not only that but he said you suggested sending a message to the Roman Catholic exiles from England, inviting them to make their home with us. You must have made quite a little speech.”
THE MEETING OF THE JOLLY SEVENTEEN
“'Priscilla,. . . Miles Standish said today that you told the Jolly Seventeen that next Thanksgiving they ought to give a dance instead of a prayer meeting. . . and that you suggested they invite Quakers and other radicals to lecture here in Plymouth and tell us all about their beliefs.'”
“Well—this is the land of religious freedom, isn't it? That's what you came here for, didn't you?” She sat up to deliver this remark—a movement which enabled Kennicott to win back seven-eighths of the bed covering.
“Now look here Prissie—I'm not narrow like some of these pilgrims who came over with us. But I won't have my wife intimating that a Roman Catholic or a Quaker should be allowed to spread his heresies broadcast in this country. It's all right for you and me to know something about those things, but we must protect our children and those who have not had our advantages. The only way to meet this evil is to stamp it out, quick, before it can get a start. And it's just such so-called broadminded thinkers as you that encourage these heretics. You'll be criticizing the Bible next, I suppose.”
Thus in early times did the pious Right Thinkers save the land from Hellfire and Damnation; thus the great-grandfathers of middle-western congressmen; thus the ancestors of platitudinous editorial writers, Sitters on Committees, and tin-horn prohibitionists.
Kennicott got up to cool his wrath and indignation with a drink of water. He stumbled over a chair, reached for the jug, took a drink, set the jug down, stumbled over the same chair, and crawled back into bed. His expedition cost him the loss of all bed covering; he gave up the fight.
“Aside from dragging my own private views over the coals of your righteousness, did you and your friends find anything equally pleasant and self-satisfying to discuss this evening?”
“Eh�
�what's that? Why, yes, we did. We decided to refuse permission for one of these traveling medicine shows to operate in Plymouth.”
“Medicine shows?”
“Yes—you know—like a fair in England. This one claims to come from down south somewhere. 'Smart Set Medicine Show' it's called, run by a fellow named Mencken. Sells cheap whisky to the Indians—makes them crazy, they say. He's another one of your radical friends we don't want around.”
“Yes, he might cut in on your own trading with the Indians.”
“Oh, for heaven's sake, Prissie—hire a hall.”
Silence. He began to snore.
She lay there, sleepless and open-eyed. The clock struck eleven.
“Why can't I get to sleep?”
(“Did Will put the cat out?”)
“I wonder what this medicine show is like?”
“What is the matter with these people?”
(“Or is it me?”)
She reached down, pulled the blankets from under her, spread them carefully over the sleeping Kennicott, patting them down affectionately.
The next day she learned what the medicine show was like. She also learned what was the matter with the pilgrims.
III
Morning.
A fog horn.
A fog horn blowing unceasingly.
At breakfast Kennicott pointed with his fork in the direction of the persistent sound.
“There's your Smart Set medicine show,” he said glumly. “He doesn't seem to care much whether we give him a permit or not.” Then, a minute later, “We'll have to let him stay. Won't do to have the Indians down on us. But I tell you this, Priscilla, I don't want you to go.”
“But Will—”
“Prissie, please! I'm sorry I said what I did last night. I was tired. But don't you see, well, I can't just exactly explain—but this fog horn sort of scares me—I don't like it—”
A Parody Outline of History Page 2
