by Willa Cather
“If you stake him this time, you won’t have to again,” said T. B. knowingly. “He’ll croak up there, mark my word. Says he never ties the burro at night now, for fear he might be called sudden, and the beast would starve. I guess that animal could eat a lariat rope, all right, and enjoy it.”
“I guess if we knew the things those two have eaten, and haven’t eaten, in their time, T. B., it would make us vegetarians.” The doctor sat down and looked thoughtful. “That’s the way for the old man to go. It would be pretty hard luck if he had to die in a hospital. I wish he could turn up something before he cashes in. But his kind seldom do; they’re bewitched. Still, there was Stratton. I’ve been meeting Jasper Flight, and his side meat and tin pans, up in the mountains for years, and I’d miss him. I always halfway believe the fairy tales he spins me. Old Jasper Flight,” Archie murmured, as if he liked the name or the picture it called up.
A clerk came in from the outer office and handed Archie a card. He sprang up and exclaimed, “Mr. Ottenburg? Bring him in.”
Fred Ottenburg entered, clad in a long, fur-lined coat, holding a checked-cloth hat in his hand, his cheeks and eyes bright with the outdoor cold. The two men met before Archie’s desk and their handclasp was longer than friendship prompts except in regions where the blood warms and quickens to meet the dry cold. Under the general keyingup of the altitude, manners take on a heartiness, a vivacity, that is one expression of the half-unconscious excitement which Colorado people miss when they drop into lower strata of air. The heart, we are told, wears out early in that high atmosphere, but while it pumps it sends out no sluggish stream. Our two friends stood gripping each other by the hand and smiling.
“When did you get in, Fred? And what have you come for?” Archie gave him a quizzical glance.
“I’ve come to find out what you think you’re doing out here,” the younger man declared emphatically. “I want to get next, I do. When can you see me?”
“Anything on to-night? Then suppose you dine with me. Where can I pick you up at five-thirty?”
“Bixby’s office, general freight agent of the Burlington.” Ottenburg began to button his overcoat and drew on his gloves. “I’ve got to have one shot at you before I go, Archie. Didn’t I tell you Pinky Alden was a cheap squirt?”
Alden’s backer laughed and shook his head. “Oh, he’s worse than that, Fred. It isn’t polite to mention what he is, outside of the Arabian Nights. I guessed you’d come to rub it into me.”
Ottenburg paused, his hand on the doorknob, his high color challenging the doctor’s calm. “I’m disgusted with you, Archie, for training with such a pup. A man of your experience!”
“Well, he’s been an experience,” Archie muttered. “I’m not coy about admitting it, am I?”
Ottenburg flung open the door. “Small credit to you. Even the women are out for capital and corruption, I hear. Your Governor’s done more for the United Breweries in six months than I’ve been able to do in six years. He’s the lily-livered sort we’re looking for. Good-morning.”
That afternoon at five o’clock Dr. Archie emerged from the State House after his talk with Governor Alden, and crossed the terrace under a saffron sky. The snow, beaten hard, was blue in the dusk; a day of blinding sunlight had not even started a thaw. The lights of the city twinkled pale below him in the quivering violet air, and the dome of the State House behind him was still red with the light from the west. Before he got into his car, the doctor paused to look about him at the scene of which he never tired. Archie lived in his own house on Colfax Avenue, where he had roomy grounds and a rose garden and a conservatory. His housekeeping was done by three Japanese boys, devoted and resourceful, who were able to manage Archie’s dinner parties, to see that he kept his engagements, and to make visitors who stayed at the house so comfortable that they were always loath to go away.
Archie had never known what comfort was until he became a widower, though with characteristic delicacy, or dishonesty, he insisted upon accrediting his peace of mind to the San Felipe, to Time, to anything but his release from Mrs. Archie.
Mrs. Archie died just before her husband left Moonstone and came to Denver to live, six years ago. The poor woman’s fight against dust was her undoing at last. One summer day when she was rubbing the parlor upholstery with gasoline,—the doctor had often forbidden her to use it on any account, so that was one of the pleasures she seized upon in his absence,—an explosion occurred. Nobody ever knew exactly how it happened, for Mrs. Archie was dead when the neighbors rushed in to save her from the burning house. She must have inhaled the burning gas and died instantly.
Moonstone severity relented toward her somewhat after her death. But even while her old cronies at Mrs. Smiley’s millinery store said that it was a terrible thing, they added that nothing but a powerful explosive could have killed Mrs. Archie, and that it was only right the doctor should have a chance.
Archie’s past was literally destroyed when his wife died. The house burned to the ground, and all those material reminders which have such power over people disappeared in an hour. His mining interests now took him to Denver so often that it seemed better to make his headquarters there. He gave up his practice and left Moonstone for good. Six months afterward, while Dr. Archie was living at the Brown Palace Hotel, the San Felipe mine began to give up that silver hoard which old Captain Harris had always accused it of concealing, and San Felipe headed the list of mining quotations in every daily paper, East and West. In a few years Dr. Archie was a very rich man. His mine was such an important item in the mineral output of the State, and Archie had a hand in so many of the new industries of Colorado and New Mexico, that his political influence was considerable. He had thrown it all, two years ago, to the new reform party, and had brought about the election of a governor of whose conduct he was now heartily ashamed. His friends believed that Archie himself had ambitious political plans.
II
When Ottenburg and his host reached the house on Colfax Avenue, they went directly to the library, a long double room on the second floor which Archie had arranged exactly to his own taste. It was full of books and mounted specimens of wild game, with a big writing-table at either end, stiff, old-fashioned engravings, heavy hangings and deep upholstery.
When one of the Japanese boys brought the cocktails, Fred turned from the fine specimen of peccoray he had been examining and said, “A man is an owl to live in such a place alone, Archie. Why don’t you marry? As for me, just because I can’t marry, I find the world full of charming, unattached women, any one of whom I could fit up a house for with alacrity.”
“You’re more knowing than I.” Archie spoke politely. “I’m not very wide awake about women. I’d be likely to pick out one of the uncomfortable ones—and there are a few of them, you know.” He drank his cocktail and rubbed his hands together in a friendly way. “My friends here have charming wives, and they don’t give me a chance to get lonely. They are very kind to me, and I have a great many pleasant friendships.”
Fred put down his glass. “Yes, I’ve always noticed that women have confidence in you. You have the doctor’s way of getting next. And you enjoy that kind of thing?”
“The friendship of attractive women? Oh, dear, yes! I depend upon it a great deal.”
The butler announced dinner, and the two men went downstairs to the dining-room. Dr. Archie’s dinners were always good and well served, and his wines were excellent.
“I saw the Fuel and Iron people to-day,” Ottenburg said, looking up from his soup. “Their heart is in the right place. I can’t see why in the mischief you ever got mixed up with that reform gang, Archie. You’ve got nothing to reform out here. The situation has always been as simple as two and two in Colorado; mostly a matter of a friendly understanding.”
“Well,”—Archie spoke tolerantly,—”some of the young fellows seemed to have red-hot convictions, and I thought it was better to let them try their ideas out.”
Ottenburg shrugged his shoulders. “A
few dull young men who haven’t ability enough to play the old game the old way, so they want to put on a new game which doesn’t take so much brains and gives away more advertising that’s what your anti-saloon league and vice commission amounts to. They provide notoriety for the fellows who can’t distinguish themselves at running a business or practicing law or developing an industry. Here you have a mediocre lawyer with no brains and no practice, trying to get a look-in on something. He comes up with the novel proposition that the prostitute has a hard time of it, puts his picture in the paper, and the first thing you know, he’s a celebrity. He gets the rake-off and she’s just where she was before. How could you fall for a mouse-trap like Pink Alden, Archie?”
Dr. Archie laughed as he began to carve. “Pink seems to get under your skin. He’s not worth talking about. He’s gone his limit. People won’t read about his blameless life any more. I knew those interviews he gave out would cook him. They were a last resort. I could have stopped him, but by that time I’d come to the conclusion that I’d let the reformers down. I’m not against a general shaking-up, but the trouble with Pinky’s crowd is they never get beyond a general writing-up. We gave them a chance to do something, and they just kept on writing about each other and what temptations they had overcome.”
While Archie and his friend were busy with Colorado politics, the impeccable Japanese attended swiftly and intelligently to his duties, and the dinner, as Ottenburg at last remarked, was worthy of more profitable conversation.
“So it is,” the doctor admitted. “Well, we’ll go upstairs for our coffee and cut this out. Bring up some cognac and arak, Tai,” he added as he rose from the table.
They stopped to examine a moose’s head on the stairway, and when they reached the library the pine logs in the fireplace had been lighted, and the coffee was bubbling before the hearth. Tai placed two chairs before the fire and brought a tray of cigarettes.
“Bring the cigars in my lower desk drawer, boy,” the doctor directed. “Too much light in here, isn’t there, Fred? Light the lamp there on my desk, Tai.” He turned off the electric glare and settled himself deep into the chair opposite Ottenburg’s.
“To go back to our conversation, doctor,” Fred began while he waited for the first steam to blow off his coffee; “why don’t you make up your mind to go to Washington? There’d be no fight made against you. I needn’t say the United Breweries would back you. There’d be some kudos coming to us, too; backing a reform candidate.”
Dr. Archie measured his length in his chair and thrust his large boots toward the crackling pitch-pine. He drank his coffee and lit a big black cigar while his guest looked over the assortment of cigarettes on the tray. “You say why don’t I,” the doctor spoke with the deliberation of a man in the position of having several courses to choose from, “but, on the other hand, why should I?” He puffed away and seemed, through his half-closed eyes, to look down several long roads with the intention of luxuriously rejecting all of them and remaining where he was. “I’m sick of politics. I’m disillusioned about serving my crowd, and I don’t particularly want to serve yours. Nothing in it that I particularly want; and a man’s not effective in politics unless he wants something for himself, and wants it hard. I can reach my ends by straighter roads. There are plenty of things to keep me busy. We haven’t begun to develop our resources in this State; we haven’t had a look in on them yet. That’s the only thing that isn’t fake—making men and machines go, and actually turning out a product.”
The doctor poured himself some white cordial and looked over the little glass into the fire with an expression which led Ottenburg to believe that he was getting at something in his own mind. Fred lit a cigarette and let his friend grope for his idea.
“My boys, here,” Archie went on, “have got me rather interested in Japan. Think I’ll go out there in the spring, and come back the other way, through Siberia. I’ve always wanted to go to Russia.” His eyes still hunted for something in his big fireplace. With a slow turn of his head he brought them back to his guest and fixed them upon him. “Just now, I’m thinking of running on to New York for a few weeks,” he ended abruptly.
Ottenburg lifted his chin. “Ah!” he exclaimed, as if he began to see Archie’s drift. “Shall you see Thea?”
“Yes.” The doctor replenished his cordial glass. “In fact, I suspect I am going exactly to see her. I’m getting stale on things here, Fred. Best people in the world and always doing things for me. I’m fond of them, too, but I’ve been with them too much. I’m getting ill-tempered, and the first thing I know I’ll be hurting people’s feelings. I snapped Mrs. Dandridge up over the telephone this afternoon when she asked me to go out to Colorado Springs on Sunday to meet some English people who are staying at the Antlers. Very nice of her to want me, and I was as sour as if she’d been trying to work me for something. I’ve got to get out for a while, to save my reputation.”
To this explanation Ottenburg had not paid much attention. He seemed to be looking at a fixed point: the yellow glass eyes of a fine wildcat over one of the bookcases. “You’ve never heard her at all, have you?” he asked reflectively. “Curious, when this is her second season in New York.”
“I was going on last March. Had everything arranged. And then old Cap Harris thought he could drive his car and me through a lamp-post and I was laid up with a compound fracture for two months. So I didn’t get to see Thea.”
Ottenburg studied the red end of his cigarette attentively. “She might have come out to see you. I remember you covered the distance like a streak when she wanted you.”
Archie moved uneasily. “Oh, she couldn’t do that. She had to get back to Vienna to work on some new parts for this year. She sailed two days after the New York season closed.”
“Well, then she couldn’t, of course.” Fred smoked his cigarette close and tossed the end into the fire. “I’m tremendously glad you’re going now. If you’re stale, she’ll jack you up. That’s one of her specialties. She got a rise out of me last December that lasted me all winter.”
“Of course,” the doctor apologized, “you know so much more about such things. I’m afraid it will be rather wasted on me. I’m no judge of music.”
“Never mind that.” The younger man pulled himself up in his chair. “She gets it across to people who aren’t judges. That’s just what she does.” He relapsed into his former lassitude. “If you were stone deaf, it wouldn’t all be wasted. It’s a great deal to watch her. Incidentally, you know, she is very beautiful. Photographs give you no idea.”
Dr. Archie clasped his large hands under his chin. “Oh, I’m counting on that. I don’t suppose her voice will sound natural to me. Probably I wouldn’t know it.”
Ottenburg smiled. “You’ll know it, if you ever knew it. It’s the same voice, only more so. You’ll know it.”
“Did you, in Germany that time, when you wrote me? Seven years ago, now. That must have been at the very beginning.”
“Yes, somewhere near the beginning. She sang one of the Rhine daughters.” Fred paused and drew himself up again. “Sure, I knew it from the first note. I’d heard a good many young voices come up out of the Rhine, but, by gracious, I hadn’t heard one like that!” He fumbled for another cigarette. “Mahler was conducting that night. I met him as he was leaving the house and had a word with him. ‘Interesting voice you tried out this evening,’ I said. He stopped and smiled. ‘Miss Kronborg, you mean? Yes, very. She seems to sing for the idea. Unusual in a young singer.’ I’d never heard him admit before that a singer could have an idea. She not only had it, but she got it across. The Rhine music, that I’d known since I was a boy, was fresh to me, vocalized for the first time. You realized that she was beginning that long story, adequately, with the end in view. Every phrase she sang was basic. She simply was the idea of the Rhine music.” Ottenburg rose and stood with his back to the fire. “And at the end, where you don’t see the maidens at all, the same thing again: two pretty voices and the Rhine voice.” Fred s
napped his fingers and dropped his hand.
The doctor looked up at him enviously. “You see, all that would be lost on me,” he said modestly. “I don’t know the dream nor the interpretation thereof. I’m out of it. It’s too bad that so few of her old friends can appreciate her.”
“Take a try at it,” Fred encouraged him. “You’ll get in deeper than you can explain to yourself. People with no personal interest do that.”
“I suppose,” said Archie diffidently, “that college German, gone to seed, wouldn’t help me out much. I used to be able to make my German patients understand me.”
“Sure it would!” cried Ottenburg heartily. “Don’t be above knowing your libretto. That’s all very well for musicians, but common mortals like you and me have got to know what she’s singing about. Get out your dictionary and go at it as you would at any other proposition. Her diction is beautiful, and if you know the text you’ll get a great deal. So long as you’re going to hear her, get all that’s coming to you. You bet in Germany people know their librettos by heart! You Americans are so afraid of stooping to learn anything.”
“I am a little ashamed,” Archie admitted. “I guess that’s the way we mask our general ignorance. However, I’ll stoop this time; I’m more ashamed not to be able to follow her. The papers always say she’s such a fine actress.” He took up the tongs and began to rearrange the logs that had burned through and fallen apart. “I suppose she has changed a great deal?” he asked absently.
“We’ve all changed, my dear Archie,—she more than most of us. Yes, and no. She’s all there, only there’s a great deal more of her. I’ve had only a few words with her in several years. It’s better not, when I’m tied up this way. The laws are barbarous, Archie.”
