The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg, and Other Stories
time began--and was going to waste all the while. In our time we have
organised that scattered and wandering force and set it to work,
and backed the business with capital, and concentrated it in few and
competent hands, and the results are as we see.
The Christian Scientist has taken a force which has been lying idle in
every member of the human race since time began, and has organised it,
and backed the business with capital, and concentrated it at Boston
headquarters in the hands of a small and very competent Trust, and there
are results.
Therein lies the promise that this monopoly is going to extend its
commerce wide in the earth. I think that if the business were conducted
in the loose and disconnected fashion customary with such things, it
would achieve but little more than the modest prosperity usually secured
by unorganised great moral and commercial ventures; but I believe that
so long as this one remains compactly organised and closely concentrated
in a Trust, the spread of its dominion will continue.
VIENNA: May 1, 1899.
(1) After raising a dead child to life, the disciple who did it writes
an account of her performance, to Mrs. Eddy, and closes it thus: 'My
prayer daily is to be more spiritual, that I may do more as you would
have me do... and may we all love you more and so live it that the
world may know that the Christ is come.'--Printed in the Concord, N.H.,
Independent Statesman, March 9, 1899. If this is no worship, it is a
good imitation of it.
(2) In the past two years the membership of the Established Church of
England have given voluntary contributions amounting to $73,000,000 to
the Church's benevolent enterprises. Churches that give have nothing to
hide.
(3) I may be introducing the capital S a little early--still it is on
its way.
IS HE LIVING OR IS HE DEAD?
I was spending the month of March 1892 at Mentone, in the Riviera. At
this retired spot one has all the advantages, privately, which are to be
had publicly at Monte Carlo and Nice, a few miles farther along. That is
to say, one has the flooding sunshine, the balmy air and the brilliant
blue sea, without the marring additions of human pow-wow and fuss and
feathers and display. Mentone is quiet, simple, restful, unpretentious;
the rich and the gaudy do not come there. As a rule, I mean, the rich
do not come there. Now and then a rich man comes, and I presently got
acquainted with one of these. Partially to disguise him I will call him
Smith. One day, in the Hotel des Anglais, at the second breakfast, he
exclaimed:
'Quick! Cast your eye on the man going out at the door. Take in every
detail of him.'
'Why?'
'Do you know who he is?'
'Yes. He spent several days here before you came. He is an old, retired,
and very rich silk manufacturer from Lyons, they say, and I guess he is
alone in the world, for he always looks sad and dreamy, and doesn't talk
with anybody. His name is Theophile Magnan.'
I supposed that Smith would now proceed to justify the large interest
which he had shown in Monsieur Magnan, but, instead, he dropped into a
brown study, and was apparently lost to me and to the rest of the world
during some minutes. Now and then he passed his fingers through his
flossy white hair, to assist his thinking, and meantime he allowed his
breakfast to go on cooling. At last he said:
'No, it's gone; I can't call it back.'
'Can't call what back?'
'It's one of Hans Andersen's beautiful little stories. But it's gone fro
me. Part of it is like this: A child has a caged bird, which it loves
but thoughtlessly neglects. The bird pours out its song unheard and
unheeded; but, in time, hunger and thirst assail the creature, and its
song grows plaintive and feeble and finally ceases--the bird dies. The
child comes, and is smitten to the heart with remorse: then, with bitter
tears and lamentations, it calls its mates, and they bury the bird with
elaborate pomp and the tenderest grief, without knowing, poor things,
that it isn't children only who starve poets to death and then spend
enough on their funerals and monuments to have kept them alive and made
them easy and comfortable. Now--'
But here we were interrupted. About ten that evening I ran across
Smith, and he asked me up to his parlour to help him smoke and drink hot
Scotch. It was a cosy place, with its comfortable chairs, its cheerful
lamps, and its friendly open fire of seasoned olive-wood. To make
everything perfect, there was a muffled booming of the surf outside.
After the second Scotch and much lazy and contented chat, Smith said:
'Now we are properly primed--I to tell a curious history and you to
listen to it. It has been a secret for many years--a secret between
me and three others; but I am going to break the seal now. Are you
comfortable?'
'Perfectly. Go on.'
Here follows what he told me:
'A long time ago I was a young artist--a very young artist, in fact--and
I wandered about the country parts of France, sketching here and
sketching there, and was presently joined by a couple of darling young
Frenchmen who were at the same kind of thing that I was doing. We were
as happy as we were poor, or as poor as we were happy--phrase it to suit
yourself. Claude Frere and Carl Boulanger--these are the names of those
boys; dear, dear fellows, and the sunniest spirits that ever laughed at
poverty and had a noble good time in all weathers.
'At last we ran hard aground in a Breton village, and an artist as poor
as ourselves took us in and literally saved us from starving--Francois
Millet--'
'What! the great Francois Millet?'
'Great? He wasn't any greater than we were, then. He hadn't any fame,
even in his own village; and he was so poor that he hadn't anything to
feed us on but turnips, and even the turnips failed us sometimes. We
four became fast friends, doting friends, inseparables. We painted away
together with all our might, piling up stock, piling up stock, but very
seldom getting rid of any of it. We had lovely times together; but, O my
soul! how we were pinched now and then!
'For a little over two years this went on. At last, one day, Claude
said:
'“Boys, we've come to the end. Do you understand that?--absolutely to
the end. Everybody has struck--there's a league formed against us. I've
been all around the village and it's just as I tell you. They refuse to
credit us for another centime until all the odds and ends are paid up.”
'This struck us as cold. Every face was blank with dismay. We realised
that our circumstances were desperate, now. There was a long silence.
Finally, Millet said with a sigh:
'“Nothing occurs to me--nothing. Suggest something, lads.”
'There was no response, unless a mournful silence may be called a
response. Carl got up, and walked nervously up and down a while, then
said:
'“It's a shame! Look at these canvases: stacks and stacks of as good
pictures as anybody in Europe paints--I don't care who he is. Yes,
and plenty of lounging strangers have said the same--or nearly that,
anyway.”
'“But didn't buy,” Millet said.
'“No matter, they said it; and it's true, too. Look at your 'Angelus'
there! Will anybody tell me--”
'“Pah, Carl--My 'Angelus!' I was offered five francs for it.”
'“When?”
'“Who offered it?”
'“Where is he?”
'“Why didn't you take it?”
'“Come--don't all speak at once. I thought he would give more--I was
sure of it--he looked it--so I asked him eight.”
'“Well--and then?”
'“He said he would call again.”
'“Thunder and lightning! Why, Francois--”
'“Oh, I know--I know! It was a mistake, and I was a fool. Boys, I meant
for the best; you'll grant me that, and I--”
'“Why, certainly, we know that, bless your dear heart; but don't you be
a fool again.”
'“I? I wish somebody would come along and offer us a cabbage for
it--you'd see!”
'“A cabbage! Oh, don't name it--it makes my mouth water. Talk of things
less trying.”
'“Boys,” said Carl, “do these pictures lack merit? Answer me that.”
'“No!”
'“Aren't they of very great and high merit? Answer me that.”
'“Yes.”
'“Of such great and high merit that, if an illustrious name were
attached to them they would sell at splendid prices. Isn't it so?”
'“Certainly it is. Nobody doubts that.”
'“But--I'm not joking--isn't it so?”
'“Why, of course it's so--and we are not joking. But what of it. What of
it? How does that concern us?”
'“In this way, comrades--we'll attach an illustrious name to them!”
'The lively conversation stopped. The faces were turned inquiringly upon
Carl. What sort of riddle might this be? Where was an illustrious name
to be borrowed? And who was to borrow it?
'Carl sat down, and said:
'“Now, I have a perfectly serious thing to propose. I think it is the
only way to keep us out of the almshouse, and I believe it to be a
perfectly sure way. I base this opinion upon certain multitudinous and
long-established facts in human history. I believe my project will make
us all rich.”
'“Rich! You've lost your mind.”
'“No, I haven't.”
'“Yes, you have--you've lost your mind. What do you call rich?”
'“A hundred thousand francs apiece.”
'“He has lost his mind. I knew it.”
'“Yes, he has. Carl, privation has been too much for you, and--”
'“Carl, you want to take a pill and get right to bed.”
'“Bandage him first--bandage his head, and then--”
'“No, bandage his heels; his brains have been settling for weeks--I've
noticed it.”
'“Shut up!” said Millet, with ostensible severity, “and let the boy have
his say. Now, then--come out with your project, Carl. What is it?”
'“Well, then, by way of preamble I will ask you to note this fact in
human history: that the merit of many a great artist has never been
acknowledged until after he was starved and dead. This has happened so
often that I make bold to found a law upon it. This law: that the merit
of every great unknown and neglected artist must and will be recognised
and his pictures climb to high prices after his death. My project is
this: we must cast lots--one of us must die.”
'The remark fell so calmly and so unexpectedly that we almost forgot to
jump. Then there was a wild chorus of advice again--medical advice--for
the help of Carl's brain; but he waited patiently for the hilarity to
calm down, and then went on again with his project:
'“Yes, one of us must die, to save the others--and himself. We will cast
lots. The one chosen shall be illustrious, all of us shall be rich. Hold
still, now--hold still; don't interrupt--I tell you I know what I am
talking about. Here is the idea. During the next three months the one
who is to die shall paint with all his might, enlarge his stock all he
can--not pictures, no! skeleton sketches, studies, parts of studies,
fragments of studies, a dozen dabs of the brush on each--meaningless, of
course, but his, with his cipher on them; turn out fifty a day, each to
contain some peculiarity or mannerism easily detectable as his--they're
the things that sell, you know, and are collected at fabulous prices for
the world's museums, after the great man is gone; we'll have a ton
of them ready--a ton! And all that time the rest of us will be busy
supporting the moribund, and working Paris and the dealers--preparations
for the coming event, you know; and when everything is hot and just
right, we'll spring the death on them and have the notorious funeral.
You get the idea?”
'“N-o; at least, not qu--”
'“Not quite? Don't you see? The man doesn't really die; he changes his
name and vanishes; we bury a dummy, and cry over it, with all the world
to help. And I--”
'But he wasn't allowed to finish. Everybody broke out into a rousing
hurrah of applause; and all jumped up and capered about the room and
fell on each other's necks in transports of gratitude and joy. For hours