The Contralto

Rev. Charles Maloy, C. M.
St. Joseph's Parish, Emmitsburg, Md.

Chapter 19 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 1

The holiday season was near at hand, the snow covered mountains and valley with its white pall much to the relief of the older inhabitants who firmly believed a green Christmas foreboded a fat churchyard. The larders were well filled with the products of the domestic styes, everything being utilized either in the form of sausage, "ponhorse," head cheese, or salt pork. Cheerfulness invaded the town, finding most eloquence in the jingle of sleighbells and the shouts of the healthy children, as they snowballed each other on theft way to and from school.

The Professor took long walks into the country, wrestling with drifts as with a friend and listening to the blood singing in his veins. Life was sweet in the open, he plodded along in boots and sweater, making his old friends worry at times for his health. He laughed good naturedly when they expressed their fears, and though he accepted ear-muffs and pulse-warmers, knitted by Mrs. Hoppe, he wore them in his pocket.

One Sunday evening after church service he walked out Main street in the direction which leads from the mountains, thinking of Marion and the lad that he had not held private converse with her in some time. They met in the hall at rehearsals, he walked home with her, but relations were thoroughly formal. Instead of making smoother sailing the kiss seemed to have been the index of breakers ahead. Tonight he chafed under the restraint and felt a longing to talk freely with her of himself or herself, it mattered not which. He was anxious to talk on any subject which would reveal her more fully and perhaps give him an opportunity to understand his own mind. The very thinking of her was pleasant, and in passing the house he determined to call on his way back.

The dog trotted ahead, sticking his muzzle into every patch of clear snow and stopping now and then to remove the balls from the pads of his beautiful white feet. About a mile from town he came to attention, looked at a dark figure approaching, then with collie friendliness scampered forward.

"Hello, boy, are you out tonight?"

"Hello, Uncle Bennett, are you not lost?"

"Not quite, Professor, I travelled this road for nigh on to seventy years."

"You enjoy walking in the snow?"

Old Emmitsburg Road after winter storm of 1914 - Looking towards town

"I walked in the snow when we had no other way of getting anywhere; Mr. Berry and I walked to Buffalo once."

"Indeed! that was quite a journey, what was the occasion?"

"Mr. Berry owned a nigger who escaped; we got word he was up in York State and took a compass, struck off through the counties, and fetched him back."

"Without protest on the negro's part?"

"Mr. Berry wasn't the kind to bother about law when he was right. Mr. Berry was a power in this neighborhood and no nigger would dare to protest."

The Professor turned to walk back with his old friend, who, once he had launched into praise of his hero of bygone days, was extremely interesting. Story after story was narrated without the interruption of hammer strokes, though the punctuation of tobacco expectoration was present. Triumphs in the theological arena, business shrewdness which never was mistaken, the sterling honesty that knew no compromise, all were jewels in the crown with which Bennett encircled in memory the head of his departed Elijah. Were Mr. Berry alive he would be the staunchest supporter of the efforts to awaken the village. He was a man of means, who was quick to aid the college in the financial stress following the war, and when the institution went into bankruptcy remitted his claim in full. Others in the days of their prosperity had done likewise and the college, with the traditionally short memory of corporations, had forgotten its benefactors. Bennett's recital was a happy mixture of the grave and gay:

"Mr. Berry was a witty man, Professor; he used to get Tom Lansinger crazy. We'd be working and Mr. Berry would come along and say: 'Tom I was over to Browntown and I noticed they let Pennsylvany Dutchmen sit at table with white men over there.' Lansinger's a Pennsylvany Dutchman and when he'd hear that, it was all up with work, for Tom would get mad and quit. I lost as much money that way as I did by Tom telling stories."

At Marion's home, the carpenter said, "I always visit here Sunday evenings; come in, they'll be glad to see you."

They were admitted by Marion herself, who led the Professor into the library, while Bennett went to the rear in search of his sister-in-law. The girl, in her soft clinging gown, was in harmony with the well lighted room, a welcome contrast to the bleak atmosphere he had just left. The combination affected him, dressed as he was for rough going in the snow. When they were seated, Buster curled up at Marion's behest on the hearthrug, she placed a smoking set near his elbow. Lighting a cigarette, he jokingly offered her the case; she took it but refused to join him, saying:

"Not since I left school; we did it there because it was shocking, and also because we read it was quite the mode in England."

"I have had a delightful walk with Uncle Bennett and gathered much material for a biography of Mr. Berry."

"We are regaled with that subject every Sunday evening."

"What grand figures those old fellows would make for a novel, such pathos and humor, such heroic fortitude in the fundamental difficulties of life, such faith and optimism? Had I the ability, here is where I would come for a subject," he declared with enthusiasm.

"What would you do for the romantic element?" "That could be found also, were one to search diligently."

They talked on every topic of local interest for a time, the warm glow of the girl's personality penetrating to the heart of the Professor and melting the reserve into which years of self-repression had frozen him, almost in spite of himself. She was, indeed, good to behold as he viewed her through the rings of smoke formed in the still air. Reclining in an easy chair, one limb crossed over other in defiance of the stiffer conventions, she appealed to the primitive passion of possession. His soul had been through sieges of the most vital instincts lately; he was not at all sure of his self-control. His very self-consciousness adding to his difficulty, his heart beat violently, his mouth dried up and his tongue clung to his jaws as he endeavored to repress his spirit and talk with nonchalance. In a desperate effort he hit upon the very subject which proved most dangerous. Blowing a puff of smoke over his shoulder in such a manner it curled up under the shade of the lamp on the table, his wandering eyes falling for the first time on the photograph Bob had stolen from his room and which now looked at him from a small easel, he asked:

"When do you go to New York to submit your voice?"

"Is that your ultimate decision?"

"I think it will be for your best interests."

"What motives prompted that conclusion?" remarking his struggle to control his feelings.

"Marion," he almost blurted, "my objections from the beginning were personal; I do not want you to go on the stage because I love you, and I cannot bear the idea of losing you."

"Yes," encouraged the girl faintly.

"I have nothing to offer you but a blasted career, though that may be mended, yes shall be mended. It is not that which I fear so much. I have no heart. Let me tell you just what I am and have been, then judge for yourself. I have led a peculiar life, a long series of contradictions. Fed on abstractions, letting reality slip by me at every turn, until now I firmly believe myself to have lost all grip on the concrete, I was never normal. In college with a positive genius for deviltry which won me the leader-ship of the mischievous element, I combined a passion for study that oftentimes had the teachers at sea. It was the same at the university and when I graduated my future was a problem for all concerned. My dearest friends and classmates had no question as to their place in the world scheme. The railroads, the banks, business, the legal and medical profession were awaiting them. For me none of these had any attraction. I went to Europe and chased the chimera of the Unknowable for four years, returning with degrees and ideals. There was no place for me but the pedagogue's chair. I liked the work, in fact I loved it with the strength of a physical passion. When others threw away their books after lecture, as the laborer drops his pick and shovel, I was only beginning my hours of study. The days were too short and I requisitioned the nights; social life was a tremendous bore to be avoided as much as possible. Gradually the dust of books entered like a virus into my blood, the red corpuscles of real life became attenuated and, I think, almost entirely disappeared. Here am I at thirty a mixture of ideals, impossible ambitions, and —alcohol."

"Don't say that, Harry," she pleaded, her hand on his arm.

"Why not? It gives me a certain cynical pleasure to contemplate the physical cause of my wreck of life."

"You are not a wreck by any means," she argued.

But alas for the very eloquence of his self-arraignment! It had led him far from the train of thought with which he had begun. His passion had exhausted itself in mental pyrotechnics, he was again in a mood of doubt. He was once more heroic in renunciation.

"Well, dear," he concluded, "you see now why I cannot ask you to marry me, though I love you—why I advise you to go to New York."

"Yes, I see," she admitted quietly, "and I am ready to accept your decision."

"You are?" hurt by her apparently ready compliance, for he was an egoist.

"Yes, my boy," and she almost smiled. "I shall go and find out if there be an audience waiting for the cantatrice of Emmitsburg. And since you have done me the honor to say you love me, I shall be equally honest and say that I love you, but would not think of marrying you under the circumstances. It is not that you have been a victim of alcohol, for that is nothing. If I could not save you from a re-lapse in that regard I would not be worth much, but you do not know what love is. You are an astounding egoist, though it is entirely mental. You had a soul, but if you have not lost it you have nearly smothered it under layer upon layer of thought dust. As you say, the concrete makes little impression on you, you are ready to laugh once the spasm of reality is over. You may yet win back your soul but hitherto you have not done so. It flashes up at times as on the night you kissed me, but disappears under pressure of cynical self-analysis."

"You are perfectly right," he said humbly, unable not to admire her ability to read him.

"Yes, I am right; I love you with a love to which you are a stranger. I would no more think of marrying you than of wedding with an edition of the 'Pure Reason.' I love you with all my heart, Harry, but I demand a quid pro quo."

The subject was exhausted, the platform was fixed, both fell to thinking. The wise reader might find it very easy to bring these two lovers together. His scruples should not have stood in the way, all the girl required was to be shown that she was loved really and if he took her in his arms the rest would be happiness. But life is not such a simple proposition after all. The Professor was already contemplating himself in the role of the ancient Roman towards his seditious son; he was erecting a little shrine in his heart on the altar of which he would make a holocaust of his incipient passion. The girl—well, women may not be given to deep ratiocination, but in affairs they have plans developed before the heavy machinery of the masculine mind has given its first squeaks.

Mrs. Tyson entered the library to find both young people markedly quiet; the old man following her, asked with a chuckle:

"Did I ever tell you, Professor, how Whitmore proposed to his wife?"

"Not that I recall," he replied, while Marion smiled at the recollection of a twice told tale.

"He's pretty good at argument down at Pete's but as meek as Moses at home. When he was courting his wife that is, he hadn't the nerve to pop the question. One night he walked past the window where she sat, bade her good evening, then walked on up the street. He turned back, stood outside the window, threw his hat in and said: 'If you won't have me throw out that hat.' "

"What did she do?"

"Told him to come in and get it."

Uncle Bennett laughed, while the young people studiously avoided each other's eyes. The old fellow was in a mood which ran on matrimonial recollections. After whistling softly for a space, he declared:

"Talking about marriage, Mr. Berry always held it was a remedy for a young fellow's wildness; he was a pretty harum-scarum chap himself till he met his Minus."

"The Professor thinks I should go to New York to consult about my voice, Mumma," broke in Marion.

"Indeed!" with a shade of anxiety.

"Yes," looking beseechingly at him to help her out.

"I think she should, Mrs. Tyson, it is a splendid career for a young woman with the requisite talent."

"But are there not many dangers and isn't the profession very taxing?"

"The dangers can be minimized and a love for the work makes the tasks light."

"What's that?" asked Bennett for his deafness did not allow him to follow the drift of conversation.

"The Professor thinks Marion should have her voice tested with a view to going on the stage."

"She'd make a good one, but she ought to get married, that's what a girl's for."

"I don't know how her father will take it."

"I haven't received an engagement yet, Mumma, we can leave Papa out of consideration until we learn whether my voice is of operatic range."

"When ought she to go, Professor?"

"Any time that is convenient, the preliminary examination will be very brief. Then I presume there shall be some study in this country and after in Europe."

"And I suppose I shall be compelled to break up home and travel with her; I have never cared for travel."

"We shall not cross that bridge until we come to it, Mumma," said Marion as the visitors rose to leave.

The door was scarcely closed on them when she burst into a violent fit of weeping, a very unusual thing for her, and her perplexed mother was at a loss to account for it. The girl assigned no reason. Harry having fortified himself in the philosophy of the hard with several chapters of, "Thus Spoke Zoroaster," went quickly to sleep.

Chapter 20

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