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Title: The Master of the Inn
Author: Robert Herrick
Release Date: February 24, 2011 [EBook #35388]
Language: English
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THE MASTER OF THE INN
THE
MASTER OF THE INN
BY
Robert Herrick
* * * * *
NEW YORK
Charles Scribner's Sons
1910
_Copyright, 1908, by Charles Scribner's Sons_
_Published April, 1908_
_Second Impression, July, 1908_
_Third Impression, September, 1908_
_Fourth Impression, December, 1908_
_Fifth Impression, December, 1908_
_Sixth Impression, July, 1909_
_Seventh Impression, October, 1909_
_Eighth Impression, January, 1910_
_Ninth Impression, July, 1910_
[Illustration]
_The author of "The Master of the Inn" having received many
inquiries as to what foundation in fact this tale has wishes
to state explicitly that both incidents and persons are purely
imaginary, and that so far as he is aware there is neither
Master nor Inn in existence._
_Chicago, Ills.,
12 May, 1909._
THE MASTER OF THE INN
THE
MASTER OF THE INN
I
It was a plain brick house, three full stories, with four broad
chimneys, and overhanging eaves. The tradition was that it had been a
colonial tavern--a dot among the fir-covered northern hills on the
climbing post-road into Canada. The village scattered along the road
below the inn was called Albany--and soon forgotten when the railroad
sought an opening through a valley less rugged, eight miles to the west.
Rather more than thirty years ago the Doctor had arrived, one summer
day, and opened all the doors and windows of the neglected old house,
which he had bought from scattered heirs. He was a quiet man, the
Doctor, in middle life then or nearly so; and he sank almost without
remark into the world of Albany, where they raise hay and potatoes and
still cut good white pine off the hills. Gradually the old brick tavern
resumed the functions of life: many buildings were added to it as well
as many acres of farm and forest to the Doctor's original purchase of
intervale land. The new Master did not open his house to the public, yet
he, too, kept a sort of Inn, where men came and stayed a long time.
Although no sign now hung from the old elm tree in front of the house,
nevertheless an ever-widening stream of humanity mounted the winding
road from White River and passed through the doors of the Inn, seeking
life....
That first summer the Doctor brought with him Sam, the Chinaman, whom we
all came to know and love, and also a young man, who loafed much while
the Doctor worked, and occasionally fished. This was John Herring--now a
famous architect--and it was from his designs, sketched those first idle
summer days, that were built all the additions to the simple old
house--the two low wings in the rear for the "cells," with the Italian
garden between them; the marble seat curving around the pool that joined
the wings on the west; also the substantial wall that hid the Inn, its
terraced gardens and orchards, from Albanian curiosity. Herring found a
store of red brick in some crumbling buildings in the neighborhood, and
he discovered the quarry whence came those thick slabs of purple slate.
The blue-veined marble was had from a fissure in the hills, and the
Doctor's School made the tiles.
I think Herring never did better work than in the making over of this
old tavern: he divined that subtle affinity which exists between north
Italy, with all its art, and our bare New England; and he dared to graft
boldly one to the other, having the rear of the Inn altogether Italian
with its portico, its dainty colonnades, the garden and the fountain and
the pool. From all this one looked down on the waving grass of the
Intervale, which fell away gently to the turbulent White River, then
rose again to the wooded hills that folded one upon another, with ever
deepening blue, always upward and beyond.
Not all this building at once, to be sure, as the millionaire builds;
but a gradual growth over a couple of decades; and all built lovingly by
the "Brothers," stone on stone, brick and beam and tile--many a hand
taking part in it that came weak to the task and left it sturdy. There
was also the terraced arrangement of gardens and orchards on either side
of the Inn, reaching to the farm buildings on the one side and to the
village on the other. For a time Herring respected the quaint old tavern
with its small rooms and pine wainscot; then he made a stately
two-storied hall out of one half where we dined in bad weather, and a
pleasant study for the Doctor from the rest. The doors east and west
always stood open in the summer, giving the rare passer-by a glimpse of
that radiant blue heaven among the hills, with the silver flash of the
river in the middle distance, and a little square of peaceful garden
close at hand.... The tough northern grasses rustled in the breezes that
always played about Albany; and the scent of spruce drawn by the hot
sun--the strong resinous breath of the north--was borne from the woods.
Thus it started, that household of men in the old Inn at the far end of
Albany village among the northern hills, with the Doctor and Sam and
Herring, who had been flung aside after his first skirmish with life and
was picked up in pure kindness by the Doctor, as a bit of the broken
waste of our modern world, and carried off with him out of the city. The
young architect returning in due time to the fight--singing--naturally
venerated the Doctor as a father; and when a dear friend stumbled and
fell in the _via dura_ of this life, he whispered to him word of the Inn
and its Master--of the life up there among the hills where Man is little
and God looks down on his earth.... "Oh, you'll understand when you put
your eyes on White Face some morning! The Doctor? He heals both body and
soul." And this one having heeded spoke the word in turn to others in
need--"to the right sort, who would understand." Thus the custom grew
like a faith, and a kind of brotherhood was formed, of those who had
found more than health at the Inn--who had found themselves. The Doctor,
ever busy about his farms and his woods, his building, and above all his
School, soon had on his hands a dozen or more patients or guests, as you
might call them, and he set them to work speedily. There was little
medicine to be found in the Inn: the sick labored as they could and thus
grew strong....
And so, as one was added to another, they began to call themselves in
joke "Brothers," and the Doctor, "Father." The older "Brothers" would
return to the Inn from all parts of the land, for a few days or a few
weeks, to grasp the Doctor's hand, to have a dip in the pool, to try the
little brooks among the hills. Young men and middle-aged, and even the
old, they came from the cities where the heat of living had scorched
them, where they had faltered and doubted the goodness of life. In some
way word of the Master had reached them, with this compelling
advice--"Go! And tell him I sent you." So from the clinic or the
lecture-room, from the office or the mill--wherever men labor with
tightening nerves--the needy one started on his long journey. Toward
evening he was set down before the plain red face of the Inn. And as the
Stranger entered the old hall, a voice was sure to greet him from within
somewhere, the deep voice of a hearty man, and presently the Master
appeared to welcome the newcomer, resting one hand on his guest's
shoulder perhaps, with a yearning affection that ran before knowledge.
"So you've come, my boy," he said. "Herring [or some one] wrote me to
look for you."
And after a few more words of greeting, the Doctor beckoned to Sam, and
gave the guest over to his hands. Thereupon the Chinaman slippered
through tiled passageways to the court, where the Stranger, caught by
the beauty and peace so well hidden, lingered a while. The little space
within the wings was filled with flowers as far as the yellow water of
the pool and the marble bench. In the centre of the court was an old
gray fountain--sent from Verona by a Brother--from which the water
dropped and ran away among the flower beds to the pool. A stately elm
tree shaded this place, flecking the water below. The sun shot long rays
beneath its branches into the court, and over all there was an odor of
blossoming flowers and the murmur of bees.
"Bath!" Sam explained, grinning toward the pool.
With the trickle of the fountain in his ears the Stranger looked out
across the ripening fields of the Intervale to the noble sky-line of the
Stowe hills. Those little mountains of the north! Mere hills to all who
know the giants of the earth--not mountains in the brotherhood of ice
and snow and rock! But in form and color, in the lesser things that
create the love of men for places, they rise nobly toward heaven, those
little hills! On a summer day like this their broad breasts flutter with
waving tree-tops, and at evening depth on depth of purple mist gathers
over them, dropping into those soft curves where the little brooks flow,
and mounting even to the sky-line. When the sun has fallen, there rests
a band of pure saffron, and in the calm and perfect peace of evening
there is a hint of coming moonlight. Ah, they are of the fellowship of
mountains, those little hills of Stowe! And when in winter their flanks
are jewelled with ice and snow, then they raise their heads proudly to
the stars, calling across the frozen valleys to their greater brethren
in the midriff of the continent--"Behold, we also are hills, in the
sight of the Lord!"...
Meantime Sam, with Oriental ease, goes slipping along the arcade until
he comes to a certain oak door, where he drops your bag, and disappears,
having saluted. It is an ample and lofty room, and on the outer side of
it hangs a little balcony above the orchard, from which there is a view
of the valley and the woods beyond, and from somewhere in the fields the
note of the thrush rises. The room itself is cool, of a gray tone, with
a broad fireplace, a heavy table, and many books. Otherwise there are
bed and chairs and dressing-table, the necessities of life austerely
provided. And Peace! God, what Peace to him who has escaped from the
furnace men make! It is as if he had come all the way to the end of the
world, and found there a great still room of peace.
Soon a bell sounds--with a strange vibration as though in distant lands
it had summoned many a body of men together--and the household assembles
under the arcade. If it is fair and not cold, Sam and his helpers bring
out the long narrow table and place it, as Veronese places his feasters,
lengthwise beneath the colonnade, and thus the evening meal is served. A
fresh, coarse napkin is laid on the bare board before each man, no more
than enough for all those present, and the Doctor sits in the middle,
serving all. There are few dishes, and for the most part such as may be
got at home there in the hills. There is a pitcher of cider at one end
and a pitcher of mild white wine at the other, and the men eat and
drink, with jokes and talk--the laughter of the day. (The novice might
feel only the harmony of it all, but later he will learn how many
considered elements go to the making of Peace.) Afterward, when Sam has
brought pipes and tobacco, the Master leads the way to the sweeping
semicircle of marble seat around the pool with the leafy tree overhead;
and there they sit into the soft night, talking of all things, with the
glow of pipes, until one after another slips away to sleep. For as the
Master said, "Talk among men in common softens the muscles of the mind
and quickens the heart." Yet he loved most to hear the talk of others.
Thus insensibly for the Novice there begins the life of the place,
opening in a gentle and persistent routine that takes him in its flow
and carries him on with it. He finds Tradition and Habit all about him,
in the ordered, unconscious life of the Inn, to which he yields without
question.... Shortly after dawn the bell sounds, and then the men meet
at the pool, where the Doctor is always first. A plunge into the yellow
water which is flecked with the fallen leaves, and afterward to each
man's room there is brought a large bowl of coffee and hot milk, with
bread and eggs and fruit. What more he craves may be found in the hall.
Soon there is a tap on the newcomer's door, and a neighborly voice calls
out--"We all go into the fields every morning, you know. You must earn
your dinner, the Doctor says, or borrow it!" So the Novice goes forth to
earn his first dinner with his hands. Beyond the gardens and the
orchards are the barns and sheds, and a vista of level acres of hay and
potatoes and rye, the bearing acres of the farm, and beyond these the
woods on the hills. "Nearly a thousand acres, fields and woods," the
neighbor explains. "Oh, there's plenty to do all times!" Meantime the
Doctor strides ahead through the wet grass, his eyes roaming here and
there, inquiring the state of his land. And watching him the newcomer
believes that there is always much to be done wherever the Doctor leads.
It may be July and hay time--all the intervale grass land is mowed by
hand--there is a sweat-breaking task! Or it may be potatoes to hoe. Or
later in the season the apples have to be gathered--a pleasant pungent
job, filling the baskets and pouring them into the fat-bellied barrels.
But whatever the work may be the Doctor keeps the Novice in his mind,
and as the sun climbs high over the Stowe hills, he taps the new one on
the shoulder--"Better stop here to-day, my boy! You'll find a good tree
over there by the brook for a nap...."
Under that particular tree in the tall timothy, there is the coolest
spot, and the Novice drowses, thinking of those wonderful mowers in
_Anna_, as he gazes at the marching files eating their way through the
meadow until his eyelids fall and he sleeps, the ripple of waving
timothy in his ears. At noon the bell sounds again from the Inn, and the
men come striding homeward wiping the sweat from their faces. They
gather at the swimming pool, and still panting from their labor strip
off their wet garments, then plunge one after another, like happy boys.
From bath to room, and a few minutes for fresh clothes, and all troop
into the hall, which is dark and cool. The old brick walls of the tavern
never held a gayer lot of guests.
From this time on each one is his own master; there is no common toil.
The farmer and his men take up the care of the farm, and the Master
usually goes down to his School, in company with some of the Brothers.
Each one finds his own way of spending the hours till sunset--some
fishing or shooting, according to the season; others, in tennis or games
with the boys of the School; and some reading or loafing--until the
shadows begin to fall across the pool into the court, and Sam brings out
the long table for dinner.
The seasons shading imperceptibly into one another vary the course of
the day. Early in September the men begin to sit long about the
hall-fire of an evening, and when the snow packs hard on the hills there
is wood-cutting to be done, and in early spring it is the carpenter's
shop. So the form alters, but the substance remains--work and play and
rest....
To each one a time will come when the Doctor speaks to him alone. At
some hour, before many days have passed, the Novice will find himself
with those large eyes resting on his face, searchingly. It may be in the
study after the others have scattered, or at the pool where the Master
loved to sit beneath the great tree and hear his "confessions," as the
men called these talks. At such times, when the man came to remember it
afterward, the Doctor asked few questions, said little, but listened. He
had the confessing ear! And as if by chance his hand would rest on the
man's arm or shoulder. For he said--"Touch speaks: soul flows through
flesh into soul."
Thus he sat and confessed his patients one after another, and his dark
eyes seemed familiar with all man's woes, as if he had listened always.
Men said to him what they had never before let pass their lips to man
or woman, what they themselves scarce looked at in the gloom of their
souls. Unawares it slipped from them, the reason within the reason for
their ill, the ultimate cause of sorrow. From the moment they had
revealed to him this hidden thing--had slipped the leash on their
tongues--it seemed no longer to be feared. "Trouble evaporates, being
properly aired," said the Doctor. And already in the troubled one's mind
the sense of the confused snarl of life began to lessen and veils began
to descend between him and it.... "For you must learn to forget,"
counselled the Doctor, "forget day by day until the recording soul
beneath your mind is clean. Therefore--work, forget, be new!"...
A self-important young man, much concerned with himself, once asked the
Master:
"Doctor, what is the regimen that you would recommend to me?"
And we all heard him say in reply--
"The potatoes need hilling, and then you'll feel like having a dip in
the pool."
The young man, it seems, wrote back to the friend in the city who had
sent him--"This Doctor cannot understand my case: he tells me to dig
potatoes and bathe in a swimming pool. That is all! All!" But the
friend, who was an old member of the Brotherhood, telegraphed back--"Dig
and swim, you fool!" Sam took the message at the telephone while we were
dining, and repeated it faithfully to the young man within the hearing
of all. A laugh rose that was hard in dying, and I think the Doctor's
lips wreathed in smile.... In the old days they say the Master gave
medicine like other doctors. That was when he spent part of the year in
the city and had an office there and believed in drugs. But as he gave
up going to the city, the stock of drugs in the cabinet at the end of
the study became exhausted, and was never renewed. All who needed
medicine were sent to an old Brother, who had settled down the valley at
Stowe. "He knows more about pills than I do," the Doctor said. "At least
he can give you the stuff with confidence." Few of the inmates of the
Inn ever went to Stowe, though Dr. Williams was an excellent physician.
And it was from about this time that we began to drop the title of
doctor, calling him instead the Master; and the younger men sometimes,
Father. He seemed to like these new terms, as denoting affection and
respect for his authority.
By the time that we called him Master, the Inn had come to its maturity.
Altogether it could hold eighteen guests, and if more came, as in
midsummer or autumn, they lived in tents in the orchard or in the hill
camps. The Master was still adding to the forest land--fish and game
preserve the village people called it; for the Master was a hunter and a
fisherman. But up among those curving hills, when he looked out through
the waving trees, measuring by eye a fir or a pine, he would say,
nodding his head--"Boys, behold my heirs--from generation to
generation!"
He was now fifty and had ceased altogether to go to the city. There were
ripe men in the great hospitals that still remembered him as a young man
in the medical school; but he had dropped out, they said--why? He might
have answered that, instead of following the beaten path, he had spoken
his word to the world through men--and spoken widely. For there was no
break in the stream of life that flowed upward to the old Inn. The
"cells" were always full, winter and summer. Now there were coming
children of the older Brothers, and these, having learned the ways of
the place from their fathers, were already house-broken, as we said,
when they came. They knew that no door was locked about the Inn, but
that if they returned after ten it behooved them to come in by the pool
and make no noise. They knew that when the first ice formed on the pool,
then they were not expected to get out of bed for the morning plunge.
They knew that there was an old custom which no one ever forgot, and
that was to put money in the house-box behind the hall door on leaving,
at least something for each day of the time spent, and as much more as
one cared to give. For, as everyone knew, all in the box beyond the
daily expense went to maintain the School on the road below the village.
So the books of the Inn were easy to keep--there was never a word about
money in the place--but I know that many a large sum of money was found
in this box, and the School never wanted means.
That I might tell more of what took place in the Inn, and what the
Master said, and the sort of men one found there, and the talk we all
had summer evenings beside the pool and winter nights in the hall!
Winter, I think, was the best time of all the year, the greatest beauty
and the greatest joy, from the first fall of the snow to the yellow
brook water and the floating ice in White River. Then the broad velvety
shadows lay on the hills between the stiff spruces, then came rosy
mornings out of darkness when you knew that some good thing was waiting
for you in the world. After you had drunk your bowl of coffee, you got
your axe and followed the procession of choppers, who were carefully
foresting the Doctor's woods. In the spring, when the little brooks had
begun to run down the slopes, there was road making and mending; for the
Master kept in repair most of the roads about Albany, grinding the rock
in his pit, saying that--"a good road is one sure blessing."
And the dusks I shall never forget--those gold and violet moments with
the light of immortal heavens behind the rampart of hills; and the
nights, so still, so still like everlasting death, each star set
jewel-wise in a black sky above a white earth. How splendid it was to
turn out of the warm hall where we had been reading and talking in to
the frosty court, with the thermometer at twenty below and still
falling, and look down across the broad white valley, marked by the
streak of bushy alders where the dumb river flowed, up to the little
frozen water courses among the hills, up above where the stars
glittered! You took your way to your room in the silence, rejoicing that
it was all so, that somewhere in this tumultuous world of ours there was
hidden all this beauty and the secret of living; and that you were of
the brotherhood of those who had found it....
Thus was the Inn and its Master in the year when he touched sixty, and
his hair and beard were more white than gray.
II
Then there came to the Inn one day in the early part of the summer a new
guest--a man about fifty, with an aging, worldly face. Bill, the Albany
stage man, had brought him from Island Junction, and on the way had
answered all his questions, discreetly, reckoning in his wisdom that his
passenger was "one of those queer folks that went up to the old Doctor's
place." For there was something smart and fashionable about the
stranger's appearance that made Bill uncomfortable.
"There," he said, as he pulled up outside the red brick house and
pointed over the wall into the garden, "mos' likely you'll find the old
man fussin' 'round somewheres inside there, if he hain't down to the
School," and he drove off with the people's mail.
The stranger looked back through the village street, which was as silent
as a village street should be at four o'clock on a summer day. Then he
muttered to himself, whimsically, "Mos' likely you'll find the old man
fussin' 'round somewheres inside!" Well, _what next_? And he glanced at
the homely red brick building with the cold eye of one who has made many
goings out and comings in, and to whom novelty offers little
entertainment. As he stood there (thinking possibly of that early train
from the junction on the morrow) the hall door opened wide, and an
oldish man with white eye-brows and black eyes appeared. He was dressed
in a linen suit that deepened the dark tan of his face and hands. He
said:
"You are Dr. Augustus Norton?"
"And you," the Stranger replied with a graceful smile, "are the
Master--and this is the Inn!"
He had forgotten what Percival called the old boy--forgot everything
these days--had tried to remember the name all the way up--nevertheless,
he had turned it off well! So the two looked at each other--one a little
younger as years go, but with lined face and shaking fingers; the other
solid and self-contained, with less of that ready language which comes
from always jostling with nimble wits. But as they stood there, each saw
a Man and an Equal.
"The great surgeon of St. Jerome's," said our Master in further welcome.
"Honored by praise from your lips!" Thus the man of the city lightly
turned the compliment, and extended his hand, which the Master took
slowly, gazing meanwhile steadily at his guest.
"Pray come into my house," said the Master of the Inn, with more
stateliness of manner than he usually had with a new Brother. But, it
may be said, Dr. Augustus Norton had the most distinguished name of that
day in his profession. He followed the Master to his study, with
uncertain steps, and sinking into a deep chair before the smouldering
ashes looked at his host with a sad grin--"Perhaps you'll give me
something--the journey, you know?..."
Two years before the head surgeon of St. Jerome's had come to the
hospital of a morning to perform some operation--one of those affairs
for which he was known from coast to coast. As he entered the officers'
room that day, with the arrogant eye of the commander-in-chief, one of
his aides looked at him suspiciously, then glanced again--and the great
surgeon felt those eyes upon him when he turned his back. And he knew
why! Something was wrong with him. Nevertheless in glum silence he made
ready to operate. But when the moment came, and he was about to take the
part of God toward the piece of flesh lying in the ether sleep before
him, he hesitated. Then, in the terrible recoil of Fear, he turned
back.
"Macroe!" he cried to his assistant, "you will have to operate. I
cannot--I am not well!"
There was almost panic, but Macroe was a man, too, and proceeded to do
his work without a word. The great surgeon, his hands now trembling
beyond disguise, went back to the officers' room, took off his white
robes, and returned to his home. There he wrote his resignation to the
directors of St. Jerome's, and his resignation from other offices of
honor and responsibility. Then he sent for a medical man, an old friend,
and held out his shaking hand to him:
"The damn thing won't go," he said, pointing also to his head.
"Too much work," the doctor replied, of course.
But the great surgeon, who was a man of clear views, added impersonally,
"Too much everything, I guess!"
There followed the usual prescription, making the sick man a wanderer
and pariah--first to Europe, "to get rid of me," the surgeon growled;
then to Georgia for golf, to Montana for elk, to Canada for salmon, and
so forth. Each time the sick man returned with a thin coat of tan that
peeled off in a few days, and with those shaking hands that suggested
immediately another journey to another climate. Until it happened
finally that the men of St. Jerome's who had first talked of the date of
their chief's return merely raised their eyebrows at the mention of his
name.
"Done for, poor old boy!" and the great surgeon read it with his lynx
eyes, in the faces of the men he met at his clubs. His mouth drew
together sourly and his back sloped. "Fifty-two," he muttered. "God,
that is too early--something ought to pull me together." So he went on
trying this and that, while his friends said he was "resting," until he
had slipped from men's thoughts.
One day Percival of St. Jerome's, one of those boys he had growled at
and cursed in former times, met him crawling down the avenue to his
quietest club, and the old surgeon took him by the arm--he was gray in
face and his neck was wasting away--and told the story of his
troubles--as he would to anyone these days. The young man listened
respectfully. Then he spoke of the old Inn, of the Brotherhood, of the
Master and what he had done for miserable men, who had despaired. The
famous surgeon, shaking his head as one who has heard of these miracles
many times and found them naught, was drinking it all in, nevertheless.
"He takes a man," said the young surgeon, "who doesn't want to live and
makes him fall in love with life."
Dr. Augustus Norton sniffed.
"In love with life! That's good! If your Wonder of the Ages can make a
man of fifty fall in love with anything, I must try him." He laughed a
sneering laugh, the feeble merriment of doubt.
"Ah, Doctor!" cried the young man, "you must go and live with the
Master. And then come back to us at St. Jerome's: for we need you!"
And the great surgeon, touched to the heart by these last words, said:
"Well, what's the name of your miracle-worker, and where is he to be
found?... I might as well try all the cures--write a book on 'em one of
these days!"...
So he came by the stage to the gate of the old Inn, and the Master, who
had been warned by a telegram from the young doctor only that morning,
stood at his door to welcome his celebrated guest.
He put him in the room of state above the study, a great square room at
the southwest, overlooking the wings and the flower-scented garden, the
pool, and the waving grass fields beyond, dotted with tall elms--all
freshly green.
"Not a bad sort of place," murmured the weary man, "and there must be
trout in those brooks up yonder. Well, it will do for a week or two, if
there's fishing."... Then the bell sounded for dinner which was served
for the first time that season out of doors in the soft twilight. The
Brothers had gathered in the court beside the fountain, young men and
middle-aged--all having bent under some burden, which they were now
learning to carry easily. They stood about the hall door until the
distinguished Stranger appeared, and he walked between them to the place
of honor at the Master's side. Everyone at the long table was named to
the great surgeon, and then with the coming of the soup he was promptly
forgotten, while the talk of the day's work and the morrow's rose
vigorously from all sides. It was a question of the old mill, which had
given way. An engineer among the company described what would have to be
done to get at the foundations. And a young man who happened to sit next
to the surgeon explained that the Master had reopened an old mill above
the Inn in the Intervale, where he ground corn and wheat and rye with
the old water-wheel; for the country people, who had always got their
grain ground there, complained when the mill had been closed. It seemed
to the Stranger that the dark coarse bread which was served was
extraordinarily good, and he wondered if the ancient process had
anything to do with it and he resolved to see the old mill. Then the
young man said something about bass: there was a cool lake up the
valley, which had been stocked. The surgeon's eye gleamed. Did he know
how to fish for bass! Why, before this boy--yes, he would go at five in
the morning, sharp.... After the meal, while the blue wreaths of smoke
floated across the flowers and the talk rose and fell in the court, the
Master and his new guest were seated alone beneath the great elm. The
surgeon could trace the Master's face in the still waters of the pool at
their feet, and it seemed to him like a finely cut cameo, with gentle
lines about the mouth and eyes that relieved the thick nose.
Nevertheless he knew by certain instinct that they were not of the same
kind. The Master was very silent this night, and his guest felt that
some mystery, some vacuum existed between them, as he gazed on the face
in the water. It was as if the old man were holding him off at arm's
length while he looked into him. But the great surgeon, who was used to
the amenities of city life, resolved to make his host talk:
"Extraordinary sort of place you have here! I don't know that I have
ever seen anything just like it. And what is your System?"
"What is my System?" repeated the Master wonderingly.
"Yes! Your method of building these fellows up--electricity, diet,
massage, baths--what is your line?" An urbane smile removed the offence
of the banter.
"I have no System!" the Master replied thoughtfully. "I live my life
here with my work, and those you see come and live with me as my
friends."
"Ah, but you have ideas ... extraordinary success ... so many cases,"
the great man muttered, confused by the Master's steady gaze.
"You will learn more about us after you have been here a little time.
You will see, and the others will help you to understand. To-morrow we
work at the mill, and the next day we shall be in the gardens--but you
may be too tired to join us. And we bathe here, morning and noon. Harvey
will tell you all our customs."
The celebrated surgeon of St. Jerome's wrote that night to an old
friend: "And the learned doctor's prescription seems to be to dig in the
garden and bathe in a great pool! A daffy sort of place--but I am going
bass fishing to-morrow at five with a young man, who is just the right
age for a son! So to bed, but I suspect that I shall see you
soon--novelties wear out quickly at my years."
Just here there entered that lovely night wind, rising far away beyond
the low lakes to the south--it soughed through the room, swaying the
draperies, sighing, sighing, and it blew out the candle. The sick man
looked down on the court below, white in the moonlight, and his eyes
roved farther to the dark orchard, and the great barns and the huddled
cattle.
"Quite a bit of country here!" the surgeon murmured. As he stood there
looking into the misty light which covered the Intervale, up to the
great hills above which floated luminous cloud banks, the chorus of an
old song rose from below where the pipes gleamed in the dark about the
pool. He leaned out into the air, filled with all the wild scent of
green fields, and added under a sort of compulsion--"And a good place,
enough!"
He went to bed to a deep sleep, and over his tired, worldly face the
night wind passed gently, stripping leaf by leaf from his weary mind
that heavy coating of care which he had wrapped about him in the course
of many years.
* * * * *
Dr. Augustus Norton did not return at the end of one week, nor of two.
The city saw him, indeed, no more that year. It was said that a frisky,
rosy ghost of the great surgeon had slipped into St. Jerome's near
Christmas--had skipped through a club or two and shaken hands about
pretty generally--and disappeared. Sometimes letters came from him with
an out-of-the-way postmark on them, saying in a jesting tone that he was
studying the methods of an extraordinary country doctor, who seemed to
cure men by touch. "He lives up here among the hills in forty degrees of
frost, and if I am not mistaken he is nearer the Secret than all of you
pill slingers"--(for he was writing a mere doctor of medicine!). "Anyhow
I shall stay on until I learn the Secret--or my host turns me out; for
life up here seems as good to me as ice-cream and kisses to a girl of
sixteen.... Why should I go back mucking about with you fellows--just
yet? I caught a five-pounder yesterday, and _ate_ him!"
There are many stories of the great surgeon that have come to me from
those days. He was much liked, especially by the younger men, after the
first gloom had worn off, and he began to feel the blood run once more.
He had a joking way with him that made him a good table companion, and
the Brothers pretending that he would become the historian of the order
taught him all the traditions of the place. "But the Secret, the Secret!
Where is it?" he would demand jestingly. One night--it was at table and
all were there--Harvey asked him:
"Has the Master confessed you?"
"'Confessed me'?" repeated the surgeon. "What's that?"
A sudden silence fell on all, because this was the one thing never
spoken of, at least in public. Then the Master, who had been silent all
that evening, turned the talk to other matters.
The Master, to be sure, gave this distinguished guest all liberties, and
they often talked together as men of the same profession. And the
surgeon witnessed all--the mending of the mill, the planting and the
hoeing and the harvesting, the preparations for the long winter, the
chopping and the road-making--all, and he tested it with his hands. "Not
bad sport," he would say, "with so many sick-well young men about to
help!"
But meanwhile the "secret" escaped the keen mind, though he sought for
it daily.
"You give no drugs, Doctor," he complained. "You're a scab on the
profession!"
"The drugs gave out," the Master explained, "and I neglected to order
more.... There's always Bert Williams at Stowe, who can give you
anything you might want--shall I send for him, Doctor?"
There was laughter all about, and when it died down the great surgeon
returned to the attack.
"Well, come, tell us now what you do believe in? Magic, the laying on of
hands? Come, there are four doctors here, and we have the right to
know--or we'll report you!"
"I believe," said the Master solemnly, in reply to the banter, "I
believe in Man and in God." And there followed such talk as had never
been in the old hall; for the surgeon was, after his kind, a
materialist and pushed the Master for definition. The Master believed,
as I recall it, that Disease could not be cured, for the most part. No
chemistry would ever solve the mystery of pain! But Disease could be
ignored, and the best way to forget pain was through labor. Not labor
merely for oneself; but also something for others. Wherefore the School,
around which the Inn and the farm and all had grown. For he told us then
that he had bought the Inn as a home for his boys, the waste product of
the city. Finding the old tavern too small for his purpose and seeing
how he should need helpers, he had encouraged ailing men to come to live
with him and to cure themselves by curing others. Without that School
below in the valley, with its workshops and cottages, there would have
been no Inn!
As for God--that night he would go no further, and the surgeon said
rather flippantly, we all thought, that the Master had left little room
in his world for God, anyhow--he had made man so large. It was a stormy
August evening, I remember, when we had been forced to dine within on
account of the gusty rain that had come after a still, hot day. The
valley seemed filled with murk, which was momentarily torn by fire,
revealing the trembling leaves upon the trees. When we passed through
the arcade to reach our rooms, the surgeon pointed out into this sea of
fire and darkness, and muttered with a touch of irony--
"HE seems to be talking for himself this evening!"
Just then a bolt shot downward, revealing with large exaggeration the
hills, the folded valleys--the descents.
"It's like standing on a thin plank in a turbulent sea!" the surgeon
remarked wryly. "Ah, my boy, Life's like that!" and he disappeared into
his room.
Nevertheless, it was that night he wrote to his friend: "I am getting
nearer this Mystery, which I take to be, the inner heart of it, a
mixture of the Holy Ghost and Sweat--with a good bath afterward! But the
old boy is the mixer of the Pills, mind you, and he _is_ a Master! Most
likely I shall never get hold of the heart of it; for somehow, yet with
all courtesy, he keeps me at a distance. I have never been 'confessed,'
whatever that may be--an experience that comes to the youngest boy among
them! Perhaps the Doctor thinks that old fellows like you and me have
only dead sins to confess, which would crumble to dust if exposed. But
there is a sting in very old sins, I think--for instance--oh! if you
were here tonight, I should be as foolish as a woman...."
The storm that night struck one of the school buildings and killed a
lad. In the morning the Master and the surgeon set out for the School
Village, which was lower in the valley beyond Albany. It was warm and
clear at the Inn; but thick mist wreaths still lay heavily over the
Intervale. The hills all about glittered as in October, and there was
in the air that laughing peace, that breath of sweet plenty which comes
the morning after a storm. The two men followed the foot-path, which
wound downward from the Inn across the Intervale. The sun filled the
windless air, sucking up the spicy odors of the tangled path--fern and
balsam and the mother scent of earth and rain and sun. The new green
rioted over the dead leaves.... The Master closely observing his guest,
remarked:
"You seem quite well, Doctor. I suppose you will be leaving us soon?"
"Leaving?" the surgeon questioned slowly, as if a secret dread had risen
at the Master's hint of departure. "Yes," he admitted, after a time, "I
suppose I am what you would call well--well enough. But something still
clogs within me. It may be the memory of Fear. I am afraid of myself!"
"Afraid? You need some test, perhaps. That will come sooner or later; we
need not hurry it!"
"No, we need not hurry!"
Yet he knew well enough that the Inn never sheltered drones, and that
many special indulgences had been granted him: he had borrowed freely
from the younger Brothers--of their time and strength. He thought
complacently of the large cheque which he should drop into the house-box
on his departure. With it the Master would be able to build a new
cottage or a small hospital for the School.
"Some of them," mused the Master, "never go back to the machine that
once broke them. They stay about here and help me--buy a farm and
revert! But for the most part they are keen to get back to the fight, as
is right and best. Sometimes when they loiter too long, I shove them out
of the nest!"
"And I am near the shoving point?" his companion retorted quickly. "So I
must leave all your dear boys and Peace and Fishing and _you_! Suppose
so, suppose so!... Doctor, you've saved my life--oh, hang it, that
doesn't tell the story. But even _I_ can feel what it is to live at the
Inn!"
Instinctively he grasped his host by the arm--he was an impulsive man.
But the Master's arm did not respond to the clasp; indeed, a slight
shiver seemed to shake it, so that the surgeon's hand fell away while
the Master said:
"I am glad to have been of service--to you--yes, especially to
_you_...."
They came into the school village, a tiny place of old white houses,
very clean and trim, with a number of sweeping elms along the narrow
road. A mountain brook turned an old water-wheel, supplying power for
the workshops where the boys were trained. The great surgeon had visited
the place many times in company with the Master, and though he admired
the order and economy of the institution, and respected its
purpose--that is, to create men out of the refuse of society--to tell
the truth, the place bored him a trifle. This morning they went directly
to the little cottage that served as infirmary, where the dead boy had
been brought. He was a black-haired Italian, and his lips curved upward
pleasantly. The Master putting his hand on the dead boy's brow as he
might have done in life stood looking at the face.
"I've got a case in the next room, I'd like to have your opinion on,
Doctor," the young physician said in a low tone to the surgeon, and the
two crossed the passage into the neighboring room. The surgeon fastened
his eyes on the sick lad's body: here was a case he understood, a
problem with a solution. The old Master coming in from the dead stood
behind the two.
"Williams," the surgeon said, "it's so, sure enough--you must
operate--at once!"
"I was afraid it was that," the younger man replied. "But how can I
operate here?"
The surgeon shrugged his shoulders--"He would never reach the city!"
"Then I must, you think----"
The shrewd surgeon recognized Fear in the young man's voice. Quick the
thrill shot through his nerves, and he cried, "I will operate, _now_."
In half an hour it was over, and the Master and the surgeon were leaving
the village, climbing up by the steep path under the blazing noon sun.
The Master glanced at the man by his side, who strode along confidently,
a trifle of a swagger in his buoyant steps. The Master remarked:
"The test came, and you took it--splendidly."
"Yes," the great surgeon replied, smiling happily, "it's all there,
Doctor, the old power. I believe I am about ready to get into harness
again!" After they had walked more of the way without speaking, the
surgeon added, as to himself--"But there are other things to be feared!"
Though the Master looked at him closely he invited no explanation, and
they finished their homeward walk without remark.
* * * * *
It soon got about among the inmates of the Inn what a wonderful
operation the surgeon of St. Jerome's had performed, and it was rumored
that at the beginning of autumn he would go back to his old position.
Meantime the great surgeon enjoyed the homage that men always pay to
power, the consideration of his fellows. He had been much liked; but
now that the Brothers knew how soon he was to leave them, they
surrounded him with those attentions that men most love, elevating him
almost to the rank of the Master--and they feared him less. His fame
spread, so that from some mill beyond Stowe they brought to the Inn a
desperate case, and the surgeon operated again successfully,
demonstrating that he was once more master of his art, and master of
himself. So he stayed on merely to enjoy his triumph and escape the dull
season in the city.
It was a wonderful summer, that! The fitful temper of the north played
in all its moods. There were days when the sun shone tropically down
into the valleys, without a breath of air, when the earthy, woody
smells were strong--and the nights--perfect stillness and peace, as if
some spirit of the air were listening for love words on the earth. The
great elms along Albany road hung their branches motionless, and when
the moon came over behind the house the great hills began to swim
ghostly, vague--beyond, always beyond!... And then there were the fierce
storms that swept up the valley and hung growling along the hills for
days, and afterward, sky-washed and clear, the westerly breeze would
come tearing down the Intervale, drying the earth before it.... But each
day there was a change in the sound and the smell of the fields and the
woods--in the quick race of the northern summer--a change that the
surgeon, fishing up the tiny streams, felt and noted. Each day, so
radiant with its abundant life, sounded some under-note of fulfilment
and change--speaking beforehand of death to come.
Toward the end of August a snap of cold drove us in-doors for the night
meal. Then around the fire there was great talk between the Master and
the surgeon, a sort of battle of the soul, to which we others paid
silent attention. For wherever those nights the talk might rise, in the
little rills of accidental words, it always flowed down to the deep
underlying thoughts of men. And in those depths, as I said, these two
wrestled with each other. The Master, who had grown silent of late
years, woke once more with fire. The light, keen thrusts of the
surgeon, who argued like a fencer, roused his whole being; and as day by
day it went on we who watched saw that in a way the talk of these two
men set forth the great conflict of conflicts, that deepest fissure of
life and belief anent the Soul and the Body. And the Master, who had
lived his faiths by his life before our eyes, was being worsted in the
argument! The great surgeon had the better mind, and he had seen all of
life that one may see with eyes....
They were talking of the day of departure for the distinguished guest,
and arranging for some kind of triumphal procession to escort him to
White River. But he would not set the time, shrinking from this act, as
if all were not yet done. There came a warm, glowing day early in
September, and at night after the pipes were lighted the surgeon and the
Master strolled off in the direction of the pool, arm in arm. There had
been no talk that day, the surgeon apparently shrinking from coming to
the last grapple with one whose faiths were so important to him as the
Master's.
"The flowers are dying: they tell me it's time to move on," said the
surgeon. "And yet, my dear host, I go without the Secret, without
understanding All!"
"Perhaps there is no inner Secret," the Master smiled. "It is all here
before you."
"I know that--you have been very good to me, shared everything. If I
have not learned the Secret, it is my fault, my incapacity. But--" and
the gay tone dropped quickly and a flash of bitterness succeeded--"I at
least know that there _is_ a Secret!"
They sat down on the marble bench and looked into the water, each
thinking his thoughts. Suddenly the surgeon began to speak, hesitantly,
as if there had long been something in his mind that he was compelled to
say.
"My friend," he said, "I too have something to tell--the cause within
the cause, the reason of the reason--at least, sometimes I think it is!
The root reason for all--unhappiness, defeat, for the shaking hand and
the jesting voice. And I want you to hear it--if you will."
The Master raised his face from the pool but said never a word. The
surgeon continued, his voice trembling at times, though he spoke
slowly, evidently trying to banish all feeling.
"It is a common enough story at the start, at least among men of our
kind. You know that I was trained largely in Europe. My father had the
means to give me the best, and time to take it in. So I was over there,
before I came back to St. Jerome's, three, four years at Paris, Munich,
Vienna, all about.... While I was away I lived as the others, for the
most part--you know our profession--and youth. The rascals are pretty
much the same to-day, I judge from what my friends say of their sons!
Well, at least I worked like the devil, and was decent.... Oh, it isn't
for that I'm telling the tale! I was ambitious, then. And the time came
to go back, as it does in the end, and I took a few weeks' run through
Italy as a final taste of the lovely European thing, and came down to
Naples to get the boat for New York. I've never been back to Naples
since, and that was twenty-six years ago this autumn. But I can see the
city always as it was then! The seething human hive--the fellows piling
in the freight to the music of their songs--the fiery mouth of Vesuvius
up above. And the soft, dark night with just a plash of waves on the
quay!"
The Master listened, his eyes again buried in the water at their feet.
"Well, _she_ was there on board, of course--looking out also into that
warm dark night and sighing for all that was to be lost so soon. There
were few passengers in those days.... She was my countrywoman, and
beautiful, and there was something--at least so I thought then--of
especial sweetness in her eyes, something strong in her heart. She was
engaged to a man living somewhere in the States, and she was going back
to marry him. Why she was over there then I forget, and it is of no
importance. I think that the man was a doctor, too--in some small
city.... I loved her!"
The Master raised his eyes from the pool and leaning on his folded arms
looked into the surgeon's face.
"I am afraid I never thought much about that other fellow--never have to
this day! That was part of the brute I am--to see only what is before my
eyes. And I knew by the time we had swung into the Atlantic that I
wanted that woman as I had never wanted things before. She stirred me,
mind and all. Of course it might have been some one else--any one you
will say--and if she had been an ordinary young girl, it might have gone
differently? It is one of the things we can't tell in this life. There
was something in that woman that was big all through and roused the
spirit in me. I never knew man or woman who thirsted more for greatness,
for accomplishment. Perhaps the man she was to marry gave her little to
hope for--probably it was some raw boy-and-girl affair such as we have
in America.... The days went by, and it was clearer to both of us what
must be. But we didn't speak of it. She found in me, I suppose, the
power, the sort of thing she had missed in the other. I was to do all
those grand things she was so hot after. I have done some of them too.
But that was when she had gone and I no longer needed her.... I needed
her then, and I took her--that is all.
"The detail is old and dim--and what do you care to hear of a young
man's loves! Before we reached port it was understood between us. I told
her I wanted her to leave the other chap--he was never altogether clear
to me--and to marry me as soon as she could. We did not stumble or slide
into it, not in the least: we looked it through and through--that was
her kind and mine. How she loved to look life in the face! I have found
few women who like that.... In the end she asked me not to come near
her the last day. She would write me the day after we had landed, either
yes or no. So she kissed me, and we parted still out at sea."
All the Brothers had left the court and the arcades, where they had been
strolling, and old Sam was putting out the Inn lights. But the two men
beside the pool made no movement. The west wind still drew in down the
valley with summer warmth and ruffled the water at their feet.
"My father met me at the dock--you know he was the first surgeon at St.
Jerome's before me. My mother was with him.... But as she kissed me I
was thinking of that letter.... I knew it would come. Some things must!
Well, it came."
The silent listener bent his head, and the surgeon mused on his
passionate memory. At last the Master whispered in a low voice that
hardly reached into the night:
"Did you make her happy?"
The surgeon did not answer the question at once.
"Did you make her happy?" the old man demanded again, and his voice
trembled this time with such intensity that his companion looked at him
wonderingly. And in those dark eyes of the Master's he read something
that made him shrink away. Then for the third time the old man demanded
sternly:
"Tell me--did you make her happy?"
It was the voice of one who had a right to know, and the surgeon
whispered back slowly:
"Happy? No, my God! Perhaps at first, in the struggle, a little. But
afterward there was too much--too many things. It went, the inspiration
and the love. I broke her heart--she left me! That--that is _my_
Reason!"
"It _is_ the Reason! For you took all, all--you let her give all, and
you gave her--what?"
"Nothing--she died."
"I know--she died."
The Master had risen, and with folded arms faced his guest, a pitying
look in his eyes. The surgeon covered his face with his hands, and after
a long time said:
"So you knew this?"
"Yes, I knew!"
"And knowing you let me come here. You took me into your house, you
healed me, you gave me back my life!"
And the Master replied with a firm voice:
"I knew, and I gave you back your life." In a little while he explained
more softly: "You and I are no longer young men who feel hotly and
settle such a matter with hate. We cannot quarrel now for the possession
of a woman.... She chose: remember that!... It was twenty-six years this
September. We have lived our lives, you and I; we have lived out our
lives, the good and the evil. Why should we now for the second time add
passion to sorrow?"
"And yet knowing all you took me in!"
"Yes!" the old man cried almost proudly. "And I have made you again
what you once were.... What _she_ loved as you," he added to himself, "a
man full of Power."
Then they were speechless in face of the fact: the one had taken all and
the sweet love turned to acid in his heart, and the other had lost and
the bitter turned to sweet! When a long time had passed the surgeon
spoke timidly:
"It might have been so different for her with you! You loved her--more."
There was the light of a compassionate smile on the Master's lips as he
replied:
"Yes, I loved her, too."
"And it changed things--for you!"
"It changed things. There might have been my St. Jerome's--my fame also.
Instead, I came here with my boys. And here I shall die, please God."
The old Master then became silent, his face set in a dream of life, as
it was, as it would have been; while the great surgeon of St. Jerome's
thought such thoughts as had never passed before into his mind. The
night wind had died at this late hour, and in its place there was a
coldness of the turning season. The stars shone near the earth and all
was silent with the peace of mysteries. The Master looked at the man
beside him and said calmly:
"It is well as it is--all well!"
At last the surgeon rose and stood before the Master.
"I have learned the Secret," he said, "and now it is time for me to
go."
He went up to the house through the little court and disappeared within
the Inn, while the Master sat by the pool, his face graven like the face
of an old man, who has seen the circle of life and understands.... The
next morning there was much talk about Dr. Norton's disappearance, until
some one explained that the surgeon had been suddenly called back to the
city.
* * * * *
The news spread through the Brotherhood one winter that the old Inn had
been burned to the ground, a bitter December night when all the
water-taps were frozen. And the Master, who had grown deaf of late, had
been caught in his remote chamber, and burned or rather suffocated.
There were few men in the Inn at the time, it being the holiday season,
and when they had fought their way to the old man's room, they found him
lying on the lounge by the window, the lids fallen over the dark eyes
and his face placid with sleep or contemplation.... They sought in vain
for the reason of the fire--but why search for causes?
* * * * *
All those beautiful hills that we loved to watch as the evening haze
gathered, the Master left in trust for the people of the State--many
acres of waving forests. And the School continued in its old place, the
Brothers looking after its wants and supplying it with means to continue
its work. But the Inn was never rebuilt. The blackened ruins of
buildings were removed and the garden in the court extended so that it
covered the whole space where the Inn had stood. This was enclosed with
a thick plantation of firs on all sides but that one which looked
westward across the Intervale. The spot can be seen for miles around on
the Albany hill side.
And when it was ready--all fragrant and radiant with flowers--they
placed the Master there beside the pool, where he had loved to sit,
surrounded by men. On the sunken slab his title was engraved--
THE MASTER OF THE INN
Transcriber's Note: Both eyebrows and eye-brows are used in this text.
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