Dr. Sevier

Richling gave a name. He had not changed color when the Doctor looked black, but now he did; for Dr. Sevier smiled. It was terrible.

“Not the little preacher that lisps?” asked the physician.

“He lisps sometimes,” said Richling, with resentful subsidence of tone and with dropped eyes, preparing to return the paper to his pocket.

“Wait,” said the Doctor, more gravely, arresting the movement with his index finger. “What is it for?”

“It’s for the aid of an asylum overcrowded with orphans in consequence of the late epidemic.” There was still a tightness in Richling’s throat, a faint bitterness in his tone, a spark of indignation in his eye. But these the Doctor ignored. He reached out his hand, took the folded paper gently from Richling, crossed his knees, and, resting his elbows on them and shaking the paper in a prefatory way, spoke: —

“Richling, in old times we used to go into monasteries; now we subscribe to orphan asylums. Nine months ago I warned this community that if it didn’t take the necessary precautions against the foul contagion that has since swept over us it would pay for its wicked folly in the lives of thousands and the increase of fatherless and helpless children. I didn’t know it would come this year, but I knew it might come any year. Richling, we deserved it!”

Richling had never seen his friend in so forbidding an aspect. He had come to him boyishly elated with the fancied excellence and goodness and beauty of the task he had assumed, and a perfect confidence that his noble benefactor would look upon him with pride and upon the scheme with generous favor. When he had offered to present the paper to Dr. Sevier he had not understood the little rector’s marked alacrity in accepting his service. Now it was plain enough. He was well-nigh dumfounded. The responses that came from him came mechanically, and in the manner of one who wards off unmerited buffetings from one whose unkindness may not be resented.

“You can’t think that only those died who were to blame?” he asked, helplessly; and the Doctor’s answer came back instantly: —

“Ho, no! look at the hundreds of little graves! No, sir. If only those who were to blame had been stricken, I should think the Judgment wasn’t far off. Talk of God’s mercy in times of health! There’s no greater evidence of it than to see him, in these awful visitations, refusing still to discriminate between the innocent and the guilty! Richling, only Infinite Mercy joined to Infinite Power, with infinite command of the future, could so forbear!”

Richling could not answer. The Doctor unfolded the paper and began to read: “‘God, in his mysterious providence’ – O sir!”

“What!” demanded Richling.

“O sir, what a foul, false charge! There’s nothing mysterious about it. We’ve trampled the book of Nature’s laws in the mire of our streets, and dragged her penalties down upon our heads! Why, Richling,” – he shifted his attitude, and laid the edge of one hand upon the paper that lay in the other, with the air of commencing a demonstration, – “you’re a Bible man, eh? Well, yes, I think you are; but I want you never to forget that the book of Nature has its commandments, too; and the man who sins against them is a sinner. There’s no dispensation of mercy in that Scripture to Jew or Gentile, though the God of Mercy wrote it with his own finger. A community has got to know those laws and keep them, or take the consequences – and take them here and now – on this globe —presently!”

“You mean, then,” said Richling, extending his hand for the return of the paper, “that those whose negligence filled the asylums should be the ones to subscribe.”

“Yes,” replied the Doctor, “yes!” drew back his hand with the paper still in it, turned to his desk, opened the list, and wrote. Richling’s eyes followed the pen; his heart came slowly up into his throat.

“Why, Doc – Doctor, that’s more than any one else has” —

“They have probably made some mistake,” said Dr. Sevier, rubbing the blotting-paper with his finger. “Richling, do you think it’s your mission to be a philanthropist?”

“Isn’t it everybody’s mission?” replied Richling.

“That’s not what I asked you.”

“But you ask a question,” said Richling, smiling down upon the subscription-paper as he folded it, “that nobody would like to answer.”

“Very well, then, you needn’t answer. But, Richling,” – he pointed his long finger to the pocket of Richling’s coat, where the subscription-list had disappeared, – “this sort of work – whether you distinctly propose to be a philanthropist or not – is right, of course. It’s good. But it’s the mere alphabet of beneficence. Richling, whenever philanthropy takes the guise of philanthropy, look out. Confine your philanthropy – you can’t do it entirely, but as much as you can – confine your philanthropy to the motive. It’s the temptation of philanthropists to set aside the natural constitution of society wherever it seems out of order, and substitute some philanthropic machinery in its place. It’s all wrong, Richling. Do as a good doctor would. Help nature.”

Richling looked down askance, pushed his fingers through his hair perplexedly, drew a deep breath, lifted his eyes to the Doctor’s again, smiled incredulously, and rubbed his brow.

“You don’t see it?” asked the physician, in a tone of surprise.

“O Doctor,” – throwing up a despairing hand, – “we’re miles apart. I don’t see how any work could be nobler. It looks to me” – But Dr. Sevier interrupted.

“ – From an emotional stand-point, Richling. Richling,” – he changed his attitude again, – “if you want to be a philanthropist, be cold-blooded.”

Richling laughed outright, but not heartily.

“Well!” said his friend, with a shrug, as if he dismissed the whole matter. But when Richling moved, as if to rise, he restrained him. “Stop! I know you’re in a hurry, but you may tell Reisen to blame me.”

“It’s not Reisen so much as it’s the work,” replied Richling, but settled down again in his seat.

“Richling, human benevolence – public benevolence – in its beginning was a mere nun on the battle-field, binding up wounds and wiping the damp from dying brows. But since then it has had time and opportunity to become strong, bold, masculine, potential. Once it had only the knowledge and power to alleviate evil consequences; now it has both the knowledge and the power to deal with evil causes. Now, I say to you, leave this emotional A B C of human charity to nuns and mite societies. It’s a good work; let them do it. Give them money, if you can.”

“I see what you mean – I think,” said Richling, slowly, and with a pondering eye.

“I’m glad if you do,” rejoined the Doctor, visibly relieved.

“But that only throws a heavier responsibility upon strong men, if I understand it,” said Richling, half interrogatively.

“Certainly! Upon strong spirits, male or female. Upon spirits that can drive the axe low down into the causes of things, again and again and again, steadily, patiently, until at last some great evil towering above them totters and falls crashing to the earth, to be cut to pieces and burned in the fire. Richling, gather fagots for pastime if you like, though it’s poor fun; but don’t think that’s your mission! Don’t be a fagot-gatherer! What are you smiling at?”

“Your good opinion of me,” answered Richling. “Doctor, I don’t believe I’m fit for anything but a fagot-gatherer. But I’m willing to try.”

“Oh, bah!” The Doctor admired such humility as little as it deserved. “Richling, reduce the number of helpless orphans! Dig out the old roots of calamity! A spoon is not what you want; you want a mattock. Reduce crime and vice! Reduce squalor! Reduce the poor man’s death-rate! Improve his tenements! Improve his hospitals! Carry sanitation into his workshops! Teach the trades! Prepare the poor for possible riches, and the rich for possible poverty! Ah – ah – Richling, I preach well enough, I think, but in practice I have missed it myself! Don’t repeat my error!”

“Oh, but you haven’t missed it!” cried Richling.

“Yes, but I have,” said the Doctor. “Here I am, telling you to let your philanthropy be cold-blooded; why, I’ve always been hot-blooded.”

“I like the hot best,” said Richling, quickly.

“You ought to hate it,” replied his friend. “It’s been the root of all your troubles. Richling, God Almighty is unimpassioned. If he wasn’t he’d be weak. You remember Young’s line: ‘A God all mercy is a God unjust.’ The time has come when beneficence, to be real, must operate scientifically, not emotionally. Emotion is good; but it must follow, not guide. Here! I’ll give you a single instance. Emotion never sells where it can give: that is an old-fashioned, effete benevolence. The new, the cold-blooded, is incomparably better: it never – to individual or to community – gives where it can sell. Your instincts have applied the rule to yourself; apply it to your fellow-man.”

“Ah!” said Richling, promptly, “that’s another thing. It’s not my business to apply it to them.”

“It is your business to apply it to them. You have no right to do less.”

“And what will men say of me? At least – not that, but” —

The Doctor pointed upward. “They will say, ‘I know thee, that thou art an hard man.’” His voice trembled. “But, Richling,” he resumed with fresh firmness, “if you want to lead a long and useful life, – you say you do, – you must take my advice; you must deny yourself for a while; you must shelve these fine notions for a time. I tell you once more, you must endeavor to reëstablish your health as it was before – before they locked you up, you know. When that is done you can commence right there if you choose; I wish you would. Give the public – sell would be better, but it will hardly buy – a prison system less atrocious, less destructive of justice, and less promotive of crime and vice, than the one it has. By-the-by, I suppose you know that Raphael Ristofalo went to prison last night again?”

Richling sprang to his feet. “For what? He hasn’t” —

“Yes, sir; he has discovered the man who robbed him, and has killed him.”

Richling started away, but halted as the Doctor spoke again, rising from his seat and shaking out his legs.

“He’s not suffering any hardship. He’s shrewd, you know, – has made arrangements with the keeper by which he secures very comfortable quarters. The star-chamber, I think they call the room he is in. He’ll suffer very little restraint. Good-day!”

He turned, as Richling left, to get his own hat and gloves. “Yes,” he thought, as he passed slowly downstairs to his carriage, “I have erred.” He was not only teaching, he was learning. To fight evil was not enough. People who wanted help for orphans did not come to him – they sent. They drew back from him as a child shrinks from a soldier. Even Alice, his buried Alice, had wept with delight when he gave her a smile, and trembled with fear at his frown. To fight evil is not enough. Everybody seemed to feel as though that were a war against himself. Oh for some one always to understand – never to fear – the frowning good intention of the lonely man!

CHAPTER XXXIX.

“PETTENT PRATE.”

It was about the time, in January, when clerks and correspondents were beginning to write ’59 without first getting it ’58, that Dr. Sevier, as one morning he approached his office, noticed with some grim amusement, standing among the brokers and speculators of Carondelet street, the baker, Reisen. He was earnestly conversing with and bending over a small, alert fellow, in a rakish beaver and very smart coat, with the blue flowers of modesty bunched saucily in one button-hole.

Almost at the same moment Reisen saw the Doctor. He called his name aloud, and for all his ungainly bulk would have run directly to the carriage in the middle of the street, only that the Doctor made believe not to see, and in a moment was out of reach. But when, two or three hours later, the same vehicle came, tipping somewhat sidewise against the sidewalk at the Charity Hospital gate, and the Doctor stepped from it, there stood Reisen in waiting.

“Toctor,” he said, approaching and touching his hat, “I like to see you a minudt, uff you bleace, shtrict prifut.”

They moved slowly down the unfrequented sidewalk, along the garden wall.

“Before you begin, Reisen, I want to ask you a question. I’ve noticed for a month past that Mr. Richling rides in your bread-carts alongside the drivers on their rounds. Don’t you know you ought not to require such a thing as that from a person like Mr. Richling? Mr. Richling’s a gentleman, Reisen, and you make him mount up in those bread-carts, and jump out every few minutes to deliver bread!”

The Doctor’s blood was not cold.

“Vell, now!” drawled the baker, as the corners of his mouth retreated toward the back of his neck, “end’t tat teh funn’est ting, ennahow! Vhy, tat iss yoost teh ferra ting fot I comin’ to shpeak mit you apowdt udt!” He halted and looked at the Doctor to see how this coincidence struck him; but the Doctor merely moved on. “I toant make him too udt,” he continued, starting again; “he cumps to me sindts apowdt two-o-o mundts aco – ven I shtill feelin’ a liddle veak, yet, fun teh yalla-feewa – undt yoost paygs me to let um too udt. ‘Mr. Richlun,’ sayss I to him, ‘I toandt kin untershtayndt for vot you vawndts to too sich a ritickliss, Mr. Richlun!’ Ovver he sayss, ‘Mr. Reisen,’ – he alvays callss me ‘Mister,’ undt tat iss one dting in puttickly vot I alvays tit li-i-iked apowdt Mr. Richlun, – ‘Mr. Reisen,’ he sayss, ‘toandt you aysk me te reason, ovver yoost let me co abate undt too udt!’ Undt I voss a coin’ to kiff udt up, alretty; ovver ten cumps in Missess Reisen, – who iss a heap shmarter mayn as fot Reisen iss, I yoost tell you te ectsectly troot, – and she sayss, ‘Reisen, you yoost tell Mr. Richlun, Mr. Richlun, you toadnt coin’ to too sich a ritickliss!’”

The speaker paused for effect.

“Undt ten Mr. Richlun, he talks! – Schweedt? – Oh yendlemuns, toandt say nutting!” The baker lifted up his palm and swung it down against his thigh with a blow that sent the flour out in a little cloud. “I tell you, Toctor Tseweer, ven tat mayn vawndts to too udt, he kin yoost talk te mo-ust like a Christun fun enna mayn I neffa he-ut in mine li-i-fe! ‘Missess Reisen,’ he sayss, ‘I vawndts to too udt pecause I vawndts to too udt.’ Vell, how you coin’ to arg-y ennating eagval mit Mr. Richlun? So teh upshodt iss he coes owdt in teh prate-cawts tistripputin’ te prate!” Reisen threw his arms far behind him, and bowed low to his listener.

Dr. Sevier had learned him well enough to beware of interrupting him, lest when he resumed it would be at the beginning again. He made no answer, and Reisen went on: —

“Bressently” – He stopped his slow walk, brought forward both palms, shrugged, dropped them, bowed, clasped them behind him, brought the left one forward, dropped it, then the right one, dropped it also, frowned, smiled, and said: —

“Bressently” – then a long silence – “effrapotty in my etsteplitchmendt” – another long pause – “hef yoost teh same ettechmendt to Mr. Richlun,” – another interval, – “tey hef yoost tso much effection fur him” – another silence – “ass tey hef” – another, with a smile this time – “fur – te teffle himpselluf!” An oven opened in the baker’s face, and emitted a softly rattling expiration like that of a bursted bellows. The Doctor neither smiled nor spoke. Reisen resumed: —

“I seen udt. I seen udt. Ovver I toandt coult untershtayndt udt. Ovver one tay cumps in mine little poy in to me fen te pakers voss all ashleep, ‘Pap-a, Mr. Richlun sayss you shouldt come into teh offuss.’ I kumpt in. Mr. Richlun voss tare, shtayndting yoost so – yoost so – py teh shtofe; undt, Toctor Tseweer, I yoost tell you te ectsectly troot, he toaldt in fife minudts – six minudts – seven minudts, udt may pe – undt shoadt me how effrapotty, high undt low, little undt pick, Tom, Tick, undt Harra, pin ropping me sindts more ass fife years!”

The longest pause of all followed this disclosure. The baker had gradually backed the Doctor up against the wall, spreading out the whole matter with his great palms turned now upward and now downward, the bulky contents of his high-waisted, barn-door trowsers now bulged out and now withdrawn, to be protruded yet more a moment later. He recommenced by holding out his down-turned hand some distance above the ground.

“I yoompt tot hoigh!” He blew his cheeks out, and rose a half-inch off his heels in recollection of the mighty leap. “Ovver Mr. Richlun sayss, – he sayss, ‘Kip shtill, Mr. Reisen;’ undt I kibt shtill.”

The baker’s auditor was gradually drawing him back toward the hospital gate; but he continued speaking: —

“Py undt py, vun tay, I kot someting to say to Mr. Richlun, yet. Undt I sendts vert to Mr. Richlun tat he shouldt come into teh offuss. He cumps in. ‘Mr. Richlun,’ I sayss, sayss I to him, ‘Mr. Richlun, I kot udt!’” The baker shook his finger in Dr. Sevier’s face. “‘I kot udt, udt layst, Mr. Richlun! I yoost het a suspish’n sindts teh first tay fot I employedt you, ovver now I know I kot udt!’ Vell, sir, he yoost turnun so rate ass a flennen shirt! – ‘Mr. Reisen,’ sayss he to me, ‘fot iss udt fot you kot?’ Undt sayss I to him, ‘Mr. Richlun, udt iss you! Udt is you fot I kot!’”

Dr. Sevier stood sphinx-like, and once more Reisen went on.

“‘Yes, Mr. Richlun,’” still addressing the Doctor as though he were his book-keeper, “‘I yoost layin, on my pett effra nighdt – effra nighdt, vi-i-ite ava-a-ake! undt in apowdt a veek I make udt owdt ut layst tot you, Mr. Richlun,’ – I lookt um shtraight in te eye, undt he lookt me shtraight te same, – ‘tot, Mr. Richlun, you,’ sayss I, ‘not dtose fellehs fot pin py mo sindts more ass fife yearss, put you, Mr. Richlun, iss teh mayn! – teh mayn fot I – kin trust!’” The baker’s middle parts bent out and his arms were drawn akimbo. Thus for ten seconds.

“‘Undt now, Mr. Richlun, do you kot teh shtrengdt for to shtart a noo pissness?’ – Pecause, Toctor, udt pin seem to me Mr. Richlun kitten more undt more shecklun, undt toandt take tot meticine fot you kif um (ovver he sayss he toos). So ten he sayss to me, ‘Mister Reisen, I am yoost so sollut undt shtrong like a pilly-coat! Fot is teh noo pissness?’ – ‘Mr. Richlun,’ sayss I, ‘ve goin’ to make pettent prate!’”

“What?” asked the Doctor, frowning with impatience and venturing to interrupt at last.

“Pet-tent prate!”

The listener frowned heavier and shook his head.

“Pettent prate!”

“Oh! patent bread; yes. Well?”

“Yes,” said Reisen, “prate mate mit a mutcheen; mit copponic-essut kass into udt ploat pefore udt is paked. I pought teh pettent tiss mawning fun a yendleman in Garontelet shtreedt, alretty, naympt Kknox.”

“And what have I to do with all this?” asked the Doctor, consulting his watch, as he had already done twice before.

“Vell,” said Reisen, spreading his arms abroad, “I yoost taught you like to herr udt.”

“But what do you want to see me for? What have you kept me all this time to tell me – or ask me?”

“Toctor, – you ugscooce me – ovver” – the baker held the Doctor by the elbow as he began to turn away – “Toctor Tseweer,” – the great face lighted up with a smile, the large body doubled partly together, and the broad left hand was held ready to smite the thigh, – “you shouldt see Mr. Richlun ven he fowndt owdt udt is goin’ to lower teh price of prate! I taught he iss goin’ to kiss Mississ Reisen!”

CHAPTER XL.

SWEET BELLS JANGLED

Those who knew New Orleans just before the civil war, even though they saw it only along its riverfront from the deck of some steam-boat, may easily recall a large sign painted high up on the side of the old “Triangle Building,” which came to view through the dark web of masts and cordage as one drew near St. Mary’s Market. “Steam Bakery” it read. And such as were New Orleans householders, or by any other chance enjoyed the experience of making their way in the early morning among the hundreds of baskets that on hundreds of elbows moved up and down along and across the quaint gas-lit arcades of any of the market-houses, must remember how, about this time or a little earlier, there began to appear on one of the tidiest of bread-stalls in each of these market-houses a new kind of bread. It was a small, densely compacted loaf of the size and shape of a badly distorted brick. When broken, it divided into layers, each of which showed – “teh bprindt of teh kkneading-mutcheen,” said Reisen to Narcisse; “yoost like a tsoda crecker!”

These two persons had met by chance at a coffee-stand one beautiful summer dawn in one of the markets, – the Tréiné, most likely, – where, perched on high stools at a zinc-covered counter, with the smell of fresh blood on the right and of stale fish on the left, they had finished half their cup of café au lait before they awoke to the exhilarating knowledge of each other’s presence.

“Yesseh,” said Narcisse, “now since you ’ave wemawk the mention of it, I think I have saw that va’iety of bwead.”

“Oh, surely you poundt to a-seedt udt. A uckly little prown dting” —

“But cook well,” said Narcisse.

“Yayss,” drawled the baker. It was a fact that he had to admit.

“An’ good flou’,” persisted the Creole.

“Yayss,” said the smiling manufacturer. He could not deny that either.

“An’ honness weight!” said Narcisse, planting his empty cup in his saucer, with the energy of his asservation; “an’, Mr. Bison, thass a ve’y seldom thing.”

“Yayss,” assented Reisen, “ovver tat prate is mighdy dtry, undt shtickin’ in ten dtroat.”

“No, seh!” said the flatterer, with a generous smile. “Egscuse me – I diffeh fum you. ’Tis a beaucheouz bwead. Yesseh. And eve’y loaf got the name beaucheouzly pwint on the top, with ‘Patent’ – sich an’ sich a time. ’Tis the tooth, Mr. Bison, I’m boun’ to congwatulate you on that bwead.”

“O-o-oh! tat iss not mine prate,” exclaimed the baker. “Tat iss not fun mine etsteplitchmendt. Oh, no! Tatt iss te prate – I’m yoost dtellin’ you – tat iss te prate fun tat fellah py teh Sunk-Mary’s Morrikit-house! Tat’s teh ‘shteam prate’. I to-undt know for vot effrapotty puys tat prate annahow! Ovver you yoost vait dtill you see mine prate!”

“Mr. Bison,” said Narcisse, “Mr. Bison,” – he had been trying to stop him and get in a word of his own, but could not, – “I don’t know if you – Mr. – Mr. Bison, in fact, you din unde’stood me. Can that be poss’ble that you din notiz that I was speaking in my i’ony about that bwead? Why, of co’se! Thass juz my i’onious cuztom, Mr. Bison. Thass one thing I dunno if you ’ave notiz about that ‘steam bwead,’ Mr. Bison, but with me that bwead always stick in my th’oat; an’ yet I kin swallow mose anything, in fact. No, Mr. Bison, yo’ bwead is deztyned to be the bwead; and I tell you how ’tis with me, I juz gladly eat yo’ bwead eve’y time I kin git it! Mr. Bison, in fact you don’t know me ve’y intimitly, but you will oblige me ve’y much indeed to baw me five dollahs till tomaw – save me fum d’awing a check!”

The German thrust his hand slowly and deeply into his pocket. “I alvayss like to oplyche a yendleman,” – he smiled benignly, drew out a toothpick, and added, – “ovver I nivveh bporrah or lend to ennabodda.”

“An’ then,” said Narcisse, promptly, “’tis imposs’ble faw anybody to be offended. Thass the bess way, Mr. Bison.”

“Yayss,” said the baker, “I tink udt iss.” As they were parting, he added: “Ovver you vait dtill you see mine prate!”

“I’ll do it, seh! – And, Mr. Bison, you muzn’t think anything about that, my not bawing that five dollars fum you, Mr. Bison, because that don’t make a bit o’ dif’ence; an’ thass one thing I like about you, Mr. Bison, you don’t baw yo’ money to eve’y Dick, Tom, an’ Hawwy, do you?”

“No, I dtoandt. Ovver, you yoost vait” —

And certainly, after many vexations, difficulties, and delays, that took many a pound of flesh from Reisen’s form, the pretty, pale-brown, fragrant white loaves of “aërated bread” that issued from the Star Bakery in Benjamin street were something pleasant to see, though they did not lower the price.

Richling’s old liking for mechanical apparatus came into play. He only, in the establishment, thoroughly understood the new process, and could be certain of daily, or rather nightly, uniform results. He even made one or two slight improvements in it, which he contemplated with ecstatic pride, and long accounts of which he wrote to Mary.