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Abram Shilov
Abram Shilov

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At a little distance from the grotto, but farther inland, on the banksof the stream called the Linnet, there was a thicket of verdure shadedby five myrtles of from fifteen to twenty feet in height, and whosestems presented a diameter more than sufficient to insure the solidityof the edifice. Four of these myrtles formed an irregular square; thefifth arose in the midst, or nearly so; but our architect is not veryparticular. He already sees the principal part of his frame; the myrtleswill remain in their places, their roots serving as a foundation. Heremoves the shrubs, the plants, the brushwood from the thicket, leavingonly a heliotrope which, at a later period, may twine around his houseand at evening shed its perfumes. He has become reconciled to itsfragrance. He trims the trees, cuts off their tops eight feet above theground, leaving the middle one, which is to sustain the roof, a foothigher; for this roof reeds and palm-leaves furnish all the materials.The walls, made of a solid network of young branches interwoven, andplastered with a mixture of sand, clay, and chopped rushes, he takescare not to build quite to the top, but to leave between them and theroof a little space, where the air can circulate freely through a lighttrellis formed of branches of the blue willow.

So they sidled, ridiculous to see, had it not been in such vividearnest. Now one feinted a blow, then the next. At each lurchingattempt Sally caught the breath in her throat. It freed itselfautomatically with the lack of tension.

Once more they were called into the open. Once more they slouchedforward with the advice that their backers had poured into their earsstill gyrating in a wild confusion in their minds. That one minutehad seemed interminable to Sally; yet she realized how small a speckof time it must have appeared to them.

"Very well, then, if he should tire, you're your own mistress. Allthis caging of wild birds seems to me to be futile. Morals? Oh, moralsbe hanged! Are you going to call yourself immoral because the manhas no great respect for matrimony?"

I did not wish to vex the kindly doctor, whois the architect of so admirable a monument, butthere was still a doubt in my mind: Was itpossible to give the illusion of freedom to thesemadmen by merely suppressing the walls? Theyoffer no resistance when called to co-operate inall kinds of open-air labour, and find, if not acure, at least relief from their malady in thissimple treatment; but did they really believethemselves free? I did not ask the question,[Pg 131]for the answer was given by an old French gardener,one of the inmates of The Open Door,who, over-excited by our presence there, suddenlybegan to rave.

Here, then, was a man whose life was spentout of doors at the work with which he had beenfamiliar all his life, and, although no sign ofrestraint was visible, he was conscious of imprisonment.It is true that modern determinismhas reduced what we call our "liberty" tothe rigorous fatality of an organism which leavesto us merely the illusion of freewill,[13] while imposingon us the impulse of some superior energythat we are forced to obey. Oh, Madness! Oh,[Pg 132]Wisdom! Oh, vacillating sisters! is it indeedtrue that you wander hand in hand through theworld?

As I have said, the troops of horses seem tohave lost the least. I speak less of their appearancethan of their action, which often seemedto me remarkable. You cannot imagine thepleasure it is to glide swiftly across the Pampasin a motor-car with a troop of young horses oneither side of you, neighing and galloping tokeep up with the machine. But do not, pray,call them "wild horses."

It has been said that in Brazil slavery was[Pg 354]buried beneath flowers. The fact is it had becomepractically impossible when its disappearancewas publicly and officially acknowledged.And as, happily, there was no race hatredbetween whites and blacks, these two elementsof the population were able to continue to livepeaceably side by side in a necessary collaboration.They went farther than this, as a matterof fact, and the races mixed with a freedomthat I noticed everywhere. From the point ofview of social concord, this is cause for rejoicing,while it must be left to time to correct anylowering of the intellectual standard. Everyone knows that the principal feature of a slave-owningcommunity is the absence of a middleclass whose mission it must be to hold the balancein an oligarchy and prepare the way forthe emancipation of the oppressed.

The Municipal Theatre, practically a copy ofour own opera-house, is one of the finest buildingsin the Brazilian capital, its only fault beingthat it swallowed up too many of the publicmillions. On the ground floor there is a veryluxurious restaurant containing a faithful copyin glazed bricks of the frieze The Immortals,brought by M. and Mme. Dieulafoy from Suezand now in the Louvre. Here the French colony[Pg 362]gave a dinner in my honour. A certain numberof statesmen accepted the invitation of mycompatriots, and thus I had the great pleasureof assuring myself by my own ears of the friendlyrelations that exist between French and Brazilians.At one time we had a very importantcolony in Rio. For reasons that are not tooclear to me, it has dwindled away of late. Ifound, however, at the reception held by theFrench Chamber of Commerce that if lacking inquantity, the quality of these French representativesleft nothing to be desired. The naturalaffinity between the two peoples is so obvious thatthe multiple attractions of this great and beautifulcountry are for French people enhanced bythe joy of a genuine communion of thought andfeeling which links their hopes and aims. Tomy intense satisfaction, I had a proof of thisat my first contact with the public of Rio, andthe same experience was pleasantly renewedlater at Saint Paul; I found that I could speakwith the utmost freedom as a Frenchman toFrenchmen, for there was not the smallest suggestionof a foreign element in the mind of myaudience to remind me to adapt myself to new[Pg 363]susceptibilities. I know not how adequately tothank my audiences for what in French eyesappeared the supreme gift of a spontaneousmanifestation of French mentality. The Academyof Medicine were good enough to inviteme to pay them a visit, and I will freely confessthat a consciousness of my unworthinessmade me hesitate to face this learned assembly.On this point they reassured me by declaringthat the meeting would be merely in honourof French culture. I went accordingly, andscarcely had we exchanged our first greetingswhen I already felt myself at home in a Frenchatmosphere. Medical science being out of thequestion, the delicate fare offered to me wassome reflections on the general philosophy ofscience, as developed by the magnificent intellectuallabour of France, and on the powerfullead given to the activities of civilisation by ourcountry. Could anything be more encouragingthan this disinterested acceptance of the testimonyof history, considering how many there bewho would exalt themselves at the expense ofFrance?

That Charles Millard was accounted a dude waspartly Nature's fault. If not handsome, he was at leastfine-looking, and what connoisseurs in human exteriorscall stylish. Put him into a shad-bellied drab and hewould still have retained traces of dudishness; a Chathamstreet outfit could hardly have unduded him. With eyesso luminous and expressive in a face so masculine, withshoulders so well carried, a chest so deep, and legs so perfectlyproportioned and so free from any deviation fromthe true line of support, Millard had temptations to cultivatenatural gifts.

But, like the brave man he was, he stuck to his resolutionnot to call on Miss Callender, from a sort of blindloyalty to nothing in particular. Perhaps a notion thata beau like himself would make a ridiculous figure suingto such a saint as Phillida had something to do with hisfirmness of purpose. But when, a month later, he startedonce more for Avenue C, he became at length aware thathe had not made any headway whatever in conqueringhis passion, which like some wild creature only grew thefiercer under restraint. In spite of himself he lookedabout in hope of meeting Miss Callender in the street,and all the way across the avenues he wondered whetherhe should encounter her at his aunt's. But Phillida hadtaken precautions against this. She remembered, thistime, that the last Sunday in the month was his day forvisiting his aunt, and she went directly home from themission, disturbed in spite of herself by conflicting emotions. 041b061a72


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