Now I am moved to remember, and I might add almost to regret these things, because I would like much at this pinch to color for you a right picture of the fair, innocent, unfortunate Peg7 O'Neal. Yet how am I to do this?—I, loaded of a sluggish8 fancy and a genius without touch! I am no Apelles to paint an Aphrodite, no Phidias to carve a Venus; and for that matter, Peg no Phryne to be model for such art. The best I might draw would stand crude and cornerwise, since I own only to talents whereof the graphic9 character is exhausted10 when they have laid out a worm fence?
It is within the rim11 of the possible that you may feel for me, born as I show you with the hands of all good power of description bound close and fast by my sides. Perhaps, too, you yourself on occasion have been stung of high impulse and fain would soar with a poem; and then, when you stretched for flight, found no furnishment of wings. Most folk have been thus crowded upon by exaltations, and were prey12 to thoughts for the expression of which their lisping natures lacked facility. They had the sinew but not the soul. There was verse in them, but with it no presentation dress of word or ornament13 of rhyme. They caged a tune1 of music in their hearts and failed of those notes asked for to announce its melody.
Still, our Peg, for whom we toiled—the General and I—and intrigued14 and made new friendships and broke old ones, and who was in her fortunes the beginning of policies on the General's part so lasting15 in importance to the State, shall not go untold16. I must make what effort lies in me to give some notion of a beauty that claimed so much of potency17 in equations of government solved of our times.
For myself, and I take no shame for it, I say freely that of the charges laid against her by common tongue, I was convinced of her innocence18 by the mere19 beauty of her face, just as the loveliness of that Greek girl aforetime convinced the judges and wrought20 a verdict in her favor. There be flowers so purely21 beautiful as to refuse and refute a stain; and such a blossom was the lustrous22 Peg O'Neal.
I was first to meet with her at this time; and while I had not condemned23 her in my thoughts—to condemn24 a woman is, for a man, the coward part!—if I found myself possessed25 of views at all, they leaned to her disfavor. I knew the General regarded Peg as a white soul suffering wrong; but I also knew the General to be mercurial26, and a blindly passionate27 recruit when once enlisted28. Besides, his own wife had been throughout her life—and she most virtuous29!—so lashed30 of slander31, that his blood was ever up and about the defence of any whose wailing33 wrongs resembled her's. The General's attitudes were never the offshoots of cold wisdom; he was one who believed the worst of a foe34 so soon as it was told, and the best of a friend before ever it was told at all. Wherefore I would not accept the General's decision touching35 Peg, more than I would take other conclusions from his hands.
My conservatism and just slowness cut, however, no figure, since, as I tell you, with the moment I clapped eyes upon her, I changed to be her knight—her champion; and thereafter I matched even the torrid General in fire for her cause.
I was in talk with the General when news reached me of Peg waiting in the parlor36 for a meeting. It was Jim who bore me word; he peered around the corner of the door and with rolling' eye as one who brings bad tidings, beckoned37 me into the hallway.
“What is it?” I demanded impatiently.
I should tell you, perhaps, that Jim was more than twenty years my senior, and nearing on to three score years and ten. This may explain that attitude of mentor38, not to say protector, of my morals which it was his pleasure to hold towards me.
“What is it? Speak up!”
“See yere, Marse Major,” said Jim; “dish yere aint Tennessee where you-all kin40 do as you please. What you reckon now Marse Gen'ral would gwine say to sech cat-an'-fiddle doin's?”
“Marse Major, lemme ask you,” said Jim, and with that he fixed42 me with his old eye like an inquisitor; “lemme ask you: Does you-all send for to meet a young lady?”
“Certainly not,” I replied. “Do you think I've come to Washington to meet young ladies?” This last indignantly.
“How I know what you do?” retorted Jim, sullenly43. “Ever see a hoss in a new parstur? Ever see how he r'ar an' pitch an' buck-jump an' kick up? How I know what you do?”
“Get to the point,” I said, and I drew on a fierce expression, for I was running low of patience.
“No use, Marse Major, for you to go dom'neerin' with Jim,” and the scoundrel shook his head admonishingly. “I'll fotch up at d' p'int fas' enough. I tells dese yere niggahs about dis hotel that if any one comes squanderin' 'round to see you-all, an' speshul, if any of them evil-minded women-folks comes 'round, to let me know.”
“What do you mean with your evil-minded women-folks?”
“That's all right, Marse Major; Jim aint heer'n d' Bible read for mighty44 likely sixty years an' not know of them evil-minded womenfolks. King Solomon, an' him d' wisest man, was mingled45 up in d' midst of a whole passel of'em. An' so, when a minute back one of d' house niggahs comes up to me an' lets on thar's a young lady in d' parlor who's waitin' for you, I allows I'll take a look, an' try an' rummage46 out what she wants. With that, I kinder loiters into d' parlor like I'm sent a urrent; an' sho! Marse Major, if thar don't sot a girl who's that beautiful she's plumb47 reedic'lous.
“'Be you-all wantin' to meet d' Marse Major?' I says.
“She say, 'Yes; I'm d' wife of his friend, Mr. Eaton.'
“'Mr. Eaton,' I says, 'who lives down south of Nashville at Franklin Co't House?'
“She say, 'Yes; I'm Mrs. Eaton.'
“Course I knows dish yere aint so. An' I'm partic'lar skeered about you, besides, since she's so handsome. It's d' beautiful ones makes all d' trouble; a homely48 woman aint no more harm than squinch owls49, that's Jim's sperience. But nacherally, Marse Major, I don't tell dish yere girl she's lyin'; I'm too well brought up. So I says:
“'I've knowed Mr. Eaton since befo' d' las' wah with d' British what Marse Gen'ral done whups at Noo Aw-leans; Mr. Eaton's a kin to my Marse Major. I've been down by his place a hun'red times at Franklin; an' you hyar me, honey! they aint been no mention about you bein' his wife in Tennessee.'
“She smile a bit at this—she's seemin' trifle sad like—an' says: 'Mr. Eaton an' me, we get married only 'bout32 a month ago in Wash'ton.' An' so she tell me ag'in to go fotch you; an' arter sort o' hesitatin' 'round between a balk51 an' a break-down for a while, settlin' on d' properest move, I reckons mebbe I'd better come an' tell you arter all.”
“It's as well you did,” I said, turning back to the General's door.
“That's all right, Marse Major.” Jim called this after me in severe tones. “I'm boun' I'm gwine look arter you-all jes' d' same.” Then in a wheedling52 voice: “Say, Marse Major, would you-all mind if I he'ps myse'f to a dram outen d' demijohn in your closet? What with all dish yere talkin' an' frettin' about you, Jim's mouth is as dry as a kivered bridge.”
“One, mind you; no more.” The General, in converse53 with a caller, was considering Van Buren, and party lines and issues in New York. I would have told him of Peg, and that I was about to see her, but the presence of his visitor put it out of reach. On the whole, I decided54, it would be as well to meet Peg first and tell the General later. I interrupted, and explained that I was going to the parlors55 for a moment; we would get to his letters on my return.
“No hurry, Major, no hurry,” he replied; “I'm quite content to put them off. I am already seized on by the spirit of laziness that pervades56 this place, and which caused Randolph to say: 'I never wind my watch whilst in Washington, as I feel that all time spent here is wasted and thrown away.' It's not quite that bad, perhaps; still, we'll willingly put off the letters until to-morrow.”
And now, since I am to tell you of Peg, I would that I possessed somewhat the art of petticoats—a little polite skill for flounce and farthingale—some shadow of a parlor or a boudoir grace.
Peg, then, was the truth itself for height and mould, and her pretty hands and feet told of no tavern57 in their genesis, even though the lip of envy did. I give you my first impression of her, earned eye to eye and ear to voice. I say the latter because her voice was as honey and wove conviction like a spell. She had your pansy face; a face regular and ineffably58 good. And how any, even a woman and a rival, might look her deep eyes through and doubt her, masters conjecture59! Peg's hair—hanging in long curls about her neck and shoulders—was black; fine as silk or cobwebs; black, yet with the gold-black of the black Saxon. And her skin was snow and peach-blow. There was meditation60, too, in her wide brow; and her mouth, with teeth like milk, was both firm and loving. Also, there was that in her atmosphere to bring brave men to her. It was upon one in a moment that Peg, while tender to be hurt, was hard to conquer; sensitive, she would feel her fate; yet she would face it—face it with the faithful courage of an angel. But I'll have done; why furnish the fragments and queer splinters of a portrait I'm too inaptly dull to offer as a whole!
Peg O'Neal came this day, and making herself known, gave me my first sight of her in the drawing room of the Indian Queen. There was a look about her, lonely, bitter and pathetic; a look that should belong with one hunted, and who waits to be made sure of her friends. She gave me her hand; white and soft and small and yielding—it was as though I took hold on a lily. My heart went out to her before she spoke61; as I've confessed, I was warm for her cause on the instant.
Peg had read the cabinet list in the paper; I think, too, she foresaw the woe62 and worry to become the tail of it more clearly than did either the General or myself, or even the port-wine Duff Green. It was of that she desired to talk; she would see the General; but first she would see me.
This preference for myself before the General was a common custom into which Peg readily stepped. All who knew the General, knew me for his other self; and I will say, despite the inference of a boast, knew me for his calmer and more prudent63 self.
Peg did not come to me until the afternoon, and before I go to the story of our converse it would be as well to sketch64 a handful of incidents which preceded her advent65 and which should be understood to teach one the whole truth of this tale.
This Washington day I have on my mind's edge, being the one next before the day Peg came to me, was the fourteenth of February, St. Valentine's Day, albeit66 the latter has nothing of part herein. We had arrived, the General and myself, on the tenth, and housed at the Indian Queen. This tavern was not the tavern of old, when that O'Neal who was Peg's father prevailed as master, yet even under new control—and with a born conservative like myself, the new is ever the defective—it was a first hostel67 of the capital.
Our advent discovered a crust of ice and snow to our feet, and a mortal sharpness in the air that was like a tonic68. During those three or four days since our coming, a thaw69 had befallen which left thoroughfares a discouraging swale of mire70, and made going about a foulest71 possible employ. Withal, as though sponsor for the softening72 temperature, there descended73 a fog—fairly a hash of misty74 rain that one might wash one's face in—and the air was as full of water as a sponge.
These were no true conditions for the General, with lungs never the hardiest75, and whose health was more than commonly broken by the blow of his wife's death. She was soundly, deeply sleeping in her grave in Tennessee, and the new sods above her counted but twelve weeks for their age, when we rode into Washington. She had heard the guns and the music which told of her hero's triumph; and then, heart-stricken of shafts76 of slander aimed against her sinlessness by an opposition77 willing to conquer with black means, she bowed her gentle head and passed. She was not to multiply a White House honor by sharing it, and left her lover-husband to go his presidential way alone unlighted of her eyes.
Those dark scenes at the Hermitage when the General's angel went from us, and storms of grief—so utter, so beyond repair!—fair beat upon him to a point which all but laid him beneath the grass-roots to keep her company, have neither part nor lot in this relation. They may be guessed at, however; and the General came forth78 of them woe-worn and shaken, and with the thought in his soul that she perished by the venom79 of his enemies, who had struck at his fortunes by striking at her pure repute.
After his wife died I had been in the grip of sore concern for the General. He was but a frail80 man at his best; he carried lead in his shoulder and lead in his side—private bullets stopped in private wars, truly, yet no less, perilous81 for that—and when on these, plus the angry work and wrath82 of a campaign, was laid this funeral farther load, I say, I trembled for the upcome.
Our way to Washington was to be by the Cumberland and the Ohio to Pittsburg, and then overland through the mountains, and so along the Potomac. All Tennessee seemed come to Nashville when we went aboard; I helping83 the General—whose weakness was so great he must, despite vanity, lean visibly on my support.
As he sank exhausted into a chair, and the boat backed off the levee, I was in blackness for the gloom I felt. I believed he would not live to see Washington, but fall by the way; I in no sort presupposed those eight tremendous years when the White House would be to the common folk as a temple, with him the idle of their adoration84. I could not foresee his marvelous two presidencies85, and how, his name brightening with each added sun and followed by every eye, he would retire again to privacy and his Hermitage, the best beloved since the even day of Jefferson.
And now as I talk to you the tears start. He is dead as I write, and gone long ago to join his heart in the grave and lie by the side of his wife; and it comes strangely, even to myself that I, an old man, and held as one hard and practical and cold, should be so moved of retrospection. If it were to remember loss and sadness and decay, such indeed might stand as reason for emotion. But my rearward glances find only the glory of an ever-climbing, sky-kissed high success. Mayhap it is the splendor86 and white gleam of it to bring the tears, as does the glint of sunshine on the snow.
Yet it half shames my years, these drops of feeling. And for all that, I well recall how Dale and Overton and Houston and Blair—no meek87 souls, these!—were as much commoved when claimed of thoughts of General Jackson;—such, for his friends, were the soft and softening spells and powers of the man! The wet eyes of these, stern and rock-hewn, may save me from the stain of doting88 weakness. But I loiter—I lose time when there is none to lose—a wandering delay is the crime common of old age.
Our journey to Washington was disputed by applause at every foot; the double banks of the Cumberland and the Ohio appeared to have become alike the rendezvous89 of South and West and North. Bands brayed90 and “committees” came aboard; a dozen times was the boat tied up and the General borne ashore91 as on a wave to greet and be greeted of roaring thousands who hailed him their Messiah of politics and one come for their redemption. From the first our progress was hedged and canopied92 of the never-ceasing shout, “Hurrah! for Jackson!” Night and day it was in our ears, and our very sleep gave way and fled before it.
To say that through this I held no alarms for the General would be but an idle picture of my feelings. Verily! I more than once found my heart in my mouth lest the gusty93 multitude that struggled and fought to touch his hand should kill him for mere kindness.
And yet he would thrive and be fat upon it, if such word by any padding of hyperbole may be made to fit his slim meagerness. His gray eye would light, his lean cheek show a color, his milky94 bristle95 of hair turn more stiffly, jauntily96 spinous with each of these encounters. When I would remonstrate97 and cite his sick weakness to forbid, he would shake his head and smile—his closest journey to a laugh. Then he would say:
“Major, you don't know me! These shoutings are as medicine in wine. These people love me; I take strength from their hands; their applause is my food and I live and grow heavy by it.”
And so this boisterousness98 of endorsement99 went on; and the General reveled while I sat sour with terror lest from it he sicken and die, stricken by the very evidences of his popularity. He was right and I was wrong; he came from this general joy, which with every hour arose and laid actual hands upon him, as one remade.
Some pages back I pitched upon the fourteenth as a day much in my mind, and the fourth since we came upon the capital. I begin narration100 properly with that day, regarding what has gone before as preliminary and given for a clearer knowledge of that which is to follow as it unfolds.
There were matters to take place upon the fourteenth which served to fix it in my memory. The first was a mishap101 to the General himself.
For the rain and the mist and the mire, we that day found ourselves much confined to the Indian Queen. This might be called no hardship of loneliness since, despite the mud, all the world would pull on its boots to visit us. The General, whose dyspepsia was dominant102, had eaten only a little rice. This he took at short intervals103; yet such dwarf104 spoonfuls were they, that in the end the aggregate105 was smallish, and he found himself weakly languid as a reward.
The General had been to a casual reception below to meet official folk—they were building hopes for themselves of what should follow inauguration106, still eighteen days away—and being done with them, and uneasy with the weariness of their call, was returning to his room. At the stair's head he stumbled; as he fell he griped his side and gave a smothered107 sob108 of pain.
I, who walked close behind, was well aware of what had chanced. The old Dickenson wound was imperfectly healed, and a sharp wrench109 would tear it and set it to inward hemorrhage. Swiftly I raised him, and since it was no vast distance down the hall, nor he a mighty burden, carried him to his chamber110.
“Call Augustus,” he said, his voice pain-lowered to a whisper.
Placing a chair I gave him a mouthful of whisky by way of a stimulant111. Augustus was the black body-servant who had come with us from the Hermitage. I knew what the summoning of Augustus argued, yet was handless to interfere112. The General when stricken—as he had been many times—in the fashion I have named, was used to open a vein113, and so bleed himself comfortably till he felt relief. More than once I had denounced such backwoods surgery as not only dangerous but revolting, and wanting foundations of common sense. There was no logic114 for it, I said; and it stood for the spirit of the preposterous115 when one bled internally to bleed one's self externally as remedy. As well might I have spoken with the trees. The General made his stubborn laws and lived them.
“There was a Frenchman,” observed the General on some occasion of my remonstrance116, “who said that at forty every man was either a fool or a doctor. Now I am more than forty; and I'm no fool.”
Augustus, a tawny117, handsome black, arrived in a hurry splendidly promissory of zeal118. Being deft119 of practice, he whipped a bandage sharply tight about the General's arm above the elbow—as starved as a rake-handle, that arm, yet strong as hickory bough120! Then the General with his jackknife nicked a vein well down the lower arm, and proceeded to bleed himself most contentedly121 and liberally, while Augustus held a basin.
Following these horse-leech experiments, for so I scrupled122 not to brand them, the General, wrapped in a dressing123 gown, was put to rest upon a sofa. It would have been the bed; but it stood not yet three of the afternoon, and it was a saying of the General's that no man should take to his bed by daylight until he came to die. On the lounge, and, as he declared, much uplifted of health, Augustus and I left him, with the whisky easily at hand in event of over-creeping faintness.
After the lapse124 of an hour I returned. There lay that upon me which, as I saw the future, it was proper enough should be said to the General. And since he was like to oppose my counsel, as folk commonly do what is patent for their peace, sticking as stoutly125 for the seeds of trouble as though they were indeed the seeds of righteousness, I reckoned aid perhaps from his present weak, low state. He would lack somewhat his vivacity126, and might be drawn127 with less of struggle to my manner of thought.
Thus abode128 the coil: It was the evening before when the General told me how he would propose Eaton to be his Secretary of War, and asked my view. I had withheld129 opinion at the time, my caution evoking130 a dull flare131 of that heat-lightning of the General's temper, which last commodity was never deeply in abeyance132. I would tell him later, I said; and following a rumble133 of contempt on his part for the sluggishness134 of my friendship for Eaton—for that gentleman and I for long had been friends—the subject was for the moment at rest. Now was the time ripe to dispute this question with him; so I bethought, as I wended towards his door.
Coming to his chamber I tapped, and then pushed in without wait, as was my wont135. The windows were to the west where at this hour the sun should have been; but such was the veil of fog without that the day seemed already spent and sinking into twilight136.
The great fire on the hearth137—honest, crackling logs to feed it, since the General would tolerate no less—set the room in a bloom of light that came close to marking the candle that burned at his elbow a profligacy138. He had lifted himself from the sofa where Augustus and I placed him, and was seated before a little table. On it, propped139 against the Vicar of Wakefield, a book whereof he never tired, stood a miniature of his wife. Throughout the day he wore this little painting beneath his garments and hung about his neck by a black cord. His wife had given it him in the old days and when their love was new. Each night, when folk pray and con4 the Bible, he would have this picture before him; and with it her hymn-book to read her favorite songs. This was his devotion—his worship; it was as though he communed with her, his Saint Rachel, on the work of the day and its duties. To the time of his death he did this; and for whatever was good of his performing he would lay it to these conferences, sweet at once and sad, when in the dusk borderlands of day and night he met and talked with the soft shadow of his heart's own.
As I came into the room the General raised his eyes. They were tear-brimmed and he made no shift to hide them.
“Major,” he said with trembling lip, gazing the while on the miniature, “she strove to make me a Christian140. I gave her my promise to become a Christian. And so I shall when once I'm done with office and back again at home. I would become one now, were it within the domain141 of what might be. But who is he who could unite politics and Christ? I'm no hypocrite, Major; you know that! You know what a politician is; you know what a Christian should be. No man may be both, Major; no man may be both.”
“You are not a politician,” I retorted. “You are a president.”
This I got off with a gruff air of harshness, not, however, because it drew a true distinction. I sought to call him from his present mood. The General was unusual in so far that a best step towards comforting him was to irritate him. In his breast he loved collision, and might even leave mourning for a war.
“I am a president and not a politician!” This with a gather of scorn. “And pray, when is a president not a politician?”
With a deprecatory gesture I dismissed the point.
“Let that remain,” I replied, “as a question wherewith to rack some further moment. I came for another matter.” The General turned a keen eye upon me. “You spoke of Eaton for your portfolio142 of war,” I continued.
“Go on,” he said.
“General, I misdoubt the wisdom of the step. I will make my word plain. There is none to be more the friend of Eaton than myself, none to respect him more. But, sir, you are aware of what folk say.”
“And what do folk say?” Anger stood red on the brow of the General as a banner is flung from a battlement. “What do folk say?”
“You should consider coolly, General,” I went on. Ever cool myself, it was for that the General valued my counsel. “You know this tale as well as I. It has been told me more than once within four days. Light and laughter-loving, the beautiful Peg O'Neal grows up, the daughter of this very tavern that shelters us. She weds144 Timberlake, the purser. He is here; then he is at sea. The girlish Peg is still a girl. She goes to rout145 and ball; she is gay and high and does not mope and wear demure146 half-weeds as good opinion holds one should whose love is on the sea among the storms. There come whisper and nod and innuendo—the pot of Washington scandal, they tell me, is made easily to boil. Then in the Mediterranean147 Timberlake cuts his throat; and next, as one who makes sure work, leaps overboard into fifty fathoms148. The beautiful Peg does not become distinguished149 for her grief. This, and the throat-cutting, augment150 talk, and tongues wag doubly. Within the year thereafter, and not two months ago, she and our friend Eaton are wed50. Gossip gains a new impulse; heads nod and there are wise leers. I put this to you, General, with a rude coarseness almost ferocious151; I do so for a purpose. I put it as your enemies will put it when, should you call Eaton to your cabinet, they seize on the story to your injury. It is not what you and I say or believe; that is not the question. It is what will your enemies tell and the world accept.”
While I was talking, the General filled a clay pipe; in tobacco he found calm. Holding the pipe by its long reed stem he strode up and down, puffing152 cloudily. The red faded on his forehead, but his eyes were agate-hard. I saw it would be Eaton against argument. The General's will was set as hard and fast and cold as arctic ice.
Nor, to be fully153 honest, was I over-surprised or sensibly cast down; I had fairly foreseen it all. You may question why, then, I made this vigorous head; and Eaton my friend.
It is a proper curiosity. Freely, I am constrained154, as I review the past, to regard myself as sometimes the victim of self-foolery. On this February evening with the General, I make no doubt but I thought I acted wholly for his weal and peace. And yet I was clear before I spoke, how my words would win to no effect, and Eaton for the cabinet it would be. Thus, I now see that my impulse, indubitably, was one wholly of vanity; as the friend privileged to frankness and who—as he said many times and until I consented to the fact myself—more than any other had builded him up to be a president, I would tell my mind, air my gifts of prophecy, and arrange myself for a future wherein the General might say, when the winds blew high, “You saw the tempest coming and you told me.” That, as I now see, was the very conceited156, small, cheap reason of my interference; although at the time I in no sort beheld157 it by that light, but felt somewhat noble and high and as might a loyal friend.
The General for ten full minutes smoked up and down, I silent, and the room otherwise still save for the tick-ticking of the clock. At last he spoke smilingly and off to one side.
“You remember that sagacious doctor who was yesterday called from Baltimore to amend158 me after my journey? 'I'll do anything you say,' I told him, 'save give up coffee and tobacco.' 'Then you'll die,' he retorted, 'since it is coffee and tobacco which are killing159 you.' 'Then I'll die,' I replied, 'since coffee and tobacco are all that are left worth living for.' He quit the place in a fury of heat, did that doctor.”
The General grinned. There was another pause; then he swung back to my Eaton warning, while his face again showed grave and firm.
“Sir, Mrs. Eaton—Peg, as we call her—is as spotless as a star. My wife knew her, loved her.” His tone was tender, while his glance sought the miniature where from the table it followed him up and down with its eyes. “Timberlake's habits were unfortunate; his suicide was due to that. There was never a doubt of Peg in his soul; never a question of her conduct. I know this; I do not guess. What!”—here his voice began to rise with choler—“what! are we to guide by nameless slanders160? Eaton is my friend, honorable, high of mind, honorably married to the woman he loves! I will not, by anything I do or fail to do, arm villification. Into my cabinet he goes though every bow in hell be bent161 against it.”
Smash! went the General's pipe upon the hearth. It was the manner of the man when driven of anger. First and last he smashed pipes by the gross.
“That is not the song of it!” I stubbornly protested.
Then I put out what was true; that he should look at this thing from the point of his presidency162. There was the public interest; his faith to the public must be dwelt on.
“If there be a faith to the public,” he retorted, “there is also a faith to a friend. It is a widest rumor163 that Eaton is to be of my cabinet. Folk are morally sure of it as much as folk may be of what sits in the antechamber of time. Should he not be named, that fact will be held as an endorsement of these slanders. It will destroy Eaton; worse, it will destroy Peg. Do you counsel that? Must that be done in the name of Public Good?” The General now was speaking in a cold, contained way for all his late pipe-smashing, and you are not to infer, from any verbal force displayed, a shouting anger. Wroth he was; but, nathe-less, low-voiced and steady as with a kind of tranquility of fury. “Must my friend be abased164, insulted—must a sweet, true woman suffer harm for that you say a public interest asks it? Sir, you speak folly165 and propose disgrace. There can be no public good to come from private wrong. And if it were so, still I should stand the same. I've suffered many tests for the public you prate166 of; I've abode the death-chances of a hundred battles; I've marched to the public's wars when, spent and weak, I must be lifted to the saddle; in no way have I spared or saved myself. But I will spare my friend; I'll save a woman's honor; aye! spare and save them though your public interest perish in their steads. You could name no altar whereon I would make such sacrifices. The honor of a woman—to safeguard her good fame—is the first duty of a man. It is before friendship, before patriotism167; it has precedence over things public or private. What you offer spells ruin for a woman—ruin for Peg whom my wife has loved and kissed! I will not do it. I say it again: Eaton for the cabinet it should be though it were the last act of my life. More; if I were capable of beginning my administration with treason to a friend, I might surely look to conclude it with treason to the people.”
You are to know that the General made these long orations168 walking the floor, and in a manner jerky and declamatory, though not loud. There might be spaces of silence between sentences measured by two and three steps; and much of the time his eye left me and he was like one who debates with himself.
I ramble169 off his utterances170 somewhat in full; for I not only regard the sentiments expressed as creditable to the General himself, but am disposed to give you the truth of him as one who, while right oftener than most men, and as set for justice as a pair of scales, on this as on every other strong occasion did his thinking with his heart. Also, while he never said the word, it ran in him like a torrent172 that his wife, were she with him, would shield poor Peg at whatever vital cost; and of itself that was equal to the sweeping173 down of reasons strong as oak or adamant174.
Who was the un-observer to say that familiarity breeds contempt? He went wide of the truth; he should have said that familiarity breeds self-confidence. Now I knew the General—I knew the windings175 of his thought as one knows his way about a house. Folk called him a hero; he was never so to me. And yet, more than any, I knew him to be even better and braver and broader than was his fame in the worshiping mouths of ones who uplifted him to be a god. No, the General and I neither looked up nor looked down when we dealt with one another; we met ever on level terms. He was president, or shortly would be; but what then? As he himself said, “The presidency is a condition, not an attribute, as it might be a malady176 or a fortune, an evil or a good. And if I am King are you not Warwick?” This last was his way of phrasing it when, a year or so later, I told him of some overheard amazement177 concerning the easy, old-shoe terms on which I lived with him.
Such being our attitudes one to the other, the General's oral exaltations—while I identified them for honest and as from his soul's soul—struck on me as more florid than was called for by an interview, private and commonplace, between us two. But it was the nature of him; his surface could be made to toss like some tempest-bitten ocean, while his steady depths were calm. This may explain, if it does not excuse, that while he thus walked about, raging and eloquent178, I listened with a bit of impatience179, helping myself meanwhile to a mouthful of whisky and filling a pipe of my own.
“Say no more,” I observed, having advantage of a pause; “say no more. Eaton you will have it, and Eaton it shall be. But, on the whole, do you call it good to your Peg? Do you call it wise or friendly to put her forth to be the target for every bolt of detraction180?”
The General drew over to the fire and sat down. Slowly he poured himself a glass of spirits, and then as slowly drank it off. For some moments he smoked in silence.
“What with this wrong to my side, Major,” he said at last, “and the blood I've let, and all on a pale diet of rice, I fear I'm not strong enough to argue with you. Let us agree, then, that Eaton shall go in as Secretary of War. As for Peg—poor little Peg!—why should she be safer out than in? Moreover, a woman must have her courage as a man has his. She must risk slander as he risks sword, and both must front their enemies.” He had gone on with a mighty mildness; now he began to wave his second pipe, and I looked to have it go into the fireplace with every word. “You say that the Eatons will be assailed181. Already they are attacked; not for themselves, but for me. They were married in January; none found fault until, with our coming, Eaton's nearness to me was remembered and the whisper of what I would do with him began to run abroad. The Eatons are the victims of my feuds182; it is I, through them, who am stabbed at. Sir,”—smash! went the pipe and the General started up—“sir, it is the work of Henry Clay—that creature of bargain and corruption183! You know his methods of the past campaign. What lie was too vile155 to tell? What calumny184 too gross? Who so innocent as to escape his malice185? Why, sir! such as Clay and his crew would befoul Gehenna, and Satan himself might shrink aside in shame from their companionship! Who was sure from them and the poison of their mendacity? She died by it”—here he pointed186 to the miniature. “Even the poor lost grave of my mother was not sacred to such jackals. And now it is the Eatons—now it is the pretty, harmless Peg! So let it be; they will find me ready. If I feel joy for a presidency it is because it clothes my hands for their annihilation.”
There was a rap at the door. Augustus opened it and announced: “General Green.”
“Duff Green,” said the General, as though a new thought occurred. “I think now for once, in a way I shall turn our rotund friend to partial use.”
“And how will you compass that miracle?” I spoke rather in scorn than curiosity since I owned to briefest admiration187 for the General's caller. “It will be a novelty to see your Duff Green of use.”
“Why then,” returned the General, “the benefit I propose from him is one simple enough. I shall have him, in his paper, give this cabinet list to the public. Once in print the thing is ended—the nails for that cabinet building will be clinched188.”
“And that is it,” cried I, in opposition. “Now to my notion it is ever best to hold a question of this sort in abeyance until the latest moment. Thereby189 you preserve for yourself room wherein to change your plan.”
“One's first aim is the surest,” responded the General. “Now I've never known much good to come from this plan-changing of which you talk. Nor do I believe in secrets. One should tell the people their business so soon as ever that business is transacted190. More folk are trapped and slain191 with their own secrets than are saved by them. Besides one has no right to lock a door between the people and their affairs. There go but two keys with government, one for the treasury192 and the other for the gaol193, and every officer from path-master to President should be made to study this lesson of the keys until he can repeat it.”
To this lecture I made no retort whether of comment, denial or agreement. These abstractions delighted him; and in this instance I too listened with pleasure, not so much because of the deep-sea wisdom disclosed as for that tranquility of spirit after his tossing anger against Clay, which their utterance171 would seem to bring him. As it stood the General's high temper had faded and his heat was much cooled away when Duff Green appeared.
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1
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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2
caucuses
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| n.（政党决定政策或推举竞选人的）核心成员( caucus的名词复数 )；决策干部；决策委员会；秘密会议 | |
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3
transact
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| v.处理；做交易；谈判 | |
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4
con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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5
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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fiber
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| n.纤维，纤维质 | |
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7
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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8
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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10
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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11
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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12
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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13
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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14
intrigued
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| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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15
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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16
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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17
potency
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| n. 效力，潜能 | |
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18
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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19
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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20
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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21
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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22
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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23
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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24
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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25
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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26
mercurial
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| adj.善变的，活泼的 | |
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27
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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28
enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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29
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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30
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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31
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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32
bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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33
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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34
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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35
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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36
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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37
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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39
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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40
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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41
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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42
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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43
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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44
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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45
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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46
rummage
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| v./n.翻寻，仔细检查 | |
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47
plumb
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| adv.精确地，完全地；v.了解意义，测水深 | |
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48
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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49
owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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50
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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51
balk
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| n.大方木料；v.妨碍；不愿前进或从事某事 | |
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52
wheedling
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的现在分词 ) | |
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53
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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54
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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55
parlors
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| 客厅( parlor的名词复数 )； 起居室； （旅馆中的）休息室； （通常用来构成合成词）店 | |
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56
pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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57
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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58
ineffably
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| adv.难以言喻地，因神圣而不容称呼地 | |
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59
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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60
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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61
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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62
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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63
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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64
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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65
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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66
albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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67
hostel
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| n.（学生）宿舍，招待所 | |
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68
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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69
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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70
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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71
foulest
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| adj.恶劣的( foul的最高级 )；邪恶的；难闻的；下流的 | |
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72
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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73
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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74
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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75
hardiest
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| 能吃苦耐劳的，坚强的( hardy的最高级 )； （植物等）耐寒的 | |
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76
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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77
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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78
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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79
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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80
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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81
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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82
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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83
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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84
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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85
presidencies
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| n.总统的职位( presidency的名词复数 )；总统的任期 | |
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86
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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87
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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88
doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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89
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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90
brayed
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| v.发出驴叫似的声音( bray的过去式和过去分词 )；发嘟嘟声；粗声粗气地讲话（或大笑）；猛击 | |
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91
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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92
canopied
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| adj. 遮有天篷的 | |
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93
gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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94
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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95
bristle
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| v.（毛发）直立，气势汹汹，发怒；n.硬毛发 | |
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96
jauntily
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| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
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97
remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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98
boisterousness
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| n.喧闹；欢跃；（风暴）狂烈 | |
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99
endorsement
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| n.背书；赞成，认可，担保；签(注)，批注 | |
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100
narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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101
mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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102
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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103
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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104
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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105
aggregate
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| adj.总计的，集合的；n.总数；v.合计；集合 | |
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106
inauguration
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| n.开幕、就职典礼 | |
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107
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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108
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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109
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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110
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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111
stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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112
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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113
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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114
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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115
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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116
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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117
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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118
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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119
deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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120
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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121
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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122
scrupled
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| v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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124
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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125
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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126
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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127
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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128
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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129
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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130
evoking
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| 产生，引起，唤起( evoke的现在分词 ) | |
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131
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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132
abeyance
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| n.搁置，缓办，中止，产权未定 | |
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133
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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134
sluggishness
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| 不振，萧条，呆滞；惰性；滞性；惯性 | |
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135
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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136
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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137
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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138
profligacy
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| n.放荡，不检点，肆意挥霍 | |
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139
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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141
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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142
portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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143
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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144
weds
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| v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的第三人称单数 ) | |
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145
rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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146
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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147
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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148
fathoms
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| 英寻( fathom的名词复数 ) | |
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149
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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150
augment
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| vt.(使)增大，增加，增长，扩张 | |
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151
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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152
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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153
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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154
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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155
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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156
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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157
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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158
amend
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| vt.修改，修订，改进；n.[pl.]赔罪，赔偿 | |
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159
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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160
slanders
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| 诽谤，诋毁( slander的名词复数 ) | |
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161
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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162
presidency
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| n.总统(校长，总经理)的职位(任期) | |
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163
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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164
abased
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| 使谦卑( abase的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到羞耻； 使降低（地位、身份等）； 降下 | |
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165
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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166
prate
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| v.瞎扯，胡说 | |
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167
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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168
orations
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| n.（正式仪式中的）演说，演讲( oration的名词复数 ) | |
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169
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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170
utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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171
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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172
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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173
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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174
adamant
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| adj.坚硬的，固执的 | |
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175
windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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176
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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177
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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178
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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179
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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180
detraction
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| n.减损；诽谤 | |
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181
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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182
feuds
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| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
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183
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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184
calumny
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| n.诽谤，污蔑，中伤 | |
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185
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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186
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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187
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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188
clinched
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| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的过去式和过去分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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189
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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190
transacted
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的过去式和过去分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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191
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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192
treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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193
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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