"The--ah--why--the one, you know--where the husband of one woman falls in love with the wife of another who is in love with the husband of some one else. Pshaw!--what is the title? I mean the one that created such a furore, you know."
"Yes"--said the man, to his dog--"O yes, Czar--I am the famous Conrad Lagrange. I observe"--he added, turning to the other, with twinkling eyes--"I observe, Mr. King, that you really _do_ have a good bit of your mother's character. That you do not read my books is a recommendation that I, better than any one, know how to appreciate." The light of humor went from his face, suddenly, as it had come. Again he turned away; and his deep voice was gentle as he continued, "Your mother is a rare and beautiful spirit, sir. Knowing her regard for the true and genuine,--her love for the pure and beautiful,--I scarcely expected to find her son interested in the realism of _my_ fiction. I congratulate you, young man"--he paused; then added with indescribable bitterness--"that you have not read my books."
For a few moments, Aaron King did not answer. At last, with quiet dignity, he said, "My mother was a remarkable woman, Mr. Lagrange."
The other faced him quickly. "You say _was_? Do you mean--?"
"My mother is dead, sir. I was called home from abroad by her illness."
For a little, the older man sat looking into the gathering dusk. Then, deliberately, he refilled his brier pipe, and, rising, said to his dog, "Come, Czar--it's time to go."
Without a word of parting to his human companion with the dog moving sedately by his side, he disappeared into the darkness of the night.
All the next day, Aaron King--in the hotel dining-room, the lobby, and on the veranda--watched for the famous novelist. Even on the streets of the little city, he found himself hoping to catch a glimpse of the uncouth figure and the homely, world-worn face of the man whose unusual personality had so attracted him. The day was nearly gone when Conrad Lagrange again appeared. As on the evening before, the young man was smoking his after-dinner cigar on the veranda, when the Irish Setter and a whiff of pipe smoke announced the strange character's presence.
Without taking a seat, the novelist said, "I always have a look at the mountains, at this time of the day, Mr. King--would you care to come?
These mountains are the real thing, you know, and well worth seeing--particularly at this hour." There was a gentle softness in his deep voice, now--as unlike his usual speech as his physical appearance was unlike that of his younger companion.
Aaron King arose quickly. "Thank you, Mr, Lagrange; I will go with pleasure."
Accompanied by the dog, they followed the avenue, under the giant pepper trees that shut out the sky with their gnarled limbs and gracefully drooping branches, to the edge of the little city; where the view to the north and northeast was unobstructed by houses. Just where the street became a road, Conrad Lagrange--putting his hand upon his companion's arm--said in a low voice, "This is the place."
Behind them, beautiful Fairlands lay, half lost, in its wilderness of trees and flowers. Immediately in the foreground, a large tract of unimproved land brought the wild grasses and plants to their very feet.
Beyond these acres--upon which there were no trees--the orange groves were massed in dark green blocks and squares; with, here and there, thin rows of palms; clumps of peppers; or tall, plume-like eucalyptus; to mark the roads and the ranch homes. Beyond this--and rising, seemingly, out of the groves--the San Bernardinos heaved their mighty masses into the sky. It was almost dark. The city's lamps were lighted. The outlines of grove and garden were fast being lost in the deepening dusk. The foothills, with the lower spurs and ridges of the mountains, were softly modeled in dark blue against the deeper purple of the canyons and gorges. Upon the cloudless sky that was lighted with clearest saffron, the lines of the higher crests were sharply drawn; while the lonely, snow-capped peaks,--ten thousand feet above the darkening valley below,--catching the last rays of the sun, glowed rose-pink--changing to salmon--deepening into mauve--as the light failed.
Aaron King broke the silence by drawing a long breath--as one who could find no words to express his emotions.
Conrad Lagrange spoke sadly; "And to think that there are,--in this city of ten thousand,--probably, nine thousand nine hundred and ninety people who never see it."
With a short laugh, the young man said, "It makes my fingers fairly itch for my palette and brushes--though it's not at all my sort of thing."
The other turned toward him quickly. "You are an artist?"
"I had just completed my three years study abroad when mother's illness brought me home. I was fortunate enough to get one on the line, and they say--over there--that I had a good chance. I don't know how it will go here at home." There was a note of anxiety in his voice.
"What do you do?"
"Portraits."
[Illustration: A curious expression of baffling quizzing half pathetic and wholly cynical interrogation]
With his face again toward the mountains, the novelist said thoughtfully, "This West country will produce some mighty artists, Mr. King. By far the greater part of this land must remain, always, in its primitive naturalness. It will always be easier, here, than in the city crowded East, for a man to be himself. There is less of that spirit which is born of clubs and cliques and clans and schools--with their fine-spun theorizing, and their impudent assumption that they are divinely commissioned to sit in judgment. There is less of artistic tea-drinking, esthetic posing, and soulful talk; and more opportunity for that loneliness out of which great art comes. The atmosphere of these mountains and deserts and seas inspires to a self-assertion, rather than to a clinging fast to the traditions and culture of others--and what, after all, _is_ a great artist, but one who greatly asserts himself?"
The younger man answered in a like vein; "Mr. Lagrange, your words recall to my mind a thought in one of mother's favorite books. She quoted from the volume so often that, as a youngster, I almost knew it by heart, and, in turn, it became my favorite. Indeed, I think that, with mother's aid as an interpreter, it has had more influence upon my life than any other one book. This is the thought: 'To understand the message of the mountains; to love them for what they are; and, in terms of every-day life, to give expression to that understanding and love--is a mark of true greatness of soul.' I do not know the author. The book is anonymous."
"I am the author of that book, sir," the strange man answered with simple dignity, "--or, rather,--I should say,--I _was_ the author," he added, with a burst of his bitter, sarcastic humor. "For God's sake don't betray me. I am, _now_, the _famous_ Conrad Lagrange, you understand. I have a _name_ to protect." His deep voice was shaken with feeling. His worn and rugged features twitched and worked with emotion.
Aaron King listened in amazement to the words that were spoken by the famous novelist with such pathetic regret and stinging self-accusation.
Not knowing how to reply, he said casually, "You are working here, Mr.
Lagrange?"
"Working! Me? I don't _work_ anywhere. I am a literary scavenger. I haunt the intellectual slaughter pens, and live by the putrid offal that self-respecting writers reject. I glean the stinking materials for my stories from the sewers and cesspools of life. For the dollars they pay, I furnish my readers with those thrills that public decency forbids them to experience at first hand. I am a procurer for the purposes of mental prostitution. My books breed moral pestilence and spiritual disease. The unholy filth I write fouls the minds and pollutes the imaginations of my readers. I am an instigator of degrading immorality and unmentionable crimes. _Work_! No, young man, I don't work. Just now, I'm doing penance in this damned town. My rotten imaginings have proven too much--even for me--and the doctors sent me West to recuperate,"
The artist could find no words that would answer. In silence, the two men turned away from the mountains, and started back along the avenue by which they had come.
When they had walked some little distance, the young man said, "This is your first visit to Fairlands, Mr. Lagrange?"
"I was here last year"--answered the other--"here and in the hills yonder.
Have _you_ been much in the mountains?"
"Not in California. This is my first trip to the West. I have seen something of the mountains, though, at tourist resorts--abroad."
"Which means," commented the other, "that you have never seen them at all."
Aaron King laughed. "I dare say you are right."
"And you--?" asked the novelist, abruptly, eyeing his companion. "What brought you to this community that thinks so much more of its millionaires than it does of its mountains? Have _you_ come to Fairlands to work?"
"I hope to," answered the artist. "There are--there are reasons why I do not care to work, for the present, in the East. I confess it was because I understood that Fairlands offered exceptional opportunities for a portrait painter that I came here. To succeed in my work, you know, one must come in touch with people of influence. It is sometimes easier to interest them when they are away from their homes--in some place like this--where their social duties and business cares are not so pressing."
"There is no question of the material that Fairlands has to offer, Mr.
King," returned the novelist, in his grim, sarcastic humor. "God! how I envy you!" he added, with a flash of earnest passion. "You are young--You are beginning your life work--You are looking forward to success--You--"
"I _must_ succeed"--the painter interrupted impetuously--"I must."
"Succeed in _what_? What do you mean by success?"
"Surely, _you_ should understand what I mean by success," the younger man retorted. "You who have gained--"
"Oh, yes; I forgot"--came the quick interruption--"I am the _famous_ Conrad Lagrange. Of course, you, too, must succeed. You must become the _famous_ Aaron King. But perhaps you will tell me why you must, as you call it, succeed?"
The artist hesitated before answering; then said with anxious earnestness, "I don't think I can explain Mr. Lagrange. My mother--" he paused.
The older man stopped short, and, turning, stood for a little with his face towards the mountains where San Bernardino's pyramid-like peak was thrust among the stars. When he spoke, every bit of that bitter humor was gone from his deep voice. "I beg your pardon, Mr. King"--he said slowly--"I am as ugly and misshapen in spirit as in body."
But when they had walked some way--again in silence--and were drawing near the hotel, the momentary change in his mood passed. In a tone of stinging sarcasm he said. "You are on the right road, Mr. King. You did well to come to Fairlands. It is quite evident that you have mastered the modern technic of your art. To acquire fame, you have only to paint pictures of fast women who have no morals at all--making them appear as innocent maidens, because they have the price to pay, and, in the eyes of the world, are of social importance. Put upon your canvases what the world will call portraits of distinguished citizens--making low-browed money--thugs to look like noble patriots, and bloody butchers of humanity like benevolent saints. You need give yourself no uneasiness about your success. It is easy. Get in with the right people; use your family name and your distinguished ancestors; pull a few judicious advertising wires; do a few artistic stunts; get yourself into the papers long and often, no matter how; make yourself a fad; become a pet of the social autocrats--and your fame is assured. And--you will be what I am."
The young man, quietly ignoring the humor of the novelist's words, said protestingly, "But, surely, to portray human nature is legitimate art, Mr.
Lagrange. Your great artists that the West is to produce will not necessarily be landscape painters or write essays upon nature, will they?"
"To portray human nature is legitimate work for an artist, yes"--agreed the novelist--"but he must portray human nature _plus_. The forces that _shape_ human nature are the forces that must be felt in the picture and in the story. That these determining forces are so seldom seen by the eyes of the world, is the reason _for_ pictures and stories. The artist who fails to realize for his world the character-creating elements in the life which he essays to paint or write, fails, to just that degree, in being an artist; or is self-branded by his work as criminally careless, a charlatan or a liar. That one who, for a price, presents a picture or a story without regard for the influence of his production upon the characters of those who receive it, commits a crime for which human law provides no adequate punishment. Being the famous Conrad Lagrange, you understand, I have the right to say this. You will probably believe it, some day--if you do not now. That is, you will believe it if you have the soul and the intelligence of an artist--if you have not--it will not matter--and you will be happy in your success."
As the novelist finished speaking, the two men arrived at the hotel steps, where they halted, with that indecision of chance acquaintances who have no plans beyond the passing moment, yet who, in mutual interest, would extend the time of their brief companionship. While they stood there, each hesitating to make the advance, a big touring car rolled up the driveway, and stopped under the full light of the veranda. Aaron King recognized the lady of the observation car platform, with her two traveling companions and the heavy-faced man who had met them at the depot. As the party greeted the novelist and he returned their salutation, the artist turned away to find again the chair, where, an hour before, the strange character who was to play so large a part in his life and work had found him. The dog, Czar, as if preferring the companionship of the artist to the company of those who were engaging his master's attention, followed the young man.
From where he sat, the painter could see the tall, uncouth figure of the famous novelist standing beside the automobile, while the occupants of the car were, apparently, absorbingly interested in what he was saying. The beautiful face of the woman was brightly animated as she evidently took the lead in the conversation. The artist could see her laughing and shaking her head. Once, he even heard her speak the writer's name; whereupon, every lounger upon the veranda, within hearing, turned to observe the party with curious interest. Several times, the young man noted that she glanced in his direction, half inquiringly, with a suggestion of being pleased, as though she were glad to have seen him in company with her celebrated friend. Then the man who held so large a place in the eyes of the world drew back, lifting his hat; the automobile started forward; the party called, "Good night." The woman's voice rose clear--so that the spectators might easily understand--"Remember, Mr.
Lagrange--I shall expect you Thursday--day after to-morrow."