HOMO By F. Hopkinson Smith 1909 Dinner was over, and Mme. Constantin and her guests were seated underthe lighted candles in her cosey salon. With the serving of the coffee and cigarettes, pillows had been adjustedto bare shoulders, stools moved under slippered feet, and easy loungespushed nearer the fire. Greenough, his long body aslant, his head on theedge of a chair, his feet on the hearth rug, was blowing rings to theceiling. Bayard, the African explorer, and the young Russian Secretary, Ivan Petrovski, had each the end of a long sofa, with pretty Mme. Petrovski and old Baron Sleyde between them, while Mme. Constantin laynestled like a kitten among the big and little cushions of a divan. The dinner had been a merry one, with every brain at its best; thisrestful silence was but another luxury. Only the Baron rattled on. Aduel of unusual ferocity had startled Paris, and the old fellow knew itsevery detail. Mme. Petrovski was listening in a languid way: "Dead, isn't he?" she asked in an indifferent tone, as being the betterway to change the subject. Duels did not interest the young bride. "No, " answered the Baron, flicking the ashes from his cigarette--"goingto get well, so Mercier, who operated, told a friend of mine to-day. " "Where did they fight?" she asked, as she took a fresh cigarette fromher case. "Ivan told me, but I forgot. " "At Surenne, above the bridge. You know the row of trees by the water;we walked there the day we dined at the Cycle. " "Both of them fools!" cried the Russian from the depths of his seat. "LaClou wasn't worth it--she's getting fat. " Greenough drew his long legs back from the fender and, looking towardthe young Secretary, said in a decided tone:-- "I don't agree with you, Ivan. Served the beggar right; the only pity isthat he's going to get well. " "But she wasn't his wife, " remarked Mme. Petrovski with increasedinterest, as she lighted her cigarette. "No matter, he loved her, " returned the Englishman, straightening in hisseat and squaring his broad shoulders. "And so did the poor devil whom Mercier sewed up, " laughed the oldBaron, his eyes twinkling. Mme. Constantin raised her blonde head from the edge of the divan. "Is there any wrong, you dear Greenough, you would forgive where a womanis concerned?" "Plenty. Any wrong that you would commit, my dear lady, for instance;but not the kind the Baron refers to. " "But why do you Englishmen always insist on an eye for an eye and atooth for a tooth? Can't you make some allowance for the weakness ofhuman nature?" she asked, smiling. "But why only Englishmen?" demanded Greenough. "All nationalities feelalike where a man's honor and the honor of his home are concerned. It isonly the punishment that differs. The Turk, for instance, bowstrings youor tries to, for peeping under his wife's veil; the American shoots youat sight for speaking slightingly of his daughter. Both are right in away. I am not brutal; I am only just, and I tell you there is only oneway of treating a man who has robbed you dishonestly of the woman youlove, and that is to finish him so completely that the first mancalled in will be the undertaker--not the surgeon. I am not talkingat random--I know a case in point, which always sets me blazing whenI think of it. He was at the time attached to our embassy at Berlin. Ihear now that he has returned to England and is dying--dying, remember, of a broken heart--won't live the year out. He ought to have shotthe scoundrel when he had a chance. Not her fault, perhaps--not hisfault--fault of a man he trusted--that both trusted, that's the worst ofit. " Bayard sat gazing into the fire, its glow deepening the color of hisbronze cheek and bringing into high relief a body so strong and wellknit that it was difficult to believe that scarcely a year had passedsince he dragged himself, starving and half dead, from the depths of anAfrican jungle. So far he had taken no part in the discussion. Mme. Constantin, who knewhis every mood, had seen his face grow grave, his lips straighten, and acertain subdued impatience express itself in the opening and shutting ofhis hands, but no word of comment had followed. "Come, we are waiting, Bayard, " she said at last, with a smile. "What doyou think of Greenough's theory?" The traveller pushed his cup from him, shook the ashes from his cigar, and answered slowly:-- "That there is something stronger than vengeance, Louise--somethinghigher. " "You mean mercy?" "Something infinitely more powerful--the Primeval. " The Baron twisted his short neck and faced the speaker. Greenough roseto his feet, relighted his cigar at the silver lamp, and said with someimpatience:-- "I don't understand your meaning, Bayard; make it clear, will you?" "You don't understand, Greenough, because you have not suffered--not assome men I know, not as one man I have in mind. " Mme. Constantin slipped from her cushions, crossed to where Bayard sat, and nestled on a low ottoman beside him. "Is it something you haven't told me, Bayard?" she asked, looking upinto his face. These two had been friends for years. Sometimes in hiswanderings the letters came in bunches; at other times the silencecontinued for months. "Yes, something I haven't told you, Louise--not all of it. I rememberwriting you about his arrival at Babohunga, and what a delightful fellowhe was, but I couldn't tell you the rest of it. I will now, and I wantGreenough to listen. "He was, I think, the handsomest young fellow that I ever saw--tall, broad shouldered, well built, curly hair cut close to his head, light, upturned mustache, white teeth, clear, fair skin--really you'd hardlymeet another such young fellow anywhere. He had come up from Zanzibarand had pushed on to my camp, hoping, he said, to join some caravangoing into the interior. He explained that he was an officer in theBelgian army, that he had friends further up, near Lake Mantumba, and that he came for sport alone. I, of course, was glad to take himin--glad that year to take anybody in who was white, especiallythis young fellow, who was such a contrast to the customarystraggler--escaped convict, broken-down gambler, disgraced officer, Arabtrader, and other riffraff that occasionally passed my way. "And then, again, his manners, his smile, the easy grace of hismovements--even his linen, bearing his initials and a crown--somethinghe never referred to--all showed him to be a man accustomed to therefinements of society. Another reason was his evident inexperience withthe life about him. His ten days' march from the landing below to mycamp had been a singularly lucky one. They generally plunge into theforest in perfect health, only to crawl back to the river--those wholive to crawl--their bones picked clean by its merciless fingers. Topush on now, with the rainy season setting in, meant certain death. "The second day he paid the price and fell ill. He complained of hisfeet--the tramp had knocked him out, he said. I examined his toes, cutout some poisonous wood ticks that had buried themselves under the skin, and put him to bed. Fever then set in, and for two days and nightsI thought he would go under. During the delirium he kept repeating awoman's name, begging her to give him a drink, to lift his head so hecould look into her eyes. Once I had to hold him by main force to keephim from following this fancy of his brain into the forest. When hebegan to hobble about once more he again wanted to push on, but Idetermined to hold onto him. I was alone at the time--that is, withouta white companion, Judson having gone down to Zanzibar with somedespatches for the company--and his companionship was a godsend. "What seemed to worry him most after he got well was his enforced useof my wardrobe and outfit. He had brought little of his own except hisclothes and some blankets, and no arms of any kind but the revolverhe carried around his waist in a holster. All his heavier luggage, heexplained, was at a landing below. This objection I met by promisingto send for it by the first band of carriers after the rainy seasonwas over. In the meantime he must, I insisted, use my own guns andammunition, or anything else that my kit afforded. "Up to this time he had never mentioned his home or the names of any ofhis people, nor had he offered any explanation of his choice of Africaas a hunting ground, nor did he ever seek to learn my own impressionsregarding his self-imposed exile (it was really exile, for he neverhunted a single day while he was with me), except to ask me one morningin a casual way, whether anything he had said in his delirium had mademe think the less of him--all of which I laughed at, never mentioning, of course, what I had been obliged to hear. "One night, when a tropical storm of unusual severity was passing, Ifound him sealing a letter at my table with the aid of a lantern heldclose. Presently he got up and began pacing the floor, seemingly ingreat agitation; then he reached over, picked up the letter from thetable, lighted one end of it in the blaze of the lantern, dropped it tothe floor, waited until it was entirely consumed, and then put his footon the ashes. "'Rather a waste of time, wasn't it?' I said with a laugh. "'Yes, all of it has been a waste of time--and my life with it. Nowand then I write these letters. They're always burned in the end. Nouse--nothing to gain. Yes, waste of time. There are some things in theworld that no man ought ever to ask forgiveness for. ' He threw himselfinto a chair and went on:-- "'You never went crazy mad over a woman, did you? No--you're not builtthat way. I am. She was different from the women I had met. She was notof my people--she was English. We met first in Brussels; then I followedher to Vienna. For six months she was free to do as she pleased. Welived the life--well, you know! Then her husband returned. ' "'Oh, she was married!' I remarked casually. "'Yes, and to a man you would have thought she would have been trueto, although he was nearly twice her age. I knew all this--knew whenI started in to make her love me--as a matter of pride first--as a boywalks on thin ice, believing he can cross in safety. Perhaps she hadsome such idea about me. Then the crust gave way, and we were both inthe depths. The affair had lasted about six months--all the time herhusband was gone. Then I either had to face the consequences or leaveVienna. To have done the first meant ruin to her; the last meant ruin tome. It had not been her fault--it had been mine. He sent me word that hewould shoot me at sight, and he meant it. But the madness had not workedout of me yet. She clung to me like a frightened child in heragony, begging me not to leave her--not to meet her husband; to gosomewhere--suddenly, as if I had been ordered away by my government;to make no reply to her husband, who, so far, could provenothing--somewhere, later on, when he was again on a mission, we couldmeet. "'You have known me now for some time--the last month intimately. Do Ilook like a coward and a cur? Well, I am both. That very night I saw himcoming toward my quarters in search of me. Did I face him? No. I stoopeddown behind a fence and hid until he passed. "'That summer, some months later, we met in Lucerne. She had left himin Venice and he was to meet her in Paris. Two days later he walked intothe small hotel where she had stopped and the end came. "'But I took her with me this time. One of the porters who knew him andknew her helped; and we boarded the night train for Paris without hisfinding us. I had then given up about everything in life; I was awaywithout leave, had lost touch with my world--with everybody--except myagents, who sent me money. Then began a still hunt, he following us andwe shifting from place to place, until we hid ourselves in a little townin Northern Italy. "'Two years had now passed, I still crazy mad--knowing nothing, thinkingnothing--one blind idolatry! One morning I found a note on my table;she was going to Venice. I was not to follow until she sent for me. Shenever sent--not a line--no message. Then the truth came out--she neverintended to send--she was tired of it all!' "The young fellow rose from his seat and began pacing the dirt flooragain. He seemed strangely stirred. I waited for the sequel, but he keptsilent. "'Is this why you came here?' I asked. "'Yes and no. I came here because one of my brother officers is at oneof the stations up the river, and because here I could be lost. Youcan explain it as you will, but go where I may I live in deadly fearof meeting the man I wronged. Here he can't hunt me, as he has done allover Europe. If we meet there is but one thing left--either I must killhim or he will kill me. I would have faced him at any time but for her. Now I could not harm him. We have both suffered from the same cause--theloss of a woman we loved. I had caused his agony and it is for me tomake amends, but not by sending him to his grave. Here he is out ofmy way and I out of his. You saw me burn that letter; I have destroyeddozens of them. When I can stand the pressure no longer I sit downand ask his pardon; then I tear it up or burn it. He couldn'tunderstand--wouldn't understand. He'd think I was afraid to meet himand was begging for my life. Don't you see how impossible it all is--howdamnably I am placed?'" Mme. Constantin and the others had gathered closer to where Bayard sat. Even the wife of the young secretary had moved her chair so she couldlook into the speaker's face. All were absorbed in the story. Bayardwent on:-- "One of the queer things about the African fever is the way it affectsthe brain. The delirium passes when the temperature goes down, butcertain hallucinations last sometimes for weeks. How much of the queerstory was true, therefore, and how much was due to his convalescence--hewas by no means himself again--I could not decide. That a man shouldlose his soul and freedom over a woman was not new, but that he shouldbury himself in the jungle to keep from killing a man whose pardon hewanted to ask for betraying his wife was new. "I sympathized with him, of course, telling him he was too young to letthe world go by; that when the husband got cool he would give up thechase--had given it up long ago, no doubt, now that he realized how goodfor nothing the woman was--said all the things, of course, one naturallysays to a man you suspect to be slightly out of his head. "The next night Judson returned. He brought newspapers and letters, andword from the outside world; among other things that he had met a manat the landing below who was on his way to the camp above us. He hadoffered to bring him with him, but he had engaged some Zanzibari of hisown and intended to make a shorter route to the north of our campand then join one of the bands in charge of an Arab trader-some ofTippu-Tib's men really. He knew of the imminence of the rainy seasonand wanted, to return to Zanzibar before it set in in earnest. Judson'snews--all his happenings, for that matter--interested the young Belgianeven more than they did me, and before the week was out the two wereconstantly together--a godsend in his present state of mind--savedhim in fact from a relapse, I thought--Judson's odd way of lookingat things, as well as his hard, common sense, being just what thehigh-strung young fellow needed most. "Some weeks after this--perhaps two, I can't remember exactly--a partyof my men whom I sent out for plantains and corn (our provisions wererunning low) returned to camp bringing me a scrap of paper which a whiteman had given them. They had found him half dead a day's journey away. On it was scrawled in French a request for food and help. I startedat once, taking the things I knew would be wanted. The young Belgianoffered to go with me--he was always ready to help--but Judson had goneto a neighboring village and there was no one to leave in charge buthim. I had now not only begun to like him but to trust him. "I have seen a good many starving men in my time, but this lost strangerwhen I found him was the most miserable object I ever beheld. He laypropped up against a tree, with his feet over a pool of water, nearwhere my men had left him. His eyes were sunk in his head, his lipsparched and cracked, his voice almost gone. A few hours more and hewould have been beyond help. He had fainted, so they told me, afterwriting the scrawl, and only the efforts of my men and the morsel offood they could spare him brought him back to life. When I had poured afew drops of brandy down his throat and had made him a broth and warmedhim up his strength began to come back. It is astonishing what a fewounces of food will do for a starving man. "He told me he had been deserted by his carriers, who had robbed him ofall he had--food, ammunition, everything--and since then he had wanderedaimlessly about, living on bitter berries and fungi. He had, it appears, been sent to Zanzibar by his government to straighten out some mattersconnected with one of the missions, and, wishing to see something ofthe country, he had pushed on, relying on his former experiences--he hadbeen on similar excursions in Brazil--to pull him through. "Then followed the story of the last few weeks--the terrors of the longnights, as he listened to the cries of prowling animals; his hunger andincreasing weakness--the counting of the days and hours he could live;the indescribable fright that overpowered him when he realized he mustdie, alone, and away from his people. Raising himself on his elbow--hewas still too weak to stand on his feet--he motioned to me to comenearer, and, as I bent my head he said in a hoarse whisper, as if hewere in the presence of some mighty spirit who would overhear:-- "'In these awful weeks I have faced the primeval. God stripped menaked--naked as Adam, and like him, left me alone. In my hunger I criedout; in my weakness I prayed. No answer--nothing but silence--horrible, overpowering silence. Then in my despair I began to curse--to strikethe trees with my clenched fists, only to sink down exhausted. I couldnot--I would not die! Soon all my life passed in review. All the meanthings I had done to others; all the mean things they had done to me. Then love, honor, hatred, revenge, official promotion, money, thegood opinion of my fellows--all the things we value and that make ourstandards--took form, one after another, and as quickly vanished in thegloom of the jungle. Of what use were they--any of them? If I was tolive I must again become the Homo--the Primeval Man--eat as he ate, sleep as he slept, be simple, brave, forgiving, obedient, as he hadbeen. All I had brought with me of civilization--my civilization--theone we men make and call life--were as nothing, if it could not bring mea cup of water, a handful of corn or a coal of fire to warm my shiveringbody. ' "I am not giving you his exact words, Louise, not all of them, but Iam giving you as near as I can the effect untamed, mighty, irresistiblenature produced on his mind. Lying there, his shrivelled white facesupported on one shrunken hand, his body emaciated so that the bones ofhis knees and elbows protruded from his ragged clothes, he seemed likesome prophet of old, lifting his voice in the wilderness, proclaiming anew faith and a new life. "Nor can I give you any idea of the way the words came, nor of theglassy brilliance of his eyes, set in a face dry as a skull, theyellow teeth chattering between tightly stretched lips. Oh! it washorrible--horrible! "The second day he was strong enough to stand, but not to walk. Therain, due now every hour, comes without warning, making the swampsimpassable, and there was no time to lose. I left two men to care forhim, and hurried back to camp to get some sort of a stretcher on whichto bring him out. "That night, sitting under our lamp--we were alone at the time, mymen being again away--I gave the young Belgian the details of my trip, telling him the man's name and object in coming into the wilderness, describing his sufferings and relating snaps of his talk. He listenedwith a curious expression on his face, his eyes growing strangelybright, his fingers twitching like those of a nervous person unused totales of suffering and privation. "'And he will live?' he said, with a smile, as I finished. "'Certainly; all he wanted was something in his stomach; he's got that. He'll be here to-morrow. ' "For some time he did not speak; then he rose from his seat, looked atme steadily for a moment, grasped my hand, and with a certain tendernessin his voice, said: "'Thank you. ' "'For what?' I asked in surprise. "'For being kind. I'll go to the spring and get a drink, and then I'llgo to sleep. Good night!' "I watched him disappear into the dark, wondering at his mood. Hardlyhad I regained my seat when a pistol shot rang out. He had blown the topof his head off. "That night I buried him in the soft ooze near the spring, covering himso the hyenas could not reach his body. "The next morning my men arrived, carrying the stranger. He had beenplucky and had insisted on walking a little, and the party arrivedearlier than I expected. When he had thanked me for what I had done, hebegan an inspection of my rude dwelling and the smaller lean-to, evenpeering into the huts connected with my bungalow--new in his experience. "'And you are all alone except for your black men?' he asked in an eagertone. "'No, I have Mr. Judson with me. He is away this week--and a youngBelgian officer--and--I--' "'Yes, I remember Mr. Judson, ' he interrupted. 'I met him at the landingbelow. I should have taken his advice and joined him. And the youngofficer--has he been long with you?' "'About two months. ' "'He is the same man who left some of his luggage at the landing below, is he not?' "'Yes, I think so, ' I answered. "'A young man with light curly hair and upturned mustache, very strong, quick in his movements, shows his teeth when he speaks--very whiteteeth--' "'He was smiling--a strange smile from one whose lips were stillparched. "'Yes, ' I replied. "'Can I see him?' "'No, he is dead!' "Had I not stretched out my hand to steady him he would have fallen. "'Dead!' he cried, a look of horror in his eyes. 'No! You don'tmean--not starved to death! No, no, you don't mean that!' He wastrembling all over. "'No, he blew out his brains last night. His grave is outside. Come, Iwill show it to you. ' "I had almost to carry him. For an instant he leaned against a treegrowing near the poor fellow's head, his eyes fixed on the rude mound. Then he slowly sank to his knees and burst into tears, sobbing: "'Oh! If I could have stopped him! He was so young to die. ' "Two days later he set out on his return to the coast. " With the ending of the story, Bayard turned to Mme. Constantin: "There, Louise, you have the rest of it. You understand now what I meantwhen I said there was something stronger than revenge;--the primeval. " Greenough, who had sat absorbed, drinking in every word, laid his handon Bayard's shoulder. "You haven't told us their names. " "Do you want them?" "Yes, but write them on this card. " Bayard slipped his gold pencil from its chain and traced two names. "MyGod, Bayard! That's the same man I told you is dying of a broken heart. " "Yes--that's why I told you the story, Greenough. But his heart is notbreaking for the woman he loved and lost, but for the man he hunted--theman I buried. "