Democratic Sentinel, Volume 7, Number 8, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 March 1883 — SHATTERED IDOLS. [ARTICLE]

SHATTERED IDOLS.

Mr. Rodman honored Miss Ferris ■with another one of his supreme glances, which women failed to understand, which this woman recognized and unconsciously welcomed, although she drooped ever so little beneath its light and warmth. “Aren’t you going to say that you are glad to see me this morning?” he asked, after a pause. “I am surprised,” she replied. “A fine evasion. You are surprised, and perhaps disappointed. ” “Perhaps I am. Don’t you wish I would confess?” “Yes.” “I am glad you Came, for now 1 have something more entertaining than Trollope’s stupid novel. ” “Did the novel cause the tears I saw in your beautiful eyes ?” “There are no tears there.” “Tears are easily dried, especially a woman’s. You have been crying.” “Ha, ha! You mistake the mood. I was laughing. You know we sometimes laugh until the tears come.” “Yes, but not over Trollope novels. I know,” he answered, regarding her curiously; but he did not say he understood the chemistry of tears, and could distinguish one of the first water from a rain drop. Those few wasted tears teemed to obliterate for a time selfish scruples. Louis Rodman was an idealist, a Worshiper. He admired the virtues that fancy could picture and potent thought could mold into form. You are not interested sufficiently in the casual acquaintance of such a character to care whether his nose is Roman or Grecian, whether his complexion is dark or light, whether his teeth are a compliment to nature or the art of dentistry. He was a psychologist, and handled dexterously the sharp-edged ax of thought. He cut creeds to pieces, and when the trenchant ax would not perform the work, the rconoclast’s hammer was used until its echo came back from the hills, What cares the intelligent reader for the mold of such a man ? The mind, clothed with the beauty of thought, is more enchanting than the form of a god crowned with roses. Louis Rodman had a dual nature, he was an idealist, and an iconoclast. His nimble fancy created and his cold thought congealed the image until it crumbled like the icicle that drops from the cornice to the hard pavement, shattered in a thousand pieces. But up to the present time the image of an ideal Womap. fair, wonderfully fair and marvellously beautiful, with eyes as bright as the stars, but so very much nearer to him than those distant luminaries, was his idol. As the sun was over the hills, and great shadows of giant shapes cast themselves at their feet while the birds 'shot up a wild strophe to the approaching king of day as it gradually proceeded to the zenith, and the cool morning air, brought, as it seemed,Ja messenger from mountain haunts and bubbling springs, Rodman caught the aroma of the morning hour, and, getting very close to the side of Miss Ferris, he placed his hand on her shoulder and pointed in poetic admiration to the ascending mist and fog that left the mountain peaks uncovered by the matin mantle. While she listened he told her the legend of the King’s daughter who hid herself in the recesses of a mountain to avoid a hated marriage, but a wicked enchanter, meeting her there, changed her into a mountain torrent that leaped down the mountain side in a white fury of despair ; that raced and shrieked among the purple crags and wooded pe&ks, and tore itself into ragged shreds and wreathed itself in rainbows and tossed its sprays in the face of the adventurer, till the huntsman called it the mad torrent; how for miles away you might hear this sound modulated by distance to a dolorous minor tone—au accent full of sorrows, and when frosts came and petrified all its tumbling trouble and bound its wild strength, one could detect its murmuring under the dry feathers, sobbing to itself in a frozen whisper, moaning and complaining in a passion of sighs, and the mountain shepherds would say: “The Mad Torrent dreams over her woe and struggles in her dream. ” But on the first spring night, when the air -was full of earth-damps and the forgotten fragrance of violets, they would awake with a chilly horror of impending avalanche and listen to the mad torrent calling with a hundred tearful voices for its deliverance from the torment, For the legend ran that whA the true lover of the King’s daughter set out with staff and scrip to find his sweetheart he came at last to a foaming cataract that fell in the image of a lady veiled; and, weeping, he stopped to drink of it, and the cruel enchanter stepped behind and pushed him, and the cataract washed him down in spite of itself, rending the air with terrible cries, and throwing out a dozen powerless arms; but he was never seen again. The mad torrent had method in its madness.

“I suppose,” said Miss Ferris at this point, “that a lesson is to be learned from the legend. ” “Yes,” replied Rodman. “Love is an irresistible impulse, love is the enchanter. ” “Yes, but the lover stopped to quench his thirst. It was not the longing of the soul that led him t® the cataract. Thus it is ever -with lovers. It is self, not self-abnegation, that leads them to our side.” “Well, it was only to satisfy his thirst; he obtained immortality by the push and the end is just the same, no difference what the motive.” “But one likes to know the motive. I often look upon a surging crowd and know that there is an ebb and flow of thought. I would rather know the thoughts than the thinkers, wouldn’t you?” “I should like to, if it were possible to do it without asking impertinent questions. If I knew your thoughts, for instance, I would have a beautiful guide to win a woman’s love.” She turned to greet the postman, who brought her several letters, and without

deigning a reply other than: “Mr. Rodman, I ha' e had a pleasant morning. I will be pleased to have you call when you return io the city. Igo to-day.” Then she retired to her room to read a letter from her father, and she, when she. read, “Remember, daughter, you are both beautiful and wealthy; when you fall in love see that it is a man who equals you in both.” Then she thought of the words of Keats: Love in a cottage with water and a crust Is, Love forgive us, water, ashes, dust. Sober thought, that fashions the outlines of things and reveals the powder patches of fancy, brought her to herself, and the cold, calculating woman, that moves in the social world and courts the happiness of the frequency of dress parades, appeared. No ideal life for her, no ethereal existence, no self-abnegation, no thought of exquisite bliss, no dreams of a secluded life, but the reality of conquest stamped a cold, disdaining look upon her. features, and the fragrance of the morning aroma was wasted. Within the secret existence of self, yet Ethel Ferris loved the ideal man, and Louis Rodman was the man. Rodman, a genius, whose path in life lay along the line of daily toil and hard crucial experience, turned from the morning conversation to labor with his hands and build fancy pictures in the air of ideal forms and virtues. He pondered : “Beautiful and intelligent, lovely and coy as Arethusa; charming in manner and graceful in movement. I love her, yet I fear to touch, for the idol must be worshiped, not possessed. The Greeks never revered the household gods like they did Jove. The flower that grows oh the rock beyond my reach seems the most perfect.” The summer passed and the winter approached, but the idol of Louis Rodman’s heart was perfect. He had planned a hundred creeds and erased every article; had seen as many more ideal faces, and under his close analysis the ideal became mere clay, of no more interest than the face of a heathen god, and at last he was forced to exclaim : “Human nature does not satisfy the critic of its kind more than it does the author of all. The idol away is idolized still; but, when present too long, the idol is shattered.” Again he meets the lovely and liquant Ethel Ferris in her luxurious lome in the city. The woman is his highest standard, the gold she possesses is to him naught but brass. She greeted him with the loveliest, the sweetest of smiles. It was the old, old story, the noblest of human passions; that of love asserting itself. “I thought you had forgotten me,* she said. “The devoted never forget the object,” was his reply. “I was angry that you did not come or write.” “I am glad that you were angry. ” “I am afraid the effort would not have been pleasing to you. ” “T should like to see the angry fire leap in your eyes and consume your smile. ” “I shall grasp that idea and run away with it if you do not talk seriously to me. ” “Then may I ask you, how many men have fallen before you?” “Mr. Rodman, I am not a Hercules nor a Theseus.” “No, you are an Armida to-day.” “Mr. Rodman, Armida was a sorceress.” “She was a bewitching woman, and compelled Rinolda to forsake all and to devote his life to her.” “The remark does not please me, anyhow.” “I do not try to please you.” “Why are you so ungallant?” “What is the use of adding sweetness to a rose?” “It seems to me you have mistaken the flower. A rose has a thorn.” “Yes, I know, it has pierced my heart; until now I thought it was Cupid’s darts.” He was gay and erratic, corruscating with wit and repartee, ever watchful and critical to see if his case had any favorable features. He watched her, but he might as well have watched the growth of an apple, for Ethel was on her guard, and play generally met with play. Enthralled by her smile, thrilled by the touch of her hand, he forgot the pleasures of a bachelor’s life, f >rgot the companionship of the club, forgot all, save that the ideal woman stood before him, and then, placing his hand on her shoulder, he gently pressed upon her forehead ■with the other, then stooped and kissed her for full a minute.

“You are my ideal, my love. I love you. ” “I know it,” she replied archly. “Is that the only answer you have to give me ?” “I am the mad torrent of your existence. Quench not your thirst, the wicked enchanter’s near. lam your idol now—after a while, a shattered one. ” “Never; you are the only ideal woman in existence.” “You talk earnestly, but I believe that this is play, not love.” “Then let me speak to your father.” “If you promise not to be estranged by his decision. ” “I promise you that I will always love you.” “Remember that you are an iconoclast. ” “Yes, but the arm that strikes a blow upon my favored idol will fall palsied.” Full of hope and life the two lovers entered Mr. Ferris’ library. He received them graciously. In a straightforward way Louis Rodman told his story. “I know you to be a worthy young man, but what have you to offer in exchange for my daughter’s hand?” “My own.” _ “I mean that my daughter has a large fortune; have you an equivalent ?” “No, sir; I-cannot buy your daughter with gold.” “Mr. Rodman, you are impertinent. I will not admit of such talk in my daughter’s presence. I cannot give my consent to my daughter’s union with a man without a competency.” Turning to Ethel he said: “What does my daughter say?” “I love Mr. Rodman, but whatever you say I will abide.” In his excitement Rodman, standing by the mantel-piece, raised his arm and accidentally struck a costly vase upon which was engraved a beautiful angel. It fell to the floor, shattered to a hundred pieces. Ethel assisted him to gather up the pieces, and as he leaned toward her he hoarsely whispered, “A shattered idol.” Without another word the proud, sensitive Mr. Rodman bowed himself out, but Ethel followed him to the door and entreated him to speak with a lingering,

a loving glance. All she said was: “Remember your promise. ” Mighty indeed were the strokes of the iconoclast’s hammer in the hands of Rodman for the next two years. Never again did he picture an ideal woman. In all his dreams the picture of a woman never appeared else than as a hag. He forgot his promise to Ethel, who persuaded her father to relent because he liked the spirit of the young man, and she had at last won his consent. Then she sat down to wait for her proud lover’s coming. Patiently she waited a year. Then, when she had almost forgotten the idealist, they met one summer morning at the old retreat where first she listened to the gentle words of love. She held out her hand, and he grasped it. “I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Rodman; where have you been all these years ?” “Looking for the Mad Torrent.” “What would you do if you found it?” “Quench my thirst.” Then he raised her hand to his lips, but she gently drew it away. “I am one of your shattered idols.” “Then let me worship you.” “Better find one that enjoys neglect, at whose shrine no one kneels. There comes my husband, Mr. Rodman, will you stay and meet him?” “Your husband?” he sighed, partly with a sense of relief from intense emotion, partly, too, on account of the lesson which it taught him, that there are impulses and influences in life for which even a proud nature must have some reverence.