Evening Star Newspaper, February 8, 1925, Page 72

THE GREAT SUCCESS ESTERDAY I read an editorial on careers for women, and thought about Peggy Went- worth. That Is not the name she made famous, but it hap- pens to be her own. Not that Peggy’s case was typical. I know of many women who have been able to reconcile a substantial family life with distinguished success in their own particular lines. But for one I know who has been able to do this, ten have failed. The writing women get to thelr desks during school hours or after the family bedtime, and apparently the only difference it has made in the home life Is that a good many of them have burned the candle at both ends. But the theatrical women and the singers are different. When success- ful théy achleve a personal popu- larity. They belong to the public. I met Peggy in a pension in Berlin —a bare place with cold porcelain stoves -and old furniture. She used 1o sing for us while the two frauleins who ran the pension Kknitted, and Peggy's older sister, Anne, sat in a sort of depressed silence. Anne must have been almost 40, @ drab woman badly dressed and with &n unhealthy-looking skin. “We were a big family,” Peggy once sald,” and when mother died Anne raised us. She bad a chance to get married, but she felt she shouldn't Teave.” So it appeared that Anne had be- come the family martyr. Anne had determined that there couild be only one martyr in the family, and that i’eggy should have her chance. When Peggy’s volce outgrew her local teach- ers Anne had somehow managed to take her abroad. However, Anne was beginning to doubt the wisdom of her course. Peggy's voico was doing all and more than had been expected, but Anne's jdeas of happiness were changing. She had dreamed of success and wealth for Peggy. But as time went on she began to feel less sure that they would be enougl “I brought her -over, sometimes I'm sorry 1 “Why? “Where is it going to take her?” 1 said that I believed that she would be the greatest all-American prima donna; that she would earn vast sums of money, and that Anne herself would be extreemly proud of her. “It depends on what you want out of life. Happiness, I should say,” said Anne. “Different people find happiness in difterent ways, Anne. With Peggy it may be that to give pleasure to thousands—" onsens she said, “but did it.” she broke in bitterly. 'm not tifking about giving. What's she to get? There are just three courses open to A woman— a career, marriage or drylng up. There used to be only two. I'm a product of the two period. I couldn’t g0 out and earn a living, so I stayed at home and dried up. I didn't want Peggy to do that, so I brought her over here. And I'm sorry I did. ‘And as to marriage—I'd seen my own mother drudged to death. I can see her, cooking and washing endless dishes. I can see her hanging cur- tains while my father read the paper, and putting the ladder into the cellar herself. She used to mend after he'd gone to bed.” 1 was writing stories for maga- zines, and 1 felt called upon to de- fend both careers and marriage, and cven a combinatio You're different,” she said. “You've your family already. And you can work at home. A singer's differ- ent, or an actress. If ‘they get to the top they stay in ‘New York and have too much money. Men don't like that. And if they don’t succeed they have to travel, and make a home in a hotel room. When they're away too much, their husbands are unfaithful. “There's no trouble if a woman doesn’t want to marry,” she sald. “It's when she tries to be two things at once that the trouble comes.” x %k k EGGY made her American debut at the Metropolitan five vears later, and I need say nothing of her success. I asked Anne to spend Christmas with us, and she accepted. Peggy's five years in Europe had been earn- ing years, and the Anne I met at the station was a smarter Anne. But she was tired. The debut had been a strain. “Of course, she belongs to the pub- lic now. She doesn’t particularly need me now. “She always needs you." Anne gave me an odd glance, and said “She's going to be married.”” “That's wonderful,” I sald. you like the man?” “I do. That's the trouble.” smiled when she saw my face that way; don’t worry. But I'm anx- jous. He's a strong man, a—a real person. And he’s madly in love with her. That will help for a while, but after that—"" Her voice trailed off. ing a lot of money.” “More than he does?” “She will make more than he does. But it isn’t that. It's that she be- longs to the public. He'll have to share her.” The money thing’s important, too, Anne.” “Yes,” she agreed. women dependent.” Peggy’s prosperity was a wonderful thivg for them all. She had bought her father a house. And a young brother was to go to Columbia, liv- ing at Peggy’'s apartment. But Anne was not greatly interest- ed in the money end of Peggy's suc- cess. “The only value said. “is independence. to father and Harry, means dependence. but it's a fact.” During Anne’s visit I learned that Peggy had offered to abandon her career, but Mr. Wentworth—Jim. as Anne called him—had been unwill- ing to ask that sacrifice. Peggy had taken a place up the Hudson, and they were married there. All of important musical America was there, and a scattering of sub- stantial business men and their fam- ilies. The two groups did not mix, however; after the ceremony the musical people, prosperous, a trifie got “Do “She’s mak- “They like their of money,” she But of course and to me, it foreign, either by birth or affectation, | nolsily and demonstratively enjoyed themselves by themselves. Equally prosperous, militantly native and rather ostentatiously quiet, Wentworth's rela- tives and friends likewise remained to- gether. * ¥ k¥ PECAY sent for me when she went in to change into her traveling things, sending the message by Anne. Anne had looked different to me; I could not tell just how. But in the sunny hall I discovered what it was, She had had her hair dyed. Looking back. I can see how sym- bolle that dyed hair of Anne's was. She had always been too busy to think of herself. But now she was in & world which worshigped youth and beauty. In the-sheer Instinct for survival Anne was beginning to think of herseif. Probably nothing pointed the dif- ference in Peggy's affairs so clearly as her bedroom suite, compared with her pension room. In the pension room there had been a bare, high room, cold and bleak even in Summer; a narrow wooden bed; a wardrobe, a washstand with bowl and pitcher, placed on a strip of brown oilcloth; a chair or two. Now. I don’t resent it, | | [ | | THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON The Career and the Home Life in a Supreme Struggle. In.a boudoir-dressing room lined with built-in wardrobes with glass doors, Peggy stood. Her toflet table was a litter of gold and ivory. On a great chalse longue a toy dog lay on a satin pillow, and lounging beside him, cigarette in hand, was Mazzari, the tenor. Flowers and bright cush- lons, tables with lamps, photographs in silver frames, her wedding veil with its coronet of orange blossoms over the back of a chair, made a lux- urious litter. Anne sat down beside the tenor and borrowed a cigarette, eyeing me with a sort of amused deflance. T had an impression that Anne was deliberately emphasizing the least at- tractive side of her environment; as ur talk in Berlin, she You saw us then and you see us now. This is success. How do you like it? She was not jealous, at that period of Peggy and the fullness of her life. She was cynical, however, and some- how disillusioned. There was something I her tone to Peggy that worried me. Anne had changed a great deal toward her sis- ter. I was sorry for Anne, and angry with her. What was it? Jealo T I have said that it was not, but I am not so sure. Consider that the very clothing Anne wore Peggy had paid for; remember Peggy's success and the fruits of that success; her beauty; the clamorous crowd that overran the house; the gifts, ranged on their long white-draped tables; the reporters and camera men waiting below; the maid and the secretary; and Mazzari, the great, the golden, sitting at his ease on the chalse longue, and figura- tively at the prima donna’s feet. But eliminate all those, and remem- ber only that Peggy was about to en- ter that world Anne was denied, the mysterious realm of love. Peggy turned to Mazzari. “Run away now, Lulgl” she said. -“I am a very sad man today, my Peggy,” he said. “You should have chosen me.” He took her hand and held it. “At-least we speak the same language, think the same thoughts.” “Language, yes. Thoughts! Don't dare to say we think the same thoughts.” No,” he said. “Not the thoughts. My best are less tha worst.” That is why I love you. When she was dressed she sat down near me. - “You've made a_ success of your marriage,” she said. “That's why I sent for you. I want so terribly. to have this go right. How ecan it be done? How can it be done? “You saw the. crowd downstalirs. They didn’t mix. They never will mix. But Jim and I have got to live in a common world. He can't have his friends and I mine.” t's u sort_of compromise,” I said. “Of course, things are different with us. We don't live in New York. I don't see many literary people.” “Then it is you who have giveil up your own people, the ones who talk your language, as Mazzari said?’ “No. I can carry on my work alone. I need them, but only once in a wiil You have to have them all the time.’ “Jim doesn’t like them, much,” Xhe sald at last. “He doesn’t understand them. They are fine and wonderful, but of courss they are different.” * X kX NE spent the following Christ- mas with us. She was very smart by that time, and Peggy's Christmas gift to her had been a set of sables. She was living with Peggy and Jim, and so was Harry. But Harry fad left the university and was looking around for something to do. The father was in Florida. “Isn’t he working?” T asked. “Peggy allowances him. He didn't make much, you know. And he can't stand the Northern Winters.” Tt was from her that I finally got my picture of Peggy. “I'd give a good bit fo know just what you think of Peggy and the rest of us,” she said. “I'm very fond of you all” “Not that. The way we hang onto her. But I'm not-concerned with her just now. She gets a lot of pleasure out of giving. That's not it. It's what it is doing to the rest of us. “I used to be a self-respecting human being. 1 wasn’t happy, but I was myself. Now I'm happy, If a cat on a warm hearth is happy—and I'm nothing. Take Harry, too. He won't take a job unless it's to his taste. He doesn't have to. Do you suppose father has lived 70 years in Indiana without learning to bear up under its ‘Winters? Nonsen: ol ‘What about Jim “Oh, that doesn’t touch him. He has plenty of money. But he's not happy. He's gone before she's awake, if she's sung the night before, and he says good morning over the telephone to her. If she's singing that night, and you've seen how many nights she has been singing, what happens? She has a light supper at 5 o'clock. Jim gets home about 6. She's off at 7 and whom does he dine with? Harry and me. There are weeks when he hardly sees her, except from the box in the opera house. “¥ suppose most some failures,” she work out all right. Peggy may come to her senses and throw us out.” She moved to the doorway and stopped there. “But it's not a good arramge- ment when a wife has to leave an- other woman to be her husband's hearthmate.” She saw my face and laughed. h, good heavens,” she ex- claimed, ‘it"s not what you're think- ing. He never sees me. I do not know certainly that Anne same your successes mean sald. “It may knew she cared for Jim Wentworth. I do know that neéither' Jim himself nor Peggy ever suspected it. Po: bly Anne knew. The, explanation, it she did care for him, was simple enough. -Anne was greatly maternal, and for years she had lavished her love on Peggy. The:time had come when Peggy no longer needed her and Jim somehow did. She had to love somebody., In all ‘of this I am aware that Jim has been rgther a shadowy figure. 1 did not know him well, and my thief recollection was of a square and solld figure, over middle height and fault- lessly dressed for his marriage, sub- mitting to being photographed with his famous wife. There has never been any doubt in my mind but that he went into mar- riage soberly and after much thought, and that he cared intensely for Peggy. He was a serlous sort of person, but he had humor and a most engaging smile. His main characteristic was a sort of quiet strength. * ok K K T was a year or so before I went to New York again. I had not an- ticipated the change I found in Peggy. She was thin and fine-drawn, and her girlish look had gome. On the stage the change escaped detec- tion. She even looked, because of her slimness, younger, and her voice had certainly gained something. T sat with Jim in their box and from the moment she entered he never took his eyes from her. I have heard of hungry eyes, but I had never really seen them until then. It gave me & gueer feeling, rather as though life was separating them and that he felt that she..was only hls when, as now, she sang ‘to him. Sing to him she certainly did. Per- haps she felt the same thing he did, that in their home they were drifting apart, but ‘that here they were to- gether. I stayed with them several days, and saw that they were almost never alone. On off nights Mazzari and others of the company would lounge in, bringing visitors. Not once while I was there did any of Jim’s people or friends appear. It was after one of those crowded evenings that I had a short talk with him. “You don’t have her much to your- self, do you?” “Much?’ His voice was savage. “Never.” “Couldn’t that be arranged, Jim? I think she misses it, too." “Once, perhaps. Not now. “Her life is too-crowded. She doesn’t need me. She doesn’t even need me to support her.” T had an answeér to that last. 1 said that many marriages had sur- vived because women were financial- ly dependent. But that when 2 wom- an who was economically free elect- ed to marry and stick by her hus- band, it was because she wanted to. In other words, because she loved him. “You leave out an important ele- men he said finally. *“Habit. She has formed the habit of being mar- ried to him He was withdrawing himself from her. Peggy herselt gave me no confi- dence whatever. The nearest she came was when, apropos of my own children, she sald suddenly: “Sometimes I think it we had chil- dren it would help. They would be one thing in common.” But Anne was there, and she said nothing further. By that time 1 saw that the old intimacy between the sisters was almost gone; that Anne resented her own dependence, and let Peggy see it. Kut she made no move to go away, and as far as that goes, she had no place to go. She hated her father. Peggy undoubtedly saw that with every other element to drag them apart, her own family also stood be- tween Jim and herself. They were never alone together. * k x % OR two years I heard little or nothing of them. Then I received a letter from Anne. 1 hardly know why I am doing this, she wrote, except that I must talk to some one. Things really are about as usual, and yet somehow we seem to be moving on toward a catastrophe of some sort. Peggy is pretty tired, for one thing. Tired of the everlasting crowds and of work, and tired of Harry and me. Harry has been doing very badly. As for me—well, I am always around, and I haven't the strength of char- acter any more or any training to start out for myself. I have made the effort, asked Peggy to give me a small allowance and begged Harry to go with me to a boarding house somewhere. But he won't do it. 1 know Jim would be happler with- out us. He could have her to himself once in a while, and a lot of things would clear up, I think. But per- haps I am morbid about this. The real truth is not only, that Peggy family has been ruined by her suc- cess, but that it has come between her and her husband. I told you once that men like their women de- pendent, but it is deeper than that. A good many of them resent any outside interest, except what occuples the time they are in their offices, and they want the main interest to themselves. ‘When I tell you that Jim is often at his club now on Peggy’s evenings at home, you will see what I mean. The whole question is whether she ANNE HAD DREAMED OF SUCCESS AND WEALTH FOR PEGGY, BUT ‘SHE BEGAN TO FEEL ENOUGH. ‘LESS SURE THEY WOULD BE “MY PEGGY,” SAID MAZZARI “YOU SHOULD HAVE CHOSEN ME.” sacrifices one or the other, her work. As for myself, I don’t see much ahead. If I was brought into the world to produce a great artist, I have done my work. And that has failed, too, for what s her success without happiness? Quite frankly, I would deliberately let go of life if 1 felt sure there was something to come after. I wrote to Anne and to Peggy, too. Both letters were frank, and Peggy's was almost brutally so. “Every successful woman,” I wrote, “sooner or later finds herself at. the forks of the road. Perhaps this will not always be, for men will learn to make for the wife's affairs the same understanding allowance wom- en have always made for the business interests of their men. But the fault is also with the women. They can- not apparently reconcile the two, the home and the career, but they must somehow learn to do it. “You asked me once how aged, and I replied that it was by mutual compromise. I might have added, and T do now, that it was only possible by detaching my work from my family life, and by putting the family life first. I might have gone higher, the other way about, but it would not have been worth the cost.” 1 advised her to find something for Anne to do, and to face the fact that generosity may be a vice and a self- indulgence. That it could wreck lives and character. Her reply was very humble. “I know it is true, but what can I do? 1 have watched it coming until I am almost desperate. But the plain truth s that when I make overtures to Jim he thinks T am sorry for him, and draws into a shell of pride. As for Anne, all my life I have looked forward to making things easy and happy for her, and you must see that I cannot turn her out. My home must' be her home, so long as we both live. She deserves that, at the very least.” ok ok % ITHIN the next year or two things moved rather rapidly. The old father remarried and I got a Jim or we .man- bitter, cynical letter from Anne. Then Harry got into some sort of trouble and had to leave the country. Peggy. and Mazzari went on a concert tour and she stayed with me when they came to our city. Her obsessing idea was that she had wrecked every one she loved, without seeing how. “Even Anne,” she finished. depended s0 on Anne to through.” Mazzari came out that night, and he had not been in the house five minutes before I saw that he was a new_ and possibly important-element in the situation. “She is a wonder-woman,” he said. “And I love ber. You know that. But she loves cnly that—that business man of hers” I cannot hope to re- produce the scorn in his voice for Jim. “Me, I speak he: language, I am of her people. He? He does not even love he It takes a b!g man t> love a big woman. I am a big man. He is not.” “You mustn't take Mazzarl too hard,” Peggy sald. I certainly won’t, unless you do.” T'm used to him,” she said. “He's like a comfortable fire; he burns, but he doesn’t blaze too much. I have “And I see me to have some affection,” she said. “Even a dog has to be loved.” “You have Jim." “Jim doesn’t care any more.” “I don’t belleve it. And you have Anne.” “Anne hate me,” she sald bitterly. “I can understand Jim. Or I try to. But I can’t understand Anne.” And a moment lat 've got everything, and nothing. In looking about for an explanation of the desperate act by which Anne finally solved her problem, I find my- self wondering if her love for.Jim did not enter into it very largely. That he never knew of it I am certain, but I am also certain that it existed. 1 daresay the sort of psendo-domeg: ticity of "their life together while Peggy was away was finally too much for her.' But even eliminating that, Peggy’s absence was surely a contributory cause, and Peggy must have .known it. Always when she was there she was justifying Anne to herself. “You did this for me, Anne,” or “Anne is my second moth- er.” “Do come tonight, Anne; I want your opinfon—"" on anything, from an aria to a costume, But Peggy's coustantly upholding hand had been withdrawn, and Anne slipped down and down. She killed herself. * Ok ok k¥ ROM a psychological point of view, Anne's sulcide was a dis- timct milestone in Peggy’'s conditlon. D. C., FEBRUARY 8, By Mary Roberts Rinehart. v erme =2 She could not face what she felt as to her own part in it It rested for Harry to deliver the final psychological blow. It appears that he heard Peggy, in the early days of the war, singing “The Battle Hymn of the from the steps of the public y. He told her that she had profoundly moved him, and that he had enlisted. Harry was killed at Chateau Thierry. 1 imagine that, along with that blow, there clme the frightful conv tion that she had sent, not penly Harry, but other boys; that she saw her dead laid out in rows; that she began to see herself as wrath, an agent of destruction. 1 saw Jim in Washington not long | after that. We lunched together and it developed that since he was too old for the Army he had been trying to get some sort of war work. But he had failed. “Where is Peggy?" “She's not very well. Of course, Harry's death. She's.singing at the camps. You see how it Is. She's got a job to do for the war. Morale, You know. 1 can't even do that.” While T was in Paris, shortly be- fore the armistice, I learned that Peggy was singing along the front and that she had been giving a con- cert in a hospital when it was struck a_thing o(] '1925_PART 5. Dby a shell, but that she had not been hurt. On Armistice day I was on the bal- cony of the Crillon. A proc ion of war cripples was going by There was u woman in front of me veiled - and dressed in black. I touched her on the shoulder and she gave a little ¢ “ dear, my dear!” have wanted you so.” But she did not say it. pered. Her voice was gone. been ible to speak since the time of the bombardment at the front. “I keep wondering,” she whispered, how - Jim will fee). voice before he cared course,” she added, but—suppose it do 1 asked about Mazzari, but she did not know where he was. “He only cared for the singer, anvhow,” she said. Her only concern was Jim. She went buck to him again and again, watching me wistfully as I reassured h she said, "1 She whis- for me. won't it last, I don’t think You know how far we have drifted apart,” she said. 1 cabled Jim without telling her, and on the fifth day he cabled: “Have moved Heaven and earth for passport. Can't get one. Will you bring her home She had not | | The answe He cared for my | of | She steamer. was like a ghost on the At first 1 thought that she was grieving over her condition, but I began to see that she had waved that aside and that her whole mind was on Jim. T confess that I was worried, but I need not have been. 1 saw Jim on the pier before she did and he had the same hungry look in his eves. He just took her into his arms and held her the > There is no answ except, perhaps. that success passe: | one way or another, and that the only thing that matters is a strong, warm, human hand to hold to in the dark. But there is a brief sequel to this story and I do not kpow what it teaches. Perhaps that if does not re- spective. To some, of course, success is enough in itself, but there are others who, not through calamity, but because they will not pay the cost, prefer love to success when, as sometimes happens, they cannot have both. Last Summer 1 went out to Mon- tana, where Jim had a ranch. Three vears had passed, and the world knew that the great diva would never sing again. 1 found them brown and happy. and quire failure to teach a woman per- | il inseparable. The old look had from hoth of them, | I asked Jim if she ever tried t {sing. but he said she did not | Peggy rode off alone rather often After those rides I always thought there was something rather wonder- ful in her attitude toward Jim, some thing solicitous and tender 1 almost mysterious. I ventured lost my was out alone one day and It was midafternoo and the peaks overhead were brilliant | with sunshine. And on a rock, abos | suddeniy I saw Pegey. She had not seen looked, she began to never heard her sing was all back., and Just how long voice had come I do not know me. and sing. I like that more it was since he vack 1 did not know now. Jim has never | guessed. But what is important is |that somehow she had reached the |forks of the road, and had turned to | Jim. No, it isn't surrender. ax | had an answer. Tt is plain 1 suppose whether it pays or not depends on the Jims of the world. And it depends, too, on what a woman really wants. I daresay if will always be love, unless we de- velop a new type of woman. Which God forbid. (Copyrigh Visitors Who Have Eyes That See | When Viewing Lincoln Memorial (Continued from Fourth Page.) see that boat. With unfailing courtesy the custodian led him through the lofty colonnades to the western end of the building. And there, utterly unmindful of spe- cial privilege, as well as the shrine, he plied his uniformed companion with an endless number of questions concerning the subject of boats on the Potomac. Just before the custodian left him he asked whether that particular boat would return from Georgetown, whither it had gone. Upon being informed that it might return within an hour and a half, possibly, this pilgrim to the shrine of Lincoln decided to stand where he was and await its return. ‘He waited over an hour. then, follow- ing the suggestion that the navy yard could supply him with accurate informa- tion regarding boats, he departed with an eagernees that betrayed his true in- terest. But he had-seen the Memorial, and how often he would repeat those nega- tive, knowledge-denying, information- denatured words! His interest was boats, paramountly and exclusively, even in the face of the exultation that comes from special privilege. * k¥ % \HE following incident reveals what a little thought and attention to the matter in hand can accomplish. One day there walked up the gleam- ing white steps of the Lincoln Me- morial an Itallan family, father, mother and a little dark-eyed, dark- skinned, black-haired 8-year-old daughter., As they stepped into the main hall the father, pointing to the great statue, asked the little maiden who it was. She looked at it in- tently, shook her dark head, and said she did not know. The wise father put his hand into his pocket, drew out some coins, and selected a certain penny. Stooping down to her little height. he showed her the face stamped upon the coin,. telling her whom it rep. sented. She studied the Imprint ear- nestly, looked up at the statue, then pointing to the penny, said with the joy of discovery: ‘“This is little Lin- coln and that {8 big Lincoln,” nodding toward the seated figure. For her little feet that was a real pilgrimage, whose influence she would never for- get, coming again and again to those noble white halls as she would. The little family studied the murals, read the inscriptions, and silently left the temple, awed by the simple ‘majesty of true greatness. So any day one can see some peasant family |stand in the Louvre, awed and in- spired, before some masterplece in olls or in marble, or see them in any one of the many grand opera houses in Italy. thrill to the beauty of the greatest musical compositions. It would seem, however, that this appreciation for the worthwhile must emanate from the homes; little chil- dren must learn to love the master- pieces under the influence of their parents if the effect 19 to-be a lasting one, genuine and not superficial. The thoughtful Italian family had scarcely left the Ionic-crowned hall when a group of loud-voiced women was overheard to say: “We sure are sorry we came. There isn't a thing to see here!” In disdain and disgust at the lack of display, they descended the steps supremely indifferent4n the arrogance of their ignorance. Nothing there te see! Verily, they had eyes, but they looked in’ vain. When the guard was approached as to whether that were not a most unusual event, he replied, with the unperturbed calm of a Buddha: “That Ms a remark that is heard here not infrequently.” The episode made one think of Socrates by way of contrast, for he taught his young men to say without shame or confusion: “I do not know, and then proceeded by question and answer to enlighten them wherein they were unlearned, for he belleved that the state could be improved only I by the improvement of the individual. With the dissipation of ignorance comes the desire to be informed, now as then. It was suggested that visitors who were without any facts concerning the temple could consult the custodian and guards with profit. This Is often done, but just as often some person goes to the trouble of asking for an explanation and pays not the slightest attention to the exposition that fol- lows, looking about while the answer is being given and interrupting with irrelevant questions and unrelated comments. o ox ERHAPS it is but natural to cx- pect out-of-town visitors to the Memorial to ask the guards.for direc- tions concerning the route to some other place of Interest in the city. but to have some ome reach the | temple and spend ‘all- his - time In mentally plotting the city with points of interest is inconsequent, Nevérthe- less, it is an act of frequent occur- rence. Is It traceable to an inability to concentrate on the matter In hand? Perhaps to that, and to . the more | certain fact that since leisure seldom accompanies the traveler, haste re- sorts to the practice of foraging in the fields of others. asked is: “What is that shaft on the other side of the pool?” Invariably the reply calls forth: “Does it com- memorate the city or the man?’ A high school boy, working one Summer in the greenhouses near the obelisk, volunteered corroberating testimony in the simple statement that four and five times each day he was asked what that shaft stood for. Were his questioners forelgners? - In almost every case they were Americans, he stated. Not so long ago, a man called up the Lincolh Memorial to discover the location of the Lincoln Museum. Upon belng informed that it could be tbund on Tenth street between F and G, he asked for the number as well as the street. The guard replied that he did not know the number, but that it could be found by consulting the ity or the telephone directory. At this, the man grew indignant, rasp- ing out that he did not have time in which to consult a directory. In suave serenity the guard suggested that probably he had as much time as did the guard. It is only too ap- parent that the uniformed men sta- tioned at the Memorial have, besides an: unfailing courtesy, a true sense of humor, that saving grace in the art of lving. That telephone request for informa- tion is duplicated daily in the em- bassies in the city, for dlsputes over the correct pronunciation of foreign names and words must be settled by those who speak with authority. The writer remembers first seeing Concord, Mass., that delightful, wide- lawned, white-housed village of American writers, not the least of whom were Emerson, Thoreau and Hawthorne, from the comfortable seat of a horse-drawn carriage. After the completion of the whole tour each place of real interest was revisited to the unhurried satisfaction of the sightseer. Should it be confessed, moreover, that a tourist carries away more distinct impreseions if he is alone than he does if he is & part of a group of chatting people? * ok k% (QFTEN among those who have plenty of, time, cause of com- plaint is to be found in the fact that the name of a State holds no place on the front of the bullding; theit State, why should it be relegated to the sides or rear, when if Is the One of the most frequent questions | best State in the Uniol Naturally; but somehow Lincoln was a stea fast believer in the Union, a union of the many equal States, for like Patrick Henry, he could say: “I am not a Virginian; I am an American.” What matters the position of thw name of a State, since position merely a matter of relativity, accord- ing to' Einstein? Another common cause of criticisn is the giant statue of Lincoln, mad. by the famous sculptor, Daniel Ches ter French, whose perfection of work - manship is unquestioned by expert= Lay eyes see lack of proportion in the figure, the leg being too long for the arm, etc., not remembering per- haps that a master sculptor repro- duced.in marble the true proportions of a man whose physique was dis- tinct and different, differing from the average as a towering, weather-beat en pine differs from a rounded mapl: on a sheltered lawn. There is as suredly no cause for criticism in_tii noble, seated figure of the great Lir coln, who could with whimsical humo. #ay of himself that it had pleased God to give him a queer body. Only too often a group that is ur hurried for time stands chatting in the main hall, recounting the thrill ing hours spent in dance hall, at card table, or in the movies, animated and interested in the pleasures of previous hours and immune to the in fluence of the place in which the stand. It reminds one of the littlc girl who, entering a church with her mother on an Easter morning, looked up at her mother and sald eagerl “Mama, do you think God will see our new hats?" Recently a gentleman said to one of the guards at the Memorial: “Out of the millions of questions asked You what was the most foolish question of all?” This man had come there to be bathed in the beauty of Lincoln's spirit, - to be dedicated anew to nobler service of his country, and he had taken refuge in banalitics. The calm and unperturbed and rev- erend guard replied in a king's cou tesy: “The question you have jus asked me.” And yet nothing can disturb th serenity and the simple grandeur of the temple that houses the great spirit of the great Lincoln; men ma come and men may go, but he there for all time, brooding on things eternal, on unity, fraternity, charity justice, freedom and immortality—the verities of this nation's living strength, ek e sits