Evening Star Newspaper, February 21, 1926, Page 70

THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, s THE BRIDE’S WALTZ BY HOLWORTHY HALL HEN he was 26, and his ad- n to call him a | Iglesia | nius to his face, used to shake his head and es; but it is not m use he had nevel quite forgiven his parents for what they had done to him. He had been kind and generous to his parents while they lived, but there were two injuries for which they might never expect his pardon. He st che heart the unwar ranted tha he would have proved a at a clvil engineer as he Was now & concert pianist. He was of his income, and proud of his but. although these vanities en consoled him for the memory of slavish bovhood, he continued to resent rbitrariness with which 7 commanded for him ‘bidden. With all the he still maintained should have offered the lesser injury, he was far When his parents had s career was wdar, they | of this princip! ious handi n is to be born A boy was 8 v dark e haired. even rather dark plexion. He had never plaved in pt his talent was unheralded. So that, wiletly, by process of law, they Arthur Church” translated into Spanis s beyond Igle vinced e discovery of their hurches had just from Oregon Iy forzotten them, was hardly aware The canny parents d only long enough to have thelr altered. too—thereby ~new Spair learned to read Spanish, and it and speak il. Presently to think in Spanish as well, (o put quaint accents into his n tongue. He studied and ssed and was “discovere 1 came to Americ were happy names, subterfuge- The to write he ' an. tf back when ore of vears, then. he he abomina n was fo tempt fate At and or SIS o to compose a 1 of his signing the t for Opus S tone at minor, he had already oyalties on the seven ear- . a trifle over $30,000. He = compos: me; erltic someihing his wrl poen in ver,” said one “he’ still lacks his plaving an vital, And out” of the that front himn very nd ‘critic nodded confirma Heiah cone' | ahean 30 smoothly, and that's the answer. e hasn't had any troubles, and he hasn't been in love. He's just the least iittle bit—well, say apathetic. Give him time.’ JGLESIA had been plaving at a private musical. When the last encore was accomplished he had risen, 45 usual, to stand by his hostess and suppress his boredom while a long train of guests saluted him with con- sclous smiles and still more conscious flattery. And Iglesia hated this. He liked flattery in print, especlally if it were direct and straightforward, sald what it had to say and got over it, but he hated to be gushed at, or stam- mered at, or patronized, and so, in receiving strangers, he kept himseif as mentally aloof as possible. ‘Tonight, however, he was dragged out of his aloofness by a girl who # ok IT HAD TAKEN THE HOUSE EXACTLY 10 SECONDS TO REALIZE THAT A NEW IGLE- SIA HAD COME BEFORE THEM; AND AFTER THAT HE GOT A RECEPTION WHICH HAD N PARALLEL IN HIS CAREER. brought up the end of the line. At the first glance he saw that she was exquisite—her coloring was as warm and delicate as a pastel, her eves were blue and thoughtful, and her mouth and chin were, at one instant, adorable for their childlike appeal, and, at the next, adorable for their striking firmness. Incidentally, she had @ beautiful figure and she was wearing a gown of sapphire-blue vel- vet which snatched at Igfesla’s imag- {nation. Iglesia was hoping that she wouldn't shatter the effect by some gross ba- nality. “It was e very nicest thing I've Bver heard,” she said. Jglesta. caught his breath. “Then to reward me,” he said, with his faint Castilian accent, et me take you to suppe *But it wouldn't be fal monopolize you, would it? tested. “Fair to whom?’ Already he was gulding her toward a convenient corner. It was fully half an hour before th were interrupted, and during t interval Iglesia had fallen irrev- ocably in love. Nor was it an alm- Jess passion which overcame himi it D4 & zarmod aad avwfound emotion Won't you of me to she pro- 7 evely a | She Told Him She Had Only One Fault to Find With Him. e sed bv a girl he had admired on sight and found absorbing on ac- quaintance. He was possessed by her | appearance, her voice, her manner, her opinfons. He had been physieally | weary when he had risen from the planc: now he was alert and tingling with electric energy. “And shall T see you agaln—ever | he asked anxiously. Ot course, you will,” “Might 1— Her quic charmed him. ‘There will be a fight,” said Iglesia, “between conventlon and impatience. I have to thank you for—" He broke off ubruptly and made his famillar, infinitesimal bow. “You were going to sa; gested. I forgot myself. | asked any questlon. T almost earned | another reproof.” He bowed again, and gave her his best mile. which was matchless. “Oh, never mind,” he | finished; | honor of earning it later.” Tea is at 5 o'clock. You've met mother already. She ad of me in the line. Well both be glad to see you any afternoon at all.” He went home on tiptoe, inhaling from the bottom of his lungs In ac- | cordance with all the best theories of &ood health. Before his largest mir- ror he stood for several minutes deprecating his features and wish- ing that he were better looking. Final- 1y he shrugged shoulders at himself, thanked his stars that at least he | wore his hair short. ltke a gentle- man. and whispered an excellent she said. kness of perception she sug- You had not |the inherent conceit of mules. Then | he took himself off to bed and slept poorly and was glad of it. impatience mastered ok ok | ‘ JH had | him he went to tea, and became so thoroughly demovalized that he broke, of his own accord, one of his most stringent rules and consented to play informally. More than that, he rotted out his new tone poem in | B fat minor, Opus eight, which he {had never intended to play at all ex- |cept as a final encore on state occa- Sions. Later when he had won a brief tete- latete with his divinity he explained | to her. just why he had played the tone poem. “But you mustn’t say those things,” she persisted. “And why not?” “Because I don't want you to.” | 1In spite of her intonation, Iglesia {looked hurt. “You women—ail of you—you puz- zle me. If I say a silly. gorgeous com- pliment I do not mean, 'ou are | pleased, while you know very well T do not mean it. But if I say the | thing that comes truly to me, then | you pretend not to like it. Why?"” She looked at him from under her heavy lashes. t isn’t that. | ve friends——"" ““Friends” " said Iglesia, with his | palms outward. “How can a man and a woman be friends? For a man and |a woman there are no fine distinc- | tions of friendship. They are thrilled 10 be together—which is love—or they {are not thrilled to be together—which |ts indifference. There is nothing be- |tween. They may have for each other |affection. sympathy, understanding, | pity, hatred—but not friendship, un: |less ‘they are of different generations, or else they are icebergs. I speak, But 1 want us to that is, out of my own observation. I |have known many women, some of them for years; they are not my friends. It is impossible. And you, who have come so without warning into my life—" “But you've only met me twice.” Iglesia waved his hands. “But Dante had met Beatrice only once.” She gave him a smile go elusive and yet so comprehending.that his heart moved up a dozen beats a minute. “I don't agree with your philosophy, #0 let's try to be friends anyway—Oh, there'’s one thing I meant to ask yeul Did_you ever write any waltzes?" “Yes,” said Iglesia, reluctantly ac- cepting the change of subject, “my first composition was & concert waltz. She shook her head, No; I don't mean a concert-waltz— I mean a real waltz.” “And what,” he inquired politely, is a real waltz, then?” “Why, it's one you could dance to.” Iglesia sat up straighter. “I? 1 write waltzes for people to dance to? For crazy orchestras to play in restaurants—and hand-or- with the little mon- murdsr on the My dear young lady, ys A&l strest corners? “I shall hope to have the| was just | Spanish proverb which has to do with | {home and your mother to bring you to my stu- | “Oh, ves, I do.” she assured him. “You ‘see, the other night you were kind enough to dsk me what I really thought about your playing. And 1 sald almost what I though * ‘Almost? “There was something I—I_didn't dare to put in. I didn't think I knew you well enough. But my idea about friendship —it's so different from yours—is that friends are simply peo- ple who want to help each other. You play beautifully, of course, but—may 1 talk to you just the way I want to? Everything you do seems so cold and polished and brilllant. And a deal of it I can’t quite understand. It's so—academic. You're living away over our heads. And the one thing that would bring vou and your audi- ences ever so much closer together Is—well, suppose 1 say melody—mel ody, Instead of mathematics.” Hm,” sald Tglesta. “You would have me support the hand-organs? Is that it2” I'm not afraid I'm terribly o you ur terror,” he said The motion of her hands was very pretty and very expressive “I was just thinking that it you once let yourself go and put all the— the interest into it that you put into the things you say to me, you could write the most wonderful waltz in the world. And it would be good for you, too. You've got everything but feeling. You aren't common enough vet. And music is the commonest thing there Iv. It ougin to be, 80 that everybody could understand it. And I was wondering what make the very hest ouf of yourself. 1 thought——" ou love to dan: 1 beg your pardon “I said, ‘You love to dance.’ not_an inquiry; it was a statement “Why, yes; I do.” “As the saying goes. vou would rather dle than eat—I mean, you would rather dance than eat, and die dancing. Is that it? Pretty nearl “I will write Iglesia. Her eyes widened, flamed in her checks “Not really? Iglesia’s eyes were burning. ot for the hand.organs. but for ou. If you doubt, yvou shall sde, vou shall hear. It will still be Iglesia, Still be music, but vou shall dance to'it, if you like, and when you hear it, you will know that Iglesia is whispering to between the notes, ‘I love you She shrank away from his vehem- ence. “B-but I told you you must those things!” Unseen, he pressed her rose. “In case, 1 shall write them aid Iglesia. It was you a waltz,” and the color 't say hand and have to go [ shall sk that dio on Wednesdax. you anything you say me what you like best, play it. Then I shall how to write for you meantime—" She looked down. “In the meantime.” said lglesia, subdued, “you have the opportunity to learn for yourself how it feels to be a lodestar.’ * ook % TL’ SSDAY afternoon he appeared in recital at Aeo! n Hall, and Wednesday morning the crit were still searching for fresh adjectives. At the last moment he had changed his program, and instead of inte preting the ultramodern compose: including himself, he had unexpec edly chosen to linger over the har- monfes which may be called chest- nuts, and are still classics and still beautiful. It had taken the house exactly 10 seconds to realize that a new Iglesia had come before them, and after that he got a reception which had no I shall play for You will tell and I shall know better And in the realise whas are And, in accordance with the little F--‘"" TIR 8% S5l e played, in prdar, e Chopia A parellel In his career. Never before had women cried among the audi- ence. Ingonues had sometimes crowd- ed to the platform, bearing flowers, and matrons had sacrificed their gloves in applause, but nobody had cried. Nor had ever a sweeping wave of emotion rippled from the stage to the lobby and back again, and ceaselessly, so that you could feel it in the air and sense the per- sonality which caused it. Not, in all his days, had Iglesia taken his calls as he did this afternoon—taken them with tears in his eyes, as though at last he had found communion with his people. And they wouldn't let him go, and Iglesia didn’t want to go, and It was 8 o'clock before the car- rlage numbers began to shine through the. mist, like little beacon lights to signal the arrival of Arturo Iglesia in the top flight. By Wednesday morning the force of the reaction handn’t left him, and he was very tired and depressed. The newspapers came and he read them and put them down qulelty, and sat thinking. “I must be worthy of her,” sald Igleala to himself. “I must deserve her. I must write her a waltz.” His manager telephoned him that the recital was worth, cumulatively, a hundred thousand dollars. Might he come at 3 to discuss a serles of performances for which they could now demand the highest prices. “I have a previous engagement,” sald Jglesia curtly, and hung up the recelver. She came, with her mother, at the appointed time, and both of them were radiant. They had also read the newspapers. “Tell me your favorite,” he said. “Tell me the music you love best in all the world. Malke me a Iittle list.” Kood | you could do to | " said | “Military Minuet,” “Nocturne in E Fla Polonaise,” the Paderewskl the threadbare “Prelude” of Rach- manioff. Mendelssohn's “Spring Song,” “Traumerei,” “Liebestraum, and the “Beautiful Ohio Waltz." Before he could complete his obliga- tion, however, he was compelled to admit his ignorance in one respect. “I am sorry,” he said. “I am very sorry, indeed, but I have never in my heard of the ‘Beautitul Ohlo she struggled with her muff. t's what 1 thought; so I sht you the music.” examined it carefully. “It would seem to be very pretty he sald, with an effort. Another genius, or a less purpose- ful lover, might have trified with the situation; but Iglesia was too far gone even to feel contempt for the popular tune. He played it with every regard | for its character and his own, and {he made of it, in consequence, a | gracious reverie. He 1 no means | of knowing that he roused, by his at- titude toward it, an answering throb of devotion in the girl he adored. He | had no means of knowing that, from | this Instant, she forgot to’ look upon him as the property of the world, and saw in him only a lovable, talented loy, whose sincerity wasn't to be dis- counted and whose vast ahility was incidental to his affections. 1 Certain It is that the weakening of her resistance dated from this after | noon. In another week, he had called { her “Doris,” unrebuked. There were swift-flying seconds during which he waus permitted to rest his hand upon | hers. Paradise was in the foreground: {and yet, with all his new-found mo- tives and ull his resolution, he was | still fumbling for the theme of his asterplece. »| It was not through lack of diligence a theme, and it lack of any inhibi sald to himself, or project was beneath On the contrary, he stupidity. had missed through never that was not ton. He thought, that th | s intelligence. |accused himselt of gr * % ok x he S he sat at his piano, seeing visions of her, he was twice smitten with vigorous conceptions. He converted them. on paper, into Opus 9 and Opus 10. One of them was rather like De bussy, and the other was slightly less intelligible. Both of them, judged by | the measure of modernity, were works of art; but Iglesia knew, in his de- spair, that Doris would call them | coldly brilliant, and he didn't venture | to e ss them to her. With a calm ness placed them with his pub- lishers at an increased royalty. There came an evening when he danced with her for the first time. | Tt was at @ formal, gloomy function, | but there was little of gloom about it | for Iglesta. She danced superbly; she was the incarnation of the music that swayed her. And presently she said to Iglesia, looking up into his eyes: | “This is the ‘Beautiful Ohio." Don" | you see what a difference it makes “1 have been conscious of it.”” he said_gravely. | “Well, can you imagine yous get |ting any closer to people’s lives? { Look around. And I can tell by the | wuy you're dancing, too. Don’ wish vou'd written it yourself: | " Tglesia dldn’t cringe. Let her taste | be what it might, here was a definite thing which she appreciated. “I only hope that mine will please you half as well.” VWhen will it be done, Arthuro?” -annot say. As soon as possible.” During subsequent weeks, she made the same inquiry and got very much the same response, Iglesla was grow- ing nervous about it. In sheer des- peration, he manufactured a bright little impromptu for her, and she was grateful but not remotely satisfied. She told him once, pointblank, that unless he kept his promise to her, she might easily doubt his ingenuousness. She implied that there was something very mysterious about this professed K love of his—love which could obtain for him an increase of 50 per cent in his income but couldn’t stir him to the creation of so small a token of esteem as a simple waltz. *x % % IGLESIA boiled over. The trouble ‘was that Doris had demanded a task so infinitely far below his com- prehension thst he couldn't get his mind down to it. He was literally unable to think in musical terms at all without thinking on a higher level than she demanded. The task was too elementary. He tried to explain to her, and she grew dignified, and sald that she re- fused to bdlieve him. He expostu- lated, pleaded, lost his head ,and swore by all the saints that she was more to him than any of them. Perhaps unintentionally, she looked. at him from under her lashes. “Heavens!” sald Iglesia, under his breath, and the next instant she was in his arms. She struggled, and Iglesia, fright. ened by his own courage, merely held her. She relaxed, and fright depart- ed from him. He be:_th to her, :rl:- averted her head, ere Was & mendous silence; at leangth he bent fower and kissed her. And then a longer and more pulsing silence. “You'll have to go now, Arturo.”. Iglesia was aghast. “Why, dearest? Why?" “I—vou'll have to go. “After—that?"” “Yes. “But it {s impossible!” “No—you must.” “Say first that you love me.” “hnd “yet, you aste you “I—I don't know.” “You will marry mae, Searest. You know that.” S | “No—please. Arturo!” *I shall see your father, and—-" “No! You mustn't! Not yet! Not until I'm sure—you really love me. “‘Sure?” Have I not said I-— “And still you won't do the least | little thing for me, Arturo. Oh, you may want to kiss me and all that, but—— Iglesia leaped to his feet “Mincemeat!” he thundered. “Is it the infernal waltz again? I say I love you, and vou demand a waltz? Doris—-—" ‘Arturo!” “I ask your pardon, deavest! say I love vou, and then you— ‘But you make me wondér, Arturo. And it was such a little thing I asked.”, He thought wildly of Opus 9 und Opus 10, the impromptu and his re cent press notices. No, dear: no. But it's all I've ever asked.” You promised it yourself. And If You can’t keep such a little promise to me as that, don't you see how 1 have to wonder—about bigger prom- ise Iglesia mopped his forehead “And when I bring the waltz to vou, then you are convinced “You must keep you "or your own sake, t0o. “Then I may see your father?” “Y-yes, Arturo. But you mustn't kiss ‘me again. No! You mustn't! Not until—until then, Arturo. That's rude of you! \Where are you going?” Iglesta, who had turned away, turned back to gaze down at her. “Where would you spppose? the studio.” “But you're tired o'clock.” ““The piano,” “‘never sleeps confldence, dearest, follow its excellent have challenged me. Very well, I ac- cept. I shall come to you only when 1 bring you vour music, She stood by him with her hand on his slee “I don't want you to kill yourself Arturo, but—won't you come soon?” “Soon—or never,” he said. x ok H E immured himself in his studio, and his temper rose by degrees until he had almost reached the point of hysteria. He sent frenziedly to Broadway for an armful of the latest popular ‘waltzes, and after he had dashed through them he deliberately selected the least expensive vase from his mantel and soothed h smashing it against the bricl fireplace. Then, miraculously precise juncture, he caught a motif out of thin alr and rushed to the plano and played it over and over. With descending enthusiasm, he cocked his eur to it. and finally, with a loud thump in the bass, consigned it to oblivion. It would do very well for a concert waltz, but not for Doris. He telephoned to her and the sound of her voice inflamed him. He was almost persuaded that she loved him. Then he went back to the piano and battled with it for half a day, and broke down and cried out of utter helplessness on the keys. Fortunately, he was ashamed of himself. That alone might not have saved him from wrecking his disposi- tion. He was assisted by ‘an engage- ment in New Haven, and the short Jjourney came as a timely wespite. He achleved another triumph and re. turned home. To Doris over the tele. Dho‘na h; said: “You have not forgotten?" And she replied: 2 word, dear. To dear. It's past 11 said Iglesia stolidly Until I have won your I think I am to example. You it | | Without it, amn I so hateful to Il | and she sat by him as he pla EBRUARY 21, 1926—PART 8. 1. de Have you”" 1 am working.” he sald —1'm waiting, Arturo.” Once more he took to the piano, and the motif he had caught out of thin air was recurrent. He played it and frowned. He shook his head. With a sickening consciousness of failure, he hunted up one of the popular waltzes | and stared at it with loathing, then grimly, then enviously. And sudden the motif ran in Lis brain again and nspiration came to him. He took the manuscript to Doris, red from it. When he had ended he remalned motionless until he heard her speak. “It's beautiful, Arturo—it's beauti- ful?” she said, hushed. Iglesia could hard) “Does it convince good music, but doe “It’s the loveli —and it's mine Yours—and mine.” “What did you call it, Arturo? The Bride's Waltz" “Oh!" His hand as it touched hers was icy. “I understand that your father has been reading in the library. May I kiss you—once—before I go (o him “Y-yes, Arturo—because I'm afraid.” * % ok x 'O Doris’ father the int distinetly emb a cosmopolitan, breathe. I know it it convince?" st thing [ ever heard is rview was 1 he was proud to have his house frequented by great ness, but Iglesia as an acquaintance or as a friend and Igles law were two separate £ in his best diplomacy he tried to make Iglesta see th Doris’ mother must also be consulted. They liked him, they admired him, they him, but— “I am calm enough—and T am man enough,” said Iglesia, “to listen re. spectfully to the exception.” Doris’ father looked Iglesia straight | in the eve. “It 1is the—er—the international feature, my dear sir. And I repeat, without prejudice to you or- . * ‘International” Iglesia threw back his head. “And what do vou mean—‘international’ “Isn’t it quite evident Tglesia reddened and stood up “‘Evident’? Oh, ves: quite evident. That is the sole objection?"” “From my own point of view, ves.” Iglesia went pale and sal down again. _“Then I shall have to tell you what fills me with shame. It is a secret. It of a| approved of | | | | | |of a ¥ “HEAVEN. UNDER HIs BRE 1= SAID IGLESIA, TH. AND TiIE NEXT INSTANT SHE WAS IN HIS AR) is not my fault. You are not sure of me because of my name, my nation- ality. Your daughter was afraid of that—she tqld me she was afrald of <omething. T did not guess. She was afraid of this. Listen! Because of vour daughter T have risked m: tation as an artist with my public. have done it gladly. There is no need to be alarmed—It was music T wrote to please her. Now, because of her, 1 gladly risk the reputation ofemy pa ents, as people of discrimination and tact, with you. My name was Arthur Church, and when it was changed we were living in Scranton, Pa.—if that is international, I will be hanged. If I look like a Spantard, it is bécause I s.horn so; if I have the name of a Spaniard, it is because it was done by when T was young to make c: tal of it; if T speak like a Span is because I was trained in Sp: this music business. But, I say again, it is not my fault. I refer record in the cou Iglesiz rturo Igles He laughed oddly. *“And my tather was Abraham Lincoln Church und my mother was Mary Elizal McGraw. ‘International'” He laughed again, more oddly still. “Well, pos- sibly—but not in the way you m * ok ok % A DAY or two after the engagement was announced Senor Artura Ig lesta, the famous concert pianist, rode in a taxicab to that part of the metropolis known as and told the chauffeur to w: Three storfes nearer heaven, presently intruded upon ing man who, together with a battered upright piano and a stool, was the sole occupant of a large and dusty loft. The young man, who wore & wrinkled green suit and a checked waistcoat, had neglected to remove hi derby hat, which was pushed far back on his head. As he played he smoked a thin, dyspeptic cigar. “Good-morning, Mr, Milliken,” the genius, bowing. The young man stopped playing and greeted him effusive “Oh, hello, Iglesia! tle thing?” ““Most excellent, thank you. he said How's every lit- I have repu- | 1! - | well. I'll never bu to the | eth | Tin Pan Alley™ | the privacy | made the contract. The advance pav ment is $10,000. There is also_$5,000 for exclusive privileges for one mon: for some {diotic musical comedy. Thes are mad over w { sweep the co T have Lere your heck for one-haif the amount. The young man at the piano crossed is legs and hugged them That's fin M bliged. most wish 1 hadu’t agreed to keep m» name o Oh, it was generous of ou to - 1 don’'t dispute that. Bi d used my name on it I wouldn 1 for a nickel, 1 { ot a rep. I tell you what we'll do. name on it and take b ‘Besldes man sighed heavily kn it w Only—ol the beans. Do 1ch of & wa wrote.* Iglesia coldly ded the gt forget nothing. didn’t I? ? d Igle 1 worry. € z {“that I pr | I don't wrote her, | “Then' T | her : ade it what could not have done 3 could not have d ‘Oh, wish Wel Then | “I rewrote is now. 1 Jur part—you But 1 it, though i the young mar discords. “You're young lady don’t like 1€ likes mine. She don't know it, but she likes mine better. | 'm married myself. I make a living f this here business, and the old she hates music like polson | Can’t even have a phonograph in the | house. Pian Well, not on your life: Say, I'm doin’ part of the muslc for this here Red Roof revus. If you should happen to want te dig up some {new tune or other and collaborate . insulted, en s I am an art nk Tam a bigamist also” I am composing a | the ist do you {Anq, heside | sonata.” (Copyright. 1. France Possesses a Real “Pompe 11, bl Which Only Awaits the Excavators BY STERLING HEILIG. PARIS, February 11. HEY have dug up a personal seal of Faustina, most famous beauty of imperial Rome, at Neris Hot Springs, greatest beauty cure of the antique world, near Vichy. To make her beauty cures Faustina, wife of Emperor Marcus Aurelius, traveled all the way from Rome up into mid-France (Gaul) with her retinue, two separate seasons. These facts have stirred up notable Interest in a little one-horse French watering place, the present-day Neris —a town all up and down, built on green mounds. The green mounds cover another Pompeii. Before the war, they were about to uncover certain sections, as Pom- peli has been uncovered. Now, again, the project is up before. the French Beaux-Arts. All Neris is a subterranean treasure- ground. The French government has only to éxcavate the mounds, and a ruined city of marble villas, temples, baths, statues and mosaic floors will surge out. A real Pompeil! There is no railroad. You take the autobus from Montlucon. In 1852, Neris should have beaten Vichy as a fashionable watering place—again, after 1,600 yvears! Never was there such a chance to uncover the one great Pompeli known to exist in France! Napoleon III was building the rail- roads. Court influence was corrupt. The Duc de Morny stayed a week at Neris, walting for graft which the leading townsmen were too innocent- minded to offer. Those of Vichy were not innocent-minded. Vichy got the railroad, and Napoleon III built the Villa Eugenie. g Vichy is flat and hot. Neris is in the highlands above, of breezes, boil- ing springs and flowery hamlets. The main street, only, counts. It is lined with comfortable $2 per day boarding-hotels, the Mall, a melan- choly casino and the hot radium springs which have never ceased to flow since before the days of Faustina! The springs contain a wonder. In- closed by an fron fence, the great, old, smoking pond bubbles amid me- tallic-green water plants, unique in the world—they flourish in boiling water! They are the ‘“boiled and living greens of Neris,” ‘‘snapping with radium,” and evolved, here, on the spot, 2,000 years and more. What strange vigor gets into the rlants, to make them flourish in boil- ing water? The eminent d'Arsonval, in 1912, verified the immense radio- activity of Neris hot water, but old peasant tradition insists that true beauty cures must include daily mas- sage with the ‘“bolled greens which are alive!” Subterranean -and surface waste give radio-active lightness—‘'a kind of communicative springiness"—to soil and air. The waste water, also, con- tinyes to wash down dirt and pile up mounds. Of course, they cannot ever g0 higher than, the level of the springs—an earthquake having start- ed covering glorious marble Neris, after the barbarians had burned it! All this is admitted history. Suddenly, after unprecedented pros- perity, Neris had utter ruin roll down on_her—in the two acts mentioned. Behold prosperous Neris, long after Faustifla's time, richest hot baths®of Christian Gaul, still made fashionable by the Roman’ court. In their litters and chariots pa- triclan dames from far-off Italy- pu raded from the fountain of beauty to the forum, and from their white Vvillas to the shops of Greeks, Syrians and Marseillais. A beautifully cut in- scription records how ‘““Lucius Julius Equester Cimbar, twice duumvir, with his sons, erected the new Palace of the Waters, decorated and bullt the new shops and porticoes around it.” Barbarian Germans peddled furs. Then, suddenly, rumors, terrors, flights. The barbarians! The firs: horde of Goths plled down on beautiful Nert and, as the Latin poet tells, “all Gaul was ruin, wailing and smoking ashes You can guess how things are done in panics. Some tried to carry away their more portable valuables—and met the barbarian visitors. S precious things in secret ¢ : Neris was gutted and burned. Others had just time to gather up gold, jewels and other smallsized riches into thelr. cash-box, lock it, and fling it into the well. “The barbarlans won't get it, anyway!” They threw in bronzes, marble statuettes, carved lvory, silver table and tollet utensils, and alabaster vases full of money—wrapped, to pre- vent breakage. They hoped to retutn and get the stuff out of the wells, later. Slowly, the wells filled up. The inhabitani did not return. . Nerls was completely burned by the barbarians. Then, shortly—nobody knows exact- 1y when, but probably within 50 years —an earthquake rolled down thou- sands of tons of dirt upon the gutted villas, temples, palaces, shop b : and forums. The baths broke, and their water added to the growing sur- face waste—and washed more dirt upon the mounds. geSo. & French Fompeil became hid- en. In Neris Museum are broken col- umns, carved capitals, Parian tubs, mutilated statues, and a veritable mass of relief and inscriptions, mo- salcs and frescoes. There are bronze and marble busts, cases of gold coins, carved jewsls, enamels, bracelet ains Jeweled rings and seals, toilet objects of gold and ivory, alabaster rouge-pots and iYory pencils for beauty when the world was young. They are remnants of innumerable “finds"—poor remnants which the finders did not sell for London and New York, s oftenest happens. The inhabitants are always seeking “finds.” We loafed on the Casino porch. Suddenly, young folks began runnin Citizens strolled with dignity in the same direction. Two laborers went by with a ladder. “Come!” called the druggist, ““Rour- sire has found a llo-Roman well in his turnip patch Charming excitement In the turnip patch we saw them excavate the antique well, beautifully lined with joined masonry. From under the top soil came layers of debris, stones, broken pots, then broken marble, Roman tiles and_bricks, and charred stuff from a burning. WOMAN HOLDING TWO ALABASTER VASES WHICH WERE EX- CAVATED AT NERIS. THEY ARE THE ONLY ALABASTER VASES OF SUCH SIZE FOUND IN THE REMAINS Or»‘RiE OLD WORLD. What a tale is in that charred stuff! Up came two beautiful great ala- baster jugs, int: Boursire's wife, at the flower store, sold them with foolish haste for $40 apiece. Then dirt and d s n, mixed with bronze and marble statuettes, and the mud of the treasure! “Here’s gold which the Goths did not get!” called Boursire, washing out of the mud two rings with engraved sapphires, sold on the spot for $175, and which doubtless fetched five times that in New York They found gold stick pins with beautiful mosaic heads. They found a massive gold mask, face of a Gaul ish god: they found quantities of gold coin of Trajan, Julian and Honorius two gold figurines, a thin gold chain. three gold bracelets (all sent to New York), four carved jewels which I did not see, and a beautiful seal -of white cornaline. Much other precious stuff was found. You umnderstand, they ws four days “cleaning the well,” tur ing over every handful of the mud an charred stuff from the bottom. Only Boursire knows what he got! uch . secretiveness (as much possible in a town) is due to fear that the French government may lay hands on their “finds"—which it ald surely do if called to its at on uch fear & markably f exist have he The main as ns why eo re marvels_which on uncovered at Neris street runs down hill from the hot springs, straight across the antique Neris, past the remains of the WaterCircus, to mounds In the open country, where it winds as a country road. Present-day Neris is composed prac- tically of the main street and little else. The houses are from 80 to 150 years old. When they were bullt there was simply no archeological in- terest at all. They dug cellars and foundations. When they. found stuff obviously of value, they kept it. But | builders did not seek to uncover an- | tique Neris. Most of antique Neris, happlly, is still beneath unbuilt mounds—the | town being small, consisting of the | main street and little else. Why do not the owners excavate their unbuilt mounds? Or, why do they not sell the right to excavate? No one would buy, and none would sell! No owners oxcavate—and no out- sider would pay money for the right to excavate—because all know that as soon as any continuous excavation came to have a Pompeii look, the French government would step in and (take possession! Why, the Frénch government has even conflscated alabaster statuettes and engraved sapphires found in wells! How much more would {t not lay hands on a section of antique Neris street or forum? liere is the Frey It belongs to France entire. Private citizens may not own a part of the French Pompeii—as soon a¢ it is seen to be such, when un- covered. Unique of its kind, it would be much more than a technloal *his- toric monument,” over which the owner still has rights of property— on condition not to exercise rompeii.