The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, October 10, 1897, Page 17

'SAN FRANCISCO, SUNDAY MORNING, OCTOBER 10, 1897. (Copyrizht, 1897.) T One of those soothing autumn evenings | which help to make San Francisco so | ble was already well advanced, nd I was about to leave my rooms for a 1 a stranger appeared at my u mfer ., when 2id that a lady 1n a carriage be- wanted to see me. I atonce went airs, followed by the man. She is in there, sir,” said the man, ) a carriage standing in front of 1 5 observed that the car- s were drawn, but that the proached close to the whose face was covered ised mauner asked me | promise I foolishly complied. She brightened the door-curtain and | “'This is very strange,” I replied, hesi- tatingly. Really, I——" “Ob, promise me!” she implored, with great earnestness and anxiety. “‘Please 't instantly and clutched my arm. this evening she shot herself. that the wound is fatal, but now she re- | grets her rashness and wants to live. So | she sent me for you.” It may be well to say now that, although at first I was suspicious of some mean trickery (the cause and nature of which 1 | couid neot guess), ali doubt of her sincer- ity was rapidiy passing away. *‘But how can I be of service to her?” 1 hed %o alk with me of importance. the business here as madam ?"’ Tasked. ful little gesture at , and so I bas- saying: to get in, ’t you ex well as elsewhe She made this conf arnestiy,” she replied. “It 1 become as important to m, into 1 stepped the c he man who ha: ted the horses. As a large pile of rugs covered the front seat I was compelled to an. mid, and was evidently e the promisel explana- fore, I gave her time, and we | r jlence. She wore a cloak that | pletely concealed her form, but I her to be of medium size. The b d of her voice in- musical and cul- caressing quality uable by reason ¢ the strange cir- : made me uneasy, a certain the more v e kind enough to tell me and what are the precautions?” ed up, ana in a hurried ¢ excited manner (and, I 10 a disguised voics as well) ollowing explanation: ar friend of mine—a lovely married woman — was seriously s evening, and she wants your She sent me for you, as the r must be conducted with the most g ed secrecy. 1 waited until you should get into the carriage belore telling vou. So you are to =0 with me to see her. } You willnever regretit, and will be hand- | f somely paid for your trouble.” What services are expected of me?” I | " she explained, Before | meant she har- t must be kept and before I ou must give me | you will never | to a living soul.” er a ecret—an absolute secre exp asked. “Why, to see her prof | impatiently explained. | best surgeon in San Francisco you | save her life if any one ca: { “I am not a surgeon!” I cried, aghast. | “You have mistaken me for some one else; | so the sooner I leave you the better for | your friend.” tasurgeon! Butyou are! My friend { says you are, and she knows. Why, we | have both read these wonderful surgical | accounts that you have pubiished in the papers!’ | What a ridiculous situation! Cleariy | these foolish young women had been re ad |ing some of those extraordinary, but | purely imaginary, accounts of surgical operations which I, as a professional story- | writer, had been publishing, and they had taken them seriously! 1 hastily explained | this to the veiled woman; bat to my dis- | may she refused to believe, thinking that | timidity led me into lying; and then she bezan to cry. “No,” said I, earnestly; “I am not a ionally!” she | surgeon and have never been one, and it | | would be criminal In me to pretend that I | am—it may cost vour friend her iife. This | farce has gone far enough.” As1was in the act of moving to hail the driver she threw her arms around | me, pressing my arms firmly to my sides. | At the same moment the rugs on the | | front seat upheaved, and a man, who bad | been concealed there, sprang upon me | with the quickness and strength of a | tiger. His instant grip upon my throat | made it impossible for me to cry out, and |in a moment tne two had bound, gaggea | and blindfolded me, and were firmly holdirg me between them. Finding my- | self belpless, I ceased my struggles. My arm, it may be imagined, was prodigi- ous, for I thought that some dresdful fate | must e in store for me. Soon I felt that the woman’s breast was heaving with sobs. The man did not speak a word, but presently the woman brokenly said: *I am v eIy sorry to have been compelled to su it you to this terribie inaignity. I can well understand that you thought it best and safest to deny that you are a sur- geon, ‘or my mysterious conduct has besn “Well,”” she whispered, “tnis friend of | mine has been driven to desperation, and | We think | s you are the | can | ‘lsufiic\em to alarm any one. I expected | you to refuse to go and so I brought this man along :o help me force you; but I didn’t expect you to deny being a surgeon! If 1 had not been confident that your bet- ter nature and your pride in your pro- fession would assert themselves when you should actually see this distressing case, 1 would not have run this great risk of offending you and thereby defeating all my plans and hoves. Iam sure that you will be true to yourself and that you will employ your wonderful skill to save a precious life and your honor to shield a fair name.” The genuineness of the woman’s plead- ing and agony was reassuring. Of course, sooner or later I shoul | have to show that I was not a surgeon, but meanwhile much precious. time which might be profitably employed by a surgeon would be lost. “Don’t 1 look better now ?” she asked, roguishly. But, Lord! Suppose theteven at the house I should find it impossible to convince them tbat I was not a surgeon! Woeful possibilities of all kind suggested them- selves. I could not speak and so offer proof. By this time we had traveled a long distance and I had not the least idea in what part of the city 1 was. The carriage halted atlast. The man and the woman assisied me to alight ana led me up a flight of street stairs. I was ushered into a hallway, the floor of which was covered with a fine, thick carpet; then into a reception-room, which had the faint, sweet odors of refined occupancy. Then the woman laid her bana upon my shoulder, and in the gentle and caressing way peculiar to ber and so incredibly different from the fierce determination with which she had seized me in the carriage, said: ake the word of an earnest woman— who has suffered more than you for the outrage to which you have been sub- jected—that you will find a case here which will appeal to all the manliness within you. You will see distress and suffering in ‘an uncommon form, and the kindliness of your nature will respond to | it—I know it will. Wili yougive me a sign that you trust me and that I may trust you?”’ I was too much frightened, exasperated and confused to respond promptly. She sank upon her knees, put her arms about me and implored me for a sign. I nodded. She sprang to her feet, ex- claiming: “I knew you would! Now I will run and see how my friend is and ascertain if | everything is ready for you.” ‘With thatshe left the room. The siient men still sat beside me. ' In a short time the kindly voice of another man at the | door said: “John, show the doctor upstairs.”” The mau called John unbound my hands and removed the gag. “We will keep the bandage over your eyes for a lit- tle while yet,” he said, kindly. He conducted me up a flight of stairs, led me down a passage and then halted. There the other man was awaiting us. This one {ook my hand in a friendly grasp, and I discovered that his own was soft and slender, but was trembling. “My dear sir,” he said, with the voice and words of a gentleman, “it is exceed- ingly painful to us all to have treated you thus shabbily, but you will in good time know the necessity for it, and you will find that if we have the good fortune to secure your friendship and silence we shall be more than happy to recompense you to the extent of our power, which, permit me | to add, is not small. Iam about to take | you in to see my wite, who, as you have doubtless been informed, has suffered a serious accident. In handling a revolver this evening she inadvertently let it fall upon a table. It was thus discharged and the bullet penetrated her breast.”” He led me into a room and removed the bandage from my eyes. Then I saw in the very dim light of the chamber that he | | | | deal of trouble getting it, too. 1 had drawn near I saw a very young womun apparently dying. Her face held a deathly pallor, her breathing was quick and labored and her eyes were half closed. Istooped and looked into her face, and then she opened her eyes. They weresur- prisingly bright. “How do you feel?’ I inquired, taking her hand to examine the pulse. Without replying she threw back the bed-covering with her free hand, disclosing the sheets and her nightdress saturated with blood. ““Where are you hurt?” I asked—no doubt awkwardly enough. She touched her breast and smiled up into my face, and at the same time pressed my hand. Wondering at nothing now, I found her pulse, and hardly realized the force of the astonishing discovery that it was perfectly normal. ‘‘Can you keep a secret "’ she whispered eagerly, drawing me closer. “Yes,” I replied vacantly. *“I'hen—then—I am not wounded at ali! | This is merely my own ruse to have you here.” The night's mysteries were multiplying and thickening alarmingly. I had first been informed that the young woman had attempted suicide, then that she had acci- dentaily shot herself, and now that she bad not been hurt at all! She added: “Fetch a chair and sit beside me, for [ have a strange story to tell you. First, please moisten the end of a towel in the dressing-room there—1 want to take this pallor off my face.” Idid as I had been bidden, and when she had rubbed her face I saw how beau- tiful and keaithy she was. Her thick brown hair lay in a disorganized mass on the pillow and her large hazel eyes were lustrous and bewitching, “Don’t I look better now?’ she asked roguishly. You are beautiful,” I answered. *Ugh! this nasty blood! I can’ttalk to youtill I'va got rid of it. I had a good Everybody in the house thinks that I shot myself.” “Madam,” I cried, nevertheless fasci- nated by her beauty, her bewitching im- pudence and her perfect acting, “will you please explain this farce? [ have been treated most shamefully by vour tools to- night, and now with incredible coolness you inform me, a stranger, that you have made dupes of all the members of your household!"” “Oh!” she laughingly answered, un- abasied, “what will not a woman do when she wants to bring to her side—"’ and she looked at me so archly that I could haraly keep from smiling. Now, don’t look so stern,” she added, isn’u pretty. You, sir, you are the sole cause of all this horrible deception and misery.” *I? What do you mean 2’ “In order to have you here with mel had to do these dreadful things.” I started in astonisament. “Dou’t say a word,” she commanded. “Bustle about a little and pretend that you are doing everything in your power for me or they'll become suspicious. Ring the bell and tell John that you want was about 6) years old, with a tall, strong frame; but in spite of his high-bred com- | posure and wonderful self-command it was | evident that he was suifering greatly. He retired, locking the door irom the outside. The chamber was larze and handsomely /furnished. At the further end was a bed, from which came occasional faint moans. Although my position was indescribably awkward I had already decided upon a course. Under the pretense of going out for necessary surgical material I would find some trustworthy surgical friend and send him in my stead. I approached the bed with much trepida- tion. As I did so I passed under the hot water immediately. Call for an oid | tablecloth for bandages. Send Jjohn flying for lint, ammonia, aconite, tincture of iron, carbolic acid—anything you can think of. Of course I knew all along that you were not a surgeon, but I made all the others believe you were. Do what [ say, and be quick aboutit, or mv hus- band—the old wretch—will be back before you bave turned a finger to save the life of his dying wife. Command every one to | keep away. Hurry! For goodness’ sake don’t stand there looking like a ghost. When everything is quiet I'll tell you some strange things.” chandelier and turned up the gas. When [To be continued nezt Sunday.l ind, to earn a lit- to make, upon the whole, a rier by his pres- | ence; to ren n that shall be nece and no: be embittered; to keep ends, but the-e without capitula- ,0n the same grim eondi- with himself—here is | that a man has of fortitude tle and s to ienc zht almost say a child- | one to test the | d endurance of the strong man endeavor to live up to it. Isay z man advisedly; the weak need :—one mi norals, yet dard set for him- Steverson, phys- ie weakest of men—a giant 2l ina fragileshell. Those who ow how well he lived up d how much of the nderful personal charm and maenetism which he possessed was due to his almost unvarying kindness aud courtesy of man- ner. There were times indeed, when, under the stress of ph 1 suffering, he could be irritable, nay, unjust in his manner— much in his confes s to Colvin—but the occasions were o rare, the spasms of temper so brief, the twin; es of remorse 8o lovable that we ne: ot weigh them in " the balance against his me mory. If the inscrivion for the lost author's monument is appropriat n_overbearing and | Le has admitted as n. more £0 is its site. Next Sunday, with the smallest possible amount of ceremon with an entire absence of official fuss, the foun- | tain in the center of Porismouth square | will be unveilea. Itis to stand fn the oig | plaza, Tight in the middle of the land of | Bohemia which Stevenson <o loved to fre. | quent. The little green square, with its diminutive pines and weli-kept turf, is rich in historical associations. It was the | ceater of the busy bustling lite of the gold | fever days, and the old ’49r can tell you many a strange siory about ihis open space. There were those who would like to have seen the fountain placed in Golden Gate Park or in some square or avenue | more fashionable in its character and | more likely to be visited by the cultured, well-to-do classes. But the promoters of the memorial wisely decided otherwise, | This, the first monument to Robert Louis Stevenson’s fame, should be placed just where the man, who spent many days in San Francisco, most loved to be. Around the corner, only a block away, is the house here he lived and worked. It was from re that he started on an expeadition Icu was to enrich the literature of the world with that most charming bit of natural description, “The Silverado £quatters”; it was here that he worked up ae local color which gives *The Wrecker’’ “ch marked atiractions for San Fran- cisco readers; it was here that he evolved, from who shall say wnat prototype, the character of the marvelously energetic, bustling Pinkerton, whose schemes for money-making were so many and numer- H e o R St it e eritotios Chall ous that they crowded each other’s heels | hand, and on every side was the Bohemian and left the promo ter no chance to enrich quarter, himself, Though the surroundings of the plaza whose foreign residents Steven- son so dearly loved to stndy. Ha could | walk for a whole block without hear nga are by no means of the most beautiful | word of English spoken. His French, of their very squalor and irregularity had a | which he had perfect command, was in charm for Stevenson, and on a fine day he micht often have been seen sunning him- self amid the loafers who make this square their home. Chinatown with all its wealth of pictureque dirt was close at 70 ROBERT LOVIS STEVENSON TO EARN A LITTU TD SPEND ALITTLE TO BE HONEST TOBEKIND WO KEED A FEW FRIENDS &ND THESE WITHOVT CAPITULATION constant requisition, and he had only to cross the street in order to dine at one of those stuffy little foreign restaurants GENTLE WRITER'S MEMORY the life of this quarter, and it is fit that his monument should he here. A strange feature about the memorial is that it owes its inception and comp!etion almost entirely t0 a man who never saw Stevenson in the flesh. “I never met | bim,” said Mr. Bruce Porter, “butl ad- mired his works and read them over and | over again, until, from admiring the lL:t- erary genius of the anthor, I grew to love and venerate the nobility and gentieness of the man.” Thus it happened that Mr. Porter was ready for the task which Le imposed upon | himself. When the news of Stevenson’s death reached dan Francisco on January 6, 1895, the artist took up his pencil and sketched his ideal of a fountain in mem- ory of the author. The sketch is practi- cally identical with the design as exe- cuted, for Mr. Porter had the luck to in- terest many in his scheme. Mr. Willis Poik saw the design and entered into the work with enthusiasm, ana Mrs. Virgil Williams, an old friend of the Stevenson family, whose name appears in ihe dedi- cation of the Silverado Squatters, lent substantial aid. The estimated cost of | the memorial was $1200, and to raise this sum a circular was sent round asking for | zontributions, J. D. Phelan, the Mayor, being & member of the committee. The promoters’ efforts were not re- stricted to merely local circles, for in the East the well-known poetess, Louise Imo- gen Guiney, gave willing aid, and through her efforts raised a large proportion of the cash required. Still the work has been slow and it has taken a long time—over two years—to gather in the needed funds. Even at the end there was a hitch, for quite recently the committee found 1tself some $250 short. The money had to be raised somehow, and at last the Bohe- | mian Club took the matter up and its members, putting their hands into their pockets, found the sum. In return Mr. Porter is executing a valuable work of art—a stained-gl. landscape window— to be presented to the club, so that the members of this popular place of resort w:ll lose nothing by their generosity. The fountain, as will be seen from the illustration, is a masterpiece of tasteful simulicity. It does hot pretend to any great display, but it is to be solid and en- during, =nd in harmony with the advent- urous tastes of the writer. The main shait is of granite thirteen feet high, and on this, in incised lettering, is the inscription. On the top of the shaft, exeeuted in bronze, is an old style sixteenth ceatury ship. designed by Georga Piper and cast by Messrs. Whyte & De Rome. The stonework has been done by J. D. McGil- vary, and & notable feature apout the fountan will be its practicability. The water is to run out of plain, everyday, working faucets, instead of out of fgnci- fully designed gruesome-looking skulls. Further, the services of a man skilled in the making of pipes have been invited, so that proper outlets for the escave of the water will be provided. Mrs. Robert Louis Stevenson and her daugnrer, Mrs. Strong, are expected to ar- rive from Samoa by the mail steamer on the 21st inst. At the first glauce it seems where one eats so marvelously well for 25 | a pity that the unveiling ceremony could cents. Bievenson never tired of studying | not have been postponed a week in order 1nto the hearse. to allow of their presence. But the pro- moters declare that Mrs. Stevenson would prefer not to attend and that the ceremon: would give her pain rather than pleasure. Perhaps they are right, the grave on the top of Vaea Hill is yet too recent. Though | Mrs. Stevenson may justly feel proud of | this act of homage to her husband’s mem- ory, the contrast between the elaborate | granite fountain in the center of the bus- | tiing city and the unpretentious concrete | cenotaph resting alone on the top of th bush-clad mountain could only be painfu!. It is but a few months ago I climbed, with many weary steps, up the slippery track which teads from Vailima to the top of the rocky range overshadowing the house. The work had but just been com- pleted, the concrete was still fresh and damp, and the dusky workmen who had carried out the contract were still busy removing the traces of thair toil. A little space has been cleared on top of the hill, | and from between the trunks of the encir- cling trees one can look out on the whole tropical panorama of the Vaisinago Val- thread throngh banana plantation and cocoanut grove until the straggling town of Apia is reached. Right beneath, al- most within a ston e’s throw, itseems—for distances appear short in this clear air— is the house which Stevenson built and loved so well and far away, bordered by a glistening line of white breakers, is the deep blue Pacific, the sea he had known and sailed for years until he found his home on the mountain top. The plain tombstone, built after the shape of a Samoan chief, bears no adorn- ment save only a couple of bronze plates. On the one side, in Samoan, a verse from Ruth’s beautiful adjuration to Naomi; on the other Stevenson’s own epitaph, the simple and now familiar words in which he expressed the poetry of his last resting- place: Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie. Glad did I live and gladly dle, And Ilaid me down with a will, Thi: be the verse you grave for me, Here he lies where he longed to be. Home is the satlor, home from the ses, And the hunter home from the hill. J. F. RosE-foLEY. Queer Method of Moving a Goffin. The vicinity of Third and I streets in Sacramento W as both amused and shocked recently by the sight of a coffin being lowered by means of block and tackle from =2 second-story window. Within the coffin, as subsequently ap- peared, was the body of « woman who weighed too much for the pall-bealers to carry down the stairs, The stairway down which the coffin would have had to pass was very narrow and two people in front and two in the rear would have found it difficult to walk down together. Consequently there was a consultation among the friends and relatives of the deceased as to how to re- move the body. Thisresuited in a resort to block and tackle. With these fastened secarely above the window the cotfin was triumph- antly lowered to the sidewalk and swung ley; its little stream ruaning like a silver | | The acme of the art of making up for | the stage is said by competent judges to have been reached by W. A. Belasco in his character of a Chinese rag-picker in “The First Born.”” Heretofore this honor had been undisputably conceded to Wilton Lackaye of Svengali fame. Mr. Belasco, in the character of a Chi- nese rag-picker, is on the stage only forty- three seconds, but it takes him more than that many minutes to “‘make up” for it Physically and facially he i< supposed to represent an aged, decrepit and indigent Chinese—the body bent, the legs thia and the movement jerky; the face wan, sal- low, pinched and wrinkled, debauched and opium marked; the eyessmall and staring; the attire tattered and patched. In making up for this character Mr. Belasco first uses what is known in stage varlance as ‘‘face padding,” together with a composition called ‘‘nose wax," which is pliable and sticky and can be shaped as desired. Alump of this compound, weil smoothed, is stuck to the cheekbones and the jawbones, also to the wings of the AN ARTISTIC MAKE-UP | nose, giving to the latter a broad appear- | ance. The eyebrows are painted away | with “flesh” coloring and replaced by | false ones, Mongolian shaped—that is, | with the corners turned upward. | this comes a coat of sallow grease paint. | Over tnis again comes blue grease paint, ! to sink the cheeks and eyelids, the latter ! being lined in with *‘wrinkle’’ coloring, to | give the eyes a sickly and inflamed ap- [ pearance. The lower lias are lined with bright red paint. Two dark streaks are made from the chin downward, on either side of the larynx, making the sinews look Overall prominent, both sides of which areshaded with lighter grease paint, in order to give some life to the face, as all these dark shades would make it too dead looking. The wincs of the nose, the lips, cheek - bones and cheeks — the latter slightly—are shaded with a dark-red col- oring. Then the whole face is wrinkled by means of dark lines on the cheeks, the forehead and across the temples. As a finishing touch stage powder is used to give to the face a uniform appearance.