CHAPTER VII

BATTLING JIMMIE

There is a heavenly terrace, flanked by marvelous trees. To the left, far

down below, is a curving, dark-shaded, turquoise body of water called

Lecco; to the right there lies the queen of lakes, the crown of Italy, a

corn-flower sapphire known as Como. Over and about it--this terrace--poets

have raved and tousled their neglected locks in vain to find the perfect

phrasing; novelists have come and gone and have carried away peace and

inspiration; and painters have painted it from a thousand points of view,

and perhaps are painting it from another thousand this very minute. It is

the Place of Honeymoons. Rich lovers come and idle there; and lovers of

modest means rush up to it and down from it to catch the next steamer to

Menaggio. Eros was not born in Greece: of all barren mountains,

unstirring, Hymettus, or Olympus, or whatever they called it in the days

of the junketing gods, is completest. No; Venus went a-touring and abode a

while upon this same gracious spot, once dear to Pliny the younger.

Between the blessed ledge and the towering mountains over the way, rolls a

small valley, caressed on either side by the lakes. There are flower

gardens, from which in summer rises the spicy perfume of lavender; there

are rows upon rows of grape-vines, terraced downward; there are purple

figs and white and ruby mulberries. Around and about, rising sheer from

the waters, wherever the eye may rove, heaven-touching, salmon-tinted

mountains abound, with scarfs of filmy cloud aslant their rugged profiles,

and beauty-patches of snow. And everywhere the dark and brooding cypress,

the copper beech, the green pine accentuate the pink and blue and white

stucco of the villas, the rich and the humble.

Behind the terrace is a promontory, three or four hundred feet above the

waters. Upon the crest is a cultivated forest of all known evergreens.

There are ten miles of cool and fragrant paths, well trodden by the

devotees of Eros. The call of love is heard here; the echoes to-day

reverberate with the impassioned declarations of yesterday. The

Englishman's reserve melts, the American forgets his coupons, the German

puts his arm around the robust waist of his frau or fraeulein. (This is

nothing for him; he does it unconcernedly up and down the great urban

highways of the world.)

Again, between the terrace ledge and the forest lies a square of velvet

green, abounding in four-leaf clover. _Buona fortuna!_ In the center there

is a fountain. The water tinkles in drops. One hears its soft music at all

times. Along the terrace parapet are tea-tables; a monster oak protects

one from the sun. If one (or two) lingers over tea and cakes, one may

witness the fiery lances of the setting sun burn across one arm of water

while the silver spars of the rising moon shimmer across the other. Nature

is whole-souled here; she gives often and freely and all she has.

Seated on one of the rustic benches, his white tennis shoes resting

against the lower iron of the railing, a Bavarian dachel snoozing

comfortably across his knees, was a man of fifty. He was broad of

shoulder, deep of chest, and clean-shaven. He had laid aside his Panama

hat, and his hair was clipped closely, and was pleasantly and honorably

sprinkled with gray. His face was broad and tanned; the nose was tilted,

and the wide mouth was both kindly and humorous. One knew, from the tint

of his blue eyes and the quirk of his lips, that when he spoke there would

be a bit of brogue. He was James Harrigan, one time celebrated in the ring

for his gameness, his squareness, his endurance; "Battling Jimmie"

Harrigan, who, when he encountered his first knock-out, retired from the

ring. He had to his credit sixty-one battles, of which he had easily won

forty. He had been outpointed in some and had broken even in others; but

only once had he been "railroaded into dreamland," to use the parlance of

the game. That was enough. He understood. Youth would be served, and he

was no longer young. He had, unlike the many in his peculiar service,

lived cleanly and with wisdom and foresight: he had saved both his money

and his health. To-day he was at peace with the world, with three sound

appetites the day and the wherewithal to gratify them.

True, he often dreamed of the old days, the roped square, the lights, the

haze of tobacco smoke, the white patches surrounding, all of a certain

expectant tilt, the reporters scribbling on the deal tables under the very

posts, the cheers as he took his corner and scraped his shoes in the

powdered resin, the padded gloves thrown down in the center of the canvas

which was already scarred and soiled by the preliminaries. But never,

never again; if only for the little woman's sake. Only when the game was

done did he learn with what terror and dread she had waited for his return

on fighting nights.

To-day "Battling Jimmie" was forgotten by the public, and he was happy in

the seclusion of this forgetfulness. A new and strange career had opened

up before him: he was the father of the most beautiful prima donna in the

operatic world, and, difficult as the task was, he did his best to live up

to it. It was hard not to offer to shake hands when he was presented to a

princess or a duchess; it was hard to remember when to change the studs in

his shirt; and a white cravat was the terror of his nights, for his

fingers, broad and stubby and powerful, had not been trained to the

delicate task of tying a bow-knot. By a judicious blow in that spot where

the ribs divaricate he could right well tie his adversary into a bow-knot,

but this string of white lawn was a most damnable thing. Still, the

puttering of the two women, their daily concern over his deportment, was

bringing him into conformity with social usages. That he naturally

despised the articles of such a soulless faith was evident in his constant

inclination to play hooky. One thing he rebelled against openly, and with

such firmness that the women did not press him too strongly for fear of a

general revolt. On no occasion, however impressive, would he wear a silk

hat. Christmas and birthdays invariably called forth the gift of a silk

hat, for the women trusted that they could overcome resistance by

persistence. He never said anything, but it was noticed that the hotel

porter, or the gardener, or whatever masculine head (save his own) was

available, came forth resplendent on feast-days and Sundays.

Leaning back in an iron chair, with his shoulders resting against the oak,

was another man, altogether a different type. He was frowning over the

pages of Bagot's _Italian Lakes_, and he wasn't making much headway. He

was Italian to the core, for all that he aped the English style and

manner. He could speak the tongue with fluency, but he stumbled and

faltered miserably over the soundless type. His clothes had the Piccadilly

cut, and his mustache, erstwhile waxed and militant, was cropped at the

corners, thoroughly insular. He was thirty, and undeniably handsome.

Near the fountain, on the green, was a third man. He was in the act of

folding up an easel and a camp-stool.

The tea-drinkers had gone. It was time for the first bell for dinner. The

villa's omnibus was toiling up the winding road among the grape-vines.

Suddenly Harrigan tilted his head sidewise, and the long silken ears of

the dachel stirred. The Italian slowly closed his book and permitted his

chair to settle on its four legs. The artist stood up from his paintbox.

From a window in the villa came a voice; only a lilt of a melody, no

words,--half a dozen bars from _Martha_; but every delightful note went

deep into the three masculine hearts. Harrigan smiled and patted the dog.

The Italian scowled at the vegetable garden directly below. The artist

scowled at the Italian.

"Fritz, Fritz; here, Fritz!"

The dog struggled in Harrigan's hands and tore himself loose. He went

clattering over the path toward the villa and disappeared into the

doorway. Nothing could keep him when that voice called. He was as ardent a

lover as any, and far more favored.

"Oh, you funny little dog! You merry little dachel! Fritz, mustn't; let

go!" Silence.

The artist knew that she was cuddling the puppy to her heart, and his own

grew twisted. He stooped over his materials again and tied the box to the

easel and the stool, and shifted them under his arm.

"I'll be up after dinner, Mr. Harrigan," he said.

"All right, Abbott." Harrigan waved his hand pleasantly. He was becoming

so used to the unvarying statement that Abbott would be up after dinner,

that his reply was by now purely mechanical. "She's getting her voice back

all right; eh?"

"Beautifully! But I really don't think she ought to sing at the Haines'

villa Sunday."

"One song won't hurt her. She's made up her mind to sing. There's nothing

for us to do but to sit tight. No news from Paris?"

"No."

"Say, do you know what I think?"

"What?"

"Some one has come across to the police."

"Paris is not New York, Mr. Harrigan."

"Oh, I don't know. There's a hundred cents to the dollar, my boy, Paris or

New York. Why haven't they moved? They can't tell me that tow-headed

chap's alibi was on the level. I wish I'd been in Paris. There'd been

something doing. And who was he? They refuse to give his name. And I can't

get a word out of Nora. Shuts me up with a bang when I mention it. Throws

her nerves all out, she says. I'd like to get my hands on the

blackguard."

"So would I. It's a puzzle. If he had molested her while she was a

captive, you could understand. But he never came near her."

"Busted his nerve, that's what."

"I have my doubts about that. A man who will go that far isn't subject to

any derangement of his nerves. Want me to bring up the checkers?"

"Sure. I've got two rubbers hanging over you."

The artist took the path that led around the villa and thence down by many

steps to the village by the waterside, to the cream-tinted cluster of

shops and enormous hotels.

The Italian was more fortunate. He was staying at the villa. He rose and

sauntered over to Harrigan, who was always a source of interest to him.

Study the man as he might, there always remained a profound mystery to his

keen Italian mind. Every now and then nature--to prove that while she

provided laws for humanity she obeyed none herself--nature produced the

prodigy. Ancestry was nothing; habits, intelligence, physical appearance

counted for naught. Harrigan was a fine specimen of the physical man, yes;

but to be the father of a woman who was as beautiful as the legendary

goddesses and who possessed a voice incomparable in the living history of

music, here logic, the cold and accurate intruder, found an unlockable

door. He liked the ex-prizefighter, so kindly and wholesome; but he also

pitied him. Harrigan reminded him of a seal he had once seen in an

aquarium tank: out of his element, but merry-eyed and swimming round and

round as if determined to please everybody.

"It will be a fine night," said the Italian, pausing at Harrigan's bench.

"Every night is fine here, Barone," replied Harrigan. "Why, they had me up

in Marienbad a few weeks ago, and I'm not over it yet. It's no place for a

sick man; only a well man could come out of it alive."

The Barone laughed. Harrigan had told this tale half a dozen times, but

each time the Barone felt called on to laugh. The man was her father.

"Do you know, Mr. Harrigan, Miss Harrigan is not herself? She is--what do

you call?--bitter. She laughs, but--ah, I do not know!--it sounds not

real."

"Well, she isn't over that rumpus in Paris yet."

"Rumpus?"

"The abduction."

"Ah, yes! Rumpus is another word for abduction? Yes, yes, I see."

"No, no! Rumpus is just a mix-up, a row, anything that makes a noise,

calls in the police. You can make a rumpus on the piano, over a game of

cards, anything."

The Barone spread his hands. "I comprehend," hurriedly. He comprehended

nothing, but he was too proud to admit it.

"So Nora is not herself; a case of nerves. And to think that you called

there at the apartment the very day!"

"Ah, if I had been there the right time!"

"But what puts me down for the count is the action of the fellow. Never

showed up; just made her miss two performances."

"He was afraid. Men who do cowardly things are always afraid." The Barone

spoke with decided accent, but he seldom made a grammatical error. "But

sometimes, too, men grow mad at once, and they do things in their madness.

Ah, she is so beautiful! She is a nightingale." The Italian looked down on

Como whose broad expanse was crisscrossed by rippled paths made by

arriving and departing steamers. "It is not a wonder that some man might

want to run away with her."

Harrigan looked curiously at the other. "Well, it won't be healthy for any

man to try it again." The father held out his powerful hands for the

Barone's inspection. They called mutely but expressively for the throat of

the man who dared. "It'll never happen again. Her mother and I are not

going away from her any more. When she sings in Berlin, I'm going to trail

along; when she hits the high note in Paris, I'm lingering near; when she

trills in London, I'm hiding in the shadow. And you may put that in your

pipe and smoke it."

"I smoke only cigarettes," replied the Barone gravely. It had been

difficult to follow, this English.

Harrigan said nothing in return. He had given up trying to explain to the

Italian the idiomatic style of old Broadway. He got up and brushed his

flannels perfunctorily. "Well, I suppose I've got to dress for supper,"

resentfully. He still called it supper; and, as in the matter of the silk

hat, his wife no longer strove to correct him. The evening meal had always

been supper, and so it would remain until that time when he would cease to

look forward to it.

"Do you go to the dancing at Cadenabbia to-night?"

"Me? I should say not!" Harrigan laughed. "I'd look like a bull in a

china-shop. Abbott is coming up to play checkers with me. I'll leave the

honors to you."

The Barone's face lighted considerably. He hated the artist only when he

was visible. He was rather confused, however. Abbott had been invited to

the dance. Why wasn't he going? Could it be true? Had the artist tried his

luck and lost? Ah, if fate were as kind as that! He let Harrigan depart

alone.

Why not? What did he care? What if the father had been a fighter for

prizes? What if the mother was possessed with a misguided desire to shine

socially? What mattered it if they had once resided in an obscure tenement

in a great city, and that grandfathers were as far back as they could go

with any certainty? Was he not his own master? What titled woman of his

acquaintance whose forebears had been powerful in the days of the Borgias,

was not dimmed in the presence of this wonderful maid to whom all things

had been given unreservedly? Her brow was fit for a royal crown, let alone

a simple baronial tiara such as he could provide. The mother favored him a

little; of this he was reasonably certain; but the moods of the daughter

were difficult to discover or to follow.

To-night! The round moon was rising palely over Lecco; the moon, mistress

of love and tides, toward whom all men and maids must look, though only

Eros knows why! Evidently there was no answer to the Italian's question,

for he faced about and walked moodily toward the entrance. Here he paused,

looking up at the empty window. Again a snatch of song--

_O solo mio_ ... _che bella cosa_...!

What a beautiful thing indeed! Passionately he longed for the old days,

when by his physical prowess alone oft a man won his lady. Diplomacy,

torrents of words, sly little tricks, subterfuges, adroitness, stolen

glances, careless touches of the hand; by these must a maid be won to-day.

When she was happy she sang, when she was sad, when she was only

mischievous. She was just as likely to sing _O terra addio_ when she was

happy as _O sole mio_ when she was sad. So, how was a man to know the

right approach to her variant moods? Sighing deeply, he went on to his

room, to change his Piccadilly suit for another which was supposed to be

the last word in the matter of evening dress.

Below, in the village, a man entered the Grand Hotel. He was tall, blond,

rosy-cheeked. He carried himself like one used to military service; also,

like one used to giving peremptory orders. The porter bowed, the director

bowed, and the proprietor himself became a living carpenter's square,

hinged. The porter and the director recognized a personage; the proprietor

recognized the man. It was of no consequence that the new arrival called

himself Herr Rosen. He was assigned to a suite of rooms, and on returning

to the bureau, the proprietor squinted his eyes abstractedly. He knew

every woman of importance at that time residing on the Point. Certainly it

could be none of these. _Himmel!_ He struck his hands together. So that

was it: the singer. He recalled the hints in certain newspaper paragraphs,

the little tales with the names left to the imagination. So that was it?

What a woman! Men looked at her and went mad. And not so long ago one had

abducted her in Paris. The proprietor threw up his hands in despair. What

was going to happen to the peace of this bucolic spot? The youth permitted

nothing to stand in his way, and the singer's father was a retired fighter

with boxing-gloves!