The Red Book Magazine/Volume 10/Number 3/The Climber



Just a scrawl, before I cut for Faubourg St. Honoré and the embassy. Thursday, when I was waiting for final instructions from the duke, I was button-holed on the steps of the St. James by an oily scoundrel in faded green and fringed heels. He “corralled” me, as your people say, picked at my sleeve quite mysteriously, and murmuring, through a fine odor of gin, that he had some valuable papers which really ought to come under my eye.

Being as romantic as ever I listened, instead of handing him over to a “bobby.” Then, with another oily smile, he murmured something about even second-sons being cautious. He went on, funereally about the youngest offspring of the foreign-office entourage keeping clear of scandals, blathering on about home-prejudices and the dangers of any union between old-families and American women. When he mentioned your name I was on the point of sending him kiting into the gutter, right there in Piccadilly. But I remembered the row you had kicked up last winter down in Surrey when Lady Boxspur's maid carried off your papers and that box of letters. And to make it even worse, while I stood there listening to the bandit in the green coat, up walks the duke himself, sniffing as audibly and pounding the pavement as hard as usual. Besides all this, I thought it might give me a clew to those stolen letters. And there was the duke, waiting for me, peering over his hawk-nose and pounding the steps with his stick.

So I meekly paid the blackmailer his five pounds, to save a scene. I had a chance for just a moment's glance into it, inside the club, and what the dickens it's all about I don't know. Then I called a messenger and sent it right on to you—for I could see it was yours—and is something about your newspaper-work in America and all that sort of thing. Five pounds for a scrap-book! I had to rush to catch the Paris train, without even a note, explaining. Of course, all that talk about secrecy is rot—what if you were a newspaper-writer once, over in the States!

By the way, that reminds me—I'm awfully sorry you rowed with Nannie; she's the only sister who really cared for me, and I wanted you two to be famous friends. You mustn't say it was catty because she let out about the newspaper work before the duchess—that was my fault, all my fault. You see, it leaked out so gradually (as you say, it will take twenty years to make me a diplomat!) when I was talking to the pater about you. You know, he's awfully keen on what he always calls your “get-to-it-iveness,” and driving up, one night, he told me, a little wistfully, that he would have been Chancellor of the Exchequer if he'd had the sort of wife I'm going to have! And the governor never enthuses!

But, at any rate, I was telling him about how, when you first came to London on that newspaper-consignment—no, you call it “assignment,” don't you—when you were ill at the Cecil, with the influenza, and how the hotel-doctor kept wondering and worrying because your temperature always went up in the morning, and down at night, contrary to all theory and experience, until you happened to tell him that you had been doing night-work on a New York paper for—how long was it?—making day night, and night day, and all that. It was simply to illustrate some silly argument about the force of habit, you know—but that's how it got out, and how Nannie got to know. Nannie, I'm afraid, never makes up—I never saw an Attenham yet who didn't smell to heaven with pride—so you try and see what you can do, you're so confoundedly good at that sort of thing.

I got the Queen with the announcement of The Event. It made me feel very solemn, to read that stately paragraph, as if I were royalty about to wed. You had it worded very nicely, and it ought to smooth down some of the Attenham feathers. But I wish you hadn't put off the date again. At least I wish you had spoken to me first. For C. W. has just had it straight from the Old Boy himself—I mean Downing Street, not the Devil, of course!—and has been so reckless to whisper it on to me, that it would be a “knighthood,” and would come along with the Birthday Honors. After all, Lady Attenham wont [sic] sound so awfully bad, will it, little woman? And this is only the beginning, you know.

Yet, honestly, I don't see how I'm going to wait all this time till The Event. Ever since that afternoon we rode side by side along that dusty Fez road into Tangier and you refused to make a mess of my career by cabling home your story about the Morocco mix-up—and how long ago it seems!—ever since then, I feel that we two have done nothing but labor and scheme and climb. And I want a little rest. I want to get comfy, with just you, ! Of course I know you were right in saying the title ought to come before The Event—in fact, you are always right—you seem able to think so many moves ahead of the game. But let's take it easy for a while; this pace rather makes my head swim, especially when I'm so far away from you.

But thanks awfully for the wire giving me the tip about the Kitchener rumpus. It helped me out magnificently. We win again, apparently. The duke will be bowled over at the news—and everything sliced out as clean as a whistle! But be awful careful about approaching the Thunderer. That's facing big guns, you know, and they might be rather nasty if they wanted to. But why bother, anyway? And why bother, too, sticking it out at the Whitson-Reids' if it's so uncomfortable, until The Event? It would sound better, as you said, but we're only going to live once, dear, and above all things I want you to be happy, whether we succeed or fail. (But could you be happy, I wonder, if you were not succeeding?)

Be sure to dress warmly if you go to the Four-in-Hand with old Bayanauiski. Honestly, little woman, I wish you wouldn't knock about with that old bag of bones too much, even if he is a prince. He has a horrible name in Petersburg; and all London knows what he is. Of course, if you can get anything about the Saghalien coast-fortifications keep your ears open, but I don't like your mixing up in this sort of business now.

As I said before, I want you to rest, and to be happy. And we shall be happy when once we're together, sha'n't we? Try and be at the Puddicombes' Tuesday at five. The mater's dropping in for tea—she brought home a lot of Indian beadwork from Banff and wants you to tell her if it's real or not. The dear old mater. She's not your kind, but I want you to love her! But more than all I want you to love her son—which is me! So here's a hug, little woman, and uncounted X X X's, until I see you. I've missed and needed you awfully, time and time again, over here. You know how thick-headed I get when you're not about to do my extra thinking for me. Meet me at Charing Cross next Monday or Tuesday night—I'll wire the train—and we'll bubble to C. C's. and talk things over. Be sure to wear a veil.

And don't forget about old Bayanauiski. And if you go to the Turf Club, go with the Churchills. I'm counting and marking off the days until The Event. A Seine full, a Channel full, a Thames full of love!

Always your own,.

P. S.—I wonder if you will let me read that scrap-book through some day?

,

Why should I not let you read this scrap-book through? You paid five pounds for it. That makes it yours. So I'm mailing it over to you, at once—or, rather, what there is left of it. In one way, I'm not altogether ashamed of my past. And if you're ever to be ashamed of your wife, then I'm already ashamed of you! But I've never told you much about my newspaper-work in America because I always felt it would be so hard to make you understand.

Conditions over there are so different. For example, I know you call yourself democratic—you said you used to wear a flannel shirt at Magdalen, a sign and proof thereof. But I know you always pinned that flannel collar together with a little gold hunting-whip studded with pearls! Your democracy is very different from what mine used to be. And it's so hard to explain. You remember how you laughed when I couldn't make out what you meant by “getting your colors” at Eton or Oxford, or wherever it was? Well, there are certain things in my country so understood I could hardly explain them.

That's why I want you to read this scrap-book—this poor little faded and yellow colored volume that was once the pride of my youth. You can do it on the train, coming home, if you have no time until then. I was too cowardly, I think, to show it to you, at first; I was still half-afraid of myself. But now I don't care. And if anything should happen to me, it would help you to understand.

I want you to realize how hard I've always had to work for things. I want you to see how I've always paid for everything I got. Your life is so different. Your country is so different. Over here you seem born to things; you wait and step into dead men's places. Where I come from, we always have to climb, and climb alone. That's what makes me feel what you said about “resting” being out of the question. I think the fever's in my blood. It makes me almost afraid of myself, sometimes. That's one of the reasons I liked you, from the first. You always seemed so cool and equable and resting. I've always felt, with you, as if I were sitting in the quiet shade, away from the noise and dust of things. Dear old Bertie!

I'm afraid I'm not making this letter either lucid or interesting. But I'm strangely worn and tired these last few days, for some reason. I feel unsettled. I wish you had stayed in London. Young de Girardin yesterday explained to me that it was the Bulgarian advance on Sujuk that forced the Turkish commissioners to delimit the vilayet of Adrianople frontier, and the report is to be signed on the 19th. I'll be very, very careful at the Four-in-Hand. I don't think the danger will be from cold.

Bayanauiski is dropping in for tea to-morrow. The old dear sent me American Beauties to-day, with a French verse tied to them. I believe he's rather fond of me. His eyes are exactly like a mastiff's. I don't believe half the things they say of him. Don't you think it's because his official work makes him so many enemies?. You'll be that way yourself, when you're Foreign Secretary and old and cranky—but you'll never have eyes like a mastiff! There is nothing new in the Saghalien Coast matter. I'm glad you're getting on so well, but I'm sorry you miss me. Why? Oh, I could hardly explain.

This is a stupid letter. I can't write more now. And you will think the scrapbook stupid, too! I tried to make up with Nannie, but she is relentless—the Attenham blood for you!

I can't go to the Turf Club with the Churchills—Bayanauiski, is calling for me with the drag. But don't worry, I'll be sure to dress warmly. Be sure to let me know in advance the day you come back. As always,.

Alice Emma Taussig, the clever young daughter of “Big John” Taussig, recited a beautiful poem entitled “Sometime.” Her rendition of these lines elicited an encore, after which she rendered a piece on the piano, thus blending the divine arts of music and poetry in a manner to uplift above the stern realities of life. It augurs well for the culture of Salina Gulch that at the next weekly meeting of the U. W. P. Club, which will be held in The Freemasons Hall, Miss Taussig is to read an original essay on The Religious Belief Of Robert Browning.—Salina Gulch Tri-Weekly Argus.

Miss Alice Taussig, the first young lady graduate of The Spencer Academy, will be a full-fledged Salina Gulch schoolteacher at the beginning of the year. Although still young, Alice's advanced position in literature and culture is a sure index of her spirit of progress, and an earnest that she will keep abreast of the times, which the teachers of this town have always done. She is, moreover, a brilliant scholar, being a graduate of the C. L. S. C., and having earned both the white and garnet seals. “Big John” is proud of his girl, and so are we.—Salina Gulch Tri-Weekly Argus.

Miss Alice Taussig, the brilliant young daughter of “Big John” Taussig, of MacDoughall Street, and who has been so successfully conducting the “Home Column” in The Sentinel, has given up teaching. She left yesterday to take an important position on the staff of the Salt Lake Journal, where we all wish her God-speed. The social and intellectual circles of Salina Gulch will feel the loss of Miss Taussig's brilliant mentality.—Salina Gulch Weekly Sentinel.

Alice Taussig, who has been society-editress of the Journal for the last four months, is to be added to the forces of our brilliant Sunday-staff. It was Miss Taussig, our readers will recall, who secured the Journal interview from Judge Charles Tripp, of Fort Smith, the American “Judge Jeffries,” who has sentenced more men to death than any other judge in the history of jurisprudence. As Judge Tripp had never before talked to an interviewer, Miss Taussig's revelations marked an advance in western journalism.—Salt Lake City Journal.

One of the most prominent persons brought to Union by the execution was Alice Taussig of the Salt Lake Journal. Alice is all business. A stranger would never take this small, blue-gray eyed, and altogether unassuming young lady for a journalist with a growing reputation. But Alice is an interesting writer, and a lady, too. To which same our “snake-editor'” adds that she's the finest looking girl who ever rode into Union. Alice expressed the hope that we would not give her a roast for coming to Union to see a man hung, especially as she had interviewed him in his cell three weeks beforehand, thereby scooping the New York Star reporter who had been sent west for the same purpose. We wish all the women of Franklin County could hear Alice Taussig express her opinion of those of her sex who crowd to such places merely to satisfy morbid curiosity. She was present as a soldier on duty. She had her orders for the interview, and later for the execution. She would charge a battery if her employers wanted her to write up the real sensations of the situation. She stood within six paces of Henry Broutow when he went through the trap because her duty as a journalist took her there. Enterprise is not restricted to sex in these days.—Union Daily Picayune.

At 12:45 Clerk Brown read the death warrant to Broutow, and preparations for the march to the gallows began. At 12:50 Sheriff Ford, with hat in hand, closely followed by Broutow between deputies Patterson and Gebhert, walked from the jail to the enclosure. Up the steps with firm and steady stride marched the prisoner. Already on the scaffold were Alice Taussig, the talented lady-reporter of the Journal, and two male representatives of the Call and the New York Star. A notable feature of the execution was that all the doctors who became so conspicuous in the different trials cravenly absented themselves from the execution. Sheriff Ford received much praise from all sides for the efficient way in which he performed his duty. Never having witnessed an execution, in two days he had prepared everything. The whole program went through as prepared, without a flaw, though on account of short notice Broutow's parents and many friends were not advised in time. The only irregular incident was just before the cap was drawn over Broutow's head. He was asked if he had anything to say. He said “Yes,” in a firm, loud voice, which was heard even at the foot of the scaffold. Then he turned and faced the lady-reporter of the Journal. “I don't deserve this,” he said. “And there stands the woman who will have to answer for my death!” By this it is generally accepted that Broutow firmly believed that his pardon would have been signed by the governor if Miss Taussig had not sent to her paper his full confession. As the Echo has already stated, this confession was cleverly secured by Miss Taussig, who dressed as a nun and visited Broutow in his cell. The report that the Journal representative fainted on the scaffold, at the last moment, when Broutow made his erratic accusation, is stoutly denied by the Journal editor and Miss Taussig herself.—Morgan Echo.

—Are you open to consider offer to join Planet special staff and how soon? Dwyer, San Francisco Planet.—Copy of telegram from Planet Office, San Francisco, with “Mr. Dwvyer's first offer” written in script on the margin.

The portrait given to-day on the first page of the Mecca is that of Miss Alicia Taussig, one of America's foremost women-journalists. It is not a year since Miss Taussig joined the staff of the San Francisco Planet. Miss Taussig is a Salina Gulch girl. But it did not take her long to break the shell of her chrysalis, the mountain-walled valleys of Utah where she started in her profession, and with new wings unfurled she flew to the sunny fields of the Pacific slope. Miss Taussig comes of a fine old Maryland and Pennsylvania family that once counted soldiers and judges among its members, and three revolutionary heroes of the same name give this young authoress her place as a Daughter Of The American Revolution. She was also one of the Reception Committee of the San Francisco Press Club to receive Whitcomb Riley last week.—Denver Mecca.

Through the courtesy of Mrs. Auguste Shenck we have been permitted to inspect a number of the copies of the New York Star, containing articles from the pen of Alicia Taussig, the brilliant young daughter of Mr. John Taussig of MacDoughall Street and niece of Mrs. Shenck. Alice has made an enviable reputation for herself in the East, and is just beginning. Her feature of last Sunday's Star is her signed article showing the inner workings of the Jersey fruit-canneries. To obtain this information Alice applied for work as a day-laborer, and sorted, peeled, and cut fruit. She is also good at political reporting and interviewing, and secured for the Star the advance story of Senator Delane's bolt. Her position as society-editress has also brought her in touch with Gotham's Four Hundred, where she is welcomed as much for her beauty of face and charm of manner as for her prestige as a chronicler of Society's passing show.—Salina Gulch Sentinel.

Salt Lake City still wants to hog things. The Journal of that town has been claiming Alicia Taussig as a Salt Lake girl. Alicia was born and bred right here in Salina Gulch and got the early training, that is making her the cynosure of all eyes in New York, at the same desk where we now write these lines. But now that Alicia is famous because she had the spunk to go down to the bottom of the Patapsco River in the Argonaut, our new submarine, the Salt Lake Journal is trying to claim her for its own.—Salina Gulch Sentinel.

Alicia Taussig, New York's most brilliant woman-journalist, will visit each of the different European capitals for the Daily Star and give America her valuable personal impressions on “How To Beautify Our Cities.” Virile of intellect, indomitable of will, alert, clear-sighted, and with all the natural endowments of the true critic and observer, Alicia Taussig is still a sensitive, tender, warm-hearted woman, throbbing with sympathy for the lowly and the unfortunate. For this reason Miss Taussig's letters to the Star will also partake of the nature of studies in sociology, as she treats of the factories and slums of the different great cities she is to visit. The first two letters will deal exhaustively with London; and the next two will cover Paris.—New York Daily Star.

—Hold back London article and interview B. Attenham, British Foreign Office, now at Gibraltar. Get facts if breach of Algeciras Conference in England's forcible interception of moving-picture machines sent by Germany to incite religious war at Fez. Wire full story; rush.—Cablegram from G. H. P. New York Daily Star, New York.

—Equip at Tangier and follow Attenham to Fez. Investigate Moorish outbreak at Safru and connect with moving-picture machine outrages. Wire everything on Attenham mission; draw on us at Cook's; rush.—Cablegram from G. H. P. New York Daily Star, New York.

—Must have Attenham story. London and Berlin data waiting confirmation; am sending Struthers down from Paris to help. Rush.—Cablegram from G. H. P. New York Daily Star, New York.

—Cannot understand your scruples; wire story or wire resignation; immediate.—Cablegram from G. H. P. New York Daily Star, New York.

(Below this, written in script, in woman's hand: “The End.”)

Rescued from Raisuli—Intrepid American Woman Captured By The Notorious Moroccan Bandit and Later Rescued By British Envoy—Had Been Warned At Two Consulates Not To Attempt The Interior—Brereton Avering Attenham, Who Personally Effected The Rescue, Refuses All Information—Captured Woman Said To Be Young American.—Heading of despatch from the London Daily Mail, with body of article removed from scrap-book, but with woman's handwriting along empty column: “Oh, Bertie, Bertie, if they only knew!”

Professor O'Malley, after the inner-man had been satisfied by the good things served by the ladies of the society in the basement, then spoke on “Some Famous Graduates of Spencer Academy.” He had an easy subject, and he made it more than interesting. Beginning with Alicia Taussig, the first graduate, who is a daughter of “Big John” 'Taussig of MacDoughall Street and who has long since worked her way up to the top of the literary ladder, he told of how it was a Utah woman who infused a new spirit of aggressiveness into Eastern journalism, enumerating some of the wonderful feats which Miss Taussig had accomplished.—The Salina Gulch Tri-Weekly Argus.

(Thereafter followed a number of clippings from, apparently, London society journals. Each clipping was so heavily overscored with blue pencil-strokes as to be practically undecipherable. The only one left intact was a report from The Queen, of the presentation at Court of Miss Alicia Taussig, of New York City.

III

Yesterday in St. Stephen's Chapel, London, Miss Alicia Emelia Taussig, of New York City, was married to Prince Ignace Ormsdorff Bayanauiski. The service was a private one, the only persons present being the private secretary of the Prince, and a Mrs. Auguste Shenck, an aunt of the bride, who is en route from Rotterdam to America.—London dispatch to the Paris Edition of The New York Herald.

The Bayanauiski-Taussig marriage has somewhat set London astir. Alicia Emelia Taussig was one of the most striking figures in London social circles, and her beauty, combined with her American breeziness of manner, made her everywhere popular. During the last few months her name has been coupled with that of one of the younger and more ambitious members of the foreign-office staff, already listed for promotion because of his brilliant work during the recent Moroccan trouble. In fact, one reputable society journal of this city has already published an announcement of the formal engagement of Miss Taussig to the officer in question, but it is now conceded that any such announcement must have been either ill-founded or premature, to say the least. The groom, Prince Bayanauiski, besides being one of the most distinguished of the Russian notabilities who have elected to reside in England during the present political unrest, also won fame through the Karakoran Frontier Arbitration and the winning of the Hague permission for the Saghalien Coast fortifications. There was some feeling, during the advance of the British Mission into Tibet, at what was considered the prince's over-active opposition to the foreign-office plans. That matter, however, has been long since forgotten, and during the past season the prince has abandoned his more onerous official duties for the distractions of society. He is the owner of vast estates in the neighborhood of Petrozavodsk, Olonetz, where, it is rumored, he will once more make his home, following the consummation of the civil and religious marriage-service in his church and country.

The aunt of the bride, Mrs. Shenck, who witnessed the ceremony at St. Stephen's, was questioned by the press-representative on her way to Liverpool to embark for New York. She was quite willing to talk, but could give no explanation of the hurried proceedings, beyond the fact that Miss Taussig had always been a young woman of both independent thought and tempestuous activity. Mrs. Shenck, whose face bore the unmistakable signs of recent weeping, corrected the report that Miss Taussig had been a New York girl, declaring that her niece had been born and brought up in the town of Salina Gulch, Utah.

It was only last week that His Excellency The Czar caused to be conferred on Prince Bayanauiski, on the occasion of the latter's seventy-fourth birthday, the Badge of the Order of St. Andrew.—Special dispatch to the Paris edition of The New York Herald.