University of Santa Clara - Redwood Yearbook (Santa Clara, CA)

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: lo THE REDWOOD TME HERITAGE OF NELSON The verj ' first inkling I had of the whole affair came that night when I dropped in on Nelson unexpectedly. The room was dark, but over on the divan under the window I could make out the dim outline of his form. I turned on the light. He was lying flat on his stomach but with his head turned so that his face was towards me and his right ear pil- lowed on that old sea shell of his. His eyes were closed, so I started to leave the room. And then I noticed that his lip was curled up, baring the strong white teeth. That was Nelson ' s way of show- ing excitement, as he had often told me. So I stopped. Asleep, Nels ? He opened his eyes at once, not blinkingly or stupidly, like a man re- gaining consciousness, but alertly and — as I thought — a little impatient. Oh hello, Mac, — he sat up — glad to see you. Sit down, won ' t you ? Just taking a little snooze, you see. He laughed carelessly, but his eyes burned. There was something wrong, I knew. I never stood on ceremony with Nelson. What ' s the matter? I asked. He looked me in the eye for a full minute, without answering. I noticed that his hair curled a little in front from the moisture on his forehead. The room was cool. Then he took the sea shell, laid it on the table, and picked up a cigar. No, thanks, said I, anticipating the offer. Mac, — he struck a match and light- ed the weed — I ' m going to resign my position tomorrow. I thought he was joking and laughed. He snapped his finger nervously. I mean it. I gazed at him through the smoke mist. Sick or crazy? He did not answer at once. He was puffing furiously, and the tip of his cigar was brighter than his ej ' es. I don ' t know, he answered gloomily — at length, A little of both may be, Mac. I saw he was serious so I turned out the light. Whenever Nelson wanted to talk seriously he always liked the dark. He was a great fellow for talk- ing about primordial instincts and all that. Mac, he began, did you ever hear much about my parents? I hadn ' t, and told him so. Neither have I. I know that I was born on shipboard coming to America from Sweden. My mother died on the boat and I was raised in a foundling ' s home in New York. I afterwards heard that when my mother had been buried at sea, my father in despair had plunged in after her. It was night and they couldn ' t help him. He pufl ed on his cigar and his strong square face glowed a curious copper in

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THE REDWOOD Then saw ' st the Indian in thy shade Sink wearily to rest Where he his gray-haired sires had laid In days more blest. Hark! loud resounds the drunken broil! And rusts thine ivy now; — The focus erst of Christian toil A tavern thou! The changes ring! Commingled rays — Faith, science — on thee fall And green the ivy fresh arrays Th ' adobe wall. Before me files a shining band Of eager youth sublime, Strong-armed by thee for high command Of mellowed time. And tones I hear ring light and gay, Destined the world to thrill: Tones, even were they hushed for aye, Thou ' dst echo still. Echo still, Adobe? — Fancy kind, That vanishes anon! — I ope my pensive eyes and find Thou too art gone! R. S., ' 07.

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THE REDWOOD 11 the darkness. I sat silent and some- what awed. Nelson, I knew, had never told as much to any other man. I watched his face and saw his teeth bared under the curling lip. What a strongly individual characteristic that was. And yet, I thought, everything about him was strongly individual. The man was a power. He broke the silence. Do you believe in hereditary in- stinct? I don ' t know exactly what you mean, I answered, Why? Oh, never mind. Anyway of late years I have learned that I am from a strong Swedish family, the men of which for the last six generations have been sailors and have died at sea. In- deed there is an old legend in the fam- ily that we are decended from Eric, the Norseman. He stopped. I waited for him to proceed but he sat on and on, unspeak- ing. When he puffed his cigar I cou ld see that he was gazing dreamily into space. A clock on the table ticked steadily. Presently I spoke gently. But why are you going to give up your position, Nels? He drew up his chair closer to mine. Mac, he said, quietly, I am going to tell you something I never told any- body before — the secret of my life. For the first time in our six years of friendship he fell into a Swedish accent. I ' m going to quit my job for one in San Francisco because there is some- thing like a mighty hand drawing me to the ocean. I am like a child seeking its mother, or like the compass needle seeking irresistibly the north. I can ' t resist, I can ' t fight against it. It is in my blood, a part of me. I belong to the ocean, and the longing, the craving to reach it, to touch it, to wade in it so that the waves break in my face and the salt sting my eyes is awful. ' Tis burning me up. He ceased abruptly. We sat silent for a long time. Then he pulled him- self together and struck a match to light the student lamp. I could only stare. Nelson dubbed the Silent, the Stoic, with his eyes blazing like that, and his hand shaking so that the lighted match threw wavering, fantastic shadows on the wall! That was in September. A year later I met Nelson in San Francisco. Jack Stillraan was with me. After I made them acquainted, Nelson said: Say, I want both you fellows to come out to the ocean with me, will you? Go- ing to take a little dip, you know. A little cold isn ' t it? Jack asked. Nelson looked at him steadily. I go in every day, rain or shine, Mr. Stillman, said he. On the car I heard Nelson saying to Jack, Do you know I think I ' m abso- lutely indefatigable in the water. Be- fore I took my present position with the S. P., I was employed in St. Paul by the Great Northern. I always thought that if it wasn ' t for the matter of food that I could easily swim Lake Superior. Jack looked at me questioningly. I