But their talks were not always so strenuous and disturbing; for John was mercurial—an inventor of self-moods—a poseur, infatuated with the pessimistic attitudinizing he assumed at will, for the sake of the sensation of gazing into the mirror of his thoughts which reflected the image of one he deemed the greatest philosopher and psychic of all time, still unknown to the world. But John had many other moods, as many as he chose to summon, and on the whole, he was jolly bombastic, much alive, and in public, loud of speech in an overweening beggary to attract attention, and thereby feed his hungry vanity. But withal he was Louis’s warm friend, and showed it by a devotion and self-sacrifice singular in one so absorbed in self worship. And be this said here and now: The passing years have isolated and revealed John Edelmann, as unique in personality among fine and brilliant minds. Be assured he will not turn in his grave, unless in bliss, should he hear it said that he was the benefactor and Louis the parasite and profiteer.
They were both fond of exercise, and frequented the gymnasium. John, though not so very tall, was huge in bulk and over-muscled. He excelled in feats of strength, while Louis was dexterous and nimble in lighter work. As spring approached, John talked more and more about the “Lotus Club,” whose members had boat houses on the bank of the Calumet, near the bridge where the I.C.R.R. crosses. He spoke of a “Great Chief,” one William B. Curtis by name, who had founded the Club, who had beaten Dr. Winship at heavy lifting; was a champion all-round athlete, and had chosen the club name because of a bed of lotus not far down the sluggish stream. He had said briefly, he preferred the Greek word Lotos to the Latin Lotus.
So in the spring the two went to live in John’s boathouse. There were three other houses, one occupied by said William B. Curtis, who, when asked, said his middle name was Bill—and “Bill” he was called. Louis was simply wild with joy over this new life. He was now actually a member of a real athletic club. He had never been a member of any club. And these young men, all older than he, were heroes in his eyes, if not demigods; they showed such skill in performance, and were so amiable toward a youngster. The mighty “Bill” was thirty-eight, so he said. He was the man of brains who never bragged. He was too cynical to brag, and deadly literal in speech. As a mathematician he had revised Haswell. His brain was hard, his manner human. He knew his anatomy, and had devised special exercises to develop each separate muscle in his body. So when in the sunlight he walked the pier for a plunge, he was a sight for the Greeks, and Louis was enraptured at the play of light and shade. He had won a barrel full of medals and he said he kept them there.
By a strange paradox he detested display. He had no vanity. He had a quizzical sense of humor which he displayed when he said the club was no club, because there were no dues, no entrance fees, no bylaws. All that was needed in an applicant was a sound constitution and a paper shell. And yet he said he had named the Club the Lotus because of his love of flowers, and the nearby presence of the lotus field. His brain was remarkably well stocked with varied information of the so-called higher sort, but he seldom talked of such, except briefly in derision. He was the exact opposite of John, but with an equal egoism which he kept under cover, and which passed as modesty—although he cared not in the least. All this interested Louis, who was beginning to observe men as individuals, and to study personalities; to observe in particular the working of men’s brains; for he had begun to notice, with keen and growing interest, that the thoughts of a man corresponded exactly to his real nature. So Louis discerned in Bill a highly trained mind, self-centered and selfish in its nature. Louis guessed that the man had a past; that at least there was something hidden. So he spoke to John, who said: “You are right. Bill is not in athletics for fun, but for his health. Medals interest him only as tokens of condition. When he was a young man he was attacked by consumption. The doctors gave him up. Bill took to open air exercise. With his scientific brain you can imagine how systematically he went about it. He effected a cure; but now he has only one lung—would you guess it?” Briefly to complete the story of this man, the most remarkable that has ever appeared in the field of amateur athletics—he became editor of Wilkes Spirit of the Times and remained such for years. At the age of sixty-three he, with a companion, was making the ascent of Mt. Washington when a blizzard overtook them near the summit. The bodies were found a quarter of a mile apart.
The effect of Bill Curtis upon Louis was not merely that of a magnificent athlete and man of brains, but primarily, and most valuably that of exemplar in the use of the imagination and the will, doggedly to carry out a program. That a consumptive should have risen to become a great athlete, was enough for him. The living fact profoundly and permanently strengthened Louis’s courage in carrying out his own program. Though Louis did not especially warm up to the man, because their natures were not sufficiently alike, he has never forgotten what he then owed to the force of example of a clear brain. So Louis added “Bill” to his growing collection of personalities.
In the carrying out of his own program Louis’s thoughts turned definitely towards France; which
