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diff --git a/25586-h/25586-h.htm b/25586-h/25586-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0e5dcec --- /dev/null +++ b/25586-h/25586-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11868 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"/> + + <title>Stories, Reviews and Essays by Willa Cather.</title> + + <style type="text/css" media="screen"> + <!-- + /*General Document Styles*/ + body { font-family: Georgia, serif; margin: 0em 20%; } + p { line-height: 1.4em; margin:0em; text-align: justify; text-indent:1.5em;} + h1, h2, h3, h4 { text-align: center; margin: 1em 0em; font-weight: normal; clear: both; } + abbr {border:none; text-decoration:none; font-variant:normal;} + + /*Page Number Styling*/ + .pagenum { position: absolute; left: 2em; font-size: 10px; text-align: left; color: gray; background-color: inherit; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-indent: 0em; } + /*a[title].pagenum:after { content: attr(title); }*/ + + /*Frontmatter Styling*/ + #frontmatter p, #frontmatter h1 {text-align:left;text-indent:0em;font-style:italic;} + .section {margin:5em auto;} + #title_page {margin: 9em auto;} + #title_page p {text-indent:0em; text-align:center; line-height:1.25;} + .author {font-size:2em;margin:3em 0em;} + .stopword {font-size:.6em;line-height:3em;} + #contents {position:relative;} + ul {list-style-type: none; margin-bottom:2em;} + + /*Sections and Essays Styling*/ + + .story, .section, .essay {margin:5em 0em;border-top:3px black solid; padding:2em 0em; clear:both;} + .story_title, .section_title, .essay_title {font-style:italic;text-align:left;font-size:150%;} + .source {text-align:right;font-size:80%;margin:2em 0em;} + .review {margin-top:4em;} + + p.first_paragraph {text-indent:0em;} + p.first_paragraph:first-letter {font-size:2.5em;float:left; margin: -.2em 4px -.2em 0px; line-height: 1.5em;} + p.first_paragraph:first-line {font-variant:small-caps;} + .return_toc {font-size:10px;text-align:right;position:absolute;right:4em;font-family:sans-serif;font-weight:normal;font-style:normal;} + + hr.thoughtbreak {display:none;} + .post_thoughtbreak {padding-top:2em;} + .continued_paragraph {text-indent:0em;} + h4 {font-variant:small-caps;font-weight:normal;font-style:normal;} + .call-out {text-align:center;margin:1em 0em;} + .work_reviewed {width:90%;text-indent:0em;margin:1.5em auto;} + + .poem {margin:.75em 3em;} + .poem p {text-indent:-1em;text-align:left;padding-left:1em;} + .stanza {margin:1em 0em;} + p.i2 {text-indent:1em;} + p.i4 {text-indent:2em;} + p.i16 {text-indent:8em;} + p.signature {text-align:right;} + + /*The Beginning and The End*/ + #frontmatter { border-top: 3px black solid; } + #the_end { padding: 3em 0em; border-bottom: 3px black solid; } + + /*Link Styling*/ + a:link { text-decoration: none; } + a:visited { text-decoration: none; } + a:focus, a:active { outline:#ffee66 solid 2px; background-color:#ffee66;} + a:focus img, a:active img {outline: #ffee66 solid 2px; } + --> + </style> + <style type="text/css" media="print"> + body {margin:72pt 36pt;} + .story, .essay {page-break-before: always;} + .return_toc {display:none;} + </style> + +</head> + +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Collection of Stories, Reviews and Essays, by +Willa Cather + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: A Collection of Stories, Reviews and Essays + +Author: Willa Cather + +Release Date: May 24, 2008 [EBook #25586] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A COLLECTION OF STORIES *** + + + + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Barbara Tozier and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + <div id="frontmatter" class="section"> + <h1><span class="stopword">A</span><br /> + Collection<br /> + <span class="stopword">of</span><br /> + Stories, Reviews and Essays</h1> + <p class="author"><span class="stopword">by</span><br /> Willa Cather</p> + </div> + <div id="contents" class="section"> + <h2 class="section_title">CONTENTS</h2> + <ul> + <li><a href="#parti">Part I: Stories</a> + <ul> + <li><a href="#peter">Peter</a></li> + <li><a href="#divide">On the Divide</a></li> + <li><a href="#hermannson">Eric Hermannson’s Soul</a></li> + <li><a href="#tavener">The Sentimentality of William Tavener</a></li> + <li><a href="#namesake">The Namesake</a></li> + <li><a href="#bluff">The Enchanted Bluff</a></li> + <li><a href="#nelly">The Joy of Nelly Deane</a></li> + <li><a href="#bohemian">The Bohemian Girl</a></li> + <li><a href="#consequences">Consequences</a></li> + <li><a href="#bookkeeper">The Bookkeeper’s Wife</a></li> + <li><a href="#ardessa">Ardessa</a></li> + <li><a href="#boss">Her Boss</a></li> + </ul> + </li> + <li><a href="#partii">Part II: Reviews and Essays</a> + <ul> + <li><a href="#twain">Mark Twain</a></li> + <li><a href="#howells">William Dean Howells</a></li> + <li><a href="#poe">Edgar Allan Poe</a></li> + <li><a href="#whitman">Walt Whitman</a></li> + <li><a href="#james">Henry James</a></li> + <li><a href="#frederic">Harold Frederic</a></li> + <li><a href="#chopin">Kate Chopin</a></li> + <li><a href="#crane">Stephen Crane</a></li> + <li><a href="#norris">Frank Norris</a></li> + <li><a href="#knew">When I Knew Stephen Crane</a></li> + <li><a href="#fiction">On the Art of Fiction</a></li> + </ul> + </li> + </ul> + </div> + <div id="parti" class="section"> + <h2 class="section_title">Part I<br /> Stories</h2> + <div id="peter" class="story"><a class="pagenum" id="page1" title="1"> </a> + <h3 class="story_title">Peter <a class="return_toc" href="#contents" title="Return to Contents">ToC</a></h3> + + <p class="return_toc"></p> + + <p class="first_paragraph">“No, Antone, I have told thee many times, no, thou shalt + not sell it until I am gone.”</p> + + <p>“But I need money; what good is that old fiddle to thee? + The very crows laugh at thee when thou art trying to play. + Thy hand trembles so thou canst scarce hold the bow. Thou + shalt go with me to the Blue to cut wood to-morrow. See to + it thou art up early.”</p> + + <p>“What, on the Sabbath, Antone, when it is so cold? I get + so very cold, my son, let us not go to-morrow.”</p> + + <p>“Yes, to-morrow, thou lazy old man. Do not I cut wood + upon the Sabbath? Care I how cold it is? Wood thou shalt + cut, and haul it too, and as for the fiddle, I tell thee I will sell + it yet.” Antone pulled his ragged cap down over his low + heavy brow, and went out. The old man drew his stool up + nearer the fire, and sat stroking his violin with trembling fingers + and muttering, “Not while I live, not while I live.”</p> + + <p>Five years ago they had come here, Peter Sadelack, and his + wife, and oldest son Antone, and countless smaller Sadelacks, + here to the dreariest part of south-western Nebraska, and had + taken up a homestead. Antone was the acknowledged master + of the premises, and people said he was a likely youth, and + would do well. That he was mean and untrustworthy every + one knew, but that made little difference. His corn was better + tended than any in the county, and his wheat always yielded + more than other men’s.</p> + + <p>Of Peter no one knew much, nor had any one a good word + to say for him. He drank whenever he could get out of Antone’s + sight long enough to pawn his hat or coat for whiskey. + Indeed there were but two things he would not pawn, his + pipe and his violin. He was a lazy, absent minded old fellow, + who liked to fiddle better than to plow, though Antone surely + got work enough out of them all, for that matter. In the + house of which Antone was master there was no one, from + the little boy three years old, to the old man of sixty, who did + not earn his bread. Still people said that Peter was worthless, + and was a great drag on Antone, his son, who never drank, + <a class="pagenum" id="page2" title="2"> </a>and was a much better man than his father had ever been. + Peter did not care what people said. He did not like the country, + nor the people, least of all he liked the plowing. He was + very homesick for Bohemia. Long ago, only eight years ago + by the calendar, but it seemed eight centuries to Peter, he had + been a second violinist in the great theatre at Prague. He had + gone into the theatre very young, and had been there all his + life, until he had a stroke of paralysis, which made his arm so + weak that his bowing was uncertain. Then they told him he + could go. Those were great days at the theatre. He had plenty + to drink then, and wore a dress coat every evening, and there + were always parties after the play. He could play in those + days, ay, that he could! He could never read the notes well, so + he did not play first; but his touch, he had a touch indeed, so + Herr Mikilsdoff, who led the orchestra, had said. Sometimes + now Peter thought he could plow better if he could only bow + as he used to. He had seen all the lovely women in the world + there, all the great singers and the great players. He was in the + orchestra when Rachel played, and he heard Liszt play when + the Countess d’Agoult sat in the stage box and threw the master + white lilies. Once, a French woman came and played for + weeks, he did not remember her name now. He did not remember + her face very well either, for it changed so, it was + never twice the same. But the beauty of it, and the great hunger + men felt at the sight of it, that he remembered. Most of all + he remembered her voice. He did not know French, and + could not understand a word she said, but it seemed to him + that she must be talking the music of Chopin. And her voice, + he thought he should know that in the other world. The last + night she played a play in which a man touched her arm, and + she stabbed him. As Peter sat among the smoking gas jets + down below the footlights with his fiddle on his knee, and + looked up at her, he thought he would like to die too, if he + could touch her arm once, and have her stab him so. Peter + went home to his wife very drunk that night. Even in those + days he was a foolish fellow, who cared for nothing but music + and pretty faces.</p> + + <p>It was all different now. He had nothing to drink and little + to eat, and here, there was nothing but sun, and grass, and + sky. He had forgotten almost everything, but some things he + <a class="pagenum" id="page3" title="3"> </a>remembered well enough. He loved his violin and the holy + Mary, and above all else he feared the Evil One, and his son + Antone.</p> + + <p>The fire was low, and it grew cold. Still Peter sat by the fire + remembering. He dared not throw more cobs on the fire; Antone + would be angry. He did not want to cut wood tomorrow, + it would be Sunday, and he wanted to go to mass. + Antone might let him do that. He held his violin under his + wrinkled chin, his white hair fell over it, and he began to play + “Ave Maria.” His hand shook more than ever before, and at + last refused to work the bow at all. He sat stupefied for a + while, then arose, and taking his violin with him, stole out + into the old sod stable. He took Antone’s shot-gun down + from its peg, and loaded it by the moonlight which streamed + in through the door. He sat down on the dirt floor, and + leaned back against the dirt wall. He heard the wolves howling + in the distance, and the night wind screaming as it swept + over the snow. Near him he heard the regular breathing of + the horses in the dark. He put his crucifix above his heart, and + folding his hands said brokenly all the Latin he had ever + known, “<em lang="la" xml:lang="la">Pater noster, qui in cælum est.</em>” Then he raised his + head and sighed, “Not one kreutzer will Antone pay them to + pray for my soul, not one kreutzer, he is so careful of his + money, is Antone, he does not waste it in drink, he is a better + man than I, but hard sometimes. He works the girls too hard, + women were not made to work so. But he shall not sell thee, + my fiddle, I can play thee no more, but they shall not part us. + We have seen it all together, and we will forget it together, + the French woman and all.” He held his fiddle under his chin + a moment, where it had lain so often, then put it across his + knee and broke it through the middle. He pulled off his old + boot, held the gun between his knees with the muzzle against + his forehead, and pressed the trigger with his toe.</p> + + <p>In the morning Antone found him stiff, frozen fast in a + pool of blood. They could not straighten him out enough to + fit a coffin, so they buried him in a pine box. Before the funeral + Antone carried to town the fiddle-bow which Peter had + forgotten to break. Antone was very thrifty, and a better man + than his father had been.</p> + <p class="source"><cite>The Mahogany Tree</cite>, May 21, 1892</p> + + </div> + <div id="divide" class="story"><a class="pagenum" id="page4" title="4"> </a> + <h3 class="story_title">On the Divide <a class="return_toc" href="#contents" title="Return to Contents">ToC</a></h3> + + <p class="first_paragraph">Near Rattlesnake Creek, on the side of a little draw + stood Canute’s shanty. North, east, south, stretched the + level Nebraska plain of long rust-red grass that undulated + constantly in the wind. To the west the ground was broken + and rough, and a narrow strip of timber wound along the + turbid, muddy little stream that had scarcely ambition enough + to crawl over its black bottom. If it had not been for the few + stunted cottonwoods and elms that grew along its banks, + Canute would have shot himself years ago. The Norwegians + are a timber-loving people, and if there is even a turtle pond + with a few plum bushes around it they seem irresistibly drawn + toward it.</p> + + <p>As to the shanty itself, Canute had built it without aid of + any kind, for when he first squatted along the banks of Rattlesnake + Creek there was not a human being within twenty + miles. It was built of logs split in halves, the chinks stopped + with mud and plaster. The roof was covered with earth and + was supported by one gigantic beam curved in the shape of a + round arch. It was almost impossible that any tree had ever + grown in that shape. The Norwegians used to say that Canute + had taken the log across his knee and bent it into the shape + he wished. There were two rooms, or rather there was one + room with a partition made of ash saplings interwoven and + bound together like big straw basket work. In one corner + there was a cook stove, rusted and broken. In the other a bed + made of unplaned planks and poles. It was fully eight feet + long, and upon it was a heap of dark bed clothing. There was + a chair and a bench of colossal proportions. There was an + ordinary kitchen cupboard with a few cracked dirty dishes in + it, and beside it on a tall box a tin wash-basin. Under the bed + was a pile of pint flasks, some broken, some whole, all empty. + On the wood box lay a pair of shoes of almost incredible + dimensions. On the wall hung a saddle, a gun, and some + ragged clothing, conspicuous among which was a suit of dark + cloth, apparently new, with a paper collar carefully wrapped + in a red silk handkerchief and pinned to the sleeve. Over the + <a class="pagenum" id="page5" title="5"> </a>door hung a wolf and a badger skin, and on the door itself a + brace of thirty or forty snake skins whose noisy tails rattled + ominously every time it opened. The strangest things in the + shanty were the wide window-sills. At first glance they looked + as though they had been ruthlessly hacked and mutilated with + a hatchet, but on closer inspection all the notches and holes + in the wood took form and shape. There seemed to be a series + of pictures. They were, in a rough way, artistic, but the + figures were heavy and labored, as though they had been cut + very slowly and with very awkward instruments. There were + men plowing with little horned imps sitting on their shoulders + and on their horses’ heads. There were men praying with + a skull hanging over their heads and little demons behind + them mocking their attitudes. There were men fighting with + big serpents, and skeletons dancing together. All about these + pictures were blooming vines and foliage such as never grew + in this world, and coiled among the branches of the vines + there was always the scaly body of a serpent, and behind every + flower there was a serpent’s head. It was a veritable Dance of + Death by one who had felt its sting. In the wood box lay + some boards, and every inch of them was cut up in the same + manner. Sometimes the work was very rude and careless, and + looked as though the hand of the workman had trembled. It + would sometimes have been hard to distinguish the men from + their evil geniuses but for one fact, the men were always grave + and were either toiling or praying, while the devils were always + smiling and dancing. Several of these boards had been + split for kindling and it was evident that the artist did not + value his work highly.</p> + + <p>It was the first day of winter on the Divide. Canute stumbled + into his shanty carrying a basket of cobs, and after filling + the stove, sat down on a stool and crouched his seven foot + frame over the fire, staring drearily out of the window at the + wide gray sky. He knew by heart every individual clump of + bunch grass in the miles of red shaggy prairie that stretched + before his cabin. He knew it in all the deceitful loveliness of + its early summer, in all the bitter barrenness of its autumn. + He had seen it smitten by all the plagues of Egypt. He had + seen it parched by drought, and sogged by rain, beaten by + hail, and swept by fire, and in the grasshopper years he had + <a class="pagenum" id="page6" title="6"> </a>seen it eaten as bare and clean as bones that the vultures have + left. After the great fires he had seen it stretch for miles and + miles, black and smoking as the floor of hell.</p> + + <p>He rose slowly and crossed the room, dragging his big feet + heavily as though they were burdens to him. He looked out + of the window into the hog corral and saw the pigs burying + themselves in the straw before the shed. The leaden gray + clouds were beginning to spill themselves, and the snowflakes + were settling down over the white leprous patches of + frozen earth where the hogs had gnawed even the sod away. + He shuddered and began to walk, tramping heavily with his + ungainly feet. He was the wreck of ten winters on the Divide + and he knew what they meant. Men fear the winters of the + Divide as a child fears night or as men in the North Seas fear + the still dark cold of the polar twilight.</p> + + <p>His eyes fell upon his gun, and he took it down from the + wall and looked it over. He sat down on the edge of his bed + and held the barrel towards his face, letting his forehead rest + upon it, and laid his finger on the trigger. He was perfectly + calm, there was neither passion nor despair in his face, but + the thoughtful look of a man who is considering. Presently + he laid down the gun, and reaching into the cupboard, drew + out a pint bottle of raw white alcohol. Lifting it to his lips, + he drank greedily. He washed his face in the tin basin and + combed his rough hair and shaggy blond beard. Then he + stood in uncertainty before the suit of dark clothes that hung + on the wall. For the fiftieth time he took them in his hands + and tried to summon courage to put them on. He took the + paper collar that was pinned to the sleeve of the coat and + cautiously slipped it under his rough beard, looking with + timid expectancy into the cracked, splashed glass that hung + over the bench. With a short laugh he threw it down on the + bed, and pulling on his old black hat, he went out, striking + off across the level.</p> + + <p>It was a physical necessity for him to get away from his + cabin once in a while. He had been there for ten years, digging + and plowing and sowing, and reaping what little the hail + and the hot winds and the frosts left him to reap. Insanity + and suicide are very common things on the Divide. They + come on like an epidemic in the hot wind season. Those + <a class="pagenum" id="page7" title="7"> </a>scorching dusty winds that blow up over the bluffs from + Kansas seem to dry up the blood in men’s veins as they do + the sap in the corn leaves. Whenever the yellow scorch + creeps down over the tender inside leaves about the ear, then + the coroners prepare for active duty; for the oil of the country + is burned out and it does not take long for the flame to + eat up the wick. It causes no great sensation there when a + Dane is found swinging to his own windmill tower, and + most of the Poles after they have become too careless and + discouraged to shave themselves keep their razors to cut + their throats with.</p> + + <p>It may be that the next generation on the Divide will be + very happy, but the present one came too late in life. It is + useless for men that have cut hemlocks among the mountains + of Sweden for forty years to try to be happy in a country + as flat and gray and as naked as the sea. It is not easy for + men that have spent their youths fishing in the Northern + seas to be content with following a plow, and men that have + served in the Austrian army hate hard work and coarse + clothing and the loneliness of the plains, and long for + marches and excitement and tavern company and pretty barmaids. + After a man has passed his fortieth birthday it is not + easy for him to change the habits and conditions of his life. + Most men bring with them to the Divide only the dregs of + the lives that they have squandered in other lands and + among other peoples.</p> + + <p>Canute Canuteson was as mad as any of them, but his + madness did not take the form of suicide or religion but of + alcohol. He had always taken liquor when he wanted it, as all + Norwegians do, but after his first year of solitary life he settled + down to it steadily. He exhausted whisky after a while, + and went to alcohol, because its effects were speedier and + surer. He was a big man with a terrible amount of resistant + force, and it took a great deal of alcohol even to move him. + After nine years of drinking, the quantities he could take + would seem fabulous to an ordinary drinking man. He never + let it interfere with his work, he generally drank at night and + on Sundays. Every night, as soon as his chores were done, he + began to drink. While he was able to sit up he would play on + his mouth harp or hack away at his window sills with his jack + <a class="pagenum" id="page8" title="8"> </a>knife. When the liquor went to his head he would lie down + on his bed and stare out of the window until he went to + sleep. He drank alone and in solitude not for pleasure or + good cheer, but to forget the awful loneliness and level of the + Divide. Milton made a sad blunder when he put mountains + in hell. Mountains postulate faith and aspiration. All mountain + peoples are religious. It was the cities of the plains that, + because of their utter lack of spirituality and the mad caprice + of their vice, were cursed of God.</p> + + <p>Alcohol is perfectly consistent in its effects upon man. + Drunkenness is merely an exaggeration. A foolish man drunk + becomes maudlin; a bloody man, vicious; a coarse man, + vulgar. Canute was none of these, but he was morose and + gloomy, and liquor took him through all the hells of Dante. + As he lay on his giant’s bed all the horrors of this world and + every other were laid bare to his chilled senses. He was a man + who knew no joy, a man who toiled in silence and bitterness. + The skull and the serpent were always before him, the symbols + of eternal futileness and of eternal hate.</p> + + <p>When the first Norwegians near enough to be called + neighbors came, Canute rejoiced, and planned to escape + from his bosom vice. But he was not a social man by nature + and had not the power of drawing out the social side of + other people. His new neighbors rather feared him because + of his great strength and size, his silence and his lowering + brows. Perhaps, too, they knew that he was mad, mad from + the eternal treachery of the plains, which every spring stretch + green and rustle with the promises of Eden, showing long + grassy lagoons full of clear water and cattle whose hoofs are + stained with wild roses. Before autumn the lagoons are dried + up, and the ground is burnt dry and hard until it blisters + and cracks open.</p> + + <p>So instead of becoming a friend and neighbor to the men + that settled about him, Canute became a mystery and a terror. + They told awful stories of his size and strength and of the + alcohol he drank. They said that one night, when he went out + to see to his horses just before he went to bed, his steps were + unsteady and the rotten planks of the floor gave way and + threw him behind the feet of a fiery young stallion. His foot + was caught fast in the floor, and the nervous horse began + <a class="pagenum" id="page9" title="9"> </a>kicking frantically. When Canute felt the blood trickling down + in his eyes from a scalp wound in his head, he roused himself + from his kingly indifference, and with the quiet stoical courage + of a drunken man leaned forward and wound his arms + about the horse’s hind legs and held them against his breast + with crushing embrace. All through the darkness and cold of + the night he lay there, matching strength against strength. + When little Jim Peterson went over the next morning at four + o’clock to go with him to the Blue to cut wood, he found him + so, and the horse was on its fore knees, trembling and + whinnying with fear. This is the story the Norwegians tell of + him, and if it is true it is no wonder that they feared and + hated this Holder of the Heels of Horses.</p> + + <p>One spring there moved to the next “eighty” a family that + made a great change in Canute’s life. Ole Yensen was too + drunk most of the time to be afraid of any one, and his wife + Mary was too garrulous to be afraid of any one who listened + to her talk, and Lena, their pretty daughter, was not afraid of + man nor devil. So it came about that Canute went over to + take his alcohol with Ole oftener than he took it alone. After + a while the report spread that he was going to marry Yensen’s + daughter, and the Norwegian girls began to tease Lena about + the great bear she was going to keep house for. No one could + quite see how the affair had come about, for Canute’s tactics + of courtship were somewhat peculiar. He apparently never + spoke to her at all: he would sit for hours with Mary chattering + on one side of him and Ole drinking on the other and + watch Lena at her work. She teased him, and threw flour in + his face and put vinegar in his coffee, but he took her rough + jokes with silent wonder, never even smiling. He took her to + church occasionally, but the most watchful and curious people + never saw him speak to her. He would sit staring at her + while she giggled and flirted with the other men.</p> + + <p>Next spring Mary Lee went to town to work in a steam + laundry. She came home every Sunday, and always ran across + to Yensens to startle Lena with stories of ten cent theaters, + firemen’s dances, and all the other esthetic delights of metropolitan + life. In a few weeks Lena’s head was completely + turned, and she gave her father no rest until he let her go to + town to seek her fortune at the ironing board. From the time + <a class="pagenum" id="page10" title="10"> </a>she came home on her first visit she began to treat Canute + with contempt. She had bought a plush cloak and kid gloves, + had her clothes made by the dress-maker, and assumed airs + and graces that made the other women of the neighborhood + cordially detest her. She generally brought with her a young + man from town who waxed his mustache and wore a red + necktie, and she did not even introduce him to Canute.</p> + + <p>The neighbors teased Canute a good deal until he + knocked one of them down. He gave no sign of suffering + from her neglect except that he drank more and avoided the + other Norwegians more carefully than ever. He lay around + in his den and no one knew what he felt or thought, but + little Jim Peterson, who had seen him glowering at Lena in + church one Sunday when she was there with the town man, + said that he would not give an acre of his wheat for Lena’s + life or the town chap’s either; and Jim’s wheat was so wondrously + worthless that the statement was an exceedingly + strong one.</p> + + <p>Canute had bought a new suit of clothes that looked as + nearly like the town man’s as possible. They had cost him half + a millet crop; for tailors are not accustomed to fitting giants + and they charge for it. He had hung those clothes in his + shanty two months ago and had never put them on, partly + from fear of ridicule, partly from discouragement, and partly + because there was something in his own soul that revolted at + the littleness of the device.</p> + + <p>Lena was at home just at this time. Work was slack in the + laundry and Mary had not been well, so Lena stayed at home, + glad enough to get an opportunity to torment Canute once + more.</p> + + <p>She was washing in the side kitchen, singing loudly as she + worked. Mary was on her knees, blacking the stove and scolding + violently about the young man who was coming out from + town that night. The young man had committed the fatal + error of laughing at Mary’s ceaseless babble and had never + been forgiven.</p> + + <p>“He is no good, and you will come to a bad end by running + with him! I do not see why a daughter of mine should + act so. I do not see why the Lord should visit such a punishment + <a class="pagenum" id="page11" title="11"> </a>upon me as to give me such a daughter. There are + plenty of good men you can marry.”</p> + + <p>Lena tossed her head and answered curtly, “I don’t happen + to want to marry any man right away, and so long as Dick + dresses nice and has plenty of money to spend, there is no + harm in my going with him.”</p> + + <p>“Money to spend? Yes, and that is all he does with it I’ll be + bound. You think it very fine now, but you will change your + tune when you have been married five years and see your children + running naked and your cupboard empty. Did Anne + Hermanson come to any good end by marrying a town man?”</p> + + <p>“I don’t know anything about Anne Hermanson, but I + know any of the laundry girls would have Dick quick enough + if they could get him.”</p> + + <p>“Yes, and a nice lot of store clothes huzzies you are too. + Now there is Canuteson who has an ‘eighty’ proved up and + fifty head of cattle and——”</p> + + <p>“And hair that ain’t been cut since he was a baby, and a big + dirty beard, and he wears overalls on Sundays, and drinks like + a pig. Besides he will keep. I can have all the fun I want, and + when I am old and ugly like you he can have me and take care + of me. The Lord knows there ain’t nobody else going to + marry him.”</p> + + <p>Canute drew his hand back from the latch as though it + were red hot. He was not the kind of a man to make a good + eavesdropper, and he wished he had knocked sooner. He + pulled himself together and struck the door like a battering + ram. Mary jumped and opened it with a screech.</p> + + <p>“God! Canute, how you scared us! I thought it was crazy + Lou,—he has been tearing around the neighborhood trying + to convert folks. I am afraid as death of him. He ought to be + sent off, I think. He is just as liable as not to kill us all, or + burn the barn, or poison the dogs. He has been worrying + even the poor minister to death, and he laid up with the rheumatism, + too! Did you notice that he was too sick to preach + last Sunday? But don’t stand there in the cold,—come in. + Yensen isn’t here, but he just went over to Sorenson’s for the + mail; he won’t be gone long. Walk right in the other room + and sit down.”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page12" title="12"> </a>Canute followed her, looking steadily in front of him and + not noticing Lena as he passed her. But Lena’s vanity would + not allow him to pass unmolested. She took the wet sheet + she was wringing out and cracked him across the face with it, + and ran giggling to the other side of the room. The blow + stung his cheeks and the soapy water flew in his eyes, and he + involuntarily began rubbing them with his hands. Lena giggled + with delight at his discomfiture, and the wrath in Canute’s + face grew blacker than ever. A big man humiliated is + vastly more undignified than a little one. He forgot the sting + of his face in the bitter consciousness that he had made a + fool of himself. He stumbled blindly into the living room, + knocking his head against the door jamb because he forgot + to stoop. He dropped into a chair behind the stove, thrusting + his big feet back helplessly on either side of him.</p> + + <p>Ole was a long time in coming, and Canute sat there, still + and silent, with his hands clenched on his knees, and the skin + of his face seemed to have shriveled up into little wrinkles that + trembled when he lowered his brows. His life had been one + long lethargy of solitude and alcohol, but now he was awakening, + and it was as when the dumb stagnant heat of summer + breaks out into thunder.</p> + + <p>When Ole came staggering in, heavy with liquor, Canute + rose at once.</p> + + <p>“Yensen,” he said quietly, “I have come to see if you will let + me marry your daughter today.”</p> + + <p>“Today!” gasped Ole.</p> + + <p>“Yes, I will not wait until tomorrow. I am tired of living + alone.”</p> + + <p>Ole braced his staggering knees against the bedstead, and + stammered eloquently: “Do you think I will marry my daughter + to a drunkard? a man who drinks raw alcohol? a man who + sleeps with rattle snakes? Get out of my house or I will kick + you out for your impudence.” And Ole began looking anxiously + for his feet.</p> + + <p>Canute answered not a word, but he put on his hat and + went out into the kitchen. He went up to Lena and said without + looking at her, “Get your things on and come with me!”</p> + + <p>The tones of his voice startled her, and she said angrily, + dropping the soap, “Are you drunk?”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page13" title="13"> </a>“If you do not come with me, I will take you,—you had + better come,” said Canute quietly.</p> + + <p>She lifted a sheet to strike him, but he caught her arm + roughly and wrenched the sheet from her. He turned to the + wall and took down a hood and shawl that hung there, and + began wrapping her up. Lena scratched and fought like a wild + thing. Ole stood in the door, cursing, and Mary howled and + screeched at the top of her voice. As for Canute, he lifted the + girl in his arms and went out of the house. She kicked and + struggled, but the helpless wailing of Mary and Ole soon died + away in the distance, and her face was held down tightly on + Canute’s shoulder so that she could not see whither he was + taking her. She was conscious only of the north wind whistling + in her ears, and of rapid steady motion and of a great + breast that heaved beneath her in quick, irregular breaths. The + harder she struggled the tighter those iron arms that had held + the heels of horses crushed about her, until she felt as if they + would crush the breath from her, and lay still with fear. + Canute was striding across the level fields at a pace at which + man never went before, drawing the stinging north wind into + his lungs in great gulps. He walked with his eyes half closed + and looking straight in front of him, only lowering them + when he bent his head to blow away the snow flakes that + settled on her hair. So it was that Canute took her to his + home, even as his bearded barbarian ancestors took the fair + frivolous women of the South in their hairy arms and bore + them down to their war ships. For ever and anon the soul + becomes weary of the conventions that are not of it, and + with a single stroke shatters the civilized lies with which it is + unable to cope, and the strong arm reaches out and takes by + force what it cannot win by cunning.</p> + + <p>When Canute reached his shanty he placed the girl upon a + chair, where she sat sobbing. He stayed only a few minutes. + He filled the stove with wood and lit the lamp, drank a huge + swallow of alcohol and put the bottle in his pocket. He + paused a moment, staring heavily at the weeping girl, then he + went off and locked the door and disappeared in the gathering + gloom of the night.</p> + + <p>Wrapped in flannels and soaked with turpentine, the little + Norwegian preacher sat reading his Bible, when he heard a + <a class="pagenum" id="page14" title="14"> </a>thundering knock at his door, and Canute entered, covered + with snow and with his beard frozen fast to his coat.</p> + + <p>“Come in, Canute, you must be frozen,” said the little man, + shoving a chair towards his visitor.</p> + + <p>Canute remained standing with his hat on and said quietly, + “I want you to come over to my house tonight to marry me + to Lena Yensen.”</p> + + <p>“Have you got a license, Canute?”</p> + + <p>“No, I don’t want a license. I want to be married.”</p> + + <p>“But I can’t marry you without a license, man. It would + not be legal.”</p> + + <p>A dangerous light came in the big Norwegian’s eye. “I + want you to come over to my house to marry me to Lena + Yensen.”</p> + + <p>“No, I can’t, it would kill an ox to go out in a storm like + this, and my rheumatism is bad tonight.”</p> + + <p>“Then if you will not go I must take you,” said Canute + with a sigh.</p> + + <p>He took down the preacher’s bearskin coat and bade him + put it on while he hitched up his buggy. He went out and + closed the door softly after him. Presently he returned and + found the frightened minister crouching before the fire with + his coat lying beside him. Canute helped him put it on and + gently wrapped his head in his big muffler. Then he picked + him up and carried him out and placed him in his buggy. As + he tucked the buffalo robes around him he said: “Your horse + is old, he might flounder or lose his way in this storm. I will + lead him.”</p> + + <p>The minister took the reins feebly in his hands and sat + shivering with the cold. Sometimes when there was a lull in + the wind, he could see the horse struggling through the snow + with the man plodding steadily beside him. Again the blowing + snow would hide them from him altogether. He had no + idea where they were or what direction they were going. He + felt as though he were being whirled away in the heart of the + storm, and he said all the prayers he knew. But at last the + long four miles were over, and Canute set him down in the + snow while he unlocked the door. He saw the bride sitting + by the fire with her eyes red and swollen as though she had + <a class="pagenum" id="page15" title="15"> </a>been weeping. Canute placed a huge chair for him, and said + roughly,—</p> + + <p>“Warm yourself.”</p> + + <p>Lena began to cry and moan afresh, begging the minister + to take her home. He looked helplessly at Canute. Canute + said simply,—</p> + + <p>“If you are warm now, you can marry us.”</p> + + <p>“My daughter, do you take this step of your own free will?” + asked the minister in a trembling voice.</p> + + <p>“No sir, I don’t, and it is disgraceful he should force me + into it! I won’t marry him.”</p> + + <p>“Then, Canute, I cannot marry you,” said the minister, + standing as straight as his rheumatic limbs would let him.</p> + + <p>“Are you ready to marry us now, sir?” said Canute, laying + one iron hand on his stooped shoulder. The little preacher + was a good man, but like most men of weak body he was a + coward and had a horror of physical suffering, although he + had known so much of it. So with many qualms of conscience + he began to repeat the marriage service. Lena sat sullenly in + her chair, staring at the fire. Canute stood beside her, listening + with his head bent reverently and his hands folded on his + breast. When the little man had prayed and said amen, Canute + began bundling him up again.</p> + + <p>“I will take you home, now,” he said as he carried him + out and placed him in his buggy, and started off with him + through the fury of the storm, floundering among the snow + drifts that brought even the giant himself to his knees.</p> + + <p>After she was left alone, Lena soon ceased weeping. She + was not of a particularly sensitive temperament, and had little + pride beyond that of vanity. After the first bitter anger wore + itself out, she felt nothing more than a healthy sense of + humiliation and defeat. She had no inclination to run away, + for she was married now, and in her eyes that was final and + all rebellion was useless. She knew nothing about a license, + but she knew that a preacher married folks. She consoled herself + by thinking that she had always intended to marry Canute + some day, any way.</p> + + <p>She grew tired of crying and looking into the fire, so she + got up and began to look about her. She had heard queer + <a class="pagenum" id="page16" title="16"> </a>tales about the inside of Canute’s shanty, and her curiosity + soon got the better of her rage. One of the first things she + noticed was the new black suit of clothes hanging on the wall. + She was dull, but it did not take a vain woman long to interpret + anything so decidedly flattering, and she was pleased in + spite of herself. As she looked through the cupboard, the + general air of neglect and discomfort made her pity the man + who lived there.</p> + + <p>“Poor fellow, no wonder he wants to get married to get + somebody to wash up his dishes. Batchin’s pretty hard on a + man.”</p> + + <p>It is easy to pity when once one’s vanity has been tickled. + She looked at the window sill and gave a little shudder and + wondered if the man were crazy. Then she sat down again and + sat a long time wondering what her Dick and Ole would do.</p> + + <p>“It is queer Dick didn’t come right over after me. He + surely came, for he would have left town before the storm + began and he might just as well come right on as go back. If + he’d hurried he would have gotten here before the preacher + came. I suppose he was afraid to come, for he knew Canuteson + could pound him to jelly, the coward!” Her eyes flashed + angrily.</p> + + <p>The weary hours wore on and Lena began to grow horribly + lonesome. It was an uncanny night and this was an uncanny + place to be in. She could hear the coyotes howling hungrily a + little way from the cabin, and more terrible still were all the + unknown noises of the storm. She remembered the tales they + told of the big log overhead and she was afraid of those snaky + things on the window sills. She remembered the man who + had been killed in the draw, and she wondered what she + would do if she saw crazy Lou’s white face glaring into the + window. The rattling of the door became unbearable, she + thought the latch must be loose and took the lamp to look at + it. Then for the first time she saw the ugly brown snake skins + whose death rattle sounded every time the wind jarred the + door.</p> + + <p>“Canute, Canute!” she screamed in terror.</p> + + <p>Outside the door she heard a heavy sound as of a big dog + getting up and shaking himself. The door opened and Canute + stood before her, white as a snow drift.</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page17" title="17"> </a>“What is it?” he asked kindly.</p> + + <p>“I am cold,” she faltered.</p> + + <p>He went out and got an armful of wood and a basket of + cobs and filled the stove. Then he went out and lay in the + snow before the door. Presently he heard her calling again.</p> + + <p>“What is it?” he said, sitting up.</p> + + <p>“I’m so lonesome, I’m afraid to stay in here all alone.”</p> + + <p>“I will go over and get your mother.” And he got up.</p> + + <p>“She won’t come.”</p> + + <p>“I’ll bring her,” said Canute grimly.</p> + + <p>“No, no. I don’t want her, she will scold all the time.”</p> + + <p>“Well, I will bring your father.”</p> + + <p>She spoke again and it seemed as though her mouth was + close up to the key-hole. She spoke lower than he had ever + heard her speak before, so low that he had to put his ear up to + the lock to hear her.</p> + + <p>“I don’t want him either, Canute,—I’d rather have you.”</p> + + <p>For a moment she heard no noise at all, then something + like a groan. With a cry of fear she opened the door, and saw + Canute stretched in the snow at her feet, his face in his hands, + sobbing on the door step.</p> + + <p class="source"><cite>Overland Monthly</cite>, January 1896</p> + </div> + <div id="hermannson" class="story"><a class="pagenum" id="page18" title="18"> </a> + <h3 class="story_title">Eric Hermannson’s Soul <a class="return_toc" href="#contents" title="Return to Contents">ToC</a></h3> + <h4>I.</h4> + + <p class="first_paragraph">It was a great night at the Lone Star schoolhouse—a night + when the Spirit was present with power and when God + was very near to man. So it seemed to Asa Skinner, servant of + God and Free Gospeller. The schoolhouse was crowded with + the saved and sanctified, robust men and women, trembling + and quailing before the power of some mysterious psychic + force. Here and there among this cowering, sweating multitude + crouched some poor wretch who had felt the pangs of an + awakened conscience, but had not yet experienced that complete + divestment of reason, that frenzy born of a convulsion + of the mind, which, in the parlance of the Free Gospellers, is + termed “the Light.” On the floor, before the mourners’ + bench, lay the unconscious figure of a man in whom outraged + nature had sought her last resort. This “trance” state is the + highest evidence of grace among the Free Gospellers, and indicates + a close walking with God.</p> + + <p>Before the desk stood Asa Skinner, shouting of the mercy + and vengeance of God, and in his eyes shone a terrible earnestness, + an almost prophetic flame. Asa was a converted train + gambler who used to run between Omaha and Denver. He + was a man made for the extremes of life; from the most debauched + of men he had become the most ascetic. His was a + bestial face, a face that bore the stamp of Nature’s eternal + injustice. The forehead was low, projecting over the eyes, and + the sandy hair was plastered down over it and then brushed + back at an abrupt right angle. The chin was heavy, the nostrils + were low and wide, and the lower lip hung loosely except in + his moments of spasmodic earnestness, when it shut like a + steel trap. Yet about those coarse features there were deep, + rugged furrows, the scars of many a hand-to-hand struggle + with the weakness of the flesh, and about that drooping lip + were sharp, strenuous lines that had conquered it and taught + it to pray. Over those seamed cheeks there was a certain pallor, + a grayness caught from many a vigil. It was as though, + after Nature had done her worst with that face, some fine + <a class="pagenum" id="page19" title="19"> </a>chisel had gone over it, chastening and almost transfiguring it. + To-night, as his muscles twitched with emotion, and the perspiration + dropped from his hair and chin, there was a certain + convincing power in the man. For Asa Skinner was a man + possessed of a belief, of that sentiment of the sublime before + which all inequalities are leveled, that transport of conviction + which seems superior to all laws of condition, under which + debauchees have become martyrs; which made a tinker an artist + and a camel-driver the founder of an empire. This was with + Asa Skinner to-night, as he stood proclaiming the vengeance + of God.</p> + + <p>It might have occurred to an impartial observer that Asa + Skinner’s God was indeed a vengeful God if he could reserve + vengeance for those of his creatures who were packed into the + Lone Star schoolhouse that night. Poor exiles of all nations; + men from the south and the north, peasants from almost every + country of Europe, most of them from the mountainous, + night-bound coast of Norway. Honest men for the most part, + but men with whom the world had dealt hardly; the failures + of all countries, men sobered by toil and saddened by exile, + who had been driven to fight for the dominion of an untoward + soil, to sow where others should gather, the advance-guard + of a mighty civilization to be.</p> + + <p>Never had Asa Skinner spoken more earnestly than now. + He felt that the Lord had this night a special work for him to + do. To-night Eric Hermannson, the wildest lad on all the Divide, + sat in his audience with a fiddle on his knee, just as he + had dropped in on his way to play for some dance. The violin + is an object of particular abhorrence to the Free Gospellers. + Their antagonism to the church organ is bitter enough, but + the fiddle they regard as a very incarnation of evil desires, + singing forever of worldly pleasures and inseparably associated + with all forbidden things.</p> + + <p>Eric Hermannson had long been the object of the prayers + of the revivalists. His mother had felt the power of the Spirit + weeks ago, and special prayer-meetings had been held at her + house for her son. But Eric had only gone his ways laughing, + the ways of youth, which are short enough at best, and none + too flowery on the Divide. He slipped away from the prayer-meetings + to meet the Campbell boys in Genereau’s saloon, or + <a class="pagenum" id="page20" title="20"> </a>hug the plump little French girls at Chevalier’s dances, and + sometimes, of a summer night, he even went across the dewy + cornfields and through the wild-plum thicket to play the fiddle + for Lena Hanson, whose name was a reproach through all + the Divide country, where the women are usually too plain + and too busy and too tired to depart from the ways of virtue. + On such occasions Lena, attired in a pink wrapper and silk + stockings and tiny pink slippers, would sing to him, accompanying + herself on a battered guitar. It gave him a delicious + sense of freedom and experience to be with a woman who, no + matter how, had lived in big cities and knew the ways of + town-folk, who had never worked in the fields and had kept + her hands white and soft, her throat fair and tender, who had + heard great singers in Denver and Salt Lake, and who knew + the strange language of flattery and idleness and mirth.</p> + + <p>Yet, careless as he seemed, the frantic prayers of his mother + were not altogether without their effect upon Eric. For days + he had been fleeing before them as a criminal from his pursuers, + and over his pleasures had fallen the shadow of something + dark and terrible that dogged his steps. The harder he danced, + the louder he sang, the more was he conscious that this phantom + was gaining upon him, that in time it would track him + down. One Sunday afternoon, late in the fall, when he had + been drinking beer with Lena Hanson and listening to a song + which made his cheeks burn, a rattlesnake had crawled out of + the side of the sod house and thrust its ugly head in under the + screen door. He was not afraid of snakes, but he knew + enough of Gospellism to feel the significance of the reptile + lying coiled there upon her doorstep. His lips were cold when + he kissed Lena good-by, and he went there no more.</p> + + <p>The final barrier between Eric and his mother’s faith was + his violin, and to that he clung as a man sometimes will cling + to his dearest sin, to the weakness more precious to him than + all his strength. In the great world beauty comes to men in + many guises, and art in a hundred forms, but for Eric there + was only his violin. It stood, to him, for all the manifestations + of art; it was his only bridge into the kingdom of the soul.</p> + + <p>It was to Eric Hermannson that the evangelist directed his + impassioned pleading that night.</p> + + <p>“<em>Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me?</em> Is there a Saul here + <a class="pagenum" id="page21" title="21"> </a>to-night who has stopped his ears to that gentle pleading, + who has thrust a spear into that bleeding side? Think of it, my + brother; you are offered this wonderful love and you prefer + the worm that dieth not and the fire which will not be + quenched. What right have you to lose one of God’s precious + souls? <em>Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me?</em>”</p> + + <p>A great joy dawned in Asa Skinner’s pale face, for he saw + that Eric Hermannson was swaying to and fro in his seat. The + minister fell upon his knees and threw his long arms up over + his head.</p> + + <p>“O my brothers! I feel it coming, the blessing we have + prayed for. I tell you the Spirit is coming! Just a little more + prayer, brothers, a little more zeal, and he will be here. I can + feel his cooling wing upon my brow. Glory be to God forever + and ever, amen!”</p> + + <p>The whole congregation groaned under the pressure of this + spiritual panic. Shouts and hallelujahs went up from every lip. + Another figure fell prostrate upon the floor. From the mourners’ + bench rose a chant of terror and rapture:</p> + + <blockquote class="poem"> + <p>“Eating honey and drinking wine,</p> + <p class="i2"><em>Glory to the bleeding Lamb!</em></p> + <p>I am my Lord’s and he is mine,</p> + <p class="i2"><em>Glory to the bleeding Lamb!</em>”</p> + </blockquote> + + <p>The hymn was sung in a dozen dialects and voiced all the + vague yearning of these hungry lives, of these people who had + starved all the passions so long, only to fall victims to the + basest of them all, fear.</p> + + <p>A groan of ultimate anguish rose from Eric Hermannson’s + bowed head, and the sound was like the groan of a great tree + when it falls in the forest.</p> + + <p>The minister rose suddenly to his feet and threw back his + head, crying in a loud voice:</p> + + <p>“<em>Lazarus, come forth!</em> Eric Hermannson, you are lost, going + down at sea. In the name of God, and Jesus Christ his Son, I + throw you the life-line. Take hold! Almighty God, my soul for + his!” The minister threw his arms out and lifted his quivering + face.</p> + + <p>Eric Hermannson rose to his feet; his lips were set and the + <a class="pagenum" id="page22" title="22"> </a>lightning was in his eyes. He took his violin by the neck and + crushed it to splinters across his knee, and to Asa Skinner the + sound was like the shackles of sin broken audibly asunder.</p> + + <h4>II.</h4> + + <p>For more than two years Eric Hermannson kept the austere + faith to which he had sworn himself, kept it until a girl from + the East came to spend a week on the Nebraska Divide. She + was a girl of other manners and conditions, and there were + greater distances between her life and Eric’s than all the miles + which separated Rattlesnake Creek from New York city. Indeed, + she had no business to be in the West at all; but ah! + across what leagues of land and sea, by what improbable + chances, do the unrelenting gods bring to us our fate!</p> + + <p>It was in a year of financial depression that Wyllis Elliot + came to Nebraska to buy cheap land and revisit the country + where he had spent a year of his youth. When he had graduated + from Harvard it was still customary for moneyed gentlemen + to send their scapegrace sons to rough it on ranches in + the wilds of Nebraska or Dakota, or to consign them to a + living death in the sage-brush of the Black Hills. These young + men did not always return to the ways of civilized life. But + Wyllis Elliot had not married a half-breed, nor been shot in a + cow-punchers’ brawl, nor wrecked by bad whisky, nor appropriated + by a smirched adventuress. He had been saved from + these things by a girl, his sister, who had been very near to his + life ever since the days when they read fairy tales together and + dreamed the dreams that never come true. On this, his first + visit to his father’s ranch since he left it six years before, he + brought her with him. She had been laid up half the winter + from a sprain received while skating, and had had too much + time for reflection during those months. She was restless and + filled with a desire to see something of the wild country of + which her brother had told her so much. She was to be married + the next winter, and Wyllis understood her when she + begged him to take her with him on this long, aimless jaunt + across the continent, to taste the last of their freedom together. + It comes to all women of her type—that desire to + <a class="pagenum" id="page23" title="23"> </a>taste the unknown which allures and terrifies, to run one’s + whole soul’s length out to the wind—just once.</p> + + <p>It had been an eventful journey. Wyllis somehow understood + that strain of gypsy blood in his sister, and he knew + where to take her. They had slept in sod houses on the + Platte River, made the acquaintance of the personnel of a + third-rate opera company on the train to Deadwood, dined in + a camp of railroad constructors at the world’s end beyond + New Castle, gone through the Black Hills on horseback, + fished for trout in Dome Lake, watched a dance at Cripple + Creek, where the lost souls who hide in the hills gathered for + their besotted revelry. And now, last of all, before the return + to thraldom, there was this little shack, anchored on the + windy crest of the Divide, a little black dot against the flaming + sunsets, a scented sea of cornland bathed in opalescent air + and blinding sunlight.</p> + + <p>Margaret Elliot was one of those women of whom there + are so many in this day, when old order, passing, giveth place + to new; beautiful, talented, critical, unsatisfied, tired of the + world at twenty-four. For the moment the life and people of + the Divide interested her. She was there but a week; perhaps + had she stayed longer, that inexorable ennui which travels + faster even than the Vestibule Limited would have overtaken + her. The week she tarried there was the week that Eric Hermannson + was helping Jerry Lockhart thresh; a week earlier or + a week later, and there would have been no story to write.</p> + + <p>It was on Thursday and they were to leave on Saturday. + Wyllis and his sister were sitting on the wide piazza of the + ranchhouse, staring out into the afternoon sunlight and protesting + against the gusts of hot wind that blew up from the + sandy river-bottom twenty miles to the southward.</p> + + <p>The young man pulled his cap lower over his eyes and remarked:</p> + + <p>“This wind is the real thing; you don’t strike it anywhere + else. You remember we had a touch of it in Algiers and I told + you it came from Kansas. It’s the key-note of this country.”</p> + + <p>Wyllis touched her hand that lay on the hammock and continued + gently:</p> + + <p>“I hope it’s paid you, Sis. Roughing it’s dangerous business; + it takes the taste out of things.”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page24" title="24"> </a>She shut her fingers firmly over the brown hand that was so + like her own.</p> + + <p>“Paid? Why, Wyllis, I haven’t been so happy since we were + children and were going to discover the ruins of Troy together + some day. Do you know, I believe I could just stay on + here forever and let the world go on its own gait. It seems as + though the tension and strain we used to talk of last winter + were gone for good, as though one could never give one’s + strength out to such petty things any more.”</p> + + <p>Wyllis brushed the ashes of his pipe away from the silk + handkerchief that was knotted about his neck and stared + moodily off at the sky-line.</p> + + <p>“No, you’re mistaken. This would bore you after a while. + You can’t shake the fever of the other life. I’ve tried it. There + was a time when the gay fellows of Rome could trot down + into the Thebaid and burrow into the sandhills and get rid of + it. But it’s all too complex now. You see we’ve made our dissipations + so dainty and respectable that they’ve gone further + in than the flesh, and taken hold of the ego proper. You + couldn’t rest, even here. The war-cry would follow you.”</p> + + <p>“You don’t waste words, Wyllis, but you never miss fire. I + talk more than you do, without saying half so much. You + must have learned the art of silence from these taciturn Norwegians. + I think I like silent men.”</p> + + <p>“Naturally,” said Wyllis, “since you have decided to marry + the most brilliant talker you know.”</p> + + <p>Both were silent for a time, listening to the sighing of the + hot wind through the parched morning-glory vines. Margaret + spoke first.</p> + + <p>“Tell me, Wyllis, were many of the Norwegians you used to + know as interesting as Eric Hermannson?”</p> + + <p>“Who, Siegfried? Well, no. He used to be the flower of the + Norwegian youth in my day, and he’s rather an exception, + even now. He has retrograded, though. The bonds of the soil + have tightened on him, I fancy.”</p> + + <p>“Siegfried? Come, that’s rather good, Wyllis. He looks like + a dragon-slayer. What is it that makes him so different from + the others? I can talk to him; he seems quite like a human + being.”</p> + + <p>“Well,” said Wyllis, meditatively, “I don’t read Bourget as + <a class="pagenum" id="page25" title="25"> </a>much as my cultured sister, and I’m not so well up in analysis, + but I fancy it’s because one keeps cherishing a perfectly unwarranted + suspicion that under that big, hulking anatomy of + his, he may conceal a soul somewhere. Nicht wahr?”</p> + + <p>“Something like that,” said Margaret, thoughtfully, “except + that it’s more than a suspicion, and it isn’t groundless. He has + one, and he makes it known, somehow, without speaking.”</p> + + <p>“I always have my doubts about loquacious souls,” Wyllis + remarked, with the unbelieving smile that had grown habitual + with him.</p> + + <p>Margaret went on, not heeding the interruption. “I knew it + from the first, when he told me about the suicide of his + cousin, the Bernstein boy. That kind of blunt pathos can’t be + summoned at will in anybody. The earlier novelists rose to it, + sometimes, unconsciously. But last night when I sang for him + I was doubly sure. Oh, I haven’t told you about that yet! + Better light your pipe again. You see, he stumbled in on me in + the dark when I was pumping away at that old parlor organ + to please Mrs. Lockhart. It’s her household fetish and I’ve + forgotten how many pounds of butter she made and sold to + buy it. Well, Eric stumbled in, and in some inarticulate manner + made me understand that he wanted me to sing for him. I + sang just the old things, of course. It’s queer to sing familiar + things here at the world’s end. It makes one think how the + hearts of men have carried them around the world, into the + wastes of Iceland and the jungles of Africa and the islands of + the Pacific. I think if one lived here long enough one would + quite forget how to be trivial, and would read only the great + books that we never get time to read in the world, and would + remember only the great music, and the things that are really + worth while would stand out clearly against that horizon over + there. And of course I played the intermezzo from ‘Cavalleria + Rusticana’ for him; it goes rather better on an organ than + most things do. He shuffled his feet and twisted his big hands + up into knots and blurted out that he didn’t know there was + any music like that in the world. Why, there were tears in his + voice, Wyllis! Yes, like Rossetti, I <em>heard</em> his tears. Then it + dawned upon me that it was probably the first good music he + had ever heard in all his life. Think of it, to care for music as + he does and never to hear it, never to know that it exists on + <a class="pagenum" id="page26" title="26"> </a>earth! To long for it as we long for other perfect experiences + that never come. I can’t tell you what music means to that + man. I never saw any one so susceptible to it. It gave + him speech, he became alive. When I had finished the intermezzo, + he began telling me about a little crippled brother + who died and whom he loved and used to carry everywhere + in his arms. He did not wait for encouragement. He took + up the story and told it slowly, as if to himself, just sort of + rose up and told his own woe to answer Mascagni’s. It overcame + me.”</p> + + <p>“Poor devil,” said Wyllis, looking at her with mysterious + eyes, “and so you’ve given him a new woe. Now he’ll go on + wanting Grieg and Schubert the rest of his days and never + getting them. That’s a girl’s philanthropy for you!”</p> + + <p>Jerry Lockhart came out of the house screwing his chin + over the unusual luxury of a stiff white collar, which his wife + insisted upon as a necessary article of toilet while Miss Elliot + was at the house. Jerry sat down on the step and smiled his + broad, red smile at Margaret.</p> + + <p>“Well, I’ve got the music for your dance, Miss Elliot. Olaf + Oleson will bring his accordion and Mollie will play the organ, + when she isn’t lookin’ after the grub, and a little chap + from Frenchtown will bring his fiddle—though the French + don’t mix with the Norwegians much.”</p> + + <p>“Delightful! Mr. Lockhart, that dance will be the feature + of our trip, and it’s so nice of you to get it up for us. We’ll + see the Norwegians in character at last,” cried Margaret, + cordially.</p> + + <p>“See here, Lockhart, I’ll settle with you for backing her in + this scheme,” said Wyllis, sitting up and knocking the ashes + out of his pipe. “She’s done crazy things enough on this trip, + but to talk of dancing all night with a gang of half-mad Norwegians + and taking the carriage at four to catch the six o’clock + train out of Riverton—well, it’s tommy-rot, that’s what + it is!”</p> + + <p>“Wyllis, I leave it to your sovereign power of reason to + decide whether it isn’t easier to stay up all night than to get + up at three in the morning. To get up at three, think what + that means! No, sir, I prefer to keep my vigil and then get + into a sleeper.”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page27" title="27"> </a>“But what do you want with the Norwegians? I thought + you were tired of dancing.”</p> + + <p>“So I am, with some people. But I want to see a Norwegian + dance, and I intend to. Come, Wyllis, you know how + seldom it is that one really wants to do anything nowadays. I + wonder when I have really wanted to go to a party before. It + will be something to remember next month at Newport, + when we have to and don’t want to. Remember your own + theory that contrast is about the only thing that makes life + endurable. This is my party and Mr. Lockhart’s; your whole + duty to-morrow night will consist in being nice to the Norwegian + girls. I’ll warrant you were adept enough at it once. + And you’d better be very nice indeed, for if there are many + such young valkyrs as Eric’s sister among them, they would + simply tie you up in a knot if they suspected you were guying + them.”</p> + + <p>Wyllis groaned and sank back into the hammock to consider + his fate, while his sister went on.</p> + + <p>“And the guests, Mr. Lockhart, did they accept?”</p> + + <p>Lockhart took out his knife and began sharpening it on the + sole of his plowshoe.</p> + + <p>“Well, I guess we’ll have a couple dozen. You see it’s pretty + hard to get a crowd together here any more. Most of ’em + have gone over to the Free Gospellers, and they’d rather put + their feet in the fire than shake ’em to a fiddle.”</p> + + <p>Margaret made a gesture of impatience.</p> + + <p>“Those Free Gospellers have just cast an evil spell over this + country, haven’t they?”</p> + + <p>“Well,” said Lockhart, cautiously, “I don’t just like to pass + judgment on any Christian sect, but if you’re to know the + chosen by their works, the Gospellers can’t make a very proud + showin’, an’ that’s a fact. They’re responsible for a few suicides, + and they’ve sent a good-sized delegation to the state + insane asylum, an’ I don’t see as they’ve made the rest of us + much better than we were before. I had a little herdboy last + spring, as square a little Dane as I want to work for me, but + after the Gospellers got hold of him and sanctified him, the + little beggar used to get down on his knees out on the prairie + and pray by the hour and let the cattle get into the corn, an’ I + had to fire him. That’s about the way it goes. Now there’s + <a class="pagenum" id="page28" title="28"> </a>Eric; that chap used to be a hustler and the spryest dancer in + all this section—called all the dances. Now he’s got no ambition + and he’s glum as a preacher. I don’t suppose we can even + get him to come in to-morrow night.”</p> + + <p>“Eric? Why, he must dance, we can’t let him off,” said Margaret, + quickly. “Why, I intend to dance with him myself!”</p> + + <p>“I’m afraid he won’t dance. I asked him this morning if + he’d help us out and he said, ‘I don’t dance now, any more,’” + said Lockhart, imitating the labored English of the Norwegian.</p> + + <p>“‘The Miller of Hoffbau, the Miller of Hoffbau, O my + Princess!’” chirped Wyllis, cheerfully, from his hammock.</p> + + <p>The red on his sister’s cheek deepened a little, and she + laughed mischievously. “We’ll see about that, sir. I’ll not admit + that I am beaten until I have asked him myself.”</p> + + <p>Every night Eric rode over to St. Anne, a little village + in the heart of the French settlement, for the mail. As the + road lay through the most attractive part of the Divide country, + on several occasions Margaret Elliot and her brother + had accompanied him. To-night Wyllis had business with + Lockhart, and Margaret rode with Eric, mounted on a + frisky little mustang that Mrs. Lockhart had broken to the + side-saddle. Margaret regarded her escort very much as she + did the servant who always accompanied her on long rides + at home, and the ride to the village was a silent one. She + was occupied with thoughts of another world, and Eric was + wrestling with more thoughts than had ever been crowded + into his head before. He rode with his eyes riveted on that + slight figure before him, as though he wished to absorb it + through the optic nerves and hold it in his brain forever. + He understood the situation perfectly. His brain worked + slowly, but he had a keen sense of the values of things. This + girl represented an entirely new species of humanity to him, + but he knew where to place her. The prophets of old, when + an angel first appeared unto them, never doubted its high + origin.</p> + + <p>Eric was patient under the adverse conditions of his life, + but he was not servile. The Norse blood in him had not entirely + lost its self-reliance. He came of a proud fisher line, men + who were not afraid of anything but the ice and the devil, and + <a class="pagenum" id="page29" title="29"> </a>he had prospects before him when his father went down off + the North Cape in the long Arctic night, and his mother, + seized by a violent horror of seafaring life, had followed her + brother to America. Eric was eighteen then, handsome as + young Siegfried, a giant in stature, with a skin singularly pure + and delicate, like a Swede’s; hair as yellow as the locks of + Tennyson’s amorous Prince, and eyes of a fierce, burning blue, + whose flash was most dangerous to women. He had in those + days a certain pride of bearing, a certain confidence of approach, + that usually accompanies physical perfection. It was + even said of him then that he was in love with life, and inclined + to levity, a vice most unusual on the Divide. But the + sad history of those Norwegian exiles, transplanted in an arid + soil and under a scorching sun, had repeated itself in his case. + Toil and isolation had sobered him, and he grew more and + more like the clods among which he labored. It was as though + some red-hot instrument had touched for a moment those + delicate fibers of the brain which respond to acute pain or + pleasure, in which lies the power of exquisite sensation, and + had seared them quite away. It is a painful thing to watch the + light die out of the eyes of those Norsemen, leaving an expression + of impenetrable sadness, quite passive, quite hopeless, + a shadow that is never lifted. With some this change + comes almost at once, in the first bitterness of homesickness, + with others it comes more slowly, according to the time it + takes each man’s heart to die.</p> + + <p>Oh, those poor Northmen of the Divide! They are dead + many a year before they are put to rest in the little graveyard + on the windy hill where exiles of all nations grow akin.</p> + + <p>The peculiar species of hypochondria to which the exiles of + his people sooner or later succumb had not developed in Eric + until that night at the Lone Star schoolhouse, when he had + broken his violin across his knee. After that, the gloom of his + people settled down upon him, and the gospel of maceration + began its work. “<em>If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out</em>,” et cetera. + The pagan smile that once hovered about his lips was gone, + and he was one with sorrow. Religion heals a hundred hearts + for one that it embitters, but when it destroys, its work is + quick and deadly, and where the agony of the cross has been, + joy will not come again. This man understood things literally: + <a class="pagenum" id="page30" title="30"> </a>one must live without pleasure to die without fear; to save the + soul it was necessary to starve the soul.</p> + + <p>The sun hung low above the cornfields when Margaret and + her cavalier left St. Anne. South of the town there is a stretch + of road that runs for some three miles through the French + settlement, where the prairie is as level as the surface of a lake. + There the fields of flax and wheat and rye are bordered by + precise rows of slender, tapering Lombard poplars. It was a + yellow world that Margaret Elliot saw under the wide light of + the setting sun.</p> + + <p>The girl gathered up her reins and called back to Eric, “It + will be safe to run the horses here, won’t it?”</p> + + <p>“Yes, I think so, now,” he answered, touching his spur to + his pony’s flank. They were off like the wind. It is an old + saying in the West that new-comers always ride a horse or + two to death before they get broken in to the country. They + are tempted by the great open spaces and try to outride the + horizon, to get to the end of something. Margaret galloped + over the level road, and Eric, from behind, saw her long veil + fluttering in the wind. It had fluttered just so in his dreams + last night and the night before. With a sudden inspiration of + courage he overtook her and rode beside her, looking intently + at her half-averted face. Before, he had only stolen occasional + glances at it, seen it in blinding flashes, always with + more or less embarrassment, but now he determined to let + every line of it sink into his memory. Men of the world + would have said that it was an unusual face, nervous, finely + cut, with clear, elegant lines that betokened ancestry. Men of + letters would have called it a historic face, and would have + conjectured at what old passions, long asleep, what old sorrows + forgotten time out of mind, doing battle together in + ages gone, had curved those delicate nostrils, left their unconscious + memory in those eyes. But Eric read no meaning + in these details. To him this beauty was something more + than color and line; it was as a flash of white light, in which + one cannot distinguish color because all colors are there. To + him it was a complete revelation, an embodiment of those + dreams of impossible loveliness that linger by a young man’s + pillow on midsummer nights; yet, because it held something + more than the attraction of health and youth and shapeliness, + <a class="pagenum" id="page31" title="31"> </a>it troubled him, and in its presence he felt as the Goths + before the white marbles in the Roman Capitol, not knowing + whether they were men or gods. At times he felt like uncovering + his head before it, again the fury seized him to + break and despoil, to find the clay in this spirit-thing and + stamp upon it. Away from her, he longed to strike out with + his arms, and take and hold; it maddened him that this + woman whom he could break in his hands should be so + much stronger than he. But near her, he never questioned + this strength; he admitted its potentiality as he admitted the + miracles of the Bible; it enervated and conquered him. To-night, + when he rode so close to her that he could have + touched her, he knew that he might as well reach out his + hand to take a star.</p> + + <p>Margaret stirred uneasily under his gaze and turned questioningly + in her saddle.</p> + + <p>“This wind puts me a little out of breath when we ride + fast,” she said.</p> + + <p>Eric turned his eyes away.</p> + + <p>“I want to ask you if I go to New York to work, if I maybe + hear music like you sang last night? I been a purty good hand + to work,” he asked, timidly.</p> + + <p>Margaret looked at him with surprise, and then, as she + studied the outline of his face, pityingly.</p> + + <p>“Well, you might—but you’d lose a good deal else. I + shouldn’t like you to go to New York—and be poor, you’d + be out of atmosphere, some way,” she said, slowly. Inwardly + she was thinking: “There he would be altogether sordid, + impossible—a machine who would carry one’s trunks upstairs, + perhaps. Here he is every inch a man, rather picturesque; + why is it?” “No,” she added aloud, “I shouldn’t like + that.”</p> + + <p>“Then I not go,” said Eric, decidedly.</p> + + <p>Margaret turned her face to hide a smile. She was a trifle + amused and a trifle annoyed. Suddenly she spoke again.</p> + + <p>“But I’ll tell you what I do want you to do, Eric. I want + you to dance with us to-morrow night and teach me some of + the Norwegian dances; they say you know them all. Won’t + you?”</p> + + <p>Eric straightened himself in his saddle and his eyes flashed + <a class="pagenum" id="page32" title="32"> </a>as they had done in the Lone Star schoolhouse when he broke + his violin across his knee.</p> + + <p>“Yes, I will,” he said, quietly, and he believed that he delivered + his soul to hell as he said it.</p> + + <p>They had reached the rougher country now, where the + road wound through a narrow cut in one of the bluffs along + the creek, when a beat of hoofs ahead and the sharp neighing + of horses made the ponies start and Eric rose in his stirrups. + Then down the gulch in front of them and over the steep clay + banks thundered a herd of wild ponies, nimble as monkeys + and wild as rabbits, such as horse-traders drive east from the + plains of Montana to sell in the farming country. Margaret’s + pony made a shrill sound, a neigh that was almost a scream, + and started up the clay bank to meet them, all the wild blood + of the range breaking out in an instant. Margaret called to + Eric just as he threw himself out of the saddle and caught her + pony’s bit. But the wiry little animal had gone mad and was + kicking and biting like a devil. Her wild brothers of the range + were all about her, neighing, and pawing the earth, and striking + her with their fore feet and snapping at her flanks. It was + the old liberty of the range that the little beast fought for.</p> + + <p>“Drop the reins and hold tight, tight!” Eric called, throwing + all his weight upon the bit, struggling under those frantic + fore feet that now beat at his breast, and now kicked at the + wild mustangs that surged and tossed about him. He succeeded + in wrenching the pony’s head toward him and crowding + her withers against the clay bank, so that she could not + roll.</p> + + <p>“Hold tight, tight!” he shouted again, launching a kick at + a snorting animal that reared back against Margaret’s saddle. + If she should lose her courage and fall now, under those + hoofs——He struck out again and again, kicking right and + left with all his might. Already the negligent drivers had galloped + into the cut, and their long quirts were whistling over + the heads of the herd. As suddenly as it had come, the struggling, + frantic wave of wild life swept up out of the gulch and + on across the open prairie, and with a long despairing whinny + of farewell the pony dropped her head and stood trembling in + her sweat, shaking the foam and blood from her bit.</p> + + <p>Eric stepped close to Margaret’s side and laid his hand on + <a class="pagenum" id="page33" title="33"> </a>her saddle. “You are not hurt?” he asked, hoarsely. As he + raised his face in the soft starlight she saw that it was white + and drawn and that his lips were working nervously.</p> + + <p>“No, no, not at all. But you, you are suffering; they struck + you!” she cried in sharp alarm.</p> + + <p>He stepped back and drew his hand across his brow.</p> + + <p>“No, it is not that,” he spoke rapidly now, with his hands + clenched at his side. “But if they had hurt you, I would beat + their brains out with my hands, I would kill them all. I was + never afraid before. You are the only beautiful thing that has + ever come close to me. You came like an angel out of the sky. + You are like the music you sing, you are like the stars and the + snow on the mountains where I played when I was a little + boy. You are like all that I wanted once and never had, you + are all that they have killed in me. I die for you to-night, + to-morrow, for all eternity. I am not a coward; I was afraid + because I love you more than Christ who died for me, more + than I am afraid of hell, or hope for heaven. I was never afraid + before. If you had fallen—oh, my God!” he threw his arms + out blindly and dropped his head upon the pony’s mane, + leaning limply against the animal like a man struck by some + sickness. His shoulders rose and fell perceptibly with his + labored breathing. The horse stood cowed with exhaustion + and fear. Presently Margaret laid her hand on Eric’s head and + said gently:</p> + + <p>“You are better now, shall we go on? Can you get your + horse?”</p> + + <p>“No, he has gone with the herd. I will lead yours, she is not + safe. I will not frighten you again.” His voice was still husky, + but it was steady now. He took hold of the bit and tramped + home in silence.</p> + + <p>When they reached the house, Eric stood stolidly by the + pony’s head until Wyllis came to lift his sister from the saddle.</p> + + <p>“The horses were badly frightened, Wyllis. I think I was + pretty thoroughly scared myself,” she said as she took her + brother’s arm and went slowly up the hill toward the house. + “No, I’m not hurt, thanks to Eric. You must thank him for + taking such good care of me. He’s a mighty fine fellow. I’ll + tell you all about it in the morning, dear. I was pretty well + shaken up and I’m going right to bed now. Good-night.”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page34" title="34"> </a>When she reached the low room in which she slept, she + sank upon the bed in her riding-dress face downward.</p> + + <p>“Oh, I pity him! I pity him!” she murmured, with a long + sigh of exhaustion. She must have slept a little. When she rose + again, she took from her dress a letter that had been waiting + for her at the village post-office. It was closely written in a + long, angular hand, covering a dozen pages of foreign note-paper, + and began:—</p> + + <p>“My Dearest Margaret: If I should attempt to say <em>how like a + winter hath thine absence been</em>, I should incur the risk of being + tedious. Really, it takes the sparkle out of everything. Having + nothing better to do, and not caring to go anywhere in + particular without you, I remained in the city until Jack + Courtwell noted my general despondency and brought me + down here to his place on the sound to manage some open-air + theatricals he is getting up. ‘As You Like It’ is of course + the piece selected. Miss Harrison plays Rosalind. I wish you + had been here to take the part. Miss Harrison reads her lines + well, but she is either a maiden-all-forlorn or a tomboy; insists + on reading into the part all sorts of deeper meanings and + highly colored suggestions wholly out of harmony with the + pastoral setting. Like most of the professionals, she exaggerates + the emotional element and quite fails to do justice to + Rosalind’s facile wit and really brilliant mental qualities. + Gerard will do Orlando, but rumor says he is épris of your + sometime friend, Miss Meredith, and his memory is treacherous + and his interest fitful.</p> + + <p>“My new pictures arrived last week on the ‘Gascogne.’ The + Puvis de Chavannes is even more beautiful than I thought it + in Paris. A pale dream-maiden sits by a pale dream-cow, and a + stream of anemic water flows at her feet. The Constant, you + will remember, I got because you admired it. It is here in all + its florid splendor, the whole dominated by a glowing sensuosity. + The drapery of the female figure is as wonderful as you + said; the fabric all barbaric pearl and gold, painted with an + easy, effortless voluptuousness, and that white, gleaming line + of African coast in the background recalls memories of you + very precious to me. But it is useless to deny that Constant + irritates me. Though I cannot prove the charge against him, + his brilliancy always makes me suspect him of cheapness.”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page35" title="35"> </a>Here Margaret stopped and glanced at the remaining pages + of this strange love-letter. They seemed to be filled chiefly + with discussions of pictures and books, and with a slow smile + she laid them by.</p> + + <p>She rose and began undressing. Before she lay down she + went to open the window. With her hand on the sill, she + hesitated, feeling suddenly as though some danger were lurking + outside, some inordinate desire waiting to spring upon + her in the darkness. She stood there for a long time, gazing at + the infinite sweep of the sky.</p> + + <p>“Oh, it is all so little, so little there,” she murmured. + “When everything else is so dwarfed, why should one expect + love to be great? Why should one try to read highly colored + suggestions into a life like that? If only I could find one thing + in it all that mattered greatly, one thing that would warm + me when I am alone! Will life never give me that one great + moment?”</p> + + <p>As she raised the window, she heard a sound in the plum-bushes + outside. It was only the house-dog roused from his + sleep, but Margaret started violently and trembled so that she + caught the foot of the bed for support. Again she felt herself + pursued by some overwhelming longing, some desperate necessity + for herself, like the outstretching of helpless, unseen + arms in the darkness, and the air seemed heavy with sighs of + yearning. She fled to her bed with the words, “I love you + more than Christ, who died for me!” ringing in her ears.</p> + + <h4>III.</h4> + + <p>About midnight the dance at Lockhart’s was at its height. + Even the old men who had come to “look on” caught the + spirit of revelry and stamped the floor with the vigor of old + Silenus. Eric took the violin from the Frenchman, and Minna + Oleson sat at the organ, and the music grew more and more + characteristic—rude, half-mournful music, made up of the + folk-songs of the North, that the villagers sing through the + long night in hamlets by the sea, when they are thinking of + the sun, and the spring, and the fishermen so long away. To + Margaret some of it sounded like Grieg’s Peer Gynt music. + She found something irresistibly infectious in the mirth of + <a class="pagenum" id="page36" title="36"> </a>these people who were so seldom merry, and she felt almost + one of them. Something seemed struggling for freedom in + them to-night, something of the joyous childhood of the nations + which exile had not killed. The girls were all boisterous + with delight. Pleasure came to them but rarely, and when it + came, they caught at it wildly and crushed its fluttering wings + in their strong brown fingers. They had a hard life enough, + most of them. Torrid summers and freezing winters, labor and + drudgery and ignorance, were the portion of their girlhood; a + short wooing, a hasty, loveless marriage, unlimited maternity, + thankless sons, premature age and ugliness, were the dower of + their womanhood. But what matter? To-night there was hot + liquor in the glass and hot blood in the heart; to-night they + danced.</p> + + <p>To-night Eric Hermannson had renewed his youth. He was + no longer the big, silent Norwegian who had sat at Margaret’s + feet and looked hopelessly into her eyes. To-night he + was a man, with a man’s rights and a man’s power. To-night + he was Siegfried indeed. His hair was yellow as the heavy + wheat in the ripe of summer, and his eyes flashed like the blue + water between the ice-packs in the North Seas. He was not + afraid of Margaret to-night, and when he danced with her he + held her firmly. She was tired and dragged on his arm a little, + but the strength of the man was like an all-pervading fluid, + stealing through her veins, awakening under her heart some + nameless, unsuspected existence that had slumbered there all + these years and that went out through her throbbing fingertips + to his that answered. She wondered if the hoydenish + blood of some lawless ancestor, long asleep, were calling out + in her to-night, some drop of a hotter fluid that the centuries + had failed to cool, and why, if this curse were in her, it had + not spoken before. But was it a curse, this awakening, this + wealth before undiscovered, this music set free? For the first + time in her life her heart held something stronger than herself, + was not this worth while? Then she ceased to wonder. + She lost sight of the lights and the faces, and the music was + drowned by the beating of her own arteries. She saw only the + blue eyes that flashed above her, felt only the warmth of that + throbbing hand which held hers and which the blood of his + heart fed. Dimly, as in a dream, she saw the drooping shoulders, + <a class="pagenum" id="page37" title="37"> </a>high white forehead and tight, cynical mouth of the man + she was to marry in December. For an hour she had been + crowding back the memory of that face with all her strength.</p> + + <p>“Let us stop, this is enough,” she whispered. His only + answer was to tighten the arm behind her. She sighed and let + that masterful strength bear her where it would. She forgot + that this man was little more than a savage, that they would + part at dawn. The blood has no memories, no reflections, no + regrets for the past, no consideration of the future.</p> + + <p>“Let us go out where it is cooler,” she said when the music + stopped; thinking, “I am growing faint here, I shall be all + right in the open air.” They stepped out into the cool, blue air + of the night.</p> + + <p>Since the older folk had begun dancing, the young Norwegians + had been slipping out in couples to climb the windmill + tower into the cooler atmosphere, as is their custom.</p> + + <p>“You like to go up?” asked Eric, close to her ear.</p> + + <p>She turned and looked at him with suppressed amusement. + “How high is it?”</p> + + <p>“Forty feet, about. I not let you fall.” There was a note of + irresistible pleading in his voice, and she felt that he tremendously + wished her to go. Well, why not? This was a night of + the unusual, when she was not herself at all, but was living an + unreality. To-morrow, yes, in a few hours, there would be the + Vestibule Limited and the world.</p> + + <p>“Well, if you’ll take good care of me. I used to be able to + climb, when I was a little girl.”</p> + + <p>Once at the top and seated on the platform, they were silent. + Margaret wondered if she would not hunger for that + scene all her life, through all the routine of the days to come. + Above them stretched the great Western sky, serenely blue, + even in the night, with its big, burning stars, never so cold + and dead and far away as in denser atmospheres. The moon + would not be up for twenty minutes yet, and all about the + horizon, that wide horizon, which seemed to reach around + the world, lingered a pale, white light, as of a universal dawn. + The weary wind brought up to them the heavy odors of the + cornfields. The music of the dance sounded faintly from below. + Eric leaned on his elbow beside her, his legs swinging + down on the ladder. His great shoulders looked more than + <a class="pagenum" id="page38" title="38"> </a>ever like those of the stone Doryphorus, who stands in his + perfect, reposeful strength in the Louvre, and had often made + her wonder if such men died forever with the youth of + Greece.</p> + + <p>“How sweet the corn smells at night,” said Margaret nervously.</p> + + <p>“Yes, like the flowers that grow in paradise, I think.”</p> + + <p>She was somewhat startled by this reply, and more startled + when this taciturn man spoke again.</p> + + <p>“You go away to-morrow?”</p> + + <p>“Yes, we have stayed longer than we thought to now.”</p> + + <p>“You not come back any more?”</p> + + <p>“No, I expect not. You see, it is a long trip; half-way across + the continent.”</p> + + <p>“You soon forget about this country, I guess.” It seemed to + him now a little thing to lose his soul for this woman, but + that she should utterly forget this night into which he threw + all his life and all his eternity, that was a bitter thought.</p> + + <p>“No, Eric, I will not forget. You have all been too kind to + me for that. And you won’t be sorry you danced this one + night, will you?”</p> + + <p>“I never be sorry. I have not been so happy before. I not be + so happy again, ever. You will be happy many nights yet, I + only this one. I will dream sometimes, maybe.”</p> + + <p>The mighty resignation of his tone alarmed and touched + her. It was as when some great animal composes itself for + death, as when a great ship goes down at sea.</p> + + <p>She sighed, but did not answer him. He drew a little closer + and looked into her eyes.</p> + + <p>“You are not always happy, too?” he asked.</p> + + <p>“No, not always, Eric; not very often, I think.”</p> + + <p>“You have a trouble?”</p> + + <p>“Yes, but I cannot put it into words. Perhaps if I could do + that, I could cure it.”</p> + + <p>He clasped his hands together over his heart, as children do + when they pray, and said falteringly, “If I own all the world, I + give him you.”</p> + + <p>Margaret felt a sudden moisture in her eyes, and laid her + hand on his.</p> + + <p>“Thank you, Eric; I believe you would. But perhaps even + <a class="pagenum" id="page39" title="39"> </a>then I should not be happy. Perhaps I have too much of it + already.”</p> + + <p>She did not take her hand away from him; she did not + dare. She sat still and waited for the traditions in which she + had always believed to speak and save her. But they were + dumb. She belonged to an ultra-refined civilization which + tries to cheat nature with elegant sophistries. Cheat nature? + Bah! One generation may do it, perhaps two, but the + third—— Can we ever rise above nature or sink below her? + Did she not turn on Jerusalem as upon Sodom, upon St. Anthony + in his desert as upon Nero in his seraglio? Does she not + always cry in brutal triumph: “I am here still, at the bottom of + things, warming the roots of life; you cannot starve me nor + tame me nor thwart me; I made the world, I rule it, and I am + its destiny.”</p> + + <p>This woman, on a windmill tower at the world’s end with a + giant barbarian, heard that cry to-night, and she was afraid! + Ah! the terror and the delight of that moment when first we + fear ourselves! Until then we have not lived.</p> + + <p>“Come, Eric, let us go down; the moon is up and the music + has begun again,” she said.</p> + + <p>He rose silently and stepped down upon the ladder, putting + his arm about her to help her. That arm could have thrown + Thor’s hammer out in the cornfields yonder, yet it scarcely + touched her, and his hand trembled as it had done in the + dance. His face was level with hers now and the moonlight + fell sharply upon it. All her life she had searched the faces of + men for the look that lay in his eyes. She knew that that look + had never shone for her before, would never shine for her on + earth again, that such love comes to one only in dreams or in + impossible places like this, unattainable always. This was + Love’s self, in a moment it would die. Stung by the agonized + appeal that emanated from the man’s whole being, she leaned + forward and laid her lips on his. Once, twice and again she + heard the deep respirations rattle in his throat while she held + them there, and the riotous force under her heart became an + engulfing weakness. He drew her up to him until he felt all + the resistance go out of her body, until every nerve relaxed + and yielded. When she drew her face back from his, it was + white with fear.</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page40" title="40"> </a>“Let us go down, oh, my God! let us go down!” she + muttered. And the drunken stars up yonder seemed reeling + to some appointed doom as she clung to the rounds of the + ladder. All that she was to know of love she had left upon + his lips.</p> + + <p>“The devil is loose again,” whispered Olaf Oleson, as he + saw Eric dancing a moment later, his eyes blazing.</p> + + <p>But Eric was thinking with an almost savage exultation of + the time when he should pay for this. Ah, there would be no + quailing then! If ever a soul went fearlessly, proudly down to + the gates infernal, his should go. For a moment he fancied he + was there already, treading down the tempest of flame, hugging + the fiery hurricane to his breast. He wondered whether + in ages gone, all the countless years of sinning in which men + had sold and lost and flung their souls away, any man had + ever so cheated Satan, had ever bartered his soul for so great a + price.</p> + + <p>It seemed but a little while till dawn.</p> + + <p>The carriage was brought to the door and Wyllis Elliot and + his sister said good-by. She could not meet Eric’s eyes as she + gave him her hand, but as he stood by the horse’s head, just + as the carriage moved off, she gave him one swift glance that + said, “I will not forget.” In a moment the carriage was gone.</p> + + <p>Eric changed his coat and plunged his head into the watertank + and went to the barn to hook up his team. As he led his + horses to the door, a shadow fell across his path, and he saw + Skinner rising in his stirrups. His rugged face was pale and + worn with looking after his wayward flock, with dragging + men into the way of salvation.</p> + + <p>“Good-morning, Eric. There was a dance here last night?” + he asked, sternly.</p> + + <p>“A dance? Oh, yes, a dance,” replied Eric, cheerfully.</p> + + <p>“Certainly you did not dance, Eric?”</p> + + <p>“Yes, I danced. I danced all the time.”</p> + + <p>The minister’s shoulders drooped, and an expression of + profound discouragement settled over his haggard face. There + was almost anguish in the yearning he felt for this soul.</p> + + <p>“Eric, I didn’t look for this from you. I thought God had + set his mark on you if he ever had on any man. And it is for + <a class="pagenum" id="page41" title="41"> </a>things like this that you set your soul back a thousand years + from God. O foolish and perverse generation!”</p> + + <p>Eric drew himself up to his full height and looked off to + where the new day was gilding the corn-tassels and flooding + the uplands with light. As his nostrils drew in the breath of + the dew and the morning, something from the only poetry he + had ever read flashed across his mind, and he murmured, half + to himself, with dreamy exultation:</p> + + <p>“‘And a day shall be as a thousand years, and a thousand + years as a day.’”</p> + + <p class="source"><cite>Cosmopolitan</cite>, April 1900</p> + + </div> + <div id="tavener" class="story"><a class="pagenum" id="page42" title="42"> </a> + <h3 class="story_title">The Sentimentality of William Tavener <a class="return_toc" href="#contents" title="Return to Contents">ToC</a></h3> + + <p class="first_paragraph">It takes a strong woman to make any sort of success of + living in the West, and Hester undoubtedly was that. + When people spoke of William Tavener as the most prosperous + farmer in McPherson County, they usually added that his + wife was a “good manager.” She was an executive woman, + quick of tongue and something of an imperatrix. The only + reason her husband did not consult her about his business + was that she did not wait to be consulted.</p> + + <p>It would have been quite impossible for one man, within + the limited sphere of human action, to follow all Hester’s advice, + but in the end William usually acted upon some of her + suggestions. When she incessantly denounced the “shiftlessness” + of letting a new threshing machine stand unprotected in + the open, he eventually built a shed for it. When she sniffed + contemptuously at his notion of fencing a hog corral with + sod walls, he made a spiritless beginning on the structure—merely + to “show his temper,” as she put it—but in the end he + went off quietly to town and bought enough barbed wire to + complete the fence. When the first heavy rains came on, and + the pigs rooted down the sod wall and made little paths all + over it to facilitate their ascent, he heard his wife relate with + relish the story of the little pig that built a mud house, to the + minister at the dinner table, and William’s gravity never relaxed + for an instant. Silence, indeed, was William’s refuge and + his strength.</p> + + <p>William set his boys a wholesome example to respect their + mother. People who knew him very well suspected that he + even admired her. He was a hard man towards his neighbors, + and even towards his sons; grasping, determined and + ambitious.</p> + + <p>There was an occasional blue day about the house when + William went over the store bills, but he never objected to + items relating to his wife’s gowns or bonnets. So it came + about that many of the foolish, unnecessary little things that + Hester bought for boys, she had charged to her personal + account.</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page43" title="43"> </a>One spring night Hester sat in a rocking chair by the sitting + room window, darning socks. She rocked violently and + sent her long needle vigorously back and forth over her + gourd, and it took only a very casual glance to see that she + was wrought up over something. William sat on the other + side of the table reading his farm paper. If he had noticed his + wife’s agitation, his calm, clean-shaven face betrayed no sign + of concern. He must have noticed the sarcastic turn of her + remarks at the supper table, and he must have noticed the + moody silence of the older boys as they ate. When supper was + but half over little Billy, the youngest, had suddenly pushed + back his plate and slipped away from the table, manfully + trying to swallow a sob. But William Tavener never heeded + ominous forecasts in the domestic horizon, and he never + looked for a storm until it broke.</p> + + <p>After supper the boys had gone to the pond under the willows + in the big cattle corral, to get rid of the dust of plowing. + Hester could hear an occasional splash and a laugh ringing + clear through the stillness of the night, as she sat by the open + window. She sat silent for almost an hour reviewing in her + mind many plans of attack. But she was too vigorous a + woman to be much of a strategist, and she usually came to her + point with directness. At last she cut her thread and suddenly + put her darning down, saying emphatically:</p> + + <p>“William, I don’t think it would hurt you to let the boys go + to that circus in town to-morrow.”</p> + + <p>William continued to read his farm paper, but it was not + Hester’s custom to wait for an answer. She usually divined + his arguments and assailed them one by one before he uttered + them.</p> + + <p>“You’ve been short of hands all summer, and you’ve + worked the boys hard, and a man ought use his own flesh and + blood as well as he does his hired hands. We’re plenty able to + afford it, and it’s little enough our boys ever spend. I don’t + see how you can expect ’em to be steady and hard workin’, + unless you encourage ’em a little. I never could see much + harm in circuses, and our boys have never been to one. Oh, I + know Jim Howley’s boys get drunk an’ carry on when they + go, but our boys ain’t that sort, an’ you know it, William. The + animals are real instructive, an’ our boys don’t get to see + <a class="pagenum" id="page44" title="44"> </a>much out here on the prairie. It was different where we were + raised, but the boys have got no advantages here, an’ if you + don’t take care, they’ll grow up to be greenhorns.”</p> + + <p>Hester paused a moment, and William folded up his paper, + but vouchsafed no remark. His sisters in Virginia had often + said that only a quiet man like William could ever have lived + with Hester Perkins. Secretly, William was rather proud of his + wife’s “gift of speech,” and of the fact that she could talk in + prayer meeting as fluently as a man. He confined his own + efforts in that line to a brief prayer at Covenant meetings.</p> + + <p>Hester shook out another sock and went on.</p> + + <p>“Nobody was ever hurt by goin’ to a circus. Why, law me! + I remember I went to one myself once, when I was little. I + had most forgot about it. It was over at Pewtown, an’ I remember + how I had set my heart on going. I don’t think I’d + ever forgiven my father if he hadn’t taken me, though that red + clay road was in a frightful way after the rain. I mind they had + an elephant and six poll parrots, an’ a Rocky Mountain lion, + an’ a cage of monkeys, an’ two camels. My! but they were a + sight to me then!”</p> + + <p>Hester dropped the black sock and shook her head and + smiled at the recollection. She was not expecting anything + from William yet, and she was fairly startled when he said + gravely, in much the same tone in which he announced the + hymns in prayer meeting:</p> + + <p>“No, there was only one camel. The other was a dromedary.”</p> + + <p>She peered around the lamp and looked at him keenly.</p> + + <p>“Why, William, how come you to know?”</p> + + <p>William folded his paper and answered with some hesitation, + “I was there, too.”</p> + + <p>Hester’s interest flashed up.—“Well, I never, William! To + think of my finding it out after all these years! Why, you + couldn’t have been much bigger’n our Billy then. It seems + queer I never saw you when you was little, to remember + about you. But then you Back Creek folks never have anything + to do with us Gap people. But how come you to go? + Your father was stricter with you than you are with your + boys.”</p> + + <p>“I reckon I shouldn’t ’a gone,” he said slowly, “but boys + <a class="pagenum" id="page45" title="45"> </a>will do foolish things. I had done a good deal of fox hunting + the winter before, and father let me keep the bounty money. I + hired Tom Smith’s Tap to weed the corn for me, an’ I slipped + off unbeknownst to father an’ went to the show.”</p> + + <p>Hester spoke up warmly: “Nonsense, William! It didn’t do + you no harm, I guess. You was always worked hard enough. + It must have been a big sight for a little fellow. That clown + must have just tickled you to death.”</p> + + <p>William crossed his knees and leaned back in his chair.</p> + + <p>“I reckon I could tell all that fool’s jokes now. Sometimes I + can’t help thinkin’ about ’em in meetin’ when the sermon’s + long. I mind I had on a pair of new boots that hurt me like + the mischief, but I forgot all about ’em when that fellow rode + the donkey. I recall I had to take them boots off as soon as I + got out of sight o’ town, and walked home in the mud barefoot.”</p> + + <p>“O poor little fellow!” Hester ejaculated, drawing her chair + nearer and leaning her elbows on the table. “What cruel shoes + they did use to make for children. I remember I went up to + Back Creek to see the circus wagons go by. They came down + from Romney, you know. The circus men stopped at the + creek to water the animals, an’ the elephant got stubborn an’ + broke a big limb off the yellow willow tree that grew there by + the toll house porch, an’ the Scribners were ’fraid as death + he’d pull the house down. But this much I saw him do; he + waded in the creek an’ filled his trunk with water, and + squirted it in at the window and nearly ruined Ellen Scribner’s + pink lawn dress that she had just ironed an’ laid out on + the bed ready to wear to the circus.”</p> + + <p>“I reckon that must have been a trial to Ellen,” chuckled + William, “for she was mighty prim in them days.”</p> + + <p>Hester drew her chair still nearer William’s. Since the + children had begun growing up, her conversation with her + husband had been almost wholly confined to questions of + economy and expense. Their relationship had become purely + a business one, like that between landlord and tenant. In her + desire to indulge her boys she had unconsciously assumed a + defensive and almost hostile attitude towards her husband. + No debtor ever haggled with his usurer more doggedly than + did Hester with her husband in behalf of her sons. The strategic + <a class="pagenum" id="page46" title="46"> </a>contest had gone on so long that it had almost crowded + out the memory of a closer relationship. This exchange of + confidences to-night, when common recollections took them + unawares and opened their hearts, had all the miracle of romance. + They talked on and on; of old neighbors, of old familiar + faces in the valley where they had grown up, of long + forgotten incidents of their youth—weddings, picnics, sleighing + parties and baptizings. For years they had talked of nothing + else but butter and eggs and the prices of things, and now + they had as much to say to each other as people who meet + after a long separation.</p> + + <p>When the clock struck ten, William rose and went over to + his walnut secretary and unlocked it. From his red leather + wallet he took out a ten dollar bill and laid it on the table + beside Hester.</p> + + <p>“Tell the boys not to stay late, an’ not to drive the horses + hard,” he said quietly, and went off to bed.</p> + + <p>Hester blew out the lamp and sat still in the dark a long + time. She left the bill lying on the table where William had + placed it. She had a painful sense of having missed something, + or lost something; she felt that somehow the years had + cheated her.</p> + + <p>The little locust trees that grew by the fence were white + with blossoms. Their heavy odor floated in to her on the + night wind and recalled a night long ago, when the first whip-poor-Will + of the Spring was heard, and the rough, buxom + girls of Hawkins Gap had held her laughing and struggling + under the locust trees, and searched in her bosom for a lock + of her sweetheart’s hair, which is supposed to be on every + girl’s breast when the first whip-poor-Will sings. Two of + those same girls had been her bridesmaids. Hester had been a + very happy bride. She rose and went softly into the room + where William lay. He was sleeping heavily, but occasionally + moved his hand before his face to ward off the flies. Hester + went into the parlor and took the piece of mosquito net from + the basket of wax apples and pears that her sister had made + before she died. One of the boys had brought it all the way + from Virginia, packed in a tin pail, since Hester would not + risk shipping so precious an ornament by freight. She went + back to the bed room and spread the net over William’s head.</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page47" title="47"> </a>Then she sat down by the bed and listened to his deep, regular + breathing until she heard the boys returning. She went out + to meet them and warn them not to waken their father.</p> + + <p>“I’ll be up early to get your breakfast, boys. Your father says + you can go to the show.” As she handed the money to the + eldest, she felt a sudden throb of allegiance to her husband + and said sharply, “And you be careful of that, an’ don’t waste + it. Your father works hard for his money.”</p> + + <p>The boys looked at each other in astonishment and felt that + they had lost a powerful ally.</p> + + <p class="source"><cite>Library</cite>, May 12, 1900</p> + + </div> + <div id="namesake" class="story"><a class="pagenum" id="page48" title="48"> </a> + <h3 class="story_title">The Namesake <a class="return_toc" href="#contents" title="Return to Contents">ToC</a></h3> + + <p class="first_paragraph">Seven of us, students, sat one evening in Hartwell’s + studio on the Boulevard St. Michel. We were all fellow-countrymen; + one from New Hampshire, one from Colorado, + another from Nevada, several from the farm lands of the + Middle West, and I myself from California. Lyon Hartwell, + though born abroad, was simply, as every one knew, “from + America.” He seemed, almost more than any other one living + man, to mean all of it—from ocean to ocean. When he was in + Paris, his studio was always open to the seven of us who were + there that evening, and we intruded upon his leisure as often + as we thought permissible.</p> + + <p>Although we were within the terms of the easiest of all + intimacies, and although the great sculptor, even when he was + more than usually silent, was at all times the most gravely + cordial of hosts, yet, on that long remembered evening, as the + sunlight died on the burnished brown of the horse-chestnuts + below the windows, a perceptible dullness yawned through + our conversation.</p> + + <p>We were, indeed, somewhat low in spirit, for one of our + number, Charley Bentley, was leaving us indefinitely, in response + to an imperative summons from home. To-morrow his + studio, just across the hall from Hartwell’s, was to pass into + other hands, and Bentley’s luggage was even now piled in + discouraged resignation before his door. The various bales + and boxes seemed literally to weigh upon us as we sat in his + neighbor’s hospitable rooms, drearily putting in the time until + he should leave us to catch the ten o’clock express for + Dieppe.</p> + + <p>The day we had got through very comfortably, for Bentley + made it the occasion of a somewhat pretentious luncheon at + Maxim’s. There had been twelve of us at table, and the two + young Poles were thirsty, the Gascon so fabulously entertaining, + that it was near upon five o’clock when we put down our + liqueur glasses for the last time, and the red, perspiring + waiter, having pocketed the reward of his arduous and protracted + services, bowed us affably to the door, flourishing his + <a class="pagenum" id="page49" title="49"> </a>napkin and brushing back the streaks of wet, black hair from + his rosy forehead. Our guests having betaken themselves belated + to their respective engagements, the rest of us returned + with Bentley—only to be confronted by the depressing array + before his door. A glance about his denuded rooms had sufficed + to chill the glow of the afternoon, and we fled across the + hall in a body and begged Lyon Hartwell to take us in.</p> + + <p>Bentley had said very little about it, but we all knew what it + meant to him to be called home. Each of us knew what it + would mean to himself, and each had felt something of that + quickened sense of opportunity which comes at seeing another + man in any way counted out of the race. Never had the + game seemed so enchanting, the chance to play it such a piece + of unmerited, unbelievable good fortune.</p> + + <p>It must have been, I think, about the middle of October, + for I remember that the sycamores were almost bare in the + Luxembourg Gardens that morning, and the terrace about the + queens of France were strewn with crackling brown leaves. + The fat red roses, out the summer long on the stand of the + old flower woman at the corner, had given place to dahlias + and purple asters. First glimpses of autumn toilettes flashed + from the carriages; wonderful little bonnets nodded at one + along the Champs-Elysées; and in the Quarter an occasional + feather boa, red or black or white, brushed one’s coat sleeve + in the gay twilight of the early evening. The crisp, sunny autumn + air was all day full of the stir of people and carriages and + of the cheer of salutations; greetings of the students, returned + brown and bearded from their holiday, gossip of people come + back from Trouville, from St. Valery, from Dieppe, from all + over Brittany and the Norman coast. Everywhere was the joyousness + of return, the taking up again of life and work and + play.</p> + + <p>I had felt ever since early morning that this was the saddest + of all possible seasons for saying good-by to that old, old city + of youth, and to that little corner of it on the south shore + which since the Dark Ages themselves—yes, and before—has + been so peculiarly the land of the young.</p> + + <p>I can recall our very postures as we lounged about Hartwell’s + rooms that evening, with Bentley making occasional + hurried trips to his desolated workrooms across the hall—as + <a class="pagenum" id="page50" title="50"> </a>if haunted by a feeling of having forgotten something—or + stopping to poke nervously at his <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">perroquets</em>, which he had + bequeathed to Hartwell, gilt cage and all. Our host himself + sat on the couch, his big, bronze-like shoulders backed up + against the window, his shaggy head, beaked nose, and long + chin cut clean against the gray light.</p> + + <p>Our drowsing interest, in so far as it could be said to be + fixed upon anything, was centered upon Hartwell’s new figure, + which stood on the block ready to be cast in bronze, + intended as a monument for some American battlefield. He + called it “The Color Sergeant.” It was the figure of a young + soldier running, clutching the folds of a flag, the staff of + which had been shot away. We had known it in all the stages + of its growth, and the splendid action and feeling of the thing + had come to have a kind of special significance for the half + dozen of us who often gathered at Hartwell’s rooms—though, + in truth, there was as much to dishearten one as to + inflame, in the case of a man who had done so much in a field + so amazingly difficult; who had thrown up in bronze all the + restless, teeming force of that adventurous wave still climbing + westward in our own land across the waters. We recalled his + “Scout,” his “Pioneer,” his “Gold Seekers,” and those monuments + in which he had invested one and another of the heroes + of the Civil War with such convincing dignity and power.</p> + + <p>“Where in the world does he get the heat to make an idea + like that carry?” Bentley remarked morosely, scowling at the + clay figure. “Hang me, Hartwell, if I don’t think it’s just because + you’re not really an American at all, that you can look at + it like that.”</p> + + <p>The big man shifted uneasily against the window. “Yes,” he + replied smiling, “perhaps there is something in that. My citizenship + was somewhat belated and emotional in its flowering. + I’ve half a mind to tell you about it, Bentley.” He rose uncertainly, + and, after hesitating a moment, went back into his + workroom, where he began fumbling among the litter in the + corners.</p> + + <p>At the prospect of any sort of personal expression from + Hartwell, we glanced questioningly at one another; for although + he made us feel that he liked to have us about, we + were always held at a distance by a certain diffidence of his. + <a class="pagenum" id="page51" title="51"> </a>There were rare occasions—when he was in the heat of work + or of ideas—when he forgot to be shy, but they were so exceptional + that no flattery was quite so seductive as being taken + for a moment into Hartwell’s confidence. Even in the matter + of opinions—the commonest of currency in our circle—he + was niggardly and prone to qualify. No man ever guarded his + mystery more effectually. There was a singular, intense spell, + therefore, about those few evenings when he had broken + through this excessive modesty, or shyness, or melancholy, + and had, as it were, committed himself.</p> + + <p>When Hartwell returned from the back room, he brought + with him an unframed canvas which he put on an easel near + his clay figure. We drew close about it, for the darkness was + rapidly coming on. Despite the dullness of the light, we instantly + recognized the boy of Hartwell’s “Color Sergeant.” It + was the portrait of a very handsome lad in uniform, standing + beside a charger impossibly rearing. Not only in his radiant + countenance and flashing eyes, but in every line of his young + body there was an energy, a gallantry, a joy of life, that arrested + and challenged one.</p> + + <p>“Yes, that’s where I got the notion,” Hartwell remarked, + wandering back to his seat in the window. “I’ve wanted to do + it for years, but I’ve never felt quite sure of myself. I was + afraid of missing it. He was an uncle of mine, my father’s + half-brother, and I was named for him. He was killed in one + of the big battles of Sixty-four, when I was a child. I never + saw him—never knew him until he had been dead for twenty + years. And then, one night, I came to know him as we sometimes + do living persons—intimately, in a single moment.”</p> + + <p>He paused to knock the ashes out of his short pipe, refilled + it, and puffed at it thoughtfully for a few moments with his + hands on his knees. Then, settling back heavily among the + cushions and looking absently out of the window, he began + his story. As he proceeded further and further into the experience + which he was trying to convey to us, his voice sank so + low and was sometimes so charged with feeling, that I almost + thought he had forgotten our presence and was remembering + aloud. Even Bentley forgot his nervousness in astonishment + and sat breathless under the spell of the man’s thus breathing + his memories out into the dusk.</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page52" title="52"> </a>“It was just fifteen years ago this last spring that I first went + home, and Bentley’s having to cut away like this brings it all + back to me.</p> + + <p>“I was born, you know, in Italy. My father was a sculptor, + though I dare say you’ve not heard of him. He was one of + those first fellows who went over after Story and Powers,—went + to Italy for ‘Art,’ quite simply; to lift from its native + bough the willing, iridescent bird. Their story is told, informingly + enough, by some of those ingenuous marble things at + the Metropolitan. My father came over some time before the + outbreak of the Civil War, and was regarded as a renegade by + his family because he did not go home to enter the army. His + half-brother, the only child of my grandfather’s second marriage, + enlisted at fifteen and was killed the next year. I was ten + years old when the news of his death reached us. My mother + died the following winter, and I was sent away to a Jesuit + school, while my father, already ill himself, stayed on at + Rome, chipping away at his Indian maidens and marble goddesses, + still gloomily seeking the thing for which he had made + himself the most unhappy of exiles.</p> + + <p>“He died when I was fourteen, but even before that I had + been put to work under an Italian sculptor. He had an almost + morbid desire that I should carry on his work, under, as he + often pointed out to me, conditions so much more auspicious. + He left me in the charge of his one intimate friend, an + American gentleman in the consulate at Rome, and his instructions + were that I was to be educated there and to live + there until I was twenty-one. After I was of age, I came to + Paris and studied under one master after another until I was + nearly thirty. Then, almost for the first time, I was confronted + by a duty which was not my pleasure.</p> + + <p>“My grandfather’s death, at an advanced age, left an invalid + maiden sister of my father’s quite alone in the world. She had + suffered for years from a cerebral disease, a slow decay of the + faculties which rendered her almost helpless. I decided to go + to America and, if possible, bring her back to Paris, where I + seemed on my way toward what my poor father had wished + for me.</p> + + <p>“On my arrival at my father’s birthplace, however, I found + that this was not to be thought of. To tear this timid, feeble, + <a class="pagenum" id="page53" title="53"> </a>shrinking creature, doubly aged by years and illness, from the + spot where she had been rooted for a lifetime, would have + been little short of brutality. To leave her to the care of + strangers seemed equally heartless. There was clearly nothing + for me to do but to remain and wait for that slow and painless + malady to run its course. I was there something over two + years.</p> + + <p>“My grandfather’s home, his father’s homestead before + him, lay on the high banks of a river in Western Pennsylvania. + The little town twelve miles down the stream, whither my + great-grandfather used to drive his ox-wagon on market days, + had become, in two generations, one of the largest manufacturing + cities in the world. For hundreds of miles about us the + gentle hill slopes were honeycombed with gas wells and coal + shafts; oil derricks creaked in every valley and meadow; the + brooks were sluggish and discolored with crude petroleum, + and the air was impregnated by its searching odor. The great + glass and iron manufactories had come up and up the river + almost to our very door; their smoky exhalations brooded + over us, and their crashing was always in our ears. I was + plunged into the very incandescence of human energy. But, + though my nerves tingled with the feverish, passionate endeavor + which snapped in the very air about me, none of these + great arteries seemed to feed me; this tumultuous life did not + warm me. On every side were the great muddy rivers, the + ragged mountains from which the timber was being ruthlessly + torn away, the vast tracts of wild country, and the gulches + that were like wounds in the earth; everywhere the glare of + that relentless energy which followed me like a searchlight + and seemed to scorch and consume me. I could only hide + myself in the tangled garden, where the dropping of a leaf or + the whistle of a bird was the only incident.</p> + + <p>“The Hartwell homestead had been sold away little by + little, until all that remained of it was garden and orchard. + The house, a square brick structure, stood in the midst of a + great garden which sloped toward the river, ending in a + grassy bank which fell some forty feet to the water’s edge. + The garden was now little more than a tangle of neglected + shrubbery; damp, rank, and of that intense blue-green peculiar + to vegetation in smoky places where the sun shines but + <a class="pagenum" id="page54" title="54"> </a>rarely, and the mists form early in the evening and hang late + in the morning.</p> + + <p>“I shall never forget it as I saw it first, when I arrived there + in the chill of a backward June. The long, rank grass, thick + and soft and falling in billows, was always wet until midday. + The gravel walks were bordered with great lilac-bushes, + mock-orange, and bridal-wreath. Back of the house was a neglected + rose garden, surrounded by a low stone wall over + which the long suckers trailed and matted. They had wound + their pink, thorny tentacles, layer upon layer, about the lock + and the hinges of the rusty iron gate. Even the porches of the + house, and the very windows, were damp and heavy with + growth: wistaria, clematis, honeysuckle, and trumpet vine. + The garden was grown up with trees, especially that part of it + which lay above the river. The bark of the old locusts was + blackened by the smoke that crept continually up the valley, + and their feathery foliage, so merry in its movement and so + yellow and joyous in its color, seemed peculiarly precious + under that somber sky. There were sycamores and copper + beeches; gnarled apple-trees, too old to bear; and fall pear-trees, + hung with a sharp, hard fruit in October; all with a + leafage singularly rich and luxuriant, and peculiarly vivid in + color. The oaks about the house had been old trees when my + great-grandfather built his cabin there, more than a century + before, and this garden was almost the only spot for miles + along the river where any of the original forest growth still + survived. The smoke from the mills was fatal to trees of the + larger sort, and even these had the look of doomed things—bent + a little toward the town and seemed to wait with head + inclined before that on-coming, shrieking force.</p> + + <p>“About the river, too, there was a strange hush, a tragic + submission—it was so leaden and sullen in its color, and it + flowed so soundlessly forever past our door.</p> + + <p>“I sat there every evening, on the high veranda overlooking + it, watching the dim outlines of the steep hills on the other + shore, the flicker of the lights on the island, where there was a + boat-house, and listening to the call of the boatmen through + the mist. The mist came as certainly as night, whitened by + moonshine or starshine. The tin water-pipes went splash, + splash, with it all evening, and the wind, when it rose at all, + <a class="pagenum" id="page55" title="55"> </a>was little more than a sighing of the old boughs and a troubled + breath in the heavy grasses.</p> + + <p>“At first it was to think of my distant friends and my old + life that I used to sit there; but after awhile it was simply to + watch the days and weeks go by, like the river which seemed + to carry them away.</p> + + <p>“Within the house I was never at home. Month followed + month, and yet I could feel no sense of kinship with anything + there. Under the roof where my father and grandfather were + born, I remained utterly detached. The somber rooms never + spoke to me, the old furniture never seemed tinctured with + race. This portrait of my boy uncle was the only thing to + which I could draw near, the only link with anything I had + ever known before.</p> + + <p>“There is a good deal of my father in the face, but it is my + father transformed and glorified; his hesitating discontent + drowned in a kind of triumph. From my first day in that + house, I continually turned to this handsome kinsman of + mine, wondering in what terms he had lived and had his + hope; what he had found there to look like that, to bound at + one, after all those years, so joyously out of the canvas.</p> + + <p>“From the timid, clouded old woman over whose life I had + come to watch, I learned that in the backyard, near the old + rose garden, there was a locust-tree which my uncle had + planted. After his death, while it was still a slender sapling, his + mother had a seat built round it, and she used to sit there on + summer evenings. His grave was under the apple-trees in the + old orchard.</p> + + <p>“My aunt could tell me little more than this. There were + days when she seemed not to remember him at all.</p> + + <p>“It was from an old soldier in the village that I learned + the boy’s story. Lyon was, the old man told me, but fourteen + when the first enlistment occurred, but was even then + eager to go. He was in the court-house square every evening + to watch the recruits at their drill, and when the home company + was ordered off he rode into the city on his pony to + see the men board the train and to wave them good-by. The + next year he spent at home with a tutor, but when he was + fifteen he held his parents to their promise and went into the + army. He was color sergeant of his regiment and fell in a + <a class="pagenum" id="page56" title="56"> </a>charge upon the breastworks of a fort about a year after his + enlistment.</p> + + <p>“The veteran showed me an account of this charge which + had been written for the village paper by one of my uncle’s + comrades who had seen his part in the engagement. It seems + that as his company were running at full speed across the bottom + lands toward the fortified hill, a shell burst over them. + This comrade, running beside my uncle, saw the colors waver + and sink as if falling, and looked to see that the boy’s hand + and forearm had been torn away by the exploding shrapnel. + The boy, he thought, did not realize the extent of his injury, + for he laughed, shouted something which his comrade did + not catch, caught the flag in his left hand, and ran on up the + hill. They went splendidly up over the breastworks, but just + as my uncle, his colors flying, reached the top of the embankment, + a second shell carried away his left arm at the + arm-pit, and he fell over the wall with the flag settling about + him.</p> + + <p>“It was because this story was ever present with me, because + I was unable to shake it off, that I began to read such + books as my grandfather had collected upon the Civil War. I + found that this war was fought largely by boys, that more + men enlisted at eighteen than at any other age. When I + thought of those battlefields—and I thought of them much + in those days—there was always that glory of youth above + them, that impetuous, generous passion stirring the long lines + on the march, the blue battalions in the plain. The bugle, + whenever I have heard it since, has always seemed to me the + very golden throat of that boyhood which spent itself so + gaily, so incredibly.</p> + + <p>“I used often to wonder how it was that this uncle of mine, + who seemed to have possessed all the charm and brilliancy + allotted to his family and to have lived up its vitality in one + splendid hour, had left so little trace in the house where he + was born and where he had awaited his destiny. Look as I + would, I could find no letters from him, no clothing or books + that might have been his. He had been dead but twenty years, + and yet nothing seemed to have survived except the tree he + had planted. It seemed incredible and cruel that no physical + memory of him should linger to be cherished among his + <a class="pagenum" id="page57" title="57"> </a>kindred,—nothing but the dull image in the brain of that + aged sister. I used to pace the garden walks in the evening, + wondering that no breath of his, no echo of his laugh, of his + call to his pony or his whistle to his dogs, should linger about + those shaded paths where the pale roses exhaled their dewy, + country smell. Sometimes, in the dim starlight, I have + thought that I heard on the grasses beside me the stir of a + footfall lighter than my own, and under the black arch of the + lilacs I have fancied that he bore me company.</p> + + <p>“There was, I found, one day in the year for which my old + aunt waited, and which stood out from the months that were + all of a sameness to her. On the thirtieth of May she insisted + that I should bring down the big flag from the attic and run it + up upon the tall flagstaff beside Lyon’s tree in the garden. + Later in the morning she went with me to carry some of the + garden flowers to the grave in the orchard,—a grave scarcely + larger than a child’s.</p> + + <p>“I had noticed, when I was hunting for the flag in the attic, + a leather trunk with my own name stamped upon it, but was + unable to find the key. My aunt was all day less apathetic than + usual; she seemed to realize more clearly who I was, and to + wish me to be with her. I did not have an opportunity to + return to the attic until after dinner that evening, when I carried + a lamp up-stairs and easily forced the lock of the trunk. I + found all the things that I had looked for; put away, doubtless, + by his mother, and still smelling faintly of lavender and + rose leaves; his clothes, his exercise books, his letters from the + army, his first boots, his riding-whip, some of his toys, even. I + took them out and replaced them gently. As I was about to + shut the lid, I picked up a copy of the Æneid, on the fly-leaf + of which was written in a slanting, boyish hand,</p> + + <blockquote class="call-out"><p>Lyon Hartwell, January, 1862.</p></blockquote> + + <p class="continued_paragraph">He had gone to the wars in Sixty-three, I remembered.</p> + + <p>“My uncle, I gathered, was none too apt at his Latin, for + the pages were dog-eared and rubbed and interlined, the margins + mottled with pencil sketches—bugles, stacked bayonets, + and artillery carriages. In the act of putting the book down, I + happened to run over the pages to the end, and on the fly-leaf + at the back I saw his name again, and a drawing—with his + <a class="pagenum" id="page58" title="58"> </a>initials and a date—of the Federal flag; above it, written in a + kind of arch and in the same unformed hand:</p> + + <blockquote class="poem"> + <p>‘Oh, say, can you see by the dawn’s early light</p> + <p>What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming?’</p> + </blockquote> + + <p>It was a stiff, wooden sketch, not unlike a detail from some + Egyptian inscription, but, the moment I saw it, wind and + color seemed to touch it. I caught up the book, blew out the + lamp, and rushed down into the garden.</p> + + <p>“I seemed, somehow, at last to have known him; to have + been with him in that careless, unconscious moment and to + have known him as he was then.</p> + + <p>“As I sat there in the rush of this realization, the wind began + to rise, stirring the light foliage of the locust over my + head and bringing, fresher than before, the woody odor of + the pale roses that overran the little neglected garden. Then, + as it grew stronger, it brought the sound of something sighing + and stirring over my head in the perfumed darkness.</p> + + <p>“I thought of that sad one of the Destinies who, as the + Greeks believed, watched from birth over those marked for a + violent or untimely death. Oh, I could see him, there in the + shine of the morning, his book idly on his knee, his flashing + eyes looking straight before him, and at his side that grave + figure, hidden in her draperies, her eyes following his, but + seeing so much farther—seeing what he never saw, that great + moment at the end, when he swayed above his comrades on + the earthen wall.</p> + + <p>“All the while, the bunting I had run up in the morning + flapped fold against fold, heaving and tossing softly in the + dark—against a sky so black with rain clouds that I could + see above me only the blur of something in soft, troubled + motion.</p> + + <p>“The experience of that night, coming so overwhelmingly + to a man so dead, almost rent me in pieces. It was the same + feeling that artists know when we, rarely, achieve truth in our + work; the feeling of union with some great force, of purpose + and security, of being glad that we have lived. For the first + time I felt the pull of race and blood and kindred, and felt + beating within me things that had not begun with me. It was + as if the earth under my feet had grasped and rooted me, and + <a class="pagenum" id="page59" title="59"> </a>were pouring its essence into me. I sat there until the dawn of + morning, and all night long my life seemed to be pouring out + of me and running into the ground.”</p> + + <hr class="thoughtbreak "/> + + <p class="post_thoughtbreak">Hartwell drew a long breath that lifted his heavy shoulders, + and then let them fall again. He shifted a little and faced more + squarely the scattered, silent company before him. The darkness + had made us almost invisible to each other, and, except + for the occasional red circuit of a cigarette end traveling upward + from the arm of a chair, he might have supposed us all + asleep.</p> + + <p>“And so,” Hartwell added thoughtfully, “I naturally feel + an interest in fellows who are going home. It’s always an experience.”</p> + + <p>No one said anything, and in a moment there was a loud + rap at the door,—the concierge, come to take down Bentley’s + luggage and to announce that the cab was below. Bentley got + his hat and coat, enjoined Hartwell to take good care of his + <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">perroquets</em>, gave each of us a grip of the hand, and went + briskly down the long flights of stairs. We followed him into + the street, calling our good wishes, and saw him start on his + drive across the lighted city to the Gare St. Lazare.</p> + + <p class="source"><cite>McClure’s</cite>, March 1907</p> + + </div> + <div id="bluff" class="story"><a class="pagenum" id="page60" title="60"> </a> + + <h3 class="story_title">The Enchanted Bluff <a class="return_toc" href="#contents" title="Return to Contents">ToC</a></h3> + + <p class="source"><cite>Harper’s</cite>, April 1909</p> + + <p class="first_paragraph">We had our swim before sundown, and while we were + cooking our supper the oblique rays of light made a + dazzling glare on the white sand about us. The translucent + red ball itself sank behind the brown stretches of corn field as + we sat down to eat, and the warm layer of air that had rested + over the water and our clean sand-bar grew fresher and + smelled of the rank ironweed and sunflowers growing on the + flatter shore. The river was brown and sluggish, like any other + of the half-dozen streams that water the Nebraska corn lands. + On one shore was an irregular line of bald clay bluffs where a + few scrub-oaks with thick trunks and flat, twisted tops threw + light shadows on the long grass. The western shore was low + and level, with corn fields that stretched to the sky-line, and + all along the water’s edge were little sandy coves and beaches + where slim cottonwoods and willow saplings flickered.</p> + + <p>The turbulence of the river in spring-time discouraged milling, + and, beyond keeping the old red bridge in repair, the + busy farmers did not concern themselves with the stream; so + the Sandtown boys were left in undisputed possession. In the + autumn we hunted quail through the miles of stubble and + fodder land along the flat shore, and, after the winter skating + season was over and the ice had gone out, the spring freshets + and flooded bottoms gave us our great excitement of the year. + The channel was never the same for two successive seasons. + Every spring the swollen stream undermined a bluff to the + east, or bit out a few acres of corn field to the west and + whirled the soil away to deposit it in spumy mud banks somewhere + else. When the water fell low in midsummer, new + sand-bars were thus exposed to dry and whiten in the August + sun. Sometimes these were banked so firmly that the fury of + the next freshet failed to unseat them; the little willow seedlings + emerged triumphantly from the yellow froth, broke into + spring leaf, shot up into summer growth, and with their mesh + of roots bound together the moist sand beneath them against + the batterings of another April. Here and there a cottonwood + soon glittered among them, quivering in the low current of + <a class="pagenum" id="page61" title="61"> </a>air that, even on breathless days when the dust hung like + smoke above the wagon road, trembled along the face of the + water.</p> + + <p>It was on such an island, in the third summer of its yellow + green, that we built our watch-fire; not in the thicket of dancing + willow wands, but on the level terrace of fine sand which + had been added that spring; a little new bit of world, beautifully + ridged with ripple marks, and strewn with the tiny skeletons + of turtles and fish, all as white and dry as if they had + been expertly cured. We had been careful not to mar the freshness + of the place, although we often swam out to it on summer + evenings and lay on the sand to rest.</p> + + <p>This was our last watch-fire of the year, and there were + reasons why I should remember it better than any of the others. + Next week the other boys were to file back to their old + places in the Sandtown High School, but I was to go up to + the Divide to teach my first country school in the Norwegian + district. I was already homesick at the thought of quitting the + boys with whom I had always played; of leaving the river, and + going up into a windy plain that was all windmills and corn + fields and big pastures; where there was nothing wilful or unmanageable + in the landscape, no new islands, and no chance + of unfamiliar birds—such as often followed the watercourses.</p> + + <p>Other boys came and went and used the river for fishing or + skating, but we six were sworn to the spirit of the stream, and + we were friends mainly because of the river. There were the + two Hassler boys, Fritz and Otto, sons of the little German + tailor. They were the youngest of us; ragged boys of ten and + twelve, with sunburned hair, weather-stained faces, and pale + blue eyes. Otto, the elder, was the best mathematician in + school, and clever at his books, but he always dropped out in + the spring term as if the river could not get on without him. + He and Fritz caught the fat, horned catfish and sold them + about the town, and they lived so much in the water that they + were as brown and sandy as the river itself.</p> + + <p>There was Percy Pound, a fat, freckled boy with chubby + cheeks, who took half a dozen boys’ story-papers and was always + being kept in for reading detective stories behind his + desk. There was Tip Smith, destined by his freckles and red + hair to be the buffoon in all our games, though he walked like + <a class="pagenum" id="page62" title="62"> </a>a timid little old man and had a funny, cracked laugh. Tip + worked hard in his father’s grocery store every afternoon, and + swept it out before school in the morning. Even his recreations + were laborious. He collected cigarette cards and tin + tobacco-tags indefatigably, and would sit for hours humped + up over a snarling little scroll-saw which he kept in his attic. + His dearest possessions were some little pill-bottles that purported + to contain grains of wheat from the Holy Land, water + from the Jordan and the Dead Sea, and earth from the Mount + of Olives. His father had bought these dull things from a + Baptist missionary who peddled them, and Tip seemed to derive + great satisfaction from their remote origin.</p> + + <p>The tall boy was Arthur Adams. He had fine hazel eyes that + were almost too reflective and sympathetic for a boy, and + such a pleasant voice that we all loved to hear him read aloud. + Even when he had to read poetry aloud at school, no one ever + thought of laughing. To be sure, he was not at school very + much of the time. He was seventeen and should have finished + the High School the year before, but he was always off somewhere + with his gun. Arthur’s mother was dead, and his + father, who was feverishly absorbed in promoting schemes, + wanted to send the boy away to school and get him off his + hands; but Arthur always begged off for another year and + promised to study. I remember him as a tall, brown boy with + an intelligent face, always lounging among a lot of us little + fellows, laughing at us oftener than with us, but such a soft, + satisfied laugh that we felt rather flattered when we provoked + it. In after-years people said that Arthur had been given to + evil ways even as a lad, and it is true that we often saw him + with the gambler’s sons and with old Spanish Fanny’s boy, + but if he learned anything ugly in their company he never + betrayed it to us. We would have followed Arthur anywhere, + and I am bound to say that he led us into no worse places + than the cattail marshes and the stubble fields. These, then, + were the boys who camped with me that summer night upon + the sand-bar.</p> + + <p>After we finished our supper we beat the willow thicket for + driftwood. By the time we had collected enough, night had + fallen, and the pungent, weedy smell from the shore increased + with the coolness. We threw ourselves down about the fire + <a class="pagenum" id="page63" title="63"> </a>and made another futile effort to show Percy Pound the Little + Dipper. We had tried it often before, but he could never be + got past the big one.</p> + + <p>“You see those three big stars just below the handle, with + the bright one in the middle?” said Otto Hassler; “that’s + Orion’s belt, and the bright one is the clasp.” I crawled behind + Otto’s shoulder and sighted up his arm to the star that + seemed perched upon the tip of his steady forefinger. The + Hassler boys did seine-fishing at night, and they knew a good + many stars.</p> + + <p>Percy gave up the Little Dipper and lay back on the sand, + his hands clasped under his head. “I can see the North Star,” + he announced, contentedly, pointing toward it with his big + toe. “Any one might get lost and need to know that.”</p> + + <p>We all looked up at it.</p> + + <p>“How do you suppose Columbus felt when his compass + didn’t point north any more?” Tip asked.</p> + + <p>Otto shook his head. “My father says that there was another + North Star once, and that maybe this one won’t last + always. I wonder what would happen to us down here if anything + went wrong with it?”</p> + + <p>Arthur chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry, Ott. Nothing’s apt to + happen to it in your time. Look at the Milky Way! There + must be lots of good dead Indians.”</p> + + <p>We lay back and looked, meditating, at the dark cover + of the world. The gurgle of the water had become heavier. + We had often noticed a mutinous, complaining note in it at + night, quite different from its cheerful daytime chuckle, and + seeming like the voice of a much deeper and more powerful + stream. Our water had always these two moods: the one of + sunny complaisance, the other of inconsolable, passionate + regret.</p> + + <p>“Queer how the stars are all in sort of diagrams,” remarked + Otto. “You could do most any proposition in geometry with + ’em. They always look as if they meant something. Some folks + say everybody’s fortune is all written out in the stars, don’t + they?”</p> + + <p>“They believe so in the old country,” Fritz affirmed.</p> + + <p>But Arthur only laughed at him. “You’re thinking of Napoleon, + Fritzey. He had a star that went out when he began to + <a class="pagenum" id="page64" title="64"> </a>lose battles. I guess the stars don’t keep any close tally on + Sandtown folks.”</p> + + <p>We were speculating on how many times we could count a + hundred before the evening star went down behind the corn + fields, when some one cried, “There comes the moon, and it’s + as big as a cart wheel!”</p> + + <p>We all jumped up to greet it as it swam over the bluffs + behind us. It came up like a galleon in full sail; an enormous, + barbaric thing, red as an angry heathen god.</p> + + <p>“When the moon came up red like that, the Aztecs used to + sacrifice their prisoners on the temple top,” Percy announced.</p> + + <p>“Go on, Perce. You got that out of <cite>Golden Days</cite>. Do you + believe that, Arthur?” I appealed.</p> + + <p>Arthur answered, quite seriously: “Like as not. The moon + was one of their gods. When my father was in Mexico City he + saw the stone where they used to sacrifice their prisoners.”</p> + + <p>As we dropped down by the fire again some one asked + whether the Mound-Builders were older than the Aztecs. + When we once got upon the Mound-Builders we never willingly + got away from them, and we were still conjecturing + when we heard a loud splash in the water.</p> + + <p>“Must have been a big cat jumping,” said Fritz. “They do + sometimes. They must see bugs in the dark. Look what a + track the moon makes!”</p> + + <p>There was a long, silvery streak on the water, and where + the current fretted over a big log it boiled up like gold + pieces.</p> + + <p>“Suppose there ever <em>was</em> any gold hid away in this old + river?” Fritz asked. He lay like a little brown Indian, close + to the fire, his chin on his hand and his bare feet in the air. + His brother laughed at him, but Arthur took his suggestion + seriously.</p> + + <p>“Some of the Spaniards thought there was gold up here + somewhere. Seven cities chuck full of gold, they had it, and + Coronado and his men came up to hunt it. The Spaniards + were all over this country once.”</p> + + <p>Percy looked interested. “Was that before the Mormons + went through?”</p> + + <p>We all laughed at this.</p> + + <p>“Long enough before. Before the Pilgrim Fathers, Perce. + <a class="pagenum" id="page65" title="65"> </a>Maybe they came along this very river. They always followed + the watercourses.”</p> + + <p>“I wonder where this river really does begin?” Tip mused. + That was an old and a favorite mystery which the map did not + clearly explain. On the map the little black line stopped somewhere + in western Kansas; but since rivers generally rose in + mountains, it was only reasonable to suppose that ours came + from the Rockies. Its destination, we knew, was the Missouri, + and the Hassler boys always maintained that we could embark + at Sandtown in flood-time, follow our noses, and eventually + arrive at New Orleans. Now they took up their old argument. + “If us boys had grit enough to try it, it wouldn’t take no time + to get to Kansas City and St. Joe.”</p> + + <p>We began to talk about the places we wanted to go to. The + Hassler boys wanted to see the stock-yards in Kansas City, + and Percy wanted to see a big store in Chicago. Arthur was + interlocutor and did not betray himself.</p> + + <p>“Now it’s your turn, Tip.”</p> + + <p>Tip rolled over on his elbow and poked the fire, and his + eyes looked shyly out of his queer, tight little face. “My place + is awful far away. My uncle Bill told me about it.”</p> + + <p>Tip’s Uncle Bill was a wanderer, bitten with mining fever, + who had drifted into Sandtown with a broken arm, and when + it was well had drifted out again.</p> + + <p>“Where is it?”</p> + + <p>“Aw, it’s down in New Mexico somewheres. There aren’t + no railroads or anything. You have to go on mules, and you + run out of water before you get there and have to drink + canned tomatoes.”</p> + + <p>“Well, go on, kid. What’s it like when you do get there?”</p> + + <p>Tip sat up and excitedly began his story.</p> + + <p>“There’s a big red rock there that goes right up out of + the sand for about nine hundred feet. The country’s flat all + around it, and this here rock goes up all by itself, like a monument. + They call it the Enchanted Bluff down there, because + no white man has ever been on top of it. The sides are + smooth rock, and straight up, like a wall. The Indians say that + hundreds of years ago, before the Spaniards came, there was a + village away up there in the air. The tribe that lived there had + some sort of steps, made out of wood and bark, hung down + <a class="pagenum" id="page66" title="66"> </a>over the face of the bluff, and the braves went down to hunt + and carried water up in big jars swung on their backs. They + kept a big supply of water and dried meat up there, and never + went down except to hunt. They were a peaceful tribe that + made cloth and pottery, and they went up there to get out of + the wars. You see, they could pick off any war party that tried + to get up their little steps. The Indians say they were a handsome + people, and they had some sort of a queer religion. + Uncle Bill thinks they were Cliff-Dwellers who had got into + trouble and left home. They weren’t fighters, anyhow.</p> + + <p>“One time the braves were down hunting and an awful + storm came up—a kind of waterspout—and when they got + back to their rock they found their little staircase had been all + broken to pieces, and only a few steps were left hanging away + up in the air. While they were camped at the foot of the rock, + wondering what to do, a war party from the north came + along and massacred ’em to a man, with all the old folks and + women looking on from the rock. Then the war party went + on south and left the village to get down the best way they + could. Of course they never got down. They starved to death + up there, and when the war party came back on their way + north, they could hear the children crying from the edge of + the bluff where they had crawled out, but they didn’t see a + sign of a grown Indian, and nobody has ever been up there + since.”</p> + + <p>We exclaimed at this dolorous legend and sat up.</p> + + <p>“There couldn’t have been many people up there,” Percy + demurred. “How big is the top, Tip?”</p> + + <p>“Oh, pretty big. Big enough so that the rock doesn’t look + nearly as tall as it is. The top’s bigger than the base. The bluff + is sort of worn away for several hundred feet up. That’s one + reason it’s so hard to climb.”</p> + + <p>I asked how the Indians got up, in the first place.</p> + + <p>“Nobody knows how they got up or when. A hunting + party came along once and saw that there was a town up + there, and that was all.”</p> + + <p>Otto rubbed his chin and looked thoughtful. “Of course + there must be some way to get up there. Couldn’t people get + a rope over someway and pull a ladder up?”</p> + + <p>Tip’s little eyes were shining with excitement. “I know a + <a class="pagenum" id="page67" title="67"> </a>way. Me and Uncle Bill talked it all over. There’s a kind of + rocket that would take a rope over—life-savers use ’em—and + then you could hoist a rope-ladder and peg it down at the + bottom and make it tight with guy-ropes on the other side. + I’m going to climb that there bluff, and I’ve got it all planned + out.”</p> + + <p>Fritz asked what he expected to find when he got up there.</p> + + <p>“Bones, maybe, or the ruins of their town, or pottery, or + some of their idols. There might be ’most anything up there. + Anyhow, I want to see.”</p> + + <p>“Sure nobody else has been up there, Tip?” Arthur asked.</p> + + <p>“Dead sure. Hardly anybody ever goes down there. Some + hunters tried to cut steps in the rock once, but they didn’t get + higher than a man can reach. The Bluff’s all red granite, and + Uncle Bill thinks it’s a boulder the glaciers left. It’s a queer + place, anyhow. Nothing but cactus and desert for hundreds of + miles, and yet right under the bluff there’s good water and + plenty of grass. That’s why the bison used to go down there.”</p> + + <p>Suddenly we heard a scream above our fire, and jumped up + to see a dark, slim bird floating southward far above us—a + whooping-crane, we knew by her cry and her long neck. We + ran to the edge of the island, hoping we might see her alight, + but she wavered southward along the rivercourse until we lost + her. The Hassler boys declared that by the look of the heavens + it must be after midnight, so we threw more wood on our + fire, put on our jackets, and curled down in the warm sand. + Several of us pretended to doze, but I fancy we were really + thinking about Tip’s Bluff and the extinct people. Over in the + wood the ring-doves were calling mournfully to one another, + and once we heard a dog bark, far away. “Somebody getting + into old Tommy’s melon patch,” Fritz murmured, sleepily, + but nobody answered him. By and by Percy spoke out of the + shadow.</p> + + <p>“Say, Tip, when you go down there will you take me with + you?”</p> + + <p>“Maybe.”</p> + + <p>“Suppose one of us beats you down there, Tip?”</p> + + <p>“Whoever gets to the Bluff first has got to promise to tell + the rest of us exactly what he finds,” remarked one of the + Hassler boys, and to this we all readily assented.</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page68" title="68"> </a>Somewhat reassured, I dropped off to sleep. I must have + dreamed about a race for the Bluff, for I awoke in a kind of + fear that other people were getting ahead of me and that I + was losing my chance. I sat up in my damp clothes and + looked at the other boys, who lay tumbled in uneasy attitudes + about the dead fire. It was still dark, but the sky was blue + with the last wonderful azure of night. The stars glistened like + crystal globes, and trembled as if they shone through a depth + of clear water. Even as I watched, they began to pale and the + sky brightened. Day came suddenly, almost instantaneously. I + turned for another look at the blue night, and it was gone. + Everywhere the birds began to call, and all manner of little + insects began to chirp and hop about in the willows. A breeze + sprang up from the west and brought the heavy smell of ripened + corn. The boys rolled over and shook themselves. We + stripped and plunged into the river just as the sun came up + over the windy bluffs.</p> + + <p>When I came home to Sandtown at Christmas time, we + skated out to our island and talked over the whole project of + the Enchanted Bluff, renewing our resolution to find it.</p> + + <hr class="thoughtbreak" /> + + <p class="post_thoughtbreak">Although that was twenty years ago, none of us have ever + climbed the Enchanted Bluff. Percy Pound is a stockbroker in + Kansas City and will go nowhere that his red touring-car cannot + carry him. Otto Hassler went on the railroad and lost his + foot braking; after which he and Fritz succeeded their father + as the town tailors.</p> + + <p>Arthur sat about the sleepy little town all his life—he died + before he was twenty-five. The last time I saw him, when I + was home on one of my college vacations, he was sitting in a + steamer-chair under a cottonwood tree in the little yard behind + one of the two Sandtown saloons. He was very untidy + and his hand was not steady, but when he rose, unabashed, to + greet me, his eyes were as clear and warm as ever. When I had + talked with him for an hour and heard him laugh again, I + wondered how it was that when Nature had taken such pains + with a man, from his hands to the arch of his long foot, she + had ever lost him in Sandtown. He joked about Tip Smith’s + Bluff, and declared he was going down there just as soon as + <a class="pagenum" id="page69" title="69"> </a>the weather got cooler; he thought the Grand Cañon might + be worth while, too.</p> + + <p>I was perfectly sure when I left him that he would never get + beyond the high plank fence and the comfortable shade of the + cottonwood. And, indeed, it was under that very tree that he + died one summer morning.</p> + + <p>Tip Smith still talks about going to New Mexico. He married + a slatternly, unthrifty country girl, has been much tied to + a perambulator, and has grown stooped and gray from irregular + meals and broken sleep. But the worst of his difficulties + are now over, and he has, as he says, come into easy + water. When I was last in Sandtown I walked home with him + late one moonlight night, after he had balanced his cash and + shut up his store. We took the long way around and sat down + on the schoolhouse steps, and between us we quite revived + the romance of the lone red rock and the extinct people. Tip + insists that he still means to go down there, but he thinks + now he will wait until his boy, Bert, is old enough to go with + him. Bert has been let into the story, and thinks of nothing + but the Enchanted Bluff.</p> + + </div> + <div id="nelly" class="story"><a class="pagenum" id="page70" title="70"> </a> + <h3 class="story_title">The Joy of Nelly Deane</h3> + <p class="first_paragraph">Nell and I were almost ready to go on for the last act of + “Queen Esther,” and we had for the moment got rid of + our three patient dressers, Mrs. Dow, Mrs. Freeze, and Mrs. + Spinny. Nell was peering over my shoulder into the little + cracked looking-glass that Mrs. Dow had taken from its nail + on her kitchen wall and brought down to the church under + her shawl that morning. When she realized that we were + alone, Nell whispered to me in the quick, fierce way she had:</p> + + <p>“Say, Peggy, won’t you go up and stay with me to-night? + Scott Spinny’s asked to take me home, and I don’t want to + walk up with him alone.”</p> + + <p>“I guess so, if you’ll ask my mother.”</p> + + <p>“Oh, I’ll fix her!” Nell laughed, with a toss of her head + which meant that she usually got what she wanted, even from + people much less tractable than my mother.</p> + + <p>In a moment our tiring-women were back again. The three + old ladies—at least they seemed old to us—fluttered about + us, more agitated than we were ourselves. It seemed as + though they would never leave off patting Nell and touching + her up. They kept trying things this way and that, never able + in the end to decide which way was best. They wouldn’t hear + to her using rouge, and as they powdered her neck and arms, + Mrs. Freeze murmured that she hoped we wouldn’t get into + the habit of using such things. Mrs. Spinny divided her time + between pulling up and tucking down the “illusion” that filled + in the square neck of Nelly’s dress. She didn’t like things + much low, she said; but after she had pulled it up, she stood + back and looked at Nell thoughtfully through her glasses. + While the excited girl was reaching for this and that, buttoning + a slipper, pinning down a curl, Mrs. Spinny’s smile softened + more and more until, just before <em>Esther</em> made her + entrance, the old lady tiptoed up to her and softly tucked the + illusion down as far as it would go.</p> + + <p>“She’s so pink; it seems a pity not,” she whispered apologetically + to Mrs. Dow.</p> + + <p>Every one admitted that Nelly was the prettiest girl in + <a class="pagenum" id="page71" title="71"> </a>Riverbend, and the gayest—oh, the gayest! When she was + not singing, she was laughing. When she was not laid up with + a broken arm, the outcome of a foolhardy coasting feat, or + suspended from school because she ran away at recess to go + buggy-riding with Guy Franklin, she was sure to be up to + mischief of some sort. Twice she broke through the ice and + got soused in the river because she never looked where she + skated or cared what happened so long as she went fast + enough. After the second of these duckings our three dressers + declared that she was trying to be a Baptist despite herself.</p> + + <p>Mrs. Spinny and Mrs. Freeze and Mrs. Dow, who were + always hovering about Nelly, often whispered to me their + hope that she would eventually come into our church and not + “go with the Methodists”; her family were Wesleyans. But to + me these artless plans of theirs never wholly explained their + watchful affection. They had good daughters themselves,—except + Mrs. Spinny, who had only the sullen Scott,—and + they loved their plain girls and thanked God for them. But + they loved Nelly differently. They were proud of her pretty + figure and yellow-brown eyes, which dilated so easily and + sparkled with a kind of golden effervescence. They were always + making pretty things for her, always coaxing her to + come to the sewing-circle, where she knotted her thread, and + put in the wrong sleeve, and laughed and chattered and said a + great many things that she should not have said, and somehow + always warmed their hearts. I think they loved her for + her unquenchable joy.</p> + + <p>All the Baptist ladies liked Nell, even those who criticized + her most severely, but the three who were first in fighting the + battles of our little church, who held it together by their + prayers and the labor of their hands, watched over her as they + did over Mrs. Dow’s century-plant before it blossomed. They + looked for her on Sunday morning and smiled at her as she + hurried, always a little late, up to the choir. When she rose + and stood behind the organ and sang “There Is a Green + Hill,” one could see Mrs. Dow and Mrs. Freeze settle back in + their accustomed seats and look up at her as if she had just + come from that hill and had brought them glad tidings.</p> + + <p>It was because I sang contralto, or, as we said, alto, in the + Baptist choir that Nell and I became friends. She was so gay + <a class="pagenum" id="page72" title="72"> </a>and grown up, so busy with parties and dances and picnics, + that I would scarcely have seen much of her had we not sung + together. She liked me better than she did any of the older + girls, who tried clumsily to be like her, and I felt almost as + solicitous and admiring as did Mrs. Dow and Mrs. Spinny. I + think even then I must have loved to see her bloom and glow, + and I loved to hear her sing, in “The Ninety and Nine,”</p> + + <blockquote class="call-out"><p>But one was out on the hills away</p></blockquote> + + <p class="continued_paragraph">in her sweet, strong voice. Nell had never had a singing lesson, + but she had sung from the time she could talk, and Mrs. + Dow used fondly to say that it was singing so much that + made her figure so pretty.</p> + + <p>After I went into the choir it was found to be easier to get + Nelly to choir practice. If I stopped outside her gate on my + way to church and coaxed her, she usually laughed, ran in for + her hat and jacket, and went along with me. The three old + ladies fostered our friendship, and because I was “quiet,” they + esteemed me a good influence for Nelly. This view was propounded + in a sewing-circle discussion and, leaking down to + us through our mothers, greatly amused us. Dear old ladies! + It was so manifestly for what Nell was that they loved her, + and yet they were always looking for “influences” to change + her.</p> + + <p>The “Queen Esther” performance had cost us three months + of hard practice, and it was not easy to keep Nell up to attending + the tedious rehearsals. Some of the boys we knew + were in the chorus of Assyrian youths, but the solo cast was + made up of older people, and Nell found them very poky. We + gave the cantata in the Baptist church on Christmas eve, “to a + crowded house,” as the Riverbend “Messenger” truly chronicled. + The country folk for miles about had come in through a + deep snow, and their teams and wagons stood in a long row + at the hitch-bars on each side of the church door. It was certainly + Nelly’s night, for however much the tenor—he was + her schoolmaster, and naturally thought poorly of her—might + try to eclipse her in his dolorous solos about the rivers + of Babylon, there could be no doubt as to whom the people + had come to hear—and to see.</p> + + <p>After the performance was over, our fathers and mothers + <a class="pagenum" id="page73" title="73"> </a>came back to the dressing-rooms—the little rooms behind + the baptistry where the candidates for baptism were robed—to + congratulate us, and Nell persuaded my mother to let + me go home with her. This arrangement may not have been + wholly agreeable to Scott Spinny, who stood glumly waiting + at the baptistry door; though I used to think he dogged Nell’s + steps not so much for any pleasure he got from being with + her as for the pleasure of keeping other people away. Dear + little Mrs. Spinny was perpetually in a state of humiliation on + account of his bad manners, and she tried by a very special + tenderness to make up to Nelly for the remissness of her ungracious + son.</p> + + <p>Scott was a spare, muscular fellow, good-looking, but with + a face so set and dark that I used to think it very like the + castings he sold. He was taciturn and domineering, and Nell + rather liked to provoke him. Her father was so easy with her + that she seemed to enjoy being ordered about now and then. + That night, when every one was praising her and telling her + how well she sang and how pretty she looked, Scott only said, + as we came out of the dressing-room:</p> + + <p>“Have you got your high shoes on?”</p> + + <p>“No; but I’ve got rubbers on over my low ones. Mother + doesn’t care.”</p> + + <p>“Well, you just go back and put ’em on as fast as you can.”</p> + + <p>Nell made a face at him and ran back, laughing. Her + mother, fat, comfortable Mrs. Deane, was immensely amused + at this.</p> + + <p>“That’s right, Scott,” she chuckled. “You can do enough + more with her than I can. She walks right over me an’ Jud.”</p> + + <p>Scott grinned. If he was proud of Nelly, the last thing he + wished to do was to show it. When she came back he began + to nag again. “What are you going to do with all those flowers? + They’ll freeze stiff as pokers.”</p> + + <p>“Well, there won’t none of <em>your</em> flowers freeze, Scott + Spinny, so there!” Nell snapped. She had the best of him that + time, and the Assyrian youths rejoiced. They were most of + them high-school boys, and the poorest of them had “chipped + in” and sent all the way to Denver for <em>Queen Esther’s</em> flowers. + There were bouquets from half a dozen townspeople, too, but + none from Scott. Scott was a prosperous hardware merchant + <a class="pagenum" id="page74" title="74"> </a>and notoriously penurious, though he saved his face, as the + boys said, by giving liberally to the church.</p> + + <p>“There’s no use freezing the fool things, anyhow. You get + me some newspapers, and I’ll wrap ’em up.” Scott took + from his pocket a folded copy of the Riverbend “Messenger” + and began laboriously to wrap up one of the bouquets. + When we left the church door he bore three large newspaper + bundles, carrying them as carefully as if they had been so + many newly frosted wedding-cakes, and left Nell and me to + shift for ourselves as we floundered along the snow-burdened + sidewalk.</p> + + <p>Although it was after midnight, lights were shining from + many of the little wooden houses, and the roofs and shrubbery + were so deep in snow that Riverbend looked as if it had + been tucked down into a warm bed. The companies of + people, all coming from church, tramping this way and that + toward their homes and calling “Good night” and “Merry + Christmas” as they parted company, all seemed to us very unusual + and exciting.</p> + + <p>When we got home, Mrs. Deane had a cold supper ready, + and Jud Deane had already taken off his shoes and fallen to on + his fried chicken and pie. He was so proud of his pretty + daughter that he must give her her Christmas presents then + and there, and he went into the sleeping-chamber behind the + dining-room and from the depths of his wife’s closet brought + out a short sealskin jacket and a round cap and made Nelly + put them on.</p> + + <p>Mrs. Deane, who sat busy between a plate of spice cake and + a tray piled with her famous whipped-cream tarts, laughed + inordinately at his behavior.</p> + + <p>“Ain’t he worse than any kid you ever see? He’s been running + to that closet like a cat shut away from her kittens. I + wonder Nell ain’t caught on before this. I did think he’d + make out now to keep ’em till Christmas morning; but he’s + never made out to keep anything yet.”</p> + + <p>That was true enough, and fortunately Jud’s inability to + keep anything seemed always to present a highly humorous + aspect to his wife. Mrs. Deane put her heart into her cooking, + and said that so long as a man was a good provider she had + no cause to complain. Other people were not so charitable + <a class="pagenum" id="page75" title="75"> </a>toward Jud’s failing. I remember how many strictures were + passed upon that little sealskin and how he was censured for + his extravagance. But what a public-spirited thing, after all, it + was for him to do! How, the winter through, we all enjoyed + seeing Nell skating on the river or running about the town + with the brown collar turned up about her bright cheeks and + her hair blowing out from under the round cap! “No seal,” + Mrs. Dow said, “would have begrudged it to her. Why + should we?” This was at the sewing-circle, when the new coat + was under grave discussion.</p> + + <p>At last Nelly and I got up-stairs and undressed, and the pad + of Jud’s slippered feet about the kitchen premises—where he + was carrying up from the cellar things that might freeze—ceased. + He called “Good night, daughter,” from the foot of + the stairs, and the house grew quiet. But one is not a prima + donna the first time for nothing, and it seemed as if we could + not go to bed. Our light must have burned long after every + other in Riverbend was out. The muslin curtains of Nell’s bed + were drawn back; Mrs. Deane had turned down the white + counterpane and taken off the shams and smoothed the pillows + for us. But their fair plumpness offered no temptation to + two such hot young heads. We could not let go of life even + for a little while. We sat and talked in Nell’s cozy room, where + there was a tiny, white fur rug—the only one in Riverbend—before + the bed; and there were white sash curtains, and the + prettiest little desk and dressing-table I had ever seen. It was a + warm, gay little room, flooded all day long with sunlight + from east and south windows that had climbing-roses all + about them in summer. About the dresser were photographs + of adoring high-school boys; and one of Guy Franklin, much + groomed and barbered, in a dress-coat and a boutonnière. I + never liked to see that photograph there. The home boys + looked properly modest and bashful on the dresser, but he + seemed to be staring impudently all the time.</p> + + <p>I knew nothing definite against Guy, but in Riverbend all + “traveling-men” were considered worldly and wicked. He + traveled for a Chicago dry-goods firm, and our fathers didn’t + like him because he put extravagant ideas into our mothers’ + heads. He had very smooth and nattering ways, and he introduced + into our simple community a great variety of perfumes + <a class="pagenum" id="page76" title="76"> </a>and scented soaps, and he always reminded me of the merchants + in Cæsar, who brought into Gaul “those things which + effeminate the mind,” as we translated that delightfully easy + passage.</p> + + <p>Nell was silting before the dressing-table in her nightgown, + holding the new fur coat and rubbing her cheek against it, + when I saw a sudden gleam of tears in her eyes. “You know, + Peggy,” she said in her quick, impetuous way, “this makes me + feel bad. I’ve got a secret from my daddy.”</p> + + <p>I can see her now, so pink and eager, her brown hair in two + springy braids down her back, and her eyes shining with tears + and with something even softer and more tremulous.</p> + + <p>“I’m engaged, Peggy,” she whispered, “really and truly.”</p> + + <p>She leaned forward, unbuttoning her nightgown, and there + on her breast, hung by a little gold chain about her neck, was + a diamond ring—Guy Franklin’s solitaire; every one in Riverbend + knew it well.</p> + + <p>“I’m going to live in Chicago, and take singing lessons, + and go to operas, and do all those nice things—oh, everything! + I know you don’t like him, Peggy, but you know you + <em>are</em> a kid. You’ll see how it is yourself when you grow up. + He’s so <em>different</em> from our boys, and he’s just terribly in love + with me. And then, Peggy,”—flushing all down over her soft + shoulders,—“I’m awfully fond of him, too. Awfully.”</p> + + <p>“Are you, Nell, truly?” I whispered. She seemed so changed + to me by the warm light in her eyes and that delicate suffusion + of color. I felt as I did when I got up early on picnic + mornings in summer, and saw the dawn come up in the + breathless sky above the river meadows and make all the cornfields + golden.</p> + + <p>“Sure I do, Peggy; don’t look so solemn. It’s nothing to + look that way about, kid. It’s nice.” She threw her arms about + me suddenly and hugged me.</p> + + <p>“I hate to think about your going so far away from us all, + Nell.”</p> + + <p>“Oh, you’ll love to come and visit me. Just you wait.”</p> + + <p>She began breathlessly to go over things Guy Franklin had + told her about Chicago, until I seemed to see it all looming + up out there under the stars that kept watch over our little + sleeping town. We had neither of us ever been to a city, but + <a class="pagenum" id="page77" title="77"> </a>we knew what it would be like. We heard it throbbing like + great engines, and calling to us, that far-away world. Even + after we had opened the windows and scurried into bed, we + seemed to feel a pulsation across all the miles of snow. The + winter silence trembled with it, and the air was full of something + new that seemed to break over us in soft waves. In that + snug, warm little bed I had a sense of imminent change and + danger. I was somehow afraid for Nelly when I heard her + breathing so quickly beside me, and I put my arm about her + protectingly as we drifted toward sleep.</p> + + <hr class="thoughtbreak" /> + + <p class="post_thoughtbreak">In the following spring we were both graduated from the + Riverbend high school, and I went away to college. My family + moved to Denver, and during the next four years I heard + very little of Nelly Deane. My life was crowded with new + people and new experiences, and I am afraid I held her little + in mind. I heard indirectly that Jud Deane had lost what little + property he owned in a luckless venture in Cripple Creek, and + that he had been able to keep his house in Riverbend only + through the clemency of his creditors. Guy Franklin had his + route changed and did not go to Riverbend any more. He + married the daughter of a rich cattle-man out near Long Pine, + and ran a dry-goods store of his own. Mrs. Dow wrote me a + long letter about once a year, and in one of these she told me + that Nelly was teaching in the sixth grade in the Riverbend + school.</p> + + <p>“Dear Nelly does not like teaching very well. The children + try her, and she is so pretty it seems a pity for her to be tied + down to uncongenial employment. Scott is still very attentive, + and I have noticed him look up at the window of Nelly’s + room in a very determined way as he goes home to dinner. + Scott continues prosperous; he has made money during these + hard times and now owns both our hardware stores. He is + close, but a very honorable fellow. Nelly seems to hold off, + but I think Mrs. Spinny has hopes. Nothing would please her + more. If Scott were more careful about his appearance, it + would help. He of course gets black about his business, and + Nelly, you know, is very dainty. People do say his mother + does his courting for him, she is so eager. If only Scott does + not turn out hard and penurious like his father! We must all + <a class="pagenum" id="page78" title="78"> </a>have our schooling in this life, but I don’t want Nelly’s to be + too severe. She is a dear girl, and keeps her color.”</p> + + <p>Mrs. Dow’s own schooling had been none too easy. Her + husband had long been crippled with rheumatism, and was + bitter and faultfinding. Her daughters had married poorly, + and one of her sons had fallen into evil ways. But her letters + were always cheerful, and in one of them she gently remonstrated + with me because I “seemed inclined to take a sad view + of life.”</p> + + <p>In the winter vacation of my senior year I stopped on my + way home to visit Mrs. Dow. The first thing she told me + when I got into her old buckboard at the station was that + “Scott had at last prevailed,” and that Nelly was to marry him + in the spring. As a preliminary step, Nelly was about to join + the Baptist church. “Just think, you will be here for her baptizing! + How that will please Nelly! She is to be immersed to-morrow night.”</p> + + <p>I met Scott Spinny in the post-office that morning, and he + gave me a hard grip with one black hand. There was something + grim and saturnine about his powerful body and + bearded face and his strong, cold hands. I wondered what + perverse fate had driven him for eight years to dog the footsteps + of a girl whose charm was due to qualities naturally distasteful + to him. It still seems strange to me that in easy-going + Riverbend, where there were so many boys who could have + lived contentedly enough with my little grasshopper, it was + the pushing ant who must have her and all her careless ways.</p> + + <p>By a kind of unformulated etiquette one did not call upon + candidates for baptism on the day of the ceremony, so I had + my first glimpse of Nelly that evening. The baptistry was a + cemented pit directly under the pulpit rostrum, over which + we had our stage when we sang “Queen Esther.” I sat + through the sermon somewhat nervously. After the minister, + in his long, black gown, had gone down into the water and + the choir had finished singing, the door from the dressing-room + opened, and, led by one of the deacons, Nelly came + down the steps into the pool. Oh, she looked so little and + meek and chastened! Her white cashmere robe clung about + her, and her brown hair was brushed straight back and hung + in two soft braids from a little head bent humbly. As she + <a class="pagenum" id="page79" title="79"> </a>stepped down into the water I shivered with the cold of it, + and I remembered sharply how much I had loved her. She + went down until the water was well above her waist, and + stood white and small, with her hands crossed on her breast, + while the minister said the words about being buried with + Christ in baptism. Then, lying in his arm, she disappeared + under the dark water. “It will be like that when she dies,” I + thought, and a quick pain caught my heart. The choir began + to sing “Washed in the Blood of the Lamb” as she rose again, + the door behind the baptistry opened, revealing those three + dear guardians, Mrs. Dow, Mrs. Freeze, and Mrs. Spinny, + and she went up into their arms.</p> + + <p>I went to see Nell next day, up in the little room of many + memories. Such a sad, sad visit! She seemed changed—a little + embarrassed and quietly despairing. We talked of many of the + old Riverbend girls and boys, but she did not mention Guy + Franklin or Scott Spinny, except to say that her father had got + work in Scott’s hardware store. She begged me, putting her + hands on my shoulders with something of her old impulsiveness, + to come and stay a few days with her. But I was afraid—afraid + of what she might tell me and of what I might say. + When I sat in that room with all her trinkets, the foolish harvest + of her girlhood, lying about, and the white curtains + and the little white rug, I thought of Scott Spinny with positive + terror and could feel his hard grip on my hand again. I + made the best excuse I could about having to hurry on to + Denver; but she gave me one quick look, and her eyes ceased + to plead. I saw that she understood me perfectly. We had + known each other so well. Just once, when I got up to go and + had trouble with my veil, she laughed her old merry laugh + and told me there were some things I would never learn, for + all my schooling.</p> + + <p>The next day, when Mrs. Dow drove me down to the + station to catch the morning train for Denver, I saw Nelly + hurrying to school with several books under her arm. She + had been working up her lessons at home, I thought. She was + never quick at her books, dear Nell.</p> + + <hr class="thoughtbreak" /> + + <p class="post_thoughtbreak">It was ten years before I again visited Riverbend. I had + been in Rome for a long time, and had fallen into bitter + <a class="pagenum" id="page80" title="80"> </a>homesickness. One morning, sitting among the dahlias and + asters that bloom so bravely upon those gigantic heaps of + earth-red ruins that were once the palaces of the Cæsars, I + broke the seal of one of Mrs. Dow’s long yearly letters. It + brought so much sad news that I resolved then and there to + go home to Riverbend, the only place that had ever really + been home to me. Mrs. Dow wrote me that her husband, + after years of illness, had died in the cold spell last March. “So + good and patient toward the last,” she wrote, “and so afraid + of giving extra trouble.” There was another thing she saved + until the last. She wrote on and on, dear woman, about new + babies and village improvements, as if she could not bear to + tell me; and then it came:</p> + + <p>“You will be sad to hear that two months ago our dear + Nelly left us. It was a terrible blow to us all. I cannot write + about it yet, I fear. I wake up every morning feeling that I + ought to go to her. She went three days after her little boy + was born. The baby is a fine child and will live, I think, in + spite of everything. He and her little girl, now eight years old, + whom she named Margaret, after you, have gone to Mrs. + Spinny’s. She loves them more than if they were her own. It + seems as if already they had made her quite young again. I + wish you could see Nelly’s children.”</p> + + <p>Ah, that was what I wanted, to see Nelly’s children! The + wish came aching from my heart along with the bitter homesick + tears; along with a quick, torturing recollection that + flashed upon me, as I looked about and tried to collect myself, + of how we two had sat in our sunny seat in the corner of the + old bare school-room one September afternoon and learned + the names of the seven hills together. In that place, at that + moment, after so many years, how it all came back to me—the + warm sun on my back, the chattering girl beside me, the + curly hair, the laughing yellow eyes, the stubby little finger on + the page! I felt as if even then, when we sat in the sun with + our heads together, it was all arranged, written out like a + story, that at this moment I should be sitting among the + crumbling bricks and drying grass, and she should be lying in + the place I knew so well, on that green hill far away.</p> + + <hr class="thoughtbreak" /> + + <p class="post_thoughtbreak">Mrs. Dow sat with her Christmas sewing in the familiar + <a class="pagenum" id="page81" title="81"> </a>sitting-room, where the carpet and the wall-paper and the + table-cover had all faded into soft, dull colors, and even the + chromo of Hagar and Ishmael had been toned to the sobriety + of age. In the bay-window the tall wire flower-stand still bore + its little terraces of potted plants, and the big fuchsia and the + Martha Washington geranium had blossomed for Christmas-tide. + Mrs. Dow herself did not look greatly changed to me. + Her hair, thin ever since I could remember it, was now quite + white, but her spare, wiry little person had all its old activity, + and her eyes gleamed with the old friendliness behind her + silver-bowed glasses. Her gray house-dress seemed just like + those she used to wear when I ran in after school to take her + angel-food cake down to the church supper.</p> + + <p>The house sat on a hill, and from behind the geraniums I + could see pretty much all of Riverbend, tucked down in the + soft snow, and the air above was full of big, loose flakes, falling + from a gray sky which betokened settled weather. Indoors + the hard-coal burner made a tropical temperature, and glowed + a warm orange from its isinglass sides. We sat and visited, the + two of us, with a great sense of comfort and completeness. I + had reached Riverbend only that morning, and Mrs. Dow, + who had been haunted by thoughts of shipwreck and suffering + upon wintry seas, kept urging me to draw nearer to the + fire and suggesting incidental refreshment. We had chattered + all through the winter morning and most of the afternoon, + taking up one after another of the Riverbend girls and boys, + and agreeing that we had reason to be well satisfied with most + of them. Finally, after a long pause in which I had listened to + the contented ticking of the clock and the crackle of the coal, + I put the question I had until then held back:</p> + + <p>“And now, Mrs. Dow, tell me about the one we loved best + of all. Since I got your letter I’ve thought of her every day. + Tell me all about Scott and Nelly.”</p> + + <p>The tears flashed behind her glasses, and she smoothed the + little pink bag on her knee.</p> + + <p>“Well, dear, I’m afraid Scott proved to be a hard man, like + his father. But we must remember that Nelly always had Mrs. + Spinny. I never saw anything like the love there was between + those two. After Nelly lost her own father and mother, she + looked to Mrs. Spinny for everything. When Scott was too + <a class="pagenum" id="page82" title="82"> </a>unreasonable, his mother could ’most always prevail upon + him. She never lifted a hand to fight her own battles with + Scott’s father, but she was never afraid to speak up for Nelly. + And then Nelly took great comfort of her little girl. Such a + lovely child!”</p> + + <p>“Had she been very ill before the little baby came?”</p> + + <p>“No, Margaret; I’m afraid ’t was all because they had the + wrong doctor. I feel confident that either Doctor Tom or + Doctor Jones could have brought her through. But, you see, + Scott had offended them both, and they’d stopped trading at + his store, so he would have young Doctor Fox, a boy just out + of college and a stranger. He got scared and didn’t know + what to do. Mrs. Spinny felt he wasn’t doing right, so she + sent for Mrs. Freeze and me. It seemed like Nelly had got + discouraged. Scott would move into their big new house before + the plastering was dry, and though ’t was summer, she + had taken a terrible cold that seemed to have drained her, and + she took no interest in fixing the place up. Mrs. Spinny had + been down with her back again and wasn’t able to help, and + things was just anyway. We won’t talk about that, Margaret; I + think ’t would hurt Mrs. Spinny to have you know. She + nearly died of mortification when she sent for us, and blamed + her poor back. We did get Nelly fixed up nicely before she + died. I prevailed upon Doctor Tom to come in at the last, and + it ’most broke his heart. ‘Why, Mis’ Dow,’ he said, ‘if you’d + only have come and told me how ’t was, I’d have come and + carried her right off in my arms.’”</p> + + <p>“Oh, Mrs. Dow,” I cried, “then it needn’t have been?”</p> + + <p>Mrs. Dow dropped her needle and clasped her hands + quickly. “We mustn’t look at it that way, dear,” she said tremulously + and a little sternly; “we mustn’t let ourselves. We + must just feel that our Lord wanted her <em>then</em>, and took her to + Himself. When it was all over, she did look so like a child of + God, young and trusting, like she did on her baptizing night, + you remember?”</p> + + <p>I felt that Mrs. Dow did not want to talk any more about + Nelly then, and, indeed, I had little heart to listen; so I told + her I would go for a walk, and suggested that I might stop at + Mrs. Spinny’s to see the children.</p> + + <p>Mrs. Dow looked up thoughtfully at the clock. “I doubt if + <a class="pagenum" id="page83" title="83"> </a>you’ll find little Margaret there now. It’s half-past four, and + she’ll have been out of school an hour and more. She’ll be + most likely coasting on Lupton’s Hill. She usually makes for it + with her sled the minute she is out of the school-house door. + You know, it’s the old hill where you all used to slide. If you + stop in at the church about six o’clock, you’ll likely find Mrs. + Spinny there with the baby. I promised to go down and help + Mrs. Freeze finish up the tree, and Mrs. Spinny said she’d run + in with the baby, if ’t wasn’t too bitter. She won’t leave him + alone with the Swede girl. She’s like a young woman with + her first.”</p> + + <p>Lupton’s Hill was at the other end of town, and when I got + there the dusk was thickening, drawing blue shadows over the + snowy fields. There were perhaps twenty children creeping up + the hill or whizzing down the packed sled-track. When I had + been watching them for some minutes, I heard a lusty shout, + and a little red sled shot past me into the deep snow-drift + beyond. The child was quite buried for a moment, then she + struggled out and stood dusting the snow from her short coat + and red woolen comforter. She wore a brown fur cap, which + was too big for her and of an old-fashioned shape, such as + girls wore long ago, but I would have known her without the + cap. Mrs. Dow had said a beautiful child, and there would + not be two like this in Riverbend. She was off before I had + time to speak to her, going up the hill at a trot, her sturdy + little legs plowing through the trampled snow. When she + reached the top she never paused to take breath, but threw + herself upon her sled and came down with a whoop that was + quenched only by the deep drift at the end.</p> + + <p>“Are you Margaret Spinny?” I asked as she struggled out in + a cloud of snow.</p> + + <p>“Yes, ’m.” She approached me with frank curiosity, pulling + her little sled behind her. “Are you the strange lady staying at + Mrs. Dow’s?” I nodded, and she began to look my clothes + over with respectful interest.</p> + + <p>“Your grandmother is to be at the church at six o’clock, + isn’t she?”</p> + + <p>“Yes, ’m.”</p> + + <p>“Well, suppose we walk up there now. It’s nearly six, and + all the other children are going home.” She hesitated, and + <a class="pagenum" id="page84" title="84"> </a>looked up at the faintly gleaming track on the hill-slope. “Do + you want another slide? Is that it?” I asked.</p> + + <p>“Do you mind?” she asked shyly.</p> + + <p>“No. I’ll wait for you. Take your time; don’t run.”</p> + + <p>Two little boys were still hanging about the slide, and they + cheered her as she came down, her comforter streaming in the + wind.</p> + + <p>“Now,” she announced, getting up out of the drift, “I’ll + show you where the church is.”</p> + + <p>“Shall I tie your comforter again?”</p> + + <p>“No, ’m, thanks. I’m plenty warm.” She put her mittened + hand confidingly in mine and trudged along beside me.</p> + + <p>Mrs. Dow must have heard us tramping up the snowy steps + of the church, for she met us at the door. Every one had gone + except the old ladies. A kerosene lamp flickered over the + Sunday-school chart, with the lesson-picture of the Wise + Men, and the little barrel-stove threw out a deep glow over + the three white heads that bent above the baby. There the + three friends sat, patting him, and smoothing his dress, and + playing with his hands, which made theirs look so brown.</p> + + <p>“You ain’t seen nothing finer in all your travels,” said Mrs. + Spinny, and they all laughed.</p> + + <p>They showed me his full chest and how strong his back + was; had me feel the golden fuzz on his head, and made him + look at me with his round, bright eyes. He laughed and + reared himself in my arms as I took him up and held him + close to me. He was so warm and tingling with life, and he + had the flush of new beginnings, of the new morning and the + new rose. He seemed to have come so lately from his mother’s + heart! It was as if I held her youth and all her young joy. + As I put my cheek down against his, he spied a pink flower in + my hat, and making a gleeful sound, he lunged at it with both + fists.</p> + + <p>“Don’t let him spoil it,” murmured Mrs. Spinny. “He loves + color so—like Nelly.”</p> + + <p class="source"><cite>Century</cite>, October 1911</p> + + </div> + <div id="bohemian" class="story"><a class="pagenum" id="page85" title="85"> </a> + <h3 class="story_title">The Bohemian Girl <a class="return_toc" href="#contents" title="Return to Contents">ToC</a></h3> + <h4>I</h4> + + <p class="first_paragraph">The Trans-continental Express swung along the + windings of the Sand River Valley, and in the rear seat of + the observation car a young man sat greatly at his ease, not in + the least discomfited by the fierce sunlight which beat in upon + his brown face and neck and strong back. There was a look of + relaxation and of great passivity about his broad shoulders, + which seemed almost too heavy until he stood up and squared + them. He wore a pale flannel shirt and a blue silk necktie with + loose ends. His trousers were wide and belted at the waist, + and his short sack-coat hung open. His heavy shoes had seen + good service. His reddish-brown hair, like his clothes, had a + foreign cut. He had deep-set, dark blue eyes under heavy reddish + eyebrows. His face was kept clean only by close shaving, + and even the sharpest razor left a glint of yellow in the + smooth brown of his skin. His teeth and the palms of his + hands were very white. His head, which looked hard and + stubborn, lay indolently in the green cushion of the wicker + chair, and as he looked out at the ripe summer country a + teasing, not unkindly smile played over his lips. Once, as he + basked thus comfortably, a quick light flashed in his eyes, + curiously dilating the pupils, and his mouth became a hard, + straight line, gradually relaxing into its former smile of rather + kindly mockery. He told himself, apparently, that there was + no point in getting excited; and he seemed a master hand at + taking his ease when he could. Neither the sharp whistle of + the locomotive nor the brakeman’s call disturbed him. It was + not until after the train had stopped that he rose, put on a + Panama hat, took from the rack a small valise and a flute-case, + and stepped deliberately to the station platform. The baggage + was already unloaded, and the stranger presented a check for + a battered sole-leather steamer-trunk.</p> + + <p>“Can you keep it here for a day or two?” he asked the + agent. “I may send for it, and I may not.”</p> + + <p>“Depends on whether you like the country, I suppose?” demanded + the agent in a challenging tone.</p> + + <p>“Just so.”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page86" title="86"> </a>The agent shrugged his shoulders, looked scornfully at the + small trunk, which was marked “N.E.,” and handed out a + claim check without further comment. The stranger watched + him as he caught one end of the trunk and dragged it into the + express room. The agent’s manner seemed to remind him of + something amusing. “Doesn’t seem to be a very big place,” he + remarked, looking about.</p> + + <p>“It’s big enough for us,” snapped the agent, as he banged + the trunk into a corner.</p> + + <p>That remark, apparently, was what Nils Ericson had + wanted. He chuckled quietly as he took a leather strap from + his pocket and swung his valise around his shoulder. Then he + settled his Panama securely on his head, turned up his trousers, + tucked the flute-case under his arm, and started off across + the fields. He gave the town, as he would have said, a wide + berth, and cut through a great fenced pasture, emerging, + when he rolled under the barbed wire at the farther corner, + upon a white dusty road which ran straight up from the river + valley to the high prairies, where the ripe wheat stood yellow + and the tin roofs and weather-cocks were twinkling in the + fierce sunlight. By the time Nils had done three miles, the sun + was sinking and the farm-wagons on their way home from + town came rattling by, covering him with dust and making + him sneeze. When one of the farmers pulled up and offered to + give him a lift, he clambered in willingly. The driver was a + thin, grizzled old man with a long lean neck and a foolish sort + of beard, like a goat’s. “How fur ye goin’?” he asked, as he + clucked to his horses and started off.</p> + + <p>“Do you go by the Ericson place?”</p> + + <p>“Which Ericson?” The old man drew in his reins as if he + expected to stop again.</p> + + <p>“Preacher Ericson’s.”</p> + + <p>“Oh, the Old Lady Ericson’s!” He turned and looked at + Nils. “La, me! If you’re goin’ out there you might ’a’ rid out + in the automobile. That’s a pity, now. The Old Lady Ericson + was in town with her auto. You might ’a’ heard it snortin’ + anywhere about the post-office er the butcher-shop.”</p> + + <p>“Has she a motor?” asked the stranger absently.</p> + + <p>“‘Deed an’ she has! She runs into town every night about + this time for her mail and meat for supper. Some folks say + <a class="pagenum" id="page87" title="87"> </a>she’s afraid her auto won’t get exercise enough, but I say + that’s jealousy.”</p> + + <p>“Aren’t there any other motors about here?”</p> + + <p>“Oh, yes! we have fourteen in all. But nobody else gets + around like the Old Lady Ericson. She’s out, rain er shine, + over the whole county, chargin’ into town and out amongst + her farms, an’ up to her sons’ places. Sure you ain’t goin’ to + the wrong place?” He craned his neck and looked at Nils’ + flute-case with eager curiosity. “The old woman ain’t got any + piany that I knows on. Olaf, he has a grand. His wife’s musical; + took lessons in Chicago.”</p> + + <p>“I’m going up there to-morrow,” said Nils imperturbably. + He saw that the driver took him for a piano-tuner.</p> + + <p>“Oh, I see!” The old man screwed up his eyes mysteriously. + He was a little dashed by the stranger’s non-communicativeness, + but he soon broke out again.</p> + + <p>“I’m one o’ Mis’ Ericson’s tenants. Look after one of her + places. I did own the place myself oncet, but I lost it a while + back, in the bad years just after the World’s Fair. Just as well, + too, I say. Lets you out o’ payin’ taxes. The Ericsons do own + most of the county now. I remember the old preacher’s + fav’rite text used to be, ‘To them that hath shall be given.’ + They’ve spread something wonderful—run over this here + country like bindweed. But I ain’t one that begretches it to + ’em. Folks is entitled to what they kin git; and they’re hustlers. + Olaf, he’s in the Legislature now, and a likely man fur + Congress. Listen, if that ain’t the old woman comin’ now. + Want I should stop her?”</p> + + <p>Nils shook his head. He heard the deep chug-chug of a + motor vibrating steadily in the clear twilight behind them. + The pale lights of the car swam over the hill, and the old man + slapped his reins and turned clear out of the road, ducking his + head at the first of three angry snorts from behind. The motor + was running at a hot, even speed, and passed without turning + an inch from its course. The driver was a stalwart woman + who sat at ease in the front seat and drove her car bareheaded. + She left a cloud of dust and a trail of gasoline behind + her. Her tenant threw back his head and sneezed.</p> + + <p>“Whew! I sometimes say I’d as lief be <em>before</em> Mrs. Ericson as + behind her. She does beat all! Nearly seventy, and never lets + <a class="pagenum" id="page88" title="88"> </a>another soul touch that car. Puts it into commission herself + every morning, and keeps it tuned up by the hitch-bar all day. + I never stop work for a drink o’ water that I don’t hear her + a-churnin’ up the road. I reckon her darter-in-laws never sets + down easy nowadays. Never know when she’ll pop in. Mis’ + Otto, she says to me: ‘We’re so afraid that thing’ll blow up + and do Ma some injury yet, she’s so turrible venturesome.’ + Says I: ‘I wouldn’t stew, Mis’ Otto; the old lady’ll drive that + car to the funeral of every darter-in-law she’s got.’ That was + after the old woman had jumped a turrible bad culvert.”</p> + + <p>The stranger heard vaguely what the old man was saying. + Just now he was experiencing something very much like + homesickness, and he was wondering what had brought it + about. The mention of a name or two, perhaps; the rattle of a + wagon along a dusty road; the rank, resinous smell of sunflowers + and ironweed, which the night damp brought up + from the draws and low places; perhaps, more than all, the + dancing lights of the motor that had plunged by. He squared + his shoulders with a comfortable sense of strength.</p> + + <p>The wagon, as it jolted westward, climbed a pretty steady + upgrade. The country, receding from the rough river valley, + swelled more and more gently, as if it had been smoothed out + by the wind. On one of the last of the rugged ridges, at the + end of a branch road, stood a grim square house with a tin + roof and double porches. Behind the house stretched a row of + broken, wind-racked poplars, and down the hill-slope to the + left straggled the sheds and stables. The old man stopped his + horses where the Ericsons’ road branched across a dry sand + creek that wound about the foot of the hill.</p> + + <p>“That’s the old lady’s place. Want I should drive in?”</p> + + <p>“No, thank you. I’ll roll out here. Much obliged to you. + Good night.”</p> + + <p>His passenger stepped down over the front wheel, and the + old man drove on reluctantly, looking back as if he would like + to see how the stranger would be received.</p> + + <p>As Nils was crossing the dry creek he heard the restive + tramp of a horse coming toward him down the hill. Instantly + he flashed out of the road and stood behind a thicket of wild + plum bushes that grew in the sandy bed. Peering through the + dusk, he saw a light horse, under tight rein, descending the + <a class="pagenum" id="page89" title="89"> </a>hill at a sharp walk. The rider was a slender woman—barely + visible against the dark hillside—wearing an old-fashioned + derby hat and a long riding-skirt. She sat lightly in the saddle, + with her chin high, and seemed to be looking into the distance. + As she passed the plum thicket her horse snuffed the air + and shied. She struck him, pulling him in sharply, with an + angry exclamation, “<em>Blázne!</em>” in Bohemian. Once in the main + road, she let him out into a lope, and they soon emerged + upon the crest of high land, where they moved along the skyline, + silhouetted against the band of faint color that lingered + in the west. This horse and rider, with their free, rhythmical + gallop, were the only moving things to be seen on the face of + the flat country. They seemed, in the last sad light of evening, + not to be there accidentally, but as an inevitable detail of the + landscape.</p> + + <p>Nils watched them until they had shrunk to a mere moving + speck against the sky, then he crossed the sand creek and + climbed the hill. When he reached the gate the front of the + house was dark, but a light was shining from the side windows. + The pigs were squealing in the hog corral, and Nils + could see a tall boy, who carried two big wooden buckets, + moving about among them. Half way between the barn and + the house, the windmill wheezed lazily. Following the path + that ran around to the back porch, Nils stopped to look + through the screen door into the lamp-lit kitchen. The + kitchen was the largest room in the house; Nils remembered + that his older brothers used to give dances there when he was + a boy. Beside the stove stood a little girl with two light yellow + braids and a broad, flushed face, peering anxiously into a + frying-pan. In the dining-room beyond, a large, broad-shouldered + woman was moving about the table. She walked + with an active, springy step. Her face was heavy and florid, + almost without wrinkles, and her hair was black at seventy. + Nils felt proud of her as he watched her deliberate activity; + never a momentary hesitation, or a movement that did not + tell. He waited until she came out into the kitchen and, + brushing the child aside, took her place at the stove. Then he + tapped on the screen door and entered.</p> + + <p>“It’s nobody but Nils, Mother. I expect you weren’t looking + for me.”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page90" title="90"> </a>Mrs. Ericson turned away from the stove and stood staring + at him. “Bring the lamp, Hilda, and let me look.”</p> + + <p>Nils laughed and unslung his valise. “What’s the matter, + Mother? Don’t you know me?”</p> + + <p>Mrs. Ericson put down the lamp. “You must be Nils. You + don’t look very different, anyway.”</p> + + <p>“Nor you, Mother. You hold your own. Don’t you wear + glasses yet?”</p> + + <p>“Only to read by. Where’s your trunk, Nils?”</p> + + <p>“Oh, I left that in town. I thought it might not be convenient + for you to have company so near threshing-time.”</p> + + <p>“Don’t be foolish, Nils.” Mrs. Ericson turned back to the + stove. “I don’t thresh now. I hitched the wheat land onto the + next farm and have a tenant. Hilda, take some hot water up to + the company room, and go call little Eric.”</p> + + <p>The tow-haired child, who had been standing in mute + amazement, took up the tea-kettle and withdrew, giving Nils + a long, admiring look from the door of the kitchen stairs.</p> + + <p>“Who’s the youngster?” Nils asked, dropping down on the + bench behind the kitchen stove.</p> + + <p>“One of your Cousin Henrik’s.”</p> + + <p>“How long has Cousin Henrik been dead?”</p> + + <p>“Six years. There are two boys. One stays with Peter and + one with Anders. Olaf is their guardeen.”</p> + + <p>There was a clatter of pails on the porch, and a tall, lanky + boy peered wonderingly in through the screen door. He had + a fair, gentle face and big gray eyes, and wisps of soft yellow + hair hung down under his cap. Nils sprang up and pulled him + into the kitchen, hugging him and slapping him on the shoulders. + “Well, if it isn’t my kid! Look at the size of him! Don’t + you know me, Eric?”</p> + + <p>The boy reddened under his sunburn and freckles, and + hung his head. “I guess it’s Nils,” he said shyly.</p> + + <p>“You’re a good guesser,” laughed Nils, giving the lad’s + hand a swing. To himself he was thinking: “That’s why the + little girl looked so friendly. He’s taught her to like me. He + was only six when I went away, and he’s remembered for + twelve years.”</p> + + <p>Eric stood fumbling with his cap and smiling. “You look + just like I thought you would,” he ventured.</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page91" title="91"> </a>“Go wash your hands, Eric,” called Mrs. Ericson. “I’ve got + cob corn for supper, Nils. You used to like it. I guess you + don’t get much of that in the old country. Here’s Hilda; she’ll + take you up to your room. You’ll want to get the dust off you + before you eat.”</p> + + <p>Mrs. Ericson went into the dining-room to lay another + plate, and the little girl came up and nodded to Nils as if to + let him know that his room was ready. He put out his hand + and she took it, with a startled glance up at his face. Little + Eric dropped his towel, threw an arm about Nils and one + about Hilda, gave them a clumsy squeeze, and then stumbled + out to the porch.</p> + + <p>During supper Nils heard exactly how much land each of + his eight grown brothers farmed, how their crops were coming + on, and how much live stock they were feeding. His + mother watched him narrowly as she talked. “You’ve got + better looking, Nils,” she remarked abruptly, whereupon he + grinned and the children giggled. Eric, although he was eighteen + and as tall as Nils, was always accounted a child, being + the last of so many sons. His face seemed childlike, too, Nils + thought, and he had the open, wandering eyes of a little boy. + All the others had been men at his age.</p> + + <p>After supper Nils went out to the front porch and sat down + on the step to smoke a pipe. Mrs. Ericson drew a rocking-chair + up near him and began to knit busily. It was one of the + few old-world customs she had kept up, for she could not + bear to sit with idle hands.</p> + + <p>“Where’s little Eric, Mother?”</p> + + <p>“He’s helping Hilda with the dishes. He does it of his own + will; I don’t like a boy to be too handy about the house.”</p> + + <p>“He seems like a nice kid.”</p> + + <p>“He’s very obedient.”</p> + + <p>Nils smiled a little in the dark. It was just as well to shift + the line of conversation. “What are you knitting there, + Mother?”</p> + + <p>“Baby stockings. The boys keep me busy.” Mrs. Ericson + chuckled and clicked her needles.</p> + + <p>“How many grandchildren have you?”</p> + + <p>“Only thirty-one now. Olaf lost his three. They were sickly, + like their mother.”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page92" title="92"> </a>“I supposed he had a second crop by this time!”</p> + + <p>“His second wife has no children. She’s too proud. She + tears about on horseback all the time. But she’ll get caught up + with, yet. She sets herself very high, though nobody knows + what for. They were low enough Bohemians she came of. I + never thought much of Bohemians; always drinking.”</p> + + <p>Nils puffed away at his pipe in silence, and Mrs. Ericson + knitted on. In a few moments she added grimly: “She was + down here to-night, just before you came. She’d like to quarrel + with me and come between me and Olaf, but I don’t give + her the chance. I suppose you’ll be bringing a wife home + some day.”</p> + + <p>“I don’t know. I’ve never thought much about it.”</p> + + <p>“Well, perhaps it’s best as it is,” suggested Mrs. Ericson + hopefully. “You’d never be contented tied down to the land. + There was roving blood in your father’s family, and it’s + come out in you. I expect your own way of life suits you + best.” Mrs. Ericson had dropped into a blandly agreeable + tone which Nils well remembered. It seemed to amuse him + a good deal and his white teeth flashed behind his pipe. + His mother’s strategies had always diverted him, even when + he was a boy—they were so flimsy and patent, so illy proportioned + to her vigor and force. “They’ve been waiting + to see which way I’d jump,” he reflected. He felt that Mrs. + Ericson was pondering his case deeply as she sat clicking her + needles.</p> + + <p>“I don’t suppose you’ve ever got used to steady work,” she + went on presently. “Men ain’t apt to if they roam around too + long. It’s a pity you didn’t come back the year after the + World’s Fair. Your father picked up a good bit of land cheap + then, in the hard times, and I expect maybe he’d have give + you a farm. It’s too bad you put off comin’ back so long, for + I always thought he meant to do something by you.”</p> + + <p>Nils laughed and shook the ashes out of his pipe. “I’d have + missed a lot if I had come back then. But I’m sorry I didn’t + get back to see father.”</p> + + <p>“Well, I suppose we have to miss things at one end or the + other. Perhaps you are as well satisfied with your own doings, + now, as you’d have been with a farm,” said Mrs. Ericson reassuringly.</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page93" title="93"> </a>“Land’s a good thing to have,” Nils commented, as he lit + another match and sheltered it with his hand.</p> + + <p>His mother looked sharply at his face until the match + burned out. “Only when you stay on it!” she hastened to say.</p> + + <p>Eric came round the house by the path just then, and Nils + rose, with a yawn. “Mother, if you don’t mind, Eric and I will + take a little tramp before bed-time. It will make me sleep.”</p> + + <p>“Very well; only don’t stay long. I’ll sit up and wait for you. + I like to lock up myself.”</p> + + <p>Nils put his hand on Eric’s shoulder, and the two tramped + down the hill and across the sand creek into the dusty highroad + beyond. Neither spoke. They swung along at an even + gait, Nils puffing at his pipe. There was no moon, and the + white road and the wide fields lay faint in the starlight. Over + everything was darkness and thick silence, and the smell of + dust and sunflowers. The brothers followed the road for a + mile or more without finding a place to sit down. Finally Nils + perched on a stile over the wire fence, and Eric sat on the + lower step.</p> + + <p>“I began to think you never would come back, Nils,” said + the boy softly.</p> + + <p>“Didn’t I promise you I would?”</p> + + <p>“Yes; but people don’t bother about promises they make to + babies. Did you really know you were going away for good + when you went to Chicago with the cattle that time?”</p> + + <p>“I thought it very likely, if I could make my way.”</p> + + <p>“I don’t see how you did it, Nils. Not many fellows could.” + Eric rubbed his shoulder against his brother’s knee.</p> + + <p>“The hard thing was leaving home—you and father. It was + easy enough, once I got beyond Chicago. Of course I got + awful homesick; used to cry myself to sleep. But I’d burned + my bridges.”</p> + + <p>“You had always wanted to go, hadn’t you?”</p> + + <p>“Always. Do you still sleep in our little room? Is that cottonwood + still by the window?”</p> + + <p>Eric nodded eagerly and smiled up at his brother in the + gray darkness.</p> + + <p>“You remember how we always said the leaves were whispering + when they rustled at night? Well, they always whispered + to me about the sea. Sometimes they said names out of + <a class="pagenum" id="page94" title="94"> </a>the geography books. In a high wind they had a desperate + sound, like something trying to tear loose.”</p> + + <p>“How funny, Nils,” said Eric dreamily, resting his chin on + his hand. “That tree still talks like that, and ’most always it + talks to me about you.”</p> + + <p>They sat a while longer, watching the stars. At last Eric + whispered anxiously: “Hadn’t we better go back now? + Mother will get tired waiting for us.” They rose and took a + short cut home, through the pasture.</p> + + <h4>II</h4> + + <p>The next morning Nils woke with the first flood of light + that came with dawn. The white-plastered walls of his room + reflected the glare that shone through the thin window-shades, + and he found it impossible to sleep. He dressed hurriedly + and slipped down the hall and up the back stairs to the + half-story room which he used to share with his little brother. + Eric, in a skimpy night-shirt, was sitting on the edge of the + bed, rubbing his eyes, his pale yellow hair standing up in tufts + all over his head. When he saw Nils, he murmured something + confusedly and hustled his long legs into his trousers. “I + didn’t expect you’d be up so early, Nils,” he said, as his head + emerged from his blue shirt.</p> + + <p>“Oh, you thought I was a dude, did you?” Nils gave him a + playful tap which bent the tall boy up like a clasp-knife. “See + here; I must teach you to box.” Nils thrust his hands into his + pockets and walked about. “You haven’t changed things much + up here. Got most of my old traps, haven’t you?”</p> + + <p>He took down a bent, withered piece of sapling that hung + over the dresser. “If this isn’t the stick Lou Sandberg killed + himself with!”</p> + + <p>The boy looked up from his shoe-lacing.</p> + + <p>“Yes; you never used to let me play with that. Just how did + he do it, Nils? You were with father when he found Lou, + weren’t you?”</p> + + <p>“Yes. Father was going off to preach somewhere, and, as + we drove along, Lou’s place looked sort of forlorn, and we + thought we’d stop and cheer him up. When we found him + father said he’d been dead a couple days. He’d tied a piece of + <a class="pagenum" id="page95" title="95"> </a>binding twine round his neck, made a noose in each end, + fixed the nooses over the ends of a bent stick, and let the stick + spring straight; strangled himself.”</p> + + <p>“What made him kill himself such a silly way?”</p> + + <p>The simplicity of the boy’s question set Nils laughing. He + clapped little Eric on the shoulder. “What made him such a + silly as to kill himself at all, I should say!”</p> + + <p>“Oh, well! But his hogs had the cholera, and all up and + died on him, didn’t they?”</p> + + <p>“Sure they did; but he didn’t have cholera; and there were + plenty of hogs left in the world, weren’t there?”</p> + + <p>“Well, but, if they weren’t his, how could they do him any + good?” Eric asked, in astonishment.</p> + + <p>“Oh, scat! He could have had lots of fun with other people’s + hogs. He was a chump, Lou Sandberg. To kill yourself + for a pig—think of that, now!” Nils laughed all the way + downstairs, and quite embarrassed little Eric, who fell to + scrubbing his face and hands at the tin basin. While he was + patting his wet hair at the kitchen looking-glass, a heavy tread + sounded on the stairs. The boy dropped his comb. “Gracious, + there’s Mother. We must have talked too long.” He hurried + out to the shed, slipped on his overalls, and disappeared with + the milking-pails.</p> + + <p>Mrs. Ericson came in, wearing a clean white apron, her + black hair shining from the application of a wet brush.</p> + + <p>“Good morning, Mother. Can’t I make the fire for you?”</p> + + <p>“No, thank you, Nils. It’s no trouble to make a cob fire, + and I like to manage the kitchen stove myself.” Mrs. Ericson + paused with a shovel full of ashes in her hand. “I expect you + will be wanting to see your brothers as soon as possible. I’ll + take you up to Anders’ place this morning. He’s threshing, + and most of our boys are over there.”</p> + + <p>“Will Olaf be there?”</p> + + <p>Mrs. Ericson went on taking out the ashes, and spoke between + shovels. “No; Olaf’s wheat is all in, put away in his + new barn. He got six thousand bushel this year. He’s going to + town to-day to get men to finish roofing his barn.”</p> + + <p>“So Olaf is building a new barn?” Nils asked absently.</p> + + <p>“Biggest one in the county, and almost done. You’ll likely + be here for the barn-raising. He’s going to have a supper and + <a class="pagenum" id="page96" title="96"> </a>a dance as soon as everybody’s done threshing. Says it keeps + the voters in a good humor. I tell him that’s all nonsense; but + Olaf has a long head for politics.”</p> + + <p>“Does Olaf farm all Cousin Henrik’s land?”</p> + + <p>Mrs. Ericson frowned as she blew into the faint smoke + curling up about the cobs. “Yes; he holds it in trust for the + children, Hilda and her brothers. He keeps strict account of + everything he raises on it, and puts the proceeds out at compound + interest for them.”</p> + + <p>Nils smiled as he watched the little flames shoot up. The + door of the back stairs opened, and Hilda emerged, her arms + behind her, buttoning up her long gingham apron as she + came. He nodded to her gaily, and she twinkled at him out of + her little blue eyes, set far apart over her wide cheek-bones.</p> + + <p>“There, Hilda, you grind the coffee—and just put in an + extra handful; I expect your Cousin Nils likes his strong,” said + Mrs. Ericson, as she went out to the shed.</p> + + <p>Nils turned to look at the little girl, who gripped the + coffee-grinder between her knees and ground so hard that her + two braids bobbed and her face flushed under its broad spattering + of freckles. He noticed on her middle finger something + that had not been there last night, and that had evidently + been put on for company: a tiny gold ring with a clumsily set + garnet stone. As her hand went round and round he touched + the ring with the tip of his finger, smiling.</p> + + <p>Hilda glanced toward the shed door through which Mrs. + Ericson had disappeared. “My Cousin Clara gave me that,” + she whispered bashfully. “She’s Cousin Olaf’s wife.”</p> + + <h4>III</h4> + + <p>Mrs. Olaf Ericson—Clara Vavrika, as many people still + called her—was moving restlessly about her big bare house + that morning. Her husband had left for the county town before + his wife was out of bed—her lateness in rising was one + of the many things the Ericson family had against her. Clara + seldom came downstairs before eight o’clock, and this morning + she was even later, for she had dressed with unusual care. + She put on, however, only a tight-fitting black dress, which + people thereabouts thought very plain. She was a tall, dark + <a class="pagenum" id="page97" title="97"> </a>woman of thirty, with a rather sallow complexion and a touch + of dull salmon red in her cheeks, where the blood seemed to + burn under her brown skin. Her hair, parted evenly above her + low forehead, was so black that there were distinctly blue + lights in it. Her black eyebrows were delicate half-moons and + her lashes were long and heavy. Her eyes slanted a little, as if + she had a strain of Tartar or gypsy blood, and were sometimes + full of fiery determination and sometimes dull and opaque. + Her expression was never altogether amiable; was often, indeed, + distinctly sullen, or, when she was animated, sarcastic. + She was most attractive in profile, for then one saw to advantage + her small, well-shaped head and delicate ears, and + felt at once that here was a very positive, if not an altogether + pleasing, personality.</p> + + <p>The entire management of Mrs. Olaf’s household devolved + upon her aunt, Johanna Vavrika, a superstitious, doting + woman of fifty. When Clara was a little girl her mother died, + and Johanna’s life had been spent in ungrudging service to her + niece. Clara, like many self-willed and discontented persons, + was really very apt, without knowing it, to do as other people + told her, and to let her destiny be decided for her by intelligences + much below her own. It was her Aunt Johanna who + had humored and spoiled her in her girlhood, who had got + her off to Chicago to study piano, and who had finally persuaded + her to marry Olaf Ericson as the best match she would + be likely to make in that part of the country. Johanna Vavrika + had been deeply scarred by smallpox in the old country. She + was short and fat, homely and jolly and sentimental. She was + so broad, and took such short steps when she walked, that her + brother, Joe Vavrika, always called her his duck. She adored + her niece because of her talent, because of her good looks and + masterful ways, but most of all because of her selfishness.</p> + + <p>Clara’s marriage with Olaf Ericson was Johanna’s particular + triumph. She was inordinately proud of Olaf’s position, and + she found a sufficiently exciting career in managing Clara’s + house, in keeping it above the criticism of the Ericsons, in + pampering Olaf to keep him from finding fault with his wife, + and in concealing from every one Clara’s domestic infelicities. + While Clara slept of a morning, Johanna Vavrika was bustling + about, seeing that Olaf and the men had their breakfast, and + <a class="pagenum" id="page98" title="98"> </a>that the cleaning or the butter-making or the washing was + properly begun by the two girls in the kitchen. Then, at about + eight o’clock, she would take Clara’s coffee up to her, and + chat with her while she drank it, telling her what was going + on in the house. Old Mrs. Ericson frequently said that her + daughter-in-law would not know what day of the week it was + if Johanna did not tell her every morning. Mrs. Ericson despised + and pitied Johanna, but did not wholly dislike her. The + one thing she hated in her daughter-in-law above everything + else was the way in which Clara could come it over people. It + enraged her that the affairs of her son’s big, barnlike house + went on as well as they did, and she used to feel that in this + world we have to wait over-long to see the guilty punished. + “Suppose Johanna Vavrika died or got sick?” the old lady used + to say to Olaf. “Your wife wouldn’t know where to look for + her own dish-cloth.” Olaf only shrugged his shoulders. The + fact remained that Johanna did not die, and, although Mrs. + Ericson often told her she was looking poorly, she was never + ill. She seldom left the house, and she slept in a little room off + the kitchen. No Ericson, by night or day, could come prying + about there to find fault without her knowing it. Her one + weakness was that she was an incurable talker, and she sometimes + made trouble without meaning to.</p> + + <p>This morning Clara was tying a wine-colored ribbon about + her throat when Johanna appeared with her coffee. After putting + the tray on a sewing-table, she began to make Clara’s + bed, chattering the while in Bohemian.</p> + + <p>“Well, Olaf got off early, and the girls are baking. I’m going + down presently to make some poppy-seed bread for Olaf. + He asked for prune preserves at breakfast, and I told him I + was out of them, and to bring some prunes and honey and + cloves from town.”</p> + + <p>Clara poured her coffee. “Ugh! I don’t see how men can eat + so much sweet stuff. In the morning, too!”</p> + + <p>Her aunt chuckled knowingly. “Bait a bear with honey, as + we say in the old country.”</p> + + <p>“Was he cross?” her niece asked indifferently.</p> + + <p>“Olaf? Oh, no! He was in fine spirits. He’s never cross if + you know how to take him. I never knew a man to make so + little fuss about bills. I gave him a list of things to get a yard + <a class="pagenum" id="page99" title="99"> </a>long, and he didn’t say a word; just folded it up and put it in + his pocket.”</p> + + <p>“I can well believe he didn’t say a word,” Clara remarked + with a shrug. “Some day he’ll forget how to talk.”</p> + + <p>“Oh, but they say he’s a grand speaker in the Legislature. + He knows when to keep quiet. That’s why he’s got such influence + in politics. The people have confidence in him.” Johanna + beat up a pillow and held it under her fat chin while + she slipped on the case. Her niece laughed.</p> + + <p>“Maybe we could make people believe we were wise, + Aunty, if we held our tongues. Why did you tell Mrs. Ericson + that Norman threw me again last Saturday and turned my + foot? She’s been talking to Olaf.”</p> + + <p>Johanna fell into great confusion. “Oh, but, my precious, + the old lady asked for you, and she’s always so angry if I can’t + give an excuse. Anyhow, she needn’t talk; she’s always tearing + up something with that motor of hers.”</p> + + <p>When her aunt clattered down to the kitchen, Clara went + to dust the parlor. Since there was not much there to dust, + this did not take very long. Olaf had built the house new for + her before their marriage, but her interest in furnishing it had + been short-lived. It went, indeed, little beyond a bath-tub and + her piano. They had disagreed about almost every other article + of furniture, and Clara had said she would rather have her + house empty than full of things she didn’t want. The house + was set in a hillside, and the west windows of the parlor + looked out above the kitchen yard thirty feet below. The east + windows opened directly into the front yard. At one of the + latter, Clara, while she was dusting, heard a low whistle. She + did not turn at once, but listened intently as she drew her + cloth slowly along the round of a chair. Yes, there it was:</p> + + <blockquote class="call-out"><p>“<em>I dreamt that I dwelt in ma-a-arble halls,</em>”</p></blockquote> + + <p>She turned and saw Nils Ericson laughing in the sunlight, + his hat in his hand, just outside the window. As she crossed + the room he leaned against the wire screen. “Aren’t you at all + surprised to see me, Clara Vavrika?”</p> + + <p>“No; I was expecting to see you. Mother Ericson telephoned + Olaf last night that you were here.”</p> + + <p>Nils squinted and gave a long whistle. “Telephoned? That + <a class="pagenum" id="page100" title="100"> </a>must have been while Eric and I were out walking. Isn’t she + enterprising? Lift this screen, won’t you?”</p> + + <p>Clara lifted the screen, and Nils swung his leg across the + window-sill. As he stepped into the room she said: “You + didn’t think you were going to get ahead of your mother, did + you?”</p> + + <p>He threw his hat on the piano. “Oh, I do sometimes. You + see, I’m ahead of her now. I’m supposed to be in Anders’ + wheat-field. But, as we were leaving, Mother ran her car into + a soft place beside the road and sank up to the hubs. While + they were going for horses to pull her out, I cut away behind + the stacks and escaped.” Nils chuckled. Clara’s dull eyes lit up + as she looked at him admiringly.</p> + + <p>“You’ve got them guessing already. I don’t know what your + mother said to Olaf over the telephone, but he came back + looking as if he’d seen a ghost, and he didn’t go to bed until a + dreadful hour—ten o’clock, I should think. He sat out on the + porch in the dark like a graven image. It had been one of his + talkative days, too.” They both laughed, easily and lightly, like + people who have laughed a great deal together; but they remained + standing.</p> + + <p>“Anders and Otto and Peter looked as if they had seen + ghosts, too, over in the threshing-field. What’s the matter + with them all?”</p> + + <p>Clara gave him a quick, searching look. “Well, for one + thing, they’ve always been afraid you have the other will.”</p> + + <p>Nils looked interested. “The other will?”</p> + + <p>“Yes. A later one. They knew your father made another, + but they never knew what he did with it. They almost tore + the old house to pieces looking for it. They always suspected + that he carried on a clandestine correspondence with you, for + the one thing he would do was to get his own mail himself. + So they thought he might have sent the new will to you for + safekeeping. The old one, leaving everything to your mother, + was made long before you went away, and it’s understood + among them that it cuts you out—that she will leave all the + property to the others. Your father made the second will to + prevent that. I’ve been hoping you had it. It would be such + fun to spring it on them.” Clara laughed mirthfully, a thing + she did not often do now.</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page101" title="101"> </a>Nils shook his head reprovingly. “Come, now, you’re malicious.”</p> + + <p>“No, I’m not. But I’d like something to happen to stir them + all up, just for once. There never was such a family for having + nothing ever happen to them but dinner and threshing. I’d + almost be willing to die, just to have a funeral. <em>You</em> wouldn’t + stand it for three weeks.”</p> + + <p>Nils bent over the piano and began pecking at the keys + with the finger of one hand. “I wouldn’t? My dear young + lady, how do you know what I can stand? <em>You</em> wouldn’t wait + to find out.”</p> + + <p>Clara flushed darkly and frowned. “I didn’t believe you + would ever come back—” she said defiantly.</p> + + <p>“Eric believed I would, and he was only a baby when I + went away. However, all’s well that ends well, and I haven’t + come back to be a skeleton at the feast. We mustn’t quarrel. + Mother will be here with a search-warrant pretty soon.” He + swung round and faced her, thrusting his hands into his coat + pockets. “Come, you ought to be glad to see me, if you want + something to happen. I’m something, even without a will. We + can have a little fun, can’t we? I think we can!”</p> + + <p>She echoed him, “I think we can!” They both laughed and + their eyes sparkled. Clara Vavrika looked ten years younger + than when she had put the velvet ribbon about her throat that + morning.</p> + + <p>“You know, I’m so tickled to see mother,” Nils went on. “I + didn’t know I was so proud of her. A regular pile-driver. + How about little pigtails, down at the house? Is Olaf doing + the square thing by those children?”</p> + + <p>Clara frowned pensively. “Olaf has to do something that + looks like the square thing, now that he’s a public man!” She + glanced drolly at Nils. “But he makes a good commission out + of it. On Sundays they all get together here and figure. He + lets Peter and Anders put in big bills for the keep of the two + boys, and he pays them out of the estate. They are always + having what they call accountings. Olaf gets something out of + it, too. I don’t know just how they do it, but it’s entirely a + family matter, as they say. And when the Ericsons say that—” + Clara lifted her eyebrows.</p> + + <p>Just then the angry <em>honk-honk</em> of an approaching motor + <a class="pagenum" id="page102" title="102"> </a>sounded from down the road. Their eyes met and they began + to laugh. They laughed as children do when they can not contain + themselves, and can not explain the cause of their mirth + to grown people, but share it perfectly together. When Clara + Vavrika sat down at the piano after he was gone, she felt that + she had laughed away a dozen years. She practised as if the + house were burning over her head.</p> + + <p>When Nils greeted his mother and climbed into the front + seat of the motor beside her, Mrs. Ericson looked grim, but + she made no comment upon his truancy until she had turned + her car and was retracing her revolutions along the road that + ran by Olaf’s big pasture. Then she remarked dryly:</p> + + <p>“If I were you I wouldn’t see too much of Olaf’s wife while + you are here. She’s the kind of woman who can’t see much of + men without getting herself talked about. She was a good + deal talked about before he married her.”</p> + + <p>“Hasn’t Olaf tamed her?” Nils asked indifferently.</p> + + <p>Mrs. Ericson shrugged her massive shoulders. “Olaf don’t + seem to have much luck, when it comes to wives. The first + one was meek enough, but she was always ailing. And this + one has her own way. He says if he quarreled with her she’d + go back to her father, and then he’d lose the Bohemian vote. + There are a great many Bohunks in this district. But when + you find a man under his wife’s thumb you can always be sure + there’s a soft spot in him somewhere.”</p> + + <p>Nils thought of his own father, and smiled. “She brought + him a good deal of money, didn’t she, besides the Bohemian + vote?”</p> + + <p>Mrs. Ericson sniffed. “Well, she has a fair half section in her + own name, but I can’t see as that does Olaf much good. She + will have a good deal of property some day, if old Vavrika + don’t marry again. But I don’t consider a saloonkeeper’s + money as good as other people’s money.”</p> + + <p>Nils laughed outright. “Come, Mother, don’t let your prejudices + carry you that far. Money’s money. Old Vavrika’s a + mighty decent sort of saloonkeeper. Nothing rowdy about + him.”</p> + + <p>Mrs. Ericson spoke up angrily: “Oh, I know you always + stood up for them! But hanging around there when you were + a boy never did you any good, Nils, nor any of the other boys + <a class="pagenum" id="page103" title="103"> </a>who went there. There weren’t so many after her when she + married Olaf, let me tell you. She knew enough to grab her + chance.”</p> + + <p>Nils settled back in his seat. “Of course I liked to go there, + Mother, and you were always cross about it. You never took + the trouble to find out that it was the one jolly house in this + country for a boy to go to. All the rest of you were working + yourselves to death, and the houses were mostly a mess, full + of babies and washing and flies. Oh, it was all right—I understand + that; but you are young only once, and I happened + to be young then. Now, Vavrika’s was always jolly. He played + the violin, and I used to take my flute, and Clara played the + piano, and Johanna used to sing Bohemian songs. She always + had a big supper for us—herrings and pickles and poppyseed + bread, and lots of cake and preserves. Old Joe had been + in the army in the old country, and he could tell lots of good + stories. I can see him cutting bread, at the head of the table, + now. I don’t know what I’d have done when I was a kid if it + hadn’t been for the Vavrikas, really.”</p> + + <p>“And all the time he was taking money that other people + had worked hard in the fields for,” Mrs. Ericson observed.</p> + + <p>“So do the circuses, Mother, and they’re a good thing. + People ought to get fun for some of their money. Even + father liked old Joe.”</p> + + <p>“Your father,” Mrs. Ericson said grimly, “liked everybody.”</p> + + <p>As they crossed the sand creek and turned into her own + place, Mrs. Ericson observed, “There’s Olaf’s buggy. He’s + stopped on his way from town.” Nils shook himself and prepared + to greet his brother, who was waiting on the porch.</p> + + <p>Olaf was a big, heavy Norwegian, slow of speech and + movement. His head was large and square, like a block of + wood. When Nils, at a distance, tried to remember what his + brother looked like, he could recall only his heavy head, high + forehead, large nostrils, and pale-blue eyes, set far apart. + Olaf’s features were rudimentary: the thing one noticed was + the face itself, wide and flat and pale, devoid of any expression, + betraying his fifty years as little as it betrayed anything + else, and powerful by reason of its very stolidness. When Olaf + shook hands with Nils he looked at him from under his light + eyebrows, but Nils felt that no one could ever say what that + <a class="pagenum" id="page104" title="104"> </a>pale look might mean. The one thing he had always felt in + Olaf was a heavy stubbornness, like the unyielding stickiness + of wet loam against the plow. He had always found Olaf the + most difficult of his brothers.</p> + + <p>“How do you do, Nils? Expect to stay with us long?”</p> + + <p>“Oh, I may stay forever,” Nils answered gaily. “I like this + country better than I used to.”</p> + + <p>“There’s been some work put into it since you left,” Olaf + remarked.</p> + + <p>“Exactly. I think it’s about ready to live in now—and I’m + about ready to settle down.” Nils saw his brother lower his + big head. (“Exactly like a bull,” he thought.) “Mother’s been + persuading me to slow down now, and go in for farming,” he + went on lightly.</p> + + <p>Olaf made a deep sound in his throat. “Farming ain’t + learned in a day,” he brought out, still looking at the ground.</p> + + <p>“Oh, I know! But I pick things up quickly.” Nils had not + meant to antagonize his brother, and he did not know now + why he was doing it. “Of course,” he went on, “I shouldn’t + expect to make a big success, as you fellows have done. But + then, I’m not ambitious. I won’t want much. A little land, + and some cattle, maybe.”</p> + + <p>Olaf still stared at the ground, his head down. He wanted + to ask Nils what he had been doing all these years, that he + didn’t have a business somewhere he couldn’t afford to leave; + why he hadn’t more pride than to come back with only a little + sole-leather trunk to show for himself, and to present himself + as the only failure in the family. He did not ask one of these + questions, but he made them all felt distinctly.</p> + + <p>“Humph!” Nils thought. “No wonder the man never talks, + when he can butt his ideas into you like that without ever + saying a word. I suppose he uses that kind of smokeless powder + on his wife all the time. But I guess she has her innings.” + He chuckled, and Olaf looked up. “Never mind me, Olaf. I + laugh without knowing why, like little Eric. He’s another + cheerful dog.”</p> + + <p>“Eric,” said Olaf slowly, “is a spoiled kid. He’s just let his + mother’s best cow go dry because he don’t milk her right. I + was hoping you’d take him away somewhere and put him + into business. If he don’t do any good among strangers, he + <a class="pagenum" id="page105" title="105"> </a>never will.” This was a long speech for Olaf, and as he finished + it he climbed into his buggy.</p> + + <p>Nils shrugged his shoulders. “Same old tricks,” he thought. + “Hits from behind you every time. What a whale of a man!” + He turned and went round to the kitchen, where his mother + was scolding little Eric for letting the gasoline get low.</p> + + <h4>IV</h4> + + <p>Joe Vavrika’s saloon was not in the county-seat, where Olaf + and Mrs. Ericson did their trading, but in a cheerfuller place, + a little Bohemian settlement which lay at the other end of the + county, ten level miles north of Olaf’s farm. Clara rode up to + see her father almost every day. Vavrika’s house was, so to + speak, in the back yard of his saloon. The garden between the + two buildings was inclosed by a high board fence as tight as a + partition, and in summer Joe kept beer-tables and wooden + benches among the gooseberry bushes under his little cherry + tree. At one of these tables Nils Ericson was seated in the late + afternoon, three days after his return home. Joe had gone in + to serve a customer, and Nils was lounging on his elbows, + looking rather mournfully into his half-emptied pitcher, when + he heard a laugh across the little garden. Clara, in her riding-habit, + was standing at the back door of the house, under the + grapevine trellis that old Joe had grown there long ago. Nils + rose.</p> + + <p>“Come out and keep your father and me company. We’ve + been gossiping all afternoon. Nobody to bother us but the + flies.”</p> + + <p>She shook her head. “No, I never come out here any + more. Olaf doesn’t like it. I must live up to my position, you + know.”</p> + + <p>“You mean to tell me you never come out and chat with + the boys, as you used to? He <em>has</em> tamed you! Who keeps up + these flower-beds?”</p> + + <p>“I come out on Sundays, when father is alone, and read the + Bohemian papers to him. But I am never here when the bar is + open. What have you two been doing?”</p> + + <p>“Talking, as I told you. I’ve been telling him about my + travels. I find I can’t talk much at home, not even to Eric.”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page106" title="106"> </a>Clara reached up and poked with her riding-whip at a + white moth that was fluttering in the sunlight among the vine + leaves. “I suppose you will never tell me about all those + things.”</p> + + <p>“Where can I tell them? Not in Olaf’s house, certainly. + What’s the matter with our talking here?” He pointed persuasively + with his hat to the bushes and the green table, where + the flies were singing lazily above the empty beer-glasses.</p> + + <p>Clara shook her head weakly. “No, it wouldn’t do. Besides, + I am going now.”</p> + + <p>“I’m on Eric’s mare. Would you be angry if I overtook + you?”</p> + + <p>Clara looked back and laughed. “You might try and see. I + can leave you if I don’t want you. Eric’s mare can’t keep up + with Norman.”</p> + + <p>Nils went into the bar and attempted to pay his score. Big + Joe, six feet four, with curly yellow hair and mustache, + clapped him on the shoulder. “Not a God-damn a your + money go in my drawer, you hear? Only next time you bring + your flute, te-te-te-te-te-ty.” Joe wagged his fingers in imitation + of the flute-player’s position. “My Clara, she come all-a-time + Sundays an’ play for me. She not like to play at Ericson’s + place.” He shook his yellow curls and laughed. “Not a God-damn + a fun at Ericson’s. You come a Sunday. You like-a fun. + No forget de flute.” Joe talked very rapidly and always tumbled + over his English. He seldom spoke it to his customers, + and had never learned much.</p> + + <p>Nils swung himself into the saddle and trotted to the west + end of the village, where the houses and gardens scattered + into prairie-land and the road turned south. Far ahead of + him, in the declining light, he saw Clara Vavrika’s slender figure, + loitering on horseback. He touched his mare with the + whip, and shot along the white, level road, under the reddening + sky. When he overtook Olaf’s wife he saw that she had + been crying. “What’s the matter, Clara Vavrika?” he asked + kindly.</p> + + <p>“Oh, I get blue sometimes. It was awfully jolly living there + with father. I wonder why I ever went away.”</p> + + <p>Nils spoke in a low, kind tone that he sometimes used with + women: “That’s what I’ve been wondering these many years. + <a class="pagenum" id="page107" title="107"> </a>You were the last girl in the country I’d have picked for a wife + for Olaf. What made you do it, Clara?”</p> + + <p>“I suppose I really did it to oblige the neighbors”—Clara + tossed her head. “People were beginning to wonder.”</p> + + <p>“To wonder?”</p> + + <p>“Yes—why I didn’t get married. I suppose I didn’t like to + keep them in suspense. I’ve discovered that most girls marry + out of consideration for the neighborhood.”</p> + + <p>Nils bent his head toward her and his white teeth flashed. + “I’d have gambled that one girl I knew would say, ‘Let the + neighborhood be damned.’”</p> + + <p>Clara shook her head mournfully. “You see, they have it on + you, Nils; that is, if you’re a woman. They say you’re beginning + to go off. That’s what makes us get married: we can’t + stand the laugh.”</p> + + <p>Nils looked sidewise at her. He had never seen her head + droop before. Resignation was the last thing he would have + expected of her. “In your case, there wasn’t something else?”</p> + + <p>“Something else?”</p> + + <p>“I mean, you didn’t do it to spite somebody? Somebody + who didn’t come back?”</p> + + <p>Clara drew herself up. “Oh, I never thought you’d come + back. Not after I stopped writing to you, at least. <em>That</em> was all + over, long before I married Olaf.”</p> + + <p>“It never occurred to you, then, that the meanest thing you + could do to me was to marry Olaf?”</p> + + <p>Clara laughed. “No; I didn’t know you were so fond of + Olaf.”</p> + + <p>Nils smoothed his horse’s mane with his glove. “You know, + Clara Vavrika, you are never going to stick it out. You’ll cut + away some day, and I’ve been thinking you might as well cut + away with me.”</p> + + <p>Clara threw up her chin. “Oh, you don’t know me as well + as you think. I won’t cut away. Sometimes, when I’m with + father, I feel like it. But I can hold out as long as the Ericsons + can. They’ve never got the best of me yet, and one can live, so + long as one isn’t beaten. If I go back to father, it’s all up with + Olaf in politics. He knows that, and he never goes much beyond + sulking. I’ve as much wit as the Ericsons. I’ll never leave + them unless I can show them a thing or two.”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page108" title="108"> </a>“You mean unless you can come it over them?”</p> + + <p>“Yes—unless I go away with a man who is cleverer than + they are, and who has more money.”</p> + + <p>Nils whistled. “Dear me, you are demanding a good deal. + The Ericsons, take the lot of them, are a bunch to beat. But I + should think the excitement of tormenting them would have + worn off by this time.”</p> + + <p>“It has, I’m afraid,” Clara admitted mournfully.</p> + + <p>“Then why don’t you cut away? There are more amusing + games than this in the world. When I came home I thought it + might amuse me to bully a few quarter sections out of the + Ericsons; but I’ve almost decided I can get more fun for my + money somewhere else.”</p> + + <p>Clara took in her breath sharply. “Ah, you have got the + other will! That was why you came home!”</p> + + <p>“No, it wasn’t. I came home to see how you were getting + on with Olaf.”</p> + + <p>Clara struck her horse with the whip, and in a bound she + was far ahead of him. Nils dropped one word, “Damn!” and + whipped after her; but she leaned forward in her saddle and + fairly cut the wind. Her long riding-skirt rippled in the still + air behind her. The sun was just sinking behind the stubble in + a vast, clear sky, and the shadows drew across the fields so + rapidly that Nils could scarcely keep in sight the dark figure + on the road. When he overtook her he caught her horse by + the bridle. Norman reared, and Nils was frightened for her; + but Clara kept her seat.</p> + + <p>“Let me go, Nils Ericson!” she cried. “I hate you more than + any of them. You were created to torture me, the whole tribe + of you—to make me suffer in every possible way.”</p> + + <p>She struck her horse again and galloped away from him. + Nils set his teeth and looked thoughtful. He rode slowly + home along the deserted road, watching the stars come out in + the clear violet sky. They flashed softly into the limpid heavens, + like jewels let fall into clear water. They were a reproach, + he felt, to a sordid world. As he turned across the sand creek, + he looked up at the North Star and smiled, as if there were an + understanding between them. His mother scolded him for + being late for supper.</p> + + <h4><a class="pagenum" id="page109" title="109"> </a>V</h4> + + <p>On Sunday afternoon Joe Vavrika, in his shirt-sleeves + and carpet-slippers, was sitting in his garden, smoking a long-tasseled + porcelain pipe with a hunting scene painted on + the bowl. Clara sat under the cherry tree, reading aloud to + him from the weekly Bohemian papers. She had worn a + white muslin dress under her riding-habit, and the leaves of + the cherry tree threw a pattern of sharp shadows over her + skirt. The black cat was dozing in the sunlight at her feet, and + Joe’s dachshund was scratching a hole under the scarlet geraniums + and dreaming of badgers. Joe was filling his pipe for + the third time since dinner, when he heard a knocking on the + fence. He broke into a loud guffaw and unlatched the little + door that led into the street. He did not call Nils by name, + but caught him by the hand and dragged him in. Clara stiffened + and the color deepened under her dark skin. Nils, too, + felt a little awkward. He had not seen her since the night + when she rode away from him and left him alone on the level + road between the fields. Joe dragged him to the wooden + bench beside the green table.</p> + + <p>“You bring de flute,” he cried, tapping the leather case under + Nils’ arm. “Ah, das-a good! Now we have some liddle fun + like old times. I got somet’ing good for you.” Joe shook his + finger at Nils and winked his blue eyes, a bright clear eye, full + of fire, though the tiny blood-vessels on the ball were always a + little distended. “I got somet’ing for you from”—he paused + and waved his hand—“Hongarie. You know Hongarie? You + wait!” He pushed Nils down on the bench, and went through + the back door of his saloon.</p> + + <p>Nils looked at Clara, who sat frigidly with her white + skirts drawn tight about her. “He didn’t tell you he had asked + me to come, did he? He wanted a party and proceeded to + arrange it. Isn’t he fun? Don’t be cross; let’s give him a good + time.”</p> + + <p>Clara smiled and shook out her skirt. “Isn’t that like father? + And he has sat here so meekly all day. Well, I won’t pout. I’m + glad you came. He doesn’t have very many good times now + <a class="pagenum" id="page110" title="110"> </a>any more. There are so few of his kind left. The second generation + are a tame lot.”</p> + + <p>Joe came back with a flask in one hand and three wine-glasses + caught by the stems between the fingers of the other. + These he placed on the table with an air of ceremony, and, + going behind Nils, held the flask between him and the sun, + squinting into it admiringly. “You know dis, Tokai? A great + friend of mine, he bring dis to me, a present out of Hongarie. + You know how much it cost, dis wine? Chust so much what it + weigh in gold. Nobody but de nobles drink him in Bohemie. + Many, many years I save him up, dis Tokai.” Joe whipped out + his official cork-screw and delicately removed the cork. “De + old man die what bring him to me, an’ dis wine he lay on his + belly in my cellar an’ sleep. An’ now,” carefully pouring out + the heavy yellow wine, “an’ now he wake up; and maybe he + wake us up, too!” He carried one of the glasses to his daughter + and presented it with great gallantry.</p> + + <p>Clara shook her head, but, seeing her father’s disappointment, + relented. “You taste it first. I don’t want so much.”</p> + + <p>Joe sampled it with a beatific expression, and turned to + Nils. “You drink him slow, dis wine. He very soft, but he go + down hot. You see!”</p> + + <p>After a second glass Nils declared that he couldn’t take any + more without getting sleepy. “Now get your fiddle, Vavrika,” + he said as he opened his flute-case.</p> + + <p>But Joe settled back in his wooden rocker and wagged his + big carpet-slipper. “No-no-no-no-no-no-no! No play fiddle + now any more: too much ache in de finger,” waving them, + “all-a-time rheumatiz. You play de flute, te-tety-te-tety-te. Bohemie + songs.”</p> + + <p>“I’ve forgotten all the Bohemian songs I used to play with + you and Johanna. But here’s one that will make Clara pout. + You remember how her eyes used to snap when we called her + the Bohemian Girl?” Nils lifted his flute and began “When + Other Lips and Other Hearts,” and Joe hummed the air in a + husky baritone, waving his carpet-slipper. “Oh-h-h, das-a fine + music,” he cried, clapping his hands as Nils finished. “Now + ‘Marble Halls, Marble Halls’! Clara, you sing him.”</p> + + <p>Clara smiled and leaned back in her chair, beginning softly:</p> + + <blockquote class="poem"> + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page111" title="111"> </a>“<em>I dreamt that I dwelt in ma-a-arble halls,</em></p> + <p><em>With vassals and serfs at my knee,</em>”</p> + </blockquote> + + <p class="continued_paragraph">and Joe hummed like a big bumble-bee.</p> + + <p>“There’s one more you always played,” Clara said quietly; + “I remember that best.” She locked her hands over her knee + and began “The Heart Bowed Down,” and sang it through + without groping for the words. She was singing with a good + deal of warmth when she came to the end of the old song:</p> + + <blockquote class="poem"> + <p>“<em>For memory is the only friend</em></p> + <p><em>That grief can call its own.</em>”</p> + </blockquote> + + <p>Joe flashed out his red silk handkerchief and blew his nose, + shaking his head. “No-no-no-no-no-no-no! Too sad, too sad! + I not like-a dat. Play quick somet’ing gay now.”</p> + + <p>Nils put his lips to the instrument, and Joe lay back in his + chair, laughing and singing, “Oh, Evelina, Sweet Evelina!” + Clara laughed, too. Long ago, when she and Nils went to + high school, the model student of their class was a very + homely girl in thick spectacles. Her name was Evelina Oleson; + she had a long, swinging walk which somehow suggested the + measure of that song, and they used mercilessly to sing it at + her.</p> + + <p>“Dat ugly Oleson girl, she teach in de school,” Joe gasped, + “an’ she still walk chust like dat, yup-a, yup-a, yup-a, chust + like a camel she go! Now, Nils, we have some more li’l drink. + Oh, yes-yes-yes-yes-yes-yes-<em>yes!</em> Dis time you haf to drink, and + Clara she haf to, so she show she not jealous. So, we all drink + to your girl. You not tell her name, eh? No-no-no, I no make + you tell. She pretty, eh? She make good sweetheart? I bet!” + Joe winked and lifted his glass. “How soon you get married?”</p> + + <p>Nils screwed up his eyes. “That I don’t know. When she + says.”</p> + + <p>Joe threw out his chest. “Das-a way boys talks. No way for + mans. Mans say, ‘You come to de church, an’ get a hurry on + you.’ Das-a way mans talks.”</p> + + <p>“Maybe Nils hasn’t got enough to keep a wife,” put in + Clara ironically. “How about that, Nils?” she asked him + frankly, as if she wanted to know.</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page112" title="112"> </a>Nils looked at her coolly, raising one eyebrow. “Oh, I can + keep her, all right.”</p> + + <p>“The way she wants to be kept?”</p> + + <p>“With my wife, I’ll decide that,” replied Nils calmly. “I’ll + give her what’s good for her.”</p> + + <p>Clara made a wry face. “You’ll give her the strap, I expect, + like old Peter Oleson gave his wife.”</p> + + <p>“When she needs it,” said Nils lazily, locking his hands behind + his head and squinting up through the leaves of the + cherry tree. “Do you remember the time I squeezed the cherries + all over your clean dress, and Aunt Johanna boxed my + ears for me? My gracious, weren’t you mad! You had both + hands full of cherries, and I squeezed ’em and made the juice + fly all over you. I liked to have fun with you; you’d get so mad.”</p> + + <p>“We <em>did</em> have fun, didn’t we? None of the other kids ever + had so much fun. We knew how to play.”</p> + + <p>Nils dropped his elbows on the table and looked steadily + across at her. “I’ve played with lots of girls since, but I haven’t + found one who was such good fun.”</p> + + <p>Clara laughed. The late afternoon sun was shining full in + her face, and deep in the back of her eyes there shone something + fiery, like the yellow drops of Tokai in the brown glass + bottle. “Can you still play, or are you only pretending?”</p> + + <p>“I can play better than I used to, and harder.”</p> + + <p>“Don’t you ever work, then?” She had not intended to say + it. It slipped out because she was confused enough to say just + the wrong thing.</p> + + <p>“I work between times.” Nils’ steady gaze still beat upon + her. “Don’t you worry about my working, Mrs. Ericson. + You’re getting like all the rest of them.” He reached his + brown, warm hand across the table and dropped it on Clara’s, + which was cold as an icicle. “Last call for play, Mrs. Ericson!” + Clara shivered, and suddenly her hands and cheeks grew + warm. Her fingers lingered in his a moment, and they looked + at each other earnestly. Joe Vavrika had put the mouth of the + bottle to his lips and was swallowing the last drops of the + Tokai, standing. The sun, just about to sink behind his shop, + glistened on the bright glass, on his flushed face and curly + yellow hair. “Look,” Clara whispered; “that’s the way I want + to grow old.”</p> + + <h4><a class="pagenum" id="page113" title="113"> </a>VI</h4> + + <p>On the day of Olaf Ericson’s barn-raising, his wife, for once + in a way, rose early. Johanna Vavrika had been baking cakes + and frying and boiling and spicing meats for a week beforehand, + but it was not until the day before the party was to take + place that Clara showed any interest in it. Then she was seized + with one of her fitful spasms of energy, and took the wagon + and little Eric and spent the day on Plum Creek, gathering + vines and swamp goldenrod to decorate the barn.</p> + + <p>By four o’clock in the afternoon buggies and wagons began + to arrive at the big unpainted building in front of Olaf’s + house. When Nils and his mother came at five, there were + more than fifty people in the barn, and a great drove of children. + On the ground floor stood six long tables, set with the + crockery of seven flourishing Ericson families, lent for the occasion. + In the middle of each table was a big yellow pumpkin, + hollowed out and filled with woodbine. In one corner of the + barn, behind a pile of green-and-white-striped watermelons, + was a circle of chairs for the old people; the younger guests + sat on bushel measures or barbed-wire spools, and the children + tumbled about in the haymow. The box-stalls Clara had + converted into booths. The framework was hidden by goldenrod + and sheaves of wheat, and the partitions were covered + with wild grapevines full of fruit. At one of these Johanna + Vavrika watched over her cooked meats, enough to provision + an army; and at the next her kitchen girls had ranged the + ice-cream freezers, and Clara was already cutting pies and + cakes against the hour of serving. At the third stall, little + Hilda, in a bright pink lawn dress, dispensed lemonade + throughout the afternoon. Olaf, as a public man, had thought + it inadvisable to serve beer in his barn; but Joe Vavrika had + come over with two demijohns concealed in his buggy, and + after his arrival the wagon-shed was much frequented by the + men.</p> + + <p>“Hasn’t Cousin Clara fixed things lovely?” little Hilda whispered, + when Nils went up to her stall and asked for lemonade.</p> + + <p>Nils leaned against the booth, talking to the excited little + girl and watching the people. The barn faced the west, and + <a class="pagenum" id="page114" title="114"> </a>the sun, pouring in at the big doors, filled the whole interior + with a golden light, through which filtered fine particles of + dust from the haymow, where the children were romping. + There was a great chattering from the stall where Johanna + Vavrika exhibited to the admiring women her platters heaped + with fried chicken, her roasts of beef, boiled tongues, and + baked hams with cloves stuck in the crisp brown fat and garnished + with tansy and parsley. The older women, having + assured themselves that there were twenty kinds of cake, + not counting cookies, and three dozen fat pies, repaired to the + corner behind the pile of watermelons, put on their white + aprons, and fell to their knitting and fancy-work. They were + a fine company of old women, and a Dutch painter would + have loved to find them there together, where the sun made + bright patches on the floor and sent long, quivering shafts of + gold through the dusky shade up among the rafters. There + were fat, rosy old women who looked hot in their best black + dresses; spare, alert old women with brown, dark-veined + hands; and several of almost heroic frame, not less massive + than old Mrs. Ericson herself. Few of them wore glasses, + and old Mrs. Svendsen, a Danish woman, who was quite + bald, wore the only cap among them. Mrs. Oleson, who had + twelve big grandchildren, could still show two braids of yellow + hair as thick as her own wrists. Among all these grandmothers + there were more brown heads than white. They all + had a pleased, prosperous air, as if they were more than satisfied + with themselves and with life. Nils, leaning against + Hilda’s lemonade-stand, watched them as they sat chattering + in four languages, their fingers never lagging behind their + tongues.</p> + + <p>“Look at them over there,” he whispered, detaining Clara + as she passed him. “Aren’t they the Old Guard? I’ve just + counted thirty hands. I guess they’ve wrung many a chicken’s + neck and warmed many a boy’s jacket for him in their time.”</p> + + <p>In reality he fell into amazement when he thought of the + Herculean labors those fifteen pairs of hands had performed: + of the cows they had milked, the butter they had made, the + gardens they had planted, the children and grandchildren they + had tended, the brooms they had worn out, the mountains of + food they had cooked. It made him dizzy. Clara Vavrika + <a class="pagenum" id="page115" title="115"> </a>smiled a hard, enigmatical smile at him and walked rapidly + away. Nils’ eyes followed her white figure as she went toward + the house. He watched her walking alone in the sunlight, + looked at her slender, defiant shoulders and her little hard-set + head with its coils of blue-black hair. “No,” he reflected; + “she’d never be like them, not if she lived here a hundred + years. She’d only grow more bitter. You can’t tame a wild + thing; you can only chain it. People aren’t all alike. I mustn’t + lose my nerve.” He gave Hilda’s pigtail a parting tweak and + set out after Clara. “Where to?” he asked, as he came upon + her in the kitchen.</p> + + <p>“I’m going to the cellar for preserves.”</p> + + <p>“Let me go with you. I never get a moment alone with + you. Why do you keep out of my way?”</p> + + <p>Clara laughed. “I don’t usually get in anybody’s way.”</p> + + <p>Nils followed her down the stairs and to the far corner of + the cellar, where a basement window let in a stream of light. + From a swinging shelf Clara selected several glass jars, each + labeled in Johanna’s careful hand. Nils took up a brown flask. + “What’s this? It looks good.”</p> + + <p>“It is. It’s some French brandy father gave me when I was + married. Would you like some? Have you a corkscrew? I’ll get + glasses.”</p> + + <p>When she brought them, Nils took them from her and put + them down on the window-sill. “Clara Vavrika, do you remember + how crazy I used to be about you?”</p> + + <p>Clara shrugged her shoulders. “Boys are always crazy about + somebody or other. I dare say some silly has been crazy about + Evelina Oleson. You got over it in a hurry.”</p> + + <p>“Because I didn’t come back, you mean? I had to get on, + you know, and it was hard sledding at first. Then I heard + you’d married Olaf.”</p> + + <p>“And then you stayed away from a broken heart,” Clara + laughed.</p> + + <p>“And then I began to think about you more than I had + since I first went away. I began to wonder if you were really + as you had seemed to me when I was a boy. I thought I’d like + to see. I’ve had lots of girls, but no one ever pulled me the + same way. The more I thought about you, the more I remembered + how it used to be—like hearing a wild tune you can’t + <a class="pagenum" id="page116" title="116"> </a>resist, calling you out at night. It had been a long while since + anything had pulled me out of my boots, and I wondered + whether anything ever could again.” Nils thrust his hands + into his coat pockets and squared his shoulders, as his mother + sometimes squared hers, as Olaf, in a clumsier manner, + squared his. “So I thought I’d come back and see. Of course + the family have tried to do me, and I rather thought I’d bring + out father’s will and make a fuss. But they can have their old + land; they’ve put enough sweat into it.” He took the flask and + filled the two glasses carefully to the brim. “I’ve found out + what I want from the Ericsons. Drink <em>skoal</em>, Clara.” He lifted + his glass, and Clara took hers with downcast eyes. “Look at + me, Clara Vavrika. <em>Skoal!</em>”</p> + + <p>She raised her burning eyes and answered fiercely: “<em>Skoal!</em>”</p> + + <hr class="thoughtbreak" /> + + <p class="post_thoughtbreak">The barn supper began at six o’clock and lasted for two + hilarious hours. Yense Nelson had made a wager that he could + eat two whole fried chickens, and he did. Eli Swanson stowed + away two whole custard pies, and Nick Hermanson ate a + chocolate layer cake to the last crumb. There was even a + cooky contest among the children, and one thin, slablike Bohemian + boy consumed sixteen and won the prize, a ginger-bread + pig which Johanna Vavrika had carefully decorated with + red candies and burnt sugar. Fritz Sweiheart, the German carpenter, + won in the pickle contest, but he disappeared soon + after supper and was not seen for the rest of the evening. Joe + Vavrika said that Fritz could have managed the pickles all + right, but he had sampled the demijohn in his buggy too + often before sitting down to the table.</p> + + <p>While the supper was being cleared away the two fiddlers + began to tune up for the dance. Clara was to accompany them + on her old upright piano, which had been brought down + from her father’s. By this time Nils had renewed old acquaintances. + Since his interview with Clara in the cellar, he had + been busy telling all the old women how young they looked, + and all the young ones how pretty they were, and assuring the + men that they had here the best farm-land in the world. He + had made himself so agreeable that old Mrs. Ericson’s friends + began to come up to her and tell how lucky she was to get her + smart son back again, and please to get him to play his flute. + <a class="pagenum" id="page117" title="117"> </a>Joe Vavrika, who could still play very well when he forgot that + he had rheumatism, caught up a fiddle from Johnny Oleson + and played a crazy Bohemian dance tune that set the wheels + going. When he dropped the bow every one was ready to + dance.</p> + + <p>Olaf, in a frock-coat and a solemn made-up necktie, led the + grand march with his mother. Clara had kept well out of <em>that</em> + by sticking to the piano. She played the march with a pompous + solemnity which greatly amused the prodigal son, who + went over and stood behind her.</p> + + <p>“Oh, aren’t you rubbing it into them, Clara Vavrika? And + aren’t you lucky to have me here, or all your wit would be + thrown away.”</p> + + <p>“I’m used to being witty for myself. It saves my life.”</p> + + <p>The fiddles struck up a polka, and Nils convulsed Joe + Vavrika by leading out Evelina Oleson, the homely school-teacher. + His next partner was a very fat Swedish girl, who, + although she was an heiress, had not been asked for the first + dance, but had stood against the wall in her tight, high-heeled + shoes, nervously fingering a lace handkerchief. She was soon + out of breath, so Nils led her, pleased and panting, to her + seat, and went over to the piano, from which Clara had been + watching his gallantry. “Ask Olena Yenson,” she whispered. + “She waltzes beautifully.”</p> + + <p>Olena, too, was rather inconveniently plump, handsome in + a smooth, heavy way, with a fine color and good-natured, + sleepy eyes. She was redolent of violet sachet powder, and + had warm, soft, white hands, but she danced divinely, moving + as smoothly as the tide coming in. “There, that’s something + like,” Nils said as he released her. “You’ll give me the next + waltz, won’t you? Now I must go and dance with my little + cousin.”</p> + + <p>Hilda was greatly excited when Nils went up to her stall + and held out his arm. Her little eyes sparkled, but she declared + that she could not leave her lemonade. Old Mrs. Ericson, + who happened along at this moment, said she would + attend to that, and Hilda came out, as pink as her pink dress. + The dance was a schottische, and in a moment her yellow + braids were fairly standing on end. “Bravo!” Nils cried encouragingly. + “Where did you learn to dance so nicely?”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page118" title="118"> </a>“My Cousin Clara taught me,” the little girl panted.</p> + + <p>Nils found Eric sitting with a group of boys who were too + awkward or too shy to dance, and told him that he must + dance the next waltz with Hilda.</p> + + <p>The boy screwed up his shoulders. “Aw, Nils, I can’t dance. + My feet are too big; I look silly.”</p> + + <p>“Don’t be thinking about yourself. It doesn’t matter how + boys look.”</p> + + <p>Nils had never spoken to him so sharply before, and Eric + made haste to scramble out of his corner and brush the straw + from his coat.</p> + + <p>Clara nodded approvingly. “Good for you, Nils. I’ve been + trying to get hold of him. They dance very nicely together; I + sometimes play for them.”</p> + + <p>“I’m obliged to you for teaching him. There’s no reason + why he should grow up to be a lout.”</p> + + <p>“He’ll never be that. He’s more like you than any of them. + Only he hasn’t your courage.” From her slanting eyes Clara + shot forth one of those keen glances, admiring and at the + same time challenging, which she seldom bestowed on any + one, and which seemed to say, “Yes, I admire you, but I am + your equal.”</p> + + <p>Clara was proving a much better host than Olaf, who, once + the supper was over, seemed to feel no interest in anything + but the lanterns. He had brought a locomotive headlight + from town to light the revels, and he kept skulking about it as + if he feared the mere light from it might set his new barn on + fire. His wife, on the contrary, was cordial to every one, was + animated and even gay. The deep salmon color in her cheeks + burned vividly, and her eyes were full of life. She gave the + piano over to the fat Swedish heiress, pulled her father away + from the corner where he sat gossiping with his cronies, and + made him dance a Bohemian dance with her. In his youth Joe + had been a famous dancer, and his daughter got him so + limbered up that every one sat round and applauded them. + The old ladies were particularly delighted, and made them + go through the dance again. From their corner where they + watched and commented, the old women kept time with their + feet and hands, and whenever the fiddles struck up a new air + old Mrs. Svendsen’s white cap would begin to bob.</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page119" title="119"> </a>Clara was waltzing with little Eric when Nils came up to + them, brushed his brother aside, and swung her out among + the dancers. “Remember how we used to waltz on rollers at + the old skating-rink in town? I suppose people don’t do that + any more. We used to keep it up for hours. You know, we + never did moon around as other boys and girls did. It was + dead serious with us from the beginning. When we were + most in love with each other, we used to fight. You were + always pinching people; your fingers were like little nippers. + A regular snapping-turtle, you were. Lord, how you’d like + Stockholm! Sit out in the streets in front of cafés and talk all + night in summer. Just like a reception—officers and ladies + and funny English people. Jolliest people in the world, the + Swedes, once you get them going. Always drinking things—champagne + and stout mixed, half-and-half; serve it out of big + pitchers, and serve plenty. Slow pulse, you know; they can + stand a lot. Once they light up, they’re glow-worms, I can tell + you.”</p> + + <p>“All the same, you don’t really like gay people.”</p> + + <p>“<em>I</em> don’t?”</p> + + <p>“No; I could see that when you were looking at the old + women there this afternoon. They’re the kind you really admire, + after all; women like your mother. And that’s the kind + you’ll marry.”</p> + + <p>“Is it, Miss Wisdom? You’ll see who I’ll marry, and she + won’t have a domestic virtue to bless herself with. She’ll be a + snapping-turtle, and she’ll be a match for me. All the same, + they’re a fine bunch of old dames over there. You admire + them yourself.”</p> + + <p>“No, I don’t; I detest them.”</p> + + <p>“You won’t, when you look back on them from Stockholm + or Budapest. Freedom settles all that. Oh, but you’re the real + Bohemian Girl, Clara Vavrika!” Nils laughed down at her sullen + frown and began mockingly to sing:</p> + + <blockquote class="poem"> + <p>“<em>Oh, how could a poor gypsy maiden like me</em></p> + <p><em>Expect the proud bride of a baron to be?</em>”</p> + </blockquote> + + <p>Clara clutched his shoulder. “Hush, Nils; every one is looking + at you.”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page120" title="120"> </a>“I don’t care. They can’t gossip. It’s all in the family, as the + Ericsons say when they divide up little Hilda’s patrimony + amongst them. Besides, we’ll give them something to talk + about when we hit the trail. Lord, it will be a godsend to + them! They haven’t had anything so interesting to chatter + about since the grasshopper year. It’ll give them a new lease + of life. And Olaf won’t lose the Bohemian vote, either. + They’ll have the laugh on him so that they’ll vote two apiece. + They’ll send him to Congress. They’ll never forget his barn + party, or us. They’ll always remember us as we’re dancing + together now. We’re making a legend. Where’s my waltz, + boys?” he called as they whirled past the fiddlers.</p> + + <p>The musicians grinned, looked at each other, hesitated, and + began a new air; and Nils sang with them, as the couples fell + from a quick waltz to a long, slow glide:</p> + + <blockquote class="poem"> + <p>“<em>When other lips and other hearts</em></p> + <p class="i2"><em>Their tale of love shall tell,</em></p> + <p><em>In language whose excess imparts</em></p> + <p class="i2"><em>The power they feel so well,</em>”</p> + </blockquote> + + <p>The old women applauded vigorously. “What a gay one he + is, that Nils!” And old Mrs. Svendsen’s cap lurched dreamily + from side to side to the flowing measure of the dance.</p> + + <blockquote class="poem"> + <p>“<em>Of days that have as ha-a-p-py been,</em></p> + <p class="i2"><em>And you’ll remember me.</em>”</p> + </blockquote> + + <h4>VII</h4> + + <p>The moonlight flooded that great, silent land. The reaped + fields lay yellow in it. The straw stacks and poplar windbreaks + threw sharp black shadows. The roads were white rivers of + dust. The sky was a deep, crystalline blue, and the stars were + few and faint. Everything seemed to have succumbed, to have + sunk to sleep, under the great, golden, tender, midsummer + moon. The splendor of it seemed to transcend human life and + human fate. The senses were too feeble to take it in, and every + time one looked up at the sky one felt unequal to it, as if one + were sitting deaf under the waves of a great river of melody. + <a class="pagenum" id="page121" title="121"> </a>Near the road, Nils Ericson was lying against a straw stack in + Olaf’s wheat-field. His own life seemed strange and unfamiliar + to him, as if it were something he had read about, or + dreamed, and forgotten. He lay very still, watching the white + road that ran in front of him, lost itself among the fields, and + then, at a distance, reappeared over a little hill. At last, against + this white band he saw something moving rapidly, and he got + up and walked to the edge of the field. “She is passing the + row of poplars now,” he thought. He heard the padded beat + of hoofs along the dusty road, and as she came into sight he + stepped out and waved his arms. Then, for fear of frightening + the horse, he drew back and waited. Clara had seen him, and + she came up at a walk. Nils took the horse by the bit and + stroked his neck.</p> + + <p>“What are you doing out so late, Clara Vavrika? I went + to the house, but Johanna told me you had gone to your + father’s.”</p> + + <p>“Who can stay in the house on a night like this? Aren’t you + out yourself?”</p> + + <p>“Ah, but that’s another matter.”</p> + + <p>Nils turned the horse into the field.</p> + + <p>“What are you doing? Where are you taking Norman?”</p> + + <p>“Not far, but I want to talk to you to-night; I have something + to say to you. I can’t talk to you at the house, with Olaf + sitting there on the porch, weighing a thousand tons.”</p> + + <p>Clara laughed. “He won’t be sitting there now. He’s in bed + by this time, and asleep—weighing a thousand tons.”</p> + + <p>Nils plodded on across the stubble. “Are you really going + to spend the rest of your life like this, night after night, summer + after summer? Haven’t you anything better to do on a + night like this than to wear yourself and Norman out tearing + across the country to your father’s and back? Besides, your + father won’t live forever, you know. His little place will be + shut up or sold, and then you’ll have nobody but the Ericsons. + You’ll have to fasten down the hatches for the winter + then.”</p> + + <p>Clara moved her head restlessly. “Don’t talk about that. I + try never to think of it. If I lost father I’d lose everything, + even my hold over the Ericsons.”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page122" title="122"> </a>“Bah! You’d lose a good deal more than that. You’d lose + your race, everything that makes you yourself. You’ve lost a + good deal of it now.”</p> + + <p>“Of what?”</p> + + <p>“Of your love of life, your capacity for delight.”</p> + + <p>Clara put her hands up to her face. “I haven’t, Nils Ericson, + I haven’t! Say anything to me but that. I won’t have it!” she + declared vehemently.</p> + + <p>Nils led the horse up to a straw stack, and turned to Clara, + looking at her intently, as he had looked at her that + Sunday afternoon at Vavrika’s. “But why do you fight for that + so? What good is the power to enjoy, if you never enjoy? + Your hands are cold again; what are you afraid of all the time? + Ah, you’re afraid of losing it; that’s what’s the matter with + you! And you will, Clara Vavrika, you will! When I used to + know you—listen; you’ve caught a wild bird in your hand, + haven’t you, and felt its heart beat so hard that you were + afraid it would shatter its little body to pieces? Well, you used + to be just like that, a slender, eager thing with a wild delight + inside you. That is how I remembered you. And I come back + and find you—a bitter woman. This is a perfect ferret fight + here; you live by biting and being bitten. Can’t you remember + what life used to be? Can’t you remember that old delight? + I’ve never forgotten it, or known its like, on land or + sea.”</p> + + <p>He drew the horse under the shadow of the straw stack. + Clara felt him take her foot out of the stirrup, and she slid + softly down into his arms. He kissed her slowly. He was a + deliberate man, but his nerves were steel when he wanted + anything. Something flashed out from him like a knife out of + a sheath. Clara felt everything slipping away from her; she + was flooded by the summer night. He thrust his hand into his + pocket, and then held it out at arm’s length. “Look,” he said. + The shadow of the straw stack fell sharp across his wrist, and + in the palm of his hand she saw a silver dollar shining. + “That’s my pile,” he muttered; “will you go with me?”</p> + + <p>Clara nodded, and dropped her forehead on his shoulder.</p> + + <p>Nils took a deep breath. “Will you go with me to-night?”</p> + + <p>“Where?” she whispered softly.</p> + + <p>“To town, to catch the midnight flyer.”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page123" title="123"> </a>Clara lifted her head and pulled herself together. “Are you + crazy, Nils? We couldn’t go away like that.”</p> + + <p>“That’s the only way we ever will go. You can’t sit on the + bank and think about it. You have to plunge. That’s the way + I’ve always done, and it’s the right way for people like you + and me. There’s nothing so dangerous as sitting still. You’ve + only got one life, one youth, and you can let it slip through + your fingers if you want to; nothing easier. Most people do + that. You’d be better off tramping the roads with me than you + are here.” Nils held back her head and looked into her eyes. + “But I’m not that kind of a tramp, Clara. You won’t have to + take in sewing. I’m with a Norwegian shipping line; came + over on business with the New York offices, but now I’m going + straight back to Bergen. I expect I’ve got as much money + as the Ericsons. Father sent me a little to get started. They + never knew about that. There, I hadn’t meant to tell you; I + wanted you to come on your own nerve.”</p> + + <p>Clara looked off across the fields. “It isn’t that, Nils, but + something seems to hold me. I’m afraid to pull against it. It + comes out of the ground, I think.”</p> + + <p>“I know all about that. One has to tear loose. You’re not + needed here. Your father will understand; he’s made like us. + As for Olaf, Johanna will take better care of him than ever you + could. It’s now or never, Clara Vavrika. My bag’s at the station; + I smuggled it there yesterday.”</p> + + <p>Clara clung to him and hid her face against his shoulder. + “Not to-night,” she whispered. “Sit here and talk to me to-night. + I don’t want to go anywhere to-night. I may never love + you like this again.”</p> + + <p>Nils laughed through his teeth. “You can’t come that on + me. That’s not my way, Clara Vavrika. Eric’s mare is over + there behind the stacks, and I’m off on the midnight. It’s + good-by, or off across the world with me. My carriage won’t + wait. I’ve written a letter to Olaf; I’ll mail it in town. When + he reads it he won’t bother us—not if I know him. He’d + rather have the land. Besides, I could demand an investigation + of his administration of Cousin Henrik’s estate, and that + would be bad for a public man. You’ve no clothes, I know; + but you can sit up to-night, and we can get everything on the + way. Where’s your old dash, Clara Vavrika? What’s become of + <a class="pagenum" id="page124" title="124"> </a>your Bohemian blood? I used to think you had courage + enough for anything. Where’s your nerve—what are you + waiting for?”</p> + + <p>Clara drew back her head, and he saw the slumberous fire + in her eyes. “For you to say one thing, Nils Ericson.”</p> + + <p>“I never say that thing to any woman, Clara Vavrika.” He + leaned back, lifted her gently from the ground, and whispered + through his teeth: “But I’ll never, never let you go, not to any + man on earth but me! Do you understand me? Now, wait + here.”</p> + + <p>Clara sank down on a sheaf of wheat and covered her face + with her hands. She did not know what she was going to + do—whether she would go or stay. The great, silent country + seemed to lay a spell upon her. The ground seemed to hold + her as if by roots. Her knees were soft under her. She felt as if + she could not bear separation from her old sorrows, from her + old discontent. They were dear to her, they had kept her alive, + they were a part of her. There would be nothing left of her if + she were wrenched away from them. Never could she pass + beyond that sky-line against which her restlessness had beat so + many times. She felt as if her soul had built itself a nest there + on that horizon at which she looked every morning and every + evening, and it was dear to her, inexpressibly dear. She + pressed her fingers against her eyeballs to shut it out. Beside + her she heard the tramping of horses in the soft earth. Nils + said nothing to her. He put his hands under her arms and + lifted her lightly to her saddle. Then he swung himself into + his own.</p> + + <p>“We shall have to ride fast to catch the midnight train. A + last gallop, Clara Vavrika. Forward!”</p> + + <p>There was a start, a thud of hoofs along the moonlit road, + two dark shadows going over the hill; and then the great, still + land stretched untroubled under the azure night. Two shadows + had passed.</p> + + <h4>VIII</h4> + + <p>A year after the flight of Olaf Ericson’s wife, the night train + was steaming across the plains of Iowa. The conductor was + hurrying through one of the day-coaches, his lantern on his + <a class="pagenum" id="page125" title="125"> </a>arm, when a lank, fair-haired boy sat up in one of the plush + seats and tweaked him by the coat.</p> + + <p>“What is the next stop, please, sir?”</p> + + <p>“Red Oak, Iowa. But you go through to Chicago, don’t + you?” He looked down, and noticed that the boy’s eyes were + red and his face was drawn, as if he were in trouble.</p> + + <p>“Yes. But I was wondering whether I could get off at the + next place and get a train back to Omaha.”</p> + + <p>“Well, I suppose you could. Live in Omaha?”</p> + + <p>“No. In the western part of the State. How soon do we get + to Red Oak?”</p> + + <p>“Forty minutes. You’d better make up your mind, so I can + tell the baggageman to put your trunk off.”</p> + + <p>“Oh, never mind about that! I mean, I haven’t got any,” + the boy added, blushing.</p> + + <p>“Run away,” the conductor thought, as he slammed the + coach door behind him.</p> + + <p>Eric Ericson crumpled down in his seat and put his brown + hand to his forehead. He had been crying, and he had had no + supper, and his head was aching violently. “Oh, what shall I + do?” he thought, as he looked dully down at his big shoes. + “Nils will be ashamed of me; I haven’t got any spunk.”</p> + + <p>Ever since Nils had run away with his brother’s wife, life at + home had been hard for little Eric. His mother and Olaf both + suspected him of complicity. Mrs. Ericson was harsh and + fault-finding, constantly wounding the boy’s pride; and Olaf + was always getting her against him.</p> + + <p>Joe Vavrika heard often from his daughter. Clara had always + been fond of her father, and happiness made her kinder. She + wrote him long accounts of the voyage to Bergen, and of the + trip she and Nils took through Bohemia to the little town + where her father had grown up and where she herself was + born. She visited all her kinsmen there, and sent her father + news of his brother, who was a priest; of his sister, who had + married a horse-breeder—of their big farm and their many + children. These letters Joe always managed to read to little + Eric. They contained messages for Eric and Hilda. Clara sent + presents, too, which Eric never dared to take home and which + poor little Hilda never even saw, though she loved to hear + Eric tell about them when they were out getting the eggs + <a class="pagenum" id="page126" title="126"> </a>together. But Olaf once saw Eric coming out of Vavrika’s + house,—the old man had never asked the boy to come into + his saloon,—and Olaf went straight to his mother and told + her. That night Mrs. Ericson came to Eric’s room after he was + in bed and made a terrible scene. She could be very terrifying + when she was really angry. She forbade him ever to speak to + Vavrika again, and after that night she would not allow him + to go to town alone. So it was a long while before Eric got + any more news of his brother. But old Joe suspected what was + going on, and he carried Clara’s letters about in his pocket. + One Sunday he drove out to see a German friend of his, and + chanced to catch sight of Eric, sitting by the cattle-pond in + the big pasture. They went together into Fritz Oberlies’ barn, + and read the letters and talked things over. Eric admitted that + things were getting hard for him at home. That very night old + Joe sat down and laboriously penned a statement of the case + to his daughter.</p> + + <p>Things got no better for Eric. His mother and Olaf felt + that, however closely he was watched, he still, as they said, + “heard.” Mrs. Ericson could not admit neutrality. She had + sent Johanna Vavrika packing back to her brother’s, though + Olaf would much rather have kept her than Anders’ eldest + daughter, whom Mrs. Ericson installed in her place. He was + not so high-handed as his mother, and he once sulkily told + her that she might better have taught her granddaughter to + cook before she sent Johanna away. Olaf could have borne a + good deal for the sake of prunes spiced in honey, the secret of + which Johanna had taken away with her.</p> + + <p>At last two letters came to Joe Vavrika: one from Nils, inclosing + a postal order for money to pay Eric’s passage to Bergen, + and one from Clara, saying that Nils had a place for Eric + in the offices of his company, that he was to live with them, + and that they were only waiting for him to come. He was to + leave New York on one of the boats of Nils’ own line; the + captain was one of their friends, and Eric was to make himself + known at once.</p> + + <p>Nils’ directions were so explicit that a baby could have followed + them, Eric felt. And here he was, nearing Red Oak, + Iowa, and rocking backward and forward in despair. Never + had he loved his brother so much, and never had the big + <a class="pagenum" id="page127" title="127"> </a>world called to him so hard. But there was a lump in his + throat which would not go down. Ever since nightfall he had + been tormented by the thought of his mother, alone in that + big house that had sent forth so many men. Her unkindness + now seemed so little, and her loneliness so great. He remembered + everything she had ever done for him: how frightened + she had been when he tore his hand in the corn-sheller, and + how she wouldn’t let Olaf scold him. When Nils went away + he didn’t leave his mother all alone, or he would never have + gone. Eric felt sure of that.</p> + + <p>The train whistled. The conductor came in, smiling not unkindly. + “Well, young man, what are you going to do? We stop + at Red Oak in three minutes.”</p> + + <p>“Yes, thank you. I’ll let you know.” The conductor went + out, and the boy doubled up with misery. He couldn’t let his + one chance go like this. He felt for his breast pocket and + crackled Nils’ kind letter to give him courage. He didn’t want + Nils to be ashamed of him. The train stopped. Suddenly he + remembered his brother’s kind, twinkling eyes, that always + looked at you as if from far away. The lump in his throat + softened. “Ah, but Nils, Nils would <em>understand</em>!” he thought. + “That’s just it about Nils; he always understands.”</p> + + <p>A lank, pale boy with a canvas telescope stumbled off the + train to the Red Oak siding, just as the conductor called, “All + aboard!”</p> + + <hr class="thoughtbreak" /> + + <p class="post_thoughtbreak">The next night Mrs. Ericson was sitting alone in her + wooden rocking-chair on the front porch. Little Hilda had + been sent to bed and had cried herself to sleep. The old woman’s + knitting was in her lap, but her hands lay motionless on + top of it. For more than an hour she had not moved a muscle. + She simply sat, as only the Ericsons and the mountains can + sit. The house was dark, and there was no sound but the + croaking of the frogs down in the pond of the little pasture.</p> + + <p>Eric did not come home by the road, but across the fields, + where no one could see him. He set his telescope down softly + in the kitchen shed, and slipped noiselessly along the path to + the front porch. He sat down on the step without saying anything. + Mrs. Ericson made no sign, and the frogs croaked on. + At last the boy spoke timidly.</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page128" title="128"> </a>“I’ve come back, Mother.”</p> + + <p>“Very well,” said Mrs. Ericson.</p> + + <p>Eric leaned over and picked up a little stick out of the grass.</p> + + <p>“How about the milking?” he faltered.</p> + + <p>“That’s been done, hours ago.”</p> + + <p>“Who did you get?”</p> + + <p>“Get? I did it myself. I can milk as good as any of you.”</p> + + <p>Eric slid along the step nearer to her. “Oh, Mother, why + did you?” he asked sorrowfully. “Why didn’t you get one of + Otto’s boys?”</p> + + <p>“I didn’t want anybody to know I was in need of a boy,” + said Mrs. Ericson bitterly. She looked straight in front of her + and her mouth tightened. “I always meant to give you the + home farm,” she added.</p> + + <p>The boy started and slid closer. “Oh, Mother,” he faltered, + “I don’t care about the farm. I came back because I thought + you might be needing me, maybe.” He hung his head and got + no further.</p> + + <p>“Very well,” said Mrs. Ericson. Her hand went out from + her suddenly and rested on his head. Her fingers twined + themselves in his soft, pale hair. His tears splashed down on + the boards; happiness filled his heart.</p> + + <p class="source"><cite>McClure’s</cite>, August 1912</p> + + </div> + <div id="consequences" class="story"><a class="pagenum" id="page129" title="129"> </a> + <h3 class="story_title">Consequences <a class="return_toc" href="#contents" title="Return to Contents">ToC</a></h3> + <p class="first_paragraph">Henry Eastman, a lawyer, aged forty, was standing beside + the Flatiron building in a driving November rainstorm, + signaling frantically for a taxi. It was six-thirty, and + everything on wheels was engaged. The streets were in confusion + about him, the sky was in turmoil above him, and the + Flatiron building, which seemed about to blow down, threw + water like a mill-shoot. Suddenly, out of the brutal struggle of + men and cars and machines and people tilting at each other + with umbrellas, a quiet, well-mannered limousine paused before + him, at the curb, and an agreeable, ruddy countenance + confronted him through the open window of the car.</p> + + <p>“Don’t you want me to pick you up, Mr. Eastman? I’m + running directly home now.”</p> + + <p>Eastman recognized Kier Cavenaugh, a young man of pleasure, + who lived in the house on Central Park South, where he + himself had an apartment.</p> + + <p>“Don’t I?” he exclaimed, bolting into the car. “I’ll risk getting + your cushions wet without compunction. I came up in a + taxi, but I didn’t hold it. Bad economy. I thought I saw your + car down on Fourteenth Street about half an hour ago.”</p> + + <p>The owner of the car smiled. He had a pleasant, round face + and round eyes, and a fringe of smooth, yellow hair showed + under the rim of his soft felt hat. “With a lot of little broilers + fluttering into it? You did. I know some girls who work in the + cheap shops down there. I happened to be down-town and I + stopped and took a load of them home. I do sometimes. + Saves their poor little clothes, you know. Their shoes are + never any good.”</p> + + <p>Eastman looked at his rescuer. “Aren’t they notoriously + afraid of cars and smooth young men?” he inquired.</p> + + <p>Cavenaugh shook his head. “They know which cars are safe + and which are chancy. They put each other wise. You have to + take a bunch at a time, of course. The Italian girls can never + come along; their men shoot. The girls understand, all right; + but their fathers don’t. One gets to see queer places, sometimes, + taking them home.”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page130" title="130"> </a>Eastman laughed drily. “Every time I touch the circle of + your acquaintance, Cavenaugh, it’s a little wider. You must + know New York pretty well by this time.”</p> + + <p>“Yes, but I’m on my good behavior below Twenty-third + Street,” the young man replied with simplicity. “My little + friends down there would give me a good character. They’re + wise little girls. They have grand ways with each other, a romantic + code of loyalty. You can find a good many of the lost + virtues among them.”</p> + + <p>The car was standing still in a traffic block at Fortieth + Street, when Cavenaugh suddenly drew his face away from + the window and touched Eastman’s arm. “Look, please. You + see that hansom with the bony gray horse—driver has a broken + hat and red flannel around his throat. Can you see who is + inside?”</p> + + <p>Eastman peered out. The hansom was just cutting across + the line, and the driver was making a great fuss about it, bobbing + his head and waving his whip. He jerked his dripping + old horse into Fortieth Street and clattered off past the Public + Library grounds toward Sixth Avenue. “No, I couldn’t see the + passenger. Someone you know?”</p> + + <p>“Could you see whether there was a passenger?” Cavenaugh + asked.</p> + + <p>“Why, yes. A man, I think. I saw his elbow on the apron. + No driver ever behaves like that unless he has a passenger.”</p> + + <p>“Yes, I may have been mistaken,” Cavenaugh murmured + absent-mindedly. Ten minutes or so later, after Cavenaugh’s + car had turned off Fifth Avenue into Fifty-eighth Street, Eastman + exclaimed, “There’s your same cabby, and his cart’s + empty. He’s headed for a drink now, I suppose.” The driver + in the broken hat and the red flannel neck cloth was still brandishing + the whip over his old gray. He was coming from the + west now, and turned down Sixth Avenue, under the elevated.</p> + + <p>Cavenaugh’s car stopped at the bachelor apartment house + between Sixth and Seventh Avenues where he and Eastman + lived, and they went up in the elevator together. They were + still talking when the lift stopped at Cavenaugh’s floor, and + Eastman stepped out with him and walked down the hall, + finishing his sentence while Cavenaugh found his latch-key. + When he opened the door, a wave of fresh cigarette smoke + <a class="pagenum" id="page131" title="131"> </a>greeted them. Cavenaugh stopped short and stared into his + hallway. “Now how in the devil—!” he exclaimed angrily.</p> + + <p>“Someone waiting for you? Oh, no, thanks. I wasn’t coming + in. I have to work to-night. Thank you, but I couldn’t.” + Eastman nodded and went up the two flights to his own + rooms.</p> + + <p>Though Eastman did not customarily keep a servant he had + this winter a man who had been lent to him by a friend who + was abroad. Rollins met him at the door and took his coat + and hat.</p> + + <p>“Put out my dinner clothes, Rollins, and then get out of + here until ten o’clock. I’ve promised to go to a supper to-night. + I shan’t be dining. I’ve had a late tea and I’m going to + work until ten. You may put out some kumiss and biscuit for + me.”</p> + + <p>Rollins took himself off, and Eastman settled down at the + big table in his sitting-room. He had to read a lot of letters + submitted as evidence in a breach of contract case, and before + he got very far he found that long paragraphs in some of the + letters were written in German. He had a German dictionary + at his office, but none here. Rollins had gone, and anyhow, + the bookstores would be closed. He remembered having seen + a row of dictionaries on the lower shelf of one of Cavenaugh’s + bookcases. Cavenaugh had a lot of books, though he never + read anything but new stuff. Eastman prudently turned down + his student’s lamp very low—the thing had an evil habit of + smoking—and went down two flights to Cavenaugh’s door.</p> + + <p>The young man himself answered Eastman’s ring. He was + freshly dressed for the evening, except for a brown smoking + jacket, and his yellow hair had been brushed until it shone. + He hesitated as he confronted his caller, still holding the door + knob, and his round eyes and smooth forehead made their + best imitation of a frown. When Eastman began to apologize, + Cavenaugh’s manner suddenly changed. He caught his arm + and jerked him into the narrow hall. “Come in, come in. + Right along!” he said excitedly. “Right along,” he repeated as + he pushed Eastman before him into his sitting-room. “Well + I’ll—” he stopped short at the door and looked about his + own room with an air of complete mystification. The back + window was wide open and a strong wind was blowing in. + <a class="pagenum" id="page132" title="132"> </a>Cavenaugh walked over to the window and stuck out his + head, looking up and down the fire escape. When he pulled + his head in, he drew down the sash.</p> + + <p>“I had a visitor I wanted you to see,” he explained with a + nervous smile. “At least I thought I had. He must have gone + out that way,” nodding toward the window.</p> + + <p>“Call him back. I only came to borrow a German dictionary, + if you have one. Can’t stay. Call him back.”</p> + + <p>Cavenaugh shook his head despondently. “No use. He’s + beat it. Nowhere in sight.”</p> + + <p>“He must be active. Has he left something?” Eastman + pointed to a very dirty white glove that lay on the floor under + the window.</p> + + <p>“Yes, that’s his.” Cavenaugh reached for his tongs, picked + up the glove, and tossed it into the grate, where it quickly + shriveled on the coals. Eastman felt that he had happened in + upon something disagreeable, possibly something shady, and + he wanted to get away at once. Cavenaugh stood staring at + the fire and seemed stupid and dazed; so he repeated his + request rather sternly, “I think I’ve seen a German dictionary + down there among your books. May I have it?”</p> + + <p>Cavenaugh blinked at him. “A German dictionary? Oh, + possibly! Those were my father’s. I scarcely know what there + is.” He put down the tongs and began to wipe his hands + nervously with his handkerchief.</p> + + <p>Eastman went over to the bookcase behind the Chesterfield, + opened the door, swooped upon the book he wanted + and stuck it under his arm. He felt perfectly certain now that + something shady had been going on in Cavenaugh’s rooms, + and he saw no reason why he should come in for any hang-over. + “Thanks. I’ll send it back to-morrow,” he said curtly as + he made for the door.</p> + + <p>Cavenaugh followed him. “Wait a moment. I wanted you + to see him. You did see his glove,” glancing at the grate.</p> + + <p>Eastman laughed disagreeably. “I saw a glove. That’s not + evidence. Do your friends often use that means of exit? Somewhat + inconvenient.”</p> + + <p>Cavenaugh gave him a startled glance. “Wouldn’t you think + so? For an old man, a very rickety old party? The ladders are + steep, you know, and rusty.” He approached the window + <a class="pagenum" id="page133" title="133"> </a>again and put it up softly. In a moment he drew his head back + with a jerk. He caught Eastman’s arm and shoved him toward + the window. “Hurry, please. Look! Down there.” He pointed + to the little patch of paved court four flights down.</p> + + <p>The square of pavement was so small and the walls about it + were so high, that it was a good deal like looking down a + well. Four tall buildings backed upon the same court and + made a kind of shaft, with flagstones at the bottom, and at + the top a square of dark blue with some stars in it. At the + bottom of the shaft Eastman saw a black figure, a man in a + caped coat and a tall hat stealing cautiously around, not across + the square of pavement, keeping close to the dark wall and + avoiding the streak of light that fell on the flagstones from a + window in the opposite house. Seen from that height he was + of course fore-shortened and probably looked more shambling + and decrepit than he was. He picked his way along with + exaggerated care and looked like a silly old cat crossing a wet + street. When he reached the gate that led into an alley way + between two buildings, he felt about for the latch, opened the + door a mere crack, and then shot out under the feeble lamp + that burned in the brick arch over the gateway. The door + closed after him.</p> + + <p>“He’ll get run in,” Eastman remarked curtly, turning away + from the window. “That door shouldn’t be left unlocked. + Any crook could come in. I’ll speak to the janitor about it, if + you don’t mind,” he added sarcastically.</p> + + <p>“Wish you would.” Cavenaugh stood brushing down the + front of his jacket, first with his right hand and then with his + left. “You saw him, didn’t you?”</p> + + <p>“Enough of him. Seems eccentric. I have to see a lot of + buggy people. They don’t take me in any more. But I’m keeping + you and I’m in a hurry myself. Good night.”</p> + + <p>Cavenaugh put out his hand detainingly and started to say + something; but Eastman rudely turned his back and went + down the hall and out of the door. He had never felt anything + shady about Cavenaugh before, and he was sorry he had gone + down for the dictionary. In five minutes he was deep in his + papers; but in the half hour when he was loafing before he + dressed to go out, the young man’s curious behavior came + into his mind again.</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page134" title="134"> </a>Eastman had merely a neighborly acquaintance with Cavenaugh. + He had been to a supper at the young man’s rooms + once, but he didn’t particularly like Cavenaugh’s friends; so + the next time he was asked, he had another engagement. He + liked Cavenaugh himself, if for nothing else than because he + was so cheerful and trim and ruddy. A good complexion is + always at a premium in New York, especially when it shines + reassuringly on a man who does everything in the world to + lose it. It encourages fellow mortals as to the inherent vigor + of the human organism and the amount of bad treatment it + will stand for. “Footprints that perhaps another,” etc.</p> + + <p>Cavenaugh, he knew, had plenty of money. He was the son + of a Pennsylvania preacher, who died soon after he discovered + that his ancestral acres were full of petroleum, and Kier had + come to New York to burn some of the oil. He was thirty-two + and was still at it; spent his life, literally, among the breakers. + His motor hit the Park every morning as if it were the first + time ever. He took people out to supper every night. He + went from restaurant to restaurant, sometimes to half-a-dozen + in an evening. The head waiters were his hosts and their cordiality + made him happy. They made a life-line for him up + Broadway and down Fifth Avenue. Cavenaugh was still fresh + and smooth, round and plump, with a lustre to his hair and + white teeth and a clear look in his round eyes. He seemed + absolutely unwearied and unimpaired; never bored and never + carried away.</p> + + <p>Eastman always smiled when he met Cavenaugh in the + entrance hall, serenely going forth to or returning from gladiatorial + combats with joy, or when he saw him rolling + smoothly up to the door in his car in the morning after a + restful night in one of the remarkable new roadhouses he was + always finding. Eastman had seen a good many young men + disappear on Cavenaugh’s route, and he admired this young + man’s endurance.</p> + + <p>To-night, for the first time, he had got a whiff of something + unwholesome about the fellow—bad nerves, bad company, + something on hand that he was ashamed of, a visitor old and + vicious, who must have had a key to Cavenaugh’s apartment, + for he was evidently there when Cavenaugh returned at seven + o’clock. Probably it was the same man Cavenaugh had seen in + <a class="pagenum" id="page135" title="135"> </a>the hansom. He must have been able to let himself in, for + Cavenaugh kept no man but his chauffeur; or perhaps the + janitor had been instructed to let him in. In either case, and + whoever he was, it was clear enough that Cavenaugh was + ashamed of him and was mixing up in questionable business + of some kind.</p> + + <p>Eastman sent Cavenaugh’s book back by Rollins, and for + the next few weeks he had no word with him beyond a casual + greeting when they happened to meet in the hall or the elevator. + One Sunday morning Cavenaugh telephoned up to him + to ask if he could motor out to a roadhouse in Connecticut + that afternoon and have supper; but when Eastman found + there were to be other guests he declined.</p> + + <hr class="thoughtbreak" /> + + <p class="post_thoughtbreak">On New Year’s eve Eastman dined at the University Club + at six o’clock and hurried home before the usual manifestations + of insanity had begun in the streets. When Rollins + brought his smoking coat, he asked him whether he wouldn’t + like to get off early.</p> + + <p>“Yes, sir. But won’t you be dressing, Mr. Eastman?” he inquired.</p> + + <p>“Not to-night.” Eastman handed him a bill. “Bring some + change in the morning. There’ll be fees.”</p> + + <p>Rollins lost no time in putting everything to rights for the + night, and Eastman couldn’t help wishing that he were in + such a hurry to be off somewhere himself. When he heard the + hall door close softly, he wondered if there were any place, + after all, that he wanted to go. From his window he looked + down at the long lines of motors and taxis waiting for a signal + to cross Broadway. He thought of some of their probable + destinations and decided that none of those places pulled him + very hard. The night was warm and wet, the air was drizzly. + Vapor hung in clouds about the <cite>Times</cite> Building, half hid the + top of it, and made a luminous haze along Broadway. While + he was looking down at the army of wet, black carriage-tops + and their reflected headlights and tail-lights, Eastman heard a + ring at his door. He deliberated. If it were a caller, the hall + porter would have telephoned up. It must be the janitor. + When he opened the door, there stood a rosy young man in a + tuxedo, without a coat or hat.</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page136" title="136"> </a>“Pardon. Should I have telephoned? I half thought you + wouldn’t be in.”</p> + + <p>Eastman laughed. “Come in, Cavenaugh. You weren’t sure + whether you wanted company or not, eh, and you were trying + to let chance decide it? That was exactly my state of mind. + Let’s accept the verdict.” When they emerged from the narrow + hall into his sitting-room, he pointed out a seat by the + fire to his guest. He brought a tray of decanters and soda + bottles and placed it on his writing table.</p> + + <p>Cavenaugh hesitated, standing by the fire. “Sure you + weren’t starting for somewhere?”</p> + + <p>“Do I look it? No, I was just making up my mind to stick it + out alone when you rang. Have one?” he picked up a tall + tumbler.</p> + + <p>“Yes, thank you. I always do.”</p> + + <p>Eastman chuckled. “Lucky boy! So will I. I had a very early + dinner. New York is the most arid place on holidays,” he continued + as he rattled the ice in the glasses. “When one gets too + old to hit the rapids down there, and tired of gobbling food + to heathenish dance music, there is absolutely no place where + you can get a chop and some milk toast in peace, unless you + have strong ties of blood brotherhood on upper Fifth Avenue. + But you, why aren’t you starting for somewhere?”</p> + + <p>The young man sipped his soda and shook his head as he + replied:</p> + + <p>“Oh, I couldn’t get a chop, either. I know only flashy people, + of course.” He looked up at his host with such a grave + and candid expression that Eastman decided there couldn’t be + anything very crooked about the fellow. His smooth cheeks + were positively cherubic.</p> + + <p>“Well, what’s the matter with them? Aren’t they flashing + to-night?”</p> + + <p>“Only the very new ones seem to flash on New Year’s eve. + The older ones fade away. Maybe they are hunting a chop, + too.”</p> + + <p>“Well”—Eastman sat down—“holidays do dash one. I was + just about to write a letter to a pair of maiden aunts in my old + home town, up-state; old coasting hill, snow-covered pines, + lights in the church windows. That’s what you’ve saved me + from.”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page137" title="137"> </a>Cavenaugh shook himself. “Oh, I’m sure that wouldn’t + have been good for you. Pardon me,” he rose and took a + photograph from the bookcase, a handsome man in shooting + clothes. “Dudley, isn’t it? Did you know him well?”</p> + + <p>“Yes. An old friend. Terrible thing, wasn’t it? I haven’t got + over the jolt yet.”</p> + + <p>“His suicide? Yes, terrible! Did you know his wife?”</p> + + <p>“Slightly. Well enough to admire her very much. She must + be terribly broken up. I wonder Dudley didn’t think of that.”</p> + + <p>Cavenaugh replaced the photograph carefully, lit a cigarette, + and standing before the fire began to smoke. “Would + you mind telling me about him? I never met him, but of + course I’d read a lot about him, and I can’t help feeling interested. + It was a queer thing.”</p> + + <p>Eastman took out his cigar case and leaned back in his deep + chair. “In the days when I knew him best he hadn’t any story, + like the happy nations. Everything was properly arranged for + him before he was born. He came into the world happy, + healthy, clever, straight, with the right sort of connections + and the right kind of fortune, neither too large nor too small. + He helped to make the world an agreeable place to live in + until he was twenty-six. Then he married as he should have + married. His wife was a Californian, educated abroad. Beautiful. + You have seen her picture?”</p> + + <p>Cavenaugh nodded. “Oh, many of them.”</p> + + <p>“She was interesting, too. Though she was distinctly a person + of the world, she had retained something, just enough of + the large Western manner. She had the habit of authority, of + calling out a special train if she needed it, of using all our + ingenious mechanical contrivances lightly and easily, without + over-rating them. She and Dudley knew how to live better + than most people. Their house was the most charming one I + have ever known in New York. You felt freedom there, and a + zest of life, and safety—absolute sanctuary—from everything + sordid or petty. A whole society like that would justify the + creation of man and would make our planet shine with a soft, + peculiar radiance among the constellations. You think I’m + putting it on thick?”</p> + + <p>The young man sighed gently. “Oh, no! One has always + felt there must be people like that. I’ve never known any.”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page138" title="138"> </a>“They had two children, beautiful ones. After they had + been married for eight years, Rosina met this Spaniard. He + must have amounted to something. She wasn’t a flighty + woman. She came home and told Dudley how matters stood. + He persuaded her to stay at home for six months and try to + pull up. They were both fair-minded people, and I’m as sure + as if I were the Almighty, that she did try. But at the end of + the time, Rosina went quietly off to Spain, and Dudley went + to hunt in the Canadian Rockies. I met his party out there. I + didn’t know his wife had left him and talked about her a good + deal. I noticed that he never drank anything, and his light + used to shine through the log chinks of his room until all + hours, even after a hard day’s hunting. When I got back to + New York, rumors were creeping about. Dudley did not come + back. He bought a ranch in Wyoming, built a big log house + and kept splendid dogs and horses. One of his sisters went + out to keep house for him, and the children were there when + they were not in school. He had a great many visitors, and + everyone who came back talked about how well Dudley kept + things going.</p> + + <p>“He put in two years out there. Then, last month, he had + to come back on business. A trust fund had to be settled up, + and he was administrator. I saw him at the club; same light, + quick step, same gracious handshake. He was getting gray, + and there was something softer in his manner; but he had a + fine red tan on his face and said he found it delightful to be + here in the season when everything is going hard. The Madison + Avenue house had been closed since Rosina left it. He + went there to get some things his sister wanted. That, of + course, was the mistake. He went alone, in the afternoon, and + didn’t go out for dinner—found some sherry and tins of biscuit + in the sideboard. He shot himself sometime that night. + There were pistols in his smoking-room. They found burnt + out candles beside him in the morning. The gas and electricity + were shut off. I suppose there, in his own house, among his + own things, it was too much for him. He left no letters.”</p> + + <p>Cavenaugh blinked and brushed the lapel of his coat. “I + suppose,” he said slowly, “that every suicide is logical and + reasonable, if one knew all the facts.”</p> + + <p>Eastman roused himself. “No, I don’t think so. I’ve known + <a class="pagenum" id="page139" title="139"> </a>too many fellows who went off like that—more than I deserve, + I think—and some of them were absolutely inexplicable. + I can understand Dudley; but I can’t see why healthy + bachelors, with money enough, like ourselves, need such a + device. It reminds me of what Dr. Johnson said, that the most + discouraging thing about life is the number of fads and hobbies + and fake religions it takes to put people through a few + years of it.”</p> + + <p>“Dr. Johnson? The specialist? Oh, the old fellow!” said + Cavenaugh imperturbably. “Yes, that’s interesting. Still, I + fancy if one knew the facts—Did you know about Wyatt?”</p> + + <p>“I don’t think so.”</p> + + <p>“You wouldn’t, probably. He was just a fellow about town + who spent money. He wasn’t one of the <em lang="it" xml:lang="it">forestieri</em>, though. + Had connections here and owned a fine old place over on + Staten Island. He went in for botany, and had been all over, + hunting things; rusts, I believe. He had a yacht and used to + take a gay crowd down about the South Seas, botanizing. He + really did botanize, I believe. I never knew such a spender—only + not flashy. He helped a lot of fellows and he was awfully + good to girls, the kind who come down here to get a little + fun, who don’t like to work and still aren’t really tough, the + kind you see talking hard for their dinner. Nobody knows + what becomes of them, or what they get out of it, and there + are hundreds of new ones every year. He helped dozens of + ’em; it was he who got me curious about the little shop girls. + Well, one afternoon when his tea was brought, he took prussic + acid instead. He didn’t leave any letters, either; people of + any taste don’t. They wouldn’t leave any material reminder if + they could help it. His lawyers found that he had just $314.72 + above his debts when he died. He had planned to spend all + his money, and then take his tea; he had worked it out carefully.”</p> + + <p>Eastman reached for his pipe and pushed his chair away + from the fire. “That looks like a considered case, but I don’t + think philosophical suicides like that are common. I think + they usually come from stress of feeling and are really, as the + newspapers call them, desperate acts; done without a motive. + You remember when Anna Karenina was under the wheels, + she kept saying, ‘Why am I here?’”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page140" title="140"> </a>Cavenaugh rubbed his upper lip with his pink finger and + made an effort to wrinkle his brows. “May I, please?” reaching + for the whiskey. “But have you,” he asked, blinking as the + soda flew at him, “have you ever known, yourself, cases that + were really inexplicable?”</p> + + <p>“A few too many. I was in Washington just before Captain + Jack Purden was married and I saw a good deal of him. Popular + army man, fine record in the Philippines, married a + charming girl with lots of money; mutual devotion. It was the + gayest wedding of the winter, and they started for Japan. + They stopped in San Francisco for a week and missed their + boat because, as the bride wrote back to Washington, they + were too happy to move. They took the next boat, were both + good sailors, had exceptional weather. After they had been + out for two weeks, Jack got up from his deck chair one afternoon, + yawned, put down his book, and stood before his wife. + ‘Stop reading for a moment and look at me.’ She laughed and + asked him why. ‘Because you happen to be good to look at.’ + He nodded to her, went back to the stern and was never seen + again. Must have gone down to the lower deck and slipped + overboard, behind the machinery. It was the luncheon hour, + not many people about; steamer cutting through a soft green + sea. That’s one of the most baffling cases I know. His friends + raked up his past, and it was as trim as a cottage garden. If + he’d so much as dropped an ink spot on his fatigue uniform, + they’d have found it. He wasn’t emotional or moody; wasn’t, + indeed, very interesting; simply a good soldier, fond of all the + pompous little formalities that make up a military man’s life. + What do you make of that, my boy?”</p> + + <p>Cavenaugh stroked his chin. “It’s very puzzling, I admit. + Still, if one knew everything——”</p> + + <p>“But we do know everything. His friends wanted to find + something to help them out, to help the girl out, to help the + case of the human creature.”</p> + + <p>“Oh, I don’t mean things that people could unearth,” said + Cavenaugh uneasily. “But possibly there were things that + couldn’t be found out.”</p> + + <p>Eastman shrugged his shoulders. “It’s my experience that + when there are ‘things’ as you call them, they’re very apt to be + <a class="pagenum" id="page141" title="141"> </a>found. There is no such thing as a secret. To make any move + at all one has to employ human agencies, employ at least one + human agent. Even when the pirates killed the men who buried + their gold for them, the bones told the story.”</p> + + <p>Cavenaugh rubbed his hands together and smiled his sunny + smile.</p> + + <p>“I like that idea. It’s reassuring. If we can have no secrets, it + means that we can’t, after all, go so far afield as we might,” he + hesitated, “yes, as we might.”</p> + + <p>Eastman looked at him sourly. “Cavenaugh, when you’ve + practised law in New York for twelve years, you find that people + can’t go far in any direction, except—” He thrust his forefinger + sharply at the floor. “Even in that direction, few people + can do anything out of the ordinary. Our range is limited. + Skip a few baths, and we become personally objectionable. + The slightest carelessness can rot a man’s integrity or give him + ptomaine poisoning. We keep up only by incessant cleansing + operations, of mind and body. What we call character, is held + together by all sorts of tacks and strings and glue.”</p> + + <p>Cavenaugh looked startled. “Come now, it’s not so bad + as that, is it? I’ve always thought that a serious man, like + you, must know a lot of Launcelots.” When Eastman only + laughed, the younger man squirmed about in his chair. He + spoke again hastily, as if he were embarrassed. “Your military + friend may have had personal experiences, however, that his + friends couldn’t possibly get a line on. He may accidentally + have come to a place where he saw himself in too unpleasant + a light. I believe people can be chilled by a draft from outside, + somewhere.”</p> + + <p>“Outside?” Eastman echoed. “Ah, you mean the far outside! + Ghosts, delusions, eh?”</p> + + <p>Cavenaugh winced. “That’s putting it strong. Why not say + tips from the outside? Delusions belong to a diseased mind, + don’t they? There are some of us who have no minds to speak + of, who yet have had experiences. I’ve had a little something + in that line myself and I don’t look it, do I?”</p> + + <p>Eastman looked at the bland countenance turned toward + him. “Not exactly. What’s your delusion?”</p> + + <p>“It’s not a delusion. It’s a haunt.”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page142" title="142"> </a>The lawyer chuckled. “Soul of a lost Casino girl?”</p> + + <p>“No; an old gentleman. A most unattractive old gentleman, + who follows me about.”</p> + + <p>“Does he want money?”</p> + + <p>Cavenaugh sat up straight. “No. I wish to God he wanted + anything—but the pleasure of my society! I’d let him clean + me out to be rid of him. He’s a real article. You saw him + yourself that night when you came to my rooms to borrow a + dictionary, and he went down the fire-escape. You saw him + down in the court.”</p> + + <p>“Well, I saw somebody down in the court, but I’m too + cautious to take it for granted that I saw what you saw. + Why, anyhow, should I see your haunt? If it was your friend + I saw, he impressed me disagreeably. How did you pick + him up?”</p> + + <p>Cavenaugh looked gloomy. “That was queer, too. Charley + Burke and I had motored out to Long Beach, about a year + ago, sometime in October, I think. We had supper and stayed + until late. When we were coming home, my car broke + down. We had a lot of girls along who had to get back for + morning rehearsals and things; so I sent them all into town in + Charley’s car, and he was to send a man back to tow me + home. I was driving myself, and didn’t want to leave my machine. + We had not taken a direct road back; so I was stuck in a + lonesome, woody place, no houses about. I got chilly and + made a fire, and was putting in the time comfortably enough, + when this old party steps up. He was in shabby evening + clothes and a top hat, and had on his usual white gloves. + How he got there, at three o’clock in the morning, miles from + any town or railway, I’ll leave it to you to figure out. <em>He</em> + surely had no car. When I saw him coming up to the fire, I + disliked him. He had a silly, apologetic walk. His teeth were + chattering, and I asked him to sit down. He got down like a + clothes-horse folding up. I offered him a cigarette, and when + he took off his gloves I couldn’t help noticing how knotted + and spotty his hands were. He was asthmatic, and took his + breath with a wheeze. ‘Haven’t you got anything—refreshing + in there?’ he asked, nodding at the car. When I told him I + hadn’t, he sighed. ‘Ah, you young fellows are greedy. You + <a class="pagenum" id="page143" title="143"> </a>drink it all up. You drink it all up, all up—up!’ he kept chewing + it over.”</p> + + <p>Cavenaugh paused and looked embarrassed again. “The + thing that was most unpleasant is difficult to explain. The old + man sat there by the fire and leered at me with a silly sort of + admiration that was—well, more than humiliating. ‘Gay boy, + gay dog!’ he would mutter, and when he grinned he showed + his teeth, worn and yellow—shells. I remembered that it was + better to talk casually to insane people; so I remarked carelessly + that I had been out with a party and got stuck.</p> + + <p>“‘Oh yes, I remember,’ he said, ‘Flora and Lottie and Maybelle + and Marcelline, and poor Kate.’</p> + + <p>“He had named them correctly; so I began to think I had + been hitting the bright waters too hard.</p> + + <p>“Things I drank never had seemed to make me woody; but + you can never tell when trouble is going to hit you. I pulled + my hat down and tried to look as uncommunicative as possible; + but he kept croaking on from time to time, like this: + ‘Poor Kate! Splendid arms, but dope got her. She took up + with Eastern religions after she had her hair dyed. Got to + going to a Swami’s joint, and smoking opium. Temple of the + Lotus, it was called, and the police raided it.’</p> + + <p>“This was nonsense, of course; the young woman was in + the pink of condition. I let him rave, but I decided that if + something didn’t come out for me pretty soon, I’d foot it + across Long Island. There wasn’t room enough for the two of + us. I got up and took another try at my car. He hopped right + after me.</p> + + <p>“‘Good car,’ he wheezed, ‘better than the little Ford.’</p> + + <p>“I’d had a Ford before, but so has everybody; that was a + safe guess.</p> + + <p>“‘Still,’ he went on, ‘that run in from Huntington Bay in + the rain wasn’t bad. Arrested for speeding, he-he.’</p> + + <p>“It was true I had made such a run, under rather unusual + circumstances, and had been arrested. When at last I heard + my life-boat snorting up the road, my visitor got up, sighed, + and stepped back into the shadow of the trees. I didn’t wait to + see what became of him, you may believe. That was visitation + number one. What do you think of it?”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page144" title="144"> </a>Cavenaugh looked at his host defiantly. Eastman smiled.</p> + + <p>“I think you’d better change your mode of life, Cavenaugh. + Had many returns?” he inquired.</p> + + <p>“Too many, by far.” The young man took a turn about the + room and came back to the fire. Standing by the mantel he lit + another cigarette before going on with his story:</p> + + <p>“The second visitation happened in the street, early in the + evening, about eight o’clock. I was held up in a traffic block + before the Plaza. My chauffeur was driving. Old Nibbs steps + up out of the crowd, opens the door of my car, gets in and + sits down beside me. He had on wilted evening clothes, same + as before, and there was some sort of heavy scent about him. + Such an unpleasant old party! A thorough-going rotter; you + knew it at once. This time he wasn’t talkative, as he had been + when I first saw him. He leaned back in the car as if he owned + it, crossed his hands on his stick and looked out at the + crowd—sort of hungrily.</p> + + <p>“I own I really felt a loathing compassion for him. We got + down the avenue slowly. I kept looking out at the mounted + police. But what could I do? Have him pulled? I was afraid + to. I was awfully afraid of getting him into the papers.</p> + + <p>“‘I’m going to the New Astor,’ I said at last. ‘Can I take + you anywhere?’</p> + + <p>“‘No, thank you,’ says he. ‘I get out when you do. I’m due + on West 44th. I’m dining to-night with Marcelline—all that + is left of her!’</p> + + <p>“He put his hand to his hat brim with a grewsome salute. + Such a scandalous, foolish old face as he had! When we pulled + up at the Astor, I stuck my hand in my pocket and asked him + if he’d like a little loan.</p> + + <p>“‘No, thank you, but’—he leaned over and whispered, + ugh!—‘but save a little, save a little. Forty years from now—a + little—comes in handy. Save a little.’</p> + + <p>“His eyes fairly glittered as he made his remark. I jumped + out. I’d have jumped into the North River. When he tripped + off, I asked my chauffeur if he’d noticed the man who got + into the car with me. He said he knew someone was with me, + but he hadn’t noticed just when he got in. Want to hear any + more?”</p> + + <p>Cavenaugh dropped into his chair again. His plump cheeks + <a class="pagenum" id="page145" title="145"> </a>were a trifle more flushed than usual, but he was perfectly + calm. Eastman felt that the young man believed what he was + telling him.</p> + + <p>“Of course I do. It’s very interesting. I don’t see quite + where you are coming out though.”</p> + + <p>Cavenaugh sniffed. “No more do I. I really feel that I’ve + been put upon. I haven’t deserved it any more than any other + fellow of my kind. Doesn’t it impress you disagreeably?”</p> + + <p>“Well, rather so. Has anyone else seen your friend?”</p> + + <p>“You saw him.”</p> + + <p>“We won’t count that. As I said, there’s no certainty that + you and I saw the same person in the court that night. Has + anyone else had a look in?”</p> + + <p>“People sense him rather than see him. He usually crops up + when I’m alone or in a crowd on the street. He never approaches + me when I’m with people I know, though I’ve seen + him hanging about the doors of theatres when I come out + with a party; loafing around the stage exit, under a wall; or + across the street, in a doorway. To be frank, I’m not anxious + to introduce him. The third time, it was I who came upon + him. In November my driver, Harry, had a sudden attack of + appendicitis. I took him to the Presbyterian Hospital in the + car, early in the evening. When I came home, I found the old + villain in my rooms. I offered him a drink, and he sat down. + It was the first time I had seen him in a steady light, with his + hat off.</p> + + <p>“His face is lined like a railway map, and as to color—Lord, + what a liver! His scalp grows tight to his skull, and his + hair is dyed until it’s perfectly dead, like a piece of black + cloth.”</p> + + <p>Cavenaugh ran his fingers through his own neatly trimmed + thatch, and seemed to forget where he was for a moment.</p> + + <p>“I had a twin brother, Brian, who died when we were + sixteen. I have a photograph of him on my wall, an enlargement + from a kodak of him, doing a high jump, rather good + thing, full of action. It seemed to annoy the old gentleman. + He kept looking at it and lifting his eyebrows, and finally he + got up, tip-toed across the room, and turned the picture to + the wall.</p> + + <p>“‘Poor Brian! Fine fellow, but died young,’ says he.</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page146" title="146"> </a>“Next morning, there was the picture, still reversed.”</p> + + <p>“Did he stay long?” Eastman asked interestedly.</p> + + <p>“Half an hour, by the clock.”</p> + + <p>“Did he talk?”</p> + + <p>“Well, he rambled.”</p> + + <p>“What about?”</p> + + <p>Cavenaugh rubbed his pale eyebrows before answering.</p> + + <p>“About things that an old man ought to want to forget. + His conversation is highly objectionable. Of course he knows + me like a book; everything I’ve ever done or thought. But + when he recalls them, he throws a bad light on them, somehow. + Things that weren’t much off color, look rotten. He + doesn’t leave one a shred of self-respect, he really doesn’t. + That’s the amount of it.” The young man whipped out his + handkerchief and wiped his face.</p> + + <p>“You mean he really talks about things that none of your + friends know?”</p> + + <p>“Oh, dear, yes! Recalls things that happened in school. + Anything disagreeable. Funny thing, he always turns Brian’s + picture to the wall.”</p> + + <p>“Does he come often?”</p> + + <p>“Yes, oftener, now. Of course I don’t know how he gets in + down-stairs. The hall boys never see him. But he has a key to + my door. I don’t know how he got it, but I can hear him turn + it in the lock.”</p> + + <p>“Why don’t you keep your driver with you, or telephone + for me to come down?”</p> + + <p>“He’d only grin and go down the fire escape as he did + before. He’s often done it when Harry’s come in suddenly. + Everybody has to be alone sometimes, you know. Besides, I + don’t want anybody to see him. He has me there.”</p> + + <p>“But why not? Why do you feel responsible for him?”</p> + + <p>Cavenaugh smiled wearily. “That’s rather the point, isn’t + it? Why do I? But I absolutely do. That identifies him, more + than his knowing all about my life and my affairs.”</p> + + <p>Eastman looked at Cavenaugh thoughtfully. “Well, I + should advise you to go in for something altogether different + and new, and go in for it hard; business, engineering, metallurgy, + something this old fellow wouldn’t be interested in. + See if you can make him remember logarithms.”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page147" title="147"> </a>Cavenaugh sighed. “No, he has me there, too. People never + really change; they go on being themselves. But I would + never make much trouble. Why can’t they let me alone, damn + it! I’d never hurt anybody, except, perhaps——”</p> + + <p>“Except your old gentleman, eh?” Eastman laughed. “Seriously, + Cavenaugh, if you want to shake him, I think a year on + a ranch would do it. He would never be coaxed far from his + favorite haunts. He would dread Montana.”</p> + + <p>Cavenaugh pursed up his lips. “So do I!”</p> + + <p>“Oh, you think you do. Try it, and you’ll find out. A gun and + a horse beats all this sort of thing. Besides losing your haunt, + you’d be putting ten years in the bank for yourself. I know a + good ranch where they take people, if you want to try it.”</p> + + <p>“Thank you. I’ll consider. Do you think I’m batty?”</p> + + <p>“No, but I think you’ve been doing one sort of thing too + long. You need big horizons. Get out of this.”</p> + + <p>Cavenaugh smiled meekly. He rose lazily and yawned behind + his hand. “It’s late, and I’ve taken your whole evening.” + He strolled over to the window and looked out. “Queer + place, New York; rough on the little fellows. Don’t you feel + sorry for them, the girls especially? I do. What a fight they + put up for a little fun! Why, even that old goat is sorry for + them, the only decent thing he kept.”</p> + + <p>Eastman followed him to the door and stood in the hall, + while Cavenaugh waited for the elevator. When the car came + up Cavenaugh extended his pink, warm hand. “Good night.”</p> + + <p>The cage sank and his rosy countenance disappeared, his + round-eyed smile being the last thing to go.</p> + + <hr class="thoughtbreak" /> + + <p class="post_thoughtbreak">Weeks passed before Eastman saw Cavenaugh again. One + morning, just as he was starting for Washington to argue a + case before the Supreme Court, Cavenaugh telephoned him at + his office to ask him about the Montana ranch he had recommended; + said he meant to take his advice and go out there for + the spring and summer.</p> + + <p>When Eastman got back from Washington, he saw dusty + trunks, just up from the trunk room, before Cavenaugh’s + door. Next morning, when he stopped to see what the young + man was about, he found Cavenaugh in his shirt sleeves, + packing.</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page148" title="148"> </a>“I’m really going; off to-morrow night. You didn’t think it + of me, did you?” he asked gaily.</p> + + <p>“Oh, I’ve always had hopes of you!” Eastman declared. + “But you are in a hurry, it seems to me.”</p> + + <p>“Yes, I am in a hurry.” Cavenaugh shot a pair of leggings + into one of the open trunks. “I telegraphed your ranch people, + used your name, and they said it would be all right. By + the way, some of my crowd are giving a little dinner for me at + Rector’s to-night. Couldn’t you be persuaded, as it’s a farewell + occasion?” Cavenaugh looked at him hopefully.</p> + + <p>Eastman laughed and shook his head. “Sorry, Cavenaugh, + but that’s too gay a world for me. I’ve got too much work + lined up before me. I wish I had time to stop and look at your + guns, though. You seem to know something about guns. + You’ve more than you’ll need, but nobody can have too many + good ones.” He put down one of the revolvers regretfully. + “I’ll drop in to see you in the morning, if you’re up.”</p> + + <p>“I shall be up, all right. I’ve warned my crowd that I’ll cut + away before midnight.”</p> + + <p>“You won’t, though,” Eastman called back over his shoulder + as he hurried down-stairs.</p> + + <p>The next morning, while Eastman was dressing, Rollins + came in greatly excited.</p> + + <p>“I’m a little late, sir. I was stopped by Harry, Mr. Cavenaugh’s + driver. Mr. Cavenaugh shot himself last night, sir.”</p> + + <p>Eastman dropped his vest and sat down on his shoe-box. + “You’re drunk, Rollins,” he shouted. “He’s going away to-day!”</p> + + <p>“Yes, sir. Harry found him this morning. Ah, he’s quite + dead, sir. Harry’s telephoned for the coroner. Harry don’t + know what to do with the ticket.”</p> + + <p>Eastman pulled on his coat and ran down the stairway. + Cavenaugh’s trunks were strapped and piled before the door. + Harry was walking up and down the hall with a long green + railroad ticket in his hand and a look of complete stupidity on + his face.</p> + + <p>“What shall I do about this ticket, Mr. Eastman?” he whispered. + “And what about his trunks? He had me tell the transfer + people to come early. They may be here any minute. Yes, + <a class="pagenum" id="page149" title="149"> </a>sir. I brought him home in the car last night, before twelve, as + cheerful as could be.”</p> + + <p>“Be quiet, Harry. Where is he?”</p> + + <p>“In his bed, sir.”</p> + + <p>Eastman went into Cavenaugh’s sleeping-room. When he + came back to the sitting-room, he looked over the writing + table; railway folders, time-tables, receipted bills, nothing + else. He looked up for the photograph of Cavenaugh’s twin + brother. There it was, turned to the wall. Eastman took it + down and looked at it; a boy in track clothes, half lying in the + air, going over the string shoulders first, above the heads of a + crowd of lads who were running and cheering. The face was + somewhat blurred by the motion and the bright sunlight. + Eastman put the picture back, as he found it. Had Cavenaugh + entertained his visitor last night, and had the old man been + more convincing than usual? “Well, at any rate, he’s seen to it + that the old man can’t establish identity. What a soft lot they + are, fellows like poor Cavenaugh!” Eastman thought of his + office as a delightful place.</p> + + <p class="source"><cite>McClure’s</cite>, November 1915</p> + + </div> + <div id="bookkeeper" class="story"><a class="pagenum" id="page150" title="150"> </a> + <h3>The Bookkeeper’s Wife <a class="return_toc" href="#contents" title="Return to Contents">ToC</a></h3> + <p class="first_paragraph">Nobody but the janitor was stirring about the offices of + the Remsen Paper Company, and still Percy Bixby sat at + his desk, crouched on his high stool and staring out at the + tops of the tall buildings flushed with the winter sunset, at the + hundreds of windows, so many rectangles of white electric + light, flashing against the broad waves of violet that ebbed + across the sky. His ledgers were all in their places, his desk + was in order, his office coat on its peg, and yet Percy’s + smooth, thin face wore the look of anxiety and strain which + usually meant that he was behind in his work. He was trying + to persuade himself to accept a loan from the company without + the company’s knowledge. As a matter of fact, he had + already accepted it. His books were fixed, the money, in + a black-leather bill-book, was already inside his waistcoat + pocket.</p> + + <p>He had still time to change his mind, to rectify the false + figures in his ledger, and to tell Stella Brown that they + couldn’t possibly get married next month. There he always + halted in his reasoning, and went back to the beginning.</p> + + <p>The Remsen Paper Company was a very wealthy concern, + with easy, old-fashioned working methods. They did a longtime + credit business with safe customers, who never thought + of paying up very close on their large indebtedness. From the + payments on these large accounts Percy had taken a hundred + dollars here and two hundred there until he had made up the + thousand he needed. So long as he stayed by the books himself + and attended to the mail-orders he couldn’t possibly be + found out. He could move these little shortages about from + account to account indefinitely. He could have all the time he + needed to pay back the deficit, and more time than he needed.</p> + + <p>Although he was so far along in one course of action, his + mind still clung resolutely to the other. He did not believe he + was going to do it. He was the least of a sharper in the world. + Being scrupulously honest even in the most trifling matters + was a pleasure to him. He was the sort of young man that + Socialists hate more than they hate capitalists. He loved his + <a class="pagenum" id="page151" title="151"> </a>desk, he loved his books, which had no handwriting in them + but his own. He never thought of resenting the fact that he + had written away in those books the good red years between + twenty-one and twenty-seven. He would have hated to let any + one else put so much as a pen-scratch in them. He liked all + the boys about the office; his desk, worn smooth by the + sleeves of his alpaca coat; his rulers and inks and pens and + calendars. He had a great pride in working economics, and he + always got so far ahead when supplies were distributed that + he had drawers full of pencils and pens and rubber bands + against a rainy day.</p> + + <p>Percy liked regularity: to get his work done on time, to + have his half-day off every Saturday, to go to the theater Saturday + night, to buy a new necktie twice a month, to appear in + a new straw hat on the right day in May, and to know what + was going on in New York. He read the morning and evening + papers coming and going on the elevated, and preferred journals + of approximate reliability. He got excited about ballgames + and elections and business failures, was not above an + interest in murders and divorce scandals, and he checked the + news off as neatly as he checked his mail-orders. In short, + Percy Bixby was like the model pupil who is satisfied with his + lessons and his teachers and his holidays, and who would + gladly go to school all his life. He had never wanted anything + outside his routine until he wanted Stella Brown to marry + him, and that had upset everything.</p> + + <p>It wasn’t, he told himself for the hundredth time, that she + was extravagant. Not a bit of it. She was like all girls. Moreover, + she made good money, and why should she marry unless + she could better herself? The trouble was that he had lied + to her about his salary. There were a lot of fellows rushing + Mrs. Brown’s five daughters, and they all seemed to have fixed + on Stella as first choice and this or that one of the sisters as + second. Mrs. Brown thought it proper to drop an occasional + hint in the presence of these young men to the effect that she + expected Stella to “do well.” It went without saying that hair + and complexion like Stella’s could scarcely be expected to + do poorly. Most of the boys who went to the house and took + the girls out in a bunch to dances and movies seemed to realize + this. They merely wanted a whirl with Stella before they + <a class="pagenum" id="page152" title="152"> </a>settled down to one of her sisters. It was tacitly understood + that she came too high for them. Percy had sensed all this + through those slumbering instincts which awake in us all to + befriend us in love or in danger.</p> + + <p>But there was one of his rivals, he knew, who was a man to + be reckoned with. Charley Greengay was a young salesman + who wore tailor-made clothes and spotted waistcoats, and + had a necktie for every day in the month. His air was that of a + young man who is out for things that come high and who is + going to get them. Mrs. Brown was ever and again dropping + a word before Percy about how the girl that took Charley + would have her flat furnished by the best furniture people, + and her china-closet stocked with the best ware, and would + have nothing to worry about but nicks and scratches. It was + because he felt himself pitted against this pulling power of + Greengay’s that Percy had brazenly lied to Mrs. Brown, and + told her that his salary had been raised to fifty a week, and + that now he wanted to get married.</p> + + <p>When he threw out this challenge to Mother Brown, Percy + was getting thirty-five dollars a week, and he knew well + enough that there were several hundred thousand young men + in New York who would do his work as well as he did for + thirty.</p> + + <p>These were the factors in Percy’s present situation. He + went over them again and again as he sat stooping on his tall + stool. He had quite lost track of time when he heard the janitor + call good night to the watchman. Without thinking what + he was doing, he slid into his overcoat, caught his hat, and + rushed out to the elevator, which was waiting for the janitor. + The moment the car dropped, it occurred to him that the + thing was decided without his having made up his mind at all. + The familiar floors passed him, ten, nine, eight, seven. By the + time he reached the fifth, there was no possibility of going + back; the click of the drop-lever seemed to settle that. The + money was in his pocket. Now, he told himself as he hurried + out into the exciting clamor of the street, he was not going to + worry about it any more.</p> + + <hr class="thoughtbreak" /> + + <p class="post_thoughtbreak">When Percy reached the Browns’ flat on 123d Street that + evening he felt just the slightest chill in Stella’s greeting. He + <a class="pagenum" id="page153" title="153"> </a>could make that all right, he told himself, as he kissed her + lightly in the dark three-by-four entrance-hall. Percy’s courting + had been prosecuted mainly in the Bronx or in winged + pursuit of a Broadway car. When he entered the crowded + sitting-room he greeted Mrs. Brown respectfully and the four + girls playfully. They were all piled on one couch, reading the + continued story in the evening paper, and they didn’t think it + necessary to assume more formal attitudes for Percy. They + looked up over the smeary pink sheets of paper, and handed + him, as Percy said, the same old jolly:</p> + + <p>“Hullo, Perc’! Come to see me, ain’t you? So flattered!”</p> + + <p>“Any sweet goods on you, Perc’? Anything doing in the + bong-bong line to-night?”</p> + + <p>“Look at his new neckwear! Say, Perc’, remember me. That + tie would go lovely with my new tailored waist.”</p> + + <p>“Quit your kiddin’, girls!” called Mrs. Brown, who was + drying shirt-waists on the dining-room radiator. “And, Percy, + mind the rugs when you’re steppin’ round among them gum-drops.”</p> + + <p>Percy fired his last shot at the recumbent figures, and + followed Stella into the dining-room, where the table and + two large easy-chairs formed, in Mrs. Brown’s estimation, a + proper background for a serious suitor.</p> + + <p>“I say, Stell’,” he began as he walked about the table with + his hands in his pockets, “seems to me we ought to begin + buying our stuff.” She brightened perceptibly. “Ah,” Percy + thought, “so that <em>was</em> the trouble!” “To-morrow’s Saturday; + why can’t we make an afternoon of it?” he went on cheerfully. + “Shop till we’re tired, then go to Houtin’s for dinner, and + end up at the theater.”</p> + + <p>As they bent over the lists she had made of things needed, + Percy glanced at her face. She was very much out of her sisters’ + class and out of his, and he kept congratulating himself + on his nerve. He was going in for something much too handsome + and expensive and distinguished for him, he felt, and it + took courage to be a plunger. To begin with, Stella was the + sort of girl who had to be well dressed. She had pale primrose + hair, with bluish tones in it, very soft and fine, so that it lay + smooth however she dressed it, and pale-blue eyes, with + blond eyebrows and long, dark lashes. She would have been a + <a class="pagenum" id="page154" title="154"> </a>little too remote and languid even for the fastidious Percy had + it not been for her hard, practical mouth, with lips that always + kept their pink even when the rest of her face was pale. Her + employers, who at first might be struck by her indifference, + understood that anybody with that sort of mouth would get + through the work.</p> + + <p>After the shopping-lists had been gone over, Percy took up + the question of the honeymoon. Stella said she had been + thinking of Atlantic City. Percy met her with firmness. Whatever + happened, he couldn’t leave his books now.</p> + + <p>“I want to do my traveling right here on Forty-second + Street, with a high-price show every night,” he declared. He + made out an itinerary, punctuated by theaters and restaurants, + which Stella consented to accept as a substitute for Atlantic + City.</p> + + <p>“They give your fellows a week off when they’re married, + don’t they?” she asked.</p> + + <p>“Yes, but I’ll want to drop into the office every morning to + look after my mail. That’s only businesslike.”</p> + + <p>“I’d like to have you treated as well as the others, though.” + Stella turned the rings about on her pale hand and looked at + her polished finger-tips.</p> + + <p>“I’ll look out for that. What do you say to a little walk, + Stell’?” Percy put the question coaxingly. When Stella was + pleased with him she went to walk with him, since that was + the only way in which Percy could ever see her alone. When + she was displeased, she said she was too tired to go out. To-night + she smiled at him incredulously, and went to put on her + hat and gray fur piece.</p> + + <p>Once they were outside, Percy turned into a shadowy side + street that was only partly built up, a dreary waste of derricks + and foundation holes, but comparatively solitary. Stella liked + Percy’s steady, sympathetic silences; she was not a chatterbox + herself. She often wondered why she was going to marry + Bixby instead of Charley Greengay. She knew that Charley + would go further in the world. Indeed, she had often coolly + told herself that Percy would never go very far. But, as she + admitted with a shrug, she was “weak to Percy.” In the capable + New York stenographer, who estimated values coldly and + got the most for the least outlay, there was something left + <a class="pagenum" id="page155" title="155"> </a>that belonged to another kind of woman—something that + liked the very things in Percy that were not good business + assets. However much she dwelt upon the effectiveness of + Greengay’s dash and color and assurance, her mind always + came back to Percy’s neat little head, his clean-cut face, and + warm, clear, gray eyes, and she liked them better than Charley’s + fullness and blurred floridness. Having reckoned up their + respective chances with no doubtful result, she opposed a + mild obstinacy to her own good sense. “I guess I’ll take + Percy, <em>anyway</em>,” she said simply, and that was all the good her + clever business brain did her.</p> + + <hr class="thoughtbreak" /> + + <p class="post_thoughtbreak">Percy spent a night of torment, lying tense on his bed in the + dark, and figuring out how long it would take him to pay + back the money he was advancing to himself. Any fool could + do it in five years, he reasoned, but he was going to do it in + three. The trouble was that his expensive courtship had taken + every penny of his salary. With competitors like Charley + Greengay, you had to spend money or drop out. Certain + birds, he reflected ruefully, are supplied with more attractive + plumage when they are courting, but nature hadn’t been so + thoughtful for men. When Percy reached the office in the + morning he climbed on his tall stool and leaned his arms on + his ledger. He was so glad to feel it there that he was faint + and weak-kneed.</p> + + <hr class="thoughtbreak" /> + + <p class="post_thoughtbreak">Oliver Remsen, Junior, had brought new blood into the + Remsen Paper Company. He married shortly after Percy + Bixby did, and in the five succeeding years he had considerably + enlarged the company’s business and profits. He had + been particularly successful in encouraging efficiency and loyalty + in the employees. From the time he came into the office + he had stood for shorter hours, longer holidays, and a generous + consideration of men’s necessities. He came out of college + on the wave of economic reform, and he continued to read + and think a good deal about how the machinery of labor is + operated. He knew more about the men who worked for him + than their mere office records.</p> + + <p>Young Remsen was troubled about Percy Bixby because he + took no summer vacations—always asked for the two weeks’ + <a class="pagenum" id="page156" title="156"> </a>extra pay instead. Other men in the office had skipped a vacation + now and then, but Percy had stuck to his desk for five + years, had tottered to his stool through attacks of grippe and + tonsilitis. He seemed to have grown fast to his ledger, and it + was to this that Oliver objected. He liked his men to stay + men, to look like men and live like men. He remembered how + alert and wide-awake Bixby had seemed to him when he himself + first came into the office. He had picked Bixby out as the + most intelligent and interested of his father’s employees, and + since then had often wondered why he never seemed to see + chances to forge ahead. Promotions, of course, went to the + men who went after them. When Percy’s baby died, he went + to the funeral, and asked Percy to call on him if he needed + money. Once when he chanced to sit down by Bixby on the + elevated and found him reading Bryce’s “American Commonwealth,” + he asked him to make use of his own large office + library. Percy thanked him, but he never came for any books. + Oliver wondered whether his bookkeeper really tried to avoid + him.</p> + + <p>One evening Oliver met the Bixbys in the lobby of a theater. + He introduced Mrs. Remsen to them, and held them for + some moments in conversation. When they got into their motor, + Mrs. Remsen said:</p> + + <p>“Is that little man afraid of you, Oliver? He looked like a + scared rabbit.”</p> + + <p>Oliver snapped the door, and said with a shade of irritation:</p> + + <p>“I don’t know what’s the matter with him. He’s the fellow + I’ve told you about who never takes a vacation. I half believe + it’s his wife. She looks pitiless enough for anything.”</p> + + <p>“She’s very pretty of her kind,” mused Mrs. Remsen, “but + rather chilling. One can see that she has ideas about elegance.”</p> + + <p>“Rather unfortunate ones for a bookkeeper’s wife. I surmise + that Percy felt she was overdressed, and that made him + awkward with me. I’ve always suspected that fellow of good + taste.”</p> + + <p>After that, when Remsen passed the counting-room and + saw Percy screwed up over his ledger, he often remembered + Mrs. Bixby, with her cold, pale eyes and long lashes, and her + <a class="pagenum" id="page157" title="157"> </a>expression that was something between indifference and discontent. + She rose behind Percy’s bent shoulders like an apparition.</p> + + <p>One spring afternoon Remsen was closeted in his private + office with his lawyer until a late hour. As he came down the + long hall in the dusk he glanced through the glass partition + into the counting-room, and saw Percy Bixby huddled up on + his tall stool, though it was too dark to work. Indeed, Bixby’s + ledger was closed, and he sat with his two arms resting on the + brown cover. He did not move a muscle when young Remsen + entered.</p> + + <p>“You are late, Bixby, and so am I,” Oliver began genially as + he crossed to the front of the room and looked out at the + lighted windows of other tall buildings. “The fact is, I’ve + been doing something that men have a foolish way of putting + off. I’ve been making my will.”</p> + + <p>“Yes, sir.” Percy brought it out with a deep breath.</p> + + <p>“Glad to be through with it,” Oliver went on. “Mr. Melton + will bring the paper back to-morrow, and I’d like to ask you + to be one of the witnesses.”</p> + + <p>“I’d be very proud, Mr. Remsen.”</p> + + <p>“Thank you, Bixby. Good night.” Remsen took up his hat + just as Percy slid down from his stool.</p> + + <p>“Mr. Remsen, I’m told you’re going to have the books + gone over.”</p> + + <p>“Why, yes, Bixby. Don’t let that trouble you. I’m taking in + a new partner, you know, an old college friend. Just because + he is a friend, I insist upon all the usual formalities. But it is a + formality, and I’ll guarantee the expert won’t make a scratch + on your books. Good night. You’d better be coming, too.” + Remsen had reached the door when he heard “Mr. Remsen!” + in a desperate voice behind him. He turned, and saw Bixby + standing uncertainly at one end of the desk, his hand still on + his ledger, his uneven shoulders drooping forward and his + head hanging as if he were seasick. Remsen came back and + stood at the other end of the long desk. It was too dark to see + Bixby’s face clearly.</p> + + <p>“What is it, Bixby?”</p> + + <p>“Mr. Remsen, five years ago, just before I was married, I + falsified the books a thousand dollars, and I used the money.” + <a class="pagenum" id="page158" title="158"> </a>Percy leaned forward against his desk, which took him just + across the chest.</p> + + <p>“What’s that, Bixby?” Young Remsen spoke in a tone of + polite surprise. He felt painfully embarrassed.</p> + + <p>“Yes, sir. I thought I’d get it all paid back before this. I’ve + put back three hundred, but the books are still seven hundred + out of true. I’ve played the shortages about from account to + account these five years, but an expert would find ’em in + twenty-four hours.”</p> + + <p>“I don’t just understand how—” Oliver stopped and shook + his head.</p> + + <p>“I held it out of the Western remittances, Mr. Remsen. + They were coming in heavy just then. I was up against it. I + hadn’t saved anything to marry on, and my wife thought I + was getting more money than I was. Since we’ve been married, + I’ve never had the nerve to tell her. I could have paid it + all back if it hadn’t been for the unforeseen expenses.”</p> + + <p>Remsen sighed.</p> + + <p>“Being married is largely unforeseen expenses, Percy. + There’s only one way to fix this up: I’ll give you seven hundred + dollars in cash to-morrow, and you can give me your + personal note, with the understanding that I hold ten dollars + a week out of your pay-check until it is paid. I think you + ought to tell your wife exactly how you are fixed, though. You + can’t expect her to help you much when she doesn’t know.”</p> + + <hr class="thoughtbreak" /> + + <p class="post_thoughtbreak">That night Mrs. Bixby was sitting in their flat, waiting for + her husband. She was dressed for a bridge party, and often + looked with impatience from her paper to the Mission clock, + as big as a coffin and with nothing but two weights dangling + in its hollow framework. Percy had been loath to buy the + clock when they got their furniture, and he had hated it ever + since. Stella had changed very little since she came into the + flat a bride. Then she wore her hair in a Floradora pompadour; + now she wore it hooded close about her head like a + scarf, in a rather smeary manner, like an Impressionist’s + brush-work. She heard her husband come in and close the + door softly. While he was taking off his hat in the narrow + tunnel of a hall, she called to him:</p> + + <p>“I hope you’ve had something to eat down-town. You’ll + <a class="pagenum" id="page159" title="159"> </a>have to dress right away.” Percy came in and sat down. She + looked up from the evening paper she was reading. “You’ve + no time to sit down. We must start in fifteen minutes.”</p> + + <p>He shaded his eyes from the glaring overhead light.</p> + + <p>“I’m afraid I can’t go anywhere to-night. I’m all in.”</p> + + <p>Mrs. Bixby rattled her paper, and turned from the theatrical + page to the fashions.</p> + + <p>“You’ll feel better after you dress. We won’t stay late.”</p> + + <p>Her even persistence usually conquered her husband. She + never forgot anything she had once decided to do. Her + manner of following it up grew more chilly, but never + weaker. To-night there was no spring in Percy. He closed his + eyes and replied without moving:</p> + + <p>“I can’t go. You had better telephone the Burks we aren’t + coming. I have to tell you something disagreeable.”</p> + + <p>Stella rose.</p> + + <p>“I certainly am not going to disappoint the Burks and stay + at home to talk about anything disagreeable.”</p> + + <p>“You’re not very sympathetic, Stella.”</p> + + <p>She turned away.</p> + + <p>“If I were, you’d soon settle down into a pretty dull proposition. + We’d have no social life now if I didn’t keep at you.”</p> + + <p>Percy roused himself a little.</p> + + <p>“Social life? Well, we’ll have to trim that pretty close for a + while. I’m in debt to the company. We’ve been living beyond + our means ever since we were married.”</p> + + <p>“We can’t live on less than we do,” Stella said quietly. “No + use in taking that up again.”</p> + + <p>Percy sat up, clutching the arms of his chair.</p> + + <p>“We’ll have to take it up. I’m seven hundred dollars short, + and the books are to be audited to-morrow. I told young + Remsen and he’s going to take my note and hold the money + out of my pay-checks. He could send me to jail, of course.”</p> + + <p>Stella turned and looked down at him with a gleam of + interest.</p> + + <p>“Oh, you’ve been playing solitaire with the books, have + you? And he’s found you out! I hope I’ll never see that man + again. Sugar face!” She said this with intense acrimony. Her + forehead flushed delicately, and her eyes were full of hate. + Young Remsen was not her idea of a “business man.”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page160" title="160"> </a>Stella went into the other room. When she came back she + wore her evening coat and carried long gloves and a black + scarf. This she began to arrange over her hair before the mirror + above the false fireplace. Percy lay inert in the Morris chair + and watched her. Yes, he understood; it was very difficult for + a woman with hair like that to be shabby and to go without + things. Her hair made her conspicuous, and it had to be lived + up to. It had been the deciding factor in his fate.</p> + + <p>Stella caught the lace over one ear with a large gold hairpin. + She repeated this until she got a good effect. Then turning + to Percy, she began to draw on her gloves.</p> + + <p>“I’m not worrying any, because I’m going back into business,” + she said firmly. “I meant to, anyway, if you didn’t get a + raise the first of the year. I have the offer of a good position, + and we can live in an apartment hotel.”</p> + + <p>Percy was on his feet in an instant.</p> + + <p>“I won’t have you grinding in any office. That’s flat.”</p> + + <p>Stella’s lower lip quivered in a commiserating smile. “Oh, I + won’t lose my health. Charley Greengay’s a partner in his + concern now, and he wants a private secretary.”</p> + + <p>Percy drew back.</p> + + <p>“You can’t work for Greengay. He’s got too bad a reputation. + You’ve more pride than that, Stella.”</p> + + <p>The thin sweep of color he knew so well went over Stella’s + face.</p> + + <p>“His business reputation seems to be all right,” she commented, + working the kid on with her left hand.</p> + + <p>“What if it is?” Percy broke out. “He’s the cheapest kind of + a skate. He gets into scrapes with the girls in his own office. + The last one got into the newspapers, and he had to pay the + girl a wad.”</p> + + <p>“He don’t get into scrapes with his books, anyway, and he + seems to be able to stand getting into the papers. I excuse + Charley. His wife’s a pill.”</p> + + <p>“I suppose you think he’d have been all right if he’d married + you,” said Percy, bitterly.</p> + + <p>“Yes, I do.” Stella buttoned her glove with an air of + finishing something, and then looked at Percy without animosity. + “Charley and I both have sporty tastes, and we like + excitement. You might as well live in Newark if you’re going + <a class="pagenum" id="page161" title="161"> </a>to sit at home in the evening. You oughtn’t to have married a + business woman; you need somebody domestic. There’s + nothing in this sort of life for either of us.”</p> + + <p>“That means, I suppose, that you’re going around with + Greengay and his crowd?”</p> + + <p>“Yes, that’s my sort of crowd, and you never did fit into it. + You’re too intellectual. I’ve always been proud of you, Percy. + You’re better style than Charley, but that gets tiresome. You + will never burn much red fire in New York, now, will you?”</p> + + <p>Percy did not reply. He sat looking at the minute-hand of + the eviscerated Mission clock. His wife almost never took the + trouble to argue with him.</p> + + <p>“You’re old style, Percy,” she went on. “Of course everybody + marries and wishes they hadn’t, but nowadays people + get over it. Some women go ahead on the quiet, but I’m + giving it to you straight. I’m going to work for Greengay. I + like his line of business, and I meet people well. Now I’m + going to the Burks’.”</p> + + <p>Percy dropped his hands limply between his knees.</p> + + <p>“I suppose,” he brought out, “the real trouble is that + you’ve decided my earning power is not very great.”</p> + + <p>“That’s part of it, and part of it is you’re old-fashioned.” + Stella paused at the door and looked back. “What made you + rush me, anyway, Percy?” she asked indulgently. “What did + you go and pretend to be a spender and get tied up with me + for?”</p> + + <p>“I guess everybody wants to be a spender when he’s in + love,” Percy replied.</p> + + <p>Stella shook her head mournfully.</p> + + <p>“No, you’re a spender or you’re not. Greengay has been + broke three times, fired, down and out, black-listed. But he’s + always come back, and he always will. You will never be fired, + but you’ll always be poor.” She turned and looked back again + before she went out.</p> + + <hr class="thoughtbreak" /> + + <p class="post_thoughtbreak">Six months later Bixby came to young Oliver Remsen one + afternoon and said he would like to have twenty dollars a + week held out of his pay until his debt was cleared off.</p> + + <p>Oliver looked up at his sallow employee and asked him + how he could spare as much as that.</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page162" title="162"> </a>“My expenses are lighter,” Bixby replied. “My wife has + gone into business with a ready-to-wear firm. She is not living + with me any more.”</p> + + <p>Oliver looked annoyed, and asked him if nothing could be + done to readjust his domestic affairs. Bixby said no; they + would probably remain as they were.</p> + + <p>“But where are you living, Bixby? How have you arranged + things?” the young man asked impatiently.</p> + + <p>“I’m very comfortable. I live in a boarding-house and have + my own furniture. There are several fellows there who are + fixed the same way. Their wives went back into business, and + they drifted apart.”</p> + + <p>With a baffled expression Remsen stared at the uneven + shoulders under the skin-fitting alpaca desk coat as his bookkeeper + went out. He had meant to do something for Percy, + but somehow, he reflected, one never did do anything for a + fellow who had been stung as hard as that.</p> + + <p class="source"><cite>Century</cite>, May 1916</p> + + </div> + <div id="ardessa" class="story"><a class="pagenum" id="page163" title="163"> </a> + <h3 class="story_title">Ardessa <a class="return_toc" href="#contents" title="Return to Contents">ToC</a></h3> + <p class="first_paragraph">The grand-mannered old man who sat at a desk in the + reception-room of “The Outcry” offices to receive visitors + and incidentally to keep the time-book of the employees, + looked up as Miss Devine entered at ten minutes past ten and + condescendingly wished him good morning. He bowed profoundly + as she minced past his desk, and with an indifferent + air took her course down the corridor that led to the editorial + offices. Mechanically he opened the flat, black book at his elbow + and placed his finger on D, running his eye along the + line of figures after the name Devine. “It’s banker’s hours she + keeps, indeed,” he muttered. What was the use of entering so + capricious a record? Nevertheless, with his usual preliminary + flourish he wrote 10:10 under this, the fourth day of May.</p> + + <p>The employee who kept banker’s hours rustled on down + the corridor to her private room, hung up her lavender jacket + and her trim spring hat, and readjusted her side combs by the + mirror inside her closet door. Glancing at her desk, she rang + for an office boy, and reproved him because he had not + dusted more carefully and because there were lumps in her + paste. When he disappeared with the paste-jar, she sat down + to decide which of her employer’s letters he should see and + which he should not.</p> + + <p>Ardessa was not young and she was certainly not handsome. + The coquettish angle at which she carried her head was + a mannerism surviving from a time when it was more becoming. + She shuddered at the cold candor of the new business + woman, and was insinuatingly feminine.</p> + + <p>Ardessa’s employer, like young Lochinvar, had come out of + the West, and he had done a great many contradictory things + before he became proprietor and editor of “The Outcry.” + Before he decided to go to New York and make the East + take notice of him, O’Mally had acquired a punctual, reliable + silver-mine in South Dakota. This silent friend in the background + made his journalistic success comparatively easy. He + had figured out, when he was a rich nobody in Nevada, that + the quickest way to cut into the known world was through + <a class="pagenum" id="page164" title="164"> </a>the printing-press. He arrived in New York, bought a highly + respectable publication, and turned it into a red-hot magazine + of protest, which he called “The Outcry.” He knew what the + West wanted, and it proved to be what everybody secretly + wanted. In six years he had done the thing that had hitherto + seemed impossible: built up a national weekly, out on the + news-stands the same day in New York and San Francisco; a + magazine the people howled for, a moving-picture film of + their real tastes and interests.</p> + + <p>O’Mally bought “The Outcry” to make a stir, not to make + a career, but he had got built into the thing more than he ever + intended. It had made him a public man and put him into + politics. He found the publicity game diverting, and it held + him longer than any other game had ever done. He had built + up about him an organization of which he was somewhat + afraid and with which he was vastly bored. On his staff there + were five famous men, and he had made every one of them. + At first it amused him to manufacture celebrities. He found + he could take an average reporter from the daily press, give + him a “line” to follow, a trust to fight, a vice to expose,—this + was all in that good time when people were eager to read + about their own wickedness,—and in two years the reporter + would be recognized as an authority. Other people—Napoleon, + Disraeli, Sarah Bernhardt—had discovered that advertising + would go a long way; but Marcus O’Mally discovered + that in America it would go all the way—as far as you wished + to pay its passage. Any human countenance, plastered in + three-sheet posters from sea to sea, would be revered by the + American people. The strangest thing was that the owners of + these grave countenances, staring at their own faces on newsstands + and billboards, fell to venerating themselves; and even + he, O’Mally, was more or less constrained by these reputations + that he had created out of cheap paper and cheap ink.</p> + + <p>Constraint was the last thing O’Mally liked. The most engaging + and unusual thing about the man was that he couldn’t + be fooled by the success of his own methods, and no amount + of “recognition” could make a stuffed shirt of him. No matter + how much he was advertised as a great medicine-man in the + councils of the nation, he knew that he was a born gambler + and a soldier of fortune. He left his dignified office to take + <a class="pagenum" id="page165" title="165"> </a>care of itself for a good many months of the year while he + played about on the outskirts of social order. He liked being a + great man from the East in rough-and-tumble Western cities + where he had once been merely an unconsidered spender.</p> + + <p>O’Mally’s long absences constituted one of the supreme advantages + of Ardessa Devine’s position. When he was at his + post her duties were not heavy, but when he was giving balls + in Goldfield, Nevada, she lived an ideal life. She came to the + office every day, indeed, to forward such of O’Mally’s letters + as she thought best, to attend to his club notices and tradesmen’s + bills, and to taste the sense of her high connections. + The great men of the staff were all about her, as contemplative + as Buddhas in their private offices, each meditating upon + the particular trust or form of vice confided to his care. Thus + surrounded, Ardessa had a pleasant sense of being at the heart + of things. It was like a mental massage, exercise without exertion. + She read and she embroidered. Her room was pleasant, + and she liked to be seen at ladylike tasks and to feel herself a + graceful contrast to the crude girls in the advertising and + circulation departments across the hall. The younger stenographers, + who had to get through with the enormous office + correspondence, and who rushed about from one editor to + another with wire baskets full of letters, made faces as they + passed Ardessa’s door and saw her cool and cloistered, + daintily plying her needle. But no matter how hard the other + stenographers were driven, no one, not even one of the + five oracles of the staff, dared dictate so much as a letter to + Ardessa. Like a sultan’s bride, she was inviolate in her lord’s + absence; she had to be kept for him.</p> + + <p>Naturally the other young women employed in “The Outcry” + offices disliked Miss Devine. They were all competent + girls, trained in the exacting methods of modern business, and + they had to make good every day in the week, had to get + through with a great deal of work or lose their position. + O’Mally’s private secretary was a mystery to them. Her exemptions + and privileges, her patronizing remarks, formed an + exhaustless subject of conversation at the lunch-hour. Ardessa + had, indeed, as they knew she must have, a kind of “purchase” + on her employer.</p> + + <p>When O’Mally first came to New York to break into publicity, + <a class="pagenum" id="page166" title="166"> </a>he engaged Miss Devine upon the recommendation of + the editor whose ailing publication he bought and rechristened. + That editor was a conservative, scholarly gentleman of + the old school, who was retiring because he felt out of place + in the world of brighter, breezier magazines that had been + flowering since the new century came in. He believed that in + this vehement world young O’Mally would make himself + heard and that Miss Devine’s training in an editorial office + would be of use to him.</p> + + <p>When O’Mally first sat down at a desk to be an editor, all + the cards that were brought in looked pretty much alike to + him. Ardessa was at his elbow. She had long been steeped in + literary distinctions and in the social distinctions which used + to count for much more than they do now. She knew all the + great men, all the nephews and clients of great men. She + knew which must be seen, which must be made welcome, and + which could safely be sent away. She could give O’Mally on + the instant the former rating in magazine offices of nearly + every name that was brought in to him. She could give him + an idea of the man’s connections, of the price his work commanded, + and insinuate whether he ought to be met with the + old punctiliousness or with the new joviality. She was useful + in explaining to her employer the significance of various invitations, + and the standing of clubs and associations. At first she + was virtually the social mentor of the bullet-headed young + Westerner who wanted to break into everything, the solitary + person about the office of the humming new magazine who + knew anything about the editorial traditions of the eighties + and nineties which, antiquated as they now were, gave an + editor, as O’Mally said, a background.</p> + + <p>Despite her indolence, Ardessa was useful to O’Mally as a + social reminder. She was the card catalogue of his ever-changing + personal relations. O’Mally went in for everything + and got tired of everything; that was why he made a good + editor. After he was through with people, Ardessa was very + skilful in covering his retreat. She read and answered the letters + of admirers who had begun to bore him. When great + authors, who had been dined and fêted the month before, + were suddenly left to cool their heels in the reception-room, + thrown upon the suave hospitality of the grand old man at + <a class="pagenum" id="page167" title="167"> </a>the desk, it was Ardessa who went out and made soothing + and plausible explanations as to why the editor could not see + them. She was the brake that checked the too-eager neophyte, + the emollient that eased the severing of relationships, the gentle + extinguisher of the lights that failed. When there were no + longer messages of hope and cheer to be sent to ardent young + writers and reformers, Ardessa delivered, as sweetly as possible, + whatever messages were left.</p> + + <p>In handling these people with whom O’Mally was quite + through, Ardessa had gradually developed an industry which + was immensely gratifying to her own vanity. Not only did she + not crush them; she even fostered them a little. She continued + to advise them in the reception-room and “personally” received + their manuscripts long after O’Mally had declared that + he would never read another line they wrote. She let them + outline their plans for stories and articles to her, promising to + bring these suggestions to the editor’s attention. She denied + herself to nobody, was gracious even to the Shakspere-Bacon + man, the perpetual-motion man, the travel-article man, the + ghosts which haunt every magazine office. The writers who + had had their happy hour of O’Mally’s favor kept feeling that + Ardessa might reinstate them. She answered their letters of + inquiry in her most polished and elegant style, and even gave + them hints as to the subjects in which the restless editor was + or was not interested at the moment: she feared it would be + useless to send him an article on “How to Trap Lions,” because + he had just bought an article on “Elephant-Shooting in + Majuba Land,” etc.</p> + + <p>So when O’Mally plunged into his office at 11:30 on this, + the fourth day of May, having just got back from three-days’ + fishing, he found Ardessa in the reception-room, surrounded + by a little court of discards. This was annoying, for he always + wanted his stenographer at once. Telling the office boy to give + her a hint that she was needed, he threw off his hat and topcoat + and began to race through the pile of letters Ardessa had + put on his desk. When she entered, he did not wait for her + polite inquiries about his trip, but broke in at once.</p> + + <p>“What is that fellow who writes about phossy jaw still + hanging round here for? I don’t want any articles on phossy + jaw, and if I did, I wouldn’t want his.”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page168" title="168"> </a>“He has just sold an article on the match industry to ‘The + New Age,’ Mr. O’Mally,” Ardessa replied as she took her seat + at the editor’s right.</p> + + <p>“Why does he have to come and tell us about it? We’ve + nothing to do with ‘The New Age.’ And that prison-reform + guy, what’s he loafing about for?”</p> + + <p>Ardessa bridled.</p> + + <p>“You remember, Mr. O’Mally, he brought letters of introduction + from Governor Harper, the reform Governor of + Mississippi.”</p> + + <p>O’Mally jumped up, kicking over his waste-basket in his + impatience.</p> + + <p>“That was months ago. I went through his letters and went + through him, too. He hasn’t got anything we want. I’ve been + through with Governor Harper a long while. We’re asleep at + the switch in here. And let me tell you, if I catch sight of that + causes-of-blindness-in-babies woman around here again, I’ll + do something violent. Clear them out, Miss Devine! Clear + them out! We need a traffic policeman in this office. Have you + got that article on ‘Stealing Our National Water Power’ ready + for me?”</p> + + <p>“Mr. Gerrard took it back to make modifications. He gave + it to me at noon on Saturday, just before the office closed. I + will have it ready for you to-morrow morning, Mr. O’Mally, + if you have not too many letters for me this afternoon,” Ardessa + replied pointedly.</p> + + <p>“Holy Mike!” muttered O’Mally, “we need a traffic policeman + for the staff, too. Gerrard’s modified that thing half a + dozen times already. Why don’t they get accurate information + in the first place?”</p> + + <p>He began to dictate his morning mail, walking briskly up + and down the floor by way of giving his stenographer an energetic + example. Her indolence and her ladylike deportment + weighed on him. He wanted to take her by the elbows and + run her around the block. He didn’t mind that she loafed + when he was away, but it was becoming harder and harder to + speed her up when he was on the spot. He knew his correspondence + was not enough to keep her busy, so when he was + in town he made her type his own breezy editorials and various + articles by members of his staff.</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page169" title="169"> </a>Transcribing editorial copy is always laborious, and the + only way to make it easy is to farm it out. This Ardessa was + usually clever enough to do. When she returned to her own + room after O’Mally had gone out to lunch, Ardessa rang for + an office boy and said languidly, “James, call Becky, please.”</p> + + <p>In a moment a thin, tense-faced Hebrew girl of eighteen or + nineteen came rushing in, carrying a wire basket full of typewritten + sheets. She was as gaunt as a plucked spring chicken, + and her cheap, gaudy clothes might have been thrown on her. + She looked as if she were running to catch a train and in + mortal dread of missing it. While Miss Devine examined the + pages in the basket, Becky stood with her shoulders drawn up + and her elbows drawn in, apparently trying to hide herself in + her insufficient open-work waist. Her wild, black eyes followed + Miss Devine’s hands desperately. Ardessa sighed.</p> + + <p>“This seems to be very smeary copy again, Becky. You + don’t keep your mind on your work, and so you have to erase + continually.”</p> + + <p>Becky spoke up in wailing self-vindication.</p> + + <p>“It ain’t that, Miss Devine. It’s so many hard words he uses + that I have to be at the dictionary all the time. Look! Look!” + She produced a bunch of manuscript faintly scrawled in pencil, + and thrust it under Ardessa’s eyes. “He don’t write out the + words at all. He just begins a word, and then makes waves for + you to guess.”</p> + + <p>“I see you haven’t always guessed correctly, Becky,” said + Ardessa, with a weary smile. “There are a great many words + here that would surprise Mr. Gerrard, I am afraid.”</p> + + <p>“And the inserts,” Becky persisted. “How is anybody to tell + where they go, Miss Devine? It’s mostly inserts; see, all over + the top and sides and back.”</p> + + <p>Ardessa turned her head away.</p> + + <p>“Don’t claw the pages like that, Becky. You make me nervous. + Mr. Gerrard has not time to dot his i’s and cross his t’s. + That is what we keep copyists for. I will correct these sheets + for you,—it would be terrible if Mr. O’Mally saw them,—and + then you can copy them over again. It must be done by + to-morrow morning, so you may have to work late. See that + your hands are clean and dry, and then you will not smear it.”</p> + + <p>“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, Miss Devine. Will you tell the + <a class="pagenum" id="page170" title="170"> </a>janitor, please, it’s all right if I have to stay? He was cross + because I was here Saturday afternoon doing this. He said it + was a holiday, and when everybody else was gone I ought + to—”</p> + + <p>“That will do, Becky. Yes, I will speak to the janitor for + you. You may go to lunch now.”</p> + + <p>Becky turned on one heel and then swung back.</p> + + <p>“Miss Devine,” she said anxiously, “will it be all right if I + get white shoes for now?”</p> + + <p>Ardessa gave her kind consideration.</p> + + <p>“For office wear, you mean? No, Becky. With only one + pair, you could not keep them properly clean; and black shoes + are much less conspicuous. Tan, if you prefer.”</p> + + <p>Becky looked down at her feet. They were too large, and + her skirt was as much too short as her legs were too long.</p> + + <p>“Nearly all the girls I know wear white shoes to business,” + she pleaded.</p> + + <p>“They are probably little girls who work in factories or department + stores, and that is quite another matter. Since you + raise the question, Becky, I ought to speak to you about your + new waist. Don’t wear it to the office again, please. Those + cheap open-work waists are not appropriate in an office like + this. They are all very well for little chorus girls.”</p> + + <p>“But Miss Kalski wears expensive waists to business more + open than this, and jewelry—”</p> + + <p>Ardessa interrupted. Her face grew hard.</p> + + <p>“Miss Kalski,” she said coldly, “works for the business department. + You are employed in the editorial offices. There is a + great difference. You see, Becky, I might have to call you in + here at any time when a scientist or a great writer or the + president of a university is here talking over editorial matters, + and such clothes as you have on to-day would make a bad + impression. Nearly all our connections are with important + people of that kind, and we ought to be well, but quietly, + dressed.”</p> + + <p>“Yes, Miss Devine. Thank you,” Becky gasped and disappeared. + Heaven knew she had no need to be further impressed + with the greatness of “The Outcry” office. During + the year and a half she had been there she had never ceased to + tremble. She knew the prices all the authors got as well as + <a class="pagenum" id="page171" title="171"> </a>Miss Devine did, and everything seemed to her to be done on + a magnificent scale. She hadn’t a good memory for long technical + words, but she never forgot dates or prices or initials or + telephone numbers.</p> + + <p>Becky felt that her job depended on Miss Devine, and she + was so glad to have it that she scarcely realized she was being + bullied. Besides, she was grateful for all that she had learned + from Ardessa; Ardessa had taught her to do most of the + things that she was supposed to do herself. Becky wanted to + learn, she had to learn; that was the train she was always running + for. Her father, Isaac Tietelbaum, the tailor, who pressed + Miss Devine’s skirts and kept her ladylike suits in order, had + come to his client two years ago and told her he had a bright + girl just out of a commercial high school. He implored Ardessa + to find some office position for his daughter. Ardessa told + an appealing story to O’Mally, and brought Becky into the + office, at a salary of six dollars a week, to help with the copying + and to learn business routine. When Becky first came she + was as ignorant as a young savage. She was rapid at her shorthand + and typing, but a Kafir girl would have known as much + about the English language. Nobody ever wanted to learn + more than Becky. She fairly wore the dictionary out. She dug + up her old school grammar and worked over it at night. She + faithfully mastered Miss Devine’s fussy system of punctuation.</p> + + <p>There were eight children at home, younger than Becky, + and they were all eager to learn. They wanted to get their + mother out of the three dark rooms behind the tailor shop + and to move into a flat up-stairs, where they could, as Becky + said, “live private.” The young Tietelbaums doubted their father’s + ability to bring this change about, for the more things + he declared himself ready to do in his window placards, the + fewer were brought to him to be done. “Dyeing, Cleaning, + Ladies’ Furs Remodeled”—it did no good.</p> + + <p>Rebecca was out to “improve herself,” as her father had + told her she must. Ardessa had easy way with her. It was one + of those rare relationships from which both persons profit. + The more Becky could learn from Ardessa, the happier she + was; and the more Ardessa could unload on Becky, the + greater was her contentment. She easily broke Becky of the + gum-chewing habit, taught her to walk quietly, to efface herself + <a class="pagenum" id="page172" title="172"> </a>at the proper moment, and to hold her tongue. Becky had + been raised to eight dollars a week; but she didn’t care half so + much about that as she did about her own increasing efficiency. + The more work Miss Devine handed over to her the + happier she was, and the faster she was able to eat it up. She + tested and tried herself in every possible way. She now had + full confidence that she would surely one day be a high-priced + stenographer, a real “business woman.”</p> + + <p>Becky would have corrupted a really industrious person, + but a bilious temperament like Ardessa’s couldn’t make even + a feeble stand against such willingness. Ardessa had grown + soft and had lost the knack of turning out work. Sometimes, + in her importance and serenity, she shivered. What if O’Mally + should die, and she were thrust out into the world to work in + competition with the brazen, competent young women she + saw about her everywhere? She believed herself indispensable, + but she knew that in such a mischanceful world as this the + very powers of darkness might rise to separate her from this + pearl among jobs.</p> + + <p>When Becky came in from lunch she went down the long hall + to the wash-room, where all the little girls who worked in + the advertising and circulation departments kept their hats + and jackets. There were shelves and shelves of bright spring + hats, piled on top of one another, all as stiff as sheet-iron and + trimmed with gay flowers. At the marble wash-stand stood + Rena Kalski, the right bower of the business manager, polishing + her diamond rings with a nail-brush.</p> + + <p>“Hullo, kid,” she called over her shoulder to Becky. “I’ve + got a ticket for you for Thursday afternoon.”</p> + + <p>Becky’s black eyes glowed, but the strained look on her + face drew tighter than ever.</p> + + <p>“I’ll never ask her, Miss Kalski,” she said rapidly. “I don’t + dare. I have to stay late to-night again; and I know she’d be + hard to please after, if I was to try to get off on a week-day. I + thank you, Miss Kalski, but I’d better not.”</p> + + <p>Miss Kalski laughed. She was a slender young Hebrew, + handsome in an impudent, Tenderloin sort of way, with a + small head, reddish-brown almond eyes, a trifle tilted, a rapacious + mouth, and a beautiful chin.</p> + + <p>“Ain’t you under that woman’s thumb, though! Call her + <a class="pagenum" id="page173" title="173"> </a>bluff. She isn’t half the prima donna she thinks she is. On my + side of the hall we know who’s who about this place.”</p> + + <p>The business and editorial departments of “The Outcry” + were separated by a long corridor and a great contempt. Miss + Kalski dried her rings with tissue-paper and studied them + with an appraising eye.</p> + + <p>“Well, since you’re such a ’fraidy-calf,’” she went on, + “maybe I can get a rise out of her myself. Now I’ve got you a + ticket out of that shirt-front, I want you to go. I’ll drop in on + Devine this afternoon.”</p> + + <p>When Miss Kalski went back to her desk in the business + manager’s private office, she turned to him familiarly, but not + impertinently.</p> + + <p>“Mr. Henderson, I want to send a kid over in the editorial + stenographers’ to the Palace Thursday afternoon. She’s a nice + kid, only she’s scared out of her skin all the time. Miss + Devine’s her boss, and she’ll be just mean enough not to let + the young one off. Would you say a word to her?”</p> + + <p>The business manager lit a cigar.</p> + + <p>“I’m not saying words to any of the high-brows over there. + Try it out with Devine yourself. You’re not bashful.”</p> + + <p>Miss Kalski shrugged her shoulders and smiled.</p> + + <p>“Oh, very well.” She serpentined out of the room and + crossed the Rubicon into the editorial offices. She found Ardessa + typing O’Mally’s letters and wearing a pained expression.</p> + + <p>“Good afternoon, Miss Devine,” she said carelessly. “Can + we borrow Becky over there for Thursday afternoon? We’re + short.”</p> + + <p>Miss Devine looked piqued and tilted her head.</p> + + <p>“I don’t think it’s customary, Miss Kalski, for the business + department to use our people. We never have girls enough + here to do the work. Of course if Mr. Henderson feels justified—”</p> + + <p>“Thanks awfully, Miss Devine,”—Miss Kalski interrupted + her with the perfectly smooth, good-natured tone which + never betrayed a hint of the scorn every line of her sinuous + figure expressed,—“I will tell Mr. Henderson. Perhaps we + can do something for you some day.” Whether this was a + threat, a kind wish, or an insinuation, no mortal could have + told. Miss Kalski’s face was always suggesting insolence without + <a class="pagenum" id="page174" title="174"> </a>being quite insolent. As she returned to her own domain + she met the cashier’s head clerk in the hall. “That Devine + woman’s a crime,” she murmured. The head clerk laughed + tolerantly.</p> + + <p>That afternoon as Miss Kalski was leaving the office at 5:15, + on her way down the corridor she heard a typewriter clicking + away in the empty, echoing editorial offices. She looked in, + and found Becky bending forward over the machine as if she + were about to swallow it.</p> + + <p>“Hello, kid. Do you sleep with that?” she called. She + walked up to Becky and glanced at her copy. “What do you + let ’em keep you up nights over that stuff for?” she asked + contemptuously. “The world wouldn’t suffer if that stuff + never got printed.”</p> + + <p>Rebecca looked up wildly. Not even Miss Kalski’s French + pansy hat or her ear-rings and landscape veil could loosen + Becky’s tenacious mind from Mr. Gerrard’s article on water + power. She scarcely knew what Miss Kalski had said to her, + certainly not what she meant.</p> + + <p>“But I must make progress already, Miss Kalski,” she + panted.</p> + + <p>Miss Kalski gave her low, siren laugh.</p> + + <p>“I should say you must!” she ejaculated.</p> + + <hr class="thoughtbreak" /> + + <p class="post_thoughtbreak">Ardessa decided to take her vacation in June, and she + arranged that Miss Milligan should do O’Mally’s work + while she was away. Miss Milligan was blunt and noisy, + rapid and inaccurate. It would be just as well for O’Mally to + work with a coarse instrument for a time; he would be more + appreciative, perhaps, of certain qualities to which he had + seemed insensible of late. Ardessa was to leave for East + Hampton on Sunday, and she spent Saturday morning instructing + her substitute as to the state of the correspondence. + At noon O’Mally burst into her room. All the morning he + had been closeted with a new writer of mystery-stories just + over from England.</p> + + <p>“Can you stay and take my letters this afternoon, Miss + Devine? You’re not leaving until to-morrow.”</p> + + <p>Ardessa pouted, and tilted her head at the angle he was + tired of.</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page175" title="175"> </a>“I’m sorry, Mr. O’Mally, but I’ve left all my shopping for + this afternoon. I think Becky Tietelbaum could do them for + you. I will tell her to be careful.”</p> + + <p>“Oh, all right.” O’Mally bounced out with a reflection of + Ardessa’s disdainful expression on his face. Saturday afternoon + was always a half-holiday, to be sure, but since she had + weeks of freedom when he was away—However—</p> + + <p>At two o’clock Becky Tietelbaum appeared at his door, clad + in the sober office suit which Miss Devine insisted she should + wear, her note-book in her hand, and so frightened that her + fingers were cold and her lips were pale. She had never taken + dictation from the editor before. It was a great and terrifying + occasion.</p> + + <p>“Sit down,” he said encouragingly. He began dictating + while he shook from his bag the manuscripts he had snatched + away from the amazed English author that morning. Presently + he looked up.</p> + + <p>“Do I go too fast?”</p> + + <p>“No, sir,” Becky found strength to say.</p> + + <p>At the end of an hour he told her to go and type as many + of the letters as she could while he went over the bunch of + stuff he had torn from the Englishman. He was with the + Hindu detective in an opium den in Shanghai when Becky + returned and placed a pile of papers on his desk.</p> + + <p>“How many?” he asked, without looking up.</p> + + <p>“All you gave me, sir.”</p> + + <p>“All, so soon? Wait a minute and let me see how many + mistakes.” He went over the letters rapidly, signing them as + he read. “They seem to be all right. I thought you were the + girl that made so many mistakes.”</p> + + <p>Rebecca was never too frightened to vindicate herself.</p> + + <p>“Mr. O’Mally, sir, I don’t make mistakes with letters. It’s + only copying the articles that have so many long words, and + when the writing isn’t plain, like Mr. Gerrard’s. I never make + many mistakes with Mr. Johnson’s articles, or with yours I + don’t.”</p> + + <p>O’Mally wheeled round in his chair, looked with curiosity + at her long, tense face, her black eyes, and straight brows.</p> + + <p>“Oh, so you sometimes copy articles, do you? How does + that happen?”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page176" title="176"> </a>“Yes, sir. Always Miss Devine gives me the articles to do. + It’s good practice for me.”</p> + + <p>“I see.” O’Mally shrugged his shoulders. He was thinking + that he could get a rise out of the whole American public any + day easier than he could get a rise out of Ardessa. “What + editorials of mine have you copied lately, for instance?”</p> + + <p>Rebecca blazed out at him, reciting rapidly:</p> + + <p>“Oh, ‘A Word about the Rosenbaums,’ ‘Useless Navy-Yards,’ + ‘Who Killed Cock Robin’—”</p> + + <p>“Wait a minute.” O’Mally checked her flow. “What was + that one about—Cock Robin?”</p> + + <p>“It was all about why the secretary of the interior dismissed—”</p> + + <p>“All right, all right. Copy those letters, and put them down + the chute as you go out. Come in here for a minute on Monday + morning.”</p> + + <p>Becky hurried home to tell her father that she had taken the + editor’s letters and had made no mistakes. On Monday she + learned that she was to do O’Mally’s work for a few days. He + disliked Miss Milligan, and he was annoyed with Ardessa for + trying to put her over on him when there was better material + at hand. With Rebecca he got on very well; she was impersonal, + unreproachful, and she fairly panted for work. Everything + was done almost before he told her what he wanted. + She raced ahead with him; it was like riding a good modern + bicycle after pumping along on an old hard tire.</p> + + <p>On the day before Miss Devine’s return O’Mally strolled + over for a chat with the business office.</p> + + <p>“Henderson, your people are taking vacations now, I suppose? + Could you use an extra girl?”</p> + + <p>“If it’s that thin black one, I can.”</p> + + <p>O’Mally gave him a wise smile.</p> + + <p>“It isn’t. To be honest, I want to put one over on you. I + want you to take Miss Devine over here for a while and speed + her up. I can’t do anything. She’s got the upper hand of me. I + don’t want to fire her, you understand, but she makes my life + too difficult. It’s my fault, of course. I’ve pampered her. Give + her a chance over here; maybe she’ll come back. You can be + firm with ’em, can’t you?”</p> + + <p>Henderson glanced toward the desk where Miss Kalski’s + <a class="pagenum" id="page177" title="177"> </a>lightning eye was skimming over the printing-house bills that + he was supposed to verify himself.</p> + + <p>“Well, if I can’t, I know who can,” he replied, with a + chuckle.</p> + + <p>“Exactly,” O’Mally agreed. “I’m counting on the force of + Miss Kalski’s example. Miss Devine’s all right, Miss Kalski, + but she needs regular exercise. She owes it to her complexion. + I can’t discipline people.”</p> + + <p>Miss Kalski’s only reply was a low, indulgent laugh.</p> + + <p>O’Mally braced himself on the morning of Ardessa’s return. + He told the waiter at his club to bring him a second pot of + coffee and to bring it hot. He was really afraid of her. When + she presented herself at his office at 10:30 he complimented + her upon her tan and asked about her vacation. Then he + broke the news to her.</p> + + <p>“We want to make a few temporary changes about here, + Miss Devine, for the summer months. The business department + is short of help. Henderson is going to put Miss Kalski + on the books for a while to figure out some economies for + him, and he is going to take you over. Meantime I’ll get + Becky broken in so that she could take your work if you were + sick or anything.”</p> + + <p>Ardessa drew herself up.</p> + + <p>“I’ve not been accustomed to commercial work, Mr. + O’Mally. I’ve no interest in it, and I don’t care to brush up in + it.”</p> + + <p>“Brushing up is just what we need, Miss Devine.” O’Mally + began tramping about his room expansively. “I’m going to + brush everybody up. I’m going to brush a few people out; + but I want you to stay with us, of course. You belong here. + Don’t be hasty now. Go to your room and think it over.”</p> + + <p>Ardessa was beginning to cry, and O’Mally was afraid he + would lose his nerve. He looked out of the window at a new + sky-scraper that was building, while she retired without a + word.</p> + + <p>At her own desk Ardessa sat down breathless and trembling. + The one thing she had never doubted was her unique + value to O’Mally. She had, as she told herself, taught him + everything. She would say a few things to Becky Tietelbaum, + and to that pigeon-breasted tailor, her father, too! The worst + <a class="pagenum" id="page178" title="178"> </a>of it was that Ardessa had herself brought it all about; she + could see that clearly now. She had carefully trained and qualified + her successor. Why had she ever civilized Becky? Why + had she taught her manners and deportment, broken her of + the gum-chewing habit, and made her presentable? In her + original state O’Mally would never have put up with her, no + matter what her ability.</p> + + <p>Ardessa told herself that O’Mally was notoriously fickle; + Becky amused him, but he would soon find out her limitations. + The wise thing, she knew, was to humor him; but it + seemed to her that she could not swallow her pride. Ardessa + grew yellower within the hour. Over and over in her mind + she bade O’Mally a cold adieu and minced out past the grand + old man at the desk for the last time. But each exit she rehearsed + made her feel sorrier for herself. She thought over all + the offices she knew, but she realized that she could never + meet their inexorable standards of efficiency.</p> + + <p>While she was bitterly deliberating, O’Mally himself wandered + in, rattling his keys nervously in his pocket. He shut the + door behind him.</p> + + <p>“Now, you’re going to come through with this all right, + aren’t you, Miss Devine? I want Henderson to get over the + notion that my people over here are stuck up and think the + business department are old shoes. That’s where we get our + money from, as he often reminds me. You’ll be the best-paid + girl over there; no reduction, of course. You don’t want to go + wandering off to some new office where personality doesn’t + count for anything.” He sat down confidentially on the edge + of her desk. “Do you, now, Miss Devine?”</p> + + <p>Ardessa simpered tearfully as she replied.</p> + + <p>“Mr. O’Mally,” she brought out, “you’ll soon find that + Becky is not the sort of girl to meet people for you when you + are away. I don’t see how you can think of letting her.”</p> + + <p>“That’s one thing I want to change, Miss Devine. You’re + too soft-handed with the has-beens and the never-was-ers. + You’re too much of a lady for this rough game. Nearly everybody + who comes in here wants to sell us a gold-brick, and + you treat them as if they were bringing in wedding presents. + Becky is as rough as sandpaper, and she’ll clear out a lot of + dead wood.” O’Mally rose, and tapped Ardessa’s shrinking + <a class="pagenum" id="page179" title="179"> </a>shoulder. “Now, be a sport and go through with it, Miss + Devine. I’ll see that you don’t lose. Henderson thinks you’ll + refuse to do his work, so I want you to get moved in there + before he comes back from lunch. I’ve had a desk put in his + office for you. Miss Kalski is in the bookkeeper’s room half + the time now.”</p> + + <p>Rena Kalski was amazed that afternoon when a line + of office boys entered, carrying Miss Devine’s effects, and + when Ardessa herself coldly followed them. After Ardessa + had arranged her desk, Miss Kalski went over to her and + told her about some matters of routine very good-naturedly. + Ardessa looked pretty badly shaken up, and Rena bore no + grudges.</p> + + <p>“When you want the dope on the correspondence with the + paper men, don’t bother to look it up. I’ve got it all in my + head, and I can save time for you. If he wants you to go over + the printing bills every week, you’d better let me help you + with that for a while. I can stay almost any afternoon. It’s + quite a trick to figure out the plates and over-time charges till + you get used to it. I’ve worked out a quick method that saves + trouble.”</p> + + <p>When Henderson came in at three he found Ardessa, chilly, + but civil, awaiting his instructions. He knew she disapproved + of his tastes and his manners, but he didn’t mind. What interested + and amused him was that Rena Kalski, whom he + had always thought as cold-blooded as an adding-machine, + seemed to be making a hair-mattress of herself to break Ardessa’s + fall.</p> + + <p>At five o’clock, when Ardessa rose to go, the business manager + said breezily:</p> + + <p>“See you at nine in the morning, Miss Devine. We begin on + the stroke.”</p> + + <p>Ardessa faded out of the door, and Miss Kalski’s slender + back squirmed with amusement.</p> + + <p>“I never thought to hear such words spoken,” she admitted; + “but I guess she’ll limber up all right. The atmosphere is + bad over there. They get moldy.”</p> + + <hr class="thoughtbreak" /> + + <p class="post_thoughtbreak">After the next monthly luncheon of the heads of departments, + O’Mally said to Henderson, as he feed the coat-boy:</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page180" title="180"> </a>“By the way, how are you making it with the bartered + bride?”</p> + + <p>Henderson smashed on his Panama as he said:</p> + + <p>“Any time you want her back, don’t be delicate.”</p> + + <p>But O’Mally shook his red head and laughed.</p> + + <p>“Oh, I’m no Indian giver!”</p> + + <p class="source"><cite>Century</cite>, May 1918</p> + + </div> + <div id="boss" class="story"><a class="pagenum" id="page181" title="181"> </a> + <h3 class="story_title">Her Boss <a class="return_toc" href="#contents" title="Return to Contents">ToC</a></h3> + <h4>I</h4> + <p class="first_paragraph">Paul Wanning opened the front door of his house in + Orange, closed it softly behind him, and stood looking + about the hall as he drew off his gloves.</p> + + <p>Nothing was changed there since last night, and yet he + stood gazing about him with an interest which a long-married + man does not often feel in his own reception hall. The rugs, + the two pillars, the Spanish tapestry chairs, were all the same. + The Venus di Medici stood on her column as usual and there, + at the end of the hall (opposite the front door), was the full-length + portrait of Mrs. Wanning, maturely blooming forth in + an evening gown, signed with the name of a French painter + who seemed purposely to have made his signature indistinct. + Though the signature was largely what one paid for, one + couldn’t ask him to do it over.</p> + + <p>In the dining room the colored man was moving about + the table set for dinner, under the electric cluster. The candles + had not yet been lighted. Wanning watched him with a + homesick feeling in his heart. They had had Sam a long + while, twelve years, now. His warm hall, the lighted dining-room, + the drawing room where only the flicker of the wood + fire played upon the shining surfaces of many objects—they + seemed to Wanning like a haven of refuge. It had never + occurred to him that his house was too full of things. He + often said, and he believed, that the women of his household + had “perfect taste.” He had paid for these objects, sometimes + with difficulty, but always with pride. He carried a + heavy life-insurance and permitted himself to spend most of + the income from a good law practise. He wished, during his + life-time, to enjoy the benefits of his wife’s discriminating + extravagance.</p> + + <p>Yesterday Wanning’s doctor had sent him to a specialist. + Today the specialist, after various laboratory tests, had told + him most disconcerting things about the state of very necessary, + but hitherto wholly uninteresting, organs of his body.</p> + + <p>The information pointed to something incredible; insinuated + that his residence in this house was only temporary; that + <a class="pagenum" id="page182" title="182"> </a>he, whose time was so full, might have to leave not only his + house and his office and his club, but a world with which he + was extremely well satisfied—the only world he knew anything + about.</p> + + <p>Wanning unbuttoned his overcoat, but did not take it off. + He stood folding his muffler slowly and carefully. What he + did not understand was, how he could go while other people + stayed. Sam would be moving about the table like this, Mrs. + Wanning and her daughters would be dressing upstairs, when + he would not be coming home to dinner any more; when he + would not, indeed, be dining anywhere.</p> + + <p>Sam, coming to turn on the parlor lights, saw Wanning and + stepped behind him to take his coat.</p> + + <p>“Good evening, Mr. Wanning, sah, excuse me. You entahed + so quietly, sah, I didn’t heah you.”</p> + + <p>The master of the house slipped out of his coat and went + languidly upstairs.</p> + + <p>He tapped at the door of his wife’s room, which stood + ajar.</p> + + <p>“Come in, Paul,” she called from her dressing table.</p> + + <p>She was seated, in a violet dressing gown, giving the last + touches to her coiffure, both arms lifted. They were firm and + white, like her neck and shoulders. She was a handsome + woman of fifty-five,—still a woman, not an old person, Wanning + told himself, as he kissed her cheek. She was heavy in + figure, to be sure, but she had kept, on the whole, presentable + outlines. Her complexion was good, and she wore less false + hair than either of her daughters.</p> + + <p>Wanning himself was five years older, but his sandy hair did + not show the gray in it, and since his mustache had begun to + grow white he kept it clipped so short that it was unobtrusive. + His fresh skin made him look younger than he was. Not + long ago he had overheard the stenographers in his law office + discussing the ages of their employers. They had put him + down at fifty, agreeing that his two partners must be considerably + older than he—which was not the case. Wanning had + an especially kindly feeling for the little new girl, a copyist, + who had exclaimed that “Mr. Wanning couldn’t be fifty; he + seemed so boyish!”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page183" title="183"> </a>Wanning lingered behind his wife, looking at her in the + mirror.</p> + + <p>“Well, did you tell the girls, Julia?” he asked, trying to speak + casually.</p> + + <p>Mrs. Wanning looked up and met his eyes in the glass. + “The girls?”</p> + + <p>She noticed a strange expression come over his face.</p> + + <p>“About your health, you mean? Yes, dear, but I tried not to + alarm them. They feel dreadfully. I’m going to have a talk + with Dr. Seares myself. These specialists are all alarmists, and + I’ve often heard of his frightening people.”</p> + + <p>She rose and took her husband’s arm, drawing him toward + the fireplace.</p> + + <p>“You are not going to let this upset you, Paul? If you take + care of yourself, everything will come out all right. You have + always been so strong. One has only to look at you.”</p> + + <p>“Did you,” Wanning asked, “say anything to Harold?”</p> + + <p>“Yes, of course. I saw him in town today, and he agrees + with me that Seares draws the worst conclusions possible. He + says even the young men are always being told the most terrifying + things. Usually they laugh at the doctors and do as + they please. You certainly don’t look like a sick man, and you + don’t feel like one, do you?”</p> + + <p>She patted his shoulder, smiled at him encouragingly, and + rang for the maid to come and hook her dress.</p> + + <p>When the maid appeared at the door, Wanning went out + through the bathroom to his own sleeping chamber. He was + too much dispirited to put on a dinner coat, though such + remissness was always noticed. He sat down and waited for + the sound of the gong, leaving his door open, on the chance + that perhaps one of his daughters would come in.</p> + + <p>When Wanning went down to dinner he found his wife + already at her chair, and the table laid for four.</p> + + <p>“Harold,” she explained, “is not coming home. He has to + attend a first night in town.”</p> + + <p>A moment later their two daughters entered, obviously + “dressed.” They both wore earrings and masses of hair. The + daughters’ names were Roma and Florence,—Roma, Firenze, + one of the young men who came to the house often, but + <a class="pagenum" id="page184" title="184"> </a>not often enough, had called them. Tonight they were going + to a rehearsal of “The Dances of the Nations,”—a benefit + performance in which Miss Roma was to lead the Spanish + dances, her sister the Grecian.</p> + + <p>The elder daughter had often been told that her name + suited her admirably. She looked, indeed, as we are apt to + think the unrestrained beauties of later Rome must have + looked,—but as their portrait busts emphatically declare they + did not. Her head was massive, her lips full and crimson, + her eyes large and heavy-lidded, her forehead low. At costume + balls and in living pictures she was always Semiramis, + or Poppea, or Theodora. Barbaric accessories brought out + something cruel and even rather brutal in her handsome + face. The men who were attracted to her were somehow + afraid of her.</p> + + <p>Florence was slender, with a long, graceful neck, a restless + head, and a flexible mouth—discontent lurked about the corners + of it. Her shoulders were pretty, but her neck and arms + were too thin. Roma was always struggling to keep within a + certain weight—her chin and upper arms grew persistently + more solid—and Florence was always striving to attain a certain + weight. Wanning used sometimes to wonder why these + disconcerting fluctuations could not go the other way; why + Roma could not melt away as easily as did her sister, who had + to be sent to Palm Beach to save the precious pounds.</p> + + <p>“I don’t see why you ever put Rickie Allen in charge of the + English country dances,” Florence said to her sister, as they + sat down. “He knows the figures, of course, but he has no + real style.”</p> + + <p>Roma looked annoyed. Rickie Allen was one of the men + who came to the house almost often enough.</p> + + <p>“He is absolutely to be depended upon, that’s why,” she + said firmly.</p> + + <p>“I think he is just right for it, Florence,” put in Mrs. Wanning. + “It’s remarkable he should feel that he can give up the + time; such a busy man. He must be very much interested in + the movement.”</p> + + <p>Florence’s lip curled drolly under her soup spoon. She shot + an amused glance at her mother’s dignity.</p> + + <p>“Nothing doing,” her keen eyes seemed to say.</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page185" title="185"> </a>Though Florence was nearly thirty and her sister a little + beyond, there was, seriously, nothing doing. With so many + charms and so much preparation, they never, as Florence vulgarly + said, quite pulled it off. They had been rushed, time and + again, and Mrs. Wanning had repeatedly steeled herself to + bear the blow. But the young men went to follow a career in + Mexico or the Philippines, or moved to Yonkers, and escaped + without a mortal wound.</p> + + <p>Roma turned graciously to her father.</p> + + <p>“I met Mr. Lane at the Holland House today, where I was + lunching with the Burtons, father. He asked about you, and + when I told him you were not so well as usual, he said he + would call you up. He wants to tell you about some doctor he + discovered in Iowa, who cures everything with massage and + hot water. It sounds freakish, but Mr. Lane is a very clever + man, isn’t he?”</p> + + <p>“Very,” assented Wanning.</p> + + <p>“I should think he must be!” sighed Mrs. Wanning. “How + in the world did he make all that money, Paul? He didn’t + seem especially promising years ago, when we used to see so + much of them.”</p> + + <p>“Corporation business. He’s attorney for the P. L. and G.,” + murmured her husband.</p> + + <p>“What a pile he must have!” Florence watched the old negro’s + slow movements with restless eyes. “Here is Jenny, a + Contessa, with a glorious palace in Genoa that her father + must have bought her. Surely Aldrini had nothing. Have you + seen the baby count’s pictures, Roma? They’re very cunning. + I should think you’d go to Genoa and visit Jenny.”</p> + + <p>“We must arrange that, Roma. It’s such an opportunity.” + Though Mrs. Wanning addressed her daughter, she looked at + her husband. “You would get on so well among their friends. + When Count Aldrini was here you spoke Italian much better + than poor Jenny. I remember when we entertained him, he + could scarcely say anything to her at all.”</p> + + <p>Florence tried to call up an answering flicker of amusement + upon her sister’s calm, well-bred face. She thought her + mother was rather outdoing herself tonight,—since Aldrini + had at least managed to say the one important thing to Jenny, + somehow, somewhere. Jenny Lane had been Roma’s friend + <a class="pagenum" id="page186" title="186"> </a>and schoolmate, and the Count was an ephemeral hope in + Orange. Mrs. Wanning was one of the first matrons to declare + that she had no prejudices against foreigners, and at the dinners + that were given for the Count, Roma was always put + next him to act as interpreter.</p> + + <p>Roma again turned to her father.</p> + + <p>“If I were you, dear, I would let Mr. Lane tell me about his + doctor. New discoveries are often made by queer people.”</p> + + <p>Roma’s voice was low and sympathetic; she never lost her + dignity.</p> + + <p>Florence asked if she might have her coffee in her room, + while she dashed off a note, and she ran upstairs humming + “Bright Lights” and wondering how she was going to stand + her family until the summer scattering. Why could Roma + never throw off her elegant reserve and call things by their + names? She sometimes thought she might like her sister, if + she would only come out in the open and howl about her + disappointments.</p> + + <p>Roma, drinking her coffee deliberately, asked her father if + they might have the car early, as they wanted to pick up Mr. + Allen and Mr. Rydberg on their way to rehearsal.</p> + + <p>Wanning said certainly. Heaven knew he was not stingy + about his car, though he could never quite forget that in his + day it was the young men who used to call for the girls when + they went to rehearsals.</p> + + <p>“You are going with us, Mother?” Roma asked as they + rose.</p> + + <p>“I think so dear. Your father will want to go to bed early, + and I shall sleep better if I go out. I am going to town tomorrow + to pour tea for Harold. We must get him some new + silver, Paul. I am quite ashamed of his spoons.”</p> + + <p>Harold, the only son, was a playwright—as yet “unproduced”—and + he had a studio in Washington Square.</p> + + <p>A half-hour later, Wanning was alone in his library. He + would not permit himself to feel aggrieved. What was more + commendable than a mother’s interest in her children’s pleasures? + Moreover, it was his wife’s way of following things up, + of never letting die grass grow under her feet, that had helped + to push him along in the world. She was more ambitious than + <a class="pagenum" id="page187" title="187"> </a>he,—that had been good for him. He was naturally indolent, + and Julia’s childlike desire to possess material objects, to buy + what other people were buying, had been the spur that made + him go after business. It had, moreover, made his house the + attractive place he believed it to be.</p> + + <p>“Suppose,” his wife sometimes said to him when the bills + came in from Céleste or Mme. Blanche, “suppose you had + homely daughters; how would you like that?”</p> + + <p>He wouldn’t have liked it. When he went anywhere with + his three ladies, Wanning always felt very well done by. He + had no complaint to make about them, or about anything. + That was why it seemed so unreasonable—He felt along his + back incredulously with his hand. Harold, of course, was a + trial; but among all his business friends, he knew scarcely one + who had a promising boy.</p> + + <p>The house was so still that Wanning could hear a faint, metallic + tinkle from the butler’s pantry. Old Sam was washing + up the silver, which he put away himself every night.</p> + + <p>Wanning rose and walked aimlessly down the hall and out + through the dining-room.</p> + + <p>“Any Apollinaris on ice, Sam? I’m not feeling very well tonight.”</p> + + <p>The old colored man dried his hands.</p> + + <p>“Yessah, Mistah Wanning. Have a little rye with it, sah?”</p> + + <p>“No, thank you, Sam. That’s one of the things I can’t do + any more. I’ve been to see a big doctor in the city, and he tells + me there’s something seriously wrong with me. My kidneys + have sort of gone back on me.”</p> + + <p>It was a satisfaction to Wanning to name the organ that had + betrayed him, while all the rest of him was so sound.</p> + + <p>Sam was immediately interested. He shook his grizzled + head and looked full of wisdom.</p> + + <p>“Don’t seem like a gen’leman of such a temperate life ought + to have anything wrong thar, sah.”</p> + + <p>“No, it doesn’t, does it?”</p> + + <p>Wanning leaned against the china closet and talked to Sam + for nearly half an hour. The specialist who condemned him + hadn’t seemed half so much interested. There was not a detail + about the examination and the laboratory tests in which Sam + <a class="pagenum" id="page188" title="188"> </a>did not show the deepest concern. He kept asking Wanning if + he could remember “straining himself” when he was a young + man.</p> + + <p>“I’ve knowed a strain like that to sleep in a man for yeahs + and yeahs, and then come back on him, ’deed I have,” he said, + mysteriously. “An’ again, it might be you got a floatin’ kidney, + sah. Aftah dey once teah loose, dey sometimes don’t + make no trouble for quite a while.”</p> + + <p>When Wanning went to his room he did not go to bed. He + sat up until he heard the voices of his wife and daughters in + the hall below. His own bed somehow frightened him. In all + the years he had lived in this house he had never before + looked about his room, at that bed, with the thought that he + might one day be trapped there, and might not get out again. + He had been ill, of course, but his room had seemed a particularly + pleasant place for a sick man; sunlight, flowers,—agreeable, + well-dressed women coming in and out.</p> + + <p>Now there was something sinister about the bed itself, + about its position, and its relation to the rest of the furniture.</p> + + <h4>II</h4> + + <p>The next morning, on his way downtown, Wanning got off + the subway train at Astor Place and walked over to Washington + Square. He climbed three flights of stairs and knocked at + his son’s studio. Harold, dressed, with his stick and gloves in + his hand, opened the door. He was just going over to the + Brevoort for breakfast. He greeted his father with the cordial + familiarity practised by all the “boys” of his set, clapped him + on the shoulder and said in his light, tonsilitis voice:</p> + + <p>“Come in, Governor, how delightful! I haven’t had a call + from you in a long time.”</p> + + <p>He threw his hat and gloves on the writing table. He was a + perfect gentleman, even with his father.</p> + + <p>Florence said the matter with Harold was that he had heard + people say he looked like Byron, and stood for it.</p> + + <p>What Harold would stand for in such matters was, indeed, + the best definition of him. When he read his play “The Street + Walker” in drawing rooms and one lady told him it had the + poetic symbolism of Tchekhov, and another said that it suggested + <a class="pagenum" id="page189" title="189"> </a>the biting realism of Brieux, he never, in his most secret + thoughts, questioned the acumen of either lady. Harold’s + speech, even if you heard it in the next room and could not + see him, told you that he had no sense of the absurd,—a + throaty staccato, with never a downward inflection, trustfully + striving to please.</p> + + <p>“Just going out?” his father asked. “I won’t keep you. Your + mother told you I had a discouraging session with Seares?”</p> + + <p>“So awfully sorry you’ve had this bother, Governor; just as + sorry as I can be. No question about it’s coming out all right, + but it’s a downright nuisance, your having to diet and that + sort of thing. And I suppose you ought to follow directions, + just to make us all feel comfortable, oughtn’t you?” Harold + spoke with fluent sympathy.</p> + + <p>Wanning sat down on the arm of a chair and shook his + head. “Yes, they do recommend a diet, but they don’t promise + much from it.”</p> + + <p>Harold laughed precipitately. “Delicious! All doctors are, + aren’t they? So profound and oracular! The medicine-man; + it’s quite the same idea, you see; with tom-toms.”</p> + + <p>Wanning knew that Harold meant something subtle,—one + of the subtleties which he said were only spoiled by being + explained—so he came bluntly to one of the issues he had in + mind.</p> + + <p>“I would like to see you settled before I quit the harness, + Harold.”</p> + + <p>Harold was absolutely tolerant.</p> + + <p>He took out his cigarette case and burnished it with his + handkerchief.</p> + + <p>“I perfectly understand your point of view, dear Governor, + but perhaps you don’t altogether get mine. Isn’t it so? I am + settled. What you mean by being settled, would unsettle me, + completely. I’m cut out for just such an existence as this; to + live four floors up in an attic, get my own breakfast, and have + a charwoman to do for me. I should be awfully bored with an + establishment. I’m quite content with a little diggings like + this.”</p> + + <p>Wanning’s eyes fell. Somebody had to pay the rent of even + such modest quarters as contented Harold, but to say so + would be rude, and Harold himself was never rude. Wanning + <a class="pagenum" id="page190" title="190"> </a>did not, this morning, feel equal to hearing a statement of his + son’s uncommercial ideals.</p> + + <p>“I know,” he said hastily. “But now we’re up against hard + facts, my boy. I did not want to alarm your mother, but I’ve + had a time limit put on me, and it’s not a very long one.”</p> + + <p>Harold threw away the cigarette he had just lighted in a + burst of indignation.</p> + + <p>“That’s the sort of thing I consider criminal, Father, absolutely + criminal! What doctor has a right to suggest such a + thing? Seares himself may be knocked out tomorrow. What + have laboratory tests got to do with a man’s will to live? The + force of that depends upon his entire personality, not on any + organ or pair of organs.”</p> + + <p>Harold thrust his hands in his pockets and walked up and + down, very much stirred. “Really, I have a very poor opinion + of scientists. They ought to be made serve an apprenticeship + in art, to get some conception of the power of human motives. + Such brutality!”</p> + + <p>Harold’s plays dealt with the grimmest and most depressing + matters, but he himself was always agreeable, and he insisted + upon high cheerfulness as the correct tone of human + intercourse.</p> + + <p>Wanning rose and turned to go. There was, in Harold, simply + no reality, to which one could break through. The young + man took up his hat and gloves.</p> + + <p>“Must you go? Let me step along with you to the sub. The + walk will do me good.”</p> + + <p>Harold talked agreeably all the way to Astor Place. His + father heard little of what he said, but he rather liked his + company and his wish to be pleasant.</p> + + <p>Wanning went to his club for luncheon, meaning to spend + the afternoon with some of his friends who had retired from + business and who read the papers there in the empty hours + between two and seven. He got no satisfaction, however. + When he tried to tell these men of his present predicament, + they began to describe ills of their own in which he could not + feel interested. Each one of them had a treacherous organ of + which he spoke with animation, almost with pride, as if it + were a crafty business competitor whom he was constantly + <a class="pagenum" id="page191" title="191"> </a>outwitting. Each had a doctor, too, for whom he was ardently + soliciting business. They wanted either to telephone + their doctor and make an appointment for Wanning, or to + take him then and there to the consulting room. When he did + not accept these invitations, they lost interest in him and remembered + engagements. He called a taxi and returned to the + offices of McQuiston, Wade, and Wanning.</p> + + <p>Settled at his desk, Wanning decided that he would not + go home to dinner, but would stay at the office and dictate + a long letter to an old college friend who lived in Wyoming. + He could tell Douglas Brown things that he had not + succeeded in getting to any one else. Brown, out in the + Wind River mountains, couldn’t defend himself, couldn’t + slap Wanning on the back and tell him to gather up the sunbeams.</p> + + <p>He called up his house in Orange to say that he would not + be home until late. Roma answered the telephone. He spoke + mournfully, but she was not disturbed by it.</p> + + <p>“Very well, Father. Don’t get too tired,” she said in her well + modulated voice.</p> + + <p>When Wanning was ready to dictate his letter, he looked + out from his private office into the reception room and saw + that his stenographer in her hat and gloves, and furs of the + newest cut, was just leaving.</p> + + <p>“Goodnight, Mr. Wanning,” she said, drawing down her + dotted veil.</p> + + <p>Had there been important business letters to be got off on + the night mail, he would have felt that he could detain her, + but not for anything personal. Miss Doane was an expert + legal stenographer, and she knew her value. The slightest + delay in dispatching office business annoyed her. Letters that + were not signed until the next morning awoke her deepest + contempt. She was scrupulous in professional etiquette, and + Wanning felt that their relations, though pleasant, were + scarcely cordial.</p> + + <p>As Miss Doane’s trim figure disappeared through the outer + door, little Annie Wooley, the copyist, came in from the stenographers’ + room. Her hat was pinned over one ear, and she + was scrambling into her coat as she came, holding her gloves + <a class="pagenum" id="page192" title="192"> </a>in her teeth and her battered handbag in the fist that was + already through a sleeve.</p> + + <p>“Annie, I wanted to dictate a letter. You were just leaving, + weren’t you?”</p> + + <p>“Oh, I don’t mind!” she answered cheerfully, and pulling + off her old coat, threw it on a chair. “I’ll get my book.”</p> + + <p>She followed him into his room and sat down by a table,—though + she wrote with her book on her knee.</p> + + <p>Wanning had several times kept her after office hours to + take his private letters for him, and she had always been good-natured + about it. On each occasion, when he gave her a dollar + to get her dinner, she protested, laughing, and saying that she + could never eat so much as that.</p> + + <p>She seemed a happy sort of little creature, didn’t pout when + she was scolded, and giggled about her own mistakes in spelling. + She was plump and undersized, always dodging under + the elbows of taller people and clattering about on high heels, + much run over. She had bright black eyes and fuzzy black hair + in which, despite Miss Doane’s reprimands, she often stuck + her pencil. She was the girl who couldn’t believe that Wanning + was fifty, and he had liked her ever since he overheard + that conversation.</p> + + <p>Tilting back his chair—he never assumed this position + when he dictated to Miss Doane—Wanning began: “To Mr. + D. E. Brown, South Forks, Wyoming.”</p> + + <p>He shaded his eyes with his hand and talked off a long + letter to this man who would be sorry that his mortal frame + was breaking up. He recalled to him certain fine months they + had spent together on the Wind River when they were young + men, and said he sometimes wished that like D. E. Brown, he + had claimed his freedom in a big country where the wheels + did not grind a man as hard as they did in New York. He had + spent all these years hustling about and getting ready to live + the way he wanted to live, and now he had a puncture the + doctors couldn’t mend. What was the use of it?</p> + + <p>Wanning’s thoughts were fixed on the trout streams and + the great silver-firs in the canyons of the Wind River Mountains, + when he was disturbed by a soft, repeated sniffling. He + looked out between his fingers. Little Annie, carried away by + his eloquence, was fairly panting to make dots and dashes fast + <a class="pagenum" id="page193" title="193"> </a>enough, and she was sopping her eyes with an unpresentable, + end-of-the-day handkerchief.</p> + + <p>Wanning rambled on in his dictation. Why was she crying? + What did it matter to her? He was a man who said good-morning + to her, who sometimes took an hour of the precious + few she had left at the end of the day and then complained + about her bad spelling. When the letter was finished, he + handed her a new two dollar bill.</p> + + <p>“I haven’t got any change tonight; and anyhow, I’d like + you to eat a whole lot. I’m on a diet, and I want to see everybody + else eat.”</p> + + <p>Annie tucked her notebook under her arm and stood looking + at the bill which she had not taken up from the table.</p> + + <p>“I don’t like to be paid for taking letters to your friends, + Mr. Wanning,” she said impulsively. “I can run personal letters + off between times. It ain’t as if I needed the money,” she + added carelessly.</p> + + <p>“Get along with you! Anybody who is eighteen years old + and has a sweet tooth needs money, all they can get.”</p> + + <p>Annie giggled and darted out with the bill in her hand.</p> + + <p>Wanning strolled aimlessly after her into the reception + room.</p> + + <p>“Let me have that letter before lunch tomorrow, please, + and be sure that nobody sees it.” He stopped and frowned. “I + don’t look very sick, do I?”</p> + + <p>“I should say you don’t!” Annie got her coat on after considerable + tugging. “Why don’t you call in a specialist? My + mother called a specialist for my father before he died.”</p> + + <p>“Oh, is your father dead?”</p> + + <p>“I should say he is! He was a painter by trade, and he fell + off a seventy-foot stack into the East River. Mother couldn’t + get anything out of the company, because he wasn’t buckled. + He lingered for four months, so I know all about taking care + of sick people. I was attending business college then, and sick + as he was, he used to give me dictation for practise. He made + us all go into professions; the girls, too. He didn’t like us to + just run.”</p> + + <p>Wanning would have liked to keep Annie and hear more + about her family, but it was nearly seven o’clock, and he knew + he ought, in mercy, to let her go. She was the only person to + <a class="pagenum" id="page194" title="194"> </a>whom he had talked about his illness who had been frank and + honest with him, who had looked at him with eyes that concealed + nothing. When he broke the news of his condition to + his partners that morning, they shut him off as if he were + uttering indecent ravings. All day they had met him with a + hurried, abstracted manner. McQuiston and Wade went out + to lunch together, and he knew what they were thinking, perhaps + talking, about. Wanning had brought into the firm valuable + business, but he was less enterprising than either of his + partners.</p> + + <h4>III</h4> + + <p>In the early summer Wanning’s family scattered. Roma + swallowed her pride and sailed for Genoa to visit the Contessa + Jenny. Harold went to Cornish to be in an artistic atmosphere. + Mrs. Wanning and Florence took a cottage at York + Harbor where Wanning was supposed to join them whenever + he could get away from town. He did not often get away. He + felt most at ease among his accustomed surroundings. He + kept his car in the city and went back and forth from his office + to the club where he was living. Old Sam, his butler, came in + from Orange every night to put his clothes in order and make + him comfortable.</p> + + <p>Wanning began to feel that he would not tire of his office in + a hundred years. Although he did very little work, it was + pleasant to go down town every morning when the streets + were crowded, the sky clear, and the sunshine bright. From + the windows of his private office he could see the harbor and + watch the ocean liners come down the North River and go + out to sea.</p> + + <p>While he read his mail, he often looked out and wondered + why he had been so long indifferent to that extraordinary + scene of human activity and hopefulness. How had a short-lived + race of beings the energy and courage valiantly to begin + enterprises which they could follow for only a few years; to + throw up towers and build sea-monsters and found great + businesses, when the frailest of the materials with which they + worked, the paper upon which they wrote, the ink upon their + pens, had more permanence in this world than they? All this + <a class="pagenum" id="page195" title="195"> </a>material rubbish lasted. The linen clothing and cosmetics of + the Egyptians had lasted. It was only the human flame that + certainly, certainly went out. Other things had a fighting + chance; they might meet with mishap and be destroyed, they + might not. But the human creature who gathered and shaped + and hoarded and foolishly loved these things, he had no + chance—absolutely none. Wanning’s cane, his hat, his topcoat, + might go from beggar to beggar and knock about in this + world for another fifty years or so; but not he.</p> + + <p>In the late afternoon he never hurried to leave his office + now. Wonderful sunsets burned over the North River, wonderful + stars trembled up among the towers; more wonderful + than anything he could hurry away to. One of his windows + looked directly down upon the spire of Old Trinity, with the + green churchyard and the pale sycamores far below. Wanning + often dropped into the church when he was going out to + lunch; not because he was trying to make his peace with + Heaven, but because the church was old and restful and familiar, + because it and its gravestones had sat in the same place for + a long while. He bought flowers from the street boys and + kept them on his desk, which his partners thought strange + behavior, and which Miss Doane considered a sign that he + was failing.</p> + + <p>But there were graver things than bouquets for Miss Doane + and the senior partner to ponder over.</p> + + <p>The senior partner, McQuiston, in spite of his silvery hair + and mustache and his important church connections, had rich + natural taste for scandal.—After Mr. Wade went away for his + vacation, in May, Wanning took Annie Wooley out of the + copying room, put her at a desk in his private office, and + raised her pay to eighteen dollars a week, explaining to McQuiston + that for the summer months he would need a secretary. + This explanation satisfied neither McQuiston nor Miss + Doane.</p> + + <p>Annie was also paid for overtime, and although Wanning + attended to very little of the office business now, there was a + great deal of overtime. Miss Doane was, of course, ‘above’ + questioning a chit like Annie; but what was he doing with his + time and his new secretary, she wanted to know?</p> + + <p>If anyone had told her that Wanning was writing a book, + <a class="pagenum" id="page196" title="196"> </a>she would have said bitterly that it was just like him. In his + youth Wanning had hankered for the pen. When he studied + law, he had intended to combine that profession with some + tempting form of authorship. Had he remained a bachelor, he + would have been an unenterprising literary lawyer to the end + of his days. It was his wife’s restlessness and her practical turn + of mind that had made him a money-getter. His illness + seemed to bring back to him the illusions with which he left + college.</p> + + <p>As soon as his family were out of the way and he shut up + the Orange house, he began to dictate his autobiography to + Annie Wooley. It was not only the story of his life, but an + expression of all his theories and opinions, and a commentary + on the fifty years of events which he could remember.</p> + + <p>Fortunately, he was able to take great interest in this undertaking. + He had the happiest convictions about the clear-cut + style he was developing and his increasing felicity in phrasing. + He meant to publish the work handsomely, at his own expense + and under his own name. He rather enjoyed the + thought of how greatly disturbed Harold would be. He and + Harold differed in their estimates of books. All the solid + works which made up Wanning’s library, Harold considered + beneath contempt. Anybody, he said, could do that sort of + thing.</p> + + <p>When Wanning could not sleep at night, he turned on the + light beside his bed and made notes on the chapter he meant + to dictate the next day.</p> + + <p>When he returned to the office after lunch, he gave instructions + that he was not to be interrupted by telephone calls, and + shut himself up with his secretary.</p> + + <p>After he had opened all the windows and taken off his coat, + he fell to dictating. He found it a delightful occupation, the + solace of each day. Often he had sudden fits of tiredness; then + he would lie down on the leather sofa and drop asleep, while + Annie read “The Leopard’s Spots” until he awoke.</p> + + <p>Like many another business man Wanning had relied so + long on stenographers that the operation of writing with a + pen had become laborious to him. When he undertook it, he + wanted to cut everything short. But walking up and down his + private office, with the strong afternoon sun pouring in at his + <a class="pagenum" id="page197" title="197"> </a>windows, a fresh air stirring, all the people and boats moving + restlessly down there, he could say things he wanted to say. It + was like living his life over again.</p> + + <p>He did not miss his wife or his daughters. He had become + again the mild, contemplative youth he was in college, before + he had a profession and a family to grind for, before the two + needs which shape our destiny had made of him pretty much + what they make of every man.</p> + + <p>At five o’clock Wanning sometimes went out for a cup of + tea and took Annie along. He felt dull and discouraged as + soon as he was alone. So long as Annie was with him, he + could keep a grip on his own thoughts. They talked about + what he had just been dictating to her. She found that he + liked to be questioned, and she tried to be greatly interested + in it all.</p> + + <p>After tea, they went back to the office. Occasionally Wanning + lost track of time and kept Annie until it grew dark. He + knew he had old McQuiston guessing, but he didn’t care. + One day the senior partner came to him with a reproving air.</p> + + <p>“I am afraid Miss Doane is leaving us, Paul. She feels that + Miss Wooley’s promotion is irregular.”</p> + + <p>“How is that any business of hers, I’d like to know? She has + all my legal work. She is always disagreeable enough about + doing anything else.”</p> + + <p>McQuiston’s puffy red face went a shade darker.</p> + + <p>“Miss Doane has a certain professional pride; a strong feeling + for office organization. She doesn’t care to fill an equivocal + position. I don’t know that I blame her. She feels that + there is something not quite regular about the confidence you + seem to place in this inexperienced young woman.”</p> + + <p>Wanning pushed back his chair.</p> + + <p>“I don’t care a hang about Miss Doane’s sense of propriety. + I need a stenographer who will carry out my instructions. I’ve + carried out Miss Doane’s long enough. I’ve let that schoolma’am + hector me for years. She can go when she pleases.”</p> + + <p>That night McQuiston wrote to his partner that things + were in a bad way, and they would have to keep an eye on + Wanning. He had been seen at the theatre with his new + stenographer.</p> + + <p>That was true. Wanning had several times taken Annie to + <a class="pagenum" id="page198" title="198"> </a>the Palace on Saturday afternoon. When all his acquaintances + were off motoring or playing golf, when the down-town offices + and even the streets were deserted, it amused him to + watch a foolish show with a delighted, cheerful little person + beside him.</p> + + <p>Beyond her generosity, Annie had no shining merits of + character, but she had the gift of thinking well of everything, + and wishing well. When she was there Wanning felt as if there + were someone who cared whether this was a good or a bad + day with him. Old Sam, too, was like that. While the old + black man put him to bed and made him comfortable, Wanning + could talk to him as he talked to little Annie. Even if he + dwelt upon his illness, in plain terms, in detail, he did not feel + as if he were imposing on them.</p> + + <p>People like Sam and Annie admitted misfortune,—admitted + it almost cheerfully. Annie and her family did not consider + illness or any of its hard facts vulgar or indecent. It had its + place in their scheme of life, as it had not in that of Wanning’s + friends.</p> + + <p>Annie came out of a typical poor family of New York. Of + eight children, only four lived to grow up. In such families + the stream of life is broad enough, but runs shallow. In the + children, vitality is exhausted early. The roots do not go down + into anything very strong. Illness and deaths and funerals, in + her own family and in those of her friends, had come at frequent + intervals in Annie’s life. Since they had to be, she and + her sisters made the best of them. There was something to be + got out of funerals, even, if they were managed right. They + kept people in touch with old friends who had moved uptown, + and revived kindly feelings.</p> + + <p>Annie had often given up things she wanted because there + was sickness at home, and now she was patient with her boss. + What he paid her for overtime work by no means made up to + her what she lost.</p> + + <p>Annie was not in the least thrifty, nor were any of her + sisters. She had to make a living, but she was not interested + in getting all she could for her time, or in laying up for + the future. Girls like Annie know that the future is a very uncertain + thing, and they feel no responsibility about it. The + present is what they have—and it is all they have. If Annie + <a class="pagenum" id="page199" title="199"> </a>missed a chance to go sailing with the plumber’s son on Saturday + afternoon, why, she missed it. As for the two dollars + her boss gave her, she handed them over to her mother. Now + that Annie was getting more money, one of her sisters quit a + job she didn’t like and was staying at home for a rest. That + was all promotion meant to Annie.</p> + + <p>The first time Annie’s boss asked her to work on Saturday + afternoon, she could not hide her disappointment. He suggested + that they might knock off early and go to a show, or + take a run in his car, but she grew tearful and said it would be + hard to make her family understand. Wanning thought perhaps + he could explain to her mother. He called his motor and + took Annie home.</p> + + <p>When his car stopped in front of the tenement house on + Eighth Avenue, heads came popping out of the windows for + six storys up, and all the neighbor women, in dressing sacks + and wrappers, gazed down at the machine and at the couple + alighting from it. A motor meant a wedding or the hospital.</p> + + <p>The plumber’s son, Willy Steen, came over from the corner + saloon to see what was going on, and Annie introduced him + at the doorstep.</p> + + <p>Mrs. Wooley asked Wanning to come into the parlor and + invited him to have a chair of ceremony between the folding + bed and the piano.</p> + + <p>Annie, nervous and tearful, escaped to the dining-room—the + cheerful spot where the daughters visited with each other + and with their friends. The parlor was a masked sleeping + chamber and store room.</p> + + <p>The plumber’s son sat down on the sofa beside Mrs. + Wooley, as if he were accustomed to share in the family councils. + Mrs. Wooley waited expectant and kindly. She looked the + sensible, hard-working woman that she was, and one could + see she hadn’t lived all her life on Eighth Avenue without + learning a great deal.</p> + + <p>Wanning explained to her that he was writing a book which + he wanted to finish during the summer months when business + was not so heavy. He was ill and could not work regularly. + His secretary would have to take his dictation when he felt + able to give it; must, in short, be a sort of companion to him. + He would like to feel that she could go out in his car with + <a class="pagenum" id="page200" title="200"> </a>him, or even to the theater, when he felt like it. It might have + been better if he had engaged a young man for this work, but + since he had begun it with Annie, he would like to keep her if + her mother was willing.</p> + + <p>Mrs. Wooley watched him with friendly, searching eyes. + She glanced at Willy Steen, who, wise in such distinctions, + had decided that there was nothing shady about Annie’s boss. + He nodded his sanction.</p> + + <p>“I don’t want my girl to conduct herself in any such way as + will prejudice her, Mr. Wanning,” she said thoughtfully. “If + you’ve got daughters, you know how that is. You’ve been liberal + with Annie, and it’s a good position for her. It’s right + she should go to business every day, and I want her to do her + work right, but I like to have her home after working hours. I + always think a young girl’s time is her own after business + hours, and I try not to burden them when they come home. + I’m willing she should do your work as suits you, if it’s her + wish; but I don’t like to press her. The good times she misses + now, it’s not you nor me, sir, that can make them up to her. + These young things has their feelings.”</p> + + <p>“Oh, I don’t want to press her, either,” Wanning said hastily. + “I simply want to know that you understand the situation. + I’ve made her a little present in my will as a recognition that + she is doing more for me than she is paid for.”</p> + + <p>“That’s something above me, sir. We’ll hope there won’t be + no question of wills for many years yet,” Mrs. Wooley spoke + heartily. “I’m glad if my girl can be of any use to you, just so + she don’t prejudice herself.”</p> + + <p>The plumber’s son rose as if the interview were over.</p> + + <p>“It’s all right, Mama Wooley, don’t you worry,” he said.</p> + + <p>He picked up his canvas cap and turned to Wanning. “You + see, Annie ain’t the sort of girl that would want to be spotted + circulating around with a monied party her folks didn’t know + all about. She’d lose friends by it.”</p> + + <p>After this conversation Annie felt a great deal happier. She + was still shy and a trifle awkward with poor Wanning when + they were outside the office building, and she missed the old + freedom of her Saturday afternoons. But she did the best she + could, and Willy Steen tried to make it up to her.</p> + + <p>In Annie’s absence he often came in of an afternoon to have + <a class="pagenum" id="page201" title="201"> </a>a cup of tea and a sugar-bun with Mrs. Wooley and the + daughter who was “resting.” As they sat at the dining-room + table, they discussed Annie’s employer, his peculiarities, his + health, and what he had told Mrs. Wooley about his will.</p> + + <p>Mrs. Wooley said she sometimes felt afraid he might disinherit + his children, as rich people often did, and make talk; but + she hoped for the best. Whatever came to Annie, she prayed + it might not be in the form of taxable property.</p> + + <h4>IV</h4> + + <p>Late in September Wanning grew suddenly worse. His + family hurried home, and he was put to bed in his house + in Orange. He kept asking the doctors when he could get + back to the office, but he lived only eight days.</p> + + <p>The morning after his father’s funeral, Harold went to the + office to consult Wanning’s partners and to read the will. + Everything in the will was as it should be. There were no + surprises except a codicil in the form of a letter to Mrs. Wanning, + dated July 8th, requesting that out of the estate she + should pay the sum of one thousand dollars to his stenographer, + Annie Wooley, “in recognition of her faithful services.”</p> + + <p>“I thought Miss Doane was my father’s stenographer,” + Harold exclaimed.</p> + + <p>Alec McQuiston looked embarrassed and spoke in a low, + guarded tone.</p> + + <p>“She was, for years. But this spring,—” he hesitated.</p> + + <p>McQuiston loved a scandal. He leaned across his desk toward + Harold.</p> + + <p>“This spring your father put this little girl, Miss Wooley, a + copyist, utterly inexperienced, in Miss Doane’s place. Miss + Doane was indignant and left us. The change made comment + here in the office. It was slightly—No, I will be frank with + you, Harold, it was very irregular.”</p> + + <p>Harold also looked grave. “What could my father have + meant by such a request as this to my mother?”</p> + + <p>The silver haired senior partner flushed and spoke as if he + were trying to break something gently.</p> + + <p>“I don’t understand it, my boy. But I think, indeed I prefer + to think, that your father was not quite himself all this + <a class="pagenum" id="page202" title="202"> </a>summer. A man like your father does not, in his right senses, + find pleasure in the society of an ignorant, common little girl. + He does not make a practise of keeping her at the office after + hours, often until eight o’clock, or take her to restaurants and + to the theater with him; not, at least, in a slanderous city like + New York.”</p> + + <p>Harold flinched before McQuiston’s meaning gaze and + turned aside in pained silence. He knew, as a dramatist, that + there are dark chapters in all men’s lives, and this but too + clearly explained why his father had stayed in town all summer + instead of joining his family.</p> + + <p>McQuiston asked if he should ring for Annie Wooley.</p> + + <p>Harold drew himself up. “No. Why should I see her? I + prefer not to. But with your permission, Mr. McQuiston, I + will take charge of this request to my mother. It could only + give her pain, and might awaken doubts in her mind.”</p> + + <p>“We hardly know,” murmured the senior partner, “where + an investigation would lead us. Technically, of course, I cannot + agree with you. But if, as one of the executors of the will, + you wish to assume personal responsibility for this bequest, + under the circumstances—irregularities beget irregularities.”</p> + + <p>“My first duty to my father,” said Harold, “is to protect my + mother.”</p> + + <p>That afternoon McQuiston called Annie Wooley into his + private office and told her that her services would not be + needed any longer, and that in lieu of notice the clerk would + give her two weeks’ salary.</p> + + <p>“Can I call up here for references?” Annie asked.</p> + + <p>“Certainly. But you had better ask for me, personally. You + must know there has been some criticism of you here in the + office, Miss Wooley.”</p> + + <p>“What about?” Annie asked boldly.</p> + + <p>“Well, a young girl like you cannot render so much personal + service to her employer as you did to Mr. Wanning + without causing unfavorable comment. To be blunt with you, + for your own good, my dear young lady, your services to + your employer should terminate in the office, and at the close + of office hours. Mr. Wanning was a very sick man and his + judgment was at fault, but you should have known what a girl + in your station can do and what she cannot do.”</p> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page203" title="203"> </a>The vague discomfort of months flashed up in little Annie. + She had no mind to stand by and be lectured without having + a word to say for herself.</p> + + <p>“Of course he was sick, poor man!” she burst out. “Not as + anybody seemed much upset about it. I wouldn’t have given + up my half-holidays for anybody if they hadn’t been sick, no + matter what they paid me. There wasn’t anything in it for + me.”</p> + + <p>McQuiston raised his hand warningly.</p> + + <p>“That will do, young lady. But when you get another + place, remember this: it is never your duty to entertain or to + provide amusement for your employer.”</p> + + <p>He gave Annie a look which she did not clearly understand, + although she pronounced him a nasty old man as she hustled + on her hat and jacket.</p> + + <p>When Annie reached home she found Willy Steen sitting + with her mother and sister at the dining-room table. This was + the first day that Annie had gone to the office since Wanning’s + death, and her family awaited her return with suspense.</p> + + <p>“Hello yourself,” Annie called as she came in and threw her + handbag into an empty armchair.</p> + + <p>“You’re off early, Annie,” said her mother gravely. “Has the + will been read?”</p> + + <p>“I guess so. Yes, I know it has. Miss Wilson got it out of + the safe for them. The son came in. He’s a pill.”</p> + + <p>“Was nothing said to you, daughter?”</p> + + <p>“Yes, a lot. Please give me some tea, mother.” Annie felt + that her swagger was failing.</p> + + <p>“Don’t tantalize us, Ann,” her sister broke in. “Didn’t you + get anything?”</p> + + <p>“I got the mit, all right. And some back talk from the old + man that I’m awful sore about.”</p> + + <p>Annie dashed away the tears and gulped her tea.</p> + + <p>Gradually her mother and Willy drew the story from her. + Willy offered at once to go to the office building and take his + stand outside the door and never leave it until he had + punched old Mr. McQuiston’s face. He rose as if to attend to + it at once, but Mrs. Wooley drew him to his chair again and + patted his arm.</p> + + <p>“It would only start talk and get the girl in trouble, Willy. + <a class="pagenum" id="page204" title="204"> </a>When it’s lawyers, folks in our station is helpless. I certainly + believed that man when he sat here; you heard him yourself. + Such a gentleman as he looked.”</p> + + <p>Willy thumped his great fist, still in punching position, + down on his knee.</p> + + <p>“Never you be fooled again, Mama Wooley. You’ll never + get anything out of a rich guy that he ain’t signed up in the + courts for. Rich is tight. There’s no exceptions.”</p> + + <p>Annie shook her head.</p> + + <p>“I didn’t want anything out of him. He was a nice, kind + man, and he had his troubles, I guess. He wasn’t tight.”</p> + + <p>“Still,” said Mrs. Wooley sadly, “Mr. Wanning had no call + to hold out promises. I hate to be disappointed in a gentleman. + You’ve had confining work for some time, daughter; a + rest will do you good.”</p> + <p class="source"><cite>Smart Set</cite>, October 1919</p> + </div> + </div> + <div id="partii" class="section"> + <h2 class="section_title">Part II<br /> Reviews and Essays</h2> + <div id="twain" class="essay"><a class="pagenum" id="page207" title="207"> </a> + <h3 class="essay_title">Mark Twain <a class="return_toc" href="#contents" title="Return to Contents">ToC</a></h3> + <div id="twain_1" class="review"> + <p class="first_paragraph">If there is anything which should make an American sick + and disgusted at the literary taste of his country, and almost + swerve his allegiance to his flag it is that controversy + between Mark Twain and Max O’Rell, in which the Frenchman + proves himself a wit and a gentleman and the American + shows himself little short of a clown and an all around tough. + The squabble arose apropos of Paul Bourget’s new book on + America, “Outre Mer,” a book which deals more fairly and + generously with this country than any book yet written in a + foreign tongue. Mr. Clemens did not like the book, and like + all men of his class, and limited mentality, he cannot criticise + without becoming personal and insulting. He cannot be + scathing without being a blackguard. He tried to demolish a + serious and well considered work by publishing a scurrilous, + slangy and loosely written article about it. In this article Mr. + Clemens proves very little against Mr. Bourget and a very + great deal against himself. He demonstrates clearly that he is + neither a scholar, a reader or a man of letters and very little of + a gentleman. His ignorance of French literature is something + appalling. Why, in these days it is as necessary for a literary + man to have a wide knowledge of the French masterpieces as + it is for him to have read Shakespeare or the Bible. What man + who pretends to be an author can afford to neglect those + models of style and composition. George Meredith, Thomas + Hardy and Henry James excepted, the great living novelists + are Frenchmen.</p> + + <p>Mr. Clemens asks what the French sensualists can possibly + teach the great American people about novel writing or morality? + Well, it would not seriously hurt the art of the classic + author of “Puddin’ Head Wilson” to study Daudet, De Maupassant, + Hugo and George Sand, whatever it might do to his + morals. Mark Twain is a humorist of a kind. His humor is + always rather broad, so broad that the polite world can justly + call it coarse. He is not a reader nor a thinker nor a man who + loves art of any kind. He is a clever Yankee who has made a + “good thing” out of writing. He has been published in the + <a class="pagenum" id="page208" title="208"> </a>North American Review and in the Century, but he is not + and never will be a part of literature. The association and + companionship of cultured men has given Mark Twain a sort + of professional veneer, but it could not give him fine instincts + or nice discriminations or elevated tastes. His works are pure + and suitable for children, just as the work of most shallow and + mediocre fellows. House dogs and donkeys make the most + harmless and chaste companions for young innocence in the + world. Mark Twain’s humor is of the kind that teamsters use + in bantering with each other, and his laugh is the gruff “haw-haw” + of the backwoodsman. He is still the rough, awkward, + good-natured boy who swore at the deck hands on the river + steamer and chewed uncured tobacco when he was three years + old. Thoroughly likeable as a good fellow, but impossible as a + man of letters. It is an unfortunate feature of American literature + that a hostler with some natural cleverness and a great + deal of assertion receives the same recognition as a standard + American author that a man like Lowell does. The French + academy is a good thing after all. It at least divides the sheep + from the goats and gives a sheep the consolation of knowing + that he is a sheep.</p> + + <p>It is rather a pity that Paul Bourget should have written + “Outre Mer,” thoroughly creditable book though it is. Mr. + Bourget is a novelist, and he should not content himself with + being an essayist, there are far too many of them in the world + already. He can develop strong characters, invent strong situations, + he can write the truth and he should not drift into + penning opinions and platitudes. When God has made a man + a creator, it is a great mistake for him to turn critic. It is + rather an insult to God and certainly a very great wrong to + man.</p> + <p class="source"><cite>Nebraska State Journal</cite>, May 5, 1895</p> + + </div> + <div id="twain_2" class="review"> + <p>I got a letter last week from a little boy just half-past seven + who had just read “Huckleberry Finn” and “Tom Sawyer.” + He said: “If there are any more books like them in the world, + send them to me quick.” I had to humbly confess to him that + <a class="pagenum" id="page209" title="209"> </a>if there were any others I had not the good fortune to know + of them. What a red-letter-day it is to a boy, the day he first + opens “Tom Sawyer.” I would rather sail on the raft down the + Missouri again with “Huck” Finn and Jim than go down the + Nile in December or see Venice from a gondola in May. Certainly + Mark Twain is much better when he writes of his Missouri + boys than when he makes sickley romances about Joan + of Arc. And certainly he never did a better piece of work than + “Prince and Pauper.” One seems to get at the very heart of old + England in that dearest of children’s books, and in its pages + the frail boy king, and his gloomy sister Mary who in her day + wrought so much woe for unhappy England, and the dashing + Princess Elizabeth who lived to rule so well, seem to live + again. A friend of Mr. Clemens’ once told me that he said he + wrote that book so that when his little daughters grew up + they might know that their tired old jester of a father could be + serious and gentle sometimes.</p> + <p class="source"><cite>The Home Monthly</cite>, May 1897</p> + </div> + </div> + <div id="howells" class="essay"><a class="pagenum" id="page210" title="210"> </a> + <h3 class="essay_title">William Dean Howells <a class="return_toc" href="#contents" title="Return to Contents">ToC</a></h3> + + <p class="first_paragraph">Certainly now in his old age Mr. Howells is selecting + queer titles for his books. A while ago we had that feeble + tale, “The Coast of Bohemia,” and now we have “My + Literary Passions.” “Passions,” literary or otherwise, were + never Mr. Howells’ forte and surely no man could be further + from even the coast of Bohemia.</p> + + <p>Apropos of “My Literary Passions” which has so long + strung out in the Ladies’ Home Journal along with those + thrilling articles about how Henry Ward Beecher tied his + necktie and what kind of coffee Mrs. Hall Cain likes, why did + Mr. Howells write it? Doesn’t Mr. Howells know that at one + time or another every one raves over Don Quixote, imitates + Heine, worships Tourgueneff and calls Tolstoi a prophet? + Does Mr. Howells think that no one but he ever had youth + and enthusiasm and aspirations? Doesn’t he know that the + only thing that makes the world worth living in at all is that + once, when we are young, we all have that great love for + books and impersonal things, all reverence and dream? We + have all known the time when Porthos, Athos and d’Artagan + were vastly more real and important to us than the folks who + lived next door. We have all dwelt in that country where Anna + Karenina and the Levins were the only people who mattered + much. We have all known that intoxicating period when we + thought we “understood life,” because we had read Daudet, + Zola and Guy de Maupassant, and like Mr. Howells we all + looked back rather fondly upon the time when we believed + that books were the truth and art was all. After a while books + grow matter of fact like everything else and we always think + enviously of the days when they were new and wonderful and + strange. That’s a part of existence. We lose our first keen relish + for literature just as we lose it for ice-cream and confectionery. + The taste grows older, wiser and more subdued. We + would all wear out of very enthusiasm if it did not. But why + should Mr. Howells tell the world this common experience in + detail as though it were his and his alone. He might as well + <a class="pagenum" id="page211" title="211"> </a>write a detailed account of how he had the measles and the + whooping cough. It was all right and proper for Mr. Howells + to like Heine and Hugo, but, in the words of the circus + clown, “We’ve all been there.”</p> + + <p class="source"><cite>Nebraska State Journal</cite>, July 14, 1895</p> + + </div> + <div id="poe" class="essay"><a class="pagenum" id="page212" title="212"> </a> + <h3 class="essay_title">Edgar Allan Poe <a class="return_toc" href="#contents" title="Return to Contents">ToC</a></h3> + <div id="poe_1" class="review"> + <blockquote class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>My tantalized spirit</p> + <p class="i2">Here blandly reposes,</p> + <p>Forgetting, or never</p> + <p class="i2">Regretting its roses,</p> + <p>Its old agitations</p> + <p class="i2">Of myrtles and roses.</p> + </div> + + <div class="stanza"> + <p>For now, while so quietly</p> + <p class="i2">Lying, it fancies</p> + <p>A holier odor</p> + <p class="i2">About it, of pansies—</p> + <p>A rosemary odor</p> + <p class="i2">Commingled with pansies.</p> + <p>With rue and the beautiful</p> + <p class="i2">Puritan pansies.</p> + </div> + <p class="signature">—Edgar Allan Poe.</p> + </blockquote> + + <p class="first_paragraph">The Shakespeare society of New York, which is really + about the only useful literary organization in this country, + is making vigorous efforts to redress an old wrong and + atone for a long neglect. Sunday, Sept. 22, it held a meeting at + the Poe cottage on Kingsbridge road near Fordham, for the + purpose of starting an organized movement to buy back the + cottage, restore it to its original condition and preserve it as a + memorial of Poe. So it has come at last. After helping build + monuments to Shelley, Keats and Carlyle we have at last remembered + this man, the greatest of our poets and the most + unhappy. I am glad that this movement is in the hands of + American actors, for it was among them that Poe found his + best friends and warmest admirers. Some way he always + seemed to belong to the strolling Thespians who were his + mother’s people.</p> + + <p>Among all the thousands of life’s little ironies that make + history so diverting, there is none more paradoxical than that + Edgar Poe should have been an American. Look at his face. + Had we ever another like it? He must have been a strange + figure in his youth, among those genial, courtly Virginians, + this handsome, pale fellow, violent in his enthusiasm, ardent + <a class="pagenum" id="page213" title="213"> </a>in his worship, but spiritually cold in his affections. Now + playing heavily for the mere excitement of play, now worshipping + at the shrine of a woman old enough to be his mother, + merely because her voice was beautiful; now swimming six + miles up the James river against a heavy current in the glaring + sun of a June midday. He must have seemed to them an unreal + figure, a sort of stage man who was wandering about the + streets with his mask and buskins on, a theatrical figure who + had escaped by some strange mischance into the prosaic daylight. + His speech and actions were unconsciously and sincerely + dramatic, always as though done for effect. He had that + nervous, egotistic, self-centered nature common to stage children + who seem to have been dazzled by the footlights and + maddened by the applause before they are born. It was in his + blood. With the exception of two women who loved him, + lived for him, died for him, he went through life friendless, + misunderstood, with that dense, complete, hopeless misunderstanding + which, as Amiel said, is the secret of that sad + smile upon the lips of the great. Men tried to befriend him, + but in some way or other he hurt and disappointed them. He + tried to mingle and share with other men, but he was always + shut from them by that shadow, light as gossamer but unyielding + as adamant, by which, from the beginning of the + world, art has shielded and guarded and protected her own, + that God-concealing mist in which the heroes of old were + hidden, immersed in that gloom and solitude which, if we + could but know it here, is but the shadow of God’s hand as it + falls upon his elect.</p> + + <p>We lament our dearth of great prose. With the exception of + Henry James and Hawthorne, Poe is our only master of pure + prose. We lament our dearth of poets. With the exception of + Lowell, Poe is our only great poet. Poe found short story + writing a bungling makeshift. He left it a perfect art. He + wrote the first perfect short stories in the English language. + He first gave the short story purpose, method, and artistic + form. In a careless reading one can not realize the wonderful + literary art, the cunning devices, the masterly effects that + those entrancing tales conceal. They are simple and direct + enough to delight us when we are children, subtle and artistic + enough to be our marvel when we are old. To this day they + <a class="pagenum" id="page214" title="214"> </a>are the wonder and admiration of the French, who are + the acknowledged masters of craft and form. How in his wandering, + laborious life, bound to the hack work of the press + and crushed by an ever-growing burden of want and debt, + did he ever come upon all this deep and mystical lore, this + knowledge of all history, of all languages, of all art, this penetration + into the hidden things of the East? As Steadman says, + “The self training of genius is always a marvel.” The past is + spread before us all and most of us spend our lives in learning + those things which we do not need to know, but genius + reaches out instinctively and takes only the vital detail, by + some sort of spiritual gravitation goes directly to the right + thing.</p> + + <p>Poe belonged to the modern French school of decorative + and discriminating prose before it ever existed in France. He + rivalled Gautier, Flaubert and de Maupassant before they + were born. He clothed his tales in a barbaric splendor and + persuasive unreality never before heard of in English. No such + profusion of color, oriental splendor of detail, grotesque combinations + and mystical effects had ever before been wrought + into language. There are tales as grotesque, as monstrous, unearthly + as the stone griffens and gargoyles that are cut up + among the unvisited niches and towers of Notre Dame, stories + as poetic and delicately beautiful as the golden lace work + chased upon an Etruscan ring. He fitted his words together as + the Byzantine jewelers fitted priceless stones. He found the + inner harmony and kinship of words. Where lived another + man who could blend the beautiful and the horrible, the gorgeous + and the grotesque in such intricate and inexplicable + fashion? Who could delight you with his noun and disgust + you with his verb, thrill you with his adjective and chill you + with his adverb, make you run the whole gamut of human + emotions in a single sentence? Sitting in that miserable cottage + at Fordham he wrote of the splendor of dream palaces + beyond the dreams of art. He hung those grimy walls with + dream tapestries, paved those narrow halls with black marble + and polished onyx, and into those low-roofed chambers he + brought all the treasured imagery of fancy, from the “huge + carvings of untutored Egypt” to “mingled and conflicting + perfumes, reeking up from strange convolute censers, together + <a class="pagenum" id="page215" title="215"> </a>with multitudinous, flaring and flickering tongues of + purple and violet fire.” Hungry and ragged he wrote of Epicurean + feasts and luxury that would have beggared the + purpled pomp of pagan Rome and put Nero and his Golden + House to shame.</p> + + <p>And this mighty master of the organ of language, who + knew its every stop and pipe, who could awaken at will the + thin silver tones of its slenderest reeds or the solemn cadence + of its deepest thunder, who could make it sing like a flute or + roar like a cataract, he was born into a country without a + literature. He was of that ornate school which usually comes + last in a national literature, and he came first. American taste + had been vitiated by men like Griswold and N. P. Willis until + it was at the lowest possible ebb. Willis was considered a + genius, that is the worst that could possibly be said. In the + North a new race of great philosophers was growing up, but + Poe had neither their friendship nor encouragement. He went + indeed, sometimes, to the chilly <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">salon</em> of Margaret Fuller, but + he was always a discord there. He was a mere artist and he + had no business with philosophy, he had no theories as to the + “higher life” and the “true happiness.” He had only his unshapen + dreams that battled with him in dark places, the unborn + that struggled in his brain for birth. What time has an + artist to learn the multiplication table or to talk philosophy? + He was not afraid of them. He laughed at Willis, and flung + Longfellow’s lie in his teeth, the lie the rest of the world was + twenty years in finding. He scorned the obtrusive learning of + the transcendentalists and he disliked their hard talkative + women. He left them and went back to his dream women, his + <em>Berenice</em>, his <em>Ligeia</em>, his <em>Marchesa Aphrodite</em>, pale and cold as + the mist maidens of the North, sad as the Norns who weep + for human woe.</p> + + <p>The tragedy of Poe’s life was not alcohol, but hunger. He + died when he was forty, when his work was just beginning. + Thackeray had not touched his great novels at forty, George + Eliot was almost unknown at that age. Hugo, Goethe, Hawthorne, + Lowell and Dumas all did their great work after they + were forty years old. Poe never did his great work. He could + not endure the hunger. This year the Drexel Institute has put + over sixty thousand dollars into a new edition of Poe’s poems + <a class="pagenum" id="page216" title="216"> </a>and stories. He himself never got six thousand for them altogether. + If one of the great and learned institutions of the land + had invested one tenth of that amount in the living author + forty years ago we should have had from him such works as + would have made the name of this nation great. But he sold + “The Masque of the Red Death” for a few dollars, and now + the Drexel Institute pays a publisher thousands to publish it + beautifully. It is enough to make Satan laugh until his ribs + ache, and all the little devils laugh and heap on fresh coals. I + don’t wonder they hate humanity. It’s so dense, so hopelessly + stupid.</p> + + <p>Only a few weeks before Poe’s death he said he had never + had time or opportunity to make a serious effort. All his tales + were merely experiments, thrown off when his day’s work as + a journalist was over, when he should have been asleep. All + those voyages into the mystical unknown, into the gleaming, + impalpable kingdom of pure romance from which he brought + back such splendid trophies, were but experiments. He was + only getting his tools into shape getting ready for his great + effort, the effort that never came.</p> + + <p>Bread seems a little thing to stand in the way of genius, + but it can. The simple sordid facts were these, that in the + bitterest storms of winter Poe seldom wrote by a fire, that + after he was twenty-five years old he never knew what it was + to have enough to eat without dreading tomorrow’s hunger. + Chatterton had only himself to sacrifice, but Poe saw the + woman he loved die of want before his very eyes, die smiling + and begging him not to give up his work. They saw the + depths together in those long winter nights when she lay in + that cold room, wrapped in Poe’s only coat, he, with one + hand holding hers, and with the other dashing off some of + the most perfect masterpieces of English prose. And when he + would wince and turn white at her coughing, she would + always whisper: “Work on, my poet, and when you have + finished read it to me. I am happy when I listen.” O, the + devotion of women and the madness of art! They are the two + most awesome things on earth, and surely this man knew + both to the full.</p> + + <p>I have wondered so often how he did it. How he kept his + purpose always clean and his taste always perfect. How it was + <a class="pagenum" id="page217" title="217"> </a>that hard labor never wearied nor jaded him, never limited + his imagination, that the jarring clamor about him never + drowned the fine harmonies of his fancy. His discrimination + remained always delicate, and from the constant strain of + toil his fancy always rose strong and unfettered. Without + encouragement or appreciation of any sort, without models + or precedents he built up that pure style of his that is without + peer in the language, that style of which every sentence + is a drawing by Vedder. Elizabeth Barrett and a few great + artists over in France knew what he was doing, they knew + that in literature he was making possible a new heaven and a + new earth. But he never knew that they knew it. He died + without the assurance that he was or ever would be understood. + And yet through all this, with the whole world of art + and letters against him, betrayed by his own people, he + managed to keep that lofty ideal of perfect work. What he + suffered never touched or marred his work, but it wrecked his + character. Poe’s character was made by his necessity. He was a + liar and an egotist; a man who had to beg for bread at the + hands of his publishers and critics could be nothing but a liar, + and had he not had the insane egotism and conviction of + genius, he would have broken down and written the drivelling + trash that his countrymen delighted to read. Poe lied to + his publishers sometimes, there is no doubt of that, but there + were two to whom he was never false, his wife and his muse. + He drank sometimes too, when for very ugly and relentless + reasons he could not eat. And then he forgot what he suffered. + For Bacchus is the kindest of the gods after all. When + Aphrodite has fooled us and left us and Athene has betrayed + us in battle, then poor tipsy Bacchus, who covers his head + with vine leaves where the curls are getting thin, holds out his + cup to us and says, “forget.” It’s poor consolation, but he + means it well.</p> + + <p>The Transcendentalists were good conversationalists, that + in fact was their principal accomplishment. They used to talk + a great deal of genius, that rare and capricious spirit that visits + earth so seldom, that is wooed by so many, and won by so + few. They had grand theories that all men should be poets, + that the visits of that rare spirit should be made as frequent + and universal as afternoon calls. O, they had plans to make a + <a class="pagenum" id="page218" title="218"> </a>whole generation of little geniuses. But she only laughed her + scornful laughter, that deathless lady of the immortals, up in + her echoing chambers that are floored with dawn and roofed + with the spangled stars. And she snatched from them the only + man of their nation she had ever deigned to love, whose lips + she had touched with music and whose soul with song. In his + youth she had shown him the secrets of her beauty and his + manhood had been one pursuit of her, blind to all else, like + Anchises, who on the night that he knew the love of Venus, + was struck sightless, that he might never behold the face of a + mortal woman. For Our Lady of Genius has no care for the + prayers and groans of mortals, nor for their hecatombs sweet + of savor. Many a time of old she has foiled the plans of seers + and none may entreat her or take her by force. She favors no + one nation or clime. She takes one from the millions, and + when she gives herself unto a man it is without his will or that + of his fellows, and he pays for it, dear heaven, he pays!</p> + + <blockquote class="poem"> + <p>“The sun comes forth and many reptiles spawn,</p> + <p>He sets and each ephemeral insect then</p> + <p>Is gathered unto death without a dawn,</p> + <p>And the immortal stars awake again.”</p> + </blockquote> + + <p>Yes, “and the immortal stars awake again.” None may + thwart the unerring justice of the gods, not even the Transcendentalists. + What matter that one man’s life was miserable, + that one man was broken on the wheel? His work lives and + his crown is eternal. That the work of his age was undone, + that is the pity, that the work of his youth was done, that is + the glory. The man is nothing. There are millions of men. + The work is everything. There is so little perfection. We + lament our dearth of poets when we let Poe starve. We are like + the Hebrews who stoned their prophets and then marvelled + that the voice of God was silent. We will wait a long time for + another. There are Griswold and N. P. Willis, our chosen + ones, let us turn to them. Their names are forgotten. God is + just. They are,</p> + + <blockquote class="poem"> + <p>“Gathered unto death without a dawn.</p> + <p>And the immortal stars awake again.”</p> + </blockquote> + + <p class="source"><cite>The Courier</cite>, October 12, 1895</p> + </div> + <div id="poe_2" class="review"><a class="pagenum" id="page219" title="219"> </a> + <p>You can afford to give a little more care and attention to + this imaginative boy of yours than to any of your other children. + His nerves are more finely strung and all his life he will + need your love more than the others. Be careful to get him + the books he likes and see that they are good ones. Get him a + volume of Poe’s short stories. I know many people are prejudiced + against Poe because of the story that he drank himself to + death. But that myth has been exploded long ago. Poe drank + less than even the average man of his time. No, the most + artistic of all American story tellers did not die because he + drank too much, but because he ate too little. And yet we, his + own countrymen who should be so proud of him, are not + content with having starved him and wronged him while he + lived, we must even go on slandering him after he has been + dead almost fifty years. But get his works for this imaginative + boy of yours and he will tell you how great a man the author + of “The Gold Bug” and “The Masque of the Red Death” + was. Children are impartial critics and sometimes very good + ones. They do not reason about a book, they just like it or + dislike it intensely, and after all that is the conclusion of the + whole matter. I am very sure that “The Fall of the House of + Usher,” “The Pit and the Pendulum” and “The Black Cat” + will give this woolgathering lad of yours more pleasure than a + new bicycle could.</p> + + <p class="source"><cite>The Home Monthly</cite>, May 1897</p> + </div> + </div> + <div id="whitman" class="essay"><a class="pagenum" id="page220" title="220"> </a> + <h3 class="essay_title">Walt Whitman <a class="return_toc" href="#contents" title="Return to Contents">ToC</a></h3> + + <p class="first_paragraph">Speaking of monuments reminds one that there is more + talk about a monument to Walt Whitman, “the good, + gray poet.” Just why the adjective good is always applied to + Whitman it is difficult to discover, probably because people + who could not understand him at all took it for granted that + he meant well. If ever there was a poet who had no literary + ethics at all beyond those of nature, it was he. He was neither + good nor bad, any more than are the animals he continually + admired and envied. He was a poet without an exclusive sense + of the poetic, a man without the finer discriminations, enjoying + everything with the unreasoning enthusiasm of a boy. He + was the poet of the dung hill as well as of the mountains, + which is admirable in theory but excruciating in verse. In the + same paragraph he informs you that, “The pure contralto + sings in the organ loft,” and that “The malformed limbs are + tied to the table, what is removed drop horribly into a pail.” + No branch of surgery is poetic, and that hopelessly prosaic + word “pail” would kill a whole volume of sonnets. Whitman’s + poems are reckless rhapsodies over creation in general, some + times sublime, some times ridiculous. He declares that the + ocean with its “imperious waves, commanding” is beautiful, + and that the fly-specks on the walls are also beautiful. Such + catholic taste may go in science, but in poetry their results are + sad. The poet’s task is usually to select the poetic. Whitman + never bothers to do that, he takes everything in the universe + from fly-specks to the fixed stars. His “Leaves of Grass” is a + sort of dictionary of the English language, and in it is the + name of everything in creation set down with great reverence + but without any particular connection.</p> + + <p>But however ridiculous Whitman may be there is a primitive + elemental force about him. He is so full of hardiness and + of the joy of life. He looks at all nature in the delighted, admiring + way in which the old Greeks and the primitive poets + did. He exults so in the red blood in his body and the + strength in his arms. He has such a passion for the warmth + and dignity of all that is natural. He has no code but to be + <a class="pagenum" id="page221" title="221"> </a>natural, a code that this complex world has so long outgrown. + He is sensual, not after the manner of Swinbourne and Gautier, + who are always seeking for perverted and bizarre effects + on the senses, but in the frank fashion of the old barbarians + who ate and slept and married and smacked their lips over the + mead horn. He is rigidly limited to the physical, things that + quicken his pulses, please his eyes or delight his nostrils. + There is an element of poetry in all this, but it is by no means + the highest. If a joyous elephant should break forth into song, + his lay would probably be very much like Whitman’s famous + “song of myself.” It would have just about as much delicacy + and deftness and discriminations. He says:</p> + + <p>“I think I could turn and live with the animals. They are so + placid and self-contained, I stand and look at them long and + long. They do not sweat and whine about their condition. + They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins. + They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God. Not + one is dissatisfied nor not one is demented with the mania of + many things. Not one kneels to another nor to his kind that + lived thousands of years ago. Not one is respectable or + unhappy, over the whole earth.” And that is not irony on + nature, he means just that, life meant no more to him. + He accepted the world just as it is and glorified it, the seemly + and unseemly, the good and the bad. He had no conception + of a difference in people or in things. All men had bodies + and were alike to him, one about as good as another. To live + was to fulfil all natural laws and impulses. To be comfortable + was to be happy. To be happy was the ultimatum. He did + not realize the existence of a conscience or a responsibility. + He had no more thought of good or evil than the folks in + Kipling’s Jungle book.</p> + + <p>And yet there is an undeniable charm about this optimistic + vagabond who is made so happy by the warm sunshine and + the smell of spring fields. A sort of good fellowship and + whole-heartedness in every line he wrote. His veneration for + things physical and material, for all that is in water or air or + land, is so real that as you read him you think for the moment + that you would rather like to live so if you could. For the time + you half believe that a sound body and a strong arm are the + greatest things in the world. Perhaps no book shows so much + <a class="pagenum" id="page222" title="222"> </a>as “Leaves of Grass” that keen senses do not make a poet. + When you read it you realize how spirited a thing poetry + really is and how great a part spiritual perceptions play in + apparently sensuous verse, if only to select the beautiful from + the gross.</p> + + <p class="source"><cite>Nebraska State Journal</cite>, January 19, 1896</p> + + </div> + <div id="james" class="essay"><a class="pagenum" id="page223" title="223"> </a> + <h3 class="essay_title">Henry James <a class="return_toc" href="#contents" title="Return to Contents">ToC</a></h3> + <div id="james_1" class="review"> + <p class="first_paragraph">Their mania for careless and hasty work is not confined + to the lesser men. Howells and Hardy have gone with + the crowd. Now that Stevenson is dead I can think of but one + English speaking author who is really keeping his self-respect + and sticking for perfection. Of course I refer to that mighty + master of language and keen student of human actions and + motives, Henry James. In the last four years he has published, + I believe, just two small volumes, “The Lesson of the Master” + and “Terminations,” and in those two little volumes of short + stories he who will may find out something of what it means + to be really an artist. The framework is perfect and the polish + is absolutely without flaw. They are sometimes a little hard, + always calculating and dispassionate, but they are perfect. I + wish James would write about modern society, about “degeneracy” + and the new woman and all the rest of it. Not that he + would throw any light on it. He seldom does; but he would + say such awfully clever things about it, and turn on so many + side-lights. And then his sentences! If his character novels + were all wrong one could read him forever for the mere + beauty of his sentences. He never lets his phrases run away + with him. They are never dull and never too brilliant. He + subjects them to the general tone of his sentence and has his + whole paragraph partake of the same predominating color. + You are never startled, never surprised, never thrilled or never + enraptured; always delighted by that masterly prose that is as + correct, as classical, as calm and as subtle as the music of + Mozart.</p> + + <p class="source"><cite>The Courier</cite>, November 16, 1895</p> + </div> + <div id="james_2" class="review"> + <p>It is strange that from “Felicia” down, the stage novel has + never been a success. Henry James’ “Tragic Muse” is the only + theatrical novel that has a particle of the real spirit of the stage + in it, a glimpse of the enthusiasm, the devotion, the exaltation + and the sordid, the frivolous and the vulgar which are so + <a class="pagenum" id="page224" title="224"> </a>strangely and inextricably blended in that life of the green + room. For although Henry James cannot write plays he can + write passing well of the people who enact them. He has put + into one book all those inevitable attendants of the drama, the + patronizing theatre goer who loves it above all things and yet + feels so far superior to it personally; the old tragedienne, the + queen of a dying school whose word is law and whose judgments + are to a young actor as the judgments of God; and of + course there is the girl, the aspirant, the tragic muse who + beats and beats upon those brazen doors that guard the unapproachable + until one fine morning she beats them down and + comes into her kingdom, the kingdom of unborn beauty that + is to live through her. It is a great novel, that book of the + master’s, so perfect as a novel that one does not realize what a + masterly study it is of the life and ends and aims of the people + who make plays live.</p> + + <p><cite>Nebraska State Journal</cite>, March 29, 1896</p> + </div> + </div> + <div id="frederic" class="essay"><a class="pagenum" id="page225" title="225"> </a> + + <h3 class="essay_title">Harold Frederic <a class="return_toc" href="#contents" title="Return to Contents">ToC</a></h3> + + <p class="work_reviewed">“THE MARKET-PLACE.” Harold Frederic. $1.50. New York: + F. A. Stokes & Co. Pittsburg: J. R. Weldin & Co.</p> + + <p class="first_paragraph">Unusual interest is attached to the posthumous work + of that great man whose career ended so prematurely + and so tragically. The story is a study in the ethics and purposes + of money-getting, in the romantic element in modern + business. In it finance is presented not as being merely the + province of shrewdness, or greediness, or petty personal gratification, + but of great projects, of great brain-battles, a field + for the exercising of talent, daring, imagination, appealing to + the strength of a strong man, filling the same place in men’s + lives that was once filled by the incentives of war, kindling in + man the desire for the leadership of men. The hero of the + story, “Joel Thorpe,” is one of those men, huge of body, keen + of brain, with cast iron nerves, as sound a heart as most men, + and a magnificent capacity for bluff. He has lived and risked + and lost in a dozen countries, been almost within reach of + fortune a dozen times, and always missed her until, finally, in + London, by promoting a great rubber syndicate he becomes a + multi-millionaire. He marries the most beautiful and one of + the most impecunious peeresses in England and retires to his + country estate. There, as a gentleman of leisure, he loses his + motive in life, loses power for lack of opportunity, and grows + less commanding even in the eyes of his wife, who misses the + uncompromising, barbaric strength which took her by storm + and won her. Finally he evolves a gigantic philanthropic + scheme of spending his money as laboriously as he made it.</p> + + <p>Mr. Frederic says:</p> + + <blockquote> + <p>“Napoleon was the greatest man of his age—one of the + greatest men of all ages—not only in war but in a hundred + other ways. He spent the last six years of his life at St. Helena + in excellent health, with companions that he talked freely to, + and in all the extraordinarily copious reports of his conversations + there, we don’t get a single sentence worth repeating. + The greatness had entirely evaporated from him the moment + he was put on an island where he had nothing to do.”</p> + </blockquote> + + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page226" title="226"> </a>It is very fitting that Mr. Frederic’s last book should be in + praise of action, the thing that makes the world go round; of + force, however misspent, which is the sum of life as distinguished + from the inertia of death. In the forty-odd years of + his life he wrote almost as many pages as Balzac, most of it + mere newspaper copy, it is true, read and forgotten, but all of + it vigorous and with the stamp of a strong man upon it. And + he played just as hard as he worked—alas, it was the play that + killed him! The young artist who illustrated the story gave to + the pictures of “Joel Thorpe” very much the look of Harold + Frederic himself, and they might almost stand for his portraits. + I fancy the young man did not select his model carelessly. + In this big, burly adventurer who took fortune and + women by storm, who bluffed the world by his prowess and + fought his way to the front with battle-ax blows, there is a + great deal of Harold Frederic, the soldier of fortune, the + Utica milk boy who fought his way from the petty slavery of + a provincial newspaper to the foremost ranks of the journalists + of the world and on into literature, into literature worth + the writing. The man won his place in England much as his + hero won his, by defiance, by strong shoulder blows, by his + self-sufficiency and inexhaustible strength, and when he finished + his book he did not know that his end would be so + much less glorious than his hero’s, that it would be his portion + not to fall manfully in the thick of the combat and the + press of battle, but to die poisoned in the tent of Chryseis. + For who could foresee a tragedy so needless, so blind, so + brutal in its lack of dignity, or know that such strength could + perish through such insidious weakness, that so great a man + could be stung to death by a mania born in little minds?</p> + + <p>In point of execution and literary excellence, both “The + Market Place” and “Gloria Mundi” are vastly inferior to “The + Damnation of Theron Ware,” or that exquisite London idyl, + “March Hares.” The first 200 pages of “Theron Ware” are + as good as anything in American fiction, much better than + most of it. They are not so much the work of a literary + artist as of a vigorous thinker, a man of strong opinions and + an intimate and comprehensive knowledge of men. The + whole work, despite its irregularities and indifference to form, + is full of brain stuff, the kind of active, healthful, masterful + <a class="pagenum" id="page227" title="227"> </a>intellect that some men put into politics, some into science + and a few, a very few, into literature. Both “Gloria Mundi” + and “The Market Place” bear unmistakable evidences of the + slack rein and the hasty hand. Both of them contain considerable + padding, the stamp of the space writer. They are imperfectly + developed, and are not packed with ideas like his earlier + novels. Their excellence is in flashes; it is not the searching, + evenly distributed light which permeates his more careful + work. There were, as we know too well, good reasons why + Mr. Frederic should work hastily. He needed a large income + and he worked heroically, writing many thousands of words a + day to obtain it. From the experience of the ages we have + learned to expect to find, coupled with great strength, a proportionate + weakness, and usually it devours the greater part, + as the seven lean kine devoured the seven fat in Pharaoh’s + vision. Achilles was a god in all his nobler parts, but his feet + were of the earth and to the earth they held him down, and + he died stung by an arrow in the heel.</p> + + <p class="source"><cite>Pittsburg Leader</cite>, June 10, 1899</p> + </div> + <div id="chopin" class="essay"><a class="pagenum" id="page228" title="228"> </a> + <h3 class="essay_title">Kate Chopin <a class="return_toc" href="#contents" title="Return to Contents">ToC</a></h3> + <p class="work_reviewed">“THE AWAKENING.” Kate Chopin. $1.25. Chicago: H. S. + Stone & Co. Pittsburg: J. R. Weldin & Co.</p> + + <p class="first_paragraph">A Creole “Bovary” is this little novel of Miss Chopin’s. + Not that the heroine is a creole exactly, or that Miss + Chopin is a Flaubert—save the mark!—but the theme is similar + to that which occupied Flaubert. There was, indeed, no + need that a second “Madame Bovary” should be written, but + an author’s choice of themes is frequently as inexplicable as + his choice of a wife. It is governed by some innate temperamental + bias that cannot be diagrammed. This is particularly so + in women who write, and I shall not attempt to say why Miss + Chopin has devoted so exquisite and sensitive, well-governed + a style to so trite and sordid a theme. She writes much better + than it is ever given to most people to write, and hers is a + genuinely literary style; of no great elegance or solidity; but + light, flexible, subtle and capable of producing telling effects + directly and simply. The story she has to tell in the present + instance is new neither in matter nor treatment. “Edna Pontellier,” + a Kentucky girl, who, like “Emma Bovary,” had been in + love with innumerable dream heroes before she was out of + short skirts, married “Leonce Pontellier” as a sort of reaction + from a vague and visionary passion for a tragedian whose unresponsive + picture she used to kiss. She acquired the habit of + liking her husband in time, and even of liking her children. + Though we are not justified in presuming that she ever threw + articles from her dressing table at them, as the charming + “Emma” had a winsome habit of doing, we are told that “she + would sometimes gather them passionately to her heart, she + would sometimes forget them.” At a creole watering place, + which is admirably and deftly sketched by Miss Chopin, + “Edna” met “Robert Lebrun,” son of the landlady, who + dreamed of a fortune awaiting him in Mexico while he occupied + a petty clerical position in New Orleans. “Robert” made + it his business to be agreeable to his mother’s boarders, and + “Edna,” not being a creole, much against his wish and will, + took him seriously. “Robert” went to Mexico but found that + <a class="pagenum" id="page229" title="229"> </a>fortunes were no easier to make there than in New Orleans. + He returns and does not even call to pay his respects to her. + She encounters him at the home of a friend and takes him + home with her. She wheedles him into staying for dinner, and + we are told she sent the maid off “in search of some delicacy + she had not thought of for herself, and she recommended + great care in the dripping of the coffee and having the omelet + done to a turn.”</p> + + <p>Only a few pages back we were informed that the husband, + “M. Pontellier,” had cold soup and burnt fish for his dinner. + Such is life. The lover of course disappointed her, was a coward + and ran away from his responsibilities before they began. + He was afraid to begin a chapter with so serious and limited a + woman. She remembered the sea where she had first met + “Robert.” Perhaps from the same motive which threw “Anna + Keraninna” under the engine wheels, she threw herself into + the sea, swam until she was tired and then let go.</p> + + <blockquote> + <p>“She looked into the distance, and for a moment the + old terror flamed up, then sank again. She heard her + father’s voice, and her sister Margaret’s. She heard the + barking of an old dog that was chained to the sycamore + tree. The spurs of the cavalry officer clanged as he + walked across the porch. There was a hum of bees, and + the musky odor of pinks filled the air.”</p> + </blockquote> + <p>“Edna Pontellier” and “Emma Bovary” are studies in the + same feminine type; one a finished and complete portrayal, + the other a hasty sketch, but the theme is essentially the same. + Both women belong to a class, not large, but forever clamoring + in our ears, that demands more romance out of life than + God put into it. Mr. G. Barnard Shaw would say that they are + the victims of the over-idealization of love. They are the spoil + of the poets, the Iphigenias of sentiment. The unfortunate + feature of their disease is that it attacks only women of brains, + at least of rudimentary brains, but whose development is one-sided; + women of strong and fine intuitions, but without the + faculty of observation, comparison, reasoning about things. + Probably, for emotional people, the most convenient thing + about being able to think is that it occasionally gives them a + rest from feeling. Now with women of the “Bovary” type, + <a class="pagenum" id="page230" title="230"> </a>this relaxation and recreation is impossible. They are not critics + of life, but, in the most personal sense, partakers of life. + They receive impressions through the fancy. With them + everything begins with fancy, and passions rise in the brain + rather than in the blood, the poor, neglected, limited one-sided + brain that might do so much better things than badgering + itself into frantic endeavors to love. For these are the + people who pay with their blood for the fine ideals of the + poets, as Marie Delclasse paid for Dumas’ great creation, + “Marguerite Gauthier.” These people really expect the passion + of love to fill and gratify every need of life, whereas nature + only intended that it should meet one of many demands. + They insist upon making it stand for all the emotional pleasures + of life and art, expecting an individual and self-limited + passion to yield infinite variety, pleasure and distraction, to + contribute to their lives what the arts and the pleasurable + exercise of the intellect gives to less limited and less intense + idealists. So this passion, when set up against Shakespeare, + Balzac, Wagner, Raphael, fails them. They have staked everything + on one hand, and they lose. They have driven the blood + until it will drive no further, they have played their nerves up + to the point where any relaxation short of absolute annihilation + is impossible. Every idealist abuses his nerves, and every + sentimentalist brutally abuses them. And in the end, the + nerves get even. Nobody ever cheats them, really. Then “the + awakening” comes. Sometimes it comes in the form of arsenic, + as it came to “Emma Bovary,” sometimes it is carbolic + acid taken covertly in the police station, a goal to which unbalanced + idealism not infrequently leads. “Edna Pontellier,” + fanciful and romantic to the last, chose the sea on a summer + night and went down with the sound of her first lover’s spurs + in her ears, and the scent of pinks about her. And next time I + hope that Miss Chopin will devote that flexible, iridescent + style of hers to a better cause.</p> + + <p class="source"><cite>Pittsburg Leader</cite>, July 8, 1899</p> + + </div> + <div id="crane" class="essay"><a class="pagenum" id="page231" title="231"> </a> + <h3 class="essay_title">Stephen Crane <a class="return_toc" href="#contents" title="Return to Contents">ToC</a></h3> + <div id="crane_1" class="review"> + <p class="work_reviewed">“WAR IS KIND.” Stephen Crane. $2.50. New York: F. A. + Stokes & Co. Pittsburg: J. R. Weldin & Co.</p> + + <p class="first_paragraph">This truly remarkable book is printed on dirty gray + blotting paper, on each page of which is a mere dot of + print over a large I of vacancy. There are seldom more than + ten lines on a page, and it would be better if most of those + lines were not there at all. Either Mr. Crane is insulting the + public or insulting himself, or he has developed a case of atavism + and is chattering the primeval nonsense of the apes. His + “Black Riders,” uneven as it was, was a casket of polished + masterpieces when compared with “War Is Kind.” And it is + not kind at all, Mr. Crane; when it provokes such verses as + these, it is all that Sherman said it was.</p> + + <p>The only production in the volume that is at all coherent is + the following, from which the book gets its title:</p> + + <blockquote class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind,</p> + <p>Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky,</p> + <p>And the affrighted steed ran on alone.</p> + <p class="i16">Do not weep,</p> + <p class="i16">War is kind.</p> + </div> + + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Hoarse booming drums of the regiment,</p> + <p>Little souls who thirst for fight,</p> + <p class="i4">These men were born to drill and die.</p> + <p>The unexplained glory flies above them.</p> + <p>Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom—</p> + <p class="i4">A field where a thousand corpses lie.</p> + </div> + + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Do not weep, babe, for war is kind,</p> + <p>Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,</p> + <p>Raged at the breast, gulped and died.</p> + <p class="i16">Do not weep,</p> + <p class="i16">War is kind.</p> + </div> + + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Swift-blazing flag of the regiment,</p> + <p>Eagle with crest of red and gold,</p> + <p class="i4"><a class="pagenum" id="page232" title="232"> </a>These men were born to drill and die.</p> + <p>Point for them the virtue of slaughter,</p> + <p>Make plain to them the excellence of killing,</p> + <p class="i4">And a field where a thousand corpses lie.</p> + </div> + + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Mother whose heart hung humble as a button</p> + <p>On the bright, splendid shroud of your son,</p> + <p class="i16">Do not weep,</p> + <p class="i16">War is kind.</p> + </div> + </blockquote> + + <p>Of course, one may have objections to hearts hanging like + humble buttons, or to buttons being humble at all, but one + should not stop to quarrel about such trifles with a poet who + can perpetrate the following:</p> + + <blockquote class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Thou art my love,</p> + <p>And thou art the beard</p> + <p>On another man’s face—</p> + <p>Woe is me.</p> + </div> + + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Thou art my love,</p> + <p>And thou art a temple,</p> + <p>And in this temple is an altar,</p> + <p>And on this temple is my heart—</p> + <p>Woe is me.</p> + </div> + + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Thou art my love,</p> + <p>And thou art a wretch.</p> + <p>Let these sacred love-lies choke thee.</p> + <p>For I am come to where I know your lies as truth</p> + <p>And your truth as lies—</p> + <p>Woe is me.</p> + </div> + </blockquote> + + <p>Now, if you please, is the object of these verses animal, + mineral or vegetable? Is the expression, “Thou art the beard + on another man’s face,” intended as a figure, or was it written + by a barber? Certainly, after reading this, “Simple Simon” is a + ballade of perfect form, and “Jack and Jill” or “Hickity, Pickity, + My Black Hen,” are exquisite lyrics. But of the following + what shall be said:</p> + + <blockquote class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Now let me crunch you</p> + <p>With full weight of affrighted love.</p> + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page233" title="233"> </a>I doubted you</p> + <p>—I doubted you—</p> + <p>And in this short doubting</p> + <p>My love grew like a genie</p> + <p>For my further undoing.</p> + </div> + + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Beware of my friends,</p> + <p>Be not in speech too civil,</p> + <p>For in all courtesy</p> + <p>My weak heart sees specters,</p> + <p>Mists of desire</p> + <p>Arising from the lips of my chosen;</p> + <p>Be not civil.</p> + </div> + </blockquote> + + <p>This is somewhat more lucid as evincing the bard’s exquisite + sensitiveness:</p> + + <blockquote class="poem"> + <p>Ah, God, the way your little finger moved</p> + <p>As you thrust a bare arm backward.</p> + <p>And made play with your hair</p> + <p>And a comb, a silly gilt comb</p> + <p>—Ah, God, that I should suffer</p> + <p>Because of the way a little finger moved.</p> + </blockquote> + + <p>Mr. Crane’s verselets are illustrated by some Bradley pictures, + which are badly drawn, in bad taste, and come with bad + grace. On page 33 of the book there are just two lines which + seem to completely sum up the efforts of both poet and artist:</p> + + <blockquote> + <p style="text-indent:0em;">“My good friend,” said a learned bystander,<br /> + “Your operations are mad.”</p> + </blockquote> + + <p>Yet this fellow Crane has written short stories equal to + some of Maupassant’s.</p> + + <p class="source"><cite>Pittsburg Leader</cite>, June 3, 1899</p> + </div> + <div id="crane_2" class="review"> + <p>After reading such a delightful newspaper story as Mr. + Frank Norris’ “Blix,” it is with assorted sensations of pain and + discomfort that one closes the covers of another newspaper + novel, “Active Service,” by Stephen Crane. If one happens to + <a class="pagenum" id="page234" title="234"> </a>have some trifling regard for pure English, he does not come + forth from the reading of this novel unscathed. The hero of + this lurid tale is a newspaper man, and he edits the Sunday + edition of the New York “Eclipse,” and delights in publishing + “stories” about deformed and sightless infants. “The office of + the ‘Eclipse’ was at the top of an immense building on Broadway. + It was a sheer mountain to the heights of which the + interminable thunder of the streets rose faintly. The Hudson + was a broad path of silver in the distance.” This leaves little + doubt as to the fortunate journal which had secured Rufus + Coleman as its Sunday editor. Mr. Coleman’s days were spent + in collecting yellow sensations for his paper, and we are told + that he “planned for each edition as for a campaign.” The + following elevating passage is one of the realistic paragraphs + by which Mr. Crane makes the routine of Coleman’s life + known to us:</p> + + <blockquote> + <p>Suddenly there was a flash of light and a cage of + bronze, gilt and steel dropped magically from above. + Coleman yelled “Down!” * * * A door flew open. Coleman + stepped upon the elevator. “Well, Johnnie,” he said + cheerfully to the lad who operated the machine, “is business + good?” “Yes, sir, pretty good,” answered the boy, + grinning. The little cage sank swiftly. Floor after floor + seemed to be rising with marvelous speed; the whole + building was winging straight into the sky. There was + soaring lights, figures and the opalescent glow of + ground glass doors marked with black inscriptions. + Other lights were springing heavenward. All the lofty + corridors rang with cries. “Up!” “Down!” “Down!” + “Up!!” The boy’s hand grasped a lever and his machine + obeyed his lightest movement with sometimes an unbalancing + swiftness.</p> + </blockquote> + + <p>Later, when Coleman reached the street, Mr. Crane describes + the cable cars as marching like panoplied elephants, + which is rather far, to say the least. The gentleman’s nights + were spent something as follows:</p> + + <blockquote> + <p>“In the restaurant he first ordered a large bottle of + champagne. The last of the wine he finished in somber + <a class="pagenum" id="page235" title="235"> </a>mood like an unbroken and defiant man who chews the + straw that litters his prison house. During his dinner he + was continually sending out messenger boys. He was + arranging a poker party. Through a window he watched + the beautiful moving life of upper Broadway at night, + with its crowds and clanging cable cars and its electric + signs, mammoth and glittering like the jewels of a + giantess.</p> + + <p>“Word was brought to him that poker players were + arriving. He arose joyfully, leaving his cheese. In the + broad hall, occupied mainly by miscellaneous people + and actors, all deep in leather chairs, he found some of + his friends waiting. They trooped upstairs to Coleman’s + rooms, where, as a preliminary, Coleman began to hurl + books and papers from the table to the floor. A boy + came with drinks. Most of the men, in order to prepare + for the game, removed their coats and cuffs and drew up + the sleeves of their shirts. The electric globes shed a + blinding light upon the table. The sound of clinking + chips arose; the elected banker spun the cards, careless + and dextrous.”</p> + </blockquote> + + <p>The atmosphere of the entire novel is just that close and + enervating. Every page is like the next morning taste of a + champagne supper, and is heavy with the smell of stale cigarettes. + There is no fresh air in the book and no sunlight, only + the “blinding light shed by the electric globes.” If the life of + New York newspaper men is as unwholesome and sordid as + this, Mr. Crane, who has experienced it, ought to be sadly + ashamed to tell it. Next morning when Coleman went for + breakfast in the grill room of his hotel he ordered eggs on + toast and a pint of champagne for breakfast and discoursed + affably to the waiter.</p> + + <blockquote> + <p>“May be you had a pretty lively time last night, Mr. + Coleman?”</p> + + <p>“Yes, Pat,” answered Coleman. “I did. It was all because + of an unrequitted affection, Patrick.” The man + stood near, a napkin over his arm. Coleman went on + impressively. “The ways of the modern lover are + strange. Now, I, Patrick, am a modern lover, and when, + <a class="pagenum" id="page236" title="236"> </a>yesterday, the dagger of disappointment was driven + deep into my heart, I immediately played poker as hard + as I could, and incidentally got loaded. This is the modern + point of view. I understand on good authority that + in old times lovers used to languish. That is probably a + lie, but at any rate we do not, in these times, languish to + any great extent. We get drunk. Do you understand + Patrick?”</p> + + <p>The waiter was used to a harangue at Coleman’s + breakfast time. He placed his hand over his mouth and + giggled. “Yessir.”</p> + + <p>“Of course,” continued Coleman, thoughtfully. “It + might be pointed out by uneducated persons that it is + difficult to maintain a high standard of drunkenness for + the adequate length of time, but in the series of experiments + which I am about to make, I am sure I can easily + prove them to be in the wrong.”</p> + + <p>“I am sure, sir,” said the waiter, “the young ladies + would not like to be hearing you talk this way.”</p> + + <p>“Yes; no doubt, no doubt. The young ladies have still + quite medieval ideas. They don’t understand. They still + prefer lovers to languish.”</p> + + <p>“At any rate, sir, I don’t see that your heart is sure + enough broken. You seem to take it very easy.”</p> + + <p>“Broken!” cried Coleman. “Easy? Man, my heart is in + fragments. Bring me another small bottle.”</p> + </blockquote> + + <p>After this Coleman went to Greece to write up the war for + the “Eclipse,” and incidentally to rescue his sweetheart from + the hands of the Turks and make “copy” of it. Very valid arguments + might be advanced that the lady would have fared + better with the Turks. On the voyage Coleman spent all his + days and nights in the card room and avoided the deck, since + fresh air was naturally disagreeable to him. For all that he saw + of Greece or that Mr. Crane’s readers see of Greece Coleman + might as well have stayed in the card room of the steamer, or + in the card room of his New York hotel for that matter. + Wherever he goes he carries the atmosphere of the card room + with him and the “blinding glare of the electrics.” In Greece + he makes love when he has leisure, but he makes “copy” + <a class="pagenum" id="page237" title="237"> </a>much more ardently, and on the whole is quite as lurid and + sordid and showy as his worst Sunday editions. Some good + bits of battle descriptions there are, of the “Red Badge of + Courage” order, but one cannot make a novel of clever descriptions + of earthworks and poker games. The book concerns + itself not with large, universal interests or principles, but with + a yellow journalist grinding out yellow copy in such a + wooden fashion that the Sunday “Eclipse” must have been + even worse than most. In spite of the fact that Mr. Crane has + written some of the most artistic short stories in the English + language, I begin to wonder whether, blinded by his youth + and audacity, two qualities which the American people love, + we have not taken him too seriously. It is a grave matter for a + man in good health and with a bank account to have written a + book so coarse and dull and charmless as “Active Service.” + Compared with this “War was kind,” indeed.</p> + + <p class="source"><cite>Pittsburg Leader</cite>, November 11, 1899</p> + + </div> + </div> + <div id="norris" class="essay"><a class="pagenum" id="page238" title="238"> </a> + <h3 class="essay_title">Frank Norris <a class="return_toc" href="#contents" title="Return to Contents">ToC</a></h3> + <div id="norris_1" class="review"> + <p class="first_paragraph">A new and a great book has been written. The name of it + is “McTeague, a Story of San Francisco,” and the man + who wrote it is Mr. Frank Norris. The great presses of the + country go on year after year grinding out commonplace + books, just as each generation goes on busily reproducing its + own mediocrity. When in this enormous output of ink and + paper, these thousands of volumes that are yearly rushed + upon the shelves of the book stores, one appears which contains + both power and promise, the reader may be pardoned + some enthusiasm. Excellence always surprises: we are never + quite prepared for it. In the case of “McTeague, a Story of + San Francisco,” it is even more surprising than usual. In the + first place the title is not alluring, and not until you have read + the book, can you know that there is an admirable consistency + in the stiff, uncompromising commonplaceness of that title. + In the second place the name of the author is as yet comparatively + unfamiliar, and finally the book is dedicated to a member + of the Harvard faculty, suggesting that whether it be a + story of San Francisco or Dawson City, it must necessarily be + vaporous, introspective and chiefly concerned with “literary” + impressions. Mr. Norris is, indeed, a “Harvard man,” but that + he is a good many other kinds of a man is self-evident. His + book is, in the language of Mr. Norman Hapgood, the work + of “a large human being, with a firm stomach, who knows + and loves the people.”</p> + + <p>In a novel of such high merit as this, the subject matter is + the least important consideration. Every newspaper contains + the essential material for another “Comedie Humaine.” In + this case “McTeague,” the central figure, happens to be a dentist + practicing in a little side street of San Francisco. The novel + opens with this description of him:</p> + + <blockquote> + <p>“It was Sunday, and, according to his custom on that + day, McTeague took his dinner at two in the afternoon + at the car conductor’s coffee joint on Polk street. He + had a thick, gray soup, heavy, underdone meat, very + hot, on a cold plate; two kinds of vegetables; and a sort + <a class="pagenum" id="page239" title="239"> </a>of suet pudding, full of strong butter and sugar. Once in + his office, or, as he called it on his sign-board, ‘Dental + Parlors,’ he took off his coat and shoes, unbuttoned his + vest, and, having crammed his little stove with coke, he + lay back in his operating chair at the bay window, reading + the paper, drinking steam beer, and smoking his + huge porcelain pipe while his food digested; crop-full, + stupid and warm.”</p> + </blockquote> + + <p>McTeague had grown up in a mining camp in the mountains. + He remembered the years he had spent there trundling + heavy cars of ore in and out of the tunnel under the direction + of his father. For thirteen days out of each fortnight his father + was a steady, hard-working shift-boss of the mine. Every + other Sunday he became an irresponsible animal, a beast, a + brute, crazed with alcohol. His mother cooked for the miners. + Her one ambition was that her son should enter a profession. + He was apprenticed to a traveling quack dentist and after a + fashion, learned the business.</p> + + <blockquote> + <p>“Then one day at San Francisco had come the news + of his mother’s death; she had left him some money—not + much, but enough to set him up in business; so he + had cut loose from the charlatan and had opened his + ‘Dental Parlors’ on Polk street, an ‘accommodation + street’ of small shops in the residence quarter of the + town. Here he had slowly collected a clientele of + butcher boys, shop girls, drug clerks and car conductors. + He made but few acquaintances. Polk street called him + the ‘doctor’ and spoke of his enormous strength. For + McTeague was a young giant, carrying his huge shock of + blonde hair six feet three inches from the ground; moving + his immense limbs, heavy with ropes of muscle, + slowly, ponderously. His hands were enormous, red, + and covered with a fell of stiff yellow hair; they were as + hard as wooden mallets, strong as vices, the hands of the + old-time car boy. Often he dispensed with forceps and + extracted a refractory tooth with his thumb and finger. + His head was square-cut, angular; the jaw salient: like + that of the carnivora.</p> + + <p>“But for one thing McTeague would have been perfectly + <a class="pagenum" id="page240" title="240"> </a>contented. Just outside his window was his signboard—a + modest affair—that read: ‘Doctor McTeague. + Dental Parlors. Gas Given;’ but that was all. It was his + ambition, his dream, to have projecting from that + corner window a huge gilded tooth, a molar with enormous + prongs, something gorgeous and attractive. He + would have it some day, but as yet it was far beyond his + means.”</p> + </blockquote> + + <p>Then Mr. Norris launches into a description of the street + in which “McTeague” lives. He presents that street as it + is on Sunday, as it is on working days; as it is in the early + dawn when the workmen are going out with pickaxes on + their shoulders, as it is at ten o’clock when the women + are out purchasing from the small shopkeepers, as it is at + night when the shop girls are out with the soda-fountain + tenders and the motor cars dash by full of theatre-goers, and + the Salvationists sing before the saloon on the corner. In four + pages he reproduces the life in a by-street of a great city, the + little tragedy of the small shopkeeper. There are many ways of + handling environment—most of them bad. When a young + author has very little to say and no story worth telling, he + resorts to environment. It is frequently used to disguise a + weakness of structure, as ladies who paint landscapes put their + cows knee-deep in water to conceal the defective drawing of + the legs. But such description as one meets throughout + Mr. Norris’ book is in itself convincing proof of power, imagination + and literary skill. It is a positive and active force, + stimulating the reader’s imagination, giving him an actual + command, a realizing sense of this world into which he is + suddenly transplanted. It gives to the book perspective, atmosphere, + effects of time and distance, creates the illusion of life. + This power of mature, and accurate and comprehensive description + is very unusual among the younger American writers. + Most of them observe the world through a temperament, + and are more occupied with their medium than the objects + they see. And temperament is a glass which distorts most astonishingly. + But this young man sees with a clear eye, and + reproduces with a touch firm and decisive, strong almost to + <a class="pagenum" id="page241" title="241"> </a>brutalness. Yet this hand that can depict so powerfully the + brute strength and brute passions of a “McTeague,” can deal + very finely and adroitly with the feminine element of his story. + This is his portrait of the little Swiss girl, “Trina,” whom the + dentist marries:</p> + + <blockquote> + <p>“Trina was very small and prettily made. Her face was + round and rather pale; her eyes long and narrow and + blue, like the half-opened eyes of a baby; her lips and + the lobes of her tiny ears were pale, a little suggestive of + anaemia. But it was to her hair that one’s attention was + most attracted. Heaps and heaps of blue-black coils and + braids, a royal crown of swarthy bands, a veritable sable + tiara, heavy, abundant and odorous. All the vitality that + should have given color to her face seemed to have been + absorbed by that marvelous hair: It was the coiffure of a + queen that shadowed the temples of this little bourgeoise.”</p> + </blockquote> + + <p>The tragedy of the story dates from a chance, a seeming + stroke of good fortune, one of those terrible gifts of the + Danai. A few weeks before her marriage “Trina” drew $5 000 + from a lottery ticket. From that moment her passion for + hoarding money becomes the dominant theme of the story, + takes command of the book and its characters. After their + marriage the dentist is disbarred from practice. They move + into a garret where she starves her husband and herself to + save that precious hoard. She sells even his office furniture, + everything but his concertina and his canary bird, with which + he stubbornly refuses to part and which are destined to become + very important accessories in the property room of + the theatre where this drama is played. This removal from + their first home is to this story what Gervaise’s removal from + her shop is to L’Assommoir; it is the fatal episode of the third + act, the sacrifice of self-respect, the beginning of the end. + From that time the money stands between “Trina” and her + husband. Outraged and humiliated, hating her for her meanness, + demoralized by his idleness and despair, he begins to + abuse her. The story becomes a careful and painful study of + the disintegration of this union, a penetrating and searching + <a class="pagenum" id="page242" title="242"> </a>analysis of the degeneration of these two souls, the woman’s + corroded by greed, the man’s poisoned by disappointment + and hate.</p> + + <p>And all the while this same painful theme is placed in a + lower key. Maria, the housemaid who took care of “McTeague’s” + dental parlors in his better days, was a half-crazy + girl from somewhere in Central America, she herself did not + remember just where. But she had a wonderful story about + her people owning a dinner service of pure gold with a punch + bowl you could scarcely lift, which rang like a church bell + when you struck it. On the strength of this story “Zercow,” + the Jew junk man, marries her, and believing that she knows + where this treasure is hidden, bullies and tortures her to force + her to disclose her secret. At last “Maria” is found with her + throat cut, and “Zercow” is picked up by the wharf with a + sack full of rusty tin cans, which in his dementia he must have + thought the fabled dinner service of gold.</p> + + <p>From this it is a short step to “McTeague’s” crime. He kills + his wife to get possession of her money, and escapes to the + mountains. While he is on his way south, pushing toward + Mexico, he is overtaken by his murdered wife’s cousin and + former suitor. Both men are half mad with thirst, and there in + the desert wastes of Death’s Valley, they spring to their last + conflict. The cousin falls, but before he dies he slips a handcuff + over “McTeague’s” arm, and so the author leaves his hero + in the wastes of Death’s Valley, a hundred miles from water, + with a dead man chained to his arm. As he stands there the + canary bird, the survivor of his happier days, to which he had + clung with stubborn affection, begins “chittering feebly in its + little gilt prison.” It reminds one a little of Stevenson’s use of + poor “Goddedaal’s” canary in “The Wrecker.” It is just such + sharp, sure strokes that bring out the high lights in a story + and separate excellence from the commonplace. They are at + once dramatic and revelatory. Lacking them, a novel which + may otherwise be a good one, lacks its chief reason for being. + The fault with many worthy attempts at fiction lies not in + what they are, but in what they are not.</p> + + <p>Mr. Norris’ model, if he will admit that he has followed + one, is clearly no less a person than M. Zola himself. Yet there + is no discoverable trace of imitation in his book. He has + <a class="pagenum" id="page243" title="243"> </a>simply taken a method which has been most successfully applied + in the study of French life and applied it in studying + American life, as one uses certain algebraic formulae to solve + certain problems. It is perhaps the only truthful literary + method of dealing with that part of society which environment + and heredity hedge about like the walls of a prison. It is + true that Mr. Norris now and then allows his “method” to + become too prominent, that his restraint savors of constraint, + yet he has written a true story of the people, courageous, dramatic, + full of matter and warm with life. He has addressed + himself seriously to art, and he seems to have no ambition to + be clever. His horizon is wide, his invention vigorous and + bold, his touch heavy and warm and human. This man is not + limited by literary prejudices: he sees the people as they are, + he is close to them and not afraid of their unloveliness. He + has looked at truth in the depths, among men begrimed by + toil and besotted by ignorance, and still found her fair. “McTeague” + is an achievement for a young man. It may not win at + once the success which it deserves, but Mr. Norris is one of + those who can afford to wait.</p> + + <p class="source"><cite>The Courier</cite>, April 8, 1899</p> + </div> + <div id="norris_2" class="review"> + <p>If you want to read a story that is all wheat and no chaff, + read “Blix.” Last winter that brilliant young Californian, Mr. + Norris, published a remarkable and gloomy novel, “McTeague,” + a book deep in insight, rich in promise and splendid + in execution, but entirely without charm and as disagreeable + as only a great piece of work can be. And now this gentleman, + who is not yet thirty, turns around and gives us an idyll that + sings through one’s brain like a summer wind and makes one + feel young enough to commit all manner of indiscretions. It + may be that Mr. Norris is desirous of showing us his versatility + and that he can follow any suit, or it may have been a + process of reaction. I believe it was after M. Zola had completed + one of his greatest and darkest novels of Parisian life + that he went down to the seaside and wrote “La Reve,” a + book that every girl should read when she is eighteen, and + then again when she is eighty. Powerful and solidly built as + <a class="pagenum" id="page244" title="244"> </a>“McTeague” is, one felt that there method was carried almost + too far, that Mr. Norris was too consciously influenced by his + French masters. But “Blix” belongs to no school whatever, + and there is not a shadow of pedantry or pride of craft in it + from cover to cover. “Blix” herself is the method, the motives + and the aim of the book. The story is an exhalation of youth + and spring; it is the work of a man who breaks loose and + forgets himself. Mr. Norris was married only last summer, + and the march from “Lohengrin” is simply sticking out all + over “Blix.” It is the story of a San Francisco newspaper man + and a girl. The newspaper man “came out” in fiction, so to + speak, in the drawing room of Mr. Richard Harding Davis, + and has languished under that gentleman’s chaperonage until + he has come to be regarded as a fellow careful of nothing but + his toilet and his dinner. Mr. Davis’ reporters all bathed regularly + and all ate nice things, but beyond that their tastes were + rather colorless. I am glad to see one red-blooded newspaper + man, in the person of “Landy Rivers,” of San Francisco, + break into fiction; a real live reporter with no sentimental loyalty + for his “paper,” and no Byronic poses about his vices, and + no astonishing taste about his clothes, and no money whatever, + which is the natural and normal condition of all reporters. + “Blix” herself was just a society girl, and “Landy” took + her to theatres and parties and tried to make himself believe + he was in love with her. But it wouldn’t work, for “Landy” + couldn’t love a society girl, not though she were as beautiful + as the morning and terrible as an army with banners, and had + “round full arms,” and “the skin of her face was white and + clean, except where it flushed into a most charming pink + upon her smooth, cool cheeks.” For while “Landy Rivers” + was at college he had been seized with the penchant for writing + short stories, and had worshiped at the shrines of Maupassant + and Kipling, and when a man is craft mad enough to + worship Maupassant truly and know him well, when he has + that tingling for technique in his fingers, not Aphrodite herself, + new risen from the waves, could tempt him into any + world where craft was not lord and king. So it happened that + their real love affair never began until one morning when + “Landy” had to go down to the wharf to write up a whaleback, + and “Blix” went along, and an old sailor told them a + <a class="pagenum" id="page245" title="245"> </a>story and “Blix” recognized the literary possibilities of it, and + they had lunch in a Chinese restaurant, and “Landy” because + he was a newspaper man and it was the end of the week, + didn’t have any change about his clothes, and “Blix” had to + pay the bill. And it was in that green old tea house that + “Landy” read “Blix” one of his favorite yarns by Kipling, and + she in a calm, off-handed way, recognized one of the fine, + technical points in it, and “Landy” almost went to pieces for + joy of her doing it. That scene in the Chinese restaurant is + one of the prettiest bits of color you’ll find to rest your eyes + upon, and mighty good writing it is. I wonder, though if + when Mr. Norris adroitly mentioned the “clack and snarl” of + the banjo “Landy” played, he remembered the “silver snarling + trumpets” of Keats? After that, things went on as such things + will, and “Blix” quit the society racket and went to queer + places with “Landy,” and got interested in his work, and she + broke him of wearing red neckties and playing poker, and she + made him work, she did, for she grew to realize how much + that meant to him, and she jacked him up when he didn’t + work, and she suggested an ending for one of his stories that + was better than his own; just this big, splendid girl, who had + never gone to college to learn how to write novels. And so + how, in the name of goodness, could he help loving her? So + one morning down by the Pacific, with “Blix” and “The + Seven Seas,” it all came over “Landy,” that “living was better + than reading and life was better than literature.” And so it is; + once, and only once, for each of us; and that is the tune that + sings and sings through one’s head when one puts the book + away.</p> + + <p class="source"><cite>The Courier</cite>, January 13, 1900</p> + + </div> + <div id="norris_3" class="review"> + <h4>An Heir Apparent.</h4> + + <p>Last winter a young Californian, Mr. Frank Norris, published + a novel with the unpretentious title, “McTeague: a + Story of San Francisco.” It was a book that could not be ignored + nor dismissed with a word. There was something very + unusual about it, about its solidity and mass, the thoroughness + <a class="pagenum" id="page246" title="246"> </a>and firmness of texture, and it came down like a blow + from a sledge hammer among the slighter and more sprightly + performances of the hour.</p> + + <p>The most remarkable thing about the book was its maturity + and compactness. It has none of the ear-marks of those entertaining + “young writers” whom every season produces as inevitably + as its debutantes, young men who surprise for an hour + and then settle down to producing industriously for the class + with which their peculiar trick of phrase has found favor. It + was a book addressed to the American people and to the critics + of the world, the work of a young man who had set himself + to the art of authorship with an almighty seriousness, and + who had no ambition to be clever. “McTeague” was not an + experiment in style nor a pretty piece of romantic folly, it was + a true story of the people—having about it, as M. Zola + would say, “the smell of the people”—courageous, dramatic, + full of matter and warm with life. It was realism of the most + uncompromising kind. The theme was such that the author + could not have expected sudden popularity for his book, such + as sometimes overtakes monstrosities of style in these discouraging + days when Knighthood is in Flower to the extent of a + quarter of a million copies, nor could he have hoped for + pressing commissions from the fire-side periodicals. The life + story of a quack dentist who sometimes extracted molars with + his fingers, who mistreated and finally murdered his wife, is + not, in itself, attractive. But, after all, the theme counts for + very little. Every newspaper contains the essential subject matter + for another <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Comedie Humaine</em>. The important point is that + a man considerably under thirty could take up a subject so + grim and unattractive, and that, for the mere love of doing + things well, he was able to hold himself down to the task of + developing it completely, that he was able to justify this + quack’s existence in literature, to thrust this hairy, blonde + dentist with the “salient jaw of the carnivora,” in amongst the + immortals.</p> + + <p>It was after M. Zola had completed one of the greatest and + gloomiest of his novels of Parisian life, that he went down by + the sea and wrote “La Reve,” that tender, adolescent story of + love and purity and youth. So, almost simultaneously with + “McTeague,” Mr. Norris published “Blix,” another San Francisco + <a class="pagenum" id="page247" title="247"> </a>story, as short as “McTeague” was lengthy, as light as + “McTeague” was heavy, as poetic and graceful as “McTeague” + was somber and charmless. Here is a man worth waiting on; a + man who is both realist and poet, a man who can teach</p> + + <blockquote class="poem"> + <p class="i2">“Not only by a comet’s rush,</p> + <p>But by a rose’s birth.”</p> + </blockquote> + + <p>Yet unlike as they are, in both books the source of power is + the same, and, for that matter, it was even the same in his first + book, “Moran of the Lady Letty.” Mr. Norris has dispensed + with the conventional symbols that have crept into art, with + the trite, half-truths and circumlocutions, and got back to the + physical basis of things. He has abjured tea-table psychology, + and the analysis of figures in the carpet and subtile dissections + of intellectual impotencies, and the diverting game of words + and the whole literature of the nerves. He is big and warm + and sometimes brutal, and the strength of the soil comes up + to him with very little loss in the transmission. His art strikes + deep down into the roots of life and the foundation of Things + as They Are—not as we tell each other they are at the tea-table. + But he is realistic art, not artistic realism. He is courageous, + but he is without bravado.</p> + + <p>He sees things freshly, as though they had not been seen + before, and describes them with singular directness and vividness, + not with morbid acuteness, with a large, wholesome joy + of life. Nowhere is this more evident than in his insistent use + of environment. I recall the passage in which he describes the + street in which McTeague lives. He represents that street as it + is on Sunday, as it is on working days, as it is in the early + dawn when the workmen are going out with pickaxes on + their shoulders, as it is at ten o’clock when the women are out + marketing among the small shopkeepers, as it is at night when + the shop girls are out with the soda fountain tenders and the + motor cars dash by full of theater-goers, and the Salvationists + sing before the saloon on the corner. In four pages he reproduces + in detail the life in a by-street of a great city, the little + tragedy of the small shopkeeper. There are many ways of + handling environment—most of them bad. When a young + author has very little to say and no story worth telling, he + resorts to environment. It is frequently used to disguise a + <a class="pagenum" id="page248" title="248"> </a>weakness of structure, as ladies who paint landscapes put their + cows knee-deep in water to conceal the defective drawing of + the legs. But such description as one meets throughout + Mr. Norris’ book is in itself convincing proof of power, imagination + and literary skill. It is a positive and active force, + stimulating the reader’s imagination, giving him an actual + command, a realizing sense of this world into which he is + suddenly transported. It gives to the book perspective, atmosphere, + effects of time and distance, creates the illusion of life. + This power of mature and comprehensive description is very + unusual among the younger American writers. Most of them + observe the world through a temperament, and are more occupied + with their medium than the objects they watch. And + temperament is a glass which distorts most astonishingly. But + this young man sees with a clear eye, and reproduces with a + touch, firm and decisive, strong almost to brutalness.</p> + + <p>Mr. Norris approaches things on their physical side; his + characters are personalities of flesh before they are anything + else, types before they are individuals. Especially is this true of + his women. His Trina is “very small and prettily made. Her + face was round and rather pale; her eyes long and narrow and + blue, like the half-opened eyes of a baby; her lips and the + lobes of her tiny ears were pale, a little suggestive of anaemia. + But it was to her hair that one’s attention was most attracted. + Heaps and heaps of blue-black coils and braids, a royal crown + of swarthy bands, a veritable sable tiara, heavy, abundant and + odorous. All the vitality that should have given color to her + face seems to have been absorbed by that marvelous hair. It + was the coiffure of a queen that shadowed the temples of this + little bourgeoise.” Blix had “round, full arms,” and “the skin + of her face was white and clean, except where it flushed into a + most charming pink upon her smooth, cool cheeks.” In this + grasp of the element of things, this keen, clean, frank pleasure + at color and odor and warmth, this candid admission of the + negative of beauty, which is co-existent with and inseparable + from it, lie much of his power and promise. Here is a man + catholic enough to include the extremes of physical and moral + life, strong enough to handle the crudest colors and darkest + shadows. Here is a man who has an appetite for the physical + universe, who loves the rank smells of crowded alley-ways, or + <a class="pagenum" id="page249" title="249"> </a>the odors of boudoirs, or the delicate perfume exhaled from a + woman’s skin; who is not afraid of Pan, be he ever so shaggy, + and redolent of the herd.</p> + + <p>Structurally, where most young novelists are weak, Mr. + Norris is very strong. He has studied the best French masters, + and he has adopted their methods quite simply, as one selects + an algebraic formula to solve his particular problem. As to his + style, that is, as expression always is, just as vigorous as his + thought compels it to be, just as vivid as his conception warrants. + If God Almighty has given a man ideas, he will get + himself a style from one source or another. Mr. Norris, fortunately, + is not a conscious stylist. He has too much to say to be + exquisitely vain about his medium. He has the kind of brain + stuff that would vanquish difficulties in any profession, that + might be put to building battleships, or solving problems of + finance, or to devising colonial policies. Let us be thankful + that he has put it to literature. Let us be thankful, moreover, + that he is not introspective and that his intellect does not devour + itself, but feeds upon the great race of man, and, above + all, let us rejoice that he is not a “temperamental” artist, but + something larger, for a great brain and an assertive temperament + seldom dwell together.</p> + + <p>There are clever men enough in the field of American + letters, and the fault of most of them is merely one of magnitude; + they are not large enough; they travel in small orbits, + they play on muted strings. They sing neither of the combats + of Atriedes nor the labors of Cadmus, but of the tea-table and + the Odyssey of the Rialto. Flaubert said that a drop of water + contained all the elements of the sea, save one—immensity. + Mr. Norris is concerned only with serious things, he has only + large ambitions. His brush is bold, his color is taken fresh + from the kindly earth, his canvas is large enough to hold + American life, the real life of the people. He has come into + the court of the troubadours singing the song of Elys, the + song of warm, full nature. He has struck the true note of the + common life. He is what Mr. Norman Hapgood said the + great American dramatist must be: “A large human being, + with a firm stomach, who knows and loves the people.”</p> + + <p class="source"><cite>The Courier</cite>, April 7, 1900</p> + + </div> + </div> + <div id="knew" class="essay"><a class="pagenum" id="page250" title="250"> </a> + <h3 class="essay_title">When I Knew Stephen Crane <a class="return_toc" href="#contents" title="Return to Contents">ToC</a></h3> + <p class="first_paragraph">It was, I think, in the spring of ’94 that a slender, narrow-chested + fellow in a shabby grey suit, with a soft felt hat + pulled low over his eyes, sauntered into the office of the managing + editor of the Nebraska State Journal and introduced + himself as Stephen Crane. He stated that he was going to + Mexico to do some work for the Bacheller Syndicate and get + rid of his cough, and that he would be stopping in Lincoln + for a few days. Later he explained that he was out of money + and would be compelled to wait until he got a check from the + East before he went further. I was a Junior at the Nebraska + State University at the time, and was doing some work for the + State Journal in my leisure time, and I happened to be in the + managing editor’s room when Mr. Crane introduced himself. + I was just off the range; I knew a little Greek and something + about cattle and a good horse when I saw one, and beyond + horses and cattle I considered nothing of vital importance except + good stories and the people who wrote them. This was + the first man of letters I had ever met in the flesh, and when + the young man announced who he was, I dropped into a + chair behind the editor’s desk where I could stare at him + without being too much in evidence.</p> + + <p>Only a very youthful enthusiasm and a large propensity for + hero worship could have found anything impressive in the + young man who stood before the managing editor’s desk. He + was thin to emaciation, his face was gaunt and unshaven, a + thin dark moustache straggled on his upper lip, his black hair + grew low on his forehead and was shaggy and unkempt. His + grey clothes were much the worse for wear and fitted him so + badly it seemed unlikely he had ever been measured for them. + He wore a flannel shirt and a slovenly apology for a necktie, + and his shoes were dusty and worn gray about the toes and + were badly run over at the heel. I had seen many a tramp + printer come up the Journal stairs to hunt a job, but never one + who presented such a disreputable appearance as this story-maker + man. He wore gloves, which seemed rather a contradiction + to the general slovenliness of his attire, but when he + <a class="pagenum" id="page251" title="251"> </a>took them off to search his pockets for his credentials, I noticed + that his hands were singularly fine; long, white, and delicately + shaped, with thin, nervous fingers. I have seen pictures + of Aubrey Beardsley’s hands that recalled Crane’s very vividly.</p> + + <p>At that time Crane was but twenty-four, and almost an unknown + man. Hamlin Garland had seen some of his work and + believed in him, and had introduced him to Mr. Howells, + who recommended him to the Bacheller Syndicate. “The Red + Badge of Courage” had been published in the State Journal + that winter along with a lot of other syndicate matter, and + the grammatical construction of the story was so faulty that + the managing editor had several times called on me to edit the + copy. In this way I had read it very carefully, and through + the careless sentence-structure I saw the wonder of that remarkable + performance. But the grammar certainly was bad. I + remember one of the reporters who had corrected the phrase + “it don’t” for the tenth time remarked savagely, “If I couldn’t + write better English than this, I’d quit.”</p> + + <p>Crane spent several days in the town, living from hand to + mouth and waiting for his money. I think he borrowed a + small amount from the managing editor. He lounged about + the office most of the time, and I frequently encountered him + going in and out of the cheap restaurants on Tenth Street. + When he was at the office he talked a good deal in a wandering, + absent-minded fashion, and his conversation was uniformly + frivolous. If he could not evade a serious question by a + joke, he bolted. I cut my classes to lie in wait for him, confident + that in some unwary moment I could trap him into serious + conversation, that if one burned incense long enough and + ardently enough, the oracle would not be dumb. I was Maupassant + mad at the time, a malady particularly unattractive in + a Junior, and I made a frantic effort to get an expression of + opinion from him on “Le Bonheur.” “Oh, you’re Moping, are + you?” he remarked with a sarcastic grin, and went on reading + a little volume of Poe that he carried in his pocket. At another + time I cornered him in the Funny Man’s room and succeeded + in getting a little out of him. We were taught literature by an + exceedingly analytical method at the University, and we probably + distorted the method, and I was busy trying to find the + least common multiple of <cite>Hamlet</cite> and the greatest common + <a class="pagenum" id="page252" title="252"> </a>divisor of <cite>Macbeth</cite>, and I began asking him whether stories + were constructed by cabalistic formulae. At length he sighed + wearily and shook his drooping shoulders, remarking:</p> + + <p>“Where did you get all that rot? Yarns aren’t done by mathematics. + You can’t do it by rule any more than you can dance + by rule. You have to have the itch of the thing in your fingers, + and if you haven’t,—well, you’re damned lucky, and you’ll + live long and prosper, that’s all.”—And with that he yawned + and went down the hall.</p> + + <p>Crane was moody most of the time, his health was bad and + he seemed profoundly discouraged. Even his jokes were exceedingly + drastic. He went about with the tense, preoccupied, + self-centered air of a man who is brooding over some impending + disaster, and I conjectured vainly as to what it might be. + Though he was seemingly entirely idle during the few days I + knew him, his manner indicated that he was in the throes of + work that told terribly on his nerves. His eyes I remember as + the finest I have ever seen, large and dark and full of lustre + and changing lights, but with a profound melancholy always + lurking deep in them. They were eyes that seemed to be burning + themselves out.</p> + + <p>As he sat at the desk with his shoulders drooping forward, + his head low, and his long, white fingers drumming on the + sheets of copy paper, he was as nervous as a race horse fretting + to be on the track. Always, as he came and went about + the halls, he seemed like a man preparing for a sudden departure. + Now that he is dead it occurs to me that all his life was a + preparation for sudden departure. I remember once when he + was writing a letter he stopped and asked me about the spelling + of a word, saying carelessly, “I haven’t time to learn to + spell.”</p> + + <p>Then, glancing down at his attire, he added with an absent-minded + smile, “I haven’t time to dress either; it takes an awful + slice out of a fellow’s life.”</p> + + <p>He said he was poor, and he certainly looked it, but four + years later when he was in Cuba, drawing the largest salary + ever paid a newspaper correspondent, he clung to this same + untidy manner of dress, and his ragged overalls and buttonless + shirt were eyesores to the immaculate Mr. Davis, in his + spotless linen and neat khaki uniform, with his Gibson chin + <a class="pagenum" id="page253" title="253"> </a>always freshly shaven. When I first heard of his serious illness, + his old throat trouble aggravated into consumption by his + reckless exposure in Cuba, I recalled a passage from Maeterlinck’s + essay, “The Pre-Destined,” on those doomed to early + death: “As children, life seems nearer to them than to other + children. They appear to know nothing, and yet there is in + their eyes so profound a certainty that we feel they must + know all.—In all haste, but wisely and with minute care do + they prepare themselves to live, and this very haste is a sign + upon which mothers can scarce bring themselves to look.” I + remembered, too, the young man’s melancholy and his tenseness, + his burning eyes, and his way of slurring over the less + important things, as one whose time is short.</p> + + <p>I have heard other people say how difficult it was to induce + Crane to talk seriously about his work, and I suspect that he + was particularly averse to discussions with literary men of + wider education and better equipment than himself, yet he + seemed to feel that this fuller culture was not for him. Perhaps + the unreasoning instinct which lies deep in the roots of our + lives, and which guides us all, told him that he had not time + enough to acquire it.</p> + + <p>Men will sometimes reveal themselves to children, or to + people whom they think never to see again, more completely + than they ever do to their confreres. From the wise we hold + back alike our folly and our wisdom, and for the recipients of + our deeper confidences we seldom select our equals. The soul + has no message for the friends with whom we dine every + week. It is silenced by custom and convention, and we play + only in the shallows. It selects its listeners willfully, and seemingly + delights to waste its best upon the chance wayfarer who + meets us in the highway at a fated hour. There are moments + too, when the tides run high or very low, when self-revelation + is necessary to every man, if it be only to his valet or his + gardener. At such a moment, I was with Mr. Crane.</p> + + <p>The hoped for revelation came unexpectedly enough. It was + on the last night he spent in Lincoln. I had come back from + the theatre and was in the Journal office writing a notice of + the play. It was eleven o’clock when Crane came in. He had + expected his money to arrive on the night mail and it had not + done so, and he was out of sorts and deeply despondent. He + <a class="pagenum" id="page254" title="254"> </a>sat down on the ledge of the open window that faced on the + street, and when I had finished my notice I went over and + took a chair beside him. Quite without invitation on my part, + Crane began to talk, began to curse his trade from the first + throb of creative desire in a boy to the finished work of the + master. The night was oppressively warm; one of those dry + winds that are the curse of that country was blowing up from + Kansas. The white, western moonlight threw sharp, blue + shadows below us. The streets were silent at that hour, and + we could hear the gurgle of the fountain in the Post Office + square across the street, and the twang of banjos from the + lower verandah of the Hotel Lincoln, where the colored waiters + were serenading the guests. The drop lights in the office + were dull under their green shades, and the telegraph sounder + clicked faintly in the next room. In all his long tirade, Crane + never raised his voice; he spoke slowly and monotonously and + even calmly, but I have never known so bitter a heart in any + man as he revealed to me that night. It was an arraignment of + the wages of life, an invocation to the ministers of hate.</p> + + <p>Incidentally he told me the sum he had received for “The + Red Badge of Courage,” which I think was something like + ninety dollars, and he repeated some lines from “The Black + Riders,” which was then in preparation. He gave me to understand + that he led a double literary life; writing in the first + place the matter that pleased himself, and doing it very + slowly; in the second place, any sort of stuff that would sell. + And he remarked that his poor was just as bad as it could + possibly be. He realized, he said, that his limitations were absolutely + impassable. “What I can’t do, I can’t do at all, and I + can’t acquire it. I only hold one trump.”</p> + + <p>He had no settled plans at all. He was going to Mexico + wholly uncertain of being able to do any successful work + there, and he seemed to feel very insecure about the financial + end of his venture. The thing that most interested me was + what he said about his slow method of composition. He declared + that there was little money in story-writing at best, and + practically none in it for him, because of the time it took him + to work up his detail. Other men, he said, could sit down and + write up an experience while the physical effect of it, so to + speak, was still upon them, and yesterday’s impressions made + <a class="pagenum" id="page255" title="255"> </a>to-day’s “copy.” But when he came in from the streets to + write up what he had seen there, his faculties were benumbed, + and he sat twirling his pencil and hunting for words like a + schoolboy.</p> + + <p>I mentioned “The Red Badge of Courage,” which was + written in nine days, and he replied that, though the writing + took very little time, he had been unconsciously working the + detail of the story out through most of his boyhood. His + ancestors had been soldiers, and he had been imagining war + stories ever since he was out of knickerbockers, and in writing + his first war story he had simply gone over his imaginary campaigns + and selected his favorite imaginary experiences. He declared + that his imagination was hide bound; it was there, but + it pulled hard. After he got a notion for a story, months + passed before he could get any sort of personal contract with + it, or feel any potency to handle it. “The detail of a thing has + to filter through my blood, and then it comes out like a native + product, but it takes forever,” he remarked. I distinctly remember + the illustration, for it rather took hold of me.</p> + + <p>I have often been astonished since to hear Crane spoken of + as “the reporter in fiction,” for the reportorial faculty of + superficial reception and quick transference was what he + conspicuously lacked. His first newspaper account of his shipwreck + on the filibuster “Commodore” off the Florida coast + was as lifeless as the “copy” of a police court reporter. It was + many months afterwards that the literary product of his terrible + experience appeared in that marvellous sea story “The + Open Boat,” unsurpassed in its vividness and constructive + perfection.</p> + + <p>At the close of our long conversation that night, when the + copy boy came in to take me home, I suggested to Crane that + in ten years he would probably laugh at all his temporary + discomfort. Again his body took on that strenuous tension + and he clenched his hands, saying, “I can’t wait ten years, I + haven’t time.”</p> + + <p>The ten years are not up yet, and he has done his work and + gathered his reward and gone. Was ever so much experience + and achievement crowded into so short a space of time? A + great man dead at twenty-nine! That would have puzzled the + ancients. Edward Garnett wrote of him in The Academy of + <a class="pagenum" id="page256" title="256"> </a>December 17, 1899: “I cannot remember a parallel in the literary + history of fiction. Maupassant, Meredith, Henry James, + Mr. Howells and Tolstoy, were all learning their expression at + an age where Crane had achieved his and achieved it triumphantly.” + He had the precocity of those doomed to die in + youth. I am convinced that when I met him he had a vague + premonition of the shortness of his working day, and in the + heart of the man there was that which said, “That thou doest, + do quickly.”</p> + + <p>At twenty-one this son of an obscure New Jersey rector, + with but a scant reading knowledge of French and no training, + had rivaled in technique the foremost craftsmen of the + Latin races. In the six years since I met him, a stranded reporter, + he stood in the firing line during two wars, knew hairbreadth + ’scapes on land and sea, and established himself as the + first writer of his time in the picturing of episodic, fragmentary + life. His friends have charged him with fickleness, but he + was a man who was in the preoccupation of haste. He went + from country to country, from man to man, absorbing all that + was in them for him. He had no time to look backward. He + had no leisure for <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">camaraderie</em>. He drank life to the lees, but + at the banquet table where other men took their ease and + jested over their wine, he stood a dark and silent figure, sombre + as Poe himself, not wishing to be understood; and he + took his portion in haste, with his loins girded, and his shoes + on his feet, and his staff in his hand, like one who must depart + quickly.</p> + + <p class="source"><cite>The Library</cite>, June 23, 1900</p> + </div> + <div id="fiction" class="essay"><a class="pagenum" id="page257" title="257"> </a> + <h3 class="essay_title">On the Art of Fiction <a class="return_toc" href="#contents" title="Return to Contents">ToC</a></h3> + <p class="first_paragraph">One is sometimes asked about the “obstacles” that confront + young writers who are trying to do good work. I + should say the greatest obstacles that writers today have to get + over, are the dazzling journalistic successes of twenty years + ago, stories that surprised and delighted by their sharp photographic + detail and that were really nothing more than lively + pieces of reporting. The whole aim of that school of writing + was novelty—never a very important thing in art. They gave + us, altogether, poor standards—taught us to multiply our + ideas instead of to condense them. They tried to make a story + out of every theme that occurred to them and to get returns + on every situation that suggested itself. They got returns, of a + kind. But their work, when one looks back on it, now that the + novelty upon which they counted so much is gone, is journalistic + and thin. The especial merit of a good reportorial story is + that it shall be intensely interesting and pertinent today and + shall have lost its point by tomorrow.</p> + + <p>Art, it seems to me, should simplify. That, indeed, is very + nearly the whole of the higher artistic process; finding what + conventions of form and what detail one can do without and + yet preserve the spirit of the whole—so that all that one has + suppressed and cut away is there to the reader’s consciousness + as much as if it were in type on the page. Millet had done + hundreds of sketches of peasants sowing grain, some of them + very complicated and interesting, but when he came to paint + the spirit of them all into one picture, “The Sower,” the composition + is so simple that it seems inevitable. All the discarded + sketches that went before made the picture what it finally became, + and the process was all the time one of simplifying, of + sacrificing many conceptions good in themselves for one that + was better and more universal.</p> + + <p>Any first rate novel or story must have in it the strength of + a dozen fairly good stories that have been sacrificed to it. A + good workman can’t be a cheap workman; he can’t be stingy + about wasting material, and he cannot compromise. Writing + ought either to be the manufacture of stories for which there + <a class="pagenum" id="page258" title="258"> </a>is a market demand—a business as safe and commendable as + making soap or breakfast foods—or it should be an art, + which is always a search for something for which there is no + market demand, something new and untried, where the + values are intrinsic and have nothing to do with standardized + values. The courage to go on without compromise does not + come to a writer all at once—nor, for that matter, does the + ability. Both are phases of natural development. In the beginning + the artist, like his public, is wedded to old forms, old + ideals, and his vision is blurred by the memory of old delights + he would like to recapture.</p> + + <p class="source"><cite>The Borzoi</cite>, 1920</p> + + </div> + </div> + <div id="the_end"> </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Collection of Stories, Reviews and +Essays, by Willa Cather + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A COLLECTION OF STORIES *** + +***** This file should be named 25586-h.htm or 25586-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/5/5/8/25586/ + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Barbara Tozier and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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