Читать книгу Peyton Place - Grace Metalious - Страница 8

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Chestnut Street, which ran parallel to Elm Street, one block to the south of the main thoroughfare, was considered to be the “best” street in Peyton Place. On this street were located the homes of the town’s élite.

At the extreme western end of Chestnut Street stood the imposing red brick house of Leslie Harrington. Harrington, who was the owner of the Cumberland Mills and a very rich man, was also on the board of trustees for the Citizens’ National Bank, and the chairman of the Peyton Place school board. The Harrington house, screened from the street by tall trees and wide lawns, was the largest in town.

On the opposite side of the street was the home of Dr. Matthew Swain. His was a white house, fronted with tall, slim pillars. Most of the townspeople defined it as “southern looking.” The doctor’s wife had been dead for many years, and the town often wondered why The Doc, as he was informally known, insisted on keeping his big house.

“Too big for a man alone,” said Peyton Place. “I’ll bet The Doc rattles around in there like a marble in a tin cup.”

“The Doc’s place ain’t as big as Leslie Harrington’s.”

“No, but it’s different with Harrington. He’s got a boy that’s going to get married someday. That’s why he keeps that big house since his wife died. It’s for the boy.”

“I guess that’s so. Too bad The Doc never had kids. Must be lonely for a man with no kids, after his wife goes.”

Below Dr. Swain, on the same side of the street, lived Charles Partridge, the town’s leading attorney. Old Charlie, as the town called him, had a solid, Victorian house which was painted a dark red and trimmed with white, and where he lived with his wife Marion. The Partridges had no children.

“Seems funny, don’t it?” said the townspeople, some of whom lived, with many children, in cramped quarters, “that the biggest houses on Chestnut Street are the emptiest in town.”

“Well, you know what they say. The rich get richer, and the poor get children.”

“Reckon that’s right enough.”

Also on Chestnut Street lived Dexter Humphrey, the president of the Citizens’ National Bank; Leighton Philbrook, who owned a sawmill and vast tracts of hardwood forest; Jared Clarke, the owner of a chain of feed and grain stores throughout the northern section of the state, who was also chairman of the board of selectmen; and Seth Buswell, the owner of the Peyton Place Times.

“Seth’s the only man on Chestnut Street who don’t have to work for a living,” said the town. “He can just set and scribble to his heart’s content and never worry about the bills.”

This was true. Seth was the only son of the late George Buswell, a shrewd landowner who had eventually become governor of the state. When he died, George Buswell left a healthy fortune to his son, Seth.

“Hard as nails, old George Buswell was,” said the townspeople who remembered him.

“Yep. Hard as nails and crooked as a corkscrew.”

The residents of Chestnut Street regarded themselves as the backbone of Peyton Place. They were of the old families, people whose ancestors remembered when the town had been nothing but wilderness, with Samuel Peyton’s castle the only building for miles around. Between them, the men who lived on Chestnut Street provided jobs for Peyton Place. They took care of its aches and pains, straightened out its legal affairs, formed its thinking and spent its money. Between themselves, these men knew more about the town and its people than anyone else.

“More power on Chestnut Street than in the big Connecticut River,” said Peter Drake, who practiced law in town under a double handicap. He was young, and he had not been born in Peyton Place.