Читать книгу 'Charge It': Keeping Up With Harry - Irving Bacheller - Страница 9

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“Harry is the most modern character in my little museum,” said the Honorable Socrates Potter, as I sat with him in his cozy office. “I was really introduced to Harry by the Bishop of St. Clare, who died in 1712. I didn’t know his heart until the Bishop made us acquainted. Strange! Well, that depends on the point of view. You see, the Bishop was acquired and imported as an ancestor by one of the best families, and that’s how I happened to meet him. They would have got William the Conqueror––of England and Fifth Avenue––if he hadn’t been well hidden.

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“I am inclined to converse long and loudly on the reconstruction of Pointview. Of course I shall talk too much, but I am a licensed liar, and the number of my machine is 4227643720, so if I smash a dog here and there, make a note of the number and charge it. I’m going fast and shall not have time to stop for apologies.

“In Pointview even Time has quickened his pace. Last year is ancient history. Lizzie has been succeeded by Miss Elizabeth, who needs a maid, a chauffeur, a footman, and a house-party to maintain her spirits. Harry and his drag have taken the place of Dan and his runabout.

“The enemy has arrived in force. We are surrounded by country-houses and city abdomens of appalling size and arrogance. Mansions crown the slopes and line the water-front. The dialect of the lazy Yankee and his industrious hens are heard no more in the hills of Pointview. Where the hoe and the sickle were stirred by the 13 fear of hunger, the golf-club and the tennis-racket are moved by the fear of fat. The sweat of toil is now the perspiration of exercise. The chatter of society has succeeded that of the goose and the polliwog. Land has gone up. Rocks have become real estate even while they belonged to Christian Scientists. Ledges, smitten by the modern Moses, have gushed a stream of gold. Once the land supported its owner. Now wealth supports land and landlord and the fullness thereof. The Fifth Avenue farmer has begun to raise his own vegetables at a dollar apiece and a crop of criminals second to none. In his hands farming becomes agriculture and the farm a swarming nest of parasites.

“We are in the midst of a new migration from the cities back to the land, and all are happy save the philosophers. It is a remote reaction of former migrations to the mines and the oil-fields. The descendants of these very pioneers now seek to exchange 14 a part of their gold for the ancient sod in which are the roots of their family trees and delusions.

“With these rich men came Henry Delance, who grew up with me here and went to Pittsburg in his early twenties and made a fortune in the coal and iron business. His grandfather was old Nick Delance, a blacksmith; and his father owned a farm on the hills and made a bare living for himself and a large family. They had been simple, hard-working, honest people. I helped Henry to buy the old place, and, as we stood together on the hilltop, he said to me:

“ ‘I often think of the old days that were full of hard labor. What a woman my mother was! Did all the work of the house and raised seven boys and two girls, and every one of them has had some success in the world––except me. One built a big railroad, one was governor of a State, one a member of Congress, one a noted physician, 15 two have made millions, and both of the girls married well. Now, my boy has had every advantage––’

“ ‘But poverty,’ I suggested.

“ ‘But poverty,’ he repeated, ‘and I’m unable to give him that. It’s probably the one thing that would make a man of him, and I wouldn’t wonder if he succeeded in achieving it.’

“ ‘A rather large undertaking,’ I said.

“ ‘Yes, but he’s well qualified,’ Henry answered, with a smile.

“ ‘What’s the matter with your boy?’ I asked.

“ ‘So busy with tomfoolery––no time for anything else. I’ve had so much to do that I’ve rather neglected Harry, and now he’s too much for me. He knows that he’s got me beat on education, but that’s only the beginning of what he knows. Good fellow, you understand, but he’s young and thinks me old-fashioned. I wish you’d help me to make a man of him.’

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“ ‘What can I do?’

“ ‘Get him interested in some kind of work. He doesn’t like my business. He hates Wall Street, and, knowing it as I do, how can I blame the boy? He doesn’t take to the law––’

“ ‘And, knowing it as I do, how can I blame him?’ I interrupted.

“ ‘But, somehow, he hasn’t the spring in his bow that I had––the get-up-and-get––the disposition to move all hell if necessary.’

“ ‘You can’t expect it,’ I said. ‘His mainspring is broken.’

“ ‘What would you call his mainspring?’ he asked.

“ ‘The desire to win money and its power. Mind you, I wouldn’t call that a high motive, but in a young man it’s a kind of a mainspring that sets him a-going and keeps the works busy until he can get better motive power. In Harry it’s broken.’

“ ‘You’re right––it was busted long ago,’ said Henry Delance.

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“ ‘Some one has got to contrive a new mainspring for the sons of millionaires––they’re so plenty these days.’

“ ‘There’s the desire to be respectable,’ he suggested.

“ ‘But it is not nearly so universal as the love of money. If it were possible to have millionaire carpenters and shoemakers there’d be more hope! But I’ll try to invent a mainspring for Harry. If he doesn’t marry some fool woman there’s a chance for the boy––a good chance. Tell me all about him.’

“In his own way, which amused me a little, the old man sketched the character of his son, or rather confessed it.

“ ‘A kind of Alexander the Great,’ he said. ‘We shall have to be careful or lose our heads. Surfeited with power, you know. When he wants anything he goes to a store and says, “Charge it.” That has ruined him. He’s no scale of values in his mind.’

“He told me, then, with some evidence 18 of alarm, that Harry had become interested in a fool woman, older than he, noted for her beauty and equestrian skill––by name Mrs. Revere-Chalmers, of a well-known Southern family. I knew the woman––divorced from a rich old gentleman of great generosity, who had taken all the blame for her sake. But I happened to know that the circumstances on her side were not creditable. The truth, however, had been well concealed.

“In her youth Frances Revere had two beautiful parents. In fact, they were all that any girl could desire––obedient and respectful to their youngers. She was always kind to them and kept them looking neatly and helped them in their lessons and brought them up in the fear of Tiffany and the hope of future happiness. They played most of the time, but never chased each other in and out of the bedrooms or made any noise about the house when she lay sleeping in the forenoon. Their sense 19 of chivalry would not have permitted it. When she arose she called them to her and patted their heads and said: ‘What dear parents I have!’ It might be thought that the fair Frances led an aimless and idle life. Not so. The young lady was very busy and never forgot her aim. She was preparing herself to be a marryer of men and the leading marryer in the proud city of her birth. Every member of the household became her assistant in this noble industry. Many storekeepers had unconsciously joined her staff and ‘charged it’ until they were weary. All her papa’s money had been invested in the business, and he began to borrow for a rainy day. Then there came a long spell of wet weather. At last something had to be done. Frances began to use her talents. No prince or noble duke had come for her, so she married an old man worth ten million dollars and sent her parents to an orphan asylum with a fair allowance of spending-money. They 20 are her only heirs, and now, at thirty, but with ample capital, she has set up again in the marrying business.

“She lives in a big country-house, and has a lot of cats and dogs that are shampooed every day. Her life is pretty much devoted to the regulation of hair. Her own requires the exclusive attention of a hired girl. Its tint, luster, and general effect show excellent taste and close application. Considering its area, her scalp is the most remarkable field of industry in Connecticut. Has herself made into a kind of life-sized portrait every day and carefully framed and lighted and hung. It is a beautiful portrait, but it is not a portrait of her.

“Her life is arduous. I have some reason to think that it wearies her. She rings for the masseuse at 10.30 A.M. and breakfasts in bed at twelve o’clock. Soon after that the chiropodist and the manicure and the hair-dresser begin to saw wood; 21 then the grooms and second footmen. At two o’clock she goes out to pat the head of the ten-thousand-dollar bull and give some sugar to the horses, all of whom have been prepared for this ordeal by bathing and massage.

“It’s great to be able to pat the head of a ten-thousand-dollar bull. It’s a pretty vanity. All the Fifth Avenue farmers indulge in it. Some slap them on the back and some poke them in the ribs with the point of a parasol, but the correct thing is to pat them on the head and say: Dear old Romeo!

“After a turn in the saddle Mrs. Revere-Chalmers led society until midnight. With her a new spirit had arrived in the ancient stronghold of the Yankee.

“I began to learn things about Harry––a big, blond, handsome youth who had traveled much. He had been to school in New York, London, Florence, and Paris, and had graduated from Harvard. For a time he called it Hahvud, but passed that trouble 22 without serious injury and put it behind him. In the European stage of his career he had been attacked by lions, griffins, and battle-axes and had lost some of his red blood. There he had acquired a full line of Fifth Avenue dialect and conversation with trills and grace notes from France and Italy. He had been slowly recovering from that trouble for a year or so when I met him. Now and then a good, strong, native idiom burst out in his conversation.

“Harry was a man without a country, having never had a fair chance to acquire one. He had touched many high and low places––from the top of the Eiffel Tower to the lowest depths of the underworld. Also, he knew the best hotels in Europe and eastern America, and the Duke of Sutherland and the Lord Mayor of London, and Jack Johnson, the pugilist. Harry knew only the upper and lower ends of life.

“He was an extremist. Also, he was a prolific and generous liar. He lied not to 23 deceive, but to entertain. There was a kind of noble charity in his lying. He would gladly perjure his soul to speed an hour for any good friend. His was the fictional imagination largely exercised in the cause of human happiness. Now and then he became the hero of his own lies, but he was generally willing to divide the honors. His friends knew not when to believe him, and he often deceived them when he was telling the truth.

“Early in April, Henry Delance came to me and said: ‘Soc, you’ve been working hard for years, and you need a rest. Let’s get aboard the next steamer and spend a fortnight in England.’

“I had little taste for foreign travel, but Betsey urged me to go, and I went with Henry and his wife, their daughter Ruth and the boy Harry, and sundry maids and valets. We had been a week in London, when Henry and the Mrs. came into my room one day, aglow with excitement. 24 Mrs. Delance was first to address me.

“ ‘Mr. Potter, congratulate us,’ said she. ‘We find that Henry is a lineal descendant of William the Conqueror.’

“ ‘Henry, it is possible that William could prove an alibi, or maybe you could,’ I suggested.

“ ‘I’d make an effort,’ said he, with a trace of embarrassment, ‘but my wife thinks that we had better plead guilty and let it go. That kind of thing doesn’t interest me so much as it does her.’

“ ‘After all,’ I answered, by way of consolation, ‘if you think it’s like to do you any harm, it doesn’t need to get out. I shall respect your confidence.’

“ ‘Too late!’ his wife exclaimed. ‘The facts have been cabled to America.’

“I was writing letters in my room, next day, when Harry interrupted me with a hurried entrance. He locked the door inside, and in a kind of playful silence 25 drew from under his rain-coat, and deposited on my table, a human skull.

“ ‘The Bishop of St. Clare,’ he whispered, in that curious dialect which I shall not try to imitate.

“ ‘He isn’t looking very well,’ I said, not knowing what he meant.

“ ‘This is the Bishop’s head––the Bishop of St. Clare,’ Harry whispered again. ‘He was one of our ancestors––by Jove!’

“ ‘Is that all that was the matter with him?’ I asked.

“ ‘No; his epitaph says that he died of a fever in 1712.’

“ ‘How did you get hold of his head?’ I asked. ‘Win it in a raffle?’

“ ‘I bribed the old verger in the crypt of St. Mary’s. Offered him two sovereigns to lift the stone lid and let me look in. He said he couldn’t do that, but discreetly withdrew when I put the money in his hand. It was up to me, don’t you know, and here is the Bishop’s head.’

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“ ‘Going to have him photographed in a group of the family?’ I asked.

“ ‘No, but you see Materna paid two pounds for a chunk off a tombstone, and I thought I would give her a souvenir worth having,’ said he, and blushed for the first time since our interview had begun. ‘This is unique.’

“ ‘And you didn’t think the Bishop would miss it?’ I suggested.

“ ‘Not seriously,’ he answered. ‘I guess it’s a fool thing to have done, but I thought that I could have some fun with the Bishop’s head. Mother is going to round up all the Delances at Christmas for a big dinner––uncles, aunts, and cousins, you know––a celebration of our genealogical discoveries with a great family tree in the center of the table. The history of the Delances will be read, and I thought that I would spring a surprise––tell them that I had invited our old ancestor, Sir Robert Delance, Bishop of St. Clare; that, contrary 27 to my hope, he had accepted, and that I would presently introduce him. In due time I would produce the head and read from his life and writings, which I bought in a London book-stall. Finally, I thought that I would have him tell how he happened to be present. Don’t you think he would make a hit?’

“ ‘He would surely make a hit––a resounding hit,’ I said, ‘but not as a proof of respectability. Even if the Bishop is your ancestor, you have no good title to his bones. I presume that every visitor to the old church puts his name and address in a register?’

“ ‘Yes.’

“ ‘Well, suppose the theft is discovered and the verger gives you away. All the money you’ve got wouldn’t keep you out of prison.’

“Harry began to turn pale. He was a good fellow, but this genealogical frenzy had turned his head, and his head was not as old as the Bishop’s. It was unduly young.

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“ ‘Assume that you get home with your prize, the Bishop’s head would be the worst enemy that his descendants ever had. It would always accuse you and grin at your follies. And would you dare proclaim the truth over in Pointview that you really have the skull of the Bishop of St. Clare?’

“The boy was scared. He had suddenly discovered an important fact. It was the north pole of his education.

“ ‘By Jove! I’m an ass,’ he said. ‘What shall I do with it?’

“ ‘Say nothing of the thing to anybody, not even to your father, and get rid of it.’

“ ‘That’s what I’ll do,’ he said, as he wrapped the skull in a piece of newspaper, hid it under his coat, and left me.

“We sailed next afternoon, and that evening, when Harry and I sat alone in a corner of the deck, I asked him what he had done with the Bishop’s head.

“ ‘Tried to get rid of it, but couldn’t,’ he said. ‘My conscience smote me, and I 29 took the old bone back to St. Mary’s. Going to do my duty like a man, you see, but it wouldn’t work. New verger on the job! I weakened. Then I put it in a box and had it addressed to a fictitious man in Bristol, and sent my valet to get it off by express. It went on, and was returned for a better address. You see, my valet––officious ass!––had left his address at the express office. How gauche of him! While we were lying at the dock a messenger came to my state-room with the Bishop’s head. I had to take it and pay five shillings and a sixpence for the privilege.’

“ ‘The old Bishop seems to be quite attached to his new relative,’ I said.

“ ‘Yes, but when the deck is deserted, by and by, I’m going to drop him overboard.’

“And that is what he did––dropped it, solemnly, from the ship’s side at dinnertime, and I witnessed the proceeding.

“The adventure had one result that was rather curious and unexpected. It brought 30 Harry close to me and established our relations to each other. That they admitted me to his confidence as a friend and counselor of the utmost frankness was on the whole exceedingly fortunate. From that time he began to trust me and to distrust himself.

“So it happened that I was really introduced to Harry by the Bishop of St. Clare, who died in 1712, and those credentials gave me a standing which I could not otherwise have enjoyed.

“Coming home, I limbered up my imagination and outlied Harry.

“I was forced to invent that cheerful, handy liar the late Dr. Godfrey Vogeldam Guph, Professor of the Romance Languages in the University of Brague and the intimate friend of any great man you may be pleased to mention. With his help I have laid low even the most authoritative, learned, and precise liars in the State of Connecticut. I do it by quoting from his memoirs.