Читать книгу LOOK HOMEWARD, ANGEL - Thomas Wolfe - Страница 7
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ОглавлениеIn the great processional of the years through which the history of the Gants was evolving, few years had borne a heavier weight of pain, terror, and wretchedness, and none was destined to bring with it more conclusive events than that year which marked the beginning of the twentieth century. For Gant and his wife, the year 1900, in which one day they found themselves, after growing to maturity in another century — a transition which must have given, wherever it has happened, a brief but poignant loneliness to thousands of imaginative people — had coincidences, too striking to be unnoticed, with other boundaries in their lives.
In that year Gant passed his fiftieth birthday: he knew he was half as old as the century that had died, and that men do not often live as long as centuries. And in that year, too, Eliza, big with the last child she would ever have, went over the final hedge of terror and desperation and, in the opulent darkness of the summer night, as she lay flat in her bed with her hands upon her swollen belly, she began to design her life for the years when she would cease to be a mother.
In the already opening gulf on whose separate shores their lives were founded, she was beginning to look, with the infinite composure, the tremendous patience which waits through half a lifetime for an event, not so much with certain foresight, as with a prophetic, brooding instinct. This quality, this almost Buddhistic complacency which, rooted in the fundamental structure of her life, she could neither suppress nor conceal, was the quality he could least understand, that infuriated him most. He was fifty: he had a tragic consciousness of time — he saw the passionate fulness of his life upon the wane, and he cast about him like a senseless and infuriate beast. She had perhaps a greater reason for quietude than he, for she had come on from the cruel openings of her life, through disease, physical weakness, poverty, the constant imminence of death and misery: she had lost her first child, and brought the others safely through each succeeding plague; and now, at forty-two, her last child stirring in her womb, she had a conviction, enforced by her Scotch superstition, and the blind vanity of her family, which saw extinction for others but not for itself, that she was being shaped to a purpose.
As she lay in her bed, a great star burned across her vision in the western quarter of the sky; she fancied it was climbing heaven slowly. And although she could not have said toward what pinnacle her life was moving, she saw in the future freedom that she had never known, possession and power and wealth, the desire for which was mixed inextinguishably with the current of her blood. Thinking of this in the dark, she pursed her lips with thoughtful satisfaction, unhumorously seeing herself at work in the carnival, taking away quite easily from the hands of folly what it had never known how to keep.
“I’ll get it!” she thought, “I’ll get it. Will has it! Jim has it. And I’m smarter than they are.” And with regret, tinctured with pain and bitterness, she thought of Gant:
“Pshaw! If I hadn’t kept after him he wouldn’t have a stick to call his own today. What little we have got I’ve had to fight for; we wouldn’t have a roof over our heads; we’d spend the rest of our lives in a rented house”— which was to her the final ignominy of shiftless and improvident people.
And she resumed: “The money he squanders every year in licker would buy a good lot: we could be well-to-do people now if we’d started at the very beginning. But he’s always hated the very idea of owning anything: couldn’t bear it, he told me once, since he lost his money in that trade in Sydney. If I’d been there, you can bet your bottom dollar there’d been no loss. Or, it’d be on the other side,” she added grimly.
And lying there while the winds of early autumn swept down from the Southern hills, filling the black air with dropping leaves, and making, in intermittent rushes, a remote sad thunder in great trees, she thought of the stranger who had come to live in her, and of that other stranger, author of so much woe, who had lived with her for almost twenty years. And thinking of Gant, she felt again an inchoate aching wonder, recalling the savage strife between them, and the great submerged struggle beneath, founded upon the hatred and the love of property, in which she did not doubt of her victory, but which baffled her, foiled her.
“I’ll vow!” she whispered. “I’ll vow! I never saw such a man!”
Gant, faced with the loss of sensuous delight, knowing the time had come when all his Rabelaisian excess in eating, drinking, and loving must come under the halter, knew of no gain that could compensate him for the loss of libertinism; he felt, too, the sharp ache of regret, feeling that he had possessed powers, had wasted chances, such as his partnership with Will Pentland, that might have given him position and wealth. He knew that the century had gone in which the best part of his life had passed; he felt, more than ever, the strangeness and loneliness of our little adventure upon the earth: he thought of his childhood on the Dutch farm, the Baltimore days, the aimless drift down the continent, the appalling fixation of his whole life upon a series of accidents. The enormous tragedy of accident hung like a gray cloud over his life. He saw more clearly than ever that he was a stranger in a strange land among people who would always be alien to him. Strangest of all, he thought, was this union, by which he had begotten children, created a life dependent on him, with a woman so remote from all he understood.
He did not know whether the year 1900 marked for him a beginning or an ending; but with the familiar weakness of the sensualist, he resolved to make it an ending, burning the spent fire in him down to a guttering flame. In the first half of the month of January, still penitently true to the New Year’s reformation, he begot a child: by Spring, when it was evident that Eliza was again pregnant, he had hurled himself into an orgy to which even a notable four months’ drunk in 1896 could offer no precedent. Day after day he became maniacally drunk, until he fixed himself in a state of constant insanity: in May she sent him off again to a sanitarium at Piedmont to take the “cure,” which consisted simply in feeding him plainly and cheaply, and keeping him away from alcohol for six weeks, a regime which contributed no more ravenously to his hunger than it did to his thirst. He returned, outwardly chastened, but inwardly a raging furnace, toward the end of June: the day before he came back, Eliza, obviously big with child, her white face compactly set, walked sturdily into each of the town’s fourteen saloons, calling up the proprietor or the bar-man behind his counter, and speaking clearly and loudly in the sodden company of bar clientry:
“See here: I just came in to tell you that Mr. Gant is coming back tomorrow, and I want you all to know that if I hear of any of you selling him a drink, I’ll put you in the penitentiary.”
The threat, they knew, was preposterous, but the white judicial face, the thoughtful pursing of the lips, and the right hand, which she held loosely clenched, like a man’s, with the forefinger extended, emphasizing her proclamation with a calm, but somehow powerful gesture, froze them with a terror no amount of fierce excoriation could have produced. They received her announcement in beery stupefaction, muttering at most a startled agreement as she walked out.
“By God,” said a mountaineer, sending a brown inaccurate stream toward a cuspidor, “she’ll do it, too. That woman means business.”
“Hell!” said Tim O’Donnel, thrusting his simian face comically above his counter, “I wouldn’t give W.O. a drink now if it was fifteen cents a quart and we was alone in a privy. Is she gone yet?”
There was vast whisky laughter.
“Who is she?” some one asked.
“She’s Will Pentland’s sister.”
“By God, she’ll do it then,” cried several; and the place trembled again with their laughter.
Will Pentland was in Loughran’s when she entered. She did not greet him. When she had gone he turned to a man near him, prefacing his remark with a birdlike nod and wink: “Bet you can’t do that,” he said.
Gant, when he returned, and was publicly refused at a bar, was wild with rage and humiliation. He got whisky very easily, of course, by sending a drayman from his steps, or some negro, in for it; but, in spite of the notoriety of his conduct, which had, he knew, become a classic myth for the children of the town, he shrank at each new advertisement of his behaviour; he became, year by year, more, rather than less, sensitive to it, and his shame, his quivering humiliation on mornings after, product of rasped pride and jangled nerves, was pitiable. He felt bitterly that Eliza had with deliberate malice publicly degraded him: he screamed denunciation and abuse at her on his return home.
All through the summer Eliza walked with white boding placidity through horror — she had by now the hunger for it, waiting with terrible quiet the return of fear at night. Angered by her pregnancy, Gant went almost daily to Elizabeth’s house in Eagle Crescent, whence he was delivered nightly by a band of exhausted and terrified prostitutes into the care of his son Steve, his oldest child, by now pertly free with nearly all the women in the district, who fondled him with good-natured vulgarity, laughed heartily at his glib innuendoes, and suffered him, even, to slap them smartly on their rumps, making for him roughly as he skipped nimbly away.
“Son,” said Elizabeth, shaking Gant’s waggling head vigorously, “don’t you carry on, when you grow up, like the old rooster here. But he’s a nice old boy when he wants to be,” she continued, kissing the bald spot on his head, and deftly slipping into the boy’s hand the wallet Gant had, in a torrent of generosity, given to her. She was scrupulously honest.
The boy was usually accompanied on these errands by Jannadeau and Tom Flack, a negro hack-man, who waited in patient constraint outside the latticed door of the brothel until the advancing tumult within announced that Gant had been enticed to depart. And he would go, either struggling clumsily and screaming eloquent abuse at his suppliant captors, or jovially acquiescent, bellowing a wanton song of his youth along the latticed crescent, and through the supper-silent highways of the town.
“Up in that back room, boys,
Up in THAT back room,
All among the fleas and bugs,
I pit-tee your sad doom.”
Home, he would be cajoled up the tall veranda stairs, enticed into his bed; or, resisting all compulsion, he would seek out his wife, shut usually in her room, howling taunts at her, and accusations of unchastity, since there festered in him dark suspicion, fruit of his age, his wasting energy. Timid Daisy, pale from fright, would have fled to the neighboring arms of Sudie Isaacs, or to the Tarkintons; Helen, aged ten, even then his delight, would master him, feeding spoonfuls of scalding soup into his mouth, and slapping him sharply with her small hand when he became recalcitrant.
“You DRINK this! You better!”
He was enormously pleased: they were both strung on the same wires.
Again, he was beyond all reason. Extravagantly mad, he built roaring fires in his sitting-room, drenching the leaping fire with a can of oil; spitting exultantly into the answering roar, and striking up, until he was exhausted, a profane chant, set to a few recurrent bars of music, which ran, for forty minutes, somewhat like this:
“O-ho — Goddam,
Goddam, Goddam,
O-ho — Goddam,
Goddam — Goddam.”
— adopting usually the measure by which clock-chimes strike out the hour.
And outside, strung like apes along the wide wires of the fence, Sandy and Fergus Duncan, Seth Tarkinton, sometimes Ben and Grover themselves, joining in the glee of their friends, kept up an answering chant:
“Old man Gant
Came home drunk!
Old man Gant
Came home drunk!”
Daisy, from a neighbor’s sanctuary, wept in shame and fear. But Helen, small thin fury, held on relentlessly: presently he would subside into a chair, and receive hot soup and stinging slaps with a grin. Upstairs Eliza lay, white-faced and watchfully.
So ran the summer by. The last grapes hung in dried and rotten clusters to the vines; the wind roared distantly; September ended.
One night the dry doctor, Cardiac, said: “I think we’ll be through with this before tomorrow evening.” He departed, leaving in the house a middle-aged country woman. She was a hard-handed practical nurse.
At eight o’clock Gant returned alone. The boy Steve had stayed at home for ready dispatch at Eliza’s need; for the moment the attention was shifted from the master.
His great voice below, chanting obscenities, carried across the neighborhood: as she heard the sudden wild roar of flame up the chimney, shaking the house in its flight, she called Steve to her side, tensely: “Son, he’ll burn us all up!” she whispered.
They heard a chair fall heavily below, his curse; they heard his heavy reeling stride across the dining-room and up the hall; they heard the sagging creak of the stair-rail as his body swung against it.
“He’s coming!” she whispered. “He’s coming! Lock the door, son!”
The boy locked the door.
“Are you there?” Gant roared, pounding the flimsy door heavily with his great fist. “Miss Eliza: are you there?” howling at her the ironical title by which he addressed her at moments like this.
And he screamed a sermon of profanity and woven invective:—
“Little did I reck,” he began, getting at once into the swing of preposterous rhetoric which he used half furiously, half comically, “little did I reck the day I first saw her eighteen bitter years ago, when she came wriggling around the corner at me like a snake on her belly —(a stock epithet which from repetition was now heart-balm to him)— little did I reck that — that — that it would come to this,” he finished lamely. He waited quietly, in the heavy silence, for some answer, knowing that she lay in her white-faced calm behind the door, and filled with the old choking fury because he knew she would not answer.
“Are you there? I say, are you there, woman?” he howled, barking his big knuckles in a furious bombardment.
There was nothing but the white living silence.
“Ah me! Ah me!” he sighed with strong self-pity, then burst into forced snuffling sobs, which furnished a running accompaniment to his denunciation. “Merciful God!” he wept, “it’s fearful, it’s awful, it’s croo-el. What have I ever done that God should punish me like this in my old age?”
There was no answer.
“Cynthia! Cynthia!” he howled suddenly, invoking the memory of his first wife, the gaunt tubercular spinstress whose life, it was said, his conduct had done nothing to prolong, but whom he was fond of supplicating now, realizing the hurt, the anger he caused to Eliza by doing so. “Cynthia! O Cynthia! Look down upon me in my hour of need! Give me succour! Give me aid! Protect me against this fiend out of Hell!”
And he continued, weeping in heavy snuffling burlesque: “O-boo-hoo-hoo! Come down and save me, I beg of you, I entreat you, I implore you, or I perish.”
Silence answered.
“Ingratitude, more fierce than brutish beasts,” Gant resumed, getting off on another track, fruitful with mixed and mangled quotation. “You will be punished, as sure as there’s a just God in heaven. You will all be punished. Kick the old man, strike him, throw him out on the street: he’s no good any more. He’s no longer able to provide for the family — send him over the hill to the poorhouse. That’s where he belongs. Rattle his bones over the stones. Honor thy father that thy days may be long. Ah, Lord!
“‘Look, in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through;
See what a rent the envious Casca made;
Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabbed;
And, as he plucked his cursèd steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it —’”
“Jeemy,” said Mrs. Duncan at this moment to her husband, “ye’d better go over. He’s loose agin, an’ she’s wi’ chile.”
The Scotchman thrust back his chair, moved strongly out of the ordered ritual of his life, and the warm fragrance of new-baked bread.
At the gate, outside Gant’s, he found patient Jannadeau, fetched down by Ben. They spoke matter-of-factly, and hastened up the steps as they heard a crash upstairs, and a woman’s cry. Eliza, in only her night-dress, opened the door.
“Come quick!” she whispered. “Come quick!”
“By God, I’ll kill her,” Gant screamed, plunging down the stairs at greater peril to his own life than to any other. “I’ll kill her now, and put an end to my misery.”
He had a heavy poker in his hand. The two men seized him; the burly jeweller took the poker from his hand with quiet strength.
“He cut his head on the bed-rail, mama,” said Steve descending. It was true: Gant bled.
“Go for your Uncle Will, son. Quick!” He was off like a hound.
“I think he meant it that time,” she whispered.
Duncan shut the door against the gaping line of neighbors beyond the gate.
“Ye’ll be gettin’ a cheel like that, Mrs. Gant.”
“Keep him away from me! Keep him away!” she cried out strongly.
“Aye, I will that!” he answered in quiet Scotch.
She turned to go up the stairs, but on the second step she fell heavily to her knees. The country nurse, returning from the bathroom, in which she had locked herself, ran to her aid. She went up slowly then between the woman and Grover. Outside Ben dropped nimbly from the low eave on to the lily beds: Seth Tarkinton, clinging to fence wires, shouted greetings.
Gant went off docilely, somewhat dazed, between his two guardians: as his huge limbs sprawled brokenly in his rocker, they undressed him. Helen had already been busy in the kitchen for some time: she appeared now with boiling soup.
Gant’s dead eyes lit with recognition as he saw her.
“Why baby,” he roared, making a vast maudlin circle with his arms, “how are you?” She put the soup down; he swept her thin body crushingly against him, brushing her cheek and neck with his stiff-bristled mustache, breathing upon her the foul rank odor of rye whisky.
“Oh, he’s cut himself!” The little girl thought she was going to cry.
“Look what they did to me, baby,” he pointed to his wound and whimpered.
Will Pentland, true son of that clan who forgot one another never, and who saw one another only in times of death, pestilence, and terror, came in.
“Good evening, Mr. Pentland,” said Duncan.
“Jus’ tolable,” he said, with his bird-like nod and wink, taking in both men good-naturedly. He stood in front of the fire, paring meditatively at his blunt nails with a dull knife. It was his familiar gesture when in company: no one, he felt, could see what you thought about anything, if you pared your nails.
The sight of him drew Gant instantly from his lethargy: he remembered the dissolved partnership; the familiar attitude of Will Pentland, as he stood before the fire, evoked all the markings he so heartily loathed in the clan — its pert complacency, its incessant punning, its success.
“Mountain Grills!” he roared. “Mountain Grills! The lowest of the low! The vilest of the vile!”
“Mr. Gant! Mr. Gant!” pleaded Jannadeau.
“What’s the matter with you, W. O.?” asked Will Pentland, looking up innocently from his fingers. “Had something to eat that didn’t agree with you?”— he winked pertly at Duncan, and went back to his fingers.
“Your miserable old father,” howled Gant, “was horsewhipped on the public square for not paying his debts.” This was a purely imaginative insult, which had secured itself as truth, however, in Gant’s mind, as had so many other stock epithets, because it gave him heart-cockle satisfaction.
“Horsewhipped upon his public square, was he?” Will winked again, unable to resist the opening. “They kept it mighty quiet, didn’t they?” But behind the intense good-humored posture of his face, his eyes were hard. He pursed his lips meditatively as he worked upon his fingers.
“But I’ll tell you something about him, W. O.,” he continued after a moment, with calm but boding judiciousness. “He let his wife die a natural death in her own bed. He didn’t try to kill her.”
“No, by God!” Gant rejoined. “He let her starve to death. If the old woman ever got a square meal in her life she got it under my roof. There’s one thing sure: she could have gone to Hell and back, twice over, before she got it from old Tom Pentland, or any of his sons.”
Will Pentland closed his blunt knife and put it in his pocket.
“Old Major Pentland never did an honest day’s work in his life,” Gant yelled, as a happy afterthought.
“Come now, Mr. Gant!” said Duncan reproachfully.
“Hush! Hush!” whispered the girl fiercely, coming before him closely with the soup. She thrust a smoking ladle at his mouth, but he turned his head away to hurl another insult. She slapped him sharply across the mouth.
“You DRINK this!” she whispered. And grinning meekly as his eyes rested upon her, he began to swallow soup.
Will Pentland looked at the girl attentively for a moment, then glanced at Duncan and Jannadeau with a nod and wink. Without saying another word, he left the room, and mounted the stairs. His sister lay quietly extended on her back.
“How do you feel, Eliza?” The room was heavy with the rich odor of mellowing pears; an unaccustomed fire of pine sticks burned in the grate: he took up his place before it, and began to pare his nails.
“Nobody knows — nobody knows,” she began, bursting quickly into a rapid flow of tears, “what I’ve been through.” She wiped her eyes in a moment on a corner of the coverlid: her broad powerful nose, founded redly on her white face, was like flame.
“What you got good to eat?” he said, winking at her with a comic gluttony.
“There are some pears in there on the shelf, Will. I put them there last week to mellow.”
He went into the big closet and returned in a moment with a large yellow pear; he came back to the hearth and opened the smaller blade of his knife.
“I’ll vow, Will,” she said quietly after a moment. “I’ve had all I can put up with. I don’t know what’s got into him. But you can bet your bottom dollar I won’t stand much more of it. I know how to shift for myself,” she said, nodding her head smartly. He recognized the tone.
He almost forgot himself: “See here, Eliza,” he began, “if you were thinking of building somewhere, I”— but he recovered himself in time —“I’ll make you the best price you can get on the material,” he concluded. He thrust a slice of pear quickly into his mouth.
She pursed her mouth rapidly for some moments.
“No,” she said. “I’m not ready for that yet, Will. I’ll let you know.” The loose wood-coals crumbled on the hearth.
“I’ll let you know,” she said again. He clasped his knife and thrust it in a trousers pocket.
“Good night, Eliza,” he said. “I reckon Pett will be in to see you. I’ll tell her you’re all right.”
He went down the stairs quietly, and let himself out through the front door. As he descended the tall veranda steps, Duncan and Jannadeau came quietly down the yard from the sitting-room.
“How’s W. O.?” he asked.
“Ah, he’ll be all right now,” said Duncan cheerfully. “He’s fast asleep.”
“The sleep of the righteous?” asked Will Pentland with a wink.
The Swiss resented the implied jeer at his Titan. “It is a gread bitty,” began Jannadeau in a low guttural voice, “that Mr. Gant drinks. With his mind he could go far. When he’s sober a finer man doesn’t live.”
“When he’s sober?” said Will, winking at him in the dark. “What about when he’s asleep.”
“He’s all right the minute Helen gets hold of him,” Mr. Duncan remarked in his rich voice. “It’s wonderful what that little girl can do to him.”
“Ah, I tell you!” Jannadeau laughed with guttural pleasure. “That little girl knows her daddy in and out.”
The child sat in the big chair by the waning sitting-room fire: she read until the flames had died to coals — then quietly she shovelled ashes on them. Gant, fathoms deep in slumber, lay on the smooth leather sofa against the wall. She had wrapped him well in a blanket; now she put a pillow on a chair and placed his feet on it. He was rank with whisky stench; the window rattled as he snored.
Thus, drowned in oblivion, ran his night; he slept when the great pangs of birth began in Eliza at two o’clock; slept through all the patient pain and care of doctor, nurse, and wife.
