by Philip Wylie
IX
Hugo sat alone and marvelled at the exquisite torment of his_Weltschmertz_. Far away, across the campus, he heard singing. Againstthe square segment of sky visible from the bay window of his room hecould see the light of the great fire they had built to celebratevictory--his victory. The light leaped into the darkness above like agreat golden ghost in some fantastic ascension, and beneath it, he knew,a thousand students were dancing. They were druid priests at a rite tothe god of football. His fingers struggled through his black hair. Theday was fresh in his mind--the bellowing stands, the taut, almostfrightened faces of the eleven men who faced him, the smack and flightof the brown oval, the lumbering sound of men running, the sucking ofthe breath of men and their sharp, painful fall to earth.
In his mind was a sharp picture of himself and the eyes that watched himas he broke away time and again, with infantile ease, to carry thatprecious ball. He let them make a touchdown that he could have averted.He made one himself. Then another. The bell on Webster Hall was boomingits paean of victory. He stiffened under the steady monody. He rememberedagain. Lefty barking signals with a strange agony in his voice. Leftypounding on his shoulder. "Go in there, Hugo, and give it to them. Ican't." Lefty pleading. And the captain, Jerry Painter, cursing in openjealousy of Hugo, vying hopelessly with Hugo Danner, the man who was agod.
It was not fair. Not right. The old and early glory was ebbing from it.When he put down the ball, safely across the goal for the winningtouchdown, he saw three of the men on the opposing team lie down andweep. There he stood, pretending to pant, feigning physical distress,making himself a hero at the expense of innocent victims. Jackstraws fora giant. There was no triumph in that. He could not go on.
Afterwards they had made him speak, and the breathless words that hadonce come so easily moved heavily through his mind. Yet he had carriedhis advantage beyond the point of turning back. He could not say thatthe opponents of Webster might as well attempt to hold back aJuggernaut, to throw down a siege-gun, to outrace light, as to lay theirhands on him to check his intent. Webster had been good to him. He lovedWebster and it deserved his best. His best! He peered again into thecelebrating night and wondered what that awful best would be.
He desired passionately to be able to give that--to cover the earth,making men glad and bringing a revolution into their lives, to workhimself into a fury and to fatigue his incredible sinews, to end withthe feeling of a race well run, a task nobly executed. And, for a year,that ambition had seemed in some small way to be approaching fruition.Now it was turned to ashes. It was not with the muscles of men that hisgoal was to be attained. They could not oppose him.
As he sat gloomy and distressed, he wondered for what reason thereburned in him that wish to do great deeds. Humanity itself was tooselfish and too ignorant to care. It could boil in its tiny prejudicesfor centuries to come and never know that there could be a difference.Moreover, who was he to grind his soul and beat his thoughts for thebenefit of people who would never know and never care? What honour, whenhe was dead, to lie beneath a slab on which was punily graven some noteof mighty accomplishment? Why could he not content himself with the foodhe ate, the sunshine, with wind in trees, and cold water, and a woman?It was that sad and silly command within to transcend his vegetable selfthat made him human. He tried to think about it bitterly: fool man,grown suddenly more conscious than the other beasts--how quickly he hadbecome vain because of it and how that vanity led him forever onward! Orwas it vanity--when his aching soul proclaimed that he would gladlyachieve and die without other recognition or acclaim than that whichrose within himself? Martyrs were made of such stuff. And was not that,perhaps, an even more exaggerated vanity? It was so pitiful to be a manand nothing more. Hugo bowed his head and let his body tremble withstrange agony. Perhaps, he thought, even the agony was a selfishpleasure to him. Then he should be ashamed. He felt shame and thenthought that the feeling rose from a wish for it and foundered angrilyin the confusion of his introspection. He knew only and knew but dimlythat he would lift himself up again and go on, searching for someuniversal foe to match against his strength. So pitiful to be a man! SoChrist must have felt in Gethsemane.
"Hey, Hugo!"
"Yeah?"
"What the hell did you come over here for?"
"To be alone."
"Is that a hint?" Lefty entered the room. "They want you over at thebonfire. We've been looking all over for you."
"All right. I'll go. But, honest to God, I've had enough of thisbusiness for to-day."
Lefty slapped Hugo's shoulders. "The great must pay for their celebrity.Come on, you sap."
"All right."
"What's the matter? Anything the matter?"
"No. Nothing's the matter. Only--it's sort of sad to be--" Hugo checkedhimself.
"Sad? Good God, man, you're going stale."
"Maybe that's it." Hugo had a sudden fancy. "Do you suppose I could belet out of next week's game?"
"What for? My God--"
Hugo pursued the idea. "It's the last game. I can sit on the lines. Youfellows all play good ball. You can probably win. If you can't--thenI'll play. If you only knew, Lefty, how tired I get sometimes--"
"Tired! Why don't you say something about it? You can lay off practicefor three or four days."
"Not that. Tired in the head, not the body. Tired of crashing throughand always getting away with it. Oh, I'm not conceited. But I know theycan't stop me. You know it. It's a gift of mine--and a curse. How aboutit? Let's start next week without me."
The night ended at last. A new day came. The bell on Webster Hallstopped booming. Woodie, the coach, came to see Hugo between classes."Lefty says you want us to start without you next week. What's the bigidea?"
"I don't know. I thought the other birds would like a shot at Yalewithout me. They can do it."
Mr. Woodman eyed his player. "That's pretty generous of you, Hugo. Isthere any other reason?"
"Not--that I can explain."
"I see." The coach offered Hugo a cigarette after he had helped himself."Take it. It'll do you good."
"Thanks."
"Listen, Hugo. I want to ask you a question. But, first, I want you topromise you'll give me a plain answer."
"I'll try."
"That won't do."
"Well--I can't promise."
Woodman sighed. "I'll ask it anyway. You can answer or not--just as youwish." He was silent. He inhaled his cigarette and blew the smokethrough his nostrils. His eyes rested on Hugo with an expression ofintense interest, beneath which was a softer light of something notunlike sympathy. "I'll have to tell you something, first, Hugo. When youwent away last summer, I took a trip to Colorado."
Hugo started, and Woodman continued: "To Indian Creek. I met your fatherand your mother. I told them that I knew you. I did my best to gaintheir confidence. You see, Hugo, I've watched you with a more skilfuleye than most people. I've seen you do things, a few little things, thatweren't--well--that weren't--"
Hugo's throat was dry. "Natural?"
"That's the best word, I guess. You were never like my other boys, inany case. So I thought I'd find out what I could. I must admit that myefforts with your father were a failure. Aside from the fact that he isan able biology teacher and that he had a number of queer theories yearsago, I learned nothing. But I did find out what those theories were. Doyou want me to stop?"
A peculiar, almost hopeful expression was on Hugo's face. "No," heanswered.
"Well, they had to do with the biochemistry of cellular structure,didn't they? And with the production of energy in cells? And then--Italked to lots of people. I heard about Samson."
"Samson!" Hugo echoed, as if the dead had spoken.
"Samson--the cat."
Hugo was as pale as chalk. His eyes burned darkly. He felt that hisuniverse was slipping from beneath him. "You know, then," he said.
"I don't know, Hugo. I merely guessed. I was going to ask. Now I shallnot. Perhaps I do know. But I had another question, son--"
"Yes?" Hugo looked at Woodman and felt then the reason for his successas a coach, as a leader and master of youth. He understood it.
"Well, I wondered if you thought it was worth while to talk to yourfather and discover--"
"What he did?" Hugo suggested hoarsely.
Woodman put his hand on Hugo's knee. "What he did, son. You ought toknow by this time what it means. I've been watching you. I don't wantyour head to swell, but you're a great boy, Hugo. Not only in beef. Youhave a brain and an imagination and a sense of moral responsibility.You'll come out better than the rest--you would even without your--yourparticular talent. And I thought you might think that the rest ofhumanity would profit--"
Hugo jumped to his feet. "No. A thousand times no. For the love ofChrist--no! You don't know or understand, you can't conceive, Woodie,what it means to have it. You don't have the faintest idea of itsamount--what it tempts you with--what they did to me and I did to myselfto beat it--if I have beaten it." He laughed. "Listen, Woodie. AnythingI want is mine. Anything I desire I can take. No one can hinder. Andsometimes I sweat all night for fear some day I shall lose my temper.There's a desire in me to break and destroy and wreck that--oh, hell--"
Woodman waited. Then he spoke quietly. "You're sure, Hugo, that thedesire to be the only one--like that--has nothing to do with it?"
Hugo's sole response was to look into Woodman's eyes, a look so pregnantwith meaning, so tortured, so humble, that the coach swore softly. Thenhe held out his hand. "Well, Hugo, that's all. You've been damn swellabout it. The way I hoped you would be. And I think my answer is plain.One thing. As long as I live, I promise on my oath I'll never give youaway or support any rumour that hurts your secret."
Even Hugo was stirred to a consciousness of the strength of the otherman's grip.
Saturday. A shrill whistle. The thump of leather against leather. Theroar of the stadium.
Hugo leaned forward. He watched his fellows from the bench. They rushedacross the field. Lefty caught the ball. Eddie Carter interfered withthe first man, Bimbo Gaines with the second. The third slammed Leftyagainst the earth. Three downs. Eight yards. A kick. New Haven broughtthe ball to its twenty-one-yard line. The men in helmets formed again. Acoughing voice. Pandemonium. Again in line. The voice. The riot offigures suddenly still. Again. A kick. Lefty with the ball, and BimboGaines leading him, his big body a shield. Down. A break and a run fortwenty-eight yards. Must have been Chuck. Good old Chuck. He'd beplaying the game of his life. Graduation next spring. Four, seven,eleven, thirty-two, fifty-five. Hugo anticipated the spreading of theplayers. He looked where the ball would be thrown. He watched Minton,the end, spring forward, saw him falter, saw the opposing quarterbackrun in, saw Lefty thrown, saw the ball received by the enemy and movedup, saw the opposing back spilled nastily. His heart beat faster.
No score at the end of the first half. The third quarter witnessed thecrossing of Webster's goal. Struggling grimly, gamely, against a teamthat was their superior without Hugo, against a team heartened by theknowledge that Hugo was not facing it, Webster's players were beingbeaten. The goal was not kicked. It made the score six to nothingagainst Webster. Hugo saw the captain rip off his headgear and throw itangrily on the ground. He understood all that was going on in the mindsof his team in a clear, although remote, way. They went out to showthat they could play the game without Hugo Danner. And they were notshowing what they had hoped to show. A few minutes later their opponentsmade a second touchdown.
Thirteen to nothing. Mr. Woodman moved beside Hugo. "They can't doit--and I don't altogether blame them. They've depended on you too much.It's too bad. We all have."
Hugo nodded. "Shall I go in?"
The coach watched the next play. "I guess you better."
When Hugo entered the line, Jerry Painter and Lefty spoke to him instrained tones. "You've got to take it over, Hugo--all the way."
"All right."
The men lined up. A tense silence had fallen on the Yale line. They knewwhat was going to happen. The signals were called, the ball shot back toLefty, Hugo began to run, the men in front rushed together, and Leftystuffed the ball into Hugo's arms. "Go on," he shouted. The touchdownwas made in one play. Hugo saw a narrow hole and scooted into it. A manmet his outstretched arm on the other side. Another. Hugo dodged twice.The crescendo roar of the Webster section came to him dimly. He avoidedthe safety man and ran to the goal. In the pandemonium afterwards, Jerrykicked the goal.
A new kick-off. Hugo felt a hand on his shoulder. "You've gotta breakthis up." Hugo broke it up. He held Yale almost single-handed. Theykicked back. Hugo returned the kick to the middle of the field. He didnot dare to do more.
Then he stood in his leather helmet, bent, alert, waiting to run again.They called the captain's signal. He made four yards. Then Lefty's. Hemade a first down. Then Jerry's. Two yards. Six yards. Five yards.Another first down. The stands were insane. Hugo was glad they were notusing him--glad until he saw Jerry Painter's face. It was pale withrage. Blood trickled across it from a small cut. Three tries failed.Hugo spoke to him. "I'll take it over, Jerry, if you say so."
Jerry doubled his fist and would have struck him if Hugo had not steppedback. "God damn you, Danner, you come out here in the last few minutesall fresh and make us look like a lot of fools. I tell you, my team andI will take that ball across and not you with your bastard tricks."
"But, good God, man--"
"You heard me."
"This is your last down."
There was time for nothing more. Lefty called Jerry's signal, and Jerryfailed. The other team took the ball, rushed it twice, and kicked backinto the Webster territory. Again the tired, dogged players began amarch forward. The ball was not given to Hugo. He did his best, usinghis body as a ram to open holes in the line, tripping tacklers with hisbody, fighting within the limits of an appearance of human strength toget his teammates through to victory. And Jerry, still pale and profane,drove the men like slaves. It was useless. If Hugo had dared more, theymight have succeeded. But they lost the ball again. It was only in thelast few seconds that an exhausted and victorious team relinquished theball to Webster.
Jerry ordered his own number again. Hugo, cold and somewhat furious atthe vanity and injustice of the performance, gritted his teeth. "Howabout letting me try, Jerry? I can make it. It's for Webster--not foryou."
"You go to hell."
Lefty said: "You're out of your head, Jerry."
"I said I'd take it."
For one instant Hugo looked into his eyes. And in that instant thecaptain saw a dark and flickering fury that filled him with fear. Thewhistle blew. And then Hugo, to his astonishment, heard his signal.Lefty was disobeying the captain. He felt the ball in his arms. He ransmoothly. Suddenly he saw a dark shadow in the air. The captain hit himon the jaw with all his strength. After that, Hugo did not thinklucidly. He was momentarily berserk. He ran into the line raging andupset it like a row of tenpins. He raced into the open. A single man,thirty yards away, stood between him and the goal. The man drew near inan instant. Hugo doubled his arm to slug him. He felt the armstraighten, relented too late, and heard, above the chaos that wasloose, a sudden, dreadful snap. The man's head flew back and hedropped. Hugo ran across the goal. The gun stopped the game. But, beforethe avalanche fell upon him, Hugo saw his victim lying motionless on thefield. What followed was nightmare. The singing and the cheering. Theparade. The smashing of the goal posts. The gradual descent of silence.A pause. A shudder. He realized that he had been let down from theshoulders of the students. He saw Woodman, waving his hands, his face agraven mask. The men met in the midst of that turbulence.
"You killed him, Hugo."
The earth spun and rocked slowly. He was paying his first price forlosing his temper. "Killed him?"
"His neck was broken-in three places."
Some of the others heard. They walked away. Presently Hugo was standingalone on the cinders outside the stadium. Lefty came up. "I just heardabout it. Tough luck. But don't let
it break you."
Hugo did not answer. He knew that he was guilty of a sort of murder. Inhis own eyes it was murder. He had given away for one red moment to theleaping, lusting urge to smash the world. And killed a man. They wouldnever accuse him. They would never talk about it. Only Woodman, perhaps,would guess the thing behind the murder--the demon inside Hugo that wastame, except then, when his captain in jealous and inferior rage hadstruck him.
It was night. Out of deference to the body of the boy lying in theWebster chapel there was no celebration. Every ounce of glory and joyhad been drained from the victory. The students left Hugo to a solitudethat was more awful than a thousand scornful tongues. They thought hewould feel as they would feel about such an accident. They gave himrespect when he needed counsel. As he sat by himself, he thought that heshould tell them the truth, all of them, confess a crime and accept thepunishment. Hours passed. At midnight Woodman called.
"There isn't much to say, Hugo. I'm sorry, you're sorry, we're allsorry. But it occurred to me that you might do something foolish--tellthese people all about it, for example."
"I was going to."
"Don't. They'd never understand. You'd be involved in a legal war thatwould undoubtedly end in your acquittal. But it would drag in all yourfriends--and your mother and father--particularly him. The papers wouldgo wild. You might, on the other hand, be executed as a menace. Youcan't tell."
"It might be a good thing," Hugo answered bitterly.
"Don't let me hear you say that, you fool! I tell you, Hugo, if you gointo that business, I'll get up on the stand and say I knew it all thetime and I let a man play on my team when I was pretty sure that sooneror later he'd kill someone. Then I'll go to jail surely."
"You're a pretty fine man, Mr. Woodman."
"Hell!"
"What shall I do?" Hugo's voice trembled. He suffered as he had notdreamed it was possible to suffer.
"That's up to you. I'd say, live it down."
"Live it down! Do you know what that means--in a college?"
"Yes, I think I do, Hugo."
"You can live down almost anything, except that one thing--murder. It'stoo ugly, Woodie."
"Maybe. Maybe. You've got to decide, son. If you decide againsttrying--and, mind you, you might be justified--I've got a brother-in-lawwho has a ranch in Alberta. A couple of hundred miles from any place.You'd be welcome there."
Hugo did not reply. He took the coach's hand and wrung it. Then for anhour the two men sat side by side in the darkness. At last Woodman roseand left. He said only: "Remember that offer. It's cold and bleak andthe work is hard. Good-night, Hugo."
"Good-night, Woodie. Thanks for coming up."
When the campus was still with the quiet of sleep, Hugo crossed it asswiftly as a spectre. All night he strode remorselessly over countryroads. His face was set. His eyes burned. He ignored the trembling ofhis joints. When the sky faded, he went back. He packed his clothes intwo suit-cases. With them swinging at his side, he stole out of the PsiDelta house, crossed the campus, stopped. For a long instant he staredat Webster Hall. The first light of morning was just touching it. Thedebris collected for a fire that was never lighted was strewn around thecannon. He saw the initials he had painted there a year and more agostill faintly legible. A lump rose in his throat.
"Good-by, Webster," he said. He lifted the suitcase and vanished. In afew minutes the campus was five miles behind him--six--ten--twenty. Whenhe saw the first early caravan of produce headed toward the market, heslowed to a walk. The sun came over a hill and sparkled on a billiondrops of dew. A bird flew singing from his path. Hugo Danner had fledbeyond the gates of Webster.
