The Wapshot Chronicle

by John Cheever

  Pleasant memories all, even spittoons. Beginning business life. Full of self-confidence. Resolved to succeed. Kept journal of maxims. Always run. Never walk. Never walked in Whittier’s presence. Always smile. Never frown. Avoid unclean thoughts. Buy mother gray silk dress. Turn of century approaching. Progress everywhere. New World. Dirigible in Music Hall. Phonograph in Horticultural Hall. First arc light on Summer Street. Had to change carbon stick every day. Early demonstration of telephone at Concord and Lexington Festival. Cold. Big crowds. No food. Rode to Boston on rooftop of train coach. Whittier bona-fide merchant prince. Factory in Lynn. Office in Boston. Shoe prices from 67 cents a pair to $1.20. All sold to jobbers from West. South. Business in excess of a million a year. Worked from 7 to 6. Smiling. Running. Learning.

  Grimes head clerk. Best friend in office. Slender man. Silky hair. Monkey fingered, horny minded, sad. At times tiresome. Spoke often of wife. Conjugal bliss. Color in eyes deepened. Licked lips. Knew about Turkish customs. French customs. Armenian customs, etc. Sometimes tiresome as already said above. Writer captivated by thought of wife. Golden headed. Slut perhaps? Went home with Grimes for supper to meet same. Excited. Grimes unlocked door. Woman spoke from parlor. Heavy voice. Excitement gone. Big broad-shouldered woman. Red cheeks. Heavy boots caked with mud. “There’s pork chops and greens for supper,” she says. “I want to be at the hall at eight.” Grimes puts on apron. Cooks supper. Runs between table and stove. Runs between stove and table. Wife stowes away big meal; big eater. Not much to say. Puts on heavy coat and tramps off to meeting in muddy boots. A feminist. Grimes washes dishes. Monkey-fingered man. Sad.

  Found self, although not yet of legal age, powerfully attracted to opposite sex. Picked up hooker on riverbank. Big hat. Dirty linen. Girlish airs, but not young. What matter. Writer on fool’s errand. Red hair. Green eyes. Talked. “What a pretty sky,” says she. “My how nice the river smells,” says she. Very ladylike. River smells of mudbanks. Bad breath of the sea. Low tide. French kissed. Groin to groin. Put hand in front of dress. Little boys in bushes giggled. Tomfools. Walked in dusk, hip to hip. “I have a little room on Belmont Street,” she says. No thanks. Took her to railroad embankment. Cinders. Cornflowers. Stars. Big weeds like tropical vegetation. Samoa. S——d her there. Grand and glorious feeling. Forget for an hour all small things. Venalities. Money worries. Ambitions. Felt refreshed, generous toward sainted old mother. Hooker named Beatrice. Met often afterwards. Later went to New York. Rattled her glass rings on Twenty-third Street windows. Winter nights. Tried to find her later. Disappeared. Above may be in bad taste. If so, writer apologizes. Man born to trouble as the sparks fly upward.

  Smells. Heat. Cold. All things like that most clearly remembered. Air in office fetid in wintertime. Coal stoves. Walking home to supper through cold. Joyous. Air in streets straight from snowcapped mountains. Washington. Jefferson. Lafayette. Franconia. Etc. Like mountain city in winter. Inhale smell of dead leaves on Common. Inhale north wind. Sweeter than any rose. Never get enough of sun and moon. Always sad to shut door. Got week’s vacation in July. Grimes informed writer purpose was to give another boy—relation of Whittier’s—chance at job. No good. Went to St. Botolphs with mother. Stayed with cousins. House still empty. Porch falling down. Garden overgrown. Few roses. Swam in river. Sailed. Caught three-pound trout in Parson’s Pond. Much pleasure walking on lonely beaches. Happy hours. Waves roar, rattle like New York, New Haven & Hartford. Underfoot dead skates. Sea grass shaped like bull whips, flowers, petticoats. Shells, stones, sea tack. All simple things. In the golden light memories of paradise perhaps; youth, surely, innocence. On beaches the joy and gall of perpetual youth. Even today. Smell east wind. Hear Neptune’s horn. Always raring to go. Pack sandwiches. Bathing suit. Catch ramshackle bus to beach. Irresistible. In blood perhaps. Father read Shakespeare to waves. Mouthful of pebbles. Demosthenes?

  Planned life carefully. Gym. Sailing in summer. Read Plutarch. Never missed a day at the office. Not once. Raise in salary. Increase of responsibility. Other signs of success. A winter night. Clerks going home. Cleaning pens. Banking fires. Whittier called me in to sanctum sanctorum. Coarse-faced man. Strong. Suffered from flatulence. Kept whisky keg in comer of office. Drank from bunghole with straw. Kept me waiting half hour. Footsteps of last clerk—Grimes—heard going downstairs. “You like the business, Leander?” he says. “Yes sir.” “Don’t be so damned eager,” he says. “You look like a house nigger.” Clears throat. Uses spittoon. Slumps suddenly in chair. Sad? Sickness? Bad news? Bankruptcy? Failure? Worse? “I have no son,” he says. “I’m sorry, Mr. Whittier.” “I have no son,” he says again. Raises big face. Tears all over cheeks. Tears running from eyes. “Work hard,” he says. “Trust me. I’ll treat you like a son. Now good night my boy.” Pats me. Sends me home.

  Mingled feelings of ambition and tenderness. My heart in the business. Whittier and Wapshot. Wapshot & Co. In love with the shoe business. Do anything for the boss. Visions of saving him from burning building, wrecked ship. Angry heirs at reading of will. Success ordained. Hurried through supper. Read Plutarch in cold room. Kept on gloves. Hat. Breath smoked. Got to office half hour early, next day. Ran. Smiled. Wrote letters. Shared lunch pail with Grimes. “How are you getting along with J. B.?” he asks. “All right,” I said. “Has he asked you in yet and told you that he doesn’t have a son?” Grimes said. “No,” I said. “Well, he will,” Grimes said. “He’ll ask you in to his office late some day and tell you to work hard and trust him and he’ll treat you like a son. He does it to everybody. Even Old Man Thomas. He’s seventy-three years old. That’s old for a son.”

  Writer tried to conceal hurt feelings. Grimes knew. Tried to turn experience to use. Continued to play role of eager son. Insincere but rules of business. Conceal natural independence. Seem dutiful. Obedient. As a result received many father-to-son talks. Advice typical of merchants at time. “Never extend credit to man with long hair. Never trust cigarette smokers; men with low-cut shoes.” Business a religion. Full of shrewdness. Superstition too. In daydreams began to think of marrying Whittier’s daughter. Only child. Harriet. Tried to discourage above ideas but received encouragement from old man himself. Asked to Whittiers’ for dinner.

  Bought black suit. When dressed on historic night went into kitchen to say good-by to mother. Hamlet not heard from. Anxious over favorite son. “Be sure and wipe your mouth with a napkin,” she said. “I guess you know enough to get to your two feet when any ladies or older people come into the room. We come from a mannerly family. We weren’t always poor. Be sure and use your napkin.”

  Walked to Whittiers’ house in south end. Manservant opened door and took coat. House still standing. Now a slum. Good-sized house but not palatial as appeared then. Hothouse flowers. Wallpaper. Clock struck. Counted chimes. Fourteen. Mrs. Whittier met me at door of parlor, drawing room. Slender, gracious woman. Two necklaces. Four bracelets. Three rings. Greeted boss, then daughter. One necklace. Two bracelets. Two rings. Big girl. Horse-faced. Hopes dashed. No room for love, marriage. Human needs not so simple. Also had forgotten to empty bladder. Miserable. Spoil everything. Counted pictures on walls. Fourteen. All beautiful. Still lifes. Storms at sea. Italian or Egyptian woman at well. French priests playing dominoes. Foreign landscapes. Wallpaper even on ceiling.

  Ate big dinner. Elegant surroundings but manners not so good as West Farm. Whittier broke wind twice. Both times loud. After repast Mrs. Whittier sang. Put on spectacles. Stood bright lamps on table. Sang of love. Shrill voice. Spectacles. Bright lamps made hostess seem old, pinched. After concert, writer said good night. Walked home. Found mother still in kitchen. Sewing by lamplight. Old now. Longing for Hamlet. “Did you have a nice time? Did you remember to use your napkin? Does your own home look ugly and dark? When I was a girl, I was younger than you, I went to visit my Brewster cousins in Newburyport. They had carriage horses, servants, a big house. When I came back to St. Botolphs my home looked ugly and dark. It made me thoughtful.”
/>   Father-to-son talk four weeks later, at dark as customary. Clerks leaving. Fires dying. “Sit down, Leander, sit down,” he said. “I told you that if you trusted me and worked hard I’d treat you like a son, didn’t I? I never told that to anybody else. You know that, don’t you? You believe me, don’t you? Now I’m going to show you what I mean. Business practice is changing. I’m going to send a salesman on the road. I want you to be that salesman. I want you to go to New York for me, representing me. I want you to call on my customers, just as if you were my son. Take orders. Behave like a gentleman. When you go to New York I want you to realize what you’re doing. I want you to realize that J. B. Whittier is more than a business. I want you to think of the firm as if it was your mother; our mother. I want you to think of it as if this dear old lady needed money and you were going to New York to make some money for her. I want you to comport yourself and dress yourself and talk as if you were representing this dear old lady. When you order your meals and stay in a hotel I want you to spend your money as if you realized it all belonged to this little old lady.” Liberal display of the waterworks. We understood one another.

  Sing of the night boats. All that writer knows. Fall River, Bangor, Portland, Cape May, Baltimore, Lake Erie, Lake Huron, Saint Louis, Memphis, New Orleans. Floating palaces. Corn-husk mattresses. Music over water. One-night card games, one-night friendships, one-night girls. All gone with dawn’s early light. First passage calm. Ocean like glass. Many lights glittering on water. Sparse lights on shore line. People watching palace drift by from porches, lawns, bridges, cupolas. Set their clocks by her. Shared cabin with stranger. Put watch, cash and checks in sock, put sock on foot. Slept on corn-husk mattress yearning for night-boat nymphs. Going to big city to make fortune for little old lady. J. B. Whittier & Co.

  Checked in at Hoffman House as ordered. First customer gave order for eight hundred dollars. Second customer slightly higher. Sold five thousand dollars in three days. Wired for confirmation on last orders. Slept every night with watch, cash, etc., in sock. Returned on train, tired but happy. Went straight to office. J. B. waiting. Fell on writer’s neck. Return of prodigal. Conquering hero. Took favorite son to Parker House for dinner. Whisky, wine, fish, flesh and fowl. Later to Chardon Street fancy house. Second visit. First time with Jim Graves. Died in St. Botolphs as stated above. Baptists still singing. “Lead, Kindly Light.” Appeared to be favorite hymn.

  White-haired boy. Advice sought on manufacturing, merchandising, etc. Subject of marriage finally broached. Same place, same time of day as other confidential talks. “You planning to marry, my boy,” he says, “or are you going to remain a bachelor all your life?” “I plan to marry and raise a family, sir,” I said. “Shut the door and sit down,” he said. “Have you got a young lady?” he asks. “No sir,” I said. “Well, I’ve got the young lady for you,” he said. “She lives with her parents in Cambridge. She’s a Sunday-school teacher. She’s no more than eighteen years old. Have a drink of whisky.” He walked to the keg in the corner. Took turns at the straw. Sat down again. “Man bom of woman,” he said, “hath but a short span and he is full of misery.” Waterworks beginning. Liberal display of tears. “I wronged this young lady, Leander. I forced her. But she’ll make you a good wife.” Loud sobbing. “She’s not flighty or loose. I was the first one. You marry her and I’ll give you a thousand dollars. You don’t marry her and I’ll see that you get no work in Boston or anyplace else where my name is known. Tell me on Monday. Go home and think it over.” Got to his feet. Heavy man. Spring on swivel chair boomed. “Good night, my boy,” he said. Down the curved stairs slowly. Night air smelled of mountains, but not for me. Colorless, hateful, northern city. All black but for gaslights; mustard-colored blankets on livery-stable hacks. Dirty snow underfoot. Gruel of snow; horse manure. Five years wasted in business. Father dead. Hamlet never coming home. Sole support of sainted old mother. What to do? Ate supper with mother. Went upstairs to cold room. Put on Mackinaw. Looked through book of resolutions. Avoid unclean thoughts. Run, never walk. Smile. Never frown. Go to gymnasium twice a week. Buy your mother a gray silk dress. No help here. Thought of Albany. Find work there. Lodgings. Begin life again. Decided on Albany. Pack on Sunday. Leave on Monday. Never see Whittier again. Went downstairs. Mother by stove in kitchen. Sewing. Mentioned Albany. “I hope you don’t have any plans for going there,” she said. “You’ve been a good boy, Leander, but you take after your father. It was always his feeling that if he could go someplace where he wasn’t known he would become rich and happy. It was a great weakness. He was a weak man. If you want to go away at least wait until I die. Wait until Hamlet comes home. Remember that I’m old. I mind the cold. Boston is my only home.”

  Went to church on Sunday. God would be conscious of my trial. Got to my knees. Prayed for once with a full heart. Feast of Saint Mark. Lesson from Saint John. Looked around church wondering what symbol would reveal choice. Gordian knots, sheep and lions’ heads, doves, swastikas, crosses, thorns and wheels. Watchful all through service. Nothing. Ask a stone. “I prayed for you,” mother said. Took arm. “Albany is full of Irishmen and other foreigners. You won’t go there.” Jared came later. Played Acis and Galatea. Hated music. Was Acis hungry? Was Galatea sole support of aged mother? Mortals had worse trouble.

  Woke before dawn on Monday. Two, three A.M. Irresolute and sleepless. Sat at window to try and reach decision. City sleeping. Few lights. Innocent-looking prospect. Remembered West Farm. Good old summertime! Remembered father. Life made unbearable by lack of coin. Moral of whole career appeared to be: Make Money. Hell hath no fire that burns like need. Poverty is the root of all evil. Who is the thief? A poor man. Who is the drunkard? A poor man too. Who makes his daughter spread her legs to strangers on Chardon Street? The poor man. Who leaves his son fatherless? The poor man.

  Such reasoning quieted moral qualms somewhat although decision went against deepest instincts. Romantic perhaps. Dreamed often of fair wife, waiting in rose bower at end of day. White cottage. Lovebirds in flowering trees. Nellie Melba’s embonpoint. All this lost. Saw no other course, however. Gentle light appearing in sky. Dusk. Sound of early-bird horsecar coming up Joy Street. Went first thing in morning to Whittier. “I’m game, sir,” says I. Told me his plans. Go to visit girl that evening. Marry her in week or two. When time comes for accouchement take her to address in Nahant. Leave baby there. Infanticide? After birth of baby one thousand dollars would be deposited in National Trust Co., New York City, to writer’s account.

  Put on best black suit after supper and walked to address given in Cambridge. Spring night. Temperature in the sixties. South wind sounding in still-bare trees like kettle drums. Many stars. Gentle light. Unlike winter constellations. House on hoopskirts of Cambridge. Half-starved dogs barked at writer’s footsteps. No sidewalks. Bare planks on mud. Small house among trees. Knocked woefully on door. Tall man opened. White hair. Sideburns. Drawn face. Sick perhaps? Sallow wife at back, holding lamp. Wick lying in yellow coal oil. How-do-you-dos ended, followed old couple into parlor, saw future wife.

  Pretty child. Hair like raven’s wing. Snow-white complexion. Slender wrists. Felt pity, sympathy too. Rolled by old wind-breaking goat in bushes after Sunday-school picnic. Boss was unpopular, even among Chardon Street beauties. Babes in the wood; she and me. “Father was reading from the Bible” says her mother. “Luke,” says the old man. “Chapter seven; verse thirty-one.” Reads the Bible for an hour. Closed with prayers. Everybody on their knees. Said good-by then. “Good-by, Mr. Wapshot” were the only words spoken by future spouse. Walked home, wondering: Was she stupid? Could she cook?

  Took Clarissa to church following Sunday. In company with her parents. On way there made proposal of marriage. “I would like to marry you, Mr. Wapshot,” she said. Some happiness then. Picture was not hopeless. Thought ahead to time after baby’s birth. Stormy weather coming but why not peace and quiet after? Church was deep-water Baptist. Sunny day. Fell asleep during sermon. Late that evening told
mother of plans. Sainted old lady did not bat an eyelash. Never told her facts in case. Laconism, like blindness, seems to develop other faculties. Powers of divination. Married following Sunday in Church of Ascension. Father Masterson tied bond. Fine old character. Mother only witness. God bless dear old lady. Went from church to North Station. Took cars to Franconia.

  Tedious journey in local. Stopped at every back yard. So it seemed. Backside of every barn on way painted with advertisements. Elixirs. Liver pills. Old circus posters. Dried codfish. Tea. Coffee. Back of barn in St. Botolphs painted: Boston Store. Rock bottom prices.

  Young black-haired wife, dressed in best. Made all own clothes. Great sweetness; grace. Remember slenderness of wrists, ankles. Fleeting joy, sadness on face. Much openness. Real meaning of beauty all flow from lovely woman. Poetry. Music. Makes everything touched upon seem like revelation. Writer’s hand. Ugly train coach. “I once rode to Swamscott in the cars,” she said. Musical voice made journey seem like poem. Swans. Music of harps. Fountains. Swamscott not much and trains to same like trains everywhere. Fragrant, supple child, carrying seed of troll. Deep feeling of pity. Also lead in pencil.

  Arrival in Franconia. Took hack to boardinghouse. Eight dollars per week. American plan. North country. Cold nights even in midsummer. Pick-up supper in gloomy dining room. No matter. Love blind to cold pudding, sallow-faced landlady, stains on ceiling. Bridal chamber big farmhouse bedroom. Cumbrous bedstead painted with purple grapes. Iron wood stove blazing. Undressed in light, heat of fire.