Sam had the sensation that he was talking to a man in delirium, in terrible agony, who would not hear him. But he said: “My Stuart, have you forgotten Father Houlihan? Is he one like this?”
He was dimly surprised to learn that Stuart had actually heard him, for the younger man said: “Father Houlihan? I believe him a good man. But how can I know? He is ‘good’ to me. But what is he to others? You spoke to me about the mountain, which looks different to different men from different vantage points. I’ve thought you a good man, too, but how do I know? What do you appear to others? You and old Grundy are only two men, anyway, and I have met no other good men—if you are good.”
Sam stared at him, and his own eyes were full of pain. He felt Stuart’s simple suffering all through his own flesh. His heart was weighed down with suffering.
Stuart shrugged despairingly, still not looking at his friend. “And so, there it was. It was a bad time for me, when I understood. And then I was afraid. You can’t understand how afraid I was. Then I began to see that a man had only one defense against other men: money. The more money he had, the higher the wall that guarded him against his fellows. That is why I knew I must have money. A very great deal of money. That is why I must have properties: to show other men that the wall is very high about me, and they can never scale it, to reach me and destroy me.”
Now he turned to Sam and smiled. It was both a sad and an evil smile.
“I’ve told a little of this to Grundy, when he tried to come over me with his noble platitudes. He has talked to me of ‘Christianity.’ My God! As if there ever was any Christianity in the world! Somewhere I’ve read that there was only one Christian, and He was crucified. But I know there was only one Christian, and He was a Jew. And if the story is true, there was only one Christian, and He was God. He could never have been a man.”
He lifted his hands for a moment, then dropped them. Again he smiled, and to Sam, it was a touching and very tired smile.
“No, He could never have been a man, not even in His flesh. If He ever lived at all, which I doubt. There are times when I know, in my heart, that He was only a beautiful myth. Someone invented Him, as they invented the older prophets. He came out of the mind of Jews; they are excellent inventors of excellence. I have seen that invention in you, also.”
Then Sam said a strange thing, but in a clear voice of mysterious relief: “I haf always known, my poor Stuart, that you are a good man.”
Stuart stared at him blankly. Then he shook his head numbly, as if he had heard words in a strange language, which had no significance for him.
Sam stood up. He went to his friend, and pressed his shoulder with his hand. He bent over him, and said quietly and strongly:
“Stuart, it must be that you must listen to me. I haf said you are a good man. To others you do not appear to be a good man, only to a few. You are only part of the flesh of other men; you do not stand apart. What is in your mind, and your heart, is in the minds and hearts of others, also. No one is created of a different-substance—than other men. So what is true of him, in greater or smaller measure is true of all.
“If there is good in your thoughts, and this I know, and good in your intention, and if there is kindness in you, and gentleness, and some justiee, then these are in others too, greater or smaller. One stone in a field is no different from another; they came from the same earth, though some are of a larger size, and some of a different shape. So, you are no stranger in the world, looking at strange creatures who do not share your flesh.”
Stuart looked up at him, and was silent. His forehead wrinkled, as he tried to understand. But he smiled darkly.
Sam went on: “There is not only blackness in the world, my poor friend. Let us look about us. We haf invented some measure of law and order. We haf justice. We haf some mercy. We haf some trust in others, and in their word. We haf hospitals and asylums, as well as jails and gallows. Great books are written, and men read them, and think. Even among ten thousand liars, there are a few honest men. There is hope in men for a better world, and even in the hearts of the murderers and the liars there is a hidden belief that the better world can come. All is imperfect, yet. All is still confusion and darkness. But if all men were evil, and there was only evil in the world, there would not be even the little law and order we haf, and life would be impossible.”
He went on: “If all men were only evil, then the Scriptures would never haf survived to this day.”
He took his hand from Stuart’s shoulder, but still stood beside him. He lifted his whitened head and looked before him, and smiled.
“You haf spoken of your fear. But I do not fear. For I know that other men are like me, even if they are better, or worse. We are all the same. That is something we must learn. When we haf learned it, then we shall haf understood that we haf nothing to fear from each other, that no one would do ill to another except in his fear. It is fear that is the darkness, and the cruelty, and the murder. When each man says to himself: ‘Why should I fear my brother?’ then the world we dream of shall be here.”
Stuart did not speak. But he shook his head over and over.
Sam smiled, as if at someone invisible. “I believe, in America, that there will be the end of fear. And then there will be peace and goodness and the fatherhood of God. Yes, I believe that of America. The time will come. Perhaps not for many years. But it will come. That is my belief in America.”
The candles which Mrs. Berkowitz had lighted had burned to their sockets. But all at once, in one last burst of light, they illuminated all the room. There was triumph in that last light.
But Stuart saw only the darkness that followed.
“I don’t believe in America. I don’t believe in anything. You talk like old Grundy, Sam. All I know is that I am afraid. We must come back to the shops.”
Sam said, cheerfully: “Perhaps it will not be so bad as I think. But there is always a way. We shall find a way. No, it is never so bad as we think.”
CHAPTER 35
Janie sat in the warm ruddy kitchen, and carefully sorted out a heap of her worn but still luxurious gowns. Those that she discarded, after meticulous scrutiny, were destined for the daughter of her cook, Mrs. Gordon. Sometimes she hesitated, then with a quick gesture, she added a better frock of velvet or foulard to the heap. Now that heap, all crimson, purple, blue and violet, stood richly at her small feet.
There were few among her own class whom Janie ever trusted. But, with an odd democracy, she trusted her servants, who adored her, particularly Mrs. Gordon. For she was generous to them, and laughed sprightly with them, in her hoarse rowdy voice, and was always full of jest and gaiety except when she was abusive. Even then, they found her abuse fascinating, and greatly admired her profanity. It was nothing for her, when coming on a housemaid polishing the brass lifts on the stairs, to sit down a step or two above, and begin an interesting and amusing conversation with the girl. She would sit there, draped in one of her endless velvet peignoirs, her thin little arms folded on her knees, and exchange all manner of jokes and gossip with the maid. Both refreshed, then, they could continue with the day’s work, parting with friendliness on one side, and deep appreciation on the other. The gardeners were always delighted to see her, as were the stableboys, for there was such an insouciant air about her, such zest, such ribald slyness, that they could count on at least half an hour of fun and laughter. She paid them well, and was generous with them in other ways, such as the granting of a holiday, and a deep interest in their personal affairs. Nevertheless, they took few liberties with her, for they had learned that a certain flash of her eye meant “wicked” temper and ruthlessness, which did not pass away too quickly.
She enjoyed their company, illiterate though it was. For they were almost always simple and earthy and honestly licentious, and their remarks were pungent, if lewd. In their presence, she never had to pretend to be a fine lady. She could be one of them, some fundamental roughness and robust crudity in her satisfied and stimulated. However, none of her
children overheard any of her conversations with her menials, for these conversations were conspicuous for a lack of reticence and were often highly improper. But sometimes Laurie or Angus might hear the far rich booming of her naughty laughter, and the accompanying shrieks of Mrs. Gordon, in the kitchen, and then the door would be closed abruptly. The servants were great friends with other servants in the city, and after each night off they would return with spicy gossip to pour into their mistress’ receptive and eagerly malicious ear. This backstairs scandal was the light and interest of Janie’s life, and if an item was particularly exciting and scandalous the bearer was often rewarded with a velvet pelisse or a silver fifty-cent piece or an extra evening off. It was not truly bribery; it was just that Janie would be so delighted and pleased that she could not resist the reward, and gave it with grateful generosity.
The kitchen was her favorite spot in the house. It was a large wide room, one of the biggest under that roof, and the floor was of red tile, the walls of white plaster. It had a huge sunny window looking out on the back gardens, with a wide window seat full of plump linen cushions. Along the wall hung the many copper saucepans, all gleaming like gold in the brisk light, and against another wall was the huge iron and brick stove, fuming warmly, the kettles hissing, the lids lifting under the pressure to emit good rich odors. There were three comfortable rockers in the room, and one was Janie’s favorite, for it was small and well padded, and her feet could touch the floor.
It was summer now, the brief fresh summer of the North, and the opened window admitted the sweetest bright wind and the chattering of birds. The trees sparkled in the sun; the grass was green and vivid. Roses climbed against the white wall of the garden, and yellow marigolds and purple lobelia and pansies and phlox were mingled in riotous color along the brick paths. A weeping willow tree was like a green and fragile fountain in the center of the garden, its strands floating gently in the moving and radiant air, and far to the right stood a noble elm, its branches gilded with gold. Pigeons fluttered over the gray slate of the roof and over the red shingles of the stables and outhouses, and flew up brightly against a turquoise sky full of wide summer light. All was very still and peaceful. The pans boiled briskly on the stove; the curtains at the window stirred. Mrs. Gordon moved about heavily, but quickly; she was a huge fat woman with a hairy mirthful face and little blue eyes shining with malice and wit and contentment. Her gray-black hair was bunched untidily over her head and about her full pink cheeks with their hirsute sproutings. She had a big and bellicose mouth, a nose like a snout, and a billowy breast, and enormous hips swelling under her full black skirts. A crisp white apron was tightly tied over her quivering belly. She looked competent and alert, with no nonsense about her, and was a prodigious talker, emphasizing her remarks with gestures of a polished ladle or fork. She was Janie’s best friend, and had a rough and ribald tongue and a fund of shrewd tales that endlessly delighted her mistress. Her tales were never good-natured or kind, but full of lasciviousness and scandal. Mrs. Gordon thought the worst of everyone, and the worst was always biological.
Janie sat in her little rocker, and went over the gowns and frocks to be given Mrs. Gordon’s daughter, who was married to a “poor stick of a creature.” And, like all women married to such creatures, she had many children, of whom Mrs. Gordon was not in the least fond. They were “brats” and “bastards” to her, though the unfortunate mother was quite legally wed to her chronically ailing spouse. Laurie’s outgrown frocks and underwear and pinafores went to clothe the older girls, and her brothers unconsciously contributed to the same family, their garments industriously cut down to fit the numerous male brood.
Mrs. Gordon always had a remark ready anent her son-in-law. She watched Janie’s sorting with approval. She said: “You’d think, wouldn’t you, that a feller that can’t get out of bed except at the call of nature, and is always whinin’ like a beat dog, wouldn’t have the gumption! Yet there she is, gruntin’ out a young un every ten months, regular as clockwork, while he lies there, bleatin’. And she gettin’ out of bed in three days to take in washin’ again! It’s hell, I tell you, Miz Cauder, it’s hell!”
“I always say that is the last part of a man to die, and even then you can’t be sure,” chuckled Janie. She laid a white batiste frock of Laurie’s on the pile, and picked up her own last summer’s foulard, a pretty blue.
She looked very neat and pretty this morning, her red curls piled high for coolness on her small head, her freckled cheeks flushed, her green eyes sparkling with humor. She wore a thin loose frock of dotted Swiss, and her arms were bare to the elbow, below a series of wide crisp ruffles. Below the flounces of the frock peeped her little feet in their heelless black sandals and white cotton stockings. She was good-tempered today. Mrs. Gordon had just finished regaling her with several juicy tales about her neighbors, and she chuckled in remembrance. When she laughed like this, showing her white even teeth, she looked young and gay, and one hardly noticed the web of fine wrinkles beginning to overlay her face and deepen about her malicious eyes.
She said: “That’s a fine tale, about the Mayor! Four terms in office, and still pinching the girls behind the doors. Who’d think it of the decorous Mr. Cummings!”
“And he a churchman in the best standing,” nodded Mrs. Gordon, with a grin. “And as fine a wife as a man could have, and a pretty girl for a daughter.”
Janie frowned quickly. “One can’t blame him, with a wife like Alicia, Gordon. A priggish creature, with high and mighty ways. I’ve never liked her. I’d thought of her Alice for Bertie, but the lad’ll have none of her. And now it’s Bobbie, mooning about her, though mooning is hardly the word, he’s so cold-blooded. And Alicia watching them like a hawk, and frowning to herself, as if my lads are not too good for her puling brat! I should be the one who should look askance, not Alicia, for who are the Cummings’, anyway? His father was a tavern-keeper and horse-trader, and he’s done some clever horse-breeding himself. We have different ideas in England, Gordon. Anyway, Bertie shows good taste. None of a horse-trader’s for my aristocratic Bertie!” And she nodded in grim satisfaction.
Mrs. Gordon’s mean little eyes narrowed shrewdly and knowingly on her mistress, and she smirked to herself. She said: “Well, Miss Alice is pretty, and her dad’s got a fortune, and Mister Robbie could look farther and do worse. Though there’s not much choice in Grandeville, and perhaps your boys would do better in a bigger town, Miz Cauder.”
Janie nodded, and sighed. She pretended to be downhearted, but Mrs. Gordon saw through her pretense. “And there’s my Angus, marrying that tub of white lard in November, Gordon. Oh, that Gretchen Schnitzel! And her dada’s tanneries that smell to high heaven! It’s like marrying a stink, Gordon.”
“But a rich stink,” said Mrs. Gordon, wistfully.
Janie looked resigned, but also smug. “He’ll go far, my Angus, with the money. No foolishness about the lad. He’s been well trained. He’s already got his plans. If he can only hold his nose.”
“Maybe he’ll go into the tanneries,” suggested Mrs. Gordon.
“Oh, God, no! Schnitzel—(Heavens, what a name!) has two lads of his own, you know. And Angus has other ideas. And his mama, too,” she added with a chuckle. She continued after a moment: “Angus will have the lass, Gordon, though I can’t abide her. Did you ever see such a face? White and lardy, with little pig eyes, and hair the color of bleached straw. And a nasty nature, too. Dull as lard. She’ll be as big as a keg in a few years.”
“Mabye Mr. Angus’ll help with the bigness,” said Mrs. Gordon.
Janie giggled. “I have my doubts, Gordon, I have my doubts. I fear the lad lacks the parts. Besides, he’d perhaps think it sinful. Everything’s sin, to Angus. Though he never goes to church any more. Like as not he thinks the only proper way to replenish the earth is through immaculate conception, or through the bees, like flowers.”
She and Mrs. Gordon went off into a loud gale of laughter, with many supplementary remarks, all exceedingly im
proper. They rehearsed Angus’ wedding night, with appropriate squeals on the part of Miss Gretchen, and sweatings and agonies on Angus’, and much shame. They were quite breathless for several moments after this.
“Now my Robbie,” said Janie, when she could get her breath, “would be very judicial with his Alice. It would all be logic, and serious discussion, prior to the event. Alice would be put through a severe catechism, sitting there in her nightgown, on the bed, while he walked up and down the bedroom with his hands behind his back, in the best Napoleonic manner. What did she think of the matter? he would ask her. Had she any reasonable opinions on the subject? Had she come to any sensible conclusion? That would be my Robbie!”
They shrieked again, Mrs. Gordon taking the time from her pots to sit on a chair, which represented the marriage bed, and to smirk in imitation of the bewildered Alice. She put a huge greasy finger coyly in the side of her mouth, and bridled, and pretended to blush. She threw her apron over her face. Janie was convulsed at this. “That would end the discussion!” she cried.
Mrs. Gordon returned to her pots. “When is Mr. Bertie expected back from his rest cure in Saratoga?” she asked, casually.
Janie glanced at her broad back sharply. But her face saddened. She bent over another frock, and her voice was gentle when she answered: “Next week, I believe. The poor lad! So big and hearty, who’d have suspected that he had a lung condition? And a bad stomach? But there it is.” She sighed. “I never thought, all these years, that he was delicate. But one can’t tell, even with a fine body like his. I’d have thought it likelier of that miserable Angus of mine, or even my little wizened Robbie. But never of Bertie, so big and handsome and merry and braw. He writes me, however, that he’s quite recovered, and is just on edge with impatience to see us all again.”
The Wide House Page 36
