Complete Works of Frank Norris

by Frank Norris

  “I see that dog has turned up,” he announced with brisk cheerfulness. “That Irish setter I was asking about.”

  Hilma, a swift, pink flush deepening the delicate rose of her cheeks, did not reply, except by nodding her head. She flung the table-cloth out from under her arms across the table, spreading it smooth, with quick little caresses of her hands. There was a moment’s silence. Then Annixter said:

  “Here’s a letter for you.” He laid it down on the table near her, and Hilma picked it up. “And see here, Miss Hilma,” Annixter continued, “about that — this morning — I suppose you think I am a first-class mucker. If it will do any good to apologise, why, I will. I want to be friends with you. I made a bad mistake, and started in the wrong way. I don’t know much about women people. I want you to forget about that — this morning, and not think I am a galoot and a mucker. Will you do it? Will you be friends with me?”

  Hilma set the plate and coffee cup by Annixter’s place before answering, and Annixter repeated his question. Then she drew a deep, quick breath, the flush in her cheeks returning.

  “I think it was — it was so wrong of you,” she murmured. “Oh! you don’t know how it hurt me. I cried — oh, for an hour.”

  “Well, that’s just it,” returned Annixter vaguely, moving his head uneasily. “I didn’t know what kind of a girl you were — I mean, I made a mistake. I thought it didn’t make much difference. I thought all feemales were about alike.”

  “I hope you know now,” murmured Hilma ruefully. “I’ve paid enough to have you find out. I cried — you don’t know. Why, it hurt me worse than anything I can remember. I hope you know now.” “Well, I do know now,” he exclaimed.

  “It wasn’t so much that you tried to do — what you did,” answered Hilma, the single deep swell from her waist to her throat rising and falling in her emotion. “It was that you thought that you could — that anybody could that wanted to — that I held myself so cheap. Oh!” she cried, with a sudden sobbing catch in her throat, “I never can forget it, and you don’t know what it means to a girl.”

  “Well, that’s just what I do want,” he repeated. “I want you to forget it and have us be good friends.”

  In his embarrassment, Annixter could think of no other words. He kept reiterating again and again during the pauses of the conversation:

  “I want you to forget it. Will you? Will you forget it — that — this morning, and have us be good friends?”

  He could see that her trouble was keen. He was astonished that the matter should be so grave in her estimation. After all, what was it that a girl should be kissed? But he wanted to regain his lost ground.

  “Will you forget it, Miss Hilma? I want you to like me.”

  She took a clean napkin from the sideboard drawer and laid it down by the plate.

  “I — I do want you to like me,” persisted Annixter. “I want you to forget all about this business and like me.”

  Hilma was silent. Annixter saw the tears in her eyes.

  “How about that? Will you forget it? Will you — will — will you LIKE me?”

  She shook her head.

  “No,” she said.

  “No what? You won’t like me? Is that it?”

  Hilma, blinking at the napkin through her tears, nodded to say, Yes, that was it. Annixter hesitated a moment, frowning, harassed and perplexed.

  “You don’t like me at all, hey?”

  At length Hilma found her speech. In her low voice, lower and more velvety than ever, she said:

  “No — I don’t like you at all.”

  Then, as the tears suddenly overpowered her, she dashed a hand across her eyes, and ran from the room and out of doors.

  Annixter stood for a moment thoughtful, his protruding lower lip thrust out, his hands in his pocket.

  “I suppose she’ll quit now,” he muttered. “Suppose she’ll leave the ranch — if she hates me like that. Well, she can go — that’s all — she can go. Fool feemale girl,” he muttered between his teeth, “petticoat mess.” He was about to sit down to his supper when his eye fell upon the Irish setter, on his haunches in the doorway. There was an expectant, ingratiating look on the dog’s face. No doubt, he suspected it was time for eating.

  “Get out — YOU!” roared Annixter in a tempest of wrath.

  The dog slunk back, his tail shut down close, his ears drooping, but instead of running away, he lay down and rolled supinely upon his back, the very image of submission, tame, abject, disgusting. It was the one thing to drive Annixter to a fury. He kicked the dog off the porch in a rolling explosion of oaths, and flung himself down to his seat before the table, fuming and panting.

  “Damn the dog and the girl and the whole rotten business — and now,” he exclaimed, as a sudden fancied qualm arose in his stomach, “now, it’s all made me sick. Might have known it. Oh, it only lacked that to wind up the whole day. Let her go, I don’t care, and the sooner the better.”

  He countermanded the supper and went to bed before it was dark, lighting his lamp, on the chair near the head of the bed, and opening his “Copperfield” at the place marked by the strip of paper torn from the bag of prunes. For upward of an hour he read the novel, methodically swallowing one prune every time he reached the bottom of a page. About nine o’clock he blew out the lamp and, punching up his pillow, settled himself for the night.

  Then, as his mind relaxed in that strange, hypnotic condition that comes just before sleep, a series of pictures of the day’s doings passed before his imagination like the roll of a kinetoscope.

  First, it was Hilma Tree, as he had seen her in the dairy-house — charming, delicious, radiant of youth, her thick, white neck with its pale amber shadows under the chin; her wide, open eyes rimmed with fine, black lashes; the deep swell of her breast and hips, the delicate, lustrous floss on her cheek, impalpable as the pollen of a flower. He saw her standing there in the scintillating light of the morning, her smooth arms wet with milk, redolent and fragrant of milk, her whole, desirable figure moving in the golden glory of the sun, steeped in a lambent flame, saturated with it, glowing with it, joyous as the dawn itself.

  Then it was Los Muertos and Hooven, the sordid little Dutchman, grimed with the soil he worked in, yet vividly remembering a period of military glory, exciting himself with recollections of Gravelotte and the Kaiser, but contented now in the country of his adoption, defining the Fatherland as the place where wife and children lived. Then came the ranch house of Los Muertos, under the grove of cypress and eucalyptus, with its smooth, gravelled driveway and well-groomed lawns; Mrs. Derrick with her wide-opened eyes, that so easily took on a look of uneasiness, of innocence, of anxious inquiry, her face still pretty, her brown hair that still retained so much of its brightness spread over her chair back, drying in the sun; Magnus, erect as an officer of cavalry, smooth-shaven, grey, thin-lipped, imposing, with his hawk-like nose and forward-curling grey hair; Presley with his dark face, delicate mouth and sensitive, loose lips, in corduroys and laced boots, smoking cigarettes — an interesting figure, suggestive of a mixed origin, morbid, excitable, melancholy, brooding upon things that had no names. Then it was Bonneville, with the gayety and confusion of Main Street, the whirring electric cars, the zinc-sheathed telegraph poles, the buckboards with squashes stowed under the seats; Ruggles in frock coat, Stetson hat and shoe-string necktie, writing abstractedly upon his blotting pad; Dyke, the engineer, big-boned. Powerful, deep-voiced, good-natured, with his fine blonde beard and massive arms, rehearsing the praises of his little daughter Sidney, guided only by the one ambition that she should be educated at a seminary, slipping a dime into the toe of her diminutive slipper, then, later, overwhelmed with shame, slinking into S. Behrman’s office to mortgage his homestead to the heeler of the corporation that had discharged him. By suggestion, Annixter saw S. Behrman, too, fat, with a vast stomach, the check and neck meeting to form a great, tremulous jowl, the roll of fat over his collar, sprinkled with sparse, stiff hairs; saw his brown, round-
topped hat of varnished straw, the linen vest stamped with innumerable interlocked horseshoes, the heavy watch chain, clinking against the pearl vest buttons; invariably placid, unruffled, never losing his temper, serene, unassailable, enthroned.

  Then, at the end of all, it was the ranch again, seen in a last brief glance before he had gone to bed; the fecundated earth, calm at last, nursing the emplanted germ of life, ruddy with the sunset, the horizons purple, the small clamour of the day lapsing into quiet, the great, still twilight, building itself, dome-like, toward the zenith. The barn fowls were roosting in the trees near the stable, the horses crunching their fodder in the stalls, the day’s work ceasing by slow degrees; and the priest, the Spanish churchman, Father Sarria, relic of a departed regime, kindly, benign, believing in all goodness, a lover of his fellows and of dumb animals, yet, for all that, hurrying away in confusion and discomfiture, carrying in one hand the vessels of the Holy Communion and in the other a basket of game cocks.

  CHAPTER VI

  It was high noon, and the rays of the sun, that hung poised directly overhead in an intolerable white glory, fell straight as plummets upon the roofs and streets of Guadalajara. The adobe walls and sparse brick sidewalks of the drowsing town radiated the heat in an oily, quivering shimmer. The leaves of the eucalyptus trees around the Plaza drooped motionless, limp and relaxed under the scorching, searching blaze. The shadows of these trees had shrunk to their smallest circumference, contracting close about the trunks. The shade had dwindled to the breadth of a mere line. The sun was everywhere. The heat exhaling from brick and plaster and metal met the heat that steadily descended blanketwise and smothering, from the pale, scorched sky. Only the lizards — they lived in chinks of the crumbling adobe and in interstices of the sidewalk — remained without, motionless, as if stuffed, their eyes closed to mere slits, basking, stupefied with heat. At long intervals the prolonged drone of an insect developed out of the silence, vibrated a moment in a soothing, somnolent, long note, then trailed slowly into the quiet again. Somewhere in the interior of one of the ‘dobe houses a guitar snored and hummed sleepily. On the roof of the hotel a group of pigeons cooed incessantly with subdued, liquid murmurs, very plaintive; a cat, perfectly white, with a pink nose and thin, pink lips, dozed complacently on a fence rail, full in the sun. In a corner of the Plaza three hens wallowed in the baking hot dust their wings fluttering, clucking comfortably.

  And this was all. A Sunday repose prevailed the whole moribund town, peaceful, profound. A certain pleasing numbness, a sense of grateful enervation exhaled from the scorching plaster. There was no movement, no sound of human business. The faint hum of the insect, the intermittent murmur of the guitar, the mellow complainings of the pigeons, the prolonged purr of the white cat, the contented clucking of the hens — all these noises mingled together to form a faint, drowsy bourdon, prolonged, stupefying, suggestive of an infinite quiet, of a calm, complacent life, centuries old, lapsing gradually to its end under the gorgeous loneliness of a cloudless, pale blue sky and the steady fire of an interminable sun.

  In Solotari’s Spanish-Mexican restaurant, Vanamee and Presley sat opposite each other at one of the tables near the door, a bottle of white wine, tortillas, and an earthen pot of frijoles between them. They were the sole occupants of the place. It was the day that Annixter had chosen for his barn-dance and, in consequence, Quien Sabe was in fete and work suspended. Presley and Vanamee had arranged to spend the day in each other’s company, lunching at Solotari’s and taking a long tramp in the afternoon. For the moment they sat back in their chairs, their meal all but finished. Solotari brought black coffee and a small carafe of mescal, and retiring to a corner of the room, went to sleep.

  All through the meal Presley had been wondering over a certain change he observed in his friend. He looked at him again.

  Vanamee’s lean, spare face was of an olive pallor. His long, black hair, such as one sees in the saints and evangelists of the pre-Raphaelite artists, hung over his ears. Presley again remarked his pointed beard, black and fine, growing from the hollow cheeks. He looked at his face, a face like that of a young seer, like a half-inspired shepherd of the Hebraic legends, a dweller in the wilderness, gifted with strange powers. He was dressed as when Presley had first met him, herding his sheep, in brown canvas overalls, thrust into top boots; grey flannel shirt, open at the throat, showing the breast ruddy with tan; the waist encircled with a cartridge belt, empty of cartridges.

  But now, as Presley took more careful note of him, he was surprised to observe a certain new look in Vanamee’s deep-set eyes. He remembered now that all through the morning Vanamee had been singularly reserved. He was continually drifting into reveries, abstracted, distrait. Indubitably, something of moment had happened.

  At length Vanamee spoke. Leaning back in his chair, his thumbs in his belt, his bearded chin upon his breast, his voice was the even monotone of one speaking in his sleep.

  He told Presley in a few words what had happened during the first night he had spent in the garden of the old Mission, of the Answer, half-fancied, half-real, that had come to him.

  “To no other person but you would I speak of this,” he said, “but you, I think, will understand — will be sympathetic, at least, and I feel the need of unburdening myself of it to some one. At first I would not trust my own senses. I was sure I had deceived myself, but on a second night it happened again. Then I was afraid — or no, not afraid, but disturbed — oh, shaken to my very heart’s core. I resolved to go no further in the matter, never again to put it to test. For a long time I stayed away from the Mission, occupying myself with my work, keeping it out of my mind. But the temptation was too strong. One night I found myself there again, under the black shadow of the pear trees calling for Angele, summoning her from out the dark, from out the night. This time the Answer was prompt, unmistakable. I cannot explain to you what it was, nor how it came to me, for there was no sound. I saw absolutely nothing but the empty night. There was no moon. But somewhere off there over the little valley, far off, the darkness was troubled; that ME that went out upon my thought — out from the Mission garden, out over the valley, calling for her, searching for her, found, I don’t know what, but found a resting place — a companion. Three times since then I have gone to the Mission garden at night. Last night was the third time.”

  He paused, his eyes shining with excitement. Presley leaned forward toward him, motionless with intense absorption.

  “Well — and last night,” he prompted.

  Vanamee stirred in his seat, his glance fell, he drummed an instant upon the table.

  “Last night,” he answered, “there was — there was a change. The Answer was—” he drew a deep breath— “nearer.”

  “You are sure?”

  The other smiled with absolute certainty.

  “It was not that I found the Answer sooner, easier. I could not be mistaken. No, that which has troubled the darkness, that which has entered into the empty night — is coming nearer to me — physically nearer, actually nearer.”

  His voice sank again. His face like the face of younger prophets, the seers, took on a half-inspired expression. He looked vaguely before him with unseeing eyes.

  “Suppose,” he murmured, “suppose I stand there under the pear trees at night and call her again and again, and each time the Answer comes nearer and nearer and I wait until at last one night, the supreme night of all, she — she — —”

  Suddenly the tension broke. With a sharp cry and a violent uncertain gesture of the hand Vanamee came to himself.

  “Oh,” he exclaimed, “what is it? Do I dare? What does it mean? There are times when it appals me and there are times when it thrills me with a sweetness and a happiness that I have not known since she died. The vagueness of it! How can I explain it to you, this that happens when I call to her across the night — that faint, far-off, unseen tremble in the darkness, that intangible, scarcely perceptible stir. Something neither heard nor seen, appealing to a sixth sen
se only. Listen, it is something like this: On Quien Sabe, all last week, we have been seeding the earth. The grain is there now under the earth buried in the dark, in the black stillness, under the clods. Can you imagine the first — the very first little quiver of life that the grain of wheat must feel after it is sown, when it answers to the call of the sun, down there in the dark of the earth, blind, deaf; the very first stir from the inert, long, long before any physical change has occurred, — long before the microscope could discover the slightest change, — when the shell first tightens with the first faint premonition of life? Well, it is something as illusive as that.” He paused again, dreaming, lost in a reverie, then, just above a whisper, murmured:

  “‘That which thou sowest is not quickened except it die,’... and she, Angele... died.”

  “You could not have been mistaken?” said Presley. “You were sure that there was something? Imagination can do so much and the influence of the surroundings was strong. How impossible it would be that anything SHOULD happen. And you say you heard nothing, saw nothing.”

  “I believe,” answered Vanamee, “in a sixth sense, or, rather, a whole system of other unnamed senses beyond the reach of our understanding. People who live much alone and close to nature experience the sensation of it. Perhaps it is something fundamental that we share with plants and animals. The same thing that sends the birds south long before the first colds, the same thing that makes the grain of wheat struggle up to meet the sun. And this sense never deceives. You may see wrong, hear wrong, but once touch this sixth sense and it acts with absolute fidelity, you are certain. No, I hear nothing in the Mission garden. I see nothing, nothing touches me, but I am CERTAIN for all that.”