The Complete Works of O. Henry

by O. Henry

  One afternoon she leaned far over the sill, and she did not challenge and torment him as usual.

  "Candy man," said she, "stand up and look into my eyes."

  He stood up and looked into her eyes, with his harsh laugh like the sawing of wood. He took out his pipe, fumbled with it, and put it back into big pocket with a trembling band.

  "That will do," said Mademoiselle, with a slow smile. "I must go now to my masseuse. Good- evening."

  The next evening at seven the candy man came and rested his cart under the window. But was it the candy man? His clothes were a bright new check. His necktie was a flaming red, adorned by a glit- tering horseshoe pin, almost life-size. His shoes were polished; the tan of his cheeks had paled -- his hands had been washed. The window was empty, and he waited under it with his nose upward, like a hound hoping for a bone.

  Mademoiselle came, with Sidonie carrying her load of hair. She looked at the candy man and smiled a slow smile that faded away into ennui. Instantly she knew that the game was bagged; and so quickly she wearied of the chase. She began to talk to Sidonie.

  "Been a fine day," said the candy man, hollowly. "First time in a month I've felt first-class. Hit it up down old Madison, hollering out like I useter. Think it'll rain to-morrow?"

  Mademoiselle laid two round arms on the cushion on the window-sill, and a dimpled chin upon them.

  "Candy man," said she, softly, "do you not love me? "

  The candy man stood up and leaned against the brick wall.

  "Lady," said be, chokingly, "I've got $800 saved up. Did I say you wasn't beautiful? Take it every bit of it and buy a collar for your dog with it."

  A sound as of a hundred silvery bells tinkled in the room of Mademoiselle. The laughter filled the alley and trickled back into the court, as strange a thing to enter there as sunlight itself. Mademoiselle was amused. Sidonie, a wise echo, added a sepulchral but faithful contralto. The laughter of the two seemed at last to penetrate the candy man. He fumbled with his horseshoe pin. At length Mademoiselle, ex- hausted, turned her flushed, beautiful face to the win- dow.

  "Candy man," said she, "go away. When I laugh Sidonie pulls my hair. I can but laugh while you remain there."

  "Here is a note for Mademoiselle," said Fe1ice, coming to the window in the room.

  "There is no justice," said the candy man, lift- ing the handle of his cart and moving away.

  Three yards he moved, and stopped. Loud shriek after shriek came from the window of Mademoiselle. Quickly he ran back. He heard a body thumping upon the floor and a sound as though heels beat alter- nately upon it.

  "What is it?" be called.

  Sidonie's severe head came into the window.

  "Mademoiselle is overcome by bad news," she said. "One whom she loved with all her soul has gone -- you may have beard of him -- he is Monsieur Ives. He sails across the ocean to-morrow. Oh, you men!"

  SQUARING THE CIRCLE

  At the hazard of wearying you this tale of vehe- ment emotions must be prefaced by a discourse on geometry.

  Nature moves in circles; Art in straight lines. The natural is rounded; the artificial is made up of angles. A man lost in the snow wanders, in spite of himself, in perfect circles; the city man's feet, denaturalized by rectangular streets and floors, carry him ever away from himself.

  The round eyes of childhood typify innocence; the narrowed line of the flirt's optic proves the in- vasion of art. The horizontal mouth is the mark of determined cunning; who has not read Nature's most spontaneous lyric in lips rounded for the candid kiss?

  Beauty is Nature in perfection; circularity is its chief attribute. Behold the full moon, the enchant- ing golf ball, the domes of splendid temples, the huckleberry pie, the wedding ring, the circus ring, the ring for the waiter, and the "round" of drinks.

  On the other hand, straight lines show that Na- ture has been deflected. Imagine Venus's girdle transformed into a "straight front"!

  When we begin to move in straight lines and turn sharp corners our natures begin to change. The consequence is that Nature, being more adaptive than Art, tries to conform to its sterner regulations. The result is often a rather curious product -- for in- stance: A prize chrysanthemum, wood alcohol whis- key, a Republican Missouri, cauliflower au gratin, and a New Yorker,

  Nature is lost quickest in a big city. The cause is geometrical, not moral. The straight lines of its streets and architecture, the rectangularity of its laws and social customs, the undeviating pavements, the hard, severe, depressing, uncompromising rules of all its ways -- even of its recreation and sports -- coldly exhibit a sneering defiance of the curved line of Nature.

  Wherefore, it may be said that the big city has demonstrated the problem of squaring the circle. And it may be added that this mathematical intro- duction precedes an account of the fate of a Kentucky feud that was imported to the city that has a habit of making its importations conform to its angles.

  The feud began in the Cumberland Mountains be- tween the Folwell and the Harkness families. The first victim of the homespun vendetta was a 'possum dog belonging to Bill Harkness. The Harkness family evened up this dire loss by laying out the chief of the Folwell clan. The Folwells were prompt at repartee. They oiled up their squirrel rifles and made it feasible for Bill Harkness to follow his dog to a land where the 'possums come down when treed without the stroke of an ax.

  The feud flourished for forty years. Harknesses were shot at the plough, through their lamp-lit cabin windows, coming from camp-meeting, asleep, in duello, sober and otherwise, singly and in family groups, prepared and unprepared. Folwells had the branches of their family tree lopped off in similar ways, as the traditions of their country prescribed and authorized.

  By and by the pruning left but a single member of each family. And then Cal Harkness, probably reasoning that further pursuance of the controversy would give a too decided personal flavor to the feud, suddenly disappeared from the relieved Cumberlands, baulking the avenging hand of Sam, the ultimate op- posing Folwell.

  A year afterward Sam Folwell learned that his hereditary, unsuppressed enemy was living in New York City. Sam turned over the big iron wash-pot in the yard, scraped off some of the soot, which he mixed with lard and shined his boots with the com- pound. He put on his store clothes of butternut dyed black, a white shirt and collar, and packed a carpet-sack with Spartan lingerie. He took his squirrel rifle from its hooks, but put it back again with a sigh. However ethical and plausible the habit might be in the Cumberlands, perhaps New York would not swallow his pose of hunting squirrels among the skyscrapers along Broadway. An ancient but reliable Colt's revolver that he resurrected from a bureau drawer seemed to proclaim itself the pink of weapons for metropolitan adventure and vengeance. This and a hunting-knife in a leather sheath, Sam packed in the carpet-sack. As he started, Muleback, for the lowland railroad station the last Folwell turned in his saddle and looked grimly at the little cluster of white-pine slabs in the clump of cedars that marked the Folwell burying-ground.

  Sam Folwell arrived in New York in the night. Still moving and living in the free circles of nature, he did not perceive the formidable, pitiless, restless, fierce angles of the great city waiting in the dark to close about the rotundity of his heart and brain and mould him to the form of its millions of re-shaped victims. A cabby picked him out of the whirl, as Sam himself had often picked a nut from a bed of wind-tossed autumn leaves, and whisked him away to a hotel commensurate to his boots and carpet- sack.

  On the next morning the last of the Folwells made his sortie into the city that sheltered the last Hark- ness. The Colt was thrust beneath his coat and se- cured by a narrow leather belt; the hunting-knife hung between his shoulder-blades, with the haft an inch below his coat collar. He knew this much -- that Cal Harkness drove an express wagon some- where in that town, and that he, Sam Folwell, had come to kill him. And as he stepped upon the side- walk the red came into his eye and the feud-hate into his heart.

  The clamor of the centra
l avenues drew him thith- erward. He had half expected to see Cal coming down the street in his shirt-sleeves, with a jug and a whip in his hand, just as he would have seen him in Frankfort or Laurel City. But an hour went by and Cal did not appear. Perhaps he was waiting in ambush, to shoot him from a door or a window. Sam kept a sharp eye on doors and windows for a while.

  About noon the city tired of playing with its mouse and suddenly squeezed him with its straight lines.

  Sam Folwell stood where two great, rectangular arteries of the city cross. He looked four ways, and saw the world burled from its orbit and reduced by spirit level and tape to an edged and cornered plane. All life moved on tracks, in grooves, accord- ing to system, within boundaries, by rote. The root of life was the cube root; the measure of existence was square measure. People streamed by in straight rows; the horrible din and crash stupefied him.

  Sam leaned against the sharp corner of a stone building. Those faces passed him by thousands, and none of them were turned toward him. A sudden fool- ish fear that he had died and was a spirit, and that they could not see him, seized him. And then the city smote him with loneliness.

  A fat man dropped out of the stream and stood a few feet distant, waiting for his car. Sam crept to his side and shouted above the tumult into his ear:

  "The Rankinses' hogs weighed more'n ourn a whole passel, but the mast in thar neighborhood was a fine chance better than what it was down -- "

  The fat man moved away unostentatiously, and bought roasted chestnuts to cover his alarm.

  Sam felt the need of a drop of mountain dew. Across the street men passed in and out through swinging doors. Brief glimpses could be had of a glistening bar and its bedeckings. The feudist crossed and essayed to enter. Again had Art eliminated the familiar circle. Sam's hand found no door-knob - it slid, in vain, over a rectangular brass plate and polished oak with nothing even so large as a pin's head upon which his fingers might close. Abashed, reddened, heartbroken, he walked away from the bootless door and sat upon a step. A locust club tickled him in the ribs.

  "Take a walk for yourself," said the policeman. You've been loafing around here long enough."

  At the next corner a shrill whistle sounded in Sam's ear. He wheeled around and saw a black-browed vil- lain scowling at him over peanuts heaped on a steam- ing machine. He started across the street. An im- mense engine, running without mules, with the voice of a bull and the smell of a smoky lamp, whizzed past, grazing his knee. A cab-driver bumped him with a hub and explained to him that kind words were in- vented to be used on other occasions. A motorman clanged his bell wildly and, for once in his life, cor- roborated a cab-driver. A large lady in a changeable silk waist dug an elbow into his back, and a newsy pensively pelted him with banana rinds, murmuring, "I hates to do it -- but if anybody seen me let it pass!"

  Cal Harkness, his day's work over and his express wagon stabled, turned the sharp edge of the build- ing that, by the cheek of architects, is modelled upon a safety razor. Out of the mass of hurrying people his eye picked up, three yards away, the surviving bloody and implacable foe of his kith and kin.

  He stopped short and wavered for a moment, be- ing unarmed and sharply surprised. But the keen mountaineer's eye of Sam Folwell had picked him out.

  There was a sudden spring, a ripple in the stream of passersby and the sound of Sam's voice crying:

  "Howdy, Cal! I'm durned glad to see ye."

  And in the angles of Broadway, Fifth Avenue and Twenty-third Street the Cumberland feudists shook hands.

  ROSES, RUSES AND ROMANCE

  Ravenel -- Ravenel, the traveller, artist and poet, threw his magazine to the floor. Sammy Brown, broker's clerk, who sat by the window, jumped.

  "What is it, Ravvy?" he asked. "The critics been hammering your stock down?"

  "Romance is dead," said Ravenel, lightly. When Ravenel spoke lightly be was generally serious. He picked up the magazine and fluttered its leaves.

  "Even a Philistine, like you, Sammy," said Rave- nel, seriously (a tone that insured him to be speak- ing lightly), "ought to understand. Now, here is a magazine that once printed Poe and Lowell and Whitman and Bret Harte and Du Maurier and Lanier and -- well, that gives you the idea. The current number has this literary feast to set before you: an article on the stokers and coal bunkers of battleships, an expose of the methods employed in making liver- wurst, a continued story of a Standard Preferred International Baking Powder deal in Wall Street, a 'poem' on the bear that the President missed, an- other 'story' by a young woman who spent a week as a spy making overalls on the East Side, another 'fiction' story that reeks of the 'garage' and a cer- tain make of automobile. Of course, the title contains the words 'Cupid' and 'Chauffeur' -- an article on naval strategy, illustrated with cuts of the Spanish Armada, and the new Staten Island ferry-boats; an- other story of a political boss who won the love of a Fifth Avenue belle by blackening her eye and refusing to vote for an iniquitous ordinance (it doesn't say whether it was in the Street-Cleaning Department or Congress), and nineteen pages by the editors brag- ging about the circulation. The whole thing, Sammy, is an obituary on Romance."

  Sammy Brown sat comfortably in the leather arm- chair by the open window. His suit was a vehement brown with visible checks, beautifully matched in shade by the ends of four cigars that his vest pocket poorly concealed. Light tan were his shoes, gray his socks, sky-blue his apparent linen, snowy and high and adamantine his collar, against which a black but- terfly had alighted and spread his wings. Sammy's face -- least important -- was round and pleasant and pinkish, and in his eyes you saw no haven for fleeing Romance.

  That window of Ravenel's apartment opened upon an old garden full of ancient trees and shrubbery. The apartment-house towered above one side of it; a high brick wall fended it from the street; oppo- site Ravenel's window an old, old mansion stood, half- hidden in the shade of the summer foliage. The house was a castle besieged. The city howled and roared and shrieked and beat upon its double doors, and shook white, fluttering checks above the wall, offering terms of surrender. The gray dust settled upon the trees; the siege was pressed hotter, but the draw- bridge was not lowered. No further will the language of chivalry serve. Inside lived an old gentleman who loved his home and did not wish to sell it. That is all the romance of the besieged castle.

  Three or four times every week came Sammy Brown to Ravenel's apartment. He belonged to the poet's club, for the former Browns had been con- spicuous, though Sammy bad been vulgarized by Business. He had no tears for departed Romance. The song of the ticker was the one that reached his heart, and when it came to matters equine and batting scores he was something of a pink edition. He loved to sit in the leather armchair by Ravenel's window. And Ravenel didn't mind particularly. Sammy seemed to enjoy his talk; and then the broker's clerk was such a perfect embodiment of modernity and the day's sordid practicality that Ravenel rather liked to use him as a scapegoat.

  "I'll tell you what's the matter with you," said Sammy, with the shrewdness that business had taught him. "The magazine has turned down some of your poetry stunts. That's why you are sore at it."

  "That would be a good guess in Wall Street or in a campaign for the presidency of a woman's club," said Ravenel, quietly. "Now, there is a poem - if you will allow me to call it that - of my own in this number of the magazine."

  "Read it to me," said Sammy, watching a cloud of pipe-smoke be had just blown out the window.

  Ravenel was no greater than Achilles. No one is. There is bound to be a spot. The Somebody-or-Other must take bold of us somewhere when she dips us in the Something-or-Other that makes us invulnerable. He read aloud this verse in the magazine:

  THE FOUR ROSES

  'One rose I twined within your hair --

  (White rose, that spake of worth);

  And one you placed upon your breast --

  (Red rose, love's seal of birth).

  You plucked another from its stem --

  (Tea rose, that means for aye);


  And one you gave -- that bore for me

  The thorns of memory."

  "That's a crackerjack," said Sammy, admiringly.

  There are five more verses," said Ravenel, pa- tiently sardonic. "One naturally pauses at the end of each. Of course -- "

  "Oh, let's have the rest, old man," shouted Sammy, contritely, " I didn't mean to cut you off. I'm not much of a poetry expert, you know. I never saw a poem that didn't look like it ought to have terminal facilities at the end of every verse. Reel off the rest of it."

  Ravenel sighed, and laid the magazine down. "All right," said Sammy, cheerfully, "we'll have it next time. I'll be off now. Got a date at five o'clock."