Collected Works of Booth Tarkington

by Booth Tarkington

  “Do people dislike young Minafer generally?”

  “I don’t know about ‘generally.’ I guess he gets plenty of toadying; but there’s certainly a lot of people that are glad to express their opinions about him.”

  “What’s the matter with him?”

  “Too much Amberson, I suppose, for one thing. And for another, his mother just fell down and worshipped him from the day he was born. That’s what beats me! I don’t have to tell you what Isabel Amberson is, Eugene Morgan. She’s got a touch of the Amberson high stuff about her, but you can’t get anybody that ever knew her to deny that she’s just about the finest woman in the world.”

  “No,” said Eugene Morgan. “You can’t get anybody to deny that.”

  “Then I can’t see how she doesn’t see the truth about that boy. He thinks he’s a little tin god on wheels — and honestly, it makes some people weak and sick just to think about him! Yet that high-spirited, intelligent woman, Isabel Amberson, actually sits and worships him! You can hear it in her voice when she speaks to him or speaks of him. You can see it in her eyes when she looks at him. My Lord! What does she see when she looks at him?”

  Morgan’s odd expression of genial apprehension deepened whimsically, though it denoted no actual apprehension whatever, and cleared away from his face altogether when he smiled; he became surprisingly winning and persuasive when he smiled. He smiled now, after a moment, at this question of his old friend. “She sees something that we don’t see,” he said.

  “What does she see?”

  “An angel.”

  Kinney laughed aloud. “Well, if she sees an angel when she looks at Georgie Minafer, she’s a funnier woman than I thought she was!”

  “Perhaps she is,” said Morgan. “But that’s what she sees.”

  “My Lord! It’s easy to see you’ve only known him an hour or so. In that time have you looked at Georgie and seen an angel?”

  “No. All I saw was a remarkably good-looking fool-boy with the pride of Satan and a set of nice new drawing-room manners that he probably couldn’t use more than half an hour at a time without busting.”

  “Then what—”

  “Mothers are right,” said Morgan. “Do you think this young George is the same sort of creature when he’s with his mother that he is when he’s bulldozing your boy Fred? Mothers see the angel in us because the angel is there. If it’s shown to the mother, the son has got an angel to show, hasn’t he? When a son cuts somebody’s throat the mother only sees it’s possible for a misguided angel to act like a devil — and she’s entirely right about that!”

  Kinney laughed, and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I remember what a fellow you always were to argue,” he said. “You mean Georgie Minafer is as much of an angel as any murderer is, and that Georgie’s mother is always right.”

  “I’m afraid she always has been,” Morgan said lightly.

  The friendly hand remained upon his shoulder. “She was wrong once, old fellow. At least, so it seemed to me.”

  “No,” said Morgan, a little awkwardly. “No—”

  Kinney relieved the slight embarrassment that had come upon both of them: he laughed again. “Wait till you know young Georgie a little better,” he said. “Something tells me you’re going to change your mind about his having an angel to show, if you see anything of him!”

  “You mean beauty’s in the eye of the beholder, and the angel is all in the eye of the mother. If you were a painter, Fred, you’d paint mothers with angels’ eyes holding imps in their laps. Me, I’ll stick to the Old Masters and the cherubs.”

  Mr. Kinney looked at him musingly. “Somebody’s eyes must have been pretty angelic,” he said, “if they’ve been persuading you that Georgie Minafer is a cherub!”

  “They are,” said Morgan heartily. “They’re more angelic than ever.” And as a new flourish of music sounded overhead he threw away his cigarette, and jumped up briskly. “Good-bye, I’ve got this dance with her.”

  “With whom?”

  “With Isabel!”

  The grizzled Mr. Kinney affected to rub his eyes. “It startles me, your jumping up like that to go and dance with Isabel Amberson! Twenty years seem to have passed — but have they? Tell me, have you danced with poor old Fanny, too, this evening?”

  “Twice!”

  “My Lord!” Kinney groaned, half in earnest. “Old times starting all over again! My Lord!”

  “Old times?” Morgan laughed gaily from the doorway. “Not a bit! There aren’t any old times. When times are gone they’re not old, they’re dead! There aren’t any times but new times!”

  And he vanished in such a manner that he seemed already to have begun dancing.

  Chapter VII

  THE APPEARANCE OF Miss Lucy Morgan the next day, as she sat in George’s fast cutter, proved so charming that her escort was stricken to soft words instantly, and failed to control a poetic impulse. Her rich little hat was trimmed with black fur; her hair was almost as dark as the fur; a great boa of black fur was about her shoulders; her hands were vanished into a black muff; and George’s laprobe was black. “You look like—” he said. “Your face looks like — it looks like a snowflake on a lump of coal. I mean a — a snowflake that would be a rose-leaf, too!”

  “Perhaps you’d better look at the reins,” she returned. “We almost upset just then.”

  George declined to heed this advice. “Because there’s too much pink in your cheeks for a snowflake,” he continued. “What’s that fairy story about snow-white and rose-red—”

  “We’re going pretty fast, Mr. Minafer!”

  “Well, you see, I’m only here for two weeks.”

  “I mean the sleigh!” she explained. “We’re not the only people on the street, you know.”

  “Oh, they’ll keep out of the way.”

  “That’s very patrician charioteering, but it seems to me a horse like this needs guidance. I’m sure he’s going almost twenty miles an hour.”

  “That’s nothing,” said George; but he consented to look forward again. “He can trot under three minutes, all right.” He laughed. “I suppose your father thinks he can build a horseless carriage to go that fast!”

  “They go that fast already, sometimes.”

  “Yes,” said George; “they do — for about a hundred feet! Then they give a yell and burn up.”

  Evidently she decided not to defend her father’s faith in horseless carriages, for she laughed, and said nothing. The cold air was polka-dotted with snowflakes, and trembled to the loud, continuous jingling of sleighbells. Boys and girls, all aglow and panting jets of vapour, darted at the passing sleighs to ride on the runners, or sought to rope their sleds to any vehicle whatever, but the fleetest no more than just touched the flying cutter, though a hundred soggy mittens grasped for it, then reeled and whirled till sometimes the wearers of those daring mittens plunged flat in the snow and lay a-sprawl, reflecting. For this was the holiday time, and all the boys and girls in town were out, most of them on National Avenue.

  But there came panting and chugging up that flat thoroughfare a thing which some day was to spoil all their sleigh-time merriment — save for the rashest and most disobedient. It was vaguely like a topless surry, but cumbrous with unwholesome excrescences fore and aft, while underneath were spinning leather belts and something that whirred and howled and seemed to stagger. The ride-stealers made no attempt to fasten their sleds to a contrivance so nonsensical and yet so fearsome. Instead, they gave over their sport and concentrated all their energies in their lungs, so that up and down the street the one cry shrilled increasingly: “Git a hoss! Git a hoss! Git a hoss! Mister, why don’t you git a hoss?” But the mahout in charge, sitting solitary on the front seat, was unconcerned — he laughed, and now and then ducked a snowball without losing any of his good-nature. It was Mr. Eugene Morgan who exhibited so cheerful a countenance between the forward visor of a deer-stalker cap and the collar of a fuzzy gray ulster. “Git a hoss!” the children shrieked, a
nd gruffer voices joined them. “Git a hoss! Git a hoss! Git a hoss!”

  George Minafer was correct thus far: the twelve miles an hour of such a machine would never over-take George’s trotter. The cutter was already scurrying between the stone pillars at the entrance to Amberson Addition.

  “That’s my grandfather’s,” said George, nodding toward the Amberson Mansion.

  “I ought to know that!” Lucy exclaimed. “We stayed there late enough last night: papa and I were almost the last to go. He and your mother and Miss Fanny Minafer got the musicians to play another waltz when everybody else had gone downstairs and the fiddles were being put away in their cases. Papa danced part of it with Miss Minafer and the rest with your mother. Miss Minafer’s your aunt, isn’t she?”

  “Yes; she lives with us. I tease her a good deal.”

  “What about?”

  “Oh, anything handy — whatever’s easy to tease an old maid about.”

  “Doesn’t she mind?”

  “She usually has sort of a grouch on me,” laughed George. “Nothing much. That’s our house just beyond grandfather’s.” He waved a sealskin gauntlet to indicate the house Major Amberson had built for Isabel as a wedding gift. “It’s almost the same as grandfather’s, only not as large and hasn’t got a regular ballroom. We gave the dance, last night, at grandfather’s on account of the ballroom, and because I’m the only grandchild, you know. Of course, some day that’ll be my house, though I expect my mother will most likely go on living where she does now, with father and Aunt Fanny. I suppose I’ll probably build a country house, too — somewhere East, I guess.” He stopped speaking, and frowned as they passed a closed carriage and pair. The body of this comfortable vehicle sagged slightly to one side; the paint was old and seamed with hundreds of minute cracks like little rivers on a black map; the coachman, a fat and elderly darky, seemed to drowse upon the box; but the open window afforded the occupants of the cutter a glimpse of a tired, fine old face, a silk hat, a pearl tie, and an astrachan collar, evidently out to take the air.

  “There’s your grandfather now,” said Lucy. “Isn’t it?”

  George’s frown was not relaxed. “Yes, it is; and he ought to give that rat-trap away and sell those old horses. They’re a disgrace, all shaggy — not even clipped. I suppose he doesn’t notice it — people get awful funny when they get old; they seem to lose their self-respect, sort of.”

  “He seemed a real Brummell to me,” she said.

  “Oh, he keeps up about what he wears, well enough, but — well, look at that!” He pointed to a statue of Minerva, one of the cast-iron sculptures Major Amberson had set up in opening the Addition years before. Minerva was intact, but a blackish streak descended unpleasantly from her forehead to the point of her straight nose, and a few other streaks were sketched in a repellent dinge upon the folds of her drapery.

  “That must be from soot,” said Lucy. “There are so many houses around here.”

  “Anyhow, somebody ought to see that these statues are kept clean. My grandfather owns a good many of these houses, I guess, for renting. Of course, he sold most of the lots — there aren’t any vacant ones, and there used to be heaps of ’em when I was a boy. Another thing I don’t think he ought to allow; a good many of these people bought big lots and they built houses on ’em; then the price of the land kept getting higher, and they’d sell part of their yards and let the people that bought it build houses on it to live in, till they haven’t hardly any of ’em got big, open yards any more, and it’s getting all too much built up. The way it used to be, it was like a gentleman’s country estate, and that’s the way my grandfather ought to keep it. He lets these people take too many liberties: they do anything they want to.”

  “But how could he stop them?” Lucy asked, surely with reason. “If he sold them the land, it’s theirs, isn’t it?”

  George remained serene in the face of this apparently difficult question. “He ought to have all the trades-people boycott the families that sell part of their yards that way. All he’d have to do would be to tell the trades-people they wouldn’t get any more orders from the family if they didn’t do it.”

  “From ‘the family’? What family?”

  “Our family,” said George, unperturbed. “The Ambersons.”

  “I see!” she murmured, and evidently she did see something that he did not, for, as she lifted her muff to her face, he asked:

  “What are you laughing at now?”

  “Why?”

  “You always seem to have some little secret of your own to get happy over!”

  “Always!” she exclaimed. “What a big word when we only met last night!”

  “That’s another case of it,” he said, with obvious sincerity. “One of the reasons I don’t like you — much! — is you’ve got that way of seeming quietly superior to everybody else.”

  “I!” she cried. “I have?”

  “Oh, you think you keep it sort of confidential to yourself, but it’s plain enough! I don’t believe in that kind of thing.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No,” said George emphatically. “Not with me! I think the world’s like this: there’s a few people that their birth and position, and so on, puts them at the top, and they ought to treat each other entirely as equals.” His voice betrayed a little emotion as he added, “I wouldn’t speak like this to everybody.”

  “You mean you’re confiding your deepest creed — or code, whatever it is — to me?”

  “Go on, make fun of it, then!” George said bitterly. “You do think you’re terribly clever! It makes me tired!”

  “Well, as you don’t like my seeming ‘quietly superior,’ after this I’ll be noisily superior,” she returned cheerfully. “We aim to please!”

  “I had a notion before I came for you today that we were going to quarrel,” he said.

  “No, we won’t; it takes two!” She laughed and waved her muff toward a new house, not quite completed, standing in a field upon their right. They had passed beyond Amberson Addition, and were leaving the northern fringes of the town for the open country. “Isn’t that a beautiful house!” she exclaimed. “Papa and I call it our Beautiful House.”

  George was not pleased. “Does it belong to you?”

  “Of course not! Papa brought me out here the other day, driving in his machine, and we both loved it. It’s so spacious and dignified and plain.”

  “Yes, it’s plain enough!” George grunted.

  “Yet it’s lovely; the gray-green roof and shutters give just enough colour, with the trees, for the long white walls. It seems to me the finest house I’ve seen in this part of the country.”

  George was outraged by an enthusiasm so ignorant — not ten minutes ago they had passed the Amberson Mansion. “Is that a sample of your taste in architecture?” he asked.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Because it strikes me you better go somewhere and study the subject a little!”

  Lucy looked puzzled. “What makes you have so much feeling about it? Have I offended you?”

  “‘Offended’ nothing!” George returned brusquely. “Girls usually think they know it all as soon as they’ve learned to dance and dress and flirt a little. They never know anything about things like architecture, for instance. That house is about as bum a house as any house I ever saw!”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” George repeated. “Did you ask me why?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, for one thing—” he paused— “for one thing — well, just look at it! I shouldn’t think you’d have to do any more than look at it if you’d ever given any attention to architecture.”

  “What is the matter with its architecture, Mr. Minafer?”

  “Well, it’s this way,” said George. “It’s like this. Well, for instance, that house — well, it was built like a town house.” He spoke of it in the past tense, because they had now left it far behind them — a human habit of curious significance. “It was like a house meant for
a street in the city. What kind of a house was that for people of any taste to build out here in the country?”

  “But papa says it’s built that way on purpose. There are a lot of other houses being built in this direction, and papa says the city’s coming out this way; and in a year or two that house will be right in town.”

  “It was a bum house, anyhow,” said George crossly. “I don’t even know the people that are building it. They say a lot of riffraff come to town every year nowadays and there’s other riffraff that have always lived here, and have made a little money, and act as if they owned the place. Uncle Sydney was talking about it yesterday: he says he and some of his friends are organizing a country club, and already some of these riffraff are worming into it — people he never heard of at all! Anyhow, I guess it’s pretty clear you don’t know a great deal about architecture.”

  She demonstrated the completeness of her amiability by laughing. “I’ll know something about the North Pole before long,” she said, “if we keep going much farther in this direction!”

  At this he was remorseful. “All right, we’ll turn, and drive south awhile till you get warmed up again. I expect we have been going against the wind about long enough. Indeed, I’m sorry!”

  He said, “Indeed, I’m sorry,” in a nice way, and looked very strikingly handsome when he said it, she thought. No doubt it is true that there is more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner repented than over all the saints who consistently remain holy, and the rare, sudden gentlenesses of arrogant people have infinitely more effect than the continual gentleness of gentle people. Arrogance turned gentle melts the heart; and Lucy gave her companion a little sidelong, sunny nod of acknowledgment. George was dazzled by the quick glow of her eyes, and found himself at a loss for something to say.