Kitabı oku: «Hempfield», sayfa 6

CHAPTER X
THE WONDERFUL DAY

Though I live to be a hundred and fifty years old, which heaven forbid, I shall never forget the events which followed upon the historic publication of the Poems of Hempfield. I wonder if you have ever awakened in the morning with a curious deep sense of having some peculiar reason for being happy? You lie half awake for a moment wondering what it can all be about, and then it comes suddenly and vividly alive for you. It was so with me on that morning, and I thought of the adventures of the printing-office, and of Anthy and Nort and Fergus and the old Captain.

"Surely," I said to myself, "no one ever had such friends as I have!"

I thought what an amusing world this was, anyway, how full of captivating people. And I whistled all the way down the stairs, clean forgetting that this was contrary to one of Harriet's most stringent rules; and when I went out it seemed to me that the countryside never looked more beautiful at dawn than it did on that morning.

At Barton's Crossing on my way to town I could see the silvery spire of the Congregational Church, and at the hill beyond the bridge all Hempfield lay before me, half hidden in trees, with friendly puffs of breakfast smoke rising from many chimneys; and when I reached the gate of the printing-office the sun was just looking around the corner, and there in the doorway, as fresh and confident as you please, stood that rascal of a Norton Carr, whistling a little tune and looking out with a cocky eye upon the world of Hempfield.

"Hello, David!" he called out when he saw me.

"Hello, Nort!" I responded; "it's a wonderful morning."

He took a quick step forward and clapped me on the shoulder as I came up.

"Exactly what I've been thinking," he said eagerly, "and it's going to be a wonderful day."

If ever youth and joy-of-life spoke in a human voice, they spoke that morning in Nort's. I cannot convey the sudden sense it gave me of the roseate illusion of adventure. It was going to be a wonderful day!

I think Nort confidently expected to see a long line of people gathering in front of the office that morning clamouring to buy extra copies of the Star.

He had been so positive that the appearance of the poetry would stir Hempfield to its depths that he had urged the publication of a large extra edition. But the Captain assured him that the only thing that ever really produced an extra sale of the Star was a "big obituary." In its palmy days, when the Captain let himself go, and the deceased was really worthy of the Captain's facile and flowery pen, the Star had sold as many as two hundred extra papers. It was as much a part of any properly conducted funeral in Hempfield to buy copies of the Captain's obituaries – the same issue also containing the advertised thanks of the family to the friends who had been with them in their sore bereavement – as it was for the choir to sing "Lead, Kindly Light."

Fergus, especially, jeered at the proposal of an extra edition. It was not the money loss that disturbed Fergus, for that would be next to nothing at all, it was the thought of being stampeded by Nort's enthusiasm, and afterward hearing the sarcastic comments of Ed Smith. While this heated controversy was going on, Anthy quietly ordered the paper – and we printed the extra copies.

All that morning I saw Nort glancing from time to time out of the window. No line appeared. Nine o'clock – and no line – not even one visitor! Nort fidgeted around the press, emptied the wastebasket, looked at his watch. Ten o'clock —

Steps on the porch – soft, hesitating steps. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Nort stiffen up and his face begin to glow. A little barefooted boy edged his way in at the door. We all looked around at him. I confess that Nort was not the only one who was expectant. When you have fired a big gun you want to know that the shot hit somewhere! The boy was evidently embarrassed by the battery of eyes levelled at him.

"Sister wants two papers," said he finally. "She says, the papers with the po'try."

I shall never forget the sight of Nort, head in air, marching over to the pile of extras, grandly handing two of them to our customer, and then walking triumphantly across the room and delivering the dime to Anthy.

"Who was that now?" asked Nort, when the little chap went out.

"That," said Anthy, "was Sophia Rhineheart's brother."

Nort clapped his hand dramatically to his head.

"The false Sophia!" he exclaimed; "I expected that Sophia would want at least fifty copies of the journal which has made her famous."

The next incident was even more disquieting. An old man named Johnson came to put a twenty-cent advertisement in the paper "Ten Cords of Wood for Sale" – and it appeared, after an adroit question by Nort, that, although he had received that week's paper, he did not even know that we had published the Poems of Hempfield.

Nort's spirits began to drop, as his face plainly showed. Like many young men who start out to set the world afire, he was finding the kindling wood rather damp. Just before noon, however, answering a telephone call, we saw his eyes brighten perceptibly.

"Thank you," he was saying. "Ten, did you say? All right, you shall have them. Glad you called early before they are all gone."

He put down the receiver, smiling broadly.

"There," he said, "it's started!"

"Humph," grunted Fergus, and Anthy, leaning back on her stool, laughed merrily.

But Nort refused to be further depressed. If things did not happen of themselves in Hempfield, why he was there to make them happen. When he went out at noon he began asking everybody he met, at the hotel, at the post office, at the livery stable, whether they had seen the Star that week. Nort had then been in Hempfield about four months, and the town had begun to enjoy him – rather nervously, because it was never quite certain what he would do next. In Hempfield almost everybody was working for the approval of everybody else, which no one ever attains; while Nort never seemed to care whether anybody approved him or not.

"Seen the Star this week?" he asked Joe Crane, the liveryman, apparently controlling his excitement with difficulty.

"No," says Joe. "Why?"

"It's the biggest issue we ever had. We are printing the poems of all the poets of Hempfield."

Joe paused to consider a moment, while Nort looked at him earnestly.

"Didn't know they was any poets in Hempfield," observed Joe finally.

"Why," says Nort, "Hempfield has more poets than any town of its size in America."

Now, Joe took the Star as a matter of course, and advertised in it, too:

JOSEPH CRANE

Livery, Feed and Sale Stable

but, rarely expecting to find anything in the paper but the local news, which he knew already, he had unfortunately used the Poems of Hempfield for cleaning harness.

After Nort's exciting visit he crossed over and borrowed a somewhat sticky copy which Nathan Collins, the baker, was saving to wrap bread in, and glancing over the Poems of Hempfield, discovered that Addison Bird of Hawleyville had written one of them, a poem entitled "Just Plant One Tree, Boys," which he had once read at the Grange.

Joe bought hay of Ad, and the idea that Ad was a poet struck Joe as being an irresistible piece of humour. He told everybody who came in during the day, and even called Ad on the telephone to joke him about it. Ad had not heard of it yet, and immediately hitched up and drove into town, not knowing whether to be pleased or angry. He met Nort at the gate of the printing-office, and was received by that young editor with a warm handshake and congratulations upon appearing in what was undoubtedly the most interesting issue of a newspaper ever published in Westmoreland County. The upshot of it was that Ad paid up his long delinquent subscription, and went away with quite a bundle of extra copies.

It is a strange thing in this world how few people recognize a thing as wonderful or beautiful until some poet or prophet comes along to tell them that it is wonderful or beautiful.

"Behold that sunset!" cries the poet, quite beside himself with excitement, and the world, which has been accustomed to having sunsets every evening for supper, and thinks nothing of them, suddenly looks up and discovers unknown splendours.

"Behold the Star," cried Nort, rushing wildly about Hempfield. "See what we've got in the Star" – and it spread through the town that something unusual, wonderful, was happening in the hitherto humdrum office in the little old building back from the street.

People did not know quite what to make of the publication of the poetry, it was so unprecedented, and the result was that we soon found the whole town discussing the Star. The interest cropped up in the most unexpected places, and developed a number of very amusing incidents. We had lifted a little new corner of the veil of life in Hempfield, and we had Nort to tell us how wonderful and amusing it was. Not everybody liked it – for life, everywhere and always, arouses opposition as well as approval – and one man even came in to cancel his subscription because he thought he found unfavourable references to himself in one of the poems; but, on the whole, people were interested and amused.

With all his enthusiasm, Nort got no more satisfaction out of the events of the week than the old Captain. On Saturday afternoons, when the farmers came to town, the Captain loved to stroll up the street in a leisurely way, pass a word here and there with his neighbours, and generally enjoy himself. I always loved to see him on such occasions – his fine old face, his long rusty coat, the cane which was at once the sceptre of his dominion and the support of his age.

Upon this particular afternoon he had the consciousness of having written a truly scorching editorial on William J. Bryan, as trenchant a thing – the Captain loved "trenchant" – as ever he wrote in his life, and when people began to speak to him about that week's issue of the Star, it pleased him greatly. It was a great issue!

Mr. Tole, the druggist, for example, who was secretly much gratified with the publication of his favourite poem, which he shrewdly considered excellent free advertising, remarked:

"Had a great paper this week, Cap'n."

The old Captain responded with dignity:

"The Star, Mr. Tole, is looking up."

How sweet was all this to the old Captain. For so long the current had been setting against him, there had been so little of the feeling of success and power, which he loved. We could distinguish the triumphant notes in the Captain's voice when he returned to the office. He sat down in the editorial chair with a special air of confidence.

"Anthy," he said, clearing his throat.

"Yes, Uncle Newt."

"Anthy, I have hopes of Hempfield. Even in these days, when the people seem to be going off after false gods, the truth will prevail."

He paused.

"We are beginning to hear from our editorial on William J. Bryan."

I recall yet Anthy's laugh – the amusement of it, and yet the deep sympathy.

The Captain's eye fell upon Nort. He looked him over affectionately.

"Nort, my boy," he said, "we're printing a newspaper."

"We are, Cap'n," responded Nort heartily, but with a glint in his eyes.

I saw the swift, grateful look that Anthy gave him.

But the old Captain's mood suddenly changed. It is in the time of triumph that we sometimes find our sorrows most poignant. He began to shake his big shaggy head.

"Ah, Nort," said he, "one thing only takes the heart out of me."

"What's that, Cap'n?" asked Nort, though we all knew well enough.

"If only the Colonel had not left us, I could put my very soul into the work. I could write wonderful editorials, Nort."

If there was one subject besides flying machines and Democrats – and possibly woman suffrage – upon which the old Captain was irreconcilable, it was Colonel Roosevelt. He had never followed or loved any leader since Lincoln as he had followed and loved Roosevelt, and when the Colonel "went astray," as he expressed it, it affected him like some great personal sorrow. It went so deep with him that he had never yet been able to write an editorial upon the subject. "Why," he had said to Anthy, "I loved him like a brother!"

"Never mind, Cap'n," said Nort. "Some of these days you'll tell us what you think about the Colonel."

The Captain shook his head sadly.

"No, Nort," said he, "it goes too deep, it goes too deep."

With that he turned to his desk with a heavy sigh and began opening the week's exchanges, and we knew that he would soon fall upon Brother Kendrick of the Sterling Democrat and smite him hip and thigh. If the Colonel were no longer with him, still his head was bloody but unbowed – and he would fight on to the end. But the seed dropped by Nort – "You'll tell us what you think about the Colonel some of these days" – did not fall on wholly barren soil. It produced, indeed, a growth of such luxuriance – but of all that, in its proper place.

Well, we disposed of every extra copy of the paper we had printed, and actually had to run off some reprints and slips containing the Poems of Hempfield, of which we also sold quite a number.

How we all need just a little success! To the editors of a country newspaper, who publish week after week for months without so much as a ripple of response, all this was most exciting and interesting – yes, intoxicating.

Considered as a business venture, of course, or measured in exact financial returns, it may seem small enough. Indeed, Ed Smith said – But can we ever measure the best things in life by their financial returns? Considered as a human experience, a fresh and charming adventure in life, it glows yet in my memory with a glory all its own.

The effect upon Nort was curious enough. At one moment the amusing aspects of the adventure seemed uppermost with him, and I felt that he was laughing at all of us, using us all, using the town of Hempfield, for his lordship's amusement; and at the next moment he seemed seriously entangled in the meshes of his own enthusiasm. It was a time of transition and development for Nort.

Part of his reckless spirits at this time I am sure was due to the passage of arms with Anthy, which I have already described. He had been curiously piqued by her attitude, and by the thought that she was actually his employer and could discharge him. It did not correspond with his preconceived views of life nor with his conception of the place that women should occupy in the cosmos. Not that Nort had ever been profoundly interested in women, not he! He had played with them, indeed, for he had belonged to that class, sometimes called the favoured, in which men rarely work with women, or study with them, or think with them. While he did not try to explain his emotions to himself, he had been disconcerted by Anthy's perfectly direct ways, by being treated simply as a human being, a coworker, not as though he were all man and she all woman, and nothing else mattered.

It was in this mood of exuberant amusement, combined with challenge to Anthy, that he wrote his absurd report (which was never printed) of the effect of the publication of the poems upon Hempfield, and read it aloud one evening with great dramatic effect – keeping one eye on Anthy where she sat, half in shadow, at her desk.

"Poets," wrote Nort, "were seen congratulating or commiserating one another upon the public streets, whole families were electrified by discovering that they had a poet in their midst without knowing it, wives were revealed to husbands and husbands to wives, and even the little children of Hempfield began to lisp in measures."

There was much more in the same strain, indicating that Nort was still laughing at us, instead of with us. But Anthy sat there in the shadow, very still, and said nothing. When in repose Anthy's face seemed often to take on a cast of sadness, especially about the eyes, of that sadness and sweetness which so often go with strength and nobility of spirit. She was very beautiful that night, I thought.

I did not know as well then as I came to know afterward, what a struggle she was facing to save the Star, what she had sacrificed to keep green the memory of her father and to cherish the old Captain. And she had a love for Hempfield and Hempfield folk that Nort could not have guessed. Life might be a huge joke to Nort, who had never, up to this time, in all his life, had to fight or suffer for anything – but Anthy, Anthy was already meeting the great adventure.

But there was another and a deeper Nort, which few people at that time had ever seen. This was the Nort who had fled impulsively from New York, and this was the Nort who now strode out along the country roads toward Hawleyville, his head hot with great thoughts. This was the Nort who was tasting the sweets of editorship, who had more than half begun to believe what he had told Anthy, on the spur of the moment, when he walked home with her. Why not a wonderful new country journalism? Why not a paper right in Hempfield which, by virtue of its profound thought, its matchless wit, its charming humour, its saving sympathy, its superb handling of great topics, its – its – Why not? And why not Norton Carr, editor?

"Matchless" was the adjective that Nort had in his mind at the moment, and he imagined a typical comment in the New York Times:

"We quote this week from the Hempfield Star, that matchless exponent of rural thought in America, edited by Mr. Norton Carr – " etc., etc.

This would naturally be copied in the Literary Digest and made the subject of an editorial in Life.

This was the Nort who walked the country roads, neither seeing the stars above nor feeling the clods beneath, but living in a fairer land than this is, the perfect spring weather of the soul of youth. It was thus that Nort lived his deeper life, as the hero of his own hot imaginings.

And this, too, was the Nort who returned to Hempfield – without any conscious intention on his part, for how can one think of two things at once – by the road which led past Anthy's home. He did not stop, he scarcely looked around, and yet he had an intense and vivid undersense of a dim light in one of the upper windows of the dark house.

CHAPTER XI
IN WHICH GREAT PLANS ARE EVOLVED, AND THERE IS A SURPRISING EVENT

Since we had come to know the Star, Sunday afternoons were important occasions for Harriet and me. Nort was the first to visit us – soon after he came to Hempfield – but the old Captain and Anthy were not many Sundays behind him. They usually drove out with one of Joe Crane's horses (charged against advertising in the Star), and on such occasions the Captain was very grand in his long coat and wide hat – and gloves. He always greeted Harriet with chivalrous formality, inquired after her health, and usually had some bit of old-fashioned gallantry to offer her, which always bothered her just a little, especially if she happened at the moment to catch my eye. I had great trouble getting Fergus to come at all; but having once lured him out, Harriet's gingerbread soon finished him.

At first there was an amusing struggle between Harriet and Fergus, in which, of course, that Scotchman came off second best – and never knew that he was beaten! You see, Fergus is never entirely happy unless he can tip back in his chair, until you are certain he is going over backward and smash the door of the china closet. Also, he smokes the worst tobacco in the world. On the occasion of his second visit he went prowling around the room for a straight-back chair to sit in, but Harriet shooed him irresistibly toward an effeminate rocker, where he could gratify his instinct for tipping back, and not endanger the family china.

During the week that followed Harriet made a scientific study of the drafts in our living-room (that is, I think she did), and on the next Sunday she not only shooed Fergus into a rocker, but that rocker was so placed near the window that the tobacco smoke was drawn straight out of the room. After that, she made Fergus so comfortable within and without – especially within – that he thought her a very wonderful woman. As she is.

As for Harriet and me, these Sunday gatherings – which often included the Scotch preacher, or our neighbour Horace, or, rarely, the Starkweathers – these visits were delightful beyond comparison. By Saturday night there was not a speck of dust in the house that was visible to the naked eye, and by three o'clock Sunday (if there was no one in to dinner) Harriet and I began an unacknowledged contest to see which of us would be the first to catch sight of the visitors coming up the town road or across the fields. We both pretended we weren't looking – but we were.

It was on the Sunday afternoon following the publication of the poetry, just after I had come in from the barn, that I saw Nort coming down the lane which skirts the edge of the wood. He had a stick in his hand with which he struck at the foliage of the hazel brush or decapitated a milkweed.

"There's Nort!" I exclaimed.

It was miraculous to see Harriet twitch off her apron and, with two or three deft pats, arrange her hair.

When Nort saw us, for we couldn't help going outside to meet him, he raised one hand, shouting:

"Hello, there, David!"

I remember thinking what a boy he looked. Not large, not very strong, but with a lithe swinging step and an odd tilt of the head, a little backward, as though he were looking up for the joy of it. I felt my heart rising and warming at the very sight of him.

"Well, Miss Grayson," said he, coming up the steps, "have you decided yet whether you and David are most indebted to the Macintoshes or the Scribners?"

There was laughter in his eyes as he shook Harriet's hand, and I could see the faint flush in her cheeks and the little positive nod of the head she had when she was most pleased, and didn't want it to appear too plainly. Nort had long ago discovered her undying passion for her ancestors, and already knew the complete record of that Macintosh who was an officer in the Colonial army, and who, if one were to judge by Harriet's account, was the origin of all the good traits of the Grayson family.

When Harriet is especially pleased with any one, particularly if he is a man, she thinks at once that he must be hungry; and no sooner were the greetings well over than she escaped to the kitchen.

Nort at once put on a portentous look of solemn concern, his face changing so quickly that it was almost comical.

"David," said he, "here we are right up to another issue, and no ideas."

He spoke as though he were the sole proprietor of the Star.

"Well," I said, "a little thing like that never yet prevented a newspaper from appearing regularly."

"No," he laughed, "but think of the perfectly grand opportunity that is going to waste. Ed Smith away for another week!"

"We enjoyed printing the poetry, didn't we?"

"Didn't we!" he responded. "I thought last Wednesday night that it was pretty nearly the biggest and most interesting work in the world to edit a country newspaper."

"And you told Anthy."

He glanced around at me quickly.

"She told you?"

"No," I said, "but I knew."

"Yes, I told her," he said.

He paused and looked off across our quiet hills; the autumn air was cool and sweet.

"I wonder – " he began, but he did not tell me what it was that he wondered.

Presently his thoughts returned sharply to the Star.

"What would you put in the paper, anyhow, David?" he asked.

"Hempfield," said I.

His eyes kindled.

"I get you," he said eagerly. "It's exactly what I say. The very spirit of the town, the soul of the country – make the paper fairly throb with it."

He was off! It was the first time I had seen Nort in his serious mood – and he could be dreadfully serious, as serious as only youth knows how to be.

"Truth!" he exclaimed fiercely. "We don't print the truth in the Star. The most interesting and important things about Hempfield never get into the paper at all. I tell you, David, we never even touch the actual facts about Hempfield. We just fiddle around the outsides of things: 'John Smith came to town on Saturday with his blooded colt. Fine colt, John!' Bah! Think of it – when there is a whole world of real events to write about. Why, David, there are more wonderful and tragic and amusing things right here in this small town than ever I saw in all my life. When we printed the poems last week, we just scratched the surface of the real life of Hempfield."

Nort had jumped up, thrust his hands deep in his pockets, and was tramping up and down the room, shaking his mane like a young lion. I confess that, for a moment, I was tempted to laugh at him – and then suddenly I did not care at all to laugh. Something in the wild youth of him, the bold thoughts, stirred me to the depths. The magic of youth, waving its flag upon the Hill Formidable! The fresh runner catching up the torch that has fallen from the slack hand of age! I have had my dreams, too, Nort. I dreamed once —

I dreamed once of seeing the very truth of things. As I worked alone here in my fields, with the great world all open and beautiful around me, I said to myself, "I will be simple, I will not dodge or prevaricate or excuse; I will see the whole of life." I confess now with some sadness (and humour, too) that I have not mastered the wonders of this earth, nor seen the truth of it… I heard a catbird singing in the bush, a friend stopped me by the roadside, there was a star in the far heavens – And when I looked up I was old, and Truth was vanishing behind the hill.

Something of all this I had in my thoughts as Nort talked to me; and it came to me, wistfully, that perhaps this burning youth might really have in him the genius to see the truth of things more clearly than I could, and tell it better than I could.

"Yes," I said, "if one could only see this Hempfield of ours as it really is, all the poetry of it, all the passion of it, all the dullness and mediocrity, all the tragedy of failure, all that is in the hearts and souls of these common people – what a thing it would be! How it would stir the world!"

I must have said it with my whole soul, as I felt it. I suppose I should not have added fuel to the fire of that youth, I suppose I should have been calm and old and practical.

For a moment Nort sat perfectly silent. Then I felt the trembling, eager pressure of his hand on my arm. He leaned over toward me.

"David," he said, "you understand things."

There was that in his voice that I had never heard before. Usually he had a half-humorous, yes, flippant, way with him, but there was something here that touched bottom.

I don't know quite why it is, but after I have been serious about so long, I have an irresistible desire to laugh. I find I can't remain in a rarified atmosphere too long.

"Nort," I said suddenly, "you haven't been seeing any terrible truths about Hempfield, have you?"

The change in his face was startling. He looked like a boy caught in the jam closet – the colour suddenly flooding his cheeks.

"Where is it?" I asked. "Trot it out."

"How did you know?" asked that extraordinary young man.

I laughed.

"Nort," I said, "you aren't the only man in this world who is trying to write – and is ashamed of himself because he can't."

With a smile which I can only characterize as sheepish, Nort drew from his breast pocket a packet of paper. He was all eagerness again, and was for reading me his production on the spot; but just at this moment we saw the old Captain driving up to the gate alone. Where was Anthy? A little later Fergus came, and for some time Harriet filled the whole house with the pleasant noises and bustle of hospitality, which she knows best how to do.

"Captain," I said as soon as ever I could get in a word, "Nort has brought a manuscript with him to read to us."

At that the Captain instinctively lifted one hand to his breast.

"The Captain has one, too," I said.

"A mere editorial," responded the Captain with dignity.

"Where's yours, Fergus?" I asked.

Fergus took his pipe out, barked once or twice deep down inside, and put it back again, which, interpreted, meant that Fergus was amused.

At this point Harriet broke in.

"Before you do anything else," said she, "I want you all to come out and have a bite to eat."

That's the way with Harriet. Just at the moment when you've set your scenery, staged your play, and the curtain is about to go up, she appears with – gingerbread – and stampedes the entire company. Why, you couldn't have kept Fergus —

Harriet had put on her choicest tablecloth and the precious napkins left her by our great-aunt Dorcas, and the old thin glass dishes that came from Grandmother Scribner, which are never used except upon high occasions. It was Sunday night and, as Harriet explained, we never have any supper on Sunday night. There was thick yellow gingerbread, with just a hint in it (not a bit too much and not too little) of the delectable molasses of which it was made, and perfect apple sauce from the earliest Red Astrakhans, cooked so that the rosy quarters looked plump, with sugary crystals sparkling upon them, and thin glass tumblers (of Grandmother Scribner's set) full of sweet milk, yellow and almost foamy at the top.

There are perfect moments in this life!

Nort was in the wildest spirits, the rebound from his unusual mood of seriousness. Nothing escaped him – neither the napkins, nor the spoons, nor the thin old glass, nor the perfect gingerbread, nor the marvellous apple sauce, nor the glow in Harriet's face. She knew that Nort would see it all! Harriet is never so beautiful as when she sits at the head of her own table, her moment of supreme artistry.

"I went to church to-day," said Nort finally.

"You did!" Harriet was vastly pleased.

"Yes," smiled Nort.

This was truly a youth after her own heart.

"Nothing else to do on Sunday in Hempfield," said Nort; "and it was interesting."

He stopped and looked slowly around at me.

"The truth about the church in Hempfield, David!" he exclaimed, as though we had a secret between us.

I laughed.

"That's one thing," I said, "you can't easily tell the truth about – in Hempfield."