Kate
Chopin
The Story of an Hour
Knowing
that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to
break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death.
It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints
that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there,
too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when
intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's
name leading the list of "killed." He had only taken the time to
assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to
forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.
She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a
paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with
sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had
spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow
her.
There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this
she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and
seemed to reach into her soul.
She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were
all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the
air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a
distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless
sparrows were twittering in the eaves.
There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that
had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.
She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite
motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a
child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.
She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and
even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose
gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was
not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent
thought.
There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What
was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt
it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the
scents, the color that filled the air.
Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this
thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it
back with her will - as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been.
When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly
parted lips. She said it over and over under her breath: "free, free,
free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went
from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the
coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.
She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her.
A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as
trivial.
She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded
in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and
gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years
to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her
arms out to them in welcome.
There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live
for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind
persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a
private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention
made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment
of illumination.
And yet she had loved him - sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter!
What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in face of this possession
of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of
her being!
"Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering.
Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhole,
imploring for admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg, open the door -
you will make yourself ill. What are you doing Louise? For heaven's sake open
the door."
"Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a
very elixir of life through that open window.
Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and
summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a
quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought
with a shudder that life might be long.
She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There
was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like
a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they
descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.
Some one was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard
who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and
umbrella. He had been far from the scene of accident, and did not even know
there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards'
quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.
But Richards was too late.
When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease - of joy that
kills.
|
The
Secret Life of Walter Mitty
“We’re going through!” The Commander’s
voice was like thin ice breaking. He wore his full-dress uniform, with the heavily
braided white cap pulled down rakishly over one cold gray eye. “We can’t make
it, sir. It’s spoiling for a hurricane, if you ask me.” “I’m not asking you,
Lieutenant Berg,” said the Commander. “Throw on the power lights! Rev her up to
8,500! We’re going through!” The pounding of the cylinders increased:
ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa. The Commander stared at the
ice forming on the pilot window. He walked over and twisted a row of
complicated dials. “Switch on No. 8 auxiliary!” he shouted. “Switch on No. 8
auxiliary!” repeated Lieutenant Berg. “Full strength in No. 3 turret!” shouted
the Commander. “Full strength in No. 3 turret!” The crew, bending to their
various tasks in the huge, hurtling eight-engined Navy hydroplane, looked at
each other and grinned. “The Old Man’ll get us through,” they said to one
another. “The Old Man ain’t afraid of Hell!” . . .
“Not so fast! You’re
driving too fast!” said Mrs. Mitty. “What are you driving so fast for?”
“Hmm?” said Walter
Mitty. He looked at his wife, in the seat beside him, with shocked
astonishment. She seemed grossly unfamiliar, like a strange woman who had
yelled at him in a crowd. “You were up to fifty-five,” she said. “You know I
don’t like to go more than forty. You were up to fifty-five.” Walter Mitty
drove on toward Waterbury in silence, the roaring of the SN202 through the
worst storm in twenty years of Navy flying fading in the remote, intimate
airways of his mind. “You’re tensed up again,” said Mrs. Mitty. “It’s one of
your days. I wish you’d let Dr. Renshaw look you over.”
Walter Mitty stopped
the car in front of the building where his wife went to have her hair done.
“Remember to get those overshoes while I’m having my hair done,” she said. “I
don’t need overshoes,” said Mitty. She put her mirror back into her bag. “We’ve
been all through that,” she said, getting out of the car. “You’re not a young
man any longer.” He raced the engine a little. “Why don’t you wear your gloves?
Have you lost your gloves?” Walter Mitty reached in a pocket and brought out
the gloves. He put them on, but after she had turned and gone into the building
and he had driven on to a red light, he took them off again. “Pick it up,
brother!” snapped a cop as the light changed, and Mitty hastily pulled on his
gloves and lurched ahead. He drove around the streets aimlessly for a time, and
then he drove past the hospital on his way to the parking lot.
. . . “It’s
the millionaire banker, Wellington McMillan,” said the pretty nurse. “Yes?”
said Walter Mitty, removing his gloves slowly. “Who has the case?” “Dr. Renshaw
and Dr. Benbow, but there are two specialists here, Dr. Remington from New York
and Dr. Pritchard-Mitford from London. He flew over.” A door opened down a
long, cool corridor and Dr. Renshaw came out. He looked distraught and haggard.
“Hello, Mitty,” he said. “We’re having the devil’s own time with McMillan, the
millionaire banker and close personal friend of Roosevelt. Obstreosis of the
ductal tract. Tertiary. Wish you’d take a look at him.” “Glad to,” said Mitty.
In the operating room
there were whispered introductions: “Dr. Remington, Dr. Mitty. Dr.
Pritchard-Mitford, Dr. Mitty.” “I’ve read your book on streptothricosis,” said
Pritchard-Mitford, shaking hands. “A brilliant performance, sir.” “Thank you,”
said Walter Mitty. “Didn’t know you were in the States, Mitty,” grumbled
Remington. “Coals to Newcastle, bringing Mitford and me up here for a
tertiary.” “You are very kind,” said Mitty. A huge, complicated machine,
connected to the operating table, with many tubes and wires, began at this
moment to go pocketa-pocketa-pocketa. “The new anaesthetizer is giving way!”
shouted an interne. “There is no one in the East who knows how to fix it!”
“Quiet, man!” said Mitty, in a low, cool voice. He sprang to the machine, which
was now going pocketa-pocketa-queep-pocketa-queep. He began fingering
delicately a row of glistening dials. “Give me a fountain pen!” he snapped.
Someone handed him a fountain pen. He pulled a faulty piston out of the machine
and inserted the pen in its place. “That will hold for ten minutes,” he said.
“Get on with the operation.” A nurse hurried over and whispered to Renshaw, and
Mitty saw the man turn pale. “Coreopsis has set in,” said Renshaw nervously.
“If you would take over, Mitty?” Mitty looked at him and at the craven figure
of Benbow, who drank, and at the grave, uncertain faces of the two great
specialists. “If you wish,” he said. They slipped a white gown on him; he
adjusted a mask and drew on thin gloves; nurses handed him shining . . .
“Back it up, Mac!
Look out for that Buick!” Walter Mitty jammed on the brakes. “Wrong lane, Mac,”
said the parking-lot attendant, looking at Mitty closely. “Gee. Yeh,” muttered
Mitty. He began cautiously to back out of the lane marked “Exit Only.” “Leave her
sit there,” said the attendant. “I’ll put her away.” Mitty got out of the
car. “Hey, better leave the key.” “Oh,” said Mitty, handing the man the
ignition key. The attendant vaulted into the car, backed it up with insolent
skill, and put it where it belonged.
They’re so damn
cocky, thought Walter Mitty, walking along Main Street; they think they know
everything. Once he had tried to take his chains off, outside New Milford, and
he had got them wound around the axles. A man had had to come out in a wrecking
car and unwind them, a young, grinning garageman. Since then Mrs. Mitty always
made him drive to a garage to have the chains taken off. The next time, he
thought, I’ll wear my right arm in a sling; they won’t grin at me then. I’ll
have my right arm in a sling and they’ll see I couldn’t possibly take the
chains off myself. He kicked at the slush on the sidewalk. “Overshoes,” he said
to himself, and he began looking for a shoe store.
When he came out into
the street again, with the overshoes in a box under his arm, Walter Mitty began
to wonder what the other thing was his wife had told him to get. She had told
him, twice, before they set out from their house for Waterbury. In a way he
hated these weekly trips to town—he was always getting something wrong. Kleenex,
he thought, Squibb’s, razor blades? No. Toothpaste, toothbrush, bicarbonate,
carborundum, initiative and referendum? He gave it up. But she would remember
it. “Where’s the what’s-its-name?” she would ask. “Don’t tell me you forgot the
what’s-its-name.” A newsboy went by shouting something about the Waterbury
trial.
. . . “Perhaps
this will refresh your memory.” The District Attorney suddenly thrust a heavy
automatic at the quiet figure on the witness stand. “Have you ever seen this
before?” Walter Mitty took the gun and examined it expertly. “This is my
Webley-Vickers 50.80,” he said calmly. An excited buzz ran around the
courtroom. The Judge rapped for order. “You are a crack shot with any sort of
firearms, I believe?” said the District Attorney, insinuatingly. “Objection!”
shouted Mitty’s attorney. “We have shown that the defendant could not have
fired the shot. We have shown that he wore his right arm in a sling on the
night of the fourteenth of July.” Walter Mitty raised his hand briefly and the
bickering attorneys were stilled. “With any known make of gun,” he said evenly,
“I could have killed Gregory Fitzhurst at three hundred feet with my
left hand.” Pandemonium broke loose in the courtroom. A woman’s scream rose
above the bedlam and suddenly a lovely, dark-haired girl was in Walter Mitty’s
arms. The District Attorney struck at her savagely. Without rising from his
chair, Mitty let the man have it on the point of the chin. “You miserable
cur!” . . .
“Puppy biscuit,” said
Walter Mitty. He stopped walking and the buildings of Waterbury rose up out of
the misty courtroom and surrounded him again. A woman who was passing laughed.
“He said ‘Puppy biscuit,’ ” she said to her companion. “That man said
‘Puppy biscuit’ to himself.” Walter Mitty hurried on. He went into an A. &
P., not the first one he came to but a smaller one farther up the street. “I
want some biscuit for small, young dogs,” he said to the clerk. “Any special
brand, sir?” The greatest pistol shot in the world thought a moment. “It says
‘Puppies Bark for It’ on the box,” said Walter Mitty.
His wife would be through at the
hairdresser’s in fifteen minutes, Mitty saw in looking at his watch, unless
they had trouble drying it; sometimes they had trouble drying it. She didn’t
like to get to the hotel first; she would want him to be there waiting for her
as usual. He found a big leather chair in the lobby, facing a window, and he
put the overshoes and the puppy biscuit on the floor beside it. He picked up an
old copy of Liberty and sank down into the chair. “Can Germany
Conquer the World Through the Air?” Walter Mitty looked at the pictures of
bombing planes and of ruined streets.
. . . “The
cannonading has got the wind up in young Raleigh, sir,” said the sergeant.
Captain Mitty looked up at him through touselled hair. “Get him to bed,” he
said wearily. “With the others. I’ll fly alone.” “But you can’t, sir,” said the
sergeant anxiously. “It takes two men to handle that bomber and the Archies are
pounding hell out of the air. Von Richtman’s circus is between here and
Saulier.” “Somebody’s got to get that ammunition dump,” said Mitty. “I’m going
over. Spot of brandy?” He poured a drink for the sergeant and one for himself.
War thundered and whined around the dugout and battered at the door. There was
a rending of wood and splinters flew through the room. “A bit of a near thing,”
said Captain Mitty carelessly. “The box barrage is closing in,” said the
sergeant. “We only live once, Sergeant,” said Mitty, with his faint, fleeting
smile. “Or do we?” He poured another brandy and tossed it off. “I never see a
man could hold his brandy like you, sir,” said the sergeant. “Begging your
pardon, sir.” Captain Mitty stood up and strapped on his huge Webley-Vickers
automatic. “It’s forty kilometres through hell, sir,” said the sergeant. Mitty
finished one last brandy. “After all,” he said softly, “what isn’t?” The
pounding of the cannon increased; there was the rat-tat-tatting of machine
guns, and from somewhere came the menacing pocketa-pocketa-pocketa of the new flame-throwers.
Walter Mitty walked to the door of the dugout humming “Auprès de Ma Blonde.” He
turned and waved to the sergeant. “Cheerio!” he said. . . .
Something struck his
shoulder. “I’ve been looking all over this hotel for you,” said Mrs. Mitty.
“Why do you have to hide in this old chair? How did you expect me to find you?”
“Things close in,” said Walter Mitty vaguely. “What?” Mrs. Mitty said. “Did you
get the what’s-its-name? The puppy biscuit? What’s in that box?” “Overshoes,”
said Mitty. “Couldn’t you have put them on in the store?” “I was thinking,”
said Walter Mitty. “Does it ever occur to you that I am sometimes thinking?”
She looked at him. “I’m going to take your temperature when I get you home,”
she said.
They went out through the revolving
doors that made a faintly derisive whistling sound when you pushed them. It was
two blocks to the parking lot. At the drugstore on the corner she said, “Wait
here for me. I forgot something. I won’t be a minute.” She was more than a
minute. Walter Mitty lighted a cigarette. It began to rain, rain with sleet in
it. He stood up against the wall of the drugstore,
smoking. . . . He put his shoulders back and his heels
together. “To hell with the handkerchief,” said Walter Mitty scornfully. He took
one last drag on his cigarette and snapped it away. Then, with that faint,
fleeting smile playing about his lips, he faced the firing squad; erect and
motionless, proud and disdainful, Walter Mitty the Undefeated, inscrutable to
the last. ♦
Luck
by Mark Twain
(1835-1910)
[Note—This
is not a fancy sketch. I got it from a clergyman who was an instructor at
Woolwich forty years ago, and who vouched for its truth.—M.T.]
It was
at a banquet in London in honor of one of the two or three conspicuously
illustrious English military names of this generation. For reasons which will
presently appear, I will withhold his real name and titles, and call him
Lieutenant General Lord Arthur Scoresby, V.C., K.C.B., etc., etc., etc. What a
fascination there is in a renowned name! There sat the man, in actual flesh,
whom I had heard of so many thousands of times since that day, thirty years
before, when his name shot suddenly to the zenith from a Crimean battlefield,
to remain forever celebrated. It was food and drink to me to look, and look,
and look at that demigod; scanning, searching, noting: the quietness, the
reserve, the noble gravity of his countenance; the simple honesty that expressed
itself all over him; the sweet unconsciousness of his greatness—unconsciousness
of the hundreds of admiring eyes fastened upon him, unconsciousness of the
deep, loving, sincere worship welling out of the breasts of those people and
flowing toward him.
The
clergyman at my left was an old acquaintance of mine—clergyman now, but had
spent the first half of his life in the camp and field, and as an instructor in
the military school at Woolwich. Just at the moment I have been talking about,
a veiled and singular light glimmered in his eyes, and he leaned down and
muttered confidentially to me—indicating the hero of the banquet with a
gesture:
"Privately—he's
an absolute fool."
This
verdict was a great surprise to me. If its subject had been Napoleon, or Socrates,
or Solomon, my astonishment could not have been greater. Two things I was well
aware of: that the Reverend was a man of strict veracity, and that his
judgement of men was good. Therefore I knew, beyond doubt or question, that the
world was mistaken about this hero: he was a fool. So I meant
to find out, at a convenient moment, how the Reverend, all solitary and alone,
had discovered the secret.
Some
days later the opportunity came, and this is what the Reverend told me.
About
forty years ago I was an instructor in the military academy at Woolwich. I was
present in one of the sections when young Scoresby underwent his preliminary
examination. I was touched to the quick with pity; for the rest of the class
answered up brightly and handsomely, while he—why, dear me, he didn't
know anything, so to speak. He was evidently good, and sweet, and
lovable, and guileless; and so it was exceedingly painful to see him stand
there, as serene as a graven image, and deliver himself of answers which were
veritably miraculous for stupidity and ignorance. All the compassion in me was
aroused in his behalf. I said to myself, when he comes to be examined again, he
will be flung over, of course; so it will be simply a harmless act of charity
to ease his fall as much as I can. I took him aside, and found that he knew a
little of Cæsar's history; and as he didn't know anything else, I went to work
and drilled him like a galley slave on a certain line of stock questions
concerning Cæsar which I knew would be used. If you'll believe me, he went
through with flying colors on examination day! He went through on that purely
superficial "cram," and got compliments too, while others, who knew a
thousand times more than he, got plucked. By some strangely lucky accident—an
accident not likely to happen twice in a century—he was asked no question
outside of the narrow limits of his drill.
It was
stupefying. Well, all through his course I stood by him, with something of the
sentiment which a mother feels for a crippled child; and he always saved
himself—just by miracle, apparently.
Now of
course the thing that would expose him and kill him at last was mathematics. I
resolved to make his death as easy as I could; so I drilled him and crammed
him, and crammed him and drilled him, just on the line of questions which the
examiners would be most likely to use, and then launching him on his fate.
Well, sir, try to conceive of the result: to my consternation, he took the
first prize! And with it he got a perfect ovation in the way of compliments.
Sleep?
There was no more sleep for me for a week. My conscience tortured me day and
night. What I had done I had done purely through charity, and only to ease the
poor youth's fall—I never had dreamed of any such preposterous result as the
thing that had happened. I felt as guilty and miserable as the creator of
Frankenstein. Here was a woodenhead whom I had put in the way of glittering
promotions and prodigious responsibilities, and but one thing could happen: he
and his responsibilities would all go to ruin together at the first
opportunity.
The
Crimean war had just broken out. Of course there had to be a war, I said to
myself: we couldn't have peace and give this donkey a chance to die before he
is found out. I waited for the earthquake. It came. And it made me reel when it
did come. He was actually gazetted to a captaincy in a marching regiment!
Better men grow old and gray in the service before they climb to a sublimity
like that. And who could ever have foreseen that they would go and put such a
load of responsibility on such green and inadequate shoulders? I could just
barely have stood it if they had made him a cornet; but a captain—think of it!
I thought my hair would turn white.
Consider
what I did—I who so loved repose and inaction. I said to myself, I am
responsible to the country for this, and I must go along with him and protect
the country against him as far as I can. So I took my poor little capital that
I had saved up through years of work and grinding economy, and went with a sigh
and bought a cornetcy in his regiment, and away we went to the field.
And
there—oh dear, it was awful. Blunders? Why, he never did anything but blunder.
But, you see, nobody was in the fellow's secret—everybody had him focused
wrong, and necessarily misinterpreted his performance every time—consequently
they took his idiotic blunders for inspirations of genius; they did, honestly!
His mildest blunders were enough to make a man in his right mind cry; and they
did make me cry—and rage and rave too, privately. And the thing that kept me
always in a sweat of apprehension was the fact that every fresh blunder he made
increased the luster of his reputation! I kept saying to myself, he'll get so
high, that when discovery does finally come, it will be like the sun falling
out of the sky.
He went
right along up, from grade to grade, over the dead bodies of his superiors,
until at last, in the hottest moment of the battle of ------- down went our
colonel, and my heart jumped into my mouth, for Scoresby was next in rank! Now
for it, said I; we'll all land in Sheol in ten minutes, sure.
The
battle was awfully hot; the allies were steadily giving way all over the field.
Our regiment occupied a position that was vital; a blunder now must be
destruction. At this crucial moment, what does this immortal fool do but detach
the regiment from its place and order a charge over a neighboring hill where
there wasn't a suggestion of an enemy! "There you go!" I said to
myself; "this is the end at last."
And
away we did go, and were over the shoulder of the hill before the insane
movement could be discovered and stopped. And what did we find? An entire and
unsuspected Russian army in reserve! And what happened? We were eaten up? That
is necessarily what would have happened in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred.
But no, those Russians argued that no single regiment would come browsing
around there at such a time. It must be the entire English army, and that the
sly Russian game was detected and blocked; so they turned tail, and away they
went, pell-mell, over the hill and down into the field, in wild confusion, and
we after them; they themselves broke the solid Russian center in the field, and
tore through, and in no time there was the most tremendous rout you ever saw,
and the defeat of the allies was turned into a sweeping and splendid victory!
Marshal Canrobert looked on, dizzy with astonishment, admiration,and delight;
and sent right off for Scoresby, and hugged him, and decorated him on the
field, in presence of all the armies!
And
what was Scoresby's blunder that time? Merely the mistaking his right hand for
his left—that was all. An order had come to him to fall back and support our
right; and instead, he fell forward and went over the hill to
the left. But the name he won that day as a marvelous military genius filled
the world with his glory, and that glory will never fade while history books
last.
He is
just as good and sweet and lovable and unpretending as a man can be, but he
doesn't know enough to come in when it rains. Now that is absolutely true. He
is the supremest ass in the universe; and until half an hour ago nobody knew it
but himself and me. He has been pursued, day by day and year by year, by a most
phenomenal and astonishing luckiness. He has been a shining soldier in all our
wars for a generation; he has littered his whole military life with blunders,
and yet has never committed one that didn't make him a knight or a baronet or a
lord or something. Look at his breast; why, he is just clothed in domestic and
foreign decorations. Well, sir, every one of them is the record of some
shouting stupidity or other; and taken together, they are proof that the very
best thing in all this world that can befall a man is to be born lucky. I say
again, as I said at the banquet, Scoresby's an absolute fool.
The Chaser, by John Collier
Alan Austen, as nervous as a kitten, went up certain dark
and creaky stairs in the neighborhood of Pell Street, and peered about for a
long time on the dime landing before he found the name he wanted written
obscurely on one of the doors.
He pushed open this door, as he had
been told to do, and found himself in a tiny room, which contained no furniture
but a plain kitchen table, a rocking-chair, and an ordinary chair. On one of
the dirty buff-colored walls were a couple of shelves, containing in all
perhaps a dozen bottles and jars.
An old man sat in the rocking-chair,
reading a newspaper. Alan, without a word, handed him the card he had been
given. "Sit down, Mr. Austen," said the old man very politely.
"I am glad to make your acquaintance."
"Is it true," asked Alan,
"that you have a certain mixture that has-er-quite extraordinary
effects?"
"My dear sir," replied the
old man, "my stock in trade is not very large-I don't deal in laxatives
and teething mixtures-but such as it is, it is varied. I think nothing I sell
has effects which could be precisely described as ordinary."
"Well, the fact is. . ."
began Alan.
"Here, for example,
"interrupted the old man, reaching for a bottle from the shelf. "Here
is a liquid as colorless as water, almost tasteless, quite imperceptible in
coffee, wine, or any other beverage. It is also quite imperceptible to any
known method of autopsy."
"Do you mean it is a poison?"
cried Alan, very much horrified.
"Call it a glove-cleaner if you
like," said the old man indifferently. "Maybe it will clean gloves. I
have never tried. One might call it a life-cleaner. Lives need cleaning
sometimes."
"I want nothing of that
sort," said Alan.
"Probably it is just as
well," said the old man. "Do you know the price of this? For one
teaspoonful, which is sufficient, I ask five thousand dollars. Never less. Not
a penny less."
"I hope all your mixtures are not
as expensive," said Alan apprehensively.
"Oh dear, no," said the old
man. "It would be no good charging that sort of price for a love potion,
for example. Young people who need a love potion very seldom have five thousand
dollars. Otherwise they would not need a love potion."
"I am glad to hear that,"
said Alan.
"I look at it like this,"
said the old man. "Please a customer with one article, and he will come
back when he needs another. Even if it is more costly. He will save up for it,
if necessary."
"So," said Alan, "you
really do sell love potions?"
"If I did not sell love
potions," said the old man, reaching for another bottle, "I should
not have mentioned the other matter to you. It is only when one is in a
position to oblige that one can afford to be so confidential."
"And these potions," said
Alan. "They are not just-just-er-"
"Oh, no," said the old man.
"Their effects are permanent, and extend far beyond the mere casual
impulse. But they include it. Oh, yes they include it. Bountifully,
insistently. Everlastingly."
"Dear me!" said Alan,
attempting a look of scientific detachment. "How very interesting!"
"But consider the spiritual
side," said the old man.
"I do, indeed," said Alan.
"For indifference," said the
old man, they substitute devotion. For scorn, adoration. Give one tiny measure
of this to the young lady-its flavour is imperceptible in orange juice, soup,
or cocktails-and however gay and giddy she is, she will change altogether. She
will want nothing but solitude and you."
"I can hardly believe it,"
said Alan. "She is so fond of parties."
"She will not like them any
more," said the old man. "She will be afraid of the pretty girls you
may meet."
"She will actually be
jealous?" cried Alan in a rapture. "Of me?"
"Yes, she will want to be
everything to you."
"She is, already. Only she doesn't
care about it."
"She will, when she has taken
this. She will care intensely. You will be her sole interest in life."
"Wonderful!" cried Alan.
"She will want to know all you
do," said the old man. "All that has happened to you during the day.
Every word of it. She will want to know what you are thinking about, why you
smile suddenly, why your are looking sad."
"That is love!" cried Alan.
"Yes," said the old man.
"How carefully she will look after you! She will never allow you to be
tired, to sit in a draught, to neglect your food. If you are an hour late, she
will be terrified. She will think you are killed, or that some siren has caught
you."
"I can hardly imagine Diana like
that!" cried Alan, overwhelmed with joy.
"You will not have to use your
imagination," said the old man. "And, by the way, since there are
always sirens, if by any chance you should, later on, slip a little, you need
not worry. She will forgive you, in the end. She will be terribly hurt, of
course, but she will forgive you-in the end."
"That will not happen," said
Alan fervently.
"Of course not," said the old
man. "But, if it did, you need not worry. She would never divorce you. Oh,
no! And, of course, she will never give you the least, the very least, grounds
for-uneasiness."
"And how much," said Alan,
"is this wonderful mixture?"
"It is not as dear," said the
old man, "as the glove-cleaner, or life-cleaner, as I sometimes call it.
No. That is five thousand dollars, never a penny less. One has to be older than
you are, to indulge in that sort of thing. One has to save up for it."
"But the love potion?" said
Alan.
"Oh, that," said the old man,
opening the drawer in the kitchen table, and taking out a tiny, rather
dirty-looking phial. "That is just a dollar."
"I can't tell you how grateful I
am," said Alan, watching him fill it.
"I like to oblige," said the
old man. "Then customers come back, later in life, when they are better
off, and want more expensive things. Here you are. You will find it very
effective."
"Thank you again," said Alan.
"Good-bye."
"Au revoir," said the man.
Miss Brill
Although
it was so brilliantly fine - the blue sky powdered with gold and great spots
of light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques - Miss Brill was
glad that she had decided on her fur. The air was motionless, but when you
opened your mouth there was just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of
iced water before you sip, and now and again a leaf came drifting - from
nowhere, from the sky. Miss Brill put up her hand and touched her fur. Dear
little thing! It was nice to feel it again. She had taken it out of its box
that afternoon, shaken out the moth-powder, given it a good brush, and rubbed
the life back into the dim little eyes. "What has been happening to
me?" said the sad little eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap at
her again from the red eiderdown! ... But the nose, which was of some black
composition, wasn't at all firm. It must have had a knock, somehow. Never
mind - a little dab of black sealing-wax when the time came - when it was
absolutely necessary ... Little rogue! Yes, she really felt like that about
it. Little rogue biting its tail just by her left ear. She could have taken
it off and laid it on her lap and stroked it. She felt a tingling in her
hands and arms, but that came from walking, she supposed. And when she breathed,
something light and sad - no, not sad, exactly - something gentle seemed to
move in her bosom.
There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last Sunday.
And the band sounded louder and gayer. That was because the Season had begun.
For although the band played all the year round on Sundays, out of season it
was never the same. It was like some one playing with only the family to
listen; it didn't care how it played if there weren't any strangers present.
Wasn't the conductor wearing a new coat, too? She was sure it was new. He
scraped with his foot and flapped his arms like a rooster about to crow, and
the bandsmen sitting in the green rotunda blew out their cheeks and glared at
the music. Now there came a little "flutey" bit - very pretty! - a
little chain of bright drops. She was sure it would be repeated. It was; she
lifted her head and smiled.
Only two people shared her "special" seat: a fine old man in a
velvet coat, his hands clasped over a huge carved walking-stick, and a big
old woman, sitting upright, with a roll of knitting on her embroidered apron.
They did not speak. This was disappointing, for Miss Brill always looked
forward to the conversation. She had become really quite expert, she thought,
at listening as though she didn't listen, at sitting in other people's lives
just for a minute while they talked round her.
She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon. Last
Sunday, too, hadn't been as interesting as usual. An Englishman and his wife,
he wearing a dreadful Panama hat and she button boots. And she'd gone on the
whole time about how she ought to wear spectacles; she knew she needed them;
but that it was no good getting any; they'd be sure to break and they'd never
keep on. And he'd been so patient. He'd suggested everything - gold rims, the
kind that curved round your ears, little pads inside the bridge. No, nothing
would please her. "They'll always be sliding down my nose!" Miss
Brill had wanted to shake her.
The old people sat on the bench, still as statues. Never mind, there was
always the crowd to watch. To and fro, in front of the flower-beds and the
band rotunda, the couples and groups paraded, stopped to talk, to greet, to
buy a handful of flowers from the old beggar who had his tray fixed to the
railings. Little children ran among them, swooping and laughing; little boys
with big white silk bows under their chins, little girls, little French
dolls, dressed up in velvet and lace. And sometimes a tiny staggerer came
suddenly rocking into the open from under the trees, stopped, stared, as
suddenly sat down "flop," until its small high-stepping mother,
like a young hen, rushed scolding to its rescue. Other people sat on the
benches and green chairs, but they were nearly always the same, Sunday after
Sunday, and - Miss Brill had often noticed - there was something funny about
nearly all of them. They were odd, silent, nearly all old, and from the way
they stared they looked as though they'd just come from dark little rooms or
even - even cupboards!
Behind the rotunda the slender trees with yellow leaves down drooping, and
through them just a line of sea, and beyond the blue sky with gold-veined
clouds.
Tum-tum-tum tiddle-um! tiddle-um! tum tiddley-um tum ta! blew the band.
Two young girls in red came by and two young soldiers in blue met them, and
they laughed and paired and went off arm-in-arm. Two peasant women with funny
straw hats passed, gravely, leading beautiful smoke-coloured donkeys. A cold,
pale nun hurried by. A beautiful woman came along and dropped her bunch of
violets, and a little boy ran after to hand them to her, and she took them
and threw them away as if they'd been poisoned. Dear me! Miss Brill didn't
know whether to admire that or not! And now an ermine toque and a gentleman
in grey met just in front of her. He was tall, stiff, dignified, and she was
wearing the ermine toque she'd bought when her hair was yellow. Now
everything, her hair, her face, even her eyes, was the same colour as the
shabby ermine, and her hand, in its cleaned glove, lifted to dab her lips,
was a tiny yellowish paw. Oh, she was so pleased to see him - delighted! She
rather thought they were going to meet that afternoon. She described where
she'd been - everywhere, here, there, along by the sea. The day was so
charming - didn't he agree? And wouldn't he, perhaps? ... But he shook his
head, lighted a cigarette, slowly breathed a great deep puff into her face,
and even while she was still talking and laughing, flicked the match away and
walked on. The ermine toque was alone; she smiled more brightly than ever.
But even the band seemed to know what she was feeling and played more softly,
played tenderly, and the drum beat, "The Brute! The Brute!" over and
over. What would she do? What was going to happen now? But as Miss Brill
wondered, the ermine toque turned, raised her hand as though she'd seen some
one else, much nicer, just over there, and pattered away. And the band
changed again and played more quickly, more gayly than ever, and the old
couple on Miss Brill's seat got up and marched away, and such a funny old man
with long whiskers hobbled along in time to the music and was nearly knocked
over by four girls walking abreast.
Oh, how fascinating it was! How she enjoyed it! How she loved sitting here,
watching it all! It was like a play. It was exactly like a play. Who could
believe the sky at the back wasn't painted? But it wasn't till a little brown
dog trotted on solemn and then slowly trotted off, like a little
"theatre" dog, a little dog that had been drugged, that Miss Brill
discovered what it was that made it so exciting. They were all on the stage.
They weren't only the audience, not only looking on; they were acting. Even
she had a part and came every Sunday. No doubt somebody would have noticed if
she hadn't been there; she was part of the performance after all. How strange
she'd never thought of it like that before! And yet it explained why she made
such a point of starting from home at just the same time each week - so as
not to be late for the performance - and it also explained why she had quite
a queer, shy feeling at telling her English pupils how she spent her Sunday
afternoons. No wonder! Miss Brill nearly laughed out loud. She was on the
stage. She thought of the old invalid gentleman to whom she read the
newspaper four afternoons a week while he slept in the garden. She had got
quite used to the frail head on the cotton pillow, the hollowed eyes, the
open mouth and the high pinched nose. If he'd been dead she mightn't have
noticed for weeks; she wouldn't have minded. But suddenly he knew he was
having the paper read to him by an actress! "An actress!" The old
head lifted; two points of light quivered in the old eyes. "An actress -
are ye?" And Miss Brill smoothed the newspaper as though it were the
manuscript of her part and said gently; "Yes, I have been an actress for
a long time."
The band had been having a rest. Now they started again. And what they played
was warm, sunny, yet there was just a faint chill - a something, what was it?
- not sadness - no, not sadness - a something that made you want to sing. The
tune lifted, lifted, the light shone; and it seemed to Miss Brill that in
another moment all of them, all the whole company, would begin singing. The
young ones, the laughing ones who were moving together, they would begin, and
the men's voices, very resolute and brave, would join them. And then she too,
she too, and the others on the benches - they would come in with a kind of
accompaniment - something low, that scarcely rose or fell, something so
beautiful - moving ... And Miss Brill's eyes filled with tears and she looked
smiling at all the other members of the company. Yes, we understand, we
understand, she thought - though what they understood she didn't know.
Just at that moment a boy and girl came and sat down where the old couple had
been. They were beautifully dressed; they were in love. The hero and heroine,
of course, just arrived from his father's yacht. And still soundlessly
singing, still with that trembling smile, Miss Brill prepared to listen.
"No, not now," said the girl. "Not here, I can't."
"But why? Because of that stupid old thing at the end there?" asked
the boy. "Why does she come here at all - who wants her? Why doesn't she
keep her silly old mug at home?"
"It's her fu-ur which is so funny," giggled the girl. "It's
exactly like a fried whiting."
"Ah, be off with you!" said the boy in an angry whisper. Then:
"Tell me, ma petite chere--"
"No, not here," said the girl. "Not yet."
On
her way home she usually bought a slice of honey-cake at the baker's. It was
her Sunday treat. Sometimes there was an almond in her slice, sometimes not.
It made a great difference. If there was an almond it was like carrying home
a tiny present - a surprise - something that might very well not have been
there. She hurried on the almond Sundays and struck the match for the kettle
in quite a dashing way.
But to-day she passed the baker's by, climbed the stairs, went into the
little dark room - her room like a cupboard - and sat down on the red
eiderdown. She sat there for a long time. The box that the fur came out of
was on the bed. She unclasped the necklet quickly; quickly, without looking,
laid it inside. But when she put the lid on she thought she heard something
crying.
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