Thomas Wolfe: Of Time and the River, You Can't Go Home Again & Look Homeward, Angel. Thomas Wolfe

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СКАЧАТЬ from his community in a lodging-house near Mrs. Bradley’s but closer to the west gate of the university. There were four young men banded together for security and companionship in two untidy rooms heated to a baking dryness by small cast-iron stoves. They made constant preparations for study, but they never studied: one would enter sternly, announcing that he had “a hell of a day tomorrow,” and begin the most minute preparations for a long contest with his books: he would sharpen his pencils carefully and deliberately, adjust his lamp, replenish the red-hot stove, move his chair, put on an eye-shade, clean his pipe, stuff it carefully with tobacco, light, relight, and empty it, then, with an expression of profound relief, hear a rapping on his door.

      “Come in the house, Goddamn it!” he would roar hospitably.

      “Hello, ‘Gene! Pull up a chair, son, and sit down,” said Tom Grant. He was a thickly built boy, gaudily dressed; he had a low forehead, black hair, and a kind, stupid, indolent temper.

      “Have you been working?”

      “Hell, yes!” shouted Jim Trivett. “I’ve been working like a son-of-a-bitch.”

      “God!” said Tom Grant, turning slowly to look at him. “Boy, you’re going to choke to death on one of those some day.” He shook his head slowly and sadly, then continued with a rough laugh: “If old man Trivett knew what you were doing with his money, damn if he wouldn’t bust a gut.”

      “Gene!” said Jim Trivett, “what the hell do you know about this damned English, anyway?”

      “What he doesn’t know about it,” said Tom Grant, “you could write out on the back of a postage stamp. Old man Sanford thinks you’re hell, ‘Gene.”

      “I thought you had Torrington,” said Jim Trivett.

      “No,” said Eugene, “I wasn’t English enough. Young and crude. I changed, thank God! What is it you want, Jim?” he asked.

      “I’ve got a long paper to write. I don’t know what to write about,” said Jim Trivett.

      “What do you want me to do? Write it for you?”

      “Yes,” said Jim Trivett.

      “Write your own damn paper,” said Eugene with mimic toughness, “I won’t do it for you. I’ll help you if I can.”

      “When are you going to let Hard Boy take you to Exeter?” said Tom Grant, winking at Jim Trivett.

      Eugene flushed, making a defensive answer.

      “I’m ready to go any time he is,” he said uneasily.

      “Look here, Legs!” said Jim Trivett, grinning loosely. “Do you really want to go with me or are you just bluffing?”

      “I’ll go with you! I’ve told you I’d go with you!” Eugene said angrily. He trembled a little.

      Tom Grant grinned slyly at Jim Trivett.

      “It’ll make a man of you, ‘Gene,” he said. “Boy, it’ll sure put hair on your chest.” He laughed, not loudly, but uncontrollably, shaking his head as at some secret thought.

      Jim Trivett’s loose smile widened. He spat into the wood-box.

      “Gawd!” he said. “They’ll think Spring is here when they see old Legs. They’ll need a stepladder to git at him.”

      Tom Grant was shaken with hard fat laughter.

      “They sure God will!” he said.

      “Well, what about it, ‘Gene?” Jim Trivett demanded suddenly. “Is it a go? Saturday?”

      “Suits me!” said Eugene.

      When he had gone, they grinned thirstily at each other for a moment, the pleased corrupters of chastity.

      “Pshaw!” said Tom Grant. “You oughtn’t to do that, Hard Boy. You’re leading the boy astray.”

      “It’s not going to hurt him,” said Jim Trivett. “It’ll be good for him.”

      He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning.

      “Wait a minute!” whispered Jim Trivett. “I think this is the place.”

      They had turned away from the centre of the dreary tobacco town. For a quarter of an hour they had walked briskly through drab autumnal streets, descending finally a long rutted hill that led them, past a thinning squalor of cheap houses, almost to the outskirts. It was three weeks before Christmas: the foggy air was full of chill menace. There was a brooding quietness, broken by far small sounds. They turned into a sordid little road, unpaved, littered on both sides with negro shacks and the dwellings of poor whites. It was a world of rickets. The road was unlighted. Their feet stirred dryly through fallen leaves.

      They paused before a two-storey frame house. A lamp burned dimly behind lowered yellow shades, casting a murky pollen out upon the smoky air.

      “Wait a minute,” said Jim Trivett, in a low voice, “I’ll find out.”

      They heard scuffling steps through the leaves. In a moment a negro man prowled up.

      “Hello, John,” said Jim Trivett, almost inaudibly.

      “Evenin’, boss!” the negro answered wearily, but in the same tone.

      “We’re looking for Lily Jones’ house,” said Jim Trivett. “Is this it?”

      “Yes, suh,” said the negro, “dis is it.”

      Eugene leaned against a tree, listening to their quiet conspiratorial talk. The night, vast and listening, gathered about him its evil attentive consciousness. His lips were cold and trembled. He thrust a cigarette between them and, shivering, turned up the thick collar of his overcoat.

      “Does Miss Lily know you’re comin’?” the negro asked.

      “No,” said Jim Trivett. “Do you know her?”

      “Yes, suh,” said the negro. “I’ll go up dar wid yo’.”

      Eugene waited in the shadow of the tree while the two men went up to the house. They avoided the front veranda, and went around to the side. The negro rapped gently at a latticed door. There were always latticed doors. Why?

      He waited, saying farewell to himself. He stood over his life, he felt, with lifted assassin blade. He was mired to his neck, inextricably, in complication. There was no escape.

      There had been a faint closed noise from the house: voices and laughter, and the cracked hoarse tone of an old phonograph. The sound stopped quickly as the negro rapped: the shabby house seemed to listen. In a moment, a hinge creaked stealthily: he caught the low startled blur of a woman’s voice. Who is it? Who?

      In another moment Jim Trivett returned to him, and said quietly:

      “It’s all right, ‘Gene. Come on.”

      He slipped a coin into the negro’s hand, thanking him. Eugene looked for a СКАЧАТЬ