OF TIME AND THE RIVER. Thomas Wolfe

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СКАЧАТЬ her face the expression of straight grave innocence that children have, and also of strong native intelligence and integrity. Her skin was milk-white, soft of texture, completely colourless save for the nose, which was red, broad and fleshy at the base, and curiously masculine.

      A stranger seeing her for the first time would have known somehow that the woman was a member of a numerous family, and that her face had the tribal look. He would somehow have felt certain that the woman had brothers and that if he could see them, they would look like her. Yet, this masculine quality was not a quality of sex, for the woman, save for the broad manlike nose, was as thoroughly female as a woman could be. It was rather a quality of tribe and character — a tribe and character that was decisively masculine.

      The final impression of the woman might have been this:— that her life was somehow above and beyond a moral judgment, that no matter what the course or chronicle of her life may have been, no matter what crimes of error, avarice, ignorance, or thoughtlessness might be charged to her, no matter what suffering or evil consequences may have resulted to other people through any act of hers, her life was somehow beyond these accidents of time, training, and occasion, and the woman was as guiltless as a child, a river, an avalanche, or any force of nature whatsoever.

      The younger of the two women was about thirty years old. She was a big woman, nearly six feet tall, large, and loose of bone and limb, almost gaunt. Both women were evidently creatures of tremendous energy, but where the mother suggested a constant, calm, and almost tireless force, the daughter was plainly one of those big, impulsive creatures of the earth who possess a terrific but undisciplined vitality, which they are ready to expend with a whole-souled and almost frenzied prodigality on any person, enterprise, or object which appeals to their grand affections.

      This difference between the two women was also reflected in their faces. The face of the mother, for all its amazing flexibility, the startled animal-like intentness with which her glance darted from one object to another, and the mobility of her powerful and delicate mouth, which she pursed and convolved with astonishing flexibility in such a way as to show the constant reflective effort of her mind, was nevertheless the face of a woman whose spirit had an almost elemental quality of patience, fortitude and calm.

      The face of the younger woman was large, high-boned, and generous and already marked by the frenzy and unrest of her own life. At moments it bore legibly and terribly the tortured stain of hysteria, of nerves stretched to the breaking point, of the furious impatience, unrest and dissonance of her own tormented spirit, and of impending exhaustion and collapse for her overwrought vitality. Yet, in an instant, this gaunt, strained, tortured, and almost hysterical face could be transformed by an expression of serenity, wisdom and repose that would work unbelievably a miracle of calm and radiant beauty on the nervous, gaunt, and tortured features.

      Now, each in her own way, the two women were surveying the other people on the platform and the new arrivals with a ravenous and absorptive interest, bestowing on each a wealth of information, comment, and speculation which suggested an encyclopædic knowledge of the history of every one in the community.

      “— Why, yes, child,” the mother was saying impatiently, as she turned her quick glance from a group of people who at the moment were the subject of discussion —“that’s what I’m telling you! — Don’t I know? . . . Didn’t I grow up with all those people? . . . Wasn’t Emma Smathers one of my girlhood friends? . . . That boy’s not this woman’s child at all. He’s Emma Smathers’ child by that first marriage.”

      “Well, that’s news to me,” the younger woman answered. “That’s certainly news to me. I never knew Steve Randolph had been married more than once. I’d always thought that all that bunch were Mrs. Randolph’s children.”

      “Why, of course not!” the mother cried impatiently. “She never had any of them except Lucille. All the rest of them were Emma’s children. Steve Randolph was a man of forty-five when he married her. He’d been a widower for years — poor Emma died in childbirth when Bernice was born — nobody ever thought he’d marry again and nobody ever expected this woman to have any children of her own, for she was almost as old as he was — why, yes! — hadn’t she been married before, a widow, you know, when she met him, came here after her first husband’s death from some place way out West — oh, Wyoming, or Nevada or Idaho, one of those States, you know — and had never had chick nor child, as the saying goes — till she married Steve. And that woman was every day of forty-four years old when Lucille was born.”

      “Uh-huh! . . . Ah-hah! the younger woman muttered absently, in a tone of rapt and fascinated interest, as she looked distantly at the people in the other group, and reflectively stroked her large chin with a big, bony hand. “So Lucille, then, is really John’s half-sister?”

      “Why, of course!” the mother cried. “I thought every one knew that. Lucille’s the only one that this woman can lay claim to. The rest of them were Emma’s.”

      “— Well, that’s certainly news to me,” the younger woman said slowly as before. “It’s the first I ever heard of it. . . . And you say she was forty-four when Lucille was born?”

      “Now, she was all of THAT,” the mother said. “I know. And she may have been even older.”

      “Well,” the younger woman said, and now she turned to her silent husband, Barton, with a hoarse snigger, “it just goes to show that while there’s life there’s hope, doesn’t it? So cheer up, honey,” she said to him, “we may have a chance yet.” But despite her air of rough banter her clear eyes for a moment had a look of deep pain and sadness in them.

      “Chance!” the mother cried strongly, with a little scornful pucker of the lips —“why, of course there is! If I was your age again I’d have a dozen — and never think a thing of it.” For a moment she was silent, pursing her reflective lips. Suddenly a faint sly smile began to flicker at the edges of her lips, and turning to the boy, she addressed him with an air of sly and bantering mystery:

      “Now, boy,” she said —“there’s lots of things that you don’t know . . . you always thought you were the last — the youngest — didn’t you?”

      “Well, wasn’t I?” he said.

      “H’m!” she said with a little scornful smile and an air of great mystery —“There’s lots that I could tell you —”

      “Oh, my God!” he groaned, turning towards his sister with an imploring face. “More mysteries! . . . The next thing I’ll find that there were five sets of triplets after I was born — Well, come on, Mama,” he cried impatiently. “Don’t hint around all day about it. . . . What’s the secret now — how many were there?”

      “H’m!” she said with a little bantering, scornful, and significant smile.

      “O Lord!” he groaned again —“Did she ever tell you what it was?” Again he turned imploringly to his sister.

      She snickered hoarsely, a strange high-husky and derisive falsetto laugh, at the same time prodding him stiffly in the ribs with her big fingers:

      “Hi, hi, hi, hi, hi,” she laughed. “More spooky business, hey? You don’t know the half of it. She’ll be telling you next you were only the fourteenth.”

      “H’m!” the older woman said, with a little scornful smile of her pursed lips. “Now I could tell him more than that! The fourteenth! Pshaw!” she said contemptuously —“I could tell him —”

      “O God!” he groaned miserably. “I knew it! . . . I don’t want to hear it.”

      “K, СКАЧАТЬ