OF TIME AND THE RIVER. Thomas Wolfe

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СКАЧАТЬ there will be the expiring clatter of a single truck, the sound of a worker’s voice as he says “Good night,” and then the potent and magical silence.

      And then there is the sea — the sea, beautiful and mysterious as it is only when it meets the earth in harbours, the sea that bears in swell and glut of tides the odorous savour of the earth, the sea that swings and slaps against encrusted piles, the sea that is braided with long ropes of scummy weed, the sea that brings the mast and marly scent of shelled decay. There is the sea, and there are the great ships — the freighters, the fishing schooners, the clean white one-night boats that make the New York run, now also potent and silent, a glitter of bright lights, of gleaming brasses, of opulent saloons — a token of joy and splendour in dark waters, a hint of love and the velvet belly upon dark tides — and the sight of all these things, the fusion of all these odours by the sprite of May is freighted with unspeakable memories, with unutterable intuitions for the youth: he does not know what he would utter, but glory, love, power, wealth, flight, and movement and the sight of new earth in the morning, and the living corporeal fulfilment of all his ecstasy is in his wish and his conviction.

      Certainly, these things can be found in New England, but perhaps the person who finds this buried joy the most is this lonely visitor — and particularly the boy from the South, for in the heart of the Southerner alone, perhaps, is this true and secret knowledge of the North: it is there in his dreams and his childhood premonition, it is there like the dark Helen, and no matter what he sees to cheat it, he will always believe in it, he will always return to it. Certainly, this was true of the gnarled and miserly old man who now sat not far from all this glory in his dingy State Street office, for Bascom Pentland, although the stranger on seeing him might have said, “There goes the very image of a hard-bitten old Down–Easter,” had come, as lonely and wretched a youth as ever lived, from the earth of Old Catawba, he had known and felt these things and, in spite of his frequent bitter attacks on the people, the climate, the life, New England was the place to which he had returned to live, and for which he felt the most affection.

      time_

      Now, ruminant and lost, he stared across the archway of his hands. In a moment, with what was only an apparent irrelevance, with what was really a part of the coherent past, a light plucked from dark adyts of the brain, he said: “Who knoweth the spirit of man that goeth upward, and the spirit of the beast that goeth downward to the earth?”

      He was silent and thoughtful for a moment; then he added sadly: “I am an old man. I have lived a long time. I have seen so many things. Sometimes everything seems so long ago.”

      Then his eye went back into the wilderness, the lost earth, the buried men.

      Presently he said: “I hope you will come out on Sunday. O, by all means! By all means! I believe your aunt is expecting you. Yes, sir, I believe she said something to that effect. Or perhaps she intends to pay a visit to one of her children. I do not know, I have not the REMOTEST— not the FAINTEST idea, of what she proposes to do,” he howled. “Of course,” he said impatiently and scornfully, “I never have any notion what she has in mind. No, sir, I really could not tell you. I no longer pay any attention to what she says — O! not the slightest!” he waved his great hand through the air —“SAY!” stiffly and harshly he tapped the boy’s knee, grinning at him with the combative glitter of his ptotic eye — “SAY! did you ever find ONE of them with whom it was possible to carry on a coherent conversation? Did you ever find one of them who would respond to the processes of reason and ordered thought? My dear boy!” he cried, “you cannot talk to them. I assure you, you cannot talk to them. You might as well whistle into the wind or spit into the waters of the Nile, for all the good it will do you. In his youth man will bare the riches of his spirit to them, will exhaust the rich accumulations of his genius — his wisdom, his learning, his philosophy — in an effort to make them worthy of his companionship — and in the end, what does he ALWAYS find? Why,” said Uncle Bascom bitterly, “that he has spent his powers in talking to an imbecile”— and he snarled vengefully through his nose. In a moment more, he contorted his face, and nasally whined in a grotesque and mincing parody of a woman’s voice, “O, I feel SO sick! O, deary ME, now! I think my TIME is coming on again! O, you don’t LOVE me any mo-o-ore! O, I WISH I was dead! O, I can’t get UP today! O, I wish you’d bring me something NICE from TA-OWN! O, if you loved me you’d buy me a NEW hat! O, I’ve got nothing to WE-E-AR!” here his voice had an added snarl of bitterness —“I’m ashamed to go out on the street with all the other wim-men!”

      Then he paused broodingly for a moment more, wheeled abruptly and tapped the boy on the knee again: “The proper study of mankind is — say!” he said with a horrible fixed grimace and in a kind of cunning whisper —“does the poet say — WOMAN? I want to ask you: DOES he, now? Not on your life!” yelled Uncle Bascom. “The word is MAN! MAN! MAN! Nothing else but MAN!”

      Again he was silent: then, with an accent of heavy sarcasm, he went on: “Your aunt likes music. You may have observed your aunt is fond of music —”

      It was, in fact, the solace of her life: on a tiny gramophone which one of her daughters had given her, she played constantly the records of the great composers.

      “— Your aunt is fond of music,” Bascom said deliberately. “Perhaps you may have thought — perhaps it seemed to you that she discovered it — perhaps you thought it was your aunt’s own patent and invention — but there you would be wrong! O yes! my boy!” he howled remotely.

      “You may have thought so, but you would be wrong — Say!” he turned slowly with a malevolent glint of interrogation, a controlled ironic power —“was the Fifth Symphony written by a woman? Was the object of your aunt’s worship, Richard Wagner, a FEMALE?” he snarled. “By no means! Where are their great works — their mighty symphonies, their great paintings, their epic poetry? Was it in a woman’s skull that the Critique of Pure Reason was conceived? Is the gigantic work upon the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel the product of a woman’s genius? — Say! did you ever hear of a lady by the name of William Shakespeare? Was it a female of that name who wrote King Lear? Are you familiar with the works of a nice young lady named John Milton? Or Fräulein Goethe, a sweet German girl?” he sneered. “Perhaps you have been edified by the writings of Mademoiselle Voltaire or Miss Jonathan Swift? Phuh! Phuh! Phuh! Phuh! Phuh!”

      He paused, stared deliberately across his hands, and in a moment repeated, slowly and distinctly: “The woman gave me of the tree and I did eat. Ah! that’s it! There, my boy, you have it! There, in a nutshell, you have the work for which they are best fitted.” And he turned upon his nephew suddenly with a blaze of passion, his voice husky and tremulous from the stress of emotion. “The tempter! The Bringer of Forbidden Fruit! The devil’s ambassador! Since the beginning of time that has been their office — to madden the brain, to turn man’s spirit from its highest purposes, to corrupt, to seduce, and to destroy! To creep and crawl, to intrude into the lonely places of man’s heart and brain, to wind herself into the core of his most secret life as a worm eats its way into a healthy fruit — to do all this with the guile of a serpent, the cunning of a fox — that, my boy, is what she’s here for! — and she’ll never change!” And, lowering his voice to an ominous and foreboding whisper, he said mysteriously, “Beware! Beware! Do not be deceived!”

      In a moment more he had resumed his tone and manner of calm deliberation and, with an air of irrelevance, somewhat grudgingly, as if throwing a bone to a dog, he said: “Your aunt, of course, was a woman of considerable mentality — considerable, that is, for a female. Of course, her mind is no longer what it used to be. I never talk to her any more,” he said indifferently. “I do not listen to her. I think she said something to me about your coming out on Sunday! But I do not know. No, sir, I could not tell you what her plans are. I have my own interests, and I suppose she has hers. Of course, she has her music. . . . Yes, sir, she always has her music,” he said indifferently and contemptuously, and, staring across the apex of his hands, he forgot СКАЧАТЬ