To Look and Pass Page 3

  Sarah tripped out of the room in her tiny kid boots and tripped in again, all nods and smiles and rosy dimples, carrying her violin as tenderly as a mother carries a child. We children sat about awkwardly. Sarah stationed herself near a window and began to play. I can see her so vividly, now, with the late sunshine gilding her pretty hair, the outline of her breasts under the tight dark blue of her bodice, the creamy roundness of her throat above the lace collar, and the gentle softness of the sweet chin that lay on the dark wood of her violin. On her face was a dreamy expression, tender and absorbed, half smiling.

  “This, children, is the ‘Moonlight Sonata,’ by Beethoven,” she said as her bow began to move smoothly over the strings. We sat silent, listening. The notes began to soar serenely, effortlessly, ineffably, like a flock of pale doves rising through darkness with spectral moonlight on their wings. Then, there were chords that seemed to beat with mournful impotence on the heart, notes that brought tears to the eye, solemn phrases like the admonitions of an angel. Groups of notes like prayers; bars like groping hands blindly fumbling at a door that would open on celestial and terrible glory. The feeble cry of mankind full of a trembling ecstasy at a glimpse of the eternal.

  I glanced about me, boyishly ashamed of the thickness of my throat, trying to assume a casual air. Livy was listening, round-eyed and solemn, her red mouth open. Beatrice was sitting primly in her chair, looking at her feet. She half-smiled—that secret and knowing smile I always detested. But on Dan’s face shone the glory of the opened door, a reflection uplifted, startled and ecstatic, as though he were hearing a familiar and beloved voice he had almost forgotten. I stared at him, blankly, fascinated by what I saw, not comprehending it.

  I did not know then, but I know now, that that thirteen-year-old boy had fallen in love with the thirty-five-year-old woman, that he loved her until the day she died, and until the day he died. Things like that do happen, skepticism to the contrary. And this love that burst in him that cool, green April evening carried in it the explanation of all the frightful things that happened to him, and all the beauty and the peace he was ever to know. It was not a mere childish infatuation and idealism. It was as if he knew even then her true goodness and sweetness, her gentleness and cleanliness of heart. In a world he knew to be ugly and bitter, cruel and sordid, dim and hopeless, she was the sound of laughter and hope, the falling of scented petals, fortitude, the iron of endurance and integrity. I know I sound sentimental, but there was nothing sentimental in that love. Looking back, I can see it explained everything, was the reason for everything.

  The last note fell from the violin, and Sarah laughed softly. She looked at us all, beaming, innocently well-pleased with herself, and somewhat surprised.

  “Why, it never sounded like that before!” she exclaimed. She looked at Dan, and she stopped smiling. “Did you really like it so much, Dan?”

  He did not answer. He stood up, his head hanging as though he was confused. He was an ugly boy; the only claim he had to good looks was in his large brown eyes with the thick, short lashes. The lashes were heavy with tears. Sarah put her round, plump arm about his shoulders.

  “Perhaps you are a real musician, Dan,” she said gently. “Suppose you come to me twice a week and I’ll teach you to play. I’m not very good, but I’ll teach you what I know.”

  Beatrice had stood up and was standing near her mother. Sarah’s eye touched her, and I saw again that rather troubled and vaguely frightened expression on Sarah’s face that I had idly noticed many times before when she had looked at her daughter. There was something speculative and bewildered in that expression. Beatrice seemed to make her mother feel inferior. And again, I must repeat here that Beatrice was really far more intelligent than any of us, even her mother, not with the twisted intelligence of the neurotic or the psychopathic person, but with a sort of Satanic intelligence full of malicious humor. I have met a few women like her since, in bigger cities than ours, and such women were universally admired for their wit and their cleverness, but hated for tongues that never spoke any kindness or understanding.

  “I’ll come,” mumbled Dan in a low voice, almost as though he was sealing a solemn covenant. “I’ll come.”

  I’d like to write here that Dan revealed true genius during his lessons, that he became a famous violinist and composer, and shook the world with his colossal genius. Yes, I’d like to say that. It would be dramatic, the substance of a real novel. But the truth of the matter is that though he became fairly proficient in technique, and learned to play competently, he was never a great, or even a fairly great, musician. He played for me a hundred times, and I watched the lifted glory of his face each time with a certain uneasiness and bewilderment. Finally I understood that he really never heard his own playing, but only the great chords in himself of which his playing reminded him. He was like the intense but impotent lover of music who can endure even the bad rendition of a selection by an amateur for what it recalled to him. His imagination was too tremendous, and it numbed his physical fingers; it made it impossible for him to develop a critical ear for his own playing and prevented improvement. I am sure now that the greatest musicians and lovers of music can never learn to play a note, because of this imagination; genius in this, as well as the other arts, demands a certain salty flavoring of mediocrity.

  We three children, Livy, myself, and Dan, went home together in the sweet and exciting coolness of the evening. Livy walked between us bouncingly, her head bobbing at our shoulders.

  “Mrs. Faire is the nicest lady,” she said to us in her round fashion. “Mama says she is a real lady. But I hate that Bee! She’s the meanest thing!”

  We smiled over her head in indulgent, masculine fashion.

  “Well, you always let her hang around you all the time,” I said teasingly. “Folks say you’re her only friend, Livy.”

  Livy pouted, shook her head violently. “I feel sorry for her, kind of,” she admitted. “She’s so mean. Now, you stop that laughing, Jimmy Marcy! You can, too, feel sorry for folks because they’re mean. They’re—they’re sort of like a bird that got its wing broken. They can’t fly very high.”

  Dan glanced at her with a quickness and sharpness unusual for him.

  “Yes,” he said eagerly. “That’s it. Bee’s crippled; I mean, in her mind, or something.”

  I found this too subtle for my young healthiness, and snorted.

  “Crippled! I’d like to cripple her!”

  “Why?” demanded Livy, annoyed. “She never did nothing to you. She never does nothing to anybody. She’s got nice manners, that’s what Mama says. She never says much that you can get mad about. She’s—just kind of quiet—”

  “Oh yes,” I jeered. “We all love little Bee!”

  Livy tossed her head, poked me sharply, but answered nothing. We came to her home, a huge, rambling structure next door to the church, lowering under ancient trees. It was made of wood and covered with scrollwork, fretwork, and cupolas. A hideous house. Its interior was even less prepossessing than its exterior, and was full of all the ugliness of which the Victorian era was guilty. We left Livy at the gate, and went on together.

  Darkness was setting in rapidly, and I hurried. The sky was like a dim opal, veined with faint rose and pale purple, quiet and vaguely sad. Lights from windows began to glimmer through crowding trees; the streets were practically deserted. Suddenly a flock of crows rose cawing and blackly stiff against the melancholy of the heavens. A wind lifted and a dimly transparent gloom settled over the world.

  We came to the smithy. Dan’s father had called it a day, but a few glowering embers still burned on the hearth. I hung about as Dan pushed open the door of the wretched, two-room shack that he called home. He never invited me in, but over his shoulder I could see the bare and filthy floor, the bed in a corner, unmade and with dirty quilts, three broken chairs and a table loaded with chipped crockery. On a few nails on a wooden wall hung the shapeless balance of the boy’s wardrobe; an ancient black range in a corner wa
s streaked red with old rust and grease.

  I was very young and tactless. Looking over Dan’s shoulder, I said naively: “Don’t look much like Mis’ Faire’s house, does it?”

  I could have kicked myself for that remark immediately afterwards. But Dan did not seem to take offense. He studied the room beyond for a long moment. Then he said tranquilly: “I don’t mind it. It suits me.”

  I know now that there was no bravado or hurt in what he said. He really did not mind it. He did not see it with his inner eye, and that was the most important of all. Neither this squalor, nor life, was seen by that inner eye of his, but only something in himself that was infinitely calm and beautiful and satisfying, that no one else could see.

  Chapter Four

  Mr. Mortimer Rugby’s opinion as to the best way to teach the young mind how to function was somewhat on the order of the old saying: “A woman, a dog, and a walnut tree, the more you beat ’em the better they be!”

  He had a strong, flail-like arm, our schoolmaster. He was extremely energetic and nervous; he twitched even in repose, and while sitting, watching us studying, he would continually pass a lean and corded hand over a lean and jaundiced face, and would keep one crossed leg constantly in a gentle and feverish motion. At the time of which I speak he was about fifty years old, with a long and straggling mane of grayish-brown hair which gave him a somewhat affected appearance. I imagine he thought he looked every inch the poet, to which high estate he aspired with more solemnity than humor. During the Civil War he had written many bloody, ferocious, and ringing poems for the newspapers, poems literally dripping with gore and patriotism, in which young men were urged in cantos and short stanzas and even epics to lay down their lives for the Great Ideal and Freedom. On the occasion of Mr. Lincoln’s assassination, he had written a blank verse play of some ten acts, each act containing at least five scenes, and he was much commended for it. In fact, a copy was elaborately printed (the only copy which ever was printed) and sent with the tearful devotion of the whole county to Washington. In the town hall, heavily gilt-framed, hung the reply of Mrs. Lincoln to this touching tribute, couched in words that would melt the hardest heart, and expressing her appreciation and brokenhearted gratitude. I heard from my parents that there was no holding Mr. Rugby down for at least ten years after that; he sprouted poems of all kinds, all becoming progressively more patriotic and sentimental, with a decided leaning in the direction of the Sanctity of Legal Love, the Hearth, Home, Fireside, Heaven, and Mother. I remember one poem in particular, for my father was fond of quoting it, not, however, with reverence and appreciation:

  O little bluebird on the wing,

  O sing, sing for me!

  And raise this mundane, earthy Thing

  To all Eternity!

  I stand below with humble hands

  And muted voice, in tears,

  And listen to Time’s hissing sands

  Run through the bloody years.

  But through my sadness, like a gong,

  There peals the message of thy song!

  Tweet! Tweet! So sweet!

  So sweet! So sweet!

  This poem was much admired by the ladies. Miss Alice McCall, our saintly and rather damp-nosed local virgin of conjectured years, composed a little music for it and played it on the organ months on end. My mother used to say that it made even hardened sinners weep when Miss McCall played it on the church organ. Mr. Rugby was so grateful for this tribute that he honored the lady by making her his second wife, and her gratitude for this magnanimous act was so great that she spent the rest of her life in a sort of Greek Chorus to her husband.

  But alas for the tragedy of a poet’s life, and alas for all fame! A man might spend two-thirds of his life in devotion to a cause or a people, and let him slip just once and the populace leaps on him joyously and pounds hell out of him. The last third of his life is usually spent thereafter in spitting teeth and rubbing his jaw. I see a sort of justice in this: mankind suffers a lot from its saviors and poets and idealists, and its reaction in a moment of weakness is healthy, and continues to give hope for the ultimate civilizing of the race.

  I suppose there were a lot of obscure things that led to the artistic downfall of Mr. Mortimer Rugby. He had been a widower for ten years; his first wife had been a wholesome, bustling woman who never considered her husband to be any first-class hero. It was even rumored that she had laughed at the Sacred Play written about Mr. Lincoln. (I believe it was called “Man—Crucified.”) Her ridicule and laughter and healthiness had kept Mortimer’s higher flights in check, for which a generation ought to be grateful. Her influence had been so great that for ten years of his widowhood Mortimer had not transcended any bounds to amount to anything. And then he married the Greek Chorus, Miss Alice McCall. Fate, which always lies in ambush with a club for a hero; leapt out joyfully, chortling.

  Mortimer was intoxicated by his wife’s adoration, by the incense she poured on his altars, by the worship in her big, calflike eyes. She was not buxom nor seductive, being at least thirty-eight years old and scrawny. I cannot imagine anyone less likely to inspire a love poem, but then, I was not privy to their bedchamber. Mortimer produced an erotic poem that would have put Lord Byron to shame, and would have made the lusty Shakespeare discreetly cover his eyes. Worst of all, it was a very bad poem, and because of this it was unpardonable. The man must have been mad, for even to the last he was bewildered, felt outraged martyrdom, and bitterly hinted that mankind always jeered at its artists and then revered them at their death. I don’t believe he ever read his poem objectively.

  For two years he was in terrible disgrace. He was removed as schoolmaster. He had not been in the war, and so had no pension, for, like all schoolmasters, his exercise of patriotism and worship of the soldier had taken place far behind the fighting lines. It was fortunate for him that Miss Alice’s father had been a captain in the war and had been providentially killed, leaving her mother a substantial pension. The old lady, who admired her son-in-law, supported the little household of Mortimer and his wife and his young son, Jack.

  Mortimer was so bewildered at the treachery of Pegasus that he seemed broken for two years. He wrote no more poems, and again I say that a generation ought to be grateful. He seemed to turn against his devoted wife, as though he obscurely believed that she was at fault. He attended church with great regularity, spoke little, carried his head as though he felt it bloody but unbowed. He had a colossal dignity of carriage and manner, and had an appearance so refined and wounded and spiritual that the ladies of South Kenton relented, and forgave him. The forgiveness of their husbands quickly followed. I am of the opinion that the men had enjoyed the erotic poem, for in later years I heard snatches of it around the bar and in barbershops. Yes, it was really very bad.

  He was restored as schoolmaster. He accepted the position gratefully, yet with a dignified hurt which made the townsfolk feel vaguely ashamed. Thereafter he confined himself to writing pageants for the Sunday-school children, and eulogies at elections, with an occasional rhapsody upon a local wedding or a birth. But the wings of the bird of song were clipped, and it soared no more toward Venus and secret, sylvan vales.

  We children hated him, and feared his terrible arm. I believe now that he took out upon us his frightened wrath and humiliation, made us pay for the recriminations of our elders. He was a very tall, thin man, always dressed in black of an artistic cut, with flowing cravat which mingled with his long and fastidious mane. He had a thin face, spiritually haggard, and languid eyes. The eyes belied him; he was constantly and jerkily in motion. Remembering his sonorous voice and stately periods, I believe that a politician–orator was regrettably lost to the nation. He would have caused the Honorable William Jennings Bryan some bad moments.

  He was schoolmaster for twenty years. When he died, at the age of seventy-three, his sins were all forgiven, and a tombstone was erected to him with these touching words inscribed on it:

  Here lies one whom God endowed.

 
If we children hated him, I am sure that he hated us. We were not more stupid than any other children, but he seemed to think we were. It was no use for us to complain to our parents of our frequent floggings, for in those days discipline and birch-rods were highly regarded as aids to education. He did not spare even his own son, Jack. The boy resembled his dead mother, being rosy-cheeked and mischievous, loud of laughter and generous, utterly earthy and unsentimental. In fact, I believe that Mortimer whipped Jack more regularly and thoroughly than he whipped any of us. But the whippings never took the amusement from Jack’s round face, never made him yelp or blubber.

  I do not think that Mortimer was entirely stupid, in spite of his poems. He showed discernment in that he was the only adult in South Kenton who disliked Beatrice Faire. The girl’s deportment in school was perfect; her lessons were perfect. She was always prepared, always respectful and attentive. But Mortimer disliked her intensely, used to rag her continually, nag at her upon every occasion, and regard her with deep suspicion. And he was the only adult in South Kenton, with the exception of Sarah Faire, who liked Dan Hendricks. For this, I bless his memory.

  Often he would shout at Dan: “You can do better, you whelp! You’re just lazy and contemptible! Come here!” Then would follow a ferocious flogging that made even the hardened children uneasy. Dan did not seem to mind. He accepted flogging as he accepted everything else—indifferently and abstractedly. Mortimer tried to instill bodily fastidiousness in Dan, and there was a great deal of suspicion among us children that the cleaner shirts Dan wore came from Mortimer’s discarded wardrobe, as did pantaloons obviously cut down and taken in. Mortimer had very little money, and less, after his mother-in-law’s death, but we were well aware of the purchaser of Dan’s winter shoes and socks and mittens. With great gestures of ferocity, Mortimer would tell Dan to remain after school for a real flogging, but one day when I came back for a forgotten book I saw Dan contentedly munching two solid sandwiches and a huge slab of cake, while Mortimer fumed at the blackboard preparing the next day’s lesson.