Дэшил Хэммет - The Collected Dashiell Hammett

The Smart Set, October 1922

When the boy was six months old Paulette Key acknowledged that her hopes and efforts had been futile, that the baby was indubitably and irredeemably a replica of its father. She could have endured the physical resemblance, but the duplication of Harold Key’s stupid obstinacy — unmistakable in the fixity of the child’s inarticulate demands for its food, its toys — was too much for Paulette. She knew she could not go on living with two such natures! A year and a half of Harold’s domination had not subdued her entirely. She took the little boy to church, had him christened Don, sent him home by his nurse, and boarded a train for the West.

10 Story Book, November 1922, as Daghull Hammett

I know little of science or art or finance or adventure. I have never written anything except brief and infrequent letters to my sister in Sacramento. My name, were it not painted on the windows of my shop, would be unknown to even the Polish family that lives and has many children across the street. Yet I shall live in the memories of men when those names are on every one’s lips now are forgotten, and when the events of today are dim. I do not know whether I shall be remembered as a great wit, a dreamer of strange dreams, a great thinker, or a philosopher; but I do know that I, Oscar Blichy, the grocer, shall be an immortal. I have saved nearly seventeen thousand dollars from the profits of my shop during the last twenty years. I shall add to this amount as much as I can until the day of my death, and then it is to go to the writer of the best biography of me!

The Smart Set, November 1922

Now that the meek and the humble have inherited the earth and it were arrogance to look down upon any man — the apologetic being the mode in lives — I should like to go monthly to some hidden gallery and, behind drawn curtains, burn perfumed candles before the images of:

Joachim Murat, King of Naples, who mourned, “Ah, the poor people! They are ignorant of the misfortune they are about to suffer. They do not know that I am going away.”

The Earl of Chatham, who said, “My lord, I am sure I can save the country and no one else can.”

Louis XIV of France, who perhaps said, “L’etat c’est moi,” and who, upon receiving news of the battle of Ramillies, cried, “God has then forgotten all that I have done for Him!”

William Rufus, who held that if he had duties toward God, God also had duties toward him.

Prince Metternich, who wrote in his diary, “Fain’s memoirs of the year 1813 are worth reading — they contain my history as well as Napoleon’s”; and who said of his daughter, “She is very like my mother; therefore possesses some of my charm.”

Joseph II of Austria, who said, “If I wish to walk with my equals, then I must go to the Capuchin crypt.”

Charles IV of Spain, who, playing in a quartet, ignored a three-bar pause which occurred in his part; and upon being told of his mistake by Olivieri, laid down his bow in amazement, protesting, “The king never waits for anyone!”

The Prince of Kaunitz Rietberg, whose highest praise was, “Even I could not have done it better”; and who said, “Heaven takes a hundred years to form a great genius for the generation of an empire, after which it rests a hundred years. This makes me tremble for the Austrian monarchy after my death.”

Virginicchia Oldoni, Countess of Castiglione, who kissed the baby, saying, “When he is grown up you will tell him that the first kiss he ever received was given him by the most beautiful woman of the century.”

The Lord Brougham, who paid for his dinner with a cheque, explaining to his companions, “I have plenty of money, but, don’t you see, the host may prefer my signature to the money.”

Paul of Russia, who had his horse given fifty strokes, exclaiming, “There, that is for having stumbled with the emperor!”

And Thomas Hart Benton, who, when his publishers consulted him concerning the number of copies of his book, Thirty Years’ View, to be printed, replied, “Sir, you can ascertain from the last census how many persons there are in the United States who can read, sir”; and who refused to speak against Calhoun when he was ill, saving, “When God Almighty lays His hands on a man, Benton takes his off!”...

Brief Stories, December 1922, as Peter Collinson

Each morning at seven-thirty the alarm clock on the table beside their bed awakened the Stemlers to perform their daily comedy; a comedy that varied from week to week in degree only. This morning was about the mean.

Louis Stemler, disregarding the still ringing clock, leaped out of bed and went to the open window, where he stood inhaling and exhaling with a great show of enjoyment — throwing out his chest and stretching his arms voluptuously. He enjoyed this most in the winter, and would prolong his stay before the open window until his body was icy under his pajamas. In the coast city where the Stemlers lived the morning breezes were chill enough, whatever the season, to make his display of ruggedness sufficiently irritating to Pearl.

Meanwhile, Pearl had turned off the alarm and closed her eyes again in semblance of sleep. Louis was reasonably confident that his wife was still awake; but he could not be certain. So when he ran into the bath-room to turn on the water in the tub, he was none too quiet.

He then re-entered the bed-room to go through an elaborate and complicated set of exercises, after which he returned to the bath-room, got into the tub and splashed merrily — long enough to assure any listener that to him a cold bath was a thing of pleasure. Rubbing himself with a coarse towel, he began whistling; and always it was a tune reminiscent of the war. just now “Keep the Home Fires Burning” was his choice. This was his favorite, rivaled only by “Till We Meet Again,” though occasionally he rendered “Katy,” “What Are You Going to Do to Help the Boys?” or “How’re You Going to Keep Them Down on the Farm?” He whistled low and flatly, keeping time with the brisk movements of the towel. At this point Pearl would usually give way to her irritation to the extent of turning over in bed, and the rustling of the sheets would come pleasantly from the bed-room to her husband’s ears. This morning as she turned she sighed faintly, and Louis, his eager ears catching the sound, felt a glow of satisfaction.

Dry and ruddy, he came back to the bed-room and began dressing, whistling under his breath and paying as little apparent attention to Pearl as she to him, though each was on the alert for any chance opening through which the other might be vexed. Long practice in this sort of warfare had schooled them to such a degree, however, that an opening seldom presented itself. Pearl was at a decided disadvantage in these morning encounters, inasmuch as she was on the defensive, and her only weapon was a pretense of sleep in the face of her husband’s posturing. Louis, even aside from his wife’s vexation, enjoyed every bit of his part in the silent wrangle; the possibility that perhaps after all she was really asleep and not witnessing his display of manliness was the only damper on his enjoyment.

When Louis had one foot in his trousers, Pearl got out of bed and into her kimono and slippers, dabbed a little warm water on her face, and went into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. In the ensuing race she forgot her slight headache. It was a point of honor with her never to rise until her husband had his trousers in his hand, and then to have his breakfast on the table in the kitchen — where they ate it — by the time he was dressed. Thanks to the care with which he knotted his necktie, she usually succeeded. Louis’s aim, of course, was to arrive in the kitchen fully dressed and with the morning paper in his hand before the meal was ready, and to be extremely affable over the delay. This morning. as a concession to a new shirt — a white silk one with broad cerise stripes — he went in to breakfast without his coat and vest, surprising Pearl in the act of pouring the coffee.