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

Miss Ida Nelson caught the doctor’s stealthy sign. Carefully, in slow twos, she fed them down to him.

The Moor of Venice (Mr. George Graves), turned his broad back upon their jibes, and lurched down with sullen-sheepish grin, unable to conceal the massive embarrassment of his calves.

“Tell him who you are, Villa,” said Doc Hines. “You look like Jack Johnson.”

The town, in its first white shirting of Spring, sat on the turfy banks, and looked down gravely upon the bosky little comedy of errors; the encircling mountains, and the gods thereon, looked down upon the slightly larger theatre of the town; and, figuratively, from mountains that looked down on mountains, the last stronghold of philosophy, the author of this chronicle looked down on everything.

“Here we go, Hal,” said Doc Hines, nudging Eugene.

“Give ’em hell, son,” said Julius Arthur. “You’re dressed for the part.”

“He looks it, you mean,” said Ralph Rolls. “Boy, you’ll knock ’em dead,” he added with an indecent laugh.

They descended into the hollow, accompanied by a low but growing titter of amazement from the audience. Before them, the doctor had just disposed of Desdemona, who parted with a graceful obeisance. He was now engaged on Othello, who stood, bullish and shy, till his ordeal should finish. In a moment, he strode away, and the doctor turned to Falstaff, reading the man by his padded belly, briskly, with relief:

“Now, Tragedy, begone, and to our dell

Bring antic Jollity with cap and bells:

Falstaff, thou prince of jesters, lewd old man

Who surfeited a royal prince with mirth,

And swayed a kingdom with his wanton quips —”

Embarrassed by the growing undertone of laughter, Doc Hines squinted around with a tough grin, gave a comical hitch to his padded figure, and whispered a hoarse aside to Eugene: “Hear that, Hal? I’m hell on wheels, ain’t I?”

Eugene saw him depart in a green blur, and presently became aware that an unnatural silence had descended upon Doctor George B. Rockham. The Voice of History was, for the moment, mute. Its long jaw, in fact, had fallen ajar.

Dr. George B. Rockham looked wildly about him for succor. He rolled his eyes entreatingly upwards at Miss Ida Nelson. She turned her head away.

“Who are you?” he said hoarsely, holding a hairy hand carefully beside his mouth.

“Prince Hal,” said Eugene, likewise hoarsely and behind his hand.

Dr. George B. Rockham staggered a little. Their speech had reached the stalls. But firmly, before the tethered chafing laughter, he began:

“Friend to the weak and comrade of the wild,

By folly sired to wisdom, dauntless Hal —”

Laughter, laughter unleashed and turbulent, laughter that rose flood by flood upon itself, laughter wild, earth-shaking, thunder-cuffing, drowned Dr. George B. Rockham and all he had to say. Laughter! Laughter! Laughter!

Helen was married in the month of June — a month sacred, it is said, to Hymen, but used so often for nuptials that the god’s blessing is probably not infallible.

She had returned to Altamont in May, from her last singing engagement. She had been in Atlanta for the week of opera, and had come back by way of Henderson, where she had visited Daisy and Mrs. Selborne. There she had found her mate.

He was not a stranger to her. She had known him years before in Altamont, where he had lived for a short time as district agent for the great and humane corporation that employed him — the Federal Cash Register Company. Since that time he had gone to various parts of the country at his master’s bidding, carrying with him his great message of prosperity and thrift. At the present time, he lived with his sister and his aged mother, whose ponderous infirmity of limb had not impaired her appetite, in a South Carolina town. He was devoted and generous to them both. And the Federal Cash Register Company, touched by his devotion to duty, rewarded him with a good salary. His name was Barton. The Bartons lived well.

Helen returned with the unexpectedness in which all returning Gants delighted. She came in on members of her family, one afternoon, in the kitchen at Dixieland.

“Hello, everybody!” she said.

“Well, for G-g-god’s sake,” said Luke after a moment. “Look who’s here!”

They embraced heartily,

“Why, what on earth!” cried Eliza, putting her iron down on the board, and wavering on her feet, in an effort to walk in two directions at once. They kissed.

“I was just thinking to myself,” said Eliza, more calmly, “that it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if you should come walking in. I had a premonition, I don’t know what else you’d call it —”

“Oh, my God!” groaned the girl, good-humoredly, but with a shade of annoyance. “Don’t start that Pentland spooky stuff! It makes my flesh crawl.”

She exchanged a glance of burlesque entreaty with Luke. Winking, he turned suddenly, and with an idiotic laugh, tickled Eliza sharply.

“Get away!” she shrieked.

He chortled madly.

“I’ll declare, boy!” she said fretfully. “I believe you’re crazy. I’ll vow I do!”

Helen laughed huskily.

“Well,” said Eliza, “how’d you leave Daisy and the children?”

“They’re all right, I suppose,” said Helen wearily. “Oh, my God! Deliver me!” she laughed. “You never saw such pests! I spent fifty dollars on them in toys and presents alone! You’d never think it from the thanks I get. Daisy takes it all as her due! Selfish! Selfish! Selfish!”

“For G-g-god’s sake!” said Luke loyally.

She was one fine girl.

“I paid for everything I got at Daisy’s, I can assure you!” she said, sharply, challengingly. “I spent no more time there than I had to. I was at Mrs. Selborne’s nearly all the time. I had practically all my meals there.”

Her need for independence had become greater; her hunger for dependents acute. Her denial of obligation to others was militant. She gave more than she received.

“Well, I’m in for it,” she said presently, trying to mask her strong eagerness.

“In for what?” asked Luke.

“I’ve gone and done it at last,” she said.

“Mercy!” shrieked Eliza. “You’re not married, are you?”

“Not yet,” said Helen, “but I will be soon.”

Then she told them about Mr. Hugh T. Barton, the cash register salesman. She spoke loyally and kindly of him, without great love.

“He’s ten years older than I am,” she said.

“Well,” said Eliza thoughtfully, moulding her lips. “They sometimes make the best husbands.” After a moment, she asked: “Has he got any property?”

“No,” said Helen, “they live up all he makes. They live in style, I tell you. There are two servants in that house all the time. The old lady doesn’t turn her hand over.”

“Where are you going to live?” said Eliza sharply. “With his folks?”

“Well, I should say not! I should say not!” said Helen slowly and emphatically. “Good heavens, mama!” she continued irritably. “I want a home of my own. Can’t you realize that? I’ve been doing for others all my life. Now I’m going to let them do for me. I want no inlaws about. No, sir!” she said emphatically.

Luke bit his nails nervously.

“Well, he’s g-g-getting a great g-g-girl,” he said. “I hope he has sense enough to realize that.”

Moved, she laughed bigly, ironically.

“I’ve got one booster, haven’t I?” she said. She looked at him seriously with clear affectionate eyes. “Well, thanks, Luke. You’re one of the lot that’s always had the interests of the family at heart.”

Her big face was for a moment tranquil and eager. A great calm lay there: the radiant decent beauty of dawn and rainwater. Her eyes were as luminous and believing as a child’s. No evil dwelt in her. She had learned nothing.