A Resuscitation

by Elia W. Peattie

AFTER being dead twenty years, hewalked out into the sunshine.It was as if the bones of a bleached skeleton should join themselves on some forgottenplain, and look about them for the vanishedflesh.To be dead it is not necessary to be inthe grave. There are places where theworms creep about the heart instead of thebody.The penitentiary is one of these.David Culross had been in the penitentiarytwenty years. Now, with that worm-eatenheart, he came out into liberty and lookedabout him for the habiliments with whichhe had formerly clothed himself, -- forhope, self-respect, courage, pugnacity, andindustry.But they had vanished and left no trace,like the flesh of the dead men on the plains,and so, morally unapparelled, in the hideousskeleton of his manhood, he walked on downthe street under the mid-June sunshine.You can understand, can you not, how askeleton might wish to get back into itscomfortable grave? David Culross had notwalked two blocks before he was seizedwith an almost uncontrollable desire to begto be shielded once more in that safe andshameful retreat from which he had justbeen released. A horrible perception of thelargeness of the world swept over him.Space and eternity could seem no largerto the usual man than earth -- that snugand insignificant planet -- looked to DavidCulross."If I go back," he cried, despairingly,looking up to the great building that aroseabove the stony hills, "they will not takeme in." He was absolutely without a refuge,utterly without a destination; he did nothave a hope. There was nothing he desiredexcept the surrounding of those four narrowwalls between which he had lain at nightand dreamed those ever-recurring dreams, --dreams which were never prophecies orpromises, but always the hackneyed historyof what he had sacrificed by his crime, andrelinquished by his pride.The men who passed him looked at himwith mingled amusement and pity. Theyknew the "prison look," and they knew theprison clothes. For though the State givesto its discharged convicts clothes which arelike those of other men, it makes a hundredsuits from the same sort of cloth. Thepolice know the fabric, and even the citizensrecognize it. But, then, were each mandressed in different garb he could not bedisguised. Every one knows in what dullschool that sidelong glance is learned, thataimless drooping of the shoulders, thatrhythmic lifting of the heavy foot.David Culross wondered if his will weredead. He put it to the test. He lifted uphis head to a position which it had not heldfor many miserable years. He put his handsin his pockets in a pitiful attempt at nonchalance, and walked down the street witha step which was meant to be brisk, butwhich was in fact only uncertain. In hispocket were ten dollars. This much theState equips a man with when it sends himout of its penal halls. It gives him alsotransportation to any point within reasonabledistance that he may desire to reach. Culross had requested a ticket to Chicago. Henaturally said Chicago. In the long colorless days it had been in Chicago that allthose endlessly repeated scenes had beenlaid. Walking up the street now with thatwavering ineffectual gait, these scenes cameback to surge in his brain like waters ceaselessly tossed in a wind-swept basin.There was the office, bare and clean, wherethe young stoop-shouldered clerks sat writing. In their faces was a strange resemblance, just as there was in the backs of theledgers, and in the endless bills on thespindles. If one of them laughed, it wasnot with gayety, but with gratification atthe discomfiture of another. None of themate well. None of them were rested aftersleep. All of them rode on the stuffy one-horse cars to and from their work. Sundays they lay in bed very late, and ate moredinner than they could digest. There wasa certain fellowship among them, -- such fellowship as a band of captives among cannibals might feel, each of them waiting withvital curiosity to see who was the next to beeaten. But of that fellowship that plans inunison, suffers in sympathy, enjoys vicariously, strengthens into friendship and communion of soul they knew nothing. Indeed,such camaraderie would have been disapproved of by the Head Clerk. He wouldhave looked on an emotion with exactly thesame displeasure that he would on an errorin the footing of the year's accounts. It wastacitly understood that one reached theproud position of Head Clerk by having noemotions whatever.Culross did not remember having beenborn with a pen in his hand, or even with onebehind his ear; but certainly from the day hehad been let out of knickerbockers his constant companion had been that greatly overestimated article. His father dying at a timethat cut short David's school-days, he wentout armed with his new knowledge of double-entry, determined to make a fortune and acommercial name. Meantime, he lived in asuite of three rooms on West Madison Streetwith his mother, who was a good woman,and lived where she did that she mightbe near her favorite meeting-house. Sheprayed, and cooked bad dinners, principallycomposed of dispiriting pastry. Her ideaof house-keeping was to keep the shadesdown, whatever happened; and when Davidleft home in the evening for any purpose ofpleasure, she wept. David persuaded himself that he despised amusement, and wentto bed each night at half-past nine in afolding bedstead in the front room, and, bybecoming absolutely stolid from mere vegetation, imagined that he was almost fit to bea Head Clerk.Walking down the street now after thetwenty years, thinking of these dead but innocent days, this was the picture he saw; and ashe reflected upon it, even the despoiled anddesolate years just passed seemed richer bycontrast.He reached the station thus dreaming, andfound, as he had been told when the wardenbade him good-by, that a train was to be athand directly bound to the city. A fewmoments later he was on that train. Wellback in the shadow, and out of sight of theother passengers, he gave himself up to theenjoyment of the comfortable cushion. Hewould willingly have looked from the window, -- green fields were new and wonderful;drifting clouds a marvel; men, houses, horses,farms, all a revelation, -- but those hauntingvisions were at him again, and would notleave brain or eye free for other things.But the next scene had warmer tints. Itwas the interior of a rich room, -- crimsonand amber fabrics, flowers, the gleam of astatue beyond the drapings; the sound of atender piano unflinging a familiar melody,and a woman. She was just a part of all theluxury.He himself, very timid and conscious ofhis awkwardness, sat near, trying barrenlyto get some of his thoughts out of his brainon to his tongue."Strange, isn't it," the woman broke inon her own music, "that we have seen eachother so very often and never spoken? I'veoften thought introductions were ridiculous.Fancy seeing a person year in and yearout, and really knowing all about him, andbeing perfectly acquainted with his name-- at least his or her name, you know -- andthen never speaking! Some one comesalong, and says, 'Miss Le Baron, this is Mr.Culross,' just as if one didn't know that allthe time! And there you are! You ceaseto be dumb folks, and fall to talking, andsay a lot of things neither of you care about,and after five or six weeks of time and sundry meetings, get down to honestly sayingwhat you mean. I'm so glad we've gotthrough with that first stage, and can saywhat we think and tell what we really like."Then the playing began again, -- a harp-like intermingling of soft sounds. Zoe LeBaron's hands were very girlish. Everything about her was unformed. Even hermind was so. But all promised a full completion. The voice, the shoulders, the smile,the words, the lips, the arms, the wholemind and body, were rounding to maturity."Why do you never come to church inthe morning?" asks Miss Le Baron, wheeling around on her piano-stool suddenly."You are only there at night, with yourmother.""I go only on her account," replies David,truthfully. "In the morning I am so tiredwith the week's work that I rest at home.I ought to go, I know.""Yes, you ought," returns the youngwoman, gravely. "It doesn't really restone to lie in bed like that. I've tried it atboarding-school. It was no good whatever.""Should you advise me," asks David,in a confiding tone, "to arise early onSunday?"The girl blushes a little. "By all means!"she cries, her eyes twinkling, "and -- andcome to church. Our morning sermons arereally very much better than those in theevening." And she plays a waltz, and whatwith the music and the warmth of the roomand the perfume of the roses, a somethingnameless and mystical steals over the poorclerk, and swathes him about like the fumesof opium. They are alone. The silence ismade deeper by that rhythmic unswellingof sound. As the painter flushes the barewall into splendor, these emotions illuminated his soul, and gave to it that high courage that comes when men or women suddenlyrealize that each life has its significance, --their own lives no less than the lives ofothers.The man sitting there in the shadow inthat noisy train saw in his vision how thelad arose and moved, like one under a spell,toward the piano. He felt again the enchantment of the music-ridden quiet, of theperfume, and the presence of the woman."Knowing you and speaking with youhave not made much difference with me,"he whispers, drunk on the new wine ofpassion, "for I have loved you since I sawyou first. And though it is so sweet to hearyou speak, your voice is no more beautifulthan I thought it would be. I have lovedyou a long time, and I want to know --"The broken man in the shadow remembered how the lad stopped, astonished at hisboldness and his fluency, overcome suddenlyat the thought of what he was saying. Themusic stopped with a discord. The girlarose, trembling and scarlet."I would not have believed it of you,"she cries, "to take advantage of me likethis, when I am alone -- and -- everything.You know very well that nothing but troublecould come to either of us from your tellingme a thing like that."He puts his hands up to his face to keepoff her anger. He is trembling withconfusion.Then she broke in penitently, trying topull his hands away from his hot face:"Never mind! I know you didn't meananything. Be good, do, and don't spoil thelovely times we have together. You knowvery well father and mother wouldn't let ussee each other at all if they -- if they thoughtyou were saying anything such as you saidjust now.""Oh, but I can't help it!" cries the boy,despairingly. "I have never loved anybodyat all till now. I don't mean not anothergirl, you know. But you are the first beingI ever cared for. I sometimes think mothercares for me because I pay the rent. Andthe office -- you can't imagine what that islike. The men in it are moving corpses.They're proud to be that way, and so was Itill I knew you and learned what life was like.All the happy moments I have had havebeen here. Now, if you tell me that we arenot to care for each other --"There was some one coming down thehall. The curtain lifted. A middle-agedman stood there looking at him."Culross," said he, "I'm disappointed inyou. I didn't mean to listen, but I couldn'thelp hearing what you said just now. Idon't blame you particularly. Young menwill be fools. And I do not in any waymean to insult you when I tell you to stopyour coming here. I don't want to see youinside this door again, and after a while youwill thank me for it. You have taken avery unfair advantage of my invitation. Imake allowances for your youth."He held back the curtain for the lad topass out. David threw a miserable glanceat the girl. She was standing looking ather father with an expression that Davidcould not fathom. He went into the hall,picked up his hat, and walked out insilence.David wondered that night, walking thechilly streets after he quitted the house, andoften, often afterward, if that comfortableand prosperous gentleman, safe beyond theperturbations of youth, had any idea ofwhat he had done. How COULD he knowanything of the black monotony of the lifeof the man he turned from his door? The"desk's dead wood" and all its hatefulslavery, the dull darkened rooms where hismother prosed through endless evenings,the bookless, joyless, hopeless existencethat had cramped him all his days rose upbefore him, as a stretch of unbroken plainmay rise before a lost man till it maddenshim.The bowed man in the car-seat remembered with a flush of reminiscent miseryhow the lad turned suddenly in his walkand entered the door of a drinking-roomthat stood open. It was very comfortablewithin. The screens kept out the chill ofthe autumn night, the sawdust-sprinkledfloor was clean, the tables placed neartogether, the bar glittering, the attendantswhite-aproned and brisk.David liked the place, and he liked betterstill the laughter that came from a roomwithin. It had a note in it a little differentfrom anything he had ever heard before inhis life, and one that echoed his mood. Heventured to ask if he might go into thefarther room.It does not mean much when most youngmen go to a place like this. They taketheir bit of unwholesome dissipation quietlyenough, and are a little coarser and morecareless each time they indulge in it, perhaps.But certainly their acts, whatever gradualdeterioration they may indicate, bespeak nosudden moral revolution. With this youngclerk it was different. He was a worse manfrom the moment he entered the door, forhe did violence to his principles; he killedhis self-respect.He had been paid at the office that night,and he had the money -- a week's miserablepittance -- in his pocket. His every actionrevealed the fact that he was a novice inrecklessness. His innocent face piqued themen within. They gave him a welcomethat amazed him. Of course the rest of theevening was a chaos to him. The throatdown which he poured the liquor was astender as a child's. The men turned hishead with their ironical compliments. Theirboisterous good-fellowship was as intoxicating to this poor young recluse as the liquor.It was the revulsion from this feeling,when he came to a consciousness that themen were laughing at him and not withhim, that wrecked his life. He had gonefrom beer to whiskey, and from whiskey tobrandy, by this time, at the suggestion ofthe men, and was making awkward lungeswith a billiard cue, spurred on by the mocking applause of the others. One youngfellow was particularly hilarious at hisexpense. His jokes became insults, or sothey seemed to David.A quarrel followed, half a jest on the partof the other, all serious as far as David wasconcerned. And then -- Well, who couldtell how it happened? The billiard cue wasin David's hand, and the skull of the jesterwas split, a horrible gaping thing, revoltingly animal.David never saw his home again. Hismother gave it out in church that her heartwas broken, and she wrote a letter to Davidbegging him to reform. She said shewould never cease to pray for him, thathe might return to grace. He had anattorney, an impecunious and very agedgentleman, whose life was a venerablefailure, and who talked so much about hispersonal inconveniences from indigestionthat he forgot to take a very keen interestin the concerns of his client. David's trialmade no sensation. He did not even havethe cheap sympathy of the morbid. Thecourt-room was almost empty the dullspring day when the east wind beat againstthe window, jangling the loose panes allthrough the reading of the verdict.Twenty years!Twenty years in the penitentiary!David looked up at the judge and smiled.Men have been known to smile that waywhen the car-wheel crashes over their legs,or a bullet lets the air through their lungs.All that followed would have seemedmore terrible if it had not appeared to beso remote. David had to assure himselfover and over that it was really he who wasput in that disgraceful dress, and locked inthat shameful walk from corridor to work-room, from work-room to chapel. The workwas not much more monotonous than thatto which he had been accustomed in theoffice. Here, as there, one was reprovedfor not doing the required amount, but neverpraised for extraordinary efforts. Here, asthere, the workers regarded each other withdislike and suspicion. Here, as there, workwas a penalty and not a pleasure.It is the nights that are to be dreaded ina penitentiary. Speech eases the brain offree men; but the man condemned to eternal silence is bound to endure torments.Thought, which might be a diversion, becomes a curse; it is a painful disease whichbecomes chronic. It does not take long toforget the days of the week and the monthsof the year when time brings no variance.David drugged himself on dreams. Heknew it was weakness, but it was the wineof forgetfulness, and he indulged in it. Hewent over and over, in endless repetition,every scene in which Zoe Le Baron hadfigured.He learned by a paper that she had goneto Europe. He was glad of that. For therewere hours in which he imagined that hisfate might have caused her distress -- notmuch, of course, but perhaps an occasionalhour of sympathetic regret. But it waspleasanter not to think of that. He preferred to remember the hours they hadspent together while she was teaching himthe joy of life.How lovely her gray eyes were! Deep,yet bright, and full of silent little speeches.The rooms in which he imagined her asmoving were always splendid; the gownsshe wore were of rustling silk. He never inany dream, waking or sleeping, associatedher with poverty or sorrow or pain. Gayand beautiful, she moved from city to city,in these visions of David's, looking alwaysat wonderful things, and finding laughter inevery happening.It was six months after his entrance intohis silent abode that a letter came for him."By rights, Culross," said the warden, "Ishould not give this letter to you. It isn'tthe sort we approve of. But you're in fora good spell, and if there is anything thatcan make life seem more tolerable, I don'tknow but you're entitled to it. At least,I'm not the man to deny it to you."This was the letter: --"MY DEAR FRIEND, -- I hope you do notthink that all these months, when you havebeen suffering so terribly, I have been thinking of other things! But I am sure youknow the truth. You know that I couldnot send you word or come to see you, orI would have done it. When I first heard ofwhat you had done, I saw it all as it happened, -- that dreadful scene, I mean, in thesaloon. I am sure I have imagined everything just as it was. I begged papa to helpyou, but he was very angry. You see,papa was so peculiar. He thought moreof the appearances of things, perhaps, thanof facts. It infuriated him to think of meas being concerned about you or with you.I did not know he could be so angry, andhis anger did not die, but for days it castsuch a shadow over me that I used to wishI was dead. Only I would not disobey him,and now I am glad of that. We were inFrance three months, and then, coming home,papa died. It was on the voyage. I wishhe had asked me to forgive him, for thenI think I could have remembered him withmore tenderness. But he did nothing ofthe kind. He did not seem to think he haddone wrong in any way, though I feel thatsome way we might have saved you. I amback here in Chicago in the old home. ButI shall not stay in this house. It is so largeand lonesome, and I always see you andfather facing each other angrily there in theparlor when I enter it. So I am going toget me some cosey rooms in another part ofthe city, and take my aunt, who is a sweetold lady, to live with me; and I am goingto devote my time -- all of it -- and all of mybrains to getting you out of that terribleplace. What is the use of telling me thatyou are a murderer? Do I not know youcould not be brought to hurt anything?I suppose you must have killed that poorman, but then it was not you, it was thatdreadful drink -- it was Me! That is whatcontinually haunts me. If I had been abraver girl, and spoken the words that werein my heart, you would not have gone intothat place. You would be innocent to-day.It was I who was responsible for it all. Ilet father kill your heart right there beforeme, and never said a word. Yet I knewhow it was with you, and -- this is what Iought to have said then, and what I mustsay now -- and all the time I felt just asyou did. I thought I should die when Isaw you go away, and knew you wouldnever come back again. Only I was soselfish, I was so wicked, I would say nothing."I have no right to be comfortable andhopeful, and to have friends, with you shutup from liberty and happiness. I will nothave those comfortable rooms, after all.I will live as you do. I will live alonein a bare room. For it is I who am guilty!And then I will feel that I also am beingpunished."Do you hate me? Perhaps my tellingyou now all these things, and that I felttoward you just as you did toward me, willnot make you happy. For it may be thatyou despise me."Anyway, I have told you the truth now.I will go as soon as I hear from you to alawyer, and try to find out how you may beliberated. I am sure it can be done whenthe facts are known."Poor boy! How I do hope you haveknown in your heart that I was not forgetting you. Indeed, day or night, I havethought of nothing else. Now I am free tohelp you. And be sure, whatever happens,that I am working for you."ZOE LE BARON."That was all. Just a girlish, constrainedletter, hardly hinting at the hot tears thathad been shed for many weary nights, coylytelling of the impatient young love and allthe maidenly shame.David permitted himself to read it onlyonce. Then a sudden resolution was born --a heroic one. Before he got the letter hewas a crushed and unsophisticated boy;when he had read it, and absorbed its fullsignificance, he became suddenly a man,capable of a great sacrifice."I return your letter," he wrote, withoutsuperscription, "and thank you for youranxiety about me. But the truth is, I hadforgotten all about you in my trouble. Youwere not in the least to blame for what happened. I might have known I would cometo such an end. You thought I was good,of course; but it is not easy to find out thelife of a young man. It is rather mortifyingto have a private letter sent here, becausethe warden reads them all. I hope you willenjoy yourself this winter, and hasten toforget one who had certainly forgotten youtill reminded by your letter, which I return."Respectfully,"DAVID CULROSS."That night some deep lines came intohis face which never left it, and which madehim look like a man of middle age.He never doubted that his plan wouldsucceed; that, piqued and indignant at hisingratitude, she would hate him, and in alittle time forget he ever lived, or rememberhim only to blush with shame at her pastassociation with him. He saw her happy,loved, living the usual life of women, withall those things that make life rich.For there in the solitude an understanding of deep things came to him. He whothought never to have a wife grew to knowwhat the joy of it must be. He perceivedall the subtle rapture of wedded souls. Helearned what the love of children was, thepride of home, the unselfish ambition forsuccess that spurs men on. All the emotions passed in procession at night beforehim, tricked out in palpable forms.A burst of girlish tears would dissipatewhatever lingering pity Zoe felt for him.How often he said that! With her sensitiveness she would be sure to hate a manwho had mortified her.So he fell to dreaming of her again asmoving among happy and luxurious scenes,exquisitely clothed, with flowers on herbosom and jewels on her neck; and he sawmen loving her, and was glad, and saw herat last loving the best of them, and toldhimself in the silence of the night thatit was as he wished.Yet always, always, from weary week toweary week, he rehearsed the scenes. Theywere his theatre, his opera, his library, hislecture hall.He rehearsed them again there on thecars. He never wearied of them. To besure, other thoughts had come to him atnight. Much that to most men seems complex and puzzling had grown to appearsimple to him. In a way his brain hadquickened and deepened through the yearsof solitude. He had thought out a greatmany things. He had read a few goodbooks and digested them, and the visions inhis heart had kept him from being bitter.Yet, suddenly confronted with liberty,turned loose like a pastured colt, withoutmaster or rein, he felt only confusion anddismay. He might be expected to feel exultation. He experienced only fright. Itis precisely the same with the liberated colt.The train pulled into a bustling station,in which the multitudinous noises werethrown back again from the arched ironroof. The relentless haste of all the peoplewas inexpressibly cruel to the man wholooked from the window wondering whitherhe would go, and if, among all the thousandsthat made up that vast and throbbing city,he would ever find a friend.For a moment David longed even forthat unmaternal mother who had forgottenhim in the hour of his distress; but she hadbeen dead for many years.The train stopped. Every one got out.David forced himself to his feet and followed.He had been driven back into the world.It would have seemed less terrible to havebeen driven into a desert. He walkedtoward the great iron gates, seeing thepeople and hearing the noises confusedly.As he entered the space beyond the grating some one caught him by the arm. Itwas a little middle-aged woman in plainclothes, and with sad gray eyes."Is this David?" said she.He did not speak, but his face answeredher."I knew you were coming to-day. I'vewaited all these years, David. You didn'tthink I believed what you said in that letterdid you? This way, David, -- this is theway home."

Previous Authors：An Astral Onion Next Authors：A Spectral Collie