The Applicant

by Ambrose Bierce

　　

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Pushing his adventurous shins through the deep snow that had fallenovernight, and encouraged by the glee of his little sister, following inthe open way that he made, a sturdy small boy, the son of Grayville'smost distinguished citizen, struck his foot against something of whichthere was no visible sign on the surface of the snow. It is the purposeof this narrative to explain how it came to be there. No one who has had the advantage of passing through Grayville by day canhave failed to observe the large stone building crowning the low hill tothe north of the railway station--that is to say, to the right in goingtoward Great Mowbray. It is a somewhat dull-looking edifice, of theEarly Comatose order, and appears to have been designed by an architectwho shrank from publicity, and although unable to conceal his work--evencompelled, in this instance, to set it on an eminence in the sight ofmen--did what he honestly could to insure it against a second look. Sofar as concerns its outer and visible aspect, the Abersush Home for OldMen is unquestionably inhospitable to human attention. But it is abuilding of great magnitude, and cost its benevolent founder the profitof many a cargo of the teas and silks and spices that his ships broughtup from the under-world when he was in trade in Boston; though the mainexpense was its endowment. Altogether, this reckless person had robbedhis heirs-at-law of no less a sum than half a million dollars and flungit away in riotous giving. Possibly it was with a view to get out ofsight of the silent big witness to his extravagance that he shortlyafterward disposed of all his Grayville property that remained to him,turned his back upon the scene of his prodigality and went off acrossthe sea in one of his own ships. But the gossips who got theirinspiration most directly from Heaven declared that he went in search ofa wife--a theory not easily reconciled with that of the villagehumorist, who solemnly averred that the bachelor philanthropist haddeparted this life (left Grayville, to wit) because the marriageablemaidens had made it too hot to hold him. However this may have been, hehad not returned, and although at long intervals there had come toGrayville, in a desultory way, vague rumors of his wanderings in strangelands, no one seemed certainly to know about him, and to the newgeneration he was no more than a name. But from above the portal of theHome for Old Men the name shouted in stone. Despite its unpromising exterior, the Home is a fairly commodious placeof retreat from the ills that its inmates have incurred by being poorand old and men. At the time embraced in this brief chronicle they werein number about a score, but in acerbity, querulousness, and generalingratitude they could hardly be reckoned at fewer than a hundred; atleast that was the estimate of the superintendent, Mr. Silas Tilbody. Itwas Mr. Tilbody's steadfast conviction that always, in admitting new oldmen to replace those who had gone to another and a better Home, thetrustees had distinctly in will the infraction of his peace, and thetrial of his patience. In truth, the longer the institution wasconnected with him, the stronger was his feeling that the founder'sscheme of benevolence was sadly impaired by providing any inmates atall. He had not much imagination, but with what he had he was addictedto the reconstruction of the Home for Old Men into a kind of "castle inSpain," with himself as castellan, hospitably entertaining about a scoreof sleek and prosperous middle-aged gentlemen, consummately good-humoredand civilly willing to pay for their board and lodging. In this revisedproject of philanthropy the trustees, to whom he was indebted for hisoffice and responsible for his conduct, had not the happiness to appear.As to them, it was held by the village humorist aforementioned that intheir management of the great charity Providence had thoughtfullysupplied an incentive to thrift. With the inference which he expected tobe drawn from that view we have nothing to do; it had neither supportnor denial from the inmates, who certainly were most concerned. Theylived out their little remnant of life, crept into graves neatlynumbered, and were succeeded by other old men as like them as could bedesired by the Adversary of Peace. If the Home was a place of punishmentfor the sin of unthrift the veteran offenders sought justice with apersistence that attested the sincerity of their penitence. It is to oneof these that the reader's attention is now invited. In the matter of attire this person was not altogether engaging. But forthis season, which was midwinter, a careless observer might have lookedupon him as a clever device of the husbandman indisposed to share thefruits of his toil with the crows that toil not, neither spin--an errorthat might not have been dispelled without longer and closer observationthan he seemed to court; for his progress up Abersush Street, toward theHome in the gloom of the winter evening, was not visibly faster thanwhat might have been expected of a scarecrow blessed with youth, health,and discontent. The man was indisputably ill-clad, yet not without acertain fitness and good taste, withal; for he was obviously anapplicant for admittance to the Home, where poverty was a qualification.In the army of indigence the uniform is rags; they serve to distinguishthe rank and file from the recruiting officers. As the old man, entering the gate of the grounds, shuffled up the broadwalk, already white with the fast-falling snow, which from time to timehe feebly shook from its various coigns of vantage on his person, hecame under inspection of the large globe lamp that burned always bynight over the great door of the building. As if unwilling to incur itsrevealing beams, he turned to the left and, passing a considerabledistance along the face of the building, rang at a smaller door emittinga dimmer ray that came from within, through the fanlight, and expendeditself incuriously overhead. The door was opened by no less a personagethan the great Mr. Tilbody himself. Observing his visitor, who at onceuncovered, and somewhat shortened the radius of the permanent curvatureof his back, the great man gave visible token of neither surprise nordispleasure. Mr. Tilbody was, indeed, in an uncommonly good humor, aphenomenon ascribable doubtless to the cheerful influence of the season;for this was Christmas Eve, and the morrow would be that blessed 365thpart of the year that all Christian souls set apart for mighty feats ofgoodness and joy. Mr. Tilbody was so full of the spirit of the seasonthat his fat face and pale blue eyes, whose ineffectual fire served todistinguish it from an untimely summer squash, effused so genial a glowthat it seemed a pity that he could not have lain down in it, basking inthe consciousness of his own identity. He was hatted, booted,overcoated, and umbrellaed, as became a person who was about to exposehimself to the night and the storm on an errand of charity; for Mr.Tilbody had just parted from his wife and children to go "down town" andpurchase the wherewithal to confirm the annual falsehood about thehunch-bellied saint who frequents the chimneys to reward little boys andgirls who are good, and especially truthful. So he did not invite theold man in, but saluted him cheerily: "Hello! just in time; a moment later and you would have missed me. Come,I have no time to waste; we'll walk a little way together." "Thank you," said the old man, upon whose thin and white but not ignobleface the light from the open door showed an expression that was perhapsdisappointment; "but if the trustees--if my application--" "The trustees," Mr. Tilbody said, closing more doors than one, andcutting off two kinds of light, "have agreed that your applicationdisagrees with them." Certain sentiments are inappropriate to Christmastide, but Humor, likeDeath, has all seasons for his own. "Oh, my God!" cried the old man, in so thin and husky a tone that theinvocation was anything but impressive, and to at least one of his twoauditors sounded, indeed, somewhat ludicrous. To the Other--but that isa matter which laymen are devoid of the light to expound. "Yes," continued Mr. Tilbody, accommodating his gait to that of hiscompanion, who was mechanically, and not very successfully, retracingthe track that he had made through the snow; "they have decided that,under the circumstances--under the very peculiar circumstances, youunderstand--it would be inexpedient to admit you. As superintendent and_ex officio_ secretary of the honorable board"--as Mr. Tilbody "read histitle clear" the magnitude of the big building, seen through its veil offalling snow, appeared to suffer somewhat in comparison--"it is my dutyto inform you that, in the words of Deacon Byram, the chairman, yourpresence in the Home would--under the circumstances--be peculiarlyembarrassing. I felt it my duty to submit to the honorable board thestatement that you made to me yesterday of your needs, your physicalcondition, and the trials which it has pleased Providence to send uponyou in your very proper effort to present your claims in person; but,after careful, and I may say prayerful, consideration of your case--withsomething too, I trust, of the large charitableness appropriate to theseason--it was decided that we would not be justified in doing anythinglikely to impair the usefulness of the institution intrusted (underProvidence) to our care." They had now passed out of the grounds; the street lamp opposite thegate was dimly visible through the snow. Already the old man's formertrack was obliterated, and he seemed uncertain as to which way he shouldgo. Mr. Tilbody had drawn a little away from him, but paused and turnedhalf toward him, apparently reluctant to forego the continuingopportunity. "Under the circumstances," he resumed, "the decision--" But the old man was inaccessible to the suasion of his verbosity; he hadcrossed the street into a vacant lot and was going forward, ratherdeviously toward nowhere in particular--which, he having nowhere inparticular to go to, was not so reasonless a proceeding as it looked. And that is how it happened that the next morning, when the church bellsof all Grayville were ringing with an added unction appropriate to theday, the sturdy little son of Deacon Byram, breaking a way through thesnow to the place of worship, struck his foot against the body of AmasaAbersush, philanthropist.

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