Chapter 9

by William Dean Howells

　　"But you won't choose when you've thought it over, Si." Then sheapplied an emollient to his chafed surface. "Don't you suppose I feelas you do about it? I know just how proud you are, and I'm not going tohave you do anything that will make you feel meeching afterward. Youjust let things take their course. If he wants Irene, he's going tofind out some way of seeing her; and if he don't, all the plotting andplanning in the world isn't going to make him.""Who's plotting?" again retorted the Colonel, shuddering at theutterance of hopes and ambitions which a man hides with shame, but awoman talks over as freely and coolly as if they were items of amilliner's bill."Oh, not you!" exulted his wife. "I understand what you want. Youwant to get this fellow, who is neither partner nor clerk, down here totalk business with him. Well, now, you just talk business with him atthe office."The only social attention which Lapham succeeded in offering Corey wasto take him in his buggy, now and then, for a spin out over theMill-dam. He kept the mare in town, and on a pleasant afternoon heliked to knock off early, as he phrased it, and let the mare out alittle. Corey understood something about horses, though in apassionless way, and he would have preferred to talk business whenobliged to talk horse. But he deferred to his business superior withthe sense of discipline which is innate in the apparently insubordinateAmerican nature. If Corey could hardly have helped feeling the socialdifference between Lapham and himself, in his presence he silenced histraditions, and showed him all the respect that he could have exactedfrom any of his clerks. He talked horse with him, and when the Colonelwished he talked house. Besides himself and his paint Lapham had notmany other topics; and if he had a choice between the mare and theedifice on the water side of Beacon Street, it was just now the latter.Sometimes, in driving in or out, he stopped at the house, and madeCorey his guest there, if he might not at Nantasket; and one day ithappened that the young man met Irene there again. She had come upwith her mother alone, and they were in the house, interviewing thecarpenter as before, when the Colonel jumped out of his buggy and castanchor at the pavement. More exactly, Mrs. Lapham was interviewing thecarpenter, and Irene was sitting in the bow-window on a trestle, andlooking out at the driving. She saw him come up with her father, andbowed and blushed. Her father went on up-stairs to find her mother,and Corey pulled up another trestle which he found in the back part ofthe room. The first floorings had been laid throughout the house, andthe partitions had been lathed so that one could realise the shape ofthe interior."I suppose you will sit at this window a good deal," said the young man."Yes, I think it will be very nice. There's so much more going on thanthere is in the Square.""It must be very interesting to you to see the house grow.""It is. Only it doesn't seem to grow so fast as I expected.""Why, I'm amazed at the progress your carpenter has made every time Icome."The girl looked down, and then lifting her eyes she said, with a sortof timorous appeal--"I've been reading that book since you were down at Nantasket.""Book?" repeated Corey, while she reddened with disappointment. "Ohyes. Middlemarch. Did you like it?""I haven't got through with it yet. Pen has finished it.""What does she think of it?""Oh, I think she likes it very well. I haven't heard her talk about itmuch. Do you like it?""Yes; I liked it immensely. But it's several years since I read it.""I didn't know it was so old. It's just got into the Seaside Library,"she urged, with a little sense of injury in her tone."Oh, it hasn't been out such a very great while," said Corey politely."It came a little before DANIEL DERONDA."The girl was again silent. She followed the curl of a shaving on thefloor with the point of her parasol."Do you like that Rosamond Vincy?" she asked, without looking up.Corey smiled in his kind way."I didn't suppose she was expected to have any friends. I can't say Iliked her. But I don't think I disliked her so much as the authordoes. She's pretty hard on her good-looking"--he was going to saygirls, but as if that might have been rather personal, hesaid--"people.""Yes, that's what Pen says. She says she doesn't give her any chanceto be good. She says she should have been just as bad as Rosamond ifshe had been in her place."The young man laughed. "Your sister is very satirical, isn't she?""I don't know," said Irene, still intent upon the convolutions of theshaving. "She keeps us laughing. Papa thinks there's nobody that cantalk like her." She gave the shaving a little toss from her, and tookthe parasol up across her lap. The unworldliness of the Lapham girlsdid not extend to their dress; Irene's costume was very stylish, andshe governed her head and shoulders stylishly. "We are going to havethe back room upstairs for a music-room and library," she said abruptly."Yes?" returned Corey. "I should think that would be charming.""We expected to have book-cases, but the architect wants to build theshelves in."The fact seemed to be referred to Corey for his comment."It seems to me that would be the best way. They'll look like part ofthe room then. You can make them low, and hang your pictures abovethem.""Yes, that's what he said." The girl looked out of the window inadding, "I presume with nice bindings it will look very well.""Oh, nothing furnishes a room like books.""No. There will have to be a good many of them.""That depends upon the size of your room and the number of yourshelves.""Oh, of course! I presume," said Irene, thoughtfully, "we shall have tohave Gibbon.""If you want to read him," said Corey, with a laugh of sympathy for animaginable joke."We had a great deal about him at school. I believe we had one of hisbooks. Mine's lost, but Pen will remember."The young man looked at her, and then said, seriously, "You'll wantGreene, of course, and Motley, and Parkman.""Yes. What kind of writers are they?""They're historians too.""Oh yes; I remember now. That's what Gibbon was. Is it Gibbon orGibbons?"The young man decided the point with apparently superfluous delicacy."Gibbon, I think.""There used to be so many of them," said Irene gaily. "I used to getthem mixed up with each other, and I couldn't tell them from the poets.Should you want to have poetry?""Yes; I suppose some edition of the English poets.""We don't any of us like poetry. Do you like it?""I'm afraid I don't very much," Corey owned. "But, of course, therewas a time when Tennyson was a great deal more to me than he is now.""We had something about him at school too. I think I remember thename. I think we ought to have ALL the American poets.""Well, not all. Five or six of the best: you want Longfellow andBryant and Whittier and Holmes and Emerson and Lowell."The girl listened attentively, as if making mental note of the names."And Shakespeare," she added. "Don't you like Shakespeare's plays?""Oh yes, very much.""I used to be perfectly crazy about his plays. Don't you think'Hamlet' is splendid? We had ever so much about Shakespeare. Weren'tyou perfectly astonished when you found out how many other plays of histhere were? I always thought there was nothing but 'Hamlet' and 'Romeoand Juliet' and 'Macbeth' and 'Richard III.' and 'King Lear,' and thatone that Robeson and Crane have--oh yes! 'Comedy of Errors.'""Those are the ones they usually play," said Corey."I presume we shall have to have Scott's works," said Irene, returningto the question of books."Oh yes.""One of the girls used to think he was GREAT. She was always talkingabout Scott." Irene made a pretty little amiably contemptuous mouth."He isn't American, though?" she suggested."No," said Corey; "he's Scotch, I believe."Irene passed her glove over her forehead. "I always get him mixed upwith Cooper. Well, papa has got to get them. If we have a library, wehave got to have books in it. Pen says it's perfectly ridiculoushaving one. But papa thinks whatever the architect says is right. Hefought him hard enough at first. I don't see how any one can keep thepoets and the historians and novelists separate in their mind. Ofcourse papa will buy them if we say so. But I don't see how I'm evergoing to tell him which ones." The joyous light faded out of her faceand left it pensive."Why, if you like," said the young man, taking out his pencil, "I'llput down the names we've been talking about."He clapped himself on his breast pockets to detect some lurking scrapof paper."Will you?" she cried delightedly. "Here! take one of my cards," andshe pulled out her card-case. "The carpenter writes on a three-corneredblock and puts it into his pocket, and it's so uncomfortable he can'thelp remembering it. Pen says she's going to adopt thethree-cornered-block plan with papa.""Thank you," said Corey. "I believe I'll use your card." He crossedover to her, and after a moment sat down on the trestle beside her.She looked over the card as he wrote. "Those are the ones wementioned, but perhaps I'd better add a few others.""Oh, thank you," she said, when he had written the card full on bothsides. "He has got to get them in the nicest binding, too. I shalltell him about their helping to furnish the room, and then he can'tobject." She remained with the card, looking at it rather wistfully.Perhaps Corey divined her trouble of mind. "If he will take that toany bookseller, and tell him what bindings he wants, he will fill theorder for him.""Oh, thank you very much," she said, and put the card back into hercard-case with great apparent relief. Then she turned her lovely facetoward the young man, beaming with the triumph a woman feels in any bitof successful manoeuvring, and began to talk with recovered gaiety ofother things, as if, having got rid of a matter annoying out of allproportion to its importance, she was now going to indemnify herself.Corey did not return to his own trestle. She found another shavingwithin reach of her parasol, and began poking that with it, and tryingto follow it through its folds. Corey watched her a while."You seem to have a great passion for playing with shavings," he said."Is it a new one?""New what?""Passion.""I don't know," she said, dropping her eyelids, and keeping on with hereffort. She looked shyly aslant at him. "Perhaps you don't approve ofplaying with shavings?""Oh yes, I do. I admire it very much. But it seems rather difficult.I've a great ambition to put my foot on the shaving's tail and hold itfor you.""Well," said the girl."Thank you," said the young man. He did so, and now she ran herparasol point easily through it. They looked at each other andlaughed. "That was wonderful. Would you like to try another?" heasked."No, I thank you," she replied. "I think one will do."They both laughed again, for whatever reason or no reason, and then theyoung girl became sober. To a girl everything a young man does is ofsignificance; and if he holds a shaving down with his foot while shepokes through it with her parasol, she must ask herself what he meansby it."They seem to be having rather a long interview with the carpenterto-day," said Irene, looking vaguely toward the ceiling. She turnedwith polite ceremony to Corey. "I'm afraid you're letting them keepyou. You mustn't.""Oh no. You're letting me stay," he returned.She bridled and bit her lip for pleasure. "I presume they will be downbefore a great while. Don't you like the smell of the wood and themortar? It's so fresh.""Yes, it's delicious." He bent forward and picked up from the floor theshaving with which they had been playing, and put it to his nose."It's like a flower. May I offer it to you?" he asked, as if it hadbeen one."Oh, thank you, thank you!" She took it from him and put it into herbelt, and then they both laughed once more.Steps were heard descending. When the elder people reached the floorwhere they were sitting, Corey rose and presently took his leave."What makes you so solemn, 'Rene?" asked Mrs. Lapham."Solemn?" echoed the girl. "I'm not a BIT solemn. What CAN you mean?"Corey dined at home that evening, and as he sat looking across thetable at his father, he said, "I wonder what the average literature ofnon-cultivated people is.""Ah," said the elder, "I suspect the average is pretty low even withcultivated people. You don't read a great many books yourself, Tom.""No, I don't," the young man confessed. "I read more books when I waswith Stanton, last winter, than I had since I was a boy. But I readthem because I must--there was nothing else to do. It wasn't because Iwas fond of reading. Still I think I read with some sense ofliterature and the difference between authors. I don't suppose thatpeople generally do that; I have met people who had read books withouttroubling themselves to find out even the author's name, much lesstrying to decide upon his quality. I suppose that's the way the vastmajority of people read.""Yes. If authors were not almost necessarily recluses, and ignorant ofthe ignorance about them, I don't see how they could endure it. Ofcourse they are fated to be overwhelmed by oblivion at last, poorfellows; but to see it weltering all round them while they are in thevery act of achieving immortality must be tremendously discouraging. Idon't suppose that we who have the habit of reading, and at least anodding acquaintance with literature, can imagine the bestial darknessof the great mass of people--even people whose houses are rich andwhose linen is purple and fine. But occasionally we get glimpses ofit. I suppose you found the latest publications lying all about inLapham cottage when you were down there?"Young Corey laughed. "It wasn't exactly cumbered with them.""No?""To tell the truth, I don't suppose they ever buy books. The youngladies get novels that they hear talked of out of the circulatinglibrary.""Had they knowledge enough to be ashamed of their ignorance?""Yes, in certain ways--to a certain degree.""It's a curious thing, this thing we call civilisation," said the eldermusingly. "We think it is an affair of epochs and of nations. It'sreally an affair of individuals. One brother will be civilised and theother a barbarian. I've occasionally met young girls who were sobrutally, insolently, wilfully indifferent to the arts which makecivilisation that they ought to have been clothed in the skins of wildbeasts and gone about barefoot with clubs over their shoulders. Yetthey were of polite origin, and their parents were at least respectfulof the things that these young animals despised.""I don't think that is exactly the case with the Lapham family," saidthe son, smiling. "The father and mother rather apologised about notgetting time to read, and the young ladies by no means scorned it.""They are quite advanced!""They are going to have a library in their Beacon Street house.""Oh, poor things! How are they ever going to get the books together?""Well, sir," said the son, colouring a little, "I have been indirectlyapplied to for help.""You, Tom!" His father dropped back in his chair and laughed."I recommended the standard authors," said the son."Oh, I never supposed your PRUDENCE would be at fault, Tom!""But seriously," said the young man, generously smiling in sympathywith his father's enjoyment, "they're not unintelligent people. Theyare very quick, and they are shrewd and sensible.""I have no doubt that some of the Sioux are so. But that is not sayingthat they are civilised. All civilisation comes through literaturenow, especially in our country. A Greek got his civilisation bytalking and looking, and in some measure a Parisian may still do it.But we, who live remote from history and monuments, we must read or wemust barbarise. Once we were softened, if not polished, by religion;but I suspect that the pulpit counts for much less now in civilising.""They're enormous devourers of newspapers, and theatre-goers; and theygo a great deal to lectures. The Colonel prefers them with thestereopticon.""They might get a something in that way," said the elder thoughtfully."Yes, I suppose one must take those things into account--especially thenewspapers and the lectures. I doubt if the theatre is a factor incivilisation among us. I dare say it doesn't deprave a great deal, butfrom what I've seen of it I should say that it was intellectuallydegrading. Perhaps they might get some sort of lift from it; I don'tknow. Tom!" he added, after a moment's reflection. "I really think Iought to see this patron of yours. Don't you think it would be ratherdecent in me to make his acquaintance?""Well, if you have the fancy, sir," said the young man. "But there'sno sort of obligation. Colonel Lapham would be the last man in theworld to want to give our relation any sort of social character. Themeeting will come about in the natural course of things.""Ah, I didn't intend to propose anything immediate," said the father."One can't do anything in the summer, and I should prefer your mother'ssuperintendence. Still, I can't rid myself of the idea of a dinner.It appears to me that there ought to be a dinner.""Oh, pray don't feel that there's any necessity.""Well," said the elder, with easy resignation, "there's at least nohurry.""There is one thing I don't like," said Lapham, in the course of one ofthose talks which came up between his wife and himself concerningCorey, "or at least I don't understand it; and that's the way hisfather behaves. I don't want to force myself on any man; but it seemsto me pretty queer the way he holds off. I should think he would takeenough interest in his son to want to know something about hisbusiness. What is he afraid of?" demanded Lapham angrily. "Does hethink I'm going to jump at a chance to get in with him, if he gives meone? He's mightily mistaken if he does. I don't want to know him.""Silas," said his wife, making a wife's free version of her husband'swords, and replying to their spirit rather than their letter, "I hopeyou never said a word to Mr. Corey to let him know the way you feel.""I never mentioned his father to him!" roared the Colonel. "That's theway I feel about it!""Because it would spoil everything. I wouldn't have them think wecared the least thing in the world for their acquaintance. Weshouldn't be a bit better off. We don't know the same people they do,and we don't care for the same kind of things."Lapham was breathless with resentment of his wife's implication."Don't I tell you," he gasped, "that I don't want to know them? Whobegan it? They're friends of yours if they're anybody's.""They're distant acquaintances of mine," returned Mrs. Lapham quietly;"and this young Corey is a clerk of yours. And I want we should holdourselves so that when they get ready to make the advances we can meetthem half-way or not, just as we choose.""That's what grinds me," cried her husband. "Why should we wait forthem to make the advances? Why shouldn't we make 'em? Are they anybetter than we are? My note of hand would be worth ten times whatBromfield Corey's is on the street to-day. And I made MY money. Ihaven't loafed my life away.""Oh, it isn't what you've got, and it isn't what you've done exactly.It's what you are.""Well, then, what's the difference?""None that really amounts to anything, or that need give you anytrouble, if you don't think of it. But he's been all his life insociety, and he knows just what to say and what to do, and he can talkabout the things that society people like to talk about, andyou--can't."Lapham gave a furious snort. "And does that make him any better?""No. But it puts him where he can make the advances without demeaninghimself, and it puts you where you can't. Now, look here, Silas Lapham!You understand this thing as well as I do. You know that I appreciateyou, and that I'd sooner die than have you humble yourself to a livingsoul. But I'm not going to have you coming to me, and pretending thatyou can meet Bromfield Corey as an equal on his own ground. You can't.He's got a better education than you, and if he hasn't got more brainsthan you, he's got different. And he and his wife, and their fathersand grandfathers before 'em, have always had a high position, and youcan't help it. If you want to know them, you've got to let them makethe advances. If you don't, all well and good.""I guess," said the chafed and vanquished Colonel, after a moment forswallowing the pill, "that they'd have been in a pretty fix if you'dwaited to let them make the advances last summer.""That was a different thing altogether. I didn't know who they were,or may be I should have waited. But all I say now is that if you'vegot young Corey into business with you, in hopes of our getting intosociety with his father, you better ship him at once. For I ain'tgoing to have it on that basis.""Who wants to have it on that basis?" retorted her husband."Nobody, if you don't," said Mrs. Lapham tranquilly.Irene had come home with the shaving in her belt, unnoticed by herfather, and unquestioned by her mother. But her sister saw it at once,and asked her what she was doing with it."Oh, nothing," said Irene, with a joyful smile of self-betrayal, takingthe shaving carefully out, and laying it among the laces and ribbons inher drawer."Hadn't you better put it in water, 'Rene? It'll be all wilted bymorning," said Pen."You mean thing!" cried the happy girl. "It isn't a flower!""Oh, I thought it was a whole bouquet. Who gave it to you?""I shan't tell you," said Irene saucily."Oh, well, never mind. Did you know Mr. Corey had been down here thisafternoon, walking on the beach with me?""He wasn't--he wasn't at all! He was at the house with ME. There! I'vecaught you fairly.""Is that so?" drawled Penelope. "Then I never could guess who gave youthat precious shaving.""No, you couldn't!" said Irene, flushing beautifully. "And you mayguess, and you may guess, and you may guess!" With her lovely eyes shecoaxed her sister to keep on teasing her, and Penelope continued thecomedy with the patience that women have for such things."Well, I'm not going to try, if it's no use. But I didn't know it hadgot to be the fashion to give shavings instead of flowers. But there'ssome sense in it. They can be used for kindlings when they get old,and you can't do anything with old flowers. Perhaps he'll get tosending 'em by the barrel."Irene laughed for pleasure in this tormenting. "O Pen, I want to tellyou how it all happened.""Oh, he DID give it to you, then? Well, I guess I don't care to hear.""You shall, and you've got to!" Irene ran and caught her sister, whofeigned to be going out of the room, and pushed her into a chair."There, now!" She pulled up another chair, and hemmed her in with it."He came over, and sat down on the trestle alongside of me----""What? As close as you are to me now?""You wretch! I will GIVE it to you! No, at a proper distance. And herewas this shaving on the floor, that I'd been poking with my parasol----""To hide your embarrassment.""Pshaw! I wasn't a bit embarrassed. I was just as much at my ease! Andthen he asked me to let him hold the shaving down with his foot, whileI went on with my poking. And I said yes he might----""What a bold girl! You said he might hold a shaving down for you?""And then--and then----" continued Irene, lifting her eyes absently,and losing herself in the beatific recollection, "and then----Oh yes!Then I asked him if he didn't like the smell of pine shavings. Andthen he picked it up, and said it smelt like a flower. And then heasked if he might offer it to me--just for a joke, you know. And Itook it, and stuck it in my belt. And we had such a laugh! We got intoa regular gale. And O Pen, what do you suppose he meant by it?" Shesuddenly caught herself to her sister's breast, and hid her burningface on her shoulder."Well, there used to be a book about the language of flowers. But Inever knew much about the language of shavings, and I can't sayexactly----""Oh, don't--DON'T, Pen!" and here Irene gave over laughing, and beganto sob in her sister's arms."Why, 'Rene!" cried the elder girl."You KNOW he didn't mean anything. He doesn't care a bit about me. Hehates me! He despises me! Oh, what shall I do?"A trouble passed over the face of the sister as she silently comfortedthe child in her arms; then the drolling light came back into her eyes."Well, 'Rene, YOU haven't got to do ANYthing. That's one advantagegirls have got--if it IS an advantage. I'm not always sure."Irene's tears turned to laughing again. When she lifted her head itwas to look into the mirror confronting them, where her beauty showedall the more brilliant for the shower that had passed over it. Sheseemed to gather courage from the sight."It must be awful to have to DO," she said, smiling into her own face."I don't see how they ever can.""Some of 'em can't--especially when there's such a tearing beautyaround.""Oh, pshaw, Pen! you know that isn't so. You've got a real prettymouth, Pen," she added thoughtfully, surveying the feature in theglass, and then pouting her own lips for the sake of that effect onthem."It's a useful mouth," Penelope admitted; "I don't believe I could getalong without it now, I've had it so long.""It's got such a funny expression--just the mate of the look in youreyes; as if you were just going to say something ridiculous. He said,the very first time he saw you, that he knew you were humorous.""Is it possible? It must be so, if the Grand Mogul said it. Why didn'tyou tell me so before, and not let me keep on going round just like acommon person?"Irene laughed as if she liked to have her sister take his praises inthat way rather than another."I've got such a stiff, prim kind of mouth," she said, drawing it down,and then looking anxiously at it."I hope you didn't put on that expression when he offered you theshaving. If you did, I don't believe he'll ever give you anothersplinter."The severe mouth broke into a lovely laugh, and then pressed itself ina kiss against Penelope's cheek."There! Be done, you silly thing! I'm not going to have you acceptingME before I've offered myself, ANYWAY." She freed herself from hersister's embrace, and ran from her round the room.Irene pursued her, in the need of hiding her face against her shoulderagain. "O Pen! O Pen!" she cried.The next day, at the first moment of finding herself alone with hereldest daughter, Mrs. Lapham asked, as if knowing that Penelope musthave already made it subject of inquiry: "What was Irene doing withthat shaving in her belt yesterday?""Oh, just some nonsense of hers with Mr. Corey. He gave it to her atthe new house." Penelope did not choose to look up and meet hermother's grave glance."What do you think he meant by it?"Penelope repeated Irene's account of the affair, and her motherlistened without seeming to derive much encouragement from it."He doesn't seem like one to flirt with her," she said at last. Then,after a thoughtful pause: "Irene is as good a girl as ever breathed,and she's a perfect beauty. But I should hate the day when a daughterof mine was married for her beauty.""You're safe as far as I'm concerned, mother."Mrs. Lapham smiled ruefully. "She isn't really equal to him, Pen. Imisdoubted that from the first, and it's been borne in upon me more andmore ever since. She hasn't mind enough." "I didn't know that a manfell in love with a girl's intellect," said Penelope quietly."Oh no. He hasn't fallen in love with Irene at all. If he had, itwouldn't matter about the intellect."Penelope let the self-contradiction pass."Perhaps he has, after all.""No," said Mrs. Lapham. "She pleases him when he sees her. But hedoesn't try to see her.""He has no chance. You won't let father bring him here.""He would find excuses to come without being brought, if he wished tocome," said the mother. "But she isn't in his mind enough to make him.He goes away and doesn't think anything more about her. She's a child.She's a good child, and I shall always say it; but she's nothing but achild. No, she's got to forget him.""Perhaps that won't be so easy.""No, I presume not. And now your father has got the notion in hishead, and he will move heaven and earth to bring it to pass. I can seethat he's always thinking about it.""The Colonel has a will of his own," observed the girl, rocking to andfro where she sat looking at her mother."I wish we had never met them!" cried Mrs. Lapham. "I wish we hadnever thought of building! I wish he had kept away from your father'sbusiness!""Well, it's too late now, mother," said the girl. "Perhaps it isn't sobad as you think.""Well, we must stand it, anyway," said Mrs. Lapham, with the grimantique Yankee submission."Oh yes, we've got to stand it," said Penelope, with the quaint modernAmerican fatalism.