he returned from nine thousand miles of
wandering, to the bleakbare prison of the hills on a gray day late in
winter.
In the more than eight thousand days and nights of
this life with Eliza, how often had he been wakefully, soberly and
peripatetically conscious of the world outside him between the hours
of one and five A.M.? Wholly, for not more than nineteen
nights--one for the birth of Leslie, Eliza's first daughter; one for
her death twenty-six months later, cholera infantis; one for the
death of Major Tom Pentland, Eliza's father, in May, 1902; one for
the birth of Luke; one, on the train westbound to Saint Louis, en
route to Grover's death; one for the death in the Playhouse (1893) of
Uncle Thaddeus Evans, an aged and devoted negro; one, with Eliza, in
the month of March, 1897, as deathwatch to the corpse of old Major
Isaacs; three at the end of the month of July, 1897, when it was
thought that Eliza, withered to a white sheeting of skin upon a bone
frame, must die of typhoid; again in early April, 1903, for Luke,
typhoid death near; one for the death of Greeley Pentland, aged
twenty-six, congenial scrofulous tubercular, violinist, Pentlandian
punster, petty check-forger, and six weeks' jailbird; three nights,
from the eleventh to the fourteenth of January, 1905, by the
rheumatic crucifixion of his right side, participant in his own
grief, accuser of himself and his God; once in February, 1896, as
death-watch to the remains of Sandy Duncan, aged eleven; once in
September, 1895, penitentially alert and shamefast in the City
"calaboose"; in a room of the Keeley Institute at Piedmont,
North Carolina, June 7, 1896; on March 17, 1906, between Knoxville,
Tennessee, and Altamont, at the conclusion of a seven weeks' journey
to California.
How looked the home-earth then to Gant the
Far-Wanderer? Light crept grayly, melting on the rocky river,
the engine smoke streaked out on dawn like a cold breath, the hills
were big, but nearer, nearer than he thought. And Altamont lay
gray and withered in the hills, a bleak mean wintry dot. He
stepped carefully down in squalid Toytown, noting that everything was
low, near, and shrunken as he made his Gulliverian entry. He
had a roof-and-gulley high conviction; with careful tucked-in elbows
he weighted down the heated Toytown street-car, staring painfully at
the dirty pasteboard pebbledash of the Pisgah Hotel, the brick and
board cheap warehouses of Depot Street, the rusty clapboard
flimsiness of the Florence (Railway Men's) Hotel, quaking with
beef-fed harlotry.
So small, so small, so small, he thought. I
never believed it. Even the hills here. I'll soon be sixty.
His sallow face, thin-flanked, was hang-dog and
afraid. He stared wistful-sullenly down at the rattan seat as
the car screeched round into the switch at the cut and stopped; the
motorman, smoke-throated, slid the door back and entered with his
handle. He closed the door and sat down yawning.
"Where you been, Mr. Gant?"
"California," said Gant.
"Thought I hadn't seen you," said the
motorman.
There was a warm electric smell and one of hot burnt
steel.
But two months dead! But two months dead!
Ah, Lord! So it's come to this. Merciful God, this
fearful, awful, and damnable climate. Death, death! Is it too
late? A land of life, a flower land. How clear the green
clear sea was. And all the fishes swimming there. Santa
Catalina. Those in the East should always go West. How
came I here? Down, down--always down, did I know where?
Baltimore, Sydney--In God's name, why? The little boat
glass-bottomed, so you could look down. She lifted up her
skirts as she stepped down. Where now? A pair of pippins.
"Jim Bowles died while you were gone, I reckon,"
said the motorman.
"What!" howled Gant. "Merciful
God!" he clucked mournfully downward. "What did he
die of?" he asked.
"Pneumonia," said the motorman. "He
was dead four days after he was took down."
"Why, he was a big healthy
wandering, to the bleakbare prison of the hills on a gray day late in
winter.
In the more than eight thousand days and nights of
this life with Eliza, how often had he been wakefully, soberly and
peripatetically conscious of the world outside him between the hours
of one and five A.M.? Wholly, for not more than nineteen
nights--one for the birth of Leslie, Eliza's first daughter; one for
her death twenty-six months later, cholera infantis; one for the
death of Major Tom Pentland, Eliza's father, in May, 1902; one for
the birth of Luke; one, on the train westbound to Saint Louis, en
route to Grover's death; one for the death in the Playhouse (1893) of
Uncle Thaddeus Evans, an aged and devoted negro; one, with Eliza, in
the month of March, 1897, as deathwatch to the corpse of old Major
Isaacs; three at the end of the month of July, 1897, when it was
thought that Eliza, withered to a white sheeting of skin upon a bone
frame, must die of typhoid; again in early April, 1903, for Luke,
typhoid death near; one for the death of Greeley Pentland, aged
twenty-six, congenial scrofulous tubercular, violinist, Pentlandian
punster, petty check-forger, and six weeks' jailbird; three nights,
from the eleventh to the fourteenth of January, 1905, by the
rheumatic crucifixion of his right side, participant in his own
grief, accuser of himself and his God; once in February, 1896, as
death-watch to the remains of Sandy Duncan, aged eleven; once in
September, 1895, penitentially alert and shamefast in the City
"calaboose"; in a room of the Keeley Institute at Piedmont,
North Carolina, June 7, 1896; on March 17, 1906, between Knoxville,
Tennessee, and Altamont, at the conclusion of a seven weeks' journey
to California.
How looked the home-earth then to Gant the
Far-Wanderer? Light crept grayly, melting on the rocky river,
the engine smoke streaked out on dawn like a cold breath, the hills
were big, but nearer, nearer than he thought. And Altamont lay
gray and withered in the hills, a bleak mean wintry dot. He
stepped carefully down in squalid Toytown, noting that everything was
low, near, and shrunken as he made his Gulliverian entry. He
had a roof-and-gulley high conviction; with careful tucked-in elbows
he weighted down the heated Toytown street-car, staring painfully at
the dirty pasteboard pebbledash of the Pisgah Hotel, the brick and
board cheap warehouses of Depot Street, the rusty clapboard
flimsiness of the Florence (Railway Men's) Hotel, quaking with
beef-fed harlotry.
So small, so small, so small, he thought. I
never believed it. Even the hills here. I'll soon be sixty.
His sallow face, thin-flanked, was hang-dog and
afraid. He stared wistful-sullenly down at the rattan seat as
the car screeched round into the switch at the cut and stopped; the
motorman, smoke-throated, slid the door back and entered with his
handle. He closed the door and sat down yawning.
"Where you been, Mr. Gant?"
"California," said Gant.
"Thought I hadn't seen you," said the
motorman.
There was a warm electric smell and one of hot burnt
steel.
But two months dead! But two months dead!
Ah, Lord! So it's come to this. Merciful God, this
fearful, awful, and damnable climate. Death, death! Is it too
late? A land of life, a flower land. How clear the green
clear sea was. And all the fishes swimming there. Santa
Catalina. Those in the East should always go West. How
came I here? Down, down--always down, did I know where?
Baltimore, Sydney--In God's name, why? The little boat
glass-bottomed, so you could look down. She lifted up her
skirts as she stepped down. Where now? A pair of pippins.
"Jim Bowles died while you were gone, I reckon,"
said the motorman.
"What!" howled Gant. "Merciful
God!" he clucked mournfully downward. "What did he
die of?" he asked.
"Pneumonia," said the motorman. "He
was dead four days after he was took down."
"Why, he was a big healthy
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