Booth Tarkington (18381918). The Magnificent Ambersons. 1918.
THERE was one border section of the city which George never explored in his Sunday morning excursions. This was far out to the north where lay the new Elysian Fields of the millionaires, though he once went as far in that direction as the white house which Lucy had so admired long agoher Beautiful House. George looked at it briefly and turned back, rumbling with an interior laugh of some grimness. The house was white no longer; nothing could be white which the town had reached, and the town reached far beyond the beautiful white house now. The owners had given up and painted it a despairing chocolate, suitable to the freight-yard life it was called upon to endure.
George did not again risk going even so far as that, in the direction of the millionaires, although their settlement began at least two miles farther out. His thought of Lucy and her father was more a sensation than a thought, and may be compared to that of a convicted cashier beset by recollections of the bank he had pillagedthere are some thoughts to which one closes the mind. George had seen Eugene only once since their calamitous encounter. They had passed on opposite sides of the street, downtown; each had been aware of the other, and each had been aware that the other was aware of him, and yet each kept his eyes straight forward, and neither had shown a perceptible alteration of countenance. It seemed to George that he felt emanating from the outwardly imperturbable person of his mothers old friend a hate that was like a hot wind.
At his mothers funeral and at the Majors he had been conscious that Eugene was there: though he had afterward no recollection of seeing him, and, while certain of his presence, was uncertain how he knew of it. Fanny had not told him, for she understood George well enough not to speak to him of Eugene or Lucy. Nowadays Fanny almost never saw either of them and seldom thought of themso sly is the way of time with life. She was passing middle age, when old intensities and longings grow thin and flatten out, as Fanny herself was thinning and flattening out; and she was settling down contentedly to her apartment house intimacies. She was precisely suited by the table-dhôte life, with its bridge, its variable alliances and shifting feuds, and the long whisperings of elderly ladies at corridor cornersthose eager but suppressed conversations, all sibilance, of which the elevator boy declared he heard the words she said a million times and the word she, five million. The apartment house suited Fanny and swallowed her.
The city was so big, now, that people disappeared into it unnoticed, and the disappearance of Fanny and her nephew was not exceptional. People no longer knew their neighbours as a matter of course; one lived for years next door to strangersthat sharpest of all the changes since the old daysand a friend would lose sight of a friend for a year, and not know it.
One May day George thought he had a glimpse of Lucy. He was not certain, but he was sufficiently disturbed, in spite of his uncertainty. A promotion in his work now frequently took him out of town for a week, or longer, and it was upon his return from one of these absences that he had the strange experience. He had walked home from the station, and as he turned the corner which brought him in sight of the apartment house entrance, though two blocks distant from it, he saw a charming little figure come out, get into a shiny landaulet automobile, and drive away. Even at that distance no one could have any doubt that the little figure was charming; and the height, the quickness and decision of motion, even the swift gesture of a white glove toward the chauffeurall were characteristic of Lucy. George was instantly subjected to a shock of indefinable nature, yet definitely a shock: he did not know what he feltbut he knew that he felt. Heat surged over him: probably he would not have come face to face with her if the restoration of all the ancient Amberson magnificence could have been his reward. He went on slowly, his knees shaky.
But he found Fanny not at home; she had been out all afternoon; and there was no record of any callerand he began to wonder, then to doubt if the small lady he had seen in the distance was Lucy. It might as well have been, he said to himselfsince any one who looked like her could give him a jolt like that!
Lucy had not left a card. She never left one when she called on Fanny; though she did not give her reasons a quite definite form in her own mind. She came seldom; this was but the third time that year, and, when she did come, George was not mentioned, either by her hostess or by herselfan oddity contrived between the two ladies without either of them realizing how odd it was. For, naturally, while Fanny was with Lucy, Fanny thought of George, and what time Lucy had Georges aunt before her eyes she could not well avoid the thought of him. Consequently, both looked absent-minded as they talked, and each often gave a wrong answer which the other consistently failed to notice.
At other times Lucys thoughts of George were anything but continuous, and weeks went by when he was not consciously in her mind at all. Her life was a busy one: she had the big house to keep up; she had a garden to keep up, too, a large and beautiful garden; she represented her father as a director for half a dozen public charity organizations, and did private charity work of her own, being a proxy mother of several large families; and she had danced down, as she said, groups from eight or nine classes of new graduates returned from the universities, without marrying any of them, but she still dancedand still did not marry.
Her father, observing this circumstance happily, yet with some hypocritical concern, spoke of it to her one day as they stood in her garden. I suppose Id want to shoot him, he said, with attempted lightness. But I mustnt be an old pig. Id build you a beautiful house close byjust over yonder.
No, no! That would be like she began impulsively; then checked herself. George Ambersons comparison of the Georgian house to the Amberson Mansion had come into her mind, and she thought that another new house, built close by for her, would be like the house the Major built for Isabel.
Nothing. She looked serious, and when he reverted to his idea of some day grudgingly surrendering her up to a suitor, she invented a legend. Did you ever hear the Indian name for that little grove of beech trees on the other side of the house? she asked him.
Dont be so sure! I read a great deal more than I used togetting ready for my bookish days when Ill have to do something solid in the evenings and wont be asked to dance any more, even by the very youngest boys who think its a sporting event to dance with the oldest of the older girls. The name of the grove was Loma-Nashah and it means They-Couldnt-Help-It.
Indian names dont. There was a bad Indian chief lived in the grove before the white settlers came. He was the worst Indian that ever lived, and his name wasit was Vendonah. That means Rides-Down-Everything.
Vendonah was an unspeakable case, Lucy continued. He was so proud that he wore iron shoes, and he walked over peoples faces with them. He was always killing people that way, and so at last the tribe decided that it wasnt a good enough excuse for him that he was young and inexperiencedhed have to go. They took him down to the river, and put him in a canoe, and pushed him out from shore; and then they ran along the bank and wouldnt let him land, until at last the current carried the canoe out into the middle, and then on down to the ocean, and he never got back. They didnt want him back, of course, and if hed been able to manage it, theyd have put him in another canoe and shoved him out into the river again. But still, they didnt elect another chief in his place. Other tribes thought that was curious, and wondered about it a lot, but finally they came to the conclusion that the beech grove people were afraid a new chief might turn out to be a bad Indian, too, and wear iron shoes like Vendonah. But they were wrong, because the real reason was that the tribe had led such an exciting life under Vendonah that they couldnt settle down to anything tamer. He was awful, but he always kept things happeningterrible things, of course. They bated him, but they werent able to discover any other warrior that they wanted to make chief in his place. I suppose it was a little like drinking a glass of too strong wine and then trying to take the taste out of your mouth with barley water. They couldnt help feeling that way.
And so youre going to stay here in your garden, he said musingly. You think its better to keep on walking these sunshiny gravel paths between your flower-beds, and growing to look like a pensive garden lady in a Victorian engraving.
...Next day, it happened that this same Vendonah or Rides-Down-Everything became the subject of a chance conversation between Eugene and his old friend Kinney, father of the fire-topped Fred. The two gentlemen found themselves smoking in neighbouring leather chairs beside a broad window at the club, after lunch.
Mr. Kinney had remarked that he expected to get his family established at the seashore by the Fourth of July, and, following a train of thought, he paused and chuckled. Fourth of July reminds me, he said. Have you heard what that Georgie Minafer is doing?
Well, sir, Kinney chuckled again, it beats the devil! My boy Fred told me about it yesterday. Hes a friend of this young Henry Akers, son of F. P. Akers of the Akers Chemical Company. It seems this young Akers asked Fred if he knew a fellow named Minafer, because he knew Fred had always lived here, and young Akers had heard some way that Minafer used to be an old family name here, and was sort of curious about it. Well, sir, you remember this young Georgie sort of disappeared, after his grandfathers death, and nobody seemed to know much what had become of himthough I did hear, once or twice, that he was still around somewhere. Well, sir, hes working for the Akers Chemical Company, out at their plant on the Thomasville Road.
He paused, seeming to reserve something to be delivered only upon inquiry, and Eugene offered him the expected question, but only after a cold glance through the nose-glasses he had lately found it necessary to adopt. What does he do?
Hes an expert on nitro-glycerin. Doesnt that beat the devil! Yes, sir! Young Akers told Fred that this George Minafer had worked like a houn-dog ever since he got started out at the works. They have a special plant for nitro-glycerin, way off from the main plant, o coursein the woods somewhereand George Minafers been working there, and lately they put him in charge of it. He oversees shooting oil-wells, too, and shoots em himself, sometimes. They arent allowed to carry it on the railroads, you knowhave to team it. Young Akers says George rides around over the bumpy roads, sitting on as much as three hundred quarts of nitroglycerin! My Lord! Talk about romantic tumbles! If he gets blown sky-high some day he wont have a bigger drop, when he comes down, than hes already had! Dont it beat the devil! Young Akers said hes got all the nerve there is in the world. Well, he always did have plenty of thatfrom the time he used to ride around here on his white pony and fight all the Irish boys in Can-Town, with his long curls all handy to be pulled out. Akers says he gets a fair salary, and I should think he ought to! Seems to me Ive heard the average life in that sort of work is somewhere around four years, and agents dont write any insurance at all for nitro-glycerin experts. Hardly!
Kinney rose to go. Well, its a pretty funny, thingpretty odd, I meanand I suppose it would be pass-around-the-hat for old Fanny Minafer if he blew up. Fred told me that theyre living in some apartment house, and said Georgie supports her. He was going to study law, but couldnt earn enough that way to take care of Fanny, so he gave it up. Freds wife told him all this. Says Fanny doesnt do anything but play bridge these days. Got to playing too high for awhile and lost more than she wanted to tell Georgie about, and borrowed a little from old Frank Bronson. Paid him back, though. Dont know how Freds wife heard it. Women do hear the darndest things!
Well, Im off to the store, said Mr. Kinney briskly; yet he lingered. I suppose well all have to club in and keep old Fanny out of the poorhouse if he does blow up. From all I hear its usually only a question of time. They say she hasnt got anything else to depend on.
WellI wondered Kinney hesitated. I was wondering why you hadnt thought of finding something around your works for him. They say hes an all-fired worker and he certainly does seem to have hid some decent stuff in him under all his damfoolishness. And you used to be such a tremendous friend of the familyI thought perhaps youof course I know hes a queer lotI know hes
...However, the nitro-glycerin expert of whom they spoke did not get into the papers as a consequence of being blown up, although his daily life was certainly a continuous exposure to that risk. Destiny has a constant passion for the incongruous, and it was Georges lot to manipulate wholesale quantities of terrific and volatile explosives in safety, and to be laid low by an accident so commonplace and inconsequent that it was a comedy. Fate had reserved for him the final insult of riding him down under the wheels of one of those juggernauts at which he had once shouted Git a hoss! Nevertheless, Fates ironic choice for Georgies undoing was not a big and swift and momentous car, such as Eugene manufactured; it was a specimen of the hustling little type that was flooding the country, the cheapest, commonest, hardiest little car ever made.
The accident took place upon a Sunday morning, on a downtown crossing, with the streets almost empty, and no reason in the world for such a thing to happen. He had gone out for his Sunday morning walk, and he was thinking of an automobile at the very moment when the little car struck him; he was thinking of a shiny landaulet and a charming figure stepping into it, and of the quick gesture of a white glove toward the chauffeur, motioning him to go on. George heard a shout but did not look up, for he could not imagine anybodys shouting at him, and he was too engrossed in the question Was it Lucy? He could not decide, and his lack of decision in this matter probably superinduced a lack of decision in another, more pressingly vital. At the second and louder shout he did look up; and the car was almost on him; but he could not make up his mind if the charming little figure he had seen was Lucys and he could not make up his mind whether to go backward or forward: these questions became entangled in his mind. Then, still not being able to decide which of two ways to go, he tried to go bothand the little car ran him down. It was not moving very rapidly, but it went all the way over George.
He was conscious of gigantic violence; of roaring and jolting and concussion; of choking clouds of dust, shot with lightning, about his head; he heard snapping sounds as loud as shots from a small pistol, and was stabbed by excruciating pains in his legs. Then he became aware that the machine was being lifted off of him. People were gathering in a circle round him, gabbling.
Nev mind, a policeman said; and George could see above his eyes the skirts of the blue coat, covered with dust and sunshine. Amblance be here in a minute. Nev mind tryin to move any. You want em to send for some special doctor?
A smallish young man in a duster fidgeted among the crowd, explaining and protesting, and a strident voiced girl, his companion, supported his argument, declaring to everyone her willingness to offer testimony in any court of law that every blessed word he said was the Gods truth.
Its the fella that hit you, the policeman said, looking down on George. I guess hes right; you must of ben thinkin about somepm or other. Its wunnerful the damage them little machines can doyoud never think itbut I guess they aint much case agin this fella that was drivin it.
You bet your life they aint no case on me! the young man in the duster agreed, with great bitterness. He came and stood at Georges feet, addressing him heatedly: Im sorry fer you all right, and I dont say I aint. I hold nothin against you, but it wasnt any more my fault than the statehouse! You run into me, much as I run into you, and if you get well you aint goin to get not one single cent out o me! This lady here was settin with me and we both yelled at you. Wasnt goin a step over eight mile an hour! Im perfectly willing to say Im sorry for you though, and sos the lady with me. Were both willing to say that much, but thats all, understand!
Georges drawn eyelids twitched; his misted glance rested fleetingly upon the two protesting motorists, and the old imperious spirit within him flickered up in a single word. Lying on his back in the middle of the street, where he was regarded by an increasing public as an unpleasant curiosity, he spoke this word clearly from a mouth filled with dust, and from lips smeared with blood.
...It was a word which interested the policeman. When the ambulance clanged away, he turned to a fellow patrolman who had joined him. Funny what he says to the little cuss that done the damage. Thats all he did call himnothin else at alland the cuss had broke both his legs fer him and God-knows-what-all!