Hugo sat alone and marvelled at the exquisite torment of his
_Weltschmertz_. Far away, across the campus, he heard singing. Against
the square segment of sky visible from the bay window of his room he
could see the light of the great fire they had built to celebrate
victory--his victory. The light leaped into the darkness above like a
great golden ghost in some fantastic ascension, and beneath it, he knew,
a thousand students were dancing. They were druid priests at a rite to
the god of football. His fingers struggled through his black hair. The
day was fresh in his mind--the bellowing stands, the taut, almost
frightened faces of the eleven men who faced him, the smack and flight
of the brown oval, the lumbering sound of men running, the sucking of
the breath of men and their sharp, painful fall to earth.
In his mind was a sharp picture of himself and the eyes that watched him
as he broke away time and again, with infantile ease, to carry that
precious ball. He let them make a touchdown that he could have averted.
He made one himself. Then another. The bell on Webster Hall was booming
its pæan of victory. He stiffened under the steady monody. He remembered
again. Lefty barking signals with a strange agony in his voice. Lefty
pounding on his shoulder. "Go in there, Hugo, and give it to them. I
can't." Lefty pleading. And the captain, Jerry Painter, cursing in open
jealousy of Hugo, vying hopelessly with Hugo Danner, the man who was a
god.
It was not fair. Not right. The old and early glory was ebbing from it.
When he put down the ball, safely across the goal for the winning
touchdown, he saw three of the men on the opposing team lie down and
weep. There he stood, pretending to pant, feigning physical distress,
making himself a hero at the expense of innocent victims. Jackstraws for
a giant. There was no triumph in that. He could not go on.
Afterwards they had made him speak, and the breathless words that had
once come so easily moved heavily through his mind. Yet he had carried
his advantage beyond the point of turning back. He could not say that
the opponents of Webster might as well attempt to hold back a
Juggernaut, to throw down a siege-gun, to outrace light, as to lay their
hands on him to check his intent. Webster had been good to him. He loved
Webster and it deserved his best. His best! He peered again into the
celebrating night and wondered what that awful best would be.
He desired passionately to be able to give that--to cover the earth,
making men glad and bringing a revolution into their lives, to work
himself into a fury and to fatigue his incredible sinews, to end with
the feeling of a race well run, a task nobly executed. And, for a year,
that ambition had seemed in some small way to be approaching fruition.
Now it was turned to ashes. It was not with the muscles of men that his
goal was to be attained. They could not oppose him.
As he sat gloomy and distressed, he wondered for what reason there
burned in him that wish to do great deeds. Humanity itself was too
selfish and too ignorant to care. It could boil in its tiny prejudices
for centuries to come and never know that there could be a difference.
Moreover, who was he to grind his soul and beat his thoughts for the
benefit of people who would never know and never care? What honour, when
he was dead, to lie beneath a slab on which was punily graven some note
of mighty accomplishment? Why could he not content himself with the food
he ate, the sunshine, with wind in trees, and cold water, and a woman?
It was that sad and silly command within to transcend his vegetable self
that made him human. He tried to think about it bitterly: fool man,
grown suddenly more conscious than the other beasts--how quickly he had
become vain because of it and how that vanity led him forever onward! Or
was it vanity--when his aching soul proclaimed that he would gladly
achieve and die without other recognition or acclaim than that which
rose within himself? Martyrs were made of such stuff. And was not that,
perhaps, an even more exaggerated vanity? It was so pitiful to be a man
and nothing more. Hugo bowed his head and let his body tremble with
strange agony. Perhaps, he thought, even the agony was a selfish
pleasure to him. Then he should be ashamed. He felt shame and then
thought that the feeling rose from a wish for it and foundered angrily
in the confusion of his introspection. He knew only and knew but dimly
that he would lift himself up again and go on, searching for some
universal foe to match against his strength. So pitiful to be a man! So
Christ must have felt in Gethsemane.
"Hey, Hugo!"
"Yeah?"
"What the hell did you come over here for?"
"To be alone."
"Is that a hint?" Lefty entered the room. "They want you over at the
bonfire. We've been looking all over for you."
"All right. I'll go. But, honest to God, I've had enough of this
business for to-day."
Lefty slapped Hugo's shoulders. "The great must pay for their celebrity.
Come on, you sap."
"All right."
"What's the matter? Anything the matter?"
"No. Nothing's the matter. Only--it's sort of sad to be--" Hugo checked
himself.
"Sad? Good God, man, you're going stale."
"Maybe that's it." Hugo had a sudden fancy. "Do you suppose I could be
let out of next week's game?"
"What for? My God--"
Hugo pursued the idea. "It's the last game. I can sit on the lines. You
fellows all play good ball. You can probably win. If you can't--then
I'll play. If you only knew, Lefty, how tired I get sometimes--"
"Tired! Why don't you say something about it? You can lay off practice
for three or four days."
"Not that. Tired in the head, not the body. Tired of crashing through
and always getting away with it. Oh, I'm not conceited. But I know they
can't stop me. You know it. It's a gift of mine--and a curse. How about
it? Let's start next week without me."
The night ended at last. A new day came. The bell on Webster Hall
stopped booming. Woodie, the coach, came to see Hugo between classes.
"Lefty says you want us to start without you next week. What's the big
idea?"
"I don't know. I thought the other birds would like a shot at Yale
without me. They can do it."
Mr. Woodman eyed his player. "That's pretty generous of you, Hugo. Is
there any other reason?"
"Not--that I can explain."
"I see." The coach offered Hugo a cigarette after he had helped himself.
"Take it. It'll do you good."
"Thanks."
"Listen, Hugo. I want to ask you a question. But, first, I want you to
promise you'll give me a plain answer."
"I'll try."
"That won't do."
"Well--I can't promise."
Woodman sighed. "I'll ask it anyway. You can answer or not--just as you
wish." He was silent. He inhaled his cigarette and blew the smoke
through his nostrils. His eyes rested on Hugo with an expression of
intense interest, beneath which was a softer light of something not
unlike sympathy. "I'll have to tell you something, first, Hugo. When you
went away last summer, I took a trip to Colorado."
Hugo started, and Woodman continued: "To Indian Creek. I met your father
and your mother. I told them that I knew you. I did my best to gain
their confidence. You see, Hugo, I've watched you with a more skilful
eye than most people. I've seen you do things, a few little things, that
weren't--well--that weren't--"