OLD JOE VARK.
The town was going to bed; the late moon was rising, and in the magnolia
gardens there seemed to waver a bright and shadowy silence--a night when
every sound was afar off, a half mysterious echo--the closing of a
window shutter, the subdued footfall of a thief, the indistinct notes of
an old song lagging in the soft and lazy air. I walked about the
courthouse, its pillars classic in the shadow, its gilded cupola gaudy
in the light. I did not turn to my habitation across the square, to
sniff the lifeless atmosphere and the sickish paint of the opera house;
I bent my way to the river where the moon was free. And upon a rotting
yawl I sat down to think, shoulder to shoulder with the ghost of a dead
commerce. Far across the stream a mud scow fretted and fluttered like a
duck in distress, making just enough of noise to cry "silence" in the
ear of night.
There is religion in the reverie of even an atheist; and in the
meditation of a free-thinker, whose grandfather was a believer, there is
almost a confession of faith. I thought of all that the negro had said;
I reviewed his earnestness and saw his look of trouble; I pictured
Talcom in his trustfulness; I saw his daughter in her unsuspecting
innocence, impulsive, almost eccentric, and yet a type of the South. I
thought of it all, and I swore that I would keep faith with the
preacher. I swore it with my hand held up, I ground myself down until I
felt the rotting old boat crumbling beneath me, and yet it seemed that
some devil arose in the air maliciously to whisper, "No you won't." And
in this reproach, intended to tantalize the conscience, there was a
shameful sweetness, a promise that again I should sit in the garden with
her. But I went to bed strong, and I arose with strength the next
morning. I would chase a fox with her, and then, I should see her no
more, except by accident.
The Senator had enjoined me not to appear overglad to make
acquaintances; not to invite the approach of the idle, lest they should
become familiar, but it was hard to maintain dignity in the presence of
such good humor and friendliness. A man whom I might have passed a
hundred times, without suspecting his importance, would stop me to say
that his name was Hopgood or Leatherington or Yancey; to assure me that
his grandfather, after having come out of the Mexican War, had served as
Clerk of the Circuit Court; that he was pleased to welcome me to
Bolanyo; that it was about his time of day (looking at his watch) to
take a drink, and that he would be pleased to have me join him. I had
not the nerve nor the dignity to cool these warm advances, rich in a
yellowing sort of humor, the sad fun of a dying importance; and I found
that the Senator, himself, while pretending to preserve the austerity of
a high position, brought matters close to earth by putting his arm about
some old fellow to laugh over an ancient and shady joke. In the town
there was one man who scouted the idea of self-importance, except when
drunk, and then he sometimes assumed to own the community. This man was
Joe Vark, a shoemaker.
In the forenoon, the day after my moral vow had been taken, I went into
his shop. He was sitting on his low bench; and he looked up, with a
number of shoe-pegs showing between his lips, and mumbled me an
invitation to sit down. He was short, with a fine head and thin, light
hair. His wrinkled face was rather pale and clean of beard. Beside him
lay a book, held partly open by an old shoe sole.
"Well, how are they coming?" he inquired, talking through his teeth.
"All right," I answered, and he looked up with a twinkle in his eye. I
waited for him to say something, but he went on with his work, taking a
peg from his lips and driving it into a shoe.
"You were not born here, were you, Mr. Vark?"
He drove five or six pegs, until there were no more between his lips,
loosened the strap with which he held the shoe upon a piece of iron,
whistled softly as he examined his work, looked up at me and said:
"No, I came here from Pennsylvania a long time ago. And it was years
before they granted me the privilege of being natural when I was drunk.
Oh, it was all right to get drunk, mind you, but they wanted me to be
quiet; and I hold that a man who acts about the same, drunk or sober, is
dangerous to a community. Oh, they meet you with a warm shake, but it
takes years to become one of them. But after you do get to be one of
them you are proud of it. Yes, Sir, and about all I've got to boast of
is that I've been here more than thirty years. I'm not worth a cent,
you understand, but I'm as proud as a peacock What of? That I've lived
here thirty years. What of it? Everything of it. I can take a few drinks
and be natural. Not long ago I had a little row and I snatched a
comparative stranger from one side of the street to the other. And what
did they do with me? Why, I had been here so long that the judge
couldn't do anything. He fined the other fellow for being a stranger and
that settled it."
He put more pegs between his lips, adjusted the shoe on the iron and
resumed his work. The shop was small and dingy, and the floor, almost
hidden by scraps of leather, had doubtless never been swept. An encased
stairway from the outside made a low, dark corner, and here, on a shelf,
the old man kept an array of books. It was said that he sometimes
indulged in a reading spree, just after a season of liquor; and then he
slammed his door in the face of the present and lived locked up with
the long ago.
I did not disturb him, but waited for his spirit to move of its own
accord. He pegged the shoe, removed the strap, and from a small bottle
that hung on the wall within reach he blackened the edge of the sole; he
inserted a hook, pulled out the last, and set the shoe aside to dry.
Then he took up an old boot and said: "This thing is beyond all repair.
Ought to have been thrown away years ago. But the fool would leave it
here, and I'm expecting him every minute. Heigho, I don't know what to
do with it. Guess I'll put it aside until he comes, and then beg him to
take it down and throw it into the river."
He threw the boot aside, took up a piece of leather and began to examine
it. Then, brushing everything aside, he picked up a clay pipe, and as he
was filling it, I handed him a lighted match.
"Thank you." He lighted his pipe, puffing it with a loud smack of the
lips, and then settled himself down to talk. "No use of a man killing
himself with work. I've been here too long for that. How are you and
Talcom getting along?"
"First rate. I have never met a more genial companion--never bores,
always interesting."
"Yes, Talcom is a good fellow. He'll recommend a gold brick, and then,
to prove his sincerity, he'll turn round and buy it himself. He held me
off for a long time. Of course I never expected him to make a brother of
me--our lines keep us too far apart for that--but he's friendly, and has
done me many a favor. But I lived here a long time under suspicion, and
whenever anything was stolen they naturally looked to me. But,
gradually, I convinced them that I was inclined to be honest."
"By going to church?" I inquired.
"Oh, no, by accepting a challenge from a rival shoemaker to fight a
duel. The fellow backed down; his custom came to me, and he went away. I
am under great obligations to that man--best friend I ever had; don't
know what would have become of me if he hadn't backed out."
"But you would have fought him."
"Well, I don't know about that. I do know, however, that I felt like
hugging him when he refused to fight. Yes," he went on, after a short
pause and an industrious puffing at his pipe, "Talcom is all right. But
you never can tell which way he'll jump in his likes and dislikes. He
may like a man and he may not, and he's as sudden as a gun going off.
You caught him--not by anything you could have said or done, but you
just happened to fit him."
"All hands at home?" came a voice as whining as a mendicant's plea, and,
looking up, I recognized the gaunt and drooping form of the notorious
Bugg Peters. He stood for a moment in the doorway, and then came forward
with a slouching lurch, with a grin and nod at me and a bow of profound
respect for the "boss" of the shop.
"Look here, Bugg," said the shoemaker, "I can't do anything with that
old boot. It's beyond all repair. Take it out somewhere and throw it
away."
"Fur mercy sake, Joe, don't talk like that," protested the notorious
one, dropping upon a bench and humping over as if his upper muscles had
given away. "Don't snatch all the hope right out of a feller's hand.
That boot belongs to my youngest son-in-law, and unless he gets it
mended to-day he can't come to town to-morrow. Joe, you've just got to
fix it. Say, got about as fine a chunk of a boy down at my house as you
ever see'd in your life. Nan's."
"Nan's? How many does that make?" the shoemaker asked.
"Let me see. Why, it makes somewhere in the neighborhood of six for Nan.
And her old man is settin' right there by the fireplace now a-shakin'
fitten to kill himself. He ain't no account at all except in the fall of
the year, and then I take him out in the woods and let him shake down
persimmons. Mister (speaking to me), they tell me you are goin' to start
a show here, and I'll fetch my folks to see it if I can raise a few
chickens and sell 'em. Thought I'd get some aigs to-day. Got three old
hens and I thought I'd put 'em to work. But, look here, Joe, you ain't
in earnest about not bein' able to do nothin' with that boot?"
"Yes, I am, Bugg. Throw it away."
"Now, when did you expect a man to get so rich as to fling away his
property? Doesn't the Scripture say, 'Waste not, for to-morrow you may
die?' Grab a-hold of her, Joe, and patch her up. All you've got to do is
to put leather where there ain't none."
"Yes, all I've got to do is to build a boot in the air."
"Well, but ain't that your business, hah?"
"Yes, if I'm paid for it; but you haven't paid for the last pair of
shoes I half-soled. And you said you'd pay on the following Wednesday."
"Did I say that? But I didn't tell you pointedly. You can always count
on me when I tell you pointedly. A man that won't pay when he tells you
pointedly is a liar. Whose boots are them right there--them old ones?
They'd just about fit my son-in-law. Yes, Sir; and he can put 'em on and
come up to town and enjoy himself. What will you take for 'em, Joe?"
"Two dollars, Bugg."
"Cheap enough, and I'll take 'em. Pass 'em over."
"But when will you pay for them?"
"Let me see. I'll pay for 'em Thursday."
"Pointedly?" the shoemaker inquired, with a wink at me.
"Well, now, if it's to be pointedly I'd better make it Thursday week.
How does that hit you?"
"Take them along, but I'll never get the money."
He tumbled forward from his seat, grabbed up the boots, and, holding
them close to his bosom, he said:
"Joe, don't--don't insult me by sayin' that you'll never get your money.
It's a sad thing to give your word pointedly and I've give you mine."
He took out a string, tied the boots together at the straps and threw
them across his shoulder. Then he sat down. "Yes, Sir," he said, "when a
man gives me his word pointedly and fails to keep it, I put him down in
my liar book. Say, Mister, I hear 'em say you are goin' to give your
show in a house. Don't see how you can give much of a show unless you've
got room to gallop around in, but I reckon you'll do the best you can.
Joe, let me take a few of them books along with me," he added, nodding
toward the shelf. And the shoemaker's hand, with a movement as quick as
the frisk of a squirrel's tail, flew upon the bench at his side and
rattled the tools, as if grabbing for a hammer to throw at the head of
the outrageous customer. His face was hard and his eyes were set with
anger, and if for a moment there was not murder in his heart, he gave
me a bit of fine acting. But his epileptic resentment passed away with a
jerk, and looking up at the dumfounded Peters, he said, "Bugg, I guess
you'd better go."
"Why, what's the matter, Joe?"
"Guess you'd better go. I can stand to be robbed of leather, but when
you try to extend your theft to the things that make me superior to you
ignorant yaps, I feel like mashing your head."
"Your driftwood is comin' so swift that I can't ketch it, Joe."
"He means that you must not touch his books," I put in.
"Oh, that's all right," Peters replied. "I'm not hankerin' after 'em.
Just thought I'd take a few of 'em along to get 'em out of the way. Joe,
if you happen down in my range drap in and see Nan's boy. Tickle you
mighty nigh to death."
He slouched away, and the shoemaker resumed his work. I had been sitting
there in a strong draught of the town's atmosphere, with two characters
for my play; and, taking my leave, I felt that I hugged a greater
possession than Peters had found when he tied the boots together and
threw them across his shoulder.