GLEANING THE FIELD.
A vagabond artist came to town and I employed him to make sketches of
Peters, Mason and Vark. It was easy to get a pose from the pilot and the
notorious one, but after his "juniper spree" the shoemaker had locked
himself in his shop. But we hammered his door day after day, and one
morning we heard the sliding of the bolt.
"Come in," said Vark. "But let me tell you that I am in no shape to do
work."
He had spread a blanket on the floor, with a bundle of leather at one
end, and with books scattered about. I took up two volumes to find the
plays of Marlowe and the snarling complaint of old Hobbs.
"What do you want, boys?"
"I want you to stand for a few moments just as you are," said I.
"For a picture? What do you want with a picture of me? I'm nobody."
"Oh, yes. You've lived here thirty years, you know."
"All right, go ahead. I don't suppose there ever was a man so no-account
that he didn't think his picture was worth something. But I wish you'd
hurry up and get through with me. I wouldn't have let you in, but I
didn't want to be rude to a stranger. Scratch fast, you chap!" he added,
speaking to the artist. "What are you going to do with the sketch? Hang
it up for a scarecrow? Done with me? Take it away. I don't want to see
it."
He turned us out and bolted his door; and I heard him swear at his rusty
joints as he got down upon the blanket and wallowed in the midst of his
books.
I procured a number of photographs of gardens and of time-softened
houses; I jotted down numerous hints of "atmosphere," wrote a full
description of Washington and of Aunt Patsey and sent the whole to
Maffet And it seemed that these acts of gleaning were long to be
protracted, for odd bits of characteristic color were constantly
arising, as tinted mists from the soil. In no-wise could they find a
place in the action or the dialogue, but they would aid the stage
craftsman to clothe his trickery in the garb of truth. But these
color-mists came only of their own will, and never would they arise at
command, to enshroud and to soften the vividness of the picture that
tantalized me. Love may be a divine essence, calm as God-ordered peace,
when it flows from the legitimate heart--it may be--but my love was
_wolfish_.
The Senator was very much elated over the success of our Virginius
engagement. Early one morning as I sat looking from the window, with my
nostrils full of the dusty smell of sprinkled floors newly swept, he
came whistling up the stairs.
"Ha! dreaming," he cried. "I can see it in your face. But you can
afford to dream. Keep your seat. I don't care to sit down. Well, Sir,
old Zeb Harkrider hailed me this morning to tell me that a good many of
our citizens didn't like our show. I said: 'Look here, Zeb, I thought I
kicked you off the courthouse steps for bringing me news that I didn't
want to hear a long time ago. Don't you remember it?' He remembered. He
didn't say so, but he stepped back. 'Why, I didn't know you were
interested in it,' said he. I had to lie just a little, Belford. I hold,
Sir, that we are justified in occasionally slipping a lie on our left
arm and using it for a shield, to protect our private grounds against
invasion. Yes, I lied to him a little; I told him that my only interest
lay in the fact that it was my desire to see our people well
entertained, and that the habit of constant grumbling would finally
blind us to the beauties of even the best of things. So I got rid of
him. And do you realize that Petticord didn't do us justice? Confound
his insolence, you passed in his entire brigade, and yet he says that
only those who were easily pleased came near getting the worth of their
money. That scoundrel suspects that I have a hand in this, and he would
almost be willing to cut his own throat in order to do me a harmful
turn. But I will get him one of these days--yes, Sir, I'll get him or
drive him out of this community. My boy, you don't seem to be in very
good spirits. What's the matter? Getting tired of Bolanyo?"
I answered with what the humorist of the "profession" would have phrased
a "property laugh." "No, Senator, I am not getting tired. In fact, I
would rather be here than in any place under the sun."
"Strong, but that's right. I was afraid that you felt yourself chained."
"You might fasten me here with links of rusty iron, but in my eyes
they'd be a chain of gold."
"What's that?"
He startled me with the sharp eye of comprehension, and I felt myself
droop under the look that he gave me. "I mean that this soft and
restful air and the sweet breath of the gardens would exalt a soul in
spite of the restraints of the body."
Innocence flew back to his eye, "That's good, Belford; I have felt it
many a time. I have thought in moments of ambition that my talents as a
Legislator were crippled here, that I might go to Congress, and perhaps
make a National name for myself, but then came the idea that to broaden
my scope might forever spoil my love for old Bolanyo."
He stood there meditating, with nothing more to say; he took out a small
bunch of keys, looked at them and returned them to his pocket; he put
his hands behind him; he went to the window and looked out upon the
deliberate commerce of the town--wagons loaded with hay, carts of
kindling wood, negroes with chickens, groups of story-telling
countrymen.
"But I didn't know that the town could take quite so strong a hold on a
stranger," he said, with his eyes in the street. "But, Belford," and
now he turned to me, "you are a man of quick endearments, and so am I;
and that is one of the reasons why I like you, and a reason, I might
say, why I condemn myself. But I like a man or don't, almost at the
start. They call me a shrewd politician, and I am, but I'm one of the
easiest men taken in you ever saw. Oh, I can tell whether or not a man
is a rascal, and I sometimes buy his ware knowing that I myself am sold,
but I can't help it. One single note in a man's voice sometimes catches
me--a little thing that he doesn't know himself. Belford, I want you to
go to the State capital with me sometime, after the Legislature meets.
I'll show you some of the most picturesque and genial old blatherskites
you ever saw. Well, I've got some knocking around to do. See you again
soon."
And it was thus that we always parted--with "See you again soon," and
never with "You must come to see me." I wondered whether his daughter
had warned him against the impropriety of inviting me to the house. I
mused over the sharp light of comprehension in his eye, and made an
additional trouble for myself with speculating upon the degree of his
suspicion.
In the afternoon I walked far out beyond the limits of the town, not at
first in the direction of the Senator's house, but I cut a quarter
circle to the left and came upon the road that led past his gate. So
self-forgetful had been my employment that I did not realize until I
stepped into the shade of a cottonwood how hot it had been out on the
blazing commons. On the dying grass I sat, with my feet in a gully,
fanning with my hat, harvesting delicious shudders of coolness. From
afar off came the hum of a thrashing machine, and almost in my ear an
insect sang the melancholy tune that tells of autumn's coming. I heard
the slow and heavy trot of an old horse, and around a bend in the road a
buggy came, and in it a woman. I got up with my blood leaping. I
stepped to the roadside and stood there, with my face turned away, and
suddenly the horse fell back to a walk, in obedience to an impulsive
pull upon the lines, my eager and outlawed heart had told me. I turned
about. Her eyes were averted, and her face was red, and she would have
passed without a word, without a look, but I stepped out boldly and
cried: "Just a moment, please. The hame strap has come unbuckled."
"Oh, thank you," she said, and the horse stopped. I stepped in front and
began to pull at the strap.
"Quite a surprise to see you, Mrs. Estell."
"Yes. But I don't know why it should be. I drive about a good deal."
"And I walk about a good deal, and yet this is the first time--"
"Can't you fasten it?"
"Yes; now it's all right." I stood partly in front of the horse, with my
hand on the shaft. She gathered up the lines.
"Mrs. Estell, I hope you are not offended at me."
She laughed with music though not with mirth, and then her face grew
serious as she said: "Of course not, Mr. Belford."
Where was the freedom, the outbreak of energy she had shown in the opera
house; where was the look of frankness? All now was reserve, a cool and
sacred respect for the law that held her tied with a frost-covered rope.
I did not presume that she loved me, but I knew that she hated _him_.
"Have you buckled the strap?"
"Yes, madam."
"Thank you."
At that moment a buggy with two men in it came rattling by. One man
turned to look back, and I recognized Petticord, the editor.
"Mrs. Estell, I hope sometime to tell you--"
"Don't tell me anything, Mr. Belford. Let me go, please. Good-bye."