Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter I
Major Amberson had “made a fortune” in 1873, when other people were
losing fortunes, and the magnificence of the Ambersons began then.
Magnificence, like the size of a fortune, is always comparative, as
even Magnificent Lorenzo may now perceive, if he has happened to haunt
New York in 1916; and the Ambersons were magnificent in their day and
place. Their splendour lasted throughout all the years that saw their
Midland town spread and darken into a city, but reached its topmost
during the period when every prosperous family with children kept a
Newfoundland dog.
In that town, in those days, all the women who wore silk or velvet
knew all the other women who wore silk or velvet, and when there was
a new purchase of sealskin, sick people were got to windows to see
it go by. Trotters were out, in the winter afternoons, racing light
sleighs on National Avenue and Tennessee Street; everybody recognized
both the trotters and the drivers; and again knew them as well on
summer evenings, when slim buggies whizzed by in renewals of the
snow-time rivalry. For that matter, everybody knew everybody else’s
family horse-and-carriage, could identify such a silhouette half a
mile down the street, and thereby was sure who was going to market, or
to a reception, or coming home from office or store to noon dinner or
evening supper.
During the earlier years of this period, elegance of personal
appearance was believed to rest more upon the texture of garments than
upon their shaping. A silk dress needed no remodelling when it was a
year or so old; it remained distinguished by merely remaining silk.
Old men and governors wore broadcloth; “full dress” was broadcloth
with “doeskin” trousers; and there were seen men of all ages to whom
a hat meant only that rigid, tall silk thing known to impudence as a
“stove-pipe.” In town and country these men would wear no other hat,
and, without self-consciousness, they went rowing in such hats.
Shifting fashions of shape replaced aristocracy of texture:
dressmakers, shoemakers, hatmakers, and tailors, increasing in cunning
and in power, found means to make new clothes old. The long contagion
of the “Derby” hat arrived: one season the crown of this hat would
be a bucket; the next it would be a spoon. Every house still kept
its bootjack, but high-topped boots gave way to shoes and “congress
gaiters”; and these were played through fashions that shaped them now
with toes like box-ends and now with toes like the prows of racing
shells.
Trousers with a crease were considered plebeian; the crease proved
that the garment had lain upon a shelf, and hence was “ready-made”;
these betraying trousers were called “hand-me-downs,” in allusion to
the shelf. In the early ’eighties, while bangs and bustles were having
their way with women, that variation of dandy known as the “dude”
was invented: he wore trousers as tight as stockings, dagger-pointed
shoes, a spoon “Derby,” a single-breasted coat called a “Chesterfield,”
with short flaring skirts, a torturing cylindrical collar, laundered
to a polish and three inches high, while his other neckgear might be
a heavy, puffed cravat or a tiny bow fit for a doll’s braids. With
evening dress he wore a tan overcoat so short that his black coat-tails
hung visible, five inches below the over-coat; but after a season
or two he lengthened his overcoat till it touched his heels, and he
passed out of his tight trousers into trousers like great bags. Then,
presently, he was seen no more, though the word that had been coined
for him remained in the vocabularies of the impertinent.
It was a hairier day than this. Beards were to the wearers’ fancy,
and things as strange as the Kaiserliche boar-tusk moustache were
commonplace. “Side-burns” found nourishment upon childlike profiles;
great Dundreary whiskers blew like tippets over young shoulders;
moustaches were trained as lambrequins over forgotten mouths; and it
was possible for a Senator of the United States to wear a mist of white
whisker upon his throat only, not a newspaper in the land finding the
ornament distinguished enough to warrant a lampoon. Surely no more is
needed to prove that so short a time ago we were living in another age!
At the beginning of the Ambersons’ great period most of the houses of
the Midland town were of a pleasant architecture. They lacked style,
but also lacked pretentiousness, and whatever does not pretend at
all has style enough. They stood in commodious yards, well shaded by
leftover forest trees, elm and walnut and beech, with here and there a
line of tall sycamores where the land had been made by filling bayous
from the creek. The house of a “prominent resident,” facing Military
Square, or National Avenue, or Tennessee Street, was built of brick
upon a stone foundation, or of wood upon a brick foundation. Usually
it had a “front porch” and a “back porch”; often a “side porch,” too.
There was a “front hall”; there was a “side hall”; and sometimes a
“back hall.” From the “front hall” opened three rooms, the “parlour,”
the “sitting room,” and the “library”; and the library could show
warrant to its title—for some reason these people bought books.
Commonly, the family sat more in the library than in the “sitting
room,” while callers, when they came formally, were kept to the
“parlour,” a place of formidable polish and discomfort. The upholstery
of the library furniture was a little shabby; but the hostile chairs
and sofa of the “parlour” always looked new. For all the wear and tear
they got they should have lasted a thousand years.
Upstairs were the bedrooms; “mother-and-father’s room” the largest; a
smaller room for one or two sons, another for one or two daughters;
each of these rooms containing a double bed, a “washstand,” a “bureau,”
a wardrobe, a little table, a rocking-chair, and often a chair or two
that had been slightly damaged downstairs, but not enough to justify
either the expense of repair or decisive abandonment in the attic. And
there was always a “spare-room,” for visitors (where the sewing-machine
usually was kept), and during the ‘seventies there developed an
appreciation of the necessity for a bathroom. Therefore the architects
placed bathrooms in the new houses, and the older houses tore out a
cupboard or two, set up a boiler beside the kitchen stove, and sought a
new godliness, each with its own bathroom. The great American plumber
joke, that many-branched evergreen, was planted at this time.
At the rear of the house, upstairs was a bleak little chamber, called
“the girl’s room,” and in the stable there was another bedroom,
adjoining the hayloft, and called “the hired man’s room.” House and
stable cost seven or eight thousand dollars to build, and people with
that much money to invest in such comforts were classified as the Rich.
They paid the inhabitant of “the girl’s room” two dollars a week, and,
in the latter part of this period, two dollars and a half, and finally
three dollars a week. She was Irish, ordinarily, or German or it might
be Scandinavian, but never native to the land unless she happened to be
a person of colour. The man or youth who lived in the stable had like
wages, and sometimes he, too, was lately a steerage voyager, but much
oftener he was coloured.
After sunrise, on pleasant mornings, the alleys behind the stables were
gay; laughter and shouting went up and down their dusty lengths, with
a lively accompaniment of curry-combs knocking against back fences and
stable walls, for the darkies loved to curry their horses in the alley.
Darkies always prefer to gossip in shouts instead of whispers; and they
feel that profanity, unless it be vociferous, is almost worthless.
Horrible phrases were caught by early rising children and carried to
older people for definition, sometimes at inopportune moments; while
less investigative children would often merely repeat the phrases in
some subsequent flurry of agitation, and yet bring about consequences
so emphatic as to be recalled with ease in middle life.
They have passed, those darky hired-men of the Midland town; and the
introspective horses they curried and brushed and whacked and amiably
cursed—those good old horses switch their tails at flies no more. For
all their seeming permanence they might as well have been buffaloes—or
the buffalo laprobes that grew bald in patches and used to slide from
the careless drivers’ knees and hang unconcerned, half way to the
ground. The stables have been transformed into other likenesses, or
swept away, like the woodsheds where were kept the stove-wood and
kindling that the “girl” and the “hired-man” always quarrelled over:
who should fetch it. Horse and stable and woodshed, and the whole tribe
of the “hired-man,” all are gone. They went quickly, yet so silently
that we whom they served have not yet really noticed that they are
vanished.
So with other vanishings. There were the little bunty street-cars
on the long, single track that went its troubled way among the
cobblestones. At the rear door of the car there was no platform, but a
step where passengers clung in wet clumps when the weather was bad and
the car crowded. The patrons—if not too absent-minded—put their fares
into a slot; and no conductor paced the heaving floor, but the driver
would rap remindingly with his elbow upon the glass of the door to his
little open platform if the nickels and the passengers did not appear
to coincide in number. A lone mule drew the car, and sometimes drew it
off the track, when the passengers would get out and push it on again.
They really owed it courtesies like this, for the car was genially
accommodating: a lady could whistle to it from an upstairs window, and
the car would halt at once and wait for her while she shut the window,
put on her hat and cloak, went downstairs, found an umbrella, told the
“girl” what to have for dinner, and came forth from the house.
The previous passengers made little objection to such gallantry on
the part of the car: they were wont to expect as much for themselves
on like occasion. In good weather the mule pulled the car a mile in a
little less than twenty minutes, unless the stops were too long; but
when the trolley-car came, doing its mile in five minutes and better,
it would wait for nobody. Nor could its passengers have endured such
a thing, because the faster they were carried the less time they had
to spare! In the days before deathly contrivances hustled them through
their lives, and when they had no telephones—another ancient vacancy
profoundly responsible for leisure—they had time for everything: time
to think, to talk, time to read, time to wait for a lady!
They even had time to dance “square dances,” quadrilles, and “lancers”;
they also danced the “racquette,” and schottisches and polkas, and
such whims as the “Portland Fancy.” They pushed back the sliding doors
between the “parlour” and the “sitting room,” tacked down crash over
the carpets, hired a few palms in green tubs, stationed three or four
Italian musicians under the stairway in the “front hall”—and had great
nights!
But these people were gayest on New Year’s Day; they made it a true
festival—something no longer known. The women gathered to “assist” the
hostesses who kept “Open House”; and the carefree men, dandified and
perfumed, went about in sleighs, or in carriages and ponderous “hacks,”
going from Open House to Open House, leaving fantastic cards in fancy
baskets as they entered each doorway, and emerging a little later, more
carefree than ever, if the punch had been to their liking. It always
was, and, as the afternoon wore on, pedestrians saw great gesturing and
waving of skin-tight lemon gloves, while ruinous fragments of song were
dropped behind as the carriages rolled up and down the streets.
“Keeping Open House” was a merry custom; it has gone, like the all-day
picnic in the woods, and like that prettiest of all vanished customs,
the serenade. When a lively girl visited the town she did not long
go unserenaded, though a visitor was not indeed needed to excuse a
serenade. Of a summer night, young men would bring an orchestra under
a pretty girl’s window—or, it might be, her father’s, or that of an
ailing maiden aunt—and flute, harp, fiddle, cello, cornet, and bass
viol would presently release to the dulcet stars such melodies as
sing through “You’ll Remember Me,” “I Dreamt That I Dwelt in Marble
Halls,” “Silver Threads Among the Gold,” “Kathleen Mavourneen,” or “The
Soldier’s Farewell.”
They had other music to offer, too, for these were the happy days
of “Olivette” and “The Macotte” and “The Chimes of Normandy” and
“Girofle-Girofla” and “Fra Diavola.” Better than that, these were the
days of “Pinafore” and “The Pirates of Penzance” and of “Patience.”
This last was needed in the Midland town, as elsewhere, for the
“aesthetic movement” had reached thus far from London, and terrible
things were being done to honest old furniture. Maidens sawed
what-nots in two, and gilded the remains. They took the rockers from
rocking-chairs and gilded the inadequate legs; they gilded the easels
that supported the crayon portraits of their deceased uncles. In the
new spirit of art they sold old clocks for new, and threw wax flowers
and wax fruit, and the protecting glass domes, out upon the trash-heap.
They filled vases with peacock feathers, or cattails, or sumac, or
sunflowers, and set the vases upon mantelpieces and marble-topped
tables. They embroidered daisies (which they called “marguerites”) and
sunflowers and sumac and cat-tails and owls and peacock feathers upon
plush screens and upon heavy cushions, then strewed these cushions upon
floors where fathers fell over them in the dark. In the teeth of sinful
oratory, the daughters went on embroidering: they embroidered daisies
and sunflowers and sumac and cat-tails and owls and peacock feathers
upon “throws” which they had the courage to drape upon horsehair sofas;
they painted owls and daisies and sunflowers and sumac and cat-tails
and peacock feathers upon tambourines. They hung Chinese umbrellas of
paper to the chandeliers; they nailed paper fans to the walls. They
“studied” painting on china, these girls; they sang Tosti’s new songs;
they sometimes still practiced the old, genteel habit of lady-fainting,
and were most charming of all when they drove forth, three or four in a
basket phaeton, on a spring morning.
Croquet and the mildest archery ever known were the sports of people
still young and active enough for so much exertion; middle-age played
euchre. There was a theatre, next door to the Amberson Hotel, and when
Edwin Booth came for a night, everybody who could afford to buy a
ticket was there, and all the “hacks” in town were hired. “The Black
Crook” also filled the theatre, but the audience then was almost
entirely of men who looked uneasy as they left for home when the final
curtain fell upon the shocking girls dressed as fairies. But the
theatre did not often do so well; the people of the town were still too
thrifty.
They were thrifty because they were the sons or grandsons of the “early
settlers,” who had opened the wilderness and had reached it from the
East and the South with wagons and axes and guns, but with no money at
all. The pioneers were thrifty or they would have perished: they had to
store away food for the winter, or goods to trade for food, and they
often feared they had not stored enough—they left traces of that fear
in their sons and grandsons. In the minds of most of these, indeed,
their thrift was next to their religion: to save, even for the sake
of saving, was their earliest lesson and discipline. No matter how
prosperous they were, they could not spend money either upon “art,” or
upon mere luxury and entertainment, without a sense of sin.
Against so homespun a background the magnificence of the Ambersons was
as conspicuous as a brass band at a funeral. Major Amberson bought
two hundred acres of land at the end of National Avenue; and through
this tract he built broad streets and cross-streets; paved them with
cedar block, and curbed them with stone. He set up fountains, here and
there, where the streets intersected, and at symmetrical intervals
placed cast-iron statues, painted white, with their titles clear upon
the pedestals: Minerva, Mercury, Hercules, Venus, Gladiator, Emperor
Augustus, Fisher Boy, Stag-hound, Mastiff, Greyhound, Fawn, Antelope,
Wounded Doe, and Wounded Lion. Most of the forest trees had been left
to flourish still, and, at some distance, or by moonlight, the place
was in truth beautiful; but the ardent citizen, loving to see his
city grow, wanted neither distance nor moonlight. He had not seen
Versailles, but, standing before the Fountain of Neptune in Amberson
Addition, at bright noon, and quoting the favourite comparison of the
local newspapers, he declared Versailles outdone. All this Art showed a
profit from the start, for the lots sold well and there was something
like a rush to build in the new Addition. Its main thoroughfare, an
oblique continuation of National Avenue, was called Amberson Boulevard,
and here, at the juncture of the new Boulevard and the Avenue, Major
Amberson reserved four acres for himself, and built his new house—the
Amberson Mansion, of course.
This house was the pride of the town. Faced with stone as far back
as the dining-room windows, it was a house of arches and turrets and
girdling stone porches: it had the first porte-cochere seen in that
town. There was a central “front hall” with a great black walnut
stairway, and open to a green glass skylight called the “dome,” three
stories above the ground floor. A ballroom occupied most of the third
story; and at one end of it was a carved walnut gallery for the
musicians. Citizens told strangers that the cost of all this black
walnut and wood-carving was sixty thousand dollars. “Sixty thousand
dollars for the wood-work _alone!_ Yes, sir, and hardwood floors all
over the house! Turkish rugs and no carpets at all, except a Brussels
carpet in the front parlour—I hear they call it the ‘reception-room.’
Hot and cold water upstairs and down, and stationary washstands in
every last bedroom in the place! Their sideboard’s built right into the
house and goes all the way across one end of the dining room. It isn’t
walnut, it’s solid mahogany! Not veneering—solid mahogany! Well, sir, I
presume the President of the United States would be tickled to swap the
White House for the new Amberson Mansion, if the Major’d give him the
chance—but by the Almighty Dollar, you bet your sweet life the Major
wouldn’t!”
The visitor to the town was certain to receive further enlightenment,
for there was one form of entertainment never omitted: he was always
patriotically taken for “a little drive around our city,” even if
his host had to hire a hack, and the climax of the display was the
Amberson Mansion. “Look at that greenhouse they’ve put up there in
the side yard,” the escort would continue. “And look at that brick
stable! Most folks would think that stable plenty big enough and good
enough to live in; it’s got running water and four rooms upstairs for
two hired men and one of ’em’s family to live in. They keep one hired
man loafin’ in the house, and they got a married hired man out in the
stable, and his wife does the washing. They got box-stalls for four
horses, and they keep a coupay, and some new kinds of fancy rigs you
never saw the beat of! ‘Carts’ they call two of ’em—‘way up in the air
they are—too high for me! I guess they got every new kind of fancy rig
in there that’s been invented. And harness—well, everybody in town can
tell when Ambersons are out driving after dark, by the jingle. This
town never did see so much style as Ambersons are putting on, these
days; and I guess it’s going to be expensive, because a lot of other
folks’ll try to keep up with ’em. The Major’s wife and the daughter’s
been to Europe, and my wife tells me since they got back they make tea
there every afternoon about five o’clock, and drink it. Seems to me it
would go against a person’s stomach, just before supper like that, and
anyway tea isn’t fit for much—not unless you’re sick or something. My
wife says Ambersons don’t make lettuce salad the way other people do;
they don’t chop it up with sugar and vinegar at all. They pour olive
oil on it with their vinegar, and they have it separate—not along with
the rest of the meal. And they _eat_ these olives, too: green things
they are, something like a hard plum, but a friend of mine told me they
tasted a good deal like a bad hickory-nut. My wife says she’s going to
buy some; you got to eat nine and then you get to like ’em, she says.
Well, I wouldn’t eat nine bad hickory-nuts to get to like _them_, and
I’m going to let these olives alone. Kind of a woman’s dish, anyway,
I suspect, but most everybody’ll be makin’ a stagger to worm through
nine of ’em, now Ambersons brought ’em to town. Yes, sir, the rest’ll
eat ’em, whether they get sick or not! Looks to me like some people
in this city’d be willing to go crazy if they thought that would help
’em to be as high-toned as Ambersons. Old Aleck Minafer—he’s about the
closest old codger we got—he come in my office the other day, and he
pretty near had a stroke tellin’ me about his daughter Fanny. Seems
Miss Isabel Amberson’s got some kind of a dog—they call it a Saint
Bernard—and Fanny was bound to have one, too. Well, old Aleck told her
he didn’t like dogs except rat-terriers, because a rat-terrier cleans
up the mice, but she kept on at him, and finally he said all right she
could have one. Then, by George! she says Ambersons _bought_ their
dog, and you can’t get one without paying for it: they cost from fifty
to a hundred dollars up! Old Aleck wanted to know if I ever heard of
anybody buyin’ a dog before, because, of course, even a Newfoundland or
a setter you can usually get somebody to give you one. He says he saw
some sense in payin’ a nigger a dime, or even a quarter, to _drown_ a
dog for you, but to pay out fifty dollars and maybe more—well, sir, he
like to choked himself to death, right there in my office! Of course
everybody realizes that Major Amberson is a fine business man, but what
with throwin’ money around for dogs, and every which and what, some
think all this style’s bound to break him up, if his family don’t quit!”
One citizen, having thus discoursed to a visitor, came to a thoughtful
pause, and then added, “Does seem pretty much like squandering, yet
when you see that dog out walking with this Miss Isabel, he seems worth
the money.”
“What’s she look like?”
“Well, sir,” said the citizen, “she’s not more than just about eighteen
or maybe nineteen years old, and I don’t know as I know just how to put
it—but she’s kind of a _delightful_ lookin’ young lady!”