In early September, the workmen and the decorators left the big
brown-stone house in a condition of coldness known as “modern” and a
state of deadness known as “beautiful.” And then, the family of Burt
moved in. At this time, Quincy was approaching his twelfth birthday.
Not as long as he lived did he forget the feeling that came over him,
that first time, as he mounted the stoop and went through the ponderous
carved door into the house that was now to be his home.
The _coupé_ came to a stand-still. The horses had made a strange and
muffled sing-song on the pavement. From time to time, this changed to a
metallic patter in syncopation--a sound symbol, it seemed to Quincy, of
affright. At these intervals, the carriage jolted, one wheel rolled
high, the other was in a trough. Then again, all righted itself and the
sing-song was resumed. In the coach, was gloom of blue upholstery and
leather. His father and his sisters sat tight, thrilled, their eyes
intent upon the passing city. It was a maelstrom of half impressions.
Cars clanged, other horses sloughed off the view, a swaying coachman
shouted, an insatiate tide of men and women ebbed and flowed. Marsden,
mother, Jonas and the servant had gone before in another carriage. And
now, the frenzy of Manhattan seemed to abate. It was like leaving the
wind behind one on the water. They swung up the border of a Park. There
were trees and shrubs and grass! It was a wood, by all conventions. And
yet it depressed Quincy who yearned for just such balm. The trees were
grey; the grass was dull. Here was not life, but a show of artifice.
Hard walks girded the green stretches like belts of steel. None of the
free tang and give and sunniness, none of the lilt and smiling, none of
the purple murmur of the woods was here. Central Park did not fool
Quincy--could not have fooled him, even if cars had not swept back and
forth between him and it; even if a depressing monotone of houses had
not filled the other flank.
And now, the carriage rolled up. A crowded tramp of the horses and it
came to a halt.
Rhoda and Adelaide seemed to emerge from a trance.
“Here we are!” they sighed, with a hollow note that bespoke the nervous
feel in their stomachs. The carriage door flung open. They bounded out
and ran up the stoop. Josiah half-lifted, half-pushed Quincy to the
pavement. He stood there, balanced by his bewilderments, while his
father paid the coachman.
“Come on, sir,” the big man tapped his shoulder. The carriage had
disappeared. Quincy looked up.
Before him was an unbroken but uneven battlement of houses. Some were
brown, some were red, some were grey. At their feet ran the wide,
flagstoned pavement. Some were straight-stepped, some were curved, some
were curiously decorated boxes. A few had no feet at all--with doorways
punched abruptly in the wall. Before Quincy’s eyes it was brown; the
protuberance with stairs was straight. Red doors were flung wide
open--held so for passage of the trunks--and within was darkness. Above,
it was all very vague and high. Quincy felt this, though he did not
look. He went up mechanically, with his father. As he stepped in, he
felt a quick sensation of the sky--shrill blue, inexorably far away, yet
good. It seemed like a short draught of water when one has been long
athirst. It was but a momentary glimpse. And then, his body carried him
beyond, within, where the sky was not. He saw the long hall, shadowed,
and the wide stairs. It seemed clear to him now why it had been as if
the sky was snuffed away. Everything loomed forward and smothered
Quincy; filled up the crystal space within him that cared for the blue
above and seemed somehow related to it. Everything loaded down upon him,
occupied him, stayed there. As he trudged up, it was as if a mighty
burden had come suddenly. Quincy observed no more, felt nothing more
explicit. But for an instant a perspective flashed on him, though he
deemed it merely a natural panic like a score of others he had
undergone. In it, he saw himself, slight, small, stooped, his head
strained back with his disordered tension, his legs careering stiffly
with untrained, superfluous energy. In it, he saw about him a weight of
gloom--the stuff and color of this house which was to be his home. And
then, once more, he was a child. His mother stood at the head of the
stairs. She was very busy, and rather dirty-looking.
“You had better go up to your room, dear, where you won’t be in the
way.” She turned to Jonas who sat sprawling within vision, upon a great
chair in green satin. “Jonas, will you take Quincy up?”
“Sure,” replied the boy. “Come along, Kid.”
It was easy to tell that what interested Jonas was the chance of
showing.
So they were still to share a room? Quincy learned this, as he took in
the two white-enameled beds and the valise with “J.B.” upon it that he
stumbled over as he entered. The sight of his mother and this new event
which scarcely he had dared to hope for, seemed to enliven Quincy. He
had not given up Jonas. He had had his pangs from him, as from his
mother.
“Oh, Jonas,” he exclaimed, “aren’t you glad we’re here?”
“You bet,” said Jonas.
“No--I mean _we_--”
The elder boy looked down, first quizzically, then with a withering
wrinkle upon his eyes and nose and mouth.
“For God’s sake, Quincy--what a sis you are!” Then,--“Ma says for you to
stay up here,” and left the room.
So Quincy was alone.
* * * * *
The end of that first month was the beginning of the time when Quincy
began once more to breathe in a normal fashion. For long, everything had
been so new, all the old ceremonies had been so suddenly replaced, all
the comfortable nooks of life which with difficulty he had carved for
himself in Harriet were so miserably absent, that life had become a
breathless trick like trying to ride bareback (as he had once essayed),
or endeavoring not to irritate his sisters. There was, for instance, the
problem of eating in the ominous, overbearing dining room, the problem
of sleeping in a bed which shone like the exhibition motor in the shop
on Main Street, the problem of being comfortable in blouses that had to
be kept clean and with thin new stockings that had to be kept whole.
Also, there was the problem of loving his mother in a dazzling housegown
of blue satin. These were like enemies, besetting the routes of life.
And at first they had seemed insuperable. And at last they had faded
quite away, and wonder about them, as well as memory, had died in the
fresh, general glamor. But now, with his recovery, came a new shock.
Something of adoration had persisted in Quincy toward his room-mate
despite constantly recurring disillusions, rational promptings, and
rebuffs. In the fixations of childish fantasy and love there is the
doggedness of plant-life which persists where it has grown, though all
nature conspire to prove the folly of its position. Such plants will
die, or they must be uprooted. They are such stubborn things precisely
because of the logic of their existence--to rise from their roots. A
similar instinct was in Quincy concerning Jonas. All the persuasions of
deed or mind could prevail little against his intuitive attachment,
because they were in different planes. He would hold to his sentiment
for Jonas until the roots of energy which had thus grown were pointedly
grasped and torn away. For a seed of his life instinct was there. And
where it had fallen, it had remained. In Jonas, Quincy saw a future of
his own growth--a boy, happy, cherished, of importance. What aided this
admiration perhaps most of all was the sense of imperviousness to life’s
problems which permeated Jonas. This, in particular, was a desideratum.
But, after all, these were but rationalizations. The heart of the young
boy’s attachment, no young boy could understand.
Quincy was in his room. It was but half an hour before dinner. The boy
sat at his desk solving a knotty problem in arithmetic with a facility
beyond the power of his six-years-older brother. Quincy was very apt at
mathematics. But also, he was good at literature. This double
accomplishment militated against his being singled out for any talent.
It is a way of people, to mark a virtue only when it is one-sided.
So Quincy sat at his little desk and worked. It was a slanting,
box-shaped affair. Its top lifted upon a hinge, disclosing within a maze
of paper, school-books, pencils, twine. In one corner, half hidden under
a pad, were two unframed pictures--cheap photographs which he had
clandestinely collected of the Farnese Hercules and the Venus de Milo.
Quincy’s instinct told him that it would be well not to make show of
these treasures. His mother would have found them naughty, Jonas would
have seared them with the laughter of Philistia. So he hid them and,
like forbidden fruit, enjoyed them. Of all the pictures he had ever
seen, these meant the most to him. The huge, power-ridged torso of the
Hercules filled him with fellowship to so much might and in some way
seemed to make him share the giant’s merciless efficiency. He could
repeat the Labors. The genius of this overweening man who had penetrated
to all the corners of the earth and forever forced for himself
acceptance and a welcome was dazzling to Quincy. He enjoyed gazing at a
plastic wish fulfillment. But for the sentiment of the divine, he turned
toward the Venus. Hercules was to him a successful man; Venus was a
goddess. He loved to look at her. The subdued rhythm of her body, the
gentle poise of her head and breasts justified Quincy in his own nature,
whereas the brawny giant served to mitigate that nature’s realness and
to exalt its opposite. So also, since the Venus reached him not by
antithesis, but by a direct appeal to a deep, primal part of him, his
love for her was more rapt, more pointless, sweeter. He spent more time
with her than with the giant. But she made him think less. And he knew
less about the instinct which drew him toward her.
Above Quincy’s head, as he worked, was an electric bracket. To his left
were the two beds. In the direction that he faced were the windows,
curtained in dainty, dun-colored mesh. To his right was a mahogany
bureau. This was no ideal setting for his work. But Quincy had
learned--it was one of the gifts of the poor days--to concentrate.
The door opened and Jonas slammed in. There was no formality between
them. So Quincy went on working. But in the pause that followed, the
child felt something which disturbed him. Still holding his pencil, he
turned about. There, near the door, stood Jonas, looking at him. On his
face was a gleam of triumph.
“What’s happened, Jonas?”
Jonas chuckled. “Time to get ready for supper, Quint.”
The child jumped up, to obey. “What has happened?”
“Oh, if you only knew!”
“Tell me.”
Jonas laughed tantalizingly. The little lad looked at him with a
hopeless rebuke. And then, tossing his head, he moved to the bureau and
began to brush his hair. His hair seemed to grow awry, to shoot out in a
dozen directions from his scalp. So Quincy’s task was always a fairly
hard one since his mother insisted on a part; and since, when he did
not succeed, she would brush it for him and invariably hurt him. So
Quincy fell to. Jonas stood smiling at him still. Suddenly, he began to
speak.
“I guess I will tell you. I’m going away to school--right off.”
The child leaped around. “Jonas!”
“Next week. To Exeter.”
Quincy’s head worked fast. Then, with effort: “Can’t I go, too?”
It was a fatal question. Jonas took it sneering. He was nearly seventeen
and he had the sense of age and independence that ordinary boys are
prone to.
“You? I guess not. I don’t want _you_ ’round any more. You stay at home,
where you belong--if you belong anywhere.” He smiled.
He would have said more in this great need of establishing his power and
independence through attack on some one immeasurably weaker, in these
things, than himself. But just then a flying brush hurled against his
forehead. He looked up, not understanding. And then, he smiled through
his pain. For it was not to be admitted that this infuriated child could
hurt him.
“You little sinner!--” he stepped back instinctively. Then, again, he
smiled.
And at this last smile, Quincy became an unaccountable demon. He saw
what he had done. It moved him strangely. A need swept over him to rush
up to Jonas, to fling arms about his neck, to kiss him, to implore him,
to cry out: “Take me too. Please, please stop despising me!” This was
all his need. And yet, out of the fullness of his love he had flung his
brush. And out of his love again, there he was, leaping upon his
brother, biting him, scratching him, tearing his face. And all that
became articulate of his beseechment was a liquid “Oh! Oh! Oh!”
Jonas grasped at his frenzied, writhing assailant. At length, he caught
him comprehensively within his arms. And then, Quincy went flying
through the air. He fell, safely, stomach downward, on the bed. And
there he lay, tearless, motionless, overwhelmed with the bitterness of
life.
The door opened. He did not budge. But he understood. The alarm had
brought his father. And there in the door he felt the cold, looming
figure of the man whose presence alone was needed to brim his misery.
Stark, stiffly, he lay now--one nerve of agony. And when his father’s
voice came, it was like the sharp touch of steel upon a nerve that is
exposed.
“What is this?”
“Oh, nothing,” replied Jonas, moved again by the need of minimizing the
damage done by a child not yet turned twelve. But his father could see
the two bloody scratches on his cheek, the slight swelling on his
forehead. And Quincy could hear the nervous clutch in his voice.
Josiah looked long, saying nothing. And then:
“It’s supper time, Jonas.... Come down.... And as to you, my lad,--”
Quincy held his breath with his galled anguish,--“you’d better stay up
here--and cool off.”
Quincy had felt the smile in this voice also. He felt the two, their
eyes meeting and smiling together. Then the door slammed and they were
gone.
Smiles, smiles--what a curse smiles seemed to him! There was so much
laughter in the house. But when they looked at him, it became a smile.
Never, never did they laugh with him. Surely, then, he too must learn
to smile. Rigid as ever, he turned on his back. And through his
scarce-started tears, he looked up at the blurred electric lamp. And
then, as he lay there, his mouth trembled and he learned to smile. It
was an evil moment.
Never had there been so deep a silence. With outstretched body, it was
to Quincy as if he had been swept beyond the bed. He seemed afloat,
astride two worlds, strangely apart from the one in which he had been
incontinently dropped. And then a thought of what had happened--a
whispered thought like a dim memory--brushed him back into the actual
living. With his face hot in fever, his mind seething in visions that
burst out and vanished ere they had been caught, all of his life came to
him in a clear, ghostly light. He saw the household, below stairs,
joyously seated at the gleaming table, eating good things. He felt
hungry. He wished to go out and steal some food. He wished to crash
through the floor and fall, dead and mangled, upon that board of mocking
plenty. But through it all, he managed still to smile.
And then, he looked up. His mother had come in, holding a tray.
“You were very naughty, Quincy,” she said in a voice that went up and
down, “but I have brought you some dinner.”
Quincy was still smiling. He reached out his arm for a pillow and flung
it at his mother. It fell short, doing no harm. Sarah placed the tray
precipitately on a chair and rushed to the bed.
“Darling, darling!” she cried, “why are you like this? Tell mother,
won’t you? What is it? Why? Why?”
She kissed his face. She pressed his hands. She clamped his ears so that
they hurt deliciously. And Quincy lay silent, happy; his smile lost at
last in the sweet tears.
Then, something came over his mother. She stopped.
“I must go now,” she said hurriedly. “Father was angry even at this. He
said for Bridget to bring it up. He’ll be mad, dearest, if I stay.”
She leaned over and kissed her son, once more. He lay now, stiffly again
and sternly. Then the door closed behind her.
For some time Quincy remained upon the bed. His face was a screen to a
bitter battle. Bitterness had the victory. He jumped up and uncovered
the dishes on the tray. Roast-beef soaking in gravy, peas and
sweet-potatoes, apple-sauce and angel cake. Calmly and slowly he took a
dish, moved to the low casement window, opened it, and threw out the
contents. And in this gesture he continued, going back and forth, eyes
bright with fever, mouth parted with passion,--until all of the food he
craved had disappeared into the grey, deep night.
* * * * *
So Jonas went away to school, and the agony of this period in Quincy’s
life set in--the end of the Reign of Jonas.
For the most part, it was the feeling of a void; to fill it, the
creating of a fancied Jonas. And this, being in its essence art, Quincy
discovered to be painful. In his relations with his school-mates, with
his sisters, with Marsden, he missed him most. And the Jonas whom he
regretted was a bland, kind brother, not reasoned-out but clear through
the pleasing memory that he inspired. In brief, Quincy was longing for
a brother he himself had invented. And to this creation went little fact
beyond the name of Jonas. If this new brother’s face was one with the
old, at least his expression was so different as to transfigure it. If
his voice was one, the words he spoke had varied even that. Besides,
Quincy was happy with his creation. Had Jonas never returned, never
shown his real face, his real spirit, doubtless Quincy would have
prospered with his auspicious figment. And though life had turmoiled him
in a dozen other ways, he would still have clung close to his dream,
derived from it sustenance and so hewn out an indomitable faith. For no
actual occurrence could have attained to splinter it. Jonas alone was so
empowered.
Quincy had troubled his mother enough to know on what day Jonas was
coming for his Christmas holidays. At first, knowledge of the day had
sufficed. He had aimed his existence at that day. It had seemed a small
enough target. But when the day came, Quincy realized his error. He
learned of the vague, broad desert that a day can be. He felt the irony
of implacable dimension when one’s heart strains toward a pin-point. He
awoke in the morning with a bound of fear. What if Jonas was already
there! He lay in bed and listened. No stirring. It was not too late. For
Jonas always made a noise. And then, as a sense of gratitude came over
him, it was dispelled at once by a succeeding sickish thought. His
vacation did not begin until the morrow. He would, then, have to spend
the morning--half of the day--out of sight and beyond watch. During that
time, Jonas might walk in! The idea froze him. He thought of playing
sick--just so sick as to be able to remain at home. He did not care
even if it did mean doctoring him. His fervor laughed at castor-oil.
Once more, a glow of satisfaction, such as one feels after a great
invention. But this also, was short-lived. The mournful countenance of
duty had thrust in at the door. The school, that morning, was giving a
Christmas Exercise. He had his rôle in the festivities. There was to be
a masque of the nations, assembled to wish America a happy new year. In
this great ceremony, Quincy was to take the part of Mexico. Leggins,
sombrero, tasseled vest and practice in rolling out “carramba” had gone
toward the occasion. He could not shirk this austere duty. The vision of
staying luxuriously at home, of waiting in the warm house for Jonas, had
disappeared.
And so, since he must run risks, he faced them. He jumped out of bed
although it was a full hour before breakfast. He dressed and went
downstairs. Perhaps Jonas might come in early--and he be there, alone,
to greet him! He was disappointed. And then his mother appeared.
“You down so early?” she asked, looking for something wrong.
“Mama, when does Jonas come?”
“Today.” She went toward the pantry to signal the cook.
“Yes, Mama. But _when_ to-day?”
Sarah looked at her little son as he stood there, all serious and
expectant.
“I don’t know. Don’t bother me. By suppertime, I guess,” and she went
out.
Breakfast went fast, since the threat of school was at its termination.
And then, he and Adelaide were shuttled off in the brand-new limousine.
Before he had gauged the event, he was on his feet. The thought of Jonas
had lurked in a strategic corner of his consciousness. And it had
gathered to it the energy which might have gone to stage-fright.
Before him lay countless amorphous rows of children, with stern
sprinklings of teachers. He began. It was as if his voice went on of
itself--uncontrolled, aloof from him, so that he heard it from afar. He
had studied his rôle too well. It left no fear of his forgetting it. And
in the relief, back stole the thought of Jonas, the possible catastrophe
if he returned, while Quincy stood there droning out his duty. If his
duty was to be done, at least it could be gone through quickly. The
words flowed. He hurried them, as if pursuing from behind. It was a way
of getting back. And then, suddenly, his words stopped. He realized that
there were no others. He sat down.
He received little praise for his performance. His teacher, a stout,
florid creature, came up to him showing her teeth, as she did always
when she was irritated. She found fault with his rendition. But what
bothered Quincy was the thought that his hurrying had not brought nearer
his return. It had been useless.
He did not hate the woman only because of his indifference. About him
was a bustle of holiday excitement. Children laughed and ran about.
Teachers relaxed and Quincy noticed that when they became smirkingly
human they were still more disagreeable than when they had been
teachers. It was as if they had taken off their clothes. Greetings of
“Merry Christmas” interspersed the general murmur of voices and light
feet. It was all like a great, dim wave on the edge of Quincy’s
consciousness.
At last, however, the wave broke; the voices scattered; the eddies
lessened. And then, Quincy came home.
Jonas was not there. So he ate his lunch, tossed between gladness at not
having missed him and hollow perturbation at the deep-shadowed future.
For in this state, the coming home of Jonas was Quincy’s future.
His mother had said to Rhoda:
“Dear, if you have nothing to do, will you take the children for a short
walk in the Park?”
Rhoda had consented. The remainder of the meal was torture to Quincy.
But out of his new anguish was born a device. For he was resolved not to
go out, that afternoon.
As soon as the company had gotten up from the table, Quincy went bravely
up to Rhoda who stood alone in a corner. Rhoda was seventeen--a remote,
resplendent creature. She was dark and tall and very cold and very
occupied in her own mysterious affairs. Quincy looked up at her with
admiration, but with distance. He felt that she was beautiful. He felt
that he would not have minded had she kissed him--which she never did;
that he would have been glad, had she noticed him--which occurred scarce
more often. Now, however, he was inspired. So he went up to her
unhesitant, reached for her wrists, clasped them, and spoke.
“Sister.”
“Well?”
“Please, sister--make Mama not make you take me out, to-day.”
“What’s wrong?” She looked down, interested.
“Please, sister--I want to be here when Jonas is coming.”
He looked up piteously. And Rhoda laughed.
“All right. I don’t care, I’m sure. I’ll see to it.”
So Quincy went up to his room. He did not take out his toy engine or his
soldiers. He knew he should not be able to do his vacation homework. For
some strange reason, he was prompted to look at Hercules and Venus. But
mostly, he waited. Waiting was by now the atmosphere he lived in. His
mood had grown so wide, he scarcely noticed it, for want of something to
contrast it with. His strain toward Jonas had grown so intense, he
scarce saw him, felt him, thought of him any longer. His subconscious
mind seemed to be the active one. So he merely waited, doing few
external things, aware of few external qualities. And among those that
went were time and Jonas. All that remained was the abstract waiting for
him.
And then, a noise below. For a moment, it meant nothing. Then it flashed
on him palpably that Jonas had arrived! He rushed to the door. He was
downstairs. Jonas was before him.
“Brother!” he cried, aching to be caught up.
Jonas looked down at the intrusion.
“Oh, hello, Kid. How are you?” He had outgrown kissing. He threw his
coat on a chair, lounged into another, lighted a cigarette and then went
on: “Say, Ma--I’m hungry.”
* * * * *
If there was a shred of hope left, it went that evening.
The scene took place directly after supper. It took place before Quincy.
And, most horrible of all, Quincy was its cause. Jonas objected to
sharing a room during his vacation with a twelve year old child. That
was the crux. He explained amply what he meant. He had had a different
sort of a room-mate at school. He was sorry now, that he had not
accepted his invitation to go with him to Chicago. He’d not have been
placed in the nursery, _there_. When fellows came home from “work” at
Christmas, their families were expected to be a little considerate of
them. Some had their breakfasts served in bed. He didn’t demand that. He
wasn’t selfish. But there were certain indignities one had to draw the
line at! He was not proposing to spend his vacation by going to bed with
the chickens--or the babies. He expected to have “late dates” every
night; “late sleeps” every morning. He did not wish to be disturbed. He
was used to smoking in his bedroom, before sleep, before arising. This
also, was a habit dear to his manhood. But, most important of all
arguments, he simply _would not have it_! If the Kid stayed where he
was, he, Jonas, would wire to his chum and take the sleeper to Chicago.
Just watch and see if he didn’t! Didn’t he have cash enough in his
pocket?
All this, Quincy heard, sitting quiet and alone in a corner, while his
hero paced the floor, using his name, ignoring his presence, soiling his
soul. And now, Rhoda chimed in, agreeing. And now they all agreed!
The broad sofa in the parental room was to be improvised at once into a
bed. This would do for Quincy, during the vacation.
The servant was summoned, the deadly order given. Jonas called out a
general “good-bye” that somehow did not include his brother in the
corner, since he had not turned in that direction. He left the house to
meet a friend, downtown.