Chapter 21
One afternoon, in the young summer, Gant leaned upon the rail, talking to Janadot. He was getting on to 65. His erect body had settled. He stooped a little. He spoke of old age often, and he wept in his tirades now because of his stiffened hand. Soaked in pity, he referred to himself as the poor old cripple who has to provide for them all. The indolence of age and disintegration was creeping over him.
He now rose a full hour later. He came to his shop punctually, but he spent long hours of the day extended on the worn leather couch of his office or in gossip with Janito, body old little cardiac and fag sluter, who had salted away his fortune in two big buildings on the square
and was at the present moment tilted comfortably in a chair before the fire department, gossiping eagerly with members of the ball club, whose chief support he was. It was after five o'clock. The game was over. Negro labors, grisly with a white coating of cement, sloped down past the shop on their way home. The draymen dispersed slowly. A slouchy policeman loafed down the steps of the city hall picking his teeth.
And on the market side, from high grilled windows, there came the occasional howls of a drunken negress. Life buzzed slowly like a fly. The sun had reddened slightly. There was a cool flowing breath from the hills, a refreshing relaxation over the tired earth, the hope, the ecstasy of evening in the air. In slow pulses, the thick plume of fountain rose fell upon itself and slapped the pool in lazy rhythms.
A wagon rattled leanly over the big cobbles. Beyond the firemen, the grocer Bradley wound up his awning with slow creaking revolutions. Across the square at its other edge, the young virgins of the eastern part of town walked lightly home in chattering groups. They came to town at four o'clock in the afternoon,
walked up and down the little avenue several times, entered a shop to purchase small justifications, and finally went into the chief drugstore, where the bucks of the town loafed and drawled in lazy alert groups. It was their club, their brasserie, the forum of the sexes. With confident smiles, the young men detached themselves from their group and strolled back to booth and table. Hey there, where'd you come from?
Move over then, lady. I want to talk to you. Eyes as blue as southern skies looked roguishly up to laughing gray ones. The winsome dimples deepened, and the sweetest little tail in dear old Dixie slid gently over on the polished board. Gant spent delightful hours now in the gossip of dirty old men. Their huddled bodry exploded in cracked high wheezes on the square.
He came home an evening, stored with gutter tidings, wetting his thumb and smiling slyly as he questioned Helen, hopefully. She's no better than a regular little chippy, huh? Ha ha ha, she laughed mockingly. Don't you wish you knew? His age bore certain fruits, emoluments of service. When she came home in the evening with one of her friends, she presented the girl with jocose eagerness to his embrace.
and crying out paternally, why, bless her heart, come kiss the old man. He planted bristling mustache kisses on their white throats, their soft lips, grasping the firm meat of one arm tenderly with his good hand and cradling them gently. They shrieked with throaty giggle twiddles of pleasure because it ta-ta-ta-ta-ta tickled so. Oh, Mr. Gant, what, what, what? Your father's such a nice man, they said. Such lovely manners. Helen's eyes fed fiercely on them. She laughed
with husky, harsh excitement. Ha ha ha, he likes that, doesn't he? It's too bad, old boy, isn't it? No more monkey business. He talked with Genito while his fugitive eyes rose over the east end of the square. Before the shop, the comely matrons of the town came up from the market. From time to time they smiled, seeing him, and he bowed sweepingly, such lovely manners. The King of England, he observed, is only a figurehead.
He doesn't begin to have the power of the President of the United States. His power is severely limited, said Janitoe gutturally, by custom, but not by statute. In actuality, he is still one of the most powerful monarchs in the world. His thick black fingers probed carefully into the viscera of a watch. The late King Edward, for all his faults, said Gant, wetting his thumb, was a smart man.
This fellow they've got now is a non-initi and a nincompoop. He grinned faintly, craftily, with pleasure at the big words, glancing slyly at the Swiss to see if they had told. His uneasy eyes followed carefully the stylish carriage of Queen Elizabeth's well-clad figure as she went down by the shop. She smiled pleasantly and for a moment turned her candid stare upon smooth marble slabs of death, carved lambs, and cherubim. Grant bowed elaborately. Good evening, madam, he said. She disappeared. In a moment, she came back decisively and mounted
the broad steps. He watched her approach with quickened pulses. Twelve years. How's the madam? He said gallantly. Elizabeth, I was just telling Janadoe you were the most stylish woman in town. Well, that's mighty sweet of you, Mr. Gantt, she said in her cool, poised voice. You've always got a good word for everyone. She gave a bright, pleasant nod to Janadot,
who swung his huge, scowling head ponderously around and muttered at her. Why, Elizabeth, said Gantt, you haven't changed an inch in 15 years. I don't believe you're a day older. She was 38 and pleasantly aware of it. Oh, yes, she said, laughing.
You're only saying that to make me feel good. I'm no chicken anymore. She had a pale, clear skin, pleasantly freckled, carrot-colored hair, and a thin mouth, live with humor. Her figure was trim and strong, no longer young. She had a great deal of energy, distinction, and elegance in her manner.
How are all the girls, Elizabeth? He asked kindly. Her face grew sad. She began to pull her gloves off. That's what I came in to see you about, she said.
I lost one of them last week. Yes, said Gant, gravely. I was sorry to hear of that. She was the best girl I had, said Elizabeth. I'd have done anything in the world for her.
We did everything we could, she added. I've no regrets on that score. I had a doctor and two trained nurses by her all the time. She opened her black leather handbag, thrust her gloves into it, and pulling out a small blue-bordered handkerchief, began to weep quietly. Uh-uh, uh-uh, uh, said Gant, shaking his head. Too bad, too bad, too bad. Come back to my office, he said. They went back and sat down.
Elizabeth dried her eyes. What was her name? He asked. We called her Lily. Her full name was Lillian Reed.
Why, I knew that girl, he exclaimed. I spoke to her not over two weeks ago. Yes, said Elizabeth. She went like that. One hemorrhage right after another down here.
She tapped her abdomen. Nobody ever knew she was sick until last Wednesday. Friday, she was gone. She wept again. Tuh-tuh, tuh-tuh-tuh, he clucked regretfully.
Too bad, too bad. She was pretty as a picture. I couldn't have loved her more, Mr. Gant, said Elizabeth, if she had been my own daughter. How old was she?
He asked. Twenty-two, said Elizabeth, beginning to weep again. What a pity, what a pity, he agreed. did she have any people? No one who would do anything for her, Elizabeth said. Her mother died when she was 13. She was born out here on the bee tree fork, and her father, she added
indignantly, is a mean old bastard who's never done anything for her or for anyone else. He didn't even come to her funeral. He will be punished, said Gant darkly. As sure as there's a God in heaven, Elizabeth agreed, he'll get what's coming to him in hell, the old bastard. She continued virtuously, I hope he rots. You can depend upon it, he said grimly. He will, Ah, Lord. He was silent a moment while he shook his head with slow regret. A pity, a pity, he muttered, so young. He had the moment of triumph all men have when they hear someone has died. A moment, too, of grisly fear. 64.
I couldn't have loved her more, said Elizabeth, if she'd been one of my own, a young girl like that, with all her life before her. It's pretty sad when you come to think of it, he said. By God, it is. And she was such a fine girl, Mr. Gant, said Elizabeth, weeping softly. She had such a bright future before her. She had more opportunities than I ever had, and I suppose you know.
she spoke modestly what I've done. Why, he exclaimed, startled, you're a rich woman, Elizabeth, damned if I don't believe you are. You own property all over town. I wouldn't say that, she answered, but I've got enough to live on without ever doing another lick of work. I've had to work hard all my life. From now on, I don't intend to turn my hand over. She regarded him with a shy, pleased smile and touched a coil of her fine hair with a small, competent hand
He looked at her attentively, noting with pleasure her firm, uncorseted hips molded compactly into her tailored suit and her cocked, comely legs tapering to graceful feet shod in neat little slippers of tan She was firm, strong, washed, and elegant. A faint scent of lilac hovered over her. He looked at her candid eyes, lucently gray, and saw that she was quite a great lady. By God, Elizabeth, he said, you're a fine-looking woman. I've had a good life, she said. I've taken care of myself.
They had always known each other since first they met. They had no excuses, no questions, no replies. The world fell away from them. In the silence they heard the pulsing slap of the fountain, the high laughter of Baudry in the square. He took a book of models from the desk and began to turn its slick pages. They showed modest box of Georgia marble and Vermont granite. I don't want any of those, she said impatiently. I've already made up my mind. I know what I want.
he looked up surprised what is it i want the angel out front his face was shocked and unwilling he gnawed the corner of his thin lip no one knew how fond he was of the angel publicly he called it his white elephant he cursed it and said he had been a fool to order it for six years it had stood on the porch weathering in all the wind and the rain it was now brown and fly-specked but it had come from carrara in italy and it held a stone lily delicately in one hand the other hand was lifted in benediction it was poised clumsily upon the ball of one fathistic foot and its stupid white face wore a smile of soft stone idiocy. In his rages, Gantt sometimes directed vast climaxes of abuse at the angel. Fiend out of hell, he roared, you have impoverished me, you have ruined me, you have cursed my declining years, and now you will crush me to death,
fearful, awful, and unnatural monster that you are. But sometimes when he was drunk, he fell weeping on his knees before it, called it Cynthia, and entreated its love, forgiveness, and blessing for its sinful but repentant boy. There was laughter from the square. What's the matter? said Elizabeth. Don't you want to sell it? It will cost you a good deal, Elizabeth, he said evasively. I don't care, she answered positively. I've got the money. How much do you want?
he was silent thinking for a moment of the place where the angel stood he knew he had nothing to cover or obliterate that place it left a barren crater in his heart all right he said you can have it for what i paid for it four hundred twenty dollars she took a thick sheaf of banknotes from her purse and counted the money out for him he pushed it back no pay me when the job's finished and it has been set up. You want some sort of inscription, don't you? Yes, there's her full name,
age, place of birth, and so on, she said, giving him a scrawled envelope. I want some poetry too, something that suits a young girl taken off like this. He pulled his tattered little book of inscriptions from a pigeonhole and thumbed its pages, reading her a quatrain here and there. To each she shook her head. Finally, he said, How's this one, Elizabeth? He read, She went away in beauty's flower before her youth was spent. Ere life and love had lived their hour,
God called her, and she went. Yet whispers faith upon the wind, no grief to her was given. She left your love and went to find a greater one in heaven. oh that's lovely lovely she said i want that one yes he agreed i think that's the best one in the musty cool smell of his little office they got up her gallant figure reached his shoulder she buttoned her kid gloves over the small pink conch of her palms and glanced about her his
battered sofa filled one mall the line of his long body was printed in the leather she looked up at him. His face was sad and grave. They remembered. It's been a long time, Elizabeth, he said. They walked slowly to the front through aisleed marbles. Sentinels just beyond the wooden doors, the angel leered vacantly down. Janadot drew his great head turtle-wise a little further into the protective hunch of his burly shoulders,
they went out onto the porch. The moon stood already like its own phantom in the clear-washed skies of evening. A little boy with an empty paper delivery bag swung lithely by,
his freckled nostrils dilating pleasantly with hunger and the fancied smell of supper. He passed in for a moment as they stood at the porch edge, all life seemed frozen in a picture.
The fireman and fagged sluter had seen Gant whispered and were now looking toward him. A policeman at the high side porch of the police court leaned on the rail and stared. At the near edge of the central grass plot below the fountain, a farmer bent for water at a bubbling jet rose dripping and stared. From the tax collector's office, City Hall, upstairs,
Yancey, huge, meaty, shirt-sleeved, stared, and in that second the slow pulse of the fountain was suspended. Life was held, like an arrested gesture, in photographic abeyance, and Gant felt himself alone, moved deathward in a world of seemings, as, in 1910, a man might find himself again in a picture taken on the grounds of the Chicago Fair when he was 30, and his mustache black and noting the bustled ladies and the derbied men fixed in the seconds pull eulation. Remember the dead instant. Seek beyond the borders for what was there he knew.
Or as a veteran who finds himself upon his elbow near Ulysses Grant before the march in pictures of the Civil War and sees a dead man on a horse, or, I should say, like some completed Don who finds himself again before a tent in Scotland in his youth and notes a cricket bat long lost and long forgotten, the face of a poet who has died, and young men, and the tutor as they looked that long vacation when they read nine hours a day for greats. Where now? Whereafter? Where then?
End of section 21
