Burned Bridges, Bertrand W. Sinclair [ready to read books .txt] 📗

Time--Maybe No More. Sophie Leave Sumpin' You. I Get." Chapter 7 (A Fortune And A Flitting) Pg 66

She Crossed The Room To A Shelf Above The Serried Volumes Of Sam Carr's

Library,  Lifted The Cover Of A Tin Tobacco Box And Took Out A Letter.

This She Gave To Thompson. Then She Sat Down Cross-Legged On The

Wolfskin Beside Her Youngster,  Looking Up At Her Visitor Impassively,

Her Moon Face Void Of Expression,  Except Perhaps The Mildest Trace Of

Curiosity.

 

Thompson Fingered The Envelope For A Second,  Scarcely Crediting His

Ears. The Letter In His Hands Conveyed Nothing. He Did Not Recognize The

Writing. He Was Acutely Conscious Of A Dreadful Heartsinking. There Was

A Finality About The Indian Woman's Statement That Chilled Him.

 

"They Have Gone Away?" He Said. "Where? When Did They Go?"

 

"Long Time. Two Moon," She Replied Matter-Of-Factly. "Dunno Where Go.

Sam Say He Go--Don't Know When Come Back. Leave Me House,  Plenty

Blanket,  Plenty Grub. Next Spring He Say He Send More Grub. That All.

Sophie Go Too."

 

Thompson Stared At Her. Perhaps He Was Not Alone In Facing Something

That Numbed Him.

 

"Your Man Go Away. Not Come Back. You Sorry? You Feel Bad?" He Asked.

 

Her Lips Parted In A Wide Smile.

 

"Sam He Good Man," She Said Evenly. "Leave Good Place For Me. I Plenty

Warm,  Plenty To Eat. I No Care He Go. Sam,  Pretty Soon He Get Old. I

Want Ketchum Man,  I Ketchum. No Feel Bad. No."

 

She Shook Her Head,  As If The Idea Amused Her. And Mr. Thompson,

Perceiving That A Potential Desertion Which Moved Him To Sympathy Did

Not Trouble Her At All,  Turned His Attention To The Letter In His Hand.

He Opened The Envelope. There Were Half A Dozen Closely Written Sheets

Within.

 

    Dear Freckle-Faced Man: There Is Such A Lot I Want To Say That I

    Don't Know Where To Begin. Perhaps You'll Think It Queer I Should

    Write Instead Of Telling You,  But I Have Found It Hard To Talk To

    You,  Hard To Say What I Mean In Any Clear Sort Of Way. Speech Is

    A Tricky Thing When Half Of One's Mind Is Dwelling On The Person

    One Is Trying To Talk To And Only The Other Half Alive To What

    One Is Trying To Express. The Last Time We Were Together It Was

    Hard For Me To Talk. I Knew What I Was Going To Do,  And I Didn't

    Like To Tell You. I Wanted To Talk And When I Tried I Blundered.

    Too Much Feeling--A Sort Of Inward Choking. Andast Generation Used To

Read And Reread "Mr. Barnes Of New York," And "Mr. Potter Of Texas," And

"Miss Nobody Of Nowhere," And "That Frenchman," Which Should Have Been

Called "M. De Vernay Of Paris." Those Were The Earliest And The "Big

Four." The List Of Successors Is A Long One,  But That Certain Something,

That Indefinable Quality,  Which Had Made The First Books Great Trash Was

Irrevocably Gone. Of All The Flamboyant Characters Of The Tales Mr.

Barnes Was Deservedly The Most Popular,  And At Such Times As He Was Not

Winning International Rifle Matches At Monte Carlo,  Or Racing About

Europe In Respectable Pursuit Of Desirable Young Ladies,  He Inhabited A

Dwelling On Lower Fifth Avenue. Practically All Fifth Avenue Were The

Scenes Of "Miss Nobody Of Nowhere," With Its Charming Heroine And Her

Adopted Parents,  Its Wicked English Nobleman,  And Its Comical Little

Chapter 7 (A Fortune And A Flitting) Pg 67

Anglo-Maniac Dude. Under Some Name Or Other A "Gussie Van Beekman" Was A

Necessary Ingredient Of Every Gunter Novel.

 

It Is A Far Cry From Gunter To Henry James,  Though Each Wrought

According To His Lights,  And Served His Purpose In His Time. It Was When

The Avenue Was In Its Infancy That Dr. Sloper,  Of James's "Washington

Square," Went To Live In The Brick House With White Stone Trimmings,

That,  Practically Unchanged,  May Be Seen Today,  Diagonally Across The

Street From The Arch. The Novelist Wrote Of The Locality As Having "A

Kind Of Established Repose Which Is Not Of Frequent Occurrence In Other

Quarters Of The Long,  Shrill City"; And Ascribed To It,  "A Richer,  Riper

Look Than Any Of The Upper Ramifications Of The Great Longitudinal

Thoroughfare--The Look Of Having Had Something Of A Social History."

That "Richer,  Riper Look," That Suggestion Of A Past,  Is There To-Day,

And Is Likely To Be There Tomorrow. The Particular Sloper House Is Quite

Easy Of Identification. It Is The Third From The Corner As One Goes

Westward From The Avenue. In 1835,  When Dr. Sloper First Took

Possession,  Moving Uptown From The Neighbourhood Of The City Hall,  Which

Had Seen Its Best Days Socially,  The Square,  Then The Ideal Of Quiet And

Genteel Retirement,  Was Enclosed By A Wooden Paling. The Edifice In

Which The Slopers Lived And Its Neighbours Were Then Thought To Embody

The Last Results Of Architectural Science. It Actually Dates To 1831.

Among The Merchants Who Built In That Year Were Thomas Suffern,  Saul

Allen,  John Johnston,  George Griswold,  James Boorman,  And William C.

Rhinelander. It Was Their Type Of House That Was Accepted For The

Neighbourhood As The First Streets Began To Open To The Right And Left

Of Fifth Avenue. That Northern Stretch Of The Square,  First Invaded In

Fiction By Henry James,  Has Ever Been A Favourite Background Of The

Story-Spinners,  Who Never Tire Of Contrasting Its Tone Of Well-Bred

Aristocracy With The Squalor,  Half-Bohemian And Half-Proletarian,  That

Faces It From Across The Park. In Fiction One Does Not Necessarily Have

To Be Of An Old New York Family In Order To Inhabit One Of Those

North-Side Dwellings. Robert Walmsley,  Of O. Henry's "The Defeat Of The

City," Lived There,  And The Boyhood To Which He Looked Back Was One

Spent On An Up-State Farm; While Another Erstwhile Tenant In The

Exclusive Row Was The Devious Artemas Quibble,  Of Mr. Arthur Train's

Narrative,  Who Began Life Humbly Somewhere In Grey New England,  And

Ended It,  So Far As The Reader Was Informed,  In Sing Sing Prison. Then

There Was The Home Of Mrs. Martin,  The "Duchess Of Washington Square" Of

Brander Matthews's "The Last Meeting," And That Of Miss Grandish,  Of

Julian Ralph's "People We Pass," And The House Of Mrs. Delaney,  Of Edgar

Fawcett's "Rutherford," And The Structure Which Inspired One-Half Of

Edward W. Townsend's "Just Across The Square," And The Five-Room

Apartment "At The Top Of A House With Dormer Windows On The North Side"

Where Sanford Lived According To F. Hopkinson Smith's "Caleb West," And

Where His Guests,  Looking Out,  Could See The "Night Life Of The Park,

Miniature Figures Strolling About Under The Treing In Brilliant

Light Or Swallowed Up In Dense Shadow As They Passed In The Glare Of

Many Lamps Scattered Among The Budding Foliage." Also Over The Square,

Regarded In The Light Of Fiction,  Is The Friendly Shadow Of Bunner,  Who

Liked It At Any Time,  But Liked It Best Of All At Night,  With The Great

Dim Branches Swaying And Breaking In The Breeze,  The Gas Lamps

Flickering And Blinking,  When The Tumults And The Shoutings Of The Day

Were Gone And "Only A Tramp Or Something Worse In Woman's Shape Was

Chapter 7 (A Fortune And A Flitting) Pg 68

Hurrying Across The Bleak Space,  Along The Winding Asphalt,  Walking Over

The Potter's Field Of The Past On The Way To The Potter's Field To Be."

 

[Illustration: "At The Northwest Corner Of Fifty-Fourth Street Is The

University Club,  To The Mind Of Arnold Bennett ('Your United States'),

The Finest Of All The Fine Structures That Line The Avenue"]

 

But To Turn Into The Avenue Proper,  And To Follow The Trail Of The

Novelists Northward. At The Very Point Of Departure We Are On The Site

Of The Imaginary Structure That Gave The Title To Leroy Scott's "No. 13

Washington Square," For The Reason That There Is No Such Number At All,

And That The House In Question Must Have Occupied The Space Between Nos.

12 And 14,  Respectively,  On The East And West Corners Facing Waverly

Place. Before The Next Street Is Reached We Have Passed The Home Of The

Huntingdons Of Edgar Fawcett's "A Hopeless Case," And At The Southwest

Corner Of The Avenue And Eighth Street,  Facing The Brevoort,  Is No. 68

Clinton Place,  Which Was Not Only The Setting,  But Also The _Raison

D'être_ Of Thomas A. Janvier's "A Temporary Deadlock." Almost Diagonally

Across The Street Is An Old Brick House,  With Ionic Pillars Of Marble

And A Fanlight At The Arched Entrance--One Of Those Houses That,  To Use

The Novelist's Words,  "Preserve Unobtrusively,  In The Midst Of A City

That Is Being Constantly Rebuilt,  The Pure Beauty Of Colonial

Dwellings." It Was The Home Of The Ferrols Of Stephen French Whitman's

"Predestined," One Of The Books Of Real Power That Appear From Time To

Time,  To Be Strangely Neglected,  And Through That Neglect To Tempt The

Discriminating Reader To Contempt For The Literary Judgment Of His Age.

 

At The Northwest Corner Of Ninth Street There Is A Brownish-Green

Building Erected In The Long,  Long Ago To Serve As A Domicile Of The

Brevoort Family,  Which Had Once Exercised Pastoral Sway Over So Many

Acres Of This Region. Later It Became The Home Of The De Rhams. But To

Richard Harding Davis,  Then A Reporter On The "Evening Sun," It Had

Nothing Of The Flavour Of The Patroons. It Was Simply The House Where

Young Cortlandt Van Bibber,  Returning From Jersey City Where He Had

Witnessed The "Go" Between "Dutchy" Mack And A Coloured Person

Professionally Known As The Black Diamond,  Found His Burglar. There Is

No Mistaking The House,  Which "Faced The Avenue," Nor The Stone Wall

That Ran Back To The Brown Stable Which Opened On The Side Street,  Nor

The Door In The Wall,  That,  Opening Cautiously,  Showed Van Bibber The

Head Of His Quarry. "The House Was Tightly Closed,  As If Some One Was

Lying Inside Dead," Was A Line Of Mr. Davis's Description. Many Years

After The Writing Of "Van Bibber's Burglar," Another Maker Of Fiction

Associated With New York Was Standing Before The Ninth Street House,  Of

The History Of Which He Knew Nothing. "Grim Tragedy Lives There,  Or

Should Live There," Said Owen Johnson,  "I Never Pass Here Without The

Feeling That There Is Some One Lying Dead Inside."

 

Van Bibber's Presence In The Neighbourhood Was In No Wise Surprising,

For It Was One Of His Favourite Haunts When He Was