Thomas Wolfe, page 453
Already the town had passed from their possession, they no longer owned it, it was mortgaged under a debt of fifty million dollars, owned by bonding companies in the North. The very streets they walked on had been sold beneath their feet—and still they bought, bought, bought, signing their names to papers calling for the payment of a king’s ransom for forty feet of earth, reselling the next day to other mad men who signed away their lives with the same careless magnificence. On paper, their profits were fabulous, but their “boom” was already over, and they could not see it. They were staggering below obligations to pay that none of them could meet—and still they bought.
And then, when it seemed that they had exhausted all the possibilities of ruin and extravagance in town, they had rushed out into the wilderness, into the calm eternity of the hills, into the lyrical immensities of wild earth where there was land enough for all men living, where any man could take as much earth as he needed, and they had madly staked off little plots and wedges of the wilderness, as one might try to stake a picket fence out in the middle of the ocean. They had given fancy names to all their plots and stakings—“Wild Boulders”—“Shady Acres”—“Eagle’s Crest.” They set prices to an acre of the wilderness that might have bought a mountain, and made charts and drawings, showing populous and glittering communities of shops, houses, streets, roads, and clubs in regions where there was no road, no street, no house, and which could not be reached in any way save by a group of resolute and desperate pioneers armed with axes, or by airplane.
These places were to be transformed into idyllic colonies for artists and critics and writers—all the artists and critics and writers in the nation—and there were colonies as well for preachers, doctors, actors, dancers, golf-players, and retired locomotive engineers. There were colonies for everyone, and what is more, they sold them!
It was the month of July 1929—that fatal year which brought ruin to millions of people all over the country. They were now drunk with an imagined victory, pressing and shouting in the dusty tumult of the battle, most beaten where they thought their triumph the greatest, so that the desolate and barren panorama of their ruin would not be clearly known to them for several years to come.
X
And now, as John stood there looking at this new strange town, this incredible explosion of a town which had gone mad and frenzied over night, he suddenly remembered the barren night-time streets of the town he had known so well in his childhood. The gaunt pattern of their dreary and unpeopled desolation had burned its acid print upon his memory. Bare, wintry, and deserted—by ten o’clock at night those streets had been an aching monotony and weariness of hard light and empty pavements, a frozen torpor broken only occasionally by the footfalls of some prowler of the night, by desperate famished lonely men who hoped past hope and past belief for some haven of comfort, warmth, and love there in the wilderness, for the sudden opening of a magic door into some secret, rich, and more exultant life. They never found it. They were dying in the darkness, and they knew it—without a goal, a wall, a certain purpose, or a door.
For that was the way the thing had come. That was the way the thing had happened. Yes, it was there—on many a night long past and wearily accomplished in ten thousand little towns and in ten million barren streets where all the passion, hope, and hunger of the famished men beat like a great pulse through the fields of night—it was there and nowhere else that all this madness had been brewed.
And yet, what really had changed in life? Below their feet, the earth was still and everlasting as it had always been. And around them in the cemetery the air brooded with a lazy drowsy warmth. There was the cry of the sweet-singing birds again, the sudden thrumming of bullet noises in undergrowth and leaf, and the sharp cricketing stitch of afternoon, the broken lazy sounds from far away, a voice in the wind, a boy’s shout, a cry, the sound of a bell, as well as all the drowsy fragrance of a thousand warm intoxicating odors—the resinous smell of pine, and the smells of grass and warm sweet clover. It was all as it had always been, but the town where he had spent his childhood and which lay stretched out before him in the evening light had changed past recognition: the town, with its quiet streets and the old frame houses, which were almost obscured beneath the massed leafy spread of trees, was now scarred with hard raw patches of concrete on which the sun fell wearily, or with raw clumps and growths of new construction—skyscrapers, garages, hotels, glittering residential atrocities of stucco and raw brick—or it was scored and scarred harshly by new streets and roads.
The place looked like a battle field; it was cratered and shelltorn with savage explosions of brick and concrete all over town. And in the interspaces the embowered remnants of the old and pleasant town remained, timid, retreating, overwhelmed, to remind one, in all this harsh new din, of foot-falls in a quiet street as men went home at noon, of laughter and quiet voices and the leafy rustle of the night. For this was lost!
This image of his loss, and theirs, had passed through his mind with the speed of light, the instancy of thought, and now he heard his mother’s voice again:
“And you’ll come back!” he heard her saying. “There’s no better or more beautiful place on earth than in these mountains, boy—and some day you’ll come back again,” she cried with all the invincible faith and hopefulness of her strong heart.
An old and tragic light was shining like the light of dreams on the rocky little river which he had seen somewhere, somehow, from the windows of a train long, long ago, in his childhood, somewhere before memory began, and which wound its deathless magic in his heart forever. And that old and tragic light of fading day shone faintly on their faces, and suddenly they were fixed there like a prophecy with the hills and river all around them—and there was something lost, intolerable, foretold, and come to pass, and like old time and destiny—some magic that he could not say.
Down by the river’s edge in darkness he heard the bell, the whistle, and the pounding wheel. It brought to him, as it had done ten thousand times in childhood, its great promise of morning, new lands, and a shining city.
And now, receding, far and faint, he heard again the whistle of the great train pounding on the rails across the river. It swept away from them, leaving the lost and lonely thunder of its echoes in the hills, the flame-flare of its terrific furnace for a moment, and then just heavy wheels and rumbling loaded cars—and, finally, nothing but the silence it had left behind it.
Now, even farther off and almost lost, he heard for the last time its wailing and receding cry, bringing to him again all its wild and secret prophecy, its pain of going, and its triumphant promise of new lands. He saw them fixed forever in his vision, and the lonely light was shining on their faces, and he felt an intolerable pain, an unutterable joy and triumph, as he knew that he would leave them. And something in his heart was saying like a demon’s whisper of unbodied joy that spoke of flight and darkness, new earth he could touch and make his own again: Soon! Soon! Soon!
Then they all got into the car again and drove rapidly away from the green hill of the dead, the woman toward the certitude of lights, the people, and the town; the young man toward the train, the city, and the voyages—all of the gold-bright waters of the morning, the seas, the harbors, and the magic of the ships.
[¬]
THE SUN AND THE RAIN
[Scribner’s Magazine, May 1934]
When he awoke, he was filled with a numb excitement. It was a gray wintry day with snow in the air, and he expected something to happen. He had this feeling often in the country in France: it was a strange mixed feeling of desolation and homelessness, of wondering with a ghostly emptiness why he was there—and a momentary feeling of joy, and hope, and expectancy, without knowing what it was he was going to find.
In the afternoon he went down to the station and a took a train that was going to Orléans. He did not know where Orléans was. The train was a mixed train, made up of goods cars and passenger compartments. He bought a third-class ticket and got into one of the compartments. Then the shrill little whistle blew, and the train rattled out of Chartres into the countryside, in the abrupt and casual way a little French train has, and that was disquieting to him.
There was a light mask of snow on the fields, and the air was smoky: the whole earth seemed to smoke and steam and from the windows of the train one could see the wet earth and the striped cultivated pattern of the fields, and now and then some farm buildings. It did not look like America: the land looked fat and well kept, and even the smoky wintry woods had this well-kept appearance. Far off sometimes one could see the tall lines of poplars and knew there was water there.
In the compartment he found three people—an old peasant and his wife and daughter. The old peasant had sprouting mustaches, a seamed and weather-beaten face, and small rheumy-looking eyes. His hands had a rock-like heaviness and solidity, and he kept them clasped upon his knees. His wife’s face was smooth and brown, there were fine webs of wrinkles around her eyes, and her face was like an old brown bowl. The daughter had a dark sullen face and sat away from them next to the window as if she were ashamed of them. From time to time when they spoke to her she would answer them in an infuriated kind of voice without looking at them.
The peasant began to speak amiably to him when he entered the compartment. He smiled and grinned back at the man, although he did not understand a word the man was saying, and the peasant kept on talking then, thinking he understood.
The peasant took from his coat a package of the cheap powerful tobacco—the ’bleu—which the French Government provides for a few cents for the poor, and prepared to stuff his pipe. The young man pulled a package of American cigarettes from his pocket and offered them to the peasant.
“Will you have one?”
“My faith, yes!” said the peasant.
He took a cigarette clumsily from the package and held it between his great stiff fingers, then held it up to the flame the young man offered, puffing at it in an unaccustomed way. Then he fell to examining it curiously, revolving it in his hands to read the label. He turned to his wife, who had followed every movement of this simple transaction with the glittering intent eyes of an animal, and began a rapid and excited discussion with her.
“It’s American, this.”
“Is it good?”
“My faith, yes—it’s of good quality.”
“Here, let me see! What does it call itself?”
They stared dumbly at the label.
“What do you call this?” said the peasant to the young man.
“Licky Streek,” said the youth, dutifully phonetical.
“L-L-Leek-ee?” they stared doubtfully. “What does that wish to say in French?”
“Je ne sais pas,” he answered.
“Where are you going?” the peasant said, staring at the youth with rheumy little eyes of fascinated curiosity.
“Orleans.”
“How?” the peasant asked with a puzzled look on his face.
“Orleans.”
“I do not understand,” the peasant said.
“Orléans! Orléans!” the girl shouted in a furious tone. “The gentleman says he is going to Orléans.”
“Ah!” the peasant cried with an air of sudden illumination. “Orléans!”
It seemed to the youth that he had said the word just the same way the peasant said it, but he repeated again:
“Yes, Orléans.”
“He is going to Orléans,” the peasant said, turning to his wife.
“Ah-h!” she cried knowingly, with a great air of illumination; then both fell silent, and began to stare at the youth with curious eyes again.
“What region are you from?” the peasant asked presently, still intent and puzzled, staring at him with his small eyes.
“How’s that? I don’t understand.”
“I say—what region are you from?”
“The gentleman is not French!” the girl shouted, as if exasperated by their stupidity. “He is a foreigner. Can’t you see that?”
“Ah-h!” the peasant cried, after a moment, with an air of astounded enlightenment. Then, turning to his wife, he said briefly, “He is not French. He is a stranger.”
“Ah-h!”
And they both turned their small round eyes on him and regarded him with a fixed, animal-like attentiveness.
“From what country are you?” the peasant asked presently. “What are you?”
“I am an American.”
“Ah-h! An American. . . . He is an American,” he said, turning to his wife.
“Ah-h!”
The girl made an impatient movement and continued to stare sullenly out the window.
Then the peasant, with the intent curiosity of an animal, began to examine his companion carefully from head to foot. He looked at his shoes, his clothes, his overcoat, and finally lifted his eyes to the young man’s valise on the rack above his head. He nudged his wife and pointed to the valise.
“That’s good stuff, eh?” he said in a low voice. “It’s real leather.”
“Yes, it’s good, that.”
And both of them looked at the valise for some time and then turned their curious gaze upon the youth again. He offered the peasant another cigarette, and the old man took one, thanking him.
“It’s very fine, this,” he said, indicating the cigarette. “That costs dear, eh?”
“Six francs.”
“Ah-h! . . . that’s very dear,” and he began to look at the cigarette with increased respect.
“Why are you going to Orléans?” he asked presently. “Do you know someone there?”
“No, I am just going to see the town.”
“How?” The peasant blinked at him uncomprehendingly. “You have business there?”
“No. I am going just to visit—to see the place.”
“How?” the peasant said stupidly in a moment, looking at him. “I do not understand.”
“The gentleman says he is going to see the town,” the girl broke in furiously. “Can’t you understand anything?”
“I do not understand what he is saying,” the old man said to her. “He does not speak French.”
“He speaks very well,” the girl said angrily. “I understand him very well. It is you who are stupid—that’s all.”
The peasant was silent for some time now, puffing at his cigarette and looking at the young man with friendly eyes.
“America is very large—eh?” he said at length—making a wide gesture with his hands.
“Yes, it is very large. Much larger than France.”
“How?” the peasant said again with a puzzled, patient look. “I do not understand.”
“He says America is much larger than France,” the girl cried in an exasperated tone. “I understand all he says.”
Then, for several minutes, there was an awkward silence: nothing was said. The peasant smoked his cigarette, seemed on the point of speaking several times, looked bewildered and said nothing. Outside, rain had begun to fall in long slanting lines across the fields, and beyond, in the gray blown sky, there was a milky radiance where the sun should be, as if it were trying to break through. When the peasant saw this, he brightened, and leaning forward to the young man in a friendly manner, he tapped him on the knee with one of his great stiff fingers, and then pointing toward the sun, he said very slowly and distinctly, as one might instruct a child:
“Le so-leil.”
And the young man obediently repeated the word as the peasant had said it:
“Le so-leil.”
The old man and his wife beamed delightedly and nodded their approval, saying, “Yes. Yes. Good. Very good.” Turning to his wife for confirmation, the old man said:
“He said it very well, didn’t he?”
“But, yes! It was perfect!”
Then, pointing to the rain and making a down-slanting movement with his great hands, he said again, very slowly and patiently:
“La pluie.”
“La pluie,” the young man repeated dutifully, and the peasant nodded vigorously, saying:
“Good, good. You are speaking very well. In a little time you will speak good French.” Then, pointing to the fields outside the train, he said gently:
“La terre.”
“La terre,” the young man answered.
“I tell you,” the girl cried angrily from her seat by the window, “he knows all these words. He speaks French very well. You are too stupid to understand him—that is all.”
The old man made no reply to her, but sat looking at the young man with a kind, approving face. Then more rapidly than before, and in succession, he pointed to the sun, the rain, the earth, saying:
“Le soleil . . . la pluie . . . la terre.”
The young man repeated the words after him, and the peasant nodded with satisfaction. Then for a long time no one spoke, there was no sound except for the uneven rackety-clack of the little train, and the girl continued to look sullenly out the window. Outside, the rain fell across the fertile fields in long slanting lines.
Late in the afternoon, the train stopped at a little station, and every one rose to get out. This was as far as the train went: to reach Orléans it was necessary to change to another train.
The peasant, his wife, and his daughter collected their bundles, and got out of the train. On another track, another little train was waiting, and the peasant pointed to this with his great stiff finger, and said to the young man:
“Orléans. That’s your train there.”
The young man thanked him, and gave the old man the remainder of the package of cigarettes. The peasant thanked him effusively, and before they parted, he pointed again rapidly toward the sun, the rain, and the earth, saying with a kind and friendly smile:
“Le soleil . . . la pluie . . . la terre.”
And the young man nodded to show that he understood, repeating what the old man had said. And the peasant shook his head in vigorous approval, saying:
