“Why, son!” said Eliza diplomatically, “no one has a word to say against the way you’ve done your work. We’re very proud of you.”
“You needn’t be,” he said sullenly. “I’ve wasted a great deal of time and some money. But I’ve had something out of it—more than most—I’ve done as much work for my wages as you deserve. I’ve given you a fair value for your money; I thank you for nothing.”
“What’s that! What’s that!” said Eliza sharply.
“I said I thank you for nothing, but I take that back.”
“That’s better!” said Luke.
“Yes, I have a great deal to give thanks for,” said Eugene. “I give thanks for every dirty lust and hunger that crawled through the polluted blood of my noble ancestors. I give thanks for every scrofulous token that may ever come upon me. I give thanks for the love and mercy that kneaded me over the washtub the day before my birth. I give thanks for the country slut who nursed me and let my dirty bandage fester across my navel. I give thanks for every blow and curse I had from any of you during my childhood, for every dirty cell you ever gave me to sleep in, for the ten million hours of cruelty or indifference, and the thirty minutes of cheap advice.”
“Unnatural!” Eliza whispered. “Unnatural son! You will be punished if there’s a just God in heaven.”
“Oh, there is! I’m sure there is!” cried Eugene. “Because I have been punished. By God, I shall spend the rest of my life getting my heart back, healing and forgetting every scar you put upon me when I was a child. The first move I ever made, after the cradle, was to crawl for the door, and every move I have made since has been an effort to escape. And now at last I am free from you all, although you may hold me for a few years more. If I am not free, I am at least locked up in my own prison, but I shall get me some beauty, I shall get me some order out of this jungle of my life: I shall find my way out of it yet, though it take me twenty years more—alone.”
“Alone?” said Eliza, with the old suspicion. “Where are you going?”
“Ah,” he said, “you were not looking, were you? I’ve gone.”
XXXIII
During the few remaining days of his holiday, he stayed almost entirely away from the house, coming for a brief and mumbled meal, and late at night, for bed. He waited for departure as a prisoner for release. The dolorous prelude to a journey—the wet platform eyes, the sudden radiation of hectic warmth, the declarations of love at sound of the whistle—left him this time unmoved. The tear-ducts, he was beginning to discover, had, like sweat-glands, dermic foundations, and were easily brought to a salty sparkle at mere sight of a locomotive. He had, therefore, the somewhat detached composure of a gentleman on his way to a comfortable weekend, who stands in a noisy crowd, waiting for the ferry.
He gave benediction to the words in which he had so happily defined his position as wage-earner. They stated and confirmed an attitude, and in some measure protected him against the constant betrayals of sentiment. During the Spring he worked stupendously at joining activities, knowing that here was coin whose ring they could hear. He wrote conscientiously each item of his distinctions; his name found its way back more than once to the indulgent Altamont papers. Gant kept the clippings proudly, and gave public readings when he could.
The boy had two short awkward letters from Ben, who was now stationed one hundred miles away, in the tobacco town. At Easter, Eugene visited him, staying at his lodgings, where again his unerring destiny had thrown him into the welcoming arms of a gray-haired widow. She was under fifty—a handsome silly woman, who prodded and teased him as she would an adored child. She addressed him—with a loose giggle—as “Old Curly-Head,” at which he fetched out his usual disgusted plea to his Maker. “O my God! Listen to this!” She had reverted to an astonishing romping girlhood, and would exercise her playfulness by leaping suddenly upon Old Curly-Head, dealing him a stiff dig in the ribs, and skipping away with a triumphant “Hah! Got you that time!”
There was forever in that town a smell of raw tobacco, biting the nostrils with its acrid pungency: it smote the stranger coming from the train, but all the people in the town denied it, saying: “No; there is no smell at all.” And within a day the stranger too could smell it no more.
On Easter morning he arose in the blue light and went with the other pilgrims to the Moravian cemetery.
“You ought to see it,” Ben said. “It’s a famous custom: people come from everywhere.” But the older brother did not go. Behind massed bands of horns, the trumpeting blare of trombones, the big crowds moved into the strange burial ground where all the stones lay flat upon the graves—symbol, it was said, of all-levelling Death. But as the horns blared, the old ghoul-fantasy of death returned, the grave slabs made him think of tablecloths: he felt as if he were taking part in some obscene feast.
Spring was coming on again across the earth like a light sparkle of water-spray: all of the men who had died were making their strange and lovely return in blossom and flower. Ben walked along the streets of the tobacco town looking like asphodel. It was strange to find a ghost there in that place: his ancient soul prowled wearily by the cheap familiar brick and all the young façades.
There
