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Title: Poor White
Author: Sherwood Anderson
Release Date: February, 2005 [EBook #7414]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on April 26, 2003]
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POOR WHITE ***
Produced by Eric Eldred, William Flis
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
[Note: The evident misprint of Book Six for Book Five in the original
is preserved here.]
BOOK I
CHAPTER I
Hugh McVey was born in a little hole of a town stuck on a mud bank on the
western shore of the Mississippi River in the State of Missouri. It was
a miserable place in which to be born. With the exception of a narrow
strip of black mud along the river, the land for ten miles back from the
town--called in derision by river men "Mudcat Landing"--was almost entirely
worthless and unproductive. The soil, yellow, shallow and stony, was
tilled, in Hugh's time, by a race of long gaunt men who seemed as exhausted
and no-account as the land on which they lived. They were chronically
discouraged, and the merchants and artisans of the town were in the same
state. The merchants, who ran their stores--poor tumble-down ramshackle
affairs--on the credit system, could not get pay for the goods they handed
out over their counters and the artisans, the shoemakers, carpenters and
harnessmakers, could not get pay for the work they did. Only the town's two
saloons prospered. The saloon keepers sold their wares for cash and, as the
men of the town and the farmers who drove into town felt that without drink
life was unbearable, cash always could be found for the purpose of getting
drunk.
Hugh McVey's father, John McVey, had been a farm hand in his youth but
before Hugh was born had moved into town to find employment in a tannery.
The tannery ran for a year or two and then failed, but John McVey stayed in
town. He also became a drunkard. It was the easy obvious thing for him to
do. During the time of his employment in the tannery he had been married
and his son had been born. Then his wife died and the idle workman took his
child and went to live in a tiny fishing shack by the river. How the boy
lived through the next few years no one ever knew. John McVey loitered in
the streets and on the river bank and only awakened out of his habitual
stupor when, driven by hunger or the craving for drink, he went for a day's
work in some farmer's field at harvest time or joined a number of other
idlers for an adventurous trip down river on a lumber raft. The baby was
left shut up in the shack by the river or carried about wrapped in a soiled
blanket. Soon after he was old enough to walk he was compelled to find work
in order that he might eat. The boy of ten went listlessly about town at
the heels of his father. The two found work, which the boy did while the
man lay sleeping in the sun. They cleaned cisterns, swept out stores and
saloons and at night went with a wheelbarrow and a box to remove and dump
in the river the contents of out-houses. At fourteen Hugh was as tall as
his father and almost without education. He could read a little and could
write his own name, had picked up these accomplishments from other boys who
came to fish with him in the river, but he had never been to school. For
days sometimes he did nothing but lie half asleep in the shade of a bush on
the river bank. The fish he caught on his more industrious days he sold for
a few cents to some housewife, and thus got money to buy food for his big
growing indolent body. Like an animal that has come to its maturity he
turned away from his father, not because of resentment for his hard youth,
but because he thought it time to begin to go his own way.
In his fourteenth year and when the boy was on the point of sinking into
the sort of animal-like stupor in which his father had lived, something
happened to him. A railroad pushed its way down along the river to his town
and he got a job as man of all work for the station master. He swept out
the station, put trunks on trains, mowed the grass in the station yard and
helped in a hundred odd ways the man who held the combined jobs of ticket
seller, baggage master and telegraph operator at the little out-of-the-way
place.
Hugh began a little to awaken. He lived with his employer, Henry Shepard,
and his wife, Sarah Shepard, and for the first time in his life sat down
regularly at table. His life, lying on the river bank through long summer
afternoons or sitting perfectly still for endless hours in a boat, had bred
in him a dreamy detached outlook on life. He found it hard to be definite
and to do definite things, but for all his stupidity the boy had a great
store of patience, a heritage perhaps from his mother. In his new place the
station master's wife, Sarah Shepard, a sharp-tongued, good-natured woman,
who hated the town and the people among whom fate had thrown her, scolded
at him all day long. She treated him like a child of six, told him how
to sit at table, how to hold his fork when he ate, how to address people
who came to the house or to the station. The mother in her was aroused by
Hugh's helplessness and, having no children of her own, she began to take
the tall awkward boy to her heart. She was a small woman and when she stood
in the house scolding the great stupid boy who stared down at her with
his small perplexed eyes, the two made a picture that afforded endless
amusement to her husband, a short fat bald-headed man who went about clad
in blue overalls and a blue cotton shirt. Coming to the back door of his
house, that was within a stone's throw of the station, Henry Shepard stood
with his hand on the door-jamb and watched the woman and the boy. Above
the scolding voice of the woman his own voice arose. "Look out, Hugh," he
called. "Be on the jump, lad! Perk yourself up. She'll be biting you if you
don't go mighty careful in there."
Hugh got little money for his work at the railroad station but for the
first time in his life he began to fare well. Henry Shepard bought the
boy clothes, and his wife, Sarah, who was a master of the art of cooking,
loaded the table with good things to eat. Hugh ate until both the man and
woman declared he would burst if he did not stop. Then when they were not
looking he went into the station yard and crawling under a bush went to
sleep. The station master came to look for him. He cut a switch from the
bush and began to beat the boy's bare feet. Hugh awoke and was overcome
with confusion. He got to his feet and stood trembling, half afraid he was
to be driven away from his new home. The man and the confused blushing boy
confronted each other for a moment and then the man adopted the method
of his wife and began to scold. He was annoyed at what he thought the
boy's indolence and found a hundred little tasks for him to do. He devoted
himself to finding tasks for Hugh, and when he could think of no new ones,
invented them. "We will have to keep the big lazy fellow on the jump.
That's the secret of things," he said to his wife.
The boy learned to keep his naturally indolent body moving and his clouded
sleepy mind fixed on definite things. For hours he plodded straight ahead,
doing over and over some appointed task. He forgot the purpose of the job
he had been given to do and did it because it was a job and would keep him
awake. One morning he was told to sweep the station platform and as his
employer had gone away without giving him additional tasks and as he was
afraid that if he sat down he would fall into the odd detached kind of
stupor in which he had spent so large a part of his life, he continued
to sweep for two or three hours. The station platform was built of rough
boards and Hugh's arms were very powerful. The broom he was using began to
go to pieces. Bits of it flew about and after an hour's work the platform
looked more uncleanly than when he began. Sarah Shepard came to the door of
her house and stood watching. She was about to call to him and to scold him
again for his stupidity when a new impulse came to her. She saw the serious
determined look on the boy's long gaunt face and a flash of understanding
came to her. Tears came into her eyes and her arms ached to take the great
boy and hold him tightly against her breast. With all her mother's soul she
wanted to protect Hugh from a world she was sure would treat him always
as a beast of burden and would take no account of what she thought of as
the handicap of his birth. Her morning's work was done and without saying
anything to Hugh, who continued to go up and down the platform laboriously
sweeping, she went out at the front door of the house and to one of
the town stores. There she bought a half dozen books, a geography, an
arithmetic, a speller and two or three readers. She had made up her mind to
become Hugh McVey's school teacher and with characteristic energy did not
put the matter off, but went about it at once. When she got back to her
house and saw the boy still going doggedly up and down the platform,
she did not scold but spoke to him with a new gentleness in her manner.
"Well, my boy, you may put the broom away now and come to the house," she
suggested. "I've made up my mind to take you for my own boy and I don't
want to be ashamed of you. If you're going to live with me I can't have you
growing up to be a lazy good-for-nothing like your father and the other men
in this hole of a place. You'll have to learn things and I suppose I'll
have to be your teacher.
"Come on over to the house at once," she added sharply, making a quick
motion with her hand to the boy who with the broom in his hands stood
stupidly staring. "When a job is to be done there's no use putting it off.
It's going to be hard work to make an educated man of you, but it has to be
done. We might as well begin on your lessons at once."
* * * * *
Hugh McVey lived with Henry Shepard and his wife until he became a grown
man. After Sarah Shepard became his school teacher things began to go
better for him. The scolding of the New England woman, that had but
accentuated his awkwardness and stupidity, came to an end and life in his
adopted home became so quiet and peaceful that the boy thought of himself
as one who had come into a kind of paradise. For a time the two older
people talked of sending him to the town school, but the woman objected.
She had begun to feel so close to Hugh that he seemed a part of her own
flesh and blood and the thought of him, so huge and ungainly, sitting in a
school room with the children of the town, annoyed and irritated her. In
imagination she saw him being laughed at by other boys and could not bear
the thought. She did not like the people of the town and did not want Hugh
to associate with them.
Sarah Shepard had come from a people and a country quite different in
its aspect from that in which she now lived. Her own people, frugal New
Englanders, had come West in the year after the Civil War to take up
cut-over timber land in the southern end of the state of Michigan. The
daughter was a grown girl when her father and mother took up the westward
journey, and after they arrived at the new home, had worked with her father
in the fields. The land was covered with huge stumps and was difficult to
farm but the New Englanders were accustomed to difficulties and were not
discouraged. The land was deep and rich and the people who had settled upon
it were poor but hopeful. They felt that every day of hard work done in
clearing the land was like laying up treasure against the future. In New
England they had fought against a hard climate and had managed to find a
living on stony unproductive soil. The milder climate and the rich deep
soil of Michigan was, they felt, full of promise. Sarah's father like most
of his neighbors had gone into debt for his land and for tools with which
to clear and work it and every year spent most of his earnings in paying
interest on a mortgage held by a banker in a nearby town, but that did not
discourage him. He whistled as he went about his work and spoke often of a
future of ease and plenty. "In a few years and when the land is cleared
we'll make money hand over fist," he declared.
When Sarah grew into young womanhood and went about among the young people
in the new country, she heard much talk of mortgages and of the difficulty
of making ends meet, but every one spoke of the hard conditions as
temporary. In every mind the future was bright with promise. Throughout
the whole Mid-American country, in Ohio, Northern Indiana and Illinois,
Wisconsin and Iowa a hopeful spirit prevailed. In every breast hope fought
a successful war with poverty and discouragement. Optimism got into the
blood of the children and later led to the same kind of hopeful courageous
development of the whole western country. The sons and daughters of these
hardy people no doubt had their minds too steadily fixed on the problem
of the paying off of mortgages and getting on in the world, but there was
courage in them. If they, with the frugal and sometimes niggardly New
Englanders from whom they were sprung, have given modern American life a
too material flavor, they have at least created a land in which a less
determinedly materialistic people may in their turn live in comfort.
In the midst of the little hopeless community of beaten men and yellow
defeated women on the bank of the Mississippi River, the woman who had
become Hugh McVey's second mother and in whose veins flowed the blood of
the pioneers, felt herself undefeated and unbeatable. She and her husband
would, she felt, stay in the Missouri town for a while and then move on
to a larger town and a better position in life. They would move on and up
until the little fat man was a railroad president or a millionaire. It was
the way things were done. She had no doubt of the future. "Do everything
well," she said to her husband, who was perfectly satisfied with his
position in life and had no exalted notions as to his future. "Remember to
make your reports out neatly and clearly. Show them you can do perfectly
the task given you to do, and you will be given a chance at a larger task.
Some day when you least expect it something will happen. You will be called
up into a position of power. We won't be compelled to stay in this hole of
a place very long."
The ambitious energetic little woman, who had taken the son of the indolent
farm hand to her heart, constantly talked to him of her own people. Every
afternoon when her housework was done she took the boy into the front room
of the house and spent hours laboring with him over his lessons. She worked
upon the problem of rooting the stupidity and dullness out of his mind
as her father had worked at the problem of rooting the stumps out of the
Michigan land. After the lesson for the day had been gone over and over
until Hugh was in a stupor of mental weariness, she put the books aside and
talked to him. With glowing fervor she made for him a picture of her own
youth and the people and places where she had lived. In the picture she
represented the New Englanders of the Michigan farming community as a
strong god-like race, always honest, always frugal, and always pushing
ahead. His own people she utterly condemned. She pitied him for the
blood in his veins. The boy had then and all his life certain physical
difficulties she could never understand. The blood did not flow freely
through his long body. His feet and hands were always cold and there was
for him an almost sensual satisfaction to be had from just lying perfectly
still in the station yard and letting the hot sun beat down on him.
Sarah Shepard looked upon what she called Hugh's laziness as a thing of
the spirit. "You have got to get over it," she declared. "Look at your own
people--poor white trash--how lazy and shiftless they are. You can't be
like them. It's a sin to be so dreamy and worthless."
Swept along by the energetic spirit of the woman, Hugh fought to overcome
his inclination to give himself up to vaporous dreams. He became convinced
that his own people were really of inferior stock, that they were to be
kept away from and not to be taken into account. During the first year
after he came to live with the Shepards, he sometimes gave way to a desire
to return to his old lazy life with his father in the shack by the river.
People got off steamboats at the town and took the train to other towns
lying back from the river. He earned a little money by carrying trunks
filled with clothes or traveling men's samples up an incline from the
steamboat landing to the railroad station. Even at fourteen the strength in
his long gaunt body was so great that he could out-lift any man in town,
and he put one of the trunks on his shoulder and walked slowly and stolidly
away with it as a farm horse might have walked along a country road with a
boy of six perched on his back.
The money earned in this way Hugh for a time gave to his father, and when
the man had become stupid with drink he grew quarrelsome and demanded that
the boy return to live with him. Hugh had not the spirit to refuse and
sometimes did not want to refuse. When neither the station master nor his
wife was about he slipped away and went with his father to sit for a half
day with his back against the wall of the fishing shack, his soul at peace.
In the sunlight he sat and stretched forth his long legs. His small sleepy
eyes stared out over the river. A delicious feeling crept over him and for
the moment he thought of himself as completely happy and made up his mind
that he did not want to return again to the railroad station and to the
woman who was so determined to arouse him and make of him a man of her own
people.
Hugh looked at his father asleep and snoring in the long grass on the
river bank. An odd feeling of disloyalty crept over him and he became
uncomfortable. The man's mouth was open and he snored lustily. From his
greasy and threadbare clothing arose the smell of fish. Flies gathered
in swarms and alighted on his face. Disgust took possession of Hugh. A
flickering but ever recurring light came into his eyes. With all the
strength of his awakening soul he struggled against the desire to give way
to the inclination to stretch himself out beside the man and sleep. The
words of the New England woman, who was, he knew, striving to lift him out
of slothfulness and ugliness into some brighter and better way of life,
echoed dimly in his mind. When he arose and went back along the street
to the station master's house and when the woman there looked at him
reproachfully and muttered words about the poor white trash of the town, he
was ashamed and looked at the floor.
Hugh began to hate his own father and his own people. He connected the man
who had bred him with the dreaded inclination toward sloth in himself.
When the farmhand came to the station and demanded the money he had earned
by carrying trunks, he turned away and went across a dusty road to the
Shepard's house. After a year or two he paid no more attention to the
dissolute farmhand who came occasionally to the station to mutter and swear
at him; and, when he had earned a little money, gave it to the woman to
keep for him. "Well," he said, speaking slowly and with the hesitating
drawl characteristic of his people, "if you give me time I'll learn. I want
to be what you want me to be. If you stick to me I'll try to make a man of
myself."
* * * * *
Hugh McVey lived in the Missouri town under the tutelage of Sarah
Shepard until he was nineteen years old. Then the station master gave up
railroading and went back to Michigan. Sarah Shepard's father had died
after having cleared one hundred and twenty acres of the cut-over timber
land and it had been left to her. The dream that had for years lurked in
the back of the little woman's mind and in which she saw bald-headed,
good-natured Henry Shepard become a power in the railroad world had begun
to fade. In newspapers and magazines she read constantly of other men who,
starting from a humble position in the railroad service, soon became rich
and powerful, but nothing of the kind seemed likely to happen to her
husband. Under her watchful eye he did his work well and carefully but
nothing came of it. Officials of the railroad sometimes passed through
the town riding in private cars hitched to the end of one of the through
trains, but the trains did not stop and the officials did not alight and,
calling Henry out of the station, reward his faithfulness by piling new
responsibilities upon him, as railroad officials did in such cases in the
stories she read. When her father died and she saw a chance to again turn
her face eastward and to live again among her own people, she told her
husband to resign his position with the air of one accepting an undeserved
defeat. The station master managed to get Hugh appointed in his place, and
the two people went away one gray morning in October, leaving the tall
ungainly young man in charge of affairs. He had books to keep, freight
waybills to make out, messages to receive, dozens of definite things to do.
Early in the morning before the train that was to take her away, came to
the station, Sarah Shepard called the young man to her and repeated the
instructions she had so often given her husband. "Do everything neatly and
carefully," she said. "Show yourself worthy of the trust that has been
given you."
The New England woman wanted to assure the boy, as she had so often assured
her husband, that if he would but work hard and faithfully promotion would
inevitably come; but in the face of the fact that Henry Shepard had for
years done without criticism the work Hugh was to do and had received
neither praise nor blame from those above him, she found it impossible to
say the words that arose to her lips. The woman and the son of the people
among whom she had lived for five years and had so often condemned, stood
beside each other in embarrassed silence. Stripped of her assurance as to
the purpose of life and unable to repeat her accustomed formula, Sarah
Shepard had nothing to say. Hugh's tall figure, leaning against the post
that supported the roof of the front porch of the little house where she
had taught him his lessons day after day, seemed to her suddenly old and
she thought his long solemn face suggested a wisdom older and more mature
than her own. An odd revulsion of feeling swept over her. For the moment
she began to doubt the advisability of trying to be smart and to get on in
life. If Hugh had been somewhat smaller of frame so that her mind could
have taken hold of the fact of his youth and immaturity, she would no doubt
have taken him into her arms and said words regarding her doubts. Instead
she also became silent and the minutes slipped away as the two people stood
before each other and stared at the floor of the porch. When the train on
which she was to leave blew a warning whistle, and Henry Shepard called to
her from the station platform, she put a hand on the lapel of Hugh's coat
and drawing his face down, for the first time kissed him on the cheek.
Tears came into her eyes and into the eyes of the young man. When he
stepped across the porch to get her bag Hugh stumbled awkwardly against a
chair. "Well, you do the best you can here," Sarah Shepard said quickly and
then out of long habit and half unconsciously did repeat her formula. "Do
little things well and big opportunities are bound to come," she declared
as she walked briskly along beside Hugh across the narrow road and to the
station and the train that was to bear her away.
After the departure of Sarah and Henry Shepard Hugh continued to struggle
with his inclination to give way to dreams. It seemed to him a struggle
it was necessary to win in order that he might show his respect and
appreciation of the woman who had spent so many long hours laboring with
him. Although, under her tutelage, he had received a better education than
any other young man of the river town, he had lost none of his physical
desire to sit in the sun and do nothing. When he worked, every task had
to be consciously carried on from minute to minute. After the woman left,
there were days when he sat in the chair in the telegraph office and fought
a desperate battle with himself. A queer determined light shone in his
small gray eyes. He arose from the chair and walked up and down the station
platform. Each time as he lifted one of his long feet and set it slowly
down a special little effort had to be made. To move about at all was a
painful performance, something he did not want to do. All physical acts
were to him dull but necessary parts of his training for a vague and
glorious future that was to come to him some day in a brighter and more
beautiful land that lay in the direction thought of rather indefinitely as
the East. "If I do not move and keep moving I'll become like father, like
all of the people about here," Hugh said to himself. He thought of the man
who had bred him and whom he occasionally saw drifting aimlessly along
Main Street or sleeping away a drunken stupor on the river bank. He was
disgusted with him and had come to share the opinion the station master's
wife had always held concerning the people of the Missouri village.
"They're a lot of miserable lazy louts," she had declared a thousand times,
and Hugh, agreed with her, but sometimes wondered if in the end he might
not also become a lazy lout. That possibility he knew was in him and for
the sake of the woman as well as for his own sake he was determined it
should not be so.
The truth is that the people of Mudcat Landing were totally unlike any of
the people Sarah Shepard had ever known and unlike the people Hugh was to
know during his mature life. He who had come from a people not smart was to
live among smart energetic men and women and be called a big man by them
without in the least understanding what they were talking about.
Practically all of the people of Hugh's home town were of Southern origin.
Living originally in a land where all physical labor was performed by
slaves, they had come to have a deep aversion to physical labor. In the
South their fathers, having no money to buy slaves of their own and being
unwilling to compete with slave labor, had tried to live without labor. For
the most part they lived in the mountains and the hill country of Kentucky
and Tennessee, on land too poor and unproductive to be thought worth
cultivating by their rich slave-owning neighbors of the valleys and plains.
Their food was meager and of an enervating sameness and their bodies
degenerate. Children grew up long and gaunt and yellow like badly nourished
plants. Vague indefinite hungers took hold of them and they gave themselves
over to dreams. The more energetic among them, sensing dimly the unfairness
of their position in life, became vicious and dangerous. Feuds started
among them and they killed each other to express their hatred of life.
When, in the years preceding the Civil War, a few of them pushed north
along the rivers and settled in Southern Indiana and Illinois and in
Eastern Missouri and Arkansas, they seemed to have exhausted their energy
in making the voyage and slipped quickly back into their old slothful way
of life. Their impulse to emigrate did not carry them far and but a few of
them ever reached the rich corn lands of central Indiana, Illinois or Iowa
or the equally rich land back from the river in Missouri or Arkansas. In
Southern Indiana and Illinois they were merged into the life about them and
with the infusion of new blood they a little awoke. They have tempered the
quality of the peoples of those regions, made them perhaps less harshly
energetic than their forefathers, the pioneers. In many of the Missouri and
Arkansas river towns they have changed but little. A visitor to these parts
may see them there to-day, long, gaunt, and lazy, sleeping their lives away
and awakening out of their stupor only at long intervals and at the call of
hunger.
As for Hugh McVey, he stayed in his home town and among his own people for
a year after the departure of the man and woman who had been father and
mother to him, and then he also departed. All through the year he worked
constantly to cure himself of the curse of indolence. When he awoke in the
morning he did not dare lie in bed for a moment for fear indolence would
overcome him and he would not be able to arise at all. Getting out of bed
at once he dressed and went to the station. During the day there was not
much work to be done and he walked for hours up and down the station
platform. When he sat down he at once took up a book and put his mind to
work. When the pages of the book became indistinct before his eyes and he
felt within him the inclination to drift off into dreams, he again arose
and walked up and down the platform. Having accepted the New England
woman's opinion of his own people and not wanting to associate with them,
his life became utterly lonely and his loneliness also drove him to labor.
Something happened to him. Although his body would not and never did become
active, his mind began suddenly to work with feverish eagerness. The vague
thoughts and feelings that had always been a part of him but that had been
indefinite, ill-defined things, like clouds floating far away in a hazy
sky, began to grow definite. In the evening after his work was done and he
had locked the station for the night, he did not go to the town hotel where
he had taken a room and where he ate his meals, but wandered about town and
along the road that ran south beside the great mysterious river. A hundred
new and definite desires and hungers awoke in him. He began to want to talk
with people, to know men and most of all to know women, but the disgust for
his fellows in the town, engendered in him by Sarah Shepard's words and
most of all by the things in his nature that were like their natures, made
him draw back. When in the fall at the end of the year after the Shepards
had left and he began living alone, his father was killed in a senseless
quarrel with a drunken river man over the ownership of a dog, a sudden, and
what seemed to him at the moment heroic resolution came to him. He went
early one morning to one of the town's two saloon keepers, a man who had
been his father's' nearest approach to a friend and companion, and gave
him money to bury the dead man. Then he wired to the headquarters of the
railroad company telling them to send a man to Mudcat Landing to take his
place. On the afternoon of the day on which his father was buried, he
bought himself a handbag and packed his few belongings. Then he sat down
alone on the steps of the railroad station to wait for the evening train
that would bring the man who was to replace him and that would at the same
time take him away. He did not know where he intended to go, but knew that
he wanted to push out into a new land and get among new people. He thought
he would go east and north. He remembered the long summer evenings in the
river town when the station master slept and his wife talked. The boy who
listened had wanted to sleep also, but with the eyes of Sarah Shepard fixed
on him, had not dared to do so. The woman had talked of a land dotted with
towns where the houses were all painted in bright colors, where young girls
dressed in white dresses went about in the evening, walking under trees
beside streets paved with bricks, where there was no dust or mud, where
stores were gay bright places filled with beautiful wares that the people
had money to buy in abundance and where every one was alive and doing
things worth while and none was slothful and lazy. The boy who had now
become a man wanted to go to such a place. His work in the railroad station
had given him some idea of the geography of the country and, although he
could not have told whether the woman who had talked so enticingly had in
mind her childhood in New England or her girlhood in Michigan, he knew in
a general way that to reach the land and the people who were to show him
by their lives the better way to form his own life, he must go east. He
decided that the further east he went the more beautiful life would become,
and that he had better not try going too far in the beginning. "I'll go
into the northern part of Indiana or Ohio," he told himself. "There must be
beautiful towns in those places."
Hugh was boyishly eager to get on his way and to become at once a part of
the life in a new place. The gradual awakening of his mind had given him
courage, and he thought of himself as armed and ready for association with
men. He wanted to become acquainted with and be the friend of people whose
lives were beautifully lived and who were themselves beautiful and full of
significance. As he sat on the steps of the railroad station in the poor
little Missouri town with his bag beside him, and thought of all the things
he wanted to do in life, his mind became so eager and restless that some of
its restlessness was transmitted to his body. For perhaps the first time
in his life he arose without conscious effort and walked up and down the
station platform out of an excess of energy. He thought he could not bear
to wait until the train came and brought the man who was to take his place.
"Well, I'm going away, I'm going away to be a man among men," he said to
himself over and over. The saying became a kind of refrain and he said it
unconsciously. As he repeated the words his heart beat high in anticipation
of the future he thought lay before him.
CHAPTER II
Hugh McVey left the town of Mudcat Landing in early September of the year
eighteen eighty-six. He was then twenty years old and was six feet and four
inches tall. The whole upper part of his body was immensely strong but his
long legs were ungainly and lifeless. He secured a pass from the railroad
company that had employed him, and rode north along the river in the night
train until he came to a large town named Burlington in the State of Iowa.
There a bridge went over the river, and the railroad tracks joined those of
a trunk line and ran eastward toward Chicago; but Hugh did not continue his
journey on that night. Getting off the train he went to a nearby hotel and
took a room for the night.
It was a cool clear evening and Hugh was restless. The town of Burlington,
a prosperous place in the midst of a rich farming country, overwhelmed him
with its stir and bustle. For the first time he saw brick-paved streets and
streets lighted with lamps. Although it was nearly ten o'clock at night
when he arrived, people still walked about in the streets and many stores
were open.
The hotel where he had taken a room faced the railroad tracks and stood at
the corner of a brightly lighted street. When he had been shown to his room
Hugh sat for a half hour by an open window, and then as he could not sleep,
decided to go for a walk. For a time he walked in the streets where the
people stood about before the doors of the stores but, as his tall figure
attracted attention and he felt people staring at him, he went presently
into a side street.
In a few minutes he became utterly lost. He went through what seemed to
him miles of streets lined with frame and brick houses, and occasionally
passed people, but was too timid and embarrassed to ask his way. The street
climbed upward and after a time he got into open country and followed a
road that ran along a cliff overlooking the Mississippi River. The night
was clear and the sky brilliant with stars. In the open, away from the
multitude of houses, he no longer felt awkward and afraid, and went
cheerfully along. After a time he stopped and stood facing the river.
Standing on a high cliff and with a grove of trees at his back, the stars
seemed to have all gathered in the eastern sky. Below him the water of the
river reflected the stars. They seemed to be making a pathway for him into
the East.
The tall Missouri countryman sat down on a log near the edge of the cliff
and tried to see the water in the river below. Nothing was visible but a
bed of stars that danced and twinkled in the darkness. He had made his way
to a place far above the railroad bridge, but presently a through passenger
train from the West passed over it and the lights of the train looked also
like stars, stars that moved and beckoned and that seemed to fly like
flocks of birds out of the West into the East.
For several hours Hugh sat on the log in the darkness. He decided that it
was hopeless for him to find his way back to the hotel, and was glad of the
excuse for staying abroad. His body for the first time in his life felt
light and strong and his mind was feverishly awake. A buggy in which sat a
young man and woman went along the road at his back, and after the voices
had died away silence came, broken only at long intervals during the hours
when he sat thinking of his future by the barking of a dog in some distant
house or the churning of the paddle-wheels of a passing river boat.
All of the early formative years of Hugh McVey's life had been spent within
sound of the lapping of the waters of the Mississippi River. He had seen it
in the hot summer when the water receded and the mud lay baked and cracked
along the edge of the water; in the spring when the floods raged and the
water went whirling past, bearing tree logs and even parts of houses; in
the winter when the water looked deathly cold and ice floated past; and in
the fall when it was quiet and still and lovely, and seemed to have sucked
an almost human quality of warmth out of the red trees that lined its
shores. Hugh had spent hours and days sitting or lying in the grass beside
the river. The fishing shack in which he had lived with his father until he
was fourteen years old was within a half dozen long strides of the river's
edge, and the boy had often been left there alone for a week at a time.
When his father had gone for a trip on a lumber raft or to work for a few
days on some farm in the country back from the river, the boy, left often
without money and with but a few loaves of bread, went fishing when he was
hungry and when he was not did nothing but idle the days away in the grass
on the river bank. Boys from the town came sometimes to spend an hour with
him, but in their presence he was embarrassed and a little annoyed. He
wanted to be left alone with his dreams. One of the boys, a sickly, pale,
undeveloped lad of ten, often stayed with him through an entire summer
afternoon. He was the son of a merchant in the town and grew quickly tired
when he tried to follow other boys about. On the river bank he lay beside
Hugh in silence. The two got into Hugh's boat and went fishing and the
merchant's son grew animated and talked. He taught Hugh to write his own
name and to read a few words. The shyness that kept them apart had begun to
break down, when the merchant's son caught some childhood disease and died.
In the darkness above the cliff that night in Burlington Hugh remembered
things concerning his boyhood that had not come back to his mind in years.
The very thoughts that had passed through his mind during those long days
of idling on the river bank came streaming back.
After his fourteenth year when he went to work at the railroad station Hugh
had stayed away from the river. With his work at the station, and in the
garden back of Sarah Shepard's house, and the lessons in the afternoons,
he had little idle time. On Sundays however things were different. Sarah
Shepard did not go to church after she came to Mudcat Landing, but she
would have no work done on Sundays. On Sunday afternoons in the summer she
and her husband sat in chairs beneath a tree beside the house and went to
sleep. Hugh got into the habit of going off by himself. He wanted to sleep
also, but did not dare. He went along the river bank by the road that ran
south from the town, and when he had followed it two or three miles, turned
into a grove of trees and lay down in the shade.
The long summer Sunday afternoons had been delightful times for Hugh, so
delightful that he finally gave them up, fearing they might lead him to
take up again his old sleepy way of life. Now as he sat in the darkness
above the same river he had gazed on through the long Sunday afternoons, a
spasm of something like loneliness swept over him. For the first time he
thought about leaving the river country and going into a new land with a
keen feeling of regret.
On the Sunday afternoons in the woods south of Mudcat Landing Hugh had lain
perfectly still in the grass for hours. The smell of dead fish that had
always been present about the shack where he spent his boyhood, was gone
and there were no swarms of flies. Above his head a breeze played through
the branches of the trees, and insects sang in the grass. Everything about
him was clean. A lovely stillness pervaded the river and the woods. He lay
on his belly and gazed down over the river out of sleep-heavy eyes into
hazy distances. Half formed thoughts passed like visions through his mind.
He dreamed, but his dreams were unformed and vaporous. For hours the half
dead, half alive state into which he had got, persisted. He did not sleep
but lay in a land between sleeping and waking. Pictures formed in his
mind. The clouds that floated in the sky above the river took on strange,
grotesque shapes. They began to move. One of the clouds separated itself
from the others. It moved swiftly away into the dim distance and then
returned. It became a half human thing and seemed to be marshaling the
other clouds. Under its influence they became agitated and moved restlessly
about. Out of the body of the most active of the clouds long vaporous arms
were extended. They pulled and hauled at the other clouds making them also
restless and agitated.
Hugh's mind, as he sat in the darkness on the cliff above the river that
night in Burlington, was deeply stirred. Again he was a boy lying in the
woods above his river, and the visions that had come to him there returned
with startling clearness. He got off the log and lying in the wet grass,
closed his eyes. His body became warm.
Hugh thought his mind had gone out of his body and up into the sky to join
the clouds and the stars, to play with them. From the sky he thought he
looked down on the earth and saw rolling fields, hills and forests. He had
no part in the lives of the men and women of the earth, but was torn away
from them, left to stand by himself. From his place in the sky above the
earth he saw the great river going majestically along. For a time it was
quiet and contemplative as the sky had been when he was a boy down below
lying on his belly in the wood. He saw men pass in boats and could hear
their voices dimly. A great quiet prevailed and he looked abroad beyond the
wide expanse of the river and saw fields and towns. They were all hushed
and still. An air of waiting hung over them. And then the river was whipped
into action by some strange unknown force, something that had come out of a
distant place, out of the place to which the cloud had gone and from which
it had returned to stir and agitate the other clouds.
The river now went tearing along. It overflowed its banks and swept over
the land, uprooting trees and forests and towns. The white faces of drowned
men and children, borne along by the flood, looked up into the mind's eye
of the man Hugh, who, in the moment of his setting out into the definite
world of struggle and defeat, had let himself slip back into the vaporous
dreams of his boyhood.
As he lay in the wet grass in the darkness on the cliff Hugh tried to force
his way back to consciousness, but for a long time was unsuccessful. He
rolled and writhed about and his lips muttered words. It was useless. His
mind also was swept away. The clouds of which he felt himself a part flew
across the face of the sky. They blotted out the sun from the earth, and
darkness descended on the land, on the troubled towns, on the hills that
were torn open, on the forests that were destroyed, on the peace and quiet
of all places. In the country stretching away from the river where all had
been peace and quiet, all was now agitation and unrest. Houses were
destroyed and instantly rebuilt. People gathered in whirling crowds.
The dreaming man felt himself a part of something significant and terrible
that was happening to the earth and to the peoples of the earth. Again
he struggled to awake, to force himself back out of the dream world into
consciousness. When he did awake, day was breaking and he sat on the very
edge of the cliff that looked down upon the Mississippi River, gray now in
#4 in our series by Sherwood Anderson
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Title: Poor White
Author: Sherwood Anderson
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BOOK I
CHAPTER I
Hugh McVey was born in a little hole of a town stuck on a mud bank on the
western shore of the Mississippi River in the State of Missouri. It was
a miserable place in which to be born. With the exception of a narrow
strip of black mud along the river, the land for ten miles back from the
town--called in derision by river men "Mudcat Landing"--was almost entirely
worthless and unproductive. The soil, yellow, shallow and stony, was
tilled, in Hugh's time, by a race of long gaunt men who seemed as exhausted
and no-account as the land on which they lived. They were chronically
discouraged, and the merchants and artisans of the town were in the same
state. The merchants, who ran their stores--poor tumble-down ramshackle
affairs--on the credit system, could not get pay for the goods they handed
out over their counters and the artisans, the shoemakers, carpenters and
harnessmakers, could not get pay for the work they did. Only the town's two
saloons prospered. The saloon keepers sold their wares for cash and, as the
men of the town and the farmers who drove into town felt that without drink
life was unbearable, cash always could be found for the purpose of getting
drunk.
Hugh McVey's father, John McVey, had been a farm hand in his youth but
before Hugh was born had moved into town to find employment in a tannery.
The tannery ran for a year or two and then failed, but John McVey stayed in
town. He also became a drunkard. It was the easy obvious thing for him to
do. During the time of his employment in the tannery he had been married
and his son had been born. Then his wife died and the idle workman took his
child and went to live in a tiny fishing shack by the river. How the boy
lived through the next few years no one ever knew. John McVey loitered in
the streets and on the river bank and only awakened out of his habitual
stupor when, driven by hunger or the craving for drink, he went for a day's
work in some farmer's field at harvest time or joined a number of other
idlers for an adventurous trip down river on a lumber raft. The baby was
left shut up in the shack by the river or carried about wrapped in a soiled
blanket. Soon after he was old enough to walk he was compelled to find work
in order that he might eat. The boy of ten went listlessly about town at
the heels of his father. The two found work, which the boy did while the
man lay sleeping in the sun. They cleaned cisterns, swept out stores and
saloons and at night went with a wheelbarrow and a box to remove and dump
in the river the contents of out-houses. At fourteen Hugh was as tall as
his father and almost without education. He could read a little and could
write his own name, had picked up these accomplishments from other boys who
came to fish with him in the river, but he had never been to school. For
days sometimes he did nothing but lie half asleep in the shade of a bush on
the river bank. The fish he caught on his more industrious days he sold for
a few cents to some housewife, and thus got money to buy food for his big
growing indolent body. Like an animal that has come to its maturity he
turned away from his father, not because of resentment for his hard youth,
but because he thought it time to begin to go his own way.
In his fourteenth year and when the boy was on the point of sinking into
the sort of animal-like stupor in which his father had lived, something
happened to him. A railroad pushed its way down along the river to his town
and he got a job as man of all work for the station master. He swept out
the station, put trunks on trains, mowed the grass in the station yard and
helped in a hundred odd ways the man who held the combined jobs of ticket
seller, baggage master and telegraph operator at the little out-of-the-way
place.
Hugh began a little to awaken. He lived with his employer, Henry Shepard,
and his wife, Sarah Shepard, and for the first time in his life sat down
regularly at table. His life, lying on the river bank through long summer
afternoons or sitting perfectly still for endless hours in a boat, had bred
in him a dreamy detached outlook on life. He found it hard to be definite
and to do definite things, but for all his stupidity the boy had a great
store of patience, a heritage perhaps from his mother. In his new place the
station master's wife, Sarah Shepard, a sharp-tongued, good-natured woman,
who hated the town and the people among whom fate had thrown her, scolded
at him all day long. She treated him like a child of six, told him how
to sit at table, how to hold his fork when he ate, how to address people
who came to the house or to the station. The mother in her was aroused by
Hugh's helplessness and, having no children of her own, she began to take
the tall awkward boy to her heart. She was a small woman and when she stood
in the house scolding the great stupid boy who stared down at her with
his small perplexed eyes, the two made a picture that afforded endless
amusement to her husband, a short fat bald-headed man who went about clad
in blue overalls and a blue cotton shirt. Coming to the back door of his
house, that was within a stone's throw of the station, Henry Shepard stood
with his hand on the door-jamb and watched the woman and the boy. Above
the scolding voice of the woman his own voice arose. "Look out, Hugh," he
called. "Be on the jump, lad! Perk yourself up. She'll be biting you if you
don't go mighty careful in there."
Hugh got little money for his work at the railroad station but for the
first time in his life he began to fare well. Henry Shepard bought the
boy clothes, and his wife, Sarah, who was a master of the art of cooking,
loaded the table with good things to eat. Hugh ate until both the man and
woman declared he would burst if he did not stop. Then when they were not
looking he went into the station yard and crawling under a bush went to
sleep. The station master came to look for him. He cut a switch from the
bush and began to beat the boy's bare feet. Hugh awoke and was overcome
with confusion. He got to his feet and stood trembling, half afraid he was
to be driven away from his new home. The man and the confused blushing boy
confronted each other for a moment and then the man adopted the method
of his wife and began to scold. He was annoyed at what he thought the
boy's indolence and found a hundred little tasks for him to do. He devoted
himself to finding tasks for Hugh, and when he could think of no new ones,
invented them. "We will have to keep the big lazy fellow on the jump.
That's the secret of things," he said to his wife.
The boy learned to keep his naturally indolent body moving and his clouded
sleepy mind fixed on definite things. For hours he plodded straight ahead,
doing over and over some appointed task. He forgot the purpose of the job
he had been given to do and did it because it was a job and would keep him
awake. One morning he was told to sweep the station platform and as his
employer had gone away without giving him additional tasks and as he was
afraid that if he sat down he would fall into the odd detached kind of
stupor in which he had spent so large a part of his life, he continued
to sweep for two or three hours. The station platform was built of rough
boards and Hugh's arms were very powerful. The broom he was using began to
go to pieces. Bits of it flew about and after an hour's work the platform
looked more uncleanly than when he began. Sarah Shepard came to the door of
her house and stood watching. She was about to call to him and to scold him
again for his stupidity when a new impulse came to her. She saw the serious
determined look on the boy's long gaunt face and a flash of understanding
came to her. Tears came into her eyes and her arms ached to take the great
boy and hold him tightly against her breast. With all her mother's soul she
wanted to protect Hugh from a world she was sure would treat him always
as a beast of burden and would take no account of what she thought of as
the handicap of his birth. Her morning's work was done and without saying
anything to Hugh, who continued to go up and down the platform laboriously
sweeping, she went out at the front door of the house and to one of
the town stores. There she bought a half dozen books, a geography, an
arithmetic, a speller and two or three readers. She had made up her mind to
become Hugh McVey's school teacher and with characteristic energy did not
put the matter off, but went about it at once. When she got back to her
house and saw the boy still going doggedly up and down the platform,
she did not scold but spoke to him with a new gentleness in her manner.
"Well, my boy, you may put the broom away now and come to the house," she
suggested. "I've made up my mind to take you for my own boy and I don't
want to be ashamed of you. If you're going to live with me I can't have you
growing up to be a lazy good-for-nothing like your father and the other men
in this hole of a place. You'll have to learn things and I suppose I'll
have to be your teacher.
"Come on over to the house at once," she added sharply, making a quick
motion with her hand to the boy who with the broom in his hands stood
stupidly staring. "When a job is to be done there's no use putting it off.
It's going to be hard work to make an educated man of you, but it has to be
done. We might as well begin on your lessons at once."
* * * * *
Hugh McVey lived with Henry Shepard and his wife until he became a grown
man. After Sarah Shepard became his school teacher things began to go
better for him. The scolding of the New England woman, that had but
accentuated his awkwardness and stupidity, came to an end and life in his
adopted home became so quiet and peaceful that the boy thought of himself
as one who had come into a kind of paradise. For a time the two older
people talked of sending him to the town school, but the woman objected.
She had begun to feel so close to Hugh that he seemed a part of her own
flesh and blood and the thought of him, so huge and ungainly, sitting in a
school room with the children of the town, annoyed and irritated her. In
imagination she saw him being laughed at by other boys and could not bear
the thought. She did not like the people of the town and did not want Hugh
to associate with them.
Sarah Shepard had come from a people and a country quite different in
its aspect from that in which she now lived. Her own people, frugal New
Englanders, had come West in the year after the Civil War to take up
cut-over timber land in the southern end of the state of Michigan. The
daughter was a grown girl when her father and mother took up the westward
journey, and after they arrived at the new home, had worked with her father
in the fields. The land was covered with huge stumps and was difficult to
farm but the New Englanders were accustomed to difficulties and were not
discouraged. The land was deep and rich and the people who had settled upon
it were poor but hopeful. They felt that every day of hard work done in
clearing the land was like laying up treasure against the future. In New
England they had fought against a hard climate and had managed to find a
living on stony unproductive soil. The milder climate and the rich deep
soil of Michigan was, they felt, full of promise. Sarah's father like most
of his neighbors had gone into debt for his land and for tools with which
to clear and work it and every year spent most of his earnings in paying
interest on a mortgage held by a banker in a nearby town, but that did not
discourage him. He whistled as he went about his work and spoke often of a
future of ease and plenty. "In a few years and when the land is cleared
we'll make money hand over fist," he declared.
When Sarah grew into young womanhood and went about among the young people
in the new country, she heard much talk of mortgages and of the difficulty
of making ends meet, but every one spoke of the hard conditions as
temporary. In every mind the future was bright with promise. Throughout
the whole Mid-American country, in Ohio, Northern Indiana and Illinois,
Wisconsin and Iowa a hopeful spirit prevailed. In every breast hope fought
a successful war with poverty and discouragement. Optimism got into the
blood of the children and later led to the same kind of hopeful courageous
development of the whole western country. The sons and daughters of these
hardy people no doubt had their minds too steadily fixed on the problem
of the paying off of mortgages and getting on in the world, but there was
courage in them. If they, with the frugal and sometimes niggardly New
Englanders from whom they were sprung, have given modern American life a
too material flavor, they have at least created a land in which a less
determinedly materialistic people may in their turn live in comfort.
In the midst of the little hopeless community of beaten men and yellow
defeated women on the bank of the Mississippi River, the woman who had
become Hugh McVey's second mother and in whose veins flowed the blood of
the pioneers, felt herself undefeated and unbeatable. She and her husband
would, she felt, stay in the Missouri town for a while and then move on
to a larger town and a better position in life. They would move on and up
until the little fat man was a railroad president or a millionaire. It was
the way things were done. She had no doubt of the future. "Do everything
well," she said to her husband, who was perfectly satisfied with his
position in life and had no exalted notions as to his future. "Remember to
make your reports out neatly and clearly. Show them you can do perfectly
the task given you to do, and you will be given a chance at a larger task.
Some day when you least expect it something will happen. You will be called
up into a position of power. We won't be compelled to stay in this hole of
a place very long."
The ambitious energetic little woman, who had taken the son of the indolent
farm hand to her heart, constantly talked to him of her own people. Every
afternoon when her housework was done she took the boy into the front room
of the house and spent hours laboring with him over his lessons. She worked
upon the problem of rooting the stupidity and dullness out of his mind
as her father had worked at the problem of rooting the stumps out of the
Michigan land. After the lesson for the day had been gone over and over
until Hugh was in a stupor of mental weariness, she put the books aside and
talked to him. With glowing fervor she made for him a picture of her own
youth and the people and places where she had lived. In the picture she
represented the New Englanders of the Michigan farming community as a
strong god-like race, always honest, always frugal, and always pushing
ahead. His own people she utterly condemned. She pitied him for the
blood in his veins. The boy had then and all his life certain physical
difficulties she could never understand. The blood did not flow freely
through his long body. His feet and hands were always cold and there was
for him an almost sensual satisfaction to be had from just lying perfectly
still in the station yard and letting the hot sun beat down on him.
Sarah Shepard looked upon what she called Hugh's laziness as a thing of
the spirit. "You have got to get over it," she declared. "Look at your own
people--poor white trash--how lazy and shiftless they are. You can't be
like them. It's a sin to be so dreamy and worthless."
Swept along by the energetic spirit of the woman, Hugh fought to overcome
his inclination to give himself up to vaporous dreams. He became convinced
that his own people were really of inferior stock, that they were to be
kept away from and not to be taken into account. During the first year
after he came to live with the Shepards, he sometimes gave way to a desire
to return to his old lazy life with his father in the shack by the river.
People got off steamboats at the town and took the train to other towns
lying back from the river. He earned a little money by carrying trunks
filled with clothes or traveling men's samples up an incline from the
steamboat landing to the railroad station. Even at fourteen the strength in
his long gaunt body was so great that he could out-lift any man in town,
and he put one of the trunks on his shoulder and walked slowly and stolidly
away with it as a farm horse might have walked along a country road with a
boy of six perched on his back.
The money earned in this way Hugh for a time gave to his father, and when
the man had become stupid with drink he grew quarrelsome and demanded that
the boy return to live with him. Hugh had not the spirit to refuse and
sometimes did not want to refuse. When neither the station master nor his
wife was about he slipped away and went with his father to sit for a half
day with his back against the wall of the fishing shack, his soul at peace.
In the sunlight he sat and stretched forth his long legs. His small sleepy
eyes stared out over the river. A delicious feeling crept over him and for
the moment he thought of himself as completely happy and made up his mind
that he did not want to return again to the railroad station and to the
woman who was so determined to arouse him and make of him a man of her own
people.
Hugh looked at his father asleep and snoring in the long grass on the
river bank. An odd feeling of disloyalty crept over him and he became
uncomfortable. The man's mouth was open and he snored lustily. From his
greasy and threadbare clothing arose the smell of fish. Flies gathered
in swarms and alighted on his face. Disgust took possession of Hugh. A
flickering but ever recurring light came into his eyes. With all the
strength of his awakening soul he struggled against the desire to give way
to the inclination to stretch himself out beside the man and sleep. The
words of the New England woman, who was, he knew, striving to lift him out
of slothfulness and ugliness into some brighter and better way of life,
echoed dimly in his mind. When he arose and went back along the street
to the station master's house and when the woman there looked at him
reproachfully and muttered words about the poor white trash of the town, he
was ashamed and looked at the floor.
Hugh began to hate his own father and his own people. He connected the man
who had bred him with the dreaded inclination toward sloth in himself.
When the farmhand came to the station and demanded the money he had earned
by carrying trunks, he turned away and went across a dusty road to the
Shepard's house. After a year or two he paid no more attention to the
dissolute farmhand who came occasionally to the station to mutter and swear
at him; and, when he had earned a little money, gave it to the woman to
keep for him. "Well," he said, speaking slowly and with the hesitating
drawl characteristic of his people, "if you give me time I'll learn. I want
to be what you want me to be. If you stick to me I'll try to make a man of
myself."
* * * * *
Hugh McVey lived in the Missouri town under the tutelage of Sarah
Shepard until he was nineteen years old. Then the station master gave up
railroading and went back to Michigan. Sarah Shepard's father had died
after having cleared one hundred and twenty acres of the cut-over timber
land and it had been left to her. The dream that had for years lurked in
the back of the little woman's mind and in which she saw bald-headed,
good-natured Henry Shepard become a power in the railroad world had begun
to fade. In newspapers and magazines she read constantly of other men who,
starting from a humble position in the railroad service, soon became rich
and powerful, but nothing of the kind seemed likely to happen to her
husband. Under her watchful eye he did his work well and carefully but
nothing came of it. Officials of the railroad sometimes passed through
the town riding in private cars hitched to the end of one of the through
trains, but the trains did not stop and the officials did not alight and,
calling Henry out of the station, reward his faithfulness by piling new
responsibilities upon him, as railroad officials did in such cases in the
stories she read. When her father died and she saw a chance to again turn
her face eastward and to live again among her own people, she told her
husband to resign his position with the air of one accepting an undeserved
defeat. The station master managed to get Hugh appointed in his place, and
the two people went away one gray morning in October, leaving the tall
ungainly young man in charge of affairs. He had books to keep, freight
waybills to make out, messages to receive, dozens of definite things to do.
Early in the morning before the train that was to take her away, came to
the station, Sarah Shepard called the young man to her and repeated the
instructions she had so often given her husband. "Do everything neatly and
carefully," she said. "Show yourself worthy of the trust that has been
given you."
The New England woman wanted to assure the boy, as she had so often assured
her husband, that if he would but work hard and faithfully promotion would
inevitably come; but in the face of the fact that Henry Shepard had for
years done without criticism the work Hugh was to do and had received
neither praise nor blame from those above him, she found it impossible to
say the words that arose to her lips. The woman and the son of the people
among whom she had lived for five years and had so often condemned, stood
beside each other in embarrassed silence. Stripped of her assurance as to
the purpose of life and unable to repeat her accustomed formula, Sarah
Shepard had nothing to say. Hugh's tall figure, leaning against the post
that supported the roof of the front porch of the little house where she
had taught him his lessons day after day, seemed to her suddenly old and
she thought his long solemn face suggested a wisdom older and more mature
than her own. An odd revulsion of feeling swept over her. For the moment
she began to doubt the advisability of trying to be smart and to get on in
life. If Hugh had been somewhat smaller of frame so that her mind could
have taken hold of the fact of his youth and immaturity, she would no doubt
have taken him into her arms and said words regarding her doubts. Instead
she also became silent and the minutes slipped away as the two people stood
before each other and stared at the floor of the porch. When the train on
which she was to leave blew a warning whistle, and Henry Shepard called to
her from the station platform, she put a hand on the lapel of Hugh's coat
and drawing his face down, for the first time kissed him on the cheek.
Tears came into her eyes and into the eyes of the young man. When he
stepped across the porch to get her bag Hugh stumbled awkwardly against a
chair. "Well, you do the best you can here," Sarah Shepard said quickly and
then out of long habit and half unconsciously did repeat her formula. "Do
little things well and big opportunities are bound to come," she declared
as she walked briskly along beside Hugh across the narrow road and to the
station and the train that was to bear her away.
After the departure of Sarah and Henry Shepard Hugh continued to struggle
with his inclination to give way to dreams. It seemed to him a struggle
it was necessary to win in order that he might show his respect and
appreciation of the woman who had spent so many long hours laboring with
him. Although, under her tutelage, he had received a better education than
any other young man of the river town, he had lost none of his physical
desire to sit in the sun and do nothing. When he worked, every task had
to be consciously carried on from minute to minute. After the woman left,
there were days when he sat in the chair in the telegraph office and fought
a desperate battle with himself. A queer determined light shone in his
small gray eyes. He arose from the chair and walked up and down the station
platform. Each time as he lifted one of his long feet and set it slowly
down a special little effort had to be made. To move about at all was a
painful performance, something he did not want to do. All physical acts
were to him dull but necessary parts of his training for a vague and
glorious future that was to come to him some day in a brighter and more
beautiful land that lay in the direction thought of rather indefinitely as
the East. "If I do not move and keep moving I'll become like father, like
all of the people about here," Hugh said to himself. He thought of the man
who had bred him and whom he occasionally saw drifting aimlessly along
Main Street or sleeping away a drunken stupor on the river bank. He was
disgusted with him and had come to share the opinion the station master's
wife had always held concerning the people of the Missouri village.
"They're a lot of miserable lazy louts," she had declared a thousand times,
and Hugh, agreed with her, but sometimes wondered if in the end he might
not also become a lazy lout. That possibility he knew was in him and for
the sake of the woman as well as for his own sake he was determined it
should not be so.
The truth is that the people of Mudcat Landing were totally unlike any of
the people Sarah Shepard had ever known and unlike the people Hugh was to
know during his mature life. He who had come from a people not smart was to
live among smart energetic men and women and be called a big man by them
without in the least understanding what they were talking about.
Practically all of the people of Hugh's home town were of Southern origin.
Living originally in a land where all physical labor was performed by
slaves, they had come to have a deep aversion to physical labor. In the
South their fathers, having no money to buy slaves of their own and being
unwilling to compete with slave labor, had tried to live without labor. For
the most part they lived in the mountains and the hill country of Kentucky
and Tennessee, on land too poor and unproductive to be thought worth
cultivating by their rich slave-owning neighbors of the valleys and plains.
Their food was meager and of an enervating sameness and their bodies
degenerate. Children grew up long and gaunt and yellow like badly nourished
plants. Vague indefinite hungers took hold of them and they gave themselves
over to dreams. The more energetic among them, sensing dimly the unfairness
of their position in life, became vicious and dangerous. Feuds started
among them and they killed each other to express their hatred of life.
When, in the years preceding the Civil War, a few of them pushed north
along the rivers and settled in Southern Indiana and Illinois and in
Eastern Missouri and Arkansas, they seemed to have exhausted their energy
in making the voyage and slipped quickly back into their old slothful way
of life. Their impulse to emigrate did not carry them far and but a few of
them ever reached the rich corn lands of central Indiana, Illinois or Iowa
or the equally rich land back from the river in Missouri or Arkansas. In
Southern Indiana and Illinois they were merged into the life about them and
with the infusion of new blood they a little awoke. They have tempered the
quality of the peoples of those regions, made them perhaps less harshly
energetic than their forefathers, the pioneers. In many of the Missouri and
Arkansas river towns they have changed but little. A visitor to these parts
may see them there to-day, long, gaunt, and lazy, sleeping their lives away
and awakening out of their stupor only at long intervals and at the call of
hunger.
As for Hugh McVey, he stayed in his home town and among his own people for
a year after the departure of the man and woman who had been father and
mother to him, and then he also departed. All through the year he worked
constantly to cure himself of the curse of indolence. When he awoke in the
morning he did not dare lie in bed for a moment for fear indolence would
overcome him and he would not be able to arise at all. Getting out of bed
at once he dressed and went to the station. During the day there was not
much work to be done and he walked for hours up and down the station
platform. When he sat down he at once took up a book and put his mind to
work. When the pages of the book became indistinct before his eyes and he
felt within him the inclination to drift off into dreams, he again arose
and walked up and down the platform. Having accepted the New England
woman's opinion of his own people and not wanting to associate with them,
his life became utterly lonely and his loneliness also drove him to labor.
Something happened to him. Although his body would not and never did become
active, his mind began suddenly to work with feverish eagerness. The vague
thoughts and feelings that had always been a part of him but that had been
indefinite, ill-defined things, like clouds floating far away in a hazy
sky, began to grow definite. In the evening after his work was done and he
had locked the station for the night, he did not go to the town hotel where
he had taken a room and where he ate his meals, but wandered about town and
along the road that ran south beside the great mysterious river. A hundred
new and definite desires and hungers awoke in him. He began to want to talk
with people, to know men and most of all to know women, but the disgust for
his fellows in the town, engendered in him by Sarah Shepard's words and
most of all by the things in his nature that were like their natures, made
him draw back. When in the fall at the end of the year after the Shepards
had left and he began living alone, his father was killed in a senseless
quarrel with a drunken river man over the ownership of a dog, a sudden, and
what seemed to him at the moment heroic resolution came to him. He went
early one morning to one of the town's two saloon keepers, a man who had
been his father's' nearest approach to a friend and companion, and gave
him money to bury the dead man. Then he wired to the headquarters of the
railroad company telling them to send a man to Mudcat Landing to take his
place. On the afternoon of the day on which his father was buried, he
bought himself a handbag and packed his few belongings. Then he sat down
alone on the steps of the railroad station to wait for the evening train
that would bring the man who was to replace him and that would at the same
time take him away. He did not know where he intended to go, but knew that
he wanted to push out into a new land and get among new people. He thought
he would go east and north. He remembered the long summer evenings in the
river town when the station master slept and his wife talked. The boy who
listened had wanted to sleep also, but with the eyes of Sarah Shepard fixed
on him, had not dared to do so. The woman had talked of a land dotted with
towns where the houses were all painted in bright colors, where young girls
dressed in white dresses went about in the evening, walking under trees
beside streets paved with bricks, where there was no dust or mud, where
stores were gay bright places filled with beautiful wares that the people
had money to buy in abundance and where every one was alive and doing
things worth while and none was slothful and lazy. The boy who had now
become a man wanted to go to such a place. His work in the railroad station
had given him some idea of the geography of the country and, although he
could not have told whether the woman who had talked so enticingly had in
mind her childhood in New England or her girlhood in Michigan, he knew in
a general way that to reach the land and the people who were to show him
by their lives the better way to form his own life, he must go east. He
decided that the further east he went the more beautiful life would become,
and that he had better not try going too far in the beginning. "I'll go
into the northern part of Indiana or Ohio," he told himself. "There must be
beautiful towns in those places."
Hugh was boyishly eager to get on his way and to become at once a part of
the life in a new place. The gradual awakening of his mind had given him
courage, and he thought of himself as armed and ready for association with
men. He wanted to become acquainted with and be the friend of people whose
lives were beautifully lived and who were themselves beautiful and full of
significance. As he sat on the steps of the railroad station in the poor
little Missouri town with his bag beside him, and thought of all the things
he wanted to do in life, his mind became so eager and restless that some of
its restlessness was transmitted to his body. For perhaps the first time
in his life he arose without conscious effort and walked up and down the
station platform out of an excess of energy. He thought he could not bear
to wait until the train came and brought the man who was to take his place.
"Well, I'm going away, I'm going away to be a man among men," he said to
himself over and over. The saying became a kind of refrain and he said it
unconsciously. As he repeated the words his heart beat high in anticipation
of the future he thought lay before him.
CHAPTER II
Hugh McVey left the town of Mudcat Landing in early September of the year
eighteen eighty-six. He was then twenty years old and was six feet and four
inches tall. The whole upper part of his body was immensely strong but his
long legs were ungainly and lifeless. He secured a pass from the railroad
company that had employed him, and rode north along the river in the night
train until he came to a large town named Burlington in the State of Iowa.
There a bridge went over the river, and the railroad tracks joined those of
a trunk line and ran eastward toward Chicago; but Hugh did not continue his
journey on that night. Getting off the train he went to a nearby hotel and
took a room for the night.
It was a cool clear evening and Hugh was restless. The town of Burlington,
a prosperous place in the midst of a rich farming country, overwhelmed him
with its stir and bustle. For the first time he saw brick-paved streets and
streets lighted with lamps. Although it was nearly ten o'clock at night
when he arrived, people still walked about in the streets and many stores
were open.
The hotel where he had taken a room faced the railroad tracks and stood at
the corner of a brightly lighted street. When he had been shown to his room
Hugh sat for a half hour by an open window, and then as he could not sleep,
decided to go for a walk. For a time he walked in the streets where the
people stood about before the doors of the stores but, as his tall figure
attracted attention and he felt people staring at him, he went presently
into a side street.
In a few minutes he became utterly lost. He went through what seemed to
him miles of streets lined with frame and brick houses, and occasionally
passed people, but was too timid and embarrassed to ask his way. The street
climbed upward and after a time he got into open country and followed a
road that ran along a cliff overlooking the Mississippi River. The night
was clear and the sky brilliant with stars. In the open, away from the
multitude of houses, he no longer felt awkward and afraid, and went
cheerfully along. After a time he stopped and stood facing the river.
Standing on a high cliff and with a grove of trees at his back, the stars
seemed to have all gathered in the eastern sky. Below him the water of the
river reflected the stars. They seemed to be making a pathway for him into
the East.
The tall Missouri countryman sat down on a log near the edge of the cliff
and tried to see the water in the river below. Nothing was visible but a
bed of stars that danced and twinkled in the darkness. He had made his way
to a place far above the railroad bridge, but presently a through passenger
train from the West passed over it and the lights of the train looked also
like stars, stars that moved and beckoned and that seemed to fly like
flocks of birds out of the West into the East.
For several hours Hugh sat on the log in the darkness. He decided that it
was hopeless for him to find his way back to the hotel, and was glad of the
excuse for staying abroad. His body for the first time in his life felt
light and strong and his mind was feverishly awake. A buggy in which sat a
young man and woman went along the road at his back, and after the voices
had died away silence came, broken only at long intervals during the hours
when he sat thinking of his future by the barking of a dog in some distant
house or the churning of the paddle-wheels of a passing river boat.
All of the early formative years of Hugh McVey's life had been spent within
sound of the lapping of the waters of the Mississippi River. He had seen it
in the hot summer when the water receded and the mud lay baked and cracked
along the edge of the water; in the spring when the floods raged and the
water went whirling past, bearing tree logs and even parts of houses; in
the winter when the water looked deathly cold and ice floated past; and in
the fall when it was quiet and still and lovely, and seemed to have sucked
an almost human quality of warmth out of the red trees that lined its
shores. Hugh had spent hours and days sitting or lying in the grass beside
the river. The fishing shack in which he had lived with his father until he
was fourteen years old was within a half dozen long strides of the river's
edge, and the boy had often been left there alone for a week at a time.
When his father had gone for a trip on a lumber raft or to work for a few
days on some farm in the country back from the river, the boy, left often
without money and with but a few loaves of bread, went fishing when he was
hungry and when he was not did nothing but idle the days away in the grass
on the river bank. Boys from the town came sometimes to spend an hour with
him, but in their presence he was embarrassed and a little annoyed. He
wanted to be left alone with his dreams. One of the boys, a sickly, pale,
undeveloped lad of ten, often stayed with him through an entire summer
afternoon. He was the son of a merchant in the town and grew quickly tired
when he tried to follow other boys about. On the river bank he lay beside
Hugh in silence. The two got into Hugh's boat and went fishing and the
merchant's son grew animated and talked. He taught Hugh to write his own
name and to read a few words. The shyness that kept them apart had begun to
break down, when the merchant's son caught some childhood disease and died.
In the darkness above the cliff that night in Burlington Hugh remembered
things concerning his boyhood that had not come back to his mind in years.
The very thoughts that had passed through his mind during those long days
of idling on the river bank came streaming back.
After his fourteenth year when he went to work at the railroad station Hugh
had stayed away from the river. With his work at the station, and in the
garden back of Sarah Shepard's house, and the lessons in the afternoons,
he had little idle time. On Sundays however things were different. Sarah
Shepard did not go to church after she came to Mudcat Landing, but she
would have no work done on Sundays. On Sunday afternoons in the summer she
and her husband sat in chairs beneath a tree beside the house and went to
sleep. Hugh got into the habit of going off by himself. He wanted to sleep
also, but did not dare. He went along the river bank by the road that ran
south from the town, and when he had followed it two or three miles, turned
into a grove of trees and lay down in the shade.
The long summer Sunday afternoons had been delightful times for Hugh, so
delightful that he finally gave them up, fearing they might lead him to
take up again his old sleepy way of life. Now as he sat in the darkness
above the same river he had gazed on through the long Sunday afternoons, a
spasm of something like loneliness swept over him. For the first time he
thought about leaving the river country and going into a new land with a
keen feeling of regret.
On the Sunday afternoons in the woods south of Mudcat Landing Hugh had lain
perfectly still in the grass for hours. The smell of dead fish that had
always been present about the shack where he spent his boyhood, was gone
and there were no swarms of flies. Above his head a breeze played through
the branches of the trees, and insects sang in the grass. Everything about
him was clean. A lovely stillness pervaded the river and the woods. He lay
on his belly and gazed down over the river out of sleep-heavy eyes into
hazy distances. Half formed thoughts passed like visions through his mind.
He dreamed, but his dreams were unformed and vaporous. For hours the half
dead, half alive state into which he had got, persisted. He did not sleep
but lay in a land between sleeping and waking. Pictures formed in his
mind. The clouds that floated in the sky above the river took on strange,
grotesque shapes. They began to move. One of the clouds separated itself
from the others. It moved swiftly away into the dim distance and then
returned. It became a half human thing and seemed to be marshaling the
other clouds. Under its influence they became agitated and moved restlessly
about. Out of the body of the most active of the clouds long vaporous arms
were extended. They pulled and hauled at the other clouds making them also
restless and agitated.
Hugh's mind, as he sat in the darkness on the cliff above the river that
night in Burlington, was deeply stirred. Again he was a boy lying in the
woods above his river, and the visions that had come to him there returned
with startling clearness. He got off the log and lying in the wet grass,
closed his eyes. His body became warm.
Hugh thought his mind had gone out of his body and up into the sky to join
the clouds and the stars, to play with them. From the sky he thought he
looked down on the earth and saw rolling fields, hills and forests. He had
no part in the lives of the men and women of the earth, but was torn away
from them, left to stand by himself. From his place in the sky above the
earth he saw the great river going majestically along. For a time it was
quiet and contemplative as the sky had been when he was a boy down below
lying on his belly in the wood. He saw men pass in boats and could hear
their voices dimly. A great quiet prevailed and he looked abroad beyond the
wide expanse of the river and saw fields and towns. They were all hushed
and still. An air of waiting hung over them. And then the river was whipped
into action by some strange unknown force, something that had come out of a
distant place, out of the place to which the cloud had gone and from which
it had returned to stir and agitate the other clouds.
The river now went tearing along. It overflowed its banks and swept over
the land, uprooting trees and forests and towns. The white faces of drowned
men and children, borne along by the flood, looked up into the mind's eye
of the man Hugh, who, in the moment of his setting out into the definite
world of struggle and defeat, had let himself slip back into the vaporous
dreams of his boyhood.
As he lay in the wet grass in the darkness on the cliff Hugh tried to force
his way back to consciousness, but for a long time was unsuccessful. He
rolled and writhed about and his lips muttered words. It was useless. His
mind also was swept away. The clouds of which he felt himself a part flew
across the face of the sky. They blotted out the sun from the earth, and
darkness descended on the land, on the troubled towns, on the hills that
were torn open, on the forests that were destroyed, on the peace and quiet
of all places. In the country stretching away from the river where all had
been peace and quiet, all was now agitation and unrest. Houses were
destroyed and instantly rebuilt. People gathered in whirling crowds.
The dreaming man felt himself a part of something significant and terrible
that was happening to the earth and to the peoples of the earth. Again
he struggled to awake, to force himself back out of the dream world into
consciousness. When he did awake, day was breaking and he sat on the very
edge of the cliff that looked down upon the Mississippi River, gray now in