Another thing it did was to bring home to him a sense of his position in the world. So far he had always been dependent on his parents for food, clothes and spending money, and his parents were not very liberal. He knew other boys who had money to run up to Chicago or down to Springfield—the latter was nearer—to have a Saturday and Sunday lark9. No such gaieties were for him. His father would not allow it, or rather would not pay for it. There were other boys who, in consequence of amply provided spending money, were the town dandies. He saw them kicking their heels outside the corner book store, the principal loafing place of the elite10, on Wednesdays and Saturdays and sometimes on Sunday evenings preparatory to going somewhere, dressed in a luxury of clothing which was beyond his wildest dreams. Ted7 Martinwood, the son of the principal drygoods man, had a frock coat in which he sometimes appeared when he came down to the barber shop for a shave before he went to call on his girl. George Anderson was possessed11 of a dress suit, and wore dancing pumps at all dances. There was Ed Waterbury, who was known to have a horse and runabout of his own. These youths were slightly older, and were interested in girls of a slightly older set, but the point was the same. These things hurt him.
He himself had no avenue of progress which, so far as he could see, was going to bring him to any financial prosperity. His father was never going to be rich, anybody could see that. He himself had made no practical progress in schoolwork—he knew that. He hated insurance—soliciting or writing, despised the sewing machine business, and did not know where he would get with anything which he might like to do in literature or art. His drawing seemed a joke, his writing, or wish for writing, pointless. He was broodingly unhappy.
One day Williams, who had been watching him for a long time, stopped at his desk.
"I say, Witla, why don't you go to Chicago?" he said. "There's a lot more up there for a boy like you than down here. You'll never get anywhere working on a country newspaper."
"I know it," said Eugene.
"Now with me it's different," went on Williams. "I've had my rounds. I've got a wife and three children and when a man's got a family he can't afford to take chances. But you're young yet. Why don't you go to Chicago and get on a paper? You could get something."
"What could I get?" asked Eugene.
"Well, you might get a job as type-setter if you'd join the union. I don't know how good you'd be as a reporter—I hardly think that's your line. But you might study art and learn to draw. Newspaper artists make good money."
Eugene thought of his art. It wasn't much. He didn't do much with it. Still he thought of Chicago; the world appealed to him. If he could only get out of here—if he could only make more than seven or eight dollars a week. He brooded about this.
One Sunday afternoon he and Stella went with Myrtle to Sylvia's home, and after a brief stay Stella announced that she would have to be going; her mother would be expecting her back. Myrtle was for going with her, but altered her mind when Sylvia asked her to stay to tea. "Let Eugene take her home," Sylvia said. Eugene was delighted in his persistent3, hopeless way. He was not yet convinced that she could not be won to love. When they walked out in the fresh sweet air—it was nearing spring—he felt that now he should have a chance of saying something which would be winning—which would lure12 her to him.
They went out on a street next to the one she lived on quite to the confines of the town. She wanted to turn off at her street, but he had urged her not to. "Do you have to go home just yet?" he asked, pleadingly.
"No, I can walk a little way," she replied.
They reached a vacant place—the last house a little distance back—talking idly. It was getting hard to make talk. In his efforts to be entertaining he picked up three twigs13 to show her how a certain trick in balancing was performed. It consisted in laying two at right angles with each other and with a third, using the latter as an upright. She could not do it, of course. She was not really very much interested. He wanted her to try and when she did, took hold of her right hand to steady her efforts.
"No, don't," she said, drawing her hand away. "I can do it."
She trifled with the twigs unsuccessfully and was about to let them fall, when he took hold of both her hands. It was so sudden that she could not free herself, and so she looked him straight in the eye.
"Let go, Eugene, please let go."
He shook his head, gazing at her.
"Please let go," she went on. "You mustn't do this. I don't want you to."
"Why?"
"Because."
"Because why?"
"Well, because I don't."
"Don't you like me any more, Stella, really?" he asked.
"I don't think I do, not that way."
"But you did."
"I thought I did."
"Have you changed your mind?"
"Yes, I think I have."
He dropped her hands and looked at her fixedly14 and dramatically. The attitude did not appeal to her. They strolled back to the street, and when they neared her door he said, "Well, I suppose there's no use in my coming to see you any more."
"I think you'd better not," she said simply.
She walked in, never looking back, and instead of going back to his sister's he went home. He was in a very gloomy mood, and after sitting around for a while went to his room. The night fell, and he sat there looking out at the trees and grieving about what he had lost. Perhaps he was not good enough for her—he could not make her love him. Was it that he was not handsome enough—he did not really consider himself good looking—or what was it, a lack of courage or strength?
After a time he noticed that the moon was hanging over the trees like a bright shield in the sky. Two layers of thin clouds were moving in different directions on different levels. He stopped in his cogitations to think where these clouds came from. On sunny days when there were great argosies of them he had seen them disappear before his eyes, and then, marvel15 of marvels16, reappear out of nothingness. The first time he ever saw this it astonished him greatly, for he had never known up to then what clouds were. Afterward17 he read about them in his physical geography. Tonight he thought of that, and of the great plains over which these winds swept, and of the grass and trees—great forests of them—miles and miles. What a wonderful world! Poets wrote about these things, Longfellow, and Bryant, and Tennyson. He thought of "Thanatopsis," and of the "Elegy," both of which he admired greatly. What was this thing, life?
Then he came back to Stella with an ache. She was actually gone, and she was so beautiful. She would never really talk to him any more. He would never get to hold her hand or kiss her. He clenched18 his hands with the hurt. Oh, that night on the ice; that night in the sleigh! How wonderful they were! Finally he undressed and went to bed. He wanted to be alone—to be lonely. On his clean white pillow he lay and dreamed of the things that might have been, kisses, caresses19, a thousand joys.
One Sunday afternoon he was lying in his hammock thinking, thinking of what a dreary20 place Alexandria was, anyhow, when he opened a Chicago Saturday afternoon paper, which was something like a Sunday one because it had no Sunday edition,—and went gloomily through it. It was as he had always found, full of a subtle wonder, the wonder of the city, which drew him like a magnet. Here was the drawing of a big hotel someone was going to build; there was a sketch21 of a great pianist who was coming to play. An account of a new comedy drama; of a little romantic section of Goose Island in the Chicago river, with its old decayed boats turned into houses and geese waddling23 about; an item of a man falling through a coal hole on South Halstead street fascinated him. This last was at sixty-two hundred and something and the idea of such a long street seized on his imagination. What a tremendous city Chicago must be. The thought of car lines, crowds, trains, came to him with almost a yearning24 appeal.
All at once the magnet got him. It gripped his very soul, this wonder, this beauty, this life.
"I'm going to Chicago," he thought, and got up.
There was his nice, quiet little home laid out before him. Inside were his mother, his father, Myrtle. Still he was going. He could come back. "Sure I can come back," he thought. Propelled by this magnetic power he went in and upstairs to his room, and got a little grip or portmanteau he had. He put in it the things he thought he would immediately need. In his pocket were nine dollars, money he had been saving for some time. Finally he came downstairs and stood in the door of the sitting room.
"What's the matter?" asked his mother, looking at his solemn introspective face.
"I'm going to Chicago," he said.
"When?" she asked, astonished, a little uncertain of just what he meant.
"Today," he said.
"I'm going today," he said. "I'm going to catch that four o'clock train."
Her face saddened. "You're not?" she said.
"I can come back," he replied, "if I want to. I want to get something else to do."
His father came in at this time. He had a little work room out in the barn where he sometimes cleaned machines and repaired vehicles. He was fresh from such a task now.
"What's up?" he asked, seeing his wife close to her boy.
"Eugene's going to Chicago."
"Since when?" he inquired amusedly.
"Today. He says he's going right now."
"You don't mean it," said Witla, astonished. He really did not believe it. "Why don't you take a little time and think it over? What are you going to live on?"
"I'll live," said Eugene. "I'm going. I've had enough of this place. I'm going to get out."
"All right," said his father, who, after all, believed in initiative. Evidently after all he hadn't quite understood this boy. "Got your trunk packed?"
"No, but mother can send me that."
"Don't go today," pleaded his mother. "Wait until you get something ready, Eugene. Wait and do a little thinking about it. Wait until tomorrow."
"I want to go today, ma." He slipped his arm around her. "Little ma." He was bigger than she by now, and still growing.
"All right, Eugene," she said softly, "but I wish you wouldn't." Her boy was leaving her—her heart was hurt.
"I can come back, ma. It's only a hundred miles."
"Well, all right," she said finally, trying to brighten. "I'll pack your bag."
"I have already."
She went to look.
"Well, it'll soon be time," said Witla, who was thinking that Eugene might back down. "I'm sorry. Still it may be a good thing for you. You're always welcome here, you know."
"I know," said Eugene.
They went finally to the train together, he and his father and Myrtle. His mother couldn't. She stayed to cry.
"Why, Eugene," she exclaimed, "how ridiculous! Don't go."
"He's set," said Witla.
Eugene finally got loose. He seemed to be fighting love, home ties, everything, every step of the way. Finally he reached the depot. The train came. Witla grabbed his hand affectionately. "Be a good boy," he said, swallowing a gulp27.
Myrtle kissed him. "You're so funny, Eugene. Write me."
"I will."
He stepped on the train. The bell rang. Out the cars rolled—out and on. He looked out on the familiar scenes and then a real ache came to him—Stella, his mother, his father, Myrtle, the little home. They were all going out of his life.
And then he sank back and tried, as usual, not to think. He must succeed. That's what the world was made for. That was what he was made for. That was what he would have to do....
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1
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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3
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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4
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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5
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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6
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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7
ted
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| vt.翻晒，撒，撒开 | |
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8
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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9
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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10
elite
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| n.精英阶层；实力集团；adj.杰出的，卓越的 | |
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11
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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12
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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13
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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14
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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15
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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16
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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17
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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21
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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22
gee
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| n.马；int.向右！前进！，惊讶时所发声音；v.向右转 | |
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23
waddling
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的现在分词 ) | |
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24
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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prank
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| n.开玩笑，恶作剧；v.装饰；打扮；炫耀自己 | |
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26
depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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27
gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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28
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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