The Complete Works of Stephen Crane (98 page)

Hawker had a writing friend named Hollanden. In New York Hollanden had announced his resolution to spend the summer at Hemlock Inn. “I don’t like to see the world progressing,” he had said; “I shall go to Sullivan County for a time.”

In the morning Hawker took his painting equipment, and after manœuvring in the fields until he had proved to himself that he had no desire to go toward the inn, he went toward it. The time was only nine o’clock, and he knew that he could not hope to see Hollanden before eleven, as it was only through rumour that Hollanden was aware that there was a sunrise and an early morning.

Hawker encamped in front of some fields of vivid yellow stubble on which trees made olive shadows, and which was overhung by a china-blue sky and sundry little white clouds. He fiddled away perfunctorily at it. A spectator would have believed, probably, that he was sketching the pines on the hill where shone the red porches of Hemlock Inn.

Finally, a white-flannel young man walked into the landscape. Hawker waved a brush. “Hi, Hollie, get out of the colour-scheme!”

At this cry the white-flannel young man looked down at his feet apprehensively. Finally he came forward grinning. “Why, hello, Hawker, old boy! Glad to find you here.” He perched on a boulder and began to study Hawker’s canvas and the vivid yellow stubble with the olive shadows. He wheeled his eyes from one to the other. “Say, Hawker,” he said suddenly, “why don’t you marry Miss Fanhall?”

Hawker had a brush in his mouth, but he took it quickly out, and said, “Marry Miss Fanhall? Who the devil is Miss Fanhall?”

Hollanden clasped both hands about his knee and looked thoughtfully away. “Oh, she’s a girl.”

“She is?” said Hawker.

“Yes. She came to the inn last night with her sister-in-law and a small tribe of young Fanhalls. There’s six of them, I think.”

“Two,” said Hawker, “a boy and a girl.”

“How do you — oh, you must have come up with them. Of course. Why, then you saw her.”

“Was that her?” asked Hawker listlessly.

“Was that her?” cried Hollanden, with indignation. “Was that her?”

“Oh!” said Hawker.

Hollanden mused again. “She’s got lots of money,” he said. “Loads of it. And I think she would be fool enough to have sympathy for you in your work. They are a tremendously wealthy crowd, although they treat it simply. It would be a good thing for you. I believe — yes, I am sure she could be fool enough to have sympathy for you in your work. And now, if you weren’t such a hopeless chump — —”

“Oh, shut up, Hollie,” said the painter.

For a time Hollanden did as he was bid, but at last he talked again. “Can’t think why they came up here. Must be her sister-in-law’s health. Something like that. She — —”

“Great heavens,” said Hawker, “you speak of nothing else!”

“Well, you saw her, didn’t you?” demanded Hollanden. “What can you expect, then, from a man of my sense? You — you old stick — you — —”

“It was quite dark,” protested the painter.

“Quite dark,” repeated Hollanden, in a wrathful voice. “What if it was?”

“Well, that is bound to make a difference in a man’s opinion, you know.”

“No, it isn’t. It was light down at the railroad station, anyhow. If you had any sand — thunder, but I did get up early this morning! Say, do you play tennis?”

“After a fashion,” said Hawker. “Why?”

“Oh, nothing,” replied Hollanden sadly. “Only they are wearing me out at the game. I had to get up and play before breakfast this morning with the Worcester girls, and there is a lot more mad players who will be down on me before long. It’s a terrible thing to be a tennis player.”

“Why, you used to put yourself out so little for people,” remarked Hawker.

“Yes, but up there” — Hollanden jerked his thumb in the direction of the inn—”they think I’m so amiable.”

“Well, I’ll come up and help you out.”

“Do,” Hollanden laughed; “you and Miss Fanhall can team it against the littlest Worcester girl and me.” He regarded the landscape and meditated. Hawker struggled for a grip on the thought of the stubble.

“That colour of hair and eyes always knocks me kerplunk,” observed Hollanden softly.

Hawker looked up irascibly. “What colour hair and eyes?” he demanded. “I believe you’re crazy.”

“What colour hair and eyes?” repeated Hollanden, with a savage gesture. “You’ve got no more appreciation than a post.”

“They are good enough for me,” muttered Hawker, turning again to his work. He scowled first at the canvas and then at the stubble. “Seems to me you had best take care of yourself, instead of planning for me,” he said.

“Me!” cried Hollanden. “Me! Take care of myself! My boy, I’ve got a past of sorrow and gloom. I — —”

“You’re nothing but a kid,” said Hawker, glaring at the other man.

“Oh, of course,” said Hollanden, wagging his head with midnight wisdom. “Oh, of course.”

“Well, Hollie,” said Hawker, with sudden affability, “I didn’t mean to be unpleasant, but then you are rather ridiculous, you know, sitting up there and howling about the colour of hair and eyes.”

“I’m not ridiculous.”

“Yes, you are, you know, Hollie.”

The writer waved his hand despairingly. “And you rode in the train with her, and in the stage.”

“I didn’t see her in the train,” said Hawker.

“Oh, then you saw her in the stage. Ha-ha, you old thief! I sat up here, and you sat down there and lied.” He jumped from his perch and belaboured Hawker’s shoulders.

“Stop that!” said the painter.

“Oh, you old thief, you lied to me! You lied —— Hold on — bless my life, here she comes now!”

One day Hollanden said: “There are forty-two people at Hemlock Inn, I think. Fifteen are middle-aged ladies of the most aggressive respectability. They have come here for no discernible purpose save to get where they can see people and be displeased at them. They sit in a large group on that porch and take measurements of character as importantly as if they constituted the jury of heaven. When I arrived at Hemlock Inn I at once cast my eye searchingly about me. Perceiving this assemblage, I cried, ‘There they are!’ Barely waiting to change my clothes, I made for this formidable body and endeavoured to conciliate it. Almost every day I sit down among them and lie like a machine. Privately I believe they should be hanged, but publicly I glisten with admiration. Do you know, there is one of ’em who I know has not moved from the inn in eight days, and this morning I said to her, ‘These long walks in the clear mountain air are doing you a world of good.’ And I keep continually saying, ‘Your frankness is so charming!’ Because of the great law of universal balance, I know that this illustrious corps will believe good of themselves with exactly the same readiness that they will believe ill of others. So I ply them with it. In consequence, the worst they ever say of me is, ‘Isn’t that Mr. Hollanden a peculiar man?’ And you know, my boy, that’s not so bad for a literary person.” After some thought he added: “Good people, too. Good wives, good mothers, and everything of that kind, you know. But conservative, very conservative. Hate anything radical. Can not endure it. Were that way themselves once, you know. They hit the mark, too, sometimes. Such general volleyings can’t fail to hit everything. May the devil fly away with them!”

Hawker regarded the group nervously, and at last propounded a great question: “Say, I wonder where they all are recruited? When you come to think that almost every summer hotel — —”

“Certainly,” said Hollanden, “almost every summer hotel. I’ve studied the question, and have nearly established the fact that almost every summer hotel is furnished with a full corps of — —”

“To be sure,” said Hawker; “and if you search for them in the winter, you can find barely a sign of them, until you examine the boarding houses, and then you observe — —”

“Certainly,” said Hollanden, “of course. By the way,” he added, “you haven’t got any obviously loose screws in your character, have you?”

“No,” said Hawker, after consideration, “only general poverty — that’s all.”

“Of course, of course,” said Hollanden. “But that’s bad. They’ll get on to you, sure. Particularly since you come up here to see Miss Fanhall so much.”

Hawker glinted his eyes at his friend. “You’ve got a deuced open way of speaking,” he observed.

“Deuced open, is it?” cried Hollanden. “It isn’t near so open as your devotion to Miss Fanhall, which is as plain as a red petticoat hung on a hedge.”

Hawker’s face gloomed, and he said, “Well, it might be plain to you, you infernal cat, but that doesn’t prove that all those old hens can see it.”

“I tell you that if they look twice at you they can’t fail to see it. And it’s bad, too. Very bad. What’s the matter with you? Haven’t you ever been in love before?”

“None of your business,” replied Hawker.

Hollanden thought upon this point for a time. “Well,” he admitted finally, “that’s true in a general way, but I hate to see you managing your affairs so stupidly.”

Rage flamed into Hawker’s face, and he cried passionately, “I tell you it is none of your business!” He suddenly confronted the other man.

Hollanden surveyed this outburst with a critical eye, and then slapped his knee with emphasis. “You certainly have got it — a million times worse than I thought. Why, you — you — you’re heels over head.”

“What if I am?” said Hawker, with a gesture of defiance and despair.

Hollanden saw a dramatic situation in the distance, and with a bright smile he studied it. “Say,” he exclaimed, “suppose she should not go to the picnic to-morrow? She said this morning she did not know if she could go. Somebody was expected from New York, I think. Wouldn’t it break you up, though! Eh?”

“You’re so dev’lish clever!” said Hawker, with sullen irony.

Hollanden was still regarding the distant dramatic situation. “And rivals, too! The woods must be crowded with them. A girl like that, you know. And then all that money! Say, your rivals must number enough to make a brigade of militia. Imagine them swarming around! But then it doesn’t matter so much,” he went on cheerfully; “you’ve got a good play there. You must appreciate them to her — you understand? — appreciate them kindly, like a man in a watch-tower. You must laugh at them only about once a week, and then very tolerantly — you understand? — and kindly, and — and appreciatively.”

“You’re a colossal ass, Hollie!” said Hawker. “You — —”

“Yes, yes, I know,” replied the other peacefully; “a colossal ass. Of course.” After looking into the distance again, he murmured: “I’m worried about that picnic. I wish I knew she was going. By heavens, as a matter of fact, she must be made to go!”

“What have you got to do with it?” cried the painter, in another sudden outburst.

“There! there!” said Hollanden, waving his hand. “You fool! Only a spectator, I assure you.”

Hawker seemed overcome then with a deep dislike of himself. “Oh, well, you know, Hollie, this sort of thing — —” He broke off and gazed at the trees. “This sort of thing —— It — —”

“How?” asked Hollanden.

“Confound you for a meddling, gabbling idiot!” cried Hawker suddenly.

Hollanden replied, “What did you do with that violet she dropped at the side of the tennis court yesterday?”