Books are also free. Anyone wanting to make donations can do so by asking an Instructor. Those taking this course must be 16 years of age or older. If you have any questions about the course you may contact Ken at , Jerry at , Matt at or Kent at Register for the class online www. Anyone age 11 thru 15 interested in completing this course should sign up at www. The course will begin on April 7, 9, 13, 14, 16, 20, 21, 23 and Classes will run from 4: The test on April 25th will be from 9am until noon. All classes will be held at the Ellendale Public School. The Instruc- tor will inform the class if any schedule changes are needed.
Every North Dakota resident born af- ter must pass this course in order to buy a hunting license. Those taking the course must be 11 years of age or older. If you have any questions about the course you may con- tact Ken at , Jerry at , Matt at or Kent at Remember that you should register for the class online at www. The class will be held on March House Lobby and Gallery from 9: The fee must be paid vance and is non refundable. Piehl has provided a materials list needed by each er. Pease mail tration fee to P.
Box Ellendale, ND Materiah can be ordered online from Dick Blick. Some artists will already have many of the items needed. Phone for questions. The class will create one or two still life paintings. Piehl is accustomed to working with budding artists so you will not want to miss this class! He is known for his vi- brant, abstract expressionistic Western-themed paintings that capture the en- ergy of horse and rider.
He utilizes rapid movement strokes. This captures the action and movement and energy of horsemen. His work proudly portrays North Dakota's artistic and cultural heritage. His body-servant, deep in the throes of colored adolescence, alone preserved a dignified gravity. At this reference to the finer customs of his native soil the boy Hugo put his hands behind his back and looked darkly and superciliously down the lawn. The tourist waved his hand with a careless gesture as if to indicate the Adirondacks, the Thousand Islands, Newport — but he said:.
But I been to Atlanta lots of times. Powell by a circular motion of his finger sped Hugo on the designated mission. Then he seated himself gingerly in a rocking-chair and began revolving his thatched straw hat rapidly in his hands. I got some money because my aunt she was using it to keep her in a sanitarium and she died.
And as Hugo retired he confided to Amanthis: When the sandwiches arrived Mr. He was unaccustomed to white servants and obviously expected an introduction. She shook her head. Powell noted with embarrassed enthusiasm the particular yellowness of her yellow hair. Color — one hundred percent spontaneous — in the daytime anyhow. To be a New York society girl you have to have a long nose and projecting teeth and dress like the actresses did three years ago. Jim began to tap his foot rhythmically on the porch and in a moment Amanthis discovered that she was unconsciously doing the same thing.
This intense discussion was now interrupted by Hugo who appeared on the steps bearing a hammer and a handful of nails. We may be kin to each other, you see, and us Powells ought to stick together. They were now almost at the gate and the tourist pointed to the two depressing sectors of his automobile. Jim looked at her uncertainly. Such a pretty girl should certainly control the habit of shaking all over upon no provocation at all. Amanthis watched while they placed the upper half of the car upon the lower half and nailed it severely into place.
Powell took the wheel and his body-servant climbed in beside him. Convey my respects to your father. Then with a groan and a rattle Mr. Powell of southern Georgia with his own car and his own body-servant and his own ambitions and his own private cloud of dust continued on north for the summer. She thought she would never see him again. She lay in her hammock, slim and beautiful, opened her left eye slightly to see June come in and then closed it and retired contentedly back into her dreams.
But one day when the midsummer vines had climbed the precarious sides of the red swing in the lawn, Mr. Jim Powell of Tarleton, Georgia, came vibrating back into her life. They sat on the wide porch as before. But before we got there she made me stop and she got out. Mighty proud lot of people they got up in New York. I got an idea. Further than this he would say nothing. His manner conveyed that she was going to be suspended over a perfect pool of gaiety and violently immersed, to an accompaniment of: Shall I let in a little more excitement, mamm?
Three days later a young man wearing a straw hat that might have been cut from the thatched roof of an English cottage rang the doorbell of the enormous and astounding Madison Harlan house at Southampton. He asked the butler if there were any people in the house between the ages of sixteen and twenty. He was informed that Miss Genevieve Harlan and Mr. Ronald Harlan answered that description and thereupon he handed in a most peculiar card and requested in fetching Georgian that it be brought to their attention.
As a result he was closeted for almost an hour with Mr. It happened to be that of the Clifton Garneaus. Here, as if by magic, the same audience was granted him. He went on — it was a hot day, and men who could not afford to do so were carrying their coats on the public highway, but Jim, a native of southernmost Georgia, was as fresh and cool at the last house as at the first.
He visited ten houses that day.
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Anyone following him in his course might have taken him to be some curiously gifted book-agent with a much sought-after volume as his stock in trade. There was something in his unexpected demand for the adolescent members of the family which made hardened butlers lose their critical acumen. As he left each house a close observer might have seen that fascinated eyes followed him to the door and excited voices whispered something which hinted at a future meeting. The second day he visited twelve houses. Southampton has grown enormously — he might have kept on his round for a week and never seen the same butler twice — but it was only the palatial, the amazing houses which intrigued him.
On the third day he did a thing that many people have been told to do and few have done — he hired a hall. Perhaps the sixteen-to-twenty-year-old people in the enormous houses had told him to. It was now abandoned — Mr. Snorkey had given up and gone away and died. We will now skip three weeks during which time we may assume that the project which had to do with hiring a hall and visiting the two dozen largest houses in Southampton got under way.
The day to which we will skip was the July day on which Mr. James Powell sent a wire to Miss Amanthis Powell saying that if she still aspired to the gaiety of the highest society she should set out for Southampton by the earliest possible train. He himself would meet her at the station. Jim was no longer a man of leisure, so when she failed to arrive at the time her wire had promised he grew restless. He supposed she was coming on a later train, turned to go back to his — his project — and met her entering the station from the street side.
She was quite different from the indolent Amanthis of the porch hammock, he thought. Yes, she would do very well. He was one of my fares. He forgot her, I guess. And he was right worried. What does she do? In my course no lady would be taught to raise a guitar against anybody. My grandfather was a dice. I protect pocketbook as well as person. I teach lots of things. Why, there was one girl she came to me and said she wanted to learn to snap her fingers.
She said she never could snap her fingers since she was little. I gave her two lessons and now Wham! I got it fixed up that you come from very high-tone people down in New Jersey.
They were now at the south end of the village and Amanthis saw a row of cars parked in front of a two-story building. The cars were all low, long, rakish and of a brilliant hue. Then Amanthis was ascending a narrow stairs to the second story. Here, painted on a door from which came the sounds of music and laughter were the words:. Amanthis found herself in a long, bright room, populated with girls and men of about her own age.
The scene presented itself to her at first as a sort of animated afternoon tea but after a moment she began to see, here and there, a motive and a pattern to the proceedings. The students were scattered into groups, sitting, kneeling, standing, but all rapaciously intent on the subjects which engrossed them. From six young ladies gathered in a ring around some indistinguishable objects came a medley of cries and exclamations — plaintive, pleading, supplicating, exhorting, imploring and lamenting — their voices serving as tenor to an undertone of mysterious clatters.
Next to this group, four young men were surrounding an adolescent black, who proved to be none other than Mr. The young men were roaring at Hugo apparently unrelated phrases, expressing a wide gamut of emotion. Now their voices rose to a sort of clamor, now they spoke softly and gently, with mellow implication. Every little while Hugo would answer them with words of approbation, correction or disapproval. They walked around among the groups. So I can give you only such details as were later reported to me by one of his admiring pupils.
During all the discussion of it afterwards no one ever denied that it was an enormous success, and no pupil ever regretted having received its degree — Bachelor of Jazz. The parents innocently assumed that it was a sort of musical and dancing academy, but its real curriculum was transmitted from Santa Barbara to Biddeford Pool by that underground associated press which links up the so-called younger generation.
Invitations to visit Southampton were at a premium — and Southampton generally is almost as dull for young people as Newport. He was making money. His charges were not exorbitant — as a rule his pupils were not particularly flush — but he moved from his boarding-house to the Casino Hotel where he took a suite and had Hugo serve him his breakfast in bed.
Within a week she was known to everyone in the school by her first name. Miss Genevieve Harlan took such a fancy to her that she was invited to a sub-deb dance at the Harlan house — and evidently acquitted herself with tact, for thereafter she was invited to almost every such entertainment in Southampton.
Jim saw less of her than he would have liked. Not that her manner toward him changed — she walked with him often in the mornings, she was always willing to listen to his plans — but after she was taken up by the fashionable her evenings seemed to be monopolized. Several times Jim arrived at her boarding-house to find her out of breath, as if she had just come in at a run, presumably from some festivity in which he had no share. So as the summer waned he found that one thing was lacking to complete the triumph of his enterprise.
Despite the hospitality shown to Amanthis, the doors of Southampton were closed to him. Polite to, or rather, fascinated by him as his pupils were from three to five, after that hour they moved in another world. His was the position of a golf professional who, though he may fraternize, and even command, on the links, loses his privileges with the sun-down. He may look in the club window but he cannot dance. And, likewise, it was not given to Jim to see his teachings put into effect. He could hear the gossip of the morning after — that was all. Perhaps, he thought, there was some real gap which separated him from the rest.
Van Vleck was twenty-one, a tutoring-school product who still hoped to enter Yale. Jim had passed these over. He knew that Van Vleck was attending the school chiefly to monopolize the time of little Martha Katzby, who was just sixteen and too young to have attention of a boy of twenty-one — especially the attention of Van Vleck, who was so spiritually exhausted by his educational failures that he drew on the rather exhaustible innocence of sixteen.
It was late in September, two days before the Harlan dance which was to be the last and biggest of the season for this younger crowd. Jim, as usual, was not invited. He had hoped that he would be. The two young Harlans, Ronald and Genevieve, had been his first patrons when he arrived at Southampton — and it was Genevieve who had taken such a fancy to Amanthis. To have been at their dance — the most magnificent dance of all — would have crowned and justified the success of the waning summer. Hugo, standing beside Jim, chuckled suddenly and remarked:.
Jim turned and stared at Van Vleck, who had linked arms with little Martha Katzby and was saying something to her in a low voice. Jim saw her try to draw away. There was an unaccustomed sharpness in his voice and the exercises began with a mutter of facetious protest. With his smoldering grievance directing itself toward Van Vleck, Jim was walking here and there among the groups when Hugo tapped him suddenly on the arm.
Two participants had withdrawn from the mouth organ institute — one of them was Van Vleck and he was giving a drink out of his flask to fifteen-year-old Ronald Harlan. The music died slowly away and there was a sudden drifting over in the direction of the trouble. An atmosphere of anticipation formed instantly. Despite the fact that they all liked Jim their sympathies were divided — Van Vleck was one of them. Ask him if he wants you to tell him what he can do! Van Vleck did not move.
Reaching out suddenly, Jim caught his wrist and jerking it behind his back forced his arm upward until Van Vleck bent forward in agony. Jim leaned and picked the flask from the floor with his free hand. But no one felt exactly like going on. The spontaneity of the proceedings had been violently disturbed. Someone made a run or two on the sliding guitar and several of the girls began whamming at the leer on the punching bags, but Ronald Harlan, followed by two other boys, got their hats and went silently out the door. Jim and Hugo moved among the groups as usual until a certain measure of routine activity was restored but the enthusiasm was unrecapturable and Jim, shaken and discouraged, considered discontinuing school for the day.
But he dared not. If they went home in this mood they might not come back. The whole thing depended on a mood. He must recreate it, he thought frantically — now, at once!
But try as he might, there was little response. He himself was not happy — he could communicate no gaiety to them. They watched his efforts listlessly and, he thought, a little contemptuously. Then the tension snapped when the door burst suddenly open, precipitating a brace of middle-aged and excited women into the room.
No person over twenty-one had ever entered the Academy before — but Van Vleck had gone direct to headquarters. The women were Mrs. Clifton Garneau and Mrs. Poindexter Katzby, two of the most fashionable and, at present, two of the most flurried women in Southampton. They were in search of their daughters as, in these days, so many women continually are. You ghastly, horrible, unspeakable man! I can smell morphin fumes! You have colored girls hidden! Jim was not a little touched when several of them — including even little Martha Katzby, before she was snatched fiercely away by her mother — came up and shook hands with him.
But they were all going, haughtily, regretfully or with shame-faced mutters of apology. And, after all, they were not sorry to go. Outside, the sound of their starting motors, the triumphant put-put of their cut-outs cutting the warm September air, was a jubilant sound — a sound of youth and hopes high as the sun.
Down to the ocean, to roll in the waves and forget — forget him and their discomfort at his humiliation. They were gone — he was alone with Hugo in the room. He sat down suddenly with his face in his hands. Autumn had come early. Jim Powell woke next morning to find his room cool, and the phenomenon of frosted breath in September absorbed him for a moment to the exclusion of the day before. Then the lines of his face drooped with unhappiness as he remembered the humiliation which had washed the cheery glitter from the summer.
There was nothing left for him except to go back where he was known, where under no provocation were such things said to white people as had been said to him here. After breakfast a measure of his customary light-heartedness returned. He was a child of the South — brooding was alien to his nature. He could conjure up an injury only a certain number of times before it faded into the great vacancy of the past. Usually a few words from Jim were enough to raise him to an inarticulate ecstasy, but this morning there were no words to utter.
For two months Hugo had lived on a pinnacle of which he had never dreamed.vispa.webdesignmullingar.com/procesos-estocsticos-con-aplicaciones.php
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He had enjoyed his work simply and passionately, arriving before school hours and lingering long after Mr. The day dragged toward a not-too-promising night. Amanthis did not appear and Jim wondered forlornly if she had not changed her mind about dining with him that night. Perhaps it would be better if she were not seen with them.
Jim had lived in state, and he realized that financially he would have nothing to show for the summer after all. When he had finished he took his new dress-suit out of its box and inspected it, running his hand over the satin of the lapels and lining. This, at least, he owned and perhaps in Tarleton somebody would ask him to a party where he could wear it. Some of those boys round the garage down home could of beat it all hollow. He surveyed his purchase with some pride. He knew that no girl at the Harlan dance would wear anything lovelier than these exotic blossoms that leaned languorously backward against green ferns.
She came down wearing a rose-colored evening dress into which the orchids melted like colors into a sunset. At their table, looking out over the dark ocean, his mood became a contended sadness. They did not dance, and he was glad — it would have reminded him of that other brighter and more radiant dance to which they could not go. After dinner they took a taxi and followed the sandy roads for an hour, glimpsing the now starry ocean through the casual trees.
She gave the chauffeur a direction and a few minutes later they stopped in front of the heavy Georgian beauty of the Madison Harlan house whence the windows cast their gaiety in bright patches on the lawn. There was laughter inside and the plaintive wind of fashionable horns, and now and again the slow, mysterious shuffle of dancing feet. They walked toward the house, keeping in the shadow of the great trees. They moved closer till they could see first pompadours, then slicked male heads, and high coiffures and finally even bobbed hair pressed under black ties.
They could distinguish chatter below the ceaseless laughter. Two figures appeared on the porch, gulped something quickly from flasks and returned inside. But the music had bewitched Jim Powell. His eyes were fixed and he moved his feet like a blind man. Pressed in close behind some dark bushes they listened. A breeze from the ocean blew over them and Jim shivered slightly. Then, in a wistful whisper:. He held out his arm to her but instead of taking it she stepped suddenly out of the bushes and into a bright patch of light. She seized his arm and though he drew back in a sort of stupefied horror at her boldness she urged him persistently toward the great front door.
The great doors swung open and a gentleman stepped out on the porch. In horror Jim recognized Mr. He made a movement as though to break away and run. But the man walked down the steps holding out both hands to Amanthis. New Jersey was warm, all except the part that was under water, and that mattered only to the fishes. All the tourists who rode through the long green miles stopped their cars in front of a spreading old-fashioned country house and looked at the red swing on the lawn and the wide, shady porch, and sighed and drove on — swerving a little to avoid a jet-black body-servant in the road.
A girl with yellow hair and a warm color to her face was lying in the hammock looking as though she could fall asleep any moment. Near her sat a gentleman in an extraordinarily tight suit. They had come down together the day before from the fashionable resort at Southampton. Harlan had tried to present him with a check. They reached the automobile just as Hugo drove in his last nail.
Jim opened a pocket of the door and took from it an unlabeled bottle containing a whitish-yellow liquid. He looked for a moment at her yellow hair and her blue eyes misty with sleep and tears. Then he got into his car and as his foot found the clutch his whole manner underwent a change. The gesture of his straw hat indicated Palm Beach, St. His body-servant spun the crank, gained his seat and became part of the intense vibration into which the automobile was thrown.
It was almost a lullaby, as he said it. Then they were gone down the road in quite a preposterous cloud of dust. Just before they reached the first bend Amanthis saw them come to a full stop, dismount and shove the top part of the car on to the bottom pan. They took their seats again without looking around. Then the bend — and they were out of sight, leaving only a faint brown mist to show that they had passed. The sidewalks were scratched with brittle leaves, and the bad little boy next door froze his tongue to the iron mail-box.
Snow before night, sure. Then he let himself hurriedly into the house, and shut the subject out into the cold twilight. Roger turned on the hall-light and walked into the living-room and turned on the red silk lamp. He put his bulging portfolio on the table, and sitting down rested his intense young face in his hand for a few minutes, shading his eyes carefully from the light.
Then he lit a cigarette, squashed it out, and going to the foot of the stairs called for his wife. He had trouble every day at this hour in adapting his voice from the urgent key of the city to the proper casualness for a model home. But tonight he was deliberately impatient. They kissed — lingered over it some moments. They had been married three years, and they were much more in love than that implies. It was seldom that they hated each other with that violent hate of which only young couples are capable, for Roger was still actively sensitive to her beauty.
His wife, a bright-coloured, Titian-haired girl, vivid as a French rag doll, followed him into the living room. Her hand, palm upward, was extended towards him. In his impatience it seemed incredible that she should ask for matches, but he fumbled automatically in his pocket. After all, she had done no more than light a cigarette; but when he was in this mood her slightest positive action irritated him beyond measure. She was a Southern girl, and any question that had to do with getting ahead in the world always tended to give her a headache. He smiled airily as if it were a new game they were going to play.
Then, as Gretchen was silent, his smile faded, and he looked at her uncertainly. You do enough work as it is. Somewhat to his annoyance the conversation abruptly ended. Gretchen jumped up and kissed him sketchily and rushed into the kitchen to light the hot water for a bath. With a sigh he carefully deposited his portfolio behind the bookcase — it contained only sketches and layouts for display advertising, but it seemed to him the first thing a burglar would look for.
They had no automobile, so George Tompkins called for them at 6. Tompkins was a successful interior decorator, a broad, rosy man with a handsome moustache and a strong odour of jasmine. He and Roger had once roomed side by side in a boarding-house in New York, but they had met only intermittently in the past five years. Roger stared moodily around the stiff, plain room, wondering if they could have blundered into the kitchen by mistake. I think the movies are atrocious. My opinions on life are drawn from my own observations.
I believe in a balanced life. Would that seem horribly egotistic? Do you take a daily cold bath? A horrified silence fell. Tompkins and Gretchen exchanged a glance as if something obscene had been said. Then a good snappy game of bridge until dinner. Dinner is liable to have something to do with business, but in a pleasant way. Or maybe I sit down with a good book of poetry and spend the evening alone.
At any rate, I do something every night to get me out of myself. Let me tell you, every private hospital in New York is full of cases like yours. You just strain the human nervous system a little too far, and bang! The saddest thing about women is that, after all, their best trick is to sit down and fold their hands.
When Tompkins dropped them in front of their house at eleven Roger and Gretchen stood for a moment on the sidewalk looking at the winter moon. There was a fine, damp, dusty snow in the air, and Roger drew a long breath of it and put his arm around Gretchen exultantly. If I could only sleep for forty days. Then he turned around defiantly. From eight until 5. Then a half-hour on the commuting train, where he scrawled notes on the backs of envelopes under the dull yellow light.
At twelve there was always an argument as to whether he would come to bed. He would agree to come after he had cleared up everything; but as he was invariably sidetracked by half a dozen new ideas, he usually found Gretchen sound asleep when he tiptoed upstairs. Christmas came and went and he scarcely noticed that it was gone. But the world outside his business became a chaotic dream. He was aware that on two cool December Sundays George Tompkins had taken Gretchen horseback riding, and that another time she had gone out with him in his automobile to spend the afternoon skiing on the country-club hill.
A picture of Tompkins, in an expensive frame, had appeared one morning on their bedroom wall. And one night he was shocked into a startled protest when Gretchen went to the theatre with Tompkins in town. But his work was almost done. Daily now his layouts arrived from the printers until seven of them were piled and docketed in his office safe. He knew how good they were. December tumbled like a dead leaf from the calendar. There was an agonizing week when he had to give up coffee because it made his heart pound so. On Thursday afternoon H. Garrod was to arrive in New York.
On Wednesday evening Roger came home at seven to find Gretchen poring over the December bills with a strange expression in her eyes. I love you, Gretchen. Say you love me — quick! The quarrel was averted, but there was an unnatural tenseness all through dinner. It came to a climax afterwards when he began to spread his working materials on the table. It occurred to him to send them both to the movies, but somehow the suggestion stuck on his lips. He did not want her at the movies; he wanted her here, where he could look up and know she was by his side.
We can stand so much, and then — bang! When Roger had spread out his materials on the bed upstairs he found that he could still hear the rumble and murmur of their voices through the thin floor. He began wondering what they found to talk about. As he plunged deeper into his work his mind had a tendency to revert sharply to his question, and several times he arose and paced nervously up and down the room. The bed was ill adapted to his work. Several times the paper slipped from the board on which it rested, and the pencil punched through. Everything was wrong tonight.
Letters and figures blurred before his eyes, and as an accompaniment to the beating of his temples came those persistent murmuring voices. At ten he realized that he had done nothing for more than an hour, and with a sudden exclamation he gathered together his papers, replaced them in his portfolio, and went downstairs. They were sitting together on the sofa when he came in. She got up from the sofa, and very deliberately looked at her flushed, tear-stained face in the mirror. Then she ran upstairs and slammed herself into the bedroom.
Automatically Roger spread out his work on the living-room table. The bright colours of the designs, the vivid ladies — Gretchen had posed for one of them — holding orange ginger ale or glistening silk hosiery, dazzled his mind into a sort of coma. His restless crayon moved here and there over the pictures, shifting a block of letters half an inch to the right, trying a dozen blues for a cool blue, and eliminating the word that made a phrase anaemic and pale.
Half an hour passed — he was deep in the work now; there was no sound in the room but the velvety scratch of the crayon over the glossy board. After a long while he looked at his watch — it was after three. The wind had come up outside and was rushing by the house corners in loud, alarming swoops, like a heavy body falling through space. He stopped his work and listened. He put his hands to his head and felt it all over. It seemed to him that on his temple the veins were knotty and brittle around an old scar. Suddenly he began to be afraid.
A hundred warnings he had heard swept into his mind. People did wreck themselves with overwork, and his body and brain were of the same vulnerable and perishable stuff. He arose and began pacing the room in a panic. He rubbed his hand over his eyes, and returned to the table to put up his work, but his fingers were shaking so that he could scarcely grasp the board. The sway of a bare branch against the window made him start and cry out.
He sat down on the sofa and tried to think. Why, there was the wolf at the door now! He could hear its sharp claws scrape along the varnished woodwork. He jumped up, and running to the front door flung it open; then started back with a ghastly cry. An enormous wolf was standing on the porch, glaring at him with red, malignant eyes. As he watched it the hair bristled on its neck; it gave a low growl and disappeared in the darkness. Then Roger realized with a silent, mirthless laugh that it was the police dog from over the way. Dragging his limbs wearily into the kitchen, he brought the alarm-clock into the living-room and set it for seven.
Then he wrapped himself in his overcoat, lay down on the sofa and fell immediately into a heavy, dreamless sleep. When he awoke the light was still shining feebly, but the room was the grey colour of a winter morning. He got up, and looking anxiously at his hands found to his relief that they no longer trembled. He felt much better. Then he began to remember in detail the events of the night before, and his brow drew up again in three shallow wrinkles. There was work ahead of him, twenty-four hours of work; and Gretchen, whether she wanted to or not, must sleep for one more day.
The general housework girl had just arrived and was taking off her hat. For he set it down on the dining room table and put into the coffee half a teaspoonful of a white substance that was not powdered sugar. Then he mounted the stairs and opened the door of the bedroom. Gretchen woke up with a start, glanced at the twin bed which had not been slept in, and bent on Roger a glance of astonishment, which changed to contempt when she saw the breakfast in his hand. She thought he was bringing it as a capitulation. Roger discreetly deposited the tray on a table beside the bed and returned quickly to the kitchen.
So you just put on your hat and go home. He looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to eight, and he wanted to catch the 8. She was sound asleep. The coffee cup was empty save for black dregs and a film of thin brown paste on the bottom. He looked at her rather anxiously, but her breathing was regular and clear.
From the closet he took a suitcase and very quickly began filling it with her shoes — street shoes, evening slippers, rubber-soled oxfords — he had not realized that she owned so many pairs. When he closed the suitcase it was bulging. He hesitated a minute, took a pair of sewing scissors from a box, and following the telephone-wire until it went out of sight behind the dresser, severed it in one neat clip.
He jumped as there was a soft knock at the door.
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It was the nursemaid. He had forgotten her existence. Back in the room, a wave of pity passed over him. Gretchen seemed suddenly lovely and helpless, sleeping there. It was somehow terrible to rob her young life of a day. He touched her hair with his fingers, and as she murmured something in her dream he leaned over and kissed her bright cheek. Then he picked up the suitcase full of shoes, locked the door, and ran briskly down the stairs. Garrod at the Biltmore Hotel. He was to give a decision next morning. Mr Golden came directly to the point. If Mr Halsey intended to keep the office any longer, the little oversight about the rent had better be remedied right away.
Mr Golden looked at the tenant uneasily. Young men sometimes did away with themselves when business went wrong. Then his eye fell unpleasantly on the initialled suitcase beside the desk. Well, Mr Halsey, just to prove that you mean what you say, suppose you let me keep that suitcase until tomorrow noon. He slept in the office that night on a sofa beside his desk. It was then 6. When his two artists arrived he was stretched on the couch in almost physical pain. The phone rang imperatively at 9. We want all of it and as much more as your office can do.
But he was talking to nobody.
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The phone had clattered to the floor, and Roger, stretched full length on the couch, was sobbing as if his heart would break. At the sound of his footsteps she started awake. Then, after a pause: This account alone will bring us in forty thousand a year. With a bewildered look on her face she got out of bed and began searching for her clothes. Roger went into the bathroom to shave.
A minute later he heard the springs creak again. Gretchen was getting back into bed. First that newspaper, and now all my shoes. Take care of me, Roger. He worked pretty hard at it, you know. Roger turned away quickly to conceal his smile — winked forty times, or almost forty times, at the autographed picture of Mr George Tompkins, which hung slightly askew on the bedroom wall. There was once a priest with cold, watery eyes, who, in the still of the night, wept cold tears. He wept because the afternoons were warm and long, and he was unable to attain a complete mystical union with our Lord.
He passed that way when he returned from hearing confessions on Saturday nights, and he grew careful to walk on the other side of the street so that the smell of the soap would float upward before it reached his nostrils as it drifted, rather like incense, toward the summer moon. From his window, as far as he could see, the Dakota wheat thronged the valley of the Red River. The wheat was terrible to look upon and the carpet pattern to which in agony he bent his eyes sent his thought brooding through grotesque labyrinths, open always to the unavoidable sun. One afternoon when he had reached the point where the mind runs down like an old clock, his housekeeper brought into his study a beautiful, intense little boy of eleven named Rudolph Miller.
The little boy sat down in a patch of sunshine, and the priest, at his walnut desk, pretended to be very busy. This was to conceal his relief that some one had come into his haunted room. Presently he turned around and found himself staring into two enormous, staccato eyes, lit with gleaming points of cobalt light.
For a moment their expression startled him — then he saw that his visitor was in a state of abject fear. The boy — Father Schwartz recognized him now as the son of a parishioner, Mr. Miller, the freight-agent — moved his hand reluctantly off his mouth and became articulate in a despairing whisper. The little boy shook his head miserably. Father Schwartz cleared his throat so that he could make his voice soft and say some quiet, kind thing. In this moment he should forget his own agony, and try to act like God.
He repeated to himself a devotional phrase, hoping that in return God would help him to act correctly. The little boy looked at him through his tears, and was reassured by the impression of moral resiliency which the distraught priest had created. Abandoning as much of himself as he was able to this man, Rudolph Miller began to tell his story.
And he yelled after me: Behind the curtain an immortal soul was alone with God and the Reverend Adolphus Schwartz, priest of the parish. Sound began, a labored whispering, sibilant and discreet, broken at intervals by the voice of the priest in audible question. Rudolph Miller knelt in the pew beside the confessional and waited, straining nervously to hear, and yet not to hear what was being said within. The fact that the priest was audible alarmed him. His own turn came next, and the three or four others who waited might listen unscrupulously while he admitted his violations of the Sixth and Ninth Commandments.
In comparison he relished the less shameful fallings away — they formed a grayish background which relieved the ebony mark of sexual offenses upon his soul. He had been covering his ears with his hands, hoping that his refusal to hear would be noticed, and a like courtesy rendered to him in turn, when a sharp movement of the penitent in the confessional made him sink his face precipitately into the crook of his elbow. Fear assumed solid form, and pressed out a lodging between his heart and his lungs. He must try now with all his might to be sorry for his sins — not because he was afraid, but because he had offended God.
He must convince God that he was sorry and to do so he must first convince himself. After a tense emotional struggle he achieved a tremulous self-pity, and decided that he was now ready. If, by allowing no other thought to enter his head, he could preserve this state of emotion unimpaired until he went into that large coffin set on end, he would have survived another crisis in his religious life.
For some time, however, a demoniac notion had partially possessed him. He could go home now, before his turn came, and tell his mother that he had arrived too late, and found the priest gone. This, unfortunately, involved the risk of being caught in a lie. As an alternative he could say that he had gone to confession, but this meant that he must avoid communion next day, for communion taken upon an uncleansed soul would turn to poison in his mouth, and he would crumple limp and damned from the altar-rail. The words blurred to a husky mumble, and Rudolph got excitedly to his feet. He felt that it was impossible for him to go to confession this afternoon.
Then from the confessional came a tap, a creak, and a sustained rustle. The slide had fallen and the plush curtain trembled. Temptation had come to him too late. I confess to Almighty God and to you, Father, that I have sinned. Since my last confession it has been one month and three days. I accuse myself of — taking the Name of the Lord in vain. This was an easy sin. His curses had been but bravado — telling of them was little less than a brag. Of slandering people behind my back. Rudolph had now exhausted the minor offenses, and was approaching the sins it was agony to tell. He held his fingers against his face like bars as if to press out between them the shame in his heart.
Evil companionship leads to evil desires and evil desires to evil actions. Where were you when this happened? He should have gone! He could not tell Father Schwartz how his pulse had bumped in his wrist, how a strange, romantic excitement had possessed him when those curious things had been said. Perhaps in the houses of delinquency among the dull and hard-eyed incorrigible girls can be found those for whom has burned the whitest fire.
The question startled him. Like all those who habitually and instinctively lie, he had an enormous respect and awe for the truth. Something almost exterior to himself dictated a quick, hurt answer. Then as the priest began to murmur conventional admonitions he realized that in heroically denying he had told lies, he had committed a terrible sin — he had told a lie in confession. He must fix this now — it was a bad mistake — but as his teeth shut on the last words of his prayer there was a sharp sound, and the slat was closed.
A minute later when he emerged into the twilight the relief in coming from the muggy church into an open world of wheat and sky postponed the full realization of what he had done. Blatchford Sarnemington was himself, and these words were in effect a lyric. When he became Blatchford Sarnemington a suave nobility flowed from him.
Blatchford Sarnemington lived in great sweeping triumphs. When Rudolph half closed his eyes it meant that Blatchford had established dominance over him and, as he went by, there were envious mutters in the air: There goes Blatchford Sarnemington. God, of course, already knew of it — but Rudolph reserved a corner of his mind where he was safe from God, where he prepared the subterfuges with which he often tricked God.
Hiding now in this corner he considered how he could best avoid the consequences of his misstatement. At all costs he must avoid communion next day. The risk of angering God to such an extent was too great. In spite of its flimsiness this subterfuge was the most feasible that occurred to him. Theoretically, great opportunities lay ahead of a young man of energy in that day and place, but Carl Miller had been incapable of establishing either with his superiors or his subordinates the reputation for approximate immutability which is essential to success in a hierarchic industry.
Somewhat gross, he was, nevertheless, insufficiently hard-headed and unable to take fundamental relationships for granted, and this inability made him suspicious, unrestful, and continually dismayed. His two bonds with the colorful life were his faith in the Roman Catholic Church and his mystical worship of the Empire Builder, James J. Hill was the apotheosis of that quality in which Miller himself was deficient — the sense of things, the feel of things, the hint of rain in the wind on the cheek.
Kneeling by the side of the bed he bent his yellow-gray hair and the full dapple bangs of his mustache into the pillow, and prayed for several minutes. Then he drew off his night-shirt — like the rest of his generation he had never been able to endure pajamas — and clothed his thin, white, hairless body in woollen underwear.
Silence in the other bedroom where his wife lay nervously asleep. From outside Miller could hear the shrill birds and the whirring movement of the poultry, and, as an undertone, the low, swelling click-a-tick of the six-fifteen through-train for Montana and the green coast beyond. Then as the cold water dripped from the wash-rag in his hand he raised his head suddenly — he had heard a furtive sound from the kitchen below. He dried his razor hastily, slipped his dangling suspenders to his shoulder, and listened.
Some one was walking in the kitchen, and he knew by the light footfall that it was not his wife. With his mouth faintly ajar he ran quickly down the stairs and opened the kitchen door. Standing by the sink, with one hand on the still dripping faucet and the other clutching a full glass of water, stood his son.
He was barefooted, and his pajamas were rolled up at the knees and sleeves. The kitchen was garnished with sunlight which beat on the pans and made the smooth boards of the floor and table yellow and clean as wheat. It was the center of the house where the fire burned and the tins fitted into tins like toys, and the steam whistled all day on a thin pastel note. Nothing was moved, nothing touched — except the faucet where beads of water still formed and dripped with a white flash into the sink below.
He realized, too, that he should never have come downstairs; some vague necessity for verisimilitude had made him want to leave a wet glass as evidence by the sink; the honesty of his imagination had betrayed him. Not even this familiar threat could deepen the abyss that Rudolph saw before him. He must either tell all now, offering his body for what he knew would be a ferocious beating, or else tempt the thunderbolts by receiving the Body and Blood of Christ with sacrilege upon his soul.
And of the two the former seemed more terrible — it was not so much the beating he dreaded as the savage ferocity, outlet of the ineffectual man, which would lie behind it. A wild, proud anger rose in him, and he dashed the tumbler passionately into the sink. His father uttered a strained, husky sound, and sprang for him.
Rudolph dodged to the side, tipped over a chair, and tried to get beyond the kitchen table. He cried out sharply when a hand grasped his pajama shoulder, then he felt the dull impact of a fist against the side of his head, and glancing blows on the upper part of his body. Then in less than a minute the blows abruptly ceased. After a lull during which Rudolph was tightly held, and during which they both trembled violently and uttered strange, truncated words, Carl Miller half dragged, half threatened his son up-stairs.
Rudolph was now both hysterical and cold. He was aware of his mother standing at the doorway in a wrapper, her wrinkled face compressing and squeezing and opening out into new series of wrinkles which floated and eddied from neck to brow. Despising her nervous ineffectuality and avoiding her rudely when she tried to touch his neck with witch-hazel, he made a hasty, choking toilet.
Then he followed his father out of the house and along the road toward the Catholic church. They walked without speaking except when Carl Miller acknowledged automatically the existence of passers-by. Rudolph walked into the church, and for the second time in two days entered the confessional and knelt down. The slat went up almost at once. A maudlin exultation filled him. Not easily ever again would he be able to put an abstraction before the necessities of his ease and pride. An invisible line had been crossed, and he had become aware of his isolation — aware that it applied not only to those moments when he was Blatchford Sarnemington but that it applied to all his inner life.
Now he realized unconsciously that his private reservations were himself — and all the rest a garnished front and a conventional flag. The pressure of his environment had driven him into the lonely secret road of adolescence. He knelt in the pew beside his father. Rudolph knelt up — when he was alone he slumped his posterior back against the seat — and tasted the consciousness of a sharp, subtle revenge.
Beside him his father prayed that God would forgive Rudolph, and asked also that his own outbreak of temper would be pardoned. He glanced sidewise at his son, and was relieved to see that the strained, wild look had gone from his face and that he had ceased sobbing. The Grace of God, inherent in the Sacrament, would do the rest, and perhaps after Mass everything would be better. He was proud of Rudolph in his heart, and beginning to be truly as well as formally sorry for what he had done.
Usually, the passing of the collection box was a significant point for Rudolph in the services. If, as was often the case, he had no money to drop in he would be furiously ashamed and bow his head and pretend not to see the box, lest Jeanne Brady in the pew behind should take notice and suspect an acute family poverty. But to-day he glanced coldly into it as it skimmed under his eyes, noting with casual interest the large number of pennies it contained.
When the bell rang for communion, however, he quivered. There was no reason why God should not stop his heart. During the past twelve hours he had committed a series of mortal sins increasing in gravity, and he was now to crown them all with a blasphemous sacrilege. There was a rustle in the pews, and the communicants worked their ways into the aisle with downcast eyes and joined hands.
Those of larger piety pressed together their finger-tips to form steeples. Among these latter was Carl Miller. Rudolph followed him toward the altar-rail and knelt down, automatically taking up the napkin under his chin. The bell rang sharply, and the priest turned from the altar with the white Host held above the chalice:. Along the line Father Schwartz moved, and with gathering nausea Rudolph felt his heart-valves weakening at the will of God. It seemed to him that the church was darker and that a great quiet had fallen, broken only by the inarticulate mumble which announced the approach of the Creator of Heaven and Earth.
He dropped his head down between his shoulders and waited for the blow. Then he felt a sharp nudge in his side. His father was poking him to sit up, not to slump against the rail; the priest was only two places away. Rudolph opened his mouth. He felt the sticky wax taste of the wafer on his tongue.