Susan Glaspell 1876 - 1948
Susan Keating Glaspell (July 1, 1876 – July 27, 1948) was an
American Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright, actress, director, novelist,
biographer, and journalist. With her husband George Cram Cook, she founded the Provincetown Players, the first modern American theater company.
During the Great Depression she served in the Works Progress
Administration as Midwest Bureau Director of the Federal Theater
Project.
A best-selling author in her own time, Glaspell's novels fell out of
print after her death, during which time she was remembered primarily
for discovering Eugene O'Neil and for Trifles (1916), a one-act play frequently cited as one of the greatest works of American theater.Critical reassessment has led to renewed interest in her career, and she is today recognized as a pioneering feminist writer and America's first important modern female playwright.
A prolific writer, Glaspell is known to have published nine novels, fourteen plays, and over fifty short stories. Often set in her native Iowa,
these semi-autobiographical tales frequently address contemporary
issues, such as gender, ethics, and dissent, while featuring deep,
sympathetic characters who make principled stands.
source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Susan_Glaspell
FOR LOVE OF THE HILLS
"Sure you're done with it ?"
"Oh, yes," replied the girl, the suggestion of a smile on her face,
and in her voice the suggestion of a tear. "Yes; I was just going."
But she did not go. She turned instead to the end of the alcove and
sat down before a table placed by the window. Leaning her elbows
upon it she looked about her through a blur of tears.
Seen through her own eyes of longing, it seemed that almost all of
the people whom she could see standing before the files of the daily
papers were homesick. The reading-room had been a strange study to
her during those weeks spent in fruitless search for the work she
wanted to do, and it had likewise proved a strange comfort. When
tired and disconsolate and utterly sick at heart there was always
one thing she could do, she could go down to the library and look at
the paper from home. It was not that she wanted the actual news of
Denver. She did not care in any vital way what the city officials
were doing, what buildings were going up, or who was leaving town.
She was only indifferently interested in the fires and the murders.
She wanted the comforting companionship of that paper from home.
It seemed there were many to whom the papers offered that same
sympathy, companionship, whatever it might be. More than anything
else it perhaps gave to them the searchers, drifters a sense of
anchorage.
She would not soon forget the day she herself had stumbled
in there and found the home paper. Chicago had given her nothing but
rebuffs that day, and in desperation, just because she must go
somewhere, and did not want to go back to her boarding-place, she had
hunted out the city library. It was when walking listlessly about in
the big reading-room it had occurred to her that perhaps she could
find the paper from home; and after that when things were their worst,
when her throat grew tight and her eyes dim, she could always comfort
herself by saying:
"After a while I'll run down and look at the paper."
But to-night it had failed her. It was not the paper from home
to-night; it was just a newspaper. It did not inspire the belief
that things would be better to-morrow, that it must all come right
soon. It left her as she had come heavy with the consciousness
that in her purse was eleven dollars, and that that was every cent
she had in the whole world.
It was hard to hold back the tears as she dwelt upon the fact that
it was very little she had asked of Chicago. She had asked only a
chance to do the work for which she was trained, in order that she
might go to the art classes at night. She had read in the papers of
that mighty young city of the Middle West--the heart of the
continent of its brawn and its brain and its grit. She had supposed
that Chicago, of all places, would appreciate what she wanted to do.
The day she drew her hard-earned one hundred dollars from the bank
in Denver how the sun had shone that day in Denver, how clear the
sky had been, and how bracing the air ! she had quite taken it for
granted that her future was assured. And now, after tasting for
three weeks the cruelty of indifference, she looked back to those
visions with a hard little smile.
She rose to go, and in so doing her eyes fell upon the queer little
woman to whom she had yielded her place before the Denver paper.
Submerged as she had been in her own desolation she had given no
heed to the small figure which came slipping along beside her beyond
the bare thought that she was queer-looking. But as her eyes rested
upon her now there was something about the woman which held her.
She was a strange little figure. An old-fashioned shawl was pinned
tightly about her shoulders, and she was wearing a queer, rusty
little bonnet.
Her hair was rolled up in a small knot at the back of
her head. She did not look as though she belonged in Chicago. And
then, as the girl stood there looking at her, she saw the thin
shoulders quiver, and after a minute the head that was wearing the
rusty bonnet went down into the folds of the Denver paper.
The girl's own eyes filled, and she turned to go. It seemed she
could scarcely bear her own unhappiness that day, without coming
close to the heartache of another. But when she reached the end of
the alcove she glanced back, and the sight of that shabby, bent
figure, all alone before the Denver paper, was not to be withstood.
"I am from Colorado, too," she said softly, laying a hand upon the
bent shoulders.
The woman looked up at that and took the girl's hand in both of her
thin, trembling ones. It was a wan and a troubled face she lifted,
and there was something about the eyes which would not seem to have
been left there by tears alone.
"And do you have a pining for the mountains ?" she whispered, with a
timid eagerness. "Do you have a feeling that you want to see the sun
go down behind them tonight and that you want to see the darkness
come stealing up to the tops ?"
The girl half turned away, but she pressed the woman's hand tightly
in hers. "I know what you mean," she murmured.
"I wanted to see it so bad," continued the woman, tremulously, "that
something just drove me here to this paper. I knowed it was here
because my nephew's wife brought me here one day and we come across
it. We took this paper at home for more 'an twenty years. That's why
I come. 'Twas the closest I could get."
"I know what you mean," said the girl again, unsteadily.
"And it's the closest I will ever get !" sobbed the woman.
"Oh, don't say that," protested the girl, brushing away her own
tears, and trying to smile; "you'll go back home some day."
The woman shook her head. "And if I should," she said, "even if I
should, 'twill be too late."
"But it couldn't be too late," insisted the girl. "The mountains,
you know, will be there forever."
"The mountains will be there forever," repeated the woman, musingly;
"yes, but not for me to see." There was a pause. "You see," she
said it quietly - "I'm going blind."
The girl took a quick step backward, then stretched out two
impulsive hands. "Oh, no, no you're not ! Why the doctors, you know,
they do everything now."
The woman shook her head. "That's what I thought when I come here.
That's why I come. But I saw the biggest doctor of them all
today they all say he's the best there is and he said right out
'twas no use to do anything. He said 'twas hopeless."
Her voice broke on that word. "You see," she hurried on, "I wouldn't
care so much, seems like I wouldn't care 't all, if I could get
there first! If I could see the sun go down behind them just one
night ! If I could see the black shadows come slippin' over 'em just
once ! And then, if just one morning, just once ! I could get up and
see the sunlight come a streamin', oh, you know how it looks ! You
know what 'tis I want to see !"
"Yes; but why can't you ? Why not ? You won't go your eyesight will
last until you get back home, won't it ?"
"But I can't go back home; not now."
"Why not ?" demanded the girl. "Why can't you go home ?"
"Why, there ain't no money, my dear," she explained, patiently.
"It's a long way off, Colorado is, and there ain't no money. Now,
George, George is my brother-in-law, he got me the money to come;
but you see it took it all to come here, and to pay them doctors
with. And George, he ain't rich, and it pinched him hard for me to
come, he says I'll have to wait until he gets money laid up again,
and well he can't tell just when 't will be. He'll send it soon as
he gets it," she hastened to add.
"But what are you going to do in the meantime ? It would cost less to
get you home than to keep you here."
"No, I stay with my nephew here. He's willin' I should stay with him
till I get my money to go home."
"Yes, but this nephew, can't he get you the money ? Doesn't he know,"
she insisted, heatedly, "what it means to you ?"
"He's got five children, and not much laid up. And then, he never
seen the mountains. He doesn't know what I mean when I try to tell
him about gettin' there in time. Why, he says there's many a one
living back in the mountains would like to be livin' here. He don't
understand my nephew don't," she added, apologetically.
"Well, someone ought to understand !" broke from the girl. "I
understand ! But..." she did her best to make it a laugh"eleven
dollars is every cent I've got in the world !"
"Don't !" implored the woman, as the girl gave up trying to control
the tears. "Now, don't you be botherin'. I didn't mean to make you
feel so bad. My nephew says I ain't reasonable, and maybe I ain't."
The girl raised her head. "But you are reasonable. I tell
you, you are reasonable !"
"I must be going back," said the woman, uncertainly. "I'm just
making you feel bad, and it won't do no good. And then they may be
stirred up about me. Emma's my nephew's wife left me at the
doctor's office 'cause she had some trading to do, and she was to
come back there for me. And then, as I was sittin' there, the pinin'
came over me so strong it seemed I just must get up and start !
And"she smiled wanly "this was far as I got."
"Come over and sit down by this table," said the girl, impulsively,
"and tell me a little about your home back in the mountains.
Wouldn't you like to ?"
The woman nodded gratefully. "Seems most like getting back to them
to find someone that knows about them," she said, after they had
drawn their chairs up to the table and were sitting there side by
side.
The girl put her rounded hand over on the thin, withered one. "Tell
me about it," she said again.
"Maybe it wouldn't be much interesting to you, my dear. It's just a
common life mine is. You see, William and I . William was my
husband, we went to Georgetown before it really was any town at all.
Years and years before the railroad went through, we was there. Was
you ever there ?" she asked wistfully.
"Oh, very often," replied the girl. "I love every inch of that
country !"
A tear stole down the woman's face. "It's most like being home to
find someone that knows about it," she whispered.
"Yes, William and I went there when 'twas all new country," she went
on, after a pause. "We worked hard, and we laid up a little money.
Then, three years ago, William took sick. He was sick for a year,
and we had to live up most of what we'd saved. That's why I ain't
got none now. It ain't that William didn't provide."
The girl nodded.
"We seen some hard days. But we was always harmonious, William and I
was. And William had a great fondness for the mountains. The night
before he died he made them take him over by the window and he
looked out and watched the darkness come stealin' over the
daylight you know how it does in them mountains. 'Mother,' he said
to me - his voice was that low I could no more 'an hear what he
said: 'I'll never see another sun go down, but I'm thankful I seen
this one.'"
She was crying outright now, and the girl did not try to stop her.
"And that's the reason I love the mountains," she whispered at last.
"It ain't just that they're grand and wonderful to look at. It ain't
just the things them tourists sees to talk about. But the mountains
has always been like a comfortin' friend to me. John and Sarah is
buried there John and Sarah is my two children that died of fever.
And then William is there like I just told you. And the mountains
was a comfort to me in all those times of trouble. They're like an
old friend. Seems like they're the best friend I've got on earth."
"I know what you mean," said the girl, brokenly. "I know all about
it."
"And you don't think I'm just notional," she asked wistfully, "in
pinin' to get back while, whilst I can look at them ?"
The girl held the old hand tightly in hers with a clasp more
responsive than words.
"It ain't but I'd know they was there. I could feel they was there
all right, but" her voice sank with the horror of it. "I'm 'fraid
I might forget just how they look !"
"Oh, but you won't," the girl assured her. "You'll remember just how
they look."
"I'm scared of it. I'm scared there might be something I'd forget.
And so I just torment myself thinkin'. 'Now do I remember this ? Can
I see just how that looks ?' That's the way I got to thinkin' up in
the doctor's office, when he told me there was nothing to do, and I
was so worked up it seemed I must get up and start !"
"You must try not to worry about it," murmured the girl. "You'll
remember."
"Well, maybe so. Maybe I will. But that's why I want just one more
look. If I could look once more I'd remember it forever. You see I'd
look to remember it, and I would. And do you know seems like I
wouldn't mind going blind so much then ? When I'd sit facin' them I'd
just say to myself: 'Now I know just how they look. I'm seeing them
just as if I had my eyes !' The doctor says my sight'll just kind of
slip away, and when I look my last look, when it gets dimmer and
dimmer to me, I want the last thing I see to be them mountains where
William and me worked and was so happy ! Seems like I can't bear it
to have my sight slip away here in Chicago, where there's nothing I
want to look at ! And then to have a little left--to have just a
little left ! and to know I could see if I was there to look and to
know that when I get there 'twill be Oh, I'll be rebellious-like
here, and I'd be contented there ! I don't want to be complainin', I
don't want to !but when I've only got a little left I want it , oh,
I want it for them things I want to see !"
"You will see them," insisted the girl passionately. "I'm not going
to believe the world can be so hideous as that !"
"Well, maybe so," said the woman, rising. "But I don't know where
'twill come from," she added doubtfully.
She took her back to the doctor's office and left her in the care of
the stolid Emma. "Seems most like I'd been back home," she said in
parting; and the girl promised to come and see her and talk with her
about the mountains. The woman thought that talking about them would
help her to remember just how they looked.
And then the girl returned to the library. She did not know why she
did so. In truth she scarcely knew she was going there until she
found herself sitting before that same secluded table at which she
and the woman had sat a little while before. For a long time she sat
there with her head in her hands, tears falling upon a pad of yellow
paper on the table before her.
Finally she dried her eyes, opened her purse, and counted her money.
It seemed that out of her great desire, out of her great new need,
there must be more than she had thought. But there was not, and she
folded her hands upon the two five-dollar bills and the one silver
dollar and looked hopelessly about the big room.
She had forgotten her own disappointments, her own loneliness. She
was oblivious to everything in the world now save what seemed the
absolute necessity of getting the woman back to the mountains while
she had eyes to see them.
But what could she do ? Again she counted the money. She could make
herself, some way or other, get along without one of the five-dollar
bills, but five dollars would not take one very close to the
mountains. It was at that moment that she saw a man standing before
the Denver paper, and noticed that another man was waiting to take
his place. The one who was reading had a dinner pail in his hand.
The clothes of the other told that he, too, was of the world's
workers. It was clear to the girl that the man at the file was
reading the paper from home; and the man who was ready to take his
place looked as if waiting for something less impersonal than the
news of the day.
The idea came upon her with such suddenness, so full born, that it
made her gasp. They the people who came to read the Denver paper,
the people who loved the mountains and were far from them, the
people who were themselves homesick and full of longing were the
people to understand.
It took her but a minute to act. She put the silver dollar and one
five-dollar bill back in her purse. She clutched the other bill in
her left hand, picked up a pencil, and began to write. She headed
the petition: "To all who know and love the mountains," and she told
the story with the simpleness of one speaking from the heart, and
the directness of one who speaks to those sure to understand. "And
so I found her here by the Denver paper," she said, after she had
stated the tragic facts, "because it was the closest she could come
to the mountains. Her heart is not breaking because she is going
blind. It is breaking because she may never again look with seeing
eyes upon those great hills which rise up about her home. We must do
it for her simply because we would wish that, under like
circumstances, someone would do it for us. She belongs to us because
we understand.
"If you can only give fifty cents, please do not hold it back
because it seems but little. Fifty cents will take her twenty miles
nearer home twenty miles closer to the things upon which she longs
that her last seeing glance may fall."
After she had written it she rose, and, the five-dollar bill in one
hand, the sheets of yellow paper in the other, walked down the long
room to the desk at which one of the librarians sat. The girl's
cheeks were very red, her eyes shining as she poured out the story.
They mingled their tears, for the girl at the desk was herself young
and far from home, and then they walked back to the Denver paper and
pinned the sheets of yellow paper just above the file. At the bottom
of the petition the librarian wrote: "Leave your money at the desk
in this room. It will be properly attended to." The girl from
Colorado then turned over her five-dollar bill and passed out into
the gathering night.
Her heart was brimming with joy. "I can get a cheaper boarding
place," she told herself, as she joined the home-going crowds, "and
until something else turns up I'll just look around and see if I
can't get a place in a store."
* * * * *
One by one they had gathered around while the woman was telling the
story. "And so, if you don't mind," she said, in conclusion, "I'd
like to have you put in a little piece that I got to Denver safe,
so's they can see it. They was all so worked up about when I'd get
here. Would that cost much ?" she asked timidly.
"Not a cent," said the city editor, his voice gruff with the attempt
to keep it steady.
"You might say, if it wouldn't take too much room, that I was much
pleased with the prospect of getting home before sundown to-night."
"You needn't worry but what we'll say it all," he assured her.
"We'll say a great deal more than you have any idea of."
"I'm very thankful to you," she said, as she rose to go.
They sat there for a moment in silence. "When one considers,"
someone began, "that they were people who were pushed too close even
to subscribe to a daily paper"
"When one considers," said the city editor, "that the girl who
started it had just eleven dollars to her name" And then he, too,
stopped abruptly and there was another long moment of silence.
After that he looked around at the reporters. "Well, it's too bad
you can't all have it, when it's so big a chance, but I guess it
falls logically to Raymond. And in writing it, just remember,
Raymond, that the biggest stories are not written about wars, or
about politics, or even murders. The biggest stories are written
about the things which draw human beings closer together. And the
chance to write them doesn't come every day, or every year, or every
lifetime. And I'll tell you, boys, all of you, when it seems
sometimes that the milk of human kindness has all turned sour, just
think back to the little story you heard this afternoon."
* * * * *
Slowly the sun slipped down behind the mountains; slowly the long
purple shadows deepened to black; and with the coming of the night
there settled over the everlasting hills, and over the soul of one
who had returned to them, that satisfying calm that men call peace.
THE LAST SIXTY MINUTES
"Nine...ten..." The old clock paused as if in dramatic appreciation of
the situation, and then slowly, weightily, it gave the final stroke,
"Eleven !"
The Governor swung his chair half-way round and looked the timepiece
full in the face. Already the seconds had begun ticking off the last
hour of his official life. On the stroke of twelve another man would
be Governor of the State. He sat there watching the movement of the
minute hand.
The sound of voices, some jovial, some argumentative, was borne to
him through the open transom. People were beginning to gather in the
corridors, and he could hear the usual disputes about tickets of
admission to the inaugural.
His secretary came in just then with some letters. "Could you see
Whitefield now ?" he asked. "He's waiting out here for you."
The old man looked up wearily. "Oh, put him off, Charlie. Tell him
you can talk to him about whatever it is he wants to know."
The secretary had his hand on the knob, when the Governor added,
"And, Charlie, keep everybody out, if you can. I'm...I've got a few
private matters to go over."
The younger man nodded and opened the door. He half closed it behind
him, and then turned to say, "Except Francis. You'll want to see him
if he comes in, won't you ?"
He frowned and moved impatiently as he answered, curtly:
"Oh, yes."
Francis ! Of course it never occurred to any of them that he could
close the door on Francis. He drummed nervously on his desk, then
suddenly reached down and, opening one of the drawers, tossed back a
few things and drew out a newspaper. He unfolded this and spread it
out on the desk. Running across the page was the big black line,
"Real Governors of Some Western States," and just below, the first
of the series, and played up as the most glaring example of nominal
and real in governorship, was a sketch of Harvey Francis.
He sat there looking at it, knowing full well that it would not
contribute to his peace of mind. It did not make for placidity of
spirit to be told at the end of things that he had, as a matter of
fact, never been anybody at all. And the bitterest part of it was
that, looking back on it now, getting it from the viewpoint of one
stepping from it, he could see just how true was the statement:
"Harvey Francis has been the real Governor of the State; John
Morrison his mouthpiece and figurehead."
He walked to the window and looked out over the January landscape.
It may have been the snowy hills, as well as the thoughts weighing
him down, that carried him back across the years to one snowy
afternoon when he stood up in a little red schoolhouse and delivered
an oration on "The Responsibilities of Statesmanship." He smiled as
the title came back to him, and yet, what had become of the spirit
of that seventeen-year-old boy ? He had meant it all then; he could
remember the thrill with which he stood there that afternoon long
before and poured out his sentiments regarding the sacredness of
public trusts. What was it had kept him, when his chance came, from
working out in his life the things he had so fervently poured into
his schoolboy oration ?
Someone was tapping at the door. It was an easy, confident tap, and
there was a good deal of reflex action in the Governor's "Come in."
"Indulging in a little meditation ?"
The Governor frowned at the way Francis said it, and the latter went
on, easily: "Just came from a row with Dorman. Everybody is holding
him up for tickets, and he, poor young fool looks as though he
wanted to jump in the river. Takes things tremendously to
heart Dorman does."
He lighted a cigar, smiling quietly over that youthful quality of
Dorman's. "Well," he went on, leaning back in his chair and looking
about the room, "I thought I'd look in on you for a minute. You see
I'll not have the entree to the Governor's office by afternoon."
He laughed, the easy, good-humoured laugh of one too sophisticated
to spend emotion uselessly.
It was he who fell into meditation then, and the Governor sat
looking at him; a paragraph from the newspaper came back to him:
"Harvey Francis is the most dangerous type of boss politician. His
is not the crude and vulgar method that asks a man what his vote is
worth. He deals gently and tenderly with consciences. He knows how
to get a man without fatally injuring that man's self-respect."
The Governor's own experience bore out the summary. When elected to
office as State Senator he had cherished old-fashioned ideas of
serving his constituents and doing his duty. But the very first week
Francis had asked one of those little favours of him, and, wishing
to show his appreciation of support given him in his election, he
had granted it. Then various courtesies were shown him; he was let
in on a "deal," and almost before he realised it, it seemed
definitely understood that he was a "Francis man."
Francis roused himself and murmured: "Fools ! amateurs."
"Leyman ?" ventured the Governor.
"Leyman and all of his crowd !"
"And yet," the Governor could not resist, "in another hour this same
fool will be Governor of the State. The fool seems to have won."
Francis rose, impatiently. "For the moment. It won't be lasting. In
any profession, fools and amateurs may win single victories. They
can't keep it up. They don't know how. Oh, no," he insisted,
cheerfully, "Leyman will never be re-elected. Fact is, I'm counting
on this contract business we've saved up for him getting in good
work." He was moving toward the door. "Well," he concluded, with a
curious little laugh, "see you upstairs."
The Governor looked at the clock. It pointed now to twenty-five
minutes past eleven. The last hour was going fast. In a very short
time he must join the party in the anteroom of the House. But
weariness had come over him. He leaned back in his chair and closed
his eyes.
He was close upon seventy, and to-day looked even older than his
years. It was not a vicious face, but it was not a strong one.
People who wanted to say nice things of the Governor called him
pleasant or genial or kindly. Even the men in the appointive offices
did not venture to say he had much force.
He felt it to-day as he never had before. He had left no mark; he
had done nothing, stood for nothing. Never once had his personality
made itself felt. He had signed the documents; Harvey Francis had
always "suggested" the term was that man's own, the course to be
pursued. And the "suggestions" had ever dictated the policy that
would throw the most of influence or money to that splendidly
organised machine that Francis controlled.
With an effort he shook himself free from his cheerless retrospect.
There was a thing or two he wanted to get from his desk, and his
time was growing very short. He found what he wanted, and then, just
as he was about to close the drawer, his eye fell on a large yellow
envelope.
He closed the drawer; but only to reopen it, take out the envelope
and remove the documents it contained; and then one by one he spread
them out before him on the desk.
He sat there looking down at them, wondering whether a man had ever
stepped into office with as many pitfalls laid for him. During the
last month they had been busy about the old State-house setting
traps for the new Governor. The "machine" was especially jubilant
over those contracts the Governor now had spread out before him. The
convict labour question was being fought out in the State just
then organised labour demanding its repeal; country taxpayers
insisting that it be maintained. Under the system the penitentiary
had become self-supporting. In November the contracts had come up
for renewal; but on the request of Harvey Francis the matter had
been put off from time to time, and still remained open. Just the
week before, Francis had put it to the Governor something like this:
"Don't sign those contracts. We can give some reason for holding
them off, and save them up for Leyman. Then we can see that the
question is agitated, and whatever he does about it is going to
prove a bad thing for him. If he doesn't sign, he's in bad with the
country fellows, the men who elected him. Don't you see ? At the end
of his administration the penitentiary, under you self-sustaining,
will have cost them a pretty penny. We've got him right square !"
The clock was close to twenty minutes of twelve, and he concluded
that he would go out and join some of his friends he could hear in
the other room. It would never do for him to go upstairs with a
long, serious face. He had had his day, and now Leyman was to have
his, and if the new Governor did better than the old one, then so
much the better for the State. As for the contracts, Leyman surely
must understand that there was a good deal of rough sailing on
political waters.
But it was not easy to leave the room. Walking to the window he
again stood there looking out across the snow, and once more he went
back now at the end of things to that day in the little red
schoolhouse which stood out as the beginning.
He was called back from that dreaming by the sight of three men
coming up the hill. He smiled faintly in anticipation of the things
Francis and the rest of them would say about the new Governor's
arriving on foot. Leyman had requested that the inaugural parade be
done away with but one would suppose he would at least dignify the
occasion by arriving in a carriage. Francis would see that the
opposing papers handled it as a grand-stand play to the country
constituents.
And then, forgetful of Francis, and of the approaching ceremony, the
old man stood there by the window watching the young man who was
coming up to take his place. How firmly the new Governor walked!
With what confidence he looked ahead at the State-house. The
Governor not considering the inconsistency therein felt a thrill
of real pride in thought of the State's possessing a man like that.
Standing though he did for the things pitted against him, down in
his heart John Morrison had all along cherished a strong admiration
for that young man who, as District Attorney of the State's
metropolis, had aroused the whole country by his fearlessness and
unquestionable sincerity. Many a day he had sat in that same office
reading what the young District Attorney was doing in the city close
by the fight he was making almost single-handed against corruption,
how he was striking in the high places fast and hard as in the low,
the opposition, threats, and time after time there had been that
same secret thrill at thought of there being a man like that. And
when the people of the State, convinced that here was one man who
would serve them, began urging the District Attorney for
chief executive, Governor Morrison, linked with the opposing forces,
doing all he could to bring about Leyman's defeat, never lost that
secret feeling for the young man, who, unbacked by any organisation,
struck blow after blow at the machine that had so long dominated the
State, winning in the end that almost incomprehensible victory.
The new Governor had passed from sight, and a moment later his voice
came to the ear of the lonely man in the executive office. Some
friends had stopped him just outside the Governor's door with a
laughing "Here's hoping you'll do as much for us in the new office
as you did in the old," and the new Governor replied, buoyantly:
"Oh, but I'm going to do a great deal more !"
The man within the office smiled a little wistfully and with a sigh
sat down before his desk. The clock now pointed to thirteen minutes
of twelve; they would be asking for him upstairs. There were some
scraps of paper on his desk and he threw them into the waste-basket,
murmuring: "I can at least give him a clean desk."
He pushed his chair back sharply. A clean desk ! The phrase opened to
deeper meanings.... Why not clean it up in earnest ? Why not give him
a square deal, a real chance ? Why not sign the contracts ?
Again he looked at the clock not yet ten minutes of twelve. For ten
minutes more he was Governor of the State! Ten minutes of real
governorship ! Might it not make up a little, both to his own soul
and to the world, for the years he had weakly served as another
man's puppet ? The consciousness that he could do it, that it was not
within the power of any man to stop him, was intoxicating. Why not
break the chains now at the last, and just before the end taste the
joy of freedom ?
He took up his pen and reached for the inkwell. With trembling,
excited fingers he unfolded the contracts. He dipped his pen into
the ink; he even brought it down on the paper; and then the tension
broke. He sank back in his chair, a frightened, broken old man.
"Oh, no," he whispered; "no, not now. It's " his head went lower
and lower until at last it rested on the desk "too late."
When he raised his head and grew more steady, it was only to see the
soundness of his conclusion. He had not the right now in the final
hour to buy for himself a little of glory. It would only be a form
of self-indulgence. They would call it, and perhaps rightly, hush
money to his conscience. They would say he went back on them only
when he was through with them. Oh, no, there would be no more
strength in it than in the average deathbed repentance. He would
at least step out with consistency.
He folded the contracts and put them back into the envelope. The
minute hand now pointed to seven minutes to twelve. Some one was
tapping at the door, and the secretary appeared to say they were
waiting for him upstairs. He replied that he would be there in a
minute, hoping that his voice did not sound as strange to the other
man as it had to himself.
Slowly he walked to the door leading into the corridor. This, then,
was indeed the end; this the final stepping down from office ! After
years of what they called public service, he was leaving it all now
with a sense of defeat and humiliation. A lump was in the old man's
throat; his eyes were blurred. "But you, Frank Leyman," he whispered
passionately, turning as if for comfort to the other man, "it will
be different with you! They'll not get you, not you !"
It lifted him then as a great wave this passionate exultation that
here was one man whom corruption could not claim as her own. Here
was one human soul not to be had for a price ! There flitted before
him again a picture of that seventeen-year-old boy in the little red
schoolhouse, and close upon it came the picture of this other young
man against whom all powers of corruption had been turned in vain.
With the one it had been the emotional luxury of a sentiment, a
thing from life's actualities apart; with the other it was a force
that dominated all things else, a force over which circumstances and
design could not prevail. "I know all about it," he was saying. "I
know about it all ! I know how easy it is to fall ! I know how fine it
is to stand !"
His sense of disappointment in his own empty, besmirched career was
almost submerged then as he projected himself on into the career of
this other man who within the hour would come there in his stead.
How glorious was his opportunity, how limitless his possibilities,
and how great to his own soul the satisfaction the years would bring
of having done his best !
It had all changed now. That passionate longing to vindicate
himself, add one thing honourable and fine to his own record, had
altogether left him, and with the new mood came new insight and what
had been an impulse centred to a purpose.
It pointed to three minutes to twelve as he walked over to his desk,
unfolded the contracts, and one by one affixed his signature. In a
dim way he was conscious of how the interpretation of his first
motive would be put upon it, how they would call him traitor and
coward; but that mattered little. The very fact that the man for
whom he was doing it would never see it as it was brought him no
pang. And when he had carefully blotted the papers, affixed the seal
and put them away, there was in his heart the clean, sweet joy of a
child because he had been able to do this for a man in whom he
believed.
The band was playing the opening strains as he closed the door
behind him and started upstairs.
THE PLEA
Senator Harrison concluded his argument and sat down. There was no
applause, but he had expected none. Senator Dorman was already
saying "Mr. President ?" and there was a stir in the crowded
galleries, and an anticipatory moving of chairs among the Senators.
In the press gallery the reporters bunched together their scattered
papers and inspected their pencil-points with earnestness. Dorman
was the best speaker of the Senate, and he was on the popular side
of it. It would be the great speech of the session, and the prospect
was cheering after a deluge of railroad and insurance bills.
"I want to tell you," he began, "why I have worked for this
resolution recommending the pardon of Alfred Williams. It is one of
the great laws of the universe that every living thing be given a
chance. In the case before us that law has been violated. This does
not resolve itself into a question of second chances. The boy of
whom we are speaking has never had his first."
Senator Harrison swung his chair half-way around and looked out at
the green things which were again coming into their own on the
State-house grounds. He knew, in substance, what Senator Dorman
would say without hearing it, and he was a little tired of the whole
affair. He hoped that one way or other they would finish it up that
night, and go ahead with something else. He had done what he could,
and now the responsibility was with the rest of them. He thought
they were shouldering a great deal to advocate the pardon in the
face of the united opposition of Johnson County, where the crime had
been committed. It seemed a community should be the best judge of
its own crimes, and that was what he, as the Senator from Johnson,
had tried to impress upon them.
He knew that his argument against the boy had been a strong one. He
rather liked the attitude in which he stood. It seemed as if he were
the incarnation of outraged justice attempting to hold its own at
the floodgates of emotion. He liked to think he was looking far
beyond the present and the specific and acting as guardian of the
future and the whole. In summing it up that night the reporters
would tell in highly wrought fashion of the moving appeal made by
Senator Dorman, and then they would speak dispassionately of the
logical argument of the leader of the opposition. There was more
satisfaction to self in logic than in mere eloquence. He was even a
little proud of his unpopularity. It seemed sacrificial.
He wondered why it was Senator Dorman had thrown himself into it so
whole-heartedly. All during the session the Senator from Maxwell had
neglected personal interests in behalf of this boy, who was nothing
to him in the world. He supposed it was as a sociological and
psychological experiment. Senator Dorman had promised the Governor
to assume guardianship of the boy if he were let out. The Senator
from Johnson inferred that as a student of social science his
eloquent colleague wanted to see what he could make of him. To
suppose the interest merely personal and sympathetic would seem
discreditable.
"I need not dwell upon the story," the Senator from Maxwell was
saying, "for you all are familiar with it already. It is said to
have been the most awful crime ever committed in the State. I grant
you that it was, and then I ask you to look for a minute into the
conditions leading up to it.
"When the boy was born, his mother was instituting divorce
proceedings against his father. She obtained the divorce, and
remarried when Alfred was three months old. From the time he was a
mere baby she taught him to hate his father. Everything that went
wrong with him she told him was his father's fault. His first vivid
impression was that his father was responsible for all the wrong of
the universe.
"For seven years that went on, and then his mother died. His
stepfather did not want him. He was going to Missouri, and the boy
would be a useless expense and a bother. He made no attempt to find
a home for him; he did not even explain he merely went away and
left him. At the age of seven the boy was turned out on the world,
after having been taught one thing to hate his father. He stayed a
few days in the barren house, and then new tenants came and closed
the doors against him. It may have occurred to him as a little
strange that he had been sent into a world where there was no place
for him.
"When he asked the neighbours for shelter, they told him to go to
his own father and not bother strangers. He said he did not know
where his father was. They told him, and he started to walk--a
distance of fifty miles. I ask you to bear in mind, gentlemen, that
he was only seven years of age. It is the age when the average boy
is beginning the third reader, and when he is shooting marbles and
spinning tops.
"When he reached his father's house he was told at once that he was
not wanted there. The man had remarried, there were other children,
and he had no place for Alfred. He turned him away; but the
neighbours protested, and he was compelled to take him back. For
four years he lived in this home, to which he had come unbidden, and
where he was never made welcome.
"The whole family rebelled against him. The father satisfied his
resentment against the boy's dead mother by beating her son, by
encouraging his wife to abuse him, and inspiring the other children
to despise him. It seems impossible such conditions should exist.
The only proof of their possibility lies in the fact of their
existence.
"I need not go into the details of the crime. He had been beaten by
his father that evening after a quarrel with his stepmother about
spilling the milk. He went, as usual, to his bed in the barn; but
the hay was suffocating, his head ached, and he could not sleep. He
arose in the middle of the night, went to the house, and killed both
his father and stepmother.
"I shall not pretend to say what thoughts surged through the boy's
brain as he lay there in the stifling hay with the hot blood
pounding against his temples. I shall not pretend to say whether he
was sane or insane as he walked to the house for the perpetration of
the awful crime. I do not even affirm it would not have happened had
there been some human being there to lay a cooling hand on his hot
forehead, and say a few soothing, loving words to take the sting
from the loneliness, and ease the suffering. I ask you to consider
only one thing: he was eleven years old at the time, and he had no
friend in all the world. He knew nothing of sympathy; he knew only
injustice."
Senator Harrison was still looking out at the budding things on the
State-house grounds, but in a vague way he was following the story.
He knew when the Senator from Maxwell completed the recital of facts
and entered upon his plea. He was conscious that it was stronger
than he had anticipated more logic and less empty exhortation. He
was telling of the boy's life in reformatory and penitentiary since
the commission of the crime, of how he had expanded under kindness,
of his mental attainments, the letters he could write, the books he
had read, the hopes he cherished. In the twelve years he had spent
there he had been known to do no unkind nor mean thing; he responded
to affection craved it. It was not the record of a degenerate, the
Senator from Maxwell was saying.
A great many things were passing through the mind of the Senator
from Johnson. He was trying to think who it was that wrote that
book, "Put Yourself in His Place." He had read it once, and it
bothered him to forget names. Then he was wondering why it was the
philosophers had not more to say about the incongruity of people who
had never had any trouble of their own sitting in judgment upon
people who had known nothing but trouble. He was thinking also that
abstract rules did not always fit smoothly over concrete cases, and
that it was hard to make life a matter of rules, anyway.
Next he was wondering how it would have been with the boy Alfred
Williams if he had been born in Charles Harrison's place; and then
he was working it out the other way and wondering how it would have
been with Charles Harrison had he been born in Alfred Williams's
place. He wondered whether the idea of murder would have grown in
Alfred Williams's heart had he been born to the things to which
Charles Harrison was born, and whether it would have come within the
range of possibility for Charles Harrison to murder his father if he
had been born to Alfred Williams's lot. Putting it that way, it was
hard to estimate how much of it was the boy himself, and how much
the place the world had prepared for him. And if it was the place
prepared for him more than the boy, why was the fault not more with
the preparers of the place than with the occupant of it ? The whole
thing was very confusing.
"This page," the Senator from Maxwell was saying, lifting the little
fellow to the desk, "is just eleven years of age, and he is within
three pounds of Alfred Williams's weight when he committed the
murder. I ask you, gentlemen, if this little fellow should be guilty
of a like crime to-night, to what extent would you, in reading of it
in the morning, charge him with the moral discernment which is the
first condition of moral responsibility ? If Alfred Williams's story
were this boy's story, would you deplore that there had been no one
to check the childish passion, or would you say it was the inborn
instinct of the murderer ? And suppose again this were Alfred
Williams at the age of eleven, would you not be willing to look into
the future and say if he spent twelve years in penitentiary and
reformatory, in which time he developed the qualities of useful and
honourable citizenship, that the ends of justice would then have
been met, and the time at hand for the world to begin the payment of
her debt ?"
Senator Harrison's eyes were fixed upon the page standing on the
opposite desk. Eleven was a younger age than he had supposed. As he
looked back upon it and recalled himself when eleven years of
age his irresponsibility, his dependence he was unwilling to say
what would have happened if the world had turned upon him as it had
upon Alfred Williams. At eleven his greatest grievance was that the
boys at school called him "yellow-top." He remembered throwing a
rock at one of them for doing it. He wondered if it was criminal
instinct prompted the throwing of the rock. He wondered how high the
percentage of children's crimes would go were it not for
countermanding influences. It seemed the great difference between
Alfred Williams and a number of other children of eleven had been
the absence of the countermanding influence.
There came to him of a sudden a new and moving thought. Alfred
Williams had been cheated of his boyhood. The chances were he had
never gone swimming, nor to a ball game, or maybe never to a circus.
It might even be that he had never owned a dog. The Senator from
Maxwell was right when he said the boy had never been given his
chance, had been defrauded of that which has been a boy's heritage
since the world itself was young.
And the later years how were they making it up to him? He recalled
what to him was the most awful thing he had ever heard about the
State penitentiary: they never saw the sun rise down there, and they
never saw it set. They saw it at its meridian, when it climbed above
the stockade, but as it rose into the day, and as it sank into the
night, it was denied them. And there, at the penitentiary, they
could not even look up at the stars. It had been years since Alfred
Williams raised his face to God's heaven and knew he was part of it
all. The voices of the night could not penetrate the little cell in
the heart of the mammoth stone building where he spent his evenings
over those masterpieces with which, they said, he was more familiar
than the average member of the Senate. When he read those things
Victor Hugo said of the vastness of the night, he could only look
around at the walls that enclosed him and try to reach back over the
twelve years for some satisfying conception of what night really
was.
The Senator from Johnson shuddered: they had taken from a living
creature the things of life, and all because in the crucial hour there
had been no one to say a staying word. Man had cheated him of the
things that were man's, and then shut him away from the world that
was God's. They had made for him a life barren of compensations.
There swept over the Senator a great feeling of self-pity. As
representative of Johnson County, it was he who must deny this boy
the whole great world without, the people who wanted to help him,
and what the Senator from Maxwell called "his chance." If Johnson
County carried the day, there would be something unpleasant for him
to consider all the remainder of his life. As he grew to be an older
man he would think of it more and more what the boy would have done
for himself in the world if the Senator from Johnson had not been
more logical and more powerful than the Senator from Maxwell.
Senator Dorman was nearing the end of his argument. "In spite of the
undying prejudice of the people of Johnson County," he was saying,
"I can stand before you today and say that after an unsparing
investigation of this case I do not believe I am asking you to do
anything in violation of justice when I beg of you to give this boy
his chance."
It was going to a vote at once, and the Senator from Johnson County
looked out at the budding things and wondered whether the boy down
at the penitentiary knew the Senate was considering his case that
afternoon. It was without vanity he wondered whether what he had
been trained to think of as an all-wise providence would not have
preferred that Johnson County be represented that session by a less
able man.
A great hush fell over the Chamber, for ayes and noes followed
almost in alternation. After a long minute of waiting the secretary
called, in a tense voice:
"Ayes, 30; Noes, 32."
The Senator from Johnson had proven too faithful a servant of his
constituents. The boy in the penitentiary was denied his chance.
The usual things happened: some women in the galleries, who had boys
at home, cried aloud; the reporters were fighting for occupancy of
the telephone booths, and most of the Senators began the perusal of
the previous day's Journal with elaborate interest. Senator Dorman
indulged in none of these feints. A full look at his face just then
told how much of his soul had gone into the fight for the boy's
chance, and the look about his eyes was a little hard on the theory
of psychological experiment.
Senator Harrison was looking out at the budding trees, but his face
too had grown strange, and he seemed to be looking miles beyond and
years ahead. It seemed that he himself was surrendering the voices
of the night, and the comings and goings of the sun. He would never
look at them, feel them, again without remembering he was keeping
one of his fellow creatures away from them. He wondered at his own
presumption in denying any living thing participation in the
universe. And all the while there were before him visions of the boy
who sat in the cramped cell with the volume of a favourite poet
before him, trying to think how it would seem to be out under the
stars.
The stillness in the Senate-Chamber was breaking; they were going
ahead with something else. It seemed to the Senator from Johnson
that sun, moon, and stars were wailing out protest for the boy who
wanted to know them better. And yet it was not sun, moon, and stars
so much as the unused swimming hole and the uncaught fish, the
unattended ball game, the never-seen circus, and, above all, the
unowned dog, that brought Senator Harrison to his feet.
They looked at him in astonishment, their faces seeming to say it
would have been in better taste for him to have remained seated just
then.
"Mr. President," he said, pulling at his collar and looking straight
ahead, "I rise to move a reconsideration."
There was a gasp, a moment of supreme quiet, and then a mighty burst
of applause. To men of all parties and factions there came a single
thought. Johnson was the leading county of its Congressional
district. There was an election that fall, and Harrison was in the
race. Those eight words meant to a surety he would not go to
Washington, for the Senator from Maxwell had chosen the right word
when he referred to the prejudice of Johnson County on the Williams
case as "undying." The world throbs with such things at the moment
of their doing, even though condemning them later, and the part of
the world then packed within the Senate-Chamber shared the universal
disposition.
The noise astonished Senator Harrison, and he looked around with
something like resentment. When the tumult at last subsided, and he
saw that he was expected to make a speech, he grew very red, and
grasped his chair desperately.
The reporters were back in their places, leaning nervously forward.
This was Senator Harrison's chance to say something worth putting
into a panel by itself with black lines around it--and they were
sure he would do it.
But he did not. He stood there like a schoolboy who had forgotten
his piece growing more and more red. "I...I think," he finally
jerked out, "that some of us have been mistaken. I'm in favour now of giving him his chance."
They waited for him to proceed, but after a helpless look around the
Chamber he sat down. The president of the Senate waited several
minutes for him to rise again, but he at last turned his chair
around and looked out at the green things on the State-house
grounds, and there was nothing to do but go ahead with the second
calling of the roll. This time it stood 50 to 12 in favour of the
boy.
A motion to adjourn immediately followed no one wanted to do
anything more that afternoon. They all wanted to say things to the
Senator from Johnson; but his face had grown cold, and as they were
usually afraid of him, anyhow, they kept away. All but Senator
Dorman it meant too much with him. "Do you mind my telling you," he
said, tensely, "that it was as fine a thing as I have ever known a
man to do ?"
The Senator from Johnson moved impatiently. "You think it 'fine,'"
he asked, almost resentfully, "to be a coward ?"
"Coward ?" cried the other man. "Well, that's scarcely the word. It
was--heroic !"
"Oh no," said Senator Harrison, and he spoke wearily, "it was a
clear case of cowardice. You see," he laughed, "I was afraid it
might haunt me when I am seventy."
Senator Dorman started eagerly to speak, but the other man stopped
him and passed on. He was seeing it as his constituency would see
it, and it humiliated him. They would say he had not the courage of
his convictions, that he was afraid of the unpopularity, that his
judgment had fallen victim to the eloquence of the Senator from
Maxwell.
But when he left the building and came out into the softness of the
April afternoon it began to seem different. After all, it was not he
alone who leaned to the softer side. There were the trees they were
permitted another chance to bud; there were the birds--they were
allowed another chance to sing; there was the earth to it was given
another chance to yield. There stole over him a tranquil sense of
unison with Life.