Complete Works of Frank Norris

by Frank Norris

  “Hell,” he muttered, “here’s a fix.”

  Directly underneath the chute, the wheat, as it poured in, raised itself in a conical mound, but from the sides of this mound it shunted away incessantly in thick layers, flowing in all directions with the nimbleness of water. Even as S. Behrman spoke, a wave of grain poured around his legs and rose rapidly to the level of his knees. He stepped quickly back. To stay near the chute would soon bury him to the waist.

  No doubt, there was some other exit from the hold, some companion ladder that led up to the deck. He scuffled and waded across the wheat, groping in the dark with outstretched hands. With every inhalation he choked, filling his mouth and nostrils more with dust than with air. At times he could not breathe at all, but gagged and gasped, his lips distended. But search as he would he could find no outlet to the hold, no stairway, no companion ladder. Again and again, staggering along in the black darkness, he bruised his knuckles and forehead against the iron sides of the ship. He gave up the attempt to find any interior means of escape and returned laboriously to the space under the open hatchway. Already he could see that the level of the wheat was raised.

  “God,” he said, “this isn’t going to do at all.” He uttered a great shout. “Hello, on deck there, somebody. For God’s sake.”

  The steady, metallic roar of the pouring wheat drowned out his voice. He could scarcely hear it himself above the rush of the cataract. Besides this, he found it impossible to stay under the hatch. The flying grains of wheat, spattering as they fell, stung his face like wind-driven particles of ice. It was a veritable torture; his hands smarted with it. Once he was all but blinded. Furthermore, the succeeding waves of wheat, rolling from the mound under the chute, beat him back, swirling and dashing against his legs and knees, mounting swiftly higher, carrying him off his feet.

  Once more he retreated, drawing back from beneath the hatch. He stood still for a moment and shouted again. It was in vain. His voice returned upon him, unable to penetrate the thunder of the chute, and horrified, he discovered that so soon as he stood motionless upon the wheat, he sank into it. Before he knew it, he was knee-deep again, and a long swirl of grain sweeping outward from the ever-breaking, ever-reforming pyramid below the chute, poured around his thighs, immobolising him.

  A frenzy of terror suddenly leaped to life within him. The horror of death, the Fear of The Trap, shook him like a dry reed. Shouting, he tore himself free of the wheat and once more scrambled and struggled towards the hatchway. He stumbled as he reached it and fell directly beneath the pour. Like a storm of small shot, mercilessly, pitilessly, the unnumbered multitude of hurtling grains flagellated and beat and tore his flesh. Blood streamed from his forehead and, thickening with the powder-like chaff-dust, blinded his eyes. He struggled to his feet once more. An avalanche from the cone of wheat buried him to his thighs. He was forced back and back and back, beating the air, falling, rising, howling for aid. He could no longer see; his eyes, crammed with dust, smarted as if transfixed with needles whenever he opened them. His mouth was full of the dust, his lips were dry with it; thirst tortured him, while his outcries choked and gagged in his rasped throat.

  And all the while without stop, incessantly, inexorably, the wheat, as if moving with a force all its own, shot downward in a prolonged roar, persistent, steady, inevitable.

  He retreated to a far corner of the hold and sat down with his back against the iron hull of the ship and tried to collect his thoughts, to calm himself. Surely there must be some way of escape; surely he was not to die like this, die in this dreadful substance that was neither solid nor fluid. What was he to do? How make himself heard?

  But even as he thought about this, the cone under the chute broke again and sent a great layer of grain rippling and tumbling toward him. It reached him where he sat and buried his hand and one foot.

  He sprang up trembling and made for another corner.

  “By God,” he cried, “by God, I must think of something pretty quick!”

  Once more the level of the wheat rose and the grains began piling deeper about him. Once more he retreated. Once more he crawled staggering to the foot of the cataract, screaming till his ears sang and his eyeballs strained in their sockets, and once more the relentless tide drove him back.

  Then began that terrible dance of death; the man dodging, doubling, squirming, hunted from one corner to another, the wheat slowly, inexorably flowing, rising, spreading to every angle, to every nook and cranny. It reached his middle. Furious and with bleeding hands and broken nails, he dug his way out to fall backward, all but exhausted, gasping for breath in the dust-thickened air. Roused again by the slow advance of the tide, he leaped up and stumbled away, blinded with the agony in his eyes, only to crash against the metal hull of the vessel. He turned about, the blood streaming from his face, and paused to collect his senses, and with a rush, another wave swirled about his ankles and knees. Exhaustion grew upon him. To stand still meant to sink; to lie or sit meant to be buried the quicker; and all this in the dark, all this in an air that could scarcely be breathed, all this while he fought an enemy that could not be gripped, toiling in a sea that could not be stayed.

  Guided by the sound of the falling wheat, S. Behrman crawled on hands and knees toward the hatchway. Once more he raised his voice in a shout for help. His bleeding throat and raw, parched lips refused to utter but a wheezing moan. Once more he tried to look toward the one patch of faint light above him. His eye-lids, clogged with chaff, could no longer open. The Wheat poured about his waist as he raised himself upon his knees.

  Reason fled. Deafened with the roar of the grain, blinded and made dumb with its chaff, he threw himself forward with clutching fingers, rolling upon his back, and lay there, moving feebly, the head rolling from side to side. The Wheat, leaping continuously from the chute, poured around him. It filled the pockets of the coat, it crept up the sleeves and trouser legs, it covered the great, protuberant stomach, it ran at last in rivulets into the distended, gasping mouth. It covered the face. Upon the surface of the Wheat, under the chute, nothing moved but the Wheat itself. There was no sign of life. Then, for an instant, the surface stirred. A hand, fat, with short fingers and swollen veins, reached up, clutching, then fell limp and prone. In another instant it was covered. In the hold of the “Swanhilda” there was no movement but the widening ripples that spread flowing from the ever-breaking, ever-reforming cone; no sound, but the rushing of the Wheat that continued to plunge incessantly from the iron chute in a prolonged roar, persistent, steady, inevitable.

  CONCLUSION

  The “Swanhilda” cast off from the docks at Port Costa two days after Presley had left Bonneville and the ranches and made her way up to San Francisco, anchoring in the stream off the City front. A few hours after her arrival, Presley, waiting at his club, received a despatch from Cedarquist to the effect that she would clear early the next morning and that he must be aboard of her before midnight.

  He sent his trunks aboard and at once hurried to Cedarquist’s office to say good-bye. He found the manufacturer in excellent spirits.

  “What do you think of Lyman Derrick now, Presley?” he said, when Presley had sat down. “He’s in the new politics with a vengeance, isn’t he? And our own dear Railroad openly acknowledges him as their candidate. You’ve heard of his canvass.”

  “Yes, yes,” answered Presley. “Well, he knows his business best.”

  But Cedarquist was full of another idea: his new venture — the organizing of a line of clipper wheat ships for Pacific and Oriental trade — was prospering.

  “The ‘Swanhilda’ is the mother of the fleet, Pres. I had to buy HER, but the keel of her sister ship will be laid by the time she discharges at Calcutta. We’ll carry our wheat into Asia yet. The Anglo-Saxon started from there at the beginning of everything and it’s manifest destiny that he must circle the globe and fetch up where he began his march. You are up with procession, Pres, going to India this way in a wheat ship that flies American colour
s. By the way, do you know where the money is to come from to build the sister ship of the ‘Swanhilda’? From the sale of the plant and scrap iron of the Atlas Works. Yes, I’ve given it up definitely, that business. The people here would not back me up. But I’m working off on this new line now. It may break me, but we’ll try it on. You know the ‘Million Dollar Fair’ was formally opened yesterday. There is,” he added with a wink, “a Midway Pleasance in connection with the thing. Mrs. Cedarquist and our friend Hartrath ‘got up a subscription’ to construct a figure of California — heroic size — out of dried apricots. I assure you,” he remarked With prodigious gravity, “it is a real work of art and quite a ‘feature’ of the Fair. Well, good luck to you, Pres. Write to me from Honolulu, and bon voyage. My respects to the hungry Hindoo. Tell him ‘we’re coming, Father Abraham, a hundred thousand more.’ Tell the men of the East to look out for the men of the West. The irrepressible Yank is knocking at the doors of their temples and he will want to sell ’em carpet-sweepers for their harems and electric light plants for their temple shrines. Good-bye to you.”

  “Good-bye, sir.”

  “Get fat yourself while you’re about it, Presley,” he observed, as the two stood up and shook hands.

  “There shouldn’t be any lack of food on a wheat ship. Bread enough, surely.”

  “Little monotonous, though. ‘Man cannot live by bread alone.’ Well, you’re really off. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, sir.”

  And as Presley issued from the building and stepped out into the street, he was abruptly aware of a great wagon shrouded in white cloth, inside of which a bass drum was being furiously beaten. On the cloth, in great letters, were the words:

  “Vote for Lyman Derrick, Regular Republican Nominee for Governor of California.”

  The “Swanhilda” lifted and rolled slowly, majestically on the ground swell of the Pacific, the water hissing and boiling under her forefoot, her cordage vibrating and droning in the steady rush of the trade winds. It was drawing towards evening and her lights had just been set. The master passed Presley, who was leaning over the rail smoking a cigarette, and paused long enough to remark:

  “The land yonder, if you can make it out, is Point Gordo, and if you were to draw a line from our position now through that point and carry it on about a hundred miles further, it would just about cross Tulare County not very far from where you used to live.”

  “I see,” answered Presley, “I see. Thanks. I am glad to know that.”

  The master passed on, and Presley, going up to the quarter deck, looked long and earnestly at the faint line of mountains that showed vague and bluish above the waste of tumbling water.

  Those were the mountains of the Coast range and beyond them was what once had been his home. Bonneville was there, and Guadalajara and Los Muertos and Quien Sabe, the Mission of San Juan, the Seed ranch, Annixter’s desolated home and Dyke’s ruined hop-fields.

  Well, it was all over now, that terrible drama through which he had lived. Already it was far distant from him; but once again it rose in his memory, portentous, sombre, ineffaceable. He passed it all in review from the day of his first meeting with Vanamee to the day of his parting with Hilma. He saw it all — the great sweep of country opening to view from the summit of the hills at the head waters of Broderson’s Creek; the barn dance at Annixter’s, the harness room with its jam of furious men; the quiet garden of the Mission; Dyke’s house, his flight upon the engine, his brave fight in the chaparral; Lyman Derrick at bay in the dining-room of the ranch house; the rabbit drive; the fight at the irrigating ditch, the shouting mob in the Bonneville Opera House. The drama was over. The fight of Ranch and Railroad had been wrought out to its dreadful close. It was true, as Shelgrim had said, that forces rather than men had locked horns in that struggle, but for all that the men of the Ranch and not the men of the Railroad had suffered. Into the prosperous valley, into the quiet community of farmers, that galloping monster, that terror of steel and steam had burst, shooting athwart the horizons, flinging the echo of its thunder over all the ranches of the valley, leaving blood and destruction in its path.

  Yes, the Railroad had prevailed. The ranches had been seized in the tentacles of the octopus; the iniquitous burden of extortionate freight rates had been imposed like a yoke of iron. The monster had killed Harran, had killed Osterman, had killed Broderson, had killed Hooven. It had beggared Magnus and had driven him to a state of semi-insanity after he had wrecked his honour in the vain attempt to do evil that good might come. It had enticed Lyman into its toils to pluck from him his manhood and his honesty, corrupting him and poisoning him beyond redemption; it had hounded Dyke from his legitimate employment and had made of him a highwayman and criminal. It had cast forth Mrs. Hooven to starve to death upon the City streets. It had driven Minna to prostitution. It had slain Annixter at the very moment when painfully and manfully he had at last achieved his own salvation and stood forth resolved to do right, to act unselfishly and to live for others. It had widowed Hilma in the very dawn of her happiness. It had killed the very babe within the mother’s womb, strangling life ere yet it had been born, stamping out the spark ordained by God to burn through all eternity.

  What then was left? Was there no hope, no outlook for the future, no rift in the black curtain, no glimmer through the night? Was good to be thus overthrown? Was evil thus to be strong and to prevail? Was nothing left?

  Then suddenly Vanamee’s words came back to his mind. What was the larger view, what contributed the greatest good to the greatest numbers? What was the full round of the circle whose segment only he beheld? In the end, the ultimate, final end of all, what was left? Yes, good issued from this crisis, untouched, unassailable, undefiled.

  Men — motes in the sunshine — perished, were shot down in the very noon of life, hearts were broken, little children started in life lamentably handicapped; young girls were brought to a life of shame; old women died in the heart of life for lack of food. In that little, isolated group of human insects, misery, death, and anguish spun like a wheel of fire.

  BUT THE WHEAT REMAINED. Untouched, unassailable, undefiled, that mighty world-force, that nourisher of nations, wrapped in Nirvanic calm, indifferent to the human swarm, gigantic, resistless, moved onward in its appointed grooves. Through the welter of blood at the irrigation ditch, through the sham charity and shallow philanthropy of famine relief committees, the great harvest of Los Muertos rolled like a flood from the Sierras to the Himalayas to feed thousands of starving scarecrows on the barren plains of India.

  Falseness dies; injustice and oppression in the end of everything fade and vanish away. Greed, cruelty, selfishness, and inhumanity are short-lived; the individual suffers, but the race goes on. Annixter dies, but in a far distant corner of the world a thousand lives are saved. The larger view always and through all shams, all wickednesses, discovers the Truth that will, in the end, prevail, and all things, surely, inevitably, resistlessly work together for good.

  THE PIT

  A STORY OF CHICAGO

  Doubleday, Page and Company published Frank Norris’ posthumous novel, The Pit: A Story of Chicago, in 1903, less than a year after the author passed away. It was the second of three intended novels in his series, The Epic of the Wheat. The Octopus: A Story of California had appeared in 1901 to both critical and popular acclaim. The novel dealt with the conflict between wheat farmers and land-hungry railroad magnates. Norris never wrote the third novel, The Wolf: A Story of Europe, which would have focused on the use of wheat in an area of Europe coping with starvation. There was great anticipation in the literary world and among readers all over the world after The Pit first appeared in truncated form as a serial in The Saturday Evening Post in 1902. Reviews were decidedly favorable at the time and there was talk that Norris had at last written “the great American novel.” The February 1903 issue of Book News Monthly aptly summarized the novel’s setting and plot and pointed out both Norris’ strengths as a writer and laments the great loss
he was to literature:

  “The Pit” is the second act in the thrilling story. It is the picture of the speculator, of the Board of Trade and never in fiction have we been brought so forcibly face to face with the madness of the Stock Exchange as in this novel. Chicago is the scene of the action, the chief characters are men of business enterprise and wealth, the hero is a multi-millionaire who corners the wheat only to find himself later cornered by the wheat, after a signal triumph and a magnificent fight. he Chicagoan Board of Trade, with the wheat pit in particular, is placed before us, and the contrast between the drama of romance as enacted upon the stage and the immense and more important drama that day by day involves men and money with the terrible reality of its implacable grasp, is irresistibly forced upon us. In the heroine most of all is the contrast set forth; it is in her peculiar double character, her fluctuations from ideality to reality, that we see the startling comparison in all its significance. Laura Dearborn is a creation, she is something new in the woman of fiction, but she is the truest of the true to life. Mr. Norris could make characters; he could make them live before us, he could give us a subtle intimacy with their innermost personalities and give it without lengthy psychological analysis or tedious play with soul problems and tendencies. The effect for which Mr. Henry James is ever striving and barely succeeds in bringing to pass after a number of hours passed in wearisome reading is obtained by Mr. Norris in a page, and an interesting page at that, while the intense grip of situation, the thrilling power of exciting scene make the work of the latter not only satisfying but absorbing from beginning to end. And all this, too, without the sacrifice of artistic skill, without a lapse from good, refined, even elegant style. Mr. Norris’ mode of expression is distinctively his own, but it measures up to a high standard in novelistic art. It has clarity, it has force, it has purity, it has dignity, it has easy flow that makes easy reading. It all causes one to wonder why a man of such unique endowments should have been cut off in his very prime, swept away, as it were, in the very moment of his triumph, in that moment when his full powers lay right at his command, and when he was so industriously striving to put them to best and safest use.