by Frank Norris
The heart-breaking part of the affair came afterward, when “This Animal of a Buldy Jones” kept us groping in the wet grass and underbrush until after dark looking for his confounded baseball, which had caromed off Camme’s chin, and gone — no one knows where.
We never found it.
DYING FIRES
Young Overbeck’s father was editor and proprietor of the county paper in Colfax, California, and the son, so soon as his high-school days were over, made his appearance in the office as his father’s assistant. So abrupt was the transition that his diploma, which was to hang over the editorial desk, had not yet returned from the framer’s, while the first copy that he was called on to edit was his own commencement oration on the philosophy of Dante. He had worn a white pique cravat and a cutaway coat on the occasion of its delivery, and the county commissioner, who was the guest of honour on the platform, had congratulated him as he handed him his sheepskin. For Overbeck was the youngest and the brightest member of his class.
Colfax was a lively town in those days. The teaming from the valley over into the mining country on the other side of the Indian River was at its height then. Colfax was the headquarters of the business, and the teamsters — after the long pull up from the Indian River Cañon — showed interest in an environment made up chiefly of saloons.
Then there were the mining camps over by Iowa Hill, the Morning Star, the Big Dipper, and further on, up in the Gold Run country, the Little Providence. There was Dutch Flat, full of Mexican-Spanish girls and “breed” girls, where the dance-halls were of equal number with the bars. There was — a little way down the line — Clipper Gap, where the mountain ranches began, and where the mountain cow-boy lived up to the traditions of his kind.
And this life, tumultuous, headstrong, vivid in colour, vigorous in action, was bound together by the railroad, which not only made a single community out of all that part of the east slope of the Sierras’ foothills, but contributed its own life as well — the life of oilers, engineers, switchmen, eating-house waitresses and cashiers, “lady” operators, conductors, and the like.
Of such a little world news-items are evolved — sometimes even scare-head, double-leaded descriptive articles — supplemented by interviews with sheriffs and ante-mortem statements. Good grist for a county paper; good opportunities for an unspoiled, observant, imaginative young fellow at the formative period of his life. Such was the time, such the environment, such the conditions that prevailed when young Overbeck, at the age of twenty-one, sat down to the writing of his first novel.
He completed it in five months, and, though he did not know the fact then, the novel was good. It was not great — far from it, but it was not merely clever. Somehow, by a miracle of good fortune, young Overbeck had got started right at the very beginning. He had not been influenced by a fetich of his choice till his work was a mere replica of some other writer’s. He was not literary. He had not much time for books. He lived in the midst of a strenuous, eager life, a little primal even yet; a life of passions that were often elemental in their simplicity and directness. His schooling and his newspaper work — it was he who must find or ferret out the news all along the line, from Penrhyn to Emigrant Gap — had taught him observation without — here was the miracle — dulling the edge of his sensitiveness. He saw, as those few, few people see who live close to life at the beginning of an epoch. He saw into the life and the heart beneath the life; the life and the heart of Bunt McBride, as with eight horses and much abjuration he negotiated a load of steel “stamps” up the sheer leap of the Indian Cañon; he saw into the life and into the heart of Irma Tejada, who kept case for the faro players at Dutch Flat; he saw into the life and heart of Lizzie Toby, the biscuit-shooter in the railway eating-house, and into the life and heart of “Doc” Twitchel, who had degrees from Edinburgh and Leipsic, and who, for obscure reasons, chose to look after the measles, sprains and rheumatisms of the countryside.
And, besides, there were others and still others, whom young Overbeck learned to know to the very heart’s heart of them: blacksmiths, traveling peddlers, section-bosses, miners, horse-wranglers, cow-punchers, the stage-drivers, the storekeeper, the hotel-keeper, the ditch-tender, the prospector, the seamstress of the town, the postmistress, the schoolmistress, the poetess. Into the lives of these and the hearts of these young Overbeck saw, and the wonder of that sight so overpowered him that he had no thought and no care for other people’s books. And he was only twenty-one! Only twenty-one, and yet he saw clearly into the great, complicated, confused human machine that clashed and jarred around him. Only twenty-one, and yet he read the enigma that men of fifty may alone hope to solve! Once in a great while this thing may happen — in such out of the way places as that country around Colfax in Placer County, California, where no outside influences have play, where books are few and misprized and the reading circle a thing unknown. From time to time such men are born, especially along the line of cleavage where the furthest skirmish line of civilisation thrusts and girds at the wilderness. A very few find their true profession before the fire is stamped out of them; of these few, fewer still have the force to make themselves heard. Of these last the majority die before they attain the faculty of making their message intelligible. Those that remain are the world’s great men.
At the time when his first little book was on its initial journey to the Eastern publishing houses, Overbeck was by no means a great man. The immaturity that was yet his, the lack of knowledge of his tools, clogged his work and befogged his vision. The smooth running of the cogs and the far-darting range of vision would come in the course of the next fifteen years of unrelenting persistence. The ordering and organising and controlling of his machine he could, with patience and by taking thought, accomplish for himself. The original impetus had come straight from the almighty gods. That impetus was young yet, feeble, yet, coming down from so far it was spent by the time it reached the earth — at Colfax, California. A touch now might divert it. Judge with what care such a thing should be nursed and watched; compared with the delicacy with which it unfolds, the opening of a rosebud is an abrupt explosion. Later on, such insight, such undeveloped genius may become a tremendous world-power, a thing to split a nation in twain as the axe cleaves the block. But at twenty-one, a whisper — and it takes flight; a touch — it withers; the lifting of a finger — it is gone.
The same destiny that had allowed Overbeck to be born, and that thus far had watched over his course, must have inspired his choice, his very first choice, of a publisher, for the manuscript of “The Vision of Bunt McBride” went straight as a home-bound bird to the one man of all others who could understand the beginnings of genius and recognise the golden grain of truth in the chaff of unessentials. His name was Conant, and he accepted the manuscript by telegram.
He did more than this, and one evening Overbeck stood on the steps of the post-office and opened a letter in his hand, and, looking up and off, saw the world transfigured. His chance had come. In half a year of time he had accomplished what other men — other young writers — strive for throughout the best years of their youth. He had been called to New York. Conant had offered him a minor place on his editorial staff.
Overbeck reached the great city a fortnight later, and the cutaway coat and pique cravat — unworn since Commencement — served to fortify his courage at the first interview with the man who was to make him — so he believed — famous.
Ah, the delights, the excitement, the inspiration of that day! Let those judge who have striven toward the Great City through years of deferred hope and heart-sinkings and sacrifice daily renewed. Overbeck’s feet were set in those streets whose names had become legendary to his imagination. Public buildings and public squares familiar only through the weekly prints defiled before him like a pageant, but friendly for all that, inviting, even. But the vast conglomerate life that roared by his ears, like the systole and diastole of an almighty heart, was for a moment disquieting. Soon the human resemblance faded. It became as a machi
ne infinitely huge, infinitely formidable. It challenged him with superb condescension.
“I must down you,” he muttered, as he made his way toward Conant’s, “or you will down me.” He saw it clearly. There was no other alternative. The young boy in his foolish finery of a Colfax tailor’s make, with no weapons but such wits as the gods had given him, was pitted against the leviathan.
There was no friend nearer than his native state on the other fringe of the continent. He was fearfully alone.
But he was twenty-one. The wits that the gods had given him were good, and the fine fire that was within him, the radiant freshness of his nature, stirred and leaped to life at the challenge. Ah, he would win, he would win! And in his exuberance, the first dim consciousness of his power came to him. He could win, he had it in him; he began to see that now. That nameless power was his which would enable him to grip this monstrous life by the very throat, and bring it down on its knee before him to listen respectfully to what he had to say.
The interview with Conant was no less exhilarating. It was in the reception-room of the great house that it took place, and while waiting for Conant to come in, Overbeck, his heart in his mouth, recognised, in the original drawings on the walls, picture after picture, signed by famous illustrators, that he had seen reproduced in Conant’s magazine.
Then Conant himself had appeared and shaken the young author’s hand a long time, and had talked to him with the utmost kindness of his book, of his plans for the immediate future, of the work he would do in the editorial office and of the next novel he wished him to write.
“We’ll only need you here in the mornings,” said the editor, “and you can put in your afternoons on your novel. Have you anything in mind as good as ‘Bunt McBride’?”
“I have a sort of notion for one,” hazarded the young man; and Conant had demanded to hear it.
Stammering, embarrassed, Overbeck outlined it.
“I see, I see!” Conant commented. “Yes, there is a good story in that. Maybe Hastings will want to use it in the monthly. But we’ll make a book of it, anyway, if you work it up as well as the McBride story.”
And so the young fellow made his first step in New York. The very next day he began his second novel.
In the editorial office, where he spent his mornings reading proof and making up “front matter,” he made the acquaintance of a middle-aged lady, named Miss Patten, who asked him to call on her, and later on introduced him into the “set” wherein she herself moved. The set called itself the “New Bohemians,” and once a week met at Miss Patten’s apartment up-town. In a month’s time Overbeck was a fixture in “New Bohemia.”
It was made up of minor poets whose opportunity in life was the blank space on a magazine page below the end of an article; of men past their prime, who, because of an occasional story in a second-rate monthly, were considered to have “arrived”; of women who translated novels from the Italian and Hungarian; of decayed dramatists who could advance unimpeachable reasons for the non-production of their plays; of novelists whose books were declined by publishers because of professional jealousy on the part of the “readers,” or whose ideas, stolen by false friends, had appeared in books that sold by the hundreds of thousands. In public the New Bohemians were fulsome in the praise of one another’s productions. Did a sonnet called, perhaps, “A Cryptogram is Stella’s Soul” appear in a current issue, they fell on it with eager eyes, learned it by heart and recited lines of it aloud; the conceit of the lover translating the cipher by the key of love was welcomed with transports of delight.
“Ah, one of the most exquisitely delicate allegories I’ve ever heard, and so true — so ‘in the tone’!”
Did a certain one of the third-rate novelists, reading aloud from his unpublished manuscript, say of his heroine: “It was the native catholicity of his temperament that lent strength and depth to her innate womanliness,” the phrase was snapped up on the instant.
“How he understands women!”
“Such finesse! More subtle than Henry James.”
“Paul Bourget has gone no further,” said one of the critics of New Bohemia; “our limitations are determined less by our renunciations than by our sense of proportion in our conception of ethical standards.”
The set abased itself. “Wonderful, ah, how pitilessly you fathom our poor human nature!” New Bohemia saw colour in word effects. A poet read aloud:
The stalwart rain!
Ah, the rush of down-toppling waters;
The torrent!
Merge of mist and musky air;
The current
Sweeps thwart my blinded sight again.
“Ah!” exclaimed one of the audience, “see, see that bright green flash!”
Thus in public. In private all was different. Walking home with one or another of the set, young Overbeck heard their confidences.
“Keppler is a good fellow right enough, but, my goodness, he can’t write verse!”
“That thing of Miss Patten’s to-night! Did you ever hear anything so unconvincing, so obvious? Poor old woman!”
“I’m really sorry for Martens; awfully decent sort, but he never should try to write novels.”
By rapid degrees young Overbeck caught the lingo of the third-raters. He could talk about “tendencies” and the “influence of reactions.” Such and such a writer had a “sense of form,” another a “feeling for word effects.” He knew all about “tones” and “notes” and “philistinisms.” He could tell the difference between an allegory and a simile as far as he could see them. An anticlimax was the one unforgivable sin under heaven. A mixed metaphor made him wince, and a split infinitive hurt him like a blow.
But the great word was “convincing.” To say a book was convincing was to give positively the last verdict. To be “unconvincing” was to be shut out from the elect. If the New Bohemian decided that the last popular book was unconvincing, there was no appeal. The book was not to be mentioned in polite conversation.
And the author of “The Vision of Bunt McBride,” as yet new to the world as the day he was born, with all his eager ambition and quick sensitiveness, thought that all this was the real thing. He had never so much as seen literary people before. How could he know the difference? He honestly believed that New Bohemia was the true literary force of New York. He wrote home that the association with such people, thinkers, poets, philosophers, was an inspiration; that he had learned more in one week in their company than he had learned in Colfax in a whole year.
Perhaps, too, it was the flattery he received that helped to carry Overbeck off his feet. The New Bohemians made a little lion of him when “Bunt McBride” reached its modest pinnacle of popularity. They kotowed to him, and toadied to him, and fagged and tooted for him, and spoke of his book as a masterpiece. They said he had succeeded where Kipling had ignominiously failed. They said there was more harmony of prose effects in one chapter of “Bunt McBride” than in everything that Bret Harte ever wrote. They told him he was a second Stevenson — only with more refinement.
Then the women of the set, who were of those who did not write, who called themselves “mere dilettantes,” but who “took an interest in young writers” and liked to influence their lives and works, began to flutter and buzz around him. They told him that they understood him; that they under stood his temperament; that they could see where his forte lay; and they undertook his education.
There was in “The Vision of Bunt McBride” a certain sane and healthy animalism that hurt nobody, and that, no doubt, Overbeck, in later books, would modify. He had taken life as he found it to make his book; it was not his fault that the teamsters, biscuit-shooters and “breed” girls of the foothills were coarse in fibre. In his sincerity he could not do otherwise in his novel than paint life as he saw it. He had dealt with it honestly; he did not dab at the edge of the business; he had sent his fist straight through it.
But the New Bohemians could not abide this.
“Not so much faroucherie, you dear you
ng Lochinvar!” they said. “Art must uplift. ‘Look thou not down, but up toward uses of a cup’;” and they supplemented the quotation by lines from Walter Peter, and read to him from Ruskin and Matthew Arnold.
Ah, the spiritual was the great thing. We were here to make the world brighter and better for having lived in it. The passions of a waitress in a railway eating-house — how sordid the subject! Dear boy, look for the soul, strive to rise to higher planes! Tread upward; every book should leave a clean taste in the mouth, should tend to make one happier, should elevate, not debase.
So by degrees Overbeck began to see his future in a different light. He began to think that he really had succeeded where Kipling had failed; that he really was Stevenson with more refinement, and that the one and only thing lacking in his work was soul. He believed that he must strive for the spiritual, and “let the ape and tiger die.” The originality and unconventionally of his little book he came to regard as crudities.
“Yes,” he said one day to Miss Patten and a couple of his friends, “I have been re-reading my book of late. I can see its limitations — now. It has a lack of form; the tonality is a little false. It fails somehow to convince.”
Thus the first Winter passed. In the mornings Overbeck assiduously edited copy and made up front matter on the top floor of the Conant building. In the evenings he called on Miss Patten, or some other member of the set. Once a week, up-town, he fed fat on the literary delicatessen that New Bohemia provided. In the meantime, every afternoon, from luncheon-time till dark, he toiled on his second novel, “Renunciations.” The environment of “Renunciations” was a far cry from Colfax, California. It was a city-bred story, with no fresher atmosphere than that of bought flowers. Its dramatis personae were all of the leisure class, opera-goers, intriguers, riders of blood horses, certainly more refined than Lizzie Toby, biscuit-shooter, certainly more spirituelle than Irma Tejada, case-keeper in Dog Omahone’s faro joint, certainly more elegant than Bunt McBride, teamster of the Colfax Iowa Hill Freight Transportation Company.