“Mr. Martin,” interrupted Fiderson, with indignation, “will you kindly inform me in what way ‘L’Aiglon’ was ‘low-down’?”
“Well, sir, didn’t that huntin’-lodge appointment kind of put you in mind of a camp-meetin’ scandal?” returned old Tom quietly. “It did me.”
“But—”
“Well, sir, I can’t say as I understood the French of it, but I read the book in English before I come up, and it seemed to me he was pretty much of a low-down boy; yet I wanted to see how they’d make him out; hearin’ it was thought, the country over, to be such a great play; though to tell the truth all I could tell about that was that every line seemed to end in ‘awze’; and ’t they all talked in rhyme, and it did strike me as kind of enervatin’ to be expected to believe that people could keep it up that long; and that it wasn’t only the boy that never quit on the subject of himself and his folks, but pretty near any of ’em, if he’d git the chanst, did the same thing, so’t almost I sort of wondered if Rostand wasn’t that kind.”
“Go on with Melville Bickner,” said I.
“What do you expect,” retorted Mr. Martin with a vindictive gleam in his eye, “when you give a man one of these here spiral staircase cigars? Old Peter himself couldn’t keep straight along one subject if he tackled a cigar like this. Well, sir, I always thought Mel had a mighty mean time of it. He had to take care of his mother and two sisters, his little brother and an aunt that lived with them; and there was mighty little to do it on; big men don’t usually leave much but debts, and in this country, of course, a man can’t eat and spend long on his paw’s reputation, like that little Dook of Reishtod—”
“I beg to tell you, Mr. Martin—” Fiderson began hotly.
Martin waved his bony hand soothingly.
“Oh, I know; they was money in his mother’s family, and they give him his vit’als and clothes, and plenty, too. His paw didn’t leave much either—though he’d stole more than Boss Tweed. I suppose—and, just lookin’ at things from the point of what they’d earned, his maw’s folks had stole a good deal, too; or else you can say they were a kind of public charity; old Metternich, by what I can learn, bein’ the only one in the whole possetucky of ’em that really did anything to deserve his salary—” Mr. Martin broke off suddenly, observing that I was about to speak, and continued:
“Mel didn’t git much law practice, jest about enough to keep the house goin’ and pay taxes. He kept workin’ for the party jest the same and jest as cheerfully as if it didn’t turn him down hard every time he tried to git anything for himself. They lived some ways out from town; and he sold the horses to keep the little brother in school, one winter, and used to walk in to his office and out again, twice a day, over the worst roads in the State, rain or shine, snow, sleet, or wind, without any overcoat; and he got kind of a skimpy, froze-up look to him that lasted clean through summer. He worked like a mule, that boy did, jest barely makin’ ends meet. He had to quit runnin’ with the girls and goin’ to parties and everything like that; and I expect it may have been some hard to do; for if they ever was a boy loved to dance and be gay, and up to anything in the line of fun and junketin’ round, it was Mel Bickner. He had a laugh I can hear yet—made you feel friendly to everybody you saw; feel like stoppin’ the next man you met and shakin’ hands and havin’ a joke with him.
“Mel was engaged to Jane Grandis when Governor Bickner died. He had to go and tell her to take somebody else—it was the only thing to do. He couldn’t give Jane anything but his poverty, and she wasn’t used to it. They say she offered to come to him anyway, but he wouldn’t hear of it, and no more would he let her wait for him; told her she mustn’t grow into an old maid, lonely, and still waitin’ for the lightning to strike him—that is, his luck to come; and actually advised her to take ’Gene Callender, who’d be’n pressin’ pretty close to Mel for her before the engagement. The boy didn’t talk to her this way with tears in his eyes and mourning and groaning. No, sir! It was done cheerful; and so much so that Jane never was quite sure afterwerds whether Mel wasn’t kind of glad to git rid of her or not. Fact is, they say she quit speakin’ to him. Mel knowed; a state of puzzlement or even a good mad’s a mighty sight better than bein’ all harrowed up and grief-stricken. And he never give her—nor any one else—a chanst to be sorry for him. His maw was the only one heard him walk the floor nights, and after he found out she could hear him he walked in his socks.
“Yes, sir! Meet that boy on the street, or go up in his office, you’d think that he was the gayest feller in town. I tell you there wasn’t anything pathetic about Mel Bickner! He didn’t believe in it. And at home he had a funny story every evening of the world, about something ’d happened during the day; and ’d whistle to the guitar, or git his maw into a game of cards with his aunt and the girls. La! that boy didn’t believe in no house of mourning. He’d be up at four in the morning, hoein’ up their old garden; raised garden-truck for their table, sparrow-grass and sweet corn—yes, and roses, too; always had the house full of roses in June-time; never was a house sweeter-smellin’ to go into.
“Mel was what I call a useful citizen. As I said, I knowed him well. I don’t recollect I ever heard him speak of himself, nor yet of his father but once—for that, I reckon, he jest couldn’t; and for himself; I don’t believe it ever occurred to him.
“And he was a smart boy. Now, you take it, all in all, a boy can’t be as smart as Mel was, and work as hard as he did, and not git somewhere—in this State, anyway! And so, about the fifth year, things took a sudden change for him; his father’s enemies and his own friends, both, had to jest about own they was beat. The crowd that had been running the conventions and keepin’ their own men in all the offices, had got to be pretty unpopular, and they had the sense to see that they’d have to branch out and connect up with some mighty good men, jest to keep the party in power. Well, sir, Mel had got to be about the most popular and respected man in the county. Then one day I met him on the street; he was on his way to buy an overcoat, and he was lookin’ skimpier and more froze-up and genialer than ever. It was March, and up to jest that time things had be’n hardest of all for Mel. I walked around to the store with him, and he was mighty happy; goin’ to send his mother north in the summer, and the girls were goin’ to have a party, and Bob, his little brother, could go to the best school in the country in the fall. Things had come his way at last, and that very morning the crowd had called him in and told him they were goin’ to run him for county clerk.
“Well, sir, the next evening I heard Mel was sick. Seein’ him only the day before on the street, out and well, I didn’t think anything of it—thought prob’ly a cold or something like that; but in the morning I heard the doctor said he was likely to die. Of course I couldn’t hardly believe it; thing like that never does seem possible, but they all said it was true, and there wasn’t anybody on the street that day that didn’t look blue or talked about anything else. Nobody seemed to know what was the matter with him exactly, and I reckon the doctor did jest the wrong thing for it. Near as I can make out, it was what they call appendicitis nowadays, and had come on him in the night.
“Along in the afternoon I went out there to see if there was anything I could do. You know what a house in that condition is like. Old Fes Bainbridge, who was some sort of a relation, and me sat on the stairs together outside Mel’s room. We could hear his voice, clear and strong and hearty as ever. He was out of pain; and he had to die with the full flush of health and strength on him, and he knowed it. Not wantin’ to go, through the waste and wear of a long sickness, but with all the ties of life clinchin’ him here, and success jest comin.’ We heard him speak of us, amongst others, old Fes and me; wanted ’em to be sure not fergit to tell me to remember to vote fer Fillmore if the ground-hog saw his shadow election year, which was an old joke I always had with him. He was awful worried about his mother, though he tried not to show it, and when the minister wanted to pray fer him
, we heard him say, ‘No, sir, you pray fer my mamma!’ That was the only thing that was different from his usual way of speakin’; he called his mother ‘mamma,’ and he wouldn’t let ’em pray fer him neither; not once; all the time he could spare for their prayin’ was put in fer her.
“He called in old Fes to tell him all about his life insurance. He’d carried a heavy load of it, and it was all paid up; and the sweat it must have took to do it you’d hardly like to think about. He give directions about everything as careful and painstaking as any day of his life. He asked to speak to Fes alone a minute, and later I helped Fes do what he told him. ‘Cousin Fes,’ he says, ‘it’s bad weather, but I expect mother’ll want all the flowers taken out to the cemetery and you better let her have her way. But there wouldn’t be any good of their stayin’ there; snowed on, like as not. I wish you’d wait till after she’s come away, and git a wagon and take ’em in to the hospital. You can fix up the anchors and so forth so they won’t look like funeral flowers.’
“About an hour later his mother broke out with a scream, sobbin’ and cryin’, and he tried to quiet her by tellin’ over one of their old-time family funny stories; it made her worse, so he quit. ‘Oh, Mel,’ she says, ‘you’ll be with your father—’
“I don’t know as Mel had much of a belief in a hereafter; certainly he wasn’t a great church-goer. ‘Well,’ he says, mighty slow, but hearty and smiling, too, ‘if I see father, I—guess—I’ll—be—pretty—well—fixed!’ Then he jest lay still, tryin’ to quiet her and pettin’ her head. And so—that’s the way he went.”
Fiderson made one of his impatient little gestures, but Mr. Martin drowned his first words with a loud fit of coughing.
“Well, sir,” he observed, “I read that ‘Leglong’ book down home; and I heard two or three countries, and especially ourn, had gone middling crazy over it; it seemed kind of funny that we should, too, so I thought I better come up and see it for myself, how it was, on the stage, where you could look at it; and—I expect they done it as well as they could. But when that little boy, that’d always had his board and clothes and education free, saw that he’d jest about talked himself to death, and called for the press notices about his christening to be read to him to soothe his last spasms—why, I wasn’t overly put in mind of Melville Bickner.”
Mr. Martin’s train left for Plattsville at two in the morning. Little Fiderson and I escorted him to the station. As the old fellow waved us good-bye from within the gates, Fiderson turned and said:
“Just the type of sodden-headed old pioneer that you couldn’t hope to make understand a beautiful thing like ‘L’Aiglon’ in a thousand years. I thought it better not to try, didn’t you?
CHRONOLOGY
NOTE ON THE TEXTS
NOTES
Chronology
1869
Newton Booth Tarkington born July 29, the second child of John S. Tarkington and Elizabeth Booth. (His father, a thirty-seven-year-old lawyer, had been the Indiana governor’s private secretary and had held political office in the state’s House of Representatives. He helped organize and served as captain in the 132nd Indiana Volunteers during the Civil War. Father’s family roots are Southern; Tarkington’s grandfather, a Methodist minister, had moved to Indiana from Tennessee. Tarkington’s thirty-five-year-old mother, a shopkeeper’s daughter, was raised in Terre Haute and educated at a Catholic school, though she is Presbyterian. Her New England forebears include Thomas Hooker, who founded the colony of Connecticut. Her brother, the successful entrepreneur and politician Newton Booth, for whom Tarkington is named, will serve as governor of California and as its U.S. senator. The Tarkingtons were married in 1857; their daughter Mary Booth, known as Hautie, was born in 1858.) Family lives at 520 Meridian Street in a well-to-do neighborhood of Indianapolis.
1870
Father elected judge of the Fifth Circuit Court, a post he occupies for two years before returning to private practice.
1872
Mother takes Tarkington and his sister for a summer visit with Newton Booth in California, where they are guests at the governor’s mansion in Sacramento.
1873
Financial panic wipes out much of the family’s wealth and forces them to sell their home and move to a rented two-family house on New York Street.
1875
Finances improving, the family moves to a larger and more accommodating rented house on North Delaware Street.
1876–80
In summer 1876, Newton Booth, now a U.S. senator, visits Indianapolis to campaign for Republican candidates; he provides funds for a large brick house to be built for the Tarkingtons at 1100 North Pennsylvania Street. Family moves into completed house the following year, establishing a home that will be Tarkington’s Indianapolis residence for the next forty-six years. Tarkington is befriended by the poet James Whitcomb Riley on Riley’s visits to court his sister. Attends Public School Number Two, and performs well until fourth grade, when, disliking his teacher, he begins doing poorly and feigns illness; parents send him to live for a time with grandmother in Terre Haute, and after he returns he repeats part of fourth grade. Writes stories as a youngster. Reads Shakespeare, Dickens, Scott, and other literary writers as well as popular boys’ stories.
1881–87
Begins keeping diary. In summer of 1881, visits Marshall, Indiana, later the basis for Plattville, the locale for his first novel, The Gentleman from Indiana. Composes fourteen-act play about the career of the outlaw Jesse James. Writes poetry and enjoys drawing, which his parents encourage; makes whimsical addition to proposed cover design for James Whitcomb Riley’s The Boss Girl, which is retained in the published book cover. Travels to New Orleans with his uncle Newton. Attends Shortridge High School. During junior year, because he is afraid to admit to his parents that he played hooky from school, neglects attendance for nine weeks until his mother discovers his truancy. Parents do not send him back to school but arrange for private lessons in singing and drawing for the duration of the academic term, then enroll him for the 1887 fall term at Phillips Exeter Academy in New Hampshire, his mother hoping he will attend Princeton (Tarkington himself expects to go to Harvard). He arrives a month after classes have begun, living as other students do in a boardinghouse. Takes to the school’s social environment and applies himself to his studies.
1888–89
During spring recess in 1888, visits a classmate’s family in New York City, where he attends a performance of The Taming of the Shrew. On trips to Boston and New York City he visits the Museum of Fine Arts and the Metropolitan Museum, respectively. Graduates from Exeter after the 1889 spring term but stays on to work on the class yearbook. Father is now working in banking but debts prevent the family from sending Tarkington to college in the fall. He lives at home in Indianapolis, taking business and art classes.
1890–91
Vacationing in summer in northern Indiana, meets Geneve Reynolds of Lafayette, Indiana, home of Purdue University, and, charmed by her literary conversation and seeking to court her, he persuades his parents to send him to Purdue for the time being rather than Princeton. Matriculates at Purdue in fall 1891. Writes column for a Lafayette newspaper and plays a starring role in Tom Cobb by Gilbert and Sullivan. Due to lack of money, writes mother and asks her to “give up the idea of Princeton” so that he can “go to work.” Admitted to Princeton for fall 1891 term as a special student (a status conferred because he lacks knowledge of Latin and Greek, and he will not be able to earn a degree). Joins Ivy Club and is soon a popular and gregarious figure on campus; though casual about his studies, he passes his courses easily. Accepted into Glee Club and becomes a soloist.
1892
Serves as president of the Dramatic Association (soon to be called the Triangle Club), which performs the musical comedy The Honorable Julius Caesar, for which he has written the book. Writes for and edits student publications. Death of Newton Booth, whose
modest bequest to Tarkington will provide him some financial stability while he is attempting to establish himself after college as a writer. During winter break, tours with Glee Club through several midwestern cities, performing one of his own songs, “It’s All Over Now.”
1893
After finishing at Princeton, summers in Jamestown, Rhode Island, and visits Bar Harbor, Maine, the setting of his farcical comedy “The Ruse,” which is performed by the Indianapolis Dramatic Club in December with Tarkington in the starring role. In autumn, begins novel The Gentleman from Indiana but sets it aside after a few months.
1894–95
Publishes stories and poems in local publications in Indiana. Writes prolifically for several years while living in family home but his stories and drawings are rejected by New York publishers; acquires reputation for smoking, sleeping during the day, and nocturnal walks. Writes historical drama “The Prodigals,” set in Trenton, New Jersey, in 1790, and plays the starring role when it is performed by the Indianapolis Dramatic Club. “In the Borderland,” short prose piece with his accompanying drawing, sells to Life magazine for $20 ($13 for the drawing, $7 for the text). In fall 1895, travels to New York City after the agent Elizabeth Marbury, to whom Tarkington’s sister has given “The Prodigals,” requests he revise the play for potential Broadway staging. Lives in Manhattan for several months, unsuccessfully revising “The Prodigals” and other plays and writing stories. At Thanksgiving, encounters William Dean Howells at The Lantern, a literary club, but finds himself unable to speak to him; prompted to sing, feels embarrassed by his nervous performance. Sees Sarah Bernhardt act.
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