Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells
Page 1097
Having abandoned the hope of getting anything out of the people who had sold him Billy, he was for a time the prey of an inert despair, in which he had not even spirit to repine at the disorder of a universe in which he could not find a horse. No horses were now offered to him, for it had become known throughout the trade that he had bought a horse. He had therefore to set about counteracting this impression with what feeble powers were left him. Of the facts of that period he remembers with confusion and remorse the trouble to which he put the owner of the pony-horse Pansy, whom he visited repeatedly in a neighboring town, at a loss of time and money to himself, and with no result but to embarrass Pansy’s owner in his relations with people who had hired him and did not wish him sold. Something of the old baffling mystery hung over Pansy’s whereabouts; he was with difficulty produced, and when en evidence he was not the Pansy my friend had expected. He paltered with his regrets; he covered his disappointment with what pretenses he could; and he waited till he could telegraph back his adverse decision. His conclusion was that, next to proposing marriage, there was no transaction of life that involved so many delicate and complex relations as buying a horse, and that the rupture of a horse-trade was little less embarrassing and distressing to all concerned than a broken engagement. There was a terrible intimacy in the affair; it was alarmingly personal. He went about sorrowing for the pain and disappointment he had inflicted on many amiable people of all degrees who had tried to supply him with a horse.
“Look here,” said his neighbor, finding him in this low state, “why don’t you get a horse of the gentleman who furnishes mine?” This had been suggested before, and my friend explained that he had disliked to make trouble. His scruples were lightly set aside, and he suffered himself to be entreated. The fact was he was so discouraged with his attempt to buy a horse that if any one had now given him such a horse as he wanted he would have taken it.
One sunny, breezy morning his neighbor drove my friend over to the beautiful farm of the good genius on whose kindly offices he had now fixed his languid hopes. I need not say what the landscape was in mid-August, or how, as they drew near the farm, the air was enriched with the breath of vast orchards of early apples, — apples that no forced fingers rude shatter from their stems, but that ripen and mellow untouched, till they drop into the straw with which the orchard aisles are bedded; it is the poetry of horticulture; it is Art practicing the wise and gracious patience of Nature, and offering to the Market a Summer Sweeting of the Hesperides.
The possessor of this luscious realm at once took my friend’s case into consideration; he listened, the owner of a hundred horses, with gentle indulgence to the shapeless desires of a man whose wildest dream was one horse. At the end he said, “I see you want a horse that can take care of himself.”
“No,” replied my friend, with the inspiration of despair. “I want a horse that can take care of me.”
The good genius laughed, and turned the conversation. Neither he nor my friend’s neighbor was a man of many words, and like taciturn people they talked in low tones. The three moved about the room and looked at the Hispano-Roman pictures; they had a glass of sherry; from time to time something was casually murmured about Frank. My friend felt that he was in good hands, and left the affair to them. It ended in a visit to the stable, where it appeared that this gentleman had no horse to sell among his hundred which exactly met my friend’s want, but that he proposed to lend him Frank while a certain other animal was put in training for the difficult office he required of a horse. One of the men was sent for Frank, and in the mean time my friend was shown some gaunt and graceful thoroughbreds, and taught to see the difference between them and the plebeian horse. But Frank, though no thoroughbred, eclipsed these patricians when he came. He had a little head, and a neck gallantly arched; he was black and plump and smooth, and though he carried himself with a petted air, and was a dandy to the tips of his hooves, his knowing eye was kindly. He turned it upon my friend with the effect of understanding his case at a glance.
It was in this way that for the rest of the long, lovely summer peace was re-established in his heart. There was no question of buying or selling Frank; there were associations that endeared him beyond money to his owner; but my friend could take him without price. The situation had its humiliation for a man who had been arrogantly trying to buy a horse, but he submitted with grateful meekness, and with what grace Heaven granted him; and Frank gayly entered upon the peculiar duties of his position. His first duty was to upset all preconceived notions of the advantage of youth in a horse. Frank was not merely not coming seven or nine, but his age was an even number, — he was sixteen; and it was his owner’s theory, which Frank supported, that if a horse was well used he was a good horse till twenty-five.
The truth is that Frank looked like a young horse; he was a dandy without any of the ghastliness which attends the preservation of youth in old beaux of another species. When my friend drove him in the rehabilitated phaeton he felt that the turn-out was stylish, and he learned to consult certain eccentricities of Frank’s in the satisfaction of his pride. One of these was a high reluctance to be passed on the road. Frank was as lazy a horse — but lazy in a self-respectful, æsthetic way — as ever was; yet if he heard a vehicle at no matter how great distance behind him (and he always heard it before his driver), he brightened with resolution and defiance, and struck out with speed that made competition difficult. If my friend found that the horse behind was likely to pass Frank, he made a merit of holding him in. If they met a team, he lay back in his phaeton, and affected not to care to be going faster than a walk, any way.
One of the things for which he chiefly prized Frank was his skill in backing and turning. He is one of those men who become greatly perturbed when required to back and turn a vehicle; he cannot tell (till too late) whether he ought to pull the right rein in order to back to the left, or vice versa; he knows, indeed, the principle, but he becomes paralyzed in its application. Frank never was embarrassed, never confused. My friend had but to say, “Back, Frank!” and Frank knew from the nature of the ground how far to back and which way to turn. He has thus extricated my friend from positions in which it appeared to him that no earthly power could relieve him.
In going up hill Frank knew just when to give himself a rest, and at what moment to join the party in looking about and enjoying the prospect. He was also an adept in scratching off flies, and had a precision in reaching an insect anywhere in his van with one of his rear hooves which few of us attain in slapping mosquitoes. This action sometimes disquieted persons in the phaeton, but Frank knew perfectly well what he was about, and if harm had happened to the people under his charge my friend was sure that Frank could have done anything short of applying arnica and telegraphing to their friends. His varied knowledge of life and his long experience had satisfied him that there were very few things to be afraid of in this world. Such womanish weaknesses as shying and starting were far from him, and he regarded the boisterous behavior of locomotives with indifference. He had not, indeed, the virtue of one horse offered to my friend’s purchase, of standing, unmoved, with his nose against a passing express train; but he was certainly not afraid of the cars.
Frank was by no means what Mr. Emerson calls a mush of concession; he was not merely amiable; he had his moments of self-assertion, his touches of asperity. It was not safe to pat his nose, like the erring Billy’s; he was apt to bring his handsome teeth together in proximity to the caressing hand with a sharp click and a sarcastic grin. Not that he ever did, or ever would really bite. So, too, when left to stand long under fly-haunted cover, he would start off afterwards with alarming vehemence; and he objected to the saddle. On the only occasion when any of my friend’s family mounted him, he trotted gayly over the grass towards the house, with the young gentleman on his back; then, without warning, he stopped short, a slight tremor appeared to pass over him, and his rider continued the excursion some ten feet farther, alighting lump-wise on a bunch of soft turf which
Frank had selected for his reception.
The summer passed, and in the comfort of Frank’s possession my friend had almost abandoned the idea of ever returning him to his owner. He had thoughts of making the loan permanent, as something on the whole preferable to a purchase. The drives continued quite into December, over roads as smooth and hard as any in June, and the air was delicious. The first snow brought the suggestion of sleighing; but that cold weather about Christmas dispersed these gay thoughts, and restored my friend to virtue. Word came from the stable that Frank’s legs were swelling from standing so long without going out, and my friend resolved to part with an animal for which he had no use. I do not praise him for this; it was no more than his duty; but I record his action in order to account for the fact that he is again without a horse, and now, with the opening of the fine weather, is beginning once more to think of buying one.
But he is in no mood of arrogant confidence. He has satisfied himself that neither love nor money is alone adequate to the acquisition: the fates also must favor it. The horse which Frank’s owner has had in training may or may not be just the horse he wants. He does not know; he humbly waits; and he trembles at the alternative of horses, mystically summoned from space, and multitudinously advancing upon him, parrot-mouthed, pony-gaited, tender for’a’d, and traveling wide behind.
The Short Stories
Howells’ home in Cambridge Massachusetts, where he and his family lived from 1873-1878; the house was designed by Howells’s wife
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
MRS. JOHNSON
DOORSTEP ACQUAINTANCE
A PEDESTRIAN TOUR.
BY HORSE-CAR TO BOSTON
A DAY’S PLEASURE
A ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE
SCENE
JUBILEE DAYS
THE PRESIDENT’S SPEECH.
SOME LESSONS FROM THE SCHOOL OF MORALS.
FLITTING
CHRISTMAS EVERY DAY.
TURKEYS TURNING THE TABLES.
THE PONY ENGINE AND THE PACIFIC EXPRESS.
THE PUMPKIN-GLORY
BUTTERFLYFLUTTERBY AND FLUTTERBYBUTTERFLY.
EDITHA
SEEN AND UNSEEN AT STRATFORD-UPON-AVON
THE DAUGHTER OF THE STORAGE
A PRESENTIMENT
CAPTAIN DUNLEVY’S LAST TRIP
THE RETURN TO FAVOR
SOMEBODY’S MOTHER
THE FACE AT THE WINDOW
AN EXPERIENCE
THE BOARDERS
BREAKFAST IS MY BEST MEAL
THE MOTHER-BIRD
THE AMIGO
BLACK CROSS FARM
THE CRITICAL BOOKSTORE
A FEAST OF REASON
CITY AND COUNTRY IN THE FALL
TABLE TALK
THE ESCAPADE OF A GRANDFATHER
SELF-SACRIFICE: A FARCE-TRAGEDY
THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS
A PAIR OF PATIENT LOVERS
THE PURSUIT OF THE PIANO.
A DIFFICULT CASE.
THE MAGIC OF A VOICE.
A CIRCLE IN THE WATER.
ADVENTURES IN A BOY’S TOWN
HOW PONY BAKER CAME PRETTY NEAR RUNNING OFF WITH A CIRCUS
THE CIRCUS MAGICIAN
JIM LEONARD’S HAIR-BREADTH ESCAPE
LIFE IN A BOY’S TOWN
THE TOWN
EARLIEST MEMORIES
HOME LIFE
THE RIVER
SWIMMING
SKATING
MANNERS AND CUSTOMS
GIRLS
MOTHERS
A BROTHER
A FRIEND
GAMES AND PASTIMES
MARBLES
A MEAN TRICK
TOPS
KITES
THE BUTLER GUARDS
PETS
INDIANS
GUNS
NUTTING
THE FIRE-ENGINES
GLIMPSES OF THE LARGER WORLD
THE TRAVELLING CIRCUS
PASSING SHOWS
THE THEATRE COMES TO TOWN
THE WORLD OPENED BY BOOKS
THE LAST OF A BOY’S TOWN
AN OPEN-EYED CONSPIRACY
AN OPEN-EYED CONSPIRACY
NIAGARA REVISITED, TWELVE YEARS AFTER THEIR WEDDING JOURNEY
BRAYBRIDGE’S OFFER
AN EAST-SIDE RAMBLE
AT THE SIGN OF THE SAVAGE.
TONELLI’S MARRIAGE.
BUYING A HORSE
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
A BROTHER
A CIRCLE IN THE WATER.
A DAY’S PLEASURE
A DIFFICULT CASE.
A FEAST OF REASON
A FRIEND
A MEAN TRICK
A PAIR OF PATIENT LOVERS
A PEDESTRIAN TOUR.
A PRESENTIMENT
A ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE
ADVENTURES IN A BOY’S TOWN
AN EAST-SIDE RAMBLE
AN EXPERIENCE
AN OPEN-EYED CONSPIRACY
AN OPEN-EYED CONSPIRACY
AT THE SIGN OF THE SAVAGE.
BLACK CROSS FARM
BRAYBRIDGE’S OFFER
BREAKFAST IS MY BEST MEAL
BUTTERFLYFLUTTERBY AND FLUTTERBYBUTTERFLY.
BUYING A HORSE
BY HORSE-CAR TO BOSTON
CAPTAIN DUNLEVY’S LAST TRIP
CHRISTMAS EVERY DAY.
CITY AND COUNTRY IN THE FALL
DOORSTEP ACQUAINTANCE
EARLIEST MEMORIES
EDITHA
FLITTING
GAMES AND PASTIMES
GIRLS
GLIMPSES OF THE LARGER WORLD
GUNS
HOME LIFE
HOW PONY BAKER CAME PRETTY NEAR RUNNING OFF WITH A CIRCUS
INDIANS
JIM LEONARD’S HAIR-BREADTH ESCAPE
JUBILEE DAYS
KITES
LIFE IN A BOY’S TOWN
MANNERS AND CUSTOMS
MARBLES
MOTHERS
MRS. JOHNSON
NIAGARA REVISITED, TWELVE YEARS AFTER THEIR WEDDING JOURNEY
NUTTING
PASSING SHOWS
PETS
SCENE
SEEN AND UNSEEN AT STRATFORD-UPON-AVON
SELF-SACRIFICE: A FARCE-TRAGEDY
SKATING
SOME LESSONS FROM THE SCHOOL OF MORALS.
SOMEBODY’S MOTHER
SWIMMING
TABLE TALK
THE AMIGO
THE BOARDERS
THE BUTLER GUARDS
THE CIRCUS MAGICIAN
THE CRITICAL BOOKSTORE
THE DAUGHTER OF THE STORAGE
THE ESCAPADE OF A GRANDFATHER
THE FACE AT THE WINDOW
THE FIRE-ENGINES
THE LAST OF A BOY’S TOWN
THE MAGIC OF A VOICE.
THE MOTHER-BIRD
THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS
THE PONY ENGINE AND THE PACIFIC EXPRESS.
THE PRESIDENT’S SPEECH.
THE PUMPKIN-GLORY
THE PURSUIT OF THE PIANO.
THE RETURN TO FAVOR
THE RIVER
THE THEATRE COMES TO TOWN
THE TOWN
THE TRAVELLING CIRCUS
THE WORLD OPENED BY BOOKS
TONELLI’S MARRIAGE.
TOPS
TURKEYS TURNING THE TABLES.
The Farces
Redtop, Belmont, Massachusetts — Howells’ home from 1878 to 1881
THE PARLOR CAR
A Farce.
Scene: A Parlor-Car on the New York Central Railroad. It is late afternoon in the early autumn, with a cloudy sunset threatening rain. The car is unoccupied save by a gentleman, who sits fronting one of the windows, with his feet in another chair; a newspaper lies across his lap; his hat is drawn down over his eyes, and he is apparently asleep. The rear door of the car opens, and the conductor enters with a young lady, heavily veiled, the porter coming after with her wraps and trave
lling-bags. The lady’s air is of mingled anxiety and desperation, with a certain fierceness of movement. She casts a careless glance over the empty chairs.
Conductor: “Here’s your ticket, madam. You can have any of the places you like here, or,” — glancing at the unconscious gentleman, and then at the young lady,— “if you prefer, you can go and take that seat in the forward car.”
Miss Lucy Galbraith: “Oh, I can’t ride backwards. I’ll stay here, please. Thank you.” The porter places her things in a chair by a window, across the car from the sleeping gentleman, and she throws herself wearily into the next seat, wheels round in it, and lifting her veil gazes absently out at the landscape. Her face, which is very pretty, with a low forehead shadowed by thick blond hair, shows the traces of tears. She makes search in her pocket for her handkerchief, which she presses to her eyes. The conductor, lingering a moment, goes out.
Porter: “I’ll be right here, at de end of de cah, if you should happen to want anything, miss,” — making a feint of arranging the shawls and satchels. “Should you like some dese things hung up? Well, dey’ll be jus’ as well in de chair. We’s pretty late dis afternoon; more’n four hours behin’ time. Ought to been into Albany ‘fore dis. Freight train off de track jus’ dis side o’ Rochester, an’ had to wait. Was you going to stop at Schenectady, miss?”