Part 1 - Red and Black Laughter

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Ernest Hemingway, Torrents of Spring, American literature, Novella, Hemingway's early work, Parody, Satire, Romantic relationships, Artistic ambition, Springtime setting, Midwest, Literary criticism, Hemingway's writing style, Themes in Hemingway's works, Coming-of-age, Critique of society, Cultural criticism, Midwestern characters, Influences on Hemingway, Interwar period

Episode Transcript

(00:00):
The Torrents of Spring, a romanticnovel, and honor of the passing of
a great race. And perhaps thereis one reason why a comic writer should,
of all others, be the leastexcused for deviating from nature, since
it may not always be easy fora serious poet to meet with the great
and the admirable, But life everywherefurnishes an accurate observer with the ridiculous Henry

(00:26):
Fielding, Part one, Red andBlack Laughter, Chapters one through five.
The only source of the true ridiculous, as it appears to me, is
affectation. Henry Fielding, Chapter one. Hugi Johnson stood looking out of the
window of a big pump factory inMichigan. Spring would soon be here?

(00:50):
Could it be that that was whatthis writing fellow Hutchinson had said, If
winter comes, can spring be farbehind? Would it be true again this
year? Yogi Johnson wondered near Yogiat the next window, but one stood
scripts O'Neil, a tall, leanman with a tall, lean face.

(01:11):
Bolt stood and looked out at theempty yard of the pump factory. Snow
covered the cratered pumps that would soonbe shipped away once the spring should come,
and the snow melt. Workmen fromthe factory would break out the pumps
from piles where they were snowed inand hauled them down to the g R
and I station, where they wouldbe loaded on flat cars and shipped away.

(01:34):
Yogi Johnson looked out of the windowof the snowed in pumps, and
his breath made little fairy tracings onthe cold window pane. Yogi Johnson thought
of Paris. Perhaps it was thelittle fairy tracings that reminded him of the
gay city where he had once spenttwo weeks, two weeks that were to
have been the happiest weeks of hislife. That was all behind him now

(01:57):
that in everything else. Scripts O'Neillhad two wives. As he looked out
of the window, standing tall andlean and resilient with his own tenuous hardness,
he thought of both of them.One lived in Mancelona and the other
lived in Potoski. He had notseen the wife who lived in Mancelona since

(02:19):
last spring. He looked out atthe snow covered pump yards and thought what
spring would mean with his wife andMancelona. Scripps often got drunk. When
he was drunk, he and hiswife were happy. They would go down
together to the railway station and walkout along the tracks, and then sit
together and drink and watch the trainsgo by. They would sit under a

(02:42):
pine tree on a little hill thatoverlooked the railway and drink. Sometimes they
drank all night. Sometimes they drankfor a week at a time. It
did them good. It made Scrippsstrong. Scripps had a daughter whom he
playfully called Lousy O'Neill. Her realname was Lucy O'Neill. One night,

(03:02):
after Scribbs and his old woman hadbeen out drinking on the railroad line for
three or four days, he losthis wife. He didn't know where she
was. When he came to himself, everything was dark. He walked along
the railroad track toward town. Theties were stiff and hard under his feet.
He tried walking on the rails.He couldn't do it. He had

(03:24):
the dope on that all right.He went back to walking along the ties.
Was a long way into town.Finally came to where he could see
the lights of the switch yard.He cut away from the tracks and past
the Mancelona High School. It wasa yellow brick building. There was nothing
rococo about it like the buildings hehad seen in Paris. No, he

(03:47):
had never been in Paris. Thatwas not he. That was his friend,
Yogi Johnson. Yogi Johnson looked outof the window. Soon it would
be time to shut the pump factoryfor the night. He opened the window
carefully, just a crack, butthat was enough. Outside in the yard,
the snow had begun to melt.A warm breeze was blowing. A

(04:09):
chinook wind. The punk fellows calledit. The warm chinook wind. Came
in through the window into the punkfactory. All the workmen laid down their
tools. Many of them were Indians. The foreman was a short, iron
jawed man. He had once madea trip as far as Duluth. The
luth was far across the blue wateras of the Lake and the hills of

(04:30):
Minnesota. A wonderful thing had happenedto him there. The foreman put his
finger in his mouth to moisten it, and held it up in the air.
He felt the warm breeze on hisfinger. He shook his head ruefully
and smiled at the men a littlegrimly. Perhaps, Well, it's a
regular chinook, boys, he saidsilently. For the most part, the

(04:51):
workmen hung up their tools. Thehalf completed pumps were put away in their
racks. The workmen filed, someof the talking, others silent, a
few muttering to the washroom to washup. Outside, through the window came
the sound of an Indian war whoop. Chapter two. Scripts O'Neill stood outside

(05:13):
the Mancelona High School, looking upat the lighted windows. Was dark,
and the snow was falling. Ithad been falling ever since Scripts could remember.
The passers by stopped and stared atScripts. After all, what was
this man to him? He wenton. Scripts stood in the snow and
stared up at the lighted windows ofthe high school. Inside there people were

(05:35):
learning things. Far into the night. They worked, the boys vying with
the girls in their search for knowledge, this urge for the yearning of things
that was sweeping America. His girl, a little Lousy, a girl that
had cost him a cool seventy fivedollars in doctors bills, was in there
learning. Scripts was proud was toolate for him to learn. But there

(06:00):
after day and night after night,Lousy was learning. She had the stuff
in her that girl. Scripps wenton up to the house. It was
not a big house. But itwasn't size that mattered to Scripts, old
woman Scripts. She often had saidwhen they were drinking together, I don't
want a palace. All I wantis a place to keep the wind out.

(06:20):
Scripps had taken her at her word. Now, as he walked in
the late evening through the snow andsaw the lights of his own home,
he felt glad that he had takenher at her word. It was better
this way than if they were cominghome to a palace. He Scripps was
not the sort of chap that wanteda palace. He opened the door of

(06:40):
his house and went in. Somethingkept going through his head. He tried
to get it out, but itwas no good. What was it that
poet Chap his friend Harry Parker hadmet once in Detroit, had written,
Harry used to recite it through pleasuresand palaces. Though I may roam when
you something, something, something,there's no place like home. He could

(07:04):
not remember the words, not allof them. He had written a simple
tune to it and taught Lucy tosing it. That was when they first
were married. Scripps might have beena composer, one of these chaps that
write the stuff The Chicago Symphony Orchestraplays. If he had had a chance
to go on, he would getLucy to sing that song tonight. He

(07:25):
would never drink again. Drinking robbedhim of his ear for music. Times
when he was drunk, the soundof the whistles of the trains at night,
pulling up the Boine Falls Grade seemedmore lovely than anything this chap Stravinsky
had ever written. Drinking had donethat was wrong. He would get away
to Paris like this chap. AlbertSpauling that played the violin scripts opened the

(07:48):
door. He went in. Lucy. He called it his I Scripps.
He would never drink again. Nomore nights out on the railroad. Perhaps
Lucy needed a knew forte. Perhapsafter all she had wanted a palace instead
of this place. You never knewhow you were treating a woman. Perhaps,

(08:09):
after all this place was not keepingout the wind. Fantastic He lit
a match, Lucy, he called, and there was a note of dumb
terror in his mouth. His friendWalt Simmons had heard just such a cry
from a stallion that had once beenrun over by a passing autobus in the
Place Vandon in Paris, in Paris. There were no geldings. All the
horses were stallions. They did notbreed mares, not since the war.

(08:33):
The war changed all that. Lucy, he called, and again, Lucy,
there was no answer. The housewas empty. Through the snow filled
are as. He stood there alone, in his tall, leanness, in
his own deserted house. There cameto Script's ears the distant sound of an
Indian war whoop. Chapter three.Scripps left Moncelona. Who was through at

(08:58):
that place? What had a townlike that to give him? There was
nothing to it. You worked allyour life and then a thing like that
happened. The savings of years wipedout, everything gone. He started to
Chicago to get a job. Chicagowas at the place. Look at its
geographical situation, right at the endof Lake Michigan. Chicago would do big

(09:20):
things. Any fool could see that. He would buy land in what is
now the Loop, the big shoppingand manufacturing district. He would buy the
land at a low price and thenhang on to him, let them try
and get it away from him.He knew a thing or two. Now,
alone, bareheaded, the snow blowingin his hair, he walked down
the gr and I railway tracks.Was the coldest night he had ever known.

(09:45):
He picked up a dead bird thathad frozen and fallen onto the railroad
tracks and put it inside his shirtto warm it. The bird nestled close
to his warm body and pecked athis chest. Gratefully, poor little chap,
Script said, Field the cold,too, tears came into his eyes.
Drat that wind, Script said,and once again faced into the blowing

(10:07):
snow. The wind was blowing straightdown from Lake Superior. The telegraph wires
above Script's head sang, and thewind. Through the dark, Script saw
a great yellow eye coming toward him. The giant locomotive came nearer through the
snowstorm. Script stepped to one sideof the track to let it go by.
What is it that old writing fellow, Shakespeare says, Mike makes right.

(10:31):
Scripts thought of that quotation as thetrain went past him in the snowing
darkness. First the engine passed,He saw the fireman bending to fling great
shovelfuls of coal into the open furnacedoor. The engineer wore goggles. His
face was lit up by the lightfrom the open door of the engine.
He was the engineer. It washe who had his hand on the throttle.

(10:54):
Scripts thought of the Chicago Anarchist too, when they were hanged, said,
though you throttle today, still youcannot something our souls. There was
a monument where they were buried inWaldheim Cemetery, right beside the Forest Park
amusement park in Chicago. His fatherused to take Scripts out there on Sundays.

(11:15):
The monument was all black and therewas a black angel. That was
when Scripts had been a little boy. He used often to ask his father
father, why if we came tolook at the anarchists on Sunday, why
can't we ride on the shoot theshoots. He had never been satisfied with
his father's answer. He had beena little boy in knee pants. Then.

(11:35):
His father had been a great composer. His mother was an Italian woman
from the north of Italy. Theyare strange people, these North Italians.
Scripts stood beside the track, andthe long black segments of the train clicked
by him in the snow. Allthe cars were pullman's, the blinds were
down. Light came in thin slitsfrom the bottom of the dark windows as

(11:58):
the cars went by. The traindid not row or by, as it
might have if it had been goingin the other direction. Because it was
climbing the buoying falls grade, itwent slower than if it had been going
down. Still, it went toofast for Scripts to hitch on. He
thought how he had been an expertat hitching on grocery wagons when he was
a young boy in knee pants.The long black train of pullman cars passed

(12:22):
Scrips as he stood beside the tracks. Who were in these cars? Were
they Americans piling up money while theyslept? Were they mothers? Were they
fathers? Were there lovers among them? Or were they Europeans? Members of
a worn out civilization world weary fromthe war? Scripts wondered. The last

(12:43):
car passed him, and the trainwent on up the track. Scrips watched
the red light at its stern disappearinginto the blackness through which the snowflakes now
came softly. The bird fluttered insidehis shirt. Scrips started along the ties.
He wanted to get to Chicago thatnight, if possible, to start
work in the morning. The birdfluttered again. It's not so feeble now.

(13:07):
Scripts put his hand on it,distill its little bird flutterings. The
bird was calmed. Scripts strode onup the track. After all, he
did not need to go as faras Chicago. There were other places.
What if that critic fellow Henry Menckenhad called Chicago the literary capital of America.
There was Grand Rapids. Once inGrand Rapids he could start in on

(13:31):
the furniture business. Fortunes had beenmade that way. Grand Rapids furniture was
famous. Wherever young couples walked inthe evening to the talk of homemaking,
he remembered a sign he had seenin Chicago as a little boy. His
mother had pointed it out to himas together they walked barefoot through what now
is probably the Loop, begging fromdoor to door. His mother loved the

(13:54):
bright flashing of the electric lights andthe sign. They are like sun Minniapto
and Native Florence, she told Scripps. Look at them, my son,
she said, for some day yourmusic will be played there by the Fenzi
Symphony Orchestra. Scripts had often watchedthe sign for hours while his mother slept
wrapped in an old shawl on whatis now probably the black Stone Hotel.

(14:18):
The sign had made a great impressionon him. Let Hartmann feather your nest,
it had said. It flashed inmany different colors. First a pure,
dazzling white, that was what Scriptsloved best. Then it flashed a
lovely green, then it flashed red. One night, as he lay crouched
against his mother's body warmth and watchedthe sign flash, a policeman came up.

(14:43):
You'll have to move along, hesaid, Ah, yes, there
was big money to be made inthe furniture business if you knew how to
go about it. He Scripps knewall the wrinkles of that game. In
his own mind, it was settled. He would stop at grand rapids.
The little bird fluttered happily. Now, ah, what a beautiful gilded cage

(15:03):
I'll build for you, my prettyone, Scripts said exultantly. The little
bird pecked at him confidently. Scriptsstrode on in the storm. The snow
was beginning to drift across the track. Born on the wind, there came
to Script's ears the sound of afar off Indian war whoop? Chapter four?

(15:24):
Where was Scripts now? Walking inthe night and the storm? He
had become confused. He had startedfor Chicago after that dreadful night, when
he had found that his home wasa home no longer. Why had Lucy
left what had become of lousy heScripts did not know, not that he
cared, that was all behind him. It was none of that. Now

(15:45):
he was standing knee deep in snowin front of a railway station. On
the railway station was written in bigletters, Pataski. There were a pile
of deer shipped down by hunters fromthe upper Peninsula of Michigan, lying piled,
the one on the other, deadand stiff and drifted half over with
snow. On the station platform.Scripts read the sign again. Could this

(16:08):
be Potoski? A man was insidethe station tapping something back of a wicketed
window. He looked out at Scripps. Could he be a telegrapher? Something
told Scripps that he was. Hestepped out of the snow drift and approached
the window. Behind the window,the man worked busily away at his telegrapher's

(16:29):
key. Are you a telegrapher,asked Scripps. Yes, Sir, said
the man, I'm a telegrapher.How wonderful. The telegrapher eyed him suspiciously.
After all, what was this manto him? Is it hard to
be a telegrapher? Scripps asked?He wanted to ask the man outright if
this was Potoski. He did notknow this great northern section of America,

(16:51):
though, and he wished to bepolite. The telegrapher looked at him curiously,
say he asked, are you afairy? No? Scripps said,
I don't know what being a fairymeans. Well, said the telegrapher,
what do you carry a bird around? For? Bird? Asked Scripps.
What bird? The bird that's stickingout of your shirt. Scripps was at

(17:14):
a loss. What sort of chapwas this telegrapher? What sort of men
went in for telegraphy? Were theylike composers? Were they like artists?
Were they like writers? Were theylike the advertising men who write the ads
in our national weeklies? Or werethey like Europeans drawn and wasted by the
war, their best years behind them? Could he tell this telegrapher the whole

(17:37):
story? Would he understand? Istarted home, he began, I passed
the Mancelona High School. I knewa girl in Mancelona. The telegrapher said,
maybe you knew her. Ethel Enwrightwas no good going on. He
would cut the story short. Hewould give the bare essentials. Besides it
was beastly cold. Was cold standingthere on the windswept station platform. Something

(18:03):
told him it was useless to goon. He looked over at the deer
line there in a pile, stiffand cold. Perhaps they too had been
lovers. Some were bucks and somewere dozed. The bucks had horns.
That was how you could tell.With cats. It is more difficult in
France. They gelt the cats anddo not geld the horses. France was

(18:26):
a long way off. My wifeleft me, Scripts said abruptly, I
don't wonder if you go around withthe damned bird sticking out of your shirt.
The telegraphers said, what town isthis? Scripts asked. The single
moment of spiritual communion they had hadhad been dissipated. They had never really
had it, but they might have. It was no use now, there's

(18:48):
no use trying to capture what hadgone, what had fled Patusky. The
telegrapher replied, thank you, Scriptssaid. He turned and walked into the
silent, deserted northern town. Luckilyhad four hundred and fifty dollars in his
pocket. He had sold the storyto George Horace Lorimer just before he had
started out with his old woman onthe drinking trip. Why had he gone

(19:12):
at all? What was it allabout? Anyway? Coming toward him down
the street came two Indians. Theylooked at him, but their faces did
not change. Their faces remained thesame. They went into McCarthy's barbershop,
Chapter five. Scripts O'Neill stood irresolutelybefore the barbershop. Inside there men were

(19:36):
being shaved. Other men no different, were having their haircut. Other men
sat against the wall and tall chairsand smoked, waiting their turn in the
barber chairs, admiring the paintings hungon the wall, or admiring their own
reflections in the long mirror. Shouldhe Scripts go in there? After all,
he had four hundred and fifty dollarsin his pocket. He could go

(19:59):
where wanted. He looked, onceagain, irresolutely, was an inviting prospect.
The society of men, the warmroom, the white jackets of the
barbers, skillfully snipping away with theirscissors, or drawing their blades diagonally through
the lather that covered the face ofsome man who was getting a shave.
They could use their tools, thesebarbers. Somehow, it wasn't what he

(20:23):
wanted. He wanted something different.He wanted to eat. Besides, there
was his bird to look after.Scripps. O'Neill turned his back on the
barber shop and strode away up onthe street of the silently frozen northern town.
On his right as he walked theweeping birches, their branches bare of
leaves, hung down to the ground, heavy with snow. To his ears

(20:48):
came the sound of sleigh bells.Perhaps it was Christmas in the South,
little children would be shooting off firecrackersand crying Christmas Gift, Christmas gift to
one another. His father came fromthe South. He'd been a soldier in
the Rebel army way back in CivilWar days. Sherman had burned their house
down on his march to the sea. War's hell Sherman had said, but

(21:11):
you see how it is, missusO'Neill have got to do it. He
had touched a match to the whitepillared old house. If General O'Neill were
here, you dastard, his motherhad said, speaking in her broken English,
you'd never had touched a match tothat house. Smoke curled up from
the old house. The fire wasmounting. The white pillars were obscured in

(21:33):
the rising smoke wreaths Scripps had heldclose to his mother's lindsey woolsey dress.
General Sherman climbed back on to hishorse and made a low bow. Missus
o'neillie said, and Scripp's mother alwayssaid, there were tears in his eyes.
Even if he was a damned yank. The man had a heart,
sir, even if he did notfollow its dictates, Missus O'Neill If the

(21:56):
General were here, we could haveit out as man to man. As
it is, ma'am. War beingwhat it is, I must burn your
house. He motioned to one ofhis soldiers, who ran forward and threw
a bucket of kerosene on the flames. The flames rose, and a great
column of smoke went up in thestill evening air. At least General Sherman.

(22:17):
Script's mother said triumphantly, that columnof smoke will warn the other loyal
daughters of the Confederacy that you werecoming. Sherman bowed, that is the
risk we must take, ma'am.He clapped spurs to his horse and rode
away, his long white hair floatingon the wind. Neither Scripts nor his
mother ever saw him again. Oddthat he should think of that incident.

(22:38):
Now he looked up. Facing himwas a sign Brown's Beanery, the best
by test. He would go inand eat. This was what he wanted.
He would go in and eat thatsigned the best by test. Ah.
These big beanery owners were wise fellows. They knew how to get the
customers nod in the Saturday evening postfor them the best by test. That

(23:03):
was the stuff. He went in. Inside the door of the beanery,
scripts O'Neil looked around him. Therewas a long counter, There was a
clock, There was a door ledinto the kitchen. There were a couple
of tables. There were a pileof doughnuts under a glass cover. There
were signs put out on the walladvertising things one might eat. Was this

(23:26):
after all Brown's Beanery? I wonder, Scripps asked an elderly waitress who came
in through the swinging door from thekitchen, if you could tell me if
this is Brown's beanery. Yes,sir, answered the waitress, the best
by test. Thank you, Scrippssaid. He sat down at the counter.
I would like to have some beansfor myself and some for my bird.

(23:48):
Here. He opened his shirt andplaced the bird on the counter.
The bird ruffled his feathers and shookhimself. He pecked inquiringly at the ketchup
bottle. The elderly waitress put outof hand and stroked him. Isn't he
a manly little fellow, she remarkedby the way. She asked, a
little shamefacedly, what was it youordered, sir, being, Scripts said,

(24:11):
from my bird and myself. Thewaitress shoved up a little wicket that
led into the kitchen. Scripts hada glimpse of a warm, steam filled
room with big pots and kettles,and many shining cans on the wall,
a pig, and the noisy ones. The waitress called, in a matter
of fact voice into the open wicket, one for a bird on the fire.

(24:32):
A voice answered from the kitchen.How old is your bird? The
elderly waitress asked, I don't know. Scripps said, I never saw him
before. Last night. I waswalking on the railroad track from Mancelona.
My wife left me, poor littlechap, the waitress said. She poured
a little ketchup on her finger,and the bird pecked at it gratefully.

(24:53):
My wife left me, Scripps said, we'd been out drinking on the railroad
track. We used to go outevening and watched the trains pass. I
write stories. I had a storyin the post and two in the dial.
Menkin's trying to get a hold ofme. Two eyes for that sort
of thing. No politza for me. They give me the cats and jammers.

(25:15):
What was he saying? He wastalking wildly. That would never do.
Must pull himself together, Schofield.There was my best man, he
said, And I'm a Harvard man. All I want is for them to
give me and my bird a squaredeal. No more, well, holitique,
take doctor Coolich away. His mindwas wandering. He knew what it
was. He was faint with hunger. This northern air was too sharp,

(25:40):
too keen for him, I say, he said, could you let me
have just a few of those beans. I don't like to rush things.
I'd know when to let well enoughalone. The wooket came up, and
a large plate of beans and asmall plate of beans, both steaming,
appeared. Here they are, thewaitress said, scripts fell too, and
the large plate of beans there wasa little pork too. The bird was

(26:02):
eating, happily, raising its headafter each swallow to let the beans go
down. He does that to thankGod for those beans. The elderly waitress
explained, they're mighty fine beans too. Scripts agreed. Under the influence of
the beans, his head was clearing. What was this rod he had been
talking about? That man, HenryMankin? Was Mankin really after him?

(26:25):
Wasn't a pretty prospect face? Hehad four hundred and fifty dollars in his
pocket. When that was gone,he could always put an end to things.
They pressed him too far, theywould get a big surprise. It
wasn't the man to be taken alive. Just let them try it. After
eating his beans, the bird headfallen asleep. He was sleeping on one
leg, the other leg tucked upinto his feathers. When he gets tired

(26:49):
of sleepy on that leg, hewill change legs and rest. The waitress
from market, we had an oldosprey at home that was like that.
Where was your home? Scripts asked? In England, in the Lake district,
The waitress smiled a bit wistfully.Wordsworth's country, you know, ah,
These English they traveled all over theface of the globe. They were

(27:12):
not content to remain in their littleisland. Strange Nordics, obsessed with their
dream of Empire. I was notalways a waitress. The elderly waitress remarked,
sure you weren't, not half.The waitress went on, it's rather
a strange story. Perhaps it wouldbore you, not at all, Scripts
said, you wouldn't mind if Iused the story sometime, not if you

(27:34):
find it interesting. The waitress smiled, You wouldn't use my name, of
course, not if you'd rather not. Scripts said, by the way,
could I have another order of beans? Best by test? The waitress smiled.
Her face was lined in gray.She looks a little like that actress
that died in Pittsburgh. What washer name? Leonora Ulrich and Peter Pan

(27:59):
That was it? They say shealways went about veiled. Scripps thought,
there was an interesting woman, wasit Leonore Ulrich? Perhaps not, no
matter? You really want some morebeans, asked the waitress. Yes,
Scripps answered, simply, Once againon the loud ones. The waitress called
into the wicket. Lay off thebird on the fire, came the response.

(28:22):
Please go on with your story,Scripps said, kindly. Was the
year of the Paris Exposition? Shebegan. I was a young girl at
the time, a June fi andI came over from England with my mother.
We were going to be present atthe opening of the exposition. On
our way from the Guard de Noordto the hotel in the Blas Vendome,

(28:44):
where we lodged, we stopped ata Kofuer's shop and made some trifling purchase.
My mother, as I recall,purchased an additional bottle of smelling salts,
as you call them here in America. She smiled, Yes, go
on smelling salts. Scripts said.We registered as his customary in the hotel

(29:06):
and were given the adjoining rooms wehad reserved. My mother felt a bit
done in by the trip, andwe dined in our rooms. I was
full of excitement about seeing the expositionon the morrow, but I was tired
after the journey. We had arather nasty crossing and slept soundly. In
the morning. I awoke and calledfor my mother. There was no answer,

(29:27):
and I went into the room towaken mummy. Instead of Mummy,
there was a French general in thebed. Mandu, Script said. I
was terribly frightened. The waitress wenton and rang the bell for the management.
The concierge came up and I demandedto know where my mother was,
But mademoiselle, the concierge explained,we know nothing about your mother. You

(29:48):
came here with General so and so. I cannot remember the general's name.
Call him General Joffrey. SCRIPTS suggestedit was a name very. The waitress
said. I was fearfully frightened andsent for the police and demanded to see
the guest register. You'll find therethat I am registered with my mother,
I said. The police came andthe concierge brought up the register. See

(30:14):
madame, He said, you wereregistered with the general with whom you came
to our hotel last night. Iwas desperate. Finally I remembered where the
coiffure's shop was. The police sentfor the koiffure. An agent of police
brought him in. I stopped atyour shop with my mother, I said
to the koiffure, and my motherbought a bottle of aromatic salts. I

(30:37):
remember, mademoiselle perfectly. The koffuresaid, but you were not with your
mother. You were with an elderlyFrench general. He purchased. I believe
a pair of mustache tongues. Mybooks, at any rate, will show
the purchase. I was in despairin the meantime, the police had brought
in the cab driver who had broughtus from the guard to the hotel.

(30:57):
He swore that I had never beenwith my mother. Tell me, does
this story bore you? Go on? Said Scripps. If you had ever
been as hard up for plots asI have been, well, the waitress
said, that's all there is tothe tale. I never saw my mother
again. I communicate it with theembassy, but they could do nothing.

(31:18):
It was finally established by them thatI had crossed the channel with my mother,
but they could do nothing beyond that. Tears came into the elderly waitress's
eyes. I never saw mummy again, never again, not even once.
What about the general? He finallyloaned me one hundred francs, not a
great sum even in those days,and I came to America and became a

(31:41):
waitress. That's all there is tothe story. There's more than that,
Scripps said, I'd stake my life. There's more than that. Sometimes,
you know, I feel there is, the waitress said. I feel there
must be more than that. Somewhere, somehow there must be an explanation.
I don't know what The subject intomy mind this morning it was a good

(32:02):
thing to get it off your mind. Scripts said, yes. The waitress
smiled, the lines in her facenot quite so deep. Now I feel
better now tell me, Scripts askedthe waitress. Is there any work in
this town for me and my bird? Honest work? Asked the waitress.
I only know of honest work.Yes, honest work, Scripts said,

(32:23):
they do. Say they're hiring handsat the new pump factory. The waitress
said, why shouldn't he work withhis hands? Rodan had done it.
Cesan had been a butcher, renvoircarpenter. Picasso had worked in a cigarette
factory in his boyhood. Gilbert Steward, who painted those famous portraits of Washington
that are reproduced all over the Samericaof ours and hang in every schoolroom.

(32:47):
Gilbert Stewart had been a blacksmith.And there was Emerson. Emerson had been
a hod carrier. James Russell Lowellhad he had heard telegraph operator in his
youth like that chapped down at thestation. Perhaps even now that telegrapher at
the station was working on his thenatopsisor his two a water fowl. Why

(33:08):
shouldn't he, Scripts O'Neill work ina pump factory. You'll come back again,
the waitress said, if I may, Scripts said, and bring your
bird. Yes, Scripts said.The little Chap's rather tired now, after
all it was a hard night forhim, I should say. It was
agreed. The waitress Scripts went outagain into the town. He felt clear

(33:30):
headed and ready to face life.A pump factory would be interesting. Pumps
were big things now. Fortunes weremade and lost and pumps every day in
New York and Wall Street. Heknew of a chap who had cleaned up
a cool half million on pumps inless than half an hour. They knew
what they were about, these bigWall Street operators. Outside on the street.

(33:52):
He looked up at the sign bestby test he read. They had
the dope all right, he said. Was it true, though, that
there had been a Negro cook?Just once? Just for one moment,
when the wicket went up, hethought he had caught a glimpse of something
black. Perhaps the chap was onlysooty from the stove, and of part one