June 9, 2023 • 33 mins
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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
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
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Episode Transcript
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(00:00):
Part two He Struggle for Life Chapterssix through ten, and here I solemnly
protest I have no intention to vilifyor disperse anyone, For though everything is
copied from the book of Nature,and scarce a character or action produce which
I have not taken from my ownobservations or experience, Yet I have used
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the utmost care to obscure the personsby such different circumstances degrees in colors,
that it will be impossible to guessat them with any degree of certainty.
And if it ever happens otherwise,it is only where the failure characterized is
so minute that it is a foibleonly which the party himself may laugh at
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as well as any other. HenryFielding, Chapter six Scripts. O'Neill was
looking for employment. It would begood to work with his hands. He
walked down the street away from thebeaner and pasted McCarthy's barbershop. He did
not go into the barbershop. Itlooked as inviting as ever, but it
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was employment Scripts wanted. He turnedsharply around the corner of the barbershop and
onto the main street of Potaski.Was a handsome broad street lined on either
side with brick and pressed stone buildings. Scripps walked along it toward the part
of town where the pump factory stood. At the door of the pump factory,
he was embarrassed. Could this reallybe the pump factory? True?
(01:30):
A stream of pumps were being carriedout and set up in the snow,
and workmen were throwing pails of waterover them to encase them in a coating
of ice that would protect them fromthe winter winds as well as any paint
wood. But were they really pumps? Might all be a trick? These
pump men were clever fellows, Isay. Scripps beckoned to one of the
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workmen who was slashy water over anew, raw looking pump that had just
been carried out and stood protestingly inthe snow. Are they pumps? They
will be in time? The workmansaid, scripts knew it was the factory.
They weren't going to fool them onthat. He walked up to the
door. There was a sign onit keep out. This means you can
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that mean me, Scripps wondered.He knocked on the door and went in.
I'd like to speak to the manager, he said, standing quietly in
the half light. Workmen were passinghim, carrying the new raw pumps on
their shoulders. They hummed snatches ofsongs as they passed. The Handles of
the pumps fluffed stiffly and dumb protest. Some pumps had no handles. They
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perhaps, after all, are thelucky ones, Scripps thought. A little
man came up to him. Hewas well built, short, with white
shoulders. In a grim face.You were asking for the manager. Yes,
sir, I'm the foreman here.What I say goes? Can you
hire and fire? Scripts asked,I can do one as easily as the
other. The foreman said, Iwant a job, an experience, not
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in pumps. All right, theforeman said, we'll put you on piece
work. Here, Yogi, hecalled to one of the men who was
standing looking out of the window atthe factory. Showed this new chum where
to stow his swag and how tofind his way around these diggings. The
foreman looked Scripts up and down.I'm an Australian, he said, hope
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you'll like to lay here. Hewalked off. The man called Yogi.
Johnson came over from the window gladto meet Ja. He said he was
a chunky, well built fellow,one of the sort you see you around
almost anywhere. He looked as thoughhe'd been through things. Your foreman's the
first Australian I've ever met, Scrippssaid, always not Australian. Yogi said
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he was just with the Australians onceduring the war and it made a big
impression on him. Were you inthe war, Scripps asked, yes,
Yogi. Johnson said, I wasthe first man to go from Cadillac.
Must have been quite an experience.Meant a lot to me. Yogi answered,
come on and I'll show you aroundthe works. Scripts followed this man,
(04:05):
who showed him through. The pumpfactory was dark but warm. Inside
the pump factory, men naked tothe waist took the pumps and huge tongs
as they came, trundling by onan endless chain, culling out the misfits
and placing the perfect pumps on anotherendless chain that carried them up into the
cooling room. Other men, Indians, for the most part, wearing only
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breech clouts, broke up the misfitpumps with huge hammers and adsits and rapidly
recast them into axe heads, wagonsprings, trombone slides, bullet molds,
all the byproducts of a big pumpfactory. There was nothing wasted, Yogi
pointed out a group of Indian boyshumming to themselves. One of the old
tribal chanties squatted in a corner ofthe big forging room, shaping the little
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fragments that were chipped from the pumpsand casting into safety razor blades. They
worked naked. Yogi said, they'researched as they go out. Sometimes they
try and conceal the razor blades andtake them out with them to bootleg.
There must be quite a loss thatway. Script said, Oh no,
Yogi answered, the inspectors get mostof them upstairs apart. In a separate
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room, two old men were working. Yogi opened the door. One of
the old men looked over his steelspectacles and frowned. You make a draft,
He said, shut the door.The other old man said, in
the high complaining voice of the veryold. There are two handworkers, Yogi
said. They make all the pumpsthe manufactory sends out to the big international
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pump races. Do you remember ourpeerless pounder that won the pump race in
Italy where Frankie Dawson was killed.I read about it in the paper,
Scripts answered, mister Barrow, overthere in the corner made the peerless pounder
all himself by hand. Yogi said, I carved it direct from the steel
with this knife. Mister Barrow heldup a short blade at razor like looking
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knife. Took me eighteen months toget it right. The peerless pounder was
quite a pump, all right,the high voice little old man said,
But we're working on one now thatwill show its heels to any of them
foreign pumps, aren't we, Henry. That's mister Shaw, Yogi said,
in an undertone. He's probably thegreatest living pump maker. You boys get
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along and leave us alone. MisterBarrow said, he was carving away steadily,
his infirm old hand shaking a littlebetween strokes. Let the boys watch.
Mister Shaw said, where are youfrom, young feller. I've just
come from Mancelona. Scripts answered,my wife left me. Well, you
won't have no difficulty finding another one. Mister Shaw said, you're a likely
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looking young feller, but take myadvice and take your time. A poor
wife ain't much better than no wifeat all. I wouldn't say that,
Henry, mister Barrow remarked, inhis high voice, any wife at all
was a pretty good wife. Theway things are going now, you take
my advice, young fellow, goslow, get yourself a good one this
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time. Henry knows a thing ortwo. Mister Barrow said, he knows
what he's talking about. There.He laughed, a high, crackling laugh.
Mister Shaw, the old pump maker, blushed, You boys get a
line and leave us. Get onwith our pump making. He said,
hedn't ry me here. We gota side of work to do. I'm
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very glad to have met you.Scripts said, come on, Yogi said,
I'd better get you started or theforeman will be on my tail.
He put Scripts to work collaring pistonsin the piston collaring room. There Scripts
worked for almost a year. Insome ways it was the happiest year of
his life. In other ways itwas a nightmare, a hideous nightmare.
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And the end he grew to likeit, and other ways he hated it.
Before he knew it, a yearhad passed. He was still collaring
pistons. But what strange things hadhappened in that year? Off and he
wondered about them as he wondered coloringa piston. Now almost automatically, he
listened to the laughter that came upfrom below, where the little Indian lads
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were shaping what were to be razorblades. As he listened, something rose
in his throat and almost choked him. Chapter seven. That night, after
his first day in the pump factory, the first day in what was or
were to become an endless secession ofdays of dull piston coloring, Scripts went
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again to the beanery to eat.All day he had kept his bird concealed.
Something told him that the pump factorywas not the place to bring his
bird out in During the day,the bird had several times made him uncomfortable,
but he had adjusted his clothes toit, and even cut a little
slit the bird could poke his beakout through and search of fresh air.
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Now the day's work was over.It was finished. Scripts on his way
to the beanery, Scripts happy thathe was working with his hands. Script
thinking of the old pump maker's Scriptgoing to the society of the friendly waitress.
Who was that waitress anyway? Whatwas it had happened to her in
Paris? He must find out moreabout this Paris Yogi Johnson had been there.
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He would quiz Yogi, get himto talk, draw him out,
make him tell what he knew.He knew a trick or two about that.
Watching the sunset out over the PotoskiHarbor, the lake now frozen,
and great blocks of ice jutting outover the breakwater, Scripts strode down these
treats of Potoski to the beanery.He would have liked to ask Yogi Johnson
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to eat with him, but hedidn't dare, not yet. That would
come later, All in good time. No need to rush matters with a
man like Yogi. Who was Yogianyway? Had he really been in the
war? What had the war meantto him? Was he really the first
man to enlist from Cadillac? Wherewas Cadillac? Anyway? Time would tell
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Scripts. He'll opened the door andwent into the beanery. The elderly waitress
got up from the chair where shehad been reading the overseas edition of the
Manchester Guard him and put the paperon to her steel rimmed spectacles on top
of the cash register. Good evening, she said, simply, it's good
to have you back. Something stirredinside Scripts O'Neil a, feeling that he
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could not define him within him.I've been working all day long, he
looked at the elderly waitress for you, he added, How lovely she said,
and then smiled shyly. And I'vebeen working all day long for you.
Tears came into Script's eyes. Somethingstirred inside him again. He reached
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forward to take the elderly waitress's hand, and with quiet dignity, she laid
it within his own. You aremy woman, he said. Tears came
into her eyes too. You aremy man, she said once again,
I say you are my woman.Scripts pronounced the words solemnly. Something had
broken inside him again. He felthe could not keep from crying. Let
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this be our wedding ceremony, theelderly waitress said, Scripts pressed her hand.
You are my woman, he said, simply, you are my man,
and more than my man. Shelooked into his eyes. You are
all of America to me. Letus go, Scripts said, have you
your bird? Asked the waitress,laying aside her apron and folding the copy
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of the Manchester Guardian weekly. I'llbring the Guardian if you don't mind,
she said, wrapping the paper inher apron. It's a new paper and
I've not read it yet. I'mvery fond of the Guardian, Scripps said.
My family have taken it ever sinceI can remember. My father was
a great admirer of Gladstone. Myfather went to Eton with Gladstone. The
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elderly waitress said, And now Iam ready. She had donned a coat
and stood ready, her apron andher steel rimmed spectacles in their worn black
Morocco case, her copy of TheManchester Guardian held in her hand. Have
you no hat, es Scripps,No, then I will buy you one,
Scripts said, tenderly, will beyour wedding gift. The elderly waitress
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said again. There were tears shownin her eyes. Now let us go,
Script said. The elderly waitress cameout from behind the counter, and
together, hand in hand, theystrode out into the night. Inside the
beanery, the black cook pushed upthe wicket and looked through from the kitchen.
Day's gone off, he chuckled,gone off into in a night.
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Well, well well, He closedthe wicket softly, even he was a
little impressed. Chapter eight, Halfan hour later, Scripts O'Neill and the
elderly waitress returned to the beanery asman and wife. The beanery looked much
the same. There was the longcounter, the salt sellers, the shukar
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containers, the ketchup bottle, theWorcester shear sauce bottle. There was wicket
that led into the kitchen. Behindthe counter was the relief waitress. She
was a buxom, jolly looking girl, and she wore a white apron.
At the counter, reading a Detroitpaper, sat a drummer. The drummer
was eating a tea, bone steakand hash brown potatoes. Something very beautiful
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had happened to Scripts and the elderlywaitress. Now they were hungry. They
wished to eat. The elderly waitresslooking at Scripts, Scripts looking at the
elderly waitress. The drummer reading hispaper and occasionally putting a little ketchup on
his hash brown potatoes. The otherwaitress, Mandy, back of the counter
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in her freshly starched white apron.The frost on the windows, the warmth
inside the cold outside. Scripts birdrather rumpled, now sitting on the counter
and preening his feathers. So you'vecome back, Mandy, the waitress said.
The cook said, you had goneout into the night. The elderly
waitress looked at Mandy, her eyesbrightened, her voice calm and now of
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a deeper, richer tamper. Weare man and wife now, she said,
kindly, we've just been married.What would you like to eat for
supper? Scripps, Dear, Idon't know, Scripps said. He felt
vaguely uneasy. Something was stirring withinhim. Perhaps you have eaten enough of
the beans, dear Scripps, theelderly waitress, now his wife said.
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The drummer looked up from his paper. Scripps noticed that it was the Detroit
News. There was a fine paper. That's a fine paper you're reading,
Scripps said to the drummer. It'sa good paper, the News. The
drummer said, you two on yourhoneymoon. Yes, missus, Scripps said,
we are man and wife now,well, said the drummer. That's
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a mighty fine thing to be.I'm a married man myself, are you,
said Scripps. My wife left me. It was in Mancelona. Don't
let's talk of that any more,Scripps. Dear, missus, Scripps said,
you've told that story so many times. Yes, dear, Scripps agreed.
He felt vaguely mistrustful of himself.Something somewhere was stirring inside of him.
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He looked at the waitress called Mandy, standing robust and vigorously lovely in
her newly starched white apron. Hewashed her hands, healthy, calm,
capable hands, doing the duties ofher waitresshood. Try one of these tea
bones with hash brown potatoes, thedrummer suggested. They got a nice tea
bone here. Would you like one? Dear, Scripps asked his wife.
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I'll just take a bowl of milkand crackers. The elderly missus Scripps said,
you have whatever you want, dear. Here's your crackers and milk,
Diana, Mandy said, placing themon the counter. Do you want a
tea bone, sir, yes,Scripps said. Something stirred again within him.
Well done or rare, rare?Please? The waitress turned and called
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into the wicket tea for one.Let it go raw, Thank you,
Scripps said. He eyed the trisMandy, she had a gift for the
picturesque in speech. That girl.It had been that very picturesque quality in
her speech that had first drawn himto his present wife that in her strange
background, England, the lake country, Scripps striding through the lake country with
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Wordsworth, a field of golden daffodils, the wind blowing at Windermere far off,
perhaps a stag at Bay that wasfarther north. In Scotland. They
were a hardy race, those Scots, deep in their mountain fastnesses. Harry
Louder and his pipe, The Highlandersand the Great War? Why had not
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he Scripps been in the war.That was where that chap Yogi Johnson had
it on him. The war wouldhave meant much to him, Scripps.
Why hadn't he been in it?Why hadn't he heard of it in time?
Perhaps he was too old. Lookat that old French general Joffrey,
though surely he was a younger manthan that old general General Fosh praying for
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victory, the French troops nearly alongthe Chemin des Daves, praying for a
victory, the Germans with their gutmeet ounds. What a mockery. Surely
he was no older than that Frenchgeneral Fosh, he wondered. Mandy the
waitress placed his tea, bone steakand hash brown potatoes on the counter before
him. As she laid the platedown, just for an instant her hand
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touched his. Scripps felt a strangethrill go through him. Life was before
him. He was not an oldman. Why were there no wars?
Now? Perhaps there were men werefighting in China, Chinaman, Chinaman,
killing one another. What for,Scripps wondered, what was it all about?
Anyway? Mandy, the bucks andwaitress, leaned forward, say,
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she said, did I ever tellyou about the last words of Henry James?
Really? Dear Mandy, missus?Scripps said, you've told that story
rather often. Let's hear it.Scripps said, a very interested in Henry
James. Henry James, Henry James, that chap who had gone away from
his own land to live in Englandamong Englishmen. Why had he done it?
For? What had he left America? Weren't his roots here? His
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brother William Boston, Pragmatism, HarvardUniversity, Old John Harvard with silver buckles
on his shoes, Charles Brickley,Eddie Mayhan. Where were they now?
Well, Mandy began. Henry Jamesbecame a British subject on his death bed
at once, as soon as theKing heard Henry James had become a British
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subject. He sent around the highestdecoration in his power to bestow the order
of merit the o m the elderlyMissus Gripps explained that was it. The
waitress said, Professor's Goss and Saintsburycame with the man who brought the decoration.
Henry James was lying on his deathbed and his eyes were shut.
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There was a single candle on atable beside the bed. The nurse allowed
them to come near the bed,and they put the ribbon of the decoration
around James's neck, and the decorationlay on the sheet over Henry James's chest.
Professor's Goss and Saintsbury leaned forward andsmoothed the ribbon of the decoration.
Henry James never opened his eyes.The nurse told them they all must go
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out of the room, and theyall went out of the room. When
they were all gone, Henry Jamesspoke to the nurse. He never opened
his eyes. Nurse, Henry Jamessaid, put out the candle, nurse,
and spare my blushes. Those werethe last words he ever spoke.
James was quite a rider. ScrippsO'Neill said, he was strangely moved by
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the story. You don't always tellit the same way, dear Missus Scripps
remarked to Mandy. There were tearsin Mandy's eyes. I feel very strongly
about Henry James, she said,What was the matter with James? Asked
the drummer. Wasn't America good enoughfor him? If so O'Neil was thinking
about Mandy the waitress, What abackground she must have, that girl,
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What a fund of anecdotes? Achap could go far with a woman like
that. To help him, hestroke a little bird that sat on the
lunch counter before him. The birdpecked at his finger. Was the little
bird a hawk, a falcon,perhaps from one of the big Michigan falconries?
Was it perhaps a robin pulling andtugging at the early worm on some
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green lawn somewhere? He wondered,what do you call your bird? The
drumm ar asked, I haven't namedhim yet. What would you call him?
Why not call him ariel? Mandyasked, or puck? Missus Scripps
put in. What's it mean?Asked the drummer. It's a character out
of Shakespeare. Mandy explained, Oh, give the bird a chance, would
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you call him? Scripts turned tothe drummer. He ain't a parrot,
is, he asked the drummer.If he was a parrot, you could
call him Polly. There is acharacter in the Beggars Opera called Polly Mandy,
explained. Scripts wondered, perhaps thebird was a parrot, a parrot
strayed from some comfortable home with someold maid, the untilled soil of some
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New England spinster. Better wait tillyou see how he turns out, the
drummer advised, you got plenty oftime to name him. This drummer had
sound ideas he Scripps did not evenknow what sex the bird was, whether
he was a boy bird or agirl bird. Wait till you see if
he lays eggs, the drummer suggested. Scripps looked into the drummer's eyes.
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The fellow had voiced his own unspokenthought. You know a thing or two,
drummer, he said, Well,the drummer admitted modestly, I ain't
drummed all these years for nothing.You're right there, pal, Scripts said,
that's a nice bird you got there, brother. The drummer said,
you want to hang onto that bird. Scripts knew it. Ah, these
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drummers know a thing or two.Going up and down over the face of
this great America of ours. Thesedrummers kept their eyes open. There were
no fools. Listen, the drummersaid. He pushed his derby hat off
his brow, and, leaning forward, spat into the tall brass cuspadoor that
stood beside his duel. I wantto tell you about a pretty beautiful thing
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that happened to me once in BayCity. Mandy, the waitress leaned forward.
Missus Scripps leaned toward the drummer tohear better. The drummer looked apologetically
at Scripts and stroked the bird withhis forefinger. Tell you about it some
other time, brother, he said. Scripps understood. From out of the
kitchen, through the wicket in thehall came a high pitched, haunting laugh.
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Scripts listened. Could that be thelaughter of the negro? He wondered.
Chapter nine, Scripts going slowly towork in the pump factory in the
mornings, Missus Scripps looking out ofthe window and watching him go up the
street. Not much time for readingthe Guardian now, not much time for
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reading about English politics. Not muchtime for worrying about the cabinet crises Over
there in France, The French werea strange people. Joan of arc Ave
La Gallian, Clemenceaux, George Carpentier, Sasha Gitrie, Yvonne printem Roc,
Liz Fratellini's Gilbert Seldis, the Dial, the Dial Prize, Marianne Moore E
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Cummings, the enormous room, VanityFair, Frank Croninshield. What was it
all about? Where was it takingher? She had a man, now,
a man of her own for herown? Could she keep him?
Could she hold him for her own? She wondered, Missus Scripps, formerly
an elderly waitress, now the wifeof Scripps O'Neill, with a good job
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in the pump factory. Diana's Scripps. Diana was her own name. It
had been her mother's too, Diana'sScripps. Looking into the mirror and wondering
could she hold him? Was gettingto be a question. Why had he
ever met Mandy? Would she havethe courage to break off going to the
restaurant with Scrips to eat? Shecouldn't do that, He would go alone.
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She knew that it was no usetrying to pull wool over her own
eyes. He would go alone,and he would talk with Mandy. Diana
looked into the mirror. Could shehold him? Could she hold him?
That thought never laughter? Now everynight at the restaurant, she couldn't call
it a beanery. Now that madea lump come into her throat and made
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her throat feel hard and choky.Every night at the restaurant, Now Scrips
and Mandy talked together. The girlwas trying to take him away, him,
her scrips trying to take him away, take him away? Could she,
Diana hold him? She was nobetter than a slut, that Mandy
was. That the way to dowas that the thing to do, go
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after another woman's man, come betweenman and wife, break up a home,
and all with these hermitable literary reminiscences, these endless anecdotes. Scripts was
fascinated by Mandy. Diana admitted thatto herself. But she might hold him.
That was all that mattered now,to hold him, to hold him,
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not to let him go, makehim stay. She looked into the
mirror. Diana subscribing for the Forum, Diana reading the mentor, Diana reading
William Lyon Phelps and Scribbners. Dianawalking through the frozen streets of the silent
northern town to the public library toread the Literary Digest Book Review. Diana
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waiting for the postman to come bringingthe bookman. Diana and the snow,
waiting for the postman to bring theSaturday Review of Literature. Diana bareheaded,
now standing in the mounting snow drifts, waiting for the postman to bring her
the New York Times Literary Section.Was it doing any good? Was it
holding him? At first it seemedto be. Diana learned editorials by John
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Ferrar by heart. Scripts brightened alittle of the old light shining in script's
eyes. Now then it died.Some little mistake in the wording, some
slip in her understanding of a phrase, some divergence in her attitude, made
it all ring false. She wouldgo on. She was not beaten.
He was her man, and shewould hold him. She looked away from
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the window and slid open the coveringof the magazine that lay on our table.
It was Harper's Magazine. Harper's Magazinein a new format, Harper's Magazine,
completely changed and revised. Perhaps thatwould do the trick she wondered.
Chapter ten, Spring was coming,Spring was in the air. Author's note.
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This is the same day on whichthe story starts back on page three.
A Chinook wind was blowing. Workmenwere coming home from the factory.
Scripts of Spirits singing in his cage. Diana looking out of the open window.
Diana watching for her Scripts to comeup the street. Could she hold
him? Could she hold him?If she couldn't hold him, would he
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leave her his bird? She feltlately that she couldn't hold him, and
the nights now when she touched Scripts, he rolled away, not toward her.
It was a little sign, butlife was made up of little signs.
She felt she couldn't hold him.As she looked out of the window,
a copy of the Sentry magazine droppedfrom her nerveless hand. The Sentry
at a new editor. There weremore wood cuts. Glen Frank had gone
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to head some great university somewhere.There were more Van Doren's on the magazine.
Diana felt that might turn the trickhappily. She had opened the Sentry
and read all morning. Then thewind, the warm Chinook wind, had
started to blow, and she knewScripts would soon be home. Men were
coming down the street, and increasingnumbers was Scripts among them. She did
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not like to put on her spectaclesto look. She wanted Script's first glimpse
of her to be of her herbest. As she felt him drawing nearer,
the confidence she had in the centurygrew fainter. She had so hoped
that would give her the something whichwould hold him. She wasn't sure now.
Scripts coming down the street with acrowd of excited workmen, men stirred
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by the spring. Scripts swinging hislunch bucket, Scripts waving goodbye to the
workman who trooped one by one intowhat had formerly been a saloon. Scripts
not looking up at the window.Scripts coming up the stairs, Scripts coming
nearer, Scripts coming nearer. Scriptshere, Good afternoon, dear Scripts,
She said, I've been reading astory by Ruth Suckhow hello, Diana,
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Scripps answered. He set down hislunch pail. She looked worn and old.
He could afford to be polite.What was the story about, Diana,
he asked. Who was about alittle girl in Iowa? Diana said,
she moved toward him. Was aboutpeople on the land who reminded me
a little of my own late country. That's so asked. In some ways
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the pump factory had hardened him.His speech had become more clipped, more
like these hearty northern workers, buthis mind was the same. Would you
like me to read a little ofit out loud? Diana asked, there
are some lovely woodcuts. How aboutgoing down to the beanery. Scripps said,
as you wish, Dear Diana said. Then her voice broke. I
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wish, oh, I wish youhad never seen that place. She wiped
away her tears. Scripps had noteven seen them. Humpering the bird,
Dear Diana said, he hasn't beenout all day. Together they went down
the street to the beanery. Theydid not walk hand in hand. Now
they walked like what are called oldmarried people. Missus Scripps carried the bird
(29:45):
cage. The bird was happy inthe warm wind. Men lurching along,
drunk with the spring past them.Many spoke to Scripps. It was well
known and well liked in the town. Now, Some, as they lurched
by, raised their hats to missthe scripts. She responded, vaguely,
if I can only hold him.She was thinking, if I can only
(30:06):
hold him. As they walked alongthe slushy snow on the narrow sidewalk of
the northern town. Something began tobeat in her head. Perhaps it was
the rhythm of their walking together.I can't hold him. I can't hold
him. I can't hold him.Scripts took her arm as they crossed the
street. When his hand touched herarm, Diana knew it was true.
(30:26):
She would never hold him. Agroup of Indians passed him on the street.
Were they laughing at her? Orwas it some tribal jest. Diana
didn't know. All she knew wasthat rhythm that beat into her brain.
I can't hold him, I can'thold him. Author's note for the reader
not the printer. What difference doesit make to the printer? Who is
(30:48):
the printer anyway? Gutenberg the GutenbergBible, Caxton twelve point open faced Castlon
the linotype machine. The author isa little boy being sent to look for
type lice. The author as ayoung man being sent for the key to
the forms. Ah, they knewa trick or two these printers. In
case the reader is becoming confused,we are now up to where the story
(31:12):
opened with Yogi Johnson and Scripts O'Neilland the pump factory itself with a chinook
wind blowing. As you see scripts. O'Neill has now come out of the
pump factory and is on his wayto the beanery with his wife, who
is afraid she cannot hold him personally. We don't believe she can, but
the reader will see for himself.We will now leave the couple on their
(31:33):
way to the beanery and go backand take up Yogi Johnson. We want
the reader to like Yogi Johnson.The story will move a little faster from
now on, in case any ofthe readers are tiring. We will also
try and work in a number ofgood anecdotes. Would it be any violation
of confidence if we told the readerthat we get the best of these anecdotes
(31:55):
from mister Ford madox Ford. Weowe him our thanks, and we hope
the reader does too. At anyrate, we will now go on with
Yogi Johnson. Yogi Johnson, thereader may remember, is the chap who
is in the war. As thestory opens, he is just coming out
of the punk factory see page three. It is very hard to write this
(32:16):
way, beginning things backward, andthe author hopes the reader will realize this
and not grudge this little word ofexplanation. I know I would be very
glad to read anything the reader everwrote, and I hope the reader will
make the same sort of allowances ifany of the readers would care to send
me anything they ever wrote for criticismor advice. I am always at the
(32:37):
Cafe Buddom any afternoon talking about artwith Harold Stearns and Sinclair Lewis, and
the reader can bring his stuff alongwith him, or he can send it
to me care of my bank,if I have a bank. Now,
if the reader is ready, thenunderstand I don't want to rush the reader
any We will go back to YogiJohnson. But please remember that we have
(33:00):
gone back to Yogi Johnson. ScriptsO'Neill and his wife were on their way
to the beanery. What will happento them there? I don't know.
I only wish the reader could helpme. And apart two
Part two He Struggle for Life Chapterssix through ten, and here I solemnly
protest I have no intention to vilifyor disperse anyone, For though everything is
copied from the book of Nature,and scarce a character or action produce which
I have not taken from my ownobservations or experience, Yet I have used
(00:24):
the utmost care to obscure the personsby such different circumstances degrees in colors,
that it will be impossible to guessat them with any degree of certainty.
And if it ever happens otherwise,it is only where the failure characterized is
so minute that it is a foibleonly which the party himself may laugh at
(00:45):
as well as any other. HenryFielding, Chapter six Scripts. O'Neill was
looking for employment. It would begood to work with his hands. He
walked down the street away from thebeaner and pasted McCarthy's barbershop. He did
not go into the barbershop. Itlooked as inviting as ever, but it
(01:07):
was employment Scripts wanted. He turnedsharply around the corner of the barbershop and
onto the main street of Potaski.Was a handsome broad street lined on either
side with brick and pressed stone buildings. Scripps walked along it toward the part
of town where the pump factory stood. At the door of the pump factory,
he was embarrassed. Could this reallybe the pump factory? True?
(01:30):
A stream of pumps were being carriedout and set up in the snow,
and workmen were throwing pails of waterover them to encase them in a coating
of ice that would protect them fromthe winter winds as well as any paint
wood. But were they really pumps? Might all be a trick? These
pump men were clever fellows, Isay. Scripps beckoned to one of the
(01:52):
workmen who was slashy water over anew, raw looking pump that had just
been carried out and stood protestingly inthe snow. Are they pumps? They
will be in time? The workmansaid, scripts knew it was the factory.
They weren't going to fool them onthat. He walked up to the
door. There was a sign onit keep out. This means you can
(02:14):
that mean me, Scripps wondered.He knocked on the door and went in.
I'd like to speak to the manager, he said, standing quietly in
the half light. Workmen were passinghim, carrying the new raw pumps on
their shoulders. They hummed snatches ofsongs as they passed. The Handles of
the pumps fluffed stiffly and dumb protest. Some pumps had no handles. They
(02:37):
perhaps, after all, are thelucky ones, Scripps thought. A little
man came up to him. Hewas well built, short, with white
shoulders. In a grim face.You were asking for the manager. Yes,
sir, I'm the foreman here.What I say goes? Can you
hire and fire? Scripts asked,I can do one as easily as the
other. The foreman said, Iwant a job, an experience, not
(03:01):
in pumps. All right, theforeman said, we'll put you on piece
work. Here, Yogi, hecalled to one of the men who was
standing looking out of the window atthe factory. Showed this new chum where
to stow his swag and how tofind his way around these diggings. The
foreman looked Scripts up and down.I'm an Australian, he said, hope
(03:22):
you'll like to lay here. Hewalked off. The man called Yogi.
Johnson came over from the window gladto meet Ja. He said he was
a chunky, well built fellow,one of the sort you see you around
almost anywhere. He looked as thoughhe'd been through things. Your foreman's the
first Australian I've ever met, Scrippssaid, always not Australian. Yogi said
(03:44):
he was just with the Australians onceduring the war and it made a big
impression on him. Were you inthe war, Scripps asked, yes,
Yogi. Johnson said, I wasthe first man to go from Cadillac.
Must have been quite an experience.Meant a lot to me. Yogi answered,
come on and I'll show you aroundthe works. Scripts followed this man,
(04:05):
who showed him through. The pumpfactory was dark but warm. Inside
the pump factory, men naked tothe waist took the pumps and huge tongs
as they came, trundling by onan endless chain, culling out the misfits
and placing the perfect pumps on anotherendless chain that carried them up into the
cooling room. Other men, Indians, for the most part, wearing only
(04:28):
breech clouts, broke up the misfitpumps with huge hammers and adsits and rapidly
recast them into axe heads, wagonsprings, trombone slides, bullet molds,
all the byproducts of a big pumpfactory. There was nothing wasted, Yogi
pointed out a group of Indian boyshumming to themselves. One of the old
tribal chanties squatted in a corner ofthe big forging room, shaping the little
(04:53):
fragments that were chipped from the pumpsand casting into safety razor blades. They
worked naked. Yogi said, they'researched as they go out. Sometimes they
try and conceal the razor blades andtake them out with them to bootleg.
There must be quite a loss thatway. Script said, Oh no,
Yogi answered, the inspectors get mostof them upstairs apart. In a separate
(05:16):
room, two old men were working. Yogi opened the door. One of
the old men looked over his steelspectacles and frowned. You make a draft,
He said, shut the door.The other old man said, in
the high complaining voice of the veryold. There are two handworkers, Yogi
said. They make all the pumpsthe manufactory sends out to the big international
(05:39):
pump races. Do you remember ourpeerless pounder that won the pump race in
Italy where Frankie Dawson was killed.I read about it in the paper,
Scripts answered, mister Barrow, overthere in the corner made the peerless pounder
all himself by hand. Yogi said, I carved it direct from the steel
with this knife. Mister Barrow heldup a short blade at razor like looking
(06:01):
knife. Took me eighteen months toget it right. The peerless pounder was
quite a pump, all right,the high voice little old man said,
But we're working on one now thatwill show its heels to any of them
foreign pumps, aren't we, Henry. That's mister Shaw, Yogi said,
in an undertone. He's probably thegreatest living pump maker. You boys get
(06:23):
along and leave us alone. MisterBarrow said, he was carving away steadily,
his infirm old hand shaking a littlebetween strokes. Let the boys watch.
Mister Shaw said, where are youfrom, young feller. I've just
come from Mancelona. Scripts answered,my wife left me. Well, you
won't have no difficulty finding another one. Mister Shaw said, you're a likely
(06:46):
looking young feller, but take myadvice and take your time. A poor
wife ain't much better than no wifeat all. I wouldn't say that,
Henry, mister Barrow remarked, inhis high voice, any wife at all
was a pretty good wife. Theway things are going now, you take
my advice, young fellow, goslow, get yourself a good one this
(07:06):
time. Henry knows a thing ortwo. Mister Barrow said, he knows
what he's talking about. There.He laughed, a high, crackling laugh.
Mister Shaw, the old pump maker, blushed, You boys get a
line and leave us. Get onwith our pump making. He said,
hedn't ry me here. We gota side of work to do. I'm
(07:27):
very glad to have met you.Scripts said, come on, Yogi said,
I'd better get you started or theforeman will be on my tail.
He put Scripts to work collaring pistonsin the piston collaring room. There Scripts
worked for almost a year. Insome ways it was the happiest year of
his life. In other ways itwas a nightmare, a hideous nightmare.
(07:48):
And the end he grew to likeit, and other ways he hated it.
Before he knew it, a yearhad passed. He was still collaring
pistons. But what strange things hadhappened in that year? Off and he
wondered about them as he wondered coloringa piston. Now almost automatically, he
listened to the laughter that came upfrom below, where the little Indian lads
(08:09):
were shaping what were to be razorblades. As he listened, something rose
in his throat and almost choked him. Chapter seven. That night, after
his first day in the pump factory, the first day in what was or
were to become an endless secession ofdays of dull piston coloring, Scripts went
(08:30):
again to the beanery to eat.All day he had kept his bird concealed.
Something told him that the pump factorywas not the place to bring his
bird out in During the day,the bird had several times made him uncomfortable,
but he had adjusted his clothes toit, and even cut a little
slit the bird could poke his beakout through and search of fresh air.
(08:50):
Now the day's work was over.It was finished. Scripts on his way
to the beanery, Scripts happy thathe was working with his hands. Script
thinking of the old pump maker's Scriptgoing to the society of the friendly waitress.
Who was that waitress anyway? Whatwas it had happened to her in
Paris? He must find out moreabout this Paris Yogi Johnson had been there.
(09:15):
He would quiz Yogi, get himto talk, draw him out,
make him tell what he knew.He knew a trick or two about that.
Watching the sunset out over the PotoskiHarbor, the lake now frozen,
and great blocks of ice jutting outover the breakwater, Scripts strode down these
treats of Potoski to the beanery.He would have liked to ask Yogi Johnson
(09:35):
to eat with him, but hedidn't dare, not yet. That would
come later, All in good time. No need to rush matters with a
man like Yogi. Who was Yogianyway? Had he really been in the
war? What had the war meantto him? Was he really the first
man to enlist from Cadillac? Wherewas Cadillac? Anyway? Time would tell
(09:58):
Scripts. He'll opened the door andwent into the beanery. The elderly waitress
got up from the chair where shehad been reading the overseas edition of the
Manchester Guard him and put the paperon to her steel rimmed spectacles on top
of the cash register. Good evening, she said, simply, it's good
to have you back. Something stirredinside Scripts O'Neil a, feeling that he
(10:20):
could not define him within him.I've been working all day long, he
looked at the elderly waitress for you, he added, How lovely she said,
and then smiled shyly. And I'vebeen working all day long for you.
Tears came into Script's eyes. Somethingstirred inside him again. He reached
(10:41):
forward to take the elderly waitress's hand, and with quiet dignity, she laid
it within his own. You aremy woman, he said. Tears came
into her eyes too. You aremy man, she said once again,
I say you are my woman.Scripts pronounced the words solemnly. Something had
broken inside him again. He felthe could not keep from crying. Let
(11:05):
this be our wedding ceremony, theelderly waitress said, Scripts pressed her hand.
You are my woman, he said, simply, you are my man,
and more than my man. Shelooked into his eyes. You are
all of America to me. Letus go, Scripts said, have you
your bird? Asked the waitress,laying aside her apron and folding the copy
(11:28):
of the Manchester Guardian weekly. I'llbring the Guardian if you don't mind,
she said, wrapping the paper inher apron. It's a new paper and
I've not read it yet. I'mvery fond of the Guardian, Scripps said.
My family have taken it ever sinceI can remember. My father was
a great admirer of Gladstone. Myfather went to Eton with Gladstone. The
(11:48):
elderly waitress said, And now Iam ready. She had donned a coat
and stood ready, her apron andher steel rimmed spectacles in their worn black
Morocco case, her copy of TheManchester Guardian held in her hand. Have
you no hat, es Scripps,No, then I will buy you one,
Scripts said, tenderly, will beyour wedding gift. The elderly waitress
(12:11):
said again. There were tears shownin her eyes. Now let us go,
Script said. The elderly waitress cameout from behind the counter, and
together, hand in hand, theystrode out into the night. Inside the
beanery, the black cook pushed upthe wicket and looked through from the kitchen.
Day's gone off, he chuckled,gone off into in a night.
(12:33):
Well, well well, He closedthe wicket softly, even he was a
little impressed. Chapter eight, Halfan hour later, Scripts O'Neill and the
elderly waitress returned to the beanery asman and wife. The beanery looked much
the same. There was the longcounter, the salt sellers, the shukar
(12:54):
containers, the ketchup bottle, theWorcester shear sauce bottle. There was wicket
that led into the kitchen. Behindthe counter was the relief waitress. She
was a buxom, jolly looking girl, and she wore a white apron.
At the counter, reading a Detroitpaper, sat a drummer. The drummer
was eating a tea, bone steakand hash brown potatoes. Something very beautiful
(13:18):
had happened to Scripts and the elderlywaitress. Now they were hungry. They
wished to eat. The elderly waitresslooking at Scripts, Scripts looking at the
elderly waitress. The drummer reading hispaper and occasionally putting a little ketchup on
his hash brown potatoes. The otherwaitress, Mandy, back of the counter
(13:39):
in her freshly starched white apron.The frost on the windows, the warmth
inside the cold outside. Scripts birdrather rumpled, now sitting on the counter
and preening his feathers. So you'vecome back, Mandy, the waitress said.
The cook said, you had goneout into the night. The elderly
waitress looked at Mandy, her eyesbrightened, her voice calm and now of
(14:01):
a deeper, richer tamper. Weare man and wife now, she said,
kindly, we've just been married.What would you like to eat for
supper? Scripps, Dear, Idon't know, Scripps said. He felt
vaguely uneasy. Something was stirring withinhim. Perhaps you have eaten enough of
the beans, dear Scripps, theelderly waitress, now his wife said.
(14:22):
The drummer looked up from his paper. Scripps noticed that it was the Detroit
News. There was a fine paper. That's a fine paper you're reading,
Scripps said to the drummer. It'sa good paper, the News. The
drummer said, you two on yourhoneymoon. Yes, missus, Scripps said,
we are man and wife now,well, said the drummer. That's
(14:43):
a mighty fine thing to be.I'm a married man myself, are you,
said Scripps. My wife left me. It was in Mancelona. Don't
let's talk of that any more,Scripps. Dear, missus, Scripps said,
you've told that story so many times. Yes, dear, Scripps agreed.
He felt vaguely mistrustful of himself.Something somewhere was stirring inside of him.
(15:07):
He looked at the waitress called Mandy, standing robust and vigorously lovely in
her newly starched white apron. Hewashed her hands, healthy, calm,
capable hands, doing the duties ofher waitresshood. Try one of these tea
bones with hash brown potatoes, thedrummer suggested. They got a nice tea
bone here. Would you like one? Dear, Scripps asked his wife.
(15:31):
I'll just take a bowl of milkand crackers. The elderly missus Scripps said,
you have whatever you want, dear. Here's your crackers and milk,
Diana, Mandy said, placing themon the counter. Do you want a
tea bone, sir, yes,Scripps said. Something stirred again within him.
Well done or rare, rare?Please? The waitress turned and called
(15:52):
into the wicket tea for one.Let it go raw, Thank you,
Scripps said. He eyed the trisMandy, she had a gift for the
picturesque in speech. That girl.It had been that very picturesque quality in
her speech that had first drawn himto his present wife that in her strange
background, England, the lake country, Scripps striding through the lake country with
(16:17):
Wordsworth, a field of golden daffodils, the wind blowing at Windermere far off,
perhaps a stag at Bay that wasfarther north. In Scotland. They
were a hardy race, those Scots, deep in their mountain fastnesses. Harry
Louder and his pipe, The Highlandersand the Great War? Why had not
(16:37):
he Scripps been in the war.That was where that chap Yogi Johnson had
it on him. The war wouldhave meant much to him, Scripps.
Why hadn't he been in it?Why hadn't he heard of it in time?
Perhaps he was too old. Lookat that old French general Joffrey,
though surely he was a younger manthan that old general General Fosh praying for
(17:00):
victory, the French troops nearly alongthe Chemin des Daves, praying for a
victory, the Germans with their gutmeet ounds. What a mockery. Surely
he was no older than that Frenchgeneral Fosh, he wondered. Mandy the
waitress placed his tea, bone steakand hash brown potatoes on the counter before
him. As she laid the platedown, just for an instant her hand
(17:23):
touched his. Scripps felt a strangethrill go through him. Life was before
him. He was not an oldman. Why were there no wars?
Now? Perhaps there were men werefighting in China, Chinaman, Chinaman,
killing one another. What for,Scripps wondered, what was it all about?
Anyway? Mandy, the bucks andwaitress, leaned forward, say,
(17:48):
she said, did I ever tellyou about the last words of Henry James?
Really? Dear Mandy, missus?Scripps said, you've told that story
rather often. Let's hear it.Scripps said, a very interested in Henry
James. Henry James, Henry James, that chap who had gone away from
his own land to live in Englandamong Englishmen. Why had he done it?
For? What had he left America? Weren't his roots here? His
(18:12):
brother William Boston, Pragmatism, HarvardUniversity, Old John Harvard with silver buckles
on his shoes, Charles Brickley,Eddie Mayhan. Where were they now?
Well, Mandy began. Henry Jamesbecame a British subject on his death bed
at once, as soon as theKing heard Henry James had become a British
(18:36):
subject. He sent around the highestdecoration in his power to bestow the order
of merit the o m the elderlyMissus Gripps explained that was it. The
waitress said, Professor's Goss and Saintsburycame with the man who brought the decoration.
Henry James was lying on his deathbed and his eyes were shut.
(18:56):
There was a single candle on atable beside the bed. The nurse allowed
them to come near the bed,and they put the ribbon of the decoration
around James's neck, and the decorationlay on the sheet over Henry James's chest.
Professor's Goss and Saintsbury leaned forward andsmoothed the ribbon of the decoration.
Henry James never opened his eyes.The nurse told them they all must go
(19:19):
out of the room, and theyall went out of the room. When
they were all gone, Henry Jamesspoke to the nurse. He never opened
his eyes. Nurse, Henry Jamessaid, put out the candle, nurse,
and spare my blushes. Those werethe last words he ever spoke.
James was quite a rider. ScrippsO'Neill said, he was strangely moved by
(19:41):
the story. You don't always tellit the same way, dear Missus Scripps
remarked to Mandy. There were tearsin Mandy's eyes. I feel very strongly
about Henry James, she said,What was the matter with James? Asked
the drummer. Wasn't America good enoughfor him? If so O'Neil was thinking
about Mandy the waitress, What abackground she must have, that girl,
(20:04):
What a fund of anecdotes? Achap could go far with a woman like
that. To help him, hestroke a little bird that sat on the
lunch counter before him. The birdpecked at his finger. Was the little
bird a hawk, a falcon,perhaps from one of the big Michigan falconries?
Was it perhaps a robin pulling andtugging at the early worm on some
(20:26):
green lawn somewhere? He wondered,what do you call your bird? The
drumm ar asked, I haven't namedhim yet. What would you call him?
Why not call him ariel? Mandyasked, or puck? Missus Scripps
put in. What's it mean?Asked the drummer. It's a character out
of Shakespeare. Mandy explained, Oh, give the bird a chance, would
(20:49):
you call him? Scripts turned tothe drummer. He ain't a parrot,
is, he asked the drummer.If he was a parrot, you could
call him Polly. There is acharacter in the Beggars Opera called Polly Mandy,
explained. Scripts wondered, perhaps thebird was a parrot, a parrot
strayed from some comfortable home with someold maid, the untilled soil of some
(21:11):
New England spinster. Better wait tillyou see how he turns out, the
drummer advised, you got plenty oftime to name him. This drummer had
sound ideas he Scripps did not evenknow what sex the bird was, whether
he was a boy bird or agirl bird. Wait till you see if
he lays eggs, the drummer suggested. Scripps looked into the drummer's eyes.
(21:33):
The fellow had voiced his own unspokenthought. You know a thing or two,
drummer, he said, Well,the drummer admitted modestly, I ain't
drummed all these years for nothing.You're right there, pal, Scripts said,
that's a nice bird you got there, brother. The drummer said,
you want to hang onto that bird. Scripts knew it. Ah, these
(21:53):
drummers know a thing or two.Going up and down over the face of
this great America of ours. Thesedrummers kept their eyes open. There were
no fools. Listen, the drummersaid. He pushed his derby hat off
his brow, and, leaning forward, spat into the tall brass cuspadoor that
stood beside his duel. I wantto tell you about a pretty beautiful thing
(22:15):
that happened to me once in BayCity. Mandy, the waitress leaned forward.
Missus Scripps leaned toward the drummer tohear better. The drummer looked apologetically
at Scripts and stroked the bird withhis forefinger. Tell you about it some
other time, brother, he said. Scripps understood. From out of the
kitchen, through the wicket in thehall came a high pitched, haunting laugh.
(22:38):
Scripts listened. Could that be thelaughter of the negro? He wondered.
Chapter nine, Scripts going slowly towork in the pump factory in the
mornings, Missus Scripps looking out ofthe window and watching him go up the
street. Not much time for readingthe Guardian now, not much time for
(22:59):
reading about English politics. Not muchtime for worrying about the cabinet crises Over
there in France, The French werea strange people. Joan of arc Ave
La Gallian, Clemenceaux, George Carpentier, Sasha Gitrie, Yvonne printem Roc,
Liz Fratellini's Gilbert Seldis, the Dial, the Dial Prize, Marianne Moore E
(23:26):
Cummings, the enormous room, VanityFair, Frank Croninshield. What was it
all about? Where was it takingher? She had a man, now,
a man of her own for herown? Could she keep him?
Could she hold him for her own? She wondered, Missus Scripps, formerly
an elderly waitress, now the wifeof Scripps O'Neill, with a good job
(23:48):
in the pump factory. Diana's Scripps. Diana was her own name. It
had been her mother's too, Diana'sScripps. Looking into the mirror and wondering
could she hold him? Was gettingto be a question. Why had he
ever met Mandy? Would she havethe courage to break off going to the
restaurant with Scrips to eat? Shecouldn't do that, He would go alone.
(24:11):
She knew that it was no usetrying to pull wool over her own
eyes. He would go alone,and he would talk with Mandy. Diana
looked into the mirror. Could shehold him? Could she hold him?
That thought never laughter? Now everynight at the restaurant, she couldn't call
it a beanery. Now that madea lump come into her throat and made
(24:32):
her throat feel hard and choky.Every night at the restaurant, Now Scrips
and Mandy talked together. The girlwas trying to take him away, him,
her scrips trying to take him away, take him away? Could she,
Diana hold him? She was nobetter than a slut, that Mandy
was. That the way to dowas that the thing to do, go
(24:52):
after another woman's man, come betweenman and wife, break up a home,
and all with these hermitable literary reminiscences, these endless anecdotes. Scripts was
fascinated by Mandy. Diana admitted thatto herself. But she might hold him.
That was all that mattered now,to hold him, to hold him,
(25:14):
not to let him go, makehim stay. She looked into the
mirror. Diana subscribing for the Forum, Diana reading the mentor, Diana reading
William Lyon Phelps and Scribbners. Dianawalking through the frozen streets of the silent
northern town to the public library toread the Literary Digest Book Review. Diana
(25:36):
waiting for the postman to come bringingthe bookman. Diana and the snow,
waiting for the postman to bring theSaturday Review of Literature. Diana bareheaded,
now standing in the mounting snow drifts, waiting for the postman to bring her
the New York Times Literary Section.Was it doing any good? Was it
holding him? At first it seemedto be. Diana learned editorials by John
(26:00):
Ferrar by heart. Scripts brightened alittle of the old light shining in script's
eyes. Now then it died.Some little mistake in the wording, some
slip in her understanding of a phrase, some divergence in her attitude, made
it all ring false. She wouldgo on. She was not beaten.
He was her man, and shewould hold him. She looked away from
(26:22):
the window and slid open the coveringof the magazine that lay on our table.
It was Harper's Magazine. Harper's Magazinein a new format, Harper's Magazine,
completely changed and revised. Perhaps thatwould do the trick she wondered.
Chapter ten, Spring was coming,Spring was in the air. Author's note.
(26:45):
This is the same day on whichthe story starts back on page three.
A Chinook wind was blowing. Workmenwere coming home from the factory.
Scripts of Spirits singing in his cage. Diana looking out of the open window.
Diana watching for her Scripts to comeup the street. Could she hold
him? Could she hold him?If she couldn't hold him, would he
(27:07):
leave her his bird? She feltlately that she couldn't hold him, and
the nights now when she touched Scripts, he rolled away, not toward her.
It was a little sign, butlife was made up of little signs.
She felt she couldn't hold him.As she looked out of the window,
a copy of the Sentry magazine droppedfrom her nerveless hand. The Sentry
at a new editor. There weremore wood cuts. Glen Frank had gone
(27:30):
to head some great university somewhere.There were more Van Doren's on the magazine.
Diana felt that might turn the trickhappily. She had opened the Sentry
and read all morning. Then thewind, the warm Chinook wind, had
started to blow, and she knewScripts would soon be home. Men were
coming down the street, and increasingnumbers was Scripts among them. She did
(27:52):
not like to put on her spectaclesto look. She wanted Script's first glimpse
of her to be of her herbest. As she felt him drawing nearer,
the confidence she had in the centurygrew fainter. She had so hoped
that would give her the something whichwould hold him. She wasn't sure now.
Scripts coming down the street with acrowd of excited workmen, men stirred
(28:15):
by the spring. Scripts swinging hislunch bucket, Scripts waving goodbye to the
workman who trooped one by one intowhat had formerly been a saloon. Scripts
not looking up at the window.Scripts coming up the stairs, Scripts coming
nearer, Scripts coming nearer. Scriptshere, Good afternoon, dear Scripts,
She said, I've been reading astory by Ruth Suckhow hello, Diana,
(28:40):
Scripps answered. He set down hislunch pail. She looked worn and old.
He could afford to be polite.What was the story about, Diana,
he asked. Who was about alittle girl in Iowa? Diana said,
she moved toward him. Was aboutpeople on the land who reminded me
a little of my own late country. That's so asked. In some ways
(29:00):
the pump factory had hardened him.His speech had become more clipped, more
like these hearty northern workers, buthis mind was the same. Would you
like me to read a little ofit out loud? Diana asked, there
are some lovely woodcuts. How aboutgoing down to the beanery. Scripps said,
as you wish, Dear Diana said. Then her voice broke. I
(29:23):
wish, oh, I wish youhad never seen that place. She wiped
away her tears. Scripps had noteven seen them. Humpering the bird,
Dear Diana said, he hasn't beenout all day. Together they went down
the street to the beanery. Theydid not walk hand in hand. Now
they walked like what are called oldmarried people. Missus Scripps carried the bird
(29:45):
cage. The bird was happy inthe warm wind. Men lurching along,
drunk with the spring past them.Many spoke to Scripps. It was well
known and well liked in the town. Now, Some, as they lurched
by, raised their hats to missthe scripts. She responded, vaguely,
if I can only hold him.She was thinking, if I can only
(30:06):
hold him. As they walked alongthe slushy snow on the narrow sidewalk of
the northern town. Something began tobeat in her head. Perhaps it was
the rhythm of their walking together.I can't hold him. I can't hold
him. I can't hold him.Scripts took her arm as they crossed the
street. When his hand touched herarm, Diana knew it was true.
(30:26):
She would never hold him. Agroup of Indians passed him on the street.
Were they laughing at her? Orwas it some tribal jest. Diana
didn't know. All she knew wasthat rhythm that beat into her brain.
I can't hold him, I can'thold him. Author's note for the reader
not the printer. What difference doesit make to the printer? Who is
(30:48):
the printer anyway? Gutenberg the GutenbergBible, Caxton twelve point open faced Castlon
the linotype machine. The author isa little boy being sent to look for
type lice. The author as ayoung man being sent for the key to
the forms. Ah, they knewa trick or two these printers. In
case the reader is becoming confused,we are now up to where the story
(31:12):
opened with Yogi Johnson and Scripts O'Neilland the pump factory itself with a chinook
wind blowing. As you see scripts. O'Neill has now come out of the
pump factory and is on his wayto the beanery with his wife, who
is afraid she cannot hold him personally. We don't believe she can, but
the reader will see for himself.We will now leave the couple on their
(31:33):
way to the beanery and go backand take up Yogi Johnson. We want
the reader to like Yogi Johnson.The story will move a little faster from
now on, in case any ofthe readers are tiring. We will also
try and work in a number ofgood anecdotes. Would it be any violation
of confidence if we told the readerthat we get the best of these anecdotes
(31:55):
from mister Ford madox Ford. Weowe him our thanks, and we hope
the reader does too. At anyrate, we will now go on with
Yogi Johnson. Yogi Johnson, thereader may remember, is the chap who
is in the war. As thestory opens, he is just coming out
of the punk factory see page three. It is very hard to write this
(32:16):
way, beginning things backward, andthe author hopes the reader will realize this
and not grudge this little word ofexplanation. I know I would be very
glad to read anything the reader everwrote, and I hope the reader will
make the same sort of allowances ifany of the readers would care to send
me anything they ever wrote for criticismor advice. I am always at the
(32:37):
Cafe Buddom any afternoon talking about artwith Harold Stearns and Sinclair Lewis, and
the reader can bring his stuff alongwith him, or he can send it
to me care of my bank,if I have a bank. Now,
if the reader is ready, thenunderstand I don't want to rush the reader
any We will go back to YogiJohnson. But please remember that we have
(33:00):
gone back to Yogi Johnson. ScriptsO'Neill and his wife were on their way
to the beanery. What will happento them there? I don't know.
I only wish the reader could helpme. And apart two
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