The Rise Of Silas Lapham By William Dean Howells Part 1 - William Dean Howells (best e reader for academics txt) 📗
- Author: William Dean Howells
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When Bartley Hubbard Went To Interview Silas Lapham
For The "Solid Men Of Boston" Series, Which He Undertook
To Finish Up In the Events, After He Replaced their
Original Projector On That Newspaper, Lapham Received
Him In his Private Office By Previous Appointment.
"Walk Right In!" He Called out To The Journalist, Whom He
Caught Sight Of Through The Door Of The Counting-Room.
He Did Not Rise From The Desk At Which He Was Writing,
But He Gave Bartley His Left Hand For Welcome, And He
Rolled his Large Head In the Direction Of A Vacant Chair.
"Sit Down! I'Ll He With You In just Half A Minute."
"Take Your Time," Said Bartley, With The Ease He Instantly Felt.
"I'M In no Hurry." He Took A Note-Book From His Pocket,
Laid It On His Knee, And Began To Sharpen A Pencil.
"There!" Lapham Pounded with His Great Hairy Fist
On The Envelope He Had Been Addressing.
"William!" He Called out, And He Handed the Letter
To A Boy Who Came To Get It. "I Want That To Go
Right Away. Well, Sir," He Continued, Wheeling round
In His Leather-Cushioned swivel-Chair, And Facing bartley,
Seated so Near That Their Knees Almost Touched, "So You
Want My Life, Death, And Christian Sufferings, Do You,
Young Man?"
"That'S What I'M After," Said Bartley. "Your Money
Or Your Life."
"I Guess You Wouldn'T Want My Life Without The Money,"
Said Lapham, As If He Were Willing to Prolong These Moments
Of Preparation.
"Take 'Em Both," Bartley Suggested. "Don'T Want Your
Money Without Your Life, If You Come To That. But You'Re
Just One Million Times More Interesting to The Public Than
If You Hadn'T A Dollar; And You Know That As Well As I Do,
of 1 Part 1 Pg 2Mr. Lapham. There 'S No Use Beating about The Bush."
"No," Said Lapham, Somewhat Absently. He Put Out His Huge
Foot And Pushed the Ground-Glass Door Shut Between His
Little Den And The Book-Keepers, In their Larger Den Outside.
"In Personal Appearance," Wrote Bartley In the Sketch
For Which He Now Studied his Subject, While He Waited
Patiently For Him To Continue, "Silas Lapham Is A Fine Type
Of The Successful American. He Has A Square, Bold Chin,
Only Partially Concealed by The Short Reddish-Grey Beard,
Growing to The Edges Of His Firmly Closing lips.
His Nose Is Short And Straight; His Forehead Good,
But Broad Rather Than High; His Eyes Blue, And With A Light
In Them That Is Kindly Or Sharp According to His Mood.
He Is Of Medium Height, And Fills An Average Arm-Chair
With A Solid Bulk, Which On The Day Of Our Interview Was
Unpretentiously Clad In a Business Suit Of Blue Serge.
His Head Droops Somewhat From A Short Neck, Which Does
Not Trouble Itself To Rise Far From A Pair Of Massive
Shoulders."
"I Don'T Know As I Know Just Where You Want Me To Begin,"
Said Lapham.
"Might Begin With Your Birth; That'S Where Most Of Us Begin,"
Replied bartley.
A Gleam Of Humorous Appreciation Shot Into Lapham'S
Blue Eyes.
"I Didn'T Know Whether You Wanted me To Go Quite So Far
Back As That," He Said. "But There'S No Disgrace In
Having been Born, And I Was Born In the State Of Vermont,
Pretty Well Up Under The Canada Line--So Well Up, In fact,
That I Came Very Near Being an Adoptive Citizen; For I
Was Bound To Be An American Of Some Sort, From The Word
Go! That Was About--Well, Let Me See!--Pretty Near Sixty
Years Ago: This Is '75, And That Was '20. Well, Say I'M
Fifty-Five Years Old; And I'Ve Lived 'Em, Too; Not An Hour
Of Waste Time About Me, Anywheres! I Was Born On A Farm,
And----"
"Worked in the Fields Summers And Went To School Winters:
Regulation Thing?" Bartley Cut In.
"Regulation Thing," Said Lapham, Accepting this Irreverent
Version Of His History Somewhat Dryly.
"Parents Poor, Of Course," Suggested the Journalist.
"Any Barefoot Business? Early Deprivations Of Any Kind,
That Would Encourage The Youthful Reader To Go And Do
Likewise? Orphan Myself, You Know," Said Bartley, With A
Smile Of Cynical Good-Comradery.
Lapham Looked at Him Silently, And Then Said With Quiet
Self-Respect, "I Guess If You See These Things As A Joke,
My Life Won'T Interest You."
of 1 Part 1 Pg 3
"Oh Yes, It Will," Returned bartley, Unabashed. "You'Ll See;
It'Ll Come Out All Right." And In fact It Did So,
In The Interview Which Bartley Printed.
"Mr. Lapham," He Wrote, "Passed rapidly Over The Story
Of His Early Life, Its Poverty And Its Hardships,
Sweetened, However, By The Recollections Of A Devoted mother,
And A Father Who, If Somewhat Her Inferior In education,
Was No Less Ambitious For The Advancement Of His Children.
They Were Quiet, Unpretentious People, Religious,
After The Fashion Of That Time, And Of Sterling morality,
And They Taught Their Children The Simple Virtues
Of The Old Testament And Poor Richard'S Almanac."
Bartley Could Not Deny Himself This Gibe; But He Trusted
To Lapham'S Unliterary Habit Of Mind For His Security
In Making it, And Most Other People Would Consider It
Sincere Reporter'S Rhetoric.
"You Know," He Explained to Lapham, "That We Have To Look
At All These Facts As Material, And We Get The Habit
Of Classifying them. Sometimes A Leading question Will
Draw Out A Whole Line Of Facts That A Man Himself Would
Never Think Of." He Went On To Put Several Queries,
And It Was From Lapham'S Answers That He Generalised the
History Of His Childhood. "Mr. Lapham, Although He Did
Not Dwell On His Boyish Trials And Struggles, Spoke Of Them
With Deep Feeling and An Abiding sense Of Their Reality."
This Was What He Added in the Interview, And By The Time
He Had Got Lapham Past The Period Where Risen Americans
Are All Pathetically Alike In their Narrow Circumstances,
Their Sufferings, And Their Aspirations, He Had Beguiled him
Into Forgetfulness Of The Check He Had Received, And Had
Him Talking again In perfect Enjoyment Of His Autobiography.
"Yes, Sir," Said Lapham, In a Strain Which Bartley Was
Careful Not To Interrupt Again, "A Man Never Sees All
That His Mother Has Been To Him Till It'S Too Late To Let
Her Know That He Sees It. Why, My Mother--" He Stopped.
"It Gives Me A Lump In the Throat," He Said Apologetically,
With An Attempt At A Laugh. Then He Went On: "She
Was A Little Frail Thing, Not Bigger Than A Good-Sized
Intermediate School-Girl; But She Did The Whole Work
Of A Family Of Boys, And Boarded the Hired men Besides.
She Cooked, Swept, Washed, Ironed, Made And Mended
From Daylight Till Dark--And From Dark Till Daylight,
I Was Going to Say; For I Don'T Know How She Got Any
Time For Sleep. But I Suppose She Did. She Got Time
To Go To Church, And To Teach Us To Read The Bible,
And To Misunderstand It In the Old Way. She Was Good.
But It Ain'T Her On Her Knees In church That Comes Back
To Me So Much Like The Sight Of An Angel As Her On Her Knees
Before Me At Night, Washing my Poor, Dirty Little Feet,
That I'D Run Bare In all Day, And Making me Decent For Bed.
There Were Six Of Us Boys; It Seems To Me We Were All
Of A Size; And She Was Just So Careful With All Of Us.
I Can Feel Her Hands On My Feet Yet!" Bartley Looked at
of 1 Part 1 Pg 4Lapham'S No. 10 Boots, And Softly Whistled through His Teeth.
"We Were Patched all Over; But We Wa'N'T Ragged.
I Don'T Know How She Got Through It. She Didn'T Seem
To Think It Was Anything; And I Guess It Was No More
Than My Father Expected of Her. He Worked like A Horse
In Doors And Out--Up At Daylight, Feeding the Stock,
And Groaning round All Day With His Rheumatism, But Not
Stopping."
Bartley Hid A Yawn Over His Note-Book, And Probably,
If He Could Have Spoken His Mind, He Would Have Suggested
To Lapham That He Was Not There For The Purpose Of
Interviewing his Ancestry. But Bartley Had Learned
To Practise A Patience With His Victims Which He Did
Not Always Feel, And To Feign An Interest In their
Digressions Till He Could Bring them Up With A Round Turn.
"I Tell You," Said Lapham, Jabbing the Point Of His Penknife
Into The Writing-Pad On The Desk Before Him, "When I Hear
Women Complaining nowadays That Their Lives Are Stunted
And Empty, I Want To Tell 'Em About My Mother'S Life.
I Could Paint It Out For 'Em."
Bartley Saw His Opportunity At The Word Paint, And Cut In.
"And You Say, Mr. Lapham, That You Discovered this Mineral
Paint On The Old Farm Yourself?"
Lapham Acquiesced in the Return To Business. "I Didn'T
Discover It," He Said Scrupulously. "My Father Found
It One Day, In a Hole Made By A Tree Blowing down.
There It Was, Lying loose In the Pit, And Sticking to The
Roots That Had Pulled up A Big, Cake Of Dirt With 'Em. I
Don'T Know What Give Him The Idea That There Was Money
In It, But He Did Think So From The Start. I Guess,
If They'D Had The Word In those Days, They'D Considered
Him Pretty Much Of A Crank About It. He Was Trying
As Long As He Lived to Get That Paint Introduced;
But He Couldn'T Make It Go. The Country Was So Poor They
Couldn'T Paint Their Houses With Anything; And Father Hadn'T
Any Facilities. It Got To Be A Kind Of Joke With Us;
And I Guess That Paint-Mine Did As Much As Any One Thing
To Make Us Boys Clear Out As Soon As We Got Old Enough.
All My Brothers Went West, And Took Up Land; But I
Hung On To New England And I Hung On To The Old Farm,
Not Because The Paint-Mine Was On It, But Because The
Old House Was--And The Graves. Well," Said Lapham,
As If Unwilling to Give Himself Too Much Credit,
"There Wouldn'T Been Any Market For It, Anyway. You Can Go
Through That Part Of The State And Buy More Farms Than You
Can Shake A Stick At For Less Money Than It Cost To Build
The Barns On 'Em. Of Course, It'S Turned out A Good Thing.
I Keep The Old House Up In good Shape, And We Spend A Month
Or So There Every Summer. M' Wife Kind Of Likes It,
And
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