Parnassus on Wheels (11 page)

The notebook was full of little jottings, written in pencil in
the Professor's small, precise hand. The words were rubbed
and soiled, but plainly legible. I read this:

I don't suppose Bock or Peg get lonely, but by the bones of Ben
Gunn, I do. Seems silly when Herrick and Hans Andersen and Tennyson
and Thoreau and a whole wagonload of other good fellows are riding
at my back. I can hear them all talking as we trundle along. But
books aren't a
substantial
world after all, and every now and then
we get hungry for some closer, more human relationships. I've been
totally alone now for eight years—except for Runt, and he might be
dead and never say so. This wandering about is fine in its way, but
it must come to an end some day. A man needs to put down a root
somewhere to be really happy.

What absurd victims of contrary desires we are! If a man is settled
in one place he yearns to wander; when he wanders he yearns to have
a home. And yet how bestial is content—all the great things in life
are done by discontented people.

There are three ingredients in the good life: learning, earning,
and yearning. A man should be learning as he goes; and he should
be earning bread for himself and others; and he should be yearning,
too: yearning to know the unknowable.

What a fine old poem is "The Pulley" by George Herbert! Those
Elizabethan fellows knew how to write! They were marred perhaps by
their idea that poems must be "witty." (Remember how Bacon said
that reading poets makes one witty? There he gave a clue to the
literature of his time.) Their fantastic puns and conceits are
rather out of our fashion nowadays. But Lord! the root of the
matter was in them! How gallantly, how reverently, they tackle the
problems of life!

When God at first made man (says George Herbert) He had a "glass of
blessings standing by." So He pours on man all the blessings in His
reservoir: strength, beauty, wisdom, honour, pleasure—and then He
refrains from giving him the last of them, which is rest, i.e.,
contentment. God sees that if man is contented he will never win
his way to Him. Let man be restless, so that

"If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to My breast."

Some day I shall write a novel on that theme, and call it "The
Pulley." In this tragic, restless world there must be some
place where at last we can lay our heads and be at rest. Some
people call it death. Some call it God.

My ideal of a man is not the Omar who wants to shatter into bits
this sorry scheme of things, and then remould it nearer to the
heart's desire. Old Omar was a coward, with his silk pajamas and
his glass of wine. The real man is George Herbert's "seasoned
timber"—the fellow who does handily and well whatever comes to him.
Even if it's only shovelling coal into a furnace he can balance the
shovel neatly, swing the coal square on the fire and not spill it on
the floor. If it's only splitting kindling or running a trolley car
he can make a good, artistic job of it. If it's only writing a book
or peeling potatoes he can put into it the best he has. Even if he's
only a bald-headed old fool over forty selling books on a country
road, he can make an ideal of it. Good old Parnassus! It's a great
game.... I think I'll have to give her up soon, though: I must get
that book of mine written. But Parnassus has been a true glass of
blessings to me.

There was much more in the notebook; indeed it was half full of
jotted paragraphs, memoranda, and scraps of writing—poems I believe
some of them were—but I had seen enough. It seemed as if I had
stumbled unawares on the pathetic, brave, and lonely heart of the
little man. I'm a commonplace creature, I'm afraid, insensible to
many of the deeper things in life, but every now and then, like all
of us, I come face to face with something that thrills me. I saw how
this little, red-bearded pedlar was like a cake of yeast in the big,
heavy dough of humanity: how he travelled about trying to fulfil in
his own way his ideals of beauty. I felt almost motherly toward him:
I wanted to tell him that I understood him. And in a way I felt
ashamed of having run away from my own homely tasks, my kitchen and
my hen yard and dear old, hot-tempered, absent-minded Andrew. I
fell into a sober mood. As soon as I was alone, I thought, I would
sell Parnassus and hurry back to the farm. That was my job, that
was my glass of blessings. What was I doing—a fat, middle-aged
woman—trapesing along the roads with a cartload of books I didn't
understand?

I slipped the little notebook back into its hiding-place. I would
have died rather than let the Professor know I had seen it.

We were coming into Woodbridge; and I was just wondering whether to
wake the Professor when the little window behind me slid back and he
stuck his head out.

"Hello!" he said. "I think I must have been asleep!"

"Well, I should hope so," I said. "You needed it."

Indeed he looked much better, and I was relieved to see it. I had
been really afraid he would be ill after sleeping out all night, but
I guess he was tougher than I thought. He joined me on the seat, and
we drove into the town. While he went to the station to ask about
the trains I had a fine time selling books. I was away from the
locality where I was known, and had no shyness in attempting to
imitate Mifflin's methods. I even went him one better by going into
a hardware store where I bought a large dinner bell. This I rang
lustily until a crowd gathered, then I put up the flaps and
displayed my books. As a matter of fact, I sold only one, but I
enjoyed myself none the less.

By and by Mifflin reappeared. I think he had been to a barber: at
any rate he looked very spry: he had bought a clean collar and a
flowing tie of a bright electric blue which really suited him rather
well.

"Well," he said, "the Sage is going to get back at me for that
punch on the nose! I've been to the bank to cash your check. They
telephoned over to Redfield, and apparently your brother has stopped
payment on it. It's rather awkward: they seem to think I'm a crook."

I was furious. What right had Andrew to do that?

"The brute!" I said. "What on earth shall I do?"

"I suggest that you telephone to the Redfield Bank," he said, "and
countermand your brother's instructions—that is, unless you think
you've made a mistake? I don't want to take advantage of you."

"Nonsense!" I said. "I'm not going to let Andrew spoil my holiday.
That's always his way: if he gets an idea into his head he's like a
mule. I'll telephone to Redfield, and then we'll go to see the bank
here."

We put Parnassus up at the hotel, and I went to the telephone. I was
thoroughly angry at Andrew, and tried to get him on the wire first.
But Sabine Farm didn't answer. Then I telephoned to the bank in
Redfield, and got Mr. Shirley. He's the cashier, and I know him
well. I guess he recognized my voice, for he made no objection when
I told him what I wanted.

"Now you telephone to the bank in Woodbridge," I said, "and tell
them to let Mr. Mifflin have the money. I'll go there with him to
identify him. Will that be all right?"

"Perfectly," he said. The deceitful little snail! If I had only
known what he was concocting!

Mifflin said there was a train at three o'clock which he could take.
We stopped at a little lunch room for a bite to eat, then he went
again to the bank, and I with him. We asked the cashier whether they
had had a message from Redfield.

"Yes," he said. "We've just heard." And he looked at me rather
queerly.

"Are you Miss McGill?" he said.

"I am," I said.

"Will you just step this way a moment?" he asked politely.

He led me into a little sitting-room and asked me to sit down. I
supposed that he was going to get some paper for me to sign, so I
waited quite patiently for several minutes. I had left the Professor
at the cashier's window, where they would give him his money.

I waited some time, and finally I got tired of looking at the Life
Insurance calendars. Then I happened to glance out of the window.
Surely that was the Professor, just disappearing round the corner
with another man?

I returned to the cashier's desk.

"What's the matter?" I said. "Your mahogany furniture is charming,
but I'm tired of it. Do I have to sit here any longer? And where's
Mr. Mifflin? Did he get his money?"

The cashier was a horrid little creature with side whiskers.

"I'm sorry you had to wait, Madam," he said. "The transaction is
just concluded. We gave Mr. Mifflin what was due him. There is no
need for you to stay longer."

I thought this was very extraordinary. Surely the Professor would
not leave without saying good-bye? However, I noticed that the clock
said three minutes to three, so I thought that perhaps he had had to
run to catch his train. He was such a strange little man, anyway....

Well, I went back to the hotel, quite a little upset by this sudden
parting. At least I was glad the little man had got his money all
right. Probably he would write from Brooklyn, but of course I
wouldn't get the letter till I returned to the farm as that was the
only address he would have. Perhaps that wouldn't be so long after
all: but I did not feel like going back now, when Andrew had been
so horrid.

I drove Parnassus on the ferry, and we crossed the river. I felt
lost and disagreeable. Even the fresh movement through the air
gave me no pleasure. Bock whined dismally inside the van.

It didn't take me long to discover that Parnassing all alone had
lost some of its charms. I missed the Professor: missed his abrupt,
direct way of saying things, and his whimsical wit. And I was
annoyed by his skipping off without a word of good-bye. It didn't
seem natural. I partially appeased my irritation by stopping at a
farmhouse on the other side of the river and selling a cook book.
Then I started along the road for Bath—about five miles farther on.
Peg's foot didn't seem to bother her so I thought it would be safe
to travel that far before stopping for the night. Counting up the
days (with some difficulty: it seemed as though I had been away from
home a month), I remembered that this was Saturday night. I thought
I would stay in Bath over Sunday and get a good rest. We jogged
sedately along the road, and I got out a copy of "Vanity Fair." I
was so absorbed in Becky Sharp that I wouldn't even interrupt myself
to sell books at the houses we passed. I think reading a good book
makes one modest. When you see the marvellous insight into human
nature which a truly great book shows, it is bound to make you feel
small—like looking at the Dipper on a clear night, or seeing the
winter sunrise when you go out to collect the morning eggs. And
anything that makes you feel small is mighty good for you.

"What do you mean by a great book?" said the Professor—I mean,
I imagined him saying it. It seemed to me as if I could see him
sitting there, with his corncob pipe in his hand and that quizzical
little face of his looking sharply at me. Somehow, talking with
the Professor had made me think. He was as good as one of those
Scranton correspondence courses, I do believe, and no money to pay
for postage.

Well, I said to the Professor—to myself I mean—let's see: what
is
a good book? I don't mean books like Henry James's (he's
Andrew's great idol. It always seemed to me that he had a kind
of rush of words to the head and never stopped to sort them out
properly). A good book ought to have something simple about it. And,
like Eve, it ought to come from somewhere near the third rib: there
ought to be a heart beating in it. A story that's all forehead
doesn't amount to much. Anyway, it'll never get over at a Dorcas
meeting. That was the trouble with Henry James. Andrew talked so
much about him that I took one of his books to read aloud at our
sewing circle over at Redfield. Well, after one try we had to fall
back on "Pollyanna."

I haven't been doing chores and running a farmhouse for fifteen
years without getting some ideas about life—and even about books.
I wouldn't set my lit'ry views up against yours, Professor (I was
still talking to Mifflin in my mind), no, nor even against
Andrew's—but as I say, I've got some ideas of my own. I've learned
that honest work counts in writing books just as much as it does in
washing dishes. I guess Andrew's books must be some good after all
because he surely does mull over them without end. I can forgive
his being a shiftless farmer so long as he really does his literary
chores up to the hilt. A man can be slack in everything else, if
he does one thing as well as he possibly can. And I guess it won't
matter my being an ignoramus in literature so long as I'm rated A-1
in the kitchen. That's what I used to think as I polished and
scoured and scrubbed and dusted and swept and then set about getting
dinner. If I ever sat down to read for ten minutes the cat would
get into the custard. No woman in the country sits down for fifteen
consecutive minutes between sunrise and sunset, anyway, unless
she has half a dozen servants. And nobody knows anything about
literature unless he spends most of his life sitting down. So
there you are.

The cultivation of philosophic reflection was a new experience for
me. Peg ambled along contentedly and the dog trailed under Parnassus
where I had tied him. I read "Vanity Fair" and thought about all
sorts of things. Once I got out to pick some scarlet maple leaves
that attracted me. The motors passing annoyed me with their dust
and noise, but by and by one of them stopped, looked at my outfit
curiously, and then asked to see some books. I put up the flaps for
them and we pulled off to one side of the road and had a good talk.
They bought two or three books, too.

By the time I neared Bath the hands of my watch pointed to supper.
I was still a bit shy of Mifflin's scheme of stopping overnight at
farmhouses, so I thought I'd go right into the town and look for a
hotel. The next day was Sunday, so it seemed reasonable to give the
horse a good rest and stay in Bath two nights. The Hominy House
looked clean and old-fashioned, and the name amused me, so in I
went. It was a kind of high-class boarding-house, with mostly old
women around. It looked to me almost literary and Elbert Hubbardish
compared to the Grand Central in Shelby. The folks there stared at
me somewhat suspiciously and I half thought they were going to say
they didn't take pedlars; but when I flashed a new five-dollar bill
at the desk I got good service. A five-dollar bill is a patent of
nobility in New England.