The Rise Of Silas Lapham By William Dean Howells Part 1 by William Dean Howells (inspirational novels TXT) 📖

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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,

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Mr. 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."

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"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

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Lapham'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