The Turmoil by Booth Tarkington (read aloud books .txt) 📕

between them, and Bibbs stood still, peering about him in deep perplexity. She leaned toward him.

“I knew you!” she said.

“Good heavens!” cried Bibbs. “I thought it was your voice coming out of a star!”

“There’s only smoke overhead,” said Mary, and laughed again. “There aren’t any stars.”

“Oh yes, there were⁠—when you laughed!”

She took his arm, and they went on. “I’ve come to walk home with you, Bibbs. I wanted to.”

“But were you here in the⁠—”

“In the dark? Yes! Waiting? Yes!”

Bibbs was radiant; he felt suffocated with happiness. He began to scold her.

“But it’s not safe, and I’m not worth it. You shouldn’t have⁠—you ought to know better. What did⁠—”

“I only waited about twelve seconds,” she laughed. “I’d just got here.”

“But to come all this way and to this part of town in the dark, you⁠—”

“I was in this part of town already,” she said. “At least, I was only seven or eight blocks away, and it was dark when I came out, and I’d have had to go home alone⁠—and I preferred going home with you.”

“It’s pretty beautiful for me,” said Bibbs, with a deep breath. “You’ll never know what it was to hear your laugh in the darkness⁠—and then to⁠—to see you standing there! Oh, it was like⁠—it was like⁠—how can I tell you what it was like?” They had passed beyond the crowd now, and a crossing-lamp shone upon them, which revealed the fact that again she was without her furs. Here was a puzzle. Why did that adorable little vanity of hers bring her out without them in the dark? But of course she had gone out long before dark. For undefinable reasons this explanation was not quite satisfactory; however, allowing it to stand, his solicitude for her took another turn. “I think you ought to have a car,” he said, “especially when you want to be out after dark. You need one in winter, anyhow. Have you ever asked your father for one?”

“No,” said Mary. “I don’t think I’d care for one particularly.”

“I wish you would.” Bibbs’s tone was earnest and troubled. “I think in winter you⁠—”

“No, no,” she interrupted, lightly. “I don’t need⁠—”

“But my mother tried to insist on sending one over here every afternoon for me. I wouldn’t let her, because I like the walk, but a girl⁠—”

“A girl likes to walk, too,” said Mary. “Let me tell you where I’ve been this afternoon and how I happened to be near enough to make you take me home. I’ve been to see a little old man who makes pictures of the smoke. He has a sort of warehouse for a studio, and he lives there with his mother and his wife and their seven children, and he’s gloriously happy. I’d seen one of his pictures at an exhibition, and I wanted to see more of them, so he showed them to me. He has almost everthing he ever painted; I don’t suppose he’s sold more than four or five pictures in his life. He gives drawing-lessons to keep alive.”

“How do you mean he paints the smoke?” Bibbs asked.

“Literally. He paints from his studio window and from the street⁠—anywhere. He just paints what’s around him⁠—and it’s beautiful.”

“The smoke?”

“Wonderful! He sees the sky through it, somehow. He does the ugly roofs of cheap houses through a haze of smoke, and he does smoky sunsets and smoky sunrises, and he has other things with the heavy, solid, slow columns of smoke going far out and growing more ethereal and mixing with the hazy light in the distance; and he has others with the broken skyline of downtown, all misted with the smoke and puffs and jets of vapor that have colors like an orchard in mid-April. I’m going to take you there some Sunday afternoon, Bibbs.”

“You’re showing me the town,” he said. “I didn’t know what was in it at all.”

“There are workers in beauty here,” she told him, gently. “There are other painters more prosperous than my friend. There are all sorts of things.”

“I didn’t know.”

“No. Since the town began growing so great that it called itself ‘greater,’ one could live here all one’s life and know only the side of it that shows.”

“The beauty-workers seem buried very deep,” said Bibbs. “And I imagine that your friend who makes the smoke beautiful must be buried deepest of all. My father loves the smoke, but I can’t imagine his buying one of your friend’s pictures. He’d buy the Bay of Naples, but he wouldn’t get one of those. He’d think smoke in a picture was horrible⁠—unless he could use it for an advertisement.”

“Yes,” she said, thoughtfully. “And really he’s the town. They are buried pretty deep, it seems, sometimes, Bibbs.”

“And yet it’s all wonderful,” he said. “It’s wonderful to me.”

“You mean the town is wonderful to you?”

“Yes, because everything is, since you called me your friend. The city is only a rumble on the horizon for me. It can’t come any closer than the horizon so long as you let me see you standing by my old zinc-eater all day long, helping me. Mary⁠—” He stopped with a gasp. “That’s the first time I’ve called you ‘Mary’!”

“Yes.” She laughed, a little tremuously. “Though I wanted you to!”

“I said it without thinking. It must be because you came there to walk home with me. That must be it.”

“Women like to have things said,” Mary informed him, her tremulous laughter continuing. “Were you glad I came for you?”

“No⁠—not ‘glad.’ I felt as if I were being carried straight up and up and up⁠—over the clouds. I feel like that still. I think I’m that way most of the time. I wonder what I was like before I knew you. The person I was then seems to have been somebody else, not Bibbs Sheridan at all. It seems long, long ago. I was gloomy and sickly⁠—somebody else⁠—somebody I don’t understand now, a coward afraid of shadows⁠—afraid of things that didn’t exist⁠—afraid of my old zinc-eater! And now I’m only afraid