The Rise Of Silas Lapham By William Dean Howells Part 1 by William Dean Howells (read dune txt) 📕

her Place."

 

The Young Man Laughed.  "Your Sister Is Very Satirical,

Isn'T She?"

 

"I Don'T Know," Said Irene,  Still Intent Upon The

Convolutions Of The Shaving.  "She Keeps Us Laughing.

Papa Thinks There'S Nobody That Can Talk Like Her."

She Gave The Shaving a Little Toss From Her,  And Took

The Parasol Up Across Her Lap.  The Unworldliness

Of The Lapham Girls Did Not Extend To Their Dress;

Irene'S Costume Was Very Stylish,  And She Governed her

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Head And Shoulders Stylishly.  "We Are Going to Have

The Back Room Upstairs For A Music-Room And Library,"

She Said Abruptly.

 

"Yes?" Returned corey.  "I Should Think That Would

Be Charming."

 

"We Expected to Have Book-Cases,  But The Architect Wants

To Build The Shelves In."

 

The Fact Seemed to Be Referred to Corey For His Comment.

 

"It Seems To Me That Would Be The Best Way.  They'Ll Look

Like Part Of The Room Then.  You Can Make Them Low,

And Hang Your Pictures Above Them."

 

"Yes,  That'S What He Said." The Girl Looked out Of

The Window In adding,  "I Presume With Nice Bindings

It Will Look Very Well."

 

"Oh,  Nothing furnishes A Room Like Books."

 

"No. There Will Have To Be A Good Many Of Them."

 

"That Depends Upon The Size Of Your Room And The Number

Of Your Shelves."

 

"Oh,  Of Course! I Presume," Said Irene,  Thoughtfully,

"We Shall Have To Have Gibbon."

 

"If You Want To Read Him," Said Corey,  With A Laugh

Of Sympathy For An Imaginable Joke.

 

"We Had A Great Deal About Him At School.  I Believe We

Had One Of His Books.  Mine'S Lost,  But Pen Will Remember."

 

The Young Man Looked at Her,  And Then Said,  Seriously,

"You'Ll Want Greene,  Of Course,  And Motley,  And Parkman."

 

"Yes. What Kind Of Writers Are They?"

 

"They'Re Historians Too."

 

"Oh Yes; I Remember Now.  That'S What Gibbon Was.

Is It Gibbon Or Gibbons?"

 

The Young Man Decided the Point With Apparently

Superfluous Delicacy.  "Gibbon,  I Think."

 

"There Used to Be So Many Of Them," Said Irene Gaily.

"I Used to Get Them Mixed up With Each Other,  And I

Couldn'T Tell Them From The Poets.  Should You Want To

Have Poetry?"

 

"Yes; I Suppose Some Edition Of The English Poets."

 

"We Don'T Any Of Us Like Poetry.  Do You Like It?"

 

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"I'M Afraid I Don'T Very Much," Corey Owned.

"But,  Of Course,  There Was A Time When Tennyson

Was A Great Deal More To Me Than He Is Now."

 

"We Had Something about Him At School Too.  I Think I Remember

The Name.  I Think We Ought To Have All The American Poets."

 

"Well,  Not All.  Five Or Six Of The Best: You Want Longfellow

And Bryant And Whittier And Holmes And Emerson And Lowell."

 

The Girl Listened attentively,  As If Making mental Note

Of The Names.

 

"And Shakespeare," She Added.  "Don'T You Like Shakespeare'S Plays?"

 

"Oh Yes,  Very Much."

 

"I Used to Be Perfectly Crazy About His Plays.

Don'T You Think 'Hamlet' Is Splendid? We Had Ever So Much

About Shakespeare.  Weren'T You Perfectly Astonished

When You Found Out How Many Other Plays Of His There

Were? I Always Thought There Was Nothing but 'Hamlet'

And 'Romeo And Juliet' And 'Macbeth' And 'Richard Iii.'

And 'King lear,' And That One That Robeson And Crane

Have--Oh Yes! 'Comedy Of Errors.'"

 

"Those Are The Ones They Usually Play," Said Corey.

 

"I Presume We Shall Have To Have Scott'S Works," Said Irene,

Returning to The Question Of Books.

 

"Oh Yes."

 

"One Of The Girls Used to Think He Was Great.  She Was

Always Talking about Scott." Irene Made A Pretty Little

Amiably Contemptuous Mouth.  "He Isn'T American,  Though?"

She Suggested.

 

"No," Said Corey; "He'S Scotch,  I Believe."

 

Irene Passed her Glove Over Her Forehead.  "I Always Get

Him Mixed up With Cooper.  Well,  Papa Has Got To Get Them.

If We Have A Library,  We Have Got To Have Books In it.

Pen Says It'S Perfectly Ridiculous Having one.  But Papa

Thinks Whatever The Architect Says Is Right.  He Fought

Him Hard Enough At First.  I Don'T See How Any One Can

Keep The Poets And The Historians And Novelists Separate

In Their Mind.  Of Course Papa Will Buy Them If We Say So.

But I Don'T See How I'M Ever Going to Tell Him Which Ones."

The Joyous Light Faded out Of Her Face And Left

It Pensive.

 

"Why,  If You Like," Said The Young Man,  Taking out His Pencil,

"I'Ll Put Down The Names We'Ve Been Talking about."

 

He Clapped himself On His Breast Pockets To Detect Some

Lurking scrap Of Paper.

 

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"Will You?" She Cried delightedly.  "Here! Take One Of My Cards,"

And She Pulled out Her Card-Case. "The Carpenter Writes

On A Three-Cornered block And Puts It Into His Pocket,

And It'S So Uncomfortable He Can'T Help Remembering it.

Pen Says She'S Going to Adopt The Three-Cornered-Block

Plan With Papa."

 

"Thank You," Said Corey.  "I Believe I'Ll Use Your Card."

He Crossed over To Her,  And After A Moment Sat Down On The

Trestle Beside Her.  She Looked over The Card As He Wrote.

"Those Are The Ones We Mentioned,  But Perhaps I'D Better

Add A Few Others."

 

"Oh,  Thank You," She Said,  When He Had Written The Card

Full On Both Sides.  "He Has Got To Get Them In the

Nicest Binding,  Too.  I Shall Tell Him About Their

Helping to Furnish The Room,  And Then He Can'T Object."

She Remained with The Card,  Looking at It Rather Wistfully.

 

Perhaps Corey Divined her Trouble Of Mind.  "If He Will

Take That To Any Bookseller,  And Tell Him What Bindings

He Wants,  He Will Fill The Order For Him."

 

"Oh,  Thank You Very Much," She Said,  And Put The Card Back

Into Her Card-Case With Great Apparent Relief.  Then She

Turned her Lovely Face Toward The Young Man,  Beaming with

The Triumph A Woman Feels In any Bit Of Successful Manoeuvring, 

And Began To Talk With Recovered gaiety Of Other Things,  As If,

Having got Rid Of A Matter Annoying out Of All Proportion

To Its Importance,  She Was Now Going to Indemnify Herself.

 

Corey Did Not Return To His Own Trestle.  She Found Another

Shaving within Reach Of Her Parasol,  And Began Poking

That With It,  And Trying to Follow It Through Its Folds.

Corey Watched her A While.

 

"You Seem To Have A Great Passion For Playing with Shavings,"

He Said.  "Is It A New One?"

 

"New What?"

 

"Passion."

 

"I Don'T Know," She Said,  Dropping her Eyelids,  And Keeping

On With Her Effort.  She Looked shyly Aslant At Him.

"Perhaps You Don'T Approve Of Playing with Shavings?"

 

"Oh Yes,  I Do.  I Admire It Very Much.  But It Seems

Rather Difficult.  I'Ve A Great Ambition To Put My Foot

On The Shaving'S Tail And Hold It For You."

 

"Well," Said The Girl.

 

"Thank You," Said The Young Man.  He Did So,  And Now She

Ran Her Parasol Point Easily Through It.  They Looked

At Each Other And Laughed.  "That Was Wonderful.

Would You Like To Try Another?" He Asked.

 

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"No,  I Thank You," She Replied.  "I Think One Will Do."

 

They Both Laughed again,  For Whatever Reason Or No Reason,

And Then The Young Girl Became Sober.  To A Girl Everything

A Young Man Does Is Of Significance; And If He Holds

A Shaving down With His Foot While She Pokes Through It

With Her Parasol,  She Must Ask Herself What He Means

By It.

 

"They Seem To Be Having rather A Long Interview With The

Carpenter To-Day," Said Irene,  Looking vaguely Toward

The Ceiling.  She Turned with Polite Ceremony To Corey.

"I'M Afraid You'Re Letting them Keep You.  You Mustn'T."

 

"Oh No.  You'Re Letting me Stay," He Returned.

 

She Bridled and Bit Her Lip For Pleasure.  "I Presume

They Will Be Down Before A Great While.  Don'T You

Like The Smell Of The Wood And The Mortar? It'S So Fresh."

 

"Yes,  It'S Delicious." He Bent Forward And Picked up From

The Floor The Shaving with Which They Had Been Playing,

And Put It To His Nose.  "It'S Like A Flower.  May I Offer

It To You?" He Asked,  As If It Had Been One.

 

"Oh,  Thank You,  Thank You!" She Took It From Him And Put

It Into Her Belt,  And Then They Both Laughed once More.

 

Steps Were Heard Descending.  When The Elder People

Reached the Floor Where They Were Sitting,  Corey Rose

And Presently Took His Leave.

 

"What Makes You So Solemn,  'Rene?" Asked mrs. Lapham.

 

"Solemn?" Echoed the Girl.  "I'M Not A Bit Solemn.

What Can You Mean?"

 

Corey Dined at Home That Evening,  And As He Sat Looking

Across The Table At His Father,  He Said,  "I Wonder

What The Average Literature Of Non-Cultivated people Is."

 

"Ah," Said The Elder,  "I Suspect The Average Is Pretty

Low Even With Cultivated people.  You Don'T Read A Great

Many Books Yourself,  Tom."

 

"No,  I Don'T," The Young Man Confessed.  "I Read More Books

When I Was With Stanton,  Last Winter,  Than I Had Since I Was

A Boy.  But I Read Them Because I Must--There Was Nothing

Else To Do.  It Wasn'T Because I Was Fond Of Reading.

Still I Think I Read With Some Sense Of Literature And

The Difference Between Authors.  I Don'T Suppose That

People Generally Do That; I Have Met People Who Had Read

Books Without Troubling themselves To Find Out Even The

Author'S Name,  Much Less Trying to Decide Upon His Quality.

I Suppose That'S The Way The Vast Majority Of People Read."

 

"Yes. If Authors Were Not Almost Necessarily Recluses,

And Ignorant Of The Ignorance About Them,  I Don'T See