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

Came Here To Hear

Me Blow"

 

"Oh Yes,  I Did," Said Bartley.  "That'S What I Want.

Tell All There Is To Tell,  And I Can Boil It Down Afterward.

A Man Can'T Make A Greater Mistake With A Reporter Than

To Hold Back Anything out Of Modesty.  It May Be The Very

Thing we Want To Know.  What We Want Is The Whole Truth;

And More; We'Ve Got So Much Modesty Of Our Own That We Can

Temper Almost Any Statement."

 

Lapham Looked as If He Did Not Quite Like This Tone,

And He Resumed a Little More Quietly.  "Oh,  There Isn'T

Really Very Much More To Say About The Paint Itself.

But You Can Use It For Almost Anything where A Paint Is Wanted,

Inside Or Out.  It'Ll Prevent Decay,  And It'Ll Stop It,

After It'S Begun,  In tin Or Iron.  You Can Paint The Inside

Of A Cistern Or A Bath-Tub With It,  And Water Won'T Hurt It;

And You Can Paint A Steam-Boiler With It,  And Heat Won'T.

You Can Cover A Brick Wall With It,  Or A Railroad Car,

Or The Deck Of A Steamboat,  And You Can'T Do A Better Thing

For Either."

 

"Never Tried it On The Human Conscience,  I Suppose,"

Suggested bartley.

 

"No,  Sir," Replied lapham Gravely.  "I Guess You Want To Keep

That As Free From Paint As You Can,  If You Want Much Use Of It.

I Never Cared to Try Any Of It On Mine." Lapham Suddenly

Lifted his Bulk Up Out Of His Swivel-Chair,  And Led the

Way Out Into The Wareroom Beyond The Office Partitions,

Where Rows And Ranks Of Casks,  Barrels,  And Kegs Stretched

Dimly Back To The Rear Of The Building,  And Diffused

An Honest,  Clean,  Wholesome Smell Of Oil And Paint.

They Were Labelled and Branded as Containing each So Many

Pounds Of Lapham'S Mineral Paint,  And Each Bore The Mystic

Devices,  N.L.F. 1835--S.L.T. 1855.  "There!" Said Lapham,

Kicking one Of The Largest Casks With The Toe Of His Boot,

"That'S About Our Biggest Package; And Here," He Added,

Laying his Hand Affectionately On The Head Of A Very Small Keg,

As If It Were The Head Of A Child,  Which It Resembled

In Size,  "This Is The Smallest.  We Used to Put The Paint

On The Market Dry,  But Now We Grind Every Ounce Of It

In Oil--Very Best Quality Of Linseed oil--And Warrant It.

We Find It Gives More Satisfaction.  Now,  Come Back

To The Office,  And I'Ll Show You Our Fancy Brands."

 

It Was Very Cool And Pleasant In that Dim Wareroom,

With The Rafters Showing overhead In a Cloudy Perspective,

And Darkening away Into The Perpetual Twilight At The Rear

Of The Building; And Bartley Had Found An Agreeable Seat

On The Head Of A Half-Barrel Of The Paint,  Which He Was

Reluctant To Leave.  But He Rose And Followed the Vigorous

Lead Of Lapham Back To The Office,  Where The Sun Of A

Long Summer Afternoon Was Just Beginning to Glare In at

The Window.  On Shelves Opposite Lapham'S Desk Were Tin

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Cans Of Various Sizes,  Arranged in tapering cylinders,

And Showing,  In a Pattern Diminishing toward The Top,

The Same Label Borne By The Casks And Barrels In the Wareroom.

Lapham Merely Waved his Hand Toward These; But When Bartley,

After A Comprehensive Glance At Them,  Gave His Whole

Attention To A Row Of Clean,  Smooth Jars,  Where Different

Tints Of The Paint Showed through Flawless Glass,

Lapham Smiled,  And Waited in pleased expectation.

 

"Hello!" Said Bartley.  "That'S Pretty!"

 

"Yes," Assented lapham,  "It Is Rather Nice.

It'S Our Latest Thing,  And We Find It Takes With

Customers First-Rate. Look Here!" He Said,  Taking down

One Of The Jars,  And Pointing to The First Line Of The Label.

 

Bartley Read,  "The Persis Brand," And Then He Looked

At Lapham And Smiled.

 

"After Her,  Of Course," Said Lapham.  "Got It Up And

Put The First Of It On The Market Her Last Birthday.

She Was Pleased."

 

"I Should Think She Might Have Been," Said Bartley,

While He Made A Note Of The Appearance Of The Jars.

 

"I Don'T Know About Your Mentioning it In your Interview,"

Said Lapham Dubiously.

 

"That'S Going into The Interview,  Mr. Lapham,  If Nothing

Else Does.  Got A Wife Myself,  And I Know Just How You Feel."

It Was In the Dawn Of Bartley'S Prosperity On The Boston

Events,  Before His Troubles With Marcia Had Seriously Begun.

 

"Is That So?" Said Lapham,  Recognising with A Smile

Another Of The Vast Majority Of Married americans;

A Few Underrate Their Wives,  But The Rest Think Them

Supernal In intelligence And Capability.  "Well," He Added,

"We Must See About That.  Where'D You Say You Lived?"

 

"We Don'T Live; We Board.  Mrs. Nash,  13 Canary Place."

 

"Well,  We'Ve All Got To Commence That Way,"

Suggested lapham Consolingly.

 

"Yes; But We'Ve About Got To The End Of Our String.

I Expect To Be Under A Roof Of My Own On Clover Street

Before Long.  I Suppose," Said Bartley,  Returning to Business,

"That You Didn'T Let The Grass Grow Under Your Feet Much

After You Found Out What Was In your Paint-Mine?"

 

"No,  Sir," Answered lapham,  Withdrawing his Eyes From A Long

Stare At Bartley,  In which He Had Been Seeing himself

A Young Man Again,  In the First Days Of His Married life.

"I Went Right Back To Lumberville And Sold Out Everything,

And Put All I Could Rake And Scrape Together Into Paint.

And Mis' Lapham Was With Me Every Time.  No Hang Back

About Her.  I Tell You She Was A Woman!"

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Bartley Laughed.  "That'S The Sort Most Of Us Marry."

 

"No,  We Don'T," Said Lapham.  "Most Of Us Marry Silly

Little Girls Grown Up To Look Like Women."

 

"Well,  I Guess That'S About So," Assented bartley,

As If Upon Second Thought.

 

"If It Hadn'T Been For Her," Resumed lapham,  "The Paint

Wouldn'T Have Come To Anything.  I Used to Tell Her It

Wa'N'T The Seventy-Five Per Cent.  Of Purr-Ox-Eyed

Of Iron In the Ore That Made That Paint Go; It Was

The Seventy-Five Per Cent. Of Purr-Ox-Eyed of Iron In her."

 

"Good!" Cried bartley.  "I'Ll Tell Marcia That."

 

"In Less'N Six Months There Wa'N'T A Board-Fence,  Nor

A Bridge-Girder,  Nor A Dead Wall,  Nor A Barn,  Nor A Face

Of Rock In that Whole Region That Didn'T Have 'Lapham'S

Mineral Paint--Specimen' On It In the Three Colours We Begun

By Making." Bartley Had Taken His Seat On The Window-Sill,

And Lapham,  Standing before Him,  Now Put Up His Huge

Foot Close To Bartley'S Thigh; Neither Of Them Minded that.

 

"I'Ve Heard A Good Deal Of Talk About That S.T.--1860--

X. Man,  And The Stove-Blacking man,  And The Kidney-Cure Man,

Because They Advertised in that Way; And I'Ve Read Articles

About It In the Papers; But I Don'T See Where The Joke

Comes In,  Exactly.  So Long As The People That Own The Barns

And Fences Don'T Object,  I Don'T See What The Public Has

Got To Do With It.  And I Never Saw Anything so Very Sacred

About A Big Rock,  Along A River Or In a Pasture,  That It

Wouldn'T Do To Put Mineral Paint On It In three Colours.

I Wish Some Of The People That Talk About The Landscape,

And Write About It,  Had To Bu'St One Of Them Rocks Out

Of The Landscape With Powder,  Or Dig A Hole To Bury It In,

As We Used to Have To Do Up On The Farm; I Guess They'D

Sing a Little Different Tune About The Profanation

Of Scenery.  There Ain'T Any Man Enjoys A Sightly Bit

Of Nature--A Smooth Piece Of Interval With Half A Dozen

Good-Sized wine-Glass Elms In it--More Than I Do.

But I Ain'T A-Going to Stand Up For Every Big Ugly Rock

I Come Across,  As If We Were All A Set Of Dumn Druids.

I Say The Landscape Was Made For Man,  And Not Man For

The Landscape."

 

"Yes," Said Bartley Carelessly; "It Was Made For The

Stove-Polish Man And The Kidney-Cure Man."

 

"It Was Made For Any Man That Knows How To Use It,"

Lapham Returned,  Insensible To Bartley'S Irony.

"Let 'Em Go And Live With Nature In the Winter,  Up There

Along The Canada Line,  And I Guess They'Ll Get Enough

Of Her For One While.  Well--Where Was I?"

 

"Decorating the Landscape," Said Bartley.

 

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"Yes,  Sir; I Started right There At Lumberville,

And It Give The Place A Start Too.  You Won'T Find It

On The Map Now; And You Won'T Find It In the Gazetteer.

I Give A Pretty Good Lump Of Money To Build A Town-Hall,

About Five Years Back,  And The First Meeting they Held

In It They Voted to Change The Name,--Lumberville Wa'N'T

A Name,--And It'S Lapham Now."

 

"Isn'T It Somewhere Up In that Region That They Get

The Old Brandon Red?" Asked bartley.

 

"We'Re About Ninety Miles From Brandon.  The Brandon'S

A Good Paint," Said Lapham Conscientiously.  "Like To Show

You Round Up At Our Place Some Odd Time,  If You Get Off."

 

"Thanks.  I Should Like It First-Rate.  Works There?"

 

"Yes; Works There.  Well,  Sir,  Just About The Time I

Got Started,  The War Broke Out; And It Knocked my Paint

Higher Than A Kite.  The Thing dropped perfectly Dead.

I Presume That If I'D Had Any Sort Of Influence,  I Might

Have Got It Into Government Hands,  For Gun-Carriages

And Army Wagons,  And May Be On Board Government Vessels.

But I Hadn'T,  And We Had To Face The Music.  I Was About

Broken-Hearted,  But M'Wife She Looked at It Another Way.

'I Guess It'S A Providence,' Says She.  'Silas,  I Guess

You'Ve Got A Country That'S Worth Fighting for.  Any Rate,

You Better Go Out And Give It A Chance.' Well,  Sir,  I Went.

I Knew She Meant Business.  It Might Kill Her To Have

Me Go,  But It Would Kill Her Sure If I Stayed.

She Was One Of That Kind.  I Went.  Her Last Words Was,

'I'Ll Look After The Paint,  Si.' We Hadn'T But Just One

Little Girl Then,--Boy'D Died,--And Mis' Lapham'S Mother

Was Livin' With Us; And I Knew If Times Did Anyways Come

Up Again,  M'Wife'D Know Just What To Do.  So I Went.

I Got Through; And You Can Call Me Colonel,  If You Want To.

Feel There!" Lapham Took Bartley'S Thumb And Forefinger

And Put Them On A Bunch In his Leg,  Just Above The Knee.

"Anything hard?"

 

"Ball?"

 

Lapham Nodded.  "Gettysburg. That'S My Thermometer.

If It Wa'N'T For That,  I Shouldn'T Know Enough To Come

In When It Rains."

 

Bartley Laughed at A Joke Which Betrayed some Evidences

Of Wear.  "And When You Came Back,  You Took Hold

Of The Paint And Rushed it."

 

"I Took Hold Of The Paint