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I
■- 1 r
I
?27
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
\
BOOKS BY
BOOTH TARKINGTON
BEA8LEY S CHBISTBCA8 PARTY
BEAUTY AND THE JACOBIN
CHERRY
CONQUEST OF CANAAN
HIS OWN PEOPLE
IN THE ARENA
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRB
PENROD
PENROD AND SAM
RAMSEY MIIiHOLIiAND
■ SEVENTEEN
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY
THE FLIRT
THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA
THE GUEST OF QUESNAY
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
THE MAN FROM HOME
THE TURMOIL
THE TWO VANREVEUS
THE MAGNIFICENT
AMBERSONS
BY
BOOTH TARKINGTON
.:;:i^
^w^^
OABDEN OITY NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1924
1
COPYRIGHT, 1918, 1922, BY
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE ft COMPAITY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
COPTBIGHT, 1917* 19 1 8, BT THE METBOPOIilTAN MAOAZINB COia>ANT
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES
AT
THE (X>UNTRT LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.
TO
SUSANAH
Oa.w.4aJUU
t5r4 •».7
BOOTH TARKINGTON
By JULIAN STREET
WHEN, two or three score years hence, those
critics who weave their wreaths not for the
brows of the hving but for the tombs of
the dead, begin to study minutely the works of Booth
Tarkington, as inevitably they must, I fancy they
will discover that his "later manner" was fore-
shadowed in the political stories (resulting from
experience in the State Legislature of Indiana) assem-
bled and published as a book in 1905, under the title
"In the Arena." But I think they will recognize
the manner itself as beginning with the novel "The
Flirt," issued in 1913.
Just after having completed it, Tarkington wrote
to a friend:
"The FHrt" is about as long as "The Conquest of
Canaan," but it doesn't seem so because it is centred
and concentrated. Nothing "happens" till the close:
it's just a slowly intensifying "situation,"
h
(C
<i
X BOOTH TARKENGTON
The most successful of Tarkington's earlier novels
had been romantic, though with that strange two-
handedness which has always characterized him, he
had written the satirical burlesque "Cherry," in
which he made game of those heroes of fiction who,
obUged by an author's method to tell of their own
prowess, cloak their boasting with a, "So my lord
was pleased to say."
But to return to the main line of progression:
The FUrt" was followed by "The Turmoil," and
The Turmoil" by "The Magnificent Ambersons"
— ^for the Lambskin Library edition of which this
introductory note is compiled. In each of these
three novels the fundamental change in the manner
of the author is increasingly apparent. From a skill-
ful contriver of plots and a purveyor of exquisite
romance, Tarkington was turning more and more
into the supreme realist whose next novel was to
be the flawless "Alice Adams."
During the war, when "The Magnificent Amber-
sons" was nearing completion (1917), the author
mentioned it in a letter written almost telegraphic-
ally:
Having a terribly interrupted winter — ^meetings
and even speeches (heaven save tne mark!) It's no
BOOTH TARKINGTON xi
time to be writing a novel but I am, somehow — dig-
ging a little deeper than before, but the action is so
slow that there appears to be none at all, and people
may not read this book. I shan't blame them. It's
my usual later plan — ^a slowly intensifying "situa-
tion"— developed a little further — the "hero" an
overbearing important-family-in-Midland-town boy
— ^begin before his birth and combine his Ufe with
the life of an epoch in the town's life — ^the town's
change is the juggernaut that goes over him — of
^tturse that's not all.
"A slowly intensifying * situation'": the phrase
uttered in 1913 and again in exactly the same words
five years later, gives us, in effect, a blue-print of the
plan dominating Tarkington's later novels — ^which,
while fully appreciating the romantic beauty of
"Monsieur Beaucaire" and "The Gentleman from
Indiana," we must, if we have true appreciation, pro-
nounce incomparably his greater novels.
In a letter to a less successful fellow writer he sheds
more light upon that "later plan" of his:
Don't worry about plot, or your alleged "lack of
inventiveness." What you mean is something you
oughtrCt to have. The characters make their own
plot — ^all the plot there should be. Think of them
in their relation to one another and they will make
your story. Your struggle should be against every-
xii BOOTH TARKLNGTON
thing extraneous. It is unusual poignancy that
makes a book unusual, not unusual plot.
Treatment is the big show. Forget, when you
work, about any result but the art result to you.
Pick your reader: the best reader you have inside
you: then make him a p)erson who doesn't know your
artist-self's intentions. Make him see them. Real-
ize that he is in your hands and play with his imagina-
tion. Startle him, amuse him, make him see what
you see — make him feel your words — ^flush him with
colours. And always by suggestion. Make him tell
the story. Use closed doors. Make him act for
himself the scene you don't teU him. Suggest — ^give
him a smell, that's all.
Hardy, Meredith, Daudet and Maupassant weren't
"inventive of plot." Mark Twain's failures are the
result of seeking plot. "The American Claimant"
and "Pudd'nhead Wilson ".don't show up alongside
"Huckleberry Finn," "Life on the Mississippi," and
"Joan of Arc." You can tell the plot of "The
Egoist " in three minutes.
We are here— we writers — to discover and reveal
things about hfe — ^and we seek the finest nieans of
doing so — the most vivid means. We must make
our words into colours and sounds — and the cheap
old tricks and phrases won't do that. You've got
to get living words out of yourself. Nobody else's
words: the used word is stale.
And again: to a writer in the middle thirties:
Work ought to be pretty hard for you, these years
— ^you shouldn't get too facile at your age: th^ later.
BOOTH TARKINGTON xiii
iacility comes the better tools you'll graduate with.
I owe Will Hodge something pretty for his saying,
"If they ever catch me acting, I'm gone!"
And so with our trade, if they ever catch us Writ-
ing, weWe gone!
Think of that and read a poem of . The
man explodes and you've got left a little Oxford Don
with a pen in his hand and bookishness in his head. .
"Lord, how that man can write ! " ought to be dur-
ing apprenticeship. I think it's a good intermediate
stage, but a damning ultimate. No one ever caught
Thomas Hardy, or George Meredith, or Mark Twain
or Shakespeare or Ho wells, at Writing!
Another letter written in 1915, not long after the
publication of **The Turmoil," reveals Tarkington's
attitude on certain other matters connected ^th the
work of authorship:
I try not to see publisher's advertisements, literary
magazines and literary pages in the newspapers. 1
went all through it. The only way is not to know
about it. 1 read what I happen to see, but I take real
pains to see as little about myself and my work as I
possibly can. That's the result of earlier squirmings
which I look back upon now with philosophy. After
proofs are corrected and a book is printed I'm
through. I haven't read "The Turmoil" as a
printed book; I don't know where its sale has got
to. I haven't asked and haven't thought of it often.
There'll be a cheque some day, and the less I specu-
xiv BOOTH TARKINGTON
late about it the more interesting will be its appear-
ance! You see, in certain ways I regulate myself
and thereby find life the merrier. It can be done in
the forties I find.
The change in Tarkington has been a dual change.
The satirist in him turned into the kindly humorist of
"Penrod" and "Seventeen" while the romanticist
was becoming a realist, and it may be added, paren-
thetically, a purely American realist, in contradis-
tinction to that crop of "young American realists,"
who do not write Uke Americans, but follow the
Russians, the Scandinavians, Freud and H. G. Wells.
Tarkington is as American as Mark Twain, and
the gap between the two sides of Mark Twain's dual-
ity as expressed in "Joan of Arc" and "Huckleberry
Finn," is no greater than the gap between the two
sides of Tarkington as expressed in "The Magnificent
Ambersons" or "Alice Adams" on the one hand, and
"Penrod" or "Seventeen" upon the other.
" The Flirt " was no sooner ready for the press than
the author, perhaps in a reaction from tragedy,
turned to youth.
In a letter written in mid-April, 1913, he mentions
the first "Penrod" stories, and adds some interesting
details concerning his methods of work:
li%A
TH TARKINGTON xv
I'm having a jovial time with my boy studies — •
eight of 'em. One a week, now — ^about three days
torUing, beginning at noon and running through to
eleven or one at night.
I wonder if you are bothered by any physical de-
tail. I beUeve, though, you go bang to the type-
writer— a mystery to me. I've worked out a sort of
system. I live in bathrobes. Nothing of anything
from outside gets by to my workroom. That's the
first requisite. About two o'clock they bring me
beef-tea and coflFee. I get into some clothes at six,
donH eat heavily^ and am back at seven, bathrobe
again. I have a pencil machine and sharp>en about
three dozen every night; write on a draughtsman's
drawingboard, tilted, a card-table at my elbow.
Nobody ever talks audibly in my part of the house.
I've grown completely detached. There's nobody I
"have to see" about anything. The day after finish-
ing a story I go out walking or motoring; then I come
back and stay in here — ^in this room — ^till the next is
done. To-day (you're receiving this letter on ac-
count of it) I'm just sticking here, knowing I can't
get anything of the next yarn to take shape to-day ,
but I will to-morrow, because I'm keeping externals
out. These things are deviUsh important. You
must furnish yourself with the overalls and the right
shaped trowel handle.
I envy the reader as he turns now to the first chap-
ter of "The Magnificent Ambersons," and I con-
gratulate him on the knowledge he has gathered of
the author of the novel through perusal of this
xvi BOOTH TARKLNGTON
introductory note — which, though I sign it, is
hardly more than a collection of extracts from per-
sonal letters written by Booth Tarkington and never
intended to be pubUshed.
Julian Street.
Princeton, N. J.
February, 1922.
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
THE
MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
CHAPTER I
MAJOR AMBERSON had "made a fortune*'
in ISTS, when other people were losing
fortunes, and the magnificence of the
Ambersons began then. Magnificence, like the size
of a fortune, is always comparative, as even Mag-
nificent Lorenzo may now perceive, if he has hap-
pened to haunt New York in 1916; and the
Ambersons were magnificent in their day and place*
Their splendour lasted throughout all the years that
saw their Midland town spread and darken into a
city, but reached its topmost during the period when
every prosperous family with children kept a New-
foundland dog.
In that town, in those days, all the women who
wore silk or velvet knew all the other women who
wore silk or velvet, and when there was a new pur-
chase of sealskin. «ick people were got to windows to
3
4 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
see it go by. Trotters were out, in the winter
afternoons, racing light sleighs on National Avenue
and Tennessee Street; everybody recognized both the
trotters and the drivers; and again knew them as
weU on summer evenings, when sUm buggies whizzed
by in renewals of the snow-time rivalry. For that
matter, everybody knew everybody else's family
horse-and-carriage, could identify such a silhouette
half a niile down the street, and thereby was sure
who was going to market, or to a reception, or com-
ing home from oflSce or store to noon dinner or even-
ing supper.
During the earlier years of this period, elegance of
personal appearance was believed to rest more upon
the texture of garments than upon their shaping.
A silk dress needed no remodelling when it was a year
or so old; it remained distinguished by merely
remaimng silk. Old men and governors wore broad-
cloth; "full dress" was broadcloth with "doe-
skin" trousers; and there were seen men of all ages
to whom a hat meant only that rigid, tall silk thing
known to impudence as a "stove-pipe." In town
and country these men would wear no other hat,
and, without self-consciousness, they went rowing
in such hats.
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 5
Shifting fashions of shape replaced aristocracy of
texture: dressmakers, shoemakers, hatmakers, and
{;ailors, increasing in cunning and in power, found
means to make new clothes old. The long con->
tagion of the "Derby" hat arrived: one season the
crown of this hat would be a bucket; the next it would
be a spoon. Every house still kept its bootjack, but
high-topped boots gave way to shoes and "congress
gaiters**; and these were played through fashions
that shaped them now with toes like box-ends and
now with toes like the prows of racing shells.
Trousers with a crease were considered plebeian;
the crease proved that the garment had lain upon
A shelf, and hence was "ready-made**; these be-
traying trousers were called "hand-me-downs,**
in allusion to the shelf. In the early 'eighties,
while bangs and bustles were having their way with
women, that variation of dandy known as the
"dude** was invented: he wore trousers as tight as
stockings, dagger-pointed shoes, a spoon "Derby,**
a single-breasted coat called a "Chesterfield,** with
short flaring skirts, a torturing cylindrical collar,
laundered to a polish and three inches high» while
his other neckgear might be a heavy, puffed cravat
or a tiny bow fit for a doll*s braids. With evening
6 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
dress he wore a tan overcoat so short that his black
coat-tails hung visible, five inches below the over-
coat; but after a season or two he lengthened his
overcoat till it touched his heels, and he passed out
of his tight trousers into trousers like great bags.
Then, presently, he was seen no more, though the
word that had been coined for him remained in the
vocabularies of the impertinent.
It was a hairier day than this. Beards were to
the wearers' fancy, and things as strange as the
Kaiserliche boar-tusk moustache were commonplace.
** Side-burns'' found nourishment upon childlike
profiles; great Dundreary whiskers blew like tip-
pets over young shoulders; moustaches were trained
as lambrequins over forgotten mouths; and it was
possible for a Senator of the United States to wear
a mist of white whisker upon his throat only, not
a newspaper in the land finding the ornament dis-
tinguished enough to warrant a lampoon. Surely
no more is needed to prove that so short a time ago
we were living in another age!
. . . At the beginning of the Ambersons'
great period most of the houses of the Midland
town were of a pleasant architecture. They lacked
rtyle. but also lacked pretentiousness^ and what*^
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 7
ever does not pretend at all has style enough. They
stood in commodious yards, well shaded by left-
over forest trees, elm and walnut and beech, with
here and there a line of tall sycamores where the
land had been made by filling bayous from the
creek. The house of a "prominent resident," fac-
ing Military Square, or National Avenue, or Ten-
nessee Street, was built of brick upon a stone foun-
dation, or of wood upon a brick foundation. Usually
it had a "front porch" and a "back porch"; often a
"side porch," too. There was a "front hall"; there
was a "side hall"; and sometimes a "back hall."
From the "front hall" opened three rooms, the
"parlour," the "sitting room," and the "hbrary":
and the Kbrary could sjiow warrant to its title — ^for
some reason these people bought books. Com-
monly, the family sat more in the library than in the
"sitting room," while callers, when they came for-
mally, were kept to the "parlour," a place of formid-
able polish and discomfort. The upholstery of the
library furniture was a httle shabby; but the hostile
chairs and sofa of the "parlour" always looked new.
For all the wear and tear they got they should have
lasted a thousand years.
Upstairs were the bedrooms; "mother-and-father's
8 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS
room" the largest; a smaller room for one or two soiis>
another for one or two daughters; each of these rooms
containing a double bed, a " washstand," a "bureau,"
a wardrobe, a little table, a rocking-chair, and often
a chair or two that had been slightly damaged down-
stairs, but not enough to justify either the expense
of repair or decisive abandonment in the attic. And
there was always a "spare-room," for visitors
(where the sewing-machine usually was kept)>
and diu-ing the 'seventies there developed an appre-
ciation of the necessity for a bathroom. Therefore
the architects placed bathrooms in the new houses,
and the older houses tore out a cupboard or two, set
up a boiler beside the kitchen stove, and sought a new
godliness, each with its own bathroom. The great
American plumber joke, that many-branched ever-
green, was planted at this time.
At the rear of the house, upstairs, was a bleak
little chamber, called "the girl's room," and in the
stable there was another bedroom, adjoining the
hayloft, and called "the hired man's room."
House and stable cost seven or eight thousand dol-
lars to build, and people with that much money to
invest in such comforts were classified as the Rich.
They paid the inhabitant of "the girrs room" two
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 9
dollars a week, and, in the latter part of this period,
two dollars and a half, and finally three dollars a
week. She was Irish, ordinarily, or German, or it
might be Scandinavian, but never native to the
land unless she happened to be a person of colour.
The man or youth who lived in the stable had like
wages, and sometimes he, too, was lately a steerage
voyager, but much oftener he was coloured.
After sunrise, on pleasant mornings, the alleys
behind the stables were gay; laughter and shouting
went up and down their dusty lengths, with a lively
accompaniment of curry-combs knocking against
back fences and stable walls, for the darkies loved
to curry their horses in the alley. Darkies always
prefer to gossip in shouts instead of whispers; and
they feel that profanity, unless it be vociferous, is
almost worthless. Horrible phrases were caught by
early rising children and carried to older people
for definition, sometimes at inof^ortune moments;
while less investigative children would often merely
repeat the phrases in some subsequent flurry of
agitation, and yet bring about consequences so
emphatic as to be recalled with ease in middle
life.
• c • They have passed, those darky
10 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
men of the Midland town; and the introspective
horses they curried and brushed and whacked and
amiably cursed — ^those good old horses switch thei^
tails at flies no more. For all their seeming perma-
nence they might as well have been buffaloes — or
the buffalo laprobes that grew bald in patches and
used to slide froni the careless drivers' knees and hang
unconcerned, half way to the ground. The stables
have been transformed into other likenesses, or swept
Away, like the woodsheds where were kept the stove-
wood and kindling that the "girl" and the "hired-
man" always quarrelled over: who should fetch it.
Horse and stable and woodshed, and the whole tribe
of the "hired-man," all are gone. They went
quickly, yet so silently that we whom they served
have not yet really noticed that they are vanished.
So with other vanishings. There were the little
bunty street-cars on the long, single track that
went its troubled way among the cobblestones. At
the rear door of the car there was no platform, but a
step where passengers clung in wet clumps when the
weather was bad and the car crowded. The pa-
trons— if not too absent-minded — ^put their fares into
a slot; and no conductor paced the heaving floor,
hut the driver would rap remindingly with his elbow
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 11
upon the glass of the door to his little open platfonn
if the nickels and the passengers did not appear to
coincide in number. A lone mule drew the car,
and sometimes drew it oflF the track, when the pas-
sengers would get out and push it on again. They
really owed it courtesies like this, for the car was
genially accommodating: a lady could whistle to it
from an upstairs window, and the car would halt at
once and wait for her while she shut the window,
put on her hat and cloak, went downstairs, found an
umbrella, told the "girl" what to have for dinner,
and came forth from the house.
The previous passengers made little .objection to
such gallantry on the part of the car: they were
wont to expect as much for themselves on like oc-
casion. In good weather the mule pulled the car
a mile in a little less than twenty minutes, unless
the stops were too long; but when the trolley-car
came., doing its mile in five miriutes and better, it
would wait for nobody. Nor could its passengers
have endured such a thing, because the faster theyV
were carried the less time they had to spare! In
the days before deathly contrivances hustled them
through their lives, and when they had no tele-
flbones — another ancient vacancy profoimdly re*
12 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
sponsible for leisure — ^they had time for everythii^g:
time to think, to talk, time to read, time to wait
for a lady!
They even had time to dance "square dances,'*
quadrilles, and "lancers"; they also danced the
" racquette,'' and schottisches and polkas, and such
whims as the "Portland Fancy." They pushed
back the sliding doors between the "parlour" and
the "sitting room," tacked down crash over the
carpets, hired a few palms in green tubs, stationed
three or four Itahan musicians under the stairway
in the "front hall" — and had great nights!
But these people were gayest on New Year's
Day; they made it a true festival — ^something no
longer known. The women gathered to "assist"
the hostesses who kept "Open House"; and the
carefree men, dandified and perfumed, went about
in sleighs, or in carriages and ponderous "hacks,"
going from Open House to Open House, leaving
fantastic cards in fancy baskets as they entered
each doorway, and emerging a little later, more
carefree than ever, if the punch had been to their
liking. It always was, and, as the afternoon wore
on, pedestrians saw great gesturing and waving of
skin-tight lemon gloves, while ruinous fragmentfi
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 13
of song were dropped behind as the carriages rolled
up and down the streets.
"Keeping Open House" was a merry custom;
it has gone, like the all-day picnic in the woods,
and like that prettiest of all vanished customs, the
serenade. When a lively girl visited the town she
did not long go imserenaded, though a visitor was
not indeed needed to excuse a serenade. Of a
summer night, young men would bring an or-
chestra under a pretty girl's window — or, it might
be, her father's, or that of an ailing maiden aunt —
and flute, harp, fiddle, 'cello, comet, and bass viol
would presently release to the dulcet stars such
melodies as sing through "You'll Remember Me,"
"I Dreamt That I Dwelt in Marble Halls," "Sil-
ver Threads Among the Gold," "Kathleen Mavour-
neen," or "The Soldier's Farewell."
They had other music to oflFer, too, for these
were the happy days of "Olivette" and "The Mas-
cotte" and "The Chimes of Normandy" and
"Girofl6-Girofla" and "Era Diavola." Better than
that, these were the days of "Pinafore" and "The
Pirates of Penzance" and of "Patience." This
last was needed in the Midland town, as elsewhere,
for the "aesthetic movement" had reached thus fai^
14 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
from London, and terrible thi^ were being done to
honest old furniture. Maidens sawed what-nots in
two, and gilded the remains. They took the rockers
from rocking-chairs and gilded the inadequate legs';
they gilded the easels that supported the crayon
portraits of their deceased imcles. In the new spirit
of art they sold old clocks for new, and threw wax
flowers and wax fruit, and the protecting glass domes,
out upon the trash-heap. They filled vases with pea-
cock feathers, or cat-tails, or sumach, or sunflowers^
and set the vases upon mantelpieces and marble-
topped tables. They embroidered daisies (which
they called "marguerites'*) and sunflowers and
sumach and cat-tails and owls and peacock featherp
upon plush screens and upon heavy cushions, then
strewed these cushions upon floors where fathers
fell over them in the dark. In the teeth of sinful
oratory, the daughters went on embroidering: they
embroidered daisies and sunflowers and sumach and
cat-tails and owls and peacock feathers upon
"throws" which they had the courage to drape
upon horsehair sofas; they painted owls and daisies
and sunflowers and sumach and cat-tails and pea-
cock feathers upon tambourines. They himg
Qiinese umbrellas of paper to the chandeliers; they
*
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 15
nailed paper fans t%. the walls. Tliey "studied"
painting on china, these girls; they sang Tosti's new
songs; they sometimes still practised the old, genteel
habit of lady-fainting, and were most charming of all
when they drove forth, three or four in a basket
phaeton, on a spring morning.
Croquet and the mildest archery ever known were
the sports of people still yoimg and active enough for
go much exertion; middle-age played euchre. There
was a theatre, next door to the Amberson Hotel,
and when Edwin Booth came for a night, everybody
who could aflFord to buy a ticket was there,
and all the "backs" in town were hired. "The
Black Crook" also filled the theatre, but the audi-
ence then was almost entirely of men who looked
uneasy as they left for home when the final curtain
fell upon the shocking girls dressed as fairies. But
the theatre did not often do so well; the people of the
town were still too thrifty.
They were thrifty because they were the sons or
grandsons of the "early settlers," who had opened
the wilderness and had reached it from the East and
the South with wagons and axes and guns, but with
BO money at all. The pioneers were thrifty or they
would have perished: they had to store away food
16 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS
for the winter, or goods to trade for food, and they
often feared they had not stored enough — ^they
left traces of that fear in their sons and grandsons.
In the minds of most of these, indeed, their thrift
was next to their religion: to save, even for the sake
of saving, was their earliest lesson and discipline.
No matter how prosperous they were, they could
not spend money either upon "art," or upon mere
luxury and entertainment, without a sense of sin.
Against so homespun a background the mag-
nfficence of the Ambersons was as conspicuous as
a brass band at a funeral. Major Amberson bought
two hundred acres of land at the end of National
Avenue; and through this tract he built broad streets
and cross-streets; paved them with cedar block, and
curbed them with stone. He set up fountains, here
and there, where the streets intersected, and at sym-
metrical intervals placed cast-iron statues, painted
white, with their titles clear upon the pedestals:
Minerva, Mercury, Hercules, Venus, Gladiator,
Emperor Augustus, Fisher Boy, Stag-hound, MastiflF,
Greyhound, Fawn, Antelope, Wounded Doe, and
Wounded Lion. Most of the forest trees had been
left to flourish still, and, at some distance, or by
moonlight, the place was in truth beautiful; but the
f
[
^ THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 17
I
I ardent citizen, loving to see his city grow, wanted
neither distance nor moonlight. He had not seen
Versailles, but, standing before the Fountain of Nep-
tune in Amberson Addition, at bright noon, and quot*
ing the favourite comparison of the local newspapers,
he declared Versailles outdone. All this Art showed
a profit from the start, for the lots sold well and there
was something like a rush to build in the new Addi-
tion. Its main thoroughfare, an oblique contin-
uation of National ^venue, was called Amberson
Boulevard, and here, at the jimcture of the new
Boulevard and the Avenue, Major Amberson re-^
served four acres for himself, and built his new house
— the Amberson Mansion, of course.
This house was the pride of the town. Faced
with stone as far back as the dining-room windows,
it was a house of arches and turrets and girdling
stone porches: it had the first porte-cochere seen
in that town. There was a central "front hall"
with a great black walnut stairway, and open to a
green glass skylight called the "dome," three stories
above the ground floor. A ballroom occupied most
of the third story; and at one end of it was a carved
walnut gallery for the musicians. Citizens told
strangers that the cost of all this black walnut and
18 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
wood-carving was sixty thousand dollars. "Sixty
thousand dollars for the wood- work alone I Yes, sir,
and hardwood floors all over the house! Turkish
rugs and no carpets at all, except a Brussels carpet in
the front parlotu* — ^I hear they call it the *reception-
room/ Hot and cold water upstairs and down, and
stationary washstands in every last bedroom in the
place! Their sideboard's built right into the house
and goes all the way across one end of the dining room.
It isn't walnut, it's solid mahogany ! Not veneering
— solid mahogany! Well, sir, I presume the Presi-
dent of the United States would be tickled to swap the
White House for the new Amberson Mansion, if the
Major'd give him the chance — ^but by the Almighty
Dollar, you bet your sweet life the Major wouldn't!"
The visitor to the town was certain to receive
further enlightenment, for there was one form of
entertainment never omitted: he was always pat-
riotically taken for "a little drive around our city,"
even if his host had to hire a hack, and the climax of
the display was the Amberson Mansion. "Look
at that greenhouse they've put up there in the side
yard," the escort would continue. " And look at that
brick stable! Most folks would think that stable
plenty big enough and good enough to live in; it's
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 1»
got running water and four rooms upstairs for two
hired men and one of 'em's family to live in. They
keep one hired man loafin' in the house, and they got
a married hired man out in the stable, and his wife
does the washing. They got box-stalls for touf
horses, and they keep a coupay, and some new kinds
of fancy rigs you never saw the beat of! ^Carts'
they call two of 'em — 'way up in the air they are—
too high for me! I guess they got every new kind of
fancy rig in there that's been invented. And harness
— well, everybody in town can tell when Ambersons
are out driving after dark, by die jingle. This town
never did see so much style as Ambersons are put-
ting on, these days; and I guess it's going to be expen-
sive, because a lot of other folks'll try to keep up
with 'em. The Major's wife and the daughter's been
to Europe, and my wife tells me since they got back
they make tea there every afternoon about five
o'clock, and drink it. Seems to me it would gp
against a person's stomach, just before supper like
that, and anyway tea isn't fit for much — ^not unless
you're sick or something. My wife says Ambersons
don't make lettuce salad the way other people do;
they don't chop it up with sugar and vinegar at all.
They pour olive oil on it with their vinegar, and they
M THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
have it separate — ^not along with the rest of the meaL
And they eat these olives, too: green things they are,
something like a hard plum, but a friend of mine
told me they tasted a good deal like, a bad hickory-
nut. My wife says she's going to buy some; you
got to eat nine and then you get to like 'em, she says.
Well, I wouldn't eat nine bad hickory-nuts to get to
like them, and I'm going to let these ohves alone.
Kind of a woman's dish, anyway, I suspect, but
most everybody'U be makin' a stagger to worm
through nine of 'em, now Ambersons brought 'em
to town. Yes, sir, the rest'll eat 'em, whether they
get sick or not! Looks to me like some people in
this city'd be willing to go crazy if they thought
that woidd help 'em to be as high-toned as Amber-
sons. Old Aleck Minafer — ^he's about the closest
old codger we got — he come in my oflBce the other
day, and he pretty near had a stroke tellin' me about
his daughter Fanny. Seems Miss Isabel Amber-
son's got some kind of a dog — they call it a Saint
Bernard — and Fanny was bound to have one, .too.
Well, old Aleck told her he didn't like dogs except
rat-terriers, because a rat-terrier cleans up the mice>
but she kept on at him, and finally he said all right
she could have one. Then, by G-eorge! she sayj?
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 21
Ambersons bought their dog, and you can't get one
without paymg for it : they cost from fifty to a hun-
dred dollars up! Old Aleck wanted to know if I
ever heard of anybody buyin' a dog before, because,
of course, even a Newfoundland or a setter you can
usually get somebody to give you one. He says he
saw some sense in payin' a nigger a dime, or even
a quarter, to drown a dog for you, but to pay out
filty dollars and maybe more — well, sir, he like to
choked himself to death, right there in my office!
Of course everybody realizes that Major Amberson
is a fine business man, but what with throwin*
money aroimd for dogs, and every which and what,
some think all this style's boimd to break him up»
if his family don't quit!"
One citizen, having thus discoursed to a visitor,
<^me to a thoughtful pause, and then added, "" Does
seem pretty much like squandering, yet when you
see that dog out walking with this Miss Isabel, he
seems worth the money."
"What's she look like?"
"Well, sir," said the citizen, "she's not more than
just about eighteen or maybe nineteen years old^
and I don't know as I know just how to put it — ^but
die's kind of a delightful lookin' young lady!"
CHAPTER n
A NOTHER citizen said an eloquent thing about
/% Miss Isabel Amberson^s looks. This was
-^ -^ Mrs. Henry Franklin Foster, the foremost
literary authority and intellectual leader of the
commimity — ^for both the daily newspapers thus
described Mrs. Foster when she foimded the Women's
Tennyson Club; and her word upon art, letters,
and the drama was accepted more as law than as
opinion. Naturally, when "Hazel Kirke" finally
reached the town, after its long triumph in larger
places, many peoplcf waited to hear what Mrs,
Henry Franklin Foster thought of it before they
felt warranted in expressing any estimate of the play.
In fact, some of them waited in the lobby of the
theatre, as they came out, and formed an inquiring
group about her.
I didn't see the play," she informed them.
What ! Why, we saw you, right in the middle oi
the fourth row!"
*^Yes>" she said, smiling, "but I was sitting just
9St
«
«
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS 2»
behind Isabel Amberson. I couldn't look at any-
thing except her wavy brown hair and the wonderful
back of her. neck."
The ineligible yoimg men of the town (they were
all ineligible) were unable to content themselves with
the .view .that had so charmed Mrs. Henry Franklin
Foster: they spent their time struggling to keep Miss
Amberson's face turned toward them. She turned
it most often, observers said, toward two : one excd-
ling in the general struggle by his sparkle, and the
other by that winning if not winsome old trait, per-
sistence. The sparkling gentleman ^^led germans''
with her, and sent sonnets to her with his bouquets
— sonnets lacking neither mui^ic nor wit. He was
generous, poor, well-dressed, and his amazing per-
suasiveness was one reason why he was always in
debt. No one doubted thai he would be able to
persuade Isabel, but he unfortimately joined too
merry a party one night, and, during a moonlight
serenade upon the lawn before the Amberson Man-
sion, was easily identified from the windows as the
person who stepped through the bass viol and had to
be assisted to a waiting carriage. One of Miss
Amberson's brothers wa^ among the serenaders,
9ndp when the party had dispersed, remained
24 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
propped against the front door in a state of helpless
liveliness; the Major going down in a dressing-gown
and slippers to bring him in, and scolding mildly,
while imperfectly concealing strong impulses to
laughter. Miss Amberson also laughed at this
brother, the next day, but for the suitor it .was
a different matter: she refused to see him when
he called to apologize. **You seem to care a great
deal about bass viols!" he wrote her. "I promise
never to break another." She made no response
to the note, unless it was an answer, two weeks later,
when her engagement was announced. She took
the persistent one, Wilbur Minafer, no breaker of
bass viols or of hearts, no serenader at all.
A few people, who always foresaw everything,
claimed that they were not surprised, because
though Wilbtur Minafer "might not be an Apollo,
as it were," he was "a steady young business man,
and a good church-goer," and Isabel Amberson was
** pretty sensible — ^for such a showy girl." But the
engagement astoimded the yoimg people, and most
of their fathers and mothers, too; and as a topic it
supplanted literature at the next meeting of the
'Women's Tennyson Club."
** Wilbur Minafer 1^^ a member cried, her inflection
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS «*;
seeming to imply that Wilbur's crime was e^^plained
by his surname. "Wilbur Minever 1 It's the queer^
est thing I ever heard ! To think of her taking Wil-
bur Minafer, just because a man anjf womap ^ould
like a thousand times better was a little wild one
night at a serenade ! "
"No," said Mrs. Henry Franklin Foster. "It
isn't that. It isn't even because she's afraid he'd
be a dissipated husband and she wants to be safe.,
It isn't because she's religious or hates wildness; it
isn't even because she hates wildness in Atm."
"Well, but look how she's thrown him over for
it."
"No, that wasn't her reason," said the wise Mrs.
Henry Franklin Foster. "If men only knew it —
and it's a good thing they don't — ^a woman doesn't
really care much about whether a man's wild or not,
if it doesn't affect herself, and Isabel Amberson
doesn't care a thing!"
"Mrs. Foirfcr/"
"No, she doesn't. What she minds is his making
a clown of himself in her front yard! It made her
think he didn't care much about her. She's prob-
ably mistaken, but that's what she thinks, and it'i?
too late for her to think anything else now, because
ig» THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
die's going to be married right away-the invitatioiis
will be out next week. It*ll be a big Amberson-style
thing, raw oysters floating in seooped-out blocks of ice
and a band from out-of-town — champagne, showy
presents; a colossal present from the Major. Then
Wilbur will take Isabel on the carefulest little wed-
ding trip he can manage, and she'll be a good wife to
him, but they'll have the worst spoiled lot of children
this town wiU ever see."
"How on earth do you ;>nake ibat out. Mrs.
Foster?"
"She couldn't love Wilbur, could she?" Mrs.
Foster demanded, with no challengers. "Well, it
will all go to her children, and she'll rum 'em!"
The prophetess proved to be mistaken in a single
detail merely: except for that, her foresight was
accurate. The wedding was of Ambersonian mag-
nificence, even to the floating oysters; and the
Major's colossal present was a set of architect's de*
signs for a house almost as elaborate and impressive
as the Mansion, the house to be built in Amberson
Addition by the Major. The orchestra was cer-
tainly not that local one which had suffered the loss
of a bass viol; the musicians came, according to the
prophecy and next morning's paper, from afar; and
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 27'
at midnight the bride was still being toasted in
champagne, though she had departed upon her
wedding journey at ten. Four days later the pair
had returned to town, which promptness seemed
fairly to demonstrate that Wilbur had indeed taken
Isabel up>on the caref ulest little trip he could manage.
According to every report, she was frona the start
**si good wife to him," but here in a final detail the
prophecy proved inaccurate. Wilbur and Isabel
did not have children; they had only one.
"Only one," Mrs. Henry Franklin Foster admitted.
**But I'd like to know if he isn't spoiled enough for a
whole carload ! "
Again she found none to challenge her.
At the age of nine, George Amberson Minafer, the
Major's one grandchild, was a princely terror,
dreaded not only in Amberson Addition but in many
other quarters through which he galloped on his white
pony. "By golly, I guess you think you own this
town!" an embittered labourer complained, one day,
as Greorgie rode the pony straight through a pile of
3and the man was sieving. " I will when I grow up,"
the undisturbed child replied. "I guess my grandpa
owns it now, you bet!" And the baffled workman*
no means to controvert what seemed a mere
tS THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
exaggeration of the facts, could only mutter "Oh,
pull down your vest!"
" Don't haf to ! Doctor says it ain^t healthy ! " * the
boy returned promptly. " But I tell you what I'll do :
I'll pull down my vest if you'll wipe oflf your chin ! "
This was stock and stencil: the accustomed argot
of street badinage of the period; and in such matters
Georgie was an expert. He had no vest to pull down;
the incongruous fact was that a fringed sash girdled
the juncture of his velvet blouse and breeches, for
the Faimtleroy period had set in, and Georgie's
mother had so poor an eye for appropriate things,
where Georgie was concerned, that she dressed him
according to the doctrine of that school in boy
decoration. Not only did he wear a silk sash, and
silk stockings, and a broad lace collar, with his little
black velvet suit : he had long brown curls, and often
came home with burrs m them.
Except upon the surface (which was not his own
work, but his mother's) Georgie bore no vivid
resemblance to the fabulous Kttle Cedric. The
storied boy's famous "Lean on me, grandfather,"
would have been difficult to imagine upon the lips of
Georgie. A month after his ninth birthday anni-
versary, when the Major gave him his pony» he had
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 2»
already become acquainted with the toughest boys
in various distant parts of the town, and had con-
vinced them that the toughness of a rich little boy
with long curls might be considered in many respects
superior to their own. He fought them, learning
how to go baresark at a certain point in a fight»
bursting into tears of anger, reaching for rocks,
uttering wailed threats of murder and attempting to
fulfil them. Fights often led to intimacies, and he
acquired the art of saying things more exciting than
"Don't haf to!" and "Doctor says it ain't healthy!'*
Thus, on a summer afternoon, a strange boy, sitting
bored upon the gate-post of the Re^^erend Malloch
Smith, beheld George Amberson Minaf er rapidly ap^
proaching on his white pony, and was impelled by
bitterness to shout: "Shoot the ole jackass! Look
at the girly curb! Say, bub, where'd you steal your
mother's ole sash!"
"Your sister stole it for me!" Georgie instantly
replied, checking the pony. "She stole it oS our
do'es-line an' gave it to me."
"You go get your hair cut!" said the strangei
hotly. "Yah! I haven't got any sister!"
"I know you haven't at home," Georgie responded*
^I mean the one that's in jail."
"80 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS
" I dare you to get down oflf that pony ! '*
Georgie jumped to the ground, and the other boy
descended from the Reverend Mr. Smith's gate-
post— ^but he descended inside the gate. "I dare
you outside that gate," said Georgie.
"Yah! I dare you half way here. I dare you "
But these were luckless challenges, for Georgie
immediately vaulted the fence — and four minutes
later Mrs. Malloch Smith, hearing strange noises,
looked forth from a window; then screamed, and
dashed for the pastor's study. Mr. Malloch Smith,
that grim-bearded Methodist, came to the front yard
and found his visiting nephew being rapidly prepared
by Master Minafer to serve as a principal figure in a
pageant of massacre. It was with great physical
difficulty that Mr. Smith managed to give his
nephew a chance to escape into the house, for Georgie
was hard and quick, and, in such matters, remarkably
intense; but the minister, after a grotesque tussle, got
him sepai'ated from his opponent, and shook him.
"You stop that, you!" Georgie cried fiercely; and
wrenched himself away. "I guess you don't know
who I am!"
"Yes, I do know!" the angered Mr. Smith retor-
ted. "I know who you are, and you're a disgrace tt»
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS 81
your mothar! Your mother ought to be ashamed of
herself to allow "
^^Shut up about my mother bein' ashamed of
herself!"
Mr. Smith, exaiq>erated, was unable to close the
dialogue with dignity. " She ought to be ashamed/*
he repeated. ''A woman that lets a bad boy Uke
you "
But Georgie had reached his pony and mounted.
Before setting off at his accustomed gallop, he paused
to interrupt the Reverend Malloch Smith again.
"You pull down your vest, you ole Billygoat, you!'*
he shouted, distinctly. "Pull down your vest, wipQ
off your chin — ^an' go to hell!"
Such precocity is less unusual, even in children of the
Rich, than most grown people imagine. However,
it was a new experience for the Reverend Malloch
Smith, and left him in a state of excitement. He at
once wrote a note to Georgia's mother, describing the
crime according to his nephew's testimony; and the
note reached Mrs. Minaf er before Georgie did. When
he got home she read it to him sorrowfully.
Deab Madam:
Your son has caused a painful distress in my household. He
made an unprovoked attack upon a little nephew of mine who ia
ae THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
visiting in my household, insulted him by calling him viciouB
names and falsehoods, stating that ladies of his family were in
jmI. He then tried to make his pony kick him, and when the
child, who is only eleven years old, while your son is much older
and stronger, endeavoured to avoid his indignities and withdraw
quietly, he pursued him into the enclosure of my prop&rty and
brutally assaulted him. When I appeared upon this scene he
deliberately called insulting words to me, concluding with
profanity, such as ''go to hell," which was heard not only by my-
self but by my wife and the lady who lives next door. I trust
such a state of undisciplined behaviour may be remedied for the
sake of the r^utation for propriety, if nothing higher, of the
family to which this unruly child belongs.
Georgie had muttered various interruptions, and
Jisl she concluded the reading he said : ^/
**He'sanoleliar!"
"Georgie, you mustn't say *liar.* Isn't this letter
the truth?"
"Well," said Georgie, yhow old am I?"
"Ten."
Well, look how he says I'm older than a boy
eleven years old."
"That's true," said Isabel. "He does. But
isn't some of it true, Georgie?"
Georgie felt himself to be in a diflSculty here, and
he was silent.
"Georgie, did yon say what he says you did?'*
c<
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 8S
** Which one?^'
"Did you tell him to — ^to Did you say, *Go
tohell?^"
Georgie looked worried for a moment longer; then
he brightened. "Listen here, mamma; grandpa
wouldn't wipe his shoe on that ole story-teller,
would he?"
"Georgie, you mustn't **
"I mean: none of the Ambersobs wouldn't have
anything to do with him, would they? He doesn't
even kuQW youy does he, mamma?"
" That hasn't anything to do with it."
"Yes, it has! I mean: none of the Amberson
family go to see him, and they never have him come
in their house; they wouldn't ask him to, and they
prob'ly wouldn't even let him."
"That isn't what we're talking about."
"I bet," said Georgie emphatically, "I bet if he
wanted to see any of 'em, he'd haf to go around to
the side door!"
No, dear, they-
«vr^ j^. J.1 99
Yes, they would, mamma! So what does it
matter if I did say somep'm' to him he didn't hke?
That kind o' people, I don't see why you can't say
anything you want to, to 'em!"
S4 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS
"No, Georgie. And you haven't answered me
whether you said that dreadful thing he says you
did."
" Wdl '' said Georgie. " Anyway, he said some-
p'm' to me that made me mad.'' And upon this
point he offered no further details; he would not ex-
plain to his mother that what had made him ^"mad"
was Mr. Smith's hasty condemnation of herself:
"Your mother ought to be ashamed," and, "A
woman that lets a bad boy like you " Georgie did
not even consider excusing himself by quoting these
insolences.
Isabel stroked his head. "They were tCTrible
words for you to use, dear. From his letter he
doesn't seem a very tactful person, but "
"He's just riffraff," said Georgie.
"You mustn't say so," his mother gently agreed
"Where did you learn those bad words he speaks
of? Where did you hear any oiie use them? "
"Well, I've heard 'em serreval places. I guess
Uncle George Amberson was the first I ever heard
say 'em. Uncle George Amberson said 'em to papa
once. Papa didn't like it, but Unde George was
just laughin' at papa, an' then h« said 'em while he
was laughin'."
rg-v
MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 85
"That was wrong of him," she said, but almost
instinctively he detected the lack of conviction in her
tone. It was Isabel's great failing that whatever
an Amberson did seemed right to her, especially if
the Amberson was either her brother George, or her
son George. She knew that she should be more
severe with the latter now, but severity with him
was beyond her power; and the Rev^end Malloch
Smith had succeeded only in rousing her resentment
against himself. Georgie's symmetrical face — al-
together an Amberson face — ^had looked never more
beautiful to her. It always looked imusually beau-
tiful when she tried to be severe with him. "You
must promise me," she said feebly, "never to use
those bad words again."
"I promise not to," he said promptly — ^and ht
whispered an immediate codicil under his breath:
** Unless I get mad at somebody !" This satisfied a
code according to which, in his own sincere belief,
he never told Kes.
"That's a good boy," she said, and he ran out to
the yard, his punishment over. Some admiring
friends were gathered there; they had heard of his
adventure, knew of the note, and were waiting to see
what was going to "happen" to him. They hoped
86 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
for an account of things, and also that he would
allow them to "take turns'' riding his pony to the
end of the alley and back.
They were really his henchmen: Georgie was a
lord among boys. In fact, he was a personage among
certain sorts of grown people, and was often fawned
upon; the alley negroes delighted in him, chuckled
over him, flattered him slavishly. For that matter,
he often heard well-dressed people speaking of him
admiringly: a group of ladies once gathered about,
him on the pavement where he was spinning a top.
"I know this is Georgie!" one exclaimed, and turned
to the others with the impressiveness of a showman.
"Major Amberson's only grandchild!" The others
said, "It i^F" and made cUddng sounds with their
mouths; two of them loudly whispering, "So hand^
some!"
Georgie, annoyed because they kept standing
upon the circle he had chalked for his top, looked at
them coldly and offered a suggestion:
"Oh, go hire a hall!"
As an Amberson, he was already a public character,
and the story of his adventure in the Reverend
Malloch Smith's front yard became a town topic.
Many people glanced at him with great distastCt
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 87
thereafter, when they chanced to encounter him,
which meant nothing to Georgie, because he inno-
cently believed most grown people to be necessarily
cross-looking as a normal phenomenon resulting
from the adult state; and he failed to comprehend
that the distasteful glances had any personal bearing
upon himself. If he had perceived such a bearing,
he would have been affected only so far, probably, as
to mutter, "Riflfraff!*' Possibly he would have
shouted it; and, certainly, most people believed a
story that went round the town just after Mrs,
Amberson's funeral, when Georgie was eleven.
Georgie was reported to have diflPered with the under-
taker about the seating of the family; his indignant
voice had become audible: "Well, who is the most
important person at my own grandmother's fun-
eral?" And later he had projected his head from
the window of the foremost mourners' carriage* as
the undertaker happened to pass.
'' Riffraff r
There were people — ^grown people they were — ^who
expressed themselves longingly: they did hope to live
to see the day, they said, when that boy would get
his come-upance! (They used that honest word, so
much better than "deserts,'' and not until many
. I
38 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
years later to be more clumsily rendered as "what
is coming to him.") Something was bound to take
him down, some day, and they only wanted to be
there! But Georgie heard nothing of this, and the
yeamers ior his taking down went unsatisfied, while
their yearning grew the greater as the happy day
of fulfilment was longer and Ic^nger postponed. His
grandeur was not diminished by the Malloch Smith
story; the rather it was increased, and among other
children (especially among little girls) there was
added to the prestige of his gilded position that dia-
bolical glamour which must inevitably attend. a boy
who has told a minister to go to hell.
CHAPTER m
UNTIL he reached the age of twelve,
Georgie's education was a domestic proc-
ess; tutors came to the house; and those
citizens who yearned for his taking down often said :
^^Just wait till he has to go to pubUc school; then
he'll get it!'* But at twelve Georgie was sent to a
private school in the town, and there came from this
small and dependent institution no report, or ev^i
rumour, of Georgie's getting anything that he was
thought to deserve; therefore the yearning still
persisted, though growing gaunt with feeding upon
itself. For, although Georgie's pomposities and
impudence in the little school were often almost
unbearable, the teachers were fascinated by him.
They did not like him — ^he was too arrogant for that —
but he kept them in such a state of emotion that
they thought more about him than they did about
all of the other ten pupils. The emotion he kept them
in was usually one resulting from injured self-
respect, but sometimes it was dazzled admiration.
39
40 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
So far as their conscientious observation went, he
^^ studied" his lessons sparingly; but sometimes, in
class, he flashed an admirable answer, with a com-
prehension not often shown by the pupils they
taught; and he passed his examinations easily. In
all, without discernible effort, he acquired at this
school some rudiments of a liberal education and
learned nothing whatever about himself.
The yeamers were stiU yearning when Georgie,
at sixteen, was sent away to a great "Prep School."
"Now," they said brightly, "he'll get it! He'U find
himself among boys just as important in their home
towns as he is, and they'll knock the stuffing out of
him when he puts on his airs with them! Oh, but
that would be worth something to see!" They were
mistaken, it appeared, for when Georgie returned, a
few months later, he still seemed to have the same
stuffing. He had been deported by the authorities^
the offense being stated as "insolence and profanity";
in fact, he had given the principal of the school in-
structions almost identical with those formerly ob-
jected to by the Reverend Malloch Smith.
But he had not got his come-upance, and those
who counted upon it were embittered by his appear^
ance upon the down-town streets driving a dog-cart
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 41
at a criminal speed, making pedestrians retreat from
the crossings, and behaving generally as if he ^' owned
the earth. *' A disgusted hardware deala* of middle
age, one of those who hungered for Georgie's down-
fall, was thus driven back upon the sidewalk to avoid
being run over, and so far forgot himself as to make
use of the pet street insult of the year: "Got *ny
sense! See here, bub, does your mother know you're
out?"
Greorgie, without even seeming to look at him,
flicked the long lash of his whip dexterously, and a
little spurt of dust came from the hardware man's
trousers, not far below the waist. He was not made
of hardware: he raved, looking for a missile; then,
finding none, commanded himself sufficiently to shout
after the rapid dog-cart: "Turn down your pants»
you would-be dude! Raining in dear ole Lunnon!
Git oflF the earth!"
Georgie gave him no encouragement to think that
he was heard. The dog-cart turned the next comer,
causing indignation there, likewise, and, having pro*
ceeded some distance farther, halted in front of the
"Amberson Block" — an old-fashioned four-story
brick warren of lawyers' offices, insurance and real-
estate offices, with a "drygoods store" occupying the
42 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
ground floor. Georgie tied his lathered trotter to a
telegraph pole, and stood for a moment looking at the
building critically : it seemed shabby, and he thought
his grandfather ought to replace it with a fourteen-
story skyscraper, or even a higher one, such as he had
lately seen in New York — ^when he stopped there
for a few days of recreation and rest on his way home
from the bereaved school. About the entryway
to the stairs were various tin signs, announcing the
occupation and location of upper-floor tenants, and
' Georgie decided to take some of these with him if he
should ever go to coU^e. However, he did not
stop to collect them at this time, but climbed the
worn stairs — ^there was no elevator — to the fourtl
floor, went down a dark corridor, and rapped three
times upon a door. It was a mysterious door, its
upper half, of opaque glass, bearing no sign to state
the business or profession of the occupants within;
but overhead, upon the lintel, four letters had been
smearingly inscribed, partly with purple ink and
partly with a soft lead pencil, "F. O. T. A." and upon
the plaster wall, above the lintel, there was a draw-
ing dear to male adolescence: a skull and crossbones.
Three raps, similar to Georgie^s, sounded from
within the room. Georgie then rapped four times;
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 4S
the rapper within the room rapped twice, and Georgie
rapped seven times. This ended precautionary
measures; and a well-dressed boy of sixteen opened
the door; whereupon Georgie entered quickly, and
the door was closed behind him. Seven boys of
congenial age were seated in a semicircular row of
damaged office chairs, facing a platform whereon
stood a solemn, red-haired young personage with a
table before him. At one end of the room there
was a battered sideboard, and upon it were some
empty beer bottles, a tobacco can about two-thirds
full, with a web of mold over the surface of the
tobacco, a dusty cabinet photograph (not inscribed)
of Miss Lillian Russell, several withered old pickles,
a caseknife, and a half -petrified section of icing-cake
on a sooty plate. At the other end of the room were
two rickety card-tables and a stand of bookshelves
where were displayed under dust four or five small vol-
umes of M. Guy de Maupassant's stories, ^^ Robinson
Crusoe," "Sappho," "Mr. Barnes of New York," a
work by Giovanni Boccaccio, a Bible, " The Arabian
Nights' Entertainment," "Studies of the Human
Form Divine," " The Little Minister," and a clutter of
monthly magazines and illustrated weeklies of about
that crispness one finds in such articles upon a doc-
44 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
tor's ante-room table. Upon the wall» above the
sideboard, was an old framed lithograph of Miss Delia
Fox in "Wang"; over the bookshelves there was an-
other lithograph purporting to represent Mr. John
L. Sullivan in a boxing costume, and beside it a half-
tone reproduction of "A Reading From Homer/'
The final decoration consisted of damaged papier-
mache — ^a round shield with two battle-axes and two
cross-hilted swords, upon the wall over the little plat-
form where stood the red-haired presiding officer.
He addressed Georgie in a serious voice:
"Welcome, Friend of the Ace/*
" Welcome, Friend of the Ace," Georgie responded,
and all of the other boys repeated the words, "Wel-
come, Friend of the Ace/'
"Take your seat in the secret semicircle," said the
presiding officer. "We will now proceed to "
But Georgie was disposed to be informal. He
interrupted, turning to the boy who had admitted
him: "Look here, Charlie Johnson, what's Fred
Kinney doing in the president's chair? That's my
place, isn't it? What you men been up to here,
anyhow? Didn't you all agree I was to be president
just the same, even if I was away at school?"
" Well " said Charlie Johnson uneasily. " lis-
IT A^
'5^
^
mSONS 49
^e Ace were
jN /^ted his
^ '^'^ home
^ >ional
Mr. Kinney, p. ^^e^
i
*oom acro^
He George
Nt a new
\oom.
Tgie
a gavel, and conside^^o^
War relic known as ^ ^
loudly for order. "Al^f^.^^•^
their seats!" he said sharpT ^^
F. O. T. A. now, George MinK.j^^
get it ! You and Charlie Johnst'Ci^^
I was elected perfectly fair, and we^
meeting here."
"Oh, you are, are you?" said George s.
Charlie Johnson thought to mollify him
didn't we call this meeting just especially beck** .j^^ /a
told us to? You said yourself we ought to have a
kind of celebration because you've got back to town,
Greorge, and that's what we're here for now, and
everything. What do you care about being presi-
dent? All it amounts to is just calling the roll
and "
The president de facto hammered the table. " This
meeting will now proceed to "
\t
to
«
No, it won't," said George, and he advanced to
44 THE MAGNIFIC^jjT AMBERSONS
tor's ante-room table, ^emptuously. "Get off thai
sideboard, was an old frr
Fox in "Wang"; over;^^^ ^^ ^^^^j.. ^ Finney
other lithograph puf
L. SuUivan in a bo7^ ^j^^^ ^^^^1 ,, ^^y (j^^^^
tone reproductio J ij^e to know? It belongs to my
The final deco ^ y^^ ^^^ hammering it that way or
mache— a ror ^ j yj^ ^^^^ ^^ j^^j^ y^^^ j^^^j ^gP »
cross-hilted ^^^g ^jji ^^^^ ^^ ^^j^^ ! j ^^ i^^^jjy
form whr ^ ^j y^ ^^^ g^j^g ^ l^^ bulldozed! ''
He add ^i^t» g^j Georgie. "You're president
^ il hold another election."
will not!" Fred Kinney shouted. "We'll
^ ur reg'lar meeting, and then we'll play euchre &
^ la comer, what we're here for. This meeting
^\^ now come to ord "
Georgie addressed the members. "I'd like to
know who got up this thing in the first place," he said.
"Who's the founder of the F.O.T.A., if you please?
Who got this room rent free? Who got the janitor
to let us have most of this furniture? You suppose
you could keep this clubroom a minute if I told my
grandfather I didn't want it for a Uterary club any
more? I'd like to say a word on how you members
been acting, too ! When I went away I said I didn't
«
«'
THE MAGNIFICENT A^ ALISONS 49
care if you had a t^-president^ ^ S^e Ace were
was gone, but here I hardly t/^ ^ >y -^vited his
had to go and elect Fred y ^ ^>e home
if that's what you want, yo. c^ ^jonal
ing to have a little celebration clt> . ^
pretty soon, and bring some port wine, . xt
at school in our crowd there, and I was goiiifc, .
my grandfather to give the club an extra room acro^
the hall, and prob*ly I could get my Uncle George
to give us his old billiard table, because he's got a new
one, and the club could put it in the other room.
Well, you got a new president now!'* Here Georgie
moved toward the door and his tone became plain-
tive, though undeniably there was disdain beneath
his sorrow. "I guess all I better do is — resign!"
And he opened the door, apparently intending to
mthdraw.
"All in favour of having a new election," Charlie
Johnson shouted hastily, "say, *Aye'!"
"Aye" was said by everyone present except Mr.
Kinney, who began a hot protest, but it was im-
mediately smothered.
"All in favour of me being president instead of
Fred Kinney," shouted Georgie, "say *Aye.* The
'Ayes' have it!"
44 THE y MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
tor's ante-'*'^» * ^^ *^^ red-he4ded boy, gulping as he
sideboarc'^^ from the platform. "I resign from the
Fox in '
other-^^t-^y^' ^^ *^™d his hat and departed, jeers
j^ echoing alter him as he plunged down the corridor.
^ Georgie stepped upon the platform, and took up the
emblem of office.
"Ole red-head Fred*ll be around next week," said
the new chairman. " He'll be around boot-lickin' to
get us to take him back in. again, but I guess we don't
want him: that fellow always was a trouble-maker.
We will now proceed with our meeting. Well,
fellows, I suppose you want to hear from your presi-
dent. I don't know that I have much to say, as I
have already seen most of you a few times since J
got back. I had a good time at the old school, back
East, but had a little trouble with the faculty and
came on home. My family stood by me as well as I
could ask, and I expect to stay right here in the
old town until whenever I decide to enter college.
Now, I don't suppose there's any more business
before the meeting. I guess we might as well play
cards. Anybody that's game for a little quarter-
limit poker or any limit they say, why I'd like to
he.ve 'em sit at the president's card-table."
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 49
When the diversions of the Friends of the Ace were
concluded for that afternoon, Georgie invited his
chief supporter, Mr. Charlie Johnson, to drive home
with him to dinner, and as they jingled up National
Avenue in the dog-cart, Charlie asked :
^^What sort of men did you nm up against at that
school, George?'*
"Best crowd there: finest set of men I ever met."
"How'd you get in with 'em?"
Georgie laughed. "I let them get in with me^
Charlie," he said in a tone of gentle explanation.
"It's vulgar to do any other way. Did I tell you
the nickname they gave me— *King'? That was
what they called me at that school, *King Minafer."*
"How'd they happen to do that?" his friend asked
innocently.
"Oh, different things," George answered lightly.
"Of course, any of 'em that came from anywhere
out in this part the country knew about the family
and all that, and so I suppose it was a good deal on
account of — oh, on account of the family and the
way I do things, most likely."
CHAPTER IV
"W 'W THEN Mr, George Amberson Minafer came
%/%/ home for the holidays at Christmastide, in
^ ^ his sophomore year, probably no great
change had taken place inside him, but his exterior
was visibly altered. Nothing about him encouraged
any hope that he had received his come-upance; on
the contrary, the yeamers for that stroke of justice
must yearn even more itchingly: the gilded youth's
manner had become polite, but his politeness was
of a kind which democratic people found hard to
bear. In a word, M. le Due had returned from the
gay life of the capital to show himself for a week
among the loyal peasants belonging to the old
chateau, and their quaint habits and costmnes af-
forded him a mild amusement.
Cards were out for a ball in his honour, and this
pageant of the tenantry was held in the ballroom
of the Amberson Mansion the night after his arrival.
It was, as Mrs. Henry Franklin Foster said of Isabel's
wedding, "a big Amberson -style thing," though that
50
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 61
wise Mrs. Henry Franklin Foster had long ago gone
the way of all wisdom, having stepped out of the
Midland town, unquestionably into heaven — ^a long
step, but not beyond her powers. She had suc-
cessors, but no successor; the town having grown too
large to confess that it was intellectually led and lit-
erarily authoritated by one person; and some of these
successors were not invited to the ball, for dimensions
were now so metropolitan that intellectual leaders
and Uterary authorities loomed in outlying regions
unfamiliar to the Ambersons. However, all ^^old
citizens" recognizable as gentry received cards, and
of course so did their dancing descendants.
The orchestra and the caterer were brought from
away, in the Amberson manner, though this was
really a gesture — ^perhaps one more of habit than of
ostentation — ^for servitors of gaiety as proficient as
these importations were nowadays to be found in
the town. Even flowers and plants and roped vines
were brought from afar — ^not, however, until the
stock of the local florists proved insufficient to oblit-
erate the interior structure of the big house, in the
Amberson way. It was the last of the great, long-
remembered dances that "everybody talked about''
— ^there were getting to be so many people in town
52 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
that no later than the next year there were too
many for "everybody" to hear of even such a ball
as the Ambersons*.
George, white-gloved, with a gardenia in his but-
tonhole, stood with his mother and the Major, em*
bowered in the big red and gold drawing room down-
stairs, to "receive" the guests; and, standing thus
together, the trio offered a picturesque example of
good looks persistent through three generations.
The Major, his daughter, and his grandson were of
a type all Amberson: tall, straight, and regular,
with dark eyes, short noses, good chins; and the
grandfather's expression, no less than the grand**
son's, was one of faintly amused condescension*
There was a difference, however. The grandson's
mdined young face had nothing to offer except this
condescension; the grandfather's had other things
to say. It was a handsome, worldly old face, con-
scious of its importance, but persuasive rather than
arrogant, and not without tokens of sufferings with-
stood. The Major's short white hair was parted in
the middle, like his grandson's^ and in all he stood
as briskly equipped to the fashion as exquisite young
George.
Isabel, standing between her father and her son,
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 53
loused a vague amazement in the mind of the latter.
Her age, just under forty, was for George a thought
of something as remote as the moons of Jupiter: he
could not possibly have conceived such an age ever
coming to be his own: five years was the limit of his
thinking in time. Five years ago he had been a child
not yet fourteen; and those five years were an abyss.
Five years hence he would be almost twenty-fourj
what the girls he knew called "one of the older men."
He could imagine himself at twenty-four, but be-
yond that, his powers staggered and refused the task.
He saw little essential difference between thirty-eight
and eighty-eight, and his mother was to him not a
woman but wholly a mother. He had no perception
of her other than as an adjunct to himself, his
mother; nor could he imagine her thinking or doing
uything — ^falling in love, walking with a friend, or
reading a book — ^as a woman, and not as his mother.
The woman, Isabel, was a stranger to her son; as
completely a stranger as if he had never in his life
seen her or heard her voice. And it was to-night,
while he stood with her, "receiving," that he caught
a disquieting glimpse of this stranger whom he thus
fleetingly encountered for the first time.
Youth cannot imagine romance apart from vouth«.
54 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
That is why the rdles of the heroes and heroines of
plays are given by the managers to the most youth-
ful actors they can find among the competent. Both
middle-aged people and young people enjoy a play
about young lovers; but only middle-aged people will
tolerate a play about middle-aged lovers; youngpeople
will not come to see such a play, because, for them,
middle-aged lovers are a joke — ^not a very ftmny one.
Therefore, to bring both the middle-aged people and
the young people into his house, the manager makes
his romance as young as he can. Youth will indeed'
be served, and its profound instinct is to be not only
scornfully amused but vaguely angered by middle-
age romance. So, standing beside his mother,
Greorge was disturbed by a sudden impression, com-
ing upon him out of nowhere, so far as he could detect,
that her eyes were brilliant, that she was graceful
and youthful — in a word, that she was romantically
lovely.
He had one of those curious moments that seem
to have neither a cause nor any connection with
actual things. While it lasted, he was disquieted
not by thoughts — ^for he had no definite thoughts —
but by a slight emotion like that caused in a dream
jby the presence of something invisible, soundless.
nj
MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 55
snd yet fantastic. There was notliiiig difiFerent or
new about his mother, except her new black and
silver dress: she was standing there beside him,
bending her head a little in her greetings, smiling the
same smile she had worn for the half-hour that
people had been passing the "receiving" group.
Her face was flushed, but the room was warm; and
shaking hands with so many people easily accounted
for the pretty glow that was upon her. At any time
she could have "passed" for twenty-five or twenty-
six — ^a man of fifty would have honestly guessed her
to be about thirty but possibly two or three years
younger- and though extraordinary in this, she had
been extraordinary m it for years. Tha'e was noth-
ing in either her looks or her mamier to explain
George's imcomfortable feeling; and yet it increased,
becoming suddenly a vague resentment, as if she had
done something unmotherly to him.
The fantastic moment passed; and even while it
lasted, he was doing his duty, greeting two pretty
girls with whom he had grown up, as people say, and
warmly assuring them that he remembered them
very well — ^an assurance which might have surprised
them "in anybody but Georgie Minafer!" It
seemed unnecessary, since he had spent many hours
56 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS
with them no longer ago than the preceding Augusfc*
They had with them their parents and an wide from
out of town; and George negligently gave the par-
ents the same assurance he had given the daughters^
but murmured another form of greeting to the out*
of-town uncle, whom he had never seen before.
This person George absently took note of as a "queer-
looking duck." Undergraduates had not yet
adopted "bird." It was a period previous to that
in which a sophomore would have thought of the
Sharon girls* uncle as a "queer-looking bird," or,
perhaps a "funny-face bird." In George's time,
every human male was to be defined, at pleasure, as
a "duck"; but "duck" was not spoken with admir-
ing affection, as m its former feminine use to signify
a "dear" — on the contrary, "duck" implied the
speaker's personal detachment and humorous supe-
riority. An indifferent amusement was what
George felt when his mother, with a gentle empha-
sis, interrupted his interchange of courtesies witk
the nieces to present him to the queer-looking duck,
their uncle. This emphasis of Isabel's, though
slight, enabled George to perceive that she consid-
ered the queer-looking duck a person of some impor-
tance; but it was far from enabling him to under*
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 57
stand why. The duck parted his thick and longish
black hair on the side; his tie was a forgetful looking
thing, and his coat, though it fitted a good enough
middle-aged figure, no product of this year, or of
last year either. One of his eyebrows was Notice-
ably higher than the other; and there were whimsical
lines between them, which gave him an apprehensive
expression; but his apprehensions were evidently
more humorous than profound, for his prevailing
look was that of a genial man of affairs, not much
afraid of anything whatever. Nevertheless, observ-
ing only his ^unfashionable hair, his eyebrows, his
preoccupied tie and his old coat, the Olympic George
set him down as a queer-looking duck, and having
thus completed his portrait, took no interest in
him.
The Sharon girls passed on, taking the queer-
looking duck with them, and George became pink
with mortification as his mother called his attention
to a white-bearded guest waiting to shake his hand.
This was George's great-uncle, old John Minafer:
it was old John's boast that in spite of his connection
by marriage with the Ambersons, he never had worn
and never would wear a swaller-tail coat. Members
nf his family had exerted their influence uselessly—
58 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
at eighty-nine conservative people seldom form
radical new habits, and old John wore his *' Sunday
suit" of black broadcloth to the Amberson ball.
The coat was square, with skirts to the knees; old
John called it a "Prince Albert" and was well
enough pleased with it, but his great-nephew con-
sidered it the next thing to an insult. George's pur-
pose had been to ignore the man, but he had to take
his hand for a moment; whereupon old John began
to tell George that he was looking well, though there
had been a time, during his fourth month, when he
was so puny that nobody thought he would live.
The great-nephew, in a fury of blushes, dropped old
John's hand with some vigour, and seized that of the
next person in the line. "'Member you v'ry well
'ndeed!" he said fiercely.
The large room had filled, and so had the broad
hall and the rooms on the other side of the hall,
where there were tables for whist. The imported
orchestra waited in the ballroom on the third
floor, but a local harp, 'cello, violin, and flute were
playing airs from "The Fencing Master" in the hall,
and people were shouting over the music. Old
John Minafer's voice was louder and more pene-
trating than any other, because he had been troubled
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS 5t^
with deafness for twenty-five years, heard his own
voice but faintly, and liked to hear it. "Smell o*
flowers like this always puts me in mind o' funer-
als," he kept telling his niece, Fanny *Minafer, who
was with him; and he seemed to get a great deal of
satisfaction out of this reminder. His tremulous yet
strident voice cut through the voluminous sound
that filled the room, and he was heard everywhere:
^'Always got to think o' funerals when I smell so
many flowers!" And, as the pressure of people
forced Fanny and himself against the white marble
mantelpiece, he pursued this train of cheery thought,,
shouting, "Right here's where the Major's wife was
laid out at her funeral. They had her in a good light
from that big bow window." He paused to chuckle
mournfully. "I s'pose that's where they'll put the
Major when his time comes."
Presently George's mortification was increased
to hear this sawmill droning harshly from the midst
of the thickening crowd: "Ain't the dancin' broke
out yet, Fanny? Hoopla! Le's push through and
go see the young women-folks crack their heeLsr!
Start the circus! Hoopse-daisy ! " Miss Fanny
Minafer, in charge of the lively veteran, was almost
as distressed as her nephew George, but she did her
«0 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
duty and managed to get old John through the press
and out to the broad stairway, which numbers of
young people were now ascending to the ballroom.
And here the -sawmill voice still rose over all others :
"Solid black walnut every inch of it, balustrades and
all. Sixty thousand dollars' worth o' carved wood-
work in the house! Like . water! Spent money
like water! Always did! Still do! Like water!
God knows where it all comes from!"
He continued the ascent, barking and coughing
among the gleaming young heads, white shoulders,
jewels, and chiffon, like an old dog slowly swinuning
up the rapids of a sparkling river; while down below,
in the drawing room, George began to recover from
the degradation into which this reUc of early settler
days had dragged him. What restored him com-
pletely was a dark-eyed little beauty of nineteen,
very knowing in lustrous blue and jet; at si^^t of
.this dashing advent in the line of guests before him,
George was fully an Amberson again.
"Remember you very well indeed T^ he said, his
.grariousness more earnest than any he had hereto-
forr displayed. Isabel heard him and laughed.
"But you don't, George!" she said. "You don't
leinember her yet, though of course you wHl! Misfi
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS «|
Morgan is from out of town, and I'm afraid this is
the first time you've ever seen her. You might take
her up to the dancing; I think youVe pretty well
done your duty here."
"Be d'lighted," George responded formally, and
offered his arm, not with a flourish, certainly, but
with an impressiveness inspired partly by the appear*
ance of the person to whom he offered it, partly by
his being the hero of this fSte, and partly by his
youthf ulness — ^for when manners are new they are
apt to be elaborate. The little beauty entrusted her
gloved fingers to his coat-sleeve, and they moved
away together.
Their progress was necessarily slow, and to
Greorge's mind it did not lack stateliness. How
could it? Musicians, hired especially for him, were
sitting in a grove of pahns in the hall and now ten-
derly playing "Oh, Promise Me" for his pleasuring;
dozens and scores of flowers had been brought to
life and tended to this hour that they might sweeten
the air for him while they died; and the evanescent
power that music and floral scents hold over youth
stirred his appreciation of strange, beautiful qualities
within his own bosom: he seemed to himself to be
iQjrBteriously angelic, and about to do something
«2 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
dramatic which would overwhehn the beautiful
young stranger upon his arm.
Elderly people and middle-aged people moved
away to let him pass with his honoured fair beside
him. Worthy middle-class creatures, they seemed,
leading dull lives but appreciative of better things
when they saw them — and George's bosom was
fleetingly touched with a pitying kindness. And
since the primordial day when caste or heritage first
set one person, in his own esteem, above his fellow-
beings, it is to be doubted if anybody ever felt more
illustrious, or more negligently grand, than George
Amberson Minafer felt at this party.
As he conducted Miss Morgan through the hall,
toward the stairway, they passed the open double
doors of a card room^ where some squadrons of older
people were preparing for action, and, leaning grace-
fully upon the mantelpiece of this room, a tall man,
handsome, high-mannered, and sparklingly point-
device, held laughing converse with that queer-
looking duck, the Sharon girls' uncle. The tall
gentleman waved a gracious salutation to XJeorge,
and Miss Morgan's curiosity was stirred. "Who is
that?"
**I didn't catch his name when my mother pre-
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS 6S
sented him to me/' said George. *'You mean
the queer-looking duck."
**I mean the aristocratic duck."
"That's my Uncle George. Honourable George
Amberson. I thought everybody knew him."
**He looks as though everybody ought to know
him," she said. "It seems to run in your family."
If she had any sly intention, it skipped over
George harmlessly. "Well, of course, I suppose
most everybody does," he admitted— " out in this
part of the country especially. Besides, Uncle
George is in Congress; the family like to have some-
one there."
"Why?"
"Well, it's sort of a good thing in one way. For
instance, my Unde Sydney Amberson and his wife.
Aunt Amelia, they haven't got much of anything to
do with themselves — ^get bored to death around
here, of course. Well, probably Uncle George'll have
Uncle Sydney appointed minister or ambassador, or
something like that, to Russia or Italy or somewhere,
and that'll make it pleasant when any of the rest of
the family go travelling, or things like that. I
expect to do a good deal of travelling myself when
I get out of college."
64 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
On the stairway he pointed out this prospective
ambassadorial couple, Sydney and Amelia. They
were coming down, fronting the ascending tide, and
as conspicuous over it as a king and queen in a
play. Moreover, as the clear-eyed Miss Morgan re-
marked, the very least they looked was ambassa-
dorial. Sydney was an Amberson exaggerated,
n^ore pompous than gracious; too portly, flushed,
starched to a shine, his stately jowl furnished with
ail Edward the Seventh beard. Amelia, likewise
full-bodied, showed gUttering blond hair exuber-
antly dressed; a pink, fat face cold under a white-
hot tiara; a solid, cold bosom under a white-hot
necklace; great, cold, gloved arms, and the rest of
her beautifully upholstered. Amelia was an Amber-
son bom, herself, Sydney's second-cousin: they had
no children, and Sydney was without a business or
a profession; thus both found a great deal of time to
think about the appropriateness of their beconung
Excellencies. And as George ascended the broad
stairway, they were precisely the aunt and uncle he
was most pleased to point out, to a girl from out of
town, as his appurtenances in the way of relatives.
At sight of them the grandeur of the Amberson
family was instantly conspicuous as a permanent
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 65
ttimg: it was impossible to doubt that the Amber-
sons were entrenched, in their nobility and riches,
behind polished and glittering barriers which were as
solid as they were brilliant, and would last.
CHAPTER V
THE hero of the f 6te, with the dark-eyed little
beauty upon his arm, reached the top of the
second flight of stairs; and here, beyond a
spacious landing, where two proud-like darkies
tended a crystalline punch bowl, four wide arch-
ways in a rose-vine lattice framed ghding silhouettes
of waltzers, already smoothly at it to the castanets of
**La Paloma.^' Old John Minafer, evidently sur-
feited, was in the act of leaving these delights.
"DVant 'ny more o* ,that!" he barked. "Just
slidin' around! Call that dancin'? Rather see a
jig any day in the world! They ain't very modest,
some of 'em. I don't mind ^^, though. Not me!'*
Miss Fanny Minafer was no longer in charge of
him: he emerged from the ballroom escorted by a
middle-aged man of commonplace appearance. The
escort had a dry, lined face upon which, not ornamen-
tally but as a matter of course, there grew a busi-
ness man's short moustache; and his thin neck
showed an Adam's apple, but not conspicuously, for
66
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 67
there was nothing conspicuous about him. Baldish»
dim, quiet, he was an unnoticeable part of this festi-
val, and although there were a dozen or more
middle-aged men present, not casually to be distin-
guished from him in general aspect, he was probably,
the last person in the big house at whom a stranger
would have glanced twice. It did not enter George's
mind to mention to Miss Morgan that this was his
father, or to say anything whatever about him.
Mr. Minafer shook his son's hand unobtrusively
in passing.
" I'll take Uncle John home," he said, in a low voice-
" Then I guess I'll go on home myself — ^I'm not a great
hand at parties, you know. Good-night, George."
George murmured a friendly enough good-night
without pausing. Ordinarily he was not ashamed
of the Minafers; he seldom thought about them at
all, for he belonged, as niost American children do, to
the mother's fanuly — but he was anxious not to
linger with Miss Morgan in the vicinity of old John*
whom he felt to );>e a disgrace.
He pushed brusquely through the fringe of cal-
culating youths who were gathered in the arches,
watching for chances to dance only with girls who
would soon be taken off their hands, and led hit
68 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
stranger lady out upon the floor. They caught the
time instantly, and were away in the waltz.
George danced well, and Miss Morgan seemed to
float as part of the music, the very dove itself of
"ia Palama.*' They said nothing as they danced;
her eyes were cast down all the while — ^the prettiest
gesture for a dancer — and there was left in the uni-
verse, for each of them, only their companionship in
this waltz; while the faces of the other dancers, swim-
ming by, denoted not people but merely blurs of
colour. George became conscious of strange feelings
within him : an exaltation of soul, tender, but indefi-
nite, and seemingly located in the upper part of his
diaphragm.
The stopping of the music came upon him like the
waking to an alarm clock; for instantly six or seven
of the calculating persons about the entryways bore
down upon Miss Morgan to secure dances. George
had to do with one already established as a belle, it
seemed.
"Give me the next and the one after that," he
said hurriedly, recovering some presence of mind»
just as the nearest applicant reached them. "And
give me every third one the rest of the evening^
She laughed. "Are you asking?
le evening/*
«
««
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 69
What do you mean, *asking'?'*
It sounded as though you were just telling me to
give you all those dances."
"Well, I want 'em!" George insisted.
"What about all the other girls it's your duty to
dance with?"
"They'll have to go without," he said heartlessly;
and then, with surprising vehemence: "Here! I
want to know : Are you going to give me those "
"Good gracious!" she laughed. "Yes!"
Tlie applicants flocked round her, urgmg con-
tracts for what remained, but they did not dislodge
George from her side, though he made it evident
that they succeeded in annoying him; and presently
he extricated her from an accumulating siege — ^she
must have connived in the extrication — and bore her
off tp sit beside him upon the stairway that led to
the musicians' gallery, where they were sufficiently
retired, yet had a view of the room.
" How'd all those ducks get to know you so quick? "
George inquired*, with little enthusiasm.
Oh, I've been here a week."
Looks as if you'd been pretty busy!" he said.
**Most of those ducks, I don't know what my mother
wanted to invite 'em here for."
«
«
««'
«,
70 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
Don*t you like them?"
Oh, I used to see something of a few of 'em. I
I was president of a club we had here, and some of
'em belonged to it, but I don't care much for that
sort of thing any more. I really don't see why my
mother invited 'em."
"Perhaps it was on accoimt of their parents,'*
Miss Morgan suggested mildly. " Maybe she didn't
want to offend their fathers and mothers.*'
"Oh, hardly! I don't think my mother need
worry much about offending anybody in this old
town."
"It must be wonderful," said Miss Morgan.
"It must be wonderful, Mr. Amberson — ^Mr. Mina-
fer, I mean."
"What must be wonderful?"
To be so important as that!"
ThM isn't ^important,' " George assured her.
"Anybody that really is anybody ought to be able
to do about as they like in their own town, I should
think!"
She looked at him critically from under her shading
lashes — ^but her eyes grew gentler almost at once.
In truth, they became more appreciative than criti-
cal. George's imperious good looks were altogether
«<i
«
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS n
manly, yet approached actual beauty as closely as a
boy's good looks should dare; and dance-music and
flowers have some effect upon nineteen-year-old
girls as well as upon eighteen-year-old boys. Miss
Morgan turned her eyes slowly from George, and
pressed her face among the lilies-of-the-valley and
violets of the pretty bouquet she carried, while,
from the gallery above, the music of the next dance
carolled out merrily in a new two-step. The
musicians made the melody gay for the Christmas-
time with chimes of sleighbells, and the entrance to
the shadowed stairway framed the passing flushed
and lively dancers, but neither George nor Miss
Morgan suggested moving to join the dance.
The stairway was draughty: the steps were nar-
row and uncomfortable; no older person would have
remained in su6h a place. Moreover, these two
young people were strangers to each other; neither
had said anything in which the other had discovered
the slightest intrinsic interest; there had not arisen
between them the beginnings of congeniality, or even
of friendliness — but stairways near ballrooms have
more to answer for than have moonlit lakes and
mountain sunsets. Some day the laws of glamour
must be discovered, because they are so important
72 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
that the world would be wiser now if Sir Isaac New-
ton had been hit on the head, not by an apple, but
by a yoimg lady.
Age, confused by its own long accumulation of
follies, is everlastingly inquiring, "What does she
see in him?*^ as if young love came about, through
thinking — or through conduct. Age wants to know :
"What on earth can they talk about?" as if talking
had anything to do with April rains! At seventy,
one gets up in the morning, finds the air sweet under
a bright sun, feels lively; thinks, "I am hearty, to-
day," and plans to go for a drive. At eighteen, one
goes to a dance, sits with a stranger on a stairway,
feels peculiar, thinks nothing, and becomes incap-
able of any plan whatever. Miss Morgan and
George stayed where they were.
They had- agreed to this in silence and without
knowing it; certainly without exchanging glances of
inteUigence — they had exchanged no glances at all.
Both sat staring vaguely out into the ballroom, and,
for a time, they did not speak. Over their heads the
music reached a climax of vivacity: drums, cymbals,
triangle, and sleighbells, beating, clashing, tinkling.
Here and there were to be seen couples so carried
away that, ceasing to move at the decorous, eveo
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 7S
glide, considered most knowing, they pranced and
whirled through the throng, from wall to wall,
galloping bounteoiisly in abandon. George suffered
a shock of vague surprise when he perceived that his
aunt, Fanny Minafer, was the lady-half of one of
these wild couples.
Fanny Minafer, who rouged a little, was like
fruit which in some climates dries with the bloom
on. Her features had remained prettily childlike;
so had her figure, and there were times when
strangers, seeing her across the street, took her to
be about twenty; they were other times when at the
same distance they took her to be about sixty,
instead of forty, as she was. She had old days and
young days; old hours and yoimg hours; old min-
utes and young minutes! for the change might be
that quick. An alteration in her expression, or a
difference in the attitude of her head, would cause
astonishing indentations to appear — ^and behold,
Fanny was an old lady! But she had been never
more childlike than she was to-night as she flew
over the floor in the capable arms of the queer-
looking duck; for this person was her partner.
The queer-lobking duck had been a real dancer
in his day, it appeared; and evidently his day was
74 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
not yet over. In spite of the headlong, gay rapidity
with which he bore Miss Fanny about the big room,
he danced authoritatively, avoiding without effort
the lightest collision with other couples, maintaining
sufficient grace throughout his wildest moments, and
all the while laughing and talking with his partner.
What was most remarkable to George, and a little
irritating, this stranger in the Amberson Mansion
had no vestige of the air of deference proper to a
stranger in such a place: he seemed thoroughly at
home. He seemed offensively so, indeed, when, pass-
ing the entrance to the gallery stairway, he disen-
gaged his hand from Miss Fanny's for an instant, and
not pausing in the dance, waved a laughing salutation
more than cordial, then capered lightly out of sight.
George gazed stonily at this manifestation, re-
sponding neither by word nor sign. "How's that
for a bit of freshness?" he murmured.
"What was?" Miss Morgan asked.
"That queer-looking duck waving his hand at me
like that. Except he's the Sharon girls' uncle I don't
know him from Adam."
"You don't need to," she said. "He wasn't wav-
ing his hand to you: he meant me." *
**Oh, he did?" George was not mollified by the
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 75
explanation. ^^ Everybody seems to mean you!
You certainly do seem toVe been pretty busy this
week youVe been here!"
She pressed her bouquet to her face again^ and
laughed into it, not displeased. She made no other
comment, and for another period neither spoke.
Meanwhile the music stopped; loud applause insisted
upon its renewal; an encore was danced; there was an
mteriude of voices; and the changing of partners
began.
"Well," said Greorge finally, "I must say you don't
seem to be much of a prattler. They say it's a great
way to get a reputation for being wise, never saying
much. Don't you ever talk any?**
"When people can understand," she answered.
He had been looking moodily out at the. ballroom
but he turned to her quickly, at this, saw that her
-eyes were simny and content, over the top of her
bouquet; and he consented to smile.
" Girls are usually pretty fresh ! " he said. " They
ought to go to a man's college about a year: they'd
get taught a few things about freshness ! What you
got to do after two o'clock to-morrow afternoon?"
"A whole lot of things. Every minute filled up."
"All right," said George. "The snow's fine for
((
«
76 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEKSONS
sleighing: I'll come for you in a cutter at ten
minutes after two/*
I can't possibly go."
If you don't," he said, "I'm going to sit in the
cutter in front of the gate, wherever you're visiting,,
all afternoon, and if you try to go out with anybody
else he's got to whip me before he gets you." And as
she laughed — though she blushed a little, too — ^he con-
tinued, seriously: "If you think I'm not in earnest
you're at liberty to make quite a big experiment!"
She laughed again. "I don't think I've often had
so large a compliment as that," she said, "especially
on such short notice — and yet, I don't think I'll go
with you."
"You be ready at ten minutes after two."
"No, I won't."
"Yes, you will!"
"Yes," she said, "I will!" And her partner for
the next dance arrived, breathless with searching.
"Don't forget I've got the third from now,**
George called after her.
1 won t.
"And every third one after that.'*
"I know!" she called, over her partner's shouldei^
and her voice was amused — ^but meek.
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 77
When "the third from now" came, George pre-
sented himself before her without any greeting, like
a. brother, or a mannerless old friend. Neither did
she greet him, but moved away with him, concluding,
as she went, an exchange of badinage with the pre-
ceding partner: she had been talkative enough with
him, it appeared. In fact, both George and Miss
Morgan talked much more to every one else that
evening, than to each other; and they said nothing
at all at this time. Both looked preoccupied, as
they began to dance, and preserved a gravity of
expression to the end of the number. And when
"the third one after that" came, they did not dance,
but went back to the gallery stairway, seeming to
have reached an understanding without any verbal
eonsultation, that this suburb was again the place
for them.
"Well," said George, coolly, when they were
seated, "what did you say your name was?"
"Morgan."
"Funny name!"
"Everybody else's name always is."
"I didn't mean it was really fimny," George ex-
plained. "That's just one of my crowd's bits of
horsing at college. We always say *funny name' no
«
«
78 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
matter what it is. I guess we're pretty fresh some-
times; but I knew your name was Morgan because
my mother said so downstairs. I meant: what's the
rest of it?"
'^Lucy."
He was sil^it.
Is *Lucy* a funny name, too?" she inquired.
No. Lucy's very much all right!" he said, and
he went so far as to smile. Even his Aunt Fanny
admitted that when George smiled '^in a certain
way" he was charming.
"Thanks about letting my name be Lucy," she
said.
"How old are you?" George asked.
"I don't really know, myself."
"What do you mean: you don't really know your-
self?"
"I mean I only know what they tell me. I believe
them, of course, but believing isn't really knowing.
You believe some certain day is your birthday — at
least, I suppose you do — ^but you don't really know
it is because you can't remember."
"Look here!" said George. "Do you always
talk like this?"
Miss Lucy Morgan laughed forgivingly, put her
it
€4
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 79
young head on one side, like a bird, and responded
cheerfully: "I'm willing to learn wisdom. What
are you studying in school?"
College!"
At the imiversityJ Yes. What are you study-
ing there?"
George laughed. "Lot o' useless guflF!"
Then why don't you study some useful guflf?"
What do you mean: ^useful'?"
"Something you'd use later, in your business or
profession?"
George waved his hand impati«itly. "I don't
expect to go into any 'business or profession.' "
"No?"
"Certainly not!" George was emphatic, being
sincerely annoyed by a suggestion which showed how
utterly she failed to comprehend the kind of person
he was.
"Why not?" she asked mildly.
" Just look at 'em ! " he said, almost with bitterness,
and he made a gesture presumably intended to in-
dicate the business and professional men now danc-
ing within range of vision. " That's a fine career for
a man, isn't it* Lawyers, bankers, politicians!
What do they get out of life, I'd like to know!
80 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
What do they ever know about real things? Where
do they ever get?^*
He was so earnest that she was surprised and
impressed. Evidently he had deep-seated ambi-
tions, for he seemed to speak with actual emotion
of these despised things which were so far beneath
his planning for the future. She had a vague, mo-
mentary vision of Pitt, at twenty-one, prime minis-
ter of England; and she spoke, involimtarily in a
lowered voice, with deference:
"What do you want to be?" she ask^d.
George answered promptly.
A yachtsman," he said.
<iS
CHAPTER VI
HAVING thus, in a word, revealed his ambi-
tion for a career above courts, marts, and
polling booths, George breathed more
deeply than usual, and, turning his face from the
lovely companion whom he had just made his con-
fidant, gazed out at the dancers with an expression in
which there was both sternness and a contempt for the
squalid lives of the imyachted Midlanders before him.
However, among them, he marked his mother; and
his sombre grandeur relaxed momentarily; a more
genial light came into his eyes.
Isabel was dancing with the queer-looking duck;
and it was to be noted that the lively gentleman's
gait was more sedate than it had been with Miss
Fanny Minafer, but not less dexterous and authori-
tative. He was talking to Isabel as gaily as he had
talked to Miss Fanny, though with less laughter,
and Isabel listened and answered eagerly : her colour
was high and her eyes had a look of dehght. She
saw George and the beautiful Lucy on the stair-
81
it
82 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBER80NS
way, and nodded to them. George waved his faimd
vaguely: he had a momentary return of that inex*-
plieable imeasiness and resentment which had
troubled him downstairs.
How lovely your mother is!" Lucy said.
I think she is," he agreed gently.
She's the gracefiilest woman in that ballroom.
She dances like a girl of sixteen."
"Most girls of sixteen," said Gecarge, "are bum
dancers. Anyhow, I wouldn't dance with one
unless I had to."
"Well, you'd better dance with your mother! I
never saw anybody lovelier. How wonderfully they
dance together!"
"Who?"
" Your mother and — ^and the queer-looking duck,"
said Lucy. "I'm going to dance with him pretty
soon."
u
I don't care — so long as you don't give him one
of the numbers that belong to me."
"I'll try to remember," she said, and thoughtfully
lifted to her face the bouquet of violets and lilies»
a gesture which George noted without approval.
" Look here ! Who sent you those flowers you keep
makin' such a fuss over?"
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 8»
••He did."
"Who's 'heT'
**llie queer-looking duck."
Greorge f^tred no such rival; he laughed loudly.
"I s'pose he*s some old widower!" he said, the object
thus described seeming ignominious enough to a
person of eighteen, without additional characteriza-
tion. "Some old widower!"
Lucy became serious at once. "Yes, he is a
widower," she said. "I ought to have told you
before; he's my father."
George stopped laughing abruptly. "Well, that's
a horse on me. If I'd known he was your father, of
course I wouldn't have made fun of him. I'm
99
sorry,
"Nobody could make fun of him," she said
quietly.
"Why couldn't they?"
**It wouldn't make him funny: it would only
make themselves silly."
Upon this, George had a gleam of intelligence.
"Well, I'm not going to make myself silly any more,
then; I don't want to take chances like that with
you. But I thought he was the Sharon girb' uncle«
He came with them— — "
84 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
"Yes," she said, "I'm always late to everything:
I wouldn't let them wait for me. We're visiting the
Sharons."
"About time I knew that! You forget my being
so fresh about your father, will you? Of course
he's a distinguished looking man, in a way."
Lucy was still serious. "*In a way?'" she re-
peated. "You mean, not in your way, don't you?"
George was perplexed. "How do you mean: not
in my way?"
"People pretty often say *in a way* and 'rather
distmguished looking,' or 'rather' so-and-so, or
'rather' anything, to show that theyWe superior,
don't they? In New York last month I overheard
a climber sort of woman speaking of me as 'little
Miss Morgan,' but she didn't mean my height; she
meant that she was important. Her husband spoke
of a friend of mine as 'little Mr. Pembroke' and 'little
Mr. Pembroke' is six-feet-three. This husband and
wife were really so terribly unimportant that the
only way they knew to pretend to be important was
calling people 'little' Miss or Mister so-and-so. It's
a kind of snob slang, I think. Of course people don't
always say 'rather' or 'in a way' to be superior."
"I should say not! I use both of 'em a great deal
• THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 85
myself," said (Jeorge. "One thing I don't see
though: What's the use of a man being six-feet-
three? Men that size can't handle themselves as
well as a man about five-feet-eleven and a half can.
Those long, gangling men, they're nearly always too
kind of wormy to be any good in athletics, and they're
so awkward they keep falling over chairs or "
"Mr. Pembroke is in the army," said Lucy
primly. "He's extraordinarily graceful."
" In the army? Oh, I suppose he's some old friend
of your father's."
"They got on very well," she said, "after I intro-
duced them."
George was a straightforward soul, at least.
"See here!" he said. "Are you engaged to any-
body?"
"No."
Not wholly mollified, he shrugged his shoulders.
"You seem to know a good many pe<^le! Do you
live in New York?"
"No. We don't live anywhere."
"What you mean: you don't live anywhere?"
"We've hved all over," she answered. "Papa
used to live here in this town, but that was before I
was bom* '
86 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS •
^^What do you keep moving around so for? Is
he a promoter? '*
"No. He's an inventor/*
"What's he invented?'*
"Just lately," said Lucy, "he's been woridng on a
new kind of horseless carriage."
"Well, I'm sorry for him," George said, in no un-
kindly spirit. "Those things are never going to
amount to anything. People aren't going to spend
their lives lying on their backs in the road and letting
((rease drip in their faces. Horseless carriages are
pretty much a failure, and your father better not
waste his time on 'em."
"Papa'd be so grateful," she returned, "if he
could have your advice."
Instantly George's face became flushed. " I don't
know that I've done anything to be insulted for!" he
said. "I don't see that what I said was particularly
fresh.'*
No, indeed!
Then what do you-
She laughed gaily. "I don't! And I don't
mind your being such a lofty person at all. I
think it's ever so interesting — but papa's a great
man!"
"No, indeed!"
«rriL "L^j. J_ 99
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 81
"Is he?'* George decided to be good-natured*
*^ell, let us hope so. I hope so, I'm sure."
Looking at him keenly, she saw that the magni-
ficent youth was incredibly sincere in this bit of
graciousness. He spoke as a tolerant, elderiy states-
man might speak of a promising yoimg politician;
and with her eyes still upon him, Lucy shook her
head in gentle wonder. ^^I'm just b^inning to im-
derstand," she said.
"Understand what?"
"What it means to be a real Amberson in this
town. Papa told me something about it before we
came, but I see he didn't say half enough!"
George superbly took this all for tribute. "Did
your father say he knew the family before he left
here?"
"Yes. I believe he was particularly a friend of
your Uncle George; and he didn't say so, but I
imagine he must have known your mother very well,
too. He wasn't an inventor then; he was a yoimg
lawyer. The town was smaller in those days, and I
believe he was quite well known."
"I dare say. I've no doubt the family are all
very glad to see him back, especially if they used to
have him at the house a good deal, as he told you."
88 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS
^^I don't think he meant to boast of it/' she said.
**He spoke of it quite calmly."
George stared at her for a moment in perplexity,
then perceiving that her intention was satirical,
"Girls really ought to go to a man's college," he
said — "just a month or two, anyhow. It'd take
some of the freshness out of 'em!"
"I can't believe it," she retorted, as her partner
for the ne3d: dance arrived. "It would only make
them a little politer on the surface — ^they'd be really
just as awful as ever, after you got to know them a
few minutes."
"What do you mean: *after you got to know them
a '"
She was departing to the dance. " Janie and Mary
Sharon told me all about what sort of a little boy you
were," she said, over her shoulder. "You must
think it out!"
She took wing away on the breeze of the waltz, and
George, having stared gloomily after her for a few
moments, postponed filling an engagement, and
strolled roimd the fluctuating outskirts of the dance
to where his imcle, George Amberson, stood smil-
ingly watching, imder one of the rose- vine arches at
the entrance to the room.
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 89
** Hello, young namesake/' said the uncle. "Why
lingers the laggard heel of the dancer? Haven't you
got a partner?"
"She's sitting aroimd waiting for me somewhere,"
said George. " See here : Who is this fellow Morgan
that Aimt Fanny Minaf er was dancing with a while
ago?"
Amberson laughed. "He's a man with a pretty
daughter, Georgie. Meseemed you've been spend-
ing the evening noticing something of that sort — or
do I err?"
" Never mind ! What sort is he? "
" I think we'll have to give him a character, Georgie.
He's an old friend; used to practise law here — ^perhaps
he had more debts than cases, but he paid 'em all up
before he left town. Your question is piu'ely mer-
cenary, I take it: you want to know his true worth
before proceeding further with the daughter. I
cannot inform you, though I notice signs of con-
siderable prosperity in that becoming dress of hers.
However, you never can tell. It is an age when every
sacrifice is made for the young, and how your own
poor mother managed to provide those genuine pearl
studs for you out of her allowance from fatiier* I
jbh t
90 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
"Oh, dry up!" said the nephew. "I understand
this Morgan "
"Mr. Eugene Morgan," his imcle suggested.
** Politeness requires that the yoimg should "
"I guess the ^oimg' didn't know much about
politeness in your day," George interrupted. "I
understand that Mr. Eugene Morgan used to be a
great friend of the family."
"Oh, the Minafers?" the uncle inquired, with ap-
parent innocence. "No, I seem to recall that he and
your father were not ' '
" I mean the Ambersons," George said impatiently.
" I understand he was a good deal around the house
here."
<
"What is your objection to that, George?"
"What do you mean: my objection?"
"You seemed to speak with a certain crossness."
"Well," said George, "I meant he seems to feel
awfully at home here. The way he was dancing with
Aunt Fanny "
Amberson laughed. "I'm afraid your Aunt
Fanny's heart was stirred by ancient recollections,
Georgie."
"You mean she used to be silly about him?"
'She wasn't considered singular," said the uncle
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 91
**He was — ^he was popular. Could you bear a
question?"
"What do you mean: could I bear "
"I only wanted to ask: Do you take this same
passionate interest in the parents of every girl you
dance with? Perhaps it*s a new fashion we old
bachelors ought to take up. Is it the thing this
year to "
"Oh, go on!'* said George, moving away. "I
only wanted to know " He left the sentence
unfinished, and crossed the room to where a girl sat
waiting for his nobility to find time to fulfil his con-
tract with her for this dance.
"Pardon f* keep' wait,'* he muttered, as she
rose brightly to meet him; and she seemed pleased
that he came at all — ^but George was used to girls'
looking radiant when he danced with them, and
she had little effect upon him. He danced with
her perfunctorily, thinking the while of Mr. Eugene
Morgan and his daughter. Strangely enough, his
thoughts dwelt more upon the father than the
daughter, though George could not possibly have
ipven a reason — even to himself — ^for this disturbing
preponderance.
By a coincidence, though not an odd one, the
92 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
thoughts and conversation of Mr. Eugene Morgan
at this very time were concerned with George
Amberson Minafer, rather casually, it is true. Mr.
Morgan had retired to a room set apart for smoking,
on the second floor, and had f oimd a grizzled gentle-
man loimging in solitary possession.
"'Gene Morgan!" this person exclaimed, rising
with great heartiness. "I'd heard you were in town
— ^I don't believe you know me!"
"Yes, I do, Fred Kinney!" Mr. Morgan returned
with equal friendliness. "Your re«^l face — the one
I used to know — it's just imdemeath the one you're
masquerading in to-night. You ought to have
changed it more if you wanted a disguise."
"Twenty years!" said Mr. Kinney. "It makes
some difference in faces, but more in behaviour!"
"It does 5o/" his friend agreed with explosive em-
phasis. "My own behaviour began to be different
about that long ago — quite suddenly."
"I remember," said Mr. Kinney sympathetically,
Well, life's odd enough as we look back."
"Probably it's going to be odder still — ^if we could
look forward."
"Probably."
They sat and smoked.
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 98
"However," Mr. Morgan remarked presently, "I
still dance like an Indian. Don't you?"
" No. I leave that to my boy Fred. Hjb does the
dancing for the family."
"I suppose he's upstairs hard at it?"
"No, he's not here." Mr. Kinney glanced toward
the open door and lowered his voice. "He wouldn't
come. It seems that a couple of years or so ago he
had a row with young Georgie Minafer. Fred was
president of a literary club they had, and he said this
young Georgie got himself elected instead, in an over-
bearing sort of way. Fred's red-headed, you know
— ^I suppose you remember his mother? You were
at the wedding "
"I remember the wedding," said Mr. Morgan.
"And I remember your bachelor dinner — ^most of it,
that is."
"Well, my boy Fred's as red-headed now," Mr.
EGnney went on, "as his mother was then, and he's
very bitter about his row with Georgie Minafer.
He says he'd rather bum his foot off than set it inside
any Amberson house or any place else where young
Georgie is. Fact is, the boy seemed to have so much
feeling over it I had my doubts about coming myself,
but my wife said it was all nonsense; we mustn't
04 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
humour Fred in a grudge over such a little thing, and
while she despised that Georgie Minaf er, herself, as
much as any one else did, she wasn't going to miss
a big Amberson show just on accoimt of a boys' rum-
pus, and so on and so on; and so we came."
"Do people dislike yoimg Minafer generally?"
**I don't know about ^generally.' I guess he gets
plenty of toadying; but there's certainly a lot of
people that are glad to express their opinions about
him."
"What's the matter with him?"
"Too onuch Amberson, I suppose, for one thing.
And for another, his mother just fell down and wor-
shipped him from the day he was bom. That's
what beats me! I don't have to tell you what Isabel
Amberson is, Eugene Morgan. She's got a touch
of the Amberson high stuflf about her, but you can't
get anybody that ever knew her to deny that she's
just about the finest woman in the world."
" No," said Eugene Morgan. " You can't get any.
body to deny that."
" Then I can't see how she doesn't see the truth
about that boy. He thinks he's a little tin god on
wheels — and honestly, it makes some people weak
and sick just to think about him! Yet that high-
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 95
spirited, intelligent woman, Isabel Amberson, a<r
tually sits and worships him ! You can hear it in hei
voice when she speaks to him or speaks of him.
You can see it in her eyes when she looks at him.
My Lord! What does she see wh^i she looks at
him?'*
Morgan's odd expression of genial apprehension
deepened whimsically, though it denoted no actual
apprehension whatever, and cleared away from his
face altogether when he smiled; he became surpris-
ingly winning and persuasive when he smiled. He
smiled now, after a moment, at this question of his
old friend. "She sees something that we don't see,'*
he said.
What does she see?''
An angel."
Kinney laughed aloud. "Well, if she sees an
angel when she looks at Georgie Minafer, she's a
funnier woman than I thought she was!"
"Perhaps she is," said Morgan. "But that's
what she sees."
"My Lord! It's easy to see you've only known
him an hour or so. In that time have you looked
at Greorgie and seen an angel?"
'No. All I saw was a remarkably good-looking
€4'
96 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
fool-boy with the pride of Satan and a set of nice new
drawing-room manners that he probably couldn't use
more than half an hour at a time without busting."
"Then what "
"Mothers are right," said Morgan. "Do you
think this yoimg George is the same sort of creature
when he's with his mother that he is when he's
bulldozing your boy Fred? Mothers see the angel
in us because the angel is there. If it's shown to the
mother, the s<»i' has got an angel to show, hasn't he?
When a son cuts somebody's throat the mother
only sees it's possible for a misguided angel to act
like a devil — and she's entirely right about that!"
Kinney laughed, and put his hand on his friend's
shoulder. "I remember what a fellow you always
were to argue," he * said. "You mean Georgie
Minaf er is as much of an angel as any murderer is,
and that Georgie's mother is always right."
"I'm afraid she always has been," Morgan said
lightly.
The friendly hand remained upon his shoulder*
"She was wrong once, old fellow. At least, so it
seemed to me."
"No," said Morgan, a little awkwardly.
"No "
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBE^ONS m
Kiimey relieved the slight embarrassoient that^nd
come upon both of them: he laughed again. ^^Wnit
till you know yoimg Georgie a little better," he said.
"Something tells me you're going to change your
mind about his having an angel to show, if you see
anything of him!"
"You mean beauty's in the eye of the beholder^
and the angel is all in the eye of the mother. If you
were a painter, Fred, you'd paint nu^thers with
angels' eyes holding imps in their laps. Me. I'U
stick to the Old Masters and the cherubs."
Mr. Kinney looked at him musingly. "Some-
body's eyes must have been pretty angelic," he said,
"if they've been persuading you that Georgie Min-
afer is a cherub!"
"They are," said Morgan 'heartily. "They're
more angeUc than ever." And as a new flourish of
music sounded overhead he threw away his cigarette,
and jumped up briskly. "Good-bye, I've got this
dance with her."
^^ With whom?"
"With Isabel!"
The grizzled Mr. Kinney affected to rub his eyes.
"It startles me, your jumping up like that to go and
dance with Isabel Amberson! Twenty years seem
98 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS
to have passed — ^but have they? Tell me, have you
danced with poor old Fanny, too, this evening?"
"Twice!'^
^^My Lord!" Kinney groaned, half in earnest.
' ' Old times starting all over again ! My Lord ! "
"Old times?" Morgan laughed gaily from the
doorway. "Not a bit! There aren't any old times.
When times are gone they're not old, they're dead I
There aren't any times but new times ! "
And he vanished in such a manner that he seemed
already to have begun dancing.
CHAPTER Vn
HE appearance of Miss Lucy Morgan the
next day, as she sat m George's fast cutter*
proved so charming that her escort was
stricken to soft words instantly, and failed to control
a poetic impulse. Her rich little hat was trimmed
with black fur; her hair was almost as dark as the
fur; a great boa of black fur was about her shoulders;
her hands were vanished into a black muff; and
Greorge's laprobe was black. "You look like — '* he
said. "Your face looks like — ^it looks like a snow-
flake on a lump of coal. I mean a — ^a snowflake
that would be a rose-leaf, too!"
"Perhaps you'd better look at the reins," she re-
turned. "We almost upset just then."
George declined to heed this advice. "Beoause
there's too much pink in your cheeks for a snow-
flake," he continued. "What's that fairy ^tory
about snow-white and rose-red "
"We're going pretty fast, Mr. Minafer!"
** Well, you see, I'm only here for two weeks."
^ I
100 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
"I mean the sleigh!" she explained. ** We're not
the only people on the street, you know."
"Oh, they'll keep out of the way."
"That's very patrician charioteering, but it
seems to me a horse like this needs guidance. I'm
sure he's going almost twenty miles an hour."
** That's nothing," said George; but he consented
to look forward again. "He can trot under three
minutes, all right." He laughed. "I suppose youi
father thinks he can build a horseless carriage to go
that fast!"
"They go that fast already, sometimes."
"Yes," said George; "they do — ^for about a hun-
dred feet! ITien they give a yell and bum up."
Evidently she decided not to defend her father s
faith in horseless carriages, for she laughed, and said
nothing. The cold air was polka-dotted with snow-
flakes, and trembled to the loud, continuous jingling
of sleighbells. Boys Jtnd girls, all aglow and panting
jets of vapour, darted at the passing sleighs to ride
<m the runners, or sought to rope their sleds to any
vehicle whatever, but the fleetest no more than
just touched the flying cutter, though a hundred
soggy mittens grasped for it, then reeled and whirled
till sometimes the wearers of those daring mittens
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 101
plunged flat in the snow and lay a-sprawl, reflecting.
For this was the holiday time, and all the boys and
girls in town were out, most of them on National
Avenue.
But there came panting and chugging up that flat
thoroughfare a thing which some day wa^ to spoil
all their sleigh-time merriment— s4ve for the rashcst
and most disobedient. It was vaguely like a topless
surry, but cumbrous with unwholesome excrescences
fore and aft, while underneath were spinning leather
belts and something that whirred and howled and
seemed to stagger. The ride-stealers made no
attempt to fasten their sleds to a contrivance so
nonsensical and yet so fearsome. Instead, they gave
over their sport and concentrated all their energies
in their lungs, so that up and down the street the one
cry shrilled increasingly: "Git a hoss! Git a hossl
Git a hoss! Mister, why don't you git a hoss?**
But the mahout in charge, sitting solitary on the
front seat, was unconcerned — ^he laughed, and now
and then ducked a snowball without losing any of
his good-nature. It was Mr. Eugene Morgan who
exhibited so cheerful a countenance between the
forward visor of a deer-stalker cap and the collar of a
fuzzy gray ulster. "Git a hoss!" the children
f Q« THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
shrieked, and gruffer voices joined them. "Git a
hoss! Git a hoss! Git a hossl^*
George Minafer was correct thus far: the twelve
miles an hour of such a machine would never over-
take George's trotter. The cutter was already
scurrying between the stone pillars at the entrance
to Ambersbn Addition.
"That's my grandfather's," said George, nodding
toward the Amberson Mansion.
"I ought to know that!" Lucy exclaimed. "We
stayed there late enough last night: papa and I were
almost the last to go. He and your mother and Miss
Fanny Minafer got the musicians to play another
waltz when everybody else had gone downstairs and
the fiddles were being put away in their cases. Papa
danced part of it with Miss Minafer and the rest with
your mother. Miss Minafer's your aunt, isn't she?
"Yes; she lives with us. I tease her a good deal.
"What about?"
"Oh, anything handy — whatever's easy to teas€
an old maid about."
"Do.esn't she mind?"
" She usually has sort of a grouch on me," laughed
George. "Nothing much. That's our house just
beyond grandfather's." He waved a sealskin gaunt'
9»
9»
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS lOf^
let to indicate the house Major Amberson had built
for Isabel as a wedding gift. "It's ahnost the same
as grandfather's, only not as large and hasn't got a
regular ballroom. We gave the dance, last night, at
grandfather's on account of the ballroom, and be-
cause I'm the only grandchild, you know. Of
course, some day that'll be my house, though I expect
my mother wiU most likely go on living where she
does now, with father and Aunt Fanny. I suppose
I'll probably build a country house, too — somewhere
East, I guess." He stopped speaking, and frowned
as they passed a closed carriage and pair. The body
of this comfortable vehicle sagged slightly to one
side; the paint was old and seamed with hundreds of
minute cracks like little rivers on a black map; the
coachman, a fat and elderly darky, seemed to
drowse upon the box; but the open window afforded
the occupants of the cutter a glimpse of a tired, fine
old face, a silk hat, a pearl tie, and an astrachan
collar, evidently out to take the air.
"There's your grandfather now," said Lucy.
"Isn't it?"
George's frown was not relaxed. "Yes, it is; and
he ought to give that rat-trap away and seU those
old horses. They're a disgrace, all shaggj' — not
104 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
#^en clipped. I suppose he doesn*t notice it —
people get awful funny when they get old; they seem
to lose their self-respect, sort of/'
"He seemed a real Brummell to me," she said.
**0h, he keeps up about what he tvearSy well
enough, but — ^well, look at that!" He pointed to a
statue of Minervai, one of the cast-iron sculptures
Major Amberson had set up in opening the Addition
years before* Minerva was intact, but a blackish
streak descended unpleasantly from her forehead to
the i>oint of her straight nose, and a few other streaks
were sketched in a repellent dinge upon the folds of
her drapery.
"That must be from soot," said Lucy. "There
are so many houses around hei-e."
"Anyhow, somebody ought to see that these statues
are kept clean. My grandfather owns a good many
of these houses, I guess, for renting. Of course, he
sold most of the lots-^there aren't any vacant ones,
and there used to be heaps of 'em when I was a boy.
Another thing I don't think he ought to allow: a good
many of these people bought big lots and they built
houses on 'em; tJien the price of the land kept getting
higher, and they'd sell part of their yards and let the
people that bought it build houses on it to live in, till
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 105
they haven^t iiardly any of 'em got big, open yards
any more; and it's getting all too much built up.
The way it used to be, it was like a gentleman's
country estate, and that's the way my grandfather
ought to keep it. He lets these people take too many
liberties : they do anything they want to."
"But how could he stop them?" Lucy asked,
surely with reason. "If he sold them the land, it's
theirs, isn't it?"
George remained serene in the face of this appar-
ently difficult question. "He ought to have all the
trades-people boycott the families that sell part of
their yards that way. All he'd have to do would
be to tell the trades-people they wouldn't get any
more orders from the family if tiiey didn't do it."
"From *the family'? What family?" .
"Our family," said George, unperturbed. "The
Ambersons."
"I see!" she murmured, and evidently she did see
something that he did not, for, as she lifted her
muff to her face, he asked:
"What are you laughing at now?"
"Why?"
"You always seem to have some little secret of
your own to get happy over!" : ^
- J J J
106 THE lilAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
"'Always!'" she exclaimed. "What a big word,
when we only met last night!'*
"That's another case of it," he said, with obvious
sincerity. "One of the reasons I don't like you —
much! — ^is you've got that way of seeming quietly
superior to everybody else."
"I!" she cried. "I have?"
"Oh, you think you keep it sort of confidential
to yourself, but it's plain enough! I don't believe
in that kind of thing."
"You don't?"
"No," said George emphatically. "Not with me I
I think the world's like this : there's a few people that
their birth and position, and so on, puts them at the
top, and they ought to treat each other entirely as
equals.". His voice betrayed a little emotion as he
added, "I wouldn't speak like this to everybody."
"You mean you're confiding your deepest creed
— or code, whatever it is — to me?"
"Go on, make fim of it, then!" George said bit-
terly. "You do think you're terribly clever! It
makes me tired!"
"Well, as you don't like my seeming 'quietly
superior,' after this I'll be noisily superior," she re-
turned cheerfully. "We aim to please!"
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSON^ 107
* I had a notion before I came for you to-day that
we were going to quarrel," he said.
"No, we won't; it takes two!" • She laughed and
waved her muff toward a new house, not quite com*
pleted, standing in a field upon their right. They
had passed beyond Amberson Addition, and wer^e
leaving the northern fringes of the town for the
open country. "Isn't that a beautiful house!"
she exclaimed. "Papa and I call it our Beautiful
House."
George was not pleased. "Does it belong to
jrou?"
"Of course not! Papa brought me out here the
other day, driving in his machine, and we both
loved it. It's so spacious and dignified and plain."
"Yes, it's plain enough!" George grunted.
"Yet it's lovely; the gray-green roof and shutters
give just enough colour, with the trees, for the long
white walls. It seems to me the finest house I've
seen in this part of the country."
George was outraged by an enthusiasm so igno-
rant— ^not ten minutes ago they had passed the Am-
berson Mansion. ''Is that a sample of your taste
in architecture?" he asked.
"Yes. Why?"
108 THE MAGNIFICJiNT AMBEBSONS
"Because it strikes me you better go somewhere
and study the subject a little!"
Lucy looked puzzled. "What makes you have so
«
much feeling about it? Have I offended you?'*
" *Off ended' nothing ! ' ' George returned brusquely .
"Girls usually think they know it all as soon
as they've learned to dance and dress and flirt a
little. They never know anything about things like
architecture, for instance. That house is about
as bum a house as any house I ever saw!"
"Why?"
"*Why?'" George repeated "Di<^ yov ask me
Vhy?'"
"Yes."
"Well, for one thing — " he paused — "for one
thing: — ^well, j«»tlook at it! I shouldn't think you'd
have to do any more than look at it if you'd ever
given any attention to architecture."
"What is the matter with its architecture, Mr,
Minafer?"
"WeU, it's this way," said George. "It's like
this. Well, for instance, that house — ^well, it was
built like a town house." He spoke of it in the past
tense, because they had now left it far behind them
p:-a human habit of curious significance. "It was
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS 109
like a house meant for a street in the city. What
kind of a house was that for people of any taste to
build out here in the country?"
'^But papa says it's built that way on purpose.
There are a lot of other houses being built in this
direction, and papa says the city's coming out thir
way; and in a year or two that house will be right in
town."
"It was a bum house, anyhow," said George
crossly. "I don't even know the people that are
building it. They say a lot of riffraff come to town
every year nowadays and there's other riffraff that
have always lived here, and have made a little
money, and act as if they owned the place. Uncle
Sydney was talking about it yesterday: he says he
and some of his friends are organizing a country club,
and already some of these riffraff are worming into
it — people he never heard of at all ! Anyhow, I guess
it's pretty clear you don't know a great deal about
architecture."
She demonstrated the completeness of her amia-
bility by laughing. "I'll know something about the
North Pole before long," she said, "if we keep going
much farther in this direction!"
At this he was remorseful. "All right, we'll turn
no THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
and drive south awhile till you get wanned up
again. I expect we have been going against the
wind about long enough. Indeed, I'm sorry!''
He said, "Indeed, I'm sorry," in a nice way, and
looked very strikingly handsome when he said it,
she thought. No doubt it is true that there is more
rejoicing in heaven over one sinner repented than
over all the saints who consistently remain holy, and
the rare, sudden gentlenesses of arrogant people have
infinitely more effect than the continual gentleness
of gentle people. Arrogance turned gentle melts
the heart; and Lucy gave her companion a little
sidelong, sunny nod of acknowledgment. George
was dazzled by the quick glow of her eyes, and fount>
himself at a loss for something to say.
Having turned about, he kept his horse to a walk,
and at this gait the sleighbells tinkled but inter-
mittently. Gleaming wanly through the whitish
vapour that kept rising from the trotter's body and
flanks, they were like tiny fog-bells, and made the
only sounds in a great winter silence. The white
road ran between lonesome rail fences; and frozen
barnyards beyond the fences showed sometimes a
harrow left to rust, with its iron seat half filled with
stiffened snow, and sometimes an old dead buggy«
THE MAGNIFICI;NT AMBERSONS 111
?ts wheels forever set, it seemed, in the solid ice of
deep ruts. Chickens scratched the metalhc earth
with an air of protest, and a masterless ragged colt
looked up in sudden horror at the mild tinkle oi
the passing bells, then blew fierce clouds of steam
at the sleigh. The snow no longer fell, and far
ahead, in a grayish cloud that lay upon the land, was
the town.
Luc*y looked at this distant thickening reflec-
tion. "When we get this far out we can see
there must be quite a little smoke hanging over
the town," she said. "I suppose that's because it's
growing. As it grows bigger it seems to get ashamed
of itself, so* it makes this cloud and hides in it.
Papa says it used to be a bit nicer when he lived here :
he always speaks of it differently — ^he always has a
gentle look, a particular tone of voice, I've noticed.
He must have been very fond of it. It must have
been a lovely place: everybody must have been so
jolly. From the way he talks, you'd think life here
then was just one long midsummer serenade. He
declares it was always simshiny, that the air wasn't
Kke the air anywhere else — ^that, as he remembers it,
there always seemed to be gold-dust in the air. I
doubt it! I think it doesn't seem to be duller air to
il2 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
him now just on account of having a little soot in it
sometimes, but probably because he was twenty
years younger then. It seems to me the gold-dust he
thinks was here is just his being young that he
remembers. I think it was just youth. It is pretty
pleasant to be young, isn*t it?" She laughed ab-
sently, then appeared to become wistful. " I wonder if
we really do enjoy it as much as we'll look back and
think we did! I don't suppose so. Anyhow, for my
part I feel as if I must be missing something about it,
somehow, because I don't ever seem to be thinking
about what's happening at the present moment;
I'm always looking forward to something — thinking
about things that will happen when I'm^older."
"You're a funny girl," George said gently.
"But your voice sounds pretty nice when you think
and talk along together like that!'^
The horse shook himself all over, and the impa-
tient sleighbells made his wish audible. Accord-
ingly> George tightened the reins, and the cutter
was off again at a three-minute trot, no despicable
rate of speed. It was not long before they were
again passing Lucy's Beautiful House, and here
George thought fit to put an appendix to his
remark. "You're a funny girl, and you know a lot
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 113
— ^but I don't believe you know much about archi-
tecture!"
Coming toward them, black against the snowy
road, was a strange silhouette. It approached mod«
erately and without visible means of progression, so
the matter seemed from a distance; but as the cuttef
shortened the distance, the silhouette was revealed
to be Mr. Morgan's horseless carriage, conveying
four people atop: Mr. Morgan with George's
mother beside him, and, in the rear seat, Miss Fanny
Minafer and the Honorable George Amberson. All
four seemed to be in the liveliest humour, like high-
spirited people upon a new adventure; and Isabel
waved her handkerchief dashingly as. the cutter
flashed by them.
"For the Lord's sake!" George gasped.
"Your mother's a dear," said Lucy. "And she
does wear the most bewitching things I She looked
(ike a Russian princess, though I doubt if they^re that
handsome."
George said nothing; he drove on till they had
crossed Amberson Addition and reached the stone
pillars at the head of National Avenue. There he
turned.
"Let's go back and take another look at that old
114 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
sewing-machine/' he said, "It certainlj- is thrr-
weirdest, craziest "
He left the sentence unfinished, and presently
they were again in sight of the old sewing-machine
George shouted mockingly.
Alas! three figures stood in the road, and a pair
of legs, with the toes turned up, indicated that a
fourth figure lay upon its back in the snow, beneath
a horseless carriage that had decided to need a
horse.
George became vociferous with laughter, and
coming up at his trotter's best gait, snow spraying
from runners and every hoof, swerved to the side of
the road and shot by, shouting, "Git a boss! Git a
boss! Git a boss!"
Three hundred yards away he turned and came
back, racing; leaning out as he passed, to wave
jeeringly at the group about the disabled machine:
" Git a boss ! Git a boss ! Git a ''
The trotter had broken into a gallop, and Lucy
cried a warning: "Be careful!" she said. "Look
where you're driving! There's a ditch on that side.
Look "
Geoige turned too late; the cutter's right runner
vent into the ditch and snapped off; the little sleigh
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 11*
upset, and, after dragging its occupants some
fifteen yards, left them lying together in a bank of
snow. Then the vigorous young horse kicked him-
self free of all annoyances, and disappeared down the
road, galloping cheerfully.
CHAPTER Vra
WHEN George regained some measure of hia
presence of mind. Miss Lucy Morgan's
cheek, snowy and cold, was pressing his
nose slightly to one side; his right arm was firmly
about her neck; and a monstrous amount of her fur
boa seemed to mingle with an equally unplausible
quantity of snow in his mouth. He was confused,
but conscious of no objection to any of these juxta-
positions. She was apparently uninjured, for she sat
up, hatless, her hair down, and said mildly :
"Good heavens!"
Though her father had been imder his machine
when they passed, he was the first to reach them.
He threw himself on his knees beside his daughter,
but found her already laughing, and was reassured.
"They're all right," he called to Isabel, who was
running toward them, ahead of her brother and
Fanny Minafer. "This snowbank's a feather bed
— ^nothing the matter with them at all. Don't look
so pale!"
116
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 117
"Georgie!" she gasped. ^^Georgiel^*
Georgie was on his feet, snow all over him.
"Don't make a fuss, mother! Nothing's the mat-
ter. That darned silly horse "
Sudden tears stood in Isabel's eyes. "To see
you down underneath — dragging — oh! " Then
with shaking hands she began to brush the snow
from him.
"Let me alone," he protested. "You'll ruin
your gloves. You're getting snow all over you,
and- "
"No, no!" she eriedc "You'll catch cold; you
mustn't catch cold!" And she continued to brush
him.
Amberson had brought Lucy's hat; Miss Fanny
acted as lady's-maid; and both victims of the acci-
dent were presently restored to about their usual
appearance and condition of apparel. In fact,
encouraged by the two older gentlemen, the entire
party, with one exception, decided that the episode
was after all a merry one, and began to laugh about
it. But George was glummer than the December
height now swiftly closing in.
"That darned horse!" he said.
"I wouldn't bother about Pendennis, Georgia,**
118 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
ssiid his uncle. ^^ You can send a man out for what*3
left of the cutter to-morrow, and Pendennis will
gallop straight home to his stable: he'll be there a
long while before we will, because all we've got to
depend on to get us home is Gene Morgan's broken-
down chafing-dish yonder."
They were approaching the machine as he spoke,
and his friend, again underneath it, heard him. He
emerged, smiling. "She'll go," he said.
"What!"
"AU aboard!"
• He offered his hand to Isabel. She was smiling but
«till pale, and her eyes, in spite of the smile, kept
upon George in a shocked anxiety. Miss Fanny
had already mounted to the rear seat, and George,
after helping Lucy Morgan to climb up beside his
aimt, was following. Isabel saw that his shoes were
light things of patent leather, and that snow was
clinging to them. She made a little rush toward
him, and, as one of his feet rested on the iron step of
the machine, in mounting, she began to clean the
snow from his shoe with her almost aerial lace hand-
kerchief. "You mustn't catch cold!" she cried.
"Stop that!" George shouted, and furiously with-
drew his foot.
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 119
"^Then stamp the snow off," she begged. "Yo«
mustn't ride with wet feet."
"They're not!" Geoi^e roared, thoroughly out-
raged. "For heaven^s sake get ini You're stianding
in the snow yourself. Get in ! '^
Isabel consented, turning to Morgan, whose habit-
ual expression of apprehensiveness was somewhat
accentuated. He climbed up after her, George
Amberson having gone to the other side. "You're
the same Isabel I used to know!" he said in a low
voice. "You're a divinely ridiculous woman."
"Am I, Eugene?" she said, not displeased.
"*Divinely' and ^ridiculous' just coimterbalance
each other, don't they? Plus one and minus one
equal nothing; so you mean I'm nothing in par-
ticular?"
"No," he answered, tugging at a lever. "That
doesn't seem to be precisely what I meant. There! "
This exclamation referred to the subterranean
machinery, for dismaying sounds came from beneath
the floor, and the vehicle plunged, then rolled noisily
forward.
"Behold!" George Amberson exclaimed. "She
does move! . It must be another accident."
" ^Accident? ' " Morgan shouted over the din.
120 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
'^No! She breathes, she stirs; she seems to feel
a thrill of life along her keel!" And he began to
sing "The Star Spangled Banner."
Amberson joined him lustily, and sang on when
Morgan stopped. The twilight sky cleared, dis-
covering a round moon already risen; and the
musical congressman hailed this bright presence
with the complete text and melody of "The Danube
River."
His nephew, behind, was gloomy. He had over-
heard his mother's conversation with the inventor:
it seemed curious to him that this Morgan, of whom
he had never heard imtil last night, should be using
tlie name "Isabel" so easily; and George felt that it
was not just the thing for his mother to call Morgan
** Eugene;" the resentment of the previous night
came upon George again. Meanwhile, his mother
and Morgan continued their talk; but he could no
longer hear what they said; the noise of the car and
his imcle's songful mood prevented. He marked
how animated Isabel seemed; it was not strange to
see his mother so gay, but it was strange that a man
not of the family should be the cause of her gaiety.
And George sat frowning.
Fanny Minafer had begun to talk to Lucy.
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 121
"Your father wanted to prove that his horselees
riimage would run, even in the snow/' she said.
"It really does, too/*
"Of course!"
" It's so interesting ! He's been telling us how he's
going to change it. He says he's going to have
wheels all made of rubber and blown up with air.
I don't understand what he means at all; I should
think they'd explode — ^but Eugene seems to be very
confident. He always was confident, though. It
seems so like old times to hear him talk!"
She became thoughtful, and Lucy turned to George.
"You tried to swing underneath me and break the
fall for me when we went over," she said. "I knew
you were doing that, and — ^it was nice of you."
"Wasn't any fall to speak of," he returned brus-
quely. "Couldn't have hurt either of us."
"Still it was friendly of you — and awfully quick,
too. I'll not— I'll not forge*t it!"
Her voice had a sound of genuineness, very pleas-
ant; and George began to forget his annoyance with
her father. This annoyance of his had not been
alleviated by the circumstance that neither of the
seats of the old sewing-machine was designed for.
three people, but when his neighbour spoke thus
122 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
gratefuUy, he no longer minded tbe crowding^in
fact, it pleased him so much that he began to wish
the old sewing-machine would go even slower. And
she had spoken no word of blame for his letting that
darned horse get the cutter into the ditch. George
presently addressed her hurriedly, almost tremu-
lously, speaking close to her ear:
" I forgot to tell you something : you're pretty nice •
I thought so the first second I saw you last night.
I'll come for you to-night and take you to the
Assembly at the Amberson Hotel. You're going,
aren't you?"
"Yes, but I'm going with papa and the Sharons
I'll see you there."
"Looks to me as if you were awfully convep-
tional," George grumbled; and his disappointment
was deeper than he was willing to let her see — ^though
she probably did see. "Well, we'll dance the co-
tillion together, anyhow^"
"I'm afraid not. I promised Mr. Kinney."
*^What!** George's tone was shocked, as at in-
credible news. "Well, you could break that en-
gagement, I guess, if you wanted to! Girls always
can get out of things when they want to. Won't
you'r'"
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 123
'I don't think so/'
-^ Why not?"
"Because I promised him. Several days ago.'*
George gulped, and lowered his pride, "I don't
— oh, look here! I only want to go to that thing
to-night to get to see something of you; and if you
don't dance the cotillion with me, how can I? I'll
only be here two weeks, and the others have got all
the rest of your visit to see you. WonH you do it,
please?"
"I couldn't."
"See here!" said the stricken George. "If you're
going to decb'ne to dance that cotillion with me
simply because you've promised a — a — a miserable
red-headed outsider like Fred Kinney, why we might
as well quit ! "
"Quit what?"
"You know perfectly well what I mean," he said
huskily.
"I don't."
"Well, you ought to!"
"But I don't at all!"
George, thoroughly hurt, and not a little embit-
tered, expressed himself in a short outburst of
laughter: "Well, I ought to have seen it!"
124 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
"Seen what?''
"That you miisht turn out to be a girl who'd like
a fellow of the red-headed Kinney sort. I ought
to have seen it from the first!"
Lucy bore her disgrace lightly. "Oh, dancing a
cotillion with a person doesn't mean that you like him
— but I don't see anything in particular the matter
with Mr. Kinney. What is?"
"If you don't see anything the matter with him
for yourself," George responded, icily, "I don't
think pointing it out would help you. You prob-
ably wouldn't understand."
"You might try," she suggested. "Of course
I'm a stranger here, and if people have done any^
thing wrong or have something unpleasant about
them, I wouldn't have any way of knowing it, just at
first. If poor Mr. Kinney "
"I prefer not to discuss it," said George curtly.
**He*s an enemy of mine."
"Why?"
"I prefer not to discuss it.**
**WeU, but '*
** I prefer not to discuss it ! '*
"Very well." She began to hum the air of the
fiong which Mr. George Amberson was now disoouis-
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 125
ing, **0 moon of my delight that knows no wane" —
and there was no further conversation on the back seat.
They had entered Amberson Addition, and the
moon of Mr. Amberson's dehght was overlaid by a
s'epder Gothic filagree; the branches that sprang
from the shade trees lining the street. Through
the windows of many of the houses rosy h'ghts were
flickering; and silver tinsel and evergreen wreaths
and brilliant little glass globes of silver and .wine
colour could be seen, and glimpses were caught of
Christmas trees, with people decking them by fire-
light— ^reminders that this was Christmas Eve.
The ride-stealers had disappeared from the highway,
though now and then, over the gasping and howling
of the horseless carriage, there came a shriU jeer
from some young passer-by upon the sidewalk:
^^ Mister, fer heaven's sake go an' git a hossl
Gitahoss! Gitahoss!"
The contrivance stopped with a heart-shaking
jerk before Isabel's house. The gentlemen jumped
down, helping Isabel and Fanny to descend; there
were friendly leavetakings — and one that was not
precisely friendly.
"It's *au revoir,' till to-night, isn't it?" Lucy
•flked, laughing.
126 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
"Good afternoon!" said George, and he did not
wait, as his relatives did, to see the old sewing-
machine start briskly down the street, toward the
Sharons'; its Ughter load consisting now of only Mr.
Morgan and his daughter. George went into the
house at once.
He found his father reading the evening paper in
the library. "Where are your mother and your
Aimt Fanny? " Mr. Minafer inquired, not looking up.
"They're coming," said his son; and, casting him-
self heavily into a chair, stared at the fire.
His prediction was verified a few moments later;
the two ladies came in cheerfully, unfastening their
fur cloaks. "It's all right, Georgie," said Isabel.
"Your Uncle George called to us that Fendennis
got home safely. Put your shoes close to the fire,
dear, or else go and change them." She went to
her husband and patted him lightly on the shoulder,
pn action which George watched with sombre
moodiness. "You might dress before long," she
suggested. "We're all going to the Assembly, after
dinner, aren't we? Brother George said he'd go
with us.**
"Look here," said George abruptly. "How about
this man Morgan and his old sewing-machine2
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS lit
Doesn't he want to get grandfather to put money
into it? Isn't he trying to work Uncle George for
that? Isn't that what he's up to?"
It was Miss Fanny who responded. "You little
siUy ! " she cried, with surprising sharpness. " What
on earth are you talking about? Eugene Morgan's
m
perfectly able to finance his own inventions these
days."
"I'll bet he borrows money of Unde Georgejt'*
the nephew insisted.
Isabel looked at him in grave perplexity. "Whj
do you say such a thing, George?" she asked.
"He strikes meas that sort of man»" he answered
doggedly. "Isn't he, father?"
Minafer set down his paper for the moment. "He
was a fairly wild young fellow twenty years ago," he
said, glancing at his wife absently. "He was like
you in one thing, Georgie; he spent too much money
—only he didn't have any mother to get money
out of a grandfather for him, so he was usually in
debt. But I believe I've heard he's done fairly well
of late years. No, I can't say I think he's a swindler,
and I doubt if he needs anybody else's money to
back his horseless carriage."
*Well, what's he brought the old thing here for.
128 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
then? People that own elephants don't take th^
elephants around with 'em when they go visiting.
What's he got it here for? "
I "I'm sure I don't know," said Mr. Minaler,
resuming his paper. "You might ask him."
Isabel laughed and patted her husband's shoulder
«
Bgain. "Aren't you going to dress? Aren't we all
going to the dance?"
He groaned faintly. "Ar^a't your brother and
€reorgie escorts enough for you and Fanny?"
"Wouldn't you enjoy it at all?"
"You know I don't."
Isabel let her hand remain upon his shoulder a
moment longer; she stood behind him, looking
into the fire, and Greoi^e, watching her broodingly,
thought there was more colour in her face than the
reflection of the flames accounted for. "Well, then,"
she said indulgently, "stay at home and be happy.
We won't urge you if you'd really rather not."
"I really wouldn't," he said contentedly.
Half an hour later, George was passing through the
upper hall, in a bath-robe stage of preparation for
the evening's gaieties, when he encoimtered his Aunt
Fanny. He stopped her. "Look here!" he said.
"What in the world is the matter with you?" she
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 1»
demanded, regarding him with little amiability.
^^ You look as if you were rehearsing for a villain in
a play. Do change yoiw expression!**
His expression gave no sign of yielding to the re<
quest; on the contrary, its sombreness deepened'^
"I suppose you don't know why father doesn't
want to go to-night/' he said solemnly. "" You're
his only sister, and yet you don't know!"
**He never wants to go anywhere that I ever
heard of," said Fanny. ^^What is the matter with
you?"
^^He doesn't want to go because he doesn't like
this -man Morgan."
"Good gracious!" Fanny cried impatiently.
"Eugene Morgan isn't in your father's thoughts at
all, one way or the other. Why should he be?"
George hesitated. "Well — ^it strikes me
Look here, what makes you and — and everybody
— so excited over him?"
"'Excited!'" she jeered. "Can't people be glad
to see an old friend without silly children like you
having to make a to-do about it? I've just been in
your mother's room suggesting that she might give
a little dinner for them "
"For who?"
ISO THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS
**For whoTTiy Georgie! For Mr. Morgan and his
daughter."
"Look here!" George said quickly. "Don't do
that! Mother mustn't do that. It wouldn't look
well."
"'Wouldn't look well!'" Fanny mocked him;
and her suppressed vehemence betrayed a surprising
acerbity. "See h^e, Georgie Minafer, I suggest that
you just march straight on into your room and fin-
ish your dressing! Sometimes you say things that
show you have a pretty mean little mind! "
George was so astounded by this outburst that his
indignation was delayed by his curiosity. "Why,
what upsets you this way?" he inquired.
"I know what you mean," she said, her voice still
lowered, but not decreasing in sharpness. "You're
trying to insinuate that I'd get your mother to in-
vite Eugene Morgan here on my accoimt because he's
a widower!"
"I aw.^" George gasped, nonplussed. "I'm try-
ing to insinuate that you're setting your cap at him
and getting mother to help you? Is that what you
mean?"
Beyond a doubt that was what Miss Fanny
meant. She gave him a white-hot look. "You
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 131
attend to your own affairs!" she whispered fiercely,
and swept away.
George, dumfounded, returned to his room for
meditation.
He had lived for years in the same house with his
Aunt Fanny, and it now appeared that during all
those years he had been thus intimately associating
with a total stranger. Never before had he met the
passionate lady with whom he had just held a conver-
sation in the hall. So she wanted to get married!
And wanted George's mother to help her with this
horseless-carriage widower!
"Well, I tmU be shot!" he muttered aloud. "I
will — ^I certainly will be shot!" And he began to
laugh. "Lord ^mighty!"
But presently, at the thought of the horseless-
carriage widower's daughter, his grimness returned,
and he resolved upon a line of conduct for the even-
ing. He would nod to her carelessly when he first
saw her; and, after that, he would notice her no more :
he would not dance with her; he would not favour
her in the cotillion — ^he would not go near her!
. . . He descended to dinner upon the third
urgent summons of a coloured butler, having spent
two hours dressing— and rehearsing.
CHAPTER IX
THE Honourable George Amberson was a
congressman who led cotillions — ^the sort of
congressman an Amberson would be. He
did it negligently, to-night, yet with infallible dex-
terity, now and then glancing humorously at the
spectators, people of his own age. They were
seated in a tropical grove at one end of the room
whither they had retired at the beginning of the co-
tiUion, which they surrendered entirely to the
twenties and the late 'teens. And here, grouped
with that stately pair, Sydney and Amelia Am-
berson, sat Isabel with Fanny, while Eugene Morgan
appeared to bestow an amiable devotion impartially
upon the three sisters-in-law. Fanny watched his
face eagerly, laughing at everything he said; Amelia
smiled blandly, but rather because of graeiousness
than because of interest; while Isabel, looking out at
the dancers, rhythmically moved a great fan of blue
ostrich feathers, listened to Eugene thoughtfully, yet
all the while kept her shining eyes on Georgie.
132
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 133
Georgia had carried out his rehearsed project?
with precision. He had given Miss Morgan a nod
studied into perfection during his lengthy toilet
before dinner. "Oh, yes, I do seem to remember
that curious h'ttle outsider!" this nod seemed to say.
Thereafter, all cognizance of her evaporated: the
curious Kttle outsider was permitted no further ex-
istence worth the struggle. Nevertheless, she flashed
in the comer of his eye too often. He was aware of
her dancing demurely, ^nd of her viciously flirtatious
habit of never looking up at her partner, but keeping
her eyes concealed beneath downcast lashes; and he
had over-sufficient consciousness of her between the
dances, though it was not possible to see her at these
times, even if he had cared to look frankly in her
direction — she was invisible in a thicket of young
dresscoats. The black thicket moved as she moved,
and her location was hatefully apparent, even if he
had not heard her voice laughing from the thicket.
It was annoying how her voice, though never loudf
pursued him. No matter how vociferous were other
voices, all about, he seemed unable to prevent himseli
from constantly recognizing hers. It had a quaver
in it, not pathetic^— rather humorous than pathetic
— a quality which annoyed him to the point of rage.
^ I
134 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
, because it was so difficult to get away from. She
seemed to be having a "wonderful time!"
An unbearable soreness accumulated in his chest:
his dislike of the girl and her conduct increased until
he thought of leaving this sickening Assembly and
going home to bed. That would show her! But
just then he heard her laughing, and decided that it
wouldn't show her. So he remained.
When the young couples seated themselves in
chairs against the walls, round three sides of the
room, for the cotillion, George joined a brazen-faced
group clustering about the doorway — ^youths with no
partners, yet ehgible to be "called out" and fa-
voured. He marked that his uncle placed the infernal
Kinney and Miss Morgan, as the leading couple^
in the first chairs at the head of the line upon the
leader's right; and this disloyalty on the part of Uncle
George was inexcusable, for in the family circle the
nephew had often expressed his opinion of Pred
Kinney. In his bitterness, George uttered a signifi-
cant monosyllable.
The music fiourished; whereupon Mr. Kinney,
Miss Morgan, and six of their neighbours rose and
waltzed knowingly. Mr. Amberson's whistle blew;
then the eight young people went to the favour-
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 185
table and were given toys and trinkets wherewith to
delight the new partners it was now their privilege
to select. Around the walls, the seated non-parti-
cipants in this ceremony looked rather conscious;
some chattered, endeavouring not to appear expect-
ant; some tried not to look wistful; and others were
frankly solemn. It was a trying moment; and
whoever secured a favour, this very first shot, might
consider the portents happy for a successful evening.
Holding their twinkUng gewgaws in their hands,
those about to bestow honour came toward the seated
.lines, where expressions became feverish. Two of
the approaching girls seemed to wander, not finding
a predetermined object in sight; and these two were
Janie Sharon, and her cousin, Lucy. At this,
George Amberson Minafer, conceiving that he had
little to anticipate from either, turned a proud back
upon the room and aflfected to converse with his
friend, Mr. Charlie Johnson.
The next moment a quick little figure intervened
between the two. It was Lucy, gayly offering a silver
sleighbell decked with white ribbon.
"I almost couldn*t find you!" she cried.
George stared, took her hand, led her forth in si«
lence, danced with her. She seemed content not to
1S6 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
talk; but as the whistle blew, signalliiig that this
episode was conduded, and he conducted her to her
seat, she lifted the little bell toward him. ^^You
haven't taken your favour. You're supposed to
pin it on your coat," she said. ^' Don't you want
it?"
"If you insist!" said George stiffly. And he
bowed her into her chair; then turned and walked
away, dropping the sleighbell haughtily into hia
trousers' pocket.
Hie figure proceeded to its conclusion, and Geoige
was given other sleighbells, which he easily con-
sented to wear upon his lapel; but, as the next figure
began, he strolled with a bored air to the tropical
grove, where sat his elders, and seated himself beside
his Uncle Sydney. His mother leaned across Miss
Fanny, raising her voice over the music to speak to
him.
"Georgie, nobody will be able to see you here.
You'll not be favoured. You ought to be where
you can dance."
"Don't care to," he returned. "Bore!"
"But you ought " She stopped and laughed,
waving her fan to direct his attention behind him.
:i
*■
'^Look! Over your shoulder!"
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS 1S7
He turned, and discovered Miss Lucy Morgan in
the act of offering him a purple toy balloon.
"I found you!" she laughed.
George was startled. "Well " he said.
"Would you rather 'sit it out?' " Lucy asked
quickly, as he did not move. "I don't care to dance
if you "
"No," he said, rising. "It would be better to
dance." His tone was solemn, and solemnly he
departed with her from the grove. Solemnly he
danced with her.
Four times, with not the slightest encouragement,
she brought him a favour: four times in succession.
VS^en the foiulh came, "Look here!" said George
huskily. "You goiug to keep this up all night?
What do you mean by it? "
For an instant she seemed confused. "That's
irhat cotillions are for, aren't they?" she murmured.
"TMiat do you mean: what they're for?"
"So that a girl can dance with a person she wants
to?'
George's huskiness increased. "Well, do you
mean you — ^you want to dance with me all the time *
^-all evening? "
"Well, this much of it — evidently r" she laughed.
140 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
sitting beside her at the Sharons' dance, a week
after the Assembly. "They seemed to be always
having little quarrels of some sort, at first. At least
George did: he seemed to be continually pecking at
that lovely, dainty, little Lucy, and being cross
with her over nothing."
''Teckmg?''\ Isabel laughed. "What a word
to use about Georgie! I think I never knew a more
angelically amiable disposition in my life!"
Miss Fanny echoed her sister-iu-law's laugh, but
it was a rueful echo, and not sweet. "He*s amiable
to you!" she said. "That's all the side of him you
ever happen to see. And why wouldn't he be ami-
able to anybody that * simply fell down and wor
shipped him every minute of her life? Most of us
would!"
"Isn't he worth worshipping? Just look at him!
Isn't he charming with Lucy! See how hard he ran
to get it when she dropped her handkerchief back
there."
"Oh, I'm not going to argue with you about
George!" Said Miss Fanny. "I'm fond enough of
him^ for that matter. He can be charming, and he's
certainly stunning looking , if only "
**Let the *if only' go, dear," Isabel suggested
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 141
good-naturedly. "I^et's talk about that dinner
you thought I should "
"I?" Miss Fanny interrupted quickly. "Didn't
you want to give it yourself?"
"Indeed, I did, my dear!" said Isabel heartily.
*M only meant that unless you had proposed it,
perhaps I woiddn't "
But here Eugene came for her to dance, and she
left the sentence uncompleted. HoUday dances can
be happy for youth renewed as well as for youth
in bud — and yet it was not with the air of a rival
that Miss Fanny watched her brother's wife dancing
with the widower. Miss Fanny's eyes narrowed a
little, but only as if her mind engaged in a hopeful
calculation. She looked pleased.
CHAPTER X
A FEW days after George's return to the uni-
versity it became evident that not quite
everybody had gazed with complete benevo-
lence upon the various young collegians at their
holiday sports. The Sunday edition of the principal
morning paper even expressed some bitterness under
the heading, "Gilded Youths of the Fin-de-Siecle''
—this was considered the knowing phrase of the
time, especially for Sunday supplements — and there
is no doubt that from certain references in this bit
of writing some people drew the conclusion that Mr.
George Amberson Minafer had not yet got his come-
upance, a postponement still irritating. Undeniably,
Fanny Minafer was one of the people who drew this
conclusion, for she cut the article out and enclosed it
in a letter to her nephew, having written on the border
of the clipping, "I wonder whom it can mean!"
George read part of it:
We debate sometimes what is to be the future of this nation
when we think that in a tew years public affairs may be in the
142
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 14S
hands of ihefin-de-stecle gilded youths we see about us during the
Christmas holidays. Such foppery, such luxury, such insolence,
was surely never practised by the scented, overbearing patricians
of the Palatine, even in Rome's most decadent epoch. In all the
wild orgy of wastefulness and luxury with which the nineteenth
century reaches its close, the gilded youth has been surely the
worst symptom. With his airs of young milord, his fast horses,
his gold and silver cigarette-cases, his clothes from a New
York tailor, his recklessness of money showered upon him by
indulgent mothers or doting grandfathers, he respects nothing
and nobody. He is blase, if you please. Watch him at a social
function, how condescendingly he deigns to select a partner for
the popular waltz or two-step; how carelessly he shoulders older
people out of his way, with what a blank stare he returns the
salutation of some old acquaintance whom he may choose in
his royal whim to forget! The unpleasant part of all this is that
the young women he so condescendingly selects as partners for
the dance greet him with seeming rapture, though in their hearts
£hey must feel hiuniliated by his languid hauteur, and many
older people beam upon him almost fawningly if he unbends so
far as to throw them a careless, disdainful word!
One wondets what has come over the new generation. Of
iuch as these the Republic was not made. Let us pray that the
future of our country is not in the hands of these fin-de-siecle
gilded youths, but rather in the calloused palms of young men
yet unknown, labouring upon the farms of the land. When
we compare the young manhood of Abraham Lincoln with the
specimens we are now producing, we see too well that it bodes iU
for the twentieth century
Geoi^e yawned, and tossed the clipping into hb
waste-basket, wondering why his aunt thought suel*
144 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS
dull nonsense worth the sending. As for her in-
sinuation, pencilled upon the border, he supposed
she meant to joke — a supposition which, neither
surprised him nor altered his lifelong opinion of her
wit.
* 4
He read her letter with more interest:
; . . The dinner yoiir mother gave for the Morgans was a
lovely affair. It was last Monday evening, just ten days after
you left. It was peculiarly appropriate that your mother should
give this dinner, because her brother George, your uncle, was Mr.
Morgan's inost intimate friend before he left here a number of
years ago, and it was a, ple^isant occasion for the formal announce-
ment of some news which you heard from Lucy Morgan belfore
you returned to college. At least she told me she had told you
the night before you left that her father had decided to return
here to live. It was appropriate that your mother, herself an
old friend, should assemble a representative selection of Mr.
Morgan's old friends around him at such a time. He was in
great spirits and most entertaining. As your time was so
charmingly taken up during your visit home with a younger
memher of his family, you probably overlooked opportunities of
hearing him talk, and do not know what an interesting man he
can be. • . '. i
He will soon begin to build his factory here for the manu-
facture of automobiles, which he says is a term he prefers to
''horseless carriages." Your Uncle George told me he would like
to invest in this factory, as George thinks there is a future for
automobiles; perhaps not for general use, but as an interesting
novelty, which people with sufficient means would like to own
for their amusement and the sake of variety. However, he said
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 145
Mr. Morgan laughingly declined his offer, as Mr. M. was fully
able to finance this venture, though not startling in a very large
way. Your uncle said other people are manufacturing auto-
mobiles in different parts of the country with success. Your
tather is not very well» though he is not actually ill, and the doctor
tells him he ought not to be so much at his office, as the long
.years of application indoors with no exercise are beginning to
affect him unfavourably, but I believe your father would die if
he had to give up his work, which is all that has ever interested
him outside of his family. I never could understand it. Mr.
Morgan took your mother and me with Lucy to see Modjeska
in "Twelfth Night" yesterday evening, and Lucy said she thought
the Duke looked rather like you, only much more democratic
in his manner. ' I suppose you will think I have written a great
deal about the Morgans in this letter, but thought you would be
interested because of your interest in a younger member of his
family. Hoping that you are finding college still as attractive
as ever.
Affectionately,
Aunt Fanny.
George read one sentence in this letter several
times. Then he dropped the ^missive in his waste-
basket to join the clipping, and strolled down the cor-
ridor of his dormitory to borrow a copy of "Twelftli
Night." Having secured one, he returned to his
study and refreshed his memory of the play — ^but
received no enlightenment that enabled him to
comprehend Lucy's strange remark. However, he
found himself impelled in the direction of corres-
146 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
pondence, and presently wrote a letter — ^not a reply
to his Aunt Panny.
Dear Luct:
No doubt you will be surprised at hearing from me so soon
again, espeeiany as this makes two in answer to the one received
from you since getting back to the old place. I hear you have
been making comm^its about me at the theatre, that some actor
was more democratic in his manners than I am, which I do not
understand. You know my theory of life because I explained
it to you on our first drive together, when I told you I would not
talk to everybody about things I feel like the way I spoke to you
of my theory of life. I believe those who are able should have a
true theory of life, and I developed my theory of Ufe long, long ago.
Well, here I sit smoking my faithful briar pipe, indulging
in the f ragrarce of my tabat as I look out on the campus from my
nutny-paned window, and things are different with me from the
way they were way back in Freshman year. I can see now how
boyish in many ways I was then. I believe what has changed
me as much as anything was my visit home at the time I met you.
So I sit here with my faithful briar and dream the old dreams over
as it were, dreaming of ike waltases we waltzed together and of
that last night before we parted, and you told me the good news
you were going to live there, and I would find my friend waiting
for me, when I get home next sununer.
I will be glad my friend wiU be waiting for me. I am not
capable of friendship except for the very few, and, looking
back over my life, I remember there were times when I doubted
if I could feel a great friendship for anybody — especially girb.
I do not take a great interest in many people, as you know,
for I find most of them shallow. Here in the old place I do not
believe in being hail-fellow-well-met with every Tom, Didc, and
Harry just because he happois to be a classmate, any more
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 147
than I do at home, where I have always been careful who I was
seen with, largely on account of the family, but also because
my disposition ever since my boyhood has been to encourage
real intimacy from but the few.
What are you reading now? I have finished both "Henry
Esmond** and "The Virginians." I like Thackeray because he
is not trashy, and because he writes principally of nice people*
My theory of literature is an author who does not indulge in
trashiness — writes about people you could introduce into your
own home. I agree with my Uncle Sydney, as I once heard
him say he did not care to read a book or go to a play about
people he would not care to meet at his own dinner table. I
believe we should live by certain standards and ideals, as you
know from my telling you my theory of life.
Well, a letter is no place for deep discussions, so I will not go
into the subject. From several letters from my mother, and one
from Aunt Fanny, I hear you are seeing a good deal of the family
since I left. I hope sometimes you think of the member who is
absent I got a silver frame for your photograph in New York,
and I keep it on my desk. It is the only girl's photograph I ever
took the trouble to have framed, though, as I told you frankly, I
have had any number of other girls' photographs, yet all were
only passing fancies, and oftentimes I have questioned in years
past if I was capable of much friendship toward the feminine
sex, which I usually found shallow until our own friendship
began. When I look at your photograph, I say to my self r
"At last, at last here is one that will not prove shallow.**
My faithful briar has gone out. I will have to rise and fill it^
then once more in the fragrance of My Lady Nicotine, I will sit
and dream the old dreams over, and think, too, of the true friend
at home awaiting my return in June for the summer vacation.
Friend, this is from your friend,
G. A M.
148 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
George's anticipations were not disappointed.
When he came home in June his friend was awaiting
him; at least, she was so pleased to see him again
that for a few minutes after their first encounter she
was a little breathless, and a great deal glowing, and
quiet withal. Their sentimental friendship con-
tinued, though sometimes he was irritated by her
making it less sentimental than he did, and some-
times by what he called her "air of superiority."
Her air was usually, in truth, that of a fond but
amused older sister; and George did not believe
such an attitude was warranted by her eight months
of seniority.
Lucy and her father were h'ving at the Ambenson
Hotel, while Morgan got his small machine-shops
built in a western outskirt of the town; and George
grumbled about the shabbiness and the old-fashioned
look of the hotel, though it was "still the best in the
place, of course." He remonstrated with his grand-
father, declaring that the whole Amberson Estate
would be getting "run-down and out-at-heel> if
things weren't taken in hand pretty soon." He
urged the general need of rebuilding, renovating,
varnishing, and lawsuits. But the Major, declining
to hear him out, interrupted quemlously, saying
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 149
that he had enough to bother him without any
idvice from George; and retired to his Kbrary, going
so far as to lock the door audibly.
"Second childhood!" George muttered, shaking
his head; and he thought sadly that the Major had
not long to live. However, this surmise depressed
him for only a moment or so. Of course, people
couldn't be expected to live forever, and it would
be a good thing to have someone in charge of the
Estate who wouldn't let it get to looking so rusty
that riJBfraff dared to make fim of it. For George
had lately undergone the annoyance of calling upon
the Morgans, in the rather stuffy red velours and
gilt parlour of their apartment at the hotel, one
evening when Mr. Frederick Kinney also was a
caller, and Mr. Kinney had not been tactful. In
fact, though he adopted a humorous tone of voice,
in expressing his sympathy for people who, through
the city's poverty in hotels, were obliged to stay at
the Amberson, Mr. Kinney's intention was inter-
preted by the other visitor as not at all humorous^,
but, on the contrary, personal and offensive.
George rose abruptly, his face the colour of wrath.
* Good-night, Miss Morgan. Good-night, Mr. Mor-
gan/' he said. "I shall take pleasure in calling at
^ i
150 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
some other time when a more courteous sort oi
people may be present."
"Look here!" the hot-headed Fred burst out
"Don't you try to make me out a boor, George
Minafer! I wasn't hinting anything at you; I
simply forgot all about your grandfather owning this
old building. Don't you trj' to put me in the light
of a boor! I won't "
But George walked out in the very course of this
vehcriient protest, and it was necessarily left un-
finished.
Mr. Kinney remained only a few moments after
George's departure; and as the door closed upon
him, the distressed Lucy turned to her father. She
was plaintively surprised to find him in a condition
of immoderate laughter.
"I didn't— I didn't think I could hold out?'" h^
gasped, and, after choking until tears came to his
ej''es, felt blindly for the chair from which he had
risen to wish Mr. Kinney an indistinct good-night./
His hand found the arm of the chair; he collapsed
feebly, and sat uttering incoherent sounds.
"Papa!"
"It brings tliitigs back so!" he managed to ex-
plain. "This very Fred Kinney's father and
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 151
young George^s father, Wilbur Minater, used to do
just such thhigs when they were at that age — ^and, for
that matter, so did George Amberson and I, and all
the rest of us!" And, in spite of his exhaustion, he
began to imitate: " 'Don't you try to put 7W^ in the
light of a boor!' *I shall take pleasure in calling at
some time when a more courteous sort of people
' " He was unable to go on.
There is a mirth for every age, and Lucy failed to
comprehend her father's, but tolerated it a little
ruefully.
"Papa, I think they were shocking. Weren't
they aii?/wZ/"
"Just — ^just boys!" he moaned, wiping his eyes.
But Lucy could not smile at all; she was beginning
to look indignant. "I can forgive that poor Fred
Kinney," she said. "He's just blimdering — ^but
George — oh, George behaved outrageously!"
"It's a difficult age," her father observed, his
calmness somewhat restored. "Girls don't seem to
have to pass through it quite as boys do, or their
savoir faire is instinctive — or something!" And
he gave away to a return of his convulsion.
She came and sat upon the arm of his chair.
**Papa, why should George behave like that.^"
15S THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
"He's sensitive."
'"Rather! But why is he? He does knything he
likes to, without any regard for what people think.
Then why should he mind so furiously when the least
little thing reflects upon him, or on anything or any-
body connected with him? "
Eugene patted her hand. "'That's one of the
greatest puzzles of human vanity, dear; and I don't
pretend to know the answer. In aU my life, the
most arrogant people that I've known have been the
most sensitive. The people who have done the
most in contempt of other people's opinion, and who
•consider themselves the highest above it, have been
the most furious if it went against them. Arro-
gant and domineering people can't stand the least,
lightest, faintest breath of criticism. It just kills
them."
"Papa, do you think George is terribly arrogant
and dommeering?"
"Oh, he's still only a boy," said Eugene consol-
ingly. "There's plenty of fine stuff in him — can't
help but be, because he's Isabel Amberson's son."
Lucy stroked his hair, which was still almost as
dark as her own. "You liked her pretty well oncei
I guess, papa."
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS IBS
"I do still," he said quietly.
" She's lovely — lovely ! Papa — " she paused, thea
continued — "I wonder sometimes "
"What?"
"I wonder just how she happened to marry Mr-
Minafer,"
"Oh, Minafer's all right," said Eugene. "He'fif
a quiet sort of man, but he's a good man and a kind
man. He always was, and those things count."
"But in a way — well, I've heard people say there
wasn't anything to him at all except business and
saving money. Miss Fanny Minafer herself told
me that everything George and his mother have of
their own — that is, just to spend as they like — she
iays it has always come from Major Amberson.''
" Thrift, Horatio ! " said Eugene Kghtly . " Thrift's
an inheritance, and a common enou^ one here.
The people who settled the country had to save, sa
making and saving were taught as virtues, and
the people, to the third generation, haven't found
out that making and saving are only means to
an end. Minafer doesn't believe in money being
spent. He believes God made it to be invested and
saved.''
But George isn't saving. He's reckless, and
«<'
154 THE JIAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
even if he is arrogant and conceited and bad-tempered,
he's awfully generous."
"Oh, he's an Amberson," said her father. "The
Ambersons aren't 'saving. They're too much the
other way, most of them."
"I don't think I should have called George bad-
tempered," Lucy said thoughtfully. "No. I don't
think he is."
"Only when he's cross about something?" Mor-
gan suggested, with a semblance of sympathetic
gravity.
"Yes," she said brightly, not perceiving that hi?
intention was humorous. "All the rest of the time
he's really very amiable. Of course, he's much
morie a perfect child, the whole time, than he realizes!
He certainly behaved awfully to-night." She
jumped up, her indignation returning. "He did,
indeed, and it won't do to encourage him in it. I
think he'll find me pretty cool — for a week or so!"
Whereupon her father suffered a renewal of kis
Attack of uproarious laughter.
CHAPTER XI
IN THE matter of coolness, George met Lucy
upon her own predetermined ground; in fact»
he was there first, and, at their next encoun-
ter, proved loftier and more formal than she did.
Their estrangement lasted three weeks, and then
disappeared without any preliminary treaty: it had
worn itself out, and they forgot it.
At ' times, however, George found other disturb-
ances to the friendship. Lucy was "too much the
village belle," he complained; and took a satiric
attitude toward his competitors, referring to them
as her "local swains and bumpkins," sulking for
an afternoon when she reminded him that he, too.
was at least "local." She was a belle with older
people as well; Isabel and Fanny were continually
taking her driving, bringing her home with them tc
hmch or dinner, and making a hundred little en-
gagements with her, and the Major had taken a
great fancy to her, insisting upon her presence and her
father's at the Amberson family dinner at the Man-
155
166 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
sion every Sunday evening. She knew how to flirt
with old people, he said, as she sat next him at the
table on one of these Sunday occasions; and he bad
always liked her father, even when Eugene was a
** terror" long ago. "Oh, yes, he was!" the Major
laughed, when she remonstrated. "He came up
here with my son George and some others for a
serenade one night, and Eugene stepped into a bass
fiddle, and the poor musicians just gave up ! I had
a pretty half-hour getting my son George upstairs,
I remember! It was the last time Eugene ever
touched a drop — ^but lie*d touched plenty before
that, young lady, and he daren't deny it! Well,
well; there's another thing that's changed: hardly
anybody drinks nowadays. Perhaps it's just as well,
but things used to be livelier. That serenade was just
before Isabel was married — and don't you fret. Miss
Lucy: yoiu* father remembers it well enough!" The
old gentleman burst into laughter, and shook his
finger at Eugene across the table. "The fact is,"
the Major went on hilariously, "I believe if Eugene
hadn't broken that bass fiddle and given himself
away, Isabel would never have taken Wilbur! I
shouldn't be surprised if that was about all the reason
that Wilbur got her ! What do you think. Wilbur?**
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 157
"I shouldn't be surpriised," said Wilbur placidly.
"If your notion is right, I'm glad 'Gene broke the
fiddle. He was giving me a hard run!"
The Major always drank three glasses of cham-
pagne at his Sunday dinner, and he was finishing the
third. "What do you say about it, Isabel? By
Jove!" he cried, pounding the table. "She's blush-
ing!"
Isabel did blush, but she laughed^ " Who wouldn't
blush!" she cried, and her sister-in-law came to her
assistance.
"The important thing," said Fanny jovially, '*ifi
that Wilbur did get her, and not only got her, but
kept her!"
Eugene was as pink as Isabel, but he laughed
without any sign " of embarrassment other than his
heightened colour. "There's another important
thing^that is, for me," he said. "It's the only
thing Ihat makes, me forgive that bass viol for get-
ting in my way."
What is it?" the Major asked.
Lucy," said Morgan gently.
Isabel gave him a quick glance, all warm approval,
and there was a murmur of friendliness round the
table. ^
158 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS
George was not one of those who joined in this
applause. He considered his grandfather's nonseiise
indelicate, even for second childhood, and he thought
that the sooner the subject was dropped the better.
However, he had only a slight recurrence of the
resentment which had assailed him during the winter
at every sign of his mother's interest in Morgan;
though he was still ashamed of his aunt sometimes,
when it seemed to him that Fanny was almost pub-
licly throwing herself at the widower's head. Fanny
and he had one or two arguments in which her
fierceness again astonished and amused him.
"You drop your criticisms of your relatives," she
bade him, hotly, one day, "and begin thinking a little
about your own behaviour! You say people will
*talk' about my — ^about my merelybeing pleasant to
an old friend! What do I care how they talk? I
guess if people are talking about anybody m this
family they're talking about the impertinent little
snippet that hasn*t any respect for anything, and
doesn't even know enough to attend to his own
affairs!"
"^Snippet,' Aunt Fanny!" George laughed.
"How elegant! And 'litUe snippet' — ^when I'm ov«
five-feet-eleven? "
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 159
"I said it!" she snapped, departing. "I don't
fiee how Lucy can stand you!"
"You'd make an amiable stepmother-in-law!"
he called after her. " I'll be careful about proposing
to Lucy!"
These were but roughish spots in a summer that
glided by evenly and quickly enough, for the most
part, and, at the end, seemed to fly* On the last
night before George went back to be a Junior, his
mother asked him confidently if it had not been a
happy summer.
He hadn't thought about it, he answered. "Oh,
I suppose so. Why?"
"I just thought it would be nice to hear you say
so," she said, smiling. "I mean, it's pleasant for
people of niy age to know that people of your a^e
realize that they're happy."
"People of your age!" he repeated. "You know
you don't look precisely like an old woman, mother*
Not precisely!"
"No," she said. "And I suppose I feel about as
young as you do, inside, but it won't be many years
before I must begin to hok old. It does come!"
She sighed, stOl smiling. "It's seemed to me that
it must have been a happy summer for you — a real
160 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
^summer of roses and wine' — ^without the wine, per-
haps. ^Gather ye roses while ye may* — op was it
primroses? Time does really fly, or perhaps iVs
more like the sky — and smoke "
George was puzzled. ''What do you mean: time
)3eing like the sky and smoke?"
''I mean the things that we have and that we think
ure so solid — they're like smoke, and time is like the
sky that the smoke disappears into. You know how
a wreath of smoke goes up from a chimney, and seems
all thick and black and busy against the sky, as if it
wel*e going to do such important things and last f or^
ever, and you see it getting thinner and thinner—
and then, in such a little while, it isn't there at all;
nothing is left but the sky, and the sky keeps 09
being just the same forever."
"It strikes me you're getting mixed up," said
George cheerfully. "I don't see much resemblance
between time and the sky, or between things and
smoke- wreaths; but I do see one reason you like
Lucy Morgan so much. She talks that same kind
of wistfuij moony way sometimes — I don't mean
to say I mind it in either of you, because I rathei
like to listen to it, and you've got a very good voice,
mother. It's nice to listen to, no matter how muck
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 161
smoke and sky, and so on, you talk. So'a Lucy's,
for that matter; and I see why you're congenial*
She talks that way to her father, too; and he's right
there with the same kind of guff. Well, it's all right
with m^ / " He laughed, teasingly, and allowed her to
retain his hand, which she had fondly seized. '^I've
got plenty to think about when people drool along!''
She pressed his hand to her cheek, and a tear made
a tiny warm streak across one of his knuckles.
"For heaven's sake!" he said. ** What's the
matter? Isn't everything all right?"
" You're going away ! "
'^'Well, I'm coming back, don't you suppose? Is
that all that worries you?"
She cheered up, and smiled again, but shook her
head. "I never can bear to see you go — ^that's the
most of it. I'm a little bothered about your father,
too."
"Why?"
'It seems to me he looks so badly. Everybody
thinks so."
"What nonsense!" George laughed. "He's been
looking that way all summer. He isn't much dif-
ferent from the way he's looked all his life, that I can
flee. What's the matter with him?"
162 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS
'^He never talks much about his busmess to me
but I think he's been worrying about some invest*
xnoits he made last year. I think his worry has
a£Pected his health/'
**What investments?" George demanded. "He
hasn't gone into Mr. Morgan's automobile ooncem,
has he?"
"No," Isabel smiled. "The ^automobile concern'
is all Eugene's, and it's so small I understand it's
taken hardly anything. No; your father has al«
ways prided himself on making only the most abso*
lutely safe investments, but two or three years ago he
and your Uncle George both put a great deal —
pretty much everything they could get together.
1 think — into the stock of rolling-mills some friends
of theirs owned> and I'm afraid the mills haven't
been doing well."
"What of that? Father needn't worry. You
and I could take care of him the rest of his life on
what grandfathei^-:: — "
"Of course," she agreed. "But your father's
always lived so for his business and taken such pride
in his sound investments; it's a passion with him*
I "
'* Pshaw! He needn't worry! You teD lum we'll
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 163
look after him : we'll build hini a little stone bank in
the backyard, if he busts up, and he can go and put
his pennies in it every morning. That'll keep him
just as happy as he ever was!" He kissed her.
"Good-night, I'm going to tell Lucy good-bye.
Don't sit up for me."
She walked to the front gate with him, still hold-
ing his hand, and he told her again not to "sit up"
for him.
"Yes, I will," she laughed. "You won*t be very
iate."
"Well— it's my last night."
"But I know Lucy, and she knows I want to see
you, too, your last night. You'll see: she'll send
you home promptly at eleven!"
But she was mistaken: Imcy sent him home
promptly at ten.
CHAPTER Xn
ISABEL'S uneasiness about her husband's
health — sometimes reflected in her letters to
George during the winter that followed — had
not been alleviated when the accredited Senior re»
turned for his next summer vacation, and she confided
to him m hLs room, soon alter his arrival, that "some-
thing'^ the doctor had said to her lately had made her
more uneasy than ever.
•*Still worrying over his rolling-mills investmCTits?^*
George asked, not seriously impressed.
**Tm afraid it's past that stage from what Dr
Bainey says. His worries only aggravate his oonditioii
now. Dr. Rainey says we ought to get him away/^
"Well let's do it, then.''
*'He won't go."
**He*s a man awfully set in his ways; that's true,^
said George. '^I don't think there's anything much
the matter with him, though, and he looks just the
same to me. Have you seen Lucy lately? How iff
she?''
164
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS 166
** Hasn't she written you?'*
"Oh, about once a month/' he answered care^
lessly. "Never says much about herself. How's
she look?"
"She looks — ^pretty!" said Isabel. "I suppose
she wrote you they've moved?"
"Ye5; I've got her address. She said they were
building."
''^They did. It's all finished, and they've been in
it a month. Lucy is so capable; she keeps house ex-*
quisitely. It's small, but oh, such a pretty little
house!"
"Well, that's fortunate," Geoi^e said. "One
thing I've always felt they didn't know a great deal
about is architecture."
"Don't they?" asked Isabel, surprised. "Any-
how, their house is charming. It's way out beyond
the end of Amberson Boulevard; it's quite near that
big white house with a gray-green roof somebody
built out there a year or so ago. There are any
number of houses going up, out that way; and the
troUey-line runs within a block of them now, on the
next street, and the traction people are laying tracks
more than three miles beyond. I suppose you'll be
driviiig out to see Lucy to-morrow
99
166 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
•*I thought " George hesitated- ''I thought
perhaps I'd go after dinner this evening,"
At this* his mother laughed, not astonished. ''^It
was only my feeble joke about *to-morroWr^ Georgie!
I was pretty sure you couldn't wait that long. Did
Lucy write you about the factory?"
"No. What factory?"
"The automobile shops. They had rather a dub
ious time at first, I'm afraid, and some of Eugene'c
experiments turned out badly, but this spring they've
finished eight automobiles and sold them all, and
they've got twelve more almost finished, and they're
sold already ! Eugene's so gay over it i "
"What do his old sewing-machines look like?
Like that first one he had when they came herer ^'
"No, io^^ed! These have rubber tires blown
iip with air-pneumatic! And they aren't so high;
they're very easy to get into, and the engine's in
front — ^Eugene thioks that's a great improvement.
They're very interesting to look at; behind the
driver's seat there's a sort of box where four people
can sit, with a step and a little door in the rear,
and "
"I know all about it," said George, "I've seen
any number like that, East. You can see all you
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 167
want of 'em, if you stand on Fifth Avenue half an
hour, any afternoon. I've seen half-a-dozen go by
almost at the same time — within a few minutes, any-
how; and of course electric hansoms are a common
sight there any day. I hired one, myself, the last
time I was there. How fast do Mr. Moi^an's ma-
chines go?"
"Much too fast! It's very exhilarating — ^bul
rather frightening; and they do make a fearful up-
roar. He says, though, he thinks he sees a way to
get around the noisiness in time."
"I don't mind the noise," said George. "Give me
a horse, for mine, though, any day. I must get up a
race with one of these things: Pendennis^ll leave it
one mile behind in a two-mile run. How's grand-
father.?"
"He looks well, but he complains sometimes of
his heart: I suppose that's natural at his age —
and it's an Amberson trouble." Having mentioned
this, she looked anxious instantly. "Did you ever
feel any weakness there, Georgie.?"
No!" he laughed.
Are you sure^ dear?"
"No!" And he laughed again. "Did you?"
"Oh, I think not — at least, the doctor told me he
«'
<<
168 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
thought my heart was about all right. He said I
needn^t be alarmed."
'^I should think not! Women do seem to be
always talldng about health : I suppose they haven't
got enough else to think of!"
"That must be it," she said gayly. "We're an
idle lot!"
George had taken off his coat. "I don't Uke to
hint to a lady," he said, "but I do want to dress be-*
fore dmner."
"Don't be long; I've got to do a lot of looking
at you, dear!" She kissed him and ran away,
singing.
But his Aunt Fanny was not so fond; and at the
dinner-table there came a spark of liveliness into
her eye when George patronizingly asked her what
was the news in her own "particular Ime of
sport."
"What do you mean, Georgie?" she asked quietly.
"Oh I mean: What's the news in the fast set
generally? You been causing any divorces lately?"
"No," said Fanny, the spark in her eye getting
brighter. "I haven't been causing anything."
"Well, what's the gossip? You usually hear
pretty much everything that goes on around tbt
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 160
nooks and crannies in this town, I hear. What's
the last from the gossips' comer, auntie?"
Fanny dropped her eyes, and the spark was con-
cealed, but a movement of her lower lip betokened a
tendency to laugh, as she replied, "There hasn't
been much gossip lately, except the report that
Lucy Moigan and Fred Kinney are engaged — ^and
that's quite old, by this time."
Undeniably, this bit of mischief was entirely suc-
cessful, for there was a clatter upon George's plate.
"What — ^what do you think you're talking about?"
he gasped.
Miss Fanny looked up innocently. "About the
report of Lucy Morgan's engagement to Fred
Kinney."
George turned dumbly to his mother, and Isabel
shook her head reassuringly. "People are always
starting rumours," 6he said. "I haven't paid any
attention to this one."
'But you — ^you've heard it?" he stammered.
Oh, one hears all sorts of nonsense, dear. I
haven't the slightest, idea that it's true."
Then you have heard it!"
I wouldn't let it take my appetite," his father sug-
gested drily, " There are plenty of girls in the world !**
tf
«/
170 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
George turned pale.
"Eat your dinner, Georgie," his aunt said sweetly.
"Food will do you good. I didn't say I knew this
rumour was true. I only said I'd heard it."
"When? When did you hear it!"
"Oh, months ago!" And Fanny found any fur-
ther postponement of laughter impossible.
"Fanny, you're a hard-hearted creature," Isabel
said gently. "You reaUy are. Don't pay any
attention to her, George. Fred Kinney's only a
clerk in his uncle's hardware place: he couldn't
marry for ages — even if anybody would accept
him!"
George breathed tumultuously. " I don't care any-
thing about *ages ' ! What's that got to do with it? "
he said, his thoughts appearing to be somewhat dis-
connected. "'Ages,' don't mean anything! I only
want to know — ^I want to know I want '*
He stopped.
"What do you want?" his father asked crossly.
"Why don't you say it? Don't make such a fuss.'*
"I'm not — ^not at all," George declared, pushing
his chair back from the table.
"You must finish your dinner, dear," his mother
mrged. "Don't "
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 171
"I have finished. I've eaten all I want. I don't
want any more than I wanted. I don't want — ^I
He rose, still incoherent. "I prefer — I
99
want Please excuse me ! "
He left the room, and a moment later the screens
outside the open front door were heard to slam.
"Fanny! You shouldn't "
"Isabel, don't reproach me. He did have plenty
of dinner, and I only told the truth: everybody has
been saying-^ "
"But there isn't any truth in it."
" We don't actually know there isn't," Miss Fanny
insisted, giggling. "We've never asked Lucy."
"I wouldn't ask her anything so absurd!"
"George would," George's father remarked.
"That's what he's gone to do."
Mr. Minaf er was not mistaken : that was what his
son had gone to do. liUcy and her father were just
rising from their dinner table when the stirred youth
arrived at the front door of the new house. It was
a cottage, however, rather than a house; and Lucy
had taken a free hand with the architect, achieving
results in white and green, outside, and white and
blue, inside, to such effect of youth and daintiness
that her father complained of "too much spring*
172 THE MAGNIBIGENT AMBERSONS .
time!" The whole place, including his own bed«
room, was a young damsel's boudoir, he said, so
that nowhere could he smoke a dgar without feel-
ing like a ruffian. However, he was smoking when
George arrived, and he encouraged Greorge to join
him in the pastime, but the caller, whose air was
both tense and preoccupied, declined with some-
thing like agitation.
"I never smoke — that is, I'm seldom — ^I mean,
no thanks," he said. "'I mean not at all. I'd
rather not."
"Aren't you well, George?" Eugene asked, look-
ing at him in perplexity. "Have you been over-
working at college? You do look rather pa "
"I don't work," said Greorge. "I mean I don't
work. I think, but I don't work. I only work at
the end of tlie term. There isn't much to do."
Eugene's perplexity was httle decreased, and a
tinkle of the door-bell afforded him obvious relief*
It's my foreman," he said, looking at his watdu
I'll take him out in the yard to talk. This is no
place for a foreman." And he departed, leaving the
** living room" to Lucy and George. It was a pretty
room, white panelled and blue curtained — ^and no
place for a foreman, as Eugene said. There was a
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 178
grand piano, and Lucy stood leaning back against it,
looking intently at George, while her fingers, behind
her, absently struck a chord or two. And her dress
was the dress for that room, being of blue and white,
too; and the high colour in her cheeks was far from
mterfering with the general harmony of things —
George saw with dismay that she was prettier than
ever, and naturally he missed the reassurance he
might have felt had he been able to guess that Lucy,
on her part, was finding him better looking than
ever. For, however unusual the scope of George's
pride, vanity of beauty was not included; he did not
think about his looks.
"What's wrong, George?" she asked softly.
"What do you mean: *What*s wrong?'"
"You're awfully upset about something. Didn't
fou get though your examination all right?"
"Certainly I did. What makes you think any-
thing's *wrong' with me?"
"You do look pale, as papa said, and it seemed
to me tliat the way you talked sounded — ^well, a
little confused."
"'Confused'! I said I didn't care to smoke«
What in the world is confused about that?"
Nothing. But-
«XT^xl.i "D-.x »
174 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
"See here!" George stepped close to her. *Mi'
you glad to see me?"
"You needn't be so fierce about it!" Lucy pro-
tested, laughing at his dramatic intensity. "Of
course I am ! How long have I been looking forward
to it?"
"I don't know," he said sharply, abating nothing
of his fierceness. "How long have you?"
"Why — ^ver since you went away!"
"Is that true? Lucy, is that true?"
"You are funny!" she said. "Of course it's true.
Do tell me what's the matter with you, George!"
"I will!" he exclaimed. "I was a boy when I saw
you last. I see that now, though I didn't then. WelL
I'm not a boy any longer. I'm a man, and a man
has a right to demand a totally different treatment."
"Why has he?"
"What?"
"I don't seem to be able to understand you at all,
George. Why shouldn't a boy be treated just as
well as a man?"
George seemed to find himself at a loss. "Why
shouldn't Well, he shouldn't, because a man
has a right to certain explanations."
What explanations? "
«
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 175
"Whether he*s been made a toy of!" George
almost shouted. ^^Thats what I want to know!"
Lucy shook her head despairingly. "You are the
queerest person! You say you're a man now, but
you talk more like a boy than ever. What does make
you so excited?"
''Excited!'*' he stormed. "Do you dare to
stand there and call me 'excited'? I tell you, I
never have been more calm or calmer in my life!
I don't know that a person needs to be called *excited '
because he demands explanations that are his simple
due!"
What in the world do you want me to explain?"
Your conduct with Fred Kinney T' George
fshouted.
Lucy uttered a sudden cry of laughter; she was
delighted. "It's been awful!" she said. "I don't
know that I ever heard of worse misbehaviour ! Papa
and I have been twice to dinner with his family,
and I've been three times to church with Fred — ^and
once to the circus! I don't know when they'll be
here to arrest me!"
"Stop that!" George commanded fiercely. "I
want to know just one thing, and I mean to know it,
too!"
C(
((
176 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
••Whether I enjoyed the circus?**
*^I want to know if you*re engaged to him!**
"^No!" she cried- and lifting her face close to hi$
for the shortest instant possible, she gave him a look
half merry, half defiant, but all fond. It was an
adorable look.
"iticy/** he said huskily.
But she turned quickly from him, and ran to the
other end of the room. He followed awkwardly,
stammering:
"Lucy, I want — ^I want to ask you. Will you —
will you — will you be engaged to Twe.^'*
She stood at a window, seeming to look out intc
the sunmier darkness, her back to him.
"Will you, Lucy?**
"No,** she murmured, just audibly.
"Why not?"
"Fm older than you.**
"Eight months!'*
"You*re too young.**
"Is that—** he said, gulping— "is that the only
reason you won*t?'*
She did not answer.
As she stood, persistently staring out of the win-
dow, with her back to him, she did not see how hum«
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 177
ble his attitude had become; but his voice was low,
and it shook so that she could have no doubt
of his emotion. " Lucy, please forgive me for making
Sttch a row," he said, thus gently. "I've been — ^IVe
been terribly upset — terribly ! You know how I feel
about you, and always have felt al>out you. I've
shown it in every single thing I've done since the first
^imelmet you,and I knowyou knowit. Don't you?'*^
Still she did not move or speak.
"Is the only reason you won't be engaged to me
you think I'm too young, Lucy?"
"It's — ^it's reason enough," she said faintly.
At th<at he caught one of her hands, and she
turned to him: there were tears in her eyes, tears
which he did not imderstand at all.
"Lucy, you little dear!" he cried. "I knem
you "
"No, no!" she said, and she pushed him away^
withdrawing her hand. "" George, let's not talk of
^lemn things."
Solemn things!' Like what?"
Like — being engaged."
But George had become altogether jubilant,, and
he laughed triumphantly. *'6ood gracious^ iAat
*t solemn ! "
« ti
«
178 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
"It is, too!*' she said, wiping her eyes. "It*s
too solemn for us/'
"No, it isn't! I "
"I^et's sit down and be sensible, dear," she said
**You sit over there "
"I will if you'll call me *dear' again."
"No," she said. "I'll only call you that once
<<
C<T'1
again this summer — ^the night before you go away."
"That will have to do, then," he laughed, *'so
long as I know we're engaged."
"But we're^^t!" she protested. "And we nevef
will be, if you donVpromise not to speak of it again
until — ^until I tell you
I won't promise that," salfl^the happy George.
I'll only promise not to speak of it till the next
time you call me *dear': and you've promised to call
me that the night before I leave for my senior
year."
"Oh, but I didn't!" she said earnestly, then hesi-
tated. "Did I?"
Didn't you?"
I don't think I meant it," she murmured, her
wet lashes flickering above troubled eyes.
"I know one thing about you," he said gayly, his
triumph increasing. '"^You never went back cm
«
«
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 179
anything you said, yet, and I*m not afraid of this
»
being the first time!
"But we mustn't let " she faltered; then
went on tremulously, "George, we've got on so
well together, we won't let this make a difference
between us, will we? " And she joined in his laughter.
"It will all depend on what you tell me the night
before I go away. You agree we're going to settle
tilings then, don't you, Lucy?"
"I don't promise."
"Yes, you do! Don't yeu?"
"Wett "
^
CHAPTER Xin
THAT night George began a jubilant war
fare upon his Aunt Fanny, opening the
campaign upon his return home at about
eleven o'clock. Fanny had retired, and was pre-
sumably asleep, but George, on the way to his own
room, paused before her door, and serenaded her
in a full baritone;
"As I walk along the Boy de Balong
With my independent air.
The people all declare,
*He must be a millionaire!'
Ohi you hear them sigh, and wish to die»
And see them wink the other eye
At the man that broke the bank at Monte Carlo!
>»
Isabel came from George's room, where she had
been reading, waiting for him. "I'm afraid you'll
disturb yoiu* father, dear. I wish you'd sing more,
though — ^in the daytime! You have a splendid
voice."
"Good-night, old lady!"
180
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 181
"I thought perhaps I-^ — Didn't you want me to
come in with you and talk a little?"
"Not to-night. You go to bed. Good-night,
old lady!"
He kissed her hilariously, entered his room with a
skip, closed his door noisily; and then he could be
heard tossing things about, loudly humming "The
Man that Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo."
Smiling, his mother knelt outside his door to
pray; then, with her "Amen," pressed her lips to
the bronze door-knob; and went silently to lier own
apartment.
. . . After breakfasting in bed, George spent
the next morning at his grandfather's and did not
encounter his Aunt Fanny until lunch, when she
seemed to be ready for him.
"Thank you so much for the serenade, George!"
she said. " Your poor father tells me he'd just got to
sleep for the first time in two nights, but after your
kind attentions he lay awake the rest of last night.'*
"Perfectly true," Mr. Minafer said grimly.
"Of course, I didn't know, sir," George hastened
to assure him. "I'm awfully sorry. But Aunt
Fanny was so gloomy and excited before I went out,
last evening, I thought she needed cheering up/*
182 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
**//*' Fanny jeered. "J was gloomy? / was
exdted? You mean about that engagement?''
"Yes. Weren't you? I thought I heard you
worrying over somebody's being engaged. Didn't
I hear you say you'd heard Mr. Eugene Morgan
was engaged to marry some pretty little seventeen-
year-old girl?"
Fanny was stung, but she made a brave effort*
'^Did you ask Lucy?" she said, her voice almost
refusing the teasing laugh she tried to make it utter^
"Did you ask her when Fred Kinney and she "
"Yes. That story wasn't true. But the other
one " Here he stared at Fanny, and then
affected dismay. "Why, what's the matter with
your face. Aunt Fanny? It seems agitated!"
*** Agitated !' " Fanny said disdainfully, but her
voio^ undeniably lacked steadiness. "^Agitated!"'
"Oh, come!" Mr. Minafer interposed. "Let's
have a little peace ! "
"I'm willing," said George. "/ don't want to
see poor Aunt Fanny all stirred up over a rumour I
just this minute invented myself. She's so excit-
able— about certain subjects — ^it's hard to control
her." He turned to his mother. "What's the
matter with grandfather r"
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 188
'''Didn't you see liim this morning?'' Isabel
asked.
^^Yes. He was glad to see me, and all that, but
he seemed pretty fidgety. Has he been having
trouble with his heart again?"
"Not lately. No."
"Well, he's not himself. I tried to talk to him
about the estate; it's disgraceful — ^it really is — ^the
way things are looking. He wouldn't Usten> and he
seemed upset. What's he upset over?"
Isabel looked serious; however, it was hut husband
who suggested gloomily, "I suppose the Major's
bothered about this Sydney and Amelia business,
most likely."
"What Sydney and Amelia business?" George
asked.
"Your mother can tell you, if she wants to,*'
Minafer said. "It's not my side of the family, so
I keep oflF."
"It's rather disagreeable for all of us, Georgie,"
Isabel began. "You see, your IJnde Sydney wanted
a diplomatic position, and he thought brother
George, being in Congress, could arrange it. George
did get him the offer of a South American ministry,
but Sydney wanted a European ambassadorship.
184 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
and he got quite indignant with poor George for
thinking he'd take anything smaller — ^and he believes
George didn't work hard enough for him. • George
had done his best, of course, and now he's out of
Congress, and won't run again — so there's Sydney's
idea of a big diplomatic position gone for good.
Well, Sydney and yoiu* Aunt Amelia are terribly dis-
appointed, and they say they've been thinking for
years that this town isn't really fit to live in— *for
a gentleman/ Sydney says — and it is getting rather
big and dirty. So they've sold their Jiouse and
decided to go abroad to live permanently; there's
a villa near Florence they've often talked of buying.
And they want father to let them have their share
of the estate now, instead of waiting for him to
leave it to them in his will."
"Well, I suppose that's fair enough," George
said. " That is, in case he intended to leave them a
certain amount in his will."
"Of course that's understood, Georgie. Father
explained his will to us long ago; a third to them»
and a third to brother George, and a third to us."
Her son made a simple calculation in his mind.
Uncle Seorge was a bachelor, and probably would
never marry; Sydney and Amelia were childless.
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 185
The Major's only grandchild appeared to remain
the eventual heir of the entire property, no matter
if the Major did turn over to Sydney a third of it
now. And George had a fragmentary vision of
himself, in mourning, arriving to take possession of
a historic Florentine villa^ — ^he saw himself walking
up a cypress-bordered path, with ancient carven stone
balustrades in the distance, and servants in mourning
livery greeting the new signore. " Well, I suppose it*s
grandfather's own affair. He can do it or not, just
as he likes. I don't see why he'd mind much."
"He seemed rather confused and pained about
it," Isabel said. "I think they oughtn't to urge it.
George says that the estate won't stand taking out
the third that Sydney wants, and that Sydney and
Amelia are behaving like a couple of pigs." She
laughed, continuing, "Of course / don't know
whether they are or not: I never have understood
any more about business myself than a little pig
would! But I'm on George's side, whether he's
right or wrong; J always was from the time we were
children: and Sydney and Amelia are hurt with me
about it, I'm afraid. They've stopped speaking to
George entirely. Poor father! Family rows at his
time of life."
186 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
George became thoughtful. If Sydney and Ame-
lia were behaving like pigs, things might not be s«
simple as at first they seemed to be. Uncle Sydney
and Aunt Amelia might live an atcful long while,
he thought; and besides, people didn't always leave
their fortunes to relatives. Sydney might die first,
leaving everything to his widow, and some curly-
haired Italian adventurer might get round her, OYet
thare in Florence; she might be fool enough to many
again — or even adopt somebody!
He became more and more thoughtful, forgetting
entirely a plan he had formed for the continued teas-
ing of his Aunt Fanny; and, an hour after lunch, he
strolled over to his grandfather's, intending to
apply for further information, as a party rightfully
interested.
He did not carry out this intention, howeve •
Going into the big house by h side entrance, he was
informed that the Major was upstairs in his bed-
room, that his sons Sydney and George were both
with him, and that a serious argument was in prog-
ress. ^'You kin stan' right in de middle dat big.
Bta'y-way," said Old Sam, the ancient negro, who
was his informant, ^* an' you kin heah all you a-mind
ttt wivout goin' on up no fudda. Mist' Sydney an*
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 187
Mist' Jawge talkin' louduh'n I evuh heah nobody
ca'y on in nish heah house! Quollin% honey, big
<luollin'!*'
**A11 ri^t," said George shortly. "You go on
back to your own part of the house, and dcm't mak«
any talk. Hear me?"
"Yessuh, yessuh/' Sam chuckled, as he shuiBed
away. "Plenty talkin' wivout Sam! Yessuh!" ^
George went to the foot of the great stairway.
He could hear angry voices overhead — ^those of his
two uncles — ^and a plaintive murmur, as if the
Major tried to keep the peace.
Such sounds were far from encouraging to callers,
and George decided not to go upstairs until this
interview was over. His decision was the result of
no timidity, nor of a too sensitive delicacy. What
he felt was, that if he interrupted the scene in his
grandfather's room, just at this time, one of the
three gentlemen engaging in it might speak to him
in a peremptory manner (in the heat of the moment)
and George saw no reason for exposing his dignity
to such mischances. Therefore he turned from the
stairway, and going quietly into the library, picked
up a magazine — ^but he did not open it, for his atten-
tion was instantly arrested by his Aunt Amelia'a
4
188 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
voice, speaking in the next room. The door was
open and George heard her distinctly.
"Isabel does? Isabel!*^ she exclaimed, her tone
high and shrewish. "You needn't tell me anything
about Isabel Minafer, I guess, my dear old Frank
Bronson! I know her a little better than you do,
don't you think?"
George heard the voice of Mr. Bronson replying
— ^a voice familiar to him as that of his grandfather's
attomey-in-chief and chief intimate as well. He was
a contemporary of the Major's, being over seventy^
and they had been through three years of the War
in the same regiment. Amelia addressed him now.
with an eflPect of angry mockery, as "my dear bid
Frank Bronson"; but that (without the mockery)
was how the Amberson family almost always spoke oi
him: "dear old Frank Bronson." He was a hale,
thin old man, six feet three inches tall, and without
a stoop.
"I doubt your knowing Isabel," he said stiflBy.
"You speak of her as you do because she sides with
her brother George, instead of with you and Sydney."
^^Pootl*^ Aunt Amelia was evidently in a pas-
sion. "You know what's been going on over ther^
well enough, Frank Bronson J"
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 1«»
**I don't even know what you're talking about/*
"Oh, you don't? You don't know that Isabel
takes George's side simply because he's Eugene
Morgan's best friend?"
"It seems to me you're talking pure nonsense,"
said Bronson sharply. "Not impure nonsense, I
hope!"
Amelia became shrill. " I thought you were a man
of the world: don't tell me you're blind! For
nearly two years Isabel's been pretending to chap*
erone Fanny Minafer with Eugene, and all the time
she's been dragging that poor fool Fanny around to
chaperone her and Eugene! Under the circum-*
stances, she knows people will get to thinking Fanny's
a pretty sUm kind of chaperone, and Isabel wants to
please George because she thinks there'll be less talk
if she can keep her own •brother around, seeming to
approve. 'Talk!' She'd better look out! The
whole town will be talking, the first thing she knows!
She "
Amelia stopped, and stared at the doorway in a
panic, for her nephew stood there.
She kept her eyes upon his white face for a few
strained moments, then, regaining her nerve, looked
away and shrugged her shoulders.
190 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS
"You weren't intended to hear what I've been
saying, George," she said quietly. "But since
you seem to "
"Yes, I did."
" So ! " She shrugged her shoulders again. " After
all, I don't know but it's just as well, in the long
run.
He walked up to where she sat. "You— you **
he said thickly. "It seems — ^it seems to me you're
— ^you're pretty common!"
Amelia tried to give the impression of an uncon-
cerned person laughing with complete indifference^
but the sounds she produced wei^ disjointed and
uneasy. She fanned herself, looking out of the open
window near her. "Of course, if you want to make
more trouble in the family than we've already got,
George, with your eavesdropping, you can go and
r^>eat "
Old Bronson had risen from his chair in great
distress. "Your aunt was talking nonsense because
she's piqued over a business matter, George," he
said. "She doesn't mean what she said, and neither
she nor any one else gives the slightest credit to such
foolishness — ^no one in the world!"
George gulped, and wet lines shone suddenly
THE MAGNIFICENT aHBERSONS 191
along his lower eyelids. "They — they'd better not!'*
he said, then stalked out of the room, and out of the
house. He stamped fiercely across the stone slabs
of the front porch, descended the steps, and halted
abruptly, blinking in the strong sunshme.
In front of his own gate, beyond the Major's
broad lawn, his mother was just getting into her vic-
toria, where sat already his Aunt Fanny and Lucy
Morgan. It was a summer fashion-picture: the
three ladies charmingly dressed, delicate parasols
aloft; the lines of the victoria graceful as those of a
violin; the trim pair of bays in glistening harness
picked out with silver, and the serious black driver
whom Isabel, being an Amberson, dared even in
that town to put into a black livery coat, boots, white
breeches, and cockaded hat. They jingled smartly
away, and, seeing George standing on the Major's
lawn, Lu(7 waved, and Isabel threw him a kiss.
But George shuddered, pretending not to see them»
and stooped as if searching for something lost in the
grass, protracting that posture until the victoria was
out of hearing. And ten minutes later» George
Amberson, somewhat in the semblance of an angry
person plunging out of the Mansion, found a pale
nephew waiting to accost him.
192 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
I haven't time to talk, Georgie."
Yes, you have. You'd better!"
What's the matter, then?"
His namesake drew him away from the vicinity oi
the house. "I want to tell you something I just
heard Aunt Amelia say, in there."
"I don't want to hear it,^' said Amberson. "I've
been hearing entirely too much of what *Aunt Amelia
says, lately."
"She says my mother's on your side about this
division of the property because you're Eugene
Morgan's best friend."
"What in the name of heaven has that got to df
with your mother's being on my side?"
"She said " George paused to swallow-
"She said " He faltered.
"You look sick," said his imcle, and laughed
shortly. "If it's because of anything Amelia's beep
saying, I don't blame you! What else did she
say?"
George swallowed again, as with nausea, but under
his uncle's encouragement he was able to be explicit.
**She said my mother wanted you to be friendly to
her about Eugene Morgan. She said my mother had
been using Aunt Fanny as a chaperone."
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 193
Amberson emitted a laugh of disgust. "It'a
vvonderful what tommy-rot a woman in a state of
spite can think of! I suppose you don't doubt that
Amelia Amberson created this specimen of tommy-
rot herself?"
"I know she did."
"Then what's the matter?"
"She said — — " George faltered again. "She
said — ^she implied people were — were talking about
it."
"Of all the damn nonsense!" his uncle exclaimed.
George looked at him haggardly. "You're surte
they're not?"
"Rubbish!. Your mother's on my side about this
division because she knows Sydney's a pig and always
has been a pig, and so has his spiteful wife. I'm
trying to keep them from getting the better of your
mother as well as from getting the better of me, don't
you suppose? Well, they're in a rage because Syd-
ney always could do what he liked with father unless
your mother interfered, and they know I got Isabel
to ask him not to do what they wanted. They're
keeping up the fight and they're sore — ^and Amelia's
a woman who always says any damn thing that
comes into her head! That's all there is to it."
IM THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
*'But she said/' George persisted wretchedly; ^Ae
said there was iaUe. She said '*
''Look here, young fellow!" Amberson laughed
good-naturedly. "There probably is some harmless
talk about the way your Aunt Fanny goes after poor
Eugene, and IVe no doubt I Ve abetted it myself.
People can't help being amused by a thing like that.
Fanny was always languishing at him, twenty-odd
years ago, before he left here. Well, we can't
blame the poor thing if she's got her hopes up
again, and I don't know that I blame her, myself,
for using your mother the way she does."
"How do you mean?"
Amberson put his hand on George's shoulder.
"You like to tease Fanny," he said, "but I wouldn't
tease her about this, if I were you. Fanny hasn't
got much in her life. You know, Georgie, just being
an aunt isn't really the great career it may sometimes
appear to you! In fact, I don't know of anything
much that Fanny hcts got, except her feeling about
Eugene. She's always had it — and what's funny to
us is pretty much life-and-death to her, I suspect.
Now, I'll not deny that Eugene Morgan is at-
tracted to your mother. He is; and that's another
case of 'always was'; but I know him, and he's a
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS 195
knight, George — ^a crazy one, perhaps, if youVe
read ^Don Quixote/ And I think your mother likes
him better than she likes any man outside her own
family, and that he interests her more than anybody
else — and ^always has.' And that's all there is to it,
except "
"Except what?" George asked quickly, as he
paused.
"Except that I suspect " Amberson chuckled,
and began over : " I'll tell you in confidence. I think
Fanny's a fairly tricky customer, for such an innocent
old girl! There isn't any real harm in her, but ^he's
a great diplomatist—lots of cards up her laoe sleeves,
Georgie ! By the way, did you ever notice how proud
she is of her arms? Always flashing 'em at poor
Eugene ! " And he stopped to laugh again.
"I don't see anything confidential about that,"
George complained. "I thought '*
"Wait a minute! My idea is — don't forget it's a
confidential one, but I'm devilish right about it,
young Georgie ! — it's this : Fanny uses your mother
for a decoy duck. She does everything in the world
she can to keep your mother's friendship with
Eugene going, because she thinks that's what keeps
Eugene about the place, so to speak. Fanny's al-
196 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
ways with your mother, you see; and whenever he
sees Isabel he sees Fanny. Fanny thinks hell
get used to the idea of her being around^ and some
day her chance may come ! You see, she's probably
afraid — ^perhaps she even knows, poor thing! —
that she wouldn't get to see much of Eugene if it
weren't for Isabel's being such a friend of his.
There! D'you see?"
"Well — I suppose so." George's brow was still
dark, however. "If you're sure whatever talk
there is, is about Aunt Fanny. If that's so "
"Don't be an ass," his uncle advised him lightly,
moving away. " I'm off for a week's fishing to forget
that woman in there, and her pig of a husband."
(His gesture toward the Mansion indicated Mr.
and Mrs. Sydney Amberson.) "I recommend a
like course to you, if you're silly enough to pay any
attention to such rubbishings! Good-bye!"
. . . George was partially reassured, but still
troubled : a word haunted him like the recollection of
a nightmare. " Talk I "
He stood looking at the houses across the streei^
from the Mansion; and though the sunshine wsu!
bright upon them, they seemed mysteriously threat-
ening. He had always despised them, except th^
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 197
largest of them, which was the home of his hench-
man, Charlie Johnson. The Johnsons had originally
owned a lot three hundred feet wide, but they had
sold all of it except the meagre frontage before the
house itself, and five houses were now crowded into
the space where one used to squire it so spaciously.
Up and down the street, the same transformation
had taken place: every big, comfortable old brick
house now had two or three smaller frame neighbours
crowding up to it on each side, cheap-looking neigh-
bours, most of them needing paint and not clean
— and yet, though they were cheap looking, they had
cost as much to build as the big brick houses, whose
former ample yards they occupied. Only where
George stood was there left a cward as of yore; the
great, level, green lawn that Served for both the
Major's house and his daughter's. This serene
domain — ^unbroken, except for the two gravelled
carriage-drives — alone remained as it had been
during the early glories of the Amberson Addition.
George stared at the ugly houses opposite, and
hated them more than ever; but he shivered. Per-
haps the riffraff living in those houses sat at the
windows to watch their betters; perhaps they dared
to gossip
198 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
He uttered an exdamation, and walked rapidly
toward his own front gate. The victoria had re-
turned with Miss Fanny alone; she jumped out
briskly and the victoria waited.
'"Where's mother?" George asked sharply, as
he met her.
''At Lucy's. I only came back to get some em-
broidery, because we found the sun too hot for
driving. Fm in a hurry."
But, going into the house with her, he detained
her when she would have hastened upstairs.
''I haven't time to talk now, Georgie; I'm going
right back. I promised your mother "
"You listen!" said George.
"What on earth "
He repeated what Amelia had said. This time,
however, he spoke coldly, and without the emotion
he had exhibited during the recital to his uncle:
Fanny was the one who showed agitation during
this interview, for she grew fiery red, and her eyes
dilated. "What on earth do you want to bring such
trash to me for?" she demanded, breathing fast.
"I merely wished to know two things: whether
it is your duty or mine to speak to father of what
Aunt Amelia "
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS IW
Fanny stamped her foot. "You little fool!" she
cried. " You awful little fool ! "
"I decline "
"Decline, my hat! Your father's a sick maiu
and you ''
"He doesn't seem so to me.**
"Well, he does to me! And you want to go
troubling him with an Amberson family row! IV s
just what that cat would love you to do! **
"WeU, I **
"Tell your father if yoii like! It will only make
him a little sicker to think he's got a son silly enough
to listen to such craziness!"
"Then you're sure there isn't any talk?"
Fanny disdained a reply in words. She made a
hissing sound of utter contempt and snapped her
• .
fingers. Then she asked scornfully: "What's the
other thing you wanted to know?"
George's pallor increased. "Whether it mightn't
be better, under the circumstances," he said, "if
this family were not so intimate with the Morgan
family — at least for a time. It might be better "
Fanny stared at him incredulously. "You mean
you'd quit seeing Lucy?"
^Iluuin't thought of that side of it, but if such a
u
200 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
f
thing were necessary on account of talk about my
mother, I — ^I " He hesitated unhappily. "I
suggested that if all of us — for a time — perhaps
only for a time — ^it might be better if "
"See here," she interruped. "We*U settle this
nonsense right now. If Eugene Morgan comes to
this house, for instance, to see me, your mother can't
get up and leave the place the minute he gets here,
can she? What do you want her to do: insult him?
Or perhaps you*d prefer she'd insult Lucy? That
would do just as well. What is it you're up to,
anyhow? Do you really love your Aunt Amelia
so much that you want to please her? Or do you
really hate your Aunt Fanny so much that you want
to — ^that you want to "
She choked and sought for her handkerchief; sud
denly she began to cry.
"Oh, see here," George said. "I don't hate you.
Aunt Fanny. That's silly. I don't "
"You do ! You dot You want to — you want to
destroy the only thing — that I — that I ever "
And, unable to continue, she became inaudible in
her handkerchief.
George felt remorseful, and his own troubles were
lightened: all at once it became clear to him that he
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 201
had been worrying about nothing. He perceived
that his Aunt Amelia was indeed an old cat, and
that to give her scandalous meanderings another
thought would be the height of folly. By no means
insusceptible to such pathos as that now exposed
before him, he did not lack pity for Fanny, whose
almost spoken confession was lamentable: and he was
granted the vision to understand that his mother
also pitied Fanny infinitely more than he did. This
seemed to explain everything.
He patted the unhappy lady awkwardly upon her
shoulder. "There, there!" he said. "I didn't
mean anything. Of course the only thing to do
about Aimt Amelia is to pay no attention to her.
It's all right, Aimt Fanny. Don't cry. I feel a
lot better now, myself. Come on; I'll drive back
there with you. It's all over, and nothing's the
matter. Can't you cheer up?"
Fanny cheered up; and presently the customarily
hostile aunt and nephew were driving out Ambersor
Boulevard amiably together in the hot sunshine.
CHAPTER XIV
ALMOST*^ was Lucy's last word on the last
^^J night of George's vacation — that vital even-
ing which, she had half consented to agree
upon for "settling things" between them. "Al-
most engaged," she meant. And George, dis-
contented with the "almost," but contented that
she seemed glad to wear a sapphire locket with a
tiny photograph of George Amberson Minafer inside
it, found himself wonderful in a new world at the
final instant of their parting. For, after declining
to let him kiss her "good-bye," as if his desire for such
a ceremony were the most preposterous absurdity
in the world, she had leaned suddenly close to him
and left upon his cheek the veriest feather from a
fairy's wing.
She wrote him a month later:
No. It must keep on being almost.
Isn't almost pretty pleasant? You know well enough
that I care for you. I did from the first minute I saw you» and
Fm pretty sure you knew it — ^I*m afraid you did. Fm aliraM
MS
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS iJOS
you always knew it. Tm not conventional and cautious about
being engaged, as you say I am» dear. (I always read over the
'* dears" in yimr letters a time or two» as you say you do in mine
— only I read all of your letters a time or two!) But it's such a
solemn thing it scares me. It means a good deal to a lot of
people besides you and me» and that scares me» too. You write
that I take your feeling for me "too lightly" and that I "take the
whole affair too lightly." Isn't that odd! Because to myself
I seem to take it as something so much more scdemn^han you do*
I shouldn't be a bit surprised to find myself an old lady» some day*
still thinking of you — ^while you'd be away and awny with some^
body else perhaps, and me forgotten ages ago! "Lucy Mor-
gan," you'd say, when you saw my obituary. "Lucy Mor-
gan? Let me see: I seem to remember the name. Didn't
I know some Lucy Morgan or other, once upon a time?"
Then you'd shakie your big white head and stroke your long
white beard — ^you'd have such a distinguished long white beard!
and you'd say, 'No. I don't seem to remember any Lucy Mor-
gan; I wonder what ma^e me think I did? ' And poor me! I'd
be deep in the ground, wondering if you'd heard about it and
what you were saying! Good-bye for to-day. Don't work
too hard — dear!
George immediately seized pen and paper, plain-
tively but vigorously requesting Lucy not to im-
agine him with a beard, distinguished or otherwise,
even in the extremities of age. Then, after inscrib-
ing his protest in the matter of this visioned beard,
he concluded his missive in a tone mollified to ten-
demes3> and proceeded to read a letter from his
mother which had reached him simultaneously
204 THE JVIAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
with Liicy's. Isabel wrote from Asheville, wha«
she had just arrived with her husband.
I think your father looks better already, darling, though
we've been here only a few hours. It may be we've found just
the place to build him up. The doctors said they hoped it
would prove to be, and if it is, it would be worth the long struggle
we had with him to get him to give up and come. Poor dear
man, he was so blue, not about his health but about giving up
the worries down at his office and forgetting them for a time —
if he only will forget them! It took the pressure of the family
and all his best friends, to get him to come — ^but father and
brother George and Fanny and Eugene Morgan all kept at him
so constantly that he just had to give in. I'm afraid that in my
anxiety to get him to do what the doctors wanted him to, I
wasn't able to back up brother George as I should in his difficulty
with Sydney and Amelia. I'm so sorry! George is more upset
than I've ever seen him — they've got what they wanted, and
they're sailing before long, I hear, to live in Florence. Father
said he couldn't stand the constant persuading — ^I'm afraid the
word he used was * 'nagging." I can't understand people behav-
ing like that. George says they may be Ambersons, but they're
vulgar! I'm afraid I almost agree with him. At least, I think
they were inconsiderate. But I don't see why I'm unburdening
myself of all this to you, poor darling! We'll have forgotten all
about it long before you come home for the holidays, and it
should mean little or nothing to you, anyway. Forget that I've
been so foolish!
Your father is waiting for me to take a walk with him — that's
a splendid sign, because he hasn't felt he could walk much, at
home, lately. I mustn't keep him waiting. Be careful to wear
your mackintosh and rubbers in rainy weather, and, as soon as
it begins to get colder, your ubter. Wish you could see your
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 206
father now. Looks so much better! We pkm to stay six weeks
if the place agrees with him. It does really seem to already!
He's just called in the door to say he's waiting. Don't smoke
too much, darling boy.
Devotedly, your mother
Isabel.
But she did not keep her husband there for the six
weeks she anticipated. She did not keep him any-
where that long. Three weeks after writing this
letter, she telegraphed suddenly to George that
they were leaving for home at once; and four days
later, when he and a friend came whistling into his
study, from lunch at the club, he found another tele-
gram upon his desk.
He read it twice before he comprehended its
import.
Papa left us at ten this morning, dearest.
Mother.
The friend saw the change in his face. "Not
bad news?"
George lifted utterly dumfounded eyes from the
yellow paper.
"My father," he said weakly. "She says — she
says he's dead. I've got to go home."
206 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
• . • His Unde George and the Major met
him at the station when he arrived — the first time
the Major had ever come to meet his grandson.
The old gentleman sat in his closed carriage (which
still needed paint) at the entrance to the station, but
he got out and advanced to grasp George*s hand
tremulously, when the latter appeared. "Poor
fellow!'* he said, and patted him repeatedly upon
the shoulder. "Poor fellow! Poor Georgie!'*
George had not yet come to a full realization of his
loss: so far, his condition was merely dazed; and as
the Major continued to pat him, murmuring "Poor
fellow!'* over and over, George was seized by an
almost irresistible impulse to tell his grandfather
that he was not a poodle. But he said "Thanks/'
in a low voice, and got into the carriage, his two
relatives following with deferential sympathy. He,
noticed that the Major's tremulousness did not dis-
appear, as they drove up the street, and that he
seemed much feebler than during the summer-
Principally, however, George was concerned with
his own emotion, or rather, with his lack of emotion;
and the anxious sympathy of his grandfather and
his uncle made him feel hypocritical. He was not
grief -stricken; but he felt that he ought to be, andf
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 807
with a secret shame, concealed his callousness be-
neath an affectation of solemnity.
But when he was taken iuto the room where lay
what was left of Wilbur ]Viinafer, George had no
longer to pretend; his grief was sufficient. It
needed only the sight of that forever inert semblance
of the quiet man who had been always so quiet a part
of his son's life — ^so quiet a part that Geoi^ had
seldom been consciously aware that his father was
indeed a part of his life. As the figure lay there,
its very quietness was what was most lifelike; and
suddenly it struck George hard. And in that unex*
pected, racking grief of his son, Wilbur Minafer
became more vividly George's father than he had
^ver been in life.
When George left the room, his arm was about his
black-robed mother, his shoulders were still shaken
with sobs. He leaned upon his mother; she gently
comforted him; and presently he recovered his com-
posure and became self-conscious enough to wonder
if he had not been making an unmanly display of
himself. ^^I'm all right again, mother," he said
QrWkwardly. "Don't worry about me: you'd better
go lie down, or something; you look pretty pale."
Isabel did look pretty pale, but not ghastly pale.
M I
208 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
as Fanny did. Fanny's grief was overwhelming;
she stayed in her room, and George did not see her
until the next day, a few minutes before the funeral,
when her haggard face appalled him. But by this
time he was quite himself again, and during the
short service in the cemetery his thoughts eveii
wandered so far as to permit him a feeling of regret
not directly connected with his father. Beyond
the open flower-walled grave was a mound where
new grass grew; and here lay his great-uncle, old
John Minafer, who had died the previous autumn;
and beyond this were the graves of George's grand-
father and grandmother IVIinafer, and of his grand*
father Minafer's second wife, and her three sons,
George's half -uncles, who had been drowned together
in a canoe accident when George was a child- — ^Fanny
was the last of the family. Next beyond was the
Amberson family lot, where lay the Major's wife
and their sons Henry and Milton, uncles whom
George dimly remembered; and beside them lay
Isabel's older sister, his Aunt Estelle, who had died
m her girlhood, long before George was bom. The
Minafer monument was a granite block, with the
name chiselled upon its one polished side, and the
Amberson monument was a white marble shaft.
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 209
taller than any other in that neighbourhood. But
farther on there was a newer section of the ceme-
tery, an addition which had been thrown open to
occupancy only a few years before, after dexterous
modem treatment by a landscape specialist. There
were some large new mausoleums here, and shafts
taller than the Ambersons', as well as a number of
monuments of some sculptural pretentiousness; and
altogether the new section appeared to be a more
fashionable and important quarter than that older
one which contained the Amberson and Minafer lots.
This was what caused George's regret, during the
moment or two when his mind strayed from his
father and the reading of the service.
. . . On the train, going back to college, ten
da^fs later, this regret (though it was as much an
annoyance as a regret) recurred to his mind, and a
feeling developed within Mm that the new quarter
of the cemetery was in bad taste — not architecturally
or sculpturally perhaps, but in presumption: it
seemed to flaunt a kind of parvenu ignorance, as if
it were actually pleased t© be unaware that all the
aristocratic and really imiportant families were buried
Jn the old section.
. I
«10 THE li£AGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS
The annoyance gave way before a recollection ol
the sweet moumfulness of his mother's face, as she
had said good-bye to him at the station, and of how
lovely she looked in her mowning. He thought of
Lucy, whom he had seen only twice, and he could
not help feeling that in these quiet interviews he had
appeared to her a^ tinged with heroism— she had
shown, rather than said, how brave she thought him
in his sorrow. But what came most vividly to
George's mind, during these retrospections, was
the despairing face of his Aunt Fanny. Again and
again he thought of it; he could not avoid its haunt-
ing. And for days, after he got back to college,
the stricken likeness of Fanny would appear before
him unexpectedly, and without a cause that he could
trace in his immediately previous thoughts. Her
grief had been so silent, yet it had so amazed him.
George felt inore and more compassion for this
ancient antagonist of his, and he wrote to his mother
about her:
I'm afraid poor Aunt Fanny might think now father's gone
we won't want her to live with us any longer and because I
always teased her so much she might think I'd be for turning her
out. I don't know where on earth she'd go or what she could
live on if we did do something like this, and of course we never
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS 211
would do such a thing, but I'm pretty sure she had something of
the kind on her mind. She didn't say anything, but the way
she looked is what makes me think so. Honestly, to me she
looked just scared sick. You tell her there isn't akiy danger
in the world of my treating her like that. Tell her everything
is to go on just as it always has. Tell her to cheer up!
CHAPTER XV
ISABEL did more for Panny than telling her
to cheer up. Everything that Fanny inher-
ited from her father, old Aleck Minafer, had
been invested in Wilbur's business; and Wilbur's
business, after a period of illness corresponding in
dates to the illness of Wilbm-'s body, had died just
before Wilbur did. George Amberson and Fanny
were both "wiped out to a miracle of precision," as
Amberson said. They "owned not a penny and
owed not a penny," he continued, explaining his
phrase. "It's like the moment just before drown-
ing: you're not under water and you're not out of it»
All you know is that' you're not dead yet."
He spoke philosophically, having his "prospects"
from his father to fall back upon; but Fanny had
neither "prospects" nor philosophy. However, a
legal survey of Wilbur's estate revealed the fact
that his life insurance was left clear of the wreck;
and Isabel, with the cheerful consent of her son,
promptly turned this salvage over to her sister-in-
212
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 213
law. Invested, it would yield something better
than nine hundred dollars a year, and thus she was
assured of becoming neither a pauper nor a depen-
dent, but proved to be, as Amberson said, adding his
eflForts to the cheering up of Fanny, "an heiress,
after all, in spite of rolling mills and the devil.'*
She was unable to smile, and he continued his
humane gayeties. "See what a wonderfully desir-
able income nine hundred dollars is, Fanny : a bache*
lor, to be in your class, must have exactly forty-
nine thousand one hundred a year. Then, you see,
all you need to do, in order to have fifty thousand
a year, is to be a little encouraging when some
bachelor in your class begins to show by his haber-
dashery what he wants you to think about him!"
She looked at him wanly, murmured a desolate
response — she had "sewing to do" — and left the
room; while Amberson shook his head ruefully at
his sister. "IVe often thought that humoiu* was
not my forte," he sighed. "Lord! She doesn't
'cheer up' much!"
The collegian did not return to his home for the
holidays. Instead, Isabel joined him, and they
went South for the two weeks. She was proud ol
«14 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
her stalwart, good-looking son at the hotel where they
stayed, and it was meat and drink to her when she
saw how people stared at him in the lobby and on the
big verandas — ^indeed, her vanity in him was so
dominant that she was unaware of their staring at
her with more interest and an admiration friendlier
than George evoked. Happy to have him to herself
for this fortnight, she loved to walk with him, lean-
ing upon his arm, to read with him, to watch the sea
with him — ^perhaps most of all she liked to enter the
big dining room with him.
Yet both of them felt constantly the difference
between this Christmastime and other Christmas-
times of theirs — ^in all, it was a sorrowful holiday.
But when Isabel came East for George's commence-
ment, in June, she brought Lucy with her — ^and
things began to seem different, especially when
George Amberson arrived with Lucy's father on
Class Day. Eugene had been in New York, on busi-
ness; Amberson easily persuaded him to this outing;
and they made a cheerful party of it, with the new
graduate of course the hero and centre of it all.
His uncle was a fellow alumnus. "Yonder was
where I roomed when I was here," he said, pointing
out one of the university buildings to Eugene. "I
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 216
don't know whether Greorge would let my admirers
place a tablet to mark the spot, or not. He owns
all these buildings now> you know/'
"Didn't you, when you were here? like uncle,
like nephew."
"Don't tell George you think he's like me. Just
at this time we should be careful of the young gentle-
man's feelings."
"Yes," said Eugene. "If we weren't he mightn't
let us exist at all."
"I'm sure I didn't have it so badly at his age,"
Amberson said reflectively, as they strolled on
through the commencement crowd. "For one thing,
I had brothers and sisters, and my mother didn't
just sit at my feet as George's does; and I wasn't an
only grandchild, either. Father's always spoiled
Georgie a lot more than he did any of his own
children."
Eugene laughed. "You need only three things
to explain all that's good and bad about Georgie."
"Three?"
"He's Isabel's only child. He's an Amberson.
He's a boy."
''Well, Mister Bones, of these three things which
are the good ones and which are the bad ones?"
216 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
"All of them," said Eugene.
It happened that just then they came in sight of
the subject of their discourse. George was walking
under the elms with Lucy, swinging a stick and point-
ing out to her various objects and localities which
had attained historical value during the last four
years. The two older men marked his gestures,
careless and graceful; they observed his attitude,
unconsciously noble, his easy proprietorship of the
ground beneath his feet and round about, of the
branches overhead, of the old buildings beyond, and
of Lucy.
"I don't know," Eugene said, smiling whimsically.
"I don't know. When I spoke of his being a human
being — I don't know. Perhaps it's more like deity."
"I wonder if I was like that!" Amberson groaned.
"You don't suppose every Amberson has had to go
through it, do you.^^"
"Don't worry! At least half of it is a combina-
tion of youth, good looks, and college; and even the
noblest Ambersons get over their nobility and come
to be people in time. It takes more than time,
though."
"I should say it did take more than time!'* ht^
friend agreed, shaking a rueful head.
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 2ir
Then they walked over to join the loveliest
Amberson, whom neither time nor trouble seemed to
have touched. She stood alone, thoughtful under
the great trees, chaperoning George and Lucy at a
distance; but, seeing the two friends approaching,
she came to meet them.
"It's charming, isn't it!" she said, moving her
black-gloved hand to indicate the summery dressed
crowd strolling about them, or clustering in groups,,
each with its own hero. "They seem so eager and
so confident, all these boys — ^it's touching. But of
course youth doesn't know it's touching."
»
Amberson coughed. "No, it doesn't seem to
take itself as pathetic, precisely! Eugene and I
were just speaking of something like that. Do you
know what I think whenever I see these smooth,,
triumphal young faces? I always think: ^0A>
how you're going to catch it'!'*
"George!"
"Oh, yes," he said. "Life's most ingenious:
it's got a special walloping for every mother's son
of 'em!"
"Maybe," said Isabel, troubled — "maybe some
of the mothers can take the walloping for them."
"Not one!" her brother assured her, wHth em-
«18 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS
phasis. ^^Not any more than she can take on her
own face the lines that are bound to come on her
son's. I suppose you know that all these yoimg
faces have got to get lines on 'em? "
Maybe they won't," she said, smiling wistfully.
Maybe times will change, and nobody will have to
wear lines."
^* Times have changed like that for only one per^
son that I know," Eugene said. And as Isiabel
looked inquiring, he laughed, and she saw that sl^e
was the "only one person." His implication was
justified, moreover, and she knew it. She blushed
charmingly.
"Which is it puts the lines on the faces .'^" Amber-
son asked. "Is it age or trouble? Of course we
can't decide that wisdom does it — ^we must be polite
to Isabel."
"I'll tell you what puts the lines there," Eugene
said. "Age puts some, and trouble puts some, and
work puts some, but the deepest are carved by lack
of faith. The serenest brow is the one that believes
the most."
"In what?" Isabel asked gently.
"In everything!"
She looked at him inquiringly, and he laughed as
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 210
he had a moment before, when she looked at him
that way. "Oh, yes, you do!" he said.
She continued to look at him inquiringly a mo-
ment or two longer, and there was an unconscious
earnestness im her glance, something trustful as well
as inquiring, as if she knew that whatever he meant
it was all right. Then her eyes drooped thought-
fully, and she seemed to address some inquiries to
herself. She looked up suddenly. "WTiy, I be-
Keve," she said, in a tone of surprise, "I believe I
do!"
And at that both men laughed. "Isabel!" her
brother exclaimed. "You're a foolish person! There
are times when you look exactly fourteen years old!'*
But this reminded her of her real affair in that part
of tlie world. "Good gracious!" she said. "Where
have the children got to? We must take Lucy pretty
soon, so that George can go and sit with the Class.
We must catch up with them."
She took her brother's arm, and the three moved
on, looking about them in the crowd.
"Curious," Amberson remarked, as they did not
immediately discover the young people they sought.
"Even in such a concourse one would think we
couldn't fail to see the proprietor."
220 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
"Several hundred proprietors to-day," Eugene
suggested.
"No; they're only proprietors of the university/*
said George's uncle. "We're looking for the pro-
prietor of the universe."
"There he is!" cried Isabel fondly, not minding
this satire at all. "And doesn't he look it!"
Her escorts were still laughing at her when they
joined the proprietor of the universe and his pretty
friend, and though both Amberson and Eugene
declined to explain the cause of their mirth, even
upon Lucy's urgent request, the portents of the day
were amiable, and the five made a happy party —
that is to say, four of them made a happy audience
for the fifth, and the mood of this fifth was gracious
and cheerful.
George took no conspicuous part in either the
academic or the social celebrations of his class; he
seemed to regard both sets of exercises with a toler-
ant amusement, his own "crowd" "not going in
much for either of those sorts of things," as he ex--
plained to Lucy. What his crowd had gone in for
remained ambiguous; some negligent testimony indi-
cating that, except for an astonishing reliability
which they all seemed to have attained in matters
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 22)
relating to musical comedy, they had not gone in for
anything. Certainly the question one of them put
to Lucy, in response to investigations of hers, seemed
to point that way: "Don't you think," he said,
"really, don't you think that being things is rather
better than doing things?"
He said "rahthuh bettuh" for "rather better," and
seemed to do it deliberately, with perfect knowledge
of what he was doing. Later, Lucy mocked him to
George, and George refused to smile: he somewhat
inclined to such pronunciations, himself. This in-
clination was one of the things that he had acquired
in the four years.
What else he had acquired, it might have puzzled
him to state, had anybody asked him and required
Si direct reply within a reasonable space of time.
He had learned how to pass examinations by "cram-
ming"; that is, in three or four days and nights he
could get into his head enough of a selected frag-
ment of some scientific or philosophical or literary
or linguistic subject to reply plausibly to six ques-
tions out of ten. He could retain the information
necessary for such a feat just long enough to give a
successful performance; then it would evaporate*
utterly from his brainy and leave him undisturbed/
222 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
George, like his "crowd/' not only preferred "be
ing things" to "doing things," but had contented
himself with four years of "being things" as a prepa-
ration for going on "being things." And when
Lucy rather shyly pressed him for his friend's prob-
able definition of the "things" it seemed so superior
and beautiful to be, George raised his eyebrows
slightly, meaning that she should have understood
without explanation; but he did explam: "Oh,
family and all that — ^being a gentleman, I suppose.
Lucy gav^ the horizon a long look, but offered no
comment.
CHAPTER XVI
A UNT FANNY doesn't look much better/*
/% George said to his mother, a few minutes
^ -^ after their arrival, on the night they got
home. He stood with a towel in her doorway, con-
eluding some sketchy ablutions before going down-
stairs to a supper which Fanny was hastily preparing
for them.. .Isabel had not telegraphed; Fanny was
taken by surprise when they drove up in a station
cab at eleven o'clock; and George instantly de-
manded "a little decent food." (Some criticisms
of his had publicly disturbed the composure of the
dining-car steward four hours previously.) "I
never saw anybody take things so hard as she seems
to," he observed, his voice muffled by the toweL
"Doesn't she get over it at all? I thought she'd
feel better when we turned over the insurance to
her — ^gave it to her absolutely, without any strings to
it. She looks about a thousand years old!"
"She looks quite girlish, sometimes, though," his
mother said.
224 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
"Has she looked that way much since father **
"Not so mixch," Isabel said thoughtfully. "But
she will, as times goes on."
"Time'Il have to hUrry, then, it seems to me,'*
George observed, returning to his own room.
When they went down to the dining room, he
pronounced acceptable the sahnon salad, cold beef,
cheese, and cake which Fanny made ready for them
without disturbing the servants. The journey had
fatigued Isabel, she ate nothing, but sat to observe
with tired pleasure the manifestations of her son's
appetite, meanwhile giving her sister-in-law a brief
summary of the events of commencement. But
presently she kissed them both good-night — ^taking
<jare to kiss George lightly upon the side of his head,
;so as not to disturb his eating — and left aiint and
nephew alone together.
"It never was becoming to her to look pale,"
Fanny said absently, a few moments after Isabel's
departure.
^*Wha'd you say. Aunt Fanny?"
"Nothing. I suppose your mother's been being
pretty gay? Going a lot?"
"How could she?" George asked cheerfully.
"In mourning, of course all she could do was ju§t
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 225
sit around and look on. That's all Lucy could do
either, for the matter of that/'
"I suppose so," his aunt assente'd. "How did
Lucy get home?"
George regarded her with astonishment. "Why,
on the train with the rest of us, of course."
"I didn't mean that," Fanny explained. "I
meant from the station. Did you drive out to their
house with her before you came here? "
"No. She drove home with her father, of
course."
"Oh, I see. So Eugene came to the station to
meet you."
"*To meet us?'" George echoed, renewing his
attack upon the salmon salad. "How could he?"
"I don't know what you mean," Fanny said
drearily, in the desolate voice that had become her
habit. "I haven't seen him while your mother's
been away."
"Naturally," said George. "He's been East him-
self,"
At this Fanny's drooping eyelids opened wide.
"Did you see him?"
"Well, naturally, since he made the trip home
with usl"
«26 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
" He did? *' she said sharply. " He*s been with you
all the time?"
"No; only 'on the train and the last three days
before we left. Uncle George got him to come."
Fanny's eyelids drooped again, and she sat silent
until George pushed back his chair and lit a ciga-
rette, declaring his satisfaction with what she had
provided. "You're a fine housekeeper," he said
benevolently. "You know how to make things look
dainty as well as taste the right way. I don't be-
lieve you'd stay single very long if some of the
bachelors and widowers around town could just
once see "
She did not hear him. "It's a Uttle odd," she
said.
"What's odd?"
"Your mother's not mentioning that Mr. Morgan
had been with you."
"Didn't think of it, I suppose," said George
carelessly; and, his benevolent mood increasing, he
conceived the idea that a httle harmless rallying
might serve to elevate his aunt's drooping spirits.
"I'll tell you something, in confidence," he said
solemnly.
She looked up , startled. "What? "
«'
«l
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 227
•*Well, it struck me that Mr. Morgan was looking
pretty absent-minded, most of the time; and he cer-
tainly is dressing better than he used to. Uncle
George told me he heard that the automobile fac-
tory had been doing quite well — won a race, too ! I
shouldn't be a bit surprised if all the yoimg fellow
had been waiting for wais to know he had an assured
income before he proposed."
What Voung fellow'?"
- - ♦ •
This young fellow Morgan," laughed George.
"Honestly, Aunt Fanny, I shouldn't be a bit sur-
prised to have him request an interview with me any
day, and declare that his intentions are honourable,
and ask my permission to pay his addresses to you.
What had I better tell him?"
Fanny burst into tears.
"Good heavens!" George cried. "I was only
teasing. I didn't mean "
"Let me alone," she said lifelessly; and, continuing
tx) weep, rose and began to clear away the dishes.
"Please, Aunt Fanny "
"Just let me alone."
George was distressed. "I didn't mean anything.
Aunt Fanny ! I didn't know you'd got so sensitive
as all that"
«
cc
228 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
"You'd better go up to bed," she said desolately,
going on with her work and her weeping.
"Anyhow," he insisted, "do let these things wait.
Let the servants 'tend to the table in the morning."
No."
But, why not?"
"Just let me alone."
"Oh, Lord!" George groaned, going to the dow.
There he turned. "See here. Aunt Fanny, there's
not a bit of use your bothering about those dishes
to-night. What's the use of a butler and three
maids if "
"Just let me alone."
He obeyed, and could still hear a pathetic sniffing
from the dining room as he went up the stairs.
"By George!" he grunted, as he reached his own
room; and his thought was that living with a person
so sensitive to kindly raillery might prove lugubri-
ous. He whistled, long and low, then went to the
window and looked through the darkness to the
great silhouette of his grandfather's house. Lights
were burning over there, upstairs; probably his newly
arrived uncle was engaged in talk with the Major. '
George's glance lowered, resting casually upon the
indistinct ground* and he beheld some vague shapes*
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 229
unfamiliar to him. Formless heaps, they seemed;
but, without much curiosity, he supposed that sewer
connections or water pipes might be out of order,
making necessary some excavations. He hoped the
work would not take long; he hated to see that
sweep of lawn made unsightly by trenches and lines
of dirt, even temporarily. Not greatly disturbed,
however, he pulled down the shade, yawned, and
began to undress, leaving further investigation for
the morning.
But in the morning he had forgotten all about it,
and raised his shade, to let in the light, without even
glancing toward the ground. Not imtil he had
finished dressing did he look forth from his window,
and then his glance was casual. The next instant
his attitude became electric, and he gave utterance
to a bellow of dismay. He ran from his room,
plunged down the stairs, out of the front door, and,
upon a nearer view of the destroyed lawn, began to
release profanity upon the breezeless summer air^
which remained imaflFected. Between his mother's
house and his grandfather's, excavations for the
cellars of five new houses were in process, each within
a few feet of its neighbour. Foundations of brick
were being laid; everywhere were piles of brick
230 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSON&
and stacked lumber, and sand heaps and mortar
beds.
it was Smiday, and so the workmen implicated in
these defacmgs were denied what unquestionably
they would have considered a treat; but as the fa-
natic orator continued the monologue, a gentleman in
flannels emerged upward from one of the excava-
tionsy and regarded him contemplatively.
"Obtaining any relief, nephew?" he inquired with
some interest. "You must have learned quite a
number of those expressions in childhood — ^it*s so
long since I'd heard them I fancied they were obso-
lete."
"Who wouldn't swear?" George demanded hotly.
"In the name of God, what does grandfather mean,
doing such things?"
My private opinion is," said Amberson gravely^*
he desires to increase his mcome by building these
houses to rent."
"Well, in the name of God, can't he increase his
income any other way but this?"
"In the name of God, it would appear he couldn't.'*
"It's beastly! It's a damn degradation! It's a
cnme!
**I don't know about its being a crime," said his
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 831
uncle, stepping over some planks to join him. **Ii
might be a mistake, though. Your mother said not
to tell you until we got home, so as not to spoil
commencement for you. She rather feared you'd be
upset."
"Upset! Oh, my Lord, I should think I would
be upset! He's in his second childhood. What
did you .let him do it for, in the name of "
"Make it in the name of heaven this time, George; '
it's Sunday. Well, I thought, myself, it was a mis-
take."
"I should say so!"
"Yes," said Amberson. "I wanted him to put
up an apartment building instead of these houses."
" An apartment building ! Here ? "
"Yes; that was my idea."
George struck his hands together despairingly.
"An apartment house! Oh, my Lord!"
"Don't worry! Your grandfather wouldn't listen
to me, but he'll wish he had, some day. He says
that people aren't going to live in miserable^ little^
flats when they can get a whole house with some
grass in front and plenty of backyard behind. He
sticks it out that apartment houses will never do in a
town of this type, and when I pointed out to him
832 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
that a dozen or so of 'em already are doing, he
claimed it was just the novelty, and that they'd all be
empty as soon as people got used to 'em. So he's
putting up these houses."
"Is he getting miserly in his old age?"
"Hardly! Look what he gave Sydney and
Amelia!"
" I don't mean he's a miser, of course," said George.
"Heaven knows he's liberal enough with mother
and me; but why on earth didn't he sell something
or other rather than do a thing like this?"
"As a matter of fact," Amberson returned coolly,
" I believe he hxis sold something or other, from time
to time."
"Well, in heaven's name," George cried, "what
did he do it for?"
" To get money," his uncle mildly replied. " That's
my deduction."
"I suppose you're joking— or trying to!"
"That's the best way to look at it," Amberson
said amiably. "Take the whole thing as a joke —
and in the meantime, if you haven't had your break-
fast "
"I haven't!'*
" Then if I were you I'd go in and get some. And "
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 233
— he paused, becoming serious — "and if I were
you I wouldn't say anything to your grandfather
about this."
"I don't think I could trust myself to speak to
him about it," said George. "I want to treat him
respectfully, because he is my grandfather, but I
don't believe I could if I talked to him about such a
thing as this!"
And with a gesture of despair, plainly signifying
that all too soon after leaving bright college years
behind him he had entered into the full tragedy of
life, George turned bitterly upon his heel and went
into the house for his breakfast.
His uncle, with his head whimsically upon one
side, gazed after him not altogether unsympa-
thetically, then descended again into the excavation
whence he had lately emerged. Being a philosopher
he was not surprised, that afternoon, in the course
of a drive he took in the old carriage with the Major,
when George was encoimtered upon the highway,
flashing along in his runabout with Lucy beside him
and Pendennis doing better than three minutes.
"He seems, to have recovered," Amberson re-
marked: "" Looks in the highest good spirits.'*'
"I b^ your pa.^on,"
CHAPTER XVn
YOUNG George paid his respects to his grand-
father the following morning, having been
occupied with various affairs and engage-
ments on Sunday until after the Major's bedtime;
and topics concerned with building or excavations
were not introduced inix) the conversation, which
was a cheerful one until George Ughtly mentioned
some new plans of his. He was a skillful driver, as
the Major knew, and he spoke of his desire tow ex-
tend his proficiency in this art: in fact, he entertained
the ambition to drive a four-in-hand. However, as
the Major said nothing, and merely sat still, look-
ing surprised, George went on to say that he did not
propose to "go in for coaching just at the start";
Jie thought it would be better to begin with a tan-
dem. He was sure Pendennis could be trained to
work as a leader; and all that one needed to buy at
present, he said, would be ** comparatively inexpen-
sive— a new trap, and the harness, of course, and a
good bay tO *match Pendeiuiis>' He did not care
2M ,
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 237
for a special groom; one of the stablemen would
do.
At this point the Major decided to speak. "You
say one of the stablemen would do?" he inquired,
his widened eyes remaining fixed upon his grandson.
"That*s lucky, because one's all there is, just at
present, George. Old fat Tom does it all. Didn't
you notice, when you took Pendennis out, yester-
day?"
"Oh, that will be all right, sir. My mother can
lend me her man."
"Can she?" The old gentleman smiled faintly.
"I wonder " He paused.
"What, sir?"
"Whether you mightn't care to go to law-school
somewhere perhaps. I'd be glad to set aside a sum
that would see you through."
This senile divergence from the topic in hand sur-
prised George painfully. "I have no interest what-
ever in the law," he said. "I don't care for it, and
the idea of being a professional man has never ap-
pealed to me. None of the family has ever gone in
for that sort of thing, to my knowledge, and I don't
care to be the first. I was speaking of driving a
tdndem "
«S8 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
"I know you were," the Major said quietly.
George locked hurt. "I beg your pardon. Of
course if the idea doesn't appeal to you " And
he rose to go.
The Major ran a tremulous hand through his
hair, sighing deeply. "I — I don't like to refuse you
anything, Georgie," he said. "I don't know that
I often have refused you whatever you wanted —
in reason "
"YouVe always been more than generous, sir,"
George interrupted quickly. "And if the idea of a
tandem doesn't appeal to you, why — of course "
And he waved his hand, heroically dismissing the
tandem.
The Major's distress became obvious. "Georgie,
I'd like to, but — ^but I've an idea tandems are dan-
gerous to drive, and your mother might be anxious.
She "
"No, sir; I think not. She felt it would be rather
a good thing — ^help to keep me out in the open air.
But if perhaps your finances "
"Oh, it isn't that so much," the old gentleman said
hurriedly. "I wasn't thinking of that altogether."
He laughed uncomfortably. "I guess we could stfU
afford a new horse or two, if need be **
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 2S9
"I thought you said "
The Major waved his hand airily. "Oh, a few
retrenchments where things were useless: nothing
gained by a raft of idle darkies in the stable — ^nor
by a lot of extra land that might as well be put to
work for us in rentals. And if you want this thing
so very much "
"It's not important enough to bother about,
really, of course."
"Well, let's wait till autumn then," said the Major
in a tone of relief. " We'll see about it in the autumn,
if you're still in the mind for it then. That will be
a great deal better. You remind me of it, along in
September — or October. We'll see what can be
done." He rubbed his hands cheerfully. "We'll
see what can be done about it then, Georgie. We'll
And George, in reporting this conversation to his
mother, was ruefully humorous. "In fact, the old
boy cheered up so much," he told her, "you'd have
thought he'd got a real load off his mind. He
seemed to think he'd fixed me up perfectly, and that
I was just as good as driving a tandem around his
library right that minute ! Of course I know he's
anything but miserly; still I can't help thinking he'
240 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
must be salting a lot of money away. I know
prices are higher than they used to be, but he doesn't
spend within thousands of what he used to, and toe
certainly can't be spending more thaii we always have
spent. Where does it all go to? Unde George told
me grandfather had sold some pieces of proj)erty,
and it looks a little queer. If he's really 'property
poor,' of course we ought to be more saving than we
are, and help him out. / don't mind giving up a
tandem if it seems a little too ejqpensive just now.
I'm perfectly willing to live quietly till he gets his
bank balance where he wants it. But I have a faint
suspicion, not that he's getting miserly — not that at
all — but that old age has begun to make him timid
about money. There's no doubt about it, he's get-
ting a little queer: he can't keep his mind on a sub-
ject long. Right in the middle of talking about one
thing he'll wander off to something else; and I
shouldn't be surprised if he turned out to be a lot
better off than any of us guess. It's entirely pos-
sible that whatever he's sold just went into govern-
ment bonds, or even his safety deposit box. There
was a friend of mine in college had an old uncle like
that: made the whole family think he was poor as
dirt — and then left seven millions. People get ter*
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 241
ribly queer as they get old, sometimes, and grand-^
father certainly doesn't act the way he used to. He
seems to be a totally different man. For instance, he
said he thought tandem driving might be danger-
ous "
"Did he?" Isabel asked quickly. "Then I'm
glad he doesn't want you to have one. I didn't
dream "
"But it's not. There isn't the slightest "
Isabel had a bright idea. "Georgie! Instead of
a tandem wouldn't it interest you to get one of
Eugene's automobiles?"
"I don't think so. They're fast enough, of course.
In fact, running one of those things is getting to be
quite on the cards for sport, and people go all over
the country in 'em. But they're dirty tilings, and
they keep getting out of order, so that you're always
lying down on your back in the mud, and "
"Oh, no," she interrupted eagerly. "Haven't
you noticed? You don't see nearly so many people
doing that nowadays as you did two or three years
ago, and, when you do, Eugene says it's apt to be
one of the older patterns. The way they make them
now, you can get at most of the machinery from the
top. I do think you'd be interested, dear."
242 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
George remained indifferent. "Possibly — but I
hardly think so. I know a lot of good people are
really taking them up, but still "
'"But stiir what.^" she said as he paused.
"But still — well, I suppose I'm a little old-
fashioned and fastidious, but I'm afraid being a sort
of engine driver never will appeal to me, mother.
It's exciting, and I'd like that part of it, but still it
doesn't seem to me precisely the thing a gentleman
ought to do. Too much overalls and monkey-
wrenches and grease!"
"But Eugene says people are hiring mechanics
to do all that sort of thing for them. They're
beginning tc have them just the way they have
coachmen; and he says it's developing into quite a
profession.'^
"I know that, mother, of course; but I've seen
some of these mechanics, and they're ^ot very sat-
isfactory. For one thing, most of them only pre-
tend to understand the machinery and they let
people break down a hundred miles from nowhere,
so that about all these fellows are good f o?* is to hunt
up a farmer and hire a horse to pull the automobile.
And friends of- mine at college that've had a good
deal of experience tell me the mechanics who do
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 24S
understand the engines have no training at all as
servants. They're awful! They say anything they
like, and usually speak to members of the family
as *Say!' No, I believe I'd rather wait for Septem'
ber and a tandem, mother."
Nevertheless, George sometimes consented to sit
in an automobile, while waiting for September, and
he frequently went driving in one of Eugene's cars
with Lucy and her father. He even allowed him-
self to be escorted with his mother and Fanny
through the growing factory, which was now, as the
foreman of the paint shop informed the visitors,
''turning out a car and a quarter a day." George
had seldom been more excessively bored, but his
mother showed a lively interest in everything, wish-
ing to have all the machinery explained to her.
It was Lucy who did most of the explaining, while
her father looked on and laughed at the mistakes
she made, and Fanny remained in the backgroimd
with George, exhibiting a bleakness that over-
matched his boredom.
From the factory Eugene took them to lunch at
a new restaurant, just opened in the town, a place
which surprised Isabel with its metropolitan air,
and, though George made fun of it to her, in a whis-
244 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
per, she offered everything the tribute of pleased
exclamations; and her gayety helped Eugene's to
make the little occasion almost a festive one.
George's ennui disappeared in spite of himself,
and he laughed to see his mother in such spirits.
"I didn't know mineral waters could go to a person's
head," he said. "Or perhaps it's this place. It
might pay to have a new restaurant opened some^
where in town every time you get the blues."
Fanny turned to him with a wan smile. "Oh,
she doesn't *get the blues,' George!" Then she
added, as if fearing her remark might be thought
unpleasantly significant, "I never knew a person of
a more even disposition. I wish I could be like
that!" And though the tone of this afterthought
was not so enthusiastic as she tried to make it, she
succeeded in producing a fairly amiable effect.
"No," Isabel said, reverting to George's remark,
and overlooking Fanny's. "What makes me laugh
so much at nothing is Eugene's factory. Wouldn't
anybody be deUghted to see an old friend take an
idea out of the air like that — an idea that most
people laughed at him for — wouldn't any old friend
of his be happy to see how he'd made his idea into
such a splendid, humming thing as that factory — sXS
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 245
shiny steel, clicking and buzzing away, and with all
those workmen, such muscled looking men and yet
so intelligent looking?"
"Hear! Hear!" George applauded. "We seem
to have a lady orator among us. I hope the waiters
won't mind."
Isabel laughed, not discouraged. "It's beautiful
to see such a thing," she said. "It makes us all
happy, dear old Eugene!"
And with a brave gesture she stretched out her
hand to him across the small table. He took it
quickly, giving her a look in which his laughter tried
to remain, but vanished before a gratitude threaten-
ing to become emotional in spite of him. Isabel,
however, turned instantly to Fanny. "Give him
your hand, Fanny," she said gayly; and, as Fanny
mechanically obeyed, "There!" Isabel cried. "If
brother George were here, Eugene would have his
three oldest and best friends congratulating him aU
at once. We know what brother George thinks^
about it, though. It's just beautiful, Eugene!"
Probably if her brother George had been with
them at the little table, he would have made known
what he thought about herself, for it must inevitably
have struck him that she was in the midst of one of
246 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
those "times" when she looked "exactly fourteen
years old." Lucy served as a proxy for Amberson,
perhaps, when she leaned toward George and whis-
pered: "Did you ever see anything so lovely?"
"As what?" George inquired, not because he
misunderstood, but because he wished to prolong
the pleasant neighbourliness of whispering.
"As your mother! Think of her doing that!
She's a darling! And papa" — here she imper-
fectly repressed a tendency to laugh — "papa looks
as if he were either going to explode or utter
loud sobs!"
Eug^ie commanded his features, however, and
they resumed their customary apprehensiveness.
"I used to write verse," he said — "if you remem-
ber "
"Yes," Isabel interrupted gently. "I remem-
ber."
"I don't recall that I've written any for twenty
years or so," he continued. "But I'm almost think-
ing I could do it again, to thank you for making a
factory visit into such a kind celebration."
"Gracious!" Lucy whispered, giggling. "Aren't
they sentimental!"
People that age always are," George returned.
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 247
*'They get i^entimental over anything at all. Fac-
tories or restaurants, it doesn't matter what!"
And both of them were seized with fits of laughter
which they managed to cover under the general
movement of departure, as Isabel had risen to
go.
Outside, upon the crowded street, George helped
Lucy into his runabout, and drove oflF, waving tri-
umphantly, and laughing at Eugene who was
struggUng with the engine of his car, in the tonneau
of which Isabel and Fanny had established them-
selves. 'Looks like a hand-organ man grinding
away Hot pennies," said George, as the runabout
turned the comer and into National Avenue. "I'll
still take a horse, any day."
He was not so cocksure, half an hour later, on an
open road, when a siren whistle wailed behind him,
and before the soimd had died away, Eugene's car,
coming from behind with what seemed fairly like one
long leap, went by the runabout and dwindled al-
most instantaneously in perspective, with a lace
handkerchief in a black-gloved hand fluttering sweet
derision as it was swept onward into minuteness — a
mere white speck — and then out of sight.
George was undoubtedly impressed. " Your father
«48 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBER90NS
does know how to drive some," ilie dashing
exhibition forced him to admit. "Of course Pen-
dennis isn't as yomig as he was, and I don't care to
push him too hard. I wouldn't mind handUng
one of those machines on the road like that, myself,
if that was all there was to it — ^no cranking to do,
or fooling with the engine. Well, I enjoyed part
of that limch quite a lot, Lucy."
The. salad.?"
No. Your whispering to me."
Blarney!"
George made no response, but checked Pendennis
to a walk. Whereupon Lucy protested quickly i
"Oh, don't!"
Why? Do you want him to trot his legs oflF.?'*
No, but-
a
a
((
t(
«XT_ 1 X 9*
"^No, but'— what.?"
She spoke with apparent gravity: "I know when
you make him walk it's so you can give all your
attention to — to proposing to me again!"
And as she turned a face of exaggerated colour to
him, " By the Lord, but you're a little witch ! " George
cried.
** George, do let Pendennis trot again ! "
"I won't!"
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 249
She clucked to the horse. "Gret up, PendennisI
Trot! Gro on! Commence!"
Pendennis paid no attention; she meant nothing
to him, and George laughed at her fondly. "You
are the prettiest thing in this world, Lucy!*' he
exclaimed. "When I see you in winter, in furs,
with your cheeks red, I think you're prettiest then,
but when I see you in summer, in a straw hat and a
shirtwaist and a duck skirt and white gloves and ^
those little silver buckled slippers, and your rose-
coloured parasol, and your cheeks not red but with
a kind of pinky glow about them, then I see I must
have been wrong about the winter! When are
you going to drop the *almost' and say we're really
engaged?"
"Oh, not for years! So there's the answer, and
fet's trot again."
But George was persistent; moreover, he had be-
come serious during the last minute or two. "I
want to know," he said. "I really mean it."
"Let's don't be serious, George," she begged him
hopefully. "Let's talk of something pleasant."
He was a little oflFended. "Then it isn't pleasant
for you to know that I want to marry you?"
At this she became as ^^rious as he could have
250 THE JIAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
asked; she looked down, and her lip quivered like
that of a child about to cry. Suddenly she put her
hand upon one of his for just an instant, and then
withdrew it.
"Lucy!" he said huskily. "Dear, what's the
matter.^ You look as if you were going to cry.
You always do that," he went on plaintively, "when-
ever I can get you to talk about marrying me."
"I know it," she murmured.
"Well, why do you.?"
Her eyelids flickered, and then she looked up a1
him with a sad gravity, tears seeming just at the
poise. "One reason's because I have a feeling that
it's never going to be."
"Why?"
"It's just a feeling."
"You haven't any reason or '*
"It's just a feeling."
"Well, if that's all," George said, reassured, and
laughing confidently, "I guess I won't be very much
troubled!". But at once he became serious again,
adopting the tone of argument. "Lucy, how is
anything ever jgoing to get a chance to come of it, so
long as you keep sticking to ^almost'? Doesn't it
strike you as unreasonable to have a ^feeling' that
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 25>
we'll never be married, when what prmeipally
stands between us is the fact that you won't be
really engaged to me? That does seem pretty
absurd! Don't you care enough about me to
marry me?"
She looked down again, pathetically troubled.
"Yes."
"Won't you always care that much about me?"
"I'm — yes — I'm afraid so, George. I never do
change much about anything."
^Well, then, why in the world won't you drop the
^almost'?"
*
Her distress increased. "Everything is — every
thing — -"
"What about 'everything'?"
"Everything is so — so unsettled."
And at that he uttered an exclamation of im-
patience. "If you aren't the queerest girl! What
is *imsettled'?**
"W^ell, for one thing," she said, able to smile at
his vehemence, "you haven't settled on anything to
*io. At least, if you have you've never spoken of
it."
As she spoke, she gave him the quickest possible
side glance of hopeful scrutiny; then looked away.
tt
«
862 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBESSONS
not happily. Surprise and displeasure were inten-
tionally visible upon the countenance of her com*
panion; and he permitted a significant period of
silence to elapse before making any response.
**Lucy/* he said, finally, with cold dignity, "I
should like to ask you a few questions."
Yes.?"
The first is: Haven't you perfectly well under-
stood that I don't mean to go into business or adopt
a profession?"
"I wasn't quite sure," she said gently. "I really
didn't know — quite."
"Then of course it's time I did tell you. I never
have been able to see any occasion for a man's going
into trade, or being a lawyer, or any of those things
if his position and family were such that he didn't
need to. You know, yourself, there are a lot of
people in the East — in the South, too, for . that
matter — that don't think we've got any particular
family or position or culture in this part of the coun-
try. I've met plenty of that kind of provincial
snobs myself, and they're pretty galling. There
were one or two men in my crowd at college, their
families had lived on their income for three genera-
tions, and they never dreamed there was anybody
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 253
in their class out here. I had to show them a thing
or two, right at the start, and I guess they won't for-
get it! Well, I think it's time all their sort found
out that three generations can mean just as much out
here as anywhere else. That's the way I feel about
it, and let me tell you I feel it pretty deeply!"
"But what are you going to do, George?" she
cried.
George's earnestness surpassed hers; he had be-
come flushed and his breathing was emotional. As
he confessed, with simple genuineness, he did feel
what he was saying "pretty deeply"; and in truth
his state approached the tremulous. "I expect to
live an honourable life," he said. "I expect to con-
tribute my share to charities, and to take part in —
in movements."
"What kind?"
"Whatever appeals to me," he said.
Lucy looked at him with grieved wonder. "But
you really don't mean to have any regular busi-
ness or profession at all?'*
"I certainly do not!" George returned promptly
and emphatically.
**I was afraid so," she said in a low voice.
George continued to breathe deeply throughout
264 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
another protracted interval of silence. Then he
said, "I should like to revert to the questions I was
asking you, if you don't mind."
"No, George. I think we'd better ."
"Your father is a business man "
"He's a mechanical genius," Lucy interrupted
quickly. "Of course he's both. And he was a
lawyer once — ^he's done all sorts of things."
"Very well. I merely wished to ask if it's his
influence that makes you think I ought to *do'
something.'^"
Lucy frowned slightly. "Why, I suppose almost
everything" I think or say must be owing to his
influence in one way or another. We haven't had
anybody but each other for so many years, and we
always think about alike, so of course "
"I see!" And George's brow darkened with
resentment. "So that's it, is it? It's your father's
idea that I ought to go into business and that you
oughtn't to be engaged to me until I do."
Lucy gave a start, her denial was so quick..
"No! I've never once spoken to him about it.
Never!"
George looked at her keenly, and he jumped to
^ conclusion not far from the truth. "But you
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 255
know without talking to him that it's the way he
does feel about it? I see."
She nodded gravely. "Yes."
George's brow grew darker still. "Do you
think I'd be much of a man," he said, slowly, "if
I let any other man dictate to me my own way of
life?"
"George! Who's ^dictating' your "
"It seems to me it amounts to that!" he returned.
"Oh, no! I only know how papa thinks about
things. He's never, never spoken imkindly, or
*dictatingly' of you." She lifted her hand in protest,
and her face was so touching in its distress that for
the moment George forgot his anger. He seized
that small, trolled hand.
"Lucy," he said huskily. "Don't you know that
I love you?"
"Yes— I do."
"Don't you love me?"
,"Yes— I do."
"Then what does it matter what your father thinks
about my doing something or not doing anything?
He has his way, and I have mine. I don't believe in
the whole world scrubbing dishes and selling potatoes
and trying law cases. Why, look at your father's
266 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
best friend, my Uncle George Amberson — ^he's never
done anything in his life, and "
"Oh, yes, he has," she interrupted. "He was in
politics/*
"Well, I'm glad he's out," George said. "PoU-
tics is a dirty business for a gentleman, and Uncle
George would tell you that himself. Lucy, let's not
talk any more about it. Let me tell mother
when I get home that we're engaged. Won't you,
dear?"
She shook her head.
"Is it because "
For a fleeting instant she touched to her cheek the
hand that held hers. "No," she said, said gave him
a sudden little look of renewed gayety. "Let's let
it stay ^almost'."
"Because your father "
"Oh, because it's better!"
George's voice shook. "Isn't it your father?"
"It's his ideals I'm thinking of — ^yes."
George dropped her hand abruptly and anger
narrowed his eyes. "I know what you mean," he
said. " I dare say I don't care for your father's ideals
any more than he does for mine !"
He tightened the reins, Pendennis quickening eag-
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 257
erly to the trot; and when George jumped out of
the runabout before Lucy's gate, and assisted her to
descend, the silence in which they parted was the
same that had begun .when Pendennis b^an to
trot.
CHAPTER XVin
TjtIAT evening, after dinner, George sat with
his mother and his Aunt Fanny upon the
veranda. In former summers, when they
sat outdoors in the evening, they had customarily
used an open terrace at the side of the house, looking
toward the Major's, but that more private retreat
now afforded too blank and abrupt a view of the
nearest of the new houses; so, without consultation,
they had abandoned it for the Romanesque stone
structure in front, an oppressive place.
Its oppression seemed congenial to George; he sat
ipon the copestone of the stone pflrapet, his back
against a stone pilaster; his attitude not comfortable,
but rigid, and his silence not comfortable, either, but
heavy. However, to the eyes of his mother and his
aunt, who occupied wicker chairs at a little distance,
he was almost indistinguishable except for the stiff
white shield of his evening frontage.
"It's so nice of you always to dress in the evenings
Georgie," his mother said, her glance resting upon
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 259
this surface. "Your Uncle George always used to,
and so did father, for years; but they both stopped
quite a long time ago. Unless there's some special
occasion, it seems to me we don't see it done any
more, except on the stage and in the magazines."
He made no response, and Isabel, after waiting a
little while, as if she expected one, appeared to ac-
quiesce in his mood for silence, and turned her head
to gaze thoughtfully out at the street.
There, in the highway, the evening life of the
Midland city had begun. A rising moon was
bright upon the tops of the shade trees, where their
branches met overhead, arching across the street,
but only filtered splasbings of moonlight reached
the block pavement below; and through this dark-
ness flashed the firefly lights of silent bicycles glid-
ing by in pairs and trios — or sometimes a dozen at a
time might come, and not so silent, striking their
little bells; the riders' voices calling and laughing;
while now and then a pair of invisible experts would
pass, playing mandolin and guitar as if handle-bars
were of no account in the world — their music would
come swiftly, and then too swiftly die away. Sur-
reys rumbled lightly by, with the plod-plod of honest
old horsfes, and frequently there was the glitter of
MO THE 3IAGNIFICEXT AMBERSONS
wluzzmg qM^us from a nnmboot m* a ^Mrting boggy,
and the diaip, derisve hocrf-beats of a trotter.
Then, like a cowboy shooting iq> a peaceful canqi,
a frantic devil would hurtle out of the distance,
bdlowing, exhaust racketing like a nuujiine gun
gcme amuck — and at these horrid sounds the surreys
and buggies would hug the curbstcme, and the
bicycles scatter to cover, cursing; while diildrai
rushed from the sidewalks to drag pet dogs from the
street. The thing would roar by, leaving a long
wake of turbulence; then the indignant street would
quiet down for a few minutes — till another came.
'"There are a great many more than there used to
be/^ Miss Fanny observed, in her lifeless voice, as
the lull fell after one of these visitations. '* Eugene is
right about that; there seem to be at least three or
four times as many as there were last siunmer, and
you never hear the ragamu£Sns shouting "Get a
horse!' nowadays; but I think he may be mistaken
about their going on increasing after this. I don't
believe we'll see so many next summer as we do
now.*'
" Why P'Vasked Isabel.
"Because IVe begun to agree with George about
their being more a fad than anything else, and I
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 261
think it must be the height of the fad just now.
You know how roller-skating came in — everybody
in the world seemed to be crowding to the rinks —
and now only a few children use rollers for getting to
jschool. Besides, people won't permit the automo-
biles to be used. Really, I think they'll make laws
against them. You see how they spoil the bicycling
and the driving; people just seem to hate them!
They'll never stand it — never in the world! Of
course I'd be sorry to see such a thing happen to
Eugene, but I shouldn't be really surprised to see a
law passed forbidding the sale of automobiles, just
the way there is with concealed weapons."
"Fanny!" exclaimed her sister-in-law. "You're
not in earnest?"
"lam, though!"
Isabel's sweet-toned laugh came out of the dusk
where she sat. "Then you didn't mean it when you
told Eugene you'd enjoyed the drive this after-
I didn't say it so very enthusiastically, did I?"
Perhaps not, but he certainly thought he'd
pleased you."
"I don't think I gave him any right to think he'd
pleased me " Panny said, slowly.
it
t(
262 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
"Why not? Why shouldn't you, Fanny?"
Fanny did not reply at on(;e, and when she did,
her voice was ahnost inaudible, but much more re-
proachful than plaintive. "I hardly think I'd want
any one to get the notion he'd pleased me just now.
It hardly seems time, yet — to me."
Isabel made no response, and for a time the only
sound upon the dark veranda was the creaking of the
wicker rocking-chair in which Fanny sat — a creaking
which seemed to denote content and placidity on
the part of the chair's occupant, though at this
juncture a series of human shrieks could have been
little more eloquent of emotional disturbance. How-
ever, the creaking gave its hearer one great advan-
tage: it could be ignored.
"Have you given up smoking, George?" Isabel
asked presently.
"No."
"I hoped perhaps you had, because you've not
smoked since dinner. We shan't mind if you care to."
"No, thanks."
There was silence again, except for the creaking of
the rocking-chair; then a low, clear whistle, sin-
gularly musical, was heard softly rendering an old air
from "Fra Diavolo." The creaking stopped.
«
t<
€t
«
«
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 263
'*Is that you, George?'' Fanny asked abruptly.
Is that me what?"
Whistling 'On Yonder Rock Reclining'?"
It's I," said Isabel.
"Oh," Fanny said dryly.
Does it disturb you?"
Not at all. I had an idea George was depressed
about something, and merely wondered if he could
be making such a cheerful sound." And Fanny re-
sumed her creaking.
"Is she right, George?" his mother asked quickly,
leaning forward in her chair to peer at him through
the dusk. "You didn't eat a very hearty dinner,
but I thought it was probably because of the warm
weather. Are you troubled about anything?"
No!'* he said angrily.
That's good. I thought we had such a nice
day, didn't you?"
"I suppose so," he muttered, and, satisfied, she
leaned back in her chair; but "Fra Diavolo" was
not revived. After a time she rose, went to the
steps, and stood for several minutes looking across
the street. Then her laughter was faintly heard.
"Are you laughing about something?" Fanny
inquired.
<<
«i
264 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
"Pardon?" Isabel did not turn, but continued
her observation of what had interested her upon
the opposite side of the street.
"I asked: Were you laughing at something?*'
"Yes, I was!" And she laughed again. "It's
that funny, fat old Mrs. Joh;nson. She has a habit
of sitting at her bedroom window with a pair of opera-
glasses."
"Really!"
"Really. You can see the window through the
place that was left when we had the dead walnut
tree cut down. She looks up Sixid down the street,
but mostly at father's and over here. Sometimes
she forgets to put out the Ught in her room, and
there she is, spying away for all the world to see!"
However, Fanny made ^o effort to observe this
spectacle, but continued her creaking. "I've always
thought her a very good woman," she said primly.
" So she is," Isabel agreed. " She's a good, friendly
old thing, a little too intimate in her manner, some-
times, and if her poor old opera-glasses afford her
the quiet happiness of knowing what sort of young
man our new cook is walking out with, I'm the last
to begrudge it to her! Don't you want to come and
look at her, George?"
r
I
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 265
"What? I beg your pardon. I hadn't noticed
what you were talking about."
"It's nothing," she laughed. "Only a funny old
lady — ^and she's gone now. I'm going, too^at
least, I'm going indoors to read. It's cooler in the
house, but the heat's really not bad anywhere, since
nightfall. Summer's dying. How quickly it goes,
once it begins to die."
When she had gone into the house, Fanny stopped
rocking, and, leaning forward, drew her black gauze
wrap about her shoulders and shivered. "Isn't it
queer," she said drearily, "how your mother can
use such words?"
"What words are you talking about?" George
asked.
"Words like *die' and *dying.' I don't see how
she can bear to use them so soon after your poor
father " She shivered again.
"It's almost a year," George said absently, and
he added: "It seems to me you're using then
yourself."
"I? Never!"
"Yes, you did."
"When?'^
"Just this minute."
266 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
"Oh!" said Fanny. "You mean when I repeated
what she said? That^s hardly the same thing,
George."
He was not enough interested to argue the point.
"I don't think you'll convince anybody that mother's
unfeeling," he said indifferently.
"I'm not trying to convince anybody. I mean
merely that in my opinion — well, perhaps it may .be
just as wise for me to keep my opinions to myself."
She paused expectantly, but her possible anticipa-
tion that George would urge her to discard wis-
dom and reveal her opinion was not fulfilled. His
back was toward her, and he occupied himself with
opinions of his own about other matters. Fanny
may have felt some disappointment as she rose to
withdraw.
However, at the last moment she halted with her
hand upon the latch of the screen door.
"There's one thing I hope," she said. "I hope
at least she won't leave off her full mourning on the
very anniversary of Wilbur's death!"
The light door clanged behind her, and the sound
annoyed her nephew. He had no idea why she
thus used inoffensive wood and wire to dramatize
her departure from the veranda, the impression
V
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 267
remaining with him being that she was critical of
his mother upon some point of funeral millinery.
Throughout the desultory conversation he had
been profoundly concerned with his own disturbing
affairs, and now was preoccupied with a dialogue
taking place (in his mind) between himself and Miss
Lucy Morgan. As he beheld the vision, Lucy had
just thrown herself at his feet. " George, you mtist
forgive me!" she cried. "Papa was utterly wrong!
I have told him so, and the truth is that I have
come to rather dislike him as you do, and as you
always have, in your heart of hearts. George, I
understand you: thy people shall be my people and
thy gods my gods. George, won't you take me
back?"
"Lucy, are you sure you understand me?" And
in the darkness George's bodily lips moved in unison
with those which uttered the words in his imaginary
rendering of this scene. An eavesdropper, con-
cealed behind the column, could have heard the
whispered word "sure," the emphasis put upon it in
the vision was so poignant. "You say you under-
stand me, but are you sure ? "
Weeping, her head bowed almost to her waist, the
ethereal Lucy made reply: "OA, so sure! I will
268 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
never listen to father's opinions again. I do not
even care if I never see him again!"
"Then I pardon you/' he said gently.
This softened mood lasted for several moments
— ^until he realized that it had been brought about
by processes strikingly lacking in substance. Ab-
ruptly he swujig his feet down from the copestone to
the floor of the veranda. "Pardon nothing!" No
meek Lucy had thrown herself in remorse at his feet;
and now he pictured her as she probably really was
at this moment: sitting on the white steps of her
own front porch in the moonlight, with red-headed
Fred Kinney and silly Charlie Johnson and four or
five others — all of them laughing, most likely, and
some idiot playing the guitar!
George spoke aloud: "Riffraff!"
And because of an impish but all too natural re-
action of the mind, he could see Lucy with much
greater distinctness in this vision than in his former
pleasing one. For a moment she was miraculously
real before him, every line and colour of her. He saw
the moonlight shimmering in the chiffon of her skirts
brightest on her crossed knee and the tip of her
slipper; saw the blue curve of the characteristic
shadow behind her, as she leaned back against the
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 269
white step; saw the watery twinkling of sequins in
the gauze wrap over her white shoulders as she
moved, and the faint, symmetrical lights in her black
hair — and not one alluring, exasperating twentieth-
of-an-inch of her laughing profile was spared him as
she seemed to turn to the infernal Kinney
"Riffraflf!*' And George began furiously to pace
the stone floor. "Riffraff!" By this hard term — a
favourite with him since childhood's scornful hour —
he meant to indicate, not Lucy, but the young
gentlemen who, in his vision, surrounded her. "Riff-
raff!" he said again, aloud, and again:
"Riffraff!"
At that moment, as it happened, Lucy was play-
ing chess with her father; and her heart, though
not remorseful, was as heavy as George could have
wished. But she did not let Eugene see that she was
troubled J and he was pleased when he won three
games of her. Usually she beat him.
CHAPTER XIX
GEORGE went driving the next afternoon
alone, and, encountering Lucy and her
father on the road, in one of Morgan's cars,
lifted his hat, but nowise relaxed his formal coun-
tenance as they passed. Eugene waved a cordial
hand quickly returned to the steering-wheel; but
Lucy only nodded gravely and smiled no more than
George did. Nor did she accompany Eugene to
the Major's for dinner, the following Sunday even*
ing, though both were bidden to attend that feast,
which was already reduced in numbers and gayety
by the absence of George Amberson. Eugene ex-
plained to his host that Lucy had gone away to visit
a school-friend.
The information, delivered in the library, just
before old Sam's appearance to announce dinner,
set Miss Minafer in quite a flutter. "Why,
George!" she said, turning to her nephew. "How
does it happen you didn't tell us?'* And with
both hands opening, as if to express her innocencf
1
f
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS St7l
of some conspiracy, she exclaimed to the others,
"He's never said one word to us about Lucy's
planning to go away ! "
"Probably afraid to," the Major suggested.
"Didn't know but he might break down and cry if
he tried to speak of it!" He clapped his grandson
on the shoulder, inquiring jocularly, "That it,
Georgie?"
Georgie made no reply, but he was red enough to
justify the Major's developing a chuckle into laugh-
ter; though Miss Fanny, observing her nephew
keenly, got an impression that this fiery blush was
in truth more fiery than tender. She caught a glint
in his eye less like confusion than resentment, and
saw a dilation of his nostrils which might have indi-
cated not so much a sweet agitation as an inaudible
snort. Fanny had never been lacking in curiosity,
and, since her brother's death, this quality was more
than ever alert. The fact that George had spent all
the evenings of the past week at home had not
been lost upon her, nor had she failed to ascertain,
by diplomatic inquiries, that since the day of
the visit to Eugene's shops George had gone driving
alone.
At the dinner-table she continued to observe him,
L)
27« THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
sidelong; and toward the conclusion of the meal
she was not startled by 9.n episode which brought dis-
comfort to the others. After the arrival of coflfee the
Major was rallying Eugene upon some rival auto-
mobile shops lately built in a suburb, and already
promising to flourish.
*
"I suppose they'll either drive you out of the
business," said the old gentleman, "or else the two
of you'll drive all the rest of us off the streets."
"If we do, we'll even things up by making the
streets five or ten times as long as they are now,'*"
Eugene returned.
"How do you propose to do that?"
"It isn't the distance from the centre of a town
that counts," said Eugene; "it's the time it takes tO'
get there. This town's already spreading; bicycles
and trolleys have been doing their share, but the
automobile is going to carry city streets clear out
to the county line."
The Major was skeptical. "Dream on, fair
son!" he said. "It's lucky for us that you're only
dreaming; because if people go to moving that far,,
real estate values in the old residence part of town
are going to be stretched pretty thin."
"I'm afraid so," Eugene assented. "Unless you
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 273:
keep things so bright and dean that the old section
will stay more attractive than the new ones.'*
"Not very likely! How are things going to be
k^t ^bright and clean' with soft coal and our kind
ol city government?"
"They aren't," Eugene replied quickly. "There's:
DO hope of it, and already the boarding-house i»
marching up National Avenue. There are two in
the next block below ha%, and there are a dozen in
the half-mile below that. My relatives, the Sharons^
have sold their house and are building in the country
— at least, they call it *the country.' It will be city
in two or three years."
"Good gracious!" the Major exclaimed, affecting
dismay. "So your little shops are going to rain all
your old friends, Eugene!"
' "Unless my old friends take warning in time, or
abolish smoke and get a new kind of city govern-
ment. I should say ihe best chance is to take
warning."
"Well, well!" the Major laughed. "You have
enough faith in miracles, Eugene — ^granting that
trolleys and bicycles and automobiles are miracles..
Se you think they're to change ike face of the kmd,
do you?"
274 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
"They*re already doing it. Major; and it can't be
stopped. Automobiles "
At this point he was interrupted. George was the
interrupter. He had said nothing since entering
the dining room, but now he spoke in a loud
and peremptory voice, using the tone of one in
authority who checks idle prattle and settles a mat«
ter forever.
'' Automobiles are a useless nuisance," he said.
There fell a moment's silence.
Isabel gazed incredulously at George, colour
slowly heightening upon her cheeks and temples,
while Fanny watched him with a qmck eagerness,
her eyes alert and bright. But Eugene seemed
merely quizzical, as if not taking this brusquerie to
himself. The Major was seriously disturbed.
"What did you say, George?" he asked, though
George had spoken but too distinctly.
"I said all automobiles were a nuisance," George
answered, repeating not only the words but the tone
in which he had uttered them. And he added,
"They'll never amount to anything but a nuisance.
They had no business to be invented."
The Major frowned. "Of course you forget that
Mr. Morgan makes them, and also did his share in
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 275
inventing them. If you weren't so thoughtless he
might think you rather offensive."
"That would be too bad," said George coolly.
'^1 don't think I could survive it."
Again there was a silence, while the Major stared
at his grandson, aghast^ But Eugene began to laugh
cheerfully.
"I'm not sure he's wrong about automobiles," he
said. "With all their speed forward they may be a
step backward in civilization — that is, in spiritual
civilization. It may be that they will not add to the
beauty of the world, nor to the life of men's souls.
'*. am not sure. But automobiles have come, and they
oring a greater change in our life than most of us
inspect. They are here, and almost all outward
things are going to be different because of what they
iring. They are going to alter war, and they are
going to alter peace. I think men's minds are going
to be changed in subtle ..ays because of automobiles;
just how, though, I could hardly guess. But you
can't have the immense outward changes that they
vill cause without some inward ones, and it may be
that George is right, and that the spiritual alteration
vill be bad for us. Perhaps, ten or twenty years
rom now, if we can see the inward change in men
27« THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
by that time, I shouldn't be able to defend the
gasoline engine, but would have to agree with him
that automobiles %ad no business to be invented/"
He laughed good-naturedly, and looking at his
watch, apologized for having an engagement which
made his departure necessary when he would so
much prefer to linger. Then he shook hands with
the Major, and bade Isabel, George, and Fanny a
cheerful good-night — a collective farewell cordially
addressed to all three of them together — and left
them at the table.
Isabel turned wondering, hurt eyes upon her som.
** George, dear!" she said. "What did you mean?**
"Just what I said," he returned, lighting cme of
the Major's cigars, and his manner was imperturbable
enough to warrant the definition (sometimes merited
by imperturbability) of stubbornness.
Isabel's hand, pale and slender, upon the table-
cloth, touched one of the fine silver candlesticks
aimlessly: the fingers were seen to tremble. "Oh,
he was hurt!" she murmured.
"I don't see why he should be," George said. "1
didn't say anything about him. He didn't seem to
me to be hurt — seemed perfectly cheerful. What
made you think he was hurt?"
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 277
"I know him!" was all of her reply, half whis-
pered.
The Major stared hard at George from under his
white eyebrows. ."You didn't mean ^kim/ you
say, George? I sui^»€6e if we had a clergyman as a
guest here you'd expect him not to be offended, and
to understand that your remarks were neither per-
sonal nor untactful, if you said the church was a
nuj«(0^nee and ought never to have beaa invented*
By Jove, but you're a puzzle!"
'^In what way, may I ask, sir?"
"We seem to have a new kind of young people
these days»" the old gentleman returned, shaking his
head* "It's a new style of courting a pretty girU
certainly, for a young fdlow to go deliberately out
of his way to try and make an enemy of her father by
attacking his business! By Jove! That's a new
way to win a woman!"
George flushed angrily and seemed about to offer
a retort, but held his breath for a moment; and then
held his peace. It was Isabel who responded to the
Majoff. " Qh', no ! " she said. "Eugene would never
be anybody's enemy — ^he couldn't! — and last of all.
Georgie's. I'm afraid he was hurt, but I don't fear
^ not having understood that George spoke with*
278 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
out thinking of what he was saying — I mean, wiA-
out realizing its bearing on Eugene."
Again George seemed upon the point of speech
and again controlled the impulse. He thrust his
hands in his pockets, leaned back in his chair, anc
smoked, staring inflexibly at the ceiling.
"Well, well," said his grandfather, rising. "It
wasn't a very successful little dinner!"
Thereupon he offered his arm to his daughter, whc
took it fondly, and they left the room, Isabel assuring
him that all his little dinners were j^leasant. and thafi
this one was no exception.
George did not move, and Fanny, following thi
other two, came roimd the table, and paused close
beside his chair; but George remained posed in his
great imperturbability,, cigar between teeth, eyes
upon ceiling, and paid no attention to her. Fanny
waited until the sound of Isabel's and the Major's
voices became inaudible in the hall. Then she
said quickly, and in a low voice so eager that it was
unsteady:
"George, you've struck just the treatment to
adopt: you're doing the right thing!"
She hurried out, scurrying after the others with a
faint rustling of her black skirts, leaving Geoige
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 279
mystified but incurious. He did not understand
why she should bestow her approbation upon him
in the matter, and cared so little whether she did or
not that he spared himself even the trouble of being
puzzled about it.
In truth, however, he was neither so comfortable
nor so imperturbable as he appeared. He felt some
gratification: he had done a little to put the man in
his place — that man whose influence upon his daugh-
ter was precisely the same thing as a contemptuous
criticism of George Amberson Minafer, and of
George Amberson Minafer's "ideals of life." Lucy's
going away without a word was intended, he sup-
posed, as a bit of pimishment. Well, he wasn't
the sort of man that people were allowed to punish :
lie could demonstrate that to them — since they
started it!
It appeared to him as almost a kind of insolence,
this abrupt departure — not even telephoning ! Prob-
ably she wondered how he would take it; she even
might have supposed he would show some betraying
chagrin when he heard of it.
He had no idea that this was just what he had
shown; and he was satisfied with his evening's per
(ormance. Nevertheless, he was not comfortable
«80 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEESONS
in liis mind; though he could not have explained
his inward perturbation^i, for he was convincedf
without any confirmation from his Aunt Fami^^i
that he had done *' juat the KJi^t
CHAPTER XX
ISABEL came to George's door that night, and
when she had kissed him good-night she
remained in the open doorway with her
hand upon his shoulder and her eyes thoughtfully
lowered, so that her wish to say something more
than good-night was evident. Not less obvious
was her perplexity about the manner of saying it;
and George, divining her thought, amiably made an
opening for her.
"Well, old lady," he said indulgently, "you needn't
fook so worried. I won't be tactless with Morgan
again. After this I'll just keep out of his way."
Isabel looked up, searching his face with the fond
puzzlement which her eyes sometimes showed when
they rested upon him; then she glanced down the
hall toward Fanny's room, and, after another mo-
ment of hesitation, came quickly in, and closed the
. door.
"Dear," she said, *^I wish you'd tell me something:
Why don't you like Eugene? *•
«81
282 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
"Oh, I like him well enough," George returned,
with a short laugh, as he sat down and began tc
unlace his shoes. "I like him well enough — ^in his
place."
"No, dear," she said hurriedly. "I've had a
feeling from the very first that you didn't really like
him — that you really never liked him. Sometimes
^you've seemed to be friendly with him, and you'c
laugh with him over something in a jolly, com-
panionable way, and I'd think I was wrong, and
that you really did like him, after all; but to-nighf
I'm sure my other feeling was the right one: yor
don't like him. I can't understand it, dear; I don*;,
see what can be the matter."
"Nothing's the matter."
This easy declaration naturally failed to carrj
great weight, and Isabel went on, in her troubled
voice, "It seems so queer, especially when you feel
as you do about his daughter."
At this, George stopped unlacing his shoes abruptly ^
and sat up. " How do I feel about his daughter? " he
demanded.
"Well, it's seemed — as if — as if " Isabel began
timidly. "It did seem At least, you haven't
looked at any other girl, ever since they came here^
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 28S
and — and certainly you've, seemed very much inter-
ested in her. Certainly youVe been very great
friends ?^^
"Well, what of that?"
"It's only that I'm like your grandfather: I
can't see how you could be so much interested in a
girl and — and not feel very pleasantly toward he/
father."
"Well, I'll tell you something," George said
slowly; and a frown of concentration could be seen
upon his brow, as frona a profound effort at self-
examination. "I haven't ever thought much on
that particular point, but I admit there may be a
little something in what you say. The truth. is,
I don't believe I've ever thought of the two together,
exactly — at least, not until lately. I've always
thought of Lucy just as Lucy, and of Morgan just as
Morgan. I've always thought of her as a person
herself, not as anybody's daughter. I don't see
what's very extraordinary about that. You've
probably got plenty of friends, for instance, that
don't care much about your son "
"No, indeed!" she protested quickly. "And if I
knew anybody who felt like that, I wouldn't "
"Never mind," he interrupted. "I'll try to ex-
iSi THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS
plain a little more. If I- have a friend, I don't iiM
that it's incumbent upon me to like that friend's
relatives. If I didn't like them, and pretended to,
i'd be a hypocrite. If that friend likes me and
wants to stay my friend he'U have to stand my not
liking his relatives, or else he can quit. I decline
to be a hypocrite about it; that's all. Now, suppose
I have certain ideas or ideals which I have diosen
for the regulation of my own condufct in life. Sup-
pose some friend of mine has a relative with ideals
directly the opposite of mine, and my friend be-
lieves more in the relative's ideals than in mine:
Do you think I ought to give up my own just to
please a person who's taken up ideals that I really
despise.?^"
"No, dear; of course people can't give up their
ideals; but I don't see what this has to do with dear
little Lucy and "
"I didn't say it had anything to do with them,"
he interrupted. "I was merely putting a case to
show how a person would be justified in being a
friend of one. member of a family, and feeling any-
thing but friendly toward another. I don't say,
though, that I feel unfriendly to Mr. Morgan. I
■ * *
don't say that I feel friendly to him, and I don't say
J
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 285
that I feel unfriendly; but if you really tliink that 1
was rude tQ Ww to-night "
"Just thoughtless, dear. Yqu didn't see that
what you said to-night '*
"Well, FB not say anything of that sort again
where he can hear it. There, isn't that enough?"
Thift question, delivered with large indulgence,
:net with no respoAse; for Isabel, still searching his
face with her troubled and perplexed gaze, seemed
not to have heard it. On that account, George
repeated it, an,d rising, went to her and patted her
reassuringly upon the shoulder* "There, old lady,
ypu needn't fear my tactlessness will worry you
again. I can't quite promise to like people I don't
care about one way or another, but you can be sure
•
I'H be careful, after this, not to let them see it. It's
all right, and you'd better toddle alotng to bed, be-
cause I want to undress."
"But, George," she said earnestly, "you would
lik^ him, if you'd just let yourself. You say you
don't dislike him. Why don't you like him? I
can't imderstand at all. What isf. it that you
don't "
" Ther^, there ! " he said. " It's ajl rig^t^, a^d you
toddle along."
286 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
'*But, George "
"Now, now! I really do want to get into bed.
Good-night, old lady."
"Good-night, dear. But "
"Let's not talk of it any more," he said. "It's all
right, and nothing in the world to worry about. . So
good-night, old lady. I'll be polite enough to him,
never fear — if we happen to be thrown together.
So jood-night!"
"But, George, dear "
"I'm going to bed, old lady; so good-night."
Thus the interview closed perforce. She kissed
him again before going slowly to her own room, hei
perplexity evidently not dispersed; but the subject
was not renewed between them the next day or sub-
sequently. Nor did Fanny make any allusion to the
cryptic approbation she had bestowed upon her
nephew after the Major's "not very successful little
dinner"; though she annoyed George by looking at
him oftener and longer than he cared to be looked at
by an aimt. He could not glance her way, it seemed,
without finding her red-rimmed eyes fixed upon him
eagerly, with an alert and hopeful calculation in
them which he declared would send a nervous man
into fits. For thus, one day, he broke out, in protest:
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 287
"It would!" he repeated vehemently. "Given
time it would' — straight into fits! What do you
find the matter with me? Is my tie always sUpping
up behind? Can't you look at something else? My
Lord! We'd better buy a C9,t for you to stare at,
Aimt Fanny! A eat could stand it, maybe. What
in the name of goodness do you expect to see ? "
But Fanny laughed good-naturedly, and was not
ofiFended. "It's more as if I expected you to see
something, isn't it?" she said quietly, still laughing.
"Now, what do you mean by that?"
"Nevermind!"
"All right, I don't. But for heaven's sake stare
at somebody else awhile. Try it on the house-*
maid!"
"Well, well," Fanny said indulgently, and then
dkose to be more obscure in her meaning than ever,
for she adopted a tone of deep sympathy for her
final remark, as she left him: "I don't wonder
you're nervous these days, poor boy!"
And George indignantly supposed that she referred
to the ordeal of Lucy's continued absence. During
this period he successfully avoided contact with
Lucy% father, though Eugene came frequently to
the house, and spent several evenings with- Isabel
288 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
and Fanny; aitd sometimes persuaded them andllie
Major to go for an afternoon's motoring. He ^d
not, however, eome again to the Major's Sumlfty
evening dinner, even when George Amberaon re-
turned. Simday evening was the time, he explatned,
for going over the week's work with his ladbory
managers.
\»
. . . When Lucy came home the autunin was
far enough advanced to smell of burning leave^^
and for the annual editorials, in the papers, on the
purple haze, the golden branches, the ruddy fhiit,
and the pleasure of long tramps in the brown forest.
George *had not heard of her arrival, and he met
her, on the afternoon following that event, at the
Sharons', where he had gone in the secret hope that
he might hear something a;botit her. Janie Shaibn
had just begun to tell him that she heard Lucy was
expected home soon, after having "a perfeofly
gorgeous time" — information which George received
with no responsive enthusiasm — ^when Lucy came
demurely in, a proper little autumn figure in green
and brown.
Her cheeks were flushed, and her dark eyes were
bright indeed; evidences, as George supposed, of the
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 289
excitement incidental to the perfectly gqigeous time
ju9t concluded; though Janie and Mary Sharan boUi
thought they were the effect of Lucy*s haviqg seen
George's runabout in front of the house as she came
in. George took on colour, himself, as he rose and
Jiodd^ indifferently; and the hot suffusion to which
Jie became subject extended its. area to indlude his
neck and ears. Nothing could have made him
umdx more indignant than his consciousness of these
symptoms of the icy indifference which it was his
purpose not only to show but to feel.
She kissed her cousins, )gave George her hand, said
"How d'you do," and took a chair beside Janie with
a composure which augmented George's indignation.
"How d'you do," he said. "I trust that ah— I
trust — ^I do trust "
He stopped, for it seemed to him that the word
"trust" sounded idiotic. Then, to cover his awk-
«?ardness, he coughed, and even to his own rosy ears
his cough was ostentatiously a false one. Where-
upon, seeking to be plausible, he coughed again, and
instantly hated himself: the sound he made was an
atrocity. Meanwhile, Lucy sat silent, and the two
Sharon girls leaned forward, staring at him with
strained eyes, their lips tightly compressed; and both
290 THE MAGNIFICENT AI^IBERSONS
were but too easily diagnosed as subject to an agita-
tion which threatened their self-control. He began
again.
"I tr — ^I hope you have had a — ^a pleasant time.
I tr — ^I hope you are well. I hope you are extremely
— I hope extremely — extremely " And again he
stopped in the midst of his floimdering, not knowing
how to progress beyond *^ extremely," and unable
to understand why the infernal word kept getting
into his mouth.
"I beg your pardon?" Lucy said.
George was never more furious; he felt that he was
"making a spectacle of himself"; and no young gen-
tieman in the world was more loath than George
Amberson Minafer to look a figure of fun. And
Vhile he stood there, undeniably such a figure, with
Janie and Maiy Sharon threatening to burst at any
moment, if laughter were longer denied them, Lucy
sat looking at him with her eyebrows delicately lifted
in casual, polite inquiry. Her own complete com-
posure was what most galled him.
"Nothing of the slightest importance!" he man^
aged to say. "I was just leaving. Good after-
noon!" And with long strides he reached the door»
«nd hastened through the hall; but before he closed
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 291
the front door he heard from Janie and Mary
Sharon the outburst of wild, irrepressible emotion
which his performance had inspired.
He drove home in a tumultuous mood, and almost
ran down two ladies who were engaged in absorbing
conversation at a crossing. They were his Aunt
Fanny and the stout Mrs. Johnson; a jerk of the
reins at the last instant saved them by a few inches;
but their conversation was so interesting that they
were unaware of their danger, and did not notice the
runabout, nor how close it came to them. George
was so furious with himself and with the girl whose
unexpected coming into a room could make him
look such a fool, that it might have soothed him a
little if he had actually run over the two absorbed
ladies without injuring them beyond repair. At
least, he said to himself that he wished he had; it
might have taken his mind off of himself for a few
minutes. For, in truth, to be ridiculous (and know
it) was one of several things that George was
unable to endure. He was savage.
He drove into the Major's stable too fast, the
sagacious Pendennis saving himself from going
through a partition by a swerve which splintered a
shaft of the runabout and almost threw the driver to
<<
«'
292 THE MAGNIFJCENT AMBERSONS
the floor. George s^wpi*^* ^^od then swore again
at the fat old darkey. Top;, for giggling at his
swearing.
^^EEoopee!" said old Tom. "Mus' been some
white lady use Mist' Jawge mighty bad! White
lady say, *No, suh, I ain' go'n out ridin' 'ith Mist'
Jawge no mp'!' Mist' Jawge drive in. 'Dam dm
dam worl'! Pam de dam hoss! Dam de dmn
nigga'! Dam de dam dam!' Hoopee!"
That'll d^!" George said sternly.
Yetisuh!"
George strode from the stable, crossed the Major'a
ba^^k yard, then passed behind the new housed, on
his way home. These structures \7ere now ap-
proaching completion, but still in a state of rawness
hideous to George — though, for that matter, they
were n^ver to be anything except hideous to him-
Behind them, stray planks, bricks, refuse of plasteit
and lath, shingles, straw, empty barrels, strips of
twisted tin and broken tiles were strewn everywhere
over the dried and pitted gray mud where once the
suafve law^ had l^in like a green lake around those
stately isilands^. the two Amberson houses. A;ad
George's, state of mind was npt improved by hi^
present vi^w qf this repulsive area, nor by his sens^
THE MAGNIFICENT AiitiBEtl30Nfe §93
tions when he kicked an uptilted shin^e ollly to dis-
cover that what uptilted it was k t)rfckbat on the
other side of it. After that, the whole trorid seemed
to be one solid conspiracy of malevolcAcfe.
In this temper he emerged from behind the house
nearest to his own, and, glancing toward the stfeet,
saw his mother standing with Eugene Morgan
upon the cement path that led to the front gate.
She was bareheaded, and Eugene held his hat and
stick in his hand; evidently he had been calling upon
her, and she had come from the house with him,
continuing their conversation alld delaying their
parting.
They had paused in their slow walk from the
front door to the gate, yet still stood side by side,
their shoulders almost touching, as though neither
Isabel nor Eugene quite realised that their feet
had ceased to bear them forward; and they were not
looking at each other, but at some indefinite point
before them, as people do who consider together
thoughtfully and in harmony. The conversation was
evidently serious; his head was bent, and Isabel's
lifted left hand rested against her cheek; but all the
significances of their thoughtful attitude denoted
companionableness and a shared understanding.
294 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
Yet, a stranger, passing, would not have thought
them married: somewhere about Eugene, not quite
to be located, there was a romantic gravity; and
Isabel, tall and graceful, with high colour and ab-
sorbed eyes, was visibly no wife walking down to
the gate with her husband.
George stared at them. A hot dislike struck him
at the sight of Eugene; and a vague revulsion, like a
strange, impleasant taste in his mouth, came over
him as he looked at his mother : her manner was elo-
quent of so much thought about her companion and
of such reliance upon him. And the picture the
two thus made was a vivid one indeed, to George,
whose angry eyes, for some reason, fixed themselves
most intently upon Isabel's Kfted hand, upon the
white ruflBe at her wrist, bordering the graceful black
sleeve, and upon the Uttle indentations in her cheek
where the tips of her fingers rested. She should
not have worn white at her wrist, or at the throat
either, George felt; and then, strangely, his resent-
ment concentrated upon those tiny indentations at
the tips of her fingers — actual changes, however
slight and fleeting, in his mother's face, made
because of Mr. Eugene Morgan. For the moment,
it seemed to George that Morgan might have claimed
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS «95
the ownership of a face that changed for him. It
was as if he owned Isabel.
The two began to walk on toward the gate, where
they stopped again, turning to face each other, and
Isabel's glance, passing Eugene, fell upon George.
Instantly she smiled and waved her hand to him;
while Eugene turned and nodded; but George,
standmg as in some rigid trance, and staring straight
at them, gave these signals of greeting no sign of
recognition whatever. Upon this, Isabel called to
him, waving her hand again.
"Georgie!" she called, laughing. "Wake up,
dear! Georgie, hello!"
George turned away as if he had neither seen nor
heard, and stalked into the house by the side door.
CHAPTER XXI
HE WENT to his room, threw off his coat,
waistcoat, collar, and tie, letting them lie
where they chanced to fall, and then, having
violently enveloped himself in a black velvet dressing-
gown, continued this action by lying down with a
vehemence that brought a wheeze of protest from his
bed. His repose was only a momentary semblance,
however, for it lasted no longer than the time it
took him to groan "Riffraff!" between his teeth.
Then he sat up, swimg his feet to the floor, rose,
and began to pace up and down the large room.
He had just been consciously rude to his mother
for the first time in his life; for, with all his riding
down of populace and riffraff, he had never before
been either deliberately or impulsively disregardful
of her. When he had hurt her it had been acciden-
tal; and his remorse for such an accident was always
adequate compensation — and more — to Isabel. But
now he had done a rough thing to her; and he did
not repent; the rather he was the more irritated witli
^ THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 207
faer. And when he heard her ipresently go by his
door with a light step, singing cheerfully to herself
as she went to her room, he p>erceived that she had
mistaken his intention altogether, or, indeed, had
failed to perceive »that he had any intention at all.
Evidently she had concluded that he refused to
speak to her and Morgan out of sheer absent-mind-
edness, supposing him so hnmersed in some pre-
occupation that he had not seen them or heard her
calling to ^him. Therefore there was nothing of
whidh to repent, ev^ if he had he&a. so minded; and
probably Eugene himself was una/ware that any dis-
approval had recently been expressed. George
snorted. What sort of a dreamy loon 4id they take
him to be? \
There came a deUcate, eager tapping at his door,
not done with a Imuckle but with the tip erf a finger-
nail, which was instantly clarified to tJeorge's
mind's eye as plamly as if he saw it: tlie long and
polished white-mooned pink shield cm the end of his
Aunt Fanny*s right forefinger. But George was
in no mood for human commimications, and even
when tilings went well he had little pleasure in
Fanny's society. Therefore it is not surprising that
at the sound of her tapping, instead of bidding her
298 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
enter, he immediately crossed the room with the
intention of locking the door to keep her out.
Fanny was too eager, and, opening the door before
he reached it, came quickly in, and closed it behind
her. She was in a street dress and a black hat, with
a black umbrella in her black-gloved hand — ^for Fan-
ny's heavy mourning, at least, was nowhere tempered
with a glimpse of white, though the anniversaiy of
Wilbur's death had passed. An infinitesimal per-
spiration gleamed upon her pale skin; she breathed
fast, as if she had rim up the stairs; and excitement
was sharp in her widened eyes. Her look was that
of a person who had just seen something extraor-
dinary or heard thrilling news.
"Now, what on earth do you want?" her chilling
nephew demanded.
" George,*' she said hurriedly, "I saw what you did
when you wouldn't speak to them. I was sitting
with Mrs. Johnson at her front window, across the
street, and I saw it all."
"WeU,whatof it?"
"You did right!" Fanny said with a vehemence
not the less spirited because she suppressed hei
voice almost to a whisper. "You did exactly right?
You're behaving splendidly about the whole thing.
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 299
and I want to tell you I know your father would
thank you if he could see what you're doing."
"My Lord!" George broke out at her. "You
make me dizzy! For heaven's sake quit the mys-
terious detective business — at least do quit it around
me! Go and try it on somebody else, if you like;
but / don't want to hear it!"
She began to tremble, regarding him with a fixed
gaze. "You don't care to hear then," she said
huskily, "that I approve of what you're doing?"
"Certainly not! Since I haven't the faintest idea
what you think I'm 'doing,' naturally I don't care
whether you approve of it or not. All I'd like, if
you please, is to be alone. I'm not giving a tea here,
this afternoon, if you'll permit me to mention it!"
Fanny's gaze wavered; she began to blink; then
suddenly she sank into a chair and wept silently, but
with a terrible desolation.
"Oh, for the Lord's sake!" he moaned. "What
in the world is wrong with you? "
"You're always picking on me," she quavered
wretchedly, her voice indistinct with the wetness
that bubbled into it from her tears. "You do —
you always pick on me! You've always done it— »
always — ever since you were a little boy! When-
SOO THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
ever anything goes wromg with you, you take it out
on me ! You do f You always — ^ "
George flung to heaven a gesture of despair; it
seemed to hina the last straw that Fanny should
have chosen this particular time to come and sob i»
his room over his nxistreatment of her!
"Oh, my Lord!" he whispered; then, with a great
effort, addressed her in a reasonable tone: "Look
here. Aunt Fanny; I don't see what you're making
all this fuss about. Of course I kn,ow I've tea^d
you sometimes, but "
"Tea^«i' me?" she wailed. '''Teased' mel Oh.
it does sjeean too hard, sometimes — this mean old lif«
of mine does seem too hard ! I don't think I can stand
it! Honestly, I don't think I can! I came in here
just to show you I sympathized with you — ^just to say
sopaetlwg. pleasant to you, and you treat me as if I
were — oh, no, you wouJdnH treat a servant the way you
treat me! You wouldn't treat anybody in the world
like this except old Fanny! ^Old Faimy' you say.
Tt's nobody but old Fanny, so I'll kick her — ^nobody
will resent it. I'll kick her all I want to!' You do I
That's how you think of me — I know it ! And you're
right: I haven't got anything in the world, sii^ee
UE^y brother died — ^nobody — nothing — nothing!"
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 301
**0h my Lordr^ George groaned.
Fanny spread out her small> so&ked handkerchief,
and shook it in the air to dry it a little, crying as
damply and as wretchedly during this operation as
before — a sight which gave George a curious shock to
add to his other agitations, it seemed so ^troAge*
"I ought not to have come,*' she went on, "because
I might have known it would only give you an ex-
cuse to pick on me again ! I'm sorry enough I came*
I can tell you! I didn't meati to speak of it again
to you, at all; and I wouldn't have, but I saw how
you treated them, and I guess I got excited about it,
and couldn't help following the impulse — ^but I'll
know better next time, I can tell you! I'll keep
my mouth shut as I meant to, and ajs I would have,
if I hadn't got excited and if I hadn't felt sorry for
you. But what does it matter to anybody if I'm
iorry for them? I'm only old Fanny!"
"Oh, good gracious! How can it matter to me
who's sorry for me when I don't know what they're
sorry about i"
"You're so proud," she quavered, "and so hard!
I tell you I didn't mean to speak of it to you, and I
aever- never in the world would have told you about
it, nor have made the faintest reference to it, if I
802 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
hadn't seen that somebody else had told you, or
you'd found out for yourself some way. I "
In despair of her intelligence, and in some doubt
of his own, George struck the palms of his hands to-
gether. "Somebody else had told me what? I'd
found what out for myself.'^"
"How people are talking about your mother."
Except for the incidental teariness of her voice, her
tone was casual, as though she mentioned a subject
previously discussed and imderstood; for Fanny had
no doubt that George had only pretended to be mys-
tified because, in his pride, he would not in words
admit that he knew what he knew.
"What did you say? " he asked incredulously.
"Of course I understood what you were doing/*
Fanny went on, drying her handkerchief again.
"It puzzled other people when you began to be rude
to Eugene, because they couldn't see how you could
treat him as you did when you were so interested in
Lucy. But I remembered how you came to me, that
other time when there was so much talk about
Isabel; and I knew you'd give Lucy up in a minute,
if it came to a question of your mother's reputation,
because you said then that "
"Look here/' George interrupted in a shaking
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 303
iToice. "Look here, I'd like " He stopped, un-
able to go on, his agitation was so great. His chest
heaved as from hard running, and his complexion,
pallid at first, had become mottled; fiery splotches
appearing at his temples and cheeks. "What do
you mean by telling me — telling me there's talk
about — about " He gulped, and began again-:
** What do you mean by using such words as *reputa-
tion'? What do you mean, speaking of a ^question'
of my — my mother's reputation?"
Fanny looked up at him woefully over the hand-
kerchief which she now applied to her reddened nose.
"God knows I'm sorry for you, George," she mur-
mured. "I wanted to say so, but it's only old
Fanny, so whatever she says — even when it's
sympathy — pick on her for it ! Hammer her ! " She
sobbed. "Hammer her! It's only poor old lonely
Fanny!"
"You look here!" George said harshly. "When
I spoke to my Uncle George after that rotten thing I
heard Aunt Amelia say about my mother, he said
if there was any gossip it was about you I He said
people might be laughing about the way you ran
after Morgan, but that was all."
Fanny lifted her hands, clenched them, and struck
S04 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
■
them upon her knees. "Yes; it's always Fanny!"
she sobbed. "Ridiculous old Fanny — ^always, al-
ways!"
"You listen!" George said. "After Td talked to
Untile George I saw you; and you said I had a mean
little mind for thinking there might be truth in what
Aunt Amelia said about people talking. You denied
it. And that wasn't the only time; you'd attacked
me before then, because I intimated that Morgan
might be coming here too often. You made me be-
lieve that mother let him come entirely on your
account, and now you say "
"I think he did," Fanny interrupted desolately.
"I think he did come as much to see me as anything
— ^for a while it looked like it. Anyhow, he liked to
dance with me. He danced with me as much as he
danced with her, and he acted as if he came on my
account at least as much as he did on hers. He
did act a good deal that way — and if Wilbur hadn't
died "
"You told me there wasnH any talk."
"I didn't think there was much, then," Fanny
protested. **/ didn't know how much there was/*
"What!*'
"People don't come and tell such things to a
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 305
i>ers(Mi's family, you know. You don't suppose any-
body was going to say to George Amberson that his
sister was getting herself talked about, do you?
Or that they were going to say much to me?*^
** You told me," said George, fiercely, "that mother
never saw him except when she was chaperoning
you."
"They weren't much alone together, then," Fanny
i-etumed. "Hardly ever, before Wilbur died. But
you don't suppose that stops people from talking, do
iou? Your father never went anywhere, and people
saw Eugene with her everywhere she went — and
though I was with them people just thought" — she
choked — "they just thought I didn't count! *Only
old Fanny Minafer,' I suppose they'd say! Besides,
everybody knew that he'd been engaged to her '*
"TSTiat's that?" George cried.
"Everybody knows it. Don't you remember
your grandfather speaking of it at the Sunday
dinner one night? "
"He didn't say they were engaged or "
"Well, they were! Everybody knows it; and she
broke it off on account of that serenade when Eu-
gene didn't know what he was doing. He drank
^hen he was a young man, and she: wouldn*t
806 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
stand it» but everybody .in this town knows that
Isabel has never really cared for any other man in
her life! Poor Wilbur! He was the only soul alive
that didn't know it!"
Nightmare had descended upon the unfortunate
George; he leaned back against the foot-board of
his bed, gazing wildly at his aunt. "I believe
I'm going crazy," he said. "You mean when you
told me there wasn't any talk, you told me a false-
hood?"
"No!" Fanny gasped.
"You did!"
" I tell you 1 didn't know how much talk there waSr
and it wouldn't have amounted to much if Wilbur
had lived." And Fanny completed this with a
fatal admission: "I didn't want you to interfere."
George cTverlooked the admission; his mind was
not now occupied with analysis. "What do you
mean," he asked, " when you say that if father had
lived, the talk wouldn't have amounted to any-
thmg?"
"Things might have been — they might have been
diflferent."
"You mean Morgan might have married youf"
Fanny gulped. "No. Because I don't know
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 807
that I'd hp,ve accepted him." She had ceased to
weep, and now she sat up stiflBly. "I certainly
didn't care enough about him to marry him; I
wouldn't have let myself care that much until he
showed that he wished to marry me. I'm not that
sort of person ! " The poor lady paid her vanity
this piteous little tribute. "What I mean is, if
Wilbur hadn't died, people wouldn't have had it
proved before their very eyes that what they'd been
talking about was true!"
"You say — you say that people believe "
George shuddered, then forced himself to continue,
in a sick voice: "They believe my mother is — is in
love with that man?"
Of course!"
And because he comes here — and they see her
with him driving — and all that — they think they
were right when they said she was in — ^in love with
him before-before my father died?"
She looked at him gravely with her eyes now dry
between their reddened lids. "Why, George," she
said, gently,, "don't you know that's what they say?
You must know that everybody in town thinks
they're going to be married very soon."
George uttered an incoherent cry; and sections of
«<,
«
308 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
him appeared to writhe. He was upon the verge
of actual nausea.
"You know it!*' Fanny cried, getting up. "You
don't think I'd have spoken of it to you unless I was
sure you knew it?" Her voice was wholly genuine,
as it had been throughout the wretched interview
Fanny's sincerity was unquestionable. "George, /
wouldn't have told you, if you didn't know. What
other reason could you have for treating Eugene as
you did, or for refusing to speak to them like that^
a while ago in the yard? Somebody must have told
"Who told 2^01^.?" he said.
"What?"
"Who told you there was talk? Where is this
talk? Where does it come from? Who does it?"
"Why, I suppose pretty much everybody," she
said. "I know it must be pretty general."
"Who said so?"
"What?"
George stepped close to her. "You say people
don't speak to a person of gossip about that person's
family. Well, how did you hear it, then? How did
you get hold of it? Answer me!"
Fanny looked thoughtful. "Well, of course no*
"TTin-^*^ 1 ^t zm, m,^ :— ^_. -X ^11 a »
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS S09
body not one*s most intimate friends would speak
to them about such things, and then only in the kind-
est» most considerate way.'
Who's spoken of it to you in any way at all?
George demanded.
"Why " Fanny hesitated.
* * You answer me ! ' '
"I hardly think it would be fair lo give names.'*
"Look here/' said George. "One of your most
intimate friends is that mother of Charlie Johnson's,
for instance. Has she ever mentioned this to you?
You say everybody is talking. Is she one? "
"Oh, she may have intimated "
"I'm asking you: Has she ever spoken of it to
you?"
"She's a very kind, discreet woman, George; but
^e may have intimated "
George had a sudden intuition, as there flickered
into his mind the picture of a street-crossing and two
absorbed ladies almost run down by a fast horse.
"You and she have been talking about it to-day!'*
he cried. "You were talking about it with her not
two hours ago. Do you deny it?"
"Do you deny it?"
«10 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
"No!"
"All right," said George. "That's enough!"
She caught at his arm as he turned away. "What
are you going to do, George?"
"I'll not talk about it, now," he said heavily.
"I think youVe done a good deal for one day.
Aunt Fanny!'*
And Fanny, seeing the passion in his face» began
to be alarmed. She tried to retain possession of
the black velvet sleeve which her fingers had clutched,
and he suffered her to do so, but used this leverage
to urge her to the door. "George, you know I*m
sorry for you, whether you care or not," she whim-
pered. "I never in the world would have spoken
of it, if I hadn't thought you knew all about it. I
wouldn't have "
But he had opened the door with his free hand
"Never mind!" he said, and she was obliged to pass
out into the hall, the door closing quickly behind her"
CHAPTER XXn
GEORGE took oflF his dressing-gown and put
on a collar and a tie, his fingers shaking so
that the tie was not his usual success; then
he picked up his coat and waistcoat, and left the
room while still in process of donning them, fastening
the buttons as he ran down the front stairs to the
door. It was not until he reached the middle of the
street that he realized that he had forgotten his hat;
and he paused for an irresolute moment, during which
his eye wandered, for no reason, to the Foimtain
of Neptune. This castiron replica of too elaborate
sculpture stood at the next corner, where the Major
•
had placed it when the Addition was laid out so
long ago. The street comers had been shaped to
conform with the great octagonal basin, which was
no great inconvenience for horse-drawn vehicles, but
a nuisance to speeding automobiles ; and, even as
George looked, one of the latter, coming too fast,
saved itself only by a dangerous skid as it rounded
ite fountain. This skid was to George's liking,
stt
ai2 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
though he would have been more pleased to see
the car go over, for he was wishing grief and destruc*
tion, just then, upon all the automobiles in the
world.
His eyes rested a second or two longer upon the
Fountain of Neptune, not an enlivening sight even
in the shielding haze of autumn twilight. For more
than a year no water had run in the fountain: the
connections had been broken, and the Major was
evasive about restorations, even when reminded by
his grandson that a dry fountain is as gay as a
dry fish. Soot streaks and a thousand pits gave
Neptime the distinction, at least, of leprosy, which
the mermaids associated with him had been con-
sistent in catching; and his trident had been so
deeply aflPected as to drop its prongs. Altogether,
this heavy work of heavy art, smoked dry, hugely
scabbed, cracked, and crumbling, was a dismal sight
to the distracted eye of George Amberson Minafer,
and its present condition of craziness may have added
a mite to his own. His own was sufficient, with no
additions, however, as he stood looking at the Johii-
sons' house and those houses on both sides of it —
that row of riflPraflF dwellings he had thought sc
damnable, the day when he stood in his grandfather's
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS SIS
yard, staring at them, after hearing what his Aunt
Amelia said of the ""talk" about his. mother.
Ke decided that he needed no hat for the sort of
call he intended to make» and went forward hur«
riedly. Mrs. Johnson was at home, the Irish girl
who came to the door informed him, and he was left
to await the lady, in a room like an elegant well —
the Johnsons' "reception room": floor space, nothing
to mention; walls, blue calcimined; ceiling, twelve
feet from the floor; inside shutters and gray lace
curtains; five gilt chairs, a brocaded sofa, soiled, and
an inlaid walnut table, supporting two tall alabaster
\rases; a palm, with two leaves, dying in a comer.
Mrs. Johnson came in, breathing noticeably; and
iier. round head, smoothly but economically decorated
with the hair of an honest woman, seemed to be lin-
gering far in the background of the Alpine bosom
which took precedence of the rest of her everywhere;
but when she was all in the room, it was to be seen
that her breathing was the result of hospitable haste
to greet the visitor, and her hand, not so dry as
Neptune's Fountain, suggested that she had paused
for only the briefest ablutions. George accepted
this cold,, damp lump mechanically.
'Mr. Amberson — I mean Mr. Minafer!" ak^
814 THE MAGNIFICEl«r AMBERSONS
exclaimed. ^'I'm really delighted: I understood
you asked for me. Mr. Johnson's out of the city, but
Charlie's downtown and I'm looking for him at any
minute, now, and he'll be so pleased that you "
"I didn't want to see Charlie," George said. "I
want "
"Do sit down," the hospitable lady urged him,
seating herself upon the sofa. "Do sit down."
"No, I thank you. I wish "
"Surely you're not going to nm away again,
when you've just come. Do sit down, Mr. Mina-
fer. I hope you're all well at your house and at
the dear old Major's, too. He's looking "
"Mrs. Johnson" George said, in a strained loud
voice which arrested her attention immediately, so
that she was abruptly silent, leaving her surprised
mouth open. She had already been concealing some
astonishment at this unexampled visit, however, and
the condition of George's ordinarily smooth hair
(for he had overlooked more than his hat) had not
alleviated her perplexity. "Mrs. Johnson," he
said, "I have come to ask you a few questions which
I would like you to answer, if you please."
She became grave at once. " Certainly, Mr. Mina^
fer. Any thing I can "
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 815
He interrupted sternly, yet his voice shook in spite
of its sternness, "You were talking with my Aunt
Fanny about my mother this afternoon."
At this Mrs. Johnson uttered an involuntary
gasp, but she recovered herself. "Then I'm sure
our conversation was a very pleasant one, if we
were talking of your mother, because- "
Again he interrupted. "My aunt has told me
what the conversation virtuaUy was, and I don't
mean to waste any time, Mrs. Johnson. You were
talking about a " George's shoulders suddenly
heaved uncontrollably; but he went fiercely on:
"You were discussing a scandal that involved my
mother's name."
"Mr. Minafer!"
"Isn't that the truth?"
" I don't feel called upon to answer, Mr. Mina^
fer," she said with visible agitation. "I do not
consider that you have any right "
"My aunt told me you repeated this scandal to
her."
"I don't think your aunt can have said that," Mrs.
Johnson returned sharply. "I did not repeat a
Scandal of any kind to your aunt and I think you
are mistaken in saying she told you I did. We may
316 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
have discussed some matters that have been a topic
of comment about town '*
"Yes!" George cried. "I think you may have*
That's what I'm here about, and what I intend
to "
"Don't tell me what you intend, please," Mrs.
Johnson interrupted crisply. "And I should prefer
that you would not make your voice quite so loud in
this house, which I happen to own. Your aunt may
have told you — though I think it would have been
very unwise in her if she did, and not very consider-
ate of me — she may have told you that we discussed
some such topic as I have mentioned, and possibly
that would have been true. If I talked it over
with her, you may be sure I spoke in the most charit-
able spirit, and without sharing in other people's dis-
position to put an evil interpretation on what may
be nothing more than unfortunate appearances
and "
"My God!" said George. "I can't stand this!"
"You have the option of dropping the subject,'*
Mrs. Johnson suggested tartly, and she added:
"Or of leaving the house."
" I'll do that soon enough, but first I mean to
know "
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS STT
"I am perfectly willing to tell you anytlimg you
wish if you will remember to ask it quietly. I'll
also take the liberty of reininding you that I had a
perfect right to discuss the subject with your aunt.
Other people may be less considerate in not confining
their discussion of it, as I have, to charitable views
expressed only to a member of the family. Other
people '^
"Other people!'* the unhappy George repeated
viciously. "That's what I want to know, about
—these other people!"
"I beg your pardon."
'I want to ask you about them. You say y©u
know of other people who talk about this."
"I presume they do."
. "How many?"
"What?"
"I want to know how many other people talk
about it?"
"Dear, dear!" she protested. "How should I
know that?"
"Haven't you heard anybody mention it?"
"I presume so."
"Well, how many have you heard?"
Mrs. Johnson was becoming more annoyed than
818 THE MAGNIFIGENT AMBERSONS
apprehensive, and she showed it. ^'Really, this
isn*t a court-room/* the said. "And I'm not a
defendant in a libel-suit, either!"
The unfortunate yoimg man lost what remained
of his balance. "You may be!" he cried. "1 m-
tend to know just who's dared to say these things, if
I have to force my way into every house in town, and
I*m going to make them take every word of it back !
I mean to know the name of every slanderer that*«
spoken of this matter to you and of every tattler
you* ve passed it on to yourself. I mean to know "
"You'll know something pretty quick!" she said,
rising with diflSculty; and her voice was thick with
the sense of insult. "You'll know that you're out
in the street. Please to leave my house!"
George stiflFened sharply. Then he bowed, and
strode out of the door.
Three minutes later, dishevelled and perspiringi
but cold all over, he burst into his Uncle George'*
room at the Major's without knocking. Amberson
was dressing.
" Good gracious, Georgie ! " he exclaimed. " What's
up?"
"I've just come from Mrs. Johnson's — ^across the.
street," George panted.
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS Sl»
"You have your own tastes!" was Amberson's
comment. "But curious as they are, you ought to
do something better with your hair, and button your
waistcoat to the right buttons — even for Mrs. John-
son ! What were you doing over there? '*
"She told me to leave the house," George said
desperately. "I went there because Aunt Fanny
told me the whole town was talking about my mother
and that man Morgan — that they say my mother is
going to marry him and that proves she was too
fond of him before my father died — she said this
Mrs. Johnson was one that talked about it, and I
went to her to ask who were the others."
Amberson*s jaw fell in dismay. "Don't tell me
you did that!" he said, in a low voice; and then,
seeing that it was true, "Oh, now you have done it!"
CHAPTER XXra
I'VE 'done it*?" George cried. "What do you
mean: I've done it? And what have I
done?"
Amberson had collapsed into an easy chair beside
his dressing-table, the white evening tie he had been
about to put on dangling from his hand, which had
fallen limply on the arm of the chair. The tie dropped
to the lloor before he replied; and the hand that
had held it was Sf ted to stroke his graying hair reflec-
tively. "By Jove!" he muttered. "That is too
bad!"
George folded his arms bitterly. '* Will you kindly
answer my question? What have I done that wasn't
honourable and right? Do you think these riffraflf
can go about bandying my mother's name "
"They can now," said Amberson. "I don't
know if they could before, but they certainly can
now!"
"What do you mean by that?"
His imcle sighed profoundly, picked up his tie«
320
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 321
and, preoccupied with despondency, twisted the
strip ; of white lawn till it became un wearable.
Meanwhile, he tried to enlighten his nephew.
"Gossip is never fatal, Georgie," he said, "until it is
denied. Gossip goes on about every human being
alive and about all the dead that are alive enough to
be remembered, and yet almost never does any
harm until some defender makes a controversy.
Gossip's a nasty thing, but it's sickly, and if people
of good intentions will let it entirely alone, it will
die, ninety-nine times out of a hundred."
"See here," George said: "I didn't come to listen
to any generalizing dose of philosophy! I ask
you "
"You asked me what yeu've done, and I'm telling
you." Amberson gave him a melancholy smile,
continuing: "Suflfer me to do it in my own way.
Fanny says there's been talk about your mother,
/and that Mrs. Johnson does some of it. I don't
know, because naturally nobody would come to me
with such stuflF or mention it before me; but it's
presumably true — I suppose it is. I've seen Fanny
with Mrs. Johnson quite a lot; and that old lady is a
notorious gossip, and that's why she ordered you out
of her house when you pinned her down that she'd
324 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
"I suppose you thinli I mean to let my mother's
good name "
"Your mother's good name!" Amberson cut
him off impatiently. "Nobody has a good name in
a bad mouth. Nobody has a good name in a silly
mouth, either. Well, your mother's name was in
some silly mouths, and all you've done was to go
and have a scene with the worst old woman gossip
in the town — a scene that's going to make her into
a partisan against your mother, whereas she was a
mere prattler before. Don't you suppose she'll be
all over town with this to-morrow? To-morrow?
Why, she'll have her telephone going to-night as
long as any of her friends are up! People that
never heard anything about this are going to hear
it all now, with embellishments. And she'll see to it
that everybody who's hinted anything about poor
Isabel will know that you're on the warpath; and
that will put them on the defensive and make them
vicious. The story will grow as it spreads and "
George unfolded his arms to strike his right fist in-
to his left palm. "But do you suppose I'm going to
tolerate such things?" he shouted. "What do you
suppose ril be doing?"
"Nothing helpful."
t€,
«
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 325
Oh, you think so, do you?"
You can do absolutely nothing," said Amberson.
"Nothing of any use. The more you do the more
harm you'll do."
"You'll see! I'm going to stop this thing if I
have to force my way into every house on National
Avenue and Amberson Boulevard!'*
His imcle laughed rather sourly, but made no
other comment.
"Well, what do you propose to do?" George de-
manded. "Do you propose to sit there "
"Yes."
" — and let this riffraff bandy my mother's good
name back and forth among them? Is that what
you propose to do?"
"It's all I can do," Amberson returned. "It's all
any of us can do now: just sit still and hope that the
thing may die down in time, in spite of your stirring
up that awful old woman."
George drew a long breath, then advanced and
stood close before his uncle. "Didn't you under-
stand me when I told you that people are saying my
mother means to marry this man?" •
"Yes, I understood you."
- **You say that my going over there has made
S26 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
matters worse," George went on. "How about it
if such a — such an unspeakable marriage did take
place? Do you think that would make people be-
lieve they'd been wrong in saying — you know what
they say."
"No," said Amberson deliberately; "I don't be-
lieve it would. There'd be more badness in the bad
mouths and more silliness in the silly mouths, I dare
say. But it wouldn't hurt Isabel and Eugene, if
they never heard of it; and if they did hear of it,
then they could take their choice between placating
gossip or living for their own happiness. If they
have decided to marry "
George almost staggered. " Good God ! " he gasped.
"You speak of it calmly!"
Amberson looked up at him inquiringly. "Why
shouldn't they marry if they want to?" he asked.
"It's then- own affair."
"Why shouldn't they?" George echoed. "Why
shouldn't they?"
"Yes. Why shouldn't they? I don't see any-
thing precisely monstrous about two people getting
married when they're both free and care about each
other. What's the matter with their niarrying? "
"It would be monstrous!" George shouted*
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 327
** Monstrous even if this horrible thing hadn't
happened, but now in the face of this — oh, that you
can sit there and even speak of it! Your own sister!
O Crod ! Oh " He became incoherent, swinging
away from Amberson and making for the door,
wUdly gesturing.
"For heaven's sake, don't be so theatrical!" said
his uncle, and then, seeing that George was leaving
the room: "Come back here. You mustn't speak
to your mother of this!"
"Don't 'tend to," George said indistinctly; and
he plimged out into the big dimly lit hall. He
passed his grandfather's room on the way to the
stairs; and the Major was visible within, his white
head brightly illumined by a lamp, as he bent low
over a ledger upon his roll-top desk. He did not
look up, and his grandson strode by the door, not
really conscious of the old figure stooping at its
tremulous work with long additions and subtract
tions that refused to balance as they used to. George
went home and got a hat and overcoat without see-
ing either his mother or Fanny.. Then he left word
that he would be out for dinner, and hurried away
from the house.
He walked the dark streets of Amberson Addition
328 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
for an hour, then went downtown and got coffee at
a restaurant. After that he walked through the
lighted parts of the town until ten o'dock, when he
turned north and came back to the purlieus of the
Addition. He strode through the length and
breadth of it again, his hat pulled doWn over his fore-
head, his overcoat collar turned up behind. He
walked fiercely, though his feet ached, but by and
by he turned homeward, and, when he reached the
Major's, went in and sat upon the steps of the huge
stone veranda, in front — an obscure figure in that
lonely and repeUent place. All lights were out at die
Major's, and finally, after twelve, he saw his mother's
window darken at home.
He waited half an hour longer, then crossed the
front yards of the new houses and let himself nbise-
lessly in the front door. The Ught in the hall had
been left burning, and another in his own room, as
«
he discovered when he got there. He locked the
door quickly and without noise» but his fingers were
still upon the key when there was a quick footfall in
the hall outside.
. "Georgie, dear?'.'
He went to the other end of the room before
replying. '
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 329
"Yes?"
"I'd been wondering where you were, dear."
"Had you?"
There was a pause ; then she said timidly : " Wher-
ever it was, I hope you had a pleasant evening."
After a silence, "Thank you," he said, without
expression.
Another silence followed before she spoke again.
"You wouldn't care to be kissed good-night, I
suppose?" And with a little flurry of placative
laughter, she added: "At your age, of course!"
"I'm going to bed, now," he said. "Good-
night."
Another silence seemed blanker than those which
had preceded it, and finally her vcrice came — it was
blank, too.
"Good-night." .
. . . After he was in bed his thoughts became
more tumultuous than ever; while among all the
inchoate and fragmentary sketches of this dreadful
day, now rising before him, the clearest was of his
imcle collapsed in a big chair with a white tie dang-
ling from his hand; and one conviction, following
upon that picture, became definite in George's mind :
830 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
that his Uncle George Amberson was a hopeless
dreamer from whom no help need be exi>ectedy an
amiable imbecile lacking in normal impulses, and
wholly useless in a struggle which required honour
to be defended by a man of action.
Then would return a vision of Mrs. Johnson's
furious roimd head, set behind her great bosom like
the Sim far sunk on the horizon of a mountain plateau
-and her crackling, asthmatic voice. . . "With-
out sharing in. other people's disposition to put an
evil interpretation on what may be nothing more than
unfortunate appearances." . . . "Other people
may be less considerate in not confining then- dis-
cussion of it, as I have, to charitable views." . . .
"You'll know something pretty quick! You'll know
you're ,out in the street." . . . And then
George would get up again — and again — and pace
the floor in his bare feet.
That was what the tormented young man was
doing when daylight came gauntly in at his window
—pacing the floor, rubbing his head in his hands,
and muttering:
"It can't be true: this can't be happening to
met
99
CHAPTER XXIV
BREAKFAST was brought to him in his room»
. as usual; but he did not make his normal
healthy raid upon the dainty tray : the food
remained untouched, and he sustained himself upon
coffee — ^four cups of it, which left nothing of value
inside the glistening little percolator. During this
process he heard his mother being summoned to the
tel^hone in the hall, not far from his door, and then
her voice responding : "Yes? Oh, it's you! . . .
Indeed I should ! . . . Of course. . . . Then
I'll expect you about three. . . Yes. . . .
Good-bye till then." A few minutes later he heard
her speaking to someone beneath his window and,
looking out, saw her directing the removal of plants
from a small garden bed to the Major's conserv-
atory for the winter. There was an air of briskness
about her; as she turned away to go into the house,
she laughed gaily with the Major's gardener over
something he said, and this unconcerned cheerfulness
of her was terrible to her son.
He went to his desk, and, searching the jumbled
931
332 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
contents of a drawer, brought forth a large, unf ramed
photograph of his father, upon which he gazed long
and piteously, till at last hot tears stood in his eyes.
It was strange how the inconsequent face of Wilbur
seemed to increase in high significance during this
belated interview between father and son; and how it
seemed to take on a reproachful nobility — ^and yet,
under the circumstances, nothing could have been
more natural than that George, having paid but the
slightest attention to his father in life, should begin to
deify him, now that he was dead. "Poor, poor
father!" the son whispered brokenly. "Poor man,
I'm glad you didn't know!"
He wrapped the picture in a sheet of newspaper,
put it under his arm, and, leaving the house hur-
riedly and stealthily, went downtown to the shop of
a silversmith, where he spent sixty dollars on a
resplendently festooned silver frame for the picture.
Having lunched upon more coffee, he returned to
the house at two o'clock, carrying the framed photo-
graph with him, and placed it upon the centre-table
in the library, the room most used by Isabel and
Fanny and himself . Then he went to a front win-
dow of the long "reception room," and sat looking
out through the lace curtains.
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 33S
The house was quiet, though once or twice he
heard his mother and Fanny moving about upstairs,
and a ripple of song in the voice of Isabel — a frag-
ment from the romantic ballad of Lord Bateman.
"Lord Bateman was a noble lord,
A noble lord of high degree;
And he sailed West and he sailed £ast»
Far countries for to see. . . ."
The words became indistinct; the air was hummed
absently; the humming shifted to a whistle, then
drifted out of hearing, and the place was still again.
George looked often at his watch, but his vigil
d^'d not last an hour. At ten minutes of three,
peering through the curtain, he saw an automobile
stop in front of the house and Eugene Morgan jump
lightly down from it. The car was of a new pattern,
low and long, with an ample seat in the tonneau,
facing forward; and a professional driver sat at
the wheel, a strange figure in leather, goggled out
of all personality and seemingly part of the mechan-
ism.
Eugene himself, as he came up the cement path
to the house, was a figure of the new era which was in
time to be so disastrous to stiff hats and skirted coats;
and his appearance afforded a debonair contrast t6
S34 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
that of the queer-looking duck capering at the
Amberson Ball in an old dress coat, and next day
chugging up National Avenue through the sno\«' in
his nightmare of a sewing-machine. Eugene, this
afternoon, was richly in the new outdoor mode: his
motoring coat was soft gray fur; his cap and gloves
were of gray suede; and though Lucy's hand may
have shown itself in the selection of these high garni-
tures, he wore them easily, even with a becoming
hint of jauntiness. Some change might be seen in
his face, too, for a successful man is seldom to be mis-
taken, especially if his temper be genial. Eugene
had begun to look like a millionaire.
But above everything else, what was most evi-
dent about him, as he came up the path, was his
confidence in the happiness promised by his present
errand; the anticipation in his eyes could have been
read by a stranger. His look at the door of Isabel's
house was the look of a man who is quite certain
that the next moment will reveal something in-
effably charming, inexpressibly dear.
. . , When the bell rang, George waited at the
entrance of the "reception room" until a housemaid
came through the hall on her way to answer the
summons.
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 335
"You needn't mind, Mary," he told her. "I'll
see who it is and what they want. Probably it's
only a pedlar*"
*•' Thank you, sir, Mister George," said Mary;
and returned to the rear of the house.
George went slowly to the front door, and halted,
regarding the misty silhouette of the caller upon the
ornamental frosted glass. After a minute of wait-
ing, this silhouette changed outline so that an arm
could be distinguished-^-an arm outstretched toward
the bell, as if the gentleman outside doubted whether
or not it had sounded, and were minded to try again.
But before the gesture was completed George ab-
ruptly threw open the door, and stepped squarely
upon the middle of the threshold.
A slight change shadowed the face of Eugene;
his look of happy anticipation gave way to something
formal and polite. "How do you do, Geoi^e," he
said. "Mrs. Minafer expects to go driving with
me, I believe — if you'll be so kind as to send her word
that I'm here."
George made not the slightest movement.
"No," he said.
Eugene was incredulous, even when his second
glance revealed how hot of eye was the haggard
886 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
young man b^re him. '^I beg your pardon. I
said — -"
"I heard you," said George. "You said you had
an engagement with my mother, and I told you.
No!"
Eugene gave him a steady look, and then he asked
quietly: "What is the— the difficulty?"
George kept his own voice quiet enough, but that
did not mitigate the vibrant fury of it. "My mother
will have no interest in knowing that you came for
her to-day," he said. "Or any other day!"
Eugene continued to look at him with a ^scrutiny
in which began to gleam a profound anger, none the
less powerful because it was so quiet. "I am afraid
I do not understand you."
"I doubt if I could naake it much plainer," George
said, raising his voice slightly, "but I'll try. You're
not wanted in this house, Mr. Morgan, now or at any
other time. Perhaps you'll imderstand — this!"
And with the last word he closed the door in
Eugene's face.
Then, not moving away, he stood just inside the
door, and noted that the misty silhouette remained
upon the frosted glass for several moments, as if
the forbidden gentleman debated in bis mind what
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 337
course to pursue. ''Let him ring again!" George
thought grimly. "Or try the side door — or the
kitchen!"
But Eugene made no further attempt; the sil-
houette disappeared; footsteps could be heard
withdrawing across the floor of the veranda; and
George, returning to the window in the "reception
room," was rewarded by the sight of an automobile
manufacturer in baffled retreat, with all his wooing
furs and fineries mocking him. Eugene got into
his car slowly, not looking back at the house which
had just taught him such a lesson; and it was easily
visible — even from a window seventy feet distant —
that he was not the same light suitor who had
jumped so gallantly from the car only a few minutes
earlier. Observing the heaviness of his move-
ments as he climbed into the tonneau, George in-
dulged in a sickish throat rumble which bore a dis-
tant cousinship to mirth.
The car was quicker than its owner; it shot away
as soon as he had sunk into his seat; and George,
haviDg watched its impetuous disappearance from
his field of vision, ceased to haimt the window. He
went to the library, and, seating himself beside the
table whereon he had placed the photograph of his
388 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
father, picked up a bo<^, and pretended to be
gaged in reading it.
Presently Isabel's buoyant step was heard de-
scending the stairs, and her low, sweet whistling, re-
newing the air of "Lord Bateman/' She came into
the library, still whistling thou^tfully, a fur coat
over her arm, ready to put on, and two veils round
her small black hat, her right hand engaged in but-^
toning the glove upon her left; and, as the large room
contained too many.jneces of heavy furniture, and th«s
inside shutters excluded most of the light of day,
she did not at once perceive Greorge's presence-
Instead, she went to the bay window at the end of
the toom, which afforded a view of the street, and
glanced out expectantly; then bent her attention
upon her glove; after that, looked out toward the
street again, ceased to whistle, and turned towanl the
interior of the roorm.
"Why, Georgie!" '
She came, leaned over from bdmtd him, a&d there
was a faint, exquisite odour as from distaxit afiple-
blossoms as she kissed his cheek. "Dear, I waited
lunch almost an hour for you, but you didn't ecme!
«
Did you lunch out somewhere?"
>;"Yes." He did not look up from the book.
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 88»
*'Did yon have plenty to eat?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure? Wouldn't you like to have Magr
gie get you something now in the dining room? Ofr
they could bring it to you. here, if you think it would
be cosier. Shan't I "
"No."
A tinkling bell was audible, and she moved to the
doorway into the hall. " I'm going out driving, dear.
I " She interrupted herself to address the house-
maid, who was passing through the hall: "I think
it's Mr. Morgan, Mary. Tell him I'll be there at
once."
"Yes, ma'am."
Mary returned. " 'Twas a pedlar, ma'am."
*' Another one ?" Isabel said, surprised. " I thought
you said it was a pedlar when the bell rang a little
while ago."
"Mister George said it was, ma'am; he went to
the door," Mary informed her, disappearing.
"There seem to be a great many of them," Isabel
mused. "What did yours want to sell, George?"
He didn't say."
You must have cut him off short!" she laughed;
and then, still standing in the doorway, she noticed'
a
«'
S40 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
the big silver frame upon the table beside him.
"Gracious, Georgie!" she exclaimed. "You h(we
been investing!" and as she came across the room
for a closer view, "Is it — is it Lucy?" she asked half
timidly, half archly. But the next instant she saw
Krhose likeness was thus set forth in elegiac splendour
— and she was silent, except for a long, just-audible
"OA/"
He neither looked up nor moved.
"That was nice of you, Georgie," lAe said, in a
low voice presently. "I ought to have had it
framed, myself, when I gave it to you."
He said nothing, and, standmg beside him, she
put her hand gently upon his shoulder, then as gently
withdrew it, and went out of the room. But she
did not go upstairs; he heard the faint rustle of her
dress in the hall, and then the soimd of her foot-
steps in the "reception room." After a time, silence
succeeded even these slight tokens of her presence;
whereupon George rose and went warily into the
hall, taking care to make no noise, and he obtamed
an oblique view of her through the open double doors
of the " reception room." She was sitting in the chair
which he had occupied so long; and she was looking
out of the window expectantly — a little troubled-
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 341
He went back to the library, waited an intermin-
able half hour, then returned noiselessly to the same
position in the hall, where he could see her. She was
still sitting patiently by the window.
Waiting for that man, was she? Well, it might
be quite a long wait! And the grim George silently
ascended the stairs to his own room, and began to
pace his suffering floor.
CHAPTER XXV
HE LEFT his door open, however, and when
he heard the front door-bell rmg, by and by,
he went half way down die ^airs and stood
to listen. He was not much afraid that Morgan
would return, but he wished to make sure.
Mary appeared in the hall below him, but, after a
glance toward the front of the house, turned back,
and withdrew. Evidently Isabel had gone to the
door. Then a murmur was heard, and George
Amberson's voice, quick and serious: "I want to
talk to you, Isabel" . . . and another murmur;
then Isabel and her brother passed the foot of the
broad, dark stairway, but did not look up, and
remained unconscious of the watchful presence above
them. Isabel still carried her cloak upon her arm,
but Amberson had taken her hand, and retained it;
and as he led her silently into the library there was
something about her attitude, and the pose of her
slightly bend head, that was both startled and meek.
Thus they quickly disappeared from George's sight.
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS 343
iiand in hand; and Amberson at once closed the
massive double doors of the library.
EcHT a time all that George could hear was the
indistinct sound of his uncle's voice: what he was
saying could not be surmised, though the troubled
brotherliness of his tone was evident. He seemed to
be explaining something at considerable length, and
there were moments when he paused, and George
guessed that his mother was speaking, but her voice
must have been very low, for it was entirely in-
audible to him.
Suddenly he did hear her. Through the heavy
doors her outcry came, clear and loud :
• "Oh, no.'"
It was a cry of protest, as if something her
brother told her must be untrue, or, if it were true,
the fact he stated must be undone; and it was a
sound of sheer pain.
Another sound of pain, close to George, followed
it; this was a vehement sniffling which broke out
just above him, and, looking up, he saw Fanny
Minafer on the landing, leaning over the banisters
and applying her handkerchief to her eyes and
I can guess what thist was about," she whispered
€t
344 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
huskily. "He's just told her what you did to
Eugene!"
George gave her a dark look over his shoulder.
"You go on back to your room!" he said; and he
began to descend the stairs; but Fanny, guessing
his purpose, rushed down and caught his arm,
detaining him.
"You're not going in there F^* she whispered
huskily. "You don't "
"Let go of me!"
But she clung to him savagely. "Na» you don't,
Georgie Minafer! You'll keep away from there!
You will!"
"You let go of "
"I won't! You come back here! You'll come
upstairs and let them alone; that's what you'll do!"
And with such passionate determination did she
clutch and tug, never losing a grip of him somewhere,
though George tried as much as he could, without
hurting her, to wrench away — with such utter forget-
fulness of her maiden dignity did she assault him, tha*
she forced him, stumbling upward, to the landing.
"Of all the ridiculous " he began furiously;
but she spared one hand from its grasp of his sleeve
and clapped it over his mouth.
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 845
"Hush up!" Never for an instant in this gro-
tesque struggle did Fanny raise her voice above a
husky whisper. "Hush up! It's indecent — like
squabbling outside the door of an operating-room 1
Go on to the top of the stairs— go on!'*
And when George had most unwillingly obeyed, she
planted herself in his way, on the top step. "There!**
she said. "The idea of your going in there now! I
never heard of such a thing ! " And with the sudden
departure of the nervous vigour she had shown so
amazingly, she began to cry again. "I was an
awful fool! I thought you knew what was going on
or I never, never would have done it. Do you
suppose I dreamed you'd go makmg everything into
such a tragedy? Do you?"
"I don't care what you dreamed," George mut^
*ered.
But Fanny went on, always taking care to keep
her voice from getting too loud, in spite of her most
grievous agitation. "Do you dream I thought
you'd go making such a fool of yourself at Mrs*
Johnson's? Oh, I saw her this morning! She
wouldn't talk to me, but I met George Amberson on
my way back, and he told me what you'd done ovei
there! And do vou dream I thouc^ht you'd do wha*
846 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
youVe done here this afternoon to Eugene? Oh,
I knew that, too! I was looking out of the front
bedroom window, and I saw him drive up, and then
go away again, and I knew youM been to the door.
Of course he w«it to George Amberson about it,
and that's why George is here. He's got to tell
Isabel the whole thing now, and you wanted to go
in there interfering — God knows what! You stay
here and let her brother tell her; he's got some
consideration for her!"
"I suppose you think I haven't!" George said,
challenging her, and at that Fanny laughed wither-
ingly.
" You ! Considerate of anybody ! "
"I'm considerate of her good name!" he said
hotly. "It seems to me that's about the first thing
to be considerate of, in beii g considerate of a person!
And look here: it strikes me you're taking a pretty
different tack from what you did yesterday aftCT^
noon!"
Fanny wrung her hands. " I did a terrible thing!**
she lamaited. "Now that it's done and too late*
I know what it was ! I didn't have sense enough
jnst to let things go on. I didn't have any buskiess
to interfere, and I didn't mean to interfere — laoly
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 347
wanted to talk, and let ottt a little! I did think
you already knew everything I told you. I did!
And I'd Father have cut my hand off than stir you
up to doing what you have done! I was just suffer-
ing so that I wanted to let out a little — I didn't
mean any real harm. But now I see what's happened
— oh, I was a fool! I hadn't any business interfer-
ing. Eugene never would have looked at me, any-
how, and, oh, why couldn't I have seen that before!
He never came here a single time in his Ufe except
on her account, never! and I might have let them
alone, because he wouldn't have looked at me
even if he'd never seen Isabel. And they haven't
done any harm: she made Wilbur happy, and she
was a true wife to him as long as he lived. It wasn't
a crime for her to care for Eugene all the time; she
certainly never told him she did— and she gave me
every chance in the world! She left us alone to-
gether every time she could — even since Wilbur
died — but what was the use? And here I go, not
doing myself a bit of good by it, and just" —
Fanny wrung her hands again — "just ruining
them!"
"I suppose you mean I'm doing that," George
said bitterlv.
ss
St
348 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
"Yes, I do!" she sobbed, and drooped upon the
stairway railing, exhausted.
" On the contrary, I mean to save my mother from
a calamity."
Fanny looked at him wanly, in a tired despair;
then she stepped by him and went slowly to her
own door, where she paused and beckoned to him.
"What do you want?"
Just come here a minute."
What for?" he asked impatiently.
"I just wanted to say something to you."
"Well, for heaven's sake, say it! There's nobody
to hear." Nevertheless, after a moment, as she
beckoned him again, he went to her, profoundly
annoyed. "Well, what is it?"
"George," she said in a low voice, "I think you
ought to be told something. If I were you, I'd let
my mother alone."
"Oh, my Lord!" he groaned. "I'm doing these
things /or her, not against her!"
A mildness had come upon Fanny, and she had
controlled her weeping. She shook her head gently.
"No, I'd let her alone if I were you. I don't think
she's very well, George."
"She! I never saw a healthier person in my life/*
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 349
"No. She doesn't let anybody know, but she
goes to the doctor regularly."
''Women are always going to doctors regularly/'
"No. He told her to."
George was not impressed. ''It's nothing at all;
she spoke of it to me years ago — some kind of
family failing. She said grandfather had it, too;
and look at him ! Hasn't proved very serious with
him! You act as if I'd done something wrong in
sending that man about his business, and as if I
were going to persecute my mother, instead of
protecting her. By Jove, it's sickening! You told
me how all the riflFraff in town were busy vdth her
name, and then the minute I lift my hand to protect
her, you begin to attack me and "
"SA /" Fanny checked him, laying her hand on
his arm. "Your uncle is going."
The library doors were heard opening, and a
moment later . there came the sound of the front
door closing.
George moved toward the head of the stairs, thea
stood listening; but the house was silent.
Fanny made a slight noise with her lips to attract
his attention, and, when he glanced toward her,
shook her head at him urgently. "Let her alone."
SSO THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
she whispered. "She's down there by hecsell.
Don't go down. Let her alone."
She moved a few steps toward him and halted»
her face pallid and awestruck, and then both stood
listening for anything that might bi^ak the silence
downstairs. No sound came to them; that poignant
silence was continued throughout long, long minutes^
while the two listeners stood th^e under its mysterious
spell;, and in its plaintive eloquence — speaking, as
it did, of the figure al<me in the big, dark library,
whwe dead Wilbur's new silver frame gieamed in
the dimness — there was something that checked even
George.
Above the aunt and nephew, as they kept this
strange vigil, there was a triple window of stained
glass, to illumine the landing and upper reaches of
the stairway. Figures m bhie and amber garments
posed gracefully in panels, conceived by some
*
craftsman of the Eighties to represent Love and
Purity and Beauty, and these figures, leaded to
unalterable attitudes, were little more motionless
than the two human beings upon whom fell the
mottled faint light of the window. The cokwrs
were growing dull; evening was coming on.
Fanny .Minafer broke the lon^ silence with a
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 351
sound from her throat, a stifled gasp; and with that
great companion of hers, her handkerchief, retired
softly to the loneliness of her own chamber. After
she had gone George looked about him bleakly,
then on tiptoe crossed the hall and went into his
own room, which was filled with twilight. StiO
tiptoeing, though he could not have said why, he
went across the room and sat down heavily in a
chair facing the window. Outside there was nothing
but the darkening air and the wall of the nearest
of the new houses. He had not slept at all, the
night before, and he had eaten nothing since the
prereding day at lunch, but he felt neither drowsi-
ness nor hunger. His set determination filled him,
kept him but too wide awake, and his gaze at the
grayness beyond the window was wide-eyed and
bitter.
Darkness had closed in when there was a step
in the room behind him. Then someone knelt
beside the chair, two arms went round him with
infinite compassion, a gentle head rested against
his shoulder, and there came the faint scent as of
apple-blossoms far away.
"You mustn't be troubled, darling," his mother
whispered-
CHAPTER XXVI
GEORGE choked. For an instant he was on
the point of breaking down, but he com-
manded himself, bravely dismissing the
self-pity roused by her compassion. "How can I
help but be?" he said.
"No, no." She soothed him. "You mustn't.
You mustn't be troubled, no matter what hap-
pens."
"That's easy enough to say!" he protested; and
he moved as if to rise.
"Just let's stay like this a little while, dear. Just
a minute or two. I want to tell you: brother George
has been here, and he told me everything about —
about how unhappy you'd been — and how you went
so gallantly to that old woman with the opera-
glasses." Isabel gave a sad little laugh. "What
a terrible old woman she is! What a really terrible
thing a vulgar old woman can be!"
"Mother, I " And again he moved to rise.
**Must you? It seemed to me such a comfortable
352
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 35S
way to talk. Well '* She yielded; he rose, helped
her to her feet, and pressed the light into being.
As the room took life from the sudden lines of fire
within the bulbs Isabel made a deprecatory gesture,
and, with a faint laugh of apologetic protest, turned
quickly away from George. What she meant was:
"You mustn't see my face imtil I've made it nicer
for you." Then she turned again to him, her eyes
downcast, but no sign of tears in them, and she con-
trived to show him that there was the semblance of
a smile upon her lips. She still wore her hat, and
in her imsteady fingers she held a white envelope,
somewhat crumpled.
"Now, mother "
"Wait, dearest," she said; and though he stood
5tone cold, she lifted her arms, put them round him
again, and pressed her cheek lightly to his. "Oh,
you do look so troubled, poor dear! One thing you
couldn't doubt, beloved boy : you know I could never
care for anything in the world as I care for you —
never, never!"
"Now, mother "
She released him, and stepped back. "Just a
moment more, dearest. I want you to read this first.
We can get at things better." She pressed into his
S54 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
hand the envelope she had brought with her, and-
he opened it, and began to read the long enclosure,
she walked slowly to the other end of the room; then
stood there, with her back to him, and her bead
dfO€q>ing a little, until he had finished.
The sheets of paper were covered with Eug^^ie^^
handwriting.
George Amberk>n will bring you this, dear Isabel. He is
waiting while I write. He and I have talked things over, and
before he gives this to you he will tell you what has happened.
Of course I'm rather confused, and haven't had time to think
matters out very definitely, and yet I believe I shoidd have been
better prepared for what took place to-day — ^I ought to have
known it was coming, because I have understood for quite a long
time that young George was getting to dislike me more and more.
Somehow, I've never been able to get his friendship; he's always
had a latent distrust of me — or something like distrust — and
perhaps that's made me sometimes a little awkward and dif-
fident with him. I think it may be he felt from the first that I
cared a great deal about you, and he naturally resented it. I
think perhaps he felt this even during all the time when I was
so careful — at least I thought I was — ^not to show, even to you,
how immensely I did care. And he may have feared that yoo
were thinking too much about me — even when you weren't and
only liked me as an old friend. It's perfectly comprehensible to
me, also, that at his age one gets excited about gossip. Dear
Isabel, what I'm trying to get at, in my confused way, is that
you and I don't care about this nonsensical gossip, ourselves, at
all. Yesterday I thought the time had come when I could ask
you to marry me, and you were dear enough to tell me "somp
THE MilGNIFIC£NT AMBERSONS SAS
time it might oome to that." Well, you and I, l^t to ourselves,
and knowing what we have been and what we are, we'd pay as
much attention to ''talk" as we would to any other kind of oU
cats' mewing! We'd not be vay apt to let such things keep m
from the plenty of- life we have left to us for making up to our-
selves lor old unhappinesses and mistakes. But now we're faced
with — ^not the slander and not our own fear of it, because we
haven't any, but someone else's fear of it — ^your son's. And,
oh, dearest woman in the world, I know what your son is to you,
and it frightens me ! Let me explain a little : I don't think he'll
change — at twenty-one or twenty-two so many things appear
solid and permanent and terrible which forty sees are nothing
but disappearing miasma. Forty can't teU twenty about this;
that's the pity of it! Twenty can find out only by getting to be
forty. And so we come to this, dear: Will you live your own
life your way, or George's way? I'm going a little further, be-
cause it would be fatal not to be wholly firank now. George will
act toward you only as your long worship of him, your sacrifices
— ^all the unseen little ones every day since he was bom — will
make him act. Dear, it breaks my heart for you, but what you
have to oppose now is the history of your own seUess and perfect
motherhood. I remember saying once that what you worshipped
in your son was the angel you saw in him — ^and I still believe
that is true of every mother. But in a mother's worship she may
not see that the Will in her son should not always be offered
incense along with the angel. I grow sick with fear for you — ^for
both you and me — ^when I think how the Will against us two has
grown strong through the love you have given the angd — and
how long your own sweet Will has served tivit other* Are you
strong enough, Ii^bei? Can you make the fight? I promise
you that if you will take heart for it, you wiU find so quickly that
it has all amounted to nothing. You shall have happiness, and,
in a little while, only happiness. You need only to write me a
856 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
line — ^I can't come to your house — and tell me where you will
meet me. We will come back in a month, and the angel in your
son will bring him to you; I promise it. What is good in him will
grow so fine, once you have beaten the turbulent Will — ^but it
must be beaten!
Your brother, that good friend, is waiting with such patience;
I should not keep him longer — ^and I am saying too much for
wisdom, I fear. But, oh, my dear, won't you be strong — such
a little short strength it would need! Don't strike my life
down twice, dear — this time I've not deserved it.
Eugene.
Concluding this missive, George tossed it abruptly
from him so that one sheet fell up.on his bed and the
others upon the floor; and at the faint noise of their
falling Isabel came, and, kneeling, began to gather
them up.
"Did you read it, dear?"
George's face was pale no longer, but pink with
fury. "Yes, I did."
"All of it?" she asked gently, as she rose.
"Certainly!"
She did not look at him, but kept her eyes down-
cast upon the letter in her hands, tremulously rear-
ranging the sheets in order as she spoke — and though
she smiled, her smile was as tremulous as her hands.
Nervousness and an irresistible timidity possessed
her. " I —I wanted to sav, George," she faltered. '*T
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 357
felt that if — if some day it should happen — I mean,
if you came to feel diflferently about it, and Eugene
and I — that is if we found that it seemed the most
sensible thing to do — ^I was afraid you might think
it would be a little queer about — ^Lucyo I mean if
' — if she were your step-sister. Of course, she'd not
be even legally related to you, and if you — if you
cared for her "
•Thus far she got stumblingly with what she wanted
to say, while George- watched her with a gaze that
grew harder and hotter; but here he cut her oflF. "I
have already given up all idea of Lucy," he said.
"Naturally, I couldn't have treated her father as I
deUberately did treat him — I could hardly have
done that and expected his daughter ever to speak
to me again."
Isabel gave a quick cry of compassion, but be
allowed her no opportunity to speak. "You needn't
thhik I'm making any particular sacrifice," he said
sharply, "though I would, quickly enough, if I
thought it necessary in a matter of honour like
this. I was interested in her, and I could even say
I did care for her; but she proved pretty satis-
factorily that she cared little enough about me!
She went away right in the midst of a — of a diflference
358 tHE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
of opinion we were having; she didn't even let me
know she was going, and never wrote a line to me.
and then came back telling everybody she'd had *a
perfectly gorgeous time!' That's quite enough for
me. I'm not precisely the sort to arrange for that
kind of thing to be done to me more than once!
The truth is, we're not congenial and we'd found
that much out, at least, before she left. We should
never have been happy; she was * superior' all the
time, and critical of me — not very pleasant, that!
I was disappointed in her, and I might as well
say it. I don't think she has the very deepest nature
in the world, and "
But Isabel put her hand timidly on his arm.
"Georgie, dear, this is only a quarrel: all young
people have them before they get adjusted, and you
mustn't let "
"If you please!" he said emphatically, moving
back from her. "This isn't that kind. It's all over,
and I don't care to speak of it again. It's settled.
Don't you understand?"
"But, dear "
"No. I want to talk to you about this letter of
her father's."
"Yes, dear, that's why "
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 859
"It's simply the most oflfensive piece of writing
that I've ever held in my hands!"
She stepped back from him, startled. "But,
dear, I thought "
"I can't understand your even showing me such
a thing!" he cried. "How did you happen to bring
it to me?"
"Your uncle thought I'd better. He thought it
was the simplest thing to do, and he said that he'd
suggested it to Eugene, and £ugene had agreed.
They thought "
"Yes!'' George said bitterly. "I should like to
hear what they thought!"
"They thought it would be the most straight-
forward thing."
George drew a long breath. "Well, what do you
think, mother?"
"I thought it would be the simplest and most
straightforward thing; I thought they were right."
"Very well! We'll agree it was simple and
straightforward. Now, what do you think of that
letter itself?"
She hesitated, looking away. "I — of course I
don't agree with him in the way he speaks of you,
dear^-except about the angel! I don't agree with-
860 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
some of the things he implies. YouVe always been
unselfish — nobody knows that better than your
mother. When Fanny was left with nothing, you
were so quick and generous to give up what really
should have come to you, and "
"And yet," George broke in, "you see what he
implies about me. Don't you think, really, that
this was a pretty insulting letter for that man to be
asking you to hand your son? "
"Oh, no!'* she cried. "You can see how fair he
means to be, and he didn't ask for me to give it to
you. It was brother George who " ,
"Never mind that, now! You say he tries to be
fair, and yet do you suppose it ever occurs to him
that I'm doing my simple duty? That I'm doing
what my father would do if he were alive? That
I'm doing what my father would ask me to do if he
could speak from his grave out yonder? Do you
suppose it ever occurs to that man for one minute
that I'm protecting my mother?" George raised
his voice, advancing upon the helpless lady fiercely;
and she could only bend her head before him. " He
talks about my *Will' — ^how it must be beaten down;
yes, and he asks my mother to do that little thing to
please him! What for? Why does he want me
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 361
*beaten' by my mother? Because I'm trying to
protect her name! He's got my mother's name
bandied up and down the streets of this town till
I can't step in those streets without wondering what
every soul I meet is thinking of me and of my family,
and now he wants you to marry him so that every
•
gossip in town will say *There! What did I tell
you? I guess that proves it's true!' You can't get
away from it; that's exactly what they'd say, and
this man pretends he cares for you, and yet asks you
to marry him and give them the right to say it. He
Bays he and you don't care what they say, but I
know better ! He may not care — ^probably he's that
kind — ^but you do. There never was an Amberson
yet that would let the Amberson name go trailing
in the dust like that! It's the proudest name in
this town and it's going to stay the proudest; and I
tell you that's the deepest thing in my nature — ^not
that I'd expect Eugene Morgan to imderstand — the
very deepest thing in my nature is to protect that
name, and to fight for it to the last breach when
danger threatens it, as it does now — through my
mother!" He turned from her, striding up and
down and tossing his arms about, in a tumult of
gesture. "I ^^-an't believe it of you, that you'd
862 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
thirdo ot such a sacrilege! That's what it would be
— aaerttege! When he talks about your unselfish-
ness toward me, he's right — you 'have been unselfish
and you have been a perfect mother. But what
about him? Is it unselfish of him to want you to
throw away your good name just to please him?
That's aU he asks of you — ^and to quit being my
mother! Do you think I can believe you really care
for him? I don't! You are my mother and you're
aCt Amberson — and I believe you're too proud!
You're too proud to care for a man who could write
such a letter as that!" He stopped, faced her, and
spoke with more self -control: "Well, what are you
going to do about it, mother?"
George was right about his mother's being proud.
And even when she laughed with a negro gardener,
or even those few times in her life when people saw
her weep, Isabel had a proud look — something that
was indep^ident and graceful and strong. But she
did not have it now: she leaned against the wall, be-
side his dressing-table, and seemed beset with hu-
ndlity and with weakness. Her head drooped.
"What answer are you going to make to such a
letter?" G^eorge demanded, like a judge on the bench.
"I — ^I don't quite know, dear," she murmured.
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 86S
"You don't?" be cried. "You "
"Wait," she begged him. "I'm so — confused."
"I want to know what you're going to write him.
Do you think if you did what he wants you to I could
bear to stay another day in this town, mother? Do
you think I could ever bear even to see you again
if you married him? I'd want to, but you surely
know I just — couldn't ! "
' She made a futile gesture, and seemed to breathe
with difficulty. "I — ^I wasn't — ^quite sure," she
faltered, "about — about it's being wise for us to be
married — even before knowing how you feel about
it. I wasn't even sure it was quite fair to — to
Eugene. I have — ^I seem to have that family
trouble — like father's — that I spcdce to you about
once." She managed a deprecatory little dry laugh.
"Not that it amounts to much, but I wasn't at all
sure that it woidd be fair to him. Marrying doeim't
mean so much, after all — ^not at my age. It's
enough to know that — ^that people think of you —
and to see th^n. I thought we were all— oh,
pretty happy the way things were, and I don't think
it would mean giving up a great deal for him or me,
either, if we just went on as we have been. I — I see
him almost every day, and "
364 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
"Mother!" George's voice was loud and stem.
"Do you think you could go on seeing him after
this!''
She had been talking helplessly enough before;
her tone was little more broken now. "Not — not
even — see him?"
"How could you?" George cried. "Mother, it
seems to me that if he ever set foot in this house
again — oh! I can't speak of it! Could you see him,
knowing what talk it makes every time he turns into
this street, and knowing what that means to me?
Oh, I don't understand all this — I don't! If you'd
told me, a year ago, that such things were going to
happen, I'd have thought you were insane — ^and
now I believe / am!"
Then, after a preliminary gesture of despair, as
though he meant harm to the ceiling, he flimg him-
self heavily, face downward, upon the bed. His
anguish was none the less real for its vehemence; and
the stricken lady came to him instantly and bent
over him, once more enfolding him in her arms.
She said nothing, but suddenly her tears fell upon
his head; she saw them, and seemed to be
startled.
"Oh. this won't do!" she said. "I've never let
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 365
you see me cry before, except when your father died.
I mustn't!;*
And she ran from the room.
. . . A Kttle while after she had gone, George
rose and began solemnly to dress for dinner. At one
stage of these conscientious proceedings he put on,
temporarily, his long black velvet dressing-gown, and,
happening to catch sight in his pier glass of the
picturesque and mediaeval figure thus presented, he
paused to r^ard it; and something profoundly
theatrical in his nature came to the surface.
His Ups moved; he whispered, half -aloud, some
famous fragments:
'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother.
Nor customary suits of solemn black . .
For, in truth, the mirrored princely image, with
hair dishevelled on the white brow, and th^ long
tragic fall of black velvet from the shoulders, had
brought about (in his thought, at least) some
comparisons of his own times, so out of joint, with
those of that other gentle prince and heir whose
widowed mother was minded to marry again.
''But I have that within which passeth show;
These but the trappings and the suits of Woe**
366 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
Not less like Hastilet did he feel and look as he
sat gauntly at the dinner table with Fanny to par-
take of a meal throughout which neither spoke.
Isabel had sent word "not to wait" for her, an in-
junction it was as well they obeyed, for she did not
come at all. But with the renewal of sustenance
furnished to his system, some relaxation must have
occurred within the high-strung George. Dinner
was not quite finished when, without warning,
sleep hit him hard. His burning eyes could no
longer restrain the lids above them; his head sagged
beyond control; and he got to his feet, and went
lurching upstairs, yawning with exhaustion. From
the door of his room, which he closed mechanically,
with his eyes shut, he went blindly to his bed, fell
upon it soddenly, and slept — with his face full up-
turned to the light.
. * . It was after midnight when he woke, and
the room was dark. He had not dreamed, but he
woke with the sense that somebody or something
had been with him while he slept — somebody or
something infinitely compassionate; somebody or
something infinitely protective, that would let him
come to no harm and to no grief.
He got up, and pressed the light on. Pinned to
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 867
the cover of his dressing-table was a square envelope,
with the words, "For you, dear,'' written in pencil
upon it. But the message inside was in ink, a little
smudged here and there.
I have been out to the mail-box, darlihg, with a letter IVe
written to Eugene, and he'll have it in the morning. It would
be unfair not to let him know at once, and my decision could not
change if I waited. It would always be the same. I think it is
a little better for me to write to you, like this, instead of waiting
till you wake up and then telling you, because I'm foolish and
might cry again, and I took a vow once, long ago, that you should
never see me cry. Not that I'll feel like crying when we talk
things over to-morrow. I'll be-all right and fine" (as you say
so often) by that time — don't fear. I think what makes me most
ready to cry now is the thought of the terrible suffering in your
poor face, and the unhappy knowledge that it b I, your mother,
who piit it there. It shall never come again! I love you better
than anything and everything else on earth. God gave you to
me — and oh! how thankful I have been every day of my life
for that sacred gift — and nothing can ever come between me
and God's gift. I cannot hurt you, and I cannot let you stay
hurt as you have been — ^not another instant after you wake up,
my darling boy! It is beyond my power. And Eugene was
right — ^I know you couldn't change about this. Your suffering
shows how deep-seated the feeling is within you. So I've
written him just about what I think you would like me to —
though I told him I would always be fond of him and always
his best friend, and I hoped his dearest friend. He'll under-
stand about not seeing him. He'll understand that, though I
didn't say it in so many words. You mustn't trouble about
that — she'll understand. Good-night, my darling, my beloved
368 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
my beloved! You mustn't be troubled. I think I shouldn't
mind anything very much so long as I have you "all to myself"
— as people say — ^to make up for your long years away*from me
at college. We'll talk of what's best to do in the morning,
shan't we? And for all this pain you'll forgive your loving an<^
devoted mother.
Isabel.
CHAPTER XXVn
HAVING finished some errands downtown,
the next afternoon, George Amberson Mina-
f er was walking up National Avenue on his
homeward way when he saw in the distance, coming
toward him, upon the same side of the street, the
figure of a young lady — ^a figure just under the middle
height, comely indeed, and to be mistaken for none
•
other in the world — even at two hundred yards.
To his sharp discomfiture his heart immediately
forced upon him the consciousness of its acceleration ;
a sudden warmth about his neck made him aware
that he had turned red, and then, departing, left
him pale. For a panicky moment he thought of
lacing about in actual flight; he had little doubt
that Lucy would meet him with no token of recog-
nition, and all at once this probability struck
him as unendurable. And if she did not speak, was
it the proper part of chivalry to lift his hat and take
the cut bareheaded? Or should the finer gentleman
acquiesce in the lady's desire for no further acquaint*
/
370 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
ance, and pass her with stony mien and eyes con-
strained forward? George was a young man badly
flustered.
But the girl approaching him was unaware of his
trepidation, being perhaps somewhat preoccupied
with her own. She saw only that he was pale, and
that his eyes were darkly circled. But here he was
advantaged with her, for the finest touch to his
good looks was given by this toning down; neither
pallor nor dark circles detracting from them, but
rather adding to them a melancholy favour of dis-
tinction. George had retained his mourning, a
tribute completed down to the final details of black
gloves and a polished ebony cane (which he would
have been pained to name otherwise than as a
** walking-stick") and in the aura of this sombre
elegance his straight figure and drawn face were not
without a tristful and appealing dignity.
In everything outward he was cause enough for a
girl's cheek to flush, her heart to beat faster, and
her eyes to warm with the soft light that came into
Lucy's now, whether she would or no. If his spirit
had been what his looks proclaimed it, she would
have rejoiced to let the light glow forth which now
shone in spite of her. For a long time, thinking of
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 871
that spirit of his, and what she felt it should he,
she had a persistent sense: "It must be there!"
but she had determined to believe this folly no longer.
Nevertheless, when she met him at the Sharons'^
she had been far less calm than she seemed.
People speaking casually of Lucy were apt to
define her as "a little beauty," a definition short of
the mark. She was "a little beauty," but an inde-
pendent, masterful, seK-reKant Kttle American, of
whom her father's earlier gipsyings and her own
sturdiness had made a woman ever since she was
fifteen. But though she was the mistress of her own
ways and no slave to any lamp save that of her own
conscience, she had a weakness: she had fallen in
love witii George Amberson Minafer at first sight,
and no matter how she disciplined herself, she had
never been able to climb out. The thing had
happened to her; that was all. George had looked
just the way she had always wanted someone to
look — the riskiest of all the moonshine ambushes
wherein tricky romance snares credulous young
love. But what was fatal to Lucy was that this
thing having happened to her, she could not change
it. No matter what she discovered in George's
nature she was imable to take away what she had
872 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
given him; and though she could think differently
about him, she could not feel differently about him,
for she was one of those too faithful victims of
glamour. When she managed to keep the picture
of George away from her mind's eye, she did well
enough; but when she let him become visible, she
could not choose but love what she disdained. She
was a little angel who had fallen in love with high^
handed Lucifer; quite an experience, and not apt to
be soon succeeded by any falling in love with a tamer
party — ^and the unhappy truth was that George
did make better men seem tame. But though she
was a victim, she was a heroic one, anything but
helpless.
As they drew nearer, George tried to prepare
himself to meet her with some renmants of aplomb.
He decided that he would keep on looking straight
ahead, and lift his hand toward his hat at the very
last moment when it would be possible for her to
se6 him out of the comer of her eye : then when she
thought it over later, she would not be sure whether
he had saluted her or merely rubbed his forehead.
And there was the added benefit that any third
person who might chance to look from a window, or
from a passing carriage, would not think that h."^
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 378
was receiving a snub, because he did not intend to
lift his hat, but, timing the gesture properly, would
in fact actually rub his forehead. These were the
hasty plans which occupied his thoughts until he
was within about fifty feet of her — when he ceased
to have either plans or thoughts. He had kept his
eyes from looking full at her until then, and as he
saw her, thus close at hand, and coming nearer, a
regret that was dumfounding took possession of him.
For the first time he had the sense of having lost
something of overwhelming importance.
Lucy did not keep to the right, but came straight
to meet him, smiling, and with her hard offered to
aim.
"Why — you " he stammered, as he took it.
"Haven't you '' What he meant to say was,
"Haven't you Jieard?"
"Haven't I what?" she asked; and he saw that
Eugene had not yet told her.
"Nothing!" he gasped. "May I — may I turn
and walk with you a little way?"
"Yes, indeed!" she said cordially.
He would not have altered what had been done:
he was satisfied with all that — satisfied that it was
right, and that his own course was right. But he
876 THE BfAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
dieerfully. *'The way I am and the way you axe, it
couldn't ever be anything else. So what was the
use?"
^'I don't know/' he sighed, and his sigh was
abysmal. '^But what I wanted to tell you is this:
when you went away, you didn't let me know and
didn't care how or when I heard it, but I'm not like
that with you. This time, /'m going away. That's
what I wanted to tell you. I'm going away to-
morrow night — ^indefinitely."
She nodded sunnily. '^That's nice for you; I
hope you'll have ever so jolly a time, George."
"I don't expect to have a particularly * jolly
time.' "
"Well, then," she laughed, "if I were you I
don't think I'd go."
It seemed impossible to impress this distracting
creature, to make her serious. "Lucy," he said
desperately, "this is our last walk together."
"Evidently!" she said. "If you're going away to*
morrow night."
*Lucy — this may be the last time I'll see you —
ever — ever in my life."
At that she looked at him quickly, across her
idioulder, but she smiled as brightly as before, and
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 87V
with the same cordial inconsequence: ''Oh, I can
hardly think that!" she said. ''And of course I'd
be awfully sorry to think it. You're not moving
away, are you, to live? "
"No."
'*And even if you were, of course you'd be coming
back to visit your relatives every now and then."
"I don't know when I'm coming back. Mother
and I are starting to-morrow night for a trip around
the world."
At this she did look thoughtful. "Your mother
is going with you?"
"Good heavens!" he groaned. '*Lucy, doesn't it
make any diflFerence to you that / am going?"
At this her cordial smile instantly appeared again.
'* Yes, of course," she said. "I'm sure I'll miss you
ever so much. Are you to be gone long?"
He stared at her wanly. "I told you indefinitely,"
he said. '* We've made no plans — at all — ^f or coming
back."
"That does sound like a long trip!" she exclaimed
admiringly. "Do you plan to be travelling all the
time, or will you stay in some one place the greater
part of it? I think it would be lovely to
Xucy!
X uuuK It wouia ue loveiy to
««T 9 99
«T9
378 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
He halted; and she stopped with him. They had
come to a opmer at the edge of the ^^business sec-
tion'' of the city, and people were everywhere about
them, brushing against them, sometimes, in pass-
ing.
I can't stand this," George said, in a low voice.
I'm just about ready to go in this drug-store here,
and ask the clerk for something to keep me from
dying in my tracks! It's quite a shock, you see,
Lucy!"
"What is?"
"To find out certainly, at last, how deeply you've
cared for me! To see how much difference this
makes to you ! By Jove, I have mattered to you ! "
Her cordial smile was tempered now with good-
nature. "George!" She laughed indulgently.
"Surely you don't want me to do pathos on a down-
town comer!"
tr " Vou wouldn't *do pathos' anywhere!"
**Well — don't you think pathos is generally
rather foozling?"
"I can't stand this any longer," he said. "I
can't! Good-bye, Lucy!" He took her hand. "It's
good-bye — ^I think it's good-bye for good, Lucy!"
Good-bye! I do hope you'll have the most
€€
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 87»
splendid trip/' She gave his hand a cordial little
grip, then released it lightly. **Give my love to
your mother. Good-bye ! ' *
He turned heavily away, and a moment later
glanced back over his shoulder. She had not gone
on, but stood watching him, that same casual,
cordial smile on her face to the very last; and now,
as he looked back, she emphasized her friendly un-
concern by waving her small hand to him cheerily,
though perhaps with the slightest hint of preoccu-
pation, as if she had begun to think of the errand
that brought her downtown.
In his mind, George had already explained her to
his own poignant dissatisfaction— some blond pup,
probably, whom she had met during that "p^fectly
gorgeous time!*' And he strode savagely onward,
not looking back again.
But Lucy remained where she was untiJ he was
out of sight. Then she went slowly into the drug-
store which had struck George as a possible source
«f stimulant for himself.
"Please let me have a few drops of aromatic
spirits of ammonia in a glass of water,'' she said,
with the utmost composure.
"Yes, ma^am .'*' said the impressionable clerk, who
'S80 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
I
liad been looking at her through the display window
tts she stood on the comer.
But a moment later, as he turned from the shelves
o£. glass jars against the wall, with the potion she
bad asked for in his hand, he uttered an exclamation :
'^For goshes' sake. Miss!" And, describing this
adventure to his fellow-boarders, that evenings
'^ Sagged pretty near to the counter, she was," he
said. ^*'F I hadn't been a bright, quick, ready-for-
anything young fella she'd 'a' flummixed plum! I
was watchin' her out the window — talkin' to some
young s'iety fella, and she was all right then. She
was all right when she come in the store, too. Yes,
sir; the prettiest girl that ever walked in our place
and took one good lock at me. I reckon it must be
the truth what some you town wags say about my
face!"
CHAPTER XXVni
AT THAT hour the heroine of the susceptible
ZJm clerk's romance was engaged in brightening
-^ ^ the rosy little coal fire under the white
mantelpiece in her pretty white-and-blue boudoir.
Four photographs all framed in decorous plain
silver went to the anthracite's fierce destruction —
frames and all — and three packets of letters and
notes in a charming Florentine treasure-box ol
painted wood; nor was the box, any more than the
silver frames, spared this rousing finish. Thrown
heartily upon live coal, the fine wood sparkled forth
in stars, then burst into an alarming blaze which
scorched the white mantelpiece, but Lucy stood and
looked on without moving.
It was not Eugene who told her* what had hap-
pened at Isabel's door. When she got heme, she
found Fanny Minafer waiting for her — a secret
excursion of Fanny's for the purpose, presumably,
of *' letting out" again; because that was what sh9
She told Lucy everything ^except her own
981
882 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
lamentable part in the production of the recent
miseries) and concluded with a tribute to George:
**The worst of it is, he thinks he*s been such a hero,
and Isabel does, too, and that makes him more than
twice as awful. It*s been the same all his life:
everything he did was noble and perfect. He had a
domineering nature to begin with, and she let it go
on, and fostered it till it absolutely ruled her. I
never saw a plainer case of a person's fault making
them pay for having it! She goes al^out, over-
seeing the packing and praising George and pretend-
ing to be perfectly cheerful about what he's making
her do and about the dreadful things he's done. She
pretends he did such a fine thing — ^so manly and
protective — agoing to Mrs. Johnson. And so heroic
— doing what his ^principles' made him — even
though he knew what it would cost him with you!
And all the while it's almost killing her — what he
said to your father! She's always been lofty enough,
so to speak, and had the greatest idea of the Amber-
sons being superior to the rest of the world, and all
that, but rudeness, or anything like a 'scene,' or
any bad manners — ^they always just made her sick!
But she could never see what George's manners were
—oh, it's been a terrible adulation! . . . It's
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS S8S
going to be a tapsk for me, living in that big house,
all alone: you must come and see me — ^I mean after
they Ve gone, of course. I'll go crazy if I don't see
something of people. I'm sure you'll come as often
as you can. I know you too well to think you'll be
sensitive about coming there, or being reminded of
George. Thank heaven you're too well-balanced,"
Miss Fanny concluded, with a profound fervour,
** you're too well-balanced to let anything affect
you deeply about that — that monkey!"
The four photographs and the painted Florentine
box went to their cremation within the same hour
that Miss Fanny spoke; and a little later Lucy
called her father in, as he passed her door, and
pointed to the blackened area on the imderside ol
the mantelpiece, and to the burnt heap upon the coal,
where some metallic shapes still retained outline*
She flung her arms abc^t his neck in passionate
sympathy, telling him that she knew what had hap-
pened to him; and presently he began to comfort
her and managed an embarrassed laugh.
" Well, well " he said. " I was too old for such
fooUshness to be getting into my head, anyhow."
"No, no!" she sobbed. "And if you knew how I
despise myself for — for ever having thought one
S84 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
instant about — oh. Miss Fanny called huu the nfght
name: that monkeyl He is!''
' "" There, I think I agree with you/' Eugene said
grhnly, and in his eyes there was a steady light ol
anger that was to last. ""Yes, I think I agree with
you about ihatr*
"There's only one thing to do with such a person,"
she said vehemently. "" That's to put him out of
our thoughts forever— ^forerer / "
And yet, the next day, at six o'clock, which was
the hour, Fanny had told her, when George and his
mother were to leave upon their long journey, Lucy
touched that scorched place on her mantel with her
hand just as the Uttle clock above it struck. Then,
after this odd, unconscious gesture, she went to a
•window and stood between the curtains, looking out
•into the cold November dusk; and in spite of every
reasoning and reasonable power within her, a pain
of loneliness struck through her heart. The dim
street below ter window, the dark houses across the
way, the vagiie air itself —all looked empty, and cold
and (most of all) uninteresting. Something more
sombre than November dusk took the colour from
them and gave them that air at desertion.
The light of her fire, flickering up behind her.
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 885
showed suddenly a flying group of tiny snowflakes
nearing the window-pane; and for an instant she
felt the sensation of being dragged through a snow-
drift imder a broken cutter, with a boy^s arms about
her — an arrogant, handsome, too-conquering boy,
who nevertheless did his best to get hurt himself,
keying her from any possible harm.
She shook the picture out of her eyes indignantly,
then came and sat before her fire, and looked long
and long at the blackened mantelpiece. She did
not have the mantelpiece repainted — ^and, since
she did not, might as well have kept his photographs.
One forgets what made the scar upon his hand but
not what made the scar upon his wall.
She played no marche funebre upon her piano, even
though Chopin's romantic lamentation was then at
the top of nine-tenths of the music-racks in the
country, American youth having recently discovered
«
the distinguished congeniality between itself and this
deathless bit of deathly gloom. She did not even
play "Robin Adair"; she played "Bedelia" and all
the new cake-walks, for she was her father's house-
keeper, and rightJy looked upon the office as being
the same as that of his heart-keeper. Therefore it
was her affair to keep both house and heart in what
386 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
state of cheerfulness might be contrived. She made
him ^^go out" more than ever; made him take her
to all the gayeties of that winter, declining to go her-^
self unless he took her, and, though Eugene danced
no more, and quoted Shakespeare to prove all light-
foot caperings beneath the dignity of his age, she
broke his resolution for him at the New Year's
Eve "Assembly" and half coaxed, half dragged him
forth lipcm the floor, and made him dance the New
Year in with her.
. . . New faces appeared at the dances of the
winter; new faces had been appearing everywhere,
for that matter, and familiar ones were disappear-
ing, merged in the increasing crowd, or gone for-
ever and missed a Uttle and not long; for the town was
growing and changing as it never had grown and
changed before.
It was heaving up in the middle incredibly; it was
spreading incredibly; and as it heaved and spread,
it befouled itself and darkened its sky. Its boundary
was mere shapelessness on the run; a raw, new house
would appear on a country road; four or five others
would presently be built at intervals between it and
the outskirts of the town; the country road would
turn into an asphalt street with a brick-faced drug-
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 387
store and a frame grocery at a comer; then bungalows
and six-room cottages would swiftly speckle the
op^i green spaces — and a farm had become a suburb,
which would immediately shoot out other suburbs
into the country, on one side, and, on the other, join
itself solidly to the city. You drove between pleas-
ant fields and woodland groves one spring day; and
in the autumn, passing over the same ground, you
were warned oflF the tracks by an interurban trolley-
car*s gonging, and beheld, beyond cement sidewalks
just dry, new house-owners busy "moving in."
Gasoline and electricity were performing the miracles
Eugene had predicted.
But the great change was in the citizenry itself.
What was left of the patriotic old-stock generation
that had fought the Civil War, and subsequently
controlled politics, had become venerable and was
little heeded. The descendants of the pioneers and
early settlers were merging into the new crowd, be-
coming part of it, little to be distinguished from it.
What happened to Boston and to Broadway hap-
pened in degree to the Midland city; the old stock
became less and less typical, and of the grown people
who called the place home, less than a third had
been bom in it. There was a German quarter;
388 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
there was a Jewish quarter; there was a negro
quarter — square miles of it — called "Buektown";
there were many Irish neighbourhoods; and there
were large settlements of Italians, and of Hun-
garians, and of Rumanians, and of Servians and
other Balkan peoples. But not the emigrants, them-
selves, were the almost dominant type on the streets
downtown. That type was the emigrant's pros-
perous offspring: descendant of the emigrations ot
the Seventies and Eighties and Nineties, those great
folk-joumeyings in search not so directly of freedom
and democracy as of more money for the same la-
bour. A new Midlander — in fact, a new American
—was begmning dimly to emerge.
A new spirit of citizenship had already sharply
defined itself. It was ideaUstic, and its ideals were
expressed in the new kind of yoimg men in business
downtown. They were optimists — optimists to the
point of belligerence — their motto being "Boost!
Don't Knock!" And they were hustlers, believing
in hustb'ng and in honesty because both paid. They
loved their city and worked for it with a plutonic
energy which was always ardently vocal. They were
viciously governed, but they sometimes went so far
aus to struggle for better government on accoimt of
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS S89
the helpful effect of good govemmeiit on the price
of real estate and "betterment" generally; the politi-
cians could not go too far with them, and knew it^
The idealists planned and strove and shouted that
their city should become a better, better, and better
city — and what they meant, when they used the
word "better," was "more prosperous," and the core '
of their idealism was this: "The more prosperous
my beloved city, the more prosperous beloved I!"
They had one supreme theory: that the perfect
beauty and happiness of cities and of human life
was to be brought about by more factories; they had
a mania for factories; there was nothing they would
not do to cajole a factory away from another dty;
and they were never more piteously embittered than
when another city cajoled one away from them.
What they meant by Prosperity was credit at the
bank; but in exchange for this credit they got noth-
ing that was not dirty, and, therefore, to a sane
mind, valueless; since whatever was cleaned was
dirty again before the cleaning was half done. For,
as the town grew, it grew dirty with an incredible
completeness. The idealists put up magnificent
business buildings and boasted of them, but the
buildings were begrimed before they were finished.
S90 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
They boasted of their libraries, of their monuments
and statues; and poured soot on them. They
boasted of their schools, but the schools were dirty,
like the children within them. This was not the
fault of the children or their mothers. It was the
fault of the ideaUsts, who said: "The more dirt, the
nuore prosperity." They drew patriotic, optimistic
breaths of the flying powdered filth, of the streets,
and took the foul and heavy smoke with gusto into
the profundities of their lungs. "Boost! Don't
knock!" they said. And every year or so they
boomed a great Clean-Up Week, when everybody
was supposed to get rid of the tin cans in his back-
yard.
They were happiest when the tearing down and
building up were most riotous, and when new factory
districts were thundering into life. In truth, the
city came to be like the body of a great dirty man,
skinned, to show his busy works, yet wearing a few bar-
baric ornaments; and such a figure carved, coloured,
and discoloured, and set up in the market-place,
would have done well enough as the god of the new
people. Such a god they had indeed made in their
own image, as all peoples make the god they truly
serve; though of course certain of the idealists went
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 391
to church on Sunday, and there knelt to Another,
considered to be impractical in business. But while
the Growing went on, this god of their market-place
was their true god, their familiar and spirit-control.
They did not know that they were his helplessly
obedient slaves, nor could they ever hope to realize
their serfdom (as tl^e first step t6ward becoming free
men) until they should make the strange and hard
discovery that matter should serve man's spirit.
"Prosperity" meant good credit at the bank,
black lungs, and housewives' Purgatory. The women
'ought the dirt all they could; but if they let the air
into their houses they let in the dirt. It shortened
their Uves, and kept them from, the happiness of
^ver seeing anything white. And thus, as the city
ijrew, the time came when Lucy, after a hard strug-
gle, had to give up her blue-and-white curtains and
her white walls. Indoors, she put everything into
dull gray and brown, and outside had the little house
painted the dark green nearest to black. Then she
knew, of course, that everything was as dirty as
ever, but was a little less distressed because it no
longer looked so dirty as it was.
These were bad times for Amberson Addition,
quarter, already old, lay within a mile of the
892 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS
centre of the town, but business moved in other di-
Tactions; and the Addition's share of Proq>erity was
only the smoke and dirt, with the bank credit left
out. The owners of the original big houses sold
them, or rented them to boardiog-house keepers,
and the tenants of the multitude of small houses
moved ^'farther out'' (where the smoke was thinner)
or into apartment houses, which were built by dozens
now. Cheaper tenants took their places, and the
rents were lower and lower, and the houses shabbier
and shabbier — ^for all these shabby houses, burning
soft coal, did their best to help in the destruction
of their own value. They helped to make the quar-
ter so dingy and the ai^ so foul to breathe that no
one would live there who had money enough to
get "farther out" where there were glimpses of un-
grayed sky and breaths of cleaner winds. And with
the coming of the new speed, "farther out" was now
as close to business as the Addition had been in the
days of its prosperity. Distances had ceased to
matter.
The five new houses, built so closely where had
been the fine lawn of the Amberson Mansion, did
not look new. When they were a year old they
looked as old as they would ever look; and two oi
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 393
them were vacant, having never been rented, for
the Major's mistake about apartment houses had
been a disastrous one. " He guessed wrong,** George
Amberson said. *^He guessed wrong at just the
wrong time ! Housekeeping in a house is harder than
in an apartment; and where the smoke and dirt are
as thick as they are in the Addition, women can't
stand it. People were crazy for apartments — too
bad he couldn't have seen it in time. Poor man! he
digs away at his ledgers by his old gas drop-light lamp
almost every night — ^he still refuses to let the Man^
sion be torn up for wiring, you know. But he had
one painful satisfaction this spring: he got his taxes
lowered ! "
Amberson laughed ruefully, and Fanny Minafer
asked how the Major could have managed such an
economy. They were sitting upon the veranda at
Isabel's one evening during the third sumrner of the
absence of their nephew and his mother; and the
conversation had turned toward Amberson finances.
"I said it was a ^painful satisfaction,' Fanny," he
explained^ " The property has gone down in value,
and they assessed it lower than they did fifteen years
9*
ago.
"But farther out "
894 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
"Oh, yes, ^farther out!' Prices are magnificeirt
'farther out,' and farther in, too! We just happen,
to be the wrong spot, that's all. Not that I don't
think something could be done if father would let
me have a hand; but he won't. He can't, I suppose
I ought to say. He's ^always done his own figuring,*
he says; and it's his Ufelong habit to keep his affairs,
and even his books, to himself , and justhandusout the
money. Heaven knows he's done enough of that ! "
He sighed; and both were silent, looking out
at the long flares of the constantly passing auto-
mobile headlights, shifting in vast geometric demon-
strations against the darkness. Now and then a
bicycle wound its nervous way among these portents,
or, at long intervals, a surrey or buggy plodded for
lomly by.
" There seem to be so many ways of making money
nowadays," Fanny said thoughtfully. "Every day
I hear of a new fortune some person has got hold of,
one way or another — ^nearly always it's somebody
you never heard of. It doesn't seem all to be in just
making motor cars; I hear there's a great deal in
manufacturing these things that motor cars use — •
new inventions particularly. I met dear old Frank
Bronson the other day, and he told me ^'^
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 395
"Oh, yes, even dear old Frank^s got the fever,'*
Amberson laughed. "He's as wild as any of them.
He told me about this invention he's gone into, too.
^Millions in it!' Some new electric headlight
better than anything yet — *every car in America
can't helTp but have 'em,' and all that. He's put-
ting half he's laid by into it, and the fact is, he almost
talked me into getting father to 'finance me' enough
for me to go into it. Poor father! he's financed me
before! I suppose he would again if I had the heart
to ask him; and this seems to be a good thing, though
probably old Frank is a little too sanguine. At any
rate, I've been thinking it over."
"So have I," Fanny admitted. "He seemed to be
certain it would pay twenty-five per cent, the first
year, and enormously more after that; and I'm only
getting four on my Kttle principal. People are
making such enormous fortunes out of everything
to do with motor cars, it does seem as if " She
paused. "Well, I told him I'd think it over seri-
ously."
"We may turn out to be partners and millionaires
then," Amberson laughed. "I thought I'd ask
FiUgene's advice."
"I wish you would," said Fanny. "He probably
3»6 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
knows exactly how much profit there would be in
this."
Eugene's advice was to "go slow": he thought
electric Ughts for automobiles were "coming — some
day," but probably not until certain diflSculties could
be overcome. Altogether, he was discouraging, but
by this time his two friends "had the fever" as
thoroughly as old Frank Bronson himself had it;
for they had been with Bronson to see the hght
working beautifully in a machine shop. They
were already enthusiastic, and after asking Eugene's
opinion they argued with him, telling him how they
had seen with their own eyes that the difficulties he
mentioned had been overcome. "Perfectly!" Fanny
cried, "And if it worked in the shop it's bound to
work any place else, isn't it?"
He would not agree that it was "bound to" — ^yet,
being pressed, was driven to admit that "it might *^
and, retiring from what was developmg into an ora-
torical contest, repeated a wanung about not "put-
ting too much into it."
George Amberson also laid stress on this caution
later, though the Major had "financed him" again,
and he was "going in." "You must be careful to
)«ave yourself a 'margin of safety,' Fanny," he said.
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS S97
**I'm confident that is a pretty conservative invest-
ment of its kind, and all the chances are with us, but
you must be careful to leave yourself enough to
fall back on, in case anything should go wrong."
Fanny deceived him. In the impossible event of
"anything going wrong" she would have enough
left to " live on," she declared, and laughed excitedly,
for she was having the best time that had come to
her since Wilbur's death. Like so many women for
whom mcmey has always been provided without
their understanding how, she was prepared to be a
thorough and irresponsible plunger.
Amberson, in his wearier way, shared her excite-
ment, and in the winter, when the exploiting
company had been formed, and he brought Fanny
her importantly engraved shares of stock, he reverted
to his prediction of possibilities, made when they
first spoke of the new light.
"We seem to be partners, all right," he laughed,
**Now let's go ahead and be millionaires b^for^
Isabel and young George come home."
"When they come home!" she echoed sorrow**
fully — and it was a phrase which found an evasive
echo in Isabel's letters. In these letters Isabel was
always planning pleasant things that she and
398 THE MAGNIFICEXT
Fanny and the Major and Geoige and ''brother
Greorge** would do — ^when she and her son came
home. ''They'll find things pretty changed, I'm
afraid/' Fanny said. "K they ever do come home!"
Amberson went over, the next summer, and joined
his sister and nephew in Paris, where they were
living. "Isabel does want to come home," he told
Fanny gravely, on the day of his return, in October.
"She's wanted to for a long while — and she ought to
come while she can stand the journey " And he
amplified this statement, leaving Fanny looking
startled and solemn when Lucy came by to drive
him out to dinner at the new house Eugene had just
completed.
This was no white-and-blue cottage, but a great
Georgian picture in brick, five miles north of Amber*
son Addition, with four acres of its own hedged land
between it and its next neighbour; and Amberson
laughed wistfully as they turned in between the
stone and brick gate pillars, and rolled up the
crushed stone driveway. "I wonder, Lucy, if
history's going on forever repeating itself," he said.
" I wonder if this town's going on building up things
and rolling over them, as poor father once said it
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS S99
was rolling over his poor old heart. It looks like
it: here's the Amberson Mansion again, only it's
Georgian instead of nondescript Romanesque; but
it's just the same Amberson Mansion that my
father built long before you were bom. The only
difference is that it's your father who's built this
one now. It's all the same, in the long run."
Lucy did not quite understand, but she laughed as
a friend should, and, taking his arm, showed him
through vasty rooms where ivory-panelled walls and
trim window hangings were reflected dimly in dark,
rugless floors, and the sparse furniture showed that
Lucy had been "collecting" with a long purse.
"By Jove!" he said. "You have been going it!
Fanny tells me you had a great * house-warming'
dance, and you keep right on being the belle of the
ball, not any softer-hearted than you used to be.
Fred Kinney's father says you've refused Fred so
often that he got engaged to Janie Sharon just to
prove that someone would have him in spite of his
hair. Well, the material world do move, and you've
got the new kind of house it moves into nowadays —
if it has the new price! And even the grand old
expanses of plate glass we used ,to be so proud of at
the other Amberson Mansion — they've g(me, too,
4m THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
with the crowded heavy gold and red stuff. Curious!
We^ve still got the plate glass windows, thoi^h all
we can see out of 'em is the smoke and the old
Johnson house, which is a counter-jumper's boarding-
house now, while youVe got a view, and you cut it
all up into little panes. Well, you're pretty re-
freshingly out of the smoke up here."
"Yes, for a whUe," Lucy laughed. "Until it
comes and we have to move out farther."
"No, you'll stay here," he assured her. "It will
be somebody else who'll move out farther."
He continued to talk of the house after Eugene
arrived, and gave them no account of his journey
until they had retired from the dinner table to
Eugene's library, a gray and shadowy room, where
their coffee was brought. Then, equipped with
a cigar, which seemed to occupy his attention,
Amberson spoke in a casual tone of his sister and
her son.
"I found Isabel as well as usual," he said, "only
I'm afraid *as usual' isn't particularly well. Sydney
and Amelia had been up to Paris in the spring, but
she hadn't seen them. Somebody told her they were
there, it seems. They'd left Florence and were
living in Rome; Amelia's become a Catholic and is
THE ICAGiNIFECBNT AMBS2RSONS 401
said to give gceat sums to charity and to go about
^tfa the gentry in consequence, but Sydney's ailing
and lives in a wheel-chair most of the time. It
struck me Isabd ought to be doing the same thing."
He paused, bestowing minute care upon the re-
moval of the little band from his cigar; and as he
seemed to have concluded his narrative, Eugene spoke
out of the shadow beyond a heavily shaded lamp:
**What do you mean by that?" he asked quietly.
^^CHx, she's cheerful enough," said Amberscm, still
not looking at either his young hostess or her
father. ^'At least/' he added, **she manages to
seem so. I'm afraid she hasn't been really well for
several years. She isn't stout you know — she
hasn't changed in looks much — ^and she seems rather
alarmingly short of breath for a slender petson.
Father's been that way for years, of course; but
never nearly so much as Isabel is now. Of course
Ae makes nothing of it, but it seemed rather serious
to me when I noticed she had to stop and rest
twice to get up the one short flight of stairs in their
two-floor apartment. I told heat I thought she
ought to mAke George let her come home."
"*Let her?'" Eugene repeated, in a low voice.
^Does she want to?"
402 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS
^Sbe doefli't mge iL George stems to like IIib
life there — ^m bis grand, i^oonqr, and peculiar way;
and of course shell never change aboat being
proud of iim and all that — he's quite a swdL But
in q>ite of anything she said, rather than because, I
know she does indeed want to come. She'd like
to be with father, of course; and I think she's —
well, she intimated one day that she feared it mi^t
even happen that she wouldn't get to see him again.
At the time I thought she referred to his age and
feebloiess, but on the boat, coming home, I re-
membered the little look of wistfufaiess, yet of
resignation, with whidi she said it, and it struck me
all at once that I'd been mistakoi: I saw she was
really thinking of her own state of health."
^^I see/' Eugoie said, his voice even lower than it
had been before. *^And you say he won't 'let' her
come home?"
Amberson laughed, but still continued to be
interested in his dgar. ^'Oh, I dcm't think he uses
force! He's very gentle with her. I doubt if the
subject is mentioned between them, and yet — ^and
yet, knowing my interesting nephew as you do,
wouldn't you think that was about the way to put
It?"
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 40S
"Kjaowing him as I do — ^yes," said Eugene slowly,
" Yes, I should think that was about the way to put
it."
A murmur out of the shadows beyond him — a
{aint sound, musical and feminine, yet expressive of
r notable intensity — seemed to indicate that Lu<y
was of the same opinioa.
^/
CHAPTER XXIX
Chei'** was correct; but the time came — and
it came in the spring of the next year—
when it was no longer a question of George's
letting his mother come home. He had to bring
her, and to bring her quickly if she was to see her
father again; and Amberson had been right: her dan-
ger of never seeing him again lay not in the Major's
feebleness of heart but in her own. As it was,
George telegraphed his uncle to have a wheeled chair
at the station, for the journey had been disastrous,
and to this hybrid vehicle, placed close to the cai
platform, her son carried her in his arms when she
arrived. She was unable to speak, but patted her
brother *s. and Fanny's hands and looked "very
sweet," Fanny found the desperate courage to tell
her. She was lifted from the chair into a carriage,
and seemed a little stronger as they drove home;
for once she took her hand from George's, and waved
it feebly toward the carriage window,
"Changed," she whispered. "So changed/*
404
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 405
**You mean tke town," Amberson said. "You
mean the old place is changed, don't you, dear?"
She smiled and moved her lips: "Yes."
"It'll change to a happier place, old dear," he
said, "now that you're ba<*k in it, and going to get
well again."
But she only looked at him wistfully, her eyes a
tittle frightened.
When the carriage stopped, her son carried her
mto the house, and up the stairs to her own rooili,
where a nurse was waiting; and he came out a
moment later, as the doctor went in. At the end
of the hall a stricken group was clustered: Amber-
son, and Fanny, and the Major. George, (feathly
pAe and speechless, took his grandfather's hand, but
the oH gentleman did not seem to notice hia action.
"When are Aey gmng to let me see my daughter? "
he asked quendously . " They told me to keep out of
the way while they carried her in, because it might
upset her. I wish they'd let me go in and speak to
my daughter. I think she wants to see me/*
He was right — ^presently the doctor came out and
beckoned to him; and the Major shuffled forward,
leaning on a shaking cane; his figure, after all its
years of proud soldierliness, had grown stooping
406 THE BiAGNIFlCENT AMBERSONS
at last, and his untrimnied white hair stra^led over
the bade of his collar. He looked old — old and di->
vested of the worid — as he crept toward his daughter's
room. Her vcMce was strong^', for the waiting groiq>
heard a low ciy of traidemess and welcome as the
old man reached the opexi doorway. Then the door
was closed.
Fanny touched her n^hew's arm. '^ Geoige, you
must need something to eat — ^I know she'd want you
to. I've had things ready: I knew she'd want mc
to. You'd better go down to the dining room;
there's plenty on the table, waiting for you. She'd
want you to eat something."
He turned a ghastly face to her, it was so panic-
stricken. ^^I don't want anything to ^a< /" he said
savagely. And he began to pace the floor, taking
care not to go near Isabel's door, and that his foot-
steps were muffled by the long, thick hall rug. After
a while he went to where Amberson, with folded arms
and bowed head, had seated himself near the front
window. "Uncle George," he said }ioarsely. "I
didn't "
"WeU?"
" Oh, my God, I didn't think this thing the mattei
with her could ever be serious! I " He gasped..
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 407
**Wheii that doctor I had meet us at the boat *'
He could uot go on.
Amberson oiily nodded his head, and did not
otherwise change his attitude.
. . . Isabel lived through the night. At eleven
o'clock Fanny came timidly to George in his room.
** Eugene is here,'* she whispered. "He's down-
stairs. He wants " She gulped. "He wants
to know if he can't see her. I didn't know what to
say. I said I'd see. I didn't know — ^the doctor
said "
"The doctor said we *must keep her peaceful,'"
George said sharply. "Do you think that man's
coming would be very soothing? My God! if it
hadn't been for him this mightn't have happened:
we could have gone on living here quietly, and —
why, it would be like taking a stranger into her room !
She hasn't even spoken of him more than twice in all
the time we've been away. Doesn't he know how
sick she is? You tell him the doctor said she had
to be quiet and peaceful. That's what he did say,
isn't it?"
Fanny acquiesced tearfully. "I'll tell him. I'll
tell him the doctor said she was to be kept very quiet.
T — I didn't know " And she pottered out.
408 THE BiAGNIFECENT AMBERSONS
An hour later the nurse aiqieued in George's daor-
way; she came noiselessly, and his bade was towaid
her; but he jumped as if he had been shot, and his
jaw fell, he so feared what she was going to say.
^*She wants to see you."
The terrified mouth shut with a dick; and he nod-
ded and followed her; but she remained outside his
mother's room while he went m.
Isabel's eyes were dosed, and she did not open
them or move her head, but she smiled and edged
her hand toward him as he sat on a stool beside the
bed. He took that slender, cold hand, and put it
tohischede.
^* Darling, did you — get something to eat?" She
could only whisper, slowly and with difBculty. It
was as if Isabel herself were far away, and only able
to signal what she wanted to say.
Yes, mother."
All you — needed?"
"Yes, mother."
She did not speak i^ain for a time; then, "Are
you sure you didn't — didn't catch cold — coming
home?"
"I'm all right, mother."
"That's good. It's sweet — ^it's sweet **
«
«
99
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 409
^ WbAt is, mother dwlingF'
''To leel — my hand on your cheek. I — ^I can feel
It."
But tbk frightened him horribly — ^that she seemed
so glad she could feel it, like a child proud of some
miraculous seeming thing accompUshed. It fright-
ened him so that he could not speak, and he feared
that ^e would know how he trembled; but she was
unaware, and again was silent. Finally she spoke
again:
"I wonder if — ^if Eugene and Lucy know that
we've come — ^home."
"Fm sure they do."
" Has he — asked about me?**
" Yes, he was here."
"Has he— gone?"
"Yes, mother."
She sighed faintly. " I'd like **
"What, mother?"
" I'd like to have — ^seen him. " It was just audible,
this little regretful murmur. Several minutes passed
before there was another. "Ju.«t — ^just once," she
whiskered, and then was still.
^le seemed to have fallen asleep, and George
oioved to go, but a faint pressure upon Us fingem
410 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
detained him, and he jremained, with her hand still
pressed against his cheek. After a while he made
sure she was asleep, and moved again, to let the
nurse come in, and this time there was no pressure
of the fingers to keep him. She was not asleep, but,
thinking that if he went he might get some rest,
and be better prepared for what she knew was com-
ing, she commanded those longing fingers of hers—
and let him go.
He found the doctor standing with the nurse in
the hall; and, telling them that his mother was
drowsing now, George went back to his own room,
where he was startled to find his grandfather lying
on the bed, and his uncle leaning against the wall.
They had gone home two hours before, arid he did
not know they had returned.
"The doctor thought we*d better come oyer,"
Amberson said, then was silent, and George, shaking
violently, sat down on the edge of the bed. His
shaking continued, and from time to time he wiped
heavy sweat from his forehead.
The hours passed, and sometimes the old man upon
the bed would snore a little, stop suddenly, and move
as if to rise, but George Amberson would set a hand
upon his shoulder, and murniur a reassuring word m
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 411
two. Now and then, either uncle or nephew would
tiptoe into the hall and look toward Isabel's room,
then come tiptoeing back, the other watching him
haggardly.
Once George gasped defiantly: "That doctor in.
New York said she might get better! Don't you
Imow he did? Don't you know he said she might? '*
Amberson made no answer.
Dawn had been murking through the smoky win-
dows, growing stronger for half an hour, when both
men started violently at a soimd in the hall; and the
Major sat up on the bed, unchecked. It was the voice
of the nurse speaking to Fanny Minafer, and the
next moment, Fanny appeared in the doorway, mak-
ing contorted efforts to speak.
Amberson said weakly: "Does she want us — ^to
come in?"
But Fanny found her voice, and uttered a long^
loud cry. She threw her arms about George, and
sobbed in an agony of loss and compassion:
"She loved you!" she wailed. "She loved youT
She loved you ! Oh, how she did love you ! "
Isabel had just left them.
CHAPTER XXX
MAJOR AMBERSON remained dry-eyed
through the time that followed: he knew
that this separation from his dau^ter
would be short; that the separation which had pre«
ceded it was the long one. He worked at his ledgers
no more under his old gas drop-Ught, but would sit all
evening staring into the fire, in his bedroom, and not
speaking imless someone asked him a question. He
geemed almost unaware of what went on around
him, and those who were with him thought him
dazed by Isabel's death, guessing that he was lost
in reminiscences and vague dreams. "Probably his
mind is full of pictures of his youth, or the Civil
War, and the days when he and mother were young
married people and all of us children were jolly little
things — ^and the city was a small town with one
cobbled street and the others just dirt roads with
board sidewalks." This was George Amberson's
<X)njecture, and the others agreed; but they were
mistaken. The Major was engaged in the profound*
412
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 41S
est thinking of his life. No business plans which
had ever absorbed him could compare in momentous*
ness with the plans that absorbed him now, for he
had to plan how to enter the unknown country where
he was not even sure of being recognized as an Am<
berson — ^not sure of anything, except that Isabel
would help him if she could. His absorption pro-
duced the outward effect of reverie, but of course it
was not. The Major was occupied with the first
really important matter that had taken his attention
since he came home invalided, after the Gettysburg
campaign, and went into business; and he realized
that everything which had worried him or delighted
him during this lifetime betwe^i then and to-'day —
all his buymg aad building an^ trading and banking
— that it all was trifling and waste beside what con-
cerned him now.
He seldom wait out of his room, and often left un-
touched the meals they brought to him there; and
this neglect caused them to shake their heads mourn-
fully, again mistaking for dazedness the profound
concentration of his mind. Meanwhile, the h'fe of
the little bereft group still forlornly centring upon
him began to pick up again, as life will, and to
emerge from its own period of dazedness. It
414 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
was not Isabel's father but her son who was really
<lazed.
A month after her death he walked abruptly into
Fanny's room, one night, and found her at her desk,
eagerly adding columns of figures with which she
had covered several sheets of paper. This mathe-
matieal computation was concerned with her future
income to be produced by the electric headlight,
now just placed on the general market; but Fanny
was ashamed to be discovered doing anything except
mourning, and hastily pushed the sheets aside, even
as she looked over her shoulder to greet her Hollow-
•eyed visitor.
"Geoi^e! You startled me."
**I beg your pardon for not knocking," he said
huskily. "I didn't think."
She turned in her chair and looked at him solici-
tously. "Sit down, George, won't you?"
"No. I just wanted "
"I could hear you walking up and down in your
room," said Fanny. "You were doing it ever since
dinner, and it seems to me you're at it almost every
evening. I don't believe it's good for you — ^and I
know it would worry your mother terribly if sh^
" Fanny hesitated.
«-l
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 41S
See here/' George said, breathing fast, "I want
to tell you once more that what I did was right.
How could I have done anything else but what I
did do?"
"About what, George?"
"About everything!" he exclaimed; and he be-
came vehement. "I did the right thing, I tell you I
In heaven's name, I'd like to know what else there
was for anybody in my position to do! It would
have been a dreadful thing for me to just let matters
go on and not interfere — ^it would have been terrible!
What else on earth was there for me to do? I had
to stop that talk, didn't I? Could a son do less than
I did? Didn't it cost me something to do it? Lucy
and I'd had a quarrel, but that would have come
round in time-^and it meant the end forever when I
turned her father back from our door. I knew what
it meant, yet I went ahead and did it because I
knew it had to be done if the talk was to be stopped^
I took mother away for the same reason. I knew
that would help to stop it. And she was happy
over there — she was perfectly happy. I tell you, I
think she had a happy life, and that's my only con-
solation. She didn't live to be old; she was stiU
beautiful and young looking, and I feel she'd rather
416 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBSRSONS
have gone before she got old. She'd had a good
huabandy amd all the comfort and luxury that any-
body could have — and how could it be cfJled
anything but a happy life? She was always dheer-
ful, and when I think of her I can always see her
laufirhing — 'I can always hear that pr^ty laugh of
hers. When I can keep my mind off of the trip home,
and that last nighty I (dways think of her gay and
laughing. So how on earth could she have had any-
thing but a happy life? People that aren't happy
daa^t look cheerful all the time, do they? They
look unhappy if they are unhappy; that's how they
look! See here" — he faced her chaUengingiy —
**do you deny that I did the right thing?"
"Oh, I dcm't pretend to judge," Fanny said
soothingly, for his voice and gesture both partook
of wildness. "I know you think you did, Geoige."
" Think I did!'" he echoed violently. "My God
in heaven!" And he began to walk up and down
liie floor. "What else was there to do? What
choice did I have? Was there any other way of
stopping the talk?" He stopped, close in front of
her, gesticulating, his voice harsh and loud : ** Don't
you hear me? I'm asking you: Was th^re any
other way on earth of protecting her from the talk?**
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 417
Miss Fanny locked away. ^^It ^deA doym before
long, I thiiik/' she said nervously.
**That shows I was right, doesn't it?'' be cried.
"If I hadn't acted as I did, that slanderous old John-
son woman would have kept on with her slanders^'
she'd ««t« be "
"No," Fanny interrupted. "She's dead. She
dropped dead with apoplexy one day about six
weeks after you left. I didn't mention it in my let*
ters because I didn't want — ^I thought "
" Well, the other people would have kept <mi, then.
They'd have ^"
"I don't know," said Fanny, still averting her
troubled eyes. "Things are so changed here,
George. The other people you i^eak of — one
hardly knows what's become of them. Of course
not a great many were doing the talking, and they —
well, some of them are dead, and some might as well
be — ^you never see them any more — and the rest,
whoever they were, are probably so mixed in with
the crowds of new people that seem never even to
have heard of its — and I'm sure we certainly never
heard of them — and people seem to forget things so
SKxm — they seem to forget anything. You can't
imagine how things have changed here!"
418 THK MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS
Geotge gaiped paiiiiiilly before he oooU qpeak.
^ You — you mean to sit there and tell me that if Vd
just let things go on Oh!" He swung away»
waHdng the floor again. *'I tdl you I did the only
right thing! If you don't think so, why in the name
of heavoi can't you say what else I should have
<ione?' It's easy enough to criticize, but the person
^who nHUicizes a man ought at least to teD him what
else he should have done! You think I was wrong!"
"I'm not saying so," she said.
^^You did at the time!" he cried. "You said
enough then, I think! Well, what have you to sa3
now, if you're so sure I was wrong? "
"Nothing, George."
"It's only because you're afraid to!" he said, and
he went on with a sudden bitter divination : " You're
reproaching yourself with what you had to do with
all that; and you're trying to make up for it by doing
and saying what you think mother would want you to,
and you think I couldn't stand it if I got to thinking
I might have done diflFerently. Oh, I knowr
That's exactly what's in your mind : you do think I
was wrong! So does Uncle George. I challenged
him about it the other day, and he answered just as
you're answering — evaded, and tried to be gentle f
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 419
I don't care to be handled with gloves! I tell you
I was right, and I don't need any coddling by people
that think I wasn't! And I suppose you believe
I was wrong not to let Morgan see her that last
night when he came here, and she — ^she was dying.
If you do, why in the name of God did you come
and ask me? Yoii could have taken him in! She
did want to see him. She "
Miss Fanny looked startled. "You think-
>>
"She told me so!\" And the tortured young man
choked. "She said — *just once.' She said *I'd
like to have seen him — ^just once!* She meant — to
tell him good-bye! That^s what she meant! And
you put this on me, too; you put this responsibility
on me! But I tell you, and I told Uncle George,
that the responsibility isn't all mine! If you were
so sure I was wrong all the time — when I took her
away, and when I turned Morgan out — if you were
so sure, what did you let me do it for? You and
Uncle George were grown people, both of you,
weren't you? You were older than I, and if you
were so sure you were wiser than I, why did you just
stand aroimd with your hands hanging down, and
let me go ahead? You could have stopped it if it
was wrong, couldn't you?"
420 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
Fanny shook her head. "No, George/' she said
slowly. "Nobody could have stopp^ you. You
were too strong, and "
"And what?" he demanded loudly.
"And she loved you — too well.*'
George stared at her hard, then his lower Up began
to move convulsively, and he set his teeth upon it
but could not check its frantic twitching.
He ran out of the room.
She sat still, listening. He had plunged into his
mother's room, but no sound came to Fanny's ears
after the sharp closing of the door; and presently
she rose and stepped out into the hall — ^but could
hear nothing. The heavy black walnut door of
Isabel's room, as Fanny's troubled eyes remained
fixed upon it, seemed to become darker and vaguer;
the polished wood took the distant ceflkig light, at
the end of the hall, in dim reflections whidi became
mysterious; and to Fanny's disturbed mind the
single sharp point of light on the bronze door-knob
was like a continuous sharp cry in the stillness of ni^t.
What interview was sealed away from human eye
and ear within the lonely darkness on the other side of
that door — in that darkness where Isabel's own spe-
cial chairs were, and her own special books » and the
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 4«i
two grent walnut wardrobes filled with her drei|sesai»d
wraps? What tragic argument might be there vsijnfy
striving to confute the gentle dead? '' la God V mitiie,
what else could I have done?'' F^ hi9 mL^Jbhar-a
iimnutltble silence was ^ surely answering him as
Isabel in life would never have ajousweired hiia» and
he was beginning to understand how eloqii^^nt the
dead can be. They cannot st<^ their ^qu^ace» no
matter how they have loved the living: ike^ cutwoi
choose. And so, no matter in what ^^ouy G^rge
should cry out, "What else could I have dwe?"
and to the end ot his life no matter how often he
made that wild appeal, Isabel was doomed tp answer
him with the wistful, faint murmur:
"Fd like to have-^een him^ Just-^just onoe."
A ehe^Hful darkey went by the houite, Icmdly a^d
tunelessly whistling some broken thoughts upon
women, fried food and gin; then a group of high*
school boys, returning homeward alter important
initiations, were heard skylarking along the aidewalk,
rattling sticks on the fences, squawkii^g hoarsely, and
even attempting to sing in the $hoddng new voices
of uncompleted adolescence. For no reason, and
just as a poultry yard falls into causeless agitation,
they stopped in front of the house, and for half an
422 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS
hour piodoced the effect of a noisy multitiMie in fuE
riot.
To flie woman standing upstairs in flie hall, this
was afanost unbearable; and she felt that she would
have to go down and call to them to stop; but she
Was too timid, and after a time went bac^ to her
foom, and sat at her desk again. She left the door
ape^ and frequently ^anced out into the haD, but
gradually became once more absorbed in the figures
idiich represented her prospective income from her
great plunge in electric lights for automobiles. She
did not hear George return to his own room.
. . . A superstitious person mi^t have
thought it unfortunate that her partner in this spec-
ulative industry (as in Wilbur's disastrous rolling-
mills)was that charming but too haphazardous man
of the world, George Amberson. He was one of
those optimists who believe that if you put money
into a great many enterprises one of them is sure to
turn out a fortune, and therefore, in order to find
the lucky one, it is only necessary to go into a large
enough number of them. Altogether gallant in
spirit, and beautifully game under catastrophe, he
had gone into a great many, and the unanimity of
their **bad luck/* as he called it, gave him one
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEESONS 423
^iliin to be a ' distinguished perkin, if he had no
othfer. Ill business Ke ii^as ill fated wi€h a con-
sistency which made him, in that alone, a remark-
able man; and he declared, with some earnestness,
that there was no accounting for it except by the fact
that there had been so much good luck in his family
before he was bom that something had to balance it.
"You ought to have thought of my record and
stayed out/' he told Fanny, one day the next spring,
when the affairs of the headlight company had begun
to look discouraging. "I feel the old familiar sink'
ing that's attended all my previous efforts to prove
myself a business genius. I think it must be some-
thing like the feeling an aerpnaut has when his
balloon bursts, and, looking down, he sees below
him the old home farm wherfe he used to live — ^I
mean the feeling he'd have just before he flattened
out in that same old clay barnyard. Things do
look bleak, and I'm only glad you didn't go into this
confounded thing to the extent I did."
Miss Fanny grew pink. "But it mitst go right!"
she protested. "We saw with our own eyes how
perfectly it worked in the shop. The light was iso
blight no one could face it, and so there canH be
any reason for it not to work. It sim.ply— — ^**
4as THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEKS(»f S
^'Oby you'ie li^t about that,'* Amberaoii said.
*^ It oertaiiily was a perfect thmg — in the shop! The
only thing we didn't know was how fast an autcK
mobile had to go to keep the light going. It appears
that this was a matter of smne importance."
"Well, how fast does one have to "
"To keep the light from going entirely out," he
informed her with dabcN^te deliberation, "it is
computed by those enthusiasts who have boi^ht our
product — and subsequently returned it to us and
got th^ moacfy back — they compute that a motor
car must maintain a speed of tw^ity-five miles an
hour, or else there won't be any light at all. To
make the illuminati<Ni bright enough to be noticed
by an approaching automobile, they state the speed
must be more than thirty miles an hour. At thirty-
five, objects in the path of the light b^in to become
visible; at forty they are revealed distinctly; and at
fifty and above we have a real headlight. Un-
fortunately many people don't care to drive that
fast at all times after dusk, especially in the traffic,
or where policemen are likely to become objection-
able."
"Bu* think of that test on the road when we "
"That test was lovely," he admitted. "The
rn
I MAjGNIFECENT AMBE&90NS 4SbB
inventor mude us happy with ibis oratoiy, and you
and Frank Bronson and I went whblmg through the
night at a sq^eed that thrilled us. it was an in-
toxioating MOisation: we were intoxicated by the
lights, the lights and the music. We m»st never
forget that drive, with the 090I wind kissing our
cheeks and the road lit up ior miles ahead. We
Bwst never {oeget it-^and we never shoU. It cost
99
"But something's got to be done."
"It has, indeed! My something woidd seem to be
leaving my wvutch at my uncle's. Luckily, you "
The pink of Fanay's cheeks became deeper. "But
isn't that man gom^' to do anything to tenaedy it?
Can't he try to "
"He oaoL try," said Amberson. "He is trying, in
Eact. I've sat in the shop watching him try ior
several beautiEul afternoons, while outside the
windows all Nature was fragrant with spring and
smoke. He hums ragtime to himself as he tries, and
I think his mind is wandering to something else less
tedious — ^to some new invention in which he'd take
more interest."
"But you mustn't let him," die cried. "You
must make him keep on trying!"
426 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
'^Oh, yes. He understands that's wliat I sit ther^
for. rU keep sitting!"
However, in spite of the time he spent sitting in
the shop, worrying the inventor of the fractious light,
Amberscm found opportunity .to worry himself about
another matter of business. This was the settle*
meht of Isabel's estate.
"It's curious about the deed to her house," he
said to his nephew. "You're absolutely sure it
wasn't among her papers?"
"Mother didn't have any papers," Greorge told
him. "None at all. All she ever had to do with
business was to deposit the cheques grandfather
gave her and then write her own cheques against
them."
"The deed to the house was never recorded,"
Amberson said thoughtfully. "I've been over to the
courthouse to see. I asked father if he never gave
her one, and he didn't seem able to understand me
at first. Then he finally said he thought he must
have given her a deed long ago; but he wasn't sure.
I rather think he never did. I think it would be just
as well to get him to execute one now in your favour.
I'll speak to him about it."
George sighed. "I don't think I'd bother him
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 427
about it: the house is mine, and you and I under-
stand that it is. That's enough for me, and there
isn't likely to be much trouble between you and me
when we come to settling poor grandfather's estate.
I've just been with him, and I think it would only
confuse him for you to speak to him about it again.
I notice he seems distressed if anybody tries to get
his attention — ^he's a long way off, somewhere, and
he likes to stay that way. I think — I think mother
wouldn't want us to bother him about it; I'm sure
she'd tell us to let him alone. He looks so white and
queer."
Amberson shook his head. "Not much whiter
and queerer than you do, young fellow! You'd
better begin to get some air and exercise and quit
hanging about in the house all day. I won't bother
him any more than I can help; but I'll have the deed
made out ready for his signature."
"I wouldn't bother him at all. I don't see "
"You might see," said his uncle uneasily. "The
estate is just about as involved and mixed-up as an
estate can well get, to the best of my knowledge; and
I haven't helped it any by what he let me have for
this infernal headlight scheme which has finally
gone trolloping forever to where the woodbine
430 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
Old Sam, shufliing in with the breakfast tray,
found the Major in his accustomed easy-chair by the
fireplace — and yet even the old darkey could see
instantly that the Major was not there.
CHAPTER XXXI
WHEN the great Amberson Estate went into
court for settlement, "there wasn't any/*
George Amberson said — that is, when the
settlement was concluded there was no estate. "I
guessed it," Amberson went on. "As an expert on
prosperity, my career is disreputable, but as a prophet
of calamity I deserve a testimonial banquet.'* He
reproached himself bitterly for not having long ago
discovered that his father had never given Isabel
a deed to her house. "And those pigs, Sydney and
Amelia!" he added, for this was another thing he
was bitter about. "They won't do anything. I'm
sorry I gave them the opportunity of making a pol-
ished refusal. Ameha's letter was about half in
Italian; she couldn't remember enough ways of saying
no in English. One has to live quite a long while to
realize there are people like that! The estate was
badly crippled, even before they took out their
* third,' and the 'third' they took was the only good
part of the rotten apple. Well, I didn't ask them for
431
432 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
restitution on my own account, and at least it will
save you some trouble, young George. Never waste
any time writing to them; you mustn't count on
them."
"I don%" George said quietly. **I don't count
on aaything."
"Oh, we'll not feel that things are quite desper-
ate," Amberson laughed, but not with great cheer-
fuhiess. "We'll survive, Georgie — you will, es-
pecially. For my part I'm a little too old and too
accustomed to fall back on somebody else for supplies
to start a big fight with life: I'll be cont^it with just
surviving, and I can do it on an eighteai-hundred-
dollar-a-year consulship. An ex-congressman can
always be pretty sure of getting some such job, and I
hear from Washington the matter's about settled.
I'll live pleasantly enough with a pitcher of ice under
a palm tree, and black folks to wait on me — that
part of it will be like home — and I'll manage to send
you fifty dollars every now and then, after I once
get settled. So much for me! But you — of course
you've had a poor training for making your own
way, but you're only a boy after all, and the stuff
of the old stock is in you. It'll come out and do
something. I'll never forgive myself about that;
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 4SS
deed: it would have given you sometliing substantial
to start with. Still, you have a little tiny bit, and
you'll have a little tiny salary, too; and of course your
Aunt Fanny's here, and she's got something you can
fall back on if you get too pinched, until I can begin
to send you a dribble now and then."
George's "little tiny bit" was six himdred dollars
which had come to him from the sale of his mother's
furniture; and the "little tiny salary" was eight dol-
lars a week which old Frank Bronson was to pay him
for services as a clerk and student-at-law. Old
Frank would have offered more to the Major's
grandson, but since the death of that best of clients
and his own experience with automobile headhghts,
he was not certain of being able to pay more and at
the same time settle his own small bills for board
and lodging. George had accepted haughtily, and
thereby removed a burden from his uncle's mind.
Amberson himself, however, had not even a " tiny
bit"; though he got his consular appointment; and
to take him to his post he found it necessary to bor-
row two hundred of his nephew's six hundred dollars.
"It makes me sick, George," he said. "But I'd
better get there and get that salary started. Of
course Eugene would do anything in the world, and
4S4 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
the fact is he wanted to, but I felt that — ^ah — undei
the circumstances "
"Never!" Geoi^e exclaimed, growing red. "I
can't imagine one of the family " He paused,
not finding it necessary to explain that "the family "
shouldn't turn a man from the door and then accept
favours from him. "I wish you'd take more."
Amberson declined. "One thing I'll say for you,
young George; you haven't a stingy bone in your
body. That's the Amberson stock in you — ^and I
like it!"
He added something to this praise of his nephew on
the day he left for Washington. He was not to re-
turn, but to set forth from the capital on the long
journey to his post. George went with him to the
station, and their farewell was lengthened by the
train's being several minutes late.
"I may not see you again, Georgie," Amberson
said; and his voice was a little husky as he set a kind
hand on the young man's shoulder. "It's quite
probable that from this time on we'll only know
each other by letter — ^until you're notified as my next
of kin that there's an old valise to be forwarded to
you, and perhaps some dusty curios from the con-
sulate mantelpiece. Well, it's an odd way for us
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS %S6
to be saying good-bye : one wouldn't have tkougbt it,
even a few years ago, but here we are, two gentlemen
of elegant appearance in a state of bustitude. We
can't ever tell what will happen at all, can We? Once
I stood where we're stoiiding ndw, to say good-bye
!x) a pretty girl — only it was in the old stiktton before
this was built, and we called it the *det>6t/ She'd
been visiting your mother, before Isabel was married,
and I was wild about her^ and she admitted she
didn't mind that. In fact, we decided we couldn't
live without each other, and we were to be married
But she had to go abroad first with her father, and
when we came to say good-bye we knew we wcmldn't
see each other again for almost a year. I thought
I couldn't live through it— and she stood here crying.
Well, I don't even know where she lives now, or if
she is living — ^and I only ha|ipen to think of her some-
times when I'm here at the station waiting for a train.
If she ever thinks of me she probably imagines I'm
still dancing in the ballroom at the Amberson Man-
sion, and she probably thinks of the Mansion as still
beautiful — still the finest house in town. life and
money both behave like loose quicksilver in a nest
of cracks. And when they're gone we can't tell
where — or what the devil we did with 'em! But I
4M THE MAGNIFICENT AMREBSONS
in ny mm— bridle tkoe isn't much time
left lor etther ol us to get embamssed about it — I
beiieTe m ny tbat Fve always been food id you,
Geofgie, but I can't aay tbat I ahrays liked you
Sometimes I've felt you were distinctly not an ae
quired taste. Until latdy, one had to be IcMid ol
you just ifoterafl^ — this isn't very ' tactful , * of coursi'
— for if be didn't, wdl^ be wouldn't! We all qK>iled
you terribly when you were a little boy and let you
grow up en prince — and I must say you took to it!
But you've received a pretty heavy jolt, and I had
eaau^ ci your dispositkm, myself, at your age, to
understand a little of what cocksure youth has ta
go through inside when it finds that it can make ter
rible mistakes. Poor old feDow! You get bolii
kinds of jolts togetilier, spiritual and material — ami
you've taken them pretty quietly and — ^well, with
my train coming into the shed, you'll forgive me for
saying that there have been times when I thought
you ought to be hanged— -but I've always been fond
of you, and now I like you ! And just for a last word :
there may be somebody else in this town who's al<
ways felt about you like that — fond of you, I mean,
no matter how much it seemed you ought to be
hanged. You might try Hello, I must run. FU
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 437
send back the money as fast as they pay me — so,
good-bye and God bless you, Georgie!"
He passed through the gates, waved his hat cheer-
ily from the other side of the iron screen, and was
lost from sight in the hurrying crowd. And to he
disappeared, an unexpected poignant loneliness fell
upon his nephew so heavily and so suddenlj^ that
he had no energy to recoil from the shock. H
seemed to him that the last fragment of his familiar
world had disappeared, leaving him all alone for-
ever.
He walked homeward slowly through what ap-
peared to be the strange streets of a strange city; and,
as a matter of fact, the city was strange to him. He
had seen little of it during his years in college, and
then had followed the long absence and his tragic
return. Since that be had -been "scarcely outdoors
at all,'' as Fanny complained, warning him that his
health would suffer, and he had been downtown
only in a closed carriage. He had not realized
the great change.
The streets were thunderous; a vast energy heaved
under the universal coating of dinginess. George
walked through the begrimed crowds of hurrying
strangers and saw no face that he remembered. Great
438 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
numbers of the faces were even of a kind he did not
remember ever to have seen; they were partly like
the old type that his boyhood knew, and partly like
types he knew abroad. He saw German eyes with
American wrinkles at their comers; he saw Irish
eyes and Neapolitan eyes, Roman eyes, Tuscw
eyes, eyes of Lombardy, of Savoy, Hmigarian eyes,
Balkan eyes, Scandinavian eyes — all with a queei
American kK>k in them. He saw Jews who had be^i
German Jews, Jews who had been Russian Jews,
Jews who had been Polish Jews but were no longer
German or Russian or Polish Jews. All the people
were soiled by the smoke-mist through which they
hurried, under the heavy sky that hung close
upon the new skyscrapers; and nearly all seemed
harried by something impending, though here and
there a woman with bundles would be laughing to a
companion about some adventure of the department
stores, or perhaps an escape from the charging traffic
of the streets — and not infrequently a girl, or a free-
and-easy young matron, found time to throw an en-
couraging look to George.
He took no note of these, and, leaving the crowded
sidewalks, turned north into National Avenue, and
presently reached the quieter but no less begrimed
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 439
v^OB of smaller shops aaid old-fashioned houses.
Those latter had been the homes of his boyhood play-
mates; old friends of his grandfather had lived here; —
in this alley he had fought with two boys at the
same time, and whipped them; in that frcmt yard he
had been successfully teased into temporary insanity
by a Sunday-school class of pinky little girls. On
that sagging porch a laughing woman had fed him
and other boys with doughnuts and gingerbread;
yonder he saw the staggered reUcs of the iron picket
f^ice he had made his white pony jump» on a dare,
and in the shabby, stone-faced house behind the
fence he had gone to children's parties, and, when he
was a little older he had danced there often, and fallen
in love with Mary Sharon, and kissed her, appar-
ently by force, imder the stairs in the hall. The
double front doors, of meaninglessly carved walnut,
once so giossUy varnished, had been painted smoke
gray, but the smoke grime showed repulsively, even
on the smoke gray; and over the doors a smoked sign
proclaimed the place to be a "Stag Hotel."
Other houses had become boarding-houses too
genteel for signs, but many were franker, some offer-
ing "board by the day, week or meal," and some,
more laconic, contenting themselves with the label:
440 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
'"Rooms." One, having torn out part of jm olA
stone-trimmed bay window for purposes of oomm^*
dal diq>lay, showed forth two suspended pettiooats
and a pair of oyster-cdouied flannel tious»s to
prove the daims of its black-and-gilt sign: *' French
Cleaning and Dye House." Its next neighbour also
sported a remodelled front and permitted no doubt
that its mission in life was to attend cosily upon
death: ""J. M. Bolsener. Caskets. The Funeral
Home." And beyond that, a plam old honest
four-square gray-painted brick house was flamboy-
antly decorated with a great gilt scroll on the railing
of the old-fashioned veranda: '^Mutual Benev't
Order Cavaliers and Dames of Purity." This waa
the old Minafer house.
George passed it without perceptibly wincing; in
fact, he held his head up» and except for his gravity
of coimtenance and the prison pallor he had ac-
quired by too constantly remaining indoors, there
was little to warn an acquaintance that he was not
precisely .the same George Amberson Minafer known
aforetime. He was still so magnificent, indeed, that
there came to his ears a waft of comment from a
passing automobile. This was a fearsome red car,
glittering in brass, with half-a-dozen young people
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 441
in it whose motorism had reached an extreme mani-
festation in dress. The ladies of this party were
favourably affected at sight of the pedestrian upon
the sidewalk, and, as the machine was moving
slowly, and close to the curb, they had time to ob-
serve him in detail, which they did with a frankness
not pleasing to the object of their attentions. "One
sees so many nice-looking people one doesn't know
nowadays," said the* youngest of the young ladies.
"This old town of ours is really getting enormous.
I shoiddn't mind knowing who he is."
"7 don't know," the youth beside her said, loudly
enough to be heard at a considerable distance. "1
don't know who he is, but from his looks I know who
he thinks he is: he thinks he's the Grand Duke Cuth-
bert!" There was a biu'st of tittering as the car
gathered speed and rolled away, with the girl con-
tinuing to look back until her scandalized compan-
ions forced her to turn by pulling her hood over her
face. She made an impression upon George, so deep
a one, in fact, that he unconsciously put his emotion
into a muttered word :
"Riffraff!"
This was the last "walk home" he was ever to
take by the route he was now following: up National
442 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS
Avenue to Amberson Addition and the two big old
houses at the foot of Amberson Boulevard; for to-
night would be the last night that he and Fanny
were to spend in the house which the Major had for-
gotten to deed to Isabel. To^moirow they were to
^*move out," and George was to begin his work in
Bronson's office. He had not come to this collapse
without a fierce struggle — ^but the struggle was in-
ward, and the rolling world was not agitated by it,
and rolled calmly on. For of all the "ideals of life'*
which the world, in its rolling, inconsiderately flat-
tens out to nothingness, the least likely to retain a
profile is that ideal which depends upon inheriting
money. George Amberson, in spite of his record of
failures in business, had spoken shrewdly when he
realized at last that money, like life, was "like
quicksilver in a nest of cracks." And his nephew
had the awakening experience of seeing the great
Amberson Estate vanishing into such a nest— in a
twinkling, it seemed, now that it was indeed so utterly
vanished.
His uncle had suggested that he might write to
college friends; perhaps they could help him to some-
thing better than the prospect oflFered by Bronson's
office; but George flushed and shook his head, with«
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 44$
out e}q>laiiiiiig. In that small and quietly superior
''crowd" of his he had too emphatically sum>orted
the ideal of being rather than doing. He could not
am>eal to one of its members now to help him to a
job. Besides, they were not precisely the warmest**
hearted crew in the world, and he had long age
dropped the last affectation of a correspondence with
any of them. He was as aloof from any survival of
intimacy with his boyhood friends in the city, and,
in truth, had lost track of most of them. '^The
Friends of the Ace," once bound by oath to succour
one another in peril or poverty, were long ago dis-
persed; one or two had died; one or two had gone
to Uve elsewhere; the others were disappeared into
the smoky bigness of the heavy city. Of the breth-
reskf there remained within his present cognizance
only his old enemy, the red-haired Kinney, now mar^
ried to janie Sharon, and Charlie Johnson, who, out
of deference to his mother's memory, had passed
the Amberson Mansion one day, when George stood
upon the front steps, and, looking in fiercely, had
looked away with continued fierceness — ^his only
token of recognitiooi.
. . On this last homeward walk of his, when
George reached the entrance to Amberson Addition
if44 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBJBiilSONS
— ^that is, when he came to where the entrance hac)
formerly been — ^he gave a little start, and halted for
a moment to stare. This was the first time he had
noticed that the stone pillars, marking the entrance,
had been removed. Then he realized that for a
long time he had been conscious of a queemess about
this comer without being aware of what made the
difference. National Avenue met Amberson Boule^
vard here at an obtuse angle, and the removal of
the pillars made the Boulevard seem a cross-street
of no overpowering importance-^certainly it did not
seem to be a boulevard !
At the next comer Neptune's Fountain remained,
and one could still determine with accuracy what ibi
designer's intentions had been. It stood in sore need
of just one last kindness; and if the thing had pos-
sessed any friends they would have done that dole-
ful shovelling after dark.
George did not let his eyes linger upon the relic;
nor did he lopk steadfastly at the Amberson Mansion.
Massive as the old house was, it managed to look
gaunt :^ its windows stared with the skull emptiness
of all windows in empty houses that are to be lived
in no mOTe. Of course the rowdy boys of the neigh-
bourhood had been at work: many of these haggard •
THE MAGNTFICENT AMBERSONS 445
windows were broken; the front door stood ajar,
forced open; and idiot salacity, in white chalk, was
smeared everywhere upon the pillars and stone'
work of the verandas.
George walked by the Mansion hurriedly, and
came home to his mother's house for the last time.' ''^
'Emptiness was there, too, and the closing of the
door resounded through bare rooms; for downstairs
there was no furniture in the house except a kitchen
table in the dining room, which Fanny had kept
"for dinner," she said, though as she was to cook and
serve that meal herself George had his doubts about
her name for it. Upstairs, she had retained her own
furniture, and George had been living in his mother's
room, having sent everything from his own to the
auction. Isabel's room was still as it had been, but
the furniture would be moved with Fanny's to new
quarters in the morning. Fanny had made plans
for her nephew as well as herself; she had found a
*' three-room kitchenette apartment" in an apart-
ment house where several old friends of hers had
established themselves — elderly widows of citizens
once "prominent" and other retired gentry. People
used their own "kitchenettes" for breakfast and
Sunch, but there was a table-d'hdte arrangement
446 THE MAGNIFICENT AMB
for dinner an the ground floor; and after dinner
bridge was played all evening, an attractkm powerful
wifii Fanny. She had ** made all the arrangements/
8he reported, and nervously appealed for approval,
flflking if she hadn't shown herself ''pretty practical "
in such matters. Geoige acquiesced absent-mind-
ecfly, not thinking of what she said and not realizing
to what it committed him.
He b^an to realize it now, as he wandered about
the dismantled house; he was far from sure that he
was willing to go and live in a "three-room apart-
ment" with Fanny and eat breakfast and lunch
with her (prepared by herself in the "kitchenette**)
and dinner at the table dTi6te in "such a pretty
Colonial dming room" (so Fanny described it) at a
little round table they would have all to themselves
in the midst of a dozen little round tables which
other relics of disrupted families would have all to
themselves. For the first time, now that the change
was imminent, George began to develop before his
mind's eye pictures of what he was in for; and they
appalled him. He decided that such a life verged
upon the sheerly unbearable, and that after all there
were some things left that he just couldn't stand.
So he made up his mind to speak to his aunt abou^
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS «47
it at '^dinner/' and tell her that he preferred to ask
Brcmflon to let him put a sofa-bed, a trunk, and a f^*
ing rubber bathtub behind a screen in the dai^ rear
room of the office. George felt that this would be
infinitely more tolerable; and he could eat at res-
taurants, ei^iecially as about all he ever wailted
nowadays was coffee.
But at ^^ dinner" he decided to put off telling
Fanny of hts fiaxt lintil later: she was so n^^vous,
and so distressed about the failure ot her dffbrts
with sweetbreads and macaroni; and she was so
eager in her talk of how comfortable they would be
"by this time to-morrow night.'* She fluttered on,
her nervousness increadbg, saying how ''nice'' it
would be for him, when he came from work in the
evenings, to be amcmg "nice people — pec^le who
know who we are^^* and to have a pleasant game of
bridge with ^'people who are really old friends of the
family."
When they stopped probing among the scorched
fragments she had set forth, George lingered down-
stairs, waiting for a better opportunity to introduce
his own subject, but when he heard dismaying sounds
from the kitchen he gave up. There was a crash,
then a shower of crashes; falling tin clamoured to be
448 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS
heard above the shattering of porcelain; and over all
rose Fanny's wail of lamentation for the treasures
saved from the sale, but now lost forever to the
"kitchenette." Fanny was nervous indeed; so ner*.
vous that she could not trust her hands.
For a moment George thought she might have been
injured, but, brfore he reached the kitch^i, he heard
, her sweeping at the fragments, and turned back. He
put off speaking to Fanny until morning.
Things more insistent than his vague plans for a
sofa-bed in Bronson's office had possession of his
mind as he went upstairs, moving his hand slowly
along the smooth walnut railing of the balustrade.
Half way to the landing he stopped, turned, and
stood looking down at the heavy doors masking the
black emptiness that had been the library. Here he
^ had stood on what he now knew was the worst day
of his life; here he had stood when his mother
passed through that doorway, hand-in-hand with her
brother, to learn what her son had done.
He went on more heavily, more slowly ; and, more
heavily and slowly still, entered Isabel's room and
shut the door. He did not come forth again, and
. bade Fanny good-night through the closed door when
•she stopped outside it later.
rw^
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 449
•*IVe put all the lights out, George," she said.
''Everything's all right."
"Very weU," he eaUed. "Good-night."
She did not go. *' I'm sure we're going to enjoy the
new little home, George," she said timidly. "I'll
try hard to make things nice for you, and the people
really are lovely. You mustn't feel as if things are
altogether gloomy, George. I know everything's
going to turn out all right. You're young and strong
and you have a good mind and I'm sure — " she hesi-
tated— "I'm sure your mother's watching over you,
Georgie. Good-night, dear."
"Good-night, Aunt Fanny."
His voice had a strangled sound in spite of him;
but she seemed not to notice it, and he heard her go
to her own room and lock herself in with bolt and key
against burglars. She had said the one thing she
should not have said just then: "I'm sure your
mother's watching over you, Georgie." She had
meant to be kind, but it destroyed his last chance for
sleep that night. He would have slept little if she
had not said it, but since she had said it, he did not
sleep at all. For he knew that it was true — ^if it
could be true — and that his mother, if she still Kved
in spirit, would be weeping on the other side of the
460 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBBRSONS
wall of silence, weeping and seddng for some gate
to let her through so that she could come and v
"watch over him."
He felt that if there were such gates they were
surely barred: they were like those awful library
doors downstairs, which had shut her in to begm
the suffering to which he had consigned her.
The room was still Isabel's; Nothing had been
changed: even the photographs of George, of the
Major, and of "brother George" still stood on her
dressing-table, and in a drawer of her desk was an
old picture of Eugene and Lucy, taken together,
which George had found, but had slowly closed away
again from sight, not touching it. To-morrow
everything would be gone; and he had heard there
was not long to wait before the house itself would be
demolished. The very space which to-night was
still Isabel's room would be cut into new shapes
by new walls and floors and ceiUngs; yet the room
would always live, for it could not die out of George's
memory. It would live as long as he did, and it
would always be mtumurous with a tragic, wistful
whispering.
And if space itself can be haunted, as memory
is haunted, then some time, when the space that was
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 455
Isabel's room came to be made into the small bed-
rooms and "kitchenettes" already designed as its
destiny, that space might well be haunted and the
new occupants come to feel that some seemingly
causeless depression hung about it — a wraith of the
passion that filled it throughout the last night that
George Minafer spent there.
f Whatever remnants of the oLd high-handed arro-
gance were still within him, he did penance for hia
deepest sin that night — and it may be that to this
day some impressionable, overworked woman in a
"kitchenette," after turning out the light, will seem
to see a young man kneeling in the darkness, shaking
convulsively, and, with arms outstretched through
the wall, clutching at the covers of a shadowy bed.
It may seem to her that she hears the faint cry, over
and over:
"Mother, foi^ve me! God, forgive me!**
CHAPTER XXXn
AT LEAST, it may be claimed for Gleorge
/% that his last night in the house where he had
-^ -^ been bom was not occupied with his own dis-
heartening future, but with sorrow for what sacri-
fices his pride and youth had demanded of others.
And early in the morning he came downstiurs and
tried to help Fanny make coflFee on the kitchen
range.
"There was something I wanted to say to you last
night. Aunt Fanny," he said, as she finally discovered
that an amber fluid, more like tea than coffee, was
as near ready to be taken into the human system
as it would ever be. "I think Fd better do it
now."
She set the coffee-pot back upon the stove with a
little crash, and, looking at him in a desperate
anxiety, began to twist her dainty apron between her
fingers without any consciousness of what she was
doing.
"Why — why " she stammered; but she knew
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 459
what he was going to say, and that was why she had
been more add more nervous. "Hadn't — ^perhaps
-—perhaps we*d better get the — the things moved to
the little new home first, George. Let's: — — "
He intenxipted quietly, though at her phrase, " the
little new home," his pungent impulse was to utter
one loud shout and run. "It was about this new
place that I wanted to speak. I Ve been thinking it
over, and IVe decided. I want you to take all the
things from mother's room and use them and keep
them for me, and I'm sure the little apartment will
be just what you like; and with the extra bedroom
probably you could find some woman friend to come
and live there, and share the expense with you.
But I've decided on another arrangement for myself,
and so I'm not going with you. I don't suppose
you'll mind much, and I don't see why you should
mind — particularly, that is. I'm not very Kvely
qoinpany these days, or any days, for that matter.
I can't imagine you, or any one else, being much
attached to me, so "
He stopped in amazement: no chair had been left
in the kitchen, but Fanny gave a despairing glance
around her, in search of one, then sank abruptly^
and sat flat upon the floor.
454 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSOMS
"You're goin^ to leave me in the 1iitc|iI'* she
gasped. I
" What on eavth " George sprang to herl " Get
up. Aunt Fanny!"
" I can't. I'm too weak. Let me alone, Gteorge ! '*
And as he released the wrist he had seized to hielp her,
she repeated the dismal prophecy wfai<ii f»>r days
she had been matching against her hopes: ^'^ You 're
going to leave me — ^m the lurch I*^' i
"Why no, Aunt Fanny!" he protested. ^At first
I'd have been something of a burden on you. I'm to
get eight dollars a week; about thirty-two a month*
The rent's thirty-six doUars a month, and the tabte-
d'h6te dinner runs up to over twenty-tWo dollars
apiece, so with my half d the rent-— eighteen dollars
— ^I'd have less than nothing left out of my salary to
pay my share of the groceries for all the breakfasts
ftnd luncheons. You see you'd not only be doing all
the housework and cooking, but you'd be paying
tnore of the expenses than I would."
She stared at him with such a forlorn blankness
as he had never seen. "I'd be paying " she said
feebly. "I'd be paying "
"Certainly you would. You'd be using more of
your money than "
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 456
•*My money!" Fanny's chin drooped upon her
tibin. chest, and she laughed mis^ably. ^'IVe got
twenty-eight doUars. That's all."
"You mean until the interest is due again?"
"I mean that's all," Fanny said. "I mean that's
all there- is. There won't be any more interest be-
cause there isn't any principal."
"Why, you told "
She shook her head. "No. I haven't told you
anything."
"Then it was Uncle George. He told me you had
mough to fall bade on. That's just what he said:
*to fall back on.' He said you'd lost more than you
should, in the headlight company, but he'd insisted
that you should hold out enough to live on, and you'd
very wisely followed his advice."
"I know," she said weakly. "I told him so. He
didn't know, or else he'd forgotten, how much Wil-
bur's insurance amounted to, and I — oh, it seemed
jjuch a sure way to make a real fortune out of a little
— ^and I thought I could do something for youy
(Jeorge, if you ever came to need it — and it all
looked so bright I just thought I'd put it all in. I did
— every cent except my last interest payment — ^and
it's gone."
456 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS
^'Good Lord!'' Greorge began to pace up aiMl
down the worn planks of the bare floor. ^* Why <»i
earth did you wait till now to tell such a thing at
this?'
"I covldrCt tell till I had to," she said piteously,
•
"I couldn't till Geoi^e Amberson went away. He
couldn't do anything to help, anyhow, and I just
didn't want him to talk to me about it — ^he's been
at me so much about not putting more in than I
could afford to lose, and said he considered he had
my — ^my word I waarCt putting more than that in it.
So I thought: What was the use? What was the
use of going over it all with him and having him
reproach me, and probably reproach himself? It
wouldn't do any good — ^not any good on earth." She
got out her lace handkerchief and began to cry.
"Nothing does any good, I guess, in this old wdrldi
Oh, how tired of this old world I am! I didn't know
what to do. I just tried to go ahead and be as prac-
tical as I could, and arrange some way for us to live.
Oh, I knew you didn't want me, George! You al-
ways teased me and berated me whenever you had
a chance from the time you were a little boy — ^yoii
did so I Later, you've tried to be kinder to me, but
you don't want me around — oh, I can see that muchi
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 457
You don^t suppose I want to thrust myself on you,
do you? It isn't very pleasant to be thrusting your-
self on a person you know doesn't want you — ^but I
knew you oughtn't to be left all alone in the world;
it isn't good. I knew your mother'd want me tG'
wat<^ over you and try to have something like a
hcHne for you — ^I know she'd want me to do what I
tried to do!" Fanny's tears were bitter now^i and
faer voice, hoarse and wet, was tragically sincere. ''I
tried — ^I tried to be practical — ^to look alter your
interests — ^to make things as nice for you as I coidd
— ^I walked my heels down looking for a place for us
to live — ^I walked and walked over this town — ^I
didn't ride one block on a street-car — ^I wouldn't
use five cents no matter how tired I Oh!" She
sobbed uncontrollably. "Oh! and now — ^you don't
want — ^you want — ^you want to leave me in the lurch!
You "
George stopped walking. **Ih God's name. Aunt
Fanny," he said, " quit spreading out your handker-
chief and drying it and then getting it all wet again!
I mean stop crying! Do! And for heaven's sake,
;get up. Don't sit there with your back against the
boiler and "
t<
It's not hot," Fanny sniffled. "It's cold; the
/
4€
US THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
plumbers disconnected it. I wouldn't mind if they
hadn't. I wouldn't mind if it burned me, George/'
Oh, my Lard /" He went to her, and lifted hwr
For God's sake, get up ! Come, let's take the coffee
into the other room, and see what's to be done."
He got her to her feet; she leaned upon him, al-
ready somewhat comforted, and, with his arm about
her, he conducted her to the dining room and seated
her in one of the two kitchen chairs which had been
placed at the rough table. "There!" he said, "get
over it!" Then he brought the coffee-pot, some
lumps of sugar in a tin pan, and, finding that all the
coffee-cups were broken, set water glasses upon the
table, and poured some of the pale coffee into them.
By this time Fanny's spirits had revived appre-
ciably: she looked up with a plaintive eagerness. "I
had bought all my fall clothes, Geotge" she said;
^* and I paid every bill I owed. 1 don't owe a cent for
clothes, George."
"That's good," he said wanly, and he had a mo-
ment of physical dizziness that decided him to sit
down quickly. For an instant it seemed to him
that he was not Fanny's nephew, but married to
her. He passed his pale hand over his paler fore-
head. "Well, let's see where we stand," he said
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 4A9
feebly. "Let's see if we can afford this place you Ve
selected."
Fanny continued to brighten. "I*m sure it's the
most practical plan we could possibly have worked
out, George — and it is sl comfort to be among nice
people. I think we'll both enjoy it, because the
truth is we've been keeping too much to ourselves
for a long while. It isn't good for people."
"I was thinking about the money. Aunt Fanny.
You see "
«T>.
I'm sure we can manage it," she interrupted
quickly. "There really isn't a cheaper place in
town that we could actually live in and be "
Here she interrupted herself. "Oh! There's one
ffteat economy I forgot to tell you, and it's especially
an economy for you, because you're always too gen-
erous about such things: they don't allow any tip-
ping. They have signs that prohibit it."
"That's good," he said grimly. "But the rent
is thirty-six dollars a month; the dinner is twenty-
two and a half for each of us, and we've got to have
some provision for other food. We won't need any
:slothes for a year, perhaps "
"Oh, longer!" she exclaimed. "So you see "
**I see that forty -five and thirty-six make eighty-
4«0 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSOI|rS
one," he said. "At the lowest, we need a hundred
dollars a month — and I'm going to make thirty-two/'
"I thought of that, George," she said confidently,
" and I'm sure it will be all right. You'll be eaming^
a great deal more than that very soon."
"I don't see any prospect of it — ^not till I*m ad-
mitted to the bar, and that will be two years at
the earliest."
Fanny's confidence was not shaken. "I know
yow'K be getting on faster than "
"Taster?"' George echoed gravely. "We've"
got to have more than that to start with."
"Well, there's the six hundred dollars from thir
sale. Six himdred and twelve dollars it was."
"It isn't six hundred and twelve now," said
George. "It's about one hundred and sixty."
Fanny showed a momentary dismay. "Why,,
how "
"I lent Uncle George two hundred; I gave fifty
apiece to old Sam and those two other old darkies
that worked for grandfather so long, and ten to each
of the servants here "
"And you gave me thirty-six," she said thought-
fully, "for the first month's rent, in advance."
•*Did I? I'd forgotten. Well, with about m
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 461
^hundred and sixty in bank and our expenses a
hundred a month, it doesn't seem as if thLs new
place "
"Still," she interrupted, "we have paid the first
month's rent in advance, and it does seem to be the
most practical '.'
Geoi^e rose. "See here. Aunt Fanny," he said
decisively. "You stay here and look after the
moving. Old Frank doesn't expect me until after-
noon, this first day, but I'll go and see him now."
. . . It was early, and old Frank, just estab^
ished at his big, flat-topped desk, was surprised
when his prospective assistant and pupil walked in.
He was pleased, as weU as surprised, however, and
rose, offering ^a cordial old hand. "The real flare!"
he said. "The real flare for the law. That's right!
Couldn't wait till afternoon to begin ! I'm delighted
that you "
"I wanted to say " George began, but his
patron cut him off.
"Wait just a minute, my boy. I've prepared a
Uttle speech of welcome, and ev«i though you're
five hours ahead of time, I mean to deliver it. First
of all, your grandfather was my old war-comrade and
my best client; for years I prospered through my con-
4m THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
nection with his business, and his grandson is wel*
come in my office and to my best etforts in his behalf.
But I want to confess, Georgie, that during your
earlier youth I may have had some slight feeling of
— well, prejudice, not altogether in your favour;
but whatever slight feeling it was, it began to vanish
on that afternoon, a good while ago, when you stood
up to your Aunt Amelia Amberson as you did in the
Major's library, and talked to her as a man and a
gentleman should. I saw then what good stuff was
in you — ^and I always wanted to mention it. If my
prejudice hadn't altogether vanished after that, the
last vestiges disappeared during these trying times
that have eome upon you this past year, when I
have been a witness to the depth of feeling you've
shown and your quiet consideration for your grand*
father and for everyone else around you. I just
want to add that I think you'll find an honest pleas*
ure now in industry and frugality that wouldn't
have come to you in a more frivolous career. The
law is a jealous mistress and a stem mistress, but
a "
George had stood before him in great and increas-
ing embarrassment; and he was imable to allow the
address to proceed to its conclusion.
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS 4SS
"I can't do it!" he biiir9t 4wt. "I can^t take hfst
for my mistress."
"What?"
"IVe come to tell you, IVe got to find something
that's quicker. I can't "
Old Frank got a little red. "Let's sit down," he
said. " What's the trouble? "
Geoi^e told him.
The old gentleman listened sympathetically, only
murmuring: "Well, well!" from time to time, and
nodding acquiescence.
"You see she's set her mind on this apartment,"
George explained. "She's got some old cronies
there, and I guess she's been looking forward to the
games of bridge and the kind of harmless gossip that
goes on in such places. Really, it's a life she'd like
better than anything else — ^better than that she's
lived at home, I really believe. It struck me she's
just about got to have it, and after all she oould
hardly have anything less."
" This comes pretty heavily upon me, you know,"
said old Frank. "I got her into that headlight
company, and she fooled me about her resoiu*ces
as much as she did your Uncle George. I was
never your father's adviser, if you remember, and
464 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS
whoi the insurance was turned over to her some
other lawyer arranged it — ^probably your father's.
But it comes pretty heavily on me, and I feel a cer-
tain responsibility."
"Not at all. Fm taking the responsibility.'*
And George smiled with one comer of his mouth.
"She's not your aimt, you know, sir."
"Well, I'm unable to see, even if she's yours, that
a yoimg man is morally called upon to give up a
career at the law to provide his aunt with a favour-
able opportunity to play bridge whist!''
"No," George agreed. "But I haven't begun my
^career at the law' so it can't be said I'm making
any considerable sacrifice. I'll tell you how it is,
sir." He flushed, and, looking out of the streaked
and smoky window beside which he was sitting, spoke
with difficulty. "I feel as if— as if perhaps I had
one or two pretty important things in my life to
make up for. Well, I can't. I can't make them
up to — ^to whom I would. It's struck me that, as I
couldn't, I might be a little decent to somebody else,
perhaps — ^if I could manage it! I never have been
particularly decent to poor old Aimt Fanny."
"Oh, I don't know: I shouldn't say that. A
Htfle youthful teasing — ^I doubt if she's minded so
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 46&
much. She felt your father's death terrifically, of
course, but it seems to me she's had a fairly com-
fortable life — up to now — if Ae was disposed to take
it that way."
"But *up to now' is the important thing," George
said. "Now is now — and you see I can't wait two
years to be admitted to the bar and begin to prac-
tice. I've got to start in at something else that
pays from the start, and that's what I've come to
you about. I have an idea, you see."
"Well, I'm glad of that!" said old Frank, smiling.
"I can't think of anything just at this minute that
pays from the start."
"I only know of one thmg, myself."
"What is it?"
George flushed again, but managed to laugh at
his own embarrassment. "I suppose I'm about as
ignorant of business as anybody in the world," he
said. "But I've heard they pay very high wages ta
people in dangerous trades; I've always heard
they did, and I'm sure it must be true. I mean
people that handle touchy chemicals or high ex-
plosives— men in dynamite factories, or who take
things of that sort about the country in wagons, and
shoot oil wells. I thought I'd see if you couldn't
466 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
tell me something more about it, or else introduce
me to some<Mie who could, and then I thought I'd
see if I couldn't get something of the kind to do as
soon as possible. My nerves are good; I'm museidar,
and I've got a steady hand; it seemed to me that this
was about the only line of work in the world that I'm
fitted for. I wanted to get started to-day if I
could/'
Okl Frank gave him a long stare. At first this
scrutiny was sharply incredulous; then it was grave;
finally it developed into a threat of overwhelming
laughter; a forked vein in his forehead became m(N*e
visible and his eyes'seemed about to protrude.
But he controlled his impulse; and, rising, took
up his hat and overcoat. "All right," he said. "If
you'll promise not to get blown up, I'll go with you
to see if we can find the job." Then, meaning what
he said, but amazed that he did mean it, he added:
"You certainly are the most practical young man I
ever met!"
CHAPTER XXXm
THEY found tlie job. It needed an n/pfpn^^
ticesliip of only six weeks, during whick
period George was to reeeive fifteen dollars
A week; after tlmt he would get twenty-e^ht. This
settled the apartment question, and Fanny was pres-
ently established in a greater cixitentment than she
had known for a long time. Early every m<»ming
she made something she caHed (and believed to be)
coffee for Geocge, and he was gallant enough not to
undeeeive her. She lunehed alone in her ^kitchen-
ette/' for George's place of empbyment was ten
miles out of town on an interurban troUey-line, and
he seldom returned before seven. Fanny found
partners for bridge by two o'clock almost every
afternoon, and she played until about six. Then slie
got George's "dinner clothes" out for hkn — ^he
maintained this habit — and she changed her own
dress. When he arrived he usually denied that he
was tired, though he sometimes looked tired, particu-
larly during the first few months; and he ezplaiDed
467
468 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
to her frequently — ^looking bored enough with her
insistence — ^that his work was ** fairly light, and
fairly congenial, too." Fanny had the foggiest idea
of what it was, though she noticed that it roughened
his hands and stained them. *^ Something in those
new chemical works," she explained to casual in-
quirers. It was not more definite in her own mind.
Respect for George undoubtedly increased within
her, however, and she told him sheM always had a
feeling he might ^'tum out to be a mechanical
genius, or something." Geoi^e assented with a nod,
as the easiest course open to him. He did not take
a hand at bridge after dinner: his provisions for
Fanny's happiness refused to extend that far, and at
the table d'hdte he was a rather discouraging
boarder. He was considered *^ affected " and absurdly
**up-stage" by the one or two young men, and the
three or four young women, who enlivened the
elderly retreat; and was possibly less popular there
than he had been elsewhere during his life, though
he was now nothing worse than a coldly polite yoxmg
man who kept to himself. After dinner he would
escort his aunt from the table in some state (not
wholly unaccompanied by a leerish wink or two
from the wags of the place) and he would leave her
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 469
at the door of the communal parlours and card rooms,
with a formality in his bow of farewell which afforded
an amusing contrast to Fanny's always voluble pro-
tests. (She never failed to urge loudly that he
really must come and play, just this once, and not go
hidmg from everybody in his room every evening like
this !) At least some of the other inhabitants found
the contrast amusing, for sometimes, as he departed
stiffly toward the elevator, leaving her still entreat-
ing in the doorway (though with one eye already on
her table, to see that it was not seized) a titter would
follow him which he was no doubt meant to hear.
He did not care whether they laughed or not.
And once, as he passed the one or two young men
/>f the place entertaining the three or four young
women, who were elbowing and jerking on a settee
in the lobby, he heard a voice inquiring quickly, as
he passed:
"What makes people tired?**
"Work?"
"No."
" Well, what's the answer? "
Then, with an intentional outbreak of mirth, the
answer was given by two loudly whispering voices
together;
4ffO THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEHSOMB
"A stuck-up boarder!**
George didn't care.
On Sunday mornings Fanny W€«it to church and
George took long walks. He explored the new city,
and found it hideous, especially in the early spris^f
before the leaves of the shade trees were out. ^len
the town was fagged with the long winter and
blacked with the heavier smoke that had been held
close to the earth by the smoke-fog it bred. Every-
thing was damply streaked with the soot: the walls
of the houses, inside and out, the gray curtains at
the windows, the windows themselves, the dirty
cement and imswept asphalt underfoot, the very
sky overhead. Throughout this murky season he
continued his explorations, never seeing a face he
knew — ^for, on Sunday, those whom he remembered,
or who might remember him, wctc not apt to be
found within the limits of the town, but were con-
genially occupied with the new outdoor life which had
come to be the mode since his boyhood. He and
Fanny were pretty thoroughly buried away within
the bigness of the city.
One of his Sunday walks, that spring, he made
into a sour pilgrimage. It was a misty morning of
belated snow slush, and suited him to a perfection of
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 471
miserableness, as he stood before the great drippii^
department store which now occupied the big plot
of ground where once had stood both the Amberson
Hotel and the Ainbesrson Opera House. From there
he drifted to the old ^Amberson Block/' but this
was fallen into a back-water; business had stagnated
here. The old structure had not been replaced, but
a cavernous entryway for trucks had been torn in
its front, and upon the cornice, where the old separate
metal letters had spelt "" Amberson Block/' there
was a long billboard siga: ""Doogan Storage."
To i^pare himself nothing, he went out National
i^venue £did saw the piles of slush-covered wreckage
where the Mansion and his mother's house had been,
and where the Major's ill-^ated five "new" houses
had stood; for these were down, too, to make room
for the great tenement already shaped in unending
lines of foundation. But the Fountain of Neptune
was gone at last — and George was glad that it was !
He tiuned away from the devastated site, thinking
bitterly that the only Amberson mark still left upon
the town was the name of the boulevard — ^Amberson
Boulevard. But he had reckoned without the city
council of the new order, and by an unpleasant
coincidence^ while the thought was still in hL<f mind,
-1
472 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
his ey« fell upon a metal oblong sign upon the lamp-
post at the comer. There were two of these little
signs upon the lamp-post, at an obtuse angle to each
other, one. to give passers-by the name of National
Avenue, the other to acquaint them with Ambersm;
Boulevard. But the one upon which should have
been stencilled "Amberson Boulevard" exhibited
the words "Tenth Street."
George stared at it hard. Then he walked quickly
along the boulevard to the next comer and looked at
the little sign there. "Tenth Street."
It had begun to rain, but George stood unheeding,
staring at the little sign. "Damn them!" he said
finally, and, turning up his coat-collar, plodded back
through the soggy streets toward "home."
The utilitarian impudence of the city authorities
put a thought into his mind. A week earlier he had
happened to stroll into the large parlour of the apart*
ment house, finding it empty, and on the centre-
table he noticed a large, red-boimd, gilt-edged book,
newly printed, bearing the title : "A Civic History, "
and beneath the title, the rubric, "Biographies of
the 500 Most Prominent Citizens and Fanulies in
the History of the City." He had glanced at it
absently, merely noticing tlie title and sub-title, and
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 478
wandered out of the room, thinking of other things
and feeling no curiosity about the book. But he
had thou^t of it several times since with a faint,
vague uneasiness; and now when he entered the lobby
he walked directly into the parlour where he had seen
the book. The room was empty, as it always was
on Sunday mornings, and the flamboyant volume
was still upon the table — evidently a fixture as a sort
of local Almanach de Gotha, or Burke, for the en-
lightenment of tenants and boarders.
He opened it, finding a few painful steel engrav-
ings of placid, chin-bearded faces, some of which he re-
membered dimly; but much more numerous, and
also more unfamiliar to him, were the pictures of
neat, aggressive men, with clipped short hair and
clipped short moustaches — almost all of them
strangers to him. He delayed not long with these,
but turned to the index where the names of the
five hundred Most Prominent Citizens and Families
in the History of the City were arranged in alpha-
betical order, and ran his finger down the column of
Abbett Adams
Abbott Adams
Abrams Adler
474 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONJ*
Akers
Andrews
AHbCTtsmeyer
Appenbasc^
Alexander
Archer
Allen
Arszman
Ambrose
Ashcralt
Ambuhl
Austin
Anderson
Avey
George's eyes remained for some time fixed on the
thin space between the names "Allen" and "Am-
brose/' Then he closed the book quietly, and went
up to his own room, agreeing with the elevator boy,
on the way, that it was getting to be a mighty nasty
wet and windy day outside.
The elevator boy noticed nothing unusual about
him and neither did Fanny, when she came in from
church with her hat ruined, an hour later. And yet
something had happened — a thing ^which, years ago,
had been the eagerest hope of many, many good
citizens of the town. They had thought of it, longed
for it, hoping acutely that they might live to see
the day when it would come to pass. And now it
had happened at last: Georgie Minafer hUd got
his come-upance.
He had got it three times filled and running over.
The city had rolled over his heart, burying it under.
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 476
as it rolled over the Major's and buried it under.
The city had rolled over the Ambersons and buried
them under to the last vestige; and it mattered little
that George guessed easily enough that most of the
five hundred Most Prominent had paid something
substantial "to defray the cost of steel engraving,
etc." — the Five Hundred had heaved the final
shovelful of soot upon that heap of obscurity wherein
the Ambersons were lost forever from sight and
history. "Quicksilver in a nest of cracks!"
Georgie Minafer had got his come-upance, but the
people who had so longed for it were not there to see
it, and they never knew it. Those who were still
living had forgotten all about it and all about him.
J
CHAPTER XXXIV
TCBRE was one border section of the city
which George never explored in his Sunday
morning excursions* This was far out to the
north where lay the new Elysian Fields of the million-
aires, though he once went as far in that direction
as the white house which Lucy had so admired long
ago — ^her "Beautiful House." George looked at it
briefly and turned back, rumbling with an interior
laugh of some grinmess. The house was white no
longer; nothing could be white which the town had
reached, and the town reached far beyond the
beautiful white house now. The owners had given
up and painted it a despairing chocolate, suitable to
the freight-yard life it was called upon to endure.
George did not again risk going even so far as
that, in the direction of the millionaires, although
their settlement began at least two miles farther out.
His thought of Lucy and her father was more a sen-
sation than a thought, and may be compared to that
of a convicted cashier beset by recollections of the
476
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 477
bank he had pillaged — ^there are some thoughts to-
which one closes the mind. George had seen-
Eugene only once since their calamitous encqimtef.
They had passed on opposite sides of the -street,;
downtown; each had been aware of the other, and
each had been aware that the other was aware of Imn,
and yet each kept his eyes straight forward, and '
neither had shown a perceptible alteration of coun-
tenance. It seemed to George that he felt emanat-
ing from the outwardly impertiu'bable person of his
mother's old friend a hate that was like a hot wind.
At his mother's funeral and at the Major's he had
been conscioui^ that Eugene was there : though he had
afterward no recollection of seeing him, and, while
certain of his presence, was uncertain how he knew
of it. Fanny had not told him, for she understood
Geoi^e well enough not to speak to him of « Eugene
or Lucy. Nowadays Fanny almost never saw either
of them and seldom thought of them — so sly is the
way of time with life. She was passing middle age,
when old intensities and longings grow thin and
flatten out, as Fanny herself was thinning and flat-
tening out; and she was settling down contentedly
to her apartment house intimacies. She was pre-
cisely suited by the table-d'h6te life, with its bridget
480 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
trived between the two ladies without either of them
realizing how odd it was. For, naturally, while
Fanny was with Lucy, Fanny thought of George,
and what time Lucy had George's aunt before her
eyes she could not well avoid the thought of him.
Consequently, both looked absent-minded as they
talked, and each often gave a wrong answer which
the other consistently failed to notice.
At other times Lucy's thoughts of George were
anything but continuous, and weeks went by when
he was not consciously in her mind at all. Her life
was a busy one: she had the big house "to keep up";
she had a garden to keep up, too, a large and beauti-
ful garden; she represented her father as a director
for half a dozen public charity organizations, and did
private charity work of her own, being a proxy
mother of several large families; and she had " danced
down," as she said, groups from eight wnine classes
of new graduates returned from the universities,
without marrying any of them, but she still danced —
and still did not marry.
Her father, observing this circumstance -happily,
yet with some hypocritical concern, spoke of it to her
one day as they stood in her garden. "I sup*-
pose I'd want to shoot him," he said, with attempted
€i
<t
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 481
lightness. "But I mustn't be an old pig* I*d build
you a beautiful house close by — ^just over yonder."
"No, nol iTiat would be like " she began
impulsively; then checked herself. George Amber-
son's comparison of the Georgian house to the Amber-
son Mansion had come into her mmd, and she
thought that another new house, built close by for
her, would be like the house the Major built for Isabel.
Like what?"
Nothing." She looked serious, and when he
reverted to his idea of "some day" grudgingly sur-
rendering her up to a suitor, she invented a legend'.
"Did you ever hear the Indian name for that little
grove of beech trees on the other side of the house?'*
she asked him.
"No — ^and you never did either!" he laughed.
"Don't be so sure! I read a great deal more than
I used to — getting ready for my bookish days when
I'll have to do something solid in the evenings and
won't be asked to dance any more, even by the very
youngest boys who think it's a sporting event to
dance with the oldest of the *older girls'. The name
of the grove was 'Loma-Nashah' and it means
'They-Couldn't-Help-It'."
"Doesn't sound like it."
482 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
''Indian names don't. There was a bad Indian
chief lived in the grove before the white settlers came.
He was the worst Indian that ever lived, and his
name was — ^it was 'Vendonah/ That means llides-
Down-Everything \ "
"What?"
''His name was Vendonah, the same thing aft
Rides-Down-E very thing. "
"I see," said Eugene thoughtfully. He gave h^ a
quick look and then fixed his eyes upon the end of
the garden path.* " Go on."
"Vendonah was an unspeakable case," Lucy con-
tinued. "He was so proud that he wore iron shoes
and he walked over people's faces with them. He
was always killing people that way, and so at last the
tribe decided that it wasn't a good enough e:KOuse
for him that he waa young and inexperienced-he'd
have to go. They took him down to the river, and
put him in a canoe, and pushed him out from shore;
and then they ran along the bank and wouldn't let
him land, until at last the current carried the canoe
out into the middle, and then on down to the ocean,
and he never got back. They didn't want him
back, of course, and if he'd been able to manage it|
th^^y'd have put him in another canoe and shoved
THE MAGNIFICENT AMHEBSONS 48S
him out mto the river again. But still, fimy didn't
elect nBother chief in his place. Other tiribefi thought
that was curkms, and wondered al)out it a lot, but
finally they came to the conclusion that ihe beech
grove people were afraid a new diief might turn out
to be a bad Indian, too, and wear iron shoes like
Vendonah. But they were wrong, because the real
reason was that the tribe had led such an exciting life
under Vendonah that they couldn't settle down to
anything tamer. He was awful, but he always kept
thmgs happening— terrible things, of course. They
hated him, but they weren't able to discover any
other warrior that they wanted to make chief in his
place. I suppose it was a little like drinking a glass
of too strong wine and then trying to take the taste
out of your mouth with barley water. They couldn't
help feeling that way."
" I see,' ' said Eugene. " So that's why they named
I the place They-Couldn't-Help-It'!"
"It must have been."
I "And so you're going to stay here in your garden,"
he said musingly. "You think it's better to keep
on walking these sunshiny gravel paths between your
flower-beds, and growing to look like a pensive garden
lady in a Victorian engraving."
484 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
" I suppose I'm like the tribe that lived here, papa.
I had too much unpleasant excitement. It was un-
pleasant— but it was excitement. I don't want any
more; in fact, I don't want anything but you."
"You don't?" He looked at her keenly, and she
ii , .
laughed and shook her head; but he seemed per-
plexed, rather doubtful. "What was the name of
the grove?" he asked. "The Indian name, I
mean."
"Mola-Haha."
"No, it wasn't; that wasn't the name you said."
"I've forgotten."
"I see you have," he said, his look of perplexity
temaining. "Perhaps you remember the chief's
name better."
She shook her head again. "I don't!"
At this he laughed, but not very heartily, and
walked slowly to the house, leaving her bending
over a rose-bush, and a shade more pensive than the
most pensive garden lady in any Victorian engraving.
. . . Next day, it happened that this same *
"Vendonah" or "Rides-Down-Everything" became
the subject of a chance conversation between Eugene
and his old friend Kinney, father of the fire-topped
Fred. The two gentlemen found themselves sinok«
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 486
ing in neighbouring leather chairs beside a broad
window at the club, after lunch.
Mr. Kinney had remarked that he expected to get
his family established at the seashore by the Fourth
of July, and, following a train of thought, he paused
and chuckled. "Fourth of July reminds me," he
said. "Have you heard what that Georgie Minafer
is doing?"
"No, I haven't," said Eugene, and his friend
failed to notice the crispness of the utterance.
"Well, sir," Kinney chuckled again, "it beats the
devil! My boy Fred told me about it yesterday.
He's a friend of this yoimg Henry Akers, son of F. P.
Akers of the Akers Chemical Company. It seems
this young Akers asked Fred if he knew a fellow
named Minafer, because he knew Fred had always
lived here, and young Akers had heard some way
that Minafer used to be an old fainily name here,
and was sort of curious about it. Well, sii, you
. remember this young Georgie sort of disappeared,
after his grandfather's death, and nobody seemed to
know much what had become of him — though I did
hear, once or twice, that he was still aroimd some-
where. Well, sir, he's working for the Akers Chemical
' Company, out at their plant on the Thomasville Road. "
«
«
486 THE BIAONIFICENT AJdBMl^NS
He paused, seemitig to leaerve something to be
delivered only upon mqniry, aad Eugene offered liim
tlie expeeted question, but only after a cold glance
th]«ough tbe nose-glaisses he had lately found it nec-
essary to adopt. *^ What does he do? ''
Kinney laughed and slapped the arm of his chair.
"He's a nitro-glycerin expert!"
He was gratified to see that Eugene was surprised,
if not, indeed, a little startled.
He's what?"
He's an expert on nitro^ycerin« Doesn't that
beat the devil! Yes, sir! Young Akers told Fred
that this George Minaf er had worked like a houxi'-dog
ever since he got started out at the works. They
have a special plant for nitro-glycerin, way off from
the main plant, o' course — in the woods somewhere —
and George Minafer's been wortdbof^ there, and
latdty they put him in charge of it. He oversees
shooting oil-wells, too, and shoots 'em himself, sone*
times. They aren't allowed to carry it on the rail'- .
roads, you know — have to team it. Young Akors
says George rides around over the bumpy roads,
sitth^ on as much as three hundred quarts of nitro-
glycerin! My Lord! Talk about romantic tumbles!
If he gets blown sky-high some day he won't have a
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 4m
bigger drop, when he comes down, tiian he*s abready
had! Don't it beat the devil! Young Akers said
he's got all the nerve there is in the wotW. Well,
he always did have plenty of that — ^from the time he
used to^ride around here on his white pony and fight
all the Irish boys in Can-Town, with his long curls
all handy to be pulled out. Akers says he gets a fair
salary, and I should think he ought to! Se^ns to
me I've heard the average life in that sort of work
is somewhere around four years, and agents don't
write any insurance at all for nitro-glyceriu experts.
Hardly!"
"No," said Eugene. " I suppose not."
Kinney rose to go. "Well, it's a pretty funny
thing — pretty odd, I mean — and I suppose it would
be pass-around-the-hat for old Fanny Minafer if he
blew up. Fred told me that they're living m some
apartment house, and said Georgie supports her.
He was going to study law, but couldn't earn enough
that way to take care of Fanny, so he gave it ftp.
Fred's wife told him all this. Says Fanny doeera't
do anything but play bridge these days. Got to
playing too high for awhile and lost more than ishe
wanted to tell Georgie about, and borrowed a little
from old Frank Bronson. Paid him back, though.
i;
«i
«
I
\
488 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBEBSONS
Don't know how Fred's wife heard it. Women do
hear the damdest things!"
They do," Eugene agreed.
I thought you'd probably heard about it —
thought most likely Fred's wife might have said some-
thmg to your daughter, especially as they're cousms."
"I think not."
"Well, I'm oflf to the store," said Mr. Emney
■
briskly; yet he lingered. ** I suppose we'll all have to |
dub in and keep old Fanny out of the poorhouse if
he does blow up. From all I hear it's usually only
a question of time. They say she hasn't got any-
thing else to depend on."
"I suppose not."
"Well— I wondered " Kinney hesitated. "I
was wondering why you hadn't thought of finding
something aroimd your works for him. They say
he's an all-fired worker and he certainly does seem
to have hid some decent stuff in him under all his^
damfoolishness. And you used to be such a tre-
mendous friend of the family — ^I thought perhaps
you — of course I know he's a queer lot — ^I know
he's "
"Yes, I think he is," said Eugene. "No. 1
haven't anything to offer him."
THE MAGNiraCENT AMBERSONS 48»
''I suppose not/' Kkiney returned thoughtfully^
as he went out, "I dcm't know that I would myself.
Well, we*D probably see his name in the papers scHne
day if he stays with that job!'*
. . . However, the nitro-glyceriii expert of
whom they spoke did not get into the papers as a
consequence of being blown up, although his daily
life was certainly a continuous exposure to that
risk. Destiny has a ecmstant passion for the in*
congruous, and it was George's lot to manipulate
wholesale quantities of terrific and volatile expio*
sives in safety, and to be laid low by an accident so
commcmplace and inconsequent that it was a
\;omedy. Fate had reserved for him the final insult
of riding him down under the wheels of one of those
juggernauts at which he had once shouted "Git
a hoss!" NevCTtheless, Plate's ironic choice for
Georgie's undoing was not a big and swift and
momentous car, such as Eugene manufactured; it
was a specimen of the hustling little type that
was flooding the country, the dieapest, commonest,
hardiest little car ever made.
The accident took place upon a Sunday morning,
on a downtown crossing, with the streets almost
oiipty, and no reason in the j^orid for such a thing
490 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
to happen. He had gone out for his Sunday morning
walk, and he was thinking of an automobile at the
very moment when the little ear struck him; he was
thinking of a shiny landaulet and a charming fig-
ure stepping into it, and of the quick gesture of a
white glove toward the chauflFeur, motioning him
to go on. George heard a shout but did not look
up, for he could not imagine anybody's shouting at
him, and he was too engrossed in the question
"Was it Lucy?" He could not decide, and his lack
of decision in this matter probably superinduced a
m
lack of decision in another, more pressingly vital.
At the second and louder shout he did look up; and
the car was almost on him; but he could not make up
his mind if the charming little figure he had seen
was Lucy's and he could not make up his mind
whether to go backward or forward: these questions
became entangled in his mind. Then, still not
being able to decide which of two ways to go, he
tried to go both — ^and the little car ran him down.
It was not moving very rapidly, but it went all the
way over George.
He was conscious of gigantic violence; of roaring
and jolting and concussion; of choking clouds of dust,
shot with lightning, about his head; he heard snap-
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 491
pfng sounds as loud as shots from a small pistol,
and was stabbed by excruciating pains in his legs.
Then he became aware that the machine was being
lifted off of him. People were gathering in a circle
round him, gabbling.
His forehead was bedewed with the sweat of ang-
uish, and he tried to wipe off this dampness, but
failed. He could not get his arm that far.
"Nev* mind," a policeman said; and George could
see above his eyes the skirts of the blue coat, covered
mth dust and sunshine. "Amb'lance be here in a
minute. Nev' mind tryin' to move any. You want
'em to send for some special doctor?'*
"No.** George's lips formed the word.
"Or to take you to some private hospital?'*
"Tell them to take me," he said faintly, "to the
City Hospital."
"A' right."
A smallish young man in a dusted fidgeted ailiong
the crowd, explaining and protesting, and a strident
voiced girl, his companion, supported his argument,
declaring to everyone her willingness to offer testi-
mony in any court of law that every blessed word
he said was the God's truth.
"It's the fella that hit you," the policeman said,
4M THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
looking down on George. ""I guess he's right; you
must of b'en thinkin' about somep'm' or other.
It's wunnerful the damage them little machines
can do — you'd never think it — ^but I guess they
ain't much case ag'in this fella that was drivin' it«"
^*You bet your lite they ain't no case on me!"
the young man in the duster agreed* with great bit-
terness. He came and stood at Geoige's feet,
addiesamg him heatedly: 'Tm sorry fer you all
rig^t, and I doaH S9^ I ain't. I hold nothin' against
you* but it wasn't any more my fault than the state*
house! You run into me* much as I run into you,
and if you get well you ain't goin' to get not one
single cent out o' me ! This lady here was settin' with
me and we both yelled at you. Wasn't goin' a
step over eight mile an hour I I'm perfectly willing
to say I'm sorry for you though, and so's the lady
with me. We're both willing to say that much*
but that's all* understand!"
George's drawn ^elids twitdied; his misted
glance rested fleetingly upon the two protesting
motorists* and the old imperious spirit within him
flickered up in a single word. I^ing on his back
in the middle of the street, whece he was regarded
by an mcreasing public as an unpleasant curiot^tyi
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 493
he spoke this word clearly from a inoutli filled
with dust, and from lips smeared with blood.
. . . It was a word which interested the police-
man. When the. ambulance clanged away, he
turned to a fellow patrolman who had joined him.
''Funny what he says to the little cuss that done the
damage. That's all he did call him — ^nothin' else
at all— and the cuss had broke both his l<«s fer him
and God-knows-what*^!''
''I wam't here then. What waj it?**
"'RlffMlffl'''
CHAPTER XXXV
EUGENE'S feeling about Geoige had not
been altered by his talk with Kinney in the
club window, though he was somewhat dis*
turbed. He was not disturbed by Kinney's hint
that Fanny Minaf er might be left on the hands of her
friends through her nephew's present dealings with
nitro-glyeerin, but he was surprised that Kinney had
"led up " with intentional tact to the suggestion that
a position might be made for George in the Morgan
factory. Eugene did not care to have any sug-
gestions about Georgie Minaf er made to him,
Kinney had represented Georgie as a new Georgie —
at least in spots — ^a Georgie who was proviag that
decent stuflF had been hid in him; in fact, a Georgie
who was doing rather a handsome thing in taking a
risky job for the sake of his aunt, poor old silly Fanny
Minaf er! Eugene didn't care what risks Georgie
took, or how much decent stuff he had in him : nothing
that Georgie would ever do in this world or the next
could change Eugene Morgan's feeling toward him.
494
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 495
If Eugene could possibly have brought himself to
offer Georgie a position in the automobile business,
he knew full well the proud devil wouldn't have
taken it from him; though Georgie's proud reason
would not have been the one attributed to him by
Eugene. George would never reach the point
where he could accept anything material from
Eugene and preserve the self-respect he had b^un
to r^ain. •
Biit if Eugene had wished, he could easily have
taken George out of the nitro-glycerin branch of
the chemical works. Always interested in apparent
impossibiUties of invention, Eugene had encour-
aged many experiments in such gropings as those for
the discovery of substitutes for gasoline and rubber;
and, though his mood had withheld the information
from Kinney, he had recently bought from the elder
Akers a substantial quantity of stock on the con-
dition that the chemical company should establish
an experimental laboratory. He intended to buy
more; Akers was anxious to please him; and a word
from Eugene would have placed George almost any-
where in the chemical works. George need never
have known it, for Eugene's purchases of stock were
always quiet ones: the transaction remained, so far.
4M THE MAGNIFICENT AMHERSONS
betweoi him and Akns, and oould be kqit between
them.
Hie pofisilMlity just edged itself into Eugene's
mind; that is, he let it become part of his peiccp-
tions loi^ enoii^ for it to ptove to him that it was
actually a possibility. Then he half started wilh
disgust that he should be even idly considenng sudb
a thing over his last c%ar for the ni^bt, in his lilwajy .
'*No!" , And he threw the cigar into the emptjf
&q>laee and went to bed.
His bitterness for hiaofidf might have worm away,
but never his bitterness for Isabd. He took that
thought to bed with him — and it was true that
nothing George could do would ever dumge this
bitterness of Eugene. Only Greoige's mother could
have changed it.
And as Eugene fell adoep that night, tfamlring
thus bitterly ot Geoargie, Georgie in the hospital was
tliinlrmg oi Eugcne. He had come *^out of ether"
with no great nausea, and had fallen into a reverie,
though now and then a white sailboat staggered
foolishly into the small ward where he lay. After
a time he discovered that this happened only
when he tried to open his eyes and look about him;
so he k^t his eyes shut* and his thoughts were clearer.
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBBRSONS Wf
He thought of Eiigene Morgan and of the Major;
they seemed to be the saane person for imhile, btrt
he managed to disentangle them and even to under*
stand why he had confused them. Long ago his
grandfather had been the most strikmg figure of
success in the town: **As rich as Major Amber-
son!" they used to say. Now it was Eugene. **H
I had Eugene Morgan^s money,** he would hear the
workmen day-^beammg at the chemical woAs; or,
^^B Eugene Moigan had hold erf this place you'd see
things hum!" And the boarders at the table d^hflte
spoke of **iiie Morgan Place" as an e%hteenth-cen«
tury Frendiman spoke of Versailles. Lfite his
unde, George had perceived that the ^* Merman
Race" was the new Amberson Mansion. His
reverie went back to the palatial days of the Mmi-
ftion, in his boyhood, when he would gaBop YAa
pony up the driveway and order the darkey stable-
men about, while they whooped and obQred, and
his grandfeither, observing from a window, wemld
laugh and caH out to him, "That's right, €reoigie.
Make those lazy rascals jmnpt" He remembered
his gay young uncles, and how the town was eaget
oonceming everything about them, and about him*
self. What a clean, pretty town it had beent And
408 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
in his reverie he saw like a pageant before him the
magnificence of the Ambersons — ^its passing,-and the
passing of the Ambersons themselves. They had
been slowly engulfed without knowing how to pre-
vent it» and almost without knowing what was
happening to them. The family lot, in the shabby
older quarter, out at the cemetery, held most of them
now; and the name was swept altogether from the
new city. But the new great people who had taken
their places — ^the Morgans and Akerses and Sheri-
dans — ^they would go, too. George saw that.
They would pass, as the Ambersons had passed,
and though some of them might do better than the
Major and leave the letters that spelled a name on a
hospital or a street, it would be only a word and it
would not stay forever. Nothing stays or holds or
keeps where there is growth, he somehow perceived
vaguely but truly. Great Caesar dead and tulned
to clay stopped no hole to keep the wind away;
dead Csesar was nothing but a tiresome bit of print
in a book that schoolboys study for awhile and then
forget. The Ambersons had passed, and the new
people would pass, and the new people that came
after them, and then the next new ones, and the
next — and the next
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 499
He had begun to murmur, and the man on duty
as night nurse for the ward came and bent over hun.
Did you want something?"
There's nothing in this family business/' George
told him confidentially. "Even George Washing-
ton is only something in a book."
«
«
. . . Eugene read a report of the accident in the
next morning's paper. He was on the train, havmg
just left for New York, on business, and with less
leisure would probably have overlooked the obscure
item:
LEGS BROKEN
G. A. Minafer, an ^ploye of the Akers Chemical Co., was nin
down by an automobile yesterday at the corner of Tennessee and
Main and had both legs broken. Hinafer was to blame for the
accident according to patrolman F. A. Kax, who witnessed the
affair. The automobile was a small one driven by Herbert
CotUeman of 2173 Noble Avenue who stated that he was making
less than 4 miles an hour. Minafer is said to belong to a family
formerly of considerable prominence in the city. He was taken
to the City Hospital where physicians stated later that he was
suffering from internal injuries besides the fracture of his Ieg9
but might recover.
Eugene read the item twice, then tossed the paper
upon the opposite seat of his compartment, and sat
looking out of the window. His feeling toward
AW THE MAGNIFICBNT AMBERSONS
Geoi^e WM changed not a jot by his human pity
tof Georgia's human pun and mjuiy. He thought
of Georgie's tall and graceful figure^ and be shivered,
bttt his bitterness was untouched. He had never
blafioed Isabel for the weakness which had cost
them the few years of bapjuness they might have had
together; he had put the blame all on the son, and
it stayed there.
He b^an to think poignantly of Liabel: he had
seldom been able to ^^see" her more clearly than as
he sat lookii^ out of his compartment window, after
reading the account of this accident. She might
have been just on the other side of the glass, looking
in at him — ^and then he thought of her as the pale
figure of a woman, seen yet unseen, flying through
the air, beside the train, over the fields of springtime
green and through the woods that were just i^routii^;
out their little leaves. He closed his ^es and saw
her as she had been long ago. He saw the brown-
eyed, brown-haired, proud, gentle, lau^^iing girl he
had known when first he came to town, a boy just
out of the State College. He remembered — ^as he
had remembered ten thousand times before — ^the
look rile gave him wh^i her brother George intro-
duced him to her at a picnic; it was ""lih^ hasdl
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 601
starlight" he had written her, m a poem, afterward.
He remembered his first call at the Amberson Man-
sion, and what a great personage she seemed, at
home in that magnificence; and yet so gay and
friendly. He remembered the first time he had
danced with her — ^aad the old waltz song b^an to
beat in his ears and in his heart. They laughed and
Mug it together as they danced to it:
'Ob, love for a year, a week, a day.
But akus for the love that lasts aihmy-
Most plainly of all he could see her dancing; and
he became articulate in the mourning whisper:
•*So graceful — oh, so graceful *'
All the way to New York it seemed to Mm that
Isabel was near him, and he wrote of her to Lucy from
his hotel the next night:
I saw an account of the accident to George Minafer. I'm
sorry, though the paper states that it was plainly his own fanlt.
I suppose it may have been as a result of my atteattdB falling
upon the item that I thought of his mother a great deal on the
way here. It seemed to me that I had never seen her more dis-
tinctly or so constantly, but, as you know, thinking of his
mother is not very apt to make me admire him! Of eourae,
however, he has my best wishes for his recovery.
He posted the letter, and by the moining's mail re-
Mired one from Lucy wiatten a few houis after his
602 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
m
departure from home. She enclosed the item he had
read on the train .
I thought you might not see it,
I have seen Miss Fanny and she has got him put into
a room by himself. Oh, poor Rides-Down-Everythingl
I have been thinking so constantly of his mother and it seemed
to me that I have never seen her more distinctly. How lovely
she was — and how she loved him!
9
If Lucy had not written this letter Eugene might
not have done the odd thing he did that day.
Nothing could have been more natural than that
both he and Lucy should have thought intently of
Isabel after reading the account of George's acci-
dent, but the fact that Lucy's letter had crossed his
own made Eugene begin to wonder if a phenomenon
of telepathy might not be in question, rather than a
chance coincidence. The reference to Isabel in the
two letters was almost identical: he and Lucy, it
appeared, had been thinking of Isabel at the same
time — ^both said "constantly" thinking of her —
and neither had ever "seen her more distinctlv.'*
He remembered these phrases in his own letter
. accurately.
Reflection upon the circumstance stirred a queer
spot in Eugene's brain — ^he had one. He was an
adventurer; if he had lived in the sixteenth century
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 603
he would have sailed the unknown new seas, but
having been bom in the latter part of the nineteenth,
when geography was a fairly well-settled matter,
he had become an explorer in mechanics. But the
fact that he was a "hard-headed business man"
as well as an adventurer did not keep him from
having a queer spot in his brain, because hard-headed
business men are as susceptible to such spots as
adventurers are. Some of them are secretly troubled
when they do not see the new moon over the lucky
shoulder; some of them have strange, secret incre-
dulities— they do not believe in geology, for instance;
and some of them think they have had supernatural
experiences. "Of course there was nothing in it —
still it was queer!" they say.
Two weeks after Isabel's death, Eugene had come
to New York on urgent business and found that the
delayed arrival of a steamer gave him a day with
nothing to do. His room at the hotel had become
intolerable; outdoors was intolerable; everything was
intolerable. It seemed to him that he must see
Isabel once more, hear her voice once more; that he
must find some way to her, or lose his mind. Under
this pressure he had gone, with complete scepticism,
to a " trance-medimn " of whom he had heard wild
50* THE MAGNIFICENT ABfBERSONS
accounts from the wife of a business acquaintance.
He thought desp«uringiy that at least such an exenr-
skm would be " trying to do ^om^thing ! " He femem-
bered the woman's name; found it m the telephone
book, and made an appointment.
The experi«ice had been grotesque, and he came
away with an encouraging message from his father,
who had failed to identify himself satis&ictorily^ but
dedared that everything was "on a higher piane"
in his present state of being, and that all Sfe was
** continuous and pn>gressive/' Mrs. HiMmer spoke
of herself as a **psy<Aic"; but otherwise she seemed
oddly unpret^itious and matter-of-fact; and Eugene
had no doubt at all of her sincerity. He w»s sure
that she was not an intentional fraud, and though
he departed in a state of annoyance with himself,
he came to the conclusion that if any credulity were
played upon by Mrs. Homer's exhibitions, it was
her own.
Nevertheless, his queer spot having been stinm-
lated to action by the coincidence of the letters, he
went to Mrs. Homer's after his directors' meeting- to-^
day. He used the telephone booth in the directors'
room to make the appointment; and he laughed
feebly at himself, and wondered what the git>up of
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 506
men in thftt mahogiany apartmeat would thmk if they
knew what he was doing. Mrs. Hom^ had c^nged
her addfess> but he found the new one» and somebody
purporting to be a nieee of hers talked to him and
madie an ai^ooitment tof a ^sitting" at five o'clock.
He was prompt, and the niece, a duU-faced fat girl
with m magassine under her am. admitted him to
Mrs. Homer's apartment, which smelt of camph<^;
and slK»wed him into a room with gray painted walls,
no rug on the floor and no furniture except a table
(with nothing on it) and two chairs: one a leather
easy-chair and the other a stiff little brute with a
wooden seat. There was one window with the shade
pulled <k>wn to the sill, but the sun was bright
outside, and the room had light enough.
Mrs. Homer appeared in the doorway, a wan and
unenterimsing looking woman in brown, with thin
hair artificially waved — but not recently — ^and parted
in the middle over a bluish forehead. Her eyes were
lanali and seemed weak, but she recognized the visitor.
"Oh, you been here before," she said, in a thin
voice, not unmusical. "I recollect you. Quite a
time ago, wa'n't it?"
"Yes, quite a long time."
**I recollect because I recollect you was dis-
506 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
appointed. Anyway, you was kind of cross.'' She
laughed faintly.
"I'm sorry if I seemed so," Eugene said. "Do
you happen to have found out my name?"
She looked surprised and a little reproachful.
"Why, no. I never try to find out people's names.
Why should I? I don't claim anything for the
power; I only know I have it — and some ways it
ain't always such a blessing, neither, I can tell
you!"
Eugene did not press an investigation of her
meaning, but said vaguely, "I suppose not. Shall
we "
€t
All right," she assented, dropping into the
leather chair, with her back to the shaded window.
** You better set down, too, I reckon. I hope you'll
get something this time so you won't feel cross,
but I dimno. / can't never tell what they'll do.
Well ",
She sighed, closed her eyes, and was silent, while
Eugene, seated in the stiff chair across the table
from her, watched her profile, thought himself an
idiot, and called himself that and other names.
And as the silence continued, and the impassive
woman in the easy-chair remained impassive, he
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 507
b^an to wonder what had led him to be such a fool.
It became clear to hun that the similarity of his
letter and Lucy's needed no explanation involving
telepathy, and was not even an extraordinary coin-
cidence. What, then, had brought him back to this
absurd place and caused him to be watching this
absurd woman taking a nap in a chair? In brief.
What the devil did he mean by it.'* He had not the
slightest interest in Mrs. Homer's naps — or in her
teeth, which were being slightly revealed by the
unconscious parting of her Ups, as her breathing
became heavier. If the vagaries of his own mind
had brought him into such a grotesquerie as this,
into what did the vagaries of other men's minds take
them? Confident that he was ordinarily saner than
most people, he perceived that since he was capable
of doing a thing like this, other men did even more
idiotic things, in secret. And he had a fleeting
vision of sober-looking bankers and manufacturers
and lawyers, well-dressed church-going men, sound
citizens — and all as queer as the deuce inside!
How long was he going to sit here presiding over
this unknown woman's slumbers? It struck him
that to make the picture complete he ought to be
shooing flies away from her with a palm-leaf fan.
<c
tf
508 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
Mrs. Homer's parted lips closed again abnqitljrr
and became compressed; her shoulders moved a litfJe»
then jerked repeatedly; her small chest heaved; sibe
gasped, and the compressed lips relaxed to a sl^t
contortion, then b^gan to move, wfaispermg and
^Hinging forth indistinguishable mutterings.
Suddenly she spoke in a loud, husky voice:
Lopa is here!"
Yes," Eugene said dryly. "Tliat's what you
said last time. I remember 'Ijops,.* She's your
'contior I think you said."
**rm Lopa," saM the husky voice. ^^Fm Lopa
herself."
"You mean I'm to suppose you're not Mrs. Hor-
ner now?"
**Never was Mrs. Homer!" the voice declared,
speaking undeniably from Mrs. Hcmi^'s.lqis — ^but
with such conviction that Eugene, in spite of eveiy-
thing, began to feel himself in the presence of a thkd
party, who was none the less an individual, even
though she might be another edition of the apparently
somnambulistic Mrs. Homer. "Never was Mrs.
Homer or anybody but just Lopa. Guide."
"You mean you're Mrs. Horner's guide?'' be
asked.
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 609
^ Your guide now/' said the voice with emphasis,
to which was incongruously added a low laugh.
'"You came here once before. Lopa remembers."
" Yes— so did Mrs. Homer."
Lopa overlooked his impUcationy and ccmtinued
quickly: *^ You biuld. Build things that go. You
came here once and old gentleman on this side, he
spoke to you. Same old gentlenum here now«
He teii Lopa he's your grandfather — ^no, he saya
^father.' He's your father.'
^' What's his appearance?
"How?"
* What does he look like? "
"Very fine! White beard, but not long beard.
He says someone else wants to speak to. you. See
here. Lady. Not his wife, though. No. Very
fine lady! Fine lady, fine lady!"
Is it my sister?" Eugene asked.
Sister? No. She is shaking her head. She has
pretty brown hair. She is fond of you. She is some-
one who knows you vfery well but she is not your
sister. She is very anxious to say something to you
— ^very anxious. Very fond of you; very anxious to
f:alk to you. Very glad you came here — oh, wry
glad!"
«<
<C'
SIO THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
What is her name?"
Name/* the voice repeated, and seemed to
ruminate. "Name hard to get — always very hard
for Lopa. Name. She wants to tell me her name
to tell you. She wants you to understand names
are hard to make. She says you must think of some-
thing that makes a sound." Here the voice seemed
to put a question to an invisible presence and to re-^
ceive an answer. **A little sound or a big soimd.'*
She says it might be a little sound or a big soimd.
She says a ring — oh, Lopa knows! She means a
beU! That's it, a beU."
Eugene looked grave. " Does she mean her name
i^ Belle?"
Not quite. Her name is longer."
Perhaps," he suggested, "she means that she was
a belle."
"No. She says she thinks you know what she
means. She says you must think of a colour. What
colour?" Again Lopa addressed the unknown, but
this time seemed to wait for an answer.
"Perhaps she means the colour of her eyes," said
Eugene.
"No. She says her colour is light — it's a light
colour and you can see through it."
<«
t(
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 5li
^' Amber?" he said, and was startled, for Mrs.
Homer, with* her eyes still closed, clapped her hands,
and the voice cried out in delight:
"Yes! She says you know who she is from amber.
Amber! Amber! That's it! She says you under-
stand what her name is from a bell and from amber.
She is laughing and waving a lace handkerchief at
me because she is pleased. She says I have made
you know who it is."
This was the strangest moment of Eugene's life,
because, while it lasted, he beUeved that Isabel Am-
berson, who was dead, had found means to speak to
him. Though within ten minutes he doubted it,
he believed it then.
His elbows pressed hard upon the table, and, his
head between his hands, he leaned forward, staring
at the commonplace figure in the easy-chair. " What •
does she wish to say to me?"
"She is happy because you know her. No — ^she
is troubled. Oh — a great trouble! Something she
wants to tell you. She wants so much to tell you.
She wai^t^s Lopa to tell you. This is a great trouble.
She says — oh, yes, she wants you to be — ^to be kind!
That's what she says. That's it. To be kind*^
"Does she "
SU THE MAGNIFICENT AMBHtSONS
*'SIie wants you to be kind," said the voice. **She
Bods when I tdl you this. Yea; it mast be i^^t.
She is a very fine lady. V^y pretty. She is so
anxious for you to understand. She hc^^es and hopes
y<Hi wilL Someone else wants to speak to you. This
ia a laaji. He say*—-**
^I don't want to speak to any Oiie ebe,'* said
Eugene quickly. "I want **
"'This man who has come says that he is a friend
ol yours. He says ■ ■ **
ilugene stiuck the table witii his £»t. ^^I dim't
want to q>€ak to any one else, I tell you!*' he cried
pasfiismatety. '"H she is there I ** He caught
his breath sharply, checked hims^, and sat ia
amazement. Could his mind so easify accept so
adkupendous a thing as true? Evidently it eonld!
Mrs. Homer spoke languidly in her own voice:
Did you get anything aatisCaetory?*' she asked*
I certainly lM4)e it wasn't like that o&er tune when
you was cross because they couldn't get anythio^
tw ycm."
^'No, no/' he said hastily. ^^Tbis was dMere&L'
It was very interesting."
He paid her, went to his hotel, and tbenoe to his
train for home. Never did he so seem to move
4t
«
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 518
tliffougb a ^^rld of dream-stuff: for he knew that
he was not more credulous than other men, and if
he could believe what he had bdieved, thou^ he had
beUeved it for no longer than a moosittit or two> what
hold had he or any other human being on reality?
His credulity vanished (or so he thought) with his
recdilection that it was he, and not the alleged ^' Lopa,"
who had suggested the woixl "'amber/' Going over
the mortifyiog^ plain facts of his experience, he found
that Mrs. Horner» or the subdivision of Mrs.
Homer known as **Lopa," had told him to think of
a bell and of a oolom*, and that being furnished with
these sdentific data, he had leaped to the conclusion
that he spoke with Isabel Amberson !
For a moment he had believed that Isabel was
there, believed that she was close to him, entreating
him — entreating him '^to be kind/' But with this
recoIlecticHi a strange agitation came upon him.
After all, had die not spoken to him? If his own
unknown consciousness had told the "psychic's*' un*
known consciousness how to make the picture of the
pretty brown-haired, brown-eyed lady, hadn't the
picture been a true one? And hadn't the true Isabel
— oky indeed her very soul! — called to him out of his
own true memory of her?
614 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
And as the train roared through the darkened
evening he looked out beyond his window, and saw
her as he had seen her on his journey, a few days ago
— ^an ethereal figure flying beside the train, but now
it seemed to him that she kept her face toward his
window with an infinite wistfukiess.
. • . "To be kind!'' If it had been Isabel,
was that what she would have said? If she were
anywhere, and could come to him through the in-
visible wall, what would be the first thing she would
say to him?
Ah, well enough, and perhaps bitterly enough, he
knew the answer to that question! "To be kind" —
to Georgie!
• . . A red-cap at the station, when he arrived,
leaped for his bag, abandoning another which the
Pullman porter had handed him. "Yessuh, Mist'
Morgan. Yessuh. You' car waitin' front the sta-
tion fer you. Mist' Morgan, suh!"
And people in the crowd about the gates turned to
stare, as he passed through, whispering, ''Ttuxfs
Morgan.^*
Outside, the neat chauffem* stood at the door of
the touring-car like a soldier in whip-cord.
THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS 615
"I'll not go home now, Haxry," said Eugene, when
he had got in. "Drive to the City Hospital."
"Yes, sir," the man returned. "Miss Lucy's
there. She said she expected you'd come there
before you went home.'V
"She did?"
"Yes, sir."
Eugene stared. "I suppose Mr. Minafer must be
pretty bad," he said.
"Yes, sir. I understand he's liable to get well,
though, sir." He moved his lever into high speed,
and the car went through the heavy traffic like some
fast, faithful beast that knew its way about, and knew
its master's need of haste. Eugene did not speak
again until they reached the hospital.
Fanny met him in the upper corridor, and took
him to an open door.
He stopped on the threshold, startled; for, from
the waxen face on the pillow, almost it seemed the
eyes of Isabel herself were looking at him : never before
had the resemblance between mother and son been so
strong — and Eugene knew that now he had once
seen it thus startlingly, he need divest himself of no
bitterness "to be kind" to Gebrgie.
George was startled, too. He lifted a white hand
516 THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
in a queer gesture, haU lorbiddii^, half iiiq>loriiig,
and then let his arm fall back upon the coverlet.
''You must have thought my motfa^ wanted you to
eome/'he said, ''so that I could ask you to — ^to
forgive me/'
But Lucy, who sat beside him, lifted ineflabie eyes
from him to her father, and shook her head. ^No,
just to take his hand — gently!**
She was radiant.
But for Eugene another radiance filled the room.
He knew that he had heat true at last to his true feve,
and that through him she had brought her boy vnd^
shelter again. Her eyes would look wistful no num.
THE laiD
Lambskin Library
New titles are constantly added to the Lambskin Library.
CoHo ilt your bookseller for a complete list. The price and
format is uniform with this book.
1 Adventures in Contentment ----- David Grayson
2 Bob, Son of Battle ------ Alfred OUivant
3 Casuals of the Sea ------- William McFee
4 Cheerful by Request ------- Edna Ferber
5 Dr* ula- - - - - - - -- Bram Stoker
6 Further Side of Silence, The ----- Sir Hugh QifFord
7 Gold - - Stewart Edward White
8 Impressions of Theo. Roosevelt - - - Lawrence F. Abbott
9 Lord Jim --------- Joseph Conrad
10 Magnificent Ambersons, The - - - - Booth Tarkington
11 Mother --------- Kathleen Norris
12 Octopus, The - - - - - - -- Frank Norris
13 Pieces of Eight ------ Richard Le Gallienne
14 Pit, The --------- Frank Norris
15 Riverman, The - - - .- - -Stewart Edward White
lo Ruggles of Red Gap ----- Harry Leon Wilson
17 Stamboul Nights - - - - - - - H. G. Dwight
18 Story of GostaBerling, The - - - - - Selma Lagerlof
19 Story of My Life, The ------ Helen Keller
20 Trimmed Lamp, The ------- O. Henry
21 Up From Slavery ----- Booker T. Washington
22 Lorna Doone, Vol. I- - - - - - R.D. Blackmore
23 Lorna Doone, Vol. II - - - - - R. D. Blackmore
24 Two Years Before the Mast ----- Richard H. Dana
25 Alice in Wonderland ------ Lewis CarroU
26 Tale of Two Cities, A ----- - Charles Dickens
27 Three Musketeers, The, Vol. I - - - - Alexandre Dumas
28 Three Musketeers, The, Vol. II - - - - Alexandre Dumas
29 Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin . . - Nathan H. Dole
30 Tales from Shakespeare - - - - Chas. and Mary Lamb
31 Romola --------- George Eliot
32 Ivanhoe -------- Sir Walter Scott
33 Black Beauty -------- Anna Sewell
34 Bunker Bean ------- Harry Leon Wilson
35 Virginia^ --------- Ellen Glasgow
36 A Year in a Yawl ------- Russell Doubleday
37 The Kentucky Warbler ----- James Lane Allen
38 The Haunted Bookshop ----- Christopher Morley
39 Ayesha -------- H. Rider Haggard
40 A Journey to Nature J. P. Mowbray
41 Fruitfulness --------- Emile Zola
42 Return of Sherlock Holmes - - - - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
43 The Blazed Trail - - • - - Stewart Edward White
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