 CHAPTER 7. Then I found Joe Kramer. He had queered himself at the beginning in college. I had barely known him. He belonged to no fraternity and except on the athletic field he kept out of all our genial life. And this life of ours for all its thoughtlessness was so rich in genuine friendships, so filled in bubbling over with the joy of being young that we could not understand how any decent sort of chap could deliberately keep out of it. We put Joe Kramer down as a grouch. But now that I too was queering myself, our queerness drew us together, or rather Joe's drew mine. In the ten years that have gone since then I have never met any man who drew me harder than he did. Then he is drawing me even still, and this often in spite of my efforts to shake him off, and later of his quite evident wish to be rid of me. For Joe had what is so hard to find among us comfortable mortals, a sincerity so real and deep that it absolutely ruled his life, that it kept him exploring into things, kept him adventuring always. In long tramps over the neighboring hills, on our backs in the grass staring up at the clouds, or in winter hugging a bonfire in the shelter of a boulder, or back in college over our beer or over countless pipes in our rooms, together we adventured through books and long hungry talks down into life, and of the past we discovered I see even now no end. Joe was tall and lean, with heavy shoulders stooping slightly. He was sallow, he never took care of himself. He ate his meals at all ours in a small cheap restaurant, where he bought a bunch of meal tickets each week. His face was obstinate, honest, kindly, his features were as blunt as his talk. He was the first to understand what I was so vaguely looking for, and to say, All right, kid, you come right along, and as he was further along than I, he pulled me in after him on the hunt after what he called the genuine article in this bewildering modern life. His own life to begin with was a tie with this real modern world that had forced itself on me long ago through the harbor, for Joe had been up against it hard. Though blunt and frank about most things, he talked little about himself, but I got his story bit by bit. Graff had come into it at the start. In a town of the Middle West his father had been a physician with a good practice, until when Joe was eleven years old a case of smallpox was discovered. Joe's father vaccinated about a score of children that week. The dope he used was mailed to him by a drug firm in Chicago. It was rotten. For half the children were desperately ill, and seven of them died. Joe's father, his mother, and both older sisters did duty as nurses day and night. After that they left town, moved from town to town, that story always following, and finally both parents died. Since then Joe had been a teamster, a clerk in a hardware store, a breakman, a telegrapher, and last the assistant editor of a paper in a small town. He had scraped and slaved and studied throughout with the idea of coming east to college. He had come at twenty-two, beating his way on freight trains. On the top of a car one night he had fallen asleep and been knocked on the head by a steel beam jutting down under a bridge. Then after two weeks on a hospital bed he had arrived at college. Here he had earned a meager way by writing football and baseball news for a string of western papers. Here he had looked for an education, and here a bunch of dead ones had handed him news from the graveyard instead. I can still see him in classroom, head cocked to one side, grimly watching the prof. And once during a Bible course lecture I heard his voice blandly ironic behind me. Will somebody ask Mr. Charlie Darwin to be so good as to step this way? We've been cheated, Bill, he told me. We've been cheated right along. Take history, for instance, the kind of stuff we were handed in school. I got on to it first when I was fourteen. It was a rainy Saturday and my mother told me to go and clean out an old closet up in the attic. Well, I found my German grandfather's diary there, written when he was in college in Leipzig in 1848. The way those kids jumped into things, the way they got themselves mixed up in the revolution of forty-eight. To hear my young grandfather talk, that year was one of the biggest times in European history. Our school history gave it five pages, and then drooled on about courts and kings. I'll go to college, I made up my mind. College will put me next to the truth. So I saved my little nickels and came. But college, he added moodily, ain't advanced as far as it was in my young grandfather's time. Do you know who's to blame for this stuff, he said? It's not the profs. I've nothing against them. All they need is to be kicked out. No, it's us, because we stand for their line of drool. If we got right up on our honkies and howled all of us for a real education, we'd get it by next Saturday night. But we don't care a damn. Why don't we? Are we all of us dubs? No, we're not. Go down to the football field and see. There's as much brains in figuring out those plays as there is in mathematics. Would we stand for coaches like our profs? But that's just it. It's the thing to be alive in athletics and a dub in everything else. And because it's the thing, every fellow fits in. On the whole, he added reflectively, I think it's this dear old college feeling that's to blame for it all. My God, Joe, this was high treason. Sure it is, he retorted. It is your God and the God of us all. This dear old college feeling. It's got us all stuck together so close that nobody dares to be himself and buck against its standards. This from Joe Kramer. How often, in a football game, have I seen him on the recorder's bench, his sallow face now all the skull, now beaming satisfaction as he pounded his neighbor on the back. In pursuit of a real education, we got into the habit of spending almost every evening in the college library, where, except at examination times, there was nobody but a few silent holders. I grew to love this place. It was so huge and shadowy, with only shaded lights here and there. It had such tempting crannies. I loved its deep quiet, so pleasantly broken now and then by a step, a whisper, the sound of a book being moved from its shelf, where perhaps it had stood, unread for years, or occasional voices passing outside, or snatches a song from the campus. And here I thought I was finding myself. That French prof had introduced me to Voltaire, Hugo, Vosac, Mopassant, and others who were becoming my new idols. This was art. This was beauty and truth. This was getting at life in a way that thrilled. But now and then, looking up from my book, I would see Joe prowling about the place, taking down a book, then shoving it back and scowling as he ran his eyes along whole rows of titles. This darned library shut its doors, he would growl to himself, just as the real dope was coming along. But there's been such a flood of it ever since that some leaked in spite of him. Joe would search and search until he found it on back shells or stuck away in corners. Angrily he would blow off the dust, then settle himself with a sigh to read. There was always something whistled to me in the way Joe opened each new book. But what a joy when he found it Darwin, Nietzsche, Henry George, Walt Whitman, Zola, Samuel Butler, what a sudden sort of glee the night he discovered Bernard Shaw. When the library closed, we adjourned for beer and a smoke, and often we would argue long about what we had been reading. Joe had little use for the stuff I liked. Beauty and form were nothing to him. It was the meat he was after. My mother's idols he laid low. The first part was big, he said one night of a recent English novel, but the last part was the kind of thing that poor old Thackeray might have done. In an instant I was up in arms, for to my mother and me, the author of Pendennis had been like a great lovable patron saint, a refuge from all we have hoard in the harbor. To sleight him was a sacrilege, but reverence to Joe Kramer was a thing unknown. Joe me, he said, in reply to my outburst, a single thing he ever wrote that wasn't sentimental bosh. And we went at it, hammer and tongs. It was so in all our talks, nothing was too sacred, Joe always insisted on being shown. He had a keen liking, but little respect for the nation built by our fathers. From his own father's tragedy caused by graph, his own hard struggles in the west, and the populist doctrines he had imbibed, he had come east with a deep conviction that things in this country are one big mess with the constitution sitting on top, and when the term muckraker came into use I remember his deep satisfaction. Now I know my name, he said. He was equally hard on the church, how he kicked against our compulsory chapel. Rod, isn't it, scientific, he growled, to yank a man out of bed every morning, throw him into his seat and chapel, and tell him, here, this is what you believe. Be good now, take your little dose, and then you can go to breakfast. I'm no atheist, he remarked. I'm only a poor young fella who asks, say, mister, if you are up there, why is it that no big scientist has brains enough to see you? Look here, JK, that isn't so. Isn't it? Show me, and we would start in. I had a deep repugnance for his whole materialistic view, but I liked the way he jarred me. What I want to do, he said, is to bust every hole that any creed ever had on me. I don't mean only creeds in churches, I mean creeds in politics, business, and everywhere else. I want to get them all out of my eyes so I can see what's really here, because I'm so sure there's an awful lot here and an awful lot more that's coming. If I make a noise like a knocker at times, you don't want to put me down as any Schopenhauer fan, none of that pessimistic dope for little Joey Kramer. I never open a book without hoping I'll find the real stuff I want, and I never open a paper without hoping that some more of it will be right here in the news of the day. Kid, he ended intensely. You can take it from me there are going to be big doings soon in this little old world. Big doings and great big ideas as big as what caused the Civil War and a damn sight more scientific, and the thing for you and me to do is to get ourselves in some kind of shape so we can shake hands with them when they arrive and say, hello fellas, come right in, you're just what we've been waiting for. When Joe gave up college at the end of the junior year, he left a small group of us behind, the Ishmaelites we called ourselves. For though most of us couldn't quite go, Joe, we had all queered ourselves in college through the influence on us he had had. There are thousands of Joe Kramer's now in colleges scattered all over the land. Each year their numbers grow, each year more deep their vague conviction that somehow they've been cheated, more harsh and insistent every year of their questioning of all news from the graveyard. Whether it comes from old Foggy professors or from parents or preachers, eminent lawyers or businessmen, great politicians or writers of books. Arrogant and sweeping, sparing nothing sacred, young, ignorant, confused and groping, almost wistful, new. They are becoming no insignificant part in this swiftly changing national life. Joe Kramer was one of the pioneers. End of chapter 7, recording by Tom Weiss. Chapter 8 of the Harbor. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Weiss. The Harbor by Ernest Huell. Chapter 8. It was with an unpleasant shock of surprise that I found Joe like the Harbor. When I took him home for Christmas he spent half his time down there on the docks. He explored the whole region for miles around. In a week he spoke in familiar terms of slips and bays and rivers that to me were still nothing but names. Moreover, he liked my father. And my father, opening up by degrees, showed an unmistakable relish for Joe. They had long talks in the study at night where I could hear them arguing about the decline of our shipping, the growth of our trusts and railroads, graft and high finance and strikes, the swift piling up of our troubles at home, and about the great chance we were losing abroad. The blind weak part we were playing in this eager ocean world where every nation that was alive was rushing in to get a place. As their voices rose loud and excited, even my young sister Sue, who was just out of high school now and doing some groping about of her own, would go into the study to listen at times. But I kept out. For already I was tired of all these Harbor problems. I wanted to get at life through art, and I felt besides that if I entered into long talks with my father, sooner or later he would be sure to bring up the dreaded question of my going into his business. And this I was firmly resolved not to do. From my dislike of all his work, his deepening worries, his dogged absorption in his tiresome hobby of ships was even sharper than before. That dad of yours, Joe told me, is a mighty interesting old boy. He has had a big life with a big idea. Has he, said I? Then he's lost it. He hasn't. That's just the trouble. He thinks he's a comer when he's a goer. He can't see his idea is out of date. It's a pity, he added sadly. What a man can spend his days and nights hating the trusts and the railroads as he does. It's a pity he's so darned old in his views of what ought to be done about it. Your father believes that if only we'd get a strong navy and a large mercantile marine, oh, cut it out, JK, I said cadishingly. I tell you I don't care what he believes. The next thing you'll be telling me is that I ought to take a job in his warehouse. You might do worse, said Joe. What I demanded indignantly. That's just what I said. If you go on a paper and learn to write like a regular man, I'd be tickled to death. But if all you want to be in life is a young guy de moffassant and turn out little gems for the girls, then I say you'd be a lot better off if you went into your father's warehouse and began telling Wall Street to get off the roof. Thank you, I said stiffly. From that talk, Joe and I began drifting apart. I never brought him home again. I saw less of him at college, and at the end of the college year he went to New York where he found a job on a paper. And so all through my senior year I was left undisturbed to queer myself in my own sweet way, which was to slay for hours over Guy de Moffassant and other foreign authors, write stories and sketches by the score, and with two other Ishmaelites planned for a year's work in Paris. The French prop was delighted and spurred us on with glowing accounts of life in the quarter. One of us wanted to be a painter. No place for that like Paris. Another, an architect, Paris, myself, a writer, Paris. For what could American writers today, with their sentimental little yarns covering with a laugh or a tear, all the big deep facts of light, show to compare to the unflinching powerful work of the best writers over in France? In Paris they were training men to write of life as it really is. How that prof did drum it in. Remember still how he talked it up to my mother the last time she came to college. I soon found she was on my side, if only she could bring father around. I still remember vividly that exciting night in June when the three of us, back there at home, sat on the terrace and thawed it out. I remember the beauty of the night, I mean of the night up there in the garden under the stars, my mother's garden and her stars, and of the hideous showing put up by my father's harbor below. Of course he opposed my going abroad. His old indifference to me had vanished. I saw he regarded me now as worthwhile, grown up, a business asset worth fighting for, and my father fought. He spoke abruptly, passionately, of the great chance on the docks down there. I remember being surprised at his talk, at the bigness and the intensity of this hunger of his for his ships. But of what he said I remembered nothing. I did not hear, for I was eyeing my mother. I saw she was watching him pityingly. Why? What argument had she still to use? I weighed it in increasing suspense. So that's all there is to it, I heard him end. You might as well get it right out of your head. You're not going over to Europe to fool away any more of your time. You're going to buckle down right here. Billy, leave us alone, said my mother. What in the name of all the miracles did she do to him that night? My mother so frail she had grown so of late. My father so strong. The next day she told me he had consented. I saw little of him in the next two weeks. He left me alone with her every evening. But when I watched him he looked changed, beaten and broken, older. In spite of myself I pitied him now and a confused uneasiness almost remorse came over me at the way I had opposed him. What's come over dad, I wondered. Once I saw him look at my mother and his look was frightened, crushed. What was it she had told him? Those evenings I read Penn Dennis aloud for the third time to my mother. It had been our favorite book and I took anxious pains to show her how I loved it still. But once, chanceing to look quickly up, I caught my mother watching me with a hungriness and an utter despair such as I'd never seen before. It struck me cold. I looked away, and suddenly I realized what a selfish little beast I was, beside this woman who'd loved me so and whom I was now leaving. My throat contracted sharply, but when I looked back the look was gone and in its place was a quiet smile. Oh my boy, you must do fine work, she said. I wanted so much more than anything else in my whole life. In my whole life, she repeated. I came over to her chair, bent over her, and kissed her hard. I'm sorry I'm going. I'm sorry, I whispered, but mammy, it's only for a year. Why did that make her cling to me so? It only she had told me. But what young egotists we sons are. It was only a few days later that with my two college chums from the deck of an ocean liner I said good-bye to the harbor. Thank God I'm through with you at last. End of Chapter 8, Recording by Tom Weiss, Chapter 9 of the Harbor. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Weiss, The Harbor by Ernest Poole, Chapter 9. I was in Paris for two years. In those first weeks of deep delight I called it the beautiful city of Grays, for this town was certainly mellowed down. No jar of an ugly present here. No loud disturbing harbor. But on the other hand no dullness of a fossilized past. What college had been supposed to do this city did. It took the past and made it alive, richly, thrillingly alive, and wove it in with the present. In the first sophomore lectures, even with my meager French, I felt this at once. I wanted to feel it. These profs were brilliant, sparkling, gay. They talked as though Rousseau and Voltaire, Hugo, Balzac, and Flaubert, Mopassant, and all the rest were still vital dazzling news to the world, because these men were still molding the world. And from here exploring out over the town I was smilingly greeted everywhere by such affable, gracious old places that seemed to say, We've been written about for a thousand years, and now you also wish to write. How charming of you! Please sit down, garçon, imbours. And I sat down. Scenes from the books of my great idols rose around every corner, or if they didn't I made them rise. There was pride in the process. To go to the Place de la Republique, take a seat before some cheap Jolli café, squint out at the place with an artistein, reconstruct the Bastille, the Great Revolution, dream back of that to Rousseau and Voltaire, and the way they shook the world by their writings, and then wake up and find that I had been at it for three mortal hours. What a chap I was for dreams! I must be quite a genius. There were hours with Hugo in Notre-Dame in one of its most shadowy corners, with Zola on top of a bus at night as it lumbered up into the Belleville slums, with Balzac in an old garden I found, with Guy de Mopassant everywhere in the gay hum and lights of those endless cafes, from bridges at sunset over the Seine, or far up the long rich dust of the Champs-Élysées, lights twinkling out and his women laughing, chattering by. Nothing left in this rich old world but the harbor. Nothing beautiful, fine or great for an eager, hungry, happy young man? I could laugh. I knew now that the harbor had lied. For into this radiant city not only the past, but the whole present of the earth appeared to me to be pouring in. Painters, sculptors, writers and builders were here from all nations, with even some Hindus and Japs thrown in, young, bringing all their dreams and ambitions, their gayity, their vigor and zest. Young men are lucky, they will see great things. Voltaire had said that about thirty years before the French Revolution. It had been true then, true ever since. It was true today and here. Though our great things I felt very sure were not to come in violence, the world had gone beyond all that, no. These immense surprises that were lurking just before us, these astounding miracles that were to rise before our eyes, would come in the unfolding of the powers in men's minds, working free and ranging wide with a deep, resistless onward rush in the stirring times of peace. And we were not only to see great things, but we were all to do them. That was the very keynote of the place. Here a fellow could certainly write if only he had it in him. Impatiently I slaved at my French. Five hours' sleep was plenty. In the small apartment we had taken just on the edge of the Luxembourg gardens, on the nights when we were working at home, one of us at his easel, another at his drafting board, myself at my desk, we would knock off at about eleven o'clock and come down for beer and a long smoke in front of the café below. A homely little place it was, with two rows of small iron tables in front, and at one of these we would seat ourselves. Behind us in the window was a long glass tank of goldfish, into which from time to time a huge cat would reach an omnivorous paw. And from within the café we would hear Russian folk songs played on balalaikas by a group of Russian students there. And between the songs a low hubbub rose, in French and many other tongues. For here were French and Germans, English and Bohemians, Russians and Italians, all gathered here while they were young. How serene the old city seemed those nights. The street outside was quiet. The motor bust, that peste of Paris, had not yet appeared. Only an occasional cab would come tinkling on its way. Our street was absurdly short. At one end was a gay cluster of lights from the crowded cab-phase of the Bourne-Mich. At the other were the low-lighted arches at the back of the odion, from which when the play was over fluffy feminine figures would emerge from the stage entrance. We would hear their low musical voices as they came merrily by us in cabs. Other figures would pass. Across the street before us rose the trees and the lofty iron fence of the gardens with a rich gloom of shrubs behind, and against this background figures in groups and alone and in couples would come strolling by with their happiness or hurriedly eagerly toward it. Or to what else were they hurrying? From what were they coming so slowly away? These strangers in this setting thrilled me. Comedy, tragedy, character plot. There seemed nothing in life but the writing of tales. Watching, listening, dreaming, finding. Then becoming deeply excited, feeling them grow inside of you, planning them out and writing them off, then working them over and over and over, little by little, building them up. I had a rich absorbing life for a fellow, and for me it still lay all ahead. I had used but twenty-two years of my life. There were fifty left to write in, and what couldn't you write in fifty years? Often sitting here at night I would get an idea and begin to work, and I would keep on until it last the enormous old woman who kept the cafe. We called her the Blessed Damosella would come lumbering out and good-humoredly growl, kushtoy doyen, unhiyen bien disunit. There came a brief interruption. Into our street's procession one evening, over its round cobblestones on a bicycle that wearily wobbled, there came a lean dusty figure with something distinctly familiar in the stoop of the big shoulders. Hello, boys, said a deep-cropped voice, J.K. It was Joe Kramer arriving in Paris at midnight on a punctured tire, and cursing the cobblestone pavements over which he had hunted us out. A hot supper, a bottle of wine, a genial beam on all three of us, and Joe told his story. After leaving college from New York he had gone to Kansas City, and by the livest paper there he had been sent abroad with a bike to do a series of Sunday specials. He had come over steerage and written an expose of his passage. He had two weeks per Paris and then was off to Berlin and Vienna. I'm just breaking ground this time, boys, he said. I want to get the hang of the countries and a start in their infernal languages. The next day he began to break ground in our city. Early the next morning I found Joe propped up in bed sculling into Le Marthand as he tried to butt his way through the language into the news events of the day. What I tried to tell him of the Paris I had found made no appeal whatever. All right, kid, he said indulgently, if I had a dozen lifetimes I might be a poet, but I haven't, so I'll just be a recorder. And he and his bike plunged into the town. He found its newspaper row that day, and a Frenchman to whom he had a letter. With this man Joe went to the borse and that night to the chamber of deputies. He got Sunday specials out of them both, and then went on to the borse stufftropia. And in the few spare moments he had, Joe told us of the things he had seen, rumors of war and high finance, trade unions, strikes and sabotage burst on my startled artist's ears. It made me think of the harbor. This was not my Paris. It is, said J.K. Stoutly. There's no place like a newspaper office to put you right next to the heart of a town. He would not hear to our seeing him off. I remember him that last night after supper strapping his bag onto his bike and starting off down our quiet old street on his way to the station. Tomorrow he said, I'll stop off in Leipzig. I want to have a look at the college that stirred my young grandfather up for life. I've got his diary with me. Again in spite of the gruffness I felt that wistful quality in him. J.K. was hunting for something too. End of Chapter 9, Recording by Tom Weiss, Chapter 10 of the Harbor. But what a relief to see him go, to forget his loud disturbing Paris and again drink deep of mine, the city of great writers. I'll never really know them, I thought, until I can not only talk, but think and feel in their language. So I drudged for hours a day in my room. I inflicted my French on my chums at meals, on defenseless drivers of buses who could not rise and go away, and on the bless at Damoselle, who said, Védon, choux château et filia, manière, de pronat, les Français. I was vaguely thrilled by this idea, the more because so far in my life I had had no experience of the kind. On the streets, in cabs, and in cafes I began watching women with different eyes, more eagerly selecting eyes that picked out of the throng the one her of the moment so that for me she was quite alone. She was of many ages, rich and poor, now gorgeous and now simply dressed, now a ravishing creature that took your breath, and again just funny and very French with a saucy way of wearing her clothes. Her fascinations were always new. I watched her twinkling earrings, her trick of using her lips when she smiled, her hands, her silk-flat ankles, her swelling young bust, the small coquettish hat she wore, her shoulders, their expressive shrugs, her quick vivacious movements, and I watched her eyes. Her eyes would meet mine now and then, often with only a challenging smile, but again in an intimate, dazzling way that gave me a deep, swift shock of delight and left me confused and excited. In a little while, I thought. I decided to wait till I knew more French. She'll be strange enough, God knows. I thought half-apprehensively, even when I can talk her language. And with a feeling almost of relief, I would plunge back into my work and forget her. For me she was only an incident in this teeming, radiant life. I must learn French. I strained my ears at lectures, at plays from the top gallery. I hired a tutor to hurry it on. Years later in New York, I met a Russian revolutionist come to raise money for his cause. Three weeks have I been in this country, he said in utter exasperation, and not yet do I speak fluently the English. That was how I felt about French. What a delight to begin to feel easy, to catch the fine shadings, the music and color of words and of phrases. How much more pliant and smooth and brilliant than English. How remote from the harbor. I could study my models now, not only their construction, but their small character touches as well. Des moffissants were still first for me. So simple and sure, with so few strokes but each stroke counting to the full, one suggestive sentence making you imagine the rest, everything else in the world shut out, your mind gripped suddenly and held, focused on this man and this woman who a moment before had been nothing to you but were now more real than life itself. Only this woman, what an absorbing creature he made her, and the big human ideas he injected into these petite histoires. I wrote short stories by the score. Each one had a perfectly huge idea, but each seemed worse than the one before. I took to myself the advice of Flaubert, and from a table before a cafe, I would watch the people around me and jot down the minutest details. I filled whole pages with my strokes. But which to choose to make this person or this scene like no other in the world? There came the rub. How had Des moffissants done it? The answer came to me one night. Not only by watching people, he talked to them, lived with them, knew their lies. The very thing my music teacher had said about Beethoven, how uneasy I had been then, how absurdly young and priggish then in the gingerly way I had gone at the harbour. Thank heaven there was no harbour here. I could enter this life with a whole hearted zest. I began with one of my roommates. He was to be an architect, a hardworking little chap. His days were filled with sharp suspense. The Bo-Arts entrance examinations were close ahead. If he did not pass, he told me his parents in Ohio were too poor to give him another chance. If I have to go back to Ohio now, he said in that soft, reflective voice of his, I'll put up cow sheds, later on barns, and maybe when I'm fifty, a moving picture theatre. If I stay here and go back a Bo-Arts man, I can go to New York or Chicago and get right into the center of the big things being done. With a wet towel bound around his head, he used to sit at his work half the night. I watched the lines tightened about his thin lips and between his grey eyes, grew to know the long weariness in them over some problem. The sudden grim joy when the problem worked out. One day he came home early, queer, he said simply. I can see one side of your face, one side of your body, one leg, and one arm. But the other side doesn't seem to be there. I looked up at him a moment. Let's go out for a walk, I suggested. We went for a stroll in the gardens, and here I was surprised and just a bit ashamed to find that while I had a real sympathy for him, I had just as real curiosity. For here was a living illustration of the horror of going blind. I could see his jaws set like a vice. I could hear his low voice talking steadily on as though to keep from thinking. What was he thinking? What was he feeling? We talked of the most commonplace things, but moment by moment, through his voice and his grip on my arm, those sudden ways now of sickening fear, now of keen suspense, now of angry groping around for a foothold, seemed pouring from him right into me, became part of me, while the other part of me stood off and listened. By God, this is life, said one part of me. No, it isn't. It's hell, growled the other part. This thing has got to be settled. I took him to an oculus, and there I had another close view, this time of intense relief. Blind? Why, no, you're not going blind, said the oculus kindly. All you need is—I heard nothing more. I had never had any idea before of how swift and deep relief could be. On the street outside I heard it not only in his unsteady laugh, but in my own as well. We celebrated long that night, and very late he took me to his favorite place down on the lower quay of the river, where with the lights and sounds of the city far off, it felt like some old dungeon. But just over our heads hung the heavy black arch of a stone bridge, and looking up through this arch as a frame, we could see close above a gray, luminous mass rising and rising in great sweeping lines till it filled half the sky—silent, tremendous Notre Dame. From down here the old edifice seemed alive, and though my friend talked little here, I felt him again coming into me, and this time it was his religion that came, his curious passion for building. And at last we went home, he could see my whole body, and I felt as though I had seen his whole soul. Then I carefully wrote this down on paper. I put in every touch that I could remember. I rewrote it to make it big, and I made it so big I spoiled it all. I tore this up and began again. For about two weeks I wrote nothing else, but at last I tore up everything. After all, he was a friend of mine. But where's the harm, I argued, so long as I always tear it up. This is real stuff. I'll get somewhere this way if I keep on. And I did keep on. Shamelessly I wormed my way into friends by the dozen. I found that such an absorbing pursuit I could hardly wait to finish up one before I went on to another. There was such a bewildering lot of them, now that I had cried open my eyes. The painters, sculptors, poets, dramatists, novelists, rich and poor, tragic ones and comic ones, with the meanest, pettiest jealousies, the most bumptuous self-conceits, the blindest worship of masters, the most profound humility, ambition so savage it made men inhuman, many were starving themselves to death. There was a little Hungarian Jew, an ardent follower of Matisse. Like he cried, it is nothing, to grip your soul in your two hands and press it on your canvas, that is art, that is Matisse. He took me night after night through old buildings up in Montparnasse, immense and dismal rookeries crowded with holes, Bohemians, and God knows what other races, all feverish post-impressionists. Often we would find three together close around one candle, scolling and squinting at their easels, gaunt, silent, yeager, Matisse, Matisse. Most of them, said my guide, are just mad, they cannot paint, all think they are going to do great things, but all they are going to do is to die. It was through this little Hungarian that I made my first study of female life. Why delay any longer? I had been in Paris over six months and I had qualms almost of guilt at the thought of this chastity of mine. At first I said, art is a jealous mistress, and this did splendidly for a time. But then a stout German youth came along and laid it down as an absolute law that no writer could do a woman right until he had lived with a dozen. Hence that scented little cat with whom he had lived for the past year. She was the first of the dozen, eh? From the fellow how much was there in it? De Mopo-Sa certainly hadn't held off, in fact there were few of my idols who had. Why not be brave and take the plunge? It need not be such a terrific plunge, no doubt if I went at it right I could find a safe, easy kind of a hur, friendly and confiding, a thoroughly good fellow with none of these wild ups and downs. The less temperament the better. She must have a good quiet head on her shoulders, no doubt we would need it. And she must not be too young. Let her have had affairs enough to know that ours was only one more, and would probably be as brief as the rest. The briefer the better. So tamely I pictured my first love. And the gay old city of Paris smiled, and in that bantering way of hers she brought to me in a café one night a perfect young Tigris of a girl, a lithe, dusky beauty with smoldering eyes, and said, without doubt this one is better for you. Regard what loveliness, what fire, oh my son, why not be brave? I was not brave. I barely spoke, and my friend, the little Hungarian Jew, who had brought her to my table was forced to do the talking. However she too was silent. But how different was her silence from the quiet eye had pictured? Presently, however, I became a little easier, and by degrees we began to talk. She told me she was a painter. An Armenian by birth she had run away from home at eighteen, and here for two years in Juliennes she had tried to paint till she felt she'd go mad. She talked in abrupt, eager sentences, breaking off to watch people around us. How her big eyes fastened upon them. To watch faces until you are sure, and then paint, there is nothing else in the world, she said. And I found this reassuring. After that I saw her many nights, and from time to time, breaking that silence of hers, she became so fiercely confiding, not only about her painting, but about what she called her innermost soul, that soon I could look my demoposal square in the face, even to man, for I was learning a lot about women. As yet we were friends and nothing more, but I could feel both of us changing fast. In a little while, I thought. But at last one night she took me up to her room and showed me her paintings. They were bad. They were fearfully bad, and my face must have shown the impression they made. You must consider them frightful, she exclaimed. I stoutly denied it, but things only went from bad to worse. Here was that temperament I had dreaded. Now she was clutching both my arms. Won't you? Why not say it? Why can you not say it? No, I replied. You have done some extremely powerful work. Anything to quiet her nerves. Especially this one. Look. Over here. And I pointed to one of her pictures. I will show you how I shall look at it. She cried in a perfect frenzy of tears. She snatched up a knife that lay on her table, a very old curved Armenian knife, and went at the painting and slashed at the shreds, and then scattered the shreds all over the room. After watching this little festival, I thought to myself excitedly, I know enough about this girl. My retreat was so precipitate as to appear almost a flight. Yes, I said to myself outside, de Mopasol knew women, and he went insane at forty-five. And so my next case was a chap from Detroit, whose aim he told me was no less than to make himself by the sheer force of my will a perfect all-round modern man. It was over his case that I lost what was left of my sense of honor. For I not only wrote him down, I kept what I had written. Ten years from now, I said an excuse, I won't believe him unless he's on paper. But having kept this, I began keeping others until my locked drawer was filled with the dreams and ambitions and even the loves of my confiding innocent friends. At last I was a writer. What a relief when my mother wrote that my father had consented to a second year abroad for me. In my gratitude I even grew just a trifle homesick. Hadn't I better come home for the summer, I wrote her. No, she replied, we cannot afford it. I want you to keep right on with your work. I feel so sure you are working hard and will do things I shall be proud of. I was not only working, but living, feeling, listening hard under the stimulus day and night of the tense rich life around me. About this time I made a friend of a gaunt bearded Russian chap whose dream for years had been, like mine, to become a writer of fiction. His god had been Tergenya. Starting year ago, leaving his home, a little town near Moscow, with forty rubles in his purse, he had set out on foot with a pack on his back to trap the long and winding road that stretched away two thousand miles to the distant city of Paris, the place where his idol had lived and studied and written for so many years. Through this young Russian pilgrim I came to know the books of some of his countrymen, and through him I caught glimpses down into the vast, mysterious soul of that people in the north. Through other chaps I met those days, other deep, tremendous vistas opened up as backgrounds for these Paris friends of mine. Half the night, in that café endeared to so many use of all nations under its name of the dirty spoon, I heard talk about all things under the sun, talk that was a merry war of words, ideas, and points of view as wide apart as that of a chap and a German. For every land upon the earth had sent its army of ideas, and they all charged together here, and the walls of the dirty spoon resounded with the battle, with roars of laughter and applause. For we were of free, tolerant minds. We were gay young dogs of war who had left our tales behind us, our tales of prejudice, and mistrust, and our emancipated souls had only scorn for hatreds born of race or creed. Like J.K., we had rid ourselves of all creeds past and present, but J.K. had always been free with a skull, his feet set grimly on the ground. We were here free with a verve and a dash that took us careening up into the stars to laugh at the very heavens. There was breadth in our very manner of speech, for here were we from all over the earth, all speaking one tongue, the language in which half the things that had moved the world had been said by men before us, and what sparkling things there were still to be said, what dazzling things we would see and do in this prodigious onward march of the armies of peace, out of all dark ages into a glad new world for men, where our great smiling goddess of all the arts would reign supreme, where we would dream mighty visions of life and all these visions would come true. So we saw the world those days in the radiant city on the same, and meanwhile, far up in the north, the Russian Tsar having started with loud ostentation the movement for a worldwide peace, was swiftly completing his preparations to strike with his armies at Japan. With the other nations of Europe jealous and suspicious of each other's every secret plan, they too were making ready for what the future years might bring. Young men are lucky, they will see great things. And these young men have seen great things, but they have not been lucky. CHAPTER X It was about a year after this that again Joe Kramer broke in on my dreams. He arrived early on a raw wet morning in the following winter. His all-night ride from Cherbourg had left him disheveled, unshaven, and hungry. Well, boys, he asked when our greetings were over. What do you think of the news? What news? Joe gave us a grim fatherly smile. Say, do I have to come all the way from Chicago to tell you what's happening down the street? Well, you young beauty boosters, there's a panic on the bourse this week that's got your fair city flat on her back. And the cause of the said panic is that France is in deep on Russian bonds, which are now worth about a cent to the dollar. Because the Russian people, already dead sick of the war with Japan, have risen in a howling mob against their government. See? I did hear of that, said the painter among us. A Polish chap in the studio said something about it yesterday. Now did he, said the ironical Joe. Just kind of murmured it, I suppose, while bending reverently over his art. He rose. Well, boys, I'm sorry for you, but I've only got a day in this town. I'm off for Russia on the night train. Bill, I wish you'd help me here. I've got an awful lot to do, and my French is still a little weak. It was not at all weak. It was strong and loud. I can hear it still, Joe Cramer's French, and it is a fitting memory of that devastating day. The day began so splendidly, so big with promise of great ideas. I grew quite excited about it. Here was Joe on his way to a real revolution. Sent out by his Chicago paper, he was going to Russia to see a whole people fight to be free, a struggle prophesied long ago by Turganyet, Tolstoy, and other big Russians whose work I admired. And now it was actually coming off. And Joe, the lucky devil, was going to be right on hand. From some mysterious source in New York, he had secured a letter to a Russian revolutionist leader who for many years had been in exile here in Paris. Joe was anxious to see him at once. All right, I said eagerly, give me his address. Hold on, J.K. retorted. It's not so easy as all that. I want to get into Russia. This man's house in Paris is watched day and night by the Russian secret police, and nobody who's seen with him has a chance of crossing a frontier. We've got to go slow. What'll we do? I want you to steer me first to a Frenchman. He's an anarchist. Here's his address. The anarchist was a bit disappointing. A mild little man, we found him in an attic room receiving a vigorous scolding from the huge blonde with whom he lived. But after reading Joe's letter, he too took on a mysterious air. He came with us in our cab, and off we went over Paris until I thought we should never end. Again and again the cab would stop, and our guide would darkly disappear. But from one of these trips he returned triumphant. I have found his wife, he announced. But she says she must have a look at you first. The cab rattled off and the next stop was in front of a public library. Now, said our guide, go in and sit down at a table and pretend you are reading. We went in and did as he said. Soon a middle-aged woman in black sat down at the other side of the table. She stared at us gloomily a moment, then with a yawn she opened a book and calmly started making notes. Presently scolling over her work she began muttering to herself. You must not look up, I heard in French. A Russian spy sits over there. You wish to see my husband. Come to-night at nine o'clock to the second floor of the Café Voltaire. He will be at the top of the stairs. Good-bye. And she yawned again over her writing. Now this, I thought, is a revolution. I thoroughly approved of this. The Café Voltaire was an excellent choice, an almost perfect mess on scene. It had long been one of my favorite haunts. A tall white wooden building, so toned down, so tumbled down, so heavy laden with memories of poets, dramatists, pamphleteers, and fiery young orators, who had sat here and conspired and schemed and exhorted over human rights. It had well lived up to its glorious name. What great ideas had started from here. Here French history had been made. But at last, into this hallowed spot that night, at nine o'clock on his way to his train, came Joe in a yellow Macintosh with a brand new suitcase in his hand, and showed me history in the making. It was made in a small, stuffy room upstairs. On the one side, J.K., with a million American readers behind him, on the other, this revolutionist whose name that week had been in newspapers all over the world. So far, so good. But look at him, look at this history-maker, tall, sallow and dispeptic, a professor of economics, romance, liberty, history, thrill? Not at all. They talked of factories, wages, strikes, of railroads, peasants' taxes, of plows, and wheat and corn, and hay. They got quite excited over hay, and all this had to come through their defenseless interpreter, me. My head ached, one foot fell asleep. The Social Democratic Party, the Social Revolutionist Party, the Constitutional Democrats, in and out of my head they trooped. If this be revolution, then God save the king. Crushed to earth as we left at last, my head still buzzing with economics, I looked dismally back on my poor café, on liberty, justice, and human rights. There was something as bad as the harbor in Joe. He was always spoiling everything. Why don't you take Carlisle's French Revolution along, I suggest it, poor learnly. You might read it on the train. Because, you poor kid, he's way out of date. It took me days to get into my work. About two months later, back he came. From one of our front windows he looked down into the old gardens, into all the loveliness the April twilight was bringing there, and, Where can I get a typewriter, he asked. I've got such an awful lot of stuff that I want to dictate it right off the bat. This was literature in the making. For hours in Joe's room that week, I sat and heard him make it. In one corner lay a heap of dirty shirts and collars. In another, a stack of papers and books. An English stenographer sat at the window, JK strode up and down, and talked. It was really enough this narrative. Facts and figures, he had them down cold, to back up with a crushing force the points he was making against the czar. Poverty, tyranny, bloody oppression, wholesale slaughter of a people, in a half mad monarch's war, Joe pounded them in with sledgehammer blows. He not only made you sure they were true, he made you sure that these things must be stopped, and that you as a decent American certainly wanted to help with your money. And as for the revolution itself, he left no doubt in your mind about that. It was there all right. Joe had seen people give up their lives. He had seen men and women clubbed and shot down. He had been so near he had seen the blood. But he made human blood so darned commonplace curse him. And in Petersburg for two long nights he had gone about a city in darkness. Every street light put out by the strikers, the streets filled with surging black masses of figures. Yes, Joe had certainly seen big things. Then what was the matter with me, I thought, that all this did not thrill me? Young men are lucky, they will see great things. All right. Here was one of my great things, a whole nation rising to throw up its chains to show the world that wars must cease. And to me it didn't seem great at all. It seemed only big and there was a world of difference. Big? It was enormous. Not only what Joe had seen up there, but what he was doing right here in this room. He was talking to a million people, damn him, and doubtless this was just the kind of writing that would appeal to them. Millions of his commonplace readers would send their dollars to Russia where dispeptic professors of economics would use the money to hire halls into which millions of commonplace Russians would crowd to hear about strikes, wages, taxes, and hay. And then some more commonplace blood would be shed, the dispeptic professors would be put in office, and this was a modern revolution. Was everything modern only dig? Perhaps I always have that feeling the harbor used to give me. No, I decided angrily. The fault didn't lie in me nor in Russia, but in J.K. and the way he was writing. As I followed that blunt narrative of his journey through cities and factory towns, into deep forests, across snowy plains, and through little hamlets half buried in snow, and filled with the starving families of the men who had gone to the war, I tried to picture it all to myself. That is he described it, confound him. But with all the beauty which must have been there, ye gods of the road, what a journey! What tremendous canvases teeming with life, such strange, dramatic, significant life! What a chance for a writer! One night on a train whose fifth-class cars, cattle cars, and nothing more, were packed with wounded men from the front, out of one of those traveling hells Joe had pulled a peasant boy half drunk, and by the display of a bottle of vodka had enticed him into his own compartment in a second-class car ahead. The boy's right arm was a loathsome sight, festering from a neglected wound. Amputation was plainly a matter of days. But it was not to forget that grim event that the boy had jumped off at each little station to spend his few co-packs on vodka. No, he was stoutly getting drunk because, as he confided to Joe, at dawn he would come to his hometown, and there he knew he was going to tell twenty-six wives that their men had been killed. He laboriously counted them off on his fingers, each wife and each husband, by their long, homely Russian names. Then he burst into half-drunken sobs and pounded the window ledge with his fists. It was the fist of his right arm, and the kid gave a queer, sharp scream of pain. If Voltaire had been there he would have come back and described that peasant boy he'd seen in a way that would have ripped men's souls and sent a great shudder over the world at war and what it meant to mankind, while Joe was simply slapping it down, like some hustling, keen reporter. Look here, Joe, you make me sick, I exploded at last. You want to stick right here for months and work on this wonderful stuff you've got, till there's nothing left you can possibly do. Be an artist, eh? A poet. A great writer? He gave me one of those fatherly smiles. I've got some things to say to you, kid. I don't like the life you're leading. Don't you? Why don't you, I rejoined. And so began a fight that lasted as long as he was in Paris. Nothing that I had been doing here made any appeal whatever to Joe. I showed him my sketch of Notre Dame from under that old bridge at night. Yes, he said. This is fine writing, awful fine. But it has about as much meaning to me as a woman's left ear. What's the use of sitting down under a bridge and looking up at an ancient church and trying to feel like a two-spot? For God's sake, Bill, get it out of your system. Quit getting reverent over the past. You're sitting here at the feet of the masters, fellas who were all right in their day, but are now every one of them out of date. And you're so infernally busy copying their technique and style and trying to learn just how to write that you're getting nothing to write about. Why can't you go to life for your stuff? Go to life, I said indignantly. I've done nothing else for over a year. Show me. Here. He read more of my sketches. But damn it, Bill, these people aren't alive. They're only a bunch of artist kids as reverent over the past as yourself. They have about as much connection with anything live and vital today as so many medieval monks. You fellas think you're free of creeds. You're the creediest kids I ever saw. Your religion is style, technique and form. For God's sake, lose it and use your own eyes. Forget you're an artist and be a reporter. Come out in the world and have a try. You'll find so much stuff you won't need any plots. You'll simply report events as they happen. And you won't have any time for technique. The next event will be tuning up before you've got to the end of the last. With a big daily paper behind him, a good reporter can follow the front page around the world. Russia's on the front page now. All right, you can go to Russia. By June it may be Hindustan or Pittsburgh, Turkey or China. Believe me, Bill, the nations of this planet are working themselves into a state where they're ready to do things you never dreamed of. I'm not talking of kings and governments. I'm talking of the people themselves, the people in such excited crowds that nobody knows who's who or what's next. I saw my first crowd in Petersburg the very day I got off the train. They fill the street from wall to wall and as far as you could see. They weren't saying a word or singing the song, and there wasn't even a drum to keep time. But they moved along with their wives and kids as though they'd left home, job and church, and were looking for something else so hard they didn't care for bullets. I saw them shot down like so many sheep, but bullets won't stop what I saw in their eyes. God knows I don't want a religion. I'm no socialist nor anarchist. But if there's one thing I want to hang on to, it's my belief in the common crowd. They've had a raw deal since the world began. They can have the whole earth whenever they want it, and they're beginning to want it hard. Forget your own name and jump into the crowd right and don't stop to remember your writing. The place you need is the USA, and the work you need is a job on a paper. Are you through? I snapped. I am. All right, said I. I'm going to stay just where I am. I'm not going to be yanked by you all over the earth to write news articles on the run. I'm going to stick in one place, right here, and take my time and learn my job. I don't want to write news. I want to write books. I'd rather write one good novel than all the headline stuff in the world. It's books that make the headlines. Books, Joe's look was funny. Sure they do. Take Russia. What started this whole revolution? Books. It didn't start with your common crowds. They were all eating fried onions. It started with a few writers of novels. Who left their little mahogany desks, said Joe, got into peasant clothes, and went to live with the peasants? Oh no, they didn't. Only a few. Turkinyeth didn't. Ternachevsky didn't. Rostiysky. Say, are they Russians? I never heard their names up there. I looked at JK thoughtfully. No, I said you wouldn't. As yet, they're not quite crowdy enough. But they are Russians, and their ideas made most of the first revolutionists. The whole revolution was started by books. It wasn't snapped, Joe. It was taxes. Their taxes were doubled because of the war. And oh, damn your war taxes, and damn your plows and your corn and hay. You've got a haymine. That's the trouble with you. You've got so you think that hay and bread and pork and beans are all men live and die for. They don't, Mr. Reporter. They die for ideals, freedom, democracy, human rights, which are in them so deep that when a big writer sees them there and brings them out and holds them up and says, here, this is you. This is what you want. This is what you believe in. Your crowd says, sure, why didn't we see it long ago? And then they do things that go into headlines. But to be able to write like that, a man can't go chasing all over the earth. He's got to quit sneering at art and technique. He's got to learn how to make characters real and build plots that make readers sit up all night to see what becomes of the people he's made. If believing that is a creed, then I'm creeding. I'm willing to throw over everything else, but I'll hang on to this one thing all my life, the fact that big art means working like hell. Geez at JK, what an artist. These fights of ours left me weak and sore, as though I'd been back on the terrace at home, listening to my father talk and looking at his harbor. End of Chapter 11, Recording by Tom Weiss Chapter 12 of the Harbor This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Weiss The Harbor by Ernest Poole Chapter 12 When Joe left me in peace at last, just for the sake of the rest and change, I turned my attention to music, or rather, to a musical friend, a young Bohemian composer who lived wholly in a world of his own. I explored this musical world of his by his side in dark-top galleries, in the Café Roger on concert nights, in his room at his piano. How deliciously far away from hay was this chap's feeling for Mozart. With him I could feel sure of myself, of the way I was living for my art, of what my mother, back at the start, had called the fine things in humanity. I remember the night we heard Bohem from the gallery of the Opera Comique. I remember the talk we had late that night, and my walk by the edge of the garden's home, and the letter and the cable that I found waiting on my desk. The letter was from my father and told me that my mother was dying. The cable told me she was dead. I remember learning that letter by heart on that long ocean voyage home. This was no sudden illness I learned. My mother had known of it while I was home, known that she had it, and that it was fatal. That was the news she had told my father alone that night on the terrace. That was why she had been so eager to get me away to Paris. That was why she had kept me abroad. She did not want you to see how she looked, my father wrote. She wanted you to remember her always as she was when you saw her last. I remembered now. What a young beast I had been to forget her, to drop her so utterly out of my thoughts in that selfish happy Paris life when it was she who had sent me there, when it was she who had set me free for a time from the harbor which was now dragging me back, when it was she from the very start who had fostered this passion for all that is fine. I remembered her now, remembered and remembered, until her dear image filled me. My father's letter went on to tell how she had fought for her life, three operations, all three of them failures, but still she had held bravely on in hopes of some new discovery which science might make, and so bring her a cure. A thought suddenly gripped me and struck me cold. It had all depended on science, on men working calmly and coldly along in laboratories all over the world, while my mother had held her her threat of life and hoped that these laboratory gods would hurry, hurry while yet there was still time. How many thousands like her every day, every hour, all over the world were watching those gods with that awful suspense, for they were the only gods that were left, an uncomfortless set of gods they were. They were like JK, they had hay minds. They were business-like, relentless, cold, they belonged to the world of the harbor. My mother's kind god was a myth and a joke, with no power here one way or the other. I felt that now. I had thought it before, only thought it with that gay freedom of thought we had aired back there in Paris. But I knew now that deep underneath I had believed all along in this god of hers, as I had in my beautiful goddess of art and in all the things that were fine. It had taken this news from the harbor to bring him tottering, crashing down. For no god like hers would have let her die, and I felt fear now, the fear of death whom I'd never really noticed before, and who now seemed to say to me, she is nothing, has gone nowhere, she is only dead, and fiercely in a bewildered way I rebelled against this emptiness. I rebelled against this world of hay that was so abruptly dragging me back to a sense of its almighty grip on my life. When my ship came up the bay, the world looked harsh and gray to me, though there was a bright and sunny glare on the muddy waves of the harbor. This is the end of Chapter 12 and the end of Book 1, recording by Tom Weiss. Book 2, Chapter 1 of the Harbor. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Tom Weiss. The Harbor by Ernest Poole. Chapter 1. My mother had been buried several days before I reached home. I found Sue waiting on the dock, and I saw with a little shock of surprise that my young sister was grown up. I had never noticed her much before. Sue and I had never got on from the start. She had been my father's chum, and I had been my mother's. I had always felt her mocking smile toward me and all my solemn thoughts. And after that small catastrophe which I had had with Eleanor, I had more than ever avoided Sue and her girlfriends. Then I had gone to college, and each time that I came home she had seemed to me all arms and legs, full secrets and full giggles. A most uninteresting kid. I remember being distinctly surprised when I brought Joe home for Christmas to find that he thought her quite a girl. But now she was all different. She had grown tall and graceful, lithe, and in her suit of mourning she looked so much older, her face thin and worn, subdued, and softened by all she'd been through, for the weight of all those weary weeks had been upon her shoulders. There was something pitiful about her. I came up and kissed her awkwardly, then found myself suddenly holding her close. She clung to me and trembled a little. I found it hard to speak. I wish I'd been here too, I said gruffly. I wish you had, Billy. It's been a long time. All at once Sue and I had become close friends. We had a long talk at home that day, and she told me how our parents had drawn together in the last years, of how my poor mother had won at my father close by her side, and of how he had responded, neglecting his business and spending his last dollar on doctors, consultations, and trips to sanitarians, anything to keep up her strength. He had even read Pendennis aloud, how changed he must have been to do that. I knew why she had wanted to hear it again. It had been our favorite book. I remembered how I had read it to her just before I went abroad, and how I had caught her watching me with that hungry, despairing look in her eyes, what a young brute I had been to go. For a time, Sue's voice seemed far away. Then I heard her telling Hal over that story of a young author my mother had talked to my father of me. He's going to try to know you, Billy, and help you, said Sue. He promised her that before she died, and I hope you're going to help him too. He needs you very badly. You never understood, Father, you know? I don't believe you have any idea of what he has gone through in his business. What do you mean? Have things gone wrong? I don't understand it very well. He hardly ever speaks of it. I think he'd better tell you himself. That evening in his library, from my seat by the table, I furtively watched my father's face. He sat in a huge chair against the wall, with a smaller chair in front for his feet, his vest unbuttoned, his short, heavy body settled low as he grimly kept his eyes on his book. The strong overhead light which shone on his face showed me the deeper lines, all the wrinkles, the broad, loose pouch of skin on the throat, the gray color, the pain, the weakness, and the age in his motionless eyes. What was going on in there? Sometimes it would seem an hour before he turned another page. All afternoon he had been at her grave. He had given her no happy life. Was it of that he was thinking? I felt ashamed to be wondering, for he seemed so weak and old in his grief. Two years ago his hair had been gray, but he had still looked strong and hailed. I could hardly feel now that he was the same man. I felt drawn to him now. I wished he would put down his book and talk and tell me everything about her. But what an embarrassing job it is to get acquainted with one's father. When Sue had left us after dinner, there had been a few brief remarks and then this long, tense silence. I, too, pretended to be reading. Your mother thought a lot of you, boy. He spoke at last so abruptly that I looked up at him with a start, and saw him watching me anxiously. Yes, sir. I looked quickly down and our eyes did not meet again after that. It was her pluck that kept you in Paris while she was dying. I choked. I know. You don't know. Not how she wanted you back. You'll never know. I wanted to write you to come home. I wish you had. She wouldn't hear of it. I see. Another silence. Why couldn't I think of something to say? She kept every letter you wrote her. They're up there in her bureau drawer. She was always reading them over and over. She thought a lot of your writing, boy, of what you would do when she was dead. The last came out almost fiercely. I waited a moment, got hold of myself. Yes, sir. I brought out at last. I hope you'll make it all worthwhile. I will. I'll try. I'll do my best. I did not look up, for I could still feel his anxious eyes upon my face. Do you want to go back to Paris? No, sir. I want to stay right here. What was the matter with my full voice? Have you got any plans for your writing here? How are you going about it, to start? Well, sir, to begin with, I've got some stuff I did abroad. Stories? Not exactly. Homes? My father's look was tragic. No. And I tried to explain what I had been doing. But my attempts to tell him of my work in Paris were as forced and as pathetic as his efforts to attend. More and more halting grew our talk, and it ended in a silence that seemed to have no end. Then I went to the fireplace, knocked the ashes out of my pipe, refilled it, and relit it. And when I returned, he was reading his book, and with a deep relief, I took up mine. That much of it was over. But again I found myself watching him. What was in my father's mind? Why this anxious, almost humble tone? It made me wince. It made me ashamed. I sat there all evening pretending to read and feeling that he was doing the same. Good night, Dad. I think I'll go to bed. Even this little came clumsily. I had never called him Dad before. Good night, my boy. See you at breakfast. Yes, sir. I glanced back as I turned down the hall and saw him staring after me. What was it he was thinking? End of Chapter 1 Recording by Tom Weiss Chapter 2 of The Harbor This lever-box recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Weiss The Harbor by Ernest Poole Chapter 2 I'm closing out my business, son. He told me the next morning. Here was another sharp surprise. I did not look at him as I asked. Why are you doing that, sir? It's a long story. Times have changed, and I'm getting old. Again I felt suddenly drawn to him. He was old and no mistake. Why had I never known him till now? Look here, Dad. The last word still came awkwardly. Can't I possibly be any help down there? He shot an anxious look at me. Why, yes. Glad to have you. I still have a young clerk, but I'd rather have you. Only one clerk? What had gone wrong with his business? But that day in his warehouse, which was empty now and silent, the mere ghost of what it had been, he seemed in no hurry to show me. On the contrary, he went back to the ledgers of his earliest years in business on the flimsy pretext of looking up certain figures and dates. He did not need me here. The work he gave me was absurd. I was simply taking the musty books from their piles in the closet and arranging them by years on the floor. To save time, he said. But he himself was still on that first ledger, stopping to talk, to ramble off from the pages before him. What did it mean? As the days wore on and he still delayed, and at night that strange humility crept again into his eyes, with a slowly deepening suspense, I came to feel that instead of saving time, my father was trying to make it. To go far back into his vigorous past for strength to meet his present, because he dreaded what he would find at the end of our work on these dusty books, the last grim figure in dollars and cents that would stand there as a result of his life as the stepping stone pursues in mine. And that was why he wanted me here. This was his way of telling me the story of his business life, before I saw what lay at the end. And as in our work that story unfolded, though at times it cast its spell on me hard, revealing what a man he had been, there were other times when from somewhere deep inside of me, a small selfish voice would ask, what is left? How much has he saved from the wreck? What is this going to mean to my life? In the ledgers his story was still alive. Yellow and dusty as they were, for me, day by day, they revivified that still odorous old warehouse until I saw it as it had been, a huge dim car of ancery for the curious products of all the earth. And that trick of feeling a man, which I had learned in Paris, made me keenly sensitive now to this lonely old stranger by my side, with whom I was becoming acquainted. I could feel the pull of these books upon him, pulling him out of his cramped old age back to his glad boundless youth. How suddenly spacious they became as he slowly turned the pages. Palm oil from Africa. Cotton from Bombay. Coffee from Arabia. Pepper from Sumatra. Turn the page. Ivory from Zanzibar. Salt from Cadiz and wines from Bordeaux. Turn the page. Whale oil from the Arctic. Iron from the Baltic. Tortoise shell from the Fiji islands. Turn the page. India silks and rugs and shawls. Indigo. Spices. Turn the page. I began to see the sails speed out along those starlit ocean roads. I began to feel the forces that had shaped my father's life. And little by little I saw in those days what not even my mother had understood, that in my father's business life there had been more than dollars, that what to us had seemed only a hobby, a dull, obstinate fixed idea, had been for him a glorious vision, the white sails of American clippers dotting all the seven seas. So they were in the late fifties, when leaving the farm in Illinois he came at sixteen to New York and found a job as time clerk in one of the shipyards along the East River. They are all gone now, but then they were humming and teeming with work, and my young father was deeply excited. He told me of his first day here, when he stood on the deck of a ferry and watched three great clippers go out with a tide bound for Calcutta. There were pictures of these vessels on the walls of his office, stately East Indian men bearing such names as Star of Empire, Daniel Webster, Ocean Monarch, Flying Cloud, ships known in every port of the world for their speed. He told how a British vessel, her top sails reefed in a gale of wind, would see a white tower of swelling canvas come out of the spray behind her, come booming, staggering, plunging by, a Yankee clipper under royals. Press of sail? No other nation knew what it meant. Our owners took big chances, it was no trade for nervous men. He found a harbor that welcomed young men, where cabin boys rose to be captains, and clerks became owners of hundreds of ships, to work, to rise, to own yards like these, build ships like these, and send them rushing on their courses out to all parts of the ocean world. This had been his vision at the time when it was bright and clear, and as now, he made me feel it. The crude vital force that had been in his dream poured into me deep, made me feel how shut in and one-sided had been my own vision and standards of life, gave me that profound surprise which many sons, I suppose, never have. My father was once young like me, wiring straight and tough like me, and as full of dreams of the things he would do. But then had come the civil war. Although only nineteen when the war broke out, he was already the head clerk in his office, but like every other young fool those days, he said, I was caught by the noise of a brass van. Down south as a commissary clerk, he found himself a tiny pawn in that gigantic game of graft which made fat fortunes in the north, and cost tens of thousands of soldiers their lives. He himself took typhoid, and when the war was over he returned to New York, weak, penniless, to find his old work gone. For the war, he said, had busted American shipping sky high. Even before it began, it had made the south so bitter that just for the sake of attacking the north, the solid south in Congress had joined the damn fool Farmer West and attacked our male subventions. No more of the nation's money, they said, for ship subsidies for New York and New England. And so all government protection of our shipping was withdrawn. And when the war ended, with forty percent of our ships grabbed, sunk, or sold, it was ruination to build any more, for the British and German governments were pouring millions of dollars a year into the Cunard and the North German Lloyd, and we couldn't compete against them. Still a few of the shipyards kept on, and in one of these at last I got a job at eight dollars a week. The war is over, we told ourselves, and the government can't stay blind forever. They'll see what they've done, and within a few months they'll go back to the old policy. Months? I stuck to that job and waited five years, and still no news from Washington. My boy, said a doddering Brooklynite, the nation has turned her face westward. Then he left the shipyards and went into a warehouse, where the work lay mainly in handling cargoes of foreign ships. And starting life all over again, he tried to make up for lost time. The first year he was a shipping clerk, the second a bookkeeper, the third he kept two sets of books for two different docks, one by day and the other at night, and by forty he had become a part owner in the old warehouse in which he now sat grimly reading the record of his life, of a long stubborn losing fight, for he stuck to his dream of Yankee sales. He married my mother when he was still young and full of hope. He must have been so much kindlier then and brighter, more human to live with. They bought that pleasant house of ours with its hospitable front door. My father's doddering Brooklynites seemed wonderful neighbors to his young wife, and so that front door waited for friends. As the years dragged on and they did not come, she blamed it all on the harbor. She saw what it was making him, jealous of every dollar and every hour spent at home. He worked all day and half the night. It took him into politics on countless trips to Washington, and she knew he spent thousands of dollars there in ways that were by no means fine. It made him morose and gloomy, a man of one idea to be shunned, and she no more saw behind all this than I did when I was a boy, for his vision was neither of pirates nor of bringing the heathen to Christ, but of imports and of exports. He dreamed in terms of battleships and of a mercantile marine. Each year he watched the chances grow, vast continents opening up to commerce with hints of such riches as staggered the mind. He saw the ocean world an arena into which rushed all nations but ours. Everyone but us, he said, had learned the big lesson that you can get nothing on land or sea unless you're ready to fight for it hard. He saw other nations get ready to fight. He watched them build huge navies and grant heavy subsidies to their fast-growing merchant fleets, send vessels by thousands over the seas. He saw their ship owners draw swiftly together in great corporations. Here was an age for immense adventures in this growing trade of the world. To wait, to hold on grimly, to keep up the fight at Washington for that miracle, protection which would start the boom. To see the shipping yards teeming again with the building of ships by the hundreds and thousands, to see them go out again over the seas with our flag at the mast and our sailors below. To feel the new call go over the nation, young men, come east and west, come out, the first place on the oceans can still be yours. This was my father's great idea. Ship subsidies and battleships, discriminating tariffs, what a religion. But it was his. Of the miracles these things would work, my father was more sure than of a god in heaven. For he had thought very little about a god, and all his life he had thought about this. For this he had spent at least half his wealth on the congressman that he despised, bribery? Yes, but for a religion. Go all around South America and to the far east, he told me, and you'll see the flags at sea of England, Germany, Austria, France, of Russia, Norway, Spain, Japan. But if you see the American flag, you'll see it waved by a little girl from the deck of a British liner. This means that we are losing in marine freight and foreign trade billions of dollars every year, and it means more and worse than that. For it's shipbuilding and ship sailing that take a nation's men out of their ruts, whip up their minds and imaginations, make them broad as the seven seas. And we've lost all that. We've thrown it away to breed a race of farmers, of factory hands and miners and anarchists and slums. We've built a nation of high finance and graft and a rising angry mob. But sooner or later, boy, this country will wake up to what it has done, and with our grip on both oceans and the blood we've still got in our veins, we'll reach out and take what is ours, as soon as we're ready to fight for it hard, the mastery of the ocean world. For this idea he had lived his life, for this he had neglected his business, for this he had lost favor with the usurping foreign ships, until his dock and his warehouse were often idle for weeks at a time. And the very bigness of things, the era of big companies, which at forty had thrilled him by the first signs of its coming, now crushed down upon his old age. Vaguely he knew that the harbor had changed, and that he was too old to change with it. An era no longer of human adventures for young men, but of financial adventures for mammoth corporations, great foreign shipping companies combining in agreements with the American railroads to freeze out all the little men, and take to themselves the whole port of New York. My father was one of these little men. The huge company to which he was selling owned the docks and warehouses for over two miles, and this was only a part of their holdings. Nothing without fighting that had been his motto, and he had fought and he had lost. And so in this new harbor of big companies, my father was now closing out. Too late for any business here, too late for life up there in his home. He had kept my mother waiting too long. He was ready at last, but she was dead. Too late. He had been born too late, had dreamed his dream of sales too late. And now he was too late in dying. There was nothing left to live for. How much better for him to be dead. End of Chapter 2. Recording by Tom Weiss. Chapter 3 of the Harbor. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Weiss. The Harbor by Ernest Poole. Chapter 3 I have tried to tell his story as my father felt it at the times when he took it out of himself and made him forget himself and me. But there were other times when he remembered himself and me, and those were the times that hurt the most. For in that new humility in his eyes and in his voice I could feel him then preparing us both. Me, to see why it was that he could not do for me what she had wished, himself to hold on grimly to find a new job for his old age, to keep from becoming a burden on me. At last we were coming to the end, to that last figure in dollars and cents. I caught a suspense and we talked little now. I knew the price at which he was selling and toward that figure I watched the debts creep slowly up. I saw them creep over and knew that we had not a dollar left to live on, and still the debts kept mounting. How small they were, these last ones, a coil of rope, two kegs of paint, the irony of it compared to the bigness of his life. Still these little figures climbed. At last he handed me his balance. He was in debt four thousand one hundred and forty-six dollars and seventeen cents. He had risen from his old office chair. Well, son, I guess that ends our work. Yes, sir. He went out of the office. I sat there dully for some time. Then I remember there came a harsh scream from a freight engine close outside, and I looked out of the window. The harbor of big companies uglier than I had ever seen it no longer dotted with white sales, but clouded with the smoke and soot of an age of steam and iron lay sprawled out there like a thing alive. Always changing, always growing, it had crushed a life out of my father and mother, and now it was ready for Sue and me. I've got to stay here and make money. Goodbye to the beautiful city of Grays. A clock in an outer room struck five. In Paris it was ten o'clock, and those friends of mine from all countries were crowding into the dirty spoon. I could see them saundering one by one on that summer's night down the gay old boulevard Saint-Michel and dropping into their seats at the table in a corner. How am I going to make money? By writing, I thought of Des Maltesans and the rest, and the two years I had spent in trying to make vivid and real the life I had seen. In these last anxious weeks I had sent some of my Paris sketches to magazine offices in New York. They had all been returned with printed slips of rejection, except in one case where the editor wrote, This is a good piece of writing, but the subject is too remote. Why not try something nearer home? All right, I thought. What's near me here? Let's see. There's a cloud of yellow smoke I can do with a brand new tug below it dragging a string of good big barges. What are they loaded with? Standard oil. Wait till they get closer and I can even describe the smell. No, I conclude it savagely. Let's keep my writing clean out of this hole and get the money some other way. Then suddenly I forgot myself and thought of my stern brave old dad. What under the sun was he going to do? That week he mortgaged our house on the heights for five thousand dollars. With this he paid off all his debts and put the balance in the bank. Then from the big dock company he got a job in his own warehouse at a hundred dollars a month. Kind of him, he said, gruffly. He was sixty-five years old. They were even kind enough to add to that a job for me. I sat at the desk next to his and I was paid ten dollars a week. Sue let the servants go, hired one green German girl, and said she knew that she could run a house on a hundred and twenty dollars a month. But the August bills went over that, so we drew money out of the bank. My father had bronchitis that week. We managed to keep him in bed for three days, but then he struggled up and dressed and went back to his desk in the warehouse. Keep your eye on him down there, said Sue. He's so terribly feeble. This can't go on, I told her. I must make more than ten dollars a week. Again I sent out some of my sketches. Again the magazine sent them back. I went to a newspaper office, but there an ironical office boy with the aid of the city editor made me feel that reporting was not in my line. What other work could I find to do? How much time did I have? How long was my father going to last? I watched his face and our bank account. I studied the want ads in the press, but the more I studied, the smaller I felt, for this was one of the years of depression. Two hundred thousand in New York, idle. I read it in a headline. Here was literature that gripped. I guess I'll stay right where I am. It's safer, I thought anxiously. Perhaps if I work hard enough they'll give me a raise at Christmas. When dad was my age he kept two sets of books, one by day and the other by night. How can I make my evenings pay? I took long walks in Brooklyn and picked up night work here and there. It was monotonous clerical work and being slow at figures I was often at it till midnight. Very late one evening while making out bills in a hardware store I suddenly came to a customer whose initials were J.K. It started me thinking of Joe Kramer and our last long talk about hay. So this is hay, I told myself. How long will it take me to get a haymind back here by this damned harbour?