The Wapshot Chronicle - John Cheever [66]
Woke before dawn on Monday. Two, three A.M. Irresolute and sleepless. Sat at window to try and reach decision. City sleeping. Few lights. Innocent-looking prospect. Remembered West Farm. Good old summertime! Remembered father. Life made unbearable by lack of coin. Moral of whole career appeared to be: Make Money. Hell hath no fire that burns like need. Poverty is the root of all evil. Who is the thief? A poor man. Who is the drunkard? A poor man too. Who makes his daughter spread her legs to strangers on Chardon Street? The poor man. Who leaves his son fatherless? The poor man.
Such reasoning quieted moral qualms somewhat although decision went against deepest instincts. Romantic perhaps. Dreamed often of fair wife, waiting in rose bower at end of day. White cottage. Lovebirds in flowering trees. Nellie Melba’s embonpoint. All this lost. Saw no other course, however. Gentle light appearing in sky. Dusk. Sound of early-bird horsecar coming up Joy Street. Went first thing in morning to Whittier. “I’m game, sir,” says I. Told me his plans. Go to visit girl that evening. Marry her in week or two. When time comes for accouchement take her to address in Nahant. Leave baby there. Infanticide? After birth of baby one thousand dollars would be deposited in National Trust Co., New York City, to writer’s account.
Put on best black suit after supper and walked to address given in Cambridge. Spring night. Temperature in the sixties. South wind sounding in still-bare trees like kettle drums. Many stars. Gentle light. Unlike winter constellations. House on hoopskirts of Cambridge. Half-starved dogs barked at writer’s footsteps. No sidewalks. Bare planks on mud. Small house among trees. Knocked woefully on door. Tall man opened. White hair. Sideburns. Drawn face. Sick perhaps? Sallow wife at back, holding lamp. Wick lying in yellow coal oil. How-do-you-dos ended, followed old couple into parlor, saw future wife.
Pretty child. Hair like raven’s wing. Snow-white complexion. Slender wrists. Felt pity, sympathy too. Rolled by old wind-breaking goat in bushes after Sunday-school picnic. Boss was unpopular, even among Chardon Street beauties. Babes in the wood; she and me. “Father was reading from the Bible” says her mother. “Luke,” says the old man. “Chapter seven; verse thirty-one.” Reads the Bible for an hour. Closed with prayers. Everybody on their knees. Said good-by then. “Good-by, Mr. Wapshot” were the only words spoken by future spouse. Walked home, wondering: Was she stupid? Could she cook?
Took Clarissa to church following Sunday. In company with her parents. On way there made proposal of marriage. “I would like to marry you, Mr. Wapshot,” she said. Some happiness then. Picture was not hopeless. Thought ahead to time after baby’s birth. Stormy weather coming but why not peace and quiet after? Church was deep-water Baptist. Sunny day. Fell asleep during sermon. Late that evening told mother of plans. Sainted old lady did not bat an eyelash. Never told her facts in case. Laconism, like blindness, seems to develop other faculties. Powers of divination. Married following Sunday in Church of Ascension. Father Masterson tied bond. Fine old character. Mother only witness. God bless dear old lady. Went from church to North Station. Took cars to Franconia.
Tedious journey in local. Stopped at every back yard. So it seemed. Backside of every barn on way painted with advertisements. Elixirs. Liver pills. Old circus posters. Dried codfish. Tea. Coffee. Back of barn in St. Botolphs painted: Boston Store. Rock bottom prices.
Young black-haired wife, dressed in best. Made all own clothes. Great sweetness; grace. Remember slenderness of wrists, ankles. Fleeting joy, sadness on face. Much openness. Real meaning of beauty all flow from lovely woman. Poetry. Music. Makes everything touched upon seem like revelation. Writer’s hand. Ugly train coach. “I once rode to Swamscott in the cars,” she said. Musical voice made journey seem like poem. Swans. Music of harps. Fountains. Swamscott not much and trains to same like trains everywhere. Fragrant, supple child, carrying seed of troll. Deep feeling of pity. Also lead in pencil.