O Henry

             Strictly Business
     More Stories of the Four Million



                   IV

              The Day Resurgent


Файл с книжной полки Несененко Алексея



I can see the artist bite the end of his pencil and frown when it 
comes to drawing his Easter picture; for his legitimate pictorial 
conceptions of figures pertinent to the festival are but four in 
number.

First comes Easter, pagan goddess of spring.  Here his fancy may 
have free play.  A beautiful maiden with decorative hair and the 
proper number of toes will fill the bill.  Miss Clarice St. Vavasour, 
the well-known model, will pose for it in the "Lethergogallagher," 
or whatever it was that Trilby called it.

Second--the melancholy lady with upturned eyes in a framework 
of lilies.  This is magazine-covery, but reliable.

Third--Miss Manhattan in the Fifth Avenue Easter Sunday parade.

Fourth--Maggie Murphy with a new red feather in her old straw 
hat, happy and self-conscious, in the Grand Street turnout.

Of course, the rabbits do not count.  Nor the Easter eggs, since the 
higher criticism has hard-boiled them.

The limited field of its pictorial possibilities proves that Easter, of 
all our festival days, is the most vague and shifting in our 
conception.  It belongs to all religions, although the pagans 
invented it.  Going back still further to the first spring, we can see 
Eve choosing with pride a new green leaf from the tree _ficus 
carica_.

Now, the object of this critical and learned preamble is to set forth 
the theorem that Easter is neither a date, a season, a festival, a 
holiday nor an occasion.  What it is you shall find out if you 
follow in the footsteps of Danny McCree.

Easter Sunday dawned as it should, bright and early, in its place 
on the calendar between Saturday and Monday.  At 5:24 the sun 
rose, and at 10:30 Danny followed its example.  He went into the 
kitchen and washed his face at the sink.  His mother was frying 
bacon.  She looked at his hard, smooth, knowing countenance as 
he juggled with the round cake of soap, and thought of his father 
when she first saw him stopping a hot grounder between second 
and third twenty-two years before on a vacant lot in Harlem, where 
the La Paloma apartment house now stands.  In the front room of 
the flat Danny's father sat by an open window smoking his pipe, 
with his dishevelled gray hair tossed about by the breeze.  He still 
clung to his pipe, although his sight had been taken from him two 
years before by a precocious blast of giant powder that went off 
without permission.  Very few blind men care for smoking, for the 
reason that they cannot see the smoke.  Now, could you enjoy 
having the news read to you from an evening newspaper unless 
you could see the colors of the headlines?

"'Tis Easter Day," said Mrs. McCree.

"Scramble mine," said Danny.

After breakfast he dressed himself in the Sabbath morning 
costume of the Canal Street importing house dray chauffeur--frock 
coat, striped trousers, patent leathers, gilded trace chain across 
front of vest, and wing collar, rolled-brim derby and butterfly bow 
from Schonstein's (between Fourteenth Street and Tony's fruit 
stand) Saturday night sale.

"You'll be goin' out this day, of course, Danny," said old man 
McCree, a little wistfully.  "'Tis a kind of holiday, they say.  Well, 
it's fine spring weather.  I can feel it in the air."

"Why should I not be going out?" demanded Danny in his 
grumpiest chest tones.  "Should I stay in?  Am I as good as a 
horse?  One day of rest my team has a week.  Who earns the 
money for the rent and the breakfast you've just eat, I'd like to 
know?  Answer me that!"

"All right, lad," said the old man.  "I'm not complainin'.  While me 
two eyes was good there was nothin' better to my mind than a 
Sunday out.  There's a smell of turf and burnin' brush comin' in the 
windy.  I have me tobaccy.  A good fine day and rist to ye, lad.  
Times I wish your mother had larned to read, so I might hear the 
rest about the hippopotamus--but let that be."

"Now, what is this foolishness he talks of hippopotamuses?" asked 
Danny of his mother, as he passed through the kitchen.  "Have you 
been taking him to the Zoo?  And for what?"

"I have not," said Mrs. McCree.  "He sets by the windy all day.  
'Tis little recreation a blind man among the poor gets at all.  I'm 
thinkin' they wander in their minds at times.  One day he talks of 
grease without stoppin' for the most of an hour.  I looks to see if 
there's lard burnin' in the fryin' pan.  There is not.  He says I do not 
understand.  'Tis weary days, Sundays, and holidays and all, for a 
blind man, Danny.  There was no better nor stronger than him 
when he had his two eyes.  'Tis a fine day, son.  Injoy yeself ag'inst 
the morning.  There will be cold supper at six."

"Have you heard any talk of a hippopotamus?" asked Danny of 
Mike, the janitor, as he went out the door downstairs.

"I have not," said Mike, pulling his shirtsleeves higher.  "But 'tis 
the only subject in the animal, natural and illegal lists of outrages 
that I've not been compained to about these two days.  See the 
landlord.  Or else move out if ye like.  Have ye hippopotamuses in 
the lease?  No, then?"

"It was the old man who spoke of it," said Danny.  "Likely there's 
nothing in it."

Danny walked up the street to the Avenue and then struck 
northward into the heart of the district where Easter--modern 
Easter, in new, bright raiment--leads the pascal march.  Out of 
towering brown churches came the blithe music of anthems from 
the choirs.  The broad sidewalks were moving parterres of living 
flowers--so it seemed when your eye looked upon the Ester girl.

Gentlemen, frock-coated, silk-hatted, gardeniaed, sustained the 
background of the tradition.  Children carried lilies in their hands.  
The windows of the brownstone mansions were packed with the 
most opulent creations of flora, the sister of the Lady of the Lilies.

Around a corner, white-gloved, pink-gilled and tightly buttoned, 
walked Corrigan, the cop, shield to the curb.  Danny knew him.

"Why, Corrigan," he asked, "is Easter?  I know it comes the first 
you're full after the moon rises on the seventeenth of March--but 
why?  Is it a proper and religious ceremony, or does the Governor 
appoint it out of politics?"

"'Tis an annual celebration," said Corrigan, with the judicial air of 
the Third Deputy Police Commissioner, "peculiar to New York.  It 
extends up to Harlem.  Sometimes they has the reserves out at One 
Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street.  In my opinion 'tis not political."

"Thanks," said Danny.  "And say--did you ever hear a man 
complain of hippopotamuses?  When not specially in drink, I 
mean."

"Nothing larger than sea turtles," said Corrigan, reflecting, "and 
there was wood alcohol in that."

Danny wandered.  The double, heavy incumbency of enjoying 
simultaneously a Sunday and a festival day was his.

The sorrows of the hand-toiler fit him easily.  They are worn so 
often that they hang with the picturesque lines of the best tailor-
made garments.  That is why well-fed artists of pencil and pen find 
in the griefs of the common people their most striking models.  
But when the Philistine would disport himself, the grimness of 
Melpomene, herself, attends upon his capers.  Therefore, Danny 
set his jaw hard at Easter, and took his pleasure sadly.

The family entrance of Dugan's caf'e was feasible; so Danny 
yielded to the vernal season as far as a glass of bock.  Seated in a 
dark, linoleumed, humid back room, his heart and mind still 
groped after the mysterious meaning of the springtime jubilee.

"Say, Tim," he said to the waiter, "why do they have Easter?"

"Skiddoo!" said Tim, closing a sophisticated eye.  "Is that a new 
one?  All right.  Tony Pastor's for you last night, I guess.  I give it 
up.  What's the answer--two apples or a yard and a half?"

From Dugan's Danny turned back eastward.  The April sun seemed 
to stir in him a vague feeling that he could not construe.  He made 
a wrong diagnosis and decided that it was Katy Conlon.

A block from her house on Avenue A he met her going to church.  
They pumped hands on the corner.

"Gee! but you look dumpish and dressed up," said Katy.  "What's 
wrong?  Come away with me to church and be cheerful."

"What's doing at church?" asked Danny.

"Why, it's Easter Sunday.  Silly!  I waited till after eleven expectin' 
you might come around to go."

"What does this Easter stand for, Katy," asked Danny gloomily.  
"Nobody seems to know."

"Nobody as blind as you," said Katy with spirit.  "You haven't 
even looked at my new hat.  And skirt.  Why, it's when all the girls 
put on new spring clothes.  Silly!  Are you coming to church with 
me?"

"I will," said Danny.  "If this Easter is pulled off there, they ought 
to be able to give some excuse for it.  Not that the hat ain't a 
beauty.  The green roses are great."

At church the preacher did some expounding with no pounding.  
He spoke rapidly, for he was in a hurry to get home to his early 
Sabbath dinner; but he knew his business.  There was one word 
that controlled his theme--resurrection.  Not a new creation; but a 
new life arising out of the old.  The congregation had heard it 
often before.  But there was a wonderful hat, a combination of 
sweet peas and lavender, in the sixth pew from the pulpit.  It 
attracted much attention.

After church Danny lingered on a corner while Katy waited, with 
pique in her sky-blue eyes.

"Are you coming along to the house?" she asked.  "But don't mind 
me.  I'll get there all right.  You seem to be studyin' a lot about 
something.  All right.  Will I see you at any time specially, Mr. 
McCree?"

"I'll be around Wednesday night as usual," said Danny, turning 
and crossing the street.

Katy walked away with the green roses dangling indignantly.  
Danny stopped two blocks away.  He stood still with his hands in 
his pockets, at the curb on the corner.  His face was that of a 
graven image.  Deep in his soul something stirred so small, so fine, 
so keen and leavening that his hard fibres did not recognize it.  It 
was something more tender than the April day, more subtle than 
the call of the senses, purer and deeper-rooted than the love of 
woman--for had he not turned away from green roses and eyes that 
had kept him chained for a year?  And Danny did not know what it 
was.  The preacher, who was in a hurry to go to his dinner, had 
told him, but Danny had had no libretto with which to follow the 
drowsy intonation.  But the preacher spoke the truth.

Suddenly Danny slapped his leg and gave forth a hoarse yell of 
delight.

"Hippopotamus!" he shouted to an elevated road pillar.  "Well, 
how is that for a bum guess?  Why, blast my skylights!  I know 
what he was driving at now.

"Hippopotamus!  Wouldn't that send you to the Bronx!  It's been a 
year since he heard it; and he didn't miss it so very far.  We quit at 
469 B. C., and this comes next.  Well, a wooden man wouldn't 
have guessed what he was trying to get out of him."

Danny caught a crosstown car and went up to the rear flat that his 
labor supported.

Old man McCree was still sitting by the window.  His extinct pipe 
lay on the sill.

"Will that be you, lad?" he asked.

Danny flared into the rage of a strong man who is surprised at the 
outset of committing a good deed.

"Who pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?" 
he snapped, viciously.  "Have I no right to come in?"

"Ye're a faithful lad," said old man McCree, with a sigh.  "Is it 
evening yet?"

Danny reached up on a shelf and took down a thick book labeled 
in gilt letters, "The History of Greece."  Dust was on it half an inch 
thick.  He laid it on the table and found a place in it marked by a 
strip of paper.  And then he gave a short roar at the top of his 
voice, and said:

"Was it the hippopotamus you wanted to be read to about then?"

"Did I hear ye open the book?" said old man McCree.  "Many and 
weary be the months since my lad has read it to me.  I dinno; but I 
took a great likings to them Greeks.  Ye left off at a place.  'Tis a 
fine day outside, lad.  Be out and take rest from your work.  I have 
gotten used to me chair by the windy and me pipe."

"Pel-Peloponnesus was the place where we left off, and not 
hippopotamus," said Danny.  "The war began there.  It kept 
something doing for thirty years.  The headlines says that a guy 
named Philip of Macedon, in 338 B. C., got to be boss of Greece 
by getting the decision at the battle of Cher-Cheronaea.  I'll read 
it."

With his hand to his ear, rapt in the Peloponnesian War, old man 
McCree sat for an hour, listening.

Then he got up and felt his way to the door of the kitchen.  Mrs. 
McCree was slicing cold meat.  She looked up.  Tears were 
running from old man McCree's eyes.

"Do you hear our lad readin' to me?" he said.  "There is none finer 
in the land.  My two eyes have come back to me again."

After supper he said to Danny:  "'Tis a happy day, this Easter.  
And now ye will be off to see Katy in the evening.  Well enough."

"Who pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?" 
said Danny, angrily.  "Have I no right to stay in it?  After supper 
there is yet to come the reading of the battle of Corinth, 146 B. C., 
when the kingdom, as they say, became an in-integral portion of 
the Roman Empire.  Am I nothing in this house?"