The wind beat against the old gray clapboards of the Upjohn house, swirled around the chimneys, and howled along the eaves. But the house was quiet and dark. However, those within it were not asleep. They lay and stared blindly into the darkness and listened to the wind, and each knew his own particular desolation.
Andrew’s room was the smallest and darkest in the house, hid away at the end of the narrow and creaking corridor which had no windows, so that even on the brightest day it was necessary to grope to reach the door of that room. He had always had that room. It was not consciously chosen for him. But always Andrew had been a stranger in that household and had been given a stranger’s room, forgotten and isolated. Even his mother, Amanda, had a way of sometimes forgetting her son’s existence, though she often smiled at him and spoke to him affectionately. Charles had always been courteous towards his son, Melissa had consulted him, during his visits, about his studies, and Phoebe had expressed her admiration for his handsomeness. When he was absent, no one thought of him. It was not that he was the victim of his family’s indifference or coldness or deliberate neglect. But from his earliest childhood he had not impinged too vividly on the consciousness of his parents and his sisters. Perhaps it was because he was always so silent, so giving to wandering through the woods and over the hills for long hours, and because he gave no one any trouble and was never known to have been a participant in any quarrel. Charles had vaguely thought of him as “amiable,” Amanda was once heard to say that “he never gave me a moment’s trouble,” Melissa had carelessly remarked that he was “such a nice boy,” and Phoebe observed that the farm always seemed to take a brisker and more prosperous air when Andrew was home.
He lived on the periphery of the Upjohn family, his quiet orbit never quite touching the discordant edge of the family’s intense solar system. He revolved alone, in sight, but not in contact. He seemed always to be as unaware of the others as they were of him. No one ever conjectured whether Andrew loved this member of the family or that, or what he thought, or what he desired. Andrew was there, a tranquil and amicable body, easy to forget.
Charles had been his tutor for several years, devoting three hours a day to the boy’s studies, until he had gone away to school. Yet Charles never quite remembered whether there had been any discussions about the history he had taught his son, or whether they had engaged in any of those spirited arguments so common between himself and his daughter Melissa. Andrew simply accepted his lessons without comment. He had been dull, rather than a dullard. He was, Charles had thought, the very essence of comfortable mediocrity, for all his shrewd, dark-blue eyes and the way he had of suddenly looking at his father with a kind of still intensity. Perhaps Charles had not been aware of that intensity, or he had dismissed it immediately from his thoughts, as he always had a way of dismissing that which made him even vaguely uncomfortable.
In school, though no one of the Upjohns knew this, Andrew had become very popular with his teachers, and had made a few fast and devoted friends. When at home, he carried on a steady correspondence with these strangers. It was typical that no one in the family remarked on the many letters he received, or asked him about those who had sent them. They never expected to see Andrew display temper or umbrage or resentment or petulance, for he never had displayed them, even when a baby. They never exploited him, as good-natured people are usually exploited, just as they never quarrelled with him. When he had gone away to war, they were not overly concerned. Nothing ever happened to Andrew. Whenever his mother received a letter from him, she would examine the envelope with bewilderment before opening it, and then would exclaim: “Oh, it’s from Andrew,” with a note of surprise in her voice. In order that they might remember to write to him, the members of the family would be forced to make a note in their diaries or account-books.
On a certain day, Charles, upon receiving a letter from Andrew’s headmaster, had ejaculated: “Good God, it seems that Andrew is finished with that school, and will return home next week! Whatever are we to do with him now, Melissa? Sixteen years old! Is it possible?”
It was Melissa who had decided that Andrew must be a lawyer. Charles then learned that Melissa had given the subject of Andrew considerable thought during the past year. Charles had looked at his daughter with admiration and amusement. Imagine thinking of Andrew! Melissa had said: “I have been studying Andrew’s school reports this last year or so. He has a very analytical and logical mind, perfect for a lawyer. Of course, Papa, he could never qualify as a trial lawyer, for he has no brilliance or imagination, and no originality. But he has the qualities of doggedness and perseverance invaluable for legal research, which requires complete and meticulous attention to detail.”
Charles had laughed with that indulgence invariably displayed by the vivacious of mind for the plodder. “Well, my dear,” he had said, “I trust your judgment. Andrew shall be a lawyer. He will never send home any enormous amounts of money, but perhaps we can rely upon a certain income, and he will be off our hands.”
They “consulted” Andrew about his proposed career. Charles was never quite certain whether they had really consulted him, but he did remember that Melissa had brought Andrew into her father’s study, had outlined his gifts of mind to him, and had announced that Andrew was to go to Harvard the next autumn to begin his legal studies. Andrew had just sat, gravely smiling, occasionally nodding, and then had gone away. Neither Melissa nor Charles ever questioned themselves as to what the boy had really thought, or wanted. But then, no one ever questioned this. Andrew was someone to be disposed of neatly, filed away, and forgotten. Neither of them saw his last, uncertain, and imploring glance.
Amanda had been aghast at her husband’s decision. “And where, pray, Charles, is the money to come from? Harvard, indeed! A lawyer, indeed! It has been my belief that Andrew would assume the burden of managing the farm after his school-days were over. He is a man now, and quite capable of managing the land.”
Charles had talked to her gently and persuasively. Amanda never knew how the mention of money, and the need for it, disturbed and irritated him. But Charles knew that he could always appeal to Amanda on the basis of “good sense.” It was “good sense” to educate Andrew for the law. He would make considerable money, and help support the family beyond the value of his presence on the farm. The money would be “found” in some way. Amanda was not to distress her “little head.” Amanda, overcome as usual by her husband’s smooth and specious arguments, might have been content had she not seen the sudden triumphant flash of Melissa’s eyes. But it was no use to argue with Charles. He always managed to get his way, either by an air of exhausted and gentle weariness which it would be cruel to aggravate, or by his charming smile or his affectionate glance. Amanda retired from the argument, feeling, as always, that she had tangled with an invisible, soft, yet inexorable web, and that its filaments had choked her judgment.
So Andrew had gone to Harvard. Here, in the company of more gifted and more agile minds, he was lost, as he had not been lost in his country school. He lumbered through his classes. He had to repeat, and repeat again, for the next four years. Then, on the outbreak of war between the States, he had enlisted in the army. Some way—and this always remained a dim mystery to his family—he had received a commission. He had returned from the war, and the prison camp, as serene, impassive and unmoved as ever. No one bothered to question him about his experiences. It was taken for granted that Andrew’s experiences would always be dull and uneventful. And, indeed, Andrew showed no marks of the war years. Rugged and quiet, rarely speaking in his slow, deep voice, he returned to Harvard without comment. He never showed even his mother the long and ugly bayonet slashes on his chest, the badly healed wound on his right leg. He never spoke of them. Again it was taken for granted that nothing had happened to Andrew.
Andrew’s room was not only the smallest and darkest in the house, but the narrowest. It had one tiny window, high in the knotted-pine wall, which overlooked the roof of the kitchen below, a small segment of the kitchen garden, and the rear of the big gray barn. He had no view of meadow or hill. Views were not considered necessary for Andrew, who would probably not appreciate them. No one in the family knew that Andrew, when at home, would always arise at dawn and go outside to watch the morning skies. He moved silently, and always returned to his room unobserved, to the chorus of the fowl and the hosannah of the birds. Then he would lie on his hard and narrow bed, remembering, with a still glory on his big and rugged face.
He lay on his back tonight, his big arms folded under his head, his eyes staring at the dim rectangle of the high little window, which no one had ever thought to soften with curtains. His large straight body was covered with a thin, frayed patchwork quilt. The straw mattress creaked faintly with his slow, heavy breathing and his slight movements. He listened to the enormous howl of the wind as it rattled his unshuttered window. The room was very cold and dank. But he did not feel the chill. His body was always so warm, so deeply pulsing.
Through no one ever believed that Andrew “thought,” he was thinking. His thoughts were like the quiet strong beatings of his heart, sonorous, steadfast and calm. They were grave thoughts, but not somber, for Andrew was naturally attuned to the immense inevitabilities of life. He was thinking of his father.
He had been afraid of Charles, for something in him, pure and uncorrupted, had recognized corruption. But he did not know why he was afraid, for his fear was instinctive. Andrew had never been “clever” with words. He had no words for his fear and his doubt and, as he was so intensely loyal and devoted, he had quelled the voice of warning. He thought his shrinking was the result of his recognition of his own dullness and nothingness and inferiority.
He had always been afraid of Melissa, too, because she reflected so much of his father’s light, and was always so assured, so cold, and so definite in her decisions. He had accepted their decisions about his life as he always accepted everything about them. They knew best. His own passionate yet slow cravings, his own desperate hunger, were stupid things, too shameful to mention. They knew all the wise decisions; they knew him better than he knew himself. This he believed with complete faith.
He hated his thick and unresponsive tongue, which could never express his thoughts. He thought of himself as dumb and ignorant, heavy of movement, amorphic, sluggish of comprehension. The vast tides that rolled and retreated and surged in him were too enormous for words, and so he condemned them as foolish and shameful. Sometimes he had lingered on the edge of a conversation between Melissa and his father, and had listened to them, wondering, vaguely exalted, and deeply moved. He did not understand a word they said, but he was convinced that it was splendid beyond all understanding. Finally, becoming aware of him, they had flung him the half-amused, half-impatient, glance which one casts at a big puppy lurking in the background, and he had felt himself dismissed, and had slunk away.
He was thinking of all this as he lay in his bed, staring into the darkness. He was thinking of the splintering thought which had come to him when he had watched his father being lowered into his grave. He had thought: I am free at last.
His thoughts had always come to him slowly. They had been like thick-husked seeds planted in the ground. A day would come when the husk would split, and a thin frail tendril would emerge, green and seeking. Then the dark and heavy earth of his mind would be pierced by the delicate stem, and a hopeful leaf would be put out. But it would take a long time before the thought became a rooted and steadfast tree, matted in invincible branches beneath the sun. So he could not understand the suddenness and violence of the thought at his father’s grave. He did not know of the seed which had been planted in his slow and solid mind years ago, and which only now, as the darkness rolled away, was revealed as a full-grown tree.
I am free at last, he had thought. And he had looked at his mother, standing there in the gray drizzle near the raw earth. He had looked, and thought: We are all free. He had loved his mother, as an animal loves its dam, but he had never thought much about her. Now he saw her, and for the first time a quiet and angry bitterness came to him against his father. No expression showed itself on his large and impassive face. Andrew thought with his instincts, and his instincts were awakened now; emotions, rather than true and relentless reflections, marched through his mind. He had looked at Melissa, and his small blue eyes had darkened, partly with pity, partly with disgust. He had looked at little mewling Phoebe, whose golden ringlets were the only bright color in the foggy grayness, and his dark-auburn brows had drawn together in a thick knot.
He thought: Why have I done this thing to my life, and allowed it to be done? I saw his face this morning as he lay in his coffin, and I knew he was a lie. I let him do what he wished with me, because he had deceived me, just as he had deceived my mother and my sisters. How was it possible I did not know until this afternoon when I saw his face for the last time before they closed the lid down upon it? I knew it all at once, suddenly, like lightning
But it had not come like lightning, and Andrew’s mind, moving like a belated sun over a dimmed landscape, began to pick out hidden landmarks and the shapes of his tree-thoughts. He had forgotten, but now, involuntarily, he thought of a certain morning in spring when he had been fifteen years old, and home for the Easter holidays. It was the morning when the hard lifeless seed had been dropped in the earth of his mind.
He saw that morning so clearly now. Yesterday it had been cold and bitter, winter lingering in slabs of white ice, like fallen gravestones, under the bare trees. The wind had been a lash, the rain, drops of ice. But this morning had come, and with it the long sweet breath of spring, like a smile, like a soft, triumphant chorus hardly heard, only felt. Never had there been such a sky, so pure, tinted like a robin’s egg, across which moved thin drifts of clouds radiant before the new sun. The brown wet earth lay under the light, still naked, but softened with mist and exhaling a thousand strong and fertile scents too intoxicating for endurance. The hills floated in mauve radiance. The trees were still empty, yet there was a pliability about, their branches, a gentle blurring; no longer were they stark and hard and rigid as they had.been only yesterday. A faint greenness, like a haze, touched the distant fields, which had lain like rutted iron the other morning. The fowl in the barnyard, the pigs, the horses in the stable, the cattle in their stalls, lifted their voices excitedly as if they had slept all winter and had come awake only at this hour. Robins hopped over the ground, their red-umber breasts bright in the sunlight, and sparrows twittered noisily in the eaves and over the slate roof of the house, which, damp from the rains of the night, now flowed like water with the blue reflection from the sky.
Andrew had seen Charles and Melissa in the wet brown garden. They were listening, and seeing, standing hand in hand like lovers, with the sunlight on their faces. Charles was wearing his old black cloak, which fell about him in lean shabby folds. His heard was bare, and the sunlight had turned his gray hair to a flat silver. As always, his shoulders were bent, and he was the delicate and attenuated scholar delighting esthetically in the young morning. Melissa was clad in one of her somber and bunchy brown frocks, careless, as always, of her seventeen-year-old virgin beauty, unaware of the slender elegance of her figure, which even her garments could not de stroy. She had thrown a gray shawl over her shoulders; it fluttered in the wind. Her profile was turned towards Andrew, and for the first time he knew that his sister was beautiful. Her pale gilt hair shone and glittered in the sun, like a gold piece fresh from the mint, and Andrew thought that her profile, too, resembled the profile on a new coin, so clearly cut was it, so sharp and intense of feature, so unworn by ugly hands.
Andrew had left the house with his usual careful silence, and now stood behind his father and sister. He was content to be near them, without their seeing him. He wanted to hear their voices speaking about the morning. He felt the earth under his feet; all at once, it seemed to pulse against them like a deep, awakening breast. He stood on the breast of the earth, and he knew it was alive, that it had cognizance, that it was a huge sentient being. He must have always known it, all his life, but now he knew that he had known it forever.
Charles began to speak, in the dreamy voice he affected when he wished to inform his audience that he was poignantly moved:
“Melissa, I feel, this morning, that the earth is a living being, personally alive, a huge creature with a soul and a consciousness of its own, apart from the creatures who live upon it.”
Melissa looked at her father breathlessly, and now her face became fluid with quiet rapture, and she murmured incoherently. But Andrew did not look at her. He stared at the earth under his feet and felt its pulse. It lived. But then, he had always known it. The earth was alive; it had a spirit. He had always loved it. Some time, during his school years, he had read that men had once worshipped the earth. He remembered how the schoolboys had laughed scornfully at the idea. They were wrong! The great mother earth was a Being, with an enormous heart forever beating, with a pulsing so huge, so ponderously living, that the little hearts of men must stir in answer, however feeble.
His father’s graciously approving voice echoed in the boy’s ears, and suddenly Andrew could not bear to hear it, though he did not understand why. But he felt that something blasphemous was being uttered, something loftily and indulgently patronizing, as if Charles believed that the earth, great Mother Earth, ought to be pleased that one of her minute children had recognized her, had granted her sentience, from some celestial throne set far above her grossness.
Andrew ran back into the house and shut the door of his room with a rare vehemence. He sat on the edge of his bed, and his hands were sweating, and his face was flushed, as though he had been witness to some scene of desecration. He was young, and his emotions, though vast, were always formless, and at last he did not know why he had felt this thing. He knew only that something alien had salted his mouth; he did not know it was hatred.
But now he knew it as he lay in his bed and stared at the gray patch of little window. The seed had been sown that morning, the seed which would be revealed as a mighty tree-shape in the hour when he stood by his father’s grave.
He thought to himself, moving his large head on his strong, muscular arms: The earth was always mine, and I always belonged to the earth. There was nothing, ever, between us. How dared they stand there, that morning, and be condescending to the morning, and ethereally enraptured over it, no doubt feeling in themselves a mean, exalted self-approval because they had allowed the everlasting earth a little measure of consciousness! Like angels affably acknowledging the wagging tail of a dog! I hated him then, though I did not know it. I know it now. It was my knowing it was hatred that set me free. It was my knowing all about him, and despising him. Melissa? She is a fool.
He thought of the earth, and he said to himself: Mine! There is nothing to keep me from it now. What kept me from it before? My own stupidity, my own wicked and senseless humility. In some way, a corrupt mind took hold of my mind. I can see now that a corrupt mind can enslave and injure more than a corrupt act. But his was a very peculiar corruption. I wonder if he ever knew that he was a fraud? I wonder if he deliberately set out to destroy us all, or whether he, too, was helpless?
Andrew listened to the wind, and smiled deeply to himself. It was the voice of promise and deliverance, of freedom and peace. It was the voice of the holy earth. He had never experienced any spiritual reaction in church, or in his Sunday school, and had hardly listened to the sermons. But now he remembered something: Be still, and know that God is. He was not certain if this was the exact quotation, but he understood it. Be still, and know that God is, and knowing, know that the earth is one with Him, and He with the earth.