Again George Brush set out on the long swing of the pendulum to Abilene, Texas, resuming the life in trains, buses, street cars and blank hotel bedrooms, his evenings spent in public libraries, and the long walks at night encircling the towns he was visiting. He refused to recognize the profound dejection that filled him; he pretended that he was enjoying his work, his Sundays, and his reading. There were two things that now somewhat mitigated his depression; one was his pipe, the other was his study of the German language. Caulkins and Company had decided to put out a First and Second German Reader, and as usual Brush felt himself called upon to make a personal experience of their superiority. He memorized the paradigms and wrote out all the exercises. He found three misprints. He learned by heart “Du bist wie eine Blume” and “The Lorelei.” He began talking to himself and thinking in hog-German. He no longer lived by voluntary poverty, and with the addition of Herb’s money he grew incredibly wealthy; he had over eight hundred dollars. Out of this superfluity he bought himself a portable gramophone, and while he was dressing he played himself the German instruction records. He became very enthusiastic about the German classics and prolonged all his conversations with the German teachers he called upon; Caulkins’ Readers sold in great numbers.
But these consolations were more apparent than real. They could not conceal the stab of physical pain that went through him when, on the evening walks, he glimpsed through half-drawn blinds the felicities of an American home, or when in church he discovered that the old-fashioned hymns no longer had the power to render him inexplicably happy. From time to time whole nights passed without his being able to sleep; occasionally he sat down to a meal, only to discover that he had no appetite whatever.
One day he arose to discover, quite simply, that he had lost his faith. It was as though in some painless way he had lost his arms and legs. At first his only emotion was astonishment. He looked about him; he had mislaid something that would turn up presently. But it did not turn up and the astonishment was followed by a mood of cynical exhilaration. When he went to bed he would find himself falling on his knees as usual, but he would spring up at once, a little guiltily, and, getting into bed, would lie there, smiling grimly at the ceiling. “Es ist nichts da,” he would mutter aloud to the sky, “gar nichts.”
For a while this gave his life and his business interviews a new energy. Now he laughed and talked more in the chance encounters on trains and in hotels. He spent his evenings at the movies, laughing long and loudly at the least pretext. He began to take advantage of his expense account recklessly; he chose the dollar dinner, with steak, rather than the sixty-cent dinner, vegetable plate, or sausage and potatoes.
By the time he reached Texas something was happening to his health, and finally at Trowbridge, in western Texas, he went to the hospital. The doctor was puzzled and then alarmed. Apparently Brush had a little of everything. There was a touch of amœbic dysentery and a suggestion of sinus; there was something of rheumatism and more than a hint of jaundice. His respiratory organs weren’t right, a kind of asthma, and his heart had a murmur. The whole machine had run down and he grew worse daily. He lay in the hospital for weeks, his face turned to the wall. His few remarks were quotations from King Lear translated into bad German. He knew what was the matter with him and on one occasion tried to explain to the doctor his theory of sickness, but he soon gave it up with the words: “Ich sterbe, du stirbst, er stirbt, sie und es stirbt; wir sterben, ihr sterbet, sie sterben, sie sterben.” When he first arrived at the hospital he had filled out a card, giving his name, age, and business address, and the hospital office had written to Caulkins and Company about his condition. A number of letters from the firm and forwarded by the firm had come to him, but Brush left them unopened on the table by his bed.
Brush had had very little to do with hospitals, but he had a theory that trained nurses were the true priestesses of our time. Whenever he saw or met one he gazed upon her with profound admiration and reverence. Miss Colloquer, who was assigned to him, was faultless in the performance of her duties, but she seemed to have no inkling of the higher qualities that Brush expected of her.
One day she put her head around the edge of the screen that protected him. “Asleepums?” she asked, softly.
“No.”
“Here’s a nice, nice caller to see you,” she said, straightening the sheets into a long line across his chest. “It’s Dr. Bowie. He’s my minister at the First Methodist. You want to see him, don’t you?”
Brush shook his head.
“Oh yes, you do. He’s a werry, werry nice man. Now let me make you booful a minute,” she said, straightening the part in his hair, “There! Oo’s a perfect lamb, yes, you are. As good as gold. Come in Dr. Bowie.”
Dr. Bowie was an elderly, bearded man, wearing a frayed frock coat; a black string tie was tied about the collar of his blue flannel shirt. He came from a long talk with the director of the hospital.
Brush with both hands held his pillow over his eyes. He lowered it for a moment, glanced at his visitor, and replaced it on his forehead.
“What’s this? What’s this, my dear boy?” asked Dr. Bowie, drawing up his chair by Brush’s bed. Brush did not answer. Dr. Bowie lowered his voice: “Now, isn’t there anything you want to tell me?” Brush still did not answer. Dr. Bowie was slightly antagonized, but he controlled himself. “The doctor tells me that you’re a sick man, a pretty sick man, my boy. We must think of that, yes, sir.” He brought out a questionnaire blank and laid it surreptitiously on his knees, and drew out a pencil. “Are your dear parents living, Mr. Brush?”
The pillow moved up and down.
“Now don’t you think we’d better telegraph them that you’re sick? Don’t you think that you’d get well right off if your father or your dear mother were here?”
“No,” said Brush.
“What are their names and addresses?”
Brush gave the answer and Dr. Bowie licked his pencil and wrote it down. It turned out that Brush was a married man also, and Roberta’s address was recorded, with the date of the marriage.
Dr. Bowie consulted the next question and murmured “Mm—no children—?”
“Two,” said Brush. “One that’s alive and one that’s dead. The live one is Elizabeth Martin Brush. She’s four. And the dead one’s name is . . . is . . .” He consulted the ceiling, then added with decision . . . “is named David.”
Dr. Bowie’s eyebrows rose, but he recorded the facts. “Now isn’t there some message you’d like to give me for your family, Mr. Brush?”
“No.”
Dr. Bowie laid aside his paper a moment. “I want you to think seriously for a moment, my dear boy. I certainly hope that God will restore you soon to a life of Christian usefulness; but God’s will is not always our will. He calls us when he wants us. Have you any church affiliation, may I ask?”
Brush took the pillow away from his forehead. “No,” he said, clearly. “None.”
Dr. Bowie drew in his chin and cleared his throat. “Now a great many people, a great many, have found it a comfort—what a comfort!—to ask forgiveness of God in the presence of his minister—oh, my boy!—for the things they’ve done wrong in this life. It lightens the load, my brother.”
Brush’s mouth straightened out. “I’ve broken all the Ten Commandments, except two,” he answered. “I never killed anybody and I never made any graven images. Many’s the time I almost killed myself, though, and I’m not joking. I never was tempted by idols, but I guess that would have come along any day. I don’t say these things to you because I’m sorry, but because I don’t like your tone of voice. I’m glad I did these things and I wish I’d done them more. I made the mistake all my life of thinking that you could get better and better until you were perfect.”
There was a long pause. Dr. Bowie swallowed his soft palate several times; then said, in a feeble voice: “In spite of that, Mr. Brush, it has always been my custom at the bedside of patients . . . in a critical condition . . . to say a few . . . words of prayer.”
Brush raised his head a moment and looked at him fiercely. “Don’t!” he said.
“My boy, my boy!” replied the other, his hands fluttering in midair.
“If there were a God he wouldn’t like it,” cried Brush, with unexpected force. “Don’t you know that you’re not supposed to ask for . . . for facts?”
“Mr. Brush!”
“You’re only supposed to ask for things like being good or having faith or something like that.”
“Very well . . . ah . . . !”
“But it doesn’t get you anywhere. Look at me. The more I asked the worse I got. Everything I did was wrong. Everybody I knew got to hate me. So that proves it. When you were young I guess you asked to be all those things; and yet look at you; you’re pretty stupid, if I must say so, and dry and . . . I’ll bet you even believe in war.”
Dr. Bowie had risen in horror and was nervously gathering together his questionnaire, hat, raincoat, cane, and Bible. Brush continued: “The second thing that shows that there is no God is that he allows such foolish people to be ministers. I’ve secretly thought that for a long time, and now I’m glad to be able to say it. All ministers are stupid—do you hear me—all. . . . I mean all except one.”
Dr. Bowie’s anger had so risen that his horror was gone. He leaned over Brush. “Young man,” he said, distinctly, “are those the words and thoughts you’re going to die with?”
They stared at one another. Brush greatly weakened by his outburst, closed his eyes. “No,” he said. “. . . I’m sorry.”
“I realize you’re a sick man. I hope you’ll think over the foolish proud things you’ve said. I’ll come and see you again.” He stood looking at Brush’s closed eyes a moment. Then he said: “There seems to be a good deal of mail for you here. Would you like me to read it to you?”
“No. There’s not a letter in the world that would interest me at all.”
Miss Colloquer had come in, smiling. “Dr. Bowie, do open that little package that’s come. Perhaps it’s a present for Mr. Brush. You’ll let him open it, won’t you, Mr. Brush? It’s from Kansas City.”
Brush nodded wearily.
Dr. Bowie opened it. In the tissue paper lay an ordinary silver-plated spoon.
Miss Colloquer loved a mystery and would not let the matter rest until they had found the letter that accompanied the present. It was from a Marcella L. Craven. It said that she hoped Mr. Brush was well and enjoying his work. The boys on the top floor were all well and still had jobs. Roberta and Lottie and Elizabeth had paid a call on her one day and they were in fine health. The writer hoped Mr. Brush would come back soon because Elizabeth wanted more lessons. “She couldn’t be fonder of you if you were her own father, Mr. Brush, that’s the truth. I forget if I told you that Father Pasziewski died. I will tell you the details about it when you come. Mrs. Kandinsky and I called on him a few days before he died. And it seemed he knew he was going to die and he wanted to give us something to remember him by. So he sent Anna into the dining-room and he gave us each a spoon. And he asked me to give you a spoon from him, too. He said it was a sort of foolish thing to give, but that perhaps you could use a spoon some way. I told him you liked to hear about him, Mr. Brush, and he seemed to have a special feeling about you. It’s a terrible pity you never met.”
“Don’t read any more,” said Brush. “Thank you,” and holding the spoon in his hand he turned his face to the wall. Then looking back a minute he asked: “What day is today, Miss Colloquer—what day of the week?”
“Why, today’s Friday.”
“Thank you.”
From that day he began to get well. At first he was silent and thoughtful, but gradually the talkativeness began to reappear, and finally he was able to resume his itinerary. He so arranged his appointments that he was able to revisit Wellington, Oklahoma, on his twenty-fourth birthday. He returned to the path through the deep weeds and came to the pond near the deserted brick factory. Again there were turtles on the log; again the bird-calls foretold a hot day. He lay flat on his face and finally fell asleep, but not before he had passed an earnest hour. A few days later in Killam, a man heard him sing at a community-chest bazaar and offered him a good deal of money to sing on the radio in Chicago. Brush said he’d like to do it, but that his route didn’t pass through Chicago. The man doubled his offer; Brush replied that he’d do it free of charge, but that his route didn’t pass through Chicago. The next day in Lockburn, Missouri, Brush came upon a very pretty waitress reading Darwin’s The Cruise of the “Beagle” in her spare time. He arranged to put her through college. The next week, the manager and guests of Bishop’s Hotel at Tohoki, in the same state, were astonished to discover that one of their number, a tall solidly built young man, had suddenly lost the use of his voice and was communicating with the outside world by means of pencil and paper. Several days later, in Dakins, Kansas, the same traveler was arrested and confined for a few hours in the jail. The charge was later found to have been based on a misunderstanding. He was released and continued on his journey.