“The old man was a good soldier. Nobody could say any dirt of the old man. Proud of his lineage and rightly so. He loved the fine things of the mind, you might say, and pursued classical learnen. Faithful to his ideal, honest with all men, proud, gentle, tender as a woman. Why, Father was a traveler far and wide. In his youth he spent several years in travel—and a right smart of money too, I reckon. Few men of his generation were more widely read, more richly informed. I know what I say. In his youth he was an omnivorous reader, optimistic, salubrious, and among his colleagues there was none better fitted to lead and counsel the young. Faithful to his highest conceptions, an inspiration to the youth of his circle, he was intelligent, honest, proud, and as tender as a woman.”
He would grow tired and slip into his more negligent mood. “Did I ever tell you about the time the old man put up Leslie Robinson for Governor? He put out, I reckon, five thousand dollars to nominate Les Robinson. It’s a pity the old man ever turned his talent to politics, even for so short a time as it took to roll Les Robinson up into a spit-ball and throw him up on the roof of the convention hall. It’s all in the count. But Father believed in Les Robinson’s genius, wanted to see him win, and he had some notion to get something for himself out of it, I reckon. It’s no use now to waste breath on old measures. All the west counties got in line, and then somebody got all the mountains in a handful. It was a frame-up on Les. The owls of iniquity will howl. No use to go into it now. Money melts in politics like sugar in hot water. Nobody knows where’t goes. The most hearty desire to render succor, service, unselfish devotion to the common cause of myself and my country. I promise, if elected, to emulate the great heroes of our great commonwealth in word and act, to uphold the constitutions of the state and of the nation, to honor the law and the right, and to protect the home as the sanctuary of mankind.”
He was personally reminiscent now, his feet on a high hassock. “You remember, don’t you, Theodosia, the time I ran for the state senate?... It’s queer how it is, but your own brat that you begot yourself grows up and looks you full in the face and asks you with a sharp shoulder-blade, ‘What made you ever do that durned fool thing for?’ I’ve known you, Theodosia, ever since you were no bigger than my two hands, and earlier. Ronnie Robinson says, ‘Le’s make this one a toast,’ and then Mike O’Connor says, ‘We’ll drink to the health of the unborn.’ The time I acted Santy Claus in the church. I never told in your hearen about that, did I, Dosia?
“Folks there in the church thought here’s a good time to get Horace interested in church work, I reckon. Charlotte played the organ there part of the time. I recollect they asked me to act Santy Claus. ‘Who ever saw a Santy Claus six foot and over?’ I says, but they’d got their heads set to’t. Mike O’Connor says, ‘God’s sake, Horace!’ when he heard I was to be the Santy Claus. Christmas Eve at night, it was to be. Rosie Granger made the costume for me to wear, a red coat, boots with fur sewed on the top. A white beard all over my mouth. ‘I drink to the health of the unborn,’ Mike O’Connor says.”
She saw that he was repaying her for being a shoulder-blade to his pride. “I drink to the health of the unborn,” he repeated the saying. He was repaying her for all her scorn of him. “Tom Molloy says, ‘God’s sake, he won’t stay sober.’ I recollect after I got on my costume we all sat down in Tom Molloy’s room to wait till the church was ready, all the singen down and the tableau over, up the street from the church, in the old hotel. Miss Esther What’s-her-name down-stairs promised to call me when it was my time to go on, and we all sat down to a little cards, Tom Molloy, Mike O’Connor, and Ronnie Robinson, uncle to Ruth, he was. Sat down to a few hands of poker. Ronnie poured out the spirits and he poured big measures, and I sat there all dolled up for Santy Claus. ‘Christmas comes but once a year,’ Ronnie said, and then Mike stood up and, solemnly, he meant every word of it too, says, ‘We’ll drink to the health of the unborn.’ Charlotte was not goen out then. She was, you might say, in a delicate condition, and God’s sake! It was you yourself, Theodosia, that was curled up inside her asleep like a little kitten. God’s sake! Mike stood up, solemnly, too, meant every word he said, and out comes, ‘We’ll drink to the health of the unborn.’ Don’t you ever forget that about Mike. Then Ronnie in his turn, ‘I drink to the health of the unbegotten.’ I swear to God he did. After we’d drunk to the health of the unbegotten twice or three times Tom was so drunk he was beside himself and he says, ‘It’ll never do. It’ll never do on earth. He can’t stand up on his feet, let alone walk around a Christmas tree and hand out pretties,’ and we all sat down again to a little cards to steady our nerves.
“Tinkle, tinkle, merry bells. I remember the night as well, cold outside, the fire big in the grate, fireworks up the street where the boys were out, good cheer, good friends, and a world new-born. I recall I held two queens and was drawen for a third when up calls Miss Esther and says it’s time to go over, says they’re on the last piece, she can tell by the singen, and says they’ve already begun to light the candles on the tree. Then Tom says, ‘He can’t do it. He’s drunk. God’s sake, there’ll be a holy show if we let him get loose,’ and I called down to tell ’em to wait till I draw another queen, to keep the song on foot till I draw one time more. Well, we went over, and Ronnie laughed so hard he said he was in a paroxysm, and Mike says, ‘A what?’ Mike always was a good friend of mine. I recollect Tom was all in a tremble and he says, ‘It’ll be a holy show.’ Thought I couldn’t do it.”
A pity for him came into her mind and a hatred, cruel and bitter, for these men, his friends, some of them dead or gone somewhere. She remembered them now; they were scattered away from the town, or some of them were dead. She pushed her hair back from her forehead and sank into the hollows of the chair, her face turned toward him and away from the fire. She pitied him for a moment before he spoke again, but when he spoke her pity was lost, dispelled. “I handed out these little gauze sacks with candy showen through to fifty chaps. ‘I drink to the health of the unborn,’ Mike says. Old Mike. I handed out these little gauze sacks and I handed a good precept along with each one. I made a first-rate Santy Claus. ‘I drink to the health of the unbegotten,’ Ronnie says, over at the hotel before we set out for the church.”
She could see him as she sat. He ran his fingers through his hair, full of the pride of memory. He had forgotten her then. His blond hair stood over his head, ready always for his fingers when they responded to his pride, and she pitied again, seeing the bare spots above his temples. His great body was untouched by fatigue, was full of vitality. He could talk all night, she thought. He was speaking further, half slyly, making an end each instant and renewing himself.
“There’s more I could tell if I was of a mind to, but I won’t. After it was over we decided to take a walk in the cold to sort of clear up our heads. We took a walk after it was over, a long walk, took a walk....” His voice seemed delayed, the words slowly pushed apart to let clearer pictures stand between.
She was waiting on a street that was thronged with people, all of them hushed to await some event that gathered itself together and approached far up the street. “The street-parade,” a voice said. There was a wide promenade left for the procession which was coming far up the way, all the people standing back and all very still. The procession was near at hand then, was passing by. It was made up of women, long strange creatures, not old but haggard, spent, thin, labored. Their long lank garments hung to their ankles, but their meager thin forms could be seen through the dejected attire they wore. They walked in an irregular procession, more than a hundred although they were uncounted. It was a terror to see them.