The Wapshot Chronicle полностью

Early the next morning Leander walked down the fish-smelling path to the wharf where the Topaze lay. A dozen passengers were waiting to buy their tickets and go aboard. Then he noticed that a sign had been hung on his wheelhouse. Then he thought at once of Honora and wondered what she had up her sleeve. The sign was painted on wood and must have cost five dollars. NO TRESPASSING, it said. THIS YACHT FOR SALE. FOR FURTHER INFORMATION SEE HONORA WAPSHOT 27 BOAT STREET. For a second his heart sank; his spirit seemed to wither. Then he was angry. The sign was hung, not nailed, to the wheelhouse, and he seized it and was about to throw it into the river when he realized that it was a good piece of wood and could be used for something else. “There won’t be any voyage today,” he told his passengers. Then he put the sign under his arm and strode through the group to the square. Of course most of the tradespeople in the village knew about the sign and most of them watched Leander. He saw no one and it was a struggle for him to keep from talking loudly to himself. He was, as we know, in his sixties; a little stooped, a little inclined to duck-foot, but a very handsome old man with thick hair and a boyish mien. The sign was heavy and made his arm lame and he had to change it from side to side before he got to Boat Street. His spirits by this time were fulminating. There wasn’t much common sense left in him. He pounded on Honora’s door with the edge of the sign.

Honora was sewing. She took her time getting to the door. First she reached for her stick and went around the parlor gathering up all the photographs of Moses and Coverly. She dumped these onto the floor behind the sofa. The reason she did this was that, although she liked having photographs of the boys around, she never wanted any of the family to catch her in such an open demonstration of affection. Then she straightened her clothes and started for the door. Leander was pounding on it. “If you mar the paint on my door,” she called to him, “you’ll pay for it.” As soon as she opened the door he stormed into the hall and roared, “What in Christ’s name is the meaning of this?”

“You don’t have to be profane,” she said. She put her hands over her ears. “I won’t listen to profanity.”

“What do you want from me, Honora?”

“I can’t hear a word you say,” she said. “I won’t listen to swearing.”

“I’m not swearing,” he shouted. “I’ve stopped swearing.”

“She’s mine,” Honora said, taking her hands down from her ears. “I can do anything I want with her.”

“You can’t sell her.”

“I can too,” Honora said. “The D’Agostino boys want to buy her for a fishing boat.”

“I mean she’s my usefulness, Honora.” There was nothing pleading in his voice. He was still shouting. “You gave her to me. I’m used to her. She’s my boat.”

“I only loaned her to you.”

“Goddamn it, Honora, the members of a family can’t backbite one another like this.”

“I won’t listen to swearing,” Honora said. Up went her hands again.

“What do you want?”

“I want you to stop swearing.”

“Why did you do this? Why did you do this behind my back? Why didn’t you tell me what was on your mind?”

“She belongs to me, I can do anything I want with her.”

“We’ve always shared things, Honora. That rug belongs to me. That rug’s mine.” He meant the long rug in the hall.

“Your dear mother gave that rug to me,” Honora said.

“She loaned it to you.”

“She meant me to have it.”

“That’s my rug.”

“It’s nothing of the kind.”

“Two can play at this game as well as one.” Leander put down the sign and picked up an end of the rug.

“You put down that rug, Leander Wapshot,” Honora shouted.

“It’s my rug.”

“You put down that rug this instant. Do you hear me?”

“It’s mine. It’s my rug.” He pulled the folds of the rug, which was long and so dirty that the dust from its warp made him sneeze, toward the door. Then Honora went to the other end of the rug, seized it and called for Maggie. When Maggie came out of the kitchen she grabbed Honora’s end—they were all sneezing—and they all began to pull. It was a very unpleasant scene, but if we accept the quaintness of St. Botolphs we must also accept the fact that it was the country of spite fences and internecine quarrels and that the Pinchot twins lived until their death in a house divided by a chalk line. Leander lost, of course. How could a man win such a contest? Leaving Honora and Maggie in possession of the rug he stormed out of the house, his feelings in such a turmoil that he did not know where to go, and walking south on Boat Street until he came to a field he sat down in the sweet grass and chewed the succulent ends of a few stalks to take the bitterness out of his mouth.