To Furber, watching Mat's unwilling progress up the street, he represented the perfect pulley, for a gentle tug at one end would move a mountain at the other, or raise an unwilling Lazarus from the dead.
and when we're finally through,
this maid shall ask of you,
that whatever has been done,
as a gentleman,
whatever has been done,
you redo.
First, however, it would be necessary to get in. Furber had been standing for some time motionless, his mind asleep, and now both men leaned toward one another like two sticks thrust weakly in the earth. The street was strangely empty, the store fronts seemed painted on a drop, and Furber had the feeling that they might rise out of sight any moment, the scene change suddenly — and then what? a desert might surround them or a jungle… hummocks of snow or the restless terrain of ocean. Through his uneasiness he recognized the need for strength and motion, and grasping himself, regained his stature. Normally small and thin, he seemed pulled by his own will through his black coat sleeves and trouser legs and stiff white tube of collar until he was as tall as he thought he ought to be, the total of his body and his shadow so completely cast together that Mat could scarcely have distinguished the separate figures that made the sum.
Ah, Matthew, here you are at last. I feel a chill, he said.
The lengthy ah, Mat's name swimming in his breath, the ladybook language, the preacher's tone: the stage. Standing too long, he'd struck a false note; his determination drained away through his feet. Consequently Watson put his back to Furber's eye. Mat's shirt was stained and the sides of his face were streaked. Matthew, Furber crooned. Matthew, he bellowed. Matthew, Matthew, he chanted, filling his head with the sounds that meant smith, as if these sounds would give him some hold on their object. Didn't a man grow like his name in the long run, and wasn't there a piece of him wedged in it, between the syllables, like meat in a sandwich? How else could you know that the noises fit? It's what finally does those famous people in, his father used to say, wagging a long, plump, finger; every time you're thought of, a part of you gets used. It's slow erosion. Death from simple use. Double U and T. That was his father's life, his father's motto. Wear and wear. And then we're through. It's simply Double U and T. Too much Double U and T. A hole pokes through, he used to say, as through a shoe. And then we're through. Over and over and over he'd say it, wearing the edges of his teeth away. What shall we do? what shall we do? Furber was removed — giddy — all awobble. Another of his father's newspaper truths: where are liquor and tobacco? why, they live in habit's hollow. Over and over and over. If each man were in his syllables somewhere, he could be reached that way. And touched. Over and over. Loved? What did it matter? He could be chewed and swallowed. Jethro, for instance… or Matthew. He knew true habit's hollow. Omen-What if Romeo's name were Bob? Or Jethro. What if Jethro's name were — what? a wise adviser, a fluent liar, a slippery spier, a loud woe-crier, a God-denier with his soul on fire-no-what if his name were — what? But you couldn't wear out Romeo. He grew with each repeating. Omensetter. Simpson. Suppose it were Simpson. Or Henry Pimber. Or Olus Knox. A pig wallow — that was habit's hollow. Stitt. Tott. Chamlay. I've your name here, bucko, with my spit around it — how do you like that? Hatstat. Flack. Cox. Hawkins. Cobb. Well there might be something in it. Still another of his father's newspaper truths: thou shalt not take the name of the Lord they God in vain. Were there one, He should have slain… Had there been, He would have… My will be done. And thrust the lightning home. Suppose God's name was Simpson. Suppose, all this time, through all this hoot and hollering, He was Simpson. Unhearing. That would explain.. everything. Hey there, Simpson! Hey hey! Not opportune. My name's not Jethro Furber. You've the wrong man once again. It's Joe Pete Andy. It's Philly Kinsman. What would that be like to be? Kinsman. Any. To slip away to a new life. And so be safe, from Double U and T.Ah. There was Backett Omensetter, then. He'd worn that man to a shadow, if this was true; his name could only call a ghost.
Silly Billie
has a belly
big as Marge
and large as Nellie.
Matthew Omensetter. The two of them were twins of a kind, Furber saw that now; they possessed a terrible similarity, and he felt further weakened.
… the treasures that she carried
were mostly deeply buried…
To be Philly Kinsman… to swim in a river of trees… the sun asleep on the grass, in the weeds… oh god, he was going to die and never
… the belle of the Spanish Main…
Matthew Omensetter. Both were large-bodied gentlemen, always moist like river clay, darkening their shirts with designs as they worked, speaking in streaks and splotches.
I shall never marry
a maid who is a fairy;
she'd be too military,
and I've no taste for war,
or ….. or ……
for I've no taste for war.
Both were clay-skinned, too, their deep tans yellowy; and they had thick tropical hair that fell untidily over their foreheads, though Mat's was oftener cut and not so coarse — that was the difference.
And I shall never tarry
with a girl who's lost her cherry;
of her virtue I'd be wary,
despite my taste for whores,
ors ….. ors ……
despite my taste for whores.
Besides there was a looseness about Omensetter's fleshy parts, not exactly unpleasant, he had to admit, not puffy or like skin that's bubbled from the bone as paper does sometimes from plaster, but rather as if the muscles were at ease there, children asleep in their comforts—
"What do you want?" Is that it? Is it thus he addresses his minister? with a you. While I cry: ah, ah Matthew, ah… while I cry: ah, the gospel author's name, that name, you, instead, say: "what do you want?" Well, he would not answer. He'd topple silence on them like the temple. He would not answer to a you.
Simple Samson went to the fair,
all of the Philistine people were there.
I want — I want to be Philly Kinsman. Orcutt. Cate. Mossteller. Jenkins. Amsterdam. He recognized the wickedness and strength of the temptation, but he was sometimes overcome by the incredible sweetness of life, the warmth, the softness of his imaginary women, their skin so white and luminous with comfort.
But a wise apothecary
bid me once be chary
of girls who tipple sherry
and sleep the day indoors,
ors ….. ors ……
and sleep the day indoors.
In order to survive the silence he would have to think of darkly distant and dissimilar things: the Antarctic, camels, Bogota. Mat's thumbs were hooked to the tops of his trousers, so Furber tried to turn his thoughts to the wood thrush, then to Sardanapalus the king. The blacksmith's belly was large for all his laboring and it was puffing faintly beneath the cloth.
Her nipples bright as berries,
my maiden's great mammaries,
will yield milk like the dairy's,
till I've no taste for more,
or ….. or ……
till I've no taste for more.
The silence was a cross, but Furber resolved to share it, and he saw with pleasure that Mat had begun shifting his weight, leg to leg, like a bear. It was God's work, God's good work, Furber thought; he'd stand like this forever if necessary, like a holy image, though his church denied him images — well damn them and their dreary doctrines for that — all right then, like a mute accusing witness, an everlasting reminder…
And down where she is hairy,
I'll cage my wild canary,
a songbird legendary,
till it can sing no more,
or ….. or ……