FullReads

“Speed up, Wurm!” This from Quill, the journalist. “Inch along, old caterpillar!”

“As far as I am concerned,” Wurm continued, “I would rather go with Charles and Mary Lamb to see The Battle of Hexham in their gallery than to any show in Times Square. I love to think of that fine old pair climbing up the stairs, carefully at the turn, lest they tread on a neighbor’s heels. Then the pleasant gallery, with its great lantern to light their expectant faces!”

Wurm’s eyes strayed again wistfully to his shelves. Flint stayed him. “And so you think that it is possible to see life completely in a mirror.”

“By no means,” Wurm returned. “We must see it both ways. Nor am I, as you infer, in any sense like the Lady of Shalott. A great book cannot be compared to a mirror. There is no genius in a mirror. It merely reflects the actual, and slightly darkened. A great book shows life through the medium of an individuality. The actual has been lifted into truth. Divinity has passed into it through the unobstructed channel of genius.”

Here Flint broke in. “Divinity–genius–the Swiss Alps–The Battle of Hexham–what have they to do with Quill’s shack out in Jersey or Colum’s dirty birdhouses? You jump the track, Wurm. When everybody is heading for the main tent, you keep running to the side-shows.”

Quill, the journalist, joined the banter. “You remind me, Wurm–I hate to say it–of what a sea captain once said to me when I tried to loan him a book. ‘Readin’,’ he said, ‘readin’ rots the mind.'”

It was Colum’s turn to ask a question. “What do you do, Flint,” he asked, “when you have a holiday?”

“Me? Well, I don’t run off to the country as if the city were afire and my coat-tails smoked. And I don’t sentimentalize on the evils of society. And I don’t sit and blink in the dark, and moon around on a shelf and wear out books. I go outdoors. I walk around and look at things–shop windows and all that, when the merchants leave their curtains up. I walk across the bridges and spit off. Then there’s the Bronx and the Battery, with benches where one may make acquaintances. People are always more communicative when they look out on the water. The last time I sat there an old fellow told me about himself, his wife, his victrola and his saloon. I talk to a good many persons, first and last, or I stand around until they talk to me. So many persons wear blinders in the city. They don’t know how wonderful it is. Once, on Christmas Eve, I pretended to shop on Fourteenth Street, just to listen to the crowd on its final round–mother’s carpet sweeper, you understand, or a drum for the heir. A crowd on Christmas is different–it’s gayer–reckless–it’s an exalted Saturday night. Afterwards I heard Midnight Mass at the Russian Cathedral. Then there are always ferryboats–the band on the boat to Staten Island–God! What music! Tugs and lights. I would like to know a tug–intimately. If more people were like tugs we’d have less rotten politics. Wall Street on a holiday is fascinating. No one about. Desolate. But full of spirits.”

Flint took a fresh cigar. “Last Sunday morning I walked in Central Park. There were all manner of toy sailboats on the pond–big and little–thirty of them at the least–tipping and running in the breeze. Grown men sail them. They set them on a course, and then they trot around the pond and wait for them. Presently I was curious. A man upward of fifty had his boat out on the grass and was adjusting the rigging.

“‘That’s quite a boat,’ I began.

“‘It’s not a bad tub,’ he answered.

“‘Do you hire it from the park department?’ I asked.

“‘No!’ with some scorn.

“‘Where do you buy them?’

“‘We don’t buy them.’

“‘Then how–?’ I started.

“‘We make ’em–nights.’

“He resumed his work. The boat was accurately and beautifully turned–hollow inside–with a deck of glossy wood. The rudder was controlled by finest tackle and hardware. Altogether, it was as delicately wrought as a violin.