Longfellow.”
“You can’t fool me,” said the clerk, with a hard grin of disbelief.
“That’s the name of a writer.”
He was devoured by a vast strange hunger for life.
At night, he listened to the million-noted ululation of little night things, the great brooding symphony of dark, the ringing of remote churchbells across the country.
And his vision widened out in circles over moon-drenched meadows, dreaming woods, mighty rivers going along in darkness, and ten thousand sleeping towns.
He believed in the infinite rich variety of all the towns and faces: behind any of a million shabby houses he believed there was strange buried life, subtle and shattered romance, something dark and unknown.
At the moment of passing any house, he thought, some one therein might be at the gate of death, lovers might lie twisted in hot embrace, murder might be doing.
He felt a desperate frustration, as if he were being shut out from the rich banquet of life.
And against all caution, he determined to break the pattern of custom, and look within.
Driven on by this hunger, he would suddenly rush away from Pulpit Hill and, as dusk came on, prowl up and down the quiet streets of towns.
Finally, lifted beyond all restraint, he would mount swiftly to a door and ring the bell.
Then, to whoever came, reeling against the wall and clutching at his throat, he would say:
“Water!
In God’s name, water!
I am ill!”
Sometimes there were women, seductive and smiling, aware of his trick, but loath to let him go; sometimes women touched with compassion and tenderness.
Then, having drunk, he would smile with brave apology into startled and sympathetic faces, murmuring:
“Pardon me.
It came on suddenly — one of my attacks.
I had no time to go for help.
I saw your light.”
Then they would ask him where his friends were.
“Friends!” he glanced about wildly and darkly.
Then, with a bitter laugh, he said, “Friends!
I have none!
I am a stranger here.”
Then they would ask him what he did.
“I am a Carpenter,” he would answer, smiling strangely.
Then they would ask him where he came from.
“Far away.
Very far,” he would say deeply.
“You would not know if I told you.”
Then he would rise, looking about him with grandeur and compassion.
“And now I must go!” he would say mysteriously.
“I have a long way to go before my journey is done.
God bless you all!
I was a stranger and you gave me shelter.
The Son of Man was treated not so well.”
Sometimes, he would ring bells with an air of timid inquiry, saying:
“Is this number 26?
My name is Thomas Chatterton.
I am looking for a gentleman by the name of Coleridge — Mr. Samuel T.
Coleridge.
Does he live here? . . .
No?
I’m sorry. . . .
Yes, 26 is the number I have, I’m sure. . . . Thank you . . . I’ve made a mistake . . . I’ll look it up in the telephone directory.”
But what, thought Eugene, if one day, in the million streets of life, I should really find him?
These were the golden years.