The decrepit old man held his hands before the face
of the stranger. He opened and shut them.
They were black with grime. “I pick out
warts,” he explained plaintively. “They
are as soft as your hands.”
“I play on an accordion. You are thirty-seven
years old. I sat beside my brother in the penitentiary.
He is a pretty man with pompadour hair. ‘Albert’
I said, ‘are you sorry you killed a man?’
‘No,’ he said, ’I am not sorry.
I would kill ten, a hundred, a thousand!’”
The old man began to weep and to wipe his hands with
a soiled handkerchief. He attempted to take a
chew of tobacco and his false teeth became displaced.
He covered his mouth with his hands and was ashamed.
“I am old. You are thirty-seven years old
but I am older than that,” he whispered.
“My brother is a bad man—he is full
of hate—he is pretty and has pompadour
hair, but he would kill and kill. I hate old age—I
am ashamed that I am old.
“I have a pretty new wife. I wrote her
four letters and she replied. She came here and
we married—I love to see her walk—O,
I buy her pretty clothes.
“Her foot is not straight—it is twisted—my
first wife is dead—I pick warts off the
hand with my fingers and no blood comes—I
cure coughs, colds, consumption and the sickness that
bleeds—people can write to me and I answer
the letters—if they send me no money it
is no matter—all is free.”
Again the old man wept and the stranger tried to comfort
him. “You are a happy man?” the stranger
asked.
“Yes,” said the old man, “and a
good man too. Ask everywhere about me—
my name is Tom, a blacksmith—my wife walks
prettily although she has a twisted foot—I
have bought her a long dress—she is thirty
and I am seventy-five—she has many pairs
of shoes—I have bought them for her, but
her foot is twisted—I buy straight shoes—
“She thinks I do not know—everybody
thinks Tom does not know—I have bought
her a long dress that comes down to the ground—my
name is Tom, a blacksmith—I am seventy-five
and I hate old age—I take warts off the
hands and no blood comes—people may write
to me and I answer the letters—all is free.”
Napoleon went down into a battle
riding on a horse.
Alexander went down into a battle riding
on a horse.
General Grant got off a horse and walked
in a wood.
General Hindenburg stood on a hill.
The moon came up out of a clump of bushes.
* * * *
*
I am writing a history of the things men do.
I have written three such histories and I am but a
young man. Already I have written three hundred,
four hundred thousand words.
My wife is somewhere in this house where for hours
now I have been sitting and writing. She is a
tall woman with black hair, turning a little grey.
Listen, she is going softly up a flight of stairs.
All day she goes softly about, doing the housework
in our house.
