Gladiator Philip Wylie

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walking tirelessly along that road.
After his luncheon he allowed a truck to carry him farther from the city, deeper into
the magic of spring. The driver bubbled with it he wore a purple tulip in his greasy cap and
he slowed down on the hilltops with an unassuming reverence and a na�ve slang that fitted
well with Hugo s mood. When he reached his destination, Hugo walked on with reluctance.
Shadows of the higher places moved into the lowlands. He crossed a brook and leaned over
its middle on the bridge rail, fascinated by an underwater landscape, complete, full of color,
less than a foot high. From every side came the strident music of frogs. Spring, spring, spring,
they sang, rolling their liquid gutturals and stopping abruptly when he came too near.
In the evening, far from the city, he turned from the pavement on a muddy country
road, walking on until he reached the skeleton of an old house. There he lay down, taking his
supper from his pocket and eating it slowly. The floor of the second story had fallen down
and he could see the stars through a hole in the roof. In such houses, he thought, the first
chapters of American history had been lived. When it was entirely dark, a whippoorwill
began to make its sweet and mournful music. Warmth and chilliness came together from the
ground. He slept.
In the morning, he followed the road into the hills. Long stretches of woodland were
interrupted by fields. He passed farmhouses and the paved drive of an estate. More than a
mile from the deserted farm, more than two miles from the main road, half hidden in a skirt
of venerable trees, he saw an old, green house behind which was a row of barns. It was a big
house; tile medallions had been set in its foundations by an architect whose tombstone must
now be aslant and illegible. It was built on a variety of planes and angles; gables cropped at
random from its mossy roof. Grass grew in the broad yard under the trees, and in the grass
were crocuses, yellow and red and blue, like wind-strewn confetti.
Hugo paused to contemplate this peaceful edifice. A man walked briskly from one of
the barn doors. He perceived Hugo and stopped, holding a spade in one hand. Then, after
starting across to the house, he changed his mind and, dropping the spade, approached Hugo.
Looking for work, my man?
Hugo smiled. Why yes.
Know anything about cattle?
I was reared in a farming country.
Good. He scrutinized Hugo minutely. I ll try you at eight dollars a week, room and
board. He opened the gate.
Hugo paused. The notion of finding employment somewhere in the country had been
fixed in his mind and he wondered why he waited, even as he did, when the charm of the old
manor had offered itself to him as if by a miracle. The man swung open the gate; he was
lithe, sober, direct.
My name is Cane Ralph Cane. We raise blooded Guernsey stock here. At the
moment we haven t a man.
I see, Hugo said.
I could make the eight ten in a week if you were satisfactory.
I wasn t considering the money
How?
I wasn t considering the money.
Oh! Come in. Try it. An eagerness was apparent in his tone. While Hugo still halted
on a knoll of indecision, a woman opened the French windows which lined one facade of the
house and stepped down from the porch. She was very tall and very slender. Her eyes were
slaty blue and there was a delicate suggestion almost an apparition of gray in her hair.
What is it, Ralph? Her voice was cool and pitched low.
This is my wife, Cane said.
My name is Danner.
Cane explained. I saw this man standing by the gate, and now I m hiring him.
I see, she said. She looked at Hugo. The crystalline substance of her eyes glinted
transiently with some inwardness surprise, a vanishing gladness, it might have been. You
are looking for work?
Yes, Hugo answered.
Cane spoke hastily. I offered him eight a week and board, Roseanne.
She glanced at her husband and returned her attention inquisitively to Hugo. Are you
interested?
I ll try it.
Cane frowned nervously, walked to his wife, and nodded with averted face. Then he
addressed Hugo: You can sleep in the barn. We have quarters there. I don t think we ll be in
for any more cold weather. If you ll come with me now, I ll start you right in.
Until noon Hugo cleaned stables. There were two dozen cows animals that would
have seemed beautiful to a rustic connoisseur and one lordly bull with malignant horns and
bloodshot eyes. He shoveled the pungent and not offensive debris into a wheelbarrow and
transferred it to a dung-heap that sweated with internal humidity. At noon Cane came into the
barn.
Pretty good, he said, viewing floors fairly shaved by Hugo s diligence.
Lunch is ready. You ll eat in the kitchen.
Hugo saw the woman again. She was toiling over a stove, her hair in disarray, a
spotted apron covering her long body. He realized that they had no servants, that the three of [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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