THE APPLICANT
by Ambrose Bierce
Pushing his adventurous shins through the deep
snow that had fallen overnight, and encouraged
by the glee of his little sister, following in
the open way that he made, a sturdy small boy,
the son of Grayville's most distinguished citizen,
struck his foot against something of which there
was no visible sign on the surface of the snow.
It is the purpose of this narrative to explain
how it came to be there.
No one who has had the advantage of passing through
Grayville by day can have failed to observe the
large stone building crowning the low hill to
the north of the railway station--that is to say,
to the right in going toward Great Mowbray. It
is a somewhat dull-looking edifice, of the Early
Comatose order, and appears to have been designed
by an architect who shrank from publicity, and
although unable to conceal his work--even compelled,
in this instance, to set it on an eminence in the
sight of men--did what he honestly could to insure
it against a second look. So far as concerns its
outer and visible aspect, the Abersush Home for
Old Men is unquestionably inhospitable to human
attention. But it is a building of great magnitude,
and cost its benevolent founder the profit of
many a cargo of the teas and silks and spices
that his ships brought up from the under-world
when he was in trade in Boston; though the main
expense was its endowment. Altogether, this reckless
person had robbed his heirs-at-law of no less a
sum than half a million dollars and flung it away
in riotous giving. Possibly it was with a view to
get out of sight of the silent big witness to his
extravagance that he shortly afterward disposed of
all his Grayville property that remained to him,
turned his back upon the scene of his prodigality
and went off across the sea in one of his own
ships. But the gossips who got their inspiration
most directly from Heaven declared that he went
in search of a wife--a theory not easily reconciled
with that of the village humorist, who solemnly
averred that the bachelor philanthropist had
departed this life (left Grayville, to wit) because
the marriageable maidens had made it too hot to
hold him. However this may have been, he had not
returned, and although at long intervals there
had come to Grayville, in a desultory way, vague
rumors of his wanderings in strange lands, no one
seemed certainly to know about him, and to the new
generation he was no more than a name. But from
above the portal of the Home for Old Men the name
shouted in stone.
Despite its unpromising exterior, the Home is a
fairly commodious place of retreat from the ills
that its inmates have incurred by being poor and
old and men. At the time embraced in this brief
chronicle they were in number about a score, but
in acerbity, querulousness, and general ingratitude
they could hardly be reckoned at fewer than a
hundred; at least that was the estimate of the
superintendent, Mr. Silas Tilbody. It was Mr.
Tilbody's steadfast conviction that always, in
admitting new old men to replace those who had
gone to another and a better Home, the trustees
had distinctly in will the infraction of his peace,
and the trial of his patience. In truth, the longer
the institution was connected with him, the stronger
was his feeling that the founder's scheme of
benevolence was sadly impaired by providing any
inmates at all. He had not much imagination, but
with what he had he was addicted to the reconstruction
of the Home for Old Men into a kind of "castle in
Spain," with himself as castellan, hospitably
entertaining about a score of sleek and prosperous
middle-aged gentlemen, consummately good-humored
and civilly willing to pay for their board and
lodging. In this revised project of philanthropy
the trustees, to whom he was indebted for his
office and responsible for his conduct, had not
the happiness to appear. As to them, it was held
by the village humorist aforementioned that in
their management of the great charity Providence
had thoughtfully supplied an incentive to thrift.
With the inference which he expected to be drawn
from that view we have nothing to do; it had
neither support nor denial from the inmates, who
certainly were most concerned. They lived out
their little remnant of life, crept into graves
neatly numbered, and were succeeded by other old
men as like them as could be desired by the
Adversary of Peace. If the Home was a place of
punishment for the sin of unthrift the veteran
offenders sought justice with a persistence
that attested the sincerity of their penitence.
It is to one of these that the reader's attention
is now invited.
In the matter of attire this person was not
altogether engaging. But for this season, which
was midwinter, a careless observer might have
looked upon him as a clever device of the
husbandman indisposed to share the fruits of
his toil with the crows that toil not, neither
spin--an error that might not have been dispelled
without longer and closer observation than he
seemed to court; for his progress up Abersush
Street, toward the Home in the gloom of the
winter evening, was not visibly faster than
what might have been expected of a scarecrow
blessed with youth, health, and discontent.
The man was indisputably ill-clad, yet not
without a certain fitness and good taste,
withal; for he was obviously an applicant for
admittance to the Home, where poverty was a
qualification. In the army of indigence the
uniform is rags; they serve to distinguish
the rank and file from the recruiting
officers.
As the old man, entering the gate of the
grounds, shuffled up the broad walk, already
white with the fast-falling snow, which from
time to time he feebly shook from its various
coigns of vantage on his person, he came
under inspection of the large globe lamp that
burned always by night over the great door
of the building. As if unwilling to incur its
revealing beams, he turned to the left and,
passing a considerable distance along the
face of the building, rang at a smaller door
emitting a dimmer ray that came from within,
through the fanlight, and expended itself
incuriously overhead. The door was opened by
no less a personage than the great Mr. Tilbody
himself. Observing his visitor, who at once
uncovered, and somewhat shortened the radius
of the permanent curvature of his back,
the great man gave visible token of neither
surprise nor displeasure. Mr. Tilbody
was, indeed, in an uncommonly good humor,
a phenomenon ascribable doubtless to the
cheerful influence of the season; for this
was Christmas Eve, and the morrow would be
that blessed 365th part of the year that
all Christian souls set apart for mighty
feats of goodness and joy. Mr. Tilbody was
so full of the spirit of the season that
his fat face and pale blue eyes, whose
ineffectual fire served to distinguish it
from an untimely summer squash, effused so
genial a glow that it seemed a pity that
he could not have lain down in it, basking
in the consciousness of his own identity.
He was hatted, booted, overcoated, and
umbrellaed, as became a person who was
about to expose himself to the night and
the storm on an errand of charity; for
Mr. Tilbody had just parted from his wife
and children to go "down town" and purchase
the wherewithal to confirm the annual
falsehood about the hunch-bellied saint
who frequents the chimneys to reward little
boys and girls who are good, and especially
truthful. So he did not invite the old man
in, but saluted him cheerily:
"Hello! just in time; a moment later and you
would have missed me. Come, I have no time
to waste; we'll walk a little way together."
"Thank you," said the old man, upon whose
thin and white but not ignoble face the
light from the open door showed an expression
that was perhaps disappointment; "but if the
trustees--if my application--"
"The trustees," Mr. Tilbody said, closing
more doors than one, and cutting off two
kinds of light, "have agreed that your
application disagrees with them."
Certain sentiments are inappropriate to
Christmastide, but Humor, like Death, has
all seasons for his own.
"Oh, my God!" cried the old man, in so thin
and husky a tone that the invocation was
anything but impressive, and to at least
one of his two auditors sounded, indeed,
somewhat ludicrous. To the Other--but that
is a matter which laymen are devoid of the
light to expound.
"Yes," continued Mr. Tilbody, accommodating
his gait to that of his companion, who was
mechanically, and not very successfully,
retracing the track that he had made through
the snow; "they have decided that, under
the circumstances--under the very peculiar
circumstances, you understand--it would be
inexpedient to admit you. As superintendent
and ex officio secretary of the honorable
board"--as Mr. Tilbody "read his title clear"
the magnitude of the big building, seen through
its veil of falling snow, appeared to suffer
somewhat in comparison--"it is my duty to
inform you that, in the words of Deacon Byram,
the chairman, your presence in the Home
would--under the circumstances--be peculiarly
embarrassing. I felt it my duty to submit
to the honorable board the statement that
you made to me yesterday of your needs, your
physical condition, and the trials which it
has pleased Providence to send upon you in
your very proper effort to present your claims
in person; but, after careful, and I may say
prayerful, consideration of your case--with
something too, I trust, of the large
charitableness appropriate to the season--it
was decided that we would not be justified
in doing anything likely to impair the
usefulness of the institution intrusted (under
Providence) to our care."
They had now passed out of the grounds; the
street lamp opposite the gate was dimly
visible through the snow. Already the old
man's former track was obliterated, and he
seemed uncertain as to which way he should
go. Mr. Tilbody had drawn a little away from
him, but paused and turned half toward him,
apparently reluctant to forego the continuing
opportunity.
"Under the circumstances," he resumed, "the
decision--"
But the old man was inaccessible to the
suasion of his verbosity; he had crossed
the street into a vacant lot and was going
forward, rather deviously toward nowhere
in particular--which, he having nowhere in
particular to go to, was not so reasonless
a proceeding as it looked.
And that is how it happened that the next
morning, when the church bells of all
Grayville were ringing with an added unction
appropriate to the day, the sturdy little
son of Deacon Byram, breaking a way through
the snow to the place of worship, struck
his foot against the body of Amasa Abersush,
philanthropist.
~~~~~~~ THE END ~~~~~~~
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