A FOG IN SANTONE
by O. Henry
The drug clerk looks sharply at the white face half concealed by
the high-turned overcoat collar.
"I would rather not supply you," he said doubtfully. "I sold you
a dozen morphine tablets less than an hour ago."
The customer smiles wanly. "The fault is in your crooked streets.
I didn't intend to call upon you twice, but I guess I got tangled
up. Excuse me."
He draws his collar higher, and moves out, slowly. He stops under
an electric light at the corner, and juggles absorbedly with three
or four little pasteboard boxes. "Thirty-six," he announces to
himself. "More than plenty." For a gray mist had swept upon Santone
that night, an opaque terror that laid a hand to the throat of each
of the city's guests. It was computed that three thousand invalids
were hibernating in the town. They had come from far and wide, for
here, among these contracted river-sliced streets, the goddess
Ozone has elected to linger.
Purest atmosphere, sir, on earth! You might think from the river
winding through our town that we are malarial, but, no, sir! Repeated
experiments made both by the Government and local experts show that
our air contains nothing deleterious--nothing but ozone, sir, pure
ozone. Litmus paper tests made all along the river show--but you can
read it all in the prospectuses; or the Santonian will recite it for
you, word by word.
We may achieve climate, but weather is thrust upon us. Santone, then,
cannot be blamed for this cold gray fog that came and kissed the lips of
the three thousand, and then delivered them to the cross. That night the
tubercles, whose ravages hope holds in check, multiplied. The writhing
fingers of the pale mist did not go thence bloodless. Many of the wooers
of ozone capitulated with the enemy that night, turning their faces to
the wall in that dumb, isolated apathy that so terrifies their watchers.
On the red stream of Hemorrhagia a few souls drifted away, leaving
behind pathetic heaps, white and chill as the fog itself. Two or three
came to view this atmospheric wraith as the ghost of impossible joys,
sent to whisper to them of the egregious folly it is to inhale breath
into the lungs, only to exhale it again, and these used whatever came
handy to their relief, pistols, gas or the beneficent muriate.
The purchaser of the morphia wanders into the fog, and at length, finds
himself upon a little iron bridge, one of the score or more in the heart
of the city, under which the small tortuous river flows. He leans on
the rail and gasps, for here the mist has concentrated, lying like a
foot-pad to garrote such of the Three Thousand as creep that way. The
iron bridge guys rattle to the strain of his cough, a mocking phthisical
rattle, seeming to say to him: "Clickety-clack! just a little rusty
cold, sir--but not from our river. Litmus paper all along the banks
and nothing but ozone. Clacket-y-clack!"
The Memphis man at last recovers sufficiently to be aware of another
overcoated man ten feet away, leaning on the rail, and just coming out
of a paroxysm. There is a freemasonry among the Three Thousand that
does away with formalities and introductions. A cough is your card;
a hemorrhage a letter of credit. The Memphis man, being nearer
recovered, speaks first.
"Goodall. Memphis--pulmonary tuberculosis--guess last stages." The
Three Thousand economize on words. Words are breath and they need
breath to write checks for the doctors.
"Hurd," gasps the other. "Hurd; of T'leder. T'leder, Ah-hia. Catarrhal
bronkeetis. Name's Dennis, too--doctor says. Says I'll live four weeks
if I--take care of myself. Got your walking papers yet?"
"My doctor," says Goodall of Memphis, a little boastingly, "gives me
three months."
"Oh," remarks the man from Toledo, filling up great gaps in his
conversation with wheezes, "damn the difference. What's months! Expect
to--cut mine down to one week--and die in a hack--a four wheeler, not
a cough. Be considerable moanin' of the bars when I put out to sea.
I've patronized 'em pretty freely since I struck my--present gait. Say,
Goodall of Memphis--if your doctor has set your pegs so close--why
don't you--get on a big spree and go--to the devil quick and easy--like
I'm doing?"
"A spree," says Goodall, as one who entertains a new idea, "I never
did such a thing. I was thinking of another way, but--"
"Come on," invites the Ohioan, "and have some drinks. I've been at
it--for two days, but the inf--ernal stuff won't bite like it used to.
Goodall of Memphis, what's your respiration?"
"Twenty-four."
"Daily--temperature?"
"Hundred and four."
"You can do it in two days. It'll take me a--week. Tank up, friend
Goodall--have all the fun you can; then--off you go, in the middle of
a jag, and s-s-save trouble and expense. I'm a s-son of a gun if this
ain't a health resort--for your whiskers! A Lake Erie fog'd get lost
here in two minutes."
"You said something about a drink," says Goodall.
A few minutes later they line up at a glittering bar, and hang upon
the arm rest. The bartender, blond, heavy, well-groomed, sets out their
drinks, instantly perceiving that he serves two of the Three Thousand.
He observes that one is a middle-aged man, well-dressed, with a lined
and sunken face; the other a mere boy who is chiefly eyes and overcoat.
Disguising well the tedium begotten by many repetitions, the server of
drinks begins to chant the sanitary saga of Santone. "Rather a moist
night, gentlemen, for our town. A little fog from our river, but
nothing to hurt. Repeated Tests."
"Damn your litmus papers," gasps Toledo--"without any--personal offense
intended."
"We've heard of 'em before. Let 'em turn red, white and blue. What we
want is a repeated test of that--whiskey. Come again. I paid for the
last round, Goodall of Memphis."
The bottle oscillates from one to the other, continues to do so, and is
not removed from the counter. The bartender sees two emaciated invalids
dispose of enough Kentucky Belle to floor a dozen cowboys, without
displaying any emotion save a sad and contemplative interest in the
peregrinations of the bottle. So he is moved to manifest a solicitude
as to the consequences.
"Not on your Uncle Mark Hanna," responds Toledo, "will we get drunk.
We've been--vaccinated with whiskey--and--cod liver oil. What would send
you to the police station--only gives us a thirst. S-s-set out another
bottle."
It is slow work trying to meet death by that route. Some quicker way
must be found. They leave the saloon and plunge again into the mist. The
sidewalks are mere flanges at the base of the houses; the street a cold
ravine, the fog filling it like a freshet. Not far away is the Mexican
quarter. Conducted as if by wires along the heavy air comes a guitar's
tinkle, and the demoralizing voice of some senorita singing:
"En las tardes sombrillos del invierro
En el prado a Marar me reclino
Y maldigo mi fausto destino--
Una vida la mas infeliz."
The words of it they do not understand--neither Toledo nor Memphis,
but words are the least important things in life. The music tears
the breasts of the seekers after Nepenthe, inciting Toledo to
remark:
"Those kids of mine--I wonder--by God, Mr. Goodall of Memphis, we
had too little of that whiskey! No slow music in mine, if you please.
It makes you disremember to forget."
Hurd of Toledo, here pulls out his watch, and says: "I'm a son of a
gun! Got an engagement for a hack ride out to San Pedro Springs at
eleven. Forgot it. A fellow from Noo York, and me, and the Castillo
sisters at Rhinegelder's Garden. That Noo York chap's a lucky dog--got
one whole lung--good for a year yet. Plenty of money, too. He pays
for everything. I can't afford--to miss the jamboree. Sorry you ain't
going along. Good-by, Goodall of Memphis."
He rounds the corner and shuffles away, casting off thus easily the
ties of acquaintanceship as the moribund do, the season of dissolution
being man's supreme hour of egoism and selfishness. But he turns and
calls back through the fog to the other: "I say, Goodall of Memphis!
If you get there before I do, tell 'em Hurd's a-comin' too. Hurd, of
T'leder, Ah-hia."
Thus Goodall's tempter deserts him. That youth, uncomplaining and
uncaring, takes a spell at coughing, and, recovered, wanders desultorily
on down the street, the name of which he neither knows nor recks. At
a certain point he perceives swinging doors, and hears, filtering
between them a noise of wind and string instruments. Two men enter from
the street as he arrives, and he follows them in. There is a kind of
ante-chamber, plentifully set with palms and cactuses and oleanders. At
little marble-topped tables some people sit, while soft-shod attendants
bring the beer. All is orderly, clean, melancholy, gay, of the German
method of pleasure. At his right is the foot of a stairway. A man there
holds out his hand. Goodall extends his, full of silver, the man selects
therefrom a coin. Goodall goes upstairs and sees there two galleries
extending along the sides of a concert hall which he now perceives to
lie below and beyond the anteroom he first entered. These galleries
are divided into boxes or stalls, which bestow with the aid of hanging
lace curtains, a certain privacy upon their occupants.
Passing with aimless feet down the aisle contiguous to these saucy
and discreet compartments, he is half checked by the sight in one of
them of a young woman, alone and seated in an attitude of reflection.
This young woman becomes aware of his approach. A smile from her
brings him to a standstill, and her subsequent invitation draws him,
though hesitating, to the other chair in the box, a little table
between them.
Goodall is only nineteen. There are some whom, when the terrible god
Phthisis wishes to destroy he first makes beautiful; and the boy is
one of these. His face is wax, and an awful pulchritude is born of
the menacing flame in his cheeks. His eyes reflect an unearthly vista
engendered by the certainty of his doom. As it is forbidden man to
guess accurately concerning his fate, it is inevitable that he shall
tremble at the slightest lifting of the veil.
The young woman is well-dressed, and exhibits a beauty of distinctly
feminine and tender sort; an Eve-like comeliness that scarcely seems
predestined to fade.
It is immaterial, the steps by which the two mount to a certain plane
of good understanding; they are short and few, as befits the occasion.
A button against the wall of the partition is frequently disturbed
and a waiter comes and goes at signal.
Pensive beauty would nothing of wine; two thick plaits of her blond
hair hang almost to the floor; she is a lineal descendant of the
Lorelei. So the waiter brings the brew; effervescent, icy, greenish
golden. The orchestra on the stage is playing "Oh, Rachel." The
youngsters have exchanged a good bit of information. She calls him,
"Walter" and he calls her "Miss Rosa."
Goodall's tongue is loosened and he has told her everything about
himself, about his home in Tennessee, the old pillared mansion under
the oaks, the stables, the hunting; the friends he has; down to the
chickens, and the box bushes bordering the walks. About his coming
South for the climate, hoping to escape the hereditary foe of his
family. All about his three months on a ranch; the deer hunts, the
rattlers, and the rollicking in the cow camps. Then of his advent
to Santone, where he had indirectly learned, from a great specialist,
that his life's calendar probably contains but two more leaves. And
then of this death-white, choking night which has come and strangled
his fortitude and sent him out to seek a port amid its depressing
billows.
"My weekly letter from home failed to come," he told her, "and I was
pretty blue. I knew I had to go before long and I was tired of waiting.
I went out and bought morphine at every drug store where they would
sell me a few tablets. I got thirty-six quarter grains, and was going
back to my room and take them, but I met a queer fellow on a bridge,
who had a new idea."
Goodall fillips a little pasteboard box upon the table. "I put 'em all
together in there."
Miss Rosa, being a woman, must raise the lid, and gave a slight shiver
at the innocent looking triturates. "Horrid things! but those little,
white bits--they could never kill one!"
Indeed they could. Walter knew better. Nine grains of morphia! Why,
half the amount might.
Miss Rosa demands to know about Mr. Hurd, of Toledo, and is told. She
laughs like a delighted child. "What a funny fellow! But tell me more
about your home and your sisters, Walter. I know enough about Texas
and tarantulas and cowboys."
The theme is dear, just now, to his mood, and he lays before her the
simple details of a true home; the little ties and endearments that
so fill the exile's heart. Of his sisters, one, Alice, furnishes him
a theme he loves to dwell upon.
"She is like you, Miss Rosa," he says. "Maybe not quite so pretty,
but just as nice, and good, and--"
"There! Walter," says Miss Rosa sharply, "now talk about something
else."
But a shadow falls upon the wall outside, preceding a big, softly
treading man, finely dressed, who pauses a second before the curtains
and then passes on. Presently comes the waiter with a message: "Mr.
Rolfe says--"
"Tell Rolfe I'm engaged."
"I don't know why it is," says Goodall, of Memphis, "but I don't
feel as bad as I did. An hour ago I wanted to die, but since I've
met you, Miss Rosa, I'd like so much to live."
The young woman whirls around the table, lays an arm behind his neck
and kisses him on the cheek.
"You must, dear boy," she says. "I know what was the matter. It was
the miserable foggy weather that has lowered your spirit and mine
too--a little. But look, now."
With a little spring she has drawn back the curtains. A window is in the
wall opposite, and lo! the mist is cleared away. The indulgent moon is
out again, revoyaging the plumbless sky. Roof and parapet and spire are
softly pearl enamelled. Twice, thrice the retrieved river flashes back,
between the houses, the light of the firmament. A tonic day will dawn,
sweet and prosperous.
"Talk of death when the world is so beautiful!" says Miss Rosa, laying
her hand on his shoulder. "Do something to please me, Walter. Go home
to your rest and say: 'I mean to get better,' and do it."
"If you ask it," says the boy, with a smile, "I will."
The waiter brings full glasses. Did they ring? No; but it is well.
He may leave them. A farewell glass. Miss Rosa says: "To your better
health, Walter." He says: "To our next meeting."
His eyes look no longer into the void, but gaze upon the antithesis
of death. His foot is set in an undiscovered country to-night. He is
obedient, ready to go. "Good night," she says.
"I never kissed a girl before," he confesses, "except my sisters."
"You didn't this time," she laughs, "I kissed you--good night."
"When shall I see you again," he persists.
"You promised me to go home," she frowns, "and get well. Perhaps
we shall meet again soon. Good night." He hesitates, his hat in
hand. She smiles broadly and kisses him once more upon the
forehead. She watches him far down the aisle, then sits again
at the table.
The shadow falls once more against the wall. This time the big,
softly stepping man parts the curtains and looks in. Miss Rosa's
eyes meet his and for half a minute they remain thus, silent,
fighting a battle with that king of weapons. Presently the big
man drops the curtains and passes on.
The orchestra ceases playing suddenly, and an important voice can
be heard loudly talking in one of the boxes farther down the aisle.
No doubt some citizen entertains there some visitor to the town,
and Miss Rosa leans back in her chair and smiles at some of the
words she catches:
"Purest atmosphere--in the world--litmus paper all long--nothing
hurtful--our city--nothing but pure ozone."
The waiter returns for the tray and glasses. As he enters, the girl
crushes a little empty pasteboard box in her hand and throws it in
a corner. She is stirring something in her glass with her hatpin.
"Why, Miss Rosa," says the waiter with the civil familiarity he
uses--"putting salt in your beer this early in the night!"
~~~~~~~ THE END ~~~~~~~
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