Farmer in the Dell by Edna Ferber
Old Ben Westerveld was taking it easy. Every muscle taut, every
nerve tense, his keen eyes vainly straining to pierce the blackness
of the stuffy room--there lay Ben Westerveld in bed, taking it easy.
And it was hard. Hard. He wanted to get up. He wanted so intensely
to get up that the mere effort of lying there made him ache all over.
His toes were curled with the effort. His fingers were clenched with
it. His breath came short, and his thighs felt cramped. Nerves. But
old Ben Westerveld didn't know that. What should a retired and
well-to-do farmer of fifty-eight know of nerves, especially when he
has moved to the city and is taking it easy?
If only he knew what time it was. Here in Chicago you couldn't
tell whether it was four o'clock or seven unless you looked at your
watch. To do that it was necessary to turn on the light. And to turn
on the light meant that he would turn on, too, a flood of querulous
protest from his wife, Bella, who lay asleep beside him.
When for forty-five years of your life you have risen at
four-thirty daily, it is difficult to learn to loll. To do it
successfully, you must be a natural- born loller to begin with and
revert. Bella Westerveld was and had. So there she lay, asleep. Old
Ben wasn't and hadn't. So there he lay, terribly wide- awake,
wondering what made his heart thump so fast when he was lying so
still. If it had been light, you could have seen the lines of
strained resignation in the sagging muscles of his patient face.
They had lived in the city for almost a year, but it was the same
every morning. He would open his eyes, start up with one hand
already reaching for the limp, drab work-worn garments that used to
drape the chair by his bed. Then he would remember and sink back
while a great wave of depression swept over him. Nothing to get up
for. Store clothes on the chair by the bed. He was taking it easy.
Back home on the farm in southern Illinois he had known the hour
the instant his eyes opened. Here the flat next door was so close
that the bed- room was in twilight even at midday. On the farm he
could tell by the feeling--an intangible thing, but infallible. He
could gauge the very quality of the blackness that comes just before
dawn. The crowing of the cocks, the stamping of the cattle, the
twittering of the birds in the old elm whose branches were etched
eerily against his window in the ghostly light --these things he had
never needed. He had known. But here in the un- sylvan section of
Chicago which bears the bosky name of Englewood, the very darkness had
a strange quality.
A hundred unfamiliar noises misled him. There were no cocks, no
cattle, no elm. Above all, there was no instinctive feeling. Once,
when they first came to the city, he had risen at twelve-thirty,
thinking it was morning, and had gone clumping about the flat, waking
up everyone and loosing from his wife's lips a stream of acid
vituperation that seared even his case-hardened sensibilities. The
people sleeping in the bedroom of the flat next door must have heard
"You big rube! Getting up in the middle of the night and stomping
around like cattle. You'd better build a shed in the back yard and
sleep there if you're so dumb you can't tell night from day."
Even after thirty-three years of marriage he had never ceased to
be appalled at the coarseness of her mind and speech--she who had
seemed so mild and fragile and exquisite when he married her. He had
crept back to bed shamefacedly. He could hear the couple in the
bedroom of the flat just across the little court grumbling and then
laughing a little, grudgingly, and yet with appreciation. That
bedroom, too, had still the power to appall him. Its nearness, its
forced intimacy, were daily shocks to him whose most immediate
neighbor, back on the farm, had been a quarter of a mile away. The
sound of a shoe dropped on the hardwood floor, the rush of water in
the bathroom, the murmur of nocturnal confidences, the fretful cry of
a child in the night, all startled and distressed him whose ear had
found music in the roar of the thresher and had been soothed by the
rattle of the tractor and the hoarse hoot of the steamboat whistle at
the landing. His farm's edge had been marked by the Mississippi
rolling grandly by.
Since they had moved into town, he had found only one city sound
that he really welcomed--the rattle and clink that marked the
milkman's matutinal visit. The milkman came at six, and he was the
good fairy who released Ben Westerveld from durance vile--or had until
the winter months made his coming later and later, so that he became
worse than useless as a timepiece. But now it was late March, and
mild. The milkman's coming would soon again mark old Ben's rising
hour. Before he had begun to take it easy, six o'clock had seen the
entire mechanism of his busy little world humming smoothly and
sweetly, the whole set in motion by his own big work-callused hands.
Those hands puzzled him now. He often looked at them curiously and
in a detached sort of way, as if they belonged to someone else. So
white they were, and smooth and soft, with long, pliant nails that
never broke off from rough work as they used to. Of late there were
little splotches of brown on the backs of his hands and around the
"Guess it's my liver," he decided, rubbing the spots thoughtfully.
"She gets kind of sluggish from me not doing anything. Maybe a
little spring tonic wouldn't go bad. Tone me up."
He got a little bottle of reddish-brown mixture from the druggist
on Halstead Street near Sixty-third. A genial gendeman, the
druggist, white- coated and dapper, stepping affably about the
fragrant-smelling store. The reddish-brown mixture had toned old Ben
up surprisingly--while it lasted. He had two bottles of it. But on
discontinuing it he slumped back into his old apathy.
Ben Westerveld, in his store clothes, his clean blue shirt, his
incongruous hat, ambling aimlessly about Chicago's teeming, gritty
streets, was a tragedy. Those big, capable hands, now dangling so
limply from inert wrists, had wrested a living from the soil; those
strangely unfaded blue eyes had the keenness of vision which comes
from scanning great stretches of earth and sky; the stocky,
square-shouldered body suggested power unutilized. All these spelled
tragedy. Worse than tragedy--waste.
For almost half a century this man had combated the elements, head
set, eyes wary, shoulders squared. He had fought wind and sun, rain
and drought, scourge and flood. He had risen before dawn and slept
before sunset. In the process he had taken on something of the color
and the rugged immutability of the fields and hills and trees among
which he toiled. Something of their dignity, too, though your town
dweller might fail to see it beneath the drab exterior. He had about
him none of the highlights and sharp points of the city man. He
seemed to blend in with the background of nature so as to be almost
undistinguishable from it, as were the furred and feathered
creatures. This farmer differed from the city man as a hillock
differs from an artificial golf bunker, though form and substance are
Ben Westerveld didn't know he was a tragedy. Your farmer is not
given to introspection. For that matter, anyone knows that a farmer
in town is a comedy. Vaudeville, burlesque, the Sunday supplement,
the comic papers, have marked him a fair target for ridicule. Perhaps
one should know him in his overalled, stubble-bearded days, with the
rich black loam of the Mississippi bottomlands clinging to his boots.
At twenty-five, given a tasseled cap, doublet and hose, and a
long, slim pipe, Ben Westerveld would have been the prototype of one
of those rollicking, lusty young mynheers that laugh out at you from a
Frans Hals canvas. A roguish fellow with a merry eye; red-cheeked,
vigorous. A serious mouth, though, and great sweetness of expression.
As he grew older, the seriousness crept up and up and almost entirely
obliterated the roguishness. By the time the life of ease claimed
him, even the ghost of that ruddy wight of boyhood had vanished.
The Westerveld ancestry was as Dutch as the name. It had been
hundreds of years since the first Westervelds came to America, and
they had married and intermarried until the original Holland strain
had almost entirely disappeared. They had drifted to southern
Illinois by one of those slow processes of migration and had settled
in Calhoun County, then almost a wilderness, but magnificent with its
rolling hills, majestic rivers, and gold-and-purple distances. But to
the practical Westerveld mind, hills and rivers and purple haze
existed only in their relation to crops and weather. Ben, though, had
a way of turning his face up to the sky sometimes, and it was not to
scan the heavens for clouds. You saw him leaning on the plow handle
to watch the whirring flight of a partridge across the meadow. He
liked farming. Even the drudgery of it never made him grumble. He
was a natural farmer as men are natural mechanics or musicians or
salesmen. Things grew for him. He seemed instinctively to know
facts about the kin ship of soil and seed that other men had to learn
from books or experience. It grew to be a saying in that section that
"Ben Westerveld could grow a crop on rock."
At picnics and neighborhood frolics Ben could throw farther and
run faster and pull harder than any of the other farmer boys who took
part in the rough games. And he could pick up a girl with one hand
and hold her at arm's length while she shrieked with pretended fear
and real ecstasy. The girls all liked Ben. There was that almost
primitive strength which appealed to the untamed in them as his
gentleness appealed to their softer side. He liked the girls, too,
and could have had his pick of them. He teased them all, took them
buggy riding, beaued them about to neighbor- hood parties. But by the
time he was twenty-five the thing had narrowed down to the Byers girl
on the farm adjoining Westerveld's. There was what the neighbors
called an understanding, though perhaps he had never actually asked
the Byers girl to marry him. You saw him going down the road toward
the Byers place four nights out of the seven. He had a quick, light
step at variance with his sturdy build, and very different from the
heavy, slouching gait of the work-weary farmer. He had a habit of
carrying in his hand a little twig or switch cut from a tree. This he
would twirl blithely as he walked along. The switch and the twirl
represented just so much energy and animal spirits. He never so much
as flicked a dandelion head with it.
An inarticulate sort of thing, that courtship.
"How do, Ben."
"Thought you might like to walk a piece down the road. They got a
calf at Aug Tietjens' with five legs."
"I heard. I'd just as lief walk a little piece. I'm kind of
beat, though. We've got the threshers day after tomorrow. We've
been cooking up."
Beneath Ben's bonhomie and roguishness there was much shyness. The
two would plod along the road together in a sort of blissful agony of
embarrassment. The neighbors were right in their surmise that there
was no definite understanding between them. But the thing was settled
in the minds of both. Once Ben had said: "Pop says I can have the
north eighty on easy payments if--when----"
Emma Byers had flushed up brightly, but had answered equably:
"That's a fine piece. Your pop is an awful good man."
The stolid exteriors of these two hid much that was fine and
forceful. Emma Byers' thoughtful forehead and intelligent eyes would
have revealed that in her. Her mother was dead. She kept house for
her father and brother. She was known as "that smart Byers girl."
Her butter and eggs and garden stuff brought higher prices at
Commercial, twelve miles away, than did any other's in the district.
She was not a pretty girl, according to the local standards, but
there was about her, even at twenty-two, a clear- headedness and a
restful serenity that promised well for Ben Westerveld's future
But Ben Westerveld's future was not to lie in Emma Byers' capable
hands. He knew that as soon as he saw Bella Huckins. Bella Huckins
was the daughter of old "Red Front" Huckins, who ran the saloon of
that cheerful name in Commercial. Bella had elected to teach school,
not from any bent toward learning but because teaching appealed to her
as being a rather elegant occupation. The Huckins family was not
elegant. In that day a year or two of teaching in a country school
took the place of the present-day normal-school diploma. Bella had an
eye on St. Louis, forty miles from the town of Commercial. So she
used the country school as a step toward her ultimate goal, though she
hated the country and dreaded her apprenticeship.
"I'll get a beau," she said, "who'll take me driving and around.
And Saturdays and Sundays I can come to town."
The first time Ben Westerveld saw her she was coming down the road
toward him in her tight-fitting black alpaca dress. The sunset was
behind her. Her hair was very golden. In a day of tiny waists hers
could have been spanned by Ben Westerveld's two hands. He discovered
that later. Just now he thought he had never seen anything so
fairylike and dainty, though he did not put it that way. Ben was not
glib of thought or speech.
He knew at once this was the new schoolteacher. He had heard of
her coming, though at the time the conversation had interested him
not at all. Bella knew who he was, too. She had learned the name and
history of every eligible young man in the district two days after her
arrival. That was due partly to her own bold curiosity and partly to
the fact that she was boarding with the Widow Becker, the most
notorious gossip in the county. In Bella's mental list of the
neighborhood swains Ben Westerveld already occupied a position at the
top of the column.
He felt his face redden as they approached each other. To hide
his embarrassment he swung his little hickory switch gaily and called
to his dog Dunder, who was nosing about by the roadside. Dunder
bounded forward, spied the newcomer, and leaped toward her playfully
and with natural canine curiosity.
Bella screamed. She screamed and ran to Ben and clung to him,
clasping her hands about his arm. Ben lifted the hickory switch in
his free hand and struck Dunder a sharp cut with it. It was the first
time in his life that he had done such a thing. If he had had a sane
moment from that time until the day he married Bella Huckins, he never
would have forgotten the dumb hurt in Dunder's stricken eyes and
shrinking, quivering body.
Bella screamed again, still clinging to him. Ben was saying: "He
won't hurt you. He won't hurt you," meanwhile patting her shoulder
reassuringly. He looked down at her pale face. She was so slight, so
childlike, so apparently different from the sturdy country girls.
From--well, from the girls he knew. Her helplessness, her utter
femininity, appealed to all that was masculine in him. Bella, the
experienced, clinging to him, felt herself swept from head to foot by
a queer electric tingling that was very pleasant but that still had in
it something of the sensation of a wholesale bumping of one's crazy
bone. If she had been anything but a stupid little flirt, she would
have realized that here was a specimen of the virile male with which
she could not trifle. She glanced up at him now, smiling faintly.
"My, I was scared!" She stepped away from him a little--very little.
"Aw, he wouldn't hurt a flea."
But Bella looked over her shoulder fearfully to where Dunder stood
by the roadside, regarding Ben with a look of uncertainty. He still
thought that perhaps this was a new game. Not a game that he cared
for, but still one to be played if his master fancied it. Ben
stooped, picked up a stone, and threw it at Dunder, striking him in
"Go on home!" he commanded sternly. "Go home!" He started toward
the dog with a well-feigned gesture of menace. Dunder, with a low
howl, put his tail between his legs and loped off home, a
Bella stood looking up at Ben. Ben looked down at her. "You're
the new teacher, ain't you?"
"Yes. I guess you must think I'm a fool, going on like a baby
about that dog."
"Most girls would be scared of him if they didn't know he wouldn't
hurt nobody. He's pretty big."
He paused a moment, awkwardly. "My name's Ben Westerveld."
"Pleased to meet you," said Bella. "Which way was you going?
There's a dog down at Tietjens' that's enough to scare anybody. He
looks like a pony, he's so big."
"I forgot something at the school this afternoon, and I was
walking over to get it." Which was a lie. "I hope it won't get dark
before I get there. You were going the other way, weren't you?"
"Oh, I wasn't going no place in particular. I'll be pleased to
keep you company down to the school and back." He was surprised at
his own sudden masterfulness.
They set off together, chatting as freely as if they had known one
another for years. Ben had been on his way to the Byers farm, as
usual. The Byers farm and Emma Byers passed out of his mind as
completely as if they had been whisked away on a magic rug.
Bella Huckins had never meant to marry him. She hated farm life.
She was contemptuous of farmer folk. She loathed cooking and
drudgery. The Huckinses lived above the saloon in Commercial and
Mrs. Huckins was always boiling ham and tongue and cooking pigs' feet
and shredding cabbage for slaw, all these edibles being destined for
the free-lunch counter downstairs. Bella had early made up her mind
that there should be no boiling and stewing and frying in her life.
Whenever she could find an excuse she loitered about the saloon.
There she found life and talk and color. Old Red Front Huckins used
to chase her away, but she always turned up again, somehow, with a
dish for the lunch counter or with an armful of clean towels.
Ben Westerveld never said clearly to himself, "I want to marry
Bella." He never dared meet the thought. He intended honestly to
marry Emma Byers. But this thing was too strong for him. As for
Bella, she laughed at him, but she was scared, too. They both fought
the thing, she selfishly, he unselfishly, for the Byers girl, with her
clear, calm eyes and her dependable ways, was heavy on his heart.
Ben's appeal for Bella was merely that of the magnetic male. She
never once thought of his finer qualities. Her appeal for him was
that of the frail and alluring woman. But in the end they married.
The neighborhood was rocked with surprise.
Usually in a courtship it is the male who assumes the bright
colors of pretense in order to attract a mate. But Ben Westerveld
had been too honest to be anything but himself. He was so honest and
fundamentally truthful that he refused at first to allow himself to
believe that this slovenly shrew was the fragile and exquisite
creature he had married. He had the habit of personal cleanliness,
had Ben, in a day when tubbing was a ceremony in an environment that
made bodily nicety difficult. He discovered that Bella almost never
washed and that her appearance of fragrant immaculateness, when
dressed, was due to a natural clearness of skin and eye, and to the
way her blond hair swept away in a clean line from her forehead. For
the rest, she was a slattern, with a vocabulary of invective that
would have been a credit to any of the habitues of old Red Front
They had three children, a girl and two boys. Ben Westerveld
prospered in spite of his wife. As the years went on he added eighty
acres here, eighty acres there, until his land swept down to the very
banks of the Mississippi. There is no doubt that she hindered him
greatly, but he was too expert a farmer to fail. At threshing time
the crew looked forward to working for Ben, the farmer, and dreaded
the meals prepared by Bella, his wife. She was notoriously the worst
cook and housekeeper in the county. And all through the years, in
trouble and in happiness, her plaint was the same-- "If I'd thought I
was going to stick down on a farm all my life, slavin' for a pack of
menfolks day and night, I'd rather have died. Might as well be dead
as rottin' here."
Her schoolteacher English had early reverted. Her speech was as
slovenly as her dress. She grew stout, too, and unwieldy, and her
skin coarsened from lack of care and from overeating. And in her
children's ears she continually dinned a hatred of farm life and
farming. "You can get away from it," she counseled her daughter,
Minnie. "Don't you be a rube like your pa," she cautioned John, the
older boy. And they profited by her ad- vice. Minnie went to work in
Commercial when she was seventeen, an overdeveloped girl with an
inordinate love of cheap finery. At twenty, she married an artisan, a
surly fellow with roving tendencies. They moved from town to town.
He never stuck long at one job. John, the older boy, was as much his
mother's son as Minnie was her mother's daughter. Restless,
dissatisfied, emptyheaded, he was the despair of his father. He drove
the farm horses as if they were racers, lashing them up hill and down
dale. He was forever lounging off to the village or wheedling his
mother for money to take him to Commercial. It was before the day of
the ubiquitous automobile. Given one of those present adjuncts to
farm life, John would have ended his career much earlier. As it was,
they found him lying by the roadside at dawn one morning after the
horses had trotted into the yard with the wreck of the buggy bumping
the road behind them. He had stolen the horses out of the barn after
the help was asleep, had led them stealthily down the road, and then
had whirled off to a rendezvous of his own in town. The fall from the
buggy might not have hurt him, but evidently he had been dragged
almost a mile before his battered body became somehow disentangled
from the splintered wood and the reins.
That horror might have served to bring Ben Westerveld and his wife
together, but it did not. It only increased her bitterness and her
hatred of the locality and the life.
"I hope you're good an' satisfied now," she repeated in endless
reproach. "I hope you're good an' satisfied. You was bound you'd
make a farmer out of him, an' now you finished the job. You better try
your hand at Dike now for a change."
Dike was young Ben, sixteen; and old Ben had no need to try his
hand at him. Young Ben was a born farmer, as was his father. He had
come honestly by his nickname. In face, figure, expression, and
manner he was a five-hundred-year throwback to his Holland ancestors.
Apple-cheeked, stocky, merry of eye, and somewhat phlegmatic. When,
at school, they had come to the story of the Dutch boy who saved his
town from flood by thrusting his finger into the hole in the dike and
holding it there until help came, the class, after one look at the
accompanying picture in the reader, dubbed young Ben "Dike"
Westerveld. And Dike he remained.
Between Dike and his father there was a strong but unspoken
feeling. The boy was cropwise, as his father had been at his age.
On Sundays you might see the two walking about the farm, looking at
the pigs--great black fellows worth almost their weight in silver;
eying the stock; speculating on the winter wheat showing dark green in
April, with rich patches that were almost black. Young Dike smoked a
solemn and judicious pipe, spat expertly, and voiced the opinion that
the winter wheat was a fine prospect Ben Westerveld, listening
tolerantly to the boy's opinions, felt a great surge of joy that he
did not show. Here, at last, was compensation for all the misery and
sordidness and bitter disappointment of his married life.
That married life had endured now for more than thirty years. Ben
Westerveld still walked with a light, quick step--for his years. The
stocky, broad-shouldered figure was a little shrunken. He was as neat
and clean at fifty-five as he had been at twenty-five-a habit that, on
a farm, is fraught with difficulties. The community knew and
respected him. He was a man of standing. When he drove into town on
a bright winter morning, in his big sheepskin coat and his shaggy cap
and his great boots, and entered the First National Bank, even
Shumway, the cashier, would look up from his desk to say:
"Hello, Westerveld! Hello! Well, how goes it?"
When Shumway greeted a farmer in that way you knew that there were
no unpaid notes to his discredit.
All about Ben Westerveld stretched the fruit of his toil; the work
of his hands. Orchards, fields, cattle, barns, silos. All these
things were dependent on him for their future well-being--on him and
on Dike after him. His days were full and running over. Much of the
work was drudgery; most of it was backbreaking and laborious. But it
was his place. It was his reason for being. And he felt that the
reason was good, though he never put that thought into words, mental
or spoken. He only knew that he was part of the great scheme of
things and that he was functioning ably. If he had expressed himself
at all, he might have said:
"Well, I got my work cut out for me, and I do it, and do it
There was a tractor, now, of course; and a sturdy, middle-class
automobile in which Bella lolled red-faced when they drove into town.
As Ben Westerveld had prospered, his shrewish wife had reaped her
benefits. Ben was not the selfish type of farmer who insists on
twentieth- century farm implements and medieval household equipment.
He had added a bedroom here, a cool summer kitchen there, an
icehouse, a commodious porch, a washing machine, even a bathroom. But
Bella remained unplacated. Her face was set toward the city. And
slowly, surely, the effect of thirty years of nagging was beginning to
tell on Ben Westerveld. He was the finer metal, but she was the
heavier, the coarser. She beat him and molded him as iron beats upon
Minnie was living in Chicago now--a good-natured creature, but
slack like her mother. Her surly husband was still talking of his
rights and crying down with the rich. They had two children.
Minnie wrote of them, and of the delights of city life. Movies
every night. Halsted Street just around the corner. The big stores.
State Street. The el took you downtown in no time. Something going
on all the while. Bella Westerveld, after one of those letters, was
more than a chronic shrew; she became a terrible termagant.
When Ben Westerveld decided to concentrate on hogs and wheat he
didn't dream that a world would be clamoring for hogs and wheat for
four long years. When the time came, he had them, and sold them
fabulously. But wheat and hogs and markets became negligible things
on the day that Dike, with seven other farm boys from the district,
left for the nearest training camp that was to fit them for France and
Bella made the real fuss, wailing and mouthing and going into
hysterics. Old Ben took it like a stoic. He drove the boy to town
that day. When the train pulled out, you might have seen, if you had
looked close, how the veins and cords swelled in the lean brown neck
above the clean blue shirt. But that was all. As the weeks went on,
the quick, light step began to lag a little. He had lost more than a
son; his right-hand helper was gone. There were no farm helpers to be
had. Old Ben couldn't do it all. A touch of rheumatism that winter
half crippled him for eight weeks. Bella's voice seemed never to stop
"There ain't no sense in you trying to make out alone. Next thing
you'll die on me, and then I'll have the whole shebang on my hands."
At that he eyed her dumbly from his chair by the stove. His
resistance was wearing down. He knew it. He wasn't dying. He knew
that, too. But something in him was. Something that had resisted her
all these years. Something that had made him master and superior in
spite of everything.
In those days of illness, as he sat by the stove, the memory of
Emma Byers came to him often. She had left that district
twenty-eight years ago, and had married, and lived in Chicago
somewhere, he had heard, and was prosperous. He wasted no time in
idle regrets. He had been a fool, and he paid the price of fools.
Bella, slamming noisily about the room, never suspected the presence
in the untidy place of a third person--a sturdy girl of twenty-two or
-three, very wholesome to look at, and with honest, intelligent eyes
and a serene brow.
"It'll get worse an' worse all the time," Bella's whine went on.
"Everybody says the war'll last prob'ly for years an' years. You
can't make out alone. Everything's goin' to rack and ruin. You could
rent out the farm for a year, on trial. The Burdickers'd take it, and
glad. They got those three strappin' louts that's all flat-footed or
slab-sided or cross-eyed or somethin', and no good for the army. Let
them run it on shares. Maybe they'll even buy, if things turn out.
Maybe Dike'll never come b----"
But at the look on his face then, and at the low growl of
unaccustomed rage that broke from him, even she ceased her clatter.
They moved to Chicago in the early spring. The look that had been
on Ben Westerveld's face when he drove Dike to the train that carried
him to camp was stamped there again--indelibly this time, it seemed.
Calhoun County in the spring has much the beauty of California.
There is a peculiar golden light about it, and the hills are a
purplish haze. Ben Westerveld, walking down his path to the gate, was
more poignantly dramatic than any figure in a rural play. He did not
turn to look back, though, as they do in a play. He dared not.
They rented a flat in Englewood, Chicago, a block from Minnie's.
Bella was almost amiable these days. She took to city life as though
the past thirty years had never been. White kid shoes, delicatessen
stores, the movies, the haggling with peddlers, the crowds, the
crashing noise, the cramped, unnatural mode of living--necessitated by
a four-room flat--all these urban adjuncts seemed as natural to her as
though she had been bred in the midst of them.
She and Minnie used to spend whole days in useless shopping.
Theirs was a respectable neighborhood of well-paid artisans,
bookkeepers, and small shopkeepers. The women did their own
housework in drab garments and soiled boudoir caps that hid a
multitude of unkempt heads. They seemed to find a great deal of time
for amiable, empty gabbling From seven to four you might see a pair of
boudoir caps leaning from opposite bedroom windows, conversing across
back porches, pausing in the task of sweeping front steps, standing at
a street corner, laden with grocery bundles. Minnie wasted hours in
what she called "running over to Ma's for a minute." The two
quarreled a great deal, being so nearly of a nature. But the very
qualities that combated each other seemed, by some strange chemical
process, to bring them together as well.
"I'm going downtown today to do a little shopping," Minnie would
say. "Do you want to come along, Ma?"
"What you got to get?"
"Oh, I thought I'd look at a couple little dresses for Pearlie."
"When I was your age I made every stitch you wore."
"Yeh, I bet they looked like it, too. This ain't the farm. I got
all I can do to tend to the house, without sewing."
"I did it. I did the housework and the sewin' and cookin', an'
"A swell lot of housekeepin' you did. You don't need to tell me."
The bickering grew to a quarrel. But in the end they took the
downtown el together. You saw them, flushed of face, with twitching
fingers, indulging in a sort of orgy of dime spending in the
five-and-ten-cent store on the wrong side of State Street.
They pawed over bolts of cheap lace and bits of stuff in the
stifling air of the crowded place. They would buy a sack of salted
peanuts from the great mound in the glass case, or a bag of the greasy
pink candy piled in profusion on the counter, and this they would
munch as they went.
They came home late, fagged and irritable, and supplemented their
hurried dinner with hastily bought food from the near-by
Thus ran the life of ease for Ben Westerveld, retired farmer. And
so now he lay impatiently in bed, rubbing a nervous forefinger over
the edge of the sheet and saying to himself that, well, here was
another day. What day was it? L'see now. Yesterday was--yesterday.
A little feeling of panic came over him. He couldn't remember what
yesterday had been. He counted back laboriously and decided that
today must be Thursday. Not that it made any difference.
They had lived in the city almost a year now. But the city had
not digested Ben. He was a leathery morsel that could not be
assimilated. There he stuck in Chicago's crop, contributing nothing,
gaining nothing. A rube in a comic collar ambling aimlessly about
Halsted Street or State downtown. You saw him conversing hungrily with
the gritty and taciturn Swede who was janitor for the block of
red-brick flats. Ben used to follow him around pathetically, engaging
him in the talk of the day. Ben knew no men except the surly Gus,
Minnie's husband. Gus, the firebrand, thought Ben hardly worthy of
his contempt. If Ben thought, sometimes, of the respect with which he
had always been greeted when he clumped down the main street of
Commercial--if he thought of how the farmers for miles around had come
to him for expert advice and opinion--he said nothing.
Sometimes the janitor graciously allowed Ben to attend to the
furnace of the building in which he lived. He took out ashes,
shoveled coal. He tinkered and rattled and shook things. You heard
him shoveling and scraping down there, and smelled the acrid odor of
his pipe. It gave him something to do. He would emerge sooty and
"You been monkeying with that furnace again!" Bella would scold.
"If you want something to do, why don't you plant a garden in the
back yard and grow something? You was crazy about it on the farm."
His face flushed a slow, dull red at that. He could not explain
to her that he lost no dignity in his own eyes in fussing about an
inadequate little furnace, but that self-respect would not allow him
to stoop to gardening-- he who had reigned over six hundred acres of
On winter afternoons you saw him sometimes at the movies, whiling
away one of his many idle hours in the dim, close-smelling atmosphere
of the place. Tokyo and Rome and Gallipoli came to him. He saw
beautiful tiger-women twining fair, false arms about the stalwart but
yielding forms of young men with cleft chins. He was only mildly
interested. He talked to anyone who would talk to him, though he was
naturally a shy man. He talked to the barber, the grocer, the
druggist, the streetcar conductor, the milkman, the iceman. But the
price of wheat did not interest these gentlemen. They did not know
that the price of wheat was the most vital topic of conversation in
"Well, now," he would say, "you take this year's wheat crop, with
about 917,000,000 bushels of wheat harvested, why, that's what's going
to win the war! Yes, sirree! No wheat, no winning, that's what I
"Ya-as, it is!" the city men would scoff. But the queer part of
it is that Farmer Ben was right.
Minnie got into the habit of using him as a sort of nursemaid. It
gave her many hours of freedom for gadding and gossiping.
"Pa, will you look after Pearlie for a little while this morning?
I got to run downtown to match something and she gets so tired and
mean-acting if I take her along. Ma's going with me."
He loved the feel of Pearlie's small, velvet-soft hand in his big
fist. He called her "little feller," and fed her forbidden dainties.
His big brown fingers were miraculously deft at buttoning and
unbuttoning her tiny garments, and wiping her soft lips, and
performing a hundred tender offices. He was playing a sort of game
with himself, pretending this was Dike become a baby again. Once the
pair managed to get over to Lincoln Park, where they spent a glorious
day looking at the animals, eating popcorn, and riding on the
They returned, tired, dusty, and happy, to a double tirade.
Bella engaged in a great deal of what she called worrying about
Dike. Ben spoke of him seldom, but the boy was always present in his
thoughts. They had written him of their move, but he had not seemed to
get the impression of its permanence. His letters indicated that he
thought they were visiting Minnie, or taking a vacation in the city.
Dike's letters were few. Ben treasured them, and read and reread
them. When the Armistice news came, and with it the possibility of
Dike's return, Ben tried to fancy him fitting into the life of the
city. And his whole being revolted at the thought.
He saw the pimply-faced, sallow youths standing at the corner of
Halsted and Sixty-third, spitting languidly and handling their limp
cigarettes with an amazing labial dexterity. Their conversation was
low-voiced, sinister, and terse, and their eyes narrowed as they
watched the overdressed, scarlet-lipped girls go by. A great fear
clutched at Ben Westerveld's heart.
The lack of exercise and manual labor began to tell on Ben. He
did not grow fat from idleness. Instead his skin seemed to sag and
hang on his frame, like a garment grown too large for him. He walked a
great deal. Perhaps that had something to do with it. He tramped
miles of city pave- ments. He was a very lonely man. And then, one
day, quite by accident, he came upon South Water Street. Came upon
it, stared at it as a water-crazed traveler in a desert gazes upon the
spring in the oasis, and drank from it, thirstily, gratefully.
South Water Street feeds Chicago. Into that close-packed
thoroughfare come daily the fruits and vegetables that will supply a
million tables. Ben had heard of it, vaguely, but had never attempted
to find it. Now he stumbled upon it and, standing there, felt at home
in Chicago for the first time in more than a year. He saw ruddy men
walking about in overalls and carrying whips in their hands--wagon
whips, actually. He hadn't seen men like that since he had left the
farm. The sight of them sent a great pang of homesickness through
him. His hand reached out and he ran an accustomed finger over the
potatoes in a barrel on the walk. His fingers lingered and gripped
them, and passed over them lovingly.
At the contact something within him that had been tight and hungry
seemed to relax, satisfied. It was his nerves, feeding on those
familiar things for which they had been starving.
He walked up one side and down the other. Crates of lettuce, bins
of onions, barrels of apples. Such vegetables! The radishes were
scarlet globes. Each carrot was a spear of pure orange. The green
and purple of fancy asparagus held his expert eye. The cauliflower
was like a great bouquet, fit for a bride; the cabbages glowed like
And the men! He hadn't dreamed there were men like that in this
big, shiny-shod, stiffly laundered, white-collared city. Here were
rufous men in overalls--worn, shabby, easy-looking overalls and old
blue shirts, and mashed hats worn at a careless angle. Men, jovial,
good-natured, with clear eyes, and having about them some of the
revivifying freshness and wholesomeness of the products they handled.
Ben Westerveld breathed in the strong, pungent smell of onions and
garlic and of the earth that seemed to cling to the vegetables, washed
clean though they were. He breathed deeply, gratefully, and felt
strangely at peace.
It was a busy street. A hundred times he had to step quickly to
avoid a hand truck, or dray, or laden wagon. And yet the busy men
found time to greet him friendlily. "H'are you!" they said genially.
"H'are you this morning!"
He was marketwise enough to know that some of these busy people
were commission men, and some grocers, and some buyers, stewards,
clerks. It was a womanless thoroughfare. At the busiest business
corner, though, in front of the largest commission house on the
street, he saw a woman. Evidently she was transacting business, too,
for he saw the men bringing boxes of berries and vegetables for her
inspection. A woman in a plain blue skirt and a small black hat.
A funny job for a woman. What weren't they mixing into nowadays!
He turned sidewise in the narrow, crowded space in order to pass
her little group. And one of the men--a red-cheeked, merry-looking
young fellow in a white apron--laughed and said: "Well, Emma, you win.
When it comes to driving a bargain with you, I quit. It can't be
Even then he didn't know her. He did not dream that this
straight, slim, tailored, white-haired woman, bargaining so shrewdly
with these men, was the Emma Byers of the old days. But he stopped
there a moment, in frank curiosity, and the woman looked up. She
looked up, and he knew those intelligent eyes and that serene brow.
He had carried the picture of them in his mind for more than thirty
years, so it was not so surprising.
He did not hesitate. He might have if he had thought a moment,
but he acted automatically. He stood before her. "You're Emma
Byers, ain't you?"
She did not know him at first. Small blame to her, so completely
had the roguish, vigorous boy vanished in this sallow, sad-eyed old
man. Then: "Why, Ben!" she said quietly. And there was pity in her
voice, though she did not mean to have it there. She put out one
hand--that capable, reassuring hand--and gripped his and held it a
moment. It was queer and significant that it should be his hand that
lay within hers.
"Well, what in all get-out are you doing around here, Emma?" He
tried to be jovial and easy. She turned to the aproned man with whom
she had been dealing and smiled.
"What am I doing here, Joe?"
Joe grinned, waggishly. "Nothin'; only beatin' every man on the
street at his own game, and makin' so much money that----"
But she stopped him there. "I guess I'll do my own explaining."
She turned to Ben again. "And what are you doing here in Chicago?"
Ben passed a faltering hand across his chin. "Me? Well,
I'm--we're living here, I s'pose. Livin' here."
She glanced at him sharply. "Left the farm, Ben?"
"Wait a minute." She concluded her business with Joe; finished it
briskly and to her own satisfaction. With her bright brown eyes and
her alert manner and her quick little movements she made you think of
a wren--a businesslike little wren--a very early wren that is highly
versed in the worm-catching way.
At her next utterance he was startled but game.
"Have you had your lunch?"
"Why, no; I----"
"I've been down here since seven, and I'm starved. Let's go and
have a bite at the little Greek restaurant around the corner. A cup
of coffee and a sandwich, anyway."
Seated at the bare little table, she surveyed him with those
intelligent, understanding, kindly eyes, and he felt the years slip
from him. They were walking down the country road together, and she
was listening quietly and advising him.
She interrogated him gently. But something of his old
masterfulness came back to him. "No, I want to know about you first.
I can't get the rights of it, you being here on South Water, tradin'
So she told him briefly. She was in the commission business.
Successful. She bought, too, for such hotels as the Blackstone and
the Congress, and for half a dozen big restaurants. She gave him bare
facts, but he was shrewd enough and sufficiently versed in business to
know that here was a woman of established commercial position.
"But how does it happen you're keepin' it up, Emma, all this time?
Why, you must be anyway--it ain't that you look it--but----" He
She laughed. "That's all right, Ben. I couldn't fool you on
that. And I'm working because it keeps me happy. I want to work
till I die. My children keep telling me to stop, but I know better
than that. I'm not going to rust out. I want to wear out." Then, at
an unspoken question in his eyes: "He's dead. These twenty years. It
was hard at first, when the children were small. But I knew garden
stuff if I didn't know anything else. It came natural to me. That's
So then she got his story from him bit by bit. He spoke of the
farm and of Dike, and there was a great pride in his voice. He spoke
of Bella, and the son who had been killed, and of Minnie. And the
words came falteringly. He was trying to hide something, and he was
not made for deception. When he had finished:
"Now, listen, Ben. You go back to your farm."
"I can't. She--I can't."
She leaned forward, earnestly. "You go back to the farm."
He turned up his palms with a little gesture of defeat. "I
"You can't stay here. It's killing you. It's poisoning you. Did
you ever hear of toxins? That means poisons, and you're poisoning
yourself. You'll die of it. You've got another twenty years of work
in you. What's ailing you? You go back to your wheat and your apples
and your hogs. There isn't a bigger job in the world than that."
For a moment his face took on a glow from the warmth of her own
inspiring personality. But it died again. When they rose to go, his
shoulders drooped again, his muscles sagged. At the doorway he paused
a moment, awkward in farewell. He blushed a little, stammered.
"Emma--I always wanted to tell you. God knows it was luck for you
the way it turned out--but I always wanted to----"
She took his hand again in her firm grip at that, and her kindly,
bright brown eyes were on him. "I never held it against you, Ben. I
had to live a long time to understand it. But I never held a grudge.
It just wasn't to be, I suppose. But listen to me, Ben. You do as I
tell you. You go back to your wheat and your apples and your hogs.
There isn't a bigger man-size job in the world. It's where you
Unconsciously his shoulders straightened again. Again they
sagged. And so they parted, the two.
He must have walked almost all the long way home, through miles
and miles of city streets. He must have lost his way, too, for when
he looked up at a corner street sign it was an unfamiliar one.
So he floundered about, asked his way, was misdirected. He took
the right streetcar at last and got off at his own corner at seven
o'clock, or later. He was in for a scolding, he knew.
But when he came to his own doorway he knew that even his
tardiness could not justify the bedlam of sound that came from
within. High-pitched voices. Bella's above all the rest, of course,
but there was Minnie's too, and Gus's growl, and Pearlie's treble, and
the boy Ed's and----
At the other voice his hand trembled so that the knob rattled in
the door, and he could not turn it. But finally he did turn it, and
stumbled in, breathing hard. And that other voice was Dike's.
He must have just arrived. The flurry of explanation was still in
progress. Dike's knapsack was still on his back, and his canteen at
his hip, his helmet slung over his shoulder. A brown, hard, glowing
Dike, strangely tall and handsome and older, too. Older.
All this Ben saw in less than one electric second. Then he had
the boy's two shoulders in his hands, and Dike was saying, "Hello,
Of the roomful, Dike and old Ben were the only quiet ones. The
others were taking up the explanation and going over it again and
again, and marveling, and asking questions.
"He come in to--what's that place, Dike?--Hoboken--yesterday only.
An' he sent a dispatch to the farm. Can't you read our letters,
Dike, that you didn't know we was here now? And then he's only got an
hour more. They got to go to Camp Grant to be, now, demobilized. He
came out to Minnie's on a chance. Ain't he big!"
But Dike and his father were looking at each other quietly. Then
Dike spoke. His speech was not phlegmatic, as of old. He had a new
clipped way of uttering his words:
"Say, Pop, you ought to see the way the Frenchies farm! They got
about an acre each, and, say, they use every inch of it. If they's a
little dirt blows into the crotch of a tree, they plant a crop in
there. I never seen nothin' like it. Say, we waste enough stuff over
here to keep that whole country in food for a hundred years. Yessir.
And tools! Outta the ark, believe me. If they ever saw our tractor,
they'd think it was the Germans comin' back. But they're smart at
that. I picked up a lot of new ideas over there. And you ought to
see the old birds--womenfolks and men about eighty years old-- runnin'
everything on the farm. They had to. I learned somethin' off them
"Forget the farm," said Minnie.
"Yeh," echoed Gus, "forget the farm stuff. I can get you a job
here out at the works for four-fifty a day, and six when you learn it
Dike looked from one to the other, alarm and unbelief on his face.
"What d'you mean, a job? Who wants a job! What you all----"
Bella laughed jovially. "F'r heaven's sakes, Dike, wake up! We're
livin' here. This is our place. We ain't rubes no more."
Dike turned to his father. A little stunned look crept into his
face. A stricken, pitiful look. There was something about it that
suddenly made old Ben think of Pearlie when she had been slapped by
her quick- tempered mother.
"But I been countin' on the farm," he said miserably. "I just
been livin' on the idea of comin' back to it. Why, I---- The streets
here, they're all narrow and choked up. I been countin' on the farm.
I want to go back and be a farmer. I want----"
And then Ben Westerveld spoke. A new Ben Westerveld--the old Ben
Westerveld. Ben Westerveld, the farmer, the monarch over six hundred
acres of bounteous bottomland.
"That's all right, Dike," he said. "You're going back. So'm I.
I've got another twenty years of work in me. We're going back to the
Bella turned on him, a wildcat. "We ain't! Not me! We ain't!
I'm not agoin' back to the farm."
But Ben Westerveld was master again in his own house. "You're
goin' back, Bella," he said quietly, "an' things are goin' to be
different. You're goin' to run the house the way I say, or I'll know
why. If you can't do it, I'll get them in that can. An' me and Dike,
we're goin' back to our wheat and our apples and our hogs. Yessir!
There ain't a bigger man-size job in the world."