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by Marjorie Pickthall
(1883-1922)
Originally from Angels' shoes, and other stories (192?)
This copy from The Canada book of prose and verse:
Selected short stories (1938 ed.)
What had taken Stephen Forrester to the Exhibition would be difficult to say. He had told his friends that snow and ice and anything higher than a first floor made him feel ill, and had then proceeded to lose himself very pleasantly among the fleshpots. Well, he had earned his fleshpots. Yet here he was, at three o'clock on a sunny afternoon, paying his entrance fee like anybody else to the Association Rooms, to see Macrae's photographs. "The large photographs of Mount Forrester are in Room C," said the very efficient young person with the bobbed hair who gave him his change. "Kindly keep to the right." He thanked her humbly and clicked through the turnstile in the wake of a large woman in musquash and carnations, who would probably have given much to know him. For Forrester was something of a lion that winter. He went into Room C, after a guilty glance about A and B. But no one was there who knew him. No one said: "That's Forrester! Yes, the fellow with the limp. You'd never dream he was fond of, that sort of thing, would you?" His first thought was: "Mac did some good work!" Then, with an involuntary catching of the breath, he stopped short before the great photograph that he'd the end wall alone. And as he did so he knew with sure foreknowledge that any time in his life he might be brought up with that little thrill, that while he lived, a hundred chance scents or colours or silences would have power to renew for him that air of ineffable space, those sheathed and virgin rocks, those upper snows austere against the burning blue; that the impersonal passion of the climber had been, was, and for ever would be the moving force of his soul. "Mount Forrester from the Southeast," the catalogue had it. Just that! He was the man who had conquered Mount Forrester; and he was the man who knew how utterly the great height had conquered him. He sat down on one of the leather divans placed at intervals down the centre of the room, staring at the enlarged photograph with half-closed eyes. The heated air grew cold in his throat; inside his irreproachable gloves the scars of his old frost-bites burned and tingled; he tapped one well-shod foot the lame one on the floor. There in the extreme left-hand corner of the picture was the bit of ice that had slid and crushed him. That had been on the return journey. They said he'd never walk again. Macrae himself had been all in when he took that picture. Why, they'd put him in the tent in the middle of a snow flurry; the cloud had cleared and the light was right, they'd found Mac up to his ears in snow half a mile away; clutching the camera raving, but he'd taken the picture. "Excuse me, boss you done any climbin'?" Forrester came to earth with a start, and leaned round the curve of the leather seat-back the better to see and answer the man who had so suddenly spoken to him. But he was slow in answering as the details of the questioner's face presented themselves to him around the curve of the fat green morocco. For what possible interest could such a one have in climbing mountains? An elderly clerk out of work? Scarcely educated enough, judged Forrester. A night watchman? More likely. Anyway, a sub-underassistant at whatever he set his hand to do. The stamp of the man born to work under other men was on him, on his respectable garments, on his vague face set in graying bristles; one could guess him treading for ever the same smoothed rut, running on the same rail, until pushed off at last into a still deeper obscurity. And he was already growing old. Forrester, clean from his heights, was quick to pity. "One of the Great Unlucky," he said to himself; and aloud: "Yes, I've climbed a good bit. Are you interested in it?" The stranger smiled slowly. Then he drew out seven coppers and arranged them along his dingy palm. There was a certain youthfulness, a hovering and unexpected sweetness in his smile that attracted Forrester. "These here," he said, "are all I got left of what Maggie allows me for baccy this week, after paying my admission." He returned the coins to his pocket and resumed his slow contemplation of the picture. For a moment Forrester was in doubt. But the shabby-respectable man was oblivious of him, his whole attention absorbed in the picture. And it was Forrester who renewed the conversation on some impulse of sympathy, saying: "Where have you done your climbing?" "Me? Oh, anywhere north of Thunder Valley, for the most part. You've got to climb there to get about. Don't see any sense in doing it for fun." He turned his eyes again to the photograph, and once more that shy, half-boyish smile transfigured his commonplace face. "But you think different when you're young, eh, Mister? Where you do your climbing, if I may ask?" Forrester nodded toward the wall. "Thereabouts mostly," he said pleasantly. "My name's Forrester Stephen Forrester, at your service." The stranger turned completely around; his face rose over the back of the divan like a queer mild moon. "You Forrester?" he said with interest. "Well, now! You the fellow that climbed that mountain an' had it named for him?" "Yes," smiled Forrester, conscious of an excusable glow. " Well amused was not
just the word that Forrester had expected! But the
other man came sidling along the leather seat, all
alight with interest. He put out his hand, so palpably
the hand of a failure, and touched Forrester's sleeve.
"Mister," he begged simply, "tell me all about it,
so's I can tell Maggie!"
The appeal hit Forrester in his softest
place. He was touched. Who was Maggie? He visioned her
as beautiful and dreaming of her native hills; in a
mental flash he saw himself telling a moving story to
a dozen well-appointed dinner-tables. He said kindly:
"Tell me what you want to know. But first who's
Maggie? Where is she?"
"My old girl, Mister. She's washing
dishes at Henniker's till I get a job." He went on
with a touch of pride: "She don't have to work when
I'm doing anything, boss."
Again Forrester was moved; he guessed
that Maggie washed dishes a lot at Henniker's and did
it cheerily. Maggie's husband went on with a shy
eagerness, jerking his thumb at the wall: "Did you
have to cross Somahl' to the glacier, Mister?" "Yes."
Forrester was conscious of an increasing astonishment,
for the glacier was not shown on the photograph, and
is not named on any map. "We climbed that long ridge
to the east the photograph does not show much
of it and worked along till we came to the
little plateau. And there we made our last camp. We
went up next day. We wanted to do it in a day, so as
not to spend a night at that altitude."
"I know." The face of Maggie's husband
showed
keener, harder; he was touched with some quiet
amusement that puzzled Forrester. "You went up roped,
boss?"
"As far as that big fissure." Forrester
was kindling, as a lyric poet might kindle at the talk
of love. "We cast them off then. They were too great a
weight. We kept them as dry as we could, but there was
a continual poudre and they were frozen as
stiff as steel rods, crackling as we moved. It sounded
so loud, that crackle."
"The papers say you were the only one
that made the peak, Mister, the only one that made
good."
"It wasn't the other fellows' faults,"
said Forrester quickly. "They were fine stuff
white men. I tell you they gave up their chances so I
should
have mine. Yes. They helped me all through, spent
their strength for me so that in the end they'd none
left, and I went on alone on their strength. A man
said to me last week: 'You hired them, didn't you?'
'What difference does that make?' I said, 'when they
gave me what money couldn't buy?'"
Forrester's eyes went to the picture;
he was abruptly silent. Then: "They gave me that," he
breathed.
After a minute he went on quietly,
talking more to himself than to the man beside him
"I left Mason and Pieters on the last
tiny level with the tent over them. Mason was
finished. Pieters could have come with me, but daren't
leave Mason, who was in a state of collapse, and blue.
Pieters never stopped rubbing him, he told me, for an
hour. I went on alone, up a slope of hard old snow,
steep, but easy enough that slope and in
five minutes it was as if I'd been alone for centuries
from the beginning of the world! I drew myself up on a
ledge and looked down. Mason and Pieters were little
black figures beneath. Pieters lifted a hand to me.
Then I went on over that hummock there
and they were gone. It seemed to be all right
all right, I mean, that I should be alone at the end
alone with my mountain.
"The hardest part of the climbing was
over. There
remained only that great soaring wedge of immortal
snow, that heaved above me into the blue. I had only
to climb, to keep on working upward as long as my
strength held. I knew it would not fail. My arms,
outstretched against the face of the steep, and
looking as weak as a fly's legs, were yet long enough
and strong enough to clasp the whole of that
magnificent summit, and leave their mark upon it, and
conquer it. What a thing humanity is. Oh, I'm talking
nonsense, if you like, but I was a little mad at the
time. If you've climbed, you know how it is!"
But Forrester saw at the same moment
that his listener didn't know how it was, for all he
was smiling indulgently. "I've been mad in my time,
boss," he said almost with a wink. "I haven't the head
for such things now."
Forrester laughed a little. "It took
some head," he confessed, nodding at the photograph.
"After I worked round that curve there, I had nothing
under me but a drop a drop clear to
timber-line. I'd loose a handful of snow from
somewhere, and it'd go glittering off into the
emptiness behind me like frozen smoke, and I'd stick
close for a minute to see if any more was coming. Then
I'd watch those bits of snow-dust fall and fall and
fall miles and miles they seemed to fall, right
to the black furriness that was the forest of the
lower slopes. They came near to shaking me. And now
and then I seemed to have nothing at all under hands
or feet to be just afloat in dizzy space. Then
I'd look up, and the whole weight of the summit'd rush
back at me hang over me until I seemed to be
underneath it and crushed flat. And then I'd kind of
come back to myself, and know what I was doing. And I
tell you I wouldn't have swapped places with a
millionaire! It's at times like that a man feels his
soul alive in him and knows he can't fail, whatever
seems to happen. They say that normally we only use
about one-tenth of our power of living. It takes the
divine moment to teach us what we are when we use
ten-tenths what we are!"
Forrester was frankly smiling now,
frankly talking to
himself. Maggie's husband was listening in respectful
bewilderment, yet with something held in reserve; he
sat with his elbows on his knees and his hands
dangling forward. Forrester wished he wouldn't;
somehow, those hands looked so inept, so apologetic.
He went on abruptly:
"I was corkscrewing upwards, if you see
what I mean. I calculated to reach the top on the side
opposite to where I'd left my two men, for we'd seen
that the overhang was less there. But on that side the
wind was worse. It was not strong just a steady
swim of cold air fit to freeze the breath inside you.
"I was working up very safely and
steadily, finding everything much easier than I had
expected, which is often the way. I was cutting steps
in solid snow. Nothing could happen to me as long as I
kept on cutting steps. I was as safe as a house, for
all the next stopping place was two thousand feet
under. And I was just thinking so when the thong with
which my ice-axe was looped round my wrist caught
against a snag that thrust through the snow-crust, and
snapped. I shifted my grip on the shaft for greater
security; and the next instant the thing was out of my
hand and glissading down the slope.
"Well, it was awkward enough, but not
fatal. I went on without it, though slower; making
detours round hummocks I'd have cut into, and scooping
holds with the big knife I had on a lanyard round my
neck. I went on so for maybe another hour, not
thinking of the top, pinning my mind to every inch of
the ascent.
"And then all in a moment, as it
seemed I looked up. And there was the summit
not two hundred feet above me, and easy all the way.
"Well, I hung on with toes and fingers
and tried to cheer, but I couldn't get it out. Change
places with a millionaire! I wouldn't have changed
places with the kings of the earth! And then I looked
more closely at what lay in front of me. And the cheer
went out of me like the flame out of a candle.
"Immediately over me, and for as far
round as I could see, the mountain-top was girdled
with a band of rock, a sheer face, too sheer to hold
the snow. It was all veined with ice, pitted and
porous with the weather since the world began
soft stuff, crumbling under frost and sun. Yes, there
was just about twenty feet of it. After that a smooth
mound of snow to the very crest. And I lay with my
chin in a drift at the foot of it, and cried like a
baby. For I knew that no power on earth could get me
up that little twenty-foot wall of rock without an axe
to chip holds with.
"I worked up to it and stood against
it. There was a ledge that held me comfortably. I
stood on it and drove in the knife as far as I could
reach above my head, tossed my line round it and
pulled. It came away in a tinkle of tiny ice-chips and
rotten rock. I stared below me. I wondered how long it
would take me to get down without having
reached the top. I looked to my right, just to make
certain of what I was deadly sure of already
that there wasn't any possible way up for a single
climber farther along the ledge. And there, as sure as
I'm a living man, were little steps cut roughly in the
rock choked with ice, but recognizable,
serviceable.
"When I told our president that," said
Forrester after a silence, "he told me I'd
gone light-headed from exposure."
Forrester gazed at the picture a
moment, a smile on his fine vivid face. His eyes
looked into a great distance; and the eyes of the man
beside him rested on him kindly,
uncomprehendingly, a little wistfully, as if he were
trying to follow Forrester into that shining distance.
"I knew," Forrester was speaking to his
own soul. "Oh, I knew," he repeated, softly. "I met
him there. I felt him there my nameless
forerunner! There was a high spirit near me in the
very wind. I touched hands with an unknown comrade, a
friend who'd climbed higher leaving his glory to me
like a coat for which he'd no more
use. How high he must have climbed! To the very stars!
"The steps were very much weathered.
They looked very old. They were filled, as I said,
with old ice, which I chipped out with the hook of my
knife. I went up hand over hand.
"The rest was easy. I won't trouble you
with it. I stood on the summit at last, and left the
tiny flag there that I'd carried up. He my
forerunner seemed to be waiting for me there; I
fancied that he gave me a generous smile. I knew he
didn't grudge me anything. It sounds rubbish
here, eh? but there I smiled back at
him the man in whose steps I'd climbed to the
best thing life's given me yet; and I drank his
health. Then I came down."
The pleasant, vigorous voice died to
silence. Both men, so contrasted, sat silent for a
while, looking at the picture, which even in the
electric light seemed to glow and recede into some
splendid atmosphere of its own.
At last Forrester turned, a little
shamefaced; he felt that in talking so to a man who
couldn't possibly understand, he'd gone very near to
making a fool of himself and his mountain. There was
honest pity in his heart for any man who knew nothing
of such austere triumphs as he enjoyed; perhaps there
was a shade of contempt, too, as he said hastily: "See
here, I've made you listen to a lot of stuff, eh? But
you must let me pay for this, you know. Just the price
of admission between two men who have something
in common."
He broke off. For he was not heard. The
shabby man was gazing at the photograph. And as he
gazed he chuckled quietly and rubbed his faded knees.
"If you'd looked, Mister," he said, "if you'd looked,
maybe you'd have found the bits of an old lantern, up
there where you left the flag!"
Perfectly motionless, Forrester waited.
The shabby man turned to him genially.
"Such fools
as we are when we're young!" he said. "How it all
comes back!" He smiled upon the younger man again with
that bright, gentle look which gave him momentarily
the aspect of youth; it was like a light reflected
from some mountain-peak of the soul. He went on:
"Maggie'll be that interested when she hears
some one has sat right alongside me, talking
excuse me, boss like man to man, some one
that's been up that there mountain!"
Still Forrester waited, dry-mouthed.
"You see, Mister, me and Maggie always
counted that old mountain as ours, seeing that I was
the only fellow had ever been up it in those days. And
a fine fool I was. Many's the time Maggie's said to
me: 'I wonder I took you, Si,' she's said, 'seeing you
showed me what kind of a fool you were when you were
courting.' Maggie's a great one for a joke. 'Or
maybe,' she says, 'I took you just because you were
such a fool that Christmas. There's no accounting for
a woman's taste,' she says."
That reflection of a far light rosed
his colourless face as he turned again to Forrester;
it lighted a pleasant blue star in his homely eyes; he
laughed consciously, and glanced down at his patched
shoes.
"We weren't married then," he explained
confidentially. "It's a long time ago. Seems queer
that there ever was a time when Maggie and me
weren't married; but there was." He wrinkled his brow
with a ruminative air. "But there was never, at no
time, any other girl than Maggie Delane for me." He
looked gently at Forrester. "You should 'a' seen her
then," he said; "she was the puniest girl in
Cascapedia, my Maggie was.
"There was a lot of fellows after her.
She could 'a' done lots better, but she stuck
to me. Seems like I didn't have much luck, even then.
I don't know why I was always willing to work.
It just happened that way, Mister. Times I said to
her: 'You'd best quit me, honey, and take up with a
luckier man.' I said that not knowing just what I'd do
if she'd 'a' done it. But she she just put
her hands on my shoulders," he glanced
wonderingly at his shabby coat, "she put her
hands there, an' she says: 'Good luck or bad, I'll
never go back on you, Si.'" His slow eyes went back to
Forrester's face. "You know how it is with them, with
the good ones, boss, when they're fond of a
feller."
"No," said Forrester, after a short
silence, and very humbly, "no, I don't know
yet. Go on, please. Tell me the rest."
"We were to have been married that
Christmas. But I didn't have any luck. I didn't have
enough saved. It near broke my heart. I hadn't got so
kind of used to waiting on things then, and I was just
set on going to Cascapedia and claiming my girl that
Christmas. She was working in a store there, and I was
on a lumbering job back on the Ouconagan. 'Twasn't so
far asunders, but the hills rose up to heaven in
betwixt us. I hadn't seen her in a long while, Mister.
And when the time came on, an' I'd no luck an' had
been sick, an' dassent to quit my job, I tramped those
hills all one night, boss, trying to find the nerve to
write Maggie and say: 'We can't be married this
Christmas after all, honey; we'll have to wait for the
spring.'"
He bent down and picked a thread
carefully from his frayed trousers. Raising his head,
he stared again at the picture. "I wrote it at last,"
he went on in his heavy way, "an' I sent it to her. I
was down an' out. I kind of lost my
self-respect, boss, having to write that way to Maggie
when she could 'a' done so much better . . . . Yes,
sir. An' then her answer came. She wasn't a very good
writer. She just said I wasn't to worry; she guessed
she could get along without me till the spring
always one for a joke, was Maggie! but I was to
think of her on Christmas."
The shabby man's voice trailed off into
silence. After a moment he said, thoughtfully: "Queer
how they the
good ones can break a fellow all up an' put him
on his feet at the same time, ain't it boss?"
"I don't know," said Forrester
softly. "Go on, please."
"She said I was to think of her on
Christmas. Something you said awhile back put me in
mind of how I felt then. Think of her! Why, I I
felt as though I could chop the mountains down same as
if they were trees to get her! I felt there was
nothing just nothing I couldn't do, or
bear, or get, so as Maggie didn't quit me. I felt I'd
get her those great shiny stars for buttons to her
Sunday dress if she was wanting them. Made me feel
twelve foot high and drunk, she did, just with three
lines o' bad spelling and a joke! I'd five dollars in
my pocket, an' I went an' looked up a Siwash, one o'
those mountain Injuns that looks like a Chinaman and
moves up or down like a goat; I'd done him a kindness
a little while back, an' he was grateful, which is
more'n a white fellow always is. I said, would he take
a letter to my klootch in Cascapedia, for five
dollars, she to get it on Christmas? Yes, he said, he
would. I gave him the letter an' the bill, an' off he
went not that she was rightly my klootch
then, o' course, an' she'd 'a' been terrible vexed if
she'd known I called her so; but it was near enough
for him.
"We weren't so far apart, as I said
not so many miles on the level, only not a yard
of it was level; the hills were like a wall
between us; but there was one thing we could both see,
one thing that was in sight from Cascapedia an' from
the Ouconagan on the other side. An' that was that
mountain there."
He looked at the picture with lingering
surprise. "My!" he said, "You would never think I'd
been up there, would you? You'd think I was too old
and had too much sense. But I was young then; and some
way Maggie'd made me clean crazy."
He flushed and gave Forrester a shy,
friendly smile. "Two nights," he said, laughing a
little, "two nights I
sat up, fixing a lantern to suit me fixing it
so's no draft could get in, putting in extra wicks an'
more oil an' the dear knows what-all! I'd said to
Maggie in my letter I'd sent, 'You borrow a pair of
glasses if it isn't clear,' I said, 'an' you look at
the top o' the biggest mountain you see in betwixt
us,' I said 'on Christmas night, an' you'll see if I'm
thinking of you or not, Maggie Delane.' That's what I
said.
"When the lantern was fixed, I packed
it on my back careful, an' I borrowed an ice-axe, an'
a pair o' creepers, an' I climbed that there mountain
an' left the lighted lantern on the top."
Forrester stared at him. Did he know
what he was saying, what, in that brief day of glory
given him by a girl's trust, he had done? No, he had
no inkling of it; no shadow of a suspicion crossed his
simple mind that he had achieved a feat that no man
had been able to repeat for thirty years. He was
smiling pleasantly, indulgently, at the folly of his
youth. And Forrester said, not knowing he spoke aloud:
"It's better it should be like that. It's more
beautiful so."
"Did you speak, Mister?"
"No nothing. Please go on."
But the charm was broken; the
reflection of that far light was fading from the aging
face as Forrester had seen the reflected glory of his
peak fading from the lowlands. The shabby man's
shyness was increasing; he looked at Forrester
uneasily. "I don't know what made me talk so much," he
mumbled apologetically. "Seeing that picture an' all,
I guess. I'm not generally one to talk much."
"Good heavens, man," cried Forrester,
"don't you know you've just been telling me the most
beautiful thing I ever heard?" He checked himself
abruptly at the look in his companion's face. "Tell me
how you got up," he went on more quietly.
But the present had again usurped the
splendid past.
"I don't rightly remember now," said
the shabby man uncertainly. "My mind was so full of
Maggie: anyway . . . I crossed the glacier below where
you did, an' then I I guess. I just went up,
boss."
"Yes," agreed Forrester, "you just went
up . . . And the lantern wasn't hurt, and Maggie saw
the light from Cascapedia?"
"She saw it, boss. It burned till the
oil gave out. 'Twasn't hurt a mite."
Forrester looked again at the
photograph. He visioned his great peak, a shadow
against the winter stars, crowned with a tiniest point
of light a weak star that invaded those awful
solitudes, those dominions of wind and cloud, dawn and
darkness, to tell a girl in a store that her man
hadn't forgotten her! He roused from his vision to
hear Maggie's husband mumbling good-bye.
". . . be terribly amused to hear I've
seen you," he heard. "Take it as a favour, boss, if
you'd not mention it to anyone . . . do a steady man
no good. They'd think I was drunk."
Forrester got up and shook hands.
"It's better that way, too," he said
abruptly, "though you won't have the least idea what I
mean. If I can ever have the honour of doing anything
for you or Maggie let me know."
The shabby man was gone. Forrester went
and stood in front of the great photograph. The room
was empty. He took out his fountain pen.
He looked again at the picture of the
peak. "Not mine," he said under his breath, and
humbly, "not mine!" There was a large ticket attached
to the frame, bearing the legend: "Mount Forrester
from the Southeast." He crossed out the word
"Forrester," and above the erasure, in neat black
letters, he wrote the words: "Maggie Delane." Then he,
too, went away.
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(End.)