"Desiree's Baby" by Kate Chopin: Race and color in U.S. Southern Heritage

     Mark Twain wrote Puddin'head Wilson, a book about two babies, one from a white family with ties back to the Founding Fathers of Virginia, and the other from a woman with black genes and a white father (one of the FFV): two babies who looked so much alike at birth that it was impossible to tell them apart.  To save her son from a fate of hardship, the slave mother who worked in the "Big House" switched them--and the difference was not revealed until 20+ years later.  Twain's outcome was that when the change was admitted in court, the "white" adult man was immediately sold into slavery, while the "black" man could not function in polite and correct "white" society because he had never learned nor been given the chance.

   
    The list below of accomplished men and women have something in common:  they are considered "mixed" or bi-racial.  The story below, of "Desiree's Baby" by Kate Chopin, tells of a mother who is devoted to her affluent post-Civil War Louisiana husband--only to face his rejection and her death when their child is born. One of the ironies of history is that race and skin color was NOT a factor for hundreds of years--one's religious beliefs was the line of demarcation. In light of this, consider the following roster:

   
    * Jessica Alba, actress

    * Jennifer Beals, actress

    * Halle Berry, actress

    * Lisa Bonet, actress

    * Michelle Branch, musician

    * Dean Cain, actor

    * Naomi Campbell, model

    * Mariah Carey, singer

    * Tia Carrere, actress

    * Phoebe Cates, actress

    * Tommy Chong, comedian

    * Dorothy Dandridge, actress

    * Ron Darling, baseball player

    * Jaye Davidson, actor

    * Lou Diamond Phillips, actor

    * Vin Diesel, actor

    * Giancarlo Esposito, actor

    * Jasmine Guy, actress

    * Alexander Hamilton, American statesman

    * Derek Jeter, baseball star,

    *  Dwayne Johnson(aka "The Rock") actor, professional wrestler,

    * Norah Jones, musician,    

    * Alicia Keys, singer

    * Ben Kingsley, actor

    * Eartha Kitt, singer

    * Lenny Kravitz, singer

    * Bruce Lee, martial artist, actor

    * Sean Lennon, musician

    * Greg Louganis, athlete

    * Soledad O'Brien, television personality

    * Prince (a.k.a. "The Artist"), singer

    * Chuck Norris, actor

    * Keanu Reeves, actor

    * Maya Rudolph, comedian

    * "Slash" (aka Saul Hudson), musician

    * Jennifer Tilly and Meg Tilly, actresses

    * Eddie Van Halen, musician

    * Mario Van Peebles, actor

    * Tiger Woods, professional golfer

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Désirée's Baby," written in 1893, is the short story for which Chopin is most well known. Today, however, readers and critics find "Désirée's Baby" to be much more than an examination of a distinct cultural place. Though brief, the story raises important issues that still plagued Chopin's South, particularly the pervasive and destructive yet ambiguous nature of racism.

Question(s) for response:  The inability for the South to accept responsibility for the attitude toward the mixing of races was one of the factors that led to the fall of its culture, influence, and legacy that was based on “purity” of one’s bloodlines.  How is this message shown in through cause-and-effect in Chopin’s story of a post-Civil War Louisiana family as an example of how “double standards” are shown?

“Desiree's Baby” by Kate Chopin

As the day was pleasant, Madame Valmonde drove over to L'Abri to see Desiree and the baby.
     It made her laugh to think of Desiree with a baby. Why, it seemed but yesterday that Desiree was little more than a baby herself; when Monsieur in riding through the gateway of Valmonde had found her lying asleep in the shadow of the big stone pillar. 

     The little one awoke in his arms and began to cry for "Dada." That was as much as she could do or say. Some people thought she might have strayed there of her own accord, for she was of the toddling age. The prevailing belief was that she had been purposely left by a party of Texans, whose canvas-covered wagon, late in the day, had crossed the ferry that Coton Mais kept, just below the plantation. In time Madame Valmonde abandoned every speculation but the one that Desiree had been sent to her by a beneficent Providence to be the child of her affection, seeing that she was without child of the flesh. For the girl grew to be beautiful and gentle, affectionate and sincere - the idol of Valmonde.

     It was no wonder, when she stood one day against the stone pillar in whose shadow she had lain asleep, eighteen years before, that Armand Aubigny riding by and seeing her there, had fallen in love with her. That was the way all the Aubignys fell in love, as if struck by a pistol shot. The wonder was that he had not loved her before; for he had known her since his father brought him home from Paris, a boy of eight, after his mother died there. The passion that awoke in him that day, when he saw her at the gate, swept along like an avalanche, or like a prairie fire, or like anything that drives headlong over all obstacles. 

     Monsieur Valmonde grew practical and wanted things well considered: that is, the girl's obscure origin. Armand looked into her eyes and did not care. He was reminded that she was nameless. What did it matter about a name when he could give her one of the oldest and proudest in Louisiana? He ordered the corbeille from Paris, and contained himself with what patience he could until it arrived; then they were married.

     Madame Valmonde had not seen Desiree and the baby for four weeks. When she reached L'Abri she shuddered at the first sight of it, as she always did. It was a sad looking place, which for many years had not known the gentle presence of a mistress, old Monsieur Aubigny having married and buried his wife in France, and she having loved her own land too well ever to leave it. The roof came down steep and black like a cowl, reaching out beyond the wide galleries that encircled the yellow stuccoed house. Big, solemn oaks grew close to it, and their thick-leaved, far-reaching branches shadowed it like a pall. Young Aubigny's rule was a strict one, too, and under it his negroes had forgotten how to be gay, as they had been during the old master's easy-going and indulgent lifetime. 

     The young mother was recovering slowly, and lay full length, in her soft white muslins and laces, upon a couch. The baby was beside her, upon her arm, where he had fallen asleep, at her breast. The yellow nurse woman sat beside a window fanning herself. 

     Madame Valmonde bent her portly figure over Desiree and kissed her, holding her an instant tenderly in her arms. Then she turned to the child.
     "This is not the baby!" she exclaimed, in startled tones. French was the language spoken at Valmonde in those days. 

     "I knew you would be astonished," laughed Desiree, "at the way he has grown. The little cochon de lait! Look at his legs, mamma, and his hands and fingernails - real finger-nails. Zandrine had to cut them this morning. Isn't it true, Zandrine?"
     The woman bowed her turbaned head majestically, "Mais si, Madame."
     "And the way he cries," went on Desiree, "is deafening. Armand heard him the other day as far away as La Blanche's cabin." 

     Madame Valmonde had never removed her eyes from the child. She lifted it and walked with it over to the window that was lightest. She scanned the baby narrowly, then looked as searchingly at Zandrine, whose face was turned to gaze across the fields. 

     "Yes, the child has grown, has changed," said Madame Valmonde, slowly, as she replaced it beside its mother. "What does Armand say?"
     Desiree's face became suffused with a glow that was happiness itself.

     "Oh, Armand is the proudest father in the parish, I believe, chiefly because it is a boy, to bear his name; though he says not - that he would have loved a girl as well. But I know it isn't true. I know he says that to please me. And mamma," she added, drawing Madame Valmonde's head down to her, and speaking in a whisper, "he hasn't punished one of them - not one of them - since baby is born. Even Negrillon, who pretended to have burnt his leg that he might rest from work - he only laughed, and said Negrillon was a great scamp. Oh, mamma, I'm so happy; it frightens me."

     What Desiree said was true. Marriage, and later the birth of his son had softened Armand Aubigny's imperious and exacting nature greatly. This was what made the gentle Desiree so happy, for she loved him desperately. When he frowned she trembled, but loved him. When he smiled, she asked no greater blessing of God. But Armand's dark, handsome face had not often been disfigured by frowns since the day he fell in love with her. 

     When the baby was about three months old, Desiree awoke one day to the conviction that there was something in the air menacing her peace. It was at first too subtle to grasp. It had only been a disquieting suggestion; an air of mystery among the blacks; unexpected visits from far-off neighbors who could hardly account for their coming. Then a strange, an awful change in her husband's manner, which she dared not ask him to explain. When he spoke to her, it was with averted eyes, from which the old love-light seemed to have gone out. He absented himself from home; and when there, avoided her presence and that of her child, without excuse. And the very spirit of Satan seemed suddenly to take hold of him in his dealings with the slaves. Desiree was miserable enough to die.

     She sat in her room, one hot afternoon, in her peignoir, listlessly drawing through her fingers the strands of her long, silky brown hair that hung about her shoulders. The baby, half naked, lay asleep upon her own great mahogany bed, that was like a sumptuous throne, with its satin-lined half-canopy. One of La Blanche's little quadroon boys - half naked too - stood fanning the child slowly with a fan of peacock feathers. Desiree's eyes had been fixed absently and sadly upon the baby, while she was striving to penetrate the threatening mist that she felt closing about her. She looked from her child to the boy who stood beside him, and back again; over and over. "Ah!" It was a cry that she could not help; which she was not conscious of having uttered. The blood turned like ice in her veins, and a clammy moisture gathered upon her face.

     She tried to speak to the little quadroon boy; but no sound would come, at first. When he heard his name uttered, he looked up, and his mistress was pointing to the door. He laid aside the great, soft fan, and obediently stole away, over the polished floor, on his bare tiptoes.
     She stayed motionless, with gaze riveted upon her child, and her face the picture of fright. 

     Presently her husband entered the room, and without noticing her, went to a table and began to search among some papers which covered it.
     "Armand," she called to him, in a voice which must have stabbed him, if he was human. But he did not notice. "Armand," she said again. Then she rose and tottered towards him. "Armand," she panted once more, clutching his arm, "look at our child. What does it mean? Tell me." 

     He coldly but gently loosened her fingers from about his arm and thrust the hand away from him. "Tell me what it means!" she cried despairingly.
     "It means," he answered lightly, "that the child is not white; it means that you are not white." 

     A quick conception of all that this accusation meant for her nerved her with unwonted courage to deny it. "It is a lie; it is not true, I am white! Look at my hair, it is brown; and my eyes are gray, Armand, you know they are gray. And my skin is fair," seizing his wrist. "Look at my hand; whiter than yours, Armand," she laughed hysterically. 

     "As white as La Blanche's," he returned cruelly; and went away leaving her alone with their child. 

     When she could hold a pen in her hand, she sent a despairing letter to Madame Valmonde. 

     "My mother, they tell me I am not white. Armand has told me I am not white. For God's sake tell them it is not true. You must know it is not true. I shall die. I must die. I cannot be so unhappy, and live." 

     The answer that came was brief:
     "My own Desiree: Come home to Valmonde; back to your mother who loves you. Come with your child." 

     When the letter reached Desiree she went with it to her husband's study, and laid it open upon the desk before which he sat. She was like a stone image: silent, white, motionless after she placed it there.

     In silence he ran his cold eyes over the written words.
     He said nothing. "Shall I go, Armand?" she asked in tones sharp with agonized suspense.
     "Yes, go."
     "Do you want me to go?"
     "Yes, I want you to go." 

     He thought Almighty God had dealt cruelly and unjustly with him; and felt, somehow, that he was paying Him back in kind when he stabbed thus into his wife's soul. Moreover he no longer loved her, because of the unconscious injury she had brought upon his home and his name.
     She turned away like one stunned by a blow, and walked slowly towards the door, hoping he would call her back.

     "Good-by, Armand," she moaned.
     He did not answer her. That was his last blow at fate. 

     Desiree went in search of her child. Zandrine was pacing the sombre gallery with it. She took the little one from the nurse's arms with no word of explanation, and descending the steps, walked away, under the live-oak branches.

     It was an October afternoon; the sun was just sinking. Out in the still fields the negroes were picking cotton. 

     Desiree had not changed the thin white garment nor the slippers which she wore. Her hair was uncovered and the sun's rays brought a golden gleam from its brown meshes. She did not take the broad, beaten road which led to the far-off plantation of Valmonde. She walked across a deserted field, where the stubble bruised her tender feet, so delicately shod, and tore her thin gown to shreds. 

     She disappeared among the reeds and willows that grew thick along the banks of the deep, sluggish bayou; and she did not come back again. 

     Some weeks later there was a curious scene enacted at L'Abri. In the centre of the smoothly swept back yard was a great bonfire. Armand Aubigny sat in the wide hallway that commanded a view of the spectacle; and it was he who dealt out to a half dozen negroes the material which kept this fire ablaze. 

     A graceful cradle of willow, with all its dainty furbishings, was laid upon the pyre, which had already been fed with the richness of a priceless layette. Then there were silk gowns, and velvet and satin ones added to these; laces, too, and embroideries; bonnets and gloves; for the corbeille had been of rare quality.

     The last thing to go was a tiny bundle of letters; innocent little scribblings that Desiree had sent to him during the days of their espousal. There was the remnant of one back in the drawer from which he took them. But it was not Desiree's; it was part of an old letter from his mother to his father. He read it. She was thanking God for the blessing of her husband's love:--

     "But above all," she wrote, "night and day, I thank the good God for having so arranged our lives that our dear Armand will never know that his mother, who adores him, belongs to the race that is cursed with the brand of slavery."

Mark Twain: "Jim Wolf and the Wasps"

One of Mark Twain's favorite topics was misbehavior--and its rewards.  Obviously, the legacies of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn bear this out as they are two of the most widely-read books in English and literature courses and class!  What makes Twain so honest in his writing is the concept of realism:  he is direct in his approach and style, showing the reader what it was like to be viewing (or experiencing) the situation at hand.  What Twain was really displaying in stories like this are the cause-and-effect balance of choice:  we get what we ask for, even though the consequences may not be what we desired! 

Twain was also trying to say that humanity talks a great deal about virtue and sincerity, then goes out and praises those who do deeds that are not of merit.  This dual standard of morals and scruples is one of Twain's strongest views:  he truly deplored the dishonest ways of Mankind and the ways that we treat each other.  This, however, does not excuse him personally from the mischief he created!  In this short story, we see how he treated a young man who was a guest at the Clemens home:  Jim Wolf, a farm boy who was not the brightest lad in the county, but certainly one of the most patient ones (for enduring young Sam's jokes).

One final point:  no, Twain's punctuation is not correct; there are places where a comma should go.  But I'm not going to fix that; for one, it's not my story, and two, he's a far better known writer than I am. 

So, for your composition choice, should young Sam be repentent for what he did to Jim? Why doesn't he regret his decision, even years later? (Why is it so funny, and how does it show in his story?) 

"Jim Wolf and the Wasps"

Mark Twain’s brother Henry was not the only boy on whom he played tricks during his youth.  He also enjoyed tormenting a simple-hearted (and-minded) country boy named Jim Wolf who lived with the Clemens family.  As was custom during those times, in order to save space in the house, young children would often share a room and bed—hence the opportunity that Twain found to harass Jim.

 
One afternoon I found the upper part of the window in Jim’s bedroom thickly cushioned with wasps.  Jim always slept on the side of his bed that was against the window.  I had what seemed to me a happy inspiration:  I turned back the bedclothes and at cost of one or two stings, brushed the wasps down and collected a few hundred of them on the sheet on that side of the bed, then turned down the covers over them and made prisoners of them.  I made a deep crease down the center of the bed to protect the front side from invasion by them, and then at night I offered to sleep with Jim.  He was willing.

I made it a point to be in bed first to see if my side of it was still a safe place to rest in.  It was.  None of the wasps had passed the frontier.  As soon as Jim was ready for bed I blew out the candle and let him climb in the dark.  He was talking as usual but I couldn’t answer, because by anticipation I was suffocating with laughter, and although I gagged myself with a hatful of the sheet I was on the point of exploding all the time.  Jim stretched himself out comfortably, still pleasantly chatting; then his talk began to break and become disjointed; separations intervened between his words and each separation was emphasized by a more or less sudden and violent twitch of his body, and I knew that the immigrants were getting in their work.  I knew I ought to evince some sympathy, and ask what was the matter, but I couldn’t do it because I should laugh if I tried.  Presently he stopped talking altogether—that is on the subject which he had been pursuing—and he said, “There is something in this bed.”

I knew it but held my peace.

He said, “There’s thousands of them.”

Then he said he was going to find out what it was.  He reached down and began to explore.  The wasps resented this intrusion and began to stab him all over and everywhere.  The he said he had captured one of them and asked me to strike a light.  I did it, and when he climbed out of bed his shirt was black with half-crushed wasps dangling by one hind leg, and in his two hands he held a dozen prisoners that were stinging and stabbing him with energy, but his grit was good and he held them fast. By the light of the candle he identified them and said, “Wasps!”

It was his last remark for the night.  He added nothing to it.  In silence he uncovered his side of the bed and, dozen by dozen, he removed the wasps to the floor and beat them to a pulp with the bootjack, with earnest and vindictive satisfaction, while I shook the bed with mute laughter—laughter which was not all a pleasure to me, for I had the sense that his silence was ominous.  The work of extermination being finally completed, he blew out the light and returned to bed and seemed to compose himself to sleep—in fact he did lie stiller than anybody else could have done in the circumstances.

I remained awake as long as I could and did what I could to keep my laughter from shaking the bed and provoking suspicion, but even my fears could not keep me awake forever and I finally fell asleep and presently woke again—under persuasion of circumstances.  Jim was kneeling on my chest and pounding me in the face with both fists.  It hurt—but he was knocking all the restraints of my laughter loose; I could not contain it any longer and I laughed until all my body was exhausted, and my face, as I believed, battered to a pulp.

Jim never afterward referred to that episode, and I had better judgment than to do it myself, for he was a third longer than I was, although not any wider.

I played many practical jokes upon him but they were all cruel and all barren of wit.  Any brainless swindler could have invented them.  When a person of mature age perpetrates a practical joke it is fair evidence, I think, that he is weak in the head and hasn’t enough heart to signify.

Mark Twain: "Not Wasting a Watermelon"

By thunder, I admire this man, for he is my favorite author of all time.  There's no mistaking that face:  it is the master of Mankind's foils, the esteemed Samuel Langhorne Clemens, more fondly known as Mark Twain.  I honor him for his ability to tell stories and show the true nature of humanity: with forked tail, pitchfork, and all the trimmings of our deceptive capabilities.   We shall indeed see more of him on this blog soon enough.

This is one of my favorite Twain stories.  In it, he describes his rambunctious youthful nature as well as the opposite:  his brother Henry, who was the role model for "Sid" in Tom Sawyer.  As a writing sample, consider this as the main theme in your essay response: How did Twain show irony and exaggeration in this story (with examples, please). How did he use it effectively?  How does it lend to the story (in its entire summation and also the conclusion)?  

“Not Wasting a Watermelon”

When Mark Twain was a boy, he worked in a newspaper office in Hannibal, Missouri.  Residents of the town still point to the window where the incident described below took place.
 
It was during my first year’s apprenticeship in the Courier office that I did a thing which I have been trying to regret for fifty-five years.  It was a summer afternoon and just the kind of weather that a boy prizes for river excursions and other frolics, but I was a prisoner.  The others were all gone holidaying.  I was alone and sad.  I had committed a crime of some sort and this was the punishment.  I must lose my holiday, and spend the afternoon in solitude besides.  I had the printing office all to myself, there in the third story.  I had one comfort, and it was a generous one while it lasted.  It was the half of a long and broad watermelon, fresh and red and ripe.

I gouged it out with a knife, and I found accommodation for the whole of it in my person—though it did crowd me until the juice ran out of my ears.  There remained then the shell, the hollow shell.  It was big enough to do duty as a cradle.  I didn’t want to waste it, and I couldn’t think of anything to do with it which could afford entertainment.  I was sitting at the open window which looked out upon the sidewalk of the main street three stories below, when it occurred to me to drop it on someone’s head.

I doubted the judiciousness of this, and I had some compunctions about it, too, because so much of the resulting entertainment would fall to my share and so little to the other person.  But I thought I would chance it.  I watched out of the window for the right person to come along—the safe person—but he didn’t come.  Every time there was a candidate he or she turned out to be an unsafe one, and I had to restrain myself.

But at last I saw the right one coming.  It was my brother Henry.  He was the best boy in the whole region.  He never did harm to anybody, he never offended anybody.  He was exasperatingly good.  He had an overflowing abundance of goodness—but not enough to save him this time.
 
I watched his approach with eager interest.  He came strolling along, dreaming his pleasant summer dream and not doubting that Providence had in His care.  If he had known where I was he would have less confidence in that superstition.  As he approached his form became more and more foreshortened.  When he was almost under me he was so foreshortened that nothing of him was visible from my high place except the end of his nose and his alternately approaching feet.  Then I poised the watermelon, calculated my distance, and let it go, hollow side down.

The accuracy of that gunnery was beyond admiration.  He had about six steps to make when I let that canoe go, and it was lovely to see those two bodies gradually closing in on each other.  If he had seven steps to make, or five steps to make, my gunnery would have been a failure.  But he had exactly the right number to make, and that shell smashed down right on the top of his head and drove him into the earth up to the chin, the chunks of that broken melon flying in every direction like a spray.

I wanted to go down there and condole with him, but it would not have been safe.  He would have suspected me at once.  I expected him to suspect me, anyway, but as he said nothing about this adventure for two or three days—I was watching him in the meanwhile in order to keep out of danger—I was deceived into believing that this time he didn’t suspect me. 

It was a mistake.  He was only waiting for a sure opportunity.  Then he landed a cobblestone on the side of my head which raised a bump there so large that I had to wear two hats for a time.  I carried this crime to my mother, for I was always anxious to get Henry into trouble with her and could never succeed.  I thought that I had a sure case this time when she should come to see that murderous bump.  I showed it to her, but she said it was no matter.  She didn’t need to inquire into the circumstances.  She knew I had deserved it, and the best way would be for me to accept it as a valuable lesson, and thereby get profit out of it.

"A Man Who Had No Eyes" sees opportunities and not obstacles...sometimes

If you say "I can't," then I have news for you.
You're right--and "You won't" should be the next part.  It's not that you "can't," it's your own attitude that's holding you back from whatever you think you...can't accomplish, achieve, perceive, grasp, or complete.

Let me share a short story with you; it's called "A Man With No Eyes."  Consider this from the land of Cause and Effect: this is all about Personal Motivators. This is the true distribution of Karma: you get results from what you create. Also, remember the lesson here:  If you think something is impossible because you set limitations on it, it will NOT happen--maybe something like "I can't pass {a} course because it's too hard."  However, in the same way, you MIGHT surprise yourself if you believe you WILL pass and do something about it!

Answer in essay format for each question, using quotes from the story as possible to reinforce your point of view.

1. In your view, can Markwardt ever sell lighters again?  Why or why not? Give REASONS for your answer.
2. How does "If you say you can't, you won't" reflect in C/E patterns? (In other words, how did each man respond to a Life Event? Why was their decision about self-value the cause and how did they handle the choice (effect) afterward? What's unique about them as a pair?
3. When do you suppose this story took place? What clues led you to this conclusion?

Also: which Personal Motivating Factors did you find in this story? How so? Apply this also to the OTHER story choice you make. What were the factors in it?
(Remember to use quotes and details to support WHAT you are writing and WHY.)

"A MAN WHO HAD NO EYES"

by MacKinlay Kantor

     A beggar was coming down the avenue just as Mr. Parsons emerged from his hotel.
He was a blind beggar, carrying the traditional battered can, and thumping his way before him with the cautious, half-furtive effort of the sightless. He was a shaggy, thick-necked fellow; his coat was greasy about the lapels and pockets, and his hand splayed over the cane’s crook with a futile sort of clinging. He wore a black pouch slung over his shoulder. Apparently he had something to sell.
     The air was rich with spring; sun was warm and yellowed on the asphalt. Mr. Parsons, standing there in front of his hotel and noting the clack-clack approach of the sightless man, felt a sudden and foolish sort of pity for all blind creatures.
And, thought Mr. Parsons, he was very glad to be alive. A few years ago he had been little more than a skilled laborer; now he was successful, respected, admired… Insurance… And he had done it alone, unaided, struggling beneath handicaps… And he was still young. The blue air of spring, fresh from its memories of windy pools and lush shrubbery, could thrill him with eagerness.
     He took a step forward just as the tap-tapping blind man passed him by. Quickly the shabby fellow turned. "Listen guv’nor. Just a minute of your time."
Mr. Parsons said, "It’s late. I have an appointment. Do you want me to give you something?"
     "I ain’t no beggar, guv’nor. You bet I ain’t. I got a handy little article here" he fumbled a small article into Mr. Parsons’ hand --- "that I sell. One buck. Best cigarette lighter made."
Mr. Parsons stood there, somewhat annoyed and embarrassed. He was a handsome figure with his immaculate grey suit and grey hat and malacca stick. Of course, the man with the cigarette lighter could not see him…"But I don’t smoke," he said.
     "Listen. I bet you know plenty people who smoke. Nice little present," wheedled the man. "And, mister, you wouldn’t mind helping a poor guy out?" He clung to Mr. Parsons’ sleeve.
Mr. Parsons sighed and felt in his vest pocket. He brought out two half dollars and pressed them into the man’s hand. "Certainly I’ll help you out. As you say, I can give it to someone. Maybe the elevator boy would --." He hesitated, not wishing to be boorish and inquisitive, even with a blind peddlar. "Have you lost your sight entirely?"
The shabby man pocketed the two half dollars. "Fourteen years, guv’nor." Then he added with an insane sort of pride: "Westbury, sir, I was one of ‘em."
     "Westbury," repeated Mr. Parsons. "Ah yes. The chemical explosion . . . the papers haven’t mentioned it for years. But at the time it was supposed to be one of the greatest disasters in…"
     "They’ve all forgot about it." The fellow shifted his feet wearily. "I tell you, guv’nor, a man who was in it don’t forget about it. Last thing I ever saw was C shop going up in one grand smudge, and that damn gas pouring in at all the busted windows."
Mr. Parsons coughed. But the blind peddler was caught up with the train of his one dramatic reminiscence. And, also, he was thinking that there might be more half dollars in Mr. Parsons’ pocket.
     "Just think about it, guv’nor. There was a hundred and eight people killed, about two hundred injured, and over fifty of them lost their eyes. Blind as bats." He groped forward until his dirty hand rested against Mr. Parsons’ coat. "I tell you sir, there wasn’t nothing worse than that in the war. If I had lost my eyes in the war, okay. I would have been well took care of. But, I was just a worker, working for what was in it. And I got it. You’re damn right I got it, while the capitalists were making their dough! They was insured, don’t worry about that. They …"
"Insured," repeated his listener. "Yes, that’s what I sell…”
     "You want to know how I lost my eyes?" cried the man. "Well, here it is!" His words fell with the bitter and studied drama of a story often told and told for money. "I was there in C shop, last of all the folks rushin’ out. Out in the air there was a chance, even with buildings exploding right and left. A lot of guys made it safe out the door and got away. And just when I was about there, crawling along between those big vats, a guy behind me grabs my leg. He says, ‘Let me past, you ---! Maybe he was nuts. I dunno. I try to forgive him in my heart, guv’nor. But he was bigger than me. He hauls me back and climbs right over me! Tramples me into the dirt. And he gets out, and I lie there with all that poison gas pouring down on all sides of me, and flame and stuff . . ." He swallowed ---a studied sob---and stood dumbly expectant. He could imagine the next words: Tough luck, my man. Damned tough luck. Now I want to…"  That’s the story, guv’nor."
     The spring wind shrilled past them, damp and quivering.  Not quite," said Mr. Parsons.
The blind peddlar shivered crazily. "Not quite? What do you mean, you…? "
     "The story is true," Mr. Parsons said, "except that it was the other way around."
"Other way around?" He croaked unamiably. "Say, guv’nor!..."
     "I was in C shop," said Mr. Parsons. "It was the other way around. You were the fellow who hauled back on me and climbed over me. You were bigger than I was, Markwardt."
     The blind man stood for a long time, swallowing hoarsely. He gulped: "Parsons. By heaven. By heaven! I thought you…" And then he screamed fiendishly: "Yes. Maybe so. Maybe so. But I’m blind! I’m blind, and you’ve been standing there letting me spout to you, and laughing at me every minute of it! I’m blind!"
People in the street turned to stare at him.  "You got away but I’m blind! Do you hear? I’m---"
     "Well," said Mr. Parsons, “don’t make such a row about it, Markwardt.  So am I."