On Sunday afternoons in the city people stopped at the delicatessen stores and bought slices of cold meat, liverwurst, cheese, pickles, potato salad, and rye bread for their suppers. Then they went home in the dry, chilly air, and settled down for the evening, which they hoped would turn out to be a little more entertaining than the rest of the day. The thought of work waiting for them the next morning exasperated them; but at the same time they were tired of doing nothing. Already, they had begun before the holiday was over, they had begun to feel oppressed, and to wish that life were more mysterious, or exciting; unable to amuse themselves, they wished that someone would tell them what to do.

They would have liked to be heroes, to march up and down and be admired. But at the same time, no one wanted to lose anything, to lose his advantage. It was this more than anything else that kept them a free people: that they could never agree on anything that would be to everybody's advantage.

4

"How do you get to know people in this town?"

"You give them the eye," said Herman.

Within his limits, he was a successful man. Philip envied the ease with which he talked to people, asked them their opinions, and made up new drinks to be advertised in the window. And Herman had ideas: he believed that the world was a little mad. "Else why do things happen the way they do?" he demanded. "Look what they're doing to each other in Europe. They act like they don't want to live any more. Well, me, I want to live, because I'm funny that way: wars don't attract me. So what do they do? They come over here, where talk is free, and tell me freedom's no good. So I go over there and tell them their war's no good, and before I've got the words out of my mouth, they give me the axe. Any way you look at it, it's nuts."

Philip asked him if he were a communist. "Who, me?" said the soda clerk. "I like the simple life, is my matter. I like the easy life, wearily. Not me. If you can't vote and change things, it doesn't matter what you call the government. One name's as good as another."

on his career.

Standing behind the soda fountain, amidst glasses, faucets, sandwiches, and tubs of ice cream, he kept his eyes and ears open, and tried not to let anything escape him. He felt that he was on the right track, because he was able to observe people at close range, and to listen to the remarks they made to one another. Since he was a very earnest young man, of a serious disposition, he tried to remember these remarks, for study in his spare time. But the only thing he learned was that they were not very kind. On the other hand, he felt that he had already learned something of importance. A writer of today must know that sort of thing, he told himself, if he wishes to write a book of short stories, or a prize novel.

In addition, he read the newspapers, and went each week to the newsreels, to see for himself what was going on in the world. As a result, he began to wonder if he had not already discovered the spirit of the age.

It is to be a little hard and tough, he thought.

In that case, it seemed to him that he was almost ready to write a book. The truth was, he had no slaying for it. But the story excluded him. Possibly I have not lived enough, he thought; and I went back to mixing sodas with energy, determined to be, insofar as possible, a part of the crowded life which moved and sounded all about him.

But he did not know how to become a part of it. It went on without him, and as each day drew to a close, he was obliged to admit that nothing had happened to him.

The great shadowy buildings washed in autumn air, the sun yellow on brick, white on marble, the blue and windy streets, all filled his heart with excitement and longing. He felt sure that the experience for which he was waiting would not be much longer in coming, and that he would make good use of it when it came.

Rinsing a glass in the warm suds beneath the counter, he said to Herman Blau, the chief clerk at the fountain,

Within his limits, he was a successful man. Philip envied the ease with which he talked to people, asked them their opinions, and made up new combinations of words to be advertised in the window. Mr. Blau had his own ideas about things: he believed that the world was a little mad. "Else why do things happen the way they do?" he demanded. "Look at what they're doing to each other in Europe. They act like they don't want to live any more. They've all got to die in the next war, to show themselves how good they are. So they can hardly wait for it to begin. So they come over here and use our freedom to tell us our freedom's no good. Any way you look at it, it's nuts."

Philip asked Mr. Blau if he were a communist. "Who, me?" asked the soda clerk wearily. "Not me. If you can't vote and change things, it don't matter what they call the government. Communism, or fascism, one name's as good as another."

"Though as a matter of fact," he added, "no matter what you do, you're a communist, if the other feller thinks of it first."

had already discovered
began to wonder if he were not in a fair way to discover the spirit of the
age.

It is to be tough, he decided, and not to think about God any more.

For he could not find, among the questions of the hour, any reference to
which he had been brought up in respect of piety, or to those gentler virtues of kindness and forbearance. Perhaps God
no longer cared what men did; certainly it was clear that they no longer
bothered their heads about Him.

Well, he thought, in that case I am almost ready to write a book. But the
story eluded him. Possibly I have not lived enough, he thought. And he went
back to mixing sodas with energy, determined to be, insofar as possible,
a part of the great life which moved and sounded all about him.

The great shadowy buildings with their towers grey as smoke, the sun yellow
on brick, white on marble, the blue and windy streets, the endless hum and
brum of traffic coming and going, all filled his heart with excitement and
longing. He felt sure that the experience, when it came, would be important,
longing andnostalgic for that which he could make good
and that he would recognize it, and make the best use of it, when it came.

For a little while there rested upon earth a benediction not unlike farewell, and everywhere the gentler virtues bloomed like little meadow flowers.

But the world in which Philip found himself grown up was altogether different. It was a world of violence, misery, and enthusiasm, in which people seemed to have lost their reason. For they no longer wished to find out the truth, but to believe whatever they were told. Among the things that many of them believed was this: that freedom was no longer worth having. And men whose fathers had died for liberty gladly gave up their birthright for freedom, for the right to wear a uniform and salute, like everybody else.

In this world in which the individual was no longer accorded any respect, Philip Singleman found himself with a little money left him by his father, the memory of a little girl in the park, fair education, and the determination to succeed.

However, he did not know what to do. And since he was a serious young man, willing and honest, he set about studying the lives of others, to find out how they had got their start.

But he soon saw that everyone had started in a different way. Anxious and uneasy he sought out the family solicitor, old Mr. Mordecai, and asked him what he ought to do.

"As far as I can see," he said; "everything happens by chance, or because of some lucky opportunity. What do you think? Shall I be a banker, or a writer; or perhaps I might have a career in the theater."

To this the old gentleman replied:

"The start is not important, because the greatest men have often started with a shoeace. What is important, is to go in the right direction afterwards, to adapt yourself to the spirit of the age. Anything else is out of the question. To be a Voltaire during the Crusades, or a Goethe in Nazi Germany, is to waste your time. Well, tell me - what is the spirit of the age?"

Philip replied that he did not know.

"Then find out," said Mr. Mordecai; and took him to lunch.

was the way to get a
paid least got the best of the bargain. When she had to pay, on the other hand
she did so without complaining, and without enjoyment.

Now she walked east, in search of a place to buy her own supper. She was
not thinking about anything of any consequence; she was neither optimistic,
nor bitter. During the day she worked as a model in a small dress-making
establishment on Lexington Avenue; she posed, and ran errands on her high
heeled slippers, and in the evening she liked to sit down.

If some man had invited her into his automobile, she would have been
able to sit down and she might have had steak, or a chicken, for dinner.
She could always find a seat for herself at a soda fountain.
However, she could afford a sandwich and a glass of soda-water for herself
at a drug store. She preferred that to dining alone at a cafeteria, for one
thing, a drug store was more cheerful, and the man behind the counter was always
within a few feet of his customers, and that kept her from brooding.

Here, on the corner in the evening light, stands a young woman; her eyes, dark and sharp like those of a bird, question the line of motors which move slowly homeward in the dusk. Perhaps she will go in one of them; she makes rapid calculations, and assumes an air of detachment and reserve. Above, in the twilight, a young man looks down at her. From top to bottom, he seems only dimly; he imagines that she is beautiful, and a feeling of mystery touches his heart. In the deepening dusk, the city appears tender and loving, everything is beautiful, everywhere is kindness, excitement, and joy. But a little later, in the lamplight at home, the young man will feel weary and irritable, and his moment of tenderness toward the young woman will pass as quickly as it came. And on the curb, will seem to him ridiculous. And she, in turn, not finding anyone who wishes to invite her to drive, will turn away in exasperation, and enter a nearby drugstore.

But a little later, in the lamplight at home, the young man will feel
weary and irritable, and his moment of tenderness toward the young woman
will pass as quickly as it came.
On the curb, will seem to him ridiculous. And she, in turn, not finding anyone
who wishes to invite her to drive, will turn away in exasperation, and enter
a nearby drugstore.

All along the streets which glow up and down on the avenues, there is light changing from green, red and black again; while on the red, they burn the rubies in the day, while the green and red again, are like enormous rubies or emeralds, nothing could be richer or more enchanting. Some very wealthy man must own all this. And between them are to be seen an endless quantity of pearls, which are nothing more or less than the lamps of motor cars. The light of evening makes everything uncertain, mysterious and lovely. But as the sky grows darker, the lights become sharper, and the asphalt begins to look like steel. The lamps on the motor cars are too bright; and above them the red and green traffic signals click to and fro with dreadful monotony.

Sometime it is night, and the enchantment which lasted for an hour or a little longer, is gone. One can see that there is nothing gentle, or tender, about this city; and that everyone is absorbed in his own business. The young man on the bus has gone home; he is tired from a long day of work, for somebody else's sake. And the young woman on the curb, who has not received an invitation to drive anywhere, turns away in exasperation. She murmurs something under her breath; I do not have to tell you what it is.

For a little while there lay upon the earth a benediction not unlike farewells, and everywhere the gentler virtues bloomed like little meadow flowers.

But the world in which Philip found himself at last grown up, was altogether different. It was a world of violence, misery, and enthusiasm, in which men seemed to have lost their reason. For they no longer wished to find out the truth, but believed whatever they were told. Among the things they believed was this: That all men are created equal; that all men are born free and equal; that property in man, or the right to make laws for themselves, is sacred; that property in land, or the right to make laws for the land they tilled, is sacred; that all men have a right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness; and that among all other things, the most important of all, is the right to make laws for other men. And men are free to obey or to resist.

At the same time, it was generally understood that wealth—the rich were to blame for everything, and that the poor were no longer to be exploited for the sake of a few rich men.

heaven with a sleepy eye; He let rain upon earth a benediction not unlike
farewell, and everywhere the gentler virtues bloomed like little meadow flowers.

Even the great war failed to end that dream. But as the hopes of peace went
down one by one, But it shook men's hearts; and the years which followed shock
their minds. They hoped too much, and they despaired too much; Slowly the shades
of lunacy closed in upon the world. One by one the old virtues came to lose
their meanings: reason became unreason, kindness seemed shameful, and freedom
was treated with contempt. The old security was gone, where the horizons had
leap solid and infinite about them, men saw only the blur of storms, and
darkness.

No, the city is not a gentle place, and the people who live in it are
not always neither amiable nor kind. Yet they are the people of today: they help the aged,
the poor, and the sick, they enjoy music, they go to church, they dance, they
make love, they are full of cares, anxieties, and enthusiasm. Their manners
are hurried and careless; and their hearts beat with hope, with wonder, and
with exasperation.

They are like the sparrows, of which the city is full, and whose voices,
raised in quarrels, fill the streets with chirping.

Even in childhood he loved her. He did not know her name; she was simply a little girl in the park - a very young little girl, with a small, absorbed face, and something else about her, a way of walking and dreaming, a way of using her hands - which altogether enchanted him. He never wholly forgot her; she remained in his mind forever like a longing. For a long while he wished to do things to her; they were foolish things, but they seemed to him beautiful, because she made them so.

He never saw her again. Yet all his loves, after that, had something of her grace, and often, at the moment of pressing himself against a nurse or a chambermaid, he was filled with sadness for the little girl in the park, who was his true love, and to whom he was being unfaithful.

However, this sadness, which was almost like horror, did not keep him faithful. There was always the other with whom he betrayed her, and from whom he fled afterwards with a sense of defeat. Stolid, and of the earth, she attracted him against his will, and consoled him in vain for the loss of his true love - whom he never actually lost, yet never gained, either.

that even peace cannot alter the punctual spring return of spring.

Nevertheless, spring is late this year. In May, New England
still has the bare bones and brown skin of April. On the island, the pines
are rusty from the winter, lilacs are small and tight, and the beach plum
is slow in starting, though everyone says it will be a good year for the
plums. In my own garden there are only johnny-jump-ups to be seen, and a
few dandelions, like yellow butter, in the grass; the robins angle across
the lawns in pairs, still looking for a likely nest. They'll
probably build in the lilac again, but not until the leaves are denser.

We had a black frost night before last, which nipped the young green leaves
of the poplars.
"Never mind," I said to Henry Wilson, "it's the last of
winter."

"Well, goddamit," said Henry, "maybe so."

We stood in the dead, long, winter-brown grass at the edge
of the vegetable garden, and looked at the gray, sandy furrows. Henry had
prepared the ground before I came down, as he always did; he looked
after things for me, along with the Elliot place, and one or two other
summer people.

I sit at my study window, and look out at the small hills of
Cape Cod, and at the early spring. The beachplum is already white against the
gray and yellow hillsides, and the lilac is blooming in front of the door,
under the locust trees which as yet have only the faintest trace of green on
their branches. A wind is blowing from the south, and the sky is dull, the
color of slate.

It is peaceful here; I wish I had nothing to do but sit and look
out of the window. The robins angle in pairs across the lawn, looking for
worms; and the wind shakes the little poplar tree below the house, where the
orioles are building a nest as usual. From time to time a little rain comes
down from the slate-colored sky; it taps at the window with a sharp sound, and
then lets up again.

Why do people write books? I was trying to explain this to
my young friend Amanda Ledget yesterday. Amanda is fourteen, and lives with her
grandmother on South Pamet Road, on the other side of the river. At night I
can see a light in Mrs. Ledget's window, shining across the valley like a star.

People write books, I told Amanda, for different reasons. Some
do it to express their joy, or their despair, to state their faith or their
lack of faith in mankind. Others write in order to teach, or to scold; and
some write to amuse themselves. Then there is the joy of writing itself, which
is like the joy of painting, or building things out of blocks. Some write
because it is the only way they know to make a living; and then there are others
who are so full of thoughts that they cannot wait to put them down.

"Which one are you?" asked Amanda.

Probably I am a little like all of them. That is why I cannot be
entirely satisfied with myself these days.

The world needs faith; it needs common sense, honesty, and love;
it needs regulation and humility. I do not know exactly what it needs, but
Amanda does. Unfortunately, she cannot express what she feels.

Sister Amelia walked through the winter bright city where roof tops, shining in the sun, lifted themselves with force into the clear northern sky. All around her were the noises of the streets, the cries and murmurs; the endless roll of wheels, the distant hoot of sirens; the air smelled of gasoline, chewing gum, and asphalt. These sounds and these odors combined in a sense of mystery and sorrow, not unlike the mystery of love. Sister Amelia was no more aware of this than were the pigeons which rose from the roof tops like a sudden shower of silver bubbles in the sun.

She might have been, for she was young, and the wide brown eyes, above the generous mouth, had room for many sights and visions. They saw, however, little of the world about them, for they were fixed upon the sky. Even when she looked down, Sister Amelia saw the sky; it was blue, and full of God. She did not actually see God, but she knew that He was there, along with the Holy Family, the saints, the martyrs, and the angels. It was a constant source of joy to her.

Perhaps that was why she did not love people very much - because she did not really see them. She forgave them for the harm they did one another, and for their sins, which she did not really understand, since she herself had never sinned at all.

In chastity, obedience, and poverty, she had lived the 26 years of her life, from the moment she had been taken, a tiny orphan, by the Sisters of the Convent of the Sister Mercies, to the present moment, when, in the company of Sister Marie-Rose, she walked, a sedate young nun, in the Park among the amorous pigeons.

2

The sun shone, clouds passed over the city, chilling the streets with sudden shadows, only to allow them to reappear again in the sun, sparkling like new-washed glass. Children played up and down the paths in the Park; and Sister Marie-Rose experienced a simple and sincere feeling of happiness.

"How good it is to be alive," she exclaimed, and she smiled at an urchin on roller skates, who had managed to get in her way.

Actually, it was not at all a good time to be alive. The world, which had barely survived two terrible wars, was poised upon the brink of a third, which everyone knew would destroy it utterly. Hunger and sickness lay like twin plagues over half the world, while victor and vanquished alike prepared to take revenge on one another in as horrible a manner as possible. The nations lived in fear, in poverty, and in desolation; only the Americans could not believe that everybody did not love them.

"It is better to be good," said Sister Amelia, correcting her older companion, "than to be alive."

She had nothing in particular in mind. The grass was just beginning to turn green at the end of winter, the trees were still bare, and through them the sky seemed even more blue than usual. She did not think about suffering, or sorrow, except to reflect that Jesus had taken all sorrow and suffering to Himself.

Sister Marie-Rose felt a moment's impatience with her companion. But she soon scolded herself for it, reflecting that not every one could be as saintly as Sister Amelia.

At the same time, she was aware of a moment's doubt, since it seemed to her that to be a saint one ought first to suffer something.

2