Vandover and the Brute HTML version

Chapter One
It was always a matter of wonder to Vandover that he was able to recall so little of his
past life. With the exception of the most recent events he could remember nothing
connectedly. What he at first imagined to be the story of his life, on closer inspection
turned out to be but a few disconnected incidents that his memory had preserved with the
greatest capriciousness, absolutely independent of their importance. One of these
incidents might be a great sorrow, a tragedy, a death in his family; and another, recalled
with the same vividness, the same accuracy of detail, might be a matter of the least
A certain one of these wilful fillips of memory would always bring before him a
particular scene during the migration of his family from Boston to their new home in San
Francisco, at a time when Vandover was about eight years old.
It was in the depot of one of the larger towns in western New York. The day had been hot
and after the long ride on the crowded day coach the cool shadow under the curved roof
of the immense iron vaulted depot seemed very pleasant. The porter, the brakeman and
Vandover's father very carefully lifted his mother from the car. She was lying back on
pillows in a long steamer chair. The three men let the chair slowly down, the brakeman
went away, but the porter remained, taking off his cap and wiping his forehead with the
back of his left hand, which in turn he wiped against the pink palm of his right. The other
train, the train to which they were to change, had not yet arrived. It was rather still; at the
far end of the depot a locomotive, sitting back on its motionless drivers like some huge
sphinx crouching along the rails, was steaming quietly, drawing long breaths. The repair
gang in greasy caps and spotted blue overalls were inspecting the train, pottering about
the trucks, opening and closing the journal-boxes, striking clear notes on the wheels with
long-handled hammers.
Vandover stood close to his father, his thin legs wide apart, holding in both his hands the
satchel he had been permitted to carry. He looked about him continually, rolling his big
eyes vaguely, watching now the repair-gang, now a huge white cat dozing on an empty
baggage truck.
Several passengers were walking up and down the platform, staring curiously at the
invalid lying back in the steamer chair.
The journey was too much for her. She was very weak and very pale, her eyelids were
heavy, the skin of her forehead looked blue and tightly drawn, and tiny beads of
perspiration gathered around the corners of her mouth. Vandover's father put his hand
and arm along the back of the chair and his sick wife rested against him, leaning her head
on his waistcoat over the pocket where he kept his cigars and pocket-comb. They were all