Jennie Gerhardt. Theodore Dreiser
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Frequently throughout the evening and the next day Mrs. Gerhardt commented upon this wonderful treasure-trove, repeating again and again how good he must be or how large must be his heart. When it came to washing his clothes she almost rubbed them to pieces, feeling that whatever she did she could scarcely do enough. Gerhardt was not to know. He had such stern views about accepting money without earning it that even in their distress, she would have experienced some difficulty in getting him to take it. Consequently she said nothing, but used it to buy bread and meat, and going as it did such a little way, the sudden windfall was never noticed.
Jennie, from now on, reflected this attitude toward the Senator, and, feeling so grateful toward him, she began to talk more freely. They came to be on such good terms that he gave her a little leather picture-case from his dresser which he had observed her admiring. Every time she came he found excuse to detain her, and soon discovered that, for all her soft girlishness, there lay deep-seated in her a conscious deprecation of poverty and a shame of having to own any need. He honestly admired her for this, and, seeing that her clothes were poor and her shoes worn, he began to wonder how he could help her without offending.
Not infrequently he thought to follow her some evening, and see for himself what the condition of the family might be. He was a United States Senator, however. The neighborhood they lived in must be very poor. He stopped to consider, and for the time the counsels of prudence prevailed. Consequently the contemplated visit was put off.
Early in December Senator Brander returned to Washington for three weeks, and both Mrs. Gerhardt and Jennie were surprised to learn one day that he had gone. Never had he given them less than two dollars a week for his washing, and several times it had been five. He had not realized, perhaps, what a breach his absence would make in their finances. But there was nothing to do about it; they managed to pinch along. Gerhardt, now better, searched for work at the various mills, and finding nothing, procured a saw-buck and saw, and going from door to door, sought for the privilege of sawing wood. There was not a great deal of this to do, but he managed, by the most earnest labor to earn two, and sometimes three, dollars a week. This added to what his wife earned and what Sebastian gave was enough to keep bread in their mouths, but scarcely more.
It was at the opening of the joyous Christmas-time that the bitterness of their poverty affected them most. The Germans love to make a great display at Christmas. It is the one season of the year when the fullness of their large family affection manifests itself. Warm in the appreciation of the joys of childhood, they love to see the little ones enjoy their toys and games. Father Gerhardt at his saw-buck during the weeks before Christmas thought of this very often. What would little Veronica not deserve after her long illness! How he would have liked to give each of the children a stout pair of shoes, the boys a warm cap, the girls a pretty hood. Toys and games and candy they always had had before. He hated to think of the snow-covered Christmas morning and no table richly piled with what their young hearts would most desire.
As for Mrs. Gerhardt, one could better imagine than describe her feelings. She felt so keenly about it that she could hardly bring herself to speak of the dreaded hour to her husband. She had managed to lay aside three dollars in the hope of getting enough to buy a ton of coal, and so put an end to poor George's daily pilgrimage to the coal yard, but now as the Christmas week drew near she decided to use it for gifts. Father Gerhardt was also secreting two dollars without the knowledge of his wife, thinking that on Christmas Eve he could produce it at a critical moment, and so relieve her maternal anxiety.
When the actual time arrived, however, there was very little to be said for the comfort that they got out of the occasion. The whole city was rife with Christmas atmosphere. Grocery stores and meat markets were strung with holly. The toy shops and candy stores were radiant with fine displays of everything that a self-respecting Santa Claus should have about him. Both parents and children observed it all—the former with serious thoughts of need and anxiety, the latter with wild fancy and only partially suppressed longings.
Frequently had Gerhardt said in their presence:
"Kriss Kringle is very poor this year. He hasn't so very much to give."
But no child, however poverty-stricken, could be made to believe this. Every time after so saying he looked into their eyes, but in spite of the warning, expectation flamed in them undiminished.
Christmas coming on Tuesday, the Monday before there was no school. Before going to the hotel Mrs. Gerhardt had cautioned George that he must bring enough coal from the yards to last over Christmas day. The latter went at once with his two younger sisters, but there being a dearth of good picking, it took them a long time to fill their baskets, and by night they had gathered only a scanty supply.
"Did you go for the coal?" asked Mrs. Gerhardt the first thing when she returned from the hotel that evening.
"Yes," said George.
"Did you get enough for to-morrow?"
"Yes," he replied, "I guess so."
"Well, now, I'll go and look," she replied. Taking the lamp, they went out into the woodshed where the coal was deposited.
"Oh, my!" she exclaimed when she saw it; "why, that isn't near enough. You must go right off and get some more."
"Oh," said George, pouting his lips, "I don't want to go. Let Bass go."
Bass, who had returned promptly at a quarter-past six, was already busy in the back bedroom washing and dressing preparatory to going down-town.
"No," said Mrs. Gerhardt. "Bass has worked hard all day. You must go."
"I don't want to," pouted George.
"All right," said Mrs. Gerhardt, "maybe to-morrow you'll be without a fire, and then what?"
They went back to the house, but George's conscience was too troubled to allow him to consider the case as closed.
"Bass, you come, too," he called to his elder brother when he was inside.
"Go where?" said Bass.
"To get some coal."
"No," said the former, "I guess not. What do you take me for?"
"Well, then, I'll not," said George, with an obstinate jerk of his head.
"Why didn't you get it up this afternoon?" questioned his brother sharply; "you've had all day to do it."
"Aw, I did try," said George. "We couldn't find enough. I can't get any when there ain't any, can I?"
"I guess you didn't try very hard," said the dandy.
"What's the matter now?" asked Jennie, who, coming in after having stopped at the grocer's for her mother, saw George with a solemn pout on his face.
"Oh, Bass won't go with me to get any coal?"
"Didn't you get any this afternoon?"
"Yes," said George, "but ma says I didn't get enough."
"I'll go with you," said his sister. "Bass, will you come along?"
"No," said the young man, indifferently, "I won't." He was adjusting his necktie and felt irritated.
"There ain't any," said George, "unless we get it off the cars. There wasn't any cars where I was."
"There are, too," exclaimed Bass.
"There ain't," said George.
"Oh, don't quarrel," said Jennie. "Get the baskets and let's go right now before it gets too late."
The other children, who had a fondness for their big sister, got out the implements of supply—Veronica a basket, Martha and William buckets, and George, a big clothes-basket, which he and Jennie were to fill and carry between them. Bass, moved by his sister's willingness and the little regard he still maintained for her, now made a suggestion.
"I'll tell you what you do, Jen," he said. "You go over there with the kids to Eighth Street and wait around those cars. I'll be along in a minute. When I come by don't any