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SpringerBriefs in Computer Science
Series Editors
Stan Zdonik
Brown University, Providence, RI, USA
Shashi Shekhar
University of Minnesota, Minneapolis, MN, USA
Xindong Wu
University of Vermont, Burlington, VT, USA
Lakhmi C. Jain
University of South Australia, Adelaide, SA, Australia
David Padua
University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign, Urbana, IL, USA
Borko Furht
Florida Atlantic University, Boca Raton, FL, USA
V. S. Subrahmanian
Department of Computer Science, University of Maryland, College Park,
MD, USA
Martial Hebert
Carnegie Mellon University, Pittsburgh, PA, USA
Katsushi Ikeuchi
Meguro-ku, University of Tokyo, Tokyo, Japan
Bruno Siciliano
Dipartimento di Ingegneria Elettrica e delle Tecnologie
dell’Informazione, Università di Napoli Federico II, Napoli, Italy
Sushil Jajodia
George Mason University, Fairfax, VA, USA
Newton Lee
Institute for Education Research and Scholarships, Los Angeles, CA, USA
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1.1 Introduction
With the increasing complexity of parallel applications, which require
more computing power, energy consumption has become an important
issue. The power consumption of high-performance computing (HPC)
systems is expected to significantly grow (up to 100 MW) in the next
years [34]. Moreover, while general-purpose processors are being
pulled back by the limits of the thermal design power (TDP), most of
the embedded devices are mobile and heavily dependent on battery
(e.g., smartphones and tablets). Therefore, the primary objective when
designing and executing parallel applications is not to merely improve
performance but to do so with minimal impact on energy consumption.
Performance improvements can be achieved by exploiting
instruction-level parallelism (ILP) or thread-level parallelism (TLP). In
the former, independent instructions of a single program are
simultaneously executed, usually on a superscalar processor, as long as
there are functional units available. However, typical instruction
streams have only a limited amount of parallelism [122], resulting in
considerable efforts to design a microarchitecture that will bring only
marginal performance gains with very significant area/power
overhead. Even if one considers a perfect processor, ILP exploitation
will reach an upper bound [85].
Hence, to continue increasing performance and to provide better
use of the extra available transistors, modern designs have started to
exploit TLP more aggressively [7]. In this case, multiple processors
simultaneously execute parts of the same program, exchanging data at
runtime through shared variables or message passing. In the former, all
threads share the same memory region, while in the latter each process
has its private memory, and the communication occurs by send/receive
primitives (even though they are also implemented using a shared
memory context when the data exchange is done intra-chip [21]).
Regardless of the processor or communication model, data exchange is
usually done through memory regions that are more distant from the
processor (e.g., L3 cache and main memory) and have higher delay and
power consumption when compared to memories that are closer to it
(e.g., register, L1, and L2 caches).
Therefore, even though execution time shall decrease because of
TLP exploitation, energy will not necessarily follow the same trend,
since many other variables are involved:
Memories that are more distant from the processor will be more
accessed for synchronization and data exchange, increasing energy
related to dynamic power (which increases as there is more activity
in the circuitry).
A parallel application will usually execute more instructions than its
sequential counterpart. Moreover, even considering an ideal scenario
(where processors are put on standby with no power consumption),
the sum of the execution times of all threads executing on all cores
tends to be greater than if the application was sequentially executed
on only one core. In consequence, the resulting energy from static
power (directly proportional to how long each hardware component
is turned on) consumed by the cores will also be more significant.
There are few exceptions to this rule, such as non-deterministic
algorithms, in which the execution of a parallel application may
execute fewer instructions than its sequential counterpart.
The memory system (which involves caches and main memory) will
be turned on for a shorter time (the total execution time of the
applications), which will decrease the energy resulting from the
static power.
Given the aforementioned discussion, cores tend to consume more
energy from both dynamic and static power, while memories will
usually spend more dynamic power (and hence energy), but also tend
to save static power, which is very significant [121]. On top of that,
neither performance nor energy improvements resultant from TLP
exploitation are linear, and sometimes they do not scale as the number
of threads increases, which means that in many cases the maximum
number of threads will not offer the best results.
On top of that, in order to speed up the development process of TLP
exploitation and make it as transparent as possible to the software
developer, different parallel programming interfaces are used (e.g.,
OpenMP—Open Multi-Processing [22], PThreads—POSIX Threads [17],
or MPI—Message Passing Interface [38]). However, each one of these
has different characteristics with respect to the management (i.e.,
creation and finalization of threads/processes), workload distribution,
and synchronization.
In addition to the complex scenario of thread scalability, several
optimization techniques for power and energy management can be
used, such as dynamic voltage and frequency scaling (DVFS) [62] and
power gating [47]. The former is a feature of the processor that allows
the application to adapt the clock frequency and operating voltage of
the processor on the fly. It enables software to change the processing
performance to attain low-power consumption while meeting the
performance requirements [62]. On the other hand, power gating
consists of selectively powering down certain blocks in the chip while
keeping other blocks powered up. In multicore processors, it switches
off unused cores to reduce power consumption [84]. Therefore, in
addition to selecting the ideal number of threads to execute an
application, choosing the optimal processor frequency and turning off
cores unused during the application execution may lead to significant
reduction in energy consumption with minimal impact on performance.
1.2 Scalability Analysis
Many works have associated the fact that executing an application with
the maximum possible number of available threads (the common
choice for most software developers [63]) will not necessarily lead to
the best possible performance. There are several reasons for this lack of
scalability: instruction issue-width saturation; off-chip bus saturation;
data-synchronization; and concurrent shared memory accesses [51, 64,
95, 114, 115]. In order to measure (through correlation) their real
influence, we have executed four benchmarks from our set (and used
them as examples in the next subsections) on a 12-core machine with
SMT support. Each one of them has one limiting characteristic that
stands out, as shown in Table 1.1. The benchmark hotspot (HS)
saturates the issue-width; fast Fourier transform (FFT), the off-chip
bus; MG, the shared memory accesses; and N-body (NB) saturates data-
synchronization. To analyze each of the scalability issues, we
considered the Pearson correlation [9]. It takes a range of values from
+ 1 to − 1: the stronger the “r” linear association between two variables,
the closer the value will be to either + 1 or − 1. r ≥ 0.9 or r ≤−0.9 means a
very strong correlation (association is directly or inversely
proportional). We discuss these bottlenecks next.
Table 1.1 Pearson correlation between the scalability issues and each benchmark
HS FFT MG NB
Issue-width saturation − 0.92 − 0.71 − 0.79 − 0.78
Off-chip bus saturation − 0.51 − 0.98 − 0.76 0.46
Shared memory accesses − 0.52 − 0.43 − 0.96 0.80
Data-synchronization − 0.54 − 0.50 − 0.59 0.97
Issue-Width Saturation
SMT allows many threads to run simultaneously on a core. It increases
the probability of having more independent instructions to fill the
function units (FUs). Although it may work well for applications with
low ILP, it can lead to the opposite behavior if an individual thread
presents enough ILP to issue instructions to all or most of the core’s
FUs. Then, SMT may lead to resource competition and functional unit
contention, resulting in extra idle cycles. Figure 1.1a shows the
performance speedup relative to the sequential version and the
number of idle cycles (average, represented by the bars, and total) as
we increase the number of threads for the HS application. As we start
executing with 13 threads, two will be mapped to the same physical
core, activating SMT. From this point on, as the number of threads
grows, the average number of idle cycles increases by a small amount
or stays constant. However, the total number of idle cycles significantly
increases. Because this application has high ILP, there are not enough
resources to execute both threads concurrently as if each one was
executed on a single core. They become the new critical path of that
parallel region, as both threads will delay the execution of the entire
parallel region (threads can only synchronize when all have reached the
barrier). Therefore, performance drops and is almost recovered only
with the maximum number of threads executing. In the end, extra
resources are being used without improving performance and
potentially increasing energy consumption, decreasing resource
efficiency.
Fig. 1.1 Scalability behavior of parallel applications. (a) Issue-width saturation. (b)
Off-chip bus saturation
Data-Synchronization
Synchronization operations ensure data integrity during the execution
of a parallel application. In this case, critical sections are implemented
to guarantee that only one thread will execute a given region of code at
once, and therefore data will correctly synchronize. In this way, all code
inside a critical section must be executed sequentially. Therefore, when
the number of threads increases, more threads must be serialized
inside the critical sections. It also increases the synchronization time
(Fig. 1.3a), potentially affecting the execution time and energy
consumption of the whole application. Figure 1.3b shows this behavior
for the n-body benchmark. While it executes with 4 threads or less, the
performance gains within the parallel region reduce the execution time
and energy consumption, even if the time spent in the critical region
increases (Fig. 1.3a). However, from this point on, the time the threads
spend synchronizing overcomes the speedup achieved in the parallel
region.
Fig. 1.3 Data-synchronization. (a) Critical section behavior. (b) Perf./Energy
degradation
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© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2019
A. Francisco Lorenzon, A. C. S. Beck Filho, Parallel Computing Hits the Power Wall,
SpringerBriefs in Computer Science
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-28719-1_2
2. Fundamental Concepts
Arthur Francisco Lorenzon1 and Antonio Carlos Schneider Beck
Filho2
Fig. 2.1 Example of parallel computing. (a) Sequential execution. (b) Parallel
execution in four cores
(2.1)
(2.2)
Energy, in joules, is the integral of total power consumed (P) over
the time (T), given by Eq. (2.3).
(2.3)
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© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2019
A. Francisco Lorenzon, A. C. S. Beck Filho, Parallel Computing Hits the Power Wall,
SpringerBriefs in Computer Science
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-28719-1_3
3.1 Methodology
3.1.1 Benchmarks
In order to study the characteristics of each PPI regarding the
thread/process management and synchronization/communication,
fourteen parallel benchmarks were implemented and parallelized in C
language and classified into two classes: high and low communication
(HC and LC). For that, we considered the amount of communication
(i.e., data exchange), the synchronization operations needed to ensure
data transfer correctness (mutex, barriers), and operations to
create/finalize threads/processes.
Table 3.1 quantifies the communication rate for each benchmark (it
also shows their input sizes), considering 2, 3, 4, and 8
threads/processes, obtained by using the Intel Pin Tool [74]. HC
programs have several data dependencies that must be addressed at
runtime to ensure correctness of the results. Consequently, they
demand large amounts of communication among threads/processes, as
it is shown in Fig. 3.1a. On the other hand, LC programs present little
communication among threads/processes, because they are needed
only to distribute the workload and to join the final result (as it is
shown in Fig. 3.1b).
Fig. 3.2 Memory organization of each processor used in this study. (a) Intel
Core2Quad and Xeon. (b) Intel Atom. (c) ARM Cortex-A9/A8
Xeon The Intel Xeon is also an ×86-64 processor. The version used in
this work is a 45 nm dual processor Xeon E5405. Each processor has 4
CPU cores (so there are 8 cores in total), running at 2.0 GHz, with a TDP
of 80 W. It also uses the Core microarchitecture; however, unlike
Core2Quad, Xeon processor E5 family is designed for industry-leading
performance and maximum energy efficiency, since it is widely
employed in HPC systems. The memory organization is similar to the
Core2Quad (Fig. 3.2a): each core has a private 32 kB instruction and 32
kB data L1 caches. There are two L2 caches of 6 MB (12 MB in total),
each of them shared between clusters of two cores. The platform has 8
GB of RAM, which is the only memory region accessible by all the cores.
3.1.2.2 Embedded Processors
Atom The Intel Atom is also an ×86-64 processor, but targeted to
embedded systems. In this study, the 32 nm Atom N2600 was used,
which has 2 CPU cores (4 threads by using Hyper-Threading support)
running at 1.6 GHz, a TDP of 3.5 W. It uses the Saltwell
microarchitecture, designed for portable devices with low-power
consumption. Since the main characteristic of ×86 processors is the
backward compatibility with the ×86 instructions set, programs
already compiled for these processors will run without changes on
Atom.2 The memory system is organized as illustrated in Fig. 3.2b: each
core has 32 kB instruction and 24 kB data L1 caches, and a private 512
kB L2 cache. The platform has 2 GB of RAM, which is the memory
shared by all the cores.
(3.1)
ARM Intel
Cortex- Cortex- Atom Core2Quad Xeon
A8 A9
Processor—static 0.17 W 0.25 W 0.484 W 4.39 W 3.696 W
power
L1-D static power 0.0005 W 0.0005 W 0.00026 0.0027 W 0.0027
W W
L1-I static power 0.0005 W 0.0005 W 0.00032 0.0027 W 0.0027
W W
L2—static power 0.0258 W 0.0258 W 0.0096 W 0.0912 W 0.1758
W
RAM—static power 0.12 W 0.12 W 0.149 W 0.36 W 0.72 W
Energy per instruction 0.266 nJ 0.237 nJ 0.391 nJ 0.795 nJ 0.774 nJ
L1-D—energy/access 0.017 nJ 0.017 nJ 0.013 nJ 0.176 nJ 0.176 nJ
L1-I—energy/access 0.017 nJ 0.017 nJ 0.015 nJ 0.176 nJ 0.176 nJ
L2—energy/access 0.296 nJ 0.296 nJ 0.117 nJ 1.870 nJ 3.093 nJ
RAM—energy/access 2.77 nJ 2.77 nJ 3.94 nJ 15.6 nJ 24.6 nJ
To find the energy consumed by the instructions, Eq. (3.2) was used,
where I exe is the number of executed instructions multiplied by the
average energy spent by each one of them (E perinst).
(3.2)
The energy consumption for the memory system was obtained with
Eq. (3.3), where (L1DC acc × E L1DC) is the energy spent by accessing the
L1 data cache memory; (L1IC acc × E L1IC) is the same, but for the L1
instruction cache; (L2acc × E L2) is for the L2 cache; and (L2miss × E main)
is the energy spent by the main memory accesses.
(3.3)
(3.4)
3.1.4 Setup
The results presented in the next section consider an average of ten
executions, with a standard deviation of less than 1% for each
benchmark. Their input sizes are described in Table 3.1. The programs
were split into 2, 3, 4, and 8 threads/processes. Although most of the
processors used in this work support only four threads, and are not
commercially available in an 8-core configuration, it is possible to
approximate the results by using the following approach: as an
example, let us consider that we have two threads executing on one
core only. These threads have synchronization points and when one
thread gets there, it must wait for the other one and so on as long as
there still are synchronization points. What it is done is to gather data
of each thread executing on the core in between two synchronization
points (which involves number of instructions, memory access,
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one overlapping the other so that the whole made a glittering
basque. She took quick sure stitches that jerked the fantastic
garment in her lap, and when she did this the sun caught the
brilliant heap aslant and turned it into a blaze of gold and orange
and ice-blue and silver.
Kim was enchanted. Her mother was a fairy princess. It was
nothing to her that the spangle-covered basque, modestly eked out
with tulle and worn with astonishingly long skirts for a bareback
rider, was to serve as Magnolia’s costume in The Circus Clown’s
Daughter.
Kim’s grandmother had scolded a good deal about that costume.
But then, she had scolded a good deal about everything. It was
years before Kim realized that all grandmothers were not like that.
At three she thought that scolding and grandmothers went together,
like sulphur and molasses. The same was true of fun and
grandfathers, only they went together like ice cream and cake. You
called your grandmother grandma. You called your grandfather Andy,
or, if you felt very roguish, Cap’n. When you called him that, he
cackled and squealed, which was his way of laughing, and he clawed
his delightful whiskers this side and that. Kim would laugh then, too,
and look at him knowingly from under her long lashes. She had large
eyes, deep-set like her mother’s and her mother’s wide mobile
mouth. For the rest, she was much like her father—a Ravenal, he
said. His fastidious ways (highfalutin, her grandmother called them);
his slim hands and feet; his somewhat drawling speech, indirect
though strangely melting glance, calculatedly impulsive and winning
manner.
Another childhood memory was that of a confused and terrible
morning. Asleep in her small bed in the room with her father and
mother, she had been wakened by a bump, followed by a lurch, a
scream, shouts, bells, clamour. Wrapped in her comforter, hastily
snatched up from her bed by her mother, she was carried to the
deck in her mother’s arms. Gray dawn. A misty morning with fog
hanging an impenetrable curtain over the river, the shore. The child
was sleepy, bewildered. It was all one to her—the confusion, the
shouting, the fog, the bells. Close in her mother’s arms, she did not
in the least understand what had happened when the confusion
became pandemonium; the shouts rose to screams. Her
grandfather’s high squeaky voice that had been heard above the din
—“La’berd lead there! Sta’berd lead! Snatch her! SNATCH HER!” was
heard no more. Something more had happened. Someone was in
the water, hidden by the fog, whirled in the swift treacherous
current. Kim was thrown on her bed like a bundle of rags, all rolled
in her blanket. She was left there, alone. She had cried a little, from
fright and bewilderment, but had soon fallen asleep again. When she
woke up her mother was bending over her, so wild-eyed, so
frightening with her black hair streaming about her face and her face
swollen and mottled with weeping, that Kim began to cry again in
sheer terror. Her mother had snatched her to her. Curiously enough
the words Magnolia Ravenal now whispered in a ghastly kind of
agony were the very words she had whispered after the agony of
Kim’s birth—though the child could not know that.
“The river!” Magnolia said, over and over. Gaylord Ravenal came
to her, flung an arm about her shoulder, but she shook him off wildly.
“The river! The river!”
Kim never saw her grandfather again. Because of the look it
brought to her mother’s face, she soon learned not to say, “Where’s
Andy?” or—the roguish question that had always made him appear,
squealing with delight: “Where’s Cap’n?”
Baby though she was, the years—three or four—just preceding
her grandfather’s tragic death were indelibly stamped on the infant’s
mind. He had adored her; made much of her. Andy, dead, was
actually a more vital figure than many another alive.
It had been a startling but nevertheless actual fact that Parthenia
Ann Hawks had not wanted her daughter Magnolia to have a child.
Parthy’s strange psychology had entered into this, of course—a
pathological twist. Of this she was quite unaware.
“How’re you going to play ingénue lead, I’d like to know, if you—
when you—while you——” She simply could not utter the word
“pregnant” or say, “while you are carrying your child,” or even the
simpering evasion of her type and class—“in the family way.”
Magnolia laughed a little at that. “I’ll play as long as I can.
Toward the end I’ll play ruffly parts. Then some night, probably
between the second and third acts—though they may have to hold
the curtain for five minutes or so—I’ll excuse myself——”
Mrs. Hawks declared that she had never heard anything so
indelicate in her life. “Besides, a show boat’s no place to bring up a
child.”
“You brought me up on one.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Hawks, grimly. Her tone added, “And now look at
you!”
Even before Kim’s birth the antagonism between Parthy and her
son-in-law deepened to actual hatred. She treated him like a
criminal; regarded Magnolia’s quite normal condition as a reproach
to him.
“Look here, Magnolia, I can’t stand this, you know. I’m so sick of
this old mud-scow and everything that goes with it.”
“Gay! Everything!”
“You know what I mean. Let’s get out of it. I’m no actor. I don’t
belong here. If I hadn’t happened to see you when you stepped out
on deck that day at New Orleans——”
“Are you sorry?”
“Darling! It’s the only luck I’ve ever had that lasted.”
She looked thoughtfully down at the clear colourful brilliance of
the diamond on her third finger. Always too large for her, it now
hung so loosely on her thin hand that she had been obliged to wind
it with a great pad of thread to keep it from dropping off, though
hers were the large-knuckled fingers of the generous and
resourceful nature. It was to see much of life, that ring.
She longed to say to him, “Where do you belong, Gay? Who are
you? Don’t tell me you’re a Ravenal. That isn’t a profession, is it?
You can’t live on that.”
But she knew it was useless. There was a strange deep streak of
the secretive in him; baffling, mystifying. Questioned, he would say
nothing. It was not a moody silence, or a resentful one. He simply
would not speak. She had learned not to ask.
“We can’t go away now, Gay dear. I can’t go. You don’t want to
go without me, do you? You wouldn’t leave me! Maybe next winter,
after the boat’s put up, we can go to St. Louis, or even New Orleans
—that would be nice, wouldn’t it? The winter in New Orleans.”
One of his silences.
He never had any money—that is, he never had it for long. It
vanished. He would have one hundred dollars. He would go ashore
at some sizable town and return with five hundred—a thousand.
“Got into a little game with some of the boys,” he would explain,
cheerfully. And give her three hundred of it, four hundred, five. “Buy
yourself a dress, Nola. Something rich, with a hat to match. You’re
too pretty to wear those homemade things you’re always messing
with.”
Some woman wisdom in her told her to put by a portion of these
sums. She got into the habit of tucking away ten dollars, twenty,
fifty. At times she reproached herself for this; called it disloyal,
sneaking, underhand. When she heard him say, as he frequently did,
“I’m strapped. If I had fifty dollars I could turn a trick that would
make five hundred out of it. You haven’t got fifty, have you, Nola?
No, of course not.”
She wanted then to give him every cent of her tiny hoard. It was
the tenuous strain of her mother in her, doubtless—the pale thread
of the Parthy in her make-up—that caused her to listen to an inner
voice. “Don’t do it,” whispered the voice, nudging her, “keep it. You’ll
need it badly by and by.”
It did not take many months for her to discover that her husband
was a gambler by profession—one of those smooth and plausible
gentry with whom years of river life had made her familiar. It was,
after all, not so much a discovery as a forced admission. She knew,
but refused to admit that she knew. Certainly no one could have
been long in ignorance with Mrs. Hawks in possession of the facts.
Ten days after Magnolia’s marriage to Ravenal (and what a ten
days those had been! Parthy alone crowded into them a lifetime of
reproach), Mrs. Hawks came to her husband, triumph in her mien,
portent in her voice:
“Well, Hawks, I hope you’re satisfied now.” This was another of
Parthy’s favourite locutions. The implication was that the unfortunate
whom she addressed had howled heaven-high his demands for
hideous misfortune and would not be content until horror had piled
upon horror. “I hope you’re satisfied now, Hawks. Your son-in-law is
a gambler, and no more. A common barroom gambler, without a
cent to his trousers longer’n it takes to transfer his money from his
pocket to the table. That’s what your only daughter has married.
Understand, I’m not saying he gambles, and that’s all. I say he’s a
gambler by calling. That’s the way he made his living before he
came aboard this boat. I wish he had died before he ever set foot on
the Cotton Blossom gangplank, and so I tell you, Hawks. A smooth-
tongued, oily, good-for-nothing; no better than the scum Elly ran off
with.”
“Now, Parthy, what’s done’s done. Why’n’t you try to make the
best of things once in a while, instead of the worst? Magnolia’s
happy with him.”
“She ain’t lived her life out with him yet. Mark my words. He’s got
a roving eye for a petticoat.”
“Funny thing, Parthy. Your father was a man, and so’s your
husband, and your son-in-law’s another. Yet seems you never did get
the hang of a man’s ways.”
Andy liked Ravenal. There was about the fellow a grace, an ease,
a certain elegance that appealed to the æsthetic in the little Gallic
captain. When the two men talked together sometimes, after dinner,
it was amiably, in low tones, with an air of leisure and relaxation.
Two gentlemen enjoying each other’s company. There existed
between the two a sound respect and liking.
Certainly Ravenal’s vogue on the rivers was tremendous. Andy
paid him as juvenile lead a salary that was unheard of in show-boat
records. But he accounted him worth it. Shortly after Kim’s birth,
Andy spoke of giving Ravenal a share in the Cotton Blossom. But this
Mrs. Hawks fought with such actual ferocity that Andy temporarily at
least relinquished the idea.
Magnolia had learned to dread the idle winter months. During
this annual period of the Cotton Blossom’s hibernation the Hawks
family had, before Magnolia’s marriage, gone back to the house near
the river at Thebes. Sometimes Andy had urged Parthy to spend
these winter months in the South, evading the harsh Illinois climate
for a part of the time at least in New Orleans, or one of the towns of
southern Mississippi where one might have roses instead of holly for
Christmas. He sometimes envied black Jo and Queenie their period
of absence from the boat. In spite of the disreputable state in which
they annually returned to the Cotton Blossom in the early spring,
they always looked as if they had spent the intervening months
seated in the dappled shade, under a vine, with the drone of insects
in the air, and the heavy scent of white-petalled blossoms; eating
fruit that dripped juice between their fingers; sleeping, slack-jawed
and heavily content, through the heat of the Southern mid-
afternoon; supping greasily and plentifully on fried catfish and corn
bread; watching the moon come up to the accompaniment of Jo’s
coaxing banjo.
“We ought to lazy around more, winters,” Andy said to his
energetic wife. She was, perhaps, setting the Thebes house to rights
after their long absence; thwacking pillows, pounding carpets,
sloshing pails, scouring tables, hanging fresh curtains, flapping
drapes, banging bureau drawers. A towel wrapped about her head,
turban-wise, her skirts well pinned up, she would throw a frenzy of
energy into her already exaggerated housewifeliness until Andy,
stepping fearfully out of the way of mop and broom and pail, would
seek waterfront cronies for solace.
“Lazy! I’ve enough of lazying on that boat of yours month in
month out all summer long. No South for me, thank you. Eight
months of flies and niggers and dirty mud-tracking loafers is enough
for me, Captain Hawks. I’m thankful to get back for a few weeks
where I can live like a decent white woman.” Thwack! Thump! Bang!
After one trial lasting but a few days, the Thebes house was
found by Magnolia to be impossible for Gaylord Ravenal. That first
winter after their marriage they spent in various towns and cities.
Memphis for a short time; a rather hurried departure; St. Louis;
Chicago. That brief glimpse of Chicago terrified her, but she would
not admit it. After all, she told herself, as the astounding roar and
din and jangle and clatter of State Street and Wabash Avenue beat
at her ears, this city was only an urban Mississippi. The cobblestones
were the river bed. The high grim buildings the river banks. The
men, women, horses, trucks, drays, carriages, street cars that
surged through those streets; creating new channels where some
obstacle blocked their progress; felling whole sections of stone and
brick and wood and sweeping over that section, obliterating all trace
of its former existence; lifting other huge blocks and sweeping them
bodily downstream to deposit them in a new spot; making a
boulevard out of what had been a mud swamp—all this, Magnolia
thought, was only the Mississippi in another form and environment;
ruthless, relentless, Gargantuan, terrible. One might think to know
its currents and channels ever so well, but once caught unprepared
in the maelstrom, one would be sucked down and devoured as
Captain Andy Hawks had been in that other turbid hungry flood.
“You’ll get used to it,” Ravenal told his bride, a trifle patronizingly,
as one who had this monster tamed and fawning. “Don’t be
frightened. It’s mostly noise.”
“I’m not frightened, really. It’s just the kind of noise that I’m not
used to. The rivers, you know, all these years—so quiet. At night and
in the morning.”
That winter she lived the life of a gambler’s wife. Streak o’ lean,
streak o’ fat. Turtle soup and terrapin at the Palmer House to-day.
Ham and eggs in some obscure eating house to-morrow. They rose
at noon. They never retired until the morning hours. Gay seemed to
know a great many people, but to his wife he presented few of
these.
“Business acquaintance,” he would say. “You wouldn’t care for
him.”
Hers had been a fantastic enough life on the show boat. But
always there had been about it an orderliness, a routine, due,
perhaps, to the presence of the martinet, Parthenia Ann Hawks.
Indolent as the days appeared on the rivers, they still bore a
methodical aspect. Breakfast at nine. Rehearsal. Parade. Dinner at
four. Make-up. Curtain. Wardrobe to mend or refurbish; parts to
study; new songs to learn for the concert. But this new existence
seemed to have no plot or plan. Ravenal was a being for the most
part unlike the lover and husband of Cotton Blossom days.
Expansive and secretive by turn; now high-spirited, now depressed;
frequently absent-minded. His manner toward her was always
tender, courteous, thoughtful. He loved her as deeply as he was
capable of loving. She knew that. She had to tell herself all this one
evening when she sat in their hotel room, dressed and waiting for
him to take her to dinner and to the theatre. They were going to
McVicker’s Theatre, the handsome new auditorium that had risen out
of the ashes of the old (to quote the owner’s florid announcement).
Ravenal was startled to learn how little Magnolia knew of the great
names of the stage. He had told her something of the history of
McVicker’s, in an expansive burst of pride in Chicago. He seemed to
have a definite feeling about this great uncouth giant of a city.
“When you go to McVicker’s,” Ravenal said, “you are in the
theatre where Booth has played, and Sothern, and Lotta, and Kean,
and Mrs. Siddons.”
“Who,” asked Magnolia, “are they?”
He was so much in love that he found this ignorance of her own
calling actually delightful. He laughed, of course, but kissed her
when she pouted a little, and explained to her what these names
meant, investing them with all the glamour and romance that the
theatre—the theatre of sophistication, that is—had for him; for he
had the gambler’s love of the play. It must have been something of
that which had held him so long to the Cotton Blossom. Perhaps,
after all, his infatuation for Magnolia alone could not have done it.
And now she was going to McVicker’s. And she had on her dress
with the open-throated basque, which she considered rather daring,
though now that she was a married woman it was all right. She was
dressed long before the time when she might expect him back. She
had put out fresh linen for him. He was most fastidious about his
dress. Accustomed to the sloppy deshabille of the show boat’s male
troupers, this sartorial niceness in Ravenal had impressed her from
the first.
She regarded herself in the mirror now. She knew she was not
beautiful. She affected, in fact, to despise her looks; bemoaned her
high forehead and prominent cheek-bones, her large-knuckled
fingers, her slenderness, her wide mouth. Yet she did not quite
believe these things she said about herself; loved to hear Ravenal
say she was beautiful. As she looked at her reflection now in the
long gilt-framed mirror of the heavy sombre walnut bedroom, she
found herself secretly agreeing with him. This was the first year of
her marriage. She was pregnant. It was December. The child was
expected in April. There was nothing distorted about her figure or
her face. As is infrequently the case, her condition had given her an
almost uncanny radiance of aspect. Her usually pallid skin showed a
delicious glow of rosy colouring; her eyes were enormous and
strangely luminous; tiny blue veins were faintly, exquisitely etched
against the cream tint of her temples; her rather angular slimness
was replaced by a delicate roundness; she bore herself well, her
shoulders back, her head high. A happy woman, beloved, and in
love.
Six o’clock. A little late, but he would be here at any moment
now. Half-past six. She was opening the door every five minutes to
peer up the red-carpeted corridor. Seven. Impatience had given way
to fear, fear to terror, terror to certain agony. He was dead. He had
been killed. She knew by now that he frequented the well-known
resorts of the city, that he played cards in them. “Just for pastime,”
he told her. “Game of cards to while away the afternoon. What’s the
harm in that? Now, Nola! Don’t look like your mother. Please!”
She knew about them. Red plush and gilt, mahogany and
mirrors. Food and drink. River-front saloons and river-front life had
long ago taught her not to be squeamish. She was not a foolish
woman, nor an intolerant. She was, in fact, in many ways wise
beyond her years. But this was 1888. The papers had been full of
the shooting of Simeon Peake, the gambler, in Jeff Hankins’ place
over on Clark Street. The bullet had been meant for someone else—
a well-known newspaper publisher, in fact. But a woman, hysterical,
crazed, revengeful, had fired it. It had gone astray. Ravenal had
known Simeon Peake. The shooting had been a shock to him. It had,
indeed, thrown him so much off his guard that he had talked to
Magnolia about it for relief. Peake had had a young daughter Selina.
She was left practically penniless.
Now the memory of this affair came rushing back to her. She was
frantic. Half-past seven. It was too late, now, for the dinner they had
planned for the gala evening—dinner at the Wellington Hotel, down
in the white marble café. The Wellington was just across the street
from McVicker’s. It would make everything simple and easy; no rush,
no hurrying over that last delightful sweet sip of coffee.
Eight o’clock. He had been killed. She no longer merely opened
the door to peer into the corridor. She left the room door open and
paced from room to hall, from hall to room, wildly; down the
corridor. Finally, in desperation, down to the hotel lobby into which
she had never stepped in the evening without her husband. There
were two clerks at the office desk. One was an ancient man, flabby
and wattled, as much a part of the hotel as the stones that paved
the lobby. He had soft wisps of sparse white hair that seemed to
float just above his head instead of being attached to it; and little
tufts of beard, like bits of cotton stuck on his cheeks. He looked like
an old baby. The other was a glittering young man; his hair glittered,
his eyes, his teeth, his nails, his shirt-front, his cuffs. Both these men
knew Ravenal; had greeted him on their arrival; had bowed
impressively to her. The young man had looked flattering things; the
old man had pursed his soft withered lips.
Magnolia glanced from one to the other. There were people at
the clerks’ desk, leaning against the marble slab. She waited,
nervous, uncertain. She would speak to the old man. She did not
want, somehow, to appeal to the glittering one. But he saw her,
smiled, left the man to whom he was talking, came toward her.
Quickly she touched the sleeve of the old man—leaned forward over
the marble to do it—jerked his sleeve, really, so that he glanced up
at her testily.
“I—I want—may I speak to you?”
“A moment, madam. I shall be free in a moment.”
The sparkler leaned toward her. “What can I do for you, Mrs.
Ravenal?”
“I just wanted to speak to this gentleman——”
“But I can assist you, I’m sure, as well as——”
She glanced at him and he was a row of teeth, all white and
even, ready to bite. She shook her head miserably; glanced
appealingly at the old man. The sparkler’s eyebrows came up. He
gave the effect of stepping back, courteously, without actually doing
so. Now that the old clerk faced her, questioningly, she almost
regretted her choice.
She blushed, stammered; her voice was little more than a
whisper. “I . . . my husband . . . have been . . . he hasn’t returned
. . . worried . . . killed or . . . theatre . . .”
The old baby cupped one hand behind his ear. “What say?”
Her beautiful eyes, in their agony, begged the sparkler now to
forgive her for having been rude. She needed him. She could not
shout this. He stepped forward, but the teeth were hidden. After all,
a chief clerk is a chief clerk. Miraculously, he had heard the whisper.
“You say your husband——?”
She nodded. She was terribly afraid that she was going to cry.
She opened her eyes very wide and tried not to blink. If she so
much as moved her lids she knew the mist that was making
everything swim in a rainbow haze would crystallize into tears.
“He is terribly late. I—I’ve been so worried. We were going to the
—to McVicker’s—and dinner—and now it’s after seven——”
“After eight,” wheezed cotton whiskers, peering at the clock on
the wall.
“—after eight,” she echoed, wretchedly. There! She had winked.
Two great drops plumped themselves down on the silk bosom of her
bodice with the open-throated neck line. It seemed to her that she
heard them splash.
“H’m!” cackled the old man.
The glittering one leaned toward her. She was enveloped in a
waft of perfume. “Now, now, Mrs. Ravenal! There’s absolutely
nothing to worry about. Your husband has been delayed. That’s all.
Unavoidably delayed.”
She snatched at this. “Do you think—? Are you sure? But he
always is back by six, at the latest. Always. And we were going to
dinner—and Mc——”
“You brides!” smiled the young man. He actually patted her hand,
then. Just a touch. “Now you just have a bite of dinner, like a
sensible little woman.”
“Oh, I couldn’t eat a bite! I couldn’t!”
“A cup of tea. Let me send up a cup of tea.”
The old one made a sucking sound with tongue and teeth,
rubbed his chin, and proffered his suggestion in a voice that seemed
to Magnolia to echo and reëcho through the hotel lobby. “Why’n’t
you send a messenger around for him, madam?”
“Messenger? Around? Where?”
Sparkler made a little gesture—a tactful gesture. “Perhaps he’s
having a little game of—uh—cards; and you know how time flies.
I’ve done the same thing myself. Look up at the clock and first thing
you know it’s eight. Now if I were you, Mrs. Ravenal——”
She knew, then. There was something so sure about this young
man; and so pitying. And suddenly she, too, was sure. She recalled
in a flash that time when they were playing Paducah, and he had not
come. They had held the curtain until after eight. Ralph had
searched for him. He had been playing poker in a waterfront saloon.
Send around for him! Not she. The words of a popular sentimental
song of the day went through her mind, absurdly.
Father, dear father, come home with me now.
The clock in the steeple strikes one.
She drew herself up, now. The actress. She even managed a
smile, as even and sparkling and toothy as the sparkler’s own. “Of
course. I’m very silly. Thank you so . . . I’ll just have a bit of supper
in my room. . . .” She turned away with a little gracious bow. The
eyes very wide again.
“H’m!” The old man. Translated it meant, “Little idiot!”
She took off the dress with the two dark spots on the silk of the
basque. She put away his linen and his shiny shoes. She took up
some sewing. But the mist interfered with that. She threw herself on
the bed. An agony of tears. That was better. Ten o’clock. She fell
asleep, the gas lights burning. At a little before midnight he came in.
She awoke with a little cry. Queerly enough, the first thing she
noticed was that he had not his cane—the richly mottled malacca
stick that he always carried. She heard herself saying, ridiculously,
half awake, half asleep, “Where’s your cane?”
His surprise at this matter-of-fact reception made his expression
almost ludicrous. “Cane! Oh, that’s so. Why I left it. Must have left
it.”
In the years that followed she learned what the absence of the
malacca stick meant. It had come to be a symbol in every pawnshop
on Clark Street. Its appearance was bond for a sum a hundred times
its actual value. Gaylord Ravenal always paid his debts.
She finished undressing, in silence. Her face was red and
swollen. She looked young and helpless and almost ugly. He was
uncomfortable and self-reproachful. “I’m sorry, Nola. I was detained.
We’ll go to the theatre to-morrow night.”
She almost hated him then. Being, after all, a normal woman,
there followed a normal scene—tears, reproaches, accusations,
threats, pleadings, forgiveness. Then:
“Uh—Nola, will you let me take your ring—just for a day or two?”
“Ring?” But she knew.
“You’ll have it back. This is Wednesday. You’ll have it by Saturday.
I swear it.”
The clear white diamond had begun its travels with the malacca
stick.
He had spoken the truth when he said that he had been
unavoidably detained.
She had meant not to sleep. She had felt sure that she would not
sleep. But she was young and healthy and exhausted from emotion.
She slept. As she lay there by his side she thought, before she slept,
that life was very terrible—but fascinating. Even got from this a glow
of discovery. She felt old and experienced and married and tragic.
She thought of her mother. She was much, much older and more
married, she decided, than her mother ever had been.
They returned to Thebes in February. Magnolia longed to be near
her father. She even felt a pang of loneliness for her mother. The
little white cottage near the river, at Thebes, looked like a toy house.
Her bedroom was doll-size. The town was a miniature village, like a
child’s Christmas set. Her mother’s bonnet was a bit of grotesquerie.
Her father’s face was etched with lines that she did not remember
having seen there when she left. The home-cooked food, prepared
by Parthy’s expert hands, was delicious beyond belief. She was a
traveller returned from a far place.
Captain Andy had ordered a new boat. He talked of nothing else.
The old Cotton Blossom, bought from Pegram years before, was to
be discarded. The new boat was to be lighted by some newfangled
gas arrangement instead of the old kerosene lamps. Carbide or
some such thing Andy said it was. There were to be special
footlights, new scenery, improved dressing and sleeping rooms. She
was being built at the St. Louis shipyards.
“She’s a daisy!” squeaked Andy, capering. He had just returned
from a trip to the place of the Cotton Blossom’s imminent birth. Of
the two impending accouchements—that which was to bring forth a
grandchild and that which was to produce a new show boat—it was
difficult to say which caused him keenest anticipation. Perhaps,
secretly, it was the boat, much as he loved Magnolia. He was, first,
the river man; second, the showman; third, the father.
“Like to know what you want a new boat for!” Parthy scolded.
“Take all the money you’ve earned these years past with the old tub
and throw it away on a new one.”
“Old one ain’t good enough.”
“Good enough for the riff-raff we get on it.”
“Now, Parthy, you know’s well’s I do you couldn’t be shooed off
the rivers now you’ve got used to ’em. Any other way of living’d
seem stale to you.”
“I’m a woman loves her home and asks for nothing better.”
“Bet you wouldn’t stay ashore, permanent, if you had the
chance.”
He won the wager, though he had to die to do it.
The new Cotton Blossom and the new grandchild had a trial by
flood on their entrance into life. The Mississippi, savage mother that
she was, gave them both a baptism that threatened for a time to
make their entrance into and their exit from the world a
simultaneous act. But both, after some perilous hours, were piloted
to safety; the one by old Windy, who swore that this was his last
year on the rivers; the other by a fat midwife and a frightened young
doctor. Through storm and flood was heard the voice of Parthenia
Ann Hawks, the scold, berating Captain Hawks her husband, and
Magnolia Ravenal her daughter, as though they, and not the
elements, were responsible for the predicament in which they now
found themselves.
There followed four years of war and peace. The strife was
internal. It raged between Parthy and her son-in-law. The conflict of
the two was a chemical thing. Combustion followed inevitably upon
their meeting. The biting acid of Mrs. Hawks’ discernment cut
relentlessly through the outer layers of the young man’s charm and
grace and melting manner and revealed the alloy. Ravenal’s nature
recoiled at sight of a woman who employed none of the arts of her
sex and despised and penetrated those of the opposite sex. She had
no vanity, no coquetry, no reticences, no respect for the reticence of
others; treated compliment as insult, met flattery with contempt.
A hundred times during those four years he threatened to leave
the Cotton Blossom, yet he was held to his wife Magnolia and to the
child Kim by too many tender ties. His revolt usually took the form of
a gambling spree ashore during which he often lost every dollar he
had saved throughout weeks of enforced economy. There was no
opportunity to spend money legitimately in the straggling hamlets to
whose landings the Cotton Blossom was so often fastened. Then,
too, the easy indolence of the life was beginning to claim him—its
effortlessness, its freedom from responsibility. Perhaps a new part to
learn at the beginning of the season—that was all. River audiences
liked the old plays. Came to see them again and again. It was
Ravenal who always made the little speech in front of the curtain.
Wish to thank you one and all . . . always glad to come back to the
old . . . to-morrow night that thrilling comedy-drama entitled . . .
each and every one . . . concert after the show . . .
Never had the Cotton Blossom troupe so revelled in home-baked
cakes, pies, cookies; home-brewed wine; fruits of tree and vine. The
female population of the river towns from the Great Lakes to the
Gulf beheld in him the lover of their secret dreams and laid at his
feet burnt offerings and shewbread. Ravenal, it was said by the
Cotton Blossom troupe, could charm the gold out of their teeth.
Perhaps, with the passing of the years, he might have grown
quite content with this life. Sometimes the little captain, when the
two men were conversing quietly apart, dropped a word about the
future.
“When I’m gone—you and Magnolia—the boat’ll be yours, of
course.”
Ravenal would laugh. Little Captain Andy looked so very much
alive, his bright brown eyes glancing here and there, missing nothing
on land or shore, his brown paw scratching the whiskers that
showed so little of gray, his nimble legs scampering from texas to
gangplank, never still for more than a minute.
“No need to worry about that for another fifty years,” Ravenal
assured him.
The end had in it, perhaps, a touch of the ludicrous, as had
almost everything the little capering captain did. The Cotton
Blossom, headed upstream on the Mississippi, bound for St. Louis,
had struck a snag in Cahokia Bend, three miles from the city. It was
barely dawn, and a dense fog swathed the river. The old Cotton
Blossom probably would have sunk midstream. The new boat stood
the shock bravely. In the midst of the pandemonium that followed
the high shrill falsetto of the little captain’s voice could be heard
giving commands which he, most of all, knew he had no right to
give. The pilot only was to be obeyed under such conditions. The
crew understood this, as did the pilot. It was, in fact, a legend that
more than once in a crisis Captain Andy on the upper deck had
screamed his orders in a kind of dramatic frenzy of satisfaction,
interspersing these with picturesque and vivid oaths during which he
had capered and bounced his way right off the deck and into the
river, from which damp station he had continued to screech his
orders and profanities in cheerful unconcern until fished aboard
again. Exactly this happened. High above the clamour rose the voice
of Andy. His little figure whirled like that of a dervish. Up, down,
fore, aft—suddenly he was overboard unseen in the dimness, in the
fog, in the savage swift current of the Mississippi, wrapped in the
coils of the old yellow serpent, tighter, tighter, deeper, deeper, until
his struggles ceased. She had him at last.
“The river,” Magnolia had said, over and over, “The river. The
river.”
XII
“T
hebes?” echoed Parthenia Ann Hawks, widow. The stiff
crêpe of her weeds seemed to bristle. “I’ll do nothing of
the kind, miss! If you and that fine husband of yours think
to rid yourself of me that way——”
“But, Mama, we’re not trying to rid ourselves of you. How can
you think of such things! You’ve always said you hated the boat.
Always. And now that Papa—now that you needn’t stay with the
show any longer, I thought you’d want to go back to Thebes to live.”
“Indeed! And what’s to become of the Cotton Blossom, tell me
that, Maggie Hawks!”
“I don’t know,” confessed Magnolia, miserably. “I don’t—know.
That’s what I think we ought to talk about.” The Cotton Blossom,
after her tragic encounter with the hidden snag in the Mississippi,
was in for repairs. The damage to the show boat had been greater
than they had thought. The snag had, after all, inflicted a jagged
wound. So, too, had it torn and wounded something deep and
hidden in Magnolia’s soul. Suddenly she had a horror of the great
river whose treacherous secret fangs had struck so poisonously. The
sight of the yellow turbid flood sickened her; yet held her
hypnotized. Now she thought that she must run from it, with her
husband and her child, to safety. Now she knew that she never could
be content away from it. She wanted to flee. She longed to stay.
This, if ever, was her chance. But the river had Captain Andy.
Somewhere in its secret coils he lay. She could not leave him. On the
rivers the three great mysteries—Love and Birth and Death—had
been revealed to her. All that she had known of happiness and
tragedy and tranquillity and adventure and romance and fulfilment
was bound up in the rivers. Their willow-fringed banks framed her
world. The motley figures that went up and down upon them or that
dwelt on their shores were her people. She knew them; was of
them. The Mississippi had her as surely as it had little Andy Hawks.
“Well, we’re talking about it, ain’t we?” Mrs. Hawks now
demanded.
“I mean—the repairs are going to be quite expensive. She’ll be
laid up for a month or more, right in the season. Now’s the time to
decide whether we’re going to try to run her ourselves just as if
Papa were still——”
“I can see you’ve been talking things over pretty hard and fast
with Ravenal. Well, I’ll tell you what we’re going to do, miss. We’re
going to run her ourselves—leastways, I am.”
“But, Mama!”
“Your pa left no will. Hawks all over. I’ve as much say-so as you
have. More. I’m his widow. You won’t see me willing to throw away
the good-will of a business that it’s taken years to build up. The
boat’s insurance’ll take care of the repairs. Your pa’s life insurance is
paid up, and quite a decent sum—for him. I saw to that. You’ll get
your share, I’ll get mine. The boat goes on like it always has. No
Thebes for me. You’ll go on playing ingénue leads; Ravenal juvenile.
Kim——”
“No!” cried Magnolia much as Parthy had, years before. “Not
Kim.”
“Why not?”
There was about the Widow Hawks a terrifying and invincible
energy. Her black habiliments of woe billowed about her like the
sable wings of a destroying angel. With Captain Andy gone, she
would appoint herself commander of the Cotton Blossom Floating
Palace Theatre. Magnolia knew that. Who, knowing Parthy, could
imagine it otherwise? She would appoint herself commander of their
lives. Magnolia was no weakling. She was a woman of mettle. But no
mettle could withstand the sledge-hammer blows of Parthy Ann
Hawks’ iron.
It was impossible that such an arrangement could hold. From the
first Ravenal rejected it. But Magnolia’s pleadings for at least a trial
won him over, but grudgingly.
“It won’t work, Nola, I tell you. We’ll be at each other’s throats.
She’s got all kinds of plans. I can see them whirling around in her
eye.”
“But you will try to be patient, won’t you, Gay? For my sake and
Kim’s?”
But they had not been out a week before mutiny struck the
Cotton Blossom. The first to go was Windy. Once his great feet were
set toward the gangplank there was no stopping him. He was over
seventy now, but he looked not an hour older than when he had
come aboard the Cotton Blossom almost fifteen years before. To the
irate widow he spoke briefly but with finality.
“You’re Hawks’ widow. That’s why I said I’d take her same’s if
Andy was alive. I thought Nollie’s husband would boss this boat, but
seems you’re running it. Well, ma’am, I ain’t no petticoat-pilot. I’m
off the end of this trip down. Young Tanner’ll come aboard there and
pilot you.”
“Tanner! Who’s he? How d’you know I want him? I’m running this
boat.”
“You better take him, Mrs. Hawks, ma’am. He’s young, and not
set in his ways, and likely won’t mind your nagging. I’m too old. Lost
my taste for the rivers, anyway, since Cap went. Lost my nerve, too,
seems like. . . . Well, ma’am, I’m going.”
And he went.
Changes came then, tripping on each other’s heels. Mis’ Means
stayed, and little weak-chested Mr. Means. Frank had gone after
Magnolia’s marriage. Ralph left.
Parthy met these difficulties and defeats with magnificent
generalship. She seemed actually to thrive on them. Do this. Do
that. Ravenal’s right eyebrow was cocked in a perpetual circumflex
of disdain. One could feel the impact of opposition whenever the two
came together. Every fibre of Ravenal’s silent secretive nature was
taut in rejection of this managerial mother-in-law. Every nerve and
muscle of that energetic female’s frame tingled with enmity toward
this suave soft-spoken contemptuous husband of her daughter.
Finally, “Choose,” said Gaylord Ravenal, “between your mother
and me.”
Magnolia chose. Her decision met with such terrific opposition
from Parthy as would have shaken any woman less determined and
less in love.
“Where you going with that fine husband of yours? Tell me that!”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll warrant you don’t. No more does he. Why’re you going?
You’ve got a good home on the boat.”
“Kim . . . school . . .”
“Fiddlesticks!”
Magnolia took the plunge. “We’re not—I’m not—Gay’s not happy
any more on the rivers.”
“You’ll be a sight unhappier on land before you’re through, make
no mistake about that, young lady. Where’ll you go? Chicago, h’m?
What’ll you do there? Starve, and worse. I know. Many’s the time
you’ll wish yourself back here.”
Magnolia, nervous, apprehensive, torn, now burst into sudden
rebellion against the iron hand that had gripped her all these years.
“How do you know? How can you be so sure? And even if you
are right, what of it? You’re always trying to keep people from doing
the things they want to do. You’re always wanting people to live
cautiously. You fought to keep Papa from buying the Cotton Blossom
in the first place, and made his life a hell. And now you won’t leave
it. You didn’t want me to act. You didn’t want me to marry Gay. You
didn’t want me to have Kim. Maybe you were right. Maybe I
shouldn’t have done any of those things. But how do you know? You
can’t twist people’s lives around like that, even if you twist them
right. Because how do you know that even when you’re right you
mayn’t be wrong? If Papa had listened to you, we’d be living in
Thebes. He’d be alive, probably. I’d be married to the butcher,
maybe. You can’t do it. Even God lets people have their own way,
though they have to fall down and break their necks to find out they
were wrong. . . . You can’t do it . . . and you’re glad when it turns
out badly . . .”
She was growing incoherent.
Back of Parthy’s opposition to their going was a deep relief of
which even she was unaware, and whose existence she would have
denied had she been informed of it. Her business talent, so long
dormant, was leaping into life. Her energy was cataclysmic. One
would almost have said she was happy. She discharged actors, crew;
engaged actors, crew. Ordered supplies. Spoke of shifting to an
entirely new territory the following year—perhaps to the rivers of
North Carolina and Maryland. She actually did this, though not until
much later. Magnolia, years afterward reading her mother’s terse
and maddening letters, would be seized with a nostalgia not for the
writer but for the lovely-sounding places of which she wrote—though
they probably were as barren and unpicturesque as the river towns
of the Mississippi and Ohio and Big Sandy and Kanawha. “We’re
playing the town of Bath, on the Pamlico River,” Parthy’s letter would
say. Or, “We had a good week at Queenstown, on the Sassafras.”
Magnolia, looking out into the gray Chicago streets, slippery with
black ice, thick with the Lake Michigan fog, would repeat the names
over to herself. Bath on the Pamlico. Queenstown on the Sassafras.
Mrs. Hawks, at parting, was all for Magnolia’s retaining her
financial share in the Cotton Blossom, the money accruing therefrom
to be paid at regular intervals. In this she was right. She knew
Ravenal. In her hard and managing way she loved her daughter;
wished to insure her best interests. But Magnolia and Ravenal
preferred to sell their share outright if she would buy. Ravenal would
probably invest it in some business, Magnolia said.
“Yes—monkey business,” retorted Mrs. Hawks. Then added,
earnestly, “Now mind, don’t you come snivelling to me when it’s
gone and you and your child haven’t a penny to bless yourselves
with. For that’s what it’ll come to in the end. Mark my words. I don’t
say I wouldn’t be happy to see you and Kim back. But not him.
When he’s run through every penny of your money, he needn’t look
to me for more. You can come back to the boat; you and Kim. I’ll
look for you. But him! Never!”
The two women faced each other, and they were no longer
mother and daughter but two forces opposing each other with all
the strength that lay in the deep and powerful nature of both.
Magnolia made one of those fine speeches. “I wouldn’t come to
you for help—not if I were starving to death, and Kim too.”
“Oh, there’s worse things than starving to death.”
“I wouldn’t come to you no matter what.”
“You will, just the same. I’d take my oath on that.”
“I never will.”
Secretly she was filled with terror at leaving the rivers; for the
rivers, and the little inaccessible river towns, and the indolent and
naïve people of those towns whose very presence in them confessed
them failures, had with the years taken on in Magnolia’s eyes the
friendly aspect of the accustomed. Here was comfort assured; here
were friends; here the ease that goes with familiarity. Even her
mother’s bristling generalship had in it a protective quality. The very
show boat was a second mother, shielding her from the problems
and cares that beset the land-dweller. The Cotton Blossom had been
a little world in itself on which life was a thing detached, dream-like,
narcotic.
As Magnolia Ravenal, with her husband and her child, turned
from this existence of ease to the outside world of which she already
had had one bitter taste, she was beset by hordes of fears and
doubts. Yet opposing these, and all but vanquishing them, was the
strong love of adventure—the eager curiosity about the unknown—
which had always characterized her and her dead father, the little
captain, and caused them both to triumph, thus far, over the
clutching cautious admonitions of Parthenia Ann Hawks.
Fright and anticipation; nostalgia and curiosity; a soaring sense
of freedom at leaving her mother’s too-protective wing; a pang of
compunction that she should feel this unfilial surge of relief.
They were going. You saw the three of them scrambling up the
steep river bank to the levee (perhaps for the last time, Magnolia
thought with a great pang. And within herself a voice cried no! no!)
Ravenal slim, cool, contained; Magnolia whiter than usual, and
frankly tearful; the child Kim waving an insouciant farewell with both
small fists. They carried no bundles, no parcels, no valises. Ravenal
disdained to carry parcels; he did not permit those of his party to
carry them. Two Negroes in tattered and faded blue overalls made
much of the luggage, stowing it inefficiently under the seats and
over the floor of the livery rig which had been hired to take the three
to the nearest railway station, a good twelve miles distant.
The Cotton Blossom troupe was grouped on the forward deck to
see them off. The Cotton Blossom lay, smug, safe, plump, at the
water’s edge. A passing side-wheeler, flopping ponderously
downstream, sent little flirty waves across the calm waters to her,
and set her to palpitating coyly. Good-bye! Good-bye! Write, now.
Mis’ Means’ face distorted in a ridiculous pucker of woe. Ravenal in
the front seat with the driver. Magnolia and Kim in the back seat
with the luggage protruding at uncomfortable angles all about them.
Parthenia Ann Hawks, the better to see them, had stationed herself
on the little protruding upper deck, forward—the deck that
resembled a balcony much like that on the old Cotton Blossom. The
livery nags started with a lurch up the dusty village street. They
clattered across the bridge toward the upper road. Magnolia turned
for a last glimpse through her tears. There stood Parthenia Ann
Hawks, silhouetted against sky and water, a massive and almost
menacing figure in her robes of black—tall, erect, indomitable. Her
face was set. The keen eyes gazed, unblinking, across the sunlit
waters. One arm was raised in a gesture of farewell. Ruthless,
unconquerable, headstrong, untamed, terrible.
“She’s like the River,” Magnolia thought, through her grief, in a
sudden flash of vision. “She’s the one, after all, who’s like the
Mississippi.”
A bend in the upper road. A clump of sycamores. The river, the
show boat, the silent black-robed figure were lost to view.
XIII
T
he most casual onlooker could gauge the fluctuations of the
Ravenal fortunes by any one of three signs. There was
Magnolia Ravenal’s sealskin sacque; there was Magnolia
Ravenal’s diamond ring; there was Gaylord Ravenal’s malacca cane.
Any or all of these had a way of vanishing and reappearing in a
manner that would have been baffling to one not an habitué of
South Clark Street, Chicago. Of the three, the malacca stick, though
of almost no tangible value, disappeared first and oftenest, for it
came to be recognized as an I O U by every reputable Clark Street
pawnbroker. Deep in a losing game of faro at Jeff Hankins’ or Mike
McDonald’s, Ravenal would summon a Negro boy to him. He would
hand him the little ivory-topped cane. “Here—take this down to Abe
Lipman’s, corner Clark and Monroe. Tell him I want two hundred
dollars. Hurry.” Or: “Run over to Goldsmith’s with this. Tell him a
hundred.”
The black boy would understand. In ten minutes he would return
minus the stick and bearing a wilted sheaf of ten-dollar bills. If
Ravenal’s luck turned, the cane was redeemed. If it still stayed
stubborn, the diamond ring must go; that failing, then the sealskin
sacque. Ravenal, contrary to the custom of his confrères, wore no
jewellery; possessed none. There were certain sinister aspects of
these outward signs, as when, for example, the reigning sealskin
sacque was known to skip an entire winter.
Perhaps none of these three symbols was as significant a
betrayal of the Ravenal finances as was Gay Ravenal’s choice of a
breakfasting place. He almost never breakfasted at home. This was a
reversion to one of the habits of his bachelor days; was, doubtless, a
tardy rebellion, too, against the years spent under Mrs. Hawks’ harsh
régime. He always had hated those Cotton Blossom nine o’clock
family breakfasts ominously presided over by Parthy in cap and curl
papers.
Since their coming to Chicago Gay liked to breakfast between
eleven and twelve, and certainly never rose before ten. If the
Ravenal luck was high, the meal was eaten in leisurely luxury at Billy
Boyle’s Chop House between Clark and Dearborn streets. This was
most agreeable, for at Billy Boyle’s, during the noon hour, you
encountered Chicago’s sporting blood—political overlords, gamblers,
jockeys, actors, reporters—these last mere nobodies—lean and
somewhat morose young fellows vaguely known as George Ade,
Brand Whitlock, John McCutcheon, Pete Dunne. Here the news and
gossip of the day went round. Here you saw the Prince Albert coat,
the silk hat, the rattling cuffs, the glittering collar, the diamond stud
of the professional gamester. Old Carter Harrison, Mayor of Chicago,
would drop in daily, a good twenty-five-cent cigar waggling between
his lips as he greeted this friend and that. In came the brokers from
the Board of Trade across the way. Smoke-blue air. The rich heavy
smell of thick steaks cut from prime Western beef. Massive glasses
of beer through which shone the pale amber of light brew, or the
seal-brown of dark. The scent of strong black coffee. Rye bread
pungent with caraway. Little crisp round breakfast rolls sprinkled
with poppy-seed.
Calories, high blood pressure, vegetable luncheons, golf, were
words not yet included in the American everyday vocabulary. Fried
potatoes were still considered a breakfast dish, and a meatless meal
was a snack.
Here it was, then, that Gay Ravenal, slim, pale, quiet, elegant,
liked best to begin his day; listening charmingly and attentively to
the talk that swirled about him—talk of yesterday’s lucky winners in
Gamblers’ Alley, at Prince Varnell’s place, or Jeff Hankins’ or Mike
McDonald’s; of the Washington Park race track entries; of the new
blonde girl at Hetty Chilson’s; of politics in their simplest terms.
Occasionally he took part in this talk, but like most professional
gamblers, his was not the conversational gift. He was given credit
for the astuteness he did not possess merely on the strength of his
cool evasive glance, his habit of listening and saying little, and his
bland poker face.
“Ravenal doesn’t say much but there’s damned little he misses.
Watch him an hour straight and you can’t make out from his face
whether he’s cleaning up a thousand or losing his shirt.” An enviable
Clark Street reputation.
Still, this availed him nothing when funds were low. At such times
he eschewed Billy Boyle’s and breakfasted meagrely instead at the
Cockeyed Bakery just east of Clark. That famous refuge for the
temporarily insolvent was so named because of the optical
peculiarity of the lady who owned it and who dispensed its coffee
and sinkers. This refreshment cost ten cents. The coffee was hot,
strong, revivifying; the sinkers crisp and fresh. Every Clark Street
gambler was, at one time or another, through the vagaries of Lady
Luck, to be found moodily munching the plain fare that made up the
limited menu to be had at the Cockeyed Bakery. For that matter
lacking even the modest sum required for this sustenance, he knew
that there he would be allowed to “throw up a tab” until luck should
turn.
Many a morning Gaylord Ravenal, dapper, nonchalant, sartorially
exquisite, fared forth at eleven with but fifty cents in the pocket of
his excellently tailored pants. Usually, on these occasions, the
malacca stick was significantly absent. Of the fifty cents, ten went
for the glassy shoeshine; twenty-five for a boutonnière; ten for
coffee and sinkers at the Cockeyed Bakery. The remaining five cents
stayed in his pocket as a sop to the superstition that no coin breeds
no more coins. Stopping first to look in a moment at Weeping Willy
Mangler’s, or at Reilly’s pool room for a glance at the racing chart, or
to hear a bit of the talk missed through his enforced absence from
Boyle’s, he would end at Hankins’ or McDonald’s, there to woo
fortune with nothing at all to offer as oblation. But affairs did not
reach this pass until after the first year.
It was incredible that Magnolia Ravenal could so soon have
adapted herself to the life in which she now moved. Yet it was
explicable, perhaps, when one took into consideration her inclusive
nature. She was interested, alert, eager—and still in love with
Gaylord Ravenal. Her life on the rivers had accustomed her to all
that was bizarre in humanity. Queenie and Jo had been as much a
part of her existence as Elly and Schultzy. The housewives in the
little towns, the Negroes lounging on the wharves, the gamblers in
the river-front saloons, the miners of the coal belt, the Northern
fruit-pickers, the boatmen, the Southern poor whites, the Louisiana
aristocracy, all had passed in fantastic parade before her ambient
eyes. And she, too, had marched in a parade, a figure as gorgeous,
as colourful as the rest.
Now, in this new life, she accepted everything, enjoyed
everything with a naïveté that was, perhaps, her greatest charm. It
was, doubtless, the thing that held the roving Ravenal to her.
Nothing shocked her; this was her singularly pure and open mind.
She brought to this new life an interest and a curiosity as fresh as
that which had characterized the little girl who had so eagerly and
companionably sat with Mr. Pepper, the pilot, in the bright cosy
glass-enclosed pilot house atop the old Creole Belle on that first
enchanting trip down the Mississippi to New Orleans.
To him she had said, “What’s around that bend? . . . Now what’s
coming? . . . How deep is it here? . . . What used to be there? . . .
What island is that?”
Mr. Pepper, the pilot, had answered her questions amply and with
a feeling of satisfaction to himself as he beheld her childish hunger
for knowledge being appeased.
Now she said to her husband with equal eagerness: “Who is that
stout woman with the pretty yellow-haired girl? What queer eyes
they have! . . . What does it mean when it says odds are two to
one? . . . Why do they call him Bath House John? . . . Who is that
large woman in the victoria, with the lovely sunshade? How rich her
dress is, yet it’s plain. Why don’t you introduce me to——Oh! That!
Hetty Chilson! Oh! . . . Why do they call him Bad Jimmy Connerton?
. . . But why do they call it the Levee? It’s really Clark Street, and no
water anywhere near, so why do they call it the Levee? . . . What’s a
percentage game? . . . Hieronymus! What a funny word! . . . Mike
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