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Title: Too Early Spring: from "Tales Before Midnight"
Date of first publication: 1929
Author: Stephen Vincent Benét (1898-1943)
Date first posted: October 11 2012
Date last updated: October 11 2012
Faded Page eBook #20121019

This ebook was produced by: David Edwards, Barbara Watson, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net




TOO EARLY SPRING

by Stephen Vincent Benét


I'm writing this down because I don't ever want to forget the way it
was. It doesn't seem as if I could, now, but they all tell you things
change. And I guess they're right. Older people must have forgotten or
they couldn't be the way they are. And that goes for even the best ones,
like Dad and Mr. Grant. They try to understand but they don't seem to
know how. And the others make you feel dirty or else they make you feel
like a goof. Till, pretty soon, you begin to forget yourself--you begin
to think, "Well, maybe they're right and it was that way." And that's
the end of everything. So I've got to write this down. Because they
smashed it forever--but it wasn't the way they said.

Mr. Grant always says in comp. class: "Begin at the beginning." Only I
don't know quite where the beginning was. We had a good summer at Big
Lake but it was just the same summer. I worked pretty hard at the
practice basket I rigged up in the barn, and I learned how to do the
back jackknife. I'll never dive like Kerry but you want to be as
all-around as you can. And, when I took my measurements, at the end of
the summer, I was 5 ft. 9¾ and I'd gained 12 lbs. 6 oz. That isn't bad
for going on sixteen and the old chest expansion was O. K. You don't
want to get too heavy, because basketball's a fast game, but the year
before was the year when I got my height, and I was so skinny, I got
tired. But this year, Kerry helped me practice, a couple of times, and
he seemed to think I had a good chance for the team. So I felt pretty
set up--they'd never had a Sophomore on it before. And Kerry's a natural
athlete, so that means a lot from him. He's a pretty good brother too.
Most Juniors at State wouldn't bother with a fellow in High.

It sounds as if I were trying to run away from what I have to write
down, but I'm not. I want to remember that summer, too, because it's the
last happy one I'll ever have. Oh, when I'm an old man--thirty or
forty--things may be all right again. But that's a long time to wait and
it won't be the same.

And yet, that summer was different, too, in a way. So it must have
started then, though I didn't know it. I went around with the gang as
usual and we had a good time. But, every now and then, it would strike
me we were acting like awful kids. They thought I was getting the big
head, but I wasn't. It just wasn't much fun--even going to the cave. It
was like going on shooting marbles when you're in High.

I had sense enough not to try to tag after Kerry and his crowd. You
can't do that. But when they all got out on the lake in canoes, warm
evenings, and somebody brought a phonograph along, I used to go down to
the Point, all by myself, and listen and listen. Maybe they'd be talking
or maybe they'd be singing, but it all sounded mysterious across the
water. I wasn't trying to hear what they said, you know. That's the kind
of thing Tot Pickens does. I'd just listen, with my arms around my
knees--and somehow it would hurt me to listen--and yet I'd rather do
that than be with the gang.

I was sitting under the four pines, one night, right down by the edge of
the water. There was a big moon and they were singing. It's funny how
you can be unhappy and nobody know it but yourself.

I was thinking about Sheila Coe. She's Kerry's girl. They fight but they
get along. She's awfully pretty and she can swim like a fool. Once Kerry
sent me over with her tennis racket and we had quite a conversation. She
was fine. And she didn't pull any of this big sister stuff, either, the
way some girls will with a fellow's kid brother.

And when the canoe came along, by the edge of the lake, I thought for a
moment it was her. I thought maybe she was looking for Kerry and maybe
she'd stop and maybe she'd feel like talking to me again. I don't know
why I thought that--I didn't have any reason. Then I saw it was just the
Sharon kid, with a new kind of bob that made her look grown-up, and I
felt sore. She didn't have any business out on the lake at her age. She
was just a Sophomore in High, the same as me.

I chunked a stone in the water and it splashed right by the canoe, but
she didn't squeal. She just said, "Fish," and chuckled. It struck me it
was a kid's trick, trying to scare a kid.

"Hello, Helen." I said. "Where did you swipe the gunboat?"

"They don't know I've got it," she said. "Oh, hello. Chuck Peters. How's
Big Lake?"

"All right," I said. "How was camp?"

"It was peachy," she said. "We had a peachy counselor, Miss Morgan. She
was on the Wellesley field-hockey team."

"Well," I said, "we missed your society." Of course we hadn't, because
they're across the lake and don't swim at our raft. But you ought to be
polite.

"Thanks," she said. "Did you do the special reading for English? I
thought it was dumb."

"It's always dumb," I said. "What canoe is that?"

"It's the old one," she said. "I'm not supposed to have it out at night.
But you won't tell anybody, will you?"

"Be your age," I said. I felt generous, "I'll paddle a while, if you
want," I said.

"All right," she said, so she brought it in and I got aboard. She went
back in the bow and I took the paddle. I'm not strong on carting kids
around, as a rule. But it was better than sitting there by myself.

"Where do you want to go?" I said.

"Oh, back towards the house." she said in a shy kind of voice. "I ought
to, really. I just wanted to hear the singing."

"O. K.," I said. I didn't paddle fast, just let her slip. There was a
lot of moon on the water. We kept around the edge so they wouldn't
notice us. The singing sounded as if it came from a different country, a
long way off.

She was a sensible kid, she didn't ask fool questions or giggle about
nothing at all. Even when we went by Petters' Cove. That's where the
lads from the bungalow colony go and it's pretty well populated on a
warm night. You can hear them talking in low voices and now and then a
laugh. Once Tot Pickens and a gang went over there with a flashlight,
and a big Bohunk chased them for half a mile.

I felt funny, going by there with her. But I said, "Well, it's certainly
Old Home Week"--in an offhand tone, because, after all, you've got to be
sophisticated. And she said, "People are funny," in just the right sort
of way. I took quite a shine to her after that and we talked. The
Sharons have only been in town three years and somehow I'd never really
noticed her before. Mrs. Sharon's awfully good-looking but she and Mr.
Sharon fight. That's hard on a kid. And she was a quiet kid. She had a
small kind of face and her eyes were sort of like a kitten's. You could
see she got a great kick out of pretending to be grown-up--and yet it
wasn't all pretending. A couple of times, I felt just as if I were
talking to Sheila Coe. Only more comfortable, because, after all, we
were the same age.

Do you know, after we put the canoe up, I walked all the way back home,
around the lake? And most of the way, I ran. I felt swell too. I felt as
if I could run forever and not stop. It was like finding something. I
hadn't imagined anybody could ever feel the way I did about some things.
And here was another person, even if it was a girl.

Kerry's door was open when I went by and he stuck his head out, and
grinned.

"Well, kid," he said. "Stepping out?"

"Sure. With Greta Garbo," I said, and grinned back to show I didn't
mean it. I felt sort of lightheaded, with the run and everything.

"Look here, kid--" he said, as if he was going to say something. Then he
stopped. But there was a funny look on his face.

And yet I didn't see her again till we were both back in High. Mr.
Sharon's uncle died, back East, and they closed the cottage suddenly.
But all the rest of the time at Big Lake, I kept remembering that night
and her little face. If I'd seen her in daylight, first, it might have
been different. No, it wouldn't have been.

All the same, I wasn't even thinking of her when we bumped into each
other, the first day of school. It was raining and she had on a green
slicker and her hair was curly under her hat. We grinned and said hello
and had to run. But something happened to us, I guess.

I'll say this now--it wasn't like Tot Pickens and Mabel Palmer. It
wasn't like Junior David and Betty Page--though they've been going
together ever since kindergarten. It wasn't like any of those things. We
didn't get sticky and sloppy. It wasn't like going with a girl.

Gosh, there'd be days and days when we'd hardly see each other, except
in class. I had basketball practice almost every afternoon and sometimes
evenings and she was taking music lessons four times a week. But you
don't have to be always twos-ing with a person, if you feel that way
about them. You seem to know the way they're thinking and feeling, the
way you know yourself.

Now let me describe her. She had that little face and the eyes like a
kitten's. When it rained, her hair curled all over the back of her
neck. Her hair was yellow. She wasn't a tall girl but she wasn't
chunky--just light and well made and quick. She was awfully alive
without being nervous--she never bit her fingernails or chewed the end
of her pencil, but she'd answer quicker than anyone in the class. Nearly
everybody liked her, but she wasn't best friends with any particular
girl, the mushy way they get. The teachers all thought a lot of her,
even Miss Eagles. Well, I had to spoil that.

If we'd been like Tot and Mabel, we could have had a lot more time
together, I guess. But Helen isn't a liar and I'm not a snake. It wasn't
easy, going over to her house, because Mr. and Mrs. Sharon would be
polite to each other in front of you and yet there'd be something wrong.
And she'd have to be fair to both of them and they were always pulling
at her. But we'd look at each other across the table and then it would
be all right.

               *       *       *       *       *

I don't know when it was that we knew we'd get married to each other,
some time. We just started talking about it, one day, as if we always
had. We were sensible, we knew it couldn't happen right off. We thought
maybe when we were eighteen. That was two years but we knew we had to be
educated. You don't get as good a job, if you aren't. Or that's what
people say.

We weren't mushy either, like some people. We got to kissing each other
good-by, sometimes, because that's what you do when you're in love. It
was cool, the way she kissed you, it was like leaves. But lots of the
time we wouldn't even talk about getting married, we'd just play
checkers or go over the old Latin, or once in a while go to the movies
with the gang. It was really a wonderful winter. I played every game
after the first one and she'd sit in the gallery and watch and I'd know
she was there. You could see her little green hat or her yellow hair.
Those are the class colors, green and gold.

And it's a queer thing, but everybody seemed to be pleased. That's what
I can't get over. They liked to see us together. The grown people, I
mean. Oh, of course, we got kidded too. And old Mrs. Withers would ask
me about "my little sweetheart," in that awful damp voice of hers. But,
mostly, they were all right. Even Mother was all right, though she
didn't like Mrs. Sharon. I did hear her say to Father, once, "Really,
George, how long is this going to last? Sometimes I feel as if I just
couldn't stand it."

Then Father chuckled and said to her, "Now, Mary, last year you were
worried about him because he didn't take any interest in girls at all."

"Well," she said, "he still doesn't. Oh, Helen's a nice child--no credit
to Eva Sharon--and thank heaven she doesn't giggle. Well, Charles is
mature for _his_ age too. But he acts so solemn about her. It isn't
natural."

"Oh, let Charlie alone," said Father. "The boy's all right. He's just
got a one-track mind."

               *       *       *       *       *

But it wasn't so nice for us after the spring came.

In our part of the state, it comes pretty late, as a rule. Rut it was
early this year. The little kids were out with scooters when usually
they'd still be having snowfights and, all of a sudden, the radiators in
the classrooms smelt dry. You'd got used to that smell for months--and
then, there was a day when you hated it again and everybody kept asking
to open the windows. The monitors had a tough time, that first
week--they always do when spring starts--but this year it was worse than
ever because it came when you didn't expect it.

Usually, basketball's over by the time spring really breaks, but this
year it hit us while we still had three games to play. And it certainly
played hell with us as a team. After Bladesburg nearly licked us, Mr.
Grant called off all practice till the day before the St. Matthew's
game. He knew we were stale--and they've been state champions two years.
They'd have walked all over us, the way we were going.

The first thing I did was telephone Helen. Because that meant there were
six extra afternoons we could have, if she could get rid of her music
lessons any way. Well, she said, wasn't it wonderful, her music teacher
had a cold? And that seemed just like Fate.

Well, that was a great week and we were so happy. We went to the movies
five times and once Mrs. Sharon let us take her little car. She knew I
didn't have a driving license but of course I've driven ever since I was
thirteen and she said it was all right. She was funny--sometimes she'd
be awfully kind and friendly to you and sometimes she'd be like a piece
of dry ice. She was that way with Mr. Sharon too. But it was a wonderful
ride. We got stuff out of the kitchen--the cook's awfully sold on
Helen--and drove way out in the country. And we found an old house, with
the windows gone, on top of a hill, and parked the car and took the
stuff up to the house and ate it there. There weren't any chairs or
tables but we pretended there were.

We pretended it was our house, after we were married. I'll never forget
that. She'd even brought paper napkins and paper plates and she set two
places on the floor.

"Well, Charles," she said, sitting opposite me, with her feet tucked
under, "I don't suppose you remember the days we were both in school."

"Sure," I said--she was always much quicker pretending things than I
was--"I remember them all right. That was before Tot Pickens got to be
President." And we both laughed.

"It seems very distant in the past to me--we've been married so long,"
she said, as if she really believed it. She looked at me.

"Would you mind turning off the radio, dear?" she said. "This modern
music always gets on my nerves."

"Have we got a radio?" I said.

"Of course, Chuck."

"With television?"

"Of course, Chuck."

"Gee, I'm glad," I said. I went and turned it off.

"Of course, if you _want_ to listen to the late market reports--" she
said just like Mrs. Sharon.

"Nope," I said. "The market--uh--closed firm today. Up twenty-six
points."

"That's quite a long way up, isn't it?"

"Well, the country's perfectly sound at heart, in spite of this damfool
Congress," I said, like Father.

She lowered her eyes a minute, just like her mother, and pushed away her
plate.

"I'm not very hungry tonight," she said. "You won't mind if I go
upstairs?"

"Aw, don't be like that," I said. It was too much like her mother.

"I was just seeing if I could," she said. "But I never will, Chuck."

"I'll never tell you you're nervous, either," I said. "I--oh, gosh!"

She grinned and it was all right. "Mr. Ashland and I have never had a
serious dispute in our wedded lives," she said--and everybody knows who
runs _that_ family. "We just talk things over calmly and reach a
satisfactory conclusion, usually mine."

"Say, what kind of house have we got?"

"It's a lovely house," she said. "We've got radios in every room and
lots of servants. We've got a regular movie projector and a library full
of good classics and there's always something in the icebox. I've got a
shoe closet."

"A what?"

"A shoe closet. All my shoes are on tipped shelves, like Mother's. And
all my dresses are on those padded hangers. And I say to the maid,
'Elise, Madam will wear the new French model today.'"

"What are my clothes on?" I said. "Christmas trees?"

"Well," she said. "You've got lots of clothes and dogs. You smell of
pipes and the open and something called Harrisburg tweed."

"I do not," I said. "I wish I had a dog. It's a long time since Jack."

"Oh, Chuck, I'm sorry," she said.

"Oh, that's all right," I said. "He was getting old and his ear was
always bothering him. But he was a good pooch. Go ahead."

"Well," she said, "of course we give parties--"

"Cut the parties," I said.

"Chuck! They're grand ones!"

"I'm a homebody," I said. "Give me--er--my wife and my little family
and--say, how many kids have we got, anyway?"

She counted on her fingers. "Seven."

"Good Lord," I said.

"Well, I always wanted seven. You can make it three, if you like."

"Oh, seven's all right, I suppose," I said. "But don't they get awfully
in the way?"

"No," she said. "We have governesses and tutors and send them to
boarding school."

"O. K.," I said. "But it's a strain on the old man's pocketbook, just
the same."

"Chuck, will you ever talk like that? Chuck, this is when we're rich."
Then suddenly, she looked sad. "Oh, Chuck, do you suppose we ever will?"
she said.

"Why, sure," I said.

"I wouldn't mind if it was only a dump," she said. "I could cook for
you. I keep asking Hilda how she makes things."

I felt awfully funny. I felt as if I were going to cry.

"We'll do it," I said. "Don't you worry."

"Oh, Chuck, you're a comfort," she said.

I held her for a while. It was like holding something awfully precious.
It wasn't mushy or that way. I know what that's like too.

"It takes so long to get old," she said. "I wish I could grow up
tomorrow. I wish we both could."

"Don't you worry," I said. "It's going to be all right."

We didn't say much, going back in the car, but we were happy enough. I
thought we passed Miss Eagles at the turn. That worried me a little
because of the driving license. But, after all, Mrs. Sharon had said we
could take the car.

We wanted to go back again, after that, but it was too far to walk and
that was the only time we had the car. Mrs. Sharon was awfully nice
about it but she said, thinking it over, maybe we'd better wait till I
got a license. Well, Father didn't want me to get one till I was
seventeen but I thought he might come around. I didn't want to do
anything that would get Helen in a jam with her family. That shows how
careful I was of her. Or thought I was.

All the same, we decided we'd do something to celebrate if the team won
the St. Matthew's game. We thought it would be fun if we could get a
steak and cook supper out somewhere--something like that. Of course we
could have done it easily enough with a gang, but we didn't want a gang.
We wanted to be alone together, the way we'd been at the house. That was
all we wanted. I don't see what's wrong about that. We even took home
the paper plates, so as not to litter things up.

Boy, that was a game! We beat them 36-34 and it took an extra period and
I thought it would never end. That two-goal lead they had looked as big
as the Rocky Mountains all the first half. And they gave me the full
school cheer with nine Peters when we tied them up. You don't forget
things like that.

Afterwards, Mr. Grant had a kind of spread for the team at his house and
a lot of people came in. Kerry had driven down from State to see the
game and that made me feel pretty swell. And what made me feel better
yet was his taking me aside and saying, "Listen, kid, I don't want you
to get the swelled head, but you did a good job. Well, just remember
this. Don't let anybody kid you out of going to State. You'll like it up
there." And Mr. Grant heard him and laughed and said, "Well, Peters, I'm
not proselytizing. But your brother might think about some of the
Eastern colleges." It was all like the kind of dream you have when you
can do anything. It was wonderful.

Only Helen wasn't there because the only girls were older girls. I'd
seen her for a minute, right after the game, and she was fine, but it
was only a minute. I wanted to tell her about that big St. Matthew's
forward and--oh, everything. Well, you like to talk things over with
your girl.

Father and Mother were swell but they had to go on to some big shindy at
the country club. And Kerry was going there with Sheila Coe. But Mr.
Grant said he'd run me back to the house in his car and he did. He's a
great guy. He made jokes about my being the infant phenomenon of
basketball, and they were good jokes too. I didn't mind them. But, all
the same, when I'd said good night to him and gone into the house, I
felt sort of let down.

I knew I'd be tired the next day but I didn't feel sleepy yet. I was too
excited. I wanted to talk to somebody. I wandered around downstairs and
wondered if Ida was still up. Well, she wasn't, but she'd left half a
chocolate cake, covered over, on the kitchen table, and a note on lop of
it, "Congratulations to Mister Charles Peters." Well, that was awfully
nice of her and I ate some. Then I turned the radio on and got the time
signal--eleven--and some snappy music. But still I didn't feel like
hitting the hay.

So I thought I'd call up Helen and then I thought--probably she's asleep
and Hilda or Mrs. Sharon will answer the phone and be sore. And then I
thought--well, anyhow, I could go over and walk around the block and
look at her house. I'd get some fresh air out of it, anyway, and it
would be a little like seeing her.

So I did--and it was a swell night--cool and a lot of stars--and I felt
like a king, walking over. All the lower part of the Sharon house was
dark but a window upstairs was lit. I knew it was her window. I went
around back of the driveway and whistled once--the whistle we made up. I
never expected her to hear.

But she did, and there she was at the window, smiling. She made motions
that she'd come down to the side door.

Honestly, it took my breath away when I saw her. She had on a kind of
yellow thing over her night clothes and she looked so pretty. Her feet
were so pretty in those slippers. You almost expected her to be carrying
one of those animals kids like--she looked young enough. I know I
oughtn't to have gone into the house. But we didn't think anything about
it--we were just glad to see each other. We hadn't had any sort of
chance to talk over the game.

We sat in front of the fire in the living room and she went out to the
kitchen and got us cookies and milk. I wasn't really hungry, but it was
like that time at the house, eating with her. Mr. and Mrs. Sharon were
at the country club, too, so we weren't disturbing them or anything. We
turned off the lights because there was plenty of light from the fire
and Mr. Sharon's one of those people who can't stand having extra lights
burning. Dad's that way about saving string.

It was quiet and lovely and the firelight made shadows on the ceiling.
We talked a lot and then we just sat, each of us knowing the other was
there. And the room got quieter and quieter and I'd told her about the
game and I didn't feel excited or jumpy any more--just rested and happy.
And then I knew by her breathing that she was asleep and I put my arm
around her for just a minute. Because it was wonderful to hear that
quiet breathing and know it was hers. I was going to wake her in a
minute. I didn't realize how tired I was myself.

And then we were back in that house in the country and it was our home
and we ought to have been happy. But something was wrong because there
still wasn't any glass in the windows and a wind kept blowing through
them and we tried to shut the doors but they wouldn't shut. It drove
Helen distracted and we were both running through the house, trying to
shut the doors, and we were cold and afraid. Then the sun rose outside
the windows, burning and yellow and so big it covered the sky. And with
the sun was a horrible, weeping voice. It was Mrs. Sharon's saying, "Oh,
my God, oh my God."

I didn't know what had happened, for a minute, when I woke. And then I
did and it was awful. Mrs. Sharon was saying "Oh, Helen--I trusted you
. . ." and looking as if she were going to faint. And Mr. Sharon looked
at her for a minute and his face was horrible and he said, "Bred in the
bone," and she looked as if he'd hit her. Then he said to Helen--

I don't want to think of what they said. I don't want to think of any of
the things they said. Mr. Sharon is a bad man. And she is a bad woman,
even if she is Helen's mother. All the same, I could stand the things he
said better than hers.

I don't want to think of any of it. And it is all spoiled now.
Everything is spoiled. Miss Eagles saw us going to that house in the
country and she said horrible things. They made Helen sick and she
hasn't been back at school. There isn't any way I can see her. And if I
could, it would be spoiled. We'd be thinking about the things they said.

I don't know how many of the people know, at school. But Tot Pickens
passed me a note. And, that afternoon. I caught him behind his house,
I'd have broken his nose if they hadn't pulled me off. I meant to.
Mother cried when she heard about it and Dad took me into his room and
talked to me. He said you can't lick the whole town. But I will anybody
like Tot Pickens. Dad and Mother have been all right. But they say
things about Helen and that's almost worse. They're for me because I'm
their son. But they don't understand.

I thought I could talk to Kerry but I can't. He was nice but he looked
at me such a funny way. I don't know--sort of impressed. It wasn't the
way I wanted him to look. But he's been decent. He comes down almost
every weekend and we play catch in the yard.

You see, I just go to school and back now. They want me to go with the
gang, the way I did, but I can't do that. Not after Tot. Of course my
marks are a lot better because I've got more time to study now. But it's
lucky I haven't got Miss Eagles though Dad made her apologize. I
couldn't recite to her.

I think Mr. Grant knows because he asked me to his house once and we had
a conversation. Not about that, though I was terribly afraid he would.
He showed me a lot of his old college things and the gold football he
wears on his watch chain. He's got a lot of interesting things.

Then we got talking, somehow, about history and things like that and how
times had changed. Why, there were kings and queens who got married
younger than Helen and me. Only now we lived longer and had a lot more
to learn. So it couldn't happen now. "It's civilization," he said. "And
all civilization's against nature. But I suppose we've got to have it.
Only sometimes it isn't easy." Well somehow or other, that made me feel
less lonely. Before that I'd been feeling that I was the only person on
earth who'd ever felt that way.

I'm going to Colorado, this summer, to a ranch, and next year, I'll go
East to school. Mr. Grant says he thinks I can make the basketball team,
if I work hard enough, though it isn't as big a game in the East as it
is with us. Well, I'd like to show them something. It would be some
satisfaction. He says not to be too fresh at first, but I won't be that.

It's a boy's school and there aren't even women teachers. And, maybe,
afterwards, I could be a professional basketball player or something,
where you don't have to see women at all. Kerry says I'll get over that;
but I won't. They all sound like Mrs. Sharon to me now, when they laugh.

They're going to send Helen to a convent--I found out that. Maybe
they'll let me see her before she goes. But, if we do, it will be all
wrong and in front of people and everybody pretending. I sort of wish
they don't--though I want to, terribly. When her mother took her
upstairs that night--she wasn't the same Helen. She looked at me as it
she was afraid of me. And no matter what they do for us now, they can't
fix that.


TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

The following changes were made to the original text:
Page 189: "K. O.," ==> "O. K.,"
Page 200: I didn't fell like ==> I didn't feel like

Minor variations in spelling and punctuation have been preserved.


[The end of _Too Early Spring_ by Stephen Vincent Bénet]