Vandover and the Brute
Norris, Frank, 1870-1902
English
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Below is a summary of Vandover and the Brute
E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Melissa Er-Raqabi,
VANDOVER AND THE BRUTE
By
Frank Norris
1914
Chapter One
It was always a matter of wonder to Vandover that he was able to recallso little of his past life. With the exception of the most recent eventshe could remember nothing connectedly. What he at first imagined to bethe story of his life, on closer inspection turned out to be but a fewdisconnected incidents that his memory had preserved with the greatestcapriciousness, absolutely independent of their importance. One of theseincidents might be a great sorrow, a tragedy, a death in his family; andanother, recalled with the same vividness, the same accuracy of detail,might be a matter of the least moment.
A certain one of these wilful fillips of memory would always bringbefore him a particular scene during the migration of his family fromBoston to their new home in San Francisco, at a time when Vandover wasabout eight years old.
It was in the depot of one of the larger towns in western New York. Theday had been hot and after the long ride on the crowded day coach thecool shadow under the curved roof of the immense iron vaulted depotseemed very pleasant. The porter, the brakeman and Vandover's fathervery carefully lifted his mother from the car. She was lying back onpillows in a long steamer chair. The three men let the chair slowlydown, the brakeman went away, but the porter remained, taking off hiscap and wiping his forehead with the back of his left hand, which inturn he wiped against the pink palm of his right. The other train, thetrain to which they were to change, had not yet arrived. It was ratherstill; at the far end of the depot a locomotive, sitting back on itsmotionless drivers like some huge sphinx crouching along the rails, wassteaming quietly, drawing long breaths. The repair gang in greasy capsand spotted blue overalls were inspecting the train, pottering about thetrucks, opening and closing the journal-boxes, striking clear notes onthe wheels with long-handled hammers.
Vandover stood close to his father, his thin legs wide apart, holding inboth his hands the satchel he had been permitted to carry. He lookedabout him continually, rolling his big eyes vaguely, watching now therepair-gang, now a huge white cat dozing on an empty baggage truck.
Several passengers were walking up and down the platform, staringcuriously at the invalid lying back in the steamer chair.
The journey was too much for her. She was very weak and very pale, hereyelids were heavy, the skin of her forehead looked blue and tightlydrawn, and tiny beads of perspiration gathered around the corners of hermouth. Vandover's father put his hand and arm along the back of thechair and his sick wife rested against him, leaning her head on hiswaistcoat over the pocket where he kept his cigars and pocket-comb. Theywere all silent.
By and by she drew a long sigh, her face became the face of an imbecile,stupid, without expression, her eyes half-closed, her mouth half-open.Her head rolled forward as though she were nodding in her sleep, while along drip of saliva trailed from her lower lip. Vandover's father bentover her quickly, crying out sharply, "Hallie!—what is it?" All at once
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