01 The Lost Phoebe

Adapted from the story by Theodore Dreiser

Theodore Dreiser was born in 1871. When he was a child, his family was poor. Although he spent only one year at college, Dreiser became a journalist and magazine editor.His first novel,Sister Carrie, was published in 1901. The book was not well liked at first, partly because the“good”men in the story were not always rewarded nor the“bad”men always punished. Dreiser was one of the leaders of the “naturalist” school in American writing. He tried to record with great honesty and accuracy exactly what he saw.Dreiser's most famous novel was An American Tragedy, published in 1925. Dreiser died in 1945.

I Old Henry Reifsneider and his wife Phoebe had lived together for forty-eight years. They had lived three miles from a small town whose population was steadily falling. This part of the country was not as wealthy as it used to be. It wasn't thickly settled, either. Perhaps there was a house every mile or so, with fields in between. Their own house had been built by Henry's grandfather many years ago.A new part had been added to the original log cabin when Henry married Phoebe. The new part was now weather-beaten. Wind whistled through cracks in the boards.Large,lovely trees surrounded the house. But they made it seem a little damp inside.

The furniture, like the house, was old. There was a tall cupboard of cherry-wood and a large,old-fashioned bed.The chest of drawers was also high and wide and solidly built. But it had faded, and smelled damp. The carpet that lay under the strong, lasting furniture had been made by Phoebe herself, fifteen years before she died. Now it was worn and faded to a dull gray and pink. The frame that she had made the carpet on was still there. It stood like a dusty, bony skeleton in the east room.All sorts of broken-down furniture lay around the place. There was a doorless clothes-cupboard. A broken mirror hung in an old cherry-wood frame. It had fallen from a nail and cracked three days before their youngest son, Jerry, died. There was a hatstand whose china knobs had broken off. And an old-fashioned sewing machine.

The orchard to the east of the house was full of rotting apple trees.Their twisted branches were covered with greenish-white moss which looked sad and ghostly in the moonlight.Besides the orchard, several low buildings surrounded the house. They had once housed chickens, a horse or two, a cow, and several pigs. The same gray-green moss covered their roofs. They had not been painted for so long that they had turned a grayish-black. In fact, everything on the farm had aged and faded along with Old Henry and his wife Phoebe.

They had lived here, these two, since their marriage forty-eight years before. And Henry had lived here as a child. His father and mother had been old when Henry married. They had invited him to bring his wife to the farm. They had all lived together for ten years before his mother and father died. After that Henry and Phoebe were left alone with their four children.But all sorts of things had happened since then. They had had seven children, but three had died. One girl had gone to Kansas. One boy had gone to Sioux Falls and was never even heard from again. Another boy had gone to Washington. The last girl lived five counties away in the same state. She had so many problems of her own,however,that she rarely gave her parents a thought. Their very ordinary home life had never been attractive to the children. So time had drawn them away. Wherever they were, they gave little thought to their father and mother.

Old Henry Reifsneider and his wife Phoebe were a loving couple.You perhaps know how it is with such simple people. They fasten themselves like moss on stones, until they and their circumstances are worn away. The larger world has no call to them; or if it does, they don't hear it.The orchard,the fields,the pigpen and the chicken house measure the range of their human activities. When the wheat is ripe,it is harvested.When the corn is full,it is cut.After that comes winter. The grain is taken to market, the wood is cut for the fires. The work is simple: fir-building, meal-getting, occasional repairing, visiting. There are also changes in the weather—the snow, the rains, and the fair days. Beyond these things, nothing else means very much. All the rest of life is a far-off dream. It shines, far away, like starlight. It sounds as faint as cowbells in the distance.

Old Henry and his wife Phoebe were as fond of each other as is possible for two old people who have nothing else in this life to be fond of. He was a thin old man, seventy when she died. He was a strange,moody person with thick, uncombed gray-black hair and beard. He looked at you out of dull, fish-like watery eyes. His clothes, like the clothes of many farmers, were old and ill-fitting.They were too large at the neck.The knees and elbows were stretched and worn. Phoebe was thin and shapeless. Dressed in black, she looked like an umbrella. As time had passed they had only themselves to look after. Their activities had become fewer and fewer. The herd of pigs was reduced to one. The sleepy horse Henry still kept was neither very clean nor well-fed. Almost all the chickens had disappeared. They had been killed by animals or disease.The once-healthy vegetable garden was now only a memory of itself. The flower beds were overgrown. A will had been made which divided the small property equally among the remaining four children. It was so small that it was really of no interest to any of them. Yet Henry and Phoebe lived together in peace and sympathy. Once in a while Old Henry would become moody and annoyed. He would complain that something unimportant had been lost.

“Phoebe, where's my corn knife? You never leave my things alone.”

“Now you be quiet, Henry, ” his wife would answer in her old cracked voice. “If you don't, I'll leave you. I'll get up and walk out of here one day. Then where would you be? You don't have anybody but me to look after you,so just behave yourself.Your corn knife is in the cupboard where it's always been, unless you put it somewhere else.”

Old Henry knew his wife would never leave him. But sometimes he wondered what he would do if she died. That was the one leaving he was afraid of. Every night he wound the old clock and went to lock the doors, and it comforted him to know Phoebe was in bed. If he moved in his sleep she would be there to ask him what he wanted.

“Now,Henry,do lie still!You're as restless as a chicken.”

“Well, I can't sleep, Phoebe.”

“Well, you don't have to roll over so much. You can let me sleep.”This would usually put him to sleep.

If she wanted a pail of water, he complained, but it gave him pleasure to bring it.If she rose first to build the fire,he made sure the wood was cut and placed within easy reach. So they divided this simple world nicely between them.

II

In the spring of her sixty-fourth year, Phoebe became sick. Old Henry drove to town and brought back the doctor. But because of her age, her sickness was not curable, and one cold night she died. Henry could have gone to live with his youngest daughter. But it was really too much trouble. He was too weary and used to his home. He wanted to remain near where they had put his Phoebe.

His neighbors invited him to stay with them. But he didn't want to. So his friends left him with advice and offers of help. They sent supplies of coffee and bacon and bread. He tried to interest himself in farming to keep himself busy. But it was sad to come into the house in the evening. He could find no shadow of Phoebe, although everything in the house suggested her. At night he read the newspapers that friends had left for him.Or he read his Bible,which he had forgotten about for years. But he could get little comfort from these things. Mostly he sat and wondered where Phoebe had gone, and how soon he would die.

He made coffee every morning and fried himself some bacon at night. But he wasn't hungry. His house was empty; its shadows saddened him.So he lived quite unhappily for five long months.And then a change began.

It was a moonlight night. The moss-covered orchard shone ghostly silver.As usual,Henry was thinking of Phoebe and the years when they had been young together. And he thought about the children who had gone. The condition of the house was becoming worse. The sheets were not clean, because he made a poor job of the laundry. The roof leaked, and things inside got damp. But he didn't do anything about it. He preferred to walk slowly back and forth, or sit and think.

By 12:00 midnight of this particular night, however, he was asleep. He woke up at 2:00. The moon shone in through the living room windows. His coat lying on the back of the chair made a shadow near the table. It looked like Phoebe as she used to sit there. Could it be she—or her ghost? He never used to believe in spirits, and yet... He stared at it in the pale light. His old hair seemed to rise up from his head. He sat up, but the figure did not move. He put his thin legs out of the bed. He wondered if this could really be Phoebe. They had often talked about ghosts and spirits. But they had never agreed that such things could be. His wife had never believed that her spirit could return to walk the earth.She had believed in a heaven where good folk would want to stay and not come back. Yet here she was now, bending over the table. She was wearing her black dress. Her face shone pale in the moonlight.

“Phoebe, ”he called,excited from head to toe.“Have you come back? ”

The figure did not move. He got up and walked uncertainly towards the door, watching it carefully. As he came near, however, the ghost became once more his coat upon the chair.

“Well, ” he said to himself, his mouth open in wonder, “I surely thought I saw her.” He ran his hands through his hair while his excitement relaxed.Although it had disappeared,he had the idea that she might return.

Another night he looked out of the window toward the chicken house and pigpen.Mist was rising from the damp ground, and he thought he saw Phoebe. She always used to cross from the kitchen door to the pigpen to feed the pigs. And here she was again. He sat up and watched her.He was doubtful because of the first experience.But his body shook with excitement. Perhaps there really were spirits. Phoebe must be worried about his loneliness. She must be thinking about him. He watched her until a breath of wind blew the mist away.

A third night, as he was dreaming, she came to his bed.

“Poor Henry, ” she said. “It's too bad.” He woke up and thought he saw her move from the bedroom into the living room. He got up, greatly astonished. He was sure that Phoebe was coming back to him. If he thought about her enough, if he showed her how much he needed her, she would come back. She would tell him what to do. Perhaps she would stay with him most of the time.At least, during the night. That would make him less lonely.

For the old or weak,imagination may easily develop into actual hallucination. Eventually this change happened for Henry. Night after night he waited, expecting her return. Once in a strange mood he thought he saw a pale light moving about the room. Another time he saw her walking in the orchard after dark. Then one morning he felt he could not bear his loneliness any longer. He woke up with the knowledge that she was not dead. It is hard to say how he felt so certain. His mind was gone. In its place was the hallucination that he and Phoebe had had a senseless quarrel. He had complained that she had moved his pipe. In the past she had jokingly threatened to leave him if he did not behave himself.

“I guess I could find you again, ” he had always said. But her joking threat had always been the same:

“You won't find me if I ever leave you. I guess I can get to some place where you can't find me.”

When he got up that morning he didn't build the fire or cut the bread as usual. He began to think where he should look for her. He put on his soft hat and took his walking-stick from behind the door. He started out energetically to look for her among his neighbors. His old shoes scratched loudly in the dust. His gray hair, now grown rather long, hung down below his hat. His hands and face were pale.

“Why, hello, Henry! Where are you going this morning? ”inquired Farmer Dodge.

“You haven't seen Phoebe, have you? ”

“Phoebe who? ”asked Farmer Dodge.He didn't connect the name with Henry's dead wife.

“Why,my wife,Phoebe,of course.Who do you suppose I mean? ”

“Oh, come on, Henry! You aren't joking, are you? It can't be your wife you're talking about. She's dead.”

“Dead? Not Phoebe! She left me early this morning while I was sleeping. We had a little quarrel last night, and I guess that's the reason.But I guess I can find her.She's gone over to Matilda Race's, that's where she's gone.”

He started quickly up the road. The astonished Dodge stared after him. “Well! ” he said to himself. “He's gone crazy. That poor old man has lived down there alone until he's gone completely out of his mind.I'll have to inform the police.”

“Why, Mr. Reifsneider, ” cried old Matilda Race as Henry knocked on her door. “What brings you here this morning? ”

“Is Phoebe here? ”he demanded eagerly.

“Phoebe who?What Phoebe? ”replied Mrs.Race,curious.

“Why, my Phoebe, of course, my wife Phoebe. Who do you suppose? Isn't she here now? ”

“Why, you poor man! ” cried Mrs. Race. “You've lost your mind.You come right in and sit down. I'll get you a cup of coffee. Of course your wife isn't here. But you come in and sit down. I'll find her for you after a while. I know where she is.”

The old farmer's eyes softened at her sympathy.

“We had a quarrel last night and she left me, ” Henry offered.

“Oh, my! ” Mrs. Race sighed to herself. There was no one there to share her astonishment. “The poor man! Now somebody's just got to look after him. He can't be allowed to run around the country this way looking for his dead wife. It's terrible.”

She boiled him a pot of coffee and brought in some new-baked bread and fresh butter.She put on a couple of eggs to boil,lying as she spoke:

“Now, you stay right there, Henry, until Jake comes in. I'll send him to look for Phoebe. I think she must be over at Sumnerton with some of her friends. Anyhow, we'll find out. Now you just drink this coffee and eat this bread. You must be tired. You've had a long walk this morning.” Her idea was to wait for her husband, Jake, and perhaps have him call the police.

Henry ate, but his mind was on his wife. Since she was not here, perhaps she was visiting the Murrays—miles away in another direction.He decided that he would not wait for Jake Race.He would search for his wife himself.

“Well, I'll be going, ” he said, getting up and looking strangely about him. “I guess she didn't come here after all. She went over to the Murrays', I guess.” And he marched out, ignoring Matilda Race's cries of worry.

Two hours later his dusty, eager figure appeared in the Murrays' doorway. He had walked five miles and it was noon. The Murrays, a husband and wife of sixty, listened to him with astonishment. They also realized that he was mad. They invited him to stay to dinner. They intended to call the police later, to see what could be done. But Henry did not stay long. His need for Phoebe pulled him off to another distant farmhouse. So it went for that day and the next and the next. And the circle of his questioning grew wider and wider.

And although Henry came to many doors, and the police were informed, it was decided not to send him to the county hospital. The condition of mad patients in this hospital was horrifying.It was found that Henry returned peaceably to his lonely home at night to see if his wife had returned.Who would lock up a thin,eager,old man with gray hair and a kindly, innocent, inquiring manner? His neighbors had known him as a kindly,dependable man. He could do no harm. Many people gave him food and old clothes—at least at first. His figure became a common sight, and the answer, “Why no, Henry, I haven't seen her, ” or, “No, Henry, she hasn't been here today, ”became more customary.

III

For several years afterward he was an odd figure in the sun and rain, on dusty roads and muddy ones. The longer he walked in this manner, the deeper his strange hallucination became. He found it harder and harder to return from his more and more distant searches. Finally he began to take a few eating utensils with him so he would not have to return home at night. In an old coffeepot he put a small tin cup.He took a knife,fork,and spoon,and salt and pepper. He tied a tin plate to the pot. It was no trouble for him to get the little food he needed. And with a strange, almost religious manner, he didn't hesitate to ask for that much. Slowly his hair became longer and longer. His black hat became an earthen brown, and his clothes worn and dusty.

For three years he walked with only his clothes, his stick, and his utensils. No one knew how far he went, or how he lived through the storms and cold. They did not see him find shelter in piles of grass or by the sides of cattle. The warm bodies of the cows protected him from cold, and their dull minds did not oppose his presence. Overhanging rocks and trees kept him from the rain.

The progress of such hallucinations is strange. He had asked for Phoebe at people's doors and got no answer. Finally he decided that she was not in any of the houses. But she might be within reach of his voice. So he began to call sad,occasional cries.“O—o—o Phoebe! O—o—o Phoebe! ”waked the quiet countryside and echoed through the hills. It had a sad, mad ring. Many farmers recognized it from far away and said, “There goes old Reifsneider.”

Sometimes when he reached a crossroad, he couldn't decide which way to go. He developed another hallucination to help him. He believed Phoebe's spirit or some power of the air or wind or nature would tell him where to go. He would stand at the crossroad and close his eyes. He would turn around three times and call “O—o—o Phoebe” twice. Then he would throw his walking stick straight before him. This would surely tell him which way to go. Phoebe or some magic power would direct the stick. He would then follow the direction the stick pointed, even when it led him back the way he had come. And the hallucination that he would surely find her remained. There were hours when his feet were sore and his legs tired. There were times when he would stop in the heat to wipe his forehead, or in the cold to beat his arms. Sometimes, after throwing his stick and finding it pointing to where he had just come from, he would shake his head wearily and philosophically. He would consider for a moment the confusion and disappointment of life, and his own strange fate. Then he would start energetically off again. His strange figure finally became known in the farthest corners of three or four counties. Old Reifsneider was a sad character. His fame was wide.

About four miles from the little town called Watersville there was a place called Red Cliff. This cliff was a steep wall of red sandstone, perhaps a hundred feet high.It rose above the fruitful corn fields and orchards that lay beneath. Trees grew thickly along the top of the cliff. In fair weather it was old Reifsneider's habit to spend the night here. He would fry his bacon or boil his eggs at the foot of some tree. Then he would lie down.

He almost always woke at 2:00 in the morning. Occasionally he would walk at night. More often he would sit up and watch the darkness or the stars, wondering. Sometimes in the strangeness of his mind he imagined he saw his lost wife moving among the trees. Then he would get up to follow. He would take his utensils on a string,and his stick.When she tried to escape him he would run after her, begging. When she disappeared he would feel disappointed. He was saddened at the almost impossible difficulties of his search.

One night in the seventh year of his search he came to the top of Red Cliff.It was spring,like the spring when Phoebe had died.He had walked many many miles with his utensils, following his walking stick. It was after 10:00 at night. He was very tired. Long walking and little eating had left him only a shadow of his former self. He had little strength. Only his hallucination kept him going. He had eaten hardly anything that day.Now,exhausted,he lay down in the dark to rest and possibly sleep.

He felt the presence of his wife strongly.It would not be long now until he should see her, talk to her, he told himself. He fell asleep, after a time, his head on his knees. At midnight the moon began to rise. At 2:00 in the morning, his wakeful hour, it was a large silver ball. He opened his eyes. The moonlight made silvery patterns at his feet. The forest was full of strange light and silvery, shadowy forms. What was it that moved among the trees—a pale, shining, ghostly figure? Moonlight and shadow gave it a strange form and a stranger reality. Was it truly his lost Phoebe? It came near him. He imagined he could see her eyes. Not as she was when he last saw her in the black dress and shawl. Now she was a strangely younger Phoebe. She was the one whom he had known years before as a girl. Old Reifsneider got up. He had been expecting and dreaming of this hour all these years. Now he saw the pale light dancing before him. He looked at it questioningly, one hand on his gray hair.

For the first time in many years he suddenly remembered the full beauty of the girlish form. He saw her pleasing, sympathetic smile, her brown hair. He remembered the blue ribbon she had once worn about her waist. He saw her light and happy movements. He forgot his pots and pans and followed her. She moved before him and it seemed that she waved to him with a young and playful hand.

“Oh, Phoebe! Phoebe! ” he called. “Have you really come? Have you really answered me? ” On and on he hurried until he was almost running. He brushed his arms against the trees. He struck his hands and face against small branches. His hat was gone, his breath was gone, his mind quite gone when he came to the edge of the cliff. Down below he saw her among the silver apple trees now blooming in the spring.

“Oh, Phoebe! ” he called. “Oh, Phoebe! Oh no, don't leave me! ”He felt the pull of the world where love was young and Phoebe waited. “Oh, wait, Phoebe! ” he cried, and jumped.

Some farm boys found his utensils under the tree where he had left them. Later, at the foot of the cliff, they found his body. He was pale and broken, but full of happiness. A smile of peace curved his lips.His old hat was discovered under a tree.No one of all the simple population knew how eagerly and happily he had finally found his lost Phoebe.