Chương Chương 30 · Chapter XI

Wick Cutter was the money-lender who had fleeced poor Russian Peter.

When a farmer once got into the habit of going to Cutter, it was like

gambling or the lottery; in an hour of discouragement he went back.

Cutter’s first name was Wycliffe, and he liked to talk about his pious

bringing-up. He contributed regularly to the Protestant churches, ‘for

sentiment’s sake,’ as he said with a flourish of the hand. He came from

a town in Iowa where there were a great many Swedes, and could speak a

little Swedish, which gave him a great advantage with the early

Scandinavian settlers.

In every frontier settlement there are men who have come there to

escape restraint. Cutter was one of the ‘fast set’ of Black Hawk

business men. He was an inveterate gambler, though a poor loser. When

we saw a light burning in his office late at night, we knew that a game

of poker was going on. Cutter boasted that he never drank anything

stronger than sherry, and he said he got his start in life by saving

the money that other young men spent for cigars. He was full of moral

maxims for boys. When he came to our house on business, he quoted ‘Poor

Richard’s Almanack’ to me, and told me he was delighted to find a town

boy who could milk a cow. He was particularly affable to grandmother,

and whenever they met he would begin at once to talk about ‘the good

old times’ and simple living. I detested his pink, bald head, and his

yellow whiskers, always soft and glistening. It was said he brushed

them every night, as a woman does her hair. His white teeth looked

factory-made. His skin was red and rough, as if from perpetual sunburn;

he often went away to hot springs to take mud baths. He was notoriously

dissolute with women. Two Swedish girls who had lived in his house were

the worse for the experience. One of them he had taken to Omaha and

established in the business for which he had fitted her. He still

visited her.

Cutter lived in a state of perpetual warfare with his wife, and yet,

apparently, they never thought of separating. They dwelt in a fussy,

scroll-work house, painted white and buried in thick evergreens, with a

fussy white fence and barn. Cutter thought he knew a great deal about

horses, and usually had a colt which he was training for the track. On

Sunday mornings one could see him out at the fair grounds, speeding

around the race-course in his trotting-buggy, wearing yellow gloves and

a black-and-white-check travelling cap, his whiskers blowing back in

the breeze. If there were any boys about, Cutter would offer one of

them a quarter to hold the stop-watch, and then drive off, saying he

had no change and would ‘fix it up next time.’ No one could cut his

lawn or wash his buggy to suit him. He was so fastidious and prim about

his place that a boy would go to a good deal of trouble to throw a dead

cat into his back yard, or to dump a sackful of tin cans in his alley.

It was a peculiar combination of old-maidishness and licentiousness

that made Cutter seem so despicable.

He had certainly met his match when he married Mrs. Cutter. She was a

terrifying-looking person; almost a giantess in height, raw-boned, with

iron-grey hair, a face always flushed, and prominent, hysterical eyes.

When she meant to be entertaining and agreeable, she nodded her head

incessantly and snapped her eyes at one. Her teeth were long and

curved, like a horse’s; people said babies always cried if she smiled

at them. Her face had a kind of fascination for me: it was the very

colour and shape of anger. There was a gleam of something akin to

insanity in her full, intense eyes. She was formal in manner, and made

calls in rustling, steel-grey brocades and a tall bonnet with bristling

aigrettes.

Mrs. Cutter painted china so assiduously that even her wash-bowls and

pitchers, and her husband’s shaving-mug, were covered with violets and

lilies. Once, when Cutter was exhibiting some of his wife’s china to a

caller, he dropped a piece. Mrs. Cutter put her handkerchief to her

lips as if she were going to faint and said grandly: ‘Mr. Cutter, you

have broken all the Commandments—spare the finger-bowls!’

They quarrelled from the moment Cutter came into the house until they

went to bed at night, and their hired girls reported these scenes to

the town at large. Mrs. Cutter had several times cut paragraphs about

unfaithful husbands out of the newspapers and mailed them to Cutter in

a disguised handwriting. Cutter would come home at noon, find the

mutilated journal in the paper-rack, and triumphantly fit the clipping

into the space from which it had been cut. Those two could quarrel all

morning about whether he ought to put on his heavy or his light

underwear, and all evening about whether he had taken cold or not.

The Cutters had major as well as minor subjects for dispute. The chief

of these was the question of inheritance: Mrs. Cutter told her husband

it was plainly his fault they had no children. He insisted that Mrs.

Cutter had purposely remained childless, with the determination to

outlive him and to share his property with her ‘people,’ whom he

detested. To this she would reply that unless he changed his mode of

life, she would certainly outlive him. After listening to her

insinuations about his physical soundness, Cutter would resume his

dumb-bell practice for a month, or rise daily at the hour when his wife

most liked to sleep, dress noisily, and drive out to the track with his

trotting-horse.

Once when they had quarrelled about household expenses, Mrs. Cutter put

on her brocade and went among their friends soliciting orders for

painted china, saying that Mr. Cutter had compelled her ‘to live by her

brush.’ Cutter wasn’t shamed as she had expected; he was delighted!

Cutter often threatened to chop down the cedar trees which half-buried

the house. His wife declared she would leave him if she were stripped

of the I privacy’ which she felt these trees afforded her. That was his

opportunity, surely; but he never cut down the trees. The Cutters

seemed to find their relations to each other interesting and

stimulating, and certainly the rest of us found them so. Wick Cutter

was different from any other rascal I have ever known, but I have found

Mrs. Cutters all over the world; sometimes founding new religions,

sometimes being forcibly fed—easily recognizable, even when

superficially tamed.