A Woman's Reason - William Dean Howells

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I will not ask your attention to the eligible position of the house. I see none but Boston faces here, and I am proud to take it for granted that you need no instructions from me upon this point. When I say that this is one of the best sites on Beacon Hill, I say everything. You know the value of the location, you know the character of the social surroundings,—you know what I mean, and all that I mean. I do not appeal to strangers here. I appeal to the old Boston blood, animated by a generous affection for our city and its history, and unwilling to see dishonor cast upon her by the sale, even in these ruinous times, of a property in her midst at less than its full value. Gentlemen, I feel that you will stand by me in this matter; and I have the pleasure of opening the sale with a bid of $10,000. Is this so, Mr. Wetherall?"

      The gentleman addressed, in the midst of the laughing crowd, nodded slightly.

      The auctioneer looked keenly at the faces in an irregular semicircle before him. "With a bid of $10,000 from Mr. Wetherall," he resumed. "Mr. Wetherall, gentlemen, does not want the property, and he does not dream of getting it at a sixth or seventh—in any other times I should say a tenth— of its value. But he does not choose that it shall be disgraced by the offer of any ignobler sum; and, gentlemen, if Mr. Wetherall had not made this bid, I should have made it myself in good faith. I am offered ten thousand, ten thousand, ten thous—eleven, from Mr. Wheeler. You don't want the property either, Mr. Wheeler, but I thank you nevertheless. Eleven, eleven, eleven—do I hear the twelve? Twelve from Mr. White. The W.'s are doing well, but we must mount higher yet in the alphabet. Twelve, do I hear the thirteen? Five hundred! Thanks: twelve five, twelve five—thirteen. Going at thirteen, at thirteen—fourteen! This is something like, gentlemen; this is very good as a genteel relaxation; fourteen has its merits as part of the joke; but, gentlemen, we must not give too much time to it. We must come to business, before long; we must indeed. I am willing to accept these ironical bids for the present, but—fifteen, did you say, Mr. Newell? Thank—you for fifteen. I am offered fifteen, fifteen, fifteen, by an eminent American humorist; fifteen, fifteen, going at fifteen? Oh come, gentlemen! Someone say twenty, and let the sale begin seriously." Nobody had bidden twenty, but at that moment a greedy-eyed, nervous little man, with a hot air of having hurried to arrive, wedged his way through the people who filled the doorway, and entered the opener space inside with a bid of five hundred. A roar of laughter rewarded his ardor, and the auctioneer instantly went on: "Twenty thousand, five; twenty thousand, five. Now we are really warming to the work. We have reached the point at which blood begins to tell. Twenty thousand, five from Mr. Everton—do I hear the twenty-one? Yes, right again; I do hear the twenty-one, and from Mr. Newell, who redeems his reputation from the charge of elegant trifling, and twenty-two from Mr. White, who also perceives that the time for jesting is past. Going at twenty-two, at twenty-two, twenty-two! Do I hear twenty-three? No, only twenty-two, three; I regret to say it is only twenty-two, three."

      A quick succession of small bids now ran the sum up to twenty-four thousand, at which point it hung in spite of all the devices of the auctioneer to urge it beyond. "Going, going, going,"—he swung his right hand threateningly above the open palm of his left—"going to Mr. White at twenty-four thousand dollars! Are you all done?" He scanned the crowd, and pierced it to the outer circle with his audacious glance. "Going at twenty-four thousand dollars to Mr. White. Are you all done, twice? Are you all done, three times? Going once, going twice, going— Gentlemen," said the auctioneer, putting his cigar in his mouth and his thumbs in his waistcoat-pockets, and addressing them in a low, impassioned tone, "Gentlemen, it's no money for it! I should feel ashamed, personally disgraced, if this property went for such a sum. I should know that it was owing to some fault of mine, some failure on my part to impress its value upon you. But I have trusted to your own sagacity, to your own intelligence, to the fact that you are all Boston men, and thoroughly acquainted with the prices of adjacent property, and the worth of this. I may have deceived myself; but I appeal to you now, gentlemen, not to let me suffer by the confidence I have reposed in you. My professional repute is in your hands. If this estate goes at $24,000 I am a ruined man." A general laugh, in which the auctioneer himself joined so far as to smile, met this appeal. He ran his eye over the assembly.

      Suddenly he exclaimed, "Thank you, Mr. Everton! Was it twenty-six!" He leaned forward over his desk, and beamed with a flattering gratitude upon the newcomer.

      "No, twenty-four, fifty," replied Mr. Everton in a weak, dry voice.

      "Thank you all the same, Mr. Everton. You are none the less my preserver. Thank you for twenty-four, fifty. We breathe again. Twenty-four, fifty, —do I hear the five? Twenty-four, fifty,—will you give me the five? Twenty-five, very good, twenty-five thousand, twenty-five, twenty-five—just one-fourth of the worth of the estate in prosperous times. Now let me hear the twenty-six! Gentlemen," said the auctioneer, again breaking from his chant, and lowering his voice to the colloquial tone, "you all know the old story of the sibyl and her books: how, when she came with nine copies in the first instance, she asked a sum which struck the officials as a fancy price; how she went away and burnt three of the edition and then asked twice the original price for the six; and how, when she had burnt three more, they were glad to take the rest off her hands at her own terms. We have here a parallel case."

      "Don't see the parallel," said one of the crowd.

      "Don't you, Mr. Rogers? Well, you will, presently, when you've failed to buy this property for half the money that you'd be glad to offer the purchaser for his bargain. Do I hear twenty-six from you, Mr. Rogers?" Mr. Rogers laughed and nodded. "Twenty-six it is from Mr. Rogers. Twenty-six, twenty-six, twenty-six, will you give me the seven?" He went on crying this sum in varying tones of exultation, reproach, and persuasion for several minutes. Again and again he brought himself to the point of knocking off the house at that price, and then retired from it upon some fresh pretense of having heard a higher bid. But none came, or could be made to seem to have come; everyone to whom he turned with a questioning look shook his head in prompt denial. The auctioneer's mobile countenance took on an air of deep discouragement. He threw aside his mallet, and pulled down his waistcoat. "I won't sell this property at that price. I suppose there are men in this city who would do it, but I won't. Captain Butler, I should like a word with you." He came down from his perch, and retiring to a corner with the Captain talked with him in a dumb show of bitter and passionate appeal. When he again mounted to his place, he wore a look of grim despair. "Well, gentlemen, I have done my best to persuade Captain Butler to withdraw the property, and stop this bloody sacrifice." The crowd laughed and the auctioneer's eye twinkled. "But he feels bound by the terms of his notice to you to let the sale proceed. The property will be sold without reserve. Now let us see whether you will meet him in the same magnanimous spirit." Captain Butler looked on in blank amaze while this statement was making; but an intenser surprise was painted upon the face of Mr. Wetherall as the auctioneer proceeded: "Twenty-seven, twenty-seven."

      "Twenty-six was the last bid," said a bystander.

      "Excuse me, sir," retorted the auctioneer severely, "I don't think I deceived myself in a nod from my friend Mr. Wetherall. Twenty-seven!"

      Mr. Wetherall seemed struggling to open his petrified mouth in protest, when Mr. Everton quickly bid twenty-seven five hundred. Mr. Wetherall turned sharply upon him and bid twenty-eight. The keen auctioneer scented their rivalry, and played upon it so artfully that in five minutes the property was going at thirty thousand to Mr. Everton. He came to the third going, in his thrice-repeated warning, when he once more paused, and leaning forward, bent a look of pitying incredulity upon the faces before him. "Gentlemen," he asked in an accent of soft reproach, "is this Boston?"

      His audience again roared their pleasure, and the auctioneer, leaving his place, stepped forward and personally approached several gentlemen of the group in a conversational tone. "Mr. Wetherall, am I going to have nothing more from you? Mr. White, what do you say? You know this house is worth more than thirty thousand, and whoever buys it will have a dozen people after him to-morrow offering to take his bargain off his hands at an advance. Mr. Merritt, we haven't heard from you at all yet, I believe. You've been enjoying the show for nothing: it isn't your custom to dead-head yourself on these occasions. And you, sir,—I can't call your name, but I know your face; I've seen it in State Street often—can't I get a bid out of you?" The gentleman addressed colored, and

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