We present
the short story "The Count and the Wedding Guest," by O. Henry. The
story was originally adapted and recorded by the U.S. Department of State.
Andy
Donovan had his dinner each evening in the house on Second Avenue
where he lived in a
furnished room. One evening at dinner he met a new guest, a young lady, Miss
Conway.
Miss
Conway was small and quiet. She was wearing a plain brown dress. She seemed
interested in very little except her dinner, and her dinner did not interest
her very much.
She
looked up at Mr. Donovan and spoke his name, and then began to eat again. Mr.
Donovan had a smile that everyone liked. He smiled at her and then thought no
more about her.
Two
weeks later, Andy was sitting outside the house enjoying the cool evening. He
heard a movement behind him. He turned his head, and-and could not turn it back
again.
Coming
out of the door was Miss Conway. She was wearing a night-black dress of soft,
thin cloth. Her hat was black. She was putting black gloves on her hand. There was no white and no
color anywhere about her. All black. Someone in her family had died. Mr.
Donovan was certain about that.
Her
rich golden hair lay soft and thick at the back of her neck.
Her face was not really pretty, but her large gray eyes made it almost
beautiful. She looked up into the sky with an expression of sadness.
All
black, readers. Think of her. All black, and that golden hair, and looking
sadly far away.
Mr.
Donovan suddenly decided to think about Miss Conway. He stood up.
“It’s
a fine, clear evening, Miss Conway,” he said.
“It
is to them with the heart to enjoy it, Mr. Donovan,” said Miss Conway. She took
a deep slow breath.
“I
hope no one—no one of your family—has died?”
“Death
has taken,” said Miss Conway, “not one of my family, but one who—I must not
speak of my troubles to you, Mr. Donovan.”
“Why
not, Miss Conway? Perhaps I could understand.”
Miss
Conway smiled a little. And oh, her face was sadder than when she was not
smiling.
“Laugh
and the world laughs with you,” she said. “But the world is not interested in
sadness. I have learned that, Mr. Donovan. I have no friends in this city. But
you have been kind to me. Thank you for it.”
He
had done nothing except offer her the salt at dinner.
“It’s
not easy to be alone in New York,” said Mr. Donovan. “But when New York is
friendly, it’s very friendly. Shall we take a little walk in the park?
It might be good for you.”
“Thanks,
Mr. Donovan. I would enjoy it. But I don’t want my sadness to make you sad.”
They
went through the open gates of the park and found a quiet seat.
“We
were going to be married soon,” said Miss Conway. “He was a real Count.
He had land and a big house in Italy. Count Fernando Mazzini was his name. My
father didn’t want me to marry him. Once we ran away to get married, and my
father followed and took me home. I was afraid they were going to fight.
“But
then my father agreed. Fernando went to Italy to make everything ready for me.
My father’s very proud. Fernando wanted to give me several thousand dollars for
new clothes, and my father said no. When Fernando went away, I came to the
city. I work in a shop.
“Three
days ago I had a letter from Italy. It said that Fernando had been killed.
“That’s
why I’m wearing black. My heart has died, Mr. Donovan, with Fernando. I cannot
take interest in anyone. I should not keep you from your friends who can smile
and enjoy things with you. Shall we walk back to the house?”
Now,
readers, if a girl tells a man her heart has died, he wants to make it live
again.
“I’m
very sorry,” said Mr. Donovan. “No, we won’t walk back to the house yet. And
don’t say you have no friends in this city, Miss Conway. I’m your friend, and I
want you to believe that.”
“I
have his picture here,” said Miss Conway. “I wear it on a chain around my neck. I never showed it to
anyone, but I will show it to you, Mr. Donovan. I believe you to be a true
friend.”
Mr.
Donovan looked for a long time and with much interest at the picture. The face
of Count Mazzini commanded interest. It was wise, bright—the face of a strong,
happy man who could be a leader of other men.
“I
have a larger picture in my room,” said Miss Conway. “When we return, I will
show you that. I have nothing more to help me remember Fernando. But he will
always live in my heart. I am sure of that.”
Mr.
Donovan decided that he wanted to take the Count’s place in Miss Conway’s
heart. He did not seem to think he could fail. He would be friendly. He would
keep smiling.
When
they returned to the house, she ran to her room and brought down the larger
picture of the Count. Mr. Donovan looked at it. No one could have guessed what he was thinking.
“He
gave me this on the night he left for Italy,” said Miss Conway. “A fine-looking
man,” said Mr. Donovan warmly. “Miss Conway, will you go to Coney Island with
me next Sunday afternoon?”
A
month later they told the other guests in the house on Second Avenue that they
were going to be married. Miss Conway continued to wear black.
A
week later the two sat on the same seat in the park. Donovan had had a sad face
all day. He was so quiet tonight that Miss Conway had to ask him why.
“What’s
wrong tonight, Andy?” “Nothing, Maggie.”
“You
never were like this before. What is it?”
“It’s
nothing much, Maggie.”
“Yes,
it is; and I want to know. Is it some other girl? Why don’t you go to her, if
you want her? Take your arm away.”
“I
will tell you then,” said Andy, wisely. “But you will not understand. Have you
heard about Mike Sullivan? Everyone calls him ‘Big Mike’ Sullivan.”
“I’ve
never heard about him,” said Maggie. “Who is he?”
“He
is the most important man in New York. He is a mile high and as broad as the
East River. If you say anything bad about Big Mike, a million men will be ready
to fight you.
“Big
Mike is a friend of mine. I am only a little man. But Mike is as good a friend
to a little man as he is to a big man. I met him today by chance, and what do
you think he did? He came up to me to shake my hand. I told him I was going to
be married in two weeks. ‘Andy,’ says he, ‘I will come to the wedding.’
That is what he said to me, and he always does what he says.
“You
don’t understand it, Maggie, but I want to have Big Mike Sullivan at our
wedding. It would make me very proud.”
“Then
why don’t you ask him to come?” said Maggie.
“There’s
a reason why I can’t,” said Andy, sadly. “Don’t ask me the reason, for I can’t
tell you.”
“But
can’t you smile at me?” said Maggie.
“Maggie,”
said Andy, after a few minutes, “do you love me as much as you loved Count
Mazzini?”
He
waited a long time, but Maggie did not reply.
And
then, suddenly, she put her head against his shoulder and began to cry. She
held his arm, and her tears wet the black dress.
“Maggie,
Maggie,” said Andy, forgetting his own trouble. “Tell me about it.”
“Andy,”
said Maggie. “What I told you was not true, and there never was any Count.
There never was a man in love with me. All the other girls had men in love with
them. And Andy, I look good in black—you know I do. So I went to a shop where I
could buy that picture. And that story about the Count—none of it was true. I
said he had died because I wanted to wear black. And no one can love me,
because I didn’t tell the truth. I never liked anyone but you. And that’s all.”
But
Andy did not move away. Instead, his arm pulled her nearer to him. She looked
up and saw that he was smiling.
“Do
you—do you still love me, Andy?”
“Sure,”
said Andy. “You have made everything fine, Maggie. I hoped you would do it,
before the wedding day. Good girl!”
“Andy,”
said Maggie, after a little time, “did you believe all that story about the
Count?”
“No,
not very much,” said Andy. “Because that is Big Mike Sullivan’s picture that
you are wearing on the chain around your neck.