The Cactus

O Henry

The most notable thing about Time is that it is so purely relative. A large amount of

reminiscence is, by common consent, conceded to the drowning man; and it is not past

belief that one may review an entire courtship while removing one's gloves.

That is what Trysdale was doing, standing by a table in his bachelor apartments. On the

table stood a singular-looking green plant in a red earthen jar. The plant was one of the

species of cacti, and was provided with long, tentacular leaves that perpetually swayed

with the slightest breeze with a peculiar beckoning motion.

Trysdale's friend, the brother of the bride, stood at a sideboard complaining at being

and, most insistently recurring, the drawling words of the minister irrevocably binding

her to another.

>From this last hopeless point of view he still strove, as if it had become a habit of his

mind, to reach some conjecture as to why and how he had lost her. Shaken rudely by the

uncompromising fact, he had suddenly found himself confronted by a thing he had never

before faced --his own innermost, unmitigated, arid unbedecked self. He saw all the

garbs of pretence and egoism that he had worn now turn to rags of folly. He shuddered

at the thought that to others, before now, the garments of his soul must have appeared

sorry and threadbare. Vanity and conceit? These were the joints in his armor. And how

free from either she had always been--But why--

Indeed, his conceit had crumbled; its last prop was gone. Why had it ended thus? There

had been no quarrel between them, nothing--

For the thousandth time he remarshalled in his mind the events of those last few days

before the tide had so suddenly turned.

She had always insisted upon placing him upon a pedestal, and he had accepted her

homage with royal grandeur. It had been a very sweet incense that she had burned before

him; so modest (he told himself); so childlike and worshipful, and (he would once have

sworn) so sincere. She had invested him with an almost supernatural number of high

attributes and excellencies and talents, and he had absorbed the oblation as a desert

drinks the rain that can coax from it no promise of blossom or fruit.

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As Trysdale grimly wrenched apart the seam of his last glove, the crowning instance of

his fatuous and tardily mourned egoism came vividly back to him. The scene was the

night when he had asked her to come up on his pedestal with him and share his

greatness. He could not, now, for the pain of it, allow his mind to dwell upon the

Now, Carruthers was an idiot. No doubt he (Trysdale) had been guilty (he sometimes

did such things) of airing at the club some old, canting Castilian proverb dug from the

hotchpotch at the back of dictionaries. Carruthers, who was one of his incontinent

admirers, was the very man to have magnified this exhibition of doubtful erudition.

But, alas! the incense of her admiration had been so sweet and flattering. He allowed the

imputation to pass without denial. Without protest, he allowed her to twine about his

brow this spurious bay of Spanish scholarship. He let it grace his conquering head, and,

among its soft convolutions, he did not feel the prick of the thorn that was to pierce him

later.

How glad, how shy, how tremulous she was! How she fluttered like a snared bird when

barbarous foreign or botanical name. He waited until night, but her answer did not

come. His large pride and hurt vanity kept him from seeking her. Two evenings later

they met at a dinner. Their greetings were conventional, but she looked at him,

breathless, wondering, eager. He was courteous, adamant, waiting her explanation. With

womanly swiftness she took her cue from his manner, and turned to snow and ice. Thus,

and wider from this on, they had drifted apart. Where was his fault? Who had been to

blame? Humbled now, he sought the answer amid the ruins of his self-conceit. If--

The voice of the other man in the room, querulously intruding upon his thoughts,

aroused him.

"I say, Trysdale, what the deuce is the matter with you? You look unhappy as if you

"Your brandy," resumed the other, coming over and joining him, "is abominable. Run

down to see me some time at Punta Redonda, and try some of our stuff that old Garcia

smuggles in. It's worth the, trip. Hallo! here's an old acquaintance. Wherever did you

rake up this cactus, Trysdale?"

"A present," said Trysdale, "from a friend. Know the species?"

"No," said Trysdale, with the bitter wraith of a smile--"Is it Spanish?"