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diff --git a/6695-h/6695.htm b/6695-h/6695.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..66ec9f6 --- /dev/null +++ b/6695-h/6695.htm @@ -0,0 +1,12156 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> + <head> + <meta charset="utf-8"><title>Tales of the Jazz Age | Project Gutenberg</title> + <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" > + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + text-align: justify; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + margin-top: 2em; +} + +p { + text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; +} + + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} +.p4 {margin-top: 4em;} + +.small {font-size: small;} +.large {font-size: large;} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.tb {visibility: hidden; width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +.break +{ + page-break-before: always; +} + +h1,h2 +{ + page-break-before: always; +} + +.nobreak +{ + page-break-before: avoid; +} + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.center {text-align:center;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + +/* Poetry */ +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} +/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry in browsers */ +.poetry {display: inline-block;} +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} + +/* Poetry indents */ +.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3em;} +.poetry .indent2 {text-indent: -2em;} +.poetry .indent4 {text-indent: -1em;} + </style> + </head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 6695 ***</div> + +<h1>TALES OF THE JAZZ AGE</h1> + +<p class="p2 center">BY<br > + +<span class="large">F. SCOTT FITZGERALD</span></p> + +<p class="p2 center">NEW YORK<br > + +CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS<br > + +1922</p> + +<p class="break p4 center small"><span class="smcap">Copyright, 1922, by</span><br > + + +CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS</p> + +<p class="small center"> +<span class="smcap">Copyright, 1920, by</span> THE VANITY FAIR PUB. CO., INC.<br > +<span class="smcap">Copyright, 1920, 1921, by</span> THE METROPOLITAN PUBLICATIONS, INC.<br > +<span class="smcap">Copyright, 1920, by</span> THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE<br > +<span class="smcap">Copyright, 1920, by</span> THE CURTIS PUBLISHING CO.<br > +<span class="smcap">Copyright, 1920, 1921, by</span> THE SMART SET CO.<br > +</p> + +<p class="small center">Printed in the United States of America</p> + +<p class="small center">Published September, 1922</p> + +<p class="break p4 center"> +<span class="small">QUITE INAPPROPRIATELY</span><br > + +TO MY MOTHER</p> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak">A TABLE OF CONTENTS</h2> +</div> + +<p class="p2 center">MY LAST FLAPPERS</p> + +<p><a href="#THE_JELLY-BEAN">THE JELLY-BEAN</a></p> + +<p><i>This is a Southern story, with the scene laid in the small city of +Tarleton, Georgia. I have a profound affection for Tarleton, but +somehow whenever I write a story about it I receive letters from all +over the South denouncing me in no uncertain terms. “The Jelly-Bean,” +published in “The Metropolitan,” drew its full share of these +admonitory notes.</i></p> + +<p><i>It was written under strange circumstances shortly after my first +novel was published, and, moreover, it was the first story in which I +had a collaborator. For, finding that I was unable to manage the +crap-shooting episode, I turned it over to my wife, who, as a Southern +girl, was presumably an expert on the technique and terminology of +that great sectional pastime.</i></p> + +<p><a href="#THE_CAMELS_BACK">THE CAMEL’S BACK</a></p> + +<p><i>I suppose that of all the stories I have ever written this one cost me +the least travail and perhaps gave me the most amusement. As to the +labor involved, it was written during one day in the city of New +Orleans, with the express purpose of buying a platinum and diamond +wrist watch which cost six hundred dollars. I began it at seven in the +morning and finished it at two o’clock the same night. It was +published in the “Saturday Evening Post” in 1920, and later included +in the O. Henry Memorial Collection for the same year. I like it least +of all the stories in this volume.</i></p> + +<p><i>My amusement was derived from the fact that the camel part of the +story is literally true; in fact, I have a standing engagement with +the gentleman involved to attend the next fancy-dress party to which +we are mutually invited, attired as the latter part of the camel—this +as a sort of atonement for being his historian.</i></p> + + +<p><a href="#MAY_DAY">MAY DAY</a></p> + +<p><i>This somewhat unpleasant tale, published as a novelette in the “Smart +Set” in July, 1920, relates a series of events which took place in the +spring of the previous year. Each of the three events made a great +impression upon me. In life they were unrelated, except by the general +hysteria of that spring which inaugurated the Age of Jazz, but in my +story I have tried, unsuccessfully I fear, to weave them into a +pattern—a pattern which would give the effect of those months in New +York as they appeared to at least one member of what was then the +younger generation.</i></p> + + +<p><a href="#PORCELAIN_AND_PINK">PORCELAIN AND PINK</a></p> + +<p><i>“And do you write for any other magazines?” inquired the young lady.</i></p> + +<p><i>“Oh, yes,” I assured her. “I’ve had some stories and plays in the +‘Smart Set,’ for instance——”</i></p> + +<p><i>The young lady shivered.</i></p> + +<p><i>“The ‘Smart Set’!” she exclaimed. “How can you? Why, they publish +stuff about girls in blue bathtubs, and silly things like that.”</i></p> + +<p><i>And I had the magnificent joy of telling her that she was referring to +“Porcelain and Pink,” which had appeared there several months before.</i></p> + + +<p class="p2 center">FANTASIES</p> + + +<p><a href="#THE_DIAMOND_AS_BIG_AS_THE_RITZ">THE DIAMOND AS BIG AS THE RITZ</a></p> + +<p><i>These next stories are written in what, were I of imposing stature, I +should call my “second manner.” “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz,” +which appeared last summer in the “Smart Set,” was designed utterly +for my own amusement. I was in that familiar mood characterized by a +perfect craving for luxury, and the story began as an attempt to feed +that craving on imaginary foods.</i></p> + +<p><i>One well-known critic has been pleased to like this extravaganza +better than anything I have written. Personally I prefer “The Offshore +Pirate.” But, to tamper slightly with Lincoln: If you like this sort +of thing, this, possibly, is the sort of thing you’ll like.</i></p> + + +<p><a href="#THE_CURIOUS_CASE_OF_BENJAMIN_BUTTON">THE CURIOUS CASE OF BENJAMIN BUTTON</a></p> + +<p><i>This story was inspired by a remark of Mark Twain’s to the effect that +it was a pity that the best part of life came at the beginning and the +worst part at the end. By trying the experiment upon only one man in a +perfectly normal world I have scarcely given his idea a fair trial. +Several weeks after completing it, I discovered an almost identical +plot in Samuel Butler’s “Note-books.”</i></p> + +<p><i>The story was published in “Collier’s” last summer and provoked this +startling letter from an anonymous admirer in Cincinnati:</i></p> + +<p><i>“Sir—</i></p> + +<p><i>I have read the story Benjamin Button in Colliers and I wish to say +that as a short story writer you would make a good lunatic I have seen +many peices of cheese in my life but of all the peices of cheese I +have ever seen you are the biggest peice. I hate to waste a peice of +stationary on you but I will.“</i></p> + + +<p><a href="#TARQUIN_OF_CHEAPSIDE">TARQUIN OF CHEAPSIDE</a></p> + +<p><i>Written almost six years ago, this story is a product of undergraduate +days at Princeton. Considerably revised, it was published in the +“Smart Set” in 1921. At the time of its conception I had but one +idea—to be a poet—and the fact that I was interested in the ring of +every phrase, that I dreaded the obvious in prose if not in plot, +shows throughout. Probably the peculiar affection I feel for it +depends more upon its age than upon any intrinsic merit.</i></p> + + +<p><a href="#O_RUSSET_WITCH">O RUSSET WITCH!</a></p> + +<p><i>When this was written I had just completed the first draft of my +second novel, and a natural reaction made me revel in a story wherein +none of the characters need be taken seriously. And I’m afraid that I +was somewhat carried away by the feeling that there was no ordered +scheme to which I must conform. After due consideration, however, I +have decided to let it stand as it is, although the reader may find +himself somewhat puzzled at the time element. I had best say that +however the years may have dealt with Merlin Grainger, I myself was +thinking always in the present. It was published in the +“Metropolitan.”</i></p> + + +<p class="p2 center">UNCLASSIFIED MASTERPIECES</p> + + +<p><a href="#THE_LEES_OF_HAPPINESS">THE LEES OF HAPPINESS</a></p> + +<p><i>Of this story I can say that it came to me in an irresistible form, +crying to be written. It will be accused perhaps of being a mere piece +of sentimentality, but, as I saw it, it was a great deal more. If, +therefore, it lacks the ring of sincerity, or even, of tragedy, the +fault rests not with the theme but with my handling of it.</i></p> + +<p><i>It appeared in the “Chicago Tribune,” and later obtained, I believe, +the quadruple gold laurel leaf or some such encomium from one of the +anthologists who at present swarm among us. The gentleman I refer to +runs as a rule to stark melodramas with a volcano or the ghost of John +Paul Jones in the role of Nemesis, melodramas carefully disguised by +early paragraphs in Jamesian manner which hint dark and subtle +complexities to follow. On this order:</i></p> + +<p><i>“The case of Shaw McPhee, curiously enough, had no bearing on the +almost incredible attitude of Martin Sulo. This is parenthetical and, +to at least three observers, whose names for the present I must +conceal, it seems improbable, etc., etc., etc.,” until the poor rat of +fiction is at last forced out into the open and the melodrama begins.</i></p> + + +<p><a href="#MR_ICKY">MR. ICKY</a></p> + +<p><i>This has the distinction of being the only magazine piece ever written +in a New York hotel. The business was done in a bedroom in the +Knickerbocker, and shortly afterward that memorable hostelry closed +its doors forever.</i></p> + +<p><i>When a fitting period of mourning had elapsed it was published in the +“Smart Set.”</i></p> + + +<p><a href="#JEMINA_THE_MOUNTAIN_GIRL">JEMINA</a></p> + +<p><i>Written, like “Tarquin of Cheapside,” while I was at Princeton, this +sketch was published years later in “Vanity Fair.” For its technique I +must apologize to Mr. Stephen Leacock.</i></p> + +<p><i>I have laughed over it a great deal, especially when I first wrote it, +but I can laugh over it no longer. Still, as other people tell me it +is amusing, I include it here. It seems to me worth preserving a few +years—at least until the ennui of changing fashions suppresses me, my +books, and it together.</i></p> + +<p><i>With due apologies for this impossible Table of Contents, I tender +these tales of the Jazz Age into the hands of those who read as they +run and run as they read.</i></p> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak"><i>MY LAST FLAPPERS</i></h2> +</div> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h3 class="nobreak" id="THE_JELLY-BEAN">THE JELLY-BEAN +</h3> +</div> + + +<p>Jim Powell was a Jelly-bean. Much as I desire to make him an appealing +character, I feel that it would be unscrupulous to deceive you on that +point. He was a bred-in-the-bone, dyed-in-the-wool, ninety-nine +three-quarters per cent Jelly-bean and he grew lazily all during +Jelly-bean season, which is every season, down in the land of the +Jelly-beans well below the Mason-Dixon line.</p> + +<p>Now if you call a Memphis man a Jelly-bean he will quite possibly pull +a long sinewy rope from his hip pocket and hang you to a convenient +telegraph-pole. If you call a New Orleans man a Jelly-bean he will +probably grin and ask you who is taking your girl to the Mardi Gras +ball. The particular Jelly-bean patch which produced the protagonist +of this history lies somewhere between the two—a little city of forty +thousand that has dozed sleepily for forty thousand years in southern +Georgia, occasionally stirring in its slumbers and muttering something +about a war that took place sometime, somewhere, and that everyone +else has forgotten long ago.</p> + +<p>Jim was a Jelly-bean. I write that again because it has such a +pleasant sound—rather like the beginning of a fairy story—as if Jim +were nice. It somehow gives me a picture of him with a round, +appetizing face and all sort of leaves and vegetables growing out of +his cap. But Jim was long and thin and bent at the waist from stooping +over pool-tables, and he was what might have been known in the +indiscriminating North as a corner loafer. “Jelly-bean” is the name +throughout the undissolved Confederacy for one who spends his life +conjugating the verb to idle in the first person singular—I am +idling, I have idled, I will idle.</p> + +<p>Jim was born in a white house on a green corner. It had four +weather-beaten pillars in front and a great amount of lattice-work in +the rear that made a cheerful criss-cross background for a flowery +sun-drenched lawn. Originally the dwellers in the white house had +owned the ground next door and next door to that and next door to +that, but this had been so long ago that even Jim’s father scarcely +remembered it. He had, in fact, thought it a matter of so little +moment that when he was dying from a pistol wound got in a brawl he +neglected even to tell little Jim, who was five years old and +miserably frightened. The white house became a boarding-house run by a +tight-lipped lady from Macon, whom Jim called Aunt Mamie and detested +with all his soul.</p> + +<p>He became fifteen, went to high school, wore his hair in black snarls, +and was afraid of girls. He hated his home where four women and one +old man prolonged an interminable chatter from summer to summer about +what lots the Powell place had originally included and what sorts of +flowers would be out next. Sometimes the parents of little girls in +town, remembering Jim’s mother and fancying a resemblance in the dark +eyes and hair, invited him to parties, but parties made him shy and he +much preferred sitting on a disconnected axle in Tilly’s Garage, +rolling the bones or exploring his mouth endlessly with a long straw. +For pocket money, he picked up odd jobs, and it was due to this that +he stopped going to parties. At his third party little Marjorie Haight +had whispered indiscreetly and within hearing distance that he was a +boy who brought the groceries sometimes. So instead of the two-step +and polka, Jim had learned to throw any number he desired on the dice +and had listened to spicy tales of all the shootings that had occurred +in the surrounding country during the past fifty years.</p> + +<p>He became eighteen. The war broke out and he enlisted as a gob and +polished brass in the Charleston Navy-yard for a year. Then, by way of +variety, he went North and polished brass in the Brooklyn Navy-yard +for a year.</p> + +<p>When the war was over he came home. He was twenty-one, his trousers +were too short and too tight. His buttoned shoes were long and narrow. +His tie was an alarming conspiracy of purple and pink marvellously +scrolled, and over it were two blue eyes faded like a piece of very +good old cloth long exposed to the sun.</p> + +<p>In the twilight of one April evening when a soft gray had drifted down +along the cottonfields and over the sultry town, he was a vague figure +leaning against a board fence, whistling and gazing at the moon’s rim +above the lights of Jackson Street. His mind was working persistently +on a problem that had held his attention for an hour. The Jelly-bean had +been invited to a party.</p> + +<p>Back in the days when all the boys had detested all the girls, Clark +Darrow and Jim had sat side by side in school. But, while Jim’s social +aspirations had died in the oily air of the garage, Clark had +alternately fallen in and out of love, gone to college, taken to +drink, given it up, and, in short, become one of the best beaux of the +town. Nevertheless Clark and Jim had retained a friendship that, +though casual, was perfectly definite. That afternoon Clark’s ancient +Ford had slowed up beside Jim, who was on the sidewalk and, out of a +clear sky, Clark invited him to a party at the country club. The +impulse that made him do this was no stranger than the impulse which +made Jim accept. The latter was probably an unconscious ennui, a +half-frightened sense of adventure. And now Jim was soberly thinking +it over.</p> + +<p>He began to sing, drumming his long foot idly on a stone block in the +sidewalk till it wobbled up and down in time to the low throaty tune:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“<i>One smile from Home in Jelly-bean town,</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Lives Jeanne, the Jelly-bean Queen.</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>She loves her dice and treats ’em nice;</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>No dice would treat her mean.</i>”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>He broke off and agitated the sidewalk to a bumpy gallop.</p> + +<p>“Daggone!” he muttered, half aloud. They would all be there—the old +crowd, the crowd to which, by right of the white house, sold long +since, and the portrait of the officer in gray over the mantel, Jim +should have belonged. But that crowd had grown up together into a +tight little set as gradually as the girls’ dresses had lengthened +inch by inch, as definitely as the boys’ trousers had dropped suddenly +to their ankles. And to that society of first names and dead puppy +loves Jim was an outsider—a running mate of poor whites. Most of the +men knew him, condescendingly; he tipped his hat to three or four +girls. That was all.</p> + +<p>When the dusk had thickened into a blue setting for the moon, he +walked through the hot, pleasantly pungent town to Jackson Street. The +stores were closing and the last shoppers were drifting homeward, as +if borne on the dreamy revolution of a slow merry-go-round. A +street-fair farther down made a brilliant alley of varicolored booths +and contributed a blend of music to the night—an oriental dance on a +calliope, a melancholy bugle in front of a freak show, a cheerful +rendition of “Back Home in Tennessee” on a hand-organ.</p> + +<p>The Jelly-bean stopped in a store and bought a collar. Then he +sauntered along toward Soda Sam’s, where he found the usual three or +four cars of a summer evening parked in front and the little darkies +running back and forth with sundaes and lemonades.</p> + +<p>“Hello, Jim.”</p> + +<p>It was a voice at his elbow—Joe Ewing sitting in an automobile with +Marylyn Wade. Nancy Lamar and a strange man were in the back seat.</p> + +<p>The Jelly-bean tipped his hat quickly.</p> + +<p>“Hi, Ben—” then, after an almost imperceptible pause—“How y’ all?”</p> + +<p>Passing, he ambled on toward the garage where he had a room up-stairs. +His “How y’all” had been said to Nancy Lamar, to whom he had not +spoken in fifteen years.</p> + +<p>Nancy had a mouth like a remembered kiss and shadowy eyes and +blue-black hair inherited from her mother who had been born in +Budapest. Jim passed her often on the street, walking small-boy +fashion with her hands in her pockets and he knew that with her +inseparable Sally Carrol Hopper she had left a trail of broken hearts +from Atlanta to New Orleans.</p> + +<p>For a few fleeting moments Jim wished he could dance. Then he laughed +and as he reached his door began to sing softly to himself:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“<i>Her Jelly Roll can twist your soul,</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Her eyes are big and brown,</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>She’s the Queen of the Queens of the Jelly-beans—</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>My Jeanne of Jelly-bean Town.</i>”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + + +<h4>II</h4> + +<p>At nine-thirty, Jim and Clark met in front of Soda Sam’s and started +for the Country Club in Clark’s Ford. “Jim,” asked Clark casually, as +they rattled through the jasmine-scented night, “how do you keep +alive?”</p> + +<p>The Jelly-bean paused, considered.</p> + +<p>“Well,” he said finally, “I got a room over Tilly’s garage. I help him +some with the cars in the afternoon an’ he gives it to me free. +Sometimes I drive one of his taxies and pick up a little thataway. I +get fed up doin’ that regular though.”</p> + +<p>“That all?”</p> + +<p>“Well, when there’s a lot of work I help him by the day—Saturdays +usually—and then there’s one main source of revenue I don’t generally +mention. Maybe you don’t recollect I’m about the champion crap-shooter +of this town. They make me shoot from a cup now because once I get the +feel of a pair of dice they just roll for me.”</p> + +<p>Clark grinned appreciatively.</p> + +<p>“I never could learn to set ’em so’s they’d do what I wanted. Wish +you’d shoot with Nancy Lamar some day and take all her money away from +her. She will roll ’em with the boys and she loses more than her daddy +can afford to give her. I happen to know she sold a good ring last +month to pay a debt.”</p> + +<p>The Jelly-bean was noncommittal.</p> + +<p>“The white house on Elm Street still belong to you?”</p> + +<p>Jim shook his head.</p> + +<p>“Sold. Got a pretty good price, seein’ it wasn’t in a good part of +town no more. Lawyer told me to put it into Liberty bonds. But Aunt +Mamie got so she didn’t have no sense, so it takes all the interest to +keep her up at Great Farms Sanitarium.</p> + +<p>“Hm.”</p> + +<p>“I got an old uncle up-state an’ I reckin I kin go up there if ever I +get sure enough pore. Nice farm, but not enough niggers around to work +it. He’s asked me to come up and help him, but I don’t guess I’d take +much to it. Too doggone lonesome—” He broke off suddenly. “Clark, I +want to tell you I’m much obliged to you for askin’ me out, but I’d be +a lot happier if you’d just stop the car right here an’ let me walk +back into town.”</p> + +<p>“Shucks!” Clark grunted. “Do you good to step out. You don’t have to +dance—just get out there on the floor and shake.”</p> + +<p>“Hold on,” exclaimed Jim uneasily, “Don’t you go leadin’ me up to any +girls and leavin’ me there so I’ll have to dance with ’em.”</p> + +<p>Clark laughed.</p> + +<p>“’Cause,” continued Jim desperately, “without you swear you won’t do +that I’m agoin’ to get out right here an’ my good legs goin’ carry me +back to Jackson street.”</p> + +<p>They agreed after some argument that Jim, unmolested by females, was +to view the spectacle from a secluded settee in the corner where Clark +would join him whenever he wasn’t dancing.</p> + +<p>So ten o’clock found the Jelly-bean with his legs crossed and his arms +conservatively folded, trying to look casually at home and politely +uninterested in the dancers. At heart he was torn between overwhelming +self-consciousness and an intense curiosity as to all that went on +around him. He saw the girls emerge one by one from the dressing-room, +stretching and pluming themselves like bright birds, smiling over +their powdered shoulders at the chaperones, casting a quick glance +around to take in the room and, simultaneously, the room’s reaction to +their entrance—and then, again like birds, alighting and nestling in +the sober arms of their waiting escorts. Sally Carrol Hopper, blonde +and lazy-eyed, appeared clad in her favorite pink and blinking like an +awakened rose. Marjorie Haight, Marylyn Wade, Harriet Cary, all the +girls he had seen loitering down Jackson Street by noon, now, curled +and brilliantined and delicately tinted for the overhead lights, were +miraculously strange Dresden figures of pink and blue and red and +gold, fresh from the shop and not yet fully dried.</p> + +<p>He had been there half an hour, totally uncheered by Clark’s jovial +visits which were each one accompanied by a “Hello, old boy, how you +making out?” and a slap at his knee. A dozen males had spoken to him +or stopped for a moment beside him, but he knew that they were each +one surprised at finding him there and fancied that one or two were +even slightly resentful. But at half past ten his embarrassment +suddenly left him and a pull of breathless interest took him +completely out of himself—Nancy Lamar had come out of the +dressing-room.</p> + +<p>She was dressed in yellow organdie, a costume of a hundred cool +corners, with three tiers of ruffles and a big bow in back until she +shed black and yellow around her in a sort of phosphorescent lustre. +The Jelly-bean’s eyes opened wide and a lump arose in his throat. For +she stood beside the door until her partner hurried up. Jim recognized +him as the stranger who had been with her in Joe Ewing’s car that +afternoon. He saw her set her arms akimbo and say something in a low +voice, and laugh. The man laughed too and Jim experienced the quick +pang of a weird new kind of pain. Some ray had passed between the +pair, a shaft of beauty from that sun that had warmed him a moment +since. The Jelly-bean felt suddenly like a weed in a shadow.</p> + +<p>A minute later Clark approached him, bright-eyed and glowing.</p> + +<p>“Hi, old man,” he cried with some lack of originality. “How you making +out?”</p> + +<p>Jim replied that he was making out as well as could be expected.</p> + +<p>“You come along with me,” commanded Clark. “I’ve got something that’ll +put an edge on the evening.”</p> + +<p>Jim followed him awkwardly across the floor and up the stairs to the +locker-room where Clark produced a flask of nameless yellow liquid.</p> + +<p>“Good old corn.”</p> + +<p>Ginger ale arrived on a tray. Such potent nectar as “good old corn” +needed some disguise beyond seltzer.</p> + +<p>“Say, boy,” exclaimed Clark breathlessly, “doesn’t Nancy Lamar look +beautiful?”</p> + +<p>Jim nodded.</p> + +<p>“Mighty beautiful,” he agreed.</p> + +<p>“She’s all dolled up to a fare-you-well to-night,” continued Clark. +“Notice that fellow she’s with?”</p> + +<p>“Big fella? White pants?”</p> + +<p>“Yeah. Well, that’s Ogden Merritt from Savannah. Old man Merritt makes +the Merritt safety razors. This fella’s crazy about her. Been chasing +after her all year.</p> + +<p>“She’s a wild baby,” continued Clark, “but I like her. So does +everybody. But she sure does do crazy stunts. She usually gets out +alive, but she’s got scars all over her reputation from one thing or +another she’s done.”</p> + +<p>“That so?” Jim passed over his glass. “That’s good corn.”</p> + +<p>“Not so bad. Oh, she’s a wild one. Shoot craps, say, boy! And she do +like her high-balls. Promised I’d give her one later on.”</p> + +<p>“She in love with this—Merritt?”</p> + +<p>“Damned if I know. Seems like all the best girls around here marry +fellas and go off somewhere.”</p> + +<p>He poured himself one more drink and carefully corked the bottle.</p> + +<p>“Listen, Jim, I got to go dance and I’d be much obliged if you just +stick this corn right on your hip as long as you’re not dancing. If a +man notices I’ve had a drink he’ll come up and ask me and before I +know it it’s all gone and somebody else is having my good time.”</p> + +<p>So Nancy Lamar was going to marry. This toast of a town was to become +the private property of an individual in white trousers—and all +because white trousers’ father had made a better razor than his +neighbor. As they descended the stairs Jim found the idea inexplicably +depressing. For the first time in his life he felt a vague and +romantic yearning. A picture of her began to form in his +imagination—Nancy walking boylike and debonnaire along the street, +taking an orange as tithe from a worshipful fruit-dealer, charging a +dope on a mythical account at Soda Sam’s, assembling a convoy of +beaux and then driving off in triumphal state for an afternoon of +splashing and singing.</p> + +<p>The Jelly-bean walked out on the porch to a deserted corner, dark +between the moon on the lawn and the single lighted door of the +ballroom. There he found a chair and, lighting a cigarette, drifted +into the thoughtless reverie that was his usual mood. Yet now it was a +reverie made sensuous by the night and by the hot smell of damp powder +puffs, tucked in the fronts of low dresses and distilling a thousand +rich scents, to float out through the open door. The music itself, +blurred by a loud trombone, became hot and shadowy, a languorous +overtone to the scraping of many shoes and slippers.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the square of yellow light that fell through the door was +obscured by a dark figure. A girl had come out of the dressing-room +and was standing on the porch not more than ten feet away. Jim heard a +low-breathed “doggone” and then she turned and saw him. It was Nancy +Lamar.</p> + +<p>Jim rose to his feet.</p> + +<p>“Howdy?”</p> + +<p>“Hello—” she paused, hesitated and then approached. “Oh, it’s—Jim +Powell.”</p> + +<p>He bowed slightly, tried to think of a casual remark.</p> + +<p>“Do you suppose,” she began quickly, “I mean—do you know anything +about gum?”</p> + +<p>“What?”</p> + +<p>“I’ve got gum on my shoe. Some utter ass left his or her gum on the +floor and of course I stepped in it.”</p> + +<p>Jim blushed, inappropriately.</p> + +<p>“Do you know how to get it off?” she demanded petulantly. “I’ve tried +a knife. I’ve tried every damn thing in the dressing-room. I’ve tried +soap and water—and even perfume and I’ve ruined my powder-puff trying +to make it stick to that.”</p> + +<p>Jim considered the question in some agitation.</p> + +<p>“Why—I think maybe gasolene—”</p> + +<p>The words had scarcely left his lips when she grasped his hand and +pulled him at a run off the low veranda, over a flower bed and at a +gallop toward a group of cars parked in the moonlight by the first +hole of the golf course.</p> + +<p>“Turn on the gasolene,” she commanded breathlessly.</p> + +<p>“What?”</p> + +<p>“For the gum of course. I’ve got to get it off. I can’t dance with gum +on.”</p> + +<p>Obediently Jim turned to the cars and began inspecting them with a +view to obtaining the desired solvent. Had she demanded a cylinder he +would have done his best to wrench one out.</p> + +<p>“Here,” he said after a moment’s search. “Here’s one that’s easy. Got +a handkerchief?”</p> + +<p>“It’s up-stairs wet. I used it for the soap and water.”</p> + +<p>Jim laboriously explored his pockets.</p> + +<p>“Don’t believe I got one either.”</p> + +<p>“Doggone it! Well, we can turn it on and let it run on the ground.”</p> + +<p>He turned the spout; a dripping began.</p> + +<p>“More!”</p> + +<p>He turned it on fuller. The dripping became a flow and formed an oily +pool that glistened brightly, reflecting a dozen tremulous moons on +its quivering bosom.</p> + +<p>“Ah,” she sighed contentedly, “let it all out. The only thing to do is +to wade in it.”</p> + +<p>In desperation he turned on the tap full and the pool suddenly widened +sending tiny rivers and trickles in all directions.</p> + +<p>“That’s fine. That’s something like.”</p> + +<p>Raising her skirts she stepped gracefully in.</p> + +<p>“I know this’ll take it off,” she murmured.</p> + +<p>Jim smiled.</p> + +<p>“There’s lots more cars.”</p> + +<p>She stepped daintily out of the gasolene and began scraping her +slippers, side and bottom, on the running-board of the automobile. The +jelly-bean contained himself no longer. He bent double with explosive +laughter and after a second she joined in.</p> + +<p>“You’re here with Clark Darrow, aren’t you?” she asked as they walked +back toward the veranda.</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“You know where he is now?”</p> + +<p>“Out dancin’, I reckin.”</p> + +<p>“The deuce. He promised me a highball.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said Jim, “I guess that’ll be all right. I got his bottle right +here in my pocket.”</p> + +<p>She smiled at him radiantly.</p> + +<p>“I guess maybe you’ll need ginger ale though,” he added.</p> + +<p>“Not me. Just the bottle.”</p> + +<p>“Sure enough?”</p> + +<p>She laughed scornfully.</p> + +<p>“Try me. I can drink anything any man can. Let’s sit down.”</p> + +<p>She perched herself on the side of a table and he dropped into one of +the wicker chairs beside her. Taking out the cork she held the flask +to her lips and took a long drink. He watched her fascinated.</p> + +<p>“Like it?”</p> + +<p>She shook her head breathlessly.</p> + +<p>“No, but I like the way it makes me feel. I think most people are that +way.”</p> + +<p>Jim agreed.</p> + +<p>“My daddy liked it too well. It got him.”</p> + +<p>“American men,” said Nancy gravely, “don’t know how to drink.”</p> + +<p>“What?” Jim was startled.</p> + +<p>“In fact,” she went on carelessly, “they don’t know how to do anything +very well. The one thing I regret in my life is that I wasn’t born in +England.”</p> + +<p>“In England?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. It’s the one regret of my life that I wasn’t.”</p> + +<p>“Do you like it over there?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. Immensely. I’ve never been there in person, but I’ve met a lot +of Englishmen who were over here in the army, Oxford and Cambridge +men—you know, that’s like Sewanee and University of Georgia are +here—and of course I’ve read a lot of English novels.”</p> + +<p>Jim was interested, amazed.</p> + +<p>“D’ you ever hear of Lady Diana Manner?” she asked earnestly.</p> + +<p>No, Jim had not.</p> + +<p>“Well, she’s what I’d like to be. Dark, you know, like me, and wild as +sin. She’s the girl who rode her horse up the steps of some cathedral +or church or something and all the novelists made their heroines do it +afterwards.”</p> + +<p>Jim nodded politely. He was out of his depths.</p> + +<p>“Pass the bottle,” suggested Nancy. “I’m going to take another little +one. A little drink wouldn’t hurt a baby.</p> + +<p>“You see,” she continued, again breathless after a draught. “People +over there have style. Nobody has style here. I mean the boys here +aren’t really worth dressing up for or doing sensational things for. +Don’t you know?”</p> + +<p>“I suppose so—I mean I suppose not,” murmured Jim.</p> + +<p>“And I’d like to do ’em an’ all. I’m really the only girl in town that +has style.”</p> + +<p>She stretched out her arms and yawned pleasantly.</p> + +<p>“Pretty evening.”</p> + +<p>“Sure is,” agreed Jim.</p> + +<p>“Like to have boat,” she suggested dreamily. “Like to sail out on a +silver lake, say the Thames, for instance. Have champagne and caviare +sandwiches along. Have about eight people. And one of the men would +jump overboard to amuse the party, and get drowned like a man did with +Lady Diana Manners once.”</p> + +<p>“Did he do it to please her?”</p> + +<p>“Didn’t mean drown himself to please +her. He just meant to jump overboard and make everybody laugh.”</p> + +<p>“I reckin they just died laughin’ when he drowned.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I suppose they laughed a little,” she admitted. “I imagine she +did, anyway. She’s pretty hard, I guess—like I am.”</p> + +<p>“You hard?”</p> + +<p>“Like nails.” She yawned again and added, “Give me a little more from +that bottle.”</p> + +<p>Jim hesitated but she held out her hand defiantly, “Don’t treat me +like a girl,” she warned him. “I’m not like any girl <i>you</i> ever +saw.” She considered. “Still, perhaps you’re right. You got—you got +old head on young shoulders.”</p> + +<p>She jumped to her feet and moved toward the door. The Jelly-bean rose +also.</p> + +<p>“Good-bye,” she said politely, “good-bye. Thanks, Jelly-bean.”</p> + +<p>Then she stepped inside and left him wide-eyed upon the porch.</p> + + + +<h4>III</h4> + +<p>At twelve o’clock a procession of cloaks issued single file from the +women’s dressing-room and, each one pairing with a coated beau like +dancers meeting in a cotillion figure, drifted through the door with +sleepy happy laughter—through the door into the dark where autos +backed and snorted and parties called to one another and gathered +around the water-cooler.</p> + +<p>Jim, sitting in his corner, rose to look for Clark. They had met at +eleven; then Clark had gone in to dance. So, seeking him, Jim wandered +into the soft-drink stand that had once been a bar. The room was +deserted except for a sleepy negro dozing behind the counter and two +boys lazily fingering a pair of dice at one of the tables. Jim was +about to leave when he saw Clark coming in. At the same moment Clark +looked up.</p> + +<p>“Hi, Jim!” he commanded. “C’mon over and help us with this bottle. I +guess there’s not much left, but there’s one all around.”</p> + +<p>Nancy, the man from Savannah, Marylyn Wade, and Joe Ewing were lolling +and laughing in the doorway. Nancy caught Jim’s eye and winked at him +humorously.</p> + +<p>They drifted over to a table and arranging themselves around it waited +for the waiter to bring ginger ale. Jim, faintly ill at ease, turned +his eyes on Nancy, who had drifted into a nickel crap game with the +two boys at the next table.</p> + +<p>“Bring them over here,” suggested Clark.</p> + +<p>Joe looked around.</p> + +<p>“We don’t want to draw a crowd. It’s against club rules.”</p> + +<p>“Nobody’s around,” insisted Clark, “except Mr. Taylor. He’s walking up +and down like a wild-man trying find out who let all the gasolene out +of his car.”</p> + +<p>There was a general laugh.</p> + +<p>“I bet a million Nancy got something on her shoe again. You can’t park +when she’s around.”</p> + +<p>“O Nancy, Mr. Taylor’s looking for you!”</p> + +<p>Nancy’s cheeks were glowing with excitement over the game. “I haven’t +seen his silly little flivver in two weeks.”</p> + +<p>Jim felt a sudden silence. He turned and saw an individual of +uncertain age standing in the doorway.</p> + +<p>Clark’s voice punctuated the embarrassment.</p> + +<p>“Won’t you join us, Mr. Taylor?”</p> + +<p>“Thanks.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Taylor spread his unwelcome presence over a chair. “Have to, I +guess. I’m waiting till they dig me up some gasolene. Somebody got +funny with my car.”</p> + +<p>His eyes narrowed and he looked quickly from one to the other. Jim +wondered what he had heard from the doorway—tried to remember what +had been said.</p> + +<p>“I’m right to-night,” Nancy sang out, “and my four bits is in the +ring.”</p> + +<p>“Faded!” snapped Taylor suddenly.</p> + +<p>“Why, Mr. Taylor, I didn’t know you shot craps!” Nancy was overjoyed +to find that he had seated himself and instantly covered her bet. They +had openly disliked each other since the night she had definitely +discouraged a series of rather pointed advances.</p> + +<p>“All right, babies, do it for your mamma. Just one little seven.” +Nancy was <i>cooing</i> to the dice. She rattled them with a brave +underhand flourish, and rolled them out on the table.</p> + +<p>“Ah-h! I suspected it. And now again with the dollar up.”</p> + +<p>Five passes to her credit found Taylor a bad loser. She was making it +personal, and after each success Jim watched triumph flutter across +her face. She was doubling with each throw—such luck could scarcely +last. “Better go easy,” he cautioned her timidly.</p> + +<p>“Ah, but watch this one,” she whispered. It was eight on the dice and +she called her number.</p> + +<p>“Little Ada, this time we’re going South.”</p> + +<p>Ada from Decatur rolled over the table. Nancy was flushed and +half-hysterical, but her luck was holding.</p> + +<p>She drove the pot up and up, refusing to drag. Taylor was drumming +with his fingers on the table but he was in to stay.</p> + +<p>Then Nancy tried for a ten and lost the dice. Taylor seized them +avidly. He shot in silence, and in the hush of excitement the clatter +of one pass after another on the table was the only sound.</p> + +<p>Now Nancy had the dice again, but her luck had broken. An hour passed. +Back and forth it went. Taylor had been at it again—and again and +again. They were even at last—Nancy lost her ultimate five dollars.</p> + +<p>“Will you take my check,” she said quickly, “for fifty, and we’ll +shoot it all?” Her voice was a little unsteady and her hand shook as +she reached to the money.</p> + +<p>Clark exchanged an uncertain but alarmed glance with Joe Ewing. Taylor +shot again. He had Nancy’s check.</p> + +<p>“How ’bout another?” she said wildly. “Jes’ any bank’ll do—money +everywhere as a matter of fact.”</p> + +<p>Jim understood—the “good old corn” he had given her—the “good old +corn” she had taken since. He wished he dared interfere—a girl of +that age and position would hardly have two bank accounts. When the +clock struck two he contained himself no longer.</p> + +<p>“May I—can’t you let me roll ’em for you?” he suggested, his low, +lazy voice a little strained.</p> + +<p>Suddenly sleepy and listless, Nancy flung the dice down before him.</p> + +<p>“All right—old boy! As Lady Diana Manners says, ‘Shoot ’em, +Jelly-bean’—My luck’s gone.”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Taylor,” said Jim, carelessly, “we’ll shoot for one of those +there checks against the cash.”</p> + +<p>Half an hour later Nancy swayed forward and clapped him on the back.</p> + +<p>“Stole my luck, you did.” She was nodding her head sagely.</p> + +<p>Jim swept up the last check and putting it with the others tore them +into confetti and scattered them on the floor. Someone started singing +and Nancy kicking her chair backward rose to her feet.</p> + +<p>“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced, “Ladies—that’s you Marylyn. I +want to tell the world that Mr. Jim Powell, who is a well-known +Jelly-bean of this city, is an exception to the great rule—‘lucky in +dice—unlucky in love.’ He’s lucky in dice, and as matter of fact I—I +<i>love</i> him. Ladies and gentlemen, Nancy Lamar, famous dark-haired +beauty often featured in the <i>Herald</i> as one th’ most popular +members of younger set as other girls are often featured in this +particular case. Wish to announce—wish to announce, anyway, +Gentlemen—” She tipped suddenly. Clark caught her and restored her +balance.</p> + +<p>“My error,” she laughed, “she—stoops to—stoops to—anyways—We’ll +drink to Jelly-bean ... Mr. Jim Powell, King of the Jelly-beans.”</p> + +<p>And a few minutes later as Jim waited hat in hand for Clark in the +darkness of that same corner of the porch where she had come searching +for gasolene, she appeared suddenly beside him.</p> + +<p>“Jelly-bean,” she said, “are you here, Jelly-bean? I think—” and her +slight unsteadiness seemed part of an enchanted dream—“I think you +deserve one of my sweetest kisses for that, Jelly-bean.”</p> + +<p>For an instant her arms were around his neck—her lips were pressed to +his.</p> + +<p>“I’m a wild part of the world, Jelly-bean, but you did me a good +turn.”</p> + +<p>Then she was gone, down the porch, over the cricket-loud lawn. Jim saw +Merritt come out the front door and say something to her angrily—saw +her laugh and, turning away, walk with averted eyes to his car. +Marylyn and Joe followed, singing a drowsy song about a Jazz baby.</p> + +<p>Clark came out and joined Jim on the steps. “All pretty lit, I guess,” +he yawned. “Merritt’s in a mean mood. He’s certainly off Nancy.”</p> + +<p>Over east along the golf course a faint rug of gray spread itself +across the feet of the night. The party in the car began to chant a +chorus as the engine warmed up.</p> + +<p>“Good-night everybody,” called Clark.</p> + +<p>“Good-night, Clark.”</p> + +<p>“Good-night.”</p> + +<p>There was a pause, and then a soft, happy voice added,</p> + +<p>“Good-night, Jelly-bean.”</p> + +<p>The car drove off to a burst of singing. A rooster on a farm across +the way took up a solitary mournful crow, and behind them, a last +negro waiter turned out the porch light. Jim and Clark strolled over +toward the Ford, their shoes crunching raucously on the gravel drive.</p> + +<p>“Oh boy!” sighed Clark softly, “how you can set those dice!”</p> + +<p>It was still too dark for him to see the flush on Jim’s thin +cheeks—or to know that it was a flush of unfamiliar shame.</p> + + + +<h4>IV</h4> + +<p>Over Tilly’s garage a bleak room echoed all day to the rumble and +snorting down-stairs and the singing of the negro washers as they +turned the hose on the cars outside. It was a cheerless square of a +room, punctuated with a bed and a battered table on which lay half a +dozen books—Joe Miller’s “Slow Train thru Arkansas,” “Lucille,” in an +old edition very much annotated in an old-fashioned hand; “The Eyes of +the World,” by Harold Bell Wright, and an ancient prayer-book of the +Church of England with the name Alice Powell and the date 1831 written +on the fly-leaf.</p> + +<p>The East, gray when Jelly-bean entered the garage, became a rich and +vivid blue as he turned on his solitary electric light. He snapped it +out again, and going to the window rested his elbows on the sill and +stared into the deepening morning. With the awakening of his emotions, +his first perception was a sense of futility, a dull ache at the utter +grayness of his life. A wall had sprung up suddenly around him hedging +him in, a wall as definite and tangible as the white wall of his bare +room. And with his perception of this wall all that had been the +romance of his existence, the casualness, the light-hearted +improvidence, the miraculous open-handedness of life faded out. The +Jelly-bean strolling up Jackson Street humming a lazy song, known at +every shop and street stand, cropful of easy greeting and local wit, +sad sometimes for only the sake of sadness and the flight of +time—that Jelly-bean was suddenly vanished. The very name was a +reproach, a triviality. With a flood of insight he knew that Merritt +must despise him, that even Nancy’s kiss in the dawn would have +awakened not jealousy but only a contempt for Nancy’s so lowering +herself. And on his part the Jelly-bean had used for her a dingy +subterfuge learned from the garage. He had been her moral laundry; the +stains were his.</p> + +<p>As the gray became blue, brightened and filled the room, he crossed to +his bed and threw himself down on it, gripping the edges fiercely.</p> + +<p>“I love her,” he cried aloud, “God!”</p> + +<p>As he said this something gave way within him like a lump melting in +his throat. The air cleared and became radiant with dawn, and turning +over on his face he began to sob dully into the pillow.</p> + +<hr class="tb" > + +<p>In the sunshine of three o’clock Clark Darrow chugging painfully along +Jackson Street was hailed by the Jelly-bean, who stood on the curb +with his fingers in his vest pockets.</p> + +<p>“Hi!” called Clark, bringing his Ford to an astonishing stop +alongside. “Just get up?”</p> + +<p>The Jelly-bean shook his head.</p> + +<p>“Never did go to bed. Felt sorta restless, so I took a long walk this +morning out in the country. Just got into town this minute.”</p> + +<p>“Should think you <i>would</i> feel restless. I been feeling thataway +all day—”</p> + +<p>“I’m thinkin’ of leavin’ town,” continued the Jelly-bean, absorbed by +his own thoughts. “Been thinkin’ of goin’ up on the farm, and takin’ a +little that work off Uncle Dun. Reckin I been bummin’ too long.”</p> + +<p>Clark was silent and the Jelly-bean continued:</p> + +<p>“I reckin maybe after Aunt Mamie dies I could sink that money of mine +in the farm and make somethin’ out of it. All my people originally +came from that part up there. Had a big place.”</p> + +<p>Clark looked at him curiously.</p> + +<p>“That’s funny,” he said. “This—this sort of affected me the same +way.”</p> + +<p>The Jelly-bean hesitated.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” he began slowly, “somethin’ about—about that girl +last night talkin’ about a lady named Diana Manners—an English lady, +sorta got me thinkin’!” He drew himself up and looked oddly at Clark, +“I had a family once,” he said defiantly.</p> + +<p>Clark nodded.</p> + +<p>“I know.”</p> + +<p>“And I’m the last of ’em,” continued the Jelly-bean his voice rising +slightly, “and I ain’t worth shucks. Name they call me by means +jelly—weak and wobbly like. People who weren’t nothin’ when my folks +was a lot turn up their noses when they pass me on the street.”</p> + +<p>Again Clark was silent.</p> + +<p>“So I’m through, I’m goin’ to-day. And when I come back to this town +it’s going to be like a gentleman.”</p> + +<p>Clark took out his handkerchief and wiped his damp brow.</p> + +<p>“Reckon you’re not the only one it shook up,” he admitted gloomily. +“All this thing of girls going round like they do is going to stop +right quick. Too bad, too, but everybody’ll have to see it thataway.”</p> + +<p>“Do you mean,” demanded Jim in surprise, “that all that’s leaked out?”</p> + +<p>“Leaked out? How on earth could they keep it secret. It’ll be +announced in the papers to-night. Doctor Lamar’s got to save his name +somehow.”</p> + +<p>Jim put his hands on the sides of the car and tightened his long +fingers on the metal.</p> + +<p>“Do you mean Taylor investigated those checks?”</p> + +<p>It was Clark’s turn to be surprised.</p> + +<p>“Haven’t you heard what happened?”</p> + +<p>Jim’s startled eyes were answer enough.</p> + +<p>“Why,” announced Clark dramatically, “those four got another bottle of +corn, got tight and decided to shock the town—so Nancy and that fella +Merritt were married in Rockville at seven o’clock this morning.”</p> + +<p>A tiny indentation appeared in the metal under the Jelly-bean’s +fingers.</p> + +<p>“Married?”</p> + +<p>“Sure enough. Nancy sobered up and rushed back into town, crying and +frightened to death—claimed it’d all been a mistake. First Doctor +Lamar went wild and was going to kill Merritt, but finally they got it +patched up some way, and Nancy and Merritt went to Savannah on the +two-thirty train.”</p> + +<p>Jim closed his eyes and with an effort overcame a sudden sickness.</p> + +<p>“It’s too bad,” said Clark philosophically. “I don’t mean the +wedding—reckon that’s all right, though I don’t guess Nancy cared a +darn about him. But it’s a crime for a nice girl like that to hurt her +family that way.”</p> + +<p>The Jelly-bean let go the car and turned away. Again something was +going on inside him, some inexplicable but almost chemical change.</p> + +<p>“Where you going?” asked Clark.</p> + +<p>The Jelly-bean turned and looked dully back over his shoulder.</p> + +<p>“Got to go,” he muttered. “Been up too long; feelin’ right sick.”</p> + +<p>“Oh.”</p> + +<hr class="tb" > + +<p>The street was hot at three and hotter still at four, the April dust +seeming to enmesh the sun and give it forth again as a world-old joke +forever played on an eternity of afternoons. But at half past four a +first layer of quiet fell and the shades lengthened under the awnings +and heavy foliaged trees. In this heat nothing mattered. All life was +weather, a waiting through the hot where events had no significance +for the cool that was soft and caressing like a woman’s hand on a +tired forehead. Down in Georgia there is a feeling—perhaps +inarticulate—that this is the greatest wisdom of the South—so after +a while the Jelly-bean turned into a poolhall on Jackson Street where +he was sure to find a congenial crowd who would make all the old +jokes—the ones he knew.</p> + + + + +<div class="chapter"> +<h3 class="nobreak" id="THE_CAMELS_BACK">THE CAMEL’S BACK</h3> +</div> + + +<p>The glazed eye of the tired reader resting for a second on the above +title will presume it to be merely metaphorical. Stories about the cup +and the lip and the bad penny and the new broom rarely have anything, +to do with cups or lips or pennies or brooms. This story is the +exception. It has to do with a material, visible and large-as-life +camel’s back.</p> + +<p>Starting from the neck we shall work toward the tail. I want you to +meet Mr. Perry Parkhurst, twenty-eight, lawyer, native of Toledo. +Perry has nice teeth, a Harvard diploma, parts his hair in the middle. +You have met him before—in Cleveland, Portland, St. Paul, +Indianapolis, Kansas City, and so forth. Baker Brothers, New York, +pause on their semi-annual trip through the West to clothe him; +Montmorency & Co. dispatch a young man post-haste every three months +to see that he has the correct number of little punctures on his +shoes. He has a domestic roadster now, will have a French roadster if +he lives long enough, and doubtless a Chinese tank if it comes into +fashion. He looks like the advertisement of the young man rubbing his +sunset-colored chest with liniment and goes East every other year to +his class reunion.</p> + +<p>I want you to meet his Love. Her name is Betty Medill, and she would +take well in the movies. Her father gives her three hundred a month to +dress on, and she has tawny eyes and hair and feather fans of five +colors. I shall also introduce her father, Cyrus Medill. Though he is +to all appearances flesh and blood, he is, strange to say, commonly +known in Toledo as the Aluminum Man. But when he sits in his club +window with two or three Iron Men, and the White Pine Man, and the +Brass Man, they look very much as you and I do, only more so, if you +know what I mean.</p> + +<p>Now during the Christmas holidays of 1919 there took place in Toledo, +counting only the people with the italicized <i>the</i>, forty-one +dinner parties, sixteen dances, six luncheons, male and female, twelve +teas, four stag dinners, two weddings, and thirteen bridge parties. It +was the cumulative effect of all this that moved Perry Parkhurst on +the twenty-ninth day of December to a decision.</p> + +<p>This Medill girl would marry him and she wouldn’t marry him. She was +having such a good time that she hated to take such a definite step. +Meanwhile, their secret engagement had got so long that it seemed as +if any day it might break off of its own weight. A little man named +Warburton, who knew it all, persuaded Perry to superman her, to get a +marriage license and go up to the Medill house and tell her she’d have +to marry him at once or call it off forever. So he presented himself, +his heart, his license, and his ultimatum, and within five minutes +they were in the midst of a violent quarrel, a burst of sporadic open +fighting such as occurs near the end of all long wars and engagements. +It brought about one of those ghastly lapses in which two people who +are in love pull up sharp, look at each other coolly and think it’s +all been a mistake. Afterward they usually kiss wholesomely and assure +the other person it was all their fault. Say it all was my fault! Say +it was! I want to hear you say it!</p> + +<p>But while reconciliation was trembling in the air, while each was, in +a measure, stalling it off, so that they might the more voluptuously +and sentimentally enjoy it when it came, they were permanently +interrupted by a twenty-minute phone call for Betty from a garrulous +aunt. At the end of eighteen minutes Perry Parkhurst, urged on by +pride and suspicion and injured dignity, put on his long fur coat, +picked up his light brown soft hat, and stalked out the door.</p> + +<p>“It’s all over,” he muttered brokenly as he tried to jam his car into +first. “It’s all over—if I have to choke you for an hour, damn you!” +The last to the car, which had been standing some time and was quite +cold.</p> + +<p>He drove downtown—that is, he got into a snow rut that led him +downtown. He sat slouched down very low in his seat, much too +dispirited to care where he went.</p> + +<p>In front of the Clarendon Hotel he was hailed from the sidewalk by a +bad man named Baily, who had big teeth and lived at the hotel and had +never been in love.</p> + +<p>“Perry,” said the bad man softly when the roadster drew up beside him +at the curb, “I’ve got six quarts of the doggonedest still champagne +you ever tasted. A third of it’s yours, Perry, if you’ll come +up-stairs and help Martin Macy and me drink it.”</p> + +<p>“Baily,” said Perry tensely, “I’ll drink your champagne. I’ll drink +every drop of it, I don’t care if it kills me.”</p> + +<p>“Shut up, you nut!” said the bad man gently. “They don’t put wood +alcohol in champagne. This is the stuff that proves the world is more +than six thousand years old. It’s so ancient that the cork is +petrified. You have to pull it with a stone drill.”</p> + +<p>“Take me up-stairs,” said Perry moodily. “If that cork sees my heart +it’ll fall out from pure mortification.”</p> + +<p>The room up-stairs was full of those innocent hotel pictures of little +girls eating apples and sitting in swings and talking to dogs. The +other decorations were neckties and a pink man reading a pink paper +devoted to ladies in pink tights.</p> + +<p>“When you have to go into the highways and byways——” said the pink +man, looking reproachfully at Baily and Perry.</p> + +<p>“Hello, Martin Macy,” said Perry shortly, “where’s this stone-age +champagne?”</p> + +<p>“What’s the rush? This isn’t an operation, understand. This is a +party.”</p> + +<p>Perry sat down dully and looked disapprovingly at all the neckties.</p> + +<p>Baily leisurely opened the door of a wardrobe and brought out six +handsome bottles.</p> + +<p>“Take off that darn fur coat!” said Martin Macy to Perry. “Or maybe +you’d like to have us open all the windows.”</p> + +<p>“Give me champagne,” said Perry.</p> + +<p>“Going to the Townsends’ circus ball to-night?”</p> + +<p>“Am not!”</p> + +<p>“’Vited?”</p> + +<p>“Uh-huh.”</p> + +<p>“Why not go?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’m sick of parties,” exclaimed Perry. “I’m sick of ’em. I’ve +been to so many that I’m sick of ’em.”</p> + +<p>“Maybe you’re going to the Howard Tates’ party?”</p> + +<p>“No, I tell you; I’m sick of ’em.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said Macy consolingly, “the Tates’ is just for college kids +anyways.”</p> + +<p>“I tell you——”</p> + +<p>“I thought you’d be going to one of ’em anyways. I see by the papers +you haven’t missed a one this Christmas.”</p> + +<p>“Hm,” grunted Perry morosely.</p> + +<p>He would never go to any more parties. Classical phrases played in his +mind—that side of his life was closed, closed. Now when a man says +“closed, closed” like that, you can be pretty sure that some woman has +double-closed him, so to speak. Perry was also thinking that other +classical thought, about how cowardly suicide is. A noble thought that +one—warm and inspiring. Think of all the fine men we should lose if +suicide were not so cowardly!</p> + +<p>An hour later was six o’clock, and Perry had lost all resemblance to +the young man in the liniment advertisement. He looked like a rough +draft for a riotous cartoon. They were singing—an impromptu song of +Baily’s improvisation:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“<i>One Lump Perry, the parlor snake,</i></div> + <div class="verse indent2"><i>Famous through the city for the way he drinks his tea;</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Plays with it, toys with it</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Makes no noise with it,</i></div> + <div class="verse indent2"><i>Balanced on a napkin on his well-trained knee—</i>”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>“Trouble is,” said Perry, who had just banged his hair with Baily’s +comb and was tying an orange tie round it to get the effect of Julius +Caesar, “that you fellas can’t sing worth a damn. Soon’s I leave the +air and start singing tenor you start singin’ tenor too.”</p> + +<p>“’M a natural tenor,” said Macy gravely. “Voice lacks cultivation, +tha’s all. Gotta natural voice, m’aunt used say. Naturally good +singer.”</p> + +<p>“Singers, singers, all good singers,” remarked Baily, who was at the +telephone. “No, not the cabaret; I want night egg. I mean some +dog-gone clerk ’at’s got food—food! I want——”</p> + +<p>“Julius Caesar,” announced Perry, turning round from the mirror. “Man +of iron will and stern ’termination.”</p> + +<p>“Shut up!” yelled Baily. “Say, iss Mr. Baily. Sen’ up enormous supper. +Use y’own judgment. Right away.”</p> + +<p>He connected the receiver and the hook with some difficulty, and then +with his lips closed and an expression of solemn intensity in his eyes +went to the lower drawer of his dresser and pulled it open.</p> + +<p>“Lookit!” he commanded. In his hands he held a truncated garment of +pink gingham.</p> + +<p>“Pants,” he exclaimed gravely. “Lookit!”</p> + +<p>This was a pink blouse, a red tie, and a Buster Brown collar.</p> + +<p>“Lookit!” he repeated. “Costume for the Townsends’ circus ball. I’m +li’l’ boy carries water for the elephants.”</p> + +<p>Perry was impressed in spite of himself.</p> + +<p>“I’m going to be Julius Caesar,” he announced after a moment of +concentration.</p> + +<p>“Thought you weren’t going!” said Macy.</p> + +<p>“Me? Sure I’m goin’. Never miss a party. Good for the nerves—like +celery.”</p> + +<p>“Caesar!” scoffed Baily. “Can’t be Caesar! He is not about a circus. +Caesar’s Shakespeare. Go as a clown.”</p> + +<p>Perry shook his head.</p> + +<p>“Nope; Caesar.”</p> + +<p>“Caesar?”</p> + +<p>“Sure. Chariot.”</p> + +<p>Light dawned on Baily.</p> + +<p>“That’s right. Good idea.”</p> + +<p>Perry looked round the room searchingly.</p> + +<p>“You lend me a bathrobe and this tie,” he said finally. Baily +considered.</p> + +<p>“No good.”</p> + +<p>“Sure, tha’s all I need. Caesar was a savage. They can’t kick if I +come as Caesar, if he was a savage.”</p> + +<p>“No,” said Baily, shaking his head slowly. “Get a costume over at a +costumer’s. Over at Nolak’s.”</p> + +<p>“Closed up.”</p> + +<p>“Find out.”</p> + +<p>After a puzzling five minutes at the phone a small, weary voice +managed to convince Perry that it was Mr. Nolak speaking, and that +they would remain open until eight because of the Townsends’ ball. +Thus assured, Perry ate a great amount of filet mignon and drank his +third of the last bottle of champagne. At eight-fifteen the man in the +tall hat who stands in front of the Clarendon found him trying to +start his roadster.</p> + +<p>“Froze up,” said Perry wisely. “The cold froze it. The cold air.”</p> + +<p>“Froze, eh?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. Cold air froze it.”</p> + +<p>“Can’t start it?”</p> + +<p>“Nope. Let it stand here till summer. One those hot ole August days’ll +thaw it out awright.”</p> + +<p>“Goin’ let it stand?”</p> + +<p>“Sure. Let ’er stand. Take a hot thief to steal it. Gemme taxi.”</p> + +<p>The man in the tall hat summoned a taxi.</p> + +<p>“Where to, mister?”</p> + +<p>“Go to Nolak’s—costume fella.”</p> + + +<h4>II</h4> + +<p>Mrs. Nolak was short and ineffectual looking, and on the cessation of +the world war had belonged for a while to one of the new +nationalities. Owing to unsettled European conditions she had never +since been quite sure what she was. The shop in which she and her +husband performed their daily stint was dim and ghostly, and peopled +with suits of armor and Chinese mandarins, and enormous papier-mâché +birds suspended from the ceiling. In a vague background many rows of +masks glared eyelessly at the visitor, and there were glass cases full +of crowns and scepters, and jewels and enormous stomachers, and +paints, and crape hair, and wigs of all colors.</p> + +<p>When Perry ambled into the shop Mrs. Nolak was folding up the last +troubles of a strenuous day, so she thought, in a drawer full of pink +silk stockings.</p> + +<p>“Something for you?” she queried pessimistically.</p> + +<p>“Want costume of Julius Hur, the charioteer.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Nolak was sorry, but every stitch of charioteer had been rented +long ago. Was it for the Townsends’ circus ball?</p> + +<p>It was.</p> + +<p>“Sorry,” she said, “but I don’t think there’s anything left that’s +really circus.”</p> + +<p>This was an obstacle.</p> + +<p>“Hm,” said Perry. An idea struck him suddenly. “If you’ve got a piece +of canvas I could go’s a tent.”</p> + +<p>“Sorry, but we haven’t anything like that. A hardware store is where +you’d have to go to. We have some very nice Confederate soldiers.”</p> + +<p>“No. No soldiers.”</p> + +<p>“And I have a very handsome king.”</p> + +<p>He shook his head.</p> + +<p>“Several of the gentlemen,” she continued hopefully, “are wearing +stovepipe hats and swallow-tail coats and going as ringmasters—but +we’re all out of tall hats. I can let you have some crape hair for a +mustache.”</p> + +<p>“Want somep’n ’stinctive.”</p> + +<p>“Something—let’s see. Well, we have a lion’s head, and a goose, and a +camel—”</p> + +<p>“Camel?” The idea seized Perry’s imagination, gripped it fiercely.</p> + +<p>“Yes, but it needs two people.”</p> + +<p>“Camel. That’s the idea. Lemme see it.”</p> + +<p>The camel was produced from his resting place on a top shelf. At first +glance he appeared to consist entirely of a very gaunt, cadaverous +head and a sizable hump, but on being spread out he was found to +possess a dark brown, unwholesome-looking body made of thick, cottony +cloth.</p> + +<p>“You see it takes two people,” explained Mrs. Nolak, holding the camel +in frank admiration. “If you have a friend he could be part of it. You +see there’s sorta pants for two people. One pair is for the fella in +front, and the other pair for the fella in back. The fella in front +does the lookin’ out through these here eyes, an’ the fella in back +he’s just gotta stoop over an’ folla the front fella round.”</p> + +<p>“Put it on,” commanded Perry.</p> + +<p>Obediently Mrs. Nolak put her tabby-cat face inside the camel’s head +and turned it from side to side ferociously.</p> + +<p>Perry was fascinated.</p> + +<p>“What noise does a camel make?”</p> + +<p>“What?” asked Mrs. Nolak as her face emerged, somewhat smudgy. “Oh, +what noise? Why, he sorta brays.”</p> + +<p>“Lemme see it in a mirror.”</p> + +<p>Before a wide mirror Perry tried on the head and turned from side to +side appraisingly. In the dim light the effect was distinctly +pleasing. The camel’s face was a study in pessimism, decorated with +numerous abrasions, and it must be admitted that his coat was in that +state of general negligence peculiar to camels—in fact, he needed to +be cleaned and pressed—but distinctive he certainly was. He was +majestic. He would have attracted attention in any gathering, if only +by his melancholy cast of feature and the look of hunger lurking round +his shadowy eyes.</p> + +<p>“You see you have to have two people,” said Mrs. Nolak again.</p> + +<p>Perry tentatively gathered up the body and legs and wrapped them about +him, tying the hind legs as a girdle round his waist. The effect on +the whole was bad. It was even irreverent—like one of those mediaeval +pictures of a monk changed into a beast by the ministrations of Satan. +At the very best the ensemble resembled a humpbacked cow sitting on +her haunches among blankets.</p> + +<p>“Don’t look like anything at all,” objected Perry gloomily.</p> + +<p>“No,” said Mrs. Nolak; “you see you got to have two people.”</p> + +<p>A solution flashed upon Perry.</p> + +<p>“You got a date to-night?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I couldn’t possibly——”</p> + +<p>“Oh, come on,” said Perry encouragingly. “Sure you can! Here! Be good +sport, and climb into these hind legs.”</p> + +<p>With difficulty he located them, and extended their yawning depths +ingratiatingly. But Mrs. Nolak seemed loath. She backed perversely +away.</p> + +<p>“Oh, no——”</p> + +<p>“C’m on! You can be the front if you want to. Or we’ll flip a coin.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no——”</p> + +<p>“Make it worth your while.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Nolak set her lips firmly together.</p> + +<p>“Now you just stop!” she said with no coyness implied. “None of the +gentlemen ever acted up this way before. My husband——”</p> + +<p>“You got a husband?” demanded Perry. “Where is he?”</p> + +<p>“He’s home.”</p> + +<p>“Wha’s telephone number?”</p> + +<p>After considerable parley he obtained the telephone number pertaining +to the Nolak penates and got into communication with that small, weary +voice he had heard once before that day. But Mr. Nolak, though taken +off his guard and somewhat confused by Perry’s brilliant flow of +logic, stuck staunchly to his point. He refused firmly, but with +dignity, to help out Mr. Parkhurst in the capacity of back part of a +camel.</p> + +<p>Having rung off, or rather having been rung off on, Perry sat down on +a three-legged stool to think it over. He named over to himself those +friends on whom he might call, and then his mind paused as Betty +Medill’s name hazily and sorrowfully occurred to him. He had a +sentimental thought. He would ask her. Their love affair was over, but +she could not refuse this last request. Surely it was not much to +ask—to help him keep up his end of social obligation for one short +night. And if she insisted, she could be the front part of the camel +and he would go as the back. His magnanimity pleased him. His mind +even turned to rosy-colored dreams of a tender reconciliation inside +the camel—there hidden away from all the world....</p> + +<p>“Now you’d better decide right off.”</p> + +<p>The bourgeois voice of Mrs. Nolak broke in upon his mellow fancies and +roused him to action. He went to the phone and called up the Medill +house. Miss Betty was out; had gone out to dinner.</p> + +<p>Then, when all seemed lost, the camel’s back wandered curiously into +the store. He was a dilapidated individual with a cold in his head and +a general trend about him of downwardness. His cap was pulled down low +on his head, and his chin was pulled down low on his chest, his coat +hung down to his shoes, he looked run-down, down at the heels, +and—Salvation Army to the contrary—down and out. He said that he was +the taxicab-driver that the gentleman had hired at the Clarendon +Hotel. He had been instructed to wait outside, but he had waited some +time, and a suspicion had grown upon him that the gentleman had gone +out the back way with purpose to defraud him—gentlemen sometimes +did—so he had come in. He sank down onto the three-legged stool.</p> + +<p>“Wanta go to a party?” demanded Perry sternly.</p> + +<p>“I gotta work,” answered the taxi-driver lugubriously. “I gotta keep +my job.”</p> + +<p>“It’s a very good party.”</p> + +<p>“’S a very good job.”</p> + +<p>“Come on!” urged Perry. “Be a good fella. See—it’s pretty!” He held +the camel up and the taxi-driver looked at it cynically.</p> + +<p>“Huh!”</p> + +<p>Perry searched feverishly among the folds of the cloth.</p> + +<p>“See!” he cried enthusiastically, holding up a selection of folds. +“This is your part. You don’t even have to talk. All you have to do is +to walk—and sit down occasionally. You do all the sitting down. Think +of it. I’m on my feet all the time and <i>you</i> can sit down some of +the time. The only time <i>I</i> can sit down is when we’re lying +down, and you can sit down when—oh, any time. See?”</p> + +<p>“What’s ’at thing?” demanded the individual dubiously. “A shroud?”</p> + +<p>“Not at all,” said Perry indignantly. “It’s a camel.”</p> + +<p>“Huh?”</p> + +<p>Then Perry mentioned a sum of money, and the conversation left the +land of grunts and assumed a practical tinge. Perry and the +taxi-driver tried on the camel in front of the mirror.</p> + +<p>“You can’t see it,” explained Perry, peering anxiously out through the +eyeholes, “but honestly, ole man, you look sim’ly great! Honestly!”</p> + +<p>A grunt from the hump acknowledged this somewhat dubious compliment.</p> + +<p>“Honestly, you look great!” repeated Perry enthusiastically. “Move +round a little.”</p> + +<p>The hind legs moved forward, giving the effect of a huge cat-camel +hunching his back preparatory to a spring.</p> + +<p>“No; move sideways.”</p> + +<p>The camel’s hips went neatly out of joint; a hula dancer would have +writhed in envy.</p> + +<p>“Good, isn’t it?” demanded Perry, turning to Mrs. Nolak for approval.</p> + +<p>“It looks lovely,” agreed Mrs. Nolak.</p> + +<p>“We’ll take it,” said Perry.</p> + +<p>The bundle was stowed under Perry’s arm and they left the shop.</p> + +<p>“Go to the party!” he commanded as he took his seat in the back.</p> + +<p>“What party?”</p> + +<p>“Fanzy-dress party.”</p> + +<p>“Where’bouts is it?”</p> + +<p>This presented a new problem. Perry tried to remember, but the names +of all those who had given parties during the holidays danced +confusedly before his eyes. He could ask Mrs. Nolak, but on looking +out the window he saw that the shop was dark. Mrs. Nolak had already +faded out, a little black smudge far down the snowy street.</p> + +<p>“Drive uptown,” directed Perry with fine confidence. “If you see a +party, stop. Otherwise I’ll tell you when we get there.”</p> + +<p>He fell into a hazy daydream and his thoughts wandered again to +Betty—he imagined vaguely that they had had a disagreement because +she refused to go to the party as the back part of the camel. He was +just slipping off into a chilly doze when he was wakened by the +taxi-driver opening the door and shaking him by the arm.</p> + +<p>“Here we are, maybe.”</p> + +<p>Perry looked out sleepily. A striped awning led from the curb up to a +spreading gray stone house, from which issued the low drummy whine of +expensive jazz. He recognized the Howard Tate house.</p> + +<p>“Sure,” he said emphatically; “’at’s it! Tate’s party to-night. Sure, +everybody’s goin’.”</p> + +<p>“Say,” said the individual anxiously after another look at the awning, +“you sure these people ain’t gonna romp on me for comin’ here?”</p> + +<p>Perry drew himself up with dignity.</p> + +<p>“’F anybody says anything to you, just tell ’em you’re part of my +costume.”</p> + +<p>The visualization of himself as a thing rather than a person seemed to +reassure the individual.</p> + +<p>“All right,” he said reluctantly.</p> + +<p>Perry stepped out under the shelter of the awning and began unrolling +the camel.</p> + +<p>“Let’s go,” he commanded.</p> + +<p>Several minutes later a melancholy, hungry-looking camel, emitting +clouds of smoke from his mouth and from the tip of his noble hump, +might have been seen crossing the threshold of the Howard Tate +residence, passing a startled footman without so much as a snort, and +heading directly for the main stairs that led up to the ballroom. The +beast walked with a peculiar gait which varied between an uncertain +lockstep and a stampede—but can best be described by the word +“halting.” The camel had a halting gait—and as he walked he +alternately elongated and contracted like a gigantic concertina.</p> + + + +<h4>III</h4> + +<p>The Howard Tates are, as every one who lives in Toledo knows, the most +formidable people in town. Mrs. Howard Tate was a Chicago Todd before +she became a Toledo Tate, and the family generally affect that +conscious simplicity which has begun to be the earmark of American +aristocracy. The Tates have reached the stage where they talk about +pigs and farms and look at you icy-eyed if you are not amused. They +have begun to prefer retainers rather than friends as dinner guests, +spend a lot of money in a quiet way, and, having lost all sense of +competition, are in process of growing quite dull.</p> + +<p>The dance this evening was for little Millicent Tate, and though all +ages were represented, the dancers were mostly from school and +college—the younger married crowd was at the Townsends’ circus ball +up at the Tallyho Club. Mrs. Tate was standing just inside the +ballroom, following Millicent round with her eyes, and beaming +whenever she caught her eye. Beside her were two middle-aged +sycophants, who were saying what a perfectly exquisite child Millicent +was. It was at this moment that Mrs. Tate was grasped firmly by the +skirt and her youngest daughter, Emily, aged eleven, hurled herself +with an “Oof!” into her mother’s arms.</p> + +<p>“Why, Emily, what’s the trouble?”</p> + +<p>“Mamma,” said Emily, wild-eyed but voluble, “there’s something out on +the stairs.”</p> + +<p>“What?”</p> + +<p>“There’s a thing out on the stairs, mamma. I think it’s a big dog, +mamma, but it doesn’t look like a dog.”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean, Emily?”</p> + +<p>The sycophants waved their heads sympathetically.</p> + +<p>“Mamma, it looks like a—like a camel.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tate laughed.</p> + +<p>“You saw a mean old shadow, dear, that’s all.”</p> + +<p>“No, I didn’t. No, it was some kind of thing, mamma—big. I was going +down-stairs to see if there were any more people, and this dog or +something, he was coming up-stairs. Kinda funny, mamma, like he was +lame. And then he saw me and gave a sort of growl, and then he slipped +at the top of the landing, and I ran.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tate’s laugh faded.</p> + +<p>“The child must have seen something,” she said.</p> + +<p>The sycophants agreed that the child must have seen something—and +suddenly all three women took an instinctive step away from the door +as the sounds of muffled steps were audible just outside.</p> + +<p>And then three startled gasps rang out as a dark brown form rounded +the corner, and they saw what was apparently a huge beast looking down +at them hungrily.</p> + +<p>“Oof!” cried Mrs. Tate.</p> + +<p>“O-o-oh!” cried the ladies in a chorus.</p> + +<p>The camel suddenly humped his back, and the gasps turned to shrieks.</p> + +<p>“Oh—look!”</p> + +<p>“What is it?”</p> + +<p>The dancing stopped, but the dancers hurrying over got quite a +different impression of the invader; in fact, the young people +immediately suspected that it was a stunt, a hired entertainer come to +amuse the party. The boys in long trousers looked at it rather +disdainfully, and sauntered over with their hands in their pockets, +feeling that their intelligence was being insulted. But the girls +uttered little shouts of glee.</p> + +<p>“It’s a camel!”</p> + +<p>“Well, if he isn’t the funniest!”</p> + +<p>The camel stood there uncertainly, swaying slightly from side to side, +and seeming to take in the room in a careful, appraising glance; then +as if he had come to an abrupt decision, he turned and ambled swiftly +out the door.</p> + +<p>Mr. Howard Tate had just come out of the library on the lower floor, +and was standing chatting with a young man in the hall. Suddenly they +heard the noise of shouting up-stairs, and almost immediately a +succession of bumping sounds, followed by the precipitous appearance +at the foot of the stairway of a large brown beast that seemed to be +going somewhere in a great hurry.</p> + +<p>“Now what the devil!” said Mr. Tate, starting.</p> + +<p>The beast picked itself up not without dignity and, affecting an air +of extreme nonchalance, as if he had just remembered an important +engagement, started at a mixed gait toward the front door. In fact, +his front legs began casually to run.</p> + +<p>“See here now,” said Mr. Tate sternly. “Here! Grab it, Butterfield! +Grab it!”</p> + +<p>The young man enveloped the rear of the camel in a pair of compelling +arms, and, realizing that further locomotion was impossible, the front +end submitted to capture and stood resignedly in a state of some +agitation. By this time a flood of young people was pouring +down-stairs, and Mr. Tate, suspecting everything from an ingenious +burglar to an escaped lunatic, gave crisp directions to the young man:</p> + +<p>“Hold him! Lead him in here; we’ll soon see.”</p> + +<p>The camel consented to be led into the library, and Mr. Tate, after +locking the door, took a revolver from a table drawer and instructed +the young man to take the thing’s head off. Then he gasped and +returned the revolver to its hiding-place.</p> + +<p>“Well, Perry Parkhurst!” he exclaimed in amazement.</p> + +<p>“Got the wrong party, Mr. Tate,” said Perry sheepishly. “Hope I didn’t +scare you.”</p> + +<p>“Well—you gave us a thrill, Perry.” Realization dawned on him. +“You’re bound for the Townsends’ circus ball.”</p> + +<p>“That’s the general idea.”</p> + +<p>“Let me introduce Mr. Butterfield, Mr. Parkhurst.” Then turning to +Perry; “Butterfield is staying with us for a few days.”</p> + +<p>“I got a little mixed up,” mumbled Perry. “I’m very sorry.”</p> + +<p>“Perfectly all right; most natural mistake in the world. I’ve got a +clown rig and I’m going down there myself after a while.” He turned to +Butterfield. “Better change your mind and come down with us.”</p> + +<p>The young man demurred. He was going to bed.</p> + +<p>“Have a drink, Perry?” suggested Mr. Tate.</p> + +<p>“Thanks, I will.”</p> + +<p>“And, say,” continued Tate quickly, “I’d forgotten all about +your—friend here.” He indicated the rear part of the camel. “I didn’t +mean to seem discourteous. Is it any one I know? Bring him out.”</p> + +<p>“It’s not a friend,” explained Perry hurriedly. “I just rented him.”</p> + +<p>“Does he drink?”</p> + +<p>“Do you?” demanded Perry, twisting himself tortuously round.</p> + +<p>There was a faint sound of assent.</p> + +<p>“Sure he does!” said Mr. Tate heartily. “A really efficient camel +ought to be able to drink enough so it’d last him three days.”</p> + +<p>“Tell you,” said Perry anxiously, “he isn’t exactly dressed up enough +to come out. If you give me the bottle I can hand it back to him and +he can take his inside.”</p> + +<p>From under the cloth was audible the enthusiastic smacking sound +inspired by this suggestion. When a butler had appeared with bottles, +glasses, and siphon one of the bottles was handed back; thereafter the +silent partner could be heard imbibing long potations at frequent +intervals.</p> + +<p>Thus passed a benign hour. At ten o’clock Mr. Tate decided that they’d +better be starting. He donned his clown’s costume; Perry replaced the +camel’s head, and side by side they traversed on foot the single +block between the Tate house and the Tallyho Club.</p> + +<p>The circus ball was in full swing. A great tent fly had been put up +inside the ballroom and round the walls had been built rows of booths +representing the various attractions of a circus side show, but these +were now vacated and over the floor swarmed a shouting, laughing +medley of youth and color—clowns, bearded ladies, acrobats, bareback +riders, ringmasters, tattooed men, and charioteers. The Townsends had +determined to assure their party of success, so a great quantity of +liquor had been surreptitiously brought over from their house and was +now flowing freely. A green ribbon ran along the wall completely round +the ballroom, with pointing arrows alongside and signs which +instructed the uninitiated to “Follow the green line!” The green line +led down to the bar, where waited pure punch and wicked punch and +plain dark-green bottles.</p> + +<p>On the wall above the bar was another arrow, red and very wavy, and +under it the slogan: “Now follow this!”</p> + +<p>But even amid the luxury of costume and high spirits represented, +there, the entrance of the camel created something of a stir, and +Perry was immediately surrounded by a curious, laughing crowd +attempting to penetrate the identity of this beast that stood by the +wide doorway eying the dancers with his hungry, melancholy gaze.</p> + +<p>And then Perry saw Betty standing in front of a booth, talking to a +comic policeman. She was dressed in the costume of an Egyptian +snake-charmer: her tawny hair was braided and drawn through brass +rings, the effect crowned with a glittering Oriental tiara. Her fair +face was stained to a warm olive glow and on her arms and the half +moon of her back writhed painted serpents with single eyes of venomous +green. Her feet were in sandals and her skirt was slit to the knees, +so that when she walked one caught a glimpse of other slim serpents +painted just above her bare ankles. Wound about her neck was a +glittering cobra. Altogether a charming costume—one that caused the +more nervous among the older women to shrink away from her when she +passed, and the more troublesome ones to make great talk about +“shouldn’t be allowed” and “perfectly disgraceful.”</p> + +<p>But Perry, peering through the uncertain eyes of the camel, saw only +her face, radiant, animated, and glowing with excitement, and her arms +and shoulders, whose mobile, expressive gestures made her always the +outstanding figure in any group. He was fascinated and his fascination +exercised a sobering effect on him. With a growing clarity the events +of the day came back—rage rose within him, and with a half-formed +intention of taking her away from the crowd he started toward her—or +rather he elongated slightly, for he had neglected to issue the +preparatory command necessary to locomotion.</p> + +<p>But at this point fickle Kismet, who for a day had played with him +bitterly and sardonically, decided to reward him in full for the +amusement he had afforded her. Kismet turned the tawny eyes of the +snake-charmer to the camel. Kismet led her to lean toward the man +beside her and say, “Who’s that? That camel?”</p> + +<p>“Darned if I know.”</p> + +<p>But a little man named Warburton, who knew it all, found it necessary +to hazard an opinion:</p> + +<p>“It came in with Mr. Tate. I think part of it’s probably Warren +Butterfield, the architect from New York, who’s visiting the Tates.”</p> + +<p>Something stirred in Betty Medill—that age-old interest of the +provincial girl in the visiting man.</p> + +<p>“Oh,” she said casually after a slight pause.</p> + +<p>At the end of the next dance Betty and her partner finished up within +a few feet of the camel. With the informal audacity that was the +key-note of the evening she reached out and gently rubbed the camel’s +nose.</p> + +<p>“Hello, old camel.”</p> + +<p>The camel stirred uneasily.</p> + +<p>“You ’fraid of me?” said Betty, lifting her eyebrows in reproof. +“Don’t be. You see I’m a snake-charmer, but I’m pretty good at camels +too.”</p> + +<p>The camel bowed very low and some one made the obvious remark about +beauty and the beast.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Townsend approached the group.</p> + +<p>“Well, Mr. Butterfield,” she said helpfully, “I wouldn’t have +recognised you.”</p> + +<p>Perry bowed again and smiled gleefully behind his mask.</p> + +<p>“And who is this with you?” she inquired.</p> + +<p>“Oh,” said Perry, his voice muffled by the thick cloth and quite +unrecognizable, “he isn’t a fellow, Mrs. Townsend. He’s just part of +my costume.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Townsend laughed and moved away. Perry turned again to Betty.</p> + +<p>“So,” he thought, “this is how much she cares! On the very day of our +final rupture she starts a flirtation with another man—an absolute +stranger.”</p> + +<p>On an impulse he gave her a soft nudge with his shoulder and waved his +head suggestively toward the hall, making it clear that he desired her +to leave her partner and accompany him.</p> + +<p>“By-by, Rus,” she called to her partner. “This old camel’s got me. +Where we going, Prince of Beasts?”</p> + +<p>The noble animal made no rejoinder, but stalked gravely along in the +direction of a secluded nook on the side stairs.</p> + +<p>There she seated herself, and the camel, after some seconds of +confusion which included gruff orders and sounds of a heated dispute +going on in his interior, placed himself beside her—his hind legs +stretching out uncomfortably across two steps.</p> + +<p>“Well, old egg,” said Betty cheerfully, “how do you like our happy +party?”</p> + +<p>The old egg indicated that he liked it by rolling his head +ecstatically and executing a gleeful kick with his hoofs.</p> + +<p>“This is the first time that I ever had a tête-à-tête with a man’s +valet ’round”—she pointed to the hind legs—“or whatever that is.”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” mumbled Perry, “he’s deaf and blind.”</p> + +<p>“I should think you’d feel rather handicapped—you can’t very well +toddle, even if you want to.”</p> + +<p>The camel hang his head lugubriously.</p> + +<p>“I wish you’d say something,” continued Betty sweetly. “Say you like +me, camel. Say you think I’m beautiful. Say you’d like to belong to a +pretty snake-charmer.”</p> + +<p>The camel would.</p> + +<p>“Will you dance with me, camel?”</p> + +<p>The camel would try.</p> + +<p>Betty devoted half an hour to the camel. She devoted at least half an +hour to all visiting men. It was usually sufficient. When she +approached a new man the current débutantes were accustomed to scatter +right and left like a close column deploying before a machine-gun. And +so to Perry Parkhurst was awarded the unique privilege of seeing his +love as others saw her. He was flirted with violently!</p> + + +<h4>IV</h4> + +<p>This paradise of frail foundation was broken into by the sounds of a +general ingress to the ballroom; the cotillion was beginning. Betty +and the camel joined the crowd, her brown hand resting lightly on his +shoulder, defiantly symbolizing her complete adoption of him.</p> + +<p>When they entered the couples were already seating themselves at +tables round the walls, and Mrs. Townsend, resplendent as a super +bareback rider with rather too rotund calves, was standing in the +centre with the ringmaster in charge of arrangements. At a signal to +the band every one rose and began to dance.</p> + +<p>“Isn’t it just slick!” sighed Betty. “Do you think you can possibly +dance?”</p> + +<p>Perry nodded enthusiastically. He felt suddenly exuberant. After all, +he was here incognito talking to his love—he could wink +patronizingly at the world.</p> + +<p>So Perry danced the cotillion. I say danced, but that is stretching +the word far beyond the wildest dreams of the jazziest terpsichorean. +He suffered his partner to put her hands on his helpless shoulders and +pull him here and there over the floor while he hung his huge head +docilely over her shoulder and made futile dummy motions with his +feet. His hind legs danced in a manner all their own, chiefly by +hopping first on one foot and then on the other. Never being sure +whether dancing was going on or not, the hind legs played safe by +going through a series of steps whenever the music started playing. So +the spectacle was frequently presented of the front part of the camel +standing at ease and the rear keeping up a constant energetic motion +calculated to rouse a sympathetic perspiration in any soft-hearted +observer.</p> + +<p>He was frequently favored. He danced first with a tall lady covered +with straw who announced jovially that she was a bale of hay and coyly +begged him not to eat her.</p> + +<p>“I’d like to; you’re so sweet,” said the camel gallantly.</p> + +<p>Each time the ringmaster shouted his call of “Men up!” he lumbered +ferociously for Betty with the cardboard wienerwurst or the photograph +of the bearded lady or whatever the favor chanced to be. Sometimes he +reached her first, but usually his rushes were unsuccessful and +resulted in intense interior arguments.</p> + +<p>“For Heaven’s sake,” Perry would snarl, fiercely between his clenched +teeth, “get a little pep! I could have gotten her that time if you’d +picked your feet up.”</p> + +<p>“Well, gimme a little warnin’!”</p> + +<p>“I did, darn you.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t see a dog-gone thing in here.”</p> + +<p>“All you have to do is follow me. It’s just like dragging a load of +sand round to walk with you.”</p> + +<p>“Maybe you wanta try back here.”</p> + +<p>“You shut up! If these people found you in this room they’d give you +the worst beating you ever had. They’d take your taxi license away +from you!”</p> + +<p>Perry surprised himself by the ease with which he made this monstrous +threat, but it seemed to have a soporific influence on his companion, +for he gave out an “aw gwan” and subsided into abashed silence.</p> + +<p>The ringmaster mounted to the top of the piano and waved his hand for +silence.</p> + +<p>“Prizes!” he cried. “Gather round!”</p> + +<p>“Yea! Prizes!”</p> + +<p>Self-consciously the circle swayed forward. The rather pretty girl who +had mustered the nerve to come as a bearded lady trembled with +excitement, thinking to be rewarded for an evening’s hideousness. The +man who had spent the afternoon having tattoo marks painted on him +skulked on the edge of the crowd, blushing furiously when any one told +him he was sure to get it.</p> + +<p>“Lady and gent performers of this circus,” announced the ringmaster +jovially, “I am sure we will all agree that a good time has been had +by all. We will now bestow honor where honor is due by bestowing the +prizes. Mrs. Townsend has asked me to bestow the prices. Now, fellow +performers, the first prize is for that lady who has displayed this +evening the most striking, becoming”—at this point the bearded lady +sighed resignedly—“and original costume.” Here the bale of hay +pricked up her ears. “Now I am sure that the decision which has been +agreed upon will be unanimous with all here present. The first prize +goes to Miss Betty Medill, the charming Egyptian snake-charmer.” There +was a burst of applause, chiefly masculine, and Miss Betty Medill, +blushing beautifully through her olive paint, was passed up to receive +her award. With a tender glance the ringmaster handed down to her a +huge bouquet of orchids.</p> + +<p>“And now,” he continued, looking round him, “the other prize is for +that man who has the most amusing and original costume. This prize +goes without dispute to a guest in our midst, a gentleman who is +visiting here but whose stay we all hope will be long and merry—in +short, to the noble camel who has entertained us all by his hungry +look and his brilliant dancing throughout the evening.”</p> + +<p>He ceased and there was a violent clapping, and yeaing, for it was a +popular choice. The prize, a large box of cigars, was put aside for +the camel, as he was anatomically unable to accept it in person.</p> + +<p>“And now,” continued the ringmaster, “we will wind up the cotillion +with the marriage of Mirth to Folly!</p> + +<p>“Form for the grand wedding march, the beautiful snake-charmer and the +noble camel in front!”</p> + +<p>Betty skipped forward cheerily and wound an olive arm round the +camel’s neck. Behind them formed the procession of little boys, little +girls, country jakes, fat ladies, thin men, sword-swallowers, wild men +of Borneo, and armless wonders, many of them well in their cups, all +of them excited and happy and dazzled by the flow of light and color +round them, and by the familiar faces, strangely unfamiliar under +bizarre wigs and barbaric paint. The voluptuous chords of the wedding +march done in blasphemous syncopation issued in a delirious blend from +the trombones and saxophones—and the march began.</p> + +<p>“Aren’t you glad, camel?” demanded Betty sweetly as they stepped off. +“Aren’t you glad we’re going to be married and you’re going to belong +to the nice snake-charmer ever afterward?”</p> + +<p>The camel’s front legs pranced, expressing excessive joy.</p> + +<p>“Minister! Minister! Where’s the minister?” cried voices out of the +revel. “Who’s going to be the clergyman?”</p> + +<p>The head of Jumbo, obese negro, waiter at the Tally-ho Club for many +years, appeared rashly through a half-opened pantry door.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Jumbo!”</p> + +<p>“Get old Jumbo. He’s the fella!”</p> + +<p>“Come on, Jumbo. How ’bout marrying us a couple?”</p> + +<p>“Yea!”</p> + +<p>Jumbo was seized by four comedians, stripped of his apron, and +escorted to a raised daïs at the head of the ball. There his collar +was removed and replaced back side forward with ecclesiastical effect. +The parade separated into two lines, leaving an aisle for the bride +and groom.</p> + +<p>“Lawdy, man,” roared Jumbo, “Ah got ole Bible ’n’ ev’ythin’, sho +nuff.”</p> + +<p>He produced a battered Bible from an interior pocket.</p> + +<p>“Yea! Jumbo’s got a Bible!”</p> + +<p>“Razor, too, I’ll bet!”</p> + +<p>Together the snake-charmer and the camel ascended the cheering aisle +and stopped in front of Jumbo.</p> + +<p>“Where’s yo license, camel?”</p> + +<p>A man near by prodded Perry.</p> + +<p>“Give him a piece of paper. Anything’ll do.”</p> + +<p>Perry fumbled confusedly in his pocket, found a folded paper, and +pushed it out through the camel’s mouth. Holding it upside down Jumbo +pretended to scan it earnestly.</p> + +<p>“Dis yeah’s a special camel’s license,” he said. “Get you ring ready, +camel.”</p> + +<p>Inside the camel Perry turned round and addressed his worse half.</p> + +<p>“Gimme a ring, for Heaven’s sake!”</p> + +<p>“I ain’t got none,” protested a weary voice.</p> + +<p>“You have. I saw it.”</p> + +<p>“I ain’t goin’ to take it offen my hand.”</p> + +<p>“If you don’t I’ll kill you.”</p> + +<p>There was a gasp and Perry felt a huge affair of rhinestone and brass +inserted into his hand.</p> + +<p>Again he was nudged from the outside.</p> + +<p>“Speak up!”</p> + +<p>“I do!” cried Perry quickly.</p> + +<p>He heard Betty’s responses given in a debonair tone, and even in this +burlesque the sound thrilled him.</p> + +<p>Then he had pushed the rhinestone through a tear in the camel’s coat +and was slipping it on her finger, muttering ancient and historic +words after Jumbo. He didn’t want any one to know about this ever. His +one idea was to slip away without having to disclose his identity, for +Mr. Tate had so far kept his secret well. A dignified young man, +Perry—and this might injure his infant law practice.</p> + +<p>“Embrace the bride!”</p> + +<p>“Unmask, camel, and kiss her!”</p> + +<p>Instinctively his heart beat high as Betty turned to him laughingly +and began to stroke the card-board muzzle. He felt his self-control +giving way, he longed to surround her with his arms and declare his +identity and kiss those lips that smiled only a foot away—when +suddenly the laughter and applause round them died off and a curious +hush fell over the hall. Perry and Betty looked up in surprise. Jumbo +had given vent to a huge “Hello!” in such a startled voice that all +eyes were bent on him.</p> + +<p>“Hello!” he said again. He had turned round the camel’s marriage +license, which he had been holding upside down, produced spectacles, +and was studying it agonizingly.</p> + +<p>“Why,” he exclaimed, and in the pervading silence his words were heard +plainly by every one in the room, “this yeah’s a sho-nuff marriage +permit.”</p> + +<p>“What?”</p> + +<p>“Huh?”</p> + +<p>“Say it again, Jumbo!”</p> + +<p>“Sure you can read?”</p> + +<p>Jumbo waved them to silence and Perry’s blood burned to fire in his +veins as he realized the break he had made.</p> + +<p>“Yassuh!” repeated Jumbo. “This yeah’s a sho-nuff license, and the +pa’ties concerned one of ’em is dis yeah young lady, Miz Betty Medill, +and th’ other’s Mistah Perry Pa’khurst.”</p> + +<p>There was a general gasp, and a low rumble broke out as all eyes fell +on the camel. Betty shrank away from him quickly, her tawny eyes +giving out sparks of fury.</p> + +<p>“Is you Mistah Pa’khurst, you camel?”</p> + +<p>Perry made no answer. The crowd pressed up closer and stared at him. +He stood frozen rigid with embarrassment, his cardboard face still +hungry and sardonic as he regarded the ominous Jumbo.</p> + +<p>“Y’all bettah speak up!” said Jumbo slowly, “this yeah’s a mighty +serious mattah. Outside mah duties at this club ah happens to be a +sho-nuff minister in the Firs’ Cullud Baptis’ Church. It done look to +me as though y’all is gone an’ got married.”</p> + + +<h4>V</h4> + +<p>The scene that followed will go down forever in the annals of the +Tallyho Club. Stout matrons fainted, one hundred per cent Americans +swore, wild-eyed débutantes babbled in lightning groups instantly +formed and instantly dissolved, and a great buzz of chatter, virulent +yet oddly subdued, hummed through the chaotic ballroom. Feverish +youths swore they would kill Perry or Jumbo or themselves or some one, +and the Baptis’ preacheh was besieged by a tempestuous covey of +clamorous amateur lawyers, asking questions, making threats, demanding +precedents, ordering the bonds annulled, and especially trying to +ferret out any hint of prearrangement in what had occurred.</p> + +<p>In the corner Mrs. Townsend was crying softly on the shoulder of Mr. +Howard Tate, who was trying vainly to comfort her; they were +exchanging “all my fault’s” volubly and voluminously. Outside on a +snow-covered walk Mr. Cyrus Medill, the Aluminum Man, was being paced +slowly up and down between two brawny charioteers, giving vent now to +a string of unrepeatables, now to wild pleadings that they’d just let +him get at Jumbo. He was facetiously attired for the evening as a wild +man of Borneo, and the most exacting stage-manager would have +acknowledged any improvement in casting the part to be quite +impossible.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile the two principals held the real centre of the stage. Betty +Medill—or was it Betty Parkhurst?—storming furiously, was surrounded +by the plainer girls—the prettier ones were too busy talking about +her to pay much attention to her—and over on the other side of the +hall stood the camel, still intact except for his headpiece, which +dangled pathetically on his chest. Perry was earnestly engaged in +making protestations of his innocence to a ring of angry, puzzled men. +Every few minutes, just as he had apparently proved his case, some one +would mention the marriage certificate, and the inquisition would +begin again.</p> + +<p>A girl named Marion Cloud, considered the second best belle of Toledo, +changed the gist of the situation by a remark she made to Betty.</p> + +<p>“Well,” she said maliciously, “it’ll all blow over, dear. The courts +will annul it without question.”</p> + +<p>Betty’s angry tears dried miraculously in her eyes, her lips shut +tight together, and she looked stonily at Marion. Then she rose and, +scattering her sympathizers right and left, walked directly across the +room to Perry, who stared at her in terror. Again silence crept down +upon the room.</p> + +<p>“Will you have the decency to grant me five minutes’ conversation—or +wasn’t that included in your plans?”</p> + +<p>He nodded, his mouth unable to form words.</p> + +<p>Indicating coldly that he was to follow her she walked out into the +hall with her chin uptilted and headed for the privacy of one of the +little card-rooms.</p> + +<p>Perry started after her, but was brought to a jerky halt by the +failure of his hind legs to function.</p> + +<p>“You stay here!” he commanded savagely.</p> + +<p>“I can’t,” whined a voice from the hump, “unless you get out first and +let me get out.”</p> + +<p>Perry hesitated, but unable any longer to tolerate the eyes of the +curious crowd he muttered a command and the camel moved carefully from +the room on its four legs.</p> + +<p>Betty was waiting for him.</p> + +<p>“Well,” she began furiously, “you see what you’ve done! You and that +crazy license! I told you you shouldn’t have gotten it!”</p> + +<p>“My dear girl, I—”</p> + +<p>“Don’t say ‘dear girl’ to me! Save that for your real wife if you ever +get one after this disgraceful performance. And don’t try to pretend +it wasn’t all arranged. You know you gave that colored waiter money! +You know you did! Do you mean to say you didn’t try to marry me?”</p> + +<p>“No—of course—”</p> + +<p>“Yes, you’d better admit it! You tried it, and now what are you going +to do? Do you know my father’s nearly crazy? It’ll serve you right if +he tries to kill you. He’ll take his gun and put some cold steel in +you. Even if this wed—this <i>thing</i> can be annulled it’ll hang +over me all the rest of my life!”</p> + +<p>Perry could not resist quoting softly: “‘Oh, camel, wouldn’t you like +to belong to the pretty snake-charmer for all your—’”</p> + +<p>“Shut-up!” cried Betty.</p> + +<p>There was a pause.</p> + +<p>“Betty,” said Perry finally, “there’s only one thing to do that will +really get us out clear. That’s for you to marry me.”</p> + +<p>“Marry you!”</p> + +<p>“Yes. Really it’s the only—”</p> + +<p>“You shut up! I wouldn’t marry you if—if—”</p> + +<p>“I know. If I were the last man on earth. But if you care anything +about your reputation—”</p> + +<p>“Reputation!” she cried. “You’re a nice one to think about my +reputation <i>now</i>. Why didn’t you think about my reputation before +you hired that horrible Jumbo to—to—”</p> + +<p>Perry tossed up his hands hopelessly.</p> + +<p>“Very well. I’ll do anything you want. Lord knows I renounce all +claims!”</p> + +<p>“But,” said a new voice, “I don’t.”</p> + +<p>Perry and Betty started, and she put her hand to her heart.</p> + +<p>“For Heaven’s sake, what was that?”</p> + +<p>“It’s me,” said the camel’s back.</p> + +<p>In a minute Perry had whipped off the camel’s skin, and a lax, limp +object, his clothes hanging on him damply, his hand clenched tightly +on an almost empty bottle, stood defiantly before them.</p> + +<p>“Oh,” cried Betty, “you brought that object in here to frighten me! +You told me he was deaf—that awful person!”</p> + +<p>The camel’s back sat down on a chair with a sigh of satisfaction.</p> + +<p>“Don’t talk ’at way about me, lady. I ain’t no person. I’m your +husband.”</p> + +<p>“Husband!”</p> + +<p>The cry was wrung simultaneously from Betty and Perry.</p> + +<p>“Why, sure. I’m as much your husband as that gink is. The smoke didn’t +marry you to the camel’s front. He married you to the whole camel. +Why, that’s my ring you got on your finger!”</p> + +<p>With a little yelp she snatched the ring from her finger and flung it +passionately at the floor.</p> + +<p>“What’s all this?” demanded Perry dazedly.</p> + +<p>“Jes’ that you better fix me an’ fix me right. If you don’t I’m +a-gonna have the same claim you got to bein’ married to her!”</p> + +<p>“That’s bigamy,” said Perry, turning gravely to Betty.</p> + +<p>Then came the supreme moment of Perry’s evening, the ultimate chance +on which he risked his fortunes. He rose and looked first at Betty, +where she sat weakly, aghast at this new complication, and then at the +individual who swayed from side to side on his chair, uncertainly, +menacingly.</p> + +<p>“Very well,” said Perry slowly to the individual, “you can have her. +Betty, I’m going to prove to you that as far as I’m concerned our +marriage was entirely accidental. I’m going to renounce utterly my +rights to have you as my wife, and give you to—to the man whose ring +you wear—your lawful husband.”</p> + +<p>There was a pause and four horror-stricken eyes were turned on him.</p> + +<p>“Good-by, Betty,” he said brokenly. “Don’t forget me in your new-found +happiness. I’m going to leave for the Far West on the morning train. +Think of me kindly, Betty.”</p> + +<p>With a last glance at them he turned and his head rested on his chest +as his hand touched the door-knob.</p> + +<p>“Good-by,” he repeated. He turned the door-knob.</p> + +<p>But at this sound the snakes and silk and tawny hair precipitated +themselves violently toward him.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Perry, don’t leave me! Perry, Perry, take me with you!”</p> + +<p>Her tears flowed damply on his neck. Calmly he folded his arms about +her.</p> + +<p>“I don’t care,” she cried. “I love you and if you can wake up a +minister at this hour and have it done over again I’ll go West with +you.”</p> + +<p>Over her shoulder the front part of the camel looked at the back part +of the camel—and they exchanged a particularly subtle, esoteric sort +of wink that only true camels can understand.</p> + + + + +<div class="chapter"> +<h3 class="nobreak" id="MAY_DAY">MAY DAY</h3> +</div> + + +<p>There had been a war fought and won and the great city of the +conquering people was crossed with triumphal arches and vivid with +thrown flowers of white, red, and rose. All through the long spring +days the returning soldiers marched up the chief highway behind the +strump of drums and the joyous, resonant wind of the brasses, while +merchants and clerks left their bickerings and figurings and, crowding +to the windows, turned their white-bunched faces gravely upon the +passing battalions.</p> + +<p>Never had there been such splendor in the great city, for the +victorious war had brought plenty in its train, and the merchants had +flocked thither from the South and West with their households to taste +of all the luscious feasts and witness the lavish entertainments +prepared—and to buy for their women furs against the next winter and +bags of golden mesh and varicolored slippers of silk and silver and +rose satin and cloth of gold.</p> + +<p>So gaily and noisily were the peace and prosperity impending hymned by +the scribes and poets of the conquering people that more and more +spenders had gathered from the provinces to drink the wine of +excitement, and faster and faster did the merchants dispose of their +trinkets and slippers until they sent up a mighty cry for more +trinkets and more slippers in order that they might give in barter +what was demanded of them. Some even of them flung up their hands +helplessly, shouting:</p> + +<p>“Alas! I have no more slippers! and alas! I have no more trinkets! May +heaven help me for I know not what I shall do!”</p> + +<p>But no one listened to their great outcry, for the throngs were far +too busy—day by day, the foot-soldiers trod jauntily the highway and +all exulted because the young men returning were pure and brave, sound +of tooth and pink of cheek, and the young women of the land were +virgins and comely both of face and of figure.</p> + +<p>So during all this time there were many adventures that happened in +the great city, and, of these, several—or perhaps one—are here set +down.</p> + + +<p>I</p> + +<p>At nine o’clock on the morning of the first of May, 1919, a young man +spoke to the room clerk at the Biltmore Hotel, asking if Mr. Philip +Dean were registered there, and if so, could he be connected with Mr. +Dean’s rooms. The inquirer was dressed in a well-cut, shabby suit. He +was small, slender, and darkly handsome; his eyes were framed above +with unusually long eyelashes and below with the blue semicircle of +ill health, this latter effect heightened by an unnatural glow which +colored his face like a low, incessant fever.</p> + +<p>Mr. Dean was staying there. The young man was directed to a telephone +at the side.</p> + +<p>After a second his connection was made; a sleepy voice hello’d from +somewhere above.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Dean?”—this very eagerly—“it’s Gordon, Phil. It’s Gordon +Sterrett. I’m down-stairs. I heard you were in New York and I had a +hunch you’d be here.”</p> + +<p>The sleepy voice became gradually enthusiastic. Well, how was Gordy, +old boy! Well, he certainly was surprised and tickled! Would Gordy +come right up, for Pete’s sake!</p> + +<p>A few minutes later Philip Dean, dressed in blue silk pajamas, opened +his door and the two young men greeted each other with a +half-embarrassed exuberance. They were both about twenty-four, Yale +graduates of the year before the war; but there the resemblance +stopped abruptly. Dean was blond, ruddy, and rugged under his thin +pajamas. Everything about him radiated fitness and bodily comfort. He +smiled frequently, showing large and prominent teeth.</p> + +<p>“I was going to look you up,” he cried enthusiastically. “I’m taking a +couple of weeks off. If you’ll sit down a sec I’ll be right with you. +Going to take a shower.”</p> + +<p>As he vanished into the bathroom his visitor’s dark eyes roved +nervously around the room, resting for a moment on a great English +travelling bag in the corner and on a family of thick silk shirts +littered on the chairs amid impressive neckties and soft woollen +socks.</p> + +<p>Gordon rose and, picking up one of the shirts, gave it a minute +examination. It was of very heavy silk, yellow, with a pale blue +stripe—and there were nearly a dozen of them. He stared +involuntarily at his own shirt-cuffs—they were ragged and linty at +the edges and soiled to a faint gray. Dropping the silk shirt, he held +his coat-sleeves down and worked the frayed shirt-cuffs up till they +were out of sight. Then he went to the mirror and looked at himself +with listless, unhappy interest. His tie, of former glory, was faded +and thumb-creased—it served no longer to hide the jagged buttonholes +of his collar. He thought, quite without amusement, that only three +years before he had received a scattering vote in the senior elections +at college for being the best-dressed man in his class.</p> + +<p>Dean emerged from the bathroom polishing his body.</p> + +<p>“Saw an old friend of yours last night,” he remarked. +“Passed her in the lobby and couldn’t think of her name to save my +neck. That girl you brought up to New Haven senior year.”</p> + +<p>Gordon started.</p> + +<p>“Edith Bradin? That whom you mean?”</p> + +<p>“’At’s the one. Damn good looking. She’s still sort of a pretty +doll—you know what I mean: as if you touched her she’d smear.”</p> + +<p>He surveyed his shining self complacently in the mirror, smiled +faintly, exposing a section of teeth.</p> + +<p>“She must be twenty-three anyway,” he continued.</p> + +<p>“Twenty-two last month,” said Gordon absently.</p> + +<p>“What? Oh, last month. Well, I imagine she’s down for the Gamma Psi +dance. Did you know we’re having a Yale Gamma Psi dance to-night at +Delmonico’s? You better come up, Gordy. Half of New Haven’ll probably +be there. I can get you an invitation.”</p> + +<p>Draping himself reluctantly in fresh underwear, Dean lit a cigarette +and sat down by the open window, inspecting his calves and knees under +the morning sunshine which poured into the room.</p> + +<p>“Sit down, Gordy,” he suggested, “and tell me all about what you’ve +been doing and what you’re doing now and everything.”</p> + +<p>Gordon collapsed unexpectedly upon the bed; lay there inert and +spiritless. His mouth, which habitually dropped a little open when his +face was in repose, became suddenly helpless and pathetic.</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter?” asked Dean quickly.</p> + +<p>“Oh, God!”</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter?”</p> + +<p>“Every God damn thing in the world,” he said miserably. “I’ve +absolutely gone to pieces, Phil. I’m all in.”</p> + +<p>“Huh?”</p> + +<p>“I’m all in.” His voice was shaking.</p> + +<p>Dean scrutinized him more closely with appraising blue eyes.</p> + +<p>“You certainly look all shot.”</p> + +<p>“I am. I’ve made a hell of a mess of everything.” He paused. “I’d +better start at the beginning—or will it bore you?”</p> + +<p>“Not at all; go +on.” There was, however, a hesitant note in Dean’s voice. This trip +East had been planned for a holiday—to find Gordon Sterrett in +trouble exasperated him a little.</p> + +<p>“Go on,” he repeated, and then added half under his breath, “Get it +over with.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” began Gordon unsteadily, “I got back from France in February, +went home to Harrisburg for a month, and then came down to New York to +get a job. I got one—with an export company. They fired me +yesterday.”</p> + +<p>“Fired you?”</p> + +<p>“I’m coming to that, Phil. I want to tell you frankly. You’re about +the only man I can turn to in a matter like this. You won’t mind if I +just tell you frankly, will you, Phil?”</p> + +<p>Dean stiffened a bit more. The pats he was bestowing on his knees grew +perfunctory. He felt vaguely that he was being unfairly saddled with +responsibility; he was not even sure he wanted to be told. Though +never surprised at finding Gordon Sterrett in mild difficulty, there +was something in this present misery that repelled him and hardened +him, even though it excited his curiosity.</p> + +<p>“Go on.”</p> + +<p>“It’s a girl.”</p> + +<p>“Hm.” Dean resolved that nothing was going to spoil his trip. If +Gordon was going to be depressing, then he’d have to see less of +Gordon.</p> + +<p>“Her name is Jewel Hudson,” went on the distressed voice from the bed. +“She used to be ‘pure,’ I guess, up to about a year ago. Lived here +in New York—poor family. Her people are dead now and she lives with +an old aunt. You see it was just about the time I met her that +everybody began to come back from France in droves—and all I did was +to welcome the newly arrived and go on parties with ’em. That’s the +way it started, Phil, just from being glad to see everybody and having +them glad to see me.”</p> + +<p>“You ought to’ve had more sense.”</p> + +<p>“I know,” Gordon paused, and then continued listlessly. “I’m on my own +now, you know, and Phil, I can’t stand being poor. Then came this darn +girl. She sort of fell in love with me for a while and, though I never +intended to get so involved, I’d always seem to run into her +somewhere. You can imagine the sort of work I was doing for those +exporting people—of course, I always intended to draw; do +illustrating for magazines; there’s a pile of money in it.”</p> + +<p>“Why didn’t you? You’ve got to buckle down if you want to make good,” +suggested Dean with cold formalism.</p> + +<p>“I tried, a little, but my stuff’s crude. I’ve got talent, Phil; I can +draw—but I just don’t know how. I ought to go to art school and I +can’t afford it. Well, things came to a crisis about a week ago. Just +as I was down to about my last dollar this girl began bothering me. +She wants some money; claims she can make trouble for me if she +doesn’t get it.”</p> + +<p>“Can she?”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid she can. That’s one reason I lost my job—she kept calling +up the office all the time, and that was sort of the last straw down +there. She’s got a letter all written to send to my family. Oh, she’s +got me, all right. I’ve got to have some money for her.”</p> + +<p>There was an awkward pause. Gordon lay very still, his hands clenched +by his side.</p> + +<p>“I’m all in,” he continued, his voice trembling. “I’m half crazy, +Phil. If I hadn’t known you were coming East, I think I’d have killed +myself. I want you to lend me three hundred dollars.”</p> + +<p>Dean’s hands, which had been patting his bare ankles, were suddenly +quiet—and the curious uncertainty playing between the two became taut +and strained.</p> + +<p>After a second Gordon continued:</p> + +<p>“I’ve bled the family until I’m ashamed to ask for another nickel.”</p> + +<p>Still Dean made no answer.</p> + +<p>“Jewel says she’s got to have two hundred dollars.”</p> + +<p>“Tell her where she can go.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, that sounds easy, but she’s got a couple of drunken letters I +wrote her. Unfortunately she’s not at all the flabby sort of person +you’d expect.”</p> + +<p>Dean made an expression of distaste.</p> + +<p>“I can’t stand that sort of woman. You ought to have kept away.”</p> + +<p>“I know,” admitted Gordon wearily.</p> + +<p>“You’ve got to look at things as they are. If you haven’t got money +you’ve got to work and stay away from women.”</p> + +<p>“That’s easy for you to say,” began Gordon, his eyes narrowing. +“You’ve got all the money in the world.”</p> + +<p>“I most certainly have not. My family keep darn close tab on what I +spend. Just because I have a little leeway I have to be extra careful +not to abuse it.”</p> + +<p>He raised the blind and let in a further flood of sunshine.</p> + +<p>“I’m no prig, Lord knows,” he went on deliberately. “I like +pleasure—and I like a lot of it on a vacation like this, but +you’re—you’re in awful shape. I never heard you talk just this way +before. You seem to be sort of bankrupt—morally as well as +financially.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t they usually go together?”</p> + +<p>Dean shook his head impatiently.</p> + +<p>“There’s a regular aura about you that I don’t understand. It’s a sort +of evil.”</p> + +<p>“It’s an air of worry and poverty and sleepless nights,” said Gordon, +rather defiantly.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I admit I’m depressing. I depress myself. But, my God, Phil, a +week’s rest and a new suit and some ready money and I’d be like—like +I was. Phil, I can draw like a streak, and you know it. But half the +time I haven’t had the money to buy decent drawing materials—and I +can’t draw when I’m tired and discouraged and all in. With a little +ready money I can take a few weeks off and get started.”</p> + +<p>“How do I know you wouldn’t use it on some other woman?”</p> + +<p>“Why rub it in?” said Gordon, quietly.</p> + +<p>“I’m not rubbing it in. I hate to see you this way.”</p> + +<p>“Will you lend me the money, Phil?”</p> + +<p>“I can’t decide right off. That’s a lot of money and it’ll be darn +inconvenient for me.”</p> + +<p>“It’ll be hell for me if you can’t—I know I’m whining, and it’s all +my own fault but—that doesn’t change it.”</p> + +<p>“When could you pay it back?”</p> + +<p>This was encouraging. Gordon considered. It was probably wisest to be +frank.</p> + +<p>“Of course, I could promise to send it back next month, but—I’d +better say three months. Just as soon as I start to sell drawings.”</p> + +<p>“How do I know you’ll sell any drawings?”</p> + +<p>A new hardness in Dean’s voice sent a faint chill of doubt over +Gordon. Was it possible that he wouldn’t get the money?</p> + +<p>“I supposed you had a little confidence in me.”</p> + +<p>“I did have—but when I see you like this I begin to wonder.”</p> + +<p>“Do you suppose if I wasn’t at the end of my rope I’d come to you like +this? Do you think I’m enjoying it?” He broke off and bit his lip, +feeling that he had better subdue the rising anger in his voice. After +all, he was the suppliant.</p> + +<p>“You seem to manage it pretty easily,” said Dean angrily. “You put me +in the position where, if I don’t lend it to you, I’m a sucker—oh, +yes, you do. And let me tell you it’s no easy thing for me to get hold +of three hundred dollars. My income isn’t so big but that a slice like +that won’t play the deuce with it.”</p> + +<p>He left his chair and began to dress, choosing his clothes carefully. +Gordon stretched out his arms and clenched the edges of the bed, +fighting back a desire to cry out. His head was splitting and +whirring, his mouth was dry and bitter and he could feel the fever in +his blood resolving itself into innumerable regular counts like a slow +dripping from a roof.</p> + +<p>Dean tied his tie precisely, brushed his eyebrows, and removed a piece +of tobacco from his teeth with solemnity. Next he filled his cigarette +case, tossed the empty box thoughtfully into the waste basket, and +settled the case in his vest pocket.</p> + +<p>“Had breakfast?” he demanded.</p> + +<p>“No; I don’t eat it any more.”</p> + +<p>“Well, we’ll go out and have some. We’ll decide about that money +later. I’m sick of the subject. I came East to have a good time.</p> + +<p>“Let’s go over to the Yale Club,” he continued moodily, and then added +with an implied reproof: “You’ve given up your job. You’ve got nothing +else to do.”</p> + +<p>“I’d have a lot to do if I had a little money,” said Gordon pointedly.</p> + +<p>“Oh, for Heaven’s sake drop the subject for a while! No point in +glooming on my whole trip. Here, here’s some money.”</p> + +<p>He took a five-dollar bill from his wallet and tossed it over to +Gordon, who folded it carefully and put it in his pocket. There was an +added spot of color in his cheeks, an added glow that was not fever. +For an instant before they turned to go out their eyes met and in that +instant each found something that made him lower his own glance +quickly. For in that instant they quite suddenly and definitely hated +each other.</p> + + +<h4>II</h4> + +<p>Fifth Avenue and Forty-fourth Street swarmed with the noon crowd. The +wealthy, happy sun glittered in transient gold through the thick +windows of the smart shops, lighting upon mesh bags and purses and +strings of pearls in gray velvet cases; upon gaudy feather fans of +many colors; upon the laces and silks of expensive dresses; upon the +bad paintings and the fine period furniture in the elaborate show +rooms of interior decorators.</p> + +<p>Working-girls, in pairs and groups and swarms, loitered by these +windows, choosing their future boudoirs from some resplendent display +which included even a man’s silk pajamas laid domestically across the +bed. They stood in front of the jewelry stores and picked out their +engagement rings, and their wedding rings and their platinum wrist +watches, and then drifted on to inspect the feather fans and opera +cloaks; meanwhile digesting the sandwiches and sundaes they had eaten +for lunch.</p> + +<p>All through the crowd were men in uniform, sailors from the great +fleet anchored in the Hudson, soldiers with divisional insignia from +Massachusetts to California, wanting fearfully to be noticed, and +finding the great city thoroughly fed up with soldiers unless they +were nicely massed into pretty formations and uncomfortable under the +weight of a pack and rifle. Through this medley Dean and Gordon +wandered; the former interested, made alert by the display of humanity +at its frothiest and gaudiest; the latter reminded of how often he had +been one of the crowd, tired, casually fed, overworked, and +dissipated. To Dean the struggle was significant, young, cheerful; to +Gordon it was dismal, meaningless, endless.</p> + +<p>In the Yale Club they met a group of their former classmates who +greeted the visiting Dean vociferously. Sitting in a semicircle of +lounges and great chairs, they had a highball all around.</p> + +<p>Gordon found the conversation tiresome and interminable. They lunched +together <i>en masse</i>, warmed with liquor as the afternoon began. +They were all going to the Gamma Psi dance that night—it promised to +be the best party since the war.</p> + +<p>“Edith Bradin’s coming,” said some one to Gordon. “Didn’t she used to +be an old flame of yours? Aren’t you both from Harrisburg?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.” He tried to change the subject. “I see her brother +occasionally. He’s sort of a socialistic nut. Runs a paper or +something here in New York.”</p> + +<p>“Not like his gay sister, eh?” continued his eager informant. “Well, +she’s coming to-night—with a junior named Peter Himmel.”</p> + +<p>Gordon was to meet Jewel Hudson at eight o’clock—he had promised to +have some money for her. Several times he glanced nervously at his +wrist watch. At four, to his relief, Dean rose and announced that he +was going over to Rivers Brothers to buy some collars and ties. But as +they left the Club another of the party joined them, to Gordon’s great +dismay. Dean was in a jovial mood now, happy, expectant of the +evening’s party, faintly hilarious. Over in Rivers’ he chose a dozen +neckties, selecting each one after long consultations with the other +man. Did he think narrow ties were coming back? And wasn’t it a shame +that Rivers couldn’t get any more Welsh Margotson collars? There never +was a collar like the “Covington.”</p> + +<p>Gordon was in something of a panic. He wanted the money immediately. +And he was now inspired also with a vague idea of attending the Gamma +Psi dance. He wanted to see Edith—Edith whom he hadn’t met since one +romantic night at the Harrisburg Country Club just before he went to +France. The affair had died, drowned in the turmoil of the war and +quite forgotten in the arabesque of these three months, but a picture +of her, poignant, debonnaire, immersed in her own inconsequential +chatter, recurred to him unexpectedly and brought a hundred memories +with it. It was Edith’s face that he had cherished through college +with a sort of detached yet affectionate admiration. He had loved to +draw her—around his room had been a dozen sketches of her—playing +golf, swimming—he could draw her pert, arresting profile with his +eyes shut.</p> + +<p>They left Rivers’ at five-thirty and paused for a moment on the +sidewalk.</p> + +<p>“Well,” said Dean genially, “I’m all set now. Think I’ll go back to +the hotel and get a shave, haircut, and massage.”</p> + +<p>“Good enough,” said the other man, “I think I’ll join you.”</p> + +<p>Gordon wondered if he was to be beaten after all. With difficulty he +restrained himself from turning to the man and snarling out, “Go on +away, damn you!” In despair he suspected that perhaps Dean had spoken +to him, was keeping him along in order to avoid a dispute about the +money.</p> + +<p>They went into the Biltmore—a Biltmore alive with girls—mostly from +the West and South, the stellar débutantes of many cities gathered for +the dance of a famous fraternity of a famous university. But to Gordon +they were faces in a dream. He gathered together his forces for a last +appeal, was about to come out with he knew not what, when Dean +suddenly excused himself to the other man and taking Gordon’s arm led +him aside.</p> + +<p>“Gordy,” he said quickly, “I’ve thought the whole thing over carefully +and I’ve decided that I can’t lend you that money. I’d like to oblige +you, but I don’t feel I ought to—it’d put a crimp in me for a month.”</p> + +<p>Gordon, watching him dully, wondered why he had never before noticed +how much those upper teeth projected.</p> + +<p>“I’m—mighty sorry, Gordon,” continued Dean, “but that’s the way it +is.”</p> + +<p>He took out his wallet and deliberately counted out seventy-five +dollars in bills.</p> + +<p>“Here,” he said, holding them out, “here’s seventy-five; that makes +eighty all together. That’s all the actual cash I have with me, +besides what I’ll actually spend on the trip.”</p> + +<p>Gordon raised his clenched hand automatically, opened it as though it +were a tongs he was holding, and clenched it again on the money.</p> + +<p>“I’ll see you at the dance,” continued Dean. “I’ve got to get along to +the barber shop.”</p> + +<p>“So-long,” said Gordon in a strained and husky voice.</p> + +<p>“So-long.”</p> + +<p>Dean, began to smile, but seemed to change his mind. He nodded briskly +and disappeared.</p> + +<p>But Gordon stood there, his handsome face awry with distress, the roll +of bills clenched tightly in his hand. Then, blinded by sudden tears, +he stumbled clumsily down the Biltmore steps.</p> + + +<h4>III</h4> + +<p>About nine o’clock of the same night two human beings came out of a +cheap restaurant in Sixth Avenue. They were ugly, ill-nourished, +devoid of all except the very lowest form of intelligence, and without +even that animal exuberance that in itself brings color into life; +they were lately vermin-ridden, cold, and hungry in a dirty town of a +strange land; they were poor, friendless; tossed as driftwood from +their births, they would be tossed as driftwood to their deaths. They +were dressed in the uniform of the United States Army, and on the +shoulder of each was the insignia of a drafted division from New +Jersey, landed three days before.</p> + +<p>The taller of the two was named Carrol Key, a name hinting that in his +veins, however thinly diluted by generations of degeneration, ran +blood of some potentiality. But one could stare endlessly at the long, +chinless face, the dull, watery eyes, and high cheek-bones, without +finding suggestion of either ancestral worth or native resourcefulness.</p> + +<p>His companion was swart and bandy-legged, with rat-eyes and a +much-broken hooked nose. His defiant air was obviously a pretense, a +weapon of protection borrowed from that world of snarl and snap, of +physical bluff and physical menace, in which he had always lived. His +name was Gus Rose.</p> + +<p>Leaving the café they sauntered down Sixth Avenue, wielding toothpicks +with great gusto and complete detachment.</p> + +<p>“Where to?” asked Rose, in a tone which implied that he would not be +surprised if Key suggested the South Sea Islands.</p> + +<p>“What you say we see if we can getta holda some liquor?” Prohibition +was not yet. The ginger in the suggestion was caused by the law +forbidding the selling of liquor to soldiers.</p> + +<p>Rose agreed enthusiastically.</p> + +<p>“I got an idea,” continued Key, after a moment’s thought, “I got a +brother somewhere.”</p> + +<p>“In New York?”</p> + +<p>“Yeah. He’s an old fella.” He meant that he was an elder brother. +“He’s a waiter in a hash joint.”</p> + +<p>“Maybe he can get us some.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll say he can!”</p> + +<p>“B’lieve me, I’m goin’ to get this darn uniform off me to-morra. Never +get me in it again, neither. I’m goin’ to get me some regular +clothes.”</p> + +<p>“Say, maybe I’m not.”</p> + +<p>As their combined finances were something less than five dollars, this +intention can be taken largely as a pleasant game of words, harmless +and consoling. It seemed to please both of them, however, for they +reinforced it with chuckling and mention of personages high in +biblical circles, adding such further emphasis as “Oh, boy!” “You +know!” and “I’ll say so!” repeated many times over.</p> + +<p>The entire mental pabulum of these two men consisted of an offended +nasal comment extended through the years upon the institution—army, +business, or poorhouse—which kept them alive, and toward their +immediate superior in that institution. Until that very morning the +institution had been the “government” and the immediate superior had +been the “Cap’n”—from these two they had glided out and were now in +the vaguely uncomfortable state before they should adopt their next +bondage. They were uncertain, resentful, and somewhat ill at ease. +This they hid by pretending an elaborate relief at being out of the +army, and by assuring each other that military discipline should never +again rule their stubborn, liberty-loving wills. Yet, as a matter of +fact, they would have felt more at home in a prison than in this +new-found and unquestionable freedom.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Key increased his gait. Rose, looking up and following his +glance, discovered a crowd that was collecting fifty yards down the +street. Key chuckled and began to run in the direction of the crowd; +Rose thereupon also chuckled and his short bandy legs twinkled beside +the long, awkward strides of his companion.</p> + +<p>Reaching the outskirts of the crowd they immediately became an +indistinguishable part of it. It was composed of ragged civilians +somewhat the worse for liquor, and of soldiers representing many +divisions and many stages of sobriety, all clustered around a +gesticulating little Jew with long black whiskers, who was waving his +arms and delivering an excited but succinct harangue. Key and Rose, +having wedged themselves into the approximate parquet, scrutinized him +with acute suspicion, as his words penetrated their common +consciousness.</p> + +<p>“—What have you got outa the war?” he was crying fiercely. “Look +arounja, look arounja! Are you rich? Have you got a lot of money +offered you?—no; you’re lucky if you’re alive and got both your legs; +you’re lucky if you came back an’ find your wife ain’t gone off with +some other fella that had the money to buy himself out of the war! +That’s when you’re lucky! Who got anything out of it except J. P. +Morgan an’ John D. Rockerfeller?”</p> + +<p>At this point the little Jew’s oration was interrupted by the hostile +impact of a fist upon the point of his bearded chin and he toppled +backward to a sprawl on the pavement.</p> + +<p>“God damn Bolsheviki!” cried the big soldier-blacksmith who had +delivered the blow. There was a rumble of approval, the crowd closed +in nearer.</p> + +<p>The Jew staggered to his feet, and immediately went down again before +a half-dozen reaching-in fists. This time he stayed down, breathing +heavily, blood oozing from his lip where it was cut within and +without.</p> + +<p>There was a riot of voices, and in a minute Rose and Key found +themselves flowing with the jumbled crowd down Sixth Avenue under the +leadership of a thin civilian in a slouch hat and the brawny soldier +who had summarily ended the oration. The crowd had marvellously +swollen to formidable proportions and a stream of more non-committal +citizens followed it along the sidewalks lending their moral support +by intermittent huzzas.</p> + +<p>“Where we goin’?” yelled Key to the man nearest him.</p> + +<p>His neighbor pointed up to the leader in the slouch hat.</p> + +<p>“That guy knows where there’s a lot of ’em! We’re goin’ to show ’em!”</p> + +<p>“We’re goin’ to show ’em!” whispered Key delightedly to Rose, who +repeated the phrase rapturously to a man on the other side.</p> + +<p>Down Sixth Avenue swept the procession, joined here and there by +soldiers and marines, and now and then by civilians, who came up with +the inevitable cry that they were just out of the army themselves, as +if presenting it as a card of admission to a newly formed Sporting and +Amusement Club.</p> + +<p>Then the procession swerved down a cross street and headed for Fifth +Avenue and the word filtered here and there that they were bound for a +Red meeting at Tolliver Hall.</p> + +<p>“Where is it?”</p> + +<p>The question went up the line and a moment later the answer floated +hack. Tolliver Hall was down on Tenth Street. There was a bunch of +other sojers who was goin’ to break it up and was down there now!</p> + +<p>But Tenth Street had a faraway sound and at the word a general groan +went up and a score of the procession dropped out. Among these were +Rose and Key, who slowed down to a saunter and let the more +enthusiastic sweep on by.</p> + +<p>“I’d rather get some liquor,” said Key as they halted and made their +way to the sidewalk amid cries of “Shell hole!” and “Quitters!”</p> + +<p>“Does your brother work around here?” asked Rose, assuming the air of +one passing from the superficial to the eternal.</p> + +<p>“He oughta,” replied Key. “I ain’t seen him for a coupla years. I been +out to Pennsylvania since. Maybe he don’t work at night anyhow. It’s +right along here. He can get us some o’right if he ain’t gone.”</p> + +<p>They found the place after a few minutes’ patrol of the street—a +shoddy tablecloth restaurant between Fifth Avenue and Broadway. Here +Key went inside to inquire for his brother George, while Rose waited +on the sidewalk.</p> + +<p>“He ain’t here no more,” said Key emerging. “He’s a waiter up to +Delmonico’s.”</p> + +<p>Rose nodded wisely, as if he’d expected as much. One should not be +surprised at a capable man changing jobs occasionally. He knew a +waiter once—there ensued a long conversation as they waited as to +whether waiters made more in actual wages than in tips—it was decided +that it depended on the social tone of the joint wherein the waiter +labored. After having given each other vivid pictures of millionaires +dining at Delmonico’s and throwing away fifty-dollar bills after their +first quart of champagne, both men thought privately of becoming +waiters. In fact, Key’s narrow brow was secreting a resolution to ask +his brother to get him a job.</p> + +<p>“A waiter can drink up all the champagne those fellas leave in +bottles,” suggested Rose with some relish, and then added as an +afterthought, “Oh, boy!”</p> + +<p>By the time they reached Delmonico’s it was half past ten, and they +were surprised to see a stream of taxis driving up to the door one +after the other and emitting marvelous, hatless young ladies, each one +attended by a stiff young gentleman in evening clothes.</p> + +<p>“It’s a party,” said Rose with some awe. “Maybe we better not go in. +He’ll be busy.”</p> + +<p>“No, he won’t. He’ll be o’right.”</p> + +<p>After some hesitation they entered what appeared to them to be the +least elaborate door and, indecision falling upon them immediately, +stationed themselves nervously in an inconspicuous corner of the small +dining-room in which they found themselves. They took off their caps +and held them in their hands. A cloud of gloom fell upon them and both +started when a door at one end of the room crashed open, emitting a +comet-like waiter who streaked across the floor and vanished through +another door on the other side.</p> + +<p>There had been three of these lightning passages before the seekers +mustered the acumen to hail a waiter. He turned, looked at them +suspiciously, and then approached with soft, catlike steps, as if +prepared at any moment to turn and flee.</p> + +<p>“Say,” began Key, “say, do you know my brother? He’s a waiter here.”</p> + +<p>“His name is Key,” annotated Rose.</p> + +<p>Yes, the waiter knew Key. He was up-stairs, he thought. There was a +big dance going on in the main ballroom. He’d tell him.</p> + +<p>Ten minutes later George Key appeared and greeted his brother with the +utmost suspicion; his first and most natural thought being that he was +going to be asked for money.</p> + +<p>George was tall and weak chinned, but there his resemblance to his +brother ceased. The waiter’s eyes were not dull, they were alert and +twinkling, and his manner was suave, in-door, and faintly superior. +They exchanged formalities. George was married and had three children. +He seemed fairly interested, but not impressed by the news that Carrol +had been abroad in the army. This disappointed Carrol.</p> + +<p>“George,” said the younger brother, these amenities having been +disposed of, “we want to get some booze, and they won’t sell us none. +Can you get us some?”</p> + +<p>George considered.</p> + +<p>“Sure. Maybe I can. It may be half an hour, though.”</p> + +<p>“All right,” agreed Carrol, “we’ll wait.”</p> + +<p>At this Rose started to sit down in a convenient chair, but was hailed +to his feet by the indignant George.</p> + +<p>“Hey! Watch out, you! Can’t sit down here! This room’s all set for a +twelve o’clock banquet.”</p> + +<p>“I ain’t goin’ to hurt it,” said Rose resentfully. “I been through the +delouser.”</p> + +<p>“Never mind,” said George sternly, “if the head waiter seen me here +talkin’ he’d romp all over me.”</p> + +<p>“Oh.”</p> + +<p>The mention of the head waiter was full explanation to the other two; +they fingered their overseas caps nervously and waited for a +suggestion.</p> + +<p>“I tell you,” said George, after a pause, “I got a place you can wait; +you just come here with me.”</p> + +<p>They followed him out the far door, through a deserted pantry and up a +pair of dark winding stairs, emerging finally into a small room +chiefly furnished by piles of pails and stacks of scrubbing brushes, +and illuminated by a single dim electric light. There he left them, +after soliciting two dollars and agreeing to return in half an hour +with a quart of whiskey.</p> + +<p>“George is makin’ money, I bet,” said Key gloomily as he seated +himself on an inverted pail. “I bet he’s making fifty dollars a week.”</p> + +<p>Rose nodded his head and spat.</p> + +<p>“I bet he is, too.”</p> + +<p>“What’d he say the dance was of?”</p> + +<p>“A lot of college fellas. Yale College.”</p> + +<p>They both nodded solemnly at each other.</p> + +<p>“Wonder where that crowda sojers is now?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know. I know that’s too damn long to walk for me.”</p> + +<p>“Me too. You don’t catch me walkin’ that far.”</p> + +<p>Ten minutes later restlessness seized them.</p> + +<p>“I’m goin’ to see what’s out here,” said Rose, stepping cautiously +toward the other door.</p> + +<p>It was a swinging door of green baize and he pushed it open a cautious +inch.</p> + +<p>“See anything?”</p> + +<p>For answer Rose drew in his breath sharply.</p> + +<p>“Doggone! Here’s some liquor I’ll say!”</p> + +<p>“Liquor?”</p> + +<p>Key joined Rose at the door, and looked eagerly.</p> + +<p>“I’ll tell the world that’s liquor,” he said, after a moment of +concentrated gazing.</p> + +<p>It was a room about twice as large as the one they were in—and in it +was prepared a radiant feast of spirits. There were long walls of +alternating bottles set along two white covered tables; whiskey, gin, +brandy, French and Italian vermouths, and orange juice, not to mention +an array of syphons and two great empty punch bowls. The room was as +yet uninhabited.</p> + +<p>“It’s for this dance they’re just starting,” whispered Key; “hear the +violins playin’? Say, boy, I wouldn’t mind havin’ a dance.”</p> + +<p>They closed the door softly and exchanged a glance of mutual +comprehension. There was no need of feeling each other out.</p> + +<p>“I’d like to get my hands on a coupla those bottles,” said Rose +emphatically.</p> + +<p>“Me too.”</p> + +<p>“Do you suppose we’d get seen?”</p> + +<p>Key considered.</p> + +<p>“Maybe we better wait till they start drinkin’ ’em. They got ’em all +laid out now, and they know how many of them there are.”</p> + +<p>They debated this point for several minutes. Rose was all for getting +his hands on a bottle now and tucking it under his coat before anyone +came into the room. Key, however, advocated caution. He was afraid he +might get his brother in trouble. If they waited till some of the +bottles were opened it’d be all right to take one, and everybody’d +think it was one of the college fellas.</p> + +<p>While they were still engaged in argument George Key hurried through +the room and, barely grunting at them, disappeared by way of the green +baize door. A minute later they heard several corks pop, and then the +sound of cracking ice and splashing liquid. George was mixing the +punch.</p> + +<p>The soldiers exchanged delighted grins.</p> + +<p>“Oh, boy!” whispered Rose.</p> + +<p>George reappeared.</p> + +<p>“Just keep low, boys,” he said quickly. “I’ll have your stuff for you +in five minutes.”</p> + +<p>He disappeared through the door by which he had come.</p> + +<p>As soon as his footsteps receded down the stairs, Rose, after a +cautious look, darted into the room of delights and reappeared with a +bottle in his hand.</p> + +<p>“Here’s what I say,” he said, as they sat radiantly digesting their +first drink. “We’ll wait till he comes up, and we’ll ask him if we +can’t just stay here and drink what he brings us—see. We’ll tell him +we haven’t got any place to drink it—see. Then we can sneak in there +whenever there ain’t nobody in that there room and tuck a bottle under +our coats. We’ll have enough to last us a coupla days—see?”</p> + +<p>“Sure,” agreed Rose enthusiastically. “Oh, boy! And if we want to we +can sell it to sojers any time we want to.”</p> + +<p>They were silent for a moment thinking rosily of this idea. Then Key +reached up and unhooked the collar of his O. D. coat.</p> + +<p>“It’s hot in here, ain’t it?”</p> + +<p>Rose agreed earnestly.</p> + +<p>“Hot as hell.”</p> + + +<h4>IV</h4> + +<p>She was still quite angry when she came out of the dressing-room and +crossed the intervening parlor of politeness that opened onto the +hall—angry not so much at the actual happening which was, after all, +the merest commonplace of her social existence, but because it had +occurred on this particular night. She had no quarrel with herself. +She had acted with that correct mixture of dignity and reticent pity +which she always employed. She had succinctly and deftly snubbed him.</p> + +<p>It had happened when their taxi was leaving the Biltmore—hadn’t gone +half a block. He had lifted his right arm awkwardly—she was on his +right side—and attempted to settle it snugly around the crimson +fur-trimmed opera cloak she wore. This in itself had been a mistake. +It was inevitably more graceful for a young man attempting to embrace +a young lady of whose acquiescence he was not certain, to first put +his far arm around her. It avoided that awkward movement of raising +the near arm.</p> + +<p>His second <i>faux pas</i> was unconscious. She had spent the +afternoon at the hairdresser’s; the idea of any calamity overtaking +her hair was extremely repugnant—yet as Peter made his unfortunate +attempt the point of his elbow had just faintly brushed it. That was +his second <i>faux pas</i>. Two were quite enough.</p> + +<p>He had begun to murmur. At the first murmur she had decided that he +was nothing but a college boy—Edith was twenty-two, and anyhow, this +dance, first of its kind since the war, was reminding her, with the +accelerating rhythm of its associations, of something else—of another +dance and another man, a man for whom her feelings had been little +more than a sad-eyed, adolescent mooniness. Edith Bradin was falling +in love with her recollection of Gordon Sterrett.</p> + +<p>So she came out of the dressing-room at Delmonico’s and stood for a +second in the doorway looking over the shoulders of a black dress in +front of her at the groups of Yale men who flitted like dignified +black moths around the head of the stairs. From the room she had left +drifted out the heavy fragrance left by the passage to and fro of many +scented young beauties—rich perfumes and the fragile memory-laden +dust of fragrant powders. This odor drifting out acquired the tang of +cigarette smoke in the hall, and then settled sensuously down the +stairs and permeated the ballroom where the Gamma Psi dance was to be +held. It was an odor she knew well, exciting, stimulating, restlessly +sweet—the odor of a fashionable dance.</p> + +<p>She thought of her own appearance. Her bare arms and shoulders were +powdered to a creamy white. She knew they looked very soft and would +gleam like milk against the black backs that were to silhouette them +to-night. The hairdressing had been a success; her reddish mass of +hair was piled and crushed and creased to an arrogant marvel of mobile +curves. Her lips were finely made of deep carmine; the irises of her +eyes were delicate, breakable blue, like china eyes. She was a +complete, infinitely delicate, quite perfect thing of beauty, flowing +in an even line from a complex coiffure to two small slim feet.</p> + +<p>She thought of what she would say to-night at this revel, faintly +prestiged already by the sounds of high and low laughter and slippered +footsteps, and movements of couples up and down the stairs. She would +talk the language she had talked for many years—her line—made up of +the current expressions, bits of journalese and college slang strung +together into an intrinsic whole, careless, faintly provocative, +delicately sentimental. She stalled faintly as she heard a girl +sitting on the stairs near her say: “You don’t know the half of it, +dearie!”</p> + +<p>And as she smiled her anger melted for a moment, and closing her eyes +she drew in a deep breath of pleasure. She dropped her arms to her +side until they were faintly touching the sleek sheath that covered +and suggested her figure. She had never felt her own softness so much +nor so enjoyed the whiteness of her own arms.</p> + +<p>“I smell sweet,” she said to herself simply, and then came another +thought “I’m made for love.”</p> + +<p>She liked the sound of this and thought it again; then in inevitable +succession came her new-born riot of dreams about Gordon. The twist of +her imagination which, two months before, had disclosed to her her +unguessed desire to see him again, seemed now to have been leading up +to this dance, this hour.</p> + +<p>For all her sleek beauty, Edith was a grave, slow-thinking girl. There +was a streak in her of that same desire to ponder, of that adolescent +idealism that had turned her brother socialist and pacifist. Henry +Bradin had left Cornell, where he had been an instructor in economies, +and had come to New York to pour the latest cures for incurable evils +into the columns of a radical weekly newspaper.</p> + +<p>Edith, less fatuously, would have been content to cure Gordon +Sterrett. There was a quality of weakness in Gordon that she wanted to +take care of; there was a helplessness in him that she wanted to +protect. And she wanted someone she had known a long while, someone +who had loved her a long while. She was a little tired; she wanted to +get married. Out of a pile of letters, half a dozen pictures and as +many memories, and this weariness, she had decided that next time she +saw Gordon their relations were going to be changed. She would say +something that would change them. There was this evening. This was her +evening. All evenings were her evenings.</p> + +<p>Then her thoughts were interrupted by a solemn undergraduate with a +hurt look and an air of strained formality who presented himself +before her and bowed unusually low. It was the man she had come with, +Peter Himmel. He was tall and humorous, with horned-rimmed glasses and +an air of attractive whimsicality. She suddenly rather disliked +him—probably because he had not succeeded in kissing her.</p> + +<p>“Well,” she began, “are you still furious at me?”</p> + +<p>“Not at all.”</p> + +<p>She stepped forward and took his arm.</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I don’t know why I snapped out that +way. I’m in a bum humor to-night for some strange reason. I’m sorry.”</p> + +<p>“S’all right,” he mumbled, “don’t mention it.”</p> + +<p>He felt disagreeably embarrassed. Was she rubbing in the fact of his +late failure?</p> + +<p>“It was a mistake,” she continued, on the same consciously gentle key. +“We’ll both forget it.” For this he hated her.</p> + +<p>A few minutes later they drifted out on the floor while the dozen +swaying, sighing members of the specially hired jazz orchestra +informed the crowded ballroom that “if a saxophone and me are left +alone why then two is com-pan-ee!”</p> + +<p>A man with a mustache cut in.</p> + +<p>“Hello,” he began reprovingly. “You don’t remember me.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t just think of your name,” she said lightly—“and I know you +so well.”</p> + +<p>“I met you up at—” His voice trailed disconsolately off as a man with +very fair hair cut in. Edith murmured a conventional “Thanks, +loads—cut in later,” to the <i>inconnu</i>.</p> + +<p>The very fair man insisted on shaking hands enthusiastically. She +placed him as one of the numerous Jims of her acquaintance—last name +a mystery. She remembered even that he had a peculiar rhythm in +dancing and found as they started that she was right.</p> + +<p>“Going to be here long?” he breathed confidentially.</p> + +<p>She leaned back and looked up at him.</p> + +<p>“Couple of weeks.”</p> + +<p>“Where are you?”</p> + +<p>“Biltmore. Call me up some day.”</p> + +<p>“I mean it,” he assured her. “I will. We’ll go to tea.”</p> + +<p>“So do I—Do.”</p> + +<p>A dark man cut in with intense formality.</p> + +<p>“You don’t remember me, do you?” he said gravely.</p> + +<p>“I should say I do. Your name’s Harlan.”</p> + +<p>“No-ope. Barlow.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I knew there were two syllables anyway. You’re the boy that +played the ukulele so well up at Howard Marshall’s house party.</p> + +<p>“I played—but not—”</p> + +<p>A man with prominent teeth cut in. Edith inhaled a slight cloud of +whiskey. She liked men to have had something to drink; they were so +much more cheerful, and appreciative and complimentary—much easier to +talk to.</p> + +<p>“My name’s Dean, Philip Dean,” he said cheerfully. “You don’t remember +me, I know, but you used to come up to New Haven with a fellow I +roomed with senior year, Gordon Sterrett.”</p> + +<p>Edith looked up quickly.</p> + +<p>“Yes, I went up with him twice—to the Pump and Slipper and the Junior +prom.”</p> + +<p>“You’ve seen him, of course,” said Dean carelessly. “He’s here +to-night. I saw him just a minute ago.”</p> + +<p>Edith started. Yet she had felt quite sure he would be here.</p> + +<p>“Why, no, I haven’t—”</p> + +<p>A fat man with red hair cut in.</p> + +<p>“Hello, Edith,” he began.</p> + +<p>“Why—hello there—”</p> + +<p>She slipped, stumbled lightly.</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry, dear,” she murmured mechanically.</p> + +<p>She had seen Gordon—Gordon very white and listless, leaning against +the side of a doorway, smoking, and looking into the ballroom. Edith +could see that his face was thin and wan—that the hand he raised to +his lips with a cigarette, was trembling. They were dancing quite +close to him now.</p> + +<p>“—They invite so darn many extra fellas that you—” the short man was +saying.</p> + +<p>“Hello, Gordon,” called Edith over her partner’s shoulder. Her heart +was pounding wildly.</p> + +<p>His large dark eyes were fixed on her. He took a step in her +direction. Her partner turned her away—she heard his voice +bleating——</p> + +<p>“—but half the stags get lit and leave before long, so—” Then a low +tone at her side.</p> + +<p>“May I, please?”</p> + +<p>She was dancing suddenly with Gordon; one of his arms was around her; +she felt it tighten spasmodically; felt his hand on her back with the +fingers spread. Her hand holding the little lace handkerchief was +crushed in his.</p> + +<p>“Why Gordon,” she began breathlessly.</p> + +<p>“Hello, Edith.”</p> + +<p>She slipped again—was tossed forward by her recovery until her face +touched the black cloth of his dinner coat. She loved him—she knew +she loved him—then for a minute there was silence while a strange +feeling of uneasiness crept over her. Something was wrong.</p> + +<p>Of a sudden her heart wrenched, and turned over as she realized what +it was. He was pitiful and wretched, a little drunk, and miserably +tired.</p> + +<p>“Oh—” she cried involuntarily.</p> + +<p>His eyes looked down at her. She saw suddenly that they were +blood-streaked and rolling uncontrollably.</p> + +<p>“Gordon,” she murmured, “we’ll sit down; I want to sit down.”</p> + +<p>They were nearly in mid-floor, but she had seen two men start toward +her from opposite sides of the room, so she halted, seized Gordon’s +limp hand and led him bumping through the crowd, her mouth tight shut, +her face a little pale under her rouge, her eyes trembling with tears.</p> + +<p>She found a place high up on the soft-carpeted stairs, and he sat down +heavily beside her.</p> + +<p>“Well,” he began, staring at her unsteadily, “I certainly am glad to +see you, Edith.”</p> + +<p>She looked at him without answering. The effect of this on her was +immeasurable. For years she had seen men in various stages of +intoxication, from uncles all the way down to chauffeurs, and her +feelings had varied from amusement to disgust, but here for the first +time she was seized with a new feeling—an unutterable horror.</p> + +<p>“Gordon,” she said accusingly and almost crying, “you look like the +devil.”</p> + +<p>He nodded, “I’ve had trouble, Edith.”</p> + +<p>“Trouble?”</p> + +<p>“All sorts of trouble. Don’t you say anything to the family, but I’m +all gone to pieces. I’m a mess, Edith.”</p> + +<p>His lower lip was sagging. He seemed scarcely to see her.</p> + +<p>“Can’t you—can’t you,” she hesitated, “can’t you tell me about it, +Gordon? You know I’m always interested in you.”</p> + +<p>She bit her lip—she had intended to say something stronger, but found +at the end that she couldn’t bring it out.</p> + +<p>Gordon shook his head dully. “I can’t tell you. You’re a good woman. I +can’t tell a good woman the story.”</p> + +<p>“Rot,” she said, defiantly. “I think it’s a perfect insult to call any +one a good woman in that way. It’s a slam. You’ve been drinking, +Gordon.”</p> + +<p>“Thanks.” He inclined his head gravely. “Thanks for the information.”</p> + +<p>“Why do you drink?”</p> + +<p>“Because I’m so damn miserable.”</p> + +<p>“Do you think drinking’s going to make it any better?”</p> + +<p>“What you doing—trying to reform me?”</p> + +<p>“No; I’m trying to help you, Gordon. Can’t you tell me about it?”</p> + +<p>“I’m in an awful mess. Best thing you can do is to pretend not to know +me.”</p> + +<p>“Why, Gordon?”</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry I cut in on you—its unfair to you. You’re pure woman—and +all that sort of thing. Here, I’ll get some one else to dance with +you.”</p> + +<p>He rose clumsily to his feet, but she reached up and pulled him down +beside her on the stairs.</p> + +<p>“Here, Gordon. You’re ridiculous. You’re hurting me. You’re acting +like a—like a crazy man—”</p> + +<p>“I admit it. I’m a little crazy. Something’s wrong with me, Edith. +There’s something left me. It doesn’t matter.”</p> + +<p>“It does, tell me.”</p> + +<p>“Just that. I was always queer—little bit different from other boys. +All right in college, but now it’s all wrong. Things have been +snapping inside me for four months like little hooks on a dress, and +it’s about to come off when a few more hooks go. I’m very gradually +going loony.”</p> + +<p>He turned his eyes full on her and began to laugh, and she shrank away +from him.</p> + +<p>“What <i>is</i> the matter?”</p> + +<p>“Just me,” he repeated. “I’m going loony. This whole place is like a +dream to me—this Delmonico’s—”</p> + +<p>As he talked she saw he had changed utterly. He wasn’t at all light +and gay and careless—a great lethargy and discouragement had come +over him. Revulsion seized her, followed by a faint, surprising +boredom. His voice seemed to come out of a great void.</p> + +<p>“Edith,” he said, “I used to think I was clever, talented, an artist. +Now I know I’m nothing. Can’t draw, Edith. Don’t know why I’m telling +you this.”</p> + +<p>She nodded absently.</p> + +<p>“I can’t draw, I can’t do anything. I’m poor as a church mouse.” He +laughed, bitterly and rather too loud. “I’ve become a damn beggar, a +leech on my friends. I’m a failure. I’m poor as hell.”</p> + +<p>Her distaste was growing. She barely nodded this time, waiting for her +first possible cue to rise.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Gordon’s eyes filled with tears.</p> + +<p>“Edith,” he said, turning to her with what was evidently a strong +effort at self-control, “I can’t tell you what it means to me to know +there’s one person left who’s interested in me.”</p> + +<p>He reached out and patted her hand, and involuntarily she drew it +away.</p> + +<p>“It’s mighty fine of you,” he repeated.</p> + +<p>“Well,” she said slowly, looking him in the eye, “any one’s always +glad to see an old friend—but I’m sorry to see you like this, +Gordon.”</p> + +<p>There was a pause while they looked at each other, and the momentary +eagerness in his eyes wavered. She rose and stood looking at him, her +face quite expressionless.</p> + +<p>“Shall we dance?” she suggested, coolly.</p> + +<p>—Love is fragile—she was thinking—but perhaps the pieces are saved, +the things that hovered on lips, that might have been said. The new +love words, the tendernesses learned, are treasured up for the next +lover.</p> + + +<h4>V</h4> + +<p>Peter Himmel, escort to the lovely Edith, was unaccustomed to being +snubbed; having been snubbed, he was hurt and embarrassed, and ashamed +of himself. For a matter of two months he had been on special delivery +terms with Edith Bradin, and knowing that the one excuse and +explanation of the special delivery letter is its value in sentimental +correspondence, he had believed himself quite sure of his ground. He +searched in vain for any reason why she should have taken this +attitude in the matter of a simple kiss.</p> + +<p>Therefore when he was cut in on by the man with the mustache he went +out into the hall and, making up a sentence, said it over to himself +several times. Considerably deleted, this was it:</p> + +<p>“Well, if any girl ever led a man on and then jolted him, she did—and +she has no kick coming if I go out and get beautifully boiled.”</p> + +<p>So he walked through the supper room into a small room adjoining it, +which he had located earlier in the evening. It was a room in which +there were several large bowls of punch flanked by many bottles. He +took a seat beside the table which held the bottles.</p> + +<p>At the second highball, boredom, disgust, the monotony of time, the +turbidity of events, sank into a vague background before which +glittering cobwebs formed. Things became reconciled to themselves, +things lay quietly on their shelves; the troubles of the day arranged +themselves in trim formation and at his curt wish of dismissal, +marched off and disappeared. And with the departure of worry came +brilliant, permeating symbolism. Edith became a flighty, negligible +girl, not to be worried over; rather to be laughed at. She fitted like +a figure of his own dream into the surface world forming about him. He +himself became in a measure symbolic, a type of the continent +bacchanal, the brilliant dreamer at play.</p> + +<p>Then the symbolic mood faded and as he sipped his third highball his +imagination yielded to the warm glow and he lapsed into a state +similar to floating on his back in pleasant water. It was at this +point that he noticed that a green baize door near him was open about +two inches, and that through the aperture a pair of eyes were watching +him intently.</p> + +<p>“Hm,” murmured Peter calmly.</p> + +<p>The green door closed—and then opened again—a bare half inch this +time.</p> + +<p>“Peek-a-boo,” murmured Peter.</p> + +<p>The door remained stationary and then he became aware of a series of +tense intermittent whispers.</p> + +<p>“One guy.”</p> + +<p>“What’s he doin’?”</p> + +<p>“He’s sittin’ lookin’.”</p> + +<p>“He better beat it off. We gotta get another li’l’ bottle.”</p> + +<p>Peter listened while the words filtered into his consciousness.</p> + +<p>“Now this,” he thought, “is most remarkable.”</p> + +<p>He was excited. He was jubilant. He felt that he had stumbled upon a +mystery. Affecting an elaborate carelessness he arose and waited +around the table—then, turning quickly, pulled open the green door, +precipitating Private Rose into the room.</p> + +<p>Peter bowed.</p> + +<p>“How do you do?” he said.</p> + +<p>Private Rose set one foot slightly in front of the other, poised for +fight, flight, or compromise.</p> + +<p>“How do you do?” repeated Peter politely.</p> + +<p>“I’m o’right.”</p> + +<p>“Can I offer you a drink?”</p> + +<p>Private Rose looked at him searchingly, suspecting possible sarcasm.</p> + +<p>“O’right,” he said finally.</p> + +<p>Peter indicated a chair.</p> + +<p>“Sit down.”</p> + +<p>“I got a friend,” said Rose, “I got a friend in there.” He pointed to +the green door.</p> + +<p>“By all means let’s have him in.”</p> + +<p>Peter crossed over, opened the door and welcomed in Private Key, very +suspicious and uncertain and guilty. Chairs were found and the three +took their seats around the punch bowl. Peter gave them each a +highball and offered them a cigarette from his case. They accepted +both with some diffidence.</p> + +<p>“Now,” continued Peter easily, “may I ask why you gentlemen prefer to +lounge away your leisure hours in a room which is chiefly furnished, +as far as I can see, with scrubbing brushes. And when the human race +has progressed to the stage where seventeen thousand chairs are +manufactured on every day except Sunday—” he paused. Rose and Key +regarded him vacantly. “Will you tell me,” went on Peter, “why you +choose to rest yourselves on articles, intended for the transportation +of water from one place to another?”</p> + +<p>At this point Rose contributed a grunt to the conversation.</p> + +<p>“And lastly,” finished Peter, “will you tell me why, when you are in a +building beautifully hung with enormous candelabra, you prefer to +spend these evening hours under one anemic electric light?”</p> + +<p>Rose looked at Key; Key looked at Rose. They laughed; they laughed +uproariously; they found it was impossible to look at each other +without laughing. But they were not laughing with this man—they were +laughing at him. To them a man who talked after this fashion was +either raving drunk or raving crazy.</p> + +<p>“You are Yale men, I presume,” said Peter, finishing his highball and +preparing another.</p> + +<p>They laughed again.</p> + +<p>“Na-ah.”</p> + +<p>“So? I thought perhaps you might be members of that lowly section of +the university known as the Sheffield Scientific School.”</p> + +<p>“Na-ah.”</p> + +<p>“Hm. Well, that’s too bad. No doubt you are Harvard men, anxious to +preserve your incognito in this—this paradise of violet blue, as the +newspapers say.”</p> + +<p>“Na-ah,” said Key scornfully, “we was just waitin’ for somebody.”</p> + +<p>“Ah,” exclaimed Peter, rising and filling their glasses, “very +interestin’. Had a date with a scrublady, eh?”</p> + +<p>They both denied this indignantly.</p> + +<p>“It’s all right,” Peter reassured them, “don’t apologize. A +scrublady’s as good as any lady in the world. Kipling says +‘Any lady and Judy O’Grady under the skin.’”</p> + +<p>“Sure,” said Key, winking broadly at Rose.</p> + +<p>“My case, for instance,” continued Peter, finishing his glass. “I got +a girl up here that’s spoiled. Spoildest darn girl I ever saw. Refused +to kiss me; no reason whatsoever. Led me on deliberately to think sure +I want to kiss you and then plunk! Threw me over! What’s the younger +generation comin’ to?”</p> + +<p>“Say tha’s hard luck,” said Key—“that’s awful hard luck.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, boy!” said Rose.</p> + +<p>“Have another?” said Peter.</p> + +<p>“We got in a sort of fight for a while,” said Key after a pause, “but +it was too far away.”</p> + +<p>“A fight?—tha’s stuff!” said Peter, seating himself unsteadily. +“Fight ’em all! I was in the army.”</p> + +<p>“This was with a Bolshevik fella.”</p> + +<p>“Tha’s stuff!” exclaimed Peter, enthusiastic. “That’s what I say! +Kill the Bolshevik! Exterminate ’em!”</p> + +<p>“We’re Americuns,” said Rose, implying a sturdy, defiant patriotism.</p> + +<p>“Sure,” said Peter. “Greatest race in the world! We’re all Americans! +Have another.”</p> + +<p>They had another.</p> + + +<h4>VI</h4> + +<p>At one o’clock a special orchestra, special even in a day of special +orchestras, arrived at Delmonico’s, and its members, seating +themselves arrogantly around the piano, took up the burden of +providing music for the Gamma Psi Fraternity. They were headed by a +famous flute-player, distinguished throughout New York for his feat of +standing on his head and shimmying with his shoulders while he played +the latest jazz on his flute. During his performance the lights were +extinguished except for the spotlight on the flute-player and another +roving beam that threw flickering shadows and changing kaleidoscopic +colors over the massed dancers.</p> + +<p>Edith had danced herself into that tired, dreamy state habitual only +with débutantes, a state equivalent to the glow of a noble soul after +several long highballs. Her mind floated vaguely on the bosom of her +music; her partners changed with the unreality of phantoms under the +colorful shifting dusk, and to her present coma it seemed as if days +had passed since the dance began. She had talked on many fragmentary +subjects with many men. She had been kissed once and made love to six +times. Earlier in the evening different under-graduates had danced +with her, but now, like all the more popular girls there, she had her +own entourage—that is, half a dozen gallants had singled her out or +were alternating her charms with those of some other chosen beauty; +they cut in on her in regular, inevitable succession.</p> + +<p>Several times she had seen Gordon—he had been sitting a long time on +the stairway with his palm to his head, his dull eyes fixed at an +infinite spark on the floor before him, very depressed, he looked, and +quite drunk—but Edith each time had averted her glance hurriedly. All +that seemed long ago; her mind was passive now, her senses were lulled +to trance-like sleep; only her feet danced and her voice talked on in +hazy sentimental banter.</p> + +<p>But Edith was not nearly so tired as to be incapable of moral +indignation when Peter Himmel cut in on her, sublimely and happily +drunk. She gasped and looked up at him.</p> + +<p>“Why, <i>Peter</i>!”</p> + +<p>“I’m a li’l’ stewed, Edith.”</p> + +<p>“Why, Peter, you’re a <i>peach</i>, you are! Don’t you think it’s a +bum way of doing—when you’re with me?”</p> + +<p>Then she smiled unwillingly, for he was looking at her with owlish +sentimentality varied with a silly spasmodic smile.</p> + +<p>“Darlin’ Edith,” he began earnestly, “you know I love you, don’t you?”</p> + +<p>“You tell it well.”</p> + +<p>“I love you—and I merely wanted you to kiss me,” he added sadly.</p> + +<p>His embarrassment, his shame, were both gone. She was a mos’ beautiful +girl in whole worl’. Mos’ beautiful eyes, like stars above. He wanted +to ’pologize—firs’, for presuming try to kiss her; second, for +drinking—but he’d been so discouraged ’cause he had thought she was +mad at him——</p> + +<p>The red-fat man cut in, and looking up at Edith smiled radiantly.</p> + +<p>“Did you bring any one?” she asked.</p> + +<p>No. The red-fat man was a stag.</p> + +<p>“Well, would you mind—would it be an awful bother for you to—to take +me home to-night?” (this extreme diffidence was a charming affectation +on Edith’s part—she knew that the red-fat man would immediately +dissolve into a paroxysm of delight).</p> + +<p>“Bother? Why, good Lord, I’d be darn glad to! You know I’d be darn +glad to.”</p> + +<p>“Thanks <i>loads</i>! You’re awfully sweet.”</p> + +<p>She glanced at her wrist-watch. It was half-past one. And, as she said +“half-past one” to herself, it floated vaguely into her mind that her +brother had told her at luncheon that he worked in the office of his +newspaper until after one-thirty every evening.</p> + +<p>Edith turned suddenly to her current partner.</p> + +<p>“What street is Delmonico’s on, anyway?”</p> + +<p>“Street? Oh, why Fifth Avenue, of course.”</p> + +<p>“I mean, what cross street?”</p> + +<p>“Why—let’s see—it’s on Forty-fourth Street.”</p> + +<p>This verified what she had thought. Henry’s office must be across the +street and just around the corner, and it occurred to her immediately +that she might slip over for a moment and surprise him, float in on +him, a shimmering marvel in her new crimson opera cloak and “cheer him +up.” It was exactly the sort of thing Edith revelled in doing—an +unconventional, jaunty thing. The idea reached out and gripped at her +imagination—after an instant’s hesitation she had decided.</p> + +<p>“My hair is just about to tumble entirely down,” she said pleasantly +to her partner; “would you mind if I go and fix it?”</p> + +<p>“Not at all.”</p> + +<p>“You’re a peach.”</p> + +<p>A few minutes later, wrapped in her crimson opera cloak, she flitted +down a side-stairs, her cheeks glowing with excitement at her little +adventure. She ran by a couple who stood at the door—a weak-chinned +waiter and an over-rouged young lady, in hot dispute—and opening the +outer door stepped into the warm May night.</p> + + +<h4>VII</h4> + +<p>The over-rouged young lady followed her with a brief, bitter +glance—then turned again to the weak-chinned waiter and took up her +argument.</p> + +<p>“You better go up and tell him I’m here,” she said defiantly, “or I’ll +go up myself.”</p> + +<p>“No, you don’t!” said George sternly.</p> + +<p>The girl smiled sardonically.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I don’t, don’t I? Well, let me tell you I know more college +fellas and more of ’em know me, and are glad to take me out on a +party, than you ever saw in your whole life.”</p> + +<p>“Maybe so—”</p> + +<p>“Maybe so,” she interrupted. “Oh, it’s all right for any of ’em like +that one that just ran out—God knows where <i>she</i> went—it’s all +right for them that are asked here to come or go as they like—but +when I want to see a friend they have some cheap, ham-slinging, +bring-me-a-doughnut waiter to stand here and keep me out.”</p> + +<p>“See here,” said the elder Key indignantly, “I can’t lose my job. +Maybe this fella you’re talkin’ about doesn’t want to see you.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, he wants to see me all right.”</p> + +<p>“Anyways, how could I find him in all that crowd?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, he’ll be there,” she asserted confidently. “You just ask anybody +for Gordon Sterrett and they’ll point him out to you. They all know +each other, those fellas.”</p> + +<p>She produced a mesh bag, and taking out a dollar bill handed it to +George.</p> + +<p>“Here,” she said, “here’s a bribe. You find him and give him my +message. You tell him if he isn’t here in five minutes I’m coming up.”</p> + +<p>George shook his head pessimistically, considered the question for a +moment, wavered violently, and then withdrew.</p> + +<p>In less than the allotted time Gordon came down-stairs. He was drunker +than he had been earlier in the evening and in a different way. The +liquor seemed to have hardened on him like a crust. He was heavy and +lurching—almost incoherent when he talked.</p> + +<p>“’Lo, Jewel,” he said thickly. “Came right away, Jewel, I couldn’t get +that money. Tried my best.”</p> + +<p>“Money nothing!” she snapped. “You haven’t been near me for ten days. +What’s the matter?”</p> + +<p>He shook his head slowly.</p> + +<p>“Been very low, Jewel. Been sick.”</p> + +<p>“Why didn’t you tell me if you were sick. I don’t care about the money +that bad. I didn’t start bothering you about it at all until you began +neglecting me.”</p> + +<p>Again he shook his head.</p> + +<p>“Haven’t been neglecting you. Not at all.”</p> + +<p>“Haven’t! You haven’t been near me for three weeks, unless you been so +drunk you didn’t know what you were doing.”</p> + +<p>“Been sick, Jewel,” he repeated, turning his eyes upon her wearily.</p> + +<p>“You’re well enough to come and play with your society friends here +all right. You told me you’d meet me for dinner, and you said you’d +have some money for me. You didn’t even bother to ring me up.”</p> + +<p>“I couldn’t get any money.”</p> + +<p>“Haven’t I just been saying that doesn’t matter? I wanted to see +<i>you</i>, Gordon, but you seem to prefer your somebody else.”</p> + +<p>He denied this bitterly.</p> + +<p>“Then get your hat and come along,” she suggested. Gordon +hesitated—and she came suddenly close to him and slipped her arms +around his neck.</p> + +<p>“Come on with me, Gordon,” she said in a half whisper. “We’ll go over +to Devineries’ and have a drink, and then we can go up to my +apartment.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t, Jewel,——”</p> + +<p>“You can,” she said intensely.</p> + +<p>“I’m sick as a dog!”</p> + +<p>“Well, then, you oughtn’t to stay here and dance.”</p> + +<p>With a glance around him in which relief and despair were mingled, +Gordon hesitated; then she suddenly pulled him to her and kissed him +with soft, pulpy lips.</p> + +<p>“All right,” he said heavily. “I’ll get my hat.”</p> + + +<h4>VIII</h4> + +<p>When Edith came out into the clear blue of the May night she found the +Avenue deserted. The windows of the big shops were dark; over their +doors were drawn great iron masks until they were only shadowy tombs +of the late day’s splendor. Glancing down toward Forty-second Street +she saw a commingled blur of lights from the all-night restaurants. +Over on Sixth Avenue the elevated, a flare of fire, roared across the +street between the glimmering parallels of light at the station and +streaked along into the crisp dark. But at Forty-fourth Street it was +very quiet.</p> + +<p>Pulling her cloak close about her Edith darted across the Avenue. She +started nervously as a solitary man passed her and said in a hoarse +whisper—“Where bound, kiddo?” She was reminded of a night in her +childhood when she had walked around the block in her pajamas and a +dog had howled at her from a mystery-big back yard.</p> + +<p>In a minute she had reached her destination, a two-story, +comparatively old building on Forty-fourth, in the upper window of +which she thankfully detected a wisp of light. It was bright enough +outside for her to make out the sign beside the window—the <i>New +York Trumpet</i>. She stepped inside a dark hall and after a second +saw the stairs in the corner.</p> + +<p>Then she was in a long, low room furnished with many desks and hung on +all sides with file copies of newspapers. There were only two +occupants. They were sitting at different ends of the room, each +wearing a green eye-shade and writing by a solitary desk light.</p> + +<p>For a moment she stood uncertainly in the doorway, and then both men +turned around simultaneously and she recognized her brother.</p> + +<p>“Why, Edith!” He rose quickly and approached her in surprise, removing +his eye-shade. He was tall, lean, and dark, with black, piercing eyes +under very thick glasses. They were far-away eyes that seemed always +fixed just over the head of the person to whom he was talking.</p> + +<p>He put his hands on her arms and kissed her cheek.</p> + +<p>“What is it?” he repeated in some alarm.</p> + +<p>“I was at a dance across at Delmonico’s, Henry,” she said excitedly, +“and I couldn’t resist tearing over to see you.”</p> + +<p>“I’m glad you did.” His alertness gave way quickly to a habitual +vagueness. “You oughtn’t to be out alone at night though, ought you?”</p> + +<p>The man at the other end of the room had been looking at them +curiously, but at Henry’s beckoning gesture he approached. He was +loosely fat with little twinkling eyes, and, having removed his collar +and tie, he gave the impression of a Middle-Western farmer on a Sunday +afternoon.</p> + +<p>“This is my sister,” said Henry. “She dropped in to see me.”</p> + +<p>“How do you do?” said the fat man, smiling. “My name’s Bartholomew, +Miss Bradin. I know your brother has forgotten it long ago.”</p> + +<p>Edith laughed politely.</p> + +<p>“Well,” he continued, “not exactly gorgeous quarters we have here, are +they?”</p> + +<p>Edith looked around the room.</p> + +<p>“They seem very nice,” she replied. “Where do you keep the bombs?”</p> + +<p>“The bombs?” repeated Bartholomew, laughing. “That’s pretty good—the +bombs. Did you hear her, Henry? She wants to know where we keep the +bombs. Say, that’s pretty good.”</p> + +<p>Edith swung herself onto a vacant desk and sat dangling her feet over +the edge. Her brother took a seat beside her.</p> + +<p>“Well,” he asked, absent-mindedly, “how do you like New York this +trip?”</p> + +<p>“Not bad. I’ll be over at the Biltmore with the Hoyts until Sunday. +Can’t you come to luncheon to-morrow?”</p> + +<p>He thought a moment.</p> + +<p>“I’m especially busy,” he objected, “and I hate women in groups.”</p> + +<p>“All right,” she agreed, unruffled. “Let’s you and me have luncheon +together.”</p> + +<p>“Very well.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll call for you at twelve.”</p> + +<p>Bartholomew was obviously anxious to return to his desk, but +apparently considered that it would be rude to leave without some +parting pleasantry.</p> + +<p>“Well”—he began awkwardly.</p> + +<p>They both turned to him.</p> + +<p>“Well, we—we had an exciting time earlier in the evening.”</p> + +<p>The two men exchanged glances.</p> + +<p>“You should have come earlier,” continued Bartholomew, somewhat +encouraged. “We had a regular vaudeville.”</p> + +<p>“Did you really?”</p> + +<p>“A serenade,” said Henry. “A lot of soldiers gathered down there in +the street and began to yell at the sign.”</p> + +<p>“Why?” she demanded.</p> + +<p>“Just a crowd,” said Henry, abstractedly. “All crowds have to howl. +They didn’t have anybody with much initiative in the lead, or they’d +probably have forced their way in here and smashed things up.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Bartholomew, turning again to Edith, “you should have been +here.”</p> + +<p>He seemed to consider this a sufficient cue for withdrawal, for he +turned abruptly and went back to his desk.</p> + +<p>“Are the soldiers all set against the Socialists?” demanded Edith of +her brother. “I mean do they attack you violently and all that?”</p> + +<p>Henry replaced his eye-shade and yawned.</p> + +<p>“The human race has come a long way,” he said casually, “but most of +us are throw-backs; the soldiers don’t know what they want, or what +they hate, or what they like. They’re used to acting in large bodies, +and they seem to have to make demonstrations. So it happens to be +against us. There’ve been riots all over the city to-night. It’s May +Day, you see.”</p> + +<p>“Was the disturbance here pretty serious?”</p> + +<p>“Not a bit,” he said scornfully. “About twenty-five of them stopped in +the street about nine o’clock, and began to bellow at the moon.”</p> + +<p>“Oh”— She changed the subject. “You’re glad to see me, Henry?”</p> + +<p>“Why, sure.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t seem to be.”</p> + +<p>“I am.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose you think I’m a—a waster. Sort of the World’s Worst +Butterfly.”</p> + +<p>Henry laughed.</p> + +<p>“Not at all. Have a good time while you’re young. Why? Do I seem like +the priggish and earnest youth?”</p> + +<p>“No—” she paused,“—but somehow I began thinking how absolutely +different the party I’m on is from—from all your purposes. It seems +sort of—of incongruous, doesn’t it?—me being at a party like that, +and you over here working for a thing that’ll make that sort of party +impossible ever any more, if your ideas work.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think of it that way. You’re young, and you’re acting just as +you were brought up to act. Go ahead—have a good time?”</p> + +<p>Her feet, which had been idly swinging, stopped and her voice dropped +a note.</p> + +<p>“I wish you’d—you’d come back to Harrisburg and have a good time. Do +you feel sure that you’re on the right track——”</p> + +<p>“You’re wearing beautiful stockings,” he interrupted. “What on earth +are they?”</p> + +<p>“They’re embroidered,” she replied, glancing down; “Aren’t they +cunning?” She raised her skirts and uncovered slim, silk-sheathed +calves. “Or do you disapprove of silk stockings?”</p> + +<p>He seemed slightly exasperated, bent his dark eyes on her piercingly.</p> + +<p>“Are you trying to make me out as criticizing you in any way, Edith?”</p> + +<p>“Not at all——”</p> + +<p>She paused. Bartholomew had uttered a grunt. She turned and saw that +he had left his desk and was standing at the window.</p> + +<p>“What is it?” demanded Henry.</p> + +<p>“People,” said Bartholomew, and then after an instant: “Whole jam of +them. They’re coming from Sixth Avenue.”</p> + +<p>“People?”</p> + +<p>The fat man pressed his nose to the pane.</p> + +<p>“Soldiers, by God!” he said emphatically. “I had an idea they’d come +back.”</p> + +<p>Edith jumped to her feet, and running over joined Bartholomew at the +window.</p> + +<p>“There’s a lot of them!” she cried excitedly. “Come here, Henry!”</p> + +<p>Henry readjusted his shade, but kept his seat.</p> + +<p>“Hadn’t we better turn out the lights?” suggested Bartholomew.</p> + +<p>“No. They’ll go away in a minute.”</p> + +<p>“They’re not,” said Edith, peering from the window. “They’re not even +thinking of going away. There’s more of them coming. Look—there’s a +whole crowd turning the corner of Sixth Avenue.”</p> + +<p>By the yellow glow and blue shadows of the street lamp she could see +that the sidewalk was crowded with men. They were mostly in uniform, +some sober, some enthusiastically drunk, and over the whole swept an +incoherent clamor and shouting.</p> + +<p>Henry rose, and going to the window exposed himself as a long +silhouette against the office lights. Immediately the shouting became +a steady yell, and a rattling fusillade of small missiles, corners of +tobacco plugs, cigarette-boxes, and even pennies beat against the +window. The sounds of the racket now began floating up the stairs as +the folding doors revolved.</p> + +<p>“They’re coming up!” cried Bartholomew.</p> + +<p>Edith turned anxiously to Henry.</p> + +<p>“They’re coming up, Henry.”</p> + +<p>From down-stairs in the lower hall their cries were now quite audible.</p> + +<p>“—God damn Socialists!”</p> + +<p>“Pro-Germans! Boche-lovers!”</p> + +<p>“Second floor, front! Come on!”</p> + +<p>“We’ll get the sons—”</p> + +<p>The next five minutes passed in a dream. Edith was conscious that the +clamor burst suddenly upon the three of them like a cloud of rain, +that there was a thunder of many feet on the stairs, that Henry had +seized her arm and drawn her back toward the rear of the office. Then +the door opened and an overflow of men were forced into the room—not +the leaders, but simply those who happened to be in front.</p> + +<p>“Hello, Bo!”</p> + +<p>“Up late, ain’t you!”</p> + +<p>“You an’ your girl. Damn <i>you</i>!”</p> + +<p>She noticed that two very drunken soldiers had been forced to the +front, where they wobbled fatuously—one of them was short and dark, +the other was tall and weak of chin.</p> + +<p>Henry stepped forward and raised his hand.</p> + +<p>“Friends!” he said.</p> + +<p>The clamor faded into a momentary stillness, punctuated with +mutterings.</p> + +<p>“Friends!” he repeated, his far-away eyes fixed over the heads of the +crowd, “you’re injuring no one but yourselves by breaking in here +to-night. Do we look like rich men? Do we look like Germans? I ask you +in all fairness—”</p> + +<p>“Pipe down!”</p> + +<p>“I’ll say you do!”</p> + +<p>“Say, who’s your lady friend, buddy?”</p> + +<p>A man in civilian clothes, who had been pawing over a table, suddenly +held up a newspaper.</p> + +<p>“Here it is!” he shouted, “They wanted the Germans to win the war!”</p> + +<p>A new overflow from the stairs was shouldered in and of a sudden the +room was full of men all closing around the pale little group at the +back. Edith saw that the tall soldier with the weak chin was still in +front. The short dark one had disappeared.</p> + +<p>She edged slightly backward, stood close to the open window, through +which came a clear breath of cool night air.</p> + +<p>Then the room was a riot. She realized that the soldiers were surging +forward, glimpsed the fat man swinging a chair over his +head—instantly the lights went out and she felt the push of warm +bodies under rough cloth, and her ears were full of shouting and +trampling and hard breathing.</p> + +<p>A figure flashed by her out of nowhere, tottered, was edged sideways, +and of a sudden disappeared helplessly out through the open window +with a frightened, fragmentary cry that died staccato on the bosom of +the clamor. By the faint light streaming from the building backing on +the area Edith had a quick impression that it had been the tall +soldier with the weak chin.</p> + +<p>Anger rose astonishingly in her. She swung her arms wildly, edged +blindly toward the thickest of the scuffling. She heard grunts, +curses, the muffled impact of fists.</p> + +<p>“Henry!” she called frantically, “Henry!”</p> + +<p>Then, it was minutes later, she felt suddenly that there were other +figures in the room. She heard a voice, deep, bullying, authoritative; +she saw yellow rays of light sweeping here and there in the fracas. +The cries became more scattered. The scuffling increased and then +stopped.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the lights were on and the room was full of policemen, +clubbing left and right. The deep voice boomed out:</p> + +<p>“Here now! Here now! Here now!”</p> + +<p>And then:</p> + +<p>“Quiet down and get out! Here now!”</p> + +<p>The room seemed to empty like a wash-bowl. A policeman fast-grappled +in the corner released his hold on his soldier antagonist and started +him with a shove toward the door. The deep voice continued. Edith +perceived now that it came from a bull-necked police captain standing +near the door.</p> + +<p>“Here now! This is no way! One of your own sojers got shoved out of +the back window an’ killed hisself!”</p> + +<p>“Henry!” called Edith, “Henry!”</p> + +<p>She beat wildly with her fists on the back of the man in front of her; +she brushed between two others; fought, shrieked, and beat her way to +a very pale figure sitting on the floor close to a desk.</p> + +<p>“Henry,” she cried passionately, “what’s the matter? What’s the +matter? Did they hurt you?”</p> + +<p>His eyes were shut. He groaned and then looking up said disgustedly—</p> + +<p>“They broke my leg. My God, the fools!”</p> + +<p>“Here now!” called the police captain. “Here now! Here now!”</p> + + +<h4>IX</h4> + +<p>“Childs’, Fifty-ninth Street,” at eight o’clock of any morning differs +from its sisters by less than the width of their marble tables or the +degree of polish on the frying-pans. You will see there a crowd of +poor people with sleep in the corners of their eyes, trying to look +straight before them at their food so as not to see the other poor +people. But Childs’, Fifty-ninth, four hours earlier is quite unlike +any Childs’ restaurant from Portland, Oregon, to Portland, Maine. +Within its pale but sanitary walls one finds a noisy medley of chorus +girls, college boys, débutantes, rakes, <i>filles de joie</i>—a not +unrepresentative mixture of the gayest of Broadway, and even of Fifth +Avenue.</p> + +<p>In the early morning of May the second it was unusually full. Over the +marble-topped tables were bent the excited faces of flappers whose +fathers owned individual villages. They were eating buckwheat cakes +and scrambled eggs with relish and gusto, an accomplishment that it +would have been utterly impossible for them to repeat in the same +place four hours later.</p> + +<p>Almost the entire crowd were from the Gamma Psi dance at Delmonico’s +except for several chorus girls from a midnight revue who sat at a +side table and wished they’d taken off a little more make-up after the +show. Here and there a drab, mouse-like figure, desperately out of +place, watched the butterflies with a weary, puzzled curiosity. But +the drab figure was the exception. This was the morning after May Day, +and celebration was still in the air.</p> + +<p>Gus Rose, sober but a little dazed, must be classed as one of the drab +figures. How he had got himself from Forty-fourth Street to +Fifty-ninth Street after the riot was only a hazy half-memory. He had +seen the body of Carrol Key put in an ambulance and driven off, and +then he had started up town with two or three soldiers. Somewhere +between Forty-fourth Street and Fifty-ninth Street the other soldiers +had met some women and disappeared. Rose had wandered to Columbus +Circle and chosen the gleaming lights of Childs’ to minister to his +craving for coffee and doughnuts. He walked in and sat down.</p> + +<p>All around him floated airy, inconsequential chatter and high-pitched +laughter. At first he failed to understand, but after a puzzled five +minutes he realized that this was the aftermath of some gay party. +Here and there a restless, hilarious young man wandered fraternally +and familiarly between the tables, shaking hands indiscriminately and +pausing occasionally for a facetious chat, while excited waiters, +bearing cakes and eggs aloft, swore at him silently, and bumped him +out of the way. To Rose, seated at the most inconspicuous and least +crowded table, the whole scene was a colorful circus of beauty and +riotous pleasure.</p> + +<p>He became gradually aware, after a few moments, that the couple seated +diagonally across from him with their backs to the crowd, were not the +least interesting pair in the room. The man was drunk. He wore a +dinner coat with a dishevelled tie and shirt swollen by spillings of +water and wine. His eyes, dim and blood-shot, roved unnaturally from +side to side. His breath came short between his lips.</p> + +<p>“He’s been on a spree!” thought Rose.</p> + +<p>The woman was almost if not quite sober. She was pretty, with dark +eyes and feverish high color, and she kept her active eyes fixed on +her companion with the alertness of a hawk. From time to time she +would lean and whisper intently to him, and he would answer by +inclining his head heavily or by a particularly ghoulish and repellent +wink.</p> + +<p>Rose scrutinized them dumbly for some minutes until the woman gave him +a quick, resentful look; then he shifted his gaze to two of the most +conspicuously hilarious of the promenaders who were on a protracted +circuit of the tables. To his surprise he recognized in one of them +the young man by whom he had been so ludicrously entertained at +Delmonico’s. This started him thinking of Key with a vague +sentimentality, not unmixed with awe. Key was dead. He had fallen +thirty-five feet and split his skull like a cracked cocoa-nut.</p> + +<p>“He was a darn good guy,” thought Rose mournfully. “He was a darn good +guy, o’right. That was awful hard luck about him.”</p> + +<p>The two promenaders approached and started down between Rose’s table +and the next, addressing friends and strangers alike with jovial +familiarity. Suddenly Rose saw the fair-haired one with the prominent +teeth stop, look unsteadily at the man and girl opposite, and then +begin to move his head disapprovingly from side to side.</p> + +<p>The man with the blood-shot eyes looked up.</p> + +<p>“Gordy,” said the promenader with the prominent teeth, “Gordy.”</p> + +<p>“Hello,” said the man with the stained shirt thickly.</p> + +<p>Prominent teeth shook his finger pessimistically at the pair, giving +the woman a glance of aloof condemnation.</p> + +<p>“What’d I tell you Gordy?”</p> + +<p>Gordon stirred in his seat.</p> + +<p>“Go to hell!” he said.</p> + +<p>Dean continued to stand there shaking his finger. The woman began to +get angry.</p> + +<p>“You go way!” she cried fiercely. “You’re drunk, that’s what you are!”</p> + +<p>“So’s he,” suggested Dean, staying the motion of his finger and +pointing it at Gordon.</p> + +<p>Peter Himmel ambled up, owlish now and oratorically inclined.</p> + +<p>“Here now,” he began as if called upon to deal with some petty dispute +between children. “Wha’s all trouble?”</p> + +<p>“You take your friend away,” said Jewel tartly. “He’s bothering us.”</p> + +<p>“What’s at?”</p> + +<p>“You heard me!” she said shrilly. “I said to take your drunken friend +away.”</p> + +<p>Her rising voice rang out above the clatter of the restaurant and a +waiter came hurrying up.</p> + +<p>“You gotta be more quiet!”</p> + +<p>“That fella’s drunk,” she cried. “He’s insulting us.”</p> + +<p>“Ah-ha, Gordy,” persisted the accused. “What’d I tell you.” He turned +to the waiter. “Gordy an’ I friends. Been tryin’ help him, haven’t I, +Gordy?”</p> + +<p>Gordy looked up.</p> + +<p>“Help me? Hell, no!”</p> + +<p>Jewel rose suddenly, and seizing Gordon’s arm assisted him to his +feet.</p> + +<p>“Come on, Gordy!” she said, leaning toward him and speaking in a half +whisper. “Let’s us get out of here. This fella’s got a mean drunk on.”</p> + +<p>Gordon allowed himself to be urged to his feet and started toward the +door. Jewel turned for a second and addressed the provoker of their +flight.</p> + +<p>“I know all about <i>you</i>!” she said fiercely. “Nice friend, you +are, I’ll say. He told me about you.”</p> + +<p>Then she seized Gordon’s arm, and together they made their way through +the curious crowd, paid their check, and went out.</p> + +<p>“You’ll have to sit down,” said the waiter to Peter after they had +gone.</p> + +<p>“What’s ’at? Sit down?”</p> + +<p>“Yes—or get out.”</p> + +<p>Peter turned to Dean.</p> + +<p>“Come on,” he suggested. “Let’s beat up this waiter.”</p> + +<p>“All right.”</p> + +<p>They advanced toward him, their faces grown stern. The waiter +retreated.</p> + +<p>Peter suddenly reached over to a plate on the table beside him and +picking up a handful of hash tossed it into the air. It descended as a +languid parabola in snowflake effect on the heads of those near by.</p> + +<p>“Hey! Ease up!”</p> + +<p>“Put him out!”</p> + +<p>“Sit down, Peter!”</p> + +<p>“Cut out that stuff!”</p> + +<p>Peter laughed and bowed.</p> + +<p>“Thank you for your kind applause, ladies and gents. If some one will +lend me some more hash and a tall hat we will go on with the act.”</p> + +<p>The bouncer bustled up.</p> + +<p>“You’ve gotta get out!” he said to Peter.</p> + +<p>“Hell, no!”</p> + +<p>“He’s my friend!” put in Dean indignantly.</p> + +<p>A crowd of waiters were gathering. “Put him out!”</p> + +<p>“Better go, Peter.”</p> + +<p>There was a short struggle and the two were edged and pushed toward +the door.</p> + +<p>“I got a hat and a coat here!” cried Peter.</p> + +<p>“Well, go get ’em and be spry about it!”</p> + +<p>The bouncer released his hold on Peter, who, adopting a ludicrous air +of extreme cunning, rushed immediately around to the other table, +where he burst into derisive laughter and thumbed his nose at the +exasperated waiters.</p> + +<p>“Think I just better wait a l’il longer,” he announced.</p> + +<p>The chase began. Four waiters were sent around one way and four +another. Dean caught hold of two of them by the coat, and another +struggle took place before the pursuit of Peter could be resumed; he +was finally pinioned after overturning a sugar-bowl and several cups +of coffee. A fresh argument ensued at the cashier’s desk, where Peter +attempted to buy another dish of hash to take with him and throw at +policemen.</p> + +<p>But the commotion upon his exit proper was dwarfed by another +phenomenon which drew admiring glances and a prolonged involuntary +“Oh-h-h!” from every person in the restaurant.</p> + +<p>The great plate-glass front had turned to a deep blue, the color of a +Maxfield Parrish moonlight—a blue that seemed to press close upon the +pane as if to crowd its way into the restaurant. Dawn had come up in +Columbus Circle, magical, breathless dawn, silhouetting the great +statue of the immortal Christopher, and mingling in a curious and +uncanny manner with the fading yellow electric light inside.</p> + + +<h4>X</h4> + +<p>Mr. In and Mr. Out are not listed by the census-taker. You will search +for them in vain through the social register or the births, marriages, +and deaths, or the grocer’s credit list. Oblivion has swallowed them +and the testimony that they ever existed at all is vague and shadowy, +and inadmissible in a court of law. Yet I have it upon the best +authority that for a brief space Mr. In and Mr. Out lived, breathed, +answered to their names and radiated vivid personalities of their own.</p> + +<p>During the brief span of their lives they walked in their native +garments down the great highway of a great nation; were laughed at, +sworn at, chased, and fled from. Then they passed and were heard of no +more.</p> + +<p>They were already taking form dimly, when a taxi cab with the top open +breezed down Broadway in the faintest glimmer of May dawn. In this car +sat the souls of Mr. In and Mr. Out discussing with amazement the blue +light that had so precipitately colored the sky behind the statue of +Christopher Columbus, discussing with bewilderment the old, gray faces +of the early risers which skimmed palely along the street like blown +bits of paper on a gray lake. They were agreed on all things, from the +absurdity of the bouncer in Childs’ to the absurdity of the business +of life. They were dizzy with the extreme maudlin happiness that the +morning had awakened in their glowing souls. Indeed, so fresh and +vigorous was their pleasure in living that they felt it should be +expressed by loud cries.</p> + +<p>“Ye-ow-ow!” hooted Peter, making a megaphone with his hands—and Dean +joined in with a call that, though equally significant and symbolic, +derived its resonance from its very inarticulateness.</p> + +<p>“Yo-ho! Yea! Yoho! Yo-buba!”</p> + +<p>Fifty-third Street was a bus with a dark, bobbed-hair beauty atop; +Fifty-second was a street cleaner who dodged, escaped, and sent up a +yell of, “Look where you’re aimin’!” in a pained and grieved voice. At +Fiftieth Street a group of men on a very white sidewalk in front of a +very white building turned to stare after them, and shouted:</p> + +<p>“Some party, boys!”</p> + +<p>At Forty-ninth Street Peter turned to Dean. “Beautiful morning,” he +said gravely, squinting up his owlish eyes.</p> + +<p>“Probably is.”</p> + +<p>“Go get some breakfast, hey?”</p> + +<p>Dean agreed—with additions.</p> + +<p>“Breakfast and liquor.”</p> + +<p>“Breakfast and liquor,” repeated Peter, and they looked at each other, +nodding. “That’s logical.”</p> + +<p>Then they both burst into loud laughter.</p> + +<p>“Breakfast and liquor! Oh, gosh!”</p> + +<p>“No such thing,” announced Peter.</p> + +<p>“Don’t serve it? Ne’mind. We force ’em serve it. Bring pressure bear.”</p> + +<p>“Bring logic bear.”</p> + +<p>The taxi cut suddenly off Broadway, sailed along a cross street, and +stopped in front of a heavy tomb-like building in Fifth Avenue.</p> + +<p>“What’s idea?”</p> + +<p>The taxi-driver informed them that this was Delmonico’s.</p> + +<p>This was somewhat puzzling. They were forced to devote several minutes +to intense concentration, for if such an order had been given there +must have been a reason for it.</p> + +<p>“Somep’m ’bouta coat,” suggested the taxi-man.</p> + +<p>That was it. Peter’s overcoat and hat. He had left them at +Delmonico’s. Having decided this, they disembarked from the taxi and +strolled toward the entrance arm in arm.</p> + +<p>“Hey!” said the taxi-driver.</p> + +<p>“Huh?”</p> + +<p>“You better pay me.”</p> + +<p>They shook their heads in shocked negation.</p> + +<p>“Later, not now—we give orders, you wait.”</p> + +<p>The taxi-driver objected; he wanted his money now. With the scornful +condescension of men exercising tremendous self-control they paid him.</p> + +<p>Inside Peter groped in vain through a dim, deserted check-room in +search of his coat and derby.</p> + +<p>“Gone, I guess. Somebody stole it.”</p> + +<p>“Some Sheff student.”</p> + +<p>“All probability.”</p> + +<p>“Never mind,” said Dean, nobly. “I’ll leave mine here too—then we’ll +both be dressed the same.”</p> + +<p>He removed his overcoat and hat and was hanging them up when his +roving glance was caught and held magnetically by two large squares of +cardboard tacked to the two coat-room doors. The one on the left-hand +door bore the word “In” in big black letters, and the one on the +right-hand door flaunted the equally emphatic word “Out.”</p> + +<p>“Look!” he exclaimed happily—</p> + +<p>Peter’s eyes followed his pointing finger.</p> + +<p>“What?”</p> + +<p>“Look at the signs. Let’s take ’em.”</p> + +<p>“Good idea.”</p> + +<p>“Probably pair very rare an’ valuable signs. Probably come in handy.”</p> + +<p>Peter removed the left-hand sign from the door and endeavored to +conceal it about his person. The sign being of considerable +proportions, this was a matter of some difficulty. An idea flung +itself at him, and with an air of dignified mystery he turned his +back. After an instant he wheeled dramatically around, and stretching +out his arms displayed himself to the admiring Dean. He had inserted +the sign in his vest, completely covering his shirt front. In effect, +the word “In” had been painted upon his shirt in large black letters.</p> + +<p>“Yoho!” cheered Dean. “Mister In.”</p> + +<p>He inserted his own sign in like manner.</p> + +<p>“Mister Out!” he announced triumphantly. “Mr. In meet Mr. Out.”</p> + +<p>They advanced and shook hands. Again laughter overcame them and they +rocked in a shaken spasm of mirth.</p> + +<p>“Yoho!”</p> + +<p>“We probably get a flock of breakfast.”</p> + +<p>“We’ll go—go to the Commodore.”</p> + +<p>Arm in arm they sallied out the door, and turning east in Forty-fourth +Street set out for the Commodore.</p> + +<p>As they came out a short dark soldier, very pale and tired, who had +been wandering listlessly along the sidewalk, turned to look at them.</p> + +<p>He started over as though to address them, but as they immediately +bent on him glances of withering unrecognition, he waited until they +had started unsteadily down the street, and then followed at about +forty paces, chuckling to himself and saying, “Oh, boy!” over and over +under his breath, in delighted, anticipatory tones.</p> + +<p>Mr. In and Mr. Out were meanwhile exchanging pleasantries concerning +their future plans.</p> + +<p>“We want liquor; we want breakfast. Neither without the other. One and +indivisible.”</p> + +<p>“We want both ’em!”</p> + +<p>“Both ’em!”</p> + +<p>It was quite light now, and passers-by began to bend curious eyes on +the pair. Obviously they were engaged in a discussion, which afforded +each of them intense amusement, for occasionally a fit of laughter +would seize upon them so violently that, still with their arms +interlocked, they would bend nearly double.</p> + +<p>Reaching the Commodore, they exchanged a few spicy epigrams with the +sleepy-eyed doorman, navigated the revolving door with some +difficulty, and then made their way through a thinly populated but +startled lobby to the dining-room, where a puzzled waiter showed them +an obscure table in a corner. They studied the bill of fare +helplessly, telling over the items to each other in puzzled mumbles.</p> + +<p>“Don’t see any liquor here,” said Peter reproachfully.</p> + +<p>The waiter became audible but unintelligible.</p> + +<p>“Repeat,” continued Peter, with patient tolerance, “that there seems +to be unexplained and quite distasteful lack of liquor upon bill of +fare.”</p> + +<p>“Here!” said Dean confidently, “let me handle him.” He turned to the +waiter—“Bring us—bring us—” he scanned the bill of fare anxiously. +“Bring us a quart of champagne and a—a—probably ham sandwich.”</p> + +<p>The waiter looked doubtful.</p> + +<p>“Bring it!” roared Mr. In and Mr. Out in chorus.</p> + +<p>The waiter coughed and disappeared. There was a short wait during +which they were subjected without their knowledge to a careful +scrutiny by the head-waiter. Then the champagne arrived, and at the +sight of it Mr. In and Mr. Out became jubilant.</p> + +<p>“Imagine their objecting to us having, champagne for breakfast—jus’ +imagine.”</p> + +<p>They both concentrated upon the vision of such an awesome possibility, +but the feat was too much for them. It was impossible for their joint +imaginations to conjure up a world where any one might object to any one +else having champagne for breakfast. The waiter drew the cork with an +enormous <i>pop</i> and their glasses immediately foamed with pale +yellow froth.</p> + +<p>“Here’s health, Mr. In.”</p> + +<p>“Here’s same to you, Mr. Out.”</p> + +<p>The waiter withdrew; the minutes passed; the champagne became low in +the bottle.</p> + +<p>“It’s—it’s mortifying,” said Dean suddenly.</p> + +<p>“Wha’s mortifying?”</p> + +<p>“The idea their objecting us having champagne breakfast.”</p> + +<p>“Mortifying?” Peter considered. “Yes, tha’s word—mortifying.”</p> + +<p>Again they collapsed into laughter, howled, swayed, rocked back and +forth in their chairs, repeating the word “mortifying” over and over +to each other—each repetition seeming to make it only more +brilliantly absurd.</p> + +<p>After a few more gorgeous minutes they decided on another quart. Their +anxious waiter consulted his immediate superior, and this discreet +person gave implicit instructions that no more champagne should be +served. Their check was brought.</p> + +<p>Five minutes later, arm in arm, they left the Commodore and made their +way through a curious, staring crowd along Forty-second Street, and up +Vanderbilt Avenue to the Biltmore. There, with sudden cunning, they +rose to the occasion and traversed the lobby, walking fast and +standing unnaturally erect.</p> + +<p>Once in the dining-room they repeated their performance. They were +torn between intermittent convulsive laughter and sudden spasmodic +discussions of politics, college, and the sunny state of their +dispositions. Their watches told them that it was now nine o’clock, +and a dim idea was born in them that they were on a memorable party, +something that they would remember always. They lingered over the +second bottle. Either of them had only to mention the word +“mortifying” to send them both into riotous gasps. The dining-room was +whirring and shifting now; a curious lightness permeated and rarefied +the heavy air.</p> + +<p>They paid their check and walked out into the lobby.</p> + +<p>It was at this moment that the exterior doors revolved for the +thousandth time that morning, and admitted into the lobby a very pale +young beauty with dark circles under her eyes, attired in a +much-rumpled evening dress. She was accompanied by a plain stout man, +obviously not an appropriate escort.</p> + +<p>At the top of the stairs this couple encountered Mr. In and Mr. Out.</p> + +<p>“Edith,” began Mr. In, stepping toward her hilariously and making a +sweeping bow, “darling, good morning.”</p> + +<p>The stout man glanced questioningly at Edith, as if merely asking her +permission to throw this man summarily out of the way.</p> + +<p>“’Scuse familiarity,” added Peter, as an afterthought. “Edith, +good-morning.”</p> + +<p>He seized Dean’s elbow and impelled him into the foreground.</p> + +<p>“Meet Mr. In, Edith, my bes’ frien’. Inseparable. Mr. In and Mr. Out.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Out advanced and bowed; in fact, he advanced so far and bowed so +low that he tipped slightly forward and only kept his balance by +placing a hand lightly on Edith’s shoulder.</p> + +<p>“I’m Mr. Out, Edith,” he mumbled pleasantly. “S’misterin Misterout.”</p> + +<p>“’Smisterinanout,” said Peter proudly.</p> + +<p>But Edith stared straight by them, her eyes fixed on some infinite +speck in the gallery above her. She nodded slightly to the stout man, +who advanced bull-like and with a sturdy brisk gesture pushed Mr. In +and Mr. Out to either side. Through this alley he and Edith walked.</p> + +<p>But ten paces farther on Edith stopped again—stopped and pointed to a +short, dark soldier who was eying the crowd in general, and the +tableau of Mr. In and Mr. Out in particular, with a sort of puzzled, +spell-bound awe.</p> + +<p>“There,” cried Edith. “See there!”</p> + +<p>Her voice rose, became somewhat shrill. Her pointing finger shook +slightly.</p> + +<p>“There’s the soldier who broke my brother’s leg.”</p> + +<p>There were a dozen exclamations; a man in a cutaway coat left his +place near the desk and advanced alertly; the stout person made a sort +of lightning-like spring toward the short, dark soldier, and then the +lobby closed around the little group and blotted them from the sight +of Mr. In and Mr. Out.</p> + +<p>But to Mr. In and Mr. Out this event was merely a particolored +iridescent segment of a whirring, spinning world.</p> + +<p>They heard loud voices; they saw the stout man spring; the picture +suddenly blurred.</p> + +<p>Then they were in an elevator bound skyward.</p> + +<p>“What floor, please?” said the elevator man.</p> + +<p>“Any floor,” said Mr. In.</p> + +<p>“Top floor,” said Mr. Out.</p> + +<p>“This is the top floor,” said the elevator man.</p> + +<p>“Have another floor put on,” said Mr. Out.</p> + +<p>“Higher,” said Mr. In.</p> + +<p>“Heaven,” said Mr. Out.</p> + + +<h4>XI</h4> + +<p>In a bedroom of a small hotel just off Sixth Avenue Gordon Sterrett +awoke with a pain in the back of his head and a sick throbbing in all +his veins. He looked at the dusky gray shadows in the corners of the +room and at a raw place on a large leather chair in the corner where +it had long been in use. He saw clothes, dishevelled, rumpled clothes +on the floor and he smelt stale cigarette smoke and stale liquor. The +windows were tight shut. Outside the bright sunlight had thrown a +dust-filled beam across the sill—a beam broken by the head of the +wide wooden bed in which he had slept. He lay very quiet—comatose, +drugged, his eyes wide, his mind clicking wildly like an unoiled +machine.</p> + +<p>It must have been thirty seconds after he perceived the sunbeam with +the dust on it and the rip on the large leather chair that he had the +sense of life close beside him, and it was another thirty seconds +after that before that he realized that he was irrevocably married to +Jewel Hudson.</p> + +<p>He went out half an hour later and bought a revolver at a sporting +goods store. Then he took a taxi to the room where he had been living +on East Twenty-seventh Street, and, leaning across the table that held +his drawing materials, fired a cartridge into his head just behind the +temple.</p> + + + + +<div class="chapter"> +<h3 class="nobreak" id="PORCELAIN_AND_PINK">PORCELAIN AND PINK</h3> +</div> + + +<p><i>A room in the down-stairs of a summer cottage. High around the wall +runs an art frieze of a fisherman with a pile of nets at his feet and +a ship on a crimson ocean, a fisherman with a pile of nets at his feet +and a ship on a crimson ocean, a fisherman with a pile of nets at his +feet and so on. In one place on the frieze there is an overlapping—here +we have half a fisherman with half a pile of nets at his foot, +crowded damply against half a ship on half a crimson ocean. +The frieze is not in the plot, but frankly it fascinates me. I could +continue indefinitely, but I am distracted by one of the two objects +in the room—a blue porcelain bath-tub. It has character, this +bath-tub. It is not one of the new racing bodies, but is small with a +high tonneau and looks as if it were going to jump; discouraged, +however, by the shortness of its legs, it has submitted to its +environment and to its coat of sky-blue paint. But it grumpily refuses +to allow any patron completely to stretch his legs—which brings us +neatly to the second object in the room:</i></p> + +<p><i>It is a girl—clearly an appendage to the bath-tub, only her head and +throat—beautiful girls have throats instead of necks—and a +suggestion of shoulder appearing above the side. For the first ten +minutes of the play the audience is engrossed in wondering if she +really is playing the game fairly and hasn’t any clothes on or whether +it is being cheated and she is dressed.</i></p> + +<p><i>The girl’s name is</i> <span class="smcap">Julie Marvis</span>. <i>From the proud way she sits +up in the bath-tub we deduce that she is not very tall and that she +carries herself well. When she smiles, her upper lip rolls a little +and reminds you of an Easter Bunny. She is within whispering distance +of twenty years old.</i></p> + +<p><i>One thing more—above and to the right of the bath-tub is a window. +It is narrow and has a wide sill; it lets in much sunshine, but +effectually prevents any one who looks in from seeing the bath-tub. +You begin to suspect the plot?</i></p> + +<p><i>We open, conventionally enough, with a song, but, as the startled +gasp of the audience quite drowns out the first half, we will give +only the last of it:</i></p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>In an airy sophrano—enthusiastico</i>)</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">When Caesar did the Chicago</div> + <div class="verse indent2">He was a graceful child,</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Those sacred chickens</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Just raised the dickens</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The Vestal Virgins went wild.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Whenever the Nervii got nervy</div> + <div class="verse indent2">He gave them an awful razz</div> + <div class="verse indent4">They shook in their shoes</div> + <div class="verse indent4">With the Consular blues</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The Imperial Roman Jazz</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>(<i>During the wild applause that follows</i> <span class="smcap">Julie</span> <i>modestly moves +her arms and makes waves on the surface of the water—at least we +suppose she does. Then the door on the left opens and</i> <span class="smcap">Lois Marvis</span> +<i>enters, dressed but carrying garments and towels.</i> <span class="smcap">Lois</span> <i>is a +year older than</i> <span class="smcap">Julie</span> <i>and is nearly her double in face and +voice, but in her clothes and expression are the marks of the +conservative. Yes, you’ve guessed it. Mistaken identity is the old +rusty pivot upon which the plot turns.</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> (<i>Starting</i>) Oh, ’scuse me. I didn’t know you were here.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> Oh, hello. I’m giving a little concert—</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> (<i>Interrupting</i>) Why didn’t you lock the door?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> Didn’t I?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> Of course you didn’t. Do you think I just walked through it?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> I thought you picked the lock, dearest.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> You’re <i>so</i> careless.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> No. I’m happy as a garbage-man’s dog and I’m giving a little +concert.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> (<i>Severely</i>) Grow up!</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>Waving a pink arm around the room</i>) The walls reflect +the sound, you see. That’s why there’s something very beautiful about +singing in a bath-tub. It gives an effect of surpassing loveliness. +Can I render you a selection?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> I wish you’d hurry out of the tub.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>Shaking her head thoughtfully</i>) Can’t be hurried. This +is my kingdom at present, Godliness.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> Why the mellow name?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> Because you’re next to Cleanliness. Don’t throw anything +please!</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> How long will you be?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>After some consideration</i>) Not less than fifteen nor +more than twenty-five minutes.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> As a favor to me will you make it ten?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>Reminiscing</i>) Oh, Godliness, do you remember a day in +the chill of last January when one Julie, famous for her Easter-rabbit +smile, was going out and there was scarcely any hot water and young +Julie had just filled the tub for her own little self when the wicked +sister came and did bathe herself therein, forcing the young Julie to +perform her ablutions with cold cream—which is expensive and a darn +lot of troubles?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> (<i>Impatiently</i>) Then you won’t hurry?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> Why should I?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> I’ve got a date.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> Here at the house?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> None of your business.</p> + +<p>(<span class="smcap">Julie</span> <i>shrugs the visible tips of her shoulders and stirs the water +into ripples.</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> So be it.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> Oh, for Heaven’s sake, yes! I have a date here, at the house—in +a way.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> In a way?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> He isn’t coming in. He’s calling for me and we’re walking.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>Raising her eyebrows</i>) Oh, the plot clears. It’s that +literary Mr. Calkins. I thought you promised mother you wouldn’t +invite him in.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> (<i>Desperately</i>) She’s so idiotic. She detests him because +he’s just got a divorce. Of course she’s had more experience than I +have, but—</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>Wisely</i>) Don’t let her kid you! Experience is the +biggest gold brick in the world. All older people have it for sale.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> I like him. We talk literature.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> Oh, so that’s why I’ve noticed all these weighty books around +the house lately.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> He lends them to me.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> Well, you’ve got to play his game. When in Rome do as the +Romans would like to do. But I’m through with books. I’m all educated.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> You’re very inconsistent—last summer you read every day.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> If I were consistent I’d still be living on warm milk out of a +bottle.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> Yes, and probably my bottle. But I like Mr. Calkins.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> I never met him.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> Well, will you hurry up?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> Yes. (<i>After a pause</i>) I wait till the water gets tepid +and then I let in more hot.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> (<i>Sarcastically</i>) How interesting!</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> ’Member when we used to play “soapo”?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> Yes—and ten years old. I’m really quite surprised that you +don’t play it still.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> I do. I’m going to in a minute.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> Silly game.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>Warmly</i>) No, it isn’t. It’s good for the nerves. I’ll +bet you’ve forgotten how to play it.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> (<i>Defiantly</i>) No, I haven’t. You—you get the tub all full +of soapsuds and then you get up on the edge and slide down.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>Shaking her head scornfully</i>) Huh! That’s only part of +it. You’ve got to slide down without touching your hand or feet—</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span>(<i>Impatiently</i>) Oh, Lord! What do I care? I wish we’d either +stop coming here in the summer or else get a house with two bath-tubs.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> You can buy yourself a little tin one, or use the hose——</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> Oh, shut up!</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>Irrelevantly</i>) Leave the towel.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> What?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> Leave the towel when you go.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> This towel?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>Sweetly</i>) Yes, I forgot my towel.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> (<i>Looking around for the first time</i>) Why, you idiot! You +haven’t even a kimono.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>Also looking around</i>) Why, so I haven’t.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> (<i>Suspicion growing on her</i>) How did you get here?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>Laughing</i>) I guess I—I guess I whisked here. You know—a +white form whisking down the stairs and—</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> (<i>Scandalized</i>) Why, you little wretch. Haven’t you any +pride or self-respect?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> Lots of both. I think that proves it. I looked very well. I +really am rather cute in my natural state.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> Well, you—</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>Thinking aloud</i>) I wish people didn’t wear any clothes. +I guess I ought to have been a pagan or a native or something.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> You’re a—</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> I dreamt last night that one Sunday in church a small boy +brought in a magnet that attracted cloth. He attracted the clothes +right off of everybody; put them in an awful state; people were crying +and shrieking and carrying on as if they’d just discovered their skins +for the first time. Only <i>I</i> didn’t care. So I just laughed. I +had to pass the collection plate because nobody else would.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> (<i>Who has turned a deaf ear to this speech</i>) Do you mean to +tell me that if I hadn’t come you’d have run back to your +room—un—unclothed?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> <i>Au naturel</i> is so much nicer.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> Suppose there had been some one in the living-room.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> There never has been yet.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> Yet! Good grief! How long—</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> Besides, I usually have a towel.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> (<i>Completely overcome</i>) Golly! You ought to be spanked. I +hope you get caught. I hope there’s a dozen ministers in the +living-room when you come out—and their wives, and their daughters.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> There wouldn’t be room for them in the living-room, answered +Clean Kate of the Laundry District.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> All right. You’ve made your own—bath-tub; you can lie in it.</p> + +<p>(<i><span class="smcap">Lois</span> starts determinedly for the door.</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>In alarm</i>) Hey! Hey! I don’t care about the k’mono, but +I want the towel. I can’t dry myself on a piece of soap and a wet +wash-rag.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> (<i>Obstinately</i>) I won’t humor such a creature. You’ll have +to dry yourself the best way you can. You can roll on the floor like +the animals do that don’t wear any clothes.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>Complacent again</i>) All right. Get out!</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> (<i>Haughtily</i>) Huh!</p> + +<p>(<span class="smcap">Julie</span> <i>turns on the cold water and with her finger directs a +parabolic stream at</i> <span class="smcap">Lois</span>. <span class="smcap">Lois</span> <i>retires quickly, slamming the door +after her.</i> <span class="smcap">Julie</span> <i>laughs and turns off the water</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (Singing)</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">When the Arrow-collar man</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Meets the D’jer-kiss girl</div> + <div class="verse indent0">On the smokeless Sante Fé</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Her Pebeco smile</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Her Lucile style</div> + <div class="verse indent0">De dum da-de-dum one day—</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>(<i>She changes to a whistle and leans forward to turn on the taps, +but is startled by three loud banging noises in the pipes. Silence for +a moment—then she puts her mouth down near the spigot as if it were a +telephone</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> Hello! (<i>No answer</i>) Are you a plumber? (<i>No answer</i>) +Are you the water department? (<i>One loud, hollow bang</i>) What do +you want? (<i>No answer</i>) I believe you’re a ghost. Are you? (<i>No +answer</i>) Well, then, stop banging. (<i>She reaches out and turns on +the warm tap. No water flows. Again she puts her mouth down close to +the spigot</i>) If you’re the plumber that’s a mean trick. Turn it on +for a fellow. (<i>Two loud, hollow bangs</i>) Don’t argue! I want +water—water! <i>Water</i>!</p> + +<p>(<i>A young man’s head appears in the window—a head decorated with a +slim mustache and sympathetic eyes. These last stare, and though they +can see nothing but many fishermen with nets and much crimson ocean, +they decide him to speak</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> Some one fainted?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>Starting up, all ears immediately</i>) Jumping cats!</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> (<i>Helpfully</i>) Water’s no good for fits.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> Fits! Who said anything about fits!</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> You said something about a cat jumping.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>Decidedly</i>) I did not!</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> Well, we can talk it over later, Are you ready to go +out? Or do you still feel that if you go with me just now everybody +will gossip?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>Smiling</i>) Gossip! Would they? It’d be more than +gossip—it’d be a regular scandal.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> Here, you’re going it a little strong. Your family +might be somewhat disgruntled—but to the pure all things are +suggestive. No one else would even give it a thought, except a few old +women. Come on.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> You don’t know what you ask.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> Do you imagine we’d have a crowd following us?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> A crowd? There’d be a special, all-steel, buffet train leaving +New York hourly.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> Say, are you house-cleaning?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> Why?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> I see all the pictures are off the walls.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> Why, we never have pictures in this room.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> Odd, I never heard of a room without pictures or +tapestry or panelling or something.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> There’s not even any furniture in here.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> What a strange house!</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> It depend on the angle you see it from.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> (<i>Sentimentally</i>) It’s so nice talking to you like +this—when you’re merely a voice. I’m rather glad I can’t see you.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie</span>; (<i>Gratefully</i>) So am I.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> What color are you wearing?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>After a critical survey of her shoulders</i>) Why, I guess +it’s a sort of pinkish white.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> Is it becoming to you?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> Very. It’s—it’s old. I’ve had it for a long while.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> I thought you hated old clothes.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> I do but this was a birthday present and I sort of have to wear +it.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> Pinkish-white. Well I’ll bet it’s divine. Is it in +style?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> Quite. It’s very simple, standard model.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> What a voice you have! How it echoes! Sometimes I shut +my eyes and seem to see you in a far desert island calling for me. And +I plunge toward you through the surf, hearing you call as you stand +there, water stretching on both sides of you—</p> + +<p>(<i>The soap slips from the side of the tub and splashes in. The young +man blinks</i>)</p> + +<p>YOUNG MAN: What was that? Did I dream it?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> Yes. You’re—you’re very poetic, aren’t you?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> (<i>Dreamily</i>) No. I do prose. I do verse only when +I am stirred.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>Murmuring</i>) Stirred by a spoon—</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> I have always loved poetry. I can remember to this day +the first poem I ever learned by heart. It was “Evangeline.”</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> That’s a fib.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> Did I say “Evangeline”? I meant “The Skeleton in +Armor.”</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> I’m a low-brow. But I can remember my first poem. It had one +verse:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Parker and Davis</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Sittin’ on a fence</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Tryne to make a dollar</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Outa fif-teen cents.</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> (<i>Eagerly</i>) Are you growing fond of literature?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> If it’s not too ancient or complicated or depressing. Same way +with people. I usually like ’em not too ancient or complicated or +depressing.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> Of course I’ve read enormously. You told me last night +that you were very fond of Walter Scott.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>Considering</i>) Scott? Let’s see. Yes, I’ve read “Ivanhoe” +and “The Last of the Mohicans.”</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> That’s by Cooper.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>Angrily</i>) “Ivanhoe” is? You’re crazy! I guess I know. I +read it.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> “The Last of the Mohicans” is by Cooper.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> What do I care! I like O. Henry. I don’t see how he ever wrote +those stories. Most of them he wrote in prison. “The Ballad of Reading +Gaol” he made up in prison.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> (<i>Biting his lip</i>) Literature—literature! How +much it has meant to me!</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> Well, as Gaby Deslys said to Mr. Bergson, with my looks and +your brains there’s nothing we couldn’t do.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> (<i>Laughing</i>) You certainly are hard to keep up +with. One day you’re awfully pleasant and the next you’re in a mood. +If I didn’t understand your temperament so well—</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>Impatiently</i>) Oh, you’re one of these amateur +character-readers, are you? Size people up in five minutes and then +look wise whenever they’re mentioned. I hate that sort of thing.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> I don’t boast of sizing you up. You’re most mysterious, +I’ll admit.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> There’s only two mysterious people in history.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> Who are they?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> The Man with the Iron Mask and the fella who says “ug uh-glug +uh-glug uh-glug” when the line is busy.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> You <i>are</i> mysterious. I love you. You’re +beautiful, intelligent, and virtuous, and that’s the rarest known +combination.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> You’re a historian. Tell me if there are any bath-tubs in +history. I think they’ve been frightfully neglected.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> Bath-tubs! Let’s see. Well, Agamemnon was stabbed in +his bath-tub. And Charlotte Corday stabbed Marat in his bath-tub.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>Sighing</i>) Way back there! Nothing new besides the sun, +is there? Why only yesterday I picked up a musical-comedy score that +must have been at least twenty years old; and there on the cover it +said “The Shimmies of Normandy,” but shimmie was spelt the old way, +with a “C.”</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> I loathe these modern dances. Oh, Lois, I wish I could +see you. Come to the window.</p> + +<p>(<i>There is a loud bang in the water-pipe and suddenly the flow +starts from the open taps. Julie turns them off quickly</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> (<i>Puzzled</i>) What on earth was that?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>Ingeniously</i>) I heard something, too.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> Sounded like running water.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> Didn’t it? Strange like it. As a matter of fact I was filling +the gold-fish bowl.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> (<i>Still puzzled</i>) What was that banging noise?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> One of the fish snapping his golden jaws.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> (<i>With sudden resolution</i>) Lois, I love you. I am +not a mundane man but I am a forger—</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>Interested at once</i>) Oh, how fascinating.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span>—a forger ahead. Lois, I want you.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> (<i>Skeptically</i>) Huh! What you really want is for the world +to come to attention and stand there till you give “Rest!”</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> Lois I—Lois I—</p> + +<p>(<i>He stops as</i> <span class="smcap">Lois</span> <i>opens the door, comes in, and bangs it behind +her. She looks peevishly at</i> <span class="smcap">Julie</span> <i>and then suddenly catches +sight of the young man in the window</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lois:</span> (<i>In horror</i>) Mr. Calkins!</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> (<i>Surprised</i>) Why I thought you said you were +wearing pinkish white!</p> + +<p>(<i>After one despairing stare</i> <span class="smcap">Lois</span> <i>shrieks, throws up her +hands in surrender, and sinks to the floor.</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Young Man:</span> (<i>In great alarm</i>) Good Lord! She’s fainted! I’ll +be right in.</p> + +<p>(<span class="smcap">Julie’s</span> <i>eyes light on the towel which has slipped from</i> <span class="smcap">Lois’s</span> +<i>inert hand.</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Julie:</span> In that case I’ll be right out.</p> + +<p>(<i>She puts her hands on the side of the tub to lift herself out and +a murmur, half gasp, half sigh, ripples from the audience.</i></p> + +<p><i>A Belasco midnight comes quickly down and blots out the stage.</i>)</p> + +<p class="p2 center"><span class="smcap">Curtain.</span></p> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak"><i>FANTASIES</i></h2> +</div> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h3 class="nobreak" id="THE_DIAMOND_AS_BIG_AS_THE_RITZ">THE DIAMOND AS BIG AS THE RITZ</h3> +</div> + +<h4>I</h4> + +<p>John T. Unger came from a family that had been well known in Hades—a +small town on the Mississippi River—for several generations. John’s +father had held the amateur golf championship through many a heated +contest; Mrs. Unger was known “from hot-box to hot-bed,” as the local +phrase went, for her political addresses; and young John T. Unger, who +had just turned sixteen, had danced all the latest dances from New +York before he put on long trousers. And now, for a certain time, he +was to be away from home. That respect for a New England education +which is the bane of all provincial places, which drains them yearly +of their most promising young men, had seized upon his parents. +Nothing would suit them but that he should go to St. Midas’s School +near Boston—Hades was too small to hold their darling and gifted son.</p> + +<p>Now in Hades—as you know if you ever have been there—the names of +the more fashionable preparatory schools and colleges mean very +little. The inhabitants have been so long out of the world that, +though they make a show of keeping up-to-date in dress and manners and +literature, they depend to a great extent on hearsay, and a function +that in Hades would be considered elaborate would doubtless be hailed +by a Chicago beef-princess as “perhaps a little tacky.”</p> + +<p>John T. Unger was on the eve of departure. Mrs. Unger, with maternal +fatuity, packed his trunks full of linen suits and electric fans, and +Mr. Unger presented his son with an asbestos pocket-book stuffed with +money.</p> + +<p>“Remember, you are always welcome here,” he said. “You can be sure, +boy, that we’ll keep the home fires burning.”</p> + +<p>“I know,” answered John huskily.</p> + +<p>“Don’t forget who you are and where you come from,” continued his +father proudly, “and you can do nothing to harm you. You are an +Unger—from Hades.”</p> + +<p>So the old man and the young shook hands, and John walked away with +tears streaming from his eyes. Ten minutes later he had passed outside +the city limits and he stopped to glance back for the last time. Over +the gates the old-fashioned Victorian motto seemed strangely +attractive to him. His father had tried time and time again to have it +changed to something with a little more push and verve about it, such +as “Hades—Your Opportunity,” or else a plain “Welcome” sign set over +a hearty handshake pricked out in electric lights. The old motto was a +little depressing, Mr. Unger had thought—but now ....</p> + +<p>So John took his look and then set his face resolutely toward his +destination. And, as he turned away, the lights of Hades against the +sky seemed full of a warm and passionate beauty.</p> + +<hr class="tb" > + +<p>St. Midas’s School is half an hour from Boston in a Rolls-Pierce +motor-car. The actual distance will never be known, for no one, except +John T. Unger, had ever arrived there save in a Rolls-Pierce and +probably no one ever will again. St. Midas’s is the most expensive and +the most exclusive boys’ preparatory school in the world.</p> + +<p>John’s first two years there passed pleasantly. The fathers of all the +boys were money-kings, and John spent his summer visiting at +fashionable resorts. While he was very fond of all the boys he +visited, their fathers struck him as being much of a piece, and in his +boyish way he often wondered at their exceeding sameness. When he told +them where his home was they would ask jovially, “Pretty hot down +there?” and John would muster a faint smile and answer, “It certainly +is.” His response would have been heartier had they not all made this +joke—at best varying it with, “Is it hot enough for you down there?” +which he hated just as much.</p> + +<p>In the middle of his second year at school, a quiet, handsome boy +named Percy Washington had been put in John’s form. The new-comer was +pleasant in his manner and exceedingly well dressed even for St. +Midas’s, but for some reason he kept aloof from the other boys. The +only person with whom he was intimate was John T. Unger, but even to +John he was entirely uncommunicative concerning his home or his +family. That he was wealthy went without saying, but beyond a few such +deductions John knew little of his friend, so it promised rich +confectionery for his curiosity when Percy invited him to spend the +summer at his home “in the West.” He accepted, without hesitation.</p> + +<p>It was only when they were in the train that Percy became, for the +first time, rather communicative. One day while they were eating lunch +in the dining-car and discussing the imperfect characters of several +of the boys at school, Percy suddenly changed his tone and made an +abrupt remark.</p> + +<p>“My father,” he said, “is by far the richest man in the world.”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” said John politely. He could think of no answer to make to this +confidence. He considered “That’s very nice,” but it sounded hollow +and was on the point of saying, “Really?” but refrained since it would +seem to question Percy’s statement. And such an astounding statement +could scarcely be questioned.</p> + +<p>“By far the richest,” repeated Percy.</p> + +<p>“I was reading in the <i>World Almanac</i>,” began John, “that there +was one man in America with an income of over five million a year and +four men with incomes of over three million a year, and—”</p> + +<p>“Oh, they’re nothing.” Percy’s mouth was a half-moon of scorn. +“Catch-penny capitalists, financial small-fry, petty merchants and +money-lenders. My father could buy them out and not know he’d done +it.”</p> + +<p>“But how does he—”</p> + +<p>“Why haven’t they put down <i>his</i> income-tax? Because he doesn’t +pay any. At least he pays a little one—but he doesn’t pay any on his +<i>real</i> income.”</p> + +<p>“He must be very rich,” said John simply, “I’m glad. I like very rich +people.</p> + +<p>“The richer a fella is, the better I like him.” There was a look of +passionate frankness upon his dark face. “I visited the +Schnlitzer-Murphys last Easter. Vivian Schnlitzer-Murphy had rubies as +big as hen’s eggs, and sapphires that were like globes with lights +inside them—”</p> + +<p>“I love jewels,” agreed Percy enthusiastically. “Of course I wouldn’t +want any one at school to know about it, but I’ve got quite a +collection myself. I used to collect them instead of stamps.”</p> + +<p>“And diamonds,” continued John eagerly. “The Schnlitzer-Murphys had +diamonds as big as walnuts—”</p> + +<p>“That’s nothing.” Percy had leaned forward and dropped his voice to a +low whisper. “That’s nothing at all. My father has a diamond bigger +than the Ritz-Carlton Hotel.”</p> + + +<h4>II</h4> + +<p>The Montana sunset lay between two mountains like a gigantic bruise +from which dark arteries spread themselves over a poisoned sky. An +immense distance under the sky crouched the village of Fish, minute, +dismal, and forgotten. There were twelve men, so it was said, in the +village of Fish, twelve sombre and inexplicable souls who sucked a +lean milk from the almost literally bare rock upon which a mysterious +populatory force had begotten them. They had become a race apart, +these twelve men of Fish, like some species developed by an early whim +of nature, which on second thought had abandoned them to struggle and +extermination.</p> + +<p>Out of the blue-black bruise in the distance crept a long line of +moving lights upon the desolation of the land, and the twelve men of +Fish gathered like ghosts at the shanty depot to watch the passing of +the seven o’clock train, the Transcontinental Express from Chicago. +Six times or so a year the Transcontinental Express, through some +inconceivable jurisdiction, stopped at the village of Fish, and when +this occurred a figure or so would disembark, mount into a buggy that +always appeared from out of the dusk, and drive off toward the bruised +sunset. The observation of this pointless and preposterous phenomenon +had become a sort of cult among the men of Fish. To observe, that was +all; there remained in them none of the vital quality of illusion +which would make them wonder or speculate, else a religion might have +grown up around these mysterious visitations. But the men of Fish were +beyond all religion—the barest and most savage tenets of even +Christianity could gain no foothold on that barren rock—so there was +no altar, no priest, no sacrifice; only each night at seven the silent +concourse by the shanty depot, a congregation who lifted up a prayer +of dim, anaemic wonder.</p> + +<p>On this June night, the Great Brakeman, whom, had they deified any +one, they might well have chosen as their celestial protagonist, had +ordained that the seven o’clock train should leave its human (or +inhuman) deposit at Fish. At two minutes after seven Percy Washington +and John T. Unger disembarked, hurried past the spellbound, the agape, +the fearsome eyes of the twelve men of Fish, mounted into a buggy +which had obviously appeared from nowhere, and drove away.</p> + +<p>After half an hour, when the twilight had coagulated into dark, the +silent negro who was driving the buggy hailed an opaque body somewhere +ahead of them in the gloom. In response to his cry, it turned upon +them a luminous disc which regarded them like a malignant eye out of +the unfathomable night. As they came closer, John saw that it was the +tail-light of an immense automobile, larger and more magnificent than +any he had ever seen. Its body was of gleaming metal richer than +nickel and lighter than silver, and the hubs of the wheels were +studded with iridescent geometric figures of green and yellow—John +did not dare to guess whether they were glass or jewel.</p> + +<p>Two negroes, dressed in glittering livery such as one sees in pictures +of royal processions in London, were standing at attention beside the +car and, as the two young men dismounted from the buggy, they were +greeted in some language which the guest could not understand, but +which seemed to be an extreme form of the Southern negro’s dialect.</p> + +<p>“Get in,” said Percy to his friend, as their trunks were tossed to the +ebony roof of the limousine. “Sorry we had to bring you this far in +that buggy, but of course it wouldn’t do for the people on the train +or those God-forsaken fellas in Fish to see this automobile.”</p> + +<p>“Gosh! What a car!” This ejaculation was provoked by its interior. +John saw that the upholstery consisted of a thousand minute and +exquisite tapestries of silk, woven with jewels and embroideries, and +set upon a background of cloth of gold. The two armchair seats in +which the boys luxuriated were covered with stuff that resembled +duvetyn, but seemed woven in numberless colours of the ends of ostrich +feathers.</p> + +<p>“What a car!” cried John again, in amazement.</p> + +<p>“This thing?” Percy laughed. “Why, it’s just an old junk we use for a +station wagon.”</p> + +<p>By this time they were gliding along through the darkness toward the +break between the two mountains.</p> + +<p>“We’ll be there in an hour and a half,” said Percy, looking at the +clock. “I may as well tell you it’s not going to be like anything you +ever saw before.”</p> + +<p>If the car was any indication of what John would see, he was prepared +to be astonished indeed. The simple piety prevalent in Hades has the +earnest worship of and respect for riches as the first article of its +creed—had John felt otherwise than radiantly humble before them, his +parents would have turned away in horror at the blasphemy.</p> + +<p>They had now reached and were entering the break between the two +mountains and almost immediately the way became much rougher.</p> + +<p>“If the moon shone down here, you’d see that we’re in a big gulch,” +said Percy, trying to peer out of the window. He spoke a few words +into the mouthpiece and immediately the footman turned on a +searchlight and swept the hillsides with an immense beam.</p> + +<p>“Rocky, you see. An ordinary car would be knocked to pieces in half an +hour. In fact, it’d take a tank to navigate it unless you knew the +way. You notice we’re going uphill now.”</p> + +<p>They were obviously ascending, and within a few minutes the car was +crossing a high rise, where they caught a glimpse of a pale moon newly +risen in the distance. The car stopped suddenly and several figures +took shape out of the dark beside it—these were negroes also. Again +the two young men were saluted in the same dimly recognisable dialect; +then the negroes set to work and four immense cables dangling from +overhead were attached with hooks to the hubs of the great jewelled +wheels. At a resounding “Hey-yah!” John felt the car being lifted +slowly from the ground—up and up—clear of the tallest rocks on both +sides—then higher, until he could see a wavy, moonlit valley +stretched out before him in sharp contrast to the quagmire of rocks +that they had just left. Only on one side was there still rock—and +then suddenly there was no rock beside them or anywhere around.</p> + +<p>It was apparent that they had surmounted some immense knife-blade of +stone, projecting perpendicularly into the air. In a moment they were +going down again, and finally with a soft bump they were landed upon +the smooth earth.</p> + +<p>“The worst is over,” said Percy, squinting out the window. “It’s only +five miles from here, and our own road—tapestry brick—all the way. +This belongs to us. This is where the United States ends, father +says.”</p> + +<p>“Are we in Canada?”</p> + +<p>“We are not. We’re in the middle of the Montana Rockies. But you are +now on the only five square miles of land in the country that’s never +been surveyed.”</p> + +<p>“Why hasn’t it? Did they forget it?”</p> + +<p>“No,” said Percy, grinning, “they tried to do it three times. The +first time my grandfather corrupted a whole department of the State +survey; the second time he had the official maps of the United States +tinkered with—that held them for fifteen years. The last time was +harder. My father fixed it so that their compasses were in the +strongest magnetic field ever artificially set up. He had a whole set +of surveying instruments made with a slight defection that would allow +for this territory not to appear, and he substituted them for the ones +that were to be used. Then he had a river deflected and he had what +looked like a village built up on its banks—so that they’d see it, and +think it was a town ten miles farther up the valley. There’s only one +thing my father’s afraid of,” he concluded, “only one thing in the +world that could be used to find us out.”</p> + +<p>“What’s that?”</p> + +<p>Percy sank his voice to a whisper.</p> + +<p>“Aeroplanes,” he breathed. “We’ve got half a dozen anti-aircraft guns +and we’ve arranged it so far—but there’ve been a few deaths and a +great many prisoners. Not that we mind <i>that</i>, you know, father +and I, but it upsets mother and the girls, and there’s always the +chance that some time we won’t be able to arrange it.”</p> + +<p>Shreds and tatters of chinchilla, courtesy clouds in the green moon’s +heaven, were passing the green moon like precious Eastern stuffs +paraded for the inspection of some Tartar Khan. It seemed to John that +it was day, and that he was looking at some lads sailing above him in +the air, showering down tracts and patent medicine circulars, with +their messages of hope for despairing, rock-bound hamlets. It seemed +to him that he could see them look down out of the clouds and +stare—and stare at whatever there was to stare at in this place +whither he was bound— What then? Were they induced to land by some +insidious device to be immured far from patent medicines and from +tracts until the judgment day—or, should they fail to fall into the +trap, did a quick puff of smoke and the sharp round of a splitting +shell bring them drooping to earth—and “upset” Percy’s mother and +sisters. John shook his head and the wraith of a hollow laugh issued +silently from his parted lips. What desperate transaction lay hidden +here? What a moral expedient of a bizarre Croesus? What terrible and +golden mystery?...</p> + +<p>The chinchilla clouds had drifted past now and outside the Montana +night was bright as day. The tapestry brick of the road was smooth to +the tread of the great tyres as they rounded a still, moonlit lake; +they passed into darkness for a moment, a pine grove, pungent and +cool, then they came out into a broad avenue of lawn, and John’s +exclamation of pleasure was simultaneous with Percy’s taciturn “We’re +home.”</p> + +<p>Full in the light of the stars, an exquisite château rose from the +borders of the lake, climbed in marble radiance half the height of an +adjoining mountain, then melted in grace, in perfect symmetry, in +translucent feminine languor, into the massed darkness of a forest of +pine. The many towers, the slender tracery of the sloping parapets, +the chiselled wonder of a thousand yellow windows with their oblongs +and hectagons and triangles of golden light, the shattered softness of +the intersecting planes of star-shine and blue shade, all trembled on +John’s spirit like a chord of music. On one of the towers, the +tallest, the blackest at its base, an arrangement of exterior lights +at the top made a sort of floating fairyland—and as John gazed up in +warm enchantment the faint acciaccare sound of violins drifted down in +a rococo harmony that was like nothing he had ever heard before. Then +in a moment the car stopped before wide, high marble steps around +which the night air was fragrant with a host of flowers. At the top of +the steps two great doors swung silently open and amber light flooded +out upon the darkness, silhouetting the figure of an exquisite lady +with black, high-piled hair, who held out her arms toward them.</p> + +<p>“Mother,” Percy was saying, “this is my friend, John Unger, from +Hades.”</p> + +<p>Afterward John remembered that first night as a daze of many colours, +of quick sensory impressions, of music soft as a voice in love, and of +the beauty of things, lights and shadows, and motions and faces. There +was a white-haired man who stood drinking a many-hued cordial from a +crystal thimble set on a golden stem. There was a girl with a flowery +face, dressed like Titania with braided sapphires in her hair. There +was a room where the solid, soft gold of the walls yielded to the +pressure of his hand, and a room that was like a platonic conception +of the ultimate prison—ceiling, floor, and all, it was lined with an +unbroken mass of diamonds, diamonds of every size and shape, until, +lit with tall violet lamps in the corners, it dazzled the eyes with a +whiteness that could be compared only with itself, beyond human wish, +or dream.</p> + +<p>Through a maze of these rooms the two boys wandered. Sometimes the +floor under their feet would flame in brilliant patterns from lighting +below, patterns of barbaric clashing colours, of pastel delicacy, of +sheer whiteness, or of subtle and intricate mosaic, surely from some +mosque on the Adriatic Sea. Sometimes beneath layers of thick crystal +he would see blue or green water swirling, inhabited by vivid fish and +growths of rainbow foliage. Then they would be treading on furs of +every texture and colour or along corridors of palest ivory, unbroken +as though carved complete from the gigantic tusks of dinosaurs extinct +before the age of man ....</p> + +<p>Then a hazily remembered transition, and they were at dinner—where +each plate was of two almost imperceptible layers of solid diamond +between which was curiously worked a filigree of emerald design, a +shaving sliced from green air. Music, plangent and unobtrusive, +drifted down through far corridors—his chair, feathered and curved +insidiously to his back, seemed to engulf and overpower him as he +drank his first glass of port. He tried drowsily to answer a question +that had been asked him, but the honeyed luxury that clasped his body +added to the illusion of sleep—jewels, fabrics, wines, and metals +blurred before his eyes into a sweet mist ....</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he replied with a polite effort, “it certainly is hot enough +for me down there.”</p> + +<p>He managed to add a ghostly laugh; then, without movement, without +resistance, he seemed to float off and away, leaving an iced dessert +that was pink as a dream .... He fell asleep.</p> + +<p>When he awoke he knew that several hours had passed. He was in a great +quiet room with ebony walls and a dull illumination that was too +faint, too subtle, to be called a light. His young host was standing +over him.</p> + +<p>“You fell asleep at dinner,” Percy was saying. “I nearly did, too—it +was such a treat to be comfortable again after this year of school. +Servants undressed and bathed you while you were sleeping.”</p> + +<p>“Is this a bed or a cloud?” sighed John. “Percy, Percy—before you go, +I want to apologise.”</p> + +<p>“For what?”</p> + +<p>“For doubting you when you said you had a diamond as big as the +Ritz-Carlton Hotel.”</p> + +<p>Percy smiled.</p> + +<p>“I thought you didn’t believe me. It’s that mountain, you know.”</p> + +<p>“What mountain?”</p> + +<p>“The mountain the château rests on. It’s not very big, for a mountain. +But except about fifty feet of sod and gravel on top it’s solid +diamond. <i>One</i> diamond, one cubic mile without a flaw. Aren’t you +listening? Say——”</p> + +<p>But John T. Unger had again fallen asleep.</p> + + +<h4>III</h4> + +<p>Morning. As he awoke he perceived drowsily that the room had at the +same moment become dense with sunlight. The ebony panels of one wall +had slid aside on a sort of track, leaving his chamber half open to +the day. A large negro in a white uniform stood beside his bed.</p> + +<p>“Good-evening,” muttered John, summoning his brains from the wild +places.</p> + +<p>“Good-morning, sir. Are you ready for your bath, sir? Oh, don’t get +up—I’ll put you in, if you’ll just unbutton your pyjamas—there. +Thank you, sir.”</p> + +<p>John lay quietly as his pyjamas were removed—he was amused and +delighted; he expected to be lifted like a child by this black +Gargantua who was tending him, but nothing of the sort happened; +instead he felt the bed tilt up slowly on its side—he began to roll, +startled at first, in the direction of the wall, but when he reached +the wall its drapery gave way, and sliding two yards farther down a +fleecy incline he plumped gently into water the same temperature as +his body.</p> + +<p>He looked about him. The runway or rollway on which he had arrived had +folded gently back into place. He had been projected into another +chamber and was sitting in a sunken bath with his head just above the +level of the floor. All about him, lining the walls of the room and +the sides and bottom of the bath itself, was a blue aquarium, and +gazing through the crystal surface on which he sat, he could see fish +swimming among amber lights and even gliding without curiosity past +his outstretched toes, which were separated from them only by the +thickness of the crystal. From overhead, sunlight came down through +sea-green glass.</p> + +<p>“I suppose, sir, that you’d like hot rosewater and soapsuds this +morning, sir—and perhaps cold salt water to finish.”</p> + +<p>The negro was standing beside him.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” agreed John, smiling inanely, “as you please.” Any idea of +ordering this bath according to his own meagre standards of living +would have been priggish and not a little wicked.</p> + +<p>The negro pressed a button and a warm rain began to fall, apparently +from overhead, but really, so John discovered after a moment, from a +fountain arrangement near by. The water turned to a pale rose colour +and jets of liquid soap spurted into it from four miniature walrus +heads at the corners of the bath. In a moment a dozen little +paddle-wheels, fixed to the sides, had churned the mixture into a +radiant rainbow of pink foam which enveloped him softly with its +delicious lightness, and burst in shining, rosy bubbles here and there +about him.</p> + +<p>“Shall I turn on the moving-picture machine, sir?” suggested the negro +deferentially. “There’s a good one-reel comedy in this machine to-day, +or I can put in a serious piece in a moment, if you prefer it.”</p> + +<p>“No, thanks,” answered John, politely but firmly. He was enjoying his +bath too much to desire any distraction. But distraction came. In a +moment he was listening intently to the sound of flutes from just +outside, flutes dripping a melody that was like a waterfall, cool and +green as the room itself, accompanying a frothy piccolo, in play more +fragile than the lace of suds that covered and charmed him.</p> + +<p>After a cold salt-water bracer and a cold fresh finish, he stepped out +and into a fleecy robe, and upon a couch covered with the same +material he was rubbed with oil, alcohol, and spice. Later he sat in a +voluptuous chair while he was shaved and his hair was trimmed.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Percy is waiting in your sitting-room,” said the negro, when +these operations were finished. “My name is Gygsum, Mr. Unger, sir. I +am to see to Mr. Unger every morning.”</p> + +<p>John walked out into the brisk sunshine of his living-room, where he +found breakfast waiting for him and Percy, gorgeous in white kid +knickerbockers, smoking in an easy chair.</p> + + +<h4>IV</h4> + +<p>This is a story of the Washington family as Percy sketched it for John +during breakfast.</p> + +<p>The father of the present Mr. Washington had been a Virginian, a +direct descendant of George Washington, and Lord Baltimore. At the +close of the Civil War he was a twenty-five-year-old Colonel with a +played-out plantation and about a thousand dollars in gold.</p> + +<p>Fitz-Norman Culpepper Washington, for that was the young Colonel’s +name, decided to present the Virginia estate to his younger brother +and go West. He selected two dozen of the most faithful blacks, who, +of course, worshipped him, and bought twenty-five tickets to the West, +where he intended to take out land in their names and start a sheep +and cattle ranch.</p> + +<p>When he had been in Montana for less than a month and things were +going very poorly indeed, he stumbled on his great discovery. He had +lost his way when riding in the hills, and after a day without food he +began to grow hungry. As he was without his rifle, he was forced to +pursue a squirrel, and, in the course of the pursuit, he noticed that +it was carrying something shiny in its mouth. Just before it vanished +into its hole—for Providence did not intend that this squirrel should +alleviate his hunger—it dropped its burden. Sitting down to consider +the situation Fitz-Norman’s eye was caught by a gleam in the grass +beside him. In ten seconds he had completely lost his appetite and +gained one hundred thousand dollars. The squirrel, which had refused +with annoying persistence to become food, had made him a present of a +large and perfect diamond.</p> + +<p>Late that night he found his way to camp and twelve hours later all +the males among his darkies were back by the squirrel hole digging +furiously at the side of the mountain. He told them he had discovered +a rhinestone mine, and, as only one or two of them had ever seen even +a small diamond before, they believed him, without question. When the +magnitude of his discovery became apparent to him, he found himself in +a quandary. The mountain was <i>a</i> diamond—it was literally +nothing else but solid diamond. He filled four saddle bags full of +glittering samples and started on horseback for St. Paul. There he +managed to dispose of half a dozen small stones—when he tried a +larger one a storekeeper fainted and Fitz-Norman was arrested as a +public disturber. He escaped from jail and caught the train for New +York, where he sold a few medium-sized diamonds and received in +exchange about two hundred thousand dollars in gold. But he did not +dare to produce any exceptional gems—in fact, he left New York just +in time. Tremendous excitement had been created in jewellery circles, +not so much by the size of his diamonds as by their appearance in the +city from mysterious sources. Wild rumours became current that a +diamond mine had been discovered in the Catskills, on the Jersey +coast, on Long Island, beneath Washington Square. Excursion trains, +packed with men carrying picks and shovels, began to leave New York +hourly, bound for various neighbouring El Dorados. But by that time +young Fitz-Norman was on his way back to Montana.</p> + +<p>By the end of a fortnight he had estimated that the diamond in the +mountain was approximately equal in quantity to all the rest of the +diamonds known to exist in the world. There was no valuing it by any +regular computation, however, for it was <i>one solid diamond</i>—and +if it were offered for sale not only would the bottom fall out of the +market, but also, if the value should vary with its size in the usual +arithmetical progression, there would not be enough gold in the world +to buy a tenth part of it. And what could any one do with a diamond +that size?</p> + +<p>It was an amazing predicament. He was, in one sense, the richest man +that ever lived—and yet was he worth anything at all? If his secret +should transpire there was no telling to what measures the Government +might resort in order to prevent a panic, in gold as well as in +jewels. They might take over the claim immediately and institute a +monopoly.</p> + +<p>There was no alternative—he must market his mountain in secret. He +sent South for his younger brother and put him in charge of his +coloured following, darkies who had never realised that slavery was +abolished. To make sure of this, he read them a proclamation that he +had composed, which announced that General Forrest had reorganised the +shattered Southern armies and defeated the North in one pitched +battle. The negroes believed him implicitly. They passed a vote +declaring it a good thing and held revival services immediately.</p> + +<p>Fitz-Norman himself set out for foreign parts with one hundred +thousand dollars and two trunks filled with rough diamonds of all +sizes. He sailed for Russia in a Chinese junk, and six months after +his departure from Montana he was in St. Petersburg. He took obscure +lodgings and called immediately upon the court jeweller, announcing +that he had a diamond for the Czar. He remained in St. Petersburg for +two weeks, in constant danger of being murdered, living from lodging +to lodging, and afraid to visit his trunks more than three or four +times during the whole fortnight.</p> + +<p>On his promise to return in a year with larger and finer stones, he +was allowed to leave for India. Before he left, however, the Court +Treasurers had deposited to his credit, in American banks, the sum of +fifteen million dollars—under four different aliases.</p> + +<p>He returned to America in 1868, having been gone a little over two +years. He had visited the capitals of twenty-two countries and talked +with five emperors, eleven kings, three princes, a shah, a khan, and a +sultan. At that time Fitz-Norman estimated his own wealth at one +billion dollars. One fact worked consistently against the disclosure +of his secret. No one of his larger diamonds remained in the public +eye for a week before being invested with a history of enough +fatalities, amours, revolutions, and wars to have occupied it from the +days of the first Babylonian Empire.</p> + +<p>From 1870 until his death in 1900, the history of Fitz-Norman +Washington was a long epic in gold. There were side issues, of +course—he evaded the surveys, he married a Virginia lady, by whom he +had a single son, and he was compelled, due to a series of unfortunate +complications, to murder his brother, whose unfortunate habit of +drinking himself into an indiscreet stupor had several times +endangered their safety. But very few other murders stained these happy +years of progress and expansion.</p> + +<p>Just before he died he changed his policy, and with all but a few +million dollars of his outside wealth bought up rare minerals in bulk, +which he deposited in the safety vaults of banks all over the world, +marked as bric-à-brac. His son, Braddock Tarleton Washington, followed +this policy on an even more tensive scale. The minerals were converted +into the rarest of all elements—radium—so that the equivalent of a +billion dollars in gold could be placed in a receptacle no bigger than +a cigar box.</p> + +<p>When Fitz-Norman had been dead three years his son, Braddock, decided +that the business had gone far enough. The amount of wealth that he +and his father had taken out of the mountain was beyond all exact +computation. He kept a note-book in cipher in which he set down the +approximate quantity of radium in each of the thousand banks he +patronised, and recorded the alias under which it was held. Then he +did a very simple thing—he sealed up the mine.</p> + +<p>He sealed up the mine. What had been taken out of it would support all +the Washingtons yet to be born in unparalleled luxury for generations. +His one care must be the protection of his secret, lest in the +possible panic attendant on its discovery he should be reduced with +all the property-holders in the world to utter poverty.</p> + +<p>This was the family among whom John T. Unger was staying. This was the +story he heard in his silver-walled living-room the morning after his +arrival.</p> + + +<h4>V</h4> + +<p>After breakfast, John found his way out the great marble entrance, and +looked curiously at the scene before him. The whole valley, from the +diamond mountain to the steep granite cliff five miles away, still +gave off a breath of golden haze which hovered idly above the fine +sweep of lawns and lakes and gardens. Here and there clusters of elms +made delicate groves of shade, contrasting strangely with the tough +masses of pine forest that held the hills in a grip of dark-blue +green. Even as John looked he saw three fawns in single file patter +out from one clump about a half-mile away and disappear with awkward +gaiety into the black-ribbed half-light of another. John would not +have been surprised to see a goat-foot piping his way among the trees +or to catch a glimpse of pink nymph-skin and flying yellow hair +between the greenest of the green leaves.</p> + +<p>In some such cool hope he descended the marble steps, disturbing +faintly the sleep of two silky Russian wolfhounds at the bottom, and +set off along a walk of white and blue brick that seemed to lead in no +particular direction.</p> + +<p>He was enjoying himself as much as he was able. It is youth’s felicity +as well as its insufficiency that it can never live in the present, +but must always be measuring up the day against its own radiantly +imagined future—flowers and gold, girls and stars, they are only +prefigurations and prophecies of that incomparable, unattainable young +dream.</p> + +<p>John rounded a soft corner where the massed rosebushes filled the air +with heavy scent, and struck off across a park toward a patch of moss +under some trees. He had never lain upon moss, and he wanted to see +whether it was really soft enough to justify the use of its name as an +adjective. Then he saw a girl coming toward him over the grass. She +was the most beautiful person he had ever seen.</p> + +<p>She was dressed in a white little gown that came just below her knees, +and a wreath of mignonettes clasped with blue slices of sapphire bound +up her hair. Her pink bare feet scattered the dew before them as she +came. She was younger than John—not more than sixteen.</p> + +<p>“Hello,” she cried softly, “I’m Kismine.”</p> + +<p>She was much more than that to John already. He advanced toward her, +scarcely moving as he drew near lest he should tread on her bare toes.</p> + +<p>“You haven’t met me,” said her soft voice. Her blue eyes added, “Oh, +but you’ve missed a great deal!”... “You met my sister, Jasmine, last +night. I was sick with lettuce poisoning,” went on her soft voice, and +her eye continued, “and when I’m sick I’m sweet—and when I’m well.”</p> + +<p>“You have made an enormous impression on me,” said John’s eyes, “and +I’m not so slow myself”—“How do you do?” said his voice. “I hope +you’re better this morning.”—“You darling,” added his eyes +tremulously.</p> + +<p>John observed that they had been walking along the path. On her +suggestion they sat down together upon the moss, the softness of which +he failed to determine.</p> + +<p>He was critical about women. A single defect—a thick ankle, a hoarse +voice, a glass eye—was enough to make him utterly indifferent. And +here for the first time in his life he was beside a girl who seemed to +him the incarnation of physical perfection.</p> + +<p>“Are you from the East?” asked Kismine with charming interest.</p> + +<p>“No,” answered John simply. “I’m from Hades.”</p> + +<p>Either she had never heard of Hades, or she could think of no pleasant +comment to make upon it, for she did not discuss it further.</p> + +<p>“I’m going East to school this fall,” she said. “D’you think I’ll like +it? I’m going to New York to Miss Bulge’s. It’s very strict, but you +see over the weekends I’m going to live at home with the family in our +New York house, because father heard that the girls had to go walking +two by two.”</p> + +<p>“Your father wants you to be proud,” observed John.</p> + +<p>“We are,” she answered, her eyes shining with dignity. “None of us has +ever been punished. Father said we never should be. Once when my +sister Jasmine was a little girl she pushed him downstairs and he just +got up and limped away.</p> + +<p>“Mother was—well, a little startled,” continued Kismine, “when she +heard that you were from—from where you <i>are</i> from, you know. +She said that when she was a young girl—but then, you see, she’s a +Spaniard and old-fashioned.”</p> + +<p>“Do you spend much time out here?” asked John, to conceal the fact +that he was somewhat hurt by this remark. It seemed an unkind allusion +to his provincialism.</p> + +<p>“Percy and Jasmine and I are here every summer, but next summer +Jasmine is going to Newport. She’s coming out in London a year from +this fall. She’ll be presented at court.”</p> + +<p>“Do you know,” began John hesitantly, “you’re much more sophisticated +than I thought you were when I first saw you?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no, I’m not,” she exclaimed hurriedly. “Oh, I wouldn’t think of +being. I think that sophisticated young people are <i>terribly</i> +common, don’t you? I’m not all, really. If you say I am, I’m going to +cry.”</p> + +<p>She was so distressed that her lip was trembling. John was impelled to +protest:</p> + +<p>“I didn’t mean that; I only said it to tease you.”</p> + +<p>“Because I wouldn’t mind if I <i>were</i>,” she persisted, “but I’m +not. I’m very innocent and girlish. I never smoke, or drink, or read +anything except poetry. I know scarcely any mathematics or chemistry. +I dress <i>very</i> simply—in fact, I scarcely dress at all. I think +sophisticated is the last thing you can say about me. I believe that +girls ought to enjoy their youths in a wholesome way.”</p> + +<p>“I do, too,” said John, heartily.</p> + +<p>Kismine was cheerful again. She smiled at him, and a still-born tear +dripped from the corner of one blue eye.</p> + +<p>“I like you,” she whispered intimately. “Are you going to spend all +your time with Percy while you’re here, or will you be nice to me? +Just think—I’m absolutely fresh ground. I’ve never had a boy in love +with me in all my life. I’ve never been allowed even to <i>see</i> +boys alone—except Percy. I came all the way out here into this grove +hoping to run into you, where the family wouldn’t be around.”</p> + +<p>Deeply flattered, John bowed from the hips as he had been taught at +dancing school in Hades.</p> + +<p>“We’d better go now,” said Kismine sweetly. “I have to be with mother +at eleven. You haven’t asked me to kiss you once. I thought boys +always did that nowadays.”</p> + +<p>John drew himself up proudly.</p> + +<p>“Some of them do,” he answered, “but not me. Girls don’t do that sort +of thing—in Hades.”</p> + +<p>Side by side they walked back toward the house.</p> + + +<h4>VI</h4> + +<p>John stood facing Mr. Braddock Washington in the full sunlight. The +elder man was about forty, with a proud, vacuous face, intelligent +eyes, and a robust figure. In the mornings he smelt of horses—the +best horses. He carried a plain walking-stick of gray birch with a +single large opal for a grip. He and Percy were showing John around.</p> + +<p>“The slaves’ quarters are there.” His walking-stick indicated a +cloister of marble on their left that ran in graceful Gothic along the +side of the mountain. “In my youth I was distracted for a while from +the business of life by a period of absurd idealism. During that time +they lived in luxury. For instance, I equipped every one of their +rooms with a tile bath.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose,” ventured John, with an ingratiating laugh, “that they +used the bathtubs to keep coal in. Mr. Schnlitzer-Murphy told me that +once he—”</p> + +<p>“The opinions of Mr. Schnlitzer-Murphy are of little importance, I +should imagine,” interrupted Braddock Washington coldly. “My slaves +did not keep coal in their bathtubs. They had orders to bathe every +day, and they did. If they hadn’t I might have ordered a sulphuric +acid shampoo. I discontinued the baths for quite another reason. +Several of them caught cold and died. Water is not good for certain +races—except as a beverage.”</p> + +<p>John laughed, and then decided to nod his head in sober agreement. +Braddock Washington made him uncomfortable.</p> + +<p>“All these negroes are descendants of the ones my father brought North +with him. There are about two hundred and fifty now. You notice that +they’ve lived so long apart from the world that their original dialect +has become an almost indistinguishable patois. We bring a few of them +up to speak English—my secretary and two or three of the house +servants.</p> + +<p>“This is the golf course,” he continued, as they strolled along the +velvet winter grass. “It’s all a green, you see—no fairway, no rough, +no hazards.”</p> + +<p>He smiled pleasantly at John.</p> + +<p>“Many men in the cage, father?” asked Percy suddenly.</p> + +<p>Braddock Washington stumbled, and let forth an involuntary curse.</p> + +<p>“One less than there should be,” he ejaculated darkly—and then added +after a moment, “We’ve had difficulties.”</p> + +<p>“Mother was telling me,” exclaimed Percy, “that Italian teacher—”</p> + +<p>“A ghastly error,” said Braddock Washington angrily. “But of course +there’s a good chance that we may have got him. Perhaps he fell +somewhere in the woods or stumbled over a cliff. And then there’s +always the probability that if he did get away his story wouldn’t be +believed. Nevertheless, I’ve had two dozen men looking for him in +different towns around here.”</p> + +<p>“And no luck?”</p> + +<p>“Some. Fourteen of them reported to my agent they’d each killed a man +answering to that description, but of course it was probably only the +reward they were after—”</p> + +<p>He broke off. They had come to a large cavity in the earth about the +circumference of a merry-go-round, and covered by a strong iron +grating. Braddock Washington beckoned to John, and pointed his cane +down through the grating. John stepped to the edge and gazed. +Immediately his ears were assailed by a wild clamor from below.</p> + +<p>“Come on down to Hell!”</p> + +<p>“Hello, kiddo, how’s the air up there?”</p> + +<p>“Hey! Throw us a rope!”</p> + +<p>“Got an old doughnut, Buddy, or a couple of second-hand sandwiches?”</p> + +<p>“Say, fella, if you’ll push down that guy you’re with, we’ll show you +a quick disappearance scene.”</p> + +<p>“Paste him one for me, will you?”</p> + +<p>It was too dark to see clearly into the pit below, but John could tell +from the coarse optimism and rugged vitality of the remarks and voices +that they proceeded from middle-class Americans of the more spirited +type. Then Mr. Washington put out his cane and touched a button in the +grass, and the scene below sprang into light.</p> + +<p>“These are some adventurous mariners who had the misfortune to +discover El Dorado,” he remarked.</p> + +<p>Below them there had appeared a large hollow in the earth shaped like +the interior of a bowl. The sides were steep and apparently of +polished glass, and on its slightly concave surface stood about two +dozen men clad in the half costume, half uniform, of aviators. Their +upturned faces, lit with wrath, with malice, with despair, with +cynical humour, were covered by long growths of beard, but with the +exception of a few who had pined perceptibly away, they seemed to be a +well-fed, healthy lot.</p> + +<p>Braddock Washington drew a garden chair to the edge of the pit and sat +down.</p> + +<p>“Well, how are you, boys?” he inquired genially.</p> + +<p>A chorus of execration, in which all joined except a few too +dispirited to cry out, rose up into the sunny air, but Braddock +Washington heard it with unruffled composure. When its last echo had +died away he spoke again.</p> + +<p>“Have you thought up a way out of your difficulty?”</p> + +<p>From here and there among them a remark floated up.</p> + +<p>“We decided to stay here for love!”</p> + +<p>“Bring us up there and we’ll find us a way!”</p> + +<p>Braddock Washington waited until they were again quiet. Then he said:</p> + +<p>“I’ve told you the situation. I don’t want you here, I wish to heaven +I’d never seen you. Your own curiosity got you here, and any time that +you can think of a way out which protects me and my interests I’ll be +glad to consider it. But so long as you confine your efforts to +digging tunnels—yes, I know about the new one you’ve started—you +won’t get very far. This isn’t as hard on you as you make it out, with +all your howling for the loved ones at home. If you were the type who +worried much about the loved ones at home, you’d never have taken up +aviation.”</p> + +<p>A tall man moved apart from the others, and held up his hand to call +his captor’s attention to what he was about to say.</p> + +<p>“Let me ask you a few questions!” he cried. “You pretend to be a +fair-minded man.”</p> + +<p>“How absurd. How could a man of <i>my</i> position be fair-minded +toward you? You might as well speak of a Spaniard being fair-minded +toward a piece of steak.”</p> + +<p>At this harsh observation the faces of the two dozen fell, but the +tall man continued:</p> + +<p>“All right!” he cried. “We’ve argued this out before. You’re not a +humanitarian and you’re not fair-minded, but you’re human—at least +you say you are—and you ought to be able to put yourself in our place +for long enough to think how—how—how—”</p> + +<p>“How what?” demanded Washington, coldly.</p> + +<p>“—how unnecessary—”</p> + +<p>“Not to me.”</p> + +<p>“Well—how cruel—”</p> + +<p>“We’ve covered that. Cruelty doesn’t exist where self-preservation is +involved. You’ve been soldiers; you know that. Try another.”</p> + +<p>“Well, then, how stupid.”</p> + +<p>“There,” admitted Washington, “I grant you that. But try to think of +an alternative. I’ve offered to have all or any of you painlessly +executed if you wish. I’ve offered to have your wives, sweethearts, +children, and mothers kidnapped and brought out here. I’ll enlarge +your place down there and feed and clothe you the rest of your lives. +If there was some method of producing permanent amnesia I’d have all +of you operated on and released immediately, somewhere outside of my +preserves. But that’s as far as my ideas go.”</p> + +<p>“How about trusting us not to peach on you?” cried some one.</p> + +<p>“You don’t proffer that suggestion seriously,” said Washington, with +an expression of scorn. “I did take out one man to teach my daughter +Italian. Last week he got away.”</p> + +<p>A wild yell of jubilation went up suddenly from two dozen throats and +a pandemonium of joy ensued. The prisoners clog-danced and cheered and +yodled and wrestled with one another in a sudden uprush of animal +spirits. They even ran up the glass sides of the bowl as far as they +could, and slid back to the bottom upon the natural cushions of their +bodies. The tall man started a song in which they all joined—</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“<i>Oh, we’ll hang the kaiser</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>On a sour apple-tree</i>—”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Braddock Washington sat in inscrutable silence until the song was +over.</p> + +<p>“You see,” he remarked, when he could gain a modicum of attention. “I +bear you no ill-will. I like to see you enjoying yourselves. That’s +why I didn’t tell you the whole story at once. The man—what was his +name? Critchtichiello?—was shot by some of my agents in fourteen +different places.”</p> + +<p>Not guessing that the places referred to were cities, the tumult of +rejoicing subsided immediately.</p> + +<p>“Nevertheless,” cried Washington with a touch of anger, “he tried to +run away. Do you expect me to take chances with any of you after an +experience like that?”</p> + +<p>Again a series of ejaculations went up.</p> + +<p>“Sure!”</p> + +<p>“Would your daughter like to learn Chinese?”</p> + +<p>“Hey, I can speak Italian! My mother was a wop.”</p> + +<p>“Maybe she’d like t’learna speak N’Yawk!”</p> + +<p>“If she’s the little one with the big blue eyes I can teach her a lot +of things better than Italian.”</p> + +<p>“I know some Irish songs—and I could hammer brass once’t.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Washington reached forward suddenly with his cane and pushed the +button in the grass so that the picture below went out instantly, and +there remained only that great dark mouth covered dismally with the +black teeth of the grating.</p> + +<p>“Hey!” called a single voice from below, “you ain’t goin’ away without +givin’ us your blessing?”</p> + +<p>But Mr. Washington, followed by the two boys, was already strolling on +toward the ninth hole of the golf course, as though the pit and its +contents were no more than a hazard over which his facile iron had +triumphed with ease.</p> + + +<h4>VII</h4> + +<p>July under the lee of the diamond mountain was a month of blanket +nights and of warm, glowing days. John and Kismine were in love. He +did not know that the little gold football (inscribed with the legend +<i>Pro deo et patria et St. Mida</i>) which he had given her rested on +a platinum chain next to her bosom. But it did. And she for her part +was not aware that a large sapphire which had dropped one day from her +simple coiffure was stowed away tenderly in John’s jewel box.</p> + +<p>Late one afternoon when the ruby and ermine music room was quiet, they +spent an hour there together. He held her hand and she gave him such a +look that he whispered her name aloud. She bent toward him—then +hesitated.</p> + +<p>“Did you say ‘Kismine’?” she asked softly, “or—”</p> + +<p>She had wanted to be sure. She thought she might have misunderstood.</p> + +<p>Neither of them had ever kissed before, but in the course of an hour +it seemed to make little difference.</p> + +<p>The afternoon drifted away. That night, when a last breath of music +drifted down from the highest tower, they each lay awake, happily +dreaming over the separate minutes of the day. They had decided to be +married as soon as possible.</p> + + +<h4>VIII</h4> + +<p>Every day Mr. Washington and the two young men went hunting or fishing +in the deep forests or played golf around the somnolent course—games +which John diplomatically allowed his host to win—or swam in the +mountain coolness of the lake. John found Mr. Washington a somewhat +exacting personality—utterly uninterested in any ideas or opinions +except his own. Mrs. Washington was aloof and reserved at all times. +She was apparently indifferent to her two daughters, and entirely +absorbed in her son Percy, with whom she held interminable +conversations in rapid Spanish at dinner.</p> + +<p>Jasmine, the elder daughter, resembled Kismine in appearance—except +that she was somewhat bow-legged, and terminated in large hands and +feet—but was utterly unlike her in temperament. Her favourite books +had to do with poor girls who kept house for widowed fathers. John +learned from Kismine that Jasmine had never recovered from the shock +and disappointment caused her by the termination of the World War, +just as she was about to start for Europe as a canteen expert. She had +even pined away for a time, and Braddock Washington had taken steps to +promote a new war in the Balkans—but she had seen a photograph of +some wounded Serbian soldiers and lost interest in the whole +proceedings. But Percy and Kismine seemed to have inherited the +arrogant attitude in all its harsh magnificence from their father. A +chaste and consistent selfishness ran like a pattern through their +every idea.</p> + +<p>John was enchanted by the wonders of the château and the valley. +Braddock Washington, so Percy told him, had caused to be kidnapped a +landscape gardener, an architect, a designer of state settings, and a +French decadent poet left over from the last century. He had put his +entire force of negroes at their disposal, guaranteed to supply them +with any materials that the world could offer, and left them to work +out some ideas of their own. But one by one they had shown their +uselessness. The decadent poet had at once begun bewailing his +separation from the boulevards in spring—he made some vague remarks +about spices, apes, and ivories, but said nothing that was of any +practical value. The stage designer on his part wanted to make the +whole valley a series of tricks and sensational effects—a state of +things that the Washingtons would soon have grown tired of. And as for +the architect and the landscape gardener, they thought only in terms +of convention. They must make this like this and that like that.</p> + +<p>But they had, at least, solved the problem of what was to be done with +them—they all went mad early one morning after spending the night in +a single room trying to agree upon the location of a fountain, and +were now confined comfortably in an insane asylum at Westport, +Connecticut.</p> + +<p>“But,” inquired John curiously, “who did plan all your wonderful +reception rooms and halls, and approaches and bathrooms—?”</p> + +<p>“Well,” answered Percy, “I blush to tell you, but it was a +moving-picture fella. He was the only man we found who was used to +playing with an unlimited amount of money, though he did tuck his +napkin in his collar and couldn’t read or write.”</p> + +<p>As August drew to a close John began to regret that he must soon go +back to school. He and Kismine had decided to elope the following +June.</p> + +<p>“It would be nicer to be married here,” Kismine confessed, “but of +course I could never get father’s permission to marry you at all. Next +to that I’d rather elope. It’s terrible for wealthy people to be +married in America at present—they always have to send out bulletins +to the press saying that they’re going to be married in remnants, when +what they mean is just a peck of old second-hand pearls and some used +lace worn once by the Empress Eugenie.”</p> + +<p>“I know,” agreed John fervently. “When I was visiting the +Schnlitzer-Murphys, the eldest daughter, Gwendolyn, married a man +whose father owns half of West Virginia. She wrote home saying what a +tough struggle she was carrying on on his salary as a bank clerk—and +then she ended up by saying that ‘Thank God, I have four good maids +anyhow, and that helps a little.’”</p> + +<p>“It’s absurd,” commented Kismine—“Think of the millions and millions +of people in the world, labourers and all, who get along with only two +maids.”</p> + +<p>One afternoon late in August a chance remark of Kismine’s changed the +face of the entire situation, and threw John into a state of terror.</p> + +<p>They were in their favourite grove, and between kisses John was +indulging in some romantic forebodings which he fancied added +poignancy to their relations.</p> + +<p>“Sometimes I think we’ll never marry,” he said sadly. “You’re too +wealthy, too magnificent. No one as rich as you are can be like other +girls. I should marry the daughter of some well-to-do wholesale +hardware man from Omaha or Sioux City, and be content with her +half-million.”</p> + +<p>“I knew the daughter of a wholesale hardware man once,” remarked +Kismine. “I don’t think you’d have been contented with her. She was a +friend of my sister’s. She visited here.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, then you’ve had other guests?” exclaimed John in surprise.</p> + +<p>Kismine seemed to regret her words.</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes,” she said hurriedly, “we’ve had a few.”</p> + +<p>“But aren’t you—wasn’t your father afraid they’d talk outside?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, to some extent, to some extent,” she answered. “Let’s talk about +something pleasanter.”</p> + +<p>But John’s curiosity was aroused.</p> + +<p>“Something pleasanter!” he demanded. “What’s unpleasant about that? +Weren’t they nice girls?”</p> + +<p>To his great surprise Kismine began to weep.</p> + +<p>“Yes—th—that’s the—the whole t-trouble. I grew qu-quite attached to +some of them. So did Jasmine, but she kept inv-viting them anyway. I +couldn’t under<i>stand</i> it.”</p> + +<p>A dark suspicion was born in John’s heart.</p> + +<p>“Do you mean that they <i>told</i>, and your father had +them—removed?”</p> + +<p>“Worse than that,” she muttered brokenly. “Father took no chances—and +Jasmine kept writing them to come, and they had <i>such</i> a good +time!”</p> + +<p>She was overcome by a paroxysm of grief.</p> + +<p>Stunned with the horror of this revelation, John sat there +open-mouthed, feeling the nerves of his body twitter like so many +sparrows perched upon his spinal column.</p> + +<p>“Now, I’ve told you, and I shouldn’t have,” she said, calming suddenly +and drying her dark blue eyes.</p> + +<p>“Do you mean to say that your father had them <i>murdered</i> before +they left?”</p> + +<p>She nodded.</p> + +<p>“In August usually—or early in September. It’s only natural for us to +get all the pleasure out of them that we can first.”</p> + +<p>“How abominable! How—why, I must be going crazy! Did you really admit +that—”</p> + +<p>“I did,” interrupted Kismine, shrugging her shoulders. “We can’t very +well imprison them like those aviators, where they’d be a continual +reproach to us every day. And it’s always been made easier for Jasmine +and me, because father had it done sooner than we expected. In that +way we avoided any farewell scene—”</p> + +<p>“So you murdered them! Uh!” cried John.</p> + +<p>“It was done very nicely. They were drugged while they were +asleep—and their families were always told that they died of scarlet +fever in Butte.”</p> + +<p>“But—I fail to understand why you kept on inviting them!”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t,” burst out Kismine. “I never invited one. Jasmine did. And +they always had a very good time. She’d give them the nicest presents +toward the last. I shall probably have visitors too—I’ll harden up to +it. We can’t let such an inevitable thing as death stand in the way of +enjoying life while we have it. Think of how lonesome it’d be out here +if we never had <i>any</i> one. Why, father and mother have sacrificed +some of their best friends just as we have.”</p> + +<p>“And so,” cried John accusingly, “and so you were letting me make love +to you and pretending to return it, and talking about marriage, all +the time knowing perfectly well that I’d never get out of here +alive—”</p> + +<p>“No,” she protested passionately. “Not any more. I did at first. You +were here. I couldn’t help that, and I thought your last days might as +well be pleasant for both of us. But then I fell in love with you, +and—and I’m honestly sorry you’re going to—going to be put +away—though I’d rather you’d be put away than ever kiss another +girl.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, you would, would you?” cried John ferociously.</p> + +<p>“Much rather. Besides, I’ve always heard that a girl can have more fun +with a man whom she knows she can never marry. Oh, why did I tell you? +I’ve probably spoiled your whole good time now, and we were really +enjoying things when you didn’t know it. I knew it would make things +sort of depressing for you.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, you did, did you?” John’s voice trembled with anger. “I’ve heard +about enough of this. If you haven’t any more pride and decency than +to have an affair with a fellow that you know isn’t much better than a +corpse, I don’t want to have any more to with you!”</p> + +<p>“You’re not a corpse!” she protested in horror. “You’re not a corpse! +I won’t have you saying that I kissed a corpse!”</p> + +<p>“I said nothing of the sort!”</p> + +<p>“You did! You said I kissed a corpse!”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t!”</p> + +<p>Their voices had risen, but upon a sudden interruption they both +subsided into immediate silence. Footsteps were coming along the path +in their direction, and a moment later the rose bushes were parted +displaying Braddock Washington, whose intelligent eyes set in his +good-looking vacuous face were peering in at them.</p> + +<p>“Who kissed a corpse?” he demanded in obvious disapproval.</p> + +<p>“Nobody,” answered Kismine quickly. “We were just joking.”</p> + +<p>“What are you two doing here, anyhow?” he demanded gruffly. “Kismine, +you ought to be—to be reading or playing golf with your sister. Go +read! Go play golf! Don’t let me find you here when I come back!”</p> + +<p>Then he bowed at John and went up the path.</p> + +<p>“See?” said Kismine crossly, when he was out of hearing. “You’ve +spoiled it all. We can never meet any more. He won’t let me meet you. +He’d have you poisoned if he thought we were in love.”</p> + +<p>“We’re not, any more!” cried John fiercely, “so he can set his mind at +rest upon that. Moreover, don’t fool yourself that I’m going to stay +around here. Inside of six hours I’ll be over those mountains, if I +have to gnaw a passage through them, and on my way East.” They had +both got to their feet, and at this remark Kismine came close and put +her arm through his.</p> + +<p>“I’m going, too.”</p> + +<p>“You must be crazy—”</p> + +<p>“Of course I’m going,” she interrupted impatiently.</p> + +<p>“You most certainly are not. You—”</p> + +<p>“Very well,” she said quietly, “we’ll catch up with father and talk it +over with him.”</p> + +<p>Defeated, John mustered a sickly smile.</p> + +<p>“Very well, dearest,” he agreed, with pale and unconvincing affection, +“we’ll go together.”</p> + +<p>His love for her returned and settled placidly on his heart. She was +his—she would go with him to share his dangers. He put his arms about +her and kissed her fervently. After all she loved him; she had saved +him, in fact.</p> + +<p>Discussing the matter, they walked slowly back toward the château. +They decided that since Braddock Washington had seen them together +they had best depart the next night. Nevertheless, John’s lips were +unusually dry at dinner, and he nervously emptied a great spoonful of +peacock soup into his left lung. He had to be carried into the +turquoise and sable card-room and pounded on the back by one of the +under-butlers, which Percy considered a great joke.</p> + + +<h4>IX</h4> + +<p>Long after midnight John’s body gave a nervous jerk, and he sat suddenly +upright, staring into the veils of somnolence that draped the room. +Through the squares of blue darkness that were his open windows, he +had heard a faint far-away sound that died upon a bed of wind before +identifying itself on his memory, clouded with uneasy dreams. But the +sharp noise that had succeeded it was nearer, was just outside the +room—the click of a turned knob, a footstep, a whisper, he could not +tell; a hard lump gathered in the pit of his stomach, and his whole +body ached in the moment that he strained agonisingly to hear. Then +one of the veils seemed to dissolve, and he saw a vague figure +standing by the door, a figure only faintly limned and blocked in upon +the darkness, mingled so with the folds of the drapery as to seem +distorted, like a reflection seen in a dirty pane of glass.</p> + +<p>With a sudden movement of fright or resolution John pressed the button +by his bedside, and the next moment he was sitting in the green sunken +bath of the adjoining room, waked into alertness by the shock of the +cold water which half filled it.</p> + +<p>He sprang out, and, his wet pyjamas scattering a heavy trickle of +water behind him, ran for the aquamarine door which he knew led out on +to the ivory landing of the second floor. The door opened noiselessly. +A single crimson lamp burning in a great dome above lit the +magnificent sweep of the carved stairways with a poignant beauty. For +a moment John hesitated, appalled by the silent splendour massed about +him, seeming to envelop in its gigantic folds and contours the +solitary drenched little figure shivering upon the ivory landing. Then +simultaneously two things happened. The door of his own sitting-room +swung open, precipitating three naked negroes into the hall—and, as +John swayed in wild terror toward the stairway, another door slid back +in the wall on the other side of the corridor, and John saw Braddock +Washington standing in the lighted lift, wearing a fur coat and a pair +of riding boots which reached to his knees and displayed, above, the +glow of his rose-colored pyjamas.</p> + +<p>On the instant the three negroes—John had never seen any of them +before, and it flashed through his mind that they must be the +professional executioners—paused in their movement toward John, and +turned expectantly to the man in the lift, who burst out with an +imperious command:</p> + +<p>“Get in here! All three of you! Quick as hell!”</p> + +<p>Then, within the instant, the three negroes darted into the cage, the +oblong of light was blotted out as the lift door slid shut, and John +was again alone in the hall. He slumped weakly down against an ivory +stair.</p> + +<p>It was apparent that something portentous had occurred, something +which, for the moment at least, had postponed his own petty disaster. +What was it? Had the negroes risen in revolt? Had the aviators forced +aside the iron bars of the grating? Or had the men of Fish stumbled +blindly through the hills and gazed with bleak, joyless eyes upon the +gaudy valley? John did not know. He heard a faint whir of air as the +lift whizzed up again, and then, a moment later, as it descended. It +was probable that Percy was hurrying to his father’s assistance, and +it occurred to John that this was his opportunity to join Kismine and +plan an immediate escape. He waited until the lift had been silent for +several minutes; shivering a little with the night cool that whipped +in through his wet pyjamas, he returned to his room and dressed +himself quickly. Then he mounted a long flight of stairs and turned +down the corridor carpeted with Russian sable which led to Kismine’s +suite.</p> + +<p>The door of her sitting-room was open and the lamps were lighted. +Kismine, in an angora kimono, stood near the window of the room in a +listening attitude, and as John entered noiselessly she turned toward +him.</p> + +<p>“Oh, it’s you!” she whispered, crossing the room to him. “Did you hear +them?”</p> + +<p>“I heard your father’s slaves in my—”</p> + +<p>“No,” she interrupted excitedly. “Aeroplanes!”</p> + +<p>“Aeroplanes? Perhaps that was the sound that woke me.”</p> + +<p>“There’re at least a dozen. I saw one a few moments ago dead against +the moon. The guard back by the cliff fired his rifle and that’s what +roused father. We’re going to open on them right away.”</p> + +<p>“Are they here on purpose?”</p> + +<p>“Yes—it’s that Italian who got away—”</p> + +<p>Simultaneously with her last word, a succession of sharp cracks +tumbled in through the open window. Kismine uttered a little cry, took +a penny with fumbling fingers from a box on her dresser, and ran to +one of the electric lights. In an instant the entire château was in +darkness—she had blown out the fuse.</p> + +<p>“Come on!” she cried to him. “We’ll go up to the roof garden, and +watch it from there!”</p> + +<p>Drawing a cape about her, she took his hand, and they found their way +out the door. It was only a step to the tower lift, and as she pressed +the button that shot them upward he put his arms around her in the +darkness and kissed her mouth. Romance had come to John Unger at last. +A minute later they had stepped out upon the star-white platform. +Above, under the misty moon, sliding in and out of the patches of +cloud that eddied below it, floated a dozen dark-winged bodies in a +constant circling course. From here and there in the valley flashes of +fire leaped toward them, followed by sharp detonations. Kismine +clapped her hands with pleasure, which, a moment later, turned to +dismay as the aeroplanes, at some prearranged signal, began to release +their bombs and the whole of the valley became a panorama of deep +reverberate sound and lurid light.</p> + +<p>Before long the aim of the attackers became concentrated upon the +points where the anti-aircraft guns were situated, and one of them was +almost immediately reduced to a giant cinder to lie smouldering in a +park of rose bushes.</p> + +<p>“Kismine,” begged John, “you’ll be glad when I tell you that this +attack came on the eve of my murder. If I hadn’t heard that guard +shoot off his gun back by the pass I should now be stone dead—”</p> + +<p>“I can’t hear you!” cried Kismine, intent on the scene before her. +“You’ll have to talk louder!”</p> + +<p>“I simply said,” shouted John, “that we’d better get out before they +begin to shell the château!”</p> + +<p>Suddenly the whole portico of the negro quarters cracked asunder, a +geyser of flame shot up from under the colonnades, and great fragments +of jagged marble were hurled as far as the borders of the lake.</p> + +<p>“There go fifty thousand dollars’ worth of slaves,” cried Kismine, “at +pre-war prices. So few Americans have any respect for property.”</p> + +<p>John renewed his efforts to compel her to leave. The aim of the +aeroplanes was becoming more precise minute by minute, and only two of +the anti-aircraft guns were still retaliating. It was obvious that the +garrison, encircled with fire, could not hold out much longer.</p> + +<p>“Come on!” cried John, pulling Kismine’s arm, “we’ve got to go. Do you +realise that those aviators will kill you without question if they +find you?”</p> + +<p>She consented reluctantly.</p> + +<p>“We’ll have to wake Jasmine!” she said, as they hurried toward the +lift. Then she added in a sort of childish delight: “We’ll be poor, +won’t we? Like people in books. And I’ll be an orphan and utterly +free. Free and poor! What fun!” She stopped and raised her lips to him +in a delighted kiss.</p> + +<p>“It’s impossible to be both together,” said John grimly. “People have +found that out. And I should choose to be free as preferable of the +two. As an extra caution you’d better dump the contents of your jewel +box into your pockets.”</p> + +<p>Ten minutes later the two girls met John in the dark corridor and they +descended to the main floor of the château. Passing for the last time +through the magnificence of the splendid halls, they stood for a +moment out on the terrace, watching the burning negro quarters and the +flaming embers of two planes which had fallen on the other side of the +lake. A solitary gun was still keeping up a sturdy popping, and the +attackers seemed timorous about descending lower, but sent their +thunderous fireworks in a circle around it, until any chance shot +might annihilate its Ethiopian crew.</p> + +<p>John and the two sisters passed down the marble steps, turned sharply +to the left, and began to ascend a narrow path that wound like a +garter about the diamond mountain. Kismine knew a heavily wooded spot +half-way up where they could lie concealed and yet be able to observe +the wild night in the valley—finally to make an escape, when it +should be necessary, along a secret path laid in a rocky gully.</p> + + +<h4>X</h4> + +<p>It was three o’clock when they attained their destination. The +obliging and phlegmatic Jasmine fell off to sleep immediately, leaning +against the trunk of a large tree, while John and Kismine sat, his arm +around her, and watched the desperate ebb and flow of the dying battle +among the ruins of a vista that had been a garden spot that morning. +Shortly after four o’clock the last remaining gun gave out a clanging +sound, and went out of action in a swift tongue of red smoke. Though +the moon was down, they saw that the flying bodies were circling +closer to the earth. When the planes had made certain that the +beleaguered possessed no further resources they would land and the +dark and glittering reign of the Washingtons would be over.</p> + +<p>With the cessation of the firing the valley grew quiet. The embers of +the two aeroplanes glowed like the eyes of some monster crouching in +the grass. The château stood dark and silent, beautiful without light +as it had been beautiful in the sun, while the woody rattles of +Nemesis filled the air above with a growing and receding complaint. +Then John perceived that Kismine, like her sister, had fallen sound +asleep.</p> + +<p>It was long after four when he became aware of footsteps along the +path they had lately followed, and he waited in breathless silence +until the persons to whom they belonged had passed the vantage-point +he occupied. There was a faint stir in the air now that was not of +human origin, and the dew was cold; he knew that the dawn would break +soon. John waited until the steps had gone a safe distance up the +mountain and were inaudible. Then he followed. About half-way to the +steep summit the trees fell away and a hard saddle of rock spread +itself over the diamond beneath. Just before he reached this point he +slowed down his pace, warned by an animal sense that there was life +just ahead of him. Coming to a high boulder, he lifted his head +gradually above its edge. His curiosity was rewarded; this is what he +saw:</p> + +<p>Braddock Washington was standing there motionless, silhouetted against +the gray sky without sound or sign of life. As the dawn came up out of +the east, lending a gold green colour to the earth, it brought the +solitary figure into insignificant contrast with the new day.</p> + +<p>While John watched, his host remained for a few moments absorbed in +some inscrutable contemplation; then he signalled to the two negroes +who crouched at his feet to lift the burden which lay between them. As +they struggled upright, the first yellow beam of the sun struck +through the innumerable prisms of an immense and exquisitely chiselled +diamond—and a white radiance was kindled that glowed upon the air +like a fragment of the morning star. The bearers staggered beneath its +weight for a moment—then their rippling muscles caught and hardened +under the wet shine of the skins and the three figures were again +motionless in their defiant impotency before the heavens.</p> + +<p>After a while the white man lifted his head and slowly raised his arms +in a gesture of attention, as one who would call a great crowd to +hear—but there was no crowd, only the vast silence of the mountain +and the sky, broken by faint bird voices down among the trees. The +figure on the saddle of rock began to speak ponderously and with an +inextinguishable pride.</p> + +<p>“You—out there—!” he cried in a trembling voice.</p> + +<p>“You—there——!” He paused, his arms still uplifted, his head held +attentively as though he were expecting an answer. John strained his +eyes to see whether there might be men coming down the mountain, but +the mountain was bare of human life. There was only sky and a mocking +flute of wind along the treetops. Could Washington be praying? For a +moment John wondered. Then the illusion passed—there was something in +the man’s whole attitude antithetical to prayer.</p> + +<p>“Oh, you above there!”</p> + +<p>The voice was become strong and confident. This was no forlorn +supplication. If anything, there was in it a quality of monstrous +condescension.</p> + +<p>“You there—” Words, too quickly uttered to be understood, flowing +one into the other .... John listened breathlessly, catching a phrase +here and there, while the voice broke off, resumed, broke off +again—now strong and argumentative, now coloured with a slow, puzzled +impatience. Then a conviction commenced to dawn on the single +listener, and as realisation crept over him a spray of quick blood +rushed through his arteries. Braddock Washington was offering a bribe +to God!</p> + +<p>That was it—there was no doubt. The diamond in the arms of his slaves +was some advance sample, a promise of more to follow.</p> + +<p>That, John perceived after a time, was the thread running through his +sentences. Prometheus Enriched was calling to witness forgotten +sacrifices, forgotten rituals, prayers obsolete before the birth of +Christ. For a while his discourse took the form of reminding God of +this gift or that which Divinity had deigned to accept from men—great +churches if he would rescue cities from the plague, gifts of myrrh and +gold, of human lives and beautiful women and captive armies, of +children and queens, of beasts of the forest and field, sheep and +goats, harvests and cities, whole conquered lands that had been +offered up in lust or blood for His appeasal, buying a meed’s worth of +alleviation from the Divine wrath—and now he, Braddock Washington, +Emperor of Diamonds, king and priest of the age of gold, arbiter of +splendour and luxury, would offer up a treasure such as princes before +him had never dreamed of, offer it up not in suppliance, but in pride.</p> + +<p>He would give to God, he continued, getting down to specifications, +the greatest diamond in the world. This diamond would be cut with many +more thousand facets than there were leaves on a tree, and yet the +whole diamond would be shaped with the perfection of a stone no bigger +than a fly. Many men would work upon it for many years. It would be +set in a great dome of beaten gold, wonderfully carved and equipped +with gates of opal and crusted sapphire. In the middle would be +hollowed out a chapel presided over by an altar of iridescent, +decomposing, ever-changing radium which would burn out the eyes of any +worshipper who lifted up his head from prayer—and on this altar there +would be slain for the amusement of the Divine Benefactor any victim +He should choose, even though it should be the greatest and most +powerful man alive.</p> + +<p>In return he asked only a simple thing, a thing that for God would be +absurdly easy—only that matters should be as they were yesterday at +this hour and that they should so remain. So very simple! Let but the +heavens open, swallowing these men and their aeroplanes—and then +close again. Let him have his slaves once more, restored to life and +well.</p> + +<p>There was no one else with whom he had ever needed to treat or +bargain.</p> + +<p>He doubted only whether he had made his bribe big enough. God had His +price, of course. God was made in man’s image, so it had been said: He +must have His price. And the price would be rare—no cathedral whose +building consumed many years, no pyramid constructed by ten thousand +workmen, would be like this cathedral, this pyramid.</p> + +<p>He paused here. That was his proposition. Everything would be up to +specifications, and there was nothing vulgar in his assertion that it +would be cheap at the price. He implied that Providence could take it +or leave it.</p> + +<p>As he approached the end his sentences became broken, became short and +uncertain, and his body seemed tense, seemed strained to catch the +slightest pressure or whisper of life in the spaces around him. His +hair had turned gradually white as he talked, and now he lifted his +head high to the heavens like a prophet of old—magnificently mad.</p> + +<p>Then, as John stared in giddy fascination, it seemed to him that a +curious phenomenon took place somewhere around him. It was as though +the sky had darkened for an instant, as though there had been a sudden +murmur in a gust of wind, a sound of far-away trumpets, a sighing like +the rustle of a great silken robe—for a time the whole of nature +round about partook of this darkness; the birds’ song ceased; the +trees were still, and far over the mountain there was a mutter of +dull, menacing thunder.</p> + +<p>That was all. The wind died along the tall grasses of the valley. The +dawn and the day resumed their place in a time, and the risen sun sent +hot waves of yellow mist that made its path bright before it. The +leaves laughed in the sun, and their laughter shook until each bough +was like a girl’s school in fairyland. God had refused to accept the +bribe.</p> + +<p>For another moment John watched the triumph of the day. Then, +turning, he saw a flutter of brown down by the lake, then another +flutter, then another, like the dance of golden angels alighting from +the clouds. The aeroplanes had come to earth.</p> + +<p>John slid off the boulder and ran down the side of the mountain to the +clump of trees, where the two girls were awake and waiting for him. +Kismine sprang to her feet, the jewels in her pockets jingling, a +question on her parted lips, but instinct told John that there was no +time for words. They must get off the mountain without losing a +moment. He seized a hand of each, and in silence they threaded the +tree-trunks, washed with light now and with the rising mist. Behind +them from the valley came no sound at all, except the complaint of the +peacocks far away and the pleasant undertone of morning.</p> + +<p>When they had gone about half a mile, they avoided the park land and +entered a narrow path that led over the next rise of ground. At the +highest point of this they paused and turned around. Their eyes rested +upon the mountainside they had just left—oppressed by some dark sense +of tragic impendency.</p> + +<p>Clear against the sky a broken, white-haired man was slowly descending +the steep slope, followed by two gigantic and emotionless negroes, who +carried a burden between them which still flashed and glittered in the +sun. Half-way down two other figures joined them—John could see that +they were Mrs. Washington and her son, upon whose arm she leaned. The +aviators had clambered from their machines to the sweeping lawn in +front of the château, and with rifles in hand were starting up the +diamond mountain in skirmishing formation.</p> + +<p>But the little group of five which had formed farther up and was +engrossing all the watchers’ attention had stopped upon a ledge of +rock. The negroes stooped and pulled up what appeared to be a +trap-door in the side of the mountain. Into this they all disappeared, +the white-haired man first, then his wife and son, finally the two +negroes, the glittering tips of whose jewelled head-dresses caught the +sun for a moment before the trap-door descended and engulfed them all.</p> + +<p>Kismine clutched John’s arm.</p> + +<p>“Oh,” she cried wildly, “where are they going? What are they going to +do?”</p> + +<p>“It must be some underground way of escape—”</p> + +<p>A little scream from the two girls interrupted his sentence.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you see?” sobbed Kismine hysterically. “The mountain is wired!”</p> + +<p>Even as she spoke John put up his hands to shield his sight. Before +their eyes the whole surface of the mountain had changed suddenly to a +dazzling burning yellow, which showed up through the jacket of turf as +light shows through a human hand. For a moment the intolerable glow +continued, and then like an extinguished filament it disappeared, +revealing a black waste from which blue smoke arose slowly, carrying +off with it what remained of vegetation and of human flesh. Of the +aviators there was left neither blood nor bone—they were consumed as +completely as the five souls who had gone inside.</p> + +<p>Simultaneously, and with an immense concussion, the château literally +threw itself into the air, bursting into flaming fragments as it rose, +and then tumbling back upon itself in a smoking pile that lay +projecting half into the water of the lake. There was no fire—what +smoke there was drifted off mingling with the sunshine, and for a few +minutes longer a powdery dust of marble drifted from the great +featureless pile that had once been the house of jewels. There was no +more sound and the three people were alone in the valley.</p> + + +<h4>XI</h4> + +<p>At sunset John and his two companions reached the huge cliff which had +marked the boundaries of the Washingtons’ dominion, and looking back +found the valley tranquil and lovely in the dusk. They sat down to +finish the food which Jasmine had brought with her in a basket.</p> + +<p>“There!” she said, as she spread the table-cloth and put the +sandwiches in a neat pile upon it. “Don’t they look tempting? I always +think that food tastes better outdoors.”</p> + +<p>“With that remark,” remarked Kismine, “Jasmine enters the middle +class.”</p> + +<p>“Now,” said John eagerly, “turn out your pocket and let’s see what +jewels you brought along. If you made a good selection we three ought +to live comfortably all the rest of our lives.”</p> + +<p>Obediently Kismine put her hand in her pocket and tossed two handfuls +of glittering stones before him. “Not so bad,” cried John +enthusiastically. “They aren’t very big, but—Hello!” His expression +changed as he held one of them up to the declining sun. “Why, these +aren’t diamonds! There’s something the matter!”</p> + +<p>“By golly!” exclaimed Kismine, with a startled look. “What an idiot I +am!”</p> + +<p>“Why, these are rhinestones!” cried John.</p> + +<p>“I know.” She broke into a laugh. “I opened the wrong drawer. They +belonged on the dress of a girl who visited Jasmine. I got her to give +them to me in exchange for diamonds. I’d never seen anything but +precious stones before.”</p> + +<p>“And this is what you brought?”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid so.” She fingered the brilliants wistfully. “I think I +like these better. I’m a little tired of diamonds.”</p> + +<p>“Very well,” said John gloomily. “We’ll have to live in Hades. And you +will grow old telling incredulous women that you got the wrong drawer. +Unfortunately, your father’s bank-books were consumed with him.”</p> + +<p>“Well, what’s the matter with Hades?”</p> + +<p>“If I come home with a wife at my age my father is just as liable as +not to cut me off with a hot coal, as they say down there.”</p> + +<p>Jasmine spoke up.</p> + +<p>“I love washing,” she said quietly. “I have always washed my own +handkerchiefs. I’ll take in laundry and support you both.”</p> + +<p>“Do they have washwomen in Hades?” asked Kismine innocently.</p> + +<p>“Of course,” answered John. “It’s just like anywhere else.”</p> + +<p>“I thought—perhaps it was too hot to wear any clothes.”</p> + +<p>John laughed.</p> + +<p>“Just try it!” he suggested. “They’ll run you out before you’re half +started.”</p> + +<p>“Will father be there?” she asked.</p> + +<p>John turned to her in astonishment.</p> + +<p>“Your father is dead,” he replied sombrely. “Why should he go to +Hades? You have it confused with another place that was abolished long +ago.”</p> + +<p>After supper they folded up the table-cloth and spread their blankets +for the night.</p> + +<p>“What a dream it was,” Kismine sighed, gazing up at the stars. “How +strange it seems to be here with one dress and a penniless fiancée!</p> + +<p>“Under the stars,” she repeated. “I never noticed the stars before. I +always thought of them as great big diamonds that belonged to some +one. Now they frighten me. They make me feel that it was all a dream, +all my youth.”</p> + +<p>“It <i>was</i> a dream,” said John quietly. “Everybody’s youth is a +dream, a form of chemical madness.”</p> + +<p>“How pleasant then to be insane!”</p> + +<p>“So I’m told,” said John gloomily. “I don’t know any longer. At any +rate, let us love for a while, for a year or so, you and me. That’s a +form of divine drunkenness that we can all try. There are only +diamonds in the whole world, diamonds and perhaps the shabby gift of +disillusion. Well, I have that last and I will make the usual nothing +of it.” He shivered. “Turn up your coat collar, little girl, the +night’s full of chill and you’ll get pneumonia. His was a great sin +who first invented consciousness. Let us lose it for a few hours.”</p> + +<p>So wrapping himself in his blanket he fell off to sleep.</p> + + + + +<div class="chapter"> +<h3 class="nobreak" id="THE_CURIOUS_CASE_OF_BENJAMIN_BUTTON">THE CURIOUS CASE OF BENJAMIN BUTTON</h3> +</div> + + +<h4>I</h4> + +<p>As long ago as 1860 it was the proper thing to be born at home. At +present, so I am told, the high gods of medicine have decreed that the +first cries of the young shall be uttered upon the anaesthetic air of +a hospital, preferably a fashionable one. So young Mr. and Mrs. Roger +Button were fifty years ahead of style when they decided, one day in +the summer of 1860, that their first baby should be born in a +hospital. Whether this anachronism had any bearing upon the +astonishing history I am about to set down will never be known.</p> + +<p>I shall tell you what occurred, and let you judge for yourself.</p> + +<p>The Roger Buttons held an enviable position, both social and +financial, in ante-bellum Baltimore. They were related to the This +Family and the That Family, which, as every Southerner knew, entitled +them to membership in that enormous peerage which largely populated +the Confederacy. This was their first experience with the charming old +custom of having babies—Mr. Button was naturally nervous. He hoped it +would be a boy so that he could be sent to Yale College in +Connecticut, at which institution Mr. Button himself had been known +for four years by the somewhat obvious nickname of “Cuff.”</p> + +<p>On the September morning consecrated to the enormous event he arose +nervously at six o’clock, dressed himself, adjusted an impeccable +stock, and hurried forth through the streets of Baltimore to the +hospital, to determine whether the darkness of the night had borne in +new life upon its bosom.</p> + +<p>When he was approximately a hundred yards from the Maryland Private +Hospital for Ladies and Gentlemen he saw Doctor Keene, the family +physician, descending the front steps, rubbing his hands together with +a washing movement—as all doctors are required to do by the unwritten +ethics of their profession.</p> + +<p>Mr. Roger Button, the president of Roger Button & Co., Wholesale +Hardware, began to run toward Doctor Keene with much less dignity than +was expected from a Southern gentleman of that picturesque period. +“Doctor Keene!” he called. “Oh, Doctor Keene!”</p> + +<p>The doctor heard him, faced around, and stood waiting, a curious +expression settling on his harsh, medicinal face as Mr. Button drew +near.</p> + +<p>“What happened?” demanded Mr. Button, as he came up in a gasping rush. +“What was it? How is she? A boy? Who is it? What—”</p> + +<p>“Talk sense!” said Doctor Keene sharply. He appeared somewhat +irritated.</p> + +<p>“Is the child born?” begged Mr. Button.</p> + +<p>Doctor Keene frowned. “Why, yes, I suppose so—after a fashion.” Again +he threw a curious glance at Mr. Button.</p> + +<p>“Is my wife all right?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Is it a boy or a girl?”</p> + +<p>“Here now!” cried Doctor Keene in a perfect passion of irritation, +“I’ll ask you to go and see for yourself. Outrageous!” He snapped the +last word out in almost one syllable, then he turned away muttering: +“Do you imagine a case like this will help my professional reputation? +One more would ruin me—ruin anybody.”</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter?” demanded Mr. Button appalled. “Triplets?”</p> + +<p>“No, not triplets!” answered the doctor cuttingly. “What’s more, you +can go and see for yourself. And get another doctor. I brought you +into the world, young man, and I’ve been physician to your family for +forty years, but I’m through with you! I don’t want to see you or any +of your relatives ever again! Good-bye!”</p> + +<p>Then he turned sharply, and without another word climbed into his +phaeton, which was waiting at the curbstone, and drove severely away.</p> + +<p>Mr. Button stood there upon the sidewalk, stupefied and trembling from +head to foot. What horrible mishap had occurred? He had suddenly lost +all desire to go into the Maryland Private Hospital for Ladies and +Gentlemen—it was with the greatest difficulty that, a moment later, +he forced himself to mount the steps and enter the front door.</p> + +<p>A nurse was sitting behind a desk in the opaque gloom of the hall. +Swallowing his shame, Mr. Button approached her.</p> + +<p>“Good-morning,” she remarked, looking up at him pleasantly.</p> + +<p>“Good-morning. I—I am Mr. Button.”</p> + +<p>At this a look of utter terror spread itself over the girl’s face. She +rose to her feet and seemed about to fly from the hall, restraining +herself only with the most apparent difficulty.</p> + +<p>“I want to see my child,” said Mr. Button.</p> + +<p>The nurse gave a little scream. “Oh—of course!” she cried +hysterically. “Upstairs. Right upstairs. Go—<i>up!</i>”</p> + +<p>She pointed the direction, and Mr. Button, bathed in cool +perspiration, turned falteringly, and began to mount to the second +floor. In the upper hall he addressed another nurse who approached +him, basin in hand. “I’m Mr. Button,” he managed to articulate. “I +want to see my——”</p> + +<p>Clank! The basin clattered to the floor and rolled in the direction of +the stairs. Clank! Clank! It began a methodical descent as if sharing +in the general terror which this gentleman provoked.</p> + +<p>“I want to see my child!” Mr. Button almost shrieked. He was on the +verge of collapse.</p> + +<p>Clank! The basin reached the first floor. The nurse regained control +of herself, and threw Mr. Button a look of hearty contempt.</p> + +<p>“All <i>right</i>, Mr. Button,” she agreed in a hushed voice. “Very +<i>well!</i> But if you <i>knew</i> what a state it’s put us all in this +morning! It’s perfectly outrageous! The hospital will never have +a ghost of a reputation after——”</p> + +<p>“Hurry!” he cried hoarsely. “I can’t stand this!”</p> + +<p>“Come this way, then, Mr. Button.”</p> + +<p>He dragged himself after her. At the end of a long hall they reached a +room from which proceeded a variety of howls—indeed, a room which, in +later parlance, would have been known as the “crying-room.” They +entered.</p> + +<p>“Well,” gasped Mr. Button, “which is mine?”</p> + +<p>“There!” said the nurse.</p> + +<p>Mr. Button’s eyes followed her pointing finger, and this is what he +saw. Wrapped in a voluminous white blanket, and partly crammed into +one of the cribs, there sat an old man apparently about seventy years +of age. His sparse hair was almost white, and from his chin dripped a +long smoke-coloured beard, which waved absurdly back and forth, fanned +by the breeze coming in at the window. He looked up at Mr. Button with +dim, faded eyes in which lurked a puzzled question.</p> + +<p>“Am I mad?” thundered Mr. Button, his terror resolving into rage. “Is +this some ghastly hospital joke?</p> + +<p>“It doesn’t seem like a joke to us,” replied the nurse severely. “And +I don’t know whether you’re mad or not—but that is most certainly +your child.”</p> + +<p>The cool perspiration redoubled on Mr. Button’s forehead. He closed +his eyes, and then, opening them, looked again. There was no +mistake—he was gazing at a man of threescore and ten—a <i>baby</i> +of threescore and ten, a baby whose feet hung over the sides of the +crib in which it was reposing.</p> + +<p>The old man looked placidly from one to the other for a moment, and +then suddenly spoke in a cracked and ancient voice. “Are you my +father?” he demanded.</p> + +<p>Mr. Button and the nurse started violently.</p> + +<p>“Because if you are,” went on the old man querulously, “I wish you’d +get me out of this place—or, at least, get them to put a comfortable +rocker in here.”</p> + +<p>“Where in God’s name did you come from? Who are you?” burst out Mr. +Button frantically.</p> + +<p>“I can’t tell you <i>exactly</i> who I am,” replied the querulous +whine, “because I’ve only been born a few hours—but my last name is +certainly Button.”</p> + +<p>“You lie! You’re an impostor!”</p> + +<p>The old man turned wearily to the nurse. “Nice way to welcome a +new-born child,” he complained in a weak voice. “Tell him he’s wrong, +why don’t you?”</p> + +<p>“You’re wrong, Mr. Button,” said the nurse severely. “This is your +child, and you’ll have to make the best of it. We’re going to ask you +to take him home with you as soon as possible—some time to-day.”</p> + +<p>“Home?” repeated Mr. Button incredulously.</p> + +<p>“Yes, we can’t have him here. We really can’t, you know?”</p> + +<p>“I’m right glad of it,” whined the old man. “This is a fine place to +keep a youngster of quiet tastes. With all this yelling and howling, I +haven’t been able to get a wink of sleep. I asked for something to +eat”—here his voice rose to a shrill note of protest—“and they +brought me a bottle of milk!”</p> + +<p>Mr. Button, sank down upon a chair near his son and concealed his face +in his hands. “My heavens!” he murmured, in an ecstasy of horror. +“What will people say? What must I do?”</p> + +<p>“You’ll have to take him home,” insisted the nurse—“immediately!”</p> + +<p>A grotesque picture formed itself with dreadful clarity before the +eyes of the tortured man—a picture of himself walking through the +crowded streets of the city with this appalling apparition stalking by +his side.</p> + +<p>“I can’t. I can’t,” he moaned.</p> + +<p>People would stop to speak to him, and what was he going to say? He +would have to introduce this—this septuagenarian: “This is my son, +born early this morning.” And then the old man would gather his +blanket around him and they would plod on, past the bustling stores, +the slave market—for a dark instant Mr. Button wished passionately +that his son was black—past the luxurious houses of the residential +district, past the home for the aged....</p> + +<p>“Come! Pull yourself together,” commanded the nurse.</p> + +<p>“See here,” the old man announced suddenly, “if you think I’m going to +walk home in this blanket, you’re entirely mistaken.”</p> + +<p>“Babies always have blankets.”</p> + +<p>With a malicious crackle the old man held up a small white swaddling +garment. “Look!” he quavered. “<i>This</i> is what they had ready for +me.”</p> + +<p>“Babies always wear those,” said the nurse primly.</p> + +<p>“Well,” said the old man, “this baby’s not going to wear anything in +about two minutes. This blanket itches. They might at least have given +me a sheet.”</p> + +<p>“Keep it on! Keep it on!” said Mr. Button hurriedly. He turned to the +nurse. “What’ll I do?”</p> + +<p>“Go down town and buy your son some clothes.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Button’s son’s voice followed him down into the hall: “And a +cane, father. I want to have a cane.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Button banged the outer door savagely....</p> + + +<h4>II</h4> + +<p>“Good-morning,” Mr. Button said nervously, to the clerk in the +Chesapeake Dry Goods Company. “I want to buy some clothes for my +child.”</p> + +<p>“How old is your child, sir?”</p> + +<p>“About six hours,” answered Mr. Button, without due consideration.</p> + +<p>“Babies’ supply department in the rear.”</p> + +<p>“Why, I don’t think—I’m not sure that’s what I want. It’s—he’s an +unusually large-size child. Exceptionally—ah large.”</p> + +<p>“They have the largest child’s sizes.”</p> + +<p>“Where is the boys’ department?” inquired Mr. Button, shifting his +ground desperately. He felt that the clerk must surely scent his +shameful secret.</p> + +<p>“Right here.”</p> + +<p>“Well——” He hesitated. The notion of dressing his son in men’s +clothes was repugnant to him. If, say, he could only find a very large +boy’s suit, he might cut off that long and awful beard, dye the white +hair brown, and thus manage to conceal the worst, and to retain +something of his own self-respect—not to mention his position in +Baltimore society.</p> + +<p>But a frantic inspection of the boys’ department revealed no suits to +fit the new-born Button. He blamed the store, of course—in such +cases it is the thing to blame the store.</p> + +<p>“How old did you say that boy of yours was?” demanded the clerk +curiously.</p> + +<p>“He’s—sixteen.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought you said six <i>hours</i>. You’ll +find the youths’ department in the next aisle.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Button turned miserably away. Then he stopped, brightened, and +pointed his finger toward a dressed dummy in the window display. +“There!” he exclaimed. “I’ll take that suit, out there on the dummy.”</p> + +<p>The clerk stared. “Why,” he protested, “that’s not a child’s suit. At +least it <i>is</i>, but it’s for fancy dress. You could wear it +yourself!”</p> + +<p>“Wrap it up,” insisted his customer nervously. “That’s what I want.”</p> + +<p>The astonished clerk obeyed.</p> + +<p>Back at the hospital Mr. Button entered the nursery and almost threw +the package at his son. “Here’s your clothes,” he snapped out.</p> + +<p>The old man untied the package and viewed the contents with a +quizzical eye.</p> + +<p>“They look sort of funny to me,” he complained, “I don’t want to be +made a monkey of—”</p> + +<p>“You’ve made a monkey of me!” retorted Mr. Button fiercely. “Never you +mind how funny you look. Put them on—or I’ll—or I’ll <i>spank</i> +you.” He swallowed uneasily at the penultimate word, feeling +nevertheless that it was the proper thing to say.</p> + +<p>“All right, father”—this with a grotesque simulation of filial +respect—“you’ve lived longer; you know best. Just as you say.”</p> + +<p>As before, the sound of the word “father” caused Mr. Button to start +violently.</p> + +<p>“And hurry.”</p> + +<p>“I’m hurrying, father.”</p> + +<p>When his son was dressed Mr. Button regarded him with depression. The +costume consisted of dotted socks, pink pants, and a belted blouse +with a wide white collar. Over the latter waved the long whitish +beard, drooping almost to the waist. The effect was not good.</p> + +<p>“Wait!”</p> + +<p>Mr. Button seized a hospital shears and with three quick snaps +amputated a large section of the beard. But even with this improvement +the ensemble fell far short of perfection. The remaining brush of +scraggly hair, the watery eyes, the ancient teeth, seemed oddly out of +tone with the gaiety of the costume. Mr. Button, however, was +obdurate—he held out his hand. “Come along!” he said sternly.</p> + +<p>His son took the hand trustingly. “What are you going to call me, +dad?” he quavered as they walked from the nursery—“just ‘baby’ for a +while? till you think of a better name?”</p> + +<p>Mr. Button grunted. “I don’t know,” he answered harshly. “I think +we’ll call you Methuselah.”</p> + + +<h4>III</h4> + +<p>Even after the new addition to the Button family had had his hair cut +short and then dyed to a sparse unnatural black, had had his face +shaved so close that it glistened, and had been attired in small-boy +clothes made to order by a flabbergasted tailor, it was impossible for +Button to ignore the fact that his son was a poor excuse for a first +family baby. Despite his aged stoop, Benjamin Button—for it was by +this name they called him instead of by the appropriate but invidious +Methuselah—was five feet eight inches tall. His clothes did not +conceal this, nor did the clipping and dyeing of his eyebrows disguise +the fact that the eyes underneath were faded and watery and tired. In +fact, the baby-nurse who had been engaged in advance left the house +after one look, in a state of considerable indignation.</p> + +<p>But Mr. Button persisted in his unwavering purpose. Benjamin was a +baby, and a baby he should remain. At first he declared that if +Benjamin didn’t like warm milk he could go without food altogether, +but he was finally prevailed upon to allow his son bread and butter, +and even oatmeal by way of a compromise. One day he brought home a +rattle and, giving it to Benjamin, insisted in no uncertain terms that +he should “play with it,” whereupon the old man took it with a weary +expression and could be heard jingling it obediently at intervals +throughout the day.</p> + +<p>There can be no doubt, though, that the rattle bored him, and that he +found other and more soothing amusements when he was left alone. For +instance, Mr. Button discovered one day that during the preceding week +he had smoked more cigars than ever before—a phenomenon, which was +explained a few days later when, entering the nursery unexpectedly, he +found the room full of faint blue haze and Benjamin, with a guilty +expression on his face, trying to conceal the butt of a dark Havana. +This, of course, called for a severe spanking, but Mr. Button found +that he could not bring himself to administer it. He merely warned his +son that he would “stunt his growth.”</p> + +<p>Nevertheless he persisted in his attitude. He brought home lead +soldiers, he brought toy trains, he brought large pleasant animals +made of cotton, and, to perfect the illusion which he was +creating—for himself at least—he passionately demanded of the clerk +in the toy-store whether “the paint would come off the pink duck if +the baby put it in his mouth.” But, despite all his father’s efforts, +Benjamin refused to be interested. He would steal down the back stairs +and return to the nursery with a volume of the Encyclopedia +Britannica, over which he would pore through an afternoon, while his +cotton cows and his Noah’s ark were left neglected on the floor. +Against such a stubbornness Mr. Button’s efforts were of little avail.</p> + +<p>The sensation created in Baltimore was, at first, prodigious. What the +mishap would have cost the Buttons and their kinsfolk socially cannot +be determined, for the outbreak of the Civil War drew the city’s +attention to other things. A few people who were unfailingly polite +racked their brains for compliments to give to the parents—and +finally hit upon the ingenious device of declaring that the baby +resembled his grandfather, a fact which, due to the standard state of +decay common to all men of seventy, could not be denied. Mr. and Mrs. +Roger Button were not pleased, and Benjamin’s grandfather was +furiously insulted.</p> + +<p>Benjamin, once he left the hospital, took life as he found it. Several +small boys were brought to see him, and he spent a stiff-jointed +afternoon trying to work up an interest in tops and marbles—he even +managed, quite accidentally, to break a kitchen window with a stone +from a sling shot, a feat which secretly delighted his father.</p> + +<p>Thereafter Benjamin contrived to break something every day, but he did +these things only because they were expected of him, and because he +was by nature obliging.</p> + +<p>When his grandfather’s initial antagonism wore off, Benjamin and that +gentleman took enormous pleasure in one another’s company. They would +sit for hours, these two, so far apart in age and experience, and, +like old cronies, discuss with tireless monotony the slow events of +the day. Benjamin felt more at ease in his grandfather’s presence than +in his parents’—they seemed always somewhat in awe of him and, +despite the dictatorial authority they exercised over him, frequently +addressed him as “Mr.”</p> + +<p>He was as puzzled as any one else at the apparently advanced age of +his mind and body at birth. He read up on it in the medical journal, +but found that no such case had been previously recorded. At his +father’s urging he made an honest attempt to play with other boys, and +frequently he joined in the milder games—football shook him up too +much, and he feared that in case of a fracture his ancient bones would +refuse to knit.</p> + +<p>When he was five he was sent to kindergarten, where he was initiated into +the art of pasting green paper on orange paper, of weaving coloured +maps and manufacturing eternal cardboard necklaces. He was inclined to +drowse off to sleep in the middle of these tasks, a habit which both +irritated and frightened his young teacher. To his relief she +complained to his parents, and he was removed from the school. The +Roger Buttons told their friends that they felt he was too young.</p> + +<p>By the time he was twelve years old his parents had grown used to him. +Indeed, so strong is the force of custom that they no longer felt that +he was different from any other child—except when some curious +anomaly reminded them of the fact. But one day a few weeks after his +twelfth birthday, while looking in the mirror, Benjamin made, or +thought he made, an astonishing discovery. Did his eyes deceive him, +or had his hair turned in the dozen years of his life from white to +iron-gray under its concealing dye? Was the network of wrinkles on his +face becoming less pronounced? Was his skin healthier and firmer, with +even a touch of ruddy winter colour? He could not tell. He knew that +he no longer stooped, and that his physical condition had improved +since the early days of his life.</p> + +<p>“Can it be——?” he thought to himself, or, rather, scarcely dared to +think.</p> + +<p>He went to his father. “I am grown,” he announced determinedly. “I +want to put on long trousers.”</p> + +<p>His father hesitated. “Well,” he said finally, “I don’t know. Fourteen +is the age for putting on long trousers—and you are only twelve.”</p> + +<p>“But you’ll have to admit,” protested Benjamin, “that I’m big for my +age.”</p> + +<p>His father looked at him with illusory speculation. “Oh, I’m not so +sure of that,” he said. “I was as big as you when I was twelve.”</p> + +<p>This was not true—it was all part of Roger Button’s silent agreement +with himself to believe in his son’s normality.</p> + +<p>Finally a compromise was reached. Benjamin was to continue to dye his +hair. He was to make a better attempt to play with boys of his own +age. He was not to wear his spectacles or carry a cane in the street. +In return for these concessions he was allowed his first suit of long +trousers....</p> + + +<h4>IV</h4> + +<p>Of the life of Benjamin Button between his twelfth and twenty-first +year I intend to say little. Suffice to record that they were years of +normal ungrowth. When Benjamin was eighteen he was erect as a man of +fifty; he had more hair and it was of a dark gray; his step was firm, +his voice had lost its cracked quaver and descended to a healthy +baritone. So his father sent him up to Connecticut to take +examinations for entrance to Yale College. Benjamin passed his +examination and became a member of the freshman class.</p> + +<p>On the third day following his matriculation he received a +notification from Mr. Hart, the college registrar, to call at his +office and arrange his schedule. Benjamin, glancing in the mirror, +decided that his hair needed a new application of its brown dye, but +an anxious inspection of his bureau drawer disclosed that the dye +bottle was not there. Then he remembered—he had emptied it the day +before and thrown it away.</p> + +<p>He was in a dilemma. He was due at the registrar’s in five minutes. +There seemed to be no help for it—he must go as he was. He did.</p> + +<p>“Good-morning,” said the registrar politely. “You’ve come to inquire +about your son.”</p> + +<p>“Why, as a matter of fact, my name’s Button——” began Benjamin, but +Mr. Hart cut him off.</p> + +<p>“I’m very glad to meet you, Mr. Button. I’m expecting your son here +any minute.”</p> + +<p>“That’s me!” burst out Benjamin. “I’m a freshman.”</p> + +<p>“What!”</p> + +<p>“I’m a freshman.”</p> + +<p>“Surely you’re joking.”</p> + +<p>“Not at all.”</p> + +<p>The registrar frowned and glanced at a card before him. “Why, I have +Mr. Benjamin Button’s age down here as eighteen.”</p> + +<p>“That’s my age,” asserted Benjamin, flushing slightly.</p> + +<p>The registrar eyed him wearily. “Now surely, Mr. Button, you don’t +expect me to believe that.”</p> + +<p>Benjamin smiled wearily. “I am eighteen,” he repeated.</p> + +<p>The registrar pointed sternly to the door. “Get out,” he said. “Get +out of college and get out of town. You are a dangerous lunatic.”</p> + +<p>“I am eighteen.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Hart opened the door. “The idea!” he shouted. “A man of your age +trying to enter here as a freshman. Eighteen years old, are you? Well, +I’ll give you eighteen minutes to get out of town.”</p> + +<p>Benjamin Button walked with dignity from the room, and half a dozen +undergraduates, who were waiting in the hall, followed him curiously +with their eyes. When he had gone a little way he turned around, faced +the infuriated registrar, who was still standing in the door-way, and +repeated in a firm voice: “I am eighteen years old.”</p> + +<p>To a chorus of titters which went up from the group of undergraduates, +Benjamin walked away.</p> + +<p>But he was not fated to escape so easily. On his melancholy walk to +the railroad station he found that he was being followed by a group, +then by a swarm, and finally by a dense mass of undergraduates. The +word had gone around that a lunatic had passed the entrance +examinations for Yale and attempted to palm himself off as a youth of +eighteen. A fever of excitement permeated the college. Men ran hatless +out of classes, the football team abandoned its practice and joined +the mob, professors’ wives with bonnets awry and bustles out of +position, ran shouting after the procession, from which proceeded a +continual succession of remarks aimed at the tender sensibilities of +Benjamin Button.</p> + +<p>“He must be the wandering Jew!”</p> + +<p>“He ought to go to prep school at his age!”</p> + +<p>“Look at the infant prodigy!”</p> + +<p>“He thought this was the old men’s home.”</p> + +<p>“Go up to Harvard!”</p> + +<p>Benjamin increased his gait, and soon he was running. He would show +them! He <i>would</i> go to Harvard, and then they would regret these +ill-considered taunts!</p> + +<p>Safely on board the train for Baltimore, he put his head from the +window. “You’ll regret this!” he shouted.</p> + +<p>“Ha-ha!” the undergraduates laughed. “Ha-ha-ha!” It was the biggest +mistake that Yale College had ever made....</p> + + +<h4>V</h4> + +<p>In 1880 Benjamin Button was twenty years old, and he signalised his +birthday by going to work for his father in Roger Button & Co., +Wholesale Hardware. It was in that same year that he began “going out +socially”—that is, his father insisted on taking him to several +fashionable dances. Roger Button was now fifty, and he and his son +were more and more companionable—in fact, since Benjamin had ceased +to dye his hair (which was still grayish) they appeared about the same +age, and could have passed for brothers.</p> + +<p>One night in August they got into the phaeton attired in their +full-dress suits and drove out to a dance at the Shevlins’ country +house, situated just outside of Baltimore. It was a gorgeous evening. +A full moon drenched the road to the lustreless colour of platinum, +and late-blooming harvest flowers breathed into the motionless air +aromas that were like low, half-heard laughter. The open country, +carpeted for rods around with bright wheat, was translucent as in the +day. It was almost impossible not to be affected by the sheer beauty +of the sky—almost.</p> + +<p>“There’s a great future in the dry-goods business,” Roger Button was +saying. He was not a spiritual man—his aesthetic sense was +rudimentary.</p> + +<p>“Old fellows like me can’t learn new tricks,” he observed profoundly. +“It’s you youngsters with energy and vitality that have the great +future before you.”</p> + +<p>Far up the road the lights of the Shevlins’ country house drifted into +view, and presently there was a sighing sound that crept persistently +toward them—it might have been the fine plaint of violins or the +rustle of the silver wheat under the moon.</p> + +<p>They pulled up behind a handsome brougham whose passengers were +disembarking at the door. A lady got out, then an elderly gentleman, +then another young lady, beautiful as sin. Benjamin started; an almost +chemical change seemed to dissolve and recompose the very elements of +his body. A rigour passed over him, blood rose into his cheeks, his +forehead, and there was a steady thumping in his ears. It was first +love.</p> + +<p>The girl was slender and frail, with hair that was ashen under the +moon and honey-coloured under the sputtering gas-lamps of the porch. +Over her shoulders was thrown a Spanish mantilla of softest yellow, +butterflied in black; her feet were glittering buttons at the hem of +her bustled dress.</p> + +<p>Roger Button leaned over to his son. “That,” he said, “is young +Hildegarde Moncrief, the daughter of General Moncrief.”</p> + +<p>Benjamin nodded coldly. “Pretty little thing,” he said indifferently. +But when the negro boy had led the buggy away, he added: “Dad, you +might introduce me to her.”</p> + +<p>They approached a group, of which Miss Moncrief was the centre. Reared +in the old tradition, she curtsied low before Benjamin. Yes, he might +have a dance. He thanked her and walked away—staggered away.</p> + +<p>The interval until the time for his turn should arrive dragged itself +out interminably. He stood close to the wall, silent, inscrutable, +watching with murderous eyes the young bloods of Baltimore as they +eddied around Hildegarde Moncrief, passionate admiration in their +faces. How obnoxious they seemed to Benjamin; how intolerably rosy! +Their curling brown whiskers aroused in him a feeling equivalent to +indigestion.</p> + +<p>But when his own time came, and he drifted with her out upon the +changing floor to the music of the latest waltz from Paris, his +jealousies and anxieties melted from him like a mantle of snow. Blind +with enchantment, he felt that life was just beginning.</p> + +<p>“You and your brother got here just as we did, didn’t you?” asked +Hildegarde, looking up at him with eyes that were like bright blue +enamel.</p> + +<p>Benjamin hesitated. If she took him for his father’s brother, would it +be best to enlighten her? He remembered his experience at Yale, so he +decided against it. It would be rude to contradict a lady; it would be +criminal to mar this exquisite occasion with the grotesque story of +his origin. Later, perhaps. So he nodded, smiled, listened, was happy.</p> + +<p>“I like men of your age,” Hildegarde told him. “Young boys are so +idiotic. They tell me how much champagne they drink at college, and +how much money they lose playing cards. Men of your age know how to +appreciate women.”</p> + +<p>Benjamin felt himself on the verge of a proposal—with an effort he +choked back the impulse. “You’re just the romantic age,” she +continued—“fifty. Twenty-five is too worldly-wise; thirty is apt to be +pale from overwork; forty is the age of long stories that take a whole +cigar to tell; sixty is—oh, sixty is too near seventy; but fifty is +the mellow age. I love fifty.”</p> + +<p>Fifty seemed to Benjamin a glorious age. He longed passionately to be +fifty.</p> + +<p>“I’ve always said,” went on Hildegarde, “that I’d rather marry a man +of fifty and be taken care of than marry a man of thirty and take care +of <i>him</i>.”</p> + +<p>For Benjamin the rest of the evening was bathed in a honey-coloured +mist. Hildegarde gave him two more dances, and they discovered that +they were marvellously in accord on all the questions of the day. She +was to go driving with him on the following Sunday, and then they +would discuss all these questions further.</p> + +<p>Going home in the phaeton just before the crack of dawn, when the +first bees were humming and the fading moon glimmered in the cool dew, +Benjamin knew vaguely that his father was discussing wholesale +hardware.</p> + +<p>“.... And what do you think should merit our biggest attention after +hammers and nails?” the elder Button was saying.</p> + +<p>“Love,” replied Benjamin absent-mindedly.</p> + +<p>“Lugs?” exclaimed Roger Button, “Why, I’ve just covered the question +of lugs.”</p> + +<p>Benjamin regarded him with dazed eyes just as the eastern sky was +suddenly cracked with light, and an oriole yawned piercingly in the +quickening trees...</p> + + +<h4>VI</h4> + +<p>When, six months later, the engagement of Miss Hildegarde Moncrief to +Mr. Benjamin Button was made known (I say “made known,” for General +Moncrief declared he would rather fall upon his sword than announce +it), the excitement in Baltimore society reached a feverish pitch. The +almost forgotten story of Benjamin’s birth was remembered and sent out +upon the winds of scandal in picaresque and incredible forms. It was +said that Benjamin was really the father of Roger Button, that he was +his brother who had been in prison for forty years, that he was John +Wilkes Booth in disguise—and, finally, that he had two small conical +horns sprouting from his head.</p> + +<p>The Sunday supplements of the New York papers played up the case with +fascinating sketches which showed the head of Benjamin Button attached +to a fish, to a snake, and, finally, to a body of solid brass. He +became known, journalistically, as the Mystery Man of Maryland. But +the true story, as is usually the case, had a very small circulation.</p> + +<p>However, every one agreed with General Moncrief that it was “criminal” +for a lovely girl who could have married any beau in Baltimore to +throw herself into the arms of a man who was assuredly fifty. In vain +Mr. Roger Button published his son’s birth certificate in large type in +the Baltimore <i>Blaze</i>. No one believed it. You had only to look +at Benjamin and see.</p> + +<p>On the part of the two people most concerned there was no wavering. So +many of the stories about her fiancé were false that Hildegarde +refused stubbornly to believe even the true one. In vain General +Moncrief pointed out to her the high mortality among men of fifty—or, +at least, among men who looked fifty; in vain he told her of the +instability of the wholesale hardware business. Hildegarde had chosen +to marry for mellowness, and marry she did....</p> + + +<h4>VII</h4> + +<p>In one particular, at least, the friends of Hildegarde Moncrief were +mistaken. The wholesale hardware business prospered amazingly. In the +fifteen years between Benjamin Button’s marriage in 1880 and his +father’s retirement in 1895, the family fortune was doubled—and this +was due largely to the younger member of the firm.</p> + +<p>Needless to say, Baltimore eventually received the couple to its +bosom. Even old General Moncrief became reconciled to his son-in-law +when Benjamin gave him the money to bring out his <i>History of the +Civil War</i> in twenty volumes, which had been refused by nine +prominent publishers.</p> + +<p>In Benjamin himself fifteen years had wrought many changes. It seemed +to him that the blood flowed with new vigour through his veins. It +began to be a pleasure to rise in the morning, to walk with an active +step along the busy, sunny street, to work untiringly with his +shipments of hammers and his cargoes of nails. It was in 1890 that he +executed his famous business coup: he brought up the suggestion that +<i>all nails used in nailing up the boxes in which nails are shipped +are the property of the shippee</i>, a proposal which became a +statute, was approved by Chief Justice Fossile, and saved Roger Button +and Company, Wholesale Hardware, more than <i>six hundred nails every +year</i>.</p> + +<p>In addition, Benjamin discovered that he was becoming more and more +attracted by the gay side of life. It was typical of his growing +enthusiasm for pleasure that he was the first man in the city of +Baltimore to own and run an automobile. Meeting him on the street, his +contemporaries would stare enviously at the picture he made of health +and vitality.</p> + +<p>“He seems to grow younger every year,” they would remark. And if old +Roger Button, now sixty-five years old, had failed at first to give a +proper welcome to his son he atoned at last by bestowing on him what +amounted to adulation.</p> + +<p>And here we come to an unpleasant subject which it will be well to +pass over as quickly as possible. There was only one thing that +worried Benjamin Button; his wife had ceased to attract him.</p> + +<p>At that time Hildegarde was a woman of thirty-five, with a son, +Roscoe, fourteen years old. In the early days of their marriage +Benjamin had worshipped her. But, as the years passed, her +honey-coloured hair became an unexciting brown, the blue enamel of her +eyes assumed the aspect of cheap crockery—moreover, and, most of all, +she had become too settled in her ways, too placid, too content, too +anaemic in her excitements, and too sober in her taste. As a bride it +had been she who had “dragged” Benjamin to dances and dinners—now +conditions were reversed. She went out socially with him, but without +enthusiasm, devoured already by that eternal inertia which comes to +live with each of us one day and stays with us to the end.</p> + +<p>Benjamin’s discontent waxed stronger. At the outbreak of the +Spanish-American War in 1898 his home had for him so little charm that +he decided to join the army. With his business influence he obtained a +commission as captain, and proved so adaptable to the work that he was +made a major, and finally a lieutenant-colonel just in time to +participate in the celebrated charge up San Juan Hill. He was slightly +wounded, and received a medal.</p> + +<p>Benjamin had become so attached to the activity and excitement of +army life that he regretted to give it up, but his business required +attention, so he resigned his commission and came home. He was met at +the station by a brass band and escorted to his house.</p> + + +<h4>VIII</h4> + +<p>Hildegarde, waving a large silk flag, greeted him on the porch, and +even as he kissed her he felt with a sinking of the heart that these +three years had taken their toll. She was a woman of forty now, with a +faint skirmish line of gray hairs in her head. The sight depressed +him.</p> + +<p>Up in his room he saw his reflection in the familiar mirror—he went +closer and examined his own face with anxiety, comparing it after a +moment with a photograph of himself in uniform taken just before the +war.</p> + +<p>“Good Lord!” he said aloud. The process was continuing. There was no +doubt of it—he looked now like a man of thirty. Instead of being +delighted, he was uneasy—he was growing younger. He had hitherto +hoped that once he reached a bodily age equivalent to his age in +years, the grotesque phenomenon which had marked his birth would cease +to function. He shuddered. His destiny seemed to him awful, +incredible.</p> + +<p>When he came downstairs Hildegarde was waiting for him. She appeared +annoyed, and he wondered if she had at last discovered that there was +something amiss. It was with an effort to relieve the tension between +them that he broached the matter at dinner in what he considered a +delicate way.</p> + +<p>“Well,” he remarked lightly, “everybody says I look younger than +ever.”</p> + +<p>Hildegarde regarded him with scorn. She sniffed. “Do you think it’s +anything to boast about?”</p> + +<p>“I’m not boasting,” he asserted uncomfortably. She sniffed again. “The +idea,” she said, and after a moment: “I should think you’d have enough +pride to stop it.”</p> + +<p>“How can I?” he demanded.</p> + +<p>“I’m not going to argue with you,” she retorted. “But there’s a right +way of doing things and a wrong way. If you’ve made up your mind to be +different from everybody else, I don’t suppose I can stop you, but I +really don’t think it’s very considerate.”</p> + +<p>“But, Hildegarde, I can’t help it.”</p> + +<p>“You can too. You’re simply stubborn. You think you don’t want to be +like any one else. You always have been that way, and you always will +be. But just think how it would be if every one else looked at things +as you do—what would the world be like?”</p> + +<p>As this was an inane and unanswerable argument Benjamin made no reply, +and from that time on a chasm began to widen between them. He wondered +what possible fascination she had ever exercised over him.</p> + +<p>To add to the breach, he found, as the new century gathered headway, +that his thirst for gaiety grew stronger. Never a party of any kind in +the city of Baltimore but he was there, dancing with the prettiest of +the young married women, chatting with the most popular of the +débutantes, and finding their company charming, while his wife, a +dowager of evil omen, sat among the chaperons, now in haughty +disapproval, and now following him with solemn, puzzled, and +reproachful eyes.</p> + +<p>“Look!” people would remark. “What a pity! A young fellow that age +tied to a woman of forty-five. He must be twenty years younger than +his wife.” They had forgotten—as people inevitably forget—that back +in 1880 their mammas and papas had also remarked about this same +ill-matched pair.</p> + +<p>Benjamin’s growing unhappiness at home was compensated for by his many +new interests. He took up golf and made a great success of it. He went +in for dancing: in 1906 he was an expert at “The Boston,” and in 1908 +he was considered proficient at the “Maxine,” while in 1909 his +“Castle Walk” was the envy of every young man in town.</p> + +<p>His social activities, of course, interfered to some extent with his +business, but then he had worked hard at wholesale hardware for +twenty-five years and felt that he could soon hand it on to his son, +Roscoe, who had recently graduated from Harvard.</p> + +<p>He and his son were, in fact, often mistaken for each other. This +pleased Benjamin—he soon forgot the insidious fear which had come +over him on his return from the Spanish-American War, and grew to take +a naïve pleasure in his appearance. There was only one fly in the +delicious ointment—he hated to appear in public with his wife. +Hildegarde was almost fifty, and the sight of her made him feel +absurd....</p> + + +<h4>IX</h4> + +<p>One September day in 1910—a few years after Roger Button & Co., +Wholesale Hardware, had been handed over to young Roscoe Button—a +man, apparently about twenty years old, entered himself as a freshman +at Harvard University in Cambridge. He did not make the mistake of +announcing that he would never see fifty again, nor did he mention the +fact that his son had been graduated from the same institution ten +years before.</p> + +<p>He was admitted, and almost immediately attained a prominent position +in the class, partly because he seemed a little older than the other +freshmen, whose average age was about eighteen.</p> + +<p>But his success was largely due to the fact that in the football game +with Yale he played so brilliantly, with so much dash and with such a +cold, remorseless anger that he scored seven touchdowns and fourteen +field goals for Harvard, and caused one entire eleven of Yale men to +be carried singly from the field, unconscious. He was the most +celebrated man in college.</p> + +<p>Strange to say, in his third or junior year he was scarcely able to +“make” the team. The coaches said that he had lost weight, and it +seemed to the more observant among them that he was not quite as tall +as before. He made no touchdowns—indeed, he was retained on the team +chiefly in hope that his enormous reputation would bring terror and +disorganisation to the Yale team.</p> + +<p>In his senior year he did not make the team at all. He had grown so +slight and frail that one day he was taken by some sophomores for a +freshman, an incident which humiliated him terribly. He became known +as something of a prodigy—a senior who was surely no more than +sixteen—and he was often shocked at the worldliness of some of his +classmates. His studies seemed harder to him—he felt that they were +too advanced. He had heard his classmates speak of St. Midas’s, the +famous preparatory school, at which so many of them had prepared for +college, and he determined after his graduation to enter himself at +St. Midas’s, where the sheltered life among boys his own size would be +more congenial to him.</p> + +<p>Upon his graduation in 1914 he went home to Baltimore with his Harvard +diploma in his pocket. Hildegarde was now residing in Italy, so +Benjamin went to live with his son, Roscoe. But though he was welcomed +in a general way there was obviously no heartiness in Roscoe’s feeling +toward him—there was even perceptible a tendency on his son’s part to +think that Benjamin, as he moped about the house in adolescent +mooniness, was somewhat in the way. Roscoe was married now and +prominent in Baltimore life, and he wanted no scandal to creep out in +connection with his family.</p> + +<p>Benjamin, no longer <i>persona grata</i> with the débutantes and +younger college set, found himself left much alone, except for the +companionship of three or four fifteen-year-old boys in the +neighbourhood. His idea of going to St. Midas’s school recurred to +him.</p> + +<p>“Say,” he said to Roscoe one day, “I’ve told you over and over that I +want to go to prep school.”</p> + +<p>“Well, go, then,” replied Roscoe shortly. The matter was distasteful +to him, and he wished to avoid a discussion.</p> + +<p>“I can’t go alone,” said Benjamin helplessly. “You’ll have to enter me +and take me up there.”</p> + +<p>“I haven’t got time,” declared Roscoe abruptly. His eyes narrowed and +he looked uneasily at his father. “As a matter of fact,” he added, +“you’d better not go on with this business much longer. You better +pull up short. You better—you better”—he paused and his face +crimsoned as he sought for words—“you better turn right around and +start back the other way. This has gone too far to be a joke. It isn’t +funny any longer. You—you behave yourself!”</p> + +<p>Benjamin looked at him, on the verge of tears.</p> + +<p>“And another thing,” continued Roscoe, “when visitors are in the house +I want you to call me ‘Uncle’—not ‘Roscoe,’ but ‘Uncle,’ do you +understand? It looks absurd for a boy of fifteen to call me by my +first name. Perhaps you’d better call me ‘Uncle’ <i>all</i> the time, +so you’ll get used to it.”</p> + +<p>With a harsh look at his father, Roscoe turned away....</p> + + +<h4>X</h4> + +<p>At the termination of this interview, Benjamin wandered dismally +upstairs and stared at himself in the mirror. He had not shaved for +three months, but he could find nothing on his face but a faint white +down with which it seemed unnecessary to meddle. When he had first +come home from Harvard, Roscoe had approached him with the proposition +that he should wear eye-glasses and imitation whiskers glued to his +cheeks, and it had seemed for a moment that the farce of his early +years was to be repeated. But whiskers had itched and made him +ashamed. He wept and Roscoe had reluctantly relented.</p> + +<p>Benjamin opened a book of boys’ stories, <i>The Boy Scouts in Bimini +Bay</i>, and began to read. But he found himself thinking persistently +about the war. America had joined the Allied cause during the +preceding month, and Benjamin wanted to enlist, but, alas, sixteen was +the minimum age, and he did not look that old. His true age, which was +fifty-seven, would have disqualified him, anyway.</p> + +<p>There was a knock at his door, and the butler appeared with a letter +bearing a large official legend in the corner and addressed to Mr. +Benjamin Button. Benjamin tore it open eagerly, and read the enclosure +with delight. It informed him that many reserve officers who had +served in the Spanish-American War were being called back into service +with a higher rank, and it enclosed his commission as brigadier-general +in the United States army with orders to report immediately.</p> + +<p>Benjamin jumped to his feet fairly quivering with enthusiasm. This was +what he had wanted. He seized his cap, and ten minutes later he had +entered a large tailoring establishment on Charles Street, and asked +in his uncertain treble to be measured for a uniform.</p> + +<p>“Want to play soldier, sonny?” demanded a clerk casually.</p> + +<p>Benjamin flushed. “Say! Never mind what I want!” he retorted angrily. +“My name’s Button and I live on Mt. Vernon Place, so you know I’m good +for it.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” admitted the clerk hesitantly, “if you’re not, I guess your +daddy is, all right.”</p> + +<p>Benjamin was measured, and a week later his uniform was completed. He +had difficulty in obtaining the proper general’s insignia because the +dealer kept insisting to Benjamin that a nice V.W.C.A. badge would +look just as well and be much more fun to play with.</p> + +<p>Saying nothing to Roscoe, he left the house one night and proceeded by +train to Camp Mosby, in South Carolina, where he was to command an +infantry brigade. On a sultry April day he approached the entrance to +the camp, paid off the taxicab which had brought him from the station, +and turned to the sentry on guard.</p> + +<p>“Get some one to handle my luggage!” he said briskly.</p> + +<p>The sentry eyed him reproachfully. “Say,” he remarked, “where you +goin’ with the general’s duds, sonny?”</p> + +<p>Benjamin, veteran of the Spanish-American War, whirled upon him with +fire in his eye, but with, alas, a changing treble voice.</p> + +<p>“Come to attention!” he tried to thunder; he paused for breath—then +suddenly he saw the sentry snap his heels together and bring his rifle +to the present. Benjamin concealed a smile of gratification, but when +he glanced around his smile faded. It was not he who had inspired +obedience, but an imposing artillery colonel who was approaching on +horseback.</p> + +<p>“Colonel!” called Benjamin shrilly.</p> + +<p>The colonel came up, drew rein, and looked coolly down at him with a +twinkle in his eyes. “Whose little boy are you?” he demanded kindly.</p> + +<p>“I’ll soon darn well show you whose little boy I am!” retorted +Benjamin in a ferocious voice. “Get down off that horse!”</p> + +<p>The colonel roared with laughter.</p> + +<p>“You want him, eh, general?”</p> + +<p>“Here!” cried Benjamin desperately. “Read this.” And he thrust his +commission toward the colonel.</p> + +<p>The colonel read it, his eyes popping from their sockets.</p> + +<p>“Where’d you get this?” he demanded, slipping the +document into his own pocket.</p> + +<p>“I got it from the Government, as you’ll +soon find out!”</p> + +<p>“You come along with me,” said the colonel with a +peculiar look. “We’ll go up to headquarters and talk this over. Come +along.”</p> + +<p>The colonel turned and began walking his horse in the +direction of headquarters. There was nothing for Benjamin to do but +follow with as much dignity as possible—meanwhile promising himself a +stern revenge.</p> + +<p>But this revenge did not materialise. Two days later, +however, his son Roscoe materialised from Baltimore, hot and cross +from a hasty trip, and escorted the weeping general, <i>sans</i> +uniform, back to his home.</p> + + +<h4>XI</h4> + +<p>In 1920 Roscoe Button’s first child was born. During the attendant +festivities, however, no one thought it “the thing” to mention, that +the little grubby boy, apparently about ten years of age who played +around the house with lead soldiers and a miniature circus, was the +new baby’s own grandfather.</p> + +<p>No one disliked the little boy whose fresh, cheerful face was crossed +with just a hint of sadness, but to Roscoe Button his presence was a +source of torment. In the idiom of his generation Roscoe did not +consider the matter “efficient.” It seemed to him that his father, in +refusing to look sixty, had not behaved like a “red-blooded +he-man”—this was Roscoe’s favourite expression—but in a curious and +perverse manner. Indeed, to think about the matter for as much as a +half an hour drove him to the edge of insanity. Roscoe believed that +“live wires” should keep young, but carrying it out on such a scale +was—was—was inefficient. And there Roscoe rested.</p> + +<p>Five years later Roscoe’s little boy had grown old enough to play +childish games with little Benjamin under the supervision of the same +nurse. Roscoe took them both to kindergarten on the same day, and +Benjamin found that playing with little strips of coloured paper, +making mats and chains and curious and beautiful designs, was the most +fascinating game in the world. Once he was bad and had to stand in the +corner—then he cried—but for the most part there were gay hours in +the cheerful room, with the sunlight coming in the windows and Miss +Bailey’s kind hand resting for a moment now and then in his tousled +hair.</p> + +<p>Roscoe’s son moved up into the first grade after a year, but Benjamin +stayed on in the kindergarten. He was very happy. Sometimes when other +tots talked about what they would do when they grew up a shadow would +cross his little face as if in a dim, childish way he realised that +those were things in which he was never to share.</p> + +<p>The days flowed on in monotonous content. He went back a third year to +the kindergarten, but he was too little now to understand what the +bright shining strips of paper were for. He cried because the other +boys were bigger than he, and he was afraid of them. The teacher +talked to him, but though he tried to understand he could not +understand at all.</p> + +<p>He was taken from the kindergarten. His nurse, Nana, in her starched +gingham dress, became the centre of his tiny world. On bright days +they walked in the park; Nana would point at a great gray monster and +say “elephant,” and Benjamin would say it after her, and when he was +being undressed for bed that night he would say it over and over aloud +to her: “Elyphant, elyphant, elyphant.” Sometimes Nana let him jump on +the bed, which was fun, because if you sat down exactly right it would +bounce you up on your feet again, and if you said “Ah” for a long time +while you jumped you got a very pleasing broken vocal effect.</p> + +<p>He loved to take a big cane from the hat-rack and go around hitting +chairs and tables with it and saying: “Fight, fight, fight.” When +there were people there the old ladies would cluck at him, which +interested him, and the young ladies would try to kiss him, which he +submitted to with mild boredom. And when the long day was done at five +o’clock he would go upstairs with Nana and be fed on oatmeal and nice +soft mushy foods with a spoon.</p> + +<p>There were no troublesome memories in his childish sleep; no token +came to him of his brave days at college, of the glittering years when +he flustered the hearts of many girls. There were only the white, safe +walls of his crib and Nana and a man who came to see him sometimes, +and a great big orange ball that Nana pointed at just before his +twilight bed hour and called “sun.” When the sun went his eyes were +sleepy—there were no dreams, no dreams to haunt him.</p> + +<p>The past—the wild charge at the head of his men up San Juan Hill; the +first years of his marriage when he worked late into the summer dusk +down in the busy city for young Hildegarde whom he loved; the days +before that when he sat smoking far into the night in the gloomy old +Button house on Monroe Street with his grandfather-all these had faded +like unsubstantial dreams from his mind as though they had never been. +He did not remember.</p> + +<p>He did not remember clearly whether the milk was warm or cool at his +last feeding or how the days passed—there was only his crib and +Nana’s familiar presence. And then he remembered nothing. When he was +hungry he cried—that was all. Through the noons and nights he +breathed and over him there were soft mumblings and murmurings that he +scarcely heard, and faintly differentiated smells, and light and +darkness.</p> + +<p>Then it was all dark, and his white crib and the dim faces that moved +above him, and the warm sweet aroma of the milk, faded out altogether +from his mind.</p> + + + + +<div class="chapter"> +<h3 class="nobreak" id="TARQUIN_OF_CHEAPSIDE">TARQUIN OF CHEAPSIDE</h3> +</div> + + +<p>Running footsteps—light, soft-soled shoes made of curious leathery +cloth brought from Ceylon setting the pace; thick flowing boots, two +pairs, dark blue and gilt, reflecting the moonlight in blunt gleams +and splotches, following a stone’s throw behind.</p> + +<p>Soft Shoes flashes through a patch of moonlight, then darts into a +blind labyrinth of alleys and becomes only an intermittent scuffle +ahead somewhere in the enfolding darkness. In go Flowing Boots, with +short swords lurching and long plumes awry, finding a breath to curse +God and the black lanes of London.</p> + +<p>Soft Shoes leaps a shadowy gate and crackles through a hedgerow. +Flowing Boots leap the gate and crackles through the hedgerow—and +there, startlingly, is the watch ahead—two murderous pikemen of +ferocious cast of mouth acquired in Holland and the Spanish marches.</p> + +<p>But there is no cry for help. The pursued does not fall panting at the +feet of the watch, clutching a purse; neither do the pursuers raise a +hue and cry. Soft Shoes goes by in a rush of swift air. The watch +curse and hesitate, glance after the fugitive, and then spread their +pikes grimly across the road and wait for Flowing Boots. Darkness, +like a great hand, cuts off the even flow the moon.</p> + +<p>The hand moves off the moon whose pale caress finds again the eaves +and lintels, and the watch, wounded and tumbled in the dust. Up the +street one of Flowing Boots leaves a black trail of spots until he +binds himself, clumsily as he runs, with fine lace caught from his +throat.</p> + +<p>It was no affair for the watch: Satan was at large tonight and Satan +seemed to be he who appeared dimly in front, heel over gate, knee over +fence. Moreover, the adversary was obviously travelling near home or +at least in that section of London consecrated to his coarser whims, +for the street narrowed like a road in a picture and the houses bent +over further and further, cooping in natural ambushes suitable for +murder and its histrionic sister, sudden death.</p> + +<p>Down long and sinuous lanes twisted the hunted and the harriers, +always in and out of the moon in a perpetual queen’s move over a +checker-board of glints and patches. Ahead, the quarry, minus his +leather jerkin now and half blinded by drips of sweat, had taken to +scanning his ground desperately on both sides. As a result he suddenly +slowed short, and retracing his steps a bit scooted up an alley so +dark that it seemed that here sun and moon had been in eclipse since +the last glacier slipped roaring over the earth. Two hundred yards +down he stopped and crammed himself into a niche in the wall where he +huddled and panted silently, a grotesque god without bulk or outline +in the gloom.</p> + +<p>Flowing Boots, two pairs, drew near, came up, went by, halted twenty +yards beyond him, and spoke in deep-lunged, scanty whispers:</p> + +<p>“I was attune to that scuffle; it stopped.”</p> + +<p>“Within twenty paces.”</p> + +<p>“He’s hid.”</p> + +<p>“Stay together now and we’ll cut him up.”</p> + +<p>The voice faded into a low crunch of a boot, nor did Soft Shoes wait +to hear more—he sprang in three leaps across the alley, where he +bounded up, flapped for a moment on the top of the wall like a huge +bird, and disappeared, gulped down by the hungry night at a mouthful.</p> + + +<h4>II</h4> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“<i>He read at wine, he read in bed,</i></div> + <div class="verse indent2"><i>He read aloud, had he the breath,</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>His every thought was with the dead,</i></div> + <div class="verse indent2"><i>And so he read himself to death.</i>”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Any visitor to the old James the First graveyard near Peat’s Hill may +spell out this bit of doggerel, undoubtedly one of the worst recorded +of an Elizabethan, on the tomb of Wessel Caster.</p> + +<p>This death of his, says the antiquary, occurred when he was +thirty-seven, but as this story is concerned with the night of a +certain chase through darkness, we find him still alive, still +reading. His eyes were somewhat dim, his stomach somewhat obvious—he +was a mis-built man and indolent—oh, Heavens! But an era is an era, +and in the reign of Elizabeth, by the grace of Luther, Queen of +England, no man could help but catch the spirit of enthusiasm. Every +loft in Cheapside published its <i>Magnum Folium</i> (or magazine)—of +its new blank verse; the Cheapside Players would produce anything on +sight as long as it “got away from those reactionary miracle plays,” +and the English Bible had run through seven “very large” printings in +as many months.</p> + +<p>So Wessel Caxter (who in his youth had gone to sea) was now a reader +of all on which he could lay his hands—he read manuscripts in holy +friendship; he dined rotten poets; he loitered about the shops where +the <i>Magna Folia</i> were printed, and he listened tolerantly while +the young playwrights wrangled and bickered among them-selves, and +behind each other’s backs made bitter and malicious charges of +plagiarism or anything else they could think of.</p> + +<p>To-night he had a book, a piece of work which, though inordinately +versed, contained, he thought, some rather excellent political satire. +“The Faerie Queene” by Edmund Spenser lay before him under the +tremulous candle-light. He had ploughed through a canto; he was +beginning another:</p> + +<p class="p2 center"><span class="smcap">The Legend of Britomartis or of Chastity</span></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>It falls me here to write of Chastity.</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>The fayrest vertue, far above the rest</i>....</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>A sudden rush of feet on the stairs, a rusty swing-open of the thin +door, and a man thrust himself into the room, a man without a jerkin, +panting, sobbing, on the verge of collapse.</p> + +<p>“Wessel,” words choked him, “stick me away somewhere, love of Our +Lady!”</p> + +<p>Caxter rose, carefully closing his book, and bolted the door in some +concern.</p> + +<p>“I’m pursued,” cried out Soft Shoes. “I vow there’s two short-witted +blades trying to make me into mincemeat and near succeeding. They saw +me hop the back wall!”</p> + +<p>“It would need,” said Wessel, looking at him curiously, “several +battalions armed with blunderbusses, and two or three Armadas, to keep +you reasonably secure from the revenges of the world.”</p> + +<p>Soft Shoes smiled with satisfaction. His sobbing gasps were giving way +to quick, precise breathing; his hunted air had faded to a faintly +perturbed irony.</p> + +<p>“I feel little surprise,” continued Wessel.</p> + +<p>“They were two such dreary apes.”</p> + +<p>“Making a total of three.”</p> + +<p>“Only two unless you stick me away. Man, man, come alive, they’ll be +on the stairs in a spark’s age.”</p> + +<p>Wessel took a dismantled pike-staff from the corner, and raising it to +the high ceiling, dislodged a rough trap-door opening into a garret +above.</p> + +<p>“There’s no ladder.”</p> + +<p>He moved a bench under the trap, upon which Soft Shoes mounted, +crouched, hesitated, crouched again, and then leaped amazingly upward. +He caught at the edge of the aperture and swung back and forth, for a +moment, shifting his hold; finally doubled up and disappeared into the +darkness above. There was a scurry, a migration of rats, as the +trap-door was replaced;... silence.</p> + +<p>Wessel returned to his reading-table, opened to the Legend of +Britomartis or of Chastity—and waited. Almost a minute later there +was a scramble on the stairs and an intolerable hammering at the door. +Wessel sighed and, picking up his candle, rose.</p> + +<p>“Who’s there?”</p> + +<p>“Open the door!”</p> + +<p>“Who’s there?”</p> + +<p>An aching blow frightened the frail wood, splintered it around the +edge. Wessel opened it a scarce three inches, and held the candle +high. His was to play the timorous, the super-respectable citizen, +disgracefully disturbed.</p> + +<p>“One small hour of the night for rest. Is that too much to ask from +every brawler and—”</p> + +<p>“Quiet, gossip! Have you seen a perspiring fellow?”</p> + +<p>The shadows of two gallants fell in immense wavering outlines over the +narrow stairs; by the light Wessel scrutinized them closely. +Gentlemen, they were, hastily but richly dressed—one of them wounded +severely in the hand, both radiating a sort of furious horror. Waving +aside Wessel’s ready miscomprehension, they pushed by him into the +room and with their swords went through the business of poking +carefully into all suspected dark spots in the room, further extending +their search to Wessel’s bedchamber.</p> + +<p>“Is he hid here?” demanded the wounded man fiercely.</p> + +<p>“Is who here?”</p> + +<p>“Any man but you.”</p> + +<p>“Only two others that I know of.”</p> + +<p>For a second Wessel feared that he had been too damned funny, for the +gallants made as though to prick him through.</p> + +<p>“I heard a man on the stairs,” he said hastily, “full five minutes +ago, it was. He most certainly failed to come up.”</p> + +<p>He went on to explain his absorption in “The Faerie Queene” but, for +the moment at least, his visitors, like the great saints, were +anaesthetic to culture.</p> + +<p>“What’s been done?” inquired Wessel.</p> + +<p>“Violence!” said the man with the wounded hand. Wessel noticed that +his eyes were quite wild. “My own sister. Oh, Christ in heaven, give +us this man!”</p> + +<p>Wessel winced.</p> + +<p>“Who is the man?”</p> + +<p>“God’s word! We know not even that. What’s that trap up there?” he +added suddenly.</p> + +<p>“It’s nailed down. It’s not been used for years.” He thought of the +pole in the corner and quailed in his belly, but the utter despair of +the two men dulled their astuteness.</p> + +<p>“It would take a ladder for any one not a tumbler,” said the wounded +man listlessly.</p> + +<p>His companion broke into hysterical laughter.</p> + +<p>“A tumbler. Oh, a tumbler. Oh—”</p> + +<p>Wessel stared at them in wonder.</p> + +<p>“That appeals to my most tragic humor,” cried the man, “that no +one—oh, no one—could get up there but a tumbler.”</p> + +<p>The gallant with the wounded hand snapped his good fingers +impatiently.</p> + +<p>“We must go next door—and then on—”</p> + +<p>Helplessly they went as two walking under a dark and storm-swept sky.</p> + +<p>Wessel closed and bolted the door and stood a moment by it, frowning +in pity.</p> + +<p>A low-breathed “Ha!” made him look up. Soft Shoes had already raised +the trap and was looking down into the room, his rather elfish face +squeezed into a grimace, half of distaste, half of sardonic amusement.</p> + +<p>“They take off their heads with their helmets,” he remarked in a +whisper, “but as for you and me, Wessel, we are two cunning men.”</p> + +<p>“Now you be cursed,” cried Wessel vehemently. “I knew you for a dog, +but when I hear even the half of a tale like this, I know you for such +a dirty cur that I am minded to club your skull.”</p> + +<p>Soft Shoes stared at him, blinking.</p> + +<p>“At all events,” he replied finally, “I find dignity impossible in +this position.”</p> + +<p>With this he let his body through the trap, hung for an instant, and +dropped the seven feet to the floor.</p> + +<p>“There was a rat considered my ear with the air of a gourmet,” he +continued, dusting his hands on his breeches. “I told him in the rat’s +peculiar idiom that I was deadly poison, so he took himself off.”</p> + +<p>“Let’s hear of this night’s lechery!” insisted Wessel angrily.</p> + +<p>Soft Shoes touched his thumb to his nose and wiggled the fingers +derisively at Wessel.</p> + +<p>“Street gamin!” muttered Wessel.</p> + +<p>“Have you any paper?” demanded Soft Shoes irrelevantly, and then +rudely added, “or can you write?”</p> + +<p>“Why should I give you paper?”</p> + +<p>“You wanted to hear of the night’s entertainment. So you shall, an you +give me pen, ink, a sheaf of paper, and a room to myself.”</p> + +<p>Wessel hesitated.</p> + +<p>“Get out!” he said finally.</p> + +<p>“As you will. Yet you have missed a most intriguing story.”</p> + +<p>Wessel wavered—he was soft as taffy, that man—gave in. Soft Shoes +went into the adjoining room with the begrudged writing materials and +precisely closed the door. Wessel grunted and returned to “The Faerie +Queene”; so silence came once more upon the house.</p> + + +<h4>III</h4> + +<p>Three o’clock went into four. The room paled, the dark outside was +shot through with damp and chill, and Wessel, cupping his brain in his +hands, bent low over his table, tracing through the pattern of knights +and fairies and the harrowing distresses of many girls. There were +dragons chortling along the narrow street outside; when the sleepy +armorer’s boy began his work at half-past five the heavy clink and +clank of plate and linked mail swelled to the echo of a marching +cavalcade.</p> + +<p>A fog shut down at the first flare of dawn, and the room was grayish +yellow at six when Wessel tiptoed to his cupboard bedchamber and +pulled open the door. His guest turned on him a face pale as parchment +in which two distraught eyes burned like great red letters. He had +drawn a chair close to Wessel’s <i>prie-dieu</i> which he was using as +a desk; and on it was an amazing stack of closely written pages. With +a long sigh Wessel withdrew and returned to his siren, calling himself +fool for not claiming his bed here at dawn.</p> + +<p>The clump of boots outside, the croaking of old beldames from attic to +attic, the dull murmur of morning, unnerved him, and, dozing, he +slumped in his chair, his brain, overladen with sound and color, +working intolerably over the imagery that stacked it. In this restless +dream of his he was one of a thousand groaning bodies crushed near the +sun, a helpless bridge for the strong-eyed Apollo. The dream tore at +him, scraped along his mind like a ragged knife. When a hot hand +touched his shoulder, he awoke with what was nearly a scream to find +the fog thick in the room and his guest, a gray ghost of misty stuff, +beside him with a pile of paper in his hand.</p> + +<p>“It should be a most intriguing tale, I believe, though it requires +some going over. May I ask you to lock it away, and in God’s name let +me sleep?”</p> + +<p>He waited for no answer, but thrust the pile at Wessel, and literally +poured himself like stuff from a suddenly inverted bottle upon a couch +in the corner; slept, with his breathing regular, but his brow +wrinkled in a curious and somewhat uncanny manner.</p> + +<p>Wessel yawned sleepily and, glancing at the scrawled, uncertain first +page, he began reading aloud very softly:</p> + +<p class="p2 center"><i>The Rape of Lucrece</i></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“<i>From the besieged Ardea all in post,</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Borne by the trustless wings of false desire,</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Lust-breathing Tarquin leaves the Roman host—</i>”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + + + + +<div class="chapter"> +<h3 class="nobreak" id="O_RUSSET_WITCH">“O RUSSET WITCH!”</h3> +</div> + + +<p>Merlin Grainger was employed by the Moonlight Quill Bookshop, which +you may have visited, just around the corner from the Ritz-Carlton on +Forty-seventh Street. The Moonlight Quill is, or rather was, a very +romantic little store, considered radical and admitted dark. It was +spotted interiorly with red and orange posters of breathless exotic +intent, and lit no less by the shiny reflecting bindings of special +editions than by the great squat lamp of crimson satin that, lighted +through all the day, swung overhead. It was truly a mellow bookshop. +The words “Moonlight Quill” were worked over the door in a sort of +serpentine embroidery. The windows seemed always full of something +that had passed the literary censors with little to spare; volumes +with covers of deep orange which offer their titles on little white +paper squares. And over all there was the smell of the musk, which the +clever, inscrutable Mr. Moonlight Quill ordered to be sprinkled +about—the smell half of a curiosity shop in Dickens’ London and half +of a coffee-house on the warm shores of the Bosphorus.</p> + +<p>From nine until five-thirty Merlin Grainger asked bored old ladies in +black and young men with dark circles under their eyes if they “cared +for this fellow” or were interested in first editions. Did they buy +novels with Arabs on the cover, or books which gave Shakespeare’s +newest sonnets as dictated psychically to Miss Sutton of South Dakota? +he sniffed. As a matter of fact, his own taste ran to these latter, +but as an employee at the Moonlight Quill he assumed for the working +day the attitude of a disillusioned connoisseur.</p> + +<p>After he had crawled over the window display to pull down the front +shade at five-thirty every afternoon, and said good-bye to the +mysterious Mr. Moonlight Quill and the lady clerk, Miss McCracken, and +the lady stenographer, Miss Masters, he went home to the girl, +Caroline. He did not eat supper with Caroline. It is unbelievable that +Caroline would have considered eating off his bureau with the collar +buttons dangerously near the cottage cheese, and the ends of Merlin’s +necktie just missing his glass of milk—he had never asked her to eat +with him. He ate alone. He went into Braegdort’s delicatessen on Sixth +Avenue and bought a box of crackers, a tube of anchovy paste, and some +oranges, or else a little jar of sausages and some potato salad and a +bottled soft drink, and with these in a brown package he went to his +room at Fifty-something West Fifty-eighth Street and ate his supper +and saw Caroline.</p> + +<p>Caroline was a very young and gay person who lived with some older +lady and was possibly nineteen. She was like a ghost in that she never +existed until evening. She sprang into life when the lights went on in +her apartment at about six, and she disappeared, at the latest, about +midnight. Her apartment was a nice one, in a nice building with a +white stone front, opposite the south side of Central Park. The back +of her apartment faced the single window of the single room occupied +by the single Mr. Grainger.</p> + +<p>He called her Caroline because there was a picture that looked like +her on the jacket of a book of that name down at the Moonlight Quill.</p> + +<p>Now, Merlin Grainger was a thin young man of twenty-five, with dark +hair and no mustache or beard or anything like that, but Caroline was +dazzling and light, with a shimmering morass of russet waves to take +the place of hair, and the sort of features that remind you of +kisses—the sort of features you thought belonged to your first love, +but know, when you come across an old picture, didn’t. She dressed in +pink or blue usually, but of late she had sometimes put on a slender +black gown that was evidently her especial pride, for whenever she +wore it she would stand regarding a certain place on the wall, which +Merlin thought must be a mirror. She sat usually in the profile chair +near the window, but sometimes honored the <i>chaise longue</i> by the +lamp, and often she leaned ’way back and smoked a cigarette with +posturings of her arms and hands that Merlin considered very graceful.</p> + +<p>At another time she had come to the window and stood in it +magnificently, and looked out because the moon had lost its way and +was dripping the strangest and most transforming brilliance into the +areaway between, turning the motif of ash-cans and clothes-lines into +a vivid impressionism of silver casks and gigantic gossamer cobwebs. +Merlin was sitting in plain sight, eating cottage cheese with sugar +and milk on it; and so quickly did he reach out for the window cord +that he tipped the cottage cheese into his lap with his free hand—and +the milk was cold and the sugar made spots on his trousers, and he was +sure that she had seen him after all.</p> + +<p>Sometimes there were callers—men in dinner coats, who stood and +bowed, hat in hand and coat on arm, as they talked to Caroline; then +bowed some more and followed her out of the light, obviously bound for +a play or for a dance. Other young men came and sat and smoked +cigarettes, and seemed trying to tell Caroline something—she sitting +either in the profile chair and watching them with eager intentness or +else in the <i>chaise longue</i> by the lamp, looking very lovely and +youthfully inscrutable indeed.</p> + +<p>Merlin enjoyed these calls. Of some of the men he approved. Others won +only his grudging toleration, one or two he loathed—especially the +most frequent caller, a man with black hair and a black goatee and a +pitch-dark soul, who seemed to Merlin vaguely familiar, but whom he +was never quite able to recognize.</p> + +<p>Now, Merlin’s whole life was not “bound up with this romance he had +constructed”; it was not “the happiest hour of his day.” He never +arrived in time to rescue Caroline from “clutches”; nor did he even +marry her. A much stranger thing happened than any of these, and it is +this strange thing that will presently be set down here. It began one +October afternoon when she walked briskly into the mellow interior of +the Moonlight Quill.</p> + +<p>It was a dark afternoon, threatening rain and the end of the world, +and done in that particularly gloomy gray in which only New York +afternoons indulge. A breeze was crying down the streets, whisking +along battered newspapers and pieces of things, and little lights were +pricking out all the windows—it was so desolate that one was sorry +for the tops of sky-scrapers lost up there in the dark green and gray +heaven, and felt that now surely the farce was to close, and presently +all the buildings would collapse like card houses, and pile up in a +dusty, sardonic heap upon all the millions who presumed to wind in and +out of them.</p> + +<p>At least these were the sort of musings that lay heavily upon the soul +of Merlin Grainger, as he stood by the window putting a dozen books +back in a row after a cyclonic visit by a lady with ermine trimmings. +He looked out of the window full of the most distressing thoughts—of +the early novels of H. G. Wells, of the book of Genesis, of how Thomas +Edison had said that in thirty years there would be no dwelling-houses +upon the island, but only a vast and turbulent bazaar; and then he set +the last book right side up, turned—and Caroline walked coolly into +the shop.</p> + +<p>She was dressed in a jaunty but conventional walking costume—he +remembered this when he thought about it later. Her skirt was plaid, +pleated like a concertina; her jacket was a soft but brisk tan; her +shoes and spats were brown and her hat, small and trim, completed her +like the top of a very expensive and beautifully filled candy box.</p> + +<p>Merlin, breathless and startled, advanced nervously toward her.</p> + +<p>“Good-afternoon—” he said, and then stopped—why, he did not know, +except that it came to him that something very portentous in his life +was about to occur, and that it would need no furbishing but silence, +and the proper amount of expectant attention. And in that minute +before the thing began to happen he had the sense of a breathless +second hanging suspended in time: he saw through the glass partition +that bounded off the little office the malevolent conical head of his +employer, Mr. Moonlight Quill, bent over his correspondence. He saw +Miss McCracken and Miss Masters as two patches of hair drooping over +piles of paper; he saw the crimson lamp overhead, and noticed with a +touch of pleasure how really pleasant and romantic it made the +book-store seem.</p> + +<p>Then the thing happened, or rather it began to happen. Caroline picked +up a volume of poems lying loose upon a pile, fingered it absently +with her slender white hand, and suddenly, with an easy gesture, +tossed it upward toward the ceiling where it disappeared in the +crimson lamp and lodged there, seen through the illuminated silk as a +dark, bulging rectangle. This pleased her—she broke into young, +contagious laughter, in which Merlin found himself presently joining.</p> + +<p>“It stayed up!” she cried merrily. “It stayed up, didn’t it?” To both +of them this seemed the height of brilliant absurdity. Their laughter +mingled, filled the bookshop, and Merlin was glad to find that her +voice was rich and full of sorcery.</p> + +<p>“Try another,” he found himself suggesting—“try a red one.”</p> + +<p>At this her laughter increased, and she had to rest her hands upon the +stack to steady herself.</p> + +<p>“Try another,” she managed to articulate between spasms of mirth. “Oh, +golly, try another!”</p> + +<p>“Try two.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, try two. Oh, I’ll choke if I don’t stop laughing. Here it goes.”</p> + +<p>Suiting her action to the word, she picked up a red book and sent it +in a gentle hyperbola toward the ceiling, where it sank into the lamp +beside the first. It was a few minutes before either of them could do +more than rock back and forth in helpless glee; but then by mutual +agreement they took up the sport anew, this time in unison. Merlin +seized a large, specially bound French classic and whirled it upward. +Applauding his own accuracy, he took a best-seller in one hand and a +book on barnacles in the other, and waited breathlessly while she made +her shot. Then the business waxed fast and furious—sometimes they +alternated, and, watching, he found how supple she was in every +movement; sometimes one of them made shot after shot, picking up the +nearest book, sending it off, merely taking time to follow it with a +glance before reaching for another. Within three minutes they had +cleared a little place on the table, and the lamp of crimson satin was +so bulging with books that it was near breaking.</p> + +<p>“Silly game, basket-ball,” she cried scornfully as a book left her +hand. “High-school girls play it in hideous bloomers.”</p> + +<p>“Idiotic,” he agreed.</p> + +<p>She paused in the act of tossing a book, and replaced it suddenly in +its position on the table.</p> + +<p>“I think we’ve got room to sit down now,” she said gravely.</p> + +<p>They had; they had cleared an ample space for two. With a faint touch +of nervousness Merlin glanced toward Mr. Moonlight Quill’s glass +partition, but the three heads were still bent earnestly over their +work, and it was evident that they had not seen what had gone on in +the shop. So when Caroline put her hands on the table and hoisted +herself up Merlin calmly imitated her, and they sat side by side +looking very earnestly at each other.</p> + +<p>“I had to see you,” she began, with a rather pathetic expression in +her brown eyes.</p> + +<p>“I know.”</p> + +<p>“It was that last time,” she continued, her voice trembling a little, +though she tried to keep it steady. “I was frightened. I don’t like +you to eat off the dresser. I’m so afraid you’ll—you’ll swallow a +collar button.”</p> + +<p>“I did once—almost,” he confessed reluctantly, “but it’s not so easy, +you know. I mean you can swallow the flat part easy enough or else the +other part—that is, separately—but for a whole collar button you’d +have to have a specially made throat.” He was astonishing himself by +the debonnaire appropriateness of his remarks. Words seemed for the +first time in his life to run at him shrieking to be used, gathering +themselves into carefully arranged squads and platoons, and being +presented to him by punctilious adjutants of paragraphs.</p> + +<p>“That’s what scared me,” she said. “I knew you had to have a specially +made throat—and I knew, at least I felt sure, that you didn’t have +one.”</p> + +<p>He nodded frankly.</p> + +<p>“I haven’t. It costs money to have one—more money unfortunately than +I possess.”</p> + +<p>He felt no shame in saying this—rather a delight in making the +admission—he knew that nothing he could say or do would be beyond her +comprehension; least of all his poverty, and the practical +impossibility of ever extricating himself from it.</p> + +<p>Caroline looked down at her wrist watch, and with a little cry slid +from the table to her feet.</p> + +<p>“It’s after five,” she cried. “I didn’t realize. I have to be at the +Ritz at five-thirty. Let’s hurry and get this done. I’ve got a bet on +it.”</p> + +<p>With one accord they set to work. Caroline began the matter by seizing +a book on insects and sending it whizzing, and finally crashing +through the glass partition that housed Mr. Moonlight Quill. The +proprietor glanced up with a wild look, brushed a few pieces of glass +from his desk, and went on with his letters. Miss McCracken gave no +sign of having heard—only Miss Masters started and gave a little +frightened scream before she bent to her task again.</p> + +<p>But to Merlin and Caroline it didn’t matter. In a perfect orgy of +energy they were hurling book after book in all directions until +sometimes three or four were in the air at once, smashing against +shelves, cracking the glass of pictures on the walls, falling in +bruised and torn heaps upon the floor. It was fortunate that no +customers happened to come in, for it is certain they would never have +come in again—the noise was too tremendous, a noise of smashing and +ripping and tearing, mixed now and then with the tinkling of glass, +the quick breathing of the two throwers, and the intermittent +outbursts of laughter to which both of them periodically surrendered.</p> + +<p>At five-thirty Caroline tossed a last book at the lamp, and gave the +final impetus to the load it carried. The weakened silk tore and +dropped its cargo in one vast splattering of white and color to the +already littered floor. Then with a sigh of relief she turned to +Merlin and held out her hand.</p> + +<p>“Good-by,” she said simply.</p> + +<p>“Are you going?” He knew she was. His question was simply a lingering +wile to detain her and extract for another moment that dazzling +essence of light he drew from her presence, to continue his enormous +satisfaction in her features, which were like kisses and, he thought, +like the features of a girl he had known back in 1910. For a minute he +pressed the softness of her hand—then she smiled and withdrew it and, +before he could spring to open the door, she had done it herself and +was gone out into the turbid and ominous twilight that brooded +narrowly over Forty-seventh Street.</p> + +<p>I would like to tell you how Merlin, having seen how beauty regards +the wisdom of the years, walked into the little partition of Mr. +Moonlight Quill and gave up his job then and there; thence issuing out +into the street a much finer and nobler and increasingly ironic man. +But the truth is much more commonplace. Merlin Grainger stood up and +surveyed the wreck of the bookshop, the ruined volumes, the torn silk +remnants of the once beautiful crimson lamp, the crystalline +sprinkling of broken glass which lay in iridescent dust over the whole +interior—and then he went to a corner where a broom was kept and +began cleaning up and rearranging and, as far as he was able, +restoring the shop to its former condition. He found that, though some +few of the books were uninjured, most of them had suffered in varying +extents. The backs were off some, the pages were torn from others, +still others were just slightly cracked in the front, which, as all +careless book returners know, makes a book unsalable, and therefore +second-hand.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless by six o’clock he had done much to repair the damage. He +had returned the books to their original places, swept the floor, and +put new lights in the sockets overhead. The red shade itself was +ruined beyond redemption, and Merlin thought in some trepidation that +the money to replace it might have to come out of his salary. At six, +therefore, having done the best he could, he crawled over the front +window display to pull down the blind. As he was treading delicately +back, he saw Mr. Moonlight Quill rise from his desk, put on his +overcoat and hat, and emerge into the shop. He nodded mysteriously at +Merlin and went toward the door. With his hand on the knob he paused, +turned around, and in a voice curiously compounded of ferocity and +uncertainty, he said:</p> + +<p>“If that girl comes in here again, you tell her to behave.”</p> + +<p>With that he opened the door, drowning Merlin’s meek “Yessir” in its +creak, and went out.</p> + +<p>Merlin stood there for a moment, deciding wisely not to worry about +what was for the present only a possible futurity, and then he went +into the back of the shop and invited Miss Masters to have supper with +him at Pulpat’s French Restaurant, where one could still obtain red +wine at dinner, despite the Great Federal Government. Miss Masters +accepted.</p> + +<p>“Wine makes me feel all tingly,” she said.</p> + +<p>Merlin laughed inwardly as he compared her to Caroline, or rather as +he didn’t compare her. There was no comparison.</p> + + +<h4>II</h4> + +<p>Mr. Moonlight Quill, mysterious, exotic, and oriental in temperament +was, nevertheless, a man of decision. And it was with decision that he +approached the problem of his wrecked shop. Unless he should make an +outlay equal to the original cost of his entire stock—a step which +for certain private reasons he did not wish to take—it would be +impossible for him to continue in business with the Moonlight Quill as +before. There was but one thing to do. He promptly turned his +establishment from an up-to-the-minute book-store into a second-hand +bookshop. The damaged books were marked down from twenty-five to fifty +per cent, the name over the door whose serpentine embroidery had once +shone so insolently bright, was allowed to grow dim and take on the +indescribably vague color of old paint, and, having a strong penchant +for ceremonial, the proprietor even went so far as to buy two +skull-caps of shoddy red felt, one for himself and one for his clerk, +Merlin Grainger. Moreover, he let his goatee grow until it resembled +the tail-feathers of an ancient sparrow and substituted for a once +dapper business suit a reverence-inspiring affair of shiny alpaca.</p> + +<p>In fact, within a year after Caroline’s catastrophic visit to the +bookshop the only thing in it that preserved any semblance of being up +to date was Miss Masters. Miss McCracken had followed in the footsteps +of Mr. Moonlight Quill and become an intolerable dowd.</p> + +<p>For Merlin too, from a feeling compounded of loyalty and listlessness, +had let his exterior take on the semblance of a deserted garden. He +accepted the red felt skull-cap as a symbol of his decay. Always a +young man known as a “pusher,” he had been, since the day of his +graduation from the manual training department of a New York High +School, an inveterate brusher of clothes, hair, teeth, and even +eyebrows, and had learned the value of laying all his clean socks toe +upon toe and heel upon heel in a certain drawer of his bureau, which +would be known as the sock drawer.</p> + +<p>These things, he felt, had won him his place in the greatest splendor +of the Moonlight Quill. It was due to them that he was not still +making “chests useful for keeping things,” as he was taught with +breathless practicality in High School, and selling them to whoever +had use of such chests—possibly undertakers. Nevertheless when the +progressive Moonlight Quill became the retrogressive Moonlight Quill +he preferred to sink with it, and so took to letting his suits gather +undisturbed the wispy burdens of the air and to throwing his socks +indiscriminately into the shirt drawer, the underwear drawer, and even +into no drawer at all. It was not uncommon in his new carelessness to +let many of his clean clothes go directly back to the laundry without +having ever been worn, a common eccentricity of impoverished +bachelors. And this in the face of his favorite magazines, which at +that time were fairly staggering with articles by successful authors +against the frightful impudence of the condemned poor, such as the +buying of wearable shirts and nice cuts of meat, and the fact that +they preferred good investments in personal jewelry to respectable +ones in four per cent saving-banks.</p> + +<p>It was indeed a strange state of affairs and a sorry one for many +worthy and God-fearing men. For the first time in the history of the +Republic almost any negro north of Georgia could change a one-dollar +bill. But as at that time the cent was rapidly approaching the +purchasing power of the Chinese ubu and was only a thing you got back +occasionally after paying for a soft drink, and could use merely in +getting your correct weight, this was perhaps not so strange a +phenomenon as it at first seems. It was too curious a state of things, +however, for Merlin Grainger to take the step that he did take—the +hazardous, almost involuntary step of proposing to Miss Masters. +Stranger still that she accepted him.</p> + +<p>It was at Pulpat’s on Saturday night and over a $1.75 bottle of water +diluted with <i>vin ordinaire</i> that the proposal occurred.</p> + +<p>“Wine makes me feel all tingly, doesn’t it you?” chattered Miss +Masters gaily.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” answered Merlin absently; and then, after a long and pregnant +pause: “Miss Masters—Olive—I want to say something to you if you’ll +listen to me.”</p> + +<p>The tingliness of Miss Masters (who knew what was coming) increased +until it seemed that she would shortly be electrocuted by her own +nervous reactions. But her “Yes, Merlin,” came without a sign or +flicker of interior disturbance. Merlin swallowed a stray bit of air +that he found in his mouth.</p> + +<p>“I have no fortune,” he said with the manner of making an +announcement. “I have no fortune at all.”</p> + +<p>Their eyes met, locked, became wistful, and dreamy and beautiful.</p> + +<p>“Olive,” he told her, “I love you.”</p> + +<p>“I love you too, Merlin,” she answered simply. “Shall we have another +bottle of wine?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he cried, his heart beating at a great rate. “Do you mean—”</p> + +<p>“To drink to our engagement,” she interrupted bravely. “May it be a +short one!”</p> + +<p>“No!” he almost shouted, bringing his fist fiercely down upon the +table. “May it last forever!”</p> + +<p>“What?”</p> + +<p>“I mean—oh, I see what you mean. You’re right. May it be a short +one.” He laughed and added, “My error.”</p> + +<p>After the wine arrived they discussed the matter thoroughly.</p> + +<p>“We’ll have to take a small apartment at first,” he said, “and I +believe, yes, by golly, I know there’s a small one in the house where +I live, a big room and a sort of a dressing-room-kitchenette and the +use of a bath on the same floor.”</p> + +<p>She clapped her hands happily, and he thought how pretty she was +really, that is, the upper part of her face—from the bridge of the +nose down she was somewhat out of true. She continued enthusiastically:</p> + +<p>“And as soon as we can afford it we’ll take a real swell apartment, +with an elevator and a telephone girl.”</p> + +<p>“And after that a place in the country—and a car.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t imagine nothing more fun. Can you?”</p> + +<p>Merlin fell silent a moment. He was thinking that he would have to +give up his room, the fourth floor rear. Yet it mattered very little +now. During the past year and a half—in fact, from the very date of +Caroline’s visit to the Moonlight Quill—he had never seen her. For a +week after that visit her lights had failed to go on—darkness brooded +out into the areaway, seemed to grope blindly in at his expectant, +uncurtained window. Then the lights had appeared at last, and instead +of Caroline and her callers they showed a stodgy family—a little man +with a bristly mustache and a full-bosomed woman who spent her +evenings patting her hips and rearranging bric-à-brac. After two days +of them Merlin had callously pulled down his shade.</p> + +<p>No, Merlin could think of nothing more fun than rising in the world +with Olive. There would be a cottage in a suburb, a cottage painted +blue, just one class below the sort of cottages that are of white +stucco with a green roof. In the grass around the cottage would be +rusty trowels and a broken green bench and a baby-carriage with a +wicker body that sagged to the left. And around the grass and the +baby-carriage and the cottage itself, around his whole world there +would be the arms of Olive, a little stouter, the arms of her +neo-Olivian period, when, as she walked, her cheeks would tremble up +and down ever so slightly from too much face-massaging. He could hear +her voice now, two spoons’ length away:</p> + +<p>“I knew you were going to say this to-night, Merlin. I could see—”</p> + +<p>She could see. Ah—suddenly he wondered how much she could see. Could +she see that the girl who had come in with a party of three men and +sat down at the next table was Caroline? Ah, could she see that? Could +she see that the men brought with them liquor far more potent than +Pulpat’s red ink condensed threefold?...</p> + +<p>Merlin stared breathlessly, half-hearing through an auditory ether +Olive’s low, soft monologue, as like a persistent honey-bee she sucked +sweetness from her memorable hour. Merlin was listening to the +clinking of ice and the fine laughter of all four at some +pleasantry—and that laughter of Caroline’s that he knew so well +stirred him, lifted him, called his heart imperiously over to her +table, whither it obediently went. He could see her quite plainly, and +he fancied that in the last year and a half she had changed, if ever +so slightly. Was it the light or were her cheeks a little thinner and +her eyes less fresh, if more liquid, than of old? Yet the shadows were +still purple in her russet hair; her mouth hinted yet of kisses, as +did the profile that came sometimes between his eyes and a row of +books, when it was twilight in the bookshop where the crimson lamp +presided no more.</p> + +<p>And she had been drinking. The threefold flush in her cheeks was +compounded of youth and wine and fine cosmetic—that he could tell. +She was making great amusement for the young man on her left and the +portly person on her right, and even for the old fellow opposite her, +for the latter from time to time uttered the shocked and mildly +reproachful cackles of another generation. Merlin caught the words of +a song she was intermittently singing—</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“<i>Just snap your fingers at care,</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Don’t cross the bridge ’til you’re there—</i>”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>The portly person filled her glass with chill amber. A waiter after +several trips about the table, and many helpless glances at Caroline, +who was maintaining a cheerful, futile questionnaire as to the +succulence of this dish or that, managed to obtain the semblance of an +order and hurried away....</p> + +<p>Olive was speaking to Merlin—</p> + +<p>“When, then?” she asked, her voice faintly shaded with disappointment. +He realized that he had just answered no to some question she had +asked him.</p> + +<p>“Oh, sometime.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t you—care?”</p> + +<p>A rather pathetic poignancy in her question brought his eyes back to +her.</p> + +<p>“As soon as possible, dear,” he replied with surprising tenderness. +“In two months—in June.”</p> + +<p>“So soon?” Her delightful excitement quite took her breath away.</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes, I think we’d better say June. No use waiting.”</p> + +<p>Olive began to pretend that two months was really too short a time for +her to make preparations. Wasn’t he a bad boy! Wasn’t he impatient, +though! Well, she’d show him he mustn’t be too quick with <i>her</i>. +Indeed he was so sudden she didn’t exactly know whether she ought to +marry him at all.</p> + +<p>“June,” he repeated sternly.</p> + +<p>Olive sighed and smiled and drank her coffee, her little finger lifted +high above the others in true refined fashion. A stray thought came to +Merlin that he would like to buy five rings and throw at it.</p> + +<p>“By gosh!” he exclaimed aloud. Soon he <i>would</i> be putting rings +on one of her fingers.</p> + +<p>His eyes swung sharply to the right. The party of four had become so +riotous that the head-waiter had approached and spoken to them. +Caroline was arguing with this head-waiter in a raised voice, a voice +so clear and young that it seemed as though the whole restaurant would +listen—the whole restaurant except Olive Masters, self-absorbed in +her new secret.</p> + +<p>“How do you do?” Caroline was saying. “Probably the handsomest +head-waiter in captivity. Too much noise? Very unfortunate. +Something’ll have to be done about it. Gerald”—she addressed the man +on her right—“the head-waiter says there’s too much noise. Appeals to +us to have it stopped. What’ll I say?”</p> + +<p>“Sh!” remonstrated Gerald, with laughter. “Sh!” and Merlin heard him +add in an undertone: “All the bourgeoisie will be aroused. This is +where the floorwalkers learn French.”</p> + +<p>Caroline sat up straight in sudden alertness.</p> + +<p>“Where’s a floorwalker?” she cried. “Show me a floorwalker.” This +seemed to amuse the party, for they all, including Caroline, burst +into renewed laughter. The head-waiter, after a last conscientious but +despairing admonition, became Gallic with his shoulders and retired +into the background.</p> + +<p>Pulpat’s, as every one knows, has the unvarying respectability of the +table d’hôte. It is not a gay place in the conventional sense. One +comes, drinks the red wine, talks perhaps a little more and a little +louder than usual under the low, smoky ceilings, and then goes home. +It closes up at nine-thirty, tight as a drum; the policeman is paid +off and given an extra bottle of wine for the missis, the coat-room +girl hands her tips to the collector, and then darkness crushes the +little round tables out of sight and life. But excitement was prepared +for Pulpat’s this evening—excitement of no mean variety. A girl with +russet, purple-shadowed hair mounted to her table-top and began to +dance thereon.</p> + +<p>“<i>Sacré nom de Dieu!</i> Come down off there!” cried the +head-waiter. “Stop that music!”</p> + +<p>But the musicians were already playing so loud that they could pretend +not to hear his order; having once been young, they played louder and +gayer than ever, and Caroline danced with grace and vivacity, her +pink, filmy dress swirling about her, her agile arms playing in +supple, tenuous gestures along the smoky air.</p> + +<p>A group of Frenchmen at a table near by broke into cries of applause, +in which other parties joined—in a moment the room was full of +clapping and shouting; half the diners were on their feet, crowding +up, and on the outskirts the hastily summoned proprietor was giving +indistinct vocal evidences of his desire to put an end to this thing +as quickly as possible.</p> + +<p>“... Merlin!” cried Olive, awake, aroused at last; “she’s such a +wicked girl! Let’s get out—now!”</p> + +<p>The fascinated Merlin protested feebly that the check was not paid.</p> + +<p>“It’s all right. Lay five dollars on the table. I despise that girl. I +can’t <i>bear</i> to look at her.” She was on her feet now, tagging at +Merlin’s arm.</p> + +<p>Helplessly, listlessly, and then with what amounted to downright +unwillingness, Merlin rose, followed Olive dumbly as she picked her +way through the delirious clamor, now approaching its height and +threatening to become a wild and memorable riot. Submissively he took +his coat and stumbled up half a dozen steps into the moist April air +outside, his ears still ringing with the sound of light feet on the +table and of laughter all about and over the little world of the café. +In silence they walked along toward Fifth Avenue and a bus.</p> + +<p>It was not until next day that she told him about the wedding—how she +had moved the date forward: it was much better that they should be +married on the first of May.</p> + + +<h4>III</h4> + +<p>And married they were, in a somewhat stuffy manner, under the +chandelier of the flat where Olive lived with her mother. After +marriage came elation, and then, gradually, the growth of weariness. +Responsibility descended upon Merlin, the responsibility of making his +thirty dollars a week and her twenty suffice to keep them respectably +fat and to hide with decent garments the evidence that they were.</p> + +<p>It was decided after several weeks of disastrous and well-nigh +humiliating experiments with restaurants that they would join the +great army of the delicatessen-fed, so he took up his old way of life +again, in that he stopped every evening at Braegdort’s delicatessen +and bought potatoes in salad, ham in slices, and sometimes even +stuffed tomatoes in bursts of extravagance.</p> + +<p>Then he would trudge homeward, enter the dark hallway, and climb three +rickety flights of stairs covered by an ancient carpet of long +obliterated design. The hall had an ancient smell—of the vegetables +of 1880, of the furniture polish in vogue when “Adam-and Eve” Bryan +ran against William McKinley, of portieres an ounce heavier with dust, +from worn-out shoes, and lint from dresses turned long since into +patch-work quilts. This smell would pursue him up the stairs, +revivified and made poignant at each landing by the aura of +contemporary cooking, then, as he began the next flight, diminishing +into the odor of the dead routine of dead generations.</p> + +<p>Eventually would occur the door of his room, which slipped open with +indecent willingness and closed with almost a sniff upon his “Hello, +dear! Got a treat for you to-night.”</p> + +<p>Olive, who always rode home on the bus to “get a morsel of air,” would +be making the bed and hanging up things. At his call she would come up +to him and give him a quick kiss with wide-open eyes, while he held +her upright like a ladder, his hands on her two arms, as though she +were a thing without equilibrium, and would, once he relinquished +hold, fall stiffly backward to the floor. This is the kiss that comes +in with the second year of marriage, succeeding the bridegroom kiss +(which is rather stagey at best, say those who know about such things, +and apt to be copied from passionate movies).</p> + +<p>Then came supper, and after that they went out for a walk, up two +blocks and through Central Park, or sometimes to a moving picture, +which taught them patiently that they were the sort of people for whom +life was ordered, and that something very grand and brave and +beautiful would soon happen to them if they were docile and obedient +to their rightful superiors and kept away from pleasure.</p> + +<p>Such was their day for three years. Then change came into their lives: +Olive had a baby, and as a result Merlin had a new influx of material +resources. In the third week of Olive’s confinement, after an hour of +nervous rehearsing, he went into the office of Mr. Moonlight Quill and +demanded an enormous increase in salary.</p> + +<p>“I’ve been here ten years,” he said; “since I was nineteen. I’ve +always tried to do my best in the interests of the business.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Moonlight Quill said that he would think it over. Next morning he +announced, to Merlin’s great delight, that he was going to put into +effect a project long premeditated—he was going to retire from active +work in the bookshop, confining himself to periodic visits and leaving +Merlin as manager with a salary of fifty dollars a week and a +one-tenth interest in the business. When the old man finished, +Merlin’s cheeks were glowing and his eyes full of tears. He seized his +employer’s hand and shook it violently, saying over and over again:</p> + +<p>“It’s very nice of you, sir. It’s very white of you. It’s very, very +nice of you.”</p> + +<p>So after ten years of faithful work in the store he had won out at +last. Looking back, he saw his own progress toward this hill of +elation no longer as a sometimes sordid and always gray decade of +worry and failing enthusiasm and failing dreams, years when the +moonlight had grown duller in the areaway and the youth had faded out +of Olive’s face, but as a glorious and triumphant climb over obstacles +which he had determinedly surmounted by unconquerable will-power. The +optimistic self-delusion that had kept him from misery was seen now in +the golden garments of stern resolution. Half a dozen times he had +taken steps to leave the Moonlight Quill and soar upward, but through +sheer faintheartedness he had stayed on. Strangely enough he now +thought that those were times when he had exerted tremendous +persistence and had “determined” to fight it out where he was.</p> + +<p>At any rate, let us not for this moment begrudge Merlin his new and +magnificent view of himself. He had arrived. At thirty he had reached +a post of importance. He left the shop that evening fairly radiant, +invested every penny in his pocket in the most tremendous feast that +Braegdort’s delicatessen offered, and staggered homeward with the +great news and four gigantic paper bags. The fact that Olive was too +sick to eat, that he made himself faintly but unmistakably ill by a +struggle with four stuffed tomatoes, and that most of the food +deteriorated rapidly in an iceless ice-box: all next day did not mar +the occasion. For the first time since the week of his marriage Merlin +Grainger lived under a sky of unclouded tranquillity.</p> + +<p>The baby boy was christened Arthur, and life became dignified, +significant, and, at length, centered. Merlin and Olive resigned +themselves to a somewhat secondary place in their own cosmos; but what +they lost in personality they regained in a sort of primordial pride. +The country house did not come, but a month in an Asbury Park +boarding-house each summer filled the gap; and during Merlin’s two +weeks’ holiday this excursion assumed the air of a really merry +jaunt—especially when, with the baby asleep in a wide room opening +technically on the sea, Merlin strolled with Olive along the thronged +board-walk puffing at his cigar and trying to look like twenty +thousand a year.</p> + +<p>With some alarm at the slowing up of the days and the accelerating of +the years, Merlin became thirty-one, thirty-two—then almost with a +rush arrived at that age which, with all its washing and panning, can +only muster a bare handful of the precious stuff of youth: he became +thirty-five. And one day on Fifth Avenue he saw Caroline.</p> + +<p>It was Sunday, a radiant, flowerful Easter morning and the avenue was +a pageant of lilies and cutaways and happy April-colored bonnets. +Twelve o’clock: the great churches were letting out their people—St. +Simon’s, St. Hilda’s, the Church of the Epistles, opened their doors +like wide mouths until the people pouring forth surely resembled happy +laughter as they met and strolled and chattered, or else waved white +bouquets at waiting chauffeurs.</p> + +<p>In front of the Church of the Epistles stood its twelve vestrymen, +carrying out the time-honored custom of giving away Easter eggs full +of face-powder to the church-going débutantes of the year. Around them +delightedly danced the two thousand miraculously groomed children of +the very rich, correctly cute and curled, shining like sparkling +little jewels upon their mothers’ fingers. Speaks the sentimentalist +for the children of the poor? Ah, but the children of the rich, +laundered, sweet-smelling, complexioned of the country, and, above +all, with soft, in-door voices.</p> + +<p>Little Arthur was five, child of the middle class. Undistinguished, +unnoticed, with a nose that forever marred what Grecian yearnings his +features might have had, he held tightly to his mother’s warm, sticky +hand, and, with Merlin on his other side, moved upon the home-coming +throng. At Fifty-third Street, where there were two churches, the +congestion was at its thickest, its richest. Their progress was of +necessity retarded to such an extent that even little Arthur had not +the slightest difficulty in keeping up. Then it was that Merlin +perceived an open landaulet of deepest crimson, with handsome nickel +trimmings, glide slowly up to the curb and come to a stop. In it sat +Caroline.</p> + +<p>She was dressed in black, a tight-fitting gown trimmed with lavender, +flowered at the waist with a corsage of orchids. Merlin started and +then gazed at her fearfully. For the first time in the eight years +since his marriage he was encountering the girl again. But a girl no +longer. Her figure was slim as ever—or perhaps not quite, for a +certain boyish swagger, a sort of insolent adolescence, had gone the +way of the first blooming of her cheeks. But she was beautiful; +dignity was there now, and the charming lines of a fortuitous +nine-and-twenty; and she sat in the car with such perfect +appropriateness and self-possession that it made him breathless to +watch her.</p> + +<p>Suddenly she smiled—the smile of old, bright as that very Easter and +its flowers, mellower than ever—yet somehow with not quite the +radiance and infinite promise of that first smile back there in the +bookshop nine years before. It was a steelier smile, disillusioned and +sad.</p> + +<p>But it was soft enough and smile enough to make a pair of young men in +cutaway coats hurry over, to pull their high hats off their wetted, +iridescent hair; to bring them, flustered and bowing, to the edge of +her landaulet, where her lavender gloves gently touched their gray +ones. And these two were presently joined by another, and then two +more, until there was a rapidly swelling crowd around the landaulet. +Merlin would hear a young man beside him say to his perhaps +well-favored companion:</p> + +<p>“If you’ll just pardon me a moment, there’s some one I <i>have</i> to +speak to. Walk right ahead. I’ll catch up.”</p> + +<p>Within three minutes every inch of the landaulet, front, back, and +side, was occupied by a man—a man trying to construct a sentence +clever enough to find its way to Caroline through the stream of +conversation. Luckily for Merlin a portion of little Arthur’s clothing +had chosen the opportunity to threaten a collapse, and Olive had +hurriedly rushed him over against a building for some extemporaneous +repair work, so Merlin was able to watch, unhindered, the salon in the +street.</p> + +<p>The crowd swelled. A row formed in back of the first, +two more behind that. In the midst, an orchid rising from a black +bouquet, sat Caroline enthroned in her obliterated car, nodding and +crying salutations and smiling with such true happiness that, of a +sudden, a new relay of gentlemen had left their wives and consorts and +were striding toward her.</p> + +<p>The crowd, now phalanx deep, began to be augmented by the merely +curious; men of all ages who could not possibly have known Caroline +jostled over and melted into the circle of ever-increasing diameter, +until the lady in lavender was the centre of a vast impromptu +auditorium.</p> + +<p>All about her were faces—clean-shaven, bewhiskered, old, young, +ageless, and now, here and there, a woman. The mass was rapidly +spreading to the opposite curb, and, as St. Anthony’s around the +corner let out its box-holders, it overflowed to the sidewalk and +crushed up against the iron picket-fence of a millionaire across the +street. The motors speeding along the avenue were compelled to stop, +and in a jiffy were piled three, five, and six deep at the edge of the +crowd; auto-busses, top-heavy turtles of traffic, plunged into the +jam, their passengers crowding to the edges of the roofs in wild +excitement and peering down into the centre of the mass, which +presently could hardly be seen from the mass’s edge.</p> + +<p>The crush had become terrific. No fashionable audience at a +Yale-Princeton football game, no damp mob at a world’s series, could +be compared with the panoply that talked, stared, laughed, and honked +about the lady in black and lavender. It was stupendous; it was +terrible. A quarter mile down the block a half-frantic policeman +called his precinct; on the same corner a frightened civilian crashed +in the glass of a fire-alarm and sent in a wild paean for all the +fire-engines of the city; up in an apartment high in one of the tall +buildings a hysterical old maid telephoned in turn for the prohibition +enforcement agent; the special deputies on Bolshevism, and the +maternity ward of Bellevue Hospital.</p> + +<p>The noise increased. The first fire-engine arrived, filling the Sunday +air with smoke, clanging and crying a brazen, metallic message down +the high, resounding walls. In the notion that some terrible calamity +had overtaken the city, two excited deacons ordered special services +immediately and set tolling the great bells of St. Hilda’s and St. +Anthony’s, presently joined by the jealous gongs of St. Simon’s and +the Church of the Epistles. Even far off in the Hudson and the East +River the sounds of the commotion were heard, and the ferry-boats and +tugs and ocean liners set up sirens and whistles that sailed in +melancholy cadence, now varied, now reiterated, across the whole +diagonal width of the city from Riverside Drive to the gray +water-fronts of the lower East Side....</p> + +<p>In the centre of her landaulet sat the lady in black and lavender, +chatting pleasantly first with one, then with another of that +fortunate few in cutaways who had found their way to speaking distance +in the first rush. After a while she glanced around her and beside her +with a look of growing annoyance.</p> + +<p>She yawned and asked the man nearest her if he couldn’t run in +somewhere and get her a glass of water. The man apologized in some +embarrassment. He could not have moved hand or foot. He could not have +scratched his own ear....</p> + +<p>As the first blast of the river sirens keened along the air, Olive +fastened the last safety-pin in little Arthur’s rompers and looked up. +Merlin saw her start, stiffen slowly like hardening stucco, and then +give a little gasp of surprise and disapproval.</p> + +<p>“That woman,” she cried suddenly. “Oh!”</p> + +<p>She flashed a glance at Merlin that mingled reproach and pain, and +without another word gathered up little Arthur with one hand, grasped +her husband by the other, and darted amazingly in a winding, bumping +canter through the crowd. Somehow people gave way before her; somehow +she managed to retain her grasp on her son and husband; somehow she +managed to emerge two blocks up, battered and dishevelled, into an +open space, and, without slowing up her pace, darted down a +side-street. Then at last, when uproar had died away into a dim and +distant clamor, did she come to a walk and set little Arthur upon his +feet.</p> + +<p>“And on Sunday, too! Hasn’t she disgraced herself enough?” This was +her only comment. She said it to Arthur, as she seemed to address her +remarks to Arthur throughout the remainder of the day. For some +curious and esoteric reason she had never once looked at her husband +during the entire retreat.</p> + + +<h4>IV</h4> + +<p>The years between thirty-five and sixty-five revolve before the +passive mind as one unexplained, confusing merry-go-round. True, they +are a merry-go-round of ill-gaited and wind-broken horses, painted +first in pastel colors, then in dull grays and browns, but perplexing +and intolerably dizzy the thing is, as never were the merry-go-rounds +of childhood or adolescence; as never, surely, were the +certain-coursed, dynamic roller-coasters of youth. For most men and +women these thirty years are taken up with a gradual withdrawal from +life, a retreat first from a front with many shelters, those myriad +amusements and curiosities of youth, to a line with less, when we peel +down our ambitions to one ambition, our recreations to one recreation, +our friends to a few to whom we are anaesthetic; ending up at last in +a solitary, desolate strong point that is not strong, where the shells +now whistle abominably, now are but half-heard as, by turns frightened +and tired, we sit waiting for death.</p> + +<p>At forty, then, Merlin was no different from himself at thirty-five; a +larger paunch, a gray twinkling near his ears, a more certain lack of +vivacity in his walk. His forty-five differed from his forty by a like +margin, unless one mention a slight deafness in his left ear. But at +fifty-five the process had become a chemical change of immense +rapidity. Yearly he was more and more an “old man” to his +family—senile almost, so far as his wife was concerned. He was by +this time complete owner of the bookshop. The mysterious Mr. Moonlight +Quill, dead some five years and not survived by his wife, had deeded +the whole stock and store to him, and there he still spent his days, +conversant now by name with almost all that man has recorded for three +thousand years, a human catalogue, an authority upon tooling and +binding, upon folios and first editions, an accurate inventory of a +thousand authors whom he could never have understood and had certainly +never read.</p> + +<p>At sixty-five he distinctly doddered. He had assumed the melancholy +habits of the aged so often portrayed by the second old man in +standard Victorian comedies. He consumed vast warehouses of time +searching for mislaid spectacles. He “nagged” his wife and was nagged +in turn. He told the same jokes three or four times a year at the +family table, and gave his son weird, impossible directions as to his +conduct in life. Mentally and materially he was so entirely different +from the Merlin Grainger of twenty-five that it seemed incongruous +that he should bear the same name.</p> + +<p>He worked still in the bookshop with the assistance of a youth, whom, +of course, he considered very idle, indeed, and a new young woman, +Miss Gaffney. Miss McCracken, ancient and unvenerable as himself, +still kept the accounts. Young Arthur was gone into Wall Street to +sell bonds, as all the young men seemed to be doing in that day. This, +of course, was as it should be. Let old Merlin get what magic he could +from his books—the place of young King Arthur was in the +counting-house.</p> + +<p>One afternoon at four when he had slipped noiselessly up to the front +of the store on his soft-soled slippers, led by a newly formed habit, +of which, to be fair, he was rather ashamed, of spying upon the young +man clerk, he looked casually out of the front window, straining his +faded eyesight to reach the street. A limousine, large, portentous, +impressive, had drawn to the curb, and the chauffeur, after +dismounting and holding some sort of conversation with persons in the +interior of the car, turned about and advanced in a bewildered fashion +toward the entrance of the Moonlight Quill. He opened the door, +shuffled in, and, glancing uncertainly at the old man in the +skull-cap, addressed him in a thick, murky voice, as though his words +came through a fog.</p> + +<p>“Do you—do you sell additions?”</p> + +<p>Merlin nodded.</p> + +<p>“The arithmetic books are in the back of the store.”</p> + +<p>The chauffeur took off his cap and scratched a close-cropped, fuzzy +head.</p> + +<p>“Oh, naw. This I want’s a detecatif story.” He jerked a thumb back +toward the limousine. “She seen it in the paper. Firs’ addition.”</p> + +<p>Merlin’s interest quickened. Here was possibly a big sale.</p> + +<p>“Oh, editions. Yes, we’ve advertised some firsts, but—detective +stories, I—don’t—believe—What was the title?”</p> + +<p>“I forget. About a crime.”</p> + +<p>“About a crime. I have—well, I have ‘The Crimes of the Borgias’—full +morocco, London 1769, beautifully—”</p> + +<p>“Naw,” interrupted the chauffeur, “this was one fella did this crime. +She seen you had it for sale in the paper.” He rejected several +possible titles with the air of connoisseur.</p> + +<p>“‘Silver Bones,’” he announced suddenly out of a slight pause.</p> + +<p>“What?” demanded Merlin, suspecting that the stiffness of his sinews +were being commented on.</p> + +<p>“Silver Bones. That was the guy that done the crime.”</p> + +<p>“Silver Bones?”</p> + +<p>“Silver Bones. Indian, maybe.”</p> + +<p>Merlin, stroked his grizzly cheeks. “Gees, Mister,” went on the +prospective purchaser, “if you wanna save me an awful bawln’ out jes’ +try an’ think. The old lady goes wile if everything don’t run smooth.”</p> + +<p>But Merlin’s musings on the subject of Silver Bones were as futile as +his obliging search through the shelves, and five minutes later a very +dejected charioteer wound his way back to his mistress. Through the +glass Merlin could see the visible symbols of a tremendous uproar +going on in the interior of the limousine. The chauffeur made wild, +appealing gestures of his innocence, evidently to no avail, for when +he turned around and climbed back into the driver’s seat his +expression was not a little dejected.</p> + +<p>Then the door of the limousine opened and gave forth a pale and +slender young man of about twenty, dressed in the attenuation of +fashion and carrying a wisp of a cane. He entered the shop, walked +past Merlin, and proceeded to take out a cigarette and light it. +Merlin approached him.</p> + +<p>“Anything I can do for you, sir?”</p> + +<p>“Old boy,” said the youth coolly, “there are seveereal things. You can +first let me smoke my ciggy in here out of sight of that old lady in +the limousine, who happens to be my grandmother. Her knowledge as to +whether I smoke it or not before my majority happens to be a matter of +five thousand dollars to me. The second thing is that you should look +up your first edition of the ‘Crime of Sylvester Bonnard’ that you +advertised in last Sunday’s <i>Times</i>. My grandmother there happens +to want to take it off your hands.”</p> + +<p>Detecatif story! Crime of somebody! Silver Bones! All was explained. +With a faint deprecatory chuckle, as if to say that he would have +enjoyed this had life put him in the habit of enjoying anything, +Merlin doddered away to the back of his shop where his treasures were +kept, to get this latest investment which he had picked up rather +cheaply at the sale of a big collection.</p> + +<p>When he returned with it the young man was drawing on his cigarette +and blowing out quantities of smoke with immense satisfaction.</p> + +<p>“My God!” he said, “She keeps me so close to her the entire day +running idiotic errands that this happens to be my first puff in six +hours. What’s the world coming to, I ask you, when a feeble old lady +in the milk-toast era can dictate to a man as to his personal vices. I +happen to be unwilling to be so dictated to. Let’s see the book.”</p> + +<p>Merlin passed it to him tenderly and the young man, after opening it +with a carelessness that gave a momentary jump to the book-dealer’s +heart, ran through the pages with his thumb.</p> + +<p>“No illustrations, eh?” he commented. “Well, old boy, what’s it worth? +Speak up! We’re willing to give you a fair price, though why I don’t +know.”</p> + +<p>“One hundred dollars,” said Merlin with a frown.</p> + +<p>The young man gave a startled whistle.</p> + +<p>“Whew! Come on. You’re not dealing with somebody from the cornbelt. I +happen to be a city-bred man and my grandmother happens to be a +city-bred woman, though I’ll admit it’d take a special tax +appropriation to keep her in repair. We’ll give you twenty-five +dollars, and let me tell you that’s liberal. We’ve got books in our +attic, up in our attic with my old play-things, that were written +before the old boy that wrote this was born.”</p> + +<p>Merlin stiffened, expressing a rigid and meticulous horror.</p> + +<p>“Did your grandmother give you twenty-five dollars to buy this with?”</p> + +<p>“She did not. She gave me fifty, but she expects change. I know that +old lady.”</p> + +<p>“You tell her,” said Merlin with dignity, “that she has missed a very +great bargain.”</p> + +<p>“Give you forty,” urged the young man. “Come on now—be reasonable and +don’t try to hold us up——”</p> + +<p>Merlin had wheeled around with the precious volume under his arm and +was about to return it to its special drawer in his office when there +was a sudden interruption. With unheard-of magnificence the front door +burst rather than swung open, and admitted in the dark interior a +regal apparition in black silk and fur which bore rapidly down upon +him. The cigarette leaped from the fingers of the urban young man and +he gave breath to an inadvertent “Damn!”—but it was upon Merlin that +the entrance seemed to have the most remarkable and incongruous +effect—so strong an effect that the greatest treasure of his shop +slipped from his hand and joined the cigarette on the floor. Before +him stood Caroline.</p> + +<p>She was an old woman, an old woman remarkably preserved, unusually +handsome, unusually erect, but still an old woman. Her hair was a +soft, beautiful white, elaborately dressed and jewelled; her face, +faintly rouged à la grande dame, showed webs of wrinkles at the edges +of her eyes and two deeper lines in the form of stanchions connected +her nose with the corners of her mouth. Her eyes were dim, ill +natured, and querulous.</p> + +<p>But it was Caroline without a doubt: Caroline’s features though in +decay; Caroline’s figure, if brittle and stiff in movement; Caroline’s +manner, unmistakably compounded of a delightful insolence and an +enviable self assurance; and, most of all, Caroline’s voice, broken +and shaky, yet with a ring in it that still could and did make +chauffeurs want to drive laundry wagons and cause cigarettes to fall +from the fingers of urban grandsons.</p> + +<p>She stood and sniffed. Her eyes found the cigarette upon the floor.</p> + +<p>“What’s that?” she cried. The words were not a question—they were an +entire litany of suspicion, accusation, confirmation, and decision. +She tarried over them scarcely an instant. “Stand up!” she said to her +grandson, “stand up and blow that nicotine out of your lungs!”</p> + +<p>The young man looked at her in trepidation.</p> + +<p>“Blow!” she commanded.</p> + +<p>He pursed his lips feebly and blew into the air.</p> + +<p>“Blow!” she repeated, more peremptorily than before.</p> + +<p>He blew again, helplessly, ridiculously.</p> + +<p>“Do you realize,” she went on briskly, “that you’ve forfeited five +thousand dollars in five minutes?”</p> + +<p>Merlin momentarily expected the young man to fall pleading upon his +knees, but such is the nobility of human nature that he remained +standing—even blew again into the air, partly from nervousness, +partly, no doubt, with some vague hope of reingratiating himself.</p> + +<p>“Young ass!” cried Caroline. “Once more, just once more and you leave +college and go to work.”</p> + +<p>This threat had such an overwhelming effect upon the young man that he +took on an even paler pallor than was natural to him. But Caroline was +not through.</p> + +<p>“Do you think I don’t know what you and your brothers, yes, and your +asinine father too, think of me? Well, I do. You think I’m senile. You +think I’m soft. I’m not!” She struck herself with her fist as though +to prove that she was a mass of muscle and sinew. “And I’ll have more +brains left when you’ve got me laid out in the drawing-room some sunny +day than you and the rest of them were born with.”</p> + +<p>“But Grandmother——”</p> + +<p>“Be quiet. You, a thin little stick of a boy, who if it weren’t for my +money might have risen to be a journeyman barber out in the Bronx—Let +me see your hands. Ugh! The hands of a barber—<i>you</i> presume to +be smart with <i>me</i>, who once had three counts and a bona-fide +duke, not to mention half a dozen papal titles pursue me from the city +of Rome to the city of New York.” She paused, took breath. “Stand up! +Blow’!”</p> + +<p>The young man obediently blew. Simultaneously the door opened and an +excited gentleman of middle age who wore a coat and hat trimmed with +fur, and seemed, moreover, to be trimmed with the same sort of fur +himself on upper lip and chin, rushed into the store and up to +Caroline.</p> + +<p>“Found you at last,” he cried. “Been looking for you all over town. +Tried your house on the ’phone and your secretary told me he thought +you’d gone to a bookshop called the Moonlight—”</p> + +<p>Caroline turned to him irritably.</p> + +<p>“Do I employ you for your reminiscences?” she snapped. “Are you my +tutor or my broker?”</p> + +<p>“Your broker,” confessed the fur-trimmed man, taken somewhat aback. “I +beg your pardon. I came about that phonograph stock. I can sell for a +hundred and five.”</p> + +<p>“Then do it.”</p> + +<p>“Very well. I thought I’d better—”</p> + +<p>“Go sell it. I’m talking to my grandson.”</p> + +<p>“Very well. I—”</p> + +<p>“Good-by.”</p> + +<p>“Good-by, Madame.” The fur-trimmed man made a slight bow and hurried +in some confusion from the shop.</p> + +<p>“As for you,” said Caroline, turning to her grandson, “you stay just +where you are and be quiet.”</p> + +<p>She turned to Merlin and included his entire length in a not +unfriendly survey. Then she smiled and he found himself smiling too. +In an instant they had both broken into a cracked but none the less +spontaneous chuckle. She seized his arm and hurried him to the other +side of the store. There they stopped, faced each other, and gave vent +to another long fit of senile glee.</p> + +<p>“It’s the only way,” she gasped in a sort of triumphant malignity. +“The only thing that keeps old folks like me happy is the sense that +they can make other people step around. To be old and rich and have +poor descendants is almost as much fun as to be young and beautiful +and have ugly sisters.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes,” chuckled Merlin. “I know. I envy you.”</p> + +<p>She nodded, blinking.</p> + +<p>“The last time I was in here, forty years ago,” she said, “you were a +young man very anxious to kick up your heels.”</p> + +<p>“I was,” he confessed.</p> + +<p>“My visit must have meant a good deal to you.”</p> + +<p>“You have all along,” he exclaimed. “I thought—I used to think at +first that you were a real person—human, I mean.”</p> + +<p>She laughed.</p> + +<p>“Many men have thought me inhuman.”</p> + +<p>“But now,” continued Merlin excitedly, “I understand. Understanding is +allowed to us old people—after nothing much matters. I see now that +on a certain night when you danced upon a table-top you were nothing +but my romantic yearning for a beautiful and perverse woman.”</p> + +<p>Her old eyes were far away, her voice no more than the echo of a +forgotten dream.</p> + +<p>“How I danced that night! I remember.”</p> + +<p>“You were making an attempt at me. Olive’s arms were closing about me +and you warned me to be free and keep my measure of youth and +irresponsibility. But it seemed like an effect gotten up at the last +moment. It came too late.”</p> + +<p>“You are very old,” she said inscrutably. “I did not realize.”</p> + +<p>“Also I have not forgotten what you did to me when I was thirty-five. +You shook me with that traffic tie-up. It was a magnificent effort. +The beauty and power you radiated! You became personified even to my +wife, and she feared you. For weeks I wanted to slip out of the house +at dark and forget the stuffiness of life with music and cocktails and +a girl to make me young. But then—I no longer knew how.”</p> + +<p>“And now you are so very old.”</p> + +<p>With a sort of awe she moved back and away from him.</p> + +<p>“Yes, leave me!” he cried. “You are old also; the spirit withers with +the skin. Have you come here only to tell me something I had best +forget: that to be old and poor is perhaps more wretched than to be +old and rich; to remind me that <i>my</i> son hurls my gray failure in +my face?”</p> + +<p>“Give me my book,” she commanded harshly. “Be quick, old man!”</p> + +<p>Merlin looked at her once more and then patiently obeyed. He picked up +the book and handed it to her, shaking his head when she offered him a +bill.</p> + +<p>“Why go through the farce of paying me? Once you made me wreck these +very premises.”</p> + +<p>“I did,” she said in anger, “and I’m glad. Perhaps there had been +enough done to ruin <i>me</i>.”</p> + +<p>She gave him a glance, half disdain, half ill-concealed uneasiness, +and with a brisk word to her urban grandson moved toward the door.</p> + +<p>Then she was gone—out of his shop—out of his life. The door clicked. +With a sigh he turned and walked brokenly back toward the glass +partition that enclosed the yellowed accounts of many years as well as +the mellowed, wrinkled Miss McCracken.</p> + +<p>Merlin regarded her parched, cobwebbed face with an odd sort of pity. +She, at any rate, had had less from life than he. No rebellious, +romantic spirit popping out unbidden had, in its memorable moments, +given her life a zest and a glory.</p> + +<p>Then Miss McCracken looked up and spoke to him:</p> + +<p>“Still a spunky old piece, isn’t she?”</p> + +<p>Merlin started.</p> + +<p>“Who?”</p> + +<p>“Old Alicia Dare. Mrs. Thomas Allerdyce she is now, of course; has +been, these thirty years.”</p> + +<p>“What? I don’t understand you.” Merlin sat down suddenly in his swivel +chair; his eyes were wide.</p> + +<p>“Why, surely, Mr. Grainger, you can’t tell me that you’ve forgotten +her, when for ten years she was the most notorious character in New +York. Why, one time when she was the correspondent in the Throckmorton +divorce case she attracted so much attention on Fifth Avenue that +there was a traffic tie-up. Didn’t you read about it in the papers.”</p> + +<p>“I never used to read the papers.” His ancient brain was whirring.</p> + +<p>“Well, you can’t have forgotten the time she came in here and ruined +the business. Let me tell you I came near asking Mr. Moonlight Quill +for my salary, and clearing out.”</p> + +<p>“Do you mean, that—that you <i>saw</i> her?”</p> + +<p>“Saw her! How could I help it with the racket that went on. Heaven +knows Mr. Moonlight Quill didn’t like it either but of course <i>he</i> +didn’t say anything. He was daffy about her and she could twist him +around her little finger. The second he opposed one of her whims she’d +threaten to tell his wife on him. Served him right. The idea of that +man falling for a pretty adventuress! Of course he was never rich +enough for <i>her</i> even though the shop paid well in those days.”</p> + +<p>“But when I saw her,” stammered Merlin, “that is, when I +<i>thought</i> saw her, she lived with her mother.”</p> + +<p>“Mother, trash!” said Miss McCracken indignantly. “She had a woman +there she called ‘Aunty’, who was no more related to her than I am. +Oh, she was a bad one—but clever. Right after the Throckmorton +divorce case she married Thomas Allerdyce, and made herself secure for +life.”</p> + +<p>“Who was she?” cried Merlin. “For God’s sake what was she—a witch?”</p> + +<p>“Why, she was Alicia Dare, the dancer, of course. In those days you +couldn’t pick up a paper without finding her picture.”</p> + +<p>Merlin sat very quiet, his brain suddenly fatigued and stilled. He was +an old man now indeed, so old that it was impossible for him to dream +of ever having been young, so old that the glamour was gone out of the +world, passing not into the faces of children and into the persistent +comforts of warmth and life, but passing out of the range of sight and +feeling. He was never to smile again or to sit in a long reverie when +spring evenings wafted the cries of children in at his window until +gradually they became the friends of his boyhood out there, urging him +to come and play before the last dark came down. He was too old now +even for memories.</p> + +<p>That night he sat at supper with his wife and son, who had used him +for their blind purposes. Olive said:</p> + +<p>“Don’t sit there like a death’s-head. Say something.”</p> + +<p>“Let him sit quiet,” growled Arthur. “If you encourage him he’ll tell +us a story we’ve heard a hundred times before.”</p> + +<p>Merlin went up-stairs very quietly at nine o’clock. When he was in his +room and had closed the door tight he stood by it for a moment, his +thin limbs trembling. He knew now that he had always been a fool.</p> + +<p>“O Russet Witch!”</p> + +<p>But it was too late. He had angered Providence by resisting too many +temptations. There was nothing left but heaven, where he would meet +only those who, like him, had wasted earth.</p> + + + + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak"><i>UNCLASSIFIED MASTERPIECES</i></h2> +</div> + + + + +<div class="chapter"> +<h3 class="nobreak" id="THE_LEES_OF_HAPPINESS">THE LEES OF HAPPINESS</h3> +</div> + + +<p>If you should look through the files of old magazines for the first +years of the present century you would find, sandwiched in between the +stories of Richard Harding Davis and Frank Norris and others long +since dead, the work of one Jeffrey Curtain: a novel or two, and +perhaps three or four dozen short stories. You could, if you were +interested, follow them along until, say, 1908, when they suddenly +disappeared.</p> + +<p>When you had read them all you would have been quite sure that here +were no masterpieces—here were passably amusing stories, a bit out of +date now, but doubtless the sort that would then have whiled away a +dreary half hour in a dental office. The man who did them was of good +intelligence, talented, glib, probably young. In the samples of his +work you found there would have been nothing to stir you to more than +a faint interest in the whims of life—no deep interior laughs, no +sense of futility or hint of tragedy.</p> + +<p>After reading them you would yawn and put the number back in the +files, and perhaps, if you were in some library reading-room, you +would decide that by way of variety you would look at a newspaper of +the period and see whether the Japs had taken Port Arthur. But if by +any chance the newspaper you had chosen was the right one and had +crackled open at the theatrical page, your eyes would have been +arrested and held, and for at least a minute you would have forgotten +Port Arthur as quickly as you forgot Château Thierry. For you would, +by this fortunate chance, be looking at the portrait of an exquisite +woman.</p> + +<p>Those were the days of “Florodora” and of sextets, of pinched-in +waists and blown-out sleeves, of almost bustles and absolute ballet +skirts, but here, without doubt, disguised as she might be by the +unaccustomed stiffness and old fashion of her costume, was a butterfly +of butterflies. Here was the gayety of the period—the soft wine of +eyes, the songs that flurried hearts, the toasts and the bouquets, the +dances and the dinners. Here was a Venus of the hansom cab, the +Gibson girl in her glorious prime. Here was...</p> + +<p>...here was, you find by looking at the name beneath, one Roxanne +Milbank, who had been chorus girl and understudy in “The Daisy Chain,” +but who, by reason of an excellent performance when the star was +indisposed, had gained a leading part.</p> + +<p>You would look again—and wonder. Why you had never heard of her. Why +did her name not linger in popular songs and vaudeville jokes and +cigar bands, and the memory of that gay old uncle of yours along with +Lillian Russell and Stella Mayhew and Anna Held? Roxanne +Milbank—whither had she gone? What dark trap-door had opened suddenly +and swallowed her up? Her name was certainly not in last Sunday’s +supplement on the list of actresses married to English noblemen. No +doubt she was dead—poor beautiful young lady—and quite forgotten.</p> + +<p>I am hoping too much. I am having you stumble on Jeffrey Curtains’s +stories and Roxanne Milbank’s picture. It would be incredible that you +should find a newspaper item six months later, a single item two +inches by four, which informed the public of the marriage, very +quietly, of Miss Roxanne Milbank, who had been on tour with “The Daisy +Chain,” to Mr. Jeffrey Curtain, the popular author. “Mrs. Curtain,” it +added dispassionately, “will retire from the stage.”</p> + +<p>It was a marriage of love. He was sufficiently spoiled to be charming; +she was ingenuous enough to be irresistible. Like two floating logs +they met in a head-on rush, caught, and sped along together. Yet had +Jeffrey Curtain kept at scrivening for twoscore years he could not +have put a quirk into one of his stories weirder than the quirk that +came into his own life. Had Roxanne Milbank played three dozen parts +and filled five thousand houses she could never have had a role with +more happiness and more despair than were in the fate prepared for +Roxanne Curtain.</p> + +<p>For a year they lived in hotels, travelled to California, to Alaska, +to Florida, to Mexico, loved and quarrelled gently, and gloried in the +golden triflings of his wit with her beauty—they were young and +gravely passionate; they demanded everything and then yielded +everything again in ecstasies of unselfishness and pride. She loved +the swift tones of his voice and his frantic, if unfounded jealousy. +He loved her dark radiance, the white irises of her eyes, the warm, +lustrous enthusiasm of her smile.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you like her?” he would demand rather excitedly and shyly. +“Isn’t she wonderful? Did you ever see—”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” they would answer, grinning. “She’s a wonder. You’re lucky.”</p> + +<p>The year passed. They tired of hotels. They bought an old house and +twenty acres near the town of Marlowe, half an hour from Chicago; +bought a little car, and moved out riotously with a pioneering +hallucination that would have confounded Balboa.</p> + +<p>“Your room will be here!” they cried in turn.</p> + +<p>—And then:</p> + +<p>“And my room here!”</p> + +<p>“And the nursery here when we have children.”</p> + +<p>“And we’ll build a sleeping porch—oh, next year.”</p> + +<p>They moved out in April. In July Jeffrey’s closest friend, Harry +Cromwell came to spend a week—they met him at the end of the long +lawn and hurried him proudly to the house.</p> + +<p>Harry was married also. His wife had had a baby some six months before +and was still recuperating at her mother’s in New York. Roxanne had +gathered from Jeffrey that Harry’s wife was not as attractive as +Harry—Jeffrey had met her once and considered her—“shallow.” But +Harry had been married nearly two years and was apparently happy, so +Jeffrey guessed that she was probably all right.</p> + +<p>“I’m making biscuits,” chattered Roxanne gravely. “Can your wife make +biscuits? The cook is showing me how. I think every woman should know +how to make biscuits. It sounds so utterly disarming. A woman who can +make biscuits can surely do no——”</p> + +<p>“You’ll have to come out here and live,” said Jeffrey. “Get a place +out in the country like us, for you and Kitty.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t know Kitty. She hates the country. She’s got to have her +theatres and vaudevilles.”</p> + +<p>“Bring her out,” repeated Jeffrey. “We’ll have a colony. There’s an +awfully nice crowd here already. Bring her out!”</p> + +<p>They were at the porch steps now and Roxanne made a brisk gesture +toward a dilapidated structure on the right.</p> + +<p>“The garage,” she announced. “It will also be Jeffrey’s writing-room +within the month. Meanwhile dinner is at seven. Meanwhile to that I +will mix a cocktail.”</p> + +<p>The two men ascended to the second floor—that is, they ascended +half-way, for at the first landing Jeffrey dropped his guest’s +suitcase and in a cross between a query and a cry exclaimed:</p> + +<p>“For God’s sake, Harry, how do you like her?”</p> + +<p>“We will go up-stairs,” answered his guest, “and we will shut the +door.”</p> + +<p>Half an hour later as they were sitting together in the library +Roxanne reissued from the kitchen, bearing before her a pan of +biscuits. Jeffrey and Harry rose.</p> + +<p>“They’re beautiful, dear,” said the husband, intensely.</p> + +<p>“Exquisite,” murmured Harry.</p> + +<p>Roxanne beamed.</p> + +<p>“Taste one. I couldn’t bear to touch them before you’d seen them all +and I can’t bear to take them back until I find what they taste like.”</p> + +<p>“Like manna, darling.”</p> + +<p>Simultaneously the two men raised the biscuits to their lips, nibbled +tentatively. Simultaneously they tried to change the subject. But +Roxanne undeceived, set down the pan and seized a biscuit. After a +second her comment rang out with lugubrious finality:</p> + +<p>“Absolutely bum!”</p> + +<p>“Really——”</p> + +<p>“Why, I didn’t notice——”</p> + +<p>Roxanne roared.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’m useless,” she cried laughing. “Turn me out, Jeffrey—I’m a +parasite; I’m no good——”</p> + +<p>Jeffrey put his arm around her.</p> + +<p>“Darling, I’ll eat your biscuits.”</p> + +<p>“They’re beautiful, anyway,” insisted Roxanne.</p> + +<p>“They’re—they’re decorative,” suggested Harry.</p> + +<p>Jeffrey took him up wildly.</p> + +<p>“That’s the word. They’re decorative; they’re masterpieces. We’ll use +them.”</p> + +<p>He rushed to the kitchen and returned with a hammer and a handful of +nails.</p> + +<p>“We’ll use them, by golly, Roxanne! We’ll make a frieze out of them.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t!” wailed Roxanne. “Our beautiful house.”</p> + +<p>“Never mind. We’re going to have the library repapered in October. +Don’t you remember?”</p> + +<p>“Well——”</p> + +<p>Bang! The first biscuit was impaled to the wall, where it quivered for +a moment like a live thing.</p> + +<p>Bang!...</p> + +<p>When Roxanne returned, with a second round of cocktails the biscuits +were in a perpendicular row, twelve of them, like a collection of +primitive spear-heads.</p> + +<p>“Roxanne,” exclaimed Jeffrey, “you’re an artist! Cook?—nonsense! You +shall illustrate my books!”</p> + +<p>During dinner the twilight faltered into dusk, and later it was a +starry dark outside, filled and permeated with the frail gorgeousness +of Roxanne’s white dress and her tremulous, low laugh.</p> + +<p>—Such a little girl she is, thought Harry. Not as old as Kitty.</p> + +<p>He compared the two. Kitty—nervous without being sensitive, +temperamental without temperament, a woman who seemed to flit and +never light—and Roxanne, who was as young as spring night, and summed +up in her own adolescent laughter.</p> + +<p>—A good match for Jeffrey, he thought again. Two very young people, +the sort who’ll stay very young until they suddenly find themselves +old.</p> + +<p>Harry thought these things between his constant thoughts about Kitty. +He was depressed about Kitty. It seemed to him that she was well +enough to come back to Chicago and bring his little son. He was +thinking vaguely of Kitty when he said good-night to his friend’s wife +and his friend at the foot of the stairs.</p> + +<p>“You’re our first real house guest,” called Roxanne after him. “Aren’t +you thrilled and proud?”</p> + +<p>When he was out of sight around the stair corner she turned to +Jeffrey, who was standing beside her resting his hand on the end of +the banister.</p> + +<p>“Are you tired, my dearest?”</p> + +<p>Jeffrey rubbed the centre of his forehead with his fingers.</p> + +<p>“A little. How did you know?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, how could I help knowing about you?”</p> + +<p>“It’s a headache,” he said moodily. “Splitting. I’ll take some +aspirin.”</p> + +<p>She reached over and snapped out the light, and with his arm tight +about her waist they walked up the stairs together.</p> + + +<h4>II</h4> + +<p>Harry’s week passed. They drove about the dreaming lanes or idled in +cheerful inanity upon lake or lawn. In the evening Roxanne, sitting +inside, played to them while the ashes whitened on the glowing ends of +their cigars. Then came a telegram from Kitty saying that she wanted +Harry to come East and get her, so Roxanne and Jeffrey were left alone +in that privacy of which they never seemed to tire.</p> + +<p>“Alone” thrilled them again. They wandered about the house, each +feeling intimately the presence of the other; they sat on the same +side of the table like honeymooners; they were intensely absorbed, +intensely happy.</p> + +<p>The town of Marlowe, though a comparatively old settlement, had only +recently acquired a “society.” Five or six years before, alarmed at +the smoky swelling of Chicago, two or three young married couples, +“bungalow people,” had moved out; their friends had followed. The +Jeffrey Curtains found an already formed “set” prepared to welcome +them; a country club, ballroom, and golf links yawned for them, and +there were bridge parties, and poker parties, and parties where they +drank beer, and parties where they drank nothing at all.</p> + +<p>It was at a poker party that they found themselves a week after +Harry’s departure. There were two tables, and a good proportion of the +young wives were smoking and shouting their bets, and being very +daringly mannish for those days.</p> + +<p>Roxanne had left the game early and taken to perambulation; she +wandered into the pantry and found herself some grape juice—beer gave +her a headache—and then passed from table to table, looking over +shoulders at the hands, keeping an eye on Jeffrey and being pleasantly +unexcited and content. Jeffrey, with intense concentration, was +raising a pile of chips of all colors, and Roxanne knew by the +deepened wrinkle between his eyes that he was interested. She liked to +see him interested in small things.</p> + +<p>She crossed over quietly and sat down on the arm of his chair.</p> + +<p>She sat there five minutes, listening to the sharp intermittent +comments of the men and the chatter of the women, which rose from the +table like soft smoke—and yet scarcely hearing either. Then quite +innocently she reached out her hand, intending to place it on +Jeffrey’s shoulder—as it touched him he started of a sudden, gave a +short grunt, and, sweeping back his arm furiously, caught her a +glancing blow on her elbow.</p> + +<p>There was a general gasp. Roxanne regained her balance, gave a little +cry, and rose quickly to her feet. It had been the greatest shock of +her life. This, from Jeffrey, the heart of kindness, of +consideration—this instinctively brutal gesture.</p> + +<p>The gasp became a silence. A dozen eyes were turned on Jeffrey, who +looked up as though seeing Roxanne for the first time. An expression +of bewilderment settled on his face.</p> + +<p>“Why—Roxanne——” he said haltingly.</p> + +<p>Into a dozen minds entered a quick suspicion, a rumor of scandal. +Could it be that behind the scenes with this couple, apparently so in +love, lurked some curious antipathy? Why else this streak of fire, +across such a cloudless heaven?</p> + +<p>“Jeffrey!”—Roxanne’s voice was pleading—startled and horrified, she +yet knew that it was a mistake. Not once did it occur to her to blame +him or to resent it. Her word was a trembling supplication—“Tell me, +Jeffrey,” it said, “tell Roxanne, your own Roxanne.”</p> + +<p>“Why, Roxanne—” began Jeffrey again. The bewildered look changed to +pain. He was clearly as startled as she. “I didn’t intend that,” he +went on; “you startled me. You—I felt as if some one were attacking +me. I—how—why, how idiotic!”</p> + +<p>“Jeffrey!” Again the word was a prayer, incense offered up to a high +God through this new and unfathomable darkness.</p> + +<p>They were both on their feet, they were saying good-by, faltering, +apologizing, explaining. There was no attempt to pass it off easily. +That way lay sacrilege. Jeffrey had not been feeling well, they said. +He had become nervous. Back of both their minds was the unexplained +horror of that blow—the marvel that there had been for an instant +something between them—his anger and her fear—and now to both a +sorrow, momentary, no doubt, but to be bridged at once, at once, while +there was yet time. Was that swift water lashing under their feet—the +fierce glint of some uncharted chasm?</p> + +<p>Out in their car under the harvest moon he talked brokenly. It was +just—incomprehensible to him, he said. He had been thinking of the +poker game—absorbed—and the touch on his shoulder had seemed like an +attack. An attack! He clung to that word, flung it up as a shield. He +had hated what touched him. With the impact of his hand it had gone, +that—nervousness. That was all he knew.</p> + +<p>Both their eyes filled with tears and they whispered love there under +the broad night as the serene streets of Marlowe sped by. Later, when +they went to bed, they were quite calm. Jeffrey was to take a week off +all work—was simply to loll, and sleep, and go on long walks until +this nervousness left him. When they had decided this safety settled +down upon Roxanne. The pillows underhead became soft and friendly; the +bed on which they lay seemed wide, and white, and sturdy beneath the +radiance that streamed in at the window.</p> + +<p>Five days later, in the first cool of late afternoon, Jeffrey picked +up an oak chair and sent it crashing through his own front window. +Then he lay down on the couch like a child, weeping piteously and +begging to die. A blood clot the size of a marble had broken his +brain.</p> + + +<h4>III</h4> + +<p>There is a sort of waking nightmare that sets in sometimes when one +has missed a sleep or two, a feeling that comes with extreme fatigue +and a new sun, that the quality of the life around has changed. It is +a fully articulate conviction that somehow the existence one is then +leading is a branch shoot of life and is related to life only as a +moving picture or a mirror—that the people, and streets, and houses +are only projections from a very dim and chaotic past. It was in such +a state that Roxanne found herself during the first months of +Jeffrey’s illness. She slept only when she was utterly exhausted; she +awoke under a cloud. The long, sober-voiced consultations, the faint +aura of medicine in the halls, the sudden tiptoeing in a house that +had echoed to many cheerful footsteps, and, most of all, Jeffrey’s +white face amid the pillows of the bed they had shared—these things +subdued her and made her indelibly older. The doctors held out hope, +but that was all. A long rest, they said, and quiet. So responsibility +came to Roxanne. It was she who paid the bills, pored over his +bank-book, corresponded with his publishers. She was in the kitchen +constantly. She learned from the nurse how to prepare his meals and +after the first month took complete charge of the sick-room. She had +had to let the nurse go for reasons of economy. One of the two colored +girls left at the same time. Roxanne was realizing that they had been +living from short story to short story.</p> + +<p>The most frequent visitor was Harry Cromwell. He had been shocked and +depressed by the news, and though his wife was now living with him in +Chicago he found time to come out several times a month. Roxanne found +his sympathy welcome—there was some quality of suffering in the man, +some inherent pitifulness that made her comfortable when he was near. +Roxanne’s nature had suddenly deepened. She felt sometimes that with +Jeffrey she was losing her children also, those children that now most +of all she needed and should have had.</p> + +<p>It was six months after Jeffrey’s collapse and when the nightmare had +faded, leaving not the old world but a new one, grayer and colder, +that she went to see Harry’s wife. Finding herself in Chicago with an +extra hour before train time, she decided out of courtesy to call.</p> + +<p>As she stepped inside the door she had an immediate impression that +the apartment was very like some place she had seen before—and almost +instantly she remembered a round-the-corner bakery of her childhood, a +bakery full of rows and rows of pink frosted cakes—a stuffy pink, +pink as a food, pink triumphant, vulgar, and odious.</p> + +<p>And this apartment was like that. It was pink. It smelled pink!</p> + +<p>Mrs. Cromwell, attired in a wrapper of pink and black, opened the +door. Her hair was yellow, heightened, Roxanne imagined, by a dash of +peroxide in the rinsing water every week. Her eyes were a thin waxen +blue—she was pretty and too consciously graceful. Her cordiality was +strident and intimate, hostility melted so quickly to hospitality that +it seemed they were both merely in the face and voice—never touching +nor touched by the deep core of egotism beneath.</p> + +<p>But to Roxanne these things were secondary; her eyes were caught and +held in uncanny fascination by the wrapper. It was vilely unclean. +From its lowest hem up four inches it was sheerly dirty with the blue +dust of the floor; for the next three inches it was gray—then it +shaded off into its natural color, which was—pink. It was dirty at +the sleeves, too, and at the collar—and when the woman turned to lead +the way into the parlor, Roxanne was sure that her neck was dirty.</p> + +<p>A one-sided rattle of conversation began. Mrs. Cromwell became +explicit about her likes and dislikes, her head, her stomach, her +teeth, her apartment—avoiding with a sort of insolent meticulousness +any inclusion of Roxanne with life, as if presuming that Roxanne, +having been dealt a blow, wished life to be carefully skirted.</p> + +<p>Roxanne smiled. That kimono! That neck!</p> + +<p>After five minutes a little boy toddled into the parlor—a dirty +little boy clad in dirty pink rompers. His face was smudgy—Roxanne +wanted to take him into her lap and wipe his nose; other parts in the +vicinity of his head needed attention, his tiny shoes were kicked out +at the toes. Unspeakable!</p> + +<p>“What a darling little boy!” exclaimed Roxanne, smiling radiantly. +“Come here to me.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Cromwell looked coldly at her son.</p> + +<p>“He <i>will</i> get dirty. Look at that face!” She held her head on one side +and regarded it critically.</p> + +<p>“Isn’t he a <i>darling?</i>” repeated Roxanne.</p> + +<p>“Look at his rompers,” frowned Mrs. Cromwell.</p> + +<p>“He needs a change, don’t you, George?”</p> + +<p>George stared at her curiously. To his mind the word rompers +connotated a garment extraneously smeared, as this one.</p> + +<p>“I tried to make him look respectable this morning,” complained Mrs. +Cromwell as one whose patience had been sorely tried, “and I found he +didn’t have any more rompers—so rather than have him go round without +any I put him back in those—and his face—”</p> + +<p>“How many pairs has he?” Roxanne’s voice was pleasantly curious. “How +many feather fans have you?” she might have asked.</p> + +<p>“Oh,—” Mrs. Cromwell considered, wrinkling her pretty brow. “Five, I +think. Plenty, I know.”</p> + +<p>“You can get them for fifty cents a pair.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Cromwell’s eyes showed surprise—and the faintest superiority. +The price of rompers!</p> + +<p>“Can you really? I had no idea. He ought to have plenty, but I haven’t +had a minute all week to send the laundry out.” Then, dismissing the +subject as irrelevant—“I must show you some things—”</p> + +<p>They rose and Roxanne followed her past an open bathroom door whose +garment-littered floor showed indeed that the laundry hadn’t been sent +out for some time, into another room that was, so to speak, the +quintessence of pinkness. This was Mrs. Cromwell’s room.</p> + +<p>Here the hostess opened a closet door and displayed before Roxanne’s +eyes an amazing collection of lingerie.</p> + +<p>There were dozens of filmy marvels of lace and silk, all clean, +unruffled, seemingly not yet touched. On hangers beside them were +three new evening dresses.</p> + +<p>“I have some beautiful things,” said Mrs. Cromwell, “but not much of a +chance to wear them. Harry doesn’t care about going out.” Spite crept +into her voice. “He’s perfectly content to let me play nursemaid and +housekeeper all day and loving wife in the evening.”</p> + +<p>Roxanne smiled again.</p> + +<p>“You’ve got some beautiful clothes here.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I have. Let me show you——”</p> + +<p>“Beautiful,” repeated Roxanne, interrupting, “but I’ll have to run if +I’m going to catch my train.”</p> + +<p>She felt that her hands were trembling. She wanted to put them on this +woman and shake her—shake her. She wanted her locked up somewhere and +set to scrubbing floors.</p> + +<p>“Beautiful,” she repeated, “and I just came in for a moment.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I’m sorry Harry isn’t here.”</p> + +<p>They moved toward the door.</p> + +<p>“—and, oh,” said Roxanne with an effort—yet her voice was still +gentle and her lips were smiling—“I think it’s Argile’s where you can +get those rompers. Good-by.”</p> + +<p>It was not until she had reached the station and bought her ticket to +Marlowe that Roxanne realized it was the first five minutes in six +months that her mind had been off Jeffrey.</p> + + +<h4>IV</h4> + +<p>A week later Harry appeared at Marlowe, arrived unexpectedly at five +o’clock, and coming up the walk sank into a porch chair in a state of +exhaustion. Roxanne herself had had a busy day and was worn out. The +doctors were coming at five-thirty, bringing a celebrated nerve +specialist from New York. She was excited and thoroughly depressed, +but Harry’s eyes made her sit down beside him.</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing, Roxanne,” he denied. “I came to see how Jeff was doing. +Don’t you bother about me.”</p> + +<p>“Harry,” insisted Roxanne, “there’s something the matter.”</p> + +<p>“Nothing,” he repeated. “How’s Jeff?”</p> + +<p>Anxiety darkened her face.</p> + +<p>“He’s a little worse, Harry. Doctor Jewett has come on from New York. +They thought he could tell me something definite. He’s going to try +and find whether this paralysis has anything to do with the original +blood clot.”</p> + +<p>Harry rose.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said jerkily. “I didn’t know you expected a +consultation. I wouldn’t have come. I thought I’d just rock on your +porch for an hour—”</p> + +<p>“Sit down,” she commanded.</p> + +<p>Harry hesitated.</p> + +<p>“Sit down, Harry, dear boy.” Her kindness flooded out now—enveloped +him. “I know there’s something the matter. You’re white as a sheet. +I’m going to get you a cool bottle of beer.”</p> + +<p>All at once he collapsed into his chair and covered his face with his +hands.</p> + +<p>“I can’t make her happy,” he said slowly. “I’ve tried and I’ve tried. +This morning we had some words about breakfast—I’d been getting my +breakfast down town—and—well, just after I went to the office she +left the house, went East to her mother’s with George and a suitcase +full of lace underwear.”</p> + +<p>“Harry!”</p> + +<p>“And I don’t know—”</p> + +<p>There was a crunch on the gravel, a car turning into the drive. +Roxanne uttered a little cry.</p> + +<p>“It’s Doctor Jewett.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’ll—”</p> + +<p>“You’ll wait, won’t you?” she interrupted abstractedly. He saw that +his problem had already died on the troubled surface of her mind.</p> + +<p>There was an embarrassing minute of vague, elided introductions and +then Harry followed the party inside and watched them disappear up the +stairs. He went into the library and sat down on the big sofa.</p> + +<p>For an hour he watched the sun creep up the patterned folds of the +chintz curtains. In the deep quiet a trapped wasp buzzing on the +inside of the window pane assumed the proportions of a clamor. From +time to time another buzzing drifted down from up-stairs, resembling +several more larger wasps caught on larger window-panes. He heard low +footfalls, the clink of bottles, the clamor of pouring water.</p> + +<p>What had he and Roxanne done that life should deal these crashing +blows to them? Up-stairs there was taking place a living inquest on +the soul of his friend; he was sitting here in a quiet room listening +to the plaint of a wasp, just as when he was a boy he had been +compelled by a strict aunt to sit hour-long on a chair and atone for +some misbehavior. But who had put him here? What ferocious aunt had +leaned out of the sky to make him atone for—what?</p> + +<p>About Kitty he felt a great hopelessness. She was too expensive—that +was the irremediable difficulty. Suddenly he hated her. He wanted to +throw her down and kick at her—to tell her she was a cheat and a +leech—that she was dirty. Moreover, she must give him his boy.</p> + +<p>He rose and began pacing up and down the room. Simultaneously he heard +some one begin walking along the hallway up-stairs in exact time with +him. He found himself wondering if they would walk in time until the +person reached the end of the hall.</p> + +<p>Kitty had gone to her mother. God help her, what a mother to go to! He +tried to imagine the meeting: the abused wife collapsing upon the +mother’s breast. He could not. That Kitty was capable of any deep +grief was unbelievable. He had gradually grown to think of her as +something unapproachable and callous. She would get a divorce, of +course, and eventually she would marry again. He began to consider +this. Whom would she marry? He laughed bitterly, stopped; a picture +flashed before him—of Kitty’s arms around some man whose face he +could not see, of Kitty’s lips pressed close to other lips in what was +surely passion.</p> + +<p>“God!” he cried aloud. “God! God! God!”</p> + +<p>Then the pictures came thick and fast. The Kitty of this morning +faded; the soiled kimono rolled up and disappeared; the pouts, and +rages, and tears all were washed away. Again she was Kitty Carr—Kitty +Carr with yellow hair and great baby eyes. Ah, she had loved him, she +had loved him.</p> + +<p>After a while he perceived that something was amiss with him, +something that had nothing to do with Kitty or Jeff, something of a +different genre. Amazingly it burst on him at last; he was hungry. +Simple enough! He would go into the kitchen in a moment and ask the +colored cook for a sandwich. After that he must go back to the city.</p> + +<p>He paused at the wall, jerked at something round, and, fingering it +absently, put it to his mouth and tasted it as a baby tastes a bright +toy. His teeth closed on it—Ah!</p> + +<p>She’d left that damn kimono, that dirty pink kimono. She might have +had the decency to take it with her, he thought. It would hang in the +house like the corpse of their sick alliance. He would try to throw it +away, but he would never be able to bring himself to move it. It would +be like Kitty, soft and pliable, withal impervious. You couldn’t move +Kitty; you couldn’t reach Kitty. There was nothing there to reach. He +understood that perfectly—he had understood it all along.</p> + +<p>He reached to the wall for another biscuit and with an effort pulled +it out, nail and all. He carefully removed the nail from the centre, +wondering idly if he had eaten the nail with the first biscuit. +Preposterous! He would have remembered—it was a huge nail. He felt +his stomach. He must be very hungry. He considered—remembered—yesterday +he had had no dinner. It was the girl’s day out and Kitty had +lain in her room eating chocolate drops. She had said she felt +“smothery” and couldn’t bear having him near her. He had given +George a bath and put him to bed, and then lain down on the couch +intending to rest a minute before getting his own dinner. There +he had fallen asleep and awakened about eleven, to find that +there was nothing in the ice-box except a spoonful of potato salad. +This he had eaten, together with some chocolate drops that he found on +Kitty’s bureau. This morning he had breakfasted hurriedly down town +before going to the office. But at noon, beginning to worry about +Kitty, he had decided to go home and take her out to lunch. After that +there had been the note on his pillow. The pile of lingerie in the +closet was gone—and she had left instructions for sending her trunk.</p> + +<p>He had never been so hungry, he thought.</p> + +<p>At five o’clock, when the visiting nurse tiptoed down-stairs, he was +sitting on the sofa staring at the carpet.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Cromwell?”</p> + +<p>“Yes?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Mrs. Curtain won’t be able to see you at dinner. She’s not well. +She told me to tell you that the cook will fix you something and that +there’s a spare bedroom.”</p> + +<p>“She’s sick, you say?”</p> + +<p>“She’s lying down in her room. The consultation is just over.”</p> + +<p>“Did they—did they decide anything?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said the nurse softly. “Doctor Jewett says there’s no hope. Mr. +Curtain may live indefinitely, but he’ll never see again or move again +or think. He’ll just breathe.”</p> + +<p>“Just breathe?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>For the first time the nurse noted that beside the writing-desk where +she remembered that she had seen a line of a dozen curious round +objects she had vaguely imagined to be some exotic form of decoration, +there was now only one. Where the others had been, there was now a +series of little nail-holes.</p> + +<p>Harry followed her glance dazedly and then rose to his feet.</p> + +<p>“I don’t believe I’ll stay. I believe there’s a train.”</p> + +<p>She nodded. Harry picked up his hat.</p> + +<p>“Good-by,” she said pleasantly.</p> + +<p>“Good-by,” he answered, as though talking to himself and, evidently +moved by some involuntary necessity, he paused on his way to the door +and she saw him pluck the last object from the wall and drop it into +his pocket.</p> + +<p>Then he opened the screen door and, descending the porch steps, passed +out of her sight.</p> + + +<h4>V</h4> + +<p>After a while the coat of clean white paint on the Jeffrey Curtain +house made a definite compromise with the suns of many Julys and +showed its good faith by turning gray. It scaled—huge peelings of +very brittle old paint leaned over backward like aged men practising +grotesque gymnastics and finally dropped to a moldy death in the +overgrown grass beneath. The paint on the front pillars became +streaky; the white ball was knocked off the left-hand door-post; the +green blinds darkened, then lost all pretense of color.</p> + +<p>It began to be a house that was avoided by the tender-minded—some +church bought a lot diagonally opposite for a graveyard, and this, +combined with “the place where Mrs. Curtain stays with that living +corpse,” was enough to throw a ghostly aura over that quarter of the +road. Not that she was left alone. Men and women came to see her, met +her down town, where she went to do her marketing, brought her home in +their cars—and came in for a moment to talk and to rest, in the +glamour that still played in her smile. But men who did not know her +no longer followed her with admiring glances in the street; a +diaphanous veil had come down over her beauty, destroying its +vividness, yet bringing neither wrinkles nor fat.</p> + +<p>She acquired a character in the village—a group of little stories +were told of her: how when the country was frozen over one winter so +that no wagons nor automobiles could travel, she taught herself to +skate so that she could make quick time to the grocer and druggist, +and not leave Jeffrey alone for long. It was said that every night +since his paralysis she slept in a small bed beside his bed, holding +his hand.</p> + +<p>Jeffrey Curtain was spoken of as though he were already dead. As the +years dropped by those who had known him died or moved away—there +were but half a dozen of the old crowd who had drunk cocktails +together, called each other’s wives by their first names, and thought +that Jeff was about the wittiest and most talented fellow that Marlowe +had ever known. Now, to the casual visitor, he was merely the reason +that Mrs. Curtain excused herself sometimes and hurried upstairs; he +was a groan or a sharp cry borne to the silent parlor on the heavy air +of a Sunday afternoon.</p> + +<p>He could not move; he was stone blind, dumb and totally unconscious. +All day he lay in his bed, except for a shift to his wheel-chair every +morning while she straightened the room. His paralysis was creeping +slowly toward his heart. At first—for the first year—Roxanne had +received the faintest answering pressure sometimes when she held his +hand—then it had gone, ceased one evening and never come back, and +through two nights Roxanne lay wide-eyed, staring into the dark and +wondering what had gone, what fraction of his soul had taken flight, +what last grain of comprehension those shattered broken nerves still +carried to the brain.</p> + +<p>After that hope died. Had it not been for her unceasing care the last +spark would have gone long before. Every morning she shaved and bathed +him, shifted him with her own hands from bed to chair and back to bed. +She was in his room constantly, bearing medicine, straightening a +pillow, talking to him almost as one talks to a nearly human dog, +without hope of response or appreciation, but with the dim persuasion +of habit, a prayer when faith has gone.</p> + +<p>Not a few people, one celebrated nerve specialist among them, gave her +a plain impression that it was futile to exercise so much care, that +if Jeffrey had been conscious he would have wished to die, that if his +spirit were hovering in some wider air it would agree to no such +sacrifice from her, it would fret only for the prison of its body to +give it full release.</p> + +<p>“But you see,” she replied, shaking her head gently, “when I married +Jeffrey it was—until I ceased to love him.”</p> + +<p>“But,” was protested, in effect, “you can’t love that.”</p> + +<p>“I can love what it once was. What else is there for me to do?”</p> + +<p>The specialist shrugged his shoulders and went away to say that Mrs. +Curtain was a remarkable woman and just about as sweet as an +angel—but, he added, it was a terrible pity.</p> + +<p>“There must be some man, or a dozen, just crazy to take care of +her....”</p> + +<p>Casually—there were. Here and there some one began in hope—and ended +in reverence. There was no love in the woman except, strangely enough, +for life, for the people in the world, from the tramp to whom she gave +food she could ill afford to the butcher who sold her a cheap cut of +steak across the meaty board. The other phase was sealed up somewhere +in that expressionless mummy who lay with his face turned ever toward +the light as mechanically as a compass needle and waited dumbly for +the last wave to wash over his heart.</p> + +<p>After eleven years he died in the middle of a May night, when the +scent of the syringa hung upon the window-sill and a breeze wafted in +the shrillings of the frogs and cicadas outside. Roxanne awoke at two, +and realized with a start she was alone in the house at last.</p> + + +<h4>VI</h4> + +<p>After that she sat on her weather-beaten porch through many +afternoons, gazing down across the fields that undulated in a slow +descent to the white and green town. She was wondering what she would +do with her life. She was thirty-six—handsome, strong, and free. The +years had eaten up Jeffrey’s insurance; she had reluctantly parted +with the acres to right and left of her, and had even placed a small +mortgage on the house.</p> + +<p>With her husband’s death had come a great physical restlessness. She +missed having to care for him in the morning, she missed her rush to +town, and the brief and therefore accentuated neighborly meetings in +the butcher’s and grocer’s; she missed the cooking for two, the +preparation of delicate liquid food for him. One day, consumed with +energy, she went out and spaded up the whole garden, a thing that had +not been done for years.</p> + +<p>And she was alone at night in the room that had seen the glory of her +marriage and then the pain. To meet Jeff again she went back in spirit +to that wonderful year, that intense, passionate absorption and +companionship, rather than looked forward to a problematical meeting +hereafter; she awoke often to lie and wish for that presence beside +her—inanimate yet breathing—still Jeff.</p> + +<p>One afternoon six months after his death she was sitting on the porch, +in a black dress which took away the faintest suggestion of plumpness +from her figure. It was Indian summer—golden brown all about her; a +hush broken by the sighing of leaves; westward a four o’clock sun +dripping streaks of red and yellow over a flaming sky. Most of the +birds had gone—only a sparrow that had built itself a nest on the +cornice of a pillar kept up an intermittent cheeping varied by +occasional fluttering sallies overhead. Roxanne moved her chair to +where she could watch him and her mind idled drowsily on the bosom of +the afternoon.</p> + +<p>Harry Cromwell was coming out from Chicago to dinner. Since his +divorce over eight years before he had been a frequent visitor. They +had kept up what amounted to a tradition between them: when he arrived +they would go to look at Jeff; Harry would sit down on the edge of the +bed and in a hearty voice ask:</p> + +<p>“Well, Jeff, old man, how do you feel to-day?”</p> + +<p>Roxanne, standing beside, would look intently at Jeff, dreaming that +some shadowy recognition of this former friend had passed across that +broken mind—but the head, pale, carven, would only move slowly in its +sole gesture toward the light as if something behind the blind eyes +were groping for another light long since gone out.</p> + +<p>These visits stretched over eight years—at Easter, Christmas, +Thanksgiving, and on many a Sunday Harry had arrived, paid his call on +Jeff, and then talked for a long while with Roxanne on the porch. He +was devoted to her. He made no pretense of hiding, no attempt to +deepen, this relation. She was his best friend as the mass of flesh on +the bed there had been his best friend. She was peace, she was rest; +she was the past. Of his own tragedy she alone knew.</p> + +<p>He had been at the funeral, but since then the company for which he +worked had shifted him to the East and only a business trip had +brought him to the vicinity of Chicago. Roxanne had written him to +come when he could—after a night in the city he had caught a train +out.</p> + +<p>They shook hands and he helped her move two rockers together.</p> + +<p>“How’s George?”</p> + +<p>“He’s fine, Roxanne. Seems to like school.”</p> + +<p>“Of course it was the only thing to do, to send him.”</p> + +<p>“Of course—”</p> + +<p>“You miss him horribly, Harry?”</p> + +<p>“Yes—I do miss him. He’s a funny boy—”</p> + +<p>He talked a lot about George. Roxanne was interested. Harry must bring +him out on his next vacation. She had only seen him once in her +life—a child in dirty rompers.</p> + +<p>She left him with the newspaper while she prepared dinner—she had +four chops to-night and some late vegetables from her own garden. She +put it all on and then called him, and sitting down together they +continued their talk about George.</p> + +<p>“If I had a child—” she would say.</p> + +<p>Afterward, Harry having given her what slender advice he could about +investments, they walked through the garden, pausing here and there to +recognize what had once been a cement bench or where the tennis court +had lain....</p> + +<p>“Do you remember—”</p> + +<p>Then they were off on a flood of reminiscences: the day they had taken +all the snap-shots and Jeff had been photographed astride the calf; +and the sketch Harry had made of Jeff and Roxanne, lying sprawled in +the grass, their heads almost touching. There was to have been a +covered lattice connecting the barn-studio with the house, so that +Jeff could get there on wet days—the lattice had been started, but +nothing remained except a broken triangular piece that still adhered +to the house and resembled a battered chicken coop.</p> + +<p>“And those mint juleps!”</p> + +<p>“And Jeff’s note-book! Do you remember how we’d laugh, Harry, when +we’d get it out of his pocket and read aloud a page of material. And +how frantic he used to get?”</p> + +<p>“Wild! He was such a kid about his writing.”</p> + +<p>They were both silent a moment, and then Harry said:</p> + +<p>“We were to have a place out here, too. Do you remember? We were to +buy the adjoining twenty acres. And the parties we were going to +have!”</p> + +<p>Again there was a pause, broken this time by a low question from +Roxanne.</p> + +<p>“Do you ever hear of her, Harry?”</p> + +<p>“Why—yes,” he admitted placidly. “She’s in Seattle. She’s married +again to a man named Horton, a sort of lumber king. He’s a great deal +older than she is, I believe.”</p> + +<p>“And she’s behaving?”</p> + +<p>“Yes—that is, I’ve heard so. She has everything, you see. Nothing +much to do except dress up for this fellow at dinner-time.”</p> + +<p>“I see.”</p> + +<p>Without effort he changed the subject.</p> + +<p>“Are you going to keep the house?”</p> + +<p>“I think so,” she said, nodding. “I’ve lived here so long, Harry, it’d +seem terrible to move. I thought of trained nursing, but of course +that’d mean leaving. I’ve about decided to be a boarding-house lady.”</p> + +<p>“Live in one?”</p> + +<p>“No. Keep one. Is there such an anomaly as a boarding-house lady? +Anyway I’d have a negress and keep about eight people in the summer +and two or three, if I can get them, in the winter. Of course I’ll +have to have the house repainted and gone over inside.”</p> + +<p>Harry considered.</p> + +<p>“Roxanne, why—naturally you know best what you can do, but it does +seem a shock, Roxanne. You came here as a bride.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps,” she said, “that’s why I don’t mind remaining here as a +boarding-house lady.”</p> + +<p>“I remember a certain batch of biscuits.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, those biscuits,” she cried. “Still, from all I heard about the +way you devoured them, they couldn’t have been so bad. I was <i>so</i> +low that day, yet somehow I laughed when the nurse told me about those +biscuits.”</p> + +<p>“I noticed that the twelve nail-holes are still in the library wall +where Jeff drove them.”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>It was getting very dark now, a crispness settled in the air; a little +gust of wind sent down a last spray of leaves. Roxanne shivered +slightly.</p> + +<p>“We’d better go in.”</p> + +<p>He looked at his watch.</p> + +<p>“It’s late. I’ve got to be leaving. I go East tomorrow.”</p> + +<p>“Must you?”</p> + +<p>They lingered for a moment just below the stoop, watching a moon that +seemed full of snow float out of the distance where the lake lay. +Summer was gone and now Indian summer. The grass was cold and there +was no mist and no dew. After he left she would go in and light the +gas and close the shutters, and he would go down the path and on to +the village. To these two life had come quickly and gone, leaving not +bitterness, but pity; not disillusion, but only pain. There was +already enough moonlight when they shook hands for each to see the +gathered kindness in the other’s eyes.</p> + + + + +<div class="chapter"> +<h3 class="nobreak" id="MR_ICKY">MR. ICKY<br > + +THE QUINTESSENCE OF QUAINTNESS IN ONE ACT</h3> +</div> + + +<p><i>The Scene is the Exterior of a Cottage in West Issacshire on a +desperately Arcadian afternoon in August.</i> <span class="smcap">Mr. Icky</span>, <i>quaintly +dressed in the costume of an Elizabethan peasant, is pottering and +doddering among the pots and dods. He is an old man, well past the +prime of life, no longer young. From the fact that there is a burr in +his speech and that he has absent-mindedly put on his coat wrongside +out, we surmise that he is either above or below the ordinary +superficialities of life.</i></p> + +<p><i>Near him on the grass lies</i> <span class="smcap">Peter</span>, <i>a little boy.</i> +<span class="smcap">Peter</span>, <i>of course, has his chin on his palm like the pictures +of the young Sir Walter Raleigh. He has a complete set of features, +including serious, sombre, even funereal, gray eyes—and radiates that +alluring air of never having eaten food. This air can best be radiated +during the afterglow of a beef dinner. He is looking at</i> <span class="smcap">Mr. +Icky</span>, <i>fascinated.</i></p> + +<p><i>Silence. . . . The song of birds.</i></p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Peter:</span> Often at night I sit at my window and regard the stars. +Sometimes I think they’re my stars.... (<i>Gravely</i>) I think I +shall be a star some day....</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> (<i>Whimsically</i>) Yes, yes ... yes....</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Peter:</span> I know them all: Venus, Mars, Neptune, Gloria Swanson.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> I don’t take no stock in astronomy.... I’ve been thinking o’ +Lunnon, laddie. And calling to mind my daughter, who has gone for to +be a typewriter.... (<i>He sighs.</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Peter:</span> I liked Ulsa, Mr. Icky; she was so plump, so round, so buxom.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> Not worth the paper she was padded with, laddie. (<i>He +stumbles over a pile of pots and dods.</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Peter:</span> How is your asthma, Mr. Icky?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> Worse, thank God!...(<i>Gloomily.)</i> I’m a hundred years +old... I’m getting brittle.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Peter:</span> I suppose life has been pretty tame since you gave up petty +arson.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> Yes... yes.... You see, Peter, laddie, when I was fifty I +reformed once—in prison.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Peter:</span> You went wrong again?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> Worse than that. The week before my term expired they +insisted on transferring to me the glands of a healthy young prisoner +they were executing.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Peter:</span> And it renovated you?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> Renovated me! It put the Old Nick back into me! This young +criminal was evidently a suburban burglar and a kleptomaniac. What was +a little playful arson in comparison!</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Peter:</span> (<i>Awed</i>) How ghastly! Science is the bunk.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> (<i>Sighing</i>) I got him pretty well subdued now. ’Tisn’t +every one who has to tire out two sets o’ glands in his lifetime. I +wouldn’t take another set for all the animal spirits in an orphan +asylum.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Peter:</span> (<i>Considering</i>) I shouldn’t think you’d object to a nice +quiet old clergyman’s set.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> Clergymen haven’t got glands—they have souls.</p> + +<p>(<i>There is a low, sonorous honking off stage to indicate that a +large motor-car has stopped in the immediate vicinity. Then a young +man handsomely attired in a dress-suit and a patent-leather silk hat +comes onto the stage. He is very mundane. His contrast to the +spirituality of the other two is observable as far back as the first +row of the balcony. This is</i> <span class="smcap">Rodney Divine.</span>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Divine:</span> I am looking for Ulsa Icky.</p> + +<p>(<span class="smcap">Mr. Icky</span> <i>rises and stands tremulously between two dods.</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> My daughter is in Lunnon.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Divine:</span> She has left London. She is coming here. I have followed her.</p> + +<p>(<i>He reaches into the little mother-of-pearl satchel that hangs at +his side for cigarettes. He selects one and scratching a match touches +it to the cigarette. The cigarette instantly lights.</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Divine:</span> I shall wait.</p> + +<p>(<i>He waits. Several hours pass. There is no sound except an +occasional cackle or hiss from the dods as they quarrel among +themselves. Several songs can be introduced here or some card tricks +by</i> <span class="smcap">Divine</span> <i>or a tumbling act, as desired.</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Divine:</span> It’s very quiet here.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> Yes, very quiet....</p> + +<p>(<i>Suddenly a loudly dressed girl appears; she is very worldly. It +is</i> <span class="smcap">Ulsa Icky</span>. <i>On her is one of those shapeless faces peculiar to +early Italian painting.</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Ulsa:</span> (<i>In a coarse, worldly voice</i>) Feyther! Here I am! Ulsa did +what?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> (<i>Tremulously</i>) Ulsa, little Ulsa. (<i>They embrace +each other’s torsos.</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> (<i>Hopefully</i>) You’ve come back to help with the +ploughing.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Ulsa:</span> (<i>Sullenly</i>) No, feyther; ploughing’s such a beyther. I’d +reyther not.</p> + +<p>(<i>Though her accent is broad, the content of her speech is sweet and +clean.</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Divine:</span> (<i>Conciliatingly</i>) See here, Ulsa. Let’s come to an +understanding.</p> + +<p>(<i>He advances toward her with the graceful, even stride that made +him captain of the striding team at Cambridge.</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Ulsa:</span> You still say it would be Jack?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> What does she mean?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Divine:</span> (<i>Kindly</i>) My dear, of course, it would be Jack. It +couldn’t be Frank.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> Frank who?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Ulsa:</span> It <i>would</i> be Frank!</p> + +<p>(<i>Some risqué joke can be introduced here.</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> (<i>Whimsically</i>) No good fighting...no good fighting...</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Divine:</span> (<i>Reaching out to stroke her arm with the powerful movement +that made him stroke of the crew at Oxford</i>) You’d better marry me.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Ulsa:</span> (<i>Scornfully</i>) Why, they wouldn’t let me in through the +servants’ entrance of your house.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Divine:</span> (<i>Angrily</i>) They wouldn’t! Never fear—you shall come in +through the mistress’ entrance.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Ulsa:</span> Sir!</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Divine:</span> (<i>In confusion</i>) I beg your pardon. You know what I mean?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> (<i>Aching with whimsey</i>) You want to marry my little +Ulsa?...</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Divine:</span> I do.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> Your record is clean.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Divine:</span> Excellent. I have the best constitution in the world—</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Ulsa:</span> And the worst by-laws.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Divine:</span> At Eton I was a member at Pop; at Rugby I belonged to +Near-beer. As a younger son I was destined for the police force—</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> Skip that.... Have you money?...</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Divine:</span> Wads of it. I should expect Ulsa to go down town in sections +every morning—in two Rolls Royces. I have also a kiddy-car and a +converted tank. I have seats at the opera—</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Ulsa:</span> (<i>Sullenly</i>) I can’t sleep except in a box. And I’ve heard +that you were cashiered from your club.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> A cashier? ...</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Divine:</span> (<i>Hanging his head</i>) I was cashiered.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Ulsa:</span> What for?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Divine:</span> (<i>Almost inaudibly</i>) I hid the polo balls one day for a +joke.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> Is your mind in good shape?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Divine:</span> (<i>Gloomily</i>) Fair. After all what is brilliance? Merely +the tact to sow when no one is looking and reap when every one is.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> Be careful. ... I will not marry my daughter to an epigram....</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Divine:</span> (<i>More gloomily</i>) I assure you I’m a mere platitude. I +often descend to the level of an innate idea.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Ulsa:</span> (<i>Dully</i>) None of what you’re saying matters. I can’t marry +a man who thinks it would be Jack. Why Frank would—</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Divine:</span> (<i>Interrupting</i>) Nonsense!</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Ulsa:</span> (<i>Emphatically</i>) You’re a fool!</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> Tut-tut! ... One should not judge ... Charity, my girl. What +was it Nero said?—“With malice toward none, with charity toward +all—”</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Peter:</span> That wasn’t Nero. That was John Drinkwater.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> Come! Who is this Frank? Who is this Jack?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Divine:</span> (<i>Morosely</i>) Gotch.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Ulsa:</span> Dempsey.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Divine:</span> We were arguing that if they were deadly enemies and locked in +a room together which one would come out alive. Now I claimed that +Jack Dempsey would take one—</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Ulsa:</span> (<i>Angrily</i>) Rot! He wouldn’t have a—</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Divine:</span> (<i>Quickly</i>) You win.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Ulsa:</span> Then I love you again.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> So I’m going to lose my little daughter...</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Ulsa:</span> You’ve still got a houseful of children.</p> + +<p>(<span class="smcap">Charles</span>, <span class="smcap">Ulsa’s</span> <i>brother, coming out of the cottage. He is dressed +as if to go to sea; a coil of rope is slung about his shoulder and an +anchor is hanging from his neck.</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Charles:</span> (<i>Not seeing them</i>) I’m going to sea! I’m going to sea!</p> + +<p>(<i>His voice is triumphant.</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> (<i>Sadly</i>) You went to seed long ago.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Charles:</span> I’ve been reading “Conrad.”</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Peter:</span> (<i>Dreamily</i>) “Conrad,” ah! “Two Years Before the Mast,” by +Henry James.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Charles:</span> What?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Peter:</span> Walter Pater’s version of “Robinson Crusoe.”</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Charles:</span> (<i>To his feyther</i>) I can’t stay here and rot with you. I +want to live my life. I want to hunt eels.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> I will be here... when you come back....</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Charles:</span> (<i>Contemptuously</i>) Why, the worms are licking their +chops already when they hear your name.</p> + +<p>(<i>It will be noticed that some of the characters have not spoken for +some time. It will improve the technique if they can be rendering a +spirited saxophone number.</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> (<i>Mournfully</i>) These vales, these hills, these +McCormick harvesters—they mean nothing to my children. I understand.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Charles:</span> (<i>More gently</i>) Then you’ll think of me kindly, feyther. +To understand is to forgive.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> No...no....We never forgive those we can understand....We +can only forgive those who wound us for no reason at all....</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Charles:</span> (<i>Impatiently</i>) I’m so beastly sick of your human nature +line. And, anyway, I hate the hours around here.</p> + +<p>(<i>Several dozen more of</i> <span class="smcap">Mr. Icky’s</span> <i>children trip out of the +house, trip over the grass, and trip over the pots and dods. They are +muttering “We are going away,” and “We are leaving you.”</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> (<i>His heart breaking</i>) They’re all deserting me. I’ve +been too kind. Spare the rod and spoil the fun. Oh, for the glands of +a Bismarck.</p> + +<p>(<i>There is a honking outside—probably</i> <span class="smcap">Divine’s</span> <i>chauffeur +growing impatient for his master.</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> (<i>In misery</i>) They do not love the soil! They have been +faithless to the Great Potato Tradition! (<i>He picks up a handful of +soil passionately and rubs it on his bald head. Hair sprouts.</i>) Oh, +Wordsworth, Wordsworth, how true you spoke!</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“<i>No motion has she now, no force;</i></div> + <div class="verse indent2"><i>She does not hear or feel;</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Roll’d round on earth’s diurnal course</i></div> + <div class="verse indent2"><i>In some one’s Oldsmobile.</i>”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>(<i>They all groan and shouting “Life” and “Jazz” move slowly toward +the wings.</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Charles:</span> Back to the soil, yes! I’ve been trying to turn my back to +the soil for ten years!</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Another Child:</span> The farmers may be the backbone of the country, but who +wants to be a backbone?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Another Child:</span> I care not who hoes the lettuce of my country if I can +eat the salad!</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">All:</span> Life! Psychic Research! Jazz!</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> (<i>Struggling with himself</i>) I must be quaint. That’s +all there is. It’s not life that counts, it’s the quaintness you bring +to it....</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">All:</span> We’re going to slide down the Riviera. We’ve got tickets for +Piccadilly Circus. Life! Jazz!</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> Wait. Let me read to you from the Bible. Let me open it at +random. One always finds something that bears on the situation.</p> + +<p>(<i>He finds a Bible lying in one of the dods and opening it at random +begins to read.</i>)</p> + +<p>“Ahab and Istemo and Anim, Goson and Olon and Gilo, eleven cities and +their villages. Arab, and Ruma, and Esaau—”</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Charles:</span> (<i>Cruelly</i>) Buy ten more rings and try again.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> (<i>Trying again</i>) “How beautiful art thou my love, how +beautiful art thou! Thy eyes are dove’s eyes, besides what is hid +within. Thy hair is as flocks of goats which come up from Mount +Galaad—Hm! Rather a coarse passage....”</p> + +<p>(<i>His children laugh at him rudely, shouting “Jazz!” and “All life +is primarily suggestive!”</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> (<i>Despondently</i>) It won’t work to-day. +(<i>Hopefully</i>) Maybe it’s damp. (<i>He feels it</i>) Yes, it’s +damp.... There was water in the dod.... It won’t work.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">All:</span> It’s damp! It won’t work! Jazz!</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">One of the Children:</span> Come, we must catch the six-thirty.</p> + +<p>(<i>Any other cue may be inserted here.</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Icky:</span> Good-by....</p> + +<p>(<i> They all go out.</i> <span class="smcap">Mr. Icky</span> <i>is left alone. He sighs and +walking over to the cottage steps, lies down, and closes his eyes.</i>)</p> + +<p><i>Twilight has come down and the stage is flooded with such light as +never was on land or sea. There is no sound except a sheep-herder’s +wife in the distance playing an aria from Beethoven’s Tenth Symphony, +on a mouth-organ. The great white and gray moths swoop down and light +on the old man until he is completely covered by them. But he does not +stir.</i></p> + +<p><i>The curtain goes up and down several times to denote the lapse of +several minutes. A good comedy effect can be obtained by having</i> +<span class="smcap">Mr. Icky</span> <i>cling to the curtain and go up and down with it. +Fireflies or fairies on wires can also be introduced at this +point.</i></p> + +<p><i>Then</i> <span class="smcap">Peter</span> <i>appears, a look of almost imbecile sweetness on +his face. In his hand he clutches something and from time to time +glances at it in a transport of ecstasy. After a struggle with himself +he lays it on the old man’s body and then quietly withdraws.</i></p> + +<p><i>The moths chatter among themselves and then scurry away in sudden +fright. And as night deepens there still sparkles there, small, white +and round, breathing a subtle perfume to the West Issacshire breeze,</i> +<span class="smcap">Peter’s</span> <i>gift of love—a moth-ball.</i></p> + +<p>(<i>The play can end at this point or can go on indefinitely.</i>)</p> + + + + +<div class="chapter"> +<h3 class="nobreak" id="JEMINA_THE_MOUNTAIN_GIRL">JEMINA, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL</h3> +</div> + + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>This don’t pretend to be “Literature.” This is just a tale for +red-blooded folks who want a <i>story</i> and not just a lot of +“psychological” stuff or “analysis.” Boy, you’ll love it! Read it +here, see it in the movies, play it on the phonograph, run it through +the sewing-machine.</p></div> + + +<h4><span class="smcap">A Wild Thing</span></h4> + +<p>It was night in the mountains of Kentucky. Wild hills rose on all +sides. Swift mountain streams flowed rapidly up and down the +mountains.</p> + +<p>Jemina Tantrum was down at the stream, brewing whiskey at the family +still.</p> + +<p>She was a typical mountain girl.</p> + +<p>Her feet were bare. Her hands, large and powerful, hung down below her +knees. Her face showed the ravages of work. Although but sixteen, she +had for over a dozen years been supporting her aged pappy and mappy by +brewing mountain whiskey. From time to time she would pause in her +task, and, filling a dipper full of the pure, invigorating liquid, +would drain it off—then pursue her work with renewed vigor.</p> + +<p>She would place the rye in the vat, thresh it out with her feet and, +in twenty minutes, the completed product would be turned out.</p> + +<p>A sudden cry made her pause in the act of draining a dipper and look +up.</p> + +<p>“Hello,” said a voice. It came from a man clad in hunting boots +reaching to his neck, who had emerged.</p> + +<p>“Can you tell me the way to the Tantrums’ cabin?”</p> + +<p>“Are you uns from the settlements down thar?”</p> + +<p>She pointed her hand down to the bottom of the hill, where Louisville +lay. She had never been there; but once, before she was born, her +great-grandfather, old Gore Tantrum, had gone into the settlements in +the company of two marshals, and had never come back. So the Tantrums, +from generation to generation, had learned to dread civilization.</p> + +<p>The man was amused. He laughed a light tinkling laugh, the laugh of a +Philadelphian. Something in the ring of it thrilled her. She drank off +another dipper of whiskey.</p> + +<p>“Where is Mr. Tantrum, little girl?” he asked, not without kindness.</p> + +<p>She raised her foot and pointed her big toe toward the woods. “Thar in +the cabing behind those thar pines. Old Tantrum air my old man.”</p> + +<p>The man from the settlements thanked her and strode off. He was fairly +vibrant with youth and personality. As he walked along he whistled and +sang and turned handsprings and flapjacks, breathing in the fresh, +cool air of the mountains.</p> + +<p>The air around the still was like wine.</p> + +<p>Jemina Tantrum watched him entranced. No one like him had ever come +into her life before.</p> + +<p>She sat down on the grass and counted her toes. She counted eleven. +She had learned arithmetic in the mountain school.</p> + + +<h4><span class="smcap">A Mountain Feud</span></h4> + +<p>Ten years before a lady from the settlements had opened a school on +the mountain. Jemina had no money, but she had paid her way in +whiskey, bringing a pailful to school every morning and leaving it on +Miss Lafarge’s desk. Miss Lafarge had died of delirium tremens after a +year’s teaching, and so Jemina’s education had stopped.</p> + +<p>Across the still stream, still another still was standing. It was that +of the Doldrums. The Doldrums and the Tantrums never exchanged calls.</p> + +<p>They hated each other.</p> + +<p>Fifty years before old Jem Doldrum and old Jem Tantrum had quarrelled +in the Tantrum cabin over a game of slapjack. Jem Doldrum had thrown +the king of hearts in Jem Tantrum’s face, and old Tantrum, enraged, +had felled the old Doldrum with the nine of diamonds. Other Doldrums +and Tantrums had joined in and the little cabin was soon filled with +flying cards. Harstrum Doldrum, one of the younger Doldrums, lay +stretched on the floor writhing in agony, the ace of hearts crammed +down his throat. Jem Tantrum, standing in the doorway, ran through +suit after suit, his face alight with fiendish hatred. Old Mappy +Tantrum stood on the table wetting down the Doldrums with hot whiskey. +Old Heck Doldrum, having finally run out of trumps, was backed out of +the cabin, striking left and right with his tobacco pouch, and +gathering around him the rest of his clan. Then they mounted their +steers and galloped furiously home.</p> + +<p>That night old man Doldrum and his sons, vowing vengeance, had +returned, put a ticktock on the Tantrum window, stuck a pin in the +doorbell, and beaten a retreat.</p> + +<p>A week later the Tantrums had put Cod Liver Oil in the Doldrums’ +still, and so, from year to year, the feud had continued, first one +family being entirely wiped out, then the other.</p> + + +<h4><span class="smcap">The Birth of Love</span></h4> + +<p>Every day little Jemina worked the still on her side of the stream, +and Boscoe Doldrum worked the still on his side.</p> + +<p>Sometimes, with automatic inherited hatred, the feudists would throw +whiskey at each other, and Jemina would come home smelling like a +French table d’hôte.</p> + +<p>But now Jemina was too thoughtful to look across the stream.</p> + +<p>How wonderful the stranger had been and how oddly he was dressed! In +her innocent way she had never believed that there were any civilized +settlements at all, and she had put the belief in them down to the +credulity of the mountain people.</p> + +<p>She turned to go up to the cabin, and, as she turned something struck +her in the neck. It was a sponge, thrown by Boscoe Doldrum—a sponge +soaked in whiskey from his still on the other side of the stream.</p> + +<p>“Hi, thar, Boscoe Doldrum,” she shouted in her deep bass voice.</p> + +<p>“Yo! Jemina Tantrum. Gosh ding yo’!” he returned.</p> + +<p>She continued her way to the cabin.</p> + +<p>The stranger was talking to her father. Gold had been discovered on +the Tantrum land, and the stranger, Edgar Edison, was trying to buy +the land for a song. He was considering what song to offer.</p> + +<p>She sat upon her hands and watched him.</p> + +<p>He was wonderful. When he talked his lips moved.</p> + +<p>She sat upon the stove and watched him.</p> + +<p>Suddenly there came a blood-curdling scream. The Tantrums rushed to +the windows.</p> + +<p>It was the Doldrums.</p> + +<p>They had hitched their steers to trees and concealed themselves behind +the bushes and flowers, and soon a perfect rattle of stones and bricks +beat against the windows, bending them inward.</p> + +<p>“Father! father!” shrieked Jemina.</p> + +<p>Her father took down his slingshot from his slingshot rack on the wall +and ran his hand lovingly over the elastic band. He stepped to a +loophole. Old Mappy Tantrum stepped to the coalhole.</p> + + +<h4><span class="smcap">A Mountain Battle</span></h4> + +<p>The stranger was aroused at last. Furious to get at the Doldrums, he +tried to escape from the house by crawling up the chimney. Then he +thought there might be a door under the bed, but Jemina told him +there was not. He hunted for doors under the beds and sofas, but each +time Jemina pulled him out and told him there were no doors there. +Furious with anger, he beat upon the door and hollered at the +Doldrums. They did not answer him, but kept up their fusillade of +bricks and stones against the window. Old Pappy Tantrum knew that just +as soon as they were able to effect an aperture they would pour in and +the fight would be over.</p> + +<p>Then old Heck Doldrum, foaming at the mouth and expectorating on the +ground, left and right, led the attack.</p> + +<p>The terrific slingshots of Pappy Tantrum had not been without their +effect. A master shot had disabled one Doldrum, and another Doldrum, +shot almost incessantly through the abdomen, fought feebly on.</p> + +<p>Nearer and nearer they approached the house.</p> + +<p>“We must fly,” shouted the stranger to Jemina. “I will sacrifice +myself and bear you away.”</p> + +<p>“No,” shouted Pappy Tantrum, his face begrimed. “You stay here and fit +on. I will bar Jemina away. I will bar Mappy away. I will bar myself +away.”</p> + +<p>The man from the settlements, pale and trembling with anger, turned to +Ham Tantrum, who stood at the door throwing loophole after loophole at +the advancing Doldrums.</p> + +<p>“Will you cover the retreat?”</p> + +<p>But Ham said that he too had Tantrums to bear away, but that he would +leave himself here to help the stranger cover the retreat, if he could +think of a way of doing it.</p> + +<p>Soon smoke began to filter through the floor and ceiling. Shem Doldrum +had come up and touched a match to old Japhet Tantrum’s breath as he +leaned from a loophole, and the alcoholic flames shot up on all sides.</p> + +<p>The whiskey in the bathtub caught fire. The walls began to fall in.</p> + +<p>Jemina and the man from the settlements looked at each other.</p> + +<p>“Jemina,” he whispered.</p> + +<p>“Stranger,” she answered.</p> + +<p>“We will die together,” he said. “If we had lived I would have taken +you to the city and married you. With your ability to hold liquor, +your social success would have been assured.”</p> + +<p>She caressed him idly for a moment, counting her toes softly to +herself. The smoke grew thicker. Her left leg was on fire.</p> + +<p>She was a human alcohol lamp.</p> + +<p>Their lips met in one long kiss and then a wall fell on them and +blotted them out.</p> + + +<h4><span class="smcap">“As One.”</span></h4> + +<p>When the Doldrums burst through the ring of flame, they found them +dead where they had fallen, their arms about each other.</p> + +<p>Old Jem Doldrum was moved.</p> + +<p>He took off his hat.</p> + +<p>He filled it with whiskey and drank it off.</p> + +<p>“They air dead,” he said slowly, “they hankered after each other. The +fit is over now. We must not part them.”</p> + +<p>So they threw them together into the stream and the two splashes they +made were as one.</p> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 6695 ***</div> +</body> +</html> |